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?
Thursday, January 26, 2012
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.
Monday, December 26, 2011
Haul Out the Holly...
"...Put up the tree before my spirit falls again..."
Never before do I remember a Christmas song speaking to my condition so perfectly. Friends, it was a miserable Advent.
During the first week, right after Thanksgiving, two families in town lost their eldest daughters, lovely young women, both, within days of each other, both passings unexpected and tragic. The families involved were well-known around town. The entire community mourned.
The sorrow had a personal edge to me because one set of parents had been our neighbors back before we had kids. Their daughter was only about a year older than Amelia. I can remember their joy at being new parents, and it was right around the time that I was introduced to their baby that I discovered that I was going to be a parent myself.
It definitely cast a pall.
Then, on a more personal front, a close family member started losing his battle with mental illness. Actually, to use the word "losing" would seem to imply that he is fighting it. Actually, he's being overwhelmed by it. And part of it, of course, is a complete lack of insight into the fact that he might have a problem. It's vexing, concerning, and heart-breaking, and there is really nothing anyone can do about it.
I tried to liken this constant low-level anxiety and sorrow as going through Advent while wearing a heavy backpack or having a stone in your shoe. The analogy didn't work, however, because a backpack can be set down and a stone removed. This situation doesn't have such an ending, and the situation could get worse before it gets better.
What can a person do but let go and let God. And worry. And pray. A lot.
My answer was what I called Christmas Therapy. I would set-aside time to immerse myself in what makes me happy during the season. It is a time for light and love and I gave myself permission to create a little joy.
I'm not a big fan of shopping. Just ask my daughters. (Unless it's for food. I can go a little nuts at a farmer's market!) I'm not a recreational shopper unless it's at a thrift store, and even then I lose interest if there isn't anything I feel I need. But then I discovered shopping for others.
I love our town's Helping Hands program that anonymously matches low-income families with people willing to buy presents. Now there is shopping I can get into! How can I feel bad spending money and participating in the mass retail-hysteria when I may be providing the only Christmas presents these kids may be getting? I love the challenge of maximizing the bang for my buck - finding stuff that is useful AND fun. Even if the family only asks for clothes or coats for the little ones, there has to be at least one book or toy included. This year Miriam and I shopped for a teen-aged and a tween-aged girl. Miriam was AWESOME at finding fashionable, affordable stuff at stores I would never have considered. And we've also made it a tradition to include a stocking that includes nice soaps, shampoos, toothbrushes and toothpaste, lotions...stuff that can't be bought with foodstamps and are usually a lower-level financial priority.
One afternoon I closed the curtains against the December rain, turned on the Christmas lights, lit a few candles, put on some quality seasonal music, and wrapped the presents for the family. I prayed as I worked that the gifts would bring joy. In my mind I heard delighted squeals from the girls as they discovered their treasures, and I felt their grandmother's relief that they were able to have presents. And in the very unlikely event that they were NOT appreciative, I would never find out, which relieves a lot of the pressure of gift giving. It was a nice moment.
There were other, more minor, setbacks threatening to destroy my Christmas spirits. The horrible head cold/sinus infection I had over the Thanksgiving holiday didn't help. Nor did the unexpected demise of my upright freezer on the same day I had returned from Costco with Christmas supplies. That was a bad moment.
But I worked to focus on the joy. The joy of having both my daughters home. Indulging my love of baking, even to excess. (Five kinds of cookies baked, four more doughs in the refrigerator!) Reveling in the glow of the Christmas tree. Setting my creative forces free designing my cards and newsletter. (I now have a keen sympathy for clergy folks who have to write sermons on the same themes year after year - it ain't easy coming up with fresh approaches!)
The beauty of joy, of course, is that it begets more joy. Social science research has shown that people are more likely to be altruistic after a positive event such as being given a cookie. Happy people are more likely to do nice things, which spreads the happiness to others.
So I guess my Christmas message to all of you is to find that metaphorical cookie, and share it with others. I read a great newspaper article about people who were anonymously paying off Christmas lay-aways for families. But no action is too small. I find it gratifying to treat retail workers this time of year as people who deserve patience and gratitude, and I was rewarded with genuine wishes for a good rest of my day. And there were days I needed that!
