Get ready for a laugh!
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Monday, December 8, 2008
Did my time in the California Conservation Corps
I was 18 years old in 1979, and had been raised in a homogenous suburb of San Francisco called Castro Valley. I had no clue what I wanted to do with my life. I had started Junior College and that brought forth no answers either. What I needed was a major change---something that would get me out of my parent’s house and be an adventure too.
Someone had told me about the California Conservation Corps, a program run by the State of California for young adults age 18-23. They were planting trees, working in the forests and mountains, and making a difference in the community---this definitely appealed to the romantic sensibilities of an 18-year-old girl. I imagined meeting young men with long dark hair and closely trimmed beards that would appreciate a girl who was scented with patchouli oil, wore Birkenstocks, and listened to Dan Fogelberg and CSNY.
I went to the State of California employment offices where I applied and was accepted. They requested a 1-year commitment, though this was a contract that could be broken if need be. I was instructed to buy 2 pairs of brown Lee jeans and a pair of work boots---they would provide the khaki colored shirts with CCC patches and the hats that I would wear.
“Basic Training” was a 3-week induction into the CCC. I arrived in Angel’s Camp with my new uniforms, my bottle of patchouli oil, and with hopes of meeting other like-minded young men and women to bond with.
I became aware fairly quickly that the C.C.C. wasn’t what I had imagined it to be. The girls who I had already encountered in my barracks weren’t very friendly---they seemed hard-edged---much more street-wise than me. I was already feeling out of place here.
These girls had a mission, and it was to make this my life as miserable as possible. They had begun to harass me, threw away my patchouli oil and short-sheeted my bed.
My anxiety was rising, but I knew that once I was transferred to San Luis Obispo, that everything would change. I would be able to bring all of my personal items---my guitar and records and clothes for leisure time. I would have to leave my Golden Retriever at home though---a fact that grieved me terribly.
I got through this mini boot camp and headed for SLO. We had shared cabins here, so there would be more privacy and perhaps more tolerance for individuality.
I began to meet people and started working on some of the projects assigned me. The projects weren’t that bad---I wasn’t planting trees, but we were doing some work in the community, and we even assisted with mop up work at some wild fires in the area.
My disappointment---what made this the worst job ever---was that in my naiveté I didn’t understand that a lot of the kids who had joined the CCC were actually from the “streets”. Some had been diverted from the legal system, some had terrible family problems, some were just looking for a place to escape to---like me I guess.
My cabin roommate seemed friendly enough. I even brought her home to my mom’s house for a weekend to hang out. She was from Merced or Modesto or somewhere like that, and it seemed like we could get along---that was until her boyfriend accused me of giving her Valium---I don’t know where she copped the V. --well, the guy actually threatened to kill me.
I felt helpless and ill equipped to understand the culture that I had landed in, or the hostility directed toward me. I was a nice person, always friendly and open. I just didn’t get it, and I was getting scared.
There was a pregnant girl at this camp. She had a boyfriend who claimed to be the nephew of John Forsythe, the actor of Dynasty fame. I had made the mistake of getting a little too close to said Dynasty star nephew, not knowing about the pregnant girlfriend of course, and before I knew it I was being threatened in the bathroom by his girlfriend and her pals.
I think that I had a panic attack the next day, and had to be taken to the local emergency room for observation.
I called my mom and cried “uncle”, and the next day she sent my brother-in-law down to pack up my stuff and bring me home.
In my wildest imagination I didn’t think that I would find such cultural diversity, or kids with such varied personal histories. I had seen bullet and knife scars on some of the young men at that camp, and I had never really experienced that kind of “I’m gonna beat your ass” mentality among my peers at home.
I didn’t find Dan Fogelberg or hang out among the redwoods, but I did come home with a little more life experience, which isn’t such a bad thing after all.
Someone had told me about the California Conservation Corps, a program run by the State of California for young adults age 18-23. They were planting trees, working in the forests and mountains, and making a difference in the community---this definitely appealed to the romantic sensibilities of an 18-year-old girl. I imagined meeting young men with long dark hair and closely trimmed beards that would appreciate a girl who was scented with patchouli oil, wore Birkenstocks, and listened to Dan Fogelberg and CSNY.
I went to the State of California employment offices where I applied and was accepted. They requested a 1-year commitment, though this was a contract that could be broken if need be. I was instructed to buy 2 pairs of brown Lee jeans and a pair of work boots---they would provide the khaki colored shirts with CCC patches and the hats that I would wear.
“Basic Training” was a 3-week induction into the CCC. I arrived in Angel’s Camp with my new uniforms, my bottle of patchouli oil, and with hopes of meeting other like-minded young men and women to bond with.
I became aware fairly quickly that the C.C.C. wasn’t what I had imagined it to be. The girls who I had already encountered in my barracks weren’t very friendly---they seemed hard-edged---much more street-wise than me. I was already feeling out of place here.
These girls had a mission, and it was to make this my life as miserable as possible. They had begun to harass me, threw away my patchouli oil and short-sheeted my bed.
My anxiety was rising, but I knew that once I was transferred to San Luis Obispo, that everything would change. I would be able to bring all of my personal items---my guitar and records and clothes for leisure time. I would have to leave my Golden Retriever at home though---a fact that grieved me terribly.
I got through this mini boot camp and headed for SLO. We had shared cabins here, so there would be more privacy and perhaps more tolerance for individuality.
I began to meet people and started working on some of the projects assigned me. The projects weren’t that bad---I wasn’t planting trees, but we were doing some work in the community, and we even assisted with mop up work at some wild fires in the area.
My disappointment---what made this the worst job ever---was that in my naiveté I didn’t understand that a lot of the kids who had joined the CCC were actually from the “streets”. Some had been diverted from the legal system, some had terrible family problems, some were just looking for a place to escape to---like me I guess.
My cabin roommate seemed friendly enough. I even brought her home to my mom’s house for a weekend to hang out. She was from Merced or Modesto or somewhere like that, and it seemed like we could get along---that was until her boyfriend accused me of giving her Valium---I don’t know where she copped the V. --well, the guy actually threatened to kill me.
I felt helpless and ill equipped to understand the culture that I had landed in, or the hostility directed toward me. I was a nice person, always friendly and open. I just didn’t get it, and I was getting scared.
There was a pregnant girl at this camp. She had a boyfriend who claimed to be the nephew of John Forsythe, the actor of Dynasty fame. I had made the mistake of getting a little too close to said Dynasty star nephew, not knowing about the pregnant girlfriend of course, and before I knew it I was being threatened in the bathroom by his girlfriend and her pals.
I think that I had a panic attack the next day, and had to be taken to the local emergency room for observation.
I called my mom and cried “uncle”, and the next day she sent my brother-in-law down to pack up my stuff and bring me home.
In my wildest imagination I didn’t think that I would find such cultural diversity, or kids with such varied personal histories. I had seen bullet and knife scars on some of the young men at that camp, and I had never really experienced that kind of “I’m gonna beat your ass” mentality among my peers at home.
I didn’t find Dan Fogelberg or hang out among the redwoods, but I did come home with a little more life experience, which isn’t such a bad thing after all.
Friday, November 21, 2008
Election Night
I can’t believe that the election is over. Well, it’s mostly over. There are still Senate seats to be decided, and as I was driving home from dinner last night, I noticed that the DNC office was still open and staffed 2 weeks after the election. It is hard to let go, since it was such a cathartic experience for so many people. At least I know that it was for me.
I’ve been following the election from the very beginning, and I had initially supported Hillary Clinton. I mean, for a Clinton lover, what would be better than having them back in the White House? The whole notion was intriguing and in some ways, comforting.
But last April, Barack Obama delivered a speech in South Carolina. As my husband and I watched him deliver this stump speech, we both began to cry. It was unbelievable that we were both sitting there with tears streaming down our faces. It was on this night that something changed for me. There was something irrestistable about this man---it was as if he had reached into my psyche---that he knew exactly what I needed to hear.
Over the past 8 years I have felt like I’ve been held prisoner. There was such a feeling of helplessness that I felt every time George Bush turned the screws a little tighter, and dug a hole so deep that no one was likely to easily climb out of.
My God---did Obama just throw America a rope?
His message of hope and change became something very personal for me. As I witnessed the campaign via 24-hour news, I became possessive and protective of Obama. I would find myself hollering at the likes of Pat Buchanan and Carly Fiorina, as they tried to tear apart Obama’s character, and to distort his message of hope and promise of change.
It became almost too stressful to me to bear witness to at times. I could barely tolerate watching the debates. I had to leave the room several times as Sarah Palin winked and talked down to America. I lost sleep, I wrote emails to Chris Mathews and Keith Olbermann, I donated hundreds of dollars, and I emailed my family and friends. My anxiety was extremely high, almost uncontrollable.
It was during the last weeks of the campaign that I began to really get in touch with my feelings about the election. It wasn’t just that I had had enough of George Bush and his out of control policies. It wasn’t simply that as a socially liberal Democrat I could no longer bear the idea of religion being hijacked and trademarked by a political party, that God was being used as a pawn and as a means to an end. It wasn’t simply that I was sick and tired of being called unpatriotic and un-American because I disagree with a disastrously failed foreign policy.
I began to understand Obama’s message in a visceral way. Deep in my bones, in my heart and very soul, my wounded child connected with Obama and his remarkable journey toward the Presidency. Over the months I began to feel hopeful about my own life. I began to think that personal change and transformation IS possible, even if the challenges that you’re facing seem insurmountable. He began to symbolize all of my hopes and dreams for my own life. How could I not support this man and embrace his message?
Incredible as it may seem, we were in DC on election night. I had planned this trip months in advance. I love DC. There is so much history there, so many beautiful places to visit, so much power being tossed around. I wanted to be around it, maybe even be a part of it in some small way.
We spent those few days wandering around the city---feeling proud, hopeful and excited. There was a definite vibe everywhere we went. Cab drivers, waitresses, the power brokers having lunch at a restaurant on Capital Hill---everyone was buzzed, some were even giddy.
On election night we went to a restaurant that we had been to on previous visits to the city. The place was packed with Democrats, Republicans, Senate staffers, and various other DC players. It’s interesting how important one begins to feel just hanging around such a diverse group of people. Elbowing up to the bar, starting a conversation with an attorney from the Department of Labor, and finding yourself practically sitting in his lap because you want a piece of something powerful. You want to be in the mix, in the moment---you want to feel like you’re a player too, if only for one evening. So I turned on the charm, I flattered and flaunted, and for a few minutes, I felt like an insider---important and connected.
