It's Not Fair: Learning to Love the Life You Didn't Choose

-PART-

ONE

The Part of the Book Where I Explain the Book a Lot

Skipping this part could induce dire consequences, like that time you missed the first class, didn’t get the syllabus, spent the entire semester confused, and got an F. And this book is about life. You don’t want an F in life, do you? I wouldn’t risk it.

1

A Help-Each-Other Book

Buttercup: You mock my pain.

Man in Black: Life is pain, Highness. Anyone who says differently is selling something.

—The Princess Bride¹

So you’ve just found out some hard news. He’s cheating. She’s cheating. The thingy isn’t benign. Your child got a diagnosis. You didn’t get the job. You were demoted. You didn’t get the job and the person who has made your professional life a living hell did get the job.

Or maybe you’ve been living in this state of suspended misery for a while now. It’s like you’re hanging from the ceiling looking down on your life on fire, wondering how you got here and how to put out the flames.

Sometimes when life falls apart and then on top of that your basement floods and your dog dies, the only acceptable response is hysterical laughter. When things get so far gone, so spectacularly a world away from any plans you made or dreams you dreamed, you feel it bubbling up inside of you, and you scream, It’s not fair! And it isn’t. Fair is an illusion and life is weird.

So what do you do? You have all these things piling on, and you don’t know how much more you can carry before the bag breaks and everything drops all over the ground and rolls across the parking lot. You didn’t choose these things; you weren’t prepared. If you’d known what was coming, you would’ve done more cardio or taken more vitamins, maybe hidden money under the mattress or run screaming out of the building. This wasn’t the plan. And it’s bad and it’s hard and you’re tired.

It’s not fair.

I’m sorry. I really am.

I want this book to be the friend you put in your bag and take to the hospital. It’s for when you’re passed over for the promotion or when he doesn’t propose or when he leaves. You won’t find any easy answers or a 12-step plan here.

I wish we were meeting for coffee and talking in person so I could listen to your story. In good friendships, that’s what we do, right? We listen to each other and respond with empathy and encouragement. This book is me trying to do that through pages. But since I can’t hear you, this is kind of one-sided and I’m over here sharing from my perspective based on my own stuff. But your stuff is important too. In fact, your stuff is the reason I’m trying to gather my thoughts and write them down.

It’s a sometimes sucky journey, but you’re not alone.

Dragging My Mess Next to Yours

I can’t solve your stuff. I wish I could, but it’s your stuff and your journey through it. This isn’t really a self-help book. I hope it’s helpful but not in a here’s what you do way. More in a here’s me sitting next to you way. A help-each-other book.

If I’m not careful, I can be ridiculously depressing. Who wants to hear about someone else’s shattering disappointments when we’re all up to our eyebrows in our own? Or worse, my life will seem like kindergarten to you. Like the preschool of pain, when you’re deep into a PhD dissertation on The Absolute Worst Thing That Anyone Has Ever Dealt With. If so, I apologize in advance for my whining and how irritating it might sound.

I’m going to mix together some of my own hard things, some junk that helps me, crappy drawings, and probably a little bit of inspiring stuff. And movie quotes, duh.

I have a confession. I thought I was done with the hard part and was going to impart to you how you, too, could get through pain and come out on the other side. But that’s a lie. In the middle of waxing on about fairness, my life sort of fell apart again. Apparently we don’t learn to love our lives and then check a box when it’s done. We learn to love our lives every day, one day at a time, forever. So hi, from within the trench. It kinda smells down here. I wish neither of us were here. But I’m glad we have each other.

Your story won’t look the same as mine. There is no formula for dealing with suffering. I won’t insult you with a one-size-fits-most mentality about the pain. All I’m going to do is drag my mess next to yours and invite you to drag yours next to mine.

