The potassium is 5.9 and the lungs are clear but only because he can't take a deep breath. It's a tough call, but not really. His legs are edematous and his abdomen is tense with the fluid distention. He feels like retching and no matter how many layers he wears, he can't get warm. He can't urinate. He hasn't been able to pee in 2 years. Maybe some drops but not a stream. The stream stopped long ago. And now he has this catheter that is tethered to his chest like a leash. It's a shitty existence, running up to the hospital every 4 to 5 days. Begging to have your body rid of its toxic waste. To him, the rules that have been made are arbitrary and make little sense. And he's a pariah. Some people are accusatory. Obviously he is sabotaging his kidneys to get dialysis. Someone saw him eating McDonald's french fries last time he was here. He probably loaded up on bananas early this morning. He ate the bananas before he arrived at 5 am this morning. He arrived at 5 am because he knows that if he gets there at 9 am all the chairs will be full and he'll have to sleep sitting up one more night, drowning in his own urine. It doesn't matter that he used to be a landscaper; that he worked his whole life to provide for his family. The only thing that matters now is that he is trying to get something for free when he has no legal rights for anything. At least that is what it seems like to him every time he goes up there and he has to justify the severity of his symptoms. On a scale of 1 to 10 he feels like a 100 on an average day. On the days that he makes the drive to the hospital he feels a logarithmic degree of crappiness. But it's the Hunger Games of health care and he didn't pay a mule $5000 25 years ago to come to this country to get sacrificed in the arena.
If she had the chance, she do the same thing all over again. Her daughter needed that kidney. Her crystal ball didn't tell her that she'd develop cancer in her remaining kidney and they'd take that one out too. And then there'd be none. Having none kidneys is a problem. Even with a 3rd grade education, she could tell you that. One of life's cruel jokes. No good deed goes unpunished. When you are missing a limb it's obvious. But when you are missing both of your kidney's you feel like you're the urban myth everyone talks about; you went to Mexico for vacation and you woke up in a bathtub full of ice and you had a huge scar across your abdomen and both of your kidneys were gone. Except you're from El Salvador and you had to leave because your ex-husband tried to kill you. You had been working as a housekeeper to send money back home to the daughter in possession of your good kidney but the frequent trips to the ER started to irritate your employer and you were let go. Now you live with your aunt who has health problems of her own but she dutifully carries you up to the hospital every time you get that unmistakeable nausea and you start vomiting. Your potassium never goes above 4.5 so often times you get sent right back home. It's the worst when the doctor just looks at the numbers and doesn't ask you any questions. You know you shouldn't but sometimes you cry. The tears add emphasis and emphasis gets you the golden ticket to the 6th floor and the hemodialysis unit.
Sitting in that triage room you sit on the throne of judgment. It's an onerous task. The guidelines are meant to be a tool to make the job easier, or at least more objective. But objectively, when every single patient has a GFR of 2 they all meet criteria for hemodialysis regardless of their potassium level. Everyone is volume overloaded. Everyone is uremic. The greatest common denominator is a lack of documentation of legal entry into the United States of America. We can split hairs over the politics of this all day long. Bernie Sanders and Hillary Clinton and Donald Trump and Ted Cruz and Gregg Abbott and Rick Perry and Barack Obama and Oprah Winfrey and the Pope can all sit down in that triage room with me or any other provider for 3 days in a row and then we can have a nice round table discussion. It's hard to tell someone with that much desperation in their eyes, "Too bad!" Even the most soulless of individuals have a hard time telling an 80 year old grandfather or a 23 year old son or a 46 year old mother to go home. "Sorry sir or ma'am. There will be none for you today."
It's even worse now. The resources are more limited. There are less chairs. No one is happy. The patients aren't happy. The nurses aren't happy. The doctors aren't happy. The administrators aren't happy. An undocumented, ESRD patient who happens to fulfill the arbitrary requirements (can we all just admit we are playing God and we're not half as convincing as Morgan Freeman) that sorts him or her into the "NEEDS EMERGENT HEMODIALYSIS" pile is more contagious than Ebola or meningococcal meningitis. We'd all just as soon let the next person deal with the patient. Inevitably you're going to be stuck calling the cranky renal fellow or stuck calling the transfer center to arrange for your patient to go to Galveston or San Antonio or Conroe or the hospital across the street (because there are no more hemodialysis chairs in your hospital). Meanwhile your patient would do anything in the world to sit on the toilet and take a pee just one more time. Or not have a garden hose flopping out of his chest. Or not have skin 80 shades darker than the deepest tan she ever had. Or not wear a winter coat and a wool hat in the middle of July. Or beg for mercy every time he comes to the hospital. He's not trying to game the system. She's not trying to manipulatively score hemodialysis. They are just trying to live one more day so they can drink coffee on the patio with their spouse or walk in the park or go to the birthday party or the family gathering or the grandkid's high school graduation. We need to get over ourselves and our hierarchical mind frame. Some day we might be the dog begging for the table scraps. And we are going to want mercy. So lets all put down our rocks and clean the windows our our glass houses.
