Waiting on God when you are in pain

Hold on tight, readers; unlike many of my writings, this one is not funny, reassuring, or even thankful. Some may even call it whiny. 

I want to believe that what I am going through has a purpose, that God has something to teach me in this trial, and that "the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory that is to be revealed to us." (Romans 8:18 ESV). But (yes, there is that ubiquitously qualifying but) no matter how hard I try, how much I pray, the sheer misery and unpredictability of what I am going through physically overshadows everything else and tempts me to forget (or even not believe) God's promises.

For two years I have been dealing with gastrointestinal issues, and not the kind on the ever-present pharmaceutical commercials, the ones urging us to "ask your doctor" featuring smiling faces and active people miraculously cured of their ailment. Never mind the laundry list of side effects, damage to unborn babies,  or warnings to not take if "you are allergic to xyzfffppp." As if you'd know you have an allergy to something you have never taken before. It is not IBS, IBS-C, or IBS-D, or eczema. No, I have had a hiatal hernia for over 20 years, a bulging of my stomach through the hiatus in my diaphragm. And for the past 20-plus years the medical community dismissed it as "commonplace" and "nothing to worry about, and I bought that explanation hook, line, and sinker, because, well, they are doctors.

In the beginning, it was just discomfort, gas, and a little nausea until it progressed to acid reflux at night (waking up choking with bile and stomach contents in your mouth). I tried Tums, fennel oil, tea, you name it; the doctors finally prescribed antacids and later a fun new drug, proton pump inhibitors (PPIs). I changed my diet, worked out, and trusted the drugs to work. News flash: Nothing worked. Frustrated, I got a hold of my cousin, a GI nurse practitioner, and she smoothed the way for expedited referrals to Hickory for procedures and tests. Endoscopies (two), barium swallows (two), and a really horrible test called an esophageal manometry (I would rather give birth on I-26 than go through that again).  After eight months, they referred me to Wake Forest Hospital in Winston Salem, where in October I underwent major surgery to repair my gut and remove a rare hernia, one that had the majority of my stomach in my chest cavity; the surgeon attached my stomach to my abdominal wall and repaired the hole in my diaphragm. I was ecstatic. Well, maybe not ecstatic, but I could breathe and eat jello!

For the first week, I healed and felt significantly better, despite being on a clear liquid diet for the next three weeks; however, it was not long before the symptoms recurred: regurgitation, pain, nausea, and even vomiting. The episodes grew so frequent I began keeping a journal, even creating a new calendar on my phone. I had only just graduated to a soft (not clear liquid) diet and had to go backward! A visit to the emergency room revealed I had a "small to moderate hiatal hernia." Again. Pain in my diaphragm, nausea, and again, the inability to keep anything down besides clear liquids, crackers, soft cheese, and mashed potatoes. Thanksgiving dinner for me was mashed potatoes, pie, and creamed squash. 

So I went back to the doctor's office, had more tests, and listened to my options and the risks of each.  The hernia needs to be repaired, but when? The longer I wait the better my chances because my body can supposedly "heal," whatever that means. More surgery now could result in the removal of part of my stomach or a feeding tube; wait a month, and it could be a little bit more hopeful, but there is a risk of perforation of something critical, bleeding, or even having to abort the procedure. Meanwhile, nearly every day I struggle to eat, and that foreboding feeling of "Oh oh, here it comes!" makes me run to the bathroom. I am angry, sad, depressed, and sick to death of pudding and jello and broth; in other words, I am hungry. I cannot eat meat that isn't cut up small enough for a 6-month-old baby, raw vegetables or fruit, coconut, nuts, untoasted bread, and a zillion other food items. 

So I wait. I try to advance my diet, making incremental changes until my body rejects them, two steps forward and three steps back. I know God has a plan. I just wish he'd let me in on it. For now, I am holding on to this verse:

It is good for me that I was afflicted, that I might learn your statutes. (Psalms 119:71 ESV)

On being a stepmom

What I wish I had known before becoming a stepmom:

