Again, thank you all. Yes, I really like this doctor. He is patient, and on the two visits I have had with him he answers all of my questions and is always ready with a detailed answer.
I think what Annie says is part of my problem. So many bad things have happened in my life since May ( the return of my young sister's cancer being the saddest) and a flurry of so much that is related to the horrible car accident that I probably have a case of post traumatic stress syndrome.
I have always been a rather anxious person, but since this latest fracture it has definitely increased.
In the past ten days I actually have started to improve. I notice my thoughts are b less anxious, and I have been laughing more. My husband even noted the other evening that he was surprised to hear me laughing at something silly on the television.
People used to describe me as a person who was a lot of fun to be around. In fact, I was known for my good sense of humor.
I know all of those good qualities are within me, and I have started painting and drawing, and most of the artwork is colorful and fun, but when I write the words come out sad, so I have decided not to write much for awhile.
I am going back to believing in good outcomes. I simply must.
Lavender, it is.
Paula
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Hittin' the High Spots
I mean if the rest of the whole world
Does not understand.
You still have to do it your way.
The only way I can come out
on top
is to go all the way through
whatever is in my dark alley.
Grace has befallen me once again.
I am singing and painting and looking
forward to stuff again.
I had to learn to focus on what I could do rather than
What I could not do.
Saturday, November 12, 2011
Vulnerable Times
For those who do not write, do know that I have been writing my thoughts and feelings out since I was around twelve years old. Often it has seemed that the pen and paper have been my most dependable, trustworthy and accessible confidantes.
I write because it helps me get past the jungle of confusion within me. The written words are able to form a pattern that my mind can use to make sense of what is chaos in my head.
I am at a place in my life whereby my very mettle has been put to the test, for the last six months of my life have been fraught with many challenges.
In May I learned that my only sister's breast cancer returned after a twelve-year dormancy. The cancer had metastasized. I sat in the oncologist's office with my sister when she received this news. I thought I might vomit.
On June 5 I was a passenger in a very bad car accident. My friend and I were going to see a movie, and a woman ran a stoplight. Our vehicle was pushed at high impact into a wall of concrete, and before this happened the vehicle in which I rode took down several street signs before crashing. I remember seeing the car coming at us. I remember the violent careening of the friend's van. What I remember most vividly is seeing the wall of concrete into which I knew we were heading.
A few broken ribs, cracked sternum, four cracked molars and a very sore leg later, I had survived. I must have been in shock, for despite the terrible pain in my left leg which the ER doctor had dismissed as a mere case of bad bruises, I set my sights on packing for the trip my sister and I had planned. Upon learning of my sister's health news, we had made plans to visit our family in Belgium.
Six days after the accident we were en route. My upper body hurt really badly, and my breathing was painful, but I figured all I had wrong were broken ribs, and that only time not medical treatment would solve that. I figured that since the trip was already planned, and my sister was feeling good that I should take the trip.
I was very wrong. Walking was what we did from morning until night. And that was fine by me. I love to walk, and every sight was new and totally lovely. My cousin lived in a neighborhood that looked like a fairy tale book illustration. I figured that my pain would continue to diminish with each passing day, and that the new sights would be wonderful distractions.
But the pain in my leg increased, and tensions were mounting between my sister and me. We were both in a great deal of physical and emotional pain. Although my sister and I are very close, we could not be there for one another, for we both were in severely weakened states.
When I was younger I heard that grief could ruin a relationship. I was naive then. I thought that having to face suffering together would strengthen a relationship, but sometimes that is not how things work out.
Sometimes a pain inside a person is so great that it takes all she has to rise above it, and the reservoir of compassion that normally exists within one has run dry. We must not chide ourselves for this. We are human beings. We all have our limits.
The tension with my sister and the ever-increasing pain in my leg, which was actually broken but still undiagnosed, was too much for me. I returned home after only five days of what was to be a twenty-one day trip.
Once home I sought help from my primary care physician. The office would not grant me an appointment. I was shocked. The person in charge me told me that the doctor was on vacation, and that the doctor would not allow the PA's to see me. She told me to go to the ER.
Later, I would learn that primary care physicians do not want to get involved with car accident injuries. Once involved they may have to deal with an extra load of paperwork including depositions which cut into their time thus lowering their bottom line profit.
I argued. I begged with the office. I reminded them that I have been a patient with them for thirty years. The nurse told me that they would not see me. She told me to go to a walk-in clinic or an emergency room.
I did go to an emergency room. X-rays were taken. The report came back that I had contusions and tissue damage. No fracture was reported. I told them I knew something was very wrong with my leg. I begged for an MRI. The technician told me they would not do that in the ER because MRI's are too costly.
With each passing day the pain increased. It got to where I could only be up for ten minutes without having to lie down and ice my leg. Then I could get up for another ten. By this time I was getting pretty desperate.
I called for an appointment with an orthopedic surgeon. The facility would not see me without a referral from my primary doctor, but of course, my primary doctor's office would not see me. I finally called my health insurance company. I was fortunate to get a compassionate woman on the phone. I warned her that my story would be long and convoluted. I asked if she would take the time to listen.
After hearing my story, the insurance woman told me that my primary doctor's office was in violation of contract with my insurance company. They are required by contract to furnish a physician for their patients when the doctor is on vacation. Within less than an hour, I not only had a referral to see the orthopedic, but I had an appointment at the primary doctor's office.
One MRI later I was diagnosed with a tibial plateau fracture of my leg. My kneecap and tibia were broken. No wonder I was in such hellish pain. I had been walking on a broken leg for over five weeks assuming that there was nothing more wrong than bruising.
I got good care from the orthopedic doctor. I had to use crutches, a wheelchair and a walker for ten weeks because I could put no weight at all on the broken leg. This was hard, but I was glad to know I would get better.
The bone healed. I started walking, and I was so glad. Everything was delightful. Being able to get out of bed to use the bathroom without assistance of a walker was cause for happiness. Being able to open my front door and walk outside and pull weeds was a blessing. Being able to put two shoes on my feet and walk in my neighborhood was nirvana.
One day early in my freedom from the wheelchair I went to my dentist to deal with the cracked molars I sustained from the car accident. My one tooth was aching terribly.
I got settled in the dental chair, the chained paper bib attached to my front, and I started shaking. This is not me. Dentists have never scared me. Then I started crying. The thought of the drill and more body pain was too much.
The dentist is a sweet man. I was terrified of the Novacaine shot- I have had dozens during the course of my life, and they have never been an issue – but all of a sudden here I was a sixty year old person acting like a scared little girl.
I explained to the dentist about the accident and my sister’s cancer, and he heard. He told me just to look into his eyes while he gave me the shot and drilled on my tooth. My eyes welled up with tears. His eyes were blue and kind. His humanity made me cry.
Five weeks later my still delicate knee buckled out from under me as I was dancing. We were celebrating our twenty-fifth anniversary here at home with a few good friends. Blame it on the Dave Clark Five's "Do You Love Me?" and the fact that dance music has a way of sending paroxysms of joy up and down my spine, but I just had to move to that tune. I tried to save myself from falling but instead rolled on my ankle.
I lay on the floor with my friends standing over me. My leg was straight, but my ankle was turned out at a right angle. My husband later described it as looking like a flopping fish.
A few hours later, I was diagnosed with a fractured ankle. Two bones were involved, and they were broken into many pieces. I am now a few weeks past surgery, and I will not be walking until sometime in February.
