When enough is enough

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More than a year has passed since I’ve even remotely felt like writing.  That’s too bad, really, because so much has happened worth writing about.  Many psychologist, psychiatrist, therapists and others have often mentioned the cathartic power of writing, how helpful to the soul under the best of circumstances.  This past year would have to climb out of the pits of hell to reach the lowest rungs of the worst of circumstances … the best of circumstances are, as of the moment, barely a blip on the horizon.

For the past four years, I’ve held my breath, politically speaking.  Four years of being on guard, emotionally and mentally, waiting for the next repulsive thought to come pouring out of the idiot trump’s mouth.  Four years cringing in the embarrassment and shame of that man-child representing us to the world.  Four years of praying our democracy would be able to withstand the relentless onslaught of lies, invitations to meddle by foreign powers, of stacking the system with good old white boys.  Four years of watching the slow and seemingly unstoppable erosion of women’s rights, attacks on the LGBTQ community, on minorities … as though watching the Colorado River forming the Grand Canyon in fast forward.  

The echo of what I remembered as hope flickered into life when Democrats won back the House.  But I dared not relax for fear that hope would be crushed under the weight of alternative facts.

Then, finally, election time … the big one, for all the marbles … a return to sanity and adults in charge.  I dared not think of the worst case scenario.  When, some days later, the election was called for Biden/Harris … I actually ran out into the street, yelling and jumping for joy. Literally, crying and screaming Hallelujah.  Many of my neighbors joined me.  We hugged, high-fived, waved our “Biden/Harris” banners and … felt the beginnings of that long lost sensation … peace.  Calm.  Sweet relief.  Maybe it was finally over, we prayed. Four years of watching our democracy being shredded was over.

But …

No.  There would be repercussions.  I knew this for four years … like a bully towards the subjugated … any attempt for freedom would be swiftly and surely punished.  The white boy establishment having gone unchecked for four years, would not let their power go without a fight.  And fight they did.  On January 6th, they attempted a coup. Watching the invasion of the capitol, I felt sick inside.  Horrified.  Numb.  Raw.

It would only get worse. 

Sure, arrests were made.  Thanks in large part to the stunning stupidity of those involved and the lure of bragging on social media.  If the reason wasn’t so shocking, the “coming to Jesus” moment of several republicans would have been laughable.  But, the half-life of republican remorse is apparently shorter than the 5 second rule of a dropped cookie.  Not even this made a difference, not a physical attack on our nation’s capital, not a mob that beat and ultimately killed, not when there was so very little between them and violence … none of that, ultimately, mattered.  

There aren’t sufficient words to describe the depth and completeness of my disgust – that mob, the people that egged them on, the people finding excuses or justifications, and especially for the loathsome and contemptible, the pathetic and despicable shadow of a man feeding and fueling the fire burning in his repulsive honor.  

No more.  I will no longer make an attempt to understand, to meet halfway, or to catch more flies with honey.   The republican party seems hell bent to rewrite history according to the twisted mind of their equally twisted leader. They have sunk to depths unimaginable, and it’s time for everyone to choose. Regardless of your political affiliation or leanings, above all you either stand for democracy or not. You either abide by the lawful will of the people or you don’t. To stamp one’s foot and call the other side liars and cheats, to refuse anyone else as the winner is behavior usually associated with children, and not tolerated even then.  

This is not an honest mistake by the republicans, or now the party of trump.  They are attempting to overturn democracy at best and instigate a dictatorship at worst.  To be indifferent is to court acceptance and to accept is to throw away everything for which this country stands.

I have a right to …

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Fill in the blank.  I have a right to go to the beach, to get a haircut, to attend church … Well, I have a right to be sick of hearing about what you have a right to!  Yes, we all have rights and suddenly everyone seems to be an expert on yelling about their first amendment rights.  It’s true, and in a nutshell the first amendment does indeed guarantee freedom of religion, freedom of speech, freedom of the press, the right to assemble, and the right to petition the government.  Like Matthew 5:45 who wrote “The rain falls on the just and the unjust” … the first amendment falls on the intelligent and the ignorant.  Yes, you have a right to free speech but you do NOT have the right to yell fire in a theater.  You have the right to free speech, but you do not have the right to incite hatred and violence (racism, discrimination, etc).  They are called “hate crimes” not “free speech” crimes.  Freedom of speech does not mean you can say any old thing that comes into your head, and once upon a time, people knew the difference.