Wednesday, April 6, 2016
Saturday, March 19, 2016
I am Weird
Sitting in my car on a blustery Saturday afternoon on the last official day of winter, I hide from civilization. I have invisible walls that surround me and protect me from having to make conversation with others. It makes me uncomfortable; pleasantries. I suck at it and I'm ABSOLUTELY CONVINCED that I'm ALWAYS the awkward, weird one. It doesn't help that I didn't shower this morning, I have greasy hair and I'm wearing my sweatpants that make me look butch. To top it off, it's Houston cold and I'm unprepared for this inclement weather and I happened to have a fleece in my car but it's the one from work that has the university logo and my name with MD and MPH on it so I look like a complete poser/tool. A completely unclean, greasy, butch poser/tool.
I shouldn't care because I'm supposed to be a selfless entity because that's what mothers are supposed to be: completely selfless. My mother is. I am not. My oldest has a water polo tournament and there are other parents that I have to talk to but I don't have anything to say and no one really wants to talk to each other. It's forced niceness. It's like sitting next to the stranger on the airplane. Everyone just wants to bury their nose into their own world but this is worse because a flight is only a couple of hours and you never see the person again. At your kids' sporting events you have to see the same people with some frequency and you don't want people thinking you are a complete asshole.
The worst are the other parents that you know from tournament teams or summer leagues. You are thrown together for a weekend or a summer and so you know each other but no more than you know the kid who bags your groceries and yet you have to smile and make fake conversation. It's the absolute worst. Why can't we just say what we're really thinking?
"This whole thing would be A WHOLE LOT MORE TOLERABLE WITH ALCOHOL!"
Or
"You're the asshole that pressures your mediocre kid so much that I WANT to wet my pants."
Or
"I've spent $5000 on my kids' extra-curricular activities and it's only March. How much are you in the hole?"
Or
"I wouldn't look like a greasy, man-hating lesbian if I wasn't constantly driving my kids around to their expensive activities and I had time to shower and put on clean underwear."
Or
"How long has it been since your last shower?"
Along the same lines, but not really, I have FOMO for my kids. Recently I learned this term from the residents that I teach. FOMO is fear of missing out. It leads you to do stupid stuff. My life is completely ruled by guilt and by FOMO. My kids have FOMO by Proxy. It's the reason I live such a scattered shit-storm of a life. I don't want ANYONE to EVER be upset or disappointed with me so I say yes to as many possible people and situations as possible. You think I'm kidding. I'm not. I'm a total people pleaser. It's pathologic. My psychiatrist just got pissed off at me recently because I canceled 5 minutes before our session. She charged me and I knew she would but somehow she thought I'd be mad about this and left me a message and told me she was going to charge me and "don't have a shit fit." I left her a message apologizing and extolling my responsible character reminding her I'd only cancelled last minute about 3 times in 20 years. For me last minute is literally last minute. She considers last minute to be within 24 hours. Apparently I cancel within 24 hours with some frequency (and with some frequency I mean about 6 times in the past 12 months). She never charged me for those other times but let me reschedule even though the policy is to charge if you cancel within 24 hours. She's been lenient, I get it. Who is NOT gonna try to pay less and not get charged for something that doesn't happen? But she's just as guilty as me. So when she left her message and told me not to have a shit-fit because she was charging me it seemed a little unnecessarily harsh. I might be cheap, but I'm also an adult and I get it. So I tried to defend myself to her when I left her a voice mail. THEN, she emailed me and reminded me of all my egregiousness this past year and it's hard to read tone in an email, but she was definitely snappy. I tell you all of this because it's a great example of me trying to have everybody like me. SHE tells ME not to have a shit-fit (unprofessional and inappropriate, right?) and I try to gently defend myself rather than calling her on it and she gets all uppity and then what do I do? Send her a huge apology email about how much I value her. Dayum I'm so weak! She should be giving me a free session for being so rude on my voicemail! Who is the mental health professional?
My daughter is ridiculously social. If I am to social situations like a CAT is to water then she is to social situations like a FISH is to water. She has scads of friends and invites and places to go and people to see. Any she's not even officially a teenager. My problem is that I try to compensate for my non-existent social graces and instead of using a healthy dose of "NO" to the affairs to which she is invited, I say "YES" almost 100% of the time. I'm already an absolute nut but this just magnifies it. It's a sickness. I do this with my boys too but they aren't as wildly popular as my daughter and I find it easier to say "NO" to them. I'm some subdued version of the Texas Cheerleader Mom. But I'm not gonna take a hit out on someone.
