Abigail Carter's Blog, page 9

The College Tour

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Alice in her wonderland

We arrived at the hotel located in an office park, situated just off the highway. We dumped our stuff in a musty motel room and headed off to tour the top prospect. It was a rare rainy day in Los Angeles, which given our home city of Seattle, should’ve been comforting, but seemed sinister in this context. The campus was pretty, in a foreign way – cactus of every variety pocked the edges of buildings – a mix of 60s cement boxes and state-of-the-art sustainable wood and green cladding. Rain gardens abounded. There were baggy sweaters, Birkenstocks, cute beach bikes and chickens. The campus was small and the community obvious, yet something was off, though neither of us could put our finger on it.

Later, in the cute town, we got out of the rain by browsing a Christmas store, full of sparkly ornaments and silvery trees and twinkling lights. Stepping inside felt nostalgic, as if an apple pie were baking in the oven and there was three feet of fluffy white snow accumulating outside the window.

In Starbucks, Olivia sprouted tears. “I’m going to be so homesick,” was all she could say. I had to swallow the lump in my throat. I felt her unease. The beautiful campus – one of five prestigious colleges all sharing buildings if not mission statements should have enchanted us. The town was sweet, picturesque even, and yet we felt uneasy there.

We had a late dinner and the next morning were back on the road in the sunshine.

Craftsman houses of all colours lined the streets of the next town we drove into making us feel like we were in Seattle. This campus was alive with activity – barefoot skateboarders, billowy-shirted girls in tall boots and sleek hair looking like clones of Olivia, athletes in red shirts, laughing. The tour was expansive, given such a compact campus. Our tour guide was passionate about his school and forthcoming with many, many details. The funniest was that many of the kids work at Disney which is just 10 minutes away. Several of his friends played princesses and other characters. Olivia’s eyes were wide with excitement as she whispered, “I want be a Disney princess!” I laughed and had to agree that she would make a fine one.

Driving away to the next college, a campus JambaJuice tucked securely into the cup-holders of our rental “compact” – a huge white SUV – Olivia pointed out that she felt like she was in Seattle or New Jersey. There was none of the worry from the previous day in her eyes.

Our final stop was an expansive campus of lush, green lawns dotted with a mix of cathedral-like white buildings and modern, glass and whitewashed cement architectural masterpieces. Despite having many more kids than the previous school, the campus seemed deserted, the students subdued. A water gun fight among some students seemed staged, and most of the other students walked by, ignoring the silliness. There was a mall bigger than most I’ve been to in Seattle – all skylights, tall trees and busy escalators. There was one tiny coffee shop tucked into a corner looking like an afterthought.

Later when I asked Olivia what she thought, she shrugged and said, “I don’t mind it,” which surprised me. It was now a tie for second between first college and third.

Armed with what seems like the perfect college selection, she must endure the selection process. And hope that the college gods match her with the right place. It’s a mind-numbingly stressful process, one I couldn’t fully grasp until now.

We spent the rest of the weekend touring L.A., walking Rodeo Drive (laughing at the girl who got her Louboutin stuck in a grate), taking a bus tour of Stars’s homes, touring around Hollywood and the Chinese Theater. Olivia was overwhelmed with the busy-ness of the place, and her certainty of seeing a Kardashian “dashed.” (haha. I crack myself up sometimes). We saw more Porches and Bentleys and Rolls Royces than we could count, cars that I barely noticed on my last trip, and only noticed this time because apparently I have a little car afficiondo on my hands.

The best part of the trip of course, was spending time alone with Olivia, getting to know her again, as I hope she got to know me. In new light, with new appreciation and for both of us, a sense that an era will soon be ending.

It is both terrifying and exciting all at once picturing her out in the world. I can’t wait to watch as she discovers the amazing person she is, the world at her feet.

Sandy Resilience

[image error]I’ve been caught off guard by several people who have expressed their concern for me regarding the Sandy aftermath. I’m 3,000 miles away in (albeit) soggy Seattle, in a dry house with power. Concern for me?

Of course I’m thinking of everyone there on a daily basis and read the Facebook updates regularly. Olivia has shown me pictures of friends’ houses with tree branches through roofs, and I know first-hand (after Hurricane Andrew) that most people on my block in NJ probably spent the night of the storm knee-deep in their basements with wetvacs, hopelessly fighting the rivers of water bursting through their foundations.

