WE WENT TO THE BEACH!!!
friends, music, and beagles
Sometime in 1992 I became part of a diverse group of people hired to work for what was considered a long-term temporary assignment at Denver’s largest law firm. Joining me was a high school principal who was between jobs and always got us laughing at his stories, a theatre actor who could not help but be dramatic pretty much all of the time, a couple of younger women who may or may not have been truly qualified to do this sort of work (trying not to judge), another woman who had studied journalism, and a paralegal named Vicki. I believe there were a few others but these are the ones who stand out the most in my memory. We were just below the paralegal supervising the project in the hierarchy of the firm. In other words, at the bottom. Paralegal research assistants are what we were called, or more specifically, database editors. Before the assignment ended I was promoted to co-manage the project since being the other person who had studied journalism, editing was something for which I had trained.
I had worked an earlier long-term temp job at the same firm in 1988 when we jumped up and down with joy the day we figured out how to get all of our computers to “ding” at the same time! It was called email. The main thing I remember about that job was the day that one of the women called me into her office to tell me she had actually taken her “name” from an obituary and had assumed the identity of a dead woman since she was running from the law . . . in a law firm! The last time I saw her she was running down the sidewalk after discovering the “Denver boot” on one of the wheels of her car parked on the street outside the office.
The only other thing I remember is that we could see the entirety of a tornado from the huge windows on the upper floor where we worked as we looked to the south of downtown as it approached, and I hoped it was not in the process of destroying the Pizza Hut my husband was managing. I would not know until after work that it had touched down right next to the restaurant, but would find out later I was not a widow. Life before a cell phone consisted of praying and hoping for the best.
But this 1992 version of a long-term temp assignment was my favorite temp job. Instead of answering the phone at the front desk of an oil company and reorganizing the file room in their land department, (which I had also done for a period of time for a paycheck while I was building my portfolio writing feature articles for a newspaper) I was part of an interesting group who really tried to enjoy whatever we could, tucked away in a nondescript room of this enormous building downtown. At some point the theatre guy said we should take turns playing music according to each of our unique tastes. This would broaden our horizons as we would patiently listen to country western, jazz, possibly even rap (may have blocked that one out–no offense), contemporary Christian, and top 40, to name a few. His choice was show tunes, no doubt, which I love, by the way. I’m not sure if I requested classical, or better yet, silence, so I could work more effectively, but I remember this activity being a bonding experience for the total strangers that we were.
I remember talking to Vicki and though she was somewhat older, I felt like we had some things in common. She was from Chicago originally so we had that midwestern-cold-wind-blowing-over-Lake-Michigan experience. The sadness of her divorce seemed to be always with her and I wondered if she would ever really be ok. Her ex-husband was an attorney so I’m sure the alimony came in handy, but her loneliness showed.
The other thing that was beginning to show was the fact that I was pregnant. Not sure I wanted to share something so intimate with this group of strangers I spent every working day with for the better part of a year, I would nibble on my Saltines secretively in the hope that no one would catch on to what fortunately never turned into morning sickness and remained just a little queasiness from time to time in the first trimester. Because this was my first pregnancy, it would take quite awhile for me to need to move into my new maternity wardrobe. But once I did I became the center of attention, whether I wanted to be or not. The theatre guy organized a baby shower of sorts offering a giant chocolate chip cookie and tiny blue booties. He then invited me to one of his theatre parties giving me a name tag that had “Mary, mother of the angel Gabriel” on it. Though his knowledge of theology may have been questionable, his kindness was genuine and I remember hoping that AIDS would not take him out as it had so many.
As the case we were working on began to resolve, fewer of us were needed for this project and our group diminished in size. When the case was settled, documents needed to be shredded as we would all find ourselves unemployed. Again. I was the last one to close the door to an office where we had adapted to early technology, celebrated anything we could think of with music, and provided whatever we could as a team of temps. By this time I was eight months pregnant, wondering if I should become a paralegal since I was drawn to this type of work, or if I would ever work again once I gave birth to Gabriel.
I don’t remember exchanging addresses with Vicki but we undoubtedly did. My husband and I would leave Colorado a year later to experience one of the coldest winters on record in Michigan before moving to North Carolina where my mother-in-law was in need of our assistance and where our son would turn two. The main writing I was doing at that time was my annual Christmas letter and Vicki would always send a Christmas card, often with photos of her beloved beagles. She never had children, apparently, or ever remarried, but she loved her dogs.
As we moved from the first rental house to the second one right next door with the birth of our second son, I would keep Vicki on the Christmas list. The arrival of a third son would find us at another rental property further from Greensboro but right next to the railroad tracks. Because of my husband’s teacher salary, and my stay-at-home mom status, we qualified for a government loan as a low-income family and were finally able to purchase our own home. Our youngest son took his first steps here and 24 years later we still talk about renovating our 1972 kitchen even though the wall oven still works.
Last year I did not receive a Christmas card from Vicki. Instead I received a letter from her friend stating that she recovered my Christmas letter in a pile of letters Vicki had set aside in the “things to keep” pile as she was moved from her home to assisted living. I was touched that after all of these years of only communicating via Christmas cards that she would even care, but her friend gave me the new address so I continued the tradition.
Yesterday another letter from Vicki’s friend was in my mailbox and I knew what she was going to tell me before I opened it. I’m pretty sure Vicki did not receive this year’s Christmas letter before she went to her heavenly home, but this friend of hers wanted to thank me for my friendship with Vicki over all of these years. Friendship seemed to be an odd word to describe the type of relationship we actually had shared. We had merely talked during work breaks while editing documents for several months. We had taken the time to greet each other and acknowledge a kindred spirit once in awhile. We really had not done that much in establishing a friendship considering all of this happened over 30 years ago, and has existed through only one piece of mail per year.
But it doesn’t really take that much to let someone know that you care, does it.
I hope Vicki is getting to listen to the beautiful choral music that she loves that one may hear at St. John’s Cathedral which was where her memorial service took place–two blocks from where I had lived before getting married, having a baby, and moving away. If we get to have pets in heaven I would like to think there are a couple of beagles following Vicki around barking in the way that only beagles can, as her joy has now been made full.
Rest in peace, friend.
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therapy = dog
Therapy can mean a lot of different things: talking to a counselor who after many sessions will say empathetically, “You need to learn to let things go,” trying to do online yoga in the privacy of my own home using a chair because I can’t really stand on one leg very well, or eating a warm scone with lemon curd I made from scratch. Add to that a cup of really great coffee and I’m good to go until happy hour.
Sometimes, however, when bad things have happened and I am having a difficult time letting them go (still learning, I guess), and the yoga is not giving me enough exercise to really change anything (even though I’m getting better at it), and food therapy will never help me reach my weight-loss goals (truth), a different therapy is needed. Dog therapy.
Choosing a dog, or more accurately, letting a dog choose you is a process. My oldest son’s fiancé recommended a dog rescue where the dogs are allowed to roam around free at this beautiful farm as opposed to those who are caged at the pound. I told the woman who was guiding us through the menagerie of dogs that I was interested in a young, large-breed male. After a couple of hours, she looked me in the eye and kindly mentioned that a smaller, slightly older dog may be a better choice for me. I realized she and I were probably similar in age as she shared her stories of handling dogs. And she was right. I didn’t need a dog who would pull me over or run away from me. It may also be helpful if I had a dog I could lift, if necessary. But we were not exactly finding a dog who sparked joy.
She paused, and said hesitantly, “Well, there is one other dog I can show you . . . she was just brought back.” You’ve got to be kidding me!, I thought. Why did the people who adopted this dog bring her back to the rescue, and more importantly, what is WRONG with this dog?!!
Into the fenced area she walked with a medium-sized female dog who was looking straight ahead as though we were not there. I don’t know what made me do it, but I whistled. Let me qualify that: I whistled the way I whistle, which isn’t really much of a whistle at all but two airy sounds that if you have a good imagination may sound sort of like a whistle. Immediately this dog turned and walked directly to me! I figured it was probably a fluke and once she lost interest and walked away I whistled again and she returned to me as though I had trained her to do exactly that. She also seemed not to mind at all that my husband was sitting there in his wheelchair and unlike some of the other dogs who felt the need to bark at him and avoid the chair, this dog seemed to want to get to know him. The woman begged us not to return her and assured us she was a great dog. What else was she going to say? We decided to give this dog another chance, so we took her home.
Another chance. This idea aligns so precisely with my belief system, that there was no way I could not adopt this dog. Another chance is also what I am usually not given by bad humans, causing me to seek therapy in the companionship of a really good dog.
Fortunately, I have had the pleasure of getting to know a couple of other really good dogs before we adopted this one.
