The Day After

I’ve learned a lot of lessons these past several years — lessons that have helped me cope in very difficult, scary and painful times.

Among those lessons is to accept what is, which does not mean we have to like it. But if we do not accept circumstances as they are, we stay stuck and frustrated. Once we accept what is, we can begin to move forward.

I’ve also learned not to get too far ahead of myself by imagining disaster when things do not turn out as I wanted or expected. I bring myself back to the present, knowing that none of us knows what tomorrow will bring.

There is always hope.

I’ve also learned that I have more peace when I let go of expectations. To do the best I can do, to choose my actions and how I will respond to life. We control little in life. But we do get to choose how to respond.

I often think of a quote by the Dalai Lama when things don’t turn out as I have hoped:

“Remember that sometimes not getting what you want is a wonderful stroke of luck.”

In that, who is to say that Hillary Clinton will not go on to do far greater things in this life than anything she could have done as president of the United States?

And with that, who is to say Donald Trump, as one CNN analyst said last night, won’t rise to the occasion and be a better president than everyone expects?

I do not believe things “happen for a reason,” that there is some predetermined outcome regardless of our efforts. Maybe Hillary believes that, as so many do, and if she does I hope that gives her great comfort and peace at this time of disappointment and grief.

I do know the universe functions far beyond anything we control. We hopefully do our best. The universe answers and then we get to respond.

I thought Hillary made a beautiful speech this morning. She showed her supporters: It’s going to be okay. 

I hope Trump will agree to work with her because it will go a long way to mending our nation and he’ll need a lot of guidance.

I also hope he will rise to the occasion, calm his rhetoric, take this incredible opportunity to do great things, behave with dignity and respect and deepen his knowledge of our nation and the world while surrounding himself with wise advisors that he will listen to.

One thing is clear, many people in this country have not felt they’ve been heard. Often people just need to feel seen and heard to begin healing.

I don’t believe it is the end of the world. As President Obama so very wisely said today: Stay encouraged, don’t get cynical.

So who knows? I choose to be hopeful.

Maybe it will all be okay. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow. And if it’s not okay, we can to choose how we respond.

Again and again and again.

NOTE: For interactive NYT map, pictured above, go here: http://www.nytimes.com/elections/results/president

Missing My Friend

 

Today, especially, I am reminded of how fragile and unpredictable life is.

A friend from graduate school, a beautiful, kind, sweet, intelligent journalist, died a couple of nights ago. I saw a post from a classmate and then saw her husband shared the news from her FB page. She was unconscious since Tuesday after a completely unexpected braid bleed. He said she never awoke and died peacefully surrounded by family and friends. For that I'm thankful. I can't imagine what this is like for her husband and family. I'm so so sorry for their loss.

I'm also sorry for my loss. Donna was not someone I was especially close to during grad school. I got to know her better over the last decade when I chatted with her at the last two reunions in NYC. She was so down to earth and sweet. Just lovely.

She was especially kind to me in 2015 when we sat together at lunch and, as you do, we talked about our lives in recent years. I'd lost both of my parents, a young cousin, a beloved aunt, beloved pets, all within just a couple of years. I'd also had to file a lawsuit against a bullying neighbor who thought he could take advantage of me when I was down.

I was feeling pretty vulnerable but healing and moving forward. Donna listened. Really listened. And after the reunion she took the time to write me an incredibly kind and encouraging note. It was so uplifting yet validating of what I'd been through. She seemed to truly get where I was and what I needed to hear — not everyone does.

We stayed in touch. We got together when I was in LA last March. We had dinner with her husband Ben. I felt like Donna had a really nice time. She even suggested a couple more times we could get together before I left.

We just connected. We had things in common.

She talked of wanting to come to Detroit to visit in the near future and I said I'd be happy to show them around. I encouraged her to attend a conference in LA in August. We were hoping to get together again then. She offered to make time to grab a bite to eat or a drink near LAX right before my red eye flight. Just to get together once more. I was really touched by that and was so sorry I couldn't make it work.

But I was incredibly thankful for this lovely new friendship we seemed to be forging, as people do when they reconnect through the years, when common experiences bring new connections with old friends.

I feel such a loss.

Thank God she suffered no pain. I'm glad she was surrounded by those she loved. She seemed happy and content with her life. Why it happened? There are no answers and life is not fair.

And so I'm reminded how fragile life is, how unpredictable. So show those you love your love and tell them often.

(Image with group including Donna from 2015 reunion in front of Columbia University's J-school. Donna is the lovely brunette on the far right.)

I Am the Two Percent

Today I am the two percent. 

The older I get the more I want to live in that two percent. 

I'm fond of this saying that's often attributed to Mark Twain, apparently incorrectly but brilliant nonetheless: 

"Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn't do than by the things you did do." 

In fact, this saying haunts me.  

I'm an anxious person by nature. I used to be embarrassed by this but I've learned I'm hardly alone. In fact, I've done more outside my comfort zone that I give myself credit for. 

Years ago I traveled to and around Australia for two and half weeks by myself with only one friend living in Sydney. That gave me some sense of comfort I guess. Today I marvel that I did that on my own.

As a young competitive figure skater, I went out in front of crowds of people to perform my program despite shaking legs and weeks of nausea in anticipation of the competitions.

I gave my mom a kidney. I signed up for an acting class. I’ve done public speaking.

Today, I auditioned for a spoken word show.

I wanted to do it. And I didn’t want to do it because it was uncomfortable.

It’s been on my calendar since last year. It always seemed so far away. And then it was here. I started getting emails about auditions.

