There are some memories that creep into the psyche, that seep like water under a door and into the carpet of consciousness to become a part of who we are and insinuate themselves into the shape of our daily lives. Memories of cooking with my grandmother–putting dishes together for special occasions, for BBQs or Christmas or Thanksgiving–include not only the knowledge of the ingredients, the order they are added or mixed, the the timing for boiling, baking, but her movements as well. Cooking often takes the form of ritual in the way we chop, the way we season, the way we smell and taste our creations. I find myself searching my memories for the subtleties that aren't written down, that aren't included in the handwritten notes in Gram's old white cookbook. Each time I recreate a recipe from the holiday traditions of my childhood, I remember my grandmother's mannerisms, her voice inflections, the way she held the knife, or the point when she gave directions.
Recently I was putting together a BBQ sauce for chicken–not a tomato sauce with a special blend of seasonings–a wine and olive oil based one with a special blend of vegetables and seasonings. It calls for chopped celery and green onions, rosemary, oregano, worchestershire sauce, garlic and "italian seasonings." In the cookbook Gram wrote "slice garlic," but when I was a child and we made this sauce together, she always made me crush the garlic, clove after clove of these masses of garlic crushed to nearly a paste, plopped in with the wine and oil. When I am prepping the garlic, I search the periphal vision of my memories to watch her hands carefully put the garlic into the press and close it firmly before scraping the garlic off the outside of the press and scooping any pod leavings from the inside of the garlic press out to join the rest in the liquid.
I also strain my peripheral vision for the look on her face, the face I love and miss and see in glimpses in my mind's eye. I can see her lean on the sink as she does some sort of prep work into a container in the sink, although I can't recall what she was doing. Sometimes I can see a cigarette in her mouth, as much as I loath that visual memory, it is a visual nonetheless, so as much as I despised the ubiquitous cigarettes, it gives me another glimpse of her face.
I wonder what kinds of dishes that I have made for my family (and my very picky children) that they don't like know, but will learn to love later as I did. I used to hate the Christmas sandwich loaf, a behemoth of a project that involved no less than four different types of fillings, layered between slices of bread cut the long way unlike a traditional sandwich slice and held together with gravity and toothpicks. I hated this meal growing up. Gram made it every year for Christmas Eve dinner. It was serve along with sliced salami and cheese, sweet and dill pickles and olives, and some weird pickled vegetables like cauliflower and pepperoncini. I went for the dills, the salami and the cheese. And then waited impatiently while the grown-ups lingered over their loaf slices extending dinner out impossibly long, keeping me from opening presents.
Will my kids ever learn to like my homemade spaghetti sauce? I know they would like my chili recipe, and my son would like my lasagna recipe, both would like my enchilada recipe. Neither would likely care much about chicken or beef stroganoff and they can both make the breaded chicken that they love so much.
I suspect that even if they don't learn to love some things, if either is ever forced to make dishes they don't like, they will also find that the memories of cooking together are more important than taste of the food. And who knows, maybe they will appreciate my spaghetti sauce the way I now appreciate the sandwich loaf.
Lake Mendocino
Friday, December 28, 2007
Sunday, October 28, 2007
One Long Process
Anyone who has lived through the death of a loved one knows that regardless of what a company policy may be, there is really no finite time limit that grief fits neatly into. Bereavement leave at work may be three days, or three weeks, but the process is as individual and unique as the life that is lost. A few days of utter sadness and pints of ice cream may be enough to allow day-to-day functioning. A few weeks in bed, unable to attend to regular daily responsibilities or personal hygiene may be the norm. Months and months of a low steady hum in the ears might create a nearly impenetrable barrier between living and grieving. Or a heaviness might slow down every movement, every thought, every memory.
And what if there are multiple deaths, one after the other? Is it possible to separate each from the other, to compartmentalize, prioritize? In my case, there is the occasional glimpse or sense a deceased loved one, a few moments or hours of thought directed solely at one soul. Most of the time one thought leads from one to another. I don't feel that I am doing any of them justice, that I am mourning each in turn, respecting their individuality in life and death. But the timing makes it nearly impossible to separate them in my head and in my heart.
Most recently is the lost grandchild. His name was Rowan. He was inside his mother for nearly five months before his heart stopped beating. When I think of him, when I allow myself a few moments of focused thought, when I can push aside the pain and numb myself sufficiently, I envision tiny fingers and toes, a face that had begun to take on unique characteristics, a little body that was on its way to becoming plump and round in anticipation of birth. I can't stay in those moments for long, the thought of his being lost is too overwhelming. When we found out he existed, and I was facing grand parenthood, I often remarked, At least it's not another death. And now he is exactly that.
When I think of the loss of Rowan, I wonder how I can still inhale with the weight of his death on my chest. I wonder how any of us can survive another loss. I remember when I found out that my dad had died, how I felt that I couldn't cope, couldn't live through another parent's death. My mind goes back one more step to my mother, knowing she was dying so soon after Miriam, feeling angry that mom's death intruded on the great grief I was feeling for Miriam. I go back at the beginning, to the loss of Miriam, to her illness, sitting with her at the end feeling the dichotomy of the pain and the great comfort in the gifts she left us.
I had originally meant this posting to be about lost possibilities, but that would infer that I was far enough along in my grieving process that I could systematically outline exactly who left behind what potential. Instead I realize that I am still facing my grief, still processing–and it is one long process.
And what if there are multiple deaths, one after the other? Is it possible to separate each from the other, to compartmentalize, prioritize? In my case, there is the occasional glimpse or sense a deceased loved one, a few moments or hours of thought directed solely at one soul. Most of the time one thought leads from one to another. I don't feel that I am doing any of them justice, that I am mourning each in turn, respecting their individuality in life and death. But the timing makes it nearly impossible to separate them in my head and in my heart.
Most recently is the lost grandchild. His name was Rowan. He was inside his mother for nearly five months before his heart stopped beating. When I think of him, when I allow myself a few moments of focused thought, when I can push aside the pain and numb myself sufficiently, I envision tiny fingers and toes, a face that had begun to take on unique characteristics, a little body that was on its way to becoming plump and round in anticipation of birth. I can't stay in those moments for long, the thought of his being lost is too overwhelming. When we found out he existed, and I was facing grand parenthood, I often remarked, At least it's not another death. And now he is exactly that.
When I think of the loss of Rowan, I wonder how I can still inhale with the weight of his death on my chest. I wonder how any of us can survive another loss. I remember when I found out that my dad had died, how I felt that I couldn't cope, couldn't live through another parent's death. My mind goes back one more step to my mother, knowing she was dying so soon after Miriam, feeling angry that mom's death intruded on the great grief I was feeling for Miriam. I go back at the beginning, to the loss of Miriam, to her illness, sitting with her at the end feeling the dichotomy of the pain and the great comfort in the gifts she left us.
I had originally meant this posting to be about lost possibilities, but that would infer that I was far enough along in my grieving process that I could systematically outline exactly who left behind what potential. Instead I realize that I am still facing my grief, still processing–and it is one long process.
Monday, September 10, 2007
With Age Comes…
I have reached a point in my life when I am concerned about certain aspects of aging. From very early on in my life, I received comments about my maturity level; I appeared to the outside world to be older than my years. This was cool when I was 15 and thought to be older than my 22-year-old co-worker. It was even cooler at 17, 18 and 19 when I wasn’t carded at bars or restaurants or liquor stores. The only thing I lacked was life experience.
Now that I am mature in years and life experience, I no longer want to look/act/seem older than I really am. I in fact, to appear younger would be better. So I worry about things like wrinkles, and spend maybe too much money on over-the-counter face lotions to reduce the appearance of fine lines and wrinkles. I was one of those unfortunate girls who could find gray hairs amongst the darker ones early in my twenties and often joked that I would have so many white hairs by the time I was 50 that I would be naturally blonde. I started playing with hair color cause it was fun, and at some point it became, well, necessary.
I’m not to 50 yet (despite what the AARP thinks with their stupid mailers and offers of free copies of their magazine), and have had to make the tough decision whether to continue to color to cover the encroaching gray, or let it all hang out and to hell with what the world thinks. I didn’t like the look, so I chose to go back to chemical additives and continue to be a brunette for a couple of more decades.
Many women and men of my generation, choose to follow in the steps of the younger generation who have made adorning the body with tattoos a mainstream hobby. I’m not there yet, but I do like some more adventurous piercing beyond the earlobes. So after seven years of hemming and hawing, I had my nostril pierced. I love it!
Now my hair color is from a bottle, and I am sporting an opal on my face, I’m feeling okay about my age. Hell, who has to go quietly? There’s no law, right? People these days live so much longer, so it naturally follows that what used to be considered middle age is still ramping up.
Then my son goes and decides to make me a grandmother.
