It's bliss. The last time I was this happy, we lived in Jacksonville, FL for a few brief months of ocean and sand and sunsets that left me as boneless and content as a pup on a warm porch. I have missed that place, and mostly, that person, ever since we left.
So many things have happened in our lives over the last 18 months that it is a little bit overwhelming. I wish I would have blogged faithfully every single week, but I just wasn't there, and frankly, am still not there, but I wanted to try to capture a little bit of the emotional journey we've been on for roughly a year and a half.
If you want the short version: Good, but incredibly hard. OK, see you next month!
For those that want the longer version, keep going. Fair warning, a lot of this may not make sense to anyone but a Generation Y-er, but alas, I am a product of my time.
Seemingly random aside: you never know what you're going to get with the AFN (Armed Forces Network). It's a true audio grab bag. Sometimes its sports news, sometimes it's Rush Limbaugh (quickly followed by a retching noise and a scramble for anything else), sometimes it's the latest Taylor Swift, and sometimes it's a blast from the past.
Tonight as I drove down the sakura (cherry tree) tunnel headed toward the south overrun, I heard Puddle of Mudd's "Blurry", which was very popular in late 2001, early 2002. Chances are that if you're my age, you're totally thinking "Everything's so blurrrryyyy, and everyone's so faaaaaaake" in that signature early 2000's alt raspy wail. OK, yes, now that THAT is stuck in all our heads...
All of a sudden, I wasn't here, I was there, Christmas 2001, nervously waiting to pick (future) Hubs up from the airport. I didn't know him all that well because we'd only meet in October of that year, but we'd sort of cautiously begun dating with the understanding that neither of us wanted anything serious for the myriad reasons that young people don't want serious relationships: distance, previous relationship drama trauma, not wanting to be tied down, yada yada yada. But he wanted me to pick him up after break, and I was willing, which was a first small hurdle cleared. At least being home hadn't totally erased our interest in each other, at a time when two weeks was a seriously long time.
I remember exactly what I was wearing : a tight red sweater and low rise jeans that laced up with leather ties. In my defense, this was decidedly not a time of understated elegance. For instance, "pimp coats" were all the rage, preferably paired with a short skirt. Subtle, it was not. Fortunately, I was 21, so I was at least the right age to pull that look off. Small blessings, folks. I also remember exactly the nervousness I was feeling from being alone (it was right after Christmas and my seven (!) roommates were still home), and from picking up this guy whom I thought I might actually really like, and yes, the song that was playing, along with the sound of doors opening and closing from Instant Messenger as people signed on and off.
Anyway, it's not my favorite song, but I do love that memory for a dozen and one reasons. Not least because if you had told me then that I'd be driving the world's dorkiest minivan, on the left, on an Air Force Base, in Japan, with three of that man's small children in the backseat, nervously waiting for yet another plane to bring him home, I would have laughed in disbelief.
It was just so far away from where we were, and yet somehow here we are. One step at a time, one application at a time, one exam at a time, one move at a time, we have somehow racked up a lot of degrees and cities and friends and memories. Some of it has been lovely and simple and easy, and some of it has been hard. For the last five years, most of it has been hard. And the last year and a half, in particular, was grueling.
I don't want to write a book about being the spouse of a surgical resident. Wait, check that, I would actually like to do that. But I don't want to write one here and now. Suffice it to say that if you've been there, you know.
Of course it is, right? Your spouse is being asked to do a high pressure job
When they do make it home, they're completely and totally spent. And there you are, hoping for some adult conversation, some help with the ever increasing "honey do" list, maybe even a chance to escape for some precious alone time without another human being physically attached to your body.Who can blame them if sometimes they fall short? Who can blame you if you're frustrated by doing more than your "fair share" of the work?
It's hard.
There are good things too, of course. We created our family, we made amazing lifelong friendships, I watched Hubs grow as a physician and a surgeon and a father, and I grew up a lot myself. I don't regret much at all.
But the last year of residency? That was another level, and probably a bridge too far, at least as far as I'm concerned.
I went home in August of 2013 to visit with my family. I took Belle and Biggie and had just found out I was pregnant with the person that would become Flora. I met my sisters and brother in NC and then everything went to hell in a handbasket. My parents were separated and living in two separate cities. I'd known this for a while of course, and had been home before during the situation, but never with all of siblings at once. It was awful. It was like someone had died. We were all in different places in the cycle of grief, my dad wasn't doing well at the time (he's much better now), and it was just...hell. During all this family fun, I started bleeding and thought I was having another miscarriage.