We left the restaurant before they called the election. I had to be dragged out of there by my husband and our companion. We caught a cab back to the Sofitel, which is about a block from the White House. The hotel bar was jammed with people too, and we stayed there---me with my 4th glass of wine, and we basked in the glow of our impending victory.
It was in this bar, among other visitors from all over the world that we heard the announcement---and we all cheered, feeling utterly relieved, and even disbelief. President-Elect Barack Obama. It has a certain ring to it.
We finally rode the elevator up to the 10th floor, and turned on the news to continue the celebration. After a few minutes, we heard a commotion outside, so I looked out the window down at the street 10 floors below me, and I saw hundreds of people spilling out onto the streets heading toward Pennsylvania Avenue. We immediately grabbed out coats and sped back to the lobby, went outside, and joined the group that was walking toward the White House. We turned the corner, and before us were several thousand people milling around, hooting, hollering and banging pots and pans. There was security and police patrolling about, but there was nothing threatening happening on this night. This night was for celebration and victory. We joined in with the masses, a collective voice of prisoners released from their 8 year captivity, It was all the sweeter knowing that W. was at home that night, and could hear the celebration that was heralding a new age.
We finally returned to the hotel in a bit of a daze. The night of partying and celebrating was about to come to an end for me. After I climbed into bed, I turned to my husband and whispered, “I still don’t believe it”, and I cried myself to sleep filled with the hope that I had clung to so tightly throughout the campaign.
Friday, October 3, 2008
May I call you Sarah? By Toni Maita
I had to steel myself before I was able to watch the V.P. debate last night. I knew what to expect, and I knew that I would be angry and offended before the evening was over. I must say that Sarah Palin did not disappoint me.
May I call you Sarah? (wink)
Sarah, you were completely true to form last night. I knew that you wouldn’t make the same truthful blunders that you made with Charlie Gibson and Katie Couric over the past few weeks. Indeed, you were well prepared by the heavy hands of the GOP to grease the American public with your brand of obsequious blathering that only your “base” would be electrified by. As you prattled on about “hockey moms”, “Joe six-pack” (whoever the fuck that is referring to), and “white flags of surrender”, you sunk to a new low when you failed to acknowledge Joe Biden’s thoughtful moment when reflecting on his own personal losses.
Your body language was cartoonish at best, kind of like a Barbie doll on meth. Who advised you to present yourself in such an obviously shallow and ridiculous way? We’re you winking at me Sarah? Don’t wink at me! In that moment I wanted to reach my hand through the TV screen and bitch slap you. You’re more smug and condescending than Dick Cheney, and that’s a major accomplishment, and truly terrifying.
Did I really hear you right, Sarah? Did you say that you wanted to expand the power of the V.P.? Is that what you think that I want to hear? Who advised you to take that position? Have you completely snapped your cap?
I also wondered Sarah, whether you would really answer any of the moderator’s questions. You danced around those questions like a cat on a hot tin roof. May I call you “Maggie the Cat”? (Wink) Clearly you have something to hide Sarah, and it’s little to do with your lack of national experience. You are a rapacious, power-seeking politician, who would lie to me, and to millions of others to suit your own power hungry ego.
Sarah, you do not represent me, my views as a woman, or my views as an American. I happen to believe that you are no maverick (whatever the fuck that really means). I know that the Republican Party has led this country to the depths of despair, vis-à-vis the Iraq war, and to a near financial meltdown of our markets through deregulation and neglect. I happen to know that the policies that would be put forward by the McCain administration would only fuel that flame. You can spew the same lies over and over again about the democrats and their leadership; it doesn’t make it any more true or real. I think that you need a reality check Sarah. (Big wink and smile)
Furthermore, stop injecting “God” into everything Sarah, especially when you’re speaking to a truly national audience. It just makes you look scarier that you really are—or perhaps you really are that scary. Anyone who injects religion into politics has no basic understanding of what it means to be an American. Did you have a “brain-fart” Sarah? Did you know that there are registered voters in the country who are not Christians? Has that ever occurred to you, or any of the other self-righteous fuckers who would blend God with politics, and somehow degrade that into a litmus test for patriotism?
Do you realize that you effectively alienated the large population of gays, lesbians, bisexuals and transgendered people as you uttered the words “tolerate”? Sarah, what United States of America are you living in? It’s certainly not my USA, and I am ashamed that you would say that you are representing “Americans” on that stage last night.
I really don’t need to remind you of your performances that were broadcast on the nightly news over the past few weeks. Clearly, you were more “you” in those interviews, than you were during last night’s rehearsal for the Miss America pageant. (Head cocked, smug smile and a wink too>)
I used to believe that I could “tolerate” John McCain, should he be elected to the Presidency, but Sarah, you have effectively soured me to any notion that I could ever support John McCain now.
Nice work Sarah. (Wink)
In memory of Flame
Shalimar Dolce's Burning Love CD "Flame"
June 19, 1994 - September 29, 2008
Dear Moo
I can't believe that you're gone. I will never forget the day that we brought you home from Tom and Jocelyn Lewis' house. I held you in my lap as Vaughn drove us home, and I held you up and starting singing, " a dinky dinky dinky, a dinky doo doo". I laughed at smiled and wondered at you, and I always will.
Remember when we tried to show you when you were 6 months old? Ha ha! You really didn't think much about that, and we decided that it really didn't matter about that championship thing. You did go on to earn your CD, and in your own inimitable style, you slayed me. When you were going for your third leg during the sits and downs, you assumed the "frog" position and began wagging that splendiferous tale of yours, and you smiled and beamed for the entire exercise. I thought that I would bust up laughing, but I bit my tongue, and we got that CD! I was so proud of you Moo!
You produced 3 beautiful litters for me, and beside me sits your daughter Leia from CH Ashford's Saffron O'Reilly. Leia went on to produce the grandchildren and her children the great grandchildren still living in my house today. They always paid you all the respect and deference that you deeply deserved. They are your living legacy Moo, your shining stars.
Moo, you were such a comedian, and so good natured. I can't ever remember you ever having to correct anyone in our house, except to bare your teeth at an annoying puppy in your face, and I KNEW that it was all for show, almost comical really. You were sweet and loving beyond words my old Moo. One of the greatest things about you, was that you were so musical. I will always cherish the arias that you sang for us. It cracked me up the way that you would be lying in the kitchen or down the hallway, and suddenly I would hear your singing, or "mooing". I'd come in the room and there you were, laying flat on your belly, tail wagging wide and slow.
It was so hard to let you go today. Until the end, I was really in denial about it. It's so hard to make that kind of choice, but I could finally see it in your eyes, and I knew that if you could talk, you would have said "mama, I feel like crap. I am so sick and tired, and I don't think that I can go on much longer. Don't feel bad mama, because you loved me so good and so completely, and I'll always be watching over you and papa."
Moo moo dog, those were some awesome 14+ years together, and you will always be in my heart, and deeply missed by me and papa Greg.
Love always,
Mama
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Keith Olbermann Special Comment
Keith Olbermann is blatantly honest and unapologetic about the exploitation of 9/11 by the GOP at their recent convention.
Friday, August 29, 2008
The Hand of Karl Rove - McCain's VP Pick
This Republican VP selection of Mrs. Palin is straight out of the Karl Rove play book. She's going to be used to go into the bible belt and once again try to divide this country on issues like gay rights and abortion, and sadly, it could work. I find it incomprehensible and terrifying that the citizens of this country may potentially be distracted ONCE AGAIN from the most important issues that we face as a country; health care, the economy, national security and foreign policy, education, and social security---that people will once again divide on issues that have NOTHING TO DO with our strength and solvency as a Nation. It's irresponsible and dangerous.
I also find it astonishing that should McCain win this election, and fall ill and die while in office, that we would be faced with a 40-something year old woman with absolutely no national political experience and no education in the nuances of foreign policy. She stated publically that she has no interest in the Iraq war---that she hasn't even followed it.
It was reported on MS-NBC that John McCain only met her once before he selected her as his V.P. nominee. What kind of vetting process does this suggest? It suggests that they are playing a dangerous game with the American people.
Yes, she's a "hockey mom", a former beauty queen, and has raised 5 kids, the youngest with Down's Syndrome. Well, that's terrific! That's a great American story, but it doesn't qualify her to lead this country.
Also of note, she eats "Buffalo" burgers (now there's a selling point), is a member of the NRA and a hunter, is anti gay rights, and wants to OUTLAW abortion in all 50 states, even in the case of rape or incest. Is this the kind of myopic person that we want running our government?
It's ironic, because people like Pat Buchanan are referring to this woman as a "feminist." Feminist? John McCain doesn't believe that women deserve equal pay for doing the same job that a man does. Feminist? You've got to be kidding me. Holding down a job and raising a family does not make you a feminist.
The McCain campaign is going to try and sell it that they selected Mrs. Palin to try and gain the women's vote. That's spin, and it's a red herring. Democratic women who supported Hillary have NOTHING in common with Sarah Palin, and it makes no sense that these women would suddenly vote for John McCain simply because he put her on his ticket. Do they think that women are really a bunch of morons? Women who supported Hillary are NOT right-wing conservatives.
I for one will not allow them to manipulate me with this Rovain slight of hand. As Barack Obama stated strongly and with complete conviction during his acceptance speech, "ENOUGH!"
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
The Red Suitcase
My parents were a mystery to me when I was an adolescent. At a time that I was beginning to experiment with drugs and sex, apparently my mom and dad were too.
It was 1975, and my parents were in their early 50’s.
One afternoon, my pal Dennis and I snuck into my parent’s bedroom while they were out. There was good reason for this stealth mission---they had recently redecorated it with a mirrored tile ceiling, a white faux fur bedspread, black and white Grecian wallpaper, and black lacquer furniture. This love shack of a bedroom conjured up images real and imagined, almost too much for a 13-year-old girl to grasp.
As if the wonder of their bedroom wasn’t enough titillation, the actual “holy grail” that we were after had been shining like a beacon before me for weeks. I had seen the red suitcase in their closet, and I couldn’t understand what it was doing in there. No one was planning to take a trip, and the rest of the luggage was neatly tucked away in the basement.
