A nicer asshole

This morning at work I walked past an office of a woman who is a slob.She is always rushing around and looking crazed.   I looked in and started muttering in my head and then I stopped myself and said instead of judgement, how about curiosity.  Approach her with curiosity.

What a shift in my head.  Talking smack shuts down the ability to experience people as they are.  Gossiping, sniping suck.

I do it reflexively.  Guess I have to get new reflexes.  People are a lot more interesting if you approach them with a question rather than a decree.

Another way of saying that is it is better not to be an asshole.  But come on.  I am an asshole sometimes.  You got your Secret Santas and then you got your Secret Assholes.  I’m one of those.  And it is frequently not a secret. I just pretend that it is.

I’m not perfect.  I would like to be perfect.  I would like to be one of those unassailable flawless bits of human marble.  Rub your hands on me.  No bumps, discolorations, unfinished bits, rough edges.  Frictionless.  Unbelievably smooth.

Oh well, I guess I’m just going to try to be a nicer human being.

Your light

An amazing night with Kate.  Not just the night, the whole fuching (that’s a cross between fucking and ruching, something my seamstress friends would appreciate) last eight months.

Kate and I went to see Wild tonight.  Words that popped out of the script for both Kate and I were sacred, walking to find myself, and when the main character Cheryl Strayed said “she was the love of my life”, meaning her Mom.

Kate has come back.  She is as self-absorbed and talkative as always.  She wants all the attention.  But she is not mean-spirited, she is not a ratbag, she is loving and funny and bright as she has always been.  She embraces herself but she also embraces everyone around her.  She has embraced this whole community.

They all know her (or think they do).  Many of them use her story to define themselves and to try to change and heal and grow.

One man told Kate that he had gone off his meds just like she did, even though he has bipolar disorder, because if she could heal herself, he could too.(Please, do not go off your meds, it’s dangerous.  If you have a chemical imbalance, you need your meds).

Then there are the wonderful women and their families who have been Kate’s guides.  They have all pitched in with common sense and love and attention. With spirituality and intentionality.  They have set boundaries but they have also given freely.  I am without words to express my profound gratitude to the people of this Island who have cheered Kate on, taken her to lunch, nagged her about walking and smoking, accepted her when she was so ill.  They have employed and clothed her (clothed first, then employed).  She is their daughter too.  Bless them all.

Kate is still fragile.  She is like she was when she was young.  She is so sensitive despite her bravado.  Take care Kate.  Take care of your tender self.

But it’s such an individual thing isn’t it?  Healing oneself takes you in to find your own strength. Unfortunately, many folks feel that there is a way mapped out.  But there is no one true way. There is no map. There is your way.

That is what is so difficult.  It is your path—it is sacred.  It can only flow from your center out.  It cannot flow from others to you.

I suppose it is confusing.  Here is this person who has walked her path publicly.  We applaud her.  We rejoice with her.  Her light, her accomplishment shines on all of us, gives us all hope, gives us all the possibility of moving on of healing.  But Kate is not a template.  Kate is one soul, one transcendent, damaged soul.

Why do we insist on reading self-help books?  Because we want to be shown a way–we want to be true believers, we want to join a movement toward enlightenment.

But, your light is yours alone.

Shine it baby.

Do whack-a-do

This is what went down.  Rob called Emily and explained to her that we need to share our Christmas with Kate.  Rob suggested that Em talk to Tess and figure it out.

Em called Tess and said that Dad was pressuring them to spend time with Kate.  Emily called me.  I didn’t pick up.  Rob said I should of because he was sure that there was no problem about Christmas plans.  I said “What planet do you live on?”  He was annoyed and said I always imagine the worse.

Tess called.  She spoke to Rob.  After listening to what Em had told Tess, Rob said she always does this (exaggerate, doesn’t hear what he’s saying, etc.)  Tess asked to speak to me.  She told me that the last time she was here and saw Kate she had three panic attacks, one the night Kate visited and two others when she went home.  She said my body is telling me something and I said it sure is.  Tessa said sure I’ll be able to see Kate for an hour but my body (which is to say, her) rebels and says fuck no.

