Wait, I Need to Call My Mom

My Mom died in 2009 and a day still does not go by that I don’t think “oh, I have to call my Mom about that.”  A few days ago my granddaughter, Charlie, fell off a swing and broke her femur.  The day progressed to a rushed trip to the emergency room, pain, traction, more pain, casting, more pain, angst, feeling of guilt from everyone who was present.  It was a very long weekend.  And one of the things that kept coming to me was how I needed to call my Mom. 

My Mom was always there when I needed her whether it was for emotional or physical support.  I knew I could call her at any time and tell her I needed her and she would drop everything and come to my aid.  Thankfully I didn’t have to do that too often.  

But a funny thing happened this past traumatic weekend - 

I realized that I had no one older, wiser, more experienced than me to call and that I was the one everyone else was turning to for advice, help or just to talk.  I had become the matriarch of the family when I wasn’t looking.

I realized that I was the end of the line.  That there was no one else to go to after me.  Everyone was calling me but I had no one to call.  When a tough decision was being made or someone needed a hug I was the one they turned to as the elder, the experienced one, the Mom.  This didn’t bother me until after three days of being strong for everyone else I found myself sobbing in my car wishing so hard that I could just call my Mom.  

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Today I made a pie.  One of many that I have made and will make this summer.  It is a strawberry rhubarb pie - the strawberries so sweet and the rhubarb sour and tangy.  One of my favorites.  The pie goes into the oven and I turn to the leftover scraps of dough.  As always I roll the dough out, spread it with butter and sprinkle it with cinnamon sugar.  I roll up this small slab of yummy goodness and slice it into miniature individual cinnamon rolls.  This is all part of my pie making and I do it every time - EVERY time.  You see, my Mom did the same thing with her scrap dough.  And her mother did the same with her scrap dough.  I strongly suspect that my grandma’s Mom did the same with her scrap dough. My friend Nancy was with me today and she commented on how her mother used to do the same with her scrap dough.  I quite imagine there are mothers and grandmothers all over the country who do this with their scrap dough. 

It’s times like these, silly times, doing silly little things, that make me feel connected to my mom and all moms everywhere.  My mom had such a strong impact on my life for both the big lessons and the smaller, less important lessons like what to do with your scrap dough after making a pie.  

I remember reading a story once about a woman who always cut off the end of a ham before putting it in the pan and cooking it.  About 2 inches worth.  She did this for years until one day her daughter asked her why she always cut off the end of the ham before she cooked it and she realized she had no idea.  She just knew that was what her mother always did so she did the same.  Luckily her mother was still around so one day she asked her.  What is the purpose of cutting off the end of the ham before cooking it and her mother replied, “Well my pan was always too short for the ham so I needed to cut off the end to make it fit.” 

The thing is I could totally see myself doing that.  Cutting off the end of the ham because my Mom did it.  I paid attention, I watched everything she did and learned.  Some things I have continued to do - making cinnamon rolls with the scrap dough, handing my kids (and grandkids) the spatula to lick after mixing cake or cookie batter, having pizza every Sunday night because doesn’t everyone have pizza every Sunday night?  I fold the towels in thirds, I change the bed sheets every two weeks, there are certain cookies I only make at Christmas and I make the same ones EVERY Christmas.  I grow petunias and marigolds and geraniums in my garden. I have a stash of candy that I hide from my kids and we open our presents on Christmas Eve instead of Christmas Day - these are all things I learned from my Mom.  

Some things I have not continued to do.   I don’t polish the silver every holiday, I let my kids have as many toasted marshmallows as they want since I was only ever allowed two at any given time, I don’t clean the fridge out every Tuesday or only use my living room for guests.  I wipe the windshield with my hand when it is fogged over but when I do I can still hear my Mom saying “Stop!  You’re going to get it all streaky”.  

Either way the impact they have lingers and when we lose them we lose much more than “just a Mom”.  The earth shifts under our feet and everything in the family shifts.   And it’s times like these, when there is trauma in the family that I really feel the loss - when I go to call my Mom to ask for advice or just to talk it out and

she’s not there.  

STOP AND SMELL THE PUPPIES

When little girls reach out their closed fist to you and say “smell this” go ahead, it’s going to smell good. But when little boys reach out their hand to you and say “smell this,” don’t.  It’s going to smell bad.  Trust me on this one, I raised four boys.  

One rainy day I decided to warm up the feel of the house by making some homemade bread and beef stew.  I knew everyone would be chilled and low because of the bad weather and thought it might perk everyone up.  I had the stew cooking in a crockpot and as the stew cooked it filled the house with a warm beefy aroma.  Then I got my bread maker going and the aroma of the fresh baked bread mixed perfectly with the stew. Jon and the boys were coming up to the dinner table commenting on how good it smelled and we were sitting down to this delicious, aromatic meal when the phone rang.  It was my work.  They asked why I was not there, that I had a class to teach in a half hour and I’m usually an hour early so they were wondering if something was amiss.  Sh*t!  I hung up, threw on some nicer clothes and headed out the door into the rain and all I could think about was missing out on that beautiful aromatic meal.  To this day when I smell fresh baked bread that evening comes to mind - how difficult it was to leave the warm aroma of that meal behind me as I ran through the rain to my car. 

This then is called the Proust Effect - the vivid reliving of events from the past through sensory stimuli.  And it happens to most of us quite often.  When you smell something, to process the smell, your brain uses the same areas that it would use to process emotions and memories. This makes smells an incredibly effective trigger of memories and intense emotions.

There are a lot of smells that bring me back to memories of my past but the smell that really brings back my childhood is a woody smell that I usually pick up in old houses.  It smells like Grandma’s house and especially the basement of Grandma’s house where we used to crack walnuts with Grandpa.  When I catch a whiff I immediately have flashbacks of all of these random memories from visits to her home - chocolate chip cookies, peppermint ice cream, penny candy, gum drops in little cereal boxes, the library where Grandma worked and read so many Dr. Seuss stories to us, the elephant slide in the park, the five and dime store, the cobblestone streets, the glider on the porch, the glass doorknobs and skeleton keys, the big round dining room table and Grandma wanting a good night kiss after putting noxema all over her face.  All of these joyful memories make me smile by way of the smell of old wood.  

When I think of my favorite smells they include fresh cut grass which means summer is here, my garden filled with herbs so when I prune it is a party of delicious smells - lavender, rosemary, oregano, mint, basil, chives.  Breast fed baby heads is on that list as is the smell of puppies.  The research shows that coffee is one of the most common “favorite smells” which I would have to agree with along with campfires, and meat cooking in my son’s smoker next door.  

When I think of my least favorite smells what comes to mind is the smell of cigarette smoke, cinnabons which used to be a good smell to me but now is sickeningly sweet.  The incessant smell of urine throughout my mission visit to China.   My least favorite smells also include overripe fruit or old water in a vase of flowers.  Interestingly enough I hate the smell of blue cheese but love the taste. Not sure how that works.  

Even the names for good smells are smooth and soothing - scents, fragrance, aroma. 

And the names for bad smells?  Harsh and ugly making your nose curl up as if you are already smelling those bad smells - odor and stench.

I often go looking for things to smell.  I can’t pass a flower without bending my head down to take a whiff. I refuse to plant roses in my garden that don’t have a scent.  I intentionally go outside after a good rain to smell the air.   I go to the Farmers’ Market not so much to purchase produce as to pick up those beautiful fresh bundles of basil, green onions and lavender and breathe their aroma in deeply - somehow extremely soothing.  I love walking up to any one of the booths and sniffing fresh peaches, nectarines and oranges.  And in early summer the smell of strawberries wafting through the air everywhere I walk.  It’s a cornucopia of heavenly scents.  

I often think of Mac Davis’ 1974 album “Stop and Smell the Roses”. 

I know he doesn’t mean to literally stop and smell the roses but maybe he should.  

Maybe we should all stop and smell as many smells as we can, bring on those delightful memories and bask in the joy.    

My Trusty Dog and I are Taking a Trip

My sister, Beth and I took a camping trip to Tennessee shortly after college.  We were setting up the tent which had a large loop at the top of the frame.  A hook on the top of the tent was supposed to slide onto the loop.  As we reached to hook it on, the loop broke and the tent fell.  I turned to Beth and said,  “It’s ok, all we need is a bungee cord.”  We went to the local hardware store, bought a bungee cord and were back in business.   She was so impressed.  She said “You just knew exactly what we needed.”  She was right.  I did.  I have always been fiercely independent and was proud of the fact that I could get out of any pickle presented to me. 

My Mom and I took the boys camping without my husband, Jon, many times and were always able to take care of any problems that came up. On one such trip my Mom and I took the kids canoeing down the Russian River.  Getting the canoes off the top of the car was easy enough but through the entire trip Mom kept worrying about how we would get the canoes back on the top of the car.  I told her again and again not to worry, we would figure it out.  In reality I had no idea how we would do it as neither she nor I were particularly strong or tall but I figured we would cross that bridge when we came to it.  And of course we did.  After getting that canoe on top of the car we danced around pumping our arms and singing “I am woman, hear me roar.”  

