To My Paternal Grandma

I had a dream about you last night. You were home. You had made it out of hospice, and you looked great. You were genuinely happy and at peace. You were wearing a wig. For some reason, you had lost your hair in hospice. You were confident it would grow back w/ no grey as it had after your chemo all those years ago. As a matter of fact, you looked much as you had thirty years ago, but as slim as you are now. We talked and laughed. It was like nearly every other visit I have had with you my whole life. I know my subconscious is conflating your cancer and your current condition because you weren’t supposed to survive your cancer, and you are now in hospice, so your odds of long term survival are pretty low. I know what my heart wants, but, after seeing you in hospice, I know what you need. You enjoyed many moments on our Thanksgiving visit, but you were also sad. You have lost so many people you love in the last few years, and have had more than your share of health crises. The blow of losing your baby brother in August seemed to have really taken the stuffing out of you, though. He was a good man.

You have always been one of the strongest people in my life. You lost your own mother too young, and had to deal w/ a succession of stepmothers, some okay and some who seemed to take their cues on stepmothering from the brothers Grimm. You moved to MI to live w/ family in your late teens. You met Papa while you were on a double date w/ other people. He accidentally slammed your hand in the car door, and you were married a short while later on your birthday. I am certain your marriage has had its ups and downs as any marriage will, but you have been married for over 66 years, and I can see how much you still love each other in everything you do for each other. You had three wonderful sons together. You helped your own siblings. You more than survived cancer; you beat it into submission and told it where it could go. You were never afraid of new technology. You were the first person I knew who had a microwave. You had a VHS player very early, and your camcorder never left your shoulder for a while. You were online when other people your age shuddered at the thought of a computer. You have always been ready to tackle anything. You have always been active and helping others. Despite your schedule, you always, always made time for anyone who needed you. I used to think that your church wouldn’t get by w/out you (you ran the Sunday school, were active in the bell choir, and the chimes, and the ladies’ committee, etc. etc.) and the solid spiritual foundation you and Papa provided for us helped me to find my own calling as an adult. You are a thoroughly amazing woman.

As the oldest grandchild, I have had the great privilege of having you in my life longer than any of the others. You were still working as a real estate agent when I was young. I loved going to houses w/ you, and going into your office at your house was always fun. I still have a couple of your business pens.

You used to zip around in your burgundy Grand Prix with your CB on, which is how you received your Grandma name. Again, as the oldest grandchild, I was the one who christened you Grandma PJ, despite that having absolutely nothing to do with your given name. The truckers on the CB called you Puddle Jumper, or PJ, for short. I picked up on that, and the rest is history. All of your grandchildren know you as Grandma PJ.

My sister and I were the first two grandchildren on both sides of the family, but we were the only two on your side for several years. A weekend just wasn’t a weekend without an overnight w/ you and Papa. You cooked with and for us, baked with us, let us run around in your huge yard w/ all the wonderful space and the things Papa had made for us to play in and on, we did crafts, colored, read stories, watched programs (Murder She Wrote for you and Golden Girls for Papa loom large in my memory), and were just little girls at your house. We used to sit on the corner of your counter top and “supervise” while you worked. We learned how to supervise from Papa.  Eventually, I moved up from supervising to sometimes cooking for you and Papa. I made turkey lasagna and garlic bread for you that first time I took over your kitchen.

As happy as I was for you when you remodeled your kitchen I was a little sad to see the supervising corner go. We were far too old to sit there, but it was our corner.  Of course, the only kitchen my children and the youngest grandchildren have known is your current kitchen, which also holds many special memories. My husband, sister, and I have all made full Thanksgiving dinners in there together while you hovered anxiously around and drove us all crazy. Then, everything would turn out perfectly, and we’d have a great meal w/ everyone, all of your sons, their wives, their children, and their children’s children. It was our holiday celebration on the Saturday after Thanksgiving. I also have photos of you teaching my oldest to make monkey bread. Sadly, I do not have any pictures of you making cookies w/ my children and my youngest cousins this past Thanksgiving. Had I known it would likely be your last, I would have loaded up on the pictures. I will always have the memory, though.