Rob got on the phone and said then you can see her.  Tess said but I don’t want to.  It’s hard on me.  And Rob said but you can.

I then got angry.Yes Rob and she could chew on glass and probably survive but why would she?  We can do a lot of things but why would we.  Listen to Tess Rob.  She doesn’t want to.  Em doesn’t want to.

You don’t want to hear them.  They don’t want to.

So we will have a separate Christmas again this year.  Christmas Eve with Tess and Ben and Em and Joe, and Christmas Day with Kate.  I will miss them but I will have Jane and Jeff here so that will be fun and make it not seem like a Christmas dirge—Christmas is coming, my goose is getting cooked….lalala.

Today Rob doesn’t feel well and is in bed.

And that’s the way it goes.

And that will have to do.

Possibilities

And they all lived happily ever after.

And they all lived, after.

Happily, they all lived.

Some lived, some didn’t.  Some happily, some not so much.

A different kind of pole dancing

Sometimes I’m so smart and sometimes I’m so stupid.  I am all over the place.  The last couple of days I have been testy.  Testy, not tasty.

Robin asked why and I said I don’t know and he said Christmas and I said Yes.  Fucking Christmas.

I love Christmas for what it represents and I hate Christmas for what it actually is and what it represents in my family.

Now, Aunt Fran says grow up.  Grow up.  It’s just a Holiday that can mean anything.  It is not one thing.  It’s many things.  There are as many iterations of Christmas as there are families who celebrate it.  So what’s your beef.

My beef is Kate or not Kate.  My beef is I want to have a lovely warm loving holiday with no undercurrants.  Or in my family over currents because everything and I mean everything is on the surface.

I want to please everyone and I can’t.

I’m a fucking nutball.  All these years later and all I want is for everyone to be happy but the truth is  I am not happy.

Jesus Christ I’m like one of those self-abusing saints whipping at myself with branches raising those welts.  Mea culpa Mea culpa.  Forgive me.

I did not cause this mess.  I am of the mess, I am not the creator of the mess.  I am not in charge of said mess.  I float in it like one of those plastic bags caught in the gyre.

I want to end the gyre.  I don’t want this to be my lot.  But you know I think back to my Mom and see her knocking her head against the brick wall to make everything perfect.  She had to hold so much shit and sometimes she’d lose it but often she would just soldier on.

Does this mean I am a bad soldier?  No.  I am a reluctant soldier.  I am a tired soldier.  I just want to be.  I was going to write I just want to be left alone.

But of course I don’t.  I want things to go my way and not have to worry over the grownups in my life.

But that’s love isn’t it?

“No, that’s martyrdom” says Aunt Fran.  “That’s just pure nonsense.  You pride yourself on being honest and forthright, but you only make forays into being truthful and then you run behind the woodpile and hide and bemoan your situation.”

“You, my dear, are a scaredy-cat, a wuss,  A pleaser.”  That’s not a bad thing if you didn’t have the heart of a warrior.  You want to please and then you bitch about it.  You want to be truthful and then you don’t want to take the blowback.  You have opposing forces going on, and when this ambivalence takes hold you just dance between the poles.

Keep dancing and you will find your truth.  But it won’t be everyone’s truth.  It will only work for you so don’t expect consensus.

“We must not see any person as an abstraction. Instead, we must see in every person a universe with its own secrets, with its own treasures, with its own sources of anguish, and with some measure of triumph.” ~Elie Wiesel

The bones left buried

You know it’s so funny.  Part of me doesn’t want to write about Kate anymore and yet I am drawn back into it by my own desire to process this trauma.

You might ask why not just let the whole thing scab over and heal?

The answer is, the infection is still there.  It will scab over alright but it will re-erupt elsewhere.  Shit takes a toll, best beloved.

And so the unearthing of things I thought I had forgotten about.

Experience, especially momentous, traumatic experience lies down with our bones.

So, like an old dog, as I remember, I dig up those old bones and reexamine them chew on them a bit, and then bury them again.  Over and over.

Aunt Fran does not like these canine similies.  She says “Don’t blame your old messed up head on me. Bones is bones and memories is memories. You just torturing yourself for the sake of it.”

