Laur n' Glor

I started a post-Thanksgiving tradition 23 years ago with the help of one of Grandma Rita's homemade yeast rolls, a generous helping of Aunt Virginia's stuffing, cranberry sauce and a schmear of mayo.  Me and gal pal, Laurie Geiser, sat at the table in the little apartment she shared with her big sister, our Turkey Day leftover constructions in hand, and chowed down.  In the throes of gluttonous pleasure, we experienced an epiphany of sorts as to the nature of that which we ate.  "Hey!" I exclaimed through a mouth of holiday goodness, "This is really a bread-on-bread sandwich!"  Grinning her agreement at the revelation, she gushed, "It i-i-s-s-s . . . and it's SO-O good!"  Her eyes rolled up into the back of her head as she finished chewing.  It was bonding at its finest.  And through the passage of years, boyfriends, jobs, marriage, kids, trials and triumphs, we've kept up our little shared foodie joke, reminding one another each late November of that belly-laugh moment in our young adulthood when everything seemed possible, when we seemed untouchable, when drama reigned and maturity feigned, and the promise of moving to New York together to pursue adventure was yet a beacon on the horizon.

But long before my posted picture on Facebook of this year's open-faced bread-on-bread sandwich appeared on Laurie's wall, and years before our interpretation of this food fact, we began an extraordinary friendship which would lead us both on an adventure of sorts, saving my sanity as a teen and setting my course for married life in the process.

Oddly enough, it began with a courtship and kiss with her big brother, of all people.  A courtship which consisted primarily of conversations -- not to put too fine a point on the word, as debate might be more apt here -- on the topic of religion and faith with my mother in the tiny front room of the converted mobile home trailer in which me, mom, and my three younger siblings lived in LaVeta, Colorado back in the summer of 1985.  That courtship, and my crush, came to a screeching halt with our first and final kiss.  I'm pretty sure that for both of us it was something akin to kissing a close relative.  Please pass the Scope!  We parted as friends.  Both of us with a knowledge of one another's families and lives stemming from the bits and pieces of chit-chat we had outside of his fascination with my mom's life and beliefs.

Being the curious girl that I was (and still am), it was no surprise to me that while hanging out at the local arcade -- one of those small game rooms situated in the back of Loaf n' Jug and 7-11 stores -- my radar sprung into action when a raven-haired beauty with a confident swagger accentuated by her well-fitting 501's walked past me.  I'd seen her somewhere.  No.  I'd seen a photo of her somewhere.  "Hey," I turned to ask one of the local teens next to me, "Is THAT Laurie Geiser?"  Before a response could begin to form in the kid's mouth, a husky modulated voice sounded behind me, an edge of menace lacing each carefully spoken word, "Yeah.  And WHAT OF IT?!"  Turning back to face her, I smiled and popped out with, "Oh! I'm Gloria Sweigard.  I know your brother?  Jerry?  He's told me all about you," I smiled even bigger, meaning every curve and tooth of it, "I've wanted to meet you for some time now."  I was no threat to her world; her guard came down immediately.  She, too, knew who I was.  And that was all it took to spark the connection between us that would carry two girls, Laur n' Glor, through Alaska, Israel, California, and back to Colorado after my high school graduation -- which she attended.  Thank you, very much!

In the beginning, Laur represented everything I wanted to be as an entering high school freshman.  And everything I wasn't allowed to be.  Or everything I didn't have with any degree of security.  The freedom to move about in a town where everybody knew her name, with the certainty that her familiar bed and family home and relatives up on the hill would all be there when she sank into her pillow and clicked on that bedside radio, the tunes of the day lulling her into comfortable sleep.  The freedom to experiment with varying shades of lipstick and eyeshadows -- all of which looked perfectly at home on her pretty face with its generous lips and almond-shaped eyes.  The freedom to listen to Prince & The Revolution on that aforementioned radio, reliving the concert scenes from his popular though corny movie, "Purple Rain" in one's head.  The freedom to be at home in her own skin . . . or at least as at home as a hormonal teenage girl can be given the variables which can afflict her soul.  When I stayed the night at her house, I drank in every moment, noticing every corner of every room and each piece of furniture and lamp and knick-knack, appreciative of the food to which I could help myself in the pantry and fridge, grateful for the friendliness of her parents (who I know call Uncle Jerry and Marie, or Mer).  In fact, I couldn't sleep.  I would lie awake next to her, awaiting the next song in the DJ's lineup, hearing her breath, imagining a life where I grew up with the familiar from year-in to year-out.

And she made me laugh.  Her own laugh was, and still is, highly infectious.  You'd have to be cut from the hardest stone not to be affected by her bubbly giggles and guffaws.  She could take my most tearful moments -- and I did have teary outbursts with alarming regularity in those first months of our friendship -- and turn them on their head, transforming my dark mood into a lighthearted breeze.  It was one of her many gifts and talents as a stellar human being.  Even then, on the periphery of adult awareness, I knew that about her.  And so did my mom.  Even when I railed against my mother internally, sharing these feelings with Laurie as teenage girls will do, my new friend was sincerely kind and respectful toward my mom.  And my protective mother, wary of the world and its influences, trusted Laurie with her daughter because of the character she felt she could see in this young woman so important to my existence.

When I moved away from LaVeta, and consequently Laur, first to the town of Walsenburg -- maybe a mere handful of miles for someone with regular access to a car and gas money, but it might as well have been the North Pole for me -- and later to the great state of Alaska -- more miles than I could stack in my arms and definitely not doable in the gas department, and clearly closer to the North Pole -- I took to letter writing.  Long letters.  Multiple pages.  Sometimes individual sheets of paper cut in wavy shapes, lined in magic marker, numbered and carefully folded before placement in an envelope and the acceptance of a stamp on it's top right corner.  But always full of emotion and fears and questions and connection.  (She would much later hand these letters over to me, thinking I might find them of use in some way, either to satisfy questions I may have had about myself as a teen at that time, or perhaps for writing, or both.)

Of all the many places I'd been and the many faces I'd met, Laur was the one thing, the one peer, that I couldn't let go.  Even when instructed to so so for the good of forgetting the past and moving on into the future.  No.  Keeping Laur in my life, even on the down low, meant that I continued to exist, that I was more than a shadow person flitting from one place to the next without leaving an imprint on nary a soul: in short, Laurie's friendship, the fact that she loved me as much as I loved her and wrote and called me, never forgetting me, either, was just the validation that a lonely and troubled teenager desperately needed.  There were several times where the desire for death darkened my heart and mind, and the solidity of Laur n' Glor kept me from fulfilling those desperate yearnings.

Roughly four years after our initial meeting, I made the decision to turn down a full-ride scholarship to college in California, opting instead to head for the familiarity of Colorado and Laur.  Little did I know that returning to her world would also set the course for my life as a wife and mother.  Seated in a chair in the living room of her big sister's apartment, where Laur took me straight from the airport, was her cousin, the boy I began seeing after my brief dalliance with her brother, the boy whose kisses reminded me not in the least of family but, instead, steamed up more than a few windshields on dates and double dates.  The boy who caused my heart to leap into my throat when he approached.  The boy who now stood before me, one of his legs encased in a cumbersome brace (he'd recently had knee surgery), his naturally curly hair bringing out the deep brown of his eyes, bolo tie snug against his neck, and wearing the heck out of that pair of pale blue jeans.  He shook my hand, holding onto it longer than was absolutely necessary or required, and I found that I needed a moment to push my heart back down into the proper cavity in my chest.  We would be married and expecting our first child in less than a year from that casual meeting.  Next March will mark 23 years of legal and loving union together for us.

As for Laurie, I would go on to live with her family in LaVeta, walking to the family-owned truck stop with her mother, where I waited tables for a time.  At the house, I made myself at home with Scrabble games, baking homemade cookies for her little brother, Jeremy, and visiting her grandma and other family members up on 'the hill.'  Later, I was given clearance to move into that small apartment with her and her sister, Annette.  I worked odd jobs.  Began to see Jimmy again.  Met the cousins.  Partied.  Had myself some of my own life experiences -- not all of them pleasant, a good many of them just plain stupid, but all of them exhilarating and attributable to me.  When I came up pregnant, Laur and her sister said I could stay with them, get an education and job, and they would help me raise the baby . . . if I decided that getting married wasn't a good idea.  Obviously, I decided against that.  There was tension between us for a time because one of the things which bonded us was our passion for the paths of our lives and the stubbornness with which we sought out those paths.  She worried that I was surrendering both my passion and my path.  She wasn't in my wedding though she was AT my wedding.  But as good friends do, we patched it all up, and sojourned on, marching forward into our adult lives with its countless unknowns, never once believing we wouldn't continue to be best buds for life.