There had to be something explosive in that suitcase. My parents had started down a strange and lusty path of pot smoking, ménage a trois’s, and hysterical fighting. I had witnessed much of this from my vantage point of the bedroom next door. I never got a visual of any of this, but I had heard them in their room with one of my mom’s friends, and I had smelled the pot, and had heard my mother urging my aunt to try it one night when they were over for dinner.
I was sure that the red suitcase contained something forbidden, and possibly shocking.
I opened the sliding closet door, and grabbed hold of my prize. Dennis was standing beside me, urging me to hurry. I placed it on the bed, held my breath, and opened the latches.
First we gasped, then we laughed, then we began rifling through the contents. There were battery-operated vibrators, a few dildos and a huge strap-on, that Dennis proceeded to insert one of the vibrators into, extracting some leftover bodily fluid that “grossed” us both out.
There was that lid of marijuana that I was sure that I had smelled, and a copy of “San Francisco Screw” magazine---the centerfold being a blown-up photo of a vagina; an image that I can still picture vividly in my mind as if it were yesterday.
After about 10 minutes, all of our curiosity spent, I closed the suitcase and placed it back in the closet exactly where I had found it. I think that I may have lifted some of the pot from that notorious lid as a consolation prize. I figured that they would never know, and even if they did suspect, they would never be able to admit that it existed in the first place.
I was angry and outraged, but I just laughed it off, told my friends about it, and internalized all of my fears about who my parents were, and who they were becoming. They were unrecognizable to me, and there were times that I hated them.
Yes, the red suitcase was symbolic of a bigger picture for me, and my experience of my parents. I saw them as betrayers and abandoners. I accused them of being selfish and neglectful. I may have even accused them of not loving me. It was impossible for me to see or fully grasp how their own lives were changing, even unraveling. I was a complete little narcissist, like every other adolescent on the planet. My parent’s existed for me, and the very idea that they had their own problems, needs, and desires, were not a part of my paradigm.
Today I can look back at my parents in 1975 and see them through a different prism. Through all of the drama and change, the passion and the folly, the shocking and bizarre, I can forgive and accept them as having been human---just people struggling through their own lives. It’s really not that hard to figure.
You see, I have my own red suitcase.
It was 1975, and my parents were in their early 50’s.
One afternoon, my pal Dennis and I snuck into my parent’s bedroom while they were out. There was good reason for this stealth mission---they had recently redecorated it with a mirrored tile ceiling, a white faux fur bedspread, black and white Grecian wallpaper, and black lacquer furniture. This love shack of a bedroom conjured up images real and imagined, almost too much for a 13-year-old girl to grasp.
As if the wonder of their bedroom wasn’t enough titillation, the actual “holy grail” that we were after had been shining like a beacon before me for weeks. I had seen the red suitcase in their closet, and I couldn’t understand what it was doing in there. No one was planning to take a trip, and the rest of the luggage was neatly tucked away in the basement.
There had to be something explosive in that suitcase. My parents had started down a strange and lusty path of pot smoking, ménage a trois’s, and hysterical fighting. I had witnessed much of this from my vantage point of the bedroom next door. I never got a visual of any of this, but I had heard them in their room with one of my mom’s friends, and I had smelled the pot, and had heard my mother urging my aunt to try it one night when they were over for dinner.
I was sure that the red suitcase contained something forbidden, and possibly shocking.
I opened the sliding closet door, and grabbed hold of my prize. Dennis was standing beside me, urging me to hurry. I placed it on the bed, held my breath, and opened the latches.
First we gasped, then we laughed, then we began rifling through the contents. There were battery-operated vibrators, a few dildos and a huge strap-on, that Dennis proceeded to insert one of the vibrators into, extracting some leftover bodily fluid that “grossed” us both out.
There was that lid of marijuana that I was sure that I had smelled, and a copy of “San Francisco Screw” magazine---the centerfold being a blown-up photo of a vagina; an image that I can still picture vividly in my mind as if it were yesterday.
After about 10 minutes, all of our curiosity spent, I closed the suitcase and placed it back in the closet exactly where I had found it. I think that I may have lifted some of the pot from that notorious lid as a consolation prize. I figured that they would never know, and even if they did suspect, they would never be able to admit that it existed in the first place.
I was angry and outraged, but I just laughed it off, told my friends about it, and internalized all of my fears about who my parents were, and who they were becoming. They were unrecognizable to me, and there were times that I hated them.
Yes, the red suitcase was symbolic of a bigger picture for me, and my experience of my parents. I saw them as betrayers and abandoners. I accused them of being selfish and neglectful. I may have even accused them of not loving me. It was impossible for me to see or fully grasp how their own lives were changing, even unraveling. I was a complete little narcissist, like every other adolescent on the planet. My parent’s existed for me, and the very idea that they had their own problems, needs, and desires, were not a part of my paradigm.
Today I can look back at my parents in 1975 and see them through a different prism. Through all of the drama and change, the passion and the folly, the shocking and bizarre, I can forgive and accept them as having been human---just people struggling through their own lives. It’s really not that hard to figure.
You see, I have my own red suitcase.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Facing death
You rarely work on a Saturday, but sometimes you prefer it. Most of the administration, office staff and doctors aren’t there on the weekends, and it feels more relaxed and casual. You won’t have to compete with the doctor for a look at the chart, and the physical therapy department is closed. You figure that you’ll find most of your patients either in bed or in a wheelchair in their room.
As is your routine, you grab the charts of new patients from the nursing station, and begin flipping through the pages, making special note of the person’s age, sex and diagnoses. If there are patients with dementia, you put those charts aside. They will most likely require a phone call to the family so that you can get accurate information. As a social worker, you usually conduct a long psychosocial interview, and assist families and patients with discharge planning when needed.
One new admission catches your eye today. You’re always intrigued when there’s a relatively young patient. He’s 50, and you immediately wonder why he’s here. Stroke? Cancer? Infection? You turn to the History and Physical sent by the hospital. There should be some answers there. Yes, the H & P tells a part of the story. He is here because of an spinal abcsess. He had been admitted into the acute hospital because the neglected infection had gotten so bad that he could no longer walk. You also note that he has a long-standing heroin addiction. He was transferred to the nursing home yesterday to start a course of IV antibiotics.
Before you go into his room, you start talking to his nurse. You had noticed that there was a sign outside of his door that read “please see the nursing staff before entering this room” You figure that he has a staph infection, which is contagious, but want to be certain before going in. You take particular note when she says that he is HIV positive, and also has hepatitis C, and possibly B. You figure that this is most likely the result of shared needles. You begin to feel apprehensive about meeting this patient, so you mentally steel yourself before you go in. Heroin addict, HIV, hepatitis; you’re not sure who you’re dealing with here.
When you enter his room, you immediately notice how thin and pale he is, but you see that he had been a nice looking guy. In fact, his face still bares a boyish quality that you find appealing. His teeth look as though they have suffered obvious neglect, his hairline is receding, but his eyes are blue, clear and engaged. As you briefly scan his body, you notice tattoos that run the length of both of his arms. They are inelegant, almost ghoulish looking tattoos, and you wonder about their origin.
You sit down next to his bed and introduce yourself as his social worker, and begin with the usual questions—are you married, do you have children, are you close to them? He tells you in a soft-spoken voice that he married when he was a teenager—and that he is still with the same woman, and that they have 1 daughter, and a grandchild. This surprises you; you had assumed that with his history that he was either single or divorced. 32 years of marriage is impressive. He tells you that he is devoted to his wife---that she has been the glue in their marriage.
He begins to tell you about how he had 4 siblings, but that they had all passed away. Inside you cringe a little. How could he have lost all 4 of his brothers and sisters? Then he proceeds to tell you that his youngest brother had died just a few months ago. He weeps as he tells you about his brothers paranoid schizophrenia, his lack of social skills, and how when he was dying at the hospital he kept calling “mama, mama.” “Do you want to go be with mama?” he asked his dying brother. “Yes, yes” he answered in a small and desperate voice. You feel yourself welling up with tears as well, and you tell him that you lost a brother too. You see that he cares about his family, and he feels a great sense of loss that you immediately connect with. You scoot your chair closer to the bed. You want him to feel your concern; that you’re with him in that moment of despair.
You continue with more questions about his education and work history. He hadn’t graduated high school, and his work history was sketchy. He then admits that he had spent about 13 years in prison. “San Quentin?” you ask him. “Yeah”, he utters without hesitation. He tells you that he had hurt someone pretty badly. You have to ask the question, but are afraid of the answer. “Did you?” You can’t finish the question. “Yeah”, he answers flatly. He knows exactly what you are asking. He had murdered someone. You are repulsed and fascinated at the same time. You quickly run through the possibilities in your mind. Had he used a gun, a knife, or his bare hands? You have never knowingly met someone who has committed murder. You are 2 feet from his bed, and you suddenly wonder if you are in any kind of danger. You think better of it. He can’t walk—he is completely trapped in that hospital bed.
He goes on to explain that he used to beat people up when they owed money. You figure that he had been a drug dealer, but don’t bother asking that question. You have already learned more that you had initially bargained for. You have met a lot of people with varied personal histories in your work, but this was extraordinary. You only read about murderers in the newspaper, or hear about them on the nightly news.
You feel conflicted. He had just wept over his brother’s agonizing life and death, and you felt his sorrow. He had opened up and reached out to you, and now you feel like backing away from him. You’re seeing him through a different prism. In fact, you rise from your chair, holding his chart in front of you as if it would shield his reality from touching you.
You feel in control of the situation, and have successfully hidden your reaction to his revelation. You are in a position of authority, but you begin using words like “dude” and “man”. You slip into this persona easily---you think that if he believes that you’re “cool” and street-wise, that he will trust you. It makes you feel less vulnerable, and protects you from your own sense of disgust and horror over what he had done.
He tells you that when he was released from prison, he contacted the wife of the guy whose life he had taken. He asked her to forgive him, and he said that she did. He tells you that this wife said that he “probably deserved it”. You have a gut reaction to this, and wonder what kind of woman she must be. You wonder if you could forgive someone who had intentionally killed your husband. You doubt it.
He says that he lives with what he did every day, and that if he could take it back, he would. You feel skeptical. You’ve always wondered what kind of person could choose to take someone else’s life. It just doesn’t jive with your moral compass. He said that he “knew” that he was going to do it, that he “had” to do it, and you are filled with disbelief. Had to? Knew?
It’s emotionally incomprehensible to you, and suddenly you feel glad for having been raised in a small town with working class parents who instilled in you a sense of right and wrong. You’re relieved that you’re not the kind of woman who thought that her husband deserved to be murdered. You’re overcome by how lucky you are, when compared to that damaged soul lying in the bed in front of you.