I’ve been reading about the long gas station lines, and the jubilations when another area gets power switched on. I’ve seen the pictures of devastation. And of course I’ve read the heartbreaking stories.

The other night, yet another friend asked me how I was doing as a result of the storm. “All those stories,” she said. “It must be terrible knowing so many people there, and everything they are going through. I want to cry every time I read those stories.”

I agreed that the stories were often sad. “But here’s what you don’t understand about the people there,” I said. “They will give you the shirt off their backs to help you if you need it.” I was completely overwhelmed by this in the aftermath of 9/11. Neighbours and friends banding together to cook me food, a car dealer who created a new key for Arron’s truck so they could drive it out of the commuter lot where he had parked it, the nightly vigils in Manhattan, the trees on my street all tied with red, white and blue ribbons as a greeting to me when I came home after filing my first missing person’s report. Probably most moving was the complete Thanksgiving dinner cooked by my neighbours for my friends and family after we returned home the night of Arron’s memorial service, on Canadian Thanksgiving.

“What you’re not hearing in the media,” I told my friend, “are all the wonderful acts of kindness that I know are happening everywhere. You see it in the photos of banks of cell phone plug-in sites set up by neighbors with power for those without, and when you hear the report about the pizza joint opening in the dark at nine am to serve pizza for those who have no way of getting hot food.

I’m beginning to read different Facebook posts from my friends. The all-girl wheelbarrow demolition volunteers, the offers of warm places to stay for the firefighters from Staten Island (I’d sign up for that one…;), the recommendations for open, less crowded gas stations.

If I know one thing about people in the NY/NJ area, they are resilient and will get through the painful aftermath of Sandy. They will rebuild. They will carry on smarter and wiser than they were before.

I know this first hand. I learned from the best.

Please donate to the Red Cross. They were far and above the best out there for distributing aid where it was needed in the aftermath of 9/11. I have no doubt that is the case again now.

 

Puppy Love

This summer’s traumatic loss of Millie led me to a place I didn’t think I’d find myself – grappling with the notion of “replacing the loss” which up until Millie grief took over, I never thought I would succumb to. “Replacing the Loss” had been one of those warnings I read about in the grief books I picked up after Arron died, a warning that particularly applied to pets, though at the time I read it as applying to head husbands and was sort of appalled. “Allow yourself time to grieve,” they said, and “don’t try and replace your loss.” Um. Duh.

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We should have called her FEDEX!

But I ignored the warnings. Just 6 weeks after Millie’s death, Chloe became a part of our lives.

I was nervous about her from the beginning. I could tell she was going to be a much more rambunctious dog than Millie, and a big part of what I missed about Millie was her cuddleability. She was totally mellow. This puppy was not. She was a little demon. I knew a lot of it had to do with the fact that she was only 10 weeks old when we got her.

It was immediately obvious that she would not be able to sleep in the bed. Where Millie had been a sweet little ball curled up behind the knees, Chloe was a flopster who liked to lie on her side, legs akimbo. She liked to lie on hair. And lick. Places that one doesn’t want licked by a dog. She quickly learned to sleep in the crate.

Toilet training was also new territory. Boston females are notoriously bad for not getting the whole potty thing. That’s been a very slow process, but I’m finally seeing some progress.

Many times, I have wavered on whether or not I made the right decision in getting a new dog so quickly. I probably wasn’t ready. I continued to mourn Millie and having a dog so different made the negative comparisons a little too easy. I even had a chat with Millie’s breeder who commiserated and suggested I call Chloe’s breeder and talk with her about it. But what would that result in? Giving Chloe back?

I contemplated the idea over a weekend, sort of, but I knew it wasn’t something I could do. I would forever feel guilty. The kids quickly agreed.

And the funny thing was, that after going through that thought process, I finally woke up to Chloe’s charms. She is pure dog (where Millie was something more akin to cat/human). She’s independent. She loves her toys which cover the living room floor. She plays fetch and can actually hold a tennis ball as big as her head in her mouth.

