Really ready for a new chapter

Anticipating tomorrow's 18-month scans

It’s January 21^st, and I’m still struggling to pull together a cogent vision for the year.

It’s not for lack of trying, which makes me feel especially behind; by this time last year, I was powering through the first quarter of a year-long project, already reaping its benefits. It turned out to be an incredibly healing year, to a degree that surprised even me.

Now I find myself coming up with one idea after another, hoping for a repeat.

My commitment to continue writing this Substack is flagging, with one delay after another getting in the way of a weekly (or even biweekly post). Some of the pauses are for good reason—after years of being the focus of everyone’s energy and marveling at how lucky I was that the twins were as easy to raise as they were, I’m grateful that I’m well enough to be managing what feels like delayed maintenance.

In truth, it’s probably just that 12-year-olds need their Mommy in a whole different way. I was never a great baby mom; like my own mother, I suspect I was built to parent teenagers. And I’m shocked to be experiencing firsthand what people mean when they tell you that your kids need you more when they’re in middle school than when they’re toddlers.

Last week, Jack moaned that he felt too nauseous to join us for dinner. He blamed the gummies a friend had bought him after school (“just one bag,” he said, initially not mentioning the bag had held six servings), and I was mildly irritated approving him going straight to bed. Per was just serving dinner when we heard him call from upstairs.

“Mommy?”

Offending candies and the meme we texted each other for 24 straight hours in its wake

I doubt there is a mother in the world who doesn’t recognize the tone of her child’s voice when he or she has just gotten sick. Jack wanted me close but also wanted his privacy; and thus began the five hours I spent sitting on the floor outside the bathroom as Jack cycled through vomiting, showering, sleeping, and asking for ice or water.  

He finally went to bed around midnight. Per and I were just starting to drift off a half hour later when we heard him throwing up in his sleep. The sound registered like an alarm, and we both jumped out of bed; Per swooped in to strip the bed (and everything on it), I steered Jack to the bathroom and resumed my position on the floor outside.

Beary, victim of sick, takes a bath

It’s over a week later, and my back still hurts.

The whole ordeal unraveled completely my New Year’s resolutions: Mediterranean diet, no phone after 9 pm and ten minutes of journaling before going to bed at 10. The following evening at 11 pm you would have found me scrolling TikTok and eating Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups (from Delaney’s Halloween stash) while tucked under my covers.

But I fell asleep thinking back to the training session I had that morning and how my trainer encouraged me to give myself a little grace. I had fallen into bed the night before, unsure I’d be able to make my appointment. But by the next morning, I was glad I had pre-scheduled my commitment. I shared the events of the night before and ended up with a gentle workout, mostly just stretching; but I knew I would feel better after moving my body, and in fact I did.

I’ve been thinking a lot about the interplay of scheduling and intention. I’m still marveling at what I accomplished last year between twice weekly commitments to work out and to write, and I’m frustrated that I don’t seem to be able to maintain the same pace of writing just by telling myself I would. I miss the structure and guardrails of Strive for Five; and I’ve been increasingly feeling it’s time to write a book—less because I want to tell my story or launch a speaking career, and more because I’m cognizant I have more healing to do, healing beyond cancer, and healing that won’t happen without the broader structure that a narrative title demands.

The two memoirs I read that reinforced why I should write my own

Maybe I’m dragging my feet because part of me just doesn’t want to go there.

Still, I know it’s something I want to do, eventually; and increasingly, I feel like I can, if I can just figure out what kind of scheduling would help me to make it happen: Monthly meetings with a writing coach? Blocking off writing weekends on the “Big Ass” calendar I ordered in hopes that would spark my motivation? Finally taking that sabbatical I earned (checks watch) 18 years ago?

Probably, all of the above.

As well as reminding myself that even when the kids need me—as they do, regularly, with no signs of that stopping—all I need to do is keep showing up as much as I can, and keep showing up, and eventually I will get it done.

Feeding our teens

Yesterday, TikTok was relentlessly serving me videos about the 20^th of January being a day of new birth. Jupiter is entering Gemini, or something about the sun, maybe? The astrological details are hazy, but as I am anticipating my 18-month scans tomorrow, it does feel like I’m on the cusp of closing one chapter and opening a new one.

If tomorrow’s scans are clear, by Tuesday, they’ll hopefully be wedging me into my surgeon’s schedule to remove the HAI pump I had implanted in my abdomen almost five years ago. It’s been pumping saline and heparin for years now, staying alert in case I need it again while wreaking havoc on any outfit with a waistband. As I’ve gained back weight and grown more active, it’s bothering me more and more. It feels like it’s anchoring me to my past life—and I’m feeling impatient to be freed, to more easily move toward my future as a healthy person.

Maybe then I can close this chapter, and finally begin my next.