The Village

Mental health services in this country have become a real money making scheme. Especially when it comes to the use of heavy psychopharmacological agents--psychotropic medications--pills to control people's behavior. No, I am not at all against mental health practitioners or the use of medications when needed. But I think that we, the mental health providers have created a culture of us (the healers) and them (the sick ones). There seems to be no room in between, and no fluidity between the two roles. People with persistent, serious mental illness move into the system against their will and never leave it. There has to be a better way.

I am currently enrolled in a seminar that is taking place at The Village in Long Beach. This is a novel community mental health center in which people who seek services there are referred to as "members." Note that this connotes ownership and self-determination, not passive compliance with what someone else recommends. Members are given education about their condition and invited to weigh in on creating options for treatment. Mental health practitioners help members decide what they need and then act as consultants while the member takes responsibility for their progress at their own pace. There are discussions about how to cope with life in very practical ways: how to get a job--that's a huge issue; how to find living arrangements that are safe and off the street; how to get their children back and provide for them; how to get and keep relationships. The use of what is called "Natural Supports" is facilitated. This means incorporating friends, families, and peers--other mentally challenged individuals who are in recovery--in planning and supportive roles. Putting people in their own homes and helping them find working arrangements that they can sustain are healing in and of themselves. So many mentally ill people lose respect for themselves as they see everything they own and care about drift away, and for a multitude of reasons.

Language, behavior, and interactions must reflect freedom of determination, the member's sense of pacing, support of people whom they trust, and meaning for living by conventional standards. When these things are lacking, mental health too often becomes manipulative, pathologizing, and debilitating people in terms of their own sense of mastery and personal power.

A group of educators and front line mental health providers have been invited to The Village to learn how their Recovery System works. It is truly amazing. On Thursday I will be going out on the street, to Skid Row, to do "home visits" for the homeless people who live there and who struggle with motivation to change their circumstances. I will report in after I have been out with the case worker.

The way we have been doing mental health for those with persistent, chronic mental illness, hasn't worked. I think this might.

As Good As Dead

It is Good Friday. Christ is lying in the tomb and His devastated disciples are at the brink of sanity in their grief. Everything for which they have put their life on hold, has vanished. They have nothing to show for the days they followed this teacher all over creation. Nothing to prove that they have been in earnest or that they believe He is the Messiah.

Now what?

That was a major question, but the larger issue was that He was no longer with them. And they had loved Him unabashedly. When I read about how they followed Christ and the closeness of their conversations, I wish men in America today could relate to one another the way I imagine they behaved together. It was very Jewish in terms of expressiveness, and it had an earthy, intimate essence to it. There was not that awkward Anglo distance and touch phobia that we have in our society. They could say they loved one another and in fact, Jesus encouraged that because He told them repeatedly to love each other.

Now the One they loved was lying in a tomb.

I think J.S. Bach described their mood correctly when he wrote Erbarme Dich from the St. Matthew's Passion. This piece always wrings my heart. Jesus was dead, in the tomb, and everyone was devastated. The world went from having the Son of Righteousness among them to the darkness of futility once again.



Easter always makes me think of Romans 4 about poor old Abraham, "as good as dead," wishing to become a father. Little old Sarah leaning on her cane, who had never been able to carry a pregnancy during her childrearing years, let alone at 90 years of age, and who hadn't had a period for 40 years. And yet they must have chuckled together as they tried to overcome the effects of age and honor what God had predicted: You shall be the father of many nations. Ummm, right. "Sarah, shall we try again?" So they would try again, their elderly bodies once again trying to defeat nature. Young couples who are trying to conceive keep temperature charts and do all sorts of things to enhance conception. Not least of which, is to have sex as frequently as possible and particularly during certain peaks of basal temperature. Even when there was no particular attraction or desire for sex. Just do it.
Abraham and Sarah were suddenly in this situation. There were few sexual aid products to assist them back then, which means that their attempts could not have been comfortable. So they found repeatedly that both were as good as dead in the sex and fertility departments. Even though they loved one another and probably enjoyed intimacy and closeness as most older adults do. But other than an aerobic workout, these encounters would not be terribly efficient in producing much.

Perhaps they wondered if God would perform some sort of in vitro fertilization for them. After all, the mechanics alone for people of their age trying to have a child were daunting. Paul says that Abraham was "as good as dead." Oh my. I would hate to have that said about me, even though that would be true about my ability to conceive. Yet Abraham and Sarah continued to go through the motions because God had said that something would take, just once, and Sarah would become pregnant. I'm sure that Abraham thought more than once, that he believed what God said but that what he was doing wasn't going to get him anywhere. But because they believed, and because they lived as though they believed by acting accordingly, even though it is not feasible that any component of their bodies could have produced Isaac, God was able to do what He had promised.

