Hallelujah. . . .

Play "Hallelujah" on Amazon Music Unlimited (ad)

"Hallelujah"
(originally by Leonard Cohen)

Well, I heard there was a secret chord
That David played and it pleased the Lord
But you don't really care for music, do you?
Well it goes like this:
The fourth, the fifth, the minor fall and the major lift
The baffled king composing Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah...

Well your faith was strong but you needed proof
You saw her bathing on the roof
Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew ya
She tied you to her kitchen chair
She broke your throne and she cut your hair
And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah...

Well, baby, I've been here before
I've seen this room and I've walked this floor (you know)
I used to live alone before I knew ya
And I've seen your flag on the marble arch
And love is not a victory march
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah...

Well, there was a time when you let me know
What's really going on below
But now you never show that to me, do ya?
But remember when I moved in you
And the holy dove was moving too
And every breath we drew was Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah...

Maybe there's a God above
But all I've ever learned from love
Was how to shoot somebody who outdrew ya
And it's not a cry that you hear at night
It's not somebody who's seen the light
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah

Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah...
Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah...
Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah
Hallelujah, hallelujah

I love this song. While life giving, it also makes me feel sad. Little M is still in ICU. No news at the moment regarding his progress. His mom posted this song on FB today. I realize how lucky we are in the big scheme of things, yet, this cloak of despair woven from threads of anger, fear, and frustration seems to be the predominant means of keeping me warm these days.

I tried to watch mass online today.  Palm Sunday without Palms. Unheard of. At any rate, while our quad sat on the couch, Honey pie seemed very distracted, trying to paint her skin, my hands, etc. with a paintbrush. Up and down. Up and down. Trying to get water. Going to the bathroom. I get it. She is seven. For her, it is like watching a documentary that you have absolutely no interest in. But I want to soak up the fact that we are here as a family. Together, when my other half, for the second week in a row, tells her to go up to her room, since she is not "behaving."

What started as us being together, resulted in us being divided, separated, like we do not have enough of that already. I go to her room. I ask her if she is ok. She wants nothing to do with me. Anger pulses through her. She does not want to go with me back downstairs. She does not want to go for a walk. And so, I am again, alone. I am angry. I am pissed. I don't want to go back and watch mass, only the three of us, with Honeypie alone in her room.

So I drive. I drive throughout Brookfield. I see blue everywhere in support of Little M. I think how good people can be. How kind. Yet, I am sitting in my own excrement of anger and don't know how to release it. Service. I can release it through service. So, to find a service outlet that won't result in my further separation of my family.

Hope. . .

From where I sit. . .

I dreamed a dream . . .

That God would be forgiving. . .
Young and unafraid. . . .
No ransom to be paid. . .
No wine untasted. . .
Tigers come at night. . .
Voices soft as thunder. . .
They tear you both apart. . .
Turn your dreams to shame. . .

Still, I dream . . .

The dreams that cannot be. . .

There are storms we cannot weather. . .

I had a dream my life would be so different . . .

Life has killed the dream I dream.

I realize that we all have much to be grateful for amidst this pandemic of pain and sorrow. We have  a roof over our heads, jobs, health, and more. Meanwhile, #23 is fighting for his life at Loyola after being hit by a train. His siblings cannot gain entry to visit him and are struggling. These are real problems. Health care providers on the front lines, intubating young people, exposing themselves to the virus, while sit, wallowing. I am so ashamed.

My kids need my help, my husband needs my consolation, and I have very little to give them. Honey Pie's face is breaking out; she is angry, ripping her work.  Ladybug is an explosive mess. The yelling is unbearable and so reminiscent of childhood. It is something that I cannot stop. I want to run, but cannot. In these moments of tense desperation, I appreciate the struggle that those with predilections for substance use are enduring. I appreciate the pain felt by those who cut, or enter into such penetrating darkness that hope seems untenable.  I, too, want to escape. I want to crawl into my bed, cover my head, and stay there.

I feel like that Mother's Day coffee mug, that has a crack in the side. Filling it one  more times and I will shatter on the counter top, never to truly hold. My mother's laughter that morphed into a blanket of tears is beginning to feel all too familiar and threadbare.