And we have.  She has listened and loved.  Counseled and corrected.  Watched and wondered.  Her family accepted me into their fold even before my marriage to her cousin, and this closeness only strengthened between myself and her siblings and parents.  Later, this closeness flowed down into the other aunts and uncles and cousins, the grandma and great aunt and great uncle.  They all became as much a part of me as my own family, that in which I grew up and that expanse of extended relatives who have roots in central California.  I was accepted as the quirky person that I was.  That I am.  I learned about what comes with settling down and growing roots.  Where my practical knowledge of common issues in everyday life were lacking due to my unique nomadic childhood, Laur offered her insight and suggestions with assiduous concern.

I observed Laur with her sister and drew upon their relationship for the basis of the bond between my own children . . . and as an example through which to heal the wounds between me and my own sisters and brothers.  When my baby brother went to prison, more than once, and most painfully when I was forced to turn him in, Laurie comforted me and refused to judge my brother, still sending him cards of encouragement, as much for my sake as for his.  When my sister suffered a post-partum event which stripped her of her children, and her sanity for a time, effectively bringing about our own family holocaust, Laurie did not waver in her support, and her tremendous ability to empathize was put to the ultimate test.  There was a time when I put my trust in the wrong hands and caused her immediate family legal and emotional grief which I desperately attempted to rectify, and she stood by me though it put her in the immediate path of her beloved sister's temporary rage toward me.  We survived that.  All of us.

There have been births and weddings -- I was a bridesmaid in Laur's wedding AND I sang a lovely song a capella, enduring sweaty armpits and stained rings of satin (as opposed to rings of Saturn) -- along with deaths and funerals.  Great big parties abounding in food and family, friends and fun, to celebrate birthdays for kids and adults, high school graduations and holidays galore.  Before she had her own children, she doted on mine with genuine affection.  After she had her own children, she decided she wanted to add my son to her two-count!  Though our lives follow different courses, our common threads of compassion and the importance of family and friends, along with a shared love of chocolate, Mojitos and bread-on-bread sandwiches, link us at our cores.  We are women of substance and inner beauty, though our outward stuff ain't too hard on the eyes!

Distance now separates us, as it has at many points during our years as friends.  Laur resides in Wyoming.  I'm here in Tennessee.  But no longer is there an ocean, literal or figuratively, between us.  The history is too rich, and the shared experiences too precious, for anything other than love and admiration, one for the other.  My friendship with her opened me up to the possibilities of close friendships with other women.  So, I've added on, but never do I subtract.

But in a world of BFF's (best friends forever) and BBF's (best buds forever), Laur ranks high atop these as she is my oldest (um, not by age) and steadiest friend.  She intuitively gets me, all of me, because she was with me during a period of my life when most other folks entered through the front door and left out the back.  Or was that me?  She came on in.  And stayed.  Hiding under the bed if she had to, just to remain in my life.  Other people may know me, having had me as a classmate for a short stint in grammar school, but I was there, and then almost as quickly, gone, with no phone numbers or addresses in hand as I departed.        

So instead of the traditional sparkling wine toast, I hoist my stuffing-and-roll sandwich aloft as I salute Laur n' Glor -- two girls who made it big in this life in ways which fell outside of their young plans and dreams, in part due to their chance meeting once upon a time in a makeshift arcade, introductions made with the strained hum of Ms. Pacman in the background, far far from I-25 and the big city lights.  If you have any questions as to the validity of our closeness, might I direct you to these well-spoken words, "WHAT OF IT?!"
    

3:30 In the Morning Comes Quickly

3:30AM.  A good time for a coughing fit.  A practical time for one's bladder to call to duty.  And evidently an opportune time for waking a guy up out of a dead sleep to inform him that he's being transferred to another state hospital all the way on the opposite end of the state . . . and he's got ten minutes to prepare for the move.

It's funny in a very NON-ha-ha kind of way how a few minutes can alter the plans and schemes of man, and big sister in this case, leaving very little room for proper reacting and adjusting.  I mean, what can a guy -- pretty sure we all know I'm referring to my little brother, Gary -- do but grab his pants, sputter out a few grunts, pee, and maybe squeeze in a decent question?  When the powers that be say 'you are outta here,' then you are outta there.  Concepts like two-week notice or good-bye parties just don't figure in.  All that matters is where a patient falls on the spectrum of 'naughty' and 'nice.'  And though baby brother isn't brokering any major drug deals out of Columbia, he hasn't exactly been squeaky clean these past few months. 

A state institution exists as its own kind of community, no matter how altered a state that community is, and gossip flourishes every bit as much as hard truth.  So, if a guy is caught up in perpetuating his drug habit and has a reputation for smooth-talking and hustling a good deal, it isn't a stretch to start wondering what else he might be up to.  Or for someone else wishing to cast the light of unwanted attention off himself and onto another to toss out a few believable untruths concerning a certain fellow client.  Before long, things begin to snowball and take on a life of its own.  That's when the house cops start covertly removing patients in the still hours before dawn.  Quietly.  With little attention and fuss.  And a reduced opportunity for floor wide pandemonium to take hold. 

Somewhere there is a list of names known only to a few.  Someone higher up feels that these wards of the state represent a possible risk to the low-security facility that is known as Napa State Hospital.  And since the death of an employee at the hands of a patient last fall, fear of any danger has heightened and played upon the sensibilities of the entire town of Napa.  Though several staff members didn't believe that my brother had made that list, he has been worried about that very thing for months.  Personally, I struggled to believe that anyone who'd read his file would consider doing this to him because the place IS considered a hospital and NOT a prison.  A large part of his personal pain, his issues with his past, revolves around being abruptly ripped from his surroundings without warning or practical plans for a relocation, unable to have the closure of goodbye or the security of a safe place in which to land, thrust into situations a child could not comprehend.  As a young adult with a history of running away, juvenile hall and foster home placements, jail and prison, that painful pattern was repeated, and thus reinforced, again and again and again. 

Evidently, it didn't matter what I believed.  It didn't matter that next Wednesday I was scheduled to fly out of Nashville and land in San Francisco.  It didn't matter that I'd sent in my money and reservation for the family Thanksgiving meal for Thursday.  That Gary and I had planned to visit and celebrate our birthdays together with cake and food and Scrabble on Friday, Saturday and Sunday.  That I would be his FIRST outside visitor since November of last year when our brother, John, shared the aforementioned meal with him.  Or that the professor-doctor who meets with him every Tuesday for individual therapy sessions wanted to officially meet me and talk about things.  Or that other people had made plans on several fronts to accommodate my visit.  All it took was ten minutes, six hundred seconds, to render null and void all of it.

So, after the initial shock of his call from Patton State Hospital on Thursday last, tears and sobs spent on the back porch so as not to upset my convalescing daughter and her boyfriend, and a well-timed visit from a dear friend bearing pho soup and spot-on food for thought concerning the bad news from California, I pulled my chin up and began examining this development from other angles.  But until a second call from Gary two days later where I heard for myself his take on the event and the place and staff, I reserved my judgement. 

He had a lot of time to think on his eight hour drive.  Time to be amazed by the private transport driver who was driving at 100 miles an hour while texting.  "It was a WILD ride," said the man who gave a few wild rides and chases in his day.  Trust me, the irony of the woman's illegal actions while transferring a mentally-ill criminal on a state-funded trip was not lost on me.  I didn't know my eyes were capable of rolling that far back in my head.

Instead of losing his temper and causing a scene -- which was his standard at one point in time -- Gary accepted that there was no turning back.  No tantrum, no series of expletives, no amount of standing his ground would change the fact that he was leaving and not going back.  His recent change in thinking per his situation was still wending its way through his awareness.  Thank goodness!  Upon his arrival, he noted instantly that the atmosphere at the new place was different.  The staff was professional in the sense that one knew right away there would be no manipulating the situation.  If he chose to act up, he knew they would simply render him harmless with an injection that would mess him up for a couple of days.  The employees seemed to treat their positions as actual jobs they wanted to keep.

Patients HAVE to wake up in the morning and are NOT allowed to hang out, unsupervised and left to their own devices, in their rooms all day.  Almost every staff member runs a group of some sort and runs it with bonafide authority about the subject at hand.  He's heard from other clients, including a friend of his who was transferred there ahead of him and does NOT want to leave the hospital, that patients are more likely to rehab from this location than the one in Napa.  In a nutshell, based on my experience at Napa as a visitor and as a caring relative who often heard about what was going on in the background there, and what Gary had to say, this recent move may actually benefit him in the long run.  Due to the long-term severe nature of his immersion in prison life, my brother is so institutionalized that the lack of firm structure at Napa probably HURT his chances of kicking his habit and dealing with his mental illness.  The high-security ranking of this other establishment calls for a few more rules and this may bode well.

Gary must sense this himself because he brought up the subject of him needing to expect more out of himself and my need to expect LESS from myself where his rehabilitation and reintegration back into society is concerned.  Easier said than done, but done is must be.  We both realize the truth therein.  I feel as if I've already done quite a bit of stepping back but he's telling me that I can put myself in reverse a bit more.  Enjoy my life more and allow him to sweat his more.  We talked about how though he says he loves people, he's never really had to SHOW that love.  He has more than witnessed my ability to enact love; he has more than often made excuses for why he can't love that way.  But whatever epiphany has turned the switch in his brain and heart, it also left him feeling a whole lotta responsibility for the 'coulda, woulda, shouldas' in his adult life.  Who am I to argue?  It's a step toward recovery.  Let him make it. 

