I'm feeling guilty about a conversation I had with my oldest daughter in the car yesterday. In the fifth grade, every Thursday they get a map (it might be a map of the oceans, or the continents, or whatever). They take the map home, and they study it for a week, and then they take the test. This is the third week of school, and for the third week she has forgotten to bring home her map (just to be clear-- it's not that big of a deal-- the maps are easy, she still gets an A every time. 100%. This will matter later. Maybe only to me).
But I got really upset in the car. At some point I said something like, you know the difference between people who go to Harvard and people who go to some state college? ("What?") Remembering to bring their maps home. Yes, I was serious. My stomach started to hurt from the massive amount of agony I was in. I may have cried a little out of fear (not that my kid would end up at state college, I swear. Fear that I have no idea how to help her, and I never will).
I'm a driven person. That's what other people tell me, most notably my psychiatrist. Maybe so. But really I'm a loser. I'm telling you-- you don't have to believe me, but it's true. Sometimes I sit on the couch for up to an hour and watch reality TV. Occasionally I do nothing useful all day except be a mother and clean the house. There's a voice in my brain all the time "Loser, loser, loser", but sometimes it's louder than other times. Yes, I'm driven. I'm driven to get out of loserville. I could make a list. OK, I will.
1. I dropped out of high school. Yes, I have a bachelor's degree and 1.75 master's degrees, but really I have a ninth grade education. Ninth grade being the last grade I actually showed up (I did 10th grade in an alternative school, but I don't think standing outside smoking pot and attempting to shove the couch out of the lounge window count toward my education).
2. I have a criminal record. Disorderly conduct. I'll never be president.
3. I'm a terrible mother. Please see the conversation above.
4. I rarely clean the corners. And then I see how dirty they are, and I buy one of those rotating brushes and clean them, but they get dirty again.
5. I swear. A lot.
6. I have terrible hair.
7. I have big feet.
8. I taught myself to braid hair, but I never do it right. The braids are too loose.
9. My dogs jump on people. Nobody likes dogs that jump. Nobody likes my dogs.
10. I bite my nails.
I mean, honestly, the list goes on for days. My counselor has suggested wearing a piece of jewelry (11. I don't wear jewelry), something that is slightly irritating, to remind me not to be mean to myself. (12. I think that's dumb.) At first, when he brought up this whole "you're in an abusive relationship with yourself" thing, I thought, oh, ok, I'll just try to be nicer to myself. No problem. But the more I pay attention the more I realize that this "driven-ness" I have seeps into everything. It's not just that I want things to be perfect. I make myself sick, and I waste a lot of time I could otherwise be using to clean corners telling myself how much I've failed. I'm terrified of failure. Cliche alert. But I mean terrified. I mean ulcer attack, can't breath, tight chest, oh, God, I'm going to throw up terror.
Nothing's ever good enough. A clean house is not clean enough, remembering to bring home your math and spelling, but not your map, is failure. A *B* is failure. I don't judge other people so harshly (I try not to), but I wonder if that's because, deep down, I don't care so much if they fail. Make space for the other losers. I don't think that's true-- I hope it's not.
So hysterical. I'm not that bad. The older I get, the more I'm able to let some things go. I try to keep my mouth shut when it comes to my kids (sometimes I fail. Lahoooser.). I don't know, since I went to state college, but I'm guessing admission to Harvard has more to do with choosing to be born to rich parents and/or having parents who support and encourage you, even when you forget to bring your map home.
This morning we were in the car (maybe I should just stay out of cars?) discussing a certain incident in which my older daughter failed to stand up for my younger daughter when they were playing with a group of kids.
"Is that what Dr. Martin Luther King would do?" I asked my older daughter. All I got was silence. I turned around and looked at her. "Is it?"
She looked completely befuddled. "I have no idea, Mama. I really don't know."
