My dad fell at work last week. Nothing serious, just bruised his knee and thigh and spent a day or two limping around. I called him on the way home from work one day to check on him. He didn't answer his cell so I called the house phone. I wish I could record all our conversations, for posterity.
Dad: 'Lo? breathless
Me: Hey, Dad. What are you doing?
D: Oh, hey. You've got me running around this house, back and forth from one phone to the other. By the time I got to my cell you were ringing the house.
M: Sorry... you shouldn't be running, just let it ring and I'd call back. Your cell went to voicemail. How are you feeling?
D: Eh, I'm alright. I guess your mom told you I fell.
M: Yeah, what were you doing?
D: Nothing, just going down the stairs at work, and I missed a step. It's not bothering me too bad anymore, but that night I took two pain pills and went to bed, and when I woke up my Meniere's was acting up...
M: Oh! I was wondering what that word was earlier. That sucks.
D: I was really dizzy, the room spins clockwise, you know. No throwing up but I didn't go to work. Feeling better today though, I went to work and checked my email at least
M: That's good, I'm glad you're doing better
D: Yeah. Well your mom's not here, she went to get a pizza for dinner
M: Oh, that sounds good
D: She was going to cook a couple little pork chops, you know, and some biscuits, but she had that look on her face that said she didn't want to cook, so I told her to go get a pizza. Hawaiian
M: Oh, yum. We all have days like that. That's why God made Little Caesar's
D: Haha true, true. Well... what are y'all up to?
M: Tonight?
D: Yeah
M: Nothing really, going to make some black bean burritos and watch tv. That's about it
D: Burritos, that sounds good
M: Not as good as Hawaiian pizza thought, right?
D: Obviously. There's a woman on the news, just had triplets
M: Where, there in town?
D: Yeah, I guess. They're cute
M: I wouldn't even know what to do with triplets. Heck, I wouldn't know what to do with one
D: You'd figure it out. Especially if they were this cute
M: I guess. Kathy is doing in-vetro right now, you know our friends Kathy and Byron. She's was implanted last week. They did the whole shots, pills, et cetera, all the things they could do, but this is their last resort. But they're only implanting 4, they don't want to end up like Octomom
D: Probably all four won't take
M: I know. They only want to do it once though, because it's so expensive
D: I hope it works for them. Hey, your mom is here. Here... rattle
M: Hey Mom
Mom: Hey, just got us a pizza
M: Yeah, that's what Dad said. He seems to be feeling better
Mom: Yeah, he even went to work. You know how men are though, big baby. laugh Well we'd better eat this pizza while it's hot
M: Ok, well y'all have a good night
Mom: You too, love you
M: Love you too.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Friday, October 16, 2009
rude awakening
"Hey, hey, wake up. Wake up."
"Hmmm... what," he croaked, rolling over to look in my direction through the darkness.
"I hear something. Don't you hear that?"
"I was asleep, so no." He jerked the sheets I'd stolen back to his side of the bed.
"Well listen."
Nothing but quiet
"To what?"
"Just LISTEN."
Quiet... and then, faintly...
munch... munch munch crunch
"See!?"
"What is that?"
"I don't know, that's why I woke you up!"
He sighed as he rolled away from me and placed his feet on the floor on his side of the bed. He was lucky he had a his-side. I had the cold yellow wall against me in this cramped half-studio flat. He stood slowly as he snapped on his bedside lamp, and the crunch munch suddenly stopped.
"Turn it off, it went away," I whispered.
He clicked the light off, and in bare feet he crept over to the doorway, standing and waiting in the dark for the crinkling to start again. I could see the outline of his tense body in the white street light streaming in from one of our two windows. He stood and stared at nothing, leaning slightly forward, focusing all his energy on listening.
Crunch...
He slid slowly and silently the two steps through our tiny living room to the kitchen doorway.
Munch munch crunch
I rose out of the bed and moved to where I could see him, what little I could see in the dark, into the arched doorway of the bedroom. The bare floorboards were cold under my feet, and I hugged myself against the chill and my anxiety.
"What is it?" I whispered as quietly as I could.
He slowly reached over to his left, his long, naked arm shining bright in the street lamp's light, and snapped on the kitchen light.
"Shit!!"
He jumped straight up, turned, and high-stepped back into the living room, his face contorted in horror and disgust, hands clutching at his shirt. And then I saw it, the little brown furry creature, scurrying towards him.
I've never felt myself move so fast. Before I could even think, before recognition of what this was had even popped into my head, I had jumped into the air and perched on the end of the bed, clutching the bottom of my short cotton nightshirt, dancing around from foot to foot like a frightened little girl, kicking sheets. I finally peeked around the doorway trying to see what became of my cornered husband.
"Where'd it go, where'd it go??" he was yelling, looking all around his feet, spinning in a little circle.
"I think it stayed in the kitchen, I don't think it followed you," I told him, holding onto the wall from my perch on the bed, leaning around the archway to look at him.
"Ok, ok, we need a barrier. Here." He snatched my long, narrow dressing mirror off the wall and shoved it against the frame of the kitchen door on its side, then put a couple large books on one side and the London phone book on the other to prop it up.
"Where'd it go? Well, that's what the crunch was," he said, a bit calmer now, as he leaned over the mirror and pointed to the bag of trash in the corner by the front door. There was a small hole chewed into the bottom of the black plastic, and some food scraps had fallen out onto the floor.