And so here I sit, devoid of warmth, devoid of dreams, wondering what tomorrow will bring.  

Whiskey Tango Foxtrot!

It had been a long day. Catherine awoke way to early for her tastes. The birds who usually begin to chirp were silent.  The sun still slept, leaving a blanket of blackness in her wake.  Hell, even the cats who normally prowl in the room, nibbling on her fingers and toes or who make a bed of her chest were still sound asleep. No. Catherine was awake because she was bothered. Bothered by the fact that the one who gave birth to her no longer knew who she was. No longer knew who her kids were. And she was bothered by him.

Despite the transitional nursing home snafus that usually come when one firsts enters a nursing home, Catherine felt fairly pleased. She and her sisters had communicated about their Mom's care (or lack there of) and she had worked hard on writing a letter, clearly articulating these findings. She had planned to address the Assistant Director of Nursing that morning while he visited with her mom that morning and then hoped to begin reviewing her charts.

"Genevieve," Catherine called her youngest, very curvy sister who was vacationing at the beach. "I need some power clothes. I simply cannot go in and speak to a Nursing Director in some flouncy shirt and shorts."

Genevieve, who had worked her way  up the corporate ladder at a major hospital in the area and now was a bigwig certainly had a wardrobe of power clothes. The glitch might have been that where Genevieve was curvy, Catherine was not. Where Genevieve was petite, Catherine was tall. Nevertheless, Catherine plowed through the plethora of clothing to finally spy an outfit that would do: a whispy salmon blouse to wear with a black A-Line skirt.

"A ha. Found it. Won't worry about the fact that I have on pauper sandals. I will look like a professional on vacation." thought Catherine who had taken off from her clinic work to spend time with him while they checked in on her mom.

I wish I could say that Catherine's meeting was full of drama and excitement that she conquered with great resolve and tenacity. However, it was not. The Assistant Director listened openly, kindly, taking notes as she went. Catherine mentioned that she would follow-up with a summary email and forward it to those who needed to be in the "know."

She hurried home to work on this and her mom's dignity plan while he was visiting with Mom. Unfortunately, Catherine is sort of a dweller. When it comes to writing, she is able to do it beautifully, but it comes at a price: It takes a long time.

So there she was, running into the Nursing Home 15 minutes late to pick him up. He simply did not want to be there when her mom ate. Catherine knew why. Her mom no longer embraced the pleasantry of manners, using her fork, knife, and napkin as a good housewife should. No. Now, she played with her food; dissected it; used her fingers and poured juice on her potatoes.  Catherine realized that her being late would be a problem, but she had hoped it would not emerge in her mom's presence. Her mom was sensitive and Catherine knew she would pick up on it.

"Let's go." he said to Catherine.

"GGGG876 bblack" uttered her mom, gesturing that she too wanted to get the hell out of there.

"Dad, " Catherine pleaded. "We cannot just leave now. They are starting to serve the food and there is no one here to act as a diversion. We are going to get Mom riled up."

"It's time" he said as he began his very slow, yet purposeful shuffle towards the door.

And in doing so, Catherine watched as her mother became a sprinter doing the 50 yard dash.

"Wait, Dad." Catherine stated firmly. "We are not going anywhere. We are going to sit with Mom while she has lunch. She needs to eat."

Reluctantly, Catherine's Dad shuffled back to the dining area, squeezing into  a chair at the head of the table, opposite of  Iamwatching the cars outside Maxine. And as he sat, clutching his lunch bag and frequently examining his Timex, he began to squirm. Until finally, like a volcano, he stood up, slammed his hands on the table and hissed "You were late."

Damn. She thought she might get away with it this time, but what a fool she was to think that a seed of patience might blossom during this time. Evidently, this was the wrong season for patience.

"I realize that." stated Catherine, gritting her teeth. "I was late because of a letter I was working on for Mom. I think that it would be best to talk about it later. We will leave after lunch. If you are hungry, pull out your peanut butter."