Chloe Makes Hulk ANGRY! (Video)

It’s taken a while to get Millie out of my system, but Chloe and I have fallen into our little routines. She now gets a little pre-crate bed time where she tucks herself under my arm and snores. When she gets too loud, I carry her little floppy body over to the crate and she settles into her noisy slumber. She is learning to walk on my left side and acts like she owns the neighbourhood with her confident little stride. She still goes ballistic when she meets both people and other dogs, but hopefully that will mellow out over time.

As I write this, she is asleep in my lap, on her side, legs flopped down around my knees. I’ll have to catch her when she tries to roll over which will make me laugh. OK, I’ll admit to a case of puppy love.

The Great Remarriage Disincentive

[image error]Remarriage. There’s a word loaded with implications. You’re all no doubt wondering now if the fireman and I have been cooking up plans. Haha. Maybe I’ll keep you wondering.

I won’t deny that I haven’t ever thought about getting married again. I loved being married. I hope to be married again someday. But here’s the rub. As a young(ish) widow, the financial repercussions of remarriage make it a complicated notion for me and my kids.

If we widows and widowers marry before the age of 60, those social security benefits that our deceased spouses worked so hard for disappear the moment we say “I do.” Same with Workman’s Compensation if we receive those. And yes, many pensions and 401(K)s dry up as well. If you have children of college age, then a new husband’s assets are counted into the family contribution and that may change a child’s financial eligibility for financial aid. If one of you ends up in long-term hospital care, you will have to spend down both spouse’s assets before qualifying for Medicaid.

And it’s not just widows. Disability benefits disappear with marriage as well. How does that affect, say, a young person in a wheelchair who wants to get married? And divorcées lose their alimony when they remarry. How sad that with so many couples of all flavours wanting to get married, our society makes it difficult. Isn’t marriage supposed to equate to a more stable society? I wonder why then there are so many disincentives? It seems that in most other societies, there’s an economic advantage to marriage.

The survivor benefits are only the beginning. There is also the question of the deceased spouse’s estate. Seems we require a pre-nup agreement in order to ensure that that estate gets inherited by our kids. Careful arrangements have to be made for a new spouse and any children they bring to the equation.

A mathematic translation is needed. Does gaining the benefits from re-marriage such as lower Health Insurance costs, a divided mortgage payment, dual incomes, and tax incentives for married couples equal the lost revenue from Social Security, Pensions, Workman’s Comp and all the other disincentives?

I found many articles showing that many couples are choosing cohabitation over remarriage, a number that in fact, doubled between 2000 and 2009. Sure, cohabitation is all well and good, until something happens and you’re denied visiting your partner in the hospital because you’re not “next of kin.” Only a few states recognize co-habitation as a “common-law” situation.

I guess this raises a whole 47% question as well. There are many in this USA who don’t believe anyone should be getting benefits of any kind. Of course I am very Canadian in my ideas, so the fact that many of us receive these benefits, benefits that we or our deceased spouses have worked our lives paying into, doesn’t seem like a bad thing.

Gee. Not very romantic, all this money talk. Marriage should be about love, right? When I’m asked the question, “Do you want to get married again?” the answer is “yes, very much, but it’s complicated.”

I’m curious to hear how some of you remarried’s have handled this.

22 Years

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September 29th, 1990

Twenty-two years ago, as I spoke those vows, I could not have imagined the twenty-two years to come. Eleven years with you and eleven without and for both I am eternally grateful.

 

 

 

 

 

Goin’ to Eleven

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artwork credit: adafruit.com

I have an odd relationship with the number eleven. One might assume that as a 9/11 widow, I would see eleven as the most vile, evil number there ever was. And certainly, many cultures revile the number in just this way – upsetting the perfection of the number Ten with it’s excess, extravagance, and exaggeration just like in the movie “This is Spinal Tap” when they turn the amp up to eleven. The number eleven heralds potential conflict, or at any rate, change, transformation and renewal following collapse. Heady stuff when you apply it to something like the World Trade Center. It’s easy to see the last eleven years heralding such conflict and transformation.

