Happy?

I cyberstalked someone on Facebook today.  We are not "friends," but she reveals a lot of personal information on her page, and her life fascinates me.  We are about the same age.  We are physically shaped the same.  But unlike me, she wears fun clothes, clingy clothes and flaunts her ample figure and big bosom.  She smiles broadly.  And she smiles a lot.  She loves her job, her relatively new husband, her friends, her hair, her busy and fulfilling life.  She is not particularly attractive, but her aura enchants those in her life and they see her as beautiful.  She is one of the most vivacious people I sort of know.

She is happy. Very, very happy.

And I am so jealous of her.  Because I can't imagine that I will ever be happy again.

I've been told that life is a choice and we choose whether-or-not to be happy.  I certainly don't remember choosing miserable.  I used to be a lot like her.  I used to be happy.  It's gone.  That part of my life is gone, and I don't see it coming back.

Understandably, this has been a terrible year for me as I watched my brother die.  I helped my sister with the caregiving, and I probably did a lousy job. I was squeamish with a lot of things that involved bodily fluids. I'm not very strong, so I was always afraid of hurting him. He took out a lot of anger on me, and I held it and was deeply hurt by it. So, I probably wasn't always very nice to him. We once had to go to the "principal's office" (the social worker) after a fight we had on the way to radiation that carried on into the facility. I think that was the day I just stopped smiling. Real smiling, I mean.  I can paste one on my face, but I can't feel it.

For months, I didn't do anything Facebook worthy.  My sister and the girls traveled to China.  I stayed with Glenn. I do not regret it; I'm glad I could do it for my family.  But my sense of adventure is gone now.  If you offered me that trip today, I'd say no.   My outings were short because I didn't want to leave him alone; so instead of a beach trip, I didn't plan anything more than a trip to the grocery store or an outing to the Superstore for something he needed. Somehow, those months have scarred me because I can't get back into the groove of going out and doing things. I no longer have that desire for adventure, or the energy to have "fun."  I feel serious anxiety about going anywhere. I want to stay in my house and play games on the computer or watch endless reruns of Grey's Anatomy. Are there degrees of agoraphobia? Am I on the agoraphobic spectrum?

This person I cyberstalked has a lot of friends, different kinds of friends.  She's always doing things and going places with groups of friends.  Or with other couples, because people who are married do "couple" things and they like even numbers when they do them.  People ask her to join them, they want to do things with her. They want to take pictures with her. I'm so jealous of the fun she has, of the joy she feels every day upon waking up.

I learned that caregiving can be a very lonely thing.  The whole time I was in Pennsylvania, I did not see one person that wasn't medically related or a personal friend of my brother's. I have to say, I miss his friends. They visited faithfully and brought joy and hope to the long days.  I completely fell off the social register. I rarely saw anyone from my old life.  Months and months of that can do a number on a person.  I am now used to the solitude. It's my new norm.  I may hate it, but I have no energy to change it.

I envy Facebook Woman her happiness.  I don't believe I will ever be truly happy again.  I am so full of grief and anger that I don't believe I have enough years left in my life to work it out and get past it. I'm angry at the people who let me down.  I am angry that I lost a dear friend to cancer a few weeks before I lost my brother. I am angry that I was so helpless to do any real good when my brother suffered. I am angry that I can't sleep because I am haunted by the last week of his life playing over and over again in my head. I am angry because I feel so alone all the time.  I feel sad that my prayers seem to be falling on deaf ears.

Is that all there is?  That Peggy Lee song used to haunt me. I reread the lyrics recently, and even Peggy brings out the booze and goes dancing with her friends. That's the most depressing song I know, and even that song is happier than I feel anymore.

Is this just a stage of grief, or is this the rest of my life?  Will I ever be happy again? Will I ever again go to bed grateful for what I have and wake up thankful for what's to be?

I recently read an article by Elizabeth Kupferman that touched me deeply because she understood exactly how I was feeling.  I got the feeling that what I'm experiencing is more normal than abnormal.  Part of her advice was to share these feelings.  So, I wrote my blog.  And now you know. Here's a link to her amazing article.

http://www.expressivecounseling.com/grief-loneliness-friends/ 

  (You'll need to copy/paste this address, I can't get the link to work.)