And from there, the passive aggressive volley began. First he would tell Catherine to let her mom alone and let her feed herself. Then he would take the fork and give her mom a bite, asking if she wanted any more. Catherine's mom of course does not know if she wants more. But she does know that she wants him to stop asking and then trying to shovel it in. Catherine watches her mom make that all-too familiar eye roll and lip pinch. She takes the fork and then begins to finger her food. He, because he is all prim and proper, covers his eyes so that he does not need to see the mess she is becoming.

With the last bite of her meal, he rose as if to leave when Catherine told her mom that "We are all going to go to your room and watch tv." Her moms feet seemed planted while her fingers continued to pillroll her napkin.

"Come on, Mom," Catherine said gently. "Let's go watch tv."

And so they sat. The Dad starting to squirm as if there were something in his pants til finally, another verbal explosion.

"Catherine, you may be a  nurse, but you know shit about this kind of nursing!"

Calmly, cooly, Catherine rose, looked her dad in the eye and told him to

"Fuck off" as she confidently left the room.

A multitude of thoughts were flooding her brain, but the predominant one was "Really? We have to go through this again?" And grace of all graces, there was the nurse that she had spoken with earlier that day.

"Catherine, do you need some help?"

As Catherine explained to the nurse that her dad was losing his cool and they were trying to extricate themselves without causing a big to-do for her mom, this wonderful nurse came into serve as the desired distraction, allowing the dad and Catherine to leave.

Upon entering the pristine, old man Buick, Catherine got in, buckled her seatbelt and sighed.

"Dad," she said. "I am going to tell you this once and only once. Do you remember years ago when I was driving the family to River Dance when we saw an older African American Man clutching his chest and staggering. Do you remember that I wanted to help and you retorted. 'What can you do? You are only a nurse. Keep going.'"

"Dad, do you remember that?"

Her dad nodded.

"And do you know that I have taken time off of my paying job to be here with you and to help mom? Do you know that I am sacrificing precious time away from my husband and kids to be here with you?"

Again, he nodded.

"If you think that I am going to put up with your bullshit and your denigrating comments when I am trying to help you, you have got another thing coming. If anyone does not know shit about this it is you. The three of us saw this coming years ago. We begged you to move into a smaller home so that mom wouldn't have to move and you could then pay a live-in caregiver. But no, you knew better. It was more comfortable in J Town."

"Let me tell you. You are not the only one hurting here. You may have lost your wife, but we lost our mom. Our kids have lost their grandma."

And as Catherine backed the car in reverse, squealing the beloved Buick Tires, her dad screamed


"Watch out!"

It was in that moment that all was clear. The Buick. Anything beautiful was beloved. Anything with flaws, anything imperfect, anything that might be rendered less than was a complete and total failure in his eyes.

And so she put the car in drive and drove back home in the imperfect, the less than, the totally failing silence.

IMAGINE. . .

Welcome, my friends. I would like to share a story with you. It is chilling, almost horrifying and I hope you continue reading. Let us begin with us all assuming a comfortable position, with your eyes closed or gazing softly at the floor; hands resting in your lap; and feet touching the floor.

Francesca. What can I tell you about dear Francesca?

Francesca, while always modest by nature truly has always been somewhat of a tom-boy, if you can call her that. Over the years, she has shared many stories about her voyages into the mysterious dark woods, chasing deer, fishing for crawfish, and sneaking up on snakes. Stories have also played a huge part of her life, whether she was telling them or reading them to her children and grandchildren.

On one sunny day this summer, Francesca awoke to a low moaning sound that appeared to get louder and louder. Upon opening her eyes, she was bewildered to find herself in a strange bed in a new land. While she did not see anything that she could have anticipated making that horrendous noise, she could still feel the fear that was bubbling up insider her, causing her heart to pound and her chest to hurt.

“Get out! Get out!” Her gut was screaming at her. She looked around the room, only to see that she was alone. Her regular people were no where to be found. “Get out! Get out!” her gut seemed to scream at her again. And so, she did what any reasonable person who found themselves in a strange place without their regular people with their gut screaming at them to leave: she decided to get out even though she was dressed in only her pajamas.

