I've never stopped writing

It's been really quiet here in this blog space over the last few years. But the truth is... I've never stopped writing. I just stopped publishing.

I don't know that I have the "why" on that figured out. That has me somewhat stuck. That's the way I am. I always want to analyze and figure things out before taking the next step.

But, I have lived long enough at this point to know not only is that not always possible, it doesn't even matter.

A few years ago, I started writing a book. Then, I over analyzed. I read too many things about book writing. I reached out to agents. I had a writing coach. I listened to podcasts, took notes fervently at conferences, I have entire notebooks dedicated to this goal.

Then, I put the whole idea on a shelf. It's been about four years since then. A lot has happened in life. A couple of moves, a couple of big professional steps. Some major losses. Most of it has happened away from the pages of this blog. It's all n the pages of these journals, though.

They are the Dead Sea Scrolls of my life. Joy, love, pain, fear, tears, grief, hope, heartbreak, endurance, character-building, success, anxiety. The stories are all there. I'm so glad they are, too. Because life passes by too quickly to process and I can't publish it fast enough.

Not that it will all be interesting and/or helpful to you. It won't be. But I sure do enjoy looking back and spending time with these old thoughts. Like old friends. Familiar and comfortable.

I've been thinking for a long time about getting back into the game. I feel like life has loosened me up, and I'm good enough to get back in without getting hurt. The basics will come back, right? Like how when I go play second base in a softball game, I just know what to do - even if it's been years since I've done it.

It's grafted into who I am. I am a writer. I experience life as a writer.

Since I feel the call to put words back to the screen instead of just pen to paper - I'm going to be obedient. But - I am also overwhelmed by the task, so instead of trying to figure it all out, I'm going to find things in these pages, and share them just as they were written in my journals.

It may be raw. It certainly will be out of order. I hope, somehow, it does some good.

A Confession: No Longer Who I Was

I am a girl who appreciates order and color coordination. I am on time, I wake up before my alarm, I read three newspapers every morning and I'm generally annoyingly prepared for anything.

I am a girl who knows what she wants. Once I figure that thing out, I go after it with my whole heart and I almost always get it.

I'm not that familiar with failure. Or heartbreak.

I think that's why you saw me pouring my heart out over coffee and tears here in this blog space a few years ago. Because I met my match. The thing I couldn't outwit, couldn't out perform, couldn't get in front of, couldn't change: my husband's disability.

I have heard from so many of you who tell me my words could be your words. That I gave you a voice. That I inspired you to love your husband and admit that it's hard at the same time. Girls, that gave me so much strength to walk this walk on the days I didn't want to wake up. Thank you.

Thank you for being the community that didn't even exist when I first needed it. Thank you for the flowers and cards and text messages and blogs of your own and pictures of ways to make the little things in life accessible.

We are the quad wife sisters and no one can ever take that away from us. But I have to be honest with you. I've changed.

I am no longer the girl who cries all the time. I'm no longer the girl whose heart is broken when the church people fall all over themselves to help him while the door slams in my face. I am no longer the girl whose hair is falling out and skin is broken out and can't take all of the pressure of doing it all around the house.

A lot has changed. It changed a little bit at a time. I think that's called healing.

What I'm not saying is it's all better. I still have days I cry on the floor. I still have outbursts of anger and fights with God that include lots of "Why?" questions. I still miss the memories I'll never have. I have moments where I see my life as if I'm looking at it from the outside and I can't help but feel a little bit sorry for us. But mostly, I'm just generally happy with what we have.

It's healing. I'm sure of it. I want this for all of you, too. I believe it will come. I think you have to feel it for it to heal, though. So please, poke around here in the archives and cry with me. I'll cry with you. This experience has fundamentally changed who I am. And I'm glad. I'm a better person for it. I never would have made it here without all of you.

But I felt like it was time I came clean. My life is full and disability and caregiving is a part of it but it's no longer the main character. I don't know what that means for this blog. It may be a little more random in the days to come. Less focused? I'm not sure. My boss tells me I suck at poker face. Guess what? I suck at poker face writing, too.

So, I'll write from where I am and you can read from where you are and hopefully, we'll connect some where in the middle and encourage each other to bravely do the hard things and to love like this.

Maybe This is Restoration

It's 6:00 on a Saturday morning and it is quiet in our house. The leaves have grown to their fullest on the tree that stands tall behind the white fence in our tiny back yard.

Brokaw barks when the wind blows.
Michael sleeps with the foot of the bed raised.
And I sit on the edge of the couch on the heating pad, macbook pro on my lap, tapping away at the keys. And I need another cup of coffee, as always.

Hello, everyone. I miss you.
My world is busy. Too busy, really.