What I'll remember about Christmas 2015

I was prepared for this Christmas to be the worst Christmas ever.  After a fight full of pain and disappointment, my brother lost his battle with stomach/pancreatic cancer and died on December 4. Just the thought of him not being around to eat all the chocolate chip cookies so Helen would have to rush bake another batch was enough to make me cry. I'd catch myself checking the catalogs and thinking something would make a good gift for him; then I'd realize there would be no more gifts. My eyes would fill with tears when I'd pass the men's departments in my favorite stores and remember the bike riding clothes I'd purchased during the past few years. Television commercials where the child came home from college or the mom/dad surprised their families by returning from war would be enough for me to cry all night.  Every day this month was one of anguish.

I fully expected this Christmas would be remembered as one of the worst our family ever experienced. The first Christmas without Uncle.

In truth, we will never forget the Christmas of 2015, but not for the reasons I'd been anticipating.

The weather this season was record breaking. We had a white Christmas after all, but the white was thick, thick fog. We had warm summer rains.  Yes, I said summer.  The windows have been open for days.  We've slept at night with the ceiling fans gently buzzing. We ate Christmas dinner on the deck. I wore shorts and a red T-shirt for Christmas.  Helen was in her flip-flops.  All over Facebook people posted holiday pictures of families in summer clothes. This happened in Maryland and Pennsylvania on December 25.  Never in my lifetime have I experienced such a warm holiday.  Next year as we shiver in typical December weather we will talk about last year when we threatened to turn on the air-conditioning.  Each holiday from now on, we will refer to Christmas 2015 as the warmest winter holiday ever.

Our family will forever remember this Christmas as the year of the turkey.  Our friends, Carol and Vincent, provide the Christmas turkey.  They get big, juicy fresh turkeys. ( A few years ago, the drippings from their turkey, the biggest one Helen had ever cooked, set our oven on fire and we had to call 911.  But that's another story.)  This year, Carol went to the farm, observed the birds doing their free-range thing, then she selected one to join us for the holidays.  She helped the farmer chase and catch the bird.  Once in hand, the farmer took it off to wring its neck and pluck its feathers.  Since the farmers had heavy accents when they said something to Carol about the feet, she didn't understand.  So, like all old people who don't hear well,  she did the shaky smile thing and said yes.

Christmas morning 2015.  Helen is removing the bird from its bag.  I'm typing away on the computer, and I stop when she yells, Oh gross!!!  There, popping out of the bag are two huge white turkey feet. Upon further removal, we realize the turkey head is dangling from the dead turkey neck which is still attached to the dead turkey.  Ew!  Ew! Ew! Poor Helen.  Without a meat cleaver, amputating those turkey parts was slow going.  She's yelping, I'm laughing, the dogs are circling hoping that something will drop to the floor.  What a site!

Christmas 2015 will be, as I fully expected, a Christmas I will never forget.  But, I did not expect to remember it as the Christmas Eve we slept with the windows open.  Or the Christmas Day that Helen had to play pioneer woman in order to prepare our dinner.  Or a Christmas unexpectedly filled with friends and unending laughter.

When we look back on the Christmas of 2015, we may feel tears come to our eyes as we miss Uncle Glenn.  But we'll laugh, uproariously, because we'll never forget the turkey feet, the summer weather, and the friends who enjoyed the holiday with us.  I know Glenn, Mom, and Dad looked down and laughed with us.

a poem

November?
sitting outside
in my red plaid nightgown.
Hot sun warms my face
as it burns a hole through the
chill in the air.

Holiday Hissy Fit that you probably don't want to read

It's almost Thanksgiving, and I am having a hard time being thankful.  I am angry. I wake up angry and I go to bed angry.  I feel ashamed of this anger because my common sense tells me I should focus on being thankful for all that I do have, not what I'm missing.  Well, I can't right now. I'm a mess, and I have been one for quite a few months.

