Mom: But they do have problems. At the beginning of the movie he wouldn't help her pick out the new tile.
Me: That's not a big deal. If he doesn't care she should just pick it out. No one cares about tile. I don't want to marry someone who cares about tile.
Brian: There is a ninety percent chance that the guy you end up with is going to care a LOT about tile.
Me: Just watch the movie.
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
In Memorium
Posted some pieces I've written for my family up on Misch'd Connection.
Aunt Gin died on 10/10/10, and Uncle Frank died this past week on 11/7/10.
Uncle Frank's services will be held this Friday in Plymouth.
I composed these pieces to share their stories with you, so that I may keep their spirits alive for the rest of us.
My Uncle Frank
My Aunt Gin.
Please keep them, and the rest of my family, in your prayers.
Aunt Gin died on 10/10/10, and Uncle Frank died this past week on 11/7/10.
Uncle Frank's services will be held this Friday in Plymouth.
I composed these pieces to share their stories with you, so that I may keep their spirits alive for the rest of us.
My Uncle Frank
My Aunt Gin.
Please keep them, and the rest of my family, in your prayers.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Baby, RN
This past year I had the challenge and privilege of working closely with the palliative care team at work.
This fall I have faced two deaths in my own family within three weeks.
(Hang tight guys, this blog is about to get reeeeeeal.)
Something that really struck me during this time of grief for my family, was how my role within my family has changed in the past few years. Not only have I had to re-connect with some of my more distant relatives as an adult, as opposed to the child that they remember; now I am also a medical professional.
"I get it, and my daughter - she's a nurse, she understands too," my mother whispered to a tired-eyed RN last weekend. "It's just.. well, be prepared for my aunt to have some... questions. I've been trying to explain things. But can be... difficult." "Difficult" is the word she settles on, with good reason.
Never have I been introduced as a nurse (outside of work) so often. Never have I tried try to see my family through the eyes of a hospital staff. I've settled on these generalizations:
Older Pompeos believe:
Illnesses are mysteries never to be solved, death is not to be discussed, and Doctors are Gods.
Older Paoluccios believe:
Illnesses are weakness never to be revealed, death is not to be discussed, and Doctors are Making Mistakes.
And here I am.
The family's favorite little actress/comedian/writer/photographer and now, three years a BSN, RN.
Fielding questions about medications. De-coding doctor's orders. Interpreting instructions. Wishing I could convince my family that Hospice doesn't mean killing someone. Wishing I could encourage my aunts to ask the doctors questions. Wishing I could discouraging them from picking fights with the visiting nurses.
Silently holding hands at bedsides, leaving to buy everyone a cup of coffee, trying to just be family. Trying to appear intelligent. Trying not to meddle. Trying not to make jokes, for the love of God, Misch don't get nervous and start to make jokes. Save it for the show.
My mother, my ally, who was in the health care field for years, does her best to smooth things over. She is the link between them and me. They've had a longer time to get used to her being a grown up, after all. She has two children of her own, after all. You'd think-
"You're picking on me," she complains to her Uncle Frank when he calls her bedside advice "redundant."
"You're an easy target," he rasps with a smile. She sighs and shrugs at me, then smiles. She's given up for the moment. She'll be the niece for now. It's easier than being the nurse.
Later, when the hospice nurse explains some of the signs of end of life to us, I just nod. I don't explain that I know already. I don't explain that sometimes it's been me running down the list of things to expect, trying to prepare the respite aides and nursing students serving at the bedside of their first palliative care patient.
I just nod. I nod to let her know I am on her side. That we will try to make this death as dignified and peaceful as we can. Because sometimes you're a nurse. And sometimes you're family. And from now on, I am always both.
This fall I have faced two deaths in my own family within three weeks.
(Hang tight guys, this blog is about to get reeeeeeal.)
Something that really struck me during this time of grief for my family, was how my role within my family has changed in the past few years. Not only have I had to re-connect with some of my more distant relatives as an adult, as opposed to the child that they remember; now I am also a medical professional.
"I get it, and my daughter - she's a nurse, she understands too," my mother whispered to a tired-eyed RN last weekend. "It's just.. well, be prepared for my aunt to have some... questions. I've been trying to explain things. But can be... difficult." "Difficult" is the word she settles on, with good reason.
Never have I been introduced as a nurse (outside of work) so often. Never have I tried try to see my family through the eyes of a hospital staff. I've settled on these generalizations:
Older Pompeos believe:
Illnesses are mysteries never to be solved, death is not to be discussed, and Doctors are Gods.
Older Paoluccios believe:
Illnesses are weakness never to be revealed, death is not to be discussed, and Doctors are Making Mistakes.
And here I am.
The family's favorite little actress/comedian/writer/photographer and now, three years a BSN, RN.
Fielding questions about medications. De-coding doctor's orders. Interpreting instructions. Wishing I could convince my family that Hospice doesn't mean killing someone. Wishing I could encourage my aunts to ask the doctors questions. Wishing I could discouraging them from picking fights with the visiting nurses.
Silently holding hands at bedsides, leaving to buy everyone a cup of coffee, trying to just be family. Trying to appear intelligent. Trying not to meddle. Trying not to make jokes, for the love of God, Misch don't get nervous and start to make jokes. Save it for the show.
My mother, my ally, who was in the health care field for years, does her best to smooth things over. She is the link between them and me. They've had a longer time to get used to her being a grown up, after all. She has two children of her own, after all. You'd think-
"You're picking on me," she complains to her Uncle Frank when he calls her bedside advice "redundant."
"You're an easy target," he rasps with a smile. She sighs and shrugs at me, then smiles. She's given up for the moment. She'll be the niece for now. It's easier than being the nurse.
Later, when the hospice nurse explains some of the signs of end of life to us, I just nod. I don't explain that I know already. I don't explain that sometimes it's been me running down the list of things to expect, trying to prepare the respite aides and nursing students serving at the bedside of their first palliative care patient.
I just nod. I nod to let her know I am on her side. That we will try to make this death as dignified and peaceful as we can. Because sometimes you're a nurse. And sometimes you're family. And from now on, I am always both.
Monday, August 2, 2010
Encore! Encore!
When I was growing up my parents would often have friends over for dinner.
If the guests brought their own children it meant hours of adventures, ghost stories and pranks. But even when my friends were home with babysitters, these were special nights.
For dinner we'd eat steak tips, or prime rib or some other treat. Sometimes a few of Dad's friends would come over all on one night with their wives and they'd all buy lobsters. But often it was just Dad and Mom and Lenny and Mal, (or Chris and John, or Martha and Marcus, or Sue and George) and we'd eat until no one could eat anymore. When their friends were over there was usually a real dessert. We'd have a pie or monkey bread as though it were Christmastime and not just another Sunday night in July.
After dinner everyone would sit and drink and tell funny stories about when Dad and his friends were younger. Sometimes they'd play poker for nickels and quarters and Mom would say to me and Brian, "Go brush your teeth and we'll be up to tuck you in." Those nights I went without much fuss because card games bored me. Mom and Dad would each slip into my room to kiss me goodnight and I would drift off to sleep to the sounds of Oldies 103.3 on the radio and the grownups laughing as they bet small change in the kitchen.
But some nights after dinner Dad would go to the den and open the closet. That's when I knew to start begging permission to stay up. They were going to play a board game.
I knew how to play every game in that closet: Jenga, Go to The Head of the Class, Battleship, Trivial Pursuit, Trivial Pursuit: Disney Edition, Trivial Pursuit: Genius Edition, Trivial Pursuit: Silver Screen Edition, Scrabble and Taboo. For years, I was never my own player, I was always someone's "helper," but I didn't mind. I'd stay, wearing my Little Mermaid pajamas, sitting on my knees for added height next to Mom or Dad as moths flew against the screen door and the stove clock logged minutes past my forgotten bedtime.
The very best game in the closet was called Encore.
In Encore, when a card is drawn and a word is read off, you need to sing songs that contain the word in the lyrics. You have to sing a seven word phrase at least, thank you very much. Then the other team does the same thing. Both teams battle back and forth until they run out of songs, or time.
For a child, I was pretty good at Encore because even then I had a memory for lyrics above all other things. Mom was even better because she knew more songs than I did.
One night Mom and I were a team together. The word on the card was "brown"; we had already sung one song, the other team countered with a song, and it was our turn again. The other team was happy because no one could think of another song with the color brown in it. The tiny white sand grains in the chintzy hourglass were running out. Then, quietly, almost inaudibly, Mom began to sing, "the old brown mare, she ain't what she used to be..." The other team sighed and shook their heads, now they would have to come up with yet another song to beat us. Mom had sung past seven words but I was so excited at our obvious victory that I joined in at the top of my lungs, "-AIN'T WHAT SHE USED TO BE! AIN'T WHAT SHE USED TO BE! THE OLD BROWN MARE SHE-"
Mom grimaced. Right. Brian was sleeping after all.
"Wait a minute," Mal rejoined, "isn't it 'the old grey mare?'"
Mom smiled pointedly at me, sideways. "That's why I was trying to sing it quietly."
