"....When will they ever learn?...."

Like just about everyone else in the country this morning, I am reeling and shell-shocked after yesterday, the worst and largest mass shooting in our country's history. It is ludicrous to try to apply logic to something that is so outside the bounds of normal, acceptable behavior. We try nonetheless. But there is simply no logical explanation for what happened yesterday.  A child is born, snuggled in his mother's arms, grows up, and whether due to poor parenting, a tragically miswired brain, or the cumulative effect of a million small hurts and injustices, he struggles with enough mental health issues that his solution is to massacre 20 small children and their protectors. Insanity.

There are as many reactions and explanations as there are citizens of this country, but none of them matter right this minute. What matters are the 26 families who have had normalcy eliminated from their lives, who have lost the bright light of a child or the love and leadership of a parent, whose lives can never be the same again. What matters are the survivors, children and responders, whose lives will never be the same again.  The innocence of those children has been snuffed, their future Christmases tainted if not ruined, their sense of trust and safety blown to bits. The responders - God bless their unbelievably brave souls - will be haunted by those images in their brains forever.  Such unspeakable violence is hideous enough when it happens to adults, as it mostly does; but the idea of 20 sweet little souls who were caught completely off-guard in the place that was a haven for them, huddled with their friends and teachers, is simply nauseating and beyond comprehension. And still we bicker back and forth about what constitutes personal freedom. Personally, I think no one needs to own assault weapons, whether they have that right or not. Why would anyone want an assault weapon except to wreak carnage? Don't tell me you'll use it in self-defense - that would require carrying it cocked and ready 24/7. Also ludicrous.

We have to stop being so obsessed with violence, with weaponry, with misplaced anger before we utterly and completely destroy our society. When will we admit that mutual destruction is not the answer, that if one innocent life is lost in the name of gun ownership, it is one too many? When will we value our children, not to mention ourselves, enough to say that their safety from randomly used weapons is worth relinquishing one's "right" to own guns?

This needs to end. Stop. Right now.  Here, today. No posturing, debating, invoking the 2nd amendment, or any other stupidity. Get rid of the guns, now. And stop murdering our children.

"Where have all the graveyards gone, gone to flowers, everyone....when will they ever learn? 

When will they ever learn?"

"Is this the little girl I carried.....is this the little boy at play...."

This blogging thing is obviously addicting, because lately I've felt yearnings to get back to it after a couple months away.....and what a couple of months they've been.....

As of Friday, November 9th, I have a married son.  I am a mother-in-law, and Tim is a father-in-law.  This monumental evolution occurred at a civil ceremony at Kenosha County Courthouse in Wisconsin. The whole story behind it is long, complicated, and not easily understood by me, but as long as they're happy, that's really all I care about. I think.

The costs of the impending May 2013 ceremony were rapidly spiraling out of control, so Brian and I had a conversation to spell out what we could pay for, and what we expected them to cover.  That was fine, no problem.  But the next day, he sent me one of the most beautiful emails I've ever read, that said they just could not find a way to make those expenses work, and rather than have us go into additional debt after buying their house, they would simply go to the courthouse - they didn't need a fancy party, all they needed was each other.  I was elated to think that some of what we tried to teach our sons actually took.  Of course, I was disappointed - we've already talked about how much I LOVE weddings!  But I've had mine - as well as renewals - and so this was not about me.  We told them that it was a very mature decision, and we respected their wishes.  Eventually, they asked if they could still do the spring ceremony at church with a scaled back reception, and of course, we agreed. So the planning continued.

About three weeks later, I happened to ask if they'd set a date for the courthouse ceremony.......there was a LONG pregnant pause on the other end of the phone...."well, yeah, it's November 9th..."  Well, dear, were you planning on telling us?  So, is it just you & Liz and her mom? "Well, no, all her aunts are coming and a bunch of our friends....I'll make sure Liz sends you an invitation right away...:"  I then proceeded to cry for the next two days.  Even with a concerted effort, it would have been impossible to hurt me any more deeply.  Even if it WAS almost next to impossible for us to get there on such short notice.

Good, true friends convinced me to at least send Tim, who has years of unused vacation. He could stay with family, and at least it would be a family presence. If I stopped thinking about it, it was OK, I could live until spring. A week before he was to leave, I was having coffee with a work colleague I hadn't seen for awhile. When she asked about the status of the May wedding, I explained the situation.  She sat there, looking at me like I had three heads, and said, "Are you NUTS???? What airline is he on?" I told her Alaska.  She said, "I'm DROWNING in Alaska miles - you're going".  And with that, she whipped out her cell phone, and booked me a ticket outward bound with Tim, returning a day earlier so I, with no vacation, could get back to work.  This unbelievable gesture of grace and generosity, coupled with being offered a new job (whole other story), had people telling me I should go buy a lottery ticket.

The plan was to keep me a secret, if for no other reason than to see his reaction.  On a strangely warm, windy Friday morning, we arrived at the courthouse and I stood behind a doorway near the courtroom they'd been assigned.  Brian arrived, saw his dad and uncles, and after they said their hellos, I popped out.  Brian took one look at me, and said "Jeanne was RIGHT!" His mother-in-law, being the good mother that she is, kept telling him that it was likely I'd show up, that I'd never be able to stay away.  That was probably the best, and longest, hug we ever exchanged.

Enter the courtroom, with a sweet, doddering old judge whose every step had me thinking he'd keel over..."Who's got the license?", he asked.  Deafening silence - for a second, I thought Liz would dissolve in tears. Jeanne piped up with "Your Honor, they were told that it would be here waiting for them, that they could not take it with them...."  At which point there was a flurry of activity and phone calls from the clerk (try scaring up anyone in a Wisconsin courthouse at 11:30 on a sunny Friday during hunting season) until said license was unearthed by another clerk, who received a rousing round of applause.

As Brian and Liz stood in the front of the courtroom facing family and friends, the look on each of their faces was exactly what I wanted it to be - pure and total adoration and love. Brian did nothing but gaze at her; Liz couldn't look at him for long, because she was in danger of crying. When the important words came - "I now pronounce you..." - the joy and relief on their faces was worth every second spent raising this kid - this is what it was for.

Everyone trooped to a nearby Irish pub for lunch and celebratory beverages - a perfect end to an interesting, unique occasion that serendipity sent me to attend.

"Ya Gotta Have.....Friends..."

I have written a lot about my networks of friends, mostly from previous decades of my life.  But the last few weeks have prompted me to write about a group I've neglected for far too long - my neighborhood.

They say life is what happens when you're busy making other plans. Boy and howdy. I feel as though we moved into this house last week, and it was almost new. Blink, and it's 22 years later, and it is most definitely NOT new. But this remains the coolest, kindest, most entertaining and wonderful neighborhood ever.  And I have to pay it homage.

When we moved here, Labor Day Weekend of 1990, we were grateful escapees from California, with two young boys, looking for a new start with less stress and more money.  We moved from a veritable over-sized and overpriced closet to a huge, open, almost-new house with a rambling yard for the boys, a kitchen to die for, a 3 car garage with floors clean enough to eat off of, and a view of Mt Hood (if you crooked your head the right way out our bedroom window).  But the very best part was the neighbors that came with the house. The first week, one mom came down with a plate of cookies, her name and phone number, and the ages of her kids - just about the same as ours. Then there was a neighborhood BBQ, where not one, but three young middle school girls accosted me asking if we needed babysitters.  Could I have died and gone to heaven when I wasn't looking? 

Best Friends

These people weren't just nice on the surface, they were deeply kind and devoted, right to the very core.  Over the next twenty years, we went through everything - plumbing disasters, ER visits, even the death of one very dear friend from a heart attack in his own front yard. That took years to recover from. All of these events only served to make us closer. For the longest time, there was virtually no turnover. No one ever left. Our kids grew up together, graduated together, then left home and got married and had babies.  Occasionally, new folks would enter, through a transfer or divorce, or something else, and we would do our darnedest to invite them into the fold, which they usually welcomed.
This last weekend we held our annual summer potluck BBQ, which occurs in front of our house because we live on a cul de sac, and there's a lot of shade and open space. Almost without our noticing, instead of folks bringing their children, they were bringing their grandchildren! Wait a minute here! Didn't we just move in last week? No? 22 years ago, you say? Couldn't be.....well, maybe.....

New Year's Eve Snow

Halloween

Mom's Weekend at the Coast

Salud!

We have progressive dinners, moms' weekends at the coast, monthly library nights (almost like a book club except it's a lending library - mostly we drink, eat, and giggle), a quilting collective, and a walking group three times a week.  We keep such close tabs on each other that if you aren't seen for several days, a posse will gather to find out what's going on. Burglars know better than to mess with this place... We share recommendations - doctors, roofers, plumbers, restaurants, schools - we commiserate, we circle the wagons when someone is ill, or hurting. We celebrate milestone birthdays - in a big way - there are juicy stories about various 40th, 50th, and 60th birthdays. We do nothing halfway. I have been on the receiving end of such kindnesses more times than I can count. Regardless of the situation, I know I would only need to raise a finger to elicit the amazing care, concern, and devotion that is the hallmark of these families.