Sunday dinners at your house were always a highlight of the week. There would almost always be some sort of dessert, and often, my youngest uncle and his best friend would be there. You used to laugh when I would tell you we couldn’t eat b/c Jim (the best friend) wasn’t there yet. My favorite dessert was Yum. I think it might actually have been your own version of pistachio pudding, but I loved that stuff. I never wanted the recipe, though. It just seemed like something that only you could make. I’m not sure if I regret never learning the secrets of Yum or not. I remember your battle of wills w/ my sister over onions. You would chop them so finely and she would work to pick out every little sliver. You eventually conceded and started just chopping them so she could pick them out easily. I am pretty sure I can count on one hand the number of times that you weren’t the more stubborn one, though.

The major source of discord between my sister and me when we would visit was a spoon w/ stars on the handle. We both always wanted it, and felt that the other one always got it. We argued over that silly spoon so many times. I remember you tossing it down the stairs and telling us no one could have it. We still try to beat each other to it when we are both visiting. My sister wasn’t able to make it this Thanksgiving, and I took pictures of the spoon to send to her.

As we got older, our brother arrived, and then two cousins. Of course, our cousins lived out-of-state, so we didn’t see them all the time, but it was always great when everyone was around, and you and Papa loved it. I also fell ill around that time. Of all the people outside of our household, you and Papa were the two best about just letting my life go on. You were a source of quiet and peace when I needed it. You taught me to crochet, which gave me something to do when I ran out of books and became tired of television in the hospital. It is also a lifelong skill, and I crocheted all of my children’s homecoming outfits; the last was finished up in the hospital. When my sister started going on vacation w/ family friends, who were afraid to take me, you and Papa loaded me up in the Blazer and took me on a trip to WI. I still remember the sandwiches we ate at the rest stop on the way there. The most important thing you did was really listen to me when I talked. We would stay up late chatting about all kinds of things while we crocheted. You let me pour out my heart. That didn’t change as I got older. You, as much as anyone, saw me through my parents’ divorce. You and Papa paid to have a 1-800 number when I went away to college so I could call whenever I needed to do so. My youngest uncle also used it as he was away at school as well.

There are so many wonderful memories. I always looked forward to my new crocheted slippers in my Christmas stocking at your house. Your slippers are a bit famous, you know. The day before you went into the hospital this last time one of my best friends from high school told me that she wore the slippers you made for her until they fell apart. You were good to my friends. You and Papa hosted my thirteenth birthday party. It was a great time, and I hope you stopped being upset about the over-cooked spaghetti noodles at some point. We all loved the party. It felt so grown-up to be in the finished part of the basement, talking, laughing, and having a dance party. We couldn’t have done it at my house. You also made it to every choir concert and play. You loved listening to me sing, so much so that you asked me to sing “If Tomorrow Never Comes” at your and Papa’s golden anniversary celebration. I didn’t think I did that well, but you were so happy with it. You had all of your children and grandchildren performing that day. Your pride in us has always been simultaneously encouraging and humbling.

You and Papa also drove me to college that first time. My parents were each unable to do so for different reasons. We stopped and saw my aunt, uncle (your oldest), and cousins on the way. We had to leave a bit earlier than I would’ve liked b/c of it. I was seeing a boy and my teenaged heart was breaking. That boy and I broke up not long after (distance, etc.), but the great memories of being able to celebrate my cousins’ birthdays with them live on. Good choice, Grandma. I remember you and Papa joking that you didn’t know Epcot was so close to my college town b/c of the weather ball that we saw on the way in. You stayed as long and as late as you could, and then you headed back to MI, and left me in MO. You would later say that you and Papa had to talk each other out of coming back to get me, but leaving me there was the best thing you ever did for me. You were right. I probably would’ve hopped back into your minivan and gone home if you’d come back, and while I would have gone to school in MI, I never would have grown the way I did and met the people I did. Some of my best friends and my husband would have never come into my life if you had not had the strength to let me go. The above-mentioned 1-800 number helped me make it through the terrible homesickness that first semester.