Another positive that he mentioned: his Tuesday doc from Napa called down to Patton and touched base with a colleague to ask after Gary; set up a phone conference so that they could have a proper good-bye (this moves me the most); and request that they look into continuing his one-on-one weekly counseling sessions with a psychologist on staff.  For new clients, the waiting list for such sessions is appallingly long and it's almost a perfunctory gesture to add names, much less hope for an opening!

But hope is what I'll do.  It's what I'm best at doing.  A gift.  A talent.  My cross to bear.  Especially where Gary is concerned.  And if I want him to roll with the punches and adjust accordingly, the same should be expected of me..  Isn't that what big sisters are supposed to do? 

 

Wishing for the Banal

It's one of those Saturday mornings where I find myself sandwiched between two fully-charged heating pads, iPhone and throat lozenges in one robe pocket, TV remote in the other, uncomfortably situated in the worn leather recliner that I can never quite conform to my back, under the lulling influence of 800 milligrams of ibuprofen and hydrocodone-laced cough medicine.  My oldest child has taken up temporary residence on our similarly worn couch with her own iPhone, alternately playing rounds of Words With Friends with friends (how else?) and dozing in between DVR'd episodes of "Sex In The City," almost a full three days into her post-exploratory-laparoscopic-procedure convalescence, herself also under the influence of a pain-numbing narcotic.   

Just your typical weekend in Middle Tennessee suburbia, eh?

Though I don't care for the overt sexual nature of the aforementioned program, I am drawn to the witty intelligent writing, and the positive trajectory of the enduring friendship between the four women characters around which all plot and thematic lessons revolve.  And quite possibly I appreciate the 100% departure from suburbia inherent in viewing the show.  The quote-o'-the-day, and consequently my laugh of the day, comes from an episode where the ladies must leave the comfort of their Big Apple to attend the baby shower of an old friend who resides in the 'burbs of Connecticut, where our main heroine, the writer of a newspaper column, observes "I was struck by how a place so filled with nature could look so-o unnatural."  But it's the disgusted utterance of one of the lawyer member of the quartet which cracked me up so completely, "There's a woman in there breastfeeding a child who can chew steak."  As with most humor, the origin of its hilarity lies in the core of truth at its center. 

The highlight of our pre-noon day centered around my Ashley's victory in finally being able to attend to her own post-toilet hygienic ablutions.  She still requires assistance for standing in the fully upright and locked position, but somehow this little bathroom victory feels a lot like the moment in her toddlerhood where she finally figured out how to wipe herself during potty-training!  Funny how malaise, whether viral- or trauma- or surgery-induced, strips a person of the most basic physical, and often mental, abilities.  Including but not limited to: recalling the grocery list, grocery shopping itself, organizing the family schedule, reading an entire book chapter without passing out, eating without wheezing, peeing without stops and starts, moving one's bowels AT ALL, even the passing of gas.  Upon their return -- sometimes painful day by painful day, oft times a simple night's sleep away -- we experience a profound appreciation for the banal.  And then the flow of life rushes in to fill the blank spaces left in the departing wake of forced rest, discomfort and medications.  The banal is once again relegated to the periphery of awareness.

At least for most of us.  I can't help but to think of examples from this past week where the axiom I outlined above does not play out.  Examples to which I share a personal connection.  Examples of the heartbreaking variety that have contributed to my underlying emotional fatigue, which surely have played a large part in keeping this persistent virus on board and adoring its stressed and worn-like-the-living-room-furniture hostess.

The most extreme of these examples revolves around a friend of my mother's who lived in the same little building as my mom and roughly fifty other ageing and/or disabled people.  Collectively, this body of mostly women, a few men, visiting family members and a bevy of healthcare workers, make up the interactive community of the Holiday House.  I've been a part of this place long enough to realize the name is rather a misnomer.  Still, there is a weary charm to be felt up and down the halls of the two-story brick apartments.  And there's something all at once comforting and reliable about walking into the lobby, balancing my armloads of this, that and the other thing, signing the visitor's book, and realizing the entire time that the eyes of the ladies huddled around the coffee table and television behind me are following my every move.  To me, their habits of curiosity mean that while a gossipy few may incorrectly conjecture and spread misinformation, the balance of residents will responsibly know what goes on within the walls of their encampment and this awareness fosters a true sense of safety.  Not too much will slip by and allow unwelcome surprises at some later date.

Except in the case of Carol and her husband, Ray.  Carol and Ray met and began their romance as residents of the Holiday House.  Carol was one of the original crew of ladies for whom I harbor a specific affection who initially befriended my mother when she moved in.  The kids and I enjoyed weekend and summer visits in the game room upstairs, constructing puzzles and rolling the Yahtzee dice, and listening to the stories and banter of Carol, Sarah and Vera (little old ladies laden with character, and sisters to boot), Earl -- one of the only gents living there in the early days of mom's time there, who I always thought had a bit of an unrequited  'thing' for Carol, and whoever else was able to leave the confines of their rooms and make their way up via the elevator. In the spectrum of age displayed amongst the ranks, Carol was on the younger side, which is to say mid to late sixties.

When I first met Ray, I found myself charmed by his quick smile and friendly ways.  Not to mention that he possessed a playful handsomeness that he wielded without guile.  When I heard the news of his impending marriage to Carol, I couldn't help but to think how apt their late-in-life matching was.  The way Carol positively lit up whenever she was in Ray's presence was impressive.  It was a softer side of her that I'd not previously witnessed.  A genuine testament to the power of that elusive thing we call 'true love.'  As I'm not one to exercise trite phrases simply to fill in the blanks, rest assured that their romantic love was, indeed, the real deal.

Last fall, I was among those folks who attended Carol's and Ray's simple wedding ceremony out on the back patio of the Holiday House.  I snapped an album's worth of photos of the event, and each time I look at those pictures I can still feel the joy evident between the couple and in the adult children, cousins, octogenarians (and at least one centenarian) and others who witnessed the joining.  It was the sort of joy that transforms a basic ceremony into a moment more lavish than even the most extravagant of planned nuptials.  And it was one of those shared moments that created an atmosphere of excitement in the lives of the residents there that transformed a few weeks of ordinary autumn into the extraordinary. 

A Saturday ago, our region experienced a morning of heavy long-lasting fog.  It blanketed every nook and cranny of every yard and field, every roadway and intersection.  And it caused a traffic accident at a specific light on the edge of town which spawned a secondary collision that abruptly changed the partnership of Carol and Ray in ways no one saw coming.  Ray ended up at our local hospital with various broken bones and contusions; Carol's injuries, including a torn aorta, resulted in a lifeflight to Vanderbilt in Nashville.  And until last night, husband and wife were unable to be together as their respective medical teams and families set about getting them put back together enough to reunite.  Though Carol's previously-existing COPD merged with the damage from her injuries and made breathing on her own impossible, it seemed that her step-down from one form of assisted breathing to another would eventually lead to a restoration of her basic ability to follow an inhale with an exhale.  My mom decided to put off visiting Carol until she was significantly improved, opting for a the less obtrusive card for the here and now.

But improvement didn't come.  Last night, doctors informed the family that she would never be able to breathe on her own and she was lapsing in and out of a coma-like state with more frequency.  The decision was made to remove her trachea tube and allow nature to take its course.  Per advanced directive, this was Carol's wish under such circumstances.  (Who among us average Joes ever thinks it will come down to this?)  Barring the advent of a miracle, death was a certainty.

Ray's daughter rushed him to Vanderbilt where he met up with the pastor from their church.  Perhaps the one miracle here was that when Joe bent down to show his wife who was there and they explained that the entire church was in prayer for her situation, Carol opened her eyes and smiled, thus seeing her beloved for one final time.  The stripped-down reality of that last look between these precious friends and lovers demands our attention.  And our sympathy.

I woke to today's news from my mom that Carol passed away during the night.  Her family decided that instead of a funeral, they would have a memorial service to celebrate her life.  And it would be held at the same place where Carol had enjoyed a rich life of friendships and marital love: the Holiday House.  That seems fitting to me.  I believe Carol would approve wholeheartedly.  Though I know Ray must surely be aching with a pain far more profound and lasting than anything resulting from the car crash, the comfort he will draw from being surrounded by those who knew Carol best, and knew him as her other half, will be source of sustenance for the days ahead without his best friend.

Ray and Carol were denied their co-return to the banal.  It happened quickly, much the way this blog entry shifted in an instant from humorous to somber.  For that, I'm most sorry. 

(This is a link to a Facebook album containing the wedding photos of which I wrote:

Ray & Carol Say, "I Most Certainly DO!" 