Lots of people know a good neighbor or two, but we have been so blessed, so fortunate - we have a huge family, a pod, a gaggle, a flock, of the neatest people in the whole world. So, dear fellow denizens of Tiare Hills, here's to you and many more years of living in our own little piece of paradise.  I love you to death.

"What a friend we have in time....gives us children, makes us wise..."

I should have written this two weeks ago when it was fresh, but it's been a crazy-busy summer.  So I'm just now getting to it.  So shoot me.

You may recall my post regarding a group of friends with whom I sang in high school....well, on July 14 we attended the wedding of the daughter of two of those folks. The wedding was at the home of, and catered by, the bride's uncle, who was another member of that group.  It was the first time that virtually all 12 members of Young Folk (yeah, I know, lame name....) were together in....wait for it....34 years!  To say that it was a fabulous weekend does not do it justice.  The wedding was lovely - an incredible setting on a hilltop overlooking the San Ramon Valley on a beautiful sunny late afternoon, a gorgeous bride and handsome groom, and guests of all ages, from infants to 90+ year old grandparents.

So what's the big deal? Nothing much, if you are unimpressed by a group of friends who are so in tune (!) that they can pick up where they left off without missing a beat (I'm really NOT trying to use music-related puns, it's just working out that way). It was a reunion that stopped us all in our tracks, and made us realize how deep our friendships were/are, and how fleeting our lives.  Most of us have lost at least one if not both of our parents; some unfortunate ones have lost a child.  Many have had scary, life-threatening illnesses or accidents, and multiple folks have found themselves unemployed at one point or another.  In other words, we've all had our share of bumps and bruises. But as soon as we were all in one spot, it was as though we'd never been apart.  Some have aged better than others; they were soundly criticized! What had not changed was our humor, our memories of good times past, and our love of good music and each other.  And all this did not end when the evening was over - it continued at breakfast the following morning, and at the "after party" in the afternoon, capped by a light dinner and drinks before we had to part ways.

The pictures were numerous and beautiful, for the most part....

Left to right, our "Leader", Marilyn; pianist, Fitz; vocalist, Vickie; rhythm guitar & vocals, Sharon; vocals, Rob (and 3rd of the 3 brothers); lead guitar, Jim, and drummer extraordinaire, John.

How sweet it was: What was left the next afternoon:  back row, Paul, married to Vickie; Tim, Sharon's husband; Jim; front row, Sharon; Steve and Robin (parents of the bride), and Fitz.

"Blue Eyes....Baby's got blue eyes...."

Today, July 22, 2012, our firstborn son is 30 years old. I cannot begin to explain what feelings that evokes in me. I remember the day he was born as if it were last week....20 hours after labor officially began with a rather large puddle on my bedroom floor, he was yanked unwillingly from the warm, dark, wet, safe confines in which he had become so comfortable. His birth was not what we/I had expected, nor was the rest of his life, if you want the truth.  Brian has always been a study in contradictions. So scary smart, such a dingaling.... so dear and gentle, such a temper.... so serious, such a wicked sense of humor. He is Jekyll and Hyde wrapped up in a drop-dead handsome package. And I just can't believe that so much time has flown by so quickly - I swear we just finished having his high school senior portraits taken; recently flew to St. Norbert's for college graduation; last week moved him to start his first job as an urban planner in eastern Washington.

How did this happen? What was I doing when all this maturing was going on? And if he's 30, how old does that make ME? His dad turned 30 just after Brian turned a year. That seemed normal, a 30 year old man with a year-old son. When I turned 30, I was 8 months pregnant with his little brother. Nothing unusual about that. I often projected to see what ages we would be at various times; in the year 2000, Bri would be 18, graduating from high school - the Class of 2000.... when Bri was 21, it would be our 25th wedding anniversary...when Bri was 25, Tim would be 54.... when Bri was 50, I would be 76.  Somehow, this year 30 thing never figured into those projections, which may be why I'm having such a hard time.

But perhaps the hardest part is that he will never be mine again. He has a life of his own, he is engaged to marry a lovely young woman who rocks his world, and Mom is pretty much on the fringes - as it should be. He is far away, and his world is light years different from ours. The last four years of the US economy have pretty much knocked the wind out of his sails, and it hurts to see that. I envisioned his life at 30 being one of professional accomplishment, personal contentment, and maybe a kid or two. I realize now that I have zero impact on any of that, and my job is to support him in his struggles, applaud his successes, and back off on the grandkid business.

When he was an infant, I obediently followed the instructions in the "how-to" books regarding feeding - find a quiet, restful, comfortable spot with no distractions; have something to drink within reach, and play soothing music. One of 1982's best songs was by Elton John, and it captured my feelings, and my baby, in a nutshell:  "Blue eyes, baby's got blue eyes; like a deep blue sea on a blue, blue day...."

Happy birthday, Bri.

"Whatever you are you're going to be, whatever you are is alright with me..."

Father's Day....yes indeedy, right up there with Mother's Day in my book.....I adore my husband and the father he has always been to our two sons.  I think even they appreciate the job he's done and continues to do.  I have no misgivings about his abilities as a father and I always look for ways to celebrate that.

My own father? Now that's another story. As I have said before, I believe our parents did the best job they could with the resources at their disposal. I don't doubt that they loved us. There are nonetheless huge gaps in the father-daughter relationship as experienced by me.

I was always fascinated listening to my friends talk about their relationships with their fathers. It was like eavesdropping on another world. I could no more relate to their lives than I could to Cinderella and her stepsisters.  Friends? Ask for advice? Go to for help? Outings together? You've got to be kidding.  What was all that about?  My father was the man who paid for everything and never let you forget it. Drove a company car, traveled a lot for work. Never exercised, smoked liked a chimney, was about 75 pounds overweight. And his alcoholism marked me for life.

I was in junior high before I woke up and realized that not everyone's family had a patriarch who behaved like mine. I knew he had more than one personality, and I was never totally sure which one I would encounter when he came home from work, when he did come home.  In our house, you didn't talk about it. You didn't ask why dad wasn't home yet, or where he was, or if dinner was going to be late. Everything was fine.

So I never allowed myself to get too close or too involved with him.  And that suited both of us just fine. I never gave him any reason to get mad at me; he did anyway. I avoided him as much as possible. He never taught me to dance, or told me I was pretty (I wasn't, so I can't really blame him for that). I observed from afar, both to learn how not to behave, and what I could do to make things better or worse.

I think I was a junior in college before we had a real heart-to-heart conversation. It was on our annual Christmas Eve morning shopping trip where he managed to accomplish in two or three hours what took most people several weeks. Not fair.  It always ended with him taking me to lunch, which I think was his honest attempt to connect with me.  It was simply many years too late. He could be wonderful when he wanted, which wasn't nearly often enough. He was a masterful chef, and could cook just about any cuisine he attempted. Renowned for his barbecued chicken, anything Chinese (especially chicken wings), and shishkabob, I learned a lot of the subtleties of cooking from him.  I also learned how to grow roses, which was his avocation. He would be up with the sun on summer weekends, fussing and pruning and spraying his precious hybrid teas.

He hated the Catholic church, and resented with all his energy sending his kids to Catholic schools, particularly Catholic colleges. Some of that came from watching his own parents grovel to the church and deny their own family to contribute to creepy predatory pastors. That I can understand. But since most of my life in high school and college revolved around my singing in church, that left a fairly large gap.  He didn't want to send me to college at all; he said all I would do was get married, and I didn't need college for that.  But then he wanted me to attend UC Santa Barbara, and become an oceanographer. Don't ask me where THAT came from!  YOU go be an oceanographer! As it turned out, I went to college, and DID get married shortly afterward.  Unfortunately, Dad wasn't around for that.

Oddly enough, I did learn some important things from him, although I don't think I realized it while he was alive.  He put a supreme value on integrity.  I remember when I was in high school, a young salesman that Dad had hired and mentored was discovered to have swindled the company. Dad was furious, but more than that, he was hurt. When confronted, the guilty party had absolutely no remorse, which was the most devastating part of all.  I don't think I ever saw him so dejected, and I never forgot that. Because he never went farther than a high school diploma, Dad was always somewhat defensive about his qualifications.  He spoke like a true Chicago south-sider, substituting "don't" for "doesn't", and always wanted more for my brothers.

He's been gone for 34 years; I've lived far more of my life without him than I did with him.  As an adult, there is so much I wish we could talk about - so many questions I wish I could ask, and almost innumerable do-overs. Not gonna happen, at least not in this world.  Mostly, I'm sorry for what both of us missed. We will never get those days back again, never have a second chance to do it right.  My father had very interesting and eclectic taste in music - he loved the Mills Brothers, Willie Nelson, and Patsy Cline (OK, two outta three ain't bad). In the months before he died of lung cancer, we'd have breakfast listening to the radio. One morning, a song by Barbara Streisand came on, and he looked at me and told me how much he liked it.  So I listened a bit more closely:

"Whatever you are you're going to be, whatever you are is alright with me. You're gonna be what you want anyway, these are the words I heard my Father say...."

