[Standard Disclaimer - This is written from a Christian perspective. I have no problem whatsoever with other faiths or the lack thereof.]
...Remember Christ our saviour was born on Christmas Day...To save us all from Satan's power when we were gone astray...
I was sitting at our outreach building, the building that the shelter I work for uses for meetings, support groups, and receiving donations. I was sitting there with my manager. She looked at her phone and gasped "Oh my God!" Literally standing there, mouth agape. I thought something terrible had happened to her family.
She was the one who told me that there had been another mass shooting. That it had been at a school. This was pretty early on so details were still surfacing, but they were already reporting that some of the dead were children. I think they originally said 8, but the body count was steadily rising. As we all know now, the truth was much, much worse than that.
Suddenly it all seemed wrong. It was a sunny day with a clear blue sky. I had the radio on and they were playing "Holly Jolly Christmas," or some sort of perky holiday song like that. The moment felt surreal. I wanted to turn the radio off.
With head still spinning, I had to pick-up a client from the local YWCA where she was interviewing to see if she could be accepted into their transitional housing program. The poor thing had been waiting for an hour. But while she was waiting, a minor miracle happened. The director called her back into the office and decided to give her a spot in the program right then. This does not generally happen. The program is usually wait listed for months, and candidates have to undergo drug testing before they can move in. Here it was, Friday afternoon, and she was told she could move in Monday.
She was elated. Her hard-luck story was taking a turn for the better. She'd been brave enough to take a step out of her abusive situation and the path was opening up for her. She was bursting with joy and disbelief at her good fortune.
What a contrast to what was going on in my head. Going on in the world. I could not tell her the news, this was HER moment. I wanted her to celebrate. The cognitive dissonance was breathtaking.
That it is the Christmas season compounds the tragedy. We, unfortunately, have heard such stories before. Columbine. Virginia Tech. The movie theater in Colorado. But this happened before Christmas. And the victims were children. Children who probably had a lot of gapped-tooth smiles waiting for their permanent teeth to appear. Children whose parents had probably already bought them Christmas presents. Children who were probably dizzy with excitement over what, for a kid, is the holiday of holidays.
And the pain of those left behind, for whom Christmas will now be a reminder of the most dreadful experience of their lives. Who have to look at those presents that will never be joyfully unwrapped, the empty seat at the table, the toys going unused. The children who will remember this as a time of terror, who are left to wonder what happened to their friends, their teachers. The teachers who were the only thing standing between the children in their care and a horrible fate. The first-responders who had to bear witness to what happened. This season will always be imprinted with that horror.
How can we celebrate? How can we ever reconcile this with a season of love and joy?
For one thing, the Christmas story does have a dark side that resonates with the tragedy. Let us remember that shortly after the visit of the Magi, Joseph was warned in a dream to escape to Egypt. King Harod had ordered all male children under the age of two killed in an attempt to eliminate the "king" that he feared would displace him. We celebrate the birth, the coming of hope, but rarely do we consider the aftermath. The pain and mourning that now seems all too relatable.
And consider Mary. As we all know, the story that begins so wondrously turns pretty dark before the end. Her son, the baby she birthed amid the songs of angels, whom she must have loved, was killed before her eyes. A slow, gruesome, painful death. I'm sure Mary is weeping with the parents in Connecticut right now. Who else could so understand their broken hearts.
How can we not give in to the despair? Not be overcome by Satan's power? How can we still have hope?
I take my lesson from the day I learned the news. Despite the sorrow, I got to ride in a car with someone who was truly happy, who had come through great darkness and was turning her life around.
And, you know, my job is giving me hope and a true sense of Christmas. It isn't the clients (though they are generally pretty wonderful), it's the community. We have an adopt-a-family program for our clients and the gifts have been rolling in. I get to see the big bags of presents waiting to be delivered to the families. We also receive lots of miscellaneous toys and goodies that I can give away at my aftercare party, or provide for a family that didn't get the chance to be "adopted." Our outreach building is bursting with diapers, wipes, blankets, nice lotions and soaps, shampoos...almost anything a person could need. Dish soap, laundry detergent, toilet paper. I can't over-emphasize what a joy it is to be able to supply toilet paper to a person who can't afford it because it isn't covered by food stamps. We also received 700 pounds of non-perishable food.
And the donations are still arriving.
This is how I can still have hope. In the midst of darkness I have seen a great light. I get to see generosity and the outpouring of love from people to others they've never met. I know there is good in this world.
If we give in to the darkness then Satan's power has indeed overcome us. We must not be afraid to experience joy and wonder. And to share it.
There will be little we can do to really help the people in Newtown right now. We must rely on time to dull the pain. It will never really go away. We can send them our love and prayers, and, even more importantly I think, we can love each other. And we can dare to be happy. This will make the light in the world grow stronger, and keep the dark at bay.
Tidings of comfort and joy, indeed.
Saturday, December 15, 2012
Monday, November 26, 2012
Hazy Shade of Winter (A Thanksgiving Meditation)
Look around...leaves are brown now...and the sky...is a hazy shade of winter...(Credit where credit is due. Paul Simon, "Hazy Shade of Winter" [how often can I say that?], the "Bookends" album)
Just got back from the annual Thanksgiving trek. Living as we do almost exactly between our two families of origin, no holiday is complete without an eight hour drive somewhere.
I describe the visit as "bittersweet" (in case any of you were wondering about my cryptic facebook post). The dinner was great. Seeing family and friends is always a joy. Especially joyous this time around since I got to meet a new member joining us through marriage. But all is not blue skies and sunshine. Various people I know and love are facing difficult life transitions and my heart aches for them. Our world can be a difficult place. Just ask the Syrians. Or the Israelis and Palestinians. Trouble is no stranger.
I have to confess, in case you haven't noticed, that I haven't been writing much. My sense of humor seems to be on vacation. The well of inspiration has been running a bit dry. Me and my couch have become very good friends. My social life is my little computer screen.
Today was different. Today, I took a walk.
It's a thought that has crossed my mind from time to time when I glanced out the window on those rare sunny days, but it never got past the thinking stage. Today, like I said, was different. I've been feeling my age and the hips no longer tolerate those long car rides likes they used to. Sitting was not my friend this morning. A little voice in my head said "go."
I didn't go far. For those of you familiar with Obieland, I headed down the paths behind Johnson House. I walked through fields, gazed at the trees, and the lyrics of that song (Hazy Shade of Winter, remember?) popped into my head. The scene was nearly colorless, washes of variations on brown. The landscape was a reflection of my state of mind.
I first went to check on my favorite tree, a large conifer with branches that sweep low to the ground to create a beautiful natural shelter. Some of the lower branches had been removed, but it was still a sanctuary as evidenced by the jacket and beer can left behind. Next door was an apparent victim of the backhand slap we received from Sandy. The downed tree was huge. My arms would only wrap halfway around its circumference. It appeared that there was a weakness, some rot, at the bottom of the trunk. It had splintered almost at ground level. The wood still had the scent of fresh lumber. Upon closer look I saw drops of sap, like teardrops, clinging to the broken surface.
As I wandered into the woods I noticed how bare everything was. There was no hiding here. Houses that were normally shrouded by greenery stood out. It was like I couldn't leave town behind. I heard the cars, the incessant drone of airplanes, and, as always at moments like this, a chainsaw. The few other people who were out exploring were completely exposed and visible. We would acknowledge each other when we passed on the path, but no one spoke. I felt like we were winter trees, our life tucked away until the spring.
I followed the path to the Morgan Street reservoir. It's one of the town's treasures that I never take advantage of enough. As I walked the path that encircles its edge, I remembered how it was my favorite escape when I was a new mother desperate to get out of the house. I would tuck my daughter, and later my two daughters, into the stroller and take this path. I walked past the area where we would go sledding, not a tall hill but pleasantly steep. The water was a shimmering rippled gray under a feeble sun.
The path curved around to become a little isthmus between two reservoirs. I always loved the second one because it's fringed with brush and normally hidden until you get right up on it. Some tree roots made natural steps to the water, which was remarkably clear. I could see through the surface to a mosaic of rocks and autumn leaves. I could see the bottom dropping away to a watery emerald green.
That's when the magic happened.
I turned to the first reservoir in time to see a duck. It was a small diver, dark capped and white-cheeked. (A male ruddy duck in winter plumage. I looked it up.) I sat on the path and just watched. The sounds from the town seemed to fade away into a light rush of wind rattling the stubborn tree leaves that had refused to fall. I watched as the bird disappeared, leaving only concentric circles on the water's surface. After what would seem an impossible amount of time it would pop to the surface with the smallest "plink" of water. Then I heard a chatter, and a kingfisher was swooping across the surface of the water, a flash of blue against the gray with a blazing white collar when it turned. Behind me I heard loud quacking and splashing and turned to see a flock of about 8 mallard ducks coming in for a landing.
