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Wednesday, August 18, 2010

Where, Oh Where, Did My Ambition Go?

I was doing so well... updating my little blog every few days, going to the gym, exercising like a mad woman and eating right, then it all went to pot.

The day after my grandfather died I had a therapeutic cruller (admittedly shoved in my mouth so I didn't say something I'd regret to a melodramatic family member) and a Happy Meal on my way home in lieu of a healthy lunch. Monday and Tuesday weren't all that bad except I didn't really count Points like a good little WW'er.

The day of my grandfather's funeral was probably the height of bad eating -

Breakfast: WW Almond Granola Bar (good start)

Lunch: Chicken Marsala, baked potato, broccoli in cheese sauce (ok not bad)
1 Biscuit with butter
Side salad with Caesar dressing
3 Glasses of Wine and a Shot of Irish Mist (all before 1pm)
A piece of cheesecake

Dinner: Farfalle in rose sauce with chicken, mushrooms and spinach and a side of garlic bread
Mozzarella Sticks somewhere around 10:00 pm
Chips and salsa around midnight
So much alcohol I spent the night sleeping on the floor holding on for dear life

Yeah, I cope with food (and booze apparently), you got a problem with that? Needless to say the gym took a backseat with everything else that was going on, so imagine my surprise when I hopped up on the scale last Friday and was told I lost 2 pounds.

Oh well, I 'm getting back on track and that is what counts.

This week has been a rebuilding week. I went back to the gym on Monday and am trying to hit it hard. I'm not sleeping all that well to be honest - perhaps it's the fact that I've worked from home for the past two weeks, but I'm frankly exhausted. Tonight I had my session with my trainer with the plan of hitting it hard afterwards and just couldn't. I'm not saying that the 25 minutes of cardio pre-trainer and 30 minutes of weights aren't respectable, but my feeble attempt at running afterward was pathetic.

I'm not sure what the take away from all of this is. I know I can't save the world, and I know I need to not be so hard on myself. Two and a half years of therapy at $30 a week taught me that. Perhaps the lesson is shit happens, you put on your big girl panties, deal and move on.

Maybe that should be my new credo.

Thursday, August 12, 2010

Deep Breath....

As you might imagine, this week has been a long one. Only now am I really processing everything, but considering my hyperactive tear ducts, I haven't cried as much as I would expect.

I was talking to my sister yesterday and I told her I felt the same way I did after watching Schindler's List. I had stayed as far away from that movie as I could for as long as possible, knowing myself and the fact that I once cried watching a McDonald's commercial. Perhaps I had built up an emotional callus, but it wasn't until the end of the movie that I cried, precisely because I hadn't cried while watching the horrors in that movie.

That's not to say that throughout the past few days I haven't shed a few tears.

I walked into my grandparents house last Saturday and was shocked at what I saw. I was greeted by what looked like a corpse who slightly resembled my grandfather, gasping for breath, my aunt having a nervous breakdown and my grandmother sitting in a chair with a blank smile on her face, clearly with no real clue as to what was happening. My sister, a hospice nurse by trade was taking control having set up a command center in the kitchen. She was doing her best to hold it together but was clearly holding on by a thread. My mother was going through the motions because her sister wasn't able to and I felt like I had no other choice but to put on my big girl panties and move on.

My aunt tried to talk to me - triggering some tears and I had to push her off. On some level I knew if I started to cry I would be useless. I also didn't want to face the fact that my grandfather was going to die and I couldn't go near him - the figure in that chair was not my grandfather. I was the errand girl for the day, getting lunch, sitting at the pharmacy waiting for palliative medication to ease Grandpop's transition, going home to pack bags for my mother and sister. I've always said I don't want to be around myself when I'm ill, and I really can't stand to see loved ones in pain.

I didn't want to remember my grandfather the way I last saw him - a bruise under his eye (the result of a broken cheekbone from a fall), his eyes tightly shut, mouth agape. I wanted to remember the robust man who loved to walk, coupons in his back pocket, up to the shopping center, proudly coming home with a bag full of merchandise that he paid next to nothing for, so what if he had no use for the stuff? I used to joke that I was afraid one day he'd come home with a pack of condoms and box of Tampax purely because they were on sale and he had a coupon.

I got the call shortly before 11:00 on Saturday night that he had passed peacefully. I shed a few tears, but oddly felt the need to share the news. I posted on Facebook, texted a few close friends. It's almost like I wanted this to be outside of myself, not my experience alone.

Even now, I'm not sure I've truly mourned, even though that's what I'm telling my family. On some level I'm expecting to hear his voice when I call, or see him sitting up in his chair, remote in hand ready to pass off to my niece on our Sunday visits.

There's a part of me that doesn't quite believe that my Grandpop won't be at my wedding (if that ever happens) and that he'll never meet my children. I'm jealous my sister has had that chance. I miss my Grandpop. I want to turn back time to when I was four or five and would wait on the sidewalk outside of their house, waiting to see him walking down the sidewalk coming him from work at GE. I want to argue with him about politics (especially Obama), about the stock market and unions. I want to give him a kiss again and tell him I love him.

Monday, August 9, 2010

Grandpop

Throughout his 88 years on this earth, Martin Barrett had many titles. Son, Sailor, Husband, Father. My sister and I knew him as Grandpop.

He was the quintessential stubborn Irishman. My mother said that he was giving orders right up until the end. It was his way or the highway. But when it came to his grandchildren, anything went.

One of our favorite family stories was The Tale of the Red Mary Janes. My aunt got married in 1975, and a white dress with red trim was chosen for my then 3 year old sister to wear in her role as flower girl. Kelly decided that she had to have red patent leather Mary Janes to go with her dress. Well, if Kelly wanted red Mary Janes, then red Mary Janes she would have. Legend has it Grandpop went from store to store; shoe stores, department stores, boutiques, you name it, Marty Barrett went in search of the elusive red shoes for Kelly to wear. He was told it was impossible, but find them he did. Of course 3 year olds being as they are, those darn shoes almost never made their debut, Kelly having cold (albeit red patent leather) feet minutes before her trek down the aisle. At one point, Grandpop was going to have to march forward, the bride on one hand, the timid flower girl on the other. At the end of the day, Kelly was coaxed forward and all was well in the end.

But that was my grandfather. He would do anything for family. Whether it was buying my Barbies $21 hand sewn dresses – an obnoxious price now, let alone in 1984 - because they caught my eye, schlepping to Dunkin Donuts first thing on Sunday morning to make sure his great-granddaughter Tara had donuts with sprinkles on them or making sure his beloved Cass (nobody else could get away with calling her that) wanted for nothing.

I love you Grandpop. Rest in peace.