"Oh. I thought it really was a brown mare. It sounded good as a brown mare."
Mom and I probably won anyway. At least that's how I remember it.
If the guests brought their own children it meant hours of adventures, ghost stories and pranks. But even when my friends were home with babysitters, these were special nights.
For dinner we'd eat steak tips, or prime rib or some other treat. Sometimes a few of Dad's friends would come over all on one night with their wives and they'd all buy lobsters. But often it was just Dad and Mom and Lenny and Mal, (or Chris and John, or Martha and Marcus, or Sue and George) and we'd eat until no one could eat anymore. When their friends were over there was usually a real dessert. We'd have a pie or monkey bread as though it were Christmastime and not just another Sunday night in July.
After dinner everyone would sit and drink and tell funny stories about when Dad and his friends were younger. Sometimes they'd play poker for nickels and quarters and Mom would say to me and Brian, "Go brush your teeth and we'll be up to tuck you in." Those nights I went without much fuss because card games bored me. Mom and Dad would each slip into my room to kiss me goodnight and I would drift off to sleep to the sounds of Oldies 103.3 on the radio and the grownups laughing as they bet small change in the kitchen.
But some nights after dinner Dad would go to the den and open the closet. That's when I knew to start begging permission to stay up. They were going to play a board game.
I knew how to play every game in that closet: Jenga, Go to The Head of the Class, Battleship, Trivial Pursuit, Trivial Pursuit: Disney Edition, Trivial Pursuit: Genius Edition, Trivial Pursuit: Silver Screen Edition, Scrabble and Taboo. For years, I was never my own player, I was always someone's "helper," but I didn't mind. I'd stay, wearing my Little Mermaid pajamas, sitting on my knees for added height next to Mom or Dad as moths flew against the screen door and the stove clock logged minutes past my forgotten bedtime.
The very best game in the closet was called Encore.
In Encore, when a card is drawn and a word is read off, you need to sing songs that contain the word in the lyrics. You have to sing a seven word phrase at least, thank you very much. Then the other team does the same thing. Both teams battle back and forth until they run out of songs, or time.
For a child, I was pretty good at Encore because even then I had a memory for lyrics above all other things. Mom was even better because she knew more songs than I did.
One night Mom and I were a team together. The word on the card was "brown"; we had already sung one song, the other team countered with a song, and it was our turn again. The other team was happy because no one could think of another song with the color brown in it. The tiny white sand grains in the chintzy hourglass were running out. Then, quietly, almost inaudibly, Mom began to sing, "the old brown mare, she ain't what she used to be..." The other team sighed and shook their heads, now they would have to come up with yet another song to beat us. Mom had sung past seven words but I was so excited at our obvious victory that I joined in at the top of my lungs, "-AIN'T WHAT SHE USED TO BE! AIN'T WHAT SHE USED TO BE! THE OLD BROWN MARE SHE-"
Mom grimaced. Right. Brian was sleeping after all.
"Wait a minute," Mal rejoined, "isn't it 'the old grey mare?'"
Mom smiled pointedly at me, sideways. "That's why I was trying to sing it quietly."
"Oh. I thought it really was a brown mare. It sounded good as a brown mare."
Mom and I probably won anyway. At least that's how I remember it.
Monday, May 10, 2010
A Mother's Day Post
My mother is my inspiration, my personal super hero, my teacher, and my safety blanket.
She lets me cry when I need to cry and kicks my butt when my butt needs to be kicked.
The song "Baby of Mine" from Dumbo reminds me of my mother.
...so does anything by Billy Joel or Josh Groban
...so does Kill Bill 2.
Mom has worked as an EMT, a radiology tech and a mammographer.
She is also a gifted writer, a poet and taught me everything I know about staged "gore" makeup.
Mom once helped a half-dead kitten drink water off her gloved fingertips until the Animal Rescue league showed up - even though she doesn't like cats very much.
Mom has presided at several funerals for both hamsters and parakeets.
Mom has made it clear on several occasions that she brought us into this world and she can take us out.
I have danced with my mother in the living room at the end of a long hard week.
I have never turned down her cookies.
I have watched Mom as she battles MS and wins every day.
I watched her pick up all our broken pieces and keep our family together when her husband, my father, passed away.
My Mom is the strongest woman I know.
In this photo, she is about to strap herself to a zip line and jump off the edge, out of her comfort zone. She thought we were going for a hike that morning. But she didn't get mad at me, even when they started handing the helmets out.
I love you, Mom. Here's to all our adventures.. and many more to come.
She lets me cry when I need to cry and kicks my butt when my butt needs to be kicked.
The song "Baby of Mine" from Dumbo reminds me of my mother.
...so does anything by Billy Joel or Josh Groban
...so does Kill Bill 2.
Mom has worked as an EMT, a radiology tech and a mammographer.
She is also a gifted writer, a poet and taught me everything I know about staged "gore" makeup.
Mom once helped a half-dead kitten drink water off her gloved fingertips until the Animal Rescue league showed up - even though she doesn't like cats very much.
Mom has presided at several funerals for both hamsters and parakeets.
Mom has made it clear on several occasions that she brought us into this world and she can take us out.
I have danced with my mother in the living room at the end of a long hard week.I have never turned down her cookies.
I have watched Mom as she battles MS and wins every day.
I watched her pick up all our broken pieces and keep our family together when her husband, my father, passed away.
My Mom is the strongest woman I know.
In this photo, she is about to strap herself to a zip line and jump off the edge, out of her comfort zone. She thought we were going for a hike that morning. But she didn't get mad at me, even when they started handing the helmets out.
I love you, Mom. Here's to all our adventures.. and many more to come.
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Conversations with my Brother
Me: Hey, can you meet me tonight so I can pick up the charger and phone?
Brian: Nah, I can't. I'm getting my new tat.
Me: Oh, really? What's it of?
Brian: It's a picture of you and you're hugging Haiti.
(pause)
Me: Really?
Brian: No. Not at all.
Brian: Nah, I can't. I'm getting my new tat.
Me: Oh, really? What's it of?
Brian: It's a picture of you and you're hugging Haiti.
(pause)
Me: Really?
Brian: No. Not at all.
Friday, February 19, 2010
The Best Valentine's Day
It took me a long time to decide whether or not to post this entry. I wrote it in 2009 on Valentine's Day in response to a friend's livejournal request for a "nice" Valentine's day story. I never posted it because it felt too personal.
Although it may seem like it in the beginning, this is not a sad story. As requested, it is a nice one.
February 12, 2003 my mother called me at school.
"Your uncle is going to come get you, you shouldn't drive. It's dangerous to drive when you're upset."
It didn't make any sense. I wasn't upset. I was hanging out with my roommates. Slowly I got a story out of her, my father who had been ill recently, was in a coma. I still had no idea what was going on. Blame it all on the Irish in my family, I had been told Dad was sick but "getting better." I was under the impression that it was a touch of pneumonia. I had no idea how sick sick was until now. I tried to remember how Dad had sounded last time I talked to him on the phone.
In the ICU, Dad was in rough shape. Family had gathered. My brother was there but soon another family member took him home. Then the doctor spoke to my mother in whispered tones about "a 24 hour plan." I knew what it meant, but didn't at the same time. Things became very clear when we were led into a "family conference room", and the doctor told me and my mother that he didn't expect my father to last the night.
Looking back, I recognize that this was the moment I became an adult in my family. They may have taken my brother away from the scene, but I was going to be burdened with both knowledge and choices. There was no ceremony for this rite of passage, no cards with money, or a cake - I was just a grown up now and needed to act like one.
Because he wasn't involved, it felt like we were conspiring against my father, and I remember hating the doctor. It was the worst hate I've ever felt, and certainly the worst I've admitted to. I couldn't speak. I let my mother do the talking, feeling like a snake for leaving her to the work. I had been an adult for two minutes and was failing miserably. I sat and began to count the brochures that lined the walls "How to Care for YOUR diabetes" and "Living with a Pacemaker." If I could have torn up every single copy of "When a Loved One Dies," I would have. We went home and awaited a phone call.
On Valentine's Day in the morning we stopped at CVS where discreetly I picked up a card for my father. Mom caught me and in a terrifying voice that was unspeakably wise and weary at the same time said, "He's not going to see the card." Each word individually held the weight of the entire situation, and made a sound like stone hitting stone. I shrugged, embarrassed and feeling stupid but stubborn. "So?" I said, and that was all.
When we arrived at the ICU the nurses greeted us brightly. "Go on in," they chimed, yes, practically winked. And there he was: my hero, my father - sitting up in bed and eating an orange Popsicle of all things.
He greeted us warmly and we three swarmed him , demanding if he remembered anything from the coma (he did not), asking what he thought when he woke up (he wanted to see us), and how he felt (just fine).
The doctor came in, saying that my father had beaten the odds.
"It's a miracle. It's God's work," I said. The doctor told me he didn't know if he'd say that exactly, and my nineteen year old self exasperatedly told him, "well I would." I like to think my Dad laughed at that but I don't remember. I gave him his Valentine's Day card.
