"Why Not Me?"

I work in a large academic medical center, and many of my friends and colleagues are involved in research – specifically research into how to treat human diseases and conditions.

This week, the nation saw the success – and subsequent failure – of its first uterus transplant. I think we all felt sadness for the brave woman who underwent the procedure, as well as for her family and her doctors. It takes someone special to be the first, because being first at anything usually means failing.

And as is usually the case when a “first” is announced, the debate over the use of medical research money has resurfaced.  I have written about this before, back when the first face transplant was performed here in the US.  I am a great believer that experimental transplants – and medical research more generally – is as important to improving the quality of life as it is to extending the duration of it. And as I’ll explain below, I have a hidden agenda here.

I’ve run research centers before and have seen first-hand that it’s a difficult rubric, trying to determine who gets funded and for what research. I think sometimes, as Americans, we have this sense that every problem is solvable, if only we throw enough time and money at it. In medicine, I see daily that this simply isn’t the case. There is just some stuff we can’t solve yet, because it’s just too multi-faceted or we haven’t found the magic bean yet. Beyond that, making a decision about what is studied and what isn’t – and by extension, what projects receive funding for study and which ones don’t – takes some magical combination “How much?”, “How many?”, “What are the chances of success?”, “Is the scientific foundation in place to make a leap?” and perhaps most controversially, “Who cares?”

This last one is a toughie; no doubt about it. 

The Who Cares equation itself is multi-faceted: The list of stakeholders includes the researcher him/herself (who needs to feel so much passion for the problem that s/he is willing to get kicked in the shorts for years trying to solve it), the institution (which even in funded research provides a lot more support than most folks appreciate), industry (who needs to be able to commercialize the outcomes in the case of a drug or device, to justify the huge investment in development), and yes…the media and the American public.  I’d be a bald-faced liar if I told you there wasn’t a sexiness factor involved.

Last year, I gritted my teeth and smiled through everyone making a big stir over Ebola and the truly obscene amount of money spent by the government, pacifying a panicked and shockingly mis-informed legislature and public, to build multi-million-dollar Ebola containment units.  I gritted my teeth because the chances of an Ebola pandemic here are somewhat lower than our country being wiped out by an apocalyptic meteor shower, but an infectious disease unit and procedures that can contain an Ebola outbreak will be equally effective to contain a really horrific influenza outbreak, too, and we are totally due for one of those.  Sometimes, we take advantage of the sexy to fund the decidedly un-sexy.

So uterus transplants?  Right now, they totally rank on the Who Cares list. Totally sexy. And important to quality of life for some – so important that they’re willing to take the risk of death to fulfill their needs. Who am I to say what makes a life worth living and what risks are acceptable or unacceptable to another human? Believe me, the people who sign up for experimental transplants are absolutely aware of the overwhelming risk of failure and death and disfigurement.  I’ve sat on the IRBs and the ethics reviews for these.  I’ve seen first-hand the consent process. I’ve reviewed the psych testing procedures. If they and their doctors are willing to take those risks, then I’m not going to castigate them for it. 

If it makes you all feel better, here’s the bigger, harder and less sexy pay-off.  Every time we push the boundary in transplant, the attention to anti-rejection medications takes center-stage, too. The community gets a little closer to completing the break-throughs that will make all transplants safer and improve the quality of life for those who receive them. We are really close now – less than ten years away, by my reckoning.  (maybe I’ll explain the process in another post) And that?  That will not only improve lives – it’ll save them. 

If your condition, or the condition of a loved one, isn’t on the list of what’s sexy this year, this can feel so unfair. We all know someone who suffers from cancer, rheumatoid arthritis, Lupus, asthma, congenital heart failure, type one diabetes…the list is endless.  It’s hard not to say, “Why them?  Why not me?  Why not my brother/sister/friend/mother?” My answer is that it’s not so much “not you” as “not yet”.  But someday.  I know what doesn’t sound fair, and it isn’t. If they ever put me in charge of the universe I’m putting “alleviating human suffering” on the top of the list.  Pinky-promise.  In the meantime, I think we will all imperfectly do our best to make good decisions.

It's Not About the Nail

Depression, Powerlessness and Presidential Politics

Most of America is absolutely, positively flabbergasted that poor whites are voting for Donald Trump in record numbers. There have been a lot of articles written by people way smarter than me about why these folks seem to be voting against their own self-interest and frankly have been for quite awhile.