Which brings me to my odd relationship with the number of evil. I see it as magical. Maybe it’s the power the number eleven has to transform, upsetting the careful balance we each hope to achieve in our lives. Like the word itself, I see it as somewhat Elfen, a mischievous little leprechaun out to mess with the nice, neat order of things. As I go about my business in the world, I come across elevens constantly. Of course I notice them every time, in a sore thumb kind of way, but every time I see one, I see it as a sign – from Arron or the Universe or The Leprechaun of Evil – that I need to take heed, follow the mysterious path that disruptive imp number eleven intends to lead me along. It’s my flashing neon finger lighting up the way of the Universe, the path of most destruction and renewal and rebirth. I am not alone in this elevenish awareness, apparently.

On this eleventh anniversary of Arron’s death, I will have been widowed longer than I was married. A harbinger of change if there ever was one. A perfect folding in two of parallel universes in which, until now, I felt I existed. The threads now are even and it’s time to cut loose and fly free. Perhaps Arron, wherever he is, is taking the same opportunity to leap, tying on what must by now be his black belt of spiritual wonderment.

In China, eleven was the number comprising Heaven and Earth, (that duality – the two ones) and thus considered the “Master Number” in the Tao. In researching the link between eleven and Tao, I keep stumbling across this poem, which is chapter 11 of the Tao:

Thirty spokes share the wheel’s hub;

It is the center hole that makes it useful.

Shape clay into a vessel;

It is the space within that makes it useful.

Cut doors and windows for a room;

It is the holes which make it useful.

Therefore benefit comes from what is there;

Usefulness from what is not there.

www.schrades.com

The lesson is about the negative spaces in life, the ones that are often most useful, offer the most meaning, give us light.

Eleven has much to teach us.

Arron, if you’re guiding these fingers of mine across this keyboard, do a big spiritual karate chop with that black belt of yours. I hope your world rocks as much as mine does. Peace be with you, Fab. I love you.

And just for fun, This is Spinal Tap:

Eleven is One Louder

 

New Girl’s Network, One Story at a Time.

[image error]Our mission, as we sat in the rustic long house at Hedgebrook, was to determine our organization’s BHAG (Big Hairy Audacious Goal). A BHAG is one of those statements you hear from those non-profit organizations during NPR broadcasts, statements like “Eradicating Childhood Disease” or “Equal Education for All.” BHAGs are almost impossible to achieve, but the thinking goes that if you don’t set such goals, you have no hope of ever achieving one. Since Hedgebrook is a writing retreat specifically for women, our main goal is to support women writers. But really, Hedgebrook is bigger than that.

As it turns out, Gloria Steinem is one of Hedgebrook’s biggest supporters and cheerleaders. And on this day, excitement was in the air because Gloria was joining us in our discussion. Years earlier, Gloria had mentioned to our executive director the need for a “New Girl’s Network,” an idea borrowed from the 80s corporate world. A network of women that could compete with the mostly exclusionary “Old Boy’s Network.” Where an Old Boy’s Network might be seen by men as a necessary means of furthering their own careers, The New Girl’s Network is seen as furthering the cause of all women, albeit, one woman at a time.

Of course, supporting women writers makes sense, but it wasn’t until I was sitting around that table with my fellow board members (all women) and two sympathetic men, that I’d ever really thought about why. Widowhood has taught me the sisterhood is a pretty powerful force for healing. Women seek support from each other in a way that men don’t. Men muscle through trauma and grief alone with that whole “boys don’t cry” attitude, whereas women seek each other out for comfort and advice and inspiration. I learned first-hand how powerful my own story was in terms of healing others, an outcome of writing my book that I couldn’t have foreseen.

I’ve learned from following the work of Brené Brown that the power of being vulnerable and telling one’s story honestly and authentically gives others’ permission to tell their own stories. In teaching my class a few weeks ago at Camp Widow, I was blown away by the strength of the stories that I helped to unleash. We listened to people read their work – none were professional writers – and witnessed magic in the form of bravery, heartbreak, and honesty. Tears, tissues and sometimes laughter was shared among us all.

Back at Hedgebrook, we continued to bat around our BHAG. Words were tossed like a salad: Equality, Network, Voices, World Transformation, Stories, Change, Women, Power.

Given that women’s literature makes up only 30% of all literature published in the US, we clearly have a long way to go in terms of having an equal voice to men, at least in the publishing world. In other countries, publication seems more evenly split between the sexes. I was left to wonder what impact the equality or inequality of women’s voices in the media might be and how it varies from country to country.