So, on the day we buried him, I sang that song at his funeral.

"Wherever you are I'm here by your side, My life is a rope that won't come untied. I'm gonna stand by you right or wrong, these are the words within my Father's song...."

Happy Father's Day, dad.....

"na na na na na na...You say it's your birthday....na na na na na na....It's My Birthday too, yeah...."

Today is my birthday.  It should be known that I consider it to be second in importance only to Christmas Day, and woe to those close to me who forget that.  It's the one day out of 365 where pure and simple self-centeredness is allowed and encouraged.  I love it.  I live for it.  But there is ONE problem with my particular birthday.  It didn't bother me much before age13, but ever since, I've had to watch out for it.

A mid-June birthday by its nature is at risk of being shared with graduations at all levels, and occasionally Father's Day.  My 8th grade graduation was on my birthday.  To be fair, it was also the day of my brother's college graduation, which he chose not to attend (mostly because my father needed him to chauffeur us to the airport for a trip to the midwest). At the time, it didn't strike me as a big deal because the trip was my graduation present. But now, as an adult and as a parent, I can't imagine missing my own college graduation, and I sure as hell wouldn't miss my kid's college graduation.  What was going on there?

When I was a senior in high school, my birthday was 3 days prior to graduation.  Lovely day, lots of fun. And then my father went on a business trip and missed my graduation.  He sent my older brother in his stead. Again, as a parent, I can't conceive of taking a pass on my kid's high school graduation, even if he did barely make it - maybe all the more so! But Dad had a trip he couldn't change, and so my brother was his representative.  I was not impressed.

My college graduation was the day before my birthday.  Dad missed that one, as well, since he died seven months prior. Both brothers were in attendance.  That was the most fun graduation ever - school was done, I was OUT, and preparing for my wedding in four weeks.  We spent my birthday attending the wedding of another good friend - oh yeah, that's the OTHER thing with which mid-June birthdays compete - LOTS of weddings!

As I get older and birthdays don't get the same hoop-de-doo as they did when I was a child, I find myself behaving more like a child, and stomping my foot and pouting if I am not appropriately fussed over.  Not very attractive, to be sure.  It's just that at this stage, I feel like I'm disappearing - my kids, my nieces & nephews, my friends all have so many milestones to celebrate, and I feel lost in the shuffle. Our boys each had a milestone graduation shared with my birthday. This birthday in particular is a bit of a weird one for me - I am the age today that my mother was when my father died and left her widowed with two kids at home.  That one stops me in my tracks.  And I wonder how many more birthdays I will have - with any luck, a whole bunch - and who will be with me to celebrate.  And I'm not quite as willing to share as I should be, and used to be.

Who says with age comes wisdom? In my case, it certainly doesn't come with grace....stay tuned....

The Wedding Song.....

June 1.....the month of graduations, Father's Day, my birthday, and......weddings.  Today marked a very sobering milestone, at least for me.  We received by email the contract and menu selections for our son's wedding.  Brian and Liz, God love their souls, have been trying their damnedest to get married since Liz was a senior at St. Norbert in 2008.  The original plan was Memorial Day Weekend, 2009. Then the economy tanked. Brian diligently sought employment opportunities in the midwest/Chicago area, where Liz lived. No luck. Liz found a good job after graduation, but they remained 1500 miles apart.  Then Brian became a casualty of downsizing.  While not great, at least it gave him the opportunity to move to Chicago, be with Liz, and look for work where they lived.

I'll spare you the gory details, but it went swiftly downhill from there.  Not only was the original wedding date abandoned, they found themselves living in a rental property that I could only describe as a slum. Tim said it brought to mind "Potterville" from It's a Wonderful Life - horrible rents charged for substandard property and living conditions. Despite windows and doors covered by blankets and plastic to prevent drafts, the temperature inside never went above 55 degrees.  And that was paying $300 a month for electricity. In a lot nearby, there were squatters living in a large tent with a bonfire.....not so bad, you say? This was February in Wisconsin....try it sometime.....

Spring forward to 2011, where Brian has a job - certainly not one he wants to hold forever, but it's something.They live in an adorable 98 year old Dutch Colonial house in a sweet neighborhood. After all these years of trying to do it on their own, they finally asked us if we were still willing to help fund them as they planned a wedding. Of course, we said yes.  The bride's family - which consists of her mother, also unemployed - is not in a position to take the traditional road. And we're back to Memorial Day Weekend, this time 2013.

There is nothing - and I do mean NOTHING - I like better than planning a wedding.  Ask my college roommate:  we planned mine for a year and a half!  I am a total sucker for weddings.  When I was a kid, my Catholic grammar school offered conversational French classes on Saturday mornings, and after class, I would hightail it over to our beautiful, brick Georgian-styled church to sneak in the back and watch the first of the day's weddings - the limo would pull up, disgorge the bride under the canopy, she'd walk gingerly up the steps to the big double doors, and I was hooked.  It was there, my mother told me, that I began my fixation on all things matrimonial - dress, flowers, tuxes, music, the works.  It was also before I realized someone had to pay for all that.

So today, I read with disbelief - and I consider myself fairly well-read on the subject - the cost of a simple, modest reception for 125 people. Somehow I thought we had dodged that bullet by producing only sons, but clearly God has other plans.  I love them, and I would do anything for them - obviously.  They're not asking for the moon; I've seen those kinds of weddings.  They're not interested, and we're not willing OR able. But hokey smokes, as Rocket J. Squirrel would say, that's a heck of a lot of money for 6 hours. And we haven't even begun to talk about flowers, photography, or other peripherals - like a dress.  Liz is not a bridezilla, and I don't want to give that impression.  Both of them have their feet firmly planted in reality. The reality is, it's a racket.  Which will no doubt provide fodder for a lot more posts like this.....stay tuned.....

"He is now to be among you at the calling of your hearts, rest assured this troubadour is acting on His part..."

"Blue Eyes, Baby's Got Blue Eyes"

For those of you who are happily mothers, a good day to you. For those who are not, whether by choice or circumstance, do something fun that gets you away from the clamor.  There ARE other paths, and none of them are right or wrong, they just are. It must be dreadful to want to be a parent, to have that hope unfulfilled, and have to endure this day year after year - my heart goes out to you.

I don't exactly have the world's best track record with the holiday.  Mother's Day 1977 was the day before my father's lung cancer surgery, which did not go well. My guess is that my mom had a pretty rotten day, despite being surrounded by family and the world's cutest Grandchild #1, who kept dad in great spirits. It was Dad's last Mother's Day with Mom.

On my own first Mother's Day, after a challenging 10 months with our first son, I went into his room that morning to pick him up out of his crib, and he promptly threw up all over me.  And the day went downhill from there.  Mother's Day 1995 I received a phone call informing me that my mom, who had been struggling with the after-effects of a fall, was being put on comfort care, and if I wanted to say good-bye, I better get on a plane pronto. She died the following Thursday.  The Friday before Mother's Day 1998, we received another phone call (note to self: don't answer the phone at odd hours) telling us that my father-in-law had passed away that morning, peacefully, in his sleep, from complications of Alzheimer's. Thank God for small blessings.

So forgive me if I don't get all gushy-mushy about Mother's Day.  I approach the day with the sense that I might be better off pulling the covers over my head and holding my breath until it's Monday.  I hate crowded restaurants, I have my own philosophy of what constitutes a great Mom, and most of it does not jive with media messages.  But if I have learned anything over the last 35 years, it is that most moms, except the truly disturbed ones, do the very best they can with the resources at their disposal. Every generation has different circumstances, different challenges, different opportunities. NO ONE should ever judge the choices made by a mother, unless they directly endanger her child. Everyone makes choices based on what they believe will work for their situation.  I have seen Madison Avenue mothers turn out pathetic, narcissistic children/adults; I have witnessed struggling parents who decide they are better off apart whose children become the most enviably wonderful adults and parents on the planet.  Please, we have enough grief and angst in our lives - let's give each other some encouragement and support instead of looking for ways to criticize and tear each other apart.

There have been times in my life when I wanted to confront my mom for her perceived wrongs; why did you do this, why didn't you do that. How pointless. I no longer believe that Mom had any preconceived reasons for her behavior, she was just trying to raise 5 rather interesting progeny and maintain her sanity in a less than perfect marriage.  Yes, she was far too concerned with appearances and what other people thought.  And I absorbed a lot of that. Well, fine. Get over it, learn from it, and teach your own kids otherwise (still workin' on that one). Yes, she believed that if you tried hard enough, everything would have a storybook ending.  I REALLY sucked that one up! But I believe widowhood at 56 - the age I am about to be - pretty much killed that idea for her. As a result, I have tried to instill in our sons the knowledge that some things won't work out, but you still do your best, and let the chips fall where they may.