Well the whistle has blown and I gotta go sit in the stands and pretend like I understand the rules and cheer on my kid's team. But I draw the line at spirit gear. I will not wear spirit gear or any t-shirt that describes me in sequins or other bedazzled bling as "____ - mom" where you insert said sport of your child. I'd rather be a tool and wear my god-awful fleece that has the hospital logo and MD on it, proclaiming to the the world that I am incapable of being sorted into the mainstream.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
I shouldn't care because I'm supposed to be a selfless entity because that's what mothers are supposed to be: completely selfless. My mother is. I am not. My oldest has a water polo tournament and there are other parents that I have to talk to but I don't have anything to say and no one really wants to talk to each other. It's forced niceness. It's like sitting next to the stranger on the airplane. Everyone just wants to bury their nose into their own world but this is worse because a flight is only a couple of hours and you never see the person again. At your kids' sporting events you have to see the same people with some frequency and you don't want people thinking you are a complete asshole.
The worst are the other parents that you know from tournament teams or summer leagues. You are thrown together for a weekend or a summer and so you know each other but no more than you know the kid who bags your groceries and yet you have to smile and make fake conversation. It's the absolute worst. Why can't we just say what we're really thinking?
"This whole thing would be A WHOLE LOT MORE TOLERABLE WITH ALCOHOL!"
Or
"You're the asshole that pressures your mediocre kid so much that I WANT to wet my pants."
Or
"I've spent $5000 on my kids' extra-curricular activities and it's only March. How much are you in the hole?"
Or
"I wouldn't look like a greasy, man-hating lesbian if I wasn't constantly driving my kids around to their expensive activities and I had time to shower and put on clean underwear."
Or
"How long has it been since your last shower?"
Along the same lines, but not really, I have FOMO for my kids. Recently I learned this term from the residents that I teach. FOMO is fear of missing out. It leads you to do stupid stuff. My life is completely ruled by guilt and by FOMO. My kids have FOMO by Proxy. It's the reason I live such a scattered shit-storm of a life. I don't want ANYONE to EVER be upset or disappointed with me so I say yes to as many possible people and situations as possible. You think I'm kidding. I'm not. I'm a total people pleaser. It's pathologic. My psychiatrist just got pissed off at me recently because I canceled 5 minutes before our session. She charged me and I knew she would but somehow she thought I'd be mad about this and left me a message and told me she was going to charge me and "don't have a shit fit." I left her a message apologizing and extolling my responsible character reminding her I'd only cancelled last minute about 3 times in 20 years. For me last minute is literally last minute. She considers last minute to be within 24 hours. Apparently I cancel within 24 hours with some frequency (and with some frequency I mean about 6 times in the past 12 months). She never charged me for those other times but let me reschedule even though the policy is to charge if you cancel within 24 hours. She's been lenient, I get it. Who is NOT gonna try to pay less and not get charged for something that doesn't happen? But she's just as guilty as me. So when she left her message and told me not to have a shit-fit because she was charging me it seemed a little unnecessarily harsh. I might be cheap, but I'm also an adult and I get it. So I tried to defend myself to her when I left her a voice mail. THEN, she emailed me and reminded me of all my egregiousness this past year and it's hard to read tone in an email, but she was definitely snappy. I tell you all of this because it's a great example of me trying to have everybody like me. SHE tells ME not to have a shit-fit (unprofessional and inappropriate, right?) and I try to gently defend myself rather than calling her on it and she gets all uppity and then what do I do? Send her a huge apology email about how much I value her. Dayum I'm so weak! She should be giving me a free session for being so rude on my voicemail! Who is the mental health professional?
My daughter is ridiculously social. If I am to social situations like a CAT is to water then she is to social situations like a FISH is to water. She has scads of friends and invites and places to go and people to see. Any she's not even officially a teenager. My problem is that I try to compensate for my non-existent social graces and instead of using a healthy dose of "NO" to the affairs to which she is invited, I say "YES" almost 100% of the time. I'm already an absolute nut but this just magnifies it. It's a sickness. I do this with my boys too but they aren't as wildly popular as my daughter and I find it easier to say "NO" to them. I'm some subdued version of the Texas Cheerleader Mom. But I'm not gonna take a hit out on someone.