Eventually, after three hours of discussion, we had come to an agreement. Our final BHAG:

“Equality for women’s voices to achieve a just and peaceful world.”

It was clean and simple and I was struck by how it meshed with what I had already learned through my own story-telling experiences. I hadn’t changed the world, but I had changed individuals. I know from emails that many of you have sent me, telling me how my story healed or inspired, or simply made you feel like you weren’t going crazy. If just my words had that power, I can imagine the combined words of many women and how their stories could change entire universes.

After a break, Gloria joined us along with two of Hedgebrook’s published alumni, Nassim Assefi & Pramila Japaya. We talked about publishing in other countries like India, where women are more equally represented; of self publishing being a potential equalizer; and needless to say, talk became political.

Todd Akin’s comments about “Legitimate Rape” were galvanizing fodder. At one point Gloria said something along the lines of “It’s only when women take a stand against such things as gun control and reproductive rights and rape that any change will actually happen. It wasn’t until “Mother’s Against Drunk Driving” formed, that attitudes toward this driving drunk began to change.”

Indeed a New Girl’s Network has the power to change and heal the world, one story at a time.

Boys Becoming Men

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The Co-Pilot. July 2012

Thirteen for a boy seems like it should be a big deal. Maybe it’s all the Bar Mitzvah’s we’ve been to, but I like that definitive transition from boy to man. In the Native American tradition, I’ve threatened to send him into the woods alone for a few weeks to fend for himself with nothing but a jack knife , but he didn’t go for it.

It’s a shame we don’t have better traditions and ceremonies for transitioning from childhood to adulthood in the rather secular culture many of us live in.

Instead, we went down to the bank today where he finally qualified for a real Debit card, rather than just the all-but-useless ATM card that only allows you to pull money out of a cash machine. He came home with a packet from the bank explaining all the fees now associated with his account. No more baby bank accounts for this man. Gotta love how in the good ‘ol USA, one’s transition from childhood to adulthood is signified with more credit. Perfect.

Oddly, I haven’t gone down the fatherless boy rabbit hole this year. Maybe because I see he’s becoming a man even without his father around. His growth has not been stunted, he’s not girly, he knows how to pee standing up, tie a tie, turn a screw driver, jail break an iPhone. Stuff he learns on YouTube, or from friends – both his, Olivia’s and mine.

I should hardly be surprised. I saw his dad, (fatherless from the age of 17) do the same thing – adopt men into his life who could fill in the gaps.

Funny how these danged kids turn out just fine despite us.

Happy Birthday Bean-o. I’m so proud of you.

PS: Let me know if you want me to drive you to the woods anytime soon.

This message has been approved by “the man.”

 

 

 

Replacing The Loss

[image error]One of the first things I ever read about grief was that you should never try and replace the loss. It made no sense to me. As if I was going to go out and replace my husband? I couldn’t even imagine.

But with the loss of Millie, I am seeing things differently, and I’m starting to see how people could conceivably try and replace a loss. I feel guilt that I am already looking at puppies, just two weeks since tragedy struck. I know I am still in deep grief because I continue to break down in tears. Some of those tears have to do with the trauma of having witnessed the accident, but a lot have to do with simply missing that little girl sitting on my lap all day, or crawling under the covers at night to sleep between my legs. I picture her lying on the deck in the sun, and my kitchen floor is covered in crumbs that should be hers.

After Harley died, we had a two year, dog-free hiatus. I was content to be dogless. I had no desire to run out and get another dog. Harley’s last years had been hard on us both and I had come to think of dog ownership as just another burden that I didn’t want to take on. But then Millie came along and changed all that. She was easy. And fun. And I fell madly in love with her.

So why the heck do I want to replace her so badly? And so quickly? Logic tells me no, but my heart has been scouring the Internet for puppies. I even found a full grown Boston Terrier who looks like Millie. And so I hesitate. I cannot replace Millie. She is irreplaceable. But I am willing to meet a dog who looks just like her. Will I be disappointed when this dog is not like her? Will I know right away if it’s right or not? Will a new dog come into our lives with the inescapable feeling of being unable to live up to her predecessor, or will I fall in love with this new dog for its own sake, just like I did with Millie?

