BabyMama & The Silent Miscarriage

TW/spoiler alert (though the title was a giveaway): post contains details around miscarriage, child loss, etc. If you’re pregnant, feeling trauma from your own loss, or have loved and lost in a way that would make you feel uncomfortable reading this, please stop. Your heart doesn’t need this. Take care of yourself. You have all of my love, just the same. 

Also: never meant for this blog to morph into an anxiety journal - like some sort of captain's log on the good ship adulting - but here we arrrrreeee. 

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The below encompasses several very long weeks. Having added to this post at various points of this process, it's obnoxiously long, and I straight-up didn't feel like editing myself down this time - so please be generous in your reading. And, um, I’ve been going through a thing so… don’t be a dick. 

This is laced with some flippant remarks and bits of levity. It's a coping mechanism. I am not trying to minimize or make light of anyone else’s trauma or loss, I promise. As every birth story is unique, so is every pregnancy journey. Your story is your own, and it matters. And you don't owe anyone your trauma. In a world of oversharing, you decide what you are comfortable telling others, periodt. I'm sharing our story, knowing it's one of many, and that many will never be shared. Sending love to all. 

I want to say off the bat: I’m okay. Really. I’ll explain, but, just know I’m alright, friends. We are alright. 

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The Odds May Not Ever Be in Your Favor

One in four. It’s the kind of stat that you’d hear and think “that’s really high!” If you were told you had a one in four chance of getting struck by lightning, you’d probably be a lot more afraid of storms. And while it’s not actual lightning, it can strike in a way that’s just as shocking… a miscarriage. 

One in four pregnancies end in miscarriage.

A miscarriage is defined as a spontaneous loss of a pregnancy before the 20th week. You’ve probably had many people you know wait to tell people about their pregnancy until after they were “in the clear” – given that the risk of a miscarriage drops drastically after week 12. People are afraid to share the news, knowing there’s such a risk of loss. I used to not understand, but in my first pregnancy, it became a bit clear as to why... What happened if you did face such loss, and suddenly you got a “hey how’s pregnancy?” ping from a friend. Or a knitted hat from an aunt. Or some other slap-to-the-face reminder that you had a shared joy with so many that was taken away?

The chance of miscarriage does increase with certain risk factors (advanced age, certain health conditions, if you smoke/drink/drug while pregnant, etc.). BUT it’s important to know, really know, that most miscarriages cannot be prevented. There’s nothing the mother or birthing person could have done differently. It is not their fault. Most miscarriages simply occur because the fetus is not developing as expected (about half of miscarriages are due to an extra or missing chromosome). The body knows that the pregnancy is no longer viable, and it aborts the pregnancy.*

Odds are that you know at least one person (more likely many) who has gone through a miscarriage. Many miscarry so early on that they may not even fully realize what has happened. Some suffer a miscarriage further on in their journey and go through a very different event. Either way, there is often a lot of trauma, sadness, and pain that accompanies this thing. It blows my mind how just now the subject is finally becoming slightly less taboo but, in the attempts to make it less taboo it’s also being somehow…minimized? Like, oh, one in four, it’s very common. Sorry you went through that very common thing, I’m sure it was bad, but you can try again right??  >> An oversimplification of some of what I’ve seen, NOT directed at me, but at others.

Again: each person will have a different experience, a different kind of feels. The below are mine.

Our Story

Week 4
A missed period. Tale as old as time. A mental review of the calendar, and a quiet wondering if maybe this is it, we’ve signed up for another journey into a very new chapter of parenthood. Ready or not.

I didn’t take a test. I wasn’t ready. It was too soon. I’d been certain that things might take longer to work out, due my darling aging uterus. There was no way we were pregnant already. I didn’t say anything to my husband, and just carried on.

Week 5
Mentally certain. While my period had changed post-partum, it had continued to be as consistent as a damn colonial’s watch (...despite comments made to others about it being inconsistent PP – a narrative that I'd started building as a means of protecting my heart later if we found ourselves struggling with fertility: blame the wonky period, easy, an easy lie, and who could contradict it?) I knew it was time to take a test and make things real. So, Friday morning when my husband had left for work, I did the standard pee in a cup, popped in a pregnancy test, and played with our toddler while the timer ticked on. 

Before I’d even set the test down, there was already the faint two lines. My daughter and I checked the test together as the timer rang, and there it was: pregnant. Ready or not. A few days later, we shared our surprise with my husband (in the form of a "big sister" t-shirt on a very drooly little girl).

Week 6
A few days after my positive at home test, at my OB’s office, peeing in yet another cup. She “checked my homework” to the same conclusion: there was a baby brewing. We put the 8 week ultrasound on the books and back to life went. Work, prep for our daughter’s first flight and a trip to see family, and the usual doings. My body started to hold weight, my boobs were like “let’s go girrrrls,” my hormones came out to play, I was once again perpetually thirsty and waking up to pee in the middle of the night. The quiet exhaustion set in. First trimester was underway, in a familiar rhythm. 

I mentally held the same shield I did during my first pregnancy. “It’s very early,” I disclaimed when telling my husband, “there’s more risk than the last time, I’m not getting any younger.” Labels like "advanced maternal age" were slapped on my paperwork and I jokingly said of my uterus, "Let's hope the old girl can pull this off!" Even our language to each other was laced with caution, things like: "hopefully this is the last time we tell our moms that we’re having a baby" and "if we're lucky, this is the last time we get to do this: how should we share the news?" or "no bad morning sickness, knock on wood, seems like I got off easy for all my pregnancies!" 

I didn’t project personhood onto the tiny cell cluster forming yet: it remained abstract. Logistical things started to play out in my mind, like alerting daycare to put us on the waitlist for March of 2024 (because yes, there's a waitlist that far out, ugh). And really specific things spun about: like our toddler’s transition to a big-girl bed vs the baby needing the crib and me not wanting our toddler to think the baby stole her crib so wondering when to do that and how to reconfigure our rooms to best help her sleep when a newborn was up screaming at night. I cried, thinking about my late December due date and how I’d miss being at family Christmas for a fourth year in a row. I shushed selfish thoughts about how I’d be stone cold sober for a dear friend’s bachelorette AND wedding. In my mind, I organized newborn things we had kept and could reuse vs things we’d want to update/replace. But, I didn’t think about names, or the new person who would be joining us because they weren’t allowed to be real yet in my mind, for my own protection.

Because I knew the odds.

I felt a bit bad about this mental wall, and tried to do little things to start pulling this abstract idea out of the ether and into view. In the morning, when buckling our baby girl into her carseat to go to daycare, I always give her three kisses and say, “One for you, one for me, one for dad” – I started to add “one for the baby” to which she happily would say, “BABY!” (because she likes the word ‘baby’). I found myself doing the default “hand on tummy” position when sitting, giving a little hand of comfort, with a “we got this” whisper when I started feeling overwhelmed at the idea of starting things over again. And of course, the adjustments in my diet and routine, to keep my body safe for bebe. There were little moments like this, but we mostly carried on as if not pregnant.

Week 7
We were visiting family in California and decided to share the news. Because what else would explain my not wanting sushi the second I approached the coast? We warned how it was still so earlier. Too soon to even be saying anything. So risky. One in four. We hadn't even told other close family yet.

In shops, I gently touched tiny newborn clothing, without purchasing. 

Week 8
In my 8-week ultrasound, all was not well. No heartbeat. Our wee little one had stopped growing at six weeks. A “silent miscarriage.”

How that played out in real time:
When I arrived for my appointment, there was a mix-up with the fax and order for my ultrasound or something silly. After much back and forth, they agreed to squeeze me in twenty minutes after my original time. If you’ve ever had an ultrasound, you know it involves drinking an epic ton of water in advance of the appointment and holding that liquid. Sitting in the waiting area, the usual stream of HGTV schlock flashing on the nearby TV. I texted my husband: this felt like a bad omen, and I might pee my pants. (Literally, I almost peed my pants.)

Finally in with the ultrasound tech, answering a pretty standard series of questions: Was this my first pregnancy? No. How many children did I have? One. How many pregnancies had I had? …One. That question had seemed odd to me initially. Like, I just told you I had one child, so duh I had one pregnancy. My brain took a full moment to think about all the loved ones I knew who’d had far more pregnancies than living children, and I gave an open look of sadness. A brow furrow. And then that tiny moment of recognition passed and I was laying down with a wand on my belly.

The thing about an ultrasound tech: they’re not supposed to tell you definitive information. They do the scans, and your OB/doc tells you explicit medical answers after the fact. A good tech has a poker face. A more realistic tech doesn’t. In an 8-week ultrasound, there’s a big three that you need to get from your tech, and anything beyond that comes from your doc later after they’ve seen what the tech has sent over. The big three: Is there a good heartbeat? Is it only one heartbeat? Are things developing on track with the due date predicted, or is there a different due date estimation?