Well the whistle has blown and I gotta go sit in the stands and pretend like I understand the rules and cheer on my kid's team. But I draw the line at spirit gear. I will not wear spirit gear or any t-shirt that describes me in sequins or other bedazzled bling as "____ - mom" where you insert said sport of your child. I'd rather be a tool and wear my god-awful fleece that has the hospital logo and MD on it, proclaiming to the the world that I am incapable of being sorted into the mainstream.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
Wednesday, March 16, 2016
Thoughts have been swirling in my head for days. I can't keep denying the urge to write. I don't know if I'll post this one. Everyone has a blog now. Everyone writes their thoughts. In some ways its good and in some ways nothing is sacred any longer. I've been ecclesiastical in my thoughts lately. Everything is perplexing and everything is for naught. We all scuttle around this earth and none of it really matters. Everyone is looking out for themselves and their own best interest.
I have family who live in the same town as me and yet we might as well be in different hemispheres. I have friends in a different hemisphere and I'm closer to them than the oceans and time zones that keep us apart. I spent years of my life afraid to speak my mind and feeling unvalued and invisible. Now I freely speak my mind but others don't always value my thoughts and/or appreciate my transparency. I want my actions to speak louder than my words but most days my words cast an opaque shadow over my actions, distorting or obscuring my intentions. I don't want my children to want for anything but in giving them everything I fear they will lack hunger for relevant things.
The area of my circle has become overwhelming. The formula never changes; πr2. There is a constant and a variable. When you are increasing the radius by an exponent of two, even the slightest adjustment significantly changes the area of your circle. I keep pushing that radius just a little bit more and suddenly my landscape is a venn diagram of overlapping crop circles. The problem is the landscaping is killing me. It's just too much maintenance. I've no sooner mowed down one area when another is so overgrown that I no longer need a mower but a machete. The grass is so tall and dense that I loose my bearings and I never remember to bring my compass. I find my way home, but I'm dehydrated and my legs are all scratched up and I'm covered in insect bites.
And yet I have everything I need within the distance of an outstretched hand. I need to put the binoculars away because I've been looking through the wrong end this whole time.
God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
Courage to change the things I can,
And wisdom to know the difference.
I have family who live in the same town as me and yet we might as well be in different hemispheres. I have friends in a different hemisphere and I'm closer to them than the oceans and time zones that keep us apart. I spent years of my life afraid to speak my mind and feeling unvalued and invisible. Now I freely speak my mind but others don't always value my thoughts and/or appreciate my transparency. I want my actions to speak louder than my words but most days my words cast an opaque shadow over my actions, distorting or obscuring my intentions. I don't want my children to want for anything but in giving them everything I fear they will lack hunger for relevant things.
The area of my circle has become overwhelming. The formula never changes; πr2. There is a constant and a variable. When you are increasing the radius by an exponent of two, even the slightest adjustment significantly changes the area of your circle. I keep pushing that radius just a little bit more and suddenly my landscape is a venn diagram of overlapping crop circles. The problem is the landscaping is killing me. It's just too much maintenance. I've no sooner mowed down one area when another is so overgrown that I no longer need a mower but a machete. The grass is so tall and dense that I loose my bearings and I never remember to bring my compass. I find my way home, but I'm dehydrated and my legs are all scratched up and I'm covered in insect bites.
And yet I have everything I need within the distance of an outstretched hand. I need to put the binoculars away because I've been looking through the wrong end this whole time.
God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
Courage to change the things I can,
And wisdom to know the difference.
Thursday, January 28, 2016
Yup...
"Humility is not thinking less of yourself, it's thinking of yourself less." C.S. Lewis
I have my mom here in my house with me after a prolonged hospitalization. She's never been what I'd consider frail and as I see her now, she has never been weaker or more dependent. I was terribly anxious before she arrived. Would she be too needy? Will I be able to juggle, simultaneously, my most demanding roles; wife, mother, daughter, doctor. I unabashedly admit that my family has been subject to a few ugly outbursts lately. Let me clarify that statement; my children have been casualties of the not-so-friendly fire. When things are spinning out of control you grasp on to what's closest for some sense of stability.
I recently had an episode of vertigo. I've diagnosed it plenty of times but I had never experienced it myself. Any time I'd make a sudden movement or lie back in my bed the room would orbit around me so rapidly that I'd have to stop and cling on to anything in my proximity to reorient myself. The worst of the symptoms lasted for about 2 weeks and for those 2 weeks I was desperately grasping for stability in my own shaky world. It's kind of a good metaphor for what's been going on with my mom. And it's kind of clever of God to have put my mother's medical predicament on the heels of my own case of vertigo. Quite simply, with my mom's illness, I had the rug pulled out from underneath my world and I've been in free fall ever since. I've prayed for A LOT the past 3 weeks and, mostly, my prayers have been unspoken. One night, when she was in the ICU and I could no longer take looking at her monitor and all the abnormalities and flashing lights or listen to the chaos of alarms and buzzers and bings and pings, I walked down to the hospital chapel at 3 am. There was one man in there praying, but he soon left and it was just me and God and the 4 walls and I had no words. And even though I was terrified, I didn't even have tears. I don't have a beautiful voice. I sing at church, but always in subdued tones because I don't want to offend people since I'm so out of key. But that night, I didn't care. As I said, it was only me and God and so I reached for the hymnal and sang out loud with as much volume as I could muster. As I sang the words, these hymns of my childhood, they became my prayers.