I trekked back to MN in a black cloud of grief and anger which was exacerbated by first trimester nausea and fatigue. Obviously Flora was going to be just fine, but at the time, I refused to be happy about anything, sure that more loss was heading our way, and that all my physical misery was going to be useless. I felt like I was mourning the collapse of my parents and the loss of my children and it took me a long time to let go of the anger and pain associated with those things. In the short term, I was just angry about everything and at everyone. I remember my best friend Jen asking if she had made me mad in some way and I think I told her, and I quote, "I hate everyone and everything right now, it's not you personally". I was sort of joking, but only sort of, and I think I was pretty insufferable during this time. Just a guess.
Oh, and did I mention Hubs was doing six straight months of trauma surgery? Yes, yes he was. On call every fourth night and basically comatose during the brief hours he was at home for six months. I clearly remember one night him wearily arriving home at 9 PM...after leaving the house at 4:45 AM... to find me crying on the couch because I had fed the kids granola bars for dinner because opening the door to the fridge had sent me dry heaving into the sink. I begged him to wash off the vomity dishes because I couldn't get near it...which he did...while dealing with two hungry and overtired children clamoring for more food, more drink, more attention, more of everything. I think he said, and I quote again, "God, I hate the first trimester." A good time was had by all.
Fortunately, we didn't have to do much during this time. Just get our house ready to sell. And then show it. And then pack it up. And then move. Across the globe. But only after a six week break where we were homeless. But it could have been worse.
Because at least Hubs wasn't finishing his residency and defending four years of research and a thesis during all of this. Except that he was, of course. So he wasn't really around much. It was cool, I could totally handle it.
Except that we had a baby in there, which was amazing, save only for the fact that the sweet little muffin had colic and cried almost all the time and did not sleep apart from me until she was four months old. Fortunately I was able to get in a shower most days when Tim would strap a crying, wailing Flora into a baby carrier and walk around the house so I could get a 30 minute break.
See what I mean? A lot of it was good, but it was ALL hard.
When we got here, Hubs and I were both so tired that we basically collapsed. Yes, we wanted to see and experience Japan. But mostly we wanted to just not feel like we were dying. Our main goal was simply to get to a place where we were actually happy again.
We had five years of sleep deprivation to deal with, for starters. If anything, mine might have been worse, considering that I've had five pregnancies in six years, three children carried to term, and three children that have been/are breastfeeding for a year and a half apiece, and I don't think I've slept an entire night through for about five years. Just writing that made me tired. In fact, I was so physically drained that I had the hemoglobin of an anorexic teenager and then I forgot that I was anemic because when, exactly, did I have time to think about my own health...and yeah. We were tired.
The good news is that our mission has been accomplished. We've slept a lot. We've stuffed ourselves on noodles and dumplings and worked on perfecting a cup of coffee. I bake. I cook. I'm working on the perfect pizza crust. Because of the aforementioned activities, I run. We're slowly making friends, helped along by the fact that our neighbors are frickin' fantastic. I'm working on speaking, reading, and writing Japanese. I ignore piles of laundry in favor of piles of babies. I drink wine, and shag my husband, and watch TV. Not always in that order. It's glorious.
It doesn't take much to recharge my batteries these days. A little bit of silence, a few indulgences, and then I want my family, with all the clamor and chaos that three little ones trail in their wake. But I'm better able to be the mother I want to be for taking an hour for myself every few days. It's taken me about five years to realize that it is both OK to do what I want at times and in fact, its' necessary. I like serving my family. Service feels like love. But if I never recharge my own batteries, I can't fill anyone's needs and then we're all stark raving lunatics shouting at each other.
Along those lines, I made goals for myself for the next two years. Not for me as a mother or a wife or a sister or a friend, but just for me as a person. They're pretty simple.
I want to be able to touch my toes.
I want to make curry, ramen, pizza, bread, and pies like a boss.
I want to run three miles and actually enjoy it.
I want to write more.
I want to read more.
I want to keep up my fluids: coffee, wine, tea in particular. Oh, and water.
I want to understand basic Japanese conversation.
I want to find an Anglican/Episcopal church. And go to it.
I want to photograph my kids at least once a day because their little faces are my heart.
So. Last year: lots of good, but all of it was hard. I'm hoping to switch the next year to "Lots of good. All of it was good." I don't know if anyone gets that lucky in life, to go through an entire year with nothing hard, but I am willing to be the first!
In that spirit, I have just asked myself what I want to do, and the answer is "Go to bed", so that's what I plan to do. First, of course, I have to make the bed since Biggie Smalls crept into bed last night with an unfortunate stomach bug, but hey, you'll notice I wasn't delusional enough to ask for a year with no messes.
