What if?

Watching my grandchildren is mostly a joyful experience.  But every day, the thought comes at least once.  What if we lived there?  What if we lived where persecution because of religion or ethnicity is brutally exercised?   What if I lost my husband and sons to execution, my daughters and granddaughter to slavery?
I sometimes look at Emmy and think of the reports of even tiny little girls being subjected to horrific abuse.  I look at my grandsons and think of the stories of little boys, pressed into service as killers, forced to watch and participate in horrible acts of violence.
I think of the adults and children who have escaped, and wonder what their life was  like before the world went crazy.  How much like our lives were theirs?  Were there small warning signs, or even big ones?  Did they ignore them, thinking it can't happen here?  Or, was it like a bolt out of the blue and did death begin to walk among them before they had a chance to defend themselves?
I think then of how sad it is that while we are distracted by silly non controversies started by the new form of gossip we call social media, people half a world away are pleading for help.  There is little love for truth or mercy in the virtual world, little room for common sense or clarity.  It has changed the way we process information to the point where it seems sometimes that critical thinking is dead.
The virtual world is corrupting us, making us harder, more judgmental, and oddly enabling us to ignore atrocities as we get caught up in the minutia of other people's opinions.
I do wonder what they think of us, but I fear what we have become.

Project time

Currently I am unemployed.  I lost my job about 3 months ago, victim of a layoff by a company looking to outsource field services to save money.  The layoff came at a bad time financially, of course.  They always do, since there is no such thing as a good time to lose your job from a financial perspective.  But, I did receive a severance package so we have been ok up to now.
The layoff came at a good time from the perspective of family needs.  I have been able to provide help and support to other members of the family during difficult times and that has been a blessing.  Lately, I have been trying to work in some time for myself to rediscover my love for all things art.
Younger me wanted to be an artist.  In school it was the only class in which I was happy.  It was an easy A, and I even won an honorable mention in a national contest once.  Younger me was not impressed with that accomplishment however.  Instead, she thought it meant her work wasn't good enough.
Later, younger me had a portfolio reviewed by vcu and was accepted as an art student there.  That ended after 3 courses because a teacher told me he did not think I would ever be a commercial artist.  Instead he suggested I check into becoming an artist/physical therapist, because there was so much feeling in my drawings of people in need.  Young me only heard criticism and gave up.  Sad, because to older me it sounds like an awesome compliment, and like a job that would have been a perfect fit.
Off and on thru the years, I have dipped in and out of art, sometimes going years between creative bursts.  I rarely drew or painted, although that had been my passion, because of the perceived criticism from the aforementioned teacher.
My most recent step back into creativitiy was with something simple.  A makeover of a dresser and mirror.  I used someone else's idea from Pinterest, but of course made some of my own modifications and was happy with the results.  The second project is still in progress and is a bit more adventuresome.  It is my own concept, and I have discussed and bounced ideas off of my husband. I drew out a design, looked up different ways of accomplishing what I wanted to do, and almost chickened out a million times.  It is because of Dean's encouragement that I have stuck with it.  I was nervous I would not be able to get it right.  However, I also knew if I went in a less personally creative direction, I would not be happy.  Dean's answer was that if I messed up, I should just do it again until I got it the way I wanted. He has helped me brainstorm and implement throughout the creative process.  It has been weeks since I have worked on it, but I should have time this weekend to get back to it.   I hope it turns out well.  If it doesn't, I promise myself to try again.

