A Mid-Winter's Day Nightmare

Guess what I got to do last week?  After the eggnog, cookies, hors d’oeuvres, turkey, ham, wine and gingerbread, I went shopping for a bathing suit.  I don’t know too many middle-aged women who enjoy bathing suit shopping at any time of year. But when the holiday over-indulgence chickens have come home to roost – on my hips and thighs --bathing suit shopping is the last thing on my list.  OK – maybe not the last – but it’s a close third.  Right behind pap smears and mammograms.

I shouldn’t complain.  (But I will.) As you may have guessed, I need this bathing suit because I’m going somewhere warm and sunny.  My husband and I are heading down to Panama for three weeks.  The last time we were there, I left my favorite bathing suit behind.  I wasn’t too sad because while it was comfortable, it wasn’t very flattering and I had had it for a long time. No love lost there.  My other bathing suit was bought hurriedly before our last trip.  It was one of those “look instantly ten pounds thinner” suits – the kind that is all crinkled up in front as an attempt at optical illusion.  But it feels like what I imagine a corset must have felt like.  It’s hard to breathe deeply and I periodically get lightheaded if I don’t concentrate on getting enough oxygen.  If I fall asleep with it on, I have nightmares involving boa constrictors and being buried alive. Although my waist does look smaller, my head and legs look huge because the excess flesh is forced out either side of the suit – like one of those balls you squeeze to reduce stress.  The ten pounds are merely redistributed.  I am tempted to reach for a pair of scissors when it’s time to take that sucker off.  When, exhausted, I have finally peeled myself out of it, I feel such relief – probably the way poppin’ fresh dough feels right after it’s rapped against the counter.  In other words, I don’t like that suit at all.

They say that styles return.  I have longed for my grandmother’s era bathing costumes to come back into fashion – but I didn’t think it would happen before we had to leave so, alas and alack, the deed had to be done. Having recently lost 15 pounds I was even a little curious to see how this spree would go.  Maybe it wouldn’t be as painful as the last time.

I headed up to Northgate. First stop, Nordstrom.  I thought I’d see what the other half wears on the beach and then see if they had the same thing or something similar at Ross or Target.  Who knows, I thought, maybe I’d find a suit that I liked there and even if it was a tad on the pricey side, if it made me look and feel good, well, I could find a way to justify the expense.

After longingly eyeing the moo moos and maternity clothes, I headed for “Active Wear” and perused the sparse racks, avoiding anything that was crinkled in front. (Fooled me once – not going there again.)  I found a few that looked possible and tried them on.  Not great, but not bad.  I was mildly encouraged.  Then I found it.  A beautiful greenish gold, simply cut, modest yet sexy, feminine, classic suit.  And it fit.  And it looked good. Unbelievable!  Could this be it?  Could I have found a suit on the first try?  I reached for the price tag, fingers crossed, but the price was missing. The sales assistant came back to check on me (I love that. It doesn’t happen in the stores I normally shop in.) I asked her if she could find the price for me.  “Of course,” she said pleasantly.  Behind the closed door, I choked back tears of gratitude.  I tried on a few other suits while waiting but they didn’t compare. Two light raps on my dressing room door and then the words:  “One hundred and seventy eight dollars.”  Wha wha wha….  The bubble burst.  This is NORDSTROM, Irene, and this is what it costs to look good in a bathing suit in your mid-50’s.  But there is no way I can rationalize spending that kind of money on the tiniest item of clothing in my wardrobe.

After considering the possibility that you have to be rich – or 20 - to look good in a bathing suit, I let it go.  Not meant to be. I went back out for one last look around before heading to the discount stores.

Standing next to me I noticed a woman roughly my age, admiring a suit on the adjacent rack.  “Oooh this is so cute,” she said.  We smiled at each other in recognition -- like two people traveling in a foreign country discovering they speak the same language.  “It wouldn’t look the same on as it does off, though,” she said. “I know what you mean,” I agreed, “I keep forgetting that I don’t have that body anymore.” We both laughed and continued looking at the suits. Suddenly, she stopped, looked right at me and said,  “But you know, I have come to realize that I am a really interesting, strong, beautiful woman and I would trade that body any day for what I am now.”

We talked about the way we were in our 20’s.  We both thought we were fat and were hypercritical of ourselves back then.  We had no idea what was coming and so we couldn’t – or didn’t - enjoy what we had.   How could we know that in our 50’s we would look at pictures of ourselves in our 20’s and discover, too late, that we were babes!  Beauties!  Just think when we are in our 80’s what we will say about our 50-year-old selves.  We will see youth and beauty.  We will, once again, wonder why we were so down on ourselves when we looked so good.

Christiana Northrup, in her book, Women’s Bodies, Women’s Wisdom, writes that women between 49 and 55 experience hormonal balance once again, freeing them to pursue creative interests and social action.  “These are the years when all of a woman’s life experience comes together and can be used for a purpose that suits her and at the same time serves others.”  In spite of the media and pharmaceutical companies’ efforts to depict menopause as a dry wasteland – the end of the road -- Northrup points out that during menopause, women discover a “deeper and freer experience of self.”  In Celtic cultures, menopausal women were believed to “retain their wise blood,” ceasing the constant ebb and flow of cycles and thereby becoming more powerful than younger women.  It was only after menopause that a woman could become a shaman.  In Native cultures, menopausal women were “the voice of responsibility towards all children, both human and nonhuman…unafraid to say a strong no to anything that did not serve life.”  These women were looked to by their younger counterparts for education and initiation into this knowledge and responsibility. 

