My life, for as long as I can remember, has been structured by people. I think that's probably a normal thing for many. Parents and siblings are constructs from whom we derive, even under the worst of circumstances, a sense of belonging and identity. As we grow older, we incorporate others into that structural framework - people who remind us who we are, or who support our ideas or beliefs. Sometimes we don't even realize we've added them to the system until they're no longer there.
My experience has been that I randomly add people for no distinct reason and neither intimacy nor longevity in our relationship dictates that addition. Something happens when we meet and in my mind that person becomes a permanent fixture. This realization became annoyingly obvious to me this year when two of my clients passed away.
The first was a man who was my neighbor when I was growing up. I saw him at least weekly in church, and spoke with him frequently. He would shake my hand and smile, remembering my name and asking a brief question about things that might be happening in my life. He was just younger than my grandfather. His wife enthusiastically sang in the choir with a very wide vibrato that begged for imitation by my sisters and I when we believed no one was listening. I liked my neighbor. I loved his wife. They created a predictable, dependable, structural element as I grew into adulthood.
The second was a woman I met occasionally, but never for very long. My dad and I took care of some estate planning for her parents, and she became a client through our interaction with them. I first met her after her mother's funeral. She remembered me as a young girl, though I had no recollection of meeting her. She called me beautiful and hugged me. Not really a typical client response, but this lady was not typical in much of anything. She was lovely and capable and accepted people into her life with cordiality and delight. Following our meeting that day, I had many opportunities to speak with her as she sought tax-related financial advice, or checked in on my parents as they endured cancer and other difficulties.
This year both of these clients became cancer victims. I received a phone call from the son of the man I had known most of my life. The tax documents were late because of his father's death. He assumed I had been told. I hadn't been. The funeral was past. The documents for the final tax return would come shortly. I expressed my condolences to the son. Then I ended the phone call and cried a little bit. I would never shake that man's hand again, or see his smile, or answer a question while wondering how he found time to be concerned about me and my life. That realization was coupled with the knowledge that it had been a long time since I had heard his wife sing. She lives still, but has dementia. Probably she doesn't know me anymore.
My second client passed away this month after a five-year battle with brain cancer. As they removed portions of her brain to control tumor growth, she fought to remember names and events. She didn't forget me, though. She told me she was grateful for my help-- that she felt she could trust me. There was feuding amongst she and her siblings. She would mention some of the disagreements to me with a brief, cryptic statement, then laugh and say, "You don't want to hear about our childish squabbles. Some adults never quite grow up, you know." Then she would move on to talk about something she loved or that brought her joy. I've still not quite accepted the reality that I won't be speaking with her on the phone anymore.
My life feels out of balance as people exit mortality. These are people that made me feel life was sane when everything else felt crazy and unstable. They weren't part of my every day existence. They were just there. I knew they were there. The fact that they were there without my having to check in with them, made life feel calm and predictable. And now they're not there anymore.
At some point, most of those people of my father's generation and older will go away. Some who are younger will exit this life, as well. I know it happens. I've experienced it multiple times. But there is a part of me that wishes things might stay the same - that I'll go back to that old church building where I grew up and find my friend waiting to shake my hand, or speaking in church, or just waving as he passes my house in his old pickup truck. Or maybe I'll go to the office next week and there will be a message from my client - she has a question - she's spoken to my father - but she'd really like to talk with me, as well - might I call her, please?
It won't happen. I'm going to miss them.
Tuesday, July 28, 2015
Sunday, June 28, 2015
Happy Sunday!
Today I sat with my children and said this:
At church today, you will hear things that will feel upsetting and wrong. You'll want to respond in kind. I'm asking you to think about these things:
1. With the Supreme Court legalization of gay marriage, there are many good, wonderful people who feel vulnerable and afraid.
2. Those feelings, whether or not you agree with them, are valid, and often motivate those people to say unkind, defensive, or inflammatory things.
3. Your job is to be kind. It's okay to say if you agree or disagree, but always be kind.
This led to a conversation that was good, but also brought up several points that I am sharing here.
The first is that I keep hearing from people of my faith that Armageddon is coming and this is the first step. It makes me wonder why they feel the need to state that. If you read the Bible and believe it, Armageddon has been on its way for more than a century. Nothing has changed. Gay marriage, I do not believe, is a catalyst of that. I believe it will come about because of true wickedness, the root of which will be because people become unforgiving, hateful, and selfish. Weak arguments have been posed to me indicating that gay marriage is the embodiment of those things. I disagree.
The second point was that fear is an indication of lack of faith. If one truly believes that we were sent here by God to learn and to grow, and that He maintains a hand in our lives, AND that he is ultimately omnipotent, then one must concede that He's aware of what's going on. His plan, whatever that may be, will not be thwarted by any decisions made by a tiny Supreme Court in one country on His Earth, and who are we to say that that Supreme Court decision was not a part of God's ultimate plan. We don't know. And while our church has deeply held beliefs about marriage and family, if God is, indeed, omnipotent, it seems a good idea to throw our lot in with Him and allow Him to determine the rights and wrongs of the issue. Also, to allow His voice to be heard and not ours. We are not God's mouthpiece. We are his children.
The third point is that we've not been asked to be strident or ugly but instead, to love one another. People keep forgetting that. Or they remember with reservations or conditions. So I will simply conclude this post with the words of a brother I have never met, but love and respect deeply because he speaks as my heart would:
At church today, you will hear things that will feel upsetting and wrong. You'll want to respond in kind. I'm asking you to think about these things:
1. With the Supreme Court legalization of gay marriage, there are many good, wonderful people who feel vulnerable and afraid.
2. Those feelings, whether or not you agree with them, are valid, and often motivate those people to say unkind, defensive, or inflammatory things.
