Overgrown Emotion

Our family had just had a long day of celebration and fun. We were exhausted and sunburned when an argument blossomed out of nowhere between my husband and me. My anger sprang from a well of hurt. Father’s Day was approaching and I had lost my father 17 long years ago. When I thought about how long it had been I was overwhelmed. Scrolling through my Facebook news feed and seeing all the pictures of my friends with their dads made me emotional. And I guess it’s possible that it seemed like I had little sympathy for others, but I could only feel my own feelings and my own anguish.

“He needs to mow his lawn,” I said offhand about a friend of ours who never seemed able to keep up with his yard work.

My husband exploded, “You need to give him a break. His father is really sick and it’s not easy.”

Oh, really? Tell me all about it, please, as if I don’t already know how difficult it is to maintain a life with an ill parent.

My dad was barely 50 and I was 11 when he had his first stroke in 1981. From there, my dad was in and out of hospitals for what seems like my entire life, having one heart attack after another and multiple surgeries. He was in the hospital practically my entire high school career. When I enrolled in college, it didn’t seem like he had much time left at all, but he survived until I graduated, married and started my first real job. He was in the hospital for two years before he finally succumbed to congestive heart failure in 1996. I was 25 years old, living in Watertown, working in Boston and making the round trip to Framingham every time it looked like he wouldn‘t draw another breath.

Did my life stop? Did I no longer go to work, clean the house, cook supper and do dishes? Of course not. The mundane details of one’s life do not disappear when someone you love is sick.

I glared at my husband and he must have sensed my rage.

“My father died,” I reminded him. “Life does go on, you know. Man! You people who still have two parents really live in a fantasy world!”

I didn’t mean to come off sounding so bitter, so unsympathetic to what our friend was going through. But my anger was swelling like a bee sting. I should never have made that comment about having two parents living, especially when my husband’s own father seemed to be descending into dementia and we were struggling with how to deal with it. My husband started to stalk off, angry and disappointed in me.

“We are in our forties, we have responsibilities that don’t just go away when a parent gets sick, or even dies,” I tried to explain. But it didn’t sound good. I wasn’t explaining myself too well. How could I be so insensitive?

“And anyway, he never mowed his lawn, this is nothing new,” I mumbled. I wasn’t making progress with this argument and I knew it.

My husband took a step toward me.

“Okay, you’re right,” he said to me, “life has to go on and you can’t stop doing chores because your parent is sick, but you could sound a little more sympathetic.”

I was ashamed, but still angry. I’ve now lived without my dad for almost as long as I had lived with him. Why did people twice as old as I was when I lost my father feel like they could just let everything go? I still had to go to school, (elementary, high school and college), after my dad got sick. I still had to work, part time through high school and full time in college, while my dad was in the hospital and going through surgeries we never thought he’d survive. Of course it was hard. Of course I sometimes did not feel like doing it. But I did it, because I knew that even though my father’s life was nearing its end, mine was still going, and would probably go on much longer.

I asked around, only telling my friends who had already lost a parent, to see what others thought of my theory. A good friend of mine became nearly apoplectic when I told her.

“My mother was in a wheelchair, I worked full time, and I still mowed the lawn!” She was a one tough lady and I admired her for her stamina, her strength and her good sense. I knew she would be firmly in my camp on this one.

I don’t have answers for my feelings. They are my feelings and I can’t just shut them off or shut them out. Am I being stubborn? Am I wrong? I still don’t know. Only people who have been through what I’ve been through can tell me, though, and that doesn’t include my husband, who still has both parents. He can still say “My dad is . . .” when all I have left is “My dad was . . .”

I pray for our friend’s father. I hope he lives longer than they expect so my friend doesn’t have to feel this pain, this deep hurt and longing that I have had for so many years. My father never knew his beautiful, smart, athletic granddaughters. At least my friend can say his dad watched his kids grow up. My dad will never see the magic my husband has done on his house and yard. Maybe if my friend got outside and did some yard work he would feel better about himself and his situation, a sense of accomplishment, that he is doing something positive when there doesn’t seem to be a positive angle at all.

As I drove home from the Cape Saturday after chaperoning a gaggle of teenaged girls on a birthday beach trip, I noticed my friend’s lawn was neat and trim, freshly cut, and I smiled to myself. I hoped he felt as good as his yard looked and I’m still praying for his dad.

Why Am I So Nervous?

It’s the Junior League Championship game. The game is tied; bases are loaded with two outs and my daughter steps up to the plate. Why are my palms sweaty? Why is my heart beating like a drum solo? It seems as if every time one of my daughters has a big moment, I am out of my mind with worry, fright and nervousness. Is this normal?

Strike one. Wow, my stomach just flipped over. Strike two. My hands are shaking. Crack! She ropes one into center field for two RBI and we are winning the game. Pure joy, elation and a feeling of “I can’t believe it,” come over me. Relief follows. “Yeah!” I cry out. My chest won’t explode. I’m not going to have to be rushed from the field by ambulance, embarrassing my daughters even more than when I sing out loud with their friends in the car.

My best friend punches my arm playfully. “Wow, I was so nervous!” She said into my ear. I grinned at her. So I wasn’t the only one! And she isn’t even her mother!

I don’t really consider myself one of those parents who live vicariously through their children. I had a great childhood filled with accolades and a softball championship of my own one year. I won awards, made high honors, even placed 8th in the nation at a DECA conference in high school so it’s not like I didn’t have my share of accomplishments. But it seems whenever my children have a nerve-wracking experience, I am the one shaking!

My oldest performed a solo in the fourth grade talent show quite a few years back and the video camera shook with fury in my hands as she sang, sweet and beautiful. I had to hand the camera to my smirking husband, who never seems to get rattled about anything. Don’t they make those things shake-free nowadays? If not, there’d be great interest in it, I bet. That is, assuming every parent feels the way I do, and I’m still not sure about that.

Whenever my kid takes the mound to pitch I feel a twinge in my throat and belly. I am going to throw up! This isn’t natural, is it? What am I going to be like at graduation, or (gulp) their weddings? Thankfully I won’t be the one taking video, as mother of the bride. Mother of the bride, whaaat? It’s too much to think about right now.