Now, now it is time for me to find the strength to let you go, and I am not exaggerating when I say it is one of the most difficult things I’ve ever contemplated. See, you and Papa are supposed to live forever. When we come to MI, we land safely at your house. We stay up and chat. You show me what you’ve been working on in your sewing room. You make quilts, bags, and clothes now. The arthritis made crocheting too difficult years and years ago. All of my children, and my husband and I, along w/ many others, have blankets and other soft goods made by you. The idea that the last time that happened in November was the last time it will happen is devastating.

I meant to call you the day before you went to the hospital. One thing after another got in the way, and I vowed I would do it the next day. As a matter of fact, I was literally picking up the phone to call you when I received the news that you were being rushed to the hospital by ambulance. I wish I had forced the time out the day before when you were apparently doing pretty well. I had a bad feeling about this hospital visit.  Your fight had seemed greatly diminished if not altogether gone when I had last visited. I was hoping I could find a way to help you get some of your spark back, but it was not to be.

We received the news that you were not going home, but were instead headed to hospice, a couple of days before Christmas. My sister and I rushed up to see you that weekend. We stayed w/ our Dad and Stepmom. We arrived at their place, and Dad drove us up to see you. Papa was gone for the day as it was past dark, but you roused yourself when we came in. You smiled. You tried to have a bit of conversation, but it was hard for you to form the words and make yourself heard over the oxygen. We still had a bit of a chat here and there, and you liked hearing us talk to each other and Dad. After a bit, your pain became unbearable, so you were given some meds, and we left as you were finally comfortable and had fallen asleep. Visiting hours were also nearly over.

The next day, my sister was too sick to come to the hospice to see you as she had been stricken w/ a stomach bug during the night. Dad and I went to see you. Papa was there. He had me sit next to you. You were in and out of consciousness as you had recently been given pain meds. We all chatted, and whenever you came around we would talk to you. The aide brought your lunch in, and wheeled it right up to you. Papa informed her that you couldn’t feed yourself, and you won’t eat for him. She seemed a bit dismayed, so I said I would see if you would eat for me. You are on a soft diet, and for some reason, a heart-friendly diet. It seemed to me that once one is in hospice only being given palliative measures that a low-fat diet was probably not necessary, but such are the vagaries of institutions. You seemed to like the stuffing and the soup. You only took one bite of the potatoes, and I did not even try to give you the green glop. Dad and Papa agreed that it looked most unappetizing. You had 10-15 bites of food, and a few sips of milk along w/ some water. I wiped your mouth for you, and gave you a kiss on the forehead. I told you that I loved you. You patted my hand and said, “Thank you. That was sweet.” You seemed to be sleeping when Dad and I had to leave. I leaned over and gave you one last kiss and said good-bye and I love you for the last time. You breathed, “Love you,” and I walked out the door.

Knowing you are saying good-bye to someone for the last time is a shocking thing. I am still processing it. I am so glad I was able to do it, but I can’t really make my heart understand that the next time I go up to MI, I won’t see you. As much as life goes on, you and Papa, and your house, have been my constant source of stability and love. It is time, though. After seeing you in hospice, despite the fact that you are being well-cared for, I knew. You are still alive, but you aren’t living. You are dying. It is time to say good-bye and let you go. Uncle Mel and all your other loved ones are waiting for you. Your beloved mother, whose loss you felt keenly most of your life, is also there. I will miss you terribly, but it is time for you to stop hurting. Every day I dread getting the phone call that I know is coming, but I know it needs to come because you should be free. You can be the woman I saw in my dream last night, although I think you’ll have your own hair. I love you so much, and I’ll sing for you whenever you give me a sign.