1. Step-parenting is not natural. It is common. But it is not natural. Establish good boundaries and get your husband on the same page. Talk often about concerns and fears and misgivings. Stepdads are cool and fun. Stepmoms are, by definition, uncool and no fun. Ask Disney.
2. Be their friend before you are their mom--your stepchild is confused and scared, and in their eyes it is your fault Daddy doesn't live with them anymore. At best your stepchild will be ambivalent about your marriage.
3. Blended families do not exist. Blending implies smoothness. It's more like a chopped salad. With nuts. If your stepchild does not live with you full time it is much harder than if they do and working out summer visitations is a logistical nightmare even FEDEX would struggle with.
4. No two families raise their children the same way, and if you are the stepmom,  your way is wrong. You cannot fix what you did not break but you will be blamed for breaking it. Your rules and values in raising your own kids will be different than those of your stepchild's mom. Funny thing? If you are easier on your stepchild you will be told you don't care about them, but if you treat them the same as your own children you are too strict and don't love them.
5. Your husband will take his child's side when you least expect it and your husband may have a closer bond with his child than with you. You will argue with him about parenting, so just take a step back and let Dad handle things with his child. 
6. Just assume it is always the stepmom's fault. You will feel guilty for not doing enough, you will be told, "You are not my mom!"; things you say will be misconstrued, you'll be resented, and your stepchild will break your heart--often. Accept it. The emotions will drain you--buckle up; find other stepmoms to talk to. And drink wine. Prozac helps too.
7. Stepmoms do all the things real moms do. Without the credit, and you can do all the mom things but still not be on the emergency contact list. No matter what you do, you will not be appreciated. 
8. You have to try harder with a stepchild than with your own child. You will not love them the same as your own children. But you are not allowed to say that out loud.
9. A mom can say she needs a break from her kids without being judged, but if a mom complains about her stepchild she will be judged. And if you give your husband time alone with his kids you will be blamed for not caring.
10. You will have no control over a lot of things in the relationship. Actually, you have no control. Period. Forgive yourself. Daily. And remember, there is no right or wrong way to stepparent.

Bottom line: Don't lose yourself or your faith in the process.

  

Veterans' Day

Tomorrow is Veteran's Day, the day all the veterans on social media post photos of themselves in uniform, and those who never served hit the like or the love button, and say "Thanks for your service," the day of mattress and car sales, and the chance for veterans to get a free meal or appetizer at Applebees or Outback. For me though, especially this year, Veterans' Day is a day I reflect back on the hundreds, possibly thousands, of servicemen, servicewomen, government civilians and contractors who I served with for over 30 years of my life. From entry in basic training at Lackland Air Force Base, to technical training at Keesler AFB in Biloxi, MS, to duty assignments in England, North Dakota, South Carolina, and Florida, to deployments and conferences and training all over the globe, the experiences and relationships are so integral to who I am it is impossible to explain to anyone who has never served in the military. The face of every single person I met is emblazoned into my memory--they were and always will be my family. The passage of time has no bearing on that relationship--I could just as easily start up a conversation as if I just saw them yesterday. 

You see, relationships in the military are not based on personality, background, religion, or politics. Even if there are people you may not agree with or even like, those things don't even figure into the equation. There just is not time for those trivialities when you have to depend on someone you do not even know to file your records correctly, to fix the airplane you may pilot, to make sure all the tools are in the right place, to ensure weapons will fire and parachutes will open, to take care of your dependents when you are away, and myriad other functions. You know the person you give a job to will follow your orders, and your boss trusts you to do the same. There is a structure of cooperation and interdependence in the military that still boggles my mind today--watch a base process 2000 personnel and all required cargo and equipment for deployment in 24 hours, and you will see what I mean. 

But the crux of being a veteran is not the job I did or the uniform I wore or the rank I achieved or the medals I earned. It is the unbreakable bond of a family of men and women who served their country with unabashed pride. For those who have never served in the military the camaraderie and closeness we share is incomprehensible. Our connection transcends distance, time, and station in life; put two veterans who have never met in the same room for five minutes, and within that short period of time they have found that connection and are talking like long lost siblings--because they are. I have lost family members, some through death and some through misunderstandings, and I have lost touch with a lot of friends and acquaintances I have made through the years who were not in the military. But those with whom I have served are always family, and I know with assurance I can always call on them if the need arises. 

And that is what makes retirement away from the military so damn hard--we can connect on some levels but never on as deep a level as with those who have served. So today I cherish those connections with my military brethren and think of them, the times we have shared, the fun we had, the hardships we endured, the difference we made in each others lives. You will always be close in my heart. 

On memories

Memories are a funny thing. We all know what a memory is, but we cannot find it, elicit one on command, or pinpoint the area of the brain where memories are formed. Metaphors abound that try to describe a memory: watercolors, clouds, wisps of smoke, lines on a leaf, a bank, file cabinets, books, a safe, writing in the sand. These metaphors attempt to corner something abstract, to capture a memory so it can be put in a jar, examined, measured, recreated, but it is all pointless. I have often wondered where our memories go when we die; do these memories just disappear like water down the drain (see there, another metaphor)? Or do they merge with God, where these memories actually began. I know, confusing, but since God created us, and knows what happened, what is happening, and what will happen, doesn't it make sense to assign the job of memory storage to him?

Regardless, the older I get, the more I wonder about memories: my own, my family's, my friends, and the world at large. Our memories are formed somewhere (we do not know where, although scientists have tried to figure that out) by not just our visual experiences, like photographs, but in a much more complex way. All our senses have a hand in creating memories--our smell, taste, touch, hearing, and sight--and how we feel at that moment. Are we happy? Sad? Worried? Afraid? Excited? At the time a memory is created are we recollecting other memories? Our environment, the weather, family relationships, our health, what is going on around us--is the TV on? Music? something cooking?--weaves tendrils into our memory bank and creates a new one. 