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Monday, September 13, 2010
Minding my Own Biz
I was talking to one of my sisters yesterday about an inner-familial problem, and she cut me off right at the beginning. "Why are you even in this? How is this your business?" Whoa. Slow down there. Not my business? But, but, but. OK, it's really not my business. Damn. At some point in my life I designated myself Captain Save a Ho. If someone has a problem, and I know about it, I consider it my life's goal to fix that problem if I can. And if I can't fix it, I at least offer my ass kicking services. As I grow older, I've managed to stay out of other people's problems both because of lack of proximity (I'm just not paying as close of attention), and I'm too busy solving the problems of my kids, my partner, myself, my dogs. A Captain gets busy.
I remember when my ten year old told me about a friend she was having a problem with, and I immediately started my plotting about what we (I) were going to do about this problem. "Mama," my daughter said, "Can I just solve this one myself? I mean, I'm ten years old. If I can't solve it, then you can step in." The speech had the smack of being rehearsed-- she'd been working on this one. It felt like I had just gotten all suited up in my Roman armor, my shield, my sword, my horse, and somebody said, "Hey, you know what, how about we don't conquer that country? What if we just stayed home?" I was all dressed up for a violent overtaking, and the violence got canceled. I'm still kind of upset.
Luckily, my younger daughter doesn't mind it when I get involved. "What do you do if a boy hits you?" I ask her. "Call Mama," she responds. Mama will handle this. Someone once told me that you can't go in front of your children, protecting them from everything. First, it's impossible. Second, it's not good for them. I know that's true. But, but, but. My job is to be there as a sounding board, to offer advice, but to stay off the field. That's hard, especially when the advice I want to give is "Who needs friends? Screw friends-- you can hang out with me!" I am the mother who shows up at every game. If my kid gets hurt, I'm there before the coach. If they hit the winning run, I meet them at the plate. I once jumped up and down screaming "Safe! She's safe! Ha!" at a five year old catcher when my daughter crossed home plate just seconds before the little girl picked the ball up. It took me a few seconds to notice everyone staring at me.
So I'm working on minding my own business. And when I don't have any? I guess I'll have to make some.
I remember when my ten year old told me about a friend she was having a problem with, and I immediately started my plotting about what we (I) were going to do about this problem. "Mama," my daughter said, "Can I just solve this one myself? I mean, I'm ten years old. If I can't solve it, then you can step in." The speech had the smack of being rehearsed-- she'd been working on this one. It felt like I had just gotten all suited up in my Roman armor, my shield, my sword, my horse, and somebody said, "Hey, you know what, how about we don't conquer that country? What if we just stayed home?" I was all dressed up for a violent overtaking, and the violence got canceled. I'm still kind of upset.
Luckily, my younger daughter doesn't mind it when I get involved. "What do you do if a boy hits you?" I ask her. "Call Mama," she responds. Mama will handle this. Someone once told me that you can't go in front of your children, protecting them from everything. First, it's impossible. Second, it's not good for them. I know that's true. But, but, but. My job is to be there as a sounding board, to offer advice, but to stay off the field. That's hard, especially when the advice I want to give is "Who needs friends? Screw friends-- you can hang out with me!" I am the mother who shows up at every game. If my kid gets hurt, I'm there before the coach. If they hit the winning run, I meet them at the plate. I once jumped up and down screaming "Safe! She's safe! Ha!" at a five year old catcher when my daughter crossed home plate just seconds before the little girl picked the ball up. It took me a few seconds to notice everyone staring at me.
So I'm working on minding my own business. And when I don't have any? I guess I'll have to make some.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Useless Questions
Last week I spent a day in my favorite useless pastime-- wondering if, in fact, I was a writer at all. I tentatively investigated jobs that had nothing to do with writing or teaching. I thought about other possibilities. Nursing? No. I hate sick people. Lawyer? Bah. I hate litigious people. Marketing? OK, bottom line-- I pretty much just don't like people. I like student people, but mostly because I don't see them too much and they seem at least nominally interested in books and rhetoric and writing and the crazy shit people say and do.
