Saying goodbye to 2018 feels like breaking up with an abusive boyfriend/ girlfriend; very necessary, yet very traumatic. As we count down the few remaining days of the year, we look back at what we have accomplished, lost, or figured out. Or so we are all told we are supposed to be doing. I'd rather have a wine induced coma that blacks out the year's events, but my therapist says I can't do that.
I could try to list all the fantastic things that did give highlights to this year, like the honeymoon period an abuser uses to beg you back, asking you to over look the vile things they have done, but in the end it's still an abuser. We did start out in the stunning country of Colombia (awesome), I was flown to Rochester to be a judge for The Great American International Wine Competition (incredible), we had an array of exceptional mini trips and parties including my 40th birthday (delightful), and the winery is exploding in a way that has stunned the four of us owners (fantastic). But that doesn't encompass the daunting nature of 2018 and its abusive core.
2018 was a beast! If you didn't feel run over by the year, congrats, pat yourself on the back. Most people I have talked to, tell tales of the carnage this year has left in its wake, shock and awe in their eyes; somehow blindsided by just how ruthless life can be.
Personally, we have had to face disproportionately difficult experiences and losses. The kind of stuff that turns your world upside-down, forcing those around you to groan under the pressure as they try to help support. It has been a year that has challenged every single one of my relationships, like a especially hard birth, we have had to bear down and force ourselves through it. As I have eeked out to the other side of avalanche after avalanche, I think of the cliche "what doesn't kill you, makes you stronger" and while that may bring comfort to some, it makes me want to rage into the night. I am consumed with anger, frustration, fear and anxiety at the amount of crap 2018 has thrown at me.
I should clarify, I am not constantly angry (well...my husband might disagree with that, but clearly he has forgotten the golden rule of marriage: The Wife is Always Right). My anger seems to be sourced in the fight I have with what is verses what I want it to be. I must untangle the 'compound grief' I am struggling with as I sort out the complex layers of events that tumbled into this year. Who the hell am I after all this turmoil and grief? We just began to celebrate my good health, only to have a scare it was returning. There were wild occurrences that demonstrated that nothing is what you thought it was. Who are the people around me as they struggle with their own issues that arise as they try to help me? What about as they deal with their own tangled experiences? This year became a whirlpool of confusion and angst. Like Ben Stiller's character in the movie Zoolander who asks longingly as he stars at a reflection of himself in a puddle, "who am I?" and the reflection answers shrugging nonchalantly "I don't know". This is followed by a passing car splashing the mud from the puddle into his face...2018 is the mud in the face.
What I do know is that I have seen friends and family members transform into the most incredible, generous, supportive, loving, gracious people I've ever met. I always knew they were phenomenal, but like coal, compressed under extreme pressure, they shine like diamonds in the light of the dark shadow 2018 has cast. So for that, thank you 2018. Now get the hell out of the way cause 2019 is going to kick your A$$!
-Cheers from the Vivác Winery Family!
www.VivacWinery.com
Running on Wine; from Marathons to Rafting to "Fueling" on the Patio, We are Fueled by Vivác.
Thursday, December 27, 2018
Monday, December 10, 2018
Holiday Habits
The Holidays are here and the treats are everywhere! As I continue to process and embrace being FINE (see previous blog post), I vacillate between feeling the need to comfort myself with food and wine and the fact that I am really out of shape and truly taking care of myself would be to exercise.
Celebrating Hanukkah for the first time at our house (thank you 23 and Me for the discovery that I am half Jewish), meant embracing foods of the Jewish culture. As we look into our mysterious family history, it seems mandatory to embrace the things we find out...like Challah bread...which is definitely NOT gluten free... or calorie free. Now that Hanukkah has passed, we move into the Christmas celebration and there are cookies to decorate and eggnog to drink. And I don't know about you, but extra cooking means I need a glass of wine in my hand, which ironically is the only way you will get me to cook. It's a vicious cycle.
So how do you avoid falling down the rabbit hole of the holidays? How do you motivate when you have spent 2 years recuperating a broken body? Clearly I think increasing fried foods is the way (why have I not been eating latkes my whole life???). So out of desperation, and the sight of my stomach, this morning in 17 degree weather, I jog/ walked around the town soccer field for 30mins.
You know that line from The Saint Nick story, "thoughts of sugarplums danced in their heads"? As I drug my old, soggy body down the path, my lungs heaved in the searingly cold air, and images of chocolate coins, special bottles of fine wine, and pasta casseroles danced in mine. My urge to stop was barely drowned out by the music blaring in my ears, but I resisted the temptation. I focused instead on the fact that my ligaments and tendons, once badly compromised by my health issues, now felt strong and my ankle that I completely blew out, now handled the cow like weight of my body without stinging pain. These were really good signs and even though I barely fit in my stretchy workout clothes, I am actually better. This is good stuff!
My self talk can be really bad, I know shocking. But being aware of the crap in your head is the first step right? So I will attempt to have better habits. I will focus on the positive, I will try to make better choices today, I will get a black coffee instead of a latte, I will avoid the chocolate and orange challah bread sitting in my kitchen, I will stop calling myself "fatty" when talking to myself, and I will not drink wine tonight.
Wait, that sounds excessive. Between the dietary edits and the little workout this morning, I don't want to send myself into shock. Maybe I will do less wine tonight. Maybe fatty can get back on a gluten free diet. Maybe fatty can go to bed earlier, before the next bottle of wine is opened. Maybe fatty can ...damn it! I already failed one of my 'better habits'! Ahhh man, that was fast. I guess I should go ahead and eat that Santa cookie that is silently teasing me and call it a day.
