It's only Tuesday? Good grief. I need relief.
How far to Dodge?
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
Monday, May 15, 2006
Mother's Day
Yesterday was Mother’s Day. It’s always an awkward day for me. I am a parent, but not a Mom. I have a child, but she does not have a Mother.
Katherine, my (step) daughter, is 17. We’ve been together since she turned 10. Before that she had her real Mom, Rhonda. But Rhonda died just a few months before Katherine’s 10th birthday, and after that, I married Katherine’s Dad. It’s a lot for a kid to absorb. It’s also a lot for an adult to absorb.
Katherine and I have a good relationship. We’ve had to work on it though. We didn’t “fall in love” the way her Dad and I did. Our love for one another was more intentional. We learned to love one another. We looked for reasons to love one another. And we found them.
That’s not to say I wasn’t crazy about her when we met. I was. I remember thinking she was one of the coolest kids I‘d ever known. But it’s a different sort of relationship you build when there are more than 23 years difference in your age and there is no physical chemistry to bond you when the going gets rough.
I used to worry myself sick over whether or not I had the “mothering” instinct. After having lived by myself for nearly 10 years, I was fairly set in my ways. And my ways didn’t include watching The Lion King for the 100th time or stopping by McDonalds for a burger and fries. I tried to enjoy it. I tried to be caught up in the “wonder” of her excitement. But I often failed.
Thankfully, Katherine is a very mature kid and she always has been. Since I’ve known her I’ve been blown away, oh at least a hundred times, by her insight and understanding.
Sometimes I have to remind myself that she is really a kid. Often I look at her and think she has raised herself. I think she might be a very old soul, inside a child’s body, who is just waiting for the body to grow so she can fully express her wisdom. And she patiently endures our “parenting” while she waits for her body to grow.
The other day she picked Sam and I up from the airport after having stayed home alone for several days. Sam was doing a fair amount of passenger seat driving when she finally told him, “You know Dad. I’ve been driving for nearly a year now without you in the car. And I did get here to the airport without any help or advice from you whatsoever. But don’t worry about it – because I think your worrying is cute.”
See what I mean?
And sometimes I think she is raising me as well. I’ve learned so much from her in the last 7 years and it has come mostly from just watching.
So I guess what I am trying to say is that in spite of my somewhat suspect mothering instinct, the job of “raising Katherine” has been remarkably easy. Which is a good thing of course. Because if it had been really hard, who knows how things might have ended up.
And so on Mother’s Day, I have a lot to be grateful for, and yet it is typically a very awkward and uncertain day for me.
It’s a day on which I want to tell the whole world, “Yes! I am a Mother! I have a child! A daughter! You should meet her! She is so great!” I want to rejoice in the fact that I have been blessed with this amazing kid in my life, that I have been given the chance to be a Mom to this amazing kid even though I have never given birth to any children of my own.
But it’s also a day where Katherine finds herself feeling profoundly motherless. She knows I love her. She appreciates the role I play in her life. But on this day more than any other, she feels the deep and profound loss of knowing that her real Mother is dead. And on Mother’s Day of course, she wants to honor her Mom. And that is not me.
She gives me a small gift, and a non Mother’s Day card. And I accept, but feel like an imposter.
For the other 364 days of the year, things will be fine. I know this from experience.
But on this day, we’ll do this dance with one another to get through the day. She harbors her sadness, sheltering it from me because she doesn’t want me to be hurt. And I harbor my sadness, sheltering it from her because I don’t want her to feel it as a burden, or worse yet an obligation.
And the day passes.
Katherine, my (step) daughter, is 17. We’ve been together since she turned 10. Before that she had her real Mom, Rhonda. But Rhonda died just a few months before Katherine’s 10th birthday, and after that, I married Katherine’s Dad. It’s a lot for a kid to absorb. It’s also a lot for an adult to absorb.
Katherine and I have a good relationship. We’ve had to work on it though. We didn’t “fall in love” the way her Dad and I did. Our love for one another was more intentional. We learned to love one another. We looked for reasons to love one another. And we found them.
That’s not to say I wasn’t crazy about her when we met. I was. I remember thinking she was one of the coolest kids I‘d ever known. But it’s a different sort of relationship you build when there are more than 23 years difference in your age and there is no physical chemistry to bond you when the going gets rough.
I used to worry myself sick over whether or not I had the “mothering” instinct. After having lived by myself for nearly 10 years, I was fairly set in my ways. And my ways didn’t include watching The Lion King for the 100th time or stopping by McDonalds for a burger and fries. I tried to enjoy it. I tried to be caught up in the “wonder” of her excitement. But I often failed.
Thankfully, Katherine is a very mature kid and she always has been. Since I’ve known her I’ve been blown away, oh at least a hundred times, by her insight and understanding.
Sometimes I have to remind myself that she is really a kid. Often I look at her and think she has raised herself. I think she might be a very old soul, inside a child’s body, who is just waiting for the body to grow so she can fully express her wisdom. And she patiently endures our “parenting” while she waits for her body to grow.
The other day she picked Sam and I up from the airport after having stayed home alone for several days. Sam was doing a fair amount of passenger seat driving when she finally told him, “You know Dad. I’ve been driving for nearly a year now without you in the car. And I did get here to the airport without any help or advice from you whatsoever. But don’t worry about it – because I think your worrying is cute.”
See what I mean?
And sometimes I think she is raising me as well. I’ve learned so much from her in the last 7 years and it has come mostly from just watching.
So I guess what I am trying to say is that in spite of my somewhat suspect mothering instinct, the job of “raising Katherine” has been remarkably easy. Which is a good thing of course. Because if it had been really hard, who knows how things might have ended up.
And so on Mother’s Day, I have a lot to be grateful for, and yet it is typically a very awkward and uncertain day for me.