As far as I saw it, I was back to square one with the broken extremity deal. My day consists of spending ninety per cent of my time in a recliner, for my leg must remain elevated.
Things like getting up to use the bathroom, brush my teeth are now at the top of the “To Do” list. They involve planning and careful maneuvering.
I went through a lot of rage for the first three weeks or so, but now after almost six weeks of not walking I am starting to piece together a new way of living, for this recliner life will last until sometime in February as long as my healing cooperates.
Yesterday we had to put our dog to sleep because she has cancer. We got Ginger along with her two kitty sisters in the spring of 1999.
At that time we decided to take on a whole new passel of pets to bring joy into our home. The 1990’s had been a decade in which I lost the majority of my family to death. Our beloved Rhonda cat had passed away only recently, and Dan and I decided just to go whole hog and get a puppy plus two five weeks old kittens. What immeasurable healing these animals brought!
I look at my life today and know that I must focus on all that is good. However, I am very shaky these days- gun shy.
I must be very careful to not let my mind go to the dark place in which I fear more bad stuff happening. Because I have lived long enough to know that there will indeed be more loss.
I just want to catch a break for a spell, you know.
Yes, yes, yes. I know I am more fortunate than not. And each day I make myself write down all of which I have to be grateful for.
But still I am human, see? And I am not perfect. And sometimes we have periods in our lives in which too many sad, bad and scary things occur within too small of a space of time. And our strong place gets put to a test. Oftentimes the coping mechanisms that have worked well in the past no longer do. Maybe the things that I have experienced recently would not get to some people, but they got to me. They got ahold of my spirit, and I struggle each day to overcome my negativity.
Maybe I am not strong enough because I have broken down, but then again maybe I am strong because I am allowing myself to feel my darkness and face it and put practices into place to make peace with it. Sometimes we have to break wide open to find ourselves.
And that is my story, and I am trying very hard to get strong again.
I know. I know. So many others have it worse. But sometimes that knowledge only serves to make me feel guilty for feeling down. It makes me feel that I have no right to feel sad.
I am a mere mortal, and I am not perfect. I have tried to be perfect all of my life, and it no longer works for me.
One of the most gorgeous songs ever. Take a listen.
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
The Blessing of the Tears
I continue to surprise myself at how far I will go to avoid breaking down into a good cry. Although I have long known that it is within the tears that I find equanimity.
I am having a hard time these days. Circumstances have converged that make it necessary for me to forge a new way to find peace within myself.
We all have our own coping mechanisms. Mine has usually been to be staunch, sturdy and independent. And I am proud of those qualities in me. I prefer doing most things by myself. That is who I am, and I must honor that.
My mother was a woman who thought she needed others to lean on. She fell apart easily and often, and her life consisted of a series of unhappy relationships which were based on need.
I grew up watching Mom run from life’s challenges like a hunted animal all the while tracking down others from whom she sought to borrow strength- the strength that she did not know she could cultivate within herself.
Mom did the very best she could. I don’t begrudge her choices. She loved me fiercely and with great earnestness. She showed me what she knew. Daughters sort out their mother’s teachings and apply what works to their own lives.
And what works for me is to face stuff alone. What works best for me is to be alone with my pain until I am strong again.
Mother’s emotional outbursts set the tempo of our home. At a young age I understood that there was to be no room for two drama queens under the same roof. My tack was to become the buttoned-down girl who ran interference.
I raised myself to avoid crying. I raised myself to buck-up. I was taught that others had bigger problems than mine, and that if I let loose with my feelings then all I was doing was making things worse for others.
I especially remember being told this when my parents were divorcing. I was twelve, and my mother's parents had come to help out as my mother was in helpless mode. My job, I was told, was to be strong for my mother.
My Victorian era grandmother told me me that a display of emotions is undignified. My grandfather agreed. He once wrote me a letter in which he said that I was too nice of a girl to have problems. I dearly loved my Mamie and Father John. Theirs was my Safe House. And because I adored them I practiced what they taught. I learned to maintain a stiff upper lip and let 'er rip with a therapist who I paid to listen.
These days I am crying more. I spend most days alone in a chair. And I cry. I rant. I pound. I scream. I cuss and I beg for help to the Great Unseen. I sing at the top of my lungs sounding much like Tiny Tim in chains.No one witnesses these moments, and that is just how I want it to be.
I cry until this thing happens in which it seems that my mind folds into my core of strength.
My strength looks like a razzle dazzle emerald rock not unlike one Elizabeth Taylor would have worn.
My strength smells like an early spring day in which the coo of the dove fills me with a sense of happy expectancy.
My strength is luxurious, thick and soft like the fur of my long-hair calico cat.
My strength sounds like Tom Petty belting out the words to “Refugee”.
I do not like to be taken care of by another person. I am much more of a loner than Mom was. That is who I am. It certainly is appropriate that by the time a woman is sixty years of age that she follow her own guide and take herself unto herself for better or for worse.
These days I prefer to take myself down to my edge and build myself back up. This is my daily practice. It is work that I must to do alone
This practice, too, will change someday when I have new things to learn.
My tears clean me out for a spell. I can then pull myself up by my bootstraps and carry on.
Tears lead me to Grace.
I am having a hard time these days. Circumstances have converged that make it necessary for me to forge a new way to find peace within myself.
We all have our own coping mechanisms. Mine has usually been to be staunch, sturdy and independent. And I am proud of those qualities in me. I prefer doing most things by myself. That is who I am, and I must honor that.
My mother was a woman who thought she needed others to lean on. She fell apart easily and often, and her life consisted of a series of unhappy relationships which were based on need.
I grew up watching Mom run from life’s challenges like a hunted animal all the while tracking down others from whom she sought to borrow strength- the strength that she did not know she could cultivate within herself.
Mom did the very best she could. I don’t begrudge her choices. She loved me fiercely and with great earnestness. She showed me what she knew. Daughters sort out their mother’s teachings and apply what works to their own lives.
And what works for me is to face stuff alone. What works best for me is to be alone with my pain until I am strong again.
Mother’s emotional outbursts set the tempo of our home. At a young age I understood that there was to be no room for two drama queens under the same roof. My tack was to become the buttoned-down girl who ran interference.
I raised myself to avoid crying. I raised myself to buck-up. I was taught that others had bigger problems than mine, and that if I let loose with my feelings then all I was doing was making things worse for others.
I especially remember being told this when my parents were divorcing. I was twelve, and my mother's parents had come to help out as my mother was in helpless mode. My job, I was told, was to be strong for my mother.
My Victorian era grandmother told me me that a display of emotions is undignified. My grandfather agreed. He once wrote me a letter in which he said that I was too nice of a girl to have problems. I dearly loved my Mamie and Father John. Theirs was my Safe House. And because I adored them I practiced what they taught. I learned to maintain a stiff upper lip and let 'er rip with a therapist who I paid to listen.
These days I am crying more. I spend most days alone in a chair. And I cry. I rant. I pound. I scream. I cuss and I beg for help to the Great Unseen. I sing at the top of my lungs sounding much like Tiny Tim in chains.No one witnesses these moments, and that is just how I want it to be.
I cry until this thing happens in which it seems that my mind folds into my core of strength.
My strength looks like a razzle dazzle emerald rock not unlike one Elizabeth Taylor would have worn.
My strength smells like an early spring day in which the coo of the dove fills me with a sense of happy expectancy.
