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.
HAPPILY EVER AFTER
The big question is who does the dishes? If he has a heavy work schedule I do them, if I am tired he does them. Sometimes we both feel good or are both tired so we do them together and chat while we do them. He usually takes the garbage cans out on Tuesday nights but when he is coming home late from work or I know he has had a bad day I try to do it before he gets home. He is very neat. His den is in tip top shape, nothing out of place. I’m the pile person (every house needs one). I leave piles all over the house. I’m sure the piles drive him crazy but he never complains about them because he knows that is just me. Sometimes if I want to surprise him I go through all my piles and put them away. He always notices and appreciates my efforts but also knows the piles will return and he’s ok with that. He does the yard work and I buy the groceries. I cook and he does the laundry. He has been doing the laundry since our third son was born. Sometimes I do a load just to show him I am still capable. He teases me about not being the perfect housewife he was expecting 40 years ago when he married me.
Every morning we greet each other with a kiss and every night we say good night with a kiss. I don’t complain about his snoring because I know there is nothing he can do about it. He doesn’t complain about my flatulence which has increased exponentially the past two years because he knows there is nothing I can do about it. We take care of ourselves, we both shower daily, I pluck my chin hairs and he trims his ear hairs. We try to look nice for each other even as we ourselves are having difficulty accepting our aging bodies.
When the boys were little we agreed on how to raise them and if we didn’t we discussed it in private, not in front of the boys so we could provide a united front. He agreed to not buy a Nintendo for the boys and I didn’t give him a hard time about renting a Nintendo whenever I was out of town. We compromise on what TV show to watch, what movie to see, what restaurants to frequent, where to go on vacation. If we disagree on a political issue we hear each other out and then agree to disagree. Middle course, middle ground, happy medium - compromise. We choose our battles wisely.
We tried to give each other a break from the noise and chaos of our young family. When he needed to get away for an evening, he took it. When I needed to get away for an evening, I took it. It didn’t matter that I had just gone out with friends two nights before. We didn’t keep score. He knew that I would only leave him with the kids if I needed to leave him with the kids and I knew it was the same for him. We both needed time away from the responsibilities of the family and we didn’t make the other feel guilty about it. Neither of us played the martyr.
We never question each others’ expenditures. We both know what our financial goals are and trust each other to remember those goals when spending money. We know not to discuss finances if either one of us is already stressed or tired.
We don’t get angry when the other makes a bad mistake. We just try to help them fix it. Then we conveniently forget that they ever made the mistake in the first place.
We take care of each other when we are sick even though I accidentally left that out of my marriage vows on the day we married. (forgot to say “in sickness and in health”) We make each other tea or run to the store for ginger ale and crackers. We sympathize and empathize and make certain the sick person feels cared for.
We don’t tell each other how to dress or how to act or try to make each other into someone they are not. I have quit sighing when he puts ketchup on everything and he doesn’t even question my often outlandish ideas about my next weird project.
We try to be fun to live with. We have a very realistic looking stuffed dog that we leave in unexpected places around the house to hopefully startle the other person just for the fun of it. We get into deep discussions about our secret vice, the show “Survivor”. I tease him about how many trips he makes to Home Depot for one home improvement project and he teases me about spreading my work across the ten foot kitchen table even though I have a den with a nice desk. When we are making the bed together we can’t resist throwing a few pillows at each other.
We pay attention to each other when we are complaining about work even when it is the same thing we have heard for the past two weeks. We read each others’ moods and know that timing is everything. When we do go through a difficult time in our marriage we recognize that it is usually because one of us is particularly stressed or exhausted and we don’t take it personally. We have a strong commitment to the marriage so that on those days that we don’t particularly like the other person we stick around until we like them again because we always do.
We show pride in each other. I’m very proud of how successful he is in his work, how he worked from being a wedding photographer from Toledo, Ohio to being top in his field and a legend in a company for which he has worked for 36 years. I’m proud of the father that he was and still is to our four sons. He is proud of how I have mothered our four sons and made a home for our family. He is proud of my career as a nurse and that I can deal with life and death issues when he cannot. We let other people know how much we admire the other. We remind each other of how much we have accomplished in our lives as a team, how much we have followed our dreams and our vision for the life we wanted to have. And when we have stumbling blocks along the way we remind each other of other difficulties we have gotten through and that we will work through these too.
Neither of us has the fantasy that we are easy to live with and we both appreciate what the other has to put up with to live with us. We both know that the other person is the best thing that ever happened to us and we will never forget that.
And that’s how you stay happily married.
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SOUL FOOD
My 6 year old granddaughter, Effie, asked me the other day what a soul was and for the life of me I could not figure out how to explain it to her. Have you ever tried to describe a soul to someone? I was raised Catholic and as far back as I can remember I have always known what a soul is. I could not remember how the nuns from my old schools defined a soul to us. So, I told my little Effie what my father always used to tell me when I asked him a hard question,
“I don’t have time to answer that.” Then I went home and did my research.
The Oxford Dictionary defines a soul as “the spiritual or immaterial part of a human being or animal, regarded as immortal.” Collins Dictionary defines soul as “the part of you that consists of your mind, character, thoughts and feelings.” And good ole Wikipedia: “The soul . . . an immaterial aspect or essence of a living being that is believed to be able to survive physical death.” All of these definitions are intriguing but still left me at a loss as to how to explain it to a six year old.
It was a homeless person who gave me my first glimpse of a soul. I was teaching in San Francisco and every night at the end of my class when I left the building the same homeless woman would approach me. I have had contact with a lot of homeless people but she was different. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. Because of some bad experiences with homeless people in our neighborhood I have had a somewhat negative feeling about homeless people which I know is wrong and if there is a God I will probably end up in a homeless shelter before I die. This woman however I truly felt for. I didn’t have much money at the time and hardly ever carried any with me but I would always take the left over food from the class and bring it to her. She was always very thankful. On one particular evening when I came downstairs she was waiting as usual. On this evening I could see in her eyes that she was sick. She looked flush and feverish and obviously did not feel well. I asked if she was ok and she said “I’m just so sick. If I just had a bed to sleep in one night I might be able to get better.” I couldn’t think fast enough. I didn’t have enough money in my purse to pay for a hotel room. I wanted very much to do something but all I could do was give her the food I had and be on my way. On the way home I went over and over all of the things I could have done. I could have taken her to a hotel and paid for it with my credit card. I could have taken her home and nursed her back to health. And then as I was driving and chastising myself for not acting quickly to help this poor woman it hit me like a ton of bricks. This is going to sound really weird and when I think back to this it even sounds weird to me. But all of a sudden, I knew --- KNEW!! this woman had been Jesus in the flesh. It was so clear to me and for the first time in my life I understood when Mother Teresa says “Everyone is Jesus.” I felt like someone was shining a light on me showing me this and wanting me to fully understand that “Everyone is Jesus” because just as sure as I am that you are you, I am certain that this woman was Jesus. I also believed that I had let Jesus down by not helping him in some way that evening. That I had been tested, if you will, and had failed. But the really interesting thing about this test that I failed was that I didn’t feel bad about failing, I just felt that even though I failed by not helping her in some way, I had learned what Jesus wanted me to learn. I got it! I finally understood.
I know that all of that sounds a bit off the religious zealot deep end which we already know I am not. But looking back let me tell you what I believe. I believe that there is some higher power, someone or something, or some force that controls this world. Maybe it’s just Karma, maybe it’s the Star Wars Force, maybe it’s a God who takes a form that is beyond our imagination so we imagine him/her in human form, maybe it’s Mother Nature. And this force lives in each and every one of us, our soul perhaps. Maybe our soul could also be called Jesus. Maybe what I saw that night was someone’s very soul. Maybe that night for whatever reason I reached a level of consciousness that gave me a peek into the deep spiritual side of another human. Maybe this raised consciousness is what people like Mother Teresa live in all the time and so it is all very clear to them. I believe that this force that’s greater than us affects everything we do. But it comes from within and when we pray we aren’t tapping into some man in a white robe in the heavens, we are communicating with our soul and the souls of those we love, dead or alive as well as the forces of nature and the universe. And that’s where we find our comfort and our answers.
But back to explaining this to little Effie. I told her that inside of everyone is a special place. I told her to picture a little piece of a rainbow inside of her (because she LOVES rainbows) It isn’t something we can actually see with our eyes but we can feel it. We feel it whenever we do something good and we feel it whenever we help someone and we feel it when we need comfort and no one else is around to comfort us. And when our body dies, our soul, this little rainbow inside of us, lives on.
She looked at me as she tried to reconcile this with what she already knew about the world. Then she asked “But if your soul doesn’t die, where does it go?”
“I don’t have time to answer that” I said.
THE BEST WORST PROFESSION
One day back in 1980 I was visiting my parents in Matteson, Illinois. I had been out of nursing school for a year and was currently working at an NICU in Chicago. I was tired, stressed, burnt out, challenged and questioning my decision to become a nurse. Caroline, the girlfriend of one of our neighbor’s sons dropped by because she was considering being a nurse and wanted to know what I thought of my new profession. She was very excited about the thought of becoming a nurse. Being the pig headed and not very diplomatic person that I am I gave her no rose colored glasses. I told her not to even consider it. I told her it was perhaps the worse choice that I had ever made. I told her it was exhausting and stressful and ethically challenging. I complained to her about the physicians, the residents, the baby’s parents. I complained about working holidays and shift rotations. I didn’t stop there. I went on and on as if my one year of nursing taught me everything I ever needed to know about the profession. Her smile faded as she listened to me and although I realized I had stepped on her dream I thought she should know the truth. Once she left my father lit into me. He could not believe I would paint the profession so negatively when it was obvious this young woman was excited about the prospect of becoming a nurse. I told him he just didn’t understand.
I stayed with this profession that I so vehemently “hated” for 43 years and for the past two years I have been tasked with the education of our local nursing students. It’s been challenging, this teaching thing. I am having to relearn skills I have not used for 30 years. I have to keep up with the latest research, the newest protocol, the most up to date equipment. But even more challenging than all of that is figuring out how to reconcile the nursing school nurse with the real life nurse.
I teach in the skills lab. When I teach a skill I teach the proper way to do it, no short cuts, with all of the right supplies when the reality is that many of us use short cuts and very often don’t have the correct supplies. We have learned that if we don’t use short cuts we wouldn’t possibly be able to get all of our work done and that very often the hospital, the unit, the long term care facility, the clinic where we work does not provide us with the proper supplies because of cost.
Sometimes the equipment in our skills labs doesn’t work and the students get frustrated. I have to explain to them that this is not so unusual in our hospitals and they need to think of alternatives should this happen on the job. They are stymied.
How am I to teach these new nurses, so eager and so excited the reality of their profession without scaring them off? How do I set them up for success when I know what a shock their first year is going to be? Here’s a sobering statistic - 56% of new nurses quit the profession in the first two years post graduation. Now I am the one who is stymied.
They come to my classes having just been in one of their clinical rotations with stories of nurses who are not kind to their patients, of nurses who do not follow the protocol that I have been teaching them, of real life heart breaking stories - a baby that died on their shift, a patient who was discharged with no one to care for him at home - and they look to me for answers.
Many times I am silent as I try to pull my thoughts together to give them hope at a time when our healthcare system is struggling. A time when their jobs are going to be more challenging and more complicated than mine was when I started over 40 years ago. A time when many senior nurses are leaving hospitals because they can’t take it anymore.
But sometimes I take a deep breath and I say the right thing.
I tell them that nursing is one of the most rewarding professions there is. That they will find their place in a profession that offers a wonderful variety of places to work.
I tell them that they’ll find a unit or a floor that has “their tribe” working there and those people will become like family to them because they will work as a team and bond over the traumas and joys they experience.
I tell them that they will experience the highest highs and the lowest lows of their life and will be better people because of those experiences.
I tell them that more than anything all they need to do every day of their working career is be the safest, most compassionate nurse that they can be given the circumstances. To speak up when they think they can and hold back when they feel they must.
I tell them they will make mistakes and God willing they will do no harm.
I tell them that one day they will come home from a truly horrible day and they will go into the shower and sit down on the floor and sob as the water rains down on them. But that they haven’t failed because like all good nurses they will go back the next day and try again to be the best nurse that they can be.
And I tell them to embrace the challenge.
And if any of them ask if I had to do it all over again would I be a nurse,
I tell them “In a New York minute.”
SERENDIPITY -
ser·en·dip·i·ty /serənˈdipədē/
noun A combination of events which have come together by chance to make a surprisingly good or wonderful outcome.
I have always told my boys “What goes around, comes around.” I encouraged them to be kind and compassionate telling them that good karma would follow them everywhere and in the end they would be rewarded in some way for their kindness. Jake at age 6 got tired of me telling him this and tired of trying so hard to be kind (especially to his brothers) and one day quite seriously asked me “Just how long does it take to come back around?” I had no answer because I knew that sometimes it seems to take a long time but I still believed it to be true.
Dad called to tell me that his sister, my Aunt Margie, was taken to the hospital. Living alone, she had fallen and passed out. Her neighbor found her and called an ambulance. At the hospital she was found to have extremely low blood sugar and pneumonia, was treated and was being discharged to a long term care facility (LTCF). Margie had only a stepson who she was estranged from so my Dad was going to fly across the country and check on her and see if there was anything she needed. I offered to tag along and he accepted.
We met in Chicago and then rented a car to drive down to West Frankfort, Illinois, a five hour drive straight south. My Aunt was in her late 80’s and had been living alone for quite some time. When we entered her home we found everything in order. Files in her desk drawer with all of her financials neatly sorted and labeled. Her freezer full of frozen dinners she had cooked and labeled. Nothing was out of place. She had been taking good care of herself. The only thing we had noticed lately in speaking to her over the phone was a certain paranoia that had crept into her life. Whether it was her stepson who she was convinced wanted to kill her or her life long neighbors who she thought were after her money. After settling in at the house we headed to the LTCF that she had been discharged to a few days before. The place looked clean enough but when we walked into her room she immediately begged us to get her out of there. That they were not caring for her, that she had to leave. Because of her paranoia I had no idea whether or not she was telling us the truth but what I did know was that it didn’t matter because it was HER truth and I needed her to be somewhere she felt safe. Was that even possible? We assured her that we would go home and make some calls and be back to take her elsewhere. She agreed she could wait.
My Dad and I headed back to her house and I started the arduous process of trying to find a long term care facility where Aunt Margie would feel safe. Not being from the area made this process exponentially more difficult. I started by finding facilities on the web and checking out their reviews, making a list of who to call and then started the calls. I proceeded to call one after the other asking about patient to caregiver ratio, CMS accreditation etc. but it was difficult to tell over the phone what was going to work and many had no openings. I started making appointments to see the different facilities surrendering to the fact that we had a long week ahead of us. I had to admit that deep down I didn’t think there was going to be any LTCF that would be good enough for Aunt Margie. And then I got on the phone with one of the Administrators of one of the facilities. She seemed kinder and more interested than the others and asked me some pointed questions about my Aunt. When I told her my Aunt’s name she said “Margie Byrne? Does she live on South Main?” I said “yes, why?”
And to my wonderment she said “Oh, you must bring her here. I grew up next door to Margie and when my mother was very sick Margie took care of her until the day she died. I’m forever indebted to her and would consider it an honor to take care of her.”
What goes around comes around . . .
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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.
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CALL THE MIDWIFE
I remember finding out that I was pregnant with my first son, not feeling pregnant and finding it unbelievable that I was. I remember the long hours of just sitting in my chair with my hand on my belly trying to imagine being a mother and saying “Mom” out loud trying to imagine a child saying that to me. I remember the pregnancy lasting forever and how excited I was to finally get to wear maternity clothes. I remember the first hours of labor with a mix of excitement and fear. I remember being put into the bed and being told I couldn’t walk around because they needed to keep me on the baby monitor and just wanting to walk around and wanting to walk around and wanting to walk around but always being told No. I remember not being allowed food or water “just in case”. I remember the hateful nurse coming in and telling me I was “failure to progress” and quoting the definition of failure to progress from William’s Obstetrics. I remember telling her to get the hell out of my room and refusing pitocin, having my waters broken and any other medical intervention they had planned. I remember my husband looking at me wondering why I was refusing and continuing to refuse an epidural again and again and again. I remember finally relenting to an epidural after pushing for 2 hours and the OB telling me she would have to use forceps. I remember feeling like a piece of meat after the epidural and feeling like something very precious had been taken away from me - feeling violated instead of elated giving birth. I remember being unable to see my husband’s face when Zach was born because he was required to wear a mask. I remember Zach being taken away from me and not seeing him for an hour or two. I remember swearing I would never do this again with this doctor in this hospital and thinking it’s a shame I won’t have the four kids I wanted because this was such a horrible experience.
I remember finding out I was pregnant with my second son and the pregnancy going much faster with little time to sit in my chair with my hand on my belly because I was taking care of my first. I remember worrying about how this new little baby would change our family dynamics and thinking about how happy the three of us were and why would I even think about changing that. I remember trying to explain to my husband why I wanted the birth to be in our own home with a midwife instead of the hospital with nurses and doctors who didn’t believe in my body’s abilities, and how happy I was when he supported my decision. I remember walking around and around the block with my husband as the labor progressed. I remember the midwife and a couple of my friends arriving at the house to be there with us and the midwife telling me I could get into whatever position felt comfortable and could eat or drink whatever sounded good to me. I remember both my parents and Zach being close by. I remember at one point telling the midwife I didn’t think I could handle the pain and she offered me a change in position, a back rub and soothing words instead of the epidural and my two friends, Jon and the midwife encouraging me every step of the way. I remember the midwife talking me through every minute of the actual birth and reaching down and touching my baby’s head when birth was imminent. I remember being able to see Jon’s face as he sat at my head and watched his second son be born. I remember lying in my own bed in my own room surrounded by the midwife, my husband, my two friends and my parents and Zach crawling up onto the bed, touching the new baby and saying “Can I pet him?” I remember lying in my bed and listening as they all passed Jake around and oohed and aahed. I remember feeling like I really could do this two more times as it was such an incredible experience.