My reverie was broken by a dog, a puppy, all big ears and paws. I hastened to my feet before the owner at the other end of the leash came around the curve. I knew her. She was John Birmingham's daughter. John had been a wonderful boss, dear friend and mentor, a papa bear figure. When he was dying of cancer this daughter had assisted me with the birth of my second daughter. My first childcare job had been for her sister and her partner who had adopted an adorable infant girl, Nora, from Cambodia. This would have been John's first granddaughter, but he didn't live to meet her. I was told that one of his last acts before he passed away was buying books for the grandchild he knew he'd never know. His family and I shared a common bond in our love for John.
I hadn't talked to anyone from the family for quite some time so we chatted to catch up. She had become a midwife but now was teaching midwifery to nurses and was enjoying the more regular hours. Her husband (I had attended their wedding after John died) was successfully working multiple gigs as a therapist and therapeutic artist. I inquired about her sister, and Nora, and learned that they were currently in Cambodia, looking for members of Nora's birth family. They apparently had found a close relative and had an emotional reunion. She asked me what I was doing and I explained I was back working at the county domestic violence shelter. As she turned to resume her walk she suddenly turned back and said "John would be proud of all of us." (Just typing this brings tears to my eyes.)
I was flooded with a feeling of sweet thankfulness as I continued my walk. Thankful for all the wonderful people, past and present, in my life. Thankful for love that survives loss. Thankful for the beauty that can be found when one takes the time to notice and observe.
Hang on to your hopes my friend...well that's an easy thing to say but when your hopes have slipped away then simply pretend...that you can build them again...(Yep, same song)
The world seemed alive and infused with beauty. As I walked along a ravine I startled a pair of juncos, the first I'd seen this season. A bright red cardinal swooped by. While passing a field of brown weeds it came alive with goldfinches in their drab winter plumage and chickadees gently swaying on the tall stems. I had a stare down with a little red squirrel. I found another cozy den under a fir tree, which, again, had apparently been enjoyed by student types. Those kids don't miss a hideaway and Black Label beer seems to be the local favorite. Even after I had emerged back into the everyday world I noticed the tiniest little sapling, little more than a stick, really, with one, perfect, tiny red leaf holding on tightly.
Bittersweet. It's how life goes. Joy alternating with sorrow. Big trees may fall but the itty-bitty sapling holds on. And there is beauty when we least expect it. Yesterday, as my facebook status, I had simply written "bittersweet." My favorite response was from my sister, who wrote back "My favorite kind of chocolate."
Look around...leaves are brown...there's a patch of snow on the ground...(Do I really need to tell you where this is from?)
And how are you?
Just got back from the annual Thanksgiving trek. Living as we do almost exactly between our two families of origin, no holiday is complete without an eight hour drive somewhere.
I describe the visit as "bittersweet" (in case any of you were wondering about my cryptic facebook post). The dinner was great. Seeing family and friends is always a joy. Especially joyous this time around since I got to meet a new member joining us through marriage. But all is not blue skies and sunshine. Various people I know and love are facing difficult life transitions and my heart aches for them. Our world can be a difficult place. Just ask the Syrians. Or the Israelis and Palestinians. Trouble is no stranger.
I have to confess, in case you haven't noticed, that I haven't been writing much. My sense of humor seems to be on vacation. The well of inspiration has been running a bit dry. Me and my couch have become very good friends. My social life is my little computer screen.
Today was different. Today, I took a walk.
It's a thought that has crossed my mind from time to time when I glanced out the window on those rare sunny days, but it never got past the thinking stage. Today, like I said, was different. I've been feeling my age and the hips no longer tolerate those long car rides likes they used to. Sitting was not my friend this morning. A little voice in my head said "go."
I didn't go far. For those of you familiar with Obieland, I headed down the paths behind Johnson House. I walked through fields, gazed at the trees, and the lyrics of that song (Hazy Shade of Winter, remember?) popped into my head. The scene was nearly colorless, washes of variations on brown. The landscape was a reflection of my state of mind.
I first went to check on my favorite tree, a large conifer with branches that sweep low to the ground to create a beautiful natural shelter. Some of the lower branches had been removed, but it was still a sanctuary as evidenced by the jacket and beer can left behind. Next door was an apparent victim of the backhand slap we received from Sandy. The downed tree was huge. My arms would only wrap halfway around its circumference. It appeared that there was a weakness, some rot, at the bottom of the trunk. It had splintered almost at ground level. The wood still had the scent of fresh lumber. Upon closer look I saw drops of sap, like teardrops, clinging to the broken surface.
As I wandered into the woods I noticed how bare everything was. There was no hiding here. Houses that were normally shrouded by greenery stood out. It was like I couldn't leave town behind. I heard the cars, the incessant drone of airplanes, and, as always at moments like this, a chainsaw. The few other people who were out exploring were completely exposed and visible. We would acknowledge each other when we passed on the path, but no one spoke. I felt like we were winter trees, our life tucked away until the spring.
I followed the path to the Morgan Street reservoir. It's one of the town's treasures that I never take advantage of enough. As I walked the path that encircles its edge, I remembered how it was my favorite escape when I was a new mother desperate to get out of the house. I would tuck my daughter, and later my two daughters, into the stroller and take this path. I walked past the area where we would go sledding, not a tall hill but pleasantly steep. The water was a shimmering rippled gray under a feeble sun.
The path curved around to become a little isthmus between two reservoirs. I always loved the second one because it's fringed with brush and normally hidden until you get right up on it. Some tree roots made natural steps to the water, which was remarkably clear. I could see through the surface to a mosaic of rocks and autumn leaves. I could see the bottom dropping away to a watery emerald green.
That's when the magic happened.
I turned to the first reservoir in time to see a duck. It was a small diver, dark capped and white-cheeked. (A male ruddy duck in winter plumage. I looked it up.) I sat on the path and just watched. The sounds from the town seemed to fade away into a light rush of wind rattling the stubborn tree leaves that had refused to fall. I watched as the bird disappeared, leaving only concentric circles on the water's surface. After what would seem an impossible amount of time it would pop to the surface with the smallest "plink" of water. Then I heard a chatter, and a kingfisher was swooping across the surface of the water, a flash of blue against the gray with a blazing white collar when it turned. Behind me I heard loud quacking and splashing and turned to see a flock of about 8 mallard ducks coming in for a landing.
My reverie was broken by a dog, a puppy, all big ears and paws. I hastened to my feet before the owner at the other end of the leash came around the curve. I knew her. She was John Birmingham's daughter. John had been a wonderful boss, dear friend and mentor, a papa bear figure. When he was dying of cancer this daughter had assisted me with the birth of my second daughter. My first childcare job had been for her sister and her partner who had adopted an adorable infant girl, Nora, from Cambodia. This would have been John's first granddaughter, but he didn't live to meet her. I was told that one of his last acts before he passed away was buying books for the grandchild he knew he'd never know. His family and I shared a common bond in our love for John.
I hadn't talked to anyone from the family for quite some time so we chatted to catch up. She had become a midwife but now was teaching midwifery to nurses and was enjoying the more regular hours. Her husband (I had attended their wedding after John died) was successfully working multiple gigs as a therapist and therapeutic artist. I inquired about her sister, and Nora, and learned that they were currently in Cambodia, looking for members of Nora's birth family. They apparently had found a close relative and had an emotional reunion. She asked me what I was doing and I explained I was back working at the county domestic violence shelter. As she turned to resume her walk she suddenly turned back and said "John would be proud of all of us." (Just typing this brings tears to my eyes.)
I was flooded with a feeling of sweet thankfulness as I continued my walk. Thankful for all the wonderful people, past and present, in my life. Thankful for love that survives loss. Thankful for the beauty that can be found when one takes the time to notice and observe.
Hang on to your hopes my friend...well that's an easy thing to say but when your hopes have slipped away then simply pretend...that you can build them again...(Yep, same song)
The world seemed alive and infused with beauty. As I walked along a ravine I startled a pair of juncos, the first I'd seen this season. A bright red cardinal swooped by. While passing a field of brown weeds it came alive with goldfinches in their drab winter plumage and chickadees gently swaying on the tall stems. I had a stare down with a little red squirrel. I found another cozy den under a fir tree, which, again, had apparently been enjoyed by student types. Those kids don't miss a hideaway and Black Label beer seems to be the local favorite. Even after I had emerged back into the everyday world I noticed the tiniest little sapling, little more than a stick, really, with one, perfect, tiny red leaf holding on tightly.
Bittersweet. It's how life goes. Joy alternating with sorrow. Big trees may fall but the itty-bitty sapling holds on. And there is beauty when we least expect it. Yesterday, as my facebook status, I had simply written "bittersweet." My favorite response was from my sister, who wrote back "My favorite kind of chocolate."
Look around...leaves are brown...there's a patch of snow on the ground...(Do I really need to tell you where this is from?)