As I see it, working with poor white Americans is a lot like helping a friend who is suffering from depression.

I’m not sure if I’m at all unique in this regard, but I have a lot of friends and family members who suffer from depression in one form or another.  (There have been times that I’ve wondered if being around me in fact causes depression, but I’m trying hard not to dwell on that too much.)

Anyway, it’s part of my nature to be a problem-solver and so faced with people who suffer from depression, I have a tendency to jump into problem-solving mode:

“You know, sunlight is such a good stimulant for both serotonin and dopamine; you should try to get out in the fresh air and let it work its magic.”

“Well, if you turned off your phone at 10:00, you’d sleep better and that is BOUND to help.”

“Well, of COURSE you feel depressed; you’re looking at the worst side of every situation!”

There…don’t you feel better? 

No?

Yeah; it doesn’t work in person either.

So there’s this video that I pretty much have to watch every two weeks or so as a reminder; it’s called “It’s Not About the Nail”.  The link is here.  It’s only two minutes long, so if you want to go watch it, I’ll wait…

(If you’re anything like me, you were screaming “Oh for God’s sake, it’s about the $%&$^#* nail!!!” about 22 seconds into it.)

So here’s the point. Most people suffering from depression are absolutely aware of their condition. And they have been told…by therapists, friends, family members, the media, blogs, Facebook, etc. what they need to do to help them feel better. Knowing what to do isn’t really the problem. Having the presence and the will to do it is another matter.  And to get there, they need to feel supported.

The problem is that what they really, really need most is someone to simply acknowledge that they are suffering and don’t deserve to suffer. “Man; that totally sucks. I’m really sorry you are suffering.” That simple act right there makes them feel empowered and cared about and that can go a long way toward their having the courage to start the really hard work of alleviating their own suffering.

What does this have to do with presidential politics? Glad you asked.

White, poor Americans are suffering from their own depression. They have, for decades now, lost ground socially and economically against every other group in the nation. They feel powerless to help themselves get out of the hole they’re in. I mean, when was the last time you heard someone in Washington decry the “plight of the high school-educated white guy”. If you're a minority or a woman or an immigrant, then everybody acknowledges that they deck is stacked against you and there are programs and even if it doesn’t get better for you, at least everyone acknowledges that you're in a pickle.  But not if they’re white and poor. “White and poor?  Nope…don’t see much here for you.  Are you sure you’re not maybe Hispanic?  Because I can do something if you’re Hispanic.” It’s going to take a LOT of hard work and unpopular reforms to help this group, because the economic world, with its tech-based focus and cheap overseas consumer goods, has changed and left them behind.

And the messaging from everyone…Republicans, Democrats, the media…is that they brought it on themselves. That it’s their lot in life. Watch History Channel or TLC some time. What one group in America can we make entertainment fun about on a consistent basis? Poor whites. Honey BooBoo, Swamp People, Off the Grid, Hoarders…just watch. They’re all white. There’s all poor or working class. Most are southern. Let’s just cut to the chase and make a show called “The Have-Nots”.  We would never, and I mean NE-VER, see a show about poor blacks or Hispanics.  That would raise an outcry you could hear in the middle of the Indian Ocean somewhere.  But poor whites?  Fair game. And who is most likely to watch these shows? Other Have-Nots. Why? Because they can look at the folks on TV and say “Well, damn…at least I’m not them.”

Poor white Americans have been searching for decades for someone to stop telling them it's about the nail. 

For years, they turned to the Democrats.  The Democrats said “Well, manufacturing just isn’t where it’s at anymore; that’s reality. But here; let’s get you a better education and some better representation and take you outside in the sunshine and you know if you turned off your phone you’d sleep a lot better and that HAS to help…are you with me here?  You better get busy if you’re not going to slip farther behind.  You have to take advantage of what we’re giving you…and besides, you’re white.  I mean, it’s not like you have anything working against you…are you sure you’re not Muslim?  I can do something if you’re Muslim.” And the gap between the Haves and the Have-Nots got bigger because the world kept changing and the manufacturing jobs still weren’t there and the minimum wage still didn’t keep pace with inflation and eventually the Have-Nots got disillusioned with the Democrats.

