Two bits of interesting happiness today:
- A client I have been helping for some time, stopped by to share pictures of her grandchildren and a very large and delicious loaf of blueberry bread she made for me. It was still warm. We unwrapped it together, and I broke my cardinal rule of not eating homemade things customers give me ... it smelled so good that I thought if it was designed to kill me, so be it. She told me that I had to leave it open to cool. When she left, I stuck it in one of my cabinets and the whole office smelled fabulous for the rest of the day. I could have put it in the breakroom, but then I might have run the risk of killing my team. Nobody is going down on my watch.
- In the afternoon, a client came in with a challenge which required me to make a number of phone calls to get him a resolution. As is often the case while you're on hold and another human is staring you in the face, you make small talk. He was 80 and in wonderful shape for his age. Then he brought up a minor surgery he had planned in the morning, and how he was freaking out about it. He explained that he had fluid building up in his right lung for no apparent reason. Trying to explain that they had put a tube through his breast to siphon the fluid out, he was struggling to grasp the way to phrase it. So he blurted out that they had stuck it "through his tit." He was immediately mortified, but I played it off for his sake. Then we told jokes about doctors. I was on hold for a very long time.
Tuesday, May 19, 2015
Saturday, May 16, 2015
5/15/15
Yesterday was my mother's birthday, and like each of the last 5 out of 6 birthdays since she died, my sister, brother and I have swooped into town to be with her. The first one after her death, my sister went without us, life and work being uncooperative. I vowed she'd never have to do that again. I had already let her down once when she agreed to be present to see mom just before she was cremated. I couldn't do it, couldn't see mom in that place - but she had made us swear that someone would see her one last time to ensure she was really dead before the crematorium door descended. We're a slightly odd family, I'll give you that. When the time came, my sister went, confirmed that mom was truly gone. After those two betrayals, I will not allow myself a third strike.
My father was in the Navy, and we moved around a bit. When we finally landed back in PA, my mother's childhood home where our grandfather still lived, our mom would regularly take us to the cemetery to pay our respects to the family there, to acknowledge our past. It was completely normal to incorporate that into all our regular chores and errands. It's a comfortable place on a hill with a pond nearby, so when you're quiet you can hear the loons. The bugs eat you alive, and we make jokes about it that many would consider morbid, but I already told you we're a smidge odd.
We talk to mom, plant flowers, go over the year's events. It has unfortunately become the only time I get to see my brother as of late, but it is necessary and right to have our rituals. I don't bring the kids, because this is our time, just the three of us, with her. Our little square with the broken side since she's gone. It was always the four of us against the world, and the world is closing in. I sometimes imagine what I'll look like when I'm in my 60's and visiting her, whether the local flower stand will still be here, how our talk will go, this necessary connection to my existence.
Sunday, May 10, 2015
Mama
I write a lot about my mother and what her death has done to me and my siblings. And this holiday is no different than all the others - managing the surreal of not having her here and the immediate of my own children. I've found some comfort in writing poetry again, which helps both to express my loss and my memories. Today, I thought I'd tell a quick recap of the entrance of hope, joy and happiness.
I was 25 when #1 was born, my hope. She was a week of contractions and 32 hours of active labor, and she was two weeks overdue. We had picked the only birth center that we could get to from our house by train, since we had to walk there in the beginning. We didn't get a car until halfway through the pregnancy (another story). It was still 45 minutes away through Boston traffic. I was adamant that I wanted a midwife and not a hospital birth, and so we drove. Those 32 hours are very clear to me - walking around a local mall to make the contractions come sooner, driving back and forth every three hours to the birth center since I hadn't dilated enough and needed to get antibiotics which was related to my Rh factor (they don't do this anymore). By the time we would finally get home, we'd rest an hour and turn around again. Eventually, they let me stay. When we hit the 30th hour of not moving forward, the midwife said I had two choices left, as she was afraid I'd be too exhausted to push; 1. go to the hospital and receive pitocin to move me forward, or 2. an hour of intense nipple stimulation in order to spur my own natural pitocin levels. My husband had to tell me to stop laughing and make a decision.
After we got to the hospital and received the pitocin, #1 joined us at around the 32nd hour. I wasn't happy about that time in the hospital, for all the reasons why I wanted a birth center and control over my birth story in the first place. But then I had my queen ... my hope for the world, and I had to figure out how to do this mother thing.