Hope, Highlighted

Yesterday, the highlight of my day flitted about in the form of a monarch butterfly masquerading as a falling leaf in a local intersection.  I embrace, inhale, devour and take great delight in these seconds of beauty caught in the midst of my daily busy-ness.  They harness the power of this great planet and concentrate it onto the point of a pinhead for a brief and shining moment.  My mind and my body halt in their engagements, sometimes only for a heartbeat or a quick intake of breath, but they are stilled all the same.  And I welcome this stillness because I recognize the extreme rarity of its very existence in my life.  And I understand the intrinsic value of this stillness as it relates to me as a spiritual being, as it relates to my well-being, as it relates to epiphany.  And I wonder who else out there relates to this brand of harmony doled out in quick, highly digestible, necessary-to-quality-of-life bites?

Yesterday, the hope of my day arrived via my iPhone, my Girlfriend who is now devoid of her one eye thanks to the questing sharp canines of my 8 1/2 month-old white lab-mix pup.  Like most days, or at least several days out of each week, I talked with Brother Gary.  Only, after months of talking with my brother (lowercase), I actually spoke with my Brother.  There is a difference, and that difference comes by way of a needle and cooked pills.  Over the past six months or so, maybe longer, my emotions have been dulled by blame and anger and apathy.  Not my own but that of Gary.

I knew he was in a downward spiral not long after the murder by a patient there at the hospital of a kindly helpful employee with whom my brother was acquainted.  It's been almost a full year since that horrific act was committed and changed the inner-workings of the institute . . . and the inner-workings of my youngest brother.  For reasons springing from a double-headed source of necessity and fear, the higher-ups clamped down on the rights and freedoms of the patients at Napa State Hospital.  Their ability to regularly breathe the fresh air outside the halls of their wards diminished considerably.  The presence of the grounds police force increased on all fronts, creating more of a prison-like atmosphere than is desired in a medically-based establishment.  Tensions between staff and residents multiplied, with leaking stories to the press and grumblings in the community feeding the gossip fodder, attenuating real life into a Stretch Armstrong version of actual events.  In this fishbowl, Gary's emotional and physical health has deteriorated. 

I'm not stupid.  And the air between me and my brother is always cleared.  Neither of us tiptoe around what's going on.  That my bipolar heroin-and-meth-addicted sibling had returned to the destructive and painfully familiar source of his lifelong comfort was not lost on me.  Though street drugs are unavailable there, there is no shortage of patient- and staff- supplied prescription meds for sale or trade.  And Gary lives on a ward where the population consists of either severely mentally ill men -- you would not be off base to picture individuals talking to their inner voices, stumbling along in circles, urinating on themselves, screaming at those around them -- or men not really engaged in their treatment plan.  That would include addicted individuals who are not truly ready to tackle their problem.

It's a different animal, this thing of actually dealing with him and realizing the depth of his addiction.  Prison did not allow this level of intimacy and awareness between us.  I knew he had warts and scars but didn't have to see them almost every day.  Because I was more concerned with his survival in prison, I made a conscious decision to accept him, his habits, his methods of getting by, feeling we could deal with all of that upon his release.  There was a short period of time in prison, the early months of his short marriage, where he kicked his habit to the curb and stayed clean.  That is an accomplishment.  But for an addict, the getting clean is merely the beginning.  Living with the consequences of that addiction, whether it be hepatitis C or burned bridges, exists as the bigger ongoing challenge.  For the loved one of an addict, all the days and weeks and months of the addiction are the ongoing challenge.  Maintaining hope in the face of doubt -- whether it is self-doubt, the doubt of friends and family who love me and adore my loyalty but think it misplaced and wasted -- is chief among those challenges.  "Keep hope alive!" is harder done than said.

Lately, hearing the ringtone that signifies an incoming call from Gary has stirred irritation within me.  If I'm being honest, even a bit of resentment.  Sending him pictures or cards, much less ordering a few things here and there, managing the dwindling supply of money gifted to me on his behalf upon his release from prison back in October of 2008, feels more like a burden than a joy.   Because those feelings are there, they have to be dealt with.  Not ignored but examined.  Their basis dug up and aired out.  Over the past month or so, my overriding sentiment to Gary concerning his state of mind has been, "If you don't deal with your drug addiction, you will never be able to learn how to handle your bipolarity or develop the skills to overcome your institutionalization."   Though his situation is unique, and quite painful, it can not be an excuse to languish, to diminish the core of who he is meant to be, to gnaw away at the taut threads of unity which exist between us.  That just plain pisses me off.  As anyone who has opened themselves up to relationships well knows, it is possible to both love and hate a thing.  I love my brother; I hate the persona he chooses to project to the hospital staff and the men around him.  It is demoralizing to imagine him screaming in the face of a cafeteria employee, hurling expletives, his face darkened with rage, the prison ink reflecting back his turmoil, essentially having himself a temper-tantrum because a power-hungry individual who will most likely never change has gotten under his thin skin.  The man I support is better than that.  He simply refuses to acknowledge this fact because the drugs allow him to wallow in self-pity and bitterness, blaming everyone around him for his lack of progress, his eyes blind to a better future that I can see.

Before Gary called yesterday, I was watching Our America with Lisa Ling -- her show on OWN (Oprah Winfrey Network).  This particular episode centered around a drug-addicted couple she had interviewed 18 months previous.  Then, they were strung out, thin, looking only for their next score.  Upon her revisit at the top of this show, she was stunned to see them both clear-eyed, with meat on their bones, and clean for the past 18 months.  But they were still living on the streets.  Sleeping in shelters at night.  Working where they could get honest money.  Carrying around their meager belongings in several bags.  Adhering to the judge's orders regarding their decorum as they continue to work toward reuniting with their 7 year-old son who presently lives with a foster family.  Listening to their story broke me down into individual units of pain and faith, each one crying for recognition and a need to be reconfigured.  I began praying for Gary while my purple-gloved hands continued to wash the pots and pans.  The Lord doesn't need a prayer closet to move on a willing heart.  And I was on my knees within.

When I answered the phone, I began with a series of questions to each of Gary's short explanations as to why he hadn't called in awhile.  Finally, he admitted to being ill in the face of quitting a certain substance he'd been mainlining for a significant period of time.  (The cops have been raiding his room every day for weeks since discovering a needle and a makeshift tattoo gun.)  I listened as he explained an incident with a fellow client that made him realize he really wanted to be a quitter.  Of drugs, that is.  "I haven't been one of those users saying to himself, 'I need to quit.  I want to quit.'  But I am now."  There was much more to it all than that but it doesn't need saying here.  He wants to leave his ward and start a new program on another ward specifically tailored for users with a true desire to stop using.  He wants to live up to the guy living at his core who's only shown his face for brief periods of time to his sister and his mother and maybe every now and again to a prisoner or patient in need.  He wants to accept the opinions of the professionals there at the hospital who have repeatedly told him he is worthy and can get out of there alive and intact if he buckles down and does the work.

It's a turning point.  If he can stop putting the car in reverse.  But either way, it's time that I return to my written contemplations on matters of the heart and mind.  Whether or not my brother makes it remains yet to be witnessed, but someone out there may need to read of my perspective and it is simply selfish not to share if even one can be helped through all of this.

Peanut Butter: A Short Story

 (Though this borrows from my past personal experience, this is NOT a specific incident in my historical repertoire.  Nor is it the story of my own battle with bulimia.  It's a little something I initially scratched out of my brain one afternoon, and finished this afternoon, upon noting the schmear of peanut butter left on my hand after spreading a spoon of it in one of my pup's Kong toys.)

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                My knuckles are coated with peanut butter . . . organic, creamy.  I’m not one to leave any little bit of food behind, and the peanut butter jar counts.  I scraped, running my fingers, no, my entire hand, all along the inside surface until there was nothing left to identify the contents of that jar except for the label.  Paper is something I’ve not eaten since childhood.  One of the FEW things.  Now, looking at my knuckles, I decide to squeeze a line of honey across them before licking each bony nub clean.  The honey is mesquite, so the sweetness is mellow, like a desert before sunset, as opposed to the sunshiny essence of a clover honey.  And it seems more in keeping with the organic nature of the peanut butter.  Not that I could tell you why, exactly.  Who can explain the random swerve of thoughts at a time like this?

 I am reminded of the big spoons of peanut butter and honey mom gave to us kids as afternoon snacks to bridge the gap between lunch and dinner.  Though my brother made a well in his peanut butter and filled it with the honey, his preference was not mine.  Swirling the solid caramel-brown peanut butter with the clear amber of the liquid honey, creating ribbons of color and light, just made better aesthetic sense to me.  Even then, as a child, food touched me in levels far deeper than my taste buds and belly.  Even then, my creative and emotional sides were already entwined with all things edible and rife with flavors both common and uncommon.  How was I to know there was a love-hate relationship gathering momentum within me, with every bite and swallow and calorie and fat gram?  Somebody tell me that, please.  Just HOW was I to KNOW?