"I put it over there because I wanted to take it out when I left for work in the morning. It's so cold outside, and I already had my shoes off so I didn't take it out earlier. I don't see him anywhere.... Look," he said as he pointed at the kitchen floor, "there's a hole where that pipe goes under the stove. I bet he went down in there."
"Well stick something over it so it can't come back up!" I yelled as I finally hopped down off the end of the bed, curling my toes under my feet to try to keep as much of me off the rodent-ridden floor as possible.
Stepping very gently over the barrier, pausing with foot in mid-air to look all around before putting it down, he reached and grabbed a plastic Sainsbury grocery bag from the counter and shoved it into the hole, then quickly jumped back over the mirror.
"Let me get some shoes and I'll take the garbage out," he sighed as he walked to the closet part of our bedroom and grabbed his tennis shoes, taking care to stuff his pajama pant legs into the shoes. "I'm not taking any chances of that thing jumping on me."
When he was back from taking out the trash, we stood on our side of the divide, staring at the kitchen floor, watching for any movement.
"I think it's gone now."
We turned off the kitchen lights and found ourselves still standing and staring into the darkness, listening for tiny scurrying movements. When the silence persisted long enough to put our minds at least a bit more at ease, we returned to bed. Fairly quickly he began his slow, quiet snore, but for the rest of the night I laid and listened, hearing nothing but his breathing, the muffled street noise, and the scratching of my thoughts inside my sleepy brain.
"Hmmm... what," he croaked, rolling over to look in my direction through the darkness.
"I hear something. Don't you hear that?"
"I was asleep, so no." He jerked the sheets I'd stolen back to his side of the bed.
"Well listen."
Nothing but quiet
"To what?"
"Just LISTEN."
Quiet... and then, faintly...
munch... munch munch crunch
"See!?"
"What is that?"
"I don't know, that's why I woke you up!"
He sighed as he rolled away from me and placed his feet on the floor on his side of the bed. He was lucky he had a his-side. I had the cold yellow wall against me in this cramped half-studio flat. He stood slowly as he snapped on his bedside lamp, and the crunch munch suddenly stopped.
"Turn it off, it went away," I whispered.
He clicked the light off, and in bare feet he crept over to the doorway, standing and waiting in the dark for the crinkling to start again. I could see the outline of his tense body in the white street light streaming in from one of our two windows. He stood and stared at nothing, leaning slightly forward, focusing all his energy on listening.
Crunch...
He slid slowly and silently the two steps through our tiny living room to the kitchen doorway.
Munch munch crunch
I rose out of the bed and moved to where I could see him, what little I could see in the dark, into the arched doorway of the bedroom. The bare floorboards were cold under my feet, and I hugged myself against the chill and my anxiety.
"What is it?" I whispered as quietly as I could.
He slowly reached over to his left, his long, naked arm shining bright in the street lamp's light, and snapped on the kitchen light.
"Shit!!"
He jumped straight up, turned, and high-stepped back into the living room, his face contorted in horror and disgust, hands clutching at his shirt. And then I saw it, the little brown furry creature, scurrying towards him.
I've never felt myself move so fast. Before I could even think, before recognition of what this was had even popped into my head, I had jumped into the air and perched on the end of the bed, clutching the bottom of my short cotton nightshirt, dancing around from foot to foot like a frightened little girl, kicking sheets. I finally peeked around the doorway trying to see what became of my cornered husband.
"Where'd it go, where'd it go??" he was yelling, looking all around his feet, spinning in a little circle.
"I think it stayed in the kitchen, I don't think it followed you," I told him, holding onto the wall from my perch on the bed, leaning around the archway to look at him.
"Ok, ok, we need a barrier. Here." He snatched my long, narrow dressing mirror off the wall and shoved it against the frame of the kitchen door on its side, then put a couple large books on one side and the London phone book on the other to prop it up.
"Where'd it go? Well, that's what the crunch was," he said, a bit calmer now, as he leaned over the mirror and pointed to the bag of trash in the corner by the front door. There was a small hole chewed into the bottom of the black plastic, and some food scraps had fallen out onto the floor.
"I put it over there because I wanted to take it out when I left for work in the morning. It's so cold outside, and I already had my shoes off so I didn't take it out earlier. I don't see him anywhere.... Look," he said as he pointed at the kitchen floor, "there's a hole where that pipe goes under the stove. I bet he went down in there."
"Well stick something over it so it can't come back up!" I yelled as I finally hopped down off the end of the bed, curling my toes under my feet to try to keep as much of me off the rodent-ridden floor as possible.
Stepping very gently over the barrier, pausing with foot in mid-air to look all around before putting it down, he reached and grabbed a plastic Sainsbury grocery bag from the counter and shoved it into the hole, then quickly jumped back over the mirror.
"Let me get some shoes and I'll take the garbage out," he sighed as he walked to the closet part of our bedroom and grabbed his tennis shoes, taking care to stuff his pajama pant legs into the shoes. "I'm not taking any chances of that thing jumping on me."
When he was back from taking out the trash, we stood on our side of the divide, staring at the kitchen floor, watching for any movement.
"I think it's gone now."
We turned off the kitchen lights and found ourselves still standing and staring into the darkness, listening for tiny scurrying movements. When the silence persisted long enough to put our minds at least a bit more at ease, we returned to bed. Fairly quickly he began his slow, quiet snore, but for the rest of the night I laid and listened, hearing nothing but his breathing, the muffled street noise, and the scratching of my thoughts inside my sleepy brain.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Grateful Thursday
I'm having a hard time picking things today. Not because I have nothing to be grateful for but because I have too much.1) Sushi. It just makes me happy, especially this new roll I've found that's deep fried and covered in spicy mayonnaise. No, not very Japanese of them, or healthy for that matter, but sooooo tasty.