As a human, I'm prone to human frailties such as trying to establish order in a disorganized world. Lately, because I can not control my circumstances I've been attempting to control other people and situations, mainly my children. Things that are seemingly small or have little significance have taken on distorted proportions. It's as though they are my minions and their programming has gone haywire and ...
I m u s t b r i n g t h e m b a c k t o s u b m i s s i o n. It's never good when you look for an outside solution to an inside problem. You gotta fix the inside before you can focus on the outside. Luckily my kids (and my husband) are pretty cool so they recognize when I'm getting my broom out of the closet and they take cover.
The past 2 days I've been to bible study and with respect to and regardless of anyone's belief system, my faith is my anchor. I've been moored in shallow waters lately and that's a good thing. The God of the universe is bigger than all of this and he's bigger than you or me or our hopes for today or worries for tomorrow. His grace is sufficient for me today; for this moment. He is in the boat with me. He awakens when he hears my cry. He is enough (and I don't need to have my kids organize their binders or closets or create a chore chart to bring order to my world).
I have my mom here in my house with me after a prolonged hospitalization. She's never been what I'd consider frail and as I see her now, she has never been weaker or more dependent. I was terribly anxious before she arrived. Would she be too needy? Will I be able to juggle, simultaneously, my most demanding roles; wife, mother, daughter, doctor. I unabashedly admit that my family has been subject to a few ugly outbursts lately. Let me clarify that statement; my children have been casualties of the not-so-friendly fire. When things are spinning out of control you grasp on to what's closest for some sense of stability.
I recently had an episode of vertigo. I've diagnosed it plenty of times but I had never experienced it myself. Any time I'd make a sudden movement or lie back in my bed the room would orbit around me so rapidly that I'd have to stop and cling on to anything in my proximity to reorient myself. The worst of the symptoms lasted for about 2 weeks and for those 2 weeks I was desperately grasping for stability in my own shaky world. It's kind of a good metaphor for what's been going on with my mom. And it's kind of clever of God to have put my mother's medical predicament on the heels of my own case of vertigo. Quite simply, with my mom's illness, I had the rug pulled out from underneath my world and I've been in free fall ever since. I've prayed for A LOT the past 3 weeks and, mostly, my prayers have been unspoken. One night, when she was in the ICU and I could no longer take looking at her monitor and all the abnormalities and flashing lights or listen to the chaos of alarms and buzzers and bings and pings, I walked down to the hospital chapel at 3 am. There was one man in there praying, but he soon left and it was just me and God and the 4 walls and I had no words. And even though I was terrified, I didn't even have tears. I don't have a beautiful voice. I sing at church, but always in subdued tones because I don't want to offend people since I'm so out of key. But that night, I didn't care. As I said, it was only me and God and so I reached for the hymnal and sang out loud with as much volume as I could muster. As I sang the words, these hymns of my childhood, they became my prayers.
As a human, I'm prone to human frailties such as trying to establish order in a disorganized world. Lately, because I can not control my circumstances I've been attempting to control other people and situations, mainly my children. Things that are seemingly small or have little significance have taken on distorted proportions. It's as though they are my minions and their programming has gone haywire and ...
I m u s t b r i n g t h e m b a c k t o s u b m i s s i o n. It's never good when you look for an outside solution to an inside problem. You gotta fix the inside before you can focus on the outside. Luckily my kids (and my husband) are pretty cool so they recognize when I'm getting my broom out of the closet and they take cover.
The past 2 days I've been to bible study and with respect to and regardless of anyone's belief system, my faith is my anchor. I've been moored in shallow waters lately and that's a good thing. The God of the universe is bigger than all of this and he's bigger than you or me or our hopes for today or worries for tomorrow. His grace is sufficient for me today; for this moment. He is in the boat with me. He awakens when he hears my cry. He is enough (and I don't need to have my kids organize their binders or closets or create a chore chart to bring order to my world).
Saturday, October 24, 2015
Lumpy Love
Looking through old photographs is heart shaped. Remember that moment right there? Everyone felt warm on the inside. See those kids over there? The toothless ones with the dirty faces? They are bigger now. On that one, the nose looks different and the round features have sharpened. They, those kids, are pops of love, bursting forth with radiant goodness.