When Zach was 4, Jake was 2 and Sam was 8 weeks old I put them all into my little Toyota Corolla and drove from San Francisco to San Diego by myself - an 8-10 hour drive.   On the way home right at dusk we got a flat tire out in the middle of nowhere.  As I looked at the flat and considered my options a pick up truck drove up.  A man jumped out and offered to change the tire for me.  Now it isn’t that I couldn’t change the tire, my Dad had taught me how, but it was the fact that I had a 4 year old, a 2 year old and an 8 week old demanding to be breastfed that slowed me down.  Now my husband, Jon and I both shudder to think of any number of things that could have happened on that long trip with three very small children.  But at the time it never occurred to me NOT to go.  I had no doubt I could handle anything that came up.

As a nurse this confidence in my abilities has been endlessly reinforced.  I know that in medical emergencies I can remain calm and think through my options quickly and make necessary judgement calls in the heat of the moment.  So, between my job and motherhood I have been taking care of people and getting out of tough situations my whole adult life.  But I have noticed lately  that for some reason that does not translate to me taking care of things when I am taking care of only myself. 

Since the boys left home I am almost always with Jon when something that needs quick thinking and a fix happens.  He is one of those people who instantly sees what is needed and takes care of it.  He’s an Eagle Scout, what can I say? Even when I do try to take care of a problem myself he seems to always come up with a better idea.  I have come to depend on him.  In doing so I have realized that I have relinquished my own independence.   I don’t even try to fix problems anymore because I know he will have a better way.  And now I feel anxious about getting that independence back.  I’m afraid that after all of these years of depending on Jon I have lost my ability to work through a problem and fix it myself.  

So I have come up with a plan.  I am going to travel across the country by myself in a camper van.  I think maybe experience Route 66.   In my fantasy I am sitting in the driver’s seat with my trusty dog sitting shotgun both of us watching the road, singing to the radio across amber waves of grain, purple mountain majesties and fruited plains.  We stop in small towns for a cup of coffee and a pastry, chatting it up with the locals and then heading out once again.  In the evenings my dog and I settle into our campsite, have a warm meal and sit by the fire.  We turn in early so we can once again hit the road with the first morning light.  Sounds lovely, doesn’t it?  An exercise in independence.  

Then reality sets in and I start to get anxious.  What if I get a flat tire out in the middle of one of those fruited plains 100 miles from nowhere?  What if the engine blows or the door gets jammed or the dog gets sick?  What if some big stranger comes knocking at my camper door late at night or becomes an unwelcome guest around my fire?  What if I lose my keys or my wallet or get hopelessly lost where there is no cell signal?   Can I say with total faith that I could take care of all of these things by myself?  I used to be able to.  

Why the doubt now? 

Perhaps I am just out of practice.  The boys have been gone and not needed me for a long time and with Jon around to fix things, who needs independence?    And that’s why this trip in a camper van with my trusty dog is so important to me.  I think, by going away for a few weeks at a time and having to depend only on myself, although scary on one level will build my confidence back.  I guess I just want to prove I can still do it.  

Does anyone have a trusty dog I could borrow?

ODE TO MY OTHER FAMILY

I went to work in a nursing home, not because I always dreamt of working in a nursing home. Who on earth would dream of working in a nursing home?  I went to work in a nursing home because I could ride my bike there, I like to manage people, I like a challenge, I would have a more flexible schedule - but never because I always dreamt of working in a nursing home.  I do believe that most nurses on the contrary try very hard to avoid working in a nursing home.

Nursing homes are reminders of our biggest fear - that we will end up in one at the end of our life.

“Can you call my wife?”

“There are demons watching TV in my room.”

“Can you call my wife?”

“Someone took my flashlight.”

Yet here I was 40 years into my nursing career settling in to care for 54 residents, 60 staff members and countless family members.  I took the job as Director of Nursing for all of the wrong reasons but fell in love with the job for all of the right reasons.  In my 40 years of nursing it was by far the most challenging and most rewarding job of my career.

Before I worked in a nursing home I was a hospice nurse and at times had to see a patient that resided at a nursing home.  I hated those visits.  Nursing homes always seemed chaotic to me.  Residents everywhere - sitting in the lobby, in the activities room, at the nurses’ station, wandering around and around the hallways.  Some of the patients looked unkempt and uncared for and I could hear screams coming from a room down the hall.  And the nurses seemed oblivious.  Sitting at their computers working away, the residents constantly interrupting their work.

“Can you call my wife?”

“Bert is in my room and won’t leave.”

“Can you call my wife?”

“I need my daughter to come take me home.”

One day when I visited there was a resident sitting behind the counter with the nurses.  She was digging through the box of individually wrapped graham crackers.  I thought to myself why are they letting her back there?  Why aren’t they paying attention to her?  But then, I worked in a nursing home and I got it.  Our residents do not live in our workspace, we work in their home.

Nursing homes become their own families.  We spend 24 hours a day with each other, we share moments of joy on a daily basis, we go through health challenges together and know each others’ idiosyncrasies.  The bond is deep.  Like all families we have our ups and downs but we always watch out for one another.

Dawn in room 17 will tell me that Laura in room 18 seems off today and could I check on her.  When Jeannie tries to walk out the front door Mr. Fimby will go after her and call for help before the alarm even sounds.  When Tim doesn’t show up for the coffee hour the other residents will ask if he’s ok.  Karen always sits next to Tina during the crafts hour so she can help her with the art project.  Joan who has dementia makes the rounds every day in her wheelchair chatting with all of the residents keeping them company.   If someone is transferred to the hospital everyone worries about them until they return and when someone is in the last days of their life somehow everyone knows and a quiet comes over the facility that doesn’t let up until the person passes and is taken to the mortuary.

We also have the challenging members of our family.  Nick who curses us out on a regular basis, Mr. Simpson who refuses any interaction with anyone, Mitch who speaks inappropriately to the nurses, and Lorraine who steals clothes from the other residents.  We still love and embrace them.

“Can you call my wife?”

“I can’t go to sleep because there are dogs in my bed.”

“Can you call my wife?"

“Can I get my money, I need to leave today.”

Most of the Certified Nursing Assistants (CNAs) in nursing homes are their own kind of special.  They start their day by getting all 8-10 of their patients set up for breakfast - pass the trays, help feed the ones who cannot lift their own spoons and encourage the ones who are easily distracted from their meals.  Then they collect the trays and morning care begins.  They shower, brush teeth, change pull ups, laugh and chat with the patients.  They change or make beds, dump laundry, clean up bedside tables.  They get them up in their wheelchairs, get them to the activities and then when lunch comes they start all over again.  Passing trays, feeding, encouraging, changing.  While doing all of this they have to be certain that no one falls and everyone is safe.   During Covid when 40% of my staff walked out the door and never came back these beautiful people would have to do this work for 12 sometimes 15 patients over one shift.

Once I started working in a nursing home I realized why it seems chaotic to the outsider.  Residents are everywhere doing their own thing.  Fay, Sandra and Jeannie calm themselves by walking around and around the hallway.  Caroline sits behind the nurses’ station with us while we do our work so we can keep a better eye on her since she tends to fall a lot.   Susie is often lonely so she too will sit with us behind the nurses’ station and if digging through a box of graham crackers keeps her happy and occupied then so be it.  The reason we ignore Mr. Spencer who asks us to call his wife is because he asks us every five minutes even though she visits every day and we have found that if we ignore him he will find something else to do until she shows up for that day’s visit but if we engage him he gets more agitated.  The reason we are not responding to Deb’s screams for help is because we know that two of our best CNAs are with her trying to do her morning care and we have discovered if too many people go in to help she screams even more.  We know that the reason Mr. Johnson looks dirty and unkempt is because he refuses to let us shower or bathe him, cut his hair or trim his nails and will lash out and punch us if we even try.  Every once in awhile one of the CNAs will be successful in getting him to cooperate but that’s the best we can do. We know that between 3 and 5 pm is the worst time for nearly all dementia residents as they get what is called sundowners which leads to paranoia.  They come out of their rooms and wander the halls sometimes crying or begging for assistance.  It is a chaotic time since it is also change of shift and we do our best to keep them calm but mostly it is just a matter of letting the time pass.

“Can you call my wife?”

“I need to see the doctor.  Is the mail here yet?”

“Can you call my wife?”

“My father is taking me to the movies today.  Have you seen him?”

Some of the patients tell their families some amazingly imaginative stories.  Stephen told his family we were keeping him in a cage at night and Bart told his family we push him around and around the facility in his bed.  Gigi told her daughter that we were running a drug ring and Sandra told her husband that we were keeping dogs in her bed.  Barbara tells her daughter that someone keeps stealing her stuffed animals when in fact her mother often gives them to a fellow resident.  It seems we spend a good bit of each day explaining ourselves.

What I would really like to see in these long term care facilities is adequate pay for the nurses and CNAs who care for our elderly and an understanding from the residents’ families that we really do care and are doing the best we can with the resources available to us.  I would like the paramedics to treat us with respect rather than disdain when we call them to our facility.   I would like the State regulatory agencies to understand that our residents’ needs and safety come first even before their superfluous regulations.  I would like upper management to care more about the residents and less about their profits.   And I would like everyone to know that like most families the nursing home family has its weird uncles and eccentric aunts, its overbearing matriarchs and annoying “children” and like most families we are all just trying to get along and do the best we can.