My twenty-one-year old son and his twenty-year-old girlfriend are working (all too) quickly towards parenthood. They are due in mid-March. I’m not ready for this. I am delighted to have a baby in the family–I’m just not thrilled that he or she will call me Grandmother. Maybe Nana, or Grammy or Nona or Grandma Ginger, or Mamaw. Definitely not Granny or Nanny or Abuela. I have a friend whose response to the news was, “Are you even 40, yet?” God, I love this woman, she always knows exactly what to say. And the best part is–she was serious!
So I’ve said it. I’m going to be a Grandmother. I’m very glad that I decided to color my hair and get my nose pierced BEFORE I found out. Not because.
Maybe it’s time for a tattoo.
Now that I am mature in years and life experience, I no longer want to look/act/seem older than I really am. I in fact, to appear younger would be better. So I worry about things like wrinkles, and spend maybe too much money on over-the-counter face lotions to reduce the appearance of fine lines and wrinkles. I was one of those unfortunate girls who could find gray hairs amongst the darker ones early in my twenties and often joked that I would have so many white hairs by the time I was 50 that I would be naturally blonde. I started playing with hair color cause it was fun, and at some point it became, well, necessary.
I’m not to 50 yet (despite what the AARP thinks with their stupid mailers and offers of free copies of their magazine), and have had to make the tough decision whether to continue to color to cover the encroaching gray, or let it all hang out and to hell with what the world thinks. I didn’t like the look, so I chose to go back to chemical additives and continue to be a brunette for a couple of more decades.
Many women and men of my generation, choose to follow in the steps of the younger generation who have made adorning the body with tattoos a mainstream hobby. I’m not there yet, but I do like some more adventurous piercing beyond the earlobes. So after seven years of hemming and hawing, I had my nostril pierced. I love it!
Now my hair color is from a bottle, and I am sporting an opal on my face, I’m feeling okay about my age. Hell, who has to go quietly? There’s no law, right? People these days live so much longer, so it naturally follows that what used to be considered middle age is still ramping up.
Then my son goes and decides to make me a grandmother.
My twenty-one-year old son and his twenty-year-old girlfriend are working (all too) quickly towards parenthood. They are due in mid-March. I’m not ready for this. I am delighted to have a baby in the family–I’m just not thrilled that he or she will call me Grandmother. Maybe Nana, or Grammy or Nona or Grandma Ginger, or Mamaw. Definitely not Granny or Nanny or Abuela. I have a friend whose response to the news was, “Are you even 40, yet?” God, I love this woman, she always knows exactly what to say. And the best part is–she was serious!
So I’ve said it. I’m going to be a Grandmother. I’m very glad that I decided to color my hair and get my nose pierced BEFORE I found out. Not because.
Maybe it’s time for a tattoo.
The Weight of the Dead
More than one person has said to me that when a loved one dies, it brings up the memories and feelings of every other death you have experienced in your life. No one said, however, that those loved ones would take up residence in my life, intruding in my thoughts and feelings even more so than when they were alive.
My grandfather and grandmother, who have been dead three and fifteen years respectively, are perched one on each shoulder, taking full advantage of their renewed place in my consciousness, dispensing tidbits into each ear on a continual basis. I hear things come out of my mouth that I know are not my ideas. This goes far beyond turns-of-phrases. Comments, lectures and arguments that I know they would have made when they were alive, in fact probably did, are spewing out of my mouth much like, yeah I’ll say it, projectile vomit. My son and his girlfriend are struggling with life decisions and I hear myself telling them that what they want won’t work, they can’t afford it, it isn’t practical, etc. Argh! This is not the kind of mother that I am. I’m a shoot from the hip, tell it like I see tempered by love and understanding kind of mom. I try not to tell anybody how to live their life. And here I am doing just that. Get off my shoulders, get out of my head!
Meanwhile, my recently deceased mother and father can’t find room on my shoulders, so they have settled in mid-chest. They don’t say much; just make sure that I know they are there. When they were alive I always felt a kind of psychic connection, I could feel them out there somewhere in the cosmos and assumed that when they died, I would feel their absence. There were actually about five days just before my mother actually passed that I couldn’t feel her. Well, I was wrong about feeling an absence. They are with me stronger now that they are dead than they ever were when they were alive. It’s as if they decided that since they were absent the bulk of my life from my life that they are going to stick around in the afterlife and make up for lost time. To their credit it feels as though they have left the pain and other crap from their lives on earth behind, and are now more interested in offering love and companionship. If I was willing to let down the boundaries, brick walls, and various other kinds of defense mechanisms that I was forced to erect over the years to protect myself, their intentions might have some positive effect. But I’m not, so they don’t. They are offering me exactly what I wanted, but not offering it when I wanted it. And that knowledge brings up all the pain I have felt in my life, and it sits on my chest beside my parents.
My beloved Miriam, also recently deceased, my surrogate mother/aunt/loving friend, hovers off to the side, not out of sight, not out of mind, and never irritating or painful. She was no saint when she was alive, and let’s be honest, who would want a saint in their life? Not me. I like deep complicated people with flaws who offer me unconditional love. Her physical absence from my daily life is the most painful of all. With her help I found so much of myself…I don’t know how to explain…I don’t have words. I love her. I miss her. It hurts. Yet I can still feel her.
And these celestial bodies; ghosts; impressions; remnants of memories; whatever they are, they are damned heavy. And their weight hurts. Logic says that the pain will subside, as I move through my grief the strong sense I have of each of these people will slowly drift farther and farther away. Never so far that I won’t feel them, or remember them, but the pain will abate enough to function and continue to live my life. And when that happens, I will still miss them. I will even miss the pain.
My grandfather and grandmother, who have been dead three and fifteen years respectively, are perched one on each shoulder, taking full advantage of their renewed place in my consciousness, dispensing tidbits into each ear on a continual basis. I hear things come out of my mouth that I know are not my ideas. This goes far beyond turns-of-phrases. Comments, lectures and arguments that I know they would have made when they were alive, in fact probably did, are spewing out of my mouth much like, yeah I’ll say it, projectile vomit. My son and his girlfriend are struggling with life decisions and I hear myself telling them that what they want won’t work, they can’t afford it, it isn’t practical, etc. Argh! This is not the kind of mother that I am. I’m a shoot from the hip, tell it like I see tempered by love and understanding kind of mom. I try not to tell anybody how to live their life. And here I am doing just that. Get off my shoulders, get out of my head!
Meanwhile, my recently deceased mother and father can’t find room on my shoulders, so they have settled in mid-chest. They don’t say much; just make sure that I know they are there. When they were alive I always felt a kind of psychic connection, I could feel them out there somewhere in the cosmos and assumed that when they died, I would feel their absence. There were actually about five days just before my mother actually passed that I couldn’t feel her. Well, I was wrong about feeling an absence. They are with me stronger now that they are dead than they ever were when they were alive. It’s as if they decided that since they were absent the bulk of my life from my life that they are going to stick around in the afterlife and make up for lost time. To their credit it feels as though they have left the pain and other crap from their lives on earth behind, and are now more interested in offering love and companionship. If I was willing to let down the boundaries, brick walls, and various other kinds of defense mechanisms that I was forced to erect over the years to protect myself, their intentions might have some positive effect. But I’m not, so they don’t. They are offering me exactly what I wanted, but not offering it when I wanted it. And that knowledge brings up all the pain I have felt in my life, and it sits on my chest beside my parents.
My beloved Miriam, also recently deceased, my surrogate mother/aunt/loving friend, hovers off to the side, not out of sight, not out of mind, and never irritating or painful. She was no saint when she was alive, and let’s be honest, who would want a saint in their life? Not me. I like deep complicated people with flaws who offer me unconditional love. Her physical absence from my daily life is the most painful of all. With her help I found so much of myself…I don’t know how to explain…I don’t have words. I love her. I miss her. It hurts. Yet I can still feel her.
And these celestial bodies; ghosts; impressions; remnants of memories; whatever they are, they are damned heavy. And their weight hurts. Logic says that the pain will subside, as I move through my grief the strong sense I have of each of these people will slowly drift farther and farther away. Never so far that I won’t feel them, or remember them, but the pain will abate enough to function and continue to live my life. And when that happens, I will still miss them. I will even miss the pain.
Saturday, August 4, 2007
And then there were none
In just under 2 months, a span of 51 days to be exact, the last parents in my life died. The woman I called my aunt who was more of a mother to me went first. Thirty-one days later my bio-mother died. Twenty days after her death, and 41 years after they divorced, my bio-dad died.
All three deaths were caused by cigarettes. None was older than 65.
Miriam had stopped smoking nearly 20 years before she was diagnosed with lung cancer. The fact that she stopped when she did likely lengthened her life considerably. Less than a year after the diagnosis she was gone.
