A Jordan Holm Story

It wasn’t how it was supposed to end. In my mind, it can’t possibly be over—where was the Hollywood-style finish? The final redemption? The happy ending? All I can think is how utterly unfair it is.

I’ve known about Jordan Holm for years. I remember when he went to prison—heard about it through some family friends. His family always believed he was innocent, wrongly accused. Because I knew members of his family, I believed them. I only recently learned there was a website—freejordan.org—that details the case. I read the entire site start to finish in only a few hours, entirely engrossed in the injustice. I read all of the letters Jordan sent his brother while in prison; I read them through misty eyes, completely in awe of this man’s faith and attitude. I had no idea how someone innocent could spend so many years in prison and not become bitter.

Of course, by the time I found the website a month ago, Jordan had already been released. He had returned to wrestling and was working toward making the Olympic team. He had trained hard in prison—wrestling gave him a goal and something to do. Before prison, he had aspirations of medical school.

The writer (and Christian) in me could see this turning into a great story. Because he had never graduated college, he never pursued medical school. If he hadn’t been in prison, he likely wouldn’t have trained so much to become an Olympian. This would be his reward for unjustly spending close to a decade in prison for a crime he didn’t commit. He would get to wrestle in the Olympics!

Last weekend, he lost at the trials. He didn’t make the team. His Olympic hopes were dashed in only a few minutes. There was no reward—no redemption. And every time I think about it, all I can think is how much he has suffered, how much he has had to endure—all while keeping his faith. It’s just so unfair. 

The life of the Christian does involve trials; that’s basic Sunday School fodder. But I can’t help but question God on this one. Why is he blessing me—my life is fairly trial-free—when my faith is nowhere near Jordan’s?  

This weekend, I cried for Jordan—a man I’ve never personally met—as I read about his defeat.

I hope and pray that his appeals will be heard and he will be exonerated from his original charges. Maybe that will be his redemption story. My story had him winning gold in London—redemption on the world’s biggest stage. I envy Jordan’s faith. Because he didn’t need my version of the story. He knows he’ll just have to wait a little longer for his gold.

Prison Break--A Revisiting

I'm currently revisiting my obsession with Prison Break on Netflix. The show began in 2005, when I was in high school, and I watched it faithfully for the first two seasons--hopelessly obsessed with leading character Michael Schofield (Hello, Wentworth Miller. You are beautiful. I don't care if you can't act. You can stare piercingly at me all day with that pouty scowl and intense jaw acting). Season 3 was weird, and the plot sort of fell apart for me. I tuned in later in Season 4 (where the plot was even worse), as I knew the show was ending. And then I cried a lot when it was over.

***This blog may reveal spoilers about the show. You've been warned. If you have not seen Prison Break (at least Season 1), you should watch it. If you have not, and you don't want some spoilers about a show that ended three years ago, you should stop reading this post.

The ending of the show was poetic, I suppose. The director himself explained that it had to be that way, despite the obvious pain for the viewers. You want the hero (the beloved Michael Scofield) to succeed because he is clearly the "good guy," despite the entire plot that has him breaking the law. The man struggles with the guilt of his actions repeatedly--and in a way, we can't help but see it coming. Michael must pay the consequences.

There are so many blatant similarities between Prison Break and AMC's No. 1 movie of all time The Shawshank Redemption. And I think many viewers, myself included, would have liked a little more Shawshank in our resolution--the heroes fading into the sunset on a beach, happily ever after. (Oops, Shawshank spoiler. But if you didn't know that one, I can't help you.)

Prison Break fans want so badly for Michael and dear Dr. Sara to be together. Their relationship (especially in Season 1) is both heartbreaking and beautiful. Their extending staring into each others' eyes--however cliched--is still TV magic (after Michael saved her during a prison riot, when he kisses her for the first time in her office and she doesn't get mad--just wait for him Sara!).

I guess in the end, it is the right ending. The show is about self sacrifice--especially Michael's--to save others. And that's what he gets.

But the rest of feel like we're getting our toes cut off with pruning shears.