Memories sometimes build on each other, or draw parts from other memories. I look at a photograph of myself as a child, imagine what I was doing then, and then voila! there is a brand new memory; I  place myself into that photograph, and then create a memory of that event, even if I did not remember it happening before I saw the picture. The resulting memory is not real--it was manufactured by looking at a photograph and either someone told me about it, or I made it up; it is a false memory. For example, there is a photograph of me, probably 3 years old, sitting on the grass at my Nana's house, and my sister is sitting on my lap, laying her head on my shoulder, and my mouth is forming a little oval. In my mind, I think I remember that moment, and that I was saying "Aw she loves me." Is it an authentic memory? Who knows? But I have created that memory in my mind (somewhere) so many times it has become real.

We can repress memories of painful or shameful, embarrassing moments (but those memories are always there.) We can also manipulate our memories by our moods and make them larger than life, or practically nonexistent. Other people can twist and bend our memories by talking about how they remember it. And well-meaning and not-so-well-meaning self-described "experts" can take an innocent occurrence, or something that happened to someone else and make it our crosss to bear, or our victory. Three people involved in the exact same situation at the exact same time in the identical place will remember an event, a feeling, a situation, in three (or more!) different ways. We ascribe memories to the wrong people, the wrong time, or the wrong place, or worse yet, create our own memories as a buffer from something too painful to face. 

People recount memories to justify their own actions, reactions and feelings toward someone or something. Memories are great, because they can make us feel wonderful or they can help us not make the same mistake. But they are only memories, and these memories are only real to the person who made theme; my memories are only accurate (to a point) for me, and nothing I do or say to anyone can make them see and relive my memory the way I do. 

So yeah, memories are great, they are different for everyone, they are elusive little buggers that shift and change and hide and pinch. The most important thing about memories though? They are in the past. They are done. They are gone. And to live in the past in our memories, real, imagined, or manipulated, does the memory maker no good.

The moral of the story? Don't trust your memory. Trust God. Love him. Love others.

Form new memories.

You know you are alone when...

... you make too much conversation with the Starbucks barista 

... your spouse is more interested in channel surfing than sharing news about each others' days

... you talk to your dogs, ask them questions, and actually answer them

... your chickens seem happy to see you

... Jesus is the only one who truly understands you

... your phone doesn't ring or send you a notification except for reminders, ads, and robocalls

... you are actually glad when you get one of the above calls

... you're about to have surgery and none of your family will be there to take care of you

The most meaningful parts of my day involve other people's children, helping them learn, making sure they feel loved, giving them the time and attention my own family doesn't seem to want. 

I served my country, loved my family, took care of them when they were sad or sick or dying, celebrated with them when they were joyous, gave of myself until there was almost nothing left. No I didn't do it for anything in return, but now that I am older, and alone, and want someone to take care of me, to listen,

they are 

all

gone.

Where is my lane?

Exactly where is this lane I am supposed to stay in?

Conversations with adult children, specifically women, are laced with danger. If you say nothing or don't reply to a question fast enough, you could be construed as (1) not listening, (2) not caring or (3) thinking she is doing everything wrong.  Say something too quickly, or a short reply because texting a long reply takes too long, and you are told you are meddling, butting in, out of your lane. The past few months I feel as if I have been walking through a minefield; say the wrong thing or say anything at the wrong time or just nod and listen and BOOM. And it is not as if I am offering advice every day or telling them they don't feed their children right or they are horrible wives. I don't nag them about not calling, nor do I send 16-page letters chronicling every single offense, real or imagined, they've committed since birth, complaining how no one cares. I grew up getting letters like that from my mother, and was constantly told I wasn't good enough, and never would be; so I know from painful experience how much it hurts to feel inadequate. Nope, I love my daughters and my stepdaughter and I cherish the relationship I have (or thought I had) with them. 

I don't want to be the person they have pigeonholed me to be, the 40-something mom who was trying her best to raise competent, loving, and Godly women. That was nearly 30 years ago and I am finished raising them and just want to keep getting to know them, who they are now, what they think, what they love, and how they see me. I want to be that rare and beautiful blend of mother and friend, which is something I never had (either actually). I want them to know me, to ask me my thoughts, to understand how I feel about things like getting older, death, grandchildren, my parents, the music I like, how am I doing with my brother, or about my life in general. And I want to be able to speak the truth to them, to tell them what I see in them, or in their lives, that is good and wonderful, but also what may cause them pain and disappointment. 

And therein lies the rub, my Shakespearian friends, because my middle-age daughters take offense when I say anything that even remotely smacks of advice, even if it is not. Why? Because I am "the mom," the one who controlled them when they were little, kept them safe, disciplined them, yelled at them, and dished out consequences for their misbehaviors. I am told to mind my business, stay in my lane, to not bring that up ever again, etc., etc. Do they really think I want that role back? That I want to control their lives or discipline them or keep them safe? Do they really believe I am such a meddling busy body? Can't they see how much I love them and want to be a part of their lives? That I think they are wonderful human beings? Do they not know how much that love is worth, and how much wisdom I can offer from nearly 70 years on this planet? I would have given my right arm to have a mother who wanted to know about me, be a part of my life even after I was "all grown up." 