We relate to one another through our stories, don’t we? I love a good story, one with hope, or people falling down but getting back up, or people falling down because they slipped on a banana peel. I love a good poop story or a funny movie quote. And when I’m desperate and feel alone in the world, I love a friend who will just spend time, share life, and talk about the thing without trying to solve everything. So I’m going to introduce you to some of my friends who have agreed to share their stories here. We need all the help we can get from each other.

Via Facebook @UnexpectedMel

The kids just discovered my bike lock combination.

Elliott: Mommy, it’s T-U-R-D.

Ana: Toord? Waht ees toord?

Elliott: No, it’s turd. Turd!

Evie: Turd. Turd.

Yay for learning how to read . . .

About Me

I should probably tell you a little about myself. I’ve been married to my college sweetheart, Alex, for fifteen years. I met him as a prospective student at Denison University, where he was playing guitar in the campus coffee shop, The Bandersnatch, in an acoustic duo. He has no recollection of this momentous occasion, which makes me feel super. Just like the movies. Months later when he noticed my existence, we didn’t like each other. At all. There might have been glaring. And that’s how the magic really happened.

Over time, we discovered our mutual love of the color orange and our total commitment to performing entire conversations by quoting movies. I converted him to Whedonism, the illustrious fandom devoted to all things Joss Whedon, the creator of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and he introduced me to the sardonic humor of Chevy Chase. We bonded over sarcasm and Christian retreats involving singing around campfires and sharing our favorite Bible verses and much making out. Maybe not all that at the same time.

We’ve pretty much grown up together, at least the whole adult part of our lives, and somehow in spite of everything we’ve weathered together, we’re still hard-core in love. I think the movie couple that best represents us is, well, I want to say Iron Man and Pepper Potts, except with Alex as Pepper and me as Iron Man, because Alex is really good at business and running things and keeping me in line and I’m really good at flying all over and shooting bad guys with my thrusters.

Anyway, over the course of a twelve-year marathon filled with needles and paper cuts, we have accrued three children. Our first, Elliott, who just this second turned eight, was born after a five-year battle with infertility. My body tried to kill him and we barely made it to the third trimester together, thanks preeclampsia, but after a cozy little NICU stay in a baby tanning bed for him and lots of drugs for me, we both made it out of the hospital alive and mostly fine-ish. We brought Miss Evie home from Ethiopia when she was almost two, after lots of trials and misfires for us and especially for her. And then last year, when she was nine, Ana Banana decided to join us from Latvia. My kids could write a better book about unfairness and learning to love the lives they definitely didn’t choose. (I hope someday they do and cast Tina Fey to play me in the movie version.)

I’ve spent bajillions of hours trying to figure out how to talk about my kids. Where do my stories end and theirs begin? How do I tell you enough about our family life so you can find common ground without over-exposing them? For better or worse, Mommy is an author and blogger. I tell myself at least we don’t have a reality show.

I’ve listened to adult adoptees and friends who grew up in the foster system. I’ve talked with a friend who’s the daughter of an author. I’ve asked my whole tribe to pray for wisdom, talked to other authors, and consulted my editor.

So after much prayer and advice, here’s what I will say: within our family, we are dealing with autism, mental illness, ADHD, and trauma. Honestly? All the things I worried about before I became a mom, all the things we secretly fear deep down and maybe don’t even say out loud, have happened in our family.

Just don’t let it be____.

As long as it isn’t____.

And yet. Every day I learn a bit more to love this life I didn’t choose. And now that I’m here, I wonder why I was so scared. I wish I could take away all the pain from my kids, but as their mom, I wouldn’t trade their precious personalities for anything. As our family therapist says, ’Normal’ is just a setting on the dryer.

Much of what I’d tell you about my kids if I took you on a tour of our home life isn’t really mine to tell. I have to look these children in the eye and know that I’ve left their stories to them. And so all I’ll say is my three, quirky kiddos each walk their own special roads, and when combined, these roads make one heck of a city map. It’s jumbled and difficult to navigate for all of us, and we deal with traffic and gnarls daily. But our city is bustling and full of energy and sometimes I walk these streets and marvel at the life they contain. For this book, there’s a whole lot of unfairnesses that I can’t reveal. So I’ll stick to the ones I can.

