Staying Vertical

I’ve read it, reread it, read it again.
What could have been…
So sweet and so sad.
All the stories I could have had.
So determined to go my own way
Then losing myself in the day-to-day
Until at last myself I find
Past 60 and at last in sound mind.
Understanding and wisdom came very late
“Too soon old, too late smart” my dad would state.
Regrets? I’ve had more than a few.
But she waited for you. She waited for you.

I feel like a cliche. The news hit me like a semi truck yesterday. Stunned me. My first thoughts were “No! No! No! Not true!” and then expletives when I realized it was true; and there was no rewind button, no erasing the act, no taking it back. Shazzbot!

I hate that we live in a world (especially THiS crazy messed up one) that doesn’t have Robin Williams in it anymore. And I hate that it makes me feel so frail.

I haven’t lived with chronic depression, but I’ve lived around it and have dealt with the angry darkness and leaden fog of the depression brought on by chronic illness and grief. It was close enough to have me forming a forbidden thought in a moment of panic and despair. Dodging the bullet, so to speak.

I’m going to miss you, Robin Williams, and all of the characters that were inside of you. Through each one of them, you helped reveal a little, no, a lot of who we all are. Frailties and all.

Nanu Nanu

This past Saturday, I attended Toastmaster Leadership Institute for my district in Colorado. One of the take-aways was a call-out to the membership to tell their stories. Personal stories are a powerful influence on bringing people into Toastmasters (or any organization), and we were being reminded how important our own stories are. Here is my Toastmaster story.

You may not know this. I may not have told you, but I was once kind of a big deal. When I was senior in high school…about 50 years ago now. I’ll wait while you clean up the drink you just snorted all over yourself. The scope of my influence as a “big deal” was rather small, my high school district and my family, mostly. I’d come off a phenomenal year of forensics (speech and debate) competition, taking awards at the district and state levels in California and qualifying for the National tournament. I reprised the mojo in 1972, taking awards in two events at the Junior College Nationals.

I then got busy with life and career and motherhood and wifehood. It was all going rather swimmingly until about six years ago when I lost my voice for the first time. It was when my grandmother died. Losing my voice wasn’t a little inconvenience, I’d been asked to deliver her eulogy. Writing it out helped, but the power I used to have in delivering a speech was gone. I got through it, but the mojo was weak. I managed a few words at my mother’s memorial, although by now the effect was much more severe; and I did an acceptable job for my husband, Bill, when we honored him at Arlington. Both times, a microphone doing the work of projecting my words.

Grief comes to all of us, and it affects all of us differently. The one thing we cannot deny is that loss affects us. It changes us. Sometimes those changes are subtle, and sometimes they are unmistakable. The bigger the loss, the more complex and the more evident the effect. For me, the death of my husband of nearly 28 years was the end of a streak of losses covering only three years, beginning with my grandmother in mid-2007. That was followed by my mother in early 2008, and then of course, my husband in 2010. And when I wasn’t losing somebody through death, I was leaving them or they were leaving me behind. We moved away from our family and friends in Maryland and the DC area in late 2007. In April of 2009 my son’s marriage blew up spectacularly and all of us were still picking out the shrapnel when Bill became terminally ill.

It wasn’t just my voice.

After Bill died, I seemed to do ok for a while. We got through the wake and the funeral and I ate and slept and took care of routine things, sort of. I even became a county Veterans Service Officer for a while, until I realized it was making things worse. You’ve read about the VA problems. There I was sitting across from frail old men with Agent Orange triggered illnesses, knowing they would probably die before they saw a penny of assistance — gamed by the system with automatic denials and requests for information already sent.

Somehow, by late 2012 I found myself spending whole days in my pajamas watching TV — from Good Morning America through The View and the news and then on to the court shows on Denver Channel 31 and on into the evening until it was time for bed. I would change into clothes before my son got home from work, so he wouldn’t know what a total slob I was becoming. The only relief was the occasional camping trip out of town.