2) My raise! Got my first new paycheck today. It makes me want to run out and buy a new wardrobe or something big, but I'm restraining myself. I'm going to up the automatic savings plan we have instead. (And maybe take us out for a nice dinner and one pair of shoes for me, because what's life if you don't live it?)
3) The new HR software I've got that's making my work life so much easier. It's automated a lot of the little tasks I've been doing that were so time-consuming. Now there were at least a couple times this week where I felt like I'd run out of things to do, which never used to happen. I even got to organize my desk!
4) Cooler weather. This weekend the high is in the 50s. We never have much of a fall-- we usually get two good weeks of great 70 degree days, but this year those were all rained out, and now suddenly it's getting to be winter. In the way that our humidity makes our summers feel so sticky and thick, it makes our winters bitterly ice-cold as well, where they feel a lot worse than the temperature reading implies. But I'm looking forward to sweaters and fires and snuggling under a quilt.
5) Life. I don't really know how else to put it. There are some good days and bad days, but overall I'm thankful to just be here, experiencing everything that I'm blessed to experience.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
conflicts of interest
By now, you all should have picked up on my slightly irrational love of animals. I am one of those people that would jump in front of a bus for my dog. (Of course I wouldn't let him wander out in front of a bus in the first place, but you get my point).
I was so proud of one of my new friends when he and his new wife adopted a dog from the shelter for her little boy. I know very well that she did not come from a mutt-friendly family: the day I met her mother, she told me all about the King Charles Spaniel she had tucked under her arm, how she had found the perfect breeder and paid him $1200 for the dog, then shelled out another $600 to "have him trained," as in she did not participate in the training as well.
So when Lee said they were adopting an abandoned dog, I was surprised and thrilled for them. It's always been my belief that mutts make better pets, especially those from a shelter-- they appreciate you more, suffer fewer health problems than over-bred dogs, and though they have their issues, no dog is perfect and adopting a previously discarded animal gives you a sense of doing something good for the world.
I met their puppy a few of times. Dottie, a black short-haired Pug/Cocker Spaniel mix, was very friendly and curious though sometimes shy about new animals and people. Lee told me that she was a little bit food aggressive, meaning she'd snap at other animals that came near her bowl. This is typical with shelter dogs (most of them had to at one point fight for scraps of food) but is easily trained away.
Another friend, Cindy, has a spoiled rotten little rat of a dog. While I think Cindy is a sweet person, her main flaw is in the way she has raised that dog. It jumps all over, licks, body slams and nips at other dogs, runs around like all she feeds it is sugar and Red Bull, and just generally makes life miserable for the rest of us. She chases him saying, sweetly, "Manny, honey, stop it," which of course does absolutely no good.
So Dottie bit Manny. Of course she did; if I were a dog I would have too. Manny ran up to Dottie as she was eating, pushed her, scared her, and jumped in her food. Dottie took offense and bit her. She didn't break the skin but Manny squealed and cowered under her mother long enough that the two human moms thought something terrible had happened. Cindy overreacted and took Manny home, so Lee overreacted as well.
There are so many ways in which this could have been avoided-- training Manny and Dottie both properly, not feeding a slightly-food aggressive dog when other dogs are around, and even just keeping cool and acting like adults with dogs and not little girls with baby dolls would have helped.
No, I didn't live with the dog so I only witnessed the aggression once or twice, but after seeing the way they reacted to her snapping at Manny I can only believe that it's not as bad as they made it out to be. I've spent a lot of time with animals, and what Dottie did can be completely trained away.
But apparently she sheds as well. (Does anyone know of a dog that doesn't at least to some degree?) So that with the snapping was enough for Lee to take her back to the shelter, even though her son loved that dog, and even though she had made a commitment to the shelter, her son, and most importantly to Dottie that she would take care of her and love her for the rest of her life. It's not like when you get divorced and both adults walk away able to take care of themselves or even when you put a child up for adoption and some other family or the system raises it. Humans have a choice. Dogs do not. 70% of dogs at that shelter get put down because in this state, not enough people care about these animals, people don't think about how their actions are going to cause the death of this animal. So long as it's out of their life, that's all that matters to them. It's selfish and moronic and makes me so angry I could spit.
I saw Lee and her husband this weekend. Her husband and I have been friends for a while, through other friends, so we're going to keep seeing each other whether I like it or not. I could barely look at them. There is no getting past this for me-- there is now a line between them and me that will never go away. I didn't know about them taking the dog back until it was too late. I didn't have a chance to talk them out of it or at least help them find her a new home. Now anything I want to say to them feels like too little, too late.
I have so many lines drawn. I still see most of these people, the ones who have said or done that one thing that has caused me to wet my finger and stroke it across the air between us, but I wall myself up when I see them, look at them through glazed-over eyes, counting all the stupid things they say and do when I'm near them. I don't do this to everyone... it takes an especially dumb or rude moment for me to put someone on this list. Lee and her husband are now at the top.
I was so proud of one of my new friends when he and his new wife adopted a dog from the shelter for her little boy. I know very well that she did not come from a mutt-friendly family: the day I met her mother, she told me all about the King Charles Spaniel she had tucked under her arm, how she had found the perfect breeder and paid him $1200 for the dog, then shelled out another $600 to "have him trained," as in she did not participate in the training as well.
