Scandal

Found here

Mother called me tonight to tell me a salacious tale involving some of her acquaintances. Phil (we'll call him that) just had a funeral for his second wife who passed away a week or so ago. It was quite a loss, but she had been ill with Alzheimer's for a couple years and was there but really "not there." So the memorial service was yesterday evening.

Phyllis came up to my mother today and told her that she had overhead Phil speaking with Astrid (we'll call her this name), whom he has known for many years. This is how the conversation went:

Astrid: I'm so sorry about Faye (his wife) passing.
Phil: Yeah. It's been a long time coming. I don't know if I can go through something like this again.
Astrid: I'm very sorry, my friend.
Phil: Thank you, Astrid. This has been hard and I'm ready to turn over a new leaf. But no one will have me now.
Astrid: Oh, don't say that! You will find someone else--you're a good catch and you have a lot going for you.
Phil: Well, I just don't know...
Astrid: You love life too much to crawl in a hole and pull it after you. You can be happy again.

Curtis, another of mother's friends said that he then overheard a marriage proposal of sorts. Phil proposed to Astrid on the evening of his deceased wife's memorial service. But Phil and Astrid don't know they were overheard and no one is mentioning it to either of them. But Mother, Curtis and Phyllis sat outside on the bench tonight, watching the sun go down, talking over all the juicy details of this news.

"Are you going to ask Astrid about this, Mother?"
"No." She laughs. "We're all going to just wait and see what happens. It could be that she turned him down."
"Well, don't you think that this is a rebound situation? Don't you think they should wait a few months?"
"They don't have lots of time to wait--they're in their late 80s."
"Oh." I feel dumb and alarmed all at the same time.
"I wonder what their kids would think about something like this?"
"They're both lonely, happy-go-lucky, and good friends. Why shouldn't they get married?"
"It seems rushed and inappropriate somehow."
"I think it's great and I can't wait to see what happens."

So everyone where Mother lives is walking on eggshells, not mentioning the elephant in the middle of the room: Phil and Astrid's romance. Hmmmm. I'll let you know when I hear something.

Snap, Crackle, Pop!

Sister Wendy Beckett found here

I was new in town and didn't have any friends yet. Michael, one of my new colleagues, whom I thought was rather a prig, invited me to go over to St. Mary of the Woods and meet Sister Marilyn. She was 87 years old and could out walk a mule, he said. We would have lunch with her and then she would show us the convent's art collection. It would be a lovely escape from the monotonous anonymity that I couldn't seem to shake.

Sister Marilyn was waiting for us at the door to the dining room. She welcomed us warmly and took us inside for a wonderful Sunday brunch. Honestly, I've never enjoyed a brunch more ever since. Everything delicious was laid out and people swarmed around white linen covered tables. We had a wonderful visit and terrific breakfast.

I quickly learned that Sister Marilyn was as deaf as a stone. Michael and I shouted above the din of the brunch crowd into her ear all through the meal. One nun was playing show tunes on an electric piano by the door. It was odd to see a nun in habit playing "Fish gotta swim and birds gotta fly, I'm gonna love that man till I die; can't stop loving that man of mine."

Sister Marilyn was pleasant enough, smiling and nodding even when she couldn't get everything we said. Would we like to get the tour? And so we were off across the grounds of the convent. We saw the Shell Chapel, the Hermitage made of straw bales, the graveyard of sleeping nuns from the early 1800s, and the stations of the cross bronze sculptures. It was a most impressive place and I was so happy to finally be in a spot that felt more like home than the flat, grassy area where I was living.

How about seeing the paintings now? We headed down one of the many long halls in the building. All along the walls were oil paintings of various sizes and different themes. We stepped up to the first painting--a vivid floral oil painting.

"This one was done by Sister Theresa Bernadette." Sister Marilyn leaned closer to eye the signature at the bottom of the painting. Pfffft!! A loud fart coming from Sister Marilyn almost made me jump. Michael and I both stepped back. His eyes were wide and he seemed to suddenly have something wrong with his pocket, as he was fumbling around with it.

Sister Marilyn didn't even pause, but plunged into an explanation of the brilliant paint colors used in this painting. Ktchppppptt! She exploded again. I suddenly realized that being so deaf, she couldn't hear herself. We shuffled on to the next picture, both Michael and I trying not to let on that we'd heard anything.

