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.
Saturday, October 24, 2015
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.
Monday, February 9, 2015
The Bayou
Thinking about making a run for the border and I don't mean Taco Bell. I wonder how hard it would be to swim across the Rio Grande the other way and disappear into Mexico? I could make my way to the Riviera Maya and work cleaning luxury hotel rooms. I'd assume a new identity.
The sick thing is I'd do it if I could secretly spy on how upside down my family's life would become. Not from "oh how tragic the mother has disappeared" but the "what the fuck? Who has to be where and at what time and what's the passcode to the checking account and wait a minute, you have to file insurance claims and there is a birthday party when and who's gonna pick me up after school and buy me a new lunch box and make sure the dogs go to the vet and the tires get rotated and find all the tax deduction receipts....". I'd only have to think about me. Seems like a selfish fantasy but a girl can dream, no? Maybe I'd take my dogs, but only the one that doesn't shit in my closet. I don't even want to deal with that level of neediness.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
The sick thing is I'd do it if I could secretly spy on how upside down my family's life would become. Not from "oh how tragic the mother has disappeared" but the "what the fuck? Who has to be where and at what time and what's the passcode to the checking account and wait a minute, you have to file insurance claims and there is a birthday party when and who's gonna pick me up after school and buy me a new lunch box and make sure the dogs go to the vet and the tires get rotated and find all the tax deduction receipts....". I'd only have to think about me. Seems like a selfish fantasy but a girl can dream, no? Maybe I'd take my dogs, but only the one that doesn't shit in my closet. I don't even want to deal with that level of neediness.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
Sunday, November 9, 2014
When Neighbors Move
I don't deal well with change. I never have. It's a character flaw, I know. The worst kind of change, for me, are departures. At this point in my life I'm closer to the grave than to the cradle so, by now, you would think that I have adapted, evolved, come up with coping mechanisms. That could not be further from the truth. As a matter of fact, I think it's gotten worse.
It's rather selfish, wanting things to always stay the same. Logically, I know this. I am fully aware that I am more interested in maintaining balance in my own ecosystem than the evolution of man. To be quite honest, I completely identified with the father figure in "The Croods" and I think the family kill circle is rational mechanism of protection.
I think (and I realize that this post is full of the work "I") I take all types of change personally. For whatever reason, I just can't shake off those last vestiges of deep-rooted insecurity and when someone leaves I don't know how to NOT take it as a ballot cast in the "loves me not" bucket. Is this thinking f*cked up, rudimentary and childish? Yes.
This January we'll have lived in our current house for 16 years. All 3 of my kids have been brought home to this house, we've buried dozens of pets (not in our yard...don't worry it's not a pet cemetery out there. And mostly it's been rodents. And amphibians. And 2 dogs.) and seen countless neighbors come and go. I've lived in this house longer than I've lived any where else in my entire life. We've done 2 additions and added a swimming pool. I've rearranged furniture so many times that recently I just either threw away or donated 90% of it. Lee and I have completed fellowships, modified our careers, gone through illness, taken care of parents in the setting of our home. Our kitchen table has been the epicenter of homework, projects, mentoring, finance summits, bill paying, cookie baking, late nights with friends, tamale making, picture drawing, Scrabble competitions, sandwich preparation, bacon and chocolate chip pancake consumption, family meetings to discuss disappointments and to gather for celebrations. Our kids have learned to read, done math facts, learned Texas history, written (not enough) thank you notes, eaten thousands of chicken nuggets, gallons of macaroni and cheese, been subject to inconsistent morning devotionals, left letters and cookies for Santa Claus, formulated Christmas lists, plotted illness to skip school, taken ibuprofen for actual fevers and have transitioned from diapers to puberty in the same 3 seats.