You Can Save A Life

My oldest son is turning seven in a few hours. He almost didn’t make it to seven hours, let alone seven years. He needed assistance breathing when he was born, but, just as importantly, he needed a blood transfusion. He was so severely anemic that had he remained in utero and/or not received a blood transfusion, he would have died. My son is alive because a stranger went to a blood drive or walked into a donation center and donated a little bit of blood and a little bit of time. They were likely thanked by the volunteers and staff. The person who has allowed my son to become the compassionate, brilliant, funny little person he is probably had a cookie and some juice and went about their day. I don’t know if this person gave any real thought to the fact that what they just did could actually be the difference between life and death for someone, the difference between joy and sorrow for a family.

You see, my big boy’s blood type is compatible with mine, but not my husband’s. I am not allowed to donate blood for many reasons, and having just had a c-section, would not have been allowed to give blood to my son, and my husband could not. The kindness of that stranger saved our family in a situation where we were helpless.

I have always been a huge advocate of donating blood. I am not allowed to donate due to my medical history, although I have volunteered at blood drives, and I try to make it as easy as possible for those who can donate to do so. My son’s life is not the only life for which I am personally grateful to blood donors, though. Not two years before my baby needed blood, one of my sisters-in-law was also saved by a transfusion. It is her history, and I shall not divulge too much of it, but I will say two of the people who I love most in the world were saved by people who took the time and ignored any fear of needles they might have and gave blood. It is so simple, but so few do it. The supply of blood is frequently running short. If you can donate, please go out and give. It is simple. It doesn’t take long, and while you may never meet the people you help, you are giving an absolutely priceless gift.

To those of you who take the time, thank you. Thank you from me, from my son, from my family. Thank you for allowing all of us to get to know him; thank you for allowing his welcome to the world to be dramatic, but not a welcome and a farewell all in one day. He’s a wonderful child. He loves to help and care for others. Maybe some of his empathy came from you. Thank you for keeping my sister-in-law with us. We all need her. Thank you from all of the receivers of blood and those who love them. It is so simple, so easy, and so very important. 

We have a social fetish

I have noticed a few disturbing trends as I have been working on taking better care of myself. People, but mostly women, so please forgive me if I focus on women here, when they are trying to get fit focus on entirely unrealistic goals. It happens for a few reasons. One would be the ubiquitous use of Photoshop, so that even the models cannot attain the bodies that, according to their print ads, they have. Another would be choosing someone who you will never, ever look like as your inspiration/motivation. I could pin a picture of Heidi Klum to my Pinterest boards as a goal, but it doesn’t matter what I do. I simply won’t look like her. For one thing, she’s around a foot taller than I am. For another, her body is simply proportioned differently than mine, so even if you stretched me or shrunk her, we would not have the same figures, ever, regardless of how healthy we were or weren’t.  Another iteration on this, are the women who say, “Healthy is the new skinny.” I think that’s a wonderful sentiment, but they then proceed to post pictures of athletes in peak condition as their inspiration. Most people will never look like that, even many of the athletes don’t when they aren’t training.  They still look good, but not every muscle is ripped beyond belief.

I am not saying that you shouldn’t try to tone, sculpt, lose weight, be healthy, etc. I am certainly doing those things, and most Americans probably should, given the sky-rocketing rates of obesity, heart-disease, and diabetes, just to name a few. What I am saying is that your goals should be realistic. You should want to look like the best version of you that is sustainable, not an air-brushed picture of someone who doesn’t even share your body-type. Get yourself to a healthy weight, and please note, that while the BMI charts can be generally helpful, they really aren’t the be-all and end-all; there are people well within their BMIs who probably aren’t that healthy and people who aren’t who are extremely fit. You should consult with your doctor and come up with a healthy weight range for you.

