Lessons from the Past

Fall 1978

I recall a moment the afternoon before the evening an aunt of mine died of colon cancer. I had spent the previous couple of weeks visiting her while trying to come to a decision about a boyfriend of mine. Every day I woke up and greeted her. She was always wide awake, her colorful scarf around her head, her fingers working as fast as possible. She wanted to finish as many granny squares as possible for an afghan she wanted to leave for her son.

I wanted to open the windows, even though it was November. She wanted them closed along with the curtains. I searched around for that neurotic kitten that would ping pong off of the walls and land up on the curtain rod waiting until the perfect moment to leap onto anyone who sat in the chair next to the couch.

The odor that permeated the apartment was like a dense, stagnant swamp. When her skin, once so creamy, turned to a dried, dark mustard tone, she agreed to put down her crochet hook and check into the hospital. She did this for our comfort mainly.

That afternoon, I had to make my seven hour drive home; I had to return to my job and her immediate family needed to have her to themselves. On the way out of town, I stopped by the hospital.

Gingerly, I sat on the side of her bed trying to help her brush her teeth. I couldn’t figure out why having a clean mouth mattered any longer. I was 18. I was in a worry over a boyfriend.

My aunt saw me wince and move to help her in a helpless kind of way when she moaned in pain. She held my hand.
“Do you have any questions?” she asked.
“The questions I have, you can’t answer yet.”
She smiled. Her bones were about all that were left of her body.

When there wasn’t anything else that could possibly be said, I stood up to leave, shoulders back, strong for her. I had always said to people, “See you later.” But I gently squeezed her hand, set it down beside her and said, “Good-bye” hating the sound of it. I made it down the corridor, down the elevator, but as soon as I entered the restroom off the lobby, my tears released uncontrollably.

I always wondered if she would have been here longer if she would have insisted on telling her doctors of her symptoms or if the doctors knew what questions to ask a soft-spoken woman who cared so deeply for her family, but was too shy and embarrassed to speak of her body.

By the time she did speak up, it was too late.

Interlude

Interlude

This is a commercial interruption. I can’t stop shaking my head over this weird octuplets case. I don’t watch TV very often, but lately when I turn it on, this story blasts in my face. There are many things amiss in this as we know. The very first one is the media’s frenzy over it: all the entertainment shows, all the morning shows, and that bothersome man Dr. Phil who I heard is very tall. Then there is the mother, Nadya Suleman. She is the epitome of how this celebrity culture has degraded into delusion. What a zoo.

Reality is as follows:
A) This mother of 14 children does not look at all like Angelina Jolie. She looks like Nadya Suleman distorted.

B) Nadya Suleman has a mother who is so desperate to get these people out of her house, she tells the world that although she has been taking care of the 6 children, she resents every single minute of it and wants them out.

C) So far these children have not experienced any model parenting which explains a lot about why Nadya is as she is.

D) Nadya Suleman’s doctor, Michael Kamrava, probably suffers from stress, which according to medicine as it has been presented to me, explains everything. How could he implant 8 embryos and smile about this upsetting outcome? Stress.

E) Gloria Allred has teamed up with an organization called Angels in Waiting who is offering a very sweet deal. But it would require the paparazzi to chase someone else and Ms. Suleman’s lips to deflate while she changes diapers and perhaps learns skills her mother never bothered to teach her.

F) These 14 children need care: diapers, milk, love, therapy, more love. They need to feel as if they matter more than being a mere opportunity for their mother to have her picture taken and showered with riches.

G) If all proceeds went straight to the children and their care, this world would be a good place for them. But so far this is about the media profiting on a story of a delusional woman who has stepped into her celebrity magazines and is walking around in them with her new pair of sunglasses.

H) That’s all I will say about it. From here on out, if the story is not an in-depth piece about how these children have received care, about how they are the focus and are thriving, I will not watch, read or talk about it. Sorry Dr. Phil and Ms. Allred.

Stretching Exercises

I am enjoying my time off from work. It’s giving me back my time, my exercise time and more importantly, my writing time. Right now, it is a little difficult to concentrate.