While trying to make her quick exit, an unfamiliar person clothed in black with gloved hands seemed to be reaching for her.  This person seemed to be speaking at her in loud, commanding, rapid and incomprehensible speech. Francesca saw these hands and they reminded her of something. What? What? Why did she have such fear?

It wasn’t until this person began to push her in the direction of a dark hallway, trying to remove her clothing that Francesca began to fight back. She clawed and spat. She twisted and turned. She was determined not to let some stranger whom she has never met, speaking a language she had no understanding of remove her clothes. What would be next? Suddenly, there were two of them working to subdue her.  . . .

My friends, I can see you are becoming uncomfortable here with how this story is unfolding. I, too, am uncomfortable. But that is the point. Can you imagine how it must be for a person living with dementia in a nursing home? When it comes time to shower, think about it. Would you want to remove all your clothes willingly with someone you don’t know or understand? Empathy goes along way.

We were playing doctor . . . .

Unresolved feelings. Last night, my daughters had a friend over, let's call him Eric. My girls love Eric, as do my husband and myself. we could hear the three of them downstairs, listening to 'Annie' music. We have been doing this since April, when our sitter played the delicious part of Ms. Hannigan.

I am stuck. I am having difficulty writing this. Fast forward an hour. I am talking to Eric's mom outside in my backyard when my older daughter came outside. I say,

"Ladybug, where are your sister and Eric?"
"Mom, they locked the bathroom door and won't let me in?"
"Locked the bathroom door? What are they doing in there?"

Needless to say, I was concerned, but not too concerned, because Eric is a nice kid. Moments later, he shows up outside with our cat.

"What were you doing in the bathroom with Honeypie? That is not appropriate!" his mother says firmly to him.

They leave. I go inside and I speak to Honeypie. I am not mad at her. I am concerned, however, I think that my tone indirectly shamed her. We talk for a few minutes. Eric pulled her pants down. She said that she did not want that to happen and that she covered her parts.I explained to her that this was not her fault, but then in the same breath talked to her about who is allowed to see her parts.

Afterwards, Honeypie was angry. She wanted to throw her birthday present away. I simply held her. I feel emotionally barren and unable to fully provide the care she needed in that moment. 

Ironically, Eric's mother called me after the incident where we talked about this.  

http://www.stopitnow.org/sites/default/files/documents/files/do_children_sexually_abuse_other_children.pdf

Feeling Overwhelmed . . .

I am in search of some inspiration. At the present moment, by husband is about to lose his job; I am beginning the job search as well as entertaining the idea of returning for the FNP in efforts to add to the stability of our family.

I have been looking for a sign of sorts, something to point me concretely in the direction that I should choose.  Alas, I have not been able to discern a clear answer. What I do not want to do is to make a decision based on fear. I want to make a decision based on joy and enthusiasm, a search for a new adventure that provides a level of mindfulness that I can embody and be with my family.

So time is ticking and I need to write a compelling personal statement as to why I am qualified to be admitted to XYZ University for a post-master's certificate. Forget the fact that I obtained my original NP degree from them. Forget the fact that I have already gone back for a second certification at this institution. What I am concerned about is the fact that I left the doctoral program and that they may not want to re-admit me.

I need a story as to why I want to add the pediatric component to my already Adult and Women's Health Care Certification. The one word answer  simply is BRIDGE. Bridge. I believe that as an FNP, I would be a more effective bridge, a bridge between parents and children; a bridge between educational systems and health care; a bridge between the perceived self and the authentic one.

The Ache

I really like my job as an NP in a small student health center. While the pay isn't great and truly, there is no prestige, I have the opportunity to meet a variety of people of a variety of ages (believe it or not) and I get to live vicariously. 

Many of these students embark on amazing life journeys, whether that is to Australia, Zimbabwe, or simply to downtown. Their lives are pregnant with possibilities, ready to emerge into this world at that right time. I meet musicians, future veterinarians, law enforcers. 

While much of the above can be said about any clinician's office.  What is special about mine, is that I have been privileged to have the time to listen, I mean really listen to their life stories.  I get to witness, and sometimes hold their pain with them, when they need a little respite.

