Yes, there are many things for which to be thankful:
* We have somehow escaped another 9/11.
* Despite the floods, hurricanes, tornadoes, and other disasters that have reeked havoc on many corners of the world, planet Earth and the humans who inhabit it remain
. . . for now
* The Republican field for President has managed to implode, one candidate at a time.
* Participants in Occupy Wall Street have at last given voice to the real "silent majority" in this country. Some folks may not like the tents, the drumming, or the lack of one grand leader, yet the majority of Americans support the issues of inequality and want to see something done to level the playing field.
* The Arab Spring and Summer have reminded us how much men and women crave freedom and how they are willing to put their lives on the line to secure it.
* Greece and Italy were rescued from the brink of financial collapse.
* Italy's Prince of Debauchery has been booted from office. It will be harder now for him to summon his harem and party on down.
* The thugs at World News Corp are getting their just due.
* With the economic mess has come a renewed appreciation for the importance of family and friends. For some, it has afforded a chance to reinvent. For others, it has taught the valuable lessons of financial budgeting and restraint. Still, we'd all be happier if more people could go back to work.
MY WISH LIST FOR 2012 INCLUDES BUT IS NOT LIMITED TO:
* A return to sanity among at least 51% of the American voting public
* A new discussion about election reform
* A renewed emphasis on alternative forms of energy
* The dismantling of the Bush tax cuts for the wealthy
* A health care law that covers every American
* Fiscal responsibility for the social programs like Social Security and Medicare that keep millions of older Americans afloat
* A decrease in weapons of mass destruction
* A revived American and world economy
* Legalization of marijuana
* Continued passage of laws to enact gay marriage
* Improved educational systems that reincorporate art, music, dance into the curriculum
Gee, I could go on, but you get my drift. We are blessed to have the opportunity to make meaningful changes to save ourselves, our kids, and subsequent generations. Do we have the will?
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Thursday, November 10, 2011
FORGIVENESS
A dear friend of my husband and mine died suddenly of a heart attack at age 68. One minute he was dancing the funky chicken at a niece's wedding; the next, he was on the floor, moaning in pain. Henry (not his real name) had been my husband's college roommate and a dear friend ever since. They shared a love of making art, of travel adventures, and a bond of unshakeable friendship. Unshakeable, that is, until two years before Henry's death when, upset about something to do with his terminally ill brother, he severed all communication. Several attempts at reconnecting - letters, a birthday card, emails - failed. Henry had made up his mind. He wanted nothing to do with my husband or me.
For months Henry haunted us. We searched our memories for what might have sent him over the edge. But it was all a series of guesses; we didn't have a clue. We'd been declared dead and gone without any cause of death. In some ways, the not knowing catapulted me back to the suicide death of my brother. Sure, there were some plausible reasons - at least, in my brother's mind - to take his life: his fragile psyche, the reality of life without hard drugs, a complete lack of direction. But my family and I would never know for sure. And the not knowing, as much as his death, plagued me for years. Only when I'd pursued every lead and come to a dead end every time - when I'd talked to young people who had attempted suicide and lived, to family members and friends of those who weren't so lucky, to experts of every stripe - did I finally accept the not knowing, absolve myself of guilt, move beyond the anger, and the palpable pain.
Henry's wife, (I'll call her Sarah) also a dear friend for over 45 years, is a therapist. She's also an Orthodox Jew whose parents disowned her when she announced that she and Henry, then a lapsed Catholic, were getting married. As far as her parents were concerned, their daughter was dead and buried. The hurt was too much to bear. Sarah had a nervous breakdown. Only when Henry promised to convert to Orthodox Judaism did the parents welcome their back-from-the-dead daughter into their lives again.
Given that history, one would think that Sarah would remember the pain of being banished and would do all in her power to convince Henry that he needed to at least communicate with us and tell his side of the story. That never happened. So, when the phone rang early on a Sunday morning with Henry's sister on the other end telling us that he had died, I burst into tears for him, for his wife, and for us - the dear friend who would now never be able to restore the friendship.
"You're the first people we've called," his sister said.
"But . . we haven't spoken to Henry in two years."