The last part of Romans 4 says this:

That is why his faith was "reckoned to him as righteousness. But the words, "it was reconed to him" were written not for his sake alone, but for ours also. It will be reckoned to us who believe in him that raised from the dead Jesus our Lord, who was put to death for our trespasses and raised for our justification.

Abraham and Sarah's faith and efforts composed the prelude to the work of the resurrection power of Jesus Christ. It was that power that made conception possible from nonexistant or dead reproductive elements. All they did was respond to the promise of God and He did in them far above anything they could have imagined. No wonder Sarah said, "God has made laughter for me; everyone who hears will laugh over me." There is such a comical gradient between what she and Abraham could do and what God actually did. But as God said to them, "Is anything too hard for the Lord?"

Let's fast forward history to today. Here I am, trying to do what is right--to make right choices and live a godly life. My tools to do that are as good as dead. I'm overcome with temptation time and time again. Every noble resolve is a mockery in the end, because my best efforts are comical in terms of being able to produce righteousness. As Paul wrote in Romans 7 in that tangled passage, in essence, the good that I would like to do I don't do, and the things I don't want to do are what I end up doing. Even though I know better.

For I delight in my inmost self, but I see in my members another law at war with the law of my mind and making me captive to the law of sin which dwells in my members. Wretched man that I am! Who will deliver me from this body of death?This is not going to get me any kind of righteousness.

Well, that's me. I'm going through the motions--praying, reading the Bible, talking with others about spiritual things, trying to keep my mind stayed upon God. And what can I possibly produce by doing this? Nada. Zilch. Every now and then one may see a glimmer of something that is halfway hopeful, but then it crashes with the rest of everything that I do that is supposed to be "righteous," into the mass grave of all that is holy in my life.

Indeed, I am wretched. Yet God has promised that faith in His death and resurrection will in the end, produce what He wishes for me: eternal life and a godly character. It is all because of the resurrection power that this is even thinkable. Because He "gives life to the dead and calls into existence the things that do not exist." (Romans 4:17). Like goodness or righteousness from me.

I think that in the great feast table in heaven, when we sit down to share a meal with all of the redeemed, I will be looking for Abraham and Sarah. Because they have for centuries been reminders for struggling Christians that nothing is too hard for God. Because the same power that enabled them to conceive is what will get me to heaven one day. There will be a good deal of delighted laughter there one day. Because it is God's power, not my puny abilities.

That Power laid in the tomb over the Sabbath day, centuries ago. No one knew it was there, but the power of God would bring Jesus out of the grave to live in an immortal body. Death could not hold Him. Neither will life, or death, or angels, principalities, things present or things to come, or powers, or anything else in all creation be able to separate us from the love of God and His power. This power that called Isaac out of unreliable bodies and Jesus out of the tomb, will one Day be the power that changes my sinful mind, soul, and body, into an immortal and perfect being.

We are all as good as dead. And we all have the knowledge that what God has said He will do for us, He will do.
Thanks be to God at this wonderful Easter season!

So what do you do?

When Sam and I first got married, he couldn't understand why I was very reserved when we first met people. He is out there, heart first, slapping people's shoulders and smiling broadly. I like to be friendly and outgoing, but in certain situations it is best not to get too friendly very fast because the dreaded question will come up: What do you do for a living? It also may not be good for certain people to know that I'm a doctorally prepared professor. Because all too often I get strange responses when I tell people the kind of work I do, or identify my profession.

Sam didn't understand this in the early days.
"You should be proud, honey!" He grins widely. "I am!"
"I'd prefer to just say that I'm a teacher and be done with it."
"That's minimizing who you are," he said.
There are times when that is smart.
Sam just didn't get it.

Then we met the new pastor.
It was over the church potluck that I became more acquainted with him. He had just come to our district and I wanted to be welcoming toward him. He had been a student of my father's many years ago and I wanted to make a personal connection so he would feel more comfortable in a new church with people who could be a bit standoffish. My father had always spoken highly of this man when he was his student. Pastor responded very warmly when I told him who my father was. He had very good memories of living in New York when he was a kid.