Off my Meds

My anxiety medication ran out. I have to order it from mail order as dictated by my insurance company, so getting the refill took time. It finally came today, but I know from experience it will be at least a week of taking the medication before I start to feel better. Part of the problem with getting it was the cost. After insurance, the medication is still $90. I was trying to wait to order it so I wouldn't have to use credit to get it. That wasn't the brightest idea I ever had, since I have been through this enough to know how I feel without the medication. Without medication, I go from not being able to get ahold of one of my children and having to leave a voice mail, to being convinced something terrible has happened and they are in the hospital within an hour. Medicated, they have at least double that before I get whacked out with worry. Without medication, I have trouble sleeping. A lot of trouble sleeping. Sometimes I sit up all night just to have to fight to stay awake the next day. Tonight, I came upstairs right after work to go to bed and get some rest. It is midnight, and here I am, sleepless and wasting time. Without medication, I become convinced that the people I love don't love me over the slightest of things. Without medication, I am totally self involved, annoying, clingy and fearful. Without medication, I am an open wound. Without medication, I think I probably even get on St. Peter's nerves. Fortunately, no matter how bad things get, I can still laugh at myself for being so crazy and my family is awesome in how they try to help me through it. My daughter, after reading my warning email that I was without medication, wrote back she was grabbing a hard hat and heading to a bomb shelter. My daughter in law thanked me for the heads up and told me she and my son loved me, and my son-in-law responded "Yay for the Crazy", then went on to tell me good luck and expressed sympathy. My Mom offered me some of her anxiety medication, and my husband listens to me vent and cry and never, ever, seems bored or irritated. I don't know why I am so blessed, but I praise God for it. My prescription helps keep me functional, but the very best medicine in my life is love and laughter.