Elizabeth McCracken came to give a reading at a university I attended, and she gave a small Q and A afterward for the graduate students. She said that her biggest regret is that she spent so much time wondering, worrying, if she was a writer. That once she stopped asking that question she was suddenly producing a lot of writing. Like books of writing. Since then, I've tried to remind myself that the question, at this point, is moot. I've been writing since I was four years old (a plagiarised copy of a book about a puppy-- I simply changed the puppy's name and kept all the other words the same. My technique has evolved since then). I remember sitting at a typewriter at the dining room table and pounding out my own version of The Boxcar Children, then later poems and short stories by the dozen. It's not that I chose writing. I write, as has been famously said by many famous writers, because writing chose me. I write because I have no other choice.
It's not just that I write stories. I write my whole life. I write letters because I know in a letter I will get everything I want to say in. When my partner and I were first together we would argue through email and text-- hashing out those small things you never realize you're going to have to hash out once you settle into the long run. He indulged in my desire for written communication, though I know it boggled him-- he's not a writer, but, luckily for me, he, like I, doesn't much go for verbal discussions either. When I'm not writing I'm writing in my head. Just give me a comfortable seat and a blank wall, and I'll stare at the wall for hours. I have whole books in my head, several to choose from, and I just write them inside my brain. When I get bad news I write the whole story out in my head-- how will this play out? What if I revise? What if I change this or that?
I have another useless question. Am I a bad mother? It's similar to the writer question, because, like, dude, you're in the fire. At this point you fight the fire and don't worry too much about the hard questions. I'm a mother. I'm a writer. It's a given-- I have to do the best I can do. The questions (and answers) are eerily similar.
Elizabeth McCracken came to give a reading at a university I attended, and she gave a small Q and A afterward for the graduate students. She said that her biggest regret is that she spent so much time wondering, worrying, if she was a writer. That once she stopped asking that question she was suddenly producing a lot of writing. Like books of writing. Since then, I've tried to remind myself that the question, at this point, is moot. I've been writing since I was four years old (a plagiarised copy of a book about a puppy-- I simply changed the puppy's name and kept all the other words the same. My technique has evolved since then). I remember sitting at a typewriter at the dining room table and pounding out my own version of The Boxcar Children, then later poems and short stories by the dozen. It's not that I chose writing. I write, as has been famously said by many famous writers, because writing chose me. I write because I have no other choice.
It's not just that I write stories. I write my whole life. I write letters because I know in a letter I will get everything I want to say in. When my partner and I were first together we would argue through email and text-- hashing out those small things you never realize you're going to have to hash out once you settle into the long run. He indulged in my desire for written communication, though I know it boggled him-- he's not a writer, but, luckily for me, he, like I, doesn't much go for verbal discussions either. When I'm not writing I'm writing in my head. Just give me a comfortable seat and a blank wall, and I'll stare at the wall for hours. I have whole books in my head, several to choose from, and I just write them inside my brain. When I get bad news I write the whole story out in my head-- how will this play out? What if I revise? What if I change this or that?
I have another useless question. Am I a bad mother? It's similar to the writer question, because, like, dude, you're in the fire. At this point you fight the fire and don't worry too much about the hard questions. I'm a mother. I'm a writer. It's a given-- I have to do the best I can do. The questions (and answers) are eerily similar.
Friday, September 10, 2010
People Tell You Who They Are
I was having a conversation this morning with someone about a young person in my life who I wish would stop having a relationship with another young person. It's so clear to me, I kept saying, what Young Person B is. How can Young Person A not see it? But I earned my knowledge. I know who people are because I spent years completely clueless about seeing people for what they really were. And I had to make much bigger mistakes than Young Person A has thus far made to get to this point.