When I came to Houston in 1991 (that's right, 23 years ago!) I never, ever thought I'd call it my home. Up to the time that I arrived here for medical school, I had moved 13 times in my 23 years of life. My first year of medical school I changed apartments 3 times because I didn't bother finding housing before I left Atlanta (a symptom of my ambivalence and depression at the onset of medical school). It wasn't until I met my husband that I began cultivating any sense of stability. I've lived in 3 different places since we've been together; the apartment I was living when we met, our first rental home and now our current home. I attended a different school for kindergarten, first grade, second grade and third grade and in 3 different states. This isn't a criticism of my parents. They were young and it was the 70s. If I psychoanalyze my husband, he'd have a similar tale to tell (but he doesn't like to be psychoanalyzed and perhaps his moves weren't so extreme-in some ways. In others they were probably worse or at least different). Nevertheless, neither one of us thought we'd be in the same house 16 years later and certainly not in Houston, TX.
In the movie, "It's a Wonderful Life", George Bailey wrestles with whether or not his existence has mattered. It's the basis of the whole movie. I've probably seen that movie about a hundred times and it is one of my all time favorites. I remember sitting in my den on the sofa in my pjs with my mom and my brother on Greenhill Drive watching it during Thanksgiving and Christmas break. I love the underlying expression of loyalty and the emphasis on what really matters. If you know me on more than just a superficial level, for better or worse, I've become attached to you-like a barnacle. You have to scrape me off and I'm old and crusty. I'm not very good at expressing my love for you and your people in a vocal kind of way, but love I do. I love the familiarity of your proximity and all the comfort that proximity brings. Do you have an egg I can borrow? Can my dog(s) camp out at your house? Should we go walk on the bayou (the cement ditch with the gnats and the homeless)? The beer bottles that stack when our men-folk talk nonsense. The running back and forth of our children across yards. There have been lots and lots of you have that have come into my life, made it richer, and then continued on your own journey. We all have a different trajectory and I mourn when yours doesn't follow mine. It's because I love you and I value you. So please don't take my sadness as rejection or judgment or irritation. It's just plain old sadness because I love you and, selfishly, I will miss the familiarity and I suck at change. But I know that you have your own story to create and your own kitchen table that will be central to that story. So, even though I'd love to envelop you into my family kill circle or trap you in my basement, it is a wonderful life. But I will miss the shit out of you.
It's rather selfish, wanting things to always stay the same. Logically, I know this. I am fully aware that I am more interested in maintaining balance in my own ecosystem than the evolution of man. To be quite honest, I completely identified with the father figure in "The Croods" and I think the family kill circle is rational mechanism of protection.
I think (and I realize that this post is full of the work "I") I take all types of change personally. For whatever reason, I just can't shake off those last vestiges of deep-rooted insecurity and when someone leaves I don't know how to NOT take it as a ballot cast in the "loves me not" bucket. Is this thinking f*cked up, rudimentary and childish? Yes.
This January we'll have lived in our current house for 16 years. All 3 of my kids have been brought home to this house, we've buried dozens of pets (not in our yard...don't worry it's not a pet cemetery out there. And mostly it's been rodents. And amphibians. And 2 dogs.) and seen countless neighbors come and go. I've lived in this house longer than I've lived any where else in my entire life. We've done 2 additions and added a swimming pool. I've rearranged furniture so many times that recently I just either threw away or donated 90% of it. Lee and I have completed fellowships, modified our careers, gone through illness, taken care of parents in the setting of our home. Our kitchen table has been the epicenter of homework, projects, mentoring, finance summits, bill paying, cookie baking, late nights with friends, tamale making, picture drawing, Scrabble competitions, sandwich preparation, bacon and chocolate chip pancake consumption, family meetings to discuss disappointments and to gather for celebrations. Our kids have learned to read, done math facts, learned Texas history, written (not enough) thank you notes, eaten thousands of chicken nuggets, gallons of macaroni and cheese, been subject to inconsistent morning devotionals, left letters and cookies for Santa Claus, formulated Christmas lists, plotted illness to skip school, taken ibuprofen for actual fevers and have transitioned from diapers to puberty in the same 3 seats.