Maybe that's the problem--overcompensating for something I never had by trying to be that to the young women God entrusted me with. Some folks my age have almost zero contact with their grown kids, others have one or more adult children living with them, and still others just share coffee and light conversation. I want more, but these three women, two of whom I raised, seem happy with having less. And as I approach the "golden years" of my life there is so much I want to say, so much I want to share, and who better to share it with than women I love? Sure I have friends and a husband who is awesome, and acquaintances where my days take me, but it is the next generation of me that I want to share things with, so that when I am gone, there will be some part of me here who knew who I was and what I loved. 

The funny thing about this conundrum I am in? Young women my daughters' ages and younger seek out my advice and my companionship and my wisdom; they see me as a valuable resource to tap into, so why the disconnect with my own? 

Who knows, right? 

God does, I know...I think I am going to have a chat with him about this next time I talk to him.

Splish splash I was taking a bath...

Have you ever gotten so accustomed to doing something, something you really love, that you take for granted you will always be able to do that? But then slowly, ever so slightly at first, your ability lessens, you falter, perhaps you do not enjoy it as much, until eventually that function, the capability to perform that task diminishes to the point it is no longer enjoyable or even possible? And you come to the realization your body is now your enemy, it no longer listens to you, but does whatever it wants, whenever it wants, and cares absolutely nothing about etiquette, grace, or even safety. 

No? Well, you are more than likely under 40, and definitely under the age of 30, and you sit there on your nice tight butt with yo ur unwrinkled skin absent  any age spots, raising your pretty eyebrows that still actually require tweezing, and you think to yourself, "How ridiculous! That will never happen to me because I eat all organic, vegan, non-GMO, farm-to-table food on BPA-free plates and I do yoga, cross training, meditation, hiking, biking, and free weights." You go right ahead and believe that. Meanwhile, let me tell you about my love for, no, obsession with, baths, and how that obsession recently led to a shocking discovery.

My very first apartment was on the second floor of a lovely home in Parma, Ohio, and had a bedroom, kitchen, small living area, and a bathroom with a big bathtub--big enough to sleep in. Working full time at a small hospital, taking respiratory therapy classes at a local community college, and getting very little sleep, the best way to relax was a nice hot bath right before bedtime. Worked like a charm; taking a hot bath to destress became almost a nightly ritual. Later on, when I was married and pregnant, a warm bubble bath soothed both me and the little one growing inside me. Fast forward a couple of years and I had toddlers (two of them), and after a long day at work on active duty, followed by laundry, housework, and putting the little ones to bed, my escape of choice? You guessed it...a hot bath. This continued as the kids grew up; they would clamor for my attention and I would escape to the bath, sometimes even locking the door. Then the girls grew up, left home, got married, even had children of their own. 

When I retired and we moved to North Carolina, I found the perfect tub for our log home: a large triangular jacuzzi tub! Sure it took over the majority of the bathroom space, leaving very little room for a shower, but it was my dream tub, like a bath tub and hot tub rolled into one. If I was cold, not feeling well, getting a migraine, sad, or couldn't sleep, you did not have to look far to find me. Then the grandchildren started coming--first one, then two, then three, and finally four granddaughters--each of them eventually taking a bath in Nana's/Grandma's giant tub, and usually more than one child at a time. If there were grandkids at the house, you can bet that tub was in use, complete with toys and wooden spoons and measuring cups and lots of soggy towels and wrinkly toes. And oh the bubbles! Just a little bit of bubble bath or baby shampoo, turn on the jets, and bubbles would be up to the top. I have photos galore.

As the years went by though it became harder for me to climb in and out of the tub, and there were times I needed a little assistance. I practically had to do a "downward dog" move to get up, and hold on to the window ledge and the shower wall to get out; it was not pretty, trust me. Afraid of falling or, worse yet, being doomed to taking only showers for the rest of my life, I bit the bullet and ordered a walk-in tub. The downside to this? Not one store within 100 miles had one I could sit in or try out, so I was ordering blind. I did not want the tall one with the seat, because I love soaking in the tub, and I did not want to take up too much room in our soon-to-be-remodeled bathroom (Alex was finally going to get the shower of HIS dreams), so I did not want one that was too wide either. So I ordered one that was a walk in tub, not too wide, no seat, just a slight elevation in the rear of the tub. The tub came in. Did I think to go sit in it BEFORE we had it installed? No. 

Now, two months after the arrival of the new "easy access/easy exit" bathtub, our bathroom remodel is complete, the shower is beautiful, the old tub is gone (I cried while looking through all the photos of little granddaughters covered in bubbles), and my new tub was ready for use. I opened the tub door, closed it and latched it, closed the drain plug, turned on the water, and went to sit down. Um, nothing really to hold on to so I could lower myself gradually like I was used to, so I had to just sit as gracefully as I could, which turned out to be not graceful at all. It is a wonder I did not crack the tub. Ok, I say to myself, I need to work on that, maybe do more upper body exercises. Meanwhile, I will just lie back and relax in my new tub with some bubbles. 

