Elise Free
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The Free Life

Synopsis: Woman (20's, total idiot) moves from Iowa to Los Angeles to become a famous television writer. But before making it big (spoiler alert, she never does) she has a baby. That babe is diagnosed with cystic fibrosis. Two divorces, a majorly hurt ego later, Woman (now 40's, much wiser) returns to Iowa, buys a house with too much yard to raise a teenager, Corgi, two smug cats and spends most days behind this thing called a mower and another thing called a shovel but still finds time to write. Lots of plot twists, laughs, and ridiculousness ensues. 

It Will Not Be Easy

11/18/2020

1 Comment

 
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​It will not be easy. 


From the beginning 
you will feel as if the earth has spun
off its axis
and yet
you still have to pack a lunch.


It will not be easy. 


You will hold on even when the universe comes undone,
when laundry climbs higher than Mount Olympus 
and you become the Sisyphus of dishes
and the Hermes of carpool.


It will not be easy.


You will be okay because
of little hands in clay and dandelions blown
into the wind with big, big wishes attached.


You will be okay because of laughter from the back seat
on a long car ride 
and crayon drawings of aliens and cats
on the refrigerator, 
messy baths 
and sparklers in the backyard,  
the made up songs about dog farts 
and jelly beans.


It will not be easy

on days when sleep is like an old friend who
moved away leaving no forwarding address 
 but you will be okay.


Because the music will come on as you watch 
a little person 
who you made
tap dancing on your freshly mopped floors 

and you will find yourself turning 
the music up and putting down the mop.
Because something about you has changed.

You will never be the same.


It will not be easy. 


At night, after you’ve read the stories 
brushed the teeth and answered a thousand questions
about gravity, why cat’s breath smells like tuna and 
how do butterflies know where to fly,
why children can’t stay up all night
and what happens when we die. 


You will tuck her in and breathe a tired sigh, 
one that every mother has known
from the very beginning of time.


It is a sigh that says


It will not be easy
​but you 
will be okay.


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1 Comment

The Secret's In The Ink

11/12/2020

0 Comments

 
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Watching "The Octopus Teacher" on Netflix reminded me of an essay I'd written when Addie was struggling with her health. If you haven't watched it, do. But first, read this. 

It creeps up on me like the boogey man or an octopus. 


We have great days of playing at the park, dinner around the table where we talk of playground politics and discuss Ben and Jerry's greatest ice cream flavors. After homework and a game of animal rummy, we catch an hour of a Jack Black movie during respiratory treatment, guffaw at his cartoon facial expressions and settle in with a library book about octopuses, cuttlefish and squids, learning how cephalopods exist without skeletons. They are the shapeshifters of the sea, who cannot only change color but camouflage their bodies by the pattern of their surroundings. 

The blue-ringed octopus transforms its body to look exactly like the anemones beneath him, same color, same shape, even the same texture. How does he know how to do that, in an instant? How does he paint his pigment in those Van Gogh patterns, without a brush, without a cerebral cortex? How does he inherently know what will save him? 

Instead of fighting, he fits in, meshes, like, "Hey dude, just hanging." In essence, the octopus pretends the danger isn't actually there. And it works.

This has been a tough year. Addie's gastronomy tube fell out and had to be replaced surgically, her stomach woes and blocked colon caused months of physical pain and missed school, activities and life. This cold that won't go away created a wet cough that sounds like heavy cement in her lungs. And now the antibiotics that fight the cement are causing diarrhea and night time tummy aches. Sometimes cystic fibrosis feels never-ending. We are fighting an invisible current, a secret enemy who is hiding in plain site, colored and textured like our daily surroundings, but always there. At the end of the day, even when it's lovely, the tentacles are showing. 

This is a first, but tonight I was jealous of an octopus and her graceful ability to survive the depths of the sea without a weapon, except ink, writing her story in the ocean. "I WAS HERE." 

Even if I were hidden when the dangers lurked above, I fought in my own way. I changed and worked to fit in to this environment that was always against me, that tried it's best to win because patients with CF struggle to breathe, as if air were the enemy, as if they were underwater and born without gills.  

Without the metaphors, I'm just sad tonight. I wish my kid could fall asleep without any pain or discomfort. I wish a cold was not something to be feared like a shark or a stingray. I wish I could kiss her goodnight and not think, "She's almost eight, how long do we have?"

I wish I could sink into the bottom of the sea and camouflage myself into pretending we are safe, that there is nothing wrong, that we are just the anemones beneath us. There are no enemies. And whatever haunts us from above will keep on swimming. Just keep on swimming and leave us alone. Safe and shapeless, but happy, under the waves and the sun that seems to always find a way to reach us, even in the darkest of places. 

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    Elise Free 

    Award-winning writer (and major braggart!) single mom to a teen with cystic fibrosis, Corgi obsessed fur mama and pooper scooper to two very unappreciative cats. See my "About" tab for more bragging! 
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