Someone told me years ago, "People tell you who they are. Listen." This became my personal mantra. Maybe too much so. The other day one of my oldest daughter's friends was behaving in a way I thought was inappropriate. "Geez, she's rude," I said to my daughter when the other girl was gone. OK, I may have said it as she was walking away. Even fifth graders are not wholly protected from my wrath.
"No, she's actually not, Mama," my daughter told me. "She's just tired."
Maybe my daughter's right. Maybe she knows more than I do-- it's happened before. Maybe I've used my mantra for evil instead of good sometimes in my life. I do tend to make snap judgments about people. Luckily, I'm a solitary soul, and I keep a small circle. This will probably never change, but I do notice myself having to revise my decisions about people after I've made really quick judgments, then took the time to watch them operate.
People tell you who they are. Listen. I've applied this to myself. I've tried to operate in the world in a way that tells people who I am, good and bad. With mixed results. People sometimes tell me that they were scared of me before they got to know me. Actually, one of my students wrote that in an assessment of my teaching and classroom. "At first I thought she was mean..." it gets better after that, I promise. I do have a protective bubble, both in my body language and my actions. "Grrrrr," it says. "Grrrrrrrrrrrrrr." I try to let it down, but I'm a solitary girl. Growling at people, whether vocally (only one or twice), or physically, helps keep me isolated. And I like isolation in a lot of ways. I like to be alone.
People can change (ugh-- that phrase). I know because I've changed. I've seen other people change. But sometimes that change changes more than I intended. It's like I had to run through a fire to get out of things I should never have been in. And in order to run through that fire I had to don some protective clothing. It's heavy, and there's a lot of crap involved--helmets, socks, gloves. And it worked so well to get me through the fire I figured, why take it off at all? Just keep it on in case another fire springs up.
Sometimes I try to make my kids wear the fire clothes. But they don't see a need, which is a good thing. Sometimes when I'm with them I feel like a body guard-- I'm always watching the people around us, the traffic, the weather, them. It's a relief when they're at school, because my watch is over. Except it's not, because even when they're at school it's in my head-- my charges are on the loose. This morning we were talking about school being a safe place on the drive to said school.
"Mama, did you know you can get expended for bringing a toy weapon to school?" my eight year old asked.
"I did know that. School is a safe place-- no weapons, no hitting, you can't even talk about violence. Your school is a safe place."
"But it's not," she said. "Because a kid got expended for bringing a toy to school."
"Your school is safe-- that's why they suspended him, because he broke the safe school rules." She seemed satisfied, but I was not. I pulled into the parking lot thinking about the possibility of doing some sort of search of the classmates-- just a pat down, nothing too scary.
"What do you do if someone hits you, though?" my daughter asked.
I hate this question. The right answer, of course, is "don't ever hit anybody first, but if they hit you, WHOOP their motherfucking ass. Don't stop until that kid is bleeding. Then call me, and I'll kick the little fucker." But I'm not allowed to say that. So I say, "You tell a teacher. We never hit. If you hit someone, you'll be in big trouble. School is a safe place."
And they got out and went into their safe school with the little weapon-carrying violent sociopath kids. And I drove off, resisting the urge to follow them in and glare at any seven year old who looked askance at my daughters. I just can't help myself. People tell you who they are. I'm the kind of person who hits first, at least in my heart, as much as I try to resist it in my person. My dad used to say, "I'm going to kick ass now and take names later" (in reference mostly to punishing all five of us for something maybe one of us did. Seriously. He'd line us all up and we'd all get it with the belt. I was ten years younger than the oldest kids. Do you really think it was ME you asshole?). Maybe that's my manta, really. I kick ass now and take names later.
Someone told me years ago, "People tell you who they are. Listen." This became my personal mantra. Maybe too much so. The other day one of my oldest daughter's friends was behaving in a way I thought was inappropriate. "Geez, she's rude," I said to my daughter when the other girl was gone. OK, I may have said it as she was walking away. Even fifth graders are not wholly protected from my wrath.