And how are you?
Saturday, July 21, 2012
Guns Don't Kill People, People Kill People...With Guns
(Credit where credit is due. I got that from my youngest daughter who got it from a YouTube video.)
I don't know if any of you big fans of mine saw my last share from The Onion about how the Colorado shootings will lead to a debate on gun control which will quickly grow incendiary and be forgotten.
This is my small attempt to start a conversation. I'm aiming this (pun intended?) at people who feel differently than me on this issue. (Tony, I'm calling you out!)
This is a response to your facebook post, the meme of Gene Wilder's Willy Wonka asking if guns cause violence why we don't hear of more rampages at shooting ranges. I thought about it and, you know what? I agree. Because I do not think guns cause violence. Mental illness, rage, and brutish human nature cause violence. I feel, however, that guns make that violence more lethal.
I'm not really anti-gun. I personally just don't like them. I'm incredibly afraid of sudden loud noises, for one thing. And in the final cost/benefit analysis I find them potentially more risky than helpful. But if you want your own personal handgun that is registered and that you have been trained to use, I'm cool with that. I have never felt a desire to go hunting but I know plenty of people who do, so if you have registered rifles that you have been trained to use I'm cool with that, too. I just would prefer not to have them in my house, school, or church. Is that really too much to ask? (Come to think of it, I don't really like the idea of anyone packing in a bar, but I'll compromise.)
The closest I every came to carrying a firearm was 20+ years ago while I was working at the domestic violence shelter. I was helping a woman retrieve some of her belongings from her home and she took her husband's rifle. She (understandably, I think) didn't want him to have it. I forgot she had taken it and it stayed in my car trunk all weekend. (!) As soon as I discovered I had it I turned it over to the police. They returned it to the husband.
Why do we need automatic pistols and assault rifles? The closest I've heard to a defense of them is that they're fun to shoot. Fine. Let's set-up firing ranges where they can be shot to heart's content but the guns and the ammo stay there. People would be required to register or show ID and the weapons and ammo would be accounted for every time someone left.
These sort of weapons don't cause violence, but someone with an automatic weapon can inflict a lot more damage and faster than someone without one. It's so easy, I've heard, even a child can do it. In fact, many children do manage to kill themselves or someone they love when they find an unsecured loaded weapon.
Will we stop the murderous among us? No. But we can stop making it so damn easy for them. Your right to bear arms ends where my right to go out safely in public begins. I don't think that automatic weapons need to be illegal, but they are deadly and should be tightly controlled. Alarm bells should be going off when someone starts buying large amounts of ammunition which serves no purpose but piercing Kevlar and human flesh. Outlaws will still be able to purchase automatic weapons, I'm not naive, but then we can go after the source of them, legally, before the next shooting. Where the weapon came from becomes as much a part of the equation as who did the killing. Or maiming.
Why do I want personal guns registered? So we can account for them, especially if they go missing. And so having an unregistered or falsely registered weapon can be a crime before anyone gets hurt. And if someone does get hurt or killed with a registered gun, the registered owner of said weapon will have some explaining to do.
Why do I want gun owners to be licensed? Because if you're going to carry it you better damn well know how to use it. And, most especially, when not to use it. (I'm looking at you, Mr. Zimmerman) Like in crowds. Or when angry.
I am interested to know why this level of control is too extreme. I do get the "slippery slope" theory, that once we assert any level of gun control we're one step closer to a ban, but as a society we have to set standards of control all the time. Like we do with drugs, liquor, automobiles. If something is deemed dangerous we try to limit the damage. I feel that is all I'm trying to do.
This is an open invitation for anyone who disagrees with me to respond, and my preference would be that it be well-reasoned and insightful. If not that, at least amusing!
Let's make the unstable among us really have to work at it. It's my understanding that this latest Colorado guy was pretty brilliant, and did manage to hatch other horrifying schemes like booby-trapping his apartment. He probably had the ingenuity to find or rig illegal weapons. But he should have had to break laws to even break the law by killing people. It gives us a bit more of a chance to stop it.
At least that's what I think. You?
I don't know if any of you big fans of mine saw my last share from The Onion about how the Colorado shootings will lead to a debate on gun control which will quickly grow incendiary and be forgotten.
This is my small attempt to start a conversation. I'm aiming this (pun intended?) at people who feel differently than me on this issue. (Tony, I'm calling you out!)
This is a response to your facebook post, the meme of Gene Wilder's Willy Wonka asking if guns cause violence why we don't hear of more rampages at shooting ranges. I thought about it and, you know what? I agree. Because I do not think guns cause violence. Mental illness, rage, and brutish human nature cause violence. I feel, however, that guns make that violence more lethal.
I'm not really anti-gun. I personally just don't like them. I'm incredibly afraid of sudden loud noises, for one thing. And in the final cost/benefit analysis I find them potentially more risky than helpful. But if you want your own personal handgun that is registered and that you have been trained to use, I'm cool with that. I have never felt a desire to go hunting but I know plenty of people who do, so if you have registered rifles that you have been trained to use I'm cool with that, too. I just would prefer not to have them in my house, school, or church. Is that really too much to ask? (Come to think of it, I don't really like the idea of anyone packing in a bar, but I'll compromise.)
The closest I every came to carrying a firearm was 20+ years ago while I was working at the domestic violence shelter. I was helping a woman retrieve some of her belongings from her home and she took her husband's rifle. She (understandably, I think) didn't want him to have it. I forgot she had taken it and it stayed in my car trunk all weekend. (!) As soon as I discovered I had it I turned it over to the police. They returned it to the husband.
Why do we need automatic pistols and assault rifles? The closest I've heard to a defense of them is that they're fun to shoot. Fine. Let's set-up firing ranges where they can be shot to heart's content but the guns and the ammo stay there. People would be required to register or show ID and the weapons and ammo would be accounted for every time someone left.
These sort of weapons don't cause violence, but someone with an automatic weapon can inflict a lot more damage and faster than someone without one. It's so easy, I've heard, even a child can do it. In fact, many children do manage to kill themselves or someone they love when they find an unsecured loaded weapon.
Will we stop the murderous among us? No. But we can stop making it so damn easy for them. Your right to bear arms ends where my right to go out safely in public begins. I don't think that automatic weapons need to be illegal, but they are deadly and should be tightly controlled. Alarm bells should be going off when someone starts buying large amounts of ammunition which serves no purpose but piercing Kevlar and human flesh. Outlaws will still be able to purchase automatic weapons, I'm not naive, but then we can go after the source of them, legally, before the next shooting. Where the weapon came from becomes as much a part of the equation as who did the killing. Or maiming.
Why do I want personal guns registered? So we can account for them, especially if they go missing. And so having an unregistered or falsely registered weapon can be a crime before anyone gets hurt. And if someone does get hurt or killed with a registered gun, the registered owner of said weapon will have some explaining to do.
Why do I want gun owners to be licensed? Because if you're going to carry it you better damn well know how to use it. And, most especially, when not to use it. (I'm looking at you, Mr. Zimmerman) Like in crowds. Or when angry.
I am interested to know why this level of control is too extreme. I do get the "slippery slope" theory, that once we assert any level of gun control we're one step closer to a ban, but as a society we have to set standards of control all the time. Like we do with drugs, liquor, automobiles. If something is deemed dangerous we try to limit the damage. I feel that is all I'm trying to do.
This is an open invitation for anyone who disagrees with me to respond, and my preference would be that it be well-reasoned and insightful. If not that, at least amusing!
Let's make the unstable among us really have to work at it. It's my understanding that this latest Colorado guy was pretty brilliant, and did manage to hatch other horrifying schemes like booby-trapping his apartment. He probably had the ingenuity to find or rig illegal weapons. But he should have had to break laws to even break the law by killing people. It gives us a bit more of a chance to stop it.
At least that's what I think. You?
Friday, June 1, 2012
Sweet Little 16
What a difference three years makes.
Three years ago I was in despair, questioning my sanity and everything I thought I knew about parenting. My youngest had turned 13 and aliens had abducted her and left Princess Thunder Cloud in her place. See "Tick-Tick-Tick," September 24, 2009. Miriam did, and she's been begging for a positive blog update ever since.
Well, honey, it's your birthday. Instead of saying "You'll have to do something good for me to write about," here it is. Your Dad and I wished our sunny little girl would come back. But guess what? We love the young woman you're becoming even better than that.
I guess the thaw happened so gradually I couldn't pinpoint when the change happened. All I know is that when she says "I love you" to me I no longer rush to mark the occasion on a calendar or wish for a recording device so I could play it back to her the next time she hated me. Which was often.
I'm not sure I can remember the last time I heard her door slam in anger.
But it's more than that. She's re-connecting with life again. She's back to playing softball. Her first love was playing first base, but this school year she played third. During one game Miriam skillfully stabbed a hard-hit ball and threw the runner out at first. When her team and coach commended her for a good play I saw something that I had feared was gone forever. It was that smile. That pure, dimpled look of joy and pride that had earned her the nickname "Smiley" in her earlier playing days.