When I came to Houston in 1991 (that's right, 23 years ago!) I never, ever thought I'd call it my home. Up to the time that I arrived here for medical school, I had moved 13 times in my 23 years of life. My first year of medical school I changed apartments 3 times because I didn't bother finding housing before I left Atlanta (a symptom of my ambivalence and depression at the onset of medical school). It wasn't until I met my husband that I began cultivating any sense of stability. I've lived in 3 different places since we've been together; the apartment I was living when we met, our first rental home and now our current home. I attended a different school for kindergarten, first grade, second grade and third grade and in 3 different states. This isn't a criticism of my parents. They were young and it was the 70s. If I psychoanalyze my husband, he'd have a similar tale to tell (but he doesn't like to be psychoanalyzed and perhaps his moves weren't so extreme-in some ways. In others they were probably worse or at least different). Nevertheless, neither one of us thought we'd be in the same house 16 years later and certainly not in Houston, TX.
In the movie, "It's a Wonderful Life", George Bailey wrestles with whether or not his existence has mattered. It's the basis of the whole movie. I've probably seen that movie about a hundred times and it is one of my all time favorites. I remember sitting in my den on the sofa in my pjs with my mom and my brother on Greenhill Drive watching it during Thanksgiving and Christmas break. I love the underlying expression of loyalty and the emphasis on what really matters. If you know me on more than just a superficial level, for better or worse, I've become attached to you-like a barnacle. You have to scrape me off and I'm old and crusty. I'm not very good at expressing my love for you and your people in a vocal kind of way, but love I do. I love the familiarity of your proximity and all the comfort that proximity brings. Do you have an egg I can borrow? Can my dog(s) camp out at your house? Should we go walk on the bayou (the cement ditch with the gnats and the homeless)? The beer bottles that stack when our men-folk talk nonsense. The running back and forth of our children across yards. There have been lots and lots of you have that have come into my life, made it richer, and then continued on your own journey. We all have a different trajectory and I mourn when yours doesn't follow mine. It's because I love you and I value you. So please don't take my sadness as rejection or judgment or irritation. It's just plain old sadness because I love you and, selfishly, I will miss the familiarity and I suck at change. But I know that you have your own story to create and your own kitchen table that will be central to that story. So, even though I'd love to envelop you into my family kill circle or trap you in my basement, it is a wonderful life. But I will miss the shit out of you.
Sunday, November 2, 2014
Grandmothers
I've spent dozens of nights in the Embassy Suites in Laredo and every time I'm here I wonder it it will be the last time I get to see my grandmother. Tomorrow she turns 94 years old. Her birthday has become somewhat of an international holiday. When she turned 90 there was a celebration in Mexico. Her 91st and 92nd birthdays were more low key, a backyard fiesta in Laredo. Her 93rd we were back down in Oaxaca. Her birthday coincides with Dia de los Muertos so it's always a fun time to go to Mexico. This year it was another back yard party complete with a piñata and pineapple upside down cake. I wouldn't miss this celebration for anything and whether or not my priorities are straight, I don't even care.
Actually, I have 2 grandmothers in Laredo. The other grandmother just turned a youthful 88 years old. She is mobile and seems to be closer to 70 years old than 90 years old. She just moved into her own 4 bedroom house, drives and reads voraciously. Whenever I get an opportunity to come to Laredo, despite the 6 hour drive, I hop in my car and go. My kids love coming here too. And they love the familiarity of the Embassy Suites and Abuelita Fina's backyard and Nana's irritable chihuahua and the routine of visiting; half the day at Nana's and half the day at Abuelita Fina's.
My daughter chose to stay in Houston with her dad so she could go trick or treating and I don't begrudge her that decision. In her 10 year old mind the benefits of limitless candy outweighed the benefits of a day off of school to travel.