3. Your job is to be kind. It's okay to say if you agree or disagree, but always be kind.
This led to a conversation that was good, but also brought up several points that I am sharing here.
The first is that I keep hearing from people of my faith that Armageddon is coming and this is the first step. It makes me wonder why they feel the need to state that. If you read the Bible and believe it, Armageddon has been on its way for more than a century. Nothing has changed. Gay marriage, I do not believe, is a catalyst of that. I believe it will come about because of true wickedness, the root of which will be because people become unforgiving, hateful, and selfish. Weak arguments have been posed to me indicating that gay marriage is the embodiment of those things. I disagree.
The second point was that fear is an indication of lack of faith. If one truly believes that we were sent here by God to learn and to grow, and that He maintains a hand in our lives, AND that he is ultimately omnipotent, then one must concede that He's aware of what's going on. His plan, whatever that may be, will not be thwarted by any decisions made by a tiny Supreme Court in one country on His Earth, and who are we to say that that Supreme Court decision was not a part of God's ultimate plan. We don't know. And while our church has deeply held beliefs about marriage and family, if God is, indeed, omnipotent, it seems a good idea to throw our lot in with Him and allow Him to determine the rights and wrongs of the issue. Also, to allow His voice to be heard and not ours. We are not God's mouthpiece. We are his children.
The third point is that we've not been asked to be strident or ugly but instead, to love one another. People keep forgetting that. Or they remember with reservations or conditions. So I will simply conclude this post with the words of a brother I have never met, but love and respect deeply because he speaks as my heart would:
No issue brings out so much hatred from so many Catholics [or Mormons] as homosexuality. Even after over 25 years as a Jesuit, the level of hatred around homosexuality is nearly unbelievable to me, especially when I think of all of the wonderful LGBT friends I have.
The Catholic [or Mormon] church must do a much better job of teaching what the Catechism [or Church leaders] says: that we should treat our LGBT brothers and sisters with "respect, sensitivity and compassion." But God wants more. God wants us to love. And not a twisted, crabbed, narrow tolerance, which often comes in the guise of condemnations, instructions and admonitions that try to masquerade as love, but actual love.
Love means: getting to know LGBT men and women, spending time with them, listening to them, being challenged by them, hoping the best for them, and wanting them to be a part of your lives, every bit as much as straight friends are part of your lives.
Love first. Everything else later. In fact, everything else is meaningless without love.---Fr. James Martin, SJ
Tuesday, June 23, 2015
Time to Become
When I first began therapy, my counselor (not Nathan) told me I needed to file a police report about what had happened to me. She said I didn't need to press charges. Indeed, given the time that had elapsed and the lack of physical evidence, it would be very difficult to prove my claims. But a police report would substantiate the claims of any other victims, should they choose to come forward in the future.
The idea of filing a report was appalling to me for a few reasons:
1. I was repulsed by the fact that I would need to tell my story to a stranger - possibly a man - who would simply note what I said, ask a few questions, and dismiss me.
2. The thought of there being other victims was nauseating and overwhelming.
3. I had yet to become comfortable with the reality that I, myself, had been a victim.
In the end, I told my counselor that I was choosing not to file the report. I knew she was disappointed in me, though in my mind, her role was not to be disappointed, but just to help me move forward from that point. For a long time that disappointment lingered. I felt that I had failed, that I was cowardly, that somehow I was responsible for any of the conjectured victims who might be stronger and braver than myself - who were able to talk to police and other officials about the things done to them - who needed my story to corroborate theirs.
It took years for me to understand the fallacy of the logic behind those feelings. But they were fallacious, and my counselor was wrong to make me feel that I was letting someone - anyone - down.
There are times when friends and loved ones bring a scenario to our attention, something that is currently happening in their lives. They seem to need advice and we, who so clearly see solutions when the situation does not involve us, are quick to provide that advice. We provide another scenario in which the loved one confronts and solves the problem in the best way possible: our way. And then we wonder why that loved one seems confused or frustrated or even upset by our response. The answer seems crystal clear, and their failure to grasp and act upon the few basic steps we provide, in turn, confuses and upsets us.
They seem deaf to our entreaties that non-action might endanger an innocent bystander. They ignore the fact that by a few simple words or actions they can turn around a potentially dangerous situation and in the process, prevent pain. They do seem cowardly, or stubborn, or just bent on their own self-destruction.
Here's what the well-meaning advisors have forgotten: There is a person in the equation, and that person needs space and time.
I never doubted my counselor when she told me I needed to make an official statement. I just knew that I could not do it. That was not cowardice.
I believed that my statement would help others who were in a situation similar to mine. Still, I could not do it. That was not disregarding the needs of others.
I knew that making a statement would be a positive step toward healing. I also knew that it wasn't going to happen. That was not an expression of desiring to remain a victim.
What I have come to understand after all these years is that it was too soon. I needed time to become.
I needed to allow myself to become a person who had been raped. That's huge. After addressing the immediate pain of allowing myself to be the rape victim, I was overwhelmed by all the nuances of what that might mean. I needed time to sort through all of those and discard the falsehoods while clinging to the truths. I had to become comfortable saying that it happened and I had to stop trying to be a person who would never allow herself to be raped. Reality was a difficult pill to swallow.
I needed to allow myself to pass through the victim step and become a survivor. Strangely enough, that was more difficult. A survivor has been through something difficult and/or traumatic and continues to live life. For a few years, I vacillated between victim and survivor, trying to understand what each meant. Becoming a survivor, for me, meant I could never turn back. I could no longer pretend that nothing had happened. That was scary. I wasn't sure I wanted to take that step.