So when Lee said they were adopting an abandoned dog, I was surprised and thrilled for them. It's always been my belief that mutts make better pets, especially those from a shelter-- they appreciate you more, suffer fewer health problems than over-bred dogs, and though they have their issues, no dog is perfect and adopting a previously discarded animal gives you a sense of doing something good for the world.
I met their puppy a few of times. Dottie, a black short-haired Pug/Cocker Spaniel mix, was very friendly and curious though sometimes shy about new animals and people. Lee told me that she was a little bit food aggressive, meaning she'd snap at other animals that came near her bowl. This is typical with shelter dogs (most of them had to at one point fight for scraps of food) but is easily trained away.
Another friend, Cindy, has a spoiled rotten little rat of a dog. While I think Cindy is a sweet person, her main flaw is in the way she has raised that dog. It jumps all over, licks, body slams and nips at other dogs, runs around like all she feeds it is sugar and Red Bull, and just generally makes life miserable for the rest of us. She chases him saying, sweetly, "Manny, honey, stop it," which of course does absolutely no good.
So Dottie bit Manny. Of course she did; if I were a dog I would have too. Manny ran up to Dottie as she was eating, pushed her, scared her, and jumped in her food. Dottie took offense and bit her. She didn't break the skin but Manny squealed and cowered under her mother long enough that the two human moms thought something terrible had happened. Cindy overreacted and took Manny home, so Lee overreacted as well.
There are so many ways in which this could have been avoided-- training Manny and Dottie both properly, not feeding a slightly-food aggressive dog when other dogs are around, and even just keeping cool and acting like adults with dogs and not little girls with baby dolls would have helped.
No, I didn't live with the dog so I only witnessed the aggression once or twice, but after seeing the way they reacted to her snapping at Manny I can only believe that it's not as bad as they made it out to be. I've spent a lot of time with animals, and what Dottie did can be completely trained away.
But apparently she sheds as well. (Does anyone know of a dog that doesn't at least to some degree?) So that with the snapping was enough for Lee to take her back to the shelter, even though her son loved that dog, and even though she had made a commitment to the shelter, her son, and most importantly to Dottie that she would take care of her and love her for the rest of her life. It's not like when you get divorced and both adults walk away able to take care of themselves or even when you put a child up for adoption and some other family or the system raises it. Humans have a choice. Dogs do not. 70% of dogs at that shelter get put down because in this state, not enough people care about these animals, people don't think about how their actions are going to cause the death of this animal. So long as it's out of their life, that's all that matters to them. It's selfish and moronic and makes me so angry I could spit.
I saw Lee and her husband this weekend. Her husband and I have been friends for a while, through other friends, so we're going to keep seeing each other whether I like it or not. I could barely look at them. There is no getting past this for me-- there is now a line between them and me that will never go away. I didn't know about them taking the dog back until it was too late. I didn't have a chance to talk them out of it or at least help them find her a new home. Now anything I want to say to them feels like too little, too late.
I have so many lines drawn. I still see most of these people, the ones who have said or done that one thing that has caused me to wet my finger and stroke it across the air between us, but I wall myself up when I see them, look at them through glazed-over eyes, counting all the stupid things they say and do when I'm near them. I don't do this to everyone... it takes an especially dumb or rude moment for me to put someone on this list. Lee and her husband are now at the top.
Friday, October 9, 2009
Grateful... Friday, right?
What a week. Good, but long.I realized on Wednesday on the drive home from work that my life is perfect. Some song came on the radio, and I was bopping my head and singing, thinking about work that day and about going home to my husband, cooking my bean and veggie burritos, and snuggling on the couch to watch Top Chef.
The thought occurred to me that there's nothing I would change. Not one thing. I couldn't think of anything particularly bad in my life. Yeah, work gets stressful, but it's the best job I've ever had and my hard work is appreciated. There are a couple annoying people in my life, but they all serve their purpose, making me a more tolerant, open-minded person. Changes keep happening-- friends move away or have kids, and suddenly our core group has melted and molded into a new group. But inside I'm happy, my husband is happy, and everything feels very stable and secure and content.
There's a tiny voice in the back of my head telling me to not trust it, that it's all an illusion, the calm before the storm. But I shush it. Even if it's right, I might as well enjoy this while I have it.
Today is going to be a good day. Already I'm grateful for:
1) My short doctor's visit. I had a follow up with neurologist who gave me a new prescription, and it only took me twenty minutes! That never happens.
2) The new prescription. It's a smaller dose of the Imitrex I had been taking but has another medicine mixed in, and I get almost no side effects from it plus it doesn't take as long to work.
3) Kindness. I stopped at a gas station to get a drink. The check-out lady told me it would be $1.17. For once in my life I didn't have .17 in my coin purse, so as I was exclaiming about that oddity, the large man with his hands full of honey buns in line behind me pulled out 17 cents and told me he didn't want me to have to walk around with 80 cents in my wallet all day. What a nice thing to do.
I'm going to have to find a way to pass that kindness on today. And every day.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
a way past
Emily's best friend lost her dad yesterday morning to cancer. He was in his fifties. My office door creaked loudly as Emily opened it and stepped in sideways in her red plaid tunic and tall black boots, a long braid of brown hair coming down over one shoulder, cell phone in her hand. She wiped her face dry as she told me the news, and we decided she should leave right then for her friend's side.
