The Universe Made Me Do It

Have you ever felt pushed, no prodded--no FORCED--wait, no, (double caps if they existed; wait, is double-caps just a bigger font?) COMPELLED! YES! THAT's THE RIGHT WORD!-- to do something that you don't want to do, and will bring you perhaps an undisclosed amount of mental anguish and also, no one is actually forcing you to do it but yet here you are doing it anyway at your own peril?

Rhetorical question. Because really, when I ask it, not only am I not expecting you to answer it. I'm not even expecting you to understand the question. That's not a reflection on your intellect. It's a revelation of my crazy.

I am going to end up writing a metric ton (that is officially 1000kg, which I believe is also the equivalent of a shit-ton) about my medical adventures. I have tried so hard not to write about it. So very, very hard.

There is a lot to say. There are quite a few people you should know about. There are miracles happening that will blow your mind. None of which I want to write about. Not really. But I think I have to. The universe is conspiring to COMPEL me tell the story. The stories.

I will try. I don't really know how it will come out. It may not sound like me, but I'm going to force it out anyway because again, it feels like for some reason the universe thinks it's important.

Here's my dilemma, why this particular subject is so difficult (beyond the obvious idea that writing about it kind of has me re-living some crap that is, well, crappy). Normally, it's cathartic for me to release words from my brain onto the page and create the exact picture, the exact emotion, the exact thought that I'm trying to convey. For me, writing is full of colors and shapes and feelings and images and impressions that swirl together perfectly.

Here's the crazy. (Again, no worries if you don't understand this part. I'd be worried about your mental state if you do understand it.) Writing about my... I don't even want to write the word, honestly... it's not a color or shape or feeling or image or impression that I can identify. That word, that awful C word... I don't know what color it is. At first I thought gray. But no, it's not. And surprisingly it's not brown. Or black. And until I can identify what color it is, I can't fit it into my picture properly. The words are pieces that, as they fall onto the page, have to fit together perfectly to recreate the picture in my head. If just one piece doesn't interlock exactly right, the picture, for me, is distorted. And currently, the words in my head relating to telling the stories of this experience are a jumble. I can't see the shapes. I can't get a clear impression of the feelings I want to convey.

But I'm going to give it a go anyway. There are tales to be told.

So buckle up and prepare for some disjointed, but necessary, storytelling. Get ready for some puzzles with a few pieces missing (perhaps the most apt metaphor for my brain right now).

The Universe is making me do it.

The Rhubarb Dilemma

I find myself often at metaphorical crossroads (who, amongst us, has actually found themselves, ever, at literal crossroads, truly stumped by which direction to go? Anyone? Bueller? Didn't think so. I think the word "crossroads" at this point is understood to be a metaphor, but it sounds so much more ponderous when you say metaphorical crossroads, so there we are. Jesus. Sorry about that. Let's all surface now from my literary deep dive and I promise to try not to do that again).

Crossroads. Hard decision with potentially far-reaching consequences depending upon which direction you choose. Okay. Back on topic.

So my dilemma is this, and I have a feeling it's one that parents have all the time as their kids transition into adulthood: when is it okay to offer unsolicited (a) advice or (2) opinion or (thirdly) information for consideration?

The thing is, I know my kids are adults. They are 24 and 22 years old. That definitely puts them wildly out of the "child" range (wherein it is my duty to advise) and well beyond the "teens" category (wherein I still get to advise because... teens). They are solidly in the adult camp. Do I still have a say? If I have useful information or experience, do I pass it along?

I sometimes paralyze myself with this question. Will disaster strike if I don't pass along my knowledge and wisdom? Will my kids resent me (and by resent me I mean mock me when they get together or chat on the phone) if I do send them unrequested guidance?

My byzantine thought process goes a little something like this:

I hear a piece of information, for instance that vaping is on the rise and causing serious illness in young adults. My kids are young adults. This seems like important information, pertinent specifically to their demographic. But maybe they already know it. They're smart. They're informed. So if I mention it, I don't want them to think that I think they're not informed. Or that I disapprove of their potential habits. But if I don't mention it, what if they vape and become ill? That would kind of feel like my fault, because maybe if I had sent the information they wouldn't have tried it.

