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Those of you who know me have a good idea why I've been absent from this blog for the past 16 or so months.
It's not because I gained nearly all of my weight back and sort of feel like a fraud ... though that's true.
It's not because I grew tired of writing ... I'm not sure I ever get tired of that.
It's because something much bigger happened in my life. In my family's life. Something so big, so painful and so terrifying that I simply could not put words on paper about it. It was too real. Too raw. And too personal.
Deep breath. Because the words are still so very hard to produce:
Just before New Year's Day 2016, my then 14-year-old niece was diagnosed with Rhabdomyosarcoma.
And our whole world turned upside down.
I may find the courage to write about it someday. I really think that writing about it may be the only way I will ever actually process is.
But right now I can't. At least not totally.
I can, however, tell you that I wore fancy earrings today as a first step to breathing.
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It's funny how rituals start. When my business closed in December 2013 and I was out of a job, I had the very good fortune of receiving nearly a year of severance pay and negotiated an additional stock payout. I landed a great job. I felt kind of invincible.
Jim and I took some of that extra cash and went to Alaska for two weeks. We got a few house projects done. And I walked into a jewelry store and bought a pair of diamond earrings ... just because.
Now, they were earrings that were on sale, mind you. (I hadn't completely lost my connection to reality.) But they were the most expensive earrings I'd ever bought. In my head, I called them my "freedom" earrings. To me, they represented the hard work I had put in for the past 20 years. They were a little reminder to myself that I had EARNED the success I had achieved, in some part ... that it hadn't been ALL luck.
Maybe that seems silly to you, but they were important to me. I wanted them to be a symbol of power and positivity in a new, sort of scary, future. I convinced myself that they would bring me good luck as I stepped out into a new world.
Well, that first new job quickly led to a second new job, even more exciting. But that second new job fizzled shortly after almost 7 months. And then I was out of work for 6 months, trying to find my footing.
I held onto the feeling behind those earrings, wearing them for job interviews and whenever I needed a boost.
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When Bella was diagnosed, I was so scared I didn't know what to do. I couldn't stop crying. I couldn't catch my breath. I couldn't allow myself to consider all of the alternatives. I prayed every moment of every day. I started looking for signs that things were going to be OK.
I started wearing those earrings as a shield. I needed that boost every morning as I tried to drag myself to work. I put them on, every day, in hopes that they really were some sort of good luck charm.
I wore them. Every. Single. Day. I ritualized the way I put them on. First, I took them both out of my little jewelry box and set them on the dresser. Then, and only then, could I pick one up and put it on.
The left one had to go in first. Every time.
It didn't matter what the outfit. It didn't matter what the season. I wore those earrings with them all. They were my badge of courage on days when I had none. The certainty of "streak" of wearing them became a way to face the uncertainty of every moment in the chaos that consumed all of us.
Then, one day last summer, as I was popping them in my ears, I dropped one of the little silver backs onto my bedroom carpet.My eyes darted around, quickly, looking for that sparkle. When I couldn't find it, I dropped to my knees, assuming I'd find it in a second. But I couldn't find it. I could feel the bubble of panic starting in the pit of my stomach. The more I looked, the more panicked I got. My breaths got shorter and faster. I needed to find it ... and I couldn't find it.
By the time Jim walked in to see why it was taking me so long to get ready, I was in full meltdown. I was raking my fingers across the pile, pressing my face down in it to look sideways across, hoping for a glimmer of metal. With tears streaming down my face, I screamed, "I can't find the back of my earring! Help me find it. I can't lose it! I have to wear them!" Bewildered, because he had no idea what I was talking about, but sensing my urgency and making no judgement on my come-apart, he hit the floor, eventually going to find a flashlight.
We were unsuccessful and I was nearly hyperventilating. After I explained the whole story, he quietly convinced me that I could still wear that earring with another back. I wasn't a 100% convinced, but I had no other option.
The new back was yellow gold, not white gold. And it became part of the ritual, too. The "original" back went on my left ear. The new back went on the right ear.
Those earrings became my security blanket. Nothing bad could happen as long as I wore them.
So I wore them. Every day. Every outfit. Whether they "matched" or not.
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My niece's treatment ended at the end of November. Her scans showed "no visible signs of cancer." But still I wore those earrings. I couldn't tempt fate. I couldn't change the luck.
When it was time for her February scans, we all held our collective breath. Hallelujah! The news was good again. Still no visible signs of cancer.
Last week I got to go on her Make-A-Wish trip. We lived like kings for a week at Disney. We ate too much, slept too little, fought a bit like sisters do ... and had a blast. She took on every roller coaster with sheer joy. (I joined her on all but one with sheer terror, much to her delight.) We celebrated the end of treatment and the end of a year in hell. It felt for a while, like things were finally back to normal.
So the time seemed right to take another deep breath and allow myself to take the leap of faith that everything was going to be OK. Without the earrings.
I've got three days at work with three different pairs of earrings under my belt. It feels strange. And I'd be lying if I said it wasn't a bit unnerving.
But she is ready to take on her new life. So I have to be, too.
We are a couple of weeks out from her next scans. That day, I will wear them.