My mom, God rest her soul, also believed that divorce was the ultimate failure, and unwed pregnancy the ultimate shame.  Again, I was a very good obedient daughter who bought that one hook, line, and sinker. Except - my two brothers, whom I adore more than words can convey, both divorced and remarried, and I refuse to consider either of them to be failures. Not what I would have chosen for either of them, especially since I "lost" a treasured sister-in-law as a result. But the upside is that we now have that many more people to love, two additional grandchildren, and more realistic, accepting expectations of one another.

The one that really makes me laugh (forgive me, B) is that the family's first grandchild, who in my mother's eyes is Jesus Christ Incarnate, suddenly found himself, after many years of bachelorhood, about to be the father of an "Oops" baby - which luckily prodded him and his S.O. to get off the stick and be serious. The result is a wonderful marriage and another adorable baby to love, and so the circle goes. And, as if that weren't irony enough, another grandchild found herself, despite complete disbelief ("there's something wrong with these pregnancy tests - they keep saying positive") the impending mother of another "Oops" baby, whom we eagerly await meeting in October.  Should these kids be ashamed? Maybe in my mother's adolescence, but those days are gone.  Instead, we get to witness the cementing of more relationships, with more genuinely wanted babies.  How can that be a bad thing?  Perfect timing? Probably not....so what?  So while my mother may be spinning in her grave (get over it, Mom, they're terrific people!), I can also hear my father chortling with laughter.

Most of all, I have learned that it is a painful mistake to try to live vicariously through one's children. I learned that one from Mom, too. She saw it as taking pride in our accomplishments, and she did, but the flip side is that she felt like a failure if we fell short of expectations.  I never, EVER, want our sons to feel that they are loved less if they fail, that we see ourselves as lacking if they don't set the world on fire. They are loved for who and what they are, regardless of their station in life.  If they never moved another muscle or spoke another word, we would love them. My life is mine, mistakes and all.  The boys are part of my life, but not all of it. I would lay down on railroad tracks for them, but they don't have to earn that. My joy is to see them happy, confident, content, and self-sufficient (that last one is a biggie....). Their presence in my life is a gift for which I will always be grateful.

But at least they don't throw up on me anymore.....

Gee whiz...almost a whole month since my last posting....must have been that sinus surgery that got in the way....

Let's see, good news first? Or truth first?  Let's go with good news. For all intents and purposes, I believe the surgery was a success.  I would say I have 95% of my voice back.  The remaining 5% probably needs to be coaxed back, after being frightened into submission.  I'm still gun-shy about returning to any kind of official singing engagements, so I've confined my attempts to the car, the shower, and the daily walk.  To say that this is a huge relief doesn't come anywhere close to doing it justice. The terrifying fear that I might never sing normally again had me in its clutches, and I'm happy to say that it has now let go.

OK, now the truth.  Not that any of that was untrue, but there is more to it than that. God love Dr. Wonderful; he is a confident, able technician; witty, charming, and fascinating to talk to.  But the man has no concept of pain. Or, in fairness, he has a completely different definition of pain than I do.  Had I known what I was in for, I would never have agreed to the outpatient procedure as he envisioned it.  I mean, a colonoscopy is an outpatient procedure, and they tell you you're "awake", but I can tell you I am no more awake than I was during a very different, totally inpatient procedure. So when he said I'd be "awake", I'm thinking in terms of my definition (i.e., colonscopy) and he's thinking of HIS definition (Katie Couric giving a step-by-step narrative of the procedure). 

In retrospect, I should have called a halt at the first zip of the laser (which I did not realize included an electrical current).  Immediately, I asked him (because this was all done via nasal passages, not mouth) if that was perhaps the smell of burning flesh that I detected....his response was, "Oh, sorry, yeah, I"ll try to be better about vacuuming up the smoke".... Why in God's name was that not enough to send me screaming from the room?  Because I'm in many respects a weenie....can't stand to admit that I can't handle it, can't take it, need a break, or some help, or some more anesthesia.  Speaking of which, that "awake" thing?  What that means is, you only get topical anesthesia - in this case, lidocaine.  Hell's bells, I get more than that when I go to the damned dentist!

And the laser machine itself.....for those of you old enough to remember The Jetsons, this thing reminded me of the maid, without a head.  About that high, same shape....but this thing began to malfunction about two-thirds of the way through the procedure.  Despite my warning at the beginning that I did NOT want to hear him say anything close to "Oops" or "Uh-oh", he pitched a small hissy fit because the manufacturer had just replaced the whole damn motherboard last week.  Well, happy to hear that, but I don't care - as the guy on SNL used to say on the news, "JUST FIX IT!" 

I kept thinking, it's almost over, I can do this, we're almost done....which he kept saying to me....but the truth is that the whole thing took almost two hours. At which point, I got up, walked to the waiting room where Tim was sitting. His back was toward me, so when I tapped him on the shoulder, He just about hit the ceiling - "Whaaa - are you done? Are you OK? You're standing up - is everything all right?" And all I said was, "Take.....me.....home.....NOW!" 

None of this is dramatization, but really, it was OK. Not something I'm eager to repeat, by a longshot, but it solved my problem, I'm pretty sure. And if it didn't, and needs to be fine-tuned, you can be damned sure it will be under conscious sedation the next time. So, thanks Dr. J, you're a great guy, but if I ever run into you in a dark alley, you're toast.....

"Allelu, Allelu, Everybody Sing Allelu...."

I love Easter; it's kind of like the beginning of school in September - everybody gets a fresh start, and all the yesterdays don't matter.  I don't even mind churches full of Submarine Catholics (they only surface on Christmas and Easter). So here are my observations on Easter for 2012.

1. Hope Springs Eternal.
2. Everything seems better when the sun is out.
3. Chocolate for breakfast is not a half-bad idea - once in a while.
4. Bunnies rank as just about the cutest animal ever.
5. Little boys are biologically incapable of keeping their shirts tucked in.
6. There's something irresistible about a little girl in pink organza.
7. Equally adorable is a two year old boy in curls and a bow tie.
8. A Really Good Priest can deliver a homily that kids can understand, and still include references that will make the adults laugh.
9. A sign of a native Northwesterner is a frilly Easter dress with a fleece jacket.
10. The promise of the Resurrection, however you choose to believe in it or not, is displayed in the joy and innocence of children, the riot of blooming flowers, and the chance to start all over.

Finally, the best line at today's Easter service, at the very end, Fr. John was thanking the various groups who helped pull off the 4 day marathon of Triduum and Easter, and said that during Communion, he noticed that a little boy who had been absent from school all week was coming forward for a blessing. Fr. John leaned down and asked him how he was feeling, to which the youngster announced, "I don't have diarrhea anymore, Father!"  Makes you appreciate the little things for which we can all be thankful.

Here's to a day of jelly beans, chocolate, and sunshine.

"...Livin' on money that I ain't made yet..."

Is there an official name for the condition of being afraid to spend money without feeling guilty? I have always been pretty careful with a buck, some would say downright stingy, but I don't see it that way.  Tim and I have never made a lot of money, at least not when compared to our peers. We didn't plan it that way, but when faced with decisions that affected our time together and with our boys, we chose to have more time than money. I still think those were wise decisions, at least for us.  So why, after all these years, do I still feel like a failure when we spend money for necessary, but expensive, purchases?  To me, it always feels like I should have done something differently that would have prevented the purchase...coulda, shoulda, woulda.....

Last month, we broke down and spent $850 on new carpet for our family room. It was 25 years old, original to the house, and we only bought enough to do one room. And I feel like I'm going to get my hand slapped. Today, although we thought we'd only look, we bought a new mattress. The one on which we currently sleep was purchased in 1996, when our son, who will turn 30 this summer, was a freshman in high school. I have rheumatoid arthritis and fibromyalgia; I've had more than a hint of what it feels like to live with chronic pain. So why do I feel like we just splurged on two tickets to Tahiti? (probably because it almost cost as much....)

If there isn't a name for this condition, there should be. Some particular ICD-9 code in the psychiatric books... Am I hearing my mother's voice in the far, deep recesses of my brain, that says, whether or not in so many words, "You can last another year.....too bad, do without.....be glad you've got a house at all....."  Now, my mother was not a monster; a character, no question.  But not a monster. So why do I continue to feel so judged - not just by her, but by anyone and everyone in general - whenever we make a big purchases? I dread our annual visit to our very charming and very wise financial advisor, because although she has never been anything but supportive and enthusiastic, I am always afraid that she will tear into us for our inability to become debt-free, or at least be better off than we were the previous year (come to think of it, that kinda ticks ME off, too...).  Are there others who share my misguided shame? Who take their lunch to work every day, drive a 13 year old car with 215,000+ miles on it, still have clothes in their closet from 1999 - and wear them? And still feel like they should be doing more with less?