My strength is luxurious, thick and soft like the fur of my long-hair calico cat.
My strength sounds like Tom Petty belting out the words to “Refugee”.
I do not like to be taken care of by another person. I am much more of a loner than Mom was. That is who I am. It certainly is appropriate that by the time a woman is sixty years of age that she follow her own guide and take herself unto herself for better or for worse.
These days I prefer to take myself down to my edge and build myself back up. This is my daily practice. It is work that I must to do alone
This practice, too, will change someday when I have new things to learn.
My tears clean me out for a spell. I can then pull myself up by my bootstraps and carry on.
Tears lead me to Grace.
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Someone to Watch Over Me
The side where the steel plate and the twelve screws are installed.
The tibia incision where two three inch screws are holding the tibia together. The bloody mess is called a fracture blister. These often form around incisions. They burn and grow larger and larger until they pop and dry up. All of this occurs while the split or cast is on, and the blister chafes against the cast and feels quite awful.
Broken Leg Girl got herself a new orange cast yesterday
I cried because I had to bend my broken ankle at a right angle so the cast measurement would be right. God, it hurt so much that I started to cry. I felt like such a big sixty- year- old baby sitting there, but it really hurt. And then the med tech said I had to do it again and then again.
Body pain is so primitive. It can take us back.I think about the first time I remember experiencing pain. I believe it was the summer day when I stepped on a bumble bee.
"Mommy, Mommy", my little three-years-old self cried as I raced from my sandbox to the back screen door. As always, she was there waiting to sweep me up into her arms and set me on the kitchen counter top to anoint my sting with Vanilla extract. She told me the sweet smell of extract would steal away the pain.
She allowed me to cry and whimper and bury my head into her as she murmured comfort. " Mama's here. I promise you will feel better before you know. It is gonna be all right."
Yeah, it was gonna be all right. She knew how to distract me with fun or funny while she placed a cool washcloth on my forehead and kissed away my tears. She let me lie down on the sofa and watch tv in the middle of the day which was a forbidden activity in our house. Mom always said that television was for boobs, and her daughters were not going to be raised to be boobs.
You get to a certain age in which there is no Mama to call, And if you live really really long there may be no one to call. So it is important to learn how to soothe oneself in the same tender manner that a mother would.
Saturday, November 5, 2011
Getting to the Tears
I continue be surprised at how far I will go to avoid breaking down into a good cry, but it is always among the tears that I am able to find some solace. Having sustained the second break in my left leg in five months is really getting to me. I will not be walking for at least three more months.
I raised myself to avoid crying. I raised myself to buck-up. I was taught that others had bigger problems than mine, and that if I let loose with my feelings then all I was doing was making things worse for others.
I especially remember being told this when my parents were divorcing. I was twelve, and my mother's parents had come to help out, for my mother was in helpless mode. My job, I was told, was to be strong for my mother.
Now my father's advice about what to do with unpleasant feelings and situations was to tell me that I needed to learn to be more mechanical. I can do mechanical. I can immerse myself in routines, and aimless ambitions, but I can only do this for so long.
We all have our own coping mechanisms. Mine has usually been to be staunch, sturdy and independent. And I am proud of those qualities in me; however, there is always the flip side, right?
My mother used to say, "Let 'er rip" when she thought something was being held back.
Her life was kind of "Let It All Hang Out" style, and I was often embarrassed and disgusted with her. A question of balance is what I am talking about here.
And it did not take me long to realize that there was not room for two drama queens under the same roof., so I became the buttoned-down girl who tended to the drama and cleaned up the emotional messes.
I raised myself to avoid crying. I raised myself to buck-up. I was taught that others had bigger problems than mine, and that if I let loose with my feelings then all I was doing was making things worse for others.
I especially remember being told this when my parents were divorcing. I was twelve, and my mother's parents had come to help out, for my mother was in helpless mode. My job, I was told, was to be strong for my mother.
My Victorian era grandmother told me me that a display of emotions is undignified. My grandfather agreed. He once wrote me a letter in which he said that I was too nice of a girl to have problems. I dearly loved my Mamie and Father John. Theirs was my Safe House. And because I adored them I practiced what they taught. I learned to maintain a stiff upper lip and let 'er rip with a therapist who got paid to listen.
Now my father's advice about what to do with unpleasant feelings and situations was to tell me that I needed to learn to be more mechanical. I can do mechanical. I can immerse myself in routines, and aimless ambitions, but I can only do this for so long.
And now with the inability to walk I must dig deep to devise distractions that I can do while in a chair. This is my challenge for now. I am figuring it out, but how I long to take my walks during these beautiful fall days. Perhaps those walks will be even sweeter when I can take them.
These days I am back to crying more. I have been crying about loss- my sister's stage 4 cancer, many dear friends who are dealing with very serious health problems, and the fact that my beloved cat is growing very old and a bunch of other stuff. I am craving escape from the sadness. And then the tears kind of clean me out for a spell. I take a deep breath. I see the prism the sunlight makes dancing on the wall, and I am okay again for awhile.Tears are a form of grace.
These days I am back to crying more. I have been crying about loss- my sister's stage 4 cancer, many dear friends who are dealing with very serious health problems, and the fact that my beloved cat is growing very old and a bunch of other stuff. I am craving escape from the sadness. And then the tears kind of clean me out for a spell. I take a deep breath. I see the prism the sunlight makes dancing on the wall, and I am okay again for awhile.Tears are a form of grace.
Thursday, November 3, 2011
from Six Feet Under dialogue Nate and Dead Father
father
at forty
the idea of forty more years
the next forty years will fly by- it will be over before you know it
Nate: Time flies when you are having fun, Huh?"
Dad: No. Time flies when you are pretending to have fun. Times flies when you are pretending to know what people mean when they say, "love.".
Let's face it, buddy boy. There are two kinds of people in the world. There is you and everybody else. And never the twain shall meet.
Sunday, October 30, 2011
The 87th Circle of Broken Leg Hell
And welcome to my world, dear reader. That was quite a break I took from the blog, but that is because I was LIVING my life. Oh my, in the five weeks between broken legs I did have a good time.
Oooh, there were so many wonderful things I did. I planted winter annuals. Dan and I celebrated out twenty -fifth with a few very fine and very good old-as in duration- and YEAH old too 'cept for one who is a mere fifty-something.
Oh, and I garage sales and found some groovy things while visions of PROFITS danced in my head.
Always looking to turn a profit- always looking for a return, and aren't we all? I know this girl is.
I cleaned my house inside and outside from top to bottom. I got my porch floor so clean that it make me feel stupid.
I walked with my tunes around my sweet old tract houses- for Gi's- after WW II- neighborhood. I rejoiced in the comfort I took by passing by the houses that have remained the same during the
thirty years in which my husband and I have lived in this place- our modest, but oh so lovely and loved pale pink concrete block 1953 home. Our home. My home. The only home I have ever had that really felt like home.
MeUs
Pets
Furnishings
Trees
I have a home. It took almost forty years, but after living that long I finally carved out a place that is love. Love in every piece of sweat and slow progress that Dan and I have put into N. Edison.
Tangent time. Tangent time.
My whole life has been on TANGENT TIME.
My angle was never right.
I was born obtuse.
Made wrong
not a Right angle
straight and easy
Ridiculed
obtuse angle
wide-open
and unpredictable
Broken Ankle
Time to blog
So mad about this second break in five months
I just spewed venom for three hours
as I tried to maneuver through house chores
with one leg stuck in cement
I cussed so much that I gave myself
pause.