Bathing suits aside, my new friend and I agreed that we are right where we want to be.

Yeah – we’re really good.  Right now.  And it’s only gonna get better.  We high-fived each other and moved on.  Her to who knows where, me to Ross where, by the way, I found two fabulous suits that looked great and cost under $50 – total.

(originally published winter of 2012)

Perfectly Imperfect

Whenever I drive past Coe School, a part of me is in that playground, watching my children play foursquare or dangle on the rings as I chat with my mom friends. The eleven years that my family spent as a part of that elementary school community were sweet on so many levels, many of which I did not realize until years later.

On the last day of my younger daughter’s fifth grade year, she and I held hands and ceremoniously stepped across the threshold on our way out of the building and out of that chapter of our lives. I was unable to speak for the lump in my throat. I knew that this was a significant moment, but I didn’t know, fully, how significant. And she, certainly, had no idea. She just went along with me, trusting, accepting my explanation that once we step over that line, we will never, in the same way, come back.

My children, now 22 and 27, are hardly “children” any more. They are old enough to be the moms in the picture I painted above. Old enough to pronounce what they will do differently when they raise their own children.

It is a shock when, somewhere between leaving the sanctuary that is elementary school and sending your child off to college and beyond, you see yourself reflected in your child’s face – and what you see is not the loving, perfect, wise parent of your imaginings, the one who had righted all the wrongs your mother allegedly did to you, but a tired, cranky, conservative bore who just doesn’t get it. Ouch.

I am here to say, if this has happened to you then you have done your job and done it well. I am not a psychologist, or a parenting expert (that is debatable after 27 years in the field) but I am very clear on this point: for our kids to move on to be successful, independent adults, they have to see us for the novices we are – at least for a while. 

We are programmed from the start to protect, nurture, hold, and guide our babies. But from the moment they are born, our real job is to push them away. To sever the connection as we move them towards independence. It is counter-intuitive but absolutely essential that we do so. We wean them, teach them to walk, to tie their own shoes, to use the bathroom, to dress themselves.

And, if we have done our job right, as they gain independence, our children will slowly begin to realize how imperfect we are. It hurts because we don’t want our children to leave us, to think ill of us. But mostly it hurts because it’s true. We are oh so flawed and oh so busted. When they become clever enough to argue our points, disagree, disobey, it throws our world into chaos. How do I do this? Where is the guidebook?

Perhaps a better question to ask at this point is why do I want to appear perfect in the eyes of my children (or siblings, or co-workers, or peers)? Why am I afraid to let my flaws in all their real and raw beauty shine? To shout, “CHECK ME OUT! I AM FLAWED! I AM OFTEN WRONG! I HAVE REGRETS AND I AM NOT PROUD OF SO MANY THINGS! But here I am. Here I still am…” 

Why do we try to hide our imperfections when they connect us so much more deeply, richly to one another? We can learn more from them than we ever will from perfection. And we relate more easily to one another when we are telling the truth.

It’s difficult today with Facebook and Social Media, for people to know what the truth is. The vast majority of people post only the most glowing, glamorous versions of themselves. And so we seek a false perfection – one that simply doesn’t exist.

When our children begin to see us as – well – as we once saw our parents – dorky, annoying, even stupid – take heart! We have, albeit inadvertently, done our job well. Because at this point, nature takes over and we no longer have to worry about letting go. We are exasperated and as ready as they are to part ways.

And then, just as incredibly, once the final piece of Velcro has ripped apart, we fall in love with them again. And, with a little bit of luck, they with us.

A Roll of the Dice

I want to write about the lazy, hazy days of late summer. About fingers stained purple from blackberry picking and marshmallows roasted over bonfires at Golden Gardens. I want to write about Queen Anne and Magnolia neighbors enjoying the bounty of their gardens. About kids beginning to think back-to-school thoughts with a mixture of dread and anticipation.

But I can’t stop thinking about a town in Missouri that is in deep despair. And about the increasingly thin veneer between ease and unrest that is cracking, allowing the pervasive racism that exists in our country to seep through, infiltrating our thoughts, our conversations and our actions. Instead of preparing to start college in the fall, a young man in Ferguson, Missouri has been shot dead and his family and neighbors are suffering in ways we cannot fully comprehend.   

Because the media exposes us to events that might otherwise remain local, we can’t help but be cognizant of the growing pattern of race-based crimes. We know about the July killing of Eric Garner, an innocent Staten Island man, when police used an illegal chokehold, depriving his children of their father. And about Renisha McBride, a Detroit girl shot in the face last November by a man from whom she sought help following a car crash. Trayvon Martin in Florida in 2012. John Williams in Seattle in 2010. And now, Michael Brown in Missouri and Ezell Ford in Los Angeles. And so many more… The victims: People of color. The killers: White.

It is much easier to relate to and mourn the deaths of Robin Williams and Lauren Bacall. But think for a minute. What if Eric Garner was your father or your husband? What if Renisha or Trayvon or Michael or Ezell were your children?  Hard to imagine, right? Because these kinds of things don’t happen in our neighborhood.

Or, on some level, do they?

My husband and I are completing a summer of boat work, the final piece of which is painting and repairing the hull at a boatyard behind Fred Meyer in Ballard. Six jack stands incredibly steady the massive vessel on its keel while we sand, prime, repair, epoxy and paint, doing the work ourselves to save on cost. It’s been a daily  marathon of grueling work, which leaves us covered in dust, paint, and boat-yard filth.

