If I’m not anxious, am I still me?

 My therapist informed me this week that lately I have been presenting as having my anxiety under control, but now am showing signs and symptoms of “mild depression.”

I have mixed emotions about that diagnostic statement. Firstly, yay! A thing that I have battled for my entire adult life is well managed and all my interventions, lifestyle changes, medication, and hard, hard work of wrestling with the trauma dragons of my past is working. Am I cured? No, unfortunately. I have what they call “generalized anxiety disorder” which means, according to a psychiatrist I used to see way back when, that on a scale of 0-10 of anxiety where 0 is blissfully unaware and 10 is fingernail-picking, pacing, heart rate slamming, and crawling out of your skin….I’m at about a 2 when “I’m doing well” and a 0 may not ever be feasible for me. 

I liked that diagnosis. It gave me a reason, an etiological path, a clue to my sometimes bizarre behavior and paralyzing fear. Anxiety can be easy to treat. There’s pills. There’s meditation. There’s mantras to repeat in an attempt to self-soothe. There’s camaraderie. And it’s easier to talk about, even with virtual strangers.

Depression is, well, depressing. Sure, there are pills. And lifestyle changes. And the “easy” ones — diet, exercise, sleep, and stress management. But there’s also fatigue. And discouragement. And shaming. And questioning. And the self-doubt and the lie that I like to believe, which is there’s something to blame it on.

The reality is, there isn’t just one thing. Or at least that’s how my brain and body handle depression. There’s lots of things to think about and ascribe symptoms to. It’s January. It’s post-holiday blues. It’s grief. It’s fatigue. It’s healthcare worker burnout. It’s life. It’s the reminder that sometimes when you make plans and go to put them in motion, by the time you’ve done all the things to get yourself out the door, both physically and metaphorically speaking, the plans are gone. The opportunity disappeared. The intention disintegrated. 

They say that anxiety and depression are related. No one has ever been able to tell me how. Is it a complicated and branch-filled family tree where anxiety’s aunt is depression’s cousin? Were they identical twins separated at birth, raised in different environments, each becoming a monstrous black hole? Can you have one without the other? Do you treat them separately or throw them both together in a cage and let them fight it out? And cross your fingers that the “right” one will win? 

And if one wins, what about the other one? Do you mourn the loss of them? Recognize that they weren’t all bad and that you were able to use your greatest weakness into your greatest strength? That people likely connect with you on a level different than most because of these diagnoses? Because of how your brain is wired. Because chemicals are trapped in one area and not getting to some parts of the brain in a timely manner. Do you continue being kind and gentle with yourself and acknowledge them and how they might be helping? Do you keep them locked up and hidden and only bring them out when it feels safe? Do you go on with the lie you tell yourself that no one knows your secret, when in reality, the things you hide are behind a glass door and visible to all?

And if you have learned to accept these diagnoses and understand how they operate and why they make you feel the way you do, then what? And when you own them and make friends with them and treat them with respect and listen to them with love and grace and offer them what they need only to find them disappearing…who are you then? Who am I without my anxiety? Who am I with effective treatment and managing the symptoms and understanding the mental illness and with acceptance and limiting and controlling the amount of disorder it has on my life? Who am I without my anxiety to lean on as a crutch, or as an easy explanation. Who am I without my anxiety in the driver’s seat and instead it’s in the backseat, along for the ride, munching on snacks from the gas station a few miles back, and asking when the next bathroom break will be? Who am I as now my depression gets a turn and it’s her time in the spotlight? And where do I sit in the car? Am I a carefree backseat passenger with anxiety as we goof off and play “I spy” as we gaze out the window? Or am I in the front passenger seat acting as a co-pilot?

Or, and this is the most terrifying truth of them all, am I in the driver’s seat finally having found the power to tell them where to sit and informing both of them that from here on out, I’m in charge and I call the shots? And if I do that, how can I keep hiding from my trauma demons if I’m the one driving the car?