I know we're doing the best we can, that there are others much worse off, and that much of this is likely to be temporary.  But when I think about an impending wedding, a roof that will need replacing sooner rather than later, and supporting one or both sons who are also doing their best, but struggling nonetheless, I get this uncomfortable, but very familiar, rumbling in my tumbly, to borrow from Pooh.....

Maybe I just need to start buying lottery tickets.....

God HAS Blessed the Child....

Right now, it's raining sideways outside, and blowing in every conceivable direction. Good time to be inside.

Remember my concern and consternation regarding Challenge Child #2? Well, sometimes if you whine long enough and loud enough, Fate will throw you a crumb just to shut you up. Andrew has a part-time job. It's a continuation of one he had during high school and early college - dishwashing at Beaches, the local favorite waterfront restaurant. Nothing earth-shattering, but bucks are bucks - and in Washington/Oregon, even minimum wage is OK - we have the two highest state-wide minimum wages in the country. He works evenings, which is great, because he's also going back to school.  No, not graduate school....a certificate program at one of the community colleges in Portland.  Tim has been a guest lecturer for the Sustainability/Hazardous Materials Management program for almost a decade, and knows the professor well. And apparently this gentleman has such a rapport with the industry that every student in his program gets an internship, 90% of which lead to permanent positions of one kind or another.  So, it's worth a shot.

Perhaps the best outcome of all this is that I am reminded once again of how incredible my created family is... how wonderfully our kids have turned out, and how united we can be when one of us is in need of support or help. We rally to one another whenever it's necessary, and no one keeps score, or casts blame, or looks for credit.  It's just what good families do. And if that's all that ever comes of it, so be it.

I Believe in Music.....

Greetings to those who actually follow this, although I can't believe anyone actually does....if you remember the "stay tuned" which referred to voice issues....THERE IS A GOD, AND SHE IS GOOD! If ever there was an example of why one must be a committed advocate of one's own health care, it is I.  Had a return visit to Dr. Wonderful last week, after a therapy session that confounded the therapist as much as it did me.  Voice quality changing every couple of minutes, with no particular reason.  Thinking that perhaps a sinus CT was in fact indicated, Dr. W was kind enough to see me the following day.

As he threaded the Magic Camera once again, he decided to look upward, which wasn't done previously because my gag/choke/cough reflex got in the way.  This time it didn't, and I quote, "Well, lookie here....I do believe that's a Tornwaldt's Cyst!"  Excuse me, a Who? What? And therein lies the answer to the voice dilemma.  There is a marble-to-golf ball sized cyst at the back of my sinus cavity - no one knows how it got there, how long it's been there, or anything else. It's apparently fairly rare, but good ol' Dr. W knew it when he saw it!  It's coming out on April 16th, by which time it looks like the problem will be resolved, save a bit of healing from its removal.

Can I get an Hallelujah??????

"May ye be in heaven half an hour 'fore the devil knows y'er dead...."

Today would have been my mom's 91st birthday. Although I've lived without her for 17 years, I never fail to remember her birthday. Always have, always will. And 6 years ago, an event occurred to cement this day in my brain, as much as I would sometimes prefer to forget it.  Some history is required....

When I was a kid growing up in Shaker Heights, a beautiful suburb of Cleveland, our family was part of a very tight parish community where all the families knew each other, and all the kids knew each other or had siblings who knew each other because we all went to the same Catholic school. You couldn't get away with anything, because the parental grapevine was highly efficient. There was one family in particular with whom ours was very close; our parents were best friends, my brother and their oldest son were best friends; Maureen and I were best friends; her mom was my confirmation sponsor, and my parents were godparents to her youngest brother. We couldn't have been closer had we been surgically attached. They even bought a house around the corner from ours. 

And then Dad got transferred to California. For me, it was awful on more levels than I could count, and as excited as my parents were, they were crushed to be leaving their friends.  Distance did not end the friendship; when my brother's best friend was being shipped out to Vietnam from San Francisco, he and his mom stayed with us until it was time to go. His dad couldn't bear to say goodbye, so my dad did it for him. When my dad died of cancer, his best friend came out to be a pallbearer and hold us while we cried. when Mom died, her best friend was crushed. When our grade school class held its 25th reunion, I stayed with Maureen to attend the festivities. Are you getting the picture here? I know families who don't see as much of their own siblings.

We were all aging, knowing in the recesses of our minds that we would one day hear of the passing of our friends' parents.  When my brother called me 6 years ago on my mother's birthday and said he had just talked to his friend Jim, I knew instantly the time had come.  I asked if it was his dad, whose health I knew had been somewhat fragile.  He said no, it was worse than that - it was both parents. He went on to explain that my friend Maureen had taken her youngest daughter and her parents to say goodbye as her oldest son, a West Point graduate, was deployed to Afghanistan. As they began the drive back to Cleveland, her van was stopped at a red light when it was rear-ended by a Chrysler PT Cruiser going 80 mph in city traffic.  The driver and his passenger were having a domestic dispute, and as she attempted to exit the moving vehicle, he continued to speed up to prevent that. It worked.  The impact was sudden, dramatic, and fatal. Maureen's parents, my mom and dad's very favorites, were killed instantly; Maureen's 11 year old daughter, who'd been sitting with her grandpa in the back seat, was mortally injured.  Maureen was severely crushed, but alive.

And all of this on my mom's birthday.

In one split second, Maureen lost an enormous chunk of her life, and what was left changed irrevocably. Her daughter was kept alive until the other 5 siblings could get to the hospital in Louisiana. The soldier son was stopped mid-travel and brought back to be with the family. Halle died with her family surrounding her, two days following her grandparents.  The passenger of the other car was left a paraplegic, and of course, the driver had nary a scratch. Fortunately, he will never again see the light of day - the justice system for once did a good job of assuring that.

Both my brother and I traveled to the funerals, drove through our old neighborhoods, visited old friends, and stumbled somewhat stonefaced through the days. We returned home on St. Patrick's Day, a day that used to be full of parties for our parents and their friends, and school celebrations for the Catholic school kids. And from that point on, Mom's birthday has never been the same. She has time to spend with her best friend in heaven, but at such a price.  I know my friend Maureen will bear those scars, physical and emotional, for the rest of her days.

Happy Birthday, Mom....

Only Shades of Gray...

I guess it's official; I'm old. The heartthrob of the first rock band I ever followed has died.  Davey Jones was "the cute one" of the Monkees, rather like Paul McCartney was of the Beatles.  Personally, I was a fan of Mickey Dolenz, but the cute li'l Brit who played the tambourine was the be-all, end-all to my friends. I remember waiting every Monday night, 7 o'clock, to see what new song would be featured on the Keystone Kops-style program - lots of running around, fast-forward scenes where they were always in some kind of trouble. The very first music videos. And then the following day, it would be the hot topic of discussion among our pre-pubescent crowd of girls.  Not that the music or the program were any great shakes; the made-for-TV group could just barely make it look or sound like they were musicians, and in fact it was always up for debate if they were lip-syncing and faking it or not.

But it's the idea that someone who is not that much older than I am - ten years - keeled over with little warning that caught me off guard. It does make one pause.....of the four of them, he was probably the one with the cleanest lifestyle. And yes, everyone will die eventually, it's the way of things. But when it's someone who's close to being a "contemporary", one stops to consider that there are more years behind than in front.  A bit unsettling. And, like so many music groups, once one member dies, it negates the possibility of any future reunion - The Beatles are the most obvious, but I also think of Peter, Paul, and Mary - not only is Mary gone, but so is their bass player, Dick Kniss. I really like Peter and Paul, but it just wouldn't be the same. Crosby, Stills, and Nash wouldn't have the same panache with only two of the three....regardless of the permutation.

Another little piece of my adolescence....gone.

God Bless the Child......

This morning finds me in a heap of free-flowing anxiety, and usually my best response to that is to write. So here I am.

The weekend has plans that I've been looking forward to for some time; our parish/school auction is tonight, and I am a sucker for charity auctions, much to my husband's dismay.  But this year, I must behave myself - there are enough debts we're trying to clear as it is, without creating more, and there isn't really anything we need. 2012 has been earmarked by me as the "de-clutter" year - I feel like I'm drowning in "stuff". Much of which is our son's, but I digress... The next interesting (to me) task is to have our family room measured for new carpet (see "Debt", above) just to get some idea of what it would really cost.  Far from being a frivolous purchase, this carpet is original to the house, which is 25 years old.  Twenty-two of those years belong to our family, and growing boys are not kind to carpet. Neither are GROWN boys....so, having finally found something I think I could live with, I want to know how much it will be.  I'm pretty sure the answer is Ka-ching, Ka-ching.

A surprise addition to the weekend - still tentative as we speak - is a brief visit from my Bez (PLEASE don't ask me what that means, it's impossible to explain...) Fitz.  She's an 8th grade History teacher from Mukilteo, WA, and wants to attend an event in Vancouver similar to one she'll be guiding her students to next month. Being the classy perfectionist that she is, she wanted a dry-run to get an idea of what she'll be doing when it's her kids' turn.  Have to admire that dedication - especially at $4/gallon, and about 3.5 hours each way.  Don't tell me there aren't awesome teachers in the public education system, I'll give you a fight you'll regret....

