Post-Op

I was thrust into a world I didn’t recognize with a landscape that was unfamiliar. Carlos lost a leg.  I thought I had lost my exhuberant protector and manager of all things.  But, did I? Loss of limb is a very strange thing.  The rest of the limbs are fine which can fool what’s missing into thinking it is as it was.  It therefore, tries to stand up and falls down…over…and over…and over.  Three times in fact.  And each time it happened, it was worse.

First Phase: I-Can’t-Do-This

Everytime a fall occurred, I would play this weepy violin track just like in the movies.  Everytime I had to help my love adjust to his wheelchair, I’d freak out and wonder whether I could continue doing this on a long-term basis.  I doubted everything about the process and listened to my love go through a depressive state that involved phantom pain and all of the stages of grief one-by-one.  It was–and is–an exercise in extreme patience.  But did we survive?  Of course.

Phase 2: But Why Do I Hate You Sooooo Much?

You’re going to have periods where you hate the other person.  If people say “hate” is too strong a word, they’re wrong.  The newly disabled person will suck your very life’s blood from you like a vampire until they come to terms with their disability; therefore, it is imperative to your own mental health to come to terms with that initial feeling of anger and hatred.  When you learn that you are not a perfect bunny, you’ll start beginning to find ways to cope better with the situation that will not further handicap the disabled person.  A bird may lose its wing, but it still has to learn to manage certain things on its own.

Phase 3: Stop You’re Whinin’ Bitchin’

A sense of humor and excessive praise is good for everyone.  When I learned to just do the things I hated doing without complaint, the process became more peaceful for all involved.  Oh sure, Carlos sometimes will nitpick and attempt to drain me of my optimism, but when he sees that it’s just me helping him out at five in the morning when all lesser help has failed, a newfound appreciation occurs.  This is love in its purest form.  It is selfless and hardworking.  It takes a lot for Carlos to ask for help.  It equally takes a lot to understand what it is Carlos wants and to gauge what it is he really needs.  He’s the most stubborn, hard-headed, loving, sensitive, crazy person I’ve ever met.  So it is with this in mind that I have to bite my tongue to get to the chocolate filling.

Phase 4: Pity Parties Are For Losers

Remember: you are a human being and not a doormat.  You’ll soon learn that when dealing with a disabled person, helping them throw Pity Parties doesn’t help either.  It actually hinders their progress.  I met a funny nurse when Carlos was in the hospital dealing with his new legless status. She asked me to retrieve the shared hospital wheelchair from Carlos who refused to give it up.  I walked in there, got it and handed it to her.  Later, she was in his room changing his bandage when he wailed out at her and she hollered back in a thick Filipino accent, “Carlos, you cut the bull-sheet!  You cut the bull-sheet now!”  I gotta hand it to her, Carl cut the bullsheet.  Self-sufficience is important to a disabled person’s recovery process.  If you continue playing into the mood swings or pity pleas, the person never learns how to manage things themselves.  It reminds me of Little House on the Prairie when Mary went blind.  She freaked out, she was given confidence from Ma & Pa Ingalls and she learned how to handle her blindness.  She even became a teacher.  So yeah.  Don’t throw Pity Parties.  Only sad sacks go to those.

 In the end, there are good days and bad days and worse days…just like everybody else.  But the rewards way outweigh the frustrations.   But just like Cracker Jacks, there’s always a surprise inside…!

The card was from a couple I’ve never met.  I only “knew” the husband, Chuck from a previous Accounting position I had.  I had spoken to him many times on the phone, mostly to discuss his expense reports and was used to his pleasant, easy disposition. We often exchanged friendly banter and shared tidbits of our lives: my life with Carlos, his life with his wife, Phyllis. I haven’t thought about him in years.  What struck me most were the little things: the envelope addressed to both myself and Carlos, the two-sided Year In Review summary insert, the hand-written message in the card.  It took time to create and involved recalling information that not even my closest friends remember.  The card was upbeat and hopeful; inclusive and reflective.

If I had my way, that is what I expect of 2012.

Now For The Sharing:

There is a valid reason why people write a lot about Love.  Love lifts us up where we belong.  Love will keep us together.  All You Need Is Love.  Love is a Many Splendored Thing.  Love is a Battlefield.  It is the reason for getting up in the morning and the reason for staying in bed.

So when I was thinking back on 2011, I’ve learned that love is a collection of our best human attributes: faith, compassion, kindness, sacrifice, patience, empathy, selflessness.  I’ve lived it firsthand through my husband, Carlos who is disabled.  Although it hasn’t been an easy road, what’s made things easy are all of the angels that spring up when we least expect.  Conversely, all of the devils that tried–as my mother would say, “sticking [their] tails in”–to disrupt the normalcy of our daily life.  Aside from frequent hospital visits and some close calls, it has been relatively normal.