Who am I and how, indeed.

It is what it is

 My dad unexpectedly passed away a year ago last week from a heart attack. 

In a weird and possibly slightly macabre way, I had been looking forward to that day passing on the calendar. The non-emotional and practical part of my brain assumed it would get easier. 

Last year was the dreaded firsts. The first Easter without my dad and I comparing notes on the myriad of colors of peeps candy available and which color tasted better. My birthday without him where I wouldn’t hear the words he has said every May 17 for as long as I can remember: “Good job on another big year.” Followed by his birthday in early June where I would treat him to strawberry shortcake at one of our favorite restaurants: burgerville. 

Those were the hard ones. Oddly enough Father’s Day wasn’t too bad nor was Fourth of July. It wasn’t until around about Labor Day that the sadness and emptiness really creeped in, seeping into what seems like all parts of my life. I missed our conversations about the warm weather stretching into late September and the weeks where the days start getting shorter around mid- October or so. He would patiently explain to me (again) what was happening with the sun and the moon and the seasons and the darkness. Sometimes I would feel better and be able to power through the shock of the arrival of late sunrises and early sunsets. Sometimes not. Either way, he would repeat every time, every year, it is what it is.

A glib response? Yes. Helpful? No. Comforting? Not really. But in a meta type way, him saying it is what it is and the grammatical and semantic frustration of that saying also became symbolic of it is what it is. 

I naively thought that the one year anniversary of his death would be a turning point. I thought I wouldn’t feel so raw and so robbed. I thought my grief would level out and maybe even plateau for a bit, giving my heart and brain a break.

I guess this is yet another first without him. Navigating my feelings and trying to cope with loss. Wading into waters that seem to have both no depth and an unfathomable deep drop off just short of the horizon.

The water near the shore that I spend most of my time wading  in is cold, but the shore is close and I can hop out anytime and stand on a beach towel in the sand and examine my feet for any chips in my toenail polish. But the real stuff is farther out. Where a life jacket is necessary, where I’m in danger of both hitting the bottom — or worse, realizing there is no bottom and it never level outs. 

I hate both those places. I wish my dad was there on the beach collecting driftwood to make us a fire to roast hot dogs. Where he would spread a paper towel on the log for us to display the rocks and shells we found while beachcombing. The reality is that all three of those exist. Both together and separately. They each need each other to grieve and continue moving forward. I don’t like it, but I guess it is what it is.

Regretting the resolution

 One week into 2023 and I’m already regretting my resolution to write a blogpost every week. 

The thing is, writing is easy for me. I can churn out sentences that have elegance, flair, heart, humor, and hit close to home without raising my heart rate. Until, it’s something that’s going to be graded or reviewed or edited or published. Then the “it has to be perfect before anyone can read it” demon appears. And boy, is she loud. 

I initially wanted to write about my drinking problem and how I have very clumsily navigated addiction and recovery since I got sober on July 4, 2014. But the loud presence in my brain has taunted me all week with insults, fear, questions, and accusations. Accusations that I have no business writing about a drinking problem because I have never sought official help for it, I just quit. I never went to AA, rehab, counseling, sough professional help, and never got a diagnosed as an alcoholic. Except by myself. I diagnosed myself and gave up alcohol on the Fourth of July. A couple of years ago, I wrote a beautiful piece on that part of me and my identity and shared it on Facebook. The response I got was overwhelming. Mostly positive with messages of support and encouragement. Also, disbelief and people who argued with me and the label I put on myself. (Years later, they told me that my sharing made them feel like they were looking in a mirror and they were in denial then. But not anymore). And denial is a place where you can be stuck and no one questions or criticizes you. You’re there and you can bind yourself into a cocoon and a lair of lies and stay there. I know denial and I know how to live there comfortably. Ish. 