For those of you living with people on their own special roads . . . solidarity. We are learning to love these lives none of us has chosen. Our city lights burn brightly.

I love my family and we are fun and funny people. The five of us are all unique and special and every day we combine our quirks into a family and practice loving each other well. I say practice because, as you probably know, families take a lot of practice and a lot of work, whether it’s the family you live with now or the one you grew up with.

That’s us in a nutshell. You’ll hear lots more details later in a mishy-mashy way, sometimes out of chronological order. If you confuse Evie with Ana, or wonder when I had that operation I was talking about, or why I’m still talking about infertility after there are clearly kids all up in here, don’t worry. I can’t keep my life straight either. Think of my ponderings as a season of Doctor Who, very timey-whimey, but I will endeavor to avoid a paradox that could irrevocably destroy the space-time continuum.

Via Twitter @UnexpectedMel

My daughters are trying to teach my son how to burp on command. We like to destroy gender stereotypes around here. And also, apparently, we’re gross.

Laugh to Keep from Crying

You have to laugh to keep from crying, my mom has always said, and I’ve embraced that. But crying is great too, and sometimes we cry while laughing, which is probably the world’s most perfect feeling. And so I’ve always done a lot of Emotion Blending, like a cry-laugh smoothie that comes out my nose and works all the facial muscles.

My editor told me to put in some disclaimers. Please be advised:

If you are struggling with clinical depression, anything life-threatening at all, anything that needs doctors or people with lots of degrees by their names, or medicine, or anything official, by all means go get the party pack of all of that. We have a whole team with an array of letters and diplomas surrounding our family right now. Professionals are really important. I am not that. And if at any point you experience discomfort lasting longer than four hours, please seek medical attention immediately. Additional side effects may include meat sweats, bacne, helmet hair, spirit fingers, front butt, fungal toe, spontaneous rectal combustion, Hobbit feet, whooping snort laugh, man hands, zombie breath, increased cravings for squirt cheese, fear of Pottery Barn, auctioneer voice, raisin boobs, and excessive hyperbole.

Did I forget anything? If I’m ever too weird, inappropriate, dumb, or off-putting, then by all means feel free to download all ten seasons of Friends instead, and thank you for your time.

Sometimes I’m a little overdramatic.

My dad, on the other hand, is really, really calm and steady. It’s one of the many reasons I don’t think biology has much to do with family because HOW COULD WE SHARE DNA?!? I mean, really. Despite our differences in temperament, I adore this man. And growing up, he was my rock. Whenever I’d get kerfloofy over one or six of the many things I had swirling around at all times, he’d grab some quality time with me, listen, ask lots of questions, and usually, at some point during my diatribe, he’d start laughing. Gently laughing. I mean, I was sixteen, so I’d still get huffy about it, but now as a grown-up, I so appreciate this approach to the hard stuff, and I laugh with myself all the time. Sometimes I laugh at myself, but mostly when things are hard, I laugh with myself, gently, just like my dad taught me to do.

In Genesis when the LORD told infertile old Sarah she’d get pregnant, she laughed. Sarah laughed in the midst of her pain when she encountered a message that seemed ludicrous (Genesis 18:12). That so resonates with me. Laughter as a coping mechanism for pain. And then Abraham named the baby Isaac, which means he laughs. The whole nation of Israel was launched with laughter (Genesis 21:3).

How do you write a book about learning to love your life in the midst of suffering? Madeleine L’Engle said, The only way to cope with something deadly serious is to try to treat it a little lightly.² Yes, there will be days when you just can’t. There’ve been whole weeks during my low points when a smile felt like a stretch. But just in case . . . let’s keep the option open to grin through our tears.

Mary’s Story: Marines and Maggots

While battling my first bout of non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma, my treatment was like rafting down an unknown river. As a Long Island gal, Billy Joel’s River of Dreams seemed to be the sound track of my life during that time.