After a few minutes of silent wanding, I knew something was off. “So, how is it looking?” I asked, as casually as possible. A tiny attempt at a reassuring smile flashed my way, with a lined brow prominent above concerned eyes. She wasn’t quite seeing what she needed to, she likewise tried to say casually that it was likely just due to my tilted uterus (something my OB had warned might happen in my ultrasound – a known thing to cause visibility issues with an external look). When I asked what she wasn't quite seeing so gave a pause and an um. She wasn’t seeing a baby…. Would it be okay to do an internal ultrasound? I agreed after confirming what that entailed, if there was an alternative, how it’d feel, etc.** They insist you go to the bathroom before that, mercifully. I quietly shed some tears in the bathroom, taking a few deep breaths. I texted my husband saying something might be wrong. This felt ominous. This didn’t feel like it was going well.

She started the internal ultrasound. A minute later, she still was quiet. I let a few quiet tears drip sideways off my face. 

I left the office soon thereafter, informed that I'd need to talk to my OB - with a side comment that maybe I should prepare for not good news. Yeah. Yeah I'd gathered that already, thanks. I blindly walked to the parking ramp and sat in my car, waiting on a phone call from my OB. After a few minutes, I started driving back towards home, deciding I'd get a shake from Arby's en route. I pulled over as soon as my OB called. "I'm sorry, but we both know what this is..." she began. And there I was, parked outside some random person's house in the suburbs, while my logic brain calmly asked my doctor about next steps, and my emotional brain wept. 

A "missed miscarriage" or "missed abortion" was the technical term. But. It couldn’t legally be classified as a conclusive ultrasound because of certain rules in my state,*** meaning I had to schedule a second ultrasound a few weeks out (assuming my body didn’t resolve things in the interim) to get another ultrasound to prove that I had miscarried, before I could receive any medications to help my body process. I also had the option to do blood work to show if my hormone levels were decreasing in order to help prove that the pregnancy was no longer viable - but since that isn't always conclusive (i.e. your hormone levels can stay pretty high until the actual departure of pregnancy tissue from your body occurs), I opted to not put myself through that as well. 

The phone call with my OB was fairly long: a thorough explanation of all the possible aftermath/outcomes. Necessarily graphic and detailed, I tried my best to absorb the information so I'd be prepared for what was to come. [I'm forever grateful for the partnership I have with her in all stages of my pregnancy journey(s).] After the call, I got that Arby's shake and drove home to lead a retro call for work - I'd only taken the morning off. My afternoon was packed with meetings. 

Week 8-10
A waiting game. Carrying tissue in my womb that was no longer a baby. Waiting to see if I'd start bleeding. It felt very much like the final days of pregnancy with my first: you know that any time of day, no matter where you are, you could suddenly have a bunch of fluid leave your body in a very violent way. Only in this case, the end result was not a baby, it was a lack thereof. A very long two weeks indeed.

After the ultrasound, I was mentally and emotionally fairly okay. I had known the statistics/risks. I knew there’s nothing I did wrong or could have done differently. I understood the science. We knew that it was still very early and there had been a very real possibility that something may go wrong. My logic brain understood it all. But for two weeks I carried around the persistent thought of the wee bebe that didn't get a chance to grow, but that wouldn't leave its mom. My body wouldn't let it go, and so my emotions escalated quietly over the course of several weeks - caught in a limbo, me and the baby that wouldn't be. Neither one of us physically able to move on. 

During this, the real kicker was that my body continued to think it was pregnant. My hormones continued to rage, my boobs continued growing as if preparing to feed a small army, my exhaustion was all encompassing, and overall my body carried on with the first tri like nothing was amiss. Just as I carried on with my day-to-day (through the hormonal brain fog). It's hard to explain that you're going through a miscarriage but haven't yet fully miscarried - most people don't think about miscarriage as a state of purgatory, but instead as an event that happens fairly suddenly. That's how I'd always thought of it as well. 

While about 25% of pregnancies end in miscarriage, less than 5% are silent miscarriages. 

Week 10
Exactly two weeks after my first week ultrasound, I found myself in that same waiting room, with the same HGTV schlock echoing about the room. The ultrasound tech physically braced herself as she opened the door and called my name. I told her it was okay, I knew what we were expecting to see and I was ready for it this time. These things happen. One in four. It was okay. 

I had asked my OB what the odds were that I might march into the second ultra and suddenly they'd find a growing, living baby. "I'm not trying to cling to optimism, just wondering how prepared to be for another drastic emotional swing," I had told her on the phone. She said she hesitated to even say there was less than a one percent chance. Trusting her, and knowing what we knew, it was no surprise to me when the tech one again found no heartbeat, and only tissue pacing at six weeks. 

Conclusive. It was finally conclusive in the eyes of the State.

Once again on the phone to my OB, she already had the news as I rang. She had called in a prescription to the pharmacy before I had dialed. Called instead of faxed, because she needed to explain the situation and confirm that the medication I was getting was for "miscarriage management" and not an abortion, (because pharmacies are skittish these days). We talked through all the steps, what I could expect, etc. 

If you're not interested in that process, or details around this kind of "woman problem" or the idea of abortion methods stresses you out - feel free to skip ahead to the "It's Gonna Be Okay" section. Else, knowledge is power, so the following is fairly detailed, based on my knowledge for my specific experience. I'm not a doctor, or medical expert, so this is paraphrased based on explanations from my OB.

When you hear people talk about "early stage abortions" there are two main methods:

1. A Medical Abortion: typically done at home - i.e. the 'abortion pill'
2. A Surgical Abortion: done in-clinic - i.e. a D&C (Dilation and Curretage) 

Both are also options for "miscarriage management." D&C being the less ideal option, but both being very safe approaches to helping your body miscarry the no-longer-viable pregnancy tissue. In my case, we opted for the pill, with a D&C being a last resort if my body wasn't able to expel the tissue fully with medicinal support. The 'abortion pill' is actually a series of pills typically:

1. Mifepristone : this pill blocks progesterone - the hormone your body needs to support pregnancy (it basically helps your uterus lining implant and support your egg / baby in the first tri) - stopping the pregnancy from growing
2. Misoprostol : this pill causes cramping and bleeding to empty your uterus

Based on my situation, I was prescribed just two doses of misoprostol (since my wee bebe had already stopped growing). The effectiveness is around 85-95% so the second dose was to be on hand in case it didn't fully work with the first round. When to take it was up to me. I could wait, and hope my body figured it out itself. But that could lead to complications if it took too long, and also would stall out our fertility journey in general (because getting pregnant again when your womb is already occupado is a tricky matter). In my case: waiting had already been taking a toll on me emotionally/mentally, and the continued physical toll on my body was not something I wanted to just let drag on. 

I decided to take it the next day. My OB advised that the heaviest bleeding/cramping typically started about 6-12 hours after taking the pills, and could last several hours. It was one of those things you should kind of clear your schedule for. With the lead time, I was also worried about taking it too late in the day and being up all night dealing with the trauma in the wee small hours. So I decided to take the first dose after daycare dropoff. It was a Wednesday. I didn't have any afternoon meetings and I'm WFH. (I had also heard rumor of major changes coming at work so figured it would be a day where people would be distracted - it turned out to be a day of massive layoffs, restructures, and pay cuts - so - the day was very dramatic on EVERY front for me.) 

Additional disclaimer: this is where the TMI comes in - if it's not something you want to read about, please skip ahead. I had NO idea what this process was like prior to going through it myself so - TMYK.

So Misoprostol. You don't take it in your mouth.... :| 

I felt like I was trying to sneak drugs across the border or something bizarre. Because the whole thing was bizarre. Like a sitcom freeze frame on me awkwardly popping pills up my snatch with a voiceover quirkily saying, "so how did we get here? well it all started two weeks and a day ago..." 

Hours later, cramping and light spotting. And then things hit their stride. If you imagine how the flow of your regular period exits over the course of several days, instead it was like… it exiting all within 12 hours. In much larger clots. Terrifyingly large blood clots. Like, when you see a clot the size of a golf ball and think "Oh, it's getting smaller" you know you've been going through a thing. Throughout this, I texted my husband a running tally of how things were going.**** Fun fact: there's isn't a great "period" emoji - and a few days prior we had been discussing a lecture he had watched about emoji development and the conversation around a period emoji (because a bloody undie emoji was not kosh). What a lot of people use instead is either the blood drop, or the Japanese flag (white with a red dot). So... our text history now has a two day stint with an alarming number of Japanese flags. 