I understand the “fight or flight” mechanism in our nervous systems that causes the sweaty palms, but I am not the one facing the challenge, so why am I experiencing the response? It’s not like my child is in imminent danger, like that time we were camping when she was an infant sleeping in a tent and a six-foot, giant, black bear wandered over to her. I had to take action. I had to save my baby. Right now, I’m just watching a softball game for 11 and 12 year olds!

I told my own mother about this article as we drove home from lunch together, our last one alone before the kids are out of school for the summer.

“Well, of course, it’s natural,” she said, when I told her how sweaty I got when my baby stepped up to the plate.

“I wonder if you ever get used to it.” I asked her. “Does Big Papa’s mom sweat it out every time he is up to bat?” She just snickered, and can still make me feel 10 years old. But I do wonder about that.

“I don’t think she is still living, honey,” my mother sighed. Then I thought, do you ever get too old to be worried? As I age and descend into elderly status will I stop getting sweaty when my adult children are challenged? If my adult daughter is performing surgery for the first time, will I shake with fright? Probably not, since I won’t be allowed to watch. It’s not really something I want to ask my mom, because, even at 82, she does not think of herself as “old.” She once told me she feels 25 in her head but her body tells her otherwise. I can relate to that somewhat, being over 40. The feeling 25 part.

So I sit here wondering if I am the only one. I can’t be. There’s got to be more of us sweaty moms out there somewhere.

Don’t Strike Out Looking

“That was outside. “
How many of us have heard that, or something like it, when a kid strikes out?
“That was too low,” I heard that last night, too.
“You don’t want to swing at that anyway!” Someone even had the gall to yell.

Wait, what’s going on here? Are we telling ourselves and our kids that they didn’t strike out, someone else made a mistake? What if they never swung the bat? Still not their fault? I tell my kids constantly now that they are playing in more competitive sports, once you see where the ump is calling it you have no excuse. If he is consistently calling strikes outside, make the adjustment.
No, they’d rather make excuses. Somewhere there is a lesson in all of this, if I can just get past my own feelings of, “That wasn’t a strike!”

I am a sore loser. I admit it. I am the youngest of six children and I’ve been schooled in the art of losing, but it still is not any easier to take, so when I hear my children losing poorly, I am not surprised, but very disappointed in myself for teaching them this behavior. I am trying to change. As my children age, it is imperative that they learn how to lose with dignity.

The night before last gave me another opportunity to stretch my maternal muscles and teach my kids how to lose right. Softball is coming to an end, limping down the home base line like Kirk Gibson and taking all of my patience with it. My oldest daughter’s team has a lot of potential, but they sometimes make mistakes in the field that costs them runs and it gets very frustrating for their coach, my husband. My younger daughter is “playing up” as a substitute on this team so she is also learning some hard lessons this year. Last year my youngest daughter’s team won the championship and my older daughter’s team went undefeated in the summer travel league, also winning the title, so it’s been a while since these girls have had to bear a significant loss. Enter the first game of the playoffs.

We knew it would be a battle. The team we faced is called Grumpy’s, named for a local bar that sponsored the team, but that easily could’ve been the name of our team last night. They were deflated and defeated and they hadn‘t even lost yet. Grumpy’s has a dominant pitcher who goes to a private school. We only saw her pitch a few innings in the regular season so facing her for 7 innings was probably a shock to the team. We got one of the better umpires, I thought, so I didn’t think there would be much controversy there, but I was wrong! When you’re losing that badly, the umpire is fair game, some people think.

“That was so outside!” My oldest daughter chucked her helmet down and plunked down next to me on the bench after she struck-out looking. I keep the scorebook and I am the bench mother of the team, so I get to sit in the dugout.

“Well, you have to be aggressive,” I said calmly, knowing full well that last called strike was outside, but I am trying. I am trying.

“Mom!” She said, in a tone that meant, “You’re nuts.”

“I know, honey, but we get calls in our favor, they get calls in their favor, it all evens out.”

She just pouted and squinted her eyes. Grumpy’s pitcher struck out 16 batters in 20 at bats that night. It was not pretty. My husband ranted and almost had an aneurysm over all the mistakes our team made fielding the ball, but he never gave props to the other pitcher. I stood there, waiting for him to give her the credit she deserved and he never did, he blamed his team for not getting hits and not making plays. Was this another form of sore-losing? You have to give props for good pitching, don’t you? It’s kind of hard to win when no one is hitting the ball. I took my youngest home, knowing full well what the ride home would be like for my oldest and her dad, and I felt bad for her.

That night I went over the numbers with my cock-eyed, coach/husband. I coaxed him into looking at the 16 strikeouts rather than the bad fielding. He tended to blame my daughter for almost everything when we lost this badly. She did have an error at first base and didn’t catch a ball she might have been able to snag in foul territory. Neither play lost the game but he went ballistic over both. I guess it‘s worse for him, as coach, when his daughter messes up. I watched a lot of other girls make mistakes and he never said a word to them. If he did, he didn’t say it in the same manner as when he scolded my kids. One time I challenged him and said, “If you wouldn’t talk to anyone else’s child that way, please don’t talk to mine like that,” and his response was, “She’s the only one I can talk to that way,” Right or wrong, things weren’t going to change on that front.

Instead, I soothed my daughter’s bruised ego by telling her my theory – that you actually have to hit the ball to win and she had the most heartbreaking response: ”You mean the entire loss wasn’t my fault like dad said?”

I couldn‘t speak at first. I was hurt for her. Everyone who is a mother knows how that feels: Terrible.

“Honey, you got on base with a walk, stole second base, stole third base, then stole home for one of our only two runs all night.” I took her hand and squeezed it. “You fouled-off a lot of pitches in your other two at-bats. You didn’t just stand there and take a strikeout, you got fooled. I’m proud of you. Don’t let a good pitcher and a few bad plays skew your view of the whole game. You didn’t play badly. You guys were out-pitched.”

What I wanted to say was, “If they didn’t have her, the game would be a different story and everyone knows it.” I wanted to say, “A lot of the ump’s calls were low and outside.” I wanted to say, “It’s not fair!” But I kept all of that to myself.

