girl at large

Big T and little t

Trauma.

A popular word. A challenging word. Who does it belong to? Who qualifies? How do we value all the pain, without making the suffering all the same value? Does it have subcategories? Is it a spectrum?

I’ve struggled with the Trauma term, I don’t use the word for myself. It’s everywhere, for every range, rightly or wrongly, of bad situations. My therapist has diagnosed me with Medical PTSD, of course, medical trauma. Technically in the DSM maybe yes, but spiritually I reject it. I have all the privilege, means and support to treat the traumatic effects of what I call TAMS (The American Medical System). I may be experiencing traumatic things, but do I suffer from Big T Trauma? I don’t think so. 

I don’t feel guilty often, I don’t give that emotion much room to inhabit. But I do feel guilt, Big G guilt, when I think of using “Trauma” for myself.

Today, in chemo, I had an intense experience that told me, like a one-act play, exactly why.

An older gentleman in the infusion bay, the only other patient in the room with me, began talking to his nurse. She listened as she ran his IV. His voice was clear and steady; we made eye contact and acknowledged with a nod that I was listening too…

“When I came back from Vietnam it was really hard for me.

It really messed up my life.

When I went in a bar, I had to sit in the corner, with my back protected.

Not sure why I’m talking about this now. Sometimes you just need someone to listen.

What you did wasn’t right.

I didn’t like killing people.

You see some hideous things that exceed anything you’ll see here ever even as a nurse.

A whole different world that you don’t want to be a part of.

You’re trained to kill.

You’re trained to ignore pain.

Ignore death.

Ignore everything.

It’s a mental state I can slip back into by accident sometimes.

If an officer approached me and I didn’t think it was legal, if he touched me I’d claim self defense. I’d hit him right in the throat first shot. That’s an easy take down, you know?

You get into that mode you don’t realize what you’re doing.

I try to control myself and not get into that state of mind.

I could become very very dangerous to many many people even at 76 with the cancer.

I’ve got gas masks for my whole family.

I’ve got my m16, all kinds of weapons.

Just in case.

And my for my mental well being I want to be prepared.

I’ve got probably 4000 rounds of armor piercing ammo down there.

I don’t tell anybody that.

You’re the first person I’ve told that.

I’ve got a vest for all my clips, special ops stuff.

I put on that camo gear and I’m right back in that mental state.

Why am I telling you this?

Probably because I had some bad dreams about it last night.

I don’t really dream about it anymore, it came out of nowhere.

Here’s a quote you should remember—

“For those who fought for it, freedom will have a taste that the protected will never know.” It’s on my old Zippo.

I’m an old warrior fading away.

I want the best for everybody and I can’t do it.

It’s out of my reach.

I have a heart now that I didn’t have before.

You want to reach people. You want to help everybody if you can, that’s where I am now.

I brought my kids up right.

They’re a lot different than what society is today.

I brought them up as caring, giving people.

My mental state wasn’t too good when I had them.

You can only do so much.”

 

 

The Heart’s Folly

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Just remembering that Valentine’s Day I was at the gyno for a LEEP procedure and the receptionist gave me a single rose…

That Valentine’s Day I took the bus to Rocky Roccoco’s with my best friend and we got the heart shaped pizza and balloons together.

That time I got the courage up to ask someone on a date; we arranged to meet at my place for dinner and he BROUGHT HIS LAUNDRY.

That Valentines Day my best guy friend who I secretly crushed on took me out dancing to our favorite club where that night he met the gal he married.

That Valentine’s Day my boyfriend gave me generic lube. GENERIC.

That Valentine’s Day dance at the all-girls boarding school, a girls-only dance. So no funny business. The nuns knew, right? They knew. 

That time the officiant asked the guests to raise their hand if they’d been married twenty five years or longer and my DAD raised his hand with his SECOND wife. (We like her, fyi, it was just kinda funny)

That Valentine’s Day morning when the unhoused gentleman on the corner had a lady friend and I didn’t.

That time someone said “There’s a lid for every pot” and Mom said “Poor Kate, she’s such a skillet”

Ah, romantic love.

 

 

 

 

These Things I Know

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

These things I know about The Holidays:

He will say “What did we get the kids?”

You will buy too much and yet not get something “right”.

There will either be no snow or all the snow.

The cat/dog/hamster will barf/poop/die.

You will forget to send a card to that one person who will remember.

The tree will be lopsided or scraggly or expensive or all three.

Church will either be your shelter or your nemesis.

If the car got paid off this year, it will break down.

You will fret about something no one, not a soul, notices.

A family member will freak out, flake out or drive you out.

The lights will be tangled.

The batteries will be dead.

The butter/milk/flour/eggs, no matter how much is purchased, will run out.

You will deliver a gift to a neighbor you see about once a year, usually in the spring.

You are too old to shovel. Seriously. Put the shovel down.

Kids will stay up too late, awaken too early, peek too soon, nap too long, eat too much, and be too too much.

…(warning, seasonal sappiness)…

I also know not all kids will be loved. Not all countries will be at peace. Not all homes will be warm or safe. Not all checks will clear. Not everyone will have what we have this season, and though my hands are chapped, my feet ache and my wallet is empty, I hope our hearts will be full. 

And maybe a little tipsy.

 

The Likes We Need

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

While preparing my paintings for the Shorewood Artists Guild show, I pulled everything out in front of me, all my curly papers gathered together for the first time. Little paintings, bigger paintings, big pieces that failed, sweet little unfinished pieces I had been disappointed with that now look so good, piles and piles of work. I’m so proud of the work I’ve done, the skills I’ve learned, the commitment I’ve kept to my late night art desk.

Painting, for me, is an exercise in hope. Hope that I’ll get it right next time, hope that the magical mistakes will indeed be magical, hope that a little more practice will firm up that new skill, hope that my people will LIKE my paintings. I’ll admit it, I paint for likes. I paint for myself, but also for the outer world, to say, hey, I’m here and I’m hoping you like me. All of us want that, in some way.