Within 24 hours, things should be pretty well done. You may have some period-like bleeding for a few days but you're mostly in the clear. But, sometimes you aren't. In my case, the bleeding continued at a higher than normal, but not alarming flow (there are rare cases of excessive bleeding, which will pop you into urgent care - I was not at that point). Something wasn't quite right. I kept in close contact with my OB and a week later, she suggested it might be prudent for me to take the second dose. Help my body finish the process. Or I could wait it out. It was up to me. 

Week 11
A week and a day after the first dose, with continued bleeding and uncertainty around whether the first dose was fully effective, I caved and took the second dose. With the second dose, you can't just snatch-pop the pills, because your bod would bleed them out. So instead you hold them in your cheek/gums until they dissolve. Also like a drug addict. (I don't know much about The Drugs, but this should all be a pretty good indication that I'd be bad at them.) And then you wait, again. In my case, there was not another mass exodus. It seemed like things might be over.

Week 12
A positive pregnancy test. Still. 

My OB had warned me that this might happen for a few weeks following my miscarriage. And with my prolonged bleeding, I knew it was too early to take one, but I tried anyways. Because the longer this dragged out, the more my state of mind deteriorated. While I had been very sound and certain upfront, each day that I couldn't move forward dragged me down further. Random cries, exhaustion, a feeling of constant overwhelm... all the fun and then some. 

So what next? As I roll into Week 13...
I plan to take another test tomorrow. If I'm still getting a positive test, then I need to call my OB to figure out what we do next, because something could still be lingering. It may be a third round of pills or a D&C, or something else. After I get a negative pregnancy test, my OB recommended we wait until my next normal period barrels through before 'trying' again. If we're emotionally ready, my bod should be physically ready. It could be another week before we get a negative test, or several weeks if I need to take additional next steps, and then maybe a couple more weeks before my period, and then a couple weeks before we hit a 'fertile' window.... all told, it could be 17 weeks out from when my last pregnancy began before we can start trying for the next one. Almost five months of "lost" time. For my aging uterus, that somehow feels like a massive tick tock of the clock. 

But...

It's Gonna Be Okay

Again, PLEASE do not take any of this as minimizing your experience or that of a loved one, if you’ve been close to a miscarriage…

We're okay. Truly. 

• If this had been my first pregnancy, I think a miscarriage would've broken me. But we have our daughter. She is the literal light of our lives. She is truly enough. Anything more is a beautiful bonus. So if a second child isn't in the cards, it'll be alright. We won't just be content, we'll be happy. Sure, we'll try again, but if it's a "one and done" situation, then that'll be perfectly fine for our wee family unit. Our girl has so many people who love her, it's enough.
  
  
• I take a lot of solace in knowing: this ain't my body’s first rodeo. I’ve got a proven track record of both getting knocked up and having a full-tern pregnancy / big old baby delivery. I know my body is capable, and that this whole experience was it being capable in knowing something was wrong and that the pregnancy couldn’t continue. It did what it had to do, and there is no different way things could have gone this time around. There's no blame here, just a sidestep in the journey. (Everything so far also indicates that nothing is awry with my body - this all is not a sign of any overall infertility issues, knock on wood.)
  
  
• We have such a strong village of friends, family, and loved ones. The small handful who we told about this early on literally encased us in a bubble of kindness to protect us from the baddies. And so many others gave support without fully knowing the situation, just based on vibes. We are massively hashtag fucking blessed by the people in our lives, and know that they'll be here for us no matter what turn this road takes. It makes everything in general feel more okay, honestly.
  
  
• There are a bunch of other life things that we had felt rushed on / worried about with a December due date on the horizon, so this unfortunate change does give us time to iron those things out. It gives me time to get stronger, to get into a better groove eating, to support loved ones going through their own big changes right now, etc. There's not a "silver lining" to something sad like this, but there is just knowledge of how the steps forward can dance about a bit in the interim.

There's no point where this all fades from my memory. I'll be grateful to physically move forward, so my logic brain can kick back in and acknowledge this whole situation fully for what it is: an unfortunate thing, that just happens (and happens to SO many). Somehow typing this all out helped put some of the weight of it off my mind, and out into the ether. I hope it gives you some perspective on what some go through and that you never have to experience it yourself. Honestly, silence is just not golden in this case. 

* Yes, a “spontaneous abortion” is one of the other terms for a “miscarriage” - you'll hear doctors say "ab" instead of "abortion" in some cases - probably due to the stigma around the word "abortion."

** "Not as invasive as a pap” she said she’d been told – pretty accurate in my opinion. It’s a big wand up your snatch, but not the duck bill.

*** Because it was measuring at six weeks, and I could just be a silly girl who got my dates wrong and maybe I wasn't certain when my last period was or certain when I'd gotten a positive pregnancy test at home and in my doctors office. So, not to be trusted, it could be I hadn't given it enough time. (Because a six week fetus is indeed very tiny and hard to capture on an ultrasound - which is why you go in at 8 weeks plus typically - and which is why I did go in at 8 weeks.) 

****  I have a deeply rooted fear of ending up in the hospital, unable to communicate, and the staff asking my husband what kind of symptoms I've been having or if there's been anything amiss and him not knowing or being able to help because "she hasn't said anything." My father-in-law passed away very unexpectedly of sepsis, and had the people closest to him heard some of his symptoms as they were happening, he may have gotten to the hospital sooner, may have had precious time on his side, may have been able to give clues to tip off and get him the help he'd have needed. Since then, I sound like a complete hypochondriac, but I insist that my husband know every time I'm feeling out of sorts. I want it said out loud, and in his mind, should something happen and doctors need to know. 

When Life Doesn't Give You Lemons

Two weeks after the stay-at-home orders went into effect, we made our first masked trip to the grocery store. I was armed to the teeth with hand sani, but was terrified. Entering the store, I skirted around like a paranoid lemur, or a kid playing "the ground is lava," except the people were lava... I was surrounded by lava monsters.

With my anxiety off the charts, and my inner monologue telling me that this visit to the vegetables was going to be the last thing I ever did (for surely I would catch Covid from a cucumber and be dead by morning), it wasn't going to take much to push me over the edge. I clung to a tiny paper list (afraid to touch my phone) with essentials and a few specialty ingredients. Next up: lemons. I wanted to make these 'honey lemon cloud cookies' (I started my "distract me from the end times" pandemic baking early), and I needed fresh lemons. 

This was the moment that my panic about the state of the world and my first world privilege met, and did a tango. (A poorly choreographed, sporadic tango.) There was the display stand for lemons. There was the little sign with the price. And there they were, empty little shelves, with not a single lemon to be found. 

And I immediately started crying. 

Because of a lack of lemons. 

But of course, it wasn't really about the lemons. It was because my heart couldn't take one more thing. One more change. One more uncertainty. First a cancelled honeymoon and isolation from my loved ones, and now no lemons? What was next? Where would it end? Next time would there be no food at all? Would we all end up fighting for a can of who-cares-what-veggie and bartering our wedding rings for some flour, like in those post-apocalyptic films that I binged watched throughout those early days of the pani?* That empty shelf escalated into a thousand worst case scenarios in my mind, and I let them drop via tears onto my mask, afraid to touch my face to wipe them away...

And now here we are. Over a year later. We've all had a lot of ups and downs during this time. Some of us have been really lucky, and some haven't. The mental, physical, and emotional toll has looked different for each person, with a lot of striking similarities for many. But what now? What happens after a year lacking lemons? After all this hypervigilance and fear and sadness? After months of playing worst-case-scenario-roulette? 

Well here's where I'm personally at....