And I didn't sign up. I didn't prepare. I kept putting it off.

I was in the 98 percent: A procrastinator. Living in fear. Staying in my comfort zone.

And that is what haunted me. What always haunts me. Because I cannot hide from myself.

We all have fears. Many we share. Others are very personal. For me, I don’t care if I never jump out of an airplane or run a marathon.

But I know when something stirs my soul it’s something I have to do or at least explore.

I’m a writer. I tell stories. And that often requires me to push through my perfectionism, my fear of being rejected. My mind goes to scary places. What if I fail? What if I panic or faint?

And so I held back. Waiting until it felt right. 

But it’s never right.

I was nudged recently by friend who did this show last year and knew I wanted to do it. I suspect I would have signed up anyway but a little nudge now and then done in love never hurts.

I took a closer look at the audition dates and locations. As of yesterday, I still had not signed up. But today was the best location. There was only one time. 9 a.m. The very first slot.

I could have easily put it off for another week. But I knew the sick feeling in my stomach, the cloud of fear and dread would hang over me that much longer if I didn't just get it over with.

I hesitated. And then I said to myself: Just do it. What is the worst thing that can happen? 

So less than 24 hours before my audition, I had crafted something I was comfortable with. Was it perfect? Would it ever be perfect?

And then I signed up.

Strangely I felt calm.

I had let go.

What happens beyond my showing up and reading my part is not my business.

All I can do is do my best then let go. Every day. 

That is what I did today.

I am the two percent.

Meant To Meet

I’ve had people tell me more and more lately that maybe they were meant to meet me.

Once was last July at the sentencing of Dr. Farid Fata, the Michigan oncologist now in federal prison after diagnosing and treating people who never had cancer or would never benefit from it, all so he could line his pockets.

One former patient at the proceedings tearfully told me how she was struggling to accept what this doctor had done and how guilty she felt letting it happen to her. I told her my story, how even my father, a doctor, and I, an extremely well versed and vigilant caregiver, were duped. That gave her something, a modicum of peace that she was not to blame. It was what she needed to hear. She said maybe I was why she had come this day, to meet me, to hear this.

It happened again last night. I was at the mall to fix my broken phone and a woman with two teen daughters was sitting next to me. The help desk was crowded. She’d been waiting over an hour already. So we began to chat.

Somehow I learned her father was in the hospital. I realized it might be too personal but I asked gently if he was having surgery or something was more serious? He has cancer. Lung cancer. Stage four. It’s gone to his brain. They discovered it when he went to his doctor for some dizzy spells.

I told her I was sorry. I told her I understood. She asked about my story, which is not easy to share in few sentences, so I did my best to tell her what would help her. I told her about my father’s cancer, my father’s overtreatment by Dr. Fata, my mother’s unrelated but simultaneous health issues that kept me running between them and their hospitalizations and appointments for about three years.

She seemed to want to soak up what I said. She related. Her mother has health issues and she’s now worried about her. She said they are transferring her father to a better hospital, that he’s already starting radiation to see if they can shrink the tumors in his brain. It sounded grim.

And then our names came up for service and we sat beside each other, our banter now about technology.

When she was ready to go, she thanked me and said: “I think I was supposed to meet you.”

Before she left, maybe because she said that to me, I wanted to offer her a few things I learned, and wish I’d known sooner, about caring for your parents, dealing with terminal illnesses, responding to those we love with love when they are sick.

I said be there for your father and don’t assume aggressive chemo is the answer if he’s so sick and not for sure getting better. I said stage four is terminal, not to be negative but it’s something you need to know. I said to look into palliative care early, and that may entail the scary word hospice, but try not to let it scare you. 

She understood, she said. Let him live with what strength he has, not with poisons pumping into his body if all he has is a certain amount of time. Yes.

Be kind and loving, I told her. She said he’s been a bit mean, mostly to her mom. I said don’t take it personally. Never take it personally. He’s angry at himself, his body, his weakness. And he’s scared. And he is taking it out on those closest to him. Find peace knowing it’s not about you.

Be his advocate, go to his appointments, I said. He needs someone who can think straight because he won’t be able to. 

And live very presently. In the moment. Because the moments will soon be gone, for all of us someday. Just be there for him and with him. Be his daughter. He'll need his daughter.

And I offered her something I learned recently from a man whose wife had stage four breast cancer. Their fear of the future could overwhelm them but their wise doctor would say: “No one is dying today.” I loved that. I told her to remember that. And why it’s important to live one day at a time.

Her eyes welled up with tears and I wondered, did I say too much? But I knew I told her these hard truths in kindness and she'd listened. She hugged me as she left and I wished her luck.

I don’t know if I was there for her to meet me. I’m not sure I believe in that.

What I do believe is that most people around us are connections just waiting to happen. I talk to others and they open up to me. Maybe because I’m kind. Maybe because I’m compassionate. Maybe because I like to connect. This happens to me often.

I think we are all just a few words or questions away from connecting and learning from each other in ways that can make life a little easier, a little more bearable.

I hope I helped this woman, whose name I never got. 

Was I meant to be there for her? Maybe I'm the one who needed to meet her.

I don’t know. But I’m thankful we connected.

Acting: It Ain't for Sissies

I saw an article today in the Atlantic about how people are using improv to counter anxiety. It stirred up my memories of my experience.

Some years back I saw a listing for an intro to acting class at the local community house. I wanted so badly to sign up but was too afraid. I finally made myself call the last day before the class started. Of course I was hoping it was full and I could tell myself: Well, I tried. But there was space. Dammit. I signed up and attended with equal parts dread and excitement.