Then they turned to the Republicans.  The Republicans said “Well, the reason you are in this pickle is because the Democrats stole all your money to create these social service programs for all those damn blacks and Hispanics and immigrants!  If you just vote them out of office, we can lower taxes and give the money to businesses who will hire you and you’ll be rich and fat like us in no time…by the way, the trash needs emptied. Oh, and you got a nail in your head there. Might wanna look into that.”  And the Have-Nots had even less and the Haves had even more.  A LOT more.  And there were MORE Have-Nots than ever before.

And now we are in another election season.  And there are a LOT of Have-Nots. And they look at our Congress and they see a lot of people who don’t seem to care much about them and haven’t in a long, long time.

Enter Donald Trump.

The Donald says, “Wow. Your head must really hurt. Of course it’s not about the nail.”

He says, “You poor bastards; you have gotten the rawest of raw deals here.  Because it’s not about the changing economy and it’s not about education and it’s not about what they’re doing with taxes and it’s not about income inequality.  It’s because the world has given all their attention to the blacks and the Hispanics and the immigrants and the Muslims and they just left you sitting there, didn’t they?  How dare they do that? Let’s make all those people go away, because they’re taking up all the attention and you’re not getting any. Tell you what? We’re going to make some new reality shows.  We’re going to call them ‘The Jigaboos’ and ‘The Mexican Rapists’ and ‘The Towelheads’ and our new reality shows will have electrical wire over top of a wall and you can watch people trying to climb over get electrocuted during Prime Time and you can look at all of those people on those new shows and say “Well damn…at least I’m not them.””  The Have-Nots looked up and said “See?  He gets us! See?  It’s really not our fault and we don’t have to do really hard work to make ourselves desirable.”

In that moment, the Haviest of the Haves became the hero of the Have-Nots.  And the rest of us were left scratching our heads.  How on EARTH could these people fall for this …this…BUFFOON? we all said.

All he had to do was say the magic words.  “It’s not about the nail.  There is no nail. It’s someone else’s fault that you’re in this pickle.”

The danger, of course, is that unlike working with individuals with depression, the working poor have not, by and large, been given a set of tools to get out of the pickle.  It’s all a fallacy. But Trump isn’t looking to solve problems; he’s looking to get elected.  He’s the ultimate sociopath in that regard. He will get elected on the platform of “You poor bastards” and then, because he has no actual policies, it’ll be business as usual. Or maybe worse.  He’ll combine bully pulpit politics with side-show theatrics and amuse himself for four or eight years and leave it for the next guy to clean up. He will abandon the people who are following him now, because he neither truly understands them nor does he truly want to.  They are a means to an end. The Haves and the Have-Nots will grow farther and farther apart, but it won’t matter to him, because he’ll be on to the next thing by then.  But this time, the Have-Nots will trust no one and nothing, because they have been betrayed at every turn.  And we may be well and thoroughly on our way to a civil war by that time.

Let’s hope it doesn’t happen.  Let’s hope that the majority of Americans see where this is leading and elect someone who can work in the best interest of the nation. I won't lie; I'm not hopeful.

But if it happens, there will need to be real changes.  It’s going to have to start with “Wow. Your head must really hurt.” But then it’s going to have to be followed up with a re-indexing of the minimum wage, some painful tax reforms, career-oriented education and perhaps just enough trade reform to break our addiction to cheap overseas crap, so we can remember how to make stuff here.  

Make no mistake; it’s about the nail. But first, it’s about really hearing the needs of the American working poor and giving them a sense that somebody really cares.  Because if not, we're going to see this played out over and over again in the years to come.

Four

Dear Bug,

It's been four years since you left.

Actually, it was four years on Wednesday, but as we've discussed before, it's easier for all of us if we simply think of your departure date as "The day after Thanksgiving", rather than a numerical date.  It's easy to remember, and it keeps Thanksgiving from ever coinciding with The Worst Thing Ever.  Which we all want to avoid.

Four years. You have been gone for four years. It's really hard to fathom this, and as I considered it today, it occurred to me that the day will come, in the not too distant future, when I will have been without you in my life longer than I had you here.  But then, we both know that's not really true, because you have stayed by my side these last four years in a way I have trouble explaining to people without them turning their heads slightly to the side and giving me a look that is generally reserved for the senile or the intoxicated."How interesting", they say, "and what does that feel like?" 