Miriam's renewed interest in playing softball has also ignited a passion for baseball. The girl who last year rolled her eyes and stormed out of the room when her sister turned on the game now watches the pre-show as well. We're celebrating her birthday by going to a Cleveland Indians game.
And I revel in her sense of humor. She loves the offbeat, the random, and the clever. Thanks to her I've rediscovered the current Saturday Night Live and learned to appreciate "Scrubs," "How I Met Your Mother," and "Raising Hope." (I also have her to blame for my "Criminal Minds" and "Law and Order SVU" addictions, however.) Plus there's the laugh. When something really tickles her she has this heart and soul felt belly laugh - I dare anybody to keep a straight face in its presence!
It's like the best of the girl is re-emerging, only stronger and better.
Not to say that we still don't have our challenges. In Miriam's world, deadlines are merely suggestions and school work is optional. Her grades reflect that. When this slide started,(yes, it was when she was 13), her Dad and I tried to address it. We expressed our concern. We got strict. We tried banning her from her phone, the computer, TV. At this point I will fully admit that I was not good at that. A grounded teenager with no entertainments in a small house is really a punishment for the parent.
One thing I've learned from her is to let go. She's always had an independent streak and needs to learn things for herself. Tom and I recently stopped monitoring her grades. She is the only person who can make herself work to her abilities, and we have to trust her to do that. (That being said, I'll admit I'm nervous about her final report card).
I've come to recognize, however, as every parent does, that her most troublesome traits (procrastination, for example) COME STRAIGHT FROM ME. As my dear friend the late, great John Birmingham once told me, "Your kids will turn out more like you than you would even want them to."
But I'm proud of how she's turning out. She has a tremendous heart and a strong sense of social justice. She loves fully. When she's happy there is no one happier. The world is a better place for her being in it. (Even though her room is reminiscent of a hoarder's. SORRY HONEY, I COULDN'T RESIST! No one is perfect, right?)
Happy birthday, Miriam. There is so much to love about you that I didn't even get the chance to mention like your beauty and your sense of style.
You are sweet 16, indeed.
Three years ago I was in despair, questioning my sanity and everything I thought I knew about parenting. My youngest had turned 13 and aliens had abducted her and left Princess Thunder Cloud in her place. See "Tick-Tick-Tick," September 24, 2009. Miriam did, and she's been begging for a positive blog update ever since.
Well, honey, it's your birthday. Instead of saying "You'll have to do something good for me to write about," here it is. Your Dad and I wished our sunny little girl would come back. But guess what? We love the young woman you're becoming even better than that.
I guess the thaw happened so gradually I couldn't pinpoint when the change happened. All I know is that when she says "I love you" to me I no longer rush to mark the occasion on a calendar or wish for a recording device so I could play it back to her the next time she hated me. Which was often.
I'm not sure I can remember the last time I heard her door slam in anger.
But it's more than that. She's re-connecting with life again. She's back to playing softball. Her first love was playing first base, but this school year she played third. During one game Miriam skillfully stabbed a hard-hit ball and threw the runner out at first. When her team and coach commended her for a good play I saw something that I had feared was gone forever. It was that smile. That pure, dimpled look of joy and pride that had earned her the nickname "Smiley" in her earlier playing days.
Miriam's renewed interest in playing softball has also ignited a passion for baseball. The girl who last year rolled her eyes and stormed out of the room when her sister turned on the game now watches the pre-show as well. We're celebrating her birthday by going to a Cleveland Indians game.
And I revel in her sense of humor. She loves the offbeat, the random, and the clever. Thanks to her I've rediscovered the current Saturday Night Live and learned to appreciate "Scrubs," "How I Met Your Mother," and "Raising Hope." (I also have her to blame for my "Criminal Minds" and "Law and Order SVU" addictions, however.) Plus there's the laugh. When something really tickles her she has this heart and soul felt belly laugh - I dare anybody to keep a straight face in its presence!
It's like the best of the girl is re-emerging, only stronger and better.
Not to say that we still don't have our challenges. In Miriam's world, deadlines are merely suggestions and school work is optional. Her grades reflect that. When this slide started,(yes, it was when she was 13), her Dad and I tried to address it. We expressed our concern. We got strict. We tried banning her from her phone, the computer, TV. At this point I will fully admit that I was not good at that. A grounded teenager with no entertainments in a small house is really a punishment for the parent.
One thing I've learned from her is to let go. She's always had an independent streak and needs to learn things for herself. Tom and I recently stopped monitoring her grades. She is the only person who can make herself work to her abilities, and we have to trust her to do that. (That being said, I'll admit I'm nervous about her final report card).
I've come to recognize, however, as every parent does, that her most troublesome traits (procrastination, for example) COME STRAIGHT FROM ME. As my dear friend the late, great John Birmingham once told me, "Your kids will turn out more like you than you would even want them to."
But I'm proud of how she's turning out. She has a tremendous heart and a strong sense of social justice. She loves fully. When she's happy there is no one happier. The world is a better place for her being in it. (Even though her room is reminiscent of a hoarder's. SORRY HONEY, I COULDN'T RESIST! No one is perfect, right?)
Happy birthday, Miriam. There is so much to love about you that I didn't even get the chance to mention like your beauty and your sense of style.
You are sweet 16, indeed.
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
How Sweet the World - A Tribute to My Late Great Uncle Bob
Robert Hawley, my Uncle Bob, was more a force of nature than a mere person. They really don't make them like him anymore.
Even for being part of the Greatest Generation, Uncle Bob was something of a standout.
If I had to choose one adjective, I'd pick impish. Relatively small in stature, as I recall, but he crackled with energy and humor. But also a suave gentleman. In my mind a charming blend of Maurice Chevalier and Jackie Gleason.
I'd heard the story of how he'd started out as a messenger boy at The Harris Trust Bank and retired a vice-president. (NOTE TO FAMILY: Apologies in advance for inaccuracies. This is all to the best of my notoriously unreliable recollection. Consider this more of an impressionistic portrait.) He also served honorably in the U.S. Navy during World War Two. Because of this he didn't meet his eldest son until he was at least a year old (see note above). My brother also recently told me that Bob had been haunted by tinnitus since being made to stand on deck while the warship he was serving on fired its big guns.
Yet he played a beautiful trumpet, of the Great American Songbook style.
Visiting Aunt Kate and Uncle Bob was always an enjoyable window on a gracious lifestyle. They were of the era of the cocktail hour before dinner. An evening at their home might end with cousin Rick playing piano, Uncle Bob breaking out his trumpet, and perhaps a sing-along of Broadway musicals.
But this does not adequately convey his goofiness and joi de vivre. Bob lived to entertain. A sterling example of this was when my husband and I visited Kate and Bob in the beautiful home they retired to in Walnut Creek, California. Tom and I had embarked on an epic driving journey across the American West to San Francisco, and had arranged to stay overnight with them on our way to San Jose and Yosemite. They lovingly fed and housed us, Bob bemoaning the whole time the fact that we were only staying one night. He was such a host that the next morning he actually got up and washed our windshield.
We spent our enjoyable evening together watching a movie. I believe it was a circa 1960's era telling of 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, complete with unspeakably cheesy special effects. As the credits were rolling at the end of the movie, Bob turned to Kate and deadpanned (in that inimitable Bob Hawley way) "That was a real stinker, Kate." A phrase that has lived on in Tom and my lexicon.
I do not ever remember him saying a truly unkind or, dare I say it, discouraged word. I say truly unkind, because I do remember him asking my mother if the dip she'd prepared (it was either hummus or baba ganouj; the 70's, man!) was plaster of paris. Kate and Bob retained their love and charm even after suffering the unimaginable pain of losing one of their beloved daughters. He also accepted his widowed mother-in-law as a part of their household, though he did goose her once mistaking her for his wife while she was bending over the tub giving one of the children a bath. An oft-repeated story.
Then there were his pet sayings. Among my favorites: "I haven't had so much fun since the pig ate my kid brother!", or, its cousin, "I haven't had so much fun since I got my toe stuck in some barbed wire!"
I also clearly remember my sainted Aunt Kate's vaguely exasperated sigh, "Oh, Robert!" This may appear when Bob was coming home from the store with an impossibly large watermelon to please his house guest, or trying to smuggle oranges through a roadblock during the Med Fly scare because house guests deserved home grown California fruit.
The best, though, was in a quiet moment, when family was gathered and all was well, Bob would look around and sigh "How sweet it is!"
How sweet the world.
Even for being part of the Greatest Generation, Uncle Bob was something of a standout.
If I had to choose one adjective, I'd pick impish. Relatively small in stature, as I recall, but he crackled with energy and humor. But also a suave gentleman. In my mind a charming blend of Maurice Chevalier and Jackie Gleason.