Validation.

Acknowledgement of our experience, our struggle, our pain, and our wins! Validation. It’s the gift and the curse. Powerfully uplifting when we receive it, devastating and corrosive when it’s missing. Why do we feel invisible without it?

I’m working on validating myself, thank you Therapy. I’ve chased validation for a long time, in my identity as a “real artist”, now it’s here and I feel great. Proud, energized, motivated and so supported. The art show night was a big win for me. 

And, as life likes to do, it reminded the very same week that some validation we may never receive, despite how hard we try. Letting go of that hope is hard and sad. For me, that feeling cannot be painted over, it will likely linger for a long time. But I can stop begging for that “like”. That hope has to go.

But I can be proud that I was just as committed, did the work, and tried to improve my skills. Sometimes the canvas just isn’t there.

Trust Me, This Was Hilarious

 

 

 

 

 

 

Me: “Therapy was tough this week. She suggested I’m holding on to this grudge because it’s easier and less painful than facing my mortality.”

Mom (aged 79): “Well, I’m having to come to terms with it too.”

Me: “What is that like for you?”

Mom: “Losing you is going to be hard.”

Me: “Wait, who are we talking about? YOU or ME?! Do you think you're going to outlive me?!”

Mom:  “Oops”

Mothers and Community

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Someone once said that my Mom and I are so alike we “are like one person”. That was odd, and kinda creepy. We are our own people, but I think, given some grace, what they meant was that we are in synch, simpatico, strongly bonded.

We are close, but able to have conflict. Loving, but not best friends. She is a mom, not a buddy. And thank goodness, because when I fucked up or when I was fucked up or now as my life is getting fucked up, I needed a MOM. This Mom.

This woman who in just two months has been elected to the residential committee, taken on shifts at the gift shop, joined the annual festival committee, and is currently mid-coup in the garden club…this working mom who anonymously paid for braces and eyeglasses for strangers kids. This artist who got bored sitting on the board so decided to actually work IN the domestic abuse shelter. This traveler who never before sailed or spoke another language who sailed the Mediterranean in her sixties. 

This bright light, an Eldest Daughter and my North Star. Also, one hell of a stealth farter. Seriously, don’t get behind her at the Target.

 

Hospital Saga, Part 4. Gratitude Edition

It was a rough week, made rougher by interrupting a holiday. Though, honestly I didn’t mind the timing that much because my customers were also unavailable. That was one less thing I had to worry about. An empty inbox is very healing.

Also very healing are all the wonderful, thoughtful, courageous people in our lives. Thank you ——-

My rock of a sister-in-law who was unfazed by the dramatic change in plans, and cared for my kids for four days, keeping them full of Thanksgiving treats and distractions.

My other rock of a sister-in-law who always says insightful and compassionate things and keeps everyone up to date, even while juggling other family situations.

My dear friend who bought and delivered new flannel pajamas. I won’t call for a ride to the hospital, but I will text request a friend to buy me luxury lounge wear.

Mom. So many things, lots of phone calls and letting my boys sleep in her room. And loving them.

Dad. All the medical advice and empathy. I heard you talking to Paulie, you really delivered the steady presence he needed.

My Portland friend, who called me immediately at the hospital and said “WTF Cheese?” which is EXACTLY what I needed to hear at that moment.

My kind and generous next door neighbors who offered to spend time with the kids every few weeks so that if there’s an emergency they will feel comfortable with them. We hadn’t gotten around to arranging those visits yet, and look what happened! We will fast track that plan now.

My sister, who listened to probably waaaaay too much confusing medical stuff, when I was confused myself and also losing my words (medical brain fog), she is my best listener. A service that cannot be over valued.

The meal service delivery guy who quietly said “I’m praying for you” every time he put my tray down. 

My brother-in-law who just glides in and cares for the kids without ever a complaint or even a sigh. He’s our last minute guy, and always always happy to help. Also, very dapper. 

My deeply kind co-worker who takes on everything I send her when I’m dealing with this stuff, and best of all, she JUST DOES IT WITH NO QUESTIONS. 
 
My “It’s such a small-world” friend and neighbor who delivered yet another treat bag of PERFECTION. Only another harried mom would know to include juice boxes.

The Coven! (Can we let the name be known?). I’m tearing up right now. You made and delivered an entire white trash Thanksgiving meal, WITH FLOWERS AND NAPKINS (fancy white trash). Who knew my some of my closest friends were at school board meetings?

The doctor who didn’t laugh when I REQUESTED a Foley catheter. Don’t judge. Peeing in bed when you’re  hooked up to an IV and have a vaginal birth + menopausal bladder is goddamn heaven. They should make home versions.

And Stevie. Shhh, don’t tell anyone Stevie but I missed you the most.

Hospital Saga, Part 2

Within minutes at Urgent Care, we realized it wasn’t urgenty enough, so we zipped down the road to the Emergency Room.

The secret to fast service? Chest pains and a Smurf-like complexion.

My oxygen level was 76, my chest had a tire on it, the portable chest X-ray showed my lungs were full of fluid. The moment the nurse flung back the curtain and said “Yep, you’re getting admitted”, I relaxed, gave in to the situation and absolutely luxuriated in the oxygen.

The days that followed were a mess of medications, IVs, blood thinners, heart monitors, scans, machines, a lot of 3M products, and many many faces behind medical masks. I had to tell the story of my symptoms and answer how are you feeling so often that I currently cringe when anyone, very well meaningly, asks how I am. 

Triponin is a protein the heart excretes when it’s damaged. A normal level is zero. At admission, mine was 6.  Three of the days in the hospital were just waiting for that to go down. It did, and was almost normal by discharge.

I’m still absorbing everything that happened. I’m honestly confused and a bit traumatized. It’s a struggle to find any humor in this part of the hospital saga, so this post is rather unsatisfying. But, my situation is also unsatisfying, at least until I get new plans from my doctors.

And also a do-over for Thanksgiving with my family.