I needed time to figure out who I was if I had been raped, and who I would become if I moved through that pain to see what was on the other side. For a long time, my persona had been a strong, self-assured, completely emotionally isolated human being. When I began therapy I had to become vulnerable. I had to look at things that were horribly frightening - things that made me feel physically ill. When I added to the mix the fact that I didn't know who I would be if I allowed healing, I felt completely inept and cowardly.
Finally, I needed to understand how to talk about what happened, and I needed to be able to do so in any context. I practiced the brief explanation when someone unthinkingly asked why I had PTSD, and I was grateful that they asked regardless of their obvious embarrassment when I answered the question. I practiced written essays and exercises exploring each aspect of what it meant to me to be the person I was in spite of what had happened. I said the words, "I'm a rape survivor," in doctors' offices, in church, and at business gatherings. I didn't provide details and I said it pleasantly, in tones similar to those I would use if I said, "I like to eat fresh raspberries." I wasn't trying to downgrade or dismiss what happened. I just wanted to be able to say it and remain calm.
In short, I needed time to become before I could attempt what was asked - the thing that seemed simple and logical to my counselor, but overwhelming and impossible to me.
Almost ten years after the request, I made the report. The officer in charge turned out to be not a stranger, but a friend from high school. He sat quietly in the room while another officer allowed me to recount what happened. My friend asked gently for pertinent details and slid the trash can toward me when I looked like I might throw up. He checked in with me several times to make sure I didn't need a time-out to breathe, and occasionally changed the subject briefly when it was clear that I was panicking. Before I left, he took a moment to ask me about my family and tell me about his own. Then he told me he was sad about the circumstances of our meeting, but he was still happy to see me.
At the end of my six-hour drive home, I experienced one of the most physically painful panic attacks of my life. I couldn't breathe. My entire body hurt. I was crying and gasping. I made it home and into my bathroom before I threw up. Then I went upstairs and taught piano lessons. Because that's what you do when you're a rape survivor with PTSD. You just move on to the next thing.
What I learned was that if I had attempted making the statement 10 years ago at my counselor's request, I might never have returned to therapy. The resulting depression was intense enough that I don't know that I would have survived it a decade ago. I wasn't as strong then. I needed time to become.
When a loved one comes with an "easily" solved dilemma, it's good to remember that people grow at differing paces and in many different areas. What seems simple to one might seem impossible to another. Allowing time to build strength and understanding is always more important than an immediate solution. Showing disappointment when a loved one does not act on good advice is never helpful.
The thing that brought me the most growth and strength was the unwavering and constantly growing love I felt from people who were a part of my support system. Their willingness to let me choose what I would and wouldn't do and the unceasing trust I felt from them, allowed me to learn to trust my own judgment. Their belief in me strengthened my resolve and brought me to the point when I could finally do what had been asked nearly a decade before. They allowed me to become - whatever that might be - and they supported my choice to become what I would. I think that's beautiful.
The idea of filing a report was appalling to me for a few reasons:
1. I was repulsed by the fact that I would need to tell my story to a stranger - possibly a man - who would simply note what I said, ask a few questions, and dismiss me.
2. The thought of there being other victims was nauseating and overwhelming.
3. I had yet to become comfortable with the reality that I, myself, had been a victim.
In the end, I told my counselor that I was choosing not to file the report. I knew she was disappointed in me, though in my mind, her role was not to be disappointed, but just to help me move forward from that point. For a long time that disappointment lingered. I felt that I had failed, that I was cowardly, that somehow I was responsible for any of the conjectured victims who might be stronger and braver than myself - who were able to talk to police and other officials about the things done to them - who needed my story to corroborate theirs.
It took years for me to understand the fallacy of the logic behind those feelings. But they were fallacious, and my counselor was wrong to make me feel that I was letting someone - anyone - down.
There are times when friends and loved ones bring a scenario to our attention, something that is currently happening in their lives. They seem to need advice and we, who so clearly see solutions when the situation does not involve us, are quick to provide that advice. We provide another scenario in which the loved one confronts and solves the problem in the best way possible: our way. And then we wonder why that loved one seems confused or frustrated or even upset by our response. The answer seems crystal clear, and their failure to grasp and act upon the few basic steps we provide, in turn, confuses and upsets us.
They seem deaf to our entreaties that non-action might endanger an innocent bystander. They ignore the fact that by a few simple words or actions they can turn around a potentially dangerous situation and in the process, prevent pain. They do seem cowardly, or stubborn, or just bent on their own self-destruction.
Here's what the well-meaning advisors have forgotten: There is a person in the equation, and that person needs space and time.
I never doubted my counselor when she told me I needed to make an official statement. I just knew that I could not do it. That was not cowardice.
I believed that my statement would help others who were in a situation similar to mine. Still, I could not do it. That was not disregarding the needs of others.
I knew that making a statement would be a positive step toward healing. I also knew that it wasn't going to happen. That was not an expression of desiring to remain a victim.
What I have come to understand after all these years is that it was too soon. I needed time to become.
I needed to allow myself to become a person who had been raped. That's huge. After addressing the immediate pain of allowing myself to be the rape victim, I was overwhelmed by all the nuances of what that might mean. I needed time to sort through all of those and discard the falsehoods while clinging to the truths. I had to become comfortable saying that it happened and I had to stop trying to be a person who would never allow herself to be raped. Reality was a difficult pill to swallow.
I needed to allow myself to pass through the victim step and become a survivor. Strangely enough, that was more difficult. A survivor has been through something difficult and/or traumatic and continues to live life. For a few years, I vacillated between victim and survivor, trying to understand what each meant. Becoming a survivor, for me, meant I could never turn back. I could no longer pretend that nothing had happened. That was scary. I wasn't sure I wanted to take that step.