"No, she's actually not, Mama," my daughter told me. "She's just tired."
Maybe my daughter's right. Maybe she knows more than I do-- it's happened before. Maybe I've used my mantra for evil instead of good sometimes in my life. I do tend to make snap judgments about people. Luckily, I'm a solitary soul, and I keep a small circle. This will probably never change, but I do notice myself having to revise my decisions about people after I've made really quick judgments, then took the time to watch them operate.
People tell you who they are. Listen. I've applied this to myself. I've tried to operate in the world in a way that tells people who I am, good and bad. With mixed results. People sometimes tell me that they were scared of me before they got to know me. Actually, one of my students wrote that in an assessment of my teaching and classroom. "At first I thought she was mean..." it gets better after that, I promise. I do have a protective bubble, both in my body language and my actions. "Grrrrr," it says. "Grrrrrrrrrrrrrr." I try to let it down, but I'm a solitary girl. Growling at people, whether vocally (only one or twice), or physically, helps keep me isolated. And I like isolation in a lot of ways. I like to be alone.
People can change (ugh-- that phrase). I know because I've changed. I've seen other people change. But sometimes that change changes more than I intended. It's like I had to run through a fire to get out of things I should never have been in. And in order to run through that fire I had to don some protective clothing. It's heavy, and there's a lot of crap involved--helmets, socks, gloves. And it worked so well to get me through the fire I figured, why take it off at all? Just keep it on in case another fire springs up.
Sometimes I try to make my kids wear the fire clothes. But they don't see a need, which is a good thing. Sometimes when I'm with them I feel like a body guard-- I'm always watching the people around us, the traffic, the weather, them. It's a relief when they're at school, because my watch is over. Except it's not, because even when they're at school it's in my head-- my charges are on the loose. This morning we were talking about school being a safe place on the drive to said school.
"Mama, did you know you can get expended for bringing a toy weapon to school?" my eight year old asked.
"I did know that. School is a safe place-- no weapons, no hitting, you can't even talk about violence. Your school is a safe place."
"But it's not," she said. "Because a kid got expended for bringing a toy to school."
"Your school is safe-- that's why they suspended him, because he broke the safe school rules." She seemed satisfied, but I was not. I pulled into the parking lot thinking about the possibility of doing some sort of search of the classmates-- just a pat down, nothing too scary.
"What do you do if someone hits you, though?" my daughter asked.
I hate this question. The right answer, of course, is "don't ever hit anybody first, but if they hit you, WHOOP their motherfucking ass. Don't stop until that kid is bleeding. Then call me, and I'll kick the little fucker." But I'm not allowed to say that. So I say, "You tell a teacher. We never hit. If you hit someone, you'll be in big trouble. School is a safe place."
And they got out and went into their safe school with the little weapon-carrying violent sociopath kids. And I drove off, resisting the urge to follow them in and glare at any seven year old who looked askance at my daughters. I just can't help myself. People tell you who they are. I'm the kind of person who hits first, at least in my heart, as much as I try to resist it in my person. My dad used to say, "I'm going to kick ass now and take names later" (in reference mostly to punishing all five of us for something maybe one of us did. Seriously. He'd line us all up and we'd all get it with the belt. I was ten years younger than the oldest kids. Do you really think it was ME you asshole?). Maybe that's my manta, really. I kick ass now and take names later.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Leaving, But not Before I Sweep
I'm heading back to Columbus today after a week of staying in Cincinnati with my mom during and after her chemotherapy. Yesterday I wrote no less than seven emails to my brother and sisters (who will be coming down for consecutive chemo therapies) listing foods my mom likes, things that seem to help, calls for a different approach after the learning curve of this time. I went to the store five times yesterday. I bought enough protein bars, chicken noodle soup, ginger ale and crackers to feed at least five cancer patients. In a fit of hyper strength I moved a queen sized box spring from my mom's basement to her guest room for future guests. Then I blew up an air mattress and made it up in the other extra room. Then I added clean pillow cases. I did the dishes. I vacuumed.