I'd heard the story of how he'd started out as a messenger boy at The Harris Trust Bank and retired a vice-president. (NOTE TO FAMILY: Apologies in advance for inaccuracies. This is all to the best of my notoriously unreliable recollection. Consider this more of an impressionistic portrait.) He also served honorably in the U.S. Navy during World War Two. Because of this he didn't meet his eldest son until he was at least a year old (see note above). My brother also recently told me that Bob had been haunted by tinnitus since being made to stand on deck while the warship he was serving on fired its big guns.
Yet he played a beautiful trumpet, of the Great American Songbook style.
Visiting Aunt Kate and Uncle Bob was always an enjoyable window on a gracious lifestyle. They were of the era of the cocktail hour before dinner. An evening at their home might end with cousin Rick playing piano, Uncle Bob breaking out his trumpet, and perhaps a sing-along of Broadway musicals.
But this does not adequately convey his goofiness and joi de vivre. Bob lived to entertain. A sterling example of this was when my husband and I visited Kate and Bob in the beautiful home they retired to in Walnut Creek, California. Tom and I had embarked on an epic driving journey across the American West to San Francisco, and had arranged to stay overnight with them on our way to San Jose and Yosemite. They lovingly fed and housed us, Bob bemoaning the whole time the fact that we were only staying one night. He was such a host that the next morning he actually got up and washed our windshield.
We spent our enjoyable evening together watching a movie. I believe it was a circa 1960's era telling of 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, complete with unspeakably cheesy special effects. As the credits were rolling at the end of the movie, Bob turned to Kate and deadpanned (in that inimitable Bob Hawley way) "That was a real stinker, Kate." A phrase that has lived on in Tom and my lexicon.
I do not ever remember him saying a truly unkind or, dare I say it, discouraged word. I say truly unkind, because I do remember him asking my mother if the dip she'd prepared (it was either hummus or baba ganouj; the 70's, man!) was plaster of paris. Kate and Bob retained their love and charm even after suffering the unimaginable pain of losing one of their beloved daughters. He also accepted his widowed mother-in-law as a part of their household, though he did goose her once mistaking her for his wife while she was bending over the tub giving one of the children a bath. An oft-repeated story.
Then there were his pet sayings. Among my favorites: "I haven't had so much fun since the pig ate my kid brother!", or, its cousin, "I haven't had so much fun since I got my toe stuck in some barbed wire!"
I also clearly remember my sainted Aunt Kate's vaguely exasperated sigh, "Oh, Robert!" This may appear when Bob was coming home from the store with an impossibly large watermelon to please his house guest, or trying to smuggle oranges through a roadblock during the Med Fly scare because house guests deserved home grown California fruit.
The best, though, was in a quiet moment, when family was gathered and all was well, Bob would look around and sigh "How sweet it is!"
How sweet the world.
Sunday, April 8, 2012
Amazing Grace
Despite feeling like I was pretty much phoning it in this Lent, Holy Week was The Way of the Cross.
It started Wednesday. We had a client at the shelter who reminded me what I love and hate about the job. This was a woman with potential. She was smart. She was educated. Her children were grown. Her future was an open book.
But she had destroyed her last career with her drinking. And she had come to us directly from a mental health agency.
But I liked this woman. She was the first client who arrived during my shift and I was as nervous as a hostess. I helped her get settled. I happened to be working when her boyfriend was arrested. It was intense. She was one of those people who'd been abused her entire life and she'd never pressed charges before. When I told her that her boyfriend had been picked-up, she grabbed hold of me and sobbed. I sat with her, and between sobs she said how she didn't deserve it. He had treated her worse than an animal and she didn't deserve it. The empowerment was palpable.
I knew the cards were stacked against her. No income, no resources. But she tried. She applied for housing, jobs, and any benefit she might possibly be eligible for. When another woman, very pregnant with two small children, came to the shelter she took her under her wing.
Fast forward a couple of weeks. The Wednesday of Holy Week is Tenebrae, a service of darkness during which the candles in the church are ceremoniously extinguished. I arrived at work to discover that the pregnant woman with the children had left because the other woman had stolen money from her. What? I had spent quality time with this woman and I didn't want to believe it was true.
The next day was Maunday Thursday. The day of betrayal. For me a spiritual day of grocery shopping and arranging to get the furnace fixed.
Good Friday. The crucifixion. Why do we call it good? I started my workday by accidentally setting-off the security alarm at our agency's outreach building. Then I slipped while trying to help someone move a heavy television and it dropped on my fingers. On my bowling hand, natch. Then I headed to the shelter.
My fave client had stayed in her room all day. That just wasn't like her. She'd been very depressed since Wednesday which didn't bode well. We had good rapport so I went in to talk to her. I just had to know.
We talked. And talked. And she cried. She talked about the pain of growing up bi-racial in the 60's. The pain of being an adopted child who was abused by the mother who had chosen her. The pain of being told by her husband (the abusive husband who had preceded the violent boyfriend) that anything she had ever accomplished in school and work was just because she was the token person of color. She simply oozed pain and worthlessness. But she knew she was smart. She knew she had to show her children, even though they were grown, what a strong woman is and how she should be treated.
She admitted that she had been drinking the day before. Denied stealing money or drinking that day.
Sitting with her had been a moving experience, but the warning bells were chiming in my head on my drive home.
The next day, Saturday, she had moved to the couch and was watching movies. She didn't feel well. She had avoided contact with the night staff. While she was watching movies I searched her room. I found the empty bottle of vodka in her closet.
I calmly went downstairs and sat with her in the living room. I pointed out that, yes, drinking an entire bottle of vodka would make one feel pretty sick. She was going to have to leave. She did not deny anything or argue. She understood. Since things were slow and she was being reasonable I said she could stay until morning when her son would be able to give her a ride. I gave her a list of shelter numbers and suggested she look into a halfway house program.
I also told her I still thought she was one hell of a person with great potential. And invited her to call me at work any time.
After I got home that night I threw myself into Easter preparations, not sure my heart was really in it.
Easter is such a magical time of joy and redemption, and it did not disappoint this year. As I sat in church I felt peace. I was sad about this woman, but not hurt. I recognized that she hadn't betrayed me, she had betrayed herself. And I had been able to respond with love and a measure of mercy. I had always treated her as a human being worthy of respect and maybe, just maybe, she would look back and remember that and realize that she wasn't worthless. I could look at her brokenness and failure and love her.
I sometimes wonder if God regrets that whole vow to never destroy the human race. We can be pretty mean and stupid creatures. But we are loved.
This is the gift I can bring. I don't have the power to fix a broken life, but I can look for the person inside the problem. And I can care. I envision what I do as being like the parable of the sower: some seeds will fall on fallow ground, some among the rocks, but some will sprout and take root when we least expect it. I may never see the result, but I will keep tossing out the seeds.
We can be God's grace in the world. Amazing.
It started Wednesday. We had a client at the shelter who reminded me what I love and hate about the job. This was a woman with potential. She was smart. She was educated. Her children were grown. Her future was an open book.
But she had destroyed her last career with her drinking. And she had come to us directly from a mental health agency.
But I liked this woman. She was the first client who arrived during my shift and I was as nervous as a hostess. I helped her get settled. I happened to be working when her boyfriend was arrested. It was intense. She was one of those people who'd been abused her entire life and she'd never pressed charges before. When I told her that her boyfriend had been picked-up, she grabbed hold of me and sobbed. I sat with her, and between sobs she said how she didn't deserve it. He had treated her worse than an animal and she didn't deserve it. The empowerment was palpable.
I knew the cards were stacked against her. No income, no resources. But she tried. She applied for housing, jobs, and any benefit she might possibly be eligible for. When another woman, very pregnant with two small children, came to the shelter she took her under her wing.
Fast forward a couple of weeks. The Wednesday of Holy Week is Tenebrae, a service of darkness during which the candles in the church are ceremoniously extinguished. I arrived at work to discover that the pregnant woman with the children had left because the other woman had stolen money from her. What? I had spent quality time with this woman and I didn't want to believe it was true.
The next day was Maunday Thursday. The day of betrayal. For me a spiritual day of grocery shopping and arranging to get the furnace fixed.
Good Friday. The crucifixion. Why do we call it good? I started my workday by accidentally setting-off the security alarm at our agency's outreach building. Then I slipped while trying to help someone move a heavy television and it dropped on my fingers. On my bowling hand, natch. Then I headed to the shelter.
My fave client had stayed in her room all day. That just wasn't like her. She'd been very depressed since Wednesday which didn't bode well. We had good rapport so I went in to talk to her. I just had to know.
We talked. And talked. And she cried. She talked about the pain of growing up bi-racial in the 60's. The pain of being an adopted child who was abused by the mother who had chosen her. The pain of being told by her husband (the abusive husband who had preceded the violent boyfriend) that anything she had ever accomplished in school and work was just because she was the token person of color. She simply oozed pain and worthlessness. But she knew she was smart. She knew she had to show her children, even though they were grown, what a strong woman is and how she should be treated.