None of this is the source of my anxiety.  I know exactly what it is, I just have no idea how to confront it, how to resolve it, or how to change my response to it.  In August, our Andrew will have been back living at home for three solid years.  My rational brain says: he graduated into the midst of the 2nd worst economy in American history; he's busting his butt to change his lot; he's doing all the right things - networking, job coach, informational interviews, volunteering up the ying-yang  - he is a pretty easy person to live with, and his attitude is remarkably upbeat.  My emotional brain says: I want my car back, I want my office back, I want all his crap outta here, and I want my life back.  And I feel SO guilty even as I think that, much less say it out loud, that it literally makes me nauseous.  I know, oh how I know, that so many out there have it so much worse, and I almost pray harder for them than I do for us.  At least we are stable enough to provide him with a safety net, which I know he appreciates, and does not take for granted.  But I truly believed that by the time our youngest was pushing 26 years old, both boys would be suitably launched, and we would be gleeful, giddy empty nesters - perhaps still debt-ridden, which I fully expect to continue until we become fertilizer, but relatively carefree, having returned to the lifestyle of childless newlyweds. Got news for ya - this ain't it.

What is more troubling to me, and God, I wish someone would comment to convince me otherwise, is the nagging conviction that somehow, it's my fault. (Yes, as a matter of fact, I AM Catholic - why do you ask?) As things begin slowly - and I mean at glacial speed - to improve, and more jobs begin to tentatively appear, I can't help but wonder - why can't he seem to find one?  Not even burger flipping?  Home Depot?  Grocery bagger?  What's going on, or going wrong, that prevents him from being hired?  And it always circles back to how we raised our kids. Both Tim and I could aptly be described as "outsiders"; we were certainly NOT in the popular circles growing up; high school - for me, at least - was endured, college was good, but neither of us fit the mold of social butterfly.  Challenge Child #1 took that description to an exponential art form, at least until he discovered himself in high school Drama.  Challenge Child #2 began as the happiest, sunniest, most optimistic little squirt on the planet, but about middle school, clouds began to cast their shadows over his easy-going disposition.  The friends dropped away, the humor became more obscure, the interests more obtuse.  That little guy is still in there somewhere, I'm sure of it, but all the therapy and intervention we could throw at him hasn't allowed him to access that inner swagger that once gave him such a magnetic pull on people. And I wonder if it's the result of our parenting, because we saw in our two the same things we struggled with ourselves, and were helpless to change.

Make no mistake, I love this kid - God, how I love him - and I could easily make a list of the qualities and talents he possesses that put him in a category all his own. His brother, as well. But Big Brother has managed to transform himself from loner to capable adult:  He spent a year in AmeriCorps, he held a professional position for four years before the economy imploded, he's shown that he can handle any crisis thrown at him and land on his feet.  While I have seen glimmers of that with Drew, it's just not there yet, and I fear that I will see his smiling face at the breakfast table when I am 60 years old. That's not a pretty thought.

It's not fair, what life is throwing at him, but as we all know, nobody ever said life would be fair. What I can't seem to get a handle on is how to help him navigate all this crap, and somehow come out on top. And maybe that is the crux of the issue: I can't, and perhaps I shouldn't.  But nothing has ever caused me as much pain as watching my kids in pain - it's the uber-mom in me. I WANNA FIX IT!!!!! So maybe this is as much a journey for me as it is for Drew.  God help us all, and somehow bring resolution to a crapola holy mess. 

Stay tuned.....

On the cusp of a 3-day weekend, the last until Memorial Day.....ugh, that's not a happy proposition...classic Northwest winter weather - grey, fog, mizzly drist. Great for curling up in front of a fire with a great book or a project. Me, I'm headed to the Garden Show after work....I need to see something growing besides my waist and my Visa bill...

More developments on the voice front, not all of which are positive. First of all, keep it in perspective: I do not have a fatal disease, my kids aren't featured on the 6 o'clock news, I have a great marriage. Having issues with my voice does not rate high on the disaster scale.  It's just damnably annoying, and more than a little unnerving. The good news is that the chronic cough of mysterious origin is under tentative control, and a plan is in place should it decide to return. The voice is a bit less definitive. In another week or so, I will begin voice therapy, whatever that entails. All I know is that right now, when I try to sing the way I always have, there are large and embarrassing gaps where sound ought to be. I squeak and croak, and it's not nice to listen to.  So we'll see where that goes.  As a result, I have officially decided to relinquish my role as Saturday music leader at church, and I have withdrawn from the Bravo Chorale. For me, those are profound decisions. But I feel much more relaxed having made them. Maybe without the expectation/obligation of those roles, I can focus more on the reasons why my body has decided to revolt via my voice. ("Your body is revolting...."  "You're not kidding!")  I plan on working in the yard when the weather cooperates, focusing on house projects, and following my heart as much as possible. Even if that is not the answer, it will be fun....

Sounds of Silence

Here we are in the beginning of February, and I'm still struggling with the voice bit. Only now, I'm really getting worried. I like things nice and neat, cut & dried, logical and rational. Even though I know that things are never that way.

On February 1, I had my appointment in the NW Clinic for Voice & Swallowing.  The doc to whom I'd been referred had taken pity on me, and agreed to see me 3 weeks earlier than his scheduler arranged. Great guy, very personable and understanding. First I had to be seen by an intake nurse, a resident, and two other women whose specialties I did not catch. Looked like a dentist's office, which is NEVER a good sign. I've never understood why they have you fill out those detailed pre-visit questionnaires; then ask you the same damn questions every time a new person walks in the room.  Talk about Groundhog Day....

In order to figure anything out, they of course needed to look at my vocal chords (which are, in case you're wondering, very tiny and sin ugly). The first attempt was with a flexible scope with a 97 foot long cord...I wondered if that was so that they had enough length to chase after those who ran screaming out of the room.  And I decided it was worth using my dentist office strategy.  Close your eyes - what you can't see, can't freak you out. They thread this tiny thing through your nose and down your throat - kinda like the movie Fantastic Voyage - and then have you make the sound "Eeeeeeee", so they can watch things vibrate.  Only problem was that by the time they got the camera where they wanted it, it had triggered my tickle/sneeze reflex and I wasn't able to hold the "eeee" long enough. And I proceeded to have a 5 minute coughing fit.

So then they tried the non-flexible scope - doesn't get as clear/deep a picture, but doesn't trigger reflexes as easily. I had to stick out my tongue and they held it, then put this camera scope in my mouth and had me make various sounds/scales/etc.  Which must have been the most god-awful sounds I have ever produced - it reminded me of when Drew was learning the saxophone - kinda like a lovesick moose. We tried that a couple times with varying results. I had a meltdown or two, because I was so tired and frustrated, and I knew I wasn't helping them get the pictures they needed.  But they were very tender and patient, and gave me as much time as I wanted (hint: the one hour appointment turned into 2).  They played back everything so he could see it. Nothing like hearing a discussion of your anatomy narrated by the camera person....

Long answer to short question: No, I do NOT have any growths/nodules/tumors on the chords, as far as they can tell.  That alone dropped my blood pressure twenty points. I do NOT have asthma (we already knew that). My sinuses appear to be fine (thought THAT was interesting). There is also no infection. But the vocal chords ARE very swollen and mucous-y and he doesn't know why. So here's the deal. Starting today, for the next 14 days, I will take 30 mgs of prednisone every morning to try and determine if this is a steroid-responsive or non-steroid-responsive cough.  If it is the former, I will be put on a steroid inhaler (NOT like the one I was on before, which had add'l meds I don't need) for god knows how long. The reasoning is that it is on the cusp of changing from an acute cough to a chronic cough, which are tougher to reverse. If it's the latter, I didn't get a real good response because he's taking one thing at a time.

He did not demand that I go on total voice rest (translation: NOTHING out of your mouth except a sneeze), but he did say that my voice will not improve in enough time to do Bernstein's Mass.  So, I think I am going to resign from the chorale; it's a huge time demand, and as fun as it's been, I don't think going forward it will help resolve this issue.  I"ll go to the concert; nothing will make me miss that, but I"ll be an usher or something. I also think I'm going to back off from Holy Redeemer stuff. They have some newcomers they can tackle to fill in, and I think it's time. I'm not exactly sure what God is telling me, but I don't think it's along the lines of "Go ahead, dear, beat your brains out trying to do everything, maintain impossibly high standards, and see how it works out for ya".  The total terror of possibly losing my voice permanently is enough to make me drop everything. 

Yesterday on the way to work I had a 40 minute coughing fit on the bus...I had plenty of cough drops and kleenex, but forgot a water bottle.....I thought I was gonna get lynched. so from now on, I go nowhere w/o a water bottle. I just want it to stop, and I want to be able to sing again, spontaneously, the way I always have.