All of this reminds me of when the girls were littler and I would type two and three (single spaced) page letters when they would go to Iowa for a week to visit my family without me. I included their lotions, their medicines, their special blankets and special bears. I reminded my relatives that the girls like chocolate milk in the morning, keep them away from cats, and never, ever, ever spank them. No matter what.
It's a bunker mentality. I'm surprised, in hindsight, that I don't actually have a bunker in the backyard. It would fit my personality completely. In all my years of teaching I've never forgotten a book or a handout. Not once. I did once forget the book I needed for a class I was taking, and I was so horrified I began to cry as I searched the building for the professor to tell her ahead of time what I had done. Look at what I have done!
I remember my therapist once asked me what it would feel like if I got a B in a class. I started to laugh. Not only can't I imagine such a feeling, I wouldn't even try. I remember talking to a mentor about some of my students who were earning Bs and Cs in my class, and being worried about them. "They're not you," my mentor responded. Enough said.
I like to believe this level of perfectionism doesn't touch my children. They are perfect to me-- they don't have to run through the world proving it (as I do). But then I think about two weeks ago when my daughter had a loose sheet of paper in her bag (fifth graders have like seven folders--color coded-- to keep themselves organized. This brings me so much joy.)
"Uh-oh," I said, pulling out the piece of paper. "We've got a loose one. Remember, the goal is organization! Where does this one go?" Yes. I actually said this. It seems funny now, but I'd do it again. I can't seem to stop myself.
My oldest daughter, perpetrator of the loose sheet, is enough like me that she quickly found the paper's place. My youngest daughter amuses me to no end because she's not a fan of my bullshit, and she'll call me on it. "Uh-oh," I'll say to her. "Your papers are not in your take home folder! Now they're all messy!"
"Yup," she responds, not even bothering to look at me. "But they're in my backpack. You're lucky they got here at all." And I know it's true. Because she was just as likely to throw them away, leave them in some one else's mailbox, or just turn them into paper airplanes and watch them fly away into the blue future.
I know what all of this is about (I'm the worst kind of crazy-- I know I'm crazy, and I know why I'm crazy). If I miss a piece of paper about field trips or PTA meetings or Curriculum Night I am powerless. As I've said to my kids before, "I can't do anything if I don't KNOW!" If I slip up and miss a signature somewhere the school will find out, and when they're counting signatures I'll go on the list of bad parents. Parent of kids that should henceforth be ignored or possibly abused, because their parents don't really care about them at all.
So I buy twenty-five protein bars and stack them neatly by type in a bowl on my mother's counter. I ask her repeatedly if it's OK for me to leave today. I vacuum the floor again. I mop the upstairs once last time. Because all of this will forestall the universe. Oh, there's action in that house. Let's leave that lady alone-- we won't make her sicker or make the chemo not work, because somebody cares enough about her to sweep. All that noise and action scares the bad spirits away. If every thing's clean and tidy and organized nothing bad can happen. All the papers will be in their places.
All of this reminds me of when the girls were littler and I would type two and three (single spaced) page letters when they would go to Iowa for a week to visit my family without me. I included their lotions, their medicines, their special blankets and special bears. I reminded my relatives that the girls like chocolate milk in the morning, keep them away from cats, and never, ever, ever spank them. No matter what.
It's a bunker mentality. I'm surprised, in hindsight, that I don't actually have a bunker in the backyard. It would fit my personality completely. In all my years of teaching I've never forgotten a book or a handout. Not once. I did once forget the book I needed for a class I was taking, and I was so horrified I began to cry as I searched the building for the professor to tell her ahead of time what I had done. Look at what I have done!
I remember my therapist once asked me what it would feel like if I got a B in a class. I started to laugh. Not only can't I imagine such a feeling, I wouldn't even try. I remember talking to a mentor about some of my students who were earning Bs and Cs in my class, and being worried about them. "They're not you," my mentor responded. Enough said.