You see, I am sure, my dilemma (and also how batshit crazy it can be inside my head).
This whole perplexity (yes, that is a word) has its roots in a situation that occurred years ago, when Olivia was in third grade. There was a spelling bee at school, and she had advanced past the classroom round and into the final competition. She was excited, and wanted to prepare, so I would give her random words to spell. As we were driving home from the beach one afternoon, we passed a field of rhubarb. I thought to myself, That would be a great spelling word because it's kind of tricky! But I didn't give it to her, because we were just having a nice, relaxing drive and I didn't want her to feel like she always had to be practicing, that she had to win. And goddammit, what word did she miss in the spelling bee? Fucking rhubarb.

She was so sad that day. It broke my heart. And I felt partly responsible for her sadness. I could have prevented it if I had just given her the word on the drive home. (side note: I don't think Olivia has suffered any trauma from this incident; just me--I'm the traumatized party)

And thus, the rhubarb dilemma. When does a parent insert oneself? When is it proactive vs. pushy? When is it informative vs. intrusive?

I fully realize that this is all not nearly as complex as perhaps I imagine. I am an adult. The kids are adults (ha--that makes no sense!). I suppose that in a sane world, I would pass along information that I think might be useful knowing full well that the kids can consider it--or not; they can acknowledge it--or not; they can ignore it--or not. And my contentment would have to lie quietly in the space that we have given them the proper tools with which to evaluate whether or not the information is useful to them.

And also, I guess I just have to resign myself to the fact that when I send them an article on, say, how to be sure their Uber ride is a safe one (that is REALLY important information! I can't be expected to sit on it, can I?), they are probably going to have a great conversation hysterically laughing at the fact that their MOTHER is trying to tell THEM how to best take an Uber. (And by the way, kids, remember to ALWAYS ask the Uber driver if he knows your name so you don't mistakenly get into the wrong car. Just sayin'.)

You're welcome.

Everyone Has a Story

There used to be this segment on the national news that our family enjoyed. It was called "Everyone Has a Story" and the storyteller was a journalist named Steve Hartman.

It was human interest kind of stuff, but we loved it. The story would open with Steve throwing a dart at a map of the US, and then whatever town the dart landed on, he would go to that town and get a phone book and then pick a random name from the phone book. And off he would go, to meet that person and find out their story.

It doesn't seem like it would work, as a piece on a newscast or even as entertainment.

I mean, the first thing you think when you see him knocking on the door of an unknown person is, "Well, what if he knocked on MY door? I don't have a story. People would be so bored. There's nothing to tell. How can this even work when he doesn't know who's behind the door and if they are going to have anything interesting to say?"

It turns out Steve Hartman was right, though. Everyone Has a Story. Not once did he knock on a door and get faced with a dud. Not once. And I'm going to give Steve Hartman his due credit and say he was (is) a fantastic journalist. The guy knew what to ask and how to follow up to get good stories from people.

I got to thinking about this because last week I gave a statement in a courtroom at a sentencing hearing. The courtroom was filled with people, most of whom had nothing to do with the case for which I was there. There were defendants in orange jumpsuits waiting their turn to enter a plea with the judge. There were lawyers walking in and out counseling clients as to the status of their cases. There were family members there to support their relatives, friends to support their friends. It was a room filled with the spectrum of humanity, from victims to perpetrators and everyone caught in between.

I was there to tell my story. Which had nothing to do with most of the people in that room. Yet they all had to listen to it.

Afterwards, when I sat down, the woman sitting to my left, whom I did not know and had no idea why she was in that courtroom that day, turned to me and said, "You did great. I'm so sorry. I wish you all the best."

And then as Dave and I were walking to our car in the parking lot, a woman stopped her car and yelled out to me, "Excuse me!" and when I turned around to respond she said, "God bless you."

And I just wanted to cry. Not because I was sad. Kind of the opposite. These two people, who I do not know and will probably never see again, took a moment to let me know they heard my story. They stopped doing what they were doing to be kind to me, someone they did not know.

Because they heard me.

We don't live in a world right now that encourages us to take the time to ask people what their story is. We live in the era of snap judgements (Twitter likes) and assumptions (what channel you watch is who you are). Imagine if we took the time to ask people who they are, and then actually listened to them. And maybe shared some of who we are. We might find commonality, altruism, compassion in the unlikeliest of people.

Details. Facts. Background. Nuance. Those things take time and effort to find out. We should spend that time making that effort.