My father only lived one more month. However I had that whole month to spend with him and to begin to properly say goodbye. Which is what we did, even though I had no idea that's what I was doing. Until the very end, no one did. For the rest of my life that Valentine's Day will trump every other year because my Dad, who was the first man to teach me what love really is, made it through the night.
Although it may seem like it in the beginning, this is not a sad story. As requested, it is a nice one.
February 12, 2003 my mother called me at school.
"Your uncle is going to come get you, you shouldn't drive. It's dangerous to drive when you're upset."
It didn't make any sense. I wasn't upset. I was hanging out with my roommates. Slowly I got a story out of her, my father who had been ill recently, was in a coma. I still had no idea what was going on. Blame it all on the Irish in my family, I had been told Dad was sick but "getting better." I was under the impression that it was a touch of pneumonia. I had no idea how sick sick was until now. I tried to remember how Dad had sounded last time I talked to him on the phone.
In the ICU, Dad was in rough shape. Family had gathered. My brother was there but soon another family member took him home. Then the doctor spoke to my mother in whispered tones about "a 24 hour plan." I knew what it meant, but didn't at the same time. Things became very clear when we were led into a "family conference room", and the doctor told me and my mother that he didn't expect my father to last the night.
Looking back, I recognize that this was the moment I became an adult in my family. They may have taken my brother away from the scene, but I was going to be burdened with both knowledge and choices. There was no ceremony for this rite of passage, no cards with money, or a cake - I was just a grown up now and needed to act like one.
Because he wasn't involved, it felt like we were conspiring against my father, and I remember hating the doctor. It was the worst hate I've ever felt, and certainly the worst I've admitted to. I couldn't speak. I let my mother do the talking, feeling like a snake for leaving her to the work. I had been an adult for two minutes and was failing miserably. I sat and began to count the brochures that lined the walls "How to Care for YOUR diabetes" and "Living with a Pacemaker." If I could have torn up every single copy of "When a Loved One Dies," I would have. We went home and awaited a phone call.
On Valentine's Day in the morning we stopped at CVS where discreetly I picked up a card for my father. Mom caught me and in a terrifying voice that was unspeakably wise and weary at the same time said, "He's not going to see the card." Each word individually held the weight of the entire situation, and made a sound like stone hitting stone. I shrugged, embarrassed and feeling stupid but stubborn. "So?" I said, and that was all.
When we arrived at the ICU the nurses greeted us brightly. "Go on in," they chimed, yes, practically winked. And there he was: my hero, my father - sitting up in bed and eating an orange Popsicle of all things.
He greeted us warmly and we three swarmed him , demanding if he remembered anything from the coma (he did not), asking what he thought when he woke up (he wanted to see us), and how he felt (just fine).
The doctor came in, saying that my father had beaten the odds.
"It's a miracle. It's God's work," I said. The doctor told me he didn't know if he'd say that exactly, and my nineteen year old self exasperatedly told him, "well I would." I like to think my Dad laughed at that but I don't remember. I gave him his Valentine's Day card.
My father only lived one more month. However I had that whole month to spend with him and to begin to properly say goodbye. Which is what we did, even though I had no idea that's what I was doing. Until the very end, no one did. For the rest of my life that Valentine's Day will trump every other year because my Dad, who was the first man to teach me what love really is, made it through the night.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Happy Valentine's Day
Mom: Did you read your card?
Brian: Yeah, I liked it.
Mom: Read it to your sister. I thought it was very appropriate.
Brian: (reading) "Your sister's a skank. I wish I never had her. She was the real mistake, not you. I was way too young. Happy Valentine's Day." Wow. Quite a card, Hallmark really outdid itself this year.
Mom: (through hysterical fits of laughter) That's not ...what ....it said.
Brian: Yeah, I liked it.
Mom: Read it to your sister. I thought it was very appropriate.
Brian: (reading) "Your sister's a skank. I wish I never had her. She was the real mistake, not you. I was way too young. Happy Valentine's Day." Wow. Quite a card, Hallmark really outdid itself this year.
Mom: (through hysterical fits of laughter) That's not ...what ....it said.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Rehashing Advent: The dark, the light and the Hallelujah
The Hallelujah
I was really excited this year about Jack visiting from Costa Rica for Christmas. Jack is my mother's cousin, and I met him for the first time last spring when Mom and I visited Santa Ana. He's a really fun person, and he and I are very alike in spirit and humor.
The last few weeks I have been preparing for Jack's arrival. Although he was only spending one night at my house before going to stay with my Aunt Mame, I wanted everything to be perfect. I scrubbed my apartment from top to bottom. It took five hours. I even cleaned the inside of my medicene cabinet. Did I think Jack would care about my medicene cabinet? No. But I cared. I cleaned my pantry. I bought a six pack of Coors, his favorite American beer. I put together a selection of books for him to read. I spent two days creating the most "welcome back to New England" meal I could think of, Beef and Potato stew with Guinness.
Before I left for the airport Tuesday night I set the table for two, turned the crock pot to "simmer," and put Dad's old leather jacket in my car so Jack would have something warm to wear. Everything was perfect.
Then everything fell apart. Jack didn't get off the plane. While other happy families reunited at the gate, I stood holding Dad's heavy jacket, distraught and worried. I got terse with a security guard who sent me to the wrong gate. I had Jack paged. Someone looked up his name and told me Jack had missed the flight; he was on the next one. I had two hours to wait. I sat and thought about the stew simmering away in my kitchen. I thought about how early I had to get up for work. I longed for my ipod. I got grumpy.
Once Jack arrived, things started looking up. We didn't stop talking all the way home. I forgot how tired I was, and put my early morning shift out of my mind. On the way to my apartment we passed a pizza place. Jack nearly jumped out the window of the car because he hadn't had a decent slice of pizza in twelve years. Excited for his "first" taste of American pizza, I stopped the car quickly, and he ran into the little store. Then I remembered my stew at home and started to laugh out loud.
I had spent all this time preparing and working and planning. In the end it was a good thing because my house was clean and comfortable, and Jack ended up eating some stew after his pizza anyway. But still, things didn't go as I planned.
This Advent I promised myself I'd really prepare a place for Jesus. I tried to be mindful every single day. I said I'd pray an hour a day at least. I told myself I'd find extra prayer services to attend. In the end, I didn't do that hour of prayer every single day. But I did pray more often. And I missed Mass twice but I went to a very moving yoga - prayer service at Hope Church. I also attended Taize, which I wouldn't have done if I hadn't missed Mass last week.
In and of itself preparing is not generally bad or futile. Because otherwise the apartment would be cluttered , the fridge would be gross and there'd be no six pack of Coors.
But flexibility is key in planning. It's important to keep in mind that airlines aren't always on time and that sometimes a man just wants a slice of pizza.
We can pray for Grace and make ourselves as open as possible in preparation, but it's still all up to God. Rigidity in faith, I am learning, might not be as useful as I once thought it was.
So, (ready for a corny and moralizing anaology to end this one?) I'm going to keep making stew but I'm not going to freak out about how many potatos to buy,* because in the end we might end up just getting a pizza and eating both.
Hallelujah!
-------------------------------------------
*right, Shannon?
I was really excited this year about Jack visiting from Costa Rica for Christmas. Jack is my mother's cousin, and I met him for the first time last spring when Mom and I visited Santa Ana. He's a really fun person, and he and I are very alike in spirit and humor.
The last few weeks I have been preparing for Jack's arrival. Although he was only spending one night at my house before going to stay with my Aunt Mame, I wanted everything to be perfect. I scrubbed my apartment from top to bottom. It took five hours. I even cleaned the inside of my medicene cabinet. Did I think Jack would care about my medicene cabinet? No. But I cared. I cleaned my pantry. I bought a six pack of Coors, his favorite American beer. I put together a selection of books for him to read. I spent two days creating the most "welcome back to New England" meal I could think of, Beef and Potato stew with Guinness.
Before I left for the airport Tuesday night I set the table for two, turned the crock pot to "simmer," and put Dad's old leather jacket in my car so Jack would have something warm to wear. Everything was perfect.
Then everything fell apart. Jack didn't get off the plane. While other happy families reunited at the gate, I stood holding Dad's heavy jacket, distraught and worried. I got terse with a security guard who sent me to the wrong gate. I had Jack paged. Someone looked up his name and told me Jack had missed the flight; he was on the next one. I had two hours to wait. I sat and thought about the stew simmering away in my kitchen. I thought about how early I had to get up for work. I longed for my ipod. I got grumpy.
Once Jack arrived, things started looking up. We didn't stop talking all the way home. I forgot how tired I was, and put my early morning shift out of my mind. On the way to my apartment we passed a pizza place. Jack nearly jumped out the window of the car because he hadn't had a decent slice of pizza in twelve years. Excited for his "first" taste of American pizza, I stopped the car quickly, and he ran into the little store. Then I remembered my stew at home and started to laugh out loud.
I had spent all this time preparing and working and planning. In the end it was a good thing because my house was clean and comfortable, and Jack ended up eating some stew after his pizza anyway. But still, things didn't go as I planned.