The Bigger the Hill, The Harder I Fall

My hands are getting sweaty and I feel like I am going to throw up.  I am nine years old standing in line with my family waiting to get on a roller coaster.   The roller coaster looks like it would be a lot of fun.  Everyone in my family is talking excitedly.  But I am quietly looking at every turn and every hill watching the cars race through and listening to the screams of its riders.   The closer we get to the front of the line the harder it is for me to stand still.  I rock from foot to foot and on top of feeling nauseas and sweaty I have to pee.  I am not smiling, I am not laughing, I am not talking excitedly.  Just as we get to the front of the line I turn to my Mom and say, “I can’t” and leave the line.  She just smiles.  She has been through this with me before.  

Flash forward 40 years and I am in line to go on Splash Mountain with my husband, Jon and the boys.  They are all laughing and chatting but I am unusually quiet, trying to concentrate on not throwing up.  I wanted to go on Splash Mountain because everyone looks like they are having such a good time on the ride.  It’s one of my boys’ favorite rides, how could I possibly NOT enjoy it?  As we get closer to the front of the line my stomach is in knots and I’m not sure I can go through with it.  But Jon encourages me and I get on the boat a bundle of nerves.  We sail through the first part of the ride through the chutes past the animatrons.  But I’m not watching them because all I can think of is that big hill at the end and how am I ever going to survive it?  I’m terrified just thinking about it.  I lean back into my husband and he wraps his arms around me.  He knows how hard I am trying to not freak out.  

As we head up the incline to the top of the big hill I can feel my stomach has already moved into my chest.  I grip the sides of the log and start screaming before we even start to go down.  I close my eyes and scream the entire way down the hill.  And when I get to the bottom I am fine.  I am FINE.  I feel good.  I am proud of myself that I did it.  I have an adrenaline rush.  I’m also relieved because I have proven that I can do it.  And finally after many more trips to Disneyland and many more terrifying waits in the line for Splash Mountain, one day I could stand in line without being afraid.  I realized I was chatting with Jon and the boys and not just standing there trying to keep my shit together.  What a glorious day that was!!  My fear of Splash Mountain was gone.  

I have spent a good part of my life trying to like roller coasters.

Every time the family went to an amusement park Jon and all of the boys would go on every roller coaster.  And I would stay behind and just watch.  It looked like fun.  I thought I SHOULD like roller coasters.  Everyone who I ever watched go on one came off laughing and happy and exhilarated. I loved the speed but I did not like the stomach drop and I always got the stomach drop no matter how hard I tried not to.  And truthfully, it wasn’t the ride itself that was the worst part of it, it was the waiting in line, the fear before getting on the ride. 

When I was a child my mother always told me that if I am ever scared on a ride I should scream.  She told me it would release all of that fear and help me feel better.  Fear is excitement without the breath she would tell me.  And so I did and she was right.  It was always easier if I screamed.  

One time I went on a ride at Universal Studios.  Except for seeing the people coming down the last little bit and splashing into the water screaming and laughing, the entire ride was inside so you could not see how big the biggest hill was.  This was my conversation with the teeny bopper ride operator:

Me:  Does this ride have a big hill? 

Him:  Yeah, yeah it does. 

Me:  How big is the big hill? 

Him:  Uh, I don’t know, just big. 

Me:  Is it as big as Splash Mountain’s big hill? 

Him:  Yeah, um, I guess, maybe bigger. 

Me(getting anxious):  Is it BIGGER than Splash Mountain’s big hill?

Him:  Uh, not sure. 

Me:  Well you need to be sure.  I need to know if it is bigger than Splash Mountain’s big hill so I can decide whether or not I should go on it.   I need to know how big this big hill is!! 

Him (backing away from me):  Um, yeah, yeah, it’s bigger than Splash Mountain. 

Me:  How much bigger?

This was when Jon stepped in and saved the poor guy.  He took me by the hand and said “You’ll be fine” and we entered the ride.  

Now I survived that ride but barely.  The big hill on that ride was not only bigger than Splash Mountain’s biggest hill but it was so big and so long that I ran out of scream halfway down the hill. And you can bet that when I got off that ride I went straight to that ride operator and told that little motherf*cker that the hill was in fact twice as big as Splash Mountain just for his information.  

Some scary rides do not look the least bit inviting to me.  Bungee jumping does not look like fun - it looks like it would hurt.   Those big huge water slides at water parks do not look fun to me.  All I see is the potential for a giant wedgy.  The rides that go upside down do not look fun to me.  I have no desire to go on any of those rides.  But roller coasters, roller coasters look like they should be fun and yet, and yet . . . I just can’t get myself to go on them. 

I would like to be able to face roller coasters the same way I face the rest of my life.  The fear of success, failure, embarrassment or pain has never held me back from doing something I really wanted to do in my life. I just push aside the negative emotion and go from there.  With roller coasters I can’t handle standing in line to get on.  It’s always the anxiety and fear while waiting in line that stops me.  I suspect that if I could just walk right onto that roller coaster and go I would probably be ok.  Maybe not.  But I like to think I would. 

LIVING THE REALITY OF YOUR BEING

When I was in my 40’s struggling with being the best Mom, Nurse, Wife, Sister, Friend I could be, I thought that by my sixties (which at the time seemed very far away)  I would be satisfied with who I was.  I thought surely you get to a point in your life where you’ve worked out all of the kinks and become the person you were always striving to be.  But at 65 I’m not sure I’ve gotten to that point yet.  I feel like I have improved but not enough.  I’ve gotten wiser, but not wise enough.  The same ugly sides of me keep coming out.  I still procrastinate, I am still the shy little girl with no confidence at gatherings.  I still leave piles all over the house and hate to clean.  I’m lazy about exercise, very undisciplined. I’m inpatient with people who don’t take work as seriously as I do.  I can be a sweet, loving person but also a very stubborn, opinionated person.  I’m still a control freak.  

I have a friend whose children remember the day she said outloud “Well, like it or not this is me and I am who I am.”  And she was able to let go of all of the other me’s she wanted to be.  She consciously decided she was going to just be herself, warts and all and enjoy the rest of her life just being who she was.  

Now that friend happened to be a very beautiful, kind, compassionate person so I thought of course you can just be who you are, you’re already great.  However I had a co-worker once who said the same thing to me.  “Like it or not this is me and I am who I am.  I’m not going to change for anyone.”  Well, the problem with this is that she was NOT a nice person.  She could be very mean to her co-workers.  She was lazy and she had a mouth on her that never failed to offend people.  She figured that it was their fault not hers if they were offended by her.  So I thought “No, you can’t be like this.  You do have to make more of an effort.”  

But really what’s the difference between the two?  They are both about the same age and they both felt that they were now old enough to just stop trying to change who they were.  I truly believe there must be a point in your life when you should be able to do that.  And yet .   .  . and yet I also feel like we should always strive to grow and better ourselves.  But I’m getting tired.  I’m getting tired of always feeling guilty for my faults.  Surely at some point in my life I should be able to stop feeling bad about how I turned out and accept myself for who I am.   But when is that point? 

I keep going back to the time I shaved my head when the Cubs won the world series and for those few months it took to grow my hair back I didn’t care about my looks.  I spent no time in front of the mirror every morning because there wasn’t much I could do.  What was I going to do?  Shine my head?  It was such a liberating time!  I finally, after 50 some years felt free from everyone’s expectations of what I would or should look like.  Can I capture that same feeling regarding my inner self?  To feel that kind of liberation from the worry of not being who I think I should be!  Wouldn’t that be wonderful!  

Looking back to my childhood I always had friends and was never bullied in grade school.  Although not an “athlete” I was athletic enough to be one of the first picks for teams in the school yard pick.  I could hold my own in dodge ball and didn’t have any physical characteristic so strong that caused others to make fun of me.  I was shy and quiet so never made the mistake of saying something stupid simply because I wasn’t saying much of anything.  I felt bad for kids that were bullied and made fun of - Mary who was very heavy and always last to be picked and even then chosen with angst that the team got stuck with her, Raymond who was an only child with a divorced parent when divorces were rare and got the attention he needed by misbehaving, Veronica who was called names on the bus because of her severe acne.  I never joined in on the teasing and bullying but I never tried to stop it and never befriended these kids for fear that I would then be teased.  Back in our day no one talked to us about bullying, no one made any attempt to teach us how to stop it.  We just knew it existed and hoped it would never befall us.  

For various reasons I went to six different schools from Kindergarten through High School and every time I changed schools I entered with trepidation - would I  be teased, would I be bullied, would I find any friends, would I ever feel like I belonged.  I acted the way I thought I should act in order to gain friends quickly and avoid being bullied as the new girl. I was lucky and the transitions usually went smoothly and although I always made friends early on, I never felt like I belonged.  Every class that I was ever a part of had a large group of children in it who had been in school with each other since Kindergarten and shared a history that I would never share.  I don’t think there is anything lonelier than being among a group of people and feeling alone.  While reading through the very early years of my journal I often am exclaiming that "no one understands me”, “I just want someone in my life who gets me”, “why do I feel so very different than everyone else?” 

