Don't Poke the Bear

One of the saddest things in life is the loss of our mothers. Sometimes, we lose them at a young age. Sometimes, when they are very old. But if things go according to plan, we lose them at some point in our lives. 

My mother is 81 years old but I lost her a long, long time ago. It makes me sad almost every day. All my friends have lost their mothers to illness, age, or accidents. I lost my mother to trauma, abuse, and insanity. The kicker is that she's still alive, living alone, 55 miles from my house. Yet, she is totally out of reach. 

Most people can’t understand why I’m not in any real contact with my mother.  Some people believe there is no reason to sever ties.  As a mother, I understand that feeling.  Unfortunately, I feel I have no other choice.  That decision is reaffirmed whenever I stray too far outside of the bounds I have to hold.

My mother had some great characteristics when I was younger.  She always brought things for my brother and I to do when we were away from home.  We always had paper, crayons, pencils, and scissors.  My mother thought it was absurd to have children in restaurants or at other people’s houses with nothing to do.  To her, it was so easy to make sure we had something to occupy us.

We also had free range when it came to scotch tape.  My brother was very inquisitive and took a lot of things apart.  Sometimes, his ability to take something apart was greater than his ability to put them together.  Tape was always his go to for putting things back together.  His belief in the fix it powers of tape could be quite amusing.  Note to self, broken tinker toys cannot be repaired with tape no matter how much is used.

My mother also taught me how to play.  I remember going down to the marina in Des Moines at night.  We walked and made up stories about the boats or the people in them.  I would hum the Pink Panther theme and dart from street light to street light.  We would laugh.

One time, my mother and I were in downtown Seattle riding the monorail.  We saw this stunning woman.  For some reason, I thought she looked Russian.  We pretended she was a Russian spy.  Then, we pretended she shot me with a poison dart, and she was the only one with the antidote.  We jumped off at the monorail station and waited for her to get off.

I was so into the game when I saw her I yelled, “There she is!”  And pointed.  That poor woman.  My mother said, “Oh, what a great spy you are.  Now, everyone knows, and we're dead.”  Unfortunately, we followed the woman into the department store.  She got on the escalator going up and up.  We kept following until it became really clear we were freaking out the woman, and we finally broke off the chase.  (To that woman, wherever you are, please accept my apology.)

In fourth grade, my mother came to school dressed as Mary Poppins.  My mother was an accomplished seamstress and looked so cool.  I was so proud.  One time, she came to school dressed up with a straw hat, with holey jeans, and a plaid shirt.  We both recited funny poems in front of the class.

There was another side of my mother, though.  As things with my father’s drinking became more and more serious, my mother became a very sad person.  My father stopped coming home after work and would go to the taverns.  My mother would wait up for him, crying, and bereft.  I would wait up with her acting as her counselor, confidant, and coach.  I tried to emotionally support her anyway I knew how.  At that point, I stopped being a kid and started filling an emotional and physical void in my mom.  We started sharing the same bed.  She would spoon me.  Enough said.

It was a terrible time.  There were other more terrible things.  But, this is about the disappearance of my mother.  It started when I was 10 or 11.  By 12, my own mental health issues began making themselves abundantly clear.  I became self destructive and suicidal.  At 14, I could not imagine how I could make it another four years until I could leave home.  That year, I ran away and did not come back.

That night, I called the police station from a phone booth and asked them to take me to the youth center.  Instead, they picked me up and took me to the police station.  I wouldn’t tell them who I was.  I asked them to take me to the youth center, but they refused.  I wouldn’t tell them my name until I knew where they would take me.  After several hours of interrogation, I finally told them my name and phone number.

The youth officer called my mother to come down and talk.  The officer wanted me to go home that night and come back with my mom the next morning.  My grandparents lived across the alley from the police department.  I could see my grandparents’ bedroom window from where I sat.

The youth officer said, “Your mother said she would come down and would call her parents.  I’m not sure what she meant.”  I told her and the police officer who my grandparents were and where they lived.  I watched their bedroom light come on.