I have only been to the gym once in more than a month. I feel my wobbly bits growing and I'm not happy about that.

Last weekend, Michael and I didn't leave the house at all. My SUV sat parked in the driveway in the same exact spot from Friday morning until late Sunday night. We ordered a pizza and watched Steel Magnolias and went for a family walk and picked a magnolia. I had no idea how they open and close. That's weird.

The weekend was glorious and way too short. Sunday, I sacrificed church for writing and the muse came and it was good but I missed church.

I read on Facebook this week that Glennon Doyle Melton (a.k.a. Momastery) said that writing is like peeing. It sounds weird, but I can totally relate. Well, I guess I just haven't had to pee on the blog in a while. I've been spending a lot of time learning and preparing to write my book. It's an exciting process but wow does it take a lot of time and energy!

I'm processing some big thoughts about being a wife and being a caregiver and how what I really feel like I am something in between, and I have a feeling when I figure it out, you're going to love it, and I'm going to love it, but right now I'm just so tired and I feel empty and not like I have a lot to say.

I've enjoyed reading a lot lately, though. And here are some books I recommend:
Atlas Girl, by Emily Weirenga
Carry On, Warrior, by Glennon Doyle Melton
Lean In, by Sheryl Sandberg
Work Happy, What Great Bosses Know, by Jill Geisler
Perhaps my reading list is a glimpse into my confused soul?

Recently, our 12-cup coffeemaker died and we didn't replace it.
Last weekend, our blender died and this week I made smoothies in the KitchenAid mini-chopper.

Michael has a new home health aide and together they cleaned the downstairs, and I was equal-parts thankful and feeling guilty. The lawn needs mowing and my hair needs highlighting but I'm considering staying in denial on those two.

So much of what I thought life would look like by now isn't so. I realize this post sounds more melancholy than I actually feel, which is an example of how much my writing still needs to grow. Early this year, Michael and I prayed for a year of restoration. We hold tight to 1 Peter 5:10: "The God of all grace, who called you to his eternal glory in Christ, after you have suffered a little while, will himself restore you and make you strong, firm and steadfast."

As I type this verse, my heart opens.
Maybe this confusion I'm feeling is actually restoration?
Maybe this career drive, this all-the-sudden desire to lean back in at work, to hope for the future there, is restoration.

In that time of deep grief after we first got married, when I almost lost myself, so much changed. In some ways, I'm still just a shell of the girl I was before. But in some ways, I'm back.

Maybe this is restoration.
Maybe restoration is exhausting and confusing.
Maybe restoration takes faith.
I pray I'll know it when I see it, and that I won't miss it.

On Winter and Spring

Shout out to my writing group friends. 

I have a confession, y'all.

It will not be a surprise for those of you who are regulars around these parts.
I am burned out and uninspired.
I need a new spark.

Since just before Christmas, I've been in this place where I barely have anything to say. I can barely even think. I just think and write the same thing over and over.

You know why?
Because I'm hiding something.

I don't like to be a Debbie-downer.
I was the captain of the cheerleaders in high school, y'all.

But here's the deal.
It's getting better now - but it was rough.

One of the main things I like to do with this blog is to reach out to other wives/girlfriends of guys in wheelchairs, because I want you to know you're not alone. I want you to know that I am here, too. That I warrior on with you and beside you.

I think of all of you other wheelchair-pushers out there. All of you husband-transferers. All of you bread-winning, dinner-cooking, hard-working, list-making, allen-wrench rocking, van-driving, ramp checkers. I know you are with me. I know I am not alone.

And yet, I let myself feel that way.
It got dark.

There was the pressure sore.
And the UTIs.
And the broken wheelchair.
And the broken van.
And the home health aides that disappeared.

I was on duty full-time for about two months.
The same two months my dad was fighting for his life.
I remember saying to my husband when my dad went into the hospital, "The less I have to worry about you during this time, the better."

Boy, did things not work out the easy way.

It was Groundhog day.
Caregiving and working and cooking grocery shopping and cleaning and visiting my dad in the hospital. Over and over and over and over.

And I got so over it, I wondered (again) if I can do this forever. I cried many tears. I got madder at Michael that ever before and I said ugly things.

There are some of you sitting in my inbox that I haven't ever written back. You e-mailed me because you found this blog, and you are newly in love with a quadriplegic and you want to ask me questions about what life is like and what sex is like and how to have good wedding pictures with a wheelchair.

And all I wanted to do is to tell you to politely run away.