Enter Sarah (of course, not her real name). Sarah is a thirty year old female who is studying to be an elementary school teacher who came to see me for a breast ache. This ache, which was located in her right breast, primarily, had been an ongoing issue for months.  While not able to palpate any bumps or lumps, this ache, which had not altered, and in her mind was not musculoskeletal related, was weighing heavily on her mind.

Like many of the students that I see, Sarah has way too much on her plate.  She is working part-time, going to school full-time, is married and has a nine year old daughter and a four year old son.

Gratitude

It is cold out. So cold, I can feel the hairs in my nose begin to freeze, see my breath in white clouds. My heart this morning is filled with this ebullient sense of gratefulness.  How did I get this lucky? Why? Then it hits me. Why question it. Instead, pass it on.

Growing Up

Both my little beans are growing up quickly. I can hardly get over the fact that they will be 9 and 4 this year. As independent as they are, thankfully, they still like to hang out with mom for a bit.

This past fall while I was immersed in a mountain of laundry, my flat-chested eldest sneaks behind me and  asked me when I was planning on getting her a bra. A bra?  Who has to wear a bra in the second grade?

ME: LB, do you know what a bra is for?
LB: Yeah, to cover your boobies (Where she gets this from, I don't even know.  These have been known as breasts, mommy milk, and occasionally boobs).
ME: Actually, they are to help support your breasts as they get fuller. Yours don't look like they quite need support. Does someone in your class wear a bra?
LB: Yes. AA and BB do.
ME; Thinking. These girls are not very developed, so it seems a bit odd to me. "Say, do they wear a sports bra?"
LB: Yes, how did you know?
ME: Well, I guessed. (But in my head, I began to think that maybe we should consider having more discussions about the body

So, in the last few weeks, we have begun having impromptu conversations about periods and changing bodies (much to the chagrin of my brothers-only husband). I had bought this book at a second hand shop a while back and since I was re-organizing my desk again, I found it and decided to give it to LB to have  a look.



I did not give it a thorough perusal, but as a mom and a clinician, it seemed developmentally appropriate for an 8 year old to start learning about her body and the monthly cycles that will ensue in the next few years.  I liked this book, because it did not introduce sex yet.

Ladybug seemed to gravitate to this book she had chosen it to be read at bedtime one night over break.  So instead of reading Geronoimo Stilton or the Berenstein Bears, there we were, Ladybug in one arm, Honeypie in the other, lightly skimming Period before bed.  Both were interested in the illustrations of the female body (which are cartoons), and thereby I think, less scary. Neither girl seemed embarrassed to ask questions, which was great.

Fast forward to yesterday's conversation. LB and I are coming home from the City. A billboard before us states that "Over 100,000 children are in Foster Care, waiting to be adopted."
ME: Whoa, that's sad.
LB: What, Mom?
ME: That billboard over there.
LB: (She reads the billboard). Mom, why don't people like kids?
ME: Well, it's not that a lot of people don't like kids.  Perhaps they have them at too young of an age, like in their teens.
LB: But mom, you said that people don't get married until they are older.  How can they have kids if they are a teenager?
ME: Well, some people make decisions in their teen years that result in them having a baby before they are married.
LB: Mom, the kids at school say you have to have a boy and a girl to have a baby. Is that right?
ME: (Keeping hands on the wheel and eyes on the road) Well, to have a baby, you need a boy and a girl, but to raise a baby you can have many family types. Some families have two mommies, some two daddies, some a Grandma, others like ours have a Mommy and a Daddy.

From here, we went on to discuss what our Faith Tradition teaches, but not before I inquired;
ME: Say, LB, do the kids at school talk about how a baby is made?
LB: No.  And if they did, I would not participate.
ME: Well, if they do, please come to me and ask.  I want to make sure that you get the right information. OK?
LB: Sure, Mom. You know everything about the body.
ME: Well, I don't know about that, but I do know more than your classmates.


Meanwhile, her little sister wants to be a Daddy when she grows up. More to investigate for another time.

Always another way to look at things. . .