Because I was sitting around in my pjs, not much was being accomplished. I would make lists of things to do and then find ways to rationalize not doing them. A body at rest tends to stay at rest, and I was resting myself right into an early grave. I also wasn’t doing much communicating, other than displacing my emotions with raging rants on political websites.

One day in November 2012, I came across a paragraph in the local Parker Chronicle under the calendar section: LUNCH OUT LOUD Toastmasters, 11:30 a.m. every Friday, Parker Methodist Church. It just so happened, I had nothing to do on mostly any Friday at 11:30 a.m. Something deep within me clicked into place.

At my first meeting, I found a friendly and accepting group of people who were all looking to pull something better out of themselves. I was warmly greeted and encouraged to participate fully in the meeting. At the end of my first meeting, I was awarded a ribbon for Best Table Topics.

Prizes? No one told me there would be prizes! I was hooked.

In the coming months, as I worked my way through both the speaking and leadership manuals*, I found that things were changing around me in ways I hadn’t expected. I was spending less time in my pajamas even on days when I wasn’t at Toastmasters. I was becoming a functional human being again. My house was even cleaner and more organized. I was also having conversations with people again. I was making new friends.

In my second year of Toastmasters, I took on a board officer position for my club, and that has accelerated the positive changes in my abilities to organize not only my thoughts but my day-to-day life. I’m not new at this organization thing, I had just given it all up for grief. In the process of getting and keeping myself organized as Sergeant at Arms, I broke through that barrier. It was a bit of an epiphany when I found myself creating a continuity binder for my successor, just like the old days when I was an awesome senior NCO in the AF.

And my voice is back. A little shaky from my advanced years (snort) and all the years I insisted on smoking cigarettes, but it is gaining strength and I am gaining confidence all the time. Maybe one day, I’ll be kind of a big deal again. It doesn’t have to be world-wide fame — just being a big deal in my little world will be fine.

*Competent Communicator and Competent Leader

It’s July again.
Monsoon rains drenching and flooding streets.
Hummingbirds zipping and fighting over feeders.
The Swallowtail butterflies
sailing on breezes
and
memories
of those final days and hours
waiting and watching
holding on and letting go
letting go
and holding on
wanting it to be over
not wanting it to be the end
and the butterflies
so plentiful that year
a near constant parade
creating a circle of protection
in yellow and black and indigo blue.
When the waiting was over
and all the ties
unbound
I watched as you dropped the anchor
to sail away into a summer breeze
leaving the Swallowtails
yearly reminders
of life and death
of life and love
of life
and life that comes forth from life
of death
and the emptiness that is left behind
of love
a spring filling that emptiness
pumping life into
the fragile wings
of
butterflies.

I was the pre-eminent
highway engineer
in the vacant field
next to our house
in North Long Beach
I’d design roads
for rock vehicles
traversing precipitous hillocks of cheatgrass
skirting dangerous cavernous gopherholes

A Pentecostal church
built there in the sixties
covers my
superhighwaysystem
as well as various
forts and kivas
we built in those years
before we grew up
and got cool
enough
to survive
our teens
and become productive citizens.

Ruins of An Ancient Civilization (#wherehaveallthepayphonesgone)

I keep coming back to it
like a lost hiker circling back
to the same point
over and over
A center point
a truth
I am

The Creator
is
all of it
desiring
nothing
more
but
to be

Love
is all there is
where there is
Love
There IS
creation
and
it is
beautiful
and it is
good
through the passing
of all of the storms
and
all of the seasons

Fear
not
FEAR NOT
fear
not…
Fear is
the Destroyer
It always
was.

Having a cup of coffee and waiting out a squall on Tuesday, the 15th, I reflected back on the ten days since I’d rolled up in the ambulance with the beginnings of a cold that cramped my style for a few days. It could have been a real downer, but turned out to be one the of many gifts of the trip. The best part of that was getting to spend time with my daughter, just caring for ourselves (she came down with it, too) and talking about this and that.