This nation has been permeated with this toxic “me first” mentality.  If the fish rots from the head down, then this nation has gone petulant from the president down.  He espouses true rights with false logic, and on the subject of religion, obviously knows not of what he speaks.  Another Matthew quote (18:20) “When two are three are gathered together in My name, I am there…”.  Church may technically be building, but spiritually, church is anywhere and everywhere.  I have felt closer to God, alone, kayaking, with only the sounds of the water and the birds.  Church can allow us to worship as a physical, tangible group … but restriction from being inside the physical structure does not prevent us from being with God and with modern technology, we can worship virtually.

Opening churches has become political.  Wearing a mask has become political.  Why?  It seems that in the advent of the “make me great again” mentality, it’s all about MY rights.  Keeping me from working, from going to the beach, from hitting the bar is somehow infringing on those rights.  Being unable to work is truly causing suffering for a great many people, and there doesn’t seem to be any way around it. It’s not fair and we, as a nation, as a government need to do all we can to help those affected.  Slowly some business are working out plans to use the social distancing guidelines to be able to reopen.  But, let me emphasis this … if you are sick or dead … whether or not you have a job is going to be a moot point.  You may be willing to risk your own life, but do you stop to consider the lives of those around you?  All those people that holler “Give me liberty or give me death” might just have to amend that placard to say “Give me liberty and give me death” and I really hope they don’t get their wish.  For all those people who claim this whole pandemic is some kind of liberal media hoax … visit 96,000 graves.  Talk to 96,000 families.  Tell the doctors and nurses it’s a hoax.  Go on, I dare you.  But know this, as much as you yell and scream about the health care system being part of some conspiracy theory … those same doctors and nurses will take care of you if you were to become ill.  Think about that for a minute.

It’s this simple.  Wearing a mask is protecting other people.  Social distancing is protecting other people.  Since when did looking out for other people become political?  Since when did denying yourself in protect others become political?  I don’t know, but I have a strong feeling it started on a Tuesday back in November, 2016.

When might makes wrong…

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A disturbing wave of “protests” have reared their ugly and misguided heads as of late, and I find the “reasoning” behind these protests somewhat confusing.  I use the term “reasoning” with quite a bit of generosity in the direction of the people for whom it aimed.  These “liberate (insert name of state here)” cries from (often) MAGA hat wearing, flag waving, truly misguided people is worse that confusing, it is dangerous.

While their anger at the situation is understandable, to blame the government for “imprisoning” them at home is wrong.  Of course they feel helpless, desperate, confused and scared … those are very common emotions these days.  Everyone is likely one or more of the above.  Even if you are able to work from home, it’s still a stressful time.  You might have to juggle kids trying to do distance learning while you are trying to work. And if you are one of the essential workers, from garbage collectors to cashiers to a nurse or doctor (and bless you if you are), you’d likely rather stay home than go to work knowing the dangers and stress you will face.

And the president isn’t helping.  He will never admit to it, but statements like “they are very good people” is most certainly a spur to encourage their protests.  It is validation from the most powerful and important person, for many in the crowd at least.

To turn on the t.v. and see people, in crowds no less, demanding and chanting “open our state” must make your blood boil.  It sure sets me off.  Don’t these people understand this lock down is for their own good?  God, I feel like I am talking about a group of unruly kids “this is for your own good” instead of grown up, supposedly mature men and women.  What good is everyone going back to work when the virus is still out there, undetected in many people?  You are willing to risk your life for the freedom you imagine has been taken away from you?  You are willing to risk your life for a paycheck?

Well, risk your own life as much as you like, just don’t you dare risk mine.

All in a day’s work …

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Working from home has it’s own unique set of challenges.  The refrigerator calls, I know there are Oreo cookies in the cookie jar, and the deck bathed in sunshine … but dutifully, I am glued to my office chair, two computers heating up the space around me.   The radio drones in the background and through the open window I can hear birds chirping, the occasional passing car, and every now and then the sounds of children playing.

To quote the title one of my favorite author’s (Caroline Knapp) book – I would make a “merry recluse”.  Not only does solitude not frighten me, I embrace it.  It’s my reward for having gone out into the world which is filled with all that stimuli.  All those people, conversations, phones ringing, emails flying, it can be exhausting if you’re a particular kind of person.  Some people thrive on all those extrovert buttons, but I’m not one of them.  Stress, for me, is having to go out.