This Advent I promised myself I'd really prepare a place for Jesus. I tried to be mindful every single day. I said I'd pray an hour a day at least. I told myself I'd find extra prayer services to attend. In the end, I didn't do that hour of prayer every single day. But I did pray more often. And I missed Mass twice but I went to a very moving yoga - prayer service at Hope Church. I also attended Taize, which I wouldn't have done if I hadn't missed Mass last week.
In and of itself preparing is not generally bad or futile. Because otherwise the apartment would be cluttered , the fridge would be gross and there'd be no six pack of Coors.
But flexibility is key in planning. It's important to keep in mind that airlines aren't always on time and that sometimes a man just wants a slice of pizza.
We can pray for Grace and make ourselves as open as possible in preparation, but it's still all up to God. Rigidity in faith, I am learning, might not be as useful as I once thought it was.
So, (ready for a corny and moralizing anaology to end this one?) I'm going to keep making stew but I'm not going to freak out about how many potatos to buy,* because in the end we might end up just getting a pizza and eating both.
Hallelujah!
-------------------------------------------
*right, Shannon?
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Monday, November 30, 2009
I don't want any of it to go to waste
7am: "Those are mine!" The security guard is staring suspiciously at the bags of men's clothes
at the door. "Well, not mine," I qualify. "But I left them there when I went to park my car." The guard laughs and we grab up all the bags of shirts and shoes and rush them inside.
11am: "Thank you. Thank you, all of you, for working today," It's the program wide Director of Nursing, and he's standing beside the BMH director, and she is holding a bag of chocolates out to us, over and over again. Barry hugs all of us before he leaves. Sarah snaps a photo of the turkey family made out of rubber gloves and tells us again how thankful she is for us.
12:30pm: "You're going to town on those peas, huh?" The man laughs. I am sitting in the activity room with a plate of food on my lap. I am surrounded by patients and we are watching House. I realize with somewhat of a start how natural these traditions have begun to feel. One of my patients approaches me shyly and asks if she can wrap up her leftovers. "I don't want any of it to go to waste," she explains.
4:30pm: "Michelle's here! Michelle's here!" I feel as though I've entered a dream. My Aunt and Uncle's new house is three years old, but that's how long it's been since I've spent a Thanksgiving with my family. Light bounces off colored glass, and I don't know where to look first. My family, larger somehow than I expected turns toward me, smiling. I feel dirty and tired looking in my scrubs. I feel like I don't belong here, and although my day was easy, tears threaten my cheeks. Then somehow my mother's arms are around me and Ralph is taking my coat and Rosina is pouring a glass of wine and Auntie Mame is asking questions and I am not crying at all.
"Do you want one?" asks my small cousin chewing on a caramel. He is looking at his little brother. Sam nods.
"You can't have one," Nicholas says, without a hint of malice. He looks at me apologetically, "they're too chewy. - But you can have something else, Sam."
And when my tiny cousin, now old enough to speak but still a stranger to me, looks at me as if to ask if this is all ok, I nod. And he smiles shyly and nods back.
at the door. "Well, not mine," I qualify. "But I left them there when I went to park my car." The guard laughs and we grab up all the bags of shirts and shoes and rush them inside.
11am: "Thank you. Thank you, all of you, for working today," It's the program wide Director of Nursing, and he's standing beside the BMH director, and she is holding a bag of chocolates out to us, over and over again. Barry hugs all of us before he leaves. Sarah snaps a photo of the turkey family made out of rubber gloves and tells us again how thankful she is for us.
12:30pm: "You're going to town on those peas, huh?" The man laughs. I am sitting in the activity room with a plate of food on my lap. I am surrounded by patients and we are watching House. I realize with somewhat of a start how natural these traditions have begun to feel. One of my patients approaches me shyly and asks if she can wrap up her leftovers. "I don't want any of it to go to waste," she explains.
4:30pm: "Michelle's here! Michelle's here!" I feel as though I've entered a dream. My Aunt and Uncle's new house is three years old, but that's how long it's been since I've spent a Thanksgiving with my family. Light bounces off colored glass, and I don't know where to look first. My family, larger somehow than I expected turns toward me, smiling. I feel dirty and tired looking in my scrubs. I feel like I don't belong here, and although my day was easy, tears threaten my cheeks. Then somehow my mother's arms are around me and Ralph is taking my coat and Rosina is pouring a glass of wine and Auntie Mame is asking questions and I am not crying at all.
"Do you want one?" asks my small cousin chewing on a caramel. He is looking at his little brother. Sam nods.
"You can't have one," Nicholas says, without a hint of malice. He looks at me apologetically, "they're too chewy. - But you can have something else, Sam."
And when my tiny cousin, now old enough to speak but still a stranger to me, looks at me as if to ask if this is all ok, I nod. And he smiles shyly and nods back.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
In the Kitchen with Brian
My family still laughs about the time I made a "from scratch" sponge cake that was more sponge than a cake. My brother can tell you all about how, after the ruined pastry was thrown into the sink, he was able to pick it up and wring water out of it while it mostly retained its shape. Since the purpose of the sponge cake was a science project*, I was hardly heart broken. Still, this early baking failure set the tone for an adolescence full of jabs about how terrible I am in the kitchen.
My brother, however, flourished in the very same kitchen. Whether it was related to my lack of talent, I'll never know for sure but I suspect it. I became a regular face on community theater stages and he refused to even do an act in the Talent Show at our annual block party. He quickly rose through the ranks of Little League and Parkway Hockey as an MVP while I realized I could cut gym class if I signed up for extra choir rehearsals. We never competed directly, but seemed to instinctively fill the negative spaces the other left. So it was while I was steering clear of stove tops and crock pots he was learning to cook.
I got a late start, really only beginning to cook in my first apartment in college. And even then meals were often limited to pasta, chicken and occasionally a home made pizza.
Now he works as a chef. I work as a nurse. He calls me when he's injured or sick and I call him when I want to know what to put in a cheese sauce. He comes to my shows. I promise not to bring him up on stage. It's a nice relationship.
And when I do cook, even when it comes out well Brian still reminds me of that sponge cake. You know, just to keep me humble. And I remind him of the time he thought a blood thirsty human head actually lived in his closet. You know, just to keep us even.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
* The Effects of Slow and Rapid Oxidation on Twinkies; the sponge cakes were my control.
And yes, "rapid oxidation," does refer to setting the Twinkies on fire. I got an A.
My brother, however, flourished in the very same kitchen. Whether it was related to my lack of talent, I'll never know for sure but I suspect it. I became a regular face on community theater stages and he refused to even do an act in the Talent Show at our annual block party. He quickly rose through the ranks of Little League and Parkway Hockey as an MVP while I realized I could cut gym class if I signed up for extra choir rehearsals. We never competed directly, but seemed to instinctively fill the negative spaces the other left. So it was while I was steering clear of stove tops and crock pots he was learning to cook.
I got a late start, really only beginning to cook in my first apartment in college. And even then meals were often limited to pasta, chicken and occasionally a home made pizza.
Now he works as a chef. I work as a nurse. He calls me when he's injured or sick and I call him when I want to know what to put in a cheese sauce. He comes to my shows. I promise not to bring him up on stage. It's a nice relationship.
And when I do cook, even when it comes out well Brian still reminds me of that sponge cake. You know, just to keep me humble. And I remind him of the time he thought a blood thirsty human head actually lived in his closet. You know, just to keep us even.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
* The Effects of Slow and Rapid Oxidation on Twinkies; the sponge cakes were my control.
And yes, "rapid oxidation," does refer to setting the Twinkies on fire. I got an A.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
This Blog is One Year Old
I began writing here one year ago today convinced for a myriad of reasons that "this [was] going to be my year."
I was right in all the ways I predicted, and in many that I did not.
I wanted to take this opportunity to get a little bit emotional. I am probably already one of the most emotional people you know. And .... I'm finally alright with that. (Mostly). I had a pretty emotionally charged weekend, and I don't want to get into details, I just want to cut to the chase.
I like to think everyone knows how I feel about them because I'd also like to think of myself as a pretty open book. I know firsthand, as many of you do, that some goodbyes come far too soon, far too fast and without fair warning. That knowledge has made me occasionally sappy to the point of irritating. But even I have things I haven't said when I should say them.
It seems like whenever someone we love leaves us for good, we are quickly moved to spell out our I-love-you-s to the people we have left. Because we know in those moments that time is precious, and life is short. But still, time slips away leaving us with a lot of things unspoken.
Today I'm celebrating my birthday which to me really means celebrating all the relationships that have made up my life as I know it. So here goes.
Mom, your love literally created me. I didn't know it was possible to get even closer to you, but somehow this year we did. Brian, we competed for many years but now we finally stand as equals, ready at each other's call for for help, or just to share a laugh or two. It's exactly how Dad would have wanted to see us turn out.
To all of my family and friends: I am who I am in part because of each of you and the mystery of that is something I can never wrap my mind around all the way. Growing up is so weird. I think of all of you and I say "this is my life, these are the people I keep" and I am so profoundly happy. I visualize axons in a nerve bundle. I could not untangle myself from you if I tried, and I wouldn't want to because it would hurt and things would stop working.