Perhaps it’s his “karma” you muse, the fact that he is laying in that bed, helpless, full of infection and regrets. He’s vulnerable now. He is being murdered at his own hand---his past choices being the weapon that he wields.
Still, you think about how he had wept over the death of his brother. His grief was palpable---not merely for show. Through all of the deadly choices that he has made, he feels pain, loss, and even fear, and you can't deny that, or run away from it.
As is your routine, you grab the charts of new patients from the nursing station, and begin flipping through the pages, making special note of the person’s age, sex and diagnoses. If there are patients with dementia, you put those charts aside. They will most likely require a phone call to the family so that you can get accurate information. As a social worker, you usually conduct a long psychosocial interview, and assist families and patients with discharge planning when needed.
One new admission catches your eye today. You’re always intrigued when there’s a relatively young patient. He’s 50, and you immediately wonder why he’s here. Stroke? Cancer? Infection? You turn to the History and Physical sent by the hospital. There should be some answers there. Yes, the H & P tells a part of the story. He is here because of an spinal abcsess. He had been admitted into the acute hospital because the neglected infection had gotten so bad that he could no longer walk. You also note that he has a long-standing heroin addiction. He was transferred to the nursing home yesterday to start a course of IV antibiotics.
Before you go into his room, you start talking to his nurse. You had noticed that there was a sign outside of his door that read “please see the nursing staff before entering this room” You figure that he has a staph infection, which is contagious, but want to be certain before going in. You take particular note when she says that he is HIV positive, and also has hepatitis C, and possibly B. You figure that this is most likely the result of shared needles. You begin to feel apprehensive about meeting this patient, so you mentally steel yourself before you go in. Heroin addict, HIV, hepatitis; you’re not sure who you’re dealing with here.
When you enter his room, you immediately notice how thin and pale he is, but you see that he had been a nice looking guy. In fact, his face still bares a boyish quality that you find appealing. His teeth look as though they have suffered obvious neglect, his hairline is receding, but his eyes are blue, clear and engaged. As you briefly scan his body, you notice tattoos that run the length of both of his arms. They are inelegant, almost ghoulish looking tattoos, and you wonder about their origin.
You sit down next to his bed and introduce yourself as his social worker, and begin with the usual questions—are you married, do you have children, are you close to them? He tells you in a soft-spoken voice that he married when he was a teenager—and that he is still with the same woman, and that they have 1 daughter, and a grandchild. This surprises you; you had assumed that with his history that he was either single or divorced. 32 years of marriage is impressive. He tells you that he is devoted to his wife---that she has been the glue in their marriage.
He begins to tell you about how he had 4 siblings, but that they had all passed away. Inside you cringe a little. How could he have lost all 4 of his brothers and sisters? Then he proceeds to tell you that his youngest brother had died just a few months ago. He weeps as he tells you about his brothers paranoid schizophrenia, his lack of social skills, and how when he was dying at the hospital he kept calling “mama, mama.” “Do you want to go be with mama?” he asked his dying brother. “Yes, yes” he answered in a small and desperate voice. You feel yourself welling up with tears as well, and you tell him that you lost a brother too. You see that he cares about his family, and he feels a great sense of loss that you immediately connect with. You scoot your chair closer to the bed. You want him to feel your concern; that you’re with him in that moment of despair.
You continue with more questions about his education and work history. He hadn’t graduated high school, and his work history was sketchy. He then admits that he had spent about 13 years in prison. “San Quentin?” you ask him. “Yeah”, he utters without hesitation. He tells you that he had hurt someone pretty badly. You have to ask the question, but are afraid of the answer. “Did you?” You can’t finish the question. “Yeah”, he answers flatly. He knows exactly what you are asking. He had murdered someone. You are repulsed and fascinated at the same time. You quickly run through the possibilities in your mind. Had he used a gun, a knife, or his bare hands? You have never knowingly met someone who has committed murder. You are 2 feet from his bed, and you suddenly wonder if you are in any kind of danger. You think better of it. He can’t walk—he is completely trapped in that hospital bed.
He goes on to explain that he used to beat people up when they owed money. You figure that he had been a drug dealer, but don’t bother asking that question. You have already learned more that you had initially bargained for. You have met a lot of people with varied personal histories in your work, but this was extraordinary. You only read about murderers in the newspaper, or hear about them on the nightly news.
You feel conflicted. He had just wept over his brother’s agonizing life and death, and you felt his sorrow. He had opened up and reached out to you, and now you feel like backing away from him. You’re seeing him through a different prism. In fact, you rise from your chair, holding his chart in front of you as if it would shield his reality from touching you.
You feel in control of the situation, and have successfully hidden your reaction to his revelation. You are in a position of authority, but you begin using words like “dude” and “man”. You slip into this persona easily---you think that if he believes that you’re “cool” and street-wise, that he will trust you. It makes you feel less vulnerable, and protects you from your own sense of disgust and horror over what he had done.
He tells you that when he was released from prison, he contacted the wife of the guy whose life he had taken. He asked her to forgive him, and he said that she did. He tells you that this wife said that he “probably deserved it”. You have a gut reaction to this, and wonder what kind of woman she must be. You wonder if you could forgive someone who had intentionally killed your husband. You doubt it.
He says that he lives with what he did every day, and that if he could take it back, he would. You feel skeptical. You’ve always wondered what kind of person could choose to take someone else’s life. It just doesn’t jive with your moral compass. He said that he “knew” that he was going to do it, that he “had” to do it, and you are filled with disbelief. Had to? Knew?
It’s emotionally incomprehensible to you, and suddenly you feel glad for having been raised in a small town with working class parents who instilled in you a sense of right and wrong. You’re relieved that you’re not the kind of woman who thought that her husband deserved to be murdered. You’re overcome by how lucky you are, when compared to that damaged soul lying in the bed in front of you.
Perhaps it’s his “karma” you muse, the fact that he is laying in that bed, helpless, full of infection and regrets. He’s vulnerable now. He is being murdered at his own hand---his past choices being the weapon that he wields.
Still, you think about how he had wept over the death of his brother. His grief was palpable---not merely for show. Through all of the deadly choices that he has made, he feels pain, loss, and even fear, and you can't deny that, or run away from it.
You return to his room a few days later and pull up a chair next to his bed. You extend your hand, and plainly ask “how are you feeling?”
He tilts his head slightly, perhaps surprised by your return, and replies, “You came back.”
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
A usual morning
This morning the usual grind
dogs grunting at 5:45, wet noses bumping my cheek
get up, mama, get up!
The sun is up!
Husband snoring, or pretending
it's your turn, not mine you think
but you steel yourself and rise
to the occasion
Stumbling down the stairs
steaming milk
6 dogs peeing in the dawn
a race to the back door
nearly knocked over
I curse "stupid dog"
a tear into the kitchen
6 noses buried in metal bowls
crunching
inhaling
belching
Back to my latte
back outside for round two
6 dogs have to pooh
Ugh
Why do I live this way?
The apple tree is the big attraction
all Spring and early Summer
Crunch, crunch, crunch
These apples are small
and must be bitter
crunch, crunch, crunch
they love them
and mourn when all are eaten from the tree
another year to wait
Bleary eyed scooping
nature always calls
after breakfast at 6 AM
Lighting another American Spirit
all dogs sate for the moment
back to my latte
on the beautiful balcony
in a bedroom that smells like sex
and dog butts
and cigarette butts
since I sometimes smoke in the bedroom late at night
like lastnight with my glass of Italian white wine
On the balcony
I order my day
while husband rushes off
muttering about feeling tired
one more day until a weeks respite from work
First the shower, a wake up call
as hot as most people can tolerate
hair wet, pulled back
pulling on gym pants, bra top
it's the treadmill today
Stalling for awhile
the newspaper, my latte
another cigarette
in the garage
after my peanut butter and toast
breakfast of champions
6 dogs wandering about
following me
hoping for another
bitter green apple
Flipping the switch
to the on position
I mount my motorized steed
and sweat more at 47 than I ever did
in my youth
6 dogs watching
stopping in to check my progress
won't she ever be finished
they waggle
and wait for another
bitter green apple
I'm a sucker for wagging tails
and wet noses
and big Golden grins
dogs grunting at 5:45, wet noses bumping my cheek
get up, mama, get up!
The sun is up!
Husband snoring, or pretending
it's your turn, not mine you think
but you steel yourself and rise
to the occasion
Stumbling down the stairs
steaming milk
6 dogs peeing in the dawn
a race to the back door
nearly knocked over
I curse "stupid dog"
a tear into the kitchen
6 noses buried in metal bowls
crunching
inhaling
belching
Back to my latte
back outside for round two
6 dogs have to pooh
Ugh
Why do I live this way?
The apple tree is the big attraction
all Spring and early Summer
Crunch, crunch, crunch
These apples are small
and must be bitter
crunch, crunch, crunch
they love them
and mourn when all are eaten from the tree
another year to wait
Bleary eyed scooping
nature always calls
after breakfast at 6 AM
Lighting another American Spirit
all dogs sate for the moment
back to my latte
on the beautiful balcony
in a bedroom that smells like sex
and dog butts
and cigarette butts
since I sometimes smoke in the bedroom late at night
like lastnight with my glass of Italian white wine
On the balcony
I order my day
while husband rushes off
muttering about feeling tired
one more day until a weeks respite from work
First the shower, a wake up call
as hot as most people can tolerate
hair wet, pulled back
pulling on gym pants, bra top
it's the treadmill today
Stalling for awhile
the newspaper, my latte
another cigarette
in the garage
after my peanut butter and toast
breakfast of champions
6 dogs wandering about
following me
hoping for another
bitter green apple
Flipping the switch
to the on position
I mount my motorized steed
and sweat more at 47 than I ever did
in my youth
6 dogs watching
stopping in to check my progress
won't she ever be finished
they waggle
and wait for another
bitter green apple
I'm a sucker for wagging tails
and wet noses
and big Golden grins
Monday, June 9, 2008
B-24
Speaking of World War II heros, here is aa awesome photo that belonged to my father. I'm trying to research where this was taken. My dad is in the first row.