Twenty minutes later, the water is still nice and hot (a good sign), and I am ready to get out, so I release the drain plug, and wait for the water to drain out (so I can open the door). All the water is out, and I think, hmmm, now what? Those bubbles made the tub pretty slippery, and this tub is too narrow for me to turn around, so how do I stand up? I have no leverage, nothing to grab onto, and I am in the worst sitting position possible, unable to get any use out of my not very useful leg muscles. I mean, I haven't been able to get up off the floor to a standing position for a few years now without some yoga and gymnastic  movements, so how the hell do I get out of a slippery narrow tub?

"ALEX!!! HELP!"

He did, and then I cried and cried and cried. 

Next order of business: find some sort of bath seat to put in the tub that will allow me leverage. 

Moral of the story: Always try on your new bathtub before you install it. 

Awareness

It’s almost the end of childhood cancer awareness month. Some folks will be relieved—no more depressing statistics about kids with cancer. But for some this month was just the start of a long journey, one they never wanted to be on. 

Tonight I talked to a mom for nearly an hour. Never met her before. She’s a lot like many of you—married, homeschooling her two teenage boys and her little girl, trying to finish up her degree so she can get a better job. Husband works but they’re struggling with inflation and taxes and everyday life. Then a little over two weeks ago her 12 year old son had a bad cold that turned out to be cancer. A tumor near his heart. Tests, hospitals, clinics, more tests. Learning a foreign language to be able to comprehend the incomprehensible: PICC line, lumbar puncture, ports, T-cells, CBC, blasts, chemo phase, intrathecal, bone marrow, neutrophils, AGC. knowing you need to ask people for help but not knowing how.

 The nightmare of insurance (Medicaid) and bills and using up what little PTO dad had so he could be with his son. And who watches the other kids on chemo days? What about mom’s degree? Laundry? Grocery money that went to pay medical bills? The other two kids? How does mom not feel guilty or not blame herself? What about the marriage? How do they deal with this? It’s not a hallmark movie. It’s real life. Friends say “let me know what I can do” but you can only handle so many tuna casseroles and lasagna dinners in aluminum foil trays. You need someone to step in and be you. To listen, to talk, to go out to coffee with. 

People ask “how do you do this?”  There’s no answer to that. You just do it. Because you must. When  parents are  dealt the childhood cancer card, they feel their life spinning out of control. Because it is. The only thing they can do is pretend to be in control of the disaster.  Calm. Clear headed. Decisive. When inside every nerve is screaming and you just want to punch someone. 

Childhood. 

Cancer. 

Awareness. 

Think about those three words. 

Childhood ends when a child is diagnosed with cancer. That child is forever changed. I know. I saw my daughter go from being 12 to 40 in a matter of hours.  A child doesn’t understand death or life threatening illness—children are immortal, living in a Peter Pan world. Until that child sees cancer through our eyes, our tears. 

Cancer is such an ugly nonspecific word that evokes dread and fear, a catchall term for any disease, growth or condition that takes longer than 2 minutes to explain. Just hearing that word after the word “childhood” is an oxymoron and makes me want to vomit.  

Awareness. Only the families and the healthcare teams have awareness of childhood cancer and the devastation it causes.  Because if the majority of the world was as aware of childhood cancer as we are, there would be such an outcry for research and funding the pharmaceutical companies would be falling over themselves to develop new treatments. Aware? You bet I’m aware; so is my daughter. And the countless families affected every single day. 

And there is a family in Missouri who has more awareness than they bargained for—a childhood stolen by cancer during childhood cancer awareness month. 

Highly sensitive people

 

Highly sensitive people are wired differently — and “little” things can cause  us BIG stress.