The police officer said, “Your grandpa is Joe Stockdale?”  My grandfather was a well known business owner in Des Moines.  I said yes.

My mother beat my grandparents to the police department.  She came in, obviously quite angry, and did not look at me.  She followed the youth officer into an office.  I talked to the police officer, Sergeant Burger, to try to pass the time.  After a few minutes, we could hear the youth officer and my mother yelling at each other.  Finally, they came out.  My mother walked straight to the door and out without ever looking at me.

The youth officer said, “I don’t know what happened to me.  I’ve never lost it with someone like that before.”  My grandparents arrived and the youth officer made arrangements for me to go home with my grandparents.

At five in the morning, I was settled into a spare bedroom at my grandparents.  I cried and cried and cried until it was time to get up and go to school at seven.  I lost my mother that night.  I never lived with her again.  She was no longer trustworthy.

In an ironic twist, I was grateful that my mother couldn’t hide her mental disturbance when she met with professionals in my life.  My mother couldn’t pretend to be normal which ended up facilitating my ability to get help.  It was both helpful and immensely sad.

Over the years, spending time with my mother was problematic, but I kept trying.  She married another alcoholic the summer I graduated from high school in 1976.  At that point, she lived in Olympia.  He was a truly unpleasant man.  My mother met him while taking care of his aging mother in their house.  When he asked her to marry him, it was an opportunity she felt she couldn’t turn down.  He was wealthy and owned his family's successful business.  We slept in the same bed the night before the wedding.  She asked me, “Am I doing the right thing?”  What was I to say?  It wasn’t like I could offer her something better.  They got married and started a roller coaster of drinking, traveling, and spending lots of money.

By 1980, she started trying to separate from him.  At that time, I had moved to Olympia.  She would leave him and move in with me with her boxes of stuff saying she was done, done, done.  Then, 24 hours later, she would go back to him and try it again.

For many months, she went through this process over and over.  Moving in with me saying she was done with him and then moving back with him.  I found it very stressful.  This was probably a replay of her separating from my father.  Finally, I told her that she needed to go to the women’s shelter.  She couldn’t keep on moving in on me.  She left and didn’t speak to me for six months.  I decided it was an exchange I could live with.

In 1986, my daughter was on the way.  Knowing I was going to be a parent forced me to start really looking at and dealing with the abuse and trauma of my childhood.  I was in contact with my mother.  In February 1987, my daughter was born.  I wanted to share my daughter with my mother.  I wanted her to get to be a grandmother.

I began to notice my mom’s physical touching of me.  I realized I didn’t like it and it made me feel uncomfortable.  So, I told my mother I wanted her to stop touching me so much.  I said, “You can hug me and kiss me when we see each other.  And, you can hug me and kiss me when we say good-bye.”

My mother said, “What about hair sniffing?”  It’s a thing in my family of putting our nose to the top of our loved one’s hair and taking in the smell.

I responded with a sigh, “Okay.  One hug, one kiss, one hair sniffing when we see each other.  And, one hug, one kiss, and one hair sniffing when we say good-bye.” 

She agreed.  But, I noticed she didn’t stop touching me when she was visiting.  She would sidle up to me and touch me when I was in the kitchen doing dishes or sitting in the living room.  She stepped up to me, hugging me, looking up into my eyes.  She looked at me like I was her lover.  I asked her to comply with my request to stop touching me.  However, she could not control herself.

Because of my childhood, I became worried about her touching my baby daughter.  I realized that if I as an adult could not get my mom to stop touching me, there was no way I could make sure she didn’t inappropriately touch my daughter.  I had to stop contact.  It just wasn’t okay that my wish not to be touched wasn’t respected.

Through the years, my mom and I have tried to reconnect at times.  My mom would send me upsetting letters or cards.  She accused me of manipulating my counselors.  She accused my grandparents of stealing me from her.  She denied that my father abused me.  Once, she invited me to a family therapy session and offered to pay like it was this big magnanimous gesture.  I had been self paying for my therapy for years.  I said no.  I added I was offended at