Mary, the bio-mom, was diagnosed with lung cancer in 2004. She had surgery to remove the cancerous lung and was told that it had not spread. Apparently it hid from the surgeons because a few months ago they found that it had spread throughout her body. She died July 10.
Jack, the bio-dad, had been in failing health for a few years. The circulation in his legs was poor, he had endured a mild heart attack several years ago, and 3 strokes that the doctors were aware of (but they suspected there had been several more) . According to my step-sister, he had stopped smoking several years ago. On July 26th he suffered 2nd and 3rd degree burns over 75% of his body after falling asleep next to a burning cigarette. (His wife and step-sister claim that his electric chair shorted out, the authorities claim it was a burning cigarette.) On July 30 he succumbed to his wounds and died alone in a hospital bed.
With the exception of a maybe 4 excursions to the dark side in my twenties during my experimental phase, I have never been a smoker. I always thought that they were disgusting. As a child when it was time to wash dishes I always saved the ashtrays for last, dipping them into the soapy water and then the rinse water before setting them onto the dish drainer still dirty. Gram didn't give me too hard a time, I think out of guilt that she smoked at all and didn't have the will power to stop.
When I was a kid and my friends would come over the visit, when they returned to their non-smoking homes they had to shower to wash the stench of cigarette smoke off of their bodies and out of their hair. Once in high school a friend commented that he was surprised I had taken up smoking. I hadn't, I had just come from home.
The smoke from a cigarette as it burns between puffs, rising up into the air like ribbons pulled by an invisible hand used to fascinate me as a child. The fascination never got beyond pretending with candy cigarettes. I am grateful that I don't have to spend my days living in a hazy house or that public places (in California at least) are smoke free. I'm grateful that my husband is a former smoker and is not likely to return to a life threatening habit.
I don't need to learn anything more about the ills of cigarettes. I don't feel the need to preach to strangers.
In reality, death is death. I am at an age when we start losing parents, that is a cold fact, but a very real one. I am lucky that I had as many parents as I did for as long as I did. But they are all gone now.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not okay. I suspect, I won't be for awhile.
All three deaths were caused by cigarettes. None was older than 65.
Miriam had stopped smoking nearly 20 years before she was diagnosed with lung cancer. The fact that she stopped when she did likely lengthened her life considerably. Less than a year after the diagnosis she was gone.
Mary, the bio-mom, was diagnosed with lung cancer in 2004. She had surgery to remove the cancerous lung and was told that it had not spread. Apparently it hid from the surgeons because a few months ago they found that it had spread throughout her body. She died July 10.
Jack, the bio-dad, had been in failing health for a few years. The circulation in his legs was poor, he had endured a mild heart attack several years ago, and 3 strokes that the doctors were aware of (but they suspected there had been several more) . According to my step-sister, he had stopped smoking several years ago. On July 26th he suffered 2nd and 3rd degree burns over 75% of his body after falling asleep next to a burning cigarette. (His wife and step-sister claim that his electric chair shorted out, the authorities claim it was a burning cigarette.) On July 30 he succumbed to his wounds and died alone in a hospital bed.
With the exception of a maybe 4 excursions to the dark side in my twenties during my experimental phase, I have never been a smoker. I always thought that they were disgusting. As a child when it was time to wash dishes I always saved the ashtrays for last, dipping them into the soapy water and then the rinse water before setting them onto the dish drainer still dirty. Gram didn't give me too hard a time, I think out of guilt that she smoked at all and didn't have the will power to stop.
When I was a kid and my friends would come over the visit, when they returned to their non-smoking homes they had to shower to wash the stench of cigarette smoke off of their bodies and out of their hair. Once in high school a friend commented that he was surprised I had taken up smoking. I hadn't, I had just come from home.
The smoke from a cigarette as it burns between puffs, rising up into the air like ribbons pulled by an invisible hand used to fascinate me as a child. The fascination never got beyond pretending with candy cigarettes. I am grateful that I don't have to spend my days living in a hazy house or that public places (in California at least) are smoke free. I'm grateful that my husband is a former smoker and is not likely to return to a life threatening habit.
I don't need to learn anything more about the ills of cigarettes. I don't feel the need to preach to strangers.
In reality, death is death. I am at an age when we start losing parents, that is a cold fact, but a very real one. I am lucky that I had as many parents as I did for as long as I did. But they are all gone now.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not okay. I suspect, I won't be for awhile.
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Friday, July 13, 2007
Saturday, June 30, 2007
All Things have a Reason, I suppose
Sometime last week, in the course of a conversation with the hubby, I realized that my very strong aversion to tattoos had ebbed a bit. Anyone who knows me at all knows that I view tattoos as a symbol of white trash. Dirty and green and without rhyme or reason. My bio-parents have some pretty ridiculous tattoos, which is of course the origin of my aversion. But suddenly one evening last week, I felt a shift, a loosening of my judgment, as if there was shift in the health of one or both of my bio-units. I have joked that once they are both dead I might be more open to colorful body mutilation.
Thursday night my brother left a voice mail. Mind you I haven't seen my brother in 20 years and haven't spoken on the phone to him in almost 15. He wanted to let me know (in an upbeat and conversational tone) that mom is dying. The doctors have given her a couple of months and she wanted me to know.
Ah. Now I understand why tattoos don't seem quite so bad.
As if a message like that isn't bad enough, it was also left on the eve of my birthday. I can count on one hand the number of birthdays my mother has remembered or acknowledged. Off the top of my head I can't actually remember one, but I'm sure there are a couple One year she actually got married on my birthday. I think that was husband #6. Two husbands ago.
She knew my brother called me. I know this in part because the call came from her number (thank goodness for call id) and because her voice can clearly be heard in the background feeding information to my bro. He left me his number and a basic schedule of when he is home in case I want to talk to him. And pointed out that he would be at mom's house on Friday. No mention of the fact that Friday is my birthday. Happy fucking birthday.
I think I'll wait until she's buried. Then I think I'll get a tiny dragonfly tattooed on my wrist.
All things happen for a reason, I suppose.
Thursday night my brother left a voice mail. Mind you I haven't seen my brother in 20 years and haven't spoken on the phone to him in almost 15. He wanted to let me know (in an upbeat and conversational tone) that mom is dying. The doctors have given her a couple of months and she wanted me to know.
Ah. Now I understand why tattoos don't seem quite so bad.
As if a message like that isn't bad enough, it was also left on the eve of my birthday. I can count on one hand the number of birthdays my mother has remembered or acknowledged. Off the top of my head I can't actually remember one, but I'm sure there are a couple One year she actually got married on my birthday. I think that was husband #6. Two husbands ago.
She knew my brother called me. I know this in part because the call came from her number (thank goodness for call id) and because her voice can clearly be heard in the background feeding information to my bro. He left me his number and a basic schedule of when he is home in case I want to talk to him. And pointed out that he would be at mom's house on Friday. No mention of the fact that Friday is my birthday. Happy fucking birthday.
I think I'll wait until she's buried. Then I think I'll get a tiny dragonfly tattooed on my wrist.
All things happen for a reason, I suppose.
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Really, I was sober!
About 7:00 pm yesterday evening, a feeling washed over me that felt so strong it was almost as if some outside energy was compelling me, pushing me to do something I wouldn't normally consider.
I was overcome by an urge to call my bio-father.
I couldn't blame the feeling on too much alcohol, or on any substance altered state. I was sober and driving up I-5 from LA to my home. What I could do was reach out to my sponsors. In other words, to people in my life who have witnessed my sometimes obsessive, and always irrational, need to make contact with one or the other of my biological parents who abandoned me.
I called the husband first (thank goodness for cell phones). I'm sure he said something completely rational and convincing to counter my emotions. When that didn't work I called one of my oldest friends, the one who took the walk up the steps with me to my bio-father's door when I was 17. The one who watched me try and try and try again to build and sustain a regular relationship with both of my bio-parents. When I wondered out loud if I was feeling the urge to call the bio-dad because he really wanted to talk to me and had sent out a message through our psychic connection, she pointed out that if he really wanted to talk to me he would make the effort. I didn't bother pointing out that he doesn't have my phone number, and I'm unlisted so he couldn't easily get it.
Ultimately I pulled into a rest stop, poured some quarters into a pay phone and dialed the number I last called in 1992. Wrong number.
The feeling has mostly passed. I realize that I am likely wishing for some parental involvement from the non-parents in my life now that I have lost the only surrogate parent I had left. My grandparents first stepped into the roles of first line parents when my own bio-folks walked away from me. Then my oldest friend's aunt stepped in when my grandmother died. She died a few weeks ago. I feel like I should be okay with being orphaned. Peopled deal with it every day. But I'm not. I suspect that I never will.