It was not a comedy class but we did do a number or improv type exercises. I loved them. You had to think on your feet and use your whole self in the moment to respond to directions from the teacher: Riding on a bus, you're freezing cold, then you're sweltering hot. Another: you had to perform a routine task with the class having to be able to tell what it was (I took vegetables from the fridge and made a salad, chopping away very convincingly, I was told, I am sure because I allowed myself to get lost in the moment). 

We did characters, like a Bronx New Yorker in an act from a Shakespeare play. We each did a monologue at the end. It was terrifying but I made myself do it. I was so nervous for mine I got choked up as I did my lines, though cannot now recall what it was from. It helped with realness even though it was unintended. One woman would get a martini before class. I never did that. I didn't want to use that crutch though I kind of wanted to.

Read the story here, how improv can help reduce anxiety:

http://www.theatlantic.com/health/archive/2015/09/comedy-improv-anxiety/403933/?utm_source=SFTwitter

This is What Terrorism Does

Terrorism wins when it makes us afraid. Afraid to travel, afraid to speak, afraid to live our lives. That is what terrorism does.

Sometimes it wins.

I was sitting in the interior waiting room of my doctor's office yesterday after hearing the news of the attack on the Paris office of the satirical publication Charlie Hebdo. There was no doubt  it was an act of terror, a reaction to the publication's cartoons lampooning Islamist extremists.

As I waited for my eyes to be dilated fully, I scrolled through the news and posts about the attack on my phone, shaking my head in disgust as my vision increasingly blurred.

The room was filled with other patients of various ages, shapes and sizes waiting, like me, to see their doctors. The Ellen show was on a TV in the corner. Some of us shared a laugh or two though none of us related to each other directly.

I watched as a gray-haired couple was called away only to be replaced by an almost identical-looking gray-haired couple. Then they were called away.

I had a long wait. Time to people-watch. Time to think.

A single man took one of their seats to the left of the TV. And then another man breezed in, middle aged, maybe 60, and sat beside the TV. He was carrying a gift bag with some festive ribbons on it. Was it for Christmas? New Year's? Was it for him, for someone else?

I wondered why he was carrying that bag, so many days after the holidays, as it looked more like a holiday gift than any other occasion. But who knew.

Then he was quickly called into a room and left the bag where he'd put it by his feet moments earlier.

I couldn't help but wonder why he left it. It seemed very intentional. I know these rooms well in this doctor's office. They are not cramped. There is plenty of space.

I heard his name. I saw what he looked like. I had no idea what his background might be. Still, my thoughts persisted: Who leaves a bag like that behind?

I didn't like it. And the more I stared at that bag, and in the wake of the attack that morning, my mind turned to bad thoughts.

I started having fantasies of a bomb going off. Why, though? But terror often is random. It could be about losing a job. Religion. Whatever.

I stared at the bag and thought if it exploded, would we all be killed? Maimed? Would it blow out the side of the building? I turned my face — just in case. I wanted to go to the desk and tell someone that this bag was unattended.

I looked at the older woman in the wheelchair facing the bag. And the man on his phone a chair away. And the woman next to me whom I'd exchanged a smile with in the first waiting room.

Why would anyone want to harm us? Kill us?

I was a little embarrassed at myself for having these "crazy" thoughts. I was irritated at the man for leaving the bag. And I could not stop thinking bad thoughts because these things happen when you least expect them. That is how it typically works.

And then the man returned, whisked up his bag, and left.

I was relieved but also troubled. Not that those thoughts crossed my mind at all. I suppose that is somewhat normal these days.

But I was troubled that I thought so much about that bag, wasting my energy worried about something bad happening when it was so unlikely.

I could have closed my eyes and been peaceful. Meditated. Read my book. 

Instead I filled my mind with horror.

A pretty little gift bag. Probably meant to bring someone joy.

And that is what terrorism does.

How I Love A Good Cat Fight

I am physical with my cats.

I rarely just pat them and walk away. Let’s just say I’m full on cat contact.

I have the scratches to prove it.

Kidding. 

*hides claw marks*

So it occurred to me recently that my cats and I are a lot like Cato and Inspector Clouseau from the The Pink Panther movies. The two would engage in martial arts style attacks that was all in good fun even if it appeared a bit aggressive to the outside world.

Apparently I've always been a bit, uh, aggressive this way. When I was in kindergarten my family got our first cat, a prissy Siamese we named Princess. Somehow she was deemed my sister’s cat.

Maybe it was sibling rivalry. Maybe it was the fact that I was way more into stuffed animals than baby dolls. All I know was here was a real live stuffed animal-like animal and dammit, she was going to sleep with me.

Night after night I gently contained her despite her struggles to leave. And guess what? For many years until I went to college I was the one she called for and snuggled with when it was bedtime.

I’ve had many cats since and I've become only more physical with them. (I should add that Princess was de-clawed back when it was not considered cruel. We’ve never de-clawed a cat since. Darn!) 

I even work on some outdoor “ferals” I feed and shelter.

Feral — hah! They love me. They look at me with these goo-goo eyes when I come to feed them. Well, three do, the ones I've coaxed into letting me pet and scratch. Two others are more shy and those contacts are hard won. But I keep trying, usually sneaking my hand up from behind. Win!

See how excited s/he is to see me?

Of course, once they see it's me, they usually scurry way. To which I tease them: Oh, silly kitties, you luuuuuuuvvvvv it

My latest conquest, a new red cat, has been inching closer to me, his wet food source. I know nothing about him and have never gotten this one to a vet. So of course I offer my hand to him hoping he'll nuzzle it. Instead, he bats it instinctively and scratches my index finger. I think: He's so cute.