In addition I felt like I was the black sheep of my family being number three of four children.  I challenged my parents more often than the others to the point where it became a family joke.  At my wedding my father walked me down the aisle and passed me off to my husband to be and said “No give backs.”  It was, of course, a joke but there was a modicum of truth. 

That sense of not belonging persisted throughout my adult years.  Whether it was with the group of school parents, my co-workers or my paddling club it was always the same. I had this sense of being on the outside looking in.   My core belief was “I don’t belong”.  My brain only paid attention to the evidence that supported that belief.  Even if the majority of my experiences were ones where I felt part of the group, I gave more weight and paid more attention to the one interaction where I felt I didn’t belong.  I was an outsider for such a big part of my life that it was the role I chose for the rest of my life. It may not have been the role I wanted or that was true, but it was familiar.  In my younger years I never had unconditional self acceptance and I have always relied on external forces for validation.  If I could have felt worthy on my own the feeling of not belonging probably would not have hurt so much.  

I have a sign in my den that says “In My World, I’m Normal” because to this day I feel different.  The distinction now, in my oh so wise years, is that I can see my connection to others and know that everyone struggles and has difficult times and after so many years of self doubt I truly believe I am loved, I am worthy, and although I can and believe whole heartedly that I should continue to try to improve, I don’t have to be anyone else but myself.

And that feels good!

I WISH

I wish I had never met Walter with his dark Latino good looks and country boy demeanor.  We spent the party sitting in the far corner of the house moving closer with every drink we had.  He opened the door and helped me into his truck so we could go out for something to eat.  We laughed as we shared stories of our childhoods, our college days and our failed jobs.  Once home, Walter parked the truck and then turned toward me.  Before I could even reach for the handle of the door his hand was up my shirt and his lips on mine.  His aggressiveness so surprised me that I hit him.  He immediately stopped “What was that for?”  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”  I opened the door, jumped out and ran into the house.   All of my Dad’s stories of entitled young men came back to me in a flash.  He taught me well.  

I wish I hadn’t gone home with Jim Simpson after the party.  He charmed me with his sweet smile and good looks, with his kindness and confidence.  My inexperience making out was obvious but he whispered in my ear that he would show me how.  Our kissing turned into french kissing and then his hand was up my shirt and before I knew it he was laying on top of me on the couch and I could feel his hardness.  I pushed him away and told him I needed to go home.  Lucky for me he wasn’t a total louse and the minute I said “No”, he stopped.  I could have gotten into a lot of trouble that night.  

I wish I hadn’t sat next to the creep on the bus.  When he saw that a couple were looking for two seats together he asked if I wanted to sit next to him so they could sit together.  In my 16 year old naïveté I gladly complied not even suspecting his ulterior  motives.  As I rested my head against the window he gently put his hand on my leg and started working up my thigh, while at the same time he turned and kissed me.  Shocked I immediately stood up and said “What the f*ck do you think you’re doing?”  I left the seat to find another and found an elderly lady who offered me the seat next to her.  She looked at me knowingly.  She too had had similar experiences.  

I wish I hadn’t gone down to the Lake by myself.   I was in shorts and on skates and it was a beautiful Sunday morning.  I stopped by the harbor and sat down to rest and watch the boaters heading out.  A young, clean cut man stopped and stood over me.  “I can see your pubes”, he said.  He reached for me.  I jumped up and skated away as fast as my skates would take me.  I was lucky he didn’t follow as I’m sure he would have caught up to me.  

I wish I hadn’t worn that halter top to the family reunion.  It was tight around my young breasts and exposed my midriff and my entire back.  My Mom’s cousin, Dan who had two daughters of his own looked at me and shook his head.  “You girls,” he said, “you advertise and then you get angry when the ad is answered.”  All of the sudden I felt naked and ashamed.  

I wish I could walk down streets in the city at night that have tall bushes along the route and didn’t have to cross the street if a large man was coming toward me on my side of the street. I wish I felt safe traveling alone and that traveling alone across America or to other countries was an option for me. I wish I didn’t have to choose so carefully who I stand or sit next to on public transportation. I wish I didn’t have to be so nervous when circumstances force me to take help from a stranger. I wish I didn’t always have to make sure I have my keys in my hand when I approach my car and that I didn’t have to look in the back seat before I get in. I wish I didn’t have to avoid parking next to vans and didn’t have to park as close to the elevator as possible in a parking garage. I wish I didn’t have to choose so carefully what I wear when I go out and I didn’t have to keep a baseball bat under my bed. I wish I felt safe hiking alone, and it wouldn’t scare me so much when I get a flat tire or have car trouble out in the middle of nowhere.  It’s not that I can’t take care of myself but as a woman I have always felt vulnerable and have always taken measures to feel as safe as I can to the point where they are instinctive.  Jon, my husband, is six foot two.  For a long time he has never felt vulnerable. One day shortly after we had our first son he said to me, “Knowing that harm could come to our son makes me feel vulnerable for the first time in my life.  I don’t like the feeling.” 

“Welcome to every woman’s world” I said.

THE TWINS

Fay and Jeannie are best friends.  You might not know it if you approached them in the hall. 

Jeannie would be looking down at the floor, maybe peaking up at you with her head down and her eyes raised.  A kind of Princess Di look.  Fay would look you right in the eye unblinking to the point of discomfort, not in a mean way, just in a “I’m taking you all in” way.  

Fay is just under 5 feet tall and a solid 85 pounds, is missing half of her right foot and her left hand is in a permanent fist which gives her the look of someone looking for a fight.  She is 85 years old but strong enough to pull a sink off the wall or stack two bedside tables on her bed.  We know, we’ve seen it.  She has an insatiable curiosity about doorknobs and door handles and sets our alarms off on a regular basis.  But mostly she likes to wander the hallways.  She is well known and well loved in the facility by both staff and residents which has earned her the nickname Mama.  When she gets tired in the afternoon she has a left sided list to her walk and starts hanging onto the handrails.  That’s when we walk her back to her room and try to get her to rest.  For her that means sitting in a chair in her room or out in the hall clutching a stuffed cat that’s as big as she is.  New staff members who think of her as a tiny old lady get a hearty surprise when she squeezes their hand too tight or punches them because they don’t know how to talk to her in just the right way to make her want to cooperate. 

It’s a fine balance.  

Jeannie speaks a kind of English that sounds like the gibberish of a toddler although every once in awhile she will speak as clear as day.  Like when she cusses you out. She has a rare sense of humor which she displays by patting our butts as we walk by and then snickering at us.  She is often seen walking around the facility with PPE on - masks, gloves, shield, the whole works and sometimes with a stethoscope around her neck.  She is a collector of things. One week when the residents kept complaining about their TV remotes missing we were stymied until Amalio, our maintenance man walked up to me with a shopping bag in his hand.  In it he had about 10 remotes that he had found in Jeannie’s drawers.  Now when anything is missing we just check Jeannie’s room.  Jeannie is a kind soul who walks into just about anyone’s room and just sits with them.  She is never a bother and most of our other residents just wait quietly until she decides to leave.  They say she keeps them company.  She steals the nurses’ list of vital signs or sometimes the days’ schedule and if we are really lucky and patient we are able to wrestle them away from her undamaged.  But not without a long string of cuss words and then a chuckle or two.  She has a twinkle in her eye that makes her look like she is always planning something sneaky and makes you wonder if she really has dementia or is fooling every last one of us.  

Sometimes when I am rushing down the hall to my next meeting or to discuss something with my unit manager one of them will grab my hand as I try to pass them.  They keep walking expecting me to slow down to their pace and when they smile up at me what else can I do.  I slow down and walk with them the rest of the way down the hall.  Not only do my feet slow, but my mind slows and I breathe again and I enjoy that moment of love and friendship that they are so generously offering me.  

Roommates for the past year they get along quite well.   Although you never see them talking to each other or even spending a lot of time together, you get the feeling that one would have a hard time without the other.  Thus their nickname “the twins”.  

One day Fay wouldn’t leave her bed.  She refused her meals and we had a hard time rousing her.  We suspected a stroke so we called 911 and sent her to the hospital.  For the next couple of days we worried like a mother worries over a child.   Then about 3 days later we got a phone call telling us that Fay was being discharged back to our facility.  As she came through the door on a gurney we celebrated, following her down the hall to her room.  I stepped up to the gurney and said “Fay, you’re home!”  She grabbed my hand with her death grip and her eyes got misty as she smiled up at me.  Jeannie didn’t come around to greet her or seem to care that she was back.  We settled Fay in and all went back to work.  

That evening as I stood at the end of the hall I saw a most enchanting sight.

There were Jeannie and Fay hand in hand, Jeannie ever so slowly leading Fay back to their room.  Neither was talking but then there was nothing to say.  The twins were reunited.

