Three Sheets to the Wind

This wonderful print entitled "Three Sheets to the Wind" by Barbara Lavalee is found here

Many years ago, my dear friend, Martha, gave me this print that she purchased on a trip to Alaska. She laughingly told me that the title reminded her of me, since I often use the phrase to describe my befuddled self quite often. It really applies today.

Three years ago I had Lasik eye surgery. Even though I thought I'd be a bad candidate for it, being menopausal and having dry eye problems. No, they assured me. I was indeed an excellent candidate.

I had the procedure and had immediate vision improvement that far exceeded my expectations. And I have had no end of dry eye problems as well.

We've tried one kind of lubricating eye drops that gave me an allergic reaction that made me look like a gargoyle. Another kind worked pretty well for awhile but it glued my eyelids shut to the point that I'd have to feel my way into the bathroom every morning--completely without vision. Then we put temporary tear duct plugs in my lower tear ducts so the tears wouldn't drain out as easily and my eyes would stay more moist. That was the idea and I wasn't sure it helped, but anything would be better than how it was. We decided to place permanent ones next: miniature silicone golf tee-looking things that hurt going in and irritated my eyes. They helped for a few weeks and then I was back to dry, painful eyes in the morning with diminishing vision from the dry spots.

So when we moved here a year ago, I went to a university eye clinic. The doctor told me that research indicates that punctal plugs work best in the upper tear ducts, not in the lower ones. Would I like to try those? We did the round with temporaries and then permanent golf tees in the upper ducts. They hurt going in and one of them was quite irritating--itchy eyes, etc.

These marvels of science gave me permanent teariness. You should try to lecture with tears coming down your cheeks at unexpected times. The first time it happened, I looked up at a classroom of students looking at me, shocked, sitting stock still in their seats. One quietly handed me a tissue. It didn't help that I was talking about child abuse and they thought I was really feeling my topic that day.

These unbidden tears appear at the worst times: in therapy (Oh Barbara, you really get what I'm saying, don't you?) and during public speaking (Your talk on loss was sooo moving!). Me, dabbing away tears and trying to look as though I'm not sad. Botherdash.

I had just about had enough of this when a little growth appeared on my lower eyelid. It resembled a cauliflower and was the size of an eraser at the top of a pencil. Try looking around that or being in front of people, peering around that in the corner of your eye! So in to the eye doctor I went. I don't know what that thing is, but how long have you had that cancer on your nose, so close to your eye? Shall I take it off?

Yes, and while you're at it, get rid of those bottom punctal plugs. I'm sick of crying through life. She tried to lift them out in the office, but only succeeded in lifting me up out of the chair. So surgery, it was.

In the interim between her pronouncement that I have skin cancer, and the time she could operate, I treated the little cauliflower growth myself: antibiotic ointment in my eye every night. It disappeared in two weeks.

Yesterday afternoon I had the operation to remove the infamous plugs. It was to be 30 minutes and ended up taking an hour and a half. The doctor told me that she had an awful time getting them out and had to cut them out. Yikes! I look like I've been in a fight with two ominous black eyes. I woke up after surgery with ice packs galore over my eyes, a pounding headache from the cold, and feeling terribly queasy.

"Let me get you some pain medicine," the nurse chirped.

"Yes, please!"

"Here's some Demerol that I'll put in your IV."

"That stuff makes me throw up. Can you give me something else?"

I fell asleep before I knew what hit me: Dilaudid. My goodness, that stuff knocked me out for four hours. Why someone would give me Dilaudid is beyond me. It's the same as using a sledge hammer to push a tack into a bulletin board--the magnitude seemed unwarranted. I woke up with Sam rubbing my hand and asking me if I could go home yet.

Do I look like I can go home?! I could hardly even open my eyes.

I had a continuous, dribbling nosebleed all the way home and could hardly stand up, so wobbly was I. In fact, I think I dozed off going to the bathroom in the recovery room and don't remember anything of the ride home. Sam put me to bed and I went out like a light for another two hours. I got up just long enough to have a turkey sandwich he brought me, along with a cluster of grapes. And down I went again.