Denial feels to me like that the inside of the genie bottle on the old show from the 1960s, “I Dream of Jeannie.” It was a small living room with plush couches and jewel-toned throw pillows and it was neat and tidy and perfect and safe. And also, boring and an illusion. I sometimes wonder if I’m there with my journey in my writing. I often deflect compliments people give me about it and/or I get embarrassed and feel self-conscious and I dive into my own little self-constructed emotional and mental genie bottle. 

However, lately I’ve noticed the host (me) getting a little huffy with the guest (also me). They argue and arm wrestle and don’t ever resolve anything. So, the guest (me) packed her bags and left. And I insisted the host join me. At least for a couple of days. She likes it here, out in the open. On this blog that probably very few people will see and/or will read. That’s not a self-deprecating insult or a complaint. Just a reality. And it feels like a safe transition. A smart place to launch from. However that evolves and what it looks like. I climbed out of that web of binge drinking and arguing with myself that I had a drinking problem. I stopped arguing and conceded that I had a problem and the solution that made the most sense to me at the time was to quit. I didn’t know how or what I was doing, but I tried it anyway. Amazingly enough,  it worked and has continued working. The same could be true for my writing. I don’t know what I’m doing, how to beautify a blog, how to publish a book, but I’m going to do what makes the most sense to me right now. And that is to write. Right here, right now, from out in the open.

Dear Professional Valerie, 

I'm a big fan of yours. I'd like to start writing -- officially. But when I tried to start a new blog today on my very old laptop, it was slow and all the websites want money and I got discouraged very quickly. I have a blog from a long time ago that is already set up and has been sitting there patiently waiting for me. Do you think it's okay that I use it? It's almost 10 years old, but I gotta get all these words and thoughts in my head out. 

Sincerely Yours, Amateur Valerie 

 

Dear Amateur Valerie, You should absolutely start writing! I hear you have many people in your corner cheering you on. How wonderful. It's been my experience that encouragement and support from those who love and care about you is invaluable. Do YOU think it's okay to use an old blog? You're the writer. You own the blog. You own your life. You may do whatever you damn well please. Best of luck and be sure to mention me in the Acknowledgements Section of your first book. 

Very Truly Yours, Professional Valerie 

 

 Dear Professional Valerie, You're absolutely right. I do own all of that. Thanks for the reminder. You seem smart and confident. How do I get those things? They appear at times and at other times are nowhere to be found. What's your secret?

 Sincerely Yours, Amateur Valerie

 

 Dear Val, May I call you that? I think we are going to be great friends and you seem like a nickname type person. If I knew how to answer your question succinctly and if I had figured out how to make it sustainable, I'd likely be already be a best-selling author and motivational speaker. My best advice is to be yourself. Even when you don't feel smart or confident. Actually, ESPECIALLY when you don't feel smart and/or confident. 

 

Very Truly Yours, Professional Valerie 

 

 Dear Pro Valerie, I'm not sure if I'm a nickname person. I might have to think on that. In the meantime, sure, call me Val. May I call you Pro Valerie? Sincerely Yours, Val 

 

Dear Val, Good call. I like the sound of "Pro Valerie." When you can articulate your thoughts about nicknames, I'm here. Sounds like you like to think and ponder a bit before you talk. 

Very Truly Yours, Pro Valerie 

 

 Dear Pro Valerie, 

You hit the nail on the head. I do enjoy a good pondering and do spend quite a bit of time in my thoughts. Sometimes it gets me into trouble and I overthink. Oddly enough, the opposite is also true and sometimes I don't think AT ALL and what's in my head just comes out of my mouth. That also gets me into trouble. Fortunately, I look good when I'm in trouble and can often talk my way out of it and/or through it. I get that from my dad.

 --Val

 

 Dear Val, 

There's that confidence! I knew it was there. Sometimes you just have to dig for it. Also, you sound a bit sassy. Has anyone ever told you that?

