It was only a dream...

I write for clarity. I write for understanding. I write to alleviate stress. I write when I am contemplative. I write to create order from chaos, and I write so as not to forget the path I've traveled.

I write so that I may find peace.

I write to avoid a future xanax addiction.

In so many ways, I know that I am incredibly bright. In others, I am hopelessly lost. There is a great dichotomy in my mind, which I find myself endlessly trying to reconcile. I write in an attempt to narrow that gap.

Take men, for instance. How can someone who has achieved relative success in so many ways be so clueless as to how the male mind works?

This is not a complaint, but merely an observation. Perhaps some things aren't meant to be understood...but I swear that as long as I live, I will never comprehend how the presence of a y chromosome can create a perspective that is completely unrecognizable to me.

I could write forever and not come up with an answer. Instead, I suppose I'll have to aim for acceptance.

Sometimes, that's an even more productive solution.

Over the years, I have made some dear friends at work. I am incredibly blessed to have met them, and I consider myself to be more fortunate in this area than almost anyone else I know.

Over the last few years, my friend Greg and I have gotten very close. He is one of the world's kindest men, and he has a heart of absolute gold. Always ready to support every member of the team in any way he could, he's proven to be not only a wonderful business resource, but also a confidant and trusted ally in every situation.

Greg has been my lunch buddy, and my coffee-run cohort. He teases me when I'm silly, and he listens when I am sad. He has become the person into whose office I run when I need a sanity break, and my very first stop when I acquire a new joke. I have also been there for him as the person to whom he could vent when things got ugly. This wasn't terribly often, for the record. His job, probably the most challenging in my group, was getting tougher and tougher - and his wife, loved more than life itself, was fighting metastatic breast cancer. And yet his strength and courage are a wonder to me - his optimism and serenity are nearly unmatched in this world. I can't imagine how one person can tolerate so much, and still come to the office with a smile on his face almost every day.

In the last two years, he and I turned into the last two men standing, so to speak, from an old circle of friends that has slowly eroded away as people have moved on to new opportunities. According to Greg, it was him and I against 'the evil empire'.

Last Tuesday, Greg resigned. I felt so very alone, and yet couldn't deny that his new job would be perfect for him. He is going to a larger organization which pays better, offers great benefits, and allows him to grow in a way he couldn't any longer at our organization.

Yesterday was to be his last day. On Thursday, he and I went out for our final hurrah lunch, as I had meetings scheduled all day Friday and Monday. I felt horrible about missing his last few days, but he laughed it off. The evil empire, he said, wouldn't allow me to bum around the office for two days on his account.

He told me about how he was leaving Tuesday (today) for Florida to take a much-needed mini-vacation with his buddies. They were going to golf, soak up some sun, and drink a lot of beer. He just hoped his wife got feeling better before he left, because he didn't want to leave before she recovered from her last treatment.

The term metastatic breast cancer, you see, isn't really descriptive enough. First it developed in the breast. After a year of remission, it came back in her cervix. Then her ovaries. Kidneys, hips, spine....and then her liver. Chemotherapy, radiation, vicodin, and surgery became every-day terms. Last month, her oncologist started a new, experimental treatment to try to give her more time. She was slowly recovering from this treatment, and it was an uphill battle.

On Friday, I got a call that Greg hadn't come in. His wife wasn't feeling well, and he was taking her to the hospital to get checked out. He would be in Monday.

Yesterday, I was told that her liver wasn't processing the new medications, and she was back in the hospital again.

Last night, she passed away.

Greg is now between jobs and a new widower. He has two kids, aged twenty and seventeen, who are now motherless. He is supposed to be in Boston this coming Monday for training on his new job. Everything that could possibly be in flux in his life....well, is. All day, I fretted over him. My boss' call this morning with the news indicated Greg was caught totally off-guard by the timing. So was I.

A few minutes ago, my phone rang. It was Greg.

He called to apologize for not letting me know personally this morning what had happened. He wanted to make sure I hadn't taken offense at the fact that it took him 20 hours from the time of her death to reach out to me.