Luckily, I live in a liturgical calendar in which Christmas is a season and not a singular event. So I can still say "Oh yes I need a little Christmas, right this very minute...I need a little Christmas now!"
Never before do I remember a Christmas song speaking to my condition so perfectly. Friends, it was a miserable Advent.
During the first week, right after Thanksgiving, two families in town lost their eldest daughters, lovely young women, both, within days of each other, both passings unexpected and tragic. The families involved were well-known around town. The entire community mourned.
The sorrow had a personal edge to me because one set of parents had been our neighbors back before we had kids. Their daughter was only about a year older than Amelia. I can remember their joy at being new parents, and it was right around the time that I was introduced to their baby that I discovered that I was going to be a parent myself.
It definitely cast a pall.
Then, on a more personal front, a close family member started losing his battle with mental illness. Actually, to use the word "losing" would seem to imply that he is fighting it. Actually, he's being overwhelmed by it. And part of it, of course, is a complete lack of insight into the fact that he might have a problem. It's vexing, concerning, and heart-breaking, and there is really nothing anyone can do about it.
I tried to liken this constant low-level anxiety and sorrow as going through Advent while wearing a heavy backpack or having a stone in your shoe. The analogy didn't work, however, because a backpack can be set down and a stone removed. This situation doesn't have such an ending, and the situation could get worse before it gets better.
What can a person do but let go and let God. And worry. And pray. A lot.
My answer was what I called Christmas Therapy. I would set-aside time to immerse myself in what makes me happy during the season. It is a time for light and love and I gave myself permission to create a little joy.
I'm not a big fan of shopping. Just ask my daughters. (Unless it's for food. I can go a little nuts at a farmer's market!) I'm not a recreational shopper unless it's at a thrift store, and even then I lose interest if there isn't anything I feel I need. But then I discovered shopping for others.
I love our town's Helping Hands program that anonymously matches low-income families with people willing to buy presents. Now there is shopping I can get into! How can I feel bad spending money and participating in the mass retail-hysteria when I may be providing the only Christmas presents these kids may be getting? I love the challenge of maximizing the bang for my buck - finding stuff that is useful AND fun. Even if the family only asks for clothes or coats for the little ones, there has to be at least one book or toy included. This year Miriam and I shopped for a teen-aged and a tween-aged girl. Miriam was AWESOME at finding fashionable, affordable stuff at stores I would never have considered. And we've also made it a tradition to include a stocking that includes nice soaps, shampoos, toothbrushes and toothpaste, lotions...stuff that can't be bought with foodstamps and are usually a lower-level financial priority.
One afternoon I closed the curtains against the December rain, turned on the Christmas lights, lit a few candles, put on some quality seasonal music, and wrapped the presents for the family. I prayed as I worked that the gifts would bring joy. In my mind I heard delighted squeals from the girls as they discovered their treasures, and I felt their grandmother's relief that they were able to have presents. And in the very unlikely event that they were NOT appreciative, I would never find out, which relieves a lot of the pressure of gift giving. It was a nice moment.
There were other, more minor, setbacks threatening to destroy my Christmas spirits. The horrible head cold/sinus infection I had over the Thanksgiving holiday didn't help. Nor did the unexpected demise of my upright freezer on the same day I had returned from Costco with Christmas supplies. That was a bad moment.
But I worked to focus on the joy. The joy of having both my daughters home. Indulging my love of baking, even to excess. (Five kinds of cookies baked, four more doughs in the refrigerator!) Reveling in the glow of the Christmas tree. Setting my creative forces free designing my cards and newsletter. (I now have a keen sympathy for clergy folks who have to write sermons on the same themes year after year - it ain't easy coming up with fresh approaches!)
The beauty of joy, of course, is that it begets more joy. Social science research has shown that people are more likely to be altruistic after a positive event such as being given a cookie. Happy people are more likely to do nice things, which spreads the happiness to others.
So I guess my Christmas message to all of you is to find that metaphorical cookie, and share it with others. I read a great newspaper article about people who were anonymously paying off Christmas lay-aways for families. But no action is too small. I find it gratifying to treat retail workers this time of year as people who deserve patience and gratitude, and I was rewarded with genuine wishes for a good rest of my day. And there were days I needed that!
Luckily, I live in a liturgical calendar in which Christmas is a season and not a singular event. So I can still say "Oh yes I need a little Christmas, right this very minute...I need a little Christmas now!"