Ladybug

Last week, we were visiting the Great Lake State to see the 'rents, sisters, and cousins. Middle C and I took some of the kids out to walk around the mall.  Admittedly, the mall there is very, very small.  So, on the way home, some of the houses we were passing were also very small.  Imagine my surprise when Ladybug piped up:

Ladybug: Mom, what kinds of houses are these?
Me: Kinds of houses?  What do you mean?
Ladybug: I mean, do they have electricity?

Now, the houses weren't that small and they certainly did not look that old.  But I was curious.

Me: Ladybug, what makes you think that they lack electricity?
Ladybug: Well, Mom, the sign over there says, 'No Outlet.'

Honeypie

Let's just say that she has begun to develop her artistic talents.  Apparently, I look like a frog with lots of hair.

Lips

Last week I attended my daughter's parent-teacher conference.  She had been all excited for me to see her artwork which featured an Egyptian mummy.  This is the daughter for whom drawing is a pain.  It requires her to sit still and movement is where she finds solace.

Well, we entered the school and there, on the wall was her mummy.  It was beautifully colored and it looked like she had spent a considerable amount of time on it.  Admittedly, the first thing that we noticed were the lips.  They were fairly large, but it seemed to flow.

When we arrived home, I told her how proud of her that I was and that we saw her picture.

Ladybug: I went a little crazy on the lips, though.
Me: What makes you say that?
Ladybug: I just did.
Me: Did someone say something to you?  I thought your picture was great just the way it was. 
Ladybug: No, I just do.

Which got me thinking.  Why would she have made the lips so big?  Artistic license?  Uncertain boundaries? 

Or maybe, she feels the need to be heard! Bigger lips, more voice?  Crazy linkage on my part.  However, maybe today, I will make a better effort to hear what comes out of those lips.

Post in my brain. . .

Sometimes I am worried that I am not going to remember some of the most heartfelt moments in my life.  Things that I have really enjoyed in the last month that I want to solidify in my brain include:

1. Attending the Emerald Ball with D and staying at the Gwen overnight.
2. Watching Inside Out with my family this weekend.
3. Raking leaves with Honeypie on Sunday and playing stop and go on her bike.  She almost ran me over several times, rode her bike through my leaf piles and then laughed like crazy.  It was exhilarating. 
4. Mowing the lawn on Sunday while Ladybug attempted a cardboard box sculpture for our cats.
5. Having a dance party with H and L upstairs.  We danced to Shake it Off, All about the Base, What's going on (4 Non-Blondes) and others.  While D did not participate, he actually came into watch for a bit.  Both girls were out of control and really having a great time.  So was their mom. 
6. Snuggling with both girls at various times in the night. 

Simple Things . . Part Deux

BEING MINDFUL!

Again, I suspect that this is at the crux of my question.  Being mindful is at the crux of living what I write.  I took a mindfulness meditation class several years ago and really felt that I grew at that time.  It may be time to pull this info out again and resume this journey. 

Simple Things

It seems like gratitude is everywhere: self-help books, church, friends, sisters' blogs, etc.  I am not complaining about this in the least.  I believe that it is important to be grateful for things that we have been given, whether it be talents that enabled us to work hard for one thing or another, health, family, whatever.  I am extremely grateful. 

Currently, I am in my office.  Office, you say? Yes.  I am in my office which is housed in my basement.  To my left, my laundry assistant, the Samsung front loader is washing my clothes. To my right, is a soothing cup of mint tea that I am drinking in a enormous Bee mug from a dear friend from my Ann Arbor days. In my office resides several other very important items: a Frigidaire deep freezer that is full of gelato, gluten free and other types of bread, homemade chicken broth that D made over the weekend, and a variety of other extremely important foods. Behind me, stands our furnace and water heater which assists us with staying warm and providing us with the potential to enjoy our showers.  For all of these things I am grateful. 

The weather is getting colder.  We pass the same homeless people on the street every Sunday on our way to church.  I wonder where do these folks go?  I know some sleep on the greenspace near the Madison street exit on I 290.  Michael, one of the regulars, greets all passerbyers with a big smile, a joyous voice.  "Good Morning. God Bless."  I wonder about his mother.  His partner. Does he have even have one? Does he have children?  How does he stay warm in the winter.  How does he stay healthy.  Almost more importantly, how does he stay safe?