I was horrified to think that he would feel any guilt at all over such a thing. How could this man be worried about MY feelings at such a time? Didn't he know that I only wanted him to take care of his family and let us help in any way we could?

I told him that I'd contacted his good friends J, in Omaha, and K, in Tacoma. I let him know that the phone tree was in place, and we had reached almost all of the staff he's worked with over the years. J in Omaha is driving in Friday night for the funeral, and found a phone number for another friend in Florida. I made several calls, sent a bunch of e-mails, and vowed to make a confirmation call to K in the next few days if I didn't get acknowledgment of receipt of my message (even though I think he would rather pluck his eyes out with a fork than have to talk to me).

My whole group is cooking tomorrow night, and bringing the food to work on Thursday. We'll deliver it to Greg's house that evening, so that he doesn't have to worry about how to feed his kids. We're shutting down the office Friday afternoon, so that we can all go to the wake. I'm so proud that even though it's a group to which he no longer felt an intimate bond, every one of them is willing to do everything possible to help.

But as I sit here on my couch, mulling all of this over, I can not get past Greg's apology for not calling earlier. "Honey," I said to him, "we love you. We are here, and we are all standing at the ready, waiting to help. Go take care of your kids. Don't worry about me, or anyone else. We're not going anywhere."

And even though I'm the worst Catholic in the world, I prayed today. For Greg, for his wife, and for his entire family to find some solace.

And also for more people in this world to love each other as he loved her.

Please, my friends. Go love someone tonight. "Life is too short" is not a cliché.

It is a fact.

This evening, A and I stopped at the grocery store to pick up a piece of poster board for a school project. On the way in, I grabbed a case of Diet Pepsi. A picked out a 12-pack of root beer. As I started walking toward the office section, A stopped me.

"Let me carry that, Mom."

I looked at him, mildly perplexed. "It's kind of heavy," I said.

"That's okay. You carry the poster board. You shouldn't have to carry that."

I handed him the pop, and commented mildly, "Well, I guess that is what men do. They carry things."

"Yep," he said. "That and buy flowers."

I laughed.

"I like being a man."

"Yeah, I like you being a man, too, sweetheart."

He smiled.

So did I.

He'll be a good man.

You know that woman?

The one who, though she may not be the most beautiful woman in a room, has a certain recognizable light that radiates from her smile. Her confidence, her strength, and her charm are infectious. She makes every person in her presence feel like the most important person in the world...because they are to her. She gives of herself freely, and never hesitates to roll up her sleeves to do what needs to be done. She cares for others with dignity and grace, and she loves with abandon.

I want to become that woman.

Tonight, I was outside looking at the sky and wishing for spring. Across the street, a woman opened her door to let her dog inside. Grossly overweight, tired, and bundled in a bathrobe and sweatpants, her shoulders slumped forward in the cold. She looked at me in disdain, and hissed angrily at her dog. It scurried in around her, and before she even lumbered inside and closed the door to her yard cluttered with toys and garbage cans, I could hear her screaming at her husband to put the fucking kids to bed.

I do not want to become that woman.

Somehow, I feel I have the potential to approach both ends of the spectrum. This is why I am so afraid to ever stop pushing myself farther and harder with each passing day.

God grant me the strength to one day find the former within myself, and never lose the drive to avoid the latter.

A friend, earlier tonight, on the phone -

"You know, for someone who professes to not like being alone, you spend a whole lot of energy making sure you stay that way."

Me -

"You know, for someone who always needs my help with stuff, you've got a pretty big mouth."

Her -

"You're hopeless, you know that."

Me -

"I gotta go. Gypsies just caught my house on fire."

Her -

"Really, that's not funny. You really need to stop putting yourself..."

Me -

Click.

It's not that I have a problem with constructive criticism. I just won't be lectured by a 20-something who is still convinced she has everything figured out.

Hell, make that ANYONE who thinks they have it all figured out.

Just leave me alone, kthnx. I've got shit to accomplish.