I was 28 when #2 was born, my joy. He was also two weeks overdue. My midwife, now at a different birth center that was north of us and easier to get to, said I just took a couple extra weeks to make a baby. I needed to go into labor before I officially hit 42 weeks though, otherwise no birth center experience. I would be relegated to the hospital next door, and not wanting to do that, I was up for anything. They smeared some jelly on my cervix, which I think was a pitocin derivative. Unfortunately, the baby didn't enjoy this experience one bit. His heart rate went crazy, and so I was bundled next door. In a completely different turn of events, I went from 0 to baby in hand in an hour and twenty minutes. I don't know which was harder - 32 hours or 1.20 hours. I actually begged for drugs with him, but my midwife said, "Heather, by the time they take effect the baby will be here." He cried so hard when he arrived that he blew out a lung.
Then like many couples, we had a rough couple of years, lean and challenging, balancing jobs and our own evolution, having another baby was out of the question. When we finally reached a point where we became pregnant with #3, our time with them was short lived. We lost that baby a third of the way through. We've always wanted to be surprised with each birth, as well as wait until the end to finalize the name choices. Following suit with this one, I didn't pick a name, but I've always thought she was a girl.
I was 35 when #4 was born, my happiness. She was a month early and born through an emergency C-section. My midwife was there again. We had discovered during this pregnancy that I had kidney stones, that I had probably had them my whole life. This made everything a bit more challenging. It was scary even though everyone involved tried to downplay how quickly my blood pressure was dropping. When she came though, it was as if all was right with the world again. My mother was in another hospital having her pacemaker replaced at almost the exact same time in what was supposed to be a routine procedure. We didn't know at the time, that just as #4's birth was far from routine, so was my mother's surgery. In just 42 days, I would be saying goodbye.
I sincerely hope that all of you out there who mother someone, be it ones you made, saved, adopted, loved, lost, be they human or furry, be they a joy or a pain, be they near or far, whether you think you're doing a good job or just trying to get through the day ... I hope that today is a present for you, filled with hope, joy and happiness.
I was 25 when #1 was born, my hope. She was a week of contractions and 32 hours of active labor, and she was two weeks overdue. We had picked the only birth center that we could get to from our house by train, since we had to walk there in the beginning. We didn't get a car until halfway through the pregnancy (another story). It was still 45 minutes away through Boston traffic. I was adamant that I wanted a midwife and not a hospital birth, and so we drove. Those 32 hours are very clear to me - walking around a local mall to make the contractions come sooner, driving back and forth every three hours to the birth center since I hadn't dilated enough and needed to get antibiotics which was related to my Rh factor (they don't do this anymore). By the time we would finally get home, we'd rest an hour and turn around again. Eventually, they let me stay. When we hit the 30th hour of not moving forward, the midwife said I had two choices left, as she was afraid I'd be too exhausted to push; 1. go to the hospital and receive pitocin to move me forward, or 2. an hour of intense nipple stimulation in order to spur my own natural pitocin levels. My husband had to tell me to stop laughing and make a decision.
After we got to the hospital and received the pitocin, #1 joined us at around the 32nd hour. I wasn't happy about that time in the hospital, for all the reasons why I wanted a birth center and control over my birth story in the first place. But then I had my queen ... my hope for the world, and I had to figure out how to do this mother thing.
I was 28 when #2 was born, my joy. He was also two weeks overdue. My midwife, now at a different birth center that was north of us and easier to get to, said I just took a couple extra weeks to make a baby. I needed to go into labor before I officially hit 42 weeks though, otherwise no birth center experience. I would be relegated to the hospital next door, and not wanting to do that, I was up for anything. They smeared some jelly on my cervix, which I think was a pitocin derivative. Unfortunately, the baby didn't enjoy this experience one bit. His heart rate went crazy, and so I was bundled next door. In a completely different turn of events, I went from 0 to baby in hand in an hour and twenty minutes. I don't know which was harder - 32 hours or 1.20 hours. I actually begged for drugs with him, but my midwife said, "Heather, by the time they take effect the baby will be here." He cried so hard when he arrived that he blew out a lung.
Then like many couples, we had a rough couple of years, lean and challenging, balancing jobs and our own evolution, having another baby was out of the question. When we finally reached a point where we became pregnant with #3, our time with them was short lived. We lost that baby a third of the way through. We've always wanted to be surprised with each birth, as well as wait until the end to finalize the name choices. Following suit with this one, I didn't pick a name, but I've always thought she was a girl.