She admitted that she had been drinking the day before. Denied stealing money or drinking that day.
Sitting with her had been a moving experience, but the warning bells were chiming in my head on my drive home.
The next day, Saturday, she had moved to the couch and was watching movies. She didn't feel well. She had avoided contact with the night staff. While she was watching movies I searched her room. I found the empty bottle of vodka in her closet.
I calmly went downstairs and sat with her in the living room. I pointed out that, yes, drinking an entire bottle of vodka would make one feel pretty sick. She was going to have to leave. She did not deny anything or argue. She understood. Since things were slow and she was being reasonable I said she could stay until morning when her son would be able to give her a ride. I gave her a list of shelter numbers and suggested she look into a halfway house program.
I also told her I still thought she was one hell of a person with great potential. And invited her to call me at work any time.
After I got home that night I threw myself into Easter preparations, not sure my heart was really in it.
Easter is such a magical time of joy and redemption, and it did not disappoint this year. As I sat in church I felt peace. I was sad about this woman, but not hurt. I recognized that she hadn't betrayed me, she had betrayed herself. And I had been able to respond with love and a measure of mercy. I had always treated her as a human being worthy of respect and maybe, just maybe, she would look back and remember that and realize that she wasn't worthless. I could look at her brokenness and failure and love her.
I sometimes wonder if God regrets that whole vow to never destroy the human race. We can be pretty mean and stupid creatures. But we are loved.
This is the gift I can bring. I don't have the power to fix a broken life, but I can look for the person inside the problem. And I can care. I envision what I do as being like the parable of the sower: some seeds will fall on fallow ground, some among the rocks, but some will sprout and take root when we least expect it. I may never see the result, but I will keep tossing out the seeds.
We can be God's grace in the world. Amazing.
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
The Poor Will Always Be With Us
Hey, folks, it's been awhile. How ya doin'?
I blame my silence on the fact that I feel like my life has undergone one of its periodic seismic shifts. I'm working. And not at a hang-my-head-why-am-I-doing-this-job-when-I-have-a-college-degree sort of way. No. I'm a domestic violence shelter advocate and aftercare coordinator. Part-time, but intellectually and emotionally satisfying without being overwhelming.
It makes for an awkward conversation, though. If asked, I may say that I'm doing social work and try to keep it vague. Otherwise I'm afraid of how I'll be perceived. I'm neither saintly, nor particularly brave, nor anti-male. And, no, I can't tell you where the shelter is.
As you, my dear friends and up-to-date readers, know, the decision to return to this work was an emotionally fraught one. It's working out, though. I'm happy to report that I no longer have a horrible knot in my stomach when I report for my shift. I think I'm gonna like it here.
Just two days ago I was rooting around the office looking for something when I happened to open a file drawer of old files. I mean really old files. Some of the name tags were in my handwriting. I grabbed a few files and read my notes signed with my maiden name. It was a vaguely surreal time-travel moment. The memories came flooding back.
SIDE NOTE - I am retiring the "Gimme Shelter" blog. I don't feel comfortable sharing any stories, even old ones, when I'm back in the field.
What struck me, reading my own progress notes from a lifetime ago, was how confident and professional I sounded. Like I really knew what I was talking about, and I was just a young pup.
But to be really successful in this type of field you have to be able to maintain a delicate balance: care, but not too much.
This will be my struggle.
One day in my intro to psych class in college we talked about the correlation between various forms of mental illness and poverty. It's a chicken and egg thing, really. From my vantage point, it appears mental difficulty pushes people into poverty (slow to learn or otherwise unreliable = unemployable), and then the stress of poverty feeds the illness (while restricting access to help) in a vicious, vicious cycle.
It's painful to watch. The people who come through the shelter tend to be those with less resources and options. Especially difficult are the people who dance at the edge. Slow, but not fully developmentally disabled. Maladapted to society, but not full-out mentally ill. Not bad enough to qualify for the money and services that are out there, but not really functional, either. The safety net has some gaping holes.
Especially difficult is the plight of the women without children. Imagine that you haven't been working because: a) you were not allowed to, b)you were a homemaker, or c) you haven't been able to because of the anxiety and depression caused by a (usually) lifetime of abuse. Now imagine you need to escape from the one person who financially supported you, and you only have 30 days to re-establish yourself. There is no money to help you secure housing. None. We eliminated welfare benefits (except for Medicaid and food stamps) for single, able-bodied individuals. Public housing is limited and wait-listed. If you happen to suffer with mental health issues, the disability process is difficult and can take a year to complete, easily.
I think I may end up with the anxiety disorder.
I've read about a problem that sometimes happens to aid workers doing famine relief. They feel so guilty for having food when others don't that they stop eating. Ultimately, of course, you need to eat in order to feed other people.
It's hard to look poverty and impending poverty straight in the face. I've always known violence and misery and poverty (and, yes, they are intertwined) were out there, but it is so much worse to hear the individual stories. And to know that there are fewer options and resources out there for these people now.
The poor will always be with us. There is never 100% employment, and when times are tough and jobs are tight it's the under-educated, not as bright, trauma-ridden people who suffer the most. I've yet to meet someone who chose to be poor because the lifestyle was so awesome.
Remember that. Especially when you vote. Or pay taxes. Feel grateful that you even have enough income to pay those taxes.
OK. Off the soapbox now.
And how are you?
I blame my silence on the fact that I feel like my life has undergone one of its periodic seismic shifts. I'm working. And not at a hang-my-head-why-am-I-doing-this-job-when-I-have-a-college-degree sort of way. No. I'm a domestic violence shelter advocate and aftercare coordinator. Part-time, but intellectually and emotionally satisfying without being overwhelming.
It makes for an awkward conversation, though. If asked, I may say that I'm doing social work and try to keep it vague. Otherwise I'm afraid of how I'll be perceived. I'm neither saintly, nor particularly brave, nor anti-male. And, no, I can't tell you where the shelter is.
As you, my dear friends and up-to-date readers, know, the decision to return to this work was an emotionally fraught one. It's working out, though. I'm happy to report that I no longer have a horrible knot in my stomach when I report for my shift. I think I'm gonna like it here.
Just two days ago I was rooting around the office looking for something when I happened to open a file drawer of old files. I mean really old files. Some of the name tags were in my handwriting. I grabbed a few files and read my notes signed with my maiden name. It was a vaguely surreal time-travel moment. The memories came flooding back.
SIDE NOTE - I am retiring the "Gimme Shelter" blog. I don't feel comfortable sharing any stories, even old ones, when I'm back in the field.
What struck me, reading my own progress notes from a lifetime ago, was how confident and professional I sounded. Like I really knew what I was talking about, and I was just a young pup.
But to be really successful in this type of field you have to be able to maintain a delicate balance: care, but not too much.
This will be my struggle.
One day in my intro to psych class in college we talked about the correlation between various forms of mental illness and poverty. It's a chicken and egg thing, really. From my vantage point, it appears mental difficulty pushes people into poverty (slow to learn or otherwise unreliable = unemployable), and then the stress of poverty feeds the illness (while restricting access to help) in a vicious, vicious cycle.
It's painful to watch. The people who come through the shelter tend to be those with less resources and options. Especially difficult are the people who dance at the edge. Slow, but not fully developmentally disabled. Maladapted to society, but not full-out mentally ill. Not bad enough to qualify for the money and services that are out there, but not really functional, either. The safety net has some gaping holes.
Especially difficult is the plight of the women without children. Imagine that you haven't been working because: a) you were not allowed to, b)you were a homemaker, or c) you haven't been able to because of the anxiety and depression caused by a (usually) lifetime of abuse. Now imagine you need to escape from the one person who financially supported you, and you only have 30 days to re-establish yourself. There is no money to help you secure housing. None. We eliminated welfare benefits (except for Medicaid and food stamps) for single, able-bodied individuals. Public housing is limited and wait-listed. If you happen to suffer with mental health issues, the disability process is difficult and can take a year to complete, easily.
I think I may end up with the anxiety disorder.
I've read about a problem that sometimes happens to aid workers doing famine relief. They feel so guilty for having food when others don't that they stop eating. Ultimately, of course, you need to eat in order to feed other people.
It's hard to look poverty and impending poverty straight in the face. I've always known violence and misery and poverty (and, yes, they are intertwined) were out there, but it is so much worse to hear the individual stories. And to know that there are fewer options and resources out there for these people now.
The poor will always be with us. There is never 100% employment, and when times are tough and jobs are tight it's the under-educated, not as bright, trauma-ridden people who suffer the most. I've yet to meet someone who chose to be poor because the lifestyle was so awesome.
Remember that. Especially when you vote. Or pay taxes. Feel grateful that you even have enough income to pay those taxes.
