Upon the Completion of My MBA

I've been looking forward to this for months -- so imagine my surprise when I could not contain my tears.

I had just finished my final (FINAL) exam, the project was already turned in, and as I packed up my laptop (slipped into my soon-to-die Hello kitty case), I was feeling odd. I thought I would feel immense relief and joy at my accomplishments over the past two years; hard work pays off. Instead my feelings are so mixed, I find myself sitting here -- thirty minutes later -- still crying.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

Oh wait, I know.

1. I am now a grown up. Ahead of me I have endless possibilities. I suppose my education has been a stop gap for the inevitable risks and fears the future holds, as well as a stepping stone into a brighter future. Learning is so solid, so structured. Something I love. I can feel the pressure of "success" and finding a high paying job weighing down on me so heavily, it's a wonder I haven't had a panic attack. Now that I have an MBA, I have no excuses to not succeed, therefore, I MUST succeed or I'll be a failure.
2. I will miss all my classmates. I had a team of four guys that were my saving grace. They helped me, or carried me, through a couple of my classes. Without them, I would have either sunk or killed myself through the technical courses. I will miss the classroom itself. A place where we all come to learn and unwind from work. Snack night. Cracking a Diet Coke mid class to stay awake. Sharing the markers in economics for the graphs. Studying on Sundays. I will miss the professors. I've never had teachers and students work together so well to enhance the learning experience. 
3. I will miss the school work. I have a love/hate relationship with homework. I love to be lazy, but I can't stand it. And I love to work hard -- but only after I've delayed as long as possible. School work is not like work work. You can procrastinate and procrastinate and then feel the biggest satisfaction when it comes back: A. I will miss writing papers with a cocktail. 

But the future is bright, friends. And my tears are just a manifestation of the immense promise ahead.

I am learning French. I will be fluent someday.

I will learn to play the cello.

Someday I'll have a couple beautiful babies.

I will write the next great American novel.

Besides, (sniff sniff) my husband is still in school so I can live vicariously through him. 

From Beyond

I cried on my lunch break today.

I was eating a grapefruit, carefully extracting each segment and then sucking out as much juice and pulp as possible, and listening to a 'This American Life' podcast from a few years ago. The stories on this episode were about parents trying to impart wisdom on their children and how best to get that child to remember. The first story was about a young woman who's mother passed away from cancer. The mother knew she was going to die and she wondered how she could make her daughter remember her, how to make her know how much she loved her. So she decides to write her daughter letters, to be given by her husband on birthdays and her wedding day. These letters obviously were very emotional for the daughter. She feels love from her mother, she feels guilty that she has disappointed her mother for leaving the Mormon church, she feels inspired by the encouragement her mother writes.

In short, this could have been me and my mom.

And as the story came to an end I found myself crying over my grapefruit. Just recently, we had a scare that my mom's leukemia was taking a turn for the worse, and I ran through the mental preparations for death and funerals and life-after-mom. It's something I've done many many times. She's had leukemia for over half my life now. She was diagnosed when I was around twelve and intially they told her she had six to nine months to live. I don't remember how I felt then. Was I scared? Was I sad? Did I cry? I must have done all those things but they are so distant and I've felt those same things so many times, that those first feelings get lost in the wash. She's had many scares, many times when we were on the "last chance" and after living with that for seventeen years -- you start to wonder how many chances you have left. How many lunches you have together. How many phone calls remain. Looming death does strange things long term. You simultaneously hold your breath and move on. You take things for granted. You cherish stupid things. You wait.

But during all this waiting we've been doing, life has been happening. And I've grown into one of those cliched daughters that starts saying, "Mom really knew her shit." I realize now that every.single.thing my mom did for me or said to me, magically composed a Johanna over the years. My mother is one of those incredible people that loves so fiercely, it's completely encompassing. I have so many memories of her, vivid, vivid memories, that she will never die for me. And it's been a comfort to know that even when she passes on to whatever is after this, she was such a strong person that she left a massive imprint on my life, on my world. She is larger than life -- therefore, she is capable of surpassing death.

Love you, Mom.

Just Dance

Image

I've done the whole return-to-ballet thing. It was tough. Super hard on my body and even harder on my schedule. Now that I'm back in school, I don't have 5 nights a week to commit to 2 hour ballet classes ... and if you don't put in the time, you don't progress. Ballet is something you can't do half ass. If you try, you'll be so pissed off at how you can't do your splits, can't grand jete worth a damn, can't fouette, and your feet will hurt and hurt and hurt.

But modern jazz? That's something you can hop in and out of and really enjoy. Your old skills come back and you end the once-a-week hour-long class feeling like you had a fantastic time and actually danced ... (ballet can be a lot of technique, followed by more technique). Plus, my high school chum Becks is back in town for the year so she and I and our partner in crime, Hope, are abandoning our families on Wednesday nights in order to dance, dance, dance.