Our first dog, Campagnolo Nuovo Record (we used to ride bicycles when we lived in Colorado), Campy for short, was brought to us by a woman we went to church with who lived in the foothills west of Denver. A dog had been spotted on a sandbar in the Platte River by a guy driving over a bridge. The dog’s back was broken but when the man took the dog to the vet to have him put down, he could not afford the cost and decided to give the dog to our friend who had horses and could nurse him back to health. Broken bones in a dog’s back can apparently fuse together without surgery. Though he was skin and bones, ribs protruding and unable to walk, we allowed her to leave him with us on a dog bed in our laundry room. He would not eat until I crawled to him slowly and then would only eat from my hand. Eventually he would manage to get up and walk out to our postage stamp-sized yard, until he was strong enough for a walk to the park. In time he would be jumping the six-foot fence and taking himself for a walk to the park with the neighbor, and then jumping back into the yard before we returned home at the end of the day. The vet told us excitedly that he was an Irish Wolfhound mix, but he would only be half the size at 65 pounds, as if that was a good thing for a couple living in an inner city neighborhood in a house that was around 950 square feet. Little did we know that wolfhounds do not require a great deal of space for their size and he spent hours living under our “half-acre” coffee table. We wanted to have the responsibility of raising a dog before we tried to raise a child, so Campy became our first son. A couple of years later we decided it was time to have human children.
Though we had to make it clear to Campy that he was not the alpha male, or female, he seemed to understand that he was a valued member of our family. He had a tendency to chew up cords, and totally destroyed our blinds, but once we figured it out, he really did not do that much damage. I would find my slipper on his bed when I returned from work and realized he didn’t want to eat it but just needed a little comfort when he was home alone. Our first son learned to walk by grabbing onto his fur as he growled ever so quietly, walking him around the house, learning that this little human was his to protect as would be the next two little guys who would come along.
We moved briefly to Michigan which was nice and cold for a large, long-haired dog. One day while I was waiting in our car when our oldest was still a baby, Campy sacrificed himself by lunging toward a larger dog, a vicious Rottweiler who had gotten loose and jumped into the hatchback that was open, heading straight toward the baby car seat. The dog’s owner intervened and thankfully all was well. That was the day, however, that Campy made it known that he was willing to do whatever it took to protect us.
When we moved to North Carolina the heat was a difficult adjustment for the dog and for me. He continued to do whatever he could to care for us to the best of his ability. One of my favorite things Campy would do was to sit on my feet, between me and any other person, just to make a point that no one was going to get near me without his approval. He would growl quietly whenever that landlady would show up. He was a great judge of character!
We were told that dogs his size didn’t live long and 10 years would be the limit. But after all of the years of running around the backyard, hiking, camping, and hanging out with our active family, he made it to almost 16. The night before he died he actually tried to walk away from me, which, as I would find out later, is what dogs do because they do not want their family to experience the pain of their death. He would collapse on the kitchen floor, not getting up. I called the vet the next day and we paraded into the vet’s office: two sad parents, three sad little boys, and a very large dying dog in the red wagon. Campy locked eyes with me as he was being given his final shot and died knowing he was loved. We would bury him out back and I would swear that I could hear him barking out in the woods from time to time.
The loss of our dog was so rough that we would end up waiting five years before feeling ready for another dog. I was past ready after two or three years but we were so busy with life and had so little funds left over, we kept putting it off. Finally one birthday I said, a dog is what I wanted so we went to the pound. I had never been to one before and had no idea how bad of shape many of the dogs were in. We took one dog out in the yard and he immediately tried to dig a hole and escape through the fence. The next dog looked like he was in shock and barely moved. I started to feel like this was all a bad idea when a dog who was being jumped on by a puppy (the puppy was literally jumping on his head!) kept staring quietly at me from his cage until we asked if we could take him out. He immediately went on his back, looking up at us as if to ask if we could go home now. He had run away from his home apparently, which in time would make perfect sense to us, and had only been at the pound a week so he was not yet too crazy. He seemed like a keeper, so we named him Keeper, also representing all the soccer that was going on with all three of our sons. We were not sure of his breeding since about half the dogs at the pound seemed to be identified as some kind of shepherd mix. Someone told us he looked exactly like a Catahoula Leopard Dog but we are not from Louisiana and have no idea.
Keeper would accompany us pretty much everywhere. He was a rowdy little boy like the rest of the rowdy boys in the household so he fit in perfectly. He tore the zipper out of every “indestructible” dog bed invented, so we eventually gave him a $10 thrift store chair to sleep in. He ran many miles, hiked many more, and would try to get away with running into the woods behind our home, hoping we wouldn’t see him. I would send the boys to go find him and would sometimes see my oldest son carrying him down the road to make sure he actually returned home. The last time I went looking for him I ended up in the hospital for three days with a severe allergic reaction to the poison ivy out there. He became blind, and deaf, and started walking so slowly I knew he was heading toward the rainbow bridge. Fifteen years suddenly seemed too short of a time to be with this faithful, loving animal. What seemed like a seizure or a stroke alerted me to the fact that he was done with this life and we had a man we knew from church go with me to the vet. There we were taken to a room dedicated to the final moments of a dog’s life with a fountain, background music, dim lighting and a jar of chocolates with a note that said, “Don’t let your dog leave this world without the taste of chocolate.” Keeper was already unresponsive when I unwrapped the Hersey kiss and put it under his nose. Surprisingly, he rallied and lifted his head as I placed it in his mouth. Looking pleased yet confused, since we would never give a dog chocolate because it is not good for them, he enjoyed his last morsel and went into eternal rest as the shot was given. The man was kind enough to bury Keeper next to Campy as we all cried. Being loved by a dog is one of life’s greatest gifts.
Seven months after the departure of Keeper, I would find myself longing for a dog again and with the “freedom” I was now given since I no longer had a job, even though it would take me months to actually feel free, I knew it was time to move forward. My mental and physical health were in need of the therapy only a dog can give.
We tried to come up with a name that represented us like our other dogs. Campy meant cycling; Keeper, soccer. The boys have become men and the one thing they all do is run. Hoka is their shoe of choice, so Hoka became her name. The word, Hoka, means to fly which is kind of what it looks like when Hoka sees a squirrel and leaps over our make-shift piece of plywood gate on our deck. Not sure what she would actually do if she ever caught a squirrel, but stalking them seems to be one of her favorite past-times. Unlike our other pups, she has not headed toward the woods but instead comes back home where the treats are kept.
We also have a routine down in which we go out first thing in the morning while the coffee is being made, I feed her, and then she “flies” onto the bed where my husband is waiting to get up and greet the day. She gives him his own therapy by snuggling with him a few minutes and then waits for us in the front room where she brings him her buffalo. She patiently waits to walk with me either around the block or at the park. She seems to be as attentive to our needs as we try to be to hers. A caregiver for a caregiver.
Hoka was born at the beginning of Covid in 2020 so we have wondered if someone wanted a dog while working at home but then had to go back to work thus abandoning the puppy to the pound. Whatever the reason, she was rescued from the pound which may have meant that she was about to be euthanized, and given a second chance for life at the dog rescue. At some point she broke her hip which required surgery, but dogs can form a new muscle and not need a hip replacement like people do, according to the vet. After she recovered, she was adopted. At some point she was brought back. And then we met her, I whistled, and she is now a part of our family. We estimate she has probably had at least four names before we named her but she is learning to come when we call. Not only has she recovered completely but can walk up to five miles, two or three on most days, which is increasing her strength as well as my own. And we are both losing weight (not sure about her, but I definitely am!) and becoming healthier!
She is a flat-coated retriever mix and actually retrieves things, a skill our other dogs were not that interested in. Though she doesn’t bark, she has barked a couple of times at the dog across the street so she CAN bark but apparently chooses not to. She actually has growled, too, mainly at our son’s puppy when the pup was being particularly puppy-like. She may have just been wanting to assert her dominance as the big sister. They spent the rest of the time stealing each other’s toys.
As she grows in the confidence that we have no plans of ever taking her back, she twirls when it is time for her to eat and jumps up and down excitedly, and sometimes runs around the house to demonstrate her joy when she sees me wearing my boots and hat which I only wear on the longer walks, usually on the paths through the woods at the park. Though we never allowed our other dogs on the furniture, because they would have eaten them, we are now permissive parents (more like grandparents, really), letting her on pretty much everything and she has not clawed or chewed anything, except her favorite little buffalo that my son bought her. She quietly maneuvers her way around the house waiting for the next chance to go outside. She greets everyone by sitting patiently while they pet her, except for one of our neighbors who she is particularly fond of and allows him to rub her belly.