I got a little choked up myself, although I've never cried in this office. Other workplaces, yes, but not this place. Here I am the stoic one. We become what others need. Losing my father is my second biggest fear, coming in slightly behind losing my husband, and only really falling behind because I know it's an inevitability that at some point in my life, unless I die first, I will lose him. I will have to learn to live without him. It's the way things work.
So her friend is now learning to live without her father.
A few years ago I was working at an antique store. I was everyone's friend and the one they knew wouldn't stick around too long. There were a couple college boys working with us, moving the big pieces for the little old ladies with thick wallets and disinterested husbands. One of them, Tanner, confided in me that his parents had gotten divorced when he was a child because his father was an alcoholic. Although he didn't see his dad much, he loved him, and when he spoke about him I could see in his big blue eyes the hurt and longing for fatherly approval that he so desperately wanted.
The huge, dusty store was empty other than Tanner and I when he found out his father was dead. His cell phone rang, and from the way the muscles in his face dropped, the way the light in his eyes dimmed instantly, I knew something had happened. He ran outside and paced back and forth. Not knowing what to do, I just waited. He finally hung up, grabbed his hair and yanked, stretching his neck back and looking towards the cobwebbed eaves outside the glass doors. He turned around and came back in in one fluid motion, walking straight to the office for his jacket.
"My father died," he croaked as he tried to walk past me. I grabbed him and hugged him, not knowing what else to do, told him-- whispered because I couldn't speak-- how sorry I was, and let him go from the one-sided embrace.
I closed the store myself that night although I don't think I actually counted the cash or turned off all the lights. I couldn't think. His father was buried three days later. He had been drunk and fallen and hit his head. The coroner said he was dead at least three days, laying there on his kitchen floor. Tanner's mother found him.
Emily's friend's dad was luckier, I guess, in that he died with his family around him, peacefully taking his last breath, if too early.
Grief is an odd thing, especially someone else's grief. There's never a "right" thing to say or do. Your own grief you understand, at least in part, because you live inside it and feel all the stabs and burns it inflicts, cringing and screaming at just the right moments. Those outside it, however, have to react without any prior knowledge, fumbling around trying not to upset but also comfort, providing a shoulder when needed without pushing it in the griever's face. It's a delicate balance, walking on a thin line of despair.
Some of us are better at it than others. Those of us who have lost someone dear know that sometimes nothing helps, and sometimes all you need is a warm, quiet body next to you while you scream. We must become what the person needs, and reading that is the hardest thing to do.
Deep inside of myself, I know who I am. If you stripped away everything-- my husband, my father and mother, my dog, my house, my job, my friends-- I would be ok, meaning that little acorn of myself that lives deep in my soul would still be there, and it would take over, putting me on autopilot until I was past the grief, at least the parts that are passable. I breathe in and out and I feel it in me, that I'm invincible. Life goes on and so will I. Not that I want any of that.
I know someone who doesn't have this, who wouldn't even know what I was talking about if I expressed my sorrow to her that she doesn't have it. She, Sherry, doesn't know who she is. While it's true we become what others need us to be, that only works to an extent, and it's mostly unconcious, or subconcious. She becomes what she thinks other people will like, and though she is wrong, she's so blind to others' feelings, so caught up in her own mind, that she has no idea. She's transparent: I see her grasping at straws trying to force us to want her around by forcing her presence on us. If she's loud enough, we'll notice her and pay attention to her; if she could just find that one interesting story, she'd capture all our focus and revel in it if for just a minute. But her stories and her brashness only make us push her away.
Emily had to tell Sherry where she was going yesterday. Sherry commented that she was in the same place as Emily's friend, woe be her, that she knew exactly how she felt as she had nursed her mother all weekend after a terrible fall. It was one more story (lie?) in a string of stories added to her collection, the stories that she uses to try to make people comfort and console her.
I don't know how to act around her because I don't know who she is. Mostly I am simply off when she comes into my office, a blank stare on my face and my lips tightly sealed, only letting out the necessary words. I feel sorry for her, in a way, because obviously she missed something somewhere in her life, something that if she had gotten would have made her ok, made her self-sufficient. I feel like she is constantly grieving the loss of something, making her irrational and fearful, and so like with all grieving people, no one knows how to react around her.
I wish someone would give me the strength to see past her grief, the ability to know what to say or do to make her stop. Some grief is impassable, I know, but if she doesn't figure out a way to that nugget of herself deep inside, it may be lost forever in her murky uncertainty. There is no knowing or finding out for me, though-- in reality there's nothing any of us can do or say to help a truly grieving person. They must find their own strength and move past it themselves.
I got a little choked up myself, although I've never cried in this office. Other workplaces, yes, but not this place. Here I am the stoic one. We become what others need. Losing my father is my second biggest fear, coming in slightly behind losing my husband, and only really falling behind because I know it's an inevitability that at some point in my life, unless I die first, I will lose him. I will have to learn to live without him. It's the way things work.
So her friend is now learning to live without her father.
A few years ago I was working at an antique store. I was everyone's friend and the one they knew wouldn't stick around too long. There were a couple college boys working with us, moving the big pieces for the little old ladies with thick wallets and disinterested husbands. One of them, Tanner, confided in me that his parents had gotten divorced when he was a child because his father was an alcoholic. Although he didn't see his dad much, he loved him, and when he spoke about him I could see in his big blue eyes the hurt and longing for fatherly approval that he so desperately wanted.