This is not a fear of the outside, or agoraphobia, it’s not really a “fear” at all.  It’s just a preference, my happy place.  So, I may be dealing with this “social distancing” with a bit more enthusiasm than others.  It’s license to decline invitations and a pass to hole up.

Still, I must go out for food and other supplies … and, masked, I do.  And maybe by the time all this is over, I’ll have had my fill of hermit-hood, at least for a little while.

Stay safe everyone.

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This young girl in Haiti lives very much without the basics that we take for granted.  And now, when we’re chaffing at the bit about having to stay inside and social distance from our routine, I wonder how she is doing.  While we’re hoarding toilet paper like it’s the zombie apocalypse, she still has to fetch water from a common tap.  We have the luxury of Grubhub and Doordash.  Of working indoor plumbing.  We worry about the coronavirus but don’t spend any time fearing an outbreak of cholera.  I don’t mean to minimize our fears, because they are very real with very real consequences.  I am still recovering from a serious lung infection and, while I feel 100%, my body is still healing.  This coronavirus could send me back into ICU, or worse – so yes, I am concerned.

This situation is a wake-up call for the world.  Of just how interconnected we are, and how no “big beautiful wall” can keep out danger, real or imagined.  It is also showing our penchant for prejudice.  Here, Chinese-Americans are being spit on, yelled at, or otherwise verbally attacked, according to an article in the New York Times.  It doesn’t help that our “leader” insists on calling it “the Chinese virus”.

This is the time to face facts, to react with calm deliberation, and to look out for our neighbors whether they be across the street or on the other side of the globe.  We can’t directly help China or Italy, but we can stop bigots from attacking people for simply being of a certain ethnic origin.

We can stop hoarding supplies and stop the self-fulfilling prophesy of shortages.  Buy what you need, realize the supply chain is still intact and that the coronavirus does not give you diarrhea so there’s no need to turn your bathroom cabinets into your own version of Sam’s Club.  We can, if financially viable, get a take-away from a local restaurant a little more often.  We can pray for those who cannot work from home and have lost their precious income, but as an old Russian proverb goes, “Pray to God, but row towards shore”.  In other words, keep giving to your house of worship, keep donating to food banks, keep giving blood, keep supporting international aide groups.  It is all needed now more than ever.

 

 

Scarred for life

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Where to start.

September 13 … a Friday night (Friday the 13th … not that I believe in that superstition … just saying) and I was preparing to attend the football game between FSU and Virginia the next evening.  There was no hint of the adventure to come.  But, for some reason, I suddenly felt nauseous.  Nothing I ate or drank stayed down and my stomach felt crampy.  These symptoms continued through to the next morning and I was forced to cancel going to the game.  Monday saw a trip to Urgent Care and Wednesday started out with a repeat visit as I hadn’t been able to keep anything down since that Friday night.  Urgent Care drew blood and sent me to the emergency room where they did more tests and prepped me for emergency surgery.  Sixteen days later, I was discharged … with several inches of large intestine removed and a scar that ran from my lower abdomen to just under my chest.  It’s a nice straight line that does a little dogleg around my belly button, and I’m damn proud of it.

Why the surgery?  At the time, no one knew what was going on … simply that there seemed to be a large mass in my abdomen. What was it?  I prepared myself for the worst.  Cancer.  A colostomy bag.  The list running through my brain until the anesthesia kicked in.

I remember hitting the morphine button.  A lot.

When I woke up enough to realize I was awake, my parents were there and soon after, the doctor walked in.  He explained my large intestine had herniated up through my diaphragm and gotten stuck.  The trapped tissue had died and released toxins into my chest cavity.  One lung was partially collapsed and there was a real danger of pneumonia.

I learned many things in those sixteen days in the hospital:  When you check into the hospital, leave your dignity at the door.  I believe I inadvertently mooned about everyone on the fourth floor at least once.  When you finally are allowed clear liquids, you’re grateful for chicken broth.  When you need help to go to the bathroom, you don’t wait until you’re sure you have to go.  When you’re as helpless as a baby, you realize superheroes aren’t born on Krypton, they are the nurses that you depend on and are there 24/7.

And you realize the true meaning of endurance, of just what the human body (and mind) are capable of surviving.  There’s a Japanese word for it, kintsugi.  It refers to vases (or anything really) broken and repaired with precious metals.  It is the essence of resilience.    It is the strength we gain from surviving trauma … it is being proud of your scars.