That being said, this setting of unrealistic goals for ourselves is dangerous and counter-productive. First of all, the fact that we sell ourselves on the idea that looking like ourselves isn’t good enough. Being healthy is necessary. It contributes to your overall well-being. Being skinny, being curvy, having big breasts, small thighs, etc. etc. are not necessary. Some people are naturally very thin. A woman who is naturally very thin is generally not very curvy (think Lisbeth Salander, a fictional character, but someone who is very thin and small). A woman who is very curvy (Marilyn Monroe) is never, ever going to squeeze herself into a size zero and be remotely healthy, yet Lisbeths tend to want to be Marilyns and vice versa. We then have the fall-out from that. Some women scream that the “stick figures” aren’t healthy and we shouldn’t look to them while at the same time we watch curvy women and make sure they don’t get too curvy. Christina Aguilera has very publicly added to her curves. She does not appear to actually be overweight, but because she isn’t as thin as she once was, we need to bring out the pitchforks. The willowy stars are told to eat cheeseburgers, etc. How is anyone not seeing that there is no “perfect” figure? Tearing down what you are not doesn’t make what you are better, and it decimates everyone on the inside.

I feel that this constant focus on unattainable appearances, the air-brushing of already very thin models, the presentation of an artist’s ideal as a norm to which women and girls should aspire, the nitpicking on every pound gained or lost, the fact that nearly every female celebrity has her detractors for not being something (curvy, thin, too much booty, too little booty, etc, etc) has contributed to and possibly even created our fetishization of low self-esteem. If you are not perfectly beautiful, you are not a good person and you deserve very little, even the fairytales we tell our children support this notion. Cinderella is beautiful and the stepsisters are.  .  . not.

It is not okay for a woman who is healthy, but not pin-up worthy without air-brushing (is anyone, though?) to be confident. She can’t say, “I’m healthy, happy, smart, and beautiful!” because she isn’t perfect. Without perfection, she must choose her flaw(s) and focus on it (them), and not a fixable flaw(s). Of course, all of us should work to improve ourselves. If she has a problem with her temper, this woman should work on that, and it would benefit everyone, but that isn’t the flaw we want her to fixate on as a society. No. Her derriere is not perfect. Maybe it’s too big, maybe it’s too flat, maybe it’s just a little uneven, regardless, it’s not something that all the working out in the world will fix, but she is supposed to feel bad that she doesn’t have a perfect rear, not confident that she is all the other wonderful things that she is. If she doesn’t have an issue with it, we hate her for it. “How dare she walk around feeling good about herself with an ass like that? I look better than that, and I hate myself.”  If you think you haven’t done it, or that we as a society don’t do it, you should check yourself and/or the comments section of any piece of celebrity fluff journalism. We have to have low self-esteem, particularly as young women. Being happy with yourself is just not done. Every magazine, every ad, most television shows, and movies all tell us that. The mean girls are the confident ones, and they lose in the end. You have to go through a process of self-improvement and beautification to earn a smidgen of confidence AND be a nice girl.

 I am here to say that this needs to stop. We need to stop telling ourselves that confidence and conceit are the same things. It’s okay to know you have a few (or more) pounds to lose or that you need to work harder in some aspects of your life, and still like yourself. It’s okay to be happy and NOT be perfect. This fetishization of low self-esteem holds us back. It keeps us from walking with our heads up, from speaking up in the classroom, the boardroom, and when that jerk cuts in front of us in line. It also keeps us from being our best personally. If I want to look like Heidi Klum, I will probably give up on my journey to be the healthiest me that I can be because I do not have a realistic goal, just as if I want to work on my generosity of spirit, comparing myself to Mother Theresa will find me lacking. Just because I can’t be Heidi Klum or Mother Theresa doesn’t mean that I can’t be a good person. The same goes for everyone. Find your gifts, physical, emotional, and spiritual, and celebrate them! You have every right to be confident in the fact that you are a person of beauty inside and out.