But it doesn't end there. Take this very seriously. My castmates and various directors. My patients, all of them. My students at Thacher. My coworkers and bosses. The friends of friends I've shared moments with at parties. Strangers on the buses and trains and planes that brought me here. Cab drivers with and without advice/cigars/cell phones/bad jokes. Bartenders. Everyone's new babies. The old man who sells ramen on that street corner in Tokyo. Your cat. Every person I met while apartment hunting. The guys I've gone on dates with. The guys I did not go out on dates with. People who have made me laugh. Or made me cry. That waitress that night. The authors of the blogs I follow. The reporters in Iran. Drunk people on the street. My new mechanic, Nick. People I met once, people I will never see again. The people who come and go every single day.
It's all connected. And we're all connected. And for the whole big picture I believe I have God to thank above all. Because God reveals Himself as Love. God is love, and I perceive that love constantly reflected by the people who surround me. And that's where I find my most honest, deepest, happiness.
... So when you have a blog you're allowed to pretty much say anything you want, huh?
This was NOT the year I reinvented myself as cool and aloof, that's for sure.
I started the blog to see where it would end up. I liked keeping it, and I think I'll keep keeping it. I will, however, be splitting off the entries about nursing and particularly homelessness into a blog of their own for professional purposes before this winter. It's something I've wanted for a while.
So I also want to take a separate minute to thank everyone who reads this. Whether you're a friend, or a curious enemy, or a stranger who accidentally found it while Google-ing "homeless" or "improv." Thanks for reading it, because without you the words are pretty meaningless.
I am looking forward to this next year. I have a few new goals. I feel less sure of how much I want some of my former goals. I don't have all the answers, but I have enough questions to keep myself and hopefully most of you sufficiently entertained for another 365 days.
This is going to be my year. And it's going to be your year too.
I was right in all the ways I predicted, and in many that I did not.
I wanted to take this opportunity to get a little bit emotional. I am probably already one of the most emotional people you know. And .... I'm finally alright with that. (Mostly). I had a pretty emotionally charged weekend, and I don't want to get into details, I just want to cut to the chase.
I like to think everyone knows how I feel about them because I'd also like to think of myself as a pretty open book. I know firsthand, as many of you do, that some goodbyes come far too soon, far too fast and without fair warning. That knowledge has made me occasionally sappy to the point of irritating. But even I have things I haven't said when I should say them.
It seems like whenever someone we love leaves us for good, we are quickly moved to spell out our I-love-you-s to the people we have left. Because we know in those moments that time is precious, and life is short. But still, time slips away leaving us with a lot of things unspoken.
Today I'm celebrating my birthday which to me really means celebrating all the relationships that have made up my life as I know it. So here goes.
Mom, your love literally created me. I didn't know it was possible to get even closer to you, but somehow this year we did. Brian, we competed for many years but now we finally stand as equals, ready at each other's call for for help, or just to share a laugh or two. It's exactly how Dad would have wanted to see us turn out.
To all of my family and friends: I am who I am in part because of each of you and the mystery of that is something I can never wrap my mind around all the way. Growing up is so weird. I think of all of you and I say "this is my life, these are the people I keep" and I am so profoundly happy. I visualize axons in a nerve bundle. I could not untangle myself from you if I tried, and I wouldn't want to because it would hurt and things would stop working.
But it doesn't end there. Take this very seriously. My castmates and various directors. My patients, all of them. My students at Thacher. My coworkers and bosses. The friends of friends I've shared moments with at parties. Strangers on the buses and trains and planes that brought me here. Cab drivers with and without advice/cigars/cell phones/bad jokes. Bartenders. Everyone's new babies. The old man who sells ramen on that street corner in Tokyo. Your cat. Every person I met while apartment hunting. The guys I've gone on dates with. The guys I did not go out on dates with. People who have made me laugh. Or made me cry. That waitress that night. The authors of the blogs I follow. The reporters in Iran. Drunk people on the street. My new mechanic, Nick. People I met once, people I will never see again. The people who come and go every single day.
It's all connected. And we're all connected. And for the whole big picture I believe I have God to thank above all. Because God reveals Himself as Love. God is love, and I perceive that love constantly reflected by the people who surround me. And that's where I find my most honest, deepest, happiness.
... So when you have a blog you're allowed to pretty much say anything you want, huh?
This was NOT the year I reinvented myself as cool and aloof, that's for sure.
I started the blog to see where it would end up. I liked keeping it, and I think I'll keep keeping it. I will, however, be splitting off the entries about nursing and particularly homelessness into a blog of their own for professional purposes before this winter. It's something I've wanted for a while.
So I also want to take a separate minute to thank everyone who reads this. Whether you're a friend, or a curious enemy, or a stranger who accidentally found it while Google-ing "homeless" or "improv." Thanks for reading it, because without you the words are pretty meaningless.
I am looking forward to this next year. I have a few new goals. I feel less sure of how much I want some of my former goals. I don't have all the answers, but I have enough questions to keep myself and hopefully most of you sufficiently entertained for another 365 days.
This is going to be my year. And it's going to be your year too.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Ten True Stories About Brian Whitaker
In the style of this and this, I now bring you Ten True Stories about Brian Whitaker. Happy Birthday, Brian!
1. The day Brian was born I was supposed to go see Snow White with my mother's friend Michele. Instead, my parents woke me up to tell me that my new brother was coming today, and wasn't that even more exciting! The answer is yes, but I am still hazy on why I couldn't go to the movies. It's not like I helped deliver him...
2. My little brother immediately became a captive audience for me. According to my mother all she had to do was sit him down in front of me and I would sing songs, tell stories, read books and act out plays for hours on end while she got things done around the house. And he loved it.
2b. Once Brian could walk and talk he traded in his audience role for one of an actor. I "directed" him in several two-man shows. Our family STILL talks about how we memorized the Scarecrow and Dorothy scene and how we'd perform it at every family gathering. However, he grew up to be very, very stage- shy.
3. Brian was born to skate. He played other sports too, baseball and soccer - but hockey was his real calling. The first time Dad took him to the rink near our house Brian just took off on the skates - no milk crates, no hobbling around and falling over. He was 6 years old.
4. When we were growing up we had a Christmas tradition where Brian would sleep on the floor of my room on Christmas Eve. We'd stay up all night talking and laughing. I have no idea what we talked about, but those are still some of my favorite memories.
5. When we were moving from Eagle Street, where we grew up, tension levels were high. Fights were a plenty. It came up one day that no one had taken the door knocker off and Mom said she didn't care. We knew she did though. It had our name on it. Brian and I didn't even talk about it, we just both showed up at the front door with tools and silently removed it.
6. He once needed stitches because he hit himself in the head with a baseball bat trying to swing at a basketball.
7. Brian figured out sometime between high school and Job Corps that he loves cooking and that he is fantastic at it. He now works as a chef at a nursing home in Dedham, which lets him give back to the community. But one of his real passions is cooking food for his loved ones. Sometimes after work Brian brings me pies or stuffed cabbage. And when his kitchen is throwing away bread he always saves me some.
8. Although Brian is a real tough as nails kind of guy he secretly knows all the words to several songs from RENT.
8a. Also, he doesn't read my blog.
9. When we were teenagers one of our favorite pass times together was ghost hunting. Then one night when I was in college Brian called me because he actually saw one of the ghosts we'd been hunting down for years, the local legend ghost of Hammer Road. He wanted to know if there were any prayers he could say to make sure the ghost didn't come home with him.
9a. This is the most spiritual advice my now- agnostic brother has asked me for since I was his Confirmation sponsor at church.
10. I called Brian one night in college because I had come home to see a concert and then was stranded downtown after the trains stopped running with no cash for a cab and no ATM in the blocks that I walked. I had no idea where I was but he figured it out and got me. This has happened more than once.
BONUS: My brother was recently questioned by police in the context of the theft of 400 cartons of cigarettes in Dover. The reason? He had posted on his facebook page that he had some cheap cigarettes for sale. To prove his innocence he had to reveal the deal he had recently struck up with an elderly man at a nursing home who orders cigarettes online from out of state to avoid taxes. No word yet on whether the old man is getting in trouble.
1. The day Brian was born I was supposed to go see Snow White with my mother's friend Michele. Instead, my parents woke me up to tell me that my new brother was coming today, and wasn't that even more exciting! The answer is yes, but I am still hazy on why I couldn't go to the movies. It's not like I helped deliver him...
2. My little brother immediately became a captive audience for me. According to my mother all she had to do was sit him down in front of me and I would sing songs, tell stories, read books and act out plays for hours on end while she got things done around the house. And he loved it.
2b. Once Brian could walk and talk he traded in his audience role for one of an actor. I "directed" him in several two-man shows. Our family STILL talks about how we memorized the Scarecrow and Dorothy scene and how we'd perform it at every family gathering. However, he grew up to be very, very stage- shy.