If I keep scrolling with the mouse I can travel 5, 10, 15 years just like that. What happened? When he was 2 and when she was 3 and when he was 6 the minutes were long and the days longer.
Make a family tree. That's what the teachers always say to them. Make a family tree. I stomp. Really? Again? But I melt. Those teachers don't do it for them. They do it for the yous and the mes. The good ones know. The good ones are also heart shaped. Even though I mumble under my breath, they are heart shaped teachers. Learn about your tribe. That is what they are telling them. Know your tribe. Add them up. Put them in rows and then stack them in your heart.
The pictures tell the story of love. You know the story. The one Paul talks about in the bible when he is talking to those Corinthians. When you look at the pictures you know exactly what he means, Paul and that whole love thing he is trying to tell those Corinthians. Lots of preachers at weddings read that love thing, the one Paul says to the Corinthians; what they outta do. But when you are up there in your expensive dress and he's in his rented tuxedo those words are like the flowers; they are just decorations. The rain could wash it away.
But when you scroll that mouse past 15 years you finally understand what Paul was trying to explain to those thick skulled Corinthians. The unperfect moments, those are the love moments. That was the year I was mad at her. That was the before the time her mind got sick. That was the time all the cousins were sticky and laughing because their hearts were so full that they didn't even know it. Those are the old people. They know so much they can't even tell us because we would never even believe them. They shake their heads in disbelief because they know we'll finally understand when the days get shorter.
Mostly they don't care too much about themselves any more, the old people. All those things they cared about when they were us, well they've figured out that getting the last cookie isn't so great. Because if there aren't enough cookies to share then it really isn't a fun party. I can see a glimpse of it. I can see a glimpse of how we are supposed to love. It's like riding your bike as fast as you can and taking your feet off the pedals. It's pumping your legs till the swing won't go any higher and you put your head back and float. It's sharing the egg beaters when there is cookie dough. It's belly laughing with your best friend or your favorite cousin until your face hurts and you just might pee yourself. It is sitting with your gramma when she can no longer make words because of the 4,672,924 hours she spent with you. It's showing up. Even when you don't want to because you don't know what to say or it might be awkward or uncomfortable and it certainly won't be glamorous or profitable. It's undivided attention. The real love, the love that isn't just red, but sometimes it's green or purple or even black, it's heart shaped because it isn't about me at all. It's about you and them.
Looking through old photographs is heart shaped because it tells the story of lumpy love. When you put all those photos on a tree and you look at your tribe and you look from beginning to end you can see that love is spelled differently. It's got more than four letters. If you look real close, love looks like it is spelled S A C R I F I C E.
If I keep scrolling with the mouse I can travel 5, 10, 15 years just like that. What happened? When he was 2 and when she was 3 and when he was 6 the minutes were long and the days longer.
Make a family tree. That's what the teachers always say to them. Make a family tree. I stomp. Really? Again? But I melt. Those teachers don't do it for them. They do it for the yous and the mes. The good ones know. The good ones are also heart shaped. Even though I mumble under my breath, they are heart shaped teachers. Learn about your tribe. That is what they are telling them. Know your tribe. Add them up. Put them in rows and then stack them in your heart.
The pictures tell the story of love. You know the story. The one Paul talks about in the bible when he is talking to those Corinthians. When you look at the pictures you know exactly what he means, Paul and that whole love thing he is trying to tell those Corinthians. Lots of preachers at weddings read that love thing, the one Paul says to the Corinthians; what they outta do. But when you are up there in your expensive dress and he's in his rented tuxedo those words are like the flowers; they are just decorations. The rain could wash it away.
But when you scroll that mouse past 15 years you finally understand what Paul was trying to explain to those thick skulled Corinthians. The unperfect moments, those are the love moments. That was the year I was mad at her. That was the before the time her mind got sick. That was the time all the cousins were sticky and laughing because their hearts were so full that they didn't even know it. Those are the old people. They know so much they can't even tell us because we would never even believe them. They shake their heads in disbelief because they know we'll finally understand when the days get shorter.
Mostly they don't care too much about themselves any more, the old people. All those things they cared about when they were us, well they've figured out that getting the last cookie isn't so great. Because if there aren't enough cookies to share then it really isn't a fun party. I can see a glimpse of it. I can see a glimpse of how we are supposed to love. It's like riding your bike as fast as you can and taking your feet off the pedals. It's pumping your legs till the swing won't go any higher and you put your head back and float. It's sharing the egg beaters when there is cookie dough. It's belly laughing with your best friend or your favorite cousin until your face hurts and you just might pee yourself. It is sitting with your gramma when she can no longer make words because of the 4,672,924 hours she spent with you. It's showing up. Even when you don't want to because you don't know what to say or it might be awkward or uncomfortable and it certainly won't be glamorous or profitable. It's undivided attention. The real love, the love that isn't just red, but sometimes it's green or purple or even black, it's heart shaped because it isn't about me at all. It's about you and them.