I was overcome by an urge to call my bio-father.
I couldn't blame the feeling on too much alcohol, or on any substance altered state. I was sober and driving up I-5 from LA to my home. What I could do was reach out to my sponsors. In other words, to people in my life who have witnessed my sometimes obsessive, and always irrational, need to make contact with one or the other of my biological parents who abandoned me.
I called the husband first (thank goodness for cell phones). I'm sure he said something completely rational and convincing to counter my emotions. When that didn't work I called one of my oldest friends, the one who took the walk up the steps with me to my bio-father's door when I was 17. The one who watched me try and try and try again to build and sustain a regular relationship with both of my bio-parents. When I wondered out loud if I was feeling the urge to call the bio-dad because he really wanted to talk to me and had sent out a message through our psychic connection, she pointed out that if he really wanted to talk to me he would make the effort. I didn't bother pointing out that he doesn't have my phone number, and I'm unlisted so he couldn't easily get it.
Ultimately I pulled into a rest stop, poured some quarters into a pay phone and dialed the number I last called in 1992. Wrong number.
The feeling has mostly passed. I realize that I am likely wishing for some parental involvement from the non-parents in my life now that I have lost the only surrogate parent I had left. My grandparents first stepped into the roles of first line parents when my own bio-folks walked away from me. Then my oldest friend's aunt stepped in when my grandmother died. She died a few weeks ago. I feel like I should be okay with being orphaned. Peopled deal with it every day. But I'm not. I suspect that I never will.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
A Reluctant Goodbye
My mentor/friend/aunt/surrogate mother died on Saturday June 9 at 11:30 a.m. I had the great privilege and honor of spending her final days caring for her beside some truly incredible people.
She was diagnosed eight short months ago with advanced lung cancer. Those eight months were filled with doctor visits, chemotherapy, blood transfusions and blood tests. She also spent eight months lunching with friends, vacationing in Hawaii, cramming an early retirement into a finite space of time. And more importantly she spent the time learning just how loved she was.
Six weeks before she died, she and I began a list of gifts that had come from the cancer. Among them was her ability to let go of money worries, and to understand that the things that needed to get done, would. No less than two dozen people were in her home the morning she died, five of us were at her bedside, her oldest son holding her in his arms as she took her last breath. Beginning Thursday and stretching into late Sunday, the house was full of people who loved her. People who came together to celebrate her life and mourn her passing. How many people can inspire a four day house party? Miriam could.
As sad and painful as death is, if you pay close attention, it can also be an incredible experience. I was in the room when Miriam's soul left her body, leaving only a thread to hold her to the earth as her shell finished out its last hours. From the outside, the leaving resembled giving birth. It began as a struggle to cough, to breath in enough to expel the cancer from her lungs. But instead of expelling the cancer, her body mustered the last of its strength to bear down as she did during childbirth. She fought to release her soul and end her own suffering, to begin a new journey, a new life, a new form.
A few short hours later, I felt her pulse move farther in and away from my fingers, while her breathing slowly diminished. Afterwards as the body lay with Henry her bear cuddled up beside it, each person in the house visited one last time. Her dear friend, a Southern Baptist Minister who had agreed to act as her rabbi, performed a blessing and then two Buddhist Monks chanted over her. Hours later Hospice bathed and dressed her and her body was taken away.
We won't officially say goodbye until her birthday in late July. She wanted a service outside where we could all gather and share our stories of her. She also wanted to be there (ashes and all). Truth be told, she is still here with me even as I say a reluctant goodbye to her physical presence.
She was diagnosed eight short months ago with advanced lung cancer. Those eight months were filled with doctor visits, chemotherapy, blood transfusions and blood tests. She also spent eight months lunching with friends, vacationing in Hawaii, cramming an early retirement into a finite space of time. And more importantly she spent the time learning just how loved she was.
Six weeks before she died, she and I began a list of gifts that had come from the cancer. Among them was her ability to let go of money worries, and to understand that the things that needed to get done, would. No less than two dozen people were in her home the morning she died, five of us were at her bedside, her oldest son holding her in his arms as she took her last breath. Beginning Thursday and stretching into late Sunday, the house was full of people who loved her. People who came together to celebrate her life and mourn her passing. How many people can inspire a four day house party? Miriam could.
As sad and painful as death is, if you pay close attention, it can also be an incredible experience. I was in the room when Miriam's soul left her body, leaving only a thread to hold her to the earth as her shell finished out its last hours. From the outside, the leaving resembled giving birth. It began as a struggle to cough, to breath in enough to expel the cancer from her lungs. But instead of expelling the cancer, her body mustered the last of its strength to bear down as she did during childbirth. She fought to release her soul and end her own suffering, to begin a new journey, a new life, a new form.
A few short hours later, I felt her pulse move farther in and away from my fingers, while her breathing slowly diminished. Afterwards as the body lay with Henry her bear cuddled up beside it, each person in the house visited one last time. Her dear friend, a Southern Baptist Minister who had agreed to act as her rabbi, performed a blessing and then two Buddhist Monks chanted over her. Hours later Hospice bathed and dressed her and her body was taken away.
We won't officially say goodbye until her birthday in late July. She wanted a service outside where we could all gather and share our stories of her. She also wanted to be there (ashes and all). Truth be told, she is still here with me even as I say a reluctant goodbye to her physical presence.
Sunday, April 22, 2007
Leap of Faith
How many times in our lives do we stand at a precipice looking out at the life we could have, wondering if really do have the strength, the intelligence, the fortitude, to take a step forward and leap into the life we have chosen?
I sit and stare at the rejection letters, and the news of dear friends who are finding work in their chosen fields, writing or teaching or whatever combination they can make fit into their lives. I'm wondering if I'm going to be able to make it out there with them. I'm wondering if I have what it takes to succeed, to believe in myself enough to fight the necessary battles within myself and within the field I'm venturing into.
In addition, I have to take a long hard look at the outside commitments I have made, the ones that involve tons of work and no pay, and wonder if I have the fortitude and the patience to work toward the changes I believe need to happen.
Some part of me wants to retreat. Retreat back into my own dark little box, the tiny space I allow my mind to occupy when my own personal demons take over. I want to hide within my misery and prove to myself exactly what kind of failure I am by remaining inactive save for the dark thoughts. Some part of me wants to give in to the voices of doubt that creep in, hand them a microphone and tell them to have at it, knock me down with their words of failure and unworthiness, shred me with truths I don't want to hear, cloak me with the invisibility of my own misery.
But alas, as tempting as giving in seems, it really isn't an option. I don't have the patience to be utterly miserable. In truth I like myself a little too much do any real harm, or allow the voices free reign.
I originally began mulling this subject over with thoughts of career in mind, but am beginning to see recognize my surroundings. I have been here before.
I suppose that when I was about to become a parent, I must have stood here. I must have surveyed the world ahead of me, one that was so new I had great difficulty fathoming what was ahead. One that didn't seem to match the words of the other parents who can gone there before me, the ones that tried to share their wisdom and experiences. I looked up one day and realized that that new world had become my entire reality, there had been no choice but to move forward.
I knew I stood here when I made the decision to go back to school and complete my long neglected college education. I must have sat here looking beyond the critical math homework that so often reduced me to tears, knowing that if I gave up on math that I was giving up on my dreams of a degree, of the education I so desperately wanted. That wasn't an option. I knew that if I gave up, that I wouldn't be able to live with myself. It's strange to receive praise from anyone, inside or outside my personal circle, that point out the awesomeness of my educational accomplishments. To me they were necessary. Kind of like parenting. There was no possibility of giving up.
I don't suppose I'll give up now, either. I'll reevaluate. That much I can do. I have made conscious choices that led me here, both in my career and in my volunteer work. I have to move forward. I have no choice but to jump, to take a leap. To have faith in myself.
I sit and stare at the rejection letters, and the news of dear friends who are finding work in their chosen fields, writing or teaching or whatever combination they can make fit into their lives. I'm wondering if I'm going to be able to make it out there with them. I'm wondering if I have what it takes to succeed, to believe in myself enough to fight the necessary battles within myself and within the field I'm venturing into.
In addition, I have to take a long hard look at the outside commitments I have made, the ones that involve tons of work and no pay, and wonder if I have the fortitude and the patience to work toward the changes I believe need to happen.
Some part of me wants to retreat. Retreat back into my own dark little box, the tiny space I allow my mind to occupy when my own personal demons take over. I want to hide within my misery and prove to myself exactly what kind of failure I am by remaining inactive save for the dark thoughts. Some part of me wants to give in to the voices of doubt that creep in, hand them a microphone and tell them to have at it, knock me down with their words of failure and unworthiness, shred me with truths I don't want to hear, cloak me with the invisibility of my own misery.