How do I tell people what it feels like to have you by my side?  Do I tell them that you hold my hand in the car, that I can still feel your lovely little pudgy hand in mine as I drive?  Do I tell them that we talk at night, under the stars, when I see Orion's belt? That I cannot see the planet Venus without hearing you say "She's beautiful tonight, isn't she, Mama?"  That I ask your advice about everything from work to relationships to what to have for dinner?

Yeah; I leave most of that out of the conversation, because people look at me funny. "Mrs. Sump, it's time for your medication now."

So I've been meaning to ask you about how you like your new digs.  I know that cardboard box, "The FEMA trailer", was comfy and all, but I hope you like the urn you dad and I finally found.  I think it's pretty.  Heather think it looks like it has wings. I like it. It's mad of wood; it was important that you be in something that was once alive, rather than some old rock.

Anyway, Bug, I'm rambling a bit, I think because my world feels normal now, and I'm not really sure how to handle that. You know I miss you every day. I think about you every day. But I think about other things now too. And frankly that makes me feel a little bit guilty. You are still the greatest, most beautiful joy I've ever had in my life. I still love you to the depth of my soul and I know that after this world is done, you will be there, still, to hold my hand and listen to my heart.

I miss you, little Bug, and I love you more than I have words to say. Never stop walking by my side.

Parenting a Teen In Need, and What It's Taught Me About Myself, Part 2

Part 2:  I know you are, but what am I?

You’re just a big, fat, lying, stinky butt-head!

I know you are, but what am I?

I find that kids are just a lot smarter than we give them credit for. 

One of my favorite self-help books is The Four Agreements by don Miguel Ruiz.  It purports to be a book of Toltec wisdom.  I have no idea if it’s actually Toltec or not, and frankly I don’t care if it was handed down by aliens from Rigel 7.  It’s good stuff and I’m consistently amazed how often I refer to the Agreements.  I won’t give away all the good stuff here (because really, you should just read it for yourself), but the gist of the book is four pretty simple statements:

The first one is “Be Impeccable With Your Word”.

Second, “Don’t Assume”

Third, “Don’t Take Anything Personally”

Fourth, “Always Do Your Best”

In practice, one of the take-away messages from combining these four Agreements is, “Don’t let your internal poisonous feelings about yourself spill over to your interactions with others.  In fact, while you’re at it, stop drinking all that poison.  It’s going to make you sick.”

Pretty simple stuff, right?

Maybe not so much.  At least not for me.  I don’t know about the rest of you, but self-loathing?  It’s an active hobby for me.  I can sing you an album of my greatest hits entitled, Reasons I Hate Me, including Bonehead Things I’ve Done that I’m Still Embarrassed About, 104 Reasons I Hate My Thighs, I’m Not Smart Enough For This Job, Sweet Resentment, I Know You’re All Laughing Behind My Back, and My Parents Are Secretly Ashamed Of Me.

Oh, you have that album, too?  How about that?

OK, so here’s the really ugly thing I learned about me while learning to parent Daisy Mae:  Every time I put her down, every time I told her she was lazy, disrespectful, slobby, bitchy.  Every time I insisted that she should comply, “BECAUSE I SAID SO”.  Every time I imposed a completely ludicrous, arbitrary or unreasonable constraint on her time and energy, it was actually less about her and more about my own feelings of insecurity.  Every time my voice echoed so loudly in my ears that I couldn’t hear her, it was actually the voice of my own self-loathing making all that noise.

Now, let’s be honest.  Teenagers are lazy, disrespectful, slobby and bitchy.  And they smell funny (true story).  But really?  That’s their problem. And Daisy Mae is actually smart enough to know what she’s doing.  In fact, when she’s being bitchy and disrespectful, it’s because her self-loathing Greatest Hits are playing in her own head.  The sad reality is that a lot of kids in foster care have the live, platinum, double album of self-loathing greatest hits.  So what the heck do I gain by listening to her album, much less singing along?

