A Record of Events

"There is nothing special about me. . . My story is a story of very ordinary people during extraordinarily terrible times.  Times the like of which I hope with all my heart will never, never come again.  It is for all of us ordinary people all over the world to see to it that they do not."

-Miep Gies, Anne Frank Remembered:  The Story of the Woman Who Helped to Hide the Frank Family

"A memoir?  I thought memoirs were written by old people or celebreties."  That was how I was recently answered when I shared with someone that I would like to write a book.  I'd like to write a memoir. I don't believe that such books are only supposed to be written by someone famous, or someone old, or someone who did something huge and important.  According to Dictionary.com, a memoir is "A record of events written by a person having intimate knowledge of them and based on personal observation."  Memoirs are for someone with a story to tell.  And if I've learned one thing over the course of my life, it's that everyone has a story to tell. 

Maybe I'm a bit lofty, or even arrogant, for opening this entry with a quote from the woman whose family helped to hide the Frank family.  Anne Frank and Miep Gies are two people whose stories have had a tremendous impact on our sense of history.  Still, they were just two people, living in the circumstances that found them.  They were just living their lives, lives that happened to take place in a time of atrocity that is burned into our impressions of the 20th century. 

I'm not especially special, except in the sense that we're all special, and I'm no hero.  But I happened to be the one woman in 1,000 who was told her baby had a fatal neural tube defect.  I happen to live in a time when babies like mine can be "terminated" just because they happen to be unborn, and they happen to have a certain condition.  I happen to be among that ten percent or less of the one in 1,000 women who receive this terminal diagnosis for their child and still carry that child to term.  And from there, I happened to be that  anomolous mommy who got to keep her terminally ill baby for ten days and have the privilege of sharing in an experience that has touched countless lives.  I happened to be part of an experience that's caused people to think twice about what it means to be alive, what it means to be a mother, what it means to be a hero - I'm no hero, but my son is.  With all of my heart I firmly believe that the day will come when we view abortion with the same regret and disgust that we view the Holocaust, every human genocide, every instance of human slavery.  If my son's sweet, dimpled smile has an impact on that transition in our American and human spirit, then I've simply been blessed to have happened to be a part of it. 

I happen to like to write, and I happen to be fairly good at it.  I've got many stories to tell, not the least of which is Gabriel's.  Through the course of my life I've been fortunate to meet many people who have stories too, whose stories have touched me and changed the way I look at things.  Just about anyone has something to share that can touch your heart and change your life, if you let them. 

For two years this blog has served me in healing from the death of my son Gabriel.  Nearly two years ago, I attended his funeral after holding him while he took his last breath.  Nearly one year ago, I watched his father, my husband, fade from my sight as he drove down the street where our family lived for the last time, our recently signed divorce papers waiting on my kitchen table to be filed at the courthouse.  I've spent the last two years here, healing, letting an audience of knowns and unknowns witness my healing and through it all I've been told it's helped to heal them too. 

I've still got more healing to do.  I've still got more to say.  But I've decided it's time to take a break.  I'll be limiting my blog entries for a while, in exchange for working on a manuscript for my memoir.  I hope to have a rough draft by Gabriel's birthday next year.  I hope to have it published by the time I am 35, and with my 32nd birthday creeping up on me I'll have just over three years to accomplish the goal. 

I'll still need your help.  The appeal of maitaining the blog for me has largely been in the instant feedback.  So as I set about working on the book, I hope you'll share with me which entries you've found most interesting, which writing styles you've like the most, and which "characters" - who are all real people - you would like to know more about.  Thank you in advance for your responses, as they'll be invaluable in helping me craft this book.  And thank you for having taken this two-year long walk with me.  

Let Him Fly

Some days, I think it looks easier than it is. 

Living without Gabriel, that is. 

Every once in a while I have an opportunity to talk about pregnancy and motherhood as though my experience was just like everyone else's.  While at a hearing in Long Beach on Monday, I talked with another lawyer who also happens to be an expectant mother, and we compared experiences.  I had fun, until she asked the natural follow-up questions. 

"Did you have a boy or a girl?"

"A boy."

"Oh!  What's his name?"

"Gabriel."

"How old is Gabriel?"

"He would be two.  He passed away when he was ten days old."

"Oh. . . Do you mind if I ask what happened?" 

"He had anencephaly, a neural tube defect."

"What does that mean." 