3. Brian was born to skate. He played other sports too, baseball and soccer - but hockey was his real calling. The first time Dad took him to the rink near our house Brian just took off on the skates - no milk crates, no hobbling around and falling over. He was 6 years old.
4. When we were growing up we had a Christmas tradition where Brian would sleep on the floor of my room on Christmas Eve. We'd stay up all night talking and laughing. I have no idea what we talked about, but those are still some of my favorite memories.
5. When we were moving from Eagle Street, where we grew up, tension levels were high. Fights were a plenty. It came up one day that no one had taken the door knocker off and Mom said she didn't care. We knew she did though. It had our name on it. Brian and I didn't even talk about it, we just both showed up at the front door with tools and silently removed it.
6. He once needed stitches because he hit himself in the head with a baseball bat trying to swing at a basketball.
7. Brian figured out sometime between high school and Job Corps that he loves cooking and that he is fantastic at it. He now works as a chef at a nursing home in Dedham, which lets him give back to the community. But one of his real passions is cooking food for his loved ones. Sometimes after work Brian brings me pies or stuffed cabbage. And when his kitchen is throwing away bread he always saves me some.
8. Although Brian is a real tough as nails kind of guy he secretly knows all the words to several songs from RENT.
8a. Also, he doesn't read my blog.
9. When we were teenagers one of our favorite pass times together was ghost hunting. Then one night when I was in college Brian called me because he actually saw one of the ghosts we'd been hunting down for years, the local legend ghost of Hammer Road. He wanted to know if there were any prayers he could say to make sure the ghost didn't come home with him.
9a. This is the most spiritual advice my now- agnostic brother has asked me for since I was his Confirmation sponsor at church.
10. I called Brian one night in college because I had come home to see a concert and then was stranded downtown after the trains stopped running with no cash for a cab and no ATM in the blocks that I walked. I had no idea where I was but he figured it out and got me. This has happened more than once.
BONUS: My brother was recently questioned by police in the context of the theft of 400 cartons of cigarettes in Dover. The reason? He had posted on his facebook page that he had some cheap cigarettes for sale. To prove his innocence he had to reveal the deal he had recently struck up with an elderly man at a nursing home who orders cigarettes online from out of state to avoid taxes. No word yet on whether the old man is getting in trouble.
Friday, June 5, 2009
Horseback Riding, or Why Mom doesn't say No
Mom and I walked around Jamaica Pond the other day until I had to leave for a show at IA. "It's just as well," Mom said, pausing to stretch her leg, "my knee's been bothering me since the horse incident."
Mom, Jack and I had a leisurely lunch and got on a van that brought us to a reservation of sorts across the street from one of the entrances to the Arenal Volcano National Park. Once we had all mounted horses and gotten a quick orientation to riding them, we were off.
Cantor, I thought humorously as the guide explained how to make the horse cantor, yeah, I'll be needing that a ton.
My experience with horseback riding is nonexistent save a trip up a mountain in Vermont when I was nine. My horse was tied to the back of an experienced rider and all I had to do was hold on.
The way to the top of the mountain was a mix of open rolling hills with staggeringly beautiful panoramic views and steep rocky trails through a primary rain forest. We started off walking, but soon we were trotting and cantering over the gorgeous landscape. The guide surprised us by signaling vocally to all four horses to just make a run for it. At first this caused a lot of chaos (Mom and I almost ran into each other), but then I got hooked on the cantering, finding it easier than trotting and more practical for long stretches than walking.
As a result I rode up front with the guide a lot, and occasionally even went on ahead with his permission.
This freedom combined with the guide's praise at my "quick learning," as you might imagine made it even easier to fuel some ridiculous fantasies about a small cowgirl, a faithful horse and a rain forest.
(Photographic evidence , courtesy of our guide, indicates that I in fact resembled a cowgirl in almost no way).
I wasn't the only one with the romantic visions, Jack lit a cigarette and asked us if he looked like the Marlboro man. Then he added, "Man, I tell you, cowboys have little balls." He readjusted in his saddle and smiled uneasily at the guide unsure if he had offended him.
The guide spoke mainly Spanish but tried his best to point things out in English. Occasionally he would speak Spanish and I would struggle to translate for Mom and Jack, the improviser in me not willing to give up without a try.
We saw wild pigs, a deer, turkeys, toucans, parakeets (an entire flock of them), and a family of howler monkeys (with whom we stopped to communicate). We rode right into a stream (my cowgirl delusions multiplied), and passed a sulfur lake covered in lilies.
At the summit of the climb we let the horses drink and eat while we did the same. There, at the top of the mountain, was this open air stone chapel. I was fascinated. It had no walls, and where the pulpit and altar would be was only empty space overlooking Lake Arenal and rising above the lake, the Volcano itself. Like the Volcano is going to sermonize, I thought. Like the Volcano might try to break Bread with us.
The day was so cloudy the top of the volcano was lost, but the peace and magnificence was not. In my journal I wrote: How can you see something like this and not acknowledge the existence of God? It was impossible to sit, surrounded by so much beauty and not be overcome with humility and thanksgiving. And also to not feel like a cowgirl.
When we got back on the horses, something happened to Mom's knee. She's not sure what, but it was a Bad Thing. This made her trip downhill less pleasant. Still, we all laughed when Jack hit a particularly hard part of the road and quipped to his horse, "It's okay, Tonca, I didn't want any more kids anyway."
I mentioned that the guide flattered my fast learning, and he even gave me a small lesson in galloping, which was exhilarating. And although I'm sure my form was nonexistent, he complimented me anyway.
As Mom dismounted at the end her knee took a turn for the worse. As the guide helped her down her foot missed the bale of hay and she fell.
She recently recounted this tale to her aunt, my great Auntie Mame. "I'll bet you never do something like that again," Mame clicked.
My Mom told me she responded resolutely that she absolutely would do it again and in a heartbeat.
"You see," she said, "I know what it's like to not be able to walk at all."
I nodded grimly. My mother has Multiple Sclerosis and the time she is referring to in 1996. She woke up one morning unable to walk. The paralysis was temporary, limited to a few days, but after that she was on Canadian crutches for a while.
"I didn't know if I'd ever be the same again," she says now. "And with MS, I never know if that's going to happen again. Or if it will be for good." She paused, "so, no I wouldn't say no to horseback riding again, or anything else."
"That's also what made me try the zipline*."
There are only a few things more spirit lifting than rising a fast and fleet footed horse through a rain forest and up a mountain with sky all around.
Equally spirit lifting is knowing that my mother is the great person she is. It's incredible to me that I get to be her daughter. Here is a woman who refuses to give up, give in, or quit living her life despite any obstacle that gets in her way.
All I have to do is think of that and the journey becomes easier, the sky becomes clearer and everything is more beautiful.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
*Story coming soon to a blog near you.
Mom, Jack and I had a leisurely lunch and got on a van that brought us to a reservation of sorts across the street from one of the entrances to the Arenal Volcano National Park. Once we had all mounted horses and gotten a quick orientation to riding them, we were off.
Cantor, I thought humorously as the guide explained how to make the horse cantor, yeah, I'll be needing that a ton.
My experience with horseback riding is nonexistent save a trip up a mountain in Vermont when I was nine. My horse was tied to the back of an experienced rider and all I had to do was hold on.
The way to the top of the mountain was a mix of open rolling hills with staggeringly beautiful panoramic views and steep rocky trails through a primary rain forest. We started off walking, but soon we were trotting and cantering over the gorgeous landscape. The guide surprised us by signaling vocally to all four horses to just make a run for it. At first this caused a lot of chaos (Mom and I almost ran into each other), but then I got hooked on the cantering, finding it easier than trotting and more practical for long stretches than walking.
As a result I rode up front with the guide a lot, and occasionally even went on ahead with his permission.
This freedom combined with the guide's praise at my "quick learning," as you might imagine made it even easier to fuel some ridiculous fantasies about a small cowgirl, a faithful horse and a rain forest.
(Photographic evidence , courtesy of our guide, indicates that I in fact resembled a cowgirl in almost no way).
I wasn't the only one with the romantic visions, Jack lit a cigarette and asked us if he looked like the Marlboro man. Then he added, "Man, I tell you, cowboys have little balls." He readjusted in his saddle and smiled uneasily at the guide unsure if he had offended him.
The guide spoke mainly Spanish but tried his best to point things out in English. Occasionally he would speak Spanish and I would struggle to translate for Mom and Jack, the improviser in me not willing to give up without a try.
We saw wild pigs, a deer, turkeys, toucans, parakeets (an entire flock of them), and a family of howler monkeys (with whom we stopped to communicate). We rode right into a stream (my cowgirl delusions multiplied), and passed a sulfur lake covered in lilies.
At the summit of the climb we let the horses drink and eat while we did the same. There, at the top of the mountain, was this open air stone chapel. I was fascinated. It had no walls, and where the pulpit and altar would be was only empty space overlooking Lake Arenal and rising above the lake, the Volcano itself. Like the Volcano is going to sermonize, I thought. Like the Volcano might try to break Bread with us.
