In Pieces I Lose Him

I sometimes stop and wonder how he left his room that day. Perhaps a drawer remained slightly open, or worn tennis shoes were tucked neatly under the bed. I wonder if a pair of wrinkled pants were thrown across a chair, left to be worn for a day that would never come. When the mind wonders, it wanders…

Matthew left us on an ordinary day. Nothing historic or monumental shook the world or even our city that night. Since I was old enough to understand death, I always assumed it would shatter the atmosphere and destroy my surroundings when it arrived. Turns out, it only destroyed all the people; the world’s rotation never missed a beat.

I met Matthew when I was sixteen years old in the kitchen of his parent’s house. He was the older brother of my very first boyfriend, and it was my first time meeting the family.  I cautiously introduced myself as he sat eating spaghetti with his girlfriend Jackie, the aroma of garlic bread filling the kitchen.  He eyed me with caution, as if to assess whether I was worthy of his baby brother.

Matthew, Jackie, and I spent the next chapter of our lives attending Northern Illinois University and experiencing the best that college had to offer.  Seven years later, as I sat in a stuffy car outside of church, my phone rang with the news of his death. 

All I could smell was garlic bread.


One of my scariest moments in childhood was having the wind knocked out of me after a fall from a swing-set.  I remember lying there helpless, frozen with fear in my seven-year-old body, terrified I would never catch my breath.  Often when I think of Matthew, I fall off that swing-set all over again, only this time I am rational enough to know that it will only be a matter of seconds before my breath returns to me---the hardest realization is that Matthew never will.

I dream of him often.  Some nights, when I least expect it, he comes to me for a fleeting moment.  The illusions are never long or vivid, but he is there sometimes in the background, always silent and always observant.  For months I have been haunted by a dream of Matthew sitting in a fold-up chair at a cookout, his large hand holding a single red balloon.  He is emotionless and statue-like, yet his amber eyes are aglow with meaning.  Of all the dreams, this one will not leave me.


I drive around aimlessly now, usually at sunset, gathering my thoughts and seeking answers through a blurred windshield.  During one of these drives I saw a house---a small, white ranch sitting on the corner of a street.  A sign read “Caleb’s 10!!!” and tied to it was a single red balloon.  I stopped my car on the side of the road and wept.

Life seldom feels the need to provide answers, yet it comes equipped with enough questions to drive a person to one’s knees.  Matthew died early on an unsuspecting Sunday morning, and days later, in a somber church parking lot where we said our final goodbyes, the crowd gathered with balloons and sent them sailing up, up, up, to find our Matthew somewhere in the skies above.  It seems I had forgotten this.

The dream no longer haunts me---I suppose they reached their destination.      

Matthew was twenty-four years old.  I replay this number over and over in my head, adding and subtracting and trying to make sense of a senseless equation.  In twenty-four more years he would be forty-eight, with a family and a home and a near-flawless golf game.  In twenty-four years after that, he would be seventy-two---a grandpa, perhaps, successful and retired…

I never did much care for math. 


There is always a mist of sadness that permeates every room in which Matthew should be.  I find myself occasionally glancing at doors wherever I go.  I look for him; I seek him out in crowds.  My mind is still convincing me he is gone, that he will never again walk into a restaurant, a party, a house, or my life.

I look for him anyways. 


There is no beauty in death.  Some say there is so much light to be found in the darkest of places, but I have yet to be illuminated.  Death approaches with torture and brutality and departs with a piece of the rest of us. It destroys lives in its path.

Death is opaque. 


I wonder what Matthew saw before his brain quit his body.  I wonder if it hurt.  I wonder if he sees the destruction he left behind, the hopeless longing to rewind to November 16, 2008 for just one moment.  I would have picked him up from the bar---he and Tony both.  I wonder if he knew that. 

*******************************************************************

Matthew left his room on Saturday without knowing he would never return.  He put on his favorite sweatpants for the very last time, and he tied his shoes for one final occasion.  He ran a brush across his short brown hair, and he casually grabbed a wallet that would never again be needed.  I wonder if he closed his door behind him. 

