October 1, documented.

I'm still learning about my wedding day. If we haven't spent time together since the big event, I expect to hear all the details as you recall them to get a sense of what it was like. My wedding experience is a collection of stories from the people I love most married (hehe) with my own fuzzy recollections. It's these personal stories that I love, even the scandalous ones. Especially the scandalous ones.

I've been anxiously awaiting the photos to further prove it happened, and today I got a preview. I look really happy. And really skinny. The upside of surgery two weeks before your wedding. I believe I achieved the classy modern princess look I was striving for, complete with fleeting moments of sweetness not typically associated with my nature. My photographer was a genius.

I'm anxiously awaiting the rest of the pictures, and hoping I looked just as fabulous come reception time. Modesty is a quality I admire, but modesty be damned -- I hard-earned the right to think I looked gooood. And I did.

Should you have your own pictures, or little snippets of happenings, I would love to see and hear about them. In the meantime, I'll be moonlighting in my wedding dress playing princess around the house.

You think I'm kidding.

Today's post is brought to you by the Number 8.

I've taken my fair share of risks in life. As a planner (understatement), I try to be as calculated as possible but there have been a few times -- life changing times -- I didn't see it coming...and did it anyway.

The first was 1994. I was a senior in high school, and I wasn't sure what was going to happen that fall. I'd been wait-listed at one college, denied from another, and since I spent the year proving I could shoot Busch pounders, there weren't many other prospects. I got an acceptance letter from a school in North Carolina the third week of June. I do not even remember applying.

So I went. Sight unseen, packed up my bags and drove 500 miles and eight hours South. Culture shocked, utterly displaced, and knowing no one, I started my college career at Elon. Yes, that Elon. The beautiful, top-ranked, well-funded private University I could not get into if I were a high school senior today. You could say that worked out.

Fast forward eight years. I'm living in Winston-Salem and engaged to be married. And just like that, I'm not. I'm packing up my bags, newly single, hauling it to Atlanta, GA -- eight years ago today -- where again, I know no one. On my own, not making nearly enough to live here, but completely empowered by taking charge of my life (and the balls I grew that Fall) I fell in love, got promoted four times, bought my dream house, and got married. This too, you could say worked out.

It's not that there weren't tough times. In fact, those first years after jumping from the buildings, so to speak, were definitely adjustment periods. And there were times I questioned the choices I had made. But in the end, I was willing to chalk it up to "life experience" if it didn't work out, and that is what made all the difference. 

So here we are -- eight years later -- and I'm wondering, what's next? What unseen risk am I going to take that changes my life forever? I'm already losing the weight -- which has oddly been a telltale sign in every previous eight year cycle -- I know it's coming. As is the shift in behavior and perspective. When I went to college, I stopped partying and became responsible. When I moved to Atlanta, I let go and learned to let the real me shine. Most recently, I discovered what's important.

Only with great risk comes great reward. I eagerly anticipate the unknown.

Introducing Mrs. Saunders

Mrs. Saunders here. Back from my wedding and honeymoon a changed woman, and I'm not talking about my name or newly lost virginity.

A brief recap...

It's been one clusterf*ck of a month.

I haven't driven a car, worked out, gone to work, or killed a bottle of wine in 30 days. I did however manage to get married and take a Hawaiian vacation with my husband. Yes, my hussssband. Miracles somehow never cease.

I cruised through my wedding stone cold sober and exhausted, trying my best to smile and knowing this is only going to happen once in my lifetime. Or it's supposed to. I sure hope I looked the part.

As a little girl dreaming of my wedding, it was never about the dress or even the man. I was more focused on the fact that this would be the one and only time all the people I loved would be forced to watch me dance for four hours. All those years of dance class and numerous hours viewing Dance Fever, Solid Gold, In Living Color, and Soul Train culminating in my golden moment at my wedding.


You can imagine how this surgery almost killed my dream.

Which is why at one point I decided that while I may split in half the next day, this was my wedding and I was going to dance. Dance I did. I could barely stand at the end of the reception. I hope I said goodbye and thank you to everyone.

I hear my wedding was beautiful. Many tell me it was a good time. It was a very different event for me personally than I had envisioned, but I too felt it was wonderful. My vows were perfect. The ceremony was everything to me that day, and in the long run it's those little words (that we wrote ourselves I might add) that matter.

So then we went honeymooning. And surprise! I got sick because I hadn't been dealt a large enough pile of shit already. Days 1-3 were spent visiting the Minit Clinic and fully medicating. At least we had a nice view from the lanai of our rented home. Both of us exhausted from our awesome month, we spent most of our time just staring off into space or a book, sleeping, and thinking privately.