-Cheers from the Vivác Winery Family!
www.VivacWinery.com
Celebrating Hanukkah for the first time at our house (thank you 23 and Me for the discovery that I am half Jewish), meant embracing foods of the Jewish culture. As we look into our mysterious family history, it seems mandatory to embrace the things we find out...like Challah bread...which is definitely NOT gluten free... or calorie free. Now that Hanukkah has passed, we move into the Christmas celebration and there are cookies to decorate and eggnog to drink. And I don't know about you, but extra cooking means I need a glass of wine in my hand, which ironically is the only way you will get me to cook. It's a vicious cycle.
So how do you avoid falling down the rabbit hole of the holidays? How do you motivate when you have spent 2 years recuperating a broken body? Clearly I think increasing fried foods is the way (why have I not been eating latkes my whole life???). So out of desperation, and the sight of my stomach, this morning in 17 degree weather, I jog/ walked around the town soccer field for 30mins.
You know that line from The Saint Nick story, "thoughts of sugarplums danced in their heads"? As I drug my old, soggy body down the path, my lungs heaved in the searingly cold air, and images of chocolate coins, special bottles of fine wine, and pasta casseroles danced in mine. My urge to stop was barely drowned out by the music blaring in my ears, but I resisted the temptation. I focused instead on the fact that my ligaments and tendons, once badly compromised by my health issues, now felt strong and my ankle that I completely blew out, now handled the cow like weight of my body without stinging pain. These were really good signs and even though I barely fit in my stretchy workout clothes, I am actually better. This is good stuff!
My self talk can be really bad, I know shocking. But being aware of the crap in your head is the first step right? So I will attempt to have better habits. I will focus on the positive, I will try to make better choices today, I will get a black coffee instead of a latte, I will avoid the chocolate and orange challah bread sitting in my kitchen, I will stop calling myself "fatty" when talking to myself, and I will not drink wine tonight.
Wait, that sounds excessive. Between the dietary edits and the little workout this morning, I don't want to send myself into shock. Maybe I will do less wine tonight. Maybe fatty can get back on a gluten free diet. Maybe fatty can go to bed earlier, before the next bottle of wine is opened. Maybe fatty can ...damn it! I already failed one of my 'better habits'! Ahhh man, that was fast. I guess I should go ahead and eat that Santa cookie that is silently teasing me and call it a day.
-Cheers from the Vivác Winery Family!
www.VivacWinery.com
Wednesday, November 28, 2018
The Art of Being Fine
The last blog post was rough. Thanks for hanging tight with me guys as I tried to express what Scott meant to us. We seem to be slowly melting our way back into regular life, letting the pain of loss fall away little by little, but the scar remains tender. Tender enough to finally catapult me into action.
It is through this grieving process, the ache that is so deeply uncomfortable, that I have started to take a closer look at loss and the scars we carry, the way they build on top of each other. My son, an insightful pre-teen, has been encouraging me to find a therapist since my diagnosis of a brain tumor a couple years back. My need to support and protect my son during that scary time, made finding a therapist for him a priority. For me? Not so much. The concept totally made sense, we were dealing with some scary shit, but to actually follow through? Somehow I couldn't pull the trigger. I felt I was handling it all fine.
Now, after a string of earth shattering developments, losses, and changes, I have finally taken the step forward to seek help. It isn't easy to turn to someone else when you have been able to cope just fine. No matter what life has handed me, I've always been fine. Don't we all have dings from the crap life threw at us? Aren't most of us fine? I almost felt bad taking up someone else's time since I am fine and I know there are some people that are truly in dire need of support. I felt like I was taking their spot somehow.
First thing the therapist tells me on session one is that I said I was "fine" several times in 1/2 an hour and that I can no longer use the word in respect to some of the daunting life occurrences I've weathered unless I agree to being FINE... F*#ked up, Insecure, Neurotic and Emotional. I laughed so hard I cried. Here I finally realized just how FINE I've been and the discovery seemed to break open my mind's eye like the quick, powerful smack of a window scraper on a windshield covered in thick ice. As the car sat in the sun, warming just enough that with that single blow, the entire ice sheet splinters and falls away revealing the shiny, clean windshield underneath.
There have been many gems I've gleaned from my sessions so far with this therapist, the biggest is to admit the many losses that have occurred for my psyche, not just the deaths of those we love. Simply having been ill and the symptoms that altered my existence, the diagnosis and the fear that comes with that, the fear for my son should the worst happen to me, the wear and tear on my marriage as we tried to understand my body's changes and the emotional stress, family dynamics and maybe the biggest one...the loss of identity. A loss of innocence that bad things can happen and we are not invincible is a hard pill to swallow even when you thought you were aware of that already. I will never see the world the same, and I need to form a new identity that has grieved the loss of who I was before. To truly grieve the entire process I went through. It probably sounds simple, I know I intellectually had grappled with these concepts and decided...wait for it...that I was fine. But it is a far cry to sit in that uneasy, uncomfortable space where your psyche comes to peace with it.
Add in the other life changing elements, and suddenly a lot has happened in the last couple years that has become a muddled mess. Layer upon layer of pain, loss, grief and plenty of being FINE has mixed together. This mix is not like a finely made Old Fashioned with the sugar, bitters, slice of orange and cherry being thoughtfully muddled, pressed together to combine flavors, no my muddle is more like a sea of people snatching things off shelves in a mob on Black Friday, full of chaos and confusion. Layers of self identity crisis varying from after 2 years of sickness and injury, I no longer fit in my ski pants, to what would I like the world to look like for my son if I'm not in it, to turning 40, to who am I really? If my work does not define me, being a mom or a wife does not define me, who is it that is left?
It is easy to turn to a glass of wine, get back inside my head and debate existential ideas, climb into my nice comfy "fine" place and hide. But, I will resist the temptation, I will continue to feel the ache and hopefully come out on the other side clear of the ice I've let build up. I will take that glass of wine though, after all, it is the only thing left that is truly 'Fine'.