The other day (post finance class freak-out) I actually thought: what would I be doing if I hadn't stopped dancing? If I hadn't been sensible and chosen a "career"? Once upon a time, I think I was actually pretty damn good. And better at modern than I was at ballet, simply because my body wasn't made for ballet even though my heart was. I could be a teacher, dancing every day. I could be dancing every day with a company. But this is a dream. In reality, I probably couldn't have cut it. I get sick of artsy people. I need boring stability, if only to make my quirkiness seem more original. I like creative people in small doses ... except for myself, of course.

With that dream long gone, it makes me smile that I can still dip my toes in and revisit my old love.

Generations

I woke up this morning thinking about my grandparents. Perhaps this was because I was talking to my mom about my uncle possibly having Parkinson's, like my grandma did. But anyway.

I dreamed of them.

My grandma's name was Rose. I never knew her. She is the person my middle name is named after. She became crippled by Parkinson's by the time I was old enough to remember her. My first memory of her disease is when their car broke down. I was perhaps 7 or 8 and she had to drive. She was nervous because already her brain was not firing as quickly as it should have been and she was worried about her response time while driving.

My grandpa's name was Harold. I loved him more than he or I or anyone will ever know. So often I try to write about him but the words sounds hollow and artificial; contrived somehow. I guess this is just one of the weaknesses of human language. He had strong hands. He was in the army during WWII and those events made up the most interesting part of his life, I think. As he grew older he talked a lot about what happened in the war. It was the only time he ventured out of the country. He loved to go camping. And he loved me.

I awoke thinking about both of them. Was I dreaming about them? Was my mind just wandering in the early hours of sleep? I'm not sure. All I know is that I woke up surrounded by my memories of them. How well does a grandchild ever know their grandparents? If lucky, perhaps a little. I knew mine only in the basest of senses; grandchild to grandparent. I never knew them well, as adults, as their true selves. But maybe that's the best. You never know each others' flaws. You just love and love and love.

They used to take me camping. I mean, the whole family would go, but they would sometimes steal me away a couple days early.

I remember Grandma making breakfast in the trailer. The mountain sunshine seeped through the window across the table. She used the countertops as makeshift crutches. Grandpa would come in and we would share a cup of Pero. He liked his with milk and sugar. They had a blue plastic sugar bowl.

I remember singing the oldies with Grandpa. He had a leather briefcase that was made to hold cassettes, and his collection was extensive. I would pick out a tape and we would sing all the songs we knew. Sometimes he would fall asleep in the lazy chair and Grandma would point at him and laugh in her gentle way.

I remember how strong his hands were. He would lift Grandma from sitting. He would pick her up when she fell. He could wring out almost every drop of water from a washrag.

I remember driving with them in the cab of the truck. Grandma called him Pa. She kept a bag of hard candy in the glovebox; root beer barrels, cinnamon rounds, butterscotch. Every couple of hours she would pass him one -- to keep him awake.

I remember Grandma used to do word searches. I still love them, probably because of her.

I don't know if they had a happy marriage. I only know they were happy. There is a picture of the two of them, I don't know who took it. They are in the mountains, no doubt camping. Grandpa is driving a dirt bike with Grandma, her arm raised in greeting behind him on the seat. Did they love each other? I only know that Grandpa took care of her, as her speech left, as her hands shook, as she lost the ability to walk and bathe and could barely eat. He kept her close to him for as long as possible. Beside her open casket he said, "I wish I could pick her up and take her home." Are they in heaven? The only heaven I know is in my heart. And they are there. And we are together.

I miss them every year. Maybe more, maybe less. When my grandfather became ill, I cried every night he was in the hospital. I lie awake, my hand on my aching heart, grateful for my husband's warm body next to mine, tears streaming down the sides of my face. Splashing onto the pillow. I remember him lying in the hospital bed, dying. He whispers to me and to Tom, individually, that he loves us -- lucid to the very end. His last words to us. His strong hands holding ours. I will never see him again. I will never hear his voice again. But I am so lucky to have been loved so perfectly.

Ears Shut

Typically when I'm at work in the early morning hours I listen to NPR. I love the voices of the newcasters as if they were old friends sitting in my office. But with the recent horror in Haiti, I've had to stop listening.

It's not attractive to cry on your paperwork.
It's not appropriate to cry at work.
It's not good to slam your fist on the desk in frustration at yet another sad story.

So, I hope things are going well there, although I'm sure they aren't much improved, but I can't tune in right now. The urge to quit my job and run down to Haiti to help organize relief efforts is too strong. And when that urge dies down, my sad no-control-over-anything feelings seep in.

Haiti -- you are in my heart.

For Miles and Miles

To help me get back to the gym, because I need help in that area, I am doing this running thing with my friend at work. I invite all of you to play along.

What you need:

• A treadmill/elliptical that shows distance or a pedometer, if you prefer to run outside
• Running shoes
• Clothing (although I guess this could be optional)
• Time to run

What you do:

• Week 1 you run 10 miles -- you can break up the miles between elliptical or treadmill, and spread the 10 miles throughout the week; i.e. you don't have to do all miles in one sitting.
• Each additional week you add on one mile, working up to 32 miles per week, eventually
• For every mile you don't do, you pay $1.

