Of Pomegranate Seeds And Blood Clots: The Evolution Of A Blog Post

Over the last five months I have rewritten this blog post a billion times.

Okay. More like fifteen. But it feels like a billion.

Back in December it was a simple: Hi. This life thing is hard sometimes, isn’t it? I hope y’all are doing okay. What’s everyone reading?!

However, in January the post took a dramatic shift in tone morphing into: A terrible thing just happened to our family. So I am digging myself a hole, and I’ll be living in it now. Hope we’re still cool when I (maybe, eventually) crawl out of it. Hugs all around!

Then another emergency joined the party, and the post became this clunky disaster. Not knowing how to clean it up, I left it hanging over my head—an ominous cloud I didn’t want to face.

That’s when a global pandemic hit (as they do). The post transitioned into a rally cry for healthcare workers and staying at home to save the most vulnerable among us. It felt preachy but important.

Yet the very day I declared the post good enough, we found out my grandmother passed away. So I took a million deep breaths and crawled back into my cozy, quiet hole—the post postponed again.

Embracing being quiet is challenging. I’m attacked daily by guilt.

Shouldn’t I be doing more? Reaching out to others: seeing how they’re doing, helping them out? Shouldn’t I care about my career as an author—write daily, market?

However, what could I possibly give right now?

I am bone dry—used up, worn out.

Enter Stephenie Meyer publishing Midnight Sun after twelve years.

Twelve. Years.

In the time it took Meyer to finish Midnight Sun: our youngest daughter grew from a newborn to a middle schooler; my father and both my grandmas passed away; I earned my Creative Writing Degree; two of our kids turned eighteen; we bought our first house; I wrote four books and published two; a global pandemic sprang up—and the list goes on.

A lot of life happened during those twelve years, some of it stretching me to a breaking point. Yet I remained in one piece. And when the dust settled, the people who love me best were right beside me holding my hand.

Maybe I’m a tad bit more tired than I was twelve years ago. But I am still me.

Funny how something so random and seemingly meaningless can knock a world of sense into a person.

Soooo…I think it’s time to share the thing that happened to our family four months ago. The thing that makes me want to vomit every time I talk/type/think about it.

On Friday, January 3, 2020, my husband had a heart attack. Not just any heart attack—the widowmaker. A blood clot blocked 99% of his left anterior descending artery.

It should have killed him.

That’s not hyperbole. My husband should be dead. Doctors and nurses tell us nonstop it’s a miracle he survived.

I almost watched my best friend die in a crowded ER hallway while he held my hand.

He spent seven days in an ICU. Seven days during which I barely ate or slept. Seven days during which every time I looked at our kids I wondered how I could manage without my best friend. Seven days of terror and doubt and so so so much pain.

He was in the same ICU my dad died in. The knowledge my husband might die there too bludgeoned me.

However, he is not dead.

My husband is very much alive. He is healthy—his quick recovery baffling doctors.

And I think it’s time I take this Frankenstein’s monster of a post and let it go.

I don’t know what this means moving forward. Currently, I am not writing at all; I have no desire to market; I can’t be on social media without feeling overwhelmed; and the thought of doing anything outside of being a mom, wife, and human being is simply exhausting.

One thing I know: I’m going to fangirl hard over Midnight Sun—pull out my old Twilight shirts, listen to the movies’ soundtracks, maybe hunt down some old fanfic.

Because why not?

Why not embrace a little crazy and let my fangirl flag fly high? Why not buy a long-awaited book with a pomegranate dripping blood on the cover and squeeeeeee with my friends over a sparkling vampire falling in love with a high school girl?

Who knows what the future holds—where we’ll be twelve years from now?

Hopefully, then as now, I’ll still find joy in books and music—or just the simple act of breathing.

In the last year, life beat me up pretty badly. But I’m still here. And I still love Twilight.

So come at me, life! I’ll be right here in my quiet, cozy hole reading books and dreaming up my own stories.

And someday soon I’ll crawl out of this hole and get back into the swing of things.

Maybe. Eventually.

Who knows when?

For once, I’m in no rush.

A Time To Mourn

My Dad is dead.

Great way to start a post, eh? Blunt. Cold. Harsh. Either a desperate cry for attention or a need to purge oneself of an inescapable and ugly truth. Maybe a little of both. I haven't figure out which yet.