Days later my finger is increasingly red and sore. I end up on on a week of antibiotics. Score one for the red cat.

But my real acrobatics are with my three indoor cats, especially the boys, Bartholomew (right, aka Doobie) and Hucklebunny (upper left, aka Monkey). Tiny Dancer (bottom) not so much. She’s such a girl.

 

We are more like Cato versus Clouseau. Now you might say: Hey, that’s cruel and unusual punishment! I’m reporting you to the Humane Society!

That’s why my blog is anonymous. 

*winks*

Please, people! I’d never hurt my babies. If anything, I’m the one who ends up with the claw marks — on my hands, arms, even through my eyebrow. 

Cats are some scary sh%^ when it comes down to it. I would never want to seriously tussle with an angry cat. Even declawed ones. They are evil mother-f---ing superpowers when they get mad or scared.

It’s all in fun, though even my mother would say, “Those poor cats.” Then she’d laugh.

Among our “games” are hide-and-seek with me leaping out to scare them as they round my hiding place.

They love it. What other human would spend this much time with them?

Hi-YAH!

*karate kicks*

If they were children they’d be giggling with delight.

I also pick them up and swirl them around, stretching their bodies or somersaulting them over my head. If you ever watch pairs figure skating, it’s a lot like that. 

Olympic Pair Skaters Marcy Hinzman and Aaron Parchem

Photo by Robert Laberge - Getty Images

I know they love this. Otherwise, they’d run and hide from that freaky-lady-who-won’t-leave-us-alone.

Au contraire.

They seek me out. They surround me wherever I am as if I’m a warm campfire. 

They give me goo-goo eyes and trust me completely.

*Evil laughter*

PS: I'm not a crazy cat lady. *hisses*

On Being There

 
I spent last Thanksgiving with my father in his hospital room, where I’d been with him day and night for nearly two weeks. My father had decided he no longer wanted to live. It was understandable.

We were both deep in grief over the loss of my mother just two months earlier. She, like him, had been in and out of the hospital over the previous few years, struggling with one serious health challenge after another. Her last hospitalization, which resulted in an emergency surgery she never recovered from, ended in an ICU, my hand holding hers as she lost her battle with a blood infection.

It was a horrible struggle for me to let my father go so soon after losing my mother. Yet I had to remind myself that he’d probably have let go sooner had it not been for her, his wife of more than 56 years.

After breaking his hip then discovering he had metastatic cancer, he’d grown to detest the dialysis he’d been on for five years. I reminded myself of the days I had to send my mother in to convince him to dialyze, to stay alive. “Do it for me,” she’d say. “I want you to outlive me.”

And so he did. And then he was done.

He told me he loved me dearly, that it wasn’t that he wanted to die, but he didn’t want to live “like this,” on dialysis, no longer strong and independent as he’d always been.

I didn’t get to hold my father’s hand as I held my mother’s. He passed away early that Saturday morning after Thanksgiving as I slept a few feet away.

But I was there. And for that, I am grateful.

I was there. And I’d been there.

I was there for my parents for three years, as one health challenge after another befell them until one day I realized I was their caregiver. I was in charge of their doctors’ appointments and home care, scheduling X-rays, chemo and physical therapy. I could recite their complicated medical histories without notes and go over their long lists of medications by brand name or generic. I even ran my father’s dialysis for him, which he did at home. Beyond that, I was managing their bills, grocery shopping, and feeding the cats.

Many days I was overwhelmed — sometimes physically, sometimes emotionally — but never spiritually.

As often as my heart broke for my parents, and sometimes for myself, I was also, and increasingly so, grateful for so many things. I feel that still. Maybe more so.

Thank God I could be there for them. Thank God I had my health and abundant energy. Thank God I had a good mind to understand their medical issues so well I was often assumed to be a medical professional. I was a good advocate.

More, I was a good daughter. I was told that often. Maybe too often.
I learned I was rare. We live in times when it’s difficult for children to care for their aging parents, to allow their parents to stay in their own homes, cared for and surrounded by those they love.

Not everyone can afford to cut back on a career or even put one on hold to care for their parents, or to move in with them, or to uproot their own family from the other side of the country. Not everyone is emotionally equipped to handle caregiving.

But for whatever reason, I could do that for them. And I know how much they appreciated me. I’m so grateful for that.

As I shared at my father’s memorial, I gave my parents a gift of myself those years, but it was also a gift to myself.


This first appeared on The Good Men Project, Nov. 28, 2013.

A Month of Thankfulness: On Being There

Thanksgiving has new meaning for me. 

I'm glad I could be with my father last year.

Please click on the link: 

http://goodmenproject.com/one-month-of-thankfulness/a-month-of-thankfulness-on-being-there-hesaid/

"Be Kind and Rewind": My Elaine-from-Seinfeld Blockbuster Moment

As Blockbuster closes its stores, I'm reminded of the time I discovered they had a note about me in their files.

"What does it say?" I asked.

The guy at the register said: "Doesn't rewind tapes."

What?!?! It was ONE time, I told him, knowing full well the "incident" (quotes intended) was the time I had to rewind one of their grimy VHS tapes before I watched it.

Knowing their tapes tramped through hundreds of VCR machines, I felt I should not have to rewind it twice on my pristine machine. So I dropped it in the return box, kindly explaining on a yellow sticky note that I had to rewind it once, so I didn't rewind it when I was done.

I asked the guy to remove or at least amend the blemish to my record. I have no idea if he did, but I'd like to think their little video profiling practice had something to do with their demise.