-Cheers from the Vivác Winery Family!
www.VivacWinery.com
It is through this grieving process, the ache that is so deeply uncomfortable, that I have started to take a closer look at loss and the scars we carry, the way they build on top of each other. My son, an insightful pre-teen, has been encouraging me to find a therapist since my diagnosis of a brain tumor a couple years back. My need to support and protect my son during that scary time, made finding a therapist for him a priority. For me? Not so much. The concept totally made sense, we were dealing with some scary shit, but to actually follow through? Somehow I couldn't pull the trigger. I felt I was handling it all fine.
Now, after a string of earth shattering developments, losses, and changes, I have finally taken the step forward to seek help. It isn't easy to turn to someone else when you have been able to cope just fine. No matter what life has handed me, I've always been fine. Don't we all have dings from the crap life threw at us? Aren't most of us fine? I almost felt bad taking up someone else's time since I am fine and I know there are some people that are truly in dire need of support. I felt like I was taking their spot somehow.
First thing the therapist tells me on session one is that I said I was "fine" several times in 1/2 an hour and that I can no longer use the word in respect to some of the daunting life occurrences I've weathered unless I agree to being FINE... F*#ked up, Insecure, Neurotic and Emotional. I laughed so hard I cried. Here I finally realized just how FINE I've been and the discovery seemed to break open my mind's eye like the quick, powerful smack of a window scraper on a windshield covered in thick ice. As the car sat in the sun, warming just enough that with that single blow, the entire ice sheet splinters and falls away revealing the shiny, clean windshield underneath.
There have been many gems I've gleaned from my sessions so far with this therapist, the biggest is to admit the many losses that have occurred for my psyche, not just the deaths of those we love. Simply having been ill and the symptoms that altered my existence, the diagnosis and the fear that comes with that, the fear for my son should the worst happen to me, the wear and tear on my marriage as we tried to understand my body's changes and the emotional stress, family dynamics and maybe the biggest one...the loss of identity. A loss of innocence that bad things can happen and we are not invincible is a hard pill to swallow even when you thought you were aware of that already. I will never see the world the same, and I need to form a new identity that has grieved the loss of who I was before. To truly grieve the entire process I went through. It probably sounds simple, I know I intellectually had grappled with these concepts and decided...wait for it...that I was fine. But it is a far cry to sit in that uneasy, uncomfortable space where your psyche comes to peace with it.
Add in the other life changing elements, and suddenly a lot has happened in the last couple years that has become a muddled mess. Layer upon layer of pain, loss, grief and plenty of being FINE has mixed together. This mix is not like a finely made Old Fashioned with the sugar, bitters, slice of orange and cherry being thoughtfully muddled, pressed together to combine flavors, no my muddle is more like a sea of people snatching things off shelves in a mob on Black Friday, full of chaos and confusion. Layers of self identity crisis varying from after 2 years of sickness and injury, I no longer fit in my ski pants, to what would I like the world to look like for my son if I'm not in it, to turning 40, to who am I really? If my work does not define me, being a mom or a wife does not define me, who is it that is left?
It is easy to turn to a glass of wine, get back inside my head and debate existential ideas, climb into my nice comfy "fine" place and hide. But, I will resist the temptation, I will continue to feel the ache and hopefully come out on the other side clear of the ice I've let build up. I will take that glass of wine though, after all, it is the only thing left that is truly 'Fine'.
-Cheers from the Vivác Winery Family!
www.VivacWinery.com
Tuesday, November 13, 2018
The Blank Pages
At any one time, I have about 4 books mid-read around the house. Usually there is some sort of work related book, either about wine or marketing, a parenting book (which for us could be about dyslexia, giftedness or sensory processing disorder), or some sort of relationship advice. If I am training for a marathon, I'll have a training guide or diet book going, or when we took up sailing, stacks of how to sail away into the sunset littered the tables. And, of course, there is always something fictional to turn to for some escape. But even with all these books, none of them are the right book, for right now.
My stacks of books are there to help me be a better parent, do my job better, or make me a faster runner. My books promise answers, sometimes to questions I don't even have yet, but each psychology book gives me skills to add to our marriage or encourage my son to finally learn how to ride a bike. What I am lacking is a book that can tell me how to handle the feelings you have when someone disappears from your life. Even the best grief books don't truly answer that.
People with religious passions, I do not dismiss the power of religion in your life, but that is not what I believe, nor does my husband. I grew up Christian, went to church, even went to Catholic school and decided as a child I wanted to be a Nun (those of you that know me well can stop laughing hysterically now). I was raised with an open mind to accept all faiths and to seek out what felt right for me. My second family was Jewish and I loved nothing more than getting to spend the night on the Sabbath. My teenage years I was dazzled by mysticism and even got a Wiccan related tattoo (insert eye roll)...that "art" is now covered with something else. My mom became Buddhist and Eastern philosophy impressed greatly upon me. We have definitely explored various faiths, but are, thoughtfully, Atheists. This means there isn't a "good book" to turn to.
Our friend Scott was bigger than life, bigger than the world. His life and adventures could fill several books. His ever optimistic view was astounding. He was always keeping you in check when you started to think the worst, and his infectious laugh and sharp wit could turn the most distressing topic into a comedy routine. He was 100% heart, even when he flailed about in his personal life, accidentally got himself into trouble and seemed to become a self-destructive bomb. You knew he was all love. He could have written an ironic self-help book, just thinking about some of the hilarious advice he would jest with makes me smile.