A ride of a life time
Every year during Memorial Day weekend, there is a steady stream of activity in the skies over my house. One by one, they pass by. First, the B-17, and we cheer and applaud with excitement. We’re awestruck as this lumbering ghost ship passes overhead. We can see the turret where a veteran of WWII operated a machine gun, blasting the enemy buzzing past. Next comes the B-24, then the B-25. We hoot and holler, jumping up and down as though the pilots and passengers can see and hear us as they pass by.
After several years of watching this spectacle, we decided to take a ride ourselves, so we drove out to the local municipal airport, and boarded that B-17 for the ride of our lives, There were 8 other passengers and 2 pilots. Everyone looked thrilled about this once in a lifetime experience.
It was 9:00AM. There were excited faces, some young, some old, some veterans, and some are daughters. On the tarmac, I see a living legacy of our veterans. There’s the B-17, a B-24 and 25, and there’s a P-51, all used in active duty during WWII. There is a sense of great pride among those gathered here on this Memorial Day.
We board the B-17. It smells like machinery and grease. The seats are on the floor. You sit on a cushion, and the seat belt is attached to the floor of the plane. I wonder what good this could possibly do you. On either side there are 2 windows with machine guns sticking out of the plexi-glass. My husband takes a photo of me with my arms wrapped around one of them. I’m playing strafe the Nazi, with an enormous grin on my face, doing my best to make machine gun noises, but I sound lame. We passed though this section of the aircraft, and I sat with my husband in the middle of the plane with elderly gentleman. He served in the Korean War, and it’s his 3rd trip in one of these iconic planes. He had ridden on the B-24 and B-25 in previous years. Greg and the Korean vet are sitting on the floor on one of those cushions, but I get to sit on an office chair where the radio operator used to sit. The old radio is still there, but inoperable. There are old dials and switches, old tubes. I want to play with them, but suddenly become apprehensive. Maybe I shouldn’t touch them. I strap myself into my swiveling office chair with that burlap seat belt, but I’m having a hell of a time figuring out how to lock it, but it doesn’t matter. I’m too excited to care. I looked up and there was an open hatch directly above me. A built in sunroof!
The plane started to move down the runway, but we stopped at the end. It was a “cold” take-off, so the pilots had to spend about 10 minutes warming up the 4 engines. One at a time, the propellers started. I could see them from my little window where I sat. They run the engines full blast for a few minutes, and then we started to move again, but faster this time. Before I knew it, we were lifting off the ground. I quickly unbuckled my burlap belt and stood up. (They had told us we could stand up as soon as we were off the ground) I immediately poked my head out of the hatch and looked out behind. The Livermore Valley glistened in the morning sun and patches of fog. The wind was whipping through my hair, and I suddenly felt like a happy dog on a joy ride in her masters car, head poking out the window, tongue happily hanging out of my mouth; colors and movement everywhere!
We flew north at about 2000 feet for about 15 minutes, and I was transfixed, standing next to one of the machine guns gazing out the window. I saw familiar sights, even my own home as we passed over my town, but what was even more astonishing to me was what I felt. As we lumbered through the sky over Contra Costa County, I felt a great wave of emotion. I soon recognized that what I was feeling was a combination of pride and admiration for our fathers and mothers who lived through a definitive time in history. I also felt a great sense of loss. On average, 1000 WWII vets die each day. In a few years, this generation will be completely lost to us. My father has been gone since 1976, and maybe those moments on that B-17 brought him back to me, if only briefly.
After several years of watching this spectacle, we decided to take a ride ourselves, so we drove out to the local municipal airport, and boarded that B-17 for the ride of our lives, There were 8 other passengers and 2 pilots. Everyone looked thrilled about this once in a lifetime experience.
It was 9:00AM. There were excited faces, some young, some old, some veterans, and some are daughters. On the tarmac, I see a living legacy of our veterans. There’s the B-17, a B-24 and 25, and there’s a P-51, all used in active duty during WWII. There is a sense of great pride among those gathered here on this Memorial Day.
We board the B-17. It smells like machinery and grease. The seats are on the floor. You sit on a cushion, and the seat belt is attached to the floor of the plane. I wonder what good this could possibly do you. On either side there are 2 windows with machine guns sticking out of the plexi-glass. My husband takes a photo of me with my arms wrapped around one of them. I’m playing strafe the Nazi, with an enormous grin on my face, doing my best to make machine gun noises, but I sound lame. We passed though this section of the aircraft, and I sat with my husband in the middle of the plane with elderly gentleman. He served in the Korean War, and it’s his 3rd trip in one of these iconic planes. He had ridden on the B-24 and B-25 in previous years. Greg and the Korean vet are sitting on the floor on one of those cushions, but I get to sit on an office chair where the radio operator used to sit. The old radio is still there, but inoperable. There are old dials and switches, old tubes. I want to play with them, but suddenly become apprehensive. Maybe I shouldn’t touch them. I strap myself into my swiveling office chair with that burlap seat belt, but I’m having a hell of a time figuring out how to lock it, but it doesn’t matter. I’m too excited to care. I looked up and there was an open hatch directly above me. A built in sunroof!
The plane started to move down the runway, but we stopped at the end. It was a “cold” take-off, so the pilots had to spend about 10 minutes warming up the 4 engines. One at a time, the propellers started. I could see them from my little window where I sat. They run the engines full blast for a few minutes, and then we started to move again, but faster this time. Before I knew it, we were lifting off the ground. I quickly unbuckled my burlap belt and stood up. (They had told us we could stand up as soon as we were off the ground) I immediately poked my head out of the hatch and looked out behind. The Livermore Valley glistened in the morning sun and patches of fog. The wind was whipping through my hair, and I suddenly felt like a happy dog on a joy ride in her masters car, head poking out the window, tongue happily hanging out of my mouth; colors and movement everywhere!
We flew north at about 2000 feet for about 15 minutes, and I was transfixed, standing next to one of the machine guns gazing out the window. I saw familiar sights, even my own home as we passed over my town, but what was even more astonishing to me was what I felt. As we lumbered through the sky over Contra Costa County, I felt a great wave of emotion. I soon recognized that what I was feeling was a combination of pride and admiration for our fathers and mothers who lived through a definitive time in history. I also felt a great sense of loss. On average, 1000 WWII vets die each day. In a few years, this generation will be completely lost to us. My father has been gone since 1976, and maybe those moments on that B-17 brought him back to me, if only briefly.
Monday, June 2, 2008
8 years and 10 days
When my 82-year-old mother died in 2006, I thought that I would feel a sense of relief. Finally, everyone’s suffering would come to an end. In fact, I had prayed over the past few years that she would die, but I grappled with this too. To pray for her death was contradictory to everything that I secretly desired. What I really wanted was to have my mom back. I desperately needed for her to emerge from the dementia that had stolen our shared history, and our mother/daughter bond.
To lose my mother to dementia was a “living grief”. When I went to visit her over the last few years of her life, I was aware that our connection would be limited, so I tried to keep my expectations low--usually to no avail. Remaining hopeful in the face of this stark reality I sat with her, silently pleading with her to know me and see me as the daughter that she loved, but she couldn’t respond. She could only sit and stare at me expressionless, or mutter a few nonsensical words. I left those visits feeling distressed, and was forced to start grieving all over again. “She’s gone, and you know this”, I told myself. “If she could tell you that she loves you, you know that she would”, I counseled myself with inadequate reassurance. As long as she had a physical presence on this earth, I couldn’t let go of my childlike hope that she might come back to me.
She had been a person with infinite patience, and had a knack for appreciating smaller pleasures. Things that would drive me to drink wouldn’t faze her in the least. While I would sit and complain about having to wait for an hour at the pharmacy for a prescription, or in a long line at the DMV, she would sit and wait calmly, trying to convince me that there was no reason to put off doing things out of boredom or impatience. While I would scarf down my food so that I could hurry along to the next thing, she could sit and ponder a scone and a cup of coffee for an hour, enjoying every bite. I was nothing like my mother, but as an adult I came to appreciate how invaluable these qualities really were. She lived much more in the present than I could have ever hoped to.
I started to notice that something was changing about my mom in 1998. She had lived in the same town for 50 years, and when she started losing her way along roads that she had driven down countless times, I found myself frustrated to the point of irritation. “C’mon Mom”. I said to her on one occasion, “You know where you are!” I had no idea at the time that something was going terribly wrong inside of her. In fact, she had gotten lost in her very own neighborhood, only a few blocks from her home. This was just the beginning of an 8-year illness that ended in a heartbreaking decision that raised questions about quality of life, and when to pull the proverbial plug.
This story can’t be fully understood without revealing the greatest tragedy of her life. In 1999, my brother was injured in a horse riding accident. He hit his head with full force, and lived for 7 months, first in a coma, then in a devastating vegetative state. My mother, in the early stages of a dementia still undiagnosed, was inconsolable. She clung to the idea that her son would come back to her (a scene that would repeat itself a few years later as she slipped away from me). She drove to the hospital every day to sit by his side-- a dutiful and loving mother who was losing her son.
When we finally removed him from life support, he was septic and dependent upon a ventilator. As a family we knew that it was hopeless--even mom knew. Still, when we made the decision to let him go, she shook her head in disbelief. “What?” she cried out, and then fell silent. She couldn’t see that he had been lost to her that terrible day 7 months earlier. To her, this decision was complete betrayal. She was still holding on to hope that he would emerge, perhaps if only to say the things that she needed to hear before she could let go.
Ironically, I eventually came to understand how she felt.
My brother’s death dealt my mother a blow that she was unable to overcome. Now she was a “double winner”. At age 78, depression descended upon her like a pall, and the dementia that seemed to be only peripheral at first began to have an effect on everything that she said and did. She had previously been a person who enjoyed an ice-cold beer on a hot day, whose greatest joy was gathering her extended family around her for large holiday dinners, who could make anyone feel welcome and embraced with just a smile—that person was slipping away right under our noses.
Over the next few years, I bore witness to a mental and physical unraveling that would take my mother from me bit by bit. I was forced to emotionally distance myself from the only person that I knew who would never abandon me. My mother had always been my emotional safe house, and it was hard to accept the reality that she could be sitting right in front of me, yet be completely unavailable.
Sure, I’m a grown-up, so I ought to be able to handle it. At least this is what I HAD to tell myself to compartmentalize my feelings. My mom was losing her ability to do simple things, like use the toilet. One afternoon when visiting her at her home, knowing that she had to pee, I took her arm and walked her into the bathroom. After a minute or two of coaxing and pleading with her to sit on the toilet, she finally just stood there and peed all over the bathroom floor.
I get it. My mother has dementia, and I have to expect these things, and be able to deal with it.