“Just don’t let anyone get you down at school tomorrow,” I told her. “You did well, they had good pitching. End of story,”

She wasn’t smiling, but I hope I eased her pain for a time. They say you are only as good as your next starting pitcher and she still has a couple of games left in the playoffs. I hope we don’t have another outing like that night, but if we do, I will get my list of platitudes ready and shove a wad of gum in my mouth to block the smart remarks.

Coaching and parenting are very similar. You must praise the positive, find the nugget of good and focus on it. If you don’t, you get stuck in a pickle and no one learns anything. It’s hard to lose, but when they do, don’t get caught looking, do something to help your child process the loss and find something constructive to show her. Always start with Good Luck and end with Good Game, because as great as winning is, it is essential to learn how to lose well.

Friends and Mothers

“I am not your friend, I am your mother,” I sometimes tell my daughters when they act all fresh and speak to me like they are talking to one of their friends. I got this line from my mother who had quite a few one-liners to shut us 6 kids up, quick.

My children have reached that precious age in their young teen and pre-teen lives when they think they are my equal, and that they know way more than I do. When they start with the “Relax,” and the “Duh! I know,” I get a little edgy. I think I deserve a little more respect than that and this is why I have adopted that phrase from my mother, along with other tidbits I find useful such as: “I can’t jump in the pot and make it cook faster,” and “If you’re bored, you can always sweep the cellar stairs,” The last one makes them run away. Tee hee.

So when my daughter turned 13 last week (yes, I am the mother of a teenager now), and finally had my permission to open her own Facebook account, I found myself getting a lump in my throat as I accepted her Friend Request. Now I know a lot of kids had Facebook before 13 but this was my last holdout on the internet front. When her little 4th grade friends were already setting up accounts, I did some research and found out the legal age for Facebook is 13: 7th grade. Still not old enough, in my opinion, so I held on to this one for as long as I could, using it as incentive when needed, and also as a threat, but only occasionally.

With dread, I accepted my child as a friend on Facebook. Scary. Now I have to watch everything I say and do on Facebook. In fact, she already called me on something when I reposted my friend’s joke about how your shorts should be longer than your vagina. She thought that was inappropriate, so not only am I monitoring her, she is monitoring me!

Yes, I have asked for her login and password. She is a young 13, people, and while I might not still be doing this at 15, the cyber world is still a very scary place and naïve young ladies like my own daughters can easily be distracted and stalked by almost anyone. I gave the lectures about only friending people she knows and how everything she puts up there could be looked at by future employers, the high school she wants to try to get into in 9th grade, and people she’d like to baby-sit for in the future.

I promised not to stalk her and post things I think are funny on her wall. I promised not to “like” her statuses or comment on them. I am strictly an observer. An omniscient presence, like God, only online. Her choices are hers, but she will be judged on them later!
“Mom, I know all this,” she told me, and rolled her eyes in that way she has when her lids barely flicker. I’m not even worth a full eye-roll anymore. I didn’t care for her tone too much but I let it go and my daughter is now “Facebook-ready.” She told me that some friends told her no one uses Facebook anymore and I remember thinking how can that be when half of them aren’t even old enough to be on it, yet? And it turned out not to be true. Within 30 seconds she had 30 friend requests and I am just thrilled that my daughter’s favorite birthday gift this year was free! It’s good condolence to becoming the mother of a teenager.

Sleepover, by Diane Nelson

My daughter had a few friends sleep over last weekend for her 11th birthday. I couldn’t help thinking about my own sleepover in the 5th grade and chuckling a bit as I told my daughters a startling story that I‘m sure mortified them.

“Dads were different back then,” I said, as I chopped vegetables for the calzone I was making for supper later. “They weren’t so concerned with every little thing we did and most were hardly ever home, anyway. My dad stayed out all night the night of my sleepover and when he got home, I was so embarrassed I wished I’d never had one at all.”
“What happened?” My oldest was always delighted to hear stories of parents embarrassing their kids as long as they weren’t about her.
“My dad took his pants off in the hallway right in front of my friends.”
“Gross!”
“Why??”
“He used to keep his clothes in the hall closet downstairs. Usually, when he got home, he put his pants away before he went upstairs to bed.”
“Why did he keep his clothes downstairs?” My youngest asked me, mouth full of black olives, one of her favorite treats.
I had never really thought about it before. Why did Dad keep his clothes downstairs? In case he needed a quick getaway? I wouldn’t blame him, except he was always going on and on about how this was his house and he was never leaving. I have no idea why my dad did half of the things that he did and now that he is gone I can never ask him. I realized early on not to question his actions too much, just live my life and not worry about how he was living his. It worked for a little while. At age 11, I really didn’t think much about my father’s problems or his choices, I was pretty wrapped-up in my own goings-on and who I was going to invite to my sleepover party that summer.
Mom finally broke down and told me I could have a sleepover and I was so excited I never even thought about my dad. Even though I was probably the only one in my school with arthritis, I was pretty sure I wasn’t the only one with an alcoholic dad. Nobody talked about such things. And no one asked questions either, so that was good.
Ma got pizza from Bellingham House right down the road and a couple of bottles of Coke. We had chips and dip so we were all set. After we ate and Ma jabbed on the phone for a while with one of her friends, we watched some TV and Ma went upstairs with her book and glass of soda. My friends and I were just settling into our sleeping bags and gossiping when my dad came in. A few of my friends giggled thinking it might be one of my older brothers but it was my dad. He sat down in the kitchen chair and took off his shoes and socks. Our cat, Buster, immediately slinked over to sniff his disgusting socks. She lay down and rolled over them. Dad stroked her back and ran his hands down her tail a few times while I watched him from my sleeping bag in the dark of the living room.
Ma said we couldn’t light candles because it was too dangerous but we had a couple of flashlights for our “séance” later, after everyone in my family was home and asleep. I wished Dad would hurry up.
Dad came down the hall and I heard my friends whispering and giggling. I held my breath, watching him. I wondered if he could see the whites of my round eyes, pleading with him not to take his pants off this time. Just go on upstairs. Unfortunately, he undid his belt, let his pants slide to the floor and my friends could not help but to laugh out loud, I sshhed them ecstatically, praying my father would not say anything to us.
Dad calmly put his pants away, said, “G’nite, Bum,” and crept upstairs silently.
“Awwww” My friends crooned.
“Shut up you guys!” I said. I was burning red.
Two minutes later we heard Dad snoring away and my friends laughed again.
We all sat up and turned on our flashlights. Tori put hers under her chin and started making ghost sounds. Someone shrieked. My dad snorted. I ssshed everyone again. We played truth or dare for about an hour. Someone dared me to put an Oreo cookie in the toilet then eat it. We had some more chips, which led to more pizza, which led to more soda, and then everyone had to go to the bathroom.
My brother came in just as we were all settling back down. He got a drink then went upstairs without saying anything to anyone. I was glad. He could be a jerk sometimes.
“Did he even know we were here?” Heather* said.
“He knew,” I answered.
“Wow, my brother takes every opportunity to be a jerk,” Cheryl said.
“Yeah, he usually does. Don’t know what’s up.”
“Let’s do it!” Tori said, and we all got up and gathered around in a circle. “I’ll be it,” Tori said, and laid flat on the floor with all of us around her, two fingers under her body.
We were going to levitate her.
Someone said the right words, we all concentrated, nothing happened. We tried again. Tori twitched. Someone screamed.
“Shut the hell up!” My dad roared down the stairs.
“Oh my God, I’m so embarrassed,” I said. My hands were covering my mouth. Some of my friends dove back into their sleeping bags as if my dad was going to come bounding downstairs to see who the screaming culprit was. I knew he wouldn’t, but we did settle down. It was 2am.
Back in my kitchen my youngest daughter said, “Two in the morning! Dad would be so mad!”
“Yeah,” I said, still remembering.
“At least Dad wouldn’t take his pants off in the hallway!” My oldest said.
“True,” I said, thinking if he did he might actually get arrested and put on the sex offender registry.
“But a séance sounds cool,” they both agreed.
“Oh yeah, it was cool all right,” I said.
They smirked. It wasn’t often that I was considered cool these days. My daughters are 11 and 12 and my coolness is starting to rub off of me and onto them, I guess. I heard girls suck the beauty from their mothers but I did not know the coolness factor was sucked as well. It doesn’t seem fair.
My daughter’s sleepover was a success. She has some really good friends and they are so well-behaved. It was my pleasure to host them and chances are I will again. Sleepovers are not a rare occasion for special birthdays anymore. They are every weekend and summer night we feel like it, and then some. My husband never goes out when we heave one, he helps out, and that is one of the things I love about him. He is fun, even built a campfire so they could roast marshmallows and hot dogs outside. He doesn’t come home and take his pants off in the hall. Although now, I think that would be pretty funny if he did.