The huge, dusty store was empty other than Tanner and I when he found out his father was dead. His cell phone rang, and from the way the muscles in his face dropped, the way the light in his eyes dimmed instantly, I knew something had happened. He ran outside and paced back and forth. Not knowing what to do, I just waited. He finally hung up, grabbed his hair and yanked, stretching his neck back and looking towards the cobwebbed eaves outside the glass doors. He turned around and came back in in one fluid motion, walking straight to the office for his jacket.
"My father died," he croaked as he tried to walk past me. I grabbed him and hugged him, not knowing what else to do, told him-- whispered because I couldn't speak-- how sorry I was, and let him go from the one-sided embrace.
I closed the store myself that night although I don't think I actually counted the cash or turned off all the lights. I couldn't think. His father was buried three days later. He had been drunk and fallen and hit his head. The coroner said he was dead at least three days, laying there on his kitchen floor. Tanner's mother found him.
Emily's friend's dad was luckier, I guess, in that he died with his family around him, peacefully taking his last breath, if too early.
Grief is an odd thing, especially someone else's grief. There's never a "right" thing to say or do. Your own grief you understand, at least in part, because you live inside it and feel all the stabs and burns it inflicts, cringing and screaming at just the right moments. Those outside it, however, have to react without any prior knowledge, fumbling around trying not to upset but also comfort, providing a shoulder when needed without pushing it in the griever's face. It's a delicate balance, walking on a thin line of despair.
Some of us are better at it than others. Those of us who have lost someone dear know that sometimes nothing helps, and sometimes all you need is a warm, quiet body next to you while you scream. We must become what the person needs, and reading that is the hardest thing to do.
Deep inside of myself, I know who I am. If you stripped away everything-- my husband, my father and mother, my dog, my house, my job, my friends-- I would be ok, meaning that little acorn of myself that lives deep in my soul would still be there, and it would take over, putting me on autopilot until I was past the grief, at least the parts that are passable. I breathe in and out and I feel it in me, that I'm invincible. Life goes on and so will I. Not that I want any of that.
I know someone who doesn't have this, who wouldn't even know what I was talking about if I expressed my sorrow to her that she doesn't have it. She, Sherry, doesn't know who she is. While it's true we become what others need us to be, that only works to an extent, and it's mostly unconcious, or subconcious. She becomes what she thinks other people will like, and though she is wrong, she's so blind to others' feelings, so caught up in her own mind, that she has no idea. She's transparent: I see her grasping at straws trying to force us to want her around by forcing her presence on us. If she's loud enough, we'll notice her and pay attention to her; if she could just find that one interesting story, she'd capture all our focus and revel in it if for just a minute. But her stories and her brashness only make us push her away.
Emily had to tell Sherry where she was going yesterday. Sherry commented that she was in the same place as Emily's friend, woe be her, that she knew exactly how she felt as she had nursed her mother all weekend after a terrible fall. It was one more story (lie?) in a string of stories added to her collection, the stories that she uses to try to make people comfort and console her.
I don't know how to act around her because I don't know who she is. Mostly I am simply off when she comes into my office, a blank stare on my face and my lips tightly sealed, only letting out the necessary words. I feel sorry for her, in a way, because obviously she missed something somewhere in her life, something that if she had gotten would have made her ok, made her self-sufficient. I feel like she is constantly grieving the loss of something, making her irrational and fearful, and so like with all grieving people, no one knows how to react around her.
I wish someone would give me the strength to see past her grief, the ability to know what to say or do to make her stop. Some grief is impassable, I know, but if she doesn't figure out a way to that nugget of herself deep inside, it may be lost forever in her murky uncertainty. There is no knowing or finding out for me, though-- in reality there's nothing any of us can do or say to help a truly grieving person. They must find their own strength and move past it themselves.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Grateful Thursday
My boss accused me of being a negative person the other day. I think perhaps I was being negative that day about how things were going at work. With the stress we've been under, it's a wonder I'm still alive, much less happy-go-lucky. This week has been better. Anyway, I informed him that I keep a gratitude journal and count my blessings nearly every day, so if, for some reason, I appear to be negative about something, it's probably because I am also a realistic person and there's a characteristic of that something that shouldn't be celebrated.Even though I only publish this gratitude post once a week, I do consider it my "journal," and knowing that every week I will come up with three to five items (big or small, random or planned) keeps me on my toes. I find myself all week feeling grateful for things which previously I wouldn't have even noticed. So here are the three out of a million that I've selected this week.
1) Onion rings, and in correlation, discovering new favorite foods. I didn't think I liked onion rings. I don't particularly like onions, especially red onions, but apparently I do like yellow onion, the sweet ones, and fried and battered with ketchup makes them absolutely sensational. I was so hungry one day in Vegas, and the deli we were in only had onion rings and meat sandwiches, so I ordered myself some onion rings and haven't been able to stop eating them since. I'll be as big as a house if I don't stop soon, but they're just so good.
2) New technology. While also scary at times (I don't think I like that a cell company can pinpoint my location with GPS whenever they feel like it), I do have to admit that I love my new iPhone. I had left work the other day without remembering to call and change my hair appointment, but I realized sitting at a red light in traffic that I could google my stylist from my phone and then with two button presses be speaking to her directly just minutes before she was to leave for the day. A small victory there, but several small victories an add up to a pretty good day.