As a parent, I became a lot happier when I recognized my own insecurities and baggage and learned to turn them off when dealing with Daisy Mae. What does that let me do?  It lets me be more objective in qualifying rules and consequences.  It lets me not take it personally when rules get violated.  It lets me not drink poison when she hands it to me.  (Oh yeah, that poison thing?  It goes both ways) and it lets me hear her out on issues of rules and conduct (hers and mine) without feeling threatened.  Oh, and it lets me teach her some new songs, like Wow, You Are So Good At Teaching Others, I Love Your Sense Of Style, That Dinner Was Wonderful, and You're Going To Be Remarkable!  Am I perfect at it?  Not by a long shot.  But it’s better that it was around our place, and the less I let my insecurities and self-loathing cloud my interactions, the less she does as well.

And here’s the bonus: In not sharing my self-loathing greatest hits with her, I find that my own album plays at a much lower volume than it used to. Who knows?  Maybe I can stomp on that Greatest Hits album one of these days. (Yeah; not holding my breath on that one.)

You’re a beautiful, successful person.

I know you are, but what am I?

Next:  Loving them by loving you and loving me and...wait, what?

Parenting a Teen in Need, and What it's Taught Me About Myself

If you've read this blog for more than about three posts, you know that Mr. B and I adopted a beautiful, feisty teenager a couple years back.  Daisy Mae had been in and out of several homes and had lived through some not so great experiences in the lives before she came to us. Those stories aren't mine to share here; suffice it to say, however, that our life experiences during the first fourteen years she'd walked this Earth were vastly different.

Things didn't get much better after she arrived; five months after she moved in, the day after Thanksgiving, she watched in horror as the new sister she had just started to bond with died on a crowded skating rink, her mother vainly performing CPR. I remember looking over my shoulder at her and seeing her face change from shock to alarm to emotionless vacancy, tears pooling on the ice at her feet.  I remember getting in the car to follow the ambulance to the hospital, and turning to her.  "This isn't going to have a happy ending, Baby."

She stared ahead, "It never does."

That's where we started.

If there is a silver lining in losing the Bug when we did, it is this:  We had to learn to parent all over again, from scratch.  If that sounds like a sort of crappy silver lining, I suppose that's because it totally sucked while we were going through it. Looking back, however, it was a set of life experiences together that helped make us a strong family, and in a weird way, I'm grateful for it.

I'm thinking about this today, because Mr. and I are working with another family who have also taken on a teen.  This child has an equally difficult and heartbreaking past, and this family is utterly unprepared to deal with the challenges posed by the situation.  They don't have the benefit of having suffered a family-shattering tragedy that forces them to completely re-assess their value system and what's truly important.  (yes, I've just called losing Kes a benefit twice on the same page; bear with me).  The outcome of this is that their household has become an active war zone and the child is now occupying an extra bedroom at my house.

In the process of trying to help them through this crisis, and maybe come back together as a family, Mr. and I are having to deconstruct all the important and painful lessons we have learned in the last four years and try to communicate them as teaching moments. So I figure, if I have to untangle all this, I might as well write it down somewhere.

So here goes, over some period of days and weeks to come:

Part I: Stitch was right

"Ohana means family.  Family means nobody gets left behind.  Or Forgotten.

My family is small, and broken.  But it is...good."

Stitch, Lilo and Stitch, 2002. Walt Disney Company

Photo credit here: 

When I stop to think about it, my greatest fear is abandonment. When I was little, there was always that nagging fear that some day I was going to do something really terrible and my parents would stop loving me (they never did, by the way, even when I tried to "tool" my father's leather chair). I bet most of us have the same fear at some level. It never goes away, really. We want to be loved, cherished, needed. We want to belong. It is because we have this fear of abandonment that many of us try to break down relationships.  We are afraid of being cast out and so we try to make our greatest fears happen on our own terms. We pick fights with our spouses. We sabotage our jobs. We disengage from our teens. And when the rejection comes, we can say "I told you so!" and add another layer to our emotional scars.

Teens, especially those who have been left behind before, need to know that you will love them in spite of themselves. Troubled teens are so hurt from their past rejections, and so afraid of the next rejection that they will try to make you reject them.  They will lie, cheat, steal, strike out, scream, break things, just so you will throw them out and they can get it over with. Because in their minds they know it's coming. It's up to us as parents to break that fear cycle. In fact, it's just at the time that you MOST want to throw their ungrateful, lazy, disrespectful, smelly carcasses out the door that you have to re-affirm to them that you will keep them NO MATTER WHAT. Man, it's hard. It's hard to love someone who is trying really hard to be unlovable.