I like to believe this level of perfectionism doesn't touch my children. They are perfect to me-- they don't have to run through the world proving it (as I do). But then I think about two weeks ago when my daughter had a loose sheet of paper in her bag (fifth graders have like seven folders--color coded-- to keep themselves organized. This brings me so much joy.)
"Uh-oh," I said, pulling out the piece of paper. "We've got a loose one. Remember, the goal is organization! Where does this one go?" Yes. I actually said this. It seems funny now, but I'd do it again. I can't seem to stop myself.
My oldest daughter, perpetrator of the loose sheet, is enough like me that she quickly found the paper's place. My youngest daughter amuses me to no end because she's not a fan of my bullshit, and she'll call me on it. "Uh-oh," I'll say to her. "Your papers are not in your take home folder! Now they're all messy!"
"Yup," she responds, not even bothering to look at me. "But they're in my backpack. You're lucky they got here at all." And I know it's true. Because she was just as likely to throw them away, leave them in some one else's mailbox, or just turn them into paper airplanes and watch them fly away into the blue future.
I know what all of this is about (I'm the worst kind of crazy-- I know I'm crazy, and I know why I'm crazy). If I miss a piece of paper about field trips or PTA meetings or Curriculum Night I am powerless. As I've said to my kids before, "I can't do anything if I don't KNOW!" If I slip up and miss a signature somewhere the school will find out, and when they're counting signatures I'll go on the list of bad parents. Parent of kids that should henceforth be ignored or possibly abused, because their parents don't really care about them at all.
So I buy twenty-five protein bars and stack them neatly by type in a bowl on my mother's counter. I ask her repeatedly if it's OK for me to leave today. I vacuum the floor again. I mop the upstairs once last time. Because all of this will forestall the universe. Oh, there's action in that house. Let's leave that lady alone-- we won't make her sicker or make the chemo not work, because somebody cares enough about her to sweep. All that noise and action scares the bad spirits away. If every thing's clean and tidy and organized nothing bad can happen. All the papers will be in their places.
Friday, September 3, 2010
Caretaking
The chemotherapy treatment my mom is on is kicking in-- at least the side effects are. It's a nice reminder for me that I would never make a good nurse (isn't this all writers' alternative plan? Nursing or teaching high school? Or truck driving, which I would suck at, too).
When my dad was dying of pancreatic cancer I took care of him. I remember the busy-ness of it. The changing of the IVs, the emptying of the gastric bag, the changing of the pain patch, then later making sure the morphine drip was working correctly. But if I really think about it, much of the time I was bored. I don't remember if I was reading a book (I've already read three since I got to my mom's). I do remember that I couldn't watch TV or talk on the phone. My dad couldn't stand any noise at all in his apartment. In fact, he made me unplug the television.
That quiet-- that's the part that gets to me. My mom would never demand that I turn off the TV or not use the phone. But her house isn't that big, and the wood floors and wood ceilings cause everything to echo. So, I read my nook or I sit on the back porch and have short conversations while she sleeps in her chair in the living room. I try to offer to do things for her, but I don't want to offer to do too much. It has to be good for her to get up and be autonomous, right? She can't drive, so I do go out and do that work for her, but she's certainly still capable of standing up and pouring herself a glass of ginger ale. So, I let her. She's in charge of her own pills (I don't dole out the medicine like I had to for my dad). Because I'm going to have to leave at some point, and she'll need to be able to take her medicine-- as she has been all along before I got here.
I feel real guilt that I have to leave. I miss my kids. I miss my bed. I miss my dogs. I miss my life. I know it's only been a week, geez. I'm worried that when I leave something will happen and it will take me nearly two hours to get back here. I'm hoping she starts to feel better soon, but what if she doesn't? I'm tired all the time, and I feel sick to my stomach. I guess I have psychosomatic chemo.