Life and Photosynthesis

Mom: “I finally figured it out! I finally realized why you got so into plants!”

Me, and all my house plants around me in the corners, listening.

Mom, enthusiastically: ”You were desperate to keep SOMETHING alive!”

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Me: “You mean I was interested in being surrounded by living things?”

Mom: “Oh, yes, that does sound better.”

Wanna Try That Again?

I’m helping Mom complete an online health questionnaire, an important one for an upcoming appointment. It’s long, it covers a lot, and it’s challenging to do even without vision loss. I’m reading from the screen…

Me: “Ok, Mom here are the social support questions. Answer either True, Mostly True, Somewhat True, False, Mostly False, or Somewhat False—‘I have someone I trust to help solve my problems.”

Mom: “False”

Me: “Really, are you sure about that?”

Mom: “Totally, I don’t trust anyone to solve my problems”

Me: “No one? You have no one to help with your problems?”

Mom: “Not that I can think of”

Me, laugh yelling: “MOM I’M LITERALLY RIGHT HERE HELPING SOLVE YOUR PROBLEM!”

My favorite part was Paulie snorting from the other room.

The View From Here

Fairhope, Alabama 

It’s been a strange holiday season. The new variant has scrambled plans; we didn’t feel comfortable doing inside family gatherings while my body is still processing chemo for another three rounds. But after two years of practice with masks and the kids finally fully vaccinated, we can navigate a road trip and outdoor public spaces. I feel a nagging discomfort about those choices—-will we have a break through infection any way? When people say they understand, are they just being nice? What risks are we taking that we didn’t see? What time with extended family and friends have we lost that we will regret?

Is there a German word for fear of future regret?

I struggle with regret; neglecting the signs of cancer haunts me daily. When I think of dying younger than I intended, I regret the anxiety that ruled so much of my life already lived. The anxiety that kept me from traveling, the anxiety that kept me working overtime for free, the anxiety that kept me banging my head against brick walls, the anxiety that told me I’d never be a real artist, the fear that kept me from saying what I really felt/wanted/needed. Most of my regrets come not from mistakes I made in my choices or because of my shortcomings, but from staying silent, eating my thoughts and not saying simply Yes or more often, No.

I’ve said No this year more than ever before, and each time the internal suffering was so absent I didn’t even recognize the sensation. The anxiety groove in my brain had nothing to play, and I sat in the unfamiliar feeling of relief. And no one yelled at me. The terrible consequences of saying No were…imaginary. 

I’m not cured, not of cancer nor of anxiety. But it seems possible now, that maybe, I’ll be able to live with both. As I photograph my little family, I had seen them moving forward without me in the photos and in my mind. But I have put myself in the frame again, ever so cautiously saying Yes.

The Twelve Days of…

On the first day of chemo my doctor gave to me a puncture and an IV.

On the second day of chemo my doctor gave to me two mouth sores, a puncture and an IV.

On the third day of chemo my doctor gave to me three barf bags, two mouth sores, a puncture and an IV.

On the fourth day of chemo my doctor gave to me four shooting pains, three barf bags, two mouth sores , a puncture and an IV.

 

On the fifth day of chemo my doctor gave to me fiiiiive kinds of poooooop, four shooting pains, three barf bags, two mouth sores, a puncture and an IV!

 

On the sixth day of chemo my doctor gave to me six nights a sweating, fiiiive kinds of poooop, four shooting pains, three barf bags, two mouth sores, a puncture and an IV.

 

On the seventh day of chemo my doctor gave to me seven scans a scanning, six nights a sweating,  fiiiive kinds of pooop,  four shooting pains, three barf bags, two mouth sores, a puncture and an IV.

 

On the eight day of chemo my doctor gave to me eight aides a helping, seven scans a scanning, six nights a sweating, fiiiiiive kinds of pooop, four shooting pains, three barf bags, two mouth sores, a puncture and an IV.

 

On the ninth day of chemo my doctor gave to me nine fingers tingling, eight aides a helping, seven scans a scanning, six nights a sweating, fiiiiive kinds of poooop, four shooting pains, three barf bags, two mouth sores, a puncture and an IV.

 

On the tenth day of chemo my doctor gave to me ten hours a sleeping, nine fingers tingling, eight aides a helping, seven scans a scanning, six nights a sweating, fiiiiiiive kinds of poooop, four shooting pains, three barf bags, two mouth sores, a puncture and an IV.

 

On the eleventh day of chemo my doctor gave to me eleven platelets working, ten hours a sleeping, nine fingers tingling, eight aides a helping, seven scans a scanning, six nights a sweating, fiiiiive kinds of pooooop, four shooting pains, three barf bags, two mouth sores, a puncture and an IV.

 

On the twelfth day of chemo my doctor gave to me twelve email surveys, eleven platelets working, ten hours a sleeping, nine fingers tingling, eight aides a helping, seven scans a scanning, six nights a sweating, fiiiiiive kinds of pooooop, four shooting pains, three barf bags, two mouth sores,  a puncture and an IV!

When You’re Feeling Low, You Always Can Count on Pat

I was showing Mom today how my range of motion has been affected by radiation. Lifted my left arm well over my head, stretched it to touch my right ear, all good. Lifted my crooked right arm and it barely went above my shoulder…

Mom: “You have to do something about that!”

Yes, thanks mom.

 

Some other recent Pat moments include:

“You look less, you know, cancery.” As my hair was growing in.

“Well it sounds like you have a ways to go”. When I was lamenting that I just wanted chemo to be over.

“I’m not saying I’m making it up, but in my head…” I laughed so hard I forgot what this was actually about.

“You look fine”. As I adjust to dressing flat, bought an entire new wardrobe and invested heavily in Sephora. Fine? Fine? 

Oh Pat.

Little Consolation

This is Nibbles. He was lost yesterday, sometime between daycare and Nonna’s house, somewhere between backpacks and car seats and playrooms.

I found him late at night, just in time to take bedtime from tears to tucks. 