It’s a day on which I want to tell the whole world, “Yes! I am a Mother! I have a child! A daughter! You should meet her! She is so great!” I want to rejoice in the fact that I have been blessed with this amazing kid in my life, that I have been given the chance to be a Mom to this amazing kid even though I have never given birth to any children of my own.
But it’s also a day where Katherine finds herself feeling profoundly motherless. She knows I love her. She appreciates the role I play in her life. But on this day more than any other, she feels the deep and profound loss of knowing that her real Mother is dead. And on Mother’s Day of course, she wants to honor her Mom. And that is not me.
She gives me a small gift, and a non Mother’s Day card. And I accept, but feel like an imposter.
For the other 364 days of the year, things will be fine. I know this from experience.
But on this day, we’ll do this dance with one another to get through the day. She harbors her sadness, sheltering it from me because she doesn’t want me to be hurt. And I harbor my sadness, sheltering it from her because I don’t want her to feel it as a burden, or worse yet an obligation.
And the day passes.
Thursday, May 04, 2006
It's easy to do the right thing, when the right thing is easy to do.
I had lunch with my brother last week. He and I are definitely related. Not only do we look alike, but we have many of the same mannerisms, we struggle with many of the same issues, and of course we share the same history. Our relationship has always been intense. I’ve always said there is no one on this earth who can, in an instant, make me laugh harder or hurt me more intensely than my brother. We know each other more than I think we like to admit.
There have been whole years where we have gone without speaking to one another. We share the same quick temper and when those tempers flared, angry words were exchanged, lines in the sand were drawn, and in the after math, it was just easier to let the days pass than to make amends.
There have been many more good times than bad, however. We’ve spent hours and hours in intense conversation, discussing and analyzing our most important relationships and trying to make sense of the often strange dynamic that exists within our family. And there have been many more hours spent exchanging new music, sharing book and movie recommendations, trying out new restaurants, and going to concerts together. For most of our lives, we’ve been a team.
Of all the things I love about my brother, one of the things I admire most is his emotional complexity. His inner life is rich and complex and often complicated, and that’s not something he shies away from. One thing we share in common is that we both live with a voice in our heads that questions or criticizes nearly every thing we do. It’s exhausting, but because we have each lived with it for so long, it feels natural. One of the by- products of living with this voice is a propensity to worry. We are masters when it comes to stewing about things. And when it comes to an anxious stomach or a sleepless night – we’ve got it nailed.
So when my brother told me over lunch last week that he’d been unable to sleep for the last several days, I instantly related.
“What’s going on?” I asked. My brother began relaying his story.
Several days earlier, he had returned from lunch to his office and decided to park on the street rather than in the employee parking lot. He’d found a tight spot and carefully eased his car into it. As he returned later that afternoon, he noticed a parking control cop with lights flashing near where his car was parked. As he neared, he realized the officer was parked right next to his car and appeared to be inspecting his rear bumper. A woman he vaguely recognized as a fellow employee hovered nearby.
“This your car?” the officer inquired of my brother.
“Yes.”
“You park it?” he went on.
“Yes, why?”
“Well, it seems you banged up the car behind you pretty good trying to squeeze into that spot. You remember hittin’ the car behind you while you was parkin’?”
“No,” my brother answered, becoming alarmed.
“Well your paint‘s all over this lady’s bumper, and as you can see, you crunched her up pretty good.”
As it turns out, my brother had just touched up the paint on his rear bumper the night before, and sure enough, the fresh paint was on the front bumper of the car behind him. He knew he had tapped her as he’d edged into the spot. In fact he’d backed up until he felt his bumper touch hers before he started pulling forward again. But he knew for certain he hadn’t “crunched” anything.
He looked hard at the car behind him, and then more closely at the lady hovering nearby and quickly realized this was not headed in a good direction. The car in question had clearly been in an accident, but not one he had caused. He suspected the driver was looking for someone with insurance to pay for an earlier fender bender.
Now here is an interesting thing about that voice that lives in our heads. It can be our own worst enemy, taunting and nagging us till we want to throw our selves in front of a moving bus just to get it to shut up. But let someone else criticize us, or even hint at the suggestion that we’re wrong, and that voice jumps to our defense with the power of a ninja.
“What? You’re not going to let them get away with that are you? Do you see what that woman is trying to do? She is trying to nail you! You are being screwed, my friend. S-C-R-E-W-E-D!”
Thankfully, we’ve both learned not to listen to everything the voice suggests, but sometimes it’s just easier than others to ignore. This, it turned out, was not one of the easy times.
My brother got angry. He got defensive. He lost his cool. And before he knew what hit him, he was sporting not one, but two tickets – one for hitting a parked car and the other for parking more than 12 inches from the curb. And he had his very own date with a judge to chat about it further.
My brother was furious. He was angry at the owner of the car, he was angry at the cop, and he was angry with himself. For the next several days he stewed about it, playing the interaction over and over in his mind. He thought about what he could have said and done differently. He thought about how badly he’d been wronged. And in the middle of the night, when he couldn’t sleep because his mind was racing, he thought of revenge.
He knew his anger was wasted energy. He knew he was only torturing himself. Yet he couldn’t seem to let it go.
The day before our lunch, my brother saw the woman’s car parked on the street. Although he’d been looking for it, this was the first time he’d seen it. His fury rose. There was no one in sight. It was a perfect opportunity for revenge. He imagined the deep gash his key would make across her door. His heart raced. He pictured her frustration when she returned to her car to find all four tires flat. His palms began to sweat. He imagined the satisfaction he would feel at knowing he had been vindicated.
And then, in a moment that he described as feeling “other worldly”, he reached into his pocket, dug out some change and began feeding her parking meter. He emptied his pockets, and then went back to his car to get more. He fed the meter with every bit of change he could find, filling it beyond its limit.
My eyes brimmed with tears as I listened.