"You'll notice that the Madonna in this picture is much more active than how she is typically depicted." Pfoofph! "She has such a more youthful expression on her face than I've seen her have elsewhere." Plght! I didn't think I could contain myself, but that's how it went, all the way down the hall--cracks and pops punctuating her every comment. I don't know how she did it, but I thought I'd laugh myself silly if I could just get out of there.

Not once did I visit Sister Marilyn thereafter, but that she sounded off throughout our whole visit. I became quite adept at ignoring what I heard, but it always gave me a twinkle in my eye to think of this woman of God, full of hot air in this way.

It reminded me of Betty--a British friend who cannot bear impropriety. She had to have X-rays taken at the hospital so she called on her friend, Rita, another Brit, to help her. Rita worked in Volunteer Services and offered to take Betty around the hospital in a wheelchair.

Betty has real trouble with her back, so a wheelchair would be very helpful for her. In she plunked and off she went, propelled by Rita. Down the hall they went. But what's this? Rita, looking very dignified, was a walking percussion section, only she acted as though nothing was happening. When people in the hall heard a loud fart, they naturally, looked at Betty--the patient in the wheelchair. Betty was utterly scandalized.

The walk to radiology seemed to go on forever. They got into the elevator and there, with several other people standing inside that small space, Rita farted again, loudly. She looked unconcerned and maintained a stiff upper lip. Someone tittered, and Rita started talking to Betty about family members in the U.K. The doors to the elevator swung open and Rita rolled Betty, now apoplectic, out of the elevator and into the hall. Betty could not contain her outraged sense of proper conduct any longer.

"I say, Rita! You have a problem!" she whispered angrily.

Rita looked surprised. "Have I?"

Betty had a full head of steam now: "Yes, you need to get help for all that noise you're making--even in the elevator." She grimaced as Rita let out another popping sound as if in retort.

"My giddy aunt..." Betty stiffened. "You need help!"

Rita's lips went from a smile into a straight line. "Perhaps you'd rather walk to radiology."

Betty's eyebrows lifted at this suggestion. "Yes, perhaps I would." And she struggled up from the chair and without looking back, hurried away from Rita and the parting blast that echoed in the elevator foyer.

Betty was telling me about this one time and began laughing and wheezing. "The Lord has a sense of humor!" she choked out between gasps. "When I get to heaven I'm going to look for Rita and tell her that I understand and I'm so sorry I was cross with her! Now I can't help myself!" And right on cue, as if to prove her point, she let fly with a drum roll of her own.

"Oh!" she threw her head back on the couch, her mouth open in a silent howl of laughter, only a long quivering wheeze audible. "Terribly sorry!"

These are some of life's funniest little jokes ever.

Farewell

This very sad missive came to all of us at my job today. Our little community has been hit very hard. Please keep this family in your prayers. This makes us long for the Resurrection Morning, as I don't know how the parents of this family can endure the losses.


To all of our Loma Linda Colleagues:

On Sunday, March 22, a tragic plane crash in Montana abruptly ended the lives of six Loma Linda University alumni,
and seven of their children. The professional pilot of the plane also died in this accident. Our entire Loma Linda University
and Medical Center family joins in expressing our sincerest sympathy to the grieving relatives and other loved ones at this
time of unimaginable loss.

The deceased are:

Vanessa Feldkamp Pullen, School of Medicine (’98), husband Michael Pullen, School of Dentistry (’99), children Sydney (age 10) and Christopher (age 7)
Amy Feldkamp Jacobson, Dental Hygiene (’97), husband Erin Jacobson, School of Medicine (’00), children Taylor (age 4), Ava Grace (age 3), Jude (age 2)
Kristen Mautz Ching, School of Nursing (’00), husband Brent Ching, School of Dentistry (’98), children Hailey (age 5) and Caleb (age 4)

Words cannot express the sadness we feel for our colleagues who are family members and friends of those who lost their lives. Numbered among the many who now mourn are those who serve with us in our educational and health ministries:

Erin Jacobson was the brother of Paul Jacobson, our School of Medicine’s and LLUMC’s neuroradiologist. Erin was also and son of John Jacobson, former cardiac surgeon in the School of Medicine, and the nephew of Alan Jacobson, director of Research, VA Loma Linda Healthcare System.

Vanessa Feldkamp Pullen and Amy Feldkamp Jacobson were both sisters-in-law of Adrian Cotton, LLUMC’s hospitalist and a member of the Department of Medicine.