I remember finding out that I was unexpectedly pregnant for the third time and it taking me a week or two to get used to the idea of having another baby so soon. I remember warming up to the idea pretty quickly. I remember having to choose another midwife since we had moved and grieving the fact that I could not have the one I had with my second. I remember this pregnancy going even faster and not having time to fully prepare for it, being so busy with my other two that I could barely give this one a thought. I remember being sad about that. I remember thinking what it would be like to have a girl this time but knowing in my heart that it would be a third son and being fine with that. I remember being in the car with my two boys and my husband to go look at a possible home to purchase when my waters broke. I was only 33 weeks but I remember my husband saying it would be ok. I remember how sad I felt that my plans for another home birth were thwarted because this baby was too early. I remember telling the doctor the baby was coming and him not believing me. I remember thinking “Damn, here I am back in the hospital with people who treat me like I’m an idiot.” I remember his surprise when Sam slid into the world just at that moment and he wasn’t prepared to catch him so I did. I remember cradling Sam in my arms for just a moment before they whisked him away to the NICU and sending Jon with them so Sam wouldn’t be alone. I remember having to go home without my baby and my arms aching to hold him. I remember returning to the hospital every two hours to breastfeed him and the nurses rolling their eyes at me when I wouldn’t let them give him a bottle. I remember after three days of him being in the NICU and being fine I told them I was taking him home - that what he really needed was to be at home with his mother. I remember the pediatrician disagreeing with my decision and the neonatologist giving me his blessing. I remember Sam just sliding into our family unit with barely a whimper.
I remember finding out I was pregnant with our fourth child and everyone asking if I was still trying for a girl thinking that’s the only reason I would want a fourth. And I remember thinking how wrong they were and that in my heart what I really really really wanted was for this baby to be as healthy as the rest. I remember being exhausted throughout this pregnancy because I was taking care of three boys under the age of 5. I remember having preterm contractions and being sent a home baby monitor and having to lie still for one hour a day to get a reading on the monitor to send in to the baby monitoring center and how hard it was to find an hour a day to do this. I remember finally just tossing the monitor into the closet and taking my chances. I remember very little from this pregnancy because it was going too fast and I was too busy. I remember picking out both a boy and a girl’s name but knowing in my heart of hearts that it would be another son. I remember my Mom and I just finishing up a huge Mexican casserole and licking our plates clean when the first contraction came. I remember being 36 weeks and 6 days and the midwife telling me I had to be 37 weeks to give birth at home so I told her I would cross my legs until midnight and she better get her butt here. I remember her agreeing it was close enough but she was an hour and a half away and would try to get there in time. My neighbor, Nancy who was a nurse, came over to help Jon and my Mom just in case the baby came too quickly. I remember hearing them discuss not taking me to the hospital because labor was moving quickly and it would be better for me to have the baby at home than on route 101. I remember walking around while I labored thinking I shouldn’t have had that last helping of Mexican casserole. I remember Nancy taking the boys to her house next door because they all pretty much decided they didn’t want to see the baby be born. I remember the midwife telling me to slow down my breathing because I had awhile to go and thinking should I tell her this baby is coming and deciding I didn’t have the energy and she would find out soon enough. I remember my Mom excited to actually see a birth for the first time because when she had her four children she never saw them born as they would give her anesthesia right at the moment of birth. She left the room for just one minute to get the warm blankets and while she was away my fourth son was born and she missed it. I remember the boys coming back home and seeing their baby brother for the first time just moments after his birth and Drew wouldn’t stop crying until his oldest brother took him into his arms. I remember listening as the boys passed their little baby brother, Drew, around trying to make him smile and feeling grateful that I was in my own bed in my own home with my Mom, my husband and my four little boys.
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Rebuilding a Wall of Truths While Watching the Fog Roll In
I walked into the NICU terrified. The babies looked so very sick, attached to ventilators, feeding tubes, IVs, you name it. They were dwarfed by the machines surrounding them. For the most part they laid quietly in their isolettes, their parents hovering over them itching to hold them close.
It was 1979 and I started the job in an NICU (Neonatal Intensive Care Unit) right out of nursing school. I was only 21. I wanted to be in an exciting part of nursing. I wanted to have intense experiences. I wanted to feel important. So I chose NICU. Every day I took care of very very sick new little babies. Having not been a mother yet, I didn’t fully understand the intense emotions of the parents and I could keep a certain emotional distance from the babies themselves. It was a challenging job and I loved it! I learned more in the first six months at that job than I had learned in the entire four years of nursing school. I knew there was still a lot to learn, but I was feeling better every day about my new found nursing skills.
One day we heard that a 26 weeker was coming to our unit. We had never been able to save any baby under 28 weeks. We all asked why? Why were they sending this baby to our unit when we all knew he wouldn’t make it through the night?
Little Paul arrived along with his hopeful parents and we set to work to do everything we could. We were afraid we wouldn’t be able to keep him warm enough in the isolette so we covered him with foil to keep the heat in. We questioned every procedure that we did to weigh the benefits against the risks. We touched him as little as possible. Every time we opened the isolette to do anything we felt we were risking his life.
And we all questioned why. Why should we work so tirelessly trying to save a 26 weeker’s life, knowing full well he wasn’t going to make it? Why are we even giving these parents hope? Why are we putting this baby through all of these painful procedures knowing in the end he was going to die? Couldn’t we just put him in his mother’s arms and let him die peacefully? We were told that caring for him as if he would live would help us learn what to do with the next 26 weeker. Was that right? Was it right to put Paul and his parents through this so that we might learn something from it? Perhaps it was, if it gave the next 26 weeker a better chance. None of us knew the answer. Paul died 48 hours later.
I watched as babies died, babies whose parents came in every day to be with them. I watched babies whose parents had abandoned them live, only to be put in foster care. Sometimes we did everything we could for a baby - went way above and beyond to save his life, knowing full well that the life he would have would be one of severe and crippling disabilities. All of this left me questioning and confused.
Because we were a teaching hospital we allowed inexperienced residents to do spinals, IV’s, and central lines on babies so they could learn. Sometimes we had to play deaf to the babies’ cries as these procedures were performed because they were too little for us to give them anything for pain. I saw incompetent physicians make bad decisions which prolonged a baby’s stay and I saw egotistical physicians who would not admit when they made a mistake. I saw nurses who had turned off all emotions and lose their compassion for both the babies and their parents.
During that year I saw more and learned more about myself and my values and the world at large than any other time in my life. Coping with the stress and ethical issues of an NICU became a huge and what felt like insurmountable challenge.
I drank a lot that year . . . I remember one night when I had gone out for a night of heavy drinking after a particularly stressful day at work. A couple of hours after going to bed I woke up throwing up and cursing the babies. “Those damn babies” I was saying out loud between heaves to no one in particular, “Look what they are doing to me. Damn you babies!!” It was definitely a wake up call.
By the time I was in my twenties, I had many beliefs and values, most of them taught to me by my parents, my church, my teachers or what little life experience I had accumulated growing up overprotected in my white upper middle class neighborhood. I was raised with certain truths - life is good, bad things don’t happen to good people, babies don’t die, there is a God and he protects the weak, people will act responsibly and ethically when it comes to others’ lives. All of these beliefs that I had acquired during my childhood and young adulthood were held into question that year. Life wasn’t always good, bad things do happen to good people, babies do die and if there is a God he/she isn’t always around to protect the weak and there will always be people who disappoint you.
The ethical issues were overwhelming at times and left me questioning everything I ever believed about life and the world we live in.
Over the years I had built a brick wall where every brick represented a belief or a value that I had accumulated over the years. Building a brick wall such as this sounds like a straightforward job, but it can be deceptively complicated. Up until now those beliefs and values guided my behavior and shaped my character. But something was wrong. When I had an experience like I had in the NICU, it felt like someone had just driven right through my wall and toppled it. There are bricks everywhere and my first thought is “Oh my gosh, what do I do? How am I going to stack all of those bricks up again?” Then, I realize that some of those bricks are defective and I couldn’t keep them in my wall. So, I very carefully pick up each brick and I take a good long look at it and I have to decide if it should be tossed aside or put back into my wall of beliefs and values. And as I do this, I very slowly rebuild that wall discarding some of what I thought were truths. But now my wall is stronger because I have gotten rid of the faulty bricks, the ones that don’t hold up to my new belief system. I then believed more strongly in my wall because it’s a wall that I built based on MY experiences and MY beliefs, not my parents’ or my teachers’ or my church’s. It’s a more flexible wall that will be knocked down and rebuilt again and again as my life experiences accumulate and the strength of my character emerges and even though I make decisions based on my wall I also have come to realize that some things are not black and white but rather a shade of gray that comes and goes like the fog on the Bay.
Embrace the Suck
On one of our family summer vacations we went to Squaw Valley, California where the Winter Olympics were held in 1960. We decided to take the ski lift up to the top of the mountain to see the views. It was a beautiful sunny day at the bottom of the lift but as we ascended the fog rolled in and it began to rain. Rising into the fog and rain the black flies started biting. I was in the seat with my sister and we were screaming and complaining as we went higher and higher trying to stay dry. The higher we went the more it rained, the wetter and colder we got and the more the black flies bit. We had no idea where we were in the trip or how much longer we would be on the lift. We couldn’t hear the rest of our family and felt isolated and alone and not just a little afraid. At some point during this really rotten, wet ride up the mountain my sister and I started to laugh at the ridiculousness of our situation. We decided to sing and went through our repertoire. We slapped at black flies and forgot about staying dry. We imagined we were lost on the mountain waiting for our handsome rescuers.
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On another of our family vacations we went down to the Florida keys with our trailer. We had the type of trailer that was a half trailer while you traveled. Once you got to the campground you popped it open to make a full size trailer. Since this was back in the 60’s the top of the pop up trailer we had was just canvas as opposed to the newer models with solid roofs. When we put our trailer up there is one point where everything inside the trailer is exposed for a minute or two while we draped the canvas over the frame. On this particular day we arrived in late afternoon with a black cloud threatening a thunderstorm. My parents hurried out of the car and started putting the camper up as quickly as possible so as to avoid the storm. When the first drops came down they shooed us into the car while they finished up. We watched in horror as right when they were at that point when everything in the trailer was exposed the downpour came. We just knew how upset they were going to be as we sat helplessly in the car watching. But the more they rushed to try to get the tent the rest of the way up, the slower it went. Just then my Mom stopped and looked at the sodden mess and looked at my father who had also stopped. We held our breath for what we thought was going to be a litany of cussing and swearing. But what came next started slow, a little chuckle and then as they wiped the rainwater from their faces their chuckling turned into laughter.
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I had four children and whenever the baby of the family would wake up in the middle of the night to be breastfed, I would look at the clock and say “Sh*t it’s only been two hours” or “Sh*t I only have two more hours to sleep.” Or “Sh*t I’ll never get back to sleep.” It was soul sucking. Then one night I threw a towel over my clock and every time I woke up I would just respond. I didn’t care how long it had been, I didn’t care how much more sleep time I had before I had to get up. I didn’t care if I could get back to sleep. I just took care of my baby.
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I remember my oldest son, Zach telling me once that when he went to boy scout camp it was very primitive. Pit toilets, no showers, tents on the hard ground, no lawn chairs for sitting around the fire and it was cold since they were in the mountains. The second night he was miserable having not had a good night’s sleep the night before and feeling dirty, achy and cold. He had just had an unsatisfying dinner standing up since there were few comfortable places to sit. After dinner he headed to his tent and slowly took off his boots and put on his camp shoes. He found the warmest sweatshirt he had, poured himself a cup of what he thought was hot chocolate but turned out to be more like luke warm chocolate. Then he found a log to balance on near the fire. He told me that he remembers thinking to himself “Well this is the most comfortable I am going to get so I might as well just enjoy it.”
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Sometimes you just have to embrace the suck.
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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?
The Joy of Heartbreak
It was Friday evening in the early 1980’s. My sister Beth and I lived in Chicago for a year just a few blocks from each other. We would start our weekend at the Palmer House, a high end hotel/restaurant that served a delicious happy hour appetizer buffet free with the purchase of drinks. We would nurse our one drink while we noshed on the appetizers until we had gotten our fill so we could avoid paying for a dinner out. Our next stop would be any one of the many bars on Rush Street where Disco was all the rage. Planting ourselves at one of the tables we would order our drinks and before long young men would approach us to chat or ask for a dance.
It seems I was always meeting new guys to fall in love with. It was easy for me to fall in love. I loved the feeling of being in love. I loved being in a monogamous relationship, waking up thinking of the guy, going to bed thinking of the guy, the butterflies I would get in my stomach while I got ready for a date, the sexual tension I felt before we had our first real kiss. I loved the possibilities that a new relationship would bring. I would throw myself fully into the relationship and eventually it would end. It would last 4 months, maybe 6 months, maybe even a year but these relationships would always end in heartbreak. I can only think of one time that I was the dumper rather than the dumpee. And when they ended it was the end of the world. I would cry myself to sleep, sob whenever I talked about the man, lament the loss of yet another young man who could have been my forever. Beth, the more sensible sister also dated. But she did not understand throwing myself into every relationship I had. She was much more cautious and my guess is that she was more often the dumper than the dumpee. This was not a bad thing. It was just how different we were. One day, while I was drowning my sorrows over yet another love I had lost she said, “Why do you do this to yourself? You fall in love with almost every man that you date and then when it ends you are so heartbroken. Why do you let yourself go there when you know that when it ends it is going to be so painful?” I didn’t have an answer for her at the time but I have always thought about her question. She was right. Why wasn’t I more cautious? Why did I so willingly give my heart to anyone who asked knowing it so easily could be broken?
When I started having children I couldn’t believe how painfully I loved them. I knew that if something every happened to any of them I would experience a heartbreak that I couldn’t even imagine. I believe most of us don’t really understand the extent of the love a parent feels until we experience it and then it’s too late. I was going to live with this love and should the worst happen I was going to live with the heartbreak. But would you give up the child to avoid the heartbreak? Of course not - sometimes you even go on to have another child — or three.
My first grandchild was born at 26 weeks just 1 pound 9 oz. When I walked into the room for the first time, I took one look at her and turned around and walked out. I couldn’t do it. I didn’t want to bond with this little girl if there was a chance she might not make it. I was afraid to feel for her. I was afraid to love her because I didn’t want to feel the heartbreak if she didn’t survive. That lasted about a week because I decided in my mind that it was better to have whatever time we could to feel her love and love her back than to not suffer the heartbreak if she didn’t make it. I remember telling my son, her father, that I was pissed off because there was one more person who I now loved and had to worry about. One more person who could break my heart if anything happened to her.
Recently I came across a quote by writer, Jeannine Ouellette and she said it perfectly - “The more we feel the more broken our hearts are likely to be.”
I don’t want to get to the end of my life without a broken heart. I want to feel it all and I want to feel it often and if that means putting my heart out there to be broken then so be it. I have never felt the heartbreak wasn’t worth all of the wonderful things that came before it.
My nephew, Alex, was stillborn. At his funeral my father stood with the rest of us as balloons were released in his honor. A single tear ran down his cheek, he said under his breath “We didn’t need this” and turned around and walked out the door. I think for my father he would rather of just moved on. To gather together with people, face this untimely death and feel it was too difficult. My father was a strong man but sometimes I think his strength came from not allowing himself to feel. When my Mom died his comment to me was “I just don’t want to go through what I know I am going to have to go through this next year.” I get it. He knew that to love this woman for as long as he did, to share their long history, he was going to be heartbroken and sad as he went through his grief. But the only alternative to experiencing that heartbreak and grief is to have never loved her at all.
Being a nurse requires me to always balance feeling for the patient and remaining professional and just a bit removed because there is a point when you can’t handle anymore sadness and thus can’t do your job. My first year of nursing I worked in an NICU (Neonatal Intensive Care Unit). This was where I first became aware of the need to check my emotions. In nursing there are two extremes - the nurse who feels everything and takes her work home with her where the heartbreak she sees daily affects ever aspect of her family and life and the nurse who shuts off her feelings only to become a cold and indifferent person who refuses to feel. The best nurses are the ones who can find a happy medium between the two and that’s what I strove to become. One night I was told to care for a Down’s Syndrome baby who had been abandoned by her 16 year old mother. She was a DNR (do not resuscitate) and was expected to die that night. Through the night I did her care as I watched her heart rate slowly decrease and then stop. I cried as I cleaned her and prepared her for the morgue. One of the older nurses came to me and said “It’s so refreshing to see someone who still cries when a baby dies.” I told her “When I quit crying, I quit this job.” A year later it happened. One of the babies died and I didn’t shed a tear, I didn’t feel the sadness of a short life lost. The next day I gave my two weeks notice. I felt like I had crossed that invisible line of being the unfeeling.
Throughout my nursing career I have struggled with finding the happy medium. My last three jobs I left under difficult circumstances. One of them I was asked to leave when I had a falling out with my supervisor. Another one I left quite suddenly because of a falling out with a co-worker. I have a friend whom I call whenever I leave a job and he finally asked me, “Why is it that so many of your jobs end on a bad note?” We discussed it and he decided it was because I cared too much and I expected others to care as much as I did and when they didn’t I got angry and disappointed. I don’t believe this to be true. I don’t think I care too much, I think they don’t care enough. I think they have been in their jobs so long they have forgotten that our patients are people, that they are often scared people who feel invisible in the healthcare system. After 43 years of nursing I feel like I have found my happy medium and refuse to not give a shit. And yes my heart still gets broken when a patient dies, when a patient finds out he has very little time left, when a physician or a fellow nurse mistreats a patient. My heart breaks when I hear that the injury a child has was caused by abuse, when I can’t control the pain one of my patients is experiencing, when a co-worker shows no compassion.
But I will take that heartbreak and all of the heartbreak I experience in life because if my heart didn’t break I would know that I had quit feeling.
And that is simply unacceptable.
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Have You Forgotten How Good Candy Tastes??
Henry, the husband of a friend of mine once said “ When I was little I thought to myself ‘I’m going to remember how good candy tastes when I grow up because it’s obvious that adults don’t remember otherwise they would eat as much as they want now that they are adults. They must forget how good it tastes. I’m going to remember.’”