Why should I be able to deal with it? This is my mother, the person who always took care of me. I watched her as she forgot how to cook. I watched her as she hallucinated, and became delusional. I watched her as she stripped off her clothes and flashed my husband. I watched as she was stripped of her dignity. Sure, I can deal handle this. And inexplicably, I did.
Over the next 3 years, I watched as my mother slowly deteriorated physically and mentally. At the time of her stroke in 2006, she was no longer speaking or making eye contact. She had become a shadow of her former self. Her caregivers, who called her “mommy”, had been feeding her and changing her diaper. Toward the end, she spent her waking hours slumped in a wheelchair, unaware of her surroundings, descending deeper into darkness.
When I got word that mom had suffered a stroke, I was on the big island of Hawaii on a long overdue vacation. My sister called and said that mom had been taken to the emergency room. All at once I wondered why. She had an advanced directive, and it was clear--she was a DNR, do not resuscitate. Why then was she being pumped full of fluids and revived? I failed to see the logic in this decision, especially after what happened over the next 10 days.
It was a lost opportunity to let our mother go quietly, but I don’t think that any of us were really prepared for that moment of truth. Our first inclination was to keep her here with us. We were all afraid of what we would have to face when she was actually gone--that blank space where mother used to be.
Worried and confused, I flew home the next day to see mom, and to meet with my sisters. My family gathered at the care home, where my mother was lying in her bed, face drooped on one side. There was no flash of light or life. Her eyes didn’t open or shut. No sounds came from her mouth. She lay there unconscious, breathing steadily, her heart pumping blood to her organs. Her body was quite alive, but the mother that I had known had disappeared long ago.
The doctor at the hospital had said that it was pretty hopeless, and all that we might hope for is for her to remain bedridden, if she survived at all. As a family, we decided to take her back to the care home with hospice support.
When we made this decision that was so devastatingly final, we intellectually knew that it was the right thing to do, but we were also filled with doubt. Her quality of life had been gone for years; that was true. She was no longer able to speak, or to engage in life in any meaningful way, that was true too, but she was still our mother, and she was still alive and breathing.
There were options. We might have sent her to a skilled nursing facility where they could have inserted a tube into her stomach that would have fed and hydrated her. Maybe with a little time, she’d improve. Who knows, she might recover enough to benefit from some basic therapy. Certainly this crossed my mind, but the question about quality of life was glaring at us. These measures might have prolonged her life, and we were all faced with the grim reality that the quality of her life had been seriously diminished long before this stroke. Was there really any question what we needed to do? Hadn’t I prayed for this in the past?
The next day my sisters and I called a Catholic priest, who came and administered the last rites—then we sat and held our collective breaths. In my frantic grief, I imagined that he would perform the sign of the cross over my mother’s forehead, and that she would magically let go.
Of course, she didn’t.
It wasn’t going to be that simple or painless. For the next ten days, she lingered on, and the guilt and fear that I felt was excruciating. At times it felt as though we were committing a kind of matricide, but we didn’t acknowledge these darker feelings to each other. We knew that we were hurrying her physical death along, but we also knew that the woman who she had been had long vanished from our sight.
We had to let go of our beloved mother, and she had to let go too.
To lose my mother to dementia was a “living grief”. When I went to visit her over the last few years of her life, I was aware that our connection would be limited, so I tried to keep my expectations low--usually to no avail. Remaining hopeful in the face of this stark reality I sat with her, silently pleading with her to know me and see me as the daughter that she loved, but she couldn’t respond. She could only sit and stare at me expressionless, or mutter a few nonsensical words. I left those visits feeling distressed, and was forced to start grieving all over again. “She’s gone, and you know this”, I told myself. “If she could tell you that she loves you, you know that she would”, I counseled myself with inadequate reassurance. As long as she had a physical presence on this earth, I couldn’t let go of my childlike hope that she might come back to me.
She had been a person with infinite patience, and had a knack for appreciating smaller pleasures. Things that would drive me to drink wouldn’t faze her in the least. While I would sit and complain about having to wait for an hour at the pharmacy for a prescription, or in a long line at the DMV, she would sit and wait calmly, trying to convince me that there was no reason to put off doing things out of boredom or impatience. While I would scarf down my food so that I could hurry along to the next thing, she could sit and ponder a scone and a cup of coffee for an hour, enjoying every bite. I was nothing like my mother, but as an adult I came to appreciate how invaluable these qualities really were. She lived much more in the present than I could have ever hoped to.
I started to notice that something was changing about my mom in 1998. She had lived in the same town for 50 years, and when she started losing her way along roads that she had driven down countless times, I found myself frustrated to the point of irritation. “C’mon Mom”. I said to her on one occasion, “You know where you are!” I had no idea at the time that something was going terribly wrong inside of her. In fact, she had gotten lost in her very own neighborhood, only a few blocks from her home. This was just the beginning of an 8-year illness that ended in a heartbreaking decision that raised questions about quality of life, and when to pull the proverbial plug.
This story can’t be fully understood without revealing the greatest tragedy of her life. In 1999, my brother was injured in a horse riding accident. He hit his head with full force, and lived for 7 months, first in a coma, then in a devastating vegetative state. My mother, in the early stages of a dementia still undiagnosed, was inconsolable. She clung to the idea that her son would come back to her (a scene that would repeat itself a few years later as she slipped away from me). She drove to the hospital every day to sit by his side-- a dutiful and loving mother who was losing her son.
When we finally removed him from life support, he was septic and dependent upon a ventilator. As a family we knew that it was hopeless--even mom knew. Still, when we made the decision to let him go, she shook her head in disbelief. “What?” she cried out, and then fell silent. She couldn’t see that he had been lost to her that terrible day 7 months earlier. To her, this decision was complete betrayal. She was still holding on to hope that he would emerge, perhaps if only to say the things that she needed to hear before she could let go.
Ironically, I eventually came to understand how she felt.
My brother’s death dealt my mother a blow that she was unable to overcome. Now she was a “double winner”. At age 78, depression descended upon her like a pall, and the dementia that seemed to be only peripheral at first began to have an effect on everything that she said and did. She had previously been a person who enjoyed an ice-cold beer on a hot day, whose greatest joy was gathering her extended family around her for large holiday dinners, who could make anyone feel welcome and embraced with just a smile—that person was slipping away right under our noses.
Over the next few years, I bore witness to a mental and physical unraveling that would take my mother from me bit by bit. I was forced to emotionally distance myself from the only person that I knew who would never abandon me. My mother had always been my emotional safe house, and it was hard to accept the reality that she could be sitting right in front of me, yet be completely unavailable.
Sure, I’m a grown-up, so I ought to be able to handle it. At least this is what I HAD to tell myself to compartmentalize my feelings. My mom was losing her ability to do simple things, like use the toilet. One afternoon when visiting her at her home, knowing that she had to pee, I took her arm and walked her into the bathroom. After a minute or two of coaxing and pleading with her to sit on the toilet, she finally just stood there and peed all over the bathroom floor.
I get it. My mother has dementia, and I have to expect these things, and be able to deal with it.
Why should I be able to deal with it? This is my mother, the person who always took care of me. I watched her as she forgot how to cook. I watched her as she hallucinated, and became delusional. I watched her as she stripped off her clothes and flashed my husband. I watched as she was stripped of her dignity. Sure, I can deal handle this. And inexplicably, I did.
Over the next 3 years, I watched as my mother slowly deteriorated physically and mentally. At the time of her stroke in 2006, she was no longer speaking or making eye contact. She had become a shadow of her former self. Her caregivers, who called her “mommy”, had been feeding her and changing her diaper. Toward the end, she spent her waking hours slumped in a wheelchair, unaware of her surroundings, descending deeper into darkness.
When I got word that mom had suffered a stroke, I was on the big island of Hawaii on a long overdue vacation. My sister called and said that mom had been taken to the emergency room. All at once I wondered why. She had an advanced directive, and it was clear--she was a DNR, do not resuscitate. Why then was she being pumped full of fluids and revived? I failed to see the logic in this decision, especially after what happened over the next 10 days.
It was a lost opportunity to let our mother go quietly, but I don’t think that any of us were really prepared for that moment of truth. Our first inclination was to keep her here with us. We were all afraid of what we would have to face when she was actually gone--that blank space where mother used to be.
Worried and confused, I flew home the next day to see mom, and to meet with my sisters. My family gathered at the care home, where my mother was lying in her bed, face drooped on one side. There was no flash of light or life. Her eyes didn’t open or shut. No sounds came from her mouth. She lay there unconscious, breathing steadily, her heart pumping blood to her organs. Her body was quite alive, but the mother that I had known had disappeared long ago.
The doctor at the hospital had said that it was pretty hopeless, and all that we might hope for is for her to remain bedridden, if she survived at all. As a family, we decided to take her back to the care home with hospice support.
When we made this decision that was so devastatingly final, we intellectually knew that it was the right thing to do, but we were also filled with doubt. Her quality of life had been gone for years; that was true. She was no longer able to speak, or to engage in life in any meaningful way, that was true too, but she was still our mother, and she was still alive and breathing.
There were options. We might have sent her to a skilled nursing facility where they could have inserted a tube into her stomach that would have fed and hydrated her. Maybe with a little time, she’d improve. Who knows, she might recover enough to benefit from some basic therapy. Certainly this crossed my mind, but the question about quality of life was glaring at us. These measures might have prolonged her life, and we were all faced with the grim reality that the quality of her life had been seriously diminished long before this stroke. Was there really any question what we needed to do? Hadn’t I prayed for this in the past?
The next day my sisters and I called a Catholic priest, who came and administered the last rites—then we sat and held our collective breaths. In my frantic grief, I imagined that he would perform the sign of the cross over my mother’s forehead, and that she would magically let go.
Of course, she didn’t.
It wasn’t going to be that simple or painless. For the next ten days, she lingered on, and the guilt and fear that I felt was excruciating. At times it felt as though we were committing a kind of matricide, but we didn’t acknowledge these darker feelings to each other. We knew that we were hurrying her physical death along, but we also knew that the woman who she had been had long vanished from our sight.
We had to let go of our beloved mother, and she had to let go too.
The Alarm Clock
My family moved to a new house when I was 10 years old. The “rumpus” room was downstairs, and the bedrooms, kitchen and living room were on the top floor. My mother never did like this house, but my dad had purchased it on a V.A. loan, and it was bigger than our old house, and in a newer neighborhood. We had been living there for 4 years when all of our lives were traumatically and permanently altered.
