Perspective

 It’s a Sunday afternoon, and Liam is lying on my couch, watching Minions: The Rise of Gru. I’m still surprised by his hairless head, with his four-inch, sutured incision that is raw and intimidating.

He turned 16 less than three weeks ago and it was only last Saturday, a mere eight days ago, that he drove us to New Britain, so we could indulge in some Polish food, after which we went to Bass Pro Shop so he could buy his first “good” fishing pole. Eight days ago, we were blissfully ignorant to all the things that can befall someone at any time. Not that we’re strangers to those things that can befall someone; I feel that our family has had more than its fair share. But, in those quiet moments in between Disaster-with-a-capital-D, we all fall into that space…the taking for granted, the unappreciative, the oblivious. What a glorious place that is to be.

It was only Monday afternoon, six days ago, that it all started for real. Liam had been having frequent headaches and nausea for the prior week (though, in hindsight, it was much longer than just a week), and we made the connection that it might be a concussion from some trampoline shenanigans that had happened the week prior…the typical bumps and bruises that happen all the time with healthy, head-cracking boys. What we assumed would be an overreaction trip to the ER transitioned to an admission to the ICU at the Children’s Hospital, with the words “brain tumor” piercing the blissful bubble we get to live in when we have healthy children.

Yet today, Liam is here on my couch, watching a movie. And in those 5 ½ days in between? He was in the ICU where they were worried about the potential for seizures, had a craniotomy and removal of a sizeable brain tumor, got confirmation that the entire tumor was removed, and got the additional news that the tumor was, gloriously, benign. In spite of having had BRAIN SURGERY on Thursday, he was released from the hospital this morning (Sunday) and is at home. He walks, he talks, he can do math, he has his sense of humor, he looks like himself – minus that missing mop of hair and the incision. Yet he had a four-hour brain surgery three days ago, coupled with an intimate look at his own mortality, all at the tender age of barely-16. From healthy, to the unknown, to surgery and recovery, to the best news imaginable…all at a breakneck pace that seems unfathomable. Sometimes, it’s not a sprint, but a marathon. And, sometimes, it’s just a sprint. While this week felt like 100 years long, it was also like the blink of an eye. Time is so strange like this.

As Liam’s mom, I could not be prouder of how Liam handled this unsettling week. As someone who has had her own medical nightmare and consciously tried to set the example for dealing with hard things with grace, I also could not be prouder of Liam. I’ve said these words out loud at least a dozen times over the last week, but I can’t ever say them enough. Watching him, and watching the grace and the bravery with which he faced the unfair and terrifying things he had to endure, gave a glimpse into the man he is growing to be. And my heart bursts – with love, with pride, with awe – at this preview. People have often said over the years, “You’ve raised great kids,” to which I always say, “We’ll know for sure when they’re self-supporting, functioning adults.” And while that is always the ultimate goal (and we’ve got some years before we get to that point), I feel very comfortable in saying that there are many promising signs that not only will they be self-supporting, functioning adults, they’re also going to be good people.  

I like to find the silver linings. They are always there, even in the darkest of times, and somehow help me cope with the things that don’t seem right. In a conversation last night in the hospital, Liam emotionally acknowledged the perspective that a situation like this provides and, while this isn’t something one ever wishes their 16-year-old to be knowledgeable about, it’s these crap experiences that hopefully make us better, stronger, kinder people for when those other, future Disaster-with-a-capital-D moments befall us. Hardship can feel like a curse in the moment, but it can also be a blessing if we learn something about the preciousness of life, and gratitude and grace, in the process.

The Holocaust survivor, philosopher and author Viktor Frankl wrote in Man’s Search for Meaning that while external events are beyond our control, we do, however, possess total control over our internal attitude and response. Liam’s internal attitude regarding this situation was amazing…not that he wasn’t afraid, but that he was brave in the face of the fear and ready to do what had to be done, without complaint or hesitation. While I want to take some credit for this with how I think I responded to and dealt with my recent health situation, I know that Mike deserves credit, as well…his whole career was a demonstration of doing hard things without thought for self. And so Liam’s internal attitude was amazing and full of strength, and so has been his response. Still not a complaint about the situation, the procedure, or this recovery time that will definitely sideline him for a while from sports and normal life and our trip to Europe in three weeks (Liam told me from the get-go that he still wants me and the kids to go, even though he is unable). Attitude and response… I am blown away by him.

In my weaker moments, sometimes I think we’re the unluckiest people, as we careen from one hardship to the next. But that thought doesn’t last too long, and I instead wonder if we’re actually the luckiest people around, as – somehow – we keep coming out the other side of these things, avoiding the worst. Silver linings…they’re always there. And Liam reminded me of this, this week, in an amazing way. He set the example…while he couldn’t control what happened to him, he absolutely did control his attitude and response, with a composure beyond his years. And, just maybe, came out of it with a gratitude and perspective that will shape him forevermore. Silver linings, indeed.

The Time That Nothing Happened

 One time, years ago, after recounting a story to my cousin about some ridiculousness the family had experienced, she said to me, “Hey…you know what you’ll never be able to say? ‘Remember that time nothing happened?’” We laughed and laughed at her hilarious joke, as I couldn’t possibly fathom a time when I’d ever be able to respond to a “how was” question with an answer like, “It was great…nothing stupid happened!” Well, it’s been years in the making and we were long overdue. Yet, miraculously, for one magical week in November, the Gorreck crew went on vacation and nothing happened.

As a family, we’re known for more than our fair share of mishaps. The bad luck gene originates in the maternal Abell line, as I can remember my Uncle Rob always saying that if it weren’t for bad luck, he’d have no luck at all. I’ve consistently proven this luck sentiment over the years. But what I cannot tell is if I’ve passed this bad luck gene on to the kids, or if they are merely victims of circumstance as they star as supporting actors in my chaos and havoc.

So we went on a cruise for the week of Thanksgiving. After the year we had (truthfully, the last five years), we deserved an opportunity to celebrate life and all we’d overcome. Plus, we’d been so screwed by our two previous 2024 vacations (the one that wasn’t, as I ended up admitted to the hospital two days before our departure, and the other one from which I’ll be permanently scarred…how could you, Canada???) that we deserved something GREAT. I was desperate for a relaxing getaway, except…if you’re a Gorreck, “relaxing” and “getaway” are never words that are adjacent when describing family vacations. When I told the kids that we were going on a trip, Nadia said, “Do you ever learn your lesson?” And that is how the Gorrecks travel...we go somewhere, mayhem ensues, we come home and everyone we know lines up to hear about what went wrong this time, I vow to never go on vacation again, months pass and my conviction waivers, I book a vacation again, and the cycle repeats. What do they say about the definition of insanity???

On departure morning, everyone got up on time(ish), we made it out the door on time(ish), everyone put their luggage in the car (flashback to the time we were halfway between Maryland and North Carolina and Nadia, from the backseat, asked, “Did anyone grab my suitcase from the top of the stairs?” The answer was no). We had a peaceful drive to the airport (no getting lost in Manhattan at rush hour on a weekday morning), we breezed through TSA, boarded the under-booked plane and had whole seat rows to ourselves (no sitting next to an adult woman with a thumb-sucking habit, no flatulent seatmates). We did experience a bit of turbulence, but Nadia has thankfully outgrown the stage when she shouted, “Weeeeeee! We’re going down!!!” during turbulence on a flight to Jamaica when she was two. We got to Tampa, called a Lyft and made it to the cruise terminal with ease. We got there early (the Gorrecks get nowhere early!!), checked in and headed straight to our rooms (the keys all worked, there were no squatters already in our room who needed to be evicted). The day couldn’t have gone smoother…which implied the other shoe was getting ready to drop, we just had to prepare ourselves for where and when and on whom. We live in constant paranoia, based on real life experience.