Last week, I broke from painting and strolled over to Fred Meyer. Walking through the store, stopping first to get my glasses repaired at the optical shop and then moving on to order grilled Panini sandwiches in the deli, grab some ice for the cooler, and, finally make a quick trip to the ladies’ room, I noticed that people were giving me odd looks. A woman I nearly collided with as she exited the ladies’ room, formed a startled, silent “Oh!” with her mouth, her eyes wide open.

Looking in the mirror I saw what she had seen. Staring back at me was my boatyard self: a bandana topped by a backwards baseball cap, an oversized, ripped, paint-splattered t-shirt, baggy capris and expensive hiking shoes wrapped in duct tape to protect them from paint and solvents. No make up on my sweaty face.

I laughed as I finally understood the looks. But my laughter turned to sudden sorrow as it dawned on me that a growing number of people in our society deal with such reactions every day. People for whom the increasing economic divide is proving disastrous. People who are being marginalized through no fault of their own.

And then I thought about Michael Brown. Skin color is a no fault condition. How we are born is an inarguable roll of the dice. I cannot know how it feels to be black, or brown, or poor, just because some woman looked at me cross-eyed in Fred Meyer. But it gave me pause…

People are being killed because of the color of their skin. Period. There is no justification for it. 22-year-old John Warner, a black man, was killed earlier this month in an Ohio Wal-Mart for holding a bb gun in his hand. Shot dead right there in the toy aisle. His last words were, “It’s not real!” Would the same thing have happened if he were white? I would bet money against it. Lots of money. At least enough money to hire someone to finish working on our boat.

Skin color may be a roll of the dice but how we treat people based on their appearance is our choice. No matter what we learn about Michael Brown in the days to come, ask yourself, was death the penalty? Was being shot in the street in cold blood what he deserved? The authorities spin stories to make victims out to be drug users, shoplifters, and whatever else they can dig up and corroborate. Even if the stories are true, is the punishment for these alleged crimes death? Michael Brown’s death, as the other racially motivated deaths, was a modern-day lynching. An execution without a trial.

How do we move forward from this? Hopefully reminders such as the one I had at Fred Meyer last week can teach us compassion for people we see pushing shopping carts down the sidewalk, or a person of color in the toy aisle of a store.

Because if the dice had been rolled differently, it could just as easily be you. Or me. Or your children. Or mine.

SWEET OLD GIRL

A very sweet old lady I knew died last Saturday.

The date was pre-arranged.  She had her family around her and she was happy (if a little bit tired) after a spectacular sunny day spent with her favorite people in her favorite place.  The place they would sprinkle her ashes when she was gone.

She had many of the ailments associated with her age group: Cataracts, hearing loss, arthritis, lowered stamina. Their normalcy did not lessen their difficulty or her suffering.  It was fairly certain that she had cancer although it was never officially diagnosed because, at her age, chemo and radiation were out of the question.  Really – why go through that at 84?  That would only add to her suffering. She needed help getting around and incontinence was beginning to rear its ugly head.  The only thing ahead of her – and it was probably looming close – was more pain and emergency intervention. 

And so, on Friday night, her family threw her a going away party.  30 people attended throughout the course of the night and many more sent regrets and condolences and love.  There was food and drink and laughter and tears and hugging and philosophical talk of death and passing and life.  The guest of honor basked in the limelight and visibly perked up from all the attention. 

The next day was spent sitting on the beach, smelling the salty sweet air and water.  Her family spared no kisses, no hugs, no tears.  The sunshine was clouded only by the knowledge that time was running out, by their resignation to the dreaded moment when the medication would be administered that would cause her heart to stop and end her life on this earth.  Knowing that this was the last time they would be together in this way made everything sharper, clearer, brighter.  And so, so bittersweet. 

Confessions of a Nerd

The picnic was in full swing.  A fifth grade graduation celebration where the guests of honor were not little kids any more, but not quite teenagers either.  They were learning, though, by practicing, playing at being older.  Girls were admiring each other’s jewelry, cooing over the latest clothing fads and the aps on their smart phones -- tools of the pre-teen trade. Mid-conversation with a group of parents, one mother realized that she hadn’t seen her daughter for a while. She did a quick scan of the party. Where was she?  Not with the girls huddled together whispering. Not with the group around the food table.  Not with the flirty girls being chased by the boys.  And then – ah -- there she was. Sitting at a distant picnic table, facing away from the crowd, legs stretched out, ankles crossed, gazing down as she ate her hot dog.   Her heart seized at the sight of her daughter, alone, ignored, unnoticed.

My heart went out to this woman, a work mate, because I have been through similar times with my daughters.  And I have personal experience to draw from.  Flashbacks to the times when I felt like a no-count nobody because I was excluded from social events or teased and publicly humiliated. I still get mad – 40 years later -- just thinking about it.  

SUPERHERO IN THE HOUSE

Superman fights Lex Luther.  Batman fights Joker.  Spiderman fights the Green Goblin.  Superheroes are in constant battle with their enemies who, while they never triumph, never completely disappear either. Well, move over, boys, because there’s a new super hero in town.  Meet Clean Irene, or as she is known to her family, OCD Woman.