*All names have been changed.

Happy Anniversary

I had a big anniversary last month but there was no celebration dinner, flowers or gifts, just my husband and I sitting together on the couch after the girls were in bed. He wrapped his arms around me and we stared at the TV, trying not to remember my total hip replacement surgery 10 years ago. We don’t look back on that time with any kind of fondness, even though it greatly improved my life.

“Remember your physical therapist?”

I giggled and that was all it took. Instantly, I was there again.

We spun around the loop driveway of Brigham and Women’s Hospital and Robert* tossed the keys to the parking valet.
I limped to the waiting room. When the nurse called my name, Robert gave me a quick smooch on the lips.

“I’ll be right here waiting for you,” he whispered. I nodded. I couldn’t speak.

The nurse led me to a large room with twenty or so other beds filled with people just like me. I changed into the dreaded johnnie and she took my blood pressure, started an IV and tried to make small talk.

After she left, I didn’t look around too much and wonder what the little girl with the dark ringlets was having done, or the young guy next to me, nervously shaking his foot. A few minutes later someone said, “Knock, knock,” and a young man with straight, black hair to his shoulders and ruddy, red cheeks poked his head through a separation in the curtain. He asked me my name, checked my admission bracelet.

“I’m your anesthesiologist. Any final questions?” He peered at me as if he knew a secret that I wasn’t going to find out until it was too late.

I shook my head as three more doctors who were assisting with the surgery asked my name, checked my bracelet, and wrote their initials in permanent marker on my left thigh.

“Just in case!” One of them chuckled, as if it would be really funny if they replaced the wrong hip.

“Ho there, young lady!” My surgeon came storming through the curtain causing a cool breeze to fill my area. I shivered. “All right then, this is fun, innit?” His accent was starting to annoy me. He signed my leg in huge, flowering cursive. “I’ll see you when you wake up, then!” He flew off. I breathed deeply.

Someone inserted something else into my IV. Things got quiet and I could sense the anesthesiologist behind me, adjusting my tubes and the machine next to my bed.

“You’re just going to fall asleep gently now,” he said soothingly. I couldn’t see him, but I was hoping he would put his hair up.

I felt no pain at all. I was wheeled into a set of push doors. Everything was white. I repeated the Hail Mary as many times as I could, the words getting all messed up in my head.

“Please just let me see my girls again, God,” I prayed, and that was it.

I knew the surgery was over because of the pain. I drifted in and out and remember seeing Robert’s face floating over me in the recovery area, but that’s about it.

I don’t know how much time had passed when I heard voices near my bed.

“She hasn’t pressed the button, yet,” someone whispered.

“Honey! A louder voice urged, “You have to press the button for your pain meds!” I kept my eyes shut. I was floating across the room.

“Maybe she doesn’t need it,” the first voice said.

“She needs to push that button,” the louder one said. I felt someone take something from my hand then put it back.

Were they talking to me?

I opened my eyes to a new scene. I was in a regular room now and my hip and thigh were throbbing. It was over. The level of pain was insane.

“Oh, my God,” I moaned. “Ohhh, my God, help me.”

Someone said something in Spanish. I turned my head and a little old lady with lines of gray through her long, dark hair was sitting in the corner of my room. She was wearing a johnnie under a thick, brown sweater. My roommate. She was knitting. She made a motion like someone on Jeopardy pushing their button to answer a question. I looked down at the device in my hand. I pressed the button. Nothing seemed to happen. The ache in my leg was washing over me so that it was all I could think about. I started to weep, my shoulders shaking.

“No. No, no, no. No cry,” The little lady said.

“It hurts,” I wailed, weeping openly now, bawling like a baby. A nurse shuffled into the room.