"That doesn't matter. We want you here at the memorial service this afternoon." I hesitated. Did this mean that Sarah had agreed? Or was Henry's sister acting on her own?
"We'll be there."
We arrived at the funeral home later that day and waited for Sarah. She darted into the private room for family only, talking on the phone I was told to her son back in Phoenix who was saddled with making all of the funeral and burial arrangements. When I saw her come out of the room and head toward the women's restroom, I followed her.
"I'm so sorry," I said, wrapping my arms around her. She stiffened.
"How are you doing?"
"What do you expect?"
I began to feel very uncomfortable. "Is there anything we can do?" I offered.
Sarah stared at me, her eyes not filled with tears but with rage. "It's too late."
She turned and walked away.
I felt sick to my stomach and wanted to grab my husband and leave. I hadn't come for abuse but for some kind of a start toward reconciliation or at least some understanding as to what had gone so wrong between us. That was not to be. Sarah, even in her grief, refused to reach out to me for support. She'd made a conscious decision not to open the door, even a tiny bit.
And I made the decision to remember the good times we had shared and to move on.
For months Henry haunted us. We searched our memories for what might have sent him over the edge. But it was all a series of guesses; we didn't have a clue. We'd been declared dead and gone without any cause of death. In some ways, the not knowing catapulted me back to the suicide death of my brother. Sure, there were some plausible reasons - at least, in my brother's mind - to take his life: his fragile psyche, the reality of life without hard drugs, a complete lack of direction. But my family and I would never know for sure. And the not knowing, as much as his death, plagued me for years. Only when I'd pursued every lead and come to a dead end every time - when I'd talked to young people who had attempted suicide and lived, to family members and friends of those who weren't so lucky, to experts of every stripe - did I finally accept the not knowing, absolve myself of guilt, move beyond the anger, and the palpable pain.
Henry's wife, (I'll call her Sarah) also a dear friend for over 45 years, is a therapist. She's also an Orthodox Jew whose parents disowned her when she announced that she and Henry, then a lapsed Catholic, were getting married. As far as her parents were concerned, their daughter was dead and buried. The hurt was too much to bear. Sarah had a nervous breakdown. Only when Henry promised to convert to Orthodox Judaism did the parents welcome their back-from-the-dead daughter into their lives again.
Given that history, one would think that Sarah would remember the pain of being banished and would do all in her power to convince Henry that he needed to at least communicate with us and tell his side of the story. That never happened. So, when the phone rang early on a Sunday morning with Henry's sister on the other end telling us that he had died, I burst into tears for him, for his wife, and for us - the dear friend who would now never be able to restore the friendship.
"You're the first people we've called," his sister said.
"But . . we haven't spoken to Henry in two years."
"That doesn't matter. We want you here at the memorial service this afternoon." I hesitated. Did this mean that Sarah had agreed? Or was Henry's sister acting on her own?
"We'll be there."
We arrived at the funeral home later that day and waited for Sarah. She darted into the private room for family only, talking on the phone I was told to her son back in Phoenix who was saddled with making all of the funeral and burial arrangements. When I saw her come out of the room and head toward the women's restroom, I followed her.
"I'm so sorry," I said, wrapping my arms around her. She stiffened.
"How are you doing?"
"What do you expect?"
I began to feel very uncomfortable. "Is there anything we can do?" I offered.
Sarah stared at me, her eyes not filled with tears but with rage. "It's too late."
She turned and walked away.
I felt sick to my stomach and wanted to grab my husband and leave. I hadn't come for abuse but for some kind of a start toward reconciliation or at least some understanding as to what had gone so wrong between us. That was not to be. Sarah, even in her grief, refused to reach out to me for support. She'd made a conscious decision not to open the door, even a tiny bit.
And I made the decision to remember the good times we had shared and to move on.
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Sleeping Like A Baby
Okay. So I waited almost three years before subjecting myself to a second overnight sleep test. Sure, I knew I had sleep apnea along with approximately 30 million other Americans, but when my neurologist pointed out that during my first sleep test, at one point, I'd stopped breathing for a whopping 54 seconds, I gasped.