It is all most inconvenient: the plastic backed absorbent pad over my pillows that keep me up at 45 degrees--that makes my hot flashes even sweatier. This telfa visor-type affair that is taped to my forehead and that I don't know how long I can tolerate, or why I have it in the first place. These two oozing incisions down my face from my tear ducts toward my nose. And gluey gooey stuff in my eyes that obscures my vision. Oh, that that's not mentioning the ubiquitous bag of frozen chopped broccoli that I've been wearing over my face off and on. It really helps with the pain and the nosebleeds and gives me a headache.

It is 2:30 in the morning and I'm so slept out that I can't stay in bed any longer. Otis' little furry body on one side of me and Sam's on the other--that bed was like a veritable oven.

And yet, for all the discomfort and inconvenience, I have unending gratitude for the fact that I live in 2007 and in a community with highly trained surgeons who can care for me. Because if I lived on the prairie in 1835, I would not be able to see (no glasses), no physician who could do much of anything for my sight, and dry eyes could make a person go blind eventually, not to mention glaucoma or cataracts. The absence of air conditioning and air filtering systems in the house would have turned me into a raving lunatic, what with hot flashes, allergies, and menopausal idiosyncratic behavior. No pain medications that could be trusted.

Dilaudid has just about undone me, but it is beetter than brandy with a rag in my teeth.

So I'll stop grousing, put more goop in my eyes, and wobble my way back into bed. Thank God that this surgery was available. Thank Him even more that it's over!

Happy Anniversary!

Children's creative work found here

Mother has been going through a large scrapbook she has kept for years--throwing out some things, weeping over others, and howling with laughter about other things in there.

Today she told me about an anniversary card she got from my sister that was tucked into her scrapbook. Dawn was about 9 years old at the time. She marched importantly into my parent's room on the morning of their anniversary holding a handmade card in her hand. It was on red construction paper and had white paper glued inside as a liner. Written on the outside was a jaunty "Happy Anniversary!" Opening the card, the following verse jumped out unexpectedly:

Marriage is honourable in all, and the bed undefiled: but whoremongers and adulterers God will judge. Hebrews 13:4.

HAPPY ANNIVERSARY!

It was clear that Dawn was quite proud that she had found a Bible verse about marriage all by herself and had produced her first message in cursive writing. Daddy hid his head under his pillow as though he were still sleepy, and mother graciously thanked Dawn. "Why don't you set the table honey, and we'll all have breakfast together?" Mother asked. So Dawn sashayed out of the bedroom to the kitchen, a self-satisfied grin on her face. It was a number of minutes until Mother and Daddy could stop laughing, as they read the card over and over.

Some memories are too good to ever lose. I will someday have that card in my possession and keep it in my scrapbook to laugh about.

Gendered Conflict

Dr. Amy Sheldon, Professor of Communication at the University of Minnesota, once conducted an interesting study to answer that age old question: Do men and women communicate differently because they are taught to do so, or are the differences innate? The result is an article entitled, "Pickle fights: Gendered talk in preschool disputes" (Discourse Processes, 1990).
Dr. Sheldon turned loose groups of three-year-olds (of one gender at a time) into a playroom and videotaped their verbal exchanges. She paid close attention to the way the children spoke during conflict. In this playroom was a simulated kitchen, complete with a number of culinary items on a low table. All of the children wanted to play with a green, plastic pickle, and most of the conflict ensued after they spied it.
The little boys would make a grab for it, try to shrug off or block other boy's reaching hands, and angrily state things like, "Don't touch that!" "I want this!" "You can't have it!" There would typically be some sort of escalation that would end in physical altercation, boys yelling and shouting about what they wanted and why no one else should have what they wanted.
Sheldon called their type of communication Single Voice. Their comments contained one message without reference to anything else. "I want that!" There was no mistaking what they were trying to say or what their wishes were. Nothing else seemed to matter during conflict.

When the little girls swarmed into the playroom, they also wanted to play with the pickle. They would quickly move toward the table and most would place their hand tentatively on it while looking around at the other girls. Their comments were things like, "Now...if we want to be friends, we need to share." "Let's both play with it." and "We can all take turns. Can I go first?" Girl's statements had two components: a reference to the relationship, and a veiled statement of what they wanted or felt. Sheldon labeled this communication, Dual Discourse. Girl's desires were weighed against the impact on the relationship of stating them.