And that’s about the only thing I managed to feel good about this week. I’m feeling defeated. I’m in the last long stretch of active treatment, or so we presume, until the next scan reveals my future, if I have one. The chemolite™️ side effects are accumulating, making my energy sputter out by 2pm, and introducing a new hell of intense joint and muscle pain. Work is no longer the reliable escape it once was; as people leave for better jobs and the economy has fits and starts, it feels too precarious. And Covid is roaring back, making the recent brief joys once again scary and risky for me with my damaged immune system, and of course my kids are still vulnerable. 

Most distressing, Paul’s Dad, Rocky, my children’s stalwart grandfather, died two weeks ago after suffering a year of congestive heart failure. I will write a tribute to Rocky another day, and it may be private. It’s not entirely my place. But I do want to share that we are grieving, and I’m struggling to help my kids understand.

Sometimes it’s all overwhelming, and I just can’t do much more than scroll, or sleep, or cry. 

Some nights, you are just inconsolable until Nibbles is back where he belongs.

The Growth That Doesn’t Kill You

Now that we can be social again, I get a lot of questions about my cancer. Some are kind, some are strange, most are simple enough—the basic how are you doing/feeling/coping. Once in awhile a query is profound. A very dear friend, with a talent for getting to the heart of the matter, especially when it’s your heart itself, asked “Has this experience changed how you relate with your father?”

pow. In fact, it did. 

My drive to treatment is about twenty minutes each way, thirty when I take the prettiest lake route. I enjoy it, and with the spare time I make speaker phone calls.

Me: “Hey, Siri, call Dad”

Siri: ”Sorry, you don’t have a Dad”

Bwaaaaahaaa.... so, this experience has changed Robert to Dad in my phone and in my life.

 

p.s. did I mention the friend is also my hair dresser? Skip the therapist, get your hair done.

 

Sunny Days

 

Our bubble includes more vaccinated loved ones every week. The stress of waiting to qualify is gone as the age restrictions have been lifted, everyone age 16 and up in Wisconsin now qualifies. I hear fewer anecdotes about not being able to get an appointment and see more postings about “no waiting” opportunities, so it seems the entire vaccination process has improved.

For the first time since last March, Viv was able to visit Nonna. Hugs and coffee in her lovely sunroom, an impromptu knitting lesson. Such normal, small things. So profound I can hardly look at the photos without tearing up.

We have hoped for this day, I have feared this day might not come, we have judged our every move from getting groceries to attending school on its possible effect on this getting to this day. We have endured hospital stays where we couldn’t see each other, holidays apart, long nights scared that we might lose someone before we saw them again. 

I am deeply grateful for science, for logistics, for pharmacists, even for website builders. The string of people required to get those shots in our arms, it’s amazing.

Despite all the current social chaos, the heated climate (both figurative and literal), we are an amazing society when we want to be. 

 

Spring Is Coming

 

This is the time of year we usually plan our spring break road trip. Me, Mom, Viv and my copy of Historic Hotels of American hitting the road. Last year, we canceled at the last minute as COVID was closing in and states were closing down. This year I hoped to do a localized version, perhaps a trip along the Mississippi River in western Wisconsin. But I hadn’t booked anything yet, because you know...cancer.

After five months of chemo, this week was scan week. Monday was my PET scan, Tuesday we got the results. As my oncologist said, in his very understated way, the results are “a dramatic improvement”.

The tumors are gone. The lymph nodes, all of them, are clear of cancerous activity. Gone.

It’s the best possible result from chemotherapy. It’s most likely because my breast cancer type is known to respond so well to the HER2neu agents combined with the chemo drug. The care team will be proceeding “like they would with someone who is stage 3”.

I’ve been absorbing the news, staring at the images. Already, I’m inundated with information about next steps, doctors appointments to be confirmed, calls and texts to schedule surgery. It’s all happening fast, like the initial diagnosis. The first lesson of cancer is it controls your schedule. 

I may have been pulled from the brink, but I can’t pull anything past Mom!

As I explained that my surgery will be scheduled for the middle or end of March...

“So no trip then?”

 

A Good Day

Thank you Internet, today was a good day. We managed three big wins you and me together:

I successfully won a medical billing dispute.

We completed the registry for Viv’s two week summer camp.

And best of all, Mom got her vaccine!

It’s been a very good day. I’m going to bed now to savor the relief.

Inauguration Hot Take

The monochromatic outfits we all loved have to be inspired by The Crown, don’t make fun of the Queen ever again.

Men need better dress up clothes. Get some interesting coats dudes.

Bernie is in front of me at the post office every time. Every event needs a mascot.

I didn’t know it was Gaga because I had on only audio at that moment, I thought it sounded weird. I am clearly not musical.

The whole of my creative life will not add up to one tenth the impact of one line of Amanda Gorman’s poem.

I was on the Ohio turnpike (excellent waysides!) when I heard the American Carnage speech; I’ll always remember the camaraderie with other carloads of women’s marchers headed to DC as we listened.

I was not ready to love Garth, but there it is, I do.

I really really want a hard copy of this week’s Scholastic.

The leadership of one person does make a difference. The integrity and dedication of a team of many competent people makes a difference.

We have a lot of work yet to do. 

Pat In The Covid Era Is Still 100% Pat

   
 

We helped Mom move into a new apartment in her building the first week of July; one that is just a bit roomier so she can have more studio space, and it has an updated kitchen. She had quite literally worn out the previous unit’s 1970’s era kitchen. I’m still haunted by how close in time frame that move was to our Covid exposure, but somewhat relieved when I recall that we were extra diligent about masks and keeping physical distance, especially from Mom. And the kids haven’t been in her presence at all since they had returned to daycare. Still, it was a close one, and it nags at me.