I have a home. I have food and warmth. I have a loving husband and family.  I have health. I am so grateful. However, simply stating how grateful I am is not enough.  What can I do to "pass these gifts on?" What is one concrete action that I could do to express this gratitude that could be embedded in my being?

Family Night . . . Inside Out

Last night was family night.  Three of us snuck into our PJs early while D cooked pasta for dinner.  I was excited because I had convinced the three of them that it was a good idea to have dinner and a movie in the basement. 
Granted, eating pasta was not easy, but hey we had a little table for the girls. 

Granted, Inside Out was rated PG, but we were going to be there to explain things to both daughters. 

The evening had a grand beginning.  For appetizers, the three double chromosomed individuals danced in our "dance room" to Four Non-Blondes, and a whole host of Best of the '80s musical scores. It was a riot.  I flipped Ladybug in circles while HoneyPie shook her rear and head.  Best of all, we were out of earshot from XY who, as I said, was cooking dinner and talking to his brother on the phone. 

Finally, it was time to move our suarez into the basement.  Needless to say, I have never heard Ladybug laugh so heartily.  It was awesome.  Her sister also seemed to either be in on the joke in some parts, or was simply laughing at her older sibling.  It was fantastic. 

However, not so comfortably both girls proceeded to create torrential downpours.  Honeypie and D ended up going upstairs to embark on some magnatile construction.  I held Ladybug in my arms for the remainder of the movie.  What impressed me so (and many others as well) was that the emotion, Joy, was so often trying to suppress her fellow emotion, Sadness.  We are not comfortable with sadness or some of the other uglier emotions.  Sadness does have a purpose. Often, it is instrumental in people coming together to ask for help.  I hugged L a little tighter upon coming to this realization.

So often, Ladybug can be pretty loud with her emotions, especially those that are less than flattering.  This always rubs me the wrong way, and unfortunately, does not bring out my best mothering.  What is hard for me is to sit with these feelings that she has.  I recall engendering some of these same feelings and not having positive outcomes as a result.  However, how terrible could those outcomes have been?  I am still here, I have a loving family, great coworkers, and a wonderful community in which I live. 

So, the thought for me today, in addition to writing more to live, is to learn to sit with emotions that are wrought with hopelessness and despair without trying to fix them.  In my professional role, I am often charged with trying to help patients solve these emotional conundrums.  Take your professional hat off, Lady, I tell myself.  Jump into your life and be.

A Family of Hope to Be Writers. . .Living what you write?

At present, I come from a family of closet writers.  Well, that actually, that is not the full truth.  Both my sisters blog and middlesis is in a full fledged writing group, edits articles for an online magazine, has won a couple of awards and is working on another novel with the hope to be published.  So of the three of us, she is most likely to be declared a writer.

Babysis also blogs on two separate blogs, but journals avidly.  The vocabulary possessed by these two women is quite extensive. Their way with words proves simply inspiring. But from where did this desire, this innate need to write and communicate through the written word emerge in our family?

Simple answer. Our mom.  Our mom.  This is the woman who would rather not entertain a confrontation and ultimately remained silent.  I am thinking about an unusual Thursday this past June. I am in the den of my parents' home, a dark dank room in the basement of their tri-level home. If I close my eyes and breathe deeply I can almost smell the faint remnants of cigarette smoke that once upon a time consumed this room.  The stained sage green carpet sulks because of the damp moist film that lightly lies on its tread.  What am I doing here, one might ask? 

The answer is simple.  I am beginning the process of clearing out the clutter that has pervaded much of this room and much of my mom's brain.  Over and over I stumble upon articles covering topics such as Alzheimer's and Diet, Alzheimer's and Mood, Screening yourself for dementia and the like.
I am saddened by this, because my mom knew what was going on and instead of communicating her concerns with her family, she felt that going into denial and dealing with her memory issues herself was the better option. I do not know if she felt that we could not deal with this or if she could not deal with it.  Confidence in herself or her family has not been her best attribute.  Why is this relevant? 