This weekend, I took A downstate with me, as I had a meeting with the movie guys to get a few things off the ground. The meeting went very well, and I'm quite excited.

On the way there, though, we did something that was several years overdue. We stopped in Peoria for the night to visit my friend Jonathan and his family. Amazingly enough, the years have slipped by at a shocking pace that nearly ten of them had passed since we'd seen each other. Dinner and conversation were long overdue.

When I look back at those last ten years, it amazes me how many things have changed. My marriage ended, my career began, my son grew into a young man, and I evolved into a woman who can handle just about anything life throws her way. In so many ways, I am a completely different person than I was when I last saw them.

And in others, it seems, I am exactly the same.

I can say the same thing for Jonathan. Marriage has treated him well, and fatherhood even better. His wife and children are simply the best things that could have ever happened to him.

But he's still the same Mr. Fabulous. He's also goddamned funny.

"These people you work for, do they realize that you once wrote a check for a pack of gum?" He asked, and I had to laugh. I remember the moment vividly. I believe it was a pack of Carefree, green flavor.

Hey, I needed gum.

We laughed over some great old stories, caught each other up on who else has ended up where, and reminded each other of why we became friends nearly seventeen years ago.

But that wasn't all. We also exchanged stories about the wonders of parenting, the tribulations of working for a living, and what we find important in our lives today. I spoke with his wife for longer than I'd ever had the opportunity to before, and realized fully just how well she complements him. I fell in love with his beautiful children, and watched A help little T to build a Lego fire truck. Seeing a new generation in action was more touching than I can say.

I have lost touch with so much of my past, and forgotten so many things that have made me who I am today. But when, from across the room, I heard a bellowing, "Hey, Steener!" and turned to see a beach ball flying at my head, I had to admit that I felt like a kid again. Some parts of the old me are pretty okay, after all.

And Jonathan?

The truth is, whenever I think of the early 90's, I only remember what a great friend you were. And I still remember how you prevented me from being plenty self-destructive for my taste at the time. Don't think I will ever forget the things you gave me courage to do.

It was good to see you. Let's not wait another ten years, okay? I have a feeling we have a lot of stories left to tell, and still to create.

It brought a little tear to my eye tonight to read my friend Jonathan's blog, in which he mentioned that the Cubs' spring training has begun. Could it be? Is it spring already? What a heart-warming sign!

Surely the best spring training story ever, though, came to me a few years ago. K, who is currently exiled to the state of Washington, had the chance to go to Arizona with some friends to watch a few games.

Sounds benign on the surface, no?

Not only is this the best spring training story ever, it's also the best drinking story ever. You see, there are professionals among us. Those who never settled into the steady hum of adulthood, and figured out ways to drink more alcohol than one would ever think possible.

Joining K's group was a guy, if I remember correctly, from California. I believe his name was.....Skittles.

Yes, Skittles.

Skittles was a paramedic, or some such thing. He brought with him to Arizona all of the supplies one could possibly imagine to enable the drunken festivities - including several IV bags, and copious amounts of saline solution.

The way I understand it, they would watch baseball, drink until they couldn't think straight, and then crash for the night. In the morning, when the hangovers proved relatively inconvenient, he would hook them up to a saline IV to rehydrate themselves - at which point everything was hunky dory for another round of ball and brew.

I guess if you're going to suffer through another disappointing year for our dear Cubs, that's the best way to start it off, no?

Not even in my wildest college days could I have dreamed of pulling that off. Queen of the beer bong I may have been...but I was also queen of puking in my front yard and waking up on the bathroom floor in a puddle of drool.

So here's to the Cubs, to unfathomable amounts of beer, and to the coming of spring. It's about damn time, don't you think?

Now pardon me while I go turn my thermostat a bit higher.

...I kinda wish I had a man around.

My garage door seems to be on the blink - it won't close when I push the button. I had to pull the little emergency cord to open and close it manually.

I think I'm actually going to have to get up there and get dirty messing with it...oh, the humanity!!