Now that I’ve effectively cleaned my hands -- though soon they will be coated with bile, which I will NOT adorn with condiments and lick – it’s time for another tall glass of water.  But I’ll stand here, leaning on the kitchen counter, for a second or two longer.  I’m so very full.  That third of a jar of peanut butter was merely the topper to my pantry raid tonight.  This one happened without a plan, this feeding, this unfettered feasting on various and sundry goods.  Usually, these incidents are mapped out over a month.  No more than three times a week.  I figure my teeth and esophagus will last longer that way.  I run-walk extra on the days that I don’t binge;  the additional activity seems to cap my desire to wade through the shelves and bins of my kitchen.  Until today.  This thought causes my burgeoning belly to groan in a decidedly most unladylike way.  Not that there is anything remotely ladylike about any of this, from start – “Why, hullo there, tall can of reduced-fat Pringles.  I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced.  Allow me . . . “ – to finish – refer back to the knuckle incident.

The water is cool.  Soothing to my tired esophagus.  And hard to knock back.  The odd thing about binging is that it doesn’t get any easier with practice.  If anything, there is more force involved in the eating and drinking, and in the contemplation of what is to follow.  I detest what I do in these secret sittings.  Or standings as the case often is.  There is no tasting after the first few bites.  There is no comfort to be sought and gathered close with this massive ingestion of mixed food selections.  I might as well be consuming my own flesh.  And washing it down with my own blood.  It feels that bad.  That illicit.  Yet I return to it, drawn in like a buzzing fly to a dung heap.  My planning is merely a gauzy curtain masquerading as control for the sake of appearances.  Anyone pulling back that curtain would immediately recognize the ugly charade. 

There is no discernible pattern in the food choices.  No overriding cravings which clamor for a fix or trigger an episode.  I don’t decide Italian at one binge and Chinese for another: themed binging sounds far too desperate . . . as opposed to just plain old desperate.  Food is merely my weapon of choice in this internal war consisting of these regularly scheduled battles.  Sometimes I do buy a specific item at the grocery store, a cake mix one day, a can of chopped clams and a package of linguine on another, Red Vines and popcorn the next, to start the session: sort of my version of the gunshot before the race.  Once it begins, no box of Wheat Thins or Captain Crunch is safe.  No half-pan of lasagna or plastic storage bowl of leftover shrimp-fried rice will escape my clutches.  As for cartons of Rocky Road  and Pecan Praline – watch out!  Those rich homemade cookies our neighbor drops at our front door whenever she satisfies her itch to bake: GONE!  I will chew, chew, chew my way through each forkful and spoonful.  Every slice and serving.  Eyes closed.  Hunched over.  Focused in on the small important world forming in my stomach.  Solids mixing with water and acids meant to break down the contents for a long trip through the intestines and into the bowels – destinations never to be reached when I interfere with the natural cycle of things.

In my first attempt so many precious years back, I was clumsy with my lack of knowledge and training in this dark art.  Already a regular guilty binger, there was only a small stutter- step necessary to bridge the gap between ingesting and disgorging.  I took it.  Awkwardly.  Anxiously.  And almost brought about my own death.  Cramming an entire batch of homemade whole wheat biscuits down one’s gullet, barely chewing and with only a small cup of milk to thin the thick gluey mass coagulating down below, is a recipe for choking on a dough log.  NOT pretty to behold.  NOT pretty to contemplate.  Even in hindsight.  To make matters all the more worse, the three young children in my care were happily playing on their jungle gym right outside the kitchen window above the sink where I stood barfing up strawberry jam and fiber-rich bile-tinged gorge.  Talk about scarring a kid for life!  It was right then and there that I promised myself, “Self, if we’re gonna do this thing, we’re gonna do this thing right!  Let’s not be a failed bulimic!”

Like any self-respecting citizen of the technological age, I plunged myself into online research on the topic of eating disorders.  I attacked it with all of the determination and discipline of a college student gathering information for a doctoral thesis.  To be sure the material entering my hungry brain – no pun intended – was on the up-and-up, I cross-referenced with actual text from the library.  The Internet definitely ranks right up there as an outstanding modern source for facts and figures, but there’s still nothing like a physical book plucked from the shelves of academia, where pages pull one deeper into the topic, more of a destination than a desktop or laptop could ever be.  But I digress. 

What I discovered surprised me to some extent.  Boys and men are dealing with anorexia and bulimia every bit as much as women.  I had not known that.  There must be a bit of the sexist in me because why else would that come as a shock?  There are websites dedicated to encouraging the novice and the seasoned veteran with tips and tools for the trade.  Written by self-proclaimed practitioners needing to vomit in more ways than just the physical one.  One more desperate attempt to control that which they – who am I kidding here: WE – do not control.  I had to dig deep to find these sites; they aren’t the sort of thing popular with a majority of society, especially parents and do-gooder talk shows like Oprah. 

That’s where the importance of chewing my food thoroughly and including plenty of liquid with the binge for easier upchucking crossed my radar.  It made perfect sense to me.  “Ah, what yonder light of epiphany doth break!”  The science which laid out the damage done to various parts of the digestive tract impacted my decision to formulate a plan and space out the sessions.  Further, I added acid-reducing products to my medicinal arsenal and selected enamel-building toothpastes to my beauty maintenance routine.  Because intentional vomiting does not come easily to me, I perused the personal blogs of practicing bulimics until I hit upon a satisfactory method which stimulated the peristaltic movement necessary to a successful emptying of the stomach.  For me, vocalization assists in the process.  Maybe it puts me in touch with my primitive self.  Or maybe I’m simply filled to my cocoa-brown eyes with a sampling from that dung heap I mentioned earlier, “Buzz, buzz, buzz-z-z-z . . . “

The overwhelming sensation of fullness has passed.  This is now the bewitching hour.  My angst has been usurped by the temporary euphoria that always sets in just before I let it all flow into the sacrificial white basin awaiting my gastronomical worship.  “Let the purging commence!”  Meticulous cleaning of all commode surfaces figure largely in my plans.  And it’s spotless today despite this deviation from the calendar.  Even my nails meet the fingertip brush ahead of time.  If a blood vessel bursts or a rare sharp-edged chunk emerges, I’m not keen to entertain any exotic infections through these open sites.  This may have more to do with my mild OCD habits than actual fact, but why take chances?  So, I’m ready to proceed.       

                It happens quickly.  Hair tied back.  One knee at the base of the toilet; the other bent and perched above my floored foot.  Towel nearby.  Right hand gripping the seat.  Left hand splayed with middle and index fingers flattened against my tongue, the remaining trio tense against my chin.  It still requires three attempts before the big wave hits.  “Whaaaagghhhh-mmmmmm . . . “  My moan erupts -- a hybrid of relief, pain and question.  And then the secondary waves wash me up against the shore where the carcasses of my fears surround me, fomenting in a sea of pink, green and yellow bubbles.  Remnants of past disappointments cling to my lips and dribble down my wrist.  They drip and drop into the swirling waters below, “Bye, bye, ugliness,” as I fall back onto the cool bathroom floor.  Spent, sad, and finally soundless.  I would vow never to engage in this demeaning folly again but I know better than to exact a promise from a wounded being: she’d agree to anything in the midst of her weakness.

                As I flush to rinse the Ajax and remaining detritus from the toilet bowl, I again wonder what this unintentional session means for me.  Obviously, something fundamental has shifted.  That I won’t be returning to regular practices seems suddenly obvious.  The veneer of control is wearing ever more thinly.  But I am not thinner for all of this.  I’m most assuredly not happier or smarter or prettier as a by-product of this.  This awareness frightens me because I realize I don’t remember why this thing ever began in the first place.  Just that it continues and has started to outpace my rules despite my determined and disciplined efforts to keep it in check.  I’ve been a silly girl to think I could tame a wild beast and allow it to live in submission to me.  It has risen up against me, fangs bared, nails unsheathed, ready to pounce and devour what remains of my hurting soul.  This is not good.  So-o-o not good.

 I look at my hands.  Now clean.  But I still see – I was blind but now I see, oh, how I see -- the honey drizzled over peanut butter, falling prey to the untamed animal within me.  I see the trail of tears behind me, mingled with the remains of enough edibles to feed a small village for possibly a year.  I see the road yet ahead, pitted and pocked with traps into which I may willingly fall or enter.  It is impossible to look back for too long.  I cannot bear to gaze at what lies ahead.  So I think it best to simply stand as I am, rooted to this spot, uncomfortable and encompassed in the hot stinking breath of my rebellious inner faux pas, as my belly grumbles its misery.   

A Mother's Promise

This entry is long overdue.  Part of a sincere promise made well over six months ago to my middle child.  My second daughter.  Sweet curly-haired Sarah Olivia of the dark chocolate-brown eyes.  Eyes that were wide and somber as they met mine when all 7 pounds and 8 ounces of vernix-covered newborn baby emerged from hips surprised by what a difference 2 pounds and some odd ounces could have on the birth canal.  Whereas her big sister practically whooshed into the world without nary a push or grunt -- her 5 pounds and 6 ounces entering the delivery room on a pseudo-waterslide -- Sarah made me work for my second round of motherhood.  And every second was a welcome labor of maternal love.