“I couldn’t imagine how that could help,” he told me. “I only knew I didn’t want to continue feeling the way I’d been feeling. I did it with faith that an act of generosity would be more powerful than an act of revenge. But in the moment, I really, truly, couldn’t believe it was anything other than ridiculous.”
I asked him how he felt now, 24 hours after having fed her meter. “I feel better,” he said. “I slept last night.”
This very rarely happens to me, but I was at a loss for words.
It’s easy to do the right thing when the right thing is easy to do. It’s much harder when you are feeling hurt and angry and your mind is itching for revenge. And it is nearly impossible when your faith feels empty because you can’t even imagine, let alone believe, that your actions could make a difference.
I believe my brother to be a giant of a person. And I couldn’t love him more.
There have been whole years where we have gone without speaking to one another. We share the same quick temper and when those tempers flared, angry words were exchanged, lines in the sand were drawn, and in the after math, it was just easier to let the days pass than to make amends.
There have been many more good times than bad, however. We’ve spent hours and hours in intense conversation, discussing and analyzing our most important relationships and trying to make sense of the often strange dynamic that exists within our family. And there have been many more hours spent exchanging new music, sharing book and movie recommendations, trying out new restaurants, and going to concerts together. For most of our lives, we’ve been a team.
Of all the things I love about my brother, one of the things I admire most is his emotional complexity. His inner life is rich and complex and often complicated, and that’s not something he shies away from. One thing we share in common is that we both live with a voice in our heads that questions or criticizes nearly every thing we do. It’s exhausting, but because we have each lived with it for so long, it feels natural. One of the by- products of living with this voice is a propensity to worry. We are masters when it comes to stewing about things. And when it comes to an anxious stomach or a sleepless night – we’ve got it nailed.
So when my brother told me over lunch last week that he’d been unable to sleep for the last several days, I instantly related.
“What’s going on?” I asked. My brother began relaying his story.
Several days earlier, he had returned from lunch to his office and decided to park on the street rather than in the employee parking lot. He’d found a tight spot and carefully eased his car into it. As he returned later that afternoon, he noticed a parking control cop with lights flashing near where his car was parked. As he neared, he realized the officer was parked right next to his car and appeared to be inspecting his rear bumper. A woman he vaguely recognized as a fellow employee hovered nearby.
“This your car?” the officer inquired of my brother.
“Yes.”
“You park it?” he went on.
“Yes, why?”
“Well, it seems you banged up the car behind you pretty good trying to squeeze into that spot. You remember hittin’ the car behind you while you was parkin’?”
“No,” my brother answered, becoming alarmed.
“Well your paint‘s all over this lady’s bumper, and as you can see, you crunched her up pretty good.”
As it turns out, my brother had just touched up the paint on his rear bumper the night before, and sure enough, the fresh paint was on the front bumper of the car behind him. He knew he had tapped her as he’d edged into the spot. In fact he’d backed up until he felt his bumper touch hers before he started pulling forward again. But he knew for certain he hadn’t “crunched” anything.
He looked hard at the car behind him, and then more closely at the lady hovering nearby and quickly realized this was not headed in a good direction. The car in question had clearly been in an accident, but not one he had caused. He suspected the driver was looking for someone with insurance to pay for an earlier fender bender.
Now here is an interesting thing about that voice that lives in our heads. It can be our own worst enemy, taunting and nagging us till we want to throw our selves in front of a moving bus just to get it to shut up. But let someone else criticize us, or even hint at the suggestion that we’re wrong, and that voice jumps to our defense with the power of a ninja.
“What? You’re not going to let them get away with that are you? Do you see what that woman is trying to do? She is trying to nail you! You are being screwed, my friend. S-C-R-E-W-E-D!”
Thankfully, we’ve both learned not to listen to everything the voice suggests, but sometimes it’s just easier than others to ignore. This, it turned out, was not one of the easy times.
My brother got angry. He got defensive. He lost his cool. And before he knew what hit him, he was sporting not one, but two tickets – one for hitting a parked car and the other for parking more than 12 inches from the curb. And he had his very own date with a judge to chat about it further.
My brother was furious. He was angry at the owner of the car, he was angry at the cop, and he was angry with himself. For the next several days he stewed about it, playing the interaction over and over in his mind. He thought about what he could have said and done differently. He thought about how badly he’d been wronged. And in the middle of the night, when he couldn’t sleep because his mind was racing, he thought of revenge.
He knew his anger was wasted energy. He knew he was only torturing himself. Yet he couldn’t seem to let it go.
The day before our lunch, my brother saw the woman’s car parked on the street. Although he’d been looking for it, this was the first time he’d seen it. His fury rose. There was no one in sight. It was a perfect opportunity for revenge. He imagined the deep gash his key would make across her door. His heart raced. He pictured her frustration when she returned to her car to find all four tires flat. His palms began to sweat. He imagined the satisfaction he would feel at knowing he had been vindicated.
And then, in a moment that he described as feeling “other worldly”, he reached into his pocket, dug out some change and began feeding her parking meter. He emptied his pockets, and then went back to his car to get more. He fed the meter with every bit of change he could find, filling it beyond its limit.
My eyes brimmed with tears as I listened.
“I couldn’t imagine how that could help,” he told me. “I only knew I didn’t want to continue feeling the way I’d been feeling. I did it with faith that an act of generosity would be more powerful than an act of revenge. But in the moment, I really, truly, couldn’t believe it was anything other than ridiculous.”
I asked him how he felt now, 24 hours after having fed her meter. “I feel better,” he said. “I slept last night.”
This very rarely happens to me, but I was at a loss for words.
It’s easy to do the right thing when the right thing is easy to do. It’s much harder when you are feeling hurt and angry and your mind is itching for revenge. And it is nearly impossible when your faith feels empty because you can’t even imagine, let alone believe, that your actions could make a difference.
I believe my brother to be a giant of a person. And I couldn’t love him more.