"I can't hold my breath for 54 seconds!" I said.
"Well, you did."
He then lit into a litany of possible consequences of stopping breathing during one's sleep (not including the final ending): heart attacks, strokes, impotence, irregular heartbeat, high blood pressure, and heart disease.
So, how could I continue to refuse to treat my sleep apnea?
The major stumbling block? Having to wear one of those ugly Darth Vader-like masks every night. It was bad enough that I've been inserting a mouth piece nightly that prevents me from gnashing my teeth but positions my jaw so that I resemble a baby monkey. Not pretty!
Still, it's a big step up from a clear mouthpiece to a mask with an oxygen tube connected to it.
"You're in good health," the doctor said. "Why take a chance when you can do something now to prevent any future problems?"
I'm not sure why his argument made sense when in the past I was willing to take my chances. Maybe it was my mother's experience. She was ninety and hospitalized with all kinds of ailments. One night the nurse walked in, saw that my mother wasn't breathing, and called a "Code Blue." Not once, but twice. The nurse and doctors thought she'd had a stroke. Only later after my panicked father had driven to the hospital, after I'd made a plane reservation to fly to Florida did the hospital staff realize that my mother had stopped breathing because she had sleep apnea.
I gave in and signed up for my second overnight sleep test. I didn't know until I checked in that this time I'd be tested wearing the C-PAP mask. Now, these masks apparently come in a variety of types. One of the least invasive is one in which small tubes carrying oxygen are placed in each nostril. But there's a downside: You cannot breathe through your mouth. If you do, the flow of oxygen stops and, as I was informed, stopping the flow too often during the night causes the oxygen to escape, drying out your mouth and reducing the effectiveness of the treatment.
But the technician was insistent. "Let's try this one first," she said. "It may be weird at first. And if you don't like it, we can try a full-face mask."
After I was all hooked up and ready to go, the technician turned out the lights and closed the door. Immediately, I panicked. What if I couldn't get enough air? It was like the first time I'd used a snorkel. I did my best to relax, breathing in and out through my nose like I do in yoga class. With some effort, I calmed down, only to feel my left nostril tightening. I was going to suffocate. I was sure of it.
"Bernadette," I said. "Can you hear me?"
She'd told me to call her if and when I needed something.
"Yes, I can hear you."
Thank goodness. For a moment there, I thought she'd decided to take a coffee break.
"I want to try the other mask."
Bernadette fitted me with a second mask. This number covered my nose and mouth with what felt like rubber edges to prevent the oxygen from escaping. It was a tight fit, but I didn't care. I could now breathe any way I wanted.
"Good night," Bernadette said a second time as she turned out the lights.
I thought about how brave my mother had been lying in that hospital bed with doctors and nurses trying to revive her. I'm sure she was confused, scared, terrified. But when I saw her a day later, she made light of the misdiagnosis and said all she wanted was to go home.
And that's all I wanted. To fall asleep, get this test over with, and go home.
I tossed and turned. The melatonin I'd taken didn't do a thing to relax me. I reached for one and then a second prescribed sleeping medication. Finally, I fell into a deep sleep that was interrupted about five hours later with a throbbing pain in the bridge of my nose.
"Bernadette, are you there?"
"Good morning. What can I do for you?"
"The mask . . . it's killing my nose."
"We can end the test," she said. "But first I need you to follow a few instructions."
Like what? I wanted the mask off.
"Close your eyes and don't open them until I tell you."
Couldn't she see? My eyes WERE closed."
"Okay, good. Now open your eyes and keep them open until I tell you."
What did this have to do with anything? I was going to rip the mask off if she didn't hurry.
After what seemed an eternity with additional exercises ("Look to the right." "Look to the left." "Wiggle your right foot." "Now your left.") Bernadette saved the day and unhooked the mask.
It's two days later, and the bridge of my nose is still sore. But what's a little soreness if I can breathe through the night, stop snoring, and maybe just maybe enable my husband to stop wearing earplugs for the first time in years?
Friday, April 15, 2011
Wheel of Fortune
M.K. and I bonded over "Wheel of Fortune," not the TV fare with Vanna and Pat but the online version with poorly-animated "contestants" and a wheel spun by pressing "Enter" or "Return."