But Scott isn't around to tell us about his new scheme, tell us a self-deprecating joke or insane story. His late night car accident ripped him from the Ethers. A handful of months before, his ex-wife was murdered. I can picture him clear as day, standing on our front porch talking to me about this horrific event. A disbelief in his sensitive eyes, a wobble in his voice. These two had been together since they were kids, and the fact that she had disappeared from our world seemed impossible. The brutal reality of losing them both in such a short time seems bizarrely cruel. Somehow I can't stop picturing him, that day, on my front porch reeling in disbelief. There were no jokes that day, just more to add to the tragedies he had already lived through. A testament to his character to stay strong when the world severs you a Dostoevsky novel worth of crap.
I can also see him clear as a bell, when we first met when I was in High School. The brother to a friend (my husband's best friend actually), he was just enough older to wow us with terrible antics and scare us just a touch with his wildness. He seemed to be the party everywhere he went. That joke of 'the party isn't a party until I'm there' really was true for him, his energy cascading into the room before he entered it. He was that unique type of person that actually wanted to get to know you, boy or girl, young or old, and he would remember the details of stories you shared and secrets you told. He had compassion when you needed it and perspective when you were out of sync. My husband and my brother-in-law have far more stories of Scott as they traveled together, lived at times together and have seen each other through some of life's hardest times, but he always made sure I felt like I was one of his friends, not just a friend's girlfriend or wife. I had my very own, independent relationship with him. It was part of what made him awesome. This is why the entire community mourns him now. Who would have guessed that same outrageous party guy would become an entrepreneur, a coach, and an activist?
Scott wasn't always around, in fact as my husband described it, he was one of only a couple people that would "ghost call him", disappear for months at a time and then call to shoot the shit in the middle of a work day. His carefree lifestyle amusing us was probably what resulted in multiple divorces. But that was Scott, and that was who we loved. He was the guy that tucked me under his big brother arm and told me to wipe my tears, stop seeing the guy I was dating, and find someone worthy of what I had to to give; big words for teenagers. He was the guy that long before the "Me Too" movement would step in to keep some drunk fool from groping me. He was the guy that would make sure I left a party that was about to turn ugly before it did, walking me safely to my car as a mob formed. He was the guy that had my husband's back no matter what. The guy that would give you the shirt off his back if he felt like it could help you more. We grew up in the Wild West of parties and mayhem and he was one of the good Cowboys, setting the story straight when it needed to be, then riding off into the twilight.
When the bedroom door swung open one morning last week, banging against the wall, I was jarred awake. My husband, having already gone to work, stood with a force in the center of the room, not appropriate for the nature of our usual morning routine. He normally lets me sleep-in and tip-toes around in the dark, sweetly aware of my resistance to mornings. I sat up as I heard his words drop like casings to the floor from a gun fired. Each word with a blow followed by metal clanging, the information not making sense in my groggy mind. I couldn't believe it, I wouldn't believe it. I simply said, with utter conviction "No". I begged that it was a different Scott, that there was some mistake. I wanted it to be a book I decided I didn't like and could simply close it, seal that dreadful story inside its pages and walk away.
When someone bigger than the world leaves it, the gaping wound they leave behind is palpable. Stunned we went to be by the family's side, our old friend, his brother, feeling the biggest slap from this, voiced what we were all thinking "I just can't believe it". And we can't. Someone that is in your life for so long, through marriages, babies, careers and great losses, they seem invincible. Now we need to reconcile their disappearance. Not the usual Scott disappearance that promised hilarious stories when we reconnected, but an absolute disappearance. Sitting with the pain left from losing him is where the real work comes in; your mind fighting to stay in denial, the physical discomfort of acknowledging that there won't be hearty laughs together, there won't be bear hugs hello or exchanges of inside jokes from a long history together any longer. It doesn't matter what you believe, the truth is he isn't here and it hurts.
This story gets worse. There is no pain like the pain you feel when you realize that your suffering is but a mere particle to that of his 2 kids that have been orphaned by his passing. His young daughter being diagnosed with a rare cancer just before her mother was killed was too much to have to handle, but as Scott stepped into the role of provider/ protector/ advocate, he took on finding a treatment like a superhero. To have him wrenched from you, for his son and daughter, to tackle this loss on top of it all, has fathoms of heartache we can't even imagine. None of the books in the whole world can make sense of that, no matter what faith you are, no matter what library you visit.
Like a misprint from the publisher, his novel has left us with blank pages; a story unfinished. I don't have answers, I don't have wise words for the people suffering as they grapple with his death, all I have to offer is my gratitude. I am so grateful for the times I got to spend with Scott. For the friend he was to me and those I love. For the wisdom he had when least expected, the tenacity he had to keep going and the love he gave so freely. So much love. We will miss you Scott.
*You may help their kids by donating to the April and Scott Memorial Fund at any Nusenda Bank or donate to the Go Fund Me for Ashley's cancer treatments.
-Cheers from the Vivác Winery Family!
www.VivacWinery.com
My stacks of books are there to help me be a better parent, do my job better, or make me a faster runner. My books promise answers, sometimes to questions I don't even have yet, but each psychology book gives me skills to add to our marriage or encourage my son to finally learn how to ride a bike. What I am lacking is a book that can tell me how to handle the feelings you have when someone disappears from your life. Even the best grief books don't truly answer that.
People with religious passions, I do not dismiss the power of religion in your life, but that is not what I believe, nor does my husband. I grew up Christian, went to church, even went to Catholic school and decided as a child I wanted to be a Nun (those of you that know me well can stop laughing hysterically now). I was raised with an open mind to accept all faiths and to seek out what felt right for me. My second family was Jewish and I loved nothing more than getting to spend the night on the Sabbath. My teenage years I was dazzled by mysticism and even got a Wiccan related tattoo (insert eye roll)...that "art" is now covered with something else. My mom became Buddhist and Eastern philosophy impressed greatly upon me. We have definitely explored various faiths, but are, thoughtfully, Atheists. This means there isn't a "good book" to turn to.