I was 35 when #4 was born, my happiness. She was a month early and born through an emergency C-section. My midwife was there again. We had discovered during this pregnancy that I had kidney stones, that I had probably had them my whole life. This made everything a bit more challenging. It was scary even though everyone involved tried to downplay how quickly my blood pressure was dropping. When she came though, it was as if all was right with the world again. My mother was in another hospital having her pacemaker replaced at almost the exact same time in what was supposed to be a routine procedure. We didn't know at the time, that just as #4's birth was far from routine, so was my mother's surgery. In just 42 days, I would be saying goodbye.
I sincerely hope that all of you out there who mother someone, be it ones you made, saved, adopted, loved, lost, be they human or furry, be they a joy or a pain, be they near or far, whether you think you're doing a good job or just trying to get through the day ... I hope that today is a present for you, filled with hope, joy and happiness.
Thursday, April 30, 2015
Memories
Tonight, my husband, Rusty, mentioned the name of an old friend of his from college, but I couldn't place the name. He had come across a picture and was trying to jar my memory. Then he reminded me of something this guy said over 20 years ago that I had forgotten about. Back in the day, when it was clear that Rusty and I were probably going to be a long-term partnership, this friend felt a need to take him aside and have a little conversation. He told Rusty that although I was a nice girl, it would probably be better to break up with me because I was clearly Rusty's intellectual inferior. He hoped Rusty would learn from his own experiences at dating a girl who wasn't his equal.
I started to remember when he had originally told me about this a million years ago. Rusty had found the conversation amusing, tried to set the guy straight. He told me only as an after thought. I remember it stinging, as I've always been concerned that my niceness can be misinterpreted as being simpleminded. I've have seen this from time to time over the years. I also remember thinking I'd barely ever even had a conversation with this guy - on what could he have possibly built this opinion. It did bother me for awhile, probably out of my own insecurities, but I eventually moved past it. Tonight's reminder caused some further introspection, as I'm going through a minor existential crisis concerning my course in life.
If I were to have a conversation with this guy now, I'd hope that he'd see just how misguided he was, or maybe he'd apologize to me before we even got started. I'd love to ask how he even formed this idea, if only to gain insight on how at least one person perceived me so very long ago.
Or I could just key his car.
I started to remember when he had originally told me about this a million years ago. Rusty had found the conversation amusing, tried to set the guy straight. He told me only as an after thought. I remember it stinging, as I've always been concerned that my niceness can be misinterpreted as being simpleminded. I've have seen this from time to time over the years. I also remember thinking I'd barely ever even had a conversation with this guy - on what could he have possibly built this opinion. It did bother me for awhile, probably out of my own insecurities, but I eventually moved past it. Tonight's reminder caused some further introspection, as I'm going through a minor existential crisis concerning my course in life.
If I were to have a conversation with this guy now, I'd hope that he'd see just how misguided he was, or maybe he'd apologize to me before we even got started. I'd love to ask how he even formed this idea, if only to gain insight on how at least one person perceived me so very long ago.
Or I could just key his car.
Friday, April 24, 2015
Old Lady Shoes
So I'm walking out of work tonight with the younger, very adorable woman that works with me. She's mid 20's, wears fitted clothes that accentuate her petite frame. As we're leaving, she says her shoes are killing her feet. They're flats, patent leather (so no give), peek-a-boo toe with the sides cut away. It looked like they have no arch support. This is the conversation that ensued:
Me: (noticing that the sides of her feet and the vamp are rubbed red) Oh, they do look like they hurt. Your poor feet.
Her: Yeah, but I can't wear shoes like you guys do. (There are two other women that work with us, both in their mid 50's and I'm 42.)
M: Of, course you can. We aren't wearing heels.
H: No, I can't wear those shoes.
M: I don't understand. What do you mean?
H: You know ...
M: What?
H: Older lady shoes. That wouldn't look good on me.
M: ... Shut the fuck up. You know, I used to wear cute shoes before 20 years of standing on my feet all day.
H: (giggling) Goodnight
I did wear cute shoes, and I still own a lot of them ... heels, slides, mules, kitten heels, sling backs, wedges. The list goes on and on. I love shoes. Shoes don't tell you you're fat. They only try to love you. And I wanted them to love me. Throughout college and into graduate school, I worked in shoes. I had a great discount on top of the markdowns. It was wonderful. I owned things I never could have afforded at retail, even if they were a season behind. I learned the fine art of rotating them for even wear, giving everything at least three days off in between to cut down on stinkiness, how to stretch them, basic repair, etc.