*evil laughter*

NOTE: Lest anyone take my "ire" too seriously, I did find this funny. Elaine-from-Seinfeld funny. I actually feel kind of bad for Blockbuster.
*evil laughter*
Kidding.

The Call of the Sirens

 
I was in high school, a girl consumed and mesmerized by the glossy pictures in her glossy magazines: Glamour, Harper’s Bazaar, Vogue. I kept them like precious jewels. I lived by them. I found hope in them.

The models, oh they were so perfect, so pretty, so inspirational. And maybe, just maybe, I too could look like that. Maybe just a little.

It was a red strappy dress. Just that right shade of red, not too orange, not too blue. It was perfect against the model’s warm, lightly tanned skin. It was casual yet sexy and oh so effortless looking. It graced the model’s slim figure with a loving and gentle embrace.

She had dark blond hair with natural waves. She was pretty in that high school girl way, like Kate Moss. I wanted that look.

If I could have, I’d have dived into the pages and lived there. Looking just like that. Glossy. Perfect. I knew that was not possible but some part of me still longed for a world like that.

I found the dress. My God, I actually found the actual dress. It was in a store a few miles from my home. I don’t need to just dream, I thought. I can actually attain this.

My heart was full of hope as I discovered it in my size on a rack in one of those trendy little stores, the kind with bright lights and loud colors that carries clothing we see in magazines, clothing that lures us hopeful young women like Sirens, those beautiful creatures who in Greek mythology lured sailors with their songs to shipwrecked deaths against rocky shores.

I took it into the dressing room. It hung lifeless on the hanger, its color less warm and aglow under the sunless light. It was just a few feet of material, not the gorgeously draped fabric on the model’s perfect figure. It seemed cheaper than it did in the magazine.

But I wanted to believe the dream so I denied that bit of disillusionment as I undressed then stepped one foot after another into the sundress I’d imagined could change my life.

 I felt as if someone smacked me in my face when I faced myself in the mirror. How could this be the same dress? My figure was not the model’s. My white skin was not a tanned, glowing canvas. The dress fell unattractively on my body, not caressing the perfect lines as I expected.

I felt betrayed. Worse, I felt stupid.

How could I have been so miseld? I left the store without the dress, and along with that I left behind a bit of a dream and a certain amount of my innocence was smashed against the rocks.

Shipwrecked.

Never again, I told myself those many years ago and yet, I still hear the call of the Sirens. And I find myself wanting to believe.

I want to believe that if I buy those perfectly fitted jeans on the model with mile-high legs that I’ll look like that, too. That life will be glamorous and wonderful if I buy those shoes, start using that face cream or makeup or get that hair style.

I still get swept into the dream until I remember — and I always remember — that strappy red dress.

Charles Revson famously once said of the cosmetics they made in the factory: “In the drugstore we sell hope.”

Now an adult for many years, I know this, we all know this. Even the models in my fashion magazines are not so perfect. Air brushing, Photoshop, special lighting and other tricks make the already impossibly beautiful even more so.

It’s okay to want to look pretty, in style, polished. But I need to keep it real. I’ll never look like anyone but me. I’ll never have longer legs, flawless golden skin, hair that is always perfect.

And that's okay. That has to be okay. It’s all I’ve got.

So when I do hear the Sirens call — and sometimes I’m lured again — I know better.

I remind myself of that strappy red dress and steer myself clear of the rocks.

Another Year Goes By

I am off to the same writing event as I was off to the last time I posted on here. I cannot believe how fast nearly 12 months has flown.

At that time, a year ago, I mentioned the incredible amount of life challenges I'd faced and been witness to — the pains, the gratitude, everything. I was hoping I was ready to roll up my sleeves and begin working on some essays.

But more challenges awaited.

I am still in the midst of these new events and new adjustments, including one I never would have imagined I'd face. Nothing I'm ready to talk about here. Not yet, at least.

So I am off to imbibe in some inspiration.

I have many stories to tell. And I will.

Getting Back to Telling Stories

I'm heading to a blogging conference and it occurred to me the other day that, while I've not been very good about blogging lately — though I want to and, as a writer, need to and plan to (which is why I'm going to a blogging conference) — I should get some business cards that actually show off my blog.

A good friend and fabulous designer offered to help during a spare hour or two at work and this is it. The other side has my contact info.

But then it occurred to me that if I give this card out, which I totally plan to, people might actually go to my blog to see what it's like.

Which is when I basically realized I have nothing to show. Well, that's not true. I have posts here. And I like to think most are evergreen. But the last post is from April and the one before, well, too long to say.

My reasons are good. Life has been filled with unexpected turns for the past two-plus years — most of those turns unwelcome, from one family illness to another to a colony of cats of which I had no choice but to take control.

As I tell people, because I feel it's apt, it's like my life was like one of those dioramas you make in grade school. You know, like in a shoebox, you create a little world.

For whatever it's worth, messy or neat, my life was that diorama, I tell people. Then, gesturing as if I'm holding an open shoe box, I shake it violently before dumping the proverbial contents onto the floor. That is what I feel has happened to my life as it was.

Dramatic maybe. And I blame no one. Life happens. But that's how I felt.

Not all the changes have been bad. Though I would not choose to repeat any of them if I could go back. But I have tried to find lessons and gifts and quite often humor from each experience, each heartache, each disappointment. And that is what I want — what I need — to write about.

As a girlfriend told me two years ago — after I told her everything I was dealing with, so much it brought her to tears: "You have to write about this. You could help so many people."