M.K. was a member of the group for which I volunteer every Wednesday afternoon at Misericordia --- a residential community of care for people with mild to profound developmental disabilities, many of whom are also physically challenged. M.K. was frightfully thin, his matchstick legs and arms appearing as if they might snap and break at the slightest provocation. Unable to walk unaided for more than a few steps, he moved about in a black wheelchair that required someone pushing on the back end. His dark, straight hair was matted under a baseball cap that was absent only after a bad fall necessitated a slew of stitches.
M.K. sat quietly at the conference table in Room 201. He rarely interacted with other classmates, so I had no idea what was brewing under that baseball cap of his. Then one day when the topic of discussion was Japan, he spoke up, anxious to know exactly where Japan was. I eyed the globe sitting on the window sill, raced over and grabbed it, and returned to point out Japan's exact location.
"Where are we?" M.K. said.
I turned the globe until I fingered Chicago. "Right here."
"What is this place?" M.K. said as he placed his slender finger close to Denver.
"That's Denver, Colorado."
"What do they do there?"
"Well, lots of people like to ski in the winter and hike in the summer."
M.K.'s questions would have continued unabated, but the instructor needed to guide the discussion back to Japan.
But I'd discovered there was quite an inquisitive mind lurking under that baseball cap and made a mental note to use the globe with M.K. whenever the opportunity arose.
A week or two later, I walked behind M.K. as he sat at a computer. Unlike some of his classmates who returned to the same computer game time and time again, M.K. liked to experiment. On this day, he was playing "Wheel of Fortune."
"Can I play, too?" I said, grabbing a chair and pushing it next to his.
Startled, M.K. sat there, frozen. He pretended not to have heard me.
"I used to love watching that show," I said. "Sometimes I could solve the puzzles. Sometimes I couldn't. How about you?"
"I'm pretty good," he said in a whisper.
"Wanna show me?"
M.K. wasn't one to bend to pressure. He did exactly what he wanted. His silence made me uncomfortable. Maybe I'd pushed too hard. Maybe I should have left him alone.
After a long pause. "Sure."
For the rest of my time that afternoon, M.K. and I played "Wheel of Fortune." When I couldn't complete the puzzle, he'd blindly start punching in letters on the keyboard, often sending the game into overload. My inclination was to shout, "No, wait a minute. Let's think this through." And I'm sure I said that a few times. But more often, I just let him type away, hoping that by some miracle the puzzle would be solved or that that the game wouldn't crash.
Week after week, I'd make my rounds, chatting with everyone, answering questions, making supportive comments. When I got to M.K., I'd say, "How about a few rounds of 'Wheel of Fortune?'"
There was never any doubt. M.K. was always anxious to play.
I don't remember talking about personal things. Well, maybe I asked where he was going for vacation (he was staying at Misericordia) or what his favorite foods were (hamburgers and fries). But our focus was on amassing as much play money as possible and dreaming about what we might want to do with all that moola. A trip to Disney Land? Maybe an ocean voyage? Perhaps a visit to Japan?
And whenever possible, I'd grab the globe and show M.K. our fantasy destination.
But the globe was small and difficult to read. I had to squint hard to make out most of the names. For someone like M.K. with poor eyesight (he'd broken his glasses, and it took what seemed like months to get them replaced), reading the words was impossible.
I decided to buy a bigger globe and donate it to Room 201. After a thorough online search, I purchased a 16" inflatable globe and couldn't wait to gift it to Room 201 in M.K.'s honor. But M.K. was absent that Wednesday and the Wednesday after that. He'd been hospitalized but for what and for how long was information to which a volunteer like me was not privy. His roommate visited him, took him his favorite hamburger and fries, and said he was doing "okay."
"I miss him," his roommate said.
"I'm sure you do."
"I just want him to get better. He's my roommate."
But M.K. didn't get better and died in the rehab center where he'd been transferred after his hospitalization. "His body just gave out on him," I was told.