Fina, my 94 year old grandmother, is pleasantly demented but still quick witted and sharp tongued. She vacillates between wondering when her deceased husband will return from work to delivering a razor sharp retort in a battle of the wits. My 71 year old uncle, her oldest son, teases her mercilessly and she loves it. The night we arrived we went to visit her and she was admiring my overly priced Louis Vuitton bag, caressing and coveting it. My uncle, in Spanish (she is wittiest in her native language and I can finally understand the back and forth), tells her that he will sell her my bag for $7 to which she responds she will only pay $5. They haggle over the price for a while and then when she begins to look at the contents of my bag my uncle scolds her and tells her not to be so nosy as his mistress' panties may be inside. I, however, draw a line at my Louis Vuitton bag. No matter how much I love and adore my Abuelita, she will never get my bag! I have real reason to be concerned as she is a bit of a hoarder and a thief. My 2 year old niece loves cell phones and the other night she cried when she had to return my son's cell phone to him, "Me pona!" This is my 94 year old grandmother as she is hiding my cousin's iPhone inside a jewelry box she just received and she becomes equally irate when my aunt, her youngest daughter, tries to take it away from her. To pacify her, I hand her my iPhone which she deftly squirrels away in the small jewelry box.
Magda, my 88 year old grandmother has no memory problems and hasn't regressed into a toddler. She is knowledgable in all areas and she can talk to you about politics and current events and she always has a new book to recommend. She married at age 15 and had her first child at age 16 and like my other grandmother, she has sacrificed. She has no bitterness or regret or anger, only calm wisdom. In talking to her, it becomes apparant that in the generation preceding mine and amongst your family, a tremendous sense of duty and obligation was cultivated. There was never room for individual rights and preferences. You did and still do what is right and best for the family, collectively. Brothers and sisters don't leave each other out to dry and they don't squabble over fairness. Personal rights take a back seat to family loyalty and honor and as I listen to her I am overcome with emotion. How can so much change in one generation? Suddenly my mother and her demands and her siblings and their acts of selflessness make more sense. This is how she and they were raised. You don't question your elders and you are your brother's keeper.
Some days I get frustrated with my own mother and her seeming demands on my time and my attention but in her generation's mind, this is what they are owed. They sowed their seeds and now they want to reap the harvest. We don't live in a world of honoring your elders above all else. We have our schedules and our activities and these win our attention time and time again and now I wonder what we are loosing in the process. This is why I love Laredo and my Abuelita and my Nana and my Tias and Tios. This place and these people anchor me.
Actually, I have 2 grandmothers in Laredo. The other grandmother just turned a youthful 88 years old. She is mobile and seems to be closer to 70 years old than 90 years old. She just moved into her own 4 bedroom house, drives and reads voraciously. Whenever I get an opportunity to come to Laredo, despite the 6 hour drive, I hop in my car and go. My kids love coming here too. And they love the familiarity of the Embassy Suites and Abuelita Fina's backyard and Nana's irritable chihuahua and the routine of visiting; half the day at Nana's and half the day at Abuelita Fina's.
My daughter chose to stay in Houston with her dad so she could go trick or treating and I don't begrudge her that decision. In her 10 year old mind the benefits of limitless candy outweighed the benefits of a day off of school to travel.
Fina, my 94 year old grandmother, is pleasantly demented but still quick witted and sharp tongued. She vacillates between wondering when her deceased husband will return from work to delivering a razor sharp retort in a battle of the wits. My 71 year old uncle, her oldest son, teases her mercilessly and she loves it. The night we arrived we went to visit her and she was admiring my overly priced Louis Vuitton bag, caressing and coveting it. My uncle, in Spanish (she is wittiest in her native language and I can finally understand the back and forth), tells her that he will sell her my bag for $7 to which she responds she will only pay $5. They haggle over the price for a while and then when she begins to look at the contents of my bag my uncle scolds her and tells her not to be so nosy as his mistress' panties may be inside. I, however, draw a line at my Louis Vuitton bag. No matter how much I love and adore my Abuelita, she will never get my bag! I have real reason to be concerned as she is a bit of a hoarder and a thief. My 2 year old niece loves cell phones and the other night she cried when she had to return my son's cell phone to him, "Me pona!" This is my 94 year old grandmother as she is hiding my cousin's iPhone inside a jewelry box she just received and she becomes equally irate when my aunt, her youngest daughter, tries to take it away from her. To pacify her, I hand her my iPhone which she deftly squirrels away in the small jewelry box.