When Carlos was diagnosed with diabetes, I’m sure the effect barely made a ripple.  He was still seemingly healthy and active.  But the years were not kind and he finally lost his right leg (below the knee) about three years ago.  Since then, we’ve had to make obvious changes but it hasn’t been all that difficult to implement.  What has helped make it easier is one majorly HUGE thing: Love.

So I decided to share these two amazing quotes from children who were asked what Love meant to them:

• “Love is what’s with you in the living room on Christmas morning when you stop opening your presents all of a sudden and just listen to the air.” ~Robert (Age 7)
• “Love is when my grandma got arthritis really bad and so she couldn’t bend over and paint her toenails anymore. So my grandpa does it for her now even though he has had arthritis longer than she has.” ~Rebecca (Age 8)

As the Bible quotes: “Out of the mouth of babes and sucklings…” So what is the thing that jades us and prevents us from being our best most noble selves?  That’s not fair.  There’s many reasons why we hold the precious gift of Love for ourselves and our kin.  But, as we learned in kindergarten, it’s important to share.  I can’t change others, but I can change myself.  So this Christmas, I didn’t focus on gift-giving (most of which I re-gifted) or decorations or anything like that.  I just “listened to the air.”

It is the reason why I didn’t know how to feel about New Year’s.  I know that Carlos and I have had a lot of changes, but we’ve come out the other side renewed.  The New Year didn’t come with fanfare or blowing whistles or fireworks displays.  Carlos and I were switching channels between a Twilight Zone marathon and The Mob Wives.

All I Want For Christmas:

While others make resolutions around weight-loss and self-improvement, I realized that I have no need for anything.  I am lucky to have my family–as crazy and neurotic as they are.  I’ve kept in my heart every memory of all of the people who treated us as human beings and those that didn’t.  Especially close are idiot floor doctors who (as recent as November) misdiagnosed Carlos and told him that he “should get his papers in order” only to discover that the deathly prognosis was for a neighboring patient.  Yeah, there’s a special place for people like that.

But what will prevail should the world really end in 2012? Love.

So be good everybody.  If you’re hurting, doubting, sad, depressed, unemployed, scared, worried, angry or whatever,  just know that it gets better.  That’s the only infection I love to catch…and so I’m passing it along…

Happy New Year everybody!

I don’t know how many of us consider ourselves to be superheroes.  However, there are many abilities that people possess in their everyday lives that could easily qualify them as such.  Just ask any single mother who juggles her roles as parent, teacher, doctor, friend all in a day’s time.  Or, a working father who negotiates seemingly impossible business deals while changing his child’s diapers.  In an age where multi-tasking has become an inevitability and the fast pace that technology commands is ever present, it is difficult not to marvel over the feats that humankind has managed to handle.

But just below the surface lies a diabolical villain that always makes us doubt all of the amazing things we’ve done.  In most cases, the villain is something akin to Superman’s Kryptonite: it’s a flaw, a weakness, a worrisome, nagging thing.  But that’s why superheroes need to exist: there is always an obstacle, a challenge to overcome, a villain that we must face.  And sometimes–like Batman’s Dark Knight–that villain is us.

Sure enough, I have worked against myself on many occasions.  Today was no different.  But the mistake I’d made actually led to my second realization about superheroes: their hopefulness.  I mean sure, Clark Kent was a four-eyed klutz, but underneath his 50′s haircut and suit were the blue-tights of a Superman.  His small-town upbringing set the stage for morality plays about what it was to be a noble man.  Metropolis represented the temptations that only city-life can demand.  But Superman always believed in humanity enough to want to defend and personify its principles of justice and freedom.

But this post isn’t about Superman.  It’s about the ability that each person has to become his or her own hero.  Look, the economy sucks.  The world is an ever-changing place.  Protests and movements like Occupy Wall Street are popping up everywhere with disgruntled and the unemployed voicing issues facing the country.

Which brings me to my dance in the street with an Elvis Impersonator.  Oh sure he didn’t know the words to the 50′s tracks he played and he was older than Elvis was when he died, but who cares?  He was giving out the best vibes and the music like Band Stand ‘had a nice beat that you could dance to’.  I couldn’t help but take a moment of my day to duet and dance around like an idiot.

Later on, to continue the day’s theme, Rocky came on.  For anyone reading this who’s been living under a rock, the character of Rocky Balboa is loosely based on the Bayonne Bleeder, Chuck Wepner.  I love a good underdog story.  What made Rocky great wasn’t the fact that he could beat somebody senseless, it was his ability to keep getting up when he was knocked down.  And in a poignant scene in the movie, Rocky reiterates that concept.  That is what distinguishes the men from the boys.

So go out and love and laugh and do all of the things you’ve always wanted to do.  If you’ve suffered or are suffering, it won’t last.  It can’t.  ‘Cause God loves the little guys.