The inflatable globe sits on the window sill next to the older, smaller globe. The person who would have enjoyed it most never got to grasp it in his hands, spin it around, and discover the exact location of some exotic country or to reaffirm his place in the world. But he was able to reaffirm his place in my memories and in my heart.
M.K. was a member of the group for which I volunteer every Wednesday afternoon at Misericordia --- a residential community of care for people with mild to profound developmental disabilities, many of whom are also physically challenged. M.K. was frightfully thin, his matchstick legs and arms appearing as if they might snap and break at the slightest provocation. Unable to walk unaided for more than a few steps, he moved about in a black wheelchair that required someone pushing on the back end. His dark, straight hair was matted under a baseball cap that was absent only after a bad fall necessitated a slew of stitches.
M.K. sat quietly at the conference table in Room 201. He rarely interacted with other classmates, so I had no idea what was brewing under that baseball cap of his. Then one day when the topic of discussion was Japan, he spoke up, anxious to know exactly where Japan was. I eyed the globe sitting on the window sill, raced over and grabbed it, and returned to point out Japan's exact location.
"Where are we?" M.K. said.
I turned the globe until I fingered Chicago. "Right here."
"What is this place?" M.K. said as he placed his slender finger close to Denver.
"That's Denver, Colorado."
"What do they do there?"
"Well, lots of people like to ski in the winter and hike in the summer."
M.K.'s questions would have continued unabated, but the instructor needed to guide the discussion back to Japan.
But I'd discovered there was quite an inquisitive mind lurking under that baseball cap and made a mental note to use the globe with M.K. whenever the opportunity arose.
A week or two later, I walked behind M.K. as he sat at a computer. Unlike some of his classmates who returned to the same computer game time and time again, M.K. liked to experiment. On this day, he was playing "Wheel of Fortune."
"Can I play, too?" I said, grabbing a chair and pushing it next to his.
Startled, M.K. sat there, frozen. He pretended not to have heard me.
"I used to love watching that show," I said. "Sometimes I could solve the puzzles. Sometimes I couldn't. How about you?"
"I'm pretty good," he said in a whisper.
"Wanna show me?"
M.K. wasn't one to bend to pressure. He did exactly what he wanted. His silence made me uncomfortable. Maybe I'd pushed too hard. Maybe I should have left him alone.
After a long pause. "Sure."
For the rest of my time that afternoon, M.K. and I played "Wheel of Fortune." When I couldn't complete the puzzle, he'd blindly start punching in letters on the keyboard, often sending the game into overload. My inclination was to shout, "No, wait a minute. Let's think this through." And I'm sure I said that a few times. But more often, I just let him type away, hoping that by some miracle the puzzle would be solved or that that the game wouldn't crash.
Week after week, I'd make my rounds, chatting with everyone, answering questions, making supportive comments. When I got to M.K., I'd say, "How about a few rounds of 'Wheel of Fortune?'"
There was never any doubt. M.K. was always anxious to play.
I don't remember talking about personal things. Well, maybe I asked where he was going for vacation (he was staying at Misericordia) or what his favorite foods were (hamburgers and fries). But our focus was on amassing as much play money as possible and dreaming about what we might want to do with all that moola. A trip to Disney Land? Maybe an ocean voyage? Perhaps a visit to Japan?
And whenever possible, I'd grab the globe and show M.K. our fantasy destination.
But the globe was small and difficult to read. I had to squint hard to make out most of the names. For someone like M.K. with poor eyesight (he'd broken his glasses, and it took what seemed like months to get them replaced), reading the words was impossible.
I decided to buy a bigger globe and donate it to Room 201. After a thorough online search, I purchased a 16" inflatable globe and couldn't wait to gift it to Room 201 in M.K.'s honor. But M.K. was absent that Wednesday and the Wednesday after that. He'd been hospitalized but for what and for how long was information to which a volunteer like me was not privy. His roommate visited him, took him his favorite hamburger and fries, and said he was doing "okay."
"I miss him," his roommate said.
"I'm sure you do."
"I just want him to get better. He's my roommate."
But M.K. didn't get better and died in the rehab center where he'd been transferred after his hospitalization. "His body just gave out on him," I was told.