 --Pro Valerie 

 

Dear Pro Valerie, 

Why, yes. I have heard that a couple of times throughout my life. It's getting more pronounced as I get older. I like it. This conversation seems to be going well and you've been a big help already. Do I have your permission to share it on my blog? Albeit, my very old and chronically neglected, and possibly out-of-style and not quite retro, blog? 

--Val 

 

Dear Val, 

Of course you do. That's nice of you to ask. Just remember, you own everything that has happened to you. I read that from a famous writer. I can't remember which one. 

--Pro Valerie 

 

Dear Pro Valerie, 

Another excellent reminder. Good think I contacted you. I'll hit publish on this in a bit and then go hide. I always forget how terrifying "putting yourself and your art and talent out there" is. Does it get easier with practice and repetition? Lie to me if you must. 

--Val 

 

Dear Val, 

It absolutely does and does not get easier. It's a both/and. Just like many things in life. YES. Hit "publish" and pat yourself on the back. That's an important part of the writing process. Let me know how it goes. Talk to you soon. 

--Pro Valerie 

 P.S. Happy New Year and welcome to 2023! You're going to like it here. I promise.

The devil is in the details

Currently, I find myself in a unique position in my life. I am 36 years old,a full-time college student and because of the rigorous requirements involved in that and limitations on time and in an effort to protect my sanity, am also unemployed. I think I was 17 years old the last time this happened when I had so few demands on my time. I am shocked as I write this realizing that is almost 20 years ago, but perhaps I'll save the lamenting of sometime feeling like I am "old" for another blog post. As it is early June, I have some time (and by some, I mean copious amounts, of time) on my hands before summer classes start. When I realized I had three weeks of absolutely 100% free time (yet limited funds to vacation with or travel somewhere), I made several goals for myself to complete and extended the due date until the end of the summer. I am certain I will be writing about some (if not all) of them here, as another goal was to blog at least once a week. Fortunately my creativity spikes at times like this so I am confident that this will be a completely attainable goal.

One goal (and the one I am most terrified of) is to make one recipe a week (at least) from one of my many Paleo cookbooks. My skills in the kitchen are abysmal and my ego would suffer if I elaborated fully on my limits, so I will leave it at that (for now). Yesterday I made Sunny Deviled Eggs from Everyday Paleo by Sarah Fragoso. In true Paleo fashion it does not call for mayonnaise (a staple from my childhood, so it is still hard for me to not use it out of habit), but instead requires olive oil, fresh basil and juilienne-cut sun-dried tomatoes. Normally I am horribly intimidated by any recipe that calls for fresh herbs (they're more expensive than gold! what happens if I buy too much and can't use all of them before they go bad and then I've wasted all that money! What if there are bugs on them? What if I eat the bug accidentally and don't know it and then get a weird illness in my lungs?). Again, as I write this I am struck by how silly that sounds, but it is the truth. I also get uncomfortable when it calls for ingredients that need more than one adjective for description and specification. Sun-dried tomatoes? No problem. I know where those are at in the grocery store and I've eaten them before. Julienne-cut? Really? Come on, did I have to pick a recipe that called for such high-maintenance vegetables? (or fruit if you are in the camp that insist tomatoes are a fruit. I cannot accept that. I like to think I'm open-minded and available for change, but I do have my limits. I will always count tomatoes as vegetables in my food pyramid).