I went through the routine explanation of Gabriel's condition.  She deduced that I made a choice to carry him to term in spite of his diagnosis and asked a few questions about that too. 

"How old are you?" 

Knowing what would follow, I responded, "Thirty-one." 

"You're still young; you can have more."  It's true.  God-willing, I can and will have more.  But I will never stop missing Gabriel.  And when people tell me, "Having another baby won't fill that hole in your heart" I know that they are right - no one knows that better than me - but I want them to know that the hole is so very big and deep that I can't just let it be.  If I'd made no attempts to begin to fill it in, I would have died.  What is left to do when your child has gone before you?  What is left to live for? 

I could feel this woman's eyes on me as I flipped through the file in front of me.  "I'm really impressed by you.  You must be so strong."  I looked at her, weakly, and I could see the sympathy in her eyes.  Don't crack.  Don't break.  Don't cry.  I pressed my lips into a smile.

"Do you know where the dismissal forms are kept?"  She pointed to a shelf behind her, and we went about talking law. 

Make no mistake:  Every day is a struggle.  If you've never experienced the strange blessing of witnessing someone's dying before your eyes, it's nearly impossible to explain the residual feelings.  One moment my son was alive, in my arms.  The next moment, his heart stopped beating, and mine did too, and I had to make it beat again.  I had to make myself keep breathing because I didn't want to.  I felt an overwhelming sense of relief that my son's soul was at peace, but I missed him immediately.  I know that there must be some reason that I'm still here; still, every day I have to look for that reason. 

In just a few hours, family, friends, and I will release balloons in celebration of Gabriel's "Angelversary."  The balloon release is of course symbolic of the flight of the soul upon death.  We will watch the balloons as they make their way towards Heaven, like we did with Gabriel's birthday cupcake last week, fading away until they disappear.  Having watched Gabriel die, though, I know now that his passing didn't really work like that.  He was here, struggling, dying - But instantly, he was gone.  You could have nothing but faith in Heaven in a moment like that, feel nothing but certainty that Heaven is real and that's where Gabriel's soul was swiftly taken, and you could do nothing but want to be there too.  Somehow, though, you have to find a way to stay here and a reason to go on. 

Lord knows I think about more babies too much.  I think about silly television shows.  I think about Jodi Arias.  I think about the dogs.  I drink too much.  I eat too much.  I function the best I can. 

But Gabriel is still at the heart of what drives me to carry on.  Spreading his message is, right now, the most important thing I do.  Being his mommy is the most important part of me.  So, when those balloons are released this evening, a little box will be tied to their strings.  Inside that box will be a link to this entry, and a request that anyone who finds the box please log on and tell us where it was found.  With luck, we'll get some participants, and we'll be able to see how far this message has gone, and how many more people have been touched today by the baby boy who, against all odds, lived ten days and changed the world. 

If you are logging on to share that you've found a balloon, please know that Gabriel Michael Gerard Cude was born on June 10, 2011.  He had anencephaly, and at 21 weeks gestation we learned that he would not live long after his birth.  Doctors told us we'd be fortunate, if he were even born alive, if he lived for one day.  Gabriel died on June 20, 2011.  He touched lives. He melted hearts. 

He is my first and only born child, and he is missed deeply.  And you logging in today - and you who have logged on for two years now - you give me hope that even though my son is gone, life isn't over. It has gone on, it will keep going on, and there is always a reason to live. 

Blueberries

I'm not quite sure how it happened, but somehow I got to be the luckiest girl in the world.

You, known and unknown readers who follow this open and honest telling of the events of my life, might wonder how I can believe the above sentiment.  Decidedly unlucky things have happened in my life.  But I couldn't be more sincere when I say that I am simply blessed.

I'm lucky and blessed because a week ago I found a birthday card in my mailbox for my son Gabriel, who passed away nearly two years ago.  That card had come from a woman in England who also lost her child to anencephaly.  Somehow through the tragic and traumatic experience of losing our children, God found a way to bring us together from across the ocean, united in our grief and in our commitment to honor our children's memories.

I'm lucky because ten months ago I walked into the Law Offices of Mullen & Filippi, in need of a job and not in a position to be selective, knowing nothing about Worker's Compensation law except that it seemed like a dull area of practice compared to criminal.  I was fortunate enough to not only get a job offer, but to quickly learn that I love my job.  I thank God routinely from my office chair for that good fortune.