“The pain bad, honey?” She adjusted something on my monitor and took my pulse. I heard moaning from the hallway. Other people were in pain, too. I heard a loud scream. Great, I thought.

“Oh, my God,” I said simply.

“You didn’t press that button all afternoon. I came in and pushed it for you a couple of times but we were starting to worry about you getting behind the pain and not being able to get control of it.”

“I think I am past that point,” I said stiffly.

“You can press the button every minute but it won’t release any medication if you try to do it sooner than that. Try to keep a steady flow of medicine going now to see if we can catch up and get you feeling better.”

“Okay,” I mumbled. “Where’s my husband?”

“He’s around. He’s been in and out.” She left.

Tears leaked from my eyes and I stared up at the ceiling. I wanted Robert. I wanted to go home. I wanted to change my mind and not have the surgery. My left leg was in a sling and I couldn’t move off of my back. I had something attached to the area right below my hip, some sort of box. It was uncomfortable. Finally, Robert came in.

“Hey,” he said softly, grabbing my hand.

I said nothing while the tears just kept sliding down my cheeks.

“Is it bad?” He asked.

I nodded.

“You weren’t pressing the button, Hon,” he said.

I breathed hard and stared at the ceiling. If I was watching Robert go through this, I’d be like Shirley MacLaine in Terms of Endearment, when her daughter was dying of cancer and in so much pain that her mother ran around the nurses station yelling, “GIVE HER THE SHOT NOW!! GIVE HER THE SHOT!”
I tried to focus on what Robert was saying about how long it took, about calling my Ma, but all I could hear was the pain. I pressed the button again as soon as the second hand swept around the 12 of the huge clock that was hanging on the wall right in front of my bed. Very handy, that clock. It became my best friend for the next 24 hours.
I had a few visitors. My brother and his wife came and some friends who lived nearby. I was in and out of consciousness but I was glad my husband had people to talk to after sitting so long in the waiting room. We didn’t linger on our good-byes when it was time for him to leave.
“See you tomorrow,” he said, kissing me. I nodded.
I turned on the TV and began the process of getting through the night.

The pain did not let-up. It’s very hard to describe. I tried not to imagine the surgery. I didn’t want to picture the circular saw slicing into my hip and sawing through all the muscle and bone. I didn’t want to see the mallet in my head, used to crush the hip bones to remove them. I did think about the titanium rod, though. It is jammed down through a hole that was drilled into my thigh bone in order to connect the plastic and metal hip to my leg. That hurt the most right now. It throbbed. I thought about the Bionic Woman. Yeah, the drugs may have been kicking in, finally. They made me stronger, better than before. I must have fallen asleep.

The next day was better. I found out after breakfast that the device hooked up to my side took care of all the bleeding and fluids that seep from the six inch scar on my hip. There were no bandages or anything, just two little wires inserted into a space about one inch from my wound that somehow drew all the yuck out of the sore and into the box that hung on the side of my bed. From time to time, some lucky aide came to flush out the box. It was quite efficient. I couldn’t believe how good the wound looked. I mean it was pink, raw and deep, and the black stitches weren’t pretty or anything, but it wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be.

The surgeon came in to inspect my scar. I told him the pain medication was not enough. He told me he’d send the Pain Specialist in to see me that afternoon. The Pain Specialist. It sounded like a bad action movie.

Just when I was starting to wonder how I’d pass the morning, a little boy came into my room and removed my chart from the end of the bed. He started reading and his eyebrows shot up. Our eyes met.

“Hi,” I said.
“Hello?”
I nodded.
“I’m your in-house physical therapist, David.”
I just looked at him. What was he, twelve?
“You’re really young to have this surgery,” he said, as if he was reading my thoughts about him. “Were you injured?”
I sighed. “No, I’ve had Juvenile Rheumatoid Arthritis for over twenty years. There was no cartilage left in my hip.”
He bit his lip. I looked for braces on his teeth but found none.

“Okay,” he said, as if he finally believed it. Huh. He was questioning my age. That was rich. “Well, you have to be walking before you can get out of here.” He moved to the side of my bed, put the metal railing down, and removed the leg from its sling. He held it as he brought it down to the bed. It didn’t feel like mine. There was no muscle to help me make it move.

“Does that hurt?” He asked, looking at me.

“No, it’s a relief, actually,” I said.

“I’m going to swing your legs over the side of the bed now,” he said. I nodded.

“How are you doing, dizzy, or anything?”

“No, I’m okay,” I said.

“I just want you to try standing today, and we won’t do anything else.”

“Yup,” I said, a little doubtful. I couldn’t believe I would be walking when I got out of here.

He held me under my arms and supported my weight so that I could get into a standing position. He quickly checked the bottom of my socks for the rubber soles babies use when they first start walking.

“Very good,” he said, and I felt like standing the day after total hip replacement was very good. It was awesome, in fact. I was proud. But the pain. It was brutal.

“Let’s try it again,” he said, gently placing me back on the bed. I breathed and breathed. David seemed to approve. “Less me, more you this time,” he coaxed. I guess I was starting to like David. Even though he was a child.

I grabbed his arms instead of him taking mine, and I used my pure will power to heave myself up and onto my feet. Agony spread down my leg. I yelped.

“Okay, let me help now,” he said, gently placing me back on the bed.

“Tomorrow, we are going to take three steps. You’re getting your IV out this afternoon and they will start giving you Percocet by mouth. I am going to order your pain meds to be taken about twenty minutes or so before our sessions so that you won’t have so much pain during and especially after the session. In two days time, you will be going up and down stairs, so we have a lot of work to do. Are you ready?” He stood up.

“Yes,” I whispered. Stairs? Was all I could think.

He waved a sort of salute at me and left.

As promised, my IV was removed and I was put on Percs. No difference. The pain persisted stubbornly. Especially the metal rod. My brother drove my mom in to see me later on in the afternoon, after my roommate was discharged and I was settling into having my own room very nicely. After Ma left, I wanted to take a nap but I was so uncomfortable. I pressed the nurse’s button.

A chubby, blonde guy came in and I vaguely remembered him from yesterday. He was wearing a very bright tie-dyed T shirt with a huge marijuana leaf on the front and it said, “Legalize It” in smoky looking letters. I chuckled out loud. “Oh my God,” I said. He was wearing white pants so I assumed he was an orderly, but I was mistaken.