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
No Man is an Island...He's a Peninsula
I stole that from The Jefferson Airplane, "A Small Package of Value Will Come to You, Shortly," track 2 on After Bathing at Baxter's.
This is a sequel to "I am a Rock." (Hint: Reading it will make the following make a lot more sense!) I'm here to attest that there are such things as happy endings.
I wrote "Rock" because I was obsessing over that fact that a friend had owned up to keeping distance between us. And now, as they say, for the rest of the story.
What happened next was that we e-mailed. And we talked. And we e-mailed some more. She told me how she honestly felt and I did some much-needed soul searching. We both did some apologizing, and I can truly say that I understand why she felt the need to pull away and have no problem with that.
And it felt like old times, in a way, because we are so comfortable with each other. We can still laugh and chatter. Our friendship is not broken. It's better.
I'm not a rock. I'm not an island!
This is a sequel to "I am a Rock." (Hint: Reading it will make the following make a lot more sense!) I'm here to attest that there are such things as happy endings.
I wrote "Rock" because I was obsessing over that fact that a friend had owned up to keeping distance between us. And now, as they say, for the rest of the story.
What happened next was that we e-mailed. And we talked. And we e-mailed some more. She told me how she honestly felt and I did some much-needed soul searching. We both did some apologizing, and I can truly say that I understand why she felt the need to pull away and have no problem with that.
And it felt like old times, in a way, because we are so comfortable with each other. We can still laugh and chatter. Our friendship is not broken. It's better.
I'm not a rock. I'm not an island!
Saturday, November 12, 2011
I Am a Rock
Recently a friend broke-up with me.
I guess I shouldn't be surprised. We really hadn't hung out together for quite awhile. But back in the day we were tight. I've always believed God sends you the people you need when you need them, and this was no exception. I was leaving the world of full-time employment and beginning my adventures in domesticity. She was new to town, also at home, and our daughters were in preschool together. We shared coffee, wine, and good conversation.
I should have seen the warning signs. We had some philosophical differences, but we were pretty open about discussing them. Our daughters started out as good friends, but they were pretty different from each other. I also was not particularly close with her other dear friends.
Our lives diverged as lives do. She was homeschooling, which kept her busy, and our paths crossed less often. I didn't think too much of it. We still chatted when we encountered each other but didn't carve out time to get together.
Not long ago we ran into each other at a yard sale and started catching up with each other. We've always had a certain cosmic similarity, and it turns out that we were both interested in the same graduate school program. We could be school buddies!
Turns out she had started working at the same place Brandon, my current charge and life project, attends preschool. One day I was picking him up and encountered my old friend. I told her I really wanted to get together. I pictured one of our traditional gabfests, catching up on what we'd been doing for the past few years, making plans to get through school together. Maybe this was just the boost I needed to get out of my current rut and get my life in gear. As we were making a plan and preparing to part, she mentioned that she also felt the need to explain why she had felt the need to put some space between us.
Wait. What?
Our estrangement had been purposeful on her part. I was blind-sided.
Most of our communication on this topic has been via the gift of e-mail, which from my point of view has been something of a blessing. It gives me time to measure my responses and edit my words, which apparently is what got me in trouble in the first place. As mentioned before, we did have some sizable philosophical differences, and at some point I apparently was disrespectful enough to hurt her. Enough that she felt the need to back away from me.
This is doing a bit of a number on my head. Oddly enough, I generally consider myself to be pathologically nice. I do, however, have strong opinions, and, when pushed, will be brutally honest about how I feel about something. My favored strategy is cutting humor. I guess I cut too deep.
This is not happening at a good time. One problem with childcare as a life calling is that it is pretty isolating. Working from home means no co-workers or general public to interact with. My social circle, such as it is, largely consists of other parents with small children and if you've ever tried to socialize with toddlers in the room you'd know it's not easy. Plus, I'm no longer the parent of a toddler. At the end of the day I'd like the chance to mingle with people of my own age who are also preparing to embark on the next phase of life once the children are grown.
So far I seem to be 2 for 2 in wrecking such relationships. (See "Looking Up to Reach Down" for the other unhappy saga.)