Telephone

My husband talks on the phone A LOT. Especially for a 23-year-old male. Maybe because I almost never talk on the phone for more than a few minutes, but he is like a teenage girl sometimes. Mike calls him and he'll chat while he's driving home. With me sitting in the front seat. Or he'll leave the room when I'm watching TV because Andy's called to tell him something (he generally only leaves the room after I glare at him enough because he is being SO LOUD) and then they end up gabbing away for 20 minutes. Maybe I'm annoyed that I don't talk to any of my girl friends on the phone. 

I used to have several hour-long conversations a week with my mother when I was in college. I'd generally call her because I'm a terrible cook I didn't know how to make certain food, or know if I could put a certain dish in the microwave. I'm still a terrible cook, but now Brett and I just decide to wing it and be adventurous. Turns out A LOT of older glass bowls have metal in them and will start microwave fires. Just an FYI. 

I've never really been a phone talker though. My hearing is pretty bad, plus I sound like I'm five over the phone. A lady called a few weeks ago to get me to donate blood. Once I finally convinced her I was Lindsay, she didn't believe I'd ever donated before because I sounded too young. 

However, in high school, Brett and I talked on the phone almost every night for several hours. What we talked about, I have no idea. We had just spent all day together at school. We had all the same friends and teachers and most of the same classes. Those must have been the most asinine conversations ever. I guess it turned out okay though. 

But seriously, is it common for 20-something men to talk on the phone to each other so much? And don't even get me started about how they play XBOX LIVE together and are connected through those super lame headset things. Seriously, I'm married to such a dork.

Inspiration

I've been reading blogs excessively lately and experiencing some fantastic writing. And yet, I'm uninspired to write on my own. I know I need to read good writing in order to produce good writing--but so often good writing discourages me more than it inspires me. 

Instead of feeling immersed and empowered by their abilities to make mundane stories read like fascinating adventures, or their strength in lining up words perfectly to sound both intelligent and beautiful, instead of inspired, I feel flat. Like, I don't write like that, I can never be good enough. I am not interesting. 

I never want to become a "mommyblogger" who only writes about my day and my children. (A. I don't have any children, and B. my day is pretty boring). I will likely never be a stay-at-home mom, and I will likely never be crafty or post soft-focused, overly-photoshopped pictures of my children all over this blog. I do not want this blog to be about my kids' snot and poop. Even if its the most adorable expulsion of body fluids I've every witnessed. 

I want this blog to be my space to write about whatever I want--deep things, beautiful things, funny things. I want it to enrich my writing life, and perhaps provide entertainment readers for my seven followers (who probably don't even check much since I've been so poor about updating--that will change, I promise).

There wasn't much of a point or a theme I was going for here, I just needed to find a place to jump start my commitment to writing. Perhaps I'll start using blog prompts to force me to update more often (daily, even?). But for now, I will choose to be inspired by blogs, instead of choosing to wallow in inadequacy.

What the Dooce?

I’ve decided to join the thousands of other bloggers and chime in on the Dooce situation. I’m not one of the mean commentators who is laughing maniacally at this, saying I saw it coming. I didn’t. Or if I did, I didn’t want to. I feel sorry for both Heather and Jon. I feel sorry that their separation is happening so painfully publicly. Of course, the fact that they have both worked from home for several years, bought their dream home, and have sponsors pay them to design their dream home with sponsor products is a result of making their lives so public. So yes, while they want privacy for themselves and their children in this difficult time, it’s hard for the public, especially their readers, to give them that luxury. Their readers are screaming, “We bought you your house! Tell us why you’re separating!!” (Those exclamation points are for Dooce. You’re welcome!)

I hate divorce. It’s that simple. I hate that it happens, and I hate that people cause it. Infidelity, conflict, “irreconcilable differences,” it doesn’t matter (I will put abuse in an entirely justified category—that’s not what I’m addressing here).

One reason it bothers me so much is that it’s so popular and trendy to say you’re “marrying your best friend.” Yes, I probably said that. Heather and Jon said that. Everyone says it. It’s cute and hip to marry your best friend. Does that mean you divorce your best friend? Or do they stop being your best friend before that point?