“I’m your 3-11 nurse, Anthony,” he said, “What‘s up?”

“I can’t sleep on my back any more,” I complained.

“Butt hurt?” He asked with a straight face.

“Yeah, I’m just so uncomfortable,” I said. “How long do I have to keep this pillow between my legs?” I asked.

He laughed. “Honey, you’re going to be sleeping with a pillow between your legs for the next year, so get used to it.”

“How?” I asked.

“I’ll help you.”

Anthony taught me how to roll onto my side, keeping the pillow intact where it was between my knees, and using the side railing and the triangle hanging from the ceiling to prop myself up a bit. Then he shoved another pillow behind my back and I immediately felt better.

“Oh my God, thank you.”

“No problem, girl,” he said, and he took off again like Superman. I fell asleep.

Robert came in after work when I was just waking up, and he had a French Roast from Starbucks with him. This was one of the reasons I loved him so much. He told me all about work and what was going on. He’d heard from my sister and the girls were doing well. At least they were sleeping, which was a small miracle. I thought to myself, fathers start with work then talk about the kids. Mothers would start right in with the kids first. And maybe not mention work at all!

“She said Violet took a few steps,” Robert said. “She said Mama today, too.” He watched me carefully. I didn’t miss a thing with our first child. In less than a year, I’d missed my second daughter’s first steps and she was calling my sister Mama. I wanted to scream and cry. I didn’t. I got quiet, and that’s when Robert knew I wasn’t taking his news well.

My supper arrived and Robert watched me eat, and then ate what I didn’t want. We watched a little TV together and before long, Robert was getting kicked out and I had survived another day. But I couldn’t stop thinking about Violet calling my sister Mama.

The next day my arthritis symptoms needed some attention. I pointed this out to the morning nurse and she got my regiment going again right away so I would be better by the time I was discharged tomorrow.

Tomorrow! Oh, it could not come soon enough. I wanted to get out of here and see my babies, sleep in my own bed. Drink real coffee.

“Hey there,” David said as he came bounding through the door. “I brought gifts.” He held up a pair of crutches that looked like they were made for a toddler they were so small. “I had a hard time finding a pair this tiny,” he laughed. “I had to call Children’s.”

“Oh, shut up,” I said, swinging my own legs over the side and proudly smiling up at him, as he had barely just gotten to the side of the bed.

“Whoa, impressive!” He said. I beamed.

He got me into a standing position and fixed the crutches under my pits. I took my first awkward steps and felt exhilarated. The next day, we did stairs. I was ready to go home! David gave me some cool tools like a grabber and a plastic thing with ropes attached so I could put my socks on myself. I would continue to have physical therapy at home for six more weeks but I would miss David. I thanked him over and over. He smiled like a kid who had pleased his teacher. I did the same. It was weird.

As we pulled into our own driveway on April 1, I was feeling good. The next few weeks would not be easy for any of us, but we would get through it and I would soon be running around after my girls, then as they got older, playing catch with them in the backyard and hitting practice balls to them. They would never remember this time at all, and I was glad for that, since it was with me forever.

Ten years have slid by and I because I was warned that by fifteen years I might have to have some maintenance work done, I had all the necessary tests done this year to check my hip. Everything still looks great, so I will take that as my anniversary present. Happy Anniversary to me.

*All Names have been changed.

The Sweet Smell of Spring Mixed with Poison

I can hear the buzzing again. I have barely lifted my head to see the time on this dark and dismal morning and I knew that the mulch company down the street was clearing more trees from the woods on Maple Street.

Feeling that fury building inside me once again, I slide from my bed to the comfort of a hot shower. In the steam, my memory leads me back to the woods I roamed as a kid, back when roaming the woods was completely acceptable and not at all dangerous for children. I used to explore, play and relax in the very same woods that are being massacred to provide pesticide-infested mulch to the masses this spring. People around here really think that orange, smelly, unnatural material looks good around their trees and bushes. I don’t. I prefer a more natural landscape.

You should see the damage they are causing, these mulch companies. It looks so empty, as I drive my children down Maple Street to and from school or sports each day. Our Australian Cattle Dog loves to ride with his head out the window, breeze in his face, but when we pass the mulch “factory” I shut the windows and my puppy cries until I feel it is safe to open them again. That smell is not natural. That is not shaved wood. That is chemical. That is poison.

It is upsetting to me, seeing the town I grew up in and decided to stay and make my life in, completely decimated. First a favorite sledding spot just off the historical cemetery was encroached by Wal*Mart and then the darling little duck pond at the end of Maple Street, where cows used to lay lazily under cotton clouds, was overrun by one company, then another. Now a third mulch and landscaping company has taken root on Maple Street, as if we really need more than one, and they seem intent on taking every tree on the road down with them.

We have had deer, brave and beautiful, enter our backyard to feast on crabapples and raspberries, and the occasional fox family takes up residence in our back woods sometimes, but recently we’ve had coyotes show up, right in our backyard, looking at us as if we are on their turf, and I blame that on these mulch companies. There is nowhere for these creatures to go. They are hungry and scared. Their homes now stink of pesticides. Their instinct is to stay away from that. It should be ours, too.

When I was a child, the woods behind my house seemed to go on forever. There were no houses back there yet, that happened in my teens and twenties, and I remember spending a great deal of time in there as a child. The woods were an extension of our house.

I entered the woods in my back yard through a small clearing in the thicket, a thorny spread of bushes that preceded the trees. Years of tramping through it at a certain point by me, my brothers and sisters and all of our friends resulted in an opening that led to the eerie calm of the woods. There was a well-worn path through the many “rooms” of our back woods and to the right was where my dad threw all of his brush to be burned later. Up a little further from that is where Dad tapped Maple trees for their syrup. He shoved that long, silver spigot into the Maple but the tree didn’t seem to mind giving Dad some of what it had to offer. The tree was like a blood donor, giving us its precious sap willingly. To the left, a long, stone wall stretches longer than I’d ever wandered, a pretty common sight in New England. It made you wonder what Pilgrim or Native needed to stake out his land so meticulously, stone after heavy stone, and why? The land must’ve seemed endless, wasn’t there enough for everyone? Why these territorial tokens of a fence? If you followed the wall for a while, you came to my favorite spot in the woods.