I've apologized. I've offered my olive branch. I've proposed getting together again to hash this all out but a plan hasn't come together for that and I think I'm done trying. I may have been insensitive and/or intolerant, but I didn't cut anyone out of my life for disagreeing with me.
The situation is made worse by living in a small town. As I already said, I have to go to her place of work to pick Brandon up from school. I find myself scanning the crowd and hanging my head when I walk in to avoid possible encounters. I was at the high school play last night, which her daughter was in, and again felt in defensive mode in case she was there. She wasn't. But to rub salt in the wound there were two other people there I used to hang out with and I COULDN'T GET OUT FAST ENOUGH.
Really? Am I that hard to get along with? Now I feel a little paranoid about everyone I've fallen out of touch with. Did I offend you? Am I more trouble than I'm worth?
I once suggested that Hallmark make a card for this. A little something that simply says "I valued our time together, I'm sorry it didn't work out."
Meantime I think I'll take a page from Simon and Garfunkel. I am a rock. I am an island.
I guess I shouldn't be surprised. We really hadn't hung out together for quite awhile. But back in the day we were tight. I've always believed God sends you the people you need when you need them, and this was no exception. I was leaving the world of full-time employment and beginning my adventures in domesticity. She was new to town, also at home, and our daughters were in preschool together. We shared coffee, wine, and good conversation.
I should have seen the warning signs. We had some philosophical differences, but we were pretty open about discussing them. Our daughters started out as good friends, but they were pretty different from each other. I also was not particularly close with her other dear friends.
Our lives diverged as lives do. She was homeschooling, which kept her busy, and our paths crossed less often. I didn't think too much of it. We still chatted when we encountered each other but didn't carve out time to get together.
Not long ago we ran into each other at a yard sale and started catching up with each other. We've always had a certain cosmic similarity, and it turns out that we were both interested in the same graduate school program. We could be school buddies!
Turns out she had started working at the same place Brandon, my current charge and life project, attends preschool. One day I was picking him up and encountered my old friend. I told her I really wanted to get together. I pictured one of our traditional gabfests, catching up on what we'd been doing for the past few years, making plans to get through school together. Maybe this was just the boost I needed to get out of my current rut and get my life in gear. As we were making a plan and preparing to part, she mentioned that she also felt the need to explain why she had felt the need to put some space between us.
Wait. What?
Our estrangement had been purposeful on her part. I was blind-sided.
Most of our communication on this topic has been via the gift of e-mail, which from my point of view has been something of a blessing. It gives me time to measure my responses and edit my words, which apparently is what got me in trouble in the first place. As mentioned before, we did have some sizable philosophical differences, and at some point I apparently was disrespectful enough to hurt her. Enough that she felt the need to back away from me.
This is doing a bit of a number on my head. Oddly enough, I generally consider myself to be pathologically nice. I do, however, have strong opinions, and, when pushed, will be brutally honest about how I feel about something. My favored strategy is cutting humor. I guess I cut too deep.
This is not happening at a good time. One problem with childcare as a life calling is that it is pretty isolating. Working from home means no co-workers or general public to interact with. My social circle, such as it is, largely consists of other parents with small children and if you've ever tried to socialize with toddlers in the room you'd know it's not easy. Plus, I'm no longer the parent of a toddler. At the end of the day I'd like the chance to mingle with people of my own age who are also preparing to embark on the next phase of life once the children are grown.
So far I seem to be 2 for 2 in wrecking such relationships. (See "Looking Up to Reach Down" for the other unhappy saga.)
I've apologized. I've offered my olive branch. I've proposed getting together again to hash this all out but a plan hasn't come together for that and I think I'm done trying. I may have been insensitive and/or intolerant, but I didn't cut anyone out of my life for disagreeing with me.
The situation is made worse by living in a small town. As I already said, I have to go to her place of work to pick Brandon up from school. I find myself scanning the crowd and hanging my head when I walk in to avoid possible encounters. I was at the high school play last night, which her daughter was in, and again felt in defensive mode in case she was there. She wasn't. But to rub salt in the wound there were two other people there I used to hang out with and I COULDN'T GET OUT FAST ENOUGH.
Really? Am I that hard to get along with? Now I feel a little paranoid about everyone I've fallen out of touch with. Did I offend you? Am I more trouble than I'm worth?
I once suggested that Hallmark make a card for this. A little something that simply says "I valued our time together, I'm sorry it didn't work out."