The day was so cloudy the top of the volcano was lost, but the peace and magnificence was not. In my journal I wrote: How can you see something like this and not acknowledge the existence of God? It was impossible to sit, surrounded by so much beauty and not be overcome with humility and thanksgiving. And also to not feel like a cowgirl.
When we got back on the horses, something happened to Mom's knee. She's not sure what, but it was a Bad Thing. This made her trip downhill less pleasant. Still, we all laughed when Jack hit a particularly hard part of the road and quipped to his horse, "It's okay, Tonca, I didn't want any more kids anyway."
I mentioned that the guide flattered my fast learning, and he even gave me a small lesson in galloping, which was exhilarating. And although I'm sure my form was nonexistent, he complimented me anyway.
As Mom dismounted at the end her knee took a turn for the worse. As the guide helped her down her foot missed the bale of hay and she fell.
She recently recounted this tale to her aunt, my great Auntie Mame. "I'll bet you never do something like that again," Mame clicked.
My Mom told me she responded resolutely that she absolutely would do it again and in a heartbeat.
"You see," she said, "I know what it's like to not be able to walk at all."
I nodded grimly. My mother has Multiple Sclerosis and the time she is referring to in 1996. She woke up one morning unable to walk. The paralysis was temporary, limited to a few days, but after that she was on Canadian crutches for a while.
"I didn't know if I'd ever be the same again," she says now. "And with MS, I never know if that's going to happen again. Or if it will be for good." She paused, "so, no I wouldn't say no to horseback riding again, or anything else."
"That's also what made me try the zipline*."
There are only a few things more spirit lifting than rising a fast and fleet footed horse through a rain forest and up a mountain with sky all around.
Equally spirit lifting is knowing that my mother is the great person she is. It's incredible to me that I get to be her daughter. Here is a woman who refuses to give up, give in, or quit living her life despite any obstacle that gets in her way.
All I have to do is think of that and the journey becomes easier, the sky becomes clearer and everything is more beautiful.
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*Story coming soon to a blog near you.
Friday, January 9, 2009
It all will fall, fall right into place.
Yesterday at work I mixed some powdered metamucil for a patient. She refused it. But when I went to throw it away all the powder had sunk to the bottom and solidified.
I had an instant flashback to a magic trick my Dad bought at a magic shop in Florida. He used to collect magic tricks, and I eagerly would accompany him to buy the latest and greatest pocket illusions. He had purchased this one on the sly as a surprise, but just couldn't wait until we got back to the hotel to show us, so he opened it up right in the restaurant. As I slid my color changing scarves through my hands over and over, practicing how to conceal the slipknot in my small palm, he poured some water into a coffee mug. Then he turned it upside down. And nothing came out. The water had disappeared. I was enthralled. The secret, of course, was that a "magic powder," had been added to the mug. The powder was really some type of super absorbent polymer which created a gel that would stay in the mug*.
My dad would share his secrets with me because I was, obviously, another magician. And Mom and Brian are family. So he showed us the gel in the mug. It was gross and ten year old me was delighted, though not for the first time, by how science could be used for entertainment**. But then we had a problem. What to do with the gel? After looking around theatrically a few times Dad shook the mug hard, into a potted plant by our table. Instead of breaking apart and blending in nicely, like he'd hoped, the gel stayed in the shape of the mug and just sat there on the soil in plain view. My mother feigned embarrassment but she laughed until she cried. My brother and I dared each other to pick it up. My Dad commanded sternly that none of us look at it lest we draw attention to it, but he was the worst of all. When our waitress came by he casually remarked how much he "loved the plants here." I do not remember the rest of the evening, but I remember that we didn't stop laughing until long after we left the restaurant that night. For the next few months one of us would occasionally bring up the gel, wondering who found it, what they thought of it, and we'd lose it all over again.
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*this is apparently also how disposable diapers work.
** i fell in love with science because of my Dad.
My dad would share his secrets with me because I was, obviously, another magician. And Mom and Brian are family. So he showed us the gel in the mug. It was gross and ten year old me was delighted, though not for the first time, by how science could be used for entertainment**. But then we had a problem. What to do with the gel? After looking around theatrically a few times Dad shook the mug hard, into a potted plant by our table. Instead of breaking apart and blending in nicely, like he'd hoped, the gel stayed in the shape of the mug and just sat there on the soil in plain view. My mother feigned embarrassment but she laughed until she cried. My brother and I dared each other to pick it up. My Dad commanded sternly that none of us look at it lest we draw attention to it, but he was the worst of all. When our waitress came by he casually remarked how much he "loved the plants here." I do not remember the rest of the evening, but I remember that we didn't stop laughing until long after we left the restaurant that night. For the next few months one of us would occasionally bring up the gel, wondering who found it, what they thought of it, and we'd lose it all over again.
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*this is apparently also how disposable diapers work.
** i fell in love with science because of my Dad.
Thursday, December 25, 2008
Christmas at the Whitakers'
Christmas was full of traditions at my house growing up. The rest of the year was relatively free of ritual, so we piled everything into two days it seems. On Christmas Eve we always went to mass at St. Theresa's church in West Roxbury where I sang in the choir. Dad would come just to hear me sing, he said. It was one of the two or three times a year he'd go to church. We'd all go to Mario's Italian Restaurant for dinner afterwards. At home we would each open one present. And no matter how old we got we'd read 'Twas the Night Before Christmas. Over the years it became ironic and goofy but we'd do it anyway. Dad would build a fire and then we would all fall asleep on the high wrap around couch in our living room watching A Christmas Story or It's a Wonderful Life. My little brother would sleep on the trundle bed in my room and we'd stay awake late and get up at the crack of dawn.
But things change, and so with that in mind I bring you a scene from last night at Mom's new condo:
I looked up from the window ledge I was carefully icing and watched as Brian began decorating the top of the roof with red and blue gumballs. "Feeling patriotic?" I asked. "I like the way it looks," he said and we both burst into the first seven words of "Proud to be an American," which is all we knew. Mom painstakingly hand crafted icicles from the ledges. "That shit is bad ass," Brian proclaimed, and Mom sat back to admire her work.
As Brian began to plot the correct angle for some chocolate solar panels on the roof he started to curse, "Shit! It's going down!" The three of us watched as a sink hole appeared in the center of the house and swallowed all the gumballs. "F*ck," said my baby brother lighting another cigarette, "we should have waited for the frosting to set."
We fixed the roof but then a wall fell over. We uprighted the wall and Brian went to work on the Eastern windows, but he had been drinking a bit and the next thing I heard was this:
"What the hell is that?" (mom)
"What? There's snow on them." (Brian)
and a pause.
"It was a blizzard, ok, Mom?"
Just as I had completed the fortune cookie rock salt on the chocolate walk way there was a loud sucking noise and all the electricity went out. It flashed back on and then crashed out a second time. In the entire complex, and the one down hill from what we could tell through the windows. We pulled out flashlights and lit candles and tried to work in the dark. "Now we have an excuse for the way it looks," said Mom.
The roof kept sloping off, and so Brian and I decided we had to hold the pieces in place for fifteen minutes to let it stick. He kept letting go and shifting the table causing me to yell, "every time you let go, the terrorists win." Mom held Brian's beer up to his lips for him to drink and when I noticed Brian laughed so hard that Mom spilled the beer down his chin. "My family," I intoned, making everyone laugh harder as my side of the house shifted angles again.
The power returned and was met with mixed reviews, "Well at least we'll have a stove in the morning. But still no excuse for this house."
We stared at the house. One side of the roof was frosted, the other was bare. The frosting had huge thumb prints in it from Brian hanging onto the sides. Mom's icicles dripped to the ground like elf snot. One half of the holly branch I had crafted fell to the ground. Brian's windows still looked like someone had wiped their mouth on the side of the pastry. The roof split again, revealing the hole and shedding light on the American gumballs stranded inside.
"Well," I said, I should get ready for midnight mass.What time is it?"
"Good luck," said Brian taking a swig of a second beer, "It's flashing 9 o clock over there, and the microwave says it's zero time."
"What this house needs," I said, "is some support."
"It's not too late to throw the whole thing away and pretend we never tried," answered Mom.
Brian and I rigged some chocolate bar support beams for the roof and let it set overnight. He retired to the basement to play video games online and Mom went to bed. I fixed my frosting covered hair in the bathroom mirror and slipped out the door to go to church on my own, my first time in this new town that Mom lives in.
As I knelt in the crowded chapel surrounded by families and children, I kept picturing my brother holding onto the house, my Mom lighting his cigarette for him, her own held tight in her lips as the gum drops dropped off the windows one by one onto the kitchen floor and I thought maybe we had found a new tradition.
When I mentioned this to them later my mother's response? "Hell no."
But things change, and so with that in mind I bring you a scene from last night at Mom's new condo:
I looked up from the window ledge I was carefully icing and watched as Brian began decorating the top of the roof with red and blue gumballs. "Feeling patriotic?" I asked. "I like the way it looks," he said and we both burst into the first seven words of "Proud to be an American," which is all we knew. Mom painstakingly hand crafted icicles from the ledges. "That shit is bad ass," Brian proclaimed, and Mom sat back to admire her work.