I used to get so much pleasure from Facebook and reading the updates.  Lately, I am angry and disgusted with this formerly pleasant past-time.  Supposedly, there is a war on Christmas demonstrated by a coffee store producing a plain red cup instead of  one full of snowmen and snowflakes.  People are actually proud of themselves as they fight back by boycotting the company. What kind of crazy are these people? I had to stop reading the posts from one of my favorite pages because some kid with too much time on his hands led a campaign to get the local mall to change its futuristic holiday decorations.  My blood began to boil over at the comments congratulating this kid on his stand to save Christmas. Save Christmas? Who gets their Christmas at the mall?  Most of FB, I think.

I am angry and annoyed at the same discussion that comes up every year at this time... the "they" who are no longer allowing people to say Merry Christmas. Nobody is stopping anybody from saying that. Why does this become an issue every November?  Yet, people puff out their chests and proudly "stand up for their faith" by planning to fight with anyone who says anything other that those two words to them during these next few weeks.  To quote the kids, WTF?

What is wrong with people who think their intolerance is acceptable?  I was shocked to read a FB article about a stupid, stupid woman who physically attacked a young woman for speaking Swahili with her family in a public place. All of this nonsense about English being the only language that should be spoken in this country is just that, nonsense!  So what if signs are multi-lingual?  So what if you have to push a button to hear English on a business call?  So what!!!  I taught English.  And let me tell you, a lot of native born Americans don't know the first thing about this language they claim to love.  If you think it makes you more of an American to roll your eyes at someone speaking a foreign language in your country, I pity you for your lack of tolerance and the superiority attitude it gives you. Such disdain doesn't make you a better American; it makes you a bigot.

Even Halloween caused an uproar this year because a school in New Jersey stopped its parties and costume parade. Parents went into an uproar over the end of this "great American tradition."  NEVER MIND that Halloween festivities were celebrated by various community groups for a week before trick-or-treating even happened.  Never mind that parents sit back and complacently allow schools to drain their children with excessive testing and age inappropriate education. Who cares about that? It's the party that matters. When Halloween was canceled at that school, Americans were happy to blame the Muslims and immigrants to this country for this "tragedy." I'm not sure why FB warriors targeted Muslims for the end of this tradition, but they did. It seems to be open season on Muslims according to what I read on FB.  Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

I have read page long threads written by people who are furious that schools have winter concerts and not Christmas concerts. You want a Christian celebration, take your kids to church!  How many of the people complaining about no Bible reading in school or no religious songs at the school concerts are taking their children regularly to church?  Everybody has their excuses.  Sunday is the only day they can sleep in.  Kids have sports on Sunday.  They can't get their kids to church because it's not "fun." And my favorite excuse, people don't go to church because all they do is beg for money.  Well, stop expecting the schools to be your church.  Nobody has taken God out of the public schools.  In my opinion, that is impossible because God is everywhere.

I am angry because at this time of the year, people throw a few bucks at the charities to help the poor, and they feel they've done their part. Or, and this is my favorite, they "adopt" a family at Christmas and then later complain that when the gifts were delivered the family already had better things than they did. They post on FB that the government is giving too much to the poor.  Welfare is full of fraud. Let's drug test those lazy good for nothing welfare mothers.  People are living high on the hog with government handouts. The people I see weekly at the food pantry are barely surviving, let alone living the life on your dime.  Yes, many have made some bad decisions.  But, who hasn't?  However, the young man crying in embarrassment because medical bills are about to force his family into homelessness and he has to grovel for food, hasn't made a bad decision.  He's stuck in a nightmare. The little girl who came to our Coat Giveaway in socks because the dog had ruined her only pair of shoes hasn't done anything more than being born to a single mom unable to work for a living wage and pay for childcare.  I am angry that a nation this wealthy would rather roast the poor than share the wealth.  Since when has doing what Jesus asked us to do become Socialism?

If you're still with me, I thank you for your patience.

I am angry.  I am heartbroken. I am impatient.  I am furious.  But if I'm going to be truly honest with myself, something else is behind all of my rage at the "stuff" that happens every season. Since I know all of this comes up every year at the same time, why can't I laugh it off and let it roll off my back? After all, the people posting this stuff are mostly people I like whom I believe are as entitled to their opinions as I am to mine.  Why don't I just take a break from FB and shut the hell up??