This came to mind as I was talking to a couple of my much younger co-workers at the Buck Center for Aging. We were talking about older people - like 80 to 90 year old people. I was telling them that I thought you must just get tired at some point. Tired of your morning routine just to get your day going, tired of worrying about what you’re eating or whether you are getting enough exercise, tired of paying bills and fighting with insurance companies, tired of filling out forms, clipping your toenails, getting your haircut, tired of reading the bad news, tired of making your bed, washing your dishes or cooking. They both looked at me like I was crazy. But then I thought of Henry and how when you are a younger age you really don’t understand people who are older than you.
I remember when my parents quit going places because they “didn’t like crowds”. I thought how could they miss out on this just because there will be a lot of people??? And now here I am not going to as many places where there are crowds. I try to remember why I enjoyed going to these big crowded places and why they don’t give me the same kind of joy as they did when I was younger. I could only come up with one reason. I’m tired. I’m tired of the traffic, tired of looking for parking, tired of the noise, tired of long lines at the food stands, the bathrooms, the ticket booths, tired of just trying to get through the crowd.
By the time you are 65 you have done some things so many times that as much joy as they bring to you the inconvenience and time are just not worth it anymore. It’s kind of a “been there, done that” sort of thing. Done that many times in fact. Done that so many times that I’m just kind of tired of doing it.
My mother swore she would never get an artificial Christmas tree. “Not in my house” she said. And yet, one Christmas not long after she and my Dad retired to San Diego we went to her house for Christmas and there in the corner was a beautiful but artificial tree. I turned to her and said “What??” “Oh,” she said, “I know, the tree. I just got tired of having to go out and get a tree every year.” I’m still not to that point yet and I expect to have a living Christmas tree for a long time but I’m not going to say it’s never going to happen. As much as I can’t imagine it, maybe, just maybe I will one day just get tired of having to go out and get a tree every year.
But I don’t want to be tired all the time. I don’t want to give up all of these things because I am old and tired. So I’ve decided to make a concerted effort to play, to continue going places, to keep buying that real Christmas tree.
My grandchildren are helping me. I jump in jumpy houses at their birthdays. We play hide and seek and monster chasing. Sometimes we just lay on the floor and talk and wrestle and fling ourselves around. Or we pull a blanket over our heads and tell each other stories. They remind me of the joy of doing something over and over again until you get good at it, of noticing colors and smells and singing just for the sake of singing. I teach them the songs from my childhood and they teach me the songs from theirs. We bake cookies and we all lick the spoons and spatulas. We eat ice cream cones when Mom isn’t looking and popcorn when we watch a movie. We slide down slides and swing in swings and jump into pools. We paint each others’ faces and change our clothes 2 or 3 times a day just because we can. And we laugh a lot. Did I mention how much we laugh?? And on special days, when everyone has been really good we go to the shop and buy some candy. They pick out their favorites and I usually pick bit-o-honey or licorice shoelaces because those were my favorites a long time ago before I forgot how good candy tastes.
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.
Kicking the Bucket
My 65th birthday made me pause like no other has. This felt different, this one was a little harder. This was the first time where I felt like I had more years behind me than I have ahead of me. I could no longer deny that I was past the halfway point. I searched my drawers and closets and finally found my old bucket list that I wrote about 15 years ago. I took another look at it and there are things I’m going to have to cross off because the reality is I will not have the time to accomplish them (i.e. I’m not going to be an Olympic gold medalist in this lifetime). Of the 55 things I had written down I have done 21 of them. Another 14 I no longer had the desire or the time to do so I simply crossed them off. That leaves 20 things I have left on my bucket list that I would still like to accomplish.
But then I started thinking about this list and was it really so important that I accomplish these things before I die? Will it really matter if I learn Spanish or see the pyramids? Will I really care ten years from now if I learned to play harmonica or hiked the Grand Canyon? Will anyone care? I doubt it. And if no one will care, including myself, well then what’s the point of working away at it? Which brought me to the age old question “What’s the meaning of life?” That was when I realized that I had made a full circle back to my college years - twenty years old looking down the barrel of my life, high expectations, endless possibilities, big plans, small number of resources, wondering where I would be 40 years from now. I remember the evenings of sitting with my friends, three drinks in, discussing why we were all here, what we were meant to do and who would care if we did it. So then it made me think “huh, have I learned nothing in these 65 years?”
I once again scrutinized my bucket list and realized the problem. It was just a list of things - learn Spanish, travel to New Zealand, write a children’s book, crochet 100 afghans, make cheese. And I was right, although fun to strive for, I really didn’t care if I accomplished any of these things and my life would not be better or worse if I accomplished or failed to accomplish them.
And so I started a new bucket list that looks like this:
Be calm and thoughtful
Nurture my relationships
Laugh more
Play more
Continue to make new friends
Listen to music
Listen to people
Listen to nature
Volunteer and give back to my community
Make a difference to others
Walk and quiet the mind
Forgive both myself and others
Yes, I like this bucket list. And even more important I care if I accomplish all of these things.
So maybe that’s what I’ve learned in 65 years - we are here to enrich our souls and soothe others. We are here to give and forgive. We are here for our relationships - all of them - our partner, children, grandchildren, family, friends, community.
And the meaning of life? To live and to die knowing that no other being will suffer because of you or the decisions that you make, that you have grown and have changed for the better because of your life experiences. I have discovered that perhaps the meaning of life is to just figure out the meaning of life.
I feel wise. I feel melancholy. I feel joyful. And yeah, sometimes I just feel old.
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Please Mr. Postman,
Look and See
It happened every afternoon with the sun making its downward trend toward the horizon. The postman would come down the block, his heavy bag slung over his shoulder giving his body an unnatural tilt. I watched out the bedroom window chewing my fingernails. “Please Mr. Postman look and see if there’s a letter, a letter for me.” My high school sweetheart Jim had left for college leaving me in my Senior year alone and certain he would forget me. The almost daily letters were an assurance of his loyalty in my young, naive mind. Should he miss a day I would spend the next 24 hours staring at my ceiling, unable to focus on my homework, my friends, my reading. Until the next day when a letter would arrive and once again I would be floating with the knowledge that he still cared. Back and forth from angst to euphoria I spent that final year in High School. Forty five years later I still have those letters.
I love snail mail. I love to write and send snail mail and I love to receive snail mail. There is something deeply satisfying about opening your mailbox and among the bills and political ads and store magazines and requests for money, you find an envelope with your name and address written in a familiar cursive. It always brings a smile to my face and a little race to my heart. I walk back into the house eyeing the envelope. I put the other mail down and get comfortable somewhere before I open it. I sit in my den in my favorite chair, maybe even take the time to brew some tea or pour a glass of wine before I open it. I try to savor it for as long as possible. I’ll read it and then read it again. A few days later I’ll read it again.
From the time I left home for college and throughout my life my Mom wrote to me once a week. Sometimes she had very little to say and sometimes it was full of news but it always came by the end of the week. The letter was one of those wonderful predictable things that I never took for granted and of course one of the things I missed most when she passed. My Mom and her three siblings used to send a round robin letter around. My Mom would start it and send it to Aunt Mary K, Aunt Mary K would add her letter and send them both to Uncle Phil who would add his letter and send them all to Uncle Leo. Uncle Leo would add his letter and send them all to my Mom who would then replace her letter with a more recent letter and send them all to Mary K and so it would go. I have a notebook of those letters and every once in awhile I read through them and discover new things about my Aunt and Uncles. I treasure those letters.
For some reason emails are not the same. Even the ones that are nice long newsy emails. There is something about holding a paper letter in my hand and seeing the person’s handwriting with which I am so familiar. I can hear the person talking as if they are sitting across from me. I know that the person took the extra time to hunt down a piece of paper and pen, maybe even some pretty stationery, to sit down and write their news and views and thoughts and dreams for me to see. Good letter writers are hard to find and if you are lucky enough to know one then count your blessings.
I worry about all of these emails and how they will be lost forever floating around in the metaverse. Very often when I check the resources in the back of a book about a historical event, they list personal letters that were discovered written by people who lived the event. Letters written in their own hand, in their own voices that give us a perspective we might not have had. I own such a letter. It is from my great grandmother Alice Camp to her brothers John and Mark Camp on September 21, 1891. She tells the particulars of her 4 year old daughter Florence’s death from diphtheria. The letter is yellow with age but written in a neat, elegant cursive. And enclosed with the letter is a lock of Florence’s hair. There is something about seeing this tragedy unfold as written by Florence’s obviously grief stricken mother. Holding those yellowed pages and reading the letter I can picture her sitting at her desk crying, trying to put into words her worst nightmare:
“She was conscious all the time but lost her voice so she could only talk in low whispers. Just a while before midnight she asked her papa to hold her. He took her in his arms she looked up at him and said in her low hoarse whisper that I will hear as long as life lasts ‘Papa I wish it was you that was sick.’”
I suspect if this letter had been typed in an email it would not elicit the same kind of emotions and after 132 years would be deep in someone’s old computer, lost and forgotten.
My guess would be that most kids and many young adults don’t even know how to properly address a snail mail letter. Like many things from times past I’m sure real letters are considered outmoded and time consuming. After all you have to write them longhand, find a stamp, an envelope, their home address. You have to take them to a mailbox. Why bother when you can just type out a quick email or text?
Good question and I’m not sure I have a good answer. How do you describe one of life’s simple joys to someone who has never had that experience. It’s like trying to describe to someone how much fun camping is when they have never gone. Or why all of the work of having a dog is worth the unconditional love and friendship they give back to you. How do you describe the feeling of pride you get when you sew your own clothes or bake your own bread or the joy of walking in the rain and splashing in puddles. Life’s simple pleasures, so difficult to explain.
For me the trip to the mailbox is a bright moment in the day because of the possibility of there being a personal letter. And for as long as there is someone out there to deliver my letters I will be a snail mail enthusiast, writing them to anyone who will write back, sending them out into the world to maybe some day be discovered by a distant relative of one of my friends who will look up from the letter yellow with age and ask “Who the hell is Laura?"
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OZZIE
I am NOT a cat person. I do not like cats. I find them cold, rude even, uppity and untrainable.
They are convinced they are the most important creature in the house and never let you forget it. One minute they snuggle up next to you wanting some lovin’ and the next minute they turn and walk away from you as if you are as insignificant as the flea on their butt.
Ozzie, a brown tabby cat came into our home 14 years ago against my better judgement. Not being a cat person I was talked into fostering him until someone adopted him. He was a kitten and very cute so I was assured that someone would adopt him quickly. After six weeks of still no one adopting him, Jake said to me "Mom, you know he's our cat now, right?" We adopted him and I became a reluctant “cat person”. He was born around the same month we lost Zoey, our lab. We think he was Zoey reincarnate. Zoey, Ozzie, Ozzie, Zoey -- get it? He loved the water and could be seen roaming through our creek and he acted much more like a dog than a cat. He never stopped hunting and was presumptuous enough to bring us many of his treasures. One more reason for me to not like cats. He was the first male pet I allowed in the house. Living with four sons and a husband I made the rule that all pets had to be female. As the years went by I tried not to like him but I failed miserably. He took up residence in a special place in my heart.
The last time I saw Ozzie he was lying on his back in the sun legs stretched out head thrown back in silent joy. I rubbed his tummy and he woke and headed out the cat door. I left for work, returned from work and didn’t give him a second thought. By evening - dinnertime - I still had not seen him but my Mom radar had not yet been triggered. Jon came home, filled his bowl and asked if I had seen Ozzie. By this time he usually had come in for his evening belly rub, sitting on top of the couch his head lying on one of our shoulders, purring, winding down for the evening. No matter, he has probably been distracted by a hunt. Surely he will bring us one of his gifts. We will have to keep our eyes open, don’t want to step on anything gross in the morning but by morning there was still no sign. His dinner bowl was untouched. But he had done this before - disappeared for 3 days and then sauntered in one evening like a teenage boy coming in after curfew - arrogant and uncaring. We scolded him, told him how much he had worried us and he looked at us not one bit sorry, no apology, no explanation, and went back out to hunt some more.
But this felt different. Two more days went by and now we were worried. We started to make rounds throughout the neighborhood, calling his name, asking neighbors if they had seen him. We stopped by the Humane Society to see if someone had turned him in. At night I could hear the coyotes howl and it left a lump in my throat. He’s too smart, too quick, too clever for them. As soon as I walked in the house at the end of each day after work I knew he had not returned. I couldn’t feel his presence. The house felt more empty. By day four we were putting up signs and posting on social media. Surely someone had seen Ozzie, a cat can’t just disappear. No word. Again we headed out to the neighborhood and I felt the tears well up. All of a sudden I was imagining every parent who had ever lost a child - the growing feeling of panic, the racing heart, the unimaginable fear. But this was just a cat. A cat that I didn’t even want. A cat I reluctantly adopted because no one else wanted him. How can I be having such strong emotions for a cat?
Then the hunt for Ozzie shifted from a search and rescue to recovery. We had resolved ourselves to his death because surely he would have returned if he could. We had been told that cats do that. They leave to die. They find a quiet place to lay down their tired bodies and die in peace and quiet away from ministering hands and sad humans. But surely Ozzie wouldn’t do that. He loved us. He would want to be with us in his dying days, wouldn’t he? Jon goes down under the house to see if he is there. No sign. I search under every bush in the vicinity of our house to no avail. We started to realize that this cat, who we never wanted to begin with had infiltrated our lives with unconditional love, dead mice and attitude and we will never see him again. We feel less and less hopeful that we will ever find him. And as the days pass so does the feeling of urgency as we grapple with this loss of a family member. To this day we still expect him to saunter through the cat door, sassy and brazen, fall down in front of us with his belly exposed waiting for his belly rub. Ozzie was the best cat a “dog person” could ever hope to have.
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.
LOSING IT
For as long as I can remember my father told me “never buy a Ford”. I have no idea where this came from and why he believed so much that buying a Ford was such a bad idea but he repeated it so many times that it was imprinted on my brain. This was especially puzzling since his best friend and next door neighbor managed a Ford plant.
Now, shortly after our terrible jinxed Dodge Caravan (another story for another day) we knew we needed to buy a new van. We didn’t have a lot of money and so when looking at the minivans we could only afford another Dodge Caravan or a Ford Aerostar. Since our Dodge Caravan was such a nightmare we only had one choice - to buy a Ford. With my father’s voice deeply embedded in my brain I told my husband I just couldn’t do it. We priced out the Toyota and Honda Vans and they were just too expensive. My husband gave me this bit of hope. He said “You know Laura the Ford minivans have Ford TRUCK motors and I hear their truck motors are far superior to their car motors.” That was good enough for me so we did it - we bought a Ford.
We were quite happy with our Ford van for about 60,020 miles when the transmission fell out the bottom of it 20 miles past the end of the warranty. We were really broke at the time and had no idea how we would afford a new $2500 transmission. I called the Ford Dealership and asked that since we were only 20 miles over the warranty could they perhaps in good faith replace our transmission for free. You can imagine what their answer was and I can imagine the laugh they had once I hung up. I understood that we were over the warranty but it was worth a shot and I wasn’t ready to give up yet. So I did what I always do when I don’t know what else to do — I wrote a letter.
***
Dear Mr. Peterson: We recently purchased one of your Ford Aerostar vans wanting to “buy American” after many years of buying Toyotas and Hondas. We were pleased with the new van until we hit 60,020 miles and the transmission fell out the bottom of the car as I was driving into an exit off the freeway. After having the car towed and returning home I was loathe to discover that the warranty for the transmission had run out at 60,000 miles. We were just 20 miles over the warranty. I am asking in good faith and in the interest of customer service that as the President of Ford Motor Company you honor the warranty and replace our transmission free of charge since we were only 20 miles over the warranty when the transmission went out.
***
6 weeks later
Phone Rings
Me: Hello.
Ford: Hello Ms. Alexander this is Ford Motor Company customer service and it is our understanding that you were not satisfied with an issue you recently had with your Ford van.
Me: Yes, our transmission fell out of the bottom of the car at 60,020 miles and since the warranty was until 60,000 miles and we were only 20 miles over I felt that in the interest of customer service that you might honor the warranty regardless.
Ford: I see ma’am. I am so sorry to hear that happened to you. However, the warranty does state that it is only to 60,000 miles and since you were above the 60,000 miles we cannot pay for the replacement of your transmission.
Me: We were only 20 miles above the 60,000 mile mark. Do you build your cars so that the transmissions give out just over 60,000 miles because that’s how it looks to me.
Ford: Oh no ma’am. I assure you that our transmissions are excellent and we rarely have issues with them.
Me: Then perhaps you can see that it does not seem fair to me that I can’t get the transmission replaced free of charge when we were only 20 miles over the warranty. I would think a company of your size would be willing to replace a transmission so close to the end of the warranty.
Ford: I’m sorry ma’am. I wish I could help you but we cannot possibly pay for the replacement of your transmission as it was over the warranty. Now, is there anything else we can help you with.
Me: Evidently not. Good bye.
Ford: Good bye ma’am and have a nice day.
Whatever, I gave it my best shot. Although I was still perturbed, I let it go. ***
6 weeks later
Survey arrives in mail.
Now this survey got me all up in arms again. Why are they continuing to ask what they can do for me if they aren’t willing to do anything? Unfortunately I am not one to disregard a survey especially when I am not happy with my service. And so I filled it out.
6 weeks later
Phone rings
Really? What are these people thinking? Right about the time I am able to put this transmission business behind me they manage to get me pissed off all over again.
Ford: We read your survey results and were upset to hear that you were not satisfied with our customer service and I am calling to see if I can help in any way.
Me: The only way you can help would be to reimburse me for the new transmission I had to put in my car because it dropped out only 20 miles past the warranty.
Ford: I’m so sorry to hear that ma’am but since it WAS over the warranty I can not grant you a reimbursement. Is there anything else I can assist you with?
Me: You can tell your company to quit contacting me every 6 weeks unless they plan on reimbursing me for the transmission that dropped out of my Ford.
Ford: I will let them know ma’am. Have a good day!
Me: I was having a good day until you called.
Ford: So sorry to hear that ma’am. Good bye.
***
6 weeks later
Survey arrives in the mail.