End of an era …

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I’m faced with a difficult decision.  My dear old pug, Coco, is going on 14 and his health is not good.  He has significant nerve damage to his back and hind legs, he’s practically blind and deaf.  He sleeps 99% of the time.  He’s incontinent.

But …

He doesn’t appear to be in pain.  Then again, maybe that’s why he sleeps so much?  Resting from what little activity he’s capable of?  How am I to know?

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He’s a fine old pug.  He’s been my sole companion ever since Scooby Doo passed away four or five some odd years ago.  He’s always been more of a sleeper than a runner, not that pugs are knows for running anywhere (unless it’s to the food bowl).  He would thrash around a favorite toy but it’s been months since he’s shown any interest in toys.

I didn’t realize how much time and energy I poured into caring for him until the decision about his future began to percolate in the back of my mind.  It formed in the depths of subconsciousness and grew until it nudged at my consciousness.  We went to the vet who didn’t offer a recommendation one way or the other, except to support whatever decision I made.  They did suggest that the only way to know about his back was to do an MRI, but I drew the line at that.  At 13, he was hardly going to be undergoing any surgery and what good would it do to know?  The prognosis wouldn’t change.  So we went home.

And the thought took up residence in my waking moments.  It was time.  Then, of course, the doubts and questions followed.  Was it?  Wouldn’t there be a sign?  He didn’t seem to be in any pain or discomfort, and he was still eating … but then again, he had difficulty walking, was incontinent, didn’t show any interest in his toys or playing, slept most of the time and frequently didn’t move for hours.   What kind of life was that?

To be brutally honest … I was tired.  Tired of cleaning up messes, tired of cleaning the dog, tired of carrying him up and down stairs, tired of looking to see if he was still breathing when he hadn’t moved from where he was lying all night or all day.  I was tired of being on constant alert for “a sign”.  I was emotionally exhausted.  I am emotionally exhausted.  I am tired.  I am waiting for my dog to die.  I am risking his last days being painful so I don’t have to make that dreadful decision.

And that thought tells me everything I need to know.  I need to do the only thing left I can do for him.  I need to let him go.

The Price of Friendship

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Why does it have to be so complicated?  Can’t we have any kind of relationship free from stress or tension … or are we just too emotionally intricate for that sort of thing.  Or, could it be that dangerous word “assumption” creeping into the most innocent of connections that leads us to overlook the danger signs.  What happens when we assume that, because we’re “just friends”, that a friendship will be smooth sailing.  None of the typical relationship rules apply, there’s no implied “he/she should understand me without having to explain”, or is there?  Do we exempt friendships from the heavier more intimate unspoken rules of a spouse or mate?  And if we do, what’s the worst that can happen?

Indeed, what is the worst that can happen?  I found out recently when a seemingly harmless friendship re-emerged.  The other half of the friendship happened to be a former co-worker, a nice fellow, some years my senior and a kindred spirit in our political and philosophical attitudes.  He lives in the mid-west, I live in the north east.  He has a lovely wife and two grown children.  I have an ex-husband and no children.  Having no brothers, I tend to find myself casting my male friends in that role.  This particular friend and I were quite close but, it turned out, different kinds of close.  And therein lies the problem.  

I can only speak (or write) from my perspective, guessing what someone else is thinking is akin to skipping blindly through a minefield.  But were there warning signs there, and I just didn’t recognize them?

As I said, we had a close friendship … I thought of him with the close familiarity of a dear brother.  It could be he thought of me with just a bit more closeness … but nothing suggestive of anything more than friendship.  But were there were word choices or phrases that ought to have set off warning bells?  Why, when it would never have dawned on me to be on my guard?  He was deeply in love with his wife, they’d been married for some 40-odd years.  Why would I worry?

I worried when he started to mention misgivings by his wife.  Misgivings that grew into to pointed questions, which in turn grew into accusations.  Suddenly, I’m left feeling like the other woman … caught in the act of something I didn’t even know I was doing.  And feeling the fool, the naive unsophisticated kid who took a situation at face value.

Feelings have been hurt, intentions misunderstood, and relationships strained.  Now, of course, I’m re-evaluating every male friend I have and wondering, can men and women really be friends or will there always be a hint of something more.   How do you value a friendship when you don’t know the price?