Word to the wise: if you have a chance at the extended warranty when you get to 60, TAKE IT!!!

United We Stand, Divided.....

I'm in the midst of a dilemma....you could say I'm being impaled on its horns....I don't know if this is a genuine conflict, or if I'm just being a whiney-puss (again...still...). This requires some background.

This issue of my voice, and its unwillingness to behave over the last 8-10 weeks...there are lots of reasons it's bothersome, and many of them go waaaaaayyyyy back. And that background may hold the answer to my dilemma, but I'm not sure.

When I was 13 (a thoroughly foul and miserable age, I might add), God finally decided to cut me a break, and stop making my life a human misery.  I found these friends...who sang...and played instruments, mostly guitar...and they "let me in". Somewhat begrudgingly at times, but I was desperate, so I swallowed it and took what I could get.  As the months went by, we melded into a real "group" - we sang at 9 am Mass every Sunday, and practiced from 7 pm - 9 pm every Tuesday at our local Catholic Church. The longer we were together, the closer we became. We were essentially divided between the only two high schools in town, so we saw a LOT of each other. And we were good...and I do mean DAMN good.  It took a while, maybe a solid year (they'd been together almost a year before I appeared on the scene), but there was some kind of magic - and that is the only word that describes it - that happened when we were all together. We could ad lib, jam, harmonize, without any training (which, of course, would have cramped our teenage style big-time). We sizzled with energy, and nothing intimidated us. I think now that would be characterized as arrogance, but as the saying goes, "It ain't braggin' if you can do it".

At our peak, there were 12 of us (get it?). Six girls, and six guys, three of whom happened to be brothers (that's another whole story in itself). We had a pianist, a drummer, four guitars (give or take) and assorted hand-held percussion. The dear, somewhat docile priest who ran our parish was so thrilled that we kept bringing people through the doors on Sunday that he pretty much gave us carte blanche to do what we wanted, as long as we were respectful. I was part of a phenomenon that had no explanation, defied all logic, and would likely never come along again.

The music we made, while in retrospect not terribly liturgically correct, was the best we could come up with at the time.  This was a few years before the St. Louis Jesuits and their ilk, unfortunately, so we took songs that we loved and applied them to our own brand of theology, and sang them with all our heart and soul. "Here Comes the Sun", "My Sweet Lord", "He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother", "Oh Happy Day" and the one that became our theme song, "United We Stand". When we got going, we rocked the house, and judging from the response we saw on the faces of the congregation, we rocked spirits as well. All it took was one note, one bar, one riff, and we could read one another's minds...our spontaneous version of "Brown Eyed Girl" prior to a rehearsal one night is a classic example. Funny thing is, we can still do that.  Being part of that incredible experience has forever colored my vision of what constitutes good music, cohesive performing, and eternal friendship. Although at the time it seemed like forever, in fact we were only together a total of about four years. The older ones began to graduate and go off to college (we were decimated after summer 1972), staff changed, and what replaced those who departed just couldn't measure up.  We were awesome, we knew it, and it broke our collective hearts when it ended.(Note: for some, it didn't end - two wound up marrying each other, we all sang at many of each other's weddings, and continue to be in touch, if not joined at the hip.)

Luckily for me, I happened to stumble into a very similar situation in college, only far more sophisticated liturgically. A very talented group of freshman who, like me, arrived in fall of 1974, saved my soul musically and personally. God was really being ever so much more generous than I deserved. This gift, too, lasted four years, until life - and graduation - kicked us out the door into the real world.  Having come from what could only be viewed as a pretty sweet pedigree, I stuck around in liturgical music, always thinking that if I tried hard enough, I could create in any run of the mill parish a version of what I experienced in high school or college. And for about thirty five years, I've been beating my head against brick church walls and marble floors, trying to do just that, and wondering why it wasn't happening.

That bias, which is really what it is, is not very fair to the people who with all good intentions have joined with me at various places along the journey. Nirvana is not meant to exist in perpetuity, at least in this case. And yet I persist. Until now. I think it's time to stop. But I don't know how.

So much of who I am is bound up in music, the thought that it might at some point disappear is slowly but surely beginning to terrify me. Who am I, if not the person who leads the music at Mass? Who am I, if not the person who plays a 12 string guitar (once a Yamaha, now a Martin - thanks, God!)? Who am I, if not the person called on to sing at family weddings, baptisms, and funerals? The self-imposed pressure of always being "on", of not making mistakes, of being able to wing it at a moment's notice without sheet music, sans rehearsals, has begun to take a toll on me, and it's not fair to the people who join with me, nor to those to whom we are supposed to minister. And yet I'm scared to let go. I think of how freeing it would be to relinquish this particular commitment/obligation, and it feels wonderful.  For about 47 seconds. Then I'm afraid I will become the bad person, who quit when it got tough, who bailed on a responsibility. The fact that I've been doing it virtually non-stop (save a couple years of time out for babies) for almost 43 years doesn't seem to matter to my perverted sense of responsibility.

But something's gotta give.....stay tuned.....

I want My Mommy....or a Good, Stiff Drink....

This was one of those days that you can see coming, and can do nothing about. The combination of a late night at a choral rehearsal that wasn't much fun, with Snowpocalypse in a place that doesn't deal with it well,  an unforgiving employer, and a real crapola day at work once I got there, has made me one cranky mama.

I love snow; love to watch it falling, love to look at it undisturbed, love to play in it.  I DO NOT love to commute in it. The Portland/Vancouver metropolitan area is a lot hillier than most outside folks would suspect, so a commute that's a no-brainer in Kenosha, Chicago, or Podunk is a hellatious obstacle course here. Fine. I've always loved a little adventure, but what galls me is that most workplaces (mine included) have absolutely no sympathy for those who must negotiate minefields of snow, ice, and birdbrain drivers in order to arrive at work in one piece. You're late? You eat it. 'Scuse me? I'm on time the other 22 days of the month, but one Snowmageddon day, and I get docked? Thanks so very much.  Grrrrrrr.

Once I arrived at work, not only was there no sympathy, but I had a boatload of voice mail messages wondering where the hell I was, why I hadn't done XYZ yet, and oh by the way, could you please order 15 dozen widgets by noon? (I arrived at 10:45 am.) Somehow, I had always presumed, not overtly but in the back of my mind, that by the time I was 55 years old, most of these picayune issues would be behind me, a thing of the distant past, and I would be valued and appreciated for the particular talents and experience which I bring to my position.  And I have an appointment with the Easter Bunny next week, too.

Luckily, I am married to a man who, while certainly not perfect, is about as close to perfect as one can get in a marital relationship.  Whether through habit or serendipity, we have managed to create a rhythm where we are never both in a foul mood at the same time.  And Lord knows, that's a real trick, because the opposite would be ever so easy.  When confronted by any one of a zillion annoying or serious situations generating worry or angst, one of us is always able to yank the other one along (kicking and screaming, usually) until they are safely out of their funk. Which is what Tim did for me today.  He shoveled not only the driveway, but an alley alongside the curb so that the rapidly growing snowmelt would run down to the storm drains instead of up everyone's lawn; got me safely to the bus; called to let me know when HE got to work safely (I'm a worry-wort), and promised me - and I actually believed him - that things would get better, that we would get through it together, and that the two of us together would prevail against the world. He was waiting at the park & ride when I arrived, and proceeded to fix me one of his world-famous bourbon & '7's - he stirs it with his index finger, and I'm convinced that's why no one else's tastes as good.  Babies love their thumbs or binkies, some folks crave their cigs, booze, or worse; I crave Tim & his bartending abilities.

I can be a world-class whiney puss; a complainer, a negative windbag.  But with this amazing, patient, dry-witted man, who would make George Clooney cower in self-doubt, I feel like Julie Andrews, yelling on a mountaintop.

A Note in Search of a Song

I KNEW my doctor was the best diagnostician since Greg House! The man is brilliant!  When I think of how many physicians out there have no imagination and even less bedside manner, I am ever grateful for my PCP. Stumbled on him by chance; he was subbing for my regular doc once when I got sick, and I realized I liked him a WHOLE lot more than the first guy.  Since then, he has seen me, Tim and eventually both boys (as adults), and I wouldn't switch if you paid me.  And since I work in a medical center, that's saying a lot.

Anyway, the next chapter in the breathing/coughing/singing - or not - story.....I do not have asthma, but we'd pretty much figured that out anyway.  What he suspects, and what would make sense, is that a sneaky case of acid reflux (diagnosed by my GI Guy during an endoscopy) is creating havoc with my vocal chords. Hmmmm.... the weird thing, as I told Dr. J, is that I have no symptoms.  To which he responded, yes, you do:  your voice is your symptom. Duh.....so, we're back on Prilosec to calm things down, and I'm being referred to an ENT/voice specialist to see what's up.  Never in a million years would I have come up with that kind of connection...yet another reason I'm so grateful for his talent and care.