I know I should have just tossed it but I couldn’t resist, I had to fill it out again.
6 weeks later
Phone rings
Me: Hello.
Ford: Hello, my name is Rick and I am a customer service representative from Ford Motor Company. It has come to our attention that you have an unresolved issue with your Ford Aerostar.
Me: Really Rick? You guys are calling me again?
Ford: Yes, we are very concerned that your issue has not been resolved and are just doing a follow up.
Me: Well Rick, you see about seven months ago - yes Rick I said seven months, my transmission literally fell out of the bottom of my car. I was just 20 miles over the 60,000 warranty Rick and so I thought that perhaps Ford would be honorable enough to help me with the cost of a new transmission since it was so close to the warranty lapsing but none of your customer representatives have been able to help me Rick and they keep sending me surveys and calling me and I keep telling them to quit contacting me and yet here you are Rick calling me again. So here’s the deal Rick, unless in the next breath you tell me that Ford will cover the cost of my transmission I am going to hang up and hope to never hear from Ford again.
Ford: No ma’am I’m sorry I can’t tell you that but . . .
Click.
I thought surely I am finely done with the Ford Motor Company.
But no . . .
***
6 weeks later
Survey arrives in the mail.
I am ashamed to say I filled out the survery. My blood pressure went up, anger rose in my chest and I lost it. Why couldn’t I just toss it in the garbage and let it go? I can be so pig-headed.
I never heard from Ford again leaving me with these thoughts:
Someone should tell Ford that one very satisfied customer will be worth way more than the cost of a new transmission.
Does anyone in any big corporation actually talk to each other?
What are customer service departments really there for if not for customer service?
The best way to respond to things that piss you off is to not respond.
Will my father ever forgive me for buying a Ford?
MAYBE IT ISN’T
I wish I had boarded a plane with my mother for Rome. We would upgrade our seats and have champagne before we even took off. We would giggle like two little girls as we unpack our bags and settle into our hotel. We would spend long afternoons at sidewalk cafes sipping wine and sharing stories about being a woman, a wife, a mother, a grandmother. I would take her to St. Peters and the Coliseum and the Borghese Museum. Our feet would be blistered and sore from walking on the cobblestone which would give us an excuse to spend the evenings eating gelato and people watching. I would tell her my secrets and she would tell me hers. But it’s too late for that.
I wish I had visited my Aunt Mary K more often. We would go shopping at the outlet shops and she would be brutally honest about whether I looked good in something or not. We would spend the afternoons outside at a park and talk about our shared experiences as nurses. Then we would head home for a glass of wine before we headed out to dinner since she didn’t cook and insisted on treating me. We would have another glass of wine at dinner and then another once we got home. We would talk about politics and watch the talking heads on TV and laugh. Maybe we would eventually have popcorn and watch a movie before we poured ourselves into bed. I would get to know her better and understand her life. But it’s too late for that.
I wish I had spent more time sailing with my Dad. He would be the captain and I would be the crew. We would figure out what new skill we were going to learn that day and then we would have a go at it. We would have difficulty at first and it would be a little scary but then my Dad would figure it out and before long we would be pros at jibing, coming about, tacking. We would laugh and joke about our inadequacies but would continue to sharpen our skills and be proud of our accomplishments. At the end of the day we would stop at the yacht club and have a drink or two and maybe even stay for dinner depending on the time. When we got home we would share our stories of the day with my Mom. But it’s too late for that.
I wish I had had more patience when my mother in law lived with us. I would go out for long hikes with her and she would tell me about her childhood, her failed dreams of being a singer, her days as a 40 year old college student and activist. She would sing for me as we walked, her beautiful voice spanning through three octaves, carrying over the hills that we passed. She would be joyful and thankful for the company and I would overlook her strange ways and appreciate the difficulties in her life that she had to overcome in order to raise a family that included the man I loved. Sometimes we would hold hands as we walked feeling the beauty of the Marin hills and the beauty of our friendship. But it’s too late for that.
I wish I lived closer to my siblings. Every Sunday we would all get together for dinner and solve each others’ problems as well as the worlds’. We would help each other with our health problems and complain to each other about our aches and pains. On Tuesday mornings my sisters and I would meet up for pancakes and sausage and “girls’ time” and on Thursday evenings I would meet up with my brother and we would go to a local pub and eat at the bar and have way too much to drink. The cousins would see each other more than once every few years. The holidays would include everyones’ families or as many of them as were in town. I would get to know their grandchildren and they would get to know mine. Every holiday and birthday would be a reason to get the whole family together and we would develop long held traditions. But it’s too late for that.
I wish I had spent some time with my father-in-law. We would head out to the local bar and he would have beer after beer while I had some white wine and appetizers. He would regale me with stories about his life before marriage, his war stories and stories of a previous engagement before he married Jon’s Mom. He would tell me about his childhood after his Mom died and his Dad sent the kids to different relatives. How he lived on the farm with Aunt Bertha and Uncle George with his brother and the trouble they got into. We would share jokes and laugh and tease each other. Everyone in the bar would know him by name and greet him as they came in or left. I would be able to experience the love everyone felt for him. But it’s too late for that.
I wish I had stayed in touch with my friends from the boys’ grade school. We would meet for lunch and laugh about our aging bodies, our forgetfulness and how intense we were as young parents. We would reminisce about our volunteer work, the PTA, the Carnival, the teachers who we loved and the ones we tolerated. We would head out for hikes just as we had after dropping the kids off at school back in the day. We would support each other through struggling adult children, ill spouses, our own surgeries, aging and dying parents. We would occasionally have a party and drink not near as much as we had at our school events but enough for a nice buzz. We would hug each other closely and appreciate each other in a way we did not when we spent so much time together years ago. But it’s too late for that . . .
or maybe it isn’t . . .
No Secrets!
For a week before the event the girls in my sixth grade class and I would whisper about what was to come. We had heard about the dreaded visitor from previous classes and knew it was our time. We would stay seated in our classroom while the boys were ushered out to who knows where. A woman from one of the sanitary napkin companies would come in and set up a film and pass around some pink pamphlets called “Growing Up and Liking it.” The discomfort in the room was palpable as flipping through the pamphlet we avoided each other’s eyes. For many of us this was the first we will have heard about menstruation.
Although the nice lady with the free samples of sanitary napkins taught me about my period she never went over sex and how it happened. They just mentioned that when the egg wasn’t fertilized . . . How WAS that egg fertilized??? I have no idea to this day what the boys from our class were taught while they were away. Did they get little booklets to take home that talked about erections and wet dreams? Or were they just sent out to play dodge ball? There was never any talk between the boys and the girls about what we had learned. We just came out of our respective rooms and that was it. I would take my little pamphlet home and show it to my Mom and she would ask if I had any questions but I never did or I was too uncomfortable to ask, I don’t know which.
I remember asking my Mom once how do babies get out of their Mom’s bellies. She very simply said that all women have a hole between their legs and that’s where the baby comes out. That was it. I didn’t ask any more questions because I could tell she was uncomfortable talking about it which made me uncomfortable asking about it. My Mom always answered my questions very matter of factly but we never had “the talk”. I don’t ever remember talking to her at all about sex itself. I don’t even remember where I learned how sex worked or who from but I do remember being very grossed out by the very thought of it once I did figure it out. Sitting in church I would look at all of the couples, count their children and think, Oh, Mr. and Mrs. Drake had sex three times. And Mr. and Mrs. Gallagher had it six times. Then looking at Mr. and Mrs. Houlihan and realizing that ewww they had to have had sex nine times!! My own parents had to have had sex four times resulting in myself and my three siblings. I couldn’t even go there.
Even in high school I didn’t completely understand how it all worked. There was a “dirty” joke going around our band members. “Why does Dr. Pepper come in bottles? Because his wife died three years ago.” I had no idea why that was funny but of course laughed with everyone else. To this day I wonder if I was the only one who didn’t get it.
One of my biggest failures as a parent was the lack of sex education I gave my sons. I started out with good intentions. I bought a book about how babies are made and how they are born. I liked the book a lot and read it to my boys. I also offered them a book for teenagers that I liked but did I ever mention it again once they took it? Hell no! That would mean I had to talk to them about it. Like my Mom I always answered their questions but I am ashamed to say that they had to figure out most of it themselves and through books and the health classes in their schools. I don’t even know if my husband spoke to them much about sex. We never talked about it. I am hoping he did. I have a vague recollection of talking to them about condoms when they were in high school and teaching them respect for women but beyond that either I didn’t talk to them or I have conveniently forgotten the conversations we had.
I do remember one day I was driving three of the boys home from school. Jake, who I’m guessing was nine at the time was in the front seat. Drew who was five was in the middle seat and Sam who was seven was in the way back seat. Out of the blue Drew said “Mom, I understand that a man’s sperm has to meet up with a woman’s egg to get a baby but what I don’t understand is how the sperm gets to the egg.” Everyone in the car went silent. I looked at Jake and he looked at me desperately, silently pleading with me not to go into this in the car with him present. But you know, you have to take the opportunities when they arise so I said “Well, Drew”. As I’m starting my explanation Jake is emphatically shaking his head pleading with his eyes for me to not go there. “When a man and a woman love each other very much they like to cuddle. So they lie very close together and the man puts his penis into the woman’s vagina . . .” If it was possible, it became even more silent in the car. By this time Jake was bright red and Sam still had not said a word. I looked in the rear view mirror and Drew was obviously thinking this all over. “Ok”, he said “that’s all I need to know.” Jake let out a sigh of relief. He could not have endured another moment of such an intimate conversation.
Why did I have difficulty talking to them about this? Was it because I didn’t have a role model and didn’t know how to broach the subject? Was it generational? Was it the leftover puritan ideas of my ancestors? Was it because they were boys, would I have had an easier time with girls? To be perfectly honest, at the age of 65 I am still learning about men and their sexual side. I just read a book about the male brain and the section on teen brains and their singular focus on sex intrigued me.
When my sons were dating as young adults every once in awhile one of their girlfriends weren’t feeling well and they would tell me she had her period and frequently has cramps. I can never, not once, remember talking to my boyfriends about my period. I don’t think I could have said the words. Back when I was young many women referred to their periods as the curse, being on the rag, that time of the month, surfing the crimson wave, shark week, having the painters in. In other parts of the world they are even more imaginative: In Denmark, “There are communists in the funhouse”. In France, “The English have landed”. It’s called “Mad cow disease” in Finland, and in South Africa, “Granny’s stuck in traffic”. “I’m with Chico” in Brazil, “the cranberry woman is coming” in Germany. I must say “Granny’s stuck in traffic” is 100% my new favorite. No, this is not something I would have even mentioned to my boyfriends.
My son and daughter in law are raising my grandchildren very differently. My 5 year old granddaughter, Effie, talks quite candidly about her vagina. When she saw me naked one day she said “you have a big vagina. I only have a little vagina.” An enlightening observation, nonetheless I was not quite sure how to respond except to agree. Another day when she was at the playground she fell. She explained to me later that she had fallen and hurt her vagina. We also have frequent discussions about penises and how she does not have one. She often rubs herself and you can tell it feels good and comforting to her. Her mother explains that is something she should do in private and she is learning. I don’t think I knew what masturbation was for women until I was in college. I thought only men masturbated. All those wasted years! I am jealous of my granddaughter who will grow up to feel more comfortable with and have a more positive view of her body.
At a recent neighborhood dinner one of the younger women was discussing a form of birth control she had decided to try. She stopped for a moment and apologized saying, “I’m sorry if this is too personal but I think we need to be more open about discussing this stuff and not making it such a taboo subject.” I agree. I wish when I was young I could have talked about all of these things with my Mom, my sisters, my girlfriends, my boyfriends. It would have made everything a lot easier and less mysterious.
As Albert Einstein once said “Regarding Sex Education, No Secrets!”
Hip Cleavage
Being the mother of four sons I have frequently had a hard time keeping up with fashion. I always felt like I needed a teenage daughter to say “Mom, ah no, you are not going to wear that. It’s got old lady written all over it.” Or worse “Mom, ah no, you are not going to wear that. It’s too young for you.” I need that just to keep myself in line.
When my boys were in high school I was hearing a lot about thongs. Everyone was wearing a thong. Many of the younger generation were proud to show off their thongs just above their blue jeans - a whale tail. I heard that thongs could reduce the VPL - visual panty line for those of you who aren’t in the know - which did grab my attention since I still wore tight pants and dresses on occasion.
I was told by more than one woman that thongs were “the magical brief” whether it’s because of the barely-there feeling you get when you put them on or the confidence boost in your sex appeal that you feel when you wear them, they were making a major comeback.
I say comeback because thongs have been around for thousands of years beginning with the fundoshi, the traditional Japanese undergarment favored by sumo wrestlers. In the late thirties nude dancers were ordered to cover up during the New York World’s Fair so of course they turned to thongs and in 1979 the thong swimsuit was invented when nude bathing was outlawed in California. A year later thong underwear came to be.
Through the 1980’s I was busy having and raising four sons so I had neither the time nor the inclination to learn about and experiment with sexy underwear. I was feeling far from sexy, just busy and bedraggled. Thongs were not a topic of conversation with the young mothers I was hanging around with.
Somewhere between 2002 and 2019 the thong became the #1 best selling underwear in the great US of A. It was somewhere during those years that I joined the masses and decided I should take the plunge and try thong underwear.
Not sure why but I always walk into Victoria’s Secret feeling like I don’t belong. Perhaps it’s the age of the young clerks, or being surrounded by clothing oozing sex. Maybe I have just never considered myself sexy enough to wear Victoria’s Secret clothes due to my 50’s and 60’s puritan upbringing. Whatever the reason my discomfort goes up exponentially as soon as I walk through the door. I am surrounded by every kind of underwear you can imagine and some you can’t. So I meandered through the aisles fingering the soft fabrics and keeping my eye out for thongs.
My trip to this local Victoria’s Secret was . . . confusing. I have never been confused by underwear before so this was new to me. Much to my surprise and bewilderment there were many different types of thongs - Tanga, Butterfly, G String, T String, C String, V String, Cheeky, Brazilian, Mini-string and of course, the Rio! I picked them up one at a time and scrutinized them still confused as to how they could possibly be comfortable. But I was in this for the long haul and finally picked out a G-String - what I thought could be the training wheels for my first thong experience. And although I was leaning toward the satin, I decided to keep it simple with a nice cotton. I ran them up to the checkout and then, with my Victoria’s Secret bag in hand I headed to my car. Now, interesting enough once I am out of the store itself I feel very proud to be walking around with my Victoria’s Secret bag. Because at that point I want everyone to know that I am young enough and sexy enough to shop at Victoria’s Secret. So here I am flashing my Victoria’s Secret bag around for everyone to see, a big smile on my face, as I head to my car.
Once home, although quite excited about my purchase I am still confused. How exactly does it go on? Which is the front and which is the back? Convinced that I have it figured out I put it on but within minutes I realize I do not like the feel of it. How do people wear this for even a few minutes much less all evening? What is the draw to this underwear? I simply don’t understand. I took the thong off and decided that this new fangled underwear was not for me. It quickly worked its way to the back of my underwear drawer.
A few weeks later I met one of my friends at a local coffee shop. I was describing what I was going to wear at the formal awards ceremony my husband Jon and I were attending.
She responded “You better wear a thong with that, otherwise you are going to have the dreaded VPL. You do own a thong don’t you?”
I demurred. “Well yes, of course. But I don’t like how they feel.”
“What don’t you like about them?” she asked.
“They’re just uncomfortable, you know, that little strap going up between your . . .”
She looked at me and there was this moment of silence as she registered what I had just told her. Then a small smile crept over her face and she threw her head back and started laughing - guffawing even. Tears came to her eyes as she laughed and it was at that moment that I realized - yes, I had put the thong on backwards. Sheepish and red-faced I just watched her laugh and then I couldn’t help myself I started chuckling and before long neither of us could catch our breath we were laughing so hard.
I have since pulled my little cotton G-string out from the back of my underwear drawer and have even bought a couple more thongs in satin and lace. I am proud to say I no longer have any problem walking into a Victoria’s Secret and you won’t see me walking around town with a VPL.
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SONDER
Every once in awhile when I am at the gas station filling up my tank I have a profound moment. I believe things come to me as I am standing filling up my tank because it is one of the few times that I am just standing and thinking. My son calls it gas station wisdom.
On this particular day I was watching a woman about my age filling her tank and I came to the realization that this woman was living a life as complex as my own but entirely different than mine. She had her own history, family, friends, job, routines and worries all unique to her. That although we would both be leaving this gas station around the same time we were each heading out to a life that was utterly and totally different than the other’s. And then I started thinking about all of the other people that were living such infinitely different lives than I was - even my siblings who were brought up in the same house by the same parents are living totally different lives with different memories and whose lives were affected by the experiences of our youth differently. That everyone around us and everyone we don’t even know exist are living epic stories that we will never know about in which we may be just a bit player, an extra sipping coffee in the background or leaving a store as they enter, or filling our cars with gas at the same gas station. I am overwhelmed by the thought that all of these complicated and vivid lives are being played out invisibly around me. That each of these people are the protagonist in their lives just as I am the protagonist in mine. It’s mind boggling!
And then, I found out that there is a word that has been made up for this. It comes from the Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows. It’s SONDER as in “I am struck by a moment of sonder as I watch a young woman fill her gas tank.” This totally blows me away that someone came up with a word for this feeling. Who knew???
Well, then, I had to dig a little deeper and I found another new word - SOLIPSISM. It is the opposite of sonder. The philosophy of solipsism asserts that we can only be sure of our own existence because the mind can not prove the existence of anything external, therefore nothing external exists, only the appearance of it. But I digress.
Back to sonder.
One day when my boys were in middle and high school we were driving along and I pointed to a cow far out in a field. I told the boys “See that cow.” They nodded. I said “We are each about as insignificant in this world as a fly on the butt of that cow.” I don’t know why I thought it important to tell them this at that time. I suspect that being the ages that they were that I felt they were way too self centered and needed to realize that we were all just flies on the butts of cows and the world and all that it meant was much more important than whether or not they got to play their video games that day or take a trip to Hawaii or get the new bike they were lusting after. Some days when I am wallowing in self pity over some perceived injustice I have to step back and think about my insignificance in this world and that’s when I come back to sonder.