The ship set sail, we went to four ports in three countries and we did exactly what we were expecting to do in all of the ports. We didn’t die during the cave snorkeling, we swam in the cenotes, we didn’t die ziplining (I set the bar for success this low so that it’s more achievable…I am NOT a woman of high standards), we didn’t die reef snorkeling, we ate some iguana and didn’t choke on a tiny bone, some of us got to see Mayan ruins or went on a river safari or swam with sharks and rays (again, didn’t die!). Declan wasn’t hobbling around on a cane like he was in Greece, we didn’t make any tour guides cry (it wasn’t directly our fault...that poor lady), nobody wandered off and got lost (see: Busch Gardens, 2019), and there were no international incidents or police reports in foreign languages. Yes, all of these things happen to us in various states or countries or international waters. We enjoyed the offerings of the cruise ship, but not too much, and there were zero nights when anyone had to search for a missing teenager for hours, fearing the worst. There were also no “EMERGENCY!” texts revolving around a toilet issue that ended with two repairmen, dressed in hazmat suits and rubber boots, replacing the toilet pipes in our bathroom (trust me when I say: this is the PG, for-public version). We made it back to Florida, where no major hurricane was waiting for us (yeah, I’m talking to you, Ian!), we caught up with my delightful nephew and his fiancée there, and made it back to CT, all without issue. I bought travel insurance, and didn’t even have to use it…what a waste!! Is this how normal people go through life???

The trip wasn’t completely uneventful…I did get bitten in the eyebrow by a monkey, but I’d signed a waiver that included language like “Animals are unpredictable and interactions can result in bodily harm or death,” so that’s on me. And in the first five minutes of the first tour we went on, my sandal strap broke and the sandal kept flying off my foot for the rest of the day. This obviously wasn’t a major incident and proved to be entertainment for the family. Liam packed insanely lightly and had clothes for about three days so there was constant handwashing occurring. And one of us (who’d prefer anonymity) got a case of Montezuma’s Revenge that began once we were home and lasted a very long time. But I’m not complaining….I think these are the mishaps that normal families have.

Ironically, even though it was a great vacation, the end result is the same….with threats and promises that we’re never going on vacation again. And this time, I mean it. Now that I know how normal families vacation, there is NO WAY I’m risking ruining this amazing experience and going back to the ‘Gorreck normal.’ I never imagined that this is how the time that nothing happened would end (please check back in a few months to see if I caved and booked another vacation....to be continued??).

Acute Promyelocytic Leukemia - a Retrospective

As I approach my one-year cancer-versary, I’ve been feeling a need to reflect on the time and to wrap up the story, to record something profound about having cancer or learning from cancer or something to make it all make sense. It feels like an unfinished chapter in the book of my life, and I need to find the appropriate words to complete this chapter.  

What is having cancer like, one might wonder. Here’s the physical aspect: Since December 8, 2023, I’ve spent 45 days in the hospital (stay #1 was 42 days, stay #2 was 3 days). I’ve made almost 100 trips back and forth, to and from Hartford Hospital (one!!! more to go). I’ve been infused with more than 100 doses of arsenic trioxide, which is one of the most toxic forms of arsenic, the toxin most commonly recognized from the 1944 film Arsenic and Old Lace. There have been two bone marrow biopsies, a pic-line placement, a mid-line placement (which I was awake for…this was an experience), and a port placement. There have been collapsing veins, blood clots, echocardiograms, ultrasounds, dozens of EKGs, dozens of lab draws, multiple transfusions of blood, platelets, precipitate and plasma (I totally appreciate a vampire’s bloodlust in a way I never did before). There was an episode of potential liver failure, which ruined the family vacation as I was hospitalized the day before we were supposed to leave for the Bahamas. There was near-baldness, mouth sores that were one of the most painful things I’ve experienced, and the port still in my chest that feels like a Mento just beneath my skin, serving as a daily reminder of the things my body has gone through.

My four doses of chemo in the earliest days arrived in a heavy black suitcase, with a skull and crossbones on the case. There was a nuclear stress test in which a tiny portion of radioactive material was injected into my bloodstream. The syringe with the nuclear material was in a heavy metal box and the nurse had to wear protective gear similar to a heavy-duty x-ray shield. The doses of arsenic also required the nurses to suit up, wear gloves and a mask, with the requirement of placing the empty infusion bag – after the arsenic flowed into my body for an hour each visit - in a special garbage can, also with a skull and bones on it. I’m reminded of my cure’s toxicity every day. Who knew that arsenic, a naturally occurring poison that is also used in pesticides, herbicides and insecticides, just so happens to be the “miracle cure” for exactly one type of cancer?

What is it like, mentally and emotionally, to have cancer? I was devastated to receive the news at a walk-in clinic on a Friday night in December and, in hindsight, I think I went into shock, where I remained for several months. I was afraid sometimes but, most of the time, I thought I’d be okay. I was in the ICU for 11 days and I honestly don’t remember a lot of that time. Mike’s, the kids’, and my siblings’ faces revealed to me their fears. While I did feel awful, I don’t think I realized how sick I really was until about a month or more into my hospital stay. On a particular visit from the oncologist as my labs started to reveal that I had “turned a corner,” she told me how much sleep she’d lost over me and my case and how, based on better lab showings, she was finally able to relax a little.

After I got out of the hospital, I was just exhausted – physically spent from all my body (and mind) had endured the previous six weeks. I took A LOT of naps and largely tried to proceed as normal. I went to the kids’ sports games, I worked from home part-time and eventually went back to the office part-time in my off cycles of treatment. I planned a Canadian vacation (during which our car was stolen…I’ve never been known for my luck). I painted a couple rooms in the house, did some yardwork. Get cancer and carry on…that was my motto. During the recovery, I also remembered how to feel again.

This part is all a little more complicated. Due to a variety of personal and familial traumas between 2019 and 2023, I became emotionally catatonic around 2021, completely depleted of tears and feelings. I kept on keeping on, grateful to get through each day. And so I approached cancer, matter-of-factly, the same way…this cancer business was just one more crisis to deal with, amongst my many other crises, which had been occurring sometimes consecutively and sometimes concurrently. Upon diagnosis, one of the first things I said was, “If my regular life hasn’t killed me, cancer doesn’t stand a chance.” In hindsight, I have to wonder if my “regular life” and the stress and frequent misery wasn’t a contributing cause of the cancer. Perhaps my “regular life” was, indeed, going to kill me. But my emotional paralysis was probably a blessing in that it helped me stay rational to get through CANCER. There were, of course, fleeting moments when I would think of the possibility of not being around to see my kids finish growing up…I tear up now as I type this. But, as a whole, especially after the earliest days, I was pretty sure I would be okay. I don’t necessarily think it’s mind over matter, but I also don’t think that the mind isn’t a part of the process.

I’ve decided over time that the cancer was a blessing. Those years of preceding family trauma came to a head at this exact time (whether directly or indirectly because of the cancer), and the elusive ‘breaking point’ was finally found. And when things broke, they broke dramatically. But it was this “breaking” that finally, eventually, allowed the rebuilding process to begin. I don’t know definitively if the cancer contributed to the breaking, but I do believe that the cancer played a role in the fixing and rebuilding. So I’ve chosen to be grateful to and for the cancer for being a major player in this situation. If cancer contributed to ‘the fix,’ then it was all worth it and I’d do it all over again.

My girl, Grace, is named Grace because of a woman I met at the age of 19 (she was 39), who died of cancer when I was 21 (she was 41). Gail was an amazing and funny and kind and strong woman who battled multiple cancers during the two brief years I was fortunate to know her. She was a fast friend and she took me in to her family and her life. She had a husband I adored and a 9-year-old son, for whom my heart broke. Gail lived her life – and, more importantly, her disease – with such grace, that I knew if I someday had a daughter, she would be named Grace, to honor Gail and all she taught me about humility and hope and strength and grace. I still choke up, 26 years later, when I think of my beautiful friend.