(First Published in The Potato Soup Journal - August 2022)

PERPLEXED

I’ve been given my medication instructions:

Start taking MOLEXICAM before the surgery but the pharmacy says it will take two days to get the MOLEXICAM so I won’t get it until the day of the surgery is that ok and what else am I supposed to take before the surgery? The ASPIRIN for clotting but if you take the ASPIRIN and the MOLEXICAM you also need to be taking the PRILOSEC because they are both hard on your stomach so the PRILOSEC will keep you from getting a GI bleed. After the surgery you can start taking the OXYCONTIN along with the MOLEXICAM and start taking the SENNA and MIRLAX because the OXYCONTIN will cause you to get constipated. You can take CLARITIN for your allergies and if you get a migraine it is ok for you to take your FIORINOL and IMITREX. The OXYCONTIN and MOLEXICAM are not working for my pain I think I will try some of my husband’s leftover NORCO but my husband’s NORCO says to take one every four hours but I usually need two of anything I take so do they say take one because he only needed one and can you take two or is it one because you should only ever take one at a time. Yes, you can take two but remember that NORCO has TYLENOL in it so if you take NORCO you shouldn’t take anything else withTYLENOL. Your migraine medicine has TYLENOL so don’t take that or if you do take that don’t take more than 3000 mg of TYLENOL all meds combined or was it 2000 mg or maybe it was 4000 mg. Wait, how much TYLENOL does the NORCO have it doesn’t say but it looks like my FIORINOL has 325 mg in it so that leaves me a at least 1500 more mg of TYLENOL I can take in 24 hours I just need to figure out how much the NORCO has in it but wait the NORCO isn’t working either so forget the NORCO. The SENNA and the MIRLAX are not taking care of my constipation so I will add MILK OF MAGNESIA (MOM) and I wonder if that will be too much I guess I will find out and what does MOM have in it? So let’s see now I am taking ASPIRIN, PRILOSEC and SENNA and MIRALAX in the morning and ASPIRIN, MOLEXICAM, SENNA and MOM at night. Luckily I only get migraines when I am really stressed - yeah I am really stressed and I can feel a migraine coming on so I will need to take the FIORINOL and IMITREX this evening also so as expected none of the opioids are working so we are now going to take ADVIL every six hours and TYLENOL every eight hours and try DILAUDID every four hours because the docs still don’t believe that opioids don’t work for me but I am somehow supposed to be alternating all of these meds and not take them at the same time. Difficult. If I take the ADVIL at 6, 12, 6, 12 then I can take the TYLENOL at 9, 5, 1 but that’s a little too close to the last two doses of the ADVIL so I will take the TYLENOL at 8, 4, 12 but then I will have to take the ADVIL and TYLENOL at the same time for one of the doses and I wonder which is better to take them at the same time once or close together twice. Now I have to put the DILAUDID in which I could take at 10, 2, 6, 10, 2, 6 but I’m overlapping there too so maybe I should take the DILAUDID at 11, 3, 7, 11, 3, 7 I think that could work and now I have to stop taking the MOLEXICAM because I am taking the ADVIL and that will be too many NSAIDS for me to tolerate. I was supposed to take 2 - 325 mg tabs of TYLENOL but my husband bought 500 mg tabs and I’m going to assume that doesn’t matter because I don’t want him to have to go out again so if I take 2 - 500 mg TYLENOL every eight hours that means I am taking 3000 mg TYLENOL which is the limit that I can take so I can’t take the NORCO with it because it has TYLENOL which is ok coz I figured out that the NORCO doesn’t work for me anyway and I can’t take my migraine medicine with the TYLENOL because it has TYLENOL in it which could be a problem if I get a migraine so I guess I will just not get a migraine. I don’t’ always wake up in time to take the middle of the night doses of ADVIL and TYLENOL which throws off my schedule and when I wake in the morning I can’t remember the last time I took them so I’m going to have to write everything down - keep a pad and pencil at my bedside. I’m not sleeping well at night because of my allergies so I decide to take two BENADRYL before bed which is what I usually do during allergy season anyway and there’s no TYLENOL in BENADRYL but it does make you sleepy. I wonder if it’s ok to take BENADRYL with DILAUDID since DILAUDID is an opioid and can also make you sleepy maybe if I take both it will be too much and I will stop breathing in my sleep and that would not be good but I really need the BENADRYL and I don’t thing the DILAUDID is doing a damn thing anyway so I will skip the DILAUDID and just take the BENADRYL. Ok, so I am now taking ASPIRIN, SENNA, PRILOSEC and MIRALAX in the morning and ASPIRIN, SENNA, MOM and BENADRYL at night plus ADVIL and TYLENOL all through the day and night and I mustn’t forget to take the ONDANSETRON for when all of these meds make me nauseas.

Maybe I can sell some of these leftover opioids to pay my medical bills . . .

MORE POWER TO YOU

We headed to the worksite the first morning after we arrived in New Orleans.  It was a shotgun house in the lower 9th ward, a long, narrow dwelling that was a single room wide and a few rooms deep with no hallway. Popular folklore says that the home’s design allows a shotgun to fire a bullet through the open front door, straight through each room and out the back door unscathed.  Not sure why you would need to do this but just in case you did. Arranging all the doors in a single line through the house helped with cooling the home by encouraging a cross breeze.  The home, destroyed during Katrina, had been taken on as one of the projects for PDA, an organization that brought volunteers to different locations after natural disasters to help rebuild.  This was my first trip as one of those volunteers.  

There were seven of us of various ages ranging from 50 - 74.   Yes, 74, an incredible strong and sweet woman who I want to be when I grow up. The house had been gutted and reframed and it was our responsibility to sheet rock the entire house over the next week.  It had been two years since Katrina and Miss Barbara, the woman who owned the house had her money stolen by a crooked contractor and had no other way to rebuild.  It was a bit daunting when we first arrived since none of us had ever sheet rocked before but as Audrey, the young 20-something volunteer leader of the group started instructing us, acting as if we were totally capable of doing this, we found our mojo and got our butts in gear and jumped right into the project.  

Four of us were holding up a large piece of sheetrock.  The sweat was dripping down the sides of our face and back and Audrey pops in with her cordless drill.  She jumps on a ladder and presses the tip of the drill to a corner of the sheetrock - bzzzt, over to another corner - bzzzt, and another and then the last bzzzt bzzzt.  

“You’re good” she says.  

We let go as she moves from one side of the sheetrock to the other putting in another 20-30 screws in less than a minute to hold it all in place.  Whoa!!  Just like that the piece is up and we are ready for the next.   A cordless drill that acts as an electric screwdriver - I want one!!  I take over for Audrey with the electric drill and before long I am just as quick and just as efficient.  And really really proud of myself.  

By day we worked for 8-10 hours on sheet rocking.   By night we did our chores at the common dorms, ate dinner and headed to bed for a long awaited respite from the heat and our aching muscles.  We would once again rise at 530 or 6 depending on whether or not it was our turn to cook breakfast and then head back out to the house and repeat.  For a lot of reasons this was a truly wonderful and rewarding trip.  The comeraderie, the sense of accomplishment, the beautiful city and people of New Orleans.  But by far the most awesome and unexpected part of this trip was my foray into and then love of the world of power tools.  

 “How are we going to do THIS?”  I asked looking at a piece of sheetrock that needed a hole to accommodate a fairly large pipe.

“No problem”, my more experienced, confident co-workers explained

They handed me a a hole saw.  

“What’s this?” 

“A hole cutter.  The annular kerf creates a hole in the sheetrock without having to cut up the core material.”  

I had no idea what an annular kerf was but it sounded kind of sexy.  

I took the hole saw in my hand and knelt down in front of the sheetrock.  A circle had already been drawn.  As Barbara and Leslie held the sheetrock I centered the saw on the hole, goggles down, mask up, held my breath and switched it on.  Ziiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiip Just like that a hole made - the perfect size for the pipe.  Nice!  

Putting up dry wall is a heavy job.  It’s an even heavier job in the Big Easy in 90 degree heat with 90% humidity.  We wore T-shirts and heavy pants to protect our legs from bumps and scratches.  Some of us wore headbands to cool ourselves off and we drank water by the gallon.  By the end of the day I was dusty and dirty and sweaty, muscle fatigued, bumped and bruised.  But I was ecstatic!  I was loving the power tools.  Power tools have an untamed spirit that says anything can happen! Power tools get things done fast! Power tools can erase the past!  Power tools are a good excuse to make a mess! Yes!

Looking up at the narrow doorway I could see that we had to trim some of the sheetrock away.  Once again Audrey appeared.  She handed me a hefty little saw, smiled and said “You’re going to love this.  Its a Sawzall reciprocating saw, 3000 strokes per minute.  But be careful.   If you manage to get the blade in a bind, it’s powerful enough to throw you on the ground.”  She had a twinkle in her eye.  You could tell this was one of her favorites.  Passing my hand over its smooth body, fingering its blade I looked at it with awe.  She knew she had my attention.  Goggles down, powder flying everywhere but in just minutes the edges are smooth and lined up with the wood frame.  Bingo! I thought I had died and gone to heaven. I returned home from Katrina declaring to my husband that for Christmas I wanted a reciprocating saw.