Well as much as I appreciate Fran’s homely wisdom, I must disagree.  Buried shit comes up again. Best to let it air out.

Late summer just leaning into Fall is a beautiful time on the East coast.  Rob and I, Tess and Emily flew to White Plains to say goodbye to Kate.

It was so beautiful when we arrived at Kennedy Airport.  Bright sunshine as opposed to the grey skies we left on the West coast.

We rented a car and drove to White Plains.  This was like a trip we had taken so often as a family.  But instead of anticipation and excitement, we had Dread in the car.  We were all very nervous but were nursing our anxieties alone.  Four people.  All alone.

I was picking on Rob about where we were staying.  I wanted something in the countryside so we could hike.  Who the fuck was I kidding?  Why did I think we were there?  I must have been round the bend, delusional, to think I could sweeten this pot.

So we checked in.  We ate.  We had a drink.  We went to the Hospital.

The Hospital was built in the late 1800’s.  It is a beautiful place with an elegant winding drive, landscaped grounds, huge old deciduous trees.  It was built as a “rest home” for the the gilded age crazies. (Why am I so dismissive, as if, to be wealthy shields you from any of the pain).  There is an auditorium where inmates put on shows, screened in verandas to take in the air without the insects, long halls, sitting areas with comfortable chairs.  This does not scream hospital.

Then you go upstairs.  You are stopped in a linoleumed anteroom in front of a locked door. You ring the buzzer and wait.  There is a small wired window that I peek through and see a long corridor, chairs and couches on each side, rooms off the corridor and figures walking.  Walking and walking. Sometimes there are other people when we go, sometimes we are alone as we wait.  If there are other people, I smile and say hello and then stand awkwardly waiting for the nurse to come and let us into the unit.

You, Kate, have your own room, a small single bed, signs on the wall that you have made exhorting you to Get Well,Try Harder, StepUp.   I have seen these signs everywhere ever since you became ill.  You are worth it, you are a shining star, but you know you are impervious to these messages.  You only hear the voices in your head that tell you over and over that you must follow the insane directives of anorexia.

We are ushered into a large room and told to wait.  Shortly you are brought to us in a wheelchair.  I see you but I don’t let you resonate within me.  Does that even make sense?  I think it does.  What it means is that I disassociate.  I see you only so far, for to see you completely would ruin me.

You are sitting in the wheelchair keening and rocking.  Your face is bruised and scabbed from having broken your jaw.  You legs and arms like sticks are similarly scabbed and bruised.  Your eyes  are sunken and yet retain some of the cunning of the insane.  You are stretching this hospitals resources.  They have to have someone with you at all times.  If they don’t guard you, you begin walking again, back and forth up and down the corridors.  Jumping jacks, leg lifts, whatever can constitute exercise in these restricted circumstances.

We try to stop you– “No Kate, you cannot walk”, “No Kate, don’t regurgitate your food”, but who are we kidding.  Kate is not listening.  Kate will not follow directions.  Kate will do what Kate will do.

Since you cannot be talked to, I do the only thing that I know to do which is to rub you.  I put cream on your arms and legs.  Tessa arranges to put make-up on you.  But really it’s just horrible.  Decorating a corpse.  Kate is not at home.  Her will is at home.

You would have made a great General, Kate.  You would have made war on others. You would have obliterated the enemy.  It would have been another Crusade. Instead, you made war on yourself.  You obliterated yourself.

We leave after that short visit.  We will come back and visit her doctor’s and the nurses.  We are all brave for one another.  We go back to our Hotel and drink at the bar. I don’t remember what we talked about—did we laugh, did we cry, did we pull apart the visit for clues.  I don’t know.  I just remember we drank.

Next day, same routine, except we meet with your doctors who tell us that you will not be saved.  You are one of the anorexics who will die.  You do not respond to any of the treatments.  One thing that they had considered doing would involve brain surgery to somehow short circuit the OCD part of your behavior.  You refuse to do it.  There are no guarantees.  I hold on to this treatment option for a while thinking, hoping that therein lies the answer, but if you won’t do it there is no point wishing.