As Brian began to plot the correct angle for some chocolate solar panels on the roof he started to curse, "Shit! It's going down!" The three of us watched as a sink hole appeared in the center of the house and swallowed all the gumballs. "F*ck," said my baby brother lighting another cigarette, "we should have waited for the frosting to set."
We fixed the roof but then a wall fell over. We uprighted the wall and Brian went to work on the Eastern windows, but he had been drinking a bit and the next thing I heard was this:
"What the hell is that?" (mom)
"What? There's snow on them." (Brian)
and a pause.
"It was a blizzard, ok, Mom?"
Just as I had completed the fortune cookie rock salt on the chocolate walk way there was a loud sucking noise and all the electricity went out. It flashed back on and then crashed out a second time. In the entire complex, and the one down hill from what we could tell through the windows. We pulled out flashlights and lit candles and tried to work in the dark. "Now we have an excuse for the way it looks," said Mom.
The roof kept sloping off, and so Brian and I decided we had to hold the pieces in place for fifteen minutes to let it stick. He kept letting go and shifting the table causing me to yell, "every time you let go, the terrorists win." Mom held Brian's beer up to his lips for him to drink and when I noticed Brian laughed so hard that Mom spilled the beer down his chin. "My family," I intoned, making everyone laugh harder as my side of the house shifted angles again.
The power returned and was met with mixed reviews, "Well at least we'll have a stove in the morning. But still no excuse for this house."
We stared at the house. One side of the roof was frosted, the other was bare. The frosting had huge thumb prints in it from Brian hanging onto the sides. Mom's icicles dripped to the ground like elf snot. One half of the holly branch I had crafted fell to the ground. Brian's windows still looked like someone had wiped their mouth on the side of the pastry. The roof split again, revealing the hole and shedding light on the American gumballs stranded inside.
"Well," I said, I should get ready for midnight mass.What time is it?"
"Good luck," said Brian taking a swig of a second beer, "It's flashing 9 o clock over there, and the microwave says it's zero time."
"What this house needs," I said, "is some support."
"It's not too late to throw the whole thing away and pretend we never tried," answered Mom.
Brian and I rigged some chocolate bar support beams for the roof and let it set overnight. He retired to the basement to play video games online and Mom went to bed. I fixed my frosting covered hair in the bathroom mirror and slipped out the door to go to church on my own, my first time in this new town that Mom lives in.
As I knelt in the crowded chapel surrounded by families and children, I kept picturing my brother holding onto the house, my Mom lighting his cigarette for him, her own held tight in her lips as the gum drops dropped off the windows one by one onto the kitchen floor and I thought maybe we had found a new tradition.
When I mentioned this to them later my mother's response? "Hell no."
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Monday, December 15, 2008
Three Snapshots of my Weekend
Friday.
He's pacing in the basement room of the theater. His suit is spotless and impeccable, and his eyes are wide, and brimming with excitement and joy. He is sweating and antsy. He doesn't stop moving. All around us people are smiling because they know why he's come all the way from L.A. Upstairs there is a young lady marking the turn of another year in her life. She believes he's in Las Vegas but has been secretly hoping he'd find a way to get to her for her special day. He's planned his entrance to the second. I leave him there and run upstairs just in time to see her eyes light up at all the friends gathered in her name. But nothing compares to that moment when he approaches her from behind, and whispers in her ear. The room applauds, but around them time and place slip away and the rest of us get a small view into heaven.
Saturday.
My mother puts down her tea as the second song on the CD begins to play. "I can't NOT dance to this song," she says. And so we spend the next hour of her birthday dancing around the living room laughing like children. We kick off our socks for better traction. We sing, we tell stories. We plan the Christmas menu. But the whole time, we are dancing and dancing.
Sunday.
"I'm really worried about her," the nurse says, " I can't find her anywhere in the building." I take the elevator to the atrium. The scene that greets me makes me forget why I am there for a moment. The sky outside the huge glass panes is completely dark. Headlights sweep the glass as cars go by, but the beams never make it inside. Instead, the glow of low lit lamps give the large community room a homey warm feeling. On all of the couches, patients are gathered. Some are reading, others play chess. One man is hunched over a table using colored pencils to design a card for his little daughter. A woman in the corner picks up scratchy Christmas carols on a tinny radio. On the porch several men huddle together sharing cigarettes and stories of the street.
By the windows there is a Christmas tree. The lights on it burn steady in rainbow colors, and at the top an angel shines brightly. She seems to be guarding the men and women all around her.
I find the missing patient in a rocking chair across the room. She smiles weakly and says, "I know they must be worried, Shell, but I was hurting too much to get up. I'll go with you now."
As we slowly walk to the doors, I turn around for one last look. I notice a detail I hadn't seen. Beneath the tree is a small creche. The perfect wooden figures stand posed in a scene thousands of years old. Mary, Joseph and their baby boy- once cold and homeless, found respite.
He's pacing in the basement room of the theater. His suit is spotless and impeccable, and his eyes are wide, and brimming with excitement and joy. He is sweating and antsy. He doesn't stop moving. All around us people are smiling because they know why he's come all the way from L.A. Upstairs there is a young lady marking the turn of another year in her life. She believes he's in Las Vegas but has been secretly hoping he'd find a way to get to her for her special day. He's planned his entrance to the second. I leave him there and run upstairs just in time to see her eyes light up at all the friends gathered in her name. But nothing compares to that moment when he approaches her from behind, and whispers in her ear. The room applauds, but around them time and place slip away and the rest of us get a small view into heaven.
Saturday.
My mother puts down her tea as the second song on the CD begins to play. "I can't NOT dance to this song," she says. And so we spend the next hour of her birthday dancing around the living room laughing like children. We kick off our socks for better traction. We sing, we tell stories. We plan the Christmas menu. But the whole time, we are dancing and dancing.
Sunday.
"I'm really worried about her," the nurse says, " I can't find her anywhere in the building." I take the elevator to the atrium. The scene that greets me makes me forget why I am there for a moment. The sky outside the huge glass panes is completely dark. Headlights sweep the glass as cars go by, but the beams never make it inside. Instead, the glow of low lit lamps give the large community room a homey warm feeling. On all of the couches, patients are gathered. Some are reading, others play chess. One man is hunched over a table using colored pencils to design a card for his little daughter. A woman in the corner picks up scratchy Christmas carols on a tinny radio. On the porch several men huddle together sharing cigarettes and stories of the street.
By the windows there is a Christmas tree. The lights on it burn steady in rainbow colors, and at the top an angel shines brightly. She seems to be guarding the men and women all around her.
I find the missing patient in a rocking chair across the room. She smiles weakly and says, "I know they must be worried, Shell, but I was hurting too much to get up. I'll go with you now."
As we slowly walk to the doors, I turn around for one last look. I notice a detail I hadn't seen. Beneath the tree is a small creche. The perfect wooden figures stand posed in a scene thousands of years old. Mary, Joseph and their baby boy- once cold and homeless, found respite.
Friday, November 14, 2008
My world, it's so small I can touch every corner and so large there's no ceiling.
Yesterday I left my unit to go find a patient who needed a medication before lunch. I passed through the activity room on the second floor and walked in on some patients watching a video on Hep C. I paused to watch and quickly realized the narrator was an old friend of mine from Riverside Theaterworks in Boston. He is also the cantor at my church.
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I saw this note on my fridge this morning. It was written on a meter reading receipt, with two carbons attached:
Hello Michelle and Liz. It's been a very long time. Kinda weird that I'm your oil guy. Whatsup? Come check out my band if you can next Friday Nov. 21, at the Cask n' Flagon. Our band's called Manakin Cicada. Check out our myspace.
- Jon the sixie.
Seriously, folks. Jon was a "sixie," or seventh grader at Boston Latin School. We kind of adopted him because we all took the 35 bus. You know, the reverse of what happened to us when we were sixies. (We used to get spit on and lit on fire). Now he's my oil guy.
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My Mom came over today to look at photos from my trip and hear stories. She also brought a huge bag full of my favorite foods like cheesecake muffins and pasta. " I figured you hadn't had time to shop or cook yet." I told my Mom she's the only reason I didn't stay in Tokyo.
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I saw this note on my fridge this morning. It was written on a meter reading receipt, with two carbons attached:
Hello Michelle and Liz. It's been a very long time. Kinda weird that I'm your oil guy. Whatsup? Come check out my band if you can next Friday Nov. 21, at the Cask n' Flagon. Our band's called Manakin Cicada. Check out our myspace.
- Jon the sixie.
Seriously, folks. Jon was a "sixie," or seventh grader at Boston Latin School. We kind of adopted him because we all took the 35 bus. You know, the reverse of what happened to us when we were sixies. (We used to get spit on and lit on fire). Now he's my oil guy.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
My Mom came over today to look at photos from my trip and hear stories. She also brought a huge bag full of my favorite foods like cheesecake muffins and pasta. " I figured you hadn't had time to shop or cook yet." I told my Mom she's the only reason I didn't stay in Tokyo.
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