Our next trip was to Austin, Texas where we were to help people rebuild their homes after some devastating fires.  My group was nailing up siding . . . with nail guns that shoot nails mounted on long clips much like a machine gun.  Dangerous power and I was hooked, I knew I  had to try it.  While my partner held the siding in place I used the nail gun to attach it - 40-60 nails a minute.  Whoo!  Such a rush! 

In addition to making you feel all powerful and invincible, power tools have their own very cool jargon.  Words like annular kerf, nipple bits, diamond knock out, angle grinder, bugle head screw, swarf, wacker packer.  How can you NOT have captivating conversations with those words in your vocabulary?

The attire that goes with the power tools adds another level of allure.  The tool belt hanging seductively on my hips making me swagger when I walk. The belt holds my more minor tools - screws, hammer, measuring tape, and pencil right at my fingertips.  My knee pads on for when I’m crawling around on the floor.  Heavy work gloves to make me feel really bad ass and goggles perched atop my head for easy access when needed. I feel ready to create!   and to create fast!  and messily!  Sometimes I would walk around the dorm in my power tool clothes just to show off.

Due to my schedule and then Covid I haven’t gone on one of our building trips in a few years and I miss my power tools.  Jon has a circular saw I could use to feed my addiction but what I’m really looking for is a  diamondback tile saw, a big miter saw or maybe  a monster chainsaw.  Last year I got to drive my friend’s tractor at her farm.  Whoa!  I think I might even switch over to driving large machinery - backhoe, Bobcat, bulldozers, forklifts  .  .  . yeah!

COME ON, COME ON, COME ON, COME ON, NOW TOUCH ME BABE

Thirty-six hours after my hip replacement and my blocks wore off I ended up in the ER by way of ambulance for uncontrolled pain.  Shortly before that I was lying in my bed with ice on my hip my husband standing over me.  I was trying to get out of bed to get to the bathroom but every time I tried to move I got nauseas and dizzy and the pain was excruciating.  I actually have a high pain threshold but as with the past surgeries, the opioids were doing nothing for me.   I must have some weird genetic trait that keeps me from metabolizing opioids and narcotics because they rarely work on me.  The first time this was brought to my attention was when I was admitted to the ER for an extremely painful muscle spasm along the entire left side of my body after a 12 mile paddle.   They started by giving me demerol, then morphine, dilaudid and finally toradol which worked!  Hallelujah!  That’s when I realized I might be in trouble in future pain situations.  The next time this happened to me was about 36 hours after my shoulder surgery when the blocks wore off.  As directed I had been taking my opioids well before the blocks wore off but it didn’t help.  I ended up in the ER with uncontrolled pain which they could only get back under control by giving me another block.  So, this time wasn’t really a surprise to me, I was just hoping it would turn out differently.  I had discussed my intolerance to opioids with my physician beforehand but I felt like he didn’t take me seriously.  He told me I should do lots of ice which I have always done, start the opioids before the blocks wear off which I have always done, and really he said, hip surgery pain isn’t as bad as shoulder pain anyway.  I said to him “You are going to cut me open, cut off the end of my bone, stick a rod down the center of the bone, sand down a portion of another bone and you are telling me that the pain will not be so bad?” “Yeah,” he said “amazing isn’t it?”  “F*cking unbelievable” is what I was thinking.  

So once again I am back in the ER with uncontrolled pain.  Due to Covid they will not let my son nor my husband in with me.  I am pretty hysterical at this point.  I’m thinking if they just chop my leg off I will be 100% better.  The nurse  asks me the little number question that we have all been asked. “If 10 is the worst pain you can imagine and 1 is no pain at all, what number is your pain?” I want to say 15 but I’m a nurse and want to be helpful.  So I say 9 because of course you can always imagine worse pain which would then be the 10.  But it is obvious I am in a great deal of distress and if the crying and sobbing isn’t convincing enough, the high blood pressure, racing heart rate and low oxygen saturation should be an indication that my pain is at least a 9.  But this nurse is not over at my bedside.  She is not even looking at me.  She is at the computer on the other side of the room filling in her little boxes because that’s what she needs to do so when I say I am a 9 her response is to click the little 9 on her computer.  She does not look at me, she does not show any sympathy or compassion, she is too busy filling in her little boxes on the computer.  When I say 9 she does not come over to the bed and try to reposition me to get me more comfortable.  She doesn’t put a cool cloth on my head or conversely give me a warm blanket.   She doesn’t rub my back or hold my hand.  She doesn’t reassure me that the physician will be in shortly and they will figure out what they can give me to help with the pain.  She does ask me why I don’t have a pillow behind my head and when I tell her the paramedics took that pillow and put it under my leg she says “Oh” and then turns back to her computer.  She does not get me another pillow for under my head.  Throughout my 4 hour stay at that ER not one person touched me.  I had at least three different nurses come into my room and then walk back out the door in a hurry to get away from my discomfort.  I was on my call button the whole time which was my only way to communicate to someone somewhere to show me some compassion, to help me reposition, to get me more pillows, to reassure me but I got nothing.  If my son and husband had been allowed in they would have done that for me but they were not.  If I had had the energy and wasn’t in so much pain I probably would have made my requests more specific but I could barely talk much less make sense.  I suspect that by the time I left they were glad to see “that woman in Room 9” finally leave.  

Human touch and compassion,  that’s what I was looking for.  That little bit of physical affection that brings a bit of comfort, support and kindness.  It doesn’t take much for someone to give it but makes a huge difference to the one who receives it.  When you touch someone with intention you are saying “I’m here.  I see that you’re upset.  You’re not alone.  I will help you through this.”  

I had a friend once who had to have an MRI.  She had never had an MRI before so did not know what to expect.  When she went in and they slid her into the tunnel and started the test she freaked out.  She couldn’t do it.  They had to stop the test.  But she needed it done and she was determined to try again.  I told her I would go with her and when we got to the testing sight I asked if I could be in the room with her for the test.  They agreed. I sat at her feet and held onto her ankle.  Sometimes I stroked her leg but mostly I just stayed connected.  And she did great.  Human touch -  “I’m here. I see that you’re upset.  You’re not alone.  I will help you through this.”  

One of my dementia patients, Sandra, was always very agitated.  It was very difficult for her to lie still and yet she was always tired and wanting to sleep.  The Occupational Therapist and I  would get her all settled in her bed and she would close her eyes and look comfortable and we would leave and not three minutes later she would be up and out of her bed and back in the hall pacing.  So, one day after we got her all comfortable I sat with her.  I gave her a hug and told her I loved her.  Then I stroked her head and held her hand and sang her a song.  I reassured her that she was going to have a nice long nap and that I would check on her every 15 minutes.  Over the next two hours I did check on her every 15 minutes.  I went in, I stroked her head and told her I would be back soon.  For two long hours she was able to sleep.  When she finally woke she was well rested and less agitated.  Human touch - “I’m here.  I see that you’re upset.  You’re not alone.  I will help you through this.”  

A few years ago I was at my dentist’s office and needed some major work done.   I had tears rolling down my cheek and for a brief second the dental hygienist put her hand on my shoulder.  It made all the difference in the world.  I felt comforted.  But then she took it away and I said “Your hand on my shoulder really helped” and she put it back and I got through the procedure.  I hope she remembers that.  I hope she remembers how that small touch said “I’m here.  I see that you’re upset.  You’re not alone.  I will help you through this.”  

Human touch, compassion, empathy - magical

Angst in the Night

I’m trying to get tables set up for a big Thanksgiving Dinner.  There are lots of tables and they all have tablecloths and I am trying to fit all of the tables into a very small place and I’m having to move a lot of furniture to get everything to fit.  There are a lot of people who have already arrived and they aren’t helping me.  They are just watching me and chatting to each other.  But then I say something to them and they start trying to help and it gets worse.  Things keep spilling and dropping off of the tables.  I finally have to take all of the tablecloths off and can’t use them and tell everyone to just put everything else back on the table - cloth napkins, silverware, flowers, plates, glasses etc.  But they aren’t doing it right so I have to follow them and correct everything.  In the meantime the food is ready and it’s not Thanksgiving food but Mexican food.  I have to go out the door and down a hill to get the food.  I bring some of the food out but it gets spilled and people are wiping it up with good cloth napkins so there is food and dirty cloth napkins everywhere you look.  So I start over and try to get things cleaned up and now everyone is talking to me when I am trying to work and they keep commenting on what a tough time I was having but not helping and I couldn’t understand why not but I also didn’t want them to help because whenever they did they didn’t do anything right.  I have to keep reheating the food.  I’m still trying to get the tables set up when the caterers show up to serve food.  But I didn’t order any caterers so they are just getting in my way.  They keep trying to bring food out in plastic containers.  I keep chasing them away because the tables aren’t set up and I tell them I don’t want those ugly plastic containers on my tables.  I finally tell them they should just go home to their families and have their Thanksgiving.  They say they don’t have anywhere to go so I give them the kitchen they were working out of and tell them to just have their Thanksgiving there with the food they brought. So they do.  I finally decide that all I need on the tables is the silverware and napkins and that would be sufficient because people are now getting a little inpatient and wondering when we are going to eat.  A couple of them say they might have to be leaving soon.  I finally get all of the silverware and napkins on the tables and I go down the hill to get the food but when I come back the tables are gone and a truck is there to deliver the biggest table ever.  Jon had ordered it when he saw how much trouble I was having which was really nice so I couldn’t say anything but I had to put the food back again and was back to square one with setting up the table.  And in my dream I turned to someone and said this is like one of those stress dreams where you just can’t get anything done.  