I’ve had a ton of conflicts, jealousy, anger, etc. toward my best friends from both high school and college. And yet, they’ve never stopped being my best friend. I don’t think we could ever have “irreconcilable differences.” If we had them, we never would have become best friends in the first place.

Back to Heather and Jon Armstrong. I hope this is just a separation and not divorce. However, it’s not looking that way. Jon is buying furniture, having their children (oh, those poor, sweet children) sleep over at his apartment. He’s looking for a new job, getting seriously into photography. Would he go back to Heather if she asked? Just for the kids—or would he want to?

The man is amazing. He’s dealt with his wife’s mental illness, book deals, travel schedule, launch into internet fame—while working quietly behind the scenes to keep her incredibly successful website up and running smoothly, while simultaneously putting up with a woman with a certified mental illness. And having their entire relationship broadcasted on her blog.

If the Armstrongs were to divorce, I would have thought it would have been after Heather checked herself into a mental hospital for post-partum depression and suicidal thoughts, way back in the mid-2000s. Instead, he brought their infant daughter to see her every day, despite battling his work for the time off. Heather was a stay-at-home mom (or work-at-home mom) then, with an infant. And she contemplated hanging herself with a dog’s leash in their garage. She had a serious mental illness and needed help. But if there was ever a time to leave someone, Jon could have made his break. She was endangering his daughter!—he could have walked away then. But he didn’t. He stayed, which is what made all of us think they really could last forever.

I’ve been reading Dooce, and occasionally Jon’s blog at Blurbomat, on and off since high school. I feel like I know them. I feel like I’ve grown up with them, and this separation feels as real as if a friend was facing this. Of course, I’m dying to know the details--any reader who says they aren't is lying. Obviously we're obsessed with reading intimate details of the lives of people we've never met--of course we're interested in your scandal!

So what did he do so wrong? They will likely never tell us, but I’m much more interested in that than Heather’s current saga of growing out her hair.

So for the love of sweaty goat balls, tell us already!!!!!!!

50/50

My personal interaction with cancer began years ago, and it’s been part of my life ever since. I was in middle school when my grandma first became sick with the disease, and she’s battled it several times since then. There have been good times when cancer remains in its small corner. Other times, it occupies almost every thought, every day. And thinking about it makes my throat hurt, makes my mouth taste like it’s full of pennies. Hearing, talking, or thinking about cancer hurts.

Despite this, the film 50/50 interested me from the first time I saw a preview. A dramatic comedy about cancer—is that even possible? Joseph Gordon-Levitt is a fantastic actor who stole my heart in 1999 in 10 Things I Hate About You. He was pitch-perfect in (500) Days of Summer. And of course, he was the true acting genius of Inception. Seth Rogen (who plays Gordon-Levitt’s best friend Kyle), on the other hand, makes me want to scratch my eyes out. I would love-hate the stars in this movie. It really would be 50/50.

And of course the cancer theme. Could it be portrayed in a real, authentic way? Would the directors, actors, producers really understand what cancer is all about—not just the disease itself, but they were attempting to capture the life around cancer—from the point of view of the person with cancer, to the best friend, the girlfriend, the therapist, the mother. Each has his own stake in this life; each suffers differently. What if they didn’t get my view of cancer right?

For the entire movie, I felt the pennies in my mouth. I wanted to cry the whole time—I wanted to break down as I watched Joseph Gordon-Levitt get skinnier, paler, with darker circles under his eyes. He lost his hair—he lost so much—and it was so real. Because he remained so calm. And maybe that’s not how everyone fights cancer. But that’s how I fought my grandma’s cancer. I never let it boil over—just kept pushing it down, just kept swallowing the feeling that there is nothing you can do.