And that was a lot of cussing because I was raised by a mother who taught me how to cuss really well.
Always had a dirt mouth
My dirty mouth
gives me a few private little chuckles now and then
Later. Back Season 4 of Six Feet Under
watching it the second time around
Great show. I adore Frances Conroy!
and a snippet of conversation between Nat and his dead dad.
Nate: "The idea of forty more years."
Dead Father: "The next forty years will fly by; it will be over before you know it."
Nate: Time flies when you are having fun, Huh?"
Dad: "No, time flies when you are pretending to have fun. Times flies when you are pretending to know what people mean when they say, "love.". Let's face it, buddy boy. There are two kinds of people in the world. There is you and everybody else. And never the twain shall meet."
Hey, don't pretend to know for sure what this means, but it is intriguing.
Later.
AND NOW I WILL DANCE FROM MY CHAIR
Thursday, October 20, 2011
I just wanna live my life without asking for help. I don't think that we realize what a prize independence is until we don't have it.
I busted up my ankle this time. I lay on the floor surrounded by my dear friends. We were having a singalong after our dinner party.
I have spent a good deal of time creating singalong books filled with the lyrics to the songs that make me feel alive, happy, silly and joyous. I created a playlist of the songs to go the lyrics.
And why did I do this. It started after a big loss in which my heart got broken bad.
with
I have long known that the land of music is one of the highest places for me to be. It can lift my mood faster than anything. So a couple of years back I started the singalong project.
So we are all sitting around singing to Tom Petty's "Refugee", The Beatles "Rocky Racoon" and then "Do You Love Me" by the DC5 comes on. No, it is not enough for me to simply sing. I find that I must get up and move. Yeah, baby, this chick must move. Sittin' still to "Refugee" was bad enough.
So I am cruising along in my bare feet, and when the song gets to that part where Dave shouts out "Watch me now". Well, now I just have to jump up for effect, but instead of landing flat on my feet my ole knee - well, it buckles out from under me, and I try to do a save with my foot.
Long story short. That save did not work. Next thing I know I am lying on my floor with my friends looking down at me. My ankle is twisted out in the most unnatural formation. The pain is hot, but the deepest pain is in my head. I know there is something really bad with my leg again.
- I fight going to the ER. I wanna lie on the floor and wait to get bett
- er and get up and dance
- e some more, but I allow myself to be taken to the hospital.
Report: FINDINGS: There is a comminuted fracture of the distal fibula at the level of the tibiofibular syndesmosis. There is a lateral displacement of approximately 7 mm.
A comminuted fracture of the medial malleolus is noted, also with mild lateral displacement. Periarticular soft tissue swelling is noted. The bones appear diffusely demineralized.Translation: two bones that meet where my ankles begins are broken in to small pieces. The bones have been moved out of place. I will require surgery which will include the place of a stainless steel plate and several screws to hold my bones together. I will not walk for three or four months.
Wait. I just did this. A car accident broke my tibia and kneecap. I escaped surgery, but I was bound to a wheelchair for ten weeks.
I have a five week interlude of living normal which meant driving, going shopping by myself, pushing the vacuum cleaner, walking to the refrigerator and opening it and using the restroom without gearing myself up for the painful movement that getting from point A to point B requires.
This is happening all over again. There have been many nights of fitful dreams. Mostly recently I dreamt of a sea of blood. In the weeks before this new nightmare I have had dreams that always involve a frightening physical struggle in which to find safety involves fast movements and quick thinking.
Oh, no, all that is replaying itself. I cannot move fast and my thinking is clouded with fear, fatigue and pain.
I am a woman in need, and it terrifies me.
Thursday, September 15, 2011
On the Sunny Side of the Street
Washing Dishes at Fifteen
Venice, Florida
Venice, Florida
Long time no see, Blog Girl.
What happened is that my leg healed, and I got my life back.
And I have been driving and walking and being able to pull weeds and stuff.
And what is true is that my routines are my guide through each day, and I could not rely on them when I could not walk, so I turned to writing to pass the time.
Yes, I like to write, and I need to express myself if only to the anonymous reader, but if I was going to write well it would take too much time, so today I am just writing just because it feels good.
My routines save me from myself in lots of ways.
And maybe I will get back to more regular postings because I won't have to try so hard to sound like my writing is good.
Because in this, my sixtieth year, I am trying hard to let go of much of the perfectionist trip which was strangling my insides.
So I might just start posting whatever comes up that seems important to post.
And that will be enough.
Because I am enough, and you dear reader are enough.
How long and curvy the road to acceptance of oneself.
Later.
P.
And now a little Judy Garland to cure what ails ye. She always does the trick for me.
Sunday, September 4, 2011
My relationship with weight
Until I was thirty-five I never even thought about my weight. It was a part of me that i took for granted like I did my big blue eye, my a bit too large nose and the bump at the base of my hairline that Mom said I got because I fell when I was a baby and got a splinter of wood in my head. It used to be a thing we had- my mom and me- I would ask her over and over again, "Mama, tell me again how I got this bump on my head."
And she would tell me the story about the fall from the counter and the wood and all. And she must have told me this story dozens of times, and she never got impatient or told me that I had already been told about the bump. Instead she just would smile and start up in her higher- than -nomal - story -telling voice and say, "Well, when you were a very little baby...."
And I would look at her and move closer to her so that I could smell the best smell in the world to me at that time which was my mother- and I feel so secure to hear my mother- the whole of my little girl universe- tell me a story that I had heard so many times before and as I lay my head about her breast I knew that there were endless retelling of this silly little story awaiting me in the days again.
I was at the age then when I had not learned that I would grow up into an adult. Adults were as different to me as my kitty Agamemnon was to me.
The very idea that I would enter the world of adults was about as real to me that I would grow up to be a lion tamer.
Those early days hen there is no need for distraction or denial to quell the thunder that often sounds in the distant regions of my mind especially when i am tired were magical days. it is said that as we grow older the greater the attempt we make to engage in those activites that pleased us so as a child the more peace we will find. Food for thought, huh?
My life in my little lavender bedroom with the built-in curlicued shelving would never end.
I would always wake up to the sound of Mama's perculator beside which was the everpresent can of FIND THIS TYPE and we would go down to the basement to do the laundry.
I was too little too help, but my mothere always took the time to explain all of the different machings in the basement that she used to wash clothes the agitator, the wringer, the rinse tub,
the wringer again, and then the clothesline. Some clothes had to be sprinkled with water from a coca cola bottle with a stopper in it. That was my job. Sprinkling. It made be feel important not that I was getting to be a big girl.
And then the clothes and I sprinkled them Mama put them in the dark closet, and then the next day would be the day the ironing board came out, and I would sit and play on the floor with my dolls while steam came from the sprinkler clothes. Ironing day was a good day because I could play on the big braided rug that had all these colors in it, and I could even just lie down on that rug and at the level of my mother's legs and feel secure that Mama and the iron board would be there for many hours.
And she would tell me the story about the fall from the counter and the wood and all. And she must have told me this story dozens of times, and she never got impatient or told me that I had already been told about the bump. Instead she just would smile and start up in her higher- than -nomal - story -telling voice and say, "Well, when you were a very little baby...."