I needed time to figure out who I was if I had been raped, and who I would become if I moved through that pain to see what was on the other side. For a long time, my persona had been a strong, self-assured, completely emotionally isolated human being. When I began therapy I had to become vulnerable. I had to look at things that were horribly frightening - things that made me feel physically ill. When I added to the mix the fact that I didn't know who I would be if I allowed healing, I felt completely inept and cowardly.
Finally, I needed to understand how to talk about what happened, and I needed to be able to do so in any context. I practiced the brief explanation when someone unthinkingly asked why I had PTSD, and I was grateful that they asked regardless of their obvious embarrassment when I answered the question. I practiced written essays and exercises exploring each aspect of what it meant to me to be the person I was in spite of what had happened. I said the words, "I'm a rape survivor," in doctors' offices, in church, and at business gatherings. I didn't provide details and I said it pleasantly, in tones similar to those I would use if I said, "I like to eat fresh raspberries." I wasn't trying to downgrade or dismiss what happened. I just wanted to be able to say it and remain calm.
In short, I needed time to become before I could attempt what was asked - the thing that seemed simple and logical to my counselor, but overwhelming and impossible to me.
Almost ten years after the request, I made the report. The officer in charge turned out to be not a stranger, but a friend from high school. He sat quietly in the room while another officer allowed me to recount what happened. My friend asked gently for pertinent details and slid the trash can toward me when I looked like I might throw up. He checked in with me several times to make sure I didn't need a time-out to breathe, and occasionally changed the subject briefly when it was clear that I was panicking. Before I left, he took a moment to ask me about my family and tell me about his own. Then he told me he was sad about the circumstances of our meeting, but he was still happy to see me.
At the end of my six-hour drive home, I experienced one of the most physically painful panic attacks of my life. I couldn't breathe. My entire body hurt. I was crying and gasping. I made it home and into my bathroom before I threw up. Then I went upstairs and taught piano lessons. Because that's what you do when you're a rape survivor with PTSD. You just move on to the next thing.
What I learned was that if I had attempted making the statement 10 years ago at my counselor's request, I might never have returned to therapy. The resulting depression was intense enough that I don't know that I would have survived it a decade ago. I wasn't as strong then. I needed time to become.
When a loved one comes with an "easily" solved dilemma, it's good to remember that people grow at differing paces and in many different areas. What seems simple to one might seem impossible to another. Allowing time to build strength and understanding is always more important than an immediate solution. Showing disappointment when a loved one does not act on good advice is never helpful.
The thing that brought me the most growth and strength was the unwavering and constantly growing love I felt from people who were a part of my support system. Their willingness to let me choose what I would and wouldn't do and the unceasing trust I felt from them, allowed me to learn to trust my own judgment. Their belief in me strengthened my resolve and brought me to the point when I could finally do what had been asked nearly a decade before. They allowed me to become - whatever that might be - and they supported my choice to become what I would. I think that's beautiful.
Sunday, May 31, 2015
Grandma
My grandma is one month and two weeks shy of 98 years. She has seven siblings. Of the eight children in her family, four are still living - all are nonagenarians except her elder brother who just had his 100th birthday. That's a very long life.
A couple of years ago Grandma stopped taking her daily walks. We used to joke that they were called "daily walks" because it took her a day to walk around the block. There are many people in the neighborhood who have told me they miss seeing my tiny grandma who always greeted them with a smile and a wave. She stopped walking because she had begun falling down unexpectedly and was afraid of falling where no one could help her. She also refused to use a walker because people might think she was getting weaker and falling down or something. When I pointed out to her that that was exactly the case, she laughed and said, "Well, I can't figure out how to use that big old thing anyway."
Until last month, Grandma made bread every week. Years ago she had surrendered the mixing and kneading of the bread to a machine, but I have loved to visit her on Bread Day and watch her shaping the loaves when the dough was mixed. Grandma always poked a fork from the top to the bottom of each shaped loaf prior to baking, so that no holes would form in the dough while it was rising and baking. My mother has done the same thing all her life. Until I was 12, I had no idea that a loaf of homemade bread could be made without the design of small holes across the crusty top. For the last decade, if I was visiting on Bread Day, Grandma sent me home with a warm loaf--not for me. It was for Aaron. Always for Aaron.
My boys always note that when they visit Grandma, she tells them about something she's heard recently that she thinks is funny. Sometimes it's not funny at all, but they laugh anyway because Grandma's giggle is infectious. And it's fun to laugh with her. She's always had trouble remembering Alex's name so she put a Post-it Note on the mirror in her sitting room to remind her what "Dian's second boy" was called. I love seeing the note. It's been there for more than three years now. It reminds me that I'm important to her, and so are my children. Her 90+-year-old mind is too full to retain one more name, but she wants to remember anyway so she writes it down.
My children have had the privilege of knowing all their great-grandparents. Both great-grandfathers passed away when my children were very young, but the grandmas lived long enough for them to establish a deeply loving relationship. Natalie called my dad's mother, Grandma Ruth. She passed away about 10 years ago. But my children have known Grandma Erwin all their lives. We visited her often both before she moved in with my parents, and after. When I was a child, Grandma was 5'4" tall. She was lovely and energetic and always treated me as if I was someone very special. The Grandma my children have known has lost many inches due to osteoporosis. She is now about 4'8" and struggles to weigh more than 90 pounds.
Natalie has always felt a special bond with Grandma. When she was three, she said, "I have lots of Grandmas. Grandma Erwin is like me. She's my little grandma." Over the past decade, I've watched my daughter quietly take Grandma's arm and walk her through the store, or from the chapel to Sunday School class. She spends time in Grandma's sitting room chatting with the elderly woman who can barely hear her. She makes sure Grandma gets a hug. When Nat was in a Utah facility for treatment for depression, Grandma missed her. She was losing her memory at that point and couldn't understand why Natalie was gone. I finally just told Grandma that Natalie had gone away to school. Grandma would smile and nod and say, "She needs to write me a letter."