Once we were over the virus, or at least somewhat in control of it, we set out to have the best weekend ever. On Friday night, she and her husband and I attended Lewis Black’s The Rant Is Due at the Warner Theater. He’s one of my favorite political comics; I enjoy his acerbic turn of phrase as well as his point of view. We had amazing seats, and got to observe his every tic.

We followed that up with a nice walk over to The Hamilton to listen to part of one of my favorite local DC bands, The Lloyd Dobler Effect. A good walk in the late night Spring-filled air to the Metro, a relaxing ride back sharing laughs. All the perfect Act I of the birthday weekend.

On Saturday, I went to see my friend and old neighbor in Silver Spring. I was kidnapping her for the rest of the weekend, but I wanted to have time to enjoy Spring in her wonderful backyard gardens. Another gift of the trip.

My little dogs were unruly pests, and her big golden lab greeted me with wiggles and waggles and took my whole forearm in her mouth while she whined and chortled and made it clear that she knew who I was and “Oh! Oh! Oh! I’m so happy to see you! I have so much to show you and tell you and, squirrel…”

We, my girlfriend and my daughter and I, then drove to Virginia to meet at the home of another friend for a girl’s night out and “slumber party”. We went to a wonderful restaurant and theater experience in Alexandria: Medieval Madness. The foods and drink (either ale or wine) are all authentic to the 14th-15th centuries, some of them still being made by the same monasteries (e.g. Ettal in Germany) according to the same recipes. The foods were delicious, the entertainment (including the serving wenches) enjoyable and not too cheesy, but cheesy is kind of the point.

We sat up late and talked, but all of us were pretty knackered and we had a big day planned for Sunday, so the only giggling and shrieking occurred when I dumped a full glass of cold soda water in my lap whilst trying to take a picture of my friend’s little black snowpuff of a dog in her motorcycle-mama goggles, etc.

On Sunday we had a wonderful champagne (mimosa!) brunch at Mrs. K’s Tollhouse in Silver Spring. The atmosphere and the food just cannot be beat there. They gave us a booth in the cellar, and we enjoyed ourselves to the fullest.

From there, we took in a play at Silver Spring Stage: Other Desert Cities. Very well done, as always. A good denouement to the weekend. It was followed by goodbyes and commitments to get back together when we can be in the same time zone.

Such a wonderful birthday party! I am so blessed to have good friends to see me through tough times and good times. Another gift in this bounty of gifts.

My best birthday present was yet to come. In a quiet conversation with my daughter, that night, I shared my longing to complete at least a part of the Camino de Santiago. To my complete surprise and delight, she jumped on it and said, “I’ll do it with you!” In the next 12 hours, her brother was in on it with us, and now we are all researching and planning and beginning the training for a long walk that will take place sometime in late spring next year.

On Tuesday morning, after the workers had gotten to work and that rain squall had passed through, I loaded up the dogs and the last of our gear and we headed back to Denver. During the 3-day drive back, we nearly froze to death in Ohio. I won’t travel without a space heater again!

The eastern portion of the Will You Still Need Me, Will You Still Feed Me tour was THE BOMB! Tomorrow morning, I head out again on the southwestern leg. Check you later, gater!

I will be 64 one week from tomorrow. I am in no way responsible for this accomplishment. It is the happy result of the union of two attractive, intelligent, and perfect human beings a little more than 65 years ago; and having successfully made the trip around the sun on the spinning blue marble 64 times. All the while, our sun hurls through space in an expanding Milky Way galaxy contained (at least as far as we know) within an expanding universe; covering millions of miles a day as it reaches out further and further into …

Having a birthday always make me think too much. So, I like to take a trip about that time of year. A road trip, preferably, with plenty of hours to reflect and talk out loud to myself and anyone else, alive or dead, that I have business with that is really more my business than their business (if you know what I mean). I play my old 70s music, and sing out loud where no one is subjected to the abuse.

