Category Archives: health

Sep1

life on the Holodeck

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It’s been a rough couple of weeks. Could August just be over now?! My son has been going through a health crisis. Apparently he is either super-human or near death and nothing in between. He seems to be getting well, although I don’t think he’s out of the woods yet. Meanwhile, I am reminded that I do not do well with sicknes, mine or others’. I am not a good nurse. Patience is a virtue; it is not one of mine.

I’m quite put out by all this detailed minutia with the blood pressure monitoring and the medications and ongoing tests and doctor visits and updates. Being ill is a lot of work. God Bless the caretakers. I’m a big picture kinda gal…give me the spiritual meaning of all this and I’m good. Gggghhhhhhaaaaaaa. Also meanwhile, I am reminded that this crisis all could have gone south and I might have lost him. Like I could have lost him in his early 20’s to Hodgkin’s Lymphoma. This could be a very different week; one where I am not writing. I am unequivocally uninterested in living without my son in the world. Parents survive losing a child; I can’t imagine how. I don’t care what age they are.

As I spent a week bedside in the hospital I happened across a subject of interest to distract me: the study of telepathy. I’ve been telepathic all my life, with no studies – or even understanding of what was going on. I was well into my 30’s before I realized that everyone wasn’t like this. That everyone did not necessarily know the future or travel out of body or struggle with the concept of time as a fixed point. I lived in a different reality. A more fluid reality – when I was relaxed; healthy; present. When I’m not in crisis.

Interestingly, much of my childhood was spent dealing with crisis’. I think that is probably why I’m so impatient now. I had to be an adult from a very young age, and quite frankly, I’m burnt out. Consequently, I watch a lot of television – something I wasn’t interested in until my 60’s. Although I’m terribly picky about what I watch, and believe me, it isn’t on cable. And I watch a lot of YouTube – the new television. And I’m just as picky there. I’m quite the critic. I find myself envying Siskel and Ebert who invented a lucrative genre to match their particular interest. Wish I’d thought of that. But I digress…

One recent morning I found The Telepathy Tapes. That’s been eye-opening. All my life I have struggled with the concept of being “psychic.” I’ve only this week realized that much of what I have loosely categorized as “psychic ability” is actually telepathy. They are not the same thing. And again, the dominoes of understanding all fell over, including having been autistic decades before anyone heard of it. Everything suddenly makes complete sense about my wildly dysfunctional life.

It has only been in the past few years that I have understood my psychic awareness at all. And how I might “tune in” to knowing something about a complete stranger, or be able to converse with deceased loved ones. I can do both, but they are entirely different functions. So is an out of body experience. But they all come under the umbrella of telepathy.

And this past year, filled with grief, has taught me something I am likewise just beginning to understand and wish to share. I’ve always struggled to understand what most people know as time and space. As I said, those are fluid for me. I’ve had to learn how to stay here now. I’ve had to learn to set boundaries with other beings in other places in order to remain in this lifetime; to say “No. I’m going back” and to name the year. In my “dream.”

I remember decades ago having a heated discussion with someone about the concept of reincarnation. I simply don’t get it. I was going through a series of deep-tissue release treatments with a Buddhist monk who flew into the Detroit suburbs from Washington state. He was probably the most “psychic” person I’d ever met. I had unbelievable experiences during these sessions. I would suddenly be standing on a wooden platform with a noose around my neck, or some such extreme circumstance that came out of nowhere. Mr. Collins knew exactly what I was experiencing and guided me through it and back to my painful body. He told me these were “past life memories,” and I think I laughed out loud at him. Pphhhttttt….past life. I told him he lived in California too long. He asked me why I didn’t believe these experiences were real. Oh, I knew they were real – I just couldn’t wrap my mind around reincarnation because I can’t wrap my mind around the idea that there is a past. Or a future. It’s all now. So was that me standing there? Of course it was. But no more me than the cedar tree out back. Or your dog.

My problem isn’t tuning in to other people, places, times. My problem is tuning out. My problem is staying here. Or it used to be when I was young; I learned those boundaries much sooner than I did the boundaries needed in my family relationships. Somehow I knew I had to, or I wasn’t going to be here long.

Now where does this get us? What the heck is all this for anyway? Well…I just got something valuable about this. Grappling with grief and fear this week has given me a tremendous gift. You know how mediums talk about connecting with our loved ones or ancestors “on the other side”? THERE IS NO OTHER SIDE!

I miss my cat. Terribly. Some nights I swear I feel him jump up on the bed and curl up against me. I smell my father’s cigar. I hear my mother laugh at me. They are not in some other reality – call it heaven or the bardo – or however you want to explain it. No. They are actually in reality. Period. They are living in the reality of fluid space and time. We call it eternity in our naive attempts to rationale their absence and our grief. No, friends. Where they exist IS reality. You and I are playing on the Holodeck. They’re waiting patiently.