Grandma had a heart attack last month. At that point it was clear that her death was very near. She's in Star Valley right now with my parents. Grandma's death will come in the next few days. Her body is shutting down. Her digestive system no longer allows her to eat or drink very much and her body is beginning to swell as her kidneys shut down. Breathing is labored, and Grandma sleeps most of the time. She's unaware of where she is or who is with her. Hospice will ease her pain as Grandma passes away.
She's almost 98. Her body has been unable to heal itself from minor cuts and bruises without the aid of intravenous antibiotics for more than a year now. She's lost her ability to read, do handwork and quilting, and even dress herself some days. She told me a few months ago that she's ready to join Grandpa whenever the time comes. But I'm realizing there will be no more days of watching her aged hands shape bread dough, no more giggling with my sons, no more moments for Natalie to gently take her arm and provide stability as Grandma walks. There will be no more smiling through hymns at church as I listen to my Grandma sing. No more questions about whether Chris is ever going to find a girlfriend, or what I named "that second boy."
I understand that death will be a necessary release for my Grandma, but I'm missing her already. And I'm feeling a little bit sad.
A couple of years ago Grandma stopped taking her daily walks. We used to joke that they were called "daily walks" because it took her a day to walk around the block. There are many people in the neighborhood who have told me they miss seeing my tiny grandma who always greeted them with a smile and a wave. She stopped walking because she had begun falling down unexpectedly and was afraid of falling where no one could help her. She also refused to use a walker because people might think she was getting weaker and falling down or something. When I pointed out to her that that was exactly the case, she laughed and said, "Well, I can't figure out how to use that big old thing anyway."
Until last month, Grandma made bread every week. Years ago she had surrendered the mixing and kneading of the bread to a machine, but I have loved to visit her on Bread Day and watch her shaping the loaves when the dough was mixed. Grandma always poked a fork from the top to the bottom of each shaped loaf prior to baking, so that no holes would form in the dough while it was rising and baking. My mother has done the same thing all her life. Until I was 12, I had no idea that a loaf of homemade bread could be made without the design of small holes across the crusty top. For the last decade, if I was visiting on Bread Day, Grandma sent me home with a warm loaf--not for me. It was for Aaron. Always for Aaron.
My boys always note that when they visit Grandma, she tells them about something she's heard recently that she thinks is funny. Sometimes it's not funny at all, but they laugh anyway because Grandma's giggle is infectious. And it's fun to laugh with her. She's always had trouble remembering Alex's name so she put a Post-it Note on the mirror in her sitting room to remind her what "Dian's second boy" was called. I love seeing the note. It's been there for more than three years now. It reminds me that I'm important to her, and so are my children. Her 90+-year-old mind is too full to retain one more name, but she wants to remember anyway so she writes it down.
My children have had the privilege of knowing all their great-grandparents. Both great-grandfathers passed away when my children were very young, but the grandmas lived long enough for them to establish a deeply loving relationship. Natalie called my dad's mother, Grandma Ruth. She passed away about 10 years ago. But my children have known Grandma Erwin all their lives. We visited her often both before she moved in with my parents, and after. When I was a child, Grandma was 5'4" tall. She was lovely and energetic and always treated me as if I was someone very special. The Grandma my children have known has lost many inches due to osteoporosis. She is now about 4'8" and struggles to weigh more than 90 pounds.
Natalie has always felt a special bond with Grandma. When she was three, she said, "I have lots of Grandmas. Grandma Erwin is like me. She's my little grandma." Over the past decade, I've watched my daughter quietly take Grandma's arm and walk her through the store, or from the chapel to Sunday School class. She spends time in Grandma's sitting room chatting with the elderly woman who can barely hear her. She makes sure Grandma gets a hug. When Nat was in a Utah facility for treatment for depression, Grandma missed her. She was losing her memory at that point and couldn't understand why Natalie was gone. I finally just told Grandma that Natalie had gone away to school. Grandma would smile and nod and say, "She needs to write me a letter."
Grandma had a heart attack last month. At that point it was clear that her death was very near. She's in Star Valley right now with my parents. Grandma's death will come in the next few days. Her body is shutting down. Her digestive system no longer allows her to eat or drink very much and her body is beginning to swell as her kidneys shut down. Breathing is labored, and Grandma sleeps most of the time. She's unaware of where she is or who is with her. Hospice will ease her pain as Grandma passes away.
She's almost 98. Her body has been unable to heal itself from minor cuts and bruises without the aid of intravenous antibiotics for more than a year now. She's lost her ability to read, do handwork and quilting, and even dress herself some days. She told me a few months ago that she's ready to join Grandpa whenever the time comes. But I'm realizing there will be no more days of watching her aged hands shape bread dough, no more giggling with my sons, no more moments for Natalie to gently take her arm and provide stability as Grandma walks. There will be no more smiling through hymns at church as I listen to my Grandma sing. No more questions about whether Chris is ever going to find a girlfriend, or what I named "that second boy."
I understand that death will be a necessary release for my Grandma, but I'm missing her already. And I'm feeling a little bit sad.
Tuesday, May 19, 2015
"Laughter is timeless. Imagination has no age. And dreams are forever." -- Walt Disney
If I enjoy the same longevity as most of my grandparents, I've not yet reached middle age. However, the life expectancy of a woman in Wyoming is 80, which means by that definition, I have. There are some presumably advantageous things I've left behind in this last half of my life. I find it liberating to leave them. I've pondered for the past year why I love being older. Today, I'm listing some of those thoughts.