Bedtime

Dean and I have enjoyed many blessings over the last 20 months due to the proximity of our children and their willingness to share their children with us. There are the obvious joys of being a grandparent to 2 spectacularly wonderful babies. There are some unexpected blessings as well. One of these is in seeing each other with new eyes. I have so enjoyed seeing my husband in the role of Pawpaw, and last night was again a sweet reminder of what a kind, patient and nurturing man I married. When little Jon stays with us, I usually put him down for the evening. Dean will do it at times, but it takes him forever to get through the process, and it takes me so much less time that it makes sense for me to do it. My approach is not hardline by any means, but when I start singing Little Jon his lullaby, he knows that means he has to go to sleep. There is never a reprieve beyond that point. Pawpaw on the other hand, will allow some talking and playing all through the process of going to sleep. I have often gotten a little frustrated while listening to Dean put him down on the monitor, because I would hear them talking and playing when I thought Dean should be putting him down a little more, um...efficiently. Last night, however, I got to watch Dean's process and I have to say, I would have loved to have been coaxed to sleep like that as a child. Last night started with Dean finding little Jon's plug (pacifier). Then Pawpaw gets comfy with a few books by his side, and invites little Jon up on his lap. Pawpaw picks up the first book, and little Jon starts to push it away. Pawpaw goes now, now, we are going to read this one first and launches into Dr. Suess's Left Foot, Right Foot tale. Little Jon forgets immediately that he didn't want to read this book because PawPaw is squeezing and wiggling the appropriate foot as he reads "left foot, left foot, left foot, right". After that book they moved onto Red Fish Blue Fish. When our kids were little, I realized early on Dean was much better at reading to children than I. When I would read to our children, I would be thinking of the dishes and other chores waiting for me before I could go to bed. My goal was to get through the book and get the kids in bed rather than to luxuriate in the moment. Dean would sometimes be reluctant to stop what he was doing to read to them, but once he committed to read to them, it was like 3 children enjoying the book together. He used so many wonderful inflections, and even though he read Yertle the Turtle a million times, each time he read it, he was just as involved as the last time. So, reading to our children became his job, while I tidied up and attended to other matters in the house. It was a good time for him and our children to bond. I know my kids still remember those times with their dad fondly. All these years later, with our grandchildren, he is if anything, more animated, and more interactive in the reading process. I watched as he pointed to pictures on the page, watched as little Jon looked up into his Pawpaw's face to share his delight at something he found funny, the gentle way Dean handled such issues as attempted page skipping.... and my heart was just full of love for this man and the little boy on his lap. The original plan was for Pawpaw to read, and then I was going to take the baby and put him down. This was a departure from the usual. Usually the one that starts putting him to bed sees the job through to completion. But I had a sore throat and thought it would be a good idea to split the responsibility. I had forgotten how much toddlers object to surprises. Since Pawpaw was the one that read to him, he fully expected Pawpaw to be the one to rock him and sing to him before bed. When Pawpaw turned him over to me, he acted like he was being thrown to the lions. As Pawpaw walked out of the room, he screamed Pawpaw in a heartrending toddler lisp. At first I was going to power through it, but he seemed so genuinely torn up that I carried him to the work room so we could say hi to Pawpaw. As the door opened, the little boy stared at the man. I explained the situation and although Pawpaw looked a little put out at first (middle aged men don't generally like surprises either), he got up and came to the door. LIttle Jon sat in my arms, just waiting. I asked him, would you like to go to Pawpaw? His face broke into a relieved and happy smile. Our idea was that Pawpaw would calm him down, and I would still be the one to put him to bed. So, Pawpaw carried him into the living room and sat on the couch. I sat on the loveseat where I could be available to take the baby when needed. As soon as Pawpaw sat down, Little Jon cuddled up to him and laid his head on Pawpaw's shoulder, still sniffling once and a while, but otherwise content. Pawpaw kept whispering to him, It's ok little buddy, Pawpaw's got you. Soon there were no more snuffles. Little Jon was still awake, laying quietly on Pawpaw's shoulder. Pawpaw started gently and softly singing Adelweiss to him and within 5 minutes he was drowsy enough to lay down without complaint.. Later that night, when little Jon woke up for a diaper change, he was upset again. I am guessing it was residual from being upset right before going to bed. He let me change his diaper but was not happy about it. He asked for Pawpaw, so I took him to Pawpaw. Little Jon asked for milk, so I went and got him some. By the time he finished it, he was wide awake. Happy and wide awake at 2 in the morning. Pawpaw took him and tucked him kind of curled up and all cuddly into the crook of his arm and started settling him back down. Little Jon would point at a shoe and say who? Pawpaw would say yes, shoe, followed by ight? Yes, light, This type of conversation went on for a good 20 minutes or so, always gentle, always kind. There was some playing, funny noises made, etc., all gentle, all muted. Dean never said as I often do, now it's time to go to sleep, he just stayed very mellow, very low key and the baby followed suit. There were a few "Pawpaw loves his little buddy" etc., and finally, about an hour after this process started, little Jon was just laying quietly in pawpaw's arms. Still awake, but quiet. After another 5 minutes or so of quiet, PawPaw started singing Adelweiss again. Pawpaw had never sung this as a lullaby to our children, it is something he started with Little Jon, but it is beautiful as a lullaby. 10 more minutes or so, and Little Jon had drifted to sleep. I must say here that there were a few moments early on that I almost spoke up to encourage Dean to tell the baby to be still. I am so glad I did not. It was a beautiful thing to watch. When we were raising our own, Dean was often impatient with bedtime (other than the reading part). There were even times when he delivered a spanking to our children to try and keep them in bed and/or to try and get them to go to sleep. As a young parent, he was stressed and unsure, he does not cope with the unknown well, and parenthood is all about the unknown. I was well prepared for parenthood, but not for being a wife. I often fought with him over his ideas of childrearing, and his idea of how families interacted. It never occurred to me that there were more productive ways to deal with our differences than fighting. In our children's later years, we attended a parenting class that helped us both understand the other, and to begin to work as a team. But when we were young, it never occured to us to get help in this area. I think that is a side effect of being young. We both thought it should all just come naturally. Now our children are grown, sweet people who honor their parents, and who married spouses who also honor their parents and us. What a wonderful gift of love these children have been to us. Now we get to experience a new kind of parenting, once removed, as grandparents, and I think both of us are well aware of the mistakes we made in the past with our little ones. The patience Dean shows with Little Jon reminds me of a few sweet snapshots of time in the past. A time before we both became overstressed by life, when he would sit and rock our son till they both fell asleep. In that way it is a little bittersweet. It also reminds me of how far we both have come from the people we used to be and how merciful God has been in the blessings he has bestowed. Most of all, I feel blessed to have this sweet gentle soul as my partner in life. It is not what I thought I wanted when I was young, but it was all I ever needed and his presence in my life is one of the greatest gifts that God has given me.