I left for this trip on Tuesday and covered 1400 miles in the first two days (through gale-force winds in Kansas, monsoons in Missouri and Illinois, and thunderstorms in Kentucky) to spend some time with a cousin in Oak Ridge, TN. She is the daughter of one of my three favorite uncles, and I hadn’t seen her in nearly 20 years.

We were able to catch up with each other and connect on a level that hadn’t been possible when we were younger. There is about 15 years difference in our ages, which was a big difference when we were younger. My cousin has struggled with learning disabilities, which made it difficult for her to pursue education. She is wonderful with children, but cannot afford the required certification process; and struggles with a sense that it will be too difficult for her to pass the requirements. Although able to live independently and maintain an apartment; she is one of the tens of millions of people who work more than one low-wage part-time job with no benefits. She admitted to me that she relies on SNAP benefits to survive. I was not surprised, but I noted in her tone a real desire to not have to be in that position.

When I hear people talk about the lazy poor, I want to punch someone. There are so many differently-abled people among us. They are our cousins, our siblings, and our children. We cannot dismiss them all as lazy or looking for a handout. Why should they feel like they are doing something wrong by accepting help to eat, when life has already conspired to make it difficult for them to do so?

On Thursday, I drove to Mint Hill, NC to visit with a friend from my early days in the Air Force when we were both young and skinny heart-breakers and awesome NCOs. It was one of those visits that validates that there are people in your life that were there for you, by elegant design. We had a glorious time sharing stories, revisiting some of the old stuff long enough to explore the lessons there, and comparing differences in the way we think, our preferences, etc.. It was here that I got a long hot shower, a sit-down dinner with all four food groups (wine is a food group, right?) and a wonderful cloud-like sleep on a feather bed. I left with gifts, both material and spiritual. The way I remember it, it was always that way.

On Friday evening, the dogs and I rolled into Maryland and our base camp for the Will You Still Need Me, Will You Still Feed Me tour. We have some very fun stuff planned! I’m only 64 once; but, if I work it right, once should be enough, right?

This morning, I saw a news clip out of Seattle about a helicopter that crashed into a building downtown with at least two killed. Immediately, I contacted my friend of over 40 years to ensure she and her family were safe. They are, but here is what she wrote today, with permission to put it on my blog if I were so inspired. I am so inspired.

HELICOPTER CRASH BESIDE SPACE NEEDLE AN HOUR AGO

Vali Hawkins Mitchell, PhD, LMHC, REAT
ImproVizion Consulting
Seattle, Washington
808-397-1528
www.improvizion.com

Some folks just get lucky. Real survivors make plans and act on them. I intend to continue to be a survivor. How about you?

“My beautiful hair is dead
Now I am the rawhead
O when I look in the mirror
the bald I see is balder still
When I sleep the sleep I sleep
is not at will
And when I dream I dream children waving goodbye —
It was lovely hair once
it was”
Gregory Corso, Hair, The Happy Birthday of Death, 1960

This past Thursday, I had my head shaved in support of St Baldrick’s Foundation. I did so to support my cousin, George, and our team, which raised over $5000 to help fund research for childhood cancers. I also did it as a personal act of solidarity with a friend who is battling back from acute myeloid leukemia and a stem-cell transplant. They have to practically kill you to cure you; but my friend is a tough old bird, and she is doing well — kicking cancer’s ass. I also did it because I needed to do something dramatic to indicate a change in direction.

During the weeks leading up to the actual public head-shaving, I thought a lot about my hair and hair in general. Hair is such an important touchpoint for us, culturally: whether we have it or not, whether we expose it or not, how we cut it, color it, comb it. To be clear, I am only talking about the hair on our heads. Body and facial hair would have to be a whole other discussion.

My hair was always a source of pride and some vanity for me. When I was young, it was reddish brown and thick and wavy. So I had to mess with that, of course!