When the mind wonders, oh how it wanders…

A Little Bit Batty

I wouldn't be writing this if Ben Affleck was flying around my bedroom---but when a bat with Michael Phelps' wingspan put on a drunk airshow in my living room, I did what any logical adult would do: I called four doctors, a scientist, animal control, and the health department. I figured the CDC would be overkill.

For all those unfamiliar with the second largest order of mammals, let me give you a fun little fact about these webbed nightmares---they can transmit rabies.

As sure as the sun will set (and that Britney's next album will be a roaring success), OCD will rear its ugly head at the slightest sign of illness or disease.  There is no worse time for me than when I'm in the throes of an OCD episode. So after the bat was finally killed (husband with a wiffle ball bat and a mediocre swing), panic ensued. Since around .005% of bats are thought to be rabid, you can surely understand my trepidation.

Let's begin with my doctor buddies: they gave me the all clear. No one appeared to be bitten or scratched and the bat was now dead and tossed in our woods.  I was reassured for about an hour until I discovered the CDC website on rabies.  Apparently bat bites can go undetected during sleep, and their tiny fang marks can be nearly impossible to detect, especially if one is a child or in an inebriated state. I have a child, therefore I also have nightly wine. Shit.

The health department confirmed my fears. A post-exposure rabies vaccine (which is a complicated series of expensive shots given over a month's time) is recommended if a bat enters a bedroom where one is sleeping unless the bat can be tested and ruled out for rabies---so in comes animal control. They need my bat. Unfortunately it's been tossed in our two acre woods without a proper marking or gravestone. I scour the forest for signs of the corpse, but to no avail. Finally, a very irritated husband comes homes from work and retraces his steps. Alas, we have our suspect.

I'm not usually one to partake in Google reviews, but I must say that Macon County Animal Control gets five stars for efficiency. They came faster than a delivery pizza, placed the bat in their vehicle, and drove it straight to a Springfield laboratory for testing. 

I must also give accolades to the Health Department for their role as liaison. They called to inform me that the bat's brain was indeed testable, but that I would probably need to call the lab for results since I was technically next of kin.

My dear, headless bat finally got a clear bill of health. If he still had a heartbeat, there would be nothing stopping him. Turns out he was one of the 99.9% of bats without rabies. Go figure.

I've since been told that I may have overreacted. What can I say? I'm batshit crazy.

Expatriate, Interrupted

I was dead asleep the other night when a thunderstorm rolled through our town. The only reason I became aware of its presence was when it tripped our power and sent Justin Bieber blaring over our in-home stereo system at one in the morning. Talk about a full-blown panic attack. I jumped out of bed, hit my beautiful head on the night stand, and spun around in circles trying to figure out if someone with great taste in music had broken into our home. I went from room to room turning off switches, and then I found myself thinking of Switzerland. This wouldn't have happened there. Hell, we didn't even have air conditioning, let alone the luxury of a sound system in our shower. And for a few minutes, I missed my old, simple life.

I keep thinking I'm on an extended visit. I tripped while eating a creme-filled doughnut the other day, and I couldn't wait to get back to Switzerland and tell the girls how all of my fake nails broke off into the pastry as I landed on my ass. But then I remembered that I'm not going back in a week or a month this time. I'm in America, where I so desperately wanted to be.

Most people have parties upon their return; perhaps a soiree or a barbecue. Nope, not this gal. I went and had myself a good old-fashion nervous breakdown (sorry you weren't invited)! Everything was changing too quickly. The questions kept coming from everyone I encountered. "What are you going to do now?" "Are you getting a job?" "So what's your plan?"

I wanted to cover my ears and scream, "let me eat my damn McNuggets in peace!"

I just spent the last half-decade of my life acclimating myself to a new culture and language and entire way of life, and now everyone expected me to have the next half-decade all figured out, too. Here I was, back in my hometown, where nothing had really changed except for me. I had no game plan besides the next chain restauraunt I wanted to hit up.  What would motherhood look like in the states? How would my marriage fare? I overthought everything, and combined with the jet lag, it all just became too much. I woke up one morning with an emotional hangover, and for the first time in a long time, I was genuinely scared.