I'm lucky because I decided to celebrate my dead son's birthday this year, after being told last year by my son's father that a celebration was weird and morbid.  I decided to do it up big, and I could not have asked for greater support or a better response than I've received.  Birthday wishes, photos of friends and family in the t-shirts sold to raise funds for anencephaly research in Gabriel's honor, all littered my Facebook page on Gabriel's birthday.  The day that can be so tough for many moms like me to get through hardly stood still long enough to let me grieve, because it was so filled with all of the reasons that I have to smile.  How did I ever get so blessed as to have these people in my life?  How is it that I've been so incredibly fortunate?

In the past year, I lost love.  I lost the man I thought I was going to spend the rest of my life with after he signed our divorce papers, packed up his belongings, and moved across the country.  And I felt like I'd lost my whole world.  Soon, though, my heart was beating again with that unmistakable feeling, falling harder and faster and still tentatively and nervously, but always with a fervent belief that I had found everything I wanted.  That love was met with the dull sting of nonreciprocity; still, it gave me hope - Hope that someday he'll change his mind, hope that if he doesn't I'll find that feeling again, hope that someday someone will love me like I love them and like I want to be loved in return.  I have an irrational, dangerous, abiding, relentless hope in even the most hopeless of things and it's a hard way to live - but the only way I know how.

I'm lucky because my life is full - of hope, of love, of family, of friends, with the clicking of eight paws with long claws, with the memory of my beautiful baby boy.  My life is fruitful.  It has purpose, though I frequently struggle to understand what that purpose is.

Two years ago, that blueberry bush that I had written off proved me wrong, and that baby boy that the world called "incompatible with life" flourished beyond anyone's expectations.  And I, I have walked a treacherous road through the heart of make-it-or break it moments - the assault over a decade ago, Sean's death, Gabriel's death, a divorce - and I made it. I am full and I am blessed because from the rain and storm sometimes we find rainbows.  And sometimes, we find blueberries.

June Gloom

Inevitably, as I turned the page of the calendar to June, I was struck by the hard-hitting realization that it's been nearly two years since I held my son in my arms.  It's been nearly two years since I was able to keep him safe inside of my belly, two years since I felt him move, two years since I heard his strained cries, two years since his hands wrapped around my fingers, two years since I kissed him, stroked his hair, touched his cheek, washed his clothes, made his bottles, soothed him, rocked him - done all of the things that so many people take for granted.

In Huntington Beach this time of year is marked by overcast mornings, leading residents to refer to the "June gloom."  Today there's little I wouldn't give to trade this blazing Bakersfield sun for a sticky, misty Orange County morning.  It doesn't feel right that the sun should shine, or the birds should sing, or the grass should grow.  It doesn't feel right to have life go on as if it wasn't turned upside down nearly two years ago when I buried the child that I once thought I would see crawl, and walk, and graduate high school, and whose hand I would hold when I left this world - not the other way around.

But the sun does shine, and the birds do sing, and life does go on, and the scars on my heart stretch to heal, but they are so fresh even still.  Once again, the words seem insufficient, but they are all I have:  "I miss my son."  I miss him with a longing that is deep, and pervasive, and insatiable, and barely tolerable.  I miss him.

http://youtu.be/UFdfpLAzSxg

The Dating Game

Seventeen minutes have passed since Sender’s last message was received.  That’s probably sufficient. 

“Can we make it 7:30 instead?” 

Twelve minutes click by. 

“Sure.  You driving?” 

Of course I’m driving.  He knows me well enough by now to be quite aware that, given the choice, I will always drive.  He can choose the restaurant.  I’ll certainly defer to him in selecting the wine.  But I am definitely driving. 

“Yes.  I’ll pick you up at 7:30.” 

I don’t really have a good reason for delaying dinner by half an hour.  I’m actually not quite sure how I’m going to stave off my hunger until 7:30.  I’m sitting in the backyard, and have just finished shoveling dog poop and refilling the water tub that Gideon and Noelle emptied probably very early in the day while I was at work.  Gideon is eyeing me skeptically, clearly noting that I haven’t put his brush away yet and preparing to run as soon as I stand, so I do, and I chase him, but I can’t catch him, and this used to be so much easier with two people. 