Brent Ching was the nephew of Victor Ching, Urologist, VA Loma Linda Healthcare System.

Our prayer is that our Lord will give us a special measure of his mercy as we share the deep sadness of this loss and as we
reach out in love to embrace those who are grieving.

Roger Hadley, MD
Dean Loma Linda University School of Medicine
Executive Vice President for Medical Affairs Loma Linda University Adventist Health Sciences Center

A lot has happened

Sam and I celebrated our 6th wedding anniversary yesterday. We thought that maybe we'd go up to Santa Barbara and spend an idyllic weekend on the beach. But an awful storm is coming in off the coast and we could have treacherous driving weather on the way home. So we stayed at home and slept in our own comfortable bed before going down to Palm Springs to roam around. This morning over breakfast we commented once again that we are shocked that it has already been six years, yet on the other hand we feel that we have been together forever, since we feel so comfortable together.
So today I thought I'd share some wedding photos with you so you can see how we started out. We got married during spring break of 2003 at Prospect Park in Redlands, California. There were only 10 of us present and that was just about right as far as I was concerned. I've always disliked the hoo-haw that goes on at weddings around candles, preludes and everyone wondering if the soprano can sing the high A at the end of "The Lord's Prayer," parading about with unnatural clothes on, and those ever-present cameras. Therefore, we just wore church clothes and stood on the side of a hill overlooking an orange grove in bloom that smelled wonderfully fragrant. Unfortunately, it smogged up for the occasion. The previous day we could see probably 50 miles clearly from that hill.
We were married by Will Alexander, whom I knew for over 20 years and who had just celebrated his 61st wedding anniversary the day before. There I stood, 10 weeks after major surgery, still puffy and very pale. My friend Bill, whose sense of propriety would not allow him to see me married without flowers, bought my bouquet and Sam's boutinierre. Sam told my mother that he was wearing a seersucker suit--for what reason, I don't know. It was a lightweight four season wool navy suit. I think he heard "seersucker" and assumed it referred to the cut of the suit, not realizing that mother conjured up images of him in a blue and white striped barbershop quartet outfit.
In the picture above you can see Sam's expression when Will sprung it on us that we'd be making up our own vows on the spot and that we'd start with Sam. I was quite obviously delighted at his discomfort.



Sam didn't even hesitate. He reflected most eloquently on the first time he saw me. He always comes through when it is time to make statements. He said that I was covered in light (I was actually standing under a ceiling light in the Indianapolis airport) and said something wonderful about how he would always see me full of light and love. I was so awestruck that he could have recited the Dow Jones averages and I wouldn't have caught on.
Now it was my turn.
Gulp...

My comments to Sam were comprised of unadulterated gibberish. I have no recollection whatever of what I said, and neither does he. I only saw his eyes and knew that I would forever be connected to this man. I kept thinking, Pay attention! You've waited years for this moment. Don't miss anything! I could hardly believe what I was doing after being single for 44 years, and I had real trouble staying present. I think I was subconsciously highly anxious, even though I didn't feel shaky or nervous and there were no burning questions in my (conscious) mind that I was doing the right thing.
It is interesting however, that I had awakened two mornings earlier at 3:30 a.m. in a panic. I woke him up immediately for the following exchange:

Sam!
What's wrong?
I can't marry you.
What?
We're too different.
What???
You don't like to talk and I'll live my life with someone who won't talk with me. I'm a therapist--I have to be able to talk.
Are you sure we need to talk about this now?
See?
Honey, what do you want to do?
I love you, but part of me wants to go right back to California.
Well, we can go back to California (A stifled guffaw from his direction).....Honey, we're in California now.
I wasn't amused and still felt panicky.
Sounding very sleepy, Sam said, We don't have to get married now. Do you want to wait?
Now he had my number. No. It's okay. But promise me that you'll always talk to me.
Okay. We can finish the conversation in the morning.
Are you sure? Do you understand what this means to me?
Yes.
Okay.
Okay?
Yeah. I love you.
Love you, too.

So when I sang to him at our wedding, I was more anxious, happy, startled, and fervent than I had ever been in my life:

I will give my love an apple without any core;
I will give my love a house without any door;
I will give my love a palace wherein he may be;
And he may unlock it without any key.