Our friend Scott was bigger than life, bigger than the world. His life and adventures could fill several books. His ever optimistic view was astounding. He was always keeping you in check when you started to think the worst, and his infectious laugh and sharp wit could turn the most distressing topic into a comedy routine. He was 100% heart, even when he flailed about in his personal life, accidentally got himself into trouble and seemed to become a self-destructive bomb. You knew he was all love. He could have written an ironic self-help book, just thinking about some of the hilarious advice he would jest with makes me smile.
But Scott isn't around to tell us about his new scheme, tell us a self-deprecating joke or insane story. His late night car accident ripped him from the Ethers. A handful of months before, his ex-wife was murdered. I can picture him clear as day, standing on our front porch talking to me about this horrific event. A disbelief in his sensitive eyes, a wobble in his voice. These two had been together since they were kids, and the fact that she had disappeared from our world seemed impossible. The brutal reality of losing them both in such a short time seems bizarrely cruel. Somehow I can't stop picturing him, that day, on my front porch reeling in disbelief. There were no jokes that day, just more to add to the tragedies he had already lived through. A testament to his character to stay strong when the world severs you a Dostoevsky novel worth of crap.
I can also see him clear as a bell, when we first met when I was in High School. The brother to a friend (my husband's best friend actually), he was just enough older to wow us with terrible antics and scare us just a touch with his wildness. He seemed to be the party everywhere he went. That joke of 'the party isn't a party until I'm there' really was true for him, his energy cascading into the room before he entered it. He was that unique type of person that actually wanted to get to know you, boy or girl, young or old, and he would remember the details of stories you shared and secrets you told. He had compassion when you needed it and perspective when you were out of sync. My husband and my brother-in-law have far more stories of Scott as they traveled together, lived at times together and have seen each other through some of life's hardest times, but he always made sure I felt like I was one of his friends, not just a friend's girlfriend or wife. I had my very own, independent relationship with him. It was part of what made him awesome. This is why the entire community mourns him now. Who would have guessed that same outrageous party guy would become an entrepreneur, a coach, and an activist?
Scott wasn't always around, in fact as my husband described it, he was one of only a couple people that would "ghost call him", disappear for months at a time and then call to shoot the shit in the middle of a work day. His carefree lifestyle amusing us was probably what resulted in multiple divorces. But that was Scott, and that was who we loved. He was the guy that tucked me under his big brother arm and told me to wipe my tears, stop seeing the guy I was dating, and find someone worthy of what I had to to give; big words for teenagers. He was the guy that long before the "Me Too" movement would step in to keep some drunk fool from groping me. He was the guy that would make sure I left a party that was about to turn ugly before it did, walking me safely to my car as a mob formed. He was the guy that had my husband's back no matter what. The guy that would give you the shirt off his back if he felt like it could help you more. We grew up in the Wild West of parties and mayhem and he was one of the good Cowboys, setting the story straight when it needed to be, then riding off into the twilight.
When the bedroom door swung open one morning last week, banging against the wall, I was jarred awake. My husband, having already gone to work, stood with a force in the center of the room, not appropriate for the nature of our usual morning routine. He normally lets me sleep-in and tip-toes around in the dark, sweetly aware of my resistance to mornings. I sat up as I heard his words drop like casings to the floor from a gun fired. Each word with a blow followed by metal clanging, the information not making sense in my groggy mind. I couldn't believe it, I wouldn't believe it. I simply said, with utter conviction "No". I begged that it was a different Scott, that there was some mistake. I wanted it to be a book I decided I didn't like and could simply close it, seal that dreadful story inside its pages and walk away.
When someone bigger than the world leaves it, the gaping wound they leave behind is palpable. Stunned we went to be by the family's side, our old friend, his brother, feeling the biggest slap from this, voiced what we were all thinking "I just can't believe it". And we can't. Someone that is in your life for so long, through marriages, babies, careers and great losses, they seem invincible. Now we need to reconcile their disappearance. Not the usual Scott disappearance that promised hilarious stories when we reconnected, but an absolute disappearance. Sitting with the pain left from losing him is where the real work comes in; your mind fighting to stay in denial, the physical discomfort of acknowledging that there won't be hearty laughs together, there won't be bear hugs hello or exchanges of inside jokes from a long history together any longer. It doesn't matter what you believe, the truth is he isn't here and it hurts.
This story gets worse. There is no pain like the pain you feel when you realize that your suffering is but a mere particle to that of his 2 kids that have been orphaned by his passing. His young daughter being diagnosed with a rare cancer just before her mother was killed was too much to have to handle, but as Scott stepped into the role of provider/ protector/ advocate, he took on finding a treatment like a superhero. To have him wrenched from you, for his son and daughter, to tackle this loss on top of it all, has fathoms of heartache we can't even imagine. None of the books in the whole world can make sense of that, no matter what faith you are, no matter what library you visit.
Like a misprint from the publisher, his novel has left us with blank pages; a story unfinished. I don't have answers, I don't have wise words for the people suffering as they grapple with his death, all I have to offer is my gratitude. I am so grateful for the times I got to spend with Scott. For the friend he was to me and those I love. For the wisdom he had when least expected, the tenacity he had to keep going and the love he gave so freely. So much love. We will miss you Scott.
*You may help their kids by donating to the April and Scott Memorial Fund at any Nusenda Bank or donate to the Go Fund Me for Ashley's cancer treatments.
-Cheers from the Vivác Winery Family!
www.VivacWinery.com
Monday, October 22, 2018
Insane in the Membrane
Speaking of wine and sanity, oh was no one talking about wine and sanity? Well you should because it is pretty much the only way you can keep your sanity when high stress and month after month of intensely busy work threatens to drive you insane. Crush (a.k.a. harvest time) has been one hell of an ass kicking this year.