1. I still plan to mostly stay at home. I'll still be working remote. I still will mostly be getting carryout instead of going to restaurants. I still won't abandon my quest to watch every single WWII documentary available on streaming services. I'm not ready to fully dive back in. If you're vaccinated, and you are ready - cool, you do you. But I'm just not there yet. There were a finite number of situations in the past year where I was to be in a crowded space with strangers, and I spent a month leading up to those events having absolute panicked meltdowns, put my best game face on for the benefit of others when the time came, and then hyperventilated and sobbed in the shower for an hour once the events were over. I'm not saying it was entirely rational, but I'm not saying you'll see me out at the bar every weekend now either.  This might take me some time, and I know that probably feels weird, but I'm just not the exact same as I was before (yet? ever?), and I can't help it. Thanks for being cool about it.
2. I'm only seeing certain people in person. They're vaccinated, they haven't shown a total disregard for human life during this, and I miss them. Honestly, I'm coming out of this pani with major fucking trust issues, so while I will always care about the people I've always cared about, there are some people who I just probably don't need to ever interact with in person again, based on recent actions. And that's okay. It sucks, but it's okay. Those I do see, I may only see briefly, and it may be outside, but I'll be very overjoyed just the same. 
3. You'll probably still see me wearing a mask. At the time of typing this, only about 37% of Americans are fully vaccinated. Wearing masks is still important for those who aren't. You know, solidarity. And honestly, wearing a mask has never been a bother to me, even with my asthma. So, if it doesn't bother me, it shouldn't bother you. Don't make it painfully awkward, don't bombard me with your opinions about it, just let me do my thing. 
4. You might need to be patient with me. I might not be okay with more than a quick hug, even though I really, really miss hugs. I might only want to chat/hang out for a brief time and then leave because I'm exhausted, or anxious. I might get frustrated when I finally feel okay about seeing you in person and you say you can't because you have other plans (Is everyone just making tons of plans?? That feels too devil-may-care for me right now, in my social-prude state.). And I might be unnecessarily pissy that I didn't hear from you more when I was really down and needed you to (virtually) show up - though that's not fair, because you were going through your own shit and I likewise probably wasn't there for you when you needed me to be.** Basically: I might come with more emotions than I normally do, and they might be sitting out on my shoulder making faces, instead of tucked away neatly in my purse like usual. 
5. I still worry about things, even when they're beyond my control. I know, I know, I know, worrying constantly about things beyond your control isn't sustainable. I get it that I have a finite sphere of influence, and that in all this, I can just do what I can to control my own personal actions to do my personal best to protect myself and my loved ones. I can't make someone else get vaccinated. I can't control what nutball conspiracy theories someone adds to a spew mountain of Facebook comments, or who believes them. I can't influence global policy to ensure equity in vaccine distribution. But that doesn't mean my heart doesn't break when I see this virus ravaging India, or when I hear about an immunocompromised person who was unable to get vaccinated dying, or when I witness the anxiety amongst my friends with kids who don't know how best to protect their little ones with the world reopening. I wish I could just shut off that switch and say "I'm good, I'm vaccinated, so, the pandemic is over for ME, let's get back at it!" but I am not there. This thing is still happening. And the longer it goes unchecked in some areas, the more likely it is to mutate and come back around to impacting me - so yes, I'll probably continue to worry and care and be vocal and if that bothers you, well, then shoo. Because my mama bear nature applies on a wider scale. 

There is going to come a point where I'll look back on and read old posts and statuses from this time and not feel them so deeply maybe. Right now, when timehop puts me back a year, I just nod and find that I am in a very similar mental frame now as I was then. The lemons might be back on the shelf, but that shelf still feels empty. I hope it won't forever. And I hope someday this will feel like a distant memory. In the meantime, stay safe, friends, and treasure your lemons while ye may.

And for now, we look for alternatives.

* Yes, I sometimes call the pandemic a "pani," like it's some sort of casual friend that I have a little nickname for. I know other people call it other things. I know it's stupid. But I need to minimize this monster in my mind sometimes in order to survive, so just let me have this silly quip. 

** Don't worry, I promise not to ever talk about this outloud with any of you. What's past is past, I know we all did our best and our individual best looked different on different days for each of us. So some days when I was curled up in a ball and needed you, you might have been in your own ball needing me - this year was just a stalemate of support in so many cases, and what good is it actually being pissy about it? So, just know that this subtle bitterness is all in my head and won't ever surface in person. Love you, mean it. 

Ten Years (Yet Only Moments) Ago

Every year on this day, I try to put a few thoughts into words but never quite manage. Today I'm sitting at the sunny dining room table while a flurry of handymen install a new A/C unit and do duct / HVAC work in our house. It's probably not the best time to delve into my memories of a loved one lost but, hell, when is a good time?* Where I really want to be is on the road, headed north to my hometown to spend this day with my family (whom I miss so frickin' much) as they celebrate the legacy of a damn good man. But it's pandemic times, and me just a few weeks out from being fully vaccinated, so, here we are....

It always amazes me to think that what I know of any person is just a small part of what makes up their life. I only ever know them through my particular lens, and my interactions with them, despite there being infinite other instances they share elsewhere with others. I knew Vern as an uncle, not as a father, brother, or son. In those capacities, I saw him through the eyes of my cousins, who grew up in a loving household; my mom, as she laughed and joked with her big brother; and my grandma, as her first born doted upon her. 

I wasn't even alive the first half of his life, but he was there for all of mine. And there are still such distinct moments I shared with him. Moments that I know are still happening in another time and place.  

• My uncle and aunt had a library room in their old house. It had floor to ceiling shelves with books. Vern told me that if I read every one of those books, I'd pretty much know all that needs knowing. He loved learning, and always knew something about everything. As a child, I more than once thought he was probably the smartest man in the whole world. 
• That library didn't just have books, it also had hundreds of movies. VHS tapes and eventually DVDs. Every New Year's Eve we would have a movie marathon. My mom, sister, grandma and I all got to pick out a movie to watch. We'd make the drive out to that room, that library, and pick out how we wanted to ring out and in the new year. His love for movies was infectious. Any tape you picked out, he could tell you some extra tidbit about. That room was a school of knowledge and fun facts, with Uncle Vern as the professor.
• They lived out of town in the country, in a small unincorporated community that pretty much featured just a winding road, a bar, a cheese factory, and my aunt and uncle's house. So they jokingly called Vern the Mayor. And I believed it. Because he seemed like the kind of guy who'd make a nice mayor. Everyone knew him and liked him, and if you needed anything, he'd be there to help.
• Given their location, every summer meant a giant birthday bonfire. All the cousins and family in one spot to bask in the flames of the previous year's Christmas trees, massed atop a giant pile of wood and fuel. Just be sure to grab him a beer, so long as you're over by the cooler there.
• Any celebration was made a little more jovial when Vern was there. Sunday Packers game potlucks, tearing up the dance floor at a wedding, or the inevitable silly stringing at a birthday. Somehow, you never saw it coming, but it always came. You went from blowing out birthday candles to just caked in silly string. When we moved out of the trailer, there was still silly string stains on the ceiling from one overly zealous celebration. 
• He had a beautiful singing voice. In the rare occasion I was with him at the same time in a church, it was a real treat to hear him belt out the hymnals. And any time there was a bar with a jukebox or a random karaoke machine, there was that voice. I have a vivid memory of sitting on a stool at a bar up north by our cabin, sipping a kiddy cocktail, my legs dangling, watching Uncle Vern harmonize a John Denver song with a stranger. Take me home, country roads, indeed.
• Times up at the cabin were great. Swimming in the lake, cooking back-to-back and butt-to-butt in that tiny kitchen while everyone played cards at the table, while some golden oldies streamed from a radio perched atop the fridge. My uncles and the cabin are interlaced in my mind. One of the last times being when Vern was sick, but everyone gathered up to build a new outhouse. Each of my uncles had a specific skillset when it came to building, whether electric, plumbing, framing, etc. Between the three of them, they could design and construct just about anything. Even my grandma's "pop back" garage.**
• Swimming at the lake wasn't the only spot for a dip. Every family wedding or event that involved a hotel, and you'd find Vern in the pool. I remember going with another uncle to 'find Vern' and of course we found him swimming. "It's brother Vern, the whiiiiiite whaaaaale," my uncle bellowed as Vern laughed and splashed. Minutes later my aunt appearing with a, "Vern, get out of the damn pool, you gotta get ready!" 
• My aunt. Goodness gracious did he sure love her. Their marriage is still one I hold on a pedestal in my mind as to what a happy married couple looks like. A married couple who has seen it all, been through times good and bad, and has come out stronger. Vern always had a mischievous look in his eye and a little chuckle as he'd pat my aunt's butt as she walked past him; a chiding little remark from her was always accompanied with a smile. Growing up, they were the duo with the longest marriage in my eyes. It seemed like they were still newlyweds somehow, and yet the just always had such a deep understanding and respect for each other. They both played their role in the relationship, and I watched as a kid, thinking I was seeing #relationshipgoals without even yet knowing what that meant.
• He was just a loving person. He wanted to make sure everyone felt cared about. Every year on Valentine's Day, he'd go down to my mom's office and bring chocolates and treats for my ma and all the women in her office. Every year. Just so they knew they were appreciated.
• And hugs. OH boy, did he sure give the best hugs. Almost overwhelming to a small child, but his hugs would just envelop you in love and kindness.

I could probably go on for ages, plucking out little memories, but that list will never be long enough because it unfortunately stops short. The "new" memories of my Uncle Vern exist only in my mind. The thought of his beautiful singing voice delivering a sad hymn at my grandma's funeral; or of him waving me out to the dance floor at my wedding as some Neil Diamond song he requested began to play; or of him chatting politics with Andy's dad at a backyard BBQ at our new house; or of him bringing a box of balloons/candy and a can of silly string to my non-existent child's birthday party. None of these moments are real. None of them happened or will happen. But they're there in my mind, in a parallel reality. And they make me smile to imagine. 