A memory of loss

When I was a young teenager, I was flipping through a family bible at my grandparents house one weekend. My grandfather had written in the bible the births of each grandchild. To my surprise, there was an entry for a child with no name. I asked my mother, and she told me that she had lost a baby girl when she was 6 months along. The baby died in utero, and she had to deliver it just as if she had carried it full term. She told me very matter of factly, but added that after the loss of that baby, she and my father had decided to have another baby, my brother. At the time, I had no inkling of the grief that must have accompanied that loss. My mother did not seem emotional as she recounted the story to me. Years later, I became pregnant after I had a tubal ligation. This resulted in a tubal pregnancy that burst. I had no idea I was pregnant until after the baby was already gone. Still I mourned that baby. I didn't speak to anyone at all about my grief. I felt that other people would think I was silly if they knew how I felt. After, all, I could have only been a few weeks pregnant, and I didn't even know I had conceived until it was already over. I didn't even talk to my husband about it. He never spoke of the loss of the child, and I never even thought of trying to find out if he too was keeping those feelings inside. The loss of the baby made me realize the pain my mother must have felt and I felt compassion for her. Still I didn't talk about it with her. I didn't know how. I was uncertain if I could express my feelings without becoming an emotional mess. As a child and young adult I cried so easily that I would burst into tears if someone spoke harshly or looked sternly at me. I was often chastised by my peers, teachers, bus drivers, etc., for crying so much, and it made me feel like I was doing something wrong when I cried. Each time I was upset, I would try so hard not to cry, would be horrified when the tears came anyway, then would be doubly upset because I had cried. As an adult I got to where I didn't talk to anyone about how I felt unless I felt totally safe that they wouldn't judge me as weak because I cried. This left me with 1 constant confidante, my husband. Still I judged myself as weak and believed people other than my husband also saw me as weak. I wanted to be strong like my mom. She got angry, she fought, she brooded, she worked through problems and difficulties, but she rarely cried. Because of all of these mixed up ideas of mine, the baby I lost lived on only in my private thoughts. My grief and wonder at what might have been mine were mine alone. Time has changed much. My mom has told me often that she believes I am a strong woman, and I rarely feel the old fear and shame when I cry these days. I don't cry as often, partially because I have hardened up a bit over the years, but mostly because I was finally diagnosed with anxiety and depression issues and am now on medication that helps me cope. My mom and I talk more openly about many things and I value her opinions. I regret that I didn't give her the chance to support me emotionally through the trauma of losing my baby. I think it would have been a blessing to both of us.

Emmy

Emmy is sick. She doesn't look sick. She looks perfectly healthy. She is a beautiful, sweet 7 month old baby girl, with chubby arms and legs, beautiful skin and eyes, a steady gaze and a smile that melts your heart. She is my granddaughter, and the only child of my daughter and her husband. Today I sat in the hospital with my daughter and her mother-in-law, watching all the nurses and doctors one by one walking away puzzled by Emmy. My daughter is barely holding herself together as she goes through test after test with Emmy, comforting her baby as best she can. I sit quietly, trying not to watch her too much, trying to just be there if she needs me. There is a precious moment when she comes to sit beside me and lays her tired head on my shoulder. She stays for a moment. My baby, letting me comfort her for a few brief moments before she goes back to comforting her own daughter. Emmy had pneumonia at Christmas. Even before the pneumonia she never ate what I would consider well. 1-2 ounces at a time, every 2 or 3 hours, well past the time when she should have been eating more, less often. Since the pneumonia, she has refused, most adamantly, to eat and has gotten worse as each week passes. There have been several days when she has taken in a mere 8 or 9 ounces in an entire day. Erin and Rob have done everything to get her to eat, even feeding her in the night when she is mostly asleep to try to get more liquid into her body. They have been successful in part. She has not lost weight, but she has not gained either. After working with the doctors and going to a pediatric gastrointestinal specialist, Emmy has ended up in the hospital with a feeding tube, and no one has any idea what is causing her problem. We have all had a hard time accepting that something is physically wrong with this beautiful child. At first, it seemed that she was just off her food because of being sick. Then, possibly just some weird little phase she was going through. Now it has been long enough, and the problem has become severe enough, that it has slapped us all in the face. It has been interesting to watch the doctors and nurses go through the same difficulty with grasping that there is a problem with Emmy. One of the specialists that came in to see her today was called in to determine if there was an aversion problem, or some issue with Emmy's mouth. You could see the shock in her face when she realized that she too was going to be unable to get this child to eat. At least 3 different medical professionals stood outside Emmy's crib today, gazed into her face and made a comment about being completely baffled by what was wrong. My hope and prayer is that the source of the problem will be found and that it is something that is easily controlled. I will not allow myself to think of my fears, at least not while I am with my daughter. Instead we will find things to laugh at, play with the baby, talk about what we are going to do tomorrow. Most of all, we will love each other and Emmy through this difficult time.