If she even walks down the hallway at night, I never hear her. I find her on one of the couches or her dog bed in the morning, eager to start another day with more eating and walking, two of my favorite things as well. I found out that dogs her breed are actually trained to be therapy dogs and I was in no way surprised. She was exactly the dog I needed and she chose me!
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I went to the seashore
I went to the seashore to be with the Lord.
I knew I would find him there.
I wanted to hear his voice.
I heard him in the rhythm of the crashing waves, foaming and splashing onto the warm sand, leaving behind a multitude of shells. His voice was carried on the sea breeze that guides the birds in formation, as they take turns diving for food along the shore, their graceful flight pattern flowing on the tails of the wispy clouds, in the bright blue sky of a sunny day.
Diving down, being lifted up, plunging into the refreshing water, setting sun, rising moon
Splashing, roaring and foaming waves, bringing the tide in and washing it back out
I went to the seashore to be with the Lord.
I knew I would find him there.
I wanted to find rest from the cares of the world.
Instead, I heard the whispering of friends and the hushed giggles of children, the storytelling of a mother and instructions from a father. I heard dishes clattering and pots boiling, fish sizzling in the pan. Car horns honking, radios blaring, repairs being made, neighbors calling out as their dogs barked, laughter and crying adding dimension to this vast crescendo of noise.
Hammering and honking, sizzling and boiling–dinner is almost ready
Giggling and yelling, blaring an intoxicating beat . . . as the music of life plays on
I went to the seashore to be with the Lord.
I knew I would find him there.
I wanted to know how to glorify him.
I sing songs of sweetest praise, but he keeps playing a more dissonant tune. I wonder what to wear, and he clothes me with righteousness. I wait on the Spirit, looking at life through stained glass. He gives me a vision and leads me out of the pew into his less than perfect world, stained with the tears of his broken-hearted, beloved children, all trying to hear his voice while discovering their own.
Amazing grace, hungry and thirsty, walking through the valley of the shadow, softly and tenderly
Shining this little light, on my knees, crying out with hands upraised, seeking the hope of a savior
The cacophony of sound startling my sensibilities is exactly the rhythm he intends to make—a rhythm that harmonizes with all of life. I am swept into a musical composition that is not of my choosing. How can I sing along when I do not know the words? This is not a song of solitude and quiet—a retreat from the loudness and busyness of the world. This is not my song!
But it is mine, says the Lord. My song of creation: deafening, discordant, beautiful, chaotic, hypnotic music creatively performed by all who will join in. Like a free-form improvisation that ebbs and flows without boundaries, this song of God emerges—its continuing melody perceived by those who have ears to hear. A tune so primal we know it in our hearts when we yield to its resonance and begin to understand that it is not a solo. It is an orchestral arrangement, an opera, a musical, a sing-along; a throw down jam session, masterfully written with a part for each one of us.
I went to the seashore to be with the Lord.
I knew I would find him there.
(Ears to Hear, @maryellenshores, August 5, 2013)
I did not grow up at the beach, and certainly not the beach I have visited in the last 20+ years where the Atlantic Ocean washes up onto the Outer Banks of North Carolina. I grew up fifteen miles from Lake Michigan where I would go every chance I could, in all kinds of weather. The sand there is lighter in color and the crystals are finer than the coarse sand at the ocean beaches. There are no shells and no salt, though sometimes there are stones on the beaches further north. The water is clear and cold, except for a few weeks in August when I would swim out to the buoys marking the swimming area at my favorite beach with my sisters and father, and I would hope that my legs would not cramp before I could swim back and enjoy the picnic my mother had prepared.
Though the wind I grew up with on a dairy farm was fresh, except for the days when the barn was being cleaned and the smell of manure permeated the air, the wind at the Lake always seemed fresher. Maybe because it was colder or there were no trees to filter through. It was not just the wind, but also the sound of the wind with the waves. The breeze that gave my soul comfort when I went to the lakeshore seeking healing after my aunt died. The wind that roared against my ears to remind me there were things more powerful than whatever problem I faced. The quiet at sunset when the breeze died down, the bonfire was lit, and silence spoke the words we needed to hear.
When I left my home in Michigan and eventually relocated to Colorado, I found peace in the wind coming off the mountains, especially while walking along a creek bed or near water rushing to lower elevations. Water and wind have always been together in my best experiences. I could add to that the sounds that accompany each for a natural trinity that has breathed upon me throughout my life, allowing me to sense God alongside me wherever I have gone. I have never been alone.
Later when I moved to North Carolina with my husband and our first son, I missed my windy lakeshore, and even the mountain winds I had grown to love in Colorado, until I found myself on the Outer Banks breathing in and out the glory of God at a much warmer temperature. I discovered sand crabs, sea birds and sea turtles, and tiny creatures that burrow in the sand as the tide goes out. I would fall asleep and actually dream under a beach tarp while my sons built sand castles after my husband read books out loud to them on our camping vacations, when we set our tents as far up into the campsite as we could, so we could see the water and feel the breeze. At dark we would move our chairs to the top of the bluffs so we could take in the vastness of the stars, a random satellite, and even the Milky Way.
The same wind that brought joy could turn destructive during a storm. Tents were ripped; supplies became water-logged. The beauty and danger of nature, life and death; so many things would allow for reflection at the beach. When I wrote Ears to Hear about ten years ago, I remember wanting to find only peace and rest, and then realizing that all of life somehow followed me to the seashore. We always end up together–God’s children–all seeking Him in our own ways, and not forsaking the fellowship. I breathe in God’s grace and mercy and breathe out my deepest fears and sorrows. All is made right. At least for a little while.
Four or so years ago we would camp for the final time at our favorite campground in the bluffs by the ocean. We would struggle to set up our campsite, and knew this part of our lives was coming to an end. Friends would give us the keys to their beach homes on occasion and we would happily make the trip to the coast of North Carolina, but I longed to visit the Banks again. A couple of years ago, we did so briefly when our youngest son did a 62-mile run down that narrow strip of land, but I longed to experience life on the barrier islands once again.
There have been times when I wonder if I could just bring my pain and sorrow as an offering at the seashore, and the Spirit of God would breathe upon us the strength we need to deal with the adversity of my husband’s ALS, as he has now outlived the estimated life span. I would like to think the wind and waves could carry out to sea all of the sadness and loss that has come to us in the last five years, in exchange for peace that surpasses understanding. I am, however, grateful for each momentary reprieve.
Bare feet in warm sand, sun shining down, birds diving for fish, dolphins, clouds, waves and wind, the tide coming in and going out–the Banks were beckoning. Search for a wheelchair accessible house, finding dates that would work for us and all of our out-of-state grown sons, locating a beach wheelchair, and all of the rest of the details eventually worked themselves out. Two planes, one car, and a lift van traveled east.
Then, three weeks ago, we found ourselves together on the Outer Banks once more!
We will never really understand anything fully, except that breathing in God’s grace and mercy and breathing out everything else is what we will do until we are with Him on what I hope is our own eternal beach. A place where we will feel the wind on our new bodies without disability or sunburn. And take naps on the sand.
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high heels or Birkenstocks
SPOILER ALERT: I will be referencing the Barbie movie in this blog. If you want to see it first, it is showing everywhere. I’ll be here when you get back.
I never had a Barbie doll. I’m not sure I ever wanted one. I don’t think I cared that much for baby dolls either. I had two younger sisters to play with and that was enough. I did end up with a Dawn doll though, a 6 and a half inch beauty with her own carrying case filled with tiny clothing for all occasions on tiny hangers, and her own blue convertible to drive around the kitchen and down the hallway. I don’t think it was her clothing that enticed me as much as its miniature quality. I would be inspired to create tiny shoebox dollhouses out of found objects like match boxes for beds and sew scraps of cloth into tiny curtains, bedspreads, and pillows, but I don’t remember having dolls tiny enough to inhabit them. I was more interested in books than in dolls though I really did like paper dolls.
As a child of the ’60s and ’70s, I was becoming aware that girls were being given more options than my mother had been offered. She said she could become a nurse, a teacher, or a mommy. At the age of 10, I decided I wanted to be a writer and travel the world. In eighth grade I co-edited the class newsletter and in high school co-edited the student newspaper, unaware that in the real world editorial positions were mostly held by men. I chose to major in journalism in college. It was there that I would begin to experience what it was like to be a female entering into this profession.
Broadcast journalism was not the direction in which I wanted to go, even though Barbara Walters was one of my primary role models, but I was required to take it for my major. We were going to do radio journalism and be sports reporters that day. The professor needed a couple of students to do this report. He chose me. A male student immediately raised his hand and protested this travesty saying, “A girl can’t do the sports report!” The professor told me I had a good voice for broadcast, maybe because it was lower and more like a male voice, and he said it was ok for me to take that part. Women as sports reporters. Who knew such a thing was possible?