Have I changed? Probably. I’m probably a little more able (on my good days) to let the small stuff go. I’m probably a little more aware of the preciousness of each day, though I’d always been conscious of the fragility of life and time and the lack thereof. I’m probably a little more inclined to not put the important things off until later, just in case there isn’t a later. I’m probably better at saying “I love you” more frequently than I did before.

I tried to follow in Gail’s footsteps and be positive throughout, be a compliant patient, and, so importantly, to have patience. I tried not to complain, which was fairly easy as I watched several of the other patients on the floor be there one day and not the next (they were not discharged; they lost their fight). Even though my situation wasn’t ideal, I tried to remind myself that there’s always something worse. I tried to set an example for my kids like Gail set for me, that it’s possible to deal with some incredibly heavy stuff while also keeping a sense of humor and being kind and not wallowing in misery. I tried. Every day, I tried. Which is all any of us can do every day, in any situation – good or otherwise. I tried to be a good person. Tried to stay positive. Tried to be grateful. Tried to live with grace. Tried to find the “good” in a crap situation. Tried...still trying...to make it all make sense.

I think that's it. This is really all I know. No matter the situation, the only way through it is through it. Keep going. Try.

An Ode to the Looney Tunes, part 2 of 4

Almost a decade ago, I wrote the first of what was supposed to be a four-part series of letters to my kids, explaining why each of them was my favorite. Inspired by Erma Bombeck many years ago, I wrote the first entry about Nadia. Somehow, nine+ years and a whole lot of life passed, and I never wrote the other three. 

It’s been an especially emotional year or so, as I have watched my Grace - nicknamed over the years as Butterbean, KungFu Grace, my little flowerpot, and, more recently, Beast - grow into a strong, capable and confident young woman. Over this last year, she has completed a series of “lasts”…her last season of playing volleyball, her last year of high school, and all the culminating things that go with them…before a whole new series of “firsts,” as she heads off to college and begins a new life that I won’t be a part of every day, that I won’t be able to watch her settle in to or to thrive in. As we continuously near Grace’s move-in date in a week, my heart breaks a little more each day.

As I was at the grocery store with Grace last weekend, I was observing my 5’7”, physically fit and strong girl stocking up on toiletries and medicines to take with her, enamored with the image of who she has become, so far. And then, around the corner came a woman pushing a shopping cart with a little blonde girl in the seat, kicking her tiny, sandaled feet, back and forth, back and forth. All I could see in that moment was a 16-year-old memory, of me pushing a shopping cart with a 2-year-old Grace in the cart seat. I could see her superfine, blonde hair falling out of her little flowered barrette, I could see her little painted toenails, and her one crooked little toe, in her white velcro sandals with a butterfly on them. In that moment, I felt my heart seize and a giant lump lodged in my throat. I felt tears filling my eyes and tried to fight them back so as to avoid a grocery store scene in the HABA aisle. As I told this story to someone the following day, I burst into tears and sobbed for many minutes, admitting the ugly truth over how much I will miss my girl. 

So, this is part two of my four love letters, dedicated to my firstborn. 

Dear Grace, 

I love you the most because you were/are such an easy kid to parent that you gave me the confidence to have more kids, since I thought Dad and I were just super-amazing parents, based on how well you slept as a baby and how well you ate, and how good you were at cleaning up your toys. Little did I know how much nature - not nurture - played a role in your “easiness,” but now that’s something else I’ve come to love and appreciate about you, as well… the general “goodness” that you were born with.  

I love you for your bravery. I still remember the day we took you to Eisenhower Elementary in Junction City, KS, for your first day at your new school, halfway through your kindergarten year. You were so shy and quiet back then, and I was terrified for you as we stood there in the office, introducing ourselves to Ms. Linda and Ms. Patty. They offered for us to walk down with you to your new classroom, but you said no. You said your goodbyes to us, stoically, and went with them down the hall to your new classroom. I remember standing in the hall, watching you walk down the long corridor, and how I cried in fear and nervousness for your transition. You walked down that hallway and never once turned and looked back. You were all of five years old, and you never looked back for a glimpse of us, or to reassure yourself or us. You just steeled yourself and did it, and I marveled at that brave girl, as I stood in the midst of my weepy puddle. This was the first time of many when you’ve steeled yourself for hard things and just done them, with a brave face and no complaints. 

I love you for your wisdom. Sometimes I need a straight answer about something dicey, and I will consult you because I respect your opinion and your willingness to speak truth, even if it’s not what I want to hear. Thank you for that. 

I love you for your humor. You are so sharp-witted and sharp-tongued and funny, and you challenge me to raise my game to be smarter, to be funnier, to be quicker with a zing (having a battle of wits with you is so fun!). I love the relationship we have, centered around this humor… so much of our relationship is based on teasing me, throwing me under the bus (or potentially into a jail cell) or threatening occasional violence upon me (most recently, at Six Flags, when you lovingly told me that if fear of the ride didn’t kill me, you would), but I love that we can laugh and have fun, and I am completely content to be the source of the mockery. Occasionally, I get to repay the favor (see: the rumor about your prolific yodeling). 

I love you for the great friends you’ve chosen and have brought into our lives over the years. This morning, when asked where you were going as you walked out the door, you said, "To unicycle with Grace." Keep choosing people like you have so far, your instincts are good. 

I love you for the “possibility” you inspire - your work ethic and determination imply that you will accomplish whatever you decide to do, and I can’t wait to watch you as you figure out what you want to be and do in life. And while the house will be so empty without you, I'm so excited for you to spread your wings and fly, even though you have to leave the nest to do so. Go soar, my Love. 

The Changing of Seasons (Tread Softly)

I’ve heard from a few of my six loyal blog-followers that it’s been too long since a post. They miss the hilarious mom I once was, raising four little kids, chronicling the daily ridiculousness that comes with parenting a tiny army of people made in my own image. Well, that…coupled with my own unique, lifelong ability to attract/stumble into shenanigans at a rate far greater than most of the general public (many of these episodes occurring through absolutely NO fault of my own). Ahhh…that mom. I miss her, too. While she was often hanging on by some invisible thread, she was always at all the kids’ events, she played outside with them, she cooked actual dinners that even included vegetables, she hosted the neighborhood kids and was sometimes confused with a daycare center (true story…there were THAT many kids at our house all the time!!), she always planned fun stuff and weekend events, she knew where all her vacuum attachments were, and she would sometimes chronicle thoughtful, funny musings about everyday life with the kids. She was a hell of a gal (or so she likes to think). 

Yet time passes. And kids grow. And family dynamics - and life - change. When I used to lament about wanting the kids to hurry up and grow up so they could cut their own meat and have the survival instinct of looking both ways when they crossed a street, there was always some older, wiser person who would warn me of the same things: Be careful what you wish for. Bigger kids mean bigger problems. You’ll miss this someday. And all of these statements prove true every day. I miss those sweet peanuts who loved me so much that I could cure almost any of their sorrows with a hug. I miss those sweet peanuts who were always in my presence to keep safe at all times. If only a hug was still a magic elixir. If only they even let me hug them. If only I could protect them all the time. If only I appreciated those days more. If only….

Somehow, I’m a lot less funny than I used to be, and so is life, in general. Life is evolution. And seasons change, both literally and figuratively. What was once a humorous observation of a particular moment is now observed through a much wider lens, for a bigger picture look. We were once the growing kids that our parents panicked about when we rode our bikes out of sight. We were once the teenagers our parents feared for when we were out past curfew, probably doing something stupid. We are (or were) all someone’s kids, and our parents surely felt the same way we do now, as they watched our evolution from little kids with little problems, to the bigger kids we are now with our much-bigger problems. I hope that continuously getting older doesn’t mean that our problems will continue to grow, because these middle-aged problems are pretty freaking horrifying and totally suck. 