Aug20

we know the fight ain’t fair

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Not all of us here are on vacation. It’s been a tough week. My son finally relented to seeing a doctor Monday after not feeling well for several days – while working construction in the heat and humidity. He could teach the Irish a thing or two about stubbornness. He had a very bumpy ambulance ride that day to the hospital an hour away. Spontaneous pneumothorax: aka collapsed lung. He had ignored it as long as possible – long enough to have his chest cavity fill up with air and put pressure on his heart. He almost blowed himself up.

So I left the house in a hurry and followed the ambulance in to the ER. After emergency surgery to insert a chest tube he was placed in a room on the cardio-pulmonary floor. Inside this behemoth medical complex he was placed in the room directly across the hall from where my former husband died in April, the last place I was sitting vigil. Here’s hoping this bookends the summer of that routine. What is that colloquial idiom…”when it rains it pours?”

Like his father and stepfather before him, my son does not surrender to any perceived weakness. And anything other than super-human strength is weakness. There is no grey area in their world. Pain is for sissies.

It is easy for any of us to hear the stories of our loved ones suffering and think “how did they do it?” Most of our ancestors certainly had hard lives. I don’t know a woman who doesn’t wonder how her Mother did it. Whatever the “it” was: physical pain, emotional upheaval, the relentless stress of daily existence. Endurance. We see it everywhere, even in this enlightened age. We are impressed by it in others; we are oblivious to it in ourselves.

What is wrong with us?! Who decided this was the way? Is this the best we can do for ourselves? We live in the culture of “self care”…as if we know what that means. I doth protest.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, once I knew he was out of the woods and being well cared for by the professionals – once he wasn’t panicked and had some major pain meds in him – I returned home almost 30 hours later. I walked in the house and was reminded that I’d left fish out to thaw the previous morning. Oops. As my Mother would say, “are we having fun yet?”

Look. I’m 72. And a half. “No spring chicken,” as they say. I don’t need to be convinced that life is not easy or pain free. But I vehemently aver that life does not need to be this hard.

My son has no health insurance. He can’t afford it. He will now qualify for emergency Medicaid thankfully. He qualified for it in his 20’s after being diagnosed with Hodgkin’s Lymphoma. It covered all but about twenty thousand dollars of his medical bills. He paid that off over many years. Explain to me one more time why we don’t have free health care in this supposedly affluent country. Don’t tell me the long term stress of that didn’t take a debilitating toll on my son’s physical and mental health. I’ve just observed the effects of him not wanting to incur those expenses again. He tried to work through the discomfort.

But outrageous costs aside, this crisis could likely have been prevented. It’s that phenomena where the ten thousand dollar car engine almost blows up for lack of a forty dollar oil change. We all do it in our own way, stretch our limits just a little further for a little while longer. We Americans are suffering from an existential identity crisis: a shortage of self-awareness. Self awareness sounds silly and pretentious. We are arrogantly defensive about our right to be arrogantly defensive. Is this human nature? Don’t you believe it.

How many of our ailments do you suppose are stress-related? Don’t get me wrong – I’m not saying people in other countries with free health care have no stress. I’m saying they have one less stressor. It’s kinda like I’m not saying people in other countries with strict gun laws don’t have as many mass shootings. Oh. Wait…

And while I’m on my soap box (I recently told a friend my soap box covers the entire northern hemisphere) I am also saying that free higher education leads a culture to be less defensive. Maybe a little more self aware…what might that be worth?

Aug3

the better end of the deal

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“The truth will set you free, but first it will piss you off.” – Gloria Steinem

In my sweet little blessed life here I was recently swimming in the warm, clear water of Crystal Lake. Out from the beach at my friend’s summer cottage, not another person in sight. She was thanking me for something – oh, driving her around, as she had flown in from her home in another state. She had bought me dinner the previous night. Our conversation turned into a back and forth of silly compliments and thank yous. Standing on a soft sand blanket, shoulder deep in blue water as far as my eye could see, I said, “well…I got the better end of the deal.”

That was the day after I got home from attending The Detroit Book Festival with another friend. She needed to attend for business and had asked me to drive her downstate. Not only because I know my way around, but because I have often bragged that “if you can drive in Detroit, you can drive anywhere.” It was a chance to put my money where my mouth is, so to speak. However she paid for gas, hotel and fabulous meals in return. She also provided one on one counseling – not sure she knew she’d signed up for that, but that’s what transpired along the way. When I dropped her home she thanked me. “Well, I got the better end of that deal,” I replied. I didn’t say it lightly.

Days before my father died he said to me, “I sure hope your friends are going to take care of you in your old age.” He was implying that my family would not, because I had not taken care of him properly in his old age. And I had abandoned my siblings. The five of them (my mother being long dead) had unanimously agreed that they were done with me. They had put up with me long enough. They wouldn’t speak to me for years after my father died, or ever again in the case of my brother.

My father was in the hospital for a life saving surgery. His heart would give out a few days later. I think he knew he was dying, and it was his final chance to let me know how disappointed he was with me. My sister yelled at me to shut-up that afternoon and I would leave in tears. My father was almost deaf and apparently I was speaking loudly – as I had gotten used to doing in the recent years he had lived with me. Perhaps I, too, have become somewhat hard of hearing. For whatever reason, I was embarrassing them. They made it clear they did not want me there. This wasn’t anything shocking or new. I was their burden to bear. To say that I never fit in was a gross understatement; I was an albatross in a flock of swans.