That tension, that knowledge that the next argument is out there, can be unnerving.  So much so that we sometimes set these relationships with our teens up to fail. We become arbitrary about rules.  We escalate arguments. We threaten them with the very thing they fear.  "If you don't like the rules here, you're welcome to get out there in the world and see how you do on your own!"

I became a happier parent the day I learned to say, "Do your worst. I refuse to throw you out. I refuse to reject you. I refuse to hit back. I refuse to fight you. Scream. Yell. Slam doors. Break dishes. Call me a "bitch" under your breath every day. I will love you NO MATTER WHAT."

That message diffuses tension. It disarms fear. And over time (not very much, either), it removes the barrier to their opening up to grow and love you back. In refusing to reject, we help avoid being rejected. And here's the best part. It costs nothing. You risk not a thing by offering unconditional love. And what you gain is a stronger family, more love back, and a lot fewer headaches.

In other words, a lot more Ohana.


Next:  Part 2 -- I know you are, but what am I?

Monday Mourning

Three years ago, almost to the day, a dear friend of mine forwarded me an article and told me to read it.  It was from the New Yorker, entitled "Good Grief", by Meghan O'Rourke.  I just happened to come across it today. 

In a lot of ways, this article became my Grieving Bible.  I've passed it on to several friends who have lost loved ones, and I hope that it's helped them as much as it helped me.

It's not a guide to grieving, but rather, a review of articles written about grief and grieving and how our societal view of grief has changed over the last 100 years or so.  As you might expect, because I am, (as my therapist describes me), "the most intentional person in the Western Hemisphere", the idea of having several potential models for grief to review and use as touchstones was reassuring for me.  Especially in those first few months after Kes died, when I was flailing around like a spider who had lost three legs, being able to read the article over and over and remind myself that "Prigerson and Maciejewski say that grief peaks at six months in most people" and "Bonnano (2007) indicates that it's not unusual for some people to be able to adapt with resilience to even devastating loss", made me feel like I was "normal".  Whateverthehell "normal" is for someone in my situation.

One of the major assertions of the article (albeit a subtle one, which I guess is why I like it) is that we don't do a good enough job of giving a public forum to our grief.  In other words, we don't mourn like we did in years past. She cites study after study that shows that those who don't have a public forum for grief, especially after a sudden loss, have more health problems, are more likely to suffer from protracted episodes of acute grief later, and generally have a tougher time coping with their loss.

OK, so why am I talking about this?  Yeah, there's a point in here, if only I can get to it...

I very deliberately have not talked about the horrific episode in Newtown, CT last month, and the empathy I have felt for each and every one of the families of those angels, big and small, who lost their lives in that senseless act of brutality. This Christmas, while our family celebrated in a more joyful and "normal" way than we have in the last three years, my heart quietly ached for all those families who were facing the utter devastation of that loss this Christmas. I was surprised that more than one of my co-workers, having watched the news coverage of the shootings, came up to me in tears and embraced me, saying, "I have thought of you all weekend; every time I saw that on the news, I thought of you.  For some reason, I didn't understand until now how devastating that was for you."

Surprising also was the reaction of Mr. B, who, upon watching the news coverage, said, "It's not fair.  You know, thousands of people lose their children every year, and they don't get a big thing on the news and parks named after their children and stuff like that.  What about those people?  Who cries with them?  Even we had news coverage and strangers calling and consoling us and scholarships and trees and stuff.  What about the people whose kids die in accidents or from cancer?  They get nothing.  It's not fair.  How do those parents cope?" 

And then today, one of my friends posted a Facebook status about tragedy and how we can choose whether or not to rise above it.  I commented that tragedy comes into our lives to teach us compassion.

But that compassion is only useful if we know about the pain that others feel.  And our society encourages us to hide that pain.  Ms. O'Rourke may be more on target than any of us realize.  It is, perhaps, a genuine loss to our humanity that we do not mourn as a community in a more tangible way when we lose one of our own.

Which brings me back here.  Several people have asked me over the years how I managed to pick up and carry on after we lost the Bug.  My standard answer is, "You do what you have to do; sometimes there's no choice."  But that's not really true. In large part, I was able to pick up and carry on because I had an incredibly wide, diverse and compassionate circle of friends, both local and across the country, who let me talk and cry and rage and think, without my having to lean too hard on any one of them.  But it's also, in no small part, because I had this space to write and to grieve in a more public way.  Because through these pages, I was able to mourn, in public, and have my cries heard and echoed.