Because my mom, who occasionally wrote, wrote beautifully.  When I looked at some of her writings, I am impressed with how reflective and thoughtful they were.  I am surprised by the openness and wonder why that side of her was not on display? Why did she not write more? Sadly, I am struck by how hard it must have been to be living two selves, especially one where you write how you want to live but don't or maybe can't.  Perhaps the writing process that lead her down divergent roads was too painful, hence the reason why her writings were not numerous. Who was she so concerned about disappointing?  Her family?

I find that I am often at this same crossroads and then I think about my sisters.  They live what they write.  They are congruent in their thoughts and beliefs and their actions.  I admire them for that. When I ask myself how can I replicate this, of course I have a lot of requirements to move this living congruently into action.  None, mind you are convenient for one lame reason or another. But life is not convenient.  People encounter many things that they never would have anticipated: job loss, death, divorce, cancer, Alzheimer's. 

I read somewhere that one should write what one knows.  Both my sisters do this. Does one know how to live because they write or do they write because they know how to live? My mom knew how to live within a very confined space, but as I said, her writings were few. 

So at the very least, I am going to act on the notion that the more one writes, the more one learns how to live.  In that vein, I will use this blog to be more accountable in both the living and the writing department.  Who knows?  Perhaps I will find my truth in both.

What do you need?

What do I need?  Sometimes, I am not so sure.  Maybe sleep, maybe a glass of chilled chardonnay, maybe a good cry.Needs and wants are interesting concepts.  At the end of the day, one really only needs clean water, clean air, sustaining food, safe place to rest your weary head. 

One need that I think is highly undervalued really, is the need for touch.  I have been pondering this thought over the last week after I listened to Terry Gross interview Dr. Vincent DeVita, an oncologist and author of the book, The Death of Cancer.  To listen or read the transcript, see the link below:  http://www.npr.org/2015/10/28/452395967/oncologist-discusses-advancements-in-treatment-and-the-ongoing-war-on-cancer

In this discussion, Dr. DeVita discussed his own battles with cancer, but also bravely talked about his son Ted, who fought aplastic anemia until he died at age 17.  Aplastic anemia, is a disorder whereby all three of the major bone marrow stem cells are not produced in adequate amounts.  Without enough red blood cells, white blood cells, and platelets,  a person will not be able to oxygenate appropriately, fight infection, or prevent clotting.  This condition can ensue following a toxic chemical exposure, a viral illness such as mono, or due to unknown reasons, which then we call idiopathic. 

For Ted, he was so severely compromised, he lived his remaining 8 years of life in a bubble like room at the National Cancer Institute.  I cannot even imagine what both parent and child endured.  The only touch that this young man would have had was that through plastic gloves. No touch. No hug from his mom.  No stroking the cat. No first kiss.  No physical touch for fear he would die of infection.

We take the sense of touch for granted.  How many times a day do we find ourselves touching someone.  Tousling a child's hair, squeezing your partner's hand, hugging your mom, even though she is not going to remember who you are. 

Without touch, babies would not be breastfed, or even created for that matter. People whose love language is of the more physical in nature would often feel neglected.  Research has shown that touch results in a release of oxytocin, a hormone instrumental in the feel good department as well as the let down reflex in breastfeeding.  (http://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/pii/S0149763408001127)

Think of all the people living in nursing homes, whether they are elderly, non-verbal, etc.  How much better would their lives be with appropriate touch?  Today, I am going to sit here and just be grateful.  Grateful that I have this sense as well as the people in my life to share it with.  In fact, I think I am going to go hug my kiddos right now.

Be Gentle

Be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars.  In the noisy confusion of life, keep peace in your soul.
                                                               Max Ehrman

NoMoYe

Some people take a month to write a novel.  This is my month to try not to yell.  NoMoYe- No more yelling!  This will be a challenge, but such a blessing if and when I succeed.  How will I measure this success?  I would guess that I would witness less yelling coming back my way.  More later and wish me luck.