Back Talk

We once had a labrador retriever that could clear our livingroom in about 20 seconds. Without warning, a malevolent effluvium would drift over the room. It was unmistakable that it had come from his direction. My father would turn in his chair, fan the air vigorously, and say to the dog, "Ugh, Ceasar--STENCH!" And poor mortified Ceasar would get up from in front of the bookcase and with tail between his legs, slink back to the sewing room. We later learned that Ceasar had been helping himself to corn out in the garden, and it just did not agree with him.
I don't know what it is about farting that is so hilarious. Perhaps it is the unexpectedness of it, or the variety of sounds, or the fact that even the most dignified person makes these surprising noises. One of my friends sounds like a drum roll every time she gets up out of her chair. Another friend, of "silent but violent" fame, cleared out an entire dressing area at Talbot's with her contributions to the ambiance. One person I know sounds like a firing range when he laughs. Still another friend stepped into a store and as she opened her mouth to greet the proprietor, unexpectedly let fly with a volley of small explosions. She couldn't get back out the door fast enough!
I was in church once with a three year-old child, whom I had volunteered to watch while her mother took care of baby brother. As we were singing the third verse of "Rescue the Perishing," I felt a tug on my dress. Little One was looking up at me urgently. "Excuse me!" she said loudly in a chirpy little voice. Impressed with her politeness, I bent down to this child who hated to interrupt my singing. "What is it?" She smiled with satisfaction and shouted out over the swell of the singing, "I just farted so I needed to tell you 'scuse me." The man in the row ahead of us finished the last verse of the hymn with a broad grin, and I could hear the couple behind us chortling through the last lines.
Nature's little jokes, farts: cheap entertainment. Little reminders that we are human, every one of us.

IL Neige

The snow, il neige, is coming soon. We've been waiting for it, eagerly scanning the ground every morning when we wake up. Maybe, we think each day, this will be the day when it will all start drifting down. Maybe this will be the magical day when we shall wake up to the thick silence of muted sound from the heavy snow on the ground.
When we were newly married we lived in the Midwest, where snow was on the ground for at least three months out of the year. Hailing from Upstate New York, I was used to the snow. Sam however, grew up in sunny Los Angeles where snow could only be seen on the moutains in the distance. The first time it snowed in Indiana, he rushed to find me, fairly shouting with excitement, "Honey! It's flaking outside!" The poor man had a rather limited lexicon in the snow department, and I was utterly charmed by his boyish delight.
We both grew weary of the snow by March, frustrated by the melting sloppiness of it, the inconvenience of having to wear boots, hat and coat, and tolerate slushy mud all over our cars. When the spring sun began to dry up the muck and warm the air, no one was happier than we were.
But here we are again, eagerly waiting for snow to begin to drift down and captivate us in its charms. Maybe it will happen tomorrow...

Pills and Shock Treatment

I've watched with growing interest, the rhetoric flowing between the church of Scientology and the established psychiatric community. Scientology states that psychiatry is not a true science, citing the DSM-IV-TR's categories formed by clinically-informed consensus as proof. (I may be wrong, but is that not just a form of qualitative research?) The gentleman I heard on CNN tonight, claiming to protect citizens from the ills of psychiatry, stated emphatically that it is untenable to allow anyone to undergo shock treatment. He stated that any child knows not to put their hand on an electric shock-producing wire or outlet. Thus, it is unnatural and "barbaric" to allow shock treatments, even though it continues to have proven efficacy for some types of intractible depression. I remarked to my husband that it is also barbaric to cut into people's stomachs, remove their limbs, or break their bones, yet this is done daily in operating rooms (under anesthesia). It would be utter folly not to do so and millions of lives have been saved as a result. Yet the arguments wax hot from those individuals who feel they need to rid the world of psychiatry and psychology in any form--except their own.

As I listen, it is utterly mind-boggling to me how the most extreme case examples of misinformed psychiatry, adverse side effects, and market-driven choices of some have been used to negate the value of the entire psychotherapeutic community.