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
Good Intentions
It all started on a Saturday morning when Miko, our cat, leapt from the bed and made a mad dash for the hallway just outside our bedroom door. I was half asleep, the sun had not yet come up, and since Miko regularly tears through the house with little or no discernable provocation, I didn’t give it much thought.
The next time I woke an hour or more had passed. I’d forgotten all about Miko and this time was aware only that my stomach needed breakfast. I pulled a sweatshirt on over my pajamas and headed toward the stairs.
I found Miko lying there, several steps below the landing, his tail switching rhythmically as he stared intently at an upside down piece of white cardboard. As soon as he saw me, he jumped up and began meowing, clearly wanting me to inspect his treasure. I picked up the white cardboard and turned it over to find a tiny, live mouse stuck to a thick layer of glue.
Sam had placed these glue traps around the house to catch spiders and bugs. It had never occurred to me we might catch a mouse. How long would it take a mouse to die in one of these traps? Would it starve to death? Or in this case, die of fright?
For most people, there would be no question about what to do next. Mice are rodents. They carry disease. They send people screaming onto the high safety of chairs and sofas.
I knew in an instant, knew in the core of my being, knew beyond a shadow of a doubt – what I would do next. I would save that little mouse. No matter what it took.
I carried the mouse down to the kitchen and assessed the situation. She was pretty well stuck to the glue on her entire right side. Only her front left leg was free and it swung widely in search of anything to grab hold of.
I looked for tools and found a pair of scissors as well as a knife, fork and spoon and a paper towel. Each would help me release the little mouse from the glue. I carried her out the back door and like a surgeon, set up my operating theater on top of the barbeque grill. I started with her tail, lifting first the tip and then sliding the paper towel beneath the freed portion to keep it from getting stuck again.
It didn’t take long before I realized it was too cold. It was only about 10 degrees outside and my fingers were already getting numb. Even if I could withstand the cold, I was sure the little mouse would die if I didn’t bring her back inside.
Sam would later refer to this as just one in a series of completely ludicrous choices made that morning, but we’ll get to that in a moment.
I moved my operation back inside, sat down at the kitchen table and resumed my work. I‘d gently lift a part of the mouse from the cardboard, use the scissors to snip the glue away, and then slide in a piece of paper towel. I kept lifting, snipping and sliding as I moved towards the mouse’s shoulders and head.
It was slow, tedious work. The glue was unforgiving and I was terrified I would cut the mouse as I tried to trim the glue away from her fur and from her legs, feet and tail. The little mouse was so scared, I could feel her heart racing inside her tiny, stuck body. I whispered soothing words to her. Assured her she was going to be ok. Promised her I wouldn’t hurt her. Encouraged her to hold on just a little longer. Praised her bravery.
My heart was swollen with compassion for this tiny, helpless little creature. I felt so powerful as I worked to save her. God-like even. I was sure if I could just save this little mouse, I would have started something. Surely there were more lives I could save. Human lives. Lives that were paralyzed by fear and suffering.
I kept working until all but her right shoulder and her head were free, and I realized I would have to decide where to release her. I couldn’t let her go outside. She would freeze to death. So I decided to let her go in the laundry room in the basement. It made sense to me, but later, as I tried to explain my rationale to Sam, he just looked at me as if I’d decided to turn lose thousands of cockroaches in our home.
I carried her down the stairs and settled us both onto the floor in front of the dryer. Miko paced outside the door, meowing, imploring me to let him in.
I thought about what would happen once she was free. I knew she would run away. But part of me hoped she would stay close for a moment, just to let me know she understood my good intentions, and was grateful to me for saving her. Perhaps we could exchange a meaningful look, this little mouse and me.
But she didn’t pause. The moment she was free, she stumbled away, dragging a leg and moving awkwardly. She headed straight for the door and slipped under it – directly into Miko’s waiting gaze.
I jumped from the floor and threw open the door, startling both cat and mouse. The mouse drug herself under the bookshelves as I scooped the cat into my arms and raced up the stairs with him.
Shit! Shit! Shit! This was not at all what I had planned. I held tight to Miko until I felt the mouse had had plenty of time to make her escape, and then I locked him in the guest bedroom. And then I sat down and cried. Small tears at first, but my sobs grew and soon I was struggling to catch my breath. I so desperately wanted to save that little mouse. I so desperately wanted to save the world.
Sam came in to see what was wrong. He was groggy with sleep, his hair messed. Why was I crying? What had happened? I explained it all to him, between sobs. He listened to me, first with disbelief, then anger.
“What were you thinking?” he implored. “What would you have done if that mouse had bitten you? Did you even think about that?” I hadn’t. Not really.
“And you let this mouse loose in our basement? In our BASEMENT?!!” Sam doesn’t get mad easily. It takes a lot to ignite his temper. But he was clearly pissed. I could tell he was biting his tongue, not wanting to tell me how completely, and utterly ridiculous he thought this was.
I felt helpless, and misunderstood. “What would you have done?” I asked.
“I would have thrown it in the trash outside, or maybe killed it, or something! For the love of God, it was a mouse Julie!”
I was trying to save a life. An innocent life. And I’d never felt as powerful as I had in freeing that little mouse. I’d felt invincible – ready to hop the first flight to Africa to end war and rid disease. I’d felt as clear about my purpose and as laser focused on the outcome as I could ever remember feeling.
Finally Sam softened. He knows this side of me and though he had a hard time seeing how it applied to a mouse, he was willing to try to accept it.
The rest of the day passed without event. I poked around downstairs, but found the little mouse nowhere and was sure she'd slipped back into the walls where she would be safe and could recover.
But the next afternoon she reappeared. I’d told Katherine about the mouse, hoping for understanding. And although she understood, she was none to pleased at the idea of a mouse in our house.
I wasn’t home, but it happened like this. Katherine walked into the living room to watch TV, and from the corner of her eye saw something scurry under a floor pillow. Miko was nearby and as she looked closely, she saw he was at full attention. She knew instantly what it was and at the exact moment her brain registered the information, her mouth and lungs began screaming. And screaming. And screaming.