My doctor told me that I was overwhelmed by all the change, and thanks to my pre-existing OCD and anxiety, I went spiraling into a major depression. One minute I was euphoric to be back stateside, and the next I was crying my eyes out and desperately missing those who had been like family to me in Switzerland. I didn't know where I wanted to be, and more importanly, I didn't know where I belonged. 

I've bounced back, in case you were wondering. With the help of family, friends, sleep, and Prozac, I'm feeling pretty much wonderful these days.  Once in awhile, when I hear a certain song or I pass a particularly pungent cheese at the supermarket, I get a twinge of nostalgia and I transport myself to an auberge in the Alps where I'm sipping espresso with Dani and Shelly and Sarah, and all is right with the world. I wish I didn't fall in love with people so deeply---the goodbyes would be remarkably easier. 


We figured out our stereo system since the late night Justin Bieber concert. We're figuring a lot out these days, it would seem.

Saltwater and Gratitude

"The cleaning lady needs to pick up my kitchen," says my three-year-old daughter as she assesses her Fisher Price oven. Never mind that the cleaning lady needs to attend to my big girl kitchen first, but I'm suddenly struck with just how spoiled my child has become.

In a vain effort to thwart Princess Amelia's pampered upbringing, I made her go through her surplus of toys to find things to give to the less fortunate. After an hour of carefully assessing each and every item in her room and toy boxes, Amelia proudly walks over and hands me a rectal thermometer. "I think Jesus would be very proud of me for giving this away, don't ya think?"

We went on a little road trip this weekend, and by the time we reached the Palace of Versailles, I had simply had it. Who is this misbehaved child on the palace floor, you ask, refusing to move until she meets with the queen? Oh, well that would be my daughter, of course.

I did this. I take full blame.  It's hard to teach a toddler appreciation when I myself have become a spoiled asshole. I spend money like I live in a Monopoly game, and I, too, pout when I don't get my way. I'm a lonely, bitter, stay-at-home mom who keeps forgetting to remember how good I've got it.

On Friday night, at the second stop of our French vacation, I spent the evening slamming overpriced champagne and shoving euros into slot machines. Saturday morning came very quickly, and I found myself fighting off the worst headache on the drive to Normandy. I curled up in the passenger seat and closed my eyes, overcome with nausea from this wicked hangover. I was short with my husband and irritated with my daughter. I was exhausted, hungry, and fed up with Europe, and I kept thinking that I just wanted to go home.

I wish I could describe to you the profound shame and disgust I felt with myself when we arrived at our final destination. Thousands of white gravestones beneath a clear, azure sky.

There, in the quiet of the morning, where the tides once ran red with blood, I placed my hand upon a white cross and tried to conjure up a world where I wasn't free and spoiled and blessed. But I couldn't. 

I had this history teacher in high school--- he was the rare breed of educator whose lessons linger long after the bell rings; an innate, elemental ability to truly get through to those of us blessed enough to sit in his classroom. I could hear his voice as I stood above Omaha Beach; the importance he had placed on June 6, 1944, and the feelings he invoked in us when he taught of that monumental day.

So many of us have forgotten, myself included. I've lived in such haste and self-regard that I rarely think about things like D-Day and white crosses atop a remarkable shore. I'm from an ungrateful, spoiled, hashtag generation where freedom is simply expected and conventional. We sit behind computer screens and cry injustice that the world hasn't given us more. We know nothing of the fearlessness and valor it took to storm those beaches that June morning; the slaughter of the bravest of the brave as they sacrificed it all for humanity and righteousness and freedom. The offering of those men, some just boys really, who never got the chance to go home.

Amelia dug her hands into the damp sand of Omaha Beach; she was transfixed by its beauty on the calmest of days. The tide came in, foamy and muted, and took back with it my tears of guilt and shame. I was left standing there, ankle-deep in saltwater and gratitude.