The inflatable globe sits on the window sill next to the older, smaller globe. The person who would have enjoyed it most never got to grasp it in his hands, spin it around, and discover the exact location of some exotic country or to reaffirm his place in the world. But he was able to reaffirm his place in my memories and in my heart.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Getting Out of Myself
The perfect antidote to writing a memoir with so much focus on oneself is to spend some time, however limited, with others who appreciate your undivided attention.
In that spirit, I started volunteering at Misericordia, a home for people with mild to severe developmental disabilities, many with physical challenges as well. "My" class has turned me inside out. They are SO challenged but, in most cases, SO loving and open and, yes, SO happy.
Confidentiality prevents me from using any personal photos and real names. So I will use first-name aliases and give you a quick overview.
* Stan - Stan has Down Syndrome. From Day 1, he wanted to sit next to me because he figured out quickly that I could help him with his journal writing, a task he finds extremely difficult, not because he doesn't have ideas but because his spelling is at a first or second grade level. Like most people with Down Syndrome, his tongue is too big for his mouth. He constantly sticks out his tongue, as if gasping for breath, and the subsequent dribbling is inevitable. It took a few weeks for me to get beyond the dribbles and the chapped lips to appreciate Stan for his sense of humor and his kindness. It is now an unwritten rule that he sit next to me come "hell or high water."
* David - David talks a mile a minute, stuttering, mispronouncing words. But if you listen carefully, amid the gush of sounds are observations, facts, and feelings. David loves sports and knows his stuff. He gets very excited when talking about the TV channel on which a particular sporting event will be aired. David likes mystery. He can't wait to find out who the new "American Idol" judges will be or who will win a football game or the World Series. I'm a sports junkie, too. So, David and I have become fast buddies.
* Suzy - Suzy is one of the highest functioning young women in the group. She flies back and forth between Chicago and her hometown, sings in one of Misericordia's performance groups, and remembers things that many of the others forget. Suzy adores a particular Elvis impersonator; whenever she has the chance, she sits at the computer, headphones on, and watches the same You Tube videos over and over again. For the past two weeks, Suzy has told me that she loves me.
I look forward to my few hours at Misericordia. It some ways, it's like meditation. I get beyond the chatter of my own mind. I am focused on others who, for a short time every week, take me out of myself.
I recommend it to everyone!
Monday, June 28, 2010
Trying My Hand at Writing A Memoir
My Memoir Writing class started three weeks ago, and I've been writing my heart out ever since. Some of what I've written is quite good; other sections have already been tossed. Par for the course but, still, this has been no easy task.
In many ways, I feel like I've been on a psychiatrist's couch without much food or sleep. What was I REALLY thinking when I was three and my baby brother was born? What did it REALLY feel like to be dethroned, never to be the center of anyone's universe again? Why did I REALLY use my dad's razor when I was eleven and shave my legs? When my brother took his life, why didn't I turn to my family for support and comfort?
The questions are endless; the digging is deep.
I'm used to telling other people's stories. Sure, I may include my tale in a preface or a prologue. Or maybe even in a magazine article. But to consider making myself the main character of a memoir, someone who is compelling, interesting, and, oh, yes, wise . . . well, that's a tall order. Quite candidly, I'm not sure I'm ready.
The most successful memoirs don't just string together a series of events that may, in and of themselves, be quite enticing. No, a memoir has an arc just as a novel or a play. There is a beginning, a middle, and an end. And a memoir has major themes, hopefully universal, that demonstrate how the character (me) has evolved and, through her experiences, gained some insights that other people may find handy.
I wasn't a drug addict or a prostitute or a Rhodes Scholar. I didn't cover the war in Iraq or perform in a circus or strip joint. God hasn't talked to me - at least, not directly - and I can't read other peoples' minds. My parents had their dysfunction, but I wasn't abused.
Sure, I've known my share of failure, disappointment, and tragedy. But nothing necessarily to write a memoir about.
Unless . . . unless my writing is so sharp, my feelings so honest, my "voice" so unique that an editor is willing to take a chance that more than 500 people will be interested.