But then I am reminded of something I have done in my life that made a huge positive difference to someone else and I think maybe, just maybe I’m not as insignificant as I feel. I think about how my experience with my son, Jake having seizures lead me to a homeopath that cured him which lead me to talk to my best friend about homeopathy which lead her to tell me about her friend whose 4 year old daughter was having grand mal seizures which lead me to call this friend of hers which lead her to go to my homeopath which lead to her daughter being cured of her seizures. And for a very short time all of a sudden I am one of the main characters in this woman’s story - this woman who I have never met whose life and story is so very different than my own. That for a brief time a small part of our story was on a parallel path.
So this makes me realize that I had it all wrong - that it’s not so much that we are insignificant as much as it is that everyone is just as significant as us. We all live out our complex, everyday lives with our dreams and problems and joys and sorrows and relationships and are also the bit players in other peoples’ complex lives and sometimes our part will be as small as the person standing in line behind them at the grocery store or sitting in the lighted window of a house they pass by and other times it will be a brief but meaningful exchange before we go our separate ways again. There is no way for us to live only in our own story. Somehow we will get into the story of others.
I try to always remember that everyone has a story. That the direction that their story is going that day or that week or that month is affecting how they behave toward me. The person who just cut me off in traffic is perhaps rushing home because his wife needed to leave for work and the kids are home alone. The cashier who just snapped at me maybe just lost her mother who she has been caring for for the past 3 years. The teenager who was rude to me may come from an abusive home and is just trying to survive. The neighbor who ignored my greeting possibly just found out they were being laid off. Life is complex for everyone and taking a moment to be awestruck at the complexity of life and appreciate sonder helps me humanize the strangers around me and in the process be a kinder, gentler me.
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FINDING MY VOICE
As I walked into my third grade classroom the nausea that had started when I woke up that morning rose up in my throat. I took some deep breaths and settled into my seat hoping I could keep down my breakfast. My right leg wiggled furiously as it always did when I was anxious and I looked around the room hoping to see that someone, anyone, was as worried as I was about the day’s assignment. It was always a conundrum for me - do I want to go first to get it over with or last to put it off as long as possible, hoping she would forget to call on me or we would run out of time. Standing in the back of the room, her face set, her hands beneath her scapula Sister Myra Joseph began calling our names one by one. Finally hearing my name I slowly rose from my seat and headed to the front of the room, my heart pounding, my breathing quick. Still nauseas but now also sweating beneath my winter sweater I opened my mouth to speak. One day it was a commercial we were meant to make up, another a poem we were to have memorized. Sometimes it would just be a sharing of an important event in my life or a description of what I had done over Christmas vacation. More than anything I hated getting up to speak in front of the class. No matter how hard I tried my voice would come out as a whisper until Sister Myra Joseph would nod knowingly and ask me to speak up. I would stop, wet my lips and try to keep the tears from coming. Taking a deep breath I would begin again:
“Why is the Sky?
What starts the thunder overhead,
Who makes the crashing noise,
Are the Angels falling out of bed,
Are they breaking all of their toys?
“Why does the sun go down so soon,
Why do the night clouds crawl,
Hungrily up to the new laid moon,
And swallow it shell and all . . .
And if it wasn’t enough that my third grade teacher put me through this torment, my 4-H club leader would do the same. Every year there was a public speaking competition and although it was supposed to be optional Mrs. Collins would insist that we all participate. There was no getting out of it and I always wondered why my parents didn’t object to this obvious child abuse.
I had watched my sisters go through the evenings of practice with our Dad and this being my first year I followed in their footsteps. I had written a speech about my experiences camping and every evening after dinner my Dad would take me into the living room, a room used only when special guests came and for speech practice. He would sit patiently while I mustered up my courage to begin my speech. He was a practiced public speaker and gave me tips here and there about slowing down or speeding up, looking up at and engaging my audience, keeping my anxious wiggling leg still. It was an agonizing process.
The evening of the speech competition I sat nervously, leg wiggling, heart pounding, dreading the moment my name was called. I can barely remember timidly making my way to the front of the room to face my doom. The butterflies in my stomach had turned to hornets and my legs felt weak. My notecards in hand I turned and looked out at the faces of all of the other parents, my Mom’s reassuring presence in the front row. I was only 8 years old, what did these people expect of me?! How could I explain to them that I was too cowardly for this challenge?
I opened my mouth to speak and much to my surprise the words flowed out of me. I talked about my camping experiences, my family’s two week summer trips, the good, the bad and the ugly of camping. I spoke of collecting firewood, being sent to fill water jugs we were barely big enough to carry, the warm days and cold nights, the bugs, the dirt and the endless hours toasting marshmallows and singing and laughing around the fire. All of my evenings of practice had paid off and before I knew it I was wrapping it up and then heading back to my seat to the sound of applause. I did it. The timid, quiet girl inside got past her panic and fear and gave a damn good speech.
Such relief I cannot even begin to describe. But it got better because at the end of the evening when the judges announced the winners I was up there at the front of the room once again but this time with a first place trophy in my hands. I was ecstatic, my fear forgotten, the butterflies now sleeping quietly in my stomach. How did Sister Myra Joseph, Mrs. Collins and my Dad know that this timid, weak kneed little girl was a gifted orator.
From that day on I enjoyed public speaking. I still get butterflies before I begin but they are much tamer and provide excitement instead of dread. Within the first three minutes of my talks I am in the zone and you couldn’t stop me if you tried. I have spent many hours in front of classes teaching, at national and international conferences at large venues and grand rounds at hospitals as a speaker. And every time I finish up I get an adrenaline rush like none other. I know I have captivated my audience, gotten my point across and left them with something to think about. When people tell me how much they hate public speaking I just smile and silently thank Sister Myra Joseph, Mrs. Collins and my Dad for taking the time to work with a painfully shy third grader to teach her how to share with clarity and confidence the big voice she had inside her just waiting to get out.
HOLIDAY PEACE?
As a new nurse I had worked the night shift so after dinner I laid down to catch up on some sleep. It was Thanksgiving and I woke to the loud voices of my family reminiscent of 20 years before on a cold Thanksgiving day. A heated argument about . . . who knew? People moving quickly about, dishes clanging as they are thrown in the sink, feet stomping quickly and with purpose over the kitchen linoleum. I snuck downstairs to find my parents, my aunts, my uncles moving around the kitchen and dining area, everyone speaking at once, voices raised, no one listening to the other. As I passed through the kitchen my mother came by and rolled her eyes. She quickly packed up left overs and washed my Aunt’s pie plate. I headed past her and down the steps of the basement where I found the young adult cousins hovered around the wet bar shaking their heads and wondering at the ruckus above them.
“It’s happening again.”
“Well, we had a twenty year break. What triggered it this time?”
“Politics I think.”
Twenty years before, one of my Aunts had caused a similar furor when she accused my Grandma of playing favorites with the grandchildren. She and my Mom had had words while doing the Thanksgiving dishes in the kitchen. Within minutes everyone was moving at once, gathering together the belongings of my family of six. They sat us kids down by the door and told us not to move. Adults rushed around, speaking in harsh voices, the holiday ended abruptly. My parents pushed us out the door to the car and then silence. It was a tense, quiet ride home, Mom whispering to my Dad in the front seat, explaining what had happened. The next twenty years Thanksgiving was spent with my Aunt, Uncle and the cousins in a polite and nice enough atmosphere at each other’s homes. A truce. A twenty year truce until the whole family once again got together and history repeated itself.
I am from a no drama family. My parents, siblings, in-laws, kids, cousins and I all get along. The boys and their wives all get along. When I hear others speak of their troubled family get togethers throughout the holidays I cringe. I know that I could not deal with that kind of drama. I do not have the time, energy, or patience to tip toe through the minefield of misunderstandings and hurt feelings. It must be exhausting.
Every Thanksgiving between dinner and pie we go around the table and everyone states what they are thankful for. This year I will say that I am most thankful for a family that gets along by respecting each others life choices, compromising when needed, not discussing politics, and coming into the holidays with no expectations. I will thank my family for being fun to be with and continuing our legacy of being a no drama family.
And so as the holiday season begins I am excitedly prepping for a Thanksgiving with all of my boys and their families and a quieter Christmas when the boys will be spending their time with their in-laws and their families. And next year we will switch the holidays and I will have them all for Christmas. And sometimes this little plan of alternating holidays will work and sometimes it won’t. But it won’t matter because we are all in this together and the compromises are worth it just for some Holiday Peace.
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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!
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THE BREATHINGS
OF MY HEART
I had decided that I was NOT going to be “sweet 16 and never been kissed” so I actively sought out someone to kiss before I turned 16. My first kiss was Steve Fordonski and it was memorable but not in a good way. I barely knew him and was deeply disappointed in myself that I would allow him to kiss me. Plus he was an amateur kisser so it was not particularly pleasant. BUT I had reached my goal and when I turned 16 I had in fact been kissed and was proud of myself for reaching that goal and wanted it documented. And so began my journal which I wrote in daily and still write in frequently.
All my life I thought I would save this journal and wouldn’t it be interesting to go back and read it when I am “really old” like say 40 or 50 to see what I was like in my teens and early 20s. However I found that when I did go back and read it, I was in fact quite a boring teenager. There were a few choice entries describing my first sexual experiences but in general it was a lot of “feeling down today”, “Curt Smith looked at me today”, “couldn’t stop crying today” “I saw Joe by my locker today but he didn’t say hello” - you know, the usual female teenage angst. Even more disappointing were my entries during my early 20’s. Although I had a very exciting and life altering job in a neonatal intensive care unit as a nurse, I barely spoke of it. Instead the entries were full of “I wish Jerry would ask me out”, “Rich called today”, “got way too drunk last night” - Although subconsciously I was learning great life lessons, my conscious self was much more focused on parties and men. I find that sad and wish I had had the emotional maturity and wisdom to appreciate the work experiences.
As I continue to read my journal I find that just as my entries are getting a bit more interesting because I am now more mature and am entering the very intense time of my life of getting married and having babies, the entries stop. Very few for about five years. I realize they have stopped because I was so busy raising those babies. Four boys in six years definitely cut down my spare time which I would have used to write in my journal. So once again I lost my thoughts and feelings during some very interesting and formative years. When they pick up again I am going through some difficult times - some depression, restlessness, feelings of inadequacy as my life has been totally focused on my children for so long. These are not uplifting or inspiring entries. These are difficult to read and if you read them you would think I was ALWAYS sad and depressed and lonely when in fact I wasn’t. It’s interesting that at that time I only wrote in my journal when I had something to work through, something bothering me, something making me sad or depressed that I am trying to get over. I’m not journaling about all of the joys of parenting, our new home and my family and friends.
And then there are the entries that take me to the darkest parts of my existence. Those deep parts of my brain that I alone am able to see and that I want no one else to know exist. Those perplexing thoughts that come to me that I am hoping all people have but no one shares with anyone else out of fear that they are alone in these kinds of thoughts. But writing them down takes away their power and so there they are in black and white. The dark unaltered thoughts that scare even me.
I have gone back and torn out a few pages in my journal. I don’t want to remember that I was ever in that state of mind or that I made the mistakes that I did. Or maybe, since I learned so much from those mistakes, I am not so worried about me remembering them as I am about others discovering them and judging me. Mistakes that I alone know I made, that I have learned from and that I have been able to forget or at least forgive myself for.
I am still writing in my journal. I have always felt things deeply and sometimes I just need some place for those feelings to go. I write about what disturbs me, what I fear, what I am unwilling to talk to anyone about. I don’t write in it every day but enough that it would give anyone reading it an idea of who I really am. And now there is a decision to make. Will I make this journal available to others? When I am dead and gone, do I really want someone to be able to read this journal?
On one hand I say NO. These are my memories, not theirs. These are the deepest, truest feelings in my heart, a relationship with my mind, a voyage to my interior, and I’m not sure anyone else should be allowed to go there. On the other hand I say YES. I want them to understand me on a level they may never understand me otherwise.
When my Mom died, she had begun her memoir. I found it in her computer and promptly started to read it. I found it extremely interesting and it explained so much that I never understood. It was only about fifteen pages long and I was so very disappointed when it ended. I looked and looked thinking she had possibly filed other stories elsewhere but none were to be had. How I would have loved to know that side of her that she never let us know in life. Her missed opportunities, her regrets, her life decisions. So, perhaps I should let others know more about me.
My first thought was to lock the journals up and leave a note that they are not to be read by my husband or children but rather opened and read by my grandchildren and great grandchildren when they become adults. I thought being one generation removed might be the answer. If they weren’t quite so close to the subject maybe they would not be shocked or offended by anything I had to say.
But then, when I cleaned out my Aunt’s home after her death I came upon a notebook full of letters my Mom had written to her. She had saved them all. I started reading through them and in general found them rather boring. Then I came upon one where my Mom had written “I don’t know how Laura lives in that house. It is such a pigsty!” I must admit I felt extremely offended. Although I was never the meticulous housekeeper that my Mom was, I did not think our house was that bad. I was angry and hurt. I immediately closed the notebook and vowed not to read anymore. I didn’t want to know what my Mom thought and I didn’t want to be angry with her now that she was gone. And that’s what I worry about if someone reads my journal. That they will read the truth and say “it is not a pearl that we have lost, but a swine.”
But what a beautiful thing to have! The inner thoughts and feelings of one of your own. Maybe someone down the line who happens to get a bunch of my genes will read this journal and say there goes I. Someone who feels misunderstood but then sees that there was someone in the family just like her. Maybe someone down the line will read of my turmoil and mistakes and learn from them and not make the same ones or understand that she is not the only one who makes mistakes in life and that she can forgive herself and still make a good life for herself. Perhaps I SHOULD save it for someone else to read.
I have gone back and forth on this issue but what really made the decision for me was the fact that once I thought there was the possibility that someones else might read my journal in the future, I wasn’t as honest when I wrote in it. I left things out, I watered things down, I edited what I wrote from my heart which really negated the reason for the journal in the first place.
So, I am back to thinking I will destroy it before anyone else gets their hands on it. And I am back to writing with brutal honesty my thoughts and feelings about myself, the world, my relationships, as well as those foreign, dark places in my psyche that scare me and still show up every once in awhile. I’m not yet ready to let go of my journals and not sure when that time will come so Jon and I have made a deal that the day I die, the first thing he will do is destroy my journals. I will just have to trust that his curiosity will not get the best of him before he does.
Need. More. Sleep.
When I was little I slept everywhere. Sometimes my mother couldn’t get me to stay awake if my life depended on it. I was KNOWN for how well I slept. My position at the dinner table of our family of six was right next to my Mom because I used to fall asleep at dinner and she would try to catch me before my face hit my plate. One time we were camping in Michigan and a tornado passed very close to the campgrounds. I slept through it. At breakfast while everyone talked about the exciting night I listened with intense scrutiny wondering at what I had missed. My Mom used to say “Laura we could stand you up in a corner and you would still fall asleep.”
I also used to walk and talk in my sleep. One night I was sleeping and my sister came home with a half eaten ice cream cone. She asked if I wanted it and I said yes. The next morning I found it melted on my dresser and had no idea where it had come from. Creepy. When I sleep walk sometimes I know I am sleepwalking or sleep talking. I’ll wake up the next morning and say “Jon, did I ask you about my Uncle Phil riding a wagon out the front door last night?” He’ll say “Yeah I thought it was weird until I figured out you were asleep.”
To this day I always fall asleep in the car. I try to offer Jon a break from driving when we are on road trips. He usually just chuckles because he and I both know I am talking about a 30 minute break because that’s how long I can last at the wheel without falling asleep.
When Jon and I moved to California we had two cars to drive across the country. We would have to stop every afternoon someplace where we could lay out a blanket so I could get my afternoon nap. I would take a power nap and then we would be off again. Coffee does not work for me. Caffeine has no affect on me. On this cross country trip however I did learn that eating while driving helps me stay awake. I make it to my destination but I arrive 5 pounds heavier. So I’ve switched to eating ice. My Daughter in Law is the only person I know who can fall asleep faster in a car.
All of this changed once I had the boys. Like most mothers, I slept with one ear cocked to the sound of the kids. We practiced the family bed which we loved. Besides the queen size bed we had two sidecars on either side of the bed. At one point we had two older boys in the side cars and the baby in the bed with us. By son number three, Sam, I had learned how to latch the baby onto the breast barely waking and sometimes I would wake up and he would be on the other breast. Good for you Sam! Sometimes one of the boys in the family bed would be having a rough night so I would pick him up and we would go sleep in another room or on the couch. Once I left the bed one or both of the other boys would gravitate toward Jon. Jon would sleep through it all and wake in the morning never knowing who would be in bed with him and where I ended up.
The boys are gone and I don’t have to keep my ear cocked for their cries but still I don’t sleep well. Many times it is due to “Monkey Brain”. All of my problems and ideas are swinging around in my brain from neuron to neuron keeping it very busy when it should be sleeping. Or one of the songs I was singing to my grandchildren that day is worming through my sleep deprived brain keeping it awake . . . Baby shark do do do do do do Baby shark do do do do do do . . .
I also have always had very vivid dreams that wake me. Dreams about people I haven’t thought about in 30 years, weird psycho dreams, stress dreams, creepy macabre dreams, nightmares, you name it, I’ve dreamt it. When I wake from such a dream it takes me awhile to get my bearings and process the dream before I can try to fall asleep again. If it was a really intense dream I write in a dream diary because once I write the dream down I seem to be able to fall asleep again.
Sometimes I will think of something I need to remember in the morning. I won’t be able to sleep so worried I am that I will forget. I used to put something on my bedside table in a strange position just to remind myself that I had to remember to do something. I might put my slippers on top of my clock for instance. Then in the morning I would see it and think “Oh yeah, I put my slippers on my clock so I would remember to buy some stamps today.” That worked for awhile but as I got older I would see it and think “What the hell are my slippers doing on top of my clock?” So now I keep a paper and pencil on my bedside table so I can write down anything I need to remember and go back to sleep.