That if you don't, you'll be stressed out, strung out from sleepless nights filled with turning him in bed, and getting pills and cleaning up accidents and stretching the bank account, and maxing out credit cards so that you can get your van fixed. That you'll miss out on things because you can't get in. That your back will hurt all the time. That you'll miss your old life. That you'll wonder why you signed up for this in the first place. That you'll feel like no one in your life understands, even him. That you'll always feel like the things that have to do with you don't matter, because how can you not put him first?

I didn't write you back and I didn't say all of that because I know that there are seasons with this life.
Where I've been - that's Winter.

Where I am now, sitting across from him at a random Starbucks while he works on his web project, and I prop my feet up on his wheelchair, writing this blog post, this is Spring.

We have a reliable home health aide again.
My dad is doing better.
We got the van fixed.
The wheelchair has new tires, still has issues, but he's working on getting it fixed.
We have a plan for the pressure sore.
Three trips around the antibiotic sun, and I think the UTI is at bay.
Our budget is back to normal.
I feel like I belong in my own house, and in my own bed, pretty much.

We aren't fighting.
I can look at him on the other side of these two MacBook Pros, and see that guy I fell in love with.
I know I can do this.
I want to.
It IS worth fighting for.

And, so I will write you back.
I will tell you about the seasons, though. Because you'll definitely need to know about that. So you don't give up, just because it's Winter, and then miss Spring and Summer.

This post was a project for my little writing group. We are a group of women who are working together on our craft. This time, we chose a topic to all write about, and link up, so please check their posts out, and share!

Winter vs Spring Story by Laura Oliver

Winter Blues by Brayden Emerick

The Endless Winter by Stacey Michalak

The Spring of My Content by Stephanie Cooke

Seasons of Weight by Lauren Hope

On Writing. And Feeling It. At Starbucks.

I had grand plans to jump start my writing in 2014.
I joined Jeff Goins’ 500 Words-A-Day Facebook group.
I downloaded Storyline’s productivity schedule.
I looked forward to regular sessions with my writer-girl pals.
I have a million little lists.

But then my dad got sick, the fog ensued, and I have honestly been running from writing.

Because I’m the type of writer who must face her fear and vulnerability when she writes.
Writing is cathartic for me, which can feel good, but it can also be scary, because I write so honestly that it forces me to face the hard things.

I’m at Starbucks this afternoon, and I feel very writer-y.
I have my black coffee and my macbook at the corner of the big picnic sized table by the window. The afternoon sun is shining in at my back.

There is a girl here, over by the pick-up counter who I’m pretty sure is my friend Nicole and my friend Shoshannah’s friend, Sara. I recognize her from Instagram. This makes me feel like a complete social media weirdo. I kind of want to go say hi to her, but I am self-aware enough to know that’s just weird and just because you recognize someone from Instagram doesn’t mean it’s okay to come out and talk about it.

I am realizing that I’m noticing things.
That’s a very writer-y thing to do.

Like the woman with the red curly hair and the teal peacoat. That color is magnificent with her hair. Her husband looks like a doctor. They wait for their drinks, and browse at the current Starbucks line of stuff that is designed to make you spend money while you wait for your latte. Right now it’s all about caramel lattes and caramel desserts and the signs make it sound like it’s completely okay to order a carmel latte AND a caramel dessert, which it is completely not okay to do, and the mugs are cream colored and gold colored. The whole thing just makes me want to jump in a pool of warm, swirly caramel and spend $20 I don’t have on a tumbler that I don’t need.

I don’t have to worry about this of course, because I order black coffee.

But these people do. And I notice how her husband puts his hand around her as they look at the caramel stuff. And I miss my husband for a moment. Those little touches are so nice.

I go back to thinking about how he looks like a doctor. I’m basing this on his hair that is very much combed over to the side but not in a balding, comb-over sort of way, and his well-trimmed beard. He’s kind of Indian-looking and he has an identification badge on this pocket.

If he is a doctor, I wonder if he can fix my dad. Definitely not going up to him. That would be even weirder than the Instagram-recognition thing.

A woman and an older man just sat down at the picnic table beside me. They stopped to pray over their coffee. The old man prayed, and thanked God for his caramel frappuccino. I love him. He is wearing a polo shirt and a tweed sport coat. After their prayer, which I may have joined in on, just because if I’ve been anything over the last three weeks, I’ve been a pray-er, he talked about how he hasn’t been to church in more than 8 months. I relate.

I can’t hear them now, even though they’re next to me, because the Starbucks is filling up. There is jazz music playing, and espresso beans grinding, and a woman teaching another woman Spanish, and two girls in magenta North Face fleeces in front of me, putting cream and sugar in their drinks.

And just like that, 631 words.
That was easy.

Side note: Is it even weirder to write about the Instagram girl than it is to just say hi?
I'm going to think about it and write about it and not say anything.

Because like I said, I'm feeling writer-y.