It's not likely that Steve Hartman is going to come knocking on my door. But if he does, I have a story. And I'd like to hear his.

keep going, Sideways Runner Guy

Dave and I moved to Elk Grove in 1991. It was a decidedly much smaller place back then. You could drive down the length of Laguna Boulevard in under 5 minutes (it now takes about twelve). There were 2 high schools (there are now nine). The population was significantly less--like by a hundred thousand! There was no Target, no Walmart. It was challenging to find a gas station.

I bring all of this up because through all the changes, sideways runner guy was a constant.

I first noticed him at least twenty years ago. I would see him running west on Laguna Boulevard, on the windy path that allowed people to bike, walk, roller-skate and run the length of the busy street without being on the road with cars. I'm a runner, and when I see other runners I notice. I estimate their pace, look to see if they're wearing a watch, observe their form--that kind of thing.

Sideways runner guy captured my attention, and then my imagination. I would see him every so often, usually in the evening, at various points on Laguna Boulevard. He was easy to spot because he ran tilted to his right. For lack of a better way of describing it (and I mean absolutely no disrespect with this description but I think it's one that makes the situation easier to visualize), he's sort of the Leaning Tower of Pisa, running tilted to his right.

For a while I didn't realize what was going on and I thought to myself, "That guy is wasting a lot of energy with that form."

But as I saw him again and again, always tilted to his right, I realized that he wasn't wasting energy at all. He was, in fact, running the only way he could. I don't know what happened, but clearly he and his body had undergone some sort of trauma, possibly a stroke. That realization changed the way I saw sideways runner guy. I no longer wanted to analyze his form, didn't care about his pace, and forgot to even look if he wore a watch. All I wanted to do was cheer him on.

You know how sometimes in life you see something again and again, always the same way, and then all of a sudden, for whatever reason, your perspective shifts, and you see that same thing completely differently? Sideways Runner Guy shifted my perspective on who I want to be. He shifted my perspective on me.

I want to be a person who appreciates people trying, not a person who notices their shortcomings.

I want to be a person who respects people's originality, not a person who criticizes their differences.

I don't know why Sideways Runner Guy runs sideways. But I do know that I want to be a person who simply appreciates that he runs.

In Favor of Cocktails

I made margaritas yesterday evening. And by evening I mean 4:59pm.

It took me a long time to come to margaritas. And tequila in general. I never drank it in college--didn't like the taste (as if that mattered--but it did, to me, at the time). I didn't like it in early adulthood. Just not a flavor that appealed to me for whatever reason.

But in my fifties--for whatever reason--tequila appeals. It tastes good. Not in shots. Really, let's be honest. Nothing tastes good in shots. Can we all just admit that now, as adults? Vodka has no taste. Whisky is nasty and no one likes the smell (and we all threw up on 7 and 7's in college--you know you did! Admit it!). Rum is just...rum. What's the point of rum? I mean, if you just want to get drop dead drunk fast, I guess shots might be your game. But that's never my goal (anymore). Now, a nice buzz, built up over an hour or two--yeah, that's a can-do.

So margaritas. Yes, please.

Yesterday, I made my own simple syrup (truly, simple--equal sugar to water ratio heated until sugar dissolves and then cooled) and squeezed fresh lime juice instead of using "sweet and sour" mix. No triple sec, either. Just lime juice, simple syrup, ice and tequila. Freakin' delicious. And I forgot to salt the rims of our glasses. Imagine how great these drinks would have been if I had actually followed ALL of the directions!?

And while we're on the topic, is there anything more refreshing on a warm evening (except, I guess, now that I've discovered it, a margarita on the rocks) than a gin and tonic? No. No there is not. That is the correct answer.

Okay, a good IPA. That might be an acceptable alternative answer.

But there's just something fun about making a cocktail. The glasses. The ingredients. The ratios. The mixing. The twist of lemon and the squeeze of lime.

And maybe a friend or two (or ten) to share your delicious alcoholic bounty.

Bring it, summer. My cocktail shaker is ready.

Ok, I meant that literally. I have a cocktail shaker. I'm ready to make cocktails. There was no double-entendre intended with that. Sorry.

Flying with Bonnie and Clyde

Let me begin by saying, genuinely, kudos to you, TSA agents. You have a very difficult job. I wouldn't want to be you. Seriously--fantastic work.

Let me introduce you to my in-laws, Dick and Jan. Here they are!