And I would look at her and move closer to her so that I could smell the best smell in the world to me at that time which was my mother- and I feel so secure to hear my mother- the whole of my little girl universe- tell me a story that I had heard so many times before and as I lay my head about her breast I knew that there were endless retelling of this silly little story awaiting me in the days again.
I was at the age then when I had not learned that I would grow up into an adult. Adults were as different to me as my kitty Agamemnon was to me.
The very idea that I would enter the world of adults was about as real to me that I would grow up to be a lion tamer.
Those early days hen there is no need for distraction or denial to quell the thunder that often sounds in the distant regions of my mind especially when i am tired were magical days. it is said that as we grow older the greater the attempt we make to engage in those activites that pleased us so as a child the more peace we will find. Food for thought, huh?
My life in my little lavender bedroom with the built-in curlicued shelving would never end.
I would always wake up to the sound of Mama's perculator beside which was the everpresent can of FIND THIS TYPE and we would go down to the basement to do the laundry.
I was too little too help, but my mothere always took the time to explain all of the different machings in the basement that she used to wash clothes the agitator, the wringer, the rinse tub,
the wringer again, and then the clothesline. Some clothes had to be sprinkled with water from a coca cola bottle with a stopper in it. That was my job. Sprinkling. It made be feel important not that I was getting to be a big girl.
And then the clothes and I sprinkled them Mama put them in the dark closet, and then the next day would be the day the ironing board came out, and I would sit and play on the floor with my dolls while steam came from the sprinkler clothes. Ironing day was a good day because I could play on the big braided rug that had all these colors in it, and I could even just lie down on that rug and at the level of my mother's legs and feel secure that Mama and the iron board would be there for many hours.
Saturday, September 3, 2011
DEad Man's Curve
Sometimes ya just can't take much more
at least for awhile
When i was very young my memory of the first bad thing was when i found my teddy bear doll in the tiny woods behind our house. We lived in one post ww 2 suburbs of Kalamazoo north of Main Strett and called Westwood. The neighborhood still contained heavily wooded vacant lot which I am sure have long since been developed, but as a child who was born just a few years after the war ended my mother and father were of the first young couples to set up housekeeping there.
Behind our house was what I referred to as the woods, an dyou know how everything seems larger and more mysterious when you are a small kid. So, see, these woods were big and full of undiscovered mystery to my seven year old mind.
I lost teddy one day in what was probably one of the last days before the days became horrificly and short, cold and confining. Perhaps it was an Indinan Summer day.- a day in which one can drop the wool sweater and perhpaps enjoys one last days of shorts- a surprise sort of look up number ofhours for Indian usmmer. prefaced by weeks of what appears to be the end of anything resembling warm weather. And all of a sudden it is warm again and great joy is taken because you know it is swan song for summer. It is a bittersweet sort of loveliness. It is that last truffle from the box you received for a birthday. It is chords in a Strauss waltz which reminds you of mother. Indian summer is all of these things.
story of tedddy in the ice
then go into mels dx, identiy theft, party, accident, trip, medical maze, leg, suicide, and turning 60
I best steer my mind away from the dangers, of course, that is the wiset tack, and I am getting there by returning to the things that continue to save me.
They are the easily accessibly things- cats, funny movies, cleaning house, walks, weights, errands, yardwork, exchanges with a neighbor who is walking by, visiting my favorite haunts in this city which is my home
at least for awhile
When i was very young my memory of the first bad thing was when i found my teddy bear doll in the tiny woods behind our house. We lived in one post ww 2 suburbs of Kalamazoo north of Main Strett and called Westwood. The neighborhood still contained heavily wooded vacant lot which I am sure have long since been developed, but as a child who was born just a few years after the war ended my mother and father were of the first young couples to set up housekeeping there.
Behind our house was what I referred to as the woods, an dyou know how everything seems larger and more mysterious when you are a small kid. So, see, these woods were big and full of undiscovered mystery to my seven year old mind.
I lost teddy one day in what was probably one of the last days before the days became horrificly and short, cold and confining. Perhaps it was an Indinan Summer day.- a day in which one can drop the wool sweater and perhpaps enjoys one last days of shorts- a surprise sort of look up number ofhours for Indian usmmer. prefaced by weeks of what appears to be the end of anything resembling warm weather. And all of a sudden it is warm again and great joy is taken because you know it is swan song for summer. It is a bittersweet sort of loveliness. It is that last truffle from the box you received for a birthday. It is chords in a Strauss waltz which reminds you of mother. Indian summer is all of these things.
story of tedddy in the ice
then go into mels dx, identiy theft, party, accident, trip, medical maze, leg, suicide, and turning 60
I best steer my mind away from the dangers, of course, that is the wiset tack, and I am getting there by returning to the things that continue to save me.
They are the easily accessibly things- cats, funny movies, cleaning house, walks, weights, errands, yardwork, exchanges with a neighbor who is walking by, visiting my favorite haunts in this city which is my home
Monday, August 29, 2011
A Wish
I wish I would stop attributing value points to the ways in which I spend my time. A few years back I came to know at a deep level of my being that time is a currency.
"To fill the hour, that is happiness." Anne Morrow Lindbergh
the broken leg is yesterday's news, and now I have more choices about what I can do.
I must admit that when faced with limited choice it was easier and more peaceful than now.
Now I can get the car and go somewhere.
Or I can get up and start listing things to make money.
Or I can sit here and read and write.
I can get up and do my free weights.
right now the rain is something else. August.
"To fill the hour, that is happiness." Anne Morrow Lindbergh
the broken leg is yesterday's news, and now I have more choices about what I can do.
I must admit that when faced with limited choice it was easier and more peaceful than now.
Now I can get the car and go somewhere.
Or I can get up and start listing things to make money.
Or I can sit here and read and write.
I can get up and do my free weights.
right now the rain is something else. August.
Sunday, August 28, 2011
The Blessing of Tears
I was raised to avoid crying. I was raised to "buck-up and be strong". I was taught that others had bigger problems than mine, and that if I let loose with my feelings then all I was doing was making things worse for others.
I especially remember being told this when my parents were divorcing. I was twelve, and my mother's parents had come to help out.Some relative told me that I had to be strong for my mother. A display of emotions was considered undignified and showed a lack of self-control. What my Victorian era grandmother taught me,my beloved grandfather reiterated. He once wrote me a letter in which he said that I was too nice of a girl to have problems. So because i dearly loved and respected my grandfather who was indeed the best of men, I learned to maintain a stiff upper lip when in the presence of most people, and kept my problems to myself or for the therapist who got paid to listen.
During the course of my life I tried to toughen up at least I attempted to figure out what that meant. My father's advice once was that I needed to learn to be "more mechanical". I can do mechanical. I can immerse myself in routines, and aimless ambitions, but I can only do this for so long.
Words on paper became my confidante along with my many feline friends.I crfied alone in the closet with my face burried in to my clothes to muffle the sound. The stifled sobs turned to an anger which spiraled into a rage.
I was so mad one day when i was thirteen that I put my fist through the pane of my bedroom window.
That, of course, got a reaction. Punishment. Lectures about how hard I was making things for my mother. Lectures about how I was too old and too smart to act that way. I cried very angry tears in response.
The rage, of course, was the true part of me that knew i had every right to feel very sad, and that I had every right to cry when I needed to.
It is a solitary life for most of us. We learn to dust off our deep pain while in the presence of others. Perhaps that is the reason I prefer so much time alone. I want to be able to feel myself feel.