My neighbor once gave me a gummy. He told me to take one quarter of the gummy, no more because it would really hit me. He assured me it would help me sleep. I took one quarter , , , then another . . . a full gummy into it and I was still wide awake. Didn’t touch me. Warm milk works but you have to get up and out of bed to go warm the milk. I’ve been thinking of keeping a hot pot next to my bed with milk in it so I could just reach over and turn it on.
I have tried a multitude of pillows (I am up to five and thinking I might need one more), different mattresses, different toppers. One of the mattresses I rejected after we had it for about six months so we put it into our guest bedroom. For some reason when I sleep on that mattress in THAT room it is really comfortable and I sleep really well. I could ruminate all night on why this mattress is better in another room but wasn’t good when it was in our room. I could ruminate all night . . . and I probably will.
Sometimes I lie there listening to Jon’s gentle snoring. I can’t be angry at him for snoring because he can’t help it. He doesn’t know he’s snoring. He’s asleep! But I do resent him because he’s sleeping. I don’t want to sleep like a baby, I want to sleep like a husband.
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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.
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The other day I read about a little girl who fell to her death through a hole in the Golden Gate Bridge. I’d walked across that bridge with my boys. I don’t remember seeing any holes a child could fall through. I’m certain the little girl’s parents didn’t see the hole either. But somehow that little girl is gone because no one noticed that hole in the bridge. Last month I read a story about a little boy who drowned in his bathtub when his mother left him to answer the phone. Haven’t we all done that, turned our back just for a minute? Another little boy choked on his brother’s lego. Now I have to tell you that with four boys we have approximately 350,460 legos in our house. Do I know where every single lego is so my one year old won’t choke on one? Hell no.
My husband once made the mistake of asking me “What did you do all day?” “I kept the boys alive, what did you do?” I replied.
It’s not that I am in a constant state of alarm. I’m simply ever vigilant and always on the lookout for the myriad of ways my boys can die on my watch.
After I buckle up Drew, my one year old, I plant myself in the driver’s seat I hold the car keys up as my three other sons settle in the car.
“Buckle up everyone. No buckle, no go.”
I see flailing arms and kicking legs, hear a few grumbles and they are ready. In the rearview mirror I see four little faces smiling back at me eager for an adventure.
And then it begins.
“Mom, Jake’s touching my seat.”
“Am not, he’s just too close to me.”
“Stop it Jake!”
“Did you bring something to drink Mom?”
I turn onto the Richmond bridge, one of seven bridges in the area as I look into the rearview mirror to see exactly what is going on in the back seat.
“Mom I need something to drink.”
“I told you to leave me alone Jake.”
“I dropped my cracker Mom. Can you stop?”
The baby begins to cry.
Just as I look forward again a red jeep coming from the opposite direction heads into my lane. I swerve to avoid him and nearly miss the barrier between us and the bay 150 feet below.
I scream. “Is everyone alright?”
Oh my God. We were almost killed! What if he had hit us? What if I had run into the barrier? What if we had gone over the barrier into the bay? Once over the bridge I pull over and jump out of the car. Pacing back and forth I force myself to take deep breaths. My hands are trembling as I try to calm myself. I stick my head into the back of the car.
“It’s ok boys, we’re just fine,” more to reassure myself than to reassure them.
That is when it hit me. If I had all four boys in the car and we went over the side of a bridge who would I save? Obviously I couldn’t save them all so I would have to choose which ones to grab and which ones to let go. After much thought, actually about two seconds, I knew I couldn’t make “Sophie’s Choice”. I had to figure out how to keep all five of us alive should we ever shoot over the side of one of these bridges and plunge into the Bay.
Never mind the fact that the fall would probably kill us. That was irrelevant. The planner in me kicked into high gear.
There was a good chance, ok, 100% chance that all four boys would be in a state of panic once we hit the water. I knew there would be no saving anyone if we were all in such a state so the first thing I would do would be in my best no nonsense mother voice tell them all to “shut up and listen.” This, I was certain, would quell the panic.
Knowing I would have only moments to get everyone out of the car along with anything I needed to save them I needed to figure out the the least amount of gear necessary.
I knew I had to have a life preserver on because they would all be depending on me and I couldn’t function if I was also fighting to stay above the water. I could only deal with one challenging thing at a time. So that’s one life preserver I would need.
My seven year old could swim. Being my first born, Zach was the responsible one. Also he was probably big enough to help support one of the other boys so he got a life preserver. That’s two.
If Zach took the one year old, Drew, in his arms, he could probably keep him above the water long enough for help to arrive. I was counting on someone noticing a family van going over the side of the bridge and help would arrive quickly. I deduced that was not too much to ask.
But then there was the five year old, Jake. Jake is a bit spacey, kind of in his own world. I would have to give him his own life preserver and have him only take care of himself. He might forget he was supposed to keep his younger brother above the water. I could then concentrate on Sam, my three year old. Surely Sam or Drew, or better yet both, would be passed out from fear or shock and would be quiet and still.
I would need a rope to tie us altogether so that we would not lose anyone. I would slip it under all of our arms and then I would have to use a good knot. Let’s see something that would be easy to tie but wouldn’t come loose. I think back to my sailing classes.
Yes! I thought I could do this if I had just 3 life preservers and a rope! This could work. I was so relieved to have a plan. When I got home that evening my husband was sitting on the couch reading the newspaper.
I said to him “Jon, I’ve been thinking about what would happen if I ever drove over the side of one of the bridges with all of the kids in the car. How would I save all of them?”
He slowly put his paper down and without even an ounce of mockery he said “And, what did you decide?”
I said “I think I could do it with three life preservers and a rope. I think I could save every one of us if I just had those four things.”
He looked right at me and very seriously but with a sparkle in his eye he said, “Ok Laura. That’s good. Tomorrow I will make sure you have three life preservers and a rope in the back of your van.”
I slept well that night. The next morning there were three life preservers and a rope in the back of my car.
(First published by CafeLit on September 15, 2022)
THREE LIFE PRESERVERS AND A ROPE
You Won’t Regret It
I left the house begrudgingly my exhaustion seeping into my bones. I trudged down the street a couple of blocks to the JCC where the pool was. My steps were heavy and about every hundred yards I would stop and think about turning around. I just didn’t have the energy for my mile swim today. I kept going trying to talk myself into the swim knowing I would feel better if I went. As I opened the door to the JCC and looked at the looooong flight of stairs up to the pool area, I had another urge to turn around and go home. Surely I could miss one day of swimming. But I plugged along. Even halfway up the stairs I stopped and considered going home I was so tired. But somehow I managed to talk myself into going the rest of the way.
As I stepped into the locker room I stood for a moment contemplating the effort it would take to get undressed and get my swimsuit on. My hesitancy and exhaustion must have shown because the one woman in the locker room looked up at me and said “You won’t regret it.”
You won’t regret it. That’s all she said and then smiled and went back to getting dressed. But that’s all it took. I thought to myself “She’s right you know. You won’t regret it but you will regret it if you don’t go swimming.” I busied myself getting ready and as the woman left the locker room I said “Thanks.” She just smiled and left.
This happened nearly 30 years ago and I still remember that woman. And whenever I don’t feel like going for the paddle or the swim or the bike ride or the walk that I had planned for my exercise that day, whenever I am so exhausted or settled in for the afternoon or just feel like sh*t and have given myself permission to skip my exercise that day I think of that woman and I say to myself “You won’t regret it.”
And I never have. I have never finished that day’s exercise and said to myself “well that was a waste of time” or “Wow, I feel so much worse. I wish I hadn’t done that.” Never! Every single time I have exercised, that’s 100% of the time I have NOT regretted it. I have felt more energized and happier than when I started. So why is it that exercising is such a difficult thing for me to do on a continuous basis?
Exercise and I have a long love/hate relationship. Over the past 45 years I have tried every sport imaginable, every gym, every class, to try to find an exercise I can do every day. But everything I try I do for about three months and then for whatever reason I lose my motivation and quit. It feels good to do it, I feel better having done it, I like how strong I feel when I am regularly exercising, I sleep better, I eat better but I just can’t seem to maintain.
I distinctly remember one day being on the treadmill at the JCC. The treadmill was facing a large window looking out on the hill behind the JCC. It was a beautiful view but then it hit me - I am inside this smelly gym walking on a treadmill when I could be out in the fresh air hiking the trail along that ridge. I live in one of the most beautiful places in the U.S. and I am walking on a treadmill!! in a smelly gym!! What am I thinking?? I got off that treadmill and I started hiking the hills of Marin County. But as always my enthusiasm didn’t last.
My husband, Jon, has been a runner for as long as I have known him. Every morning, and I mean EVERY morning he gets up and runs. He has been doing this for the 40 odd years we have been married. He never “decides” if he is going to run that morning. He just does. When I asked him how he manages it EVERY day he says “I just do. It’s like brushing my teeth. I get up, I get dressed, I go for a run, I shower . . .”
I hate running. I have tried running at least ten times and have quit every time. I have run with my son Sam, I have run with Jon, I have run alone and I have even run a couple of 5Ks which for me is pretty unbelievable but then for whatever reason I just quit - oh no wait, I know the reason - I hate running.
I like swimming. There is a neighborhood pool across the bridge from our house that is open through September. I have been going religiously every day for the past two months. And as good as I feel swimming so consistently, I can feel my three month slump settling in and know I will only last through September when the pool closes and then it will be over. I’ll quit just like I have every other form of exercise I have been engaged in.
The first and only time I really truly fell in love with a form of exercise was when I started paddling with the outrigger canoe club. I was stoked and paddled at least five times a week, sometimes alone but most often with the team or a friend. So far it is the only form of exercise I have done for more than three months. As a matter of fact I kept with it for about eight years and still paddle although only on weekends.
These are my truths about exercise:
I am more likely to go if I have an exercise “buddy”. It puts the pressure on me to show up and I know they are counting on me to motivate them. (Although I need a buddy who is a bully and will not allow me to call and make my excuses.)
I am more likely to go if I have paid for it. The amount I have paid is in direct proportion to how much more likely I am to go.
I cannot give myself a choice. There is no “should I, shouldn’t I”. There is only “I am”.
I must do it the same time every day. It must be on my calendar.
I will never try running again. I don’t have to. That’s my right.
I am much less likely to go if I have to get in the car to get there.
I will not exercise in a gym. It must be outside, in nature, in fresh air.
Therefore in order for me to be successful at an exercise routine I need to pay a lot of money for an outdoor exercise that is not running that I can walk to where I meet up with a bully every day at the same time.
OR I could have a little self discipline and just exercise.
I won’t regret it.
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53 YEARS OF AFGHANS
We sat side by side on the steps of my childhood home, my best friend Julie and I. We were both 12 years old and Julie was teaching me how to crochet. Crocheted scarves were very in at that time so we thought it was quite cool that we could make our own. We would wrap them around and around our neck over our CPO jackets. Since double crochet was the only stitch we knew and was all that was required for our scarves we made a lot of them.
I soon found that it wasn’t just the comeraderie developed over making these scarves with Julie that drew me to crocheting. It also turned out to be a form of therapy for me. It kept my mind occupied so I could forget all my troubles and as you know 12 year old preteen girls have many troubles. I became addicted to the rhythm of the stitches, my hands in constant motion, my mind at ease and focusing on only one thing - the next stitch. Julie and I got faster and faster and could soon talk while we crocheted giving us that much needed time to discuss the latest gossip, the latest fashion, the latest crush that all 12 year old girls need.
Soon scarves weren’t enough anymore. I needed to feed my crocheting addiction with something a little more difficult so I started crocheting afghans.
My first afghan was a deep rich brown I made for my mother. Unfortunately back then the same color of yarn could have different dye lots and therefore each skein might be slightly different. You needed to buy all of your yarn at the same time lest you get a different dye lot causing your afghan to be multiple shades of the same color. Not having enough money to buy all of my yarn at the same time, my first afghan was several shades of the same brown color. In addition, being new to making afghans, my first turned out quite lopsided. It was in fact rather pitiful if I’m going to be honest. But my Mom, my Mom pulled that afghan out of the box and exclaimed at its beauty. She was smiling and laughing as she wrapped it around herself up on top of her head cozying into it. Just her reaction made it more beautiful than I could have imagined. As I made more afghans and my crocheting improved I realized how much I loved taking a ball of yarn and creating something beautiful out of it.
The first three afghans I made for myself mostly because they were damn ugly and I thought no one else would want them. But by my fifth afghan I was getting pretty good so I gave that one to my boyfriend followed by another to his parents and then to various family members. One day not long after I finished those first few afghans I declared to anyone who would listen that I was going to make 100 afghans before I die. I’m not sure why this seemed important to me or why I thought this would be a noble cause I should undertake. But I have never wavered from that lofty goal.
In college I got a bit distracted from my afghan project. I needed money so I decided to crochet things I could sell. At the time crocheted objects were no longer popular so I had to think outside the box. That’s when I started selling home made “weinie warmers” and many of my friends’ boyfriends got one for Christmas. They came in three sizes - Large, Larger and Largest and sold for $6 a pop. With my new business I made enough money to get by but I fell behind with my afghans.
Once out of school and working I had more time on my hands and once again started making afghans. The friends started getting married so I made afghans as wedding gifts. Then the babies started coming and I made one for each of my four baby boys as well as anyone I heard was having a baby. I liked the baby afghans because they took much less time but still counted as one whole afghan on my list of 100. My number was rising but by the time I was 30 I had still only made 20 afghans. At this rate I would not reach 100 until I was 102 years old.
My goal was further threatened the next 5 years for I had four sons to raise and all that extra time I had for crocheting afghans was suddenly gone. It wasn’t until 1995 when my last son was in first grade that I started up again but at a much slower pace. I was getting worried. I had now branched out to giving them to nieces and nephews, more friends, children of friends and of course my boys when they left home and then their girlfriends. By 2018 I finally hit my halfway point of 50 afghans. Seeing as it took me about 49 years to make 50 afghans I knew I had to pick up my pace. I pressed on.
At one point my Mom requested that I teach her how to crochet. She was a quick learner and we loved to compare patterns and talk about who would get our next afghan. Sometimes as we sat together and crocheted our most recent projects we would recite “Love Love Love” while we crocheted and laugh over how we were crocheting love right into the afghan. But every once in awhile we would have a particularly difficult pattern or notice a mistake five rows back and our “Love Love Love” would turn to "Shit Shit Shit”. Again we would laugh and say perhaps we should not mention exactly what was crocheted into this particular afghan.
One of the things that I collected while making so many afghans were balls of left over yarn - every color you can imagine. I had boxes and boxes of scraps and just couldn’t bring myself to throw them away as I hate waste of any kind. And so I started making round afghans with the scraps and giving them to the residents of the long term care facility where I worked. Since it was Covid and we were in lockdown, I had plenty of time to work on them and in those two years I made 17 round colorful afghans to give to our residents. I am currently at 80 afghans and have 20 more to bring to life to accomplish a goal I made so many years ago. I have no doubt I will get there.
I have taken a photo of every afghan I have ever made save for that very first one I gave my Mom. Written on the back of each photo is the date I made it and the person who received it. I have a small album with exactly 100 pages and when that album is full I will know I have reached my goal. I can remember crocheting most of them and as I flip through that book I see stories. Stories of my friends past and present, my family, my boys, stories of weddings and births and baptisms. I have stories about the ones that were so difficult I almost quit and of course the ones that are my favorites. I remember the looks on people’s faces when they opened the box and saw the afghans, the smiles, the laughter and how they immediately pick them up and wrap them around themselves looking warm and cozy. And it makes me smile.
So perhaps this is why I made this promise to myself 53 years ago - to make 100 afghans and bring on 100 smiles and warm the hearts of 100 people. Perhaps even as a clueless, self-centered 12 year old I saw the joy on my Mom’s face with that first afghan and thought to myself “I want to see that 99 more times.”
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LIFE IS HARD AND THEN YOU DIE
I hated high school. It was hard. I was painfully shy and had no idea how to be a young woman. Everyone was prettier and more popular and smarter. I was invisible. My moods were all over the place. I was terrible at Math and they kept putting me in Honors classes where I didn’t feel like I belonged. I wanted a boyfriend so bad it hurt. I would cry myself to sleep at night at my inadequacies. I figured it would all get easier once I went to college.
College was equally hard. My boyfriend and I were constantly on again off again. My nursing classes terrified me and I was still very shy. I didn’t feel like I belonged, always on the outside. My finances were a constant problem as I never had enough money. It was scary to live on the financial edge like that. I figured once I got out of college and was making money it would be much easier.
I got out of college and moved into my own apartment in Chicago and got a well paying job but it didn’t get easier as I had expected. I was still pining for a long term relationship, my job was stressful and exhausting, my parents were going through some hard times in their marriage, I was tired of fighting with the Chicago cold. I figured if I just got another job and moved somewhere warm things would be much easier.
So I moved to California, I fell in love and I found a job I enjoyed. It was hard starting over, finding new friends. I missed my family and I was having a hard time getting used to the California culture, the traffic and the high cost of living. We got married. We had two kids and the work/family juggling began. Parenting was harder than I expected and exhausting and we didn’t want to raise our kids in L.A. We thought if we just moved to the East Coast things would be easier. So we did, we moved the family to Annapolis, Maryland.
But things didn’t get easier. I was back to establishing new friendships. My husband hated his job, our finances were a wreck, parenting was still exhausting, I kept searching for a job that worked with taking care of the kids. If only Jon could find a job he loved that paid well. And he did - Industrial Light and Magic. It meant another cross country move but we knew that once we got settled again in California it would be so much easier.
We moved back to California, this time San Francisco but it didn’t get easier. Jon was working 6-7 days a week and I felt like I was a single parent. Our finances were in much better shape but Jon’s Mom was diagnosed with Alzheimers. We had to face the deterioration of her health. We had another baby. My parents had moved out of my childhood home to San Diego, one of my sisters was experiencing infertility and the other sister was diagnosed with chronic fatigue syndrome. There was a lot going on. Each year I figured it would get easier. But it didn’t.
Another baby, more financial woes, Jon still working long hours, more illness and death in the extended family. One of the boys requiring surgery. I thought once they were all in school it would get easier. But it didn’t.
And then it did.
Somewhere along the way my life finally got easier.