Like my male counterparts, I have been fighting a monster who has tried for years to invade and overtake my home; banging on the doors, climbing through the windows, creeping in the cracks.  Ever on guard, I fend it off; beat it back -- sometimes with weapons and sometimes with pure, determined, brute strength.  This monster, this thing that threatens my sanity, my peace, is a shape–shifter.  One day it is a sink full of dirty dishes, another it is dust, and another it is a trail of socks and cast off shoes.  In other words, it is the detritus of the people with whom I live. People who, although endearing and skilled in many areas, have not mastered my sense of organization or the skills for keeping that order…  in order.  Were it not for my vigilance, this monster might just huff and puff and blow the house down, forcing my three little pigs to go wee wee wee all the way to oblivion.

Love on Four Legs

How do you know when it’s time to put your dog down?  When she’s had enough? Dog owners walk a fine line between reason and compassion.  The suffering and diminished quality of an old dog’s life is one thing. But rational thinking can be clouded by sweet memories and the moments when our dogs seemed to transcend their animal nature, responding uncannily to our needs, our thoughts, our human-ness.

Our dog, Lovey, has astonished us with her pure, spot-on responses to certain situations.  Call me crazy.  I don’t care.  Lovey and I know the truth.

One night, sick in bed, unable to get warm, I thought how nice it would be to have Lovey up on the bed – normally forbidden territory.  The thought of her warm, soft body close to mine circled around my feverish brain for a while when I heard her thumping up the stairs.  With a determined leap she was on the bed and curled up, her back pressed against me.  Her warmth seeped into my bones and I finally slept. Coincidence?

SOMETHING FOR NOTHING

With any luck, by the time you are reading this, we will have had a glorious weekend of warm sunshine, long walks, bike rides, kayak paddles, barbeques and all the things people do when the sun comes out in Seattle. 

What did you do last weekend? Did you clean your house?  Pay bills?  Do yard work?  Accomplish something so you didn’t feel like you wasted the weekend away?  Or did you enjoy the onset (finally) of summer, by leaving all that behind to play?

Here’s the thing. We are conditioned that we must always be achieving, working towards a goal.  Planning, scheduling, keeping busy.  Filling that calendar with more and more. No blank pages!  No wasted time!

What would happen if you decided to spend an entire weekend doing nothing? Actually scheduled it as your weekend plan.  Wrote it on the calendar? 

Saturday:  Nothing. 

Sunday:    Nothing. 

Of course, you’d have to prepare food and clean up and walk the dog and take the garbage out.  But what if you let all but the essential chores go? 

UNDER THE VEIL

Close your eyes and picture this:  Woman in Burka. 

What do you see?  Dark, flowing fabric?  Face visible?  Just eyes?   Is she walking through a barren, dusty, rock-strewn landscape? Or seated in her home, comfortable but isolated, saved only for her husband’s eyes. 

Or… is she walking down the halls of a hospital in Seattle, a refugee seeking medical care, cut off not only from her own people but also the people amongst whom she now lives.

I work at UW Medical Center, a hospital that serves a virtual United Nations of patients. Dealing with people from all over the world in life and death situations allows me to regularly encounter the heart of our shared humanity.  Perceived differences between people can come crashing down in one familiar, empathetic moment of connection.  In this hospital setting, I am constantly reminded of how alike we are despite language, tradition, culture and the garments with which we choose to cover our bodies.

Last week, heading to the espresso bar for my morning coffee, a man looking lost met my eyes and asked, “Do you work here?”  I postponed my coffee run to help him.  Navigating our way through the maze of hallways, I learned that he was Ethiopian and needed medical documents for immigration.  In my mind I switched places with him, trying to accomplish a similar task in Ethiopia.  I couldn’t wrap my brain around it, but it made me glad to be helping him.  We parted with a smile and a handshake.

Back at the espresso bar, two women I see every day greeted me.  Members of our housekeeping staff, also Ethiopians, they are constant presences to those of us who work in my area.  We chat about our lives and our families while waiting for our coffee.  One of them mentioned that it was her birthday and we ended up in a triple grande hug.  

Finally, latte in hand, I headed down the hall to my office.  A pedestrian traffic jam in the main hallway caused me to walk next to a burka-clad woman, our shoulders practically touching. I ignored my usual impulse to just walk by,  (a response to the burka’s apparent  message to keep distance between us?), and asked, “How are you today?” She looked surprised and responded, “Fine thank you, how are you?” in perfect English.  After learning that I was an employee, she said that she thought this was the best hospital in the world.

“I was near death,” she explained.  “I was in this hospital for a long time and they saved my life and showed me that life was worth living.”  I asked what unit she had been on.  The answer surprised me.  It was the in-patient psychiatric unit.  Then I learned where she is from.

She is Somalian. 

I was struck as I thought about it afterwards at how little I know, really, about Somalia. I know the basics.  I know it’s bad over there. But I have not taken it to the next level. I felt embarrassed when I admitted to myself that I didn’t even know where Somalia is in Africa. Or Ethiopia, the country of work-mates and where my daughter’s best friend is in the Peace Corps. 

I began obsessively studying a map of Africa; learning the geographical relationships between countries and places on this vast continent.  I felt ashamed at my ignorance but grateful for this encounter that propelled me on a mission to step outside my little world.

I googled madly.  “Somali Women;” “Somali Women’s Plight;” “Somali Civil War.” This is a glimpse of what I learned.

Somali women in refugee camps (for two decades now) have fled their homes and their lives, grieve dead husbands and children and parents and siblings, are starving, forced to endure poor hygiene and sanitation, subjected to sexual violence including being raped and sexually mutilated in front of their children (their attackers given absolute impunity as the powers that be consider rape a weapon of war).  They suffer trauma beyond our comprehension.  Grief and resignation is what one reporter described as the permanent look on the faces of these women. 