Crying never fails to give me relief, and it is always in the midst of my tears that I am reminded once again of the paradox of this life I live- that joy and pain coexist. Something my child-self innately knew, but that my adult-self had to rediscover. Tears are a form of grace that connect me with me.
childhood report cards report on me
Recently, I came across my report cards from my elementary school years. During those days each child's report card was handwritten. FIND THE PART ABOUT HOW I STAND BACK AND OBSERVE
I was often made wrong for being shy, bookish, and reticent to join in.
USE SCAN OF TEACHER'S REPORT CARD NOTES. painfully shy and overly sensitive- observes before she joins in what in the hell did that mean. as if these are qualities that need to be improved upon.
I had my ideas about how I wanted to spend my time, and even as a little girl I did not welcome being directed. Perhaps it has something to do with being a firstborn. After all, I had learned how to entertain myself without benefit of others.
On Denial
What I cannot do is lie to myself. Oh, and how many times have I wished that I could. How many times have I wished that a heavy cloak of denial would envelope me protecting me from the pain in my heart. Unfortunately -or perhaps fortunately- denial rarely finds a parking place in my mind.
How often I have wished that I do not see or hear or feel something that pierces my being. How many times have I tried so hard not to know that which I did not want to feel. For the world of pretend is lighter and prettier and much less scary.
How often I have wished that I do not see or hear or feel something that pierces my being. How many times have I tried so hard not to know that which I did not want to feel. For the world of pretend is lighter and prettier and much less scary.
My Young Pathetic Social Life
I didn't want to get to know the kids at the softball park. I hated team sports. I did not possess the easy ability to slide in with a group of girls. I can remember back in junior high being awed when a new girl named Georgia enrolled in our school. I remember the ease at which she smoothed her way into the group of popular kids. It was as though she possessed a a sort of magic trick one in whichI was sorely lacking in my social arsenal.
Recently, I came across my report cards from my elementary school years. During those days each child's report card was handwritten.
I was often made wrong for being shy, bookish, and reticent to join in.
USE SCAN OF TEACHER'S REPORT CARD NOTES. painfully shy and overly sensitive- observes before she joins in what in the hell did that mean. as if these are qualities that need to be improved upon.
did not want to join the line-up of the other girls- did not want what they wanted only if I happened to really want that- did not want to have to change myself to be fit in- I wanted to fit in because I though that there was something wrong with me because I really did not want to.
much disservice is done to children in the name of conformity- it will take us much of our adult lives to find our lost selves, and this is a daunting and often painful process.
Latin class, knee socks and kilt, picture journalisn club. I was the pale girl in the blackwatch plaid kilt and the Shetland cardigan. I was the girl who wore the unattractive cat-eye glasses. I was the girl who got Ds in gym because I would not play team sports properly. I thought they were stupid and useless. I did not see the point.
during volleyball one day the ball had hit the upper edge ofmy pointy frames and pushed them first into the side of my nose and then onto the gym floor. Someone stepped on them. I was left relatively sightless with a huge gash on the side of my nose where the glasses had cut my face.
Recently, I came across my report cards from my elementary school years. During those days each child's report card was handwritten.
I was often made wrong for being shy, bookish, and reticent to join in.
USE SCAN OF TEACHER'S REPORT CARD NOTES. painfully shy and overly sensitive- observes before she joins in what in the hell did that mean. as if these are qualities that need to be improved upon.
did not want to join the line-up of the other girls- did not want what they wanted only if I happened to really want that- did not want to have to change myself to be fit in- I wanted to fit in because I though that there was something wrong with me because I really did not want to.
much disservice is done to children in the name of conformity- it will take us much of our adult lives to find our lost selves, and this is a daunting and often painful process.
Latin class, knee socks and kilt, picture journalisn club. I was the pale girl in the blackwatch plaid kilt and the Shetland cardigan. I was the girl who wore the unattractive cat-eye glasses. I was the girl who got Ds in gym because I would not play team sports properly. I thought they were stupid and useless. I did not see the point.
during volleyball one day the ball had hit the upper edge ofmy pointy frames and pushed them first into the side of my nose and then onto the gym floor. Someone stepped on them. I was left relatively sightless with a huge gash on the side of my nose where the glasses had cut my face.
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Smart Alecky Kind of Gal
you think like a man, she said did not know whether to take this as a compliment or an insult, but I opeted to go with the former.
I cannot tell you how often her words have replayed in my mind. It got me to thinking about what is the difference between how a man thinks and a woman thinks. A ha.
I say to myself, well, you damned well better think like a man.
Okay let's make a list.
mike ryan our forts we hate boys
Somewhere around the mid fifties Davy Crockett craze hit. Mike Ryan had a cowboy tent and stakeout set up in the basement of his house. For my birthday I recieved a Davy Crockett tent, a little red record of the theme song and little cowgirl suit.
I wanted to ride the ranges with the boys.
I cannot tell you how often her words have replayed in my mind. It got me to thinking about what is the difference between how a man thinks and a woman thinks. A ha.
I say to myself, well, you damned well better think like a man.
Okay let's make a list.
mike ryan our forts we hate boys
Somewhere around the mid fifties Davy Crockett craze hit. Mike Ryan had a cowboy tent and stakeout set up in the basement of his house. For my birthday I recieved a Davy Crockett tent, a little red record of the theme song and little cowgirl suit.
I wanted to ride the ranges with the boys.
Friday, August 26, 2011
Sunday, August 21, 2011
A Bette Midler Sweetheart Soap Kind of Day
1960
Kalamazoo, Michigan
I am in my yellow bedroom with the Peter, Peter, Pumpkin Eater and Jack and Jill pictures.
It is bedtime.
I hear Mama yelling.
She tells Daddy that he thinks he is special because he has a penis in his pants.
He says something, but I can't hear.
The bottom drawer of the stove opens.
I know that sound.
Mama's goin' at it with the pots and pans.
Bam on the black and white speckled linoleum floor.
Bang come the lids. I hear one rolling on its edge.
I wait until I hear it fall over.
A door slams.
Mama is crying.
I tell my friend about what Mama said to Daddy about the penis in his pants.
I ask Mama why my uncle smells like New Year's Eve in the middle of the day
You don't get to talk truth in our house.
If you do, Mom takes you to the powder room
and she holds your head
over the lavender sink
while placing a bar of Sweetheart Soap in front of your mouth.
"Bite", she says.
And I do.
And I get the bad words washed out.
Mama's always telling me to "put a little sugar in my voice."
So see truth is not good, I figure.
It is something only for the grown-ups.
Not nice little girls like me.
Nice girls don't tell the truth.
They play by the rules of how a young lady is supposed to act.
Young ladies don't get mad.
Young ladies speak in soft voices.
Young ladies don't let themselves get dirty.
Young ladies ask; they do not state.
Mama hands me a booklet called You're a Young Lady Now.
It's got pictures of something called Kotex.
And a real ugly lookin' thing called a sanitary belt.
Book says I'm gonna be changing soon.
Book says things are gonna be different now
And that I will like it.
The young lady life don't seem fun to me-
well the pretty clothes part- but that's it.
I don't wanna be a young lady.
I wanna be my own girl.
I wanna wear my little mouse shirt that has snaps on the shoulder.
Mama says I'm too old because I have little bumps on my chest now.
She says that I am a young lady now.