I like to think it will be the last option.

 

A Perfect, Heartbreaking World

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Millie – May 17, 2010 – July 13, 2012

High above Puget Sound, I looked out with a sense of both vertigo and awe. Mount Baker rose, sugar-coated on the horizon. Miniature boats bobbed in the water. In the cockpit in front of me, two heads leaned towards each other, pointing at the myriad of dials. Voices squeaked in my headphones. Questions asked were patiently answered. Soon we had bumped to a landing on Orcas Island, tied the impossibly small plane to the tarmac and were walking into town for lunch. A trip that only a week before had taken hours by car and ferry had this time taken 45 minutes.

Their faces were flush with excitement. One boy, one man, united in the glee of a twelve-year-old’s enthusiasm.

The excitement continued the next day as jet skis were tested on the Dwamish river, more questions answered, more confidence instilled through the act of taking charge of a large machine, making it move, speed. Later, a knight in a black wetsuit riding a jet ski rounded the point on Vashon Island, where we had been waiting, breathless as he made what seemed an impossible journey from the bowels of Seattle to the magical island, a 40 minute ride.

The boy fun took over once again, as they discovered the freedom of the open bay, and spun in wide circles to cut across their own bumpy wakes. Sitting on the bulkhead watching them, tears came to my eyes as mixture of emotions filled me. Gratitude. Love. Sadness. Glee.

A loyal dog stood alert on the beach watching. Anxious, or perhaps just waiting for them to return and chase her, so that she could run maniacally, ears plastered against her head, chasing and being chased by laughing boys across the beach.

The next morning, I lay in bed beside him, a small dog tucked neatly between us and looked out onto the water. I whispered a quiet thank you to the universe, for the perfection of what my life had finally become.

After a leisurely breakfast, we embarked on a landscaping project to etch a piece of hillside from the path it was slowly gobbling. There was intense shoveling and hauling and throwing of turf. Sweat and dirt smeared across our faces. We smiled, admiring the strength and determination in the other.

A large slab of wood was positioned as a slide for the pails of earth being hauled to fill in the eroded bulkhead. The slab was to be later positioned as a retaining wall to hold the hill away from the newly cleared path.

When it was time for the moving, the thick piece of lumber was lifted overhead, but the weight was too much and it was dropped. Dropped at the improbable millisecond when that tiny dog came racing up the path.

How many times now have I replayed that moment in my head? A split second before or after would have averted disaster. I would not have seen in slow motion the events that followed, too painful now to recount.

We drove into town, her tiny body laying prone on a board, my hands gripping the steering will as I begged for her not to die. As I tried to remember my address at the vet, I could overhear him telling them that she had no reflexes. And then I stood over her saying an impossible goodbye. An incomprehensible one.

Her perfection had been a part of our lives for barely a year and half. She was loved by all who met her. She adored people and trusted them all.

And she was gone in an instant.

I wonder how life can be so beautiful and awful at the same time. I question why some must suffer so much heartbreak, so much loss when others experience almost none at all.

I can barely describe what I will miss about that dog. The way she curled into my lap as I worked, or burrowed under the covers when it was time to go to sleep at night. Her haughty run into the garden to protect us from her nemesis, the bengal cat and her leaps into the air whenever her favorite man walked into the house. The way she patiently allowed small and big kids alike to pick up her small body and drag her from place to place.

We arrived in Seattle later that night in shock. He dug another hole, carefully, lovingly, deeply. He stomped down the earth, sweat or tears dripping down his face as he pulled at roots, smoothed the sides creating a cradle-like space. I carried her towel-wrapped body out and placed her inside the hole and sprinkled a handful of dirt over her. I picked one of the last of her favorite strawberries and put it beside her. One of my silver rings – Olivia’s silver ring – fell into the hole beside the berry and I left it there. One last keepsake. A reminder to her of those who loved her so much.

Oh, to love this much is so painful and yet I do it again and again. And despite the incomprehensible cruelty of life, I will not stop loving because I know the pain will eventually subside and the love will still be there.

Oh Millie, how I miss you. How I loved you. Our lives will never quite be the same without you.