Sam came running, and with a quick survey of the room, he too, knew what had happened.
Sam and Katherine both told me this story as soon as I returned home, but I waited several hours before I gathered enough courage to ask for the details.
“How do you think she got up the stairs and into the living room?” I asked.
“Miko probably carried it up in his mouth,” Sam answered.
I glared at my cat. I hated him.
“How did she look?”
“Bad. Pretty bad. It was still alive, but just barely. It was probably in shock. I think its legs were probably broken.”
I waited a full day before asking the next logical question.
“What did you do with her?” My heart was in my throat as I asked.
“I put it in a paper bag, and then shook it out of the bag into the wood pile. I thought that would be the best place for it. It really was in pretty bad shape.”
I breathed out relief. And I cried. And I hugged Sam.
“Thank you,” I sighed.
I spent the next several days thinking about that little mouse, and my desire to save her. It was entirely likely that in my efforts to save her, I had really just prolonged her suffering. What if I’d just killed her like Sam said? I couldn’t even imagine how, but if I had, I would've saved her from an additional 30 hours of suffering and torment.
My intentions had been so true, and yet I was afraid,… so wrong.
I thought of all the things we do as individuals to try to help make the world a better place. I thought of all the programs we put into place to correct social and economic imbalances. I thought of all the policies our country has adopted towards 3rd world countries, of all the times we’ve chosen sides, or backed some politician or foreign army, all the while thinking it was the right decision. And I thought of how wrong all of this so often turns out to be. Just like with my little mouse.
The next time I woke an hour or more had passed. I’d forgotten all about Miko and this time was aware only that my stomach needed breakfast. I pulled a sweatshirt on over my pajamas and headed toward the stairs.
I found Miko lying there, several steps below the landing, his tail switching rhythmically as he stared intently at an upside down piece of white cardboard. As soon as he saw me, he jumped up and began meowing, clearly wanting me to inspect his treasure. I picked up the white cardboard and turned it over to find a tiny, live mouse stuck to a thick layer of glue.
Sam had placed these glue traps around the house to catch spiders and bugs. It had never occurred to me we might catch a mouse. How long would it take a mouse to die in one of these traps? Would it starve to death? Or in this case, die of fright?
For most people, there would be no question about what to do next. Mice are rodents. They carry disease. They send people screaming onto the high safety of chairs and sofas.
I knew in an instant, knew in the core of my being, knew beyond a shadow of a doubt – what I would do next. I would save that little mouse. No matter what it took.
I carried the mouse down to the kitchen and assessed the situation. She was pretty well stuck to the glue on her entire right side. Only her front left leg was free and it swung widely in search of anything to grab hold of.
I looked for tools and found a pair of scissors as well as a knife, fork and spoon and a paper towel. Each would help me release the little mouse from the glue. I carried her out the back door and like a surgeon, set up my operating theater on top of the barbeque grill. I started with her tail, lifting first the tip and then sliding the paper towel beneath the freed portion to keep it from getting stuck again.
It didn’t take long before I realized it was too cold. It was only about 10 degrees outside and my fingers were already getting numb. Even if I could withstand the cold, I was sure the little mouse would die if I didn’t bring her back inside.
Sam would later refer to this as just one in a series of completely ludicrous choices made that morning, but we’ll get to that in a moment.
I moved my operation back inside, sat down at the kitchen table and resumed my work. I‘d gently lift a part of the mouse from the cardboard, use the scissors to snip the glue away, and then slide in a piece of paper towel. I kept lifting, snipping and sliding as I moved towards the mouse’s shoulders and head.
It was slow, tedious work. The glue was unforgiving and I was terrified I would cut the mouse as I tried to trim the glue away from her fur and from her legs, feet and tail. The little mouse was so scared, I could feel her heart racing inside her tiny, stuck body. I whispered soothing words to her. Assured her she was going to be ok. Promised her I wouldn’t hurt her. Encouraged her to hold on just a little longer. Praised her bravery.
My heart was swollen with compassion for this tiny, helpless little creature. I felt so powerful as I worked to save her. God-like even. I was sure if I could just save this little mouse, I would have started something. Surely there were more lives I could save. Human lives. Lives that were paralyzed by fear and suffering.
I kept working until all but her right shoulder and her head were free, and I realized I would have to decide where to release her. I couldn’t let her go outside. She would freeze to death. So I decided to let her go in the laundry room in the basement. It made sense to me, but later, as I tried to explain my rationale to Sam, he just looked at me as if I’d decided to turn lose thousands of cockroaches in our home.
I carried her down the stairs and settled us both onto the floor in front of the dryer. Miko paced outside the door, meowing, imploring me to let him in.
I thought about what would happen once she was free. I knew she would run away. But part of me hoped she would stay close for a moment, just to let me know she understood my good intentions, and was grateful to me for saving her. Perhaps we could exchange a meaningful look, this little mouse and me.
But she didn’t pause. The moment she was free, she stumbled away, dragging a leg and moving awkwardly. She headed straight for the door and slipped under it – directly into Miko’s waiting gaze.
I jumped from the floor and threw open the door, startling both cat and mouse. The mouse drug herself under the bookshelves as I scooped the cat into my arms and raced up the stairs with him.
Shit! Shit! Shit! This was not at all what I had planned. I held tight to Miko until I felt the mouse had had plenty of time to make her escape, and then I locked him in the guest bedroom. And then I sat down and cried. Small tears at first, but my sobs grew and soon I was struggling to catch my breath. I so desperately wanted to save that little mouse. I so desperately wanted to save the world.
Sam came in to see what was wrong. He was groggy with sleep, his hair messed. Why was I crying? What had happened? I explained it all to him, between sobs. He listened to me, first with disbelief, then anger.