It was ten years ago today that my Uncle Vern passed away. Diagnosed in September 2010 with pancreatic cancer (which rapidly spread elsewhere), they'd given him three to six months, and there we were in the ominous month seven. I had graduated college in a recession and struggled to find a job in my field, so that year, my uncle's last year, I was living at home with my mom and got the gift of time with my family. He was the first close (actually close) relative who died, and being 22 at the time, I was lucky to have not felt such loss sooner. Telling the story of that year, and what it really looks like to lose such a light in such a dreadful way, is still not something I can properly put to words. But the point I guess isn't that he died, as awful and heart wrenching as it was, the point is that he lived. He really, truly, fully lived. And the world is all the better for it. And we all miss him like hell.

Silly string: you never see it coming, but it always does.

* If they grown men can handle a lady in a dainty floral face mask quietly crying as she types at her laptop, while they lug around filters, fans and ducts, then they can just get on out! 
** A solidly built garage is still no match for an old woman with a lead foot. Just before we had to take away my grandma's license, she had one last hurrah in which she drove her car straight through the back of that garage my uncles had helped build her. In another garage, a back wall might have stopped and perhaps killed an old woman from the impact, but not this garage. Instead the back wall sort of just popped open for her daring escape into the backyard and through the woods. The car may not have made it, but she came out of the whole ordeal fine (just pissed off, per usual).

COVID-19 Killed My Honeymoon, and Other Feels from a Pandemic

Six months ago, I did the most adult thing I've ever done and married my love, on what I'd selfishly argue was the most beautiful day of 2019/ever. Three months ago, early cases of a new virus started being reported out of China. One month ago, my husband survived an active shooter situation at his work place. Ten days ago that little virus from China was declared a pandemic.

And a week ago, I was standing in our bathroom, staring at myself in the mirror, silently sobbing, and eating a large homemade cookie.

It was banana oatmeal chocolate chip, like my mom used to make. Because it's a comfort food of my youth (much like buttered saltines and Mrs. Grass's soup). And I had made a large batch earlier that day with a few bananas that had gone too ripe. (I knew I could freeze them if needed to and was in doomsday-meal-prep mode that day.)

A culmination of feels hit me all at once as I picked up the first still-warm cookie to try out. And as that wave broke, I dashed to the bathroom. The bathroom was a closed door that I could use to shield my husband from any further stress, so I wouldn't be a burden. A refuge for me to process my emotions before putting back on the brave face and stepping back out. It was a silent space for some introspection. I could take all the time I needed. No one questions a closed bathroom door.

It wasn't until I was standing in front of the mirror that I realized the cookie was even still with me. There, in my hand, warm chocolate chips began to smudge my fingers. I let out a quiet, childish chortle thinking about how great, now my fingers looked like they had poop on them. And that's when the tears started to flow. Because it was arguably funny and weird that my cookie and I were there, but arguably awful everywhere else in the world.

I let the tears flow, slowly eating my cookie, and stared into my own eyes to reflect on the root cause of this particular breakdown....

.... I finally let myself accept the fact that we wouldn't be having a honeymoon. The situation had passed a tipping point in Europe and the journey around Portugal and the Azores I had meticulously planned (kicking off April 1st) was simply not going to happen. We likely wouldn't physically be able to get there, due to new border restrictions being put into place daily. And even if we did, every restaurant, museum, or park we might want to visit would be closed. We'd put ourselves and others at risk as we hopped between a half dozen airports on our way to and from. And we'd likely be put on quarantine either upon entry or upon return, if we even could return.* We had to cancel our honeymoon; we had to stay home.

.... My husband was still going to have to physically go to work the next day (as he can't work remote like I'm luckily able to), and risk being exposed to this accelerating plague. I'd be home working all day alone, with my phone propped up nearby, forever worried about missing his call telling me that he was in danger (because I missed it once, and it broke me, and I never want to miss a call from him again). He was going to come home after work, carrying with him the news and germs of the day, and spiral into a news-reel black hole, obsessing over the increasing number of cases (and deaths), and wondering why more wasn't being done. And I wouldn't have any answers for him. Any words of comfort would continue to be fairly hollow, as the situation changed so drastically each day, and all projected outcomes didn't bode well. I couldn't console my husband and I couldn't keep him safe.

.... My mom was going to still go to the casino for St. Patrick's Day with my aunt.** And plenty of others were going to continue going about their lives like nothing was happening. And this virus would just continue to spread because the people of the world wouldn't give up their freedoms until the situation got so dire that they were forced to. And there was nothing I could do to stop that. I could practice social distancing or stay entirely quarantined, and I personally could do my part, but I couldn't control anything beyond that. I could talk til I was blue in the face about the steps that needed to be taken, and still be told that I was overreacting and this was all a hoax. My actions alone felt like they meant very little. 

.... We had friends losing their jobs, stepping into an unknown timeline of financial insecurity. People we knew with compromised immune systems (and conditions that make them more vulnerable) who were scared to go outside and worried sick about getting sick. Relatives who would hate it if you said it out loud but who, quite frankly, fall into the "elderly" category and are thus in a higher risk zone. We watched friends have to adapt their career and home situations, suddenly working remote and needing somehow to care for their children who no longer could go to school/daycare due to closures. Friends who are nurses and doctors who are on the brink of a real shitstorm and will have to face the biggest challenges yet to come. We saw other friends get stuck while attempting to travel, people rushing to get to their final destinations. Events were cancelled, with many more pending cancellation. Everything and everyone we knew would be impacted by this.

.... I was also just straight up pissed. Angry for all the selfish reasons, but also for the lack of preparedness on a global scale, for the senseless loss of life, for the amount of misinformation being circulated. And mad at myself, for not taking it more seriously sooner, for all the times I'd gone out and about and could've possibly unknowingly contracted and spread this virus to someone else. I was just so vexed that this pandemic was really happening to us.

.... The timeline was totally unknown. Would this really be over in a month? Or were we all about to sign up for a much longer tour of duty with coronavirus? Would everyone do their part and this would all move along faster, or would the lies coming out of the President's mouth have done irreparable damage? Even if we all quarantined, would it just spread again the second we all returned to normal and we'd have to wait a year for a proper vaccine? Would our honeymoon not be the only thing we'd have to cancel in what was to be our most travel-heavy year to date? When would it really end and how bad would it get? When could life go back to normal?

I talk a good talk about the steps to be followed: stay home, wash your hands, practice social distancing if you have to go out for vital supplies, flatten the curve, keep your mental health in good shape, be kind, thank essential workers, stay strong and united at a distance, etc. I talk that talk on any platform I can and hope it will somehow help, but at the end of the day, I was still the one cry-eating a cookie in a bathroom. No one is immune to the feels during this health crisis.

I'd wager I've not been the only one sobbing in a bathroom in recent weeks. And that I'm not the only one who feels like they're at the point where anxiety, anger, and helplessness walked into a bar (against public order that such facilities remain closed to stop the spread) and then they licked everything in sight, touched their faces, and ran about in the streets buying up toilet paper. And I'm certainly not the only one who had to cancel a honeymoon, or whose life plan has to look a little different based on recent events. I'm happy for a strange feeling of solidarity, but am also just so damn frustrated-sad-enraged that we're all in this mess together (...but apart, please stay home).***

It's okay to have cookie-cries in the bathroom -
just be sure to wash your hands for twenty seconds afterwards.

* Spoiler alert: they've since blocked all travel into Portugal, and the Azores have mandatory quarantines in place for all those entering. The bright side is, we were able to get full refunds for our hotels and AirBNBs - and some of the airlines we were to fly with, others we're still arguing with that we want refunds and not vouchers (since we have no idea when or if we'll be able to reschedule our trip and if we do we're uncertain as to which airlines we'd fly based on timing needs).
** Note that my mom and aunt are both now practicing better social distancing, and I know there's a certain level of guilt at their having continued to go on their annual casino holiday trip, but at the time of the above depicted scene, I was basically hyperventilating at the thought of them both getting infected over a fucking penny slot machine. 
*** I also feel grateful and lucky in so so many ways, but right now I just am not in the optimistic mood to talk about the sunshiny shit, friends. Perhaps in another post. 

Breaking Up Is Hard To Do

We spend all our lives developing and nurturing relationships. Some are fleeting or tumultuous. Others come in and out. Then there are those that last for years and years, but change over time. Most are not constant. Save for one. The most important one. I'm not talking about finding the one. I'm talking about the one that you can never truly get away from. It's that person who I've been in a relationship with for the past thirty years.... myself.

It's that me, that she, that's been having a hard time this past month. Because this is it. We're done. There's a beautiful shiny rock on a very important finger now, which means it's time for one final breakup - with any luck, the last breakup I'll ever have in this lifetime* - the divorce from my singledom.