Reflections on a Day in the Life

In the past, I have written about doctors that I have met in the course of performing my job that have inspired and impressed me with the way they have chosen to live their lives. These women were old by the time I met them, and had become doctors during a time when doctors were expected to be men. One had given her life to serving those in the inner city, not only providing medical care, but a garden open to all in her care. Her patients included the poorest in the city, and she fought for them as if they were her own family. The other had chosen to practice in the country, established a farm, opened a cheese making business and continued to handle all 3 of these enterprises herself well into her 80's. These women and others I have met while training them on software have given me such an appreciation for what a person can become when driven by the need to serve others with excellence. I have also on ocassion come across a doctor that is the antithesis of these women, and I have never written about those experiences. However, I had such an experience recently that I think is worth some reflection. It began with a long trip to chicago. After catching a flight at 5 in the morning, I arrived at the doctors office to find the office locked and no one on the premises. I walked around the building, trying each door. After returning to what appeared to be the main entrance, I tried calling the office but did not receive an answer. As I contemplated how long to wait, a middle aged woman of eastern descent arrived. She apologized for being late and opened the door, showing me into the receptionists' work area. Based on this, I at first thought she was the receptionist. Luckily, before I asked, she told me she was the doctor and that she was running the office by herself to save money. While that was a little unusual, I run into unusual doctors all the time, and so didn't think much of it. We sat down to begin our session. As we began, she began complaining about the government, telling me everything that she felt was wrong with it. She told me that her patients were leaving her because they were afraid of the electronic record keeping and of the government having all their information. I often hear doctors complain about all the new regulations, so this did not surprise me, although I had never heard of patients leaving because of the regulations. I listened, staying as noncommittal as possible, and after she had vented a bit, we began working with the system as I taught her how to meet the requirements the government has set down. She complained here and there, but nothing too out of the ordinary until I got to the requirement to print out some type of clinical information to give to at least 50 percent of her patients. She exploded, her face contorted with hatred, asking, who is going to pay for it? Are you going to pay for it? No???? Everyone looks at people with big houses, and they think they have lots of money and they should pay for other people. They never think how hard someone has to work for those houses. Why should I pay?? I hate your country. Your country gives money to everyone, but it has no money to give. Americans are lazy. They always want someone to do everything for them. They don't want to pay for anything. Everything is supposed to be free. Americans are the stupidest, most illiterate people in the world. They know nothing. You don't want to hear that but it is true. No one believes the same thing. There are so many gods and no one believes in the same god. I tell you I don't believe in Jesus Christ either! (This was said with so much venom she inadvertently spit on me). Well I hate america. It is stupid. I have been here for 30 years. I went to medical school in my country, came here and did my residency. In America everyone wants to do tests. I learned clinical medicine. I base everything on what I observe. The hospital fired me because the nurses don't think I know what I am doing. Are they doctors? No! Everyone thinks they are a doctor. Patients bring me printouts from the internet and tell me see, this is what I have. They don't believe me. I tell you the hospital just wants a white doctor. A young white male doctor. You can't tell the truth in america. Everyone wants to sue you, so you must lie. Everybody wants everything for free, so you can't tell the truth. I should just leave america and go back to my own country. As I sat and listened to her, I went through a range of emotions. A couple of times, I felt a flash of anger, at others a flash of desire to reach out and change her mind on a particular point, some compassion, moments of just feeling tired. I started to interject a couple of times, but she was so angry and speaking so vehemently there was no room