Decades had passed since I’d left home – decades of therapy, ACOA meetings, and self examination. Failed marriages. Failed businesses. The loss of my mother. The loss of friends. I’d raised a child with his narcissistic father – who, by the way, my family loved and got along with. My mother lent him the seed money to start his own business right after our divorce. She didn’t tell me that, he did. He leveled it as evidence of how stupid and crazy I was to leave him. He won. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I’d gotten the better end of the deal.

My family has always told me that I am lucky, wielded this announcement disdainfully like an accusation. In fact, I am lucky. And I do not take for granted that I have fared better than they have in life. I had a better education, for one thing. But years before that I was lucky in birth order – eldest, and specifically because my maternal grandmother was close. She was a huge influence in my upbringing. And as I’ve said before, my parents addictions were not yet in full swing. My Mother was 19 when she was pregnant with me. My father was in the army and so Mom and I lived the first 8 months of my life with my grandparents in a big Tudor house in Detroit. I remember playing as a toddler in that magical house with it’s many secret nooks and crannies. My siblings have no recall of it at all. I’ve imagined my grandparents arguing about the decision to drive us to Texas, where my father was stationed, and drop us off with him. I’ve dreamt about it. I’m guessing my grandmother could hardly bear the idea, but that my grandfather felt it was the only possibility of my father taking responsibility for his young family.

Three years later we would return to Michigan. My father went to work for my grandfather. Mimi was often my babysitter. In grade school I would ride my bike to her house, often with friends in tow. We knew we could count on lots of food and goodies, and a quarter to spend around the corner at the 5 & Dime. So lucky.

I fared much better than my younger siblings in so many ways. They have lived with ongoing health problems, plagued with cancer and heart issues. Now in my 70’s I’ve still had neither – how’s that for lucky?! They have all four battled the demons of addiction – to alcohol, drugs, cigarettes and gambling. I’ve not had that to deal with. They have all faced homelessness more than once. It is true they were not so lucky.

And now in my old age I live quite an isolated life. I have lost more loved ones than remain. Thankfully I have a handful of close friends. I can count on them. They can count on me. A chosen family. It sure feels like I’m getting the better end of the deal.

If you were to ask me today my greatest achievement in life, I would say it’s having learned to value kindness in the face of cruelty. Not entirely. God knows I’ve slipped up more times than I care to admit. I’ve certainly been cruel at times. But I hope I am becoming kinder with age. It is a choice, a choice that requires practice. Kindness and curiosity are the way forward, of that I’m sure.

Feeling like I got the better end of the deal isn’t about comparison to anyone else. It isn’t a competition. It’s about being grateful. I want you to feel like you’re getting the better end of the deal when we are together, and I want to feel like I am. That’s why I say it; it reminds of how grateful I am to be with you, here, now. It’s a “just pinch me” moment. How lucky are we?!

Aug1

public service announcement

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Part 3 of 3:

7/30, 3:33 am; I’m awake thinking about my brother again, about how he didn’t have a voice. About how I feel a responsibility to speak up for him, to tell the story of how abuse in the family of a narcissist steals the childhood of a spectacular child, an innocent child, who would never find himself again, never know joy. Who would never know his soul, his voice. Who would die alone in the rented room of a coworker’s trailer at the age of 62.

What if, at the age of 72, I drop the guilt I have carried my entire life? What if I was never responsible? Oh sure, part of me always knew my four younger siblings weren’t my responsibility. I left home at 16, telling my parents that I would no longer raise their children for them. Never mind take care of their drunk asses at three am when they stumbled in from the bar. But I didn’t really let go of the guilt, ever. The sense that I had abandoned them all. I remember being in my late thirties, sitting in a therapy session with my sister who looked right at me and told me she still could not forgive the fact that I left them all to fend for themselves when I was sixteen. I abandoned them. I abandoned my siblings. She told me they were angry at me – not at my parents. And I get it now; in many ways I was the parent. When I left at 16 they had already depended on me for years.

And I didn’t just disappear. Perhaps it would have been better if I had. No, I went away to boarding school. To what I still call the real Hogwarts. I went from a living hell to magical days full of beauty and art and inspiration. I went to Kingswood Cranbrook. I was in my heaven. I left my young siblings to fend for themselves against a monster no one could name. It was 1970. There was no such thing as Child Protective Services. No one to call, should anyone in the community realize something was wrong. I only realized it at a subconscious level myself. My body knew it, but my psyche wouldn’t define the fear for decades to come.

And I have carried guilt ever since. It is heavy. My body can’t seem to lose this visceral fat. My ankles are swollen, my knees ache. I can’t eat anything spicy, or digest gluten anymore. I’m a walking inflammation factory. Rather than accept this all comes naturally with age, I protest. There is nothing natural about this. This comes from aging in a dysfunctional, misogynistic family and culture. The one that flourished in the post-war industrial boom of the mid 1900’s.