My head is the apple without any core;
My mind is the house without any door;
My heart is the palace wherein he may be;
And he may unlock it without any key.
(Traditional English Folk Song)

And that's what happened six years ago. We were surprised and delighted that the park gardener happened to be a former photographer for Olan Mills. He took this last photo for us, standing in front of one of the two Sequoia trees in the park. And so all 10 of us posed before we went to an Italian restaurant for our reception that Shelly generously organized and treated us to.
All I remember from the meal was the sparkling apple cider and the raspberry chocolate ganache cake for desert (no tasteless white cake for me!) And off we went into what is now six years.

We can hardly believe all the good things that this marriage has brought to us. Sometimes I almost want to pinch myself to see if it's me in this place. I would say that we are overwhelmingly happy together, even though there have been ups and downs, and for me, a rather long period of adjustment. But I think I'm settling into this thing finally. And I truly love Sam. We are ever so grateful that we have one another and have been so blessed.

It was a very, very happy day--six years ago, and yesterday too.

Attachment--Part IV

So here is something else interesting about our attachment styles: the way we grieve our losses depends in large part on the way we are attached. People with a secure attachment style feel sad, empty, desperately sad. And they are able to move on relatively soon.

For example, it is a sad thing to lose a relationship for anyone. But people with an anxious attachment style pine, agonize, and obsess about the loss for months or years. It doesn't feel possible to move on because their loss triggers that original relationship disruption that feels as if it will kill their souls. It is difficult to redirect such grieving people, as they become fixated on their loss and will tell it to anyone who will listen--for years afterward. It mirrors the primal sense of loss they may have experienced even at a preverbal stage.

People with avoidant attachment styles are those who are prone to shake themselves off and act as though the whole thing is an inconvenience--nothing more. They are so defended (guarded) against feeling vulnerability or pain that they will put up a wall and move ahead quickly to something else. People like this can either become loners--it's easier to be without someone to be attached to--or can move into high risk behaviors such as addictions, crime, or promiscuity (love 'em and leave 'em--except it isn't love, it's the Clint Eastwood or 007 type use of women).

People with secure attachment styles grieve--yes they do. But it is a "cleaner" grief--not tangled up with the original attachment issues. And they are able to achieve appropriate closure and move on in a reasonable time, and move on usually to another satisfying relationship in an appropriate amount of time.

Another interesting layer over the grief and attachment matrix is that of individual temperament. Feeling dominant people are able to identify more of their experience, and while this gives them a sense of control, it doesn't tell them how to move on or to obtain closure. They really waffle for awhile trying to do something other than ride the waves of their feelings. Consider this awful combination: an anxiously attached, feeling dominant individual in mid-life crisis. Oh dear...
Concrete thinkers can't figure out why they feel so lousy during grief and therefore don't feel that their grief is altogether valid. Grief for them is somewhat like running your tongue over the hole where a tooth used to be that was just extracted. They want to be told what steps to take to do grief "right," since they approach life in the most efficient and correct way possible. An avoidant thinking-dominant, concrete thinker would be a real therapy challenge.

The action-oriented individual wants to go out and hike the Appalachian trail or take up sky diving. If they can offset their sadness with strenuous activity or the adrenaline rush of a high risk hobby, they will do it. The sadness will remain with them for awhile, but they will forget how painful it is since they are consumed with thrill-seeking. Let's hope this individual is securely attached. However, many are not. An avoidant, action-oriented person will, with a determined glint in the eye, decide to do an extreme sport or some kind of criminal activity that calls for a "no-heart" attitude. The anxiously attached person in this category will be weepy but will still stay involved in high risk behavior, the proverbial guy in a bar, crying into his beer after everyone has stopped playing pool, etc.

The thought-dominant, abstract thinking individual presents problems that many people don't know how to address. Caught up in her obsessive thoughts, she feels blindsided by the flood of feelings--all of which feel irrational and make that individual feel quite out of control. Many such people are fearful of feelings because they can't connect the feeling in the moment to what is happening. Therefore, many of these individuals don't think that either their response is abnormal and chastise themselves, or they begin reading so they can mechanically confront their experience from a logical, rational, cognitive manner. This is not the person who will allow himself to cry unless it makes sense where the sadness is coming from at that moment, and whether he thinks it will do any good in the long run for him to be crying. Because feelings are such a problem to thought-dominant, abstract thinking people, they can feel crazy in grief whether their attachment style is secure or anxious. They actually feel better if they are avoidant, but over the long haul they struggle to reconcile what has happened to them experientially with their cognitive perspective of the grief event.

Well, there you have it.
In the words of Forest Gump, "That's all I have to say about that."