A little girl across the way screeches at her father and the two men he is talking with on the porch. She roars and slams the door. They continue talking, so she opens the door yells something unintelligible, roars some more and slams the door. Now she holds a pink, balloon animal and roars. That did it. Her father tells her to stay inside and he closes the door. Let’s see if this works.

There are other noises, of course. The siren from busy fire truck, the traffic rushing by are a few. But the worst one is coming from my wall clock. The pendulum is in a spasm and makes a high-pitched squeak. To take the clock down and try to soothe it will have to be my next task. I really want to write though. I’m a little rusty.

I have to ease my way back into this blogging thing and make it a habit. I love reading blogs. I’m compelled to create sound arguments for my opinions and they force me to deal with the issues that plague my writing, such as comma use. I know how to use commas, but when I write my first drafts, my comma use takes a back seat. I get too excited. Maybe that is what’s up with the pendulum—maybe it’s just dancing.

The little girl runs out the front door and hugs the two men before her father can lift her up and carry her back inside and close the door. Yeah, he has his hands full.

A Take on the Ideal Marriage

When transferring old files to my new computer, I found the following discussion and thought it would work for a blog posting with my real world comments in ( ). Remember when blogs didn’t exist? Whatever did we do?

I don’t believe an ideal marriage exists. If people are flawed, and people make marriages, then marriages are inherently flawed (This logic could be applied to just about anything, such as blogs—if people are flawed, and people make blogs, then blogs are inherently flawed). With that stated, I now will go into a world of make-believe.

My ideal man is intelligent, conscientious, hard working, loyal, centered, an exquisite kisser, healthy and clean (cleanliness cannot be overemphasized. I don’t know about you, but smelly feet are well, smelly). He cannot be addicted to any substance, but he must enjoy sharing a perfectly aged bottle of Red Zinfandel (or white or even something from Trader Joe’s. Getting older can make one very flexible). His conversation should be exciting, profound and informative (I like to be entertained as television can’t quite keep me tuned in). He should revel in a long recap of his day, complete with feelings felt and exquisite detail with just the right mix of gossipy news (I know, I know).

When he is home (which would be ideal if he liked to come home), he would be an equal partner. However, if he hates to cook, at least he should do the dishes and entertain the kids leaving me to play.(Idyllically though, he must cook and the kids would be living happily ever after somewhere).

His willingness and assumption of sharing childcare duties would never be in question in the middle of the night, because he would take one night and I would take the other (However, this whole thing can be avoided with aged ovaries—okay, okay, kind of gross so just think of the concept as a good wine).

He should be industrious and self-motivating. If he sees dirty laundry then he should wash clothes, fold them and put them away without any questions on where they belong (he should have hanger preferences, plastic or wire, don’t you think?).

Sharing and compromising would flow throughout the house; for example, although he loves to watch boxing on TV (Isn’t boxing the stupidest sport ever?), he would gladly give it up to attend an opera with me (I’ve never been to an opera and I’m not sure it would be as appealing to me either. But if we sit in the back and sneak out after the first act and find some really great gelato…).

Moreover, as we decide on which movies to see, he and I would choose the ones with lots of talking, beautiful photography and not one car chase or gratuitous, but ever-so-loving prostitute. After the movie, he would revel in a discussion of all the nuances and meanings of what we watched, cozied-up in our bed under the fresh smelling sheets he had changed second thing that morning (Yep that’s exactly what I mean).

Yet, he would never give up his masculinity for anything pink and fluffy (unless he really, really liked pink and couldn’t live without it).

Seriously, (Can I be?) I suppose the ideal marriage is one that allows us to be ourselves. Although our first priority would always be each other and the family we create, we should be free to pursue our individual dreams (And agree to hire a housekeeper).

Musings on Whitman's Ideals

In 1881 Walt Whitman’s poem “Song of Myself” was firmly titled. The epic poem addresses the issue of democracy. The Webster’s New Universal Unabridged Dictionary defines democracy as “the acceptance and practice of the principle of equality of rights, opportunity, and treatment; lack of snobbery; as, there is real ‘democracy’ in this school.” Whitman, in Song of Myself, writes of this democracy.