The internet is full of articles about the inflammation that occurs with age. WHAT IF it actually only occurs in an aging society of narcissistic abuse victims? And don’t tell me you aren’t one. Not if you live in the United States, or under any oppressive government. HOW the everloving fuck do you think we got here??!!! Wake up. We are a misogynistic culture of narcissistic victims. AN ENTIRE CULTURE, people. And regardless of your age or gender or socio-economic status, ain’t nobody done here until everybody is done. You don’t have to like it. But you do have to live it. Some day I’ll tell you what we all lost when we lost my brother.

And you wonder why I’m angry all the time.

Jun28

healing is as healing does

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4:10 PM; Saturday, June 27th. I’ve just awakened from a much needed nap. A couple of hours ago I took Tylenol and magnesium tincture and laid down with my feet elevated. I’m sore. I’ve been pushing all week to catch up on the yard work, which I’m about a month behind on. It’s daunting, much like the snow in winter. It needs to be tackled almost daily to stay on top of it.

I’ve divided my lawn into 5 sections. Each section is approximately the size of your yard if you’re a normal person. Which is to say, if you live in a town or suburb where you have a front yard that extends out about 20 feet to the street, and a back yard that extends out to meet your neighbor’s fence. This is not that.

This property is almost an acre – and it is the smallest property in this rural area. Three sides of it is on a 30 to 45 degree angle – all lawn. Who thought that was a good idea?! I always thought I would plant the hillsides with ground cover. Or lavender. The budget has never existed for that.

So, I can only mow one section of my yard on any given day due to the fact that I am old and decrepit. And trimming along the fence and the flower beds with the string trimmer is another day for each section. So 10 days to catch up. I’m six days in and if I live another 4 days I will keep you posted.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch (this is a mid-century modern ranch), I’m thinking it may be time to move to something more easily maintained. Maybe I’ve got one more move in me. I’ll also keep you posted about this process. I am one of the many aging seniors who are house rich and cash poor. I don’t know if I can afford to move. I do know that I can no longer afford to pay a lawn service. Hence, the new diet and exercise program: eat less and mow more. Because, if you know me at all, I am the kinda gal who willfully turns adversity into advantage. Go team.

At this moment in time, I am tentatively beginning to love my life again. It was a long, dark winter. It was, quite literally, a dark and stormy night. It just happened to last six months. But sunlight and warmth and nature are true healers, and today I sit here looking out over the rolling hills and treetops through dappled sunlight and feel like I won the lottery. I feel like I can breathe again.

I miss my dogs, who I originally bought this house for. I miss the friends I’ve lost. I miss my family. I miss my cat. I’ve begun to consider that I might adopt again. I miss the joy they fill the house with. Maybe I could open my heart once more. I also miss all the many lives I’ve already lived in this lifetime. I’m not the same person anymore. But here’s the thing about unhappiness: after a while it stops being interesting.

Jun16

it’s all a stretch these days…

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Monday, 6/15: Good morning. I’m gonna change up the format here a bit. Since it’s basically always been a journal, let’s go with a journal format, beginning with the date…but all bets are off. Consistency is not a virtue I claim. I aspire. I’m…ya’ know, aspirational. It is a gorgeous summer morning. It is sunny and cool. Fifty-three degrees. It reminds me why we live in Michigan. But Michigan is not for everyone…it’s an “if you know, you know” kinda thing.

Detroit is the same. What an absolutely magnificent city. But if you know, you know. As a young woman I couldn’t wait to leave, but it was never because I didn’t love Detroit. It was because I wanted to live away from my highly dysfunctional family. Well, I wanted to raise my son away from them. And while I am very happy to be living “up north,” I will always miss Detroit. You can take the girl out of the city…

Growing up in Detroit was one of those “right place, right time” things. Born in the early 50’s, I became a teen in the 60’s. Detroit was the U.S. center of the British Invasion of rock in the 1960’s. And I was there for it. I was a sponge for it. I was growing up in a musical family, and as I’ve often said, my parents were beatniks in the 50’s who became hippies in the 60’s. I was the flower child.

I’ve also talked here a lot about being a privileged white girl in Detroit in the 1960’s. And having a conscience, thankyougod. Let’s just say, it shaped me. It would not make my life easier. Naive and 13, we were on one of our many summer getaways with our big-ass Chris Craft cabin cruiser to Georgian Bay, Canada. If you know, you know. It is one of the most spectacular places on the planet. We would use the depth sounder to check how deep the water was at our mooring, often off the beach of some deserted little island. We would watch the fish swimming thirty feet below us as we scooped up a pitcher of water to make orange juice or coffee. We had somehow stumbled into heaven, never suspecting we might not be worthy.

Bored in Tobermory harbor one stormy afternoon my younger sister and I walked into town, where I bought my first-ever record album. Not only did Joni Mitchell sing like no one I’d ever heard, but she had also drawn the jacket cover. Song to a Seagull caught my eye because it looked a lot like my fantastical drawings. Little did I know my life would never be the same.