Meantime I think I'll take a page from Simon and Garfunkel. I am a rock. I am an island.
Friday, November 11, 2011
Guardian Angel, A Story for Veteran's Day
This story begins, as most of them do, with the phone call that no one wants to get. Tom's father was sick, it was serious, and he had to drive out there right away. I ended up flying out a few days later with our daughters for the funeral. Sudden, sad, and surreal.
The girls and I left after school, and our evening flight had a sizable lay-over at the Philadelphia airport. We were tired, dazed, and had an hour to while away. We noticed the dogs as we were wandering to our gate.
They were puppies, really; big paws and ears and fluffy coats. Australian Shepherds as I recall. They were also playful and friendly. Good medicine for our bruised souls. Their names were Sadie and Levi.
I know this because we started chatting with the nice young couple traveling with the dogs. Turned out they were flying to the same small regional airport we were headed to. Their story unfolded as we talked.
They were from Colorado and on their way to her hometown in Pennsylvania to pick-up her horses and car. They had brought the puppies along because they had just adopted them and didn't want to leave them alone. Then they were going to hitch the horse trailer to her car and drive the 1000+ miles home, puppies and all. They only had a few days to complete this feat because the day after they were scheduled to return he had to report for deployment to Iraq.
He was a Marine. They were newlyweds. Just married. They had returned from their honeymoon trip and found the call-up order in the mail when they returned home. They were taking this crazy cross-country trip and then he would be gone for a year.
They were the sweetest young couple. He was all-American, clean-cut handsome. She reminded me of a little bird. Tiny, fair, with sharp features and lots of wavy yellow hair with seemed to hum with her nervous energy. They were happy to share the puppies with me and my tween-aged girls.
Our flight was announced and they stowed the puppies in their little mesh-sided carriers and brought them onto the plane. It was a small commuter plane that only holds a few dozen people. They sat across the aisle from us and I couldn't help watching them during the flight.
It was nighttime, and the lighting in the cabin was dim to allow us to nap during the short flight, I guess. She was resting on him, her head on his chest and her hands on his shoulder and side, like she was trying to absorb him through her skin, filling-up with his very essence before sending him off. His arm was wrapped protectively around her. It made a very touching tableaux.
Tom's Dad, Bill Reid (he eschewed titles), was a World War II vet. Actually, he was a conscientious objector, to me an unbelievably brave stance to take in those days, which also in those days meant he still served but in a non-combat role. He was a medic. He was captured by the Germans and spent about a year, I think, as a prisoner of war. When he was released he learned that his identical twin brother had died in the conflict.
My father-in-law was truly one of the greats of The Greatest Generation. His military service interrupted his college career. He and his brother attended the same college. Dave, apparently, was the outgoing brother. Bill was studying botany, as he had a life-long attraction to the natural world. When they were sent overseas they had each met the woman they intended to marry. Bill returned, a thin shadow of his former self, married, and finished college. He joined the track team to rebuild his physical body, and followed a call to enter into ministry, eventually graduating from Yale Divinity School and serving with distinction in the Methodist Church.
SIDE NOTE: My mother-in-law is no less impressive, enduring the sorrow and anxiety of the separation, finishing her own degree and also entering the ministry.
My heart ached for this young couple on the airplane. They were so sweet, so in love. I prayed for his safe return, but felt a renewed ache when I realized he would not come home the same person. He was being sent far away to an exotic locale where he would experience and see things that no person should see and experience. I prayed. I prayed for his safety, but I also prayed for his soul. That he should come home and still be able to enjoy his wife, and play with their dogs and horses, and still be the confident, happy, loving young man that he was then.
I entreated my father-in-law. Please be with him, you who understand his situation. Be with him in battle. Stay with him and guard his heart. Please help him to keep his humanity intact. Bless this couple and help them have the happy life they deserve. Be their guardian angel.
It was not a long flight. We were walking to the lobby when I found the courage to turn and ask his name. I do not have the best memory in the world, but I know that the first name was Sam. The last name is a little fuzzier, either Wineguard or Winegardner, probably spelled Weingart or something like that. Anyway, I shook his hand, wished them well on his deployment, and said I would pray for him. They were genuinely grateful.
God, please let him return safely. Grampsy, please guard his soul.