Magda, my 88 year old grandmother has no memory problems and hasn't regressed into a toddler. She is knowledgable in all areas and she can talk to you about politics and current events and she always has a new book to recommend. She married at age 15 and had her first child at age 16 and like my other grandmother, she has sacrificed. She has no bitterness or regret or anger, only calm wisdom. In talking to her, it becomes apparant that in the generation preceding mine and amongst your family, a tremendous sense of duty and obligation was cultivated. There was never room for individual rights and preferences. You did and still do what is right and best for the family, collectively. Brothers and sisters don't leave each other out to dry and they don't squabble over fairness. Personal rights take a back seat to family loyalty and honor and as I listen to her I am overcome with emotion. How can so much change in one generation? Suddenly my mother and her demands and her siblings and their acts of selflessness make more sense. This is how she and they were raised. You don't question your elders and you are your brother's keeper.
Some days I get frustrated with my own mother and her seeming demands on my time and my attention but in her generation's mind, this is what they are owed. They sowed their seeds and now they want to reap the harvest. We don't live in a world of honoring your elders above all else. We have our schedules and our activities and these win our attention time and time again and now I wonder what we are loosing in the process. This is why I love Laredo and my Abuelita and my Nana and my Tias and Tios. This place and these people anchor me.
Sunday, August 31, 2014
A Day in the Life of an ER visit
I wish I was in a better mood, a joke telling mood. Normally I think I'm pretty funny. I can find humor in most situations. Right now I'm sitting in and ER with my middle kid. I don't think he is sick enough to justify a visit to the ER, but I couldn't take the moaning any more. It was more about my own self preservation than his illness. I know he's dehydrated and he won't drink so we're cheating and getting IV fluids. Because the resident found out my husband and I are teaching faculty my kid is getting the blood work they wouldn't normally get. I don't think it's necessary and they don't either but lots of times what dictates our actions in medicine is not what we think it is, but what we think it isn't. This is mostly so no one can turn around and claim we missed something. No one wants to miss a diagnosis on an attending's kid. Honestly, the moaning stopped as soon as we walked into the ER. "I'm in the hospital. I don't want to seem like I'm sick." he says. Really, we are in the emergency room. This is exactly the location you should be in if you're sick. Better to moan here than at home. Regardless, here we sit awaiting our thousand dollar work up to tell us what we already know; he has a viral infection and he's dehydrated. I do find solace in the other 80% of the families here who also have no business being in an emergency room. But it's probably worse that I'm a doctor. I should know better. I should be in an urgent care center and I thought this children's hospital had one, but they don't. So, I tried.
There weren't too many people here when we first arrived but they put us in a room with another family. It was a large family both in quality and quantity. Their noise level was out of proportion to the number present and it didn't help with the headache. My kid turned to me and said, "I hate them. I think they brought an entire continent with them." So I went and asked if they had a private room like I'm at the Ritz-Carlton or something. They obliged but I'm sure some snarky comments were made at my expense.
I told my kid that the triage medical tech had won the Miss Congeniality contest 3 years in a row. Normally people who work in a children's hospital are obnoxiously chipper but I get it; sick kids need distraction and ridiculously happy is distracting. This lady had the personality of the bottom of my shoe. I listened to the tech across the hall with envy. She was jokey and personable. Our lady seemed like she had suffered the effects of too much ECT. After triage where they took his vitals, they ushered us to some hard, plastic chairs where we sat till they called us to registration. "Would you like to pay your $100 co-pay?" I was asked. My own private thought bubble popped up and silently I said to myself, "No. Not really, but do I have a choice? It's either now or later." Then I handed over my already maxed out credit card.