After speaking with her on a typically vacuous surface-level phone conversation, I found myself listening to the banal stylings of a barely functional child frustrated with her lack of progress yet unable to commit to anything with any degree of certainty or determination.  I had taken the bare-breasted approach before with her and have succeeded in only getting myself exasperated and stressed out.  This time, I opted for a more subversive technique, withholding my opinions and advice-giving. As difficult as this was to do, it has become an exercise that suits her more than a verbal beat-down.

The session began with some simplistic inquiries.  I’ve found that if I keep the questions to a minimum and only verbalize my consent or agreement that she’s more responsive.  I also come off as less invasive this way.  It was a barage of goals that she must have thought pleasing in some way–but weren’t to any able-minded adult.

The event that preceeded our conversation was a text.  My stepdaughter’s Dad’s birthday turned out to be a bust.  She had brought him a card and an argument of some sort ensued.  She seemed angry and maybe a little spent. So we agreed to chat later on the phone.  We set a time, but I didn’t keep my hopes up.

I want to be clear that this conversation is typical of the arrested development of the American young adult.  As is true for parents of arrested youth, the extension of the womb has stretched out until the early- to mid-twenties when in the past, Baby Boomers would be married with children already.  The excuses are myriad for why this has transpired and in-depth reports and analyses have been well documented by more educated people than me–than I? Oh, you know what I mean.

So I am in no means trying to make light of the situation.  I’m actually appalled by how my stepdaughter who once gave the impression that she was learning and determined to take the world by storm…hasn’t.  She hasn’t even started to take the steps to be independent.  She’s only managed to changed location and is now living much like she would if she were still living with me and her father.  The only difference is that the place that she lives now is way more tolerant and patient than we would be.

So here’s how the conversation went (from my perspective):

While walking home (a few city-blocks away), I decided to dial my stepdaughter who had texted me at work that she needed to talk to me.  So, I as usual made the first move and called saying, “Do you have a moment to talk?”

There was a lot of movement on the other end of the phone and her voice sounded muffled.  “Um…let me…I’m in the middle of–”

“Take your time.”

I could hear some shuffling around and a voice in the background.  Then, dial tone.

Normally, I would have called her back right away, exacerbating an already awkward conversation.  This time, I’m proud to say, I waited.  She returned the phone call within seconds.  She was out of breath.

A beat later I asked, “First of all, are you calm?”

“Yes.”

“Are you at peace?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Now, I’m not going to talk.  I’m just going to listen, okay?”

“Okay.”

“I’m not going to give you any advice either.  Frankly, I think you know exactly what you want out of life so my advice is useless, okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.  I’m going to stop talking now. Go ahead.”

“Now?”

“Yeah.  I’m far from the house talking to you on my cell phone.  There’s no one around.  It’s just me.”

My stepdaughter sounded a bit skeptical but said, “Okay.”  There was silence.

I was growing impatient, but I didn’t want to interrupt.  I really did just want to listen without expectations.  That’s what I’ve been learning on my journey.

Then, “Whatchu wanna know?”

I could tell that this wouldn’t be easy.  So I stopped walking before making the turn onto my street.  No distractions.

“Well…what are your plans?” I asked trying to sound upbeat, masking my parental tone.  “Have you got any?”

“Yes.”

“Good!  Let’s hear it.”

“I have so many.  It’s kinda hard to explain.”

“Well, just take your time.  I’m all ears.”

Silence again.  More shuffling.

She sighed.  “Well, okay, so I was thinking that maybe…I could…get like a job, like.  I was thinking more of a part-time.  I can’t fit any more than a part-time into my schedule right now.”

I thought, Schedule.  Right.  Heaven forbid she miss drinking and video games till three in the morning…

“…but I was thinking bartending ’cause the license only costs like, eighty bucks.  And I’m, like, broke so…so what do you think?”

I thought, You are so young.  I said, “That sounds good.”

She continued, “‘Cause y’know, it’s only eighty bucks…”

Normally I’d interject here with a smart comment about how she was going to get the money if she had no job and no prospects.  I refrained and just took a deep breath.  My stepdaughter loaded her answer with maybes and possibly’s.

“I also maybe wanna go and get my license which might take me, like, two months.”

“That all sounds great! Sounds like a good plan.”

She went silent so I continued, “So…tell me what happened with your Dad today.”

This struck a nerve because she suddenly shifted and became amazingly verbose.  “It’s just that he’s so mean to me and he never gives me any encouragement, y’know?!  I bought him this card for his birthday and he didn’t even read it!  Then, he pisses me off and he wouldn’t even read it…so I left!”

I breathed into the phone and let her finish.  “It’s just that he always wants to help me and I don’t want any help because I know what I’m doing.”

“Of course you do.” She sounded annoyed, so I re-assured her.