Maybe we’re broken-hearted for our kids’ struggles (and, of course, their struggles are our struggles, since our fates and happiness are permanently intertwined, like roots). Maybe we’re broken-hearted for our aging parents’ struggles (if we’re lucky enough to still have parents), or we mourn our status as adult orphans and our loss of time to fix damaged relationships (again, those tangled roots…). Maybe we are looking at the sheer carnage that may be affecting our friends’ lives - whether it’s the shocking and premature loss of people we love; maybe it’s a cancer or another health diagnosis for someone too young and too full of life; maybe it’s the dissolution of a family through divorce; maybe it’s financial devastation of a health diagnosis or loss of a job. And, worse still, maybe this carnage hits even closer to home and to our hearts, maybe it’s our carnage. Maybe it’s our illness, or our child’s illness, or our own divorce, maybe it’s more than one thing, sometimes it may even feel like all the things, at the same time. Bigger kids, bigger problems indeed.

Nothing funny here at all, at least on some of the days. There’s a line in a poem I’ve always loved: “I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.”* As these seasons of life change, and times fluctuate between good and manageable and difficult and what feels like impossible, I hang on to and have to remind myself to tread softly, both with myself (why is this always so difficult?) and those with whom I encounter. Sometimes we all need this reminder: Tread softly because we never know what someone else is going though. And if someone you know and love is currently smiling, still tread softly, as many people continue to smile even though they’re facing something insurmountable. And if someone you don’t really know that well is a complete and total asshole, still tread softly (this is the most challenging one of all) and try to give the benefit of the doubt…maybe they’re going through something we can’t begin to imagine. Tread softly in this life that is laden with trip wires. If it’s not currently our turn to be caught in the crosshairs of life, be grateful! But tread softly on those around you because, inevitably, we will, eventually, all have our turn(s). Whatever it is, whenever it comes, may we all come out on the other side, mostly intact, with a greater ability to tread softly for/on others. 

* W.B. Yeats, “Aedh Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven” (old Journalism majors never die, but they do forget how to properly cite after enough years)

Celebrating Survival

I recently was discussing with someone how they were going to celebrate their upcoming birthday, and they said, “What in the last year is worth celebrating?” As background, this person has gone through so much personal hardship in the last year - a year that was already so full of hardship due to a pandemic that has altered life for most everyone, in most every way possible, and in a time of political vitriol that has stirred so much anxiety in so many. I was heartbroken at the despair in their statement, at the evident sorrow in their heart. Yet I’d said the exact same thing at my birthday, almost two months ago. In the midst of a very difficult personal time, my birthday had the audacity to happen, again. And I was so disengaged, due to life circumstances, that I didn’t want acknowledgement or any kind of “celebration” of a life that felt almost impossible to manage. I just wanted to bury my head in the sand and get through the annual milestone day meant to celebrate Life. 

Yet as soon as I heard them say what they said, I immediately fell into “there’s always something to be grateful for” mode, and parsed out things like, “Then celebrate the coming year, which will inevitably be better!” and, “Last year is OVER, and you survived!” To which they responded, “I don’t want to celebrate ‘just surviving.’” In their mind, survival is a given…something that happens ‘effortlessly,’ as long as the heart keeps beating, and is nothing that we might deserve any credit or congratulations for. But the truth is, survival is indeed something to celebrate - both celebrating our body, for being healthy enough to keep functioning, as well as ourselves, for mentally not giving up and for being strong enough to keep facing the hard things, and to keep on keeping on, day after difficult day. We rarely give ourselves enough credit, and this is a statement that applies to most everyone, in most every situation, everywhere. 

This is not a newsflash…this last year has been hard. Everyone knows all the external things (macro-level) that have been hard. And then there’s everyone’s specific life (micro-level), which comes with its own challenges. Everyone has been dealing with A LOT - both in the external world and in our own internal world - and some people have been dealing with EVEN MORE. And we feel bad, because sometimes there’s so much to feel bad about, and then we feel bad that we feel bad and beat ourselves up even more. It is a relentless and unforgiving circle.

Anyone who knows me knows that I don’t often (or ever) quote Scripture, but I often say out loud that I just wish everyone would be FRICKIN’ NICE to each other, which probably originates from the commandment, “Love your neighbor as yourself.”  And it’s absolutely true…life would be so much easier if we were all nice to our ‘neighbors’ - not just our literal neighbors, but our figurative, ‘fellow human being’ neighbors. And I do love my neighbors. I always try to think of someone’s background and how that affects their current situation. I will stop to help a stranger, say kind things to people I don’t know. I hope I am a decent friend. I like to think that I encourage people, and don’t judge them, and tell people that they’re doing the best they can. I like to think I’m kind and sympathetic. I like to think I encourage people to forgive others and themselves. I give unasked-for hugs whenever they are merited/needed/deserved (less so right now, unfortunately). 

But I definitely should NOT love my neighbors as I love myself, because - like the person with the birthday - I, too, am fairly brutal on myself. I dwell on my shortcomings and ways I haven’t been who I should’ve been. I regret having done or said things. I blame myself for things that possibly weren’t even my fault. I judge myself and hold self-grudges. Quite frankly, I treat myself like shit. What I really should be doing is loving myself as I love my neighbors, and I know this a true statement for far more people than just me. As a society, we are trying to develop a culture of kindness where we teach our children to embrace kindness and compassion for others, yet we fail - so often - to do the same things with ourselves. I would never talk to a friend the way I talk to myself, and I wish I treated myself as I’d treat a friend. I am my own worst bully, if I’m being honest. 

Which brings me back to the statement from the upcoming-birthday-person…the “I don’t want to celebrate just surviving” statement. I say this to that person, and to myself, and to anyone who needs to hear it: 
’Just surviving’…YOUR survival…is worth celebrating. It is a gift to you that may be hard to see in hard times. There is so much ahead for you that has nothing to do with your life right now, and those things will be wonderful and you will feel joy. Your survival is also a gift to those who love you. You bring joy, even in hard times, to others…through who you are, and your humor, and your strength. Your life is worth celebrating…not just on your birthday, but on every single day. 
Treat yourself as you would treat a friend. Offer yourself the same understanding that you would offer a friend in the same situation. Be kind to yourself. Forgive yourself. Know that you are doing the best you can. Know that you are loved, and worth loving. Know that hard times won’t always be the way. Know that you will emerge from this stronger and more compassionate and better. Know that you are not alone.
Every breath is worth celebrating. Your survival is worth celebrating. Love yourself as your neighbor. You are MY ‘neighbor’ and I love you with all my heart. Love yourself like that. Even in hard times. 

The Best Medicine

Good things about the coronavirus pandemic: things everywhere are much cleaner than they’ve ever been (excluding my personal residence, because kids are home full-time). Our family schedule has freed up (even though we can’t actually go anywhere to do anything). I can get a parking place at the coffee shop WITH EASE every morning (woo-FREAKING-hoo!). There’s so much less traffic on the roads (although…why am I even out of the house???). And thanks to no school and working from home, I played Monopoly with 13-year-old Nadia today, and she said she developed a nine-pack (!! that’s 1.5 times more than a six-pack!) from laughing so hard. Moments like this, where any kid has an enjoyable time with me, much less 13-year-old Nadia, are few and far between. I feel like a selfish ass when I say this, but if it takes a freaking global pandemic and societal shutdown to inspire an hour where my kid LIKES me, then bring on MORE global pandemics and societal shutdowns! 

