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.

October: Things A Broken Tooth Will Teach You

My tooth broke in August.

How broken is my tooth? Well, there’s a hole in my tooth where a filling used to be, a crack that goes into my gum-line, and a piece of my tooth flaps (which, for the record, is not a thing a tooth should do). Plus, there’s a sharp piece that stabs my tongue every thirty minutes like clockwork.

In my non-professional opinion I would call my wonky tooth broken-broken. My dentist agrees.

How did I break my tooth? The simple answer: a French fry.

Having a broken tooth is fascinating. There are so many things we take for granted. One of them simply being able to eat. With a broken tooth snacking holds no appeal. And certain foods that I normally adore (e.g. baby carrots) are a hard pass.

Eating in public is a no since I have to fish food out from the hole in my tooth the moment I’m done eating. Sometimes even mid-bite. And there’s nothing like biting down and feeling your tooth push out of place. It’s an experience, to say the least.

For the most part it’s not too painful. Though there have been moments when I’ll breathe in and wish I never had to breathe again. Or a piece of pepper will get stuck in the hole in my tooth and the nerves in my face will yell: WHY DID YOU DO THAT, DUMMY?!

Having shared all this, I am not down about my tooth. In fact, I hesitate to even bring it up. Yet, with all the drama, heartache, broken things, and overwhelming adulting this year has brought our family’s way, my broken tooth has brought things into a clearer perspective. It’s made me thankful for things like eating and breathing without pain, having the means to get my tooth fixed (next week!), and for a family that understands when I need a moment to disappear to pluck food out of my tooth or just be sad that my tooth is freaking broken.

A broken tooth will teach you who truly cares about you. A broken tooth will show you what’s a real priority versus a manufactured crisis. A broken tooth will force you to slow down, make better eating choices, and chew your food carefully.

This month I applied these lessons to more than just my tooth. This month I took a deep breath, a step back, and took a hard look at my priorities and goals. Which has oddly made me grateful for my broken tooth.

Life is such a weirdo.