She's closing in on 19 years of earthly life this fall; she departs for her first year of college this week.  This past summer has been an enormously jam-packed time of transition and change and firsts as each of us, mother, daughter, brother, sister, father, comes to terms with the idea that one of our close-knit bunch is actually leaving the nest, abandoning the safety and security of our suburban roof, detaching from the familiar community of the past seven years, and bravely plunging headlong into personally uncharted territory.

Setting to words the wealth of images, memories, feelings and thoughts which have assailed my mind and heart for the past year of so seems almost an impossible task.  Even with my inclination toward thorough description.  Writers of song, poetry and prose have attempted to capture the complexity and purity of love for thousands of years, across hundreds of civilizations, in every conceivable and gorgeous tongue at their disposal.  They . . . WE . . . all fell, all fall, will fall . . . short of the goal.  And the silken thread of a mother's love for her child floats gently but solidly over immeasurable miles.  Stronger, deeper, higher, more intense than any romantic love.  At least for some of us.  For most of us.

But I promised my Sarah that I would stake out a blog entry specifically for her.  I also let her know that it would come when the time was right.  That just because I sat down at the computer with the intention of writing an ode to her magnificence, there was NO guarantee that what ended up posting would match my original intention.  Internally guided writing has a compass all its own.  Just walking up the stairs can cause the juices to stir and flow in other directions before my hands ever hit the keyboard.  However, as the entries and the months have dragged on, with Sarah faithfully visiting my Facebook fanpage and finding virtual picture stories on sundry random subjects, including more than a few about a certain white wonder pup, her faith in my promise began to wane.  "Wow, mom! You wrote about that DOG before you wrote about your own DAUGHTER!?"  Ouch.   

Perhaps -- and this is a rather sizable perhaps -- I was the tiniest bit afraid that I would not do her justice.  Perhaps I would fumble the ball and collapse right before reaching the end zone and claiming the touchdown which those wide eyes deserve to see, set in bright lights on the scoreboard of her life.  There's an indefinable something about this girl-woman which seems larger than life and, therefore, beyond the prowess of my pen.  Each of my children possess qualities unique to their own person.  In varying degrees, they are in touch with the power and promise of these qualities.  But at present, none more so than Sarah.

As a little one, she vacillated between sunny grinning skies and soaking teary storms.  There was often no in-between weather; no channel to which one could turn to determine a forecast.  Imagine a tornado hitting at top speed with no warning horn to batten down the hatches.  My mother called her 'Miss Rosebloom.'  And somewhere along the way, with no solid label to attach to her mercurial meanderings and their mysterious causes, we also adopted 'Miss Moody-Autism.'  (No insult intended to those who struggle with this rainbow disorder, either themselves or through their children or another loved one.)  Her grave silences were not attempts to procure a path to her wants and desires; they were the brooding moments of a youngster unsure how to gauge what she was feeling.  Her fits were not the snits of a pampered and spoiled child, like those we experienced with 'first grandchild-niece' big sister, but bouts of intense frustration which she could not manage or compartmentalize.  Instead, anger and other intense emotions too big for her psychological frame rode over her in tsunami-like waves.  

We tried everything.  Or thought we did.  Any actions which smacked of overt reverse-psychology or adult manipulation only irked her further.  Hugging, water in the face to snap her out of it, yelling, bribing, talking.  Nix, nix, nix.  Nix . . . a-a-and NIX.  A further NO to humor, snacks, TV or promises.  We punished her.  Disciplined her.  Loved her.  Tried to connect with her.  Leaving her alone in her bedroom -- often with reverse-locked door -- worked after a fashion.  Often, only time and a wearing out of the vocal and tear-making mechanisms seemed to do the trick.  Then, she would emerge, red-faced and sweaty, her halo of curls damp and heavy on the extra-curly, eyelashes dewy, little fists limp from the tension of long-term tightening.  One human appeared gifted with Sarah-taming super powers: my husband's first cousin, Annette, who innately grasped aspects of my mini-person's emerging personality, could reliably calm her.  One memorable night, she held a worked-up Sarah and walked the floor tirelessly and patiently to the croonings of Whitney Houston at 1AM while I lay on the couch, exhausted, and endeavored to NOT feel like a failure of a mother.

Now, to be absolutely fair and balanced, when she wasn't accidentally breaking a bedroom window by pounding at it in an attempt to make her mother pay attention to her from outside, or swinging a plastic bat at the door in an effort to release her inner demons, or racing up the stairs as a screaming "bitch" intended for MY ears trailed furiously after her, Sarah was a beautiful child.  From the beginning, she wore her clothes with a flair for self-style and expression.  She carried this attitude of "I am who I am" which was conveyed in her sturdy little walk and her sibilant-challenged talk (her S sounds were a bit tough to bite off, as they can be for many kids, and I can clearly see her face as she tried to exact a "Shhhh" with the familiar finger-to-lip form, only to have the most adorable of "Thhhhhhss" emerge instead).  When those tiny white teeth marched from one side of her mouth to the other for all to see, the sunshine of her joy was almost unbearable to behold.  My photo archives are bursting with hundreds, if not thousands when digital is considered, attempts to capture this lovely effect.  Often, a quiet curiosity surrounded her as she perched on a lap or chair, those observant liquid brown eyes capable of pulling in any unsuspecting adult within their sphere of influence.

Somewhere between Nebraska and Colorado, Colorado and Tennessee, middle school to high school, amongst the dismal wreckage following the tragic deaths of her cousins and the institutionalization of her aunt, and painful life drama within the boundaries of our own insular family, this butterfly began to break free of her cocoon.  My attempts to figure her out, my enduring patience toward her, were rewarded with revelation and conversation.  And, dare I say, appreciation.  She reached past her suspicion and climbed over her emotional walls to fully engage in dazzling fashion.  Through several hard life lessons of her own, she reached an understanding of herself and her mom and the life unfolding before her.  And whether it was, is, fully right or not, I began to lean on her.  To rely upon her solidity.  To trust in her sense of responsibility.  Not to mention my keen admiration for the speed at which she could fold several full loads of laundry.  

Today, there was a disconnect reminiscent of that little girl who tried so hard to handle all those big feelings and thoughts.  But she communicated it best she could.  She struggles with the understandable fear of heading off to college and leaving the familiar behind.  So, this afternoon when I tried to nail down the final list of necessities for her dorm, Sarah deflected every question with an irritable response.  Eventually, I gave up; she huffed to her room.  I soon joined her.  Sat in her chair and began to express how much I would miss her and that I was only hoping to make the move easier on her because I knew she was ambivalent about leaving me.  That I wasn't thrilled to be without her presence but was happy for her opportunity.  In her closet, she stood stock still, fighting back the tears that I now was not, and ordered me to stop.  I tried to explain.  Again.  And she grabbed her wallet and keys and left the building.  I let her go.  It was all simply too much for her.  Circuit overload.

For the past year, this dynamic young woman has been a source of comfort, understanding, empathy, support, admiration, friendship, advice, humor, attention and flat-out love in ways I never dared to dream possible in a mother-daughter relationship.  I certainly did not have such gifts when I was her age.  But whereas she has not yet fully embraced the reality here, I am dwelling in the full knowledge.  I have no choice.  I'm a grown-up.  I'm a mother.  I'm hopeful and full of faith but rooted in reality.  This child of mine, who sports a delicious top-knot when weather and sleep dictate, who manages to imbue the nickname 'Funk Toe' with such delight that I never think to take offense considering she's referring to the toe fungus I picked up last summer, who actually taught me a thing or two about confidence and relationships, who cares enough to visit her Grandma Sharon just to keep company, who made the road trip to South Carolina -- sharing half the expense -- to spend two hot and emotional days with her boyfriend and his family as he graduated from Army basic training, this child can not be hoarded.  The world needs her.  And it is incumbent upon me to widen my generous nature to include sharing her with this world.  She may certainly fly far away, spreading her wings wide, taking her life and possible grandchildren to far-flung corners of another continent at some fixed point ahead of us.  I would certainly miss her and immediately begin collecting frequent flier miles.  What I know is that there is nothing which can separate us . . . save for selfishness on my part.

And so this Thursday, her father and I will accompany Sarah to Chattanooga -- did I ever think this "Pardon me, Roy, is that the Chattanooga Choo-Choo?" town would figure prominently in her life? -- and aid in the setting up of her entrance into young adulthood.  In doing so, we join the ranks of parents who stumbled along in these shoes before us, including several close friends of mine.  To each of us, the common experience is yet unique.  Even as I rejoice and exude plentiful amounts of pride, I will most certainly cry.  Cry for what we've been most blessed to share.  Cry for where we've been and where we have yet to venture.  Cry to think there will be no more daily announcement of her entrance and exit to and from our family home.  Cry because I will miss my girl.  Cry because she will start out missing me but quickly adapt to her new life and possibly find me rather dull in comparison.  Cry because, darn it, even with a good anti-depressant in place, sometimes the tears just gotta fall!