After reading the recipe several times, panicking, and getting irritated and annoyed at myself for setting such a scary goal that takes me way out of my comfort zone, I began. The recipe said it would take 30 minutes. It took me three times as long. Mainly because I was trying to help my husband cook dinner at the same time (also another goal to be more helpful in the kitchen) and couldn't figure out how to get the kitchen timer to work, and realized I had forgotten to buy fresh basil when I bought the julienne-cut sun-dried tomatoes (maybe a Freudian slip or a subconscious accident?). After consulting Google and Pinterest I discovered I could use dried basil as a substitute and crossed my fingers that it wouldn't compromise the quality. Somehow in my first twelve readings of the recipe I didn't clue in that I would need a food processor (which we don't have) until I was at step 4 (out of only 5) in the recipe. I was trying to figure out if I could just whisk the filling briskly or chop it up in tiny pieces and smash it with a spoon in lieu of a food processor, then decided to call upon my self-taught expert chef husband. Feeling a little disappointed at what seemed like failing to become more independent (and hopefully one day successful) in the kitchen, I began to laugh ruefully when he smiled, kissed me on the forehead, and pointed at a mini food processor sitting on the counter. Apparently I only pay attention to the side of the kitchen that has the coffeemaker and hadn't noticed it. Actually I probably had noticed it, but not finding it immediately useful, ignored it.

Miraculously, I managed to complete the rest of the recipe and carefully spooned the mixture into the egg halves and sampled my creation. They're not terrible, but they also do not elicit excited utterances such as: holy cow these are so good I want another one! either. It's not that they lack taste, it's more that the flavor is hidden and you may or may not find it in each bite. It's like when you come home and it looks like the house is empty, but you're pretty sure your spouse is home because his truck is parked outside. He's not in the kitchen, living room, bedroom, bathroom, "mancave", backyard, or shed. Only after texting him (slightly in a panic - where is he? alien abduction? mistaken identity kidnapping? winning at a game of hide and seek that I didn't realize we were playing?) when you hear his phone beep and realize he is next door in the neighbor's yard swapping gardening tips and playing catch with their kids. It's just like that with Recipe #1 of Summer 2014. You know the flavor is supposed to be there and you keep looking for it bite after bite and sometimes you find it right around the corner where you're not expecting it (usually thanks to the diva of this recipe - the sun-dried tomatoes) and sometimes you don't.

But maybe that's just how the cookie crumbles (or how the eggs are deviled). You set a goal, you plan your steps, you expect results and when they don't look like your pre-conceived picture of success, you change the frame of the painting. You realize that fresh items in the grocery store are not to be feared and that sometimes life isn't that cut and dried (pun intended) and sun-dried tomatoes do need more than one adjective to explain what they are and what they're capable of. After all, don't we all describe ourselves in more than one adjective? It would hardly be fair to just label myself as Valerie, unemployed, or Valerie, age 36, or Valerie, full-time college student. All of those adjectives at one point in my life scared me, but when I put them all together I realize none of them are to be feared and my life is more than just one of those things. It is all of those, plus a whole lot more. And maybe in this free time I have completing simple (to many people, not to me!) recipes like deviled eggs, I will find that sometimes you can substitute dried herbs for fresh ones. You can break out of your comfort zone and quit your job and embrace the change and the uncertainty and follow your heart and your dreams. And maybe in all of this, I'll learn to make a list before going to the store to make a recipe and next time I make this, I'll remember that I forgot to add dried dill to the filling the first time. And I'll laugh that life sometimes shows you that you need dried dill and fresh basil to slay the anxiety-fueled culinary dragons and I'll remember that the devil is in the details, but the details are what count and what makes it complete.

(Picture proof of my attempt).

Weekend: Where the week ends and/or the weak(ness) end(s)

I smile when my classmates ask me how my weekend was. It was great, I say and smile politely. How was yours?