“I left it on top of the refrigerator.  Make sure he gets it, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Well, that’s kinda it. What do you think?”

I knew from experience that my stepdaughter was looking for approval.  If she had really wanted my opinion, she’d still be living under my roof.

“I think that’s great.  You sound like you really know exactly what you want.  Now, you just have to figure out how to get there.”

“I know.  It’s like I wanna start, y’know? But, I can’t get through the first step.  It’s like when I’m cleaning the hallway…”

I thought, When does she clean the hallway?

“…but if I do it piece by piece, the whole gets done.  You know what I mean? It’s just that Dad…”

I thought, Sure, everyone’s to blame but you.

“And he never appreciates anything I do and doesn’t tell me, ‘Hey, you’re doing great!’ or  gives me any compliments AT ALL, so I just don’t know how to start doing for myself and I’m just like, ’Fine!’ and then I’m not doing anything.”

Truly, my stepdaughter’s intellect has become dizzying.  So, despite my best efforts, I couldn’t linger any longer on the phone call.

“Well?”  my stepdaughter clearly wanted to hear a response to her imaginary conflict.

“Well, what?  I’m just listening, remember?”

She sounded disappointed, “Yeah.”

I didn’t want to leave the conversation open-ended, so I left my stepdaughter a nugget to mull over.

“What interests me throughout me listening to you is just how little credit you give yourself.  Forgive me, but there has never been anything wrong with you.  You are a bright girl that can do anything that she sets her mind to.  It sounds like you have a plan but are unwilling to take the first leap to call it to action.”

Then my stepdaughter said something that compounded her deceit, “I lack confidence.”

I laughed, “Oh honey, if there’s anything that you lack, it is NOT confidence.  You are the most head-strong, stubborn girl I’ve ever met!”

She laughed.

I continued, “Will you do something for me?”

“Yeah…what?”

“When you are home alone, I want you to find a quiet place.  Then, I want you to think seriously about something.”

“What?”

“I want you to envision a world where everyone was praised for everything they ever did.”

“It’s just that Dad never believes in me.”

I corrected, “That’s where you’re wrong!  Do you remember when you graduated high school?  I don’t think anyone could imagine a happier dad.”

“Yeah…”

“–And when you said you were studying to be a phlebotomist…he was so proud.  Your Dad has always been your biggest cheerleader so long as you were trying to succeed.  But now, you aren’t trying anything.”

“It’s just that I want him to say that he’s proud of me.”

“But, what can he be proud of?  What have you accomplished lately?  Why didn’t you show up to the job interviews that your dad setup?”

“I just want to do it on my own!”

“But if you wanted to, then why haven’t you? Why are you so frightened of trying?  Do you think you’ll fail?  I hate to break it to you…but you will and that’s okay.  Think if the world were full of people who got it right the first time, then it’d be a pretty boring world…wouldn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“Just imagine a world where everybody was always praised and always got it right.  What would advice be?  What would we aspire to?  What would there be to accomplish or conquer?  It’s a parent’s job to alert you of your flaws or ways that you could improve on something. Just imagine what life would be if we always got constant praise. Okay?”

“Okay.  Hey, listen; I gotta go.”

“Okay.  Talk to you soon.”

Click. Dial tone.

I secretly hoped that this phone conversation would be the one that ended our quasi-frienemy relationship.  I prayed that this single phone call would bridge the divide that we had created more than six years ago.  I hoped beyond hope that my stepdaughter was being sincere.  But, my feelings toward her remained the same and deep-down inside, I’ve stopped carrying that candle.  I thought that she would be my pseudo-daughter.  I wanted us to be close, but I knew that she really never wanted that.  In truth, my stepdaughter has always known my weaknesses and played on them out of convenience.  Despite my best efforts, I’ve let go of the fantasy that we would be like mother and daughter.  That crap only happens in the movies.  I’ve learned never to let my guard down and that not everyone has the best intentions.  I’ve also learned never to be taken advantage of again.  So I’d buy my stepdaughter a slice of pizza, but I won’t write her a check.  When I feel generous and giving, I do it with my eyes open knowing that I’m getting fleeced.  The sad part is that she may feel as though she’s really getting one over on me, poor thing.  If she does, well that feeling won’t be washed away in a phone call.

The fact is that I was not born yesterday,  my dear.  And neither were you.

The funny thing that I’d noticed was that no one was respecting any of the bride’s wishes.  It was her day, but she was involved in virtually all of the planning (together with her sister, Fifi) and had made her own invitations, taken her own pictures, paid for the gazebo-like location, gotten her own DJ, and arranged for her own buffet.  There was nothing that she wasn’t directly getting involved in for the event.  It seemed fitting then, to take her out to do what she had wanted to do in the first place: have a spa day.  It was the least we could do to make sure she had a peaceful entrance into her venue.