OK. Off the soapbox now.
And how are you?
Thursday, January 26, 2012
An Open Letter to the Medical Community
TMI ALERT: This post is not for the modest nor the faint of heart, and addresses a very uncomfortable subject. Yes, I mean colonoscopies.
NOTE: This is written from the point of view of someone who just walked someone through the process, but the idea is that I'm supposed to schedule one next. So basically I got to see what I can look forward to. Although I did already undergo the little cousin of said procedure, the sigmoidoscopy, so I already had an inkling. There, see? TMI already.
For the uninitiated, we're talking about a process here. Twenty-four hours plus of fasting followed by industrial-strength colonics and capped off with a procedure that involves sticking a scope up an area that is usually reserved for more intimate partners.
OK. I can get past the modesty issue pretty much because I did have two babies. I have had to let it all hang out. I would think women have an advantage there.
But people, we're talking almost 3 solid days of misery here. I found myself constantly asking myself, "Really?" This is the best modern medicine has come up with to protect us from this dread disease? This is not minimal, I would say it is almost a maximally invasive procedure. Hey, while you're at it, how 'bout you cut open my head and make sure I don't have a brain tumor?
Can we come up with a better way to do this? Is that really asking so much?
What did surprise me was that my reaction to the whole thing was anger. Especially once we got to the hospital. I was already peeved on my better-half's behalf that his procedure wasn't scheduled until 5pm. That automatically guaranteed that he would have to fast about 40 hours, and would get to spend much of procedure day anticipating the experience.
We checked-in at the hospital an hour early, as instructed, and the poor guy gets all (un)suited and IV'd up, and then we discovered that there were 3 unfortunate souls in line ahead of us, and things were running late.
Wow. I did not take that well.
This was when I fundamentally realized that I was not a nice person. I discovered that I have an impatient and mean-spirited streak, and I was desperate to channel my inner Emily Gilmore and make that staff PAY for what they were doing to my husband. I was annoyed that they were so nonchalant, that this all gets treated as a minor inconvenience.
It's all done by snark, and I hate to brag, but I think I'm pretty good at putting out a "we-are-not-amused" vibe. I did not attempt to hide my displeasure at finding out that we were going to be a few hours longer than anticipated. I even told the nurse that although I had lost a very dear friend to colon cancer, this was making that look not so bad. My poor husband suggested that I didn't need to wait with him. I was vocal enough in my protests that when they finally took the guy away who was ahead of us, he promised he'd try to hurry!
(Oh yeah. Another thing to enjoy about the experience was the near total lack of privacy. Everyone was prepped and lined up in their beds waiting to be wheeled away, separated only by a fabric curtain that wasn't closed very often. Everyone is pretty much on display and nothing is secret. I should have just stopped the nurse when she was giving me the discharge instructions BECAUSE I'D ALREADY HEARD IT THE OTHER 3 TIMES SHE'D EXPLAINED IT TO OTHER PEOPLE.)
I was enraged. Why?
A big part of it, of course, was the fact that this was prolonging a loved one's agony, and the timing was terrible. The recovery from the anesthetic was a little difficult, and even the nurses had to agree that the fact that the poor guy hadn't had any sort of food for what at that point was about 44 hours, and not even liquids for 9 of that, was probably a contributing factor.
But I realized my anger was even bigger than that. I was angry at the whole process. What one of my friends called a "lousy rite of passage."
It certainly illustrates that for all of its intellectual elegance, medicine is really a rather nasty, brutish thing. We attack illness with poison and knives. Bodies exist to be poked, prodded, and manipulated. Many times it is to cure us, which is great, but often it's just routine maintenance. Then it is mostly annoying and intrusive, and only increases in frequency as we move along the road of life. Yes, kids, this is what you have to look forward to.
And perhaps that is what I was raging against most of all. This reminder of mortality, and the fact that our bodies break down and turn against us as we age. And the medical indignities only increase as we attempt to keep our jalopies running smoothly.
So I'm supposed to schedule my colonoscopy next. I may be able to beg off for a few years since technically I'm on the young side, but it has already been recommended and prescribed.
So you medical providers and researchers that be: Could you please expend some energy on making this process less uncomfortable and humiliating? If not for me, do it for your staff. They are going to have to take care of me, and I cannot be held responsible for what I will say or do under the influence of narcotics. Especially if I have been convinced of the necessity of avoiding caffeine prior to the procedure. If I have a withdrawal headache on top of everything I've outlined above, all bets are off. The bitch will be back, baby.
And how are you?
NOTE: This is written from the point of view of someone who just walked someone through the process, but the idea is that I'm supposed to schedule one next. So basically I got to see what I can look forward to. Although I did already undergo the little cousin of said procedure, the sigmoidoscopy, so I already had an inkling. There, see? TMI already.
For the uninitiated, we're talking about a process here. Twenty-four hours plus of fasting followed by industrial-strength colonics and capped off with a procedure that involves sticking a scope up an area that is usually reserved for more intimate partners.
OK. I can get past the modesty issue pretty much because I did have two babies. I have had to let it all hang out. I would think women have an advantage there.
But people, we're talking almost 3 solid days of misery here. I found myself constantly asking myself, "Really?" This is the best modern medicine has come up with to protect us from this dread disease? This is not minimal, I would say it is almost a maximally invasive procedure. Hey, while you're at it, how 'bout you cut open my head and make sure I don't have a brain tumor?
Can we come up with a better way to do this? Is that really asking so much?
What did surprise me was that my reaction to the whole thing was anger. Especially once we got to the hospital. I was already peeved on my better-half's behalf that his procedure wasn't scheduled until 5pm. That automatically guaranteed that he would have to fast about 40 hours, and would get to spend much of procedure day anticipating the experience.
We checked-in at the hospital an hour early, as instructed, and the poor guy gets all (un)suited and IV'd up, and then we discovered that there were 3 unfortunate souls in line ahead of us, and things were running late.
Wow. I did not take that well.
This was when I fundamentally realized that I was not a nice person. I discovered that I have an impatient and mean-spirited streak, and I was desperate to channel my inner Emily Gilmore and make that staff PAY for what they were doing to my husband. I was annoyed that they were so nonchalant, that this all gets treated as a minor inconvenience.
It's all done by snark, and I hate to brag, but I think I'm pretty good at putting out a "we-are-not-amused" vibe. I did not attempt to hide my displeasure at finding out that we were going to be a few hours longer than anticipated. I even told the nurse that although I had lost a very dear friend to colon cancer, this was making that look not so bad. My poor husband suggested that I didn't need to wait with him. I was vocal enough in my protests that when they finally took the guy away who was ahead of us, he promised he'd try to hurry!
(Oh yeah. Another thing to enjoy about the experience was the near total lack of privacy. Everyone was prepped and lined up in their beds waiting to be wheeled away, separated only by a fabric curtain that wasn't closed very often. Everyone is pretty much on display and nothing is secret. I should have just stopped the nurse when she was giving me the discharge instructions BECAUSE I'D ALREADY HEARD IT THE OTHER 3 TIMES SHE'D EXPLAINED IT TO OTHER PEOPLE.)
I was enraged. Why?
A big part of it, of course, was the fact that this was prolonging a loved one's agony, and the timing was terrible. The recovery from the anesthetic was a little difficult, and even the nurses had to agree that the fact that the poor guy hadn't had any sort of food for what at that point was about 44 hours, and not even liquids for 9 of that, was probably a contributing factor.
But I realized my anger was even bigger than that. I was angry at the whole process. What one of my friends called a "lousy rite of passage."
It certainly illustrates that for all of its intellectual elegance, medicine is really a rather nasty, brutish thing. We attack illness with poison and knives. Bodies exist to be poked, prodded, and manipulated. Many times it is to cure us, which is great, but often it's just routine maintenance. Then it is mostly annoying and intrusive, and only increases in frequency as we move along the road of life. Yes, kids, this is what you have to look forward to.
And perhaps that is what I was raging against most of all. This reminder of mortality, and the fact that our bodies break down and turn against us as we age. And the medical indignities only increase as we attempt to keep our jalopies running smoothly.
So I'm supposed to schedule my colonoscopy next. I may be able to beg off for a few years since technically I'm on the young side, but it has already been recommended and prescribed.
So you medical providers and researchers that be: Could you please expend some energy on making this process less uncomfortable and humiliating? If not for me, do it for your staff. They are going to have to take care of me, and I cannot be held responsible for what I will say or do under the influence of narcotics. Especially if I have been convinced of the necessity of avoiding caffeine prior to the procedure. If I have a withdrawal headache on top of everything I've outlined above, all bets are off. The bitch will be back, baby.
And how are you?
Saturday, January 7, 2012
Two Roads Diverged in a Yellow Woods...
Happy 2012, everybody! A new year brings new possibilities, and, as if on cue, this new year is bringing changes to my life.