I hadn't thought about it like that. As a writer, I knew it was certainly great material. So that is why I thought a blogging conference was just what I needed right now.

Well, that and the inspiration you get from handing out business cards telling people to "look here."

Spring Fever

Beauty is unbearable, drives us to despair, offers us for a minute the glimpse of an eternity that we should like to stretch out over the whole of time. — Albert Camus, Notebooks

I don't know what Spring Fever means to most people. I only know I was so overcome with a feeling I could not understand one day as I walked home from school that I decided: This must be it.

I was eight, maybe nine when I found myself in the midst of a moment so perfect it caught my breath.

The sky was impossibly blue, the air gentle and warm. The clouds so perfectly white and soft I could have curled up and slept in them.

And the trees, with their brilliant green buds and flowers so delicate, so sublime — rose, white, pink, lavender — I wanted to leap into the branches. There is something maternal about a tree.

Part of me ached to embed myself in the moment. Maybe forever.

This was visceral. This was intoxicating.

What I felt was profound. Ineffable. Maybe it was even an epiphany. Only I wasn’t sure what exactly I was realizing.

I do know I was strangely conflicted, in awe of such beauty, such perfection, something so ephemeral it hurt.

I wanted to cry.

At once I felt joy. Love. Happiness. Melancholy. Sorrow.

I felt it all.

I was overwhelmed.

This, I decided, is the fever. The ailment. The ache. The Spring Fever.

Maybe I recognized my own impermanence and the inevitable passage of time. That we cannot hold onto things forever but can only recognize them now, in the moment. Or forever miss the opportunity.

I like to think I connected with something deeper than myself. The world. Nature. All the time that ever was and all the time that will ever be.

Hold on. Look. Listen. Smell. Feel.

Take me with you, make me part of you.

I wanted to live in that moment. To possess it. To keep it. But of course, I could not.

Spring, this time of new life, would pass. Yes it promised summer but that too would pass. And on it would go.

We all age, die, move on. Though I wanted to stay, I could only behold this moment.

And in that I ached.

I don’t get so overwhelmed these days. My mind, I imagine, is filled with more thoughts that get in the way.

Today I went running. I passed a church along my route, whose sprawling lawn nurtures broad-branched trees, begging you to linger.

One with delicate white flowers swayed in the breeze like a giant dandelion puff. It captured me.

I did not want to cry. But I did slow down.

And I thought:

Hold on. Look. Listen. Smell. Feel.

(I originally posted this June 22, 2007. Then today I came across the quote by Albert Camus which expressed my feelings perfectly.)

Pedestals

I had a bit of an epiphany the other night.

I was crouched down hooking up lines on my dad’s home hemodialysis machine to make a batch of solution for his next day’s therapy, a nearly four-hour process I have been assisting him with every other day for more than two years.

The thing is, he usually does that particular part himself. I’m usually — or “should be” — home or socializing or doing something “fun.”

I guess.

I mean, isn’t that what most people are doing? Spending their Friday nights dressed up, looking fashionable, or at least relaxing with friends or family.

Whatever.

Not doing this.

So I was feeling a little sorry for myself, because let’s face it, the past two months have been unusually challenging.

My father broke his hip in mid-November, which had me running back and forth between checking on my mom and visiting him during his nearly three weeks in the hospital. When he came home, he couldn’t be alone or take the stairs in their two-story house so I have essentially moved in with him in the condo where he does his dialysis. I’ve helped with everything from pulling on and off these outrageously tight orthopedic socks morning and night to grocery shopping and drug store runs.

Just about the time we felt my dad was okay to be alone overnight, my mother, who’d been staying in their home with the animals, suddenly was feeling sick. On New Year’s Day I took her to the local ER. It wasn’t terribly clear what her problem was, other than signs of infection and a pain that moved around in her abdomen from one day to the next.

A week later my mother had both her gall bladder and appendix removed. For the next two weeks, she had one thing or another — from an incision that wouldn’t heal properly to chest pains that resulted in one test after another to ensure it was due to heartburn and not her heart.

It was nearly three weeks before she was discharged, so weak now she too could not be home alone.

So here we are, three of us, in my dad’s dialysis condo, me pulling socks on and off, helping my mother with her medications while encouraging her to do what’s necessary to regain her strength. Oh, yes, and now running to their home daily to retrieve mail, feed and water three indoor cats plus several she’s given refuge to outdoors. There is the dog, too, now also at the condo so I can let her out morning and night.

Somehow in the midst of this, I actually find time to do my work but not much else.

So there I was on a Friday night, not in the latest fashions or hairstyle but in the same uniform of jeans and a dark shirt, hair in a ponytail. Far from sitting in some trendy restaurant, I was sitting on my heels hooking up surgical tubing.

And then it hit me.

Sure, this kind of sucks. But I am doing something terribly significant. And not saying no to it or avoiding it.

I looked at myself as someone else might and thought, Wow. She’s awesome.

Here I was putting all these people I imagined were doing what I thought I should be doing — living the good life, looking like some image in a magazine — on a kind of pedestal.

Not that my family is living the good life right now. It is what it is. But I’m doing what I need to do, putting that first.

And in that, I realized I’m the one I should be putting on that pedestal. Along with so many others who do what is necessary rather than what is fun.

We just might not look like it at first.

Stopped

In all the years when I probably could have been stopped by a cop for a wee bit more alcohol in my system than should be in anyone behind a two-ton machine, it never happened.

Well once, after a very late night at a bar sometime shortly after I graduated from college, I did pull out in front of a car a bit closer than I should have. It happened to be a cop and I did get stopped. But he let me go after a quick chat. And frankly, I was more tired that intoxicated anyway, something he probably knew.