As I grew up, Barbie became a reference for a girl who was not all that smart. “Don’t be a Barbie!” was the same as saying, “Don’t be so stupid!” Young women who seemed to care more about their mascara than their grades could be referred to as Barbies. Of course when I was first allowed to wear make-up, probably not until I was 16, which was also the age I got my ears pierced, I was excited, too. And it is ok to be excited about the way one looks but if that is all you are excited about, well, Barbie.
Maybe deep down I wanted to possess some of Barbie’s glamour, but being a redhead often made me feel like I never would. I was the only redhead in my family so there were all of the is-the-mailman-your-daddy jokes. No, the mailman was my uncle. Really. Then there were all of those not very imaginative names given to those with red hair: carrot top, rooster, fire head, brick head. Other attributes were assigned that described a redhead as having a fiery temper and generally difficult to get along with, but if you are being called names all of the time, why wouldn’t you want to fight back? Along with the names and ridicule came the pale white skin and freckles. Coppertone came out with a sunscreen for fair skin that went all the way up to 8 SPF. I could get seriously sunburned in minutes. By age 12, I was also wearing glasses and became “four eyes” and then “four-eyed carrot top,”–you get the idea. Maybe if the original Barbie was a redhead I would have liked her better. I think she ended up with a friend named Midge who had red hair. I would have to wait years for the red-haired Disney princesses. When I had chicken pox as a child, before there was a vaccine, I was given an ugly troll doll because it had red hair, I was told. Is it any wonder I did not care much for dolls?
Going off to college gave me new opportunities to figure out who I was. I had gotten contact lenses that I could not wear when I was reading, so I barely wore them at all. Pretty much only when I went out on dates. Of course I was not considering going out on a lot of them since I only had one boyfriend in high school and his glasses were thicker than mine. But much to my amazement, suddenly guys were lining up to take me out. Once. And then we all realized that though my hair was red, it did not mean what they thought it meant. I was a nice girl who just happened to have red hair. A smart girl who has every recessive trait known to mankind.
Entering the work world had its own challenges. It would take years for me to realize what was happening, at times, could now be considered sexual harassment, though in the ’80s it was just the way men treated women. A woman had to make sure her blouse was not cut too low or her skirt up too high. She wanted to be attractive without leading some poor guy astray. Though she put thought into what she was wearing, she did not want to be a Barbie. She wanted to be taken seriously but she knew she had to smile. But not too much of a smile so as to give the wrong idea.
All of these thoughts came to my mind when the Barbie movie was introduced. At first I thought perhaps it was like Toy Story and would be fun, but then I couldn’t remember there ever being anything Barbie was known for except her tiny high heeled shoes, painted on make-up and blonde hair. There would be other Barbies, many Barbies, that I didn’t know anything about because they came into existence later, after I had entered adulthood. And once I actually became a mommy, I did not have any daughters. I had three sons and I don’t remember any dolls, except for the tiny army men and the Buzz Lightyear my middle son greeted with great joy one Christmas. (Toy Story had done such a number on me that when I discovered Buzz years later sitting on a shelf, I could not bear to pack him into a box. He may still be sitting on that shelf.)
I became aware that even women my age were wearing pink and going to see the Barbie movie. I was not allowed to wear pink as a young girl as my mother thought that red and pink and probably orange would all clash terribly with my natural hair color. Red is now my favorite color and I do wear pink on occasion, and even orange rarely, but I could not bring myself to do so for this movie. I was not sure I was celebrating Barbie. I could just be going to mock her.
I cannot remember the last time I went to see a movie by myself, in the middle of the day, with the hope of not seeing anyone I knew, but I wanted to comment on my own experiences growing up with and without Barbie and decided I could not do so without doing my own research. As an aside, I became more interested in seeing the movie when I realized that Greta Gerwig was the screenwriter and director. I had only known about her in some independent movies in which she was featured and though I can’t completely put my finger on it, I am attracted to her unique presence. I also like the way she talks. I wondered if there could be more to this movie than I had thought.
Getting a cup of coffee at a Starbucks so I could use a gift card, I anticipated a nearly empty theatre, as I ended up spilling coffee on my light blue top and walked in hoping no one would notice. I was wearing the worn olive green pants I used to hike in and my favorite pair of sandals. I realized the only resemblance to a Barbie would be my lipstick which I always wear because it keeps my lips from getting chapped and even as a woman of a certain age, I still want to be presentable. (I find it interesting that women are always described in part by what they are wearing just because they are women, and I just did that same thing to myself!)
There were about five women in the theatre when I entered: grandmas and granddaughters, and about 25 by the time the movie started. I prepared myself to watch something really dumb: Barbie and Ken. I have never thought much about Ken. I didn’t know of any little boys who even had a Ken doll. If a boy had a doll it was G. I. Joe, who always seemed to be a better match for Barbie anyway. Opposites attract. Ken at best seemed more like a girlfriend and at worst, an accessory. I could not really speak to any of it since I never had the dream house or any of what comprised Barbieland, the perfect pink, plastic place.
I knew there would be references to the beginning of Barbie’s creation so I came prepared. I had watched the documentary, “Tiny Shoulders: Rethinking Barbie” which came out in 2018, screenplay by Andrea Blaugrund Nevins, and is streaming on Hulu. If you have any interest in the history of this doll, I highly recommend watching this. It actually brings slightly more clarity to the movie, especially when Barbie meets an old woman in a back room and you know immediately it is the inventor who named the doll after her daughter, Barbara.
By the time Barbie was leaving Barbieland for the real world, I started to see what I believe was Greta’s vision. There was Barbieland, a world ruled by women, and the real world which inspired Ken’s short-lived patriarchy, a place in which women still have to work hard to achieve their goals. But we’ve come so far. Right?
For the last couple of years or so I had been leading an organization. In the last year, a man on the board of directors said he needed to “tweak” how I was doing my job, referring specifically to the way in which I communicated, offering to give me form letters to use to better express myself. I was dumbfounded! Which is a word I’m sure he would never recommend that I use. He actually had the nerve to say, “You should smile more.” Smile and look pretty. Would anyone ever say this to a man?!! May as well comment on what he is wearing, too! I could not believe I had lived all of this time through the ’70s in which women were just starting to make their way into their chosen professions, and through the ’80s in which standards for proper conduct had yet to be established, to hear something like this spoken to me again. Though I had redirected my attention from my career (though I did become a features reporter for a newspaper that died many years ago) to helping my husband raise our sons who were all born in the ’90s, and motherhood had me choosing part-time positions for years that worked best for our family, had I not earned the right to be who I am? Was I not already smiling enough even when I didn’t feel like it just because I knew it was the right thing to do?
Then in the midst of “Stereotypic Barbie” and Ken’s masculine awakening, sort of, there came a monologue that is pure gold:
“It is literally impossible to be a woman. You are so beautiful, and so smart, and it kills me that you don’t think you’re good enough. Like, we have to always be extraordinary, but somehow we’re always doing it wrong.
You have to be thin, but not too thin. And you can never say you want to be thin. You have to say you want to be healthy, but also you have to be thin. You have to have money, but you can’t ask for money because that’s crass. You have to be a boss, but you can’t be mean. You have to lead, but you can’t squash other people’s ideas. You’re supposed to love being a mother, but don’t talk about your kids all the damn time. You have to be a career woman, but also always be looking out for other people. You have to answer for men’s bad behavior, which is insane, but if you point that out, you’re accused of complaining. You’re supposed to stay pretty for men, but not so pretty that you tempt them too much or that you threaten other women because you’re supposed to be a part of the sisterhood. But always stand out and always be grateful. But never forget that the system is rigged. So find a way to acknowledge that but also always be grateful. You have to never get old, never be rude, never show off, never be selfish, never fall down, never fail, never show fear, never get out of line. It’s too hard! It’s too contradictory and nobody gives you a medal or says thank you! And it turns out in fact that not only are you doing everything wrong, but also everything is your fault.
I’m just so tired of watching myself and every single other woman tie herself into knots so that people will like us. And if all of that is also true for a doll just representing women, then I don’t even know.”
~ America Ferrera as Gloria in “Barbie,” written by Greta Gerwig and Noah Baumbach
When Barbie was given the choice between the high heeled shoe and the Birkenstock sandal, I sensed a collective sigh, as if everyone were hoping she would not pick the “ugly shoe.” Whatever choices Barbie needed to make, I knew I had made the right ones. And I smiled.
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note to self
In the beginning there is a question. And the question becomes an idea to be tacked up on the wall like a paint sample so you can stand back and decide whether it is the right color for your decor. And the idea becomes an invitation that dares you to consider the what ifs, slyly convincing you to ignore what is probably true and enticing you to take the flying leap against your better judgement.