The Goddess Diana

The reason I chose this title is because the annual Italian celebration for the Goddess Diana takes place on the day that my niece held her wedding: August 13th.  It had to be fate.

That day, FloraV and I had made the decision to make the day as worry-free for the bride as possible.  This made it our job to find a relaxing spa with no reservations or knowledge of the surrounding area.  The search was quick and there were a bunch of positive reviews for a place run by a woman named, Diana.  I saw two things that caught my attention: an open space and buddha figurine.  That was all I needed.

Together with our handy-dandy handheld GPS device and our walking feet, we found the place (which was no small feat).  Tucked away in a lot that appeared to be deserted, we found our way to Diana’s Esthetic Spa.  It was white.  It was clean.  It was bright and airy.  I wondered if it would be expensive.

Diana was an Asian woman of slight build, reminiscent of Yoko Ono.  She kindly greeted us with a smile and in a quiet, relaxed voice asked what we wanted.  I told her that my niece was looking to have a spa day; Diana politely began to scold us for not making a reservation.  “I take no less than two to four hours on my clients,” she said.  I swallowed.  Hard.

“I apologize,” I said, pointing to my niece. “You see, she is getting married tomorrow and I just wanted to treat her to a nice, relaxing day.”

Diana looked deeply at us, measuring our aura–no doubt–only to make her final assessment.  “I was planning on going home to have my dinner, but…how could I deny a bride?”  Then, very calmly she grabbed her tupperware dinner and placed it in an ice-box far from our view.  When she returned she asked, ”Now, what will she like done?”

Esthetically Perfect

Most people would probably be bored sitting in a waiting room with nothing to do.  This was the exact opposite to my experience.  My sister and I were completely relaxed as we meditated to the sounds of ambient music playing on an overhead speaker.  It reminded me vaguely of a room in the hospital when Carlos was getting brain surgery–it was a place intended to soothe what could potentially be raw, strong emotions.  All around us were reminders to maintain a sense of calm and quiet: a cute little sign read, “Shh!” and a posted notice told us to ‘respect the peaceful atmosphere by keeping our talking to low tones and whispers’.  It was delicious.  Everything in Diana’s spa is clean: from the white couch we sat on to the Kohler faucets.  It encouraged peace and serenity.  We even chatted a bit with her masseuse while she ”cleaned up” the already pristine space.  It was lovely.

An hour and a half later, my niece emerged from the cubicle she’d been in.  Her skin was glowing for the first time.  She beamed, “Diana ended up giving me a full facial and she’s AMAZING, you guys…”

What I couldn’t get over was how much of a difference Diana had made to my niece’s skin in so short a time.  Not only did Barbara look incredible, but it was the first time that she was genuinely smiling during this trip.

Don’t believe me? See for yourself:

Then Diana continued to work on my niece by providing a manicure / pedicure.  Barbara’s celebratory plan: a non-traditional Jamaican wedding.  This would be best expressed in vibrant colors indigenous to the island.  Diana smiled and said, “Well, normally bride’s go for more muted colors. But for some reason, I had bought this…” She proceeded to extract a small bottle of shiny, bright golden orange, which looked like Indian saris I’ve seen worn, from off a tucked-away shelf.  This turned out to be the best color, complementing my niece’s gown perfectly.  Then, out of nowhere, two prisms appeared (reflected from off of Diana’s storefront window).  If you told me that day would turn out that perfect, I wouldn’t have believed it.  Tell me that wasn’t picturesque…

Sometimes You’re the Bride, Sometimes You’re The Windshield

If I could have anticipated what was to come, I would have gotten full coverage on the rental car.  But hindsight is always 20/20.

Barbara had successfully averted the myriad potholes that surrounded the spa as my sister brought the rental car around.  Barbara got in and commented on a few messages that were left on her cell phone.  I thought nothing of them, knowing that Barbara’s mother was caring for her grandchild, Anna Banana. I figured the calls were probably status updates…boy, how wrong I was.

The next few minutes were harrowing.  It involved tag-teaming of the worst type I’d ever seen.  The main gyst was that the whole event was being threatened by the same family members which were encouraging Barbara to hold the event.  Because she was (gasp!) enjoying herself, her family needed to find a way to manipulate the situation to their favor out of jealousy. It was the wild card the family members pulled to ruin her day.  Recognizing Barbara and thus knowing her reaction, the series of combative and threatening phone calls also succeeded in relinquishing their responsibilities on the eve of the big day.  When pressed, they could cite, instigate and blame Barbara for something she had no control over and that they started.  Barbara ignored our efforts to keep her calm and relaxed; she became increasingly agitated by the phone exchanges.  Then, the inevitable happened: Barbara threw her cell phone.  That was all she wrote.