1. Sudden, loud or repetitive noises, especially repetitive. That turn signal sound when I am in the car with someone drives me bonkers. You are in the left turn only lane. Turn off the turn signal.
2. Busy social settings--parties, especially one where I do not know anyone
3. Bright lights
4. Crowds (at shopping malls, concerts, or wherever) the noise and excess energy are overwhelming.  
5. “Normal” things that other people breeze through. I can function quite well in public situations but find myself completely exhausted afterwards. My maximum number of things I can handle in one day is three...any more than that, and I withdraw or go into panic mode. I can stand up and give a talk and lead a class discussion, no problem, but then I have to retreat and rest for a whole day.
6. Having in-laws, friends, or other guests stay at your home. I love my family, and I can tolerate people in my space for a little while, but I pick up on their feelings and absolutely must have my own space to retreat to. My husband thought we should list our extra rooms on Airbnb. Utter failure, complete meltdown.
7. My own intense feelings
8. Confrontation of any kind...in person, social media, on the phone, fights with my husband. I hate it. 
9. Being around overly negative, whining, or complaining people--I soak up the negativity. Really hate talk about “how the world is falling apart” or bitching about the president, inflation, LGBTQ, etc etc 
10. Endless trivial conversation, "first world problems." Makes it impossible to focus. All cable news falls into this category. I don’t want sound bytes or talking heads. 
11. Chaos and disorder……especially in my personal space. I NEED everything organized and clean. Otherwise I’m just so distracted by the extra sensory input.
12. Loud music or TV, commercials! Others seem to need a radio or TV on in the background ‘for company,’ but it drives me crazy— I love shops and restaurants with no music. Cell phone users who talk in public loudly or have their phone on speaker. 
13. Artificial lights
14. Hosting a social event: Planning a an event is my specialty, but the day of said party, I get overwhelmed. I cannot concentrate, people can ask me things and I won’t remember saying yes, I’m in a fog, and then need to take a nap as soon as it shuts down. Too much stimulation
15. Strong smells, especially perfumes and colognes. 
16. Violence or gore in movies--haunted by what I see. Can’t sleep afterwards 
17. When someone’s angry (even when it has nothing to do with me) I review every word and action to see if I’m the cause 
18. The harshness of the world: As a sensitive person, sometimes I feel like the world is too cruel, too rough for me. 
19. Being a “container” for other people’s emotions. I end up absorbing and ‘holding on’ to other people’s emotions, which can leave me feeling sad, upset, or drained.
20. Too many things scheduled at once-I can usually handle it well when I plan and can see the end. What pushes me to the edge, though, is all the little things that pop up during that time.
21. Processing every little thing so deeply: Sometimes I feel misunderstood and on the outside of groups because I need more quiet time to work through it all.

Keeping the lines open

How many of you remember the excitement of the phone ringing in your home? Running to answer it, not knowing who it was. Grandma? Grandpa? A boyfriend? Good news? Bad news? Whatever the news, a phone call meant something.

My dad and I had a very special relationship that continued into adulthood; he and my stepmom, Sheila, kept me grounded and sane through so many storms. So it was only natural they became my sounding boards and my shoulders to cry on...for anything. That was great of course unless I was too busy; Dad used to get after  me constantly to call him more often. I’d roll my eyes and think,  C'mon already does he think I don’t have my own life? He and Sheila are busy and have David and they work.  Why does he want to hear about my life all the time? I write letters. I send photos of the grandkids and our house. What more does he want? It’s expensive to call so often!

(OK, for you kids born after 1985: Before there were cellular phones, there was this thing called "long distance."  The phone company charged by the minute depending on distance from the caller. That is why there are area codes—those three numbers at the beginning of your phone number. Even after the introduction of cell phones, you had to be using the same carrier to be able to call for free, but it was only free during certain times). 

Ok. Moving on. 

Being the good daughter, and honestly out of excuses for not calling, I finally gave in and started calling him, infrequently at first,  but eventually we decided to call on a set day at a set time: Sundays at eight p.m. For over forty years I called him like clockwork, sometimes he’d call me but I usually called him. In those forty plus years, I only missed three or four Sunday calls, even calling him from India, Afghanistan, Kuwait, and wherever the Air Force or our life took me. Of course we did not only call on Sundays; we would randomly call during the week (usually Dad would call and tell me about the weather or that he was bored). But, regardless if we just spoke on Saturday evening, it was understood we would still talk Sunday at eight p.m.; it was our sacred ritual.

Sometimes the calls were short, sometimes long, but they became something I looked forward to. We planned our dinner times and social events around those calls, sometimes rushing home to make sure I would be by the phone at eight p.m. (Thank goodness when cell phones were introduced; we could call from anywhere!) Don't misunderstand, though, the calls were not always pleasant. We’d argue, or we’d barely say a thing, but we always fixed it, usually  that same night. Sometimes I dreaded calling him because I just didn’t feel like getting lectured about budgets or relationships. But the majority of the time I loved talking to my parents. They made me feel special, and loved, and wanted. 

During these phone calls Dad would ask me the same questions he had asked me time and time again, like what I did in the military,  or what was that commander’s name, and I never really knew if he actually forgot what I had told him the week before or if he just wanted to hear my voice. What he never forgot to say, though, was each and every time how proud he was of me and how much he and Sheila loved me. You’d be surprised how much hearing those words comforted me even at the age of 40, or 50 or 60. 

But then in January 2018, at the age of 94, Dad was in stage four of COPD. His prostate cancer had spread into his pelvic bones, and his health steadily deteriorated.  After watching him fight the good fight for ten months, Sheila relented and placed him on home hospice. I lived with them and helped care for him, and when I’d leave once a month to run home for a weekend, he’d say, gasping for air between each word, “Don’t forget to call Sunday!”