Fast forward (hahahaa!) another six decades and here we are, you and I…talkin’ trash and livin’ our best life. Have I mentioned how grateful I am? I would try to articulate this sentiment, but then I would turn to a mush puddle and not be able to type through the tears. That’s me these days. Hence, the month-long hiatus since my last post.

Life continues to unfold and reveal it’s many complex layers. I can barely keep up. Is this progress? Who TF knows…it feels like a loop. A loop of grief and addiction with brief glimpses of joy. Is that joy? Would I recognize joy if it bit me?! Today I sit here in dappled sunlight looking out through the trees in a state of absolute delight and possibility. Yesterday I was sick and in a state of dread. Did I mention that consistency and I are not natural companions?

I had big plans for yesterday. A long ta-da list. But I woke with a migraine. Nauseous. Stiff joints and sore muscles. Where did this come from? I had been working outdoors in the garden the previous day, and I had been stung. It could just as easily have been caused by something I ate that day. The raspberries I put on my yogurt were just beginning to mold but I couldn’t stand to lose them. I live on that edge between blissful wellness and painful incapacity. It’s called chronic illness for a reason. So yesterday was a lost day. I sipped electrolytes, ate tiny bites of dry sourdough toast and stayed in my dark, cool bedroom.

But these days I have a job. I hate having a job. Oh, I love my work. It’s the schedule I resent. Having to be up and out of the house (preferably dressed) and then drive 40 minutes to get anywhere. Regardless of how I feel. Take Sumatriptan if necessary, but show up. Because consistency counts. I was loving retirement. I will again. Life threw another curve ball that I was ill prepared for, and now I face a new challenge: find a new way to earn income. So you’re 72?! Buckle up, buttercup. You live in Michigan, and Michigan is part of the good ol’ USofA….

Honestly, this is very likely good for me, being forced to get dressed and leave the house on a schedule. With the inconsistency of ADHD, and it’s sister component lack of discipline, a little imposed structure usually serves me well. It stimulates creativity and I am forced to overcome my preference to hide; forced to engage with others. As in people. Ugh. Present company excepted.

During this past month, I’ve been overwhelmed with grief and…well, despair – for lack of a better word. I guess I must admit despair. It has been a long 6 months of winter filled with grief. I am depressed. Getting out and driving through gorgeous countryside will do me good. I have reconnected with a dear old friend, who gave me work immediately without question when I called for help. And I’ve also met some very nice people. I certainly cannot complain. How fortunate I am when I get out of my own way. Honestly, are we all our own worst enemies?

I’m beginning to engage with life again. One new rabbit hole I’d love to share here is a vlog I’ve recently discovered on YouTube. I love YouTube…so way better than television. Apparently so does everyone else. In fact, in her first year on YT, Angie has rapidly grown to be one of the most popular channels. There are reasons obvious to me, but I will let you see for yourself.

Confession: I found this vlog because I am researching lifestyle channels, thinking about starting one myself. Sort of a live-action adjunct to this blog. There are aspects of Angie’s vlog I would copy – like wearing sunglasses indoors, of course. And her vulnerability, which I would much rather disguise – but what are the chances?! However, mine would also be quite different. For starters, I’m 12 years older. And far snarkier. Hard as I might try, I am not British. My vlog would have to include my metaphysical studies and spiritual experiences to be authentic. We all know I’ve never had a humble opinion in my life. But there are many things I admire about Angie, not the least of which is her consistency. I could learn something.

I have a long list of ideas…I would love your ideas. Let’s share our curiosity, in hopes that you and I can continue this conversation about life and loss and hope and inconsistency and beauty and all things human. Thank you for being here.

So here is my offering for today: Rare Birds, for those of us growing older, expanding rather than shrinking. For real people, highly sensitive people, who take life as it comes with all it’s foibles and inconsistencies. People like us, who keep on keeping on. Meanwhile, I’m off to my local hardware store to buy myself a garden fork…I hope Angie would be proud.

May17

waving truce against the moon

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“Let the beauty you love be what you do. There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground.” – Rumi

It’s time for some true confessions. The less I see of others sharing their vulnerabilities, the more I wanna. Because I’m also seeing some others who are sharing and it looks en-lighten-ing. I want that. I want to be lighter. I will always be a moth to the flame of freedom. All freedom – physical, financial, emotional, spiritual. I’m in my 70’s, and let’s just be frank here – I’m on the approach toward my death. I don’t feel like I’m going to die anytime soon, but the truth is we never know. Yes, I’ve lost much younger loved ones suddenly. But the recent shock of losing my former husband is a different kind of lesson.

He died unexpectedly last month at the age of 88. That sounds reasonably old. But there were things to be considered: firstly, he was the youngest of 5 children. His mother died of complications from an auto accident. But his father and four siblings all lived well into their 90’s. He lost his brother last October at the age of 97. They still golfed and played bridge twice a week with friends. They were active. He fully expected to live into his 90’s. And his death was “unexpected” because he died as the result of a fall, not of old age or natural causes. I had spoken to him a few days prior about getting together for lunch soon. I fully expected that to happen.