So, we certainly don’t see Mom in person at all now. But that doesn’t stop us from getting the new place set up right. Some things don’t change, life marches on, furnishings must be arranged. I mean, have you met me? And we all know Pat hasn’t changed. Her reply to my photo messages for example:

“No I threw those pots in Chicago. Yes it’s a crock pot. One fan for head the other for feet. glad to make your day. Mom”

 

 

Covid Kids

Easter is a bit different this year. No big beautiful family meal at Aunt Lisa’s, no dressing up fancy and no Easter egg hunt at the park. Instead only six eggs to color, scrounging up strange kitchen drawer candy, raiding the present closet for a basket filler.

This is week four of the quarantine, week four of the emotional roller coaster, first full week of homeschooling, second week where I have no sales team left to work with, fourth week of no customers, fourth week of no answers. 

What will the kids remember? The tears and arguments? The short tempered parents? Being separated from friends and grandparents?

Probably not. They are ages three and seven. They will remember the year the Easter Bunny brought legos instead of marshmallow eggs. (It’s a dangerous precedent really.)

I remember in tough times, not the trouble itself so much as the comfort my mom employed. Sometimes it was for her comfort, like her favorite food (creamed eggs on toast), sometimes for our comfort like holding my head in a certain squeeze, or reading at the end of her bed.

I don’t need the iron this morning, or a fresh pair of tights, or a pan of food to bring, or to rush out the door hollering to “get in the car or else!”.

But I sure do need some hope.

Some hope to help me take these six eggs and, like the lemon to lemonade adage, make something of them. Maybe egg salad. 

But not creamed eggs on toast. Because it’s gross.

At Home Learning

I’ll always question why I asssumed it was safe to have the kids at Grandmas house the first week and half. Once I developed a cold (only one day of low fever, no other covid symptoms), it came crashing down on me just how selfish and risky that was. I hope that lesson wasn’t learned too late.

Now that they are at home with us all day every day, I’m learning first-hand how amazing Grandma time was —activities, schedule, lessons schoolwork. And the snacks! Oh the snacks. I’m finding out just how impossible is it to Work From Home and Parent At Home and Also Be A Teacher. It is impossible.

You know those work-from-home memes about discovering the “work personality” of your spouse? Paulie is about exactly what I expected, though slightly more organized. In contrast, during their first classroom video meeting, I was surprised to find out my kid, my very quiet kid, is the bold over-sharer! Good to know.

And one final lesson during this pandemic—the entire first two weeks I thought “WFH” stood for What Fucking Hell, not Work From Home.

I like my version better.

These Are The Best Days

Today three-year-old Charlie grasped me from behind with both of his little stick arms, buried his face in my ass crack and said “Your butt is amaaaaaazing!”

Happy Birthday me.

And Then Everybody Clapped

Some moments with toddlers are unforgettable, some are unbelievable, and some are one hundred percent the legacy of Pat Mikkelsen’s child rearing.

Me: “Oh Charlie, you are so fucking beautiful!”

Charlie: “Mama, you’re fucking beautiful every day!”

We Met for the First Time Six Years Ago Today

You are six years old today, and right now you are a humid little lump sleeping next to me in Mama’s bed. “Mama Time” you call it. 

It’s been six years, but I still don’t know exactly what I’m doing. Each time I get confident, each time I get the routine down, you go and change on me. In the proverbial leaps and bounds you make your way through stages of childhood, often leaving me behind in the cliche dust. 

But I do know these things:

Your first best friend was named Julian and you greeted each other with a hug every day and cried when you had to part.

You say Gwanma. And Nonna. And have never confused the two.

You want to be a monkey when you grow up. And also a teacher. And a race car driver.

You are 100% right when you say pants with pockets only in the back are stupid.

Charlie will never have a better guide than you.

You own your Papa’s heart, and almost more importantly, his growth from a pretty darn good person to an amazing person.

You bite your nails, out of nervousness, and I worry about that. But you also are trying to quit, of your own choice, and quitting a habit is the hardest thing a human brain can do. So if you can’t, I got you. That goes for every thing. Every single thing.

 

It Takes A Village

I got called out this week for suggesting that the monarch butterflies that survived, survived because of my care. Nope, they did not. I had, in fact, very little to do with it. For the record:

Our neighbor friend gave us a chrysalis earlier this summer, from her butterfly garden. We watched it hatch and released a huge female monarch, very exciting. I thanked the friend, and mentioned that I planned to plant milkweed so we could maybe have some monarchs of our own next year.

Sure enough, a few days later she dropped off a milkweed plant for us to have! It was in a temporary pot, so I plunked it on the shelf and mentally scheduled its planting for “later, after I do all the other things like getting the toddler to stop yelling ERNIEBERT ERNIEBERT ERNIEBERT at the top of his lungs”).

I was working at my sunroom desk one day, when a huge fuzzy caterpillar suddenly appeared on my keyboard and scooted his way across my work. What the?! Turns out the plant had eggs, and now a few warm interior weeks later, we have four caterpillars!

I put the plant outside, complete with it’s four new tenants and called Mom. I had no idea what to do, or frankly if there was anything required to do except put them outside. I’m a naturalist. I naturally think all living things belong outside, you know, with the nature. Don’t they figure it out themselves?

Turns out, there’s more to it. In order to get caterpillars from fuzzy worm to chrysalis to butterfly in large numbers, they need some protection. The next day, when I got home from work, I saw that Mom had brought over a monarch box and put the caterpillars and milkweed stems inside their new safe little habitat. Mom MADE the monarch box, with the monarch group at the senior center because you know, she’s lived here half as long as me but knows everyone and does everything and is the queen of the village. 

All is good. Until the hungry little buggers eat all the leaves, stripping the milkweed to nothing but stalks. Mom knew this would happen and had already rallied the troops. Her darling friend Julie brought over some of her own milkweed leaves, taking the time to deliver them to mom before she went to her own family outing (!). 

Cool, crisis averted. So in the evening, I put the box up on the table on the porch to better view the creatures and see when they attach themselves to the top and start their metamorphosis. And I go to bed, and to work and to bed and to work again and think nothing of it.