Quick aside for those wondering what this time of year is like for our winery: Our intake of grapes from around the state increased exponentially as did the haul from our own Estate Vineyards. The growth in distribution and tasting room sales as well as a couple exciting partnerships has pushed us into a new bracket of production and the winery is now jam packed with enormous 2000 gallon stainless steel tanks. As with every year, this hectic time of bringing in the harvest and crushing grapes, making wine and bottling in order to make room for the new stuff, is accompanied by huge festivals, private events, exciting opportunities and wine dinners not to mention all the events we host ourselves. It takes all four of us owners and a fabulous staff to accomplish all of it... and, of course, drinking mass amounts of wine is mandatory to keeping our sanity. Of course, as I keep mentioning "sanity", it begs the question 'has she lost hers?'
OK back to staying sane (see, I did it again). I am currently drinking a glass of our "1725 Estate Vineyard Riesling", it is crisp and dry and beautiful, just like the fall leaves clinging to the trees outside. There is a deep sigh of relief after our final huge event of the season fades into a memory and for a moment we feel the pressure is alleviated.
I sit, like a big blob on my sofa and sip my wine and contemplate adding running back into my life. During crush, it is easy to say I am too busy or too tired to run, but now that I have a little bit calmer schedule, the excuses don't fit. Kinda like my big butt in my jeans. I look out the window at the gorgeous fall colors and imagine myself running beneath them. I feel the cold wine in my hand and imagine that cold feeling turning my nose and cheeks pink as I run in the cool air. When I imagine myself running, it's kinda like Charlotte from 'Sex and The City', happy and smiling, filled with euphoria. Yet I know for a fact that when I waddle my now wide load down the road, it won't look anything like that. My face will have a grimace of pain and the pink in my cheeks will be from deep exhaustion. My spandex running tights will be stretched thin to accommodate my plump legs, a constant reminder with each step that I am definitely not the same size as when I wore them last. I sip my wine and wonder if my sports bras will even fit my current full figure. Maybe I should start with yoga instead of running I ponder. Yoga pants are comfy. You can do yoga at home. You can wear a fitted tank top without the need of a sports bra. Hey, I could take a Yoga and Wine Class!
Suddenly a violent thought occurs to me. You could do yoga right NOW! A cold sweat breaks out across my brow and top lip, possibly the most I've sweat in some time, my heart races.
shhhhhh....shhhhhh....hush. Take a calming sip of wine, breath deeply. No one is going to MAKE you do anything right now. In fact, for your mental health, just contemplating working out is a great exercise I quickly tell myself. We have to be gentle with ourselves, ease ourselves into this. Do I sound like Schmiegel from "Lord of The Rings"???
Clearly crush this year, in my now dismal age of 40, has pushed me over the edge. My sanity is being threatened. That calls for more wine STAT and putting off contemplating running for another day. Maybe I should put yoga pants on too. WAIT! If I sit cross legged on the sofa, in yoga pants, and drink wine, I'm pretty sure that counts as a "Yoga and Wine" class. Winning!!
-Cheers from the Vivác Winery Family!
www.VivacWinery.com
Quick aside for those wondering what this time of year is like for our winery: Our intake of grapes from around the state increased exponentially as did the haul from our own Estate Vineyards. The growth in distribution and tasting room sales as well as a couple exciting partnerships has pushed us into a new bracket of production and the winery is now jam packed with enormous 2000 gallon stainless steel tanks. As with every year, this hectic time of bringing in the harvest and crushing grapes, making wine and bottling in order to make room for the new stuff, is accompanied by huge festivals, private events, exciting opportunities and wine dinners not to mention all the events we host ourselves. It takes all four of us owners and a fabulous staff to accomplish all of it... and, of course, drinking mass amounts of wine is mandatory to keeping our sanity. Of course, as I keep mentioning "sanity", it begs the question 'has she lost hers?'
OK back to staying sane (see, I did it again). I am currently drinking a glass of our "1725 Estate Vineyard Riesling", it is crisp and dry and beautiful, just like the fall leaves clinging to the trees outside. There is a deep sigh of relief after our final huge event of the season fades into a memory and for a moment we feel the pressure is alleviated.
I sit, like a big blob on my sofa and sip my wine and contemplate adding running back into my life. During crush, it is easy to say I am too busy or too tired to run, but now that I have a little bit calmer schedule, the excuses don't fit. Kinda like my big butt in my jeans. I look out the window at the gorgeous fall colors and imagine myself running beneath them. I feel the cold wine in my hand and imagine that cold feeling turning my nose and cheeks pink as I run in the cool air. When I imagine myself running, it's kinda like Charlotte from 'Sex and The City', happy and smiling, filled with euphoria. Yet I know for a fact that when I waddle my now wide load down the road, it won't look anything like that. My face will have a grimace of pain and the pink in my cheeks will be from deep exhaustion. My spandex running tights will be stretched thin to accommodate my plump legs, a constant reminder with each step that I am definitely not the same size as when I wore them last. I sip my wine and wonder if my sports bras will even fit my current full figure. Maybe I should start with yoga instead of running I ponder. Yoga pants are comfy. You can do yoga at home. You can wear a fitted tank top without the need of a sports bra. Hey, I could take a Yoga and Wine Class!
Suddenly a violent thought occurs to me. You could do yoga right NOW! A cold sweat breaks out across my brow and top lip, possibly the most I've sweat in some time, my heart races.
shhhhhh....shhhhhh....hush. Take a calming sip of wine, breath deeply. No one is going to MAKE you do anything right now. In fact, for your mental health, just contemplating working out is a great exercise I quickly tell myself. We have to be gentle with ourselves, ease ourselves into this. Do I sound like Schmiegel from "Lord of The Rings"???