This is my love letter.  Woefully incomplete.  Unable to fully encompass the spectrum of all which is Sarah to me.  I hesitate to close this out for fear I have not done enough to allow you the pleasure of fully appreciating her as I do.  But it is necessary to cease and desist as it will take time to train Zachary into the laundry-folding and dish-washing and second-guessing mind-reading that his big sister did for me, for all of us.  As for trusting him with his new driver's license on the 30th of this month, I guess I'll have to run my own last-minute errands for awhile.  

I promise, Sarah, that I will be all right without my right hand, my Gal Friday.  Only just, however.  You are released from your duties here.  We won't touch your room.  Yet.  You must promise to text, e-mail, call, Facebook . . . keep your ol' ma in the loop.

You are a worthy subject, Sarah Ami.  Hank is a pup . . . a Wonder Pup, for sure.  But you, dear thing, are my heart.

Don't you ever doubt that for a moment.

Denial

Denial is an inroad to personal destruction.  It should be listed as the "D-word" right up there in a place of badness with the "F-word" or the "C-word."  Because it is every bit as offensive, angry and hurtful.

I've got this friend.  (Though lately that relationship is more of an allusion to the past than an indication of anything going on in the present.)  Like a good many people do in this advanced culture of ours, where medical care often includes passing out prescriptions to patients like candy to trick-or-treaters, he developed a dependence on legal medications.  Only he didn't, and still doesn't, see it that way.  It began with a back injury which required muscle relaxants and pain meds.  Later, it expanded to include the need for Xanax and anti-depressants to alleviate anxiety.  The professionals in charge, one in particular, did not push the need for physical therapy or counseling to go hand-in-hand with the medicinal treatment.  But because he often bailed on one doc to find another who better fit his desires for a quick fix, tailoring his story to fit his growing dependence, it may have been impossible for them to do so.  Insurance loopholes allowed him to troll from one pharmacy to the next, corner drugstore to corner drugstore, without recognizing a pattern of drug-seeking behavior.  At least not initially.  And this behavior widened to to include requesting leftover pills from friends and acquaintances; many unwittingly handed them over.

Over the course of a year or less, his personality began to deteriorate.  His demeanor morphed into a thing most unrecognizable.  His affect was often flat.  Actions, or lack thereof, both large and small demonstrated his inability to engage in the everyday patterns of life: no more almost obsessive washing of his cars; a lack of humorous texts to me about what dessert I was making for dinner that I could share with him; an absence of enthusiasm for birthdays and celebrations with family and friends.  Not to mention what was happening in his own home unbeknownst to many, including his close family outside of his wife and three young children.  A man gone almost comatose at times.  Glued to his couch and computer.  Shut off from interactions with those around him in need of his attentions and affections.  A man who most likely suffered from depression but could not find the wherewithal to seek out lasting help outside the zipped confines of the little bag of bottles and packets he toted with him everywhere.

About two months ago, I responded to an SOS from this individual's spouse.  Being the close friends that we are, I was in the know about this situation.  She called to explain that he was in very poor shape and was finally ready to be checked-in to an addiction treatment facility.  Could I come and watch him while she quickly arranged rides for her boys after school?  Prior to this, he'd been AWOL from work and home for the entire night, not replying to phone calls or texts, prompting intense concern for his welfare with his frustrated wife.  It turned out he'd had to pull over and sleep on the side of the road as he could not drive without drifting into a daze.  All I could think was "thank the Lord" as I imagined the people who were saved from harm by a man in a drug-induced stupor.  Including himself!

Aside from my stepfather, never have I witnessed a person in real-life in a more pitiful and disturbing physical, mental and emotional place.  He could barely sit up.  His pallor was gray.  Red weepy eyes and drool collecting at the corners of his mouth attested to a most unnatural state-of-being.  I held his shaking hands and asked him questions to gauge his responses.  He vacillated between nonsensical and being aware enough to feel scared and confused.  He had no idea what day or time it was.  The shock of seeing this friend, husband and father reduced to this hit hard.  I was beyond disturbed.  All that came to me was to hug him, kiss his cheek, pray for him, and remind him that he was loved by a Lord more capable than any of us.  I assured him that no one was judging him but we wanted him better so that we could have the real him back.  He was loved.  In the midst of this, he began to cry in a way that reminded me of a small child.  He was at his most vulnerable.  My hopes were high that he would make it to the clinic and find the help he needed to return to his life as a whole person.

Story of MY life.  Hoping against the odds.  I have the baby brother to prove it.

Sadly, it has not gone as I had hoped.  After a concentrated weaning off the Xanax, this man went from agreeable to downright indignant.  He distrusted the doctors and and discounted their assessment of his condition.  Despite his blood work.  Despite the contents of the bag which never left his possession.  Despite the years of experience this place had in dealing with men and women in addiction crisis.  "I don't have a problem.  I want to leave.  NOW!"  And that was that.  Once he could stand and speak for himself with clarity, he signed himself out against the express advice of staff.  His wife made it clear that if he did not remain where he was and complete the program, he could not return home.  (In varying degrees, they had been down this particular road before in the past several years.)  He chose to discount the concerns of people who had his health as their number one priority.

Two months into a separation from his family, he shows no signs of accepting that he has a serious problem which could forever affect his life.  Which could permanently scar his spirit and the psyches of his children.  Which could, and most likely will, lead to divorce.  Already, he's closed the door on his real friends.  Including me for the most part.  When he does communicate, it is indirectly and with complete denial and a selfish focus.  There is a litany of one-liners: he hasn't done any drugs since that day.  He has no desire for drugs.  He loves his wife and kids.  It's all his wife's fault.  He's a victim in the scenario.  All of which are hallmark behaviors of an addict who does not believe himself to be so.

Deny, deny, deny.

The fallout has been painful to witness.  His wife is an incredibly strong woman.  Resilient.  Capable.  Smart.  And she will come out all right on the other side of this.  But in the midst of this, she is hurting.  Unable to sleep.  Higher-than-normal blood pressure.  Sick to her stomach.  Worried about everyone.  Including the man to whom she is married who happens to be acting like a complete juvenile ass.  (Sorry, but I have to call it as I see it.)  I worry about her: she tops my prayer list.

Her kids' behavior has gone downhill.  They know all is not well or right.  The younger ones are unruly; the eldest wants to take the place of his absent father and help his mama so she can stop crying and be okay.  They miss who their father once was.  But not who he now is.  Just today, while we joked about random subjects and ate our McDonald's ice cream as we drove about town to give their mom a much needed break, they innocently brought up their father.  In describing their dad's routine, they said, "He gets up.  Takes a bath or shower.  Sleeps.  Eats.  Sleeps again.  Eats some more.  And sleeps.  Then he does it all over again."  The other day while babysitting them, my husband brought me lunch.  The moment the boys saw him walk in the kitchen, they ran and jumped up on him, hugging and laughing.  They wrestled with him for the next 20 minutes without ceasing.  I had to hold back the tears until I returned home over an hour later.  Spilling it all to my own husband and admitting to the growing anger I would have to resolve within myself.

Their daddy has had opportunities to see them, but because he can't call the shots, he allows these moments to slide on by.  Then he blames the wife for keeping him from them.  But he withheld his new address.  He racked up new charge card bills for furniture and the like when their finances can not handle such a burden.  When he could have called to check in or gone to a scheduled event or mailed a card, he opted not to do these things.  Choosing, instead, to entertain himself with boat outings on a local lake with friends, while his wife shuffles the kids back and forth to their activities, contemplates the rest of their lives, and gets by with nary a break from reality.  Sadly, he also finds ways to play emotional games with his wife to keep her on edge and draw attention away from his true issues.  I believe his addiction makes it easier to hang on to pride and anger and blinds him to the obvious.

They say addicts have to hit rock bottom before they accept the reaching hand which can lift them from the pit.  But I know of addicts who have drilled past the bedrock of such a bottom and kept on going.  Never to resurface.  Succumbing to these forces seemingly larger than themselves.  Surrendering to desperation and depression . . . sometimes even self-harm or suicide.  Just because this man isn't using meth or heroin like my brother doesn't mean he isn't every bit the slave to his cravings.  Just because he drives a Mercedes and lives in suburbia instead of rotting in a prison or surviving a mental institution doesn't mean he's guaranteed a better chance of recovery and remission.  In some ways, it's uglier to watch someone with this man's more comfortable and fortunate station in life as he self-destructs.  Even with good insurance, concerned friends and family willing to support, and a team of professionals ready to help, this guy can't cope or make an informed decision any better than a man with almost none of those advantages at his disposal.

Obviously, this is a highly condensed version of a far more detailed and long-term story.  But it painfully represents a segment of our society which deals behind-closed-doors with this growing problem.  This social trend-turned-norm which sucks in high school and college students with stolen ADD meds; hits-up stressed-out moms whose afternoon cocktails aren't hitting the spot; hunts down work-addicted fathers who require attention and validation but don't know how to ask for it.  It hurts to know that in the time it has taken me to write this, other families have broken up with no guarantee of restoration.  Even as an addict isolates and separates, he or she wounds those who truly care and leaves a trail of brokenness in their wake.