If you fast forward to adult age, you will often find these patterns of communication in couple conflict.
"I don't want your sister to spend Christmas with us again this year. Why do you keep asking me about it?"
"Honey, she is part of our family and even if we have trouble with her, we need to be sensitive to the fact that she is alone all the time."
"What does that mean?! Do you want her to be with us or not?"
"Why are you so upset?"
"Just say what you want. I don't care about her feelings of being alone. She is alone for obvious reasons."
"How can you be so insensitive about my sister?"

And so the argument begins to spiral out of control, both convinced the other is a hopelessly inarticulate communicator.

We still don't know if these communication patterns are the result of nature or nurture, but they are common in enough people as to be problematic. I certainly see these patterns in the therapy office with angry couples who can't hear one another any longer in their conflicts.

I suppose it's simplistic to say it this way, but men need to learn how to speak in Dual Discourse so their wives don't think of them as heartless brutes. Many women need to learn how to speak in Single Voice, because men can't figure out what they're talking about with all the references to relationships or feelings that get thrown in. We need to have facility in both types of communication, because there are times and places for each way of speaking.

Food for thought.

Always Growing

Etta, my 95-year-old friend who is confined to a chair for the most part, wants to learn how to use a computer. Because she can't do a great deal, a laptop seems a good idea. She can hold it on a board over her chair and search recipes for hours. She can watch televised programs on it. She can send emails and get messages from other people. Etta can read all about the pills she has been taking--all about the medical issues she has been dealing with.
She is still growing, God love her.

Last week, Sam and I went to Costco and priced laptops for her. I think we can find her a good deal in several places. She wants a printer and a rolling table to put everything on so she can print out all the recipes she will ask Jack to make. And cook them, he will.

Jack makes his own gluten steaks--at age 94. I can't make them at 48. He just asked me for the recipe of a caserole dish I took to them a couple weeks ago. He wants to add that to his repertoire. Etta loved it and suggested that he use a little more garlic in it than it calls for. He will do exactly that. Now if Jack has Etta firing recipes from the internet at him day and night, who knows what he will be able to produce?

Next week we will help Etta and Jack purchase their first laptop. They want to watch DVDs on it and save funny videos to the hard drive. I think we can help with that. And there is Etta, eager to learn, excited to do something new, and on the edge of a whole new world. I hope I am always as open to growth as she is. What an inspiration these dear people have been to me!

Privacy

Found here

Privacy is such a marvelous privilege! The ability to withdraw and pay attention to one's own issues and concerns without the interference of others is something that people like me especially appreciate.
Some people pull others into their personal experience. People like me tend to push people out of their deeply personal experiences. It may be a protective device. And it could be an issue of clear boundaries.

One of my former clients was being abused by her husband. He never raised his hand against her, but he didn't work and required her to work overtime to support him. He spent her money as fast as she made it. He belittled her. He undermined her parental authority with their children. He infected her with sexually transmitted diseases (STDs) from other women with whom he consorted. He made her sleep on the floor and bullied her with continual accusations of her supposed affairs. My client--we can call her Sarah--never seemed to resist any of his behaviors. It could have been her cultural norms that dictated her acquiesence to his every demand. Along with Sarah's self esteem, her abusive husband destroyed her sense of entitlement to privacy. Her whole life was an open book to whomever wanted to know anything at all about her. Except of course, the fact that she was horribly abused.

One day I gave Sarah a book about emotional abuse, hoping she could accept the credibility of another and begin to give voice to her experience. "Read it, Sarah," I told her. "This book will help you. It is for you--just for you." She took it from me, wordlessly. "It is private," I emphasized.

Two weeks later I called to find out why she had not come for her appointment. "My husband says I can't come," she explained.
"Have you read the book I gave you?" I asked, hoping that some light had been shed on her life.
"No," she began. "But he has."
Did I hear her right? "Who has?"
"My husband."
"How did he get your book from you?" I feared that he would use the concepts in the book against her.
"I gave it to him," she said flatly.
"But Sarah, it was for you--just for you to read. It was a private book, not for your husband, for you."
"But I gave it to him."
"Why?" My heart sank. She was the one who needed the book.
"What is mine is his. What is mine is yours. What is mine belongs to the children" she said defensively. "My husband needs a book like this to tell him how to help me."
"Sarah, I want you to read it. It is most important that you know what it says, not that your husband understands it. It is a private book for you only."