What had this woman standing next to me in the hall been through?  What had landed her in the hospital after finally escaping this horror, with no desire to continue living?

Under that burka was a woman who had likely loved, borne children, enjoyed the warm sun and the flowers and the sweet smells of salt air and spring.  A woman who, in another time and place, might have been a friend or a sister.

But that’s just it.  She IS a sister. And a daughter.  And a mother.   The sooner we start looking at our world, at each other, that way, the better we all will be. We are so much stronger when we work together and try to understand each other than we are when we fight or try to build ourselves up by putting each other down.  

A friend of mine emailed recently recommending a documentary called, I Am.  “The film’s message is that the human race is meant to be cooperative, not competitive, and if we don’t start working together – helping each other – no matter race, creed, country – we will go extinct.”

When we focus on our differences we become participants in the funneling of hatred and fear and blame towards people, symbols and places. We become pawns in a larger, very dangerous game.  Fuel for the fire.  Instead, we have to turn our thinking around from an “us and them” mentality.  A “we win – you lose” philosophy. 

Naïve?  Maybe.  An original thought?  No.   A little “kumbaya?” Perhaps. 

But that doesn’t mean it’s wrong.

We are all going to win. 

Or we are all going to lose.

It’s pretty much that simple.  And, unfortunately, that complex.

Finding Your Way Home

 I used to fall in love twice a month.  Every other weekend, without fail, it happened. And always with the same man. Luckily it was the man I was – and am – married to.

The trigger was my husband’s bi-monthly call to his father.  For an hour I’d hear laughter and tenderness as he filled his dad in on the latest news:  kids’ accomplishments, work successes, things that would make his dad proud and give him something to brag to his friends about.  Glowing summaries commonly reserved for holiday letters and reunion bios.  And, eventually, elderly parents. 

As a stand-alone event it was pretty sweet.  The thing that really moved me, though, was that my husband’s relationship with his father was not exactly storybook.  His father was an angry man who took out his frustrations on his children.  Criticism, abuse and fear were constant members of the family. It’s a miracle that my husband grew up to be the gentle man he is.

In spite of the history between them, he called.  In spite of having become a father and realized the power of words and actions in forming a child’s character, he called.  He chose the high road, stayed in touch, called his father regularly and gave him an hour that would keep him going until the next call.  

It was not a choice everyone would make, understandably, given the past.  But he did.  And as I overheard pieces of the conversation, I would feel that delicious feeling of loving someone where your body feels warm and soft and your heart feels like it’s expanding to its limits.

It was also a poignant lesson in sticking with something or someone no matter how hard, no matter how many times you get rebuffed or discouraged and no matter how angry it makes you.  Some people in our lives are toxic and should avoided.  But if you find you care enough to want to know why a person is the way they are; if you have even an inkling that there is a good soul underneath the prickles and barbs; and especially if this person is a one and only in your life, then it’s worth the work to find your way back home.

Changing Places - Sort of...

I have heard that this day would come. The role-reversal. The day when we, as adult children, would care for our aging parents. But I could not imagine my parents ever needing help from me. Not my strong, funny, surgeon father, unwavering in his convictions, his intelligence, his “dad-ness.” And certainly not my beautiful, smart, energetic mother who ran a family of nine with a firm and loving hand, who had all the answers and who invented the phrase, “my way or the highway.”  My parents would just keep going until they dropped.  If they dropped.  It seemed to me that they could live forever. I hoped so.

But here I am, on a plane, on my way to DC.  My father is housebound with Parkinson’s syndrome and dementia. He needs to be fed, dressed, and much to his horror if he were fully conscious of it, occasionally changed and cleaned. 

My mother, recovering from leg surgery, cannot be on her feet for long periods of time. She can’t cook or clean or care for Dad as she has, amazingly, done for years. So my sisters and I are rotating in to help out for a week at a time, along with aids (who have become like family members) who come in to do the moving and lifting and the really hard stuff. 

My job will be to shop, cook, clean, feed Dad, help my mother bathe and take her to doctor appointments and church. When was the last time I helped someone bathe? Fed someone? Did laundry for anyone other than myself? Drove anyone to a doctor appointment?  That’s right – when my children were…children. So, yes, the time has come. I just didn’t know it would feel like this.

An Addiction That Needs No Cure

What’s more fun than a barrel full of monkeys?  A hot tub full of your best friends! 

Last weekend, my daughters surprised me with an early birthday celebration.  They whisked me away to breakfast at a Capitol Hill creperie and then to a nearby women’s spa where, unbeknownst to me, they had sneakily assembled six of my closest women friends.   The manager of the spa took me a “tour” of the facility.  Entering the tub room I had a split second to notice a number of women already in the water before they jumped up, their unison shout of “SURPRISE!” echoing off the tiled walls. After my heart returned to its normal rate, I spent two dreamy hours luxuriating in the warmth of the tub, sauna and steam room and in the sweet, loving company of my beautiful friends.

I love my husband (who was part of the planning and scheming of this surprise).  He is my best friend and has stood by me when even I couldn’t stand being around myself. My entire life has been blessed with fabulous male friendships.  But I honestly do not know how I would get through this life without my girlfriends.  They are the glue that holds me together when I am falling apart. They fill in the gaps when things start to crack.  They know me better than I know myself and they love me for who I am – and, at times, I am sure, in spite of how I am.

I am certain that same sex friendships are important and necessary.  But I can’t speak to what it is like to be a man or to be friends with a man - as a man.  So for now, this one’s for the ladies.  But keep reading, all you men who love the women in your lives and understand that when we get together with the girls, it’s a good thing.   A very good thing.