Was it once I finally got out of the baby phase and the kids were all in school and more independent? No, because the school age days were hard too. The juggling of everyone’s homework, sports and school events, Jon still working long hours, our finances still not stable. A son was diagnosed with a seizure disorder. And many trips to the ER for another son with migraines. Mom getting progressively worse. My brother and sister-in-law lost a baby. Those were hard times.
Maybe it was when the boys were headed to High School, maybe that was when it got easier? No, that was hard as they tried to become young men - the teenage angst, the moods, the car accidents.
I think it must have been once the boys were all on their way to college and headed into their adult futures. Oh but the college bills and the indecisiveness and the searching. The constant drama about what they wanted to do with their lives. And that was when my brother-in-law became so ill and Jon’s Mom died. Those were not easy years.
It must have been once the boys moved out and Jon and I got reacquainted and we had an empty nest. But the house felt so empty and I had no idea what to do with the rest of my life. And one of the boys was diagnosed with a chronic disease.
It must have been when our finances stabilized and Jon wasn’t working such long hours. But then those were the years that my parents died and then some of our friends passed away and family became ill. Those were the years when our first granddaughter was born premature and spent three months in the hospital. And I was so frustrated with my job.
Then it occurred to me. Life never got easier.
I just got better at hard.
I realized that when there was a tragedy in my extended family, we were all there for each other, we gathered around, we did what we needed to do and we got through it together. I acknowledged that when Jon was working long hours I could handle the household, the kids, the dog and I just needed to prioritize. I learned how to juggle. I understood that the kids would grow up and make their own decisions and learn from their mistakes just like I did. I concluded that nothing is forever so I would just put my head down and carry on. I worked at forgiveness, and compassion and kindness and giving instead of taking and things became less hard. I understood that life is short and people sometimes get ill and die and when they do I grieve, I take them into my heart and keep them there. I quit worrying about money and lived within my means and accepted that I would not always have everything I wanted but appreciated that we have always had everything we needed. I recognized that whenever I was going through hell I should just keep on going.
No, life never got easier.
I just got better at hard.
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SECOND THOUGHTS
When I was in my mid 20’s I had just started becoming more adventurous. I heard about friends of mine who took a year off after High School and traveled around Europe. But at the time that’s not who I was. I only saw the danger, the expense, the irresponsibility - for weren’t we supposed to get a job right out of school and support ourselves? I was still the quiet, shy, immature young woman who did what her parents expected her to do - graduate High School, go to College, get a job, support yourself, get married, have children. That was good for me. It jived with what I wanted to do at the time. And so I did. It didn’t occur to me to travel abroad. But now, I look back and I think “Wow, I should have done it. I should have taken what little money I had and jumped on a plane with a friend and traveled around Europe for a year.” And I regret not doing that, not having that in my past.
Looking back I know that decision was right for me at that time because of who I was. Back then I think I would have been too immature and too fearful to have a positive experience. By the same token maybe if I had taken that opportunity I would have grown up faster and become less fearful earlier in my life. But again I wasn’t that person back then. I’m that person now. And now, even though I could jump on a plane and travel around Europe for a year I have too many things keeping me close to home - the kids, the grandkids, my spouse. Plus, I love and need my creature comforts too much to be able to travel in the way that I imagine - spontaneously, minimally. I remember sitting in the Italy train station a few years back and a group of about 15 teenagers, young men and women, with backpacks came in dropped their packs and sat down on the floor. As I watched they were passing something around and as I looked closer I realized it was a stick of deodorant. They would each give their pits a swipe and then pass it onto the next. I laughed out loud and thought, yeah, 30 years ago I could have done that.
I have changed a lot over my 65 years. I have a much higher appreciation for nature, for volunteer work and the way they both soothe my soul. I appreciate how good I feel when I exercise and eat well. I love people and spending time with people of all ages - the more diverse the better. I am always looking for new projects that help me learn about new fields. Instead of being afraid of pushing myself, I thrive on it and am always looking for ways to get out of my comfort zone - new adventures. My new motto is “When something goes wrong the adventure begins.” I feel like I am being my true self for the first time in my life. I know wisdom takes experience and the only way to get experience is to live life but oh how I wish I had this wisdom when I was younger. I wish I had known myself better sooner. I wish I had taken school more seriously, was better read and more articulate. I wish I had been less fearful. I wish I had taken the time to know a more diverse group of people. I wish I had challenged myself both mentally and physically. I wish I had known that I really could push the envelope and not die.
When Drew was just five he was attending swimming lessons and one morning his instructor jumped off the diving board with him into 12 feet of water. He then swam to the edge, his face flush with excitement and he ran up to me breathless and said “Mom I looked into the water and it went down and down and down. So I just kept saying to myself “I’m not gonna die, I’m not gonna die, I’m not gonna die” and I jumped in!
I wish I had jumped in more often.
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)
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COVID IN FOUR CHAPTERS
CHAPTER ONE - THE BEGINNING
And we all stayed home.
We hunkered down and filled our pantries,
We read our books, and did jigsaw puzzles,
We howled at the moon and sang on our balconies,
We got reacquainted with our children and our spouses,
We slowed down and simplified.
We social distanced and wore masks and stood in lines to get into
grocery stores.
We supported our small businesses as best we could,
paying our gardeners, our babysitters and our housecleaners
even though we had overgrown gardens, unkempt homes and were caring for our own children.
We declared our essential workers as the true heroes of the day -
not only our healthcare workers but our delivery men and women,
grocery workers, hospital janitors, and teachers.
And we turned off the TV and quit reading the newspapers for the news was never good.
And every Friday we would have happy hour with our neighbors — in the street — six feet apart.
And the days dragged on . . .
And I went to work at a Nursing Home -
Where the residents were lonely and scared and some wondering why their families had abandoned them.
And the families stayed away and were scared wondering if their Moms or Dads, Aunts or Uncles or Siblings were going to survive.
And the staff were overworked and scared and asked me how to keep their families safe.
And I went to work at a Nursing Home.
And I worked 7 days a week and my days consisted of get up, shower, go to work, go home, shower, sleep, get up, shower, go to work, go home, shower, sleep.
And I went to work at a Nursing Home.
And the testing went on and on and some weeks were good and others were bad but they were all full to the brim with fear and anger and frustration as we sat in our chairs ready for our noses to be once again assaulted and called on our phones to notify terrified families and staff of positive results.
And I went to work at a Nursing Home.
And we spent our days reassuring residents who could not be reassured,
changing the routines of residents who could not have their routines changed,
holding phones to the ears of those who could not hold the phones themselves,
being the family that couldn’t come through our doors.
And I went to work at a Nursing Home.
And we spent our days trying to convince our physicians to come in to see their patients,
turning televisions off so the residents wouldn’t be scared by the newscasts,
trying to make sense of the latest new regulations only for them to change the very next day.
And I went to work in a Nursing Home.
And I tried to be strong for the staff, for the residents, for the families and when I went home I cried.
CHAPTER TWO - WITNESS
And on one particular day.
Stephanie decided to give up.
She refused the oxygen, the meds, hospitalization. She refused to fight.
It was she and I isolated together in the red zone
Goggles, gloves, mask, gown - I was weary from the warmth of the PPE, sweat dripping down the sides of my face, across my neck and down my back,
overpowered by the smells of body fluids and sickness,
distressed by the fear and panic of the nurses’ aid who was there to help me not by her choice but because no one else would.
And I held the phone to Stephanie’s ear so her sister could say good bye.
And as I watched her die I internalized on a much more cellular level the reality of the situation
the grief,
the fear,
the anger,
the defeat,
the depletion,
the devastation,
the lunacy of new regulations coming out day after day from people who didn’t know anything more than we did and I knew I could not explain these feelings to anyone who wasn’t living it - just as men returning from war cannot share their war stories.
And when I went home I curled up in a ball in the shower and I cried.
CHAPTER THREE - AFTERMATH
I’m still working in a nursing home and we thought we saw a light.
Our doors opened, our residents laughed, family and friends returned.
We thought we saw some hope.
Goggles and gowns tossed to the side.
Our noses safe from the weekly assault.
We thought we felt the stress melt away.
We took a breath, our shoulders relaxed, we smiled behind our masks, we danced with the residents in our cautious celebration.
Entertainers returned, social dining, ice cream socials, music and games.
Ordinary things in an extraordinary time.
The residents flourished, they got out of bed, they walked with spirit and talked with joy.
Their appetites returned and we decreased their meds.
The wheelchairs once again crowded the halls and we got back to our old routines.
But then . . .
One unvaccinated staff member,
decided to go to Mexico and not quarantine when she returned,
decided to skip the daily screening,
decided to show up with signs and symptoms,
decided to feed a few patients before someone noticed and insisted she be tested.
Positive
Our doors closed, our residents confined to their rooms, their family and friends retreated.
The goggles and gowns returned as did tri-weekly nose jabs.
Another staff member - positive
A resident - positive
Nightmares returned, insomnia, flashbacks of 2020.
The anger, the frustration, the grief, the fear . . . it’s all back.
And so are the tears.
CHAPTER FOUR - REFLECTION
I quit my job at the Nursing Home.
Sadness, stress, fatigue, burn out
I can no longer do my job.
But if not me, then who?
I quit my job at the Nursing Home.
My fellow managers are burnt out, the omicron variant has arrived.
Feelings of failure and desertion overwhelm me but self care is warranted.
I quit my job at the Nursing Home.
Tears over the loss of my team, my residents, their families
Tears over the injustice of it all.
I step back into my old life and eventually the sadness and fatigue melt away.
The tears stop, the weight of the responsibility is lifted.
But the feeling of failure remains.
I reflect on my time at the Nursing Home.
Many left before me, many after, too many to count, burn out is rampant
And we all ask the same question -
If not me, then who?
MOTHER MARY
The woman on the other end of the line hesitated. She spoke haltingly, shyly even.
“Ok, this is going to sound really crazy.”
“I’m ready.”
“You’re with La Leche League, Right? The group that helps breastfeeding Moms.”
“Yeah, that’s right.” I waited.
“Well, this is a very strange request and if I was calling you, I would think I was crazy but I need to do this.”
I had talked to a lot of Moms about their breast-feeding problems and very little shocked or surprised me at this point.
“I’m not Catholic. I’m not even a religious person.”
I wasn’t sure what this had to do with breastfeeding problems but I waited willing her to the point of her call.
“Ok, I’ll just say it. I had a vision.”
“A vision?”
“Yes, a vision of the Virgin Mary. At least, that’s who she said she was.”
I remained silent.
“She told me I needed to hang a picture of her in the Newborn Nursery at Marin General Hospital. She told me to call La Leche League. That you would be able to help me.”
She chuckled and quickly added “Really, I understand if you just think I’m some kind of wacko but nothing like this has ever happened to me before and I feel this very strong need to follow these instructions. I tried to ignore it but she won’t leave me alone.”
I hesitated, not sure how to respond.
“Well, you’re not laughing and you haven’t hung up” she said.
“I’m just not sure what I can do for you.”
She sighs, “Well can you think of any reason why she thinks La Leche League would be the one to call?”
I’m trying to follow this line of thinking. Assuming this really happened to her because why assume anything else, why WOULD the Virgin Mary send her to us?
“Well, let’s see. I would think it would be very difficult to get a religious picture hung in any part of a public hospital. I’m not sure how you’re going to accomplish this.”
“Well, neither am I but I have to try. Please can you help?”
“Perhaps you could find a picture of Mary breastfeeding Jesus. I know there are pictures out there like that. Maybe she felt that you would more likely be able to get a picture of her breast-feeding Jesus in the Nursery. Maybe you could find one of Mary breastfeeding Jesus that doesn’t look like a religious picture. You might get away with that.”
I couldn’t help but ask “Do you know why she wanted you to hang this picture?”
“No, I have no idea. This is just all so weird to me. Thank you for not thinking I’m crazy. If I figure it out I’ll let you know. I’ll try the breastfeeding angle. Sounds as good as anything I have thought up. Thank you. Thank you for your time.”
I hung up the phone. Ok that definitely rates as one of the stranger phone calls I have gotten on our breastfeeding hot line.
I have never forgotten this woman. Sometimes when I think about this story I wonder if it really happened. It sounds like such a bizarre call to have gotten and yet it’s equally bizarre to think it didn’t happen and I just imagined it. The thing that struck me most about this woman was that she sounded so sane and knew how unbelievable she sounded and although unable to explain or accept what happened to her, she had an uncontrollable need to follow through on it. I would say it was her strong faith but she told me she wasn’t Catholic or even religious. She seemed as surprised to be making the call as I was to get it. She sounded annoyed with herself, annoyed with the Virgin Mary, annoyed with the fact that she even had to spend time following these instructions and yet she was driven to do so. Usually people who are crazy don’t think they are crazy but she knew very well that she sounded crazy. So she wasn’t crazy.
I actually love the idea of the Virgin Mary and whenever I pray, I pray to her because I figure she’s a mother and she will have the most compassion of anyone up there. Sometimes I pray to my Mom but I don’t think she has as much power as the Virgin Mary so if it’s something really big I go back to Mary. And I usually pray to her with the rosary. I love praying the rosary - the repetition of it is very meditative and contemplative, it has a modus operandi, a goal, a feeling of accomplishment once you have finished. Plus I figure since it’s mostly Hail Marys then it might make Mary more amendable to my requests. I’ve heard she’s a big proponent of the rosary and gives it out often when she appears to people. I wonder if she gave one to my not crazy lady looking for the picture.
I often think what would I have done if this happened to me? And I have to admit that I would follow through on it as best I could because why take the chance? I would rather err on the side of caution than dismiss the whole experience only to have the hospital cave in and kill all of the mothers and babies inside. I would rather err on the side of caution than dismiss the whole experience only to have the Virgin Mary be angry at me and end up in some god forsaken place when I died. I would rather err on the side of caution than dismiss the whole experience only to have the apocalypse arrive at our feet when I could have prevented any of these things by merely getting a picture of the Virgin Mary in the hospital nursery.
So, just so you all know, if the Virgin Mary appears to me, I’ve got us covered.
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 . . .
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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!
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Tell Me Lies, Tell Me Lies,
Tell Me Sweet Little Lies
I try not to lie. Most of the time I am successful but there have been a couple of times when I have lied and was consequently cosmically punished.
On this particular occasion I was a novice outrigger canoe paddler. At the urging of a good friend I had taken up paddling on a lark and fell in love with it. The first year I spent trying to learn the technique of paddling and the teamwork involved. It challenged me in ways that I had never been challenged before. I loved the comeraderie of the paddlers, the feeling of connectedness while in the boat, the group effort toward one goal; pulling my paddle through the water in time with the rest of the crew, feeling the canoe under us rising and falling with the waves, getting into a zen state of mind feeling one with the boat, one with the team. As I paddled through that first year my technique improved and I could feel my body getting stronger. This was a sport I felt like I could do for a long time.
The following year my fellow paddlers encouraged me to do some of the long distance races. I thought they were nuts. But they kept pushing and I finally relented that perhaps this was one more time I needed to get out of my comfort zone. Unfortunately the club did not have a novice team that year so I would have to go to the first race and find a team that needed one more member. This I found was even scarier than going into a race with people familiar to me. As it neared the day of the race I realized I had no idea what to do in the case of a huli which is when the 44 foot long, 400 pound canoe flips upside down in the water dumping its crew.
The ama of the canoe is the floating outrigger attached to the left side of the canoe by two narrow planks called iakos. The canoe has no stability designed into it, so if the ama pops out of the water the boat can flip very quickly. A huli can happen at any time with little or no warning. It happens most often during a race when there is contact with other boats or extra boat speed and paddler effort. I thought what to do in the case of a huli was probably something that should be on the top of my list of things to know before my first race. The day before the race I asked one of the more experienced paddlers about hulis and what I was supposed to do if it should happen. She said “Oh it’s not going to happen, you’ll be fine. But if it should just be sure to cover your head before you come up in case you hit the boat.” That was it, that was my huli training. I must have gotten that wide eyed panicked look because once again she assured me “It rarely happens, you’ll be fine.”
The next day I set out for the race which was in Santa Barbara. I found a team of young novices from Santa Cruz who were missing one of their team members and were glad to have me on board. They seemed nice enough and very supportive knowing it was my first race. They too were fairly new to the sport. As we stood on the shore next to our canoe, a group of paddlers headed out through the breaking waves to get into position. One of the boats entered wrong and you could hear a collective gasp as everyone on shore watched their canoe huli. I turned to our steers person and said “We aren’t going to do that are we?” “No”, she said “We’ll be fine.” I nodded. But then she asked the golden question “You have had huli drills haven’t you?” Yes siree, I looked her right in the eye and said “Of course I have” because I was afraid if I told her the truth she wouldn’t want me in the boat. “Good”, she smiled and nodded.