It doesn’t take long to get showered and lotioned and dressed for a date with Sender.  He likes short skirts and strappy heels so I wear them, not for him, but because I enjoy the way he dotes on me and takes pride in showing me off when I do.  He’ll probably pay for dinner, and I’ll probably eat a lot, so the shoes are a small price to pay in exchange. 

Everyone does it.  Everyone plays the game.  You have to play, at least a little, to survive.  For me, my strategies involve seeking a balance between my aggressive tendencies and my sheer inability to find that balance and resort instead to being a doormat.  I also have to make a conscious effort to tuck away my insecurities and fears without replacing them with the extreme, a false bravado. 

Sender and I have a good time, but it’s an early night.  We’ve plateaued from a couple of people who look right together and make sense together, to a couple who couldn’t quite make it over the next hurdle.  Ours has evolved into a relationship of convenience.  He knows I’ve got my feelers out and that when other opportunities come along, I’ll take them – I’ve always been frank with him about that.  I do wonder what his response will be when that actually happens.  I hope he’ll keep his word and let Gideon swim in his pool for physical therapy this summer. 

A new attorney appeared at my deposition yesterday.  He is a catch, for all intents and purposes:  Good-looking, albeit a little short; fluent in Spanish; and engaged in the risky but rewarding endeavor of private practice.

“You should date him,” said my colleague, who has also recently been hazed into the post-divorce dating world.  As if it’s just so very easy.  As if I can just decide who I should be dating, and then go ahead and do it.  Certainly, this has been my attitude in the past, but it’s been met with a less-than-cooperative response.  But why not try again? 

“I hope it’s not inappropriate to ask,” I type in an e-mail following up on the deposition, “but would you like to go to lunch the next time you’re in town.”  It’s just lunch.  It’s not a date.  It’s not a big deal.  I’m just entertaining possibilities.  It's.  Just. Lunch.

My computer was quick to ‘ping’ with a response. 

“Lunch?  Absolutely J  I’m in Bakersfield frequently, I’ll let you know next time I’m in town. Signed, Jon.”

A couple of hours before he was Jonathan, and then suddenly he was Jon, and I felt funny about that. 

My subsconsious niggled at me.  I know what I want.  I’ve known what I want.  I have been diligent in seeking what I want and have tried all kinds of tactics but have settled on raw, blazing honesty to engage him in the game and go head-to-head with him.  Still, what I want, who I want, evades me.  I should change what I want. 

I should just go to lunch with Jon-who-used-to-be-Jonathan.  So I crafted my response.

“Sounds great!” 

I scratched the exclamation point.

“Sounds great.”

I hit send.  I made a note of what I was wearing so as not to repeat the outfit for lunch. 

“I’m having lunch with that applicant attorney,” I told my colleague and maintained a tight-lipped smile as she delighted. 

“I knew it!  His eyes were sparkling when he talked to you.”  I controlled my inclination to roll my eyes.  People ‘see’ and ‘sense’ these things all the time, but it doesn’t really matter what everyone else sees and feels, it matters what’s actually happening between two people. 

I thought of Kelli’s recent observation of my interactions with my most coveted opponent. “You two obviously have chemistry.  What’s the problem?”  The problem is, I guess, that the chemistry isn’t as obvious as it seems.  Or it’s missing an element, the one that will make it explode. But, when you’re playing the game with fire, sometimes it just burns. 

McDreaming

I am a McSteamy kind of girl.

Anyone who watches Grey's Anatomy knows what kind of guy Dr. McSteamy is, so they can also presume what kind of girl I am, what I look for in a man.  The thing is, I never really know I'm looking for it, or at it.  Not until I'm in too deep, anyway.  I like 'em troubled.  I like 'em self-destructive, with addictive personalities, daddy issues, sometimes even suicidal.  I guess there's something exciting about that.  What's exciting, I guess, is when I find my way inside of them, when they let me see that they're not damaged, that they're actually very vulnerable.  It makes me feel special, I guess, to be the person that "cracks" them, that person that they allow to get close.  The things is, I'm really not special.  I'm just the one willing to put up with it.

Then, when they hurt me - and they inevitably will, part of the thrill is knowing that's coming, I think - I can say that it's okay, that they're kinda screwed up, that I did the best I could.  I suppose there's some comfort in knowing he's more screwed up than me.  I can just tell myself that he just didn't know how to be loved.

I recently made the mistake of falling for a McDreamy.  A McDreamy has minimal damage.  He's stable.  He's safe.  He's got baggage but he carries it well.  And he's too smart for a girl like me.  