There were the perms, including the freakish afro I wore for a while in the mid 70s. There were the dyes and bleaches. For some reason, I wanted to look older than my 20 something and so I had my hair frosted a few times.

The “frosting” process consisted of having a very tight plastic cap (similar to a clear, thin swim cap with hundreds of tiny holes in it) forced over my head until I could hear the pulse in my temples. The beautician, using a #7 crochet hook, would dig through those little holes and fish around until she had gathered a little hank of my hair, which she would then yank through the hole in the plastic with the hook, pulling with her fingers until she was satisfied that she had enough and it was all pulled through to the roots. Hundreds of those little holes. It was hours before the bleaching began and then came the toning, the cutting, the setting on hair curlers (these were the olden days, girls and boys), the drying under the hood of the hairdryer, the combing, the teasing, the spraying … Be glad you’re alive in better times, my friends.

Years later, shortly after my baby daughter (now in her 20s) was born, I felt like I needed a perking up. Something to make me look younger. So I had my hair dyed a dark rich brown. Doesn’t that just sound yummy? It was one of the worst looks ever! My husband hated it, and I could not wait for it to grow out so I could cut it off. It made me look older and more tired than I was. The lesson I learned was that we can’t go back to the rich dark hair colors of our youth when our skin has taken on the pale patina of time. (Did you like the way I put that? It means that dark hair looks like crap on pale old women.)

I’ve worn my hair as long as my shoulders, but never for very long. From my first bob, given by my great Aunt Net in 1956, I seem to always come back to short, or even very short, hair — particularly as one chapter of my life is closing and another opening (e.g., graduating and going off to college, joining the AF, getting married, etc.) or simply to reflect the need for a clean, fresh start to a bad week.

I know men feel all kinds of ways about women’s hair. I’ve had boyfriends and a husband who have expressed this to me freely. My high school sweetheart wanted me to wear very short hair. This was in 1968 when the style was very long and very straight and, as hard as I tried, I couldn’t manage that combination. Something about the ocean humidity in long, thick, naturally wavy hair. So I went very short. He was very pleased and I felt like a sell-out, but secretly enjoyed the wash-and-wear nature of the cut.

My husband preferred my hair longer, and it was an act of rebellion for me to continue cutting it short. Or at least he saw it that way until he saw how much time it took to take care of longer hair. Time that, as a mother-housewife-cook-gardener-career woman-church volunteer (etc.), I didn’t have. He capitulated. That’s what marriage is all about, eh?

I had never been bald, before. Going into Thursday’s event, I had one or two misgivings. (What if I had a really gruesome skull with lumps and bumps and flat spots? What if I looked horrible with no hair?) These easily gave way to sounder reasoning. I love wearing hats and have a dozen or so, and even a couple of wigs if I need them. I tarted my hair up with colors, girded my loins, and went for it.

There were two things I hadn’t counted on. The first is the assumption many people make, when they see my baldness, that I am sick or undergoing chemo. I was purchasing a cute little St. Patrick’s headpiece at the drug store, and I removed the warm cap I was wearing to try it on while I was checking out. The cashier suddenly became tongue-tied and a bit wrought, trying to express sympathy and an apology for not noticing, etc. It smacked me right between the eyes that this was brilliant as a teaching and marketing moment for St. Baldricks as there are freshly shaved heads all over the country. I did the teaching part.

The other thing I hadn’t counted on was how much I like this look. It feels like a giant shift took place when the last of my rainbow-colored hair hit the floor. No more time spent combing, styling, brushing, cussing. A few drops of shampoo works up enough lather to do the job. I’m cooler at night and don’t have to turn my pillow over more than once or twice.

And I’ll have to go along with Persis Khambatta, showering has become quite another experience…

There is still time for you to make a difference in this year’s St. Baldrick’s campaign. Donations are still being accepted at http://www.stbaldricks.org/participants/mypage/667422/2014.