When my dad was dying of pancreatic cancer I took care of him. I remember the busy-ness of it. The changing of the IVs, the emptying of the gastric bag, the changing of the pain patch, then later making sure the morphine drip was working correctly. But if I really think about it, much of the time I was bored. I don't remember if I was reading a book (I've already read three since I got to my mom's). I do remember that I couldn't watch TV or talk on the phone. My dad couldn't stand any noise at all in his apartment. In fact, he made me unplug the television.
That quiet-- that's the part that gets to me. My mom would never demand that I turn off the TV or not use the phone. But her house isn't that big, and the wood floors and wood ceilings cause everything to echo. So, I read my nook or I sit on the back porch and have short conversations while she sleeps in her chair in the living room. I try to offer to do things for her, but I don't want to offer to do too much. It has to be good for her to get up and be autonomous, right? She can't drive, so I do go out and do that work for her, but she's certainly still capable of standing up and pouring herself a glass of ginger ale. So, I let her. She's in charge of her own pills (I don't dole out the medicine like I had to for my dad). Because I'm going to have to leave at some point, and she'll need to be able to take her medicine-- as she has been all along before I got here.
I feel real guilt that I have to leave. I miss my kids. I miss my bed. I miss my dogs. I miss my life. I know it's only been a week, geez. I'm worried that when I leave something will happen and it will take me nearly two hours to get back here. I'm hoping she starts to feel better soon, but what if she doesn't? I'm tired all the time, and I feel sick to my stomach. I guess I have psychosomatic chemo.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Emma
Dad's girlfriend and Dad dated off and on throughout my childhood after my parents' divorce when I was nine. Rumor has it that he proposed to her during the time of his chemo/radiation at the Mayo Clinic for pancreatic cancer, though they never got married. They broke up before I got involved in his care, after they did exploratory surgery at Mayo and realized the cancer had spread everywhere and he only had six weeks to live. But Dad’s girlfriend was at his funeral. I remember she asked our permission to put something in his casket. A picture, I think. Or maybe a flower.
What I really remember about Dad's girlfriend was that she was the head of the anti-abortion movement in Iowa City, where I grew up. When I was about ten Dad and Dad’s girlfriend sent me into the parking lot of a gynecologist with a huge stack of anti-abortion fliers to stick underneath the windshield wipers of those who parked there. The reason why they sent me was because it was illegal-- trespassing--and they told me to play dumb if the fuzz came. The fuzz didn't come. I remember I only stuck a couple of fliers on the cars, then I threw the rest away and walked home.
My dad and I protested at the local women's clinic-- the Emma Goldman clinic. At that time, Iowa City had established an ordinance stating that protestors couldn't stand together or be within fifty feet of one another while protesting (to try to stem the tide of times the protestors would accost women trying to get inside). The staff at Emma Goldman took my dad and I's picture when we stood together. “Smile,” my dad whispered, putting his arm around my shoulders.
The only other thing I remember was a guy walking by and saying, "How would you feel if your daughter got raped?" My dad put his arm around me and said, "This is my daughter." Then the Emma Goldman staff woman took another picture, standing in the doorway, hip holding the door open, ready to escape back into the safety of the inside.
Six years later I went into the Emma Goldman Clinic when I was in need of their services. I was terrified that there would be a poster on the wall with my picture on it: Enemy Against Women's Rights or something, or that the staff would recognize me from that little kid self. But they didn't.
I had been driven to Emma for a rape kit to be performed. I was seventeen. I remember feeling sad because the doctor was so nice. She spoke kindly and she offered to testify for me. I laid back and stared at the mobile of butterflies floating above my head and I wanted to tell her what I had done when I was a child. I wanted to confess. I wanted to apologize. I watched the butterflies float above my head and thought about how nice that was, that they had remembered that a woman might need something to watch, and that butterflies were nicer than posters of kitties, and that before the butterflies were all the way around their breezy circle this would be over.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)