Over the years, I've donated and dumped where necessary to winnow down the family - sometimes in order to better see what I have and sometimes to make room for replacements. I'm not embarrassed to say that at one point I had over 250 pairs. I stopped counting. But one thing has become obvious over the last ten years, the over-arching theme is sensible. Thanks to torn menisci and slipped discs, I can try a pair on now and know in a moment whether or not they will spell doom and therefore don't come home with me. I still wear some sexy things for special occasions, but I have to bring sneakers with me in the car. It's a smidgey-poo depressing.
I've never relied on the shoes for my sex appeal, hoping that my charm might win hearts and minds, but wearing fabulous shoes builds you up. It's the same way some women feel about matching underwear and bra sets. I always figured I'd wear the shoes by themselves and forget the underwear, but how far will standing there in sensible Easy Spirits and nothing else get you?
Me: (noticing that the sides of her feet and the vamp are rubbed red) Oh, they do look like they hurt. Your poor feet.
Her: Yeah, but I can't wear shoes like you guys do. (There are two other women that work with us, both in their mid 50's and I'm 42.)
M: Of, course you can. We aren't wearing heels.
H: No, I can't wear those shoes.
M: I don't understand. What do you mean?
H: You know ...
M: What?
H: Older lady shoes. That wouldn't look good on me.
M: ... Shut the fuck up. You know, I used to wear cute shoes before 20 years of standing on my feet all day.
H: (giggling) Goodnight
I did wear cute shoes, and I still own a lot of them ... heels, slides, mules, kitten heels, sling backs, wedges. The list goes on and on. I love shoes. Shoes don't tell you you're fat. They only try to love you. And I wanted them to love me. Throughout college and into graduate school, I worked in shoes. I had a great discount on top of the markdowns. It was wonderful. I owned things I never could have afforded at retail, even if they were a season behind. I learned the fine art of rotating them for even wear, giving everything at least three days off in between to cut down on stinkiness, how to stretch them, basic repair, etc.
Over the years, I've donated and dumped where necessary to winnow down the family - sometimes in order to better see what I have and sometimes to make room for replacements. I'm not embarrassed to say that at one point I had over 250 pairs. I stopped counting. But one thing has become obvious over the last ten years, the over-arching theme is sensible. Thanks to torn menisci and slipped discs, I can try a pair on now and know in a moment whether or not they will spell doom and therefore don't come home with me. I still wear some sexy things for special occasions, but I have to bring sneakers with me in the car. It's a smidgey-poo depressing.
I've never relied on the shoes for my sex appeal, hoping that my charm might win hearts and minds, but wearing fabulous shoes builds you up. It's the same way some women feel about matching underwear and bra sets. I always figured I'd wear the shoes by themselves and forget the underwear, but how far will standing there in sensible Easy Spirits and nothing else get you?
Tuesday, April 14, 2015
Control
I've been thinking about control a lot lately, and our perception of how much we really have in this big beautiful world. I've always wanted to be in control, to make it appear to everyone around me that I was solid and on track. Don't misunderstand being in control with being controlling, as some of my family has believed over the years. Yes, I have opinions, strong ones at that, and yes I am persuasive in getting my point across, but that's because I'm frequently right - and if you've known me for a long time, you know that to be true. I've also wanted to approach this concept apart from my religious beliefs, look at my perception of control separately from divine plan.
When I was a little girl, my siblings thought I was bossy, some of that was related to time and place, but the rest of it was due to my desire for structure and order. Being in control has always been equal to being prepared for me. Know the odds. Bring that extra pair of underwear. Calculate everything your children might need for that camping trip in advance. Memorize where he drops his belt at the end of the night.
This thinking served me well for years, made me appear to those around me that I was top of things. But then you forget a birthday or lock your keys in the car, and suddenly my mind is reeling from the misstep ... this isn't just being out of control, it's early onset Alzheimer's. I run a tight ship in this old brain of mine. Stay in lockstep or suffer the consequences. It can be tiring. Which brings me back to my current train of thought. I've been spending more time wondering whether or not this control is an illusion. I believe that Morpheus summed it up best when he said:
I love smart writing, makes me all weak in the knees. But I digress. Maybe the desire for control, and the presumed ability to attain it, are a deception, an unachievable end game. That inopportune red light impacts your choices hours later whether you realize it or not. Your doctor says you'll be able to control that lower back pain, until you realize that it's actually dominating your every action. You craft the public persona for appearances sake to fit into the corporate mold, but it's really their restraints imposed on you to make your paper, booboo. How often is it us willingly handing over the control?