1. I've never been great at following fashion trends--and I've never felt happy about spending the money necessary to do so. I live in comfy jeans whenever possible. I'll dress up if I have to, but the occasion needs to end within five hours or I'm ready to strip down and finish the event in my underwear (don't worry-- I won't). I kind of love that when you hit middle age you can wear whatever you want. People might think you're weird, but when they remember that you're halfway to death your fashion sense is tolerated, and even celebrated as you get older. I have fashion plans that will mortify my children before I'm 80.
2. This one goes hand-in-hand with the first: hairstyles. Let's face it, having curly hair like mine doesn't allow for a great deal of style flexibility. Add to that the fact that I hate doing my hair, and suddenly middle age feels great. People don't expect those advancing in years to have immaculate, gorgeous locks unless they're celebrities of some sort--and I'm not. I straighten my hair most days because that's predictable and fast. The curls might stand up and break dance on my head if they're allowed to develop naturally, and I'm not excited about attracting that kind of attention. However, there are certainly days when the straight hair is less straight than is trendy, and I don't care. If I've spent 10 minutes on my hair, that is enough. I have things to do outside of my bathroom.
3. In accordance with the first two, since I am now middle-aged, I don't wear a ponytail to the gym (that's right, I just let the morning hair hang as it chooses), nor do I sport cute workout clothes. I wear leggings because they're comfortable and they don't chafe, and one of Chris's or Alex's old t-shirts. I used to wear the t-shirt given me by the surgical department when I had my appendix out, but it wore out. I also wear whatever running shoes I want to. I don't care if they match the rest of my workout clothes. And most days I walk out of the gym tired and sweaty because I prefer to shower at home.
4. When I'm at a social event and I want to go home, I do. I used to worry about staying an appropriate amount of time, or making sure I talked to everybody, or some of those other obligatory things, but now that I'm middle aged I can just poke my head in the door, wave at everyone, and go home to read whatever book is currently claiming my attention. Okay, that's an exaggeration. But the truth is that I don't worry anymore about doing what's expected. I come when I choose and leave when I feel like it and I'm comfortable with that.
I suppose what I'm saying with my above list is that life is better when you stop trying to look or act within the confines of societal expectation. I've never really been swayed by that, but now that I'm not trying to attract someone sexy, or make new business connections, or climb some weird social ladder, everything feels happier and I expect the trend to continue as the years slip by. I don't need to wear makeup unless I feel like it, I don't have to fill my calendar with lunch dates. I don't have to buy something just because a magazine tells me it will make me, somehow, more beautiful.
As for beautiful, I stopped worrying about that years ago. People are just people, and the representative beautiful images we see in magazines are photoshopped. They're not real. I refuse to emulate something imaginary when there are so many amazing people to admire. I'd prefer to make life-shaping choices that follow the wisdom of Mother Theresa, rather than break my hair straightener attempting to emulate the glossy locks of Kim Kardashian (seriously--why is she famous? Probably not for her hair...). And the truth is I'll never be sexy or gorgeous, and that's okay. I don't have to be those things to appreciate the beauty of a sunset, or be entranced by shiny beetles or colorful butterflies. I can share my smile with everyone I meet and I'm guessing they won't be evaluating the whiteness of my teeth. And when I dance, the last thing I'm thinking about is whether or not my hips need to be photoshopped.
I'm loving this middle-aged thing. I should have done it years ago.
1. I've never been great at following fashion trends--and I've never felt happy about spending the money necessary to do so. I live in comfy jeans whenever possible. I'll dress up if I have to, but the occasion needs to end within five hours or I'm ready to strip down and finish the event in my underwear (don't worry-- I won't). I kind of love that when you hit middle age you can wear whatever you want. People might think you're weird, but when they remember that you're halfway to death your fashion sense is tolerated, and even celebrated as you get older. I have fashion plans that will mortify my children before I'm 80.
2. This one goes hand-in-hand with the first: hairstyles. Let's face it, having curly hair like mine doesn't allow for a great deal of style flexibility. Add to that the fact that I hate doing my hair, and suddenly middle age feels great. People don't expect those advancing in years to have immaculate, gorgeous locks unless they're celebrities of some sort--and I'm not. I straighten my hair most days because that's predictable and fast. The curls might stand up and break dance on my head if they're allowed to develop naturally, and I'm not excited about attracting that kind of attention. However, there are certainly days when the straight hair is less straight than is trendy, and I don't care. If I've spent 10 minutes on my hair, that is enough. I have things to do outside of my bathroom.
3. In accordance with the first two, since I am now middle-aged, I don't wear a ponytail to the gym (that's right, I just let the morning hair hang as it chooses), nor do I sport cute workout clothes. I wear leggings because they're comfortable and they don't chafe, and one of Chris's or Alex's old t-shirts. I used to wear the t-shirt given me by the surgical department when I had my appendix out, but it wore out. I also wear whatever running shoes I want to. I don't care if they match the rest of my workout clothes. And most days I walk out of the gym tired and sweaty because I prefer to shower at home.
4. When I'm at a social event and I want to go home, I do. I used to worry about staying an appropriate amount of time, or making sure I talked to everybody, or some of those other obligatory things, but now that I'm middle aged I can just poke my head in the door, wave at everyone, and go home to read whatever book is currently claiming my attention. Okay, that's an exaggeration. But the truth is that I don't worry anymore about doing what's expected. I come when I choose and leave when I feel like it and I'm comfortable with that.
I suppose what I'm saying with my above list is that life is better when you stop trying to look or act within the confines of societal expectation. I've never really been swayed by that, but now that I'm not trying to attract someone sexy, or make new business connections, or climb some weird social ladder, everything feels happier and I expect the trend to continue as the years slip by. I don't need to wear makeup unless I feel like it, I don't have to fill my calendar with lunch dates. I don't have to buy something just because a magazine tells me it will make me, somehow, more beautiful.