On day one of your new job you know you should not have done this. What is the worst that can happen? you ask yourself. This. No orientation, no welcome, not even a computer has yet been secured for your desk. You fear you may have been set up for failure. You have wandered into a place you have been warned to never come by other well-meaning people who have survived, but just. You put that all aside. It is a pandemic, and this is why it is rough, you tell yourself. Once we take off our masks, all will be made right. And some things do seem to level off a bit. You learn as much as you can from a book that is three inches thick citing references to regulations, and you carry on. Some never take off their masks. Every day is another day to get used to not being seen as the one in charge, but the one who has the title. Six months in you realize it is too late to turn back. You are on a journey with meager rations and not sure when more resources will appear. You feel alone most of the time. Not having another path to walk you just keep marching.
You are told in your first review that you may keep this position as long as you wish. This seems to indicate you are doing something right. And yet, you daydream you are anywhere but here. You miss the academic schedule to which you had grown accustomed and long for the time you used to have that was reserved for rest. This is a service industry, you are told, and therefore must stay open no matter what. Vacation days accumulate because you can’t take them. Weariness surrounds you like a warm sweater lulling you to sleep, so you drink more coffee. Sleeping is something you used to do before stress becomes your constant companion and keeps you from ever really going there. As soon as you turn on your phone each morning the notifications from all those calling out wake you. Whatever the schedule had been, it will be changed by the hour. In spite of being told off, handling more call outs throughout the day, and whatever else is thrown at you, the eight hours wear on as you long for them to end. But they never really do end. They just transform into conversation at home, as you attempt to unload a burden that is too heavy for you to carry.
The first time you are interrogated because of an accusation made about one of your employees you feel like a criminal. You watch a video over and over pointing out how the alleged crime did not happen and listen to an investigator give a play-by-play of how it did. Unannounced visits occur more frequently and you begin to feel like a prisoner awaiting parole. What must I do to be saved? you wonder.
Yet you do what you can. You get workdays approved so meetings and training can occur for the improvement of all. You want to create an atmosphere of openness, a team spirit in which all work for common goals that may reduce the 100 percent turnover rate. You work to create the kind of place where the needs of children and parents are met, a home away from home that is safe and filled with kindness and love. Policies are updated, technology is implemented, hope for the future is right around the corner.
And then there is that night with a phone call that you never got, an emergency medical plan that wasn’t followed, and an incident report that was never written. And the floodgates open wide to release the pent-up rage from those you were trying to lead but knew in your heart they were willing to give you up. You find out a protest is being planned for that specific purpose. You hold meetings and try to get to the bottom of rumors, lies, and innuendos but ultimately to no avail. New employees are immediately recruited to join the group who are smiling to your face and stabbing you in the back.
Then one day as you are not quite altogether healed from a bout of pink eye, you find yourself being given a choice, that is really no choice at all. You knew in your heart you were never really safe there, which is why you were so vigilant each day, waiting for the other shoe to drop. A narrative would be told about you without giving you a chance to defend yourself, and people who you thought knew you would be convinced that the stories told by someone who wanted you out must be true. And then you are cast into outer darkness without a word or even a look. It doesn’t feel like the way you imagined freedom; it is a different sort of imprisonment. You’ve moved from your office cell to an ankle bracelet in your home.
Time does not heal all wounds. Time passes; wounds remain. Healing begins to raise itself up from the depths when truth is revealed. It is then and only then that you start to find your breath. And for the very first time in two and a half years, you begin to look around and are able to see the world as it is and not as it was presenting itself in the midst of eternal chaos. You try to identify lessons learned but they are yet elusive. You know you should have fired some people but this decision was always weighed against the short-staffed condition and the need to remain open. You were lied to so frequently your discernment went on hold. You had been walking around with tread marks across your face from being thrown under the bus so many times you had grown used to it and only noticed more gray hair when you saw your reflection in the mirror. Your fears had come true. You have become invisible; your voice has grown silent. You want to sleep and awaken all at the same time. You no longer know who you are.
You will go on. You will not want to trust again but in time you will. You always do. You will be tempted to be vindictive, but you will instead be kind. You are more than what has been said about you. You will overcome. You are not alone. You are protected and the lies cannot penetrate that which surrounds you and is in you. You are fragile yet your strength surprises even you.
You are told, “I’m sorry it happened the way that it did,” but what you need to hear is, “I’m sorry it happened.”
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my trip to the hospital
My last Facebook post featured light-heartedly a photo of Poison Ivy played by Uma Thurman in the 1997 movie, Batman and Robin, as I shared that not only did I have what I thought was poison ivy that started as a patch on my leg, but it had taken on a life of its own transforming into a painful, itchy rash all over my body. And though I received many helpful responses from caring people who have used a variety of products that have worked to reduce the itching and swelling for them, I should have been more forthcoming in my request for prayers, as my condition had already moved beyond the point in which any of the help offered would truly do much good. I had no idea how my adventure was going to unfold or that I would find myself falling into the rabbit hole of medical intervention. This is my story of how I came back out.
NOTE: Before I go into more details about this experience than perhaps you would like to know, (feel free to skip over the parts that do not interest you) I offer this statement: This is not a review of local hospitals or even a general statement about the quality of medical care I received. As in all walks of life, some are better at their jobs than others. What I experienced was a wide range of care and I am truly grateful for all everyone did to get me back into the comfort of my home with my husband and my dog. I hope you will read this in that light and not spend time trying to figure out where exactly I was or where you should go if you have need of medical assistance if you live where I do. I am only one person with one opinion. This is my story.
Saturday, August 29, 2020, I got up after another sleepless night of itching a rash that was getting considerably worse and decided I needed to return to the urgent care center near my house since their parting words to me when I was there two days earlier was if it did not get better with the prescribed prednisone, to please come back for reevaluation.
As I unwrapped the gauze-covered wounds that continued to seep all over everywhere, refusing to respond to the current treatment, the doctor did not conceal that look. You know the one that I’m talking about. The look that says all is not well regardless of how good your imagination is. She had someone check into the waiting time at local emergency rooms and said if I went immediately, I could be seen relatively soon. Hesitating briefly, I thought about returning home first. I had only had one cup of coffee and no breakfast. Pushing those needs aside, I kept driving.
I was surprised to see an almost empty ER. Quite a different scenario than the one embedded in my memory from years ago in which I held my crying son as his almost amputated toe hung by its skin and everyone involved in the accident was showing a lot of emotion. Except for me. I was in full-out mama-mode and may have even been humming to my boy. I most likely was in shock but no one had seemed to notice in a crowded room filled to the brim with needs.
But Saturday was different. I was by myself, in line behind a woman with a bloody bandage who was explaining how she became wounded when the chainsaw guard did not guard her hand from being gouged. She had not lost any fingers, she said, but there was quite a bit of blood. She seemed quite coherent and I was proud of her for having the nerve to learn how to use the chainsaw to begin with, even though it unfortunately did not work the way intended.
After being walked back to a room, I was asked to put on a hospital gown and lie down on a bed. The rash continued to spread unabated. It would not be threatened by those eager to assist in my recovery. A nurse with compassionate eyes and a great sense of humor took over. She said she would tell me the truth no matter what and I immediately developed an affinity for her. When I asked if I could have my thyroid medication she said she understood how easy I thought that was going to be. I think someone examined my pill box and identified the pill before allowing me to swallow it. I am so programmed to do my daily regimen that even in the midst of this out-of-control rash, I knew that I needed to maintain myself as best as I could.
I am unclear about how many medical personnel were in and out of that room. I remember being asked over and over if I had recently taken any new medications, eaten something different, gone somewhere new or in any way changed my daily routine in which I had come into contact with this thing that had become a rash, now ravaging my body. Was it in my mouth? In my eyes? Affecting my breathing? How far was it going to go? How much danger was I going to be in?
All I could come up with was that one day, I think it was the Monday before, I had come home from work to hear my husband say that the dog had decided to take himself for a walk. What that means is that he got away from my husband and ran into the woods behind our house. My husband used to be able to walk back there, on the path beside the creek, and I figured I would do the same. I didn’t realize until I got there that the path is now overgrown. There really isn’t a path anymore. So I walked through knee-high overgrowth calling for our naughty old pup. The dog probably would have made his way home eventually but now that he is 13, somewhat deaf and blind, I didn’t want to take the chance. Before long he came running out. Lost dog: found.