***Let me preface this by saying I literally could not be happier to be starting this new adventure with the ridiculously wonderful man who has agreed to stick by me for, you know, eternity. I'm stupid lucky to have found him. BUT, being engaged does not mean that the only emotion you're allowed to feel is giddy giddy joy joy all the time. So, just let me get this lament out and if you'd rather hear the glowing rosy-eyed bride-to-be ravings, I'm sure those will come later. For now you get a scatter-brained panic, because that's how my brain feels.***

Don't get me wrong, I know this all is going to sound terribly melodramatic. I'm not losing a leg, or moving abroad, or switching jobs, or altering my gender, or dying here - nothing so hectic as all that. I'm just getting married. It's just a name on a piece of paper really.... right?

What is in a name?

But that's just it. It's my name. A name that I've built an identity around my entire life. It's silly that a few letters (or in my case, a lot of frickin' letters) can form such a core identity, but they really do. It's that long last name that spun off into countless nicknames, and awkward explanations of how to attempt to pronounce it. It's a name that most of my friends probably still can't say, which settled me into my position as just "Gina K." That last name immediately signals my heritage (it's so German that it literally is wearing lederhosen and chugging a litre of beer) and anchors me to my family.

It's a name that's also coming to an end. Unless my sister decides to keep our name and pass it to her children, there won't be a next generation. It will become just an archaic reference on someone's family tree some day. There won't be anyone walking around proudly carrying it with. (Then, you can sure bet that there really will be no one who can pronounce it!) And the thought of that kind of makes my heart hurt a little bit.

Yeah, yeah, I know what you're thinking: I'm the one opting to make that name change, so if it really bothers me, I don't have to do it. But, I do want to. It's a symbol that we're a new little family. That we're merging those branches together. I'll be proud to don that new last name - and thrilled to get some ambiguity going forward - but that change is a mental hurdle that I'm still working on getting over. I have a long time before I have to properly face said hurdle. Right now I'm getting a running start, so later I don't just barrel straight into it and end up a crumpled, crying mess on the ground.

Who the heck even am I?

It's all a part of the mental shift. There's a new constant, now. It's not just me: it's we.

How do you like THEM apples?? ... I like them fine, thanks.

Never fear: I'll still fight against being pigeon-holed into just specific titles (see rant #9). But, as much as I might argue that I get to be just-the-same-as-I-ever-was-thankyaverymuch, it really is true that marriage does fundamentally change something. Besides literally changing my name, I'm changing my perspective on the future.

As I evolved from a scrappy trailer-park kid, to a painfully nerdy band geek student, to an aggressively-social-butterfly, to an independent career-girl, I was by and large single. And to be honest, I was good at it. Yes, I had loving family and friends who had my back, but on a whole I was solely responsible for the outcome of my life. My decisions and their consequences were all on me. So if I messed up, it was just me who was impacted. If I was poor, it was okay because I only had one mouth to feed. It was all on my shoulders. I decided what took priority, and how to spend my time and money. Just me...

Even though we've been together for almost five years now, I still was always cautious about the potential of reverting to that single status. When we moved in, I  kept my pots and utensils. I made sure I was financially secure enough to go solo again at any point. I didn't get rid of all my furniture. I knew exactly which friends had a couch I could crash on... just in case. I lived life in "just in case" mode.

Because, let's be real, relationships can just end on a dime. I could've come home any day from work to find him gone for no good reason. Because even though you care, a relationship isn't set in stone. It's a loose knit that can unravel fairly quickly.

This is it. Don't get scared now. 

Marriage ups the ante. It ties big old knots into that loose knit. It's more binding. Sure, marriages still do end sometimes, but divorce is messy and expensive. If you want out, it takes a lot more effort. That's why (most) people don't enter into this legal union lightly. And it's not like we are, and it's not like this wasn't building up for awhile - I'm not shocked and suddenly having to come to grips with this identity change. This wasn't something we rushed.** I guess I just didn't realize that my obnoxious last name and single-status meant so much to my wonky brain.

So here's where that leaves me.... a bride-to-be, having a quiet meltdown / identity crisis while trying to keep a good poker face. Mentally preparing to go all in on this big bet, and hoping that this two-of-a-kind is enough to win. This doesn't feel like a gamble. It feels like a sure thing. Besides, my cards are all on the table at this point, and there's no going back now. I have no regrets about how I've played the game up to this moment, and no regrets about how it will all turn out. Because you can't win if you don't play. And the prize is happily-ever-after.

In it to win it...

* Yes, I did bust out all the best breakup songs. Because even if breakups suck, there is nothing more cathartic than openly sobbing in ones car will blaring "I will always love you" or "It must've been love" or some other sap anthem. Anyone who has never had one of those moments has lived their life at half emotional capacity. 
** I managed to keep conversation about marriage pretty practical and non-threatening. No major ultimatums were made. My fiancé never came home to me laying in a pile of wedding magazines and taffeta fabric samples with "Wedding Bell Blues" on repeat and "Say Yes to the Dress" queued up on the TV, wearing a "Why aren't we engaged yet?" t-shirt. No offense to the forward-thinking women who made such displays, it just wasn't my style. 
*** Also, for the record, getting married will not make me get off my feminist soap box. I'm gaining a legal life partner here, not a master. So while my mental title shift to be a little less 'Miss Independent' and a little more 'Mrs. Woman of Her Own Mind' - don't expect too much else to change in terms of my attitude on gender roles and contributions to a household, loves. 

Faroe Islands Day 4: No Puffins For You!

While I've avoided mentioning it (#toosoon) throughout my posts about the first three days in the Faroe Islands, one of the highlights of our trip was to be slated for day four: I was finally going to get to see PUFFINS. These adorable, derpy birds are absolutely everywhere in guides for the islands. Every tourist lure has a shiny little puffin dangling on the end of it. For MONTHS leading up to our trip, it was my favorite thing to mention. I built up a whole dialogue of hype. "Puffin Watch 2018" I dubbed my quest as, joking on social media for the first several days.

Day four arrived and, spoiler alert: it was the day my puffin dreams went to die. And here was how it came about....

Friday

• After a ridiculously awesome hotel breakfast, we departed for what I labelled our pre-puffin adventure. Map for the morning jaunt can be found here.
• To start the day, I had saved one of the most iconic views. We hopped islands and drove under and ocean and through a mountain to get to the village of Gasadalur to see the Mulafossur Waterfall. For several kilometers of that route, it was apparently field trip day and the one lane (two-way traffic) cliff roads were swarmed with children... Children we almost knocked off said cliff with our car because, like the local sheep, they would not move out of the way. 
• No infant lives were lost, and when we got to our destination: it was just as picturesque as they say. Only a dozen or so people live there, and prior to 2004, you couldn't even reach this area via car. Now that it's accessible: it's a must-see stop! We hiked around for awhile before I got antsy and began our journey south again.

Looking out to Mykines, where my puffins awaited!

• Next up, I really wanted to hike out to see Drangarnir, but since it's such a difficult hike and I knew we'd be going by the gorgeous formation on our ferry ride later, we instead went to Bøur to see it from across the way. Once again we wandered among cute little grass roofed houses, as I quietly jumped for joy that we'd soon be boarding a helicopter to go to the magical puffin island. IE I was so excited that we had to leave, and got to the airport an hour before our flight. 

Eyeing up the dragon rock from the other side.