As soon as I typed that, I knew it was wrong. As is sometimes the case in this thing called Parenting and Life, common sense kicks in, and I remember that there’s far more bad than good with this pandemic. There’s the whole economic turmoil as the stock market is on what makes Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride seems like a leisurely, Sunday drive in the counrtyside. People are out of work as businesses shutter. Grocery stores are empty of protein and dairy and bread (NOT talking about TP, nor am I going to talk about the peculiar frozen meat product that went into our dinner tonight that had the texture of tofu and the flavor of burnt hot dog, yet was somehow labelled as “chicken”). Schools are closed (dear God…someone please help me!) and I’m supposed to be home-schooling (math: A bottle of wine costs $11.99. When you buy 6, you get 10 percent off. Calculate the total of 24 bottles, plus sales tax at 6.375 percent). Then, of couse, there’s the fact that America has gone toilet-paper crazy (seriously, I was in a bathroom at the mall this weekend and ALL the stalls were empty of toilet paper, which I think had been STOLEN!). And then there are the quarantined, the sick, and the deceased. Nothing. Good. Here. Nothing to even justify the 13-year-old who laughed so hard she got extra abs.  

Personally, 2019 sucked, in epic proportions. My family went through some serious crap, and the days were dark, and many, and long. I kept going through the motions, because that’s what we do when we don’t have the luxury of throwing in the towel, giving up, and retreating to a dark place with a cat, a bottle of vodka, and a fuzzy blanket. For a while, and sometimes still, I thought that I lost my sense of humor. I couldn’t find the humor in things and, as I realized, if you can’t laugh at shit, it’s really hard to get through a day. And if I’m being completely honest, I know I’m not the same as I was. I’m still navigating it all…the boat hasn’t sunk, but the water is still choppy. Sometimes land is in sight, sometimes I can’t see it. I’d been so anxious for a return to “normalcy” (whatever that is) over the last year, and - a month or two ago - thought that’s where things were headed. And then…the pandemic. 

A little perspective never hurts. I am healthy(ish), the family is healthy, and we’re likely to emerge from this all unscathed. Though my business is definitely affected, I still have a job and I know that we’re going to have a roof over our heads at the end of this, and everyone is going to have food to eat (although it may be called chicken, but taste like tofu meets hot dog). There’s an excellent chance that I’m not going to run out of toilet paper, in spite of not having overbought, because there’s a million-pack at work, double-ply, and I can make those rolls last a really, really long time, if necessary. 

There’s plenty to be scared of every day, but I’m approaching this pandemic, at this point, with a sense of humor because I’ve learned over the years - and this past year more than any other year - that finding the humor in things is one of the best ways to get through things, even when nothing is funny. If the choice is laughter or tears, choose laughter. Or tears from laughing too hard. 

One Hilarious Mother*#!

I always tell my kids that I am freaking HILARIOUS, because I am not always sure that they know. It’s not that I am quietly funny, like Mike, or secretively funny to a select few….I’m not shy and I make no efforts to hide how hilarious I am. All day long, I am doing hilarious things, throwing out zingers, and just waiting for the world to laugh. It’s part of who I am…trying to lighten the mood of LIFE (all capitals, because LIFE is no joke, and it’s a freaking SERIOUS business that often needs levity). So I am goofy and full of shenanigans and I have a pretty sharp wit, because I feel that that is a necessary component of living….to lighten the mood and to be an antidote to the very serious business of BEING ALIVE. I am willing to provide that levity and am pretty much impervious to embarrassment. I am all about having a good time and living in the moment, because life is hard and life is short, and you might as well just enjoy it and try to lighten it for others along the way. 

Having said all that….I am also a parent to 12- and 14-year-old girls. Which means I have a constant audience of people who don’t think I am funny. AT ALL. IN ANY CAPACITY. Which is tragic, because…seriously…I am freaking hilarious. Take, for example, what happened yesterday.  Grace (the 14-year-old) and I went to purchase new glasses for her. The optician handed me two forms…one was a basic info form, which I passed to Grace to fill out. The other form was more of the same, but with a few different questions, which I took to fill out. One of the questions was “What do you like to do in your spare time?” A bit about Grace…she is an easy kid to raise, gets good grades, and gives us minimal grief. But I couldn’t help myself and wrote “kung fu” as her hobby because, whenever I try to hug Grace (she’s allergic to affection), she physically defends herself from my love, often with a defensive posture and possibly a kick. I recently nicknamed her Kung Fu Grace and have plans in my head for a children’s book series about a girl named Kung Fu Grace and her cat, Hairy Houdini, who may or may not be based on Grace and her actual cat, who is about the worst cat in the history of cats. She dislikes the nickname, so I continue to call her Kung Fu Grace, because I have so few methods of revenge. So when my giggling gave me away, she promptly checked to see what I’d written, gave me a disgusted look, threatened me with a kick, and scratched out her Kung Fu hobby. I let it slide, knowing that I would eventually find an opportunity to write a new hobby in the blank. I bided my time, until she was no longer looking and the opportunity arose for me to write “yodeling” as her hobby. I successfully handed the questionnaire to the optician, and promptly told Grace about how I’d written “yodeling” as her hobby. For the record, Grace does NOT yodel. Needless to say, Grace saw NO humor in what I’d done, but I am still giggling about it, more than 24 hours later. Like I said….I am freaking hilarious. 

Sadly, most of my humor is lost on my 12 and 14-year-old girls, no matter what I come up with. Cerebral comedy, physical humor…doesn’t matter. When you’re 12 or 14 and you’re mother is the comedian, it’s just not funny. Because mothers aren’t funny. They’re embarrassing, out of touch, old….but never funny. My 7 and 8-year-old boys find me slightly funnier than the girls do, but not by much. Sadly, the girls have poisoned the boys against my humor, and I may never be appreciated in my time. It’s the curse of being a mom. Or, more specifically, the curse of being a hilarious mom.

Yet I persist. It’s what funny people do. We carry on with the shenanigans, even when the audience isn’t laughing. Even if no one (in my family) finds me funny, I keep myself laughing, which is NOT an easy thing to do. Being a parent of four is NO. LAUGHING. MATTER. Seriously. I’m just warning you, in the event you’re a parent and not already at the point in your parenting career when there is NO LAUGHTER. Prepare yourself, and have a prescription handy (because one or some of you are going to need it). Sometimes I think the secret to surviving it all is the ability to keep laughing, even when the days are impossible and there’s no reason to laugh. Just keep searching for a reason to laugh. Search out the ridiculous and the silly. Find something in the day that makes you giggle. Because these days are freaking hard. And sometimes the silly laughs are all there is to get you through to the next day. And if the laughs come at the sake of mortifying your kid, so be it. I’m sure they deserve it for some injustice they inflicted on you. 

Don’t forget…they’ve embarrassed you countless times over the years, too, whether it was when they told Dad that “Mom got pulled over…again!” or when they told their pre-school teacher that mom’s favorite juice is wine. It all evens out in the end, and maybe…just maybe…they’ll be lucky enough to grow up to be one hilarious mother, too.

Time as Related to Place

Great novels start with lines like, Call me Ishmael. Mediocre blogs start with lines like…

Call me Sophia Petrillo. When I tell a story, I like to set it up Sophia-style. “Picture it…a pay toilet in Boleslawiec, Poland, 2001.” Or, “Picture it…the breakdown lane of I-70 in Richmond, Indiana, 2014.” Or, “Picture it…the Yakov Smirnoff Comedy Club in Branson, Missouri, 1999.”  For the last 20 years, my memory has been structured geographically. When I need to figure out when something happened, I determine where we lived at the time, and then I determine if the event happened early on, in the middle of, or late in our stay….calculations, tabulations, carry the one, and voila!…the year of the memory! 