The next day I noticed red bumps on my left leg and figured they were mosquito bites, possibly a spider bite, or most likely some poison ivy I must have brushed up against. By Wednesday I happened to look down to see yellow sacks of unpleasantness forming before draining uncontrollably into my Birkenstock. Since I was at the school where I work, I sent a photo to the school nurse who seemed to think I was experiencing an allergic reaction to poison ivy, reminding me that she was not a doctor and did not have the ability to give me a diagnosis. I asked one of the security officers at the front desk of the school to find some bandages so I could cover over this multitude of whatever it was running down my leg to divert the attention of the 3 and 4-year-old children under my care.
By Thursday morning it was apparent to me that I should not go into work. I would have to face the fact: I needed medical attention. I had never taken a sick day while at this job but I had no other recourse. The clinic near my house was the obvious choice since getting an appointment anywhere else would have most likely put me on a long list and I did not have the luxury of time. I could not imagine going directly to the hospital since that sort of behavior is what people without insurance are forced to do, ending up with breath-taking medical bills afterward. I did not want to put myself into that category since I did not have to.
But here I was in the ER, trying to figure out, along with all of the medical personnel, what was happening to my skin!
After about seven hours I overheard a conversation about the possibility of admitting me to the hospital. I was concerned that this was a bigger problem than I had imagined. I then heard talk of sending me to a burn unit since a burned person is precisely what I was beginning to look like. Dermatology was another word that kept coming into the conversation. And just as I thought they would be taking me upstairs to a room, I was told that the team was on their way to transport me to another local hospital about 30 minutes away. By ambulance. While an IV containing pain medication was trying to give me some comfort.
I would not find out until much later that apparently I don’t respond to most pain medications. Or more correctly, I respond, but not in the intended way. Benadryl either has no effect or makes me hyper instead of relaxed. The Percocet given made no difference. By the time I was being placed into the ambulance I was being given Fentanyl and asked if my pain level which I said was at least an 8 out of 10 had subsided. It had not. So they gave me more and asked again. I wanted to say it had helped. They were such nice men. I asked if I could give it a 7 and a half. No. Nothing was touching the pain.
By the time I was wheeled into a hospital room, the urgency of the ER had transitioned into a slower pace of setting me up in my new temporary home where I needed to order dinner and familiarize myself with the nurse call button and how to position my bed. I was suddenly “on vacation,” the kind I would never have chosen.
I’m not sure exactly when it happened, since the drugs in my system were having some sort of effect even if it was not in reducing the painful itching, but a doctor came into my room to ask me what are referred to as the advance directive questions. He asked if I were in need of life-saving measures in order to restart my heart or be put on a ventilator in order to keep me alive–would I be interested?
My response: “I’m reading Being Mortal.”
He looked at me in a way that acknowledged that he, too, is familiar with a book written by Dr. Atul Gawande with a subtitle: Medicine and What Matters in the End. I don’t think I said out loud that I was reading this book in reference to my husband’s end of life considerations due to his ALS diagnosis, and that this has nothing to do with me. I’m not the one dying. Right? I think I mumbled something to the effect of: “Sure, save me.” It would not even occur to me until much later that my life could have ended, my husband would have had to write an obituary he said I would never be completely satisfied with, and he would have to put the house on the market and find assisted living to go on for as many days as he may have left.
According to hospital policy, one admitted to the hospital must surrender all prescription medications in one’s possession. This is what I imagine it must be like for someone being arrested. I volunteered that I had a small pill box in my purse that contains my thyroid medication. How I regretted being so upfront about it as I am fairly certain no one would have done a search. I would be told that their pharmacy has Synthroid and that I would be given the amount per my prescription.
Ok, if you have known me for very long, or if we have ever had the “thyroid medication” conversation, you know that hearing I would be given Synthroid in no way put my mind at ease since Synthroid was the first thyroid drug I would be introduced to in my nearly 17-year hypothyroidism journey, and though it was given to me in varying strengths, would never prove to be effective for my condition in any possible way. (As an aside, by the time I was tested for hypothyroidism, a genetic gift from my parents, my thyroid stimulating hormone or TSH was at an 11. It is supposed to be at a 1 for optimal health. What I would discover on my journey is that there is discrepancy in what is considered optimal and what is considered “good enough.”)
I told the nurse that I took a natural hormone for my thyroid condition. She said Armour was available. Not to be a difficult patient, I told her I have not been able to take Armour ever since it was taken off the market and reformulated with a filler I am allergic to and causes me to become ill. She said if someone could come to the hospital with my actual prescription bottle, I could be given my own prescription. I told her that was not an easy request. She must have noticed my wedding ring as she said the way a frustrated mother would scold a young child, “Why can’t your husband just bring it?”
I responded, “Because my husband cannot drive all the way over here. He has ALS.”
“Well what about his caregiver? Maybe that person can bring it,” she said as her tone became more of a teacher about to send some wayward kid to the principal’s office.
“I am his caregiver.”
Perhaps this nurse was overworked and underpaid. She could have been at the brink of exhaustion. Or maybe she had spent time working with juvenile delinquents or even hardened criminals. Maybe she missed her calling altogether. Maybe she lost sight of the patient before her: the barely 59-year-old woman with her skin falling off who was having a difficult time managing the pain and was telling her the truth. Instead she scoffed at me and I wondered out of all of the lies I could have ever told, why I would ever make up the fact that my husband has a progressively debilitating disease that may end his life sooner rather than later and he could not possibly just drive on over with my prescription medications. This was not a “the-dog-ate-my-homework” type of excuse. This is the life I am living.
The other obvious part to the Armour conversation is that in the midst of being asked by the multitude of those helping me what I could possibly be allergic to, I was without a doubt offering up something that actually makes me ill. And yet, that was the medicine doled out to me the next morning. I took it thinking that having the thyroid hormone would outweigh the stomach ache I would have all day. I was wrong. The worst part was that it was by this point Sunday and there was no way my doctor could be contacted, or the pharmacy where I get my prescription, or anyone else.
Except for my husband and my friends who could drive him and who decided to make a mission of mercy and come to the hospital with my prescriptions.
I was not even aware that my husband would be allowed into the hospital during this time of pandemic, but they not only allowed him in but my friend insisted that he needed her help as he now is a fall risk and makes his way slowly by use of a rollator walker, so she was able to accompany him and come in briefly as well. Maybe they thought he was a patient. Maybe God was intervening. For whatever reason, the small plastic bag my husband was carrying was never inspected and the presumed contraband was not confiscated. He brought my thyroid medication and another medication I take at night to my room where I hid it in the bag that contained my clothes in the small closet.
I am a law-abiding citizen and truly respectful of rules, for the most part. But I also knew if I wanted to have a regular constitutional in the morning so that the nurse could check that off her list and not have a stomach ache to add to the pain I was in, I would have to take matters into my own hands. I safely tucked a few thyroid pills into a pocket of my purse. I knew my honesty would prevail and I would eventually give up my prescription bottles. I also hoped that I would be allowed to have my prescriptions as my doctor intends. When I was told that my afternoon dosage was not on my prescription (see the part in which it says Take 1 tablet by mouth TWICE daily) it was promised that I could have it at 9 p.m. I was happy to be able to regulate my metabolism at the appropriate time of day with my secret stash, and not be given something that would also keep me awake at night.
I would be given Benadryl IVs along with some other pain medication that gave a certain amount of relief and allowed me to sleep until the friendly certified nursing assistants would come to take my vital signs and someone else would come about an hour later to try to find a vein that had some potential of rendering another blood sample. At least in my bed I was no longer wearing a face mask like I had in the ER. I had endured a COVID test that had come out negative and for that decided that I was ok as long as I stayed in my bed. Except for the bathroom, I had nowhere to go.
A doctor from the dermatology team came to do a biopsy and talk to me about a possible diagnosis of my condition. There exists a very rare, chronic autoimmune disease that usually affects someone at the age of 60. I don’t know if he said this because I am closing in on that age or if this was a reasonable guess, but as he carved a circle on one arm and punched a small hole that he would stitch up on the other arm, I wondered if I was ever going to recover or if this would become a life sentence. I already have one chronic disease which requires me to take medication every day of my life (twice a day!) and I really did not feel that I needed another.
The biopsy would be analyzed some time on Monday or maybe not until Tuesday. I don’t know what he said after that. I had left home Saturday morning. All I wanted to do was to go back.
Sunday night I slept for the first time in awhile.
Monday I spent watching movies while I ate the food delivered to my room. I was finally given one of my thyroid pills, along with one of my other pills that I don’t take until the evening. I pointed out that I was supposed to have three of those pills, (Take three capsules by mouth at night) but even though it is clear on the prescription bottle, there was nothing clear about what was happening.