I knew this battle had been lost, and quite possibly, the war, too.

I never heard from her again.

This has happened with several abused women with whom I have worked as a therapist. They have repeated our privileged, private words from therapy. They have handed over books, pamphlets, and graphics about abuse to their abuser, without a qualm. It is disheartening to say the least. They have learned that no matter who they think they are, their abuser will interpret the real person they are. They have no private ideas about it--they give over the job of defining reality to their intimate abuser.

These are women whose abusers have told them that they are videorecording their every move in the house (including the bathroom); recording every telephone conversation; watching their every move. They have no right to say no to sex because their bodies are not their own any longer. Their feelings are not their own. Worst of all, their own selfhood is no longer their own. They have no privacy of thought, experience, or act.

I well remember Olga, an immigrant friend, whom I encouraged to think about how she would like to be if she wasn't ruled by the iron fist of her abuser. I gave her a bright pink dress that I had outgrown because she would be beautiful in it. Her abuser told her that she looked like a "tramp" in any color other than drab browns, greys, and blues. So she hung it in her closet and nurtured her private hope and desire to one day wear that dress. Two weeks later she was empowered enough to put it on. Several months later she left her abuser, saving her mental health and the lives of her children.

We all need privacy. It is not a sign of emotional stability or psychological wellbeing to utter all of one's feelings or experiences. Even in therapy. I often stop my clients to ask them if they truly want to tell me what they are saying, or if they would rather keep it private. Many are surprised that they are being given permission to hold their boundaries around private aspects of their experience. Others sit back in their chairs and look at me for a long time, assuming that I have cut them off because I'm not interested in their words. They need to be reassured of my ongoing interest and concern while they learn to hold something back for themselves.

Privacy. We all need it. It is part and parcel of what makes us unique.

Just like me

This cartoon has absolutely nothing to do with this post except that it reminded me of the lift chair of one of the residents where Mother lives...

Today I learned once again that the very thing we dislike in others is often the thing that we struggle with ourselves. I was reminded of this while chatting with Mother this morning as I hooked up her TV to the cable outlet in her new senior apartment.
"I have to tell you," she began, "that I can't believe how many of these ladies in their 90's around here have Alzheimer's!"
"Really?" I was surprised.
"Oh yes." Mother began laughing. "I was sitting outside with one of them--what's her name? ...I don't remember it...and she told me the same thing three times!" She threw her head back, wheezing with laughter.
"Did she realize it was the third time she'd told you?" I asked.
"No!" Mother continued laughing. "I just listened to it each time to see if she told it the same way."
"Did she?"
"I don't remember," she chuckled.
"What did she tell you three times?" I was curious, because Sam accuses me of repeating myself already. But I do it because I'm trying in vain to get a response out him.
"Well..." Mother stopped cold, staring at me, her eyes widening. "I don't remember what it was now!"
We both cracked up.
"Who is this lady? What's her name?" I asked.
Mother doubled over laughing. "I don't remember that either!"

I was glad Mother was laughing and not crying. She's become quite forgetful and is aware of it sometimes. It could be very hard for her.

Driving away later, my mind drifted to the time I followed a woman into the post office. She was moving slowly, leaning on a cane. Because it took several minutes to walk up the path to the front door, I was able to scrutinize her closely. She was wearing those kind of polyester pants that have the front crease sewn in. Only she had them on backward and inside out. There, down the back of her legs were these odd looking seams and then little fringes at the edges of her pantlegs where the raw edges of the seams were flapping back and forth with every step. I wanted to laugh out loud. Too bad I didn't have a friend with me. I could picture myself pointing at the back of this lady's pants and holding my stomach in mirth, my mouth wide open and my eyes crinkled shut.

It gave me a twinkle in my eye as I stepped up to the clerk and mailed my package. By the time I walked out the front door into the sunshine, the lady was driving off. How hilarious! That was rich! I could probably put that little incident into a sermon, lecture, or article. It was just too good.