“What were you thinking?” he implored. “What would you have done if that mouse had bitten you? Did you even think about that?” I hadn’t. Not really.
“And you let this mouse loose in our basement? In our BASEMENT?!!” Sam doesn’t get mad easily. It takes a lot to ignite his temper. But he was clearly pissed. I could tell he was biting his tongue, not wanting to tell me how completely, and utterly ridiculous he thought this was.
I felt helpless, and misunderstood. “What would you have done?” I asked.
“I would have thrown it in the trash outside, or maybe killed it, or something! For the love of God, it was a mouse Julie!”
I was trying to save a life. An innocent life. And I’d never felt as powerful as I had in freeing that little mouse. I’d felt invincible – ready to hop the first flight to Africa to end war and rid disease. I’d felt as clear about my purpose and as laser focused on the outcome as I could ever remember feeling.
Finally Sam softened. He knows this side of me and though he had a hard time seeing how it applied to a mouse, he was willing to try to accept it.
The rest of the day passed without event. I poked around downstairs, but found the little mouse nowhere and was sure she'd slipped back into the walls where she would be safe and could recover.
But the next afternoon she reappeared. I’d told Katherine about the mouse, hoping for understanding. And although she understood, she was none to pleased at the idea of a mouse in our house.
I wasn’t home, but it happened like this. Katherine walked into the living room to watch TV, and from the corner of her eye saw something scurry under a floor pillow. Miko was nearby and as she looked closely, she saw he was at full attention. She knew instantly what it was and at the exact moment her brain registered the information, her mouth and lungs began screaming. And screaming. And screaming.
Sam came running, and with a quick survey of the room, he too, knew what had happened.
Sam and Katherine both told me this story as soon as I returned home, but I waited several hours before I gathered enough courage to ask for the details.
“How do you think she got up the stairs and into the living room?” I asked.
“Miko probably carried it up in his mouth,” Sam answered.
I glared at my cat. I hated him.
“How did she look?”
“Bad. Pretty bad. It was still alive, but just barely. It was probably in shock. I think its legs were probably broken.”
I waited a full day before asking the next logical question.
“What did you do with her?” My heart was in my throat as I asked.
“I put it in a paper bag, and then shook it out of the bag into the wood pile. I thought that would be the best place for it. It really was in pretty bad shape.”
I breathed out relief. And I cried. And I hugged Sam.
“Thank you,” I sighed.
I spent the next several days thinking about that little mouse, and my desire to save her. It was entirely likely that in my efforts to save her, I had really just prolonged her suffering. What if I’d just killed her like Sam said? I couldn’t even imagine how, but if I had, I would've saved her from an additional 30 hours of suffering and torment.
My intentions had been so true, and yet I was afraid,… so wrong.
I thought of all the things we do as individuals to try to help make the world a better place. I thought of all the programs we put into place to correct social and economic imbalances. I thought of all the policies our country has adopted towards 3rd world countries, of all the times we’ve chosen sides, or backed some politician or foreign army, all the while thinking it was the right decision. And I thought of how wrong all of this so often turns out to be. Just like with my little mouse.
Monday, April 24, 2006
The End of the World
Today was my first day back at the office. It was exhausting. I now know that I much prefer working from home. Unfortunately, I think I’ll have to have additional body parts removed in order to justify a bedroom office, so for now I guess I’ll stick with the original plan.
Anyway, Sam and I followed each other home from work tonight, like we do most nights. We never leave at a set time, yet as soon as one of us gets in the car we call the other and invariably discover we’re just a block apart on the Traffic Way. We’ll leave the office anywhere between 5:45pm to 7:30m, it’s never planned. But somehow we each reach our final point of exhaustion and decide to head home with in minutes of one another.
I pulled into the driveway just behind Sam this evening. I always make him stay on the phone with me until we’re in the driveway because I’m so happy to talk with him at the end of the day. Tonight, I watched him get out of the car and then, clicking off my phone, I turned to gather up my things. When I looked again – he was gone. I’d only turned away for a second, but he was no where to be seen.
It was amazingly quiet in that moment and the sky was deepening to the color of rain. For a split second I wondered if he’d been caught up in the rapture. He’s such a really good person – of course he would go.
I don’t believe in the rapture and for saying that I am sure I’ll be left behind. In fact I don’t believe in a lot of things I was taught to believe as a kid. Most of the time it feels incredibly liberating. Occasionally it scares the hell out of me.
I found Sam inspecting our newly planted flowers at the front of the house and was relieved to know the end of the world hadn’t begun. I told him what I’d thought and we laughed about it and he said we could just call my Mom if we were ever unsure. If she answered the phone, we could rest assured that the other person was probably just taking an extra long time at the grocery store.
I wished I didn’t have to go back to work this week. I would much rather be here at home. But at least it’s not the end of the world.
Anyway, Sam and I followed each other home from work tonight, like we do most nights. We never leave at a set time, yet as soon as one of us gets in the car we call the other and invariably discover we’re just a block apart on the Traffic Way. We’ll leave the office anywhere between 5:45pm to 7:30m, it’s never planned. But somehow we each reach our final point of exhaustion and decide to head home with in minutes of one another.
I pulled into the driveway just behind Sam this evening. I always make him stay on the phone with me until we’re in the driveway because I’m so happy to talk with him at the end of the day. Tonight, I watched him get out of the car and then, clicking off my phone, I turned to gather up my things. When I looked again – he was gone. I’d only turned away for a second, but he was no where to be seen.
It was amazingly quiet in that moment and the sky was deepening to the color of rain. For a split second I wondered if he’d been caught up in the rapture. He’s such a really good person – of course he would go.
I don’t believe in the rapture and for saying that I am sure I’ll be left behind. In fact I don’t believe in a lot of things I was taught to believe as a kid. Most of the time it feels incredibly liberating. Occasionally it scares the hell out of me.