The pharmacy department called to consult with me and get a full list of all the substances I take on a daily basis, or at least those I was willing to admit to. This is a problematic question given that within the norms of traditional medicine it does not entirely make sense. Let’s face it, I am a woman of a certain age who wants to make the most of her energy level, have a healthy weight (even though I am always about ten pounds more than my goal at any given time), and avoid hot flashes at all costs. I take a variety of herbal concoctions including pregnenolone, DHEA, a probiotic, something called estrogen control and one of my favorites: ashwagandha.
Ashwa–what? I know. There is always a pause while the person evaluates my status. Is she crazy or just an aging hippie? Whatever, man.
That is my morning regimen in addition to NP Thyroid, a natural hormone for hypothyroidism, a disease that happens when the thyroid gland which regulates metabolism stops functioning. Mine gave up the ghost almost two decades ago.
At night it is magnesium, a couple of multivitamins, vitamin D, progesterone, and melatonin. I know this is more information than you need to know. I only reiterate it here because after a couple of days of being without these live-giving properties that I rely on to be the civilized person I hope to be, I was becoming less able to deal with anything. Forget about the lack of chilled Pinot Grigio, various flavors of White Claw, possibly a craft beer or Guinness, and whatever else I may deem necessary to fully embrace this world in which we live.
A group of dermatologists would consult with me, reversing the prior pre-diagnosis of the dermatologist who had taken the biopsy. It was the happiest moment I had experienced in awhile. Happy, yet confusing. I did not have the autoimmune disease which was amazingly wonderful news. The biopsy supported a diagnosis of an external source creating the allergic reaction. But what was it? No one knows! Poison ivy is a good guess, but not the definitive conclusion. Something happened. I reacted. End of story. Is the moral of the story that I should never walk into the dark scary woods again? Given the information at hand, whatever happened, happened.
As an aside, I do know that I am allergic to MSG, the filler in Armour thyroid, and have the exact opposite reaction to Valium thanks to an unfortunate dental sedation procedure. I know I am somewhat lactose intolerant and that there is an additive in most ice cream that makes me feel pretty sick. I have broken out in a rash from laundry detergents and soaps. I have to use products for sensitive skin, and generally need to have everything unscented and with as few chemicals as possible. I can get sunburned within minutes. I seem to have every recessive trait known to mankind. This is not me trying to be a weirdo. This is just who I am.
By Monday night I could no longer sleep. At all. At midnight I turned on another movie. By 3:30 a.m. I drifted off until maybe 4:30. And that was it. I asked for medication. It had no effect. I waited a couple of hours and asked for more. Still nothing. A nice older woman desperately seeking a vein that had not been blown out said I could ask for more of something. I asked if I could have the prednisone. Nope. That was not scheduled until 9 a.m. I would only have to endure unbearable itching a few more hours.
I was greeted at 6 a.m. by the nurse with my thyroid medication. I didn’t want to take it because it truly serves as my wake-up call and I wasn’t prepared to face the day. It was then that I realized I would not have the opportunity for sleep because another doctor would need to consult with me and decisions would have to be made. I was in no shape to make them, but it didn’t matter. I tried to summon some sort of polite behavior but heard myself speaking in a tone that would be categorized as irritable. I told the doctor that I was getting better and that I needed to leave. Now! By the grace of God alone, she agreed.
Another doctor consulted with me. I told her I had been unable to sleep. All night. She went over to the computer and said it was no surprise. The first medication given was in such a small dosage, there was no hope of it giving me any relief. The second medication was in an equally small, ineffective dose. She pointed out that I was strung out because that is what steroids do to one. They also will make me gain weight. This is not what I needed to hear! But she was kind and had an unpronounceable Indian name and spoke in a British accent, I think, calling me “darling.” I needed to hear someone calling me darling and telling me the truth. I just for the life of me could not understand why there was not a better system for communication between the doctors, the nurses, and the pharmacy. I have thought about writing a letter since that is what I do when I am wondering about something and want to share those curious thoughts with someone in a position to possibly effect change. I don’t know, though, because I have been kind of in and out and not always on my best behavior. It is hard to fully understand and document something when one is unsure of what day it is.
I was told that I could be discharged by noon. It was Tuesday, September 1, 2020.
By one o’clock I was wheeled down unfamiliar corridors. Everything looks different when one only has a view of the ceiling from the stretcher. My husband greeted me outside with the friends who had come to my aid. They were now happily driving me back to my life. Still itchy and somewhat out of it I struggled to sense what was going on. All I cared about was going back to some sort of normalcy.
But though I was managing the itching during the day, it came back full-force once I turned in for bedtime and I could not sleep. And there was no button to push for help. I put whatever I could on the rash to no effect and made my way through another miserable night.
By Wednesday afternoon my prescriptions were ready at Costco and though I had barely seen the light of day for awhile, got myself into my vehicle while wearing a long-sleeved Madras shirt that I used to wear as a bathing suit cover-up and the long gray skirt appropriate for the Muslim part of the African country for which I purchased it a couple of years ago. Driving down the highway I put in Carole King’s Tapestry, my favorite album of all time, and sang along since I know the words to all of the songs that I have been listening to since I was in 7th grade. I was going to be ok. More than that. I am grateful that I was able to get the medical help I needed in a timely fashion, which is more than many can ever hope for.
I stayed up until midnight just so I could take another medication that would help with the itching. It was better but not enough to give me relief. I got more sleep than I had in awhile and though the rash is still very pronounced, the constant tingling is beginning to recede to a bearable level. The large patches of angry, red seeping mess are drying out, flattening, and healing. Soon my pale, freckled skin will be restored and this whole thing will be nothing more than a really bad week.
If I am honest, I have to admit that it is hard for me to draw attention to myself and my needs, especially in light of the very public deterioration of my husband’s health. He posts how many laps he swims at the public swimming pool and is cheered on as a beautiful way of support. We are sent lovely cards and messages to encourage him. Most recently we were sent an article that addresses the latest drug trial in ALS research in hope that something can be done to extend his life. Anything.
So in the midst of all of that, I had need of prayers, too. But I felt more comfortable in my all-too-familiar-wallflower way of not asking for help.
Sometimes a caregiver needs care.
A lot of the time, truthfully.
Thank you for reading and sending me your love.
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before the world changed . . .
Before my youngest son’s spring break was extended a second week, his university classes moved online soon thereafter and he moved back into his bedroom, changing our status from empty-nesters to, well . . . not,
Before schools closed their doors, cancelling all of the extracurricular activities that make school worth living and teachers immediately given training to conduct online education giving “coming to class” an entirely different meaning,
Before we had ever heard of Zoom and previously only associated it with toddlers playing with cars, trucks and tiny airplanes,
Before live streaming a Sunday service became the new way to worship God from the comfort of a living room chair with a cup of coffee, including do-it-yourself communion, remotely encouraging the gathering of all to love and good works,
Before I suddenly found myself with the first real time off in about four years and was extremely pleased to actively engage in a whole lot of nothing for as long as I could get away with it,
Before I wondered if I would get paid and then never felt so grateful to work as a preschool teacher for a small, private school even though I’m also a writer and an artist, and am currently not getting paid for either one of these other endeavors,
Before toilet paper, hand sanitizer, Clorox wipes, paper towels, and tissues would disappear from the shelves, along with large bags of rice, chicken, and sometimes even bread, and we would all wonder why,
Before a stay-at-home order was put into place and we were all encouraged to make the best of it in our homes, though we knew being outside was better for our health so we walked around the block and saw neighbors we hadn’t seen since I was a soccer mom,
Before I started sleeping in, having a leisurely cup of coffee, walking my dog daily three miles, doing yoga for thirty minutes, drinking more coffee, watching movies, reading, sewing, and having dinner made before happy hour begins,
Before COVID-19 became a disease everyone knew about–everyone in the world,
Before my doctor who treats my thyroid disease with natural hormones not prescribed by doctors practicing traditional medicine (even though it has restored my health) sent me the link he recommended of a couple of doctors in Bakersfield, California,
Before YouTube censored the video because it was deemed dangerous for society even though these men went to medical school like the rest of the doctors and may even know something about disease and medicine, and other doctor-related stuff,
Before it became impossible to know which media source to believe and it didn’t really matter because it was too traumatic to watch any news but even if one did subject oneself to the news, the constantly changing nature of it makes one feel kind of crazy,
Before our street was lined with cars one afternoon as teachers and friends of a high school graduate performed a socially distanced graduation ceremony across the street for the benefit of his mother who would die the next week of cancer,
Before wearing a face mask demonstrated how one may align politically,
Before wearing a face mask became mandatory in many public places except Walmart where all bets are off about pretty much everything,
Before no one wanted to hear how a face mask really can fog up one’s glasses, cause shortness of breath and sweating to occur the entire time,
Before questioning the effectiveness of a face mask was no longer tolerated,
Before the hope of a vaccine allowed for a pause in the global conversation,
Before it was pointed out that it may take years, if ever, to produce a vaccine,
Before realizing that some of the postponed events may not ever be a part of our future, like attending the performance of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony at the new performing arts center as my husband’s ALS continues to progressively take his life away,
Before Zoom fatigue became a thing, experienced by introverts and extroverts alike,
Before one was voted off the island–the tribe has spoken–or unfriended by those who have decided only certain opinions are the correct ones, but we are not sure which ones those are,
Before I became aware that some posting on Facebook have been accused of “bearing false witness” while others are not and wondering if it is possible to know the difference,
Before I wondered if those who did not stand up for me when others bore false witness against me will now choose to stand up for those who also deserve justice because it is the right thing to do at work, in church, and everywhere we live and breathe,
Before I was asked by a friend why I had not written anything in awhile–Didn’t I have anything to say?–and realized having too much time on my hands has resulted in less being accomplished even though I really did not have any idea of what to say until now,
Before another incident of police brutality found its way onto “front page news” and we all gasped in collective horror as George Floyd lost his life, adding to an already unacceptably long list of others whose voices were silenced without cause,
Before we were reminded again of the marches we’ve marched, the petitions we’ve signed, the songs we’ve sung, the stances we’ve taken to honor our black brothers and sisters, valuing life as we are all children of God, hoping to one day overcome injustice,
Before peaceful protestors dispersed and then vandals and looters took over our cities,
Before windows were shattered along with the dreams of business owners who were finally going to be allowed to open their buildings after quarantine,
Before plywood would cover over a multitude of sins that artists would embellish, making the ugliness a little less painful,
Before driving through my favorite part of Greensboro would bring me to tears,
Before I wondered if my youngest son will get to enjoy his college years away from home and compete again as a college athlete, if my middle son will be able to pursue his graduate program and eventually his career as a professional musician at a time when resuming playing his trumpet publicly has yet to be figured out, and how my oldest son will change the world once he has completed his graduate program–my two older sons planning to live in New York City to pursue their goals and live out their dreams,
Before I spent the better part of last week and will joyfully continue this week bingeing on The Great British Baking Show in all of its buttery, spongy, hilariously brilliant, God-save-the-queen glory,
Before the world changed, I went on a vacation to Florida to have a family reunion with my parents and sisters, to celebrate my mother’s 80th birthday . . .