3) Even greater financial stability. I got a raise, a pretty significant one, 25%. I also have two new employees to manage who took over a couple of my responsibilities. It's been great except I'm kind of out of things to do today and it's only 1:45. I'm sure this will all even out, and my managing of new employees will take over the time I used to spend doing the million things that they're all handling now. I had gotten overloaded with duties so it's about time I got some help. But right now I'm feeling a bit lost. Richer, but lost. It'll work out.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
10:30
Amy came around the corner, her sweetly tapping footsteps announcing her approach seconds before she got to my doorway."Your 10:30 is here," she chimed as she swung her head around the door frame, flashing a smile half hidden by her mousy brown hair, and disappeared just as quickly, tapping back to her desk.
I pushed myself up in my brown pleather chair, reaching my hands toward the drop panel ceiling, trying to get some blood flowing back from where it had pooled in my fingertips and my butt to my brain. I stood and stretched out my legs and used my toes to slide my heels out from under my desk. Slipping them on as I walked out the door, I turned the corner to see my 10:30.
He was short, I noticed right away, and there were hints of tattoos peeping out from under the short sleeves of his slightly ragged navy blue polo. His baggy khaki pants only mostly covered his muddy boots. As I reached out to shake his hand, I noticed the wallet chain swinging from his pocket.
"Tom? I'm Sarah. Nice to meet you. Come on back."
He followed me up the hall and into my office where I gestured towards the seat he should take and shut the door. I introduced our company to him, our policies and beliefs and schedules, while he sat like a child hunched over on the small black office chair, the one no one wanted, nodding politely as I spoke.
"So now that you know about us, tell me about yourself."
"Well, what do you mean? What do you want to know?"
That's never a good sign, when someone hasn't rehearsed the easiest of all interview questions, the gimme. I explain I just want to know a little more about him, the stuff he didn't put on his resume. He speaks for about two minutes, in a gruff, low voice, never quite meeting my line of sight. He tells me about growing up in Illinois, how he met his wife while he was in the Navy, and she was from here, how they hadn't left even though he hadn't been able to find a job after getting laid off. He stopped short there, as if he was reluctant to go any further. I know why, I know how job searches are going lately.
I proceed with my interrogation, questions ranging from the leading and easy to the head-scratchers and sweat-inducers. He does fine for the most part, but he stumbles a few too many times, and I don't see us hiring him.
As I escort him to the door with promises to call soon, I already know that call will not be a pleasant one for either of us. I keep a smile on my face though-- no need to kill his hope now, although it seems as if he already knows too.
"Well, I hope you keep me in mind for this position. I know I'm not the most qualified, but I'm willing to learn."
I assure him I will and wave goodbye. If only it were that easy; I'd hire everyone.
Monday, September 28, 2009
like paper in the wind
Life has been all about change lately. Changing titles, changing offices, changing friends, changing seasons.
In the past, whenever I made a big life-changing decision, like when I transferred colleges, or when I broke up with the first long-time boyfriend, or when I moved to London, I would also change something dramatically about my appearance. When I transferred schools I started dressing differently, switching my colorful cardigans for black and red and vintage. I broke up with my long hair too when I ditched the boy, cutting off ten inches and then dying it from red to black. For London I had grown my hair out again and stopped wearing heels. (I still don't understand how women can wear heels on wet cobblestone streets without sliding and falling every other step.)
This time around, I suppose because there's so much change happening at once, I haven't altered myself physically in any way. I want to keep my hair long-- my husband likes it, and it gives me something to pull when I'm stressed out. My clothes and shoes are basically the same as they have been, although I suppose I've slowly but surely been sneaking in more pencil skirts and higher heels.
I don't like change. Change is a big part of my work and the industry I'm in, but in my personal life I don't like it. It's not that I'm stuck or that I'm afraid. I just really like the way things are, and I like to be in control. That's what it really is, right there, that I don't feel like I'm in control of my own life on days like today.
That's all life really is though, a series of changes, of small and larger occurrences in our life that lead us to change ourselves, alter our thought pattern, move away, stop talking to or start talking to someone, all these seemingly tiny decisions that one by one add up to a lifetime of changes.
For instance, if I had decided to let my orthodontist do what he wanted to my lower jaw and break and reset it (I have an overbite, but geez) my junior year of high school, I would have never gone to Europe on my senior trip that summer which means I would have never started dating my first boyfriend. If I hadn't been dating that first boyfriend when I went to college a year later, I would have chosen a different school perhaps, and then a year after that I never would have thought of transferring. We chose the new school together, where I eventually met the new boyfriend, who became the husband. There are lots of tiny choices in there too that affected the whole progression.
It's a butterfly effect, in a way, but it's all generated by me, by my choices, not just some random occurence, not really. I don't know that I believe in randomness, in haphazard chance, but I don't know that I believe in fate either.
I do know that the more things change in my life, the more I cling to the things that matter most to me, the things that I want to be the most unchanging, like my relationship with my husband and my family, and my internal voice. I don't want anything, random or planned, big or small, to alter those.
In the past, whenever I made a big life-changing decision, like when I transferred colleges, or when I broke up with the first long-time boyfriend, or when I moved to London, I would also change something dramatically about my appearance. When I transferred schools I started dressing differently, switching my colorful cardigans for black and red and vintage. I broke up with my long hair too when I ditched the boy, cutting off ten inches and then dying it from red to black. For London I had grown my hair out again and stopped wearing heels. (I still don't understand how women can wear heels on wet cobblestone streets without sliding and falling every other step.)