It still kind up catches me up short.....over the past several years, I've been wondering what would happen to my voice as I continued to age.  My voice at 15 was not my voice at 30, nor was it my voice at 45.  I know that voices mature and that can be a good thing (Lord knows it was for me), but it's not endless, nor without limit.  I admit that I have taken that gift for granted.  I don't know what it would be like NOT to sing, since I've been doing it as long as I can remember. But I'm pretty sure it is a gift that will not always be with me; most elderly singers don't open their mouths and sound like they did when they were 40.  How sad that must be!  Will I hear it? Will I know? Will it mortify me to the point where I no longer try to sing? It's such an intrinsic piece of my persona that I really can't imagine losing it....it would be one step shy of losing sight, or hearing, or speech, or mobility.  I think I will pray that I don't live long enough, or that I lose my awareness before I realize that I can no longer generate music with my voice.  Stay tuned....

Breathe Deeply

I suppose that if this writing endeavor is going to have any appeal, I'll need to follow up on the "hanging chads" remaining when I say "stay tuned".  Nothing like leaving things hanging, unresolved....don't you hate it when a book does that? You're expecting all the loose ends to be neatly tied up at the end, and then....wait a minute! What about what'shisname?  OK, I'll try not to do that.

I mentioned that just before New Year's I was referred for a Pulmonary Function test in an attempt to get to the bottom of my coughing fits. I really wasn't thinking much about it; I had a vague idea of what was involved, and it didn't sound too sinister.  So, I went for the test, which luckily was in an office directly above mine (I work in the Center for Hematologic Malignancies in the Knight Cancer Institute at Oregon Health & Science University - say THAT 3 times real fast!), and was quite convenient.  Figured it would be 15 minutes, and I'd be back at my desk.  An hour later, when I stumbled out the door with a new inhaler, I felt a new, humbling respect for all those with chronic asthma, COPD, or cystic fibrosis, who face challenges to breathing every single day.  What I was asked to do just about knocked me flat, and I consider myself to be relatively healthy with a good respiratory system.  I'll spare you the details, but oy, that was exhausting!  And at the end of it, there's STILL no definitive answer to my problem.  The coughing wouldn't be so bad if it was the only symptom.  What really bothers me is that it's monkeying with my voice.  I'm a singer, and when my range is cut in half, it's pretty significant for me.  My first thought was to just shut up for a week, but that is neither possible nor practical. I have been doing my best to be as compliant as possible with my inhaler, complete with its spiffy new spacer, which allows only one-way airflow. But I'm told that results, if there any at all, will be slow in coming, and not terribly remarkable.  Oh, goody - so tell me again why I'm doing this?  That's the question I'll be asking my doctor tomorrow.  Stay tuned.

And you think YOUR kid's a handful......

Yes, I know Christmas was 12 days ago....(darling son took both trees down today, put one at the curb, one in a box), but since today is the Feast of the Epiphany (aren't Theology majors annoying?), it's still Christmas.  Every year, there seems to be one holiday song on which I get fixated; either lyrics, melody, or both continue to ring through my head relentlessly. And I have to assume that it's for a reason.  God is trying to tell me something, and I can be really tough to get through to when I'm distracted. So, perpetual music running through my brain is probably as good a method as any to capture my attention, and hopefully teach me whatever it is I need to learn.

This year, the song is "Mary, Did You Know?"; it's a contemporary ballad from the '90's, performed by lots of good singers, but none better than by Kathy Mattea.  If you've never heard of the song (or of her), get on YouTube, search for the song and choose her live version done in the mid-'90's.  It will give you chills. And, with any luck, make you think: "Mary, did you know your baby Boy would one day walk on water?" Now, there's an image....not what one normally thinks about when looking at a newborn. "...This child that you've delivered, will soon deliver you..."  Whoa.

Those who know me well know that I am a Roman Catholic rebel. Despite the fact I continue to be a practicing member of the church (although lately, they're really pushing their luck...), there is no end to the number of tenets with which I disagree, either somewhat or vehemently.  One in particular is this Mary business.  I'm not a huge fan of the Rosary; nothing against it, I'd just rather go straight to the top.  And all that Immaculate Conception jazz - which refers to her being born without original sin, NOT how Jesus was conceived; will folks EVER get that one straight? - it just never meant much to me one way or the other.

And then I read a book, which you should do everything in your power to find, by Martha Manning, called "Chasing Grace". My older sister gave it to me as a birthday present years ago, and I'm still laughing.  I think it's safe to say it's one of my top five favorite books ever. If  I could write half as well as Ms. Manning does, I would consider myself honored. It helps that we are both Catholics who grew up in the '60's in the midwest, but I digress. She writes chapters that are stories in themselves, and one involves an experience she had (and to which so many of us can relate) when she thought she lost her toddler daughter in a huge department store. OK, let's see a show of hands - how many of us have had that momentary lurch in the pit of the stomach when we can't find our munchkin? I've lost count of the number of times, I'm embarrassed to say. She describes the myriad of emotions engulfing her as she tries to compose herself enough to find her little girl. Of course, there's a happy ending, but that's not the point.  She, like I, remembers the scripture passage where Mary and Joseph realize they have lost Jesus on a long journey back to Nazareth, and race (as much as camels can race) back to Jerusalem to find him. When they locate him preaching in the temple, and Jesus basically says, "What, you thought I was gonna hang around doing nothing all day? I've got things to do!" Mary nearly has apoplexy.....smart mouth kid.....which is when it dawns on her: This is no ordinary child. And I have no choice but to accept it.

"Mary, did you know that your baby Boy would one day rule the nations? Did you know that your baby Boy has walked where angels trod, and when you kiss your little baby, you've kissed the face of God?"  Perhaps, even for this Roman Catholic rebel, there is something to be learned about patience, trust, and surrendering to the will of God from this poor, unsuspecting teenager who never asked for all this....Can you imagine being in her shoes? She's married to this guy she barely knows, many years her senior, she's pregnant and can't explain how or why, which is a billion times more of a disgrace then than it has ever been since, and she's supposed to put up and shut up when she sees her Son placed in danger, ridiculed, threatened, and eventually murdered....sure, sign me up....

So, I find myself slapping myself upside the head (metaphorically speaking, of course) when I whine and moan because Child #1 is underemployed and Child #2 has never been employed full time since college graduation...I have to remember that as challenging as they may have been these last 29 years, I will likely never have to endure the agony and heartbreak (please, God, I'm not daring you) that was Mary's lot in life.

I wonder if Martha Manning has ever heard that song......stay tuned.....

Happier New Year?

Evening on the first day of 2012.  I suppose it would be almost sacriligious, not to mention extremely out of character, for me to neglect making an entry on the first day of a new year.  The incurable optimist in me still believes that there are always new beginnings, opportunities to start afresh, regardless of what day it happens to be.  So why should this year be any different than the last 55?

Most of today was spent avoiding the dust storm that is our front hallway.  At last year's parish/school auction, we purchased quite a few hours of remodeling labor from a family-owned company, who are members of our parish, and delightful people. Not to mention awesome contractors. This seemed at the outset like a fairly simple project - removal and replacement of the flooring in our front entryway and powder room. Not a huge amount of space; less than 180 square feet. So we thought we'd help the process along by doing the demolition work prior to our master remodeler's arrival next weekend. Silly me - I always assume that projects are as simple as they appear to the untrained eye. Oy. This floor was installed with industrial strength, super powered adhesive that would likely survive Armageddon. I figured a couple of good hammer swings and we'd be on our way.  Not so fast, bucko. It took my two able-bodied and determined menfolk the better part of 3 days to get rid of the stuff that's been there for 25 years. The Pyramids were not built as securely! Perhaps the dust will completely settle in time for installation of the new floor. All of which does wonders for the barking seal.....

Just as I arrived home from an escape to the grocery store (which shows you just how desperate I was to avoid the demolition), eldest son Brian was on the phone from chilly Kenosha.  Nothing unusual about that; Sunday afternoon or evening, depending on his work schedule, is our usual weekly chat time. But this time, the lilt in his voice suggested that something was afoot.  And in fact, it appears that Brian and Liz have decided to throw back the covers under which they've been hiding the last couple of years, and once again set a date and begin planning for their long-awaited nuptials. Well, it's about bloody damn time! Actually, I totally understand their reluctance after initially announcing a date of May 29, 2009. First and foremost, the economy took a nosedive the likes of which haven't been seen since the 1930's. Then came a series of personal circumstances and events which we'll save for another time, but which had devastating effects on their ability to make any plans, or save any money. Both were determined that they would pay for this wedding themselves, without help from us. Liz's mom is not in a position to help financially. Although I had misgivings about this well-intentioned but dubious approach, I kept my mouth mostly shut. Surviving the debacle of the last almost-four years has finally convinced them that their noble and altruistic plan doesn't have a snowball's chance in hell of working. So, here we go again, on what is one of my all-time favorite activities - wedding planning!  2012 just might have some potential after all!  Stay tuned.....