Truth is, I haven't had a weekend (by choice) in two years. When I revamped my life two years ago and took a position as a Client Care Coordinator at a veterinary hospital, I volunteered to work every Saturday in exchange for having Sundays and Mondays off. My reason was triple-fold: my husband works Saturdays, after 11 years in a cubicle in a variety of office jobs, I was tired of the Monday-Friday, 9-5 grind, and Saturdays at a dog and cat hospital are a really fun/interesting/insane/sometimes relaxing/mostly crazy kind of madness. We see many harried parents with kids in tow who are decked out in soccer uniforms bringing their pets in for annual exams, nail trims, grooming or vaccines. There are husbands that come in with a long laundry list of errands and read me verbatim what their spouse has written: "Well, the wife sent me out the door this morning and she said after I went to the hardware store - you know the one down there on, on, well you know the one down there (while jerking a thumb in some indeterminable direction), then I needed to get our cat Mitsy some food. And you know she eats that really expensive one. You know the one that doesn't make her puke. 'Cuz you know when she pukes it's always when she's sitting in my lap while I'm trying to do the crossword. Anyhow, I got here on my list that we need three cans of the hypoallergenic food. You know, the one that costs an arm and a leg. That darn cat. I tell you; she eats better than I do!" I talk to clients like this all day long and it's usually a lot of fun. We also see dogs with fish hooks in their mouths (after getting a little too excited after a day of fishing), dogs with sometimes very serious bite wounds from an encounter at the dog park that got a little out of hand, and the list goes on.

For the last couple of months, I have still worked Saturdays but now Sunday is devoted to studying all day and since I can no longer work on Wednesdays and Thursdays, I instead work Mondays, Tuesdays, Fridays and Saturdays. This leaves little room for a "weekend." And so I laugh when my very young classmates who haven't had to yet work for a living and are full-time students, kindly ask me about my weekend. But I smile and think to myself, yes, maybe I didn't have a weekend, but I'm getting closer to the weak part of myself ending. The part of me that rudely whispers you can't do this. You're not smart enough. Good luck getting it all done. You're going to need it. These negative voices are only a whisper now. They used to be loud enough to paralyze me and make excuses for staying at jobs that just pay the bills in industries that I don't want to work in. They used to be loud enough to make me doubt myself. To wonder if I would ever make it out of the hole it felt like I was in for too long.

I guess sometimes it takes choosing to give up something that everybody puts a high value on (Saturdays and Sundays)for a little while to get yourself to a different place. And I guess sometimes it does take losing a "weekend" to lose the weak end of who you thought you were to become who you are really meant to be.

Look at it this way

"In the right light, at the right time, everything is extraordinary." --Aaron Rose

I like to think that I'm a morning person. That I bounce out of bed every day smiling and singing showtunes. That I don't start looking forward to bedtime even while I'm still in bed hitting the snooze button and grumbling about waking up. Truth is that it takes coffee, a hot shower, generous amounts of moisturizer and concealer and a small amount of celebrity gossip website surfing to get me to start the day. Most of the time this equation works. I drink some caffeine, slather some makeup on, wish for the millionth time that I had low-maintenance hair, read some motivational quotes from the working out/eating healthy online community that I'm part of, smile at my husband while we wish each other a happy day and briefly kiss like the end of the world is coming, and I'm on my way out the door.

One day earlier this spring I woke up on the wrong side of the bed. I can't remember what had me in a bad mood. Perhaps I ran out of coffee? Or forgot to charge my cellphone therefore limiting my ability to surf the web? I do remember feeling like the Care Bear named Grumpy or Stormy or Angry that has a dark raincloud over his head and is always mopey or frowning. Even the sun shining in through the windows at work made me scowl. As I put my sunglasses on (to minimize the glare from the sun hitting the computer monitor and giving me a headache), one of my co-workers noticed my expression and laughed at me. Which of course, made me furrow my brows even more. She then said, "Look at it this way, Valerie. The sun is shining, the rain and gray clouds are gone and summer is on its way!"

I thought about this later that week when I returned a gift from my late mother-in-law. Instead of giving me cash, the Nordstrom's sales associate handed me an iridescent gift card with a receipt showing $48.98 credit. I must have looked a little confused, because she said, "Look at it this way. Now you can buy something you really want!" I smiled a little sadly and walked to the parking lot thinking that I couldn't really get what I wanted with that gift card. What I wanted was another birthday with my late mother-in-law where she'd buy me some pretty earrings and we'd joke about perpetually turning 31. What I wanted was another summer of boating on the Columbia River with her and my father-in-law. What I wanted was to watch her eyes crinkle up as she laughed while teasing my father-in-law or my husband. I blinked as a tear fell from my eye and bounced off the iridescent gift card that I still had in my hand. I tilted it and noticed how the shiny surface gleamed at me as I moved it. At first glance it doesn't look like much. Just like a plain silver gift card, but pick it up and move it around under the light and suddenly there are patterns dancing around and you can almost see prisms.