I'm only up to 12 miles. Please don't let me die. I love to run, but I don't think I like death.

Deceptive December

December is almost over.

December is one of those tricky creatures; it comes quickly, leaves quickly, and you are left standing with a new year in your hands wondering where last year went.

All the trees are up.

The presents are wrapped.

Windows are lit.

And our collective breath is bated for Christmas.

Perhaps we want it to be over - no matter how much you love the season, it's a lot of work. But I sometimes find myself thinking, "Wow, what happened?" As a kidling Christmas took forever to get here. Did I lose something along the way to adulthood? Am I not able to hold on to the spirit of Christmas? They say that as you age time goes by faster and faster. It's true.

Childhood Christmas

Christmas is magical to most people because it is filled with fond memories. We continue to develop traditions even into adulthood -- but the basis of those come from childhood. My childhood Christmases are easily recalled and are, no doubt, the reason for my love of the holiday season. To me, there is an element in the air that doesn't exist at other times; something that, even though I'm grown and Christmas has lost the wonder of childish fantasies, the spirit continues. After all, Christmas is all about being childlike: giving selflessly, accepting graciously, becoming excited about silly things.

My small family did Christmas in a huge way. The entire week my mom would prep for "all" (all meaning 8) of the family to come to the house. Lots of cooking, lots of eating. We would clean and scrub and decorate. The upstairs had the beautiful tree and downstairs was the family tree - littered with our mishmash of sentimental ornaments. It used to be that we only opened one present on Christmas Eve, but somewhere along the road we ditched that and started opening EVERYTHING on Christmas Eve. The living room would be filled with wrapping paper and piles of presents. Best of all, when we woke in the morning, Santa had brought many more presents in the night.

Looking back, one of my favorite memories was Granny. She would drive herself down from Farmington in her cream Oldsmobile - always independent - and I loved to help her bring in the beautifully wrapped presents. Her arrival marked the official start of Christmas because she was the "out of town" company we prepared hardest for. The two of us used to sleep together in my bed on Christmas Eve and I remember the comfort of having someone near me. She always used a silk pillowcase to keep her hair nice. She always wore "house slippers." She always picked up pieces of whatever on the floor - no matter how hard we cleaned. She always drank a mug of hot water in the morning. She was lovely, and I miss her at Christmastime. We used to sing carols around the piano - me playing, Mom singing in her booming mezzo, Granny in her low alto. The lights from the tree illuminating the tree in a rosy glow, quiet snow outside, love on the inside.

On the Back

Sometimes the most surprising things throw me. My grandpa died in March of 2007. This will be the 2nd Christmas without him. And yet, it still feels like the first. I remember the last Christmas we were all together like it was a couple days ago. We all sat in the living room with the tree. My grandpa and I were smashed together on the couch. I would periodically rest my head on his shoulder, or pat his leg. He was quiet, but only because we were all happy together. My mom and dad gave him a bed-in-a-bag and it made his pile of presents huge. He kept trying to keep them all arranged in a nice pile. He was always a neat person - he would fold up wrappers from candy bars or wrappers from a burrito into an amazingly tiny square. When I was small I was amazed at how much water he could wring out from a washcloth. His hands were strong and capable, even as he aged. And he moved them with a sort of solid deliberateness that did not leave him until he was very sick. He was a lefty, and at Thanksgiving we always made jokes about his elbows bumping ours.

This year when I arrived at my old home for Thanksgiving dinner, my mom brought out 2 pictures, nearly identical. One is of a small baby sitting on the lap of a smiling man in a maroon lazyboy. The other, the same scene, only the baby wears a large grin. As my mom handed them to me, I smiled and made some "oh" sound. But I couldn't talk about the pictures for too long, couldn't say how grateful I was. The pictures immediately began to draw tears up from wherever it is grief hides.

My grandpa's hands, those same true hands, are wrapped around my infant waist, supporting me. His legs are casual, one up on the seat, the other on the floor. Every detail of the picture reminds me of things lost; his hands, his house slippers, the maroon lazyboy he would often fall asleep in (my grandma pointing to him and saying "Pa" to wake him), the soft grin on his face. And saddest of all, on the back of the photos reads "Harold + Johanna Rose 1983" in his swirling left handed cursive.

It's all quite bittersweet. I love the snapshots so much. He and I had a special relationship; it was always sweet. No anger, nothing ever needed to forgive. The pictures, taken the year I was born, show the beginning of our friendship. He and I together. Grandpa was already retired and he took care of me several days a week through my toddler years. He never made me feel guilty if I was selfish and didn't visit as often as I should. He trusted me with his car when I had just been given my learner's permit. He was infinitely patient with me, with my grandma and her illness, with his own children. He was quiet and loving and intelligent and so wonderful - it's impossible to describe.

So I'm keeping the pictures, but I can't frame them. I'm keeping them in a plastic bag because I like to be able to see the back; the living part of the photo where he wrote our names together.