In truth, I'm not focused on publication. Been there, done that. I'm more interested in the process of writing, in the challenge of digging deep and finding the exact words that, when I've finally arranged them just so, make me go "Wow! That's damn good."
In many ways, I feel like I've been on a psychiatrist's couch without much food or sleep. What was I REALLY thinking when I was three and my baby brother was born? What did it REALLY feel like to be dethroned, never to be the center of anyone's universe again? Why did I REALLY use my dad's razor when I was eleven and shave my legs? When my brother took his life, why didn't I turn to my family for support and comfort?
The questions are endless; the digging is deep.
I'm used to telling other people's stories. Sure, I may include my tale in a preface or a prologue. Or maybe even in a magazine article. But to consider making myself the main character of a memoir, someone who is compelling, interesting, and, oh, yes, wise . . . well, that's a tall order. Quite candidly, I'm not sure I'm ready.
The most successful memoirs don't just string together a series of events that may, in and of themselves, be quite enticing. No, a memoir has an arc just as a novel or a play. There is a beginning, a middle, and an end. And a memoir has major themes, hopefully universal, that demonstrate how the character (me) has evolved and, through her experiences, gained some insights that other people may find handy.
I wasn't a drug addict or a prostitute or a Rhodes Scholar. I didn't cover the war in Iraq or perform in a circus or strip joint. God hasn't talked to me - at least, not directly - and I can't read other peoples' minds. My parents had their dysfunction, but I wasn't abused.
Sure, I've known my share of failure, disappointment, and tragedy. But nothing necessarily to write a memoir about.
Unless . . . unless my writing is so sharp, my feelings so honest, my "voice" so unique that an editor is willing to take a chance that more than 500 people will be interested.
In truth, I'm not focused on publication. Been there, done that. I'm more interested in the process of writing, in the challenge of digging deep and finding the exact words that, when I've finally arranged them just so, make me go "Wow! That's damn good."
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Happy Birthday, Daddy-O
If he'd lived, my dad would be celebrating his 93rd birthday today. Oh, I'm sure he'd be complaining about his golf game. And it's quite possible that we would have taken his driver's license away by now. His sense of distance had been failing, and he tended to swing wide, just missing hitting the curb or sometimes other cars. And, oh, how he'd be missing my mother who died a matter of weeks before he did!
That wasn't the way it was supposed to be. My dad had for years expressed the wish to die first; he couldn't imagine facing life without her. They barbed at one another constantly (My mother said to me at one point, "I wish your father would take a permanent golf vacation"), and the distance between them appeared to grow once my mother became seriously ill. I recognize now that my dad was petrified that my mother wouldn't make it and, instead of supporting and caring for her, he did everything he could to push her to her limits.
For all his years, my dad was in incredibly good shape. Hell, it took him 8 days to die with no food or water. He couldn't do math in his head anymore, and multi-tasking was often beyond him. But he was still very present, never forgot a face, and could argue politics and other social issues with the best of them. He loved the fact that I was politically involved and was intrigued by how the computer had revolutionized social/political networking. My dad was a proud member of MoveOn.org. He was hip and progressive to the end.
Sitting by his bed side, waiting for him to die after a subdural hematoma left him paralyzed on the left side, unable to speak, and unable to swallow, I was convinced that, despite his protestations to the contrary before he was struck down, he really didn't want to die. We all say things we don't mean, and I believe that if he could have had a second chance at life, he would have grabbed it. His beloved youngest daughter lived nearby. Her friends had become his. He'd taken to small town living in Yellow Springs, Ohio, like a duck to water and probably could have run for mayor or water commissioner. He was that personable. My dad could strike a conversation with anyone and often did.
I'd love to be able to talk to him now. So much has happened since July 26, 2008. Obama is President of the United States. He would be damn happy about that. The country is more polarized than it's been in decades. He would have been dismayed but with a sense of history that nine plus decades brings. And all the personal events, dreams and disappointments. My dad was a good sounding board and always one of my best supporters.
So, daddy-o, I wish you happy trails wherever you may be. Know that your memory is fresh, your lessons well taught, and your love always a port in the storm.
Happy Birthday!
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