I found Sam inspecting our newly planted flowers at the front of the house and was relieved to know the end of the world hadn’t begun. I told him what I’d thought and we laughed about it and he said we could just call my Mom if we were ever unsure. If she answered the phone, we could rest assured that the other person was probably just taking an extra long time at the grocery store.
I wished I didn’t have to go back to work this week. I would much rather be here at home. But at least it’s not the end of the world.
Monday, April 17, 2006
This Alice in Wonderland Feeling
It’s been 3 days since my surgery and I am recovering well. I’m sore of course and still easily tired, but it’s all manageable. There’s something new to occupy my mind tonight however. Surgical menopause.
It’s strange, but the entire time I was trying to decide whether or not to have a hysterectomy, I completely ignored the very strong possibility that I would end up with an oophorectomy. I know. I didn’t know what that meant either until just a few weeks ago. It refers to the surgical removal of your ovaries. It turns out this is a really big deal, because your ovaries produce your hormones and your hormones basically determine whether or not you will be able to get out of bed and face the world on any given day.
It’s not really that I ignored it. It’s just that I decided to focus on one issue at a time, and so I focused on the hysterectomy question first. I assumed I would face the surgical menopause question if and when it presented itself. It has presented itself and today it has my full attention.
My doctor said I would begin experiencing hot flashes by Sunday. I’ve yet to have one, but my emotions have swung all over the place and I’ve been having the strangest sense of proportion. Almost hallucinogenic. Off and on today I’ve felt much too big, and then much too small in relation to the things around me. I thought I might give it a few days without replacement hormones, just to see what it was like, but this first day alone has been enough to erase that notion. I feel like I’m walking around in an Alice in Wonderland body and am not thinking it is all that much fun.
Tonight I’ve been surfing the web trying to soak up as much as I can about the effects of and treatments for surgical menopause.. It’s overwhelming, but thank God for the internet. I’m not sure what women did before it. I just found a blog called “A Survivor’s Guide to Surgical Menopause” and the entire thing is done in pink. I’m not really into pink, but I nearly cried (for the 10th time today) after realizing that it contained the “let’s start at the beginning” information I’ve been looking for, along with 119 bookmarked articles on related topics. God love the women who put this site together.
Which brings me around to the idea that has held all my thoughts together today. When you face a medical crisis, no matter how surrounded you are by loved ones, you face it completely and profoundly alone. My Mom told me she wishes she could take my place, and I know she means it, but no one, no matter how much they love you, can at the end of the day, stand in your shoes, and occupy your skin. It’s just you and your body. It’s incredibly humbling and incredibly empowering - both at the same time.
I’ve rarely felt so alive. And what I’ve noticed over the last few days is that when you feel that alive, your connection with the people in your life knocks up a few notches. Everything seems clearer, more intense, more electric.
I’m not saying I want to walk around with this Alice in Wonderland sense of space or this revolving door of emotions. I don’t like it and will be anxious to get rid of those feelings. I’m talking about the feeling behind the feeling. The sense that this is all real, and alive and connected and therefore that it matters. And I think that is what the women who put the pink site together must have been feeling. Cut the shit. Let’s talk about what matters, let’s connect over what’s important to us. We’re profoundly alive, let’s do something real with that!
It’s strange, but the entire time I was trying to decide whether or not to have a hysterectomy, I completely ignored the very strong possibility that I would end up with an oophorectomy. I know. I didn’t know what that meant either until just a few weeks ago. It refers to the surgical removal of your ovaries. It turns out this is a really big deal, because your ovaries produce your hormones and your hormones basically determine whether or not you will be able to get out of bed and face the world on any given day.
It’s not really that I ignored it. It’s just that I decided to focus on one issue at a time, and so I focused on the hysterectomy question first. I assumed I would face the surgical menopause question if and when it presented itself. It has presented itself and today it has my full attention.
My doctor said I would begin experiencing hot flashes by Sunday. I’ve yet to have one, but my emotions have swung all over the place and I’ve been having the strangest sense of proportion. Almost hallucinogenic. Off and on today I’ve felt much too big, and then much too small in relation to the things around me. I thought I might give it a few days without replacement hormones, just to see what it was like, but this first day alone has been enough to erase that notion. I feel like I’m walking around in an Alice in Wonderland body and am not thinking it is all that much fun.
Tonight I’ve been surfing the web trying to soak up as much as I can about the effects of and treatments for surgical menopause.. It’s overwhelming, but thank God for the internet. I’m not sure what women did before it. I just found a blog called “A Survivor’s Guide to Surgical Menopause” and the entire thing is done in pink. I’m not really into pink, but I nearly cried (for the 10th time today) after realizing that it contained the “let’s start at the beginning” information I’ve been looking for, along with 119 bookmarked articles on related topics. God love the women who put this site together.
Which brings me around to the idea that has held all my thoughts together today. When you face a medical crisis, no matter how surrounded you are by loved ones, you face it completely and profoundly alone. My Mom told me she wishes she could take my place, and I know she means it, but no one, no matter how much they love you, can at the end of the day, stand in your shoes, and occupy your skin. It’s just you and your body. It’s incredibly humbling and incredibly empowering - both at the same time.
I’ve rarely felt so alive. And what I’ve noticed over the last few days is that when you feel that alive, your connection with the people in your life knocks up a few notches. Everything seems clearer, more intense, more electric.
I’m not saying I want to walk around with this Alice in Wonderland sense of space or this revolving door of emotions. I don’t like it and will be anxious to get rid of those feelings. I’m talking about the feeling behind the feeling. The sense that this is all real, and alive and connected and therefore that it matters. And I think that is what the women who put the pink site together must have been feeling. Cut the shit. Let’s talk about what matters, let’s connect over what’s important to us. We’re profoundly alive, let’s do something real with that!