But this is really about the fear it triggered. We had been together for over 30 years when we were younger. He was not ever willing to discuss any arrangements for his death, natural or otherwise. He simply refused to consider it. When we were first married, I used to goad him that he thought he was the first immortal human. We had teenage children. His income was 10 times mine. There was no life insurance or any kind of financial arrangement in the event of his death. He was the most stubborn person I have ever known, and believe me, that is saying something in an Irish family.

So when he died in April he left nothing. His retirement pension stopped, which means so did my alimony. The State of Michigan is richer now; they won’t be paying him any longer. His new car has been repossessed by the bank. His 4 daughters inherited a savings account just large enough to cater his memorial service luncheon. Gratefully, I will receive his social security survivor benefits (but no longer receive mine. Social security pays whichever is greater, not both.) My life has just gotten exponentially harder. I’m 72 now and scrambling to figure out how I’ll support myself. It didn’t need to be this way, and of course, it’s absolutely perfect. It must be. I just don’t get to know why.

Yes, I had tried again and again to reason with him, even recently; to put some kind of a plan in place. He refused. In fact he laughed at me. He wasn’t going to die anytime soon. I thought he was unreasonable. He thought I was ridiculous. I guess we deserved each other. I miss him anyway.

If you’ve been here long, you know I’ve been grieving the loss of my beloved cat since October 20th. Just a couple days later my brother-in-law died, and a friend’s sweet dog whom I also loved. Three deaths all at once. And you also know that Chewy, my cat, was coming to me in my dreams and meditations. Twice he said very clearly, “do not make any decisions before spring.” When I heard this the second time, I asked what he meant by spring and he replied, “March 30th.” So…March 30th came, and while I did not feel any better, I was watching and listening for a change. Dick died 2 days later.

Since about the age of 65 I have worked at overcoming one of my biggest fears. It had incapacitated my creativity all of my life. My big, fat, ugly fear that people (especially loved ones) would think I am crazy. Insane type crazy. If you’ve read past blog posts, you know that I have truly healed these fears. All of my life my family and my two husbands had told me I was crazy. So I hid. It was blatant manipulation, what we now call gaslighting. It worked brilliantly. Kept me right where they wanted me – at their service.

Only today am I remembering that decades ago I went for a psych evaluation with a leading psychiatrist at U of M. I had asked my primary care physician to refer me because the antidepressants weren’t working. I thought maybe I needed something stronger. During that hour the psychiatrist said to me, “Well, you are not crazy, if that’s what you’re worried about.” He recommended that I not take stronger medication, but work toward improving my “circumstances.” In other words, pull your head out of your ass, Susan, and stop letting yourself be manipulated. Maybe stop living with addicts. My “over-developed sense of responsibility,” also professionally diagnosed, would get the better of me for a few more decades. Speaking of being stubborn…

So today I find myself back in survival mode, plagued by fears. And I wish to be free of them. I will begin with what I know – I will speak them. Name them. Expose them to the light. When Siddhartha Gautama (the Buddha) met evil on the road to enlightenment, he named it Architect. The Architect who would design his demise. The Architect of self doubt. He turned to face anything or anyone he felt this threat from. He would address them, and he would say, “I see you, Architect.”

Architect, I am scared of dying – not of death itself, but of suffering. Of lingering, being a burden to my only child. Let me be clear, I’m not afraid of pain. I know how to remain whole inside myself when my body is paralyzed with pain. When the morphine isn’t working and you can’t cry out for help. No one wants to learn that, but I have. I have walked trembling and yet confidently through hell and smelled the breath of huge, huge demons. Hoping their chains held; knowing that if not, at least my death would happen swiftly.

I’m afraid of losing the loved ones I have still, but that comes with aging. That’s just the way this works. I’m afraid of poverty. Of not having any control over where I live. Of becoming less and less free as I age. I’m afraid of this grief…of never finding joy again. That scares me most of all. I don’t know how to do grief. I guess I’m learning.

As I’ve said here before, my small group of friends have been patient with me. I went to lunch last week with one friend. It was a make up date because I had messed up our previous plans; I put them in my calendar wrong. Patience…while I am obviously being reset by life. Or as I say, “I’ll be with you in a moment” – my own euphemism for “I am not functioning.” Anyway, after a lovely meal we sat in her living room while I cried, consumed in self pity as I am these days. She reassured me as sweetly as I hope I would do for her. “There’s comfort in melancholy when there’s no need to explain…”

Suddenly she noticed a blue bunting on the bird feeder outside the window. Next thing we knew a spectacular oriole flew in. Brilliant orange, like it was lit up. Then a red cardinal. A bright yellow finch. It was surreal. Surreal is my default notification that God is hangin’ close. The veil is thin, and I am being blessed. I might have dismissed the significance of that if I were afraid you’d think me crazy. If that is crazy, sign me up for more.