No, I tend to get pulled over for weaving when I’m perfectly sober. It’s now happened twice.

The first time was years ago when I was driving through Michigan’s upper peninsula with my mother. It was late. We were exhausted. We were coming home from Montana. I was driving my father’s boat-like Mercury Grand Marquis. I knew I was tired but was in the zone where you don’t grasp just how tired until you fly over small hill a bit too fast — like a roller coaster — and find yourself gripping the wheel as the car makes a slight screeching sound rounding a curve. Even my mother perked up to say, “Watch it.”

And then came the cop. Thank god. He surely thought I was DWI until he saw us, me worn out looking in a baseball cap with my mother beside me. “Get some coffee and some sleep,” he urged us before letting us go. And we did.

That episode came back to me in the past few days as I was ruminating about what happened last Thursday night when I was stopped on my way home from a visit to my cousin’s house.

Let’s start with the facts: I had a mild headache, I was quite tired, though not sleepy, and I was, though I admit I should not have been, chatting on my cell phone. There’s more: I was wearing my glasses (which I’m not as used to as I am my contacts) because my eye was healing from an infection. The roads were dark and it seemed I kept coming upon construction zones and orange barrels placed in ways that I found confusing in terms of which way to go around them. Plus, I was driving on a road I’m never on, even though I was by now just a few miles from my home.

Oh, yes, I’d had a couple of beers, but that was early in the evening, at least two to three hours earlier, followed by water and soda pop and about half a can of mixed nuts.

So there I am, sitting at a light, a big bright red left-turn arrow signal. I don’t see those too often so I was especially diligent to heed it. As soon as it turned green, but not too soon, I proceeded through the light to turn left and head south.

Then I saw the lights. “It can’t be me,” I thought as they continued tight behind me.

“You’re kidding,” I said, a little irritated as I pulled to the right of the southbound lane stopping as close the curb as I could. By then I’d realized it could be something as simple as my tail lights not working.

A female officer appeared at my window as I grabbed for my wallet. “Can I see your license and registration and proof of insurance please?”

“Sure,” I said, adding a bit incredulously: “Did I do something wrong?”

“I’ll tell you in a minute.”

What’s the big secret? I thought as she walked back to her car, my mind fumbling for what I’d done, thinking it can’t be the alcohol. I’m fine.

She came back to my window. “Where are you coming from?”

I told her the city where my cousin lives, probably 10 to 15 miles away.

“What’s in That City?” she said in what sounded like a mocking sing-song voice.

“My cousin,” I said flatly.

“You were weaving and then when we stopped you you nicked the curb.”

Weaving?? Where? I thought. And hitting the curb? On a dark road, with a cop tight behind me with blinding lights and no shoulder to pull onto. Are you kidding me? I nick curbs all the time, I wanted to say.

I don’t even remember if she asked if I’d been drinking but I knew that’s what she thought.

I felt mild panic as I told her I had two beers much earlier, that I’d had an eye problem and didn’t see as well with my glasses, which I was not used to wearing. Then there was all the construction, unfamiliar streets, the headache, the tiredness. I almost said: Feel free to breathalyze me. Then thought, don’t be stupid. What if…??

“Are you using eye drops?”

“Yes,” I said, wondering what that had to do with anything.

She shined a light in my eyes and asked me to follow it.

Then she asked me to recite the alphabet “without singing it.”

By now I was feeling guilty. My heart was beating a bit faster. I was even nervous about reciting the alphabet.

I think I did okay but all of a sudden after V and before W I sort of wondered if I did something wrong. I think I did okay.

“Without looking at your watch or clock can you tell me what time it is?”

I said I thought it was about 10:30/10:45.

The second she walked away, I looked at my clock: 10:30 on the dot.

She returned for more. This time asking me to step out of the car and walk back right into her bright headlights. By now I saw she was with a male partner, who was letting her run the show.

I was almost finding this comical had it not been so unnerving. Still tired and headachy and not feeling 100 percent, I was putting my energy into being as normal as possible.

“Do you have any weapons on you?”

I nearly laughed as I said, “Of course not,” as she — with the first bit of humanness I’d seen — said as she PATTED ME DOWN: “Sorry but I have to do this to everyone.”

Then she asked if I had good balance.

“Well, I do yoga…”

“Oh, then you have VERY good balance,” she interrupted, again sounding slightly mocking.

“Well, I don’t know if it’s THAT good. I don’t normally do yoga in these shoes,” I said looking at the black wedge sandals on my feet.

“You can take them off if you want.”

“No I’ll try like this first, I’m pretty comfortable in them.” I didn’t want to stand barefoot, which felt naked, on the concrete road.

I did as she told me, hands to my sides, one leg up straight in front of me several inches above the ground while counting until she told me to stop.

I got to about 19 before she said stop. I was still on one foot. Steady. I was pleased.

She wanted more. She told me to walk toe to heel for nine steps before turning around and walking back nine steps in as straight of a line as possible.

Now these things can be a challenge if you have had NOTHING to drink and feel fine, are in the comfort of your own home and have no one judging.

Go ahead. Try it. I’ll wait.

See? It’s not so easy, is it?

So there I am thinking, nothing I do is convincing her. I wished I could have been a fly on the wall to see what I was actually like.

I did the heel to toe. I thought I did fine, especially considering how I felt and now with the added stress of being treated like a criminal, out in the street with blinding lights on me.