and it was lovely.
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why lying is a bad idea and other life lessons
It takes a lot to make me angry. And I don’t mean a bit annoyed or somewhat discouraged. I mean seething. Fighting mad.
Life is filled with unexpected circumstances. We never know if we will be in a fender bender on the way to work or if a tree will fall on our house. Because so many situations are out of our control, on some level we learn to accept this as part of our daily challenges.
Bills come and go and if we’re smart, we set up a budget so that we are prepared to pay them. When one has lived in the same home over a period of years, let’s just say 20, it stands to reason that one’s water bill may remain a constant amount. In fact, when one’s children leave home, it should actually go down.
Imagine with me, if you will, the surprise I encountered when the February water bill had a total amount due of $387.51 when the January bill was only $29.92. Water bills reflect the activity of the month before, indicating that it was life as usual during December when everyone was home but suddenly when my husband and I went back to work in January, leaving only our dog at the house, something went terribly wrong.
We were told the meter had to be replaced in December. Ok, water company, change your meter. We don’t care. We were then alerted that the new meter recorded our January usage at 62,500 instead of the regular 1,900-2,000 gallons of monthly water usage. Wait a minute.
We did our own meter test and called it in. As if they were going to take our word for it. Right.
So this is when I called the water company and had a lovely chat with a customer service representative who said she would need to speak with her supervisor since something was way off with the amount of water the meter read. She got back on the phone, said she had reviewed the history of our water usage and her supervisor said he needed to go to corporate with this issue and she put our account on hold for 30 days. She then did the absolute worst thing anyone can ever do: SHE GAVE ME HOPE THAT THIS ISSUE WOULD MOST LIKELY BE RESOLVED.
Though we have not reached the 30-day mark for the hold, we received a new bill adding the $32.08 we owe for March and the $30.33 we owe for February to the original amount! I could not believe we now had a bill for over $440!
Certainly there had to be an error. That nice customer service lady had assured me . . . oh, I see what happened. She made up an answer that would end our discussion nicely. I would have hope. She would feel better about her job. With any luck, she would never have to speak to me again. There would be no day of reckoning.
Today I called and spoke with a different customer service representative who was not going to budge. “Yes, ma’am, I see the notes on your account. You are responsible for the bill.” She would speak to her supervisor and return to our call more determined than ever to let me know that my only recourse would be to have the water company come out to test the meter. If the meter is working correctly, guess what? Yes, I would be responsible to pay a bill that in no way reflects any amount of water we could ever possibly use during a one-month period!
Because I am not afraid to fight for what is right, I got to speak to the supervisor myself. I was told that our toilets were most likely leaking. Just during the month of January and then they miraculously healed themselves? Yes, she said. This sort of thing happens. Who knew? Or maybe the outdoor spigot was left on. In January? Yes, she said. I told her this was an outrageous error they had made and it was morally wrong to make us pay for it. She carefully moved along to the payment plan. I told her that amount of money was an impossible sum. She asked me how much I could pay. $30, you know, the amount of a regular monthly bill. Ok, so what about a payment plan? What about it. Our budget is what it is. I told her we could double our payment and start to pay off their mistake. She said it would take 14 months at that rate. Good. She said if ever we could pay a larger sum, that would be helpful. I have no intention of being helpful.
There are a couple of things at play here. One is obviously our lack of funds to handle much in the way of an unexpected bill. We have had enough of the unexpected to prove this theory. The other is false hope.
False hope is telling someone something that is either a lie or empty promise.
Being lied to or about is what always makes me angry. It is how my last two jobs ended: one after 11 years; the other after only two years and a half. Pretending that things are fine when they are not is deceptive. Making up stuff is also wrong. Telling someone one thing and doing another is unconscionable. We can always hope for a brighter future but making someone believe that future is most likely going to happen, well, that is why my breathing has not yet returned to normal. Call me naive. Call me whatever you want. Just don’t actually call me. I generally do not answer my phone. Yes, I forgive, even when apologies are not forthcoming. But that is not the point. The point is that the road to hell is paved with good intentions, so even if you don’t mean to lie, you are still going to hell if you do!
Truth is a tricky thing. We each have our own perspectives and opinions. We may all arrive at a different truth, the validity of each point intact. Sometimes it takes a court of law to come to a truth, and well, that isn’t foolproof either.
Maybe I should take some part of the blame. Maybe I should have never believed that the first customer service representative had any ability to do anything. For all I know she may never have even consulted a supervisor. It may have been customer service procedure to get a customer off the phone before anyone gets angry. The calls may be recorded and this one ended ever so nicely with false hope.
And the supervisor I spoke to today–well, she is getting paid to do just what she did. Listen to the raging customer, come up with an explanation regardless of how improbable, and set up the payment plan. Because at the end of the call there is only one thing that is going to happen: a payment will be forthcoming.
Like so many situations in life, there comes a point in which one is just simply screwed. Lies are believed for reasons that will never be fully understood. Lies are told and lives uprooted because some people just cannot be trusted. Gallons and gallons of mysterious water apparently come splashing out of an unbroken pipe to be measured by an unbroken meter so that someone other than the water company can be made responsible for them.
In the end, I’m grateful that I now work for a school and because of the coronavirus have some much needed time off to contemplate my life. I am grateful to have indoor plumbing and clean water, as much of the world does not. I am thankful that I have somehow again found my voice in the midst of adversity and can stand up for what I believe to be right.
One final note: I am looking forward to receiving compensation from our president during this time of pandemic, though believing that this will happen is problematic. No, I will not be using it to pay the water bill. I will instead apply it directly to what the Internal Revenue Service says we owe on unpaid taxes with calculated interest since 2016 we did not find out about until two years after the so-called fact! We paid our taxes and I fought with customer service representative after customer service representative for nearly a year. Can you imagine a worse job than working for the IRS? Can you even conceive of someone calling in who is not upset? I sent in processed checks proving we had paid. We had our accountant intervene on our behalf though he warned us that in the end they will never stop until the bill is paid. In full. Whether or not we actually owe the money. He did not give us false hope. He told us the grim reality and though it doesn’t sound pretty, I am always grateful for someone who respects me enough to tell me the truth.
There are just some things in life that cannot be helped. Death and taxes, false hope given by people who cannot seem to keep themselves from giving it, and water bills that just flat do not make any sense.
Breathing normally now. Rant over.
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Bed Bunnies and More
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