On the left is Richard. He's 84. On the right is Jan. She's 81. These two gamers recently accompanied me and Dave down to Los Angeles to watch Olivia walk the stage at her college graduation and celebrate her achievements. This was no small feat! It took some planning and some "out of your comfort zone" and some determination on the part of Dick and Jan. My in-laws, who don't travel often, came through in spades! Olivia was so excited to have all of her grandparents present for the occasion.

Let me give you (literally) a better picture of what was going on:

Okay there we go. There's beautiful Olivia in her cap and gown and stole, with her grandparents, Bonnie and Clyde.

I'll back up and explain. Dave, myself, Dick and Jan flew to LA. Which obviously means we went through security at the airports. Dave and I made it through just fine, thank you. No hiccups. No delays. Wham, bam, thank you folks. My nail file didn't spark anyone's interest at all.

Dick and Jan were another story. These two octogenarians set off all possible security apparatuses (yes, I checked--it's apparatuses, not apparati). I'm not kidding. The walk-through thingy beeped. The wand made that weird Star Trek-y sound. You would have thought they were suspects on the run from a bank robbery! Bags were checked! Cavities were searched!

Ok, well, that was just slight hyperbole. Cavities were not searched. But TSA hands did a VERY, and I mean VERY all in caps, thorough sweep of every inch of my poor father-in-law, who was nothing but patient and compliant. I don't think I would have been so patient and compliant (that's just me mouthing off for effect--I absolutely would have done whatever I was told to do).

Not only did they quite literally hand sweep every inch of him, they also made him lift himself up out of the chair so they could sweep the seat and his back pants pockets, and then they swabbed the entire wheelchair with one of those little pieces of bomb-maker-detector or whatever that is. Seriously--what is that? They never tell you while they're doing it. They just leave you wondering what it is they're swabbing for. What would happen if you just jokingly told them, as you were being swabbed, that you dabble in firecrackers? I mean, don't do that. You'd probably get in a lot of trouble. I'm betting cavity search.

So let's review. Dick (this menacing looking guy below, who was in a wheelchair) gets a solid ten minute head-to-toe search.

But it doesn't end there! Jan, the clearly-on-the-edge-of-committing-a-crime woman shown here

also gets pulled aside because her two fake knees set off all the bells and whistles! And in a little bit of poetic irony, the belt that Jan had taken off and put in her bag to go through the x-ray machine (because the sign said take off your belt and my mother-in-law is a rule follower damn it!) for some reason looked suspicious to the TSA officer so her bag was searched as well.

It's hard to imagine two less-suspicious individuals. They were troopers!

Again, I repeat, kudos to you TSA officers. If these two ne-er-do-wells had been packing, you definitely would have figured out where.

I know that's your job. I appreciate that you do it so well.

My mother and father-in-law in their younger years :)

Things I Kinda Miss

I don't dwell on this shit because it wouldn't accomplish anything. I get that. But here it is. Just to get it out. Does a whale feel better after letting everything out its blowhole? We can't ask whales that, but since they regularly do exactly that, I'm going with the notion that it provides them some relief.

OK, just for ducks I just looked up the whole whale/blowhole thing, and it turns out that's part of their breathing apparatus. So, YES! In fact, breathing DOES provide relief, right? I mean, if we held our breath for a long time we'd get uncomfortable, and then actually breathing would feel great, so I'm right on the money, apparently, with my whale "relief" theorem. And also, I just correctly used the word theorem so even though this post started out like it was gonna be a downer, things are looking up!

You know those words bank pictures that are so popular right now, with words people use the most being the largest? Here's a visual in case that wasn't the most clearly stated idea you've heard in weeks...

Picture the following list of things I miss as a mind word bank (not stuff I talk out loud about--just stuff that sits in my brain), but in the shape of a whale's spout! Now that I've actually imagined that little idea I can see that I'm clearly making myself the whale in this whole analogy. Who does that? Who makes herself a whale in her own cleverly concocted metaphor? Me, apparently. But whales are cool, so let's just keep going here. 

Things I miss: the thickness of my hair, the definition in my left knee, the ability to run normally, drinking soda for breakfast, event planning, yoga without a strap, walking down the stairs quickly, walking up the stairs quickly, not knowing my medical number by heart, being able to squat down, being able to get back up, my ponytail, above-the-knee dresses, my body looking athletic, my mind feeling like I'm athletic, not realizing the ubiquitousness of the word cancer on TV, doing a chaturanga smoothly, and my eyebrows. I really miss my eyebrows. 

Ok, I have spouted and I am once again breathing normally. 

I will work on my metaphors.