Because I can't. I am obsessed.

Because my life has changed in a way that chains me to the house.  And while stuck in the house, I have watched more TV and read more FB than ever before.  And in the midst of those repeatedly irritating FB outrages, I hear another message whispered by the more optimistic members on my FB feed: Christmas is the season of miracles. No matter what is said about red cups, welfare, or wars on everything, that is the message I see repeated and that is probably what upsets me the most.

Because my world has been rocked, and my family needs a holiday miracle. Now. Anything else I get upset with is just a cover-up for a hurt and and an anger and a fear that I can barely face let alone deal with in a healthy way.  Be glad if all you're worried about is a damn red cup or a decorative igloo.

The End of Another Summer

This has been the worst summer of my life, far worse than the summer I broke my leg. This summer has been continuous emotional pain, which scars much more deeply than physical pain. It's been bad enough that people have actually felt sorry for me. Truth be known, I felt kind of sorry for me, too.

I love to travel, but I could not take the trip to China that my sister had planned for us. I have dismally accepted that I will probably never get back to China because my body is weakening as I age, and getting around in China isn't easy. (Heck, when I was in good health I needed a couple of farmers to carry me up the steps in Chung King, but that's another story and I digress.) So, I lived at her house and took care of enough animal poop that I felt like I was low man on the totem pole at a pet store. When I did get home to Maryland, I could count on a fight with the post office over the holding/unholding of my mail. I felt isolated and was pretty much left alone this summer because, well, you know, (say this in a hushed tone) she has family obligations.

My brother has been sick.  He has gastrointestinal cancer and possibly pancreatic cancer.  He began chemo, and I took him to and fro.  The treatments have been brutal, and watching him suffer has taken a toll on me.  I've been at his beck and call, and I hope my being here made his unrelenting misery somewhat more bearable. Though I did my best to always be cheerful no matter what he took out on me that day, the stress of worrying about him actually caused me to lose a little weight. If he couldn't eat, my stomach churned and I couldn't eat either. I watched him shrivel as the summer days passed us by.

Labor Day signals the end of summer, customarily with a hammering finality as the weather abruptly turns cold enough to need a sweater.  Usually, we are disappointed because it's too cold or rainy to squeeze in those last few precious days at the pool. Cookouts get rained out. It's inevitable; the fun is over and it's back to the grind of school and work. However, this year, this strange summer, even Labor Day was different. My sister and I were remarking on what a beautiful weekend this had been, and how much we had enjoyed the sunny weather. I got to spend some time at the pool with my girls. We even had a barbecue at the neighbors'.  So this year, Labor Day has come and gone in such a way that I can safely say that summer isn't over yet. It seems to have promised us that there are good days yet to come.

And I take that as a good omen.

Back to School

I remember a long time ago, probably thirty years, sitting on the steps of my friend's apartment building and waiting for her to come home.  A neighbor boy, approximately four or five years old, plopped himself beside me and asked what I was doing.  Thus began a conversation that lasted ten minutes or so. During our talk, I told him I was a teacher.  His eyes grew wide and he was so excited to meet me because he was going to start school in September and he couldn't wait to meet his teacher. He knew he was going to love school.

Eventually, the little boy's mother found us and scolded him for wandering off. "But Mom," he said, "I was talking to my teacher."  Yep, I was already his teacher.  I probably would be his teacher when he got to seventh grade, but I doubted either of us would recognize each other.  I never forgot that little boy and his excitement about starting school and meeting his teacher.

I hope all of my teacher friends, and those teachers who would be my friends if I was still working, are having a great summer.  I hope they are relaxing, recuperating, and regenerating their enthusiasm for a very special calling.  In a few short weeks, they'll be back on the job.

Teachers are rarely appreciated. The administrations of most schools make showy attempts on those first few days to give lip service about how they value their teachers while at the same time making their jobs harder by having  schedules incomplete and holding boring, pointless meetings during times teachers could better use to prepare their classrooms and lesson plans. I would get so overwhelmed and depressed those first few days back.  Nothing I did was ever "enough."  It was so discouraging.  (I do post a disclaimer here-the Wayne Perry years were some of the most satisfying of my career.  But admins like him, Bill Hallock, and Natalie Holloway are few and far between.)