I thought about how grief feels like that sometimes. On the surface it seems fine and the sorrow seems bearable. And then you tilt it and suddenly you're in tears. Maybe it's a trigger like Mother's Day when you are taking stock of your life and celebrating family. Or I'm driving to work and get a little lost in thought and start daydreaming and tear up. Lani was my husband's stepmother but to me she was like an old friend that maybe you only see every couple of months, but it never feels like it's been that long and you can just pick up where you left off. I couldn't tell you what her favorite color was or why she decided to become a nurse, but I can tell you that she loved getting flowers, religiously drank French Vanilla roast decaf coffee after dinner and always proudly displayed Christmas gifts that I bought her. On paper I guess you could say that we weren't that close. We didn't do chick flicks or have heart-to-heart talks, but if you tilt the relationship you realize just how much she meant to me. She meant an ally, another person in my corner, a mentor in how to achieve a healthy work/life balance, and a guide to navigating the sometimes tricky path called in-laws. I was a little intimidated by her the first time I met her and for a long time I worried that maybe she didn't think I was good enough for her stepson. She had a wonderfully dry sense of humor and had a knack for just telling it like it is and didn't beat around the bush. When I wanted an honest opinion about my job, a conflict or a career change, she told me the truth. I always worried that she thought I was too giggly, too flighty and maybe not practical enough and I had a hard time making conversation with her in the beginning, but I only recall that now as I've been reflecting on my relationship with her. In many ways she was more a friend to me than anything else and I like to think I was the same to her.

I used the gift card for some hot pink and black running shoes from Nordstrom Rack. I still feel a little guilty about returning the gift she bought me, but the last time I saw her she assured me there would be no hurt feelings if I returned it. I smiled as I thought of the conversation we would have had if she was still alive. "Well, look at it this way, Valerie. You essentially got to choose your own Christmas present." And we'd talk about discount shopping and deal-hunting and how fun it is to have cute shoes even if you're only going to wear them on the treadmill in your house and nobody will actually see them. What I wouldn't tell her is that I still have the gift card even though there's no money left on it. I guess I like that in a round-about way I still have the last thing she gave me. I keep it in my wallet near my debit card. I like that at any time I could pick it up and watch the light bounce around on it and think of her generous and encouraging spirit.

A few weeks ago Grant and I attended his cousin's wedding on Camano Island in the Puget Sound. It was a rare clear and warm day in May and a boathouse right on the water provided the perfect backdrop for an evening of celebration and dancing. I laughed at the stories my husband and brother and sister-in-law were swapping as we sat outside on the deck drinking wine and beer and toasting their cousin. And, as I always do at weddings I thought about family and marriage and the rocky storms that come through life. I thought about the wedding vows that mean more and more to me the older I get. I thought about the "until death do us part" vow as I asked my father-in-law if he wanted another beer. As I looked at the sunlight bouncing off the gentle waves as dusk settled in on the Puget Sound, I thought about Lani's laugh and her gifts to her family before she left. I smiled as I watched a tear sneak down my cheek and bounce off my wine glass. I smiled even more as I swallowed some more wine and pulled my husband out onto the dance floor and I thought yes, just look at it this way Valerie. The iridescence of her life will remain with me long after the gift card has been reused or recycled or ends up in a landfill. The light that picks up the reflections and bounces them around will remain. And I'm inspired to live my life in a way that when I'm gone, those that I leave behind will celebrate our time together and embrace the light as it dances and changes shape as it moves across their life.