It was an ordinary day after school. I was downstairs watching Bugs Bunny and putting hot rollers in my hair, and my older brother and sister were upstairs watching Lost In Space. I always hated Lost In Space, and preferred the sophisticated humor of Bugs Bunny and Elmer Fudd.
My dad had come home early that day from our liquor store. He had told my mother that he was tired, and wanted to come home and take a nap. She would stay at the store until the night man came to work the evening shift and close the store. The store wasn’t working out the way that my dad had hoped. In fact, he was planning on selling the store, and had a business meeting later in the afternoon to discuss going back to work for a brewing company that he favored.
I had heard him come home from downstairs. He had gone straight to his bedroom to lie down for an hour. At about 3:30 PM, I heard his alarm clock buzzing. I didn’t really think much about it, and continued rolling my hair. After a few more minutes, I noticed that the alarm clock was still buzzing, and I felt a touch of anxiety. I walked up the stairs and into the living room where my brother and sister were still sitting.
“Dad’s alarm clock has been going off for about ten minutes. Should we go and wake him up?” I said.
“He’s tired, better let him rest.” Said my sister Mary.
I went back downstairs, but felt unsettled. I could still hear that alarm clock screaming at me. “Danger Will Robinson, danger!” Was that Lost In Space, or fear welling up inside of me?
Once again, I climbed the stairs with the ugly green carpeting to talk to my brother and sister.
“The alarm clock is still going off, and I’m worried.” I tell them. They agreed that this was weird, so the 3 of us went to his bedroom to check things out
The door was locked, which we all found strange, since our parents rarely locked their bedroom door. We started knocking, softly at first, but then more frantically. “Dad? Dad?” We all called out to him. We remembered that they had a private phone line in their room, so we called the number and let it ring, hoping that we would wake him up. No answer.
Lost, we called our older sister Chris. She was 26 years old, and would know what to do. After some anxious waiting, she finally arrived at the house with the bedroom door key. She had to stop at the store first to get the key from our mom. I don’t think that our mom was alarmed at that point. She just gave the key to our sister, not suspecting that a crisis was enveloping her family.
We all huddled around the bedroom door. Chris stuck the key into the lock, and opened it. There lay dad, rolled over on his stomach (he always slept on his back). He was splotchy and blue.
All at once it was pandemonium. “Call an ambulance”, someone yelled. “Do CPR”, my brother Jim cried to my sister Mary, as if a 17-year-old girl would be able to step in and save him. We were all standing half in, half out of the bedroom, in some kind of delirious shock.
I asked my sister Chris if I could go outside. I had to get out of there as fast as I could. I ran out of the house, tearing hot rollers out of my hair as I flew down the street. As I was about to round the corner, I heard the familiar despair of sirens from fire engines, and I ran passed them as they moved toward the house that my mother had always hated.
I ended up at a friend’s house, and from her bedroom window I could see my driveway. I could see a gurney with a figure on it being brought down the cement stairs that led to my long driveway. I wanted to look away, but I couldn’t. I wanted to be there, but I couldn’t bear it. My entire being has told me to get out as fast as I could. It was an act of self-preservation, a flight or fight response.
A little time passed, and I remember my friend’s mother coming into the room. She said the words that I knew that I was going to hear. I had known it from the minute that I had heard that alarm clock beckoning. “I’m sorry honey, you’re father has died.”
My dad was dead from a massive coronary thrombosis at 54-years-old. He died instantly. No CPR, or a team of surgeons standing by could have saved him, but that would never ease the suffering of one 14-year-old girl.
It was an ordinary day after school. I was downstairs watching Bugs Bunny and putting hot rollers in my hair, and my older brother and sister were upstairs watching Lost In Space. I always hated Lost In Space, and preferred the sophisticated humor of Bugs Bunny and Elmer Fudd.
My dad had come home early that day from our liquor store. He had told my mother that he was tired, and wanted to come home and take a nap. She would stay at the store until the night man came to work the evening shift and close the store. The store wasn’t working out the way that my dad had hoped. In fact, he was planning on selling the store, and had a business meeting later in the afternoon to discuss going back to work for a brewing company that he favored.
I had heard him come home from downstairs. He had gone straight to his bedroom to lie down for an hour. At about 3:30 PM, I heard his alarm clock buzzing. I didn’t really think much about it, and continued rolling my hair. After a few more minutes, I noticed that the alarm clock was still buzzing, and I felt a touch of anxiety. I walked up the stairs and into the living room where my brother and sister were still sitting.
“Dad’s alarm clock has been going off for about ten minutes. Should we go and wake him up?” I said.
“He’s tired, better let him rest.” Said my sister Mary.
I went back downstairs, but felt unsettled. I could still hear that alarm clock screaming at me. “Danger Will Robinson, danger!” Was that Lost In Space, or fear welling up inside of me?
Once again, I climbed the stairs with the ugly green carpeting to talk to my brother and sister.
“The alarm clock is still going off, and I’m worried.” I tell them. They agreed that this was weird, so the 3 of us went to his bedroom to check things out
The door was locked, which we all found strange, since our parents rarely locked their bedroom door. We started knocking, softly at first, but then more frantically. “Dad? Dad?” We all called out to him. We remembered that they had a private phone line in their room, so we called the number and let it ring, hoping that we would wake him up. No answer.
Lost, we called our older sister Chris. She was 26 years old, and would know what to do. After some anxious waiting, she finally arrived at the house with the bedroom door key. She had to stop at the store first to get the key from our mom. I don’t think that our mom was alarmed at that point. She just gave the key to our sister, not suspecting that a crisis was enveloping her family.
We all huddled around the bedroom door. Chris stuck the key into the lock, and opened it. There lay dad, rolled over on his stomach (he always slept on his back). He was splotchy and blue.
All at once it was pandemonium. “Call an ambulance”, someone yelled. “Do CPR”, my brother Jim cried to my sister Mary, as if a 17-year-old girl would be able to step in and save him. We were all standing half in, half out of the bedroom, in some kind of delirious shock.
I asked my sister Chris if I could go outside. I had to get out of there as fast as I could. I ran out of the house, tearing hot rollers out of my hair as I flew down the street. As I was about to round the corner, I heard the familiar despair of sirens from fire engines, and I ran passed them as they moved toward the house that my mother had always hated.
I ended up at a friend’s house, and from her bedroom window I could see my driveway. I could see a gurney with a figure on it being brought down the cement stairs that led to my long driveway. I wanted to look away, but I couldn’t. I wanted to be there, but I couldn’t bear it. My entire being has told me to get out as fast as I could. It was an act of self-preservation, a flight or fight response.
A little time passed, and I remember my friend’s mother coming into the room. She said the words that I knew that I was going to hear. I had known it from the minute that I had heard that alarm clock beckoning. “I’m sorry honey, you’re father has died.”
My dad was dead from a massive coronary thrombosis at 54-years-old. He died instantly. No CPR, or a team of surgeons standing by could have saved him, but that would never ease the suffering of one 14-year-old girl.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier
When we arrived at Arlington National Cemetery, I knew that the highlight of the trip would be the Tomb Of The Unknown Soldier. Of course we saw the JFK and RFK burial sites, the Custis Lee Mansion, and the beautiful view of the Mall from above, but there is something special about the Tomb.
We arrived just in time for the changing of the guard. There were people standing all around the balcony and steps of the amphitheatre that sits above the tomb, and yet all was very still.
There were 3 honor guards standing in front of the tomb when I snapped my photograph, and they were in perfect sync with each other, down to every detail. Their crisply starched uniforms are blue with gold belts, and they are wearing white gloves. They sport a very close military crew cut, hidden by blue hats with gold trim. Their boots are shiny patent leather--they dazzle the eye. They sound as if they are made with metal, because as the soldier in the middle takes a few steps, he clicks his heals together one time, and they make a sounds like a firecracker.
The tomb is made entirely of white marble. It’s sits at the top of a flight of steps that leads down to 2 long groves of blooming cherry trees and an expanse of neatly mown grass. Men, women and children are walking on one side or the other of the grass, going off to see another part of this enormous cemetery—this vast monument to our fallen heroes.
On the tomb it reads, “here rests in honored glory an American Soldier, known but to God.”
We arrived just in time for the changing of the guard. There were people standing all around the balcony and steps of the amphitheatre that sits above the tomb, and yet all was very still.
There were 3 honor guards standing in front of the tomb when I snapped my photograph, and they were in perfect sync with each other, down to every detail. Their crisply starched uniforms are blue with gold belts, and they are wearing white gloves. They sport a very close military crew cut, hidden by blue hats with gold trim. Their boots are shiny patent leather--they dazzle the eye. They sound as if they are made with metal, because as the soldier in the middle takes a few steps, he clicks his heals together one time, and they make a sounds like a firecracker.
The tomb is made entirely of white marble. It’s sits at the top of a flight of steps that leads down to 2 long groves of blooming cherry trees and an expanse of neatly mown grass. Men, women and children are walking on one side or the other of the grass, going off to see another part of this enormous cemetery—this vast monument to our fallen heroes.
On the tomb it reads, “here rests in honored glory an American Soldier, known but to God.”
The guard in the middle is wearing a pistol. (the other two hold a rifle) He’s the one who escorts each guard to and from the tomb. Slowly they all walk, genuflecting toward the tomb. They stop directly in front of the tomb, and the guard in the middle salutes. Clearly he is special. He is the escort; the one who wears the pistol, clicks his heals, and salutes the tomb.
There are remains in the tomb, but they are hidden behind the huge block of inscribed marble. Men who died in WWI, WWII and the Korean War lie there, and until recently the Vietnam War. They identified him some years ago, and buried his remains with his true identity.
I see other things here beyond the landscape and the detail of the honor guard and the tomb. I see generations of men and women fighting for democracy, fighting against tyranny and oppression, fighting against Nazi’s and against slavery; fighting for freedom.
I see unnecessary loss, men and women fighting pointless and futile wars for the sake of someone else’s political agenda.
But in the end, I feel a sense of pride and awe. I feel like a patriot.