Finally, the kids would come.  And despite what they'd heard about that mean old Ms. S, they couldn't wait to meet me.  They laughed with me.  They willingly completed my first homework assignment-writing a short letter to me about what I needed to know to be a good teacher to them. They had hope in their eyes for a good year.  They had hope that their teacher would understand them and be patient with their shortcomings.  They were excited to begin.

Dear teachers, I hope you are rested and raring to go.  I hope you don't let the lack of support from your administration discourage you.  I hope you don't let the constraints of a canned curriculum defeat you.  Stay strong, stay positive, and remember that all kids can learn and most students really want to learn.  Be kind.  Be consistent.  Be the adult, not the buddy.  Be their teacher.

My former students are adults, some in their twenties and some all the way in their fifties.  When I see them in town, they remember me.  When they introduce me to their children, they call me "my teacher."

Teacher friends--that is who you will become to this year's students.  You will be their teacher. It's an honor.

Call me Caitlyn

Bruce Jenner is now Caitlyn Jenner, and she debuted with glorious pictures taken by the legendary Annie Leibovitz.  Since I think Annie could even make me look glamorous, lucky Caitlyn to be photographed by such a talented artist.  There's been a lot of media hoopla and a lot of mean "jokes" about the transformation.  I wish people would just shut the hell up about what they don't understand and try to put themselves in someone else's high heels.

Twelve years ago, three of my high school classmates and I traveled to Las Vegas to celebrate entering the nifty fifties.  We met another classmate there, one who had undergone a major change. Our friend, and Donna's former prom date, was no longer John but Jennifer.  We were curious, but not one of us was critical.  We had always liked John, and we figured if this is who he needed to be, then we'd get used to the change and the new pronouns.

She was beautiful.  Her long brown hair was healthy and shiny.  She had a cute little figure and she looked great in a dress.  She enjoyed wearing makeup to express her femininity.  I remember thinking what a shame she had to wait to be fifty to do this. Here we were, her contemporaries, and by this age we were tired of that stuff.  Short hair was much easier to do.  Why wear dresses and pantyhose when shorts and a T-shirt were much more comfortable? Shoes? Ha! The more comfortable, the better. Jennifer loved her shiny mary janes because they made her feet look cute;  I loved my practical walking sandals because they didn't give me blisters. And makeup? Hells bells, it would only melt in the heat, so lipstick was enough for us.  Poor Jennifer, while the rest of us were glamming it up in high school, she was yearning to dress like us, be like us. She was suffering in a way entirely unimaginable to us.

When Jennifer debuted, she did not get the reception Caitlyn did.  Her family cut her off completely for years.  Her marriage did not survive.  While she needed this change to be whole, many holes grew in the form of absences from her life.  It was not an easy transition, but it was necessary for her well-being.

Our classmates in Pennsylvania were unaware of her metamorphosis because Jennifer lived in California and hadn't kept in touch.  All of that changed when a story about her journey (later developed into the documentary I Stand Corrected) was broadcast on public television.  She was definitely the talk of the town, the subject of nervous giggles and speculation, but I don't remember anybody being excessively mean or ignorant about it.  She came to our last high school reunion, and we welcomed her.  In fact, one of the guys asked her to dance, and it was sweet to see.  From what I understand, her family is coming around.  And I have to chuckle because just like the rest of us sixty year old women, Jennifer complains about fighting that inevitable battle of the bulge.  Life is back to "normal."

Nobody goes through such a transformation on a whim.  People who dismiss Caitlyn as nuts or an attention seeker just don't get it.  I get especially irritated by "celebrities" who claim they will still call her Bruce. What arrogant jerks!  Why not just be thankful that you have not lived a life of such painful confusion?  What does it hurt to be compassionate?  To be kind?  Just because you don't understand, doesn't mean you have to condemn.

Welcome to the world Caitlyn!  May the rest of your life bring you that elusive butterfly known as peace.