This time around, I suppose because there's so much change happening at once, I haven't altered myself physically in any way. I want to keep my hair long-- my husband likes it, and it gives me something to pull when I'm stressed out. My clothes and shoes are basically the same as they have been, although I suppose I've slowly but surely been sneaking in more pencil skirts and higher heels.
I don't like change. Change is a big part of my work and the industry I'm in, but in my personal life I don't like it. It's not that I'm stuck or that I'm afraid. I just really like the way things are, and I like to be in control. That's what it really is, right there, that I don't feel like I'm in control of my own life on days like today.
That's all life really is though, a series of changes, of small and larger occurrences in our life that lead us to change ourselves, alter our thought pattern, move away, stop talking to or start talking to someone, all these seemingly tiny decisions that one by one add up to a lifetime of changes.
For instance, if I had decided to let my orthodontist do what he wanted to my lower jaw and break and reset it (I have an overbite, but geez) my junior year of high school, I would have never gone to Europe on my senior trip that summer which means I would have never started dating my first boyfriend. If I hadn't been dating that first boyfriend when I went to college a year later, I would have chosen a different school perhaps, and then a year after that I never would have thought of transferring. We chose the new school together, where I eventually met the new boyfriend, who became the husband. There are lots of tiny choices in there too that affected the whole progression.
It's a butterfly effect, in a way, but it's all generated by me, by my choices, not just some random occurence, not really. I don't know that I believe in randomness, in haphazard chance, but I don't know that I believe in fate either.
I do know that the more things change in my life, the more I cling to the things that matter most to me, the things that I want to be the most unchanging, like my relationship with my husband and my family, and my internal voice. I don't want anything, random or planned, big or small, to alter those.
Friday, September 25, 2009
dreaming awake
The Beatles are crooning into my ear right now. Rubber Soul, "My Life." I don't really like the Beatles. Blasphemy?
My office door is closed, my eyes are half-closed, and my ears are stopped up with the sound of Pandora coming from my iPhone. I am closed today, lights off, on internal vacation, zoned out and turned way down. I can't deal today, I can't handle any more.
I do love Pandora. I have four stations, titled Tom Petty, Aimee Mann, Al Green, and Itzhak Perlman. For some reason I'm getting more Aimee and Itzhak type music this morning. I suppose my iPhone is so fancy and high tech it can read my mood and knows that I want to be lulled into calmness and peace this morning rather than jazzed up or rocked awake.
My boss just sent a very rude email to our lawyer calling the contract he made for us unprofessional and embarrassing. I feel my blood pressure rising.
Closing my eyes, drifting off now to a green field with violins and dandelions and a warm breeze...
Emily just came in. She was teasing me about my violin music but then told me a story of a kindergardener she saw once, a little African-American boy with thick glasses and a bowtie, who played a piece from Shindler's List on his violin so beautifully that she cried right there in the school auditorium. I invite her to my field for a little while, and we dance, but then we're pulled back to reality by another email, this time from the annoying marketing director, the ultimate yes-woman, kiss-ass, who is, what else, kissing the boss's ass.
Ear buds back in, Michael Jackson won't stop til he gets enough.
Calculating the time difference between India and the central time zone, trying to plan meetings for when the boss is away. If it's 9 a.m. here it's 7 p.m. there... so that means he could have meetings up until noon our time... right? Who cares, the Cranberries are playing.
I've used up two hours like this today. The new executive assistant still doesn't have her computer set up, a day and two hours into her tenure here. I informed purchasing that she needed one three days ago. Tech is ready and waiting to set her up. But she's chatting with the receptionist, I can hear them echoing in the high-ceilinged ceramic-tiled foyer, so she's fine.
Tom Petty is telling me it's time to move on, time to get going. If only it were that easy.
My office door is closed, my eyes are half-closed, and my ears are stopped up with the sound of Pandora coming from my iPhone. I am closed today, lights off, on internal vacation, zoned out and turned way down. I can't deal today, I can't handle any more.
I do love Pandora. I have four stations, titled Tom Petty, Aimee Mann, Al Green, and Itzhak Perlman. For some reason I'm getting more Aimee and Itzhak type music this morning. I suppose my iPhone is so fancy and high tech it can read my mood and knows that I want to be lulled into calmness and peace this morning rather than jazzed up or rocked awake.
My boss just sent a very rude email to our lawyer calling the contract he made for us unprofessional and embarrassing. I feel my blood pressure rising.
Closing my eyes, drifting off now to a green field with violins and dandelions and a warm breeze...
Emily just came in. She was teasing me about my violin music but then told me a story of a kindergardener she saw once, a little African-American boy with thick glasses and a bowtie, who played a piece from Shindler's List on his violin so beautifully that she cried right there in the school auditorium. I invite her to my field for a little while, and we dance, but then we're pulled back to reality by another email, this time from the annoying marketing director, the ultimate yes-woman, kiss-ass, who is, what else, kissing the boss's ass.
Ear buds back in, Michael Jackson won't stop til he gets enough.
Calculating the time difference between India and the central time zone, trying to plan meetings for when the boss is away. If it's 9 a.m. here it's 7 p.m. there... so that means he could have meetings up until noon our time... right? Who cares, the Cranberries are playing.
I've used up two hours like this today. The new executive assistant still doesn't have her computer set up, a day and two hours into her tenure here. I informed purchasing that she needed one three days ago. Tech is ready and waiting to set her up. But she's chatting with the receptionist, I can hear them echoing in the high-ceilinged ceramic-tiled foyer, so she's fine.
Tom Petty is telling me it's time to move on, time to get going. If only it were that easy.
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