The Unseeable Housewife

"Do you still find me desirable?" I silently ask my husband as he looks past me in the bathroom mirror to adjust his collar. "Do you even see me anymore?"
     Five years of marriage, twenty pounds, and one child later, I can't seem to relate to the college blonde appearing on my Timehop status.

She resembles me, but her smile is lighter, her forehead smoother, and her chin still singular. She has the glossy eyes of a fulfilling night of tequila and dancing, and her hair is disheveled yet somehow fantastic.
     I remember this night. Yes, somewhere in a dusty catalog of memories, I remember it all. I'm standing outside a bar as a group of cocky guys walks by.
     "Girl, you phat. P-h-a-t."
     "What does phat mean?" I whisper to my friend with substantially more street cred than myself.      
     "Pretty hot and tempting," she laughs, and I feel my ego swell as I stand a bit straighter. One ridiculous, off-colored acronym, and yet I feel validated.
     When did I become this different version of phat---perspiring, hormonal and tired? When did I stop getting stares as I lingered at the bar? Now, the only time my ass gets checked out is when there are Cheerios stuck to it.
     I know that motherhood changes things. I accept that. I should no longer need the whistles and catcalls. My three-year-old tells me I'm beautiful as she hugs my neck. Isn't that enough?
     I'm nervously fidgeting with the collar of my new, sexy black dress, and my husband glances over and says, "Stop already, you look fine."  Fine. I roll the word around on my tongue until a sour taste takes over my mouth. Fine. I don't want to look fine.  I want to look pretty. And hot. And tempting. Come on, hubs. Throw your girl an acronym. Even a MILF will suffice. Can't you tell I'm wilting over here? Why is it that you can't see me?

     I know how ridiculous I must sound. My priorities are out of whack, I know. But my truth is this: aging terrifies me, be it graceful or graceless. Even with each passing year of wisdom, I can't seem to unlearn self-centeredness. I desire to be desired. It's my worst kind of craving.

     If one could overdose from hair dye, it would be me. Those endless commercials for wrinkle creams and lip-plumping gloss? Directed at suckers like myself. My bed sheets have taken on a lovely apricot/rust hue thanks to my bottomless supply of all the newest in self-tanning products. I am a walking, talking, over-bleached advertisement for feelings of inadequacy. I measure my self-worth not in the number of hugs my toddler gives me, but in the number staring back at me as I step onto the scale. I've convinced myself that in order to be seen, I must be first-rate---I must be exceptional. 

     A bad case of the stomach bug runs through our household, and I find myself sweating and bent over the toilet, cramps similar to childbirth taking over my insides. At least I'll drop a few lb's, I sardonically think. That tub of cookie dough may be guiltless, after all. I crawl back into bed and curl up in a ball, and the soothing hand of my husband soon finds my wet, ratted hair. He strokes my head and calms me. "I love you," he whispers. My eyes are glossy again, but not like in that TimeHop photo. I realize I'm crying. 

     In my stained sweatpants and a sweaty tee, he finally sees me.  

Now I know my ABCs

You know that scene from The Exorcist where the girl's head spins around and she makes those ungodly noises? I think that just happened in my living room.

Heaven help me, I have a threenager.  This miniature human to whom I gave life back in 2011 just said no to orange juice because it wouldn't go with her coffee. I sometimes look at her and think, "Who ARE you??"  She has curly cues and the gentlest blue eyes but she bit a playmate in the face when she tried to take her makeup bag.  She sleeps less than a giraffe, demands filet mignon at least once a week, and uses a proper British accent when she thinks she's in trouble.

I knew motherhood would be draining some days, but I never knew it would suck the life right out of me.  I've pulled college all-nighters that were less exhausting.  At my wits' end, I called my husband to complain, and he dished out some really encouraging parenting advice from the beaches of Ibiza, Spain (a much needed break from fast-paced Switzerland). "Tell her to go to sleep," said Oh Wise One.