So if you're reading this, Thank you.

And please, don't be afraid to feel your own grief, to yearn, to mourn, if that's what you need to do.  Even years later, a good cry is a beautiful thing.

And if you haven't read that article yet, do read it. Print it out. Go back and look at her other writings in the year after her mother passed away in 2009.  Reading her articles and essays made me feel not so alone and not so crazy during a year when I was wont to feel both. And if she touches you, write her a letter and say thanks. That's what I'm going to do tonight, I think.

Night of a Thousand Bubbling Purple Cow Pies

Every woman needs a therapy hobby.  Something she can do that is unrelated to both her job and the upkeep of her house that occupies her mind and hands and that produces something either useful or creative. 

In the good weather, I garden and make a variety of canned and pickled veggies. 

In the bad weather, I make bath products.  

The unwitting recipients of the outcomes from these little therapy projects are normally friends and family or co-workers, who are gifted little bags of bath fizzies, lip balm, hand cream or cold-process soap with their Christmas packages.  These recipients normally at least pretend to be grateful for them.  And every year, I try to make something new that I haven’t attempted before. Sometimes these new projects are a big hit.  Sometimes they are an epic fail. I nevertheless dress up the outcomes and foist them on my ersatz Toiletry Victims.

Last night, I attempted to make Bubble Bars, (à la Lush) for the first time, as a friend requested that I give them a try.  There are several recipes available on the web; they vary in terms of both ingredients and ratios.  All the recipes involve mixing some variation on baking soda and cream of tartar together with a powdered detergent and some corn starch, adding a series of oily, viscous or otherwise soapy-like liquids, and then forming the final product into a bar that can be cut up and crumbled under a running bath. Easy, right?

So I measure and mix these powders together, choking as I go, because I ignored the warning that I should use a respirator mask so I wouldn’t choke (because respirators are for wimps). I added a few festive candy flower sprinkles and tiny embeddable paper scraps to help it look festive.  

Things took a downhill turn after that.

The directions read “combine the liquid ingredients and drizzle into the dry ingredients, mixing and kneading with gloved hands to combine thoroughly.”  No problem.  I mixed the liquids together.  They promptly polymerized into a mass that resembled the Ectoplasmic Residue from Ghostbusters. My attempt to “drizzle” the substance resulted in my glopping the wad of goo into the center of the powders (resulting in more coughing).  I then started kneading the mixture, which commenced to expanding at a prodigious rate.  The consistency was sticky enough to pull off one of my vinyl gloves and devour it like a giant purple macrophage that had encountered a hapless amoeba.  I began punching down and kneading with more vigor, in hopes that it would behave like bread dough and give up some of its excess carbon dioxide.  No luck. I suddenly wondered if this was how Lucy felt in the candy factory; I simply didn't have enough hands to contain the growing mass of purple squish.  It quickly overflowed the mixing bowl and began to mushroom up and over the side of the bowl, landing with a series of plops on the counter like so many bubbling purple cow pies.  It began disgorging the candy flowers and paper trinkets.  I was reminded of the birthday cake from that episode of Our Gang, expecting at any time it would start making that “wheep-whoooonnnk” noise, and a rubber boot or the neighbor’s dog would pop out.

Time to set on the stove and stir

 Image credit

I finally managed to gather the entire mess onto a large sheet of plastic wrap and began to roll it firmly.  It deflated enough to form into a log so I could cut it into slices.  I left them on the counter to dry overnight. 

Tonight will be recipe # 2, I think; I’ll keep you all posted.

To my daughter, on her birthday.

Dear Daisy Mae,

Today, you are 18 years old. 

I have to say that again.

Today, You Are 18 Years Old!

Wow.

I'm knocked out by what a bright, confident, beautiful young woman you are becoming.  I look at you today, and in place of the awkward, rebellious teen who entered my life four years ago, I see a young lady who can conduct herself in a fancy restaurant, who can plan a dinner party for a dozen friends, who can gracefully help her grandfather in and out of a wheelchair, without making him feel out of place.