And friends are not immune.

The Tenacity to Endure

While scrubbing the leftover mac n' cheese residue from a baking dish this morning, I observed a female cardinal just outside the sink window as she attempted to free a piece of string from one of my potted trees by the front arbor.  She exhibited a tenacity I recognized at once.  Hopping.  Pecking.  Pulling.  Over and over and over again.  Whatever hopes she had for her nest, this thin white object entwined within the branches of my crape myrtle was integral to its design.  She would have it . . . or exhaust herself in the effort. But it was clear to me that she was in it for the long haul.  I managed to snap a quick shot just as she finally achieved her goal and flew off in a victorious whir of drab red, brown and yellow.  As I set the camera down, I did a little fist pump for her in solidarity.

This vignette tugged at my heart.  It seemed to enhance feelings and thoughts which had been bouncing around inside my head, ping-ponging from left brain to right brain and back again, since late last night.

After months of wanting to watch a particular movie about a man in prison and his dedicated sister's lifelong labor of love to see him released, "Conviction" with Hilary Swank and Sam Rockwell, I decided this was the time to hunker down and rent it.  My son begged to view it with me; I relented despite the late hour.  Though my son is deep in the throes of ornery 15 year-old freshman boy, especially where his mama is concerned, and doubtless there are a good many thoughts and incidents to which I may not be fully privy right now, his heart remains the same compassionate and empathetic spiritual organ which revealed itself quite early in his young life.  I harbored hopes that the power of a simple film, a true story, might touch places in him that I was unable to reach.

My maternal hunch turned out to be right on target.

There's a scene toward the end of the film where the brother and sister are talking about his release per all her tremendous sacrifice and downright stick-to-it-iveness.  "I could have made it another 20 years if I had to," he tells her.  She emphatically states that she would have lost her mind if it had gone on much longer.  But he goes on to qualify his words by explaining that just knowing she was out there, loving him, championing him, gave him strength where there was none otherwise.  I was IN that scene, seated with them, sitting between them, feeling the power and truth of their conversation wash over me.  I know that speech.  I've heard that speech.  The foundation beneath that speech has been the bedrock upon which my own little brother has managed to find footing for most of his late teens and the entirety of his adult life.  Of course, tears and cheers took turns with me, none of which escaped the attention of my sharp-eyed teen boy.

And, as the credits streamed by and the midnight hour tugged at our eyelids, my healthy, stubborn, blessed, All-American boy turned to me and said, "Did you want to see this because of Uncle Gary?"  I nodded, smiling, "Yes.  I wanted to see another relationship like mine.  Experience what they went through.  I needed to feel connected to others in similar shoes.  What they felt, their lives and what they shared in a rough childhood, how her life was not fully her own and she willingly surrendered a measure of her joy to keep her own brother alive and kicking . . . I understand that.  It reminds me that what I do for him is valid, even when others, even those close to me, don't get it or think I should."  For a time, he was silent.  His wheels were turning as he processed this information and connected the dots between what he has always known about his mom and uncle and what he just witnessed in a condensed Hollywood version of a similar situation.  I wondered aloud if he wanted me to sleep next to him for the night.  Sometimes he likes that.  Him wrapped in his comforter; me snuggled in mine.  On opposite sides of his platform queen bed.  Sharing familiar space.  Mother and child -- albeit overgrown child of angular limbs, caught up in rapid boy-to-man transformation.

There was no answer from his curled form.  At first, I thought he'd crashed into sleep.  But the tension in his body and the tightly closed eyes said otherwise.  I walked around the bed to sit by him, recognizing the abyss of tears into which he was desperately trying not to fall.  The moment I settled my hand on his thick short hair, the sobs broke loose.  He had no words.  Even if he'd wished to verbally express the overwhelming emotions so evident in every shake and shudder, it would have been physically impossible.  I crooned and prayed, stroking his head, tracing his perfect shell ears, admiring the line of his nose, cute as an over-sized button even in sorrow.

As I mentioned earlier, I know this sweet boy's heart.  Though he pushes the boundaries of his emerging manhood in an attempt to separate from his mother and enter the fray of independence, there is a room within that he still reserves for insight and empathy.  For softness.  He, too, has experienced intense and serious heartbreak at a young age, and it has had its way with him over the years.

What my son experienced in this still moment was epiphany.  It ushered in self-realization and opened his eyes to behaviors unbecoming his character.  Fast on the heels of this, riding in on angry black horses of self-recrimination and kicking up blinding dust, arrived guilt.  As quickly as I could, I swatted the twitching hides blocking his view, spurring them out, out, out and away.  "Zachary, I'm glad you don't spend every moment thinking about my hurts and my situation with Uncle Gary.  When you butt heads with me, you are affirming our lives, keeping me rooted in my life, and you are being a boy.  You have a safe and wonderful home with a loving family.  I'm glad.  My problems are not yours.  And your uncle wants me to take care of my family and experience pleasure and joy.  He loves hearing about you kids and your adventures.  The good and the bad and the ugly.  You help me to keep him alive,"  he heaved and a fresh flow of clear mucous joined the existing pool on his white pillowcase, "But the world is full of pain and difficult stories.  You do need to be aware. And then you must take your place as a responsible man in this world and use your awareness and your brushes with pain to help where you are able.  I am hard on you because I know your gifts and your capabilities.  It is okay that you and I struggle.  But if you want to step it up, to do more, to show me love through acts and not just words, talk with your uncle on the phone, ask me how he is, try harder in school and be a positive strong example to others."

After roughly 12 tissues and a round with the Neti pot, his sinuses relaxed enough from the trauma of a good hard cry to allow clear breathing.  We took our places on his bed, each of us with our preferred comforter, and within minutes we were out.

I knew this tender episode deserved, demanded, desired a spot on this blog.  However, with all the busy-ness of tending to my new dog, Hank the Wonder Pup, and preparing for my daughter's impending graduation, I feared the entry might never achieve lift-off.  Distraction abounds in my busy world and clamoring mind.  But then I made a unique-for-me choice when I last took the pup out for his appointed rounds with a certain patch of grass.  Quite intentionally, I pulled out a chair from the patio set and sat, wishing to still myself.  For me, this kind of decision is a rarity.  It might even be considered outlandish in the mere contemplation.  "What, me, SIT and admire the yard as opposed to endlessly toil and till and search for the endless chores abounding on our third acre plot?!"  Immediately, my eyes found pleasure in the salmon-shaded blooms of the coral bells plant I dug into the backyard arbor bed because it's one of my mom's favorites.  A dove bursting from the thick foliage of the hardy akebia vine covering the opposite side of the arbor pleased me: certainly there must be a nest with young living there, just as I had hoped would happen when first I wandered down back country lanes in search of the nursery holding a prized specimen for me.

And then my gaze settled on Hank.  His strong handsome profile, square and solid, with those silken floppy ears of the softest brown, so male, so undeniably boyish in his demeanor, this white-furred lab mix of a mutt.  I thought, then, of my brother and my son, and my own tears came, unheeded, unexpected, unchecked.  I cried out to the Lord, begging Him to heal Gary of his addiction, to allow him even a month of freedom from pain and struggle in a life where he'd been steeped in such elements, if not downright stewed and pickled.  All of the acceptance and stoicism, every ounce of strength and stamina that I'd drawn upon for the past several months to check my involvement with my brother, creating lines in the sand for safety, crumbled to reveal the raw tender wound in my heart which steadily aches for the injustice which has been my brother's life.  Oh, that he might hear the breeze ripple the tall grasses and take in the sight of the aged elm overhead with its branches embracing everything and everyone beneath its canopy.  That he could bury his face in the softness of Hank's fur and trace the faint amber wave which mars the pup's otherwise snowy pelt.  That he should bear witness to his nephew's growing up in ways more tangible than mere letters and phone calls.  Though for these things I would beg if ever a genie presented itself to me, I'm enough of a realist to know such future scenarios may never exist beyond the fertile fields of my hopeful mind.

For now, here in front of my lap top, with that pooped pup gently snoring on the dog bed behind me, and a text popping up on my iPhone screen from my son regarding baseball practice, and the promise of a chat later today with the boy-man languishing in a California state hospital, I end this account of my own helplessness, unending fraternal love, and maternal moments.  I'm thinking I'd like to write this other sister and extend my sympathies for her brother's accidental death just six months after his release from almost 20 years of unjust imprisonment.  My admiration for her is boundless when I think of how she reached beyond her limited early education and put herself through law school for the sake of freeing her brother from prison.  That seemingly endless passage of time, that endurance of spirit, the loss of her marriage, her sons' wishes to live with their father in their teen years, she counted all as necessary for the sake of keeping one single life from being forever lost in the teeming shuffle of humanity.

I am humble in the wake of her selflessness.