To Facebook or Not to Facebook? That is the Question.

The peer pressure is mounting.  I’m weakening, losing my resolve. I mean, I don’t want to get left behind…  stuck outside the circle…  or do I?

I have resisted the Facebook phenomenon because, for me, the reasons for joining are not all that compelling.  It’s fun!  Okay.  I’m always up for a good time.  But I’d rather go out for margaritas or a walk on the beach than sit in front of the computer.   It reconnects you with people from your past.  That intrigues me.  (I do occasionally wonder what happened to that guy I made out with in eighth grade.) But I’m fine with the memories and the friends I have today.  It’s the main way people are connecting now; it’s replacing email; if you don’t join in, you’re out of the loop.  That’s where I start to waver.

I have always waited and watched before jumping on the latest technology (or other) craze. I was the last to get an answering machine, and only when three frustrated friends chipped in and forced one on me for my birthday. Remember when Call Waiting was new?  My husband renamed it “Call Rude” and we cancelled after trying it for a short time.  When at last I gave my daughters permission to set up My Space pages, not wanting them to feel like social oddballs, I made them swear on their Converse All Stars that they would be responsible with their postings. My kids were late in the game getting cell phones and we added texting long after the majority were bumping into trees and parked cars as they walked home from school, texting all the way.

So here I am again.

Let it Snow

We heard the sirens in the distance and knew exactly what to do. We had done it before. Many times.  You have, too.  It’s automatic.  My daughter was at the wheel and as the lights became visible, clearly heading our way, she signaled, slowed and pulled over, as did the cars sharing the road with us.  Everyone waited patiently as the fire truck and ambulance raced toward us, maneuvering through the path we had collectively created for them.  I covered my ears as they passed us and then we worked our way back onto the road and resumed our journey.

“I love this,” I said.  “What?” my daughters asked.  “I love that when we hear a siren, road rage and hurry are suspended and people start working together.”  The girls agreed that it was cool, but couldn’t resist teasing, asking me if wanted to stop at the store, get food and blankets and bring buckets of water.  We laughed.  They know me for what I am – a bit of a sap – a sentimental believer in human goodness.  But I do find it worth noting that people who, just minutes before were racing to pass us or flipping us off as we passed them (not that I ever do anything like that while driving…) were suddenly transformed by the fact that someone needed help.  In an instant, we switched from being isolated individuals with personal agendas to a unit, working together to help someone in serious trouble – someone we don’t even know.  No longer adversaries, vying for position on 23rd Street, we had become allies, united by a common goal.

The cynics (including myself on certain days) might argue that the hefty fine for not cooperating is the real motive for our behavior.   Perhaps.  But I’ve seen this sort of thing enough to believe that there is something else at work that compels us during times like these.  When something big happens, something that affects us all, we behave differently.

Take snow for instance.  Did you ever notice how peoples’ moods change when it’s snowing?  Last week, as soon as the snow began falling, I felt my mood lift. Walking down the dock, as the flakes became evident, everyone I passed greeted me with a smile and said, “Snow!”  Not “Hi,” but, “Snow!”  (Complete with exclamation mark.)  Who hasn’t stood in awe and delight at the window when the first snow of the season begins?

Bye Bye Stuff, Hello Time

When people hear that I live on a 42’ sailboat in Ballard, the most common reaction I get is, “You live on a sailboat?  Wow. That is SO cool!”  I suppose it is. But during the decision and then the transition process I felt anything but cool.  I didn’t just say, “Yeah, let’s do it!  Let’s sell our house and all our stuff and live simply and shrink our footprint.”  I cried and argued and worried and stressed and resisted – qualities and behavior not often associated with cool people. So while it may be “cool” to live on a boat, I feel like an imposter accepting this particular designation. 

When my husband first started talking about it, I didn’t take him too seriously. Dan had had so many schemes and plans to move us toward financial freedom over the years that I began calling him “Ralph” after Jackie Gleason’s character from the Honeymooners.  “OK, Ralph, sounds great,” I’d say when he presented me with another idea.

I was sure it couldn't happen because, well, what would we do with all our stuff? How would we ever find the time to sort through our things, decide what to keep, what to store and what to toss?  How could we stomach putting the house on the market and having strangers traipsing through every day?  What about actually moving - leaving our dear little house? Changing our mailing address?  It paralyzed me to think of adding such daunting work to all we were already juggling.

Truthfully, we had been toying with the idea for a while.  During our many summers cruising the west coast of Canada, we traveled deeply into the rainforest and even more deeply into ourselves. After a month or more on our floating home that provided everything we needed, I would dreamily say, “I would be happy if we lived on the boat full-time.  I could do this.” And I really believed I could.

But once Dan started getting serious about it, I learned pretty quickly what a faker I was. I panicked when I realized that this one wasn’t going away.  The universe has a bothersome way of calling you out when you start patting yourself on the back at how cool you are.  “Oh yeah?” it seems to say, “let’s see just how you deal with THIS.”  And suddenly you are looking in the mirror, stark naked, not an undergarment or hair-product or tube of mascara in sight to disguise the flaws, the raw truth of how far you still have to go to that perceived coolness to which so many of us aspire.  Grasping at straws, I demanded the impossible:  a boat with three dedicated sleeping rooms, a couch, and a master bed that could be gotten in and out of from either side.  “It won’t happen,” I secretly thought.  That way I would never be exposed.

Mid-Life? Bring it On!