30 Rock's on!
I didn’t meet Keith Olbermann—well not directly. We were sitting on a bench at 30 Rockefeller Plaza, directly in front of where The Today Show is produced. It was about 7:45 PM, and we had just finished a leisurely and delicious meal. My husband gestured to me excitedly, pointing to a window on the 2nd floor. I looked up, and there stood Keith, preparing to tape his show Countdown. I sprang up from the bench where I had been sitting, and began to wave to him. He looked at me, smiled and started waving back to me. I immediately gave him a “high-five”, blew him a kiss, and I believe that I made the gesture that “Lincoln Hayes” from the Mod Squad made when he uttered those now famous words “Solid”. Keith was laughing at me, and I at him. What a crazy scene!
After the show was completed and the studio cleared, my husband wandered off for a few minutes, and came back with a huge grin on his face. He handed me his camera, and there was a close up image of Keith. My husband had bumped into him as he was leaving the studio, shook his hand and taken his photo. Greg said that he had a suit coat, shirt, and tie on, but he was wearing jeans. I had always assumed that he was in a full suit when he taped his show. I guess that he could tape in his "underpants" if he wanted to, since he never stands up during the broadcast.
My brush with James Carville
I was recently sitting in a restaurant called The Monocle in Washington DC, and in walked the “Ragin’ Cajun”, James Carville! A bunch of Kerry staffers who were sitting in the bar burst out in applause.
Anyone who knows who he is would recognize him immediately. First, he’s nearly bald, except for some graying patches around the ears. He rather reminds me of a character from Star Wars. Maybe a little like Yoda, with the wisdom that goes with it? I jumped up from my chair, not really knowing what to say, extended my hand, and asked if he would stand for a photo. He graciously agreed with such a Louisiana drawl that I almost giggled. It was my brush with political greatness, at least to some.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Words on prayer
It was Christmas a few weeks ago, and every year like clockwork I find myself reflecting on my underdeveloped spiritual life. My attempts to connect with God often involve prayer, and a searching for something familiar that was lost long ago, like Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny. Every Christmas I get called back to my Catholic roots, and every season I recognize a deep conflict within myself.
As a tribute to the season, I had the pleasure of viewing a film that is a nostalgic favorite of mine called "King Of Kings". Jeffrey Hunter portrayed the most sympathetic and deliciously handsome Jesus ever captured on film. He is the Jesus of my youth, perfect love, and like Santa Claus, complete fantasy.
This movie evokes images of my father and his big wooden rosary that he used for prayer, and of a portrait of Jesus that hung in my childhood home. I’m strangely comforted when I watch this film, in part because it brings back warm memories of my father who died in my youth. But if I search myself more deeply it brings up great feelings of loss. I want the Jesus of my childhood to be real, and I grieve deeply when I realize that I can’t have my father’s Jesus, my fantasy Jesus.
I was baptized a Catholic without my knowledge or consent, and attended a Catholic School for 8 years. I learned everything that I ever needed or wanted to know about being a good Catholic. Most important of these lessons was that we could get to Heaven and have life everlasting if we were steadfast in our faith. Too bad for me then that faith is in direct conflict with my intellect.
Catholicism becomes a part of a persons DNA, and although I have searched other forms of Christianity, Eastern Religions, and even Wicca, I have never been able to shed the notion that once you’re baptized a Catholic, you’re a Catholic until death. I maintain a subtle fear of completely turning my back on Catholicism, because a voice inside always whispers, “what if they were right all along and I end up in eternal darkness?” I sometimes secretly envy those who have chosen to abandon logic and reason for an absolute and unwavering faith. In this abandon they find comfort and connection. In their faith, they have nothing to fear, not even death.
Isn’t that what we all really fear? The struggle for a relationship with God is based more on fear of death than it is on any other aspect of a spiritual life. I was spoon fed eternal life and salvation, and that’s what I cannot come to terms with.
It becomes a black and white proposition, and a schism within my self. I know that there is no God up in the sky waiting for me in my Catholic heaven. I know that my mom and dad and brother and husband and Golden Retrievers won’t be up there in the clouds waiting to greet me. I mourn the loss of these “truths”, yet still search for something to cling to.
Some people have said to me, “you don’t have to throw out the baby with the bath water”. You can go to church, take what you want from it, and leave the rest. Why doesn’t that seem like enough? Why doesn’t that seem fair? I want it ALL to be true, and if it’s not, then how can I make sense of any of it? The images are too powerful, too provocative, and create an anxiety within me that I find it difficult to bear.
In the final scene of “King of Kings”, Jesus returns to his disciples one last time before he ascends into heaven and I found myself crying like a child. Crying for my youth and innocence, for my father, and for the loss of something that was guaranteed to me by everyone who I respected and loved.
Saturday, January 5, 2008
A few words about Dan Fogelberg - A confessional of sorts
I learned of Dan Fogelberg's death at 6 AM on a Monday morning. As my favorite news anchor read the brief obituary, I literally doubled over in tears. My husband climbed out of bed and came toward me to be of some comfort. He looked at me and said, "I know, honey".
How could he possibly know? Over the past 8 years, I had lost my 40 year old brother to a traumatic brain injury, divorced and remarried through dramatic circumstances, slowly watched my mother fall into the depths of dementia and die, lost a stepfather, dealt with my husband's own bout with prostate cancer, and slammed head on into middle age. My mom died just a year ago, and the loss is still fresh for me. Dan's death seems to amplify a grief that has been growing for years.
I was raised in an emotionally explosive home, and music was my favorite hiding place. My first true love was Neil Young. I wrapped myself up in his music, and imagined that he could heal all of my hurts and keep me safe. At the tender age of 13 I spent hours in my room with Neil, my only friend, and the only person who understood me. I started playing guitar just so I could play and sing his music. I’m convinced that his music saved me somehow, and protected me from harsher realities. I loved Crosby, Stills and Nash too, and throughout the 1970’s, I immersed myself in music.
Enter Dan Fogelberg, my shining light and romantic ideal, some kind of beacon of hope for a lost and longing 17-year-old girl. My sister had a copy of his album “Captured Angel” and she let me borrow it. For a teenage girl, it was a most passionate and sensual experience. It increased my longing and yearning, but it also made me feel hopeful and embraced at the same time. I felt that Dan somehow "got me", and this gave me something to cling to.
Okay, I admit that I was terribly in love with him, and fantasized that if he could just meet me, that he would fall terribly in love too, sweep me away to his Colorado castle of love, and provide me with the unconditional love and connection that I felt that I never had. Of course there was the bonus of passion and love and incredible sex!
I yearned and ached for Dan Fogelberg. Somewhere inside of myself I believed that I knew who he was. I knew that he was sensitive and emotionally available, and I knew that he had all of the answers to my questions. I knew that he could somehow perfect my life. He had no flaws. He could keep me safe from a world that I felt was dangerous and unpredictable. These were my unshakable truths.
I never missed an opportunity to see him in concert during the 1970’s. He toured the Bay Area several times when he was at his most popular. Funny though, as I sat at these concerts, I somehow felt as if my life was passing me by, and that I would never be the person who I imagined that I might become. Somehow I just didn’t measure up to the golden pedestal that I had placed Dan upon. I would sit at these concerts in tears, because part of me went there with the hope of somehow meeting Dan. I went to hear the music yes, but I also went fantasizing that he might actually notice me. Perhaps there was a way back stage? There never was, and this left me feeling empty and disappointed.
Many years later, my sister and I went to see him in Northern California. I hadn’t kept track of Dan, or how his music had changed or evolved. In fact, I really hadn’t given him very much thought since I was in college. Having the opportunity to see him again was kind of exciting, and that old yearning seemed to be stirring within me.
We were seated at a front table at a very small venue. I could practically touch my former fantasy man. You would have thought that I would have been in some sort of ecstasy, and filled with gratitude at this opportunity to see him perform again. I know that this was years later and that I had evolved as a person, yet I was surprised when I noticed that I was filled with anxiety and hostility toward him. How opportune it was then, that I was able to finally get Dan’s attention.
I proceeded to get really drunk during the concert, and I kept yelling, "sing Netherlands", which is a song that he no longer could perform since having throat surgery, and "how about a Scotch, Dan"? assuming that he most certainly would want to join me in my merriment. Imagine my shock then when he turned to me and said in a less than friendly tone, "why don't you have another Scotch?" I was mortified.
After the concert, I felt angry and rejected. Poor Dan didn’t know that he had been in a one-sided and dysfunctional relationship with me for 20 years. How could he have known how much expectation and desire that I had projected upon him, and how could anyone have ever lived up to that in the first place?
A couple of years later, I returned to the scene of the crime. I think that I needed some kind of closure, and I guess that I still had a score to settle, with myself.
It was a good concert. It couldn’t have been a lovelier setting among the vineyards and the rolling hills of the Napa Valley. He performed beautifully, exuberantly. I sat in the audience with the same sister, sipping wine, the 17-year-old girl within me still feeling that void, while the 40-year- old silently wept for her injured child within.
On this night, I could finally see Dan Fogelberg not as some sort of romantic super savior for that lost 17-year-old kid still imprisoned within me, but as a figment of a child’s imagination.
Ironically, I could have apologized for my miscreant behavior from years earlier. My husband was born in Peoria Illinois, and his mother Mary lived there for most of her life until her death in 2006. A few years ago, we were visiting her in Peoria and I happened to mention Dan, since he was born and raised in Peoria as well. Mary said with some delight and pride, "I play bridge with his mother Maggie every week." “Really?” I exclaimed. Well, I may have actually squealed! Secretly, I was as excited as a kid on Christmas morning. I envisioned Dan’s gold records in Maggie’s living room, and had a faint hope of being invited over to her house for a visit.
Unbelievably, my mother in law had an inside line to my former love idol. We talked about it for a few minutes, then the conversation faded back to other matters, like what she needed from Schnuk's Supermarket, and where we would dine that evening.
I ended up meeting Maggie Fogelberg at my mother-in-law's funeral in 2006. She came in to the memorial, and we stood there and spoke quietly for a few minutes. We talked about my husband's mother, and we talked about Dan, and I told her how much he had meant to me over the years.
She was the proud mother of a man dying of prostate cancer. I never asked Maggie to put me in contact with Dan so that I could apologize to him. At the end of the day, it was enough that I was able to honor his mother. It was enough.
The morning that I learned of Dan’s death, I was not only grieving the death of a man who had symbolized my unmet needs and my desire for unconditional love and connection, I was coming face to face with my own disappointments, regrets, and the realization that I couldn’t go back and make different choices in my life. I was grieving the passing of my own youth.
We exchange Christmas cards yearly with Maggie, and my husband and I sent her a sympathy card upon Dan's death on December 16, 2007.
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