If you don’t start with the confidence that you are a good person, but you’d like to be even better, then you will probably fail. If you start from the position of hating yourself and wanting to be somebody else, all the diets, working out, self-improvement, meditation, prayer, etc. won’t help you achieve your goals. You are never going to be someone else. You will always be you. Love you, then fix what can be fixed and move on. That’s how you grow. You can stagnate in the scummy pond of low self-esteem that society has sold you, or you can bloom in the sunshine and fresh air of self-confidence. I know it’s not always that easy, and that real psychological and physiological conditions can contribute to disliking yourself. I am not saying “boot-strap yourself out it.” Find a good support system (this can be friends, family, therapists, doctors, support groups, on-line, in-person, etc.), and work on your issues, and don’t contribute to the poison that’s out there by tearing others down. Let’s try to save another generation from feeling like they have to hate at least part of themselves to meet society’s expectations. In the process, we can like ourselves better, be healthier, happier, nicer, and make better choices in general. What an example that would be.

The Eyes Have It

Yesterday, I celebrated my ninth wedding anniversary with my husband. We dated for around five years before we married, so we’ve been together fourteenish years, and we knew each other for a couple of years before we started seeing each other, so I’ve basically been at least friends with my husband my entire adult life. Neat. Now, we will actually go on a date on Sunday as we had other commitments last night, and it was mid-week. We’ll have dinner at the restaurant where our rehearsal dinner was held and do something else. It isn’t really important what we do, just that we’ll do it together, and I would say that sums up the last decade-and-a-half rather nicely.

I’ve been reflecting on our life together, recently. We’ve had some wonderful times and we’ve had some difficult times, although our relationship has remained strong through it all. I can honestly say that there is no one I would rather have by my side when things look their bleakest and no one that I would rather share my joy with when they are at their loveliest. I sincerely wish this sort of love for anyone who desires it.

All this reflecting has led me to music. Pop music, because it is what I know the best. “Our song” is “Tupelo Honey” by Van Morrison because it is the song my husband played for me when he gave me the necklace he had made me near the start of our romantic relationship. It is a beautiful song. It was the song to which we danced our first dance at our wedding. Ross from Friends also cited it as the most romantic song, so there is that going for it as well. We made each other mix tapes and mix CDs with a lot of great music on it, in our younger days. Now, we’ve taken to sending each other links to Youtube videos via email or Facebook when the mood strikes us. Recent selections have included Adele’s cover of “Make You Feel My Love,” “Chasing Cars” by Snow Patrol, “In Your Eyes” by Peter Gabriel, and “The Luckiest” by Ben Folds.

One thing all these songs have in common, other than a theme of deep and lasting love, is eyes. Every single one mentions eyes at least once. Granted “Make You Feel My Love” may be stretching this a little because it really only mentions tears, but you can’t have tears without eyes, so it counts. Three of them speak of recognizing the other person or oneself in the other’s eyes. We see our best qualities reflected in the eyes of those who love us. We recognize the souls of the ones we love in their eyes. I know this to be true. I cannot look into my husband’s eyes and miss his lovely spirit, and I see the best of me reflected in his love for me when I look into those wonderful blue eyes. I know he must see something similar when he gazes into my own eyes because I know how I feel about him, we are here, and we are strong.

I will close by telling a story about his eyes. Anyone who knows both of us knows that my husband generally sports a full beard, and has had one nearly the entire time we have known each other. One day in college I was walking home, and I heard someone call my name. I looked around, didn’t recognize anyone, assumed someone else must have been being paged, and continued on my way. Then I heard someone pick up his pace, and call my name again. I turned around, and it was my husband, although at the time we were just friends (that situation would change a few weeks later). He was clean-shaven for the first time in years, and I had not recognized him. I was only really sure who it was when he smiled, and I looked into his eyes. There he was. There I was. And here we are.