I have always been a very vivid dreamer.  Nearly every morning I wake up remembering a dream from the night before.  They are always colorful and complicated and weird and have people in them that I haven’t even thought about in 30 years.  But the stress dreams are the worst.  I wake up feeling exhausted .  .  . and stressed.  Sometimes I ask myself why did I have one of my stress dreams, I’m not stressed.  But then I think about what is going on at work or the world or with one of the kids and ah yes, I guess I am stressed.  And I thank the  consciousness of my subconscious for bringing this to my attention because I am one of those people who doesn’t know how stressed she is until the stressor is eliminated.  Then I say, “Oh Wow.  I feel so much better.  I was really stressed.”  So now when my dreams tell me I am stressed I believe them and take a look at my life and figure out what needs to change.

Now I’m at school and I know I have a big Math exam that day but I have just remembered that I haven’t been to the class all year.  I can’t remember what classroom it is in and can’t find my schedule to figure it out.  I know that I need to go to the office to get a new copy of my schedule but I can’t remember how to get to the office.  I think that maybe if I can get to my locker and get the Math book I’ll remember where the class is.  But I can’t remember where my locker is or I can’t remember the combination to my lock.  I wander the halls of the high school but nothing looks familiar and I start to wonder if I have been to any of my classes all year. 

I have been having nearly nightly stress dreams lately.    I believe I feel angrier, sadder and more stressed than I ever have in my life.  Between Covid, the assault on women’s rights, war in the Ukraine, the continuing election of uncooperative, out of touch, worthless politicians, the decline of honor and integrity in our country, the increased displaced power of social media, the ever increasing and ever present racism and shootings, our totally dysfunctional healthcare system and climate change,  I often feel hopeless and helpless.  I ask myself are things really worse than ever before or am I just paying more attention because of the 24 hour news cycle.  I think back to World War II and the Depression, the Dust Bowl, and even the 60’s when I was growing up surrounded by news of assassinated civil rights leaders and presidential candidates, the Cold War, the Viet Nam War showing live in my living room, and violence directed at peaceful protesters for civil rights. We’ve certainly had our bad times.  The difference I believe is that common decency and a shared opinion of right and wrong is what is missing now more than ever.  And that’s what is scary to me.   Our country is spiritually wounded.

This time I am standing in a nondescript room and talking to a friend.  Every time I open my mouth to talk some of my teeth fall out.  I have to put my hand under my chin when I talk so I can catch my teeth.  Right before they fall out I hear a crunching sound like they are breaking off.  I try to talk without opening my mouth thinking that will keep me from losing my teeth but it doesn’t work. I can feel them loose in my mouth and know they will fall out the minute I open my mouth again.  So I stop talking and keep my mouth shut for awhile. Then after a bit I start to talk again thinking I am safe but I’m not and more teeth fall out.  

This is what I believe: I believe that the vast majority of people worldwide are good people and want the same thing - to be safe, to raise a family and be able to offer their children opportunities, to work at a rewarding job, to be financially secure, to have healthcare and the means to get an education, to have a community of like minded people.  I do what I can to help in my job and in my community but when I look at the global picture I feel paralyzed.  

I am trying to get out of the house and someplace I need to be but things keep happening that keep me from getting out of the house.  I can’t find my shoes or I find my shoes and they don’t fit me anymore so I have to find other shoes.  Then I am looking for my suitcase and it isn’t where it usually is so I have to search the whole house to find it and when I do find it I put all of my clothes in it and then discover that the zipper is broken and I can’t shut the suitcase.  So I put all of my clothes into garbage bags and just as I am walking out the door the garbage bags split open and all of my clothes fall out onto the floor.  I finally get my clothes into the car but I don’t have my key, can’t remember where I put it or what it even looks like.  So I try to call Jon and when he answers I can hear him clearly but he can’t hear me.  So I keep hanging up and keep calling but the same thing keeps happening.  

I once read a quote that sounded something like this:  “Americans will always do the right thing after they have tried everything else.”  I want to believe this to be true.  But I’m getting inpatient - how many more things do we need to try before we do the right thing? 

Right now I’m not liking my country a whole lot.  

And the stress dreams continue.  

THE MYSTERY OF THE MANGO PIT

I always found mangoes to be quite mysterious.  I cut away the soft flesh inching closer and closer to the pit that I can’t quite see but know is there.  I listen for the crunchy grating sound of the knife just grazing the pit.  Then as the knife hits the pit I back off just a centimeter and make my cut so as to get as much of the tender ripe mango meat as possible.   But I never quite see the pit.  I know it’s there, I hear it, I feel the roughness against my knife but even as I cut away the mango I still don’t get a good look at it.  It has eluded me for years.  But that’s what makes the mango so special.  It has this hidden secret deep in its belly.   Although I have never tried I always thought that even if I sliced away little by little every last bit of mango meat somehow that pit would not show itself. 

Like a mango pit my dreams are ever elusive.  I butt up against them, I can feel them but even as I get closer to them I’m never quite sure what they are.  They have  never shown themselves clearly to me.  I have never dreamt of being a powerful businesswoman, or a famous author or artist.  Never have I thought about being a rich lawyer, a physician who discovers a new cure or the first woman president.  Not a singer, an actress, or an entertainer of any kind.  I’ve never wanted to own my own company, invent something new or win a pulitzer prize.  Sometimes I think that my dreams have more to do with what I THINK I should want.  Maybe because I don’t really KNOW what I want. 

As I struggle to decide what to do with this last third of my life in which I finally have time to pursue any dreams that I might have, I try to think back to all of the things I wanted to do when I was a busy Mom of four children and motherhood was my entire life.  I have a vague recollection of wanting to be a storyteller, a world traveler, an ASL interpreter, a dancer, an expert in survival medicine, a motivational speaker, a sommelier  . . . but those were all fleeting and not passions that I knew I would need to fulfill for my inner contentment.  

When my fourth son, Drew was five years old he told me he wanted to be a chef when he grew up.  I nodded my head and offered the standard mother response as I did with all of my kids and said “Yeah great!  You know you can be whatever you put your mind to.”   Then I went about the business of taking care of the minutiae of our lives that day.  But Drew took it a step further.  He went to a good friend of ours who owned a restaurant and told her he wanted to be a chef and asked if she would teach him how.  Being the generous person that she was she said sure but he would need to be a little older before they started.  She told him to come back to her when he was in Junior High.  I think she and I both figured this too would pass.  But it didn’t and six years later he went to her again and said, “I’m in Junior High.  Can you teach me now.”  And she did.  She took him under her wing and into her kitchen and that was the beginning of his career as a line cook and then a sous chef.  Now to me, that is a passion.  To know what you want to do with your life at such a young age, to do what it takes to accomplish  that and to make and take opportunities to keep you headed in that direction.  How lucky he was to know what he wanted and how lucky he was to find a thoughtful and generous mentor who would help him live his dream.  

I remember once reading that if you want to figure out what to do with your life think back to what you used to play as a child because that is what you enjoyed before you had all of the outside influences that very often affect your choice of career.  I loved pretending I was a nun teaching in a Catholic school.  In second grade at my request my Mom sewed for me a nun’s habit.  With my new habit on I would go down to our basement and teach the imaginary class I had with my very own real blackboard.  I would make my students follow me around in a straight line, hushing them along the way.  We would stop often to pray and I would have to scold them when they were being too noisy, wagging my finger at them and talking in a stern voice.  I had a rosary looped around my belt and tucked my arms under my scapular as I walked . . . so I guess I’m joining a convent??

I bought a mango yesterday and I finally got down to the pit.  I cut around it and chipped away at it and then sucked it clean.  It’s white and fuzzy and inside is a big rich brown solid seed.  The mystery of the mango pit is gone.  I hope the mystery of my dreams follows. 

ONCE UPON A CIRCUS

Every summer there was a flurry of excitement when we started seeing Circus Vargas posters around town.  We watched with great anticipation for the circus trucks to pull into town.  On the day their trucks rolled into the Korvett’s parking lot all of the neighborhood kids could be seen running or riding their bikes through the neighborhood streets down to the break in the fence.  The excitement would hit a fever pitch as the last truck came to a stop near the grassy field at the end of the lot.   

As soon as the trucks had been parked the workers would jump out and the organized chaos would begin.  The first thing to go up was the big top.  Circus Vargas has one of the biggest big top tents in circus history - 90,000 square feet of fabric, 500 stakes and 4 miles of rope. It was under the big top where the magic would happen, where the circus would begin with a dramatic introduction by the ringmaster and a parade followed by the circus acts themselves - beautiful women on ropes, skilled trapeze artists, animal trainers, circus clowns.  They would have it all and we could hardly contain our excitement.  