After registration we sat in the lobby for a nanosecond. Just long enough for my kid to lie down and get comfortable and then get his name called again. At this point we were no longer audibly moaning in pain, but every little movement elicited grimaces (on the ride over he asked me to stop going over bumps b/c even riding in the car hurt. Since we live below sea level I could not accommodate his request). In the lobby I see lots of other kids who are playing on iPads and running around and looking too good to be here. Now we are just waiting, finally in our own, private, "suite" after completing the psychotic, virtual dot-to-dot ER process.
My other 2 kids have been left at home. This is okay with them because it means they can watch television for 8 hours straight with no one telling them to go do something productive. My daughter can watch YouTube video after YouTube video of teenaged girls singing the covers of sappy, Taylor Swift-esq love ballads and looking up decorating ideas for her room (because I am a sub-optimal designer in her eyes). And my oldest can play video games on his phone until his thumbs bleed. I've only gotten 2 phone calls from them and there was no panic on their end though they did express some concern regarding their brother's condition. "Overall his prognosis is good" I tell my daughter. "What does that mean?" she asks. "That he's gonna make it." Her response..."meh".
The sick kid is in heaven because he gets to watch Sponge Bob without having to compromise about the TV and he has a team of women waiting on him. I'm fighting off the final act of desperation...walking over to the McDonalds inside the hospital and getting him some curative french fries and myself a medium sized value meal...there is only so much Sponge Bob a grown woman can handle.
Well the resident is in here now and she's looking up his results (all normal) so I'd better go and act interested...
There weren't too many people here when we first arrived but they put us in a room with another family. It was a large family both in quality and quantity. Their noise level was out of proportion to the number present and it didn't help with the headache. My kid turned to me and said, "I hate them. I think they brought an entire continent with them." So I went and asked if they had a private room like I'm at the Ritz-Carlton or something. They obliged but I'm sure some snarky comments were made at my expense.
I told my kid that the triage medical tech had won the Miss Congeniality contest 3 years in a row. Normally people who work in a children's hospital are obnoxiously chipper but I get it; sick kids need distraction and ridiculously happy is distracting. This lady had the personality of the bottom of my shoe. I listened to the tech across the hall with envy. She was jokey and personable. Our lady seemed like she had suffered the effects of too much ECT. After triage where they took his vitals, they ushered us to some hard, plastic chairs where we sat till they called us to registration. "Would you like to pay your $100 co-pay?" I was asked. My own private thought bubble popped up and silently I said to myself, "No. Not really, but do I have a choice? It's either now or later." Then I handed over my already maxed out credit card.
After registration we sat in the lobby for a nanosecond. Just long enough for my kid to lie down and get comfortable and then get his name called again. At this point we were no longer audibly moaning in pain, but every little movement elicited grimaces (on the ride over he asked me to stop going over bumps b/c even riding in the car hurt. Since we live below sea level I could not accommodate his request). In the lobby I see lots of other kids who are playing on iPads and running around and looking too good to be here. Now we are just waiting, finally in our own, private, "suite" after completing the psychotic, virtual dot-to-dot ER process.
My other 2 kids have been left at home. This is okay with them because it means they can watch television for 8 hours straight with no one telling them to go do something productive. My daughter can watch YouTube video after YouTube video of teenaged girls singing the covers of sappy, Taylor Swift-esq love ballads and looking up decorating ideas for her room (because I am a sub-optimal designer in her eyes). And my oldest can play video games on his phone until his thumbs bleed. I've only gotten 2 phone calls from them and there was no panic on their end though they did express some concern regarding their brother's condition. "Overall his prognosis is good" I tell my daughter. "What does that mean?" she asks. "That he's gonna make it." Her response..."meh".
The sick kid is in heaven because he gets to watch Sponge Bob without having to compromise about the TV and he has a team of women waiting on him. I'm fighting off the final act of desperation...walking over to the McDonalds inside the hospital and getting him some curative french fries and myself a medium sized value meal...there is only so much Sponge Bob a grown woman can handle.
Well the resident is in here now and she's looking up his results (all normal) so I'd better go and act interested...
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