Down and Dirty with Bette Midler
Johnny Carson
1984
Johnny Carson
1984
Saturday, August 20, 2011
Dignity and Me
Of the many values which were imparted to me as i grew up, maintaining a sense of dignity is one of the biggies.
A huge part of my upbringing was managed by my grandmother Pearl whom I called Mamie. The family story goes that the name "Mamie" just burst from my baby mouth one day because I could not say grandmother. But thinking back now and knowing my grandmother the way that I did, I will bet that name was suggested to me and that i was encouraged to use it. My grandmother was a staunch Republican, and Mamie Eisenhower was the first lady of the land at the time of my babyhood.
I learned from her that appearances mattered. I learned this each time she gave me a throrough going over before going down to the sidewalk to visit the grocery store. I learned this lessn well that it is important how I appear to others. In my grandmother's house, I learned to do things Mamie's Way. puuled the hair tight rubberbabd--fingernails dug into forearm
Teaching me to care about appearance was a world that she understood, an din spite of the often painful ways in which she taught me, she did this from a place of love, for to her the world was a frightening place- one in which going over the line of propriety was analgous to flirtin gwith the devil.
The way she knew to love me by was teaching me about what she knew about life. And I felt that love each time teaparties, horisies, dress-up, etc.
Mainting oneself properly and playing by the rules was what she believed would keep her safe.
teaparties loretta young charleston
the shoe store, Manistee, the last leaf, sharing a bathroom with strange man,
her bathroom reader's digest and the sweet creamy smell of her foundation make-up.
her checks were soft as she brushed her face into mine. the clippity clack of the horses on the wallpaper came to life for me as she carried me upstairs for my nap
Mamie's Way meant
The dignity lesson was so emblazoned in my mother, Mamie's daughter that the first thing I remember Mama saying after she was told that she had about three months to live is, "I do not want to lose my dignity."
I, who was only thirty-nine at this time, blurted out, "Mom, no one can take your dignity from you." Those words just shot out of my mouth. I did not even know if they were true at the time, but they sounded good.
Several years earlier upon returning from a trip north to visit her parents, Mom and I were discussing the visit. with tears in her eyes she notes that my grandmother had a stain on the hat she wore to the Sunday service. This tiny detail conveyed to my momther that the mother she knew was aging, for Pearl noticed everything when it had to do with appearances. Maybe my mother thought that my grandmother was losing her dignity by appearing in public with a stained hat. But that is not it.
It is sad and hard to let go of the things that we think will protect us. We get a sense of safety from our daily rituals adn routines. We like to know that a trusted friend is just a phone call away. I have even noticed in myself that just the appearance of the same cashier behind the register at Publix can give me some sense of safety. for To even dance on the edge of vulnerability is frightening.
In late spring I threw a big party at my home. I had the luxury of working on it for days in advance. I prided myself on that fact that I, indeed, had covered every base. My house was sparkling clean and ready for guests. My grandmother would have approved. the party went off without a hitch. And the next morning I arose early feeling good about what a perfect success it had been. I cleaned the house from top to bottom that day. All was ship shape by early afternoon.
That evening I went out and was involved in a horrible car accident. Life can turn on a dime.
There is nothing dignified about wearing an ugly black hinged brace on one's knee especially when the velco sticky part is stuck up with cat fur.
There is nothing dignified about falling on your face in the shower and having to pull yourself out on your bottom because one of your legs is broken. I guess the fall is what made me face the fact that I had to ask for help. And somewhere along the line I got the idea that to ask for help was not a dignified thing to do.
After I got myself out of the shower onto the floor of the bathroom, I just lay there staring at the ceiling for what was probably only a few minutes. I lay there working at getting my emotional grip. I was focused only on how to get off the floor. My phone lay on the counter within reach.
but I did not htink of using it. With the use of my left arm and my unbroken right leg I was able to hoist myself up to the top of the commode. there I was able to dry myself off, get myself on the walker and get to my bedroom where I clothed myself.
It was only after i was in clean clothing, my hair combed into a neat topknot that I allowed myself use of the phone. I do not remember who it was that I called, but it was when I heard a familiar voice on the other end of the line that I broke down. My voice shook as I conveyed how very frightened I was.
I don't know at what point I will lost my sense of what it is that I think I must do in order to mainstain a sense of self. I know that being in a position of need is a position that I am not at all comfortable with. somehow I have needing mixed in with the loss of dignity. And maybe that is wrong, but it is my sense of dignity that continues to seve me well.
that is why even though it may seem fake, I still get up, fix my hair, put a decnet outfit on which is getting harder due to the weight gain with the mandated inacitivy because I still need to feel some sense of control even if it is that my hair and makepup look nice as i pass myself in the mirror on my walker.
A huge part of my upbringing was managed by my grandmother Pearl whom I called Mamie. The family story goes that the name "Mamie" just burst from my baby mouth one day because I could not say grandmother. But thinking back now and knowing my grandmother the way that I did, I will bet that name was suggested to me and that i was encouraged to use it. My grandmother was a staunch Republican, and Mamie Eisenhower was the first lady of the land at the time of my babyhood.
I learned from her that appearances mattered. I learned this each time she gave me a throrough going over before going down to the sidewalk to visit the grocery store. I learned this lessn well that it is important how I appear to others. In my grandmother's house, I learned to do things Mamie's Way. puuled the hair tight rubberbabd--fingernails dug into forearm
Teaching me to care about appearance was a world that she understood, an din spite of the often painful ways in which she taught me, she did this from a place of love, for to her the world was a frightening place- one in which going over the line of propriety was analgous to flirtin gwith the devil.
The way she knew to love me by was teaching me about what she knew about life. And I felt that love each time teaparties, horisies, dress-up, etc.
Mainting oneself properly and playing by the rules was what she believed would keep her safe.
teaparties loretta young charleston
the shoe store, Manistee, the last leaf, sharing a bathroom with strange man,
her bathroom reader's digest and the sweet creamy smell of her foundation make-up.
her checks were soft as she brushed her face into mine. the clippity clack of the horses on the wallpaper came to life for me as she carried me upstairs for my nap
Mamie's Way meant
The dignity lesson was so emblazoned in my mother, Mamie's daughter that the first thing I remember Mama saying after she was told that she had about three months to live is, "I do not want to lose my dignity."
I, who was only thirty-nine at this time, blurted out, "Mom, no one can take your dignity from you." Those words just shot out of my mouth. I did not even know if they were true at the time, but they sounded good.
Several years earlier upon returning from a trip north to visit her parents, Mom and I were discussing the visit. with tears in her eyes she notes that my grandmother had a stain on the hat she wore to the Sunday service. This tiny detail conveyed to my momther that the mother she knew was aging, for Pearl noticed everything when it had to do with appearances. Maybe my mother thought that my grandmother was losing her dignity by appearing in public with a stained hat. But that is not it.
It is sad and hard to let go of the things that we think will protect us. We get a sense of safety from our daily rituals adn routines. We like to know that a trusted friend is just a phone call away. I have even noticed in myself that just the appearance of the same cashier behind the register at Publix can give me some sense of safety. for To even dance on the edge of vulnerability is frightening.
In late spring I threw a big party at my home. I had the luxury of working on it for days in advance. I prided myself on that fact that I, indeed, had covered every base. My house was sparkling clean and ready for guests. My grandmother would have approved. the party went off without a hitch. And the next morning I arose early feeling good about what a perfect success it had been. I cleaned the house from top to bottom that day. All was ship shape by early afternoon.