"So what do you do for a living?" he asked Sam. Sam was delighted to share that at the time he was in sales. They chatted several minutes about the product that Sam dealt in while I braced myself for him to turn to me. I tried to keep the conversation going about Sam, but Pastor suddenly turned to me.
"And do you work outside the home, Barbara?"
I smiled and tried to look enthusiastic. "Oh yes. I manage to stay busy these days."
"And what do you do for work?"
I gave my standard answer: "I'm a teacher."
"Oh!" he exclaimed, "How nice...what grade do you teach?"
It always irks me when it's assumed that I teach grade school just because I'm a woman.
"Older kids," I said, truthfully.
He smiled, condescendingly. "Do you teach in middle school?"
I might as well get it over with. "No. Actually, I teach college students."
His smile faded and he looked surprised. "Oh. What subject do you teach?"
"Well, I teach counseling."
"Ah!" He laced his fingers together on the table in front of him and looked down at his hands.
I tried to move the conversation on to other things. "Didn't you just move from Cinncinati?"
"Well, yes....Are you a counselor, then?" There was hardly a pause between the two sentence clauses.
"Yes." There was nothing more to say about that.
"Do you practice therapy?" He looked sick.
"I have a small practice." Pastor looked down at his hands again. Perspiration stood out on his forehead as he turned in his chair away from me to face the people in the room (none of whom were directing their comments toward him at that moment).
The excited chatter from the potluck was ringing in my ears. I turned to look at Sam. He was looking at me with a questioning expression.
Wheeling around in his chair, Pastor asked tentatively, "So you have a master's degree then?"
"Yes, I do." I nodded, glad he hadn't asked anything else.
Pastor turned back to the crowd. I looked at Sam, who raised one eyebrow at me in a kind of unspoken comment: How strange!
Pastor seemed deep in thought. He was smiling as if in a conversation with someone else, turned 180 degrees away from where I was sitting.
Again, he lurched around in his seat to face me. "Do you have a PhD?" There was a sound of hushed horror in his voice.
"Uh...yes."
"You are a professor then?"
"Yes."
Pastor turned back toward the others in the room, with his back directly to me for the rest of the meal. Sam and I carried on an almost voiceless conversation, with lots of nonverbal commentary about what had just happened.
Pastor gave me the cold shoulder and behaved very strangely around me for the next year while we lived there. Very odd. Either he had issues that he believed I could somehow divine, or he'd had a bad experience with a therapist and didn't want to deal with me, assuming that I would respond to him in exactly the same manner as his nemesis. Or, he could have been insecure, since he didn't attend seminary and held an associate degree in computer science. Not that this would matter to me if he did a good job with the congregation. But it didn't feel good to be on the receiving end of whatever issue he was projecting onto me.

These kinds of odd responses are frequent. I'm sitting on an airplane and a nervous young woman is trying to make conversation with me while we lift off.
"So what do you do?" she asks, her hands clutching the sides of her seat.
"I'm a marriage and family therapist." There. Let's see what happens when I just say it straight out.
Her eyes widen and she turns toward me. "Oh! I can ask you this question then." She then leans into me and in a rapid whisper says, "I just found out yesterday that my sister is having an affair. I am so shocked. And I want to do something to help her but I'm so mad at her for being so dumb. She has three small children and while she's getting ready to leave her husband and children they're asking, "Where are you going, Mommy?" And it just breaks my heart. Why is she doing this and what should I do?"
I open my mouth to empathize, purposely avoiding engaging her about her sister, and she leans closer to interrupt me: "You are the perfect seatmate for a direct flight! Talk to me!"
I wish I'd told her I was a ditch digger from Omaha. Why would anyone think that I want to do my job during vacation--and for free? To most people, doing what I do seems like a non-job (I'm just a kind person who likes to listen), or else so exotic that they think I'm always "on," eager and ready for what they feel is a good story. Not so.

So after all of these flights and awkward introductions, I've come up with the perfect response when I'm asked what I do: "I'm a social scientist researcher." No one knows what that is, and when I say the word research, they turn off. If they press me, I can launch into a boring discussion about postmodern influences on family structure. Research is actually, one of the things that I do, and being able to say this suits me well. Then the conversation can be about incidental, human interest things in my life or what is going on with their lives without concern that I'm having to be perfect, looking through them, reading their minds, or that I'm interested in solving their family issues.
I am decidedly not the only person who has this happen. But it drives me nuts. And a therapist who feels like she's going nuts isn't really good, is it?

The scent of heaven

I have the good fortune of living in a part of the world that is filled with perfume at this time of year. It comes from the blossoms on orange trees. The trees that are typically quite shiny with their dark leaves, now look as though snow has dusted over them. They are covered in white blossoms, the fragrance of which is sweeter and more delightful than any other pleasant scent I have found in nature.

My daily commute takes me down several roads that are lined on either side with orange groves. Since the trees have begun to bloom, I have made it a practice to open my windows and inhale deeply as I slowly drive through. I'm sure that some people who are driving in the opposite direction think I've lost my mind--my head hanging out of the car window, me looking like a goldfish, breathing in with an exaggerated movement of my head. But there is no other way to savor this wonderful aroma.

As I've gone through these groves, the wind blowing through the car (and my hair being blown to bits), I've often wondered whether heaven smells like this. All of heaven, not just the little pockets of good smells, but the entire place. And maybe I won't have to work so hard to get to the scent: opening all the windows, trying to catch a waft of air, etc. Yes, in heaven I think that everything is perfect: looks good, sounds good, smells good. So in my book, orange blossoms are part of the picture. I surely hope so.

Only a God could create something so exquisite.

News Flash!

For the record, Astrid and Phil announced their engagement the day after his wife's service. They have set the date for May.
Next month.
Oh my.

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."