Mom scolds me after she moves the box from the exposed table top to the floor, and puts a plastic cover on the top to protect it and its delicate inhabitants from the howling storm and three days of rain. Oops.

Now safely sheltered, they do their acrobatic cocooning thing, and dangle for another ten days in the corner. We count only three chrysalis, the fourth probably lost to the weather. As Viv nonchalantly said “it’s probably dead”. 

Fortunately for us, the monarchs appeared over Labor Day weekend, so we could enjoy the sight as they unfolded their glorious wings. And during the only bit of sunshine we’d had all weekend, even better.

So, there’s the whole story. I take no credit for the successful hatching of these monarch butterflies. As I said, it’s a miracle they survived me. 

What a lucky bunch of bugs we are.

A Seat At The Table

Each article, each radio interview, every profile featuring women running for office, women winning elections, women leading boards, and women leadership in general right now is stoking my rage. Why? Because the popular angle is “women are good for business”, “women do things differently so they are better” and all that lean in crap. Even if the studies aren’t flawed, even if the premise isn’t condescending, why the fuck should it matter?

Why do we need to prove our worth? Our capabilities? Our profitability? Why must we apologize for taking our seat at the table? Why do I need to convince you that my female presence is not only harmless, but beneficial to you? What if it isn’t beneficial? What if women are just as fallible and human as men? What if we get greedy, can be corrupt, can be inept, can be wrong; do we then get expelled?

Women are half the population, women are human beings, women are engines of the economy, makers of humans. WOMEN EXIST. That is reason enough to demand representation at every level in the government that rules us, the institutions that affect us and the corporations that profit from our labor.

Period. Ditto everyone that isn’t a straight white man. 

First Burning Bras, Now This

“Nice Hawaiian shirt Mom”

“Thanks, I wore it so if we’re on the news, you know, I can stand out and spot myself”.

Um, kinda not the point of being here at this march for immigrant families Mom, but ok. I thought that was the end of the topic when Paulie, beloved but daring son-in-law, chimed in:

“An old lady in a flowered shirt at a protest, yeah, that’ll really stand out!”

Perspective

Time in the car with my girls, Mom and Viv, is my favorite. I certainly miss the days of road tripping alone, the window rolled down, sun on the windshield, rolling through the green summer countryside blasting NPR. But I have embraced my passengers. I always learn something.

Driving back from Patsy and Charlie's lovely family wedding in Door County--

Me: "It was so great to meet that woman whose sister babysat me back in Columbia, that's amazing that they remember! Awww, they said to say hi to Pumpkin, I always loved that I'm your Pumpkin mom." (Warm fuzzy memory of little kid me being held close to my mom, her calling me Pumpkin when I needed a cuddle)

"God, were you orange."

What?

What?

"Wait, wasn't I called Pumpkin because I was cute, it wasn't a cutesie loving nickname like honey bunny? Wait, WHY was I called Pumpkin?"

"You had jaundice! You were orange as a pumpkin!"

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Pat Translator

Mom has always had a language all her own, usually more accurate and descriptive then the "correct" version. Like Mark Twain and Yogi Berra, her brilliance is both profound and hilarious. The conversations during our annual Spring Break road trip were no exception.

"You know that place we were just at in Texas or wherever." (We went to Arkansas, not Texas)

"We're Americans, if we forget anything we can just buy it."

"I can't believe how it changed. Oh, that's different. Why is that there? That wasn't there before"...(She hasn't been to St Louis in fifty years)

"I'm just so glad that I'm not like those old people in denial, still driving and and not admitting when it's time to quit or time to move into assisted living. I'm not like that, I'll never be like that, I won't be that stubborn."

You need hearing aids. "No I don't."

"Do you still write on that blog? large girl or something?"  

You mean girlatlarge.com?

"Yes, that one you did about being fat, I thought it was so great that you were ok with it"

What? It's Girl At Large, not Large Girl!  It's a reference to being out in the world! traveling! being adventurous! Not about being fat! (And yes, the links you read on Facebook are that very same blog.)

Oh Mom. What a trip.

 

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Snootypants vs Smartypants

Grandma: "Corndog? No, I've never had a corndog. That's "Fair" food, I don't go to the Fair".

Viv: "Do you like hot dogs?"

Grandma: "Yes."

"Do you like bread?"

Yes.

"Do you like corn?"

Yes.

"Hmm. I think you like corn dogs."

 

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Girl Out in the World

It's remarkable how a little thing can put someone at ease. Everywhere we travel Viv is assumed to be a boy, except by priests, nurses, and teachers who (almost to a person) default to "they" or some other gender neutral substitute like the ubiquitous "buddy" without missing a beat. (Is it years of practice? Working with the public? Being wrong too many times in the past?) Its a small thing, but what a difference--to engage with kids and be in tune with their kidness, not their this or thatness. When did we get so boxed in?

Viv doesn't care one way or another, but it bothers me that girlness is presumed to come in only one pink-wrapped, long haired package. (Of course, I'm conflicted. Why does it bother me when she's misgendered? I'll have to dive into that sticky emotion at a later date). Viv has opinions, preferences, and even at this young age, a "style". And by style I mean she wears and does and plays what and how she enjoys. Or as she says: "Why do boys get all the comfy pants?"

 

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Summertime

We grabbed one last weekend of summer at Elkhart Lake this weekend, 50 percent of which was spent loading and unloading crap from cars. Like all parenting, half was hell and the other half was amazing. Viv donned water wings and after an hour let me float her about four feet in to the pool. Charlie, dunked in a round floaty for the very first time, took to the water (both in the swimming pool and the huge bathtub) like a duck. Mama might have her new swim partner!

After a season of stress and a newsfeed full of violence, grasping for a little old fashioned summer for my family is a necessity. I'll take my sheetcake with an ice cream cone please.

Or as Viv says, "I love hotels, they bring everything we need!"

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Don't Get Ahead of Yourself

Viv: "Look, Charlie is looking at me Mama!"