Looking through old photographs is heart shaped because it tells the story of lumpy love. When you put all those photos on a tree and you look at your tribe and you look from beginning to end you can see that love is spelled differently. It's got more than four letters. If you look real close, love looks like it is spelled S A C R I F I C E.
Friday, October 16, 2015
Giants
Right now there is no joy.
Utter darkness is all around me. Literally.
I am shrouded in a dark sadness.
It won't last forever but I am burdened. Heavy hearted.
When I was young I could conquer giants. Now I just want to move around them; like road blocks.
What is the path of least resistance? It doesn't matter because there will be another giant in the road.
Staring me down. Roaring his great roar. Shaking his great fist. I'm not scared.
I'm just tired.
I'm not alone. I look to my left and to my right and those around me are staring at their own giants.
Their giants are fiercer than mine. One girl's giant - it has fangs and sharp claws. He is reaching for her and trying to crush her with his fist. I want to help her. But I can't. I don't even have pebbles to toss his way; to make him stumble. I yell to her, "Look over here. You are not alone!". I can see the sorrow in her face. I can hear her anguished cries. God, why do I have to watch this.
Sometimes the giant sleeps. He snores loud, rattling, wheezy snores. I like it when he sleeps. When he wakes up he is in a better mood and we can exist together. He's doing his giant things and I'm doing my people things. Once, he got a thorn in his flesh and he was pissed off. He thought it was my fault. He actually spit at me. Can you believe it? Giant slobber all over my body. That happened the other day. I'm still shaking off the giant goo. It's sticky stuff and sometimes it feels like it is crushing me from all directions.
I'm traveling through the valley right now. A valley full of giants. I'll make it through to the other side. I hope the others do too. I worry about them. Loosing their footing here or there. Stumbling and not being able to get back up. Sometimes (and this is the worst) the other girls lose their direction. They'll get off the path and go the wrong way. When that happens it's like their minds get poisoned. I don't know if it's the fear of having gotten off the correct path or maybe they ingest some toxin. When they find you they charge you with their steely daggers. Sometimes, even if you are quick, they will cut you just a bit and the sting is so, so sharp. Even if there isn't much blood. I don't know why they come at you like you are the enemy. Like you are the giant. I know this girl and I know she's not thinking straight; she has poison blood. But the betrayal hurts worse than the daggers.
I see one girl down the road. She is limping along. She's tiny but she has fire in her eyes. All the giants fear her. They've all talked about her. Sized her up, taken their shots. No matter what weapon they try to use against her, she has super powers all packed into that teeny little person. They respect her but these giants are bullies and they knock her down but she just gets right back up. She's like a rubber ball. I like her.
These are my giants and some of theirs.
Utter darkness is all around me. Literally.
I am shrouded in a dark sadness.
It won't last forever but I am burdened. Heavy hearted.
When I was young I could conquer giants. Now I just want to move around them; like road blocks.
What is the path of least resistance? It doesn't matter because there will be another giant in the road.
Staring me down. Roaring his great roar. Shaking his great fist. I'm not scared.
I'm just tired.
I'm not alone. I look to my left and to my right and those around me are staring at their own giants.
Their giants are fiercer than mine. One girl's giant - it has fangs and sharp claws. He is reaching for her and trying to crush her with his fist. I want to help her. But I can't. I don't even have pebbles to toss his way; to make him stumble. I yell to her, "Look over here. You are not alone!". I can see the sorrow in her face. I can hear her anguished cries. God, why do I have to watch this.
Sometimes the giant sleeps. He snores loud, rattling, wheezy snores. I like it when he sleeps. When he wakes up he is in a better mood and we can exist together. He's doing his giant things and I'm doing my people things. Once, he got a thorn in his flesh and he was pissed off. He thought it was my fault. He actually spit at me. Can you believe it? Giant slobber all over my body. That happened the other day. I'm still shaking off the giant goo. It's sticky stuff and sometimes it feels like it is crushing me from all directions.
I'm traveling through the valley right now. A valley full of giants. I'll make it through to the other side. I hope the others do too. I worry about them. Loosing their footing here or there. Stumbling and not being able to get back up. Sometimes (and this is the worst) the other girls lose their direction. They'll get off the path and go the wrong way. When that happens it's like their minds get poisoned. I don't know if it's the fear of having gotten off the correct path or maybe they ingest some toxin. When they find you they charge you with their steely daggers. Sometimes, even if you are quick, they will cut you just a bit and the sting is so, so sharp. Even if there isn't much blood. I don't know why they come at you like you are the enemy. Like you are the giant. I know this girl and I know she's not thinking straight; she has poison blood. But the betrayal hurts worse than the daggers.