• And that is when the puffin shit hit the fan...
• As I mentioned previously, there is a fair bit of logistics involved in getting to certain spots. To get to this puffin paradise, the island of Mykines, we were going to helicopter from Vagar airport. Helicopters can only be taken one way (and only fly M-W-F), so we planned to take a ferry back, knowing we'd only have about 2 hours to explore the island, which would be JUST long enough for us to hike to the lighthouse on Mykines and back, allowing even minimal time for all the puffin snuggling/smuggling that I had planned. 
• When we checked in at the airport for our chopper trip, they asked how we planned to get back (since some people forget it's one-way), we explained the ferry we were taking and that we already had tickets. They asked if we knew there was a special fee to hike on Mykines, and we said yes, explaining we'd already purchased that pass as well. We were set. They directed us to watch the helicopter safety video and I ran to the bathroom thirty times as we waited, since I was so excited. A) Neither of us had ever been on a helicopter before and B) it was FINALLY puffin time!
• That's when I began to notice several different groups of people arguing with the desk people, and leaving. So, mere moments before we were to board, I finally got curious and went to the desk to ask what was going on. Fun fact: the ferry back was cancelled. NO announcement was made, there was no indication, and when we called the ferry, they said they were NOT cancelled officially, but had cancelled the last several trips.... the odds were not in our favor. Cue me having a nervous breakdown at the Atlantic Airways counter. 
• Then all the stages of grief kicked in....
• Shock: In which I gestured to the perfect, sunny day outside, I asked why on earth it'd be cancelled. WAVES. Fucking waves. Doesn't matter how beautiful the weather is, the waves can still be jerks and be too rough for a ferry docking on a tiny island with a tiny harbor. There was not the usual rain and storms though, it was perfect out, and we had done everything right. 
• Denial: In which I pleaded with the beau: there was a chance. I mean, the ferry wasn't FOR SURE cancelled. We could risk it - and risk being stuck there and risk missing our flight the next day....
• Anger: In which I yelled at the woman at the counter and she explained that "it's just the way it is" because they're just used to being at the mercy of waves and not having alternative solutions available.
• Bargaining: In which I told the said woman at the counter she would just HAVE to make an exception, and allow us to helicopter back. And in which she told me no, the helicopter back was full because it was carrying the people who'd been stuck their since Wednesday (the day of the last flight) because the ferry had been cancelled every day since.
• Depression: In which I openly sobbed at this poor woman who I was witnessing the full gamut of my breakdown. 
• Lying/Melodrama: Okay, these aren't real stages, but at this point I started telling the beau to just lie to them and convince them to somehow make this happen. Suggestions like, "Tell them you were going to propose on that island, or that I have a terminal illness" came out. I'm not proud, but I don't regret.
• Testing: In which we discussed with a blue haired Instagrammer and her man, who had been trying to get to the island in vain for days. We thought aloud the options with them, but all pointed to too much risk and us likely missing out flight back to Copenhagen, and thus spending an exorbitant amount of money switching flights, after several days of camping (with no equipment / food) on a tiny island. (Not to mention our rental car would end up overdue and our stuff was still back in a hotel in Tórshavn.)
• Acceptance: So... we told them to fly without us, and that we, like the other dozen people who had been counting on that ferry, would not be going to Mykines. There would be NO puffins today.
• Through my tears, I had the beau Google where to find puffins elsewhere. There was one possibility, but we had to hurry. So we dashed to the car and kicked it into high gear. Here's a map of what happened next....
• En route, we booked online for a boat tour in Vestmanna, which lead out to the sea cliffs where many puffins and other birds call home. It was our second chance! We could still see the puffins! We would have just enough time to make the drive and board to catch the last tour of the day, per their website. So when we arrived, the beau ran ahead to get us checked in, while I quickly ran to the restroom. 
• When I came out, I could see him arguing with the woman at the counter, and my heart sank. I knew something was wrong. Fun fact: their website was a lie. They'd decided to leave at a different time today (despite the fact that it LET US BOOK online) and there would be no more boats today. The next one was in the morning - if we tried for it, and the tour ran even a half hour longer than expected, we'd miss our flight... again with the risk. 
• So, I stomped out of the boat house and looked up towards the hills. Cliffs, they'd said. Too difficult to hike to without a guide. Very far. I instructed the beau to drive us to the foot of the mountain.... we were going to climb those damn hills. I was GOING to see my puffins, if it killed me.
• And then we climbed... we climbed and climbed. Til we were at the edge of a cliff. The first cliff of many, with little gorges in between that you'd have to spend hours to hike around. And where were the puffins, you ask? Well. Not on that first cliff. Staring down into the gorge I knew - it just wasn't in the cards. 

Dear Puffins, are you there? It's me, Gina.

• So we left Vestmanna, my puffin hopes dashed, and headed back over the island of Vágar to visit the last iconic location on my list: Sørvágsvatn. It's the largest lake on the islands and feeds into the ocean near Trælanípan, a large cliff area that is only a short hike and towers above the lake. Thanks to this awesome blog, we had the perfect coordinates for parking and details for the hike.

Lake life: only slightly different than lake life in Wisconsin...

• After an emotional roller coaster, the scenic hike along the lake and subsequent dangling off a cliff edge, were just what I needed. It was stunning. We saw more people than normal (since this was an easy hike and close to the airport, it's more visited by tourists probably), and witnessed various photographers go way further to the edge of different areas than we dared. We sat and watched the sun begin to set in the area where lake meets ocean, and it was, dare I say, fucking magical.

Seriously though: lake goals.

• Post-hike, we rushed back to Tórshavn to try and catch dinner somewhere before everything closed. One of the only spots open still (after 10pm) was an Italian restaurant called Toscana. This was one of those meals where we didn't care the cost, we just needed the relaxation of a good meal with a cozy atmosphere. (It was a good thing we didn't care, because it ended up being rather expensive lol) They played nothing but Frank Sinatra music (yas) and we binged on fresh salmon, shellfish, and escargot. Very much worth it. 

It was a day with many very high notes of the trip, and a very low point as well. We missed out on both the helicopter ride and the puffins that we had been talking about for months leading up to the trip, yes, but we also saw some of the most striking views on Vágar. Picture-perfect spots and beautiful walks. A lot of zig-zagging and island hopping during my puffin-conquest, but otherwise just a day of impressive sights. This day, more than any other point in our trip, solidified one fact: when it comes to the Faroes, we'll be back. 

"And they never saw her again..."

For tales of the journey home, pop by my Copenhagen Round 2 post!

Give up the Ghost

(Note in advance: this one isn't a happy fun post.* I promise to follow up with one of those soon. Just FYI.)

It's almost 11 pm in our tiny kitchen. I just baked a batch of cookies using wax paper. Apparently you're not supposed to put wax paper in the oven. I feel like this is something I've been told before, but so it goes.

Today is a special day, in an odd way. It's been two years now since my grandma decided she was ready. Ready to leave and go see her husband, son, and friends.

Standing in the kitchen, ripping off parchment paper, I think about a plaque that used to hang on her wall, that my uncle Vern had written about her. It talked about her kitchen, the tiny one that she had managed to feed a small army out of. Her kitchen had been filled with love and shared whispers. Secrets and sometimes tears, between her and her children. Whether by birth or by proximity, they were hers to care for.

Nearing midnight, mine is just filled with the scent of waxy cookies. And shared only with a ghost.

In a lot of ways, that ghost follows me around all the time. She appears in my mannerisms, in my weird choice (and semi hoarding) of knick-knacks, in my every day conversations. Only an hour ago, as I chided the beau out of the kitchen, I heard myself saying how there should only be two people in the kitchen, one for cooking and one for cleaning, and anybody else should get out.

That's a paraphrase of my grandma, I just know it.

Or at least, I think I know it. Two years gone and I feel like I've begun to curate a version of her in my mind that hits all the marks I need it to, while smoothing out anything else. I don't think about the later, cranky years as much. Except for the occasional smirk about her very best scowling faces. Or mockery of the pitiful voice she saved just for voicemails to guilt you into calling her back (even though you'd just spoken to her a day ago) - you know, the one that is half whiny, half 'help I've fallen and I can't get up,' and all the best mastery of manipulation. The voicemails that I wish I'd saved at some point. Instead of just rolling my eyes and making a note to call her back... tomorrow. Because there was always a tomorrow.

Until there wasn't.

The timer goes off, and batch two is through. I drop molten chocolate on my shirt, after burning my thumb. As I try and fail to fully remove the stain, I accept that this shirt will always be a bit chocolaty. But hey, if anyone is looking that close, you just smack em!

And there she is again. Putting words in my mouth.

All the memories I use to craft this ghost grandma, this cherished curation, they blur together to create something I can keep not on a pedestal, but can instead use as a shield against anything sad or bad in this world. She exists only in our minds, in our stories, and in the imitations of her walking about still. She may not be as vivid, but all the moments leading up to her departure are just so clear in my mind...

-

I typed up everything for you, dear friends. Every memory. Every moment from that week before. Every regret. Every thought and feeling from the day of and the days that followed. I put it here in black and white, while the ghost shoulder-read. The timer went off, and the oven ran on, and the cookies saw a darker shade of pale.

Then I wondered why I'd kept all those thoughts inside so long. If that had been that dull, aching feeling in the pit of my stomach all these years. Maybe I just needed to tell the story so I could move on. You know, hang out with the ghost only on special occasions and not just anytime I allowed a free thought to wander.

Or maybe I need that little bit of sadness, to better appreciate the present and the ones I love.

Maybe I'm not ready to give up the ghost.**

So I took that black and white, and I wrapped it back up. In a little box. With a bow. And I tucked it away again. In the back, bottom corner of the little metaphorical chest where I hide all my other treasured thoughts.

I'm sorry I couldn't share it with you today. There may come a point where I'm ready. Or there may not. Either way, I sure do miss her. But, at least - and I'm sure she'd agree - all things are better with cookies...