But alas, as tempting as giving in seems, it really isn't an option. I don't have the patience to be utterly miserable. In truth I like myself a little too much do any real harm, or allow the voices free reign.
I originally began mulling this subject over with thoughts of career in mind, but am beginning to see recognize my surroundings. I have been here before.
I suppose that when I was about to become a parent, I must have stood here. I must have surveyed the world ahead of me, one that was so new I had great difficulty fathoming what was ahead. One that didn't seem to match the words of the other parents who can gone there before me, the ones that tried to share their wisdom and experiences. I looked up one day and realized that that new world had become my entire reality, there had been no choice but to move forward.
I knew I stood here when I made the decision to go back to school and complete my long neglected college education. I must have sat here looking beyond the critical math homework that so often reduced me to tears, knowing that if I gave up on math that I was giving up on my dreams of a degree, of the education I so desperately wanted. That wasn't an option. I knew that if I gave up, that I wouldn't be able to live with myself. It's strange to receive praise from anyone, inside or outside my personal circle, that point out the awesomeness of my educational accomplishments. To me they were necessary. Kind of like parenting. There was no possibility of giving up.
I don't suppose I'll give up now, either. I'll reevaluate. That much I can do. I have made conscious choices that led me here, both in my career and in my volunteer work. I have to move forward. I have no choice but to jump, to take a leap. To have faith in myself.
Sunday, March 25, 2007
Best Friends Forever and Bobby Sherman
From the age of about four until I was in sixth grade, I considered Debbie Potts my best friend. The fact that we didn't attend the same school, live in the same neighborhood, and were two years apart in age probably contributed to the long-term success of our friendship. It also contributed to the time and distance that has now placed us, as adults, into the mere acquaintance category. I wasn't very socially adept as a young child, either that or the kids I attended grammar school with were all horrible people (something I don't really believe is true), but Debbie and I always got along splendidly. I have pictures of us dressed up in our warm jackets making mud pies in my driveway, and a wonderful picture in my own mind of us in our swimsuits playing in a little plastic pool that held less than two feet of water on my front lawn. Debbie always had long blond hair and was small and slender. I always felt like a behemoth next to her, with my short dark hair (cut the way Gram like it, not the way I wanted it) and my perpetually overweight child self.
We spent the majority of our visits at her house. Her parents lived on property owned by her grandparents. Her grandmother, Gladys, did my grandmother's hair. Gladys had a beauty parlor, complete with huge mirrors, cool hairdresser chairs that went up and down, and giant dryers you sat under with a head full of curlers, housed right next door to her carport. I learned to cut hair, mine and later my friends' and family's, sitting on a seat under an unused dryer watching the ladies get their hair done. Sometimes when Debbie was visiting her Grandma, we would hang out in Gladys' house and watch TV or scour some uncle's room for girlie magazines.
Mostly, though, we either hung out in the dough boy swimming pool behind Gladys' house, or went horseback riding on the property. I loved riding horses with Debbie. I loved riding horses in general. I wasn't a horsey girl–I wasn't madly in love with and obsessed like so many girls I knew (including Debbie). I didn't have miniature horses all over my bedroom, or posters of horses running, mane flying, plastered on my walls. I didn't seem to obsess about most things that girls my age did. I had very few hobbies, I didn't collect certain kinds of dolls, I didn't draw, dance or sing in a choir or like the mainstream heart throb bubblegum rockers that the other girls my age seemed to love (the Jacksons, the Osmonds and most especially Donny Osmond).
There was one singer I did love, truly madly deeply and passionately. Bobby Sherman. Almost no one heard of him, it seemed to me, but I thought he was just the best thing. Ever. He had hair similar to Donny Osmond's–longer on the sides with bangs that swept across his forehead, always threatening to fall across one brown eye. He had a square jaw, and a great big smile (a slight case of buck teeth), and dimples on his cheek and one on his chin. I loved, loved, loved his chin dimple. I remember wearing button up shirts that I made sure had the top three buttons left unbuttoned, just like Bobby Sherman, and a choker, just like Bobby Sherman (something like the one he wore on the poster on my closet door), and my hair parted exactly the same way.
The second to last time that I saw Debbie, she was working in Tuttle Drug as a cashier. She was taking classes so she would get work as a typist or secretary or something like that (I remember thinking that she was aiming way too low) and she was so excited to remember how I used to wear my hear–just like Bobby Sherman.
The last time I saw Debbie was from a distance in downtown Petaluma. She was walking with a man pushing a stroller. After that I often thought of Debbie and wondered how she was. If she was still in town, how many kids she had. I tried looking her up on classmates.com, but had no luck.
A few weeks ago, I attended a meeting at Petaluma High School. The school is in the process of renewing their accreditation and I was asked to come as an "involved" parent. Several people I knew came through the doors of the library, my friend Lynn included, who sat next to me. Equally as many people that I didn't know came in. I spent some time hanging out with the former mayor and his wife Bonnie. In walks a woman with blond hair hanging simply down to her shoulders, small and slender with a very familiar (and much older than the last time I saw her) face. I knew that it had to be Debbie. She was on the other side of the room with her husband, and I couldn't quite make out her name tag. What I wanted to do was to jump up, run (or crawl over seats) across the room and say something witty like, "Debbie, is that you?" What I did do was stay quiet as the meeting began and keep an eye on her in case we locked eyes in a moment of recognition. It didn't happen.
Plan B: Once the meeting was over and we were all invited back to the multi-use room for food, I decided to approach her. I carefully planned my strategy. I would gently touch her arm, when she turned to me I would say, "Could I bother you for a moment? Are you Debbie Potts?" If she was I would then tackle the explanation of who I am. I didn't get the question out of my mouth, she knew me. We had a nice stranger to stranger hug, and spent about 5 minutes catching up on each other's lives. I was clearly much more enthusiastic about seeing her. Don't get me wrong, she wasn't unhappy to see me. She seemed genuinely pleased. She was just so…I don't know…grown up. She was very glad to see that, "you're doing well." She didn't ask about my grandparents, which is very unusual in my experience of running into people I haven't seen in awhile. Maybe she already knew that they were gone. I asked about her grandmother and got a brief update, as well as about her parents. It was very clear to me that we had nothing in common save a few childhood memory scraps, none of which we talked about. Life now was simply more interesting, the lack of school and neighborhood memories that had cemented our friendship those long years ago now created a chasm between us. Other than children around the same age, we had nothing in common. She and her husband didn't even go out to the movies together! I just couldn't relate.
Since sixth grade when Debbie and I mutually decided that we had grown out of "best friend forever"-ness, I didn't have another best friend until high school. Counting Debbie, I have been close to four people that rated that label. Two of them are still in my life. But I still like Bobby Sherman better than Donny Osmond.
We spent the majority of our visits at her house. Her parents lived on property owned by her grandparents. Her grandmother, Gladys, did my grandmother's hair. Gladys had a beauty parlor, complete with huge mirrors, cool hairdresser chairs that went up and down, and giant dryers you sat under with a head full of curlers, housed right next door to her carport. I learned to cut hair, mine and later my friends' and family's, sitting on a seat under an unused dryer watching the ladies get their hair done. Sometimes when Debbie was visiting her Grandma, we would hang out in Gladys' house and watch TV or scour some uncle's room for girlie magazines.
Mostly, though, we either hung out in the dough boy swimming pool behind Gladys' house, or went horseback riding on the property. I loved riding horses with Debbie. I loved riding horses in general. I wasn't a horsey girl–I wasn't madly in love with and obsessed like so many girls I knew (including Debbie). I didn't have miniature horses all over my bedroom, or posters of horses running, mane flying, plastered on my walls. I didn't seem to obsess about most things that girls my age did. I had very few hobbies, I didn't collect certain kinds of dolls, I didn't draw, dance or sing in a choir or like the mainstream heart throb bubblegum rockers that the other girls my age seemed to love (the Jacksons, the Osmonds and most especially Donny Osmond).
There was one singer I did love, truly madly deeply and passionately. Bobby Sherman. Almost no one heard of him, it seemed to me, but I thought he was just the best thing. Ever. He had hair similar to Donny Osmond's–longer on the sides with bangs that swept across his forehead, always threatening to fall across one brown eye. He had a square jaw, and a great big smile (a slight case of buck teeth), and dimples on his cheek and one on his chin. I loved, loved, loved his chin dimple. I remember wearing button up shirts that I made sure had the top three buttons left unbuttoned, just like Bobby Sherman, and a choker, just like Bobby Sherman (something like the one he wore on the poster on my closet door), and my hair parted exactly the same way.
The second to last time that I saw Debbie, she was working in Tuttle Drug as a cashier. She was taking classes so she would get work as a typist or secretary or something like that (I remember thinking that she was aiming way too low) and she was so excited to remember how I used to wear my hear–just like Bobby Sherman.