Give me an event from the last two decades…the Japanese tsunami? I know that happened on March 12, 2011, for two reasons…it happened on my brother-in-law’s birthday and it happened right after we moved to Junction City, KS (arrival date: 12/31/2010, so that puts that year as 2011). When did Michael Jackson die? I watched the news of that event in our Fort Leavenworth, KS, living room, and we lived in that house from November 2008 until Dec 2009. It was warm out, so that means Michael Jackson died in summer 2009.  Columbine? I was glued to the news from our living room in Jacksonville, AL. It was spring and the only spring we lived there was 1999, so Columbine happened in April 1999. When my brother from Florida came to visit? That’d be October 2007, which I remember because it was at the West Point, NY, house (where we lived from July 2007 until November 2008), and it was the first time I needed to turn the heat on (the heat, of course, didn’t work and my Floridian brother’s family nearly froze to death as the temperature inside dropped to a brisk 54 degrees). I can remember when babies were born, when people we knew passed on, when friends got divorced or married, all based on the memory of the house in which I heard the news. 

In general, my memory is not the best. What happened yesterday? Ummm….not sure. Whether it’s short-term or long-term memory, I have a fairly serious case of CRS (while likely not found in any medical literature, Can’t Remember Shit affects a LOT of people, though I forget how many exactly). Some people might brag that their mind is like a steel trap, but I think of my mind as more of a colander…a porous device with many holes through which information constantly escapes in a steady flow. On the positive note, I keep finding my way home every day, so that’s the good news. 

Currently, my brain is in a stage of complete and total Information Overload, at about 125 percent capacity. If my mind were a school, someone would be positioning portables in the parking lot to hold the overflow. On a good day, I have a lot going on. Right now, as we are attempting to transition from Army life to the “normal people” life I never quite believed we’d ever reach, we are neck-deep in extra stuff to think about, worry about, and remember to do. I’m thinking about and trying to remember the myriad of things we need to do in our current house, in our next house, for the kids, for us. I also feel like I should be Christmas shopping already, since things are going to get really busy really soon and stay that way for several months. But one of the most random things I’m thinking and worrying about is how I’m going to remember stuff once we’re settled, living that “normal people” life I’ve only imagined.

How, exactly, will I remember when things happen when we live in the same place for a long time? How will I remember when stuff happens when our living room will always have the furniture arranged the same way? Will one year look like another year and another? How will I know when *random kid*  had their wisdom teeth removed? How will I know when *whoever* broke their tibia? How will I know when we put new tires on the car? When your life is Settled and Stable, how do you know when anything happened? Or, when your life is Settled and Stable, is it easier to keep track of things? Or, is the concept of Settled and Stable a myth, in the same family as the chupacabra and Siblings Who Get Along?

After contemplating this for the last 770 words, I’ve decided that, in the grand scheme of things, the important part of life is having made memories, and the memory’s place in time is only the concern of those suffering from type-A tendencies (guilty). It probably doesn’t matter when things happen; it’s more important to be living life in a way that things are actually happening. And the past 20 years have been pretty full of happenings, for better or worse, as Mike has undertaken a career of service to our nation, and the kids and I have hung on for dear life during the ride. As this chapter in our lives comes to a close, I am grateful for the many places and friends and adventures and memories made along the way, and I look forward to and am hopeful for a future full of more memories. Even if I can never place them in time, as we embark on this new Stable and Settled life.

A Letter to My Children

In 2001, when Mike and I lived in Germany, we had the privilege of attending a 25th wedding anniversary party for our landlords, Henry and Gisela. The party was held at a castle in Kamien Slaski, Poland, near where our landlords were originally from. This was in the region of Silesia, an unlucky area disputed by Germany, Austria and Poland for centuries. About a hundred guests traveled to the party, and many of these guests were of an age and from a place where World War II changed the course of their lives. 

There was a woman who, at the time of the war, was a little girl who's father had been an economist-turned-soldier, who fought and died for his German homeland. After the war, this fatherless child grew up poverty-stricken in a war-destroyed country. There was a couple who now lived in Canada, both of whom had fled their native countries - Hungary and Czechoslovakia. One was orphaned during the war and moved from orphanage to orphanage seeking safety, one had fled from country to country seeking safety with his family. Both had ended up in Canada, where they met and married. There were so many other people there who had been displaced, people who had suffered, people whose lives were forever changed by the circumstances of the politics of the time. The many people we met and the stories they told were almost unbelievable, except that history books prove their truth. It was a formative and humbling experience to meet so many who had been through so much.

During this trip, Mike and I boarded a train and traveled from Wroclaw to Krakow, where we got on a bus and traveled through rolling, sparsely populated countryside to the sleepy town of Oswiecim, home to the Auschwitz-Birkenau concentration camp. Auschwitz was neither the first or the last concentration camp we visited during our years in Germany but it was, however, the most profoundly emotional and horrific place we ever visited.

The Russian forces that liberated Auschwitz recorded finding 350,000 men’s suits, 837,000 women’s garments, and 8.5 TONS (17,000 pounds) of human hair, shaved from the camp’s victims. The camp became a museum in 1947 (in the two post-war years, it fittingly served as a German POW camp), and in the 1950s, an exhibit opened displaying these remnants, stolen from the million+ people exterminated at this one camp. Enshrined in these buildings are rooms full of eyeglasses, mountains of shoes, entire rooms full of infant clothes, and so, so much hair.…all taken from human beings terminated in gas chambers, in ovens, against the brick walls that remain, still full of bullet holes. The horrors still haunt this hallowed ground, the silence deafening, as visitors mentally conjure images of the atrocities that happened here. One person in our group vomited into the dirt, so horrifying is this memorial. 

Hitler’s reign resulted in the deaths of more than six million Jews, but “six million Jews” is too broad, too generic, too simplified. Those “six million Jews” consisted of mothers, fathers, sons, daughters, children, infants, brothers, sisters, grandmothers, and grandfathers. There were also non-Jews, the sick, the mentally ill, homosexuals, gypsies, and those in whatever group Hitler deemed unworthy and expendable. People from many nations, all classes. People who were loved by others. People who became victims as a twisted ideology took root and grew into something horrific that changed the entire world, while claiming tens of millions of lives in the process. 

Our three years in Germany were a constant history lesson. It is with this personal experience that I look to what happened in Charlottesville earlier this week, and wonder where the disconnect is between the white nationalists of today and the truth of the reality of the past. The people who identify themselves as Neo-nazis, or white nationalists, or whatever terms they choose, are clearly incredibly limited in their grasp of history. They say they want to “take America back,” but America has never belonged to any one type of people. The original Americans — the Native Americans — would argue they are perhaps the ones America belongs to. But then came the first foreigners - white Europeans, who stole and enslaved other foreigners — the Africans, who helped build this country on the strength of their whipped backs. Then came generations of more foreigners, fleeing religious persecution, famine, poverty, tyranny. Each new group of immigrants was vilified and loathed by the people who were here before. Yet somehow, so many people have forgotten that every one of us who has white skin came from someone who was once a foreigner. Except for Native Americans, we are all immigrants, some of us more recent, some of us from generations ago. 

While I hold this truth to be self evident, that we are all created equal (and not just Americans, I believe that ALL human beings born ANYwhere are created equal), we are not born into equal circumstance. Because of the color of our skin or our sex or our sexual orientation or the class of our parents or our religion, we will all have differing experiences that will shape our lives and chart our course. Racism exists. Sexism exists. Xenophobia is real. Poverty is its own self-fulfilling problem. I would never presume to assume someone else’s experiences are the same as my own, without having walked a mile in their shoes. 

In short, the intention of this letter is fairly simple: Don’t judge. Love one another.  Tell other people to do the same. Make the world more tolerant, a better place, by your words and actions. If someone is misinformed, try to help them see the light (this will NOT be easy but nothing worthwhile is). Know history. Travel if you have the ability to. Read. To borrow a quote from Ghandi, be the change you wish to see in the world. 

This is Them

They’re your above-average, all-American family. The dad is an internal medicine doctor, the mom a primary care physician. Their three boys are all smarter and funnier than your average kids: the oldest is a soccer-playing, straight-A student who loves to sing, dance and play guitar; the middle and youngest boys are 14 months apart and always together, always being comedians. Grandma, a former architect, lives with them and helps out with the boys, and she’s “always on her phone, playing Candy Crush,” or so says the oldest boy. 