Have I mentioned before how much I hate change and transitions? I'm a creature of habit. It's even worse when big decisions need to be made.
So what's going on? Nothing all that exciting, really. Brandon is transitioning to pre-school which leaves my life less focused on childcare. In the interest of personal fulfillment (and a paycheck!) I've decided to take another leap into the world of actual, outside-my-house, employment. Somewhat anxiety-provoking change #1.
Anxiety #2: I seemed to have found a job.
A brief digression here. Employment and I have a somewhat stormy history. My relationship with work has some eerie similarities with unstable interpersonal relationships. I end up with jobs that start-off so good, but the ending is generally bad. I don't think I've ever gone through the stereotypical job hunt involving want ads, resumes, and personal interviews. That would take having an actual career path. Instead I'll take the job that'll have me.
My first job out of college? Working at a domestic violence shelter where I had been a student intern. It was...an experience. The young woman hired to replace me when I left after 3 years lasted longer than I did, but also developed stress-related health problems. It was not a well-run program and it eventually imploded.
My next career move was becoming a legal assistant at a law office. This job was offered to me because somebody knew I was at a loose end having left the shelter. In fact, I was so unaware that there was a job offer in the works that I showed up at the office with my hair in cornrows, wearing a tie-dyed dress and moccasins. It was a small firm with a staff prone to psychodrama. I lasted about 10 years. It all ended with a nasty business "divorce" between the firm's partners, and I realized that I am not cut-out to work in an office.
I tried returning to my food service roots. I like to joke that I was a food service major at Oberlin College because I worked a lot of dining hall jobs to stay in school. I've washed my share of dishes. I know my way around a Hobart. I enjoyed my stint as a dietary aide in a nursing home. There is a certain satisfaction in breaking a sweat and getting dirty. I loved my interaction with the residents. I didn't love the new management when our department was outsourced, and I didn't do a good job keeping my opinions to myself. That ended THAT job. I learned that I'm not good at being treated like an expendable obstacle to company profitability. I'm also not that good at physical labor, really. I over-think things. I'm not speedy and efficient.
Then there has been the childcare thing which I got into when a mom called me because she knew I was at a loose end after the law job ended. In truth, this is a skill I didn't even know I had. But the kid seemed to like me, although she eventually moved away. But then a friend of mine had a baby and needed someone to care for him. After the nursing home episode another friend of mine had a baby. I've always felt this was karmic payback for the fact that I had been a working mother and depended on a neighborhood woman to care for my daughters. They have been great gigs, and I was fortunate to only care for children I really cared about. But my daughters are largely grown now, and I'm ready to interact with adults. Babies and toddlers are sweet, but they're tyrants. It's a good thing they grow up.
I swore to myself that when I re-entered the job market I'd put some thought into it, evaluate my strengths and interests and launch a career that would be a good fit.
Instead I've fallen into another job. I've come full circle. I'm poised to work at a domestic violence shelter.
It came about through connections from my first job. It started with an innocent inquiry, and before I knew it I was signing a W-4 and undergoing training. It's a different program and I need to learn their policies and procedures.
I know starting new jobs is scary. But I'm not certain that I've always felt this knot in the pit of my stomach. I don't think that the thought of the job should make me feel like crying. It wasn't until I had actually committed to the training that I had an explosion of anxiety. I don't know if I can do it anymore.
The first go-around was a soul-searing experience. I was young, idealistic, and working for someone who felt that things like training and boundaries were largely unnecessary. I'm sure I was given way more responsibility than I was really ready for.
So when I feel panic now, I don't think it's from where I am today. The 25 year old who walked away from the job to save her mental health is still inside my head somewhere, screaming.
But this, I tell myself, will be different. It's a new agency with better policies and procedures. I'm 20 years older and wiser. I'm only working very part-time. It's a job I know.
But that might be the problem. It's a job I know. I know full well what a bad day can be like. I know that 98% of the time it is fairly routine. But that 2% can be a doozy. This time, however, I can be confident that I won't be made to handle it alone.
But I'm also wondering if I'm ready to let the misery of the world back into my life. It's one thing to be aware of and care about issues like poverty, homelessness, mental illness, and violence, it's quite another thing to stare them straight in the eyes. Am I strong enough?
I guess I won't know until I try. I'm hoping that spending more time at the shelter will set my mind at ease. Or let me know this isn't the right direction for me.
Two paths diverged in a yellow woods. Sorry, Mr. Frost. It isn't the road not taken that concerns me. It's the one I've already traveled.
Have I mentioned before how much I hate change and transitions? I'm a creature of habit. It's even worse when big decisions need to be made.
So what's going on? Nothing all that exciting, really. Brandon is transitioning to pre-school which leaves my life less focused on childcare. In the interest of personal fulfillment (and a paycheck!) I've decided to take another leap into the world of actual, outside-my-house, employment. Somewhat anxiety-provoking change #1.
Anxiety #2: I seemed to have found a job.
A brief digression here. Employment and I have a somewhat stormy history. My relationship with work has some eerie similarities with unstable interpersonal relationships. I end up with jobs that start-off so good, but the ending is generally bad. I don't think I've ever gone through the stereotypical job hunt involving want ads, resumes, and personal interviews. That would take having an actual career path. Instead I'll take the job that'll have me.
My first job out of college? Working at a domestic violence shelter where I had been a student intern. It was...an experience. The young woman hired to replace me when I left after 3 years lasted longer than I did, but also developed stress-related health problems. It was not a well-run program and it eventually imploded.
My next career move was becoming a legal assistant at a law office. This job was offered to me because somebody knew I was at a loose end having left the shelter. In fact, I was so unaware that there was a job offer in the works that I showed up at the office with my hair in cornrows, wearing a tie-dyed dress and moccasins. It was a small firm with a staff prone to psychodrama. I lasted about 10 years. It all ended with a nasty business "divorce" between the firm's partners, and I realized that I am not cut-out to work in an office.
I tried returning to my food service roots. I like to joke that I was a food service major at Oberlin College because I worked a lot of dining hall jobs to stay in school. I've washed my share of dishes. I know my way around a Hobart. I enjoyed my stint as a dietary aide in a nursing home. There is a certain satisfaction in breaking a sweat and getting dirty. I loved my interaction with the residents. I didn't love the new management when our department was outsourced, and I didn't do a good job keeping my opinions to myself. That ended THAT job. I learned that I'm not good at being treated like an expendable obstacle to company profitability. I'm also not that good at physical labor, really. I over-think things. I'm not speedy and efficient.
Then there has been the childcare thing which I got into when a mom called me because she knew I was at a loose end after the law job ended. In truth, this is a skill I didn't even know I had. But the kid seemed to like me, although she eventually moved away. But then a friend of mine had a baby and needed someone to care for him. After the nursing home episode another friend of mine had a baby. I've always felt this was karmic payback for the fact that I had been a working mother and depended on a neighborhood woman to care for my daughters. They have been great gigs, and I was fortunate to only care for children I really cared about. But my daughters are largely grown now, and I'm ready to interact with adults. Babies and toddlers are sweet, but they're tyrants. It's a good thing they grow up.
I swore to myself that when I re-entered the job market I'd put some thought into it, evaluate my strengths and interests and launch a career that would be a good fit.
Instead I've fallen into another job. I've come full circle. I'm poised to work at a domestic violence shelter.
It came about through connections from my first job. It started with an innocent inquiry, and before I knew it I was signing a W-4 and undergoing training. It's a different program and I need to learn their policies and procedures.
I know starting new jobs is scary. But I'm not certain that I've always felt this knot in the pit of my stomach. I don't think that the thought of the job should make me feel like crying. It wasn't until I had actually committed to the training that I had an explosion of anxiety. I don't know if I can do it anymore.
The first go-around was a soul-searing experience. I was young, idealistic, and working for someone who felt that things like training and boundaries were largely unnecessary. I'm sure I was given way more responsibility than I was really ready for.
So when I feel panic now, I don't think it's from where I am today. The 25 year old who walked away from the job to save her mental health is still inside my head somewhere, screaming.
But this, I tell myself, will be different. It's a new agency with better policies and procedures. I'm 20 years older and wiser. I'm only working very part-time. It's a job I know.
But that might be the problem. It's a job I know. I know full well what a bad day can be like. I know that 98% of the time it is fairly routine. But that 2% can be a doozy. This time, however, I can be confident that I won't be made to handle it alone.
But I'm also wondering if I'm ready to let the misery of the world back into my life. It's one thing to be aware of and care about issues like poverty, homelessness, mental illness, and violence, it's quite another thing to stare them straight in the eyes. Am I strong enough?
I guess I won't know until I try. I'm hoping that spending more time at the shelter will set my mind at ease. Or let me know this isn't the right direction for me.
Two paths diverged in a yellow woods. Sorry, Mr. Frost. It isn't the road not taken that concerns me. It's the one I've already traveled.
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