to interject. So I listened, and when she ran out of steam, I just directed her back to the task at hand. After we got through as much of the training as I felt she could absorb, and that I could survive teaching, she spoke to me again on a more personal level. She said something about having been told that she should not get so angry with people. I told her that I used to have a terrible problem with controlling my temper when I was young, but it was not a big problem for me now. She commented that it didn't seem possible I would have ever had a problem with my temper. I explained to her that I did not want to take my temper out on my children, and I had realized that was a problem for me when I was a young person. It had taken a lot of work, but now I rarely lose my temper. After leaving her office, I was feeling pretty good about how I handled the situation, and thankful to God for helping me through it. Her harsh judgements and the way she was generalizing was hard to let pass, but my arguing with her would not have helped the situation. She had said enough that I felt I had some insight into her life and I had compassion for her, although I did not like her. When I got to the airport, I was worn out and in one of those moods where I felt the need to isolate myself from my surroundings. I was early for my flight, so I sat out in the ticketing area, playing games on my cell phone, killing time before going through the gate to catch my flight. As I sat, a couple came up and the woman sat in the chair beside me. The husband left to get the car, and the woman began making phone calls. She was some type of real estate agent and was making business calls. I kept my eyes glued to the screen of my phone to avoid contact. The thought of talking to anyone else was really more than I could deal with at the moment. However, I couldn't help but overhear her calls. I was a little annoyed and making judgements myself about what type of person this was, and then she made a call to Nigeria to a loved one. I know it was Nigeria because she asked if the person she was speaking to was in the airport in Nigeria. Then she spoke out loud one of the most beautiful prayers for safety I have ever heard. I will not try to recreate it here, because my memory cannot do it justice. It just really touched me with it's sincerity and beauty. I sat there feeling glad that I had gotten this revealing glimpse into her life as she then continued with her work calls and glad that I had gotten brought up short in my misperception of who this lady was. Then, I heard someone call out, and glancing up, I saw another lady quickly approaching me. She spoke to me like she knew me, and said scootch over, so I have a place to sit. She said you don't have to move over too much, I can just sit on the edge. I thought this was very odd, but I scootched over, and she sat beside me thanking me. I told her it was fine, I didn't mind, and went back to playing my game. In my mind, once again I was a little annoyed, as my bubble of self protection was now very very small. But I also knew how my feet hurt when I have been walking through an airport, and just figured that this lady's feet hurt and she needed some relief. I was also amused and a little impressed she would ask a perfect stranger to "scootch over". A few minutes after this, an airport employee approached me and asked if I was the one who needed the wheel chair. I told her no, and the lady sharing my seat spoke up and said it might be for her. The airport employee asked her name, and indeed, the wheel chair was for her. I was so grateful that I had "scootched over" and understood that the request was made necessary by the lady's physical condition, although that condition was not obvious on the outside. As I continued to wait for my plane, my mind kept returning to the events of the day. In some ways, my reaction to the second two ladies reminds me that I have a lot still to work on in myself. Sometimes social anxiety cripples me to the point that I cannot speak. Both of these ladies lives intersected with mine for only a few brief moments. I will never know what I missed by giving into my need for a respite from human interaction. The story of the doctor reminds me of how far I have come. In my youth, I would have gotten into a shouting match with her, would have probably left feeling self righteous, and most probably have lost my job, accomplishing nothing. If nothing else, my response as an older person helped to calm the doctor down sooner than would have been possible if I had allowed her to get any kind of reaction out of me. While there is part of me that wonders if I should have challenged her on a few of her assertions, it is a very small part. Sometimes, you say more by saying nothing at all.