I am reminded of a student in one of my family therapy courses a couple years ago. He took issue with a theory I presented in class, stating that its application at the intervention level damaged people, ruined lives and fractured family relationships. I was astonished, as this therapeutic approach has been emprically proven to be effective with a number of populations for many presenting problems. As we tried to sort out my student's objections, he related his experience of once watching a therapist perform therapy using this approach. He described an unscrupulous and unethical individual who emotionally exploited his clients by general his lack of personal integrity, poor understanding of therapeutic engagement, and utter disregard for others. It was in fact, horrendous therapy, but it was not representative of the theory. It was his version of the theory that fouled it in my student's eyes, not the theory itself.

Over the ensuing months I've had cause to recall this classroom discussion about poor theory versus poor representation of theory. We do this all the time as individuals whose lives represent Christianity and Christ Himself. It is sad and startling what Christianity means according to those who have seen and heard unscrupulous representations. As I once said to a friend, "I'm don't always project what I want to represent." There is more truth in that than I can say. Perhaps something here that we would all benefit from contemplating.

My hands hurt

My hands hurt. No, my wrists hurt. That was how he described what happened to him after he unwittingly did something that angered his father. Without explanation, he was taken down to the basement where his father pounded a spike into a beam and hung his son by his wrists from that spike.
Last week, I read the story of what went through that little boy's mind as he hung by his wrists, suspended over a dirty basement floor, while his father angrily denigrated him.
My hands hurt. No, my wrists hurt.
That child is now in his late forties. He wrote his story sitting at a table directly above the basement where he was abused.

I had the opportunity to spend some time talking with this man today. He is an unassuming man with twinkly eyes and a warm, boyish look to him. As we spoke, I caught myself eyeing his wrists. There were no scars, no discoloration, and no evidence that he had once suffered in such a hideous manner as he had previously described. And yet, pain lurks just under the thin veneer of manly composure that he wears.

I've never been quite so moved as I was today, looking into this man's eyes, as he cheerily talked about other issues from his current life experience. He laughs easily and heartily; yet something about his demeanor seems to mourn what he once lost--a carefree childhood.
I am haunted by the mental picture I have of him, hanging helplessly in the air, confused, terrified, betrayed, in mental and physical agony. Tonight, as I sit up in bed, reviewing my conversation and impressions of him today, I pray that he will hear angel wings in the air, and feel the healing kiss of God on his face; that he will feel the soothing touch of God on his hurting hands and wrists, and know that God loves him more than life itself.

Wonderful Things

This morning I got up early and got over to the mall to see what I could save money on from the sale racks. People were squeezing into Gottschalk's, and a steady stream of people with huge packages were coming out of Sears. As I walked into Shopko, I ran into my friend Joyce. Wide-eyed, she grabbed my arm. "You've got to get over to Joann Fabrics. They have material for 99 cents that is usually $4.99!"
Caught up in her excitement, I moved on through the store, determined to get over there after I'd "cleaned up" at Shopko. All around me I could hear people remarking about how wonderful the after Thanksgiving sale prices were. "Three for two dollars!" "It's buy one, get one free!" "Hey, these are only $14.99!"
My excitement grew. I began reeling through aisles, looking for all those wonderful things I was sure I needed to have. How about these sale towels? I suppose I could use a few more. But what about a bread machine? They're only $49. Wow! And look at all this stuff for Christmas stockings here! I started dropping things into my cart at an amazing speed. Socks, Christmas decorations, facial products, linens, picture frames. And somewhere over in the school supply section I finally woke up. I really didn't need all those things. They were nice, useful items that would be pleasant to own. But I truly didn't need 90% of what was in my cart.
My goal in life of late has been to live simply and well within my means. And here I was with all this unnecessary stuff. So I meandered back the way I had come, putting things back on shelves and smiling to myself at all the money I would save by doing that.
The world is full of wonderful things, but what do I actually need? Not nearly as much as the advertisers or frenzied shopping crowds think. So I left the store with my trouser socks as happily as if I'd won a door prize--and that was priceless.