The last time I saw Debbie was from a distance in downtown Petaluma. She was walking with a man pushing a stroller. After that I often thought of Debbie and wondered how she was. If she was still in town, how many kids she had. I tried looking her up on classmates.com, but had no luck.
A few weeks ago, I attended a meeting at Petaluma High School. The school is in the process of renewing their accreditation and I was asked to come as an "involved" parent. Several people I knew came through the doors of the library, my friend Lynn included, who sat next to me. Equally as many people that I didn't know came in. I spent some time hanging out with the former mayor and his wife Bonnie. In walks a woman with blond hair hanging simply down to her shoulders, small and slender with a very familiar (and much older than the last time I saw her) face. I knew that it had to be Debbie. She was on the other side of the room with her husband, and I couldn't quite make out her name tag. What I wanted to do was to jump up, run (or crawl over seats) across the room and say something witty like, "Debbie, is that you?" What I did do was stay quiet as the meeting began and keep an eye on her in case we locked eyes in a moment of recognition. It didn't happen.
Plan B: Once the meeting was over and we were all invited back to the multi-use room for food, I decided to approach her. I carefully planned my strategy. I would gently touch her arm, when she turned to me I would say, "Could I bother you for a moment? Are you Debbie Potts?" If she was I would then tackle the explanation of who I am. I didn't get the question out of my mouth, she knew me. We had a nice stranger to stranger hug, and spent about 5 minutes catching up on each other's lives. I was clearly much more enthusiastic about seeing her. Don't get me wrong, she wasn't unhappy to see me. She seemed genuinely pleased. She was just so…I don't know…grown up. She was very glad to see that, "you're doing well." She didn't ask about my grandparents, which is very unusual in my experience of running into people I haven't seen in awhile. Maybe she already knew that they were gone. I asked about her grandmother and got a brief update, as well as about her parents. It was very clear to me that we had nothing in common save a few childhood memory scraps, none of which we talked about. Life now was simply more interesting, the lack of school and neighborhood memories that had cemented our friendship those long years ago now created a chasm between us. Other than children around the same age, we had nothing in common. She and her husband didn't even go out to the movies together! I just couldn't relate.
Since sixth grade when Debbie and I mutually decided that we had grown out of "best friend forever"-ness, I didn't have another best friend until high school. Counting Debbie, I have been close to four people that rated that label. Two of them are still in my life. But I still like Bobby Sherman better than Donny Osmond.
Monday, March 12, 2007
Connecting the Dots & Taking Control
Ever have a duh! moment, when you connect dots you knew were there, you knew were related, and that had even occur ed to you were part of a pattern, but that you simply chose not to accept as the reality? I had one of those moments this weekend. It led to a panic/anxiety attack, but an attack with a twist. My body was doing what my body does when anxiety/panic attacks: difficulty catching my breath, which led to hyperventilation, shaking, crying, difficulty forming words. But my mind was working, my thoughts were cohesive, clear. I understood what was happening to me the entire time.
Ever since the bio-mother called I have been chewing and chewing on the problem of what to do about her, about her calls, about just how I wanted to end things with her. I considered writing a letter to "break up" with her once and for all, to explain why I haven't returned the last three calls and why we can't have a relationship. I considered having Joe call her posing as a stranger and telling her that "Ginger" doesn't live at this number. I also considered doing nothing, ignoring the call and keeping an eye on call ID. And during all this, I tried to justify in my mind why it was okay to not have a relationship with my mother. My birth mother. The woman who left me with my grandparents. The woman who has messed with my mind and emotions my entire life. And I didn't get the worst of it–Grandma, Grandpa and Sonny did.
The obstacle I kept putting in front of myself to thwart any definitive decision was compassion. Not forgiveness, not empathy (well not a lot anyway), but the need to understand why she is the way she is. This need got in the way of taking care of myself and by extension my family. I continually found myself making excuses for her behavior and undermining my own resolve.
Then I connected the dots, put aside compassion and took a long hard look at a visceral memory, an innate knowing about her abusive behavior that took place years and years ago. The compassion is gone, the forgiveness indefinitely forestalled, the empathy has gone by the wayside. And the panic attack is over. What is left is the residual depression that is a natural by-product of any contact I have with her. It probably won't last past tomorrow.
So what will I do? Probably have Joe call, as himself, and tell her not to call me anymore. It may work or may not. The one thing about my mother is that she is tenacious. The one parental skill that she possesses is the ability to keep coming back, to keep asserting her presence into my life. She did the same thing to her own parents. Even when they asked to her leave and not come back, she came back, called, visited. She once sent the police to my door after telling them that she hadn't heard from me in awhile and was concerned. Never mind that I had written and asked her to make contact by mail only. Never mind that we had purposely un-listed our home phone so that she couldn't call. She just kept at it, no pattern, no regularity, no consistency. So she may continue her inconsistencies. It doesn't matter anymore. I'm done.
Ever since the bio-mother called I have been chewing and chewing on the problem of what to do about her, about her calls, about just how I wanted to end things with her. I considered writing a letter to "break up" with her once and for all, to explain why I haven't returned the last three calls and why we can't have a relationship. I considered having Joe call her posing as a stranger and telling her that "Ginger" doesn't live at this number. I also considered doing nothing, ignoring the call and keeping an eye on call ID. And during all this, I tried to justify in my mind why it was okay to not have a relationship with my mother. My birth mother. The woman who left me with my grandparents. The woman who has messed with my mind and emotions my entire life. And I didn't get the worst of it–Grandma, Grandpa and Sonny did.
The obstacle I kept putting in front of myself to thwart any definitive decision was compassion. Not forgiveness, not empathy (well not a lot anyway), but the need to understand why she is the way she is. This need got in the way of taking care of myself and by extension my family. I continually found myself making excuses for her behavior and undermining my own resolve.
Then I connected the dots, put aside compassion and took a long hard look at a visceral memory, an innate knowing about her abusive behavior that took place years and years ago. The compassion is gone, the forgiveness indefinitely forestalled, the empathy has gone by the wayside. And the panic attack is over. What is left is the residual depression that is a natural by-product of any contact I have with her. It probably won't last past tomorrow.
So what will I do? Probably have Joe call, as himself, and tell her not to call me anymore. It may work or may not. The one thing about my mother is that she is tenacious. The one parental skill that she possesses is the ability to keep coming back, to keep asserting her presence into my life. She did the same thing to her own parents. Even when they asked to her leave and not come back, she came back, called, visited. She once sent the police to my door after telling them that she hadn't heard from me in awhile and was concerned. Never mind that I had written and asked her to make contact by mail only. Never mind that we had purposely un-listed our home phone so that she couldn't call. She just kept at it, no pattern, no regularity, no consistency. So she may continue her inconsistencies. It doesn't matter anymore. I'm done.
Saturday, February 24, 2007
To Care or Not to Care
My bio-mother called last night and left yet another drunken message. We weren't home, but truth be told I wouldn't have answered the phone even if we had. Thank goodness for Call I.D. It has been almost 14 months to the day since the last time she called, drunk. In fact in the last three years, all three phone calls have been while under the influence. My theory is that it takes enough alcohol to get this alcohlic drunk enough (to slur) before she can summon up the nerve to pick up the phone and dial in a vane attempt to reach out to her oldest child. She has said to me a number of times over the years, "Remember, you're my first born, Ginger." Clearly she is implying that first born means something special. But I have no real memories of feeling the kind of special she wants me to feel.
Sunday, February 11, 2007
Those Silly Pheromones
There is an article, more of a blurb really, in today's Press Democrat that supports about half of what I already believe about personal scent. According to a study done at UC Berkeley, "A chemical in male sweat can boost mood, brain activity and sexual arousal in heterosexual women…"
I realize that science has a compulsion to take perfectly logical ideas and prove them, but all they had to do was ask any woman who loves the way a man smells, and they possibly could have saved some money. And the scientists who conducted the study didn't even let the women really smell the "guys." Women were instead instructed to take 20 whiffs of a chemical with a hugely romantic name, androstadienone, from a bottle and then had their vitals checked. The chemical is a compound "found in male perspiration and other bodily secretions." Lovely.
I once had a crush on a guy who always showed up at the bar we were hanging out in after work smelling like he had been working all day. He had B.O. It was borderline unpleasant, but it still turned me on. There was something about him that really got me all hot and bothered sitting next to him, his androstadienone wafting off his torso and drifting toward me in my chair. I found myself leaning in toward him and inhaling deeply. It reminded me a bit of a food that on first taste isn't great, but once you chew on it awhile and let the inner flavors permeate your taste buds, it is really great and you forgot that the first taste wasn't so great. Come to think of it most alcohol is like that as well. The bitter or biting taste of the fermented grain or grapes that precedes the warmth spreading down your body as the first sip makes its way into your system eventually starts to taste good because you associate it with a pleasant feeling. That is how this guy smelled to me, I got used to the unpleasant outer shell of his end-of-the-day scent because embedded in each scent molecule was some chemical that made my heart race, dilated my capillaries and got my juices flowing.