It Does Get Better

Just like that YouTube video campaign, the fire-breathing Bridezilla moment did manage to open some much needed dialogue.  My hope is that the bride will always remember that event for two reasons: 1) To learn that no one can take away your peace, unless you let them. 2) Violence and anger only make matters worse.  When the dust had settled, only the bride was affected.  Neither her brutal, uncaring mother nor her jealous, self-absorbed sister cared about what they were doing at the time.  They also seemed unphased the next day as they went about their business as if nothing had happened.  That’s selective memory for you. Most of the threats from the day before proved to be empty. The rice still made it to the venue.  Fifi helped layout the decor, table dressings, and food.   Anna Banana arrived clean and well-dressed to see her mother on her wedding day.  So who was the fight really for?  Who was aggravated?  Who did it satisfy if not the twisted egos of the family members who helped force this event in the first place?

The event went off without a hitch…until the peanut gallery arrived.  But I danced, I barbecued, the bride sang, and the overall party was a HUGE success.

And shout out to Tanja, the German mommy extraordinaire.  She was the only person who came to check and see that I was okay doing all the cooking.  Thanks, Tan! (Shout out to her son, Malechai and her awesome parents!)

The funny part is that Barbara has accomplished what eludes most women: a loving husband and child.  Meeting Michael was the best and Anna Banana for all her antics is adorable.  When those two look each other in the eye, something magical transpires.  It is the look that happens only once in a lifetime, pure and true.  It is the example of what loving people should be: happy, kind, generous, accommodating, and forgiving.  I was glad that I could witness it firsthand and play an integral part.  I even learned that I’m not a bad barbecue cook…kudos to me! *Patting myself on back*

Life Is The Lesson; All Set The Example

This trip was a 360-degree learning experience.  For me and my sister, the trip represented our confirmation that our step into adulthood is never complete, but it is an ever-flowing series of lessons that are learned and taught.  We came out of it more confident that good times are made, not had.  We also know that we are the ones that mould and shape the direction that these could take.  Then, by experiencing the agonies and overall success of Barbara’s wedding, we affirmed our love for each other.  If it weren’t for FloraV,  I would have been unable to make this trip possible.  I also would not have had the insight to see the trip from another angle, another point-of-view. She ultimately validated all that I was seeing and hearing and feeling; which was nice.  I just wish that Barbara had this same relationship with her sisters who for the most part appeared to be so self-absorbed that they didn’t really celebrate with the bride.  To me, it appeared as though it could’ve been any other party on any other day to them.  No effort was made to make Barbara feel special.  I hope that Barbara can move forward and lead by example.  She now has a child to raise and can mend those fences through her.

It is difficult, but not impossible.  And my sister and I will always be there to help her through the rough spots.  Love ya, Bar!

P.S. Keep the cell-phone usage to a minimum, huh?

She Lacked…Radiance

I stole the above title from one of my favorite movies, Room With A View when one of the Miss Allens was describing Lucy Honeychurch’s appearance as a bride-to-be.  This was the first thing that my sister, FloraV and I noticed right off the bat.  It was clear to us that the bride, Barbara was overwhelmed.  She walked hunched over as if the whole world were bearing down on her.  She gave us a tired hug.  Her smile was faded and her face appeared drawn.  This was not the look of someone who was about to celebrate a once-in-a-lifetime event.  This was a look of distress and frustration.

She stepped into our hotel room with both her adopted daughter, Anna and her sister, Fifi in tow; she appeared to be lackluster in every possible way.  To cheer her up, both FloraV and I decided to present her with the smaller wedding gifts we had brought conspicuously in our luggage.  She received these much like an exhausted parent would: politely reserved.  There were a few chuckles sprinkled here and there, but mostly she expressed her concern over having the last-minute preparations done in time.  Then she went on to complain that she really didn’t even want to have a large party at all, that this was mostly her family’s idea.  “So what do you want?” I asked.  Her face suddenly lit up.  “I want to go to a spa and just relax and not have to worry about anything.” Light bulb!

Enter Anna Banana, Stage Right

While her mom chatted with us on our AWESOME double-beds, Anna entertained herself by trying on everyone’s “big girl” shoes and flip-flops.  But as two-year-olds are wont to do, she was also clearly actively looking for some mischief.  She found it in the door jamb of the entryway as she gently pinched her finger in it.  Barbara got up and soothed Anna who cried more from fear than any real injury.  “You understand what I’m sayng, Anna.  Stay away from the door,” Barbara said.  But of course, Anna Banana was eager to get back to that malicious, brutal door because…well…she’s a terrible two-year-old and that is her full-time job.  Soon, Anna got bored and turned her attention to the pretty, shiny high-heeled pumps my sister brought for the trip.  What could happen with those, I wonder?!

I’m Not Fat…I’m Big-Boned

What do four big girls and one little one want after a few minutes?  You guessed it: F-O-O-

Oh, I’m hungry…

We decided to keep it local because we didn’t think that Anna Banana would be able to handle a long trip (what with her bruised finger ego and all).  So we drove across the main highway to a little place called, Cracker Barrel.