Turkey Tales

Tonight Sam and I started getting ready for tomorrow's big dinner. We would have to inject it, Sam told me. That was a thought that chilled this born vegetarian's heart. He brought out this evil looking steel trochar needle with a 50 cc syrringe, filled it will some kind of marinade and began injecting it into the meaty portions of the turkey. He would jab the needle into the thigh and slowly, as he injected the marinade, the thigh would balloon out. After he went for the breast, I started to tingle at the top of my head and thought I might pass out if I didn't focus my eyes on Sam's forehead. Pretty sad for someone who used to do worse things to humans in the trauma ICU unit! Thankfully, the phone rang and I was able to flee the scene with my dignity intact.
I recalled the first morning shift I ever worked in the ICU, back when I was a nurse. I'd worked for six years on the evening shift, and didn't realize that I wasn't at my best in the morning. My patient, that first day, had been in an airplane accident and had a head swathed in blood-saturated bandages. His head was as big as a basketball and there were no openings in the bandages except one for his ET (breathing) tube. And there was a huge sign on the wall over his head that said, "I can't see you but I can hear you." When I walked into that room and saw that huge, bloody head, I got that same tingly feeling at the top of my head that I got tonight, injecting the turkey. What an odd feeling, I remember thinking, before I wobbled out the door and headed for the orange juice.
Well, our swollen little turkey is resting in the fridge, marinade dripping out of it. I think I'll enjoy the veggies and fake meat loaf tomorrow with one of our vegetarian guests, good and late in the day so there will be no early morning head tingling going on.
Happy Thanksgiving!

41 Buffet

My husband and I were graciously invited to join our friends the other night as they celebrated Thanksgiving, Chinese style. We were treated to a wonderful dinner at a Chinese buffet restaurant. After we got home, we began reminiscing about a restaurant in the terrible little town we used to live in. The restaurant was named "41 Buffet."
We first went to 41 Buffet at the recommendation of our colleagues. It was wonderful, excellent food, great selection, huge facility, etc. We recalled being seated promptly, finding that indeed, there was terrific food there, and the place was packed with people. However, as we sat there eating our lunch, I remember being suddenly struck by the fact that my husband and I were the only average-sized individuals in the entire restaurant. Everyone there, man, woman, and child, were obese. I don't mean pleasantly plump, I mean that the adults were at least 80 lbs. overweight. We had been told that Indiana (where we were living at the time) had the heaviest people in the U.S. there, but I didn't believe it until that moment. I looked at my husband, who was studying my face.
"What's wrong?" he asked. I wasn't sure how to be politically correct or even delicate about it. "Everyone here is very heavy. I don't think we should be eating in here," I added, glancing at our second plate-fulls. "We might get heavy, too. Look at these people pack away the food!"
And so we agreed not to eat there again. Not because we objected to being with heavy people, or because we felt superior or wished to be separatist in any way. We just watched ourselves going back to the buffet as though it was a giant trough in a barn, and imagined ourselves swelling up to twice our size.
Sam and I had a chuckle after we got home from our Chinese Thanksgiving celebration meal. We loved being with our friends. We had a great dinner with them. We remembered our shock at being in a restaurant inhabited only by very heavy people thundering past our table to the buffet line.
What is it that makes people eat so much at these places? It is as though we've never seen food before or believe we will be shot at sunrise: we have to have one last very large meal?
My life and my eating philosophy has been like that far too long. I am what one would call pleasingly plump, and I am not pleased about it. I did not have this shape or size when I got married almost three years ago. So perhaps eating at the buffet reawakened my resolve to take care and be watchful about what goes into my mouth. To honor that, I have a calendar with little stickers to place on it for every day I eat abstemiously. Today I earned my first sticker...