I kicked a stone down the path as I tried to fix the image of the lady's pants in my mind's eye.
My gaze dropped to my right shoe. What's this? My right shoe was brown. My left shoe was gray. Where was my mind when I got dressed that morning? What could I have been thinking?
I could hear the crunching of gravel as someone walked behind me. Probably laughing at my mismatched shoes. I was no better than the lady with the inside-out-backward pants. I slunk to my car, mortified.

Isn't that just the way life is?

American Vacation

Found here

I am supposed to be on vacation this week. My boss has mandated that I take two weeks off to play and get rejuvinated. I am on an American vacation--work in the evening, play so hard during the day that dropping into bed is the only appealing idea when I get home. Only I can't because there is too much to be done first.
I'm falling behind in how the house looks, keeping up with home projects, writing in this blog, not to mention all the things I have to do at work: publications, projects, meetings, presentations, course preparation. So I am taking an American vacation.

When I was in Germany, my friends wondered why I was traveling in the country for only two weeks. Why not take a couple weeks and go to the spa or the sea? I could lay around, get massages, read, and doze in the sun or mud baths. Instead, I ran like a crazy woman through Germany, taking in every castle, cathedral, historical site, and mountain I could conquer, snapping photos as I raced by. I saw so many wonderful things and ended up with marvelous memories: historical facts and images to go with them. But when I got home I was utterly spent. I needed a vacation just to sleep and get caught up with myself. It seems that this is how Americans relax.

Why is it so hard to slow down and make my health Number One here? There are lots of reasons. Perhaps because it took me 24 years to get my PhD after I started school. After all that time waiting to do what I want, I find it very hard to say no to fun-sounding things that I've always wanted to do. Maybe because I'm compulsive. I don't want to put my name on anything second rate. Maybe because I'm trying to prove that I'm capable, smart, worthy of holding an advanced degree--something that I've wondered about over the years. What my boss says may also be true: I have higher standards for myself than anyone else has. Maybe I want to give something back to my parents in the form of accomplishments that they can feel positive about. Maybe I'm approval seeking or narcissistic and want to get accolades for myself. Maybe I want to make important contributions to my field that will save relationships, lives, and homes. Whatever the motivation, I'm going 100 mph from morning til night and it's wearing me out.

At this point, I'm 45 lbs. overweight, have gastric reflux, fatigue, and mild sleep apnea. I also suffer from adhesions that feel like my appendix is on the fritz. I've been short of breath more than once--when I'm just sitting still--and have had palpitations and chest pressure.

Although there hasn't been adequate time to sit and let my mind idly reflect about my life, I have been able to realize through my catecholamine waves that I really must do something about how I'm living. Here's what I want to do:

1. Walk for 1/2 hour three times per week
2. Work out at the gym for upper body strength twice per week
3. Cut out at least 1/2 of the sugar and 1/4 of the calories I eat every day
4. Go to bed no later than 10:00 p.m.
5. Take at least 15 minutes each morning for prayer, Bible reading and reflection
6. Make time every single day to relax and engage in a pleasurable leisure activity

This seems a good beginning. And a much needed remedy for my faltering wellbeing.
Here I come...

Was it me?

Today someone who works for me resigned. She slid the letter across my desk while I was working at my computer and I didn't even see her do it. The letter was visible only when I shut down my laptop to leave. There it was: two lines.

The administrator and I met with this individual last week to give her feedback to the effect that her demeanor would prevent her from ever being an effective leader. Furthermore, others had complained about her behavior. She would look at me only when she couldn't avoid it during that conversation--which was very little. Today there was only a "hmmph" and "mmm" from her. Almost no words whatever in the half hour we rattled around in the office together.

Last week, after I had tried in vain to put a point across two times, she dismissed me by saying, "This conversation is over!" as she stood in my office. I left, livid--late to another appointment and feeling sick and tired of extending myself for people who are in dire need of professional development.

But it is my job.

I would love to think that I am tough-skinned enough not to be bothered by this event. But I was sick at heart all weekend and prayed for her off and on. It had to be very difficult for her to hear our feedback, even as carefully crafted as it was. She had cried--no, sobbed--at the end. And now I'm wondering if I did something that contributed to her behavior at work: not enough direction or clarity about what was expected, lack of enthusiasm, my own exhaustion from all that has been happening in my life. In the middle of it was this person.