Cracker Barrel, for franchise enthusiasts everywhere, is a little bit country and a little bit rock and roll.  It has the nostalia feel with its rustic decor (why are you staring at me, Buck’s Head?), antique farm equipment scattered about, and large hearth (which appears to be as useless as antlers on a Florida gator).  And it offers a true country breakfast all day: biscuits and gravy, grits, etc. which always make big girls happy. But, there’s an edge to the eatery which can only come from the Yankees up north.  And, it’s gimmicky: note the rocking chairs on the front porch (which is also a tradition associated with clever marketing techniques).  I could totally see Elvis peeking out the corner, asking for a “hunka-hunka burning” peanut butter and banana sandwich.  Either way, yum.

We chatted and Anna spilled a little glass of something…which again, was no big deal.  But I was impresssed with the way my niece handled it.  She pressed Anna to apologize to the server for the spill.  Then, she joked with the server to hand the mop to Anna so that her daughter could clean up her own mess.  It was parenting genius.

All in all, it was a perfect way to end our evening.  It also helped me find out what the bride really wanted…so I put a pin in it and saved that thought for later.

TO BE CONTINUED…

I traveled with my sister, FloraV who managed to coordinate her vacation time with mine (which was no small feat).  I arranged the flights (with a connection in Charlotte), hotel and rental car with barely a two-week advance but still had no trouble booking it all online.  Although nerve-wracking, the rest of the trip proved pretty seamless.

This Message is For You, Dad

My sister and I had gone on this trip with specific intentions in mind.  Rather than have hurt feelings and messy arrangements which would have put a damper on our time constraints, I lied.  My Dad lives almost five hours away and has his own agenda on family gatherings that involve more than what I could stomach for this “relaxing” vacation.  Besides, I really planned this impromptu trip as a result of my niece’s sudden non-traditional wedding invitation.  I knew that because of her age and her involvement with her extended family, there would be enough potential for high drama antics that I certainly didn’t want to add to.  In addition, my sister just isn’t ready to reconnect on the level that my Dad wants to connect on.  Out of respect for her and my last trip to Florida (which ended badly) I didn’t want to revisit those old bones.

Here’s what we did instead: we went to the beach.  It was our first trip as full-fledged adults with no time constraints, rules, issues, family baggage.  It was just us relying on our wits, handy-dandy little Droid with GPS, and a rental car.  It was so satisfying and for the first time, I felt as though we had finally accomplished something that I had wanted to accomplish all the years of my life: peace.

To explain this appropriately, you have to understand how our family trips always went.  They began with lots and lots of needless packing to make sure that we could cover every scenario known to man.  There were the usual summer items: bathing suits, beach towels, flip-flops, shorts & T-shirts.  But then there were other items: sandwiches, chips, coolers (just in case we got hungry) Panama Jack lotion, straw hats, & Noxema skin cream (just in case we got sunburned), a heat-resistant jacket and makeshift canoe (just in case there was a fire or flood).  Okay, I’m exaggerating about the last two…or AM I?!

Then of course there were the creative ways with which we had to make our escape exit.  My Dad, a policeman, was convinced–perhaps justifiably so–that our neighbors would take advantage of our leave-of-absence and commit all sorts of crimes.  So, my paranoid Dad would require that our family would organize different escape routes exit strategies like taking our luggage piecemeal to the car, parking at unfamiliar locations away from the house, and leaving at ungodly hours to reduce the risk of being noticed.  I don’t know if all of these precautions really helped prevent crimes from occurring in our neighborhood or whether it only served to appease my Dad.  Either way, it was inconvenient and annoying.

Next, were the inevitable arguments that were a family staple.  My parents liked to argue about the directions and the stops along the way.  God forbid either my sister, my mother, or I would have to pee.  My father never scheduled our bodily functions into his driving plans.  Like most men, he was just eager to “get there”, wherever “there” was.  One time, we took a trip to Washington, D.C. only to turn right back around an hour later because it was raining.  My mother attempted to convince him to check us all into a local hotel so that we could see everything in the morning, but my father refused.  All I saw of that trip was the lobby of the Smithsonian.

There were many fights about money.  But these spats were always confusing because they weren’t always about not having enough.  Sometimes, it was about having too much and finding better ways of spending it.  When the arguments reached their crescendo, they ended in blowups like “gimme two of everything you have here” or splitting up camp (based on which parent took off in a huff and left the other with the kids).

As adults, my sister and I were free of all that.  We were the ones getting us where we wanted to go.  And although life is not without its disappointments or worries, we did everything we wanted to do.