Premonition

We rushed breathless, into the airport yesterday morning. It was to be a wonderful week at home for Thanksgiving with my parents on the East Coast. We were both tired from being up late the evening before, and had taken off from home later than we should have. As we were leaving town, Sam rolled down the window to do something and it stuck. It wouldn't go up or down. Where am I supposed to park this car for a week at the airport with a window that won't close? I said a silent prayer and it rolled up part way. Then a bit more a few minutes later. Finally it was rolled all the way up.
Sam looked wryly at me. "In the six years I've had this car that has never happened."
As we left town we drove into a fog bank hovering over the rolling hills of wheat. It didn't let up for the hour-long drive to the airport. It was so thick in fact, that we couldn't even see the sign for the airport and drove clear past it into another city. When it dawned on us what we had done, we stopped and asked a construction worker for directions. A few minutes later, we pulled up in front of the airport.
Sam noted that he didn't hear any jet engines overhead. In fact, it was deathly quiet, just like it is outside in the early morning after a heavy snow. Running into the airport we encountered crowds of people. All flights had been canceled and people were stranded. It was all on account of the thick fog.
We were re-routed onto a 5:00 a.m. flight the next morning but we thought we should check with the woman at the counter to see if we could leave later in the day instead. There might be a flight out at 1:00, but they had already cancelled two flights that morning. There was no way to know if it would be able to leave, she said. "This fog is here to stay for four or five days. It always is." If we could get out on the one o'clock flight, we could catch a red-eye flight across country to Newark, where we would be able to catch a flight to my folk's city. But she really couldn't say if we could make it or not and she didn't think we could get out in the afternoon flight.
We talked to her for nearly 20 minutes, trying to decide what would be the best thing to do. Nothing was for certain and I had a growing discomfort with the idea of traveling at all. Little did I know that Sam felt the same way. We discussed the fact that Delta pilots had threatened to strike the following Monday--and we could have a terrible time trying to get back to the West Coast. But it was something else in the mix. We both had premonitions of some nameless terrible thing that would happen. Sam later told me that all morning he had imagined what people would say after they learned he had died on this trip! And I had a growing concern of something intangible and dangerous happening to us or near us.
We ended up completely canceling our trip, calling my parents and explaining our concerns. They were wonderful and immediately insisted that we not try to travel at this time. They understood that with the crowded holiday travel schedule, we would not be able to get connecting flights if something went wrong.
I still feel an unspeakable dread about this coming week, as though something horrible might happen, or might have happened to us had we traveled. It is beyond words, really. I just know that we should not go to see my parents right now. Sam knows it. And we have run out of explanations and ideas about why we feel so strongly. We just do. The relief for us was immediate and tremendous.
So Thanksgiving will be spent in a different way for us this year, celebrating with friends whom we love dearly. I hated to think of them all alone this year. But then, my parents will be all alone this year, on the other side of the country.
Thankfully, someday we will know the whole story. Until then, we honor what senses tell us and are grateful for whatever it was that kept us on the ground and in town for these holidays.
Isn't life strange sometimes?

Applesauce hands

I just canned 26 quarts of applesauce. I didn't have any kind of labor-saving device. I had the old fashioned cone shaped colander, wooden pestle, and the big dark blue enamel canning pots to cook my jars in. That is how my mother did it for as long as I can remember, and that is how I did it.
Although, with the stiff shoulders from working the pestle, blisters on my hands, and chipped fingernails, I have thought long and hard about getting a Squeezo. I made one unholy mess of my stovetop, the floor and counters. But my applesauce is thick, golden, sweet, and superb in every way. I am thrilled.
I have put my total of 56 glass quart jars away, stacked in the storage room where I can casually produce a quart for friends at will. What a luxury!