That evening I went out and was involved in a horrible car accident. Life can turn on a dime.
There is nothing dignified about wearing an ugly black hinged brace on one's knee especially when the velco sticky part is stuck up with cat fur.
There is nothing dignified about falling on your face in the shower and having to pull yourself out on your bottom because one of your legs is broken. I guess the fall is what made me face the fact that I had to ask for help. And somewhere along the line I got the idea that to ask for help was not a dignified thing to do.
After I got myself out of the shower onto the floor of the bathroom, I just lay there staring at the ceiling for what was probably only a few minutes. I lay there working at getting my emotional grip. I was focused only on how to get off the floor. My phone lay on the counter within reach.
but I did not htink of using it. With the use of my left arm and my unbroken right leg I was able to hoist myself up to the top of the commode. there I was able to dry myself off, get myself on the walker and get to my bedroom where I clothed myself.
It was only after i was in clean clothing, my hair combed into a neat topknot that I allowed myself use of the phone. I do not remember who it was that I called, but it was when I heard a familiar voice on the other end of the line that I broke down. My voice shook as I conveyed how very frightened I was.
I don't know at what point I will lost my sense of what it is that I think I must do in order to mainstain a sense of self. I know that being in a position of need is a position that I am not at all comfortable with. somehow I have needing mixed in with the loss of dignity. And maybe that is wrong, but it is my sense of dignity that continues to seve me well.
that is why even though it may seem fake, I still get up, fix my hair, put a decnet outfit on which is getting harder due to the weight gain with the mandated inacitivy because I still need to feel some sense of control even if it is that my hair and makepup look nice as i pass myself in the mirror on my walker.
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
Giving Ourselves Mercy
A few years ago I started thinking backward more than I was thinking forward. From what I have studied, that seems to be the case for people when they pass mid life.
This thinking back is a good thing and a bad thing. It brought up feelings of sadness. It brought up feelings of intense gratitude for the good fortune I have enjoyed in terms of loving people, a myriad of fabulous experiences and just plain old-fashioned good luck.
Conversely, this line of thinking also made me face all of the dumb things I have done. I thought about opportunities that I had passed over. I was at the point in my life when I was realizing that all of the things I thought I might do at age twenty were not going to happen during my lifetime.
I went through a period of what lasted about three years in which I was so angry, frustrated, frightened and awkward-feeling that I did not like to be around myself much. And to be honest, I must say I have usually thoroughly enjoyed my own company.
early spring sometime in the late 1950's
A girl of nine stands at the window outside her bedroom door. The view to her right is of her mother's kitchen window. Soon purple irises will bloom in the area under that window. But for now there is only snow- dirty, muddy, middle of March snow.
The girl sees the gray sky and the leafless trees. Today she has been told to stay home from school to watch over her mother. Mom has been in out of the hospital a lot lately. No one will tell her what is wrong with her mom. She just knows her mom cries so much, sleeps so much, and when she does get up to do something she isn't fun anymore.
Gone is the Mom who dances to Ricky Nelson in the living room on the big braided rug.
Gone is the Mom who sings while she whips up lemon meringue pies, hot cross buns and Easter bunny cakes festooned with coconut and jelly beans.
Gone is the Mom who puts a stick of Blackjack gum over her front tooth to get a laugh.
Here is the Mom who is sad.
Here is the Mom that the little girl must cheer up.
She knows so because her grandparents and father have told her that is her job.
They have told her not to cause trouble or ask for too much because your mother has worse problems. "You just be a good girl and make Mama happy," they say.
Down the hallway in her antique bed, Mama sleeps.
Still staring out the window on this very gray of days
the little girl wraps her arms around herself as if to ward off an inner chill.
And she tells herself, "I will always have me."
During so many of my young adult days I expected too much from myself. It was like I thought I had some dues to pay or something to prove. This force inside of me propelled me.
It was a drug as heady as good sex.
A few years back I just stopped trying so hard. That in itself has been a whole new challenge.
At some point, hopefully earlier than later, a woman must take sum of who she is and rejoice.
We are all too hard on ourselves.
Shortly after my mother died, I met Ram Dass. I was struggling with grief but sadder still was that I was passing judgment on myself as to how I was grieving. Was I doing it right? Was I taking too long?
Ram Dass stared me straight in the eye and said these words, "We must learn to give ourselves mercy."
I am fine just the way I am. And you, dear reader, are just fine the way you are too.
Let us stop being hard on ourselves. We've come a long way.
*Quite a few years went by before I realized that the following song was about loving and accepting oneself. It was written by Linda Creed, a young woman who died of breast cancer at the age of thirty-six.
This thinking back is a good thing and a bad thing. It brought up feelings of sadness. It brought up feelings of intense gratitude for the good fortune I have enjoyed in terms of loving people, a myriad of fabulous experiences and just plain old-fashioned good luck.
Conversely, this line of thinking also made me face all of the dumb things I have done. I thought about opportunities that I had passed over. I was at the point in my life when I was realizing that all of the things I thought I might do at age twenty were not going to happen during my lifetime.
I went through a period of what lasted about three years in which I was so angry, frustrated, frightened and awkward-feeling that I did not like to be around myself much. And to be honest, I must say I have usually thoroughly enjoyed my own company.
***********************************
early spring sometime in the late 1950's
A girl of nine stands at the window outside her bedroom door. The view to her right is of her mother's kitchen window. Soon purple irises will bloom in the area under that window. But for now there is only snow- dirty, muddy, middle of March snow.
The girl sees the gray sky and the leafless trees. Today she has been told to stay home from school to watch over her mother. Mom has been in out of the hospital a lot lately. No one will tell her what is wrong with her mom. She just knows her mom cries so much, sleeps so much, and when she does get up to do something she isn't fun anymore.
Gone is the Mom who dances to Ricky Nelson in the living room on the big braided rug.
Gone is the Mom who sings while she whips up lemon meringue pies, hot cross buns and Easter bunny cakes festooned with coconut and jelly beans.
Gone is the Mom who puts a stick of Blackjack gum over her front tooth to get a laugh.
Here is the Mom who is sad.
Here is the Mom that the little girl must cheer up.
She knows so because her grandparents and father have told her that is her job.
They have told her not to cause trouble or ask for too much because your mother has worse problems. "You just be a good girl and make Mama happy," they say.
Down the hallway in her antique bed, Mama sleeps.
Still staring out the window on this very gray of days
the little girl wraps her arms around herself as if to ward off an inner chill.
And she tells herself, "I will always have me."
***********************************
During so many of my young adult days I expected too much from myself. It was like I thought I had some dues to pay or something to prove. This force inside of me propelled me.
It was a drug as heady as good sex.
A few years back I just stopped trying so hard. That in itself has been a whole new challenge.
At some point, hopefully earlier than later, a woman must take sum of who she is and rejoice.
We are all too hard on ourselves.
Shortly after my mother died, I met Ram Dass. I was struggling with grief but sadder still was that I was passing judgment on myself as to how I was grieving. Was I doing it right? Was I taking too long?
Ram Dass stared me straight in the eye and said these words, "We must learn to give ourselves mercy."
I am fine just the way I am. And you, dear reader, are just fine the way you are too.
Let us stop being hard on ourselves. We've come a long way.
*Quite a few years went by before I realized that the following song was about loving and accepting oneself. It was written by Linda Creed, a young woman who died of breast cancer at the age of thirty-six.
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