As I left her working in the office today, her last day, I told her that I knew this had been a tough situation for her and that I was available to talk more about it if she ever had the interest to do so. She made a sound of acknowledgement and said nothing. I've never had this kind of response before. She was completely shut down and turned off.

The human element of administration can be completely unnerving. My administrator told me I had done the right thing when I passed along the resignation letter. I just felt sick. True, this person didn't respond very sensibly and has been quite challenging from the beginning.

It makes sense now why people in leadership are very careful how close they become to people who work for them. One never knows when the line between administrator and friend will be violated, or by what means a friend can bring administrative pressure to bear when needed. It is a difficult lesson to learn. Food for pondering.

Old Dust and Worn Tapestry

Tonight we got Mother's furniture moved into her new apartment. As we pushed the cart through the halls, I had the opportunity to look at all the cobwebs underside of her antique bedstead and chests of drawers. I wondered how many years ago the spiders had been there. Lots of dust and the smell of cedar.

We used to have a very tall cedar tree in our front yard when I was a child. I loved to climb to the very top and hold onto the part that had gotten sheared off when lightning struck. From that spot I could see farms for miles around. When the wind blew, I would sway back and forth and feel free as my mind flew free. One night lightning struck the tree for about the fifth time and it split down the middle and fell into the yard. My dad saved the wood for three years, allowing it to season, before having it sawn into boards. Out of that wood he made what was supposed to be a cedar chest, but that we called a sarcophagus. It was enormous. The rest of the boards were placed in closets and throughout the storage areas of the house.

Tonight I was thinking about that tree and Daddy's joy when he showed Mother the sarcophagus for the first time. He was so proud of it, and it made the whole house fragrant. I could smell the cedar scent on Mother's belongings.

There was Nana's bedroom suite of dark wood with that jiggly, squeaky old metal coil mattress that gave the family newlyweds fits during visits at home. Mother's old sewing machine, on which quilts, suits, dresses, and all sorts of things were made over years and years. And where she made the lavender and purple quilt that she made to surprise my father.

It's a new chapter in Mother's life. I'm honored and privileged to have helped her move, to have her in my home, and to give back something for all she has done for me over the years. The tables have turned and life moves on.

Mother Out

Tomorrow my mother will be moving into her own apartment in a retirement center. We went there today to sign paperwork and get her keys. She is thrilled to finally have an address and know where her apartment will be.

She does however, have very mixed feelings about moving in there. I can't blame her. Everyone looks different than she does. Her hair is dark, she walks with a spring in her step, she laughs often. Many individuals use walkers and are rather limited in their activity there. Her first comment when we went there was a loud, "These people are so old!" There are actually more individuals there in the 90-100 category than many places in the US, so part of her observation was correct.

The bottom line is that she is not like many of the very elderly individuals and she feels like she is going off to the end of the earth to live there. The good part is that I live 2 miles away and will be having her with me as often as possible. It is a bittersweet feeling to have the privilege of helping my mother as she ages, but also seeing her age.

Mother always has been a going concern: canning vegetables, baking 6 loaves of bread every week, doing washing, keeping a huge garden, maintaining the house, sewing all of our clothes for many years. After my father died, she lost quite a bit of ground and her energy has decreased significantly. But for her age she is still a going concern.

Mother tells people that she is beginning a new chapter of her life and that she is looking forward to whatever her life will be like. We have offered for her to live with us, but she would be alone all day, every day while we're at work. In her new setting, there are daily activities, field trips, shopping trips, and clubs that meet several times per week. THere are art classes and Bible studies and evensong programs. The dining hall offers social opportunities three times a day and she will no longer have to cook anything.

And yet, in my mind, I hover over her, trying to anticipate anything she will need--trying to help ease the transition to apartment living. It will undoubtedly be difficult at times for her to get used to living in a small apartment after having a big farmhouse on an acre of land. Her foibles that have been apparent over the years are now exaggerated. She is opinionated but good natured; energetic and funloving.

I was not prepared for how life has turned out for her, but I am grateful to have Mother nearby. I pray daily that I will be gracious and supportive--a daughter who truly honors her parents. It has been good to have her live with us for three weeks and part of me is quite sad to see her move out on her own.