Clearly crush this year, in my now dismal age of 40, has pushed me over the edge. My sanity is being threatened. That calls for more wine STAT and putting off contemplating running for another day. Maybe I should put yoga pants on too. WAIT! If I sit cross legged on the sofa, in yoga pants, and drink wine, I'm pretty sure that counts as a "Yoga and Wine" class. Winning!!
-Cheers from the Vivác Winery Family!
www.VivacWinery.com
Wednesday, October 3, 2018
The Emotional Car Crash
Life moves so fast, sometimes it is hard to find the time to talk about what it happening, it just swirls around you like watching the fall leaves fly in the wind out a window, silent yet chaotic. The things that are happening are stressful and emotional, which, lets face it, we all want to look the other way on, so you put your head down and get through it any way you can.
A couple of weeks ago, fully slammed into Crush and event season, I went in for my routine blood work. It is a year now of good test results that have shown my brain tumor is staying inactive. Somehow a year seemed big and my most neurotic thoughts bubbled to the surface. Will the results come back badly and I will know that I need to get back on the psycho drug that helped before? The drug that was dangerous in its own right, yet would allow me to jump in-front of the horrific symptoms that would inevitably come back. Or will it mark an anniversary of being healthy? This will forever be something I have to deal with, always haunting me, will it become active again? Will I have to battle hell all over again? This time, will I have to have the brain surgery?
The test came back bad. Not horrible, but not good either. Of course that meant more tests and stress. I tried to be cavalier about it, act as if I believed everything would be fine, echo the sentiment around me. But on the night when I had to take the medication for the more in-depth test, I set my alarm for the late hour I would need to take it and... burst into tears. I realized the stress of this haunting has been weighing on me in a way I chose to ignore. As the tears fell and my incredible husband caressed my back, I tried to keep the fear from controlling me. As my brilliant, insightful son said "maybe these tests will show you that you ARE healthy and that you should look forward to them as a reminder that you are OK instead of being scared of them". The fact that we have to have these conversations crushes me.
While I awaited the results of the tumor tests that had to be sent out, I also had the joy of my 1st mammogram! Yay 40! It was just as unpleasant as I thought it would be and it made my anxiety about being an old lady now worse (ya ya I know, 40 isn't old. But you know what? I don't like it! And I am going to go ahead and have a year long temper tantrum... until I turn 41 and can settle into the endless, silent, depression that is old age). Anyway, that test came back BAD too! WTF???
The morning I had to go back to the hospital for more images and an ultrasound, I got the results back for the tumor in my head. ALL CLEAR! The relief swept over me in waves and I clenched my jaw to keep from crying in-front of my son. I didn't want him to worry or feel the depth of my fear, pretty sure I failed at that. Somehow it was my 1st response, (tamp down your response woman!) to pretend like I wasn't that worried so he wouldn't be. And yet a shadow hung over us. What would this mammography test find? Am I doomed for bizarre scary health shit forever???
My poor mom has had to live through all of this happening to her baby, the youngest of the family. I can not imagine having to watch this happen to my child. Through it all, she has tried to keep a strong face for me, but the morning at the hospital, you could tell it was just too much. Fear locked in her eyes as she sat next to me in the waiting room. A horrible thought came to me, would the recurrence of the tumor issue and now this actually put her in her grave? And somehow I was struck by how much I missed the innocence of my family's emotional security. Knowing that bad, scary things can happen to those closest to you is terrifying and changes your entire being. While we all know intellectually that anything could happen at any time, living through the dark, grimy details of serious health issues, every day with fear and pain, is entirely different.
The test for the mammography issue came out fine. Getting the result was a heavy moment ironically. It was as if we'd been in a car accident and walked away, the carnage of our experience and fears, emotions and relief all in a jumble. The fatigue of the whole thing had settled in the new lines drawn into our faces, a permanent reminder of the trauma.
Yet, it isn't all bleak! It was a great reminder to keep focus on what is important, cut back on stress and of course, drink more wine.
-Cheers from the Vivác Winery Family!
www.VivacWinery.com
A couple of weeks ago, fully slammed into Crush and event season, I went in for my routine blood work. It is a year now of good test results that have shown my brain tumor is staying inactive. Somehow a year seemed big and my most neurotic thoughts bubbled to the surface. Will the results come back badly and I will know that I need to get back on the psycho drug that helped before? The drug that was dangerous in its own right, yet would allow me to jump in-front of the horrific symptoms that would inevitably come back. Or will it mark an anniversary of being healthy? This will forever be something I have to deal with, always haunting me, will it become active again? Will I have to battle hell all over again? This time, will I have to have the brain surgery?
The test came back bad. Not horrible, but not good either. Of course that meant more tests and stress. I tried to be cavalier about it, act as if I believed everything would be fine, echo the sentiment around me. But on the night when I had to take the medication for the more in-depth test, I set my alarm for the late hour I would need to take it and... burst into tears. I realized the stress of this haunting has been weighing on me in a way I chose to ignore. As the tears fell and my incredible husband caressed my back, I tried to keep the fear from controlling me. As my brilliant, insightful son said "maybe these tests will show you that you ARE healthy and that you should look forward to them as a reminder that you are OK instead of being scared of them". The fact that we have to have these conversations crushes me.
While I awaited the results of the tumor tests that had to be sent out, I also had the joy of my 1st mammogram! Yay 40! It was just as unpleasant as I thought it would be and it made my anxiety about being an old lady now worse (ya ya I know, 40 isn't old. But you know what? I don't like it! And I am going to go ahead and have a year long temper tantrum... until I turn 41 and can settle into the endless, silent, depression that is old age). Anyway, that test came back BAD too! WTF???