I see one girl down the road. She is limping along. She's tiny but she has fire in her eyes. All the giants fear her. They've all talked about her. Sized her up, taken their shots. No matter what weapon they try to use against her, she has super powers all packed into that teeny little person. They respect her but these giants are bullies and they knock her down but she just gets right back up. She's like a rubber ball. I like her.
These are my giants and some of theirs.
Sunday, April 19, 2015
Denominator
I've been thinking about this one for several days now. Every time I think about sitting down to write I just can't do it; it's too overwhelming. How do I, in one post, share my gratitude for all the women in my life? It's too much and there are too many.
From conception I've been surrounded by strong, fierce women: my mother, my grandmothers, my aunts, my cousins, my friends, my colleagues, my steps, my MILs, my SILs, my nieces, my daughter. I try to demonstrate friendship to my daughter. I hope she can see it and I hope she never takes her female relationships for granted.
Over the years I've lost contact with so many women with whom I was once very close, but not for one second does that diminish the impact they have had on my life, the magnitude of their effect. A couple of months ago I was having a conversation with my boss, a man for whom I have great respect and admiration, and I made the passing comment of how time goes so quickly and his observation was this...the denominator gets bigger.
When I was young I would mourn the loss of friendships as though it was a light that had been extinguished but as my denominator gets bigger I realize that these fading friendships are more akin to a star that still continues to burn bright, giving off light long past its expiration date. If Annie and I could sit and flip through the photo album of my life I'd take her on a journey and introduce her to all the women who have given me pieces of themselves.
I don't feel the same sense of urgency with my boys. They will get through life unscathed. But Annie, please listen:
It's imperative you comprehend the magnitude of sisterhood. Perhaps because your father and I didn't provide you with a sister I am compelled to impart this wisdom to you; cherish the women in your life. Nurture friendships and even after they seem to no longer have any life in them, put them on the shelf with all your best trophies. Give them a place of honor. Teach your daughters to stand shoulder to shoulder with the other women in their lives and tell them, often they will have to lean on these women for strength or stand on their shoulders because they think they just might not make it another day. Give the gift of time. Your house can wait, your laundry can wait, groceries can wait but relationships happen in the midst of the mundane. Drink coffee with your 90 year old neighbor, watch the young mother's baby so she can run an errand, sit with your friend during her doctor's appointment. In the blink of an eye it will be gone and you are never going to regret another unfolded basket of laundry but you will regret not spending the time because there is no way to get it back.
The denominator gets bigger but it is not infinite. Spend your time wisely. It is a gift. Live. Love. Cherish.
From conception I've been surrounded by strong, fierce women: my mother, my grandmothers, my aunts, my cousins, my friends, my colleagues, my steps, my MILs, my SILs, my nieces, my daughter. I try to demonstrate friendship to my daughter. I hope she can see it and I hope she never takes her female relationships for granted.
Over the years I've lost contact with so many women with whom I was once very close, but not for one second does that diminish the impact they have had on my life, the magnitude of their effect. A couple of months ago I was having a conversation with my boss, a man for whom I have great respect and admiration, and I made the passing comment of how time goes so quickly and his observation was this...the denominator gets bigger.
When I was young I would mourn the loss of friendships as though it was a light that had been extinguished but as my denominator gets bigger I realize that these fading friendships are more akin to a star that still continues to burn bright, giving off light long past its expiration date. If Annie and I could sit and flip through the photo album of my life I'd take her on a journey and introduce her to all the women who have given me pieces of themselves.
I don't feel the same sense of urgency with my boys. They will get through life unscathed. But Annie, please listen:
It's imperative you comprehend the magnitude of sisterhood. Perhaps because your father and I didn't provide you with a sister I am compelled to impart this wisdom to you; cherish the women in your life. Nurture friendships and even after they seem to no longer have any life in them, put them on the shelf with all your best trophies. Give them a place of honor. Teach your daughters to stand shoulder to shoulder with the other women in their lives and tell them, often they will have to lean on these women for strength or stand on their shoulders because they think they just might not make it another day. Give the gift of time. Your house can wait, your laundry can wait, groceries can wait but relationships happen in the midst of the mundane. Drink coffee with your 90 year old neighbor, watch the young mother's baby so she can run an errand, sit with your friend during her doctor's appointment. In the blink of an eye it will be gone and you are never going to regret another unfolded basket of laundry but you will regret not spending the time because there is no way to get it back.
The denominator gets bigger but it is not infinite. Spend your time wisely. It is a gift. Live. Love. Cherish.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)