Me: "Look at that! Oh Vivi, he loves to watch you. He is going to watch you his whole life. You're always going to be his big sister, his teacher. You'll have to teach him all sorts of things"

Viv: "Will you help me?"

Me: "Oh yes of course, we will all teach Charlie together. He will have you his big sister, and me and Papa, and family and neighbors..." and on and on I went in a It Takes A Village eye-dampening soliloquy...

Viv: "That's good Mama, but can you help me with my pants?"

 

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This has always hurt. Just not so noticeably.

4th of July 1982, Pioneer Village, Nebraska

I have had my feet in two worlds for large parts of my life. Growing up in a smallish town on the edge of an industrially polluted lake where my classmates were not expected nor encouraged to go to college, I was the (obnoxious) Doctors Kid. My big-city mother struggled in the suffocating small town, my father thrived in what to him was a sprawling village of opportunity. In private boarding school I was disgusted by the classmates who used their parents high-end drugs and their own teenage cruelty to ostracize me. I found friendship among the townies. But not all the townies, just the arties and gays and other misfits would have me. I found people I liked, and who liked me, and I found my own way. Along the way, I took snippets of interesting things from my urban, artistic, democratic family on the one hand, and my rural, veteran, republican family on the other. I am intensely proud of the diversity of thought in my own background and the interesting, varied and often hilarious people who created it. 

I have said often that having that dichotomy kept things balanced and gave me a buffet of characteristics to choose from to form my own identity. Work ethic + art + bookishness + community + creativity + travel + solitude + Patsy Cline= my own perfect mix. 

When I left the Midwest, I promised myself that I would live in the South, Europe and the East and West Coasts. (I didn't make it to NYC, but there's still time). Every four or five years I would pick up and start over in a new place, with new social norms and new people. It enriched me. I fueled me. Each place I've lived gave me a new view of America, and I found something to love in each one. 

The pain in my heart on Wednesday was fueled by the knowledge that people I know and love, people I admire and adore, voted for Trump. I know they are not all racist. They are not all cruel. They are my people too. They deserved so much better. They have been used. They can't possibly think this is ok, can they? Did I every really know them? Does their hate extend to me? And yes, a vote for Trump is a vote for hate. At best it is a vote for an erratic, foul mouthed buffoon you wouldn't invite to the American Legion fish fry, at worst it is a vote for a fear-mongering, race-baiting fascist.(I could go on about my pain as a woman, but it's all been said).

Those people are not all rural either, it's not that simple. They are not all "out there in the sticks". Just last week, on trick-or-treat night, I ran to my corner Walgreens (I live on the corner of White + Liberal) for more candy. In the recently-raided aisle, I was scrounging for the last bags of chocolate when the woman next to me said "Ran out?" I said "Yes, they came in droves!". To which she replied: "Don't get more for those Over-The-Rivers!".

Black children. That's what she meant. N word is what she meant. I scooped up every bag on the shelf and walked away. I was speechless, and in that moment felt stunned. Every kid who came up my step that night got handfuls and handfuls of candy. All night I fumed at that ignorant, mean-hearted woman. But I thought she was a one-off, an outlier. An anomaly.

The problem with Wednesday was just that -- it was day. And all the secret hate, the quiet bigotry, was out in the light.. And it was all around us. It WAS us. 

I can't cover it all here, I hardly know what I'm talking about, there are more knowledgeable voices than mine already saying everything. I have always written. Of the moments in my life both mundane and profound, I have written. My diaries date back to Reagan, I have every letter Grandma ever sent me. I write because I have to, like a habit. I write about this because, because...oh, I don't even know. All I know is that, like America, I am full of contradictions. I am striving to be better, I fail often, and I want a good world for my loved ones.

I know one thing---we are worthy of better.

The Ring of Fire Is Not About Johnny Cash

The second baby is both easier and more difficult. I knew what was coming, so I dreaded labor and delivery. My experience with Viv was so tough, I feared a repeat. And no, "getting a healthy baby at the end" does not erase a bad birth experience. It certainly helps over the alternative, but a crummy time is a crummy time.

The birth plan this time around was certainly more flexible (and less lengthy--"Take it as it comes") but still focused on as natural as possible. When baby was breech at 36 weeks and my conservative OB/GYN firmly announced it would be a c-section if he didn't flip by 38 weeks, I was in a panic. I saw the chiropractor every other day, did accupressure and stood on my head for twenty minutes each night. A surgeon's daughter avoids surgery like the proverbial plague.

Lucky me, it worked!

I was so relieved to avoid a scheduled c-section that I didn't see the preeclampsia coming. A few spiked blood pressure readings didn't alarm me, but sharply declining platelets and scary liver function readings did. A scientist's daughter also knows when to trust the numbers. It's a good thing I'm so organized and had wrapped up work a week before my due date, because it was time to get that baby out!

 

-When faced with an unknown, Paulie goes to his comfort zone. As we were scrambling out the door Saturday morning for the emergency induction, he vacuumed the cars. Both cars.

-When your childcare plan (i.e. Grandma) says they are going on a winery tour the weekend before your due date, be sure to ask WHERE. Do not assume it's local. It's more likely, inexplicably, in Appleton. By charter bus.

-Intravenous Magnesium is the devil. The devil that saves your life, but the devil.

-I've never been so happy to get a catheter. Or had such a deep, meditative exchange with an anesthesiologist.

-Doctors tell, and you think you understand and nod your head like you understand. But after the doctor is out the door moments later, the nurses interpret. And then you truly DO understand. You understand that the nurses do everything. And then they also clean up your food tray.

-"Why does the window hurt so fucking much?!?" I asked Paulie over and over during transition. I had an area in my abdomen, near my hip that the epidural didn't take effect on. It happens sometimes. The nurse explained it to me, calling it an epidural "window", while Paulie was in the bathroom. As he leaned over the bed to comfort me, he was so perplexed when I grunted "No, godfuckingdamnit it's not about the blinds".