And then, he breaks. Joseph Gordon-Levitt’s character Adam finally breaks. He gets into drive Kyle’s (Rogen) car (although he doesn’t have a license and doesn’t ever drive) because Kyle is drunk. He’s a bad friend who’s been using Adam’s cancer to get girls. And Adam drives furiously the wrong way down a one-way, driving too fast, and finally, Kyle yanks the emergency break and halts the car. Adam orders him out, and then loses it. He screams, yells, smacks the steering wheel console. It’s a raging moment, bordering on ridiculous and crazy. And it’s one of the most real moments in cinema. He’s having life-threatening surgery the next day, and he finally admits he just wants everything to be over. He’s tired of being sick.

There’s a subtle moment in the next scene where Adam gets Kyle to bed. He’s in Kyle’s bathroom where he finds a dog-eared book, with underlined and highlighted sections, Facing Cancer Together. It’s a good moment, a renewed hope in their friendship, and a look at the silent pain of a best friend.

Angelica Houston as Adam’s mother is brilliant. It’s almost painful to watch her incredibly real portrayal of a woman dealing with both a husband with Alzheimer’s Disease and her young son with only a 50/50 chance of survival.

There’s so much pain in this film, so much real-life pain, as it was developed by screenwriter Will Reiser, who was diagnosed with a rare spinal cancer at age 24. His real-life best friend, Seth Rogen, helped him cope with the disease by coming up with ideas for comedies about cancer. 

The entire movie is a play on the title 50/50, Adam’s initial survival rate. It’s half charming and funny and half heart-wrenching. Reiser had explained the film doesn't make fun of cancer itself, but instead finds humor in how people close to cancer patients react to their diagnosis.

“For myself and everyone involved, the most important thing was to be true to the characters and make it feel honest,” Reiser told Indiewire. “Anything that felt like it wasn't real, we would cut. We didn't really sit around and think about what other movies had done. We thought about what was honest in this world we created.”

And then the real-world application. Brett and I watched together, laughing out loud through several scenes, quietly inflecting during others. And of course, both pondering How would we react? Adam, as real-life Reiser, received this diagnosis at 24. I’m 24. And that’s the beauty of life—the imperfection, the fragility, the unexpected. Every day, every single one of us is living with the 50/50.

Moving Day

We are moving. We bought our first house and we are moving out of our first apartment.

Anyone who has ever visited our apartment knows my complaints (you know…bed in the living room/kitchen, having a living room/kitchen, having a hotel-sized kitchen, ONE cupboard, two square feet of countertop, light over the kitchen that doesn’t work, no windows, centipedes, street parking, not being able to order delivered food because we live in a non-existent cave world, bobsled-run hill to walk down in the winter…to name a few).

But as we’re beginning to move out of the very first home we made together and have lived in for one and a half years, a few things have become aware to me that I will miss when we leave our little cave.

**This was going to be a Letterman-style top ten list—but I’m not sure I actually have ten, we’ll see.

Of course, the most obvious: Ann. Our landlady and wonderfully crazy upstairs neighbor. She wears robes AT ALL TIMES. She is a millionaire. She drives a Jaguar (That’s pronounced: jag-you-are). Her glasses chain has CHARMS on it. She is our very own Betty White. Only crazier. In the winter, she keeps the house around 100 degrees. In the summer, 25. We will miss her immensely.

The heater in our entry way that blows warm air on the coat rack directly below it. When I’m getting ready to go out into the cold each morning, I put on a coat and scarf that is nicely toasted.

Our Harry Potter closet under the stairs. If it wasn’t the only closet in the apartment, I would empty it out and turn it into a reading nook. Or put our bed in it and really be like Harry Potter.

The map. One entire wall is covered in a map from around 1970. It includes the USSR and Communist China. And Greenland is spelled “Gronland” since it belonged to Denmark at the time of the map (and maybe still does, who knows, geography is in that science category for me) and the “o” in Gronland has a line through it—so it looks like it said “Groinland,” which both amuses and confuses our company. The map also has pins in all of the places Ann has traveled—and several in places where Mike liked to think Ann has traveled.

And the number one thing I’ll miss about our apartment when we move to a real house is: the barn wood walls in the entry way. And the green pole provided for Amy when she came to visit.