This stinks.

Paul Simon, that is.

As I was on my way into work this morning, my iPod was playing a selection of tunes from Paul and his old buddy Art. As I merrily sang along at the top of my lungs, Paul told me something interesting.

"Hey, I've got nothing to do today but smile." *

So you know what? I decided I'd make my day the same way. Truly, I had a lot to do - but nothing that couldn't wait until tomorrow.

I went into the office, and spent the day smiling. I caught up with some people I hadn't seen lately, and I took my friend Greg to lunch at Chipotle, where I scored him some free tacos. I teased my boss about catching a virus from a hooker (okay, her last name is Hooker, but that made it even funnier), and I found the French lyrics to a song my assistant has been listening to. I translated them into English and printed them out for her, which made HER smile, too.

I left a bit early because it's snowing like hell (AGAIN - I'm starting to think this guy is a hazy shade of winter), and as soon as A gets home from Scrabble Club, I'm going to take him out for dinner at the new restaurant here in town.

Later, I'm going to shovel my driveway and do some yoga.

Then I'm going to eat a cookie.

And who knows? Maybe tomorrow I'll buy a pack of cigarettes and Mrs. Wagner pies, then walk off to look for America. If I hitchhike from Saginaw, it will take me about four days to find you. We can be lovers **, and marry our fortunes together.


* A big smooch to whoever can name that tune the fastest. Googling is cheating, for the record.

** No, peas. Not you. Dudes only.

Edited to add - the new restaurant in town is fabulous! We're stuffed. I may have to forego the cookie.

And the plow guy came while we were gone, and didn't even kill my driveway! I only had to shovel the sidewalk. I'm officially happy :)

I'll never quite look at Napoleon the same again....

-Holly Brook

...on top of several inches from last week.

The gas lamp at the end of the driveway, as you may know, is about seven feet tall.



The sidewalk. Need I say more?

*DISCLAIMER*

I am neither completely insane, nor hopelessly depressed. This blog, however, is much less for others' amusement than it is for my own personal outlet. I'm just fine, thankyouverymuch. I just need to write sometimes, so I can get things out of my head and be my fabulous self when I am actually out interacting with people. Let me have my (almost) private outlet :)

If asked what I was like as a baby, my mother would surely tell you first and foremost that I was the child that never slept. From time to time, she would lace my formula with a bit of Jack Daniels, just to have a few hours of rest (hey, it was the 70's).

From that point on, any hint of stress would set me off. I can remember my bedroom in our house in Saginaw, where we moved when I was four, and how terrified I was of the dark (as well as the witches and alligators who lived under my bed). I would lie awake at night, afraid to swing my feet over the edge of the bed for fear of being pulled underneath and eaten alive. I would often call the dog in from my parents' room, lure him under the covers, and then hang on for dear life until either he managed to squirm away or I eventually fell asleep. Having to go to the bathroom was excruciating - I would start calling for my mom in a whisper, wait for a response, and then call a bit louder. Eventually, the panicked yell of "Moooooommmm!!" would wake her, and she'd come turn the light on so that I could run down to the other end of the hall to pee.

I had a habit of sleepwalking, as well. Sometimes poor mom would wake up in the middle of the night to find every light between my bedroom and the family room on, and me sitting in a chair watching static on the television (again, it was the 70's. You got the Star Spangled Banner, then that was it for the night).

In high school, it wasn't much better. Some nights I would sleep with a light on in my closet, just because I 'didn't like the dark'. Other nights, I would wake at 3am, look at the clock, and say to myself, "Oh, man. It's time to get up for school." Only after going into the bathroom, taking a shower, and brushing my teeth would I look up and realize it was 3:30 - and I had four hours left before school started.

In college, well...let's just say I didn't have a lot of time left over for sleep.

When I got married, I spent many nights tossing and turning in the spare room. One snore out of my husband, and I was awake for hours. Motherhood made it even worse - the first few months after my son was born, I likely slept for no more than two hours a day. After he developed asthma as a toddler, I put a bean bag chair in his room where I would sit through the night holding him as he coughed.