When I was small, I used to snuggle into my mother during church, loop my arm through hers and hold her hand. Sometimes, leaning against her and breathing in the fragrance of Ivory soap and detergent in her dress was enough to help me get through the long sermons. However, mother's hands most often held my attention. With one finger I used to trace the veins on her hand, trying to get them to roll from side to side. After awhile she would pull her hand away from me and give me a look that said, Cut it out and listen to the sermon. So I would stop rolling her veins and start looking at her fingernails instead.
My mother grew up in the immigrant ghettos of Manhattan, back in the 30s and 40s. She and two other siblings contracted tuberculosis and had to be sent upstate to a sanitarium. There had been daily X-rays and all sorts of medications. That was why, she told me, her fingernails were ridged. So sitting in church, I looked at those vertical ridges in mother's fingernails and got lost in stories of my own making about her adventures at the sanitarium in the mountains.
By looking at her fingernails I could usually tell what fruit or vegetable was in season: grapes, tomatoes, peaches. There always seemed to be stains on her nails of whatever she had canned or cooked last. When beets were in season she wore white gloves to church to hide her glistening red-stained hands.
I tried to tell mother on more than one occasion that she shouldn't be so worried about her hands because they were beautiful: the thinness of her skin, the veins standing out that I equated with being a mature woman (something I wanted far more than breasts or starting my periods!) Mother used to say, "You've got to be kidding! My hands are just terrible!" And she would look down and self-consciously rub one hand over the other, as if to smoothe away whatever imperfections were there.
My mother never had a manicure during her entire life. She had grown up poor and then became a hard working mother of four, living a life of sewing, cooking, cleaning, and gardening. Her hands have always told this story if one looked closely.

Tonight after I finished washing up the counters, stove, and floor, I glanced ruefully at my hands. I've earned a blister on the ring finger of my right hand. My right middle finger is sore and red from cutting apples and my index finger has dark stains in a hundred tiny creases of my skin. My nails are a mess and have dark apple stains under them, and my hands are red and a bit swollen. I'll have to explain to my students that I really do have good hygiene, it's just that I've been canning applesauce. Looking down, for a fleeting moment I thought I saw something familiar. Yes, I have my grampa's crooked fingers that roll in every direction; and short, stubby fingers like my father's hands. But tonight I earned something for which I have longed my whole life. I finally have my mother's hands.

Detours

I was 14 when I learned that I could not follow my heart. Getting ready for college, I had many conversations with my parents about what degree would best suit me. “I’d like to work with people who have emotional problems,” I’d begin. “People who are getting over the death of somebody, or who are sad and don’t know why.” My mother would throw her hands in the air and ask in exasperation, “Why spend your life being around kooks?” She’d regale me with the story of her inner city childhood, unprotected from what she considered the “kooks” of New York City. “Those Armenian girls next door—what they were put through by that weird man in the subway.”
My father took a more logical tact. “You know honey, there are always sick people. You will never be without a job if you become a nurse.” Then he’d begin his well rutted story about how he wished he’d become a nurse after he got out of the army 40 years earlier. “Think about all the people you can help that way.”
But I still thought often about people with emotional or mental problems. A number of families in our community provided board and care for elderly retarded people. Church was an interesting experience, as I watched retarded people salute the pastor from their pews, jump up from their seats in the middle of the sermon, or attempt to help the deacons collect the offering.
“Why don’t you just be a teacher for retarded people?” my father asked. “Teachers always will have jobs, and besides, it’s a natural job for women.” I didn’t want a natural job for a woman. I wanted to be a musician, writer, or a psychologist. “You can’t make a living at any of that” was the all too common refrain at our house.
So I became a nurse. I knew I’d hate it from the first day that I learned in skills lab how to make a mitered corner on a bed. For this I’ve come to college? As soon as I graduated I started back to school so I could work with people who have emotional difficulties.

Tonight my students were a bundle of nerves as they faced their final exam. Even so, there were tears and warm goodbyes as they left the classroom tonight. “Thank you for being the best teacher I’ve ever had.” “I learned so much from you.” “This was my favorite class in my whole graduate program.” I’m a therapist educator, teaching them how to work with people who have emotional problems. The 24 year detour is over and I’m following my heart.