            Has it happened yet? Have you been called “M’am” at the supermarket?  Have you woken up and looked in the mirror to find your mother staring back at you?  Do you perform an occasional strip-tease during a business meeting as a hot flash comes on? Or have you noticed men staring as you walk past them on the street – not at you as they once did – but at your daughter?

            Or how about this…

You’re out with your husband, enjoying cocktails with some work associates after a holiday party.  You feel pretty good in the outfit you bought for the occasion – it’s swishy, slimming, and youthful.  You’re chatting and laughing with the other wives and you notice that they pay close attention when you speak.  Ahhh!  I’m fascinating as well as gorgeous tonight, you think.  The other women are a bit younger than you; their children home with a babysitter while your teenagers are out with friends.  It seems like just yesterday that you were forced to keep glancing at your watch, as these women do, to be sure you wouldn’t be late for the babysitter.  The talk turns to the wear and tear motherhood puts on women’s looks.  “Wait until they’re teenagers,” you throw out casually but with an air of authority.  One of the women counters with “But you look great!”  Before you have time to take in the compliment she adds, “I hope I look as good as you when I’m your age.” 

           (SOUND OF TIRES SCREECHING ON PAVEMENT.) 


          When I’m your age?  When I’m YOUR age?  Suddenly the noise in the bar begins to fade, taken over by a weird humming sound as all the blood in your body rushes into your ears and your brain tries to sort out what this statement means.  How old do they think I am?  What do I look like from their perspective?  Were they paying such close attention to my comments because they see me as their elder, wiser counterpart – the Village Crone?  You do your best to appear engaged in the conversation but the internal dialogue is too loud and you find yourself wishing you had the excuse of a babysitter to hurry you out of the bar.  Your makeup feels like it’s melting and the bulge around your waistline feels suffocating.  The clock has struck midnight and Cinderella suddenly ain’t lookin’ so good anymore.

Scenarios like these are happening to me with increasing frequency.  I am often (too often to ignore it) mistaken for my younger sister’s mother.  I’m blown away when it’s time to get my driver’s license photo re-taken and I see the difference between the old picture and the new one.  And what about invisibility?  I always thought it would be cool to have a super-power, but I was thinking more about, say, flying... or x-ray vision... or time travel...    than becoming invisible to entire sidewalks full of people younger than I.

Let’s face it.  We live in a youth-worshipping culture where women (and men -- guys are not entirely exempt from this phenomenon) are pressured to dye their hair, lift their lids, nip and tuck chins, necks, breasts and butts.  In short, to do anything but allow the natural process of aging to occur.  There is a sense of something coming to an end, of being about to topple into the abyss of old age where society will view and treat you differently. 

So what do we do?  Do we just disappear?  Do we give up and resign ourselves to the end of life as a vibrant, worthy, physically beautiful person?  Or do we embrace the change, accept the results, and rejoice in the freedom that can come from letting go of the superficial?   We certainly would not be alone if we chose that approach – far from it. 

The New Normal

September....  Back to School time... An invigorating crispness in the morning air, leaves beginning to turn color and drop, satisfyingly crunchy underfoot.  Newly cut hair and freshly sharpened pencils.  Lunch boxes unsullied by the stink of half-eaten sandwiches.  Children flipping open the covers of brand new crayon boxes nad pressing their noses against the cool flat tips, inhaling deply the smell that, even as adults, transports us to Septembers so far in our past they seem another lifetime.


For parents, some Septembers are more dramatic than others.  There is always that sense of beginning, but some years simultaneously signal an end.  Kindergarten for example.  The very first day of school.  Such excitement!  Such anticipation!  Breakfast eaten hurriedly so there is time for photos and last minute outfit adjustments.  Parents' smiles and optimism hiding their secret dread of turning their children loose to a world where other adults will hold sway over their thinking and judgment.  Where they will be subjected to fickle friendships and owies with no Mom to kiss and make better.

I remember vividly the first day of my older daughter's kindergarten year.  I thought about the day so often with a mixture of excitement and dread, but nothing prepared me for the real thing.  "C'mon!  Finish your cheerios!  We can''t be late!"  The short walk over to school, her hand feeling suddenly oh-so-small in mine that I tightened my grip just a little.  The charged energy around the school yard as we entered the "big kid" world of teachers and books and new friendships.  The principal greeting everyone.  A few familiar faces.  And then, at last, the classroom.  Parents and siblings stood off to the side watching as the teacher introduced herself to the children and laid down a few ground rules.  Sarah looked small and angelic in her seat way in the back of the class.  I was in love with this moment.  But then the teacher's attention turned to us, breaking the spell.  "Thank you parents, brothers and sisters.  See you after school."  We shuffled out, our younger daughter in Dan's arms, all smiles and waves on the outside.   But inside was a different story.  Something major was changing.  I felt like I was outside my body, watching it happen.  Why wasn't I happy anymore?

New Studies Show Estrogen linked to Mothers' patience for teenage angst............ Warning: Some material may be unsuitable for pre-menopausal mothers

At 2:00 in the morning I have my most profound revelations.

Last night (or rather early this morning) I had an epiphany that could change the way we view menopause and mothering.  I fell asleep at the usual time, book on my chest, glasses askew on my face.  Shortly thereafter I came to the surface just enough to stash my book and glasses, turn off the light and adjust my pillow.   Ahhh....  But then, instead of sinking into REM sleep per usual, I was wide awake like someone had just screamed "FIRE!!"  And what was the first thing that popped into my mind?  My daughter.  My 18 year old, red-headed daughter, who is finishing high school (by the skin of her teeth) and figuring out what next year will bring.  Who has made some choices this year that, on paper sounded fine, grand even.  But in reality did not pan out as promised and have me really concerned.