-Pushing when I felt like it, as I felt like it without the sitcom "push push push" count down was so much better. Pulling on a towel like a rope, with both Paulie and the doula pulling in the other direction was brilliant. That baby popped out in thirty minutes!

-A doc who saves your stuff (as one observer noted "She worked the hell out of it") is forgiven for all else.

-My hair looked amazing.

 

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Back to Berea

We have returned from our annual spring break road trip. Our final destination was Berea, Kentucky so there was less road than last year when we drove all the way to Ashville, NC. The weather provided less spring too this year too. But what sunshine there was we enjoyed and the flowering trees were a treat.

The first stop was quaint Nashville, Indiana (Brown County) with a day trip to the Midwest modern architctural gem Columbus, Indiana.Then on to Berea for three days in our favorite Kentucky art town with another day trip into Lexington. On the way back, we spent a night in the gorgeous West Baden Springs hotel in French Lick, Indiana. At each destination we stayed at wonderful, historic hotels and took historical architecture tours--Columbus's midcentury modern tour (65 incredible buildings!), Henry Clays restored estate Ashland, and lastly the West Baden Springs famous dome hotel.

Funny, on all three tours there was not a single other child.

When I asked a Viv which tour was her favorite, she gave the bus tour of Columbus her enthusiastic endorsement. It's too soon to tell if she's developed my same affection for modern design; I suspect it was more about the...wheels on the bus.

 

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Charming

After a day of walking in quaint Nashville, Indiana:

Me: "Did you notice there was a good mix of tourists in town? Kids, seniors, quite a few gay families too, that's nice".

Mom: "Well, there are a lot of fudge shops"!

 

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Via Table for Two

There is nothing like an impending party for motivation! More work on the house kept us up late all week, mostly outside. The beautiful spring weather and long nights have me in the mood to plant flower pot after flower pot. It's a good thing I enjoy planting them, as usually I've killed them by mid-season and have to do them all over again!

The Via Downer table in the sunroom is a spectacular match to the newly-restored tile floor. Paul says he isn't surprised, that I have a way of unconsciously color coordinating everything in our life. I am not as confident at my ability to pull this whole house together in time for the big family party, but right now it feels so good to have my little family around this special table.

 

 

 

 

 

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Favorite Strangers

Spring came early this year, or so it felt as we were on the road heading south. The trees along the side of the road were nearly green when we made it to Berea, KY. Asheville, NC was our trip destination, but Berea became our favorite stop that we had made along the way.

The Boone Tavern Hotel (http://www.boonetavernhotel.com/) was perfect...historic, warm, comfortable. Though our room faced a rooftop, we didn't notice because we were outside in the cobblestone courtyard among the daffodils or on the front porch rockers watching Berea college students go by. The people of the hotel and the town were friendly.

At breakfast in the restored and sunny dining room, another traveling family stopped to chat at our table with my charming toddler. When they asked "his name", I had to do the apologetic

"Her name is Vivienne".

Strangers immediate response: "That's ok, it will grow out!"

My startled reply: "It's on purpose, I prefer her hair short"

She carries on: "...It could be worse, when my youngest got ahold of the scissors..."

Me again, literally head in hands: "No, I PAID to have it done"

Have a good day!

 

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Oops

Viv: "I saw your trunk today Papa"

Papa: "You saw my what?"

Viv: "You have a trunk like an elephant!"

Exit bathrobe, enter pants.

 

 

 

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Just Like Versailles

Just like Versailles, our favorite time at Biltmore was the gardens, not the house. And like every trip of my childhood, the warm sunny cobblestone courtyard with coffee and croissant was where we spent most of our time. I can't recall how many museums and chateaus we never did enter...well, because we didn't! But I do remember the legs of wrought iron cafe chairs, the color of espresso foam, little white cups and tired feet and conversations with my brilliant mother in the sunshine.

 

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Explain This

I enjoy getting Viv gussied up to visit Nonna...no one appreciates the cute tights, nice jackets and Italian baby boots like a Sicilian seamstress and shoemaker's daughter.

Last Sunday, when we dropped CiCi off for an afternoon with her, Nonna was in her morning duds. When we picked CiCi up in the afternoon, there was this chummy matched pair!

Only later did I notice in the photo that they were looking at last year's Little Book of Viv album, and randomly at a snapshot of Viv in similiar (but smaller) polka dotted tights!

(Jacket by Target, tights by Boden, shoes by Premigi, jumper by Oshkosh b'Gosh) (Nonna's necklace by Rocky)

 

 

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Next Time, California

Paulie surprised me yesterday with Thanksgiving "mood boards", big prints of our last holiday in sunny Palm Springs.

Me: "When did you make these?"

Paul: "In my spare time".

Me: "Spare time? You're married to me...you don't have any spare time!"

 

 

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Three Ways to Garden

Dad's, mine and Paulie's...

 

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Guess Who

"I'm doing that yogurt thing." (Yoga at the community center).

"They need to learn curfiss!" (Discussing a recent change in grade school curriculum).

"Wait, it's Q, R, S, then T!" ( second attempt at singing the alphabet sing for Viv)

Bonding with Uncle Mike

Zio Mike and Zia Kelly are in town for Lisa and Phil's wedding this weekend. The three day Festa Italiania started last night with pasta and pillow forts!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Nebraska

It was really hard not to write Grandma Eileen a letter this Sunday. I will miss her forever.

 

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Eileen Hope

A hundred or more mourners, countless cards, dozens of casserole dishes, one small town.
70 years a wife and mother, 91 years a writer and reader and giver. They say it's a long life well lived, a condolence well meant, but a few more days here with us would have been well spent.

Just Grand

Tom and Linda's wedding was wonderful---relaxed, beautiful and with just enough unexpected snow to make it more memorable.

When Mom left Palm Springs, we took bets on how long it would take Tom to find a woman to replace her. We didn't guess that the next one would be The One! It didn't take long, they even beat our record. Paul and I were June to April--married. Tom and Linda were August to April--married.

I love seeing my brother in love; he's so happy, she's so normal. Whew.

 

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