I need to think more on this. I welcome your input.
When I was a little girl, my siblings thought I was bossy, some of that was related to time and place, but the rest of it was due to my desire for structure and order. Being in control has always been equal to being prepared for me. Know the odds. Bring that extra pair of underwear. Calculate everything your children might need for that camping trip in advance. Memorize where he drops his belt at the end of the night.
This thinking served me well for years, made me appear to those around me that I was top of things. But then you forget a birthday or lock your keys in the car, and suddenly my mind is reeling from the misstep ... this isn't just being out of control, it's early onset Alzheimer's. I run a tight ship in this old brain of mine. Stay in lockstep or suffer the consequences. It can be tiring. Which brings me back to my current train of thought. I've been spending more time wondering whether or not this control is an illusion. I believe that Morpheus summed it up best when he said:
"What you know you can't explain, but you feel it.
You've felt it your entire life, that there's something wrong with the world.
You don't know what it is, but it's there, like a splinter in your mind,
driving you mad ... It is all around us. Even now, in this very room. You can see it
when you look out your window or when you turn on your television. You can feel
it when you go to work... when you go to church... when you pay your taxes. It
is the world that has been pulled over your eyes to blind you from the truth
... Like everyone else you were born into bondage. Into a prison that you cannot taste or see or
touch. A prison for your mind."
I love smart writing, makes me all weak in the knees. But I digress. Maybe the desire for control, and the presumed ability to attain it, are a deception, an unachievable end game. That inopportune red light impacts your choices hours later whether you realize it or not. Your doctor says you'll be able to control that lower back pain, until you realize that it's actually dominating your every action. You craft the public persona for appearances sake to fit into the corporate mold, but it's really their restraints imposed on you to make your paper, booboo. How often is it us willingly handing over the control?
I need to think more on this. I welcome your input.
Friday, April 3, 2015
Easter
As I get older, my appreciation for some holidays has grown. Easter is a great example. When I was a little girl, I was excited to open my basket, and some years, go to church afterwards. We always got a chocolate bunny, the obligatory jellybean layer and a handful of various treats. Tucked in the middle was a toy, maybe a Barbie or stuffed animal. I remember the year I got my first cross. It meant I was mature enough to handle a real piece of jewelry from Sears - a big deal.
It was always sort of a surreal holiday, too. You spent Friday talking about how Christ was tortured and died for your sins and were then supposed to be overjoyed on Sunday when he arose from the dead. It's kind of a complex set of ideas for a child to get in the matter of a couple of days. To simplify it, my mother used to focus on the idea that because of His death and resurrection, the four of us would always be together. This idea expanded one year after she read an essay of a man who had had a near-death experience. He described waking up in heaven and being surrounded by all the dogs and horses he had known in his life. Mom and I joked that we'd open our eyes to see a circle of cats, dogs, guinea pigs, hamsters, gerbils, a couple lizards and a turtle.
Now as a theoretical grown-up, Easter has become particularly polarizing as more people in my life die. It's like a talisman - I'll see you again one day. But it's really all about her. I've lined the wall of our staircase with pictures of family and friends. I've put her in spots that naturally fall into my field of vision, so it never surprises my system like finding her handwriting does. So distinctive and unique to her, seeing her words in an unexpected place is almost like hearing her again. I freeze in place.
Happy Easter to those of you who celebrate this blessed weekend. I'll see you soon, Mom.
It was always sort of a surreal holiday, too. You spent Friday talking about how Christ was tortured and died for your sins and were then supposed to be overjoyed on Sunday when he arose from the dead. It's kind of a complex set of ideas for a child to get in the matter of a couple of days. To simplify it, my mother used to focus on the idea that because of His death and resurrection, the four of us would always be together. This idea expanded one year after she read an essay of a man who had had a near-death experience. He described waking up in heaven and being surrounded by all the dogs and horses he had known in his life. Mom and I joked that we'd open our eyes to see a circle of cats, dogs, guinea pigs, hamsters, gerbils, a couple lizards and a turtle.
Now as a theoretical grown-up, Easter has become particularly polarizing as more people in my life die. It's like a talisman - I'll see you again one day. But it's really all about her. I've lined the wall of our staircase with pictures of family and friends. I've put her in spots that naturally fall into my field of vision, so it never surprises my system like finding her handwriting does. So distinctive and unique to her, seeing her words in an unexpected place is almost like hearing her again. I freeze in place.
Happy Easter to those of you who celebrate this blessed weekend. I'll see you soon, Mom.
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