What I do know is there is a cog missing in my life, an essential little piece of me that is no longer there. There are moments when the world seems okay, the sun shines, the air feels crisp and cool, I'll breathe in the scent of freshly baked cookies, and a little voice will whisper into my ear, I love you so much, Mommy.  The world feels do-able. And then, like a sharp knife in my gut, a single thought will leap out at me:

My Dad is dead.

Like a skipping record, it will repeat and the world will jerk out of focus. Much like the unforeseen cancer that spread throughout my father's body destroying everything in its path, the thought overwhelms me and brings me to my knees. I long to rebel against it. Demand the world stop and fix it. I feel small, helpless, lame. 

Mostly I feel stuck. I know I must move forward, yet how? I mean I sorta know how, but maybe I don't want to. Maybe I don't want that day when it's okay he's gone, when the world is more than do-able. Days when it doesn't feel so strange he isn't here anymore. Days when it feels alright to have fun. Days when words come easy and life is good. Days when I just forget. How can the world be without him here? It just doesn't seem possible and yet here I sit with the reality of it staring me right in the face. 

My Dad is dead.

And I realize with a sudden and swift intensity that I have two options-- to let this control me or to fight back against the desire to give up. For now, I know this is a time to heal, a time to weep, a time to mourn, a time to embrace, a time to mend, a time to be silent, a time to figure out what the hell just happened and try my darnest to make sense of it, or maybe just accept it. Accept the fact that on March 28th, 2012 I watched my father die right before my very eyes and the world twisted and warped and became something I was unprepared for, that I have no words for, that has changed me in ways I don't even realize yet, that has left me speechless and weak and wanting, that has left me silent.

Squeezy Hugs -- A Post for my Dad

When I was a little girl there were four little words that could make me stop doing anything-- be it playing with my Barbies, messing with my Colorfroms, or interfere with my obsession over Rainbow Brite and her never-ending battle with Murky and Lurky. I'd jump as if struck by lighting, a huge smile sweeping across my lips, and run full-tilt in the direction of the words.

Those magical words? I need a hug!!!

The bellower? My father, who was normally reclined on our very 70's-ish brown couch while watching a game on the telly.

Thinking back, I realize now it was hardly ever during commercial break that he'd beckon me. It would be the middle of an inning, bases loaded, Mattingly at home plate, and the game hinging upon him whacking a homerun out of the ballpark or the fourth quarter of an away game that was down to the wire, the Jets with the ball hoping to make it down the field in under 60 seconds.

Despite all the insanity of the game and his passion for it, my dad would call out my name and I'd come running, fling myself into his arms, and receive the world's biggest squeezy hug-- the most important hug of all time. Then I'd settle down next to him and yell until I was hoarse, lending my enthusiasm and my passion to my father. I'd cross my fingers so hard, hex the other team with boos and jeers, and get swept up in the moment along side him.

It's strange how it took him getting ill for me to remember all this. Such a simple act, yet oh so very telling. In his moments of need, he'd call out to me. And not just his need for someone to give him a hug, to show him they loved him, but when the game was on the line, all the cards stacked against him, my dad knew who he needed most-- his little girl.

As the years flashed by and our family warped and shifted things have changed between us, as they are bound to do. Life isn't always the friendliest of people and sometimes he likes to throw road blocks in our way and misdirect us with all sorts of shenanigans. And yet, through it all, every wrong turn, dead end, and pot hole, one thing has remained, I will forever and always be on my dad's team. I will always answer the call.

Because despite the turbulent teen years or the hurt and pain of growing up and realizing your parents are all too human, I never ever stopped needing him, his passion for life, his wonderment at the little things, and his love for me. And now, when he's called out to me from his hospital bed, I cannot help but drop everything and give him a hug.

If I could write a story-- a story worth reading, a story that could change lives-- I'd pour into it my love for my father and every thing he taught me. It wouldn't be perfect, because my dad and I, we are far from it and our tale has been messy along the way-- the big kind of messy that makes you cringe and you think will never get fixed and might just need to be tossed. But the ending would be a thing of beauty, one for the record books, one full of hope, love, and, most importantly, squeezy hugs.