The morning I had to go back to the hospital for more images and an ultrasound, I got the results back for the tumor in my head. ALL CLEAR! The relief swept over me in waves and I clenched my jaw to keep from crying in-front of my son. I didn't want him to worry or feel the depth of my fear, pretty sure I failed at that. Somehow it was my 1st response, (tamp down your response woman!) to pretend like I wasn't that worried so he wouldn't be. And yet a shadow hung over us. What would this mammography test find? Am I doomed for bizarre scary health shit forever???
My poor mom has had to live through all of this happening to her baby, the youngest of the family. I can not imagine having to watch this happen to my child. Through it all, she has tried to keep a strong face for me, but the morning at the hospital, you could tell it was just too much. Fear locked in her eyes as she sat next to me in the waiting room. A horrible thought came to me, would the recurrence of the tumor issue and now this actually put her in her grave? And somehow I was struck by how much I missed the innocence of my family's emotional security. Knowing that bad, scary things can happen to those closest to you is terrifying and changes your entire being. While we all know intellectually that anything could happen at any time, living through the dark, grimy details of serious health issues, every day with fear and pain, is entirely different.
The test for the mammography issue came out fine. Getting the result was a heavy moment ironically. It was as if we'd been in a car accident and walked away, the carnage of our experience and fears, emotions and relief all in a jumble. The fatigue of the whole thing had settled in the new lines drawn into our faces, a permanent reminder of the trauma.
Yet, it isn't all bleak! It was a great reminder to keep focus on what is important, cut back on stress and of course, drink more wine.
-Cheers from the Vivác Winery Family!
www.VivacWinery.com
Wednesday, August 22, 2018
The Hell of It
One of the many elements of my job is to handle our labels. From the look, feel, content and government requirements to descriptions and working with the printer, labels have a lot of details to cover. Usually it comes together easily, other times it is a real pain and the worst part is if after all that work, time and effort, they are printed, the wine is released, and there is an error. I have literally cried several times over labels.
Two of our wines have specialty labels, they are the Divino and Diavolo red wine blends. They are always released as a pair (one is lighter than the other in body style, think Pinot Noir compared to a Cabernet, skim milk to heavy cream) and the artist for the label changes each year. We call them our Heaven and Hell Artist series and they are some of our most popular. They are also some of the most challenging.
Each year, we get submissions from artists to consider their art for our labels, some are easy to see would be perfect for us and others not so much. The art needs to reflect who we are as a winery; what our branding has been. The art needs to be significantly different than the art that was on the label for the last 2 years because wine shops and restaurants will still have a previous vintage of these wines in stock and it gets very confusing very quickly if the art is similar. They need to be sophisticated and look extremely classy as these are also our most expensive wines. And finally, they need to work with the Heaven and Hell theme, what does Heaven and Hell look like to the artist and will customers connect to that? On our very 1st vintage, after all of these considerations, all the planning, all the details, they were printed and didn't fit on the bottle. There were a lot of tears that day.
The current vintage of labels we are working on are some of the hardest yet. A fabulous artist submitted work 3 different times in order to try to find that sweet spot we are looking for, however, after all these years, navigating these waters are more complicated than ever. As the art continued to raise debates among the 4 of us owners, we realized the clock was ticking and we need those labels done ASAP for the wine's late fall release. We needed to shelve this artist so we could lend more time to finding the right pieces and find someone new STAT. Luckily we have a list of artists excited to work with us so jumping down the list is the easy part. Telling the artist we needed to shelf his label for now, was the hardest thing to do. Squashing his electric enthusiasm over this project felt physically painful. This vintage label isn't even done yet and I'm about to cry.
It isn't easy to pull the plug on something that isn't working when you've put so much effort into it, but sometimes, the way to avoid crying is to make those difficult decisions. So, here we go, from scratch with zero time to waste.
Man, mama needs a drink!
-Cheers from the Vivác Winery Family!
www.VivacWinery.com
Two of our wines have specialty labels, they are the Divino and Diavolo red wine blends. They are always released as a pair (one is lighter than the other in body style, think Pinot Noir compared to a Cabernet, skim milk to heavy cream) and the artist for the label changes each year. We call them our Heaven and Hell Artist series and they are some of our most popular. They are also some of the most challenging.
Each year, we get submissions from artists to consider their art for our labels, some are easy to see would be perfect for us and others not so much. The art needs to reflect who we are as a winery; what our branding has been. The art needs to be significantly different than the art that was on the label for the last 2 years because wine shops and restaurants will still have a previous vintage of these wines in stock and it gets very confusing very quickly if the art is similar. They need to be sophisticated and look extremely classy as these are also our most expensive wines. And finally, they need to work with the Heaven and Hell theme, what does Heaven and Hell look like to the artist and will customers connect to that? On our very 1st vintage, after all of these considerations, all the planning, all the details, they were printed and didn't fit on the bottle. There were a lot of tears that day.
The current vintage of labels we are working on are some of the hardest yet. A fabulous artist submitted work 3 different times in order to try to find that sweet spot we are looking for, however, after all these years, navigating these waters are more complicated than ever. As the art continued to raise debates among the 4 of us owners, we realized the clock was ticking and we need those labels done ASAP for the wine's late fall release. We needed to shelve this artist so we could lend more time to finding the right pieces and find someone new STAT. Luckily we have a list of artists excited to work with us so jumping down the list is the easy part. Telling the artist we needed to shelf his label for now, was the hardest thing to do. Squashing his electric enthusiasm over this project felt physically painful. This vintage label isn't even done yet and I'm about to cry.
It isn't easy to pull the plug on something that isn't working when you've put so much effort into it, but sometimes, the way to avoid crying is to make those difficult decisions. So, here we go, from scratch with zero time to waste.
Man, mama needs a drink!
-Cheers from the Vivác Winery Family!
www.VivacWinery.com
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)