The girls and I left after school, and our evening flight had a sizable lay-over at the Philadelphia airport. We were tired, dazed, and had an hour to while away. We noticed the dogs as we were wandering to our gate.
They were puppies, really; big paws and ears and fluffy coats. Australian Shepherds as I recall. They were also playful and friendly. Good medicine for our bruised souls. Their names were Sadie and Levi.
I know this because we started chatting with the nice young couple traveling with the dogs. Turned out they were flying to the same small regional airport we were headed to. Their story unfolded as we talked.
They were from Colorado and on their way to her hometown in Pennsylvania to pick-up her horses and car. They had brought the puppies along because they had just adopted them and didn't want to leave them alone. Then they were going to hitch the horse trailer to her car and drive the 1000+ miles home, puppies and all. They only had a few days to complete this feat because the day after they were scheduled to return he had to report for deployment to Iraq.
He was a Marine. They were newlyweds. Just married. They had returned from their honeymoon trip and found the call-up order in the mail when they returned home. They were taking this crazy cross-country trip and then he would be gone for a year.
They were the sweetest young couple. He was all-American, clean-cut handsome. She reminded me of a little bird. Tiny, fair, with sharp features and lots of wavy yellow hair with seemed to hum with her nervous energy. They were happy to share the puppies with me and my tween-aged girls.
Our flight was announced and they stowed the puppies in their little mesh-sided carriers and brought them onto the plane. It was a small commuter plane that only holds a few dozen people. They sat across the aisle from us and I couldn't help watching them during the flight.
It was nighttime, and the lighting in the cabin was dim to allow us to nap during the short flight, I guess. She was resting on him, her head on his chest and her hands on his shoulder and side, like she was trying to absorb him through her skin, filling-up with his very essence before sending him off. His arm was wrapped protectively around her. It made a very touching tableaux.
Tom's Dad, Bill Reid (he eschewed titles), was a World War II vet. Actually, he was a conscientious objector, to me an unbelievably brave stance to take in those days, which also in those days meant he still served but in a non-combat role. He was a medic. He was captured by the Germans and spent about a year, I think, as a prisoner of war. When he was released he learned that his identical twin brother had died in the conflict.
My father-in-law was truly one of the greats of The Greatest Generation. His military service interrupted his college career. He and his brother attended the same college. Dave, apparently, was the outgoing brother. Bill was studying botany, as he had a life-long attraction to the natural world. When they were sent overseas they had each met the woman they intended to marry. Bill returned, a thin shadow of his former self, married, and finished college. He joined the track team to rebuild his physical body, and followed a call to enter into ministry, eventually graduating from Yale Divinity School and serving with distinction in the Methodist Church.
SIDE NOTE: My mother-in-law is no less impressive, enduring the sorrow and anxiety of the separation, finishing her own degree and also entering the ministry.
My heart ached for this young couple on the airplane. They were so sweet, so in love. I prayed for his safe return, but felt a renewed ache when I realized he would not come home the same person. He was being sent far away to an exotic locale where he would experience and see things that no person should see and experience. I prayed. I prayed for his safety, but I also prayed for his soul. That he should come home and still be able to enjoy his wife, and play with their dogs and horses, and still be the confident, happy, loving young man that he was then.
I entreated my father-in-law. Please be with him, you who understand his situation. Be with him in battle. Stay with him and guard his heart. Please help him to keep his humanity intact. Bless this couple and help them have the happy life they deserve. Be their guardian angel.
It was not a long flight. We were walking to the lobby when I found the courage to turn and ask his name. I do not have the best memory in the world, but I know that the first name was Sam. The last name is a little fuzzier, either Wineguard or Winegardner, probably spelled Weingart or something like that. Anyway, I shook his hand, wished them well on his deployment, and said I would pray for him. They were genuinely grateful.
God, please let him return safely. Grampsy, please guard his soul.
Friday, September 2, 2011
Life is Change...How it Differs From the Rocks...
("Crown of Creation" by The Jefferson Airplane.)
I hate change.
Actually, it would be more true to say that I hate times of transition more than the actual change. Once I'm used to it, different is good. It's the getting there that I don't like.