As for beautiful, I stopped worrying about that years ago. People are just people, and the representative beautiful images we see in magazines are photoshopped. They're not real. I refuse to emulate something imaginary when there are so many amazing people to admire. I'd prefer to make life-shaping choices that follow the wisdom of Mother Theresa, rather than break my hair straightener attempting to emulate the glossy locks of Kim Kardashian (seriously--why is she famous? Probably not for her hair...). And the truth is I'll never be sexy or gorgeous, and that's okay. I don't have to be those things to appreciate the beauty of a sunset, or be entranced by shiny beetles or colorful butterflies. I can share my smile with everyone I meet and I'm guessing they won't be evaluating the whiteness of my teeth. And when I dance, the last thing I'm thinking about is whether or not my hips need to be photoshopped.
I'm loving this middle-aged thing. I should have done it years ago.
Sunday, May 17, 2015
"You can't patch a wounded soul with a Band-Aid." -- Michael Connelly
Especially me, because I'm allergic to Band-Aid adhesive.
I had a very long chat with a friend yesterday. We met about a year ago and have spent some time getting to know each other. I'm always surprised when I actually connect with a person also feels connection with me. This was one of those times when we both realized we have a great deal in common, we like to talk, and we like to listen. That last part is rare. Anyway, it's a good idea for me to meet new people. I think, for someone with my kind of life, it takes the heat off people who have been supporting me for a long time.
When we met I told my new friend that, in order for me to sustain friendships, I have to be in contact with people regularly. If we're not, it doesn't mean I won't talk or socialize with the person. It just means I'm not able to share and confide. It's impossible for me to develop a trust threshold that allows me to do so. Aaron says it's weird to tell new friends those kinds of things. I think it's vital. And it also gives that person a chance to run away if they need to before we decide we love each other forever. Aaron says that's a little weird, too. I would have to agree.
Anyway, this friend understands PTSD on a level that many others do not. I need friends who do not have PTSD, but still understand when I'm struggling. I also need someone who will let me laugh and cry and be available when those moments happen. Usually that person is Aaron, but he was gone yesterday. And yesterday turned out to be one of those unexpectedly awful days.
This isn't going to be a post about PTSD exclusively, but sometimes I will post about it. It's a part of my life right now. I don't believe, contrary to what I've been told by medical and psychological experts--because why would I believe them? I'm Dian. I choose who/what I will become--that this is a lifelong disorder. I think at some point I will figure out how to make it through all the emotions (scary!) and become less overwhelmed by the symptoms I now deal with. And I just have to say, that moving through those emotions by myself is terrifying. So I'm pretty grateful to that friend who allows me to call on a whim, or who catches me online and stays with me. And I know you read this blog. I'm saying thank you again.
I awoke this morning feeling almost normal, which means I woke up feeling like I needed to get outside and go for a run. The weather, however, is telling me to wait. It's still less than forty degrees, cloudy, and the wind is blowing. Also, a rest day might be a good idea for me. I usually hear the songbirds in the morning, but today the seagulls are out in abundance, their louder cries distracting me from the conversational chirping outside my window. We're supposed to get rain today. I would like that.
Aaron attempted apricot jam yesterday. He reads directions--usually several times and aloud at high volume, which sends the rest of us running for cover. Chris called Aaron while he was in the middle of jam making, with an auto emergency. I said I'd finish the jam. That's when I found out that Aaron did NOT read the instructions correctly. I did what I could to remedy the mistakes, and I think we ended up with a good product. It tastes good, anyway. Apricot jam usually takes a few days to become jam. We had waffles with apricot jam in the syrup stage Friday night.
Natalie pointed out to me yesterday that I've marked the wrong week on my calendar for Summer Music Institute. It's June 14-20th, rather than the week before. This means I might actually get to attend my nephew's wedding. It depends, of course, on Aaron's job prospects. If they're looking slim, I might stay home anyway, just to ease our budget. Still, it's nice to know I might be able to go. Also nice to know I have an extra planning/recuperation week before I have to teach.
I had a very long chat with a friend yesterday. We met about a year ago and have spent some time getting to know each other. I'm always surprised when I actually connect with a person also feels connection with me. This was one of those times when we both realized we have a great deal in common, we like to talk, and we like to listen. That last part is rare. Anyway, it's a good idea for me to meet new people. I think, for someone with my kind of life, it takes the heat off people who have been supporting me for a long time.
When we met I told my new friend that, in order for me to sustain friendships, I have to be in contact with people regularly. If we're not, it doesn't mean I won't talk or socialize with the person. It just means I'm not able to share and confide. It's impossible for me to develop a trust threshold that allows me to do so. Aaron says it's weird to tell new friends those kinds of things. I think it's vital. And it also gives that person a chance to run away if they need to before we decide we love each other forever. Aaron says that's a little weird, too. I would have to agree.
Anyway, this friend understands PTSD on a level that many others do not. I need friends who do not have PTSD, but still understand when I'm struggling. I also need someone who will let me laugh and cry and be available when those moments happen. Usually that person is Aaron, but he was gone yesterday. And yesterday turned out to be one of those unexpectedly awful days.
This isn't going to be a post about PTSD exclusively, but sometimes I will post about it. It's a part of my life right now. I don't believe, contrary to what I've been told by medical and psychological experts--because why would I believe them? I'm Dian. I choose who/what I will become--that this is a lifelong disorder. I think at some point I will figure out how to make it through all the emotions (scary!) and become less overwhelmed by the symptoms I now deal with. And I just have to say, that moving through those emotions by myself is terrifying. So I'm pretty grateful to that friend who allows me to call on a whim, or who catches me online and stays with me. And I know you read this blog. I'm saying thank you again.