Thursday, April 13, 2006
The Big Hole - Part Two
Today was the day. Sam and I headed to St. Luke’s South for my appointed check in time a full 2 hours before my scheduled surgery. I thought it would be like visiting the doctor’s office and I would spend quite a bit of time waiting, but in fact I was busy right up to the moment I dropped off into the dreamy world of anesthesia. Everyone was unbelievably nice, and although it was clear that it was a full day for the staff, they treated me as if I were the only patient there.
I visited with the nurses, met the anesthesiologist, and talked with my doctor, each time confirming my name, date of birth and planned procedure. And I reminded my doctor that I wanted pictures – lots of pictures - of the offending cyst growing inside me. He thought that was funny, but promised he would have the camera ready.
My veins were a little uncooperative and I had to be stuck 3 times (2 of which hurt like hell) before they were finally able to make a connection. I was grateful once the IV began to flow because I knew the Versaid wouldn’t be far behind. I'd been remarkably calm about this impending surgery, but now that the time had arrived, my anxiety was growing. I watched as the clear liquid snaked through the tube towards my hand and within minutes I began to feel drowsy.
Drowsy. Isn’t that a wonderful word? How often do you really get to feel drowsy? I’m more accustomed to ‘beat’, ‘exhausted’ or ‘worn out’. But drowsy? Not so much. Drowsy feels more, well, sort of luxurious. Drowsy implies that deep, sound sleep is on its’ way and there is really nothing you can do but give in to it. And I did.
I don’t remember Sam kissing my forehead before I was wheeled away. I don’t remember the bright lights or the cool air of the operating room. I don’t remember the tube they placed in my throat to keep my airway open. I didn’t know that the surgery took nearly twice as long as it was supposed to. And I don’t remember Dr. Arroyo coming to tell me that he was unable to save my ovary, although he did tell me, and I cried when I heard the news.
I do remember waking up and seeing the nurse standing beside me. She told me about my ovary and since I was hearing it for the first time (or so I thought), I cried when she told me.
Because I only had one ovary anyway (story for another day), its’ loss meant that I’d just been thrown into surgical menopause. I use the word ‘thrown’ because when your body abruptly loses its ability to produce hormones, it’s a lot like slamming on the brakes of your car while driving 70 miles per hour. My doctor has already prescribed replacement hormones (air bags if you will), so we’ll see how it goes.
The good news is that after weeks of going back and forth in my mind over whether to have a hysterectomy in the event the ovary could not be saved, I'd finally decided just days before to tell the doctor not to do it. Despite his and others' inclination that I have my uterus removed, I decided it should stay. I didn’t want to create an unnecessary hole.
Dr. Arroyo was true to his word and took 16 photos. Sam showed them to me after my surgery and pointed out the cyst. It was completely obscuring my ovary and looked awkward and lumpy. It clearly didn’t belong there and although I hated that it had overpowered my ovary, it was clear it needed to go.
But next to the offending cyst was my uterus. It was pink and smooth and shiny and vibrant and healthy, and if I do say so – beautiful. Just beautiful. It was clear to me that it was happy living where it was and I was glad I’d not made a decision to disrupt that.
So I did come away with a hole today, but just a small one. And for that I’m grateful.
Let the braking begin.
I visited with the nurses, met the anesthesiologist, and talked with my doctor, each time confirming my name, date of birth and planned procedure. And I reminded my doctor that I wanted pictures – lots of pictures - of the offending cyst growing inside me. He thought that was funny, but promised he would have the camera ready.
My veins were a little uncooperative and I had to be stuck 3 times (2 of which hurt like hell) before they were finally able to make a connection. I was grateful once the IV began to flow because I knew the Versaid wouldn’t be far behind. I'd been remarkably calm about this impending surgery, but now that the time had arrived, my anxiety was growing. I watched as the clear liquid snaked through the tube towards my hand and within minutes I began to feel drowsy.
Drowsy. Isn’t that a wonderful word? How often do you really get to feel drowsy? I’m more accustomed to ‘beat’, ‘exhausted’ or ‘worn out’. But drowsy? Not so much. Drowsy feels more, well, sort of luxurious. Drowsy implies that deep, sound sleep is on its’ way and there is really nothing you can do but give in to it. And I did.
I don’t remember Sam kissing my forehead before I was wheeled away. I don’t remember the bright lights or the cool air of the operating room. I don’t remember the tube they placed in my throat to keep my airway open. I didn’t know that the surgery took nearly twice as long as it was supposed to. And I don’t remember Dr. Arroyo coming to tell me that he was unable to save my ovary, although he did tell me, and I cried when I heard the news.
I do remember waking up and seeing the nurse standing beside me. She told me about my ovary and since I was hearing it for the first time (or so I thought), I cried when she told me.
Because I only had one ovary anyway (story for another day), its’ loss meant that I’d just been thrown into surgical menopause. I use the word ‘thrown’ because when your body abruptly loses its ability to produce hormones, it’s a lot like slamming on the brakes of your car while driving 70 miles per hour. My doctor has already prescribed replacement hormones (air bags if you will), so we’ll see how it goes.
The good news is that after weeks of going back and forth in my mind over whether to have a hysterectomy in the event the ovary could not be saved, I'd finally decided just days before to tell the doctor not to do it. Despite his and others' inclination that I have my uterus removed, I decided it should stay. I didn’t want to create an unnecessary hole.
Dr. Arroyo was true to his word and took 16 photos. Sam showed them to me after my surgery and pointed out the cyst. It was completely obscuring my ovary and looked awkward and lumpy. It clearly didn’t belong there and although I hated that it had overpowered my ovary, it was clear it needed to go.
But next to the offending cyst was my uterus. It was pink and smooth and shiny and vibrant and healthy, and if I do say so – beautiful. Just beautiful. It was clear to me that it was happy living where it was and I was glad I’d not made a decision to disrupt that.
So I did come away with a hole today, but just a small one. And for that I’m grateful.
Let the braking begin.
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