Grey's Anatomy has done women like me a disservice by misleading us into believing that McDreamy-type guys will patiently wait for you to figure your shit out and that they'll even love you not just in spite of it, but because of it.  For a McDreamy, a girl like me is exciting and a little intriguing and there's a thrill in not knowing what part of my personality they're going to get to see.  But it's just a matter of time before a McDreamy will realize that I'm just too much to take on.  I don't carry my baggage so very well, after all.

I want to be safe.  I want to be stable.

I want someone safe.  I want someone stable.

I just don't know how to let myself be, or let myself have, those things. I don't know how to let myself believe - really believe - that I deserve those things or that I deserve the love and affection of someone who is those things.  I want the things that I've been McDreaming of, but I don't know how to just have the simple faith that they can be mine.

Full Exposure

Stuffed full of sushi, and having sufficiently picked apart the poor service at Enso, we pondered what we should do next.

“Tomorrow’s my Saturday.  Woot!”  Amy celebrated while she clutched a bottle of Kirin with both hands.  Our waitress never bothered to offer us glasses for the over-sized bottles of Japanese beer. 

Actually, it was Tuesday night, and though I knew I had to work the next day, Tuesday is my favorite day of the week, and I wasn’t ready to close it out.  We wandered for a block until we found ourselves in The Mint.  Shane ordered one round and distributed the drinks, but it didn’t take long for us to recognize that The Mint wasn’t where things were happening that particular evening. 

I can’t remember who made the suggestion.

“Let’s go to the strip club.”  I rolled my eyes from over the top of the foam in my plastic beer cup. 

“You’re our driver.  You have to take us wherever we want,” Shane asserted, and I rolled my eyes again at his logic.  Actually, everyone knows that the driver calls the shots – because the driver doesn’t get to take shots.  Still, just a few minutes later I found myself in the notoriously low-class strip joint located under the Golden State overpass. 

“Open your purse” Blake commanded me and I looked at him, confused.  “Just open your purse.”  I opened my black bag, cluttered with things unknown that I’m sure I might need someday, and Blake dropped three pint-size bottles of Jack Daniels into the pouch.  It’s going to be that kind of night, I supposed.  I glanced around with concern, but realized that on a slow Tuesday night when the audience is populated by a handful of lonely men, the goings-on in my purse were of little interest to anyone else.  Amy selected seats at the edge of the stage and we parked ourselves next to each other with the guys on either side of us, and began to chat while Shane and Blake passed my purse back and forth, adding the whiskey to our $2 cups of Coke. 

Amy and I chatted about work, and plans, and how in our minds we look like the girls on stage but that we’ve both actually got a number of years and a number of pounds on most of them.  I took note of the faintly visible stretch marks on the stomach of one of the dancers and a Facebook meme came to mind:  An image of a post-partum belly with the same marks and a caption reading “These aren’t stretch marks; I’m a tiger whose earned her stripes.”  I thought of the absence of stretch marks on my own tummy, perhaps God’s way of giving me a little something since He took my son from me.  I’ve earned my stripes too.  They’re just invisible. 

“If you ever see me in a split, call an ambulance,” Amy joked as some nameless dancer dropped from the pole and slammed onto the stage in a split. 

I grinned.  "Don’t bother calling one for me.  If I ever find myself in a split, I’ll probably be stuck like that for life.”  Amy tucked a dollar bill into her cleavage and the dancer withdrew it with her teeth, then glanced over at me and Blake.  I offered her the couple of singles in my hand and shrugged at her.  “I’d do that too, but I’ve got nothing to hold them up and they would just fall to the floor.”  She seemed amused, but then, I suppose her job is to seem amused. 

At the end of each performance, the girls would wrap themselves tightly in short silky robes, and crawl along the edge of the stage collecting their earnings.  “Thank you,” some of them would mumble quietly, clutching their robes, and I was surprised by their ironic displays of modesty. 

“I hate it when they say ‘Thank you,’” said Amy, and I agreed.  “Would you show off your goodies for a dollar?” 

“I pop open a beer, and someone leaves me a dollar.  No.  I wouldn’t do that.”  I stare into the dull, vapid eyes of the girl on the stage and I wonder who forgot to tell her that she is loved.  Who didn’t make her feel valued?  Who never told her, “You are special.  You have worth.”?  All of those girls, after all, are someone’s daughter.  I made yet another promise to myself that when I have a daughter of my own I will instill her with love and respect for herself, so that she might never find herself so very exposed and vulnerable.