I awoke this morning feeling almost normal, which means I woke up feeling like I needed to get outside and go for a run. The weather, however, is telling me to wait. It's still less than forty degrees, cloudy, and the wind is blowing. Also, a rest day might be a good idea for me. I usually hear the songbirds in the morning, but today the seagulls are out in abundance, their louder cries distracting me from the conversational chirping outside my window. We're supposed to get rain today. I would like that.
Aaron attempted apricot jam yesterday. He reads directions--usually several times and aloud at high volume, which sends the rest of us running for cover. Chris called Aaron while he was in the middle of jam making, with an auto emergency. I said I'd finish the jam. That's when I found out that Aaron did NOT read the instructions correctly. I did what I could to remedy the mistakes, and I think we ended up with a good product. It tastes good, anyway. Apricot jam usually takes a few days to become jam. We had waffles with apricot jam in the syrup stage Friday night.
Natalie pointed out to me yesterday that I've marked the wrong week on my calendar for Summer Music Institute. It's June 14-20th, rather than the week before. This means I might actually get to attend my nephew's wedding. It depends, of course, on Aaron's job prospects. If they're looking slim, I might stay home anyway, just to ease our budget. Still, it's nice to know I might be able to go. Also nice to know I have an extra planning/recuperation week before I have to teach.
Wednesday, May 13, 2015
"...everyone's in love and flowers pick themselves" -- E.E. Cummings
I had a follow-up appointment on Friday, at which time my surgeon let me know that closing leaky incision holes is very hard work which is why my body feels exhausted. Also, it seems my sodium levels were very low when my blood was tested. He said that can lead to fatigue, too. Today nothing is seeping out of me. I'm still tired. Sigh...
However, it means I'm getting better, and that's very good news.
Yesterday there was an oriole in my backyard. He stayed in my tree for awhile, allowing me to admire his bright orange coloring. I've never seen an orange bird in Laramie before. On Saturday we had canaries migrating through. This is one of my favorite times of year because of all the birds that stop briefly-- ones I would not otherwise have the opportunity to see in person.
Mother's Day brought a huge snowstorm for the second year in a row. The blossoms on my trees seem unscathed. I'm hoping more will bloom as it warms up. Our lawn is very green and needing to be cut. Aaron wanted to do that today, but we had rain instead. I'm guessing, based on the forecast, that lawn mowing will not happen this week.
This time of year is filled with performances-- too many for me, given my physical state, I think. Usually it's busy and hectic and I really love it. Today I'm just wanting it all to be over. I have two more major performances and then life should swing back toward normal.
Aaron completed a mammoth application for a job with the school district. It's distinctly possible that the 11-page application drained him of motivation to keep applying for jobs. He's taking some time to relax today. I'm hoping he'll get back to job search/applying tomorrow. Looking for jobs can be a thankless, time-consuming, life-sucking task.
I took some time to watch the sunrise this morning. It wasn't spectacular-- muted colors in a gradually lightening sky. But it was peaceful and quiet, and really necessary for me. I've been working in the early hours to get time in before I have to leave for rehearsals, which has caused me to miss the sunrise. I think I need to put "Watch sunrise" on my daily schedule.
Things I need to do by Saturday:
1. File documents left on the floor by my desk when I was working on my taxes (yes, they've been there for a month).
2. Make apricot jam.
3. Send a hat to my friend, Danny.
4. Read. Read a lot. Read fun things-- not stupid work regs and tax law changes.
5. Make arrangements for long business trip that is happening the end of this month. That would be in two weeks. Sigh-- I cannot procrastinate this.
Okay, break time is over. I'm going back to work.
However, it means I'm getting better, and that's very good news.
Yesterday there was an oriole in my backyard. He stayed in my tree for awhile, allowing me to admire his bright orange coloring. I've never seen an orange bird in Laramie before. On Saturday we had canaries migrating through. This is one of my favorite times of year because of all the birds that stop briefly-- ones I would not otherwise have the opportunity to see in person.
Mother's Day brought a huge snowstorm for the second year in a row. The blossoms on my trees seem unscathed. I'm hoping more will bloom as it warms up. Our lawn is very green and needing to be cut. Aaron wanted to do that today, but we had rain instead. I'm guessing, based on the forecast, that lawn mowing will not happen this week.
This time of year is filled with performances-- too many for me, given my physical state, I think. Usually it's busy and hectic and I really love it. Today I'm just wanting it all to be over. I have two more major performances and then life should swing back toward normal.
Aaron completed a mammoth application for a job with the school district. It's distinctly possible that the 11-page application drained him of motivation to keep applying for jobs. He's taking some time to relax today. I'm hoping he'll get back to job search/applying tomorrow. Looking for jobs can be a thankless, time-consuming, life-sucking task.
I took some time to watch the sunrise this morning. It wasn't spectacular-- muted colors in a gradually lightening sky. But it was peaceful and quiet, and really necessary for me. I've been working in the early hours to get time in before I have to leave for rehearsals, which has caused me to miss the sunrise. I think I need to put "Watch sunrise" on my daily schedule.
Things I need to do by Saturday:
1. File documents left on the floor by my desk when I was working on my taxes (yes, they've been there for a month).
2. Make apricot jam.
3. Send a hat to my friend, Danny.
4. Read. Read a lot. Read fun things-- not stupid work regs and tax law changes.
5. Make arrangements for long business trip that is happening the end of this month. That would be in two weeks. Sigh-- I cannot procrastinate this.
Okay, break time is over. I'm going back to work.
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