Conversely, I have seen this phenomenon have the reverse affect on a heterosexual male. My fifteen-year-old daughter went to the movies with a new boyfriend. My hubby and I liked him fine, we had met him and spent a bit of time with him. We weren't eyeing him as potential son-in-law material, but basically he was okay. We offered to give him a ride the few blocks from the movie theater when we came to take the daughter home from the movies, to the restaurant where his parent was waiting and would take him home. As soon as the kids were inside and the car door closed, his scent filled the car. I looked over my shoulder at him in the backseat with my daughter, they weren't even touching, just smiling and chatting. But boy, did he smell great. Whatever he was wearing filled the car. Wow. As covertly as I could, I inhaled deeply and thought briefly about Anne Bancroft as Mrs. Robinson. This kid was much cuter than Dustin Hoffman.
He was only in the car a few minutes, we let him out, the kids said a quick goodbye, he thanked us for the ride and sauntered off as we pulled away from the curb. The usual parent-child chit chat ensued.
I said "Boy, Joe sure smelled good, what was he wearing?" Whatever cologne that was, I imagined, was rivaling Ralph Lauren's Polo from my youth.
To which my daughter replied, "He wasn't wearing anything."
"He sure smelled good."
"Yeah he did."
To which my husband responded, "I thought he was just irritating."
What? Mother and daughter were stunned. What had this kid done to irritate Dad? He had said almost nothing, but not in a surly, dark teen kind of way. He's just kinda shy around adults and was making small talk with the daughter. He hadn't done anything overt to irritate Dad, just being in the car made Dad feel annoyed and irritated. Could you smell him? No. Didn't smell a thing. Ah. The androstadienone was a welcome addition to the car air for us girls, but for the man, it was all about irritation.
Those silly pheromones!
I realize that science has a compulsion to take perfectly logical ideas and prove them, but all they had to do was ask any woman who loves the way a man smells, and they possibly could have saved some money. And the scientists who conducted the study didn't even let the women really smell the "guys." Women were instead instructed to take 20 whiffs of a chemical with a hugely romantic name, androstadienone, from a bottle and then had their vitals checked. The chemical is a compound "found in male perspiration and other bodily secretions." Lovely.
I once had a crush on a guy who always showed up at the bar we were hanging out in after work smelling like he had been working all day. He had B.O. It was borderline unpleasant, but it still turned me on. There was something about him that really got me all hot and bothered sitting next to him, his androstadienone wafting off his torso and drifting toward me in my chair. I found myself leaning in toward him and inhaling deeply. It reminded me a bit of a food that on first taste isn't great, but once you chew on it awhile and let the inner flavors permeate your taste buds, it is really great and you forgot that the first taste wasn't so great. Come to think of it most alcohol is like that as well. The bitter or biting taste of the fermented grain or grapes that precedes the warmth spreading down your body as the first sip makes its way into your system eventually starts to taste good because you associate it with a pleasant feeling. That is how this guy smelled to me, I got used to the unpleasant outer shell of his end-of-the-day scent because embedded in each scent molecule was some chemical that made my heart race, dilated my capillaries and got my juices flowing.
Conversely, I have seen this phenomenon have the reverse affect on a heterosexual male. My fifteen-year-old daughter went to the movies with a new boyfriend. My hubby and I liked him fine, we had met him and spent a bit of time with him. We weren't eyeing him as potential son-in-law material, but basically he was okay. We offered to give him a ride the few blocks from the movie theater when we came to take the daughter home from the movies, to the restaurant where his parent was waiting and would take him home. As soon as the kids were inside and the car door closed, his scent filled the car. I looked over my shoulder at him in the backseat with my daughter, they weren't even touching, just smiling and chatting. But boy, did he smell great. Whatever he was wearing filled the car. Wow. As covertly as I could, I inhaled deeply and thought briefly about Anne Bancroft as Mrs. Robinson. This kid was much cuter than Dustin Hoffman.
He was only in the car a few minutes, we let him out, the kids said a quick goodbye, he thanked us for the ride and sauntered off as we pulled away from the curb. The usual parent-child chit chat ensued.
I said "Boy, Joe sure smelled good, what was he wearing?" Whatever cologne that was, I imagined, was rivaling Ralph Lauren's Polo from my youth.
To which my daughter replied, "He wasn't wearing anything."
"He sure smelled good."
"Yeah he did."
To which my husband responded, "I thought he was just irritating."
What? Mother and daughter were stunned. What had this kid done to irritate Dad? He had said almost nothing, but not in a surly, dark teen kind of way. He's just kinda shy around adults and was making small talk with the daughter. He hadn't done anything overt to irritate Dad, just being in the car made Dad feel annoyed and irritated. Could you smell him? No. Didn't smell a thing. Ah. The androstadienone was a welcome addition to the car air for us girls, but for the man, it was all about irritation.
Those silly pheromones!
Tuesday, February 6, 2007
Sense of Accomplishment
Yesterday I:
1- Worked on my book proposal.
2- Submitted an essay to a contest (to Missouri Review It Started with a Kiss and Ended in Silence).
3- Finally got an envelope to Susan Cohen for letters of recommendation.
4- Receive a very nice rejection from Sara Lawrence's publication Lumina thanking me for my submission, but regrettably they can't publish it.
5- Did lots of practical chores and errand running (including buying blinds to put up in my office).
Today I:
1- Submitted an essay for a fellowship contest (Writers at Work Dust and Dried Blood).
2- Trimmed the rose bushes.
3- Scooped the yard.
4- Checked on my dossier at AWP.
5- Printed out as essay to submit tomorrow (Lessons in Love to The Sun).
6- Did some laundry.
7- Worked 1/2 hour and got paid for 1 hour evaluating essays.
8- Remembered that I will likely have a job before all the big bills come due. I'm not lame, I'm not lazy, I'm not unemployable. I'm just getting started. (hold that thought!)
1- Worked on my book proposal.
2- Submitted an essay to a contest (to Missouri Review It Started with a Kiss and Ended in Silence).
3- Finally got an envelope to Susan Cohen for letters of recommendation.
4- Receive a very nice rejection from Sara Lawrence's publication Lumina thanking me for my submission, but regrettably they can't publish it.
5- Did lots of practical chores and errand running (including buying blinds to put up in my office).
Today I:
1- Submitted an essay for a fellowship contest (Writers at Work Dust and Dried Blood).
2- Trimmed the rose bushes.
3- Scooped the yard.
4- Checked on my dossier at AWP.
5- Printed out as essay to submit tomorrow (Lessons in Love to The Sun).
6- Did some laundry.
7- Worked 1/2 hour and got paid for 1 hour evaluating essays.
8- Remembered that I will likely have a job before all the big bills come due. I'm not lame, I'm not lazy, I'm not unemployable. I'm just getting started. (hold that thought!)
Sunday, February 4, 2007
The Heart of the Matter
What is it that holds an individual back from personal success? Yes, I understand that fear of success is in serious competition with fear of failure. But what is it, specifically, that nurtures those fears? What in our psyche, personal experiences, thought processes, or individual temperament that build the foundations of these fears? Foundations that are so strong, we have to find a way to move completely out of the neighborhood in order to dwell in safer, stronger, healthier homes whose foundations are built on solid beliefs, personal integrity, strength of character and are tall enough to take us to the pinnacle of our dreams?
I have spent so many years looking ahead to someday, that I'm having trouble adjusting to the concept that someday has become today.
Someday I want to try to sell my book proposal and use the advance to pay the bills while doing research and maybe having some other part-time income. So why is it so hard for me to open the damn thing up and work on it? To put the thought and effort, and research time into honing it, moving it toward the agents' mailboxes. I have and I do. But–damn is it hard. The opening part, the wrapping of my own head around part, the settling down and closing off all distractions is the hard part–the really heavy lifting. The work itself is great. I enjoy the research and being distracted by interesting tidbits that I know will further the proposal, and ultimately the story itself, along. I enjoy working the sentences over and over again, until they are molded into exactly the form I want them to be.
But when I'm not working on it, when I'm fretting about money and wondering where I can find a big enough paycheck to meet all of my upcoming obligations, when my head begins to hurt from the worry, I look past my goals and my dreams, toward what I believe to be the more practical. And who defines practical? The voices in my head. Gram and Grandpa. Their worries have become my worries. The shoulds that I fought so hard against while the Grandparents were alive are making a stealth attack comeback.