My last call to my dad was Sunday, December 2, 2018. I’d gone back home for the weekend. I called at eight o’clock and Sheila answered, telling me Dad was sleeping and she didn’t want to wake him. He could barely breathe that day so Sheila had given him some medicine to ease his breathing, and some morphine to ease the pain. Something didn’t feel quite right. I left home early Monday morning.  When I arrived at their home, Sheila told me Dad woke up in the middle of the night and asked, “did Barbara call?”  And although she assured him I had, it broke my heart that he didn’t get to hear my voice. 

Three days later, early in the morning hours of December 6, 2018, Dad died. 

That first year of Sundays following his death was brutal. At first I called as I always did when Dad was alive, and I’d talk to Sheila, the conversation invariably turning to how much we missed Dad. Usually though I was with Sheila, helping her sort out her life without Dad. 

Then just when I began to get over the pain of missing those calls,  Sheila died, and now both parents were gone. I hated 8 pm on Sundays. Many times I’d pick up my phone at eight p.m. but then I remembered he wasn’t there anymore.  I can’t bear to hear the ringtone I assigned to Dad and Sheila—the motorcycle. Even five years later, I’m sitting here, tears rolling down my face, wishing I could call one more time and hear his voice, and Sheila’s voice, her hollering “Joseph it’s Barbara”, and Dad coming to the phone and picking up where we left off. 

I saved many of their voicemails. I wish I had more. I listen to them sometimes to hear their voices again, to remember how much they loved me and how blessed I was to have parents who were always there. I have a DVD of him talking about his World War II service, something their church did during a veterans recognition week. I still cannot get up the nerve to watch it. I have home movies from 1965 on, and one day I’ll watch them. But not yet.  I miss them. I really miss my dad. 

Nowadays communication is via text or FaceBook message or WhatsApp. We call from the car, from work, from the bathroom, restaurants, sporting events, you name it. A phone call isn’t special anymore. It’s something to check off a list, to fit in when you have a few minutes to squeeze in, and it usually ends abruptly and unceremoniously (when another call comes in, the light changes, your dinner arrives, or, for whatever reason, because the caller has to go. “Gotta run!”  If someone doesn’t want to talk when a call comes in they just press the ignore button. More than likely they’ll respond with a text or an emoji or some weird abbreviation. 

I try to be focused on the person I’m talking to during phone calls, even during text or app chats. That’s the good thing about video chats. If you’re not paying attention it’s obvious. (I did try video chats with Dad. He never got the knack of fitting his whole face in the camera. I either saw his forehead or his nose or a hand when he held the phone wrong.) 

The morale of the story: Invest time and effort in speaking with people who love you. Listen to their voices. Pay attention to their tone, their mood.  Put everything else aside as much as humanly  possible when you’re on the phone. Give them a peephole into your life. Laugh with them and share silly stories. Cry with them. Share your sorrows and disappointments.  When they are gone, those memories will comfort you in your grief. 

Let it Go, Mom!

How many times have you heard (or said) those four words? If your answer is less than ten, you can skip the rest of this. But, if you're like me, read on, moms (and daughters*, so you can understand the crazy.)

Over the years I've written about relationships: being a grandma, daughter, sister, mom, stepparent, wife, even a friend. In some of these epistles I've merely described our relationship and how it made me feel, while in other entries I have proffered my insight, gained from experience, on the right way the other person should behave. Many times I do poke fun at myself, but I also point out how my parent/sister/husband/daughter could have acted more appropriately.

I am here to turn the table on myself, to put my misdeeds in the spotlight. Why? For three very good (and beautiful) reasons--you know who you are. But also I want to share this with you moms out there who may not have completely severed that umbilical cord yet, even though it's been over 25 years since you gave birth. 

*Disclaimer: I have no idea if this applies to sons. I don't have any of those. 

How to alienate your adult daughter in 10 easy steps

1. Give unsolicited advice; try to fix everything 
2. Call/text/email her several times a day
3. Point out her weaknesses (as if she doesn't know already) 
4. Constantly give examples of how you did things "back in the day"
5. Listen to conversations with her spouse; interject your own thoughts
6. Compare her to her sibling(s) or worse, discuss her with her sibling 
7. Persist in interfering even after she pleads with you to let it go
8. Disapprove of her parenting style 
9. Treat her like a child
10. Neglect telling her how proud you are of her accomplishments  

I thought about expanding on these, and adding some dry humor, but honestly the above statements do not need any embellishment. 

Dear Daughters: Your Mom is not a Mushroom

Oh the convoluted relationship between mothers and their adult daughters. Out of all my jobs, being the mom of adult daughters can (and does) make me question my sanity; it is an  emotional roller coaster. In any one minute period, I can feel pride, shame, joy, embarrassment, happiness, anger, irritation, peace, comfort, frustration, and sadness, and trying to explain any of my feelings usually gets dismissed as "you misunderstood." I thought I was alone in this, that perhaps because I am one of those highly sensitive persons I was imagining things. Turns out I am not. In talking to other moms of adult children (I know, that's an oxymoron), one common thread emerged: moms are seen by their kids as the persons they were when the kids were growing up. To them, Mom has not moved on, or changed, or developed a personality or life story of her own. This phenomenon exists regardless of how well mom and daughter get along. 