So I lose sleep. But instead of merely fretting and worrying, I am angry.  Angry because at age 54, I am definitely ready for this to end.  After 23 years of nurturing, soothing, worrying, loving, commiserating, adjusting, psycholigizing, praying, hoping, crying, laughing...  I'm just about out of steam!  I still love my kids dearly.  Still want for them all the things I ever have.  Still rejoice when they are successful and happy and share the times that are disappointing.  But the difference is, when a problem arises that I know will need dissecting, counseling, working through, and loads of patience on my part, what I really want to say is, "GET OVER IT!" I just don't know how many more of these episodes I have left in me.   

Dad's Hands

I just spent a weekend with my parents.  My father has dementia related to his Parkinsons and the disease has progressed to the point where his words don't really make much sense any more.  There are rarely full sentences and never two sentences in a row that go together.  Conversation is non-existent because meaningful exchange is not possible.  The type of dementia he has eats away at his brain, leaving the equivalent of holes, robbing him of his ability to string coherent thoughts together.  That's the best lay explanation I can come up with.

However there are occasional moments of lucidity when he is grasping for words - when he is desperately trying to express something.  At one such point I said, "Dad, is it frustrating to want to say something and not be able to find the words?"  He looked at me with his eyes wide open and clear and said, "YES!"  He was there with me just for a moment. And then he returned to unrelated words, strange hallucinations, anxiety and mood swings.

Towards the end of my visit, as I was leaving in fact, I knelt down in front of his wheelchair, laid my hands over his which were crossed on his lap, and looked in his eyes.  "Dad, I'm leaving now.  I'm going back to Seattle to be with Dan, Sarah and Julia.  I love you, Dad.  I have enjoyed our visit and I'll miss you - but I'll be back...  I love you, Dad."  He looked at me hard as if he was trying to follow, trying to grasp the meaning of my words, trying to find this familiar place that is becoming more and more distant for him as his illness progresses.  He didn't say anything.  Just looked at me.  But I could see that he wanted to say something.  Wanted to participate in this exchange.

When was the last time I had a conversation with my Dad?  I can't remember.  This disease has been slowly taking his mind and I can't remember when we last spoke without the illness getting in the way.  There was a time in the kitchen, about a year and a half ago, during breakfast, before his meds kicked in, when we talked sweetly, and I reminded him that the reason he forgets and feels confused is because of the Parkinsons.  "Oh really?" he said.  "That's what it is?"  But what about the political sparring we used to do?  What about the long conversations we'd have about life and nature and my kids and growing older?  Once when I was in Canada on vacation on our boat, we talked for so long that I went over my long distance minutes.  I thought my husband was going to have a fit, but I didn't care.  I knew this was precious time.  But I didn't know just how precious.

Marion

5:30 a.m.  Just returned from the airport, dropping Dan off for a trip back east.  Yesterday at noon, Dan's mother, my mother-in-law, my children's beloved grandmother died.  She was 93 years old, but two days before she died had her nightly rum and lime, and this time last year she was in Scandinavia, judging and attending a dog show.  Marion Hopkins was the grande dame of the Irish Water Spaniel breeders and she, literally, wrote the book on the breed.  She was also the Grande Dame of everything she touched.  She was the most modern old-fashioned woman I know.  She held to the old ways (spare the rod, spoil the child and that sort of thing), but was very forward thinking when it came to politics, women's rights, and "just getting on with life."  The stories are stuff of legend and she has been -and will remain - iconic in our lives and our minds.

It's so hard to think about Dan arriving at her house - where she has lived since he was in high school - and her not being there.  It will feel as though she just went out to the store.  Everything will be as she left it.  93 years old and still living in her own house!  She was living proof that age is just a number.  Her steps and her life will echo through the house.  Her chair, her bed, her notes by the telephone - all signs of a life lived to the last moment.

It is little comfort, though, when well-meaning friends say "well - 93 - that's a good, long life."  Yes, it's true, but that doesn't help with the loss.  Doesn't take away the sorrow and the giant hole that her death has created in our existence.  Never to hear her voice.  Never to see her twinkling eyes.  Never to sit at her table and enjoy a meal with her (minding our manners the entire time....)!

When a person dies, the world changes - for a time.  I drove home from work yesterday after hearing the news.  It was early afternoon, and people were going about their business, walking, running, sipping coffee in to-go cups.  Life was continuing for all, but I felt a shade removed from it and wondered how someone this important to me could have passed from this world and still everyone out there was carrying on as though nothing had changed.  When I got home, Julia, my 18-year-old who has been struggling with death and issues surrounding it, her eyes red-rimmed and slightly wet, said, "I'm okay.  At first I felt numb, but then I forced myself to feel it.  And I noticed that everything is still happening.  People are still doing things and life is continuing.  But Grandma is gone and that's what is different."  Yes.  That's it.  Life does continue, both here and beyond in a way that we will not know until it's our turn. 

Sarah came home last night as well. A friend covered her shift so she could mourn and be with us.  It's good to know that my daughters have friends to care for them.  We all went to Dan's brother's apartment, raised a glass of rum and lime to Marion, Mom, Grandma - and toasted a great woman - strong, elegant, formidable - I only hope that my daughters are even a little bit like her as they grow older.  Keep her as a standard and reach for it, girls!  All will be well.