They’re also Muslims. And from Iraq. 

Abdul and Zara met in medical school in 1996 in their hometown of Baghdad. They are Shi’ite, and life under Saddam Hussein and Sunni rule was hard. Each family experienced their own hardships - Zara’s uncle had been killed by the Hussein regime, and Abdul had a cousin who’d been unjustly imprisoned for eight years under Hussein. Without being Sunni, Abdul knew he had no future in Iraq, despite being a doctor. When he finished medical school in 1996, he left the country of his birth — his home — for Jordan, with his parents’ blessings, knowing he would never be able to return.

Zara, six years his junior, stayed in Baghdad to finish medical school, graduating in 2002. During her residency at a hospital in Baghdad, the Americans began their quest to oust Saddam Hussein. “I’d go to the hospital and I’d walk on blood because everyone was dying and there wasn’t enough time to clean it up,” she remembers. “Ever since I was born, there was always war.” She was 25 years old at the time, watching her country disintegrate. 

Zara left Baghdad late in 2003 and joined Abdul in Pittsburgh, where he’d secured a residency in 2000. During their time in Pittsburgh, they welcomed their first child. After residency, Abdul got a job in New Mexico. Obtaining employment wasn’t easy, and Abdul could only apply for a job that had been posted and unfilled for six months, to be sure he wasn’t taking a position away from an American. In New Mexico, they had two more children. Zara took and passed tests in between having babies, and eventually found a residency in Maryland, where the family moved in 2011. 

The process to become legal U.S. citizens was lengthy and expensive, and they earned their citizenship in 2012 after a requisite five-year wait after receiving their green cards. It was official…the entire family were Americans. Over the years, many of their family members left Iraq, settling in the U.S. and Canada. Zara and Abdul always knew there was some anti-Muslim dissent in America, but people were mostly quiet about it. They felt safe here, which is why they’d left their homeland in the first place — for a place where they could have opportunity, be free and feel safe. 

And then Donald Trump came to the forefront of American politics, first as a candidate and then as President. Zara and Abdul, and half of America, watched in alarm as Trump’s following grew and grew, though they never thought he would be elected president. Trump had no filter, but people loved him; he said outrageous things, but people loved it. After the election, Zara hoped that he’d been all talk and that he wouldn’t be nearly as provocative as he’d been on the campaign trail, that he wouldn’t do the things he talked about doing. But, as it turned out, Trump’s doing what he said he’d do. And his supporters love him for it. Zara thinks his election gave people the ‘courage’ to speak their prejudices openly. After all, if the leader of the free world can say it, why shouldn’t they be able to?

While Trump’s travel ban didn’t specifically apply to them because, legally, they are American citizens and hold American passports, they are frightened. They cancelled their trip to the Caribbean over spring break, fearful of what surprise executive order might come while they’re out of the country. Grandma, who is here on a visa, was affected by the travel ban. She had a trip planned to Dubai on February 10 to see the son she hadn’t seen in almost two years. Though the ban is now lifted, she cancelled her trip, fearful of being unable to get back into America, subject to the president’s whims. 

Zara tearfully acknowledges that while she doesn’t worry about herself, she is definitely worried about her children. She says she doesn’t care what people think of her, or her faith, because she knows who she is. But the boys are young and innocent, and she is fearful for their safety — fearful they will encounter hateful people who will say hateful things to them. Some boys at school called her oldest son “ISIS;” and when he found out about the travel ban, he worried whether their family and cousins would ever be able to visit again. 

Zara and Abdul want their children to grow up in the Muslim faith, to be knowledgeable about the language and culture and faith of their ancestors. Abdul recalls the hard times in his own life, when he felt all alone, except for Allah. He knows, statistically, people who have faith are generally happier, more successful, and less likely to turn to drugs, alcohol and suicide. But now Zara worries about sending their kids to the local Islamic Sunday school, a fear legitimized by the recent murders of six Muslims praying in a mosque in Quebec. The shooter was a Canadian, white-Nationalist who admires Trump.  

Emotionally, the election of Trump has taken a toll on Zara. She has less interest in social activities in their mostly white, Anglo neighborhood. Some of her patients and co-workers are outspoken in their admiration of Trump. Since the election, she second-guesses everyone and everything, unsure of how they might feel about her or her religion or where she’s from. 

Abdul is hopeful that the future will be better, but still worries the day will come when he will have to register as a Muslim, submit his phone for monitoring, or wear an identification badge of some sort. He worries that it is within the realm of the president’s powers to strip him and his wife of their citizenship, of what would happen to his American-born children if that happened. He doesn’t know where their family would go; he says he no longer has a country. They have no more family in Iraq; Zara’s father, a cardiologist, was the only one in the family who’d stayed there, in an attempt to help his failing country and countrymen, and he recently died. The family wouldn’t want to go back to Iraq anyway; they left so long ago on a quest for a better life. America has been their home for almost half their lives, and it’s the only home their children have ever known. But Zara says that, if things ever truly became terrible in America, they would leave because “the world is bigger than America.” They left their homes once before and, for the sake of their children, they would do it again, if they had to.

Abdul and Zara still believe in the goodness of America and most of its people. But they are also fearful for their children, in the very land they adopted and that adopted them, in the country that has been their home for so long. Words and actions have consequences, and both the common people and especially those in power need to think of the actual people who are being affected by their policies, implemented without thoughtful analysis…people like Abdul and Zara and their kids, people who are the face of the American dream.

___________________________________________________________________

Abdul’s and Zara’s story is compelling for so many reasons: they are highly educated and fluent in English. They are the neighbors we call when our kid has a cough that makes us nervous; they are our doctors. They are taxpayers who pay more than average; they are our fellow soccer mom and soccer dad. They set a powerful example of courage and hope by sacrificing everything they knew to make a better life for themselves and the children they hoped to someday have.

I know all this about them because I’ve asked them at the bus stop, at neighborhood gatherings, in random conversation. I wanted to know their story because everyone has one, especially those who were born somewhere else. 

Do you know someone who is of the Muslim faith? Do you know someone who left their birthplace in search of a better life? Have you ever talked to them or asked them questions about their background? As a personal plea, I beg you to ask questions every day so that you can put a face to “the Muslims,” to “the immigrants,” to “the gays,” to “the blacks,” to “the women,” or to whoever else happens to be in the group being persecuted. 

Find the individual stories before forming an opinion about the group. The only way to refute a stereotype or to confront a fear is to learn. So I offer to you the story of Abdul and Zara, an all-American family, so similar to my own. Who just so happen to be Muslim, and from Iraq. 

A Titanic Birthday

I just turned 40, so I’ve been doing a lot of rumination and taking stock of my life, so far. I thought I’d craft a witty, insightful blog about how I’m fine with aging (I’m being totally honest…really. That wasn’t even sarcastic! I swear!) and how I embrace getting older/having more life experiences/savoring the wisdom that comes from experience. My basic philosophy is this: age is just a number, and I didn’t turn a year older on my birthday…I was just one day older than I was the day before, which is the same truth as every other day. Then there’s this: the alternative to aging is…well…death, and if I have a choice between getting older or dying, I’m on the side of aging. Hands down.

So I’ve been doing an inventory at this “milestone” of 40 – marriages (one), kids (four), boyfriends that lasted longer than a month (five), houses bought (two), cats (ten), cars (seven), places I’ve lived (12 homes in two countries and six states), births witnessed (six), surgeries (two), countries and states I’ve been pulled over/ticketed in (three and three), roadtrip miles embarked on – alone - with kids (more than 10,000, with kids between infancy and age 10). Yep, that's a lot of living and a lot of adventures, indeed.