In place of the recalcitrant middle-schooler, who would routinely use phrases like, "Mom! I'm passing!  Get off my back!", I see a young scholar who has dreams and goals and who takes personal offense when her best efforts don't product A's. Who is learning to think before she speaks. Who is learning to question and think critically.

In place of the frightened young girl, who looked across the table and said, "No one will ever marry me. No one will love me. I'm not worth it.", I see someone who has learned to build relationships, to bloom under the attention of a young man who thinks she is beautiful in ways she may never understand, to compromise and to nurture others. Who will fight tooth and nail to protect someone she perceives as powerless, no matter what the cost. And just maybe, who has started to love the person she is. Some women never learn that lesson.  Look how far you've come!

You are strong. You are fierce. You are loving.

And still there is a little girl in there.  Who still loves Barbie movies and chocolate milk.  Who is afraid that there are monsters hiding by the garbage cans at night.  Who can't sleep without her favorite blanket and Blue Bear.  Who sometimes just wants to be cuddled.

There are some who look at you and who tell your Dad and me, "You've done a great job". But we didn't do this. We just gave you room to become who you really are. You've made good choices. You have chosen to treat your body and your spirit with respect, in a time when so many girls do not.  You have chosen to take control of your academics and your career choices.  This is all you. Dad and I can encourage (nag), and suggest (nag), and nag (nag), but if you don't believe in your heart that you're doing what's best for you, none of that matters. You have chosen to be successful, and I cannot wait to see the exceptional young woman you will become in the years ahead.

You're not done yet. There's a lot of growing and learning yet to do. But you've come so far, so fast.

And I'm so very, very proud of you.

Happy Birthday.

...and in other news

I'm currently blogging from the driveway of the house across the street.  At 11:00 at night.  Why, you ask?  Because at 10:45, while I was walking the dog, I smelled natural gas leaking from the meter.  And apparently, when you call the gas company, they take it really, really freaking seriously! 

They have advised us to vacate the house, secure our animals and not return until they clear the area. 

This left me with an unusual dilemma:  Do I feign secure knowledge that the gas company will keep us safe, and simply stroll to a safe distance and watch?  Or do I grab those things that are precious, just in case the house blows up?

Currently, I am sharing my husband's truck with Mr., Daisy Mae, three cats, a dog, and Kiersten's ashes, as well as my computer and my cell phone.  I figure everything else can be replaced.

So here's my question of the day:  If you had 5 minutes to get out of your house, what would you take with you?

Life, and the importance of living it.

Three years ago, I wrote a letter to Lenore Skenazy, a fellow blogger who writes a regular site called "Free-Range Kids".  Lenore reminds us that when we were kids, our parents booted us out the door at 10 am and we didn't come home until the street lights came on.  That we knew how to take the bus.  That we played in the mud.  And sometimes we got into fights with other kids.  We knew how to ask for directions when we got lost, and we knew how to ride our bikes to the library, and we knew how to get the pop machine at the corner store to disgorge a free soda now and again.  She worries that our children today are over-protected and over-parented and that there must be a balance there somewhere.

I wrote to tell her about Kiersten and to thank her for helping today's parents get over themselves.

I tried to raise Kiersten like I had been raised.  I wasn't as open as my mom was with me, to be certain, (mostly because I grew up with sidewalks, which are conspicuously absent here) but I sure didn't want that kid to grow up afraid of the world.  My mother-in-law was constantly fretting when I let her walk to the corner alone or let her ride her bike to a friend's house, or let her go horseback riding with the bigger kids. But I'm glad I did all those things.  She had a great time while she was on this Earth

Last week, Lenore wrote to me and asked me if she could publish my letter, even though it was three years later.  I re-read it, and decided that my opinions hadn't changed a bit, and maybe this was a good way to honor her today. So here it is, on the third anniversary of the day Kiersten left us, (which is also Lenore's birthday).

Free-Range Kids

Thank you, Lenore, for helping to honor my baby today. Because she's still my baby and always will be. I didn't expect it to feel as emotional to me as it does, but I'm glad that letter is out there.

And Thank You, sweet Bug, for another year of learning the lessons you were sent here to teach me.  I love you and I miss you, and I know you're watching and sending your love from Heaven.  You are still the greatest joy my life has ever known.

Wear a lorikeet for a hat today.  You'll thank me for it later.