The Starbucks has cleared out and now Jamie Cullum's "All At Sea" is playing. I love that song.

Ready.

Yesterday, I was grocery shopping at Kroger and a lady stocking the yogurt mentioned that Thanksgiving is later than normal this year.

I hadn't even noticed, but I think I like it.

There are two groups of people, you know.
Like Republicans and Democrats.
Calvinists and Armenians.
There are those who are okay with doing Christmasy things before Thanksgiving and those who wait until after Thanksgiving.

I'm on team After Thanksgiving.

Mainly because Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. I love food.

I will admit... I bought a pack of Holiday Blend K-cups.
Yesterday, I had a Peppermint Mocha.

I actually feel the pull towards Christmasy stuff.

This morning, I woke up early. I was going to write, but all I could do was reminisce and read Emily Freeman's archived blog posts about writing.

When I was walking down the steps for 6:00 a.m. snuggles with Michael, I thought about digging out the Christmas decorations.

But, I will wait.
Because I'm off on Thursday and Friday, and I'd rather do it when I can finish it, than start it and have a mess around here for a few days.

I remember this time last year.
Being tired and worn out and war-weary in my post-election fog.
I didn't want to make any big life decisions until I took a month off of work.

So much for that.

I took a phone call at work one day, from a 757 number.
It was some guy named Jim who wanted to talk to me about WAVY and journalism and news philosophy.

The next thing I knew, I was talking to him on the phone again, in the Panera parking lot.
Then, I bought a brown suit and went in for an interview.

The next thing I knew, boxes were piled seven feet high in our apartment on Christmas and I was neck deep in a search for a house built on a slab, with a downstairs bedroom and bathroom with 31 inch door ways.

I decorated our little Northern Virginia apartment for Christmas, one last time.

We moved in January.
So that life could slow down.
No commute.
No travel.

You know the story.
Because I've been stuck in it for the last year. It's all I can seem to write about.

Moving back 'home' hasn't been what I thought it would be, in a lot of ways.
This turned out to be a hard year.

Financial challenges.
Health challenges.
Workaholism rearing its head in a big, ugly way.

I've been learning a lot about myself this year.
That is never fun, but I do encourage it.

I feel ready to decorate for Christmas.
I feel ready to celebrate.
I feel ready to welcome a new year.
I feel ready to share parts of myself with you in a new, fresh way that scares me.

And most of all, I feel ready to move on.

The Magic Tealight

It’s Saturday, November 9th.
It’s my best friend Courtney’s birthday.
Tomorrow is my Michael’s birthday.

It’s 5:07 a.m.
I’m drinking that third cup of coffee.
The one that will turn my stomach, that I won’t finish and it will get cold.
Soon, I will switch to mouthwash, and then water.


But now, I want the warmth and the energy and coffee is my friend, so we spend just a little more time together.
This morning, it’s Kona blend, which isn’t my favorite but Michael likes it, so I buy it and I make it, and apparently I drink it, when he is asleep.


I have so much in my mind that needs to come out.
Two weeks ago, I was at Allume in Greenville, South Carolina.
I really couldn’t afford to go this year. But my mom, and a perfectly placed pay day made it possible.

I think I will look back on that weekend and I will remember it as a turning point.
The weekend I began to really feel like a writer.

One of the things we received in our gift bags was a little lantern. It’s tin, painted a cream-color, and it holds a tealight. It has a handle that took me three tries and two weeks to figure out, but it’s on there now.

I put it on my desk.
I’ve decided I will light this little candle when I am writing.
Because that will be the magic that turns me into writer Dana.
Author Dana.
Filling up blank pages with words that are perfect Dana.
Or, maybe it will just be a tealight in a little lantern but if nothing else, it smells good and looks cute.

I’m always drawn to these lanterns. At Target. At Ikea. I think I’ve probably bought a half dozen of them over the last 10 years and I’ve decorated with them, then eventually put them in plastic bins and either taken them to the Goodwill, or to my mother’s house, where she is perpetually preparing for yet another yard sale.

I bet you anything at least three of them are on display somewhere in her house. That’s where all my old stuff goes to die. Or, live on, rather. Because when I go to my mother’s house, and I see my old stuff, I regret putting it in plastic bins in the first place. I regret getting rid of it. Replacing it.

Maybe I miss that hawaiian bedspread from Pottery Barn I got 10 years ago. Or, maybe I miss my life 10 years ago.
Either way, it is nice to visit and see that quilt and want it back.
One of these days, I will drive back home with it in the back of my car.

I didn’t plan this morning to write about memories and old bedspreads, at all.

See? Maybe the magic tealight is working.
I smile, and take another sip of Kona.
This is where I want to be.
I am a writer.