In the mental blog I’ve been drafting, I was going to parrot how I’m still no genius, even though I’m so much smarter than I used to be. And that, hopefully, I will grow wiser and better with the years that are hopefully still ahead of me. I wanted to acknowledge the good juju I’ve been feeling these past few weeks…put together, somehow, with a new maturity and sense of peace.  Either my medication has finally kicked in, or I have reached some kind of inner peace. Wow. Forty really is fabulous!

Then, as I was lying in bed last night perusing Facebook, I took one of those quizzes that I think are stupid but still occasionally take, just to reaffirm how stupid they are. The quiz was “Which movie best sums up your life?” I didn’t know if I was headed for Forrest Gump or The Godfather or Napoleon Dynamite, but I was anxious to find out. I thought it might make a good tie-in for the ‘Turning 40’ blog percolating in my mind. And then, twenty-eight questions later, I got my answer. The movie that most resembles my life is….drumroll, please…Titanic.

Titanic?!?!? Are you freaking kidding me, Facebook?!?! My life most resembles Titanic?!?! What is that even supposed to mean?!?! And that’s when my newfound maturity and composure went straight out the window, just like the billions of gallons of water that rushed in Titanic. At the age of 40, according to the renowned social scientist called Facebook, my life most resembles a movie about a sinking ship in which three-fourths of the people involved died in freezing water. How the hell is that supposed to make me feel, as I reach the tender age of 40!?!?!? Thanks for NOTHING, Facebook. Thanks. For. Nothing.

I often joke that I’m up the proverbial creek without a paddle, or that we – as humans – are all in the same boat together…I just didn’t realize that the paddle-less boat was actually Titanic. Am I supposed to be the ship? Am I the vessel that rams the iceberg and tries to stay afloat? In all honesty, that kind of sounds like me. The iceberg is my life. I personally am the ship, and it parallels my life because, like the ship, I’m just trying to stay above water. Yikes. How depressing.

Could I be the heroine, Rose, perhaps? There’s a scene early in the movie where she says to Jack, “I feel like I’m standing in the middle of a crowded room, screaming, and no one hears me.” As a parent of four, I live this statement – both literally and figuratively – every day. Sometimes I am actually screaming (Pick up that meatball! Stop sitting on your brother! Who drilled a hole in the bureau?!? Where are the scissors??) and no one  acknowledges me. Sometimes the screaming happens inside my head and is only visible in my eyes, but I definitely can relate to Rose. Damn you, Facebook…suddenly, I feel less put together, less confident and even slightly doomed.

I definitely couldn’t be Jack. I never win at card games and I can barely draw stick figures. I’ve never even been to Wisconsin. I’m certainly not of the ilk of a Cal Hockley or any of the wealthy passengers…no parallels in the mindset of privilege or class-based society. I could, perhaps, be Molly Brown. She was a sassy broad with a conscience, and that’s how I like to think of myself. But that’s probably not where Facebook was going with its choice.

I kept thinking about what the meaningless Facebook quiz meant. I needed a positive spin, to recapture my turning-40 buzz. So maybe I’m the latter-half Rose, and that’s my blog tie-in. Maybe I’m on my way to being the adult Rose and, eventually, the old broad who lives long enough and survives adversity, who makes the moments count - and comes out on the other side stronger, better, and wiser. Maybe I’m that woman – the one who will wow people at age 100, with stories from my past. And hopefully I’ll have a giant diamond in my possession as I recount the stories. Yes, this is the parallel I choose to take from the stupid quiz.

So my 40-year-old-good-juju is back. There are so many perspectives to be found in a singular story – both good and bad. And maybe the lesson is that, when you get old enough, you can see more of them and find the one that suits you best. Maybe that’s what wisdom is. Or maybe that’s where inner peace comes from. Maybe I'll have the answer in another 40 years.

The Sometimes Porcelain, Sometimes Metal Throne

I blame this turbulent political season and the constant reminder that our political system is in the crapper, but I’ve been thinking a lot about toilets lately. I was 17 when I first realized that, like snowflakes and fingerprints, no two public toilets are alike. I was on a school trip to France – my first trip abroad – and, of all the amazing things for a 17-year-old to learn in a strange land, one of the most profound for me was the discovery of the wide variances between French and American toilets. From the bowl itself, to the style of flush, to the location of the handle, using a public toilet in France was frequently an adventure (clearly, I grew up in a pretty small town, but an adventure it was!). In my collection of photos from the trip, there were A LOT of photos of the many public toilets I used; including a self-sealing/cleaning variety on the streets of Paris and a rudimentary hole in the ground with two footholds, complete with an overhead shower-style flush (get out of the way!!!!!), at an old chateau. Twenty-two years later, some of my strongest memories from that trip are of those toilets.

But the toilet fascination didn’t end there. Six years later, when I was 23 years old, Mike got stationed in Germany and my appreciation for the public toilet – formerly just the French variety – expanded to include the many variations of European toilets we found in the many countries we were fortunate enough to visit. In Italy, my favorite restroom featured a sliding sink that alternated between being in the shower (if you happened to be using the toilet), or over the toilet, if you happened to be using the shower (I love practicality).  In Germany, I encountered a metal toilet, with no lid or seat. It was the equivalent of a butt-sized metal mixing bowl, with exactly the same comfort level. In Poland, I was shocked by the human-staffed, pay toilet, where no one cares how badly you have to go if you don’t happen to have any money…no zlotys, no toilet! In Switzerland, there was a wood outhouse on the side of a mountain, with a view like no other toilet anywhere.  

While my toilet experiences have been limited to North and Central America and Europe, Mike (that lucky bastard!) has also gotten to experience public toilets in many Asian countries, ranging from luxurious porcelain to less-than-luxurious holes in the sand.  He implies I didn’t miss much, for whatever that’s worth, but I do hope to someday explore more public toilets in more foreign places.

My appreciation, if one wants to call it this, for public toilets in America exists for completely different reasons. In America, it’s almost always less about the physical toilet and more about the ambiance, and oftentimes the lack thereof.  On a recent pit stop in West Virginia, it was the reading material on the wall of the bathroom (the ladies room, of course) that got my attention…an advertisement for a “treeing contest,” advising me to bring $5, along with my “guns, knives, bows, arrows, dogs and traps.” I had no idea what was being referred to but the picture of the raccoon on the flyer helped me put it all together. Though I completely oppose this practice that I know nothing about, I find it a fascinating social commentary that it was advertised in the ladies’ room. Recently, in the raccoon-friendly, chill area of upstate New York, I encountered the cleanest gas station bathroom EVER with this hopeful graffiti: “Everything will ALWAYS be alright.” I left that bathroom feeling so much better about the world than how I felt about the world after reading the treeing contest advertisement in West Virginia.

Occasionally, an American toilet will move me based on aesthetics or engineering. It was in Kansas that I first discovered the porta-trailer, which transforms the disgusting porta-potty experience to a whole new level of luxury. Imagine, if you will, walking into an air-conditioned room with several toilets, complete with a flushing mechanism and fresh smell, in private stalls, as well as a row of individual sinks with faucets with running water. But the “room” is a trailer on wheels – a glorified, souped-up, porta-potty on wheels. I still get a tear in my eye, remembering the magnificence of that first experience.  It just goes to prove that ingenuity is alive and well in America.

I never gave much thought to the toilet before that first French adventure, but in the years since, I’ve probably spent more time thinking about toilets than most people.  By no means am I bragging but, in my defense, after lots of travel, four pregnancies and four kids, I’ve seen A LOT of public toilets in a lot of places. Sometimes I think I might be on to some deeper sociological discovery exploring a culture’s level of toilet ingenuity and their level of overall success. But until I write that exhaustive study, I quietly relish in the occasional discovery of a unique toilet. After the trip to France, I wrote a note to my French teacher, thanking him for exposing me to the wider world, and to an amazingly wide world of public toilets. Who knew, 22 years later, this dubious relationship would continue?