Watching the big top go up was the most thrilling of all.   It would take thirty men and four elephants seven hours to set up the tent.   The men would guide the elephants over to the trucks where ropes attached to the poles would be hooked up to their harnesses.  Working together the massive beasts would drag the poles to the grassy field where the big top would go up,  neighborhood kids cheering them on.   The rest of the crew dragged the miles and miles of canvas that would be the main tent out of the trucks and lay it out on the field.  Hours later, with the poles and the canvas in position the elephants were once again put to work and the tent would finally start to rise.  As we watched we would fall silent.   The elephants would pull and strain working side by side and in unison bringing the poles upright and thus raising the big top.  As it rose into place everyone, kids and workers alike, clapped and cheered.  The Circus was here!! 

The circus workers were a motley bunch, dirty clothes because of the dirty work they did, unshaven and unkempt.  But they were kind and friendly, they taught us how to feed and groom the ponies and seemed to enjoy our company.  Our parents admonishments to us to not disturb them while they did their work fell on deaf ears.  For we knew from experience that all of these workers had free tickets to the circus that they could share and we tried to impress on them that we were deserving of those tickets.  And so we readily agreed to work with them carrying the feed, brushing the ponies, scooping up the poop.  They watched and laughed and cheered us on.  A radio played music as they sat in their lawn chairs enjoying a smoke.  Sometime before the first show they would slip us the free tickets and we would run home with the tickets tight in our fists.  We would beg some spending money from our parents for peanuts and soda and that evening head out for the show.  During the week, even after the workers had run out of free tickets we would stop by in the afternoons to help with the grooming and feeding.   

One year around the second day of the circus something changed.  Our parents forbade us to go back to the circus grounds to help.  We begged and pleaded as we were still trying to work toward the coveted free tickets but they insisted we stay away.  I was devastated.  How would I get my free ticket? I knew it was the only way I would get in to see the circus.  I snuck out of the house and took my purple Schwinn and headed over to the parking lot.  When I approached the men caring for the ponies, offering my help, instead of the usual laughter and frivolity they looked down sadly, shook their heads and sent me on my way.   “Sorry hon, we can’t have you hanging around anymore.  Go home then.”  They turned away from me knowing that one of their own had ruined it for all of us, workers and kids alike. 

In hushed tones I heard the parents talking - young teen, molest, pedophile -  I was too young to know what those words meant but what I did know was that something I didn’t quite understand had taken away one of my greatest summer joys.  From then on the annual arrival of the circus was no longer as exciting.  The anticipation of the show itself dulled.  Looking back I realize that it wasn’t the circus itself  but instead the comeraderie with the circus workers that we loved, earning our tickets through hard work and being what we thought was an integral part of bringing the circus to life.   And along with that young teen’s innocence this is what was lost that summer 0f 1968.

(First published in Potato Soup Journal, October 7, 2022)

THE FAINTING FAMILY

The priest’s voice drones on and I feel the familiar sensations - the slight buzzing in my head and the dizziness.  I look down, I fidget, I try to find the closest exit.  Then eventually the black spots start to appear before my eyes quickly blotting out the world around me.  I head out of the pew and down the center aisle of the church and out the front door.  The ushers have come to expect me.  This is not my first rodeo.  I have been fainting in church for several years.  They sit me down on the steps, bring me a cup of water and I follow the usual ritual of putting my head between my knees until the feeling passes and I think I can remain upright again.   

I’m a fainter, my husband is a fainter, our sons are fainters.  It’s actually quite a feat to be a fainter and a nurse.  I don’t faint at the sight of blood I faint whenever I see someone writhing in pain because I have an overabundance of empathy.   I have, on occasion, had to tell a physician that he needed to get another nurse to assist with a procedure because I knew the patient would be in pain and I would pass out.  They usually don’t believe me and pull me into the room anyway only to wonder where the hell their nurse went when I would leave halfway through.  As much as I find surgery interesting, I faint when I see open wounds.  Whenever I have been in to observe surgery, I have ended up on the anesthesiologist’s stool with my head between my knees trying not to pass out.   It is not the obvious that makes me pass out, the sight of blood or organs.  I find body innards very interesting.  But my mind imagines what it would feel like to be awake and have your body opened up like that.  That’s what makes me faint.

My first experience with the rest of my fainting family was when my then two year old, Sam, cut his hand on a piece of glass.  Zach was at school and I was home alone with the other boys.  Sam, Jake, who was four at the time, and I were out front playing baseball and the ball rolled across the street into a grassy field.  As Sam picked up the ball he screamed out in pain.  I saw blood spurting out of his hand and when I looked closer could see muscle and bone.  Now typically I would have immediately passed out but when you are in Mom mode, this is not an option.  If I passed out, Jake, the four year old would be responsible for getting Sam to the hospital.  Probably would not go well.   So I quickly covered the hand so that it would stop the bleeding but more importantly in my mind so I wouldn’t have to look at it and could remain upright.  I called 911 and then called my husband, Jon to meet us at the hospital.  Due to my propensity toward fainting I once made Jon promise that he would always go in with the boys should they need stitches.  The ambulance arrived and they put Jake in the front seat where he got to play with the sirens and lights and Sam and I were in the back with one of the paramedics.  We were half way down the block when I said “Wait, go back, we forgot the baby!”  In tandem they asked “what baby?”.  We backed the ambulance up and one of the little boy paramedics ran into the house.  Then he came back out and said “This is a LITTLE baby!”  Drew was three weeks old.  I said “Yeah yeah yeah, just throw him in the car seat.”  He was, after all, my fourth baby.  There was very little that threw me off my game at that point.  

As promised Jon was waiting at the hospital and he went in with Sam while I was out in the lobby with Jake and Drew.  Not too much later the nurse brought Sam out to me all bandaged up.  She explained that he did indeed require stitches and would need surgery.  As an afterthought as she walked away she said “Oh yeah and we’re still working on your husband.”  “My husband??  What was wrong with my husband?  He was fine when he came in.” She explained that Jon was at the head of the gurney with Sam, talking to him and keeping him calm.  He figured if he just focused on Sam he wouldn’t pass out.  The young doctor asked my husband how they were doing.  When Jon said fine the doctor who obviously had stayed out too late partying the previous night and wasn’t thinking straight said “Good, coz I want to show you something.”  When Jon turned toward him he saw that Sam’s hand was wide open.  The doctor started pointing out the tendon that had been severed and Jon went down for the count.  Everyone in the room left Sam’s side and tried to move my 6 foot 2, 180 lb  husband up off the floor and onto a gurney.  They were still ministering to my husband with juices and cool cloths.

The time I suspected we had passed our fainting genes onto our children was when we went to the London Dungeon back when my boys were in middle and high school.  Now, if you haven’t had the good fortune of going to the London Dungeon let me describe it to you.  It is an entire museum devoted to the fine art of torture.  It describes and depicts every type of torture that was used in the past few centuries.  It’s a place where you probably shouldn’t take children but when you have four boys this was like finding paradise! We were standing in one of the rooms watching a woman dressed in period garb talk about all of the ways people were tortured in the London Dungeon back in the day.  She would pull out some nasty looking torture device and proceed to describe how it was used.  I was watching my oldest son, Zach across the small room as she talked knowing he had a weak stomach for this sort of thing.  I watched as he kept looking down at his feet, the first sign of trouble, as he fidgeted and kept looking toward the door, his route of escape, the second sign of trouble.  I watched as he turned pale, slunk to the floor and put his head between his knees, causing all sorts of distress to the people around him.  We were told it wasn’t the first time it had happened.  

One year I had shoulder surgery.  The plan was to have my then 20 year old son, Jake sit with me in the recovery room and bring me home where my husband would meet us.   My son described to me what happened.   He was sitting in a small cubicle of the recovery room worried for his Mom.  It was a warm room, I was all bandaged up, I didn’t look well, the little heart monitor was beating in a rhythmic tone.  His imagination was working overtime.   He started fidgeting and then looked down at his feet.  He looked up at the exit.  By then we all knew the signs.  The last thing he wanted was to faint in front of the hot nurse taking care of me.  So, he decided to step out for a minute and get a bit of fresh air, perhaps find somewhere he could sit and put his head between his knees.  He headed out to the hall — the next thing he knew he woke up, lying on the floor with his head in the lap of the hot nurse.  She was asking if he was ok.  He looked up at her and thought to himself, “Well, this is probably going to be the closest I will ever get to this hot nurse so I may as well enjoy it.”   

My husband is a tough guy.  He’s an Eagle Scout.  He used to be a water safety instructor.  He does not back away from any danger.  When there is a noise in the house late at night, unlike me he will go looking for it.  My sons are proud young men.  They are protective of their families.  All of the Alexander men love roller coasters and thrill rides.  I’m a nurse. I’ve experienced more than my share of putrid, horrifying, malodorous, stomach turning, repulsive things in my 40 year career. I would not put any of us in the wimp category.  However,  at any given time, if you come upon a faint-worthy scene, you won’t find any of the Alexanders in the thick of things.  Instead, you will find us all sitting on the curb with our heads between our knees.