Whitman points out that equality is essential in Americans. He states, “And I say it is as great to be a woman as to be a man”(line 427). He seems to say that gender should not dictate superiority, “And that all men ever born are also my brothers… and the/women my sisters and lovers”(line 85-6). He means that everyone has a commonality of experience on the earth. The sights, sounds and workings of nature are there for everyone despite social status, intelligence or economic status.

Although there are laws, Whitman feels it is essential to allow humane treatment to override obeying certain policies. For example, The Fugitive Slave Act required that northerners recapture runaway slaves; however, Whitman overlooks this law in favor of what is humane. He assists a fugitive slave, gives him food, shelter and medical care before sending him on his way. “He staid with me a week before he was recuperated and passed north”(line 189). He refuses to compromise his principles of American freedom.

As it follows, Whitman speaks of taking his place in this world. He disagrees with having contempt for people of lower status. He states how satisfying it is that an illiterate person could think less of a learned person who lacks standards. He believes in stepping aside and sharing the earth with his fellow Americans, “And am not stuck up, and am in my place”(line 349). In so doing, everyone and everything becomes something better.

Whitman wants unity, democracy, a true American spirit.

Poking Results

I have had two acupuncture treatments so far and I’m taking a high-potency proteaseS Serrapeptase supplement—a mouthful title which means plant fiber.

The first couple of days after the first treatment were a little rough, the acupuncturist said it’s rare but some people re-experience the trauma of when an injury first occurred. Yeah, I buy that since the roller coaster ride for me was up there on the traumatizing scale. Why are those things fun?

Anyway, I digress, PTSD is a subject for another blog. Five minutes after the second treatment I had this feeling of relief. And then yesterday, I had the best day since the stupid roller coaster ride decision. I was in complete happiness shock--that is the kind of shock I would gladly welcome retriggering. However, I over did it some with my day-long Snoopy dancing, but I had no idea if it was a fluke so I couldn’t contain myself in taking full advantage of a pain-free day. It has been soooo long. Today wasn’t quite as good, but I’m beginning to seriously entertain the belief this injury may heal. And by being a human pin cushion no less.

I must admit, I was skeptical that needles in my ankles would produce any results, after all, I am a Westerner, but my experience with American medicine has forced me to enter the realm of alternative, as in sane avenues, of treatments. My thinking is forever expanded.

Poking Fun

Two different things happened this week.

One: My son the notoriously fussy eater ate fish. He said when camping he will eat the fish he catches and then some if offered. At home, he will not touch the stuff so don’t even try. I almost had to pull the car over when he told me because this kid doesn’t put anything in his mouth other than pizza, macaroni and cheese and candy.

Two: He gave me a new name, “Porcupine.”

I had acupuncture for the first time and he had the same reaction as I did about him eating fish, “You did what???”

It all started last August when I rode a roller coaster trying to prove that I was some kind of cool mom or something which was a ridiculous consideration in the first place. I’m kind of a dork. And isn’t it a little more to our advantage as parents of teens to have them exasperated with us rather than think we’re cool? And since all my life I have hated roller coasters why did I ever get this idea to ride one? My collarbone area has not been the same. I have given up on how to describe the discomfort, let’s just say it can get very distracting. Then the type of work I do compounded the problem as well as the car accident I had, and apparently as I age, I don’t heal as fast anymore even if I eat blueberries by the bushels, drink green tea, and take Advil.

Doctors have had no clue what to do. They gave me an EKG. They said my heart’s fine. Really? They said take Advil and don’t get stressed out even after charging me over $3000.00 for their medical expertise in this diagnosis.

So acupuncture was my next adventure in healing. I had needles in my ears, calves, ankles, and a magnet on my finger which in my opinion made me feel much cooler than any roller coaster riding mama. Will it work? If my son ate fish, then there is nothing but optimism in my mind.

I’ll let you know.