I kept waiting for them to let me go. What more did they want? I was not drunk. I knew that. I didn’t know if I had some trace of alcohol in my system. What does .08 feel like anyway? I have no idea. I wish I knew. But I knew it couldn’t possibly be what I had in my system.

It wasn’t over.

She led me up from the curb onto the grass where her partner was standing. She put the light in my eyes again, asking me to track it. I thought I followed it fine.

“How am I doing?” I finally asked.

“We’ll let you know.”

Again, what is the big secret?

Suddenly, her partner is asking me to take a deep breath and blow though this plastic straw.

Finally, I thought. A breathalyzer. Why didn’t we just do this from the beginning? At the same time I hoped those two beers two to three hours earlier weren’t in my system more than I thought.

I finished. He looked at the instrument and said, “You’re free to go.” With that they both turned and hurried to their car.

I was a little stunned. “What was it?” I called to them as they moved away from me.

“Zero,” he called to me.

They barely turned back.

I felt vindicated as I called something to them about being sure to be careful and alert on my drive home, something I’d have expected them to offer to me. I mean, after all, here they went through all this thinking I’m intoxicated, but when I blow a zero, they just take off? Suddenly the “weaving” they saw as enough reason to stop me wasn’t worth a word of caution for any other possible reason?

At least that cop up north cautioned us to get some coffee and sleep and be careful.

I felt used.

It also left me wondering if they really did suspect I was intoxicated. Were they just cracking down on everyone? Practicing their skills?

So many questions.

At least I know one thing. I can handle a couple of drinks as long as I don’t have any more within a couple of hours of hitting the road.

And, it’s not a good idea to be chatting on your cell phone when you’re behind a two-ton machine.

And those are lessons worth knowing,

My Mom: A Guide to Happiness

I was just reading an interesting article on money and happiness. It talked about how the common wisdom has always been that money cannot buy happiness, but how now, according to a couple of researchers, that in fact, if used correctly, money can indeed buy happiness.

The main difference was this: If people buy “stuff,” from fancy cars and watches to bigger homes, ultimately they are not much if any happier. But those who give money away — to charities or to other people, or spend it on experiences, like vacations or even a bar crawl with friends — they are actually, yes, happier.

This information confirmed something I always thought — that money can contribute to happiness if it buys you experiences like education, travel, time with friends and, more powerfully, freedom, particularly from a lousy job.

It also immediately made me think of my mom.

Just the other day she was sitting on the couch watching the news when she heard that the lottery had reached $200 million. Her face always lights up at the thought of buying a ticket and actually winning.

“I’d love to win the lottery,” she said. “God, wouldn’t that be fantastic? Why don’t you buy a ticket?”

I always turn all grumbly and say, “No way. That’s just throwing your money away.”

And mostly it is a waste, considering the odds of actually winning the thing, or any portion of it. But sometimes she gives in to fantasy (although, yes, there is the minute chance she could win) and contemplates what she’d do with all that money.

“Of course, the government would take half,” she went on, deciding what she’d do with $100 million. At this point, because I’ve heard this before, I get a little annoyed because even though this money does not exist, I know what she’ll say.

“I’d love to give it away. I’d give at least million to each of my nieces and nephews and my sister. And all my charities….”

She relishes the fantasy with such enthusiasm I wonder how I can possibly be related to her. But then I’m glad to see some common sense surface: “I’d keep about $30 million. That’s all I’d need.”

At that point, I realize even $30 million is way more than she’d need, this woman who these days is so down to earth it pains her to even buy a new shirt without at least throwing one away.

But then I realize, she’s not thinking of possessions at all, or hardly. She’d probably make her home and property into a sanctuary for homeless animals, and the money would free her from the worry of food and vet bills. She could even hire workers to tend to the menagerie.

She’d probably spend some on travel and taking friends out to dinner, maybe fix her Jeep’s air conditioning or possibly even buy a new car, but nothing fancy, just something safe and sturdy to get her around if her old Jeep gives out.

I have come to realize that any slight irritation that arises within me when I hear her talk of all this sharing and giving so much away is really an awakening of my own fear of scarcity.

Though I’m far from a materialistic status seeker (thanks to my family), I admit, my first thought is not to give away to others (other than those closest to me, of course) but to hoard. To make sure I’ve always got enough money to be comfortable, to travel, to leave a bad job, to have the freedom to do what I want.

So while I’m thinking I can hold my head up and say, "See? I’m honorable, I don’t want a Gucci watch or Ferrari, a mansion or Chanel bag. I want experiences," I realize I have to take a cue from my mom and think even more of sharing the wealth.

I also realize that's something you can do right now. Not “one day” if you win the lottery. I don’t have a lot of extra money, but I bought lunch for a friend recently and it felt great.

Of course I’m still far from being where my mother is.

I used to tease her when my cousin and his wife and kids would stop by and she would offer them things as they got ready to leave. Nothing fancy, just what she had around.

“Do you want to take some bananas?” she’d say, pointing to a few sitting in a bowl. Or she might pick up a bag of chips and say, “Here, take these.”

At the time I’d think she was silly, knowing full well my cousin could easily afford to buy his own chips. But that was not the point. And now I just think she’s amazing. She just loves to give. And I know, without any doubt, I could count on her to literally give me the shirt off her back whether I needed it or not.

More important, I realize it’s a rare person who is so giving and with such enthusiasm. I’m lucky to have her as a role model.

And I didn’t really need to read that story about how money really can buy happiness. My mother already taught me.


If you want, see the story here:
http://www.boston.com/bostonglobe/ideas/articles/2009/08/23/happiness_a_buyers_guide/?page=full.