My year in review …

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Writing is hard work … the muse doesn’t necessarily strike every day, and in my case, the muse has been missing since early November.  What to write about when nothing comes to mind?  Pros have discipline, and probably a few tricks to get them past the blank page.  I have ADD and too many TV channels.

So, going with the flow of “Looking back at 2018” as the media is wont to do this time of year … I thought I’d take a look back at how the year went for me, sort of do a little inventory of things.

January: Intermittent fasting … bust.  Partridge family obsession still going strong.  Crypto-currency experiment … expensive (and not in a good way).

February – March:  apparently nothing of note occurred.  Or nothing worth writing about.

April: Marched on Washington for sensible gun control.  Broke shoulder and tore rotator cuff falling off bike at speed.  Bike, however, not a scratch. 

May: Railed on cyclist who don’t obey the rules of the road.  Started rehab on broken shoulder.  Impatient for results.

June: Tried Grubhub … not an overwhelming success.  Burger never left the restaurant.  Ended up with cereal for dinner.  Again.  Pondered visit to Haiti vs being a blood donor.  

July:  Actually took a vacation.  Tried to get the most out of every moment while also relaxing and getting some rest.  It’s the windmill I tilt at.

August: Gave in to impulse and bought e-bike.  Joined the ranks of the cyclist commuter.  Realized how little cars pay attention to cyclist.

September: Accused of being a traitor by co-worker for daring to express a dissenting opinion of our idiot president.  All things being equal, I considered it a great compliment.

October:  Art projects took a decidedly abstract path.  Generally unsettled and unreasonably annoyed.  Pondered getting in touch with former brother-in-law as a means to spy on ex.  Wisely decided against it.

November: Chatted up on Instagram by what seemed like a very nice guy.  Flattered but wary.  Then he claimed to be a three star general.  Really?  A three star general hanging out on Instagram?  Alarm bells ring … pressed him for a video chat which he avoided.  Blocked the account.  

Which brings us to December.  So, what have I learned this year?  Ordering clothing on the internet is a tricky thing at best.  There are all kinds of fakers hanging out in e-space.  Broken bones take way too long to heal.  Electric bikes are way cool.  I’m happy being single.  The joy of cake-in-a-cup … desert in 90 seconds!  Discipline, like patience, is a virtue which I will always struggle with.  And, meal kits are great!  

2019 will start with rotator cuff surgery … but, hey, things are bound to improve from there!

Cheers from 2018, see you in the New Year!

To date or not to date …

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That is indeed the question.  I’ve recently met someone online and we’ve struck up quite a friendship.  It came out of nowhere and took me completely by surprise, mostly by the speed and intensity.  I’m a fairly cautious creature, never one to dive into the pool instead I creep in inch by inch.  Evaluate, analyze, observe, those are the words I live by.  It can take months or years to make a major decision such as buying a new car or even ordering a new sofa.  Is this the absolute best choice, I ask myself.  Do I really need this thing?  Do I deserve it?  Is it worth the change?

That is the ultimate question, is it worth the change.  Every new thing or person we bring into our lives means change.  Most change is minor, barely a ripple on life’s pond while other changes reverberate.  Like a stone skipping across the water, the changes keep coming, echoing the one before until finally dying out.

Life may be change but that doesn’t mean I have to like it.  After years of upset and upheaval, of moving house and changing jobs, of being married and then being divorced, I’ve reached a plateau.  The highs and lows have leveled out and, for the first time in a long time, I’m pleasantly bored.  I work, come home, play with the dog, fix dinner, perhaps work in a nap, watch tv, go to bed and start the cycle over the next day.  Some people may find the isolation constraining and urge to break through, but I revel in it.  I am, like the title of Caroline Knapp’s last book, “A Merry Recluse”.

Cue change.

I get to chatting with a nice man online and before I know it, we’re striking up quite the conversation.  Talking about dreams and goals, what we like to do, what kind of music we listen to, what we do in our spare time … it’s all innocent and at a nice safe distance as this man is located elsewhere.

But,

He’s close to retiring and, from the tone and content of his emails, interested in more than just casual conversation.  This guy sounds like a girl’s dream come true, happily ever after material.  Trouble is, I don’t know what my dream come true looks like.  When I daydream about my happily ever after, I never picture anyone else in it.  Does this mean I’m destined to single-hood or simply that I haven’t met the right guy yet.  And is this guy the right guy?  Why do I feel like life is trying to fix something that isn’t broken?  Did I just answer my own question or should I keep this door open a little while?