Don't get me wrong, these aren't their worries about my potential failure I'm talking about, it's theirs. Their fears that were at times projected onto my life. They always made it clear they felt that I was smart and could do whatever I set my mind to. They were from the generation that foresaw my potential to include beauty school or flight attendant school, or working for myself doing housecleaning, or secretarial work, or even a supervisory position in a bank (but not the manager). I'm not sure that they believed enough in themselves to have far reaching dreams, or consider that I would either.
When I got my substitute teaching credential, I was terrified. I wondered if I could have success one day at a time in someone else's classroom. Once I did, I found that I didn't really want to do it, I didn't enjoy it, it wasn't the kind of intellectual challenge I thought it would be. I surpassed a goal. The next goal isn't into my own primary classroom, but into a college level one.
When I try to see myself as a published writer, it is easy for me to forget that I have in fact already been published in local publications, and all I need to do to stretch that out to something larger, is to write. And submit. To take myself seriously and not allow the non-creative issues to cloud my perception. To not see myself as a failure because I don't clean house as thoroughly or often as I believe I should. Or to beat myself up because I want to write instead of scooping poop. Or to dive headfirst into volunteer work, and put aside the essays that only need a few spelling corrections and a couple of addressed envelopes.
I have put into place so many of the pieces needed to move myself towards my goals, but I have to admit that I am too afraid to move toward them. Yet I know that financially and emotionally I need to. When the financial motivates me, instead of sitting down and working on the practicals of publishing and writing, I start looking at full-time jobs in Marin county posted on Craig's List, trying to see myself 8 eights a day writing marketing material, or updating databases, or researching real estate, or watching the alcohol industry, and if the bottom line, the takehome salary, will meet the financial goals I believe I need to reach. On those days, the financially motivated days, I spend far more time fretting and surfing job sites than working toward my writing goals.
I think that I am as afraid of success as I am of failure. There are really many more reasons for my fear than a couple of voices in my head. Like everyone else, I am me because of dozens of experiences over a lifetime. I am afraid because I sometimes don't like being out in the open, being seen and noticed. Which makes if difficult to be successful, doesn't it?
As always, writing helps. It is at the heart of the matter. I am and have wanted most of my life to be a WRITER. Writers write. Writing helps. By writing, I am fulfilling goals. Which is a very large chunk of my reasoning behind starting a blog. I don't really expect anyone to read this, but I'm not posting anything here that I wouldn't willingly talk to someone about in person or on the phone. No big secrets, just working through life by writing.
I have spent so many years looking ahead to someday, that I'm having trouble adjusting to the concept that someday has become today.
Someday I want to try to sell my book proposal and use the advance to pay the bills while doing research and maybe having some other part-time income. So why is it so hard for me to open the damn thing up and work on it? To put the thought and effort, and research time into honing it, moving it toward the agents' mailboxes. I have and I do. But–damn is it hard. The opening part, the wrapping of my own head around part, the settling down and closing off all distractions is the hard part–the really heavy lifting. The work itself is great. I enjoy the research and being distracted by interesting tidbits that I know will further the proposal, and ultimately the story itself, along. I enjoy working the sentences over and over again, until they are molded into exactly the form I want them to be.
But when I'm not working on it, when I'm fretting about money and wondering where I can find a big enough paycheck to meet all of my upcoming obligations, when my head begins to hurt from the worry, I look past my goals and my dreams, toward what I believe to be the more practical. And who defines practical? The voices in my head. Gram and Grandpa. Their worries have become my worries. The shoulds that I fought so hard against while the Grandparents were alive are making a stealth attack comeback.
Don't get me wrong, these aren't their worries about my potential failure I'm talking about, it's theirs. Their fears that were at times projected onto my life. They always made it clear they felt that I was smart and could do whatever I set my mind to. They were from the generation that foresaw my potential to include beauty school or flight attendant school, or working for myself doing housecleaning, or secretarial work, or even a supervisory position in a bank (but not the manager). I'm not sure that they believed enough in themselves to have far reaching dreams, or consider that I would either.
When I got my substitute teaching credential, I was terrified. I wondered if I could have success one day at a time in someone else's classroom. Once I did, I found that I didn't really want to do it, I didn't enjoy it, it wasn't the kind of intellectual challenge I thought it would be. I surpassed a goal. The next goal isn't into my own primary classroom, but into a college level one.
When I try to see myself as a published writer, it is easy for me to forget that I have in fact already been published in local publications, and all I need to do to stretch that out to something larger, is to write. And submit. To take myself seriously and not allow the non-creative issues to cloud my perception. To not see myself as a failure because I don't clean house as thoroughly or often as I believe I should. Or to beat myself up because I want to write instead of scooping poop. Or to dive headfirst into volunteer work, and put aside the essays that only need a few spelling corrections and a couple of addressed envelopes.
I have put into place so many of the pieces needed to move myself towards my goals, but I have to admit that I am too afraid to move toward them. Yet I know that financially and emotionally I need to. When the financial motivates me, instead of sitting down and working on the practicals of publishing and writing, I start looking at full-time jobs in Marin county posted on Craig's List, trying to see myself 8 eights a day writing marketing material, or updating databases, or researching real estate, or watching the alcohol industry, and if the bottom line, the takehome salary, will meet the financial goals I believe I need to reach. On those days, the financially motivated days, I spend far more time fretting and surfing job sites than working toward my writing goals.
I think that I am as afraid of success as I am of failure. There are really many more reasons for my fear than a couple of voices in my head. Like everyone else, I am me because of dozens of experiences over a lifetime. I am afraid because I sometimes don't like being out in the open, being seen and noticed. Which makes if difficult to be successful, doesn't it?
As always, writing helps. It is at the heart of the matter. I am and have wanted most of my life to be a WRITER. Writers write. Writing helps. By writing, I am fulfilling goals. Which is a very large chunk of my reasoning behind starting a blog. I don't really expect anyone to read this, but I'm not posting anything here that I wouldn't willingly talk to someone about in person or on the phone. No big secrets, just working through life by writing.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
The Daily Roller Coaster
Three days ago, I was really excited. I had gotten this blog up and running, I was looking toward a couple of paid gigs this week, and well, the world just seemed kind of exciting.
Two days ago, I was suffering from terror. The icky intangible kind. The, "what am I going to do with my life" kind. The overwhelming, I don't have the guts to execute any of my ideas kind of fear.
Yesterday was a good day. I felt like writing, although I did none. I was very interested in applying for jobs, although I didn't. But my mood was good and I felt that I accomplished the things I set out to do outside the house. I worked in the morning subbing, I brought one donation in for the silent auction I am running next month, I spent some wonderful quality time with my lovely daughter. And I got to spend the evening with my hubby.
Today, the terror is back. This time I'm going at it head on. I'm writing–blogging does count as writing. I've hung wall-folder holders and cleaned some of my desk off. I'm going to update my resume and apply for an out-of-each, full-time editor position with Lucas Films. I'm thinking about sending out my proposal without chapters, simply to see if I get any kind of responses. I'm thinking about sending out some other submissions as well. I'm going to take the damned envelope to Susan Cohen so that she can send out letters of recommendation for me. And it's only 2:00 in the afternoon.
Failing associated with inactivity is far worse than failing after taking action. And action simply feels better. It lifts the heaviness a bit.
Two days ago, I was suffering from terror. The icky intangible kind. The, "what am I going to do with my life" kind. The overwhelming, I don't have the guts to execute any of my ideas kind of fear.
Yesterday was a good day. I felt like writing, although I did none. I was very interested in applying for jobs, although I didn't. But my mood was good and I felt that I accomplished the things I set out to do outside the house. I worked in the morning subbing, I brought one donation in for the silent auction I am running next month, I spent some wonderful quality time with my lovely daughter. And I got to spend the evening with my hubby.
Today, the terror is back. This time I'm going at it head on. I'm writing–blogging does count as writing. I've hung wall-folder holders and cleaned some of my desk off. I'm going to update my resume and apply for an out-of-each, full-time editor position with Lucas Films. I'm thinking about sending out my proposal without chapters, simply to see if I get any kind of responses. I'm thinking about sending out some other submissions as well. I'm going to take the damned envelope to Susan Cohen so that she can send out letters of recommendation for me. And it's only 2:00 in the afternoon.
Failing associated with inactivity is far worse than failing after taking action. And action simply feels better. It lifts the heaviness a bit.
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
And So It Begins
As much as I love to talk, and write, the concept of blogging has seemed out of my league. Eh, why would anyone want to know what's going on in my life? I'm sure I'm the only person remotely nosey enough to read other people's blogs. Yeah, that's why they are so popular.
Despite my naivete, I've decided to give this a try. If nothing else, I'll write more.
Despite my naivete, I've decided to give this a try. If nothing else, I'll write more.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)