“So now I am returning to myself these things that you and I suppressed.”

Apr2

back for season six

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Since the internist saved my life in the ER five years ago, I have been a patient. The man is brilliant. So, it stands to reason that he has the smartest nurse practitioner in the region. I love this woman. They are the best medical team I’ve ever had, and I have been blessed with some brilliant doctors. All who think outside the box, drawing upon a wide knowledge of medicine and natural treatments. Like the Sufi M.D. I had in Detroit when my son was a toddler. I complained about how hard it was to get him settled at night. He suggested I massage Steven’s little feet with sandalwood oil to help ground him. It was life-changing.

I’ve told the story here of how I was limping around with sciatica when I bumped into the chiropractor who had an office near my workplace. He offered to help me the next morning before we both began our work day. I’d never been to a chiropractor and was hesitant, but I was in pain. He sat me on the table that morning and asked me about the nightmare I had just woken from. “How did you know I had a nightmare?!” He just looked at me. In the nightmare the zoo was on fire, and I was being chased by a polar bear that had escaped. The doctor guided me through a meditation where I allowed the bear to catch up, turned to face it, and it wrapped me in it’s arms and nuzzled me. We cried together. No adjustment, but I never had sciatica again.

As it happened, sitting in the chiropractor’s waiting room that morning, I picked up a magazine off the table. The Sun. I’d never heard of it. It’s a literary magazine, and the cover story was an interview with the author of a new book. The author was Helen Palmer. The book was The Enneagram. I liked and subscribed, decades before social media existed. I bought the book, the magazine, the philosophy and the new perspective.

You’ve heard my stories before. I have thousands of these stories, in case you didn’t think I was living a charmed life. This doesn’t mean I haven’t lived in doubt. Of myself, my intuition, my nature. I’ve even come to appreciate my self doubt. No doubt, no growth. I’m a walking testament to the value of curiosity as a life path.

White haired now at 72, I say that I have discovered that I am a witch. I didn’t set out to be one; still don’t know much about them. They did fly in my window and heal me years ago when I was deathly ill passing gallstones. That was the first I had ever thought of them as anything other than fictional creatures. Was I hallucinating in my fever? You bet. Did that make them less real? Nope. Recognized one downtown several days later, eating lunch in a local restaurant. Real as you and I.

That day was my first outing since being so ill. I was picking up a book I had ordered. I had bought a deck of tarot cards the previous week while visiting Marion down in Grand Rapids, and I wanted the companion book. When I walked into my local Traverse City bookstore late, it happened a strange book sat on the counter. It was waiting for someone who had ordered it but changed their mind. The Flying Witches of Veracruz. I bought it. The Mexican witches had healed the tourist…you guessed it – he was passing gallstones.

That was my life. It hasn’t been obviously magical like that for decades now. Since I married a narcissist and forgot myself. I often joke that I am Rita Van Winkle, Rip’s great-granddaughter – and in my family we fall asleep for 20 years. That’s about how long it took for me to begin to extricate myself from that spell. And the witches showed up for me. They always will.

Jan14

I eat fear for breakfast.

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It’s the middle of January. Did you make New Year’s resolutions? I didn’t. I never do. I can’t goad myself into change. If I decide to make changes, it doesn’t matter what day it is. Which is why I’m finding it amusing that I’ve just discovered I have fallen back into a very bad habit. And it needs to change. Today.

It’s a life-long habit, so plenty of practice under my belt. Seventy odd years or so, so I can be gentle with myself, but I’m on it. This bad habit is fear. And unchecked it will kill me. I’m a fear addict, and I’ve fallen off the wagon. I’ve talked for the last three months about this crippling grief and how I don’t seem to be coming out of it. This is where that spiritual advice I heard many years ago would come in handy: “Let yourself fall apart at the SEEMS.” What if this despair isn’t pure grief, but the fear demon has attached itself to me again? C.S. Lewis, grieving the loss of his wife, said “who knew grief felt so much like fear?”

Grief is a big gaping wound in your soul. And fear is an infection that sets in. But the treatment is simple, inexpensive, and readily available. I guarantee you already have the ingredients for the cure in your household.

When my son was going through cancer treatment in his early 20’s, I was a basket case. He had to be brave for both of us. One day in the hospital elevator he said to me, “I know I’m going to be alright, but what are we going to do about getting you some help?” I asked him, “aren’t you afraid?” To which he replied, “I eat fear for breakfast.”

I love the old acronym for FEAR: False Evidence Appearing Real. False evidence, indeed. It might have it’s basis in reality. But our conditioned mind takes hold of that dust bunny and knits us into a cocoon of despair in no time. Confusion sets in, and before we know it we are incapacitated. I certainly have been. Oh, the grief is real. The powerlessness is not.