Then we went to the Four Seasons. I spent $1,000 on the spa. If you know me, you know that I don't spend $1,000 on anything, especially if it's for me and classified as entertainment or non-essential. And then there was the toast. I called to order room service one morning and was asked if I would like my bread light, medium or dark toasted. Seriously. The place gave me anxiety. Every time I wiped myself (they still let you do that yourself) I was sure it cost me a buck. While it was lovely playing celebrity for a few days, I learned that the rich are consumed with meaningless activities and over the top gestures because there is nothing else to want in this life when you can buy everything. No thank you.

While on vacation, I told my husband that I wanted to be a yoga instructor and write books. I wasn't kidding in the slightest. Going back to work on Monday should be interesting at the very least.

A note on my husband. God bless him.

Now we're home. Newly minted husband and wife, settling back in to a somewhat different life than we otherwise may have. Someday I'll be able to articulate exactly what it is that has changed, but for now I know that it's a feeling. It's a perspective. While it's been hell, and I assure you it has, I know that the experience has better equipped us to handle, well, life. We were tested early, and we succeeded. We learned a lot about ourselves, a lot about each other, and a whole hell of a lot about what's important.

Here's to Mr. and Mrs. Saunders and the next chapter.

Arts and Crafts

There is only so much bad TV a girl can watch. While I have appreciated becoming intimately familiar with Say Yes to the Dress, The Millionaire Matchmaker, Stacey and Clinton, all the guest chefs on Chopped and at least 15 different movies, I'm becoming bored and itchy for more action. Sadly, it took me a week to get here, but in my defense I have been sleeping 15-16 hours a day.

In keeping with the forcefully re-iterated advice of my doctor from my post-op appointment, I'm avoiding physical activity and stress. Which means no cleaning or work, the things that normally fill 90% of my time.

With the wedding just five days away, I turned to arts and crafts. It's my mental speed right now, and it requires me only to sit up. Despite feeling like the special needs child given protective scissors and an edible glue stick, I've made some pretty nifty items.

There's the programs for the ceremony, the wine cork place cards, the old wine bottles dressed up and turned table card holders, chair bows, and of course the place cards and table cards to go in these holders. I find it poetic that I'm using the empty wine bottles from our hutch -- a tribute to my former self. 

By Wednesday, I'm thinking I may accomplish decoupage and macrame -- and I don't even know what those words mean right now.

Here's hoping I don't look back on my wedding pictures and realize that my crafts aren't as fabulous as my med-head currently thinks them to be. If you happen to be a guest at my wedding, lie. Just lie to me.

One Week

Today I cried over my pumpkin pancakes. I managed to walk (slowly) up the street and have breakfast in a public place with my very soon-to-be-husband. They were exceptionally yummy, but something tells me they weren't the root cause of my tears.

Those pancakes were warm and comfortable, safe. In comparison, while I am frequently warm these days, I do not feel comfortable in my skin.

One week ago today I was awaiting the results of a CAT scan that I didn't realize would change me forever. I cried, and continue to, over the loss of myself.

I realize it sounds dramatic. I have questioned frequently this past week as to whether or not what happened to me was really all that bad. Whether or not I have license to feel the way I do so strongly. I mean, I don't have cancer, a tumor, or other terminal illness. I'm apparently quite healthy and just in need of a little healing. And I'm still here, right?

Where I've landed is that it wasn't the end of the world, but it was the end of the former me. Coming close to  "decomposing" and having the flesh of my body that I hope will one day bear me a family invaded so harshly has left me feeling wounded and scared. I'm more emotionally than physically damaged.

I don't know that I will ever be the same person I was before. I don't feel strong enough to insert myself back into my life as it was. I carry more fear and worry. In a word, I'm vulnerable.

One week from today, I'll be readying myself for walking down the aisle to marry the love of my life. It will be a slightly different version of the wedding I envisioned, and a different version of me. But it doesn't change the significance of marrying my best friend who has been by my side through this and so much more over the past eight years.

He told me this morning as I publicly cried over pancakes that this version of me is a change for the better. I'm softer, more willing to let others do, and more open with my emotions. He is a good man, and a better person. He loves me. Both of me. I'm a very lucky woman.

I suppose I agree, but I'm losing who I've been for as long as I can remember -- tough, indestructible, fiercely independent, emotionally compartmentalized. Least of all vulnerable, how insulting to even conceive the thought.

But this experience has shown me that I am not these things alone. I am not immune to pain and sadness. I hurt. I have feelings that do not want to be suppressed or comically addressed. I can't always take care of myself alone. It's not possible to be at the top of my game every day. Sometimes you have to just let go, even if it means letting go of yourself. And it's this self that I mourn.

One week from today, I'll be starting a new chapter of my life. Becoming a wife, changing my name, and embracing and learning to live as this new version of me.  Profound. Or maybe just poetic timing.

Amazing the difference one week can make.

Desperately Seeking Courtney

I'm not me. I don't know where she went. And I'm terrified.

I've been very good about doing all the things I should and shouldn't. There's the first problem. I'm not checking email for work, I'm letting things go around the house, and just laying on the couch (bed, or chair depending on time of day). Because I have no choice. Yesterday, because I wasn't feeling too bad in the morning I decided to don my Wonder Woman cape and claim my title. I ended up in my Wonder Woman underoos, a pathetic imposter.