Apropos of our first official outing, we managed to go to a private beach that serves as a wildlife preserve for tortoises and manatees.  This suited my sister’s aims: privacy and my aims: getting at one with nature.  The beach was a long, winding drive through the most beautiful exclusive-looking neighborhood filled with sprawling mansions and the occasional Mexican landscaper.  My sister gave me one of those panicky looks as we drove further toward the shore.  She exacerbated her mood with comments like, “I think we don’t belong here.” To which I replied, “What’s the worst they can do?  Turn us away?”

We ended up parking (only $8!) at the last lot to be nearest the beach.  When we arrived, there was no one save for an elderly couple so far down the beach that we could hardly make them out.  After a few minutes, others managed to arrive, but they kept to themselves and were less enthusiastic than my sister and I who couldn’t stop laughing and marvelling at the tortoises, the ambience, the waves, the clean sand, the seashells.  Basically, everything amused us because we felt free.

The ocean was not calm, but we didn’t care. We missed photographing the tortoises, but we didn’t care.  Eli’s hair got extremely witchy, but we didn’t care. It rained some, but we didn’t care.  I burned a little, but we didn’t care.  The only thing that bothered me was our mini-nature walk which resulted in some mosquito bites and were the only negative of the day.  We even built mini-forts in the sand and waged a friendly war (which Eli won, thanks to a battering ram made out of a twig).

The day was perfect and went off without a hitch.  We even managed to retrieve some items: a large leaf from a tropical tree, some seashells.  In keeping with tradition, however, we did manage to retrieve one unnecessary item to pack for our return flight: a golf ball (just in case Tiger Woods asks us out for tee).  Guess some things will never change.

Enter Apathy.  This is what obliterates all the senses when desperation and youthful shortcomings prevail in a life that has not yet begun.  This is what I see when I look at my step-daughter:  all talk, no action.  Not even a bit of action.  Not even an inkling of action.  Not a breath of it in anything that she does.  What’s most disappointing is her lack of interest in anything that doesn’t involve…what exactly?  I don’t know.  She doesn’t know.  All that there is apathy. 

To prove my point, here’s a day in the life of my step-daughter:

Get up at noon.  Maybe.  Brush her teeth.  Maybe.  If she doesn’t today, no worries.  There’s always tomorrow.  She checks her emails, her texts, her online profiles, etc.  She has a very active online life.  She listens to music.  She hums to herself.  She forwards her resume to one place and waits weeks for a response.  If they call, she may call them back.   For the most part though, she expects them to do the calling…and the chasing.  She eats a lot of food…if there is any around.  She walks her boyfriend to work and is there to meet him when he’s done.  She goes with her mom to barbecues and babysits her boyfriend’s kids for extra money a lot.  She watches tv and comments on several webpages, but she rarely does anything out of the ordinary.  Maybe she drinks, maybe she hangs out with friends…but most of the time, she’s at someone else’s home doing a whole lot of nothing.

The saddest part is that she is not alone.  A great many young people her age–in their twenties–find themselves in this same predicament.  They victimize themselves and recite a laundry-list of obstacles that prevent them from succeeding or accomplishing anything.  The world becomes a massive, impenetrable hurdle.  The worst aspect of doing this is that over time, they start to believe their own hype and their hopes and dreams follow accordingly. 

A Typical Conversation With My Step-Daughter Will Go Like This:

Me-”What do you want to do?”

SD-”What do you mean?”

Me-”…with your life?  Have you decided–”

SD-”I KNOW WHAT I WANNA DO!”

Me-”Okay, okay…”

SD-”Something related to the health field.”

Me-”Did you try going online to see if there’s any volunteer services or charity organizations where your expertise is needed?  Maybe you could learn how to do something that you didn’t think you’d like and then…”

SD-”I don’t wanna do that.”

Me-”Okay.  How about trying to get your foot in the door in local hospitals?”

SD-”I did that already!”

Me-”Yeah, but did you look into being a candy-striper or trying to see if your phlebotomy certification can be useful somewhere?”

SD-”I’m not an idiot!  Why does everybody think I’m an idiot!  It’s not what I want to do!”

Me-”I know.  But maybe you can enter through the back-door.  It’s just to get your foot in the door…”

SD-”I’m not you!  I am nothing like you!  Stop trying to tell me what to do…”

Me-”What’s two plus two?”

SD-”What?!”

Me-”What’s two plus two?”

SD-”Four.”

Me-”What’s one plus one plus one plus one?”

SD-”Four.”

Me-”There are many solutions to a problem.  I’m just trying to get you to open up and discover your own solution.”

SD shrugs. 

<End Scene>

But I know that my step-daughter will not amount to anything so long as she’s closed-minded.  She has not made any attempts to learn anything new or introduce herself to any alternate points-of-view.  I want to believe that someday she’ll come out of this but I really don’t think so.  I hope and pray I’m wrong, but I gotta give it up.

Apathetic is Pathetic; but for some people that’s all there is.