In my mind, I approach the site where The Tree bisects the stone wall, in all its imperial presence. This is where that Pilgrim or Native had to stop and continue the wall on the other side of the thick trunk of The Tree. The deepest green mass lay at its feet and here is where I pluck a mint leaf and put it on my tongue. I taste its magical oils and suck its organic sweetness. The Tree looms taller than any other in these woods. Its fine fork is perfect for a nap or to read a chapter in complete silence. I step up and the wall makes this easier. I ease myself into the folds of the fork, and The Tree’s branches seem to fold over me like arms around a child and I can finally breathe. I lay my head on the fuzzy fern that grows on only one side of The Tree. I smell everything and now I wonder who would give up all of this for a pile of mulch around their front Maple?

“I have to use the bathroom!” Yells my daughter.
I break out of my memory and recall that I am taking a shower. I hear the buzzing again.

This Is Personal

My anger never seems to have time to dissipate before the next terrible act of terror occurs and Monday’s events in Boston made me irate. It feels personal. I worry over how my children will feel about what has happened in their precious city. This is where they go for special dates, field trips and, occasionally, First Night. They have grown particularly fond of Faneuil Hall, where an abundance of food can be found at every turn, and my girls do love their food. They are transfixed by the skyline at night, the Zakim Bridge when it’s lit, and of course, Fenway Park.

As they should.

I was caught flabbergasted on Monday night at dinner when my nearly teenaged daughter spewed out which ethnic group she thought did this particular act of cowardice, and I immediately reprimanded her. “WE do not speak in generalities like that in this house, ever,” I say, making certain that she looked me in the eye. She knows better and I saw her face flush. “I have absolutely no idea where you heard that little tidbit, but I never want to hear it again,” I said to her sternly. I had to take a deep breath after that.

“Foreigners are not the only ones who hate our country,” my husband said in a voice that I thought was a tad harsh. He informed my 12-year-old that there are plenty of crazies (he knows I hate that word), right here in the good old US of A. I swear he was channeling my dad in that instant. I thought I’d succeeded in marrying the polar opposite of my father, yet here he was, seemingly, right in my own kitchen. Or, what used to be my father’s kitchen, ironically enough.

I kept my mouth shut, forcing my husband to explain or elaborate on his statement somehow, but all I kept flashing on was Timothy McVeigh. I said a quick prayer that we not find out it was an American, but then I thought, who do I wish it to be, then? What a horrible thought! I was instantly ashamed of myself.

My 10-year-old chose that second to interject her thoughts. “Maybe it was someone who didn’t win the Marathon,” she said and she looked so innocent, so honest. I smiled at her. “But that would be no reason to blow people up,” she added, and my smile froze on my lips. She was working out her own theories, and, I realized, she was coping with her feelings. She took another bite of her supper as if this were ordinary dinner conversation. I guess it was becoming more and more frequent and that was another thing that bothered me. I don’t want to have these conversations with my children. I wanted to scream so loudly that everyone from Bellingham to Boston could hear me.

This is personal.

My girls are growing, I can no longer hide news from them like I did when they were small. They’re both in Middle School now and both are mature, intelligent, thinking souls. They thrive on a good argument, or what I like to call, a discussion, and can twist almost anyone to their side, most times. I have never squashed their opinions or feelings on any matter, even if they really didn’t know what they were talking about. In this home, my children have a voice, but I don’t always like what I hear and I don’t always like the topic.

My children have feelings about what has happened in their own state, their own capital city. After Newtown, I was worried that my children would be afraid to go to school, especially the first day back, and we were all glad it was the weekend and they didn’t have to go right away. I am hoping they don’t now have a fear of “going into Town,” as we sometimes call it, because they really loved it and never felt unsafe before.

We don’t foster fear in this family. We are strong New England stock and we don’t scare easily. We decided to focus on those who bravely chose to run to aid others and we talked about those who died or were wounded. We prayed for their souls, their families, and their speedy recoveries.

We won’t ever forget that this is personal.

A Letter To My 13-Year-Old Self

I attended my first writer’s workshop of the Spring last week and as our instructor handed out the weekly “assignment” the woman next to me groaned.

“That ought to be scary,” she said, pointing to the bottom of the page where we find writing prompts to practice over the week. They are optional but I tend to view them as challenges and I could use some tools to get the creativity cranking sometimes.

Write a letter to your 13-year-old self, it read.

Yes, truly scary. I agreed with the woman next to me, but where she was probably envisioning awkward moments behind glasses and metal braces, I remembered being stuck on the couch for 8 months in pain and not really understanding what was happening to me. And having glasses and braces.

I was diagnosed with Juvenile Rheumatoid Arthritis at age 12 and by the time I had turned 13 years old, I could no longer attend school, play sports or my flute, or even move at all. My pediatrician and the specialists were trying to determine just how to treat a 78-pound child with strong medications most adults couldn’t even handle. There were no juvenile medications in the early 80s.

I have thought all week on this assignment. Here it is in all of its self-pitying glory.

Dear You,

The first thing I need to tell you is you will get through this horrible moment in your life. Trust me. This is one of the hardest challenges you’ll face with this disease, this first year, but you will have many more obstacles. Each one gives you the strength to overcome the next so never belittle your successes. Every inch is a mile.

You have a strong mother. Appreciate her more. She will always be one of the few people who know what you are going through and you will always be able to talk with her about this subject, even when you think you can’t talk to anyone. Learn how to open up, at least to her, and you will be fine emotionally. Get used to the fact that she knows you better than you do and take her advice not to overdo it more. Your body will appreciate it.

Remember every detail of this time that you spend with Dad because after he is gone, you look back on this with a fondness you often can’t describe to people. He takes care of you. You and I both know he was not perfect, but see him right now in this moment. When he comes home from work on his lunch break to help you get to the bathroom and to make and eat lunch with you, it stays with you forever. I often wish you could remember more than just him yelling at Susan Wornick on Channel 5 News and watching Days of Our Lives together. He did make the best lunches, though. Dad was always a phenomenal cook.

I wonder if I should tell you that there is still no cure for arthritis? I am afraid you will abandon all hope early on and give up, but I can honestly tell you that, instead, we give up waiting for a cure. We start living. And your life, little girl, is wonderful. I can’t wait to tell you all about it.

You do eventually go back to school. You try to diminish your illness to all of your friends and they take their cues from you. You stop talking about it altogether, pretty much, and that sets the tone of denial for many years to come, but you get over it in your forties. You should try to get over it in your twenties. This subject makes for wonderful writing material, and that is great therapy.

Yes, you will be forty, and yes, you are old.

I’ll skip the dramas of past boyfriends and just say that you must have had to learn from them to get the man you married.

You’ll find true love in the form of a Birkinstock-clad, tye-dye wearing soul mate in a class called The Twentieth Century Novel in college. I can honestly say you never look at another man again. He is everything. You are loved and respected. You feel every bit of it. You eventually tell him about your arthritis, but he is not daunted. He loves you.

Keep reading! Escape into your books. Wait until you see what becomes of books in “the future.” You won’t believe the technology your own children have. Unfortunately, we are not riding around in spaceships or time traveling yet, even in the year 2013.

I look at you and I see my oldest daughter. She’s dirty blonde and as thin as a pickle. She is bubbly and bright and very social. The only difference between us is her bright, blue eyes. I worry every day that she will suddenly develop the symptoms you are so saddled with now. She is at your exact age. Every ache and pain throws my blood pressure up.

You have two girls. They are lovely. Oh, they test your patience in the pre-teen years, but you never forget how blessed you have been. Our youngest is at once both her father and Mom. She is a European beauty with olive skin and milk chocolate, brown eyes, just exactly like yours. Her light brown hair gets streaked with gold in the summer. She is an academic overachiever and an amazing athlete. They are both everything you’d ever want in children, even though you really thought you’d have boys just like all of your brothers and sisters did. Please don’t believe the silly doctors who tell you that your chances of having children are slim from harsh medications. You do it, and you do it well. Sometimes being a mom is the only thing you are able to do all day, but that is okay. Do not beat yourself up, ever.

Your life may not be everything you wanted it to be, because let’s face it, you had very high expectations, but you have accomplished so much. Hang on, I have a feeling it just keeps getting better.

Love,
Me

PS: Running the hurdles in Spring Track next year probably isn’t the best idea, even if you think you are in remission. Really listen to your mom and doctors before you sign up, please.

Friends 4-Eva

Girls these days just don’t know how to be good friends to each other any more. More specifically, pre-teenage girls. I don’t know if this is because they don’t really have to engage one another like I had to as a kid, or if they are just too scheduled every second of their lives so there is no time to gossip on a lazy Saturday afternoon on the front porch, or giggle over Oreos while dipping your feet in the pool. Is it because their mothers have no true friendships so they are not learning from example? I don’t know.

I have two pre-adolescent daughters in the middle school and I have spent the better half of the last year teaching my oldest child how to be a better friend, as well as pointing out to her when her friends are not being very good to her. I have taught her how to fight fairly, not via text, but in person or on the phone. I have not taken my own advice here a couple of times so I really want my kids to learn that one. I have taught the girls kindness and compassion but aside from a couple of mainstays, this oldest child of mine has had more friends come and go than I have and I am forty-ahem years old!

This is difficult for me. I’m treading unfamiliar terrain. I’ve never had a problem making and keeping friends. In fact, I seem to collect them along my merry way of life, just like old sneakers that have that certain measure of comfort. I never let a good friend go without a terrible fight and you know you have a good one if you can get through those fights.

I have friends that I grew up with on my street, I have friends I went to high school and college with, I have friends from previous places of employment, from my book group and, of course, “mom” friends, friends made through my daughters’ friends. The funny thing about mom friends is that I still have some good friends I meet for coffee or drinks with at least once a month and my kid doesn’t even hang out with their kid any more! I also have the opposite, where I have never spoken to a mom again after either she or her child has burned my child one too many times. There are variations on the mom friend. There is a certain point when you know if it is a real friendship or if it really was all based on the kids. The point is, I have a lot of friends, near and far, but are my kids going to be able to say the same when they are my age? Or will they only have Facebook Friends, acquaintances, really, who “like” their posts but don’t interact with them in any real way. Will their only “friends” be their followers on Twitter and Instagram?

The main goal with any friendship, at my daughters’ ages, anyway, is to spend time together, learn things about and from each other, to be there for each other, no matter what, and to have fun. The last one especially. Kids need to have fun with each other, not playing a sport, not playing an instrument in the band, but watching movies, swimming in the pool and hanging out.

There might be a tiny tremor of technological hope, however. The girls and their friends oovoo each other after school, or practice, or whatever it may be. Oovoo is basically group Facetime, where they can chat with up to five friends at once, live. I will be carrying laundry up the stairs and hear 10 girls yapping and laughing at once and think there is a party going on, but no, it’s just the magic of Oovoo. Then there’s the fact that all of those girls can see me in my sweats and without a bra if my child’s Ipod Touch happens to catch me passing by. It happens to the best of us.

Of course, this facetime chatting can only occur if and when they and their friends don’t have CCD, sports, gymnastics, dance, karate, cheerleading or music lessons.

I still feel it’s better than texting, where the English language is being butchered by the second and no one even seems to care! We wrote things like 4-Eva on the occasional note, passed secretly in class, but now kids  have a texting shortcut for everything. I put a Texter’s Dictionary in my husband’s stocking last year so he could still communicate with his kids. He is quickly becoming what my friends and I would have called an old fart of a dad but I try to cut him some slack because living with three females cannot be easy for him. It’s not even easy for me. At least with Oovoo, they can see each other’s faces, reactions, and gestures, which counts a lot when speaking with someone to realize their true intent. It’s only natural to read a text or email in your own voice with your own inflections but when talking face to face you get the person’s real meaning.

It’s not all bad news, then. I’ve come to realize that kids have learned to adapt to their environments through technology. I find it’s us adults who scratch our heads and wonder just what this world is coming to, just like our folks did. Kids maintain their friendships through a $200-$400 device and wifi. I guess I shouldn’t be too worried after all.