But, as The Airplane so smartly pointed out, life is but a series of transitions and changes. Some are so incremental they take years to notice. Some happen at precise moments and life is never the same again. There are a few I would consider pretty earth-shifting: graduating high school/leaving home, getting married, losing a parent (thanks be to God I haven't personally faced that one yet), AND (drum roll, please) your CHILD graduating high school/leaving home.
As most of you know we just sent our firstborn off to college, to the big city of Chicago no less. Lots of people ask how I'm doing. The short answer is quite well, actually, but there is a complicated tangle of feelings that goes along with that.
Am I sad? Sort of. It's not an acute mourning, but more of a dull ache in the general thoracic region. I'm really pretty OK with the fact that my baby has grown up. Right before she left we watched some home movies of her toddler years and not once did I wish to be back there. I've always loved her just the way she is. And I'm looking forward to getting to know the person she will become.
Am I anxious? YES! Those who knew me during my college years know that I was pretty much a big ball of stupid prone to making really bad life decisions. My daughter, however, inherited her father's good sense and natural caution. She will be fine. Seeing the wonderful opportunities ahead of her makes me wish for a do-over.
Mostly, though, I'm incredibly proud and excited for her. I'm proud that she struck out on her own. She faced one of her biggest fears and went for it. And the school and neighborhood and all the people we met all seemed like a perfect fit for her. I believe that she will be happy. And even if, for some reason, it doesn't work out and she lands closer to home, she tried, and she can always feel good about that. But I think she's going to thrive.
I'm also acutely aware of the fact that once I left for college I never came home, in a way. Oh there were holidays and breaks, but the BEST thing that happened in college was meeting Tom my senior year. I had a job right out of college and I stayed and got married. Who knows what the future will hold?
Meanwhile, I'm still wandering the shifting sands of transition. To add to the poignancy, Brandon started pre-school the same week Amelia left. I need to develop a whole new routine.
Which always leads me back to the "What am I going to do when I grow up" question. {sigh}
I only feel an ache, at this point, during moments that normally include the whole family. But it's a good ache.
It would be far more depressing if she opted to live in my basement the rest of her life.
And how are you?
I hate change.
Actually, it would be more true to say that I hate times of transition more than the actual change. Once I'm used to it, different is good. It's the getting there that I don't like.
But, as The Airplane so smartly pointed out, life is but a series of transitions and changes. Some are so incremental they take years to notice. Some happen at precise moments and life is never the same again. There are a few I would consider pretty earth-shifting: graduating high school/leaving home, getting married, losing a parent (thanks be to God I haven't personally faced that one yet), AND (drum roll, please) your CHILD graduating high school/leaving home.
As most of you know we just sent our firstborn off to college, to the big city of Chicago no less. Lots of people ask how I'm doing. The short answer is quite well, actually, but there is a complicated tangle of feelings that goes along with that.
Am I sad? Sort of. It's not an acute mourning, but more of a dull ache in the general thoracic region. I'm really pretty OK with the fact that my baby has grown up. Right before she left we watched some home movies of her toddler years and not once did I wish to be back there. I've always loved her just the way she is. And I'm looking forward to getting to know the person she will become.
Am I anxious? YES! Those who knew me during my college years know that I was pretty much a big ball of stupid prone to making really bad life decisions. My daughter, however, inherited her father's good sense and natural caution. She will be fine. Seeing the wonderful opportunities ahead of her makes me wish for a do-over.
Mostly, though, I'm incredibly proud and excited for her. I'm proud that she struck out on her own. She faced one of her biggest fears and went for it. And the school and neighborhood and all the people we met all seemed like a perfect fit for her. I believe that she will be happy. And even if, for some reason, it doesn't work out and she lands closer to home, she tried, and she can always feel good about that. But I think she's going to thrive.
I'm also acutely aware of the fact that once I left for college I never came home, in a way. Oh there were holidays and breaks, but the BEST thing that happened in college was meeting Tom my senior year. I had a job right out of college and I stayed and got married. Who knows what the future will hold?
Meanwhile, I'm still wandering the shifting sands of transition. To add to the poignancy, Brandon started pre-school the same week Amelia left. I need to develop a whole new routine.
Which always leads me back to the "What am I going to do when I grow up" question. {sigh}
I only feel an ache, at this point, during moments that normally include the whole family. But it's a good ache.
It would be far more depressing if she opted to live in my basement the rest of her life.
And how are you?
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