With the next group of paddlers we pulled our canoe into the ocean and jumped in paddling hard through the breaking waves and quickly moving our canoe out to calm water. It was a beautiful day to race. Warm but not too hot, the ocean stretching out before us calm with rolling swells. It was a six mile novice race and we were ready. As the boats lined up my heart raced and I felt my stomach rise up in my throat. I could feel that this team of women were strong and only hoped that I did not let them down. I was anxious and not just a little bit afraid. This was not only my first race but as I usually paddle in the Bay, it was the first time I had ever paddled in the intimidating expanse of the open ocean. When the horn blasted we headed straight out from shore and quickly got into a good solid rhythm, powering up when we could, passing some of the other novice boats and staying toward the front of the pack. About a mile into the race we made our first turn left around the buoy and headed south. By now the group of canoes had spread out a bit and there weren’t as many boats near us. The cadence of the strokes put us in a zen mode and everything else fell away as our concentration went deeper into the stroke and gliding action from within the boat. Stroke, glide, stroke, glide, stroke, glide, hut! ho! stroke, glide, stroke, glide, stroke, glide - turning left again we were in the final 2 miles. I was tired, my muscles feeling the strain, trying to keep my concentration, a little anxious because I could not see the shore but we remained in the head of the pack and that was just enough to spur me on. There was no wind and the ocean remained calm beneath us. But then - it happened so quickly that I didn’t even remember the canoe flipping over but there I was in the water. The cold of the water literally took my breath away. I came up for air totally forgetting the one and only thing I knew about what to do in a huli, cover my head, and nearly bumped into the ama of the canoe. At that moment I realized two things - number one was that I had no idea what to do and number two I was a very small speck in a vast vast ocean. I began apologizing “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry” knowing I was not going to be of any assistance in getting this canoe righted and thinking that it was my lie that brought the bad karma to the boat. They had no idea what I was apologizing for. We all looked at each other in shock wondering how we ended up in the water but quite quickly this team of beautiful strong women went to work. The steers person did a quick roll call to be certain everyone who went in had come back up. Then they all passed their paddles to me. I thought to myself ok, maybe seat five is supposed to take all of the paddles. I can do that. Two of them jumped on the boat to pull the iakos while two others moved to the ama to push it over the top and while I was still wondering how the hell they were going to possibly get that boat flipped over they had already done it. Thank the Lord. One of the women had in fact bumped her head and was bleeding so they had her climb back into the boat first. We were after all in an ocean with sharks. I wondered how I was going to have the strength to pull myself up into the boat but I needn’t have worried as I was so anxious to get out of that big vast ocean that I quite literally jumped up over the side with barely a struggle. The bailing started and within minutes we were on our way again, bleeding, bailing and paddling. But it seemed everyone else had passed us up while we were in the water so unless a miracle happened we were sure to come in last. But alas, we saw one boat not too far ahead of us. The huli had not damaged our competitive spirit and we collectively decided to shoot for passing it up so at least we wouldn’t come in last. We hit those paddles hard and it seems the adrenaline from our huli was now working in our favor as we moved closer and closer to the other canoe finally passing it marking our little victory. But as we passed we turned and looked and it was in fact a canoe full of ten year old boys. Aww man. We felt bad and I wish I could tell you that we did the adult thing and slowed down for them but with our pride already bruised we didn’t feel bad enough to even allow a group of 10 year olds to have their moment. And so we came in second to last, beaten and bruised and still wondering how the hell we ended up in the water.
Once I got home I actually completed some huli drills and went on to race with this group of women for the rest of the season. We never huli’d again but if we had I would have known exactly what to do. And my lying? Well, let’s just say I learned a valuable lesson.
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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
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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.
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JUST IN CASE
I love hiking with my third son, Sam. He and I get into some of the most interesting and unusual conversations. As we hiked up the path from Big Rock this is how our most recent conversation unfolded.
I would give myself a four day party. I would want to do it as soon as I got the news. We could find a venue, someplace where we could pitch some tents and have a band because I would want to be able to dance.
But what if you aren’t feeling well enough to dance?
That’s why I would have to plan this quickly. I would call all of you boys and say this has got to happen and its got to happen soon. We could find some property and pitch one big tent either to keep out of the sun if it was summer or out of the rain if it was winter. There should be a big house on the property too so we wouldn’t have to leave. We could all just sleep there for the four days.
Ok, what else?
Well, let's see a band and dancing, maybe a game night where we could play all of the games I have always loved, “Charades”, “Rumikube”, “Hearts”, “Flip Cup”.
How about the game of “Life”, don’t forget the game of “Life”.
Of course, and the game of “Life”, now THAT would be appropriate. We would have to plan food for every day. Similar to the four days of dinners we had for Jake and Roge’s wedding. Maybe the first day Jake could smoke some chicken and brisket. The second day we could do a “Low Country Boil” just for old times sake. Pop and Drew would be up for that. Then the third day we would have to do pizza in the cobb oven. Could we transport our cobb oven to the venue?
Of course we can. We can do anything we want.
The fourth day we should just have a huge potluck with as many people as we can possibly invite. Wouldn’t that be fabulous! Just like the potlucks at the Fourth of July parties. You know how I love potlucks!! We would need a bar to hang around because everyone likes to hang around a bar. Do you think Jordan and Maya would make a couple of his exotic drinks for us? We should ask.
If not, we can make some exotic drinks of our own.
I would really like a fire to sit around every evening. I would toast and eat as many marshmallows as I wanted - unlimited. I wouldn’t even count. Maybe have a s’more or two. We could get Kirby to play his piano and have a sing-a-long every evening. Wouldn’t that be an awesome way to end each day. I would love for the venue to be out in the middle of nowhere so we wouldn’t have to worry about noise and at night we could sit around the fire and look at the stars. I love sitting around a fire.
And we could tell “Mom stories”. We have so many Mom stories that we could share and laugh about. Wouldn’t you love to hear the stories we remember about you. That would be fun and definitely keep us laughing.
Yeah, I would love that. I think I have forgotten a lot of the Mom stories. It would be nice to include a little reminiscing. Oh wait! How could we forget all of the videos I have edited. We would need to have them playing on a loop maybe in the big house. So people could just pass through and watch a little or they could sit for awhile and watch entire pieces. And I think we should have a photo booth.
A photo booth?
Yes, I have always loved photo booths.
Ok, then a photo booth it is.
We’ll make a program to include everything that is going on the entire four days so people can just come and go as they please. Some will stay the entire four days and some will just come for a few hours but that’s ok. I just want to see everyone for at least a bit of time.
Every morning could start with a big spread of food - pastries, breads, eggs, hash browns, bacon, lots of bacon. Do you think people would come?
The ones important to me would.
It’ll be sad.
No, it won’t because we’ll be celebrating my life and we’ll be doing it with me instead of after I’m gone.
Do you think it will be sad once the party is over?
Maybe. But that’s when we can head to the Caribbean to spend my last days. The whole family. Even if I wasn’t feeling well, we can go out on the boats and float in those beautiful blue seas with a pina colada in hand, just talking and relaxing and being. It would be a perfect way to go. When I’m too sick to do anything you can put me in a chair on the beach and I will watch you all float around. That would be the most peaceful way to go.
Well then, I’m glad we have that all planned out, just in case.
Yes, just in case.
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I REMEMBER
I remember the first time I saw my husband. I remember his strong tennis player body. I remember his kind face and deep blue eyes. I remember him telling me he was going into the film industry and wouldn’t quit until he had succeeded. I remember our first kiss which I had to initiate. I remember when I first thought maybe I loved him. I remember our cross country move to Los Angeles. I remember when we realized we didn’t want to raise our boys in L.A. I remember our next cross country move to Annapolis. I remember looking at my 30 year old stressed out husband across the dinner table and thinking this is what he will look like when he is 60. I remember our third cross country move to San Francisco. I remember how happy he was with his new job in the film industry. I remember living in a 20 foot trailer with two small children for 3 months. I remember how surprised we were to find out I was pregnant with our third son. I remember buying our house on the day he was born. I remember thinking we made a mistake the night we moved in - with the house, not the son. I remember how easily our fourth son slipped into the family. I remember the joys and the challenges of having four sons under the age of 6. I remember the joys and the challenges of having four school age sons. I remember the joys and the challenges of having four teenage sons, testosterone dripping off the walls. I remember looking at my husband when he turned 60. I remember thinking he looks like a healthy 60 year old instead of a stressed 30 year old. I remember the weddings of my sons. I remember the funerals of the older generation. I remember the births of my grandchildren. I remember . . .
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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.
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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)
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ONE FOOT AT A TIME
Just like skydiving I have always had a desire to go backpacking. I had a lot of reasons for not going - Could I carry 30 lbs of gear for any length of time? Could I get any sleep on the hard ground with only a thin pad? Could I keep up with the group? But I still wanted to see if I could do it and the idea of carrying everything you need on your back intrigued me. So, I did what I always do when I want to try something new, I bought a book and I signed up for a class.
The Sierra Club offered a beginning backpacking class that culminates in a sixteen mile round trip hike at Lake Sonoma. Sounded perfect and so I went. Within the first two miles of our hike my pack quite suddenly become twice as heavy as it was when we left. They did not warn me in the class that it would do this. Pretty quickly I realized how ill fitting it was and regretted going with a rental instead of buying my own pack. The straps rubbed against my skin with every step slowly digging deeper and deeper into my shoulders. I thought my boots were properly broken in until I felt the heat of the first blister. By the fourth or fifth mile I was well behind everyone else barely keeping up ever hopeful that there were no turns lest I lose sight of them altogether. I watched in frustration as everyone else seemed to move effortlessly down the trail up the hills and over the streams. Some of them were actually having conversations. My pack continued to gain weight and I felt the beginnings of several more blisters. I was afraid if I stopped to tend to my feet I would lose everyone altogether and be lost forever. In pain and exhausted I arrived at the campsite barely able to set up my tent. I had a quick cold dinner and immediately collapsed on my thin little pad in my thin little tent. I slept fitfully and when I woke the next morning I could barely move. Every muscle in my body ached. The sores on my shoulders were open and the thought of putting that pack on made me nauseas. I wondered whether it would be a boat or a helicopter that would get me out and back to my car since there was no way I could hike back in the state I was in. As I crawled out of my tent I saw that everyone else was already up and eating breakfast. Their tents were down, their packs ready to go. I searched for the leader of the group. But she was on the other side of the camp and in fact she and everyone else were nearly ready to head out on the trail. She must have already called the rescue squad for those of us who could not make it back. But no, she was laughing and smiling and pushing those of us who were just crawling out of our tents to get some breakfast and get packed up. Wait, what? No boat? No helicopter? My anxiety rose as I took in the reality of the situation. I was going to have to hike back out. I seriously felt the tears well up.
I remember my oldest son, Zach telling me once that when he went to boy scout camp it was very primitive. Pit toilets, no showers, tents on the hard ground, no lawn chairs for sitting around the fire and it was cold since they were in the mountains. The second night he was miserable having not had a good night’s sleep the night before and feeling dirty, achy and cold. He had just had an unsatisfying dinner standing up since there were few comfortable places to sit. After dinner he headed to his tent and slowly took off his boots and put on his camp shoes. He found the warmest sweatshirt he had, poured himself a cup of what he thought was hot chocolate but turned out to be more like luke warm chocolate. Then he found a log to balance on near the fire. He told me that he remembers thinking to himself “Well this is the most comfortable I am going to get so I might as well just enjoy it.” At this moment I remembered that story and I realized that I was just going to have to get as comfortable as was possible all things considered and get the hell out of there. Thank you Zach.
And so I set about making a plan to get myself out. I slowly packed up my gear and made adjustments on my pack. To lighten my load, I left at the campsite anything I absolutely did not need to take with me. I put rolled up socks over the sores on my shoulders to keep the straps from coming in contact with them. I covered my sorry blisters with band aids and pushed my swollen feet into my hiking boots feeling the heat of the raw sores. I was barely able to tie my boots both because of the swollen feet and because I was so sore I couldn’t bend down to reach them. Then, before I could give it much thought I headed down the trail. I kept my head down and took a lot of rest stops. I spoke very little to the other hikers and used all of my energy to just put one foot in front of the other and keep moving. I thought at first I would never make it. My shoulders burned and every time I took a step I experienced a new level of pain in my feet but as more miles were behind me than in front of me I had hope. Then I heard it, someone in the group said we were within a quarter mile once we took this last corner. But as I turned the corner I saw much to my horror a huge hill. The final quarter mile was one long steep hill up. I stopped in my tracks and very nearly cried out. Why do I not remember coming down that hill on the way in?? I was physically and mentally spent. But there was only one thing I could do so I once again put my head down and watched my feet and slowly, very slowly took one step at a time. I tried not to look at the top of the hill but just kept my eyes to the ground and concentrated on my feet moving, barely rising off the ground, one foot in front of the other.
Now I’m sure there is a lesson in here about making the most of a bad situation, or always being prepared or believing in yourself and never giving up when the chips are down but the lesson I took from it was this: What the Sierra Club considers a “beginning” backpacking trip is quite different than what I consider a “beginning” backpacking trip and car camping is really a rather lovely alternative.
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PUZZLEMENT
When I was a boy
World was better spot.
What was so was so,
What was not was not.
Now I am a man;
World have changed a lot.
Some things nearly so,
Others nearly not.
There are times I almost think
I am not sure of what I absolutely know.
Very often find confusion
In conclusion I concluded long ago
In my head are many facts
That, as a student, I have studied to procure,
In my head are many facts..
Of which I wish I was more certain I was sure!
Is a puzzlement . . .
ROGERS AND HAMMERSTEIN (The King and I)
I love puzzles. I love puzzles as much as I love books, chocolate and wine. I was born to do puzzles. It was my destiny. If you sit me down in front of a puzzle in the afternoon you will have to drag me away at the end of the night. There is very little that can brighten my day as much as sitting at a puzzle for a good 4-5 hours. I guess the only thing that might brighten my day even more is sitting at a puzzle, drinking wine, eating chocolate and listening to an audiobook.
The beginning of a puzzle is the best. Everything about it. I slowly lift the lid and that new puzzle smell flows out. It’s a new challenge and a mystery. Did I choose wisely? Will it be good times or a wretched slog? (I enjoy both) Which section will pop into place with little effort on my part and which section will have me pulling out my hair? (although I can probably guess)
I always start with the edges, something to contain the picture. When I work with a non puzzler and we dump out the pieces it doesn’t even occur to them to start with the edges. They just start looking at the pieces and trying to put the puzzle together with no edges in place. I am mortified. I look at them like they have just arrived from another planet. How can you even begin to do a puzzle without edges I ask. They look silently back at me - puzzled.
The first thing I do is dump all the pieces out on the table. My favorite are 1000 piece puzzles. Enough pieces to be a challenge and fit on my puzzle table but not enough to be so frustrating that I give up. In all of the puzzles I have ever done I have only left one unfinished - a real failure, very traumatic - someday I will pull it out and try again - or not - because I think I was smart enough to give it away.
Next I start the sorting process. This is a very long and arduous process. I sort through the pieces one by one not only to set aside the edges but to sort them by the main color in the piece and perhaps also to sort through my life. Cheaper and less painful than an hour appointment at the therapist’s office. I have cookie pans as trays. And throw the pieces into one pan or the other based on their color. All of the edges of course go to the middle of the table.
Once the pieces are all sorted which hopefully only took one sitting I start putting the edges together. Inevitably I am missing at least one edge piece that I somehow missed when I sorted. At every puzzle start I give myself the challenge of finding every edge the first time sorting through the pieces but in all my years of puzzling I have yet to do it. I am always going through the pieces once more to find that one edge that slipped through my fingers.
Every once in awhile my edges don’t match up. I have all of the pieces and they are all fitting together but they aren’t. I know from experience that this can only mean one thing. There is a piece that fits in two different places and it is currently in the wrong place.
Once the framework of the puzzle is intact I can begin the inside. Ah, where to start? Usually someplace distinct like a house or an animal or a face. Something that will come together easily and give me a center from which to grow the rest of my puzzle. I never start with the sky or any kind of body of water. It has to be something easier, something to give me a fast, confidence-building start. As in most aspects of my life I need that reassurance that I will succeed.
As my puzzle grows I get to know the puzzle. This is something that non puzzlers do not understand. There are pieces in the puzzle that I have been looking for that I have been unable to find. Sometimes when I am looking for another piece I see it, the piece I was looking for earlier. I pick it up and pop it in and that’s just about the time someone walks up and says how do you do that? Just pick up a piece and know where it goes? Well, I don’t. I have been hovering over this puzzle for days now and I know it well. I am never looking for just one piece. I am keeping my eye out for all of those other pieces I looked for but couldn’t find and those are the ones I am finding while looking for a new piece. So take heed non puzzler, it is not that you aren’t good at puzzles as you often tell me, it is that you have not taken the time to acquaint yourself with said puzzle. If you spent as many hours as I doing puzzles, trust me, you would be good at puzzles.
Some evenings one of my sons will sit down with me at the puzzle and join in. It’s nice, sitting at a puzzle together chatting. One of the things I have learned raising four boys is that boys and men talk better when you are not sitting face to face. They prefer to be doing something while they talk. So it is during these times that I have some of my best chats with my boys.
As you work on the puzzle it is usually slow but consistent going. Some evenings you will fly through the pieces getting 20 or 30 in a couple of hours. Other nights you will look and look and look and only get 10-15 pieces. Some evenings I am working for a couple of hours on the puzzle with my eye on the clock because it is getting late and I have to work the next day. I can barely pull myself away but finally admonish myself for staying up so late and get up. If you watch puzzlers get up from working on their puzzles you will notice that their eyes don’t leave the puzzle. We are looking for that one more piece we can put in before we leave the table. As I stand I see the puzzle and the pieces at a different perspective and all of a sudden I can put in three, four, five more pieces. Sometimes they are popping in so fast that I have to sit down again and finish the run thus making my bedtime even later.
Slowly but surely the puzzle morphs, it grows, it changes and I fall in love with it. The colors or the scene or the memories it provokes. There is a reason I chose that puzzle and when I work at it one piece at a time that reason presents itself. Sometimes I find myself humming, sometimes I have the TV on in the background, sometimes I am very quiet and the house is very quiet. Sometimes I have a glass of wine. Once I smoked some pot but that didn’t go well.
Then when I get to within range of the end of the puzzle I have a decision to make. I have to look at the number of pieces and decide if I should stay up and finish it. Hard not to but can I finish it without going too late because once I take the plunge I can not turn back. I can not get down to 30 pieces and then go to bed even if it does get to 11 or 12 o’clock and I really should go to bed because I have to work tomorrow.
Finally it is the last 20-30 pieces and they are just popping in now. One right after the other. And that’s when everyone wants to join in. It reminds me of the Little Red Hen story where Mama Hen asks all the other animals if they want to help plant, water, harvest and grind the wheat and no one wants to help. But once the wheat is turned into bread everyone is interested again. That’s how it is with puzzles. People will come and go and watch me at work and not join in but get down to those last 20-30 pieces and everyone’s hands go into play. It used to bother me but now I just laugh, sit back and watch them go.
And that final piece, they leave that one for me. Once that final piece is in I stretch my hands as wide open as they will go and slide them across the finished puzzle, feeling the smoothness and completion. And I sigh. Ahhhhhhhhhhh. I show it to whoever happens to be around. They ooh and aah and then I break it apart and pack it away.
Because like many things in life it isn’t the finished product it’s the journey.
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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.