Despite the hair loss, chemo, and keeping an Excel spreadsheet of my kids’ schedules and sleepovers with friends and relatives, the lunacy of it all did not escape me. As I rode the rapids toward my bone marrow transplant, I could not get over the sheer comedy that comes from trying to live a typical life in such an atypical way. Morbid humor is truly something that must be embedded in one’s DNA, because it can seem really inappropriate at times. Not to mention, people really don’t know how to react or treat you when, well you know, you have no eyelashes, eyebrows, head hair, and just look like a freak.

In my case, nearly 100 percent of the time, most people, when totally surprised or unguarded, responded with kindness and genuine compassion. This was most evident in two cases. My neighbor Jim, a sixty-five-year-old former Marine from the Greatest Generation, opened the door to find me in my gray hoodie, sloppy warm-up pants, scruffy sneakers, red bandana covering my cue ball head of no hair, red eyes from crying out of frustration, and a face mask. I had just waved good-bye to my children, who were being parceled out to loving friends for a few weeks as I prepared to go to Johns Hopkins for my transplant (twelve-week stay).

Unfortunately I was locked out of my house. When Jim opened the door, his face went into shock. Without a word, his face clearly said, I am being mugged in broad daylight by a druggie gang member! Once I saw that he didn’t recognize me—why not?—I quickly said, Hi, Jim, it’s me, Mary, from across the street, and I am locked out. Can you help me? His demeanor changed in a nanosecond. Without skipping a heartbeat he said, Oh, Mary, [cough, gulp], I am so sorry. I didn’t recognize you there. Must be these glasses [as he wiped them]. His graceful save made me smile, as did his breaking-and-entering skills using a credit card.

Not one week later, as I lay in my hospital bed, I felt another ripple of gallows humor. The female doctor, clearly practicing her bedside manner, sat on my bed, leaned in to tell me how my treatment was progressing, and the whole time had an angelic look and a purposeful calming cadence to her voice. All were useless. Once seated, I looked at her navy blue monogrammed name that was embroidered on her crisp white doctor’s coat—Dr. Maggot. Whatever she said, I couldn’t hear, as my insides were busting and I was trying ever so gallantly not to cry from laughter or pee my pants (bedpan optional). It made me wonder about so many things, most notably how a person with the name Maggot would go into medicine. When she asked if I had any questions, I fought the urge to spit out, Have you ever thought of using an umlaut with your name?

From that point forward, I knew that funny, illogical, and nonsensical stuff happens every day and will continue to be there even when you are thrust into a gushing river of unfair stuff. You just need to keep looking for it and finding it.

—Mary W.

You Might Hate This Book

Maybe you’ll need to throw this book against a wall and tell me I’m an idiot and don’t understand life. I wouldn’t even mind that, because it would be a sign you’re reading it.

And I’m not a theologian, so what could I possibly say about God at a time like this in your life? If you aren’t sure how you feel about God, you’re safe with me. I mean, I hope you feel safe with me. I would leave God out of this whole discussion, except I don’t know how. If you’re kind of side-eyed about the whole thing, I get it. Feel free to lump the Bible verses in with the movie lines, just words I like to quote. They’re much more than that for me, but they don’t have to be for you.

By now you may have guessed that I am unqualified to pontificate about what makes life fair or unfair and that I am an unreliable narrator in exploring how to deal with life’s hard things.

I have a BFA in theater, so I think that makes me licensed to instruct you on the proper use of jazz hands and how to speak iambic pentameter. I am the quirky friend you call for a pep talk or to agree with you that your boyfriend is a total bunghole and you are so better than that. I can try to cheer you up by stuffing one hundred M&Ms in my mouth at one time (I have done this for realsies). I can’t make your situation any better, but maybe I can make your heart a little lighter. Maybe.

I’ll sit by you and hold your hand and bring you French-pressed Ethiopian coffee and Rainbow Nerds, two of life’s most precious offerings. Alex says I need to tell