I attempted to shower. At the end of this event, I was sweating, dizzy, and in crazy pain. I then slept for six hours. You think this would stop me. Nope. I fielded three calls from vendors with simple questions about the wedding and basically had a breakdown crying and blubbering "I can't handle it". Did I stop there? Nope. Checked the work email. Same experience. Alarmingly overwhelmed by something that in the grand scheme of my job would matter not at all if it was completely ignored.

I can't hack it. I went from driving 19 million miles an hour through the city streets on a motorcycle to braking hard core in a Hummer at every speed bump.

I hate the phone. Everytime it rings or dings I cringe. I can't even talk to people I love. I despise that little number over the mail icon letting me know how much there is that I'm not dealing with right now. I had to hide the phone today because it was making me cry.

On the other hand, I do want to be held, stroked, and told I'm loved every minute of the day. I want to be told what to do including when to eat, sleep and pee. I have completely surrendered myself, which is in direct conflict with who I am, and yet it's now coming so easily.

I've received a few lovely notes from a few even lovelier people encouraging me, relating similar expereinces and letting me know it's ok to be angry and confused. I'm grateful for their words, they help me feel slightly less insane.

But I would love to know where Courtney went, and when she plans on returning. If you see her, tell her she is needed. And to bring a new stomach.

Thankful I Suppose

I'm feeling really sorry for myself. I'm doped up on pain killers, watching my stomach turn nine shades of purple and fighting on and off bouts of nausea and headaches. Not how I expected to spend my weekend, or Monday for that matter I suppose. Especially not two weeks before my wedding. And I stink.

But it could be worse. I almost died Friday. During this interval of lucidity I'll attempt to tell you why. I warn you, this isn't pretty because it wasn't. And some may ask why I choose to write about it. Well, for one, I certainly don't want to talk about it, and two writing always makes me feel better. Like I can put it past me once it's on paper.

I didn't feel well. I left the office around noon, and worked from home. I did a little yoga around six and felt better, so we went to dinner. Around 11pm I felt a demon invade my lower abdomen and try to pull every organ out through my belly button. I fell asleep, or maybe passed out, due to the severity of the pain. I woke up an hour later, a disgusting human being discharging from all orafices who passed out before I reached the bathroom which means all over myself. I was half conscious, in delirious pain and completely unaware of what was happening to me. At this point, I'm thinking food poisoning or abdominal obstruction. Four hours later, when I couldn't walk or turn to either side, it was time to find out. In retrospect, the scariest the night of my life.

I arrived at the hospital with a pain rating of 10. Appendicitis, this was the initial diagnosis. Two hours later after numerous blood tests and a CAT scan, it was determined I was bleeding internally - heavily - from what they thought was a burst ovarian cyst. Seems there was too much blood to determine for certain (all in all, 500 ML, go ahead, measure it). Within an hour I was in surgery. I spent the rest of my day on morphine, and don't recall much other than being woken up every hour for vitals. And that smell, of blood and iodine.

It was in fact a burst cyst, one I didn't even know I had. I was told that had I waited any longer or had the blood been flowing any faster I would have decomposed. No one ever wants to hear the word "decomposed" in reference to oneself, especially while laying in a hospital bed. So I guess you could say I got lucky. And then there was the question of how this affects my ability to have children. Once I understood I wasn't dying, it was all that mattered. I'm told it won't, as both ovaries are healthy and everything else looked great, except for that giant bleeding cyst. I don't know how much I believe this, but I guess time will tell.

And that's where I am. Struggling with the idea that the only reason I'm not dead is because I got lucky. Wondering how I'm going to walk down an aisle in two weeks for a wedding I've been waiting on for eight years. How all the work at the office I strategically planned to do between now and next Wednesday will get done. Hoping that children are still in my future. Fearful that the bruising and headaches I'm having aren't normal and that clots have formed in my brain. I'm a hot fucking mess who can't decide whether crying or laughing is appropriate but damn sure that both really hurt right about now.

Then I go back to the fact that I'm alive. And I guess that's all that matters. But I'm having a hard time seeing that way. I would have expected that coming out on top of a life threatening incident would make me thankful. But I'm just sad, angry and scared. I'm not even enjoying the painkillers. I mean seriously.

My soon to be husband is a bright spot in all this. If I ever doubted he loved me, I certainly don't now. He's been so supportive and positive, and there for me every minute I've needed him. I'm sure he's freaking out as his bride just fell apart two weeks before his wedding, but he's not letting it show. Instead, he's encouraging me, calming me, and even told me I look good, all things considered. He's a wonderful little liar who I love with all my heart.

That's my story. Not that you asked for it. But it does make me feel just a tiny bit better having put these very real feelings on paper. Here's to healing soon, and finding myself again.