*If you know me, I'm not very "good" at grieving. I don't express it well in person. That's why I burrow into a blog post and hide there instead. It's easier to walk around with a smile on, then to try and explain what's wrong. Because no one accepts the answer "I'm just sad today, is all." (Or I just act bitchy and cranky so people leave me alone, but that more often backfires...)
**In this sense or in the typical sense of the phrase either! Yet another phrase I never understood the meaning of....

Time to Get Some Work Done

As an "adult," one is expected to have a certain level of responsibility when it comes to health, appointment making, etc. Somehow, instead of accepting this duty to myself, I have avidly dodged and made a game of avoiding. (Shame. Start shaming here.) Despite being properly insured and able to pay for said appointments, I've failed to adult in this regard.

The eye doctor? How long can a one-year supply of contacts last? Welp, over five years, if you play your cards right. How long can a pair of glasses hang in there? Um, if you buy your own little glasses repair kit and have some tape, at least ten years.

The regular doctor? No. That one I don't avoid. Yearly checkups for my lady bits and overall health, those are important. Though blood draws I've shied away from at times.

Then there's the dentist. The damn dentist. Bane of my existence. After some awful experiences in my youth, I have avoided dental work like the plague. My teeth are 50% robot as is, with all the ancient fillings lurking about, so handing over more cha-ching to get more metal and torture wasn't a high priority on my list.

But then last week happened. I know I already recapped some of the emotions I went through on election day itself, but those were nothing compared to the vast swings of my mental state in the past seven days. As I laid awake, alone on the couch, staring into the early hours of Wednesday, November 9th, I was deep in the first stage of grief: denial. When they announced that the call had been made, and that the woman who should have been our first female president had conceded to the system, I morphed straight into the stage I shall reside in for the next four years: anger.

That little spark that said: don't grow complacent. This is not acceptable and you now have to take fate into your own hands. You need to work harder to improve yourself, to enhance your community, and to help others. Because things could get very scary in the years to come; but they don't have to, if we all do our part to shine a light on dark spaces, to build each other up, and do right by the planet. As youths, we were starry-eyed dreamers who wanted to save the world, but some of us got distracted along the way. Time to get back at it (even a little at a time).

So. Every day/week I'm making a list (don't worry, I won't share it all the time!) to make sure I've accomplished at least one thing in the following areas:

1. Something to improve myself (me)
2. Something to bring joy or show support to another (you)
3. Something to better my community or our union (we)

Here's some of the "you, me, we" items from week one:

• (we) Donated to Planned Parenthood
• (we) Researched and paired down the short list for charities in my community that I can volunteer for (based on timing and requirements for volunteers) - apps and phone calls to start up following my return to town after Thanksgiving
• (we) Started a positive-post-it girl-power mirror wall in the ladies room at the office

A positive spin, when real life gets shitty.

• (you) Discussed the election and positive ways to move forward with concerned friends and family
• (we) Yes, I wore my safety pin 
• (me) Saw a documentary on Maya Angelou - trying to watch more documentaries and read more works outside of my usual scope to get a broader look at the human experience - and OH this one was so fascinating
• (you) Went out to support a family member going through a rough time
• (you) Wrote a few letters / sent out care packages to a few friends - just because
• (me) Fell back into the movie watching and reading wormhole - taking time for the things I love (like seeing Fantastic Beasts and reading the next Outlander book)
• (we) Started following a organizations that post action items for citizens to influence government policies / help defend groups who could be at risk come January
• (we) Picked a child's name for our office holiday giving program
• (me) Re-listened to the speech Gwen Ifill gave at my commencement - which helped put some perspective on how much and how little has changed in the years since
• (we) Picked through my clothes to find some work outfits to donate to a local charity

You might be asking yourself: at what point did a post about dentistry morph into a little soap box speech about changing the world? The answer: It always was. Because, like taking care of one's teeth, taking care of yourself and your community is essential. Else, years later, you'll regret having not worked harder to keep things good in the first place, and will realize things have gotten rotten due to your neglect. And if you think a regular root canal is bad, imagine needing one on a much larger scale. That out-of-pocket expense is way too high to pay...

List writing to make a difference.

So it goes.

It’s not that I “eat my feelings.” It’s just that my emotions are starving and if you feed them, they only grow stronger until they win out. That’s why it’s best feed a frivolity, and to starve a sorrow.  

When my brain is in the grieving process, it literally jumps to the conclusion that if you stuff food into it, then the emotional rhetoric will just get smothered into silence. The selective hearing kicks in. At the drive thru, the unsuspecting disembodied voices asks if that’s all, if I’d like anything else. My inner monologue begs, “What was that you said? Make all my items the largest size possible? Add in some buckets of ranch to drown my sorrows in? Of course I’d like a shake, I didn’t even know you had shakes; I’ll take them all…” That empty pit in my stomach, the ache, it can just be filled with food. 

The face stuffing is just one phase in mourning the loss of my beloved, spunky Grandma, who passed away this weekend (despite my insistence that she was too stubborn and would outlive us all). Another phase is the reflection of all the wonderful years I had with her.  A huge part of that is blubbery, but most of it just makes my heart smile. I figured I’d save the blubbery bits for while I’m spooning a bushel of mashed potatoes into my mouth (them Shannons, they’re potato eaters!) and just share a few of the others.

There are far too many to list, but here are a few things my grandma taught me over the years…

• You’re never too old to be a trend setter. Many of my friends still know her as my “VC Grandma” from the years spent drinking Vodka Collins. Why? Because we were too young to know what to order at a bar, and if you want to sound like you’re an old pro, order what an old pro would. Too many toasts to count, and many more to be had in her honor. She inspired a generation of classy cocktailers.
• Lilac bushes really do make the very best forts.
• Wrinkles are just smile lines. You earn those lines from years of joy and laughter. Whether it was chuckles during the later years, when I told her that she needed to work hard at PT because “bikini season” was coming. Or laughing about how she’d be sure to get the front man’s attention at a concert if she threw her bra on stage – since it had a weighted fake boob in it that would probably knock him out (breast cancer survivor). 
• Moles are just “kissy freckles.”
• If you go to church on Sunday, you get Hardee's for breakfast afterwards. You don’t get Hardee's unless you go talk to God first. 
• The secrets to making a good pumpkin pie and great fudge. Can’t tell you those ones. Kitchen magic stays in the kitchen.
• Don’t smoke or wear high heels, but always have your lipstick on and your hair done before leaving the house. My grandma smoked for almost 70 years of her life while strutting about in the most fashionable (albeit tiny) high heels and her health paid the price as she got older; but the lipstick kept it all together somehow. As for the hair, even when she didn’t have much she still went to the beauty shop once a week, at dawn, to keep looking classy.
• Always sleep with a silk pillow case, to keep your curls intact. And if you have a bad dream, just flip the pillow over and start fresh. 
• The best snack in the world is a buttered saltine cracker. Or a cheese single, folded down into four little squares so it’s like four snacks instead of one. (Seriously, it’s a wonder I wasn't obese as a child.)
• Some of the best memories can involve TV, and that’s okay. Whether it’s learning everything there is to know about the prices of consumer goods, from watching Bob Barker on the Price is Right. Or figuring out how to tell who’s lying, who’s cheating and who’s really the evil twin, from hours of soap operas. Or learning how to polka to Lawrence Welk. Or secretly wishing you could grow up to be Ginger Rogers – seriously, my grandma really only put fuel to the fire during my teenage years with my Fred Astaire obsession. Thank goodness she taught me how to do those pin curls…  
• If you drop a spoon, it means that a baby is coming. (I’ve literally thrown myself over to catch a spoon before. I’m not risking that shit.) 
• Always be friendly to bus drivers. That way if one of the sailors is following you home, they’ll help you out. 
• How to not park a car like an idiot. We spent hours driving up and down the river walk, parking in every spot, just so I could get it down. Still didn’t master parallel parking, but at least I’m in the lines the rest of the time!
• If you’re going to collect something, display it. She had hundreds of Avon bottles, all beautiful and unique. We all had our favorites from the years we spent staring up at them on the shelves. 
• You can always tell a good man by his eyes. He has to have kind eyes. A fella can’t fake kind eyes. That’s literally the only requirement for finding your future husband. 

She also made me realize what mortality was, even if it was on accident. During my middle school years, I use to call her every single night before I went to bed just so I could talk to her, tell her about my day, see how she was, etc. Every single night.

One night she didn’t answer right away. The phone just kept ringing and ringing. Finally she picked up. She said she’d been in the other room or something, I told her no big deal; I just had thought she might not answer. And she told me that was silly; she would always answer when I called.  But I knew that was a lie. She was getting older and one day the phone would ring and she wouldn’t be able to answer. So I stopped calling every night, because as a teen, that thought really upset me...  I regret that. 

Luckily I had many years with her beyond that, for advice and laughs. And even though she’s gone in this moment, she was a real gem in so many other moments. Timeless. So it goes.