I then Facetime my husband later on to confirm that Amelia is going to be an only child, but I'm too distracted for vasectomy chatter.  He's on a lawn chair on the beach, and all I can see are big, bronzed, naked boobies.  Of course Ibiza beaches are topless; why wouldn't they be?  So as I'm eating Oreos straight out of the bag in my stained XL sweat pants with a toddler rolling around the floor like she's having a seizure, my dear hubby is sipping a Pina Colada in Titsville while studying his ABCs (and Ds and DDs). How cute!

How do you women do this? You moms of three or four of these tiny people? Incredible.  I want to shake your hands.

After a particularly awful day yesterday when I wouldn't let Amelia open the straw to my smoothie, she shouted, "I'm going to slap yo face and put you in jail!"  Really? Could it be in solitary confinement? With a bed and three prepared meals a day?  Just tell me what law I have to break.

Maybe I would be more open to future reproduction if I got more than four hours of sleep a night, or if my child didn't cling to me like a stage-five koala bear.



Oh, fellow mothers, what incredible, terrible, sleepless, wondrous beings we've created.  But I need help.  No pride here. I need babysitters and grandmas and wine nights to get me through this.  I need the wisdom of mothers and the pages of self-help books to get Amelia from threenager to four. 

Most days I'm happy if I manage to brush my hair and put on a bra.

Come to think of it, I need a day in Ibiza. 

Two's Company

ISO: a cocktail sipping slamming, shoe-shopping, binge-eating, female companion. If found, please deliver to my Swiss doorstep. Pronto.

My three-year-old wants a pet.  I've tried the whole battery-operated dog that walks (shuffles) and barks, and I once painted  a rather believable rabbit face on a decent-sized rock, but my toddler is smarter than your average preschooler.  She wants the real thing. 

This whole pet idea was weighing heavily on my mind.  I don't know how to put this gently, but I dislike animals. Strongly. And the whole notion of having one under my roof was causing me to lose sleep at night.  I made a pie chart (along with an actual pie), of the statistical life expectancy of numerous pets.  If one was shown to live longer than four months, then I removed it from my list.

The only logical choice was a goldfish.  Perfect.  Easy peasy, thought I.

Turns out, I can't buy a solo goldfish in the country of Switzerland.  Or a rabbit.  Or even a filthy, snaggletooth guinea pig.  The only way for me to be a proud owner of one of these varmints is to be a proud owner of TWO of these varmints.  Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you the Swiss Companionship Laws.

Apparently it's considered cruel to own a "companion" animal without providing it with a, you guessed it: companion.  There is scientific evidence showing irreparable damage to the psyche of a goldfish if you force him to swim laps alone in his bowl. A rabbit may slip into a deep state of depression if he has no one with whom to share his carrot. 

Here's my problem, guys. Doesn't the animal get any say in this? What if the hamster doesn't want a companion? Or prefers to chew his cardboard toilet paper roll all by his lonesome? What if the koi fish is, indeed, coy?

And to top it all off, what about ME?  I would've given my last bottle of Ranch dressing for a companion when I first moved to Switzerland---all those lonely evenings sipping French wine and watching trashy television without the support of a gossipy girlfriend.  Why is my psychological well-being inferior to that of a hamster?

I will tell you what happened when we gave my childhood hamster a companion.  He ate him.  Yes, Hammy the hamster dined on his associate, Whitey, and left only a bloody head to show for him.  I wouldn't do that to my companion.  I would refill her margarita. I would share my secrets and braid her hair.

I have yet to break the news to Amelia that she will not be getting a pet while we reside in Switzerland.  One goldfish I could possibly handle, but two would certainly send me over the edge. And it's the principle of it all.  Until you show me concrete evidence that Peter Cottontail resorted to Prozac after hopping down his desolate bunny trail, then I am reluctant to believe any mythical studies stating it's so.

ISO: a cocktail-slamming, shoe-shopping, binge-eating, female companion with a pet.  If found, please invite us over for a play date. Pronto.