Of course, this doesn't mean that I ever got used to being an insomniac. Eventually, after months of not sleeping, my body would start to shut down and I would find myself sick, exhausted, and sleeping ten to twelve hours a night for a while until my system reset itself.

The toughest thing for me is that as I've gotten older, it's become more of a challenge to work through the sleepless periods. In my early 20's, I would find that after a while, my digestive system would begin to freak out a bit when I got too tired. Later, my reproductive system would take a hit (I'll leave the details of that to your imagination). I began to find myself grouchy and moody, to the point where it almost got difficult to flip the switch that puts me into 'work mode', in which I can at least be highly functioning for nine hours at the office before driving home in a daze.

The scariest thing, though, was this past fall when I started having chest pains. I'd been running on three or four hours of sleep a night for a few months, and everything went straight to hell. Pain, pressure, numbness, and an overwhelming fear of dying were enough to make me have it checked out; the only thing that came of it was the recommendation that I sleep more.

My doctor gave me a prescription, which has been remarkable in the fact that it has indeed made me sleep longer each night. For the last four months or so, I have been out for about eight hours each night like clockwork.

Sounds delightful, doesn't it?

I would think so too, if it weren't for the dreams. Each and every night, I have the strangest, most vivid dreams. Some are just odd - like going to visit a friend at her house in the jungle where I could go visit a huge library with my grandpa - but others are sheer hell.

Last night, it was bugs. Some looked like huge black ants, and they were crawling under my skin. In my hair, across my scalp, the shapes of them were visible beneath the surface, scrambling madly across my skull. Others were beetle-esque, gnawing on my fingertips and drawing fountains of blood that couldn't be stopped. I awoke on the verge of a scream, heart pounding, entire body shaking.

Even though I'm sleeping more than ever, I never feel rested.

Today, I was working downtown. I looked out the window of my office on the 34th floor, and all I could see was fog. Not even the street below was visible. For a few moments between meetings, I sat and stared out into the swirling gray, straining for any sign of clarity - it was as if it had worked its way into my brain.

My chest, which still has a tendency to hurt at times when I'm tense, started to pound. I had five minutes before meeting a banker for coffee, so I stepped into the elevator, closed my eyes, and imagined the bright overhead light was the warm spring sun. As we sat in the Caribou Coffee, my hands started to shake. Then they, along with my feet and face, slowly went numb. I tried not to look too uncomfortable as I licked my lips, smiled vaguely, and willed my body back into submission. Luckily for me, my companion had to run out early to pick her daughter up from school. I was left alone to sit for a few minutes before gathering my things and driving home.

Surely there must be some cure for this. Although I'm very highly functioning compared to many others in the same condition, I'm afraid that if I don't fix things soon, the ability to overcome the issue will slowly disappear.

All I really want is to sleep. Peacefully. Regularly. Nightly.

Somehow, though, I think that may be too much to ask for.

A few weeks before Christmas, I started a daily yoga routine. I was amazed at how relaxing and empowering I found it to be. It helped me find that ever-elusive center.

After I went back to work, it seemed to slip through the cracks. It was hard to find time to shut my mind down and be mentally still for a half hour...so I let it go a bit.

Tonight, after A was in bed, I found myself craving that sense of calm. I wondered how so many weeks had passed since I'd done yoga, as it hadn't seemed so very long until I stopped to think about it. Up to my bedroom, off with the lights, and I slipped right back into that zone.

I like it here. My mind stops its frantic race to solve the problems of the world, and my body is at peace.

I am writing this to remind myself that not only is this good for me, it's also something I enjoy. I need to maintain a regular schedule of yoga going forward.

No, I want to do it. I like the peaceful me.

Namaste
(The light in me recognizes the light in you.)

Really, my only concern is that the class of 2027 is going to be peppered with children named Eli and Plaxico.

Oh, and kudos to my boyfriend for teaching his baby brother to play football properly.

:)