So, on that note, here are important things to remember to have a good relationship with your mom as you both age gracefully into the sunset.

1. Your mom was a person before you were born, and still is a person. She was not always your mom, even though you never met her until she was your mom. And when she became your mom, she loved you as best as she could, but always more than you would ever love her. Her life before you didn't cease to exist; it just got put on hold, or maybe even left behind. Everything changed for her. You became her world. Then you got older, and found your own world and left mom behind. You love her but you see her as she was when you left. 

    Stop and look at her with different eyes. See her the way you look at a stranger, get to know her. You are not the same as you were at 12 or 15 or 18...neither is she.

2. You do not know everything about your mom; you only know what she tells you and lets you see. There are many things children do not need to know about their mother's past, even though her past made her who she is, so when you ask questions about a part of her life she does not want you to see, she will blithely change the subject. But as you get older, and can understand there is pain and hurt and sin in the world, your mom may want to share parts of her life, herself with you. 

    Let her...you will have a richer experience for it. Don't turn away or tell her you don't want to hear about those things, as if it will make you not love her. Listen to her and learn about her life. It will help you understand not just her, but yourself as well.

3. Your mom still wants to kiss all your boo boos and make them better.  From the day you were born, your mom was the mama bear; when you came running to her crying, she was there. If you were sick, she magically made you feel better. If you felt lost, or said you would never EVER understand quadratic equations, she was there. If someone hurt your feelings, she listened. There were times she would let you make mistakes, hoping experience would be the best teacher. Then you flew the nest, and at first you'd ask for her help or advice (oh joy!), but then, all too soon, mom became obsolete, no longer needed. She would hear sadness or pain or anger in your voice or see it in your face, and she would ask you "what's wrong, what can I do?". 

   Let her ask you. Don't brush her off and change the subject. Talk to her, tell her as much as you can about your feelings and how you can sort it out. Tell her to just listen. She will. Don't shut her out. Or, if you must, nicely and graciously tell her you really aren't ready to talk about it, but you love that she noticed you were upset. 

4. Mom cannot keep every single event in your life in perfect order and remember the exact time and date and place it hapened; if she remembers it wrong, let it go.  Everyone has their own story, including your mom, and their own memories of events. You may think you will remember exactly what month and year your kids lost their first tooth or learned to ride a bike, but trust me, by the time your kids are in their late 20s, it all starts running together.  That's why you hear people over 50 always  saying "where does the time go?"--they really do not know where it goes--maybe it goes where those other socks go. Moms remember little snapshots of moments, sometimes triggered by a smell or a song or a word or a look. 

    So, if she says "Oh yeah, you did that when you were a seven and were wearing a yellow shirt," please don't correct her. Which leads me to number 5...

5. Your mom does not like to be corrected by her child, even if her child is 40.  No, your mom does not think she is perfect (even if she is), or that she is always right (even if she is), she just wants to be honored and respected, not corrected or dismissed or laughed at. If you really must say something to her because it hurt your feelings or caused pain or embarrassment to someone else who cannot or won't speak up for themselves, talk to your mom privately at another time. Sure she can learn from you, but there is way to do it.

    Be as respectful to her as you are to someone else your mom's age that you really admire. Oh, and never correct her in front of your spouse or in front of your children. 

6. Your mom has experience in many situations, so let her be herself.  Unless she has lived under a rock for the past 60 plus years, your mom has run across just about every situation you can name. She can handle herself. She gave birth to you, kept you alive for all those years, and look how perfect and smart you are now.

    Trust your mom. Don't be a helicopter daughter. See #1.

7. Your mom wants needs time alone with her grandchildren.  This is a tough one for some daughters out there, but you know if your mom can be trusted with your precious babies. Set your boundaries, sure, but grandchildren need time alone with their grandparents, and vice versa. Their conversations are different, and many times things are shared in confidence, so that is something you will have to work out with your kids and your mom. 

    Regardless, don't control their relationship; let them be themselves. Just don't abuse it--she already raised her kids; she does not want to raise yours.

8. You are not the only one who likes to be appreciated.  Instead of telling silly stories about your mom at family gatherings, or pretending your mom was oh so horrible when you are talking to your kids, say something nice, give her a compliment, talk about how your mom managed to work and raise kids, or how clean she kept things. 

    Build her up. Don't just make jokes. Oh, and she likes to hear these things even when it is just the two of you. Send her a card. Invite her to coffee. Tell her you were thinking about her. 

So, dear daughters, your mom isn't perfect--no mom is. But she is the only mom you will ever have. Some of you have stepmoms or "other" moms, but whoever you have to look up to as your mom, cherish her and honor her, get to know her. She will be your biggest fan and your best friend. 

Men, don't get your knickers in a twist.  This does not apply to you because, well, you just are not that complicated; sons don't seem to have the same communication issues as daughters. They just sort of grunt and look hungry, mom feeds them, and then all is good.

And remember, your mom is not a mushroom.