We go into Brooklyn at some point, to pick up some of your clothes and to meet your roommate Michele.  The apartment is on a graceless and garbage strewn block in the ghetto.  Michele shows us to this tiny cell where you have slept and starved yourself. (Were you one of the catholic saints I used to read about that scourged themselves in honor of God?)

There are your law books, your millions of pills–SSRI’s, anti-psychotics, anti-anxities, sleep medicines, ensures, diuretics, fibercon bottles.  You have been vainly trying to get your body to bend to your will.  Shit when I tell you, urinate all the fluid out, don’t get bloated, keep losing weight. You are ruthless with yourself Kate and with anyone who dares to love you.

As we leave the apartment, I look across the street.  There is a lady dressed for church all in yellow.  Yellow dress, yellow hat and pumps, black skin—beautiful.  A bright spot on a grey day.  Resurrection.  Rebirth.

Praise the Lord!

We return to the unit with your stuff.  At some point, I take a walk on the grounds.  There are small cottages dotted around–some for arts and crafts, some were built in the Hospital’s heydey for private patients who could afford to be protected from the insane riffraff.  Wealth really does make a difference doesn’t it?  It makes everything look so much more tasteful.

You continue to be uncooperative.  They cannot tie you in your wheelchair so they will attempt to chemically restrain you.  This will turn you into a weeping sodden blob of a thing.  But it is as if you have an insane imp inside that will not be medicated, not be put down, not be restrained.  The UberImp.  Fuck you it yells, throw what you can at me and I will still rise again.

On the day we leave you we are hopeless.  We are exhausted by our own sense of impotence.  You will not get well because we love you, you will not get well because you will lose us.  We have nothing to do with your recovery.  And so, with nothing to add to the equation, we each go off to our separate lives, grieving, furious, half insane ourselves.

Let those chips fall…

Well, this is amazing. I spent a few hours with Kate today and really enjoyed her.  She’s making a lot more sense.  She is funny and sensible.  I explained the Christmas deal, that Em and Tess don’t want to see her so that I was giving her the choice:  Did she want to spend Christmas Eve or Christmas Day with us.  She’s thinking about it.  I think she wants Christmas Day which means she will spend Christmas morning with us and then leave for a long walk.  That’s okay.

You know it’s all okay.  Em and Tess will deal with this as they will.  They just need to be forewarned.

Kate finally said that she can’t believe what she has put us all through. I can’t believe what she has put us all  through.

When we went to say goodbye to her in New York she was sitting in a wheelchair, forbidden to walk, covered with sores, her jaw wired shut, her hair mostly gone, insane.  She ruminated.  Over and over she would chew her food and then swallow and then regurgitate and then chew and then swallow.  Over and over again.  We all watched her.  We all were horrified and yet tried, and I mean really tried to be comforting.  We rubbed cream on her legs like broken branches.  Tessa tried to put on makeup.  Each of us in our way tried to gild the lily.

But the lily wasn’t having it.  The lily was angry, the lily was frustrated, the lily was insane.

Let her go was the message from all the health providers.  Let her go.  She will not survive.

As we left, this mental hospital that was built in the late nineteenth century, a brick building with old wooden windows with bars, we heard “Mama, mama, mama”.  I walked away.  We left.

Now, I don’t really know how Emily felt, and I don’t really know how Tessa and Robin felt.  I only know what I felt.

I felt glad that I could walk away. I had ashes in my mouth, but I was glad that I could leave.

Then Kate came home and put us through our paces.

I let her go again after she was kicked out of  Hospice.  I dropped the rope and ended the struggle.  I said to Kate “as you wish”.

And goddamn it, she started getting better. She began to heal.  She is healing.

I  told Kate—no–I am not ready.  You will have to wait—I am not ready. I may never be ready. You have to cede to me. But, gradually, I am starting to trust her recovery.

The girls are not ready.  They may never be ready.  I keep reiterating—Kate you will just have to wait.  It is now not in your hands.

It’s not in my hands or Robin’s hands either. Rob and I have to say what is right for us and let the chips fall–you know–where they may.