Immediately I was struck by my own hypocrisy as my cell phone rattled to alert me to an incoming message.  “If the Yankees weren’t so banged up, yes.”  And suddenly I was exposed and vulnerable and stripped down again, reminded of the way I had recently bared my heart in a show of unrequited feeling.  Clothed and bathed in the neon lights of a bar with my heart naked on display, I was just another girl.  Just another bartender.  I typed a swift response and replaced my phone in my purse, between two near-empty bottles of Jack. 

Blake appeared beside me; I hadn’t noticed that he’d walked away.  He and Shane had been draining the limited supply of alcohol, and he was smiling.  “You’re gonna get a lap dance from Nikki,” and he clapped his hands and rubbed them together.  “And I get to watch.  I already set it up.” 

“Who’s Nikki?” 

“That one.”  And he pointed to the girl taking the stage.  Right away it was evident that Nikki had been instructed to make me as uncomfortable as possible.  Her eyes were alive with the promise of Blake’s $20 as she danced, her attention focused in our direction.  She slinked her way to our corner of the stage and summoned me with her fingers.  I stood obediently and she instructed me to lean towards her.  She tucked my hair between one of my ears and leaned in close to me and I turned to face her and whispered, “Did you check his bill?  He likes to pass counterfeits.” 

Nikki’s face flashed with momentary worry.  Ever the professional, though, the sleepy sexy smile spread back across her face as she realized she wasn’t going to get the reaction from me that would make her the most money. Shane called from the seat next to Amy, “You suck at this!” and Nikki slithered away to finish her routine. 

Moments later as Nikki led us to a cushioned red booth and Blake clapped with delighted anticipation, I asked her “It’s not weird that he’s my brother, right?”  She whipped around and her eyes flicked over us in assessment. 

“No you’re not.”

“No.  We’re not.  Don’t tell her that!”  Nikki sat me in the both and instructed Blake to insert his $20 bill in a slot on the wall.  She began to dance and Blake shifted uncomfortably in front of us.  “I’ve gotta go, this is too weird.”  And he walked away.

“Is he gone?”

“Yeah, why?  Do you need him back?  He already paid.” 

“No.  You can stop now.”  I waved a hand at her dismissively.  She leaned against the booth. 

“It’s just a job, you know.”  For a fleeting moment I envied this girl with the torn fishnet tights, whose hard life became evident on her face with our proximity.  Just a job.  I thought of the applicant who stands to have his leg amputated while I, a co-defendant and his attorney perform a litigation dance to determine who’s liable for what extent of his injury.  Somewhere along the way, Nikki had learned to do something I have yet to master.  She had learned to turn off her feelings, or at least compartmentalize them.  She picked at her nails while my brow furrowed reflectively.  Perhaps I give Nikki too much credit.  Still, I bet none of her patrons ever broke her heart.  

A light began to flash.  “What does that mean?”

“Ten minutes are up.”  We walked back to the front where Shane stood with my purse over his shoulder.  He was showing one of the girls his puzzle ring.  In the years I’ve known Shane I’ve never been able to solve the puzzle ring. 

“That’s the third time!”  And she held up the ring triumphantly.  Blake looked annoyed.

“Shane’s like, the Stripper Whisperer.  And that’s not fair.  I paid for your dance and I didn’t even get to enjoy it.” 

I found Nikki sitting at a counter.  She was eating a bag of potato chips.  I handed her $20.  “Can you dance for Blake?”  She nodded, and reached for the $20 with one hand while licking the seasoning from her fingers on the other as she started to stand.  “You can finish your chips, it’s no hurry.”  She looked at me as though no one had ever told her she could finish her chips before. 

With hugs and promises that we would never forget each other EVER, Blake, Shane and I left the club.  Amy had departed sometime earlier.  I transported them back to our regular lives where I am the only one of us that works “regular” hours, and they bragged that they didn’t have to answer to an alarm clock at 6 in the morning.  I was careful to remove the empty pint bottles from my purse.  I summoned the dogs from outside, showered and dressed for bed, then wrapped myself securely in my sheets and blanket knowing that no matter how much I am covered, I am someone who’s always fully exposed.