And the solution? You know this. I know this. The simple home remedy? Creativity. In any form. Not art necessarily, although that would do for starters. But creativity. A creative act. One. Simple. Creative. Act. Watch a favorite old movie, bake muffins, rearrange the furniture, cook a meal, notice something you didn’t see before, write a blog post (journal), sew a different button on your shirt that doesn’t match the others…

THIS is why creativity is radical. It defies a pattern. It’s what psychology calls a pattern interrupt. And it is why creativity is said to be courageous. It doesn’t require anything terribly brave or outrageously defiant. It just is courageous and defiant. It’s a choice. It’s choosing life.

Fear is a bad habit. It’s using your imagination against yourself. It’s not healthy. And the only way I know to change or overcome a bad habit is to replace it with a healthier one. That’s why creativity heals us. It’s the practice of exercising our imagination in service to ourselves – to our life.

Creativity is an act of generosity to ourself. It’s a declaration of our intent to treat ourself fairly, magnanimously, as if we are valuable. “There is a truth and it’s on our side. Dawn is coming, let’s open our eyes.” I’m eating fear for breakfast. You comin’?

Jan5

giving up all hope

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“Forgiveness is giving up all hope of having had a better past.” – Anne LaMott

Forgiveness has been a recurring theme lately in my thoughts and dreams. Call it the cosmos if you wish. The end of the Year of the Snake. The great shedding of old skin. Preparing to meet the Horse, which is my Chinese astrology sign. It’s a sign alright, and I don’t care what we name it. Bring it on.

I have been in a biglongugly funk. Fortunately, I do know how to get myself out of this: W R I T E. I can write my way out. I can draw or paint my way out, too. So can you. You can do any or all of those things. It has nothing to do with talent or experience – it depends on one thing and one thing only – willingness. Well, and a pen and some paper. I recently saw a quote by Dan Poynter that pissed me off. He said, “If you are waiting for inspiration to write, you’re not a writer. You’re a waiter.” Thanks for that, Dan. As my friend Lyn would say, “well that hurts my feelings.” Doesn’t it just…

So I have to sit my butt in a chair and write. Or draw. Or paint. A combination of the three actually works best for me. Because the alternative is insomnia, nightmares, migraine. Lately I have been raging in my sleep. My anger will not be contained. It shocks me how violent my dreams are. I’m fighting for my life, kicking and biting and stabbing and screaming. I am really angry. Keep your distance.

That has to come before the forgiveness. Because I don’t understand forgiveness. I do not know how to forgive. To give forth. To give it up…to let go.

“Everything I’ve ever let go of has claw marks.” – David Foster Wallace

Apparently my body and my subconscious keep excellent records. I assume you also have an inner secretary; mine functions at an executive level 24/7. And there is a thriving Slights Department. I have 70+ years of slights filed here, just waiting for their moment to be justifiably indignant.

In the middle of the night my inner secretary drags out the trauma files and tries to convince me that someone is going to murder me. My nighttime assailant can be any number of people. Usually my father or my sister. They, along with other family members, were prone to violent outbursts. They all spent time in jail for violence against other people. They all weaseled out of more serious charges with the help of a good attorney. As did my former husband, my son’s father. They all drove drunk on a regular basis and never left the house without a gun. I knew what they were capable of, and for anyone who has ever been manipulated by an abuser, that is all it takes. A certain look in their glassy eyes is all it takes for them to back you right into a corner.

To say that I have clawed and chewed my way free of the manipulation of narcissists would be an understatement. The one thing I have not ever done is threaten them back. Oh, I am capable of it, believe me. I, too, have a vengeful murderer deep inside my psyche. I understand them. But I have never actually threatened anyone with any kind of violence at all. I loathe violence. I lived in it’s shadow until I was sixty years old. I had to learn how to walk away and never look back. So I guess I do actually know how to let go. I just don’t know how to make it not hurt.

And, I do swear a lot. Recently my son brought this habit to my attention and asked me to reconsider it. I told him that social psychologists have studied swearing and concluded that it does, in fact, help the body dissipate stress. He said something very wise about it, though. He asked me if it were not a form of violence. And I think it is, yes. I think I will curb my habit of swearing in my effort to live more softly. We’ll see how that goes, shall we? Consider it an experiment.

I have often joked that my obsession with murder mysteries is because I want to know there are people out there more psychotic than my own family. There is always some truth in humor, isn’t there? For the past decade or so I have played with the idea of writing a memoir. But I haven’t wanted to be the angry, confrontative whistle blower of the family. This week, as we begin a hopeful new year, I don’t think I have a choice any longer. I’m tired. I know truth heals. And only truth heals. I want healing. I will be careful and respectful to the best of my ability, but I will tell my truth my way.

Anne LaMott also said, when asked about exposing family dysfunction in her memoirs, “you own everything that’s happened to you. Write your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better.” I admit to you here, now, that I still need to overcome the actual fear I carry that my family will lash out and harm me. My sister threatened me years ago when I began this blog.

Many of my family members also had a great sense of humor. My son certainly does. I will incorporate that into my stories, but I will tell them however they show up. And I will share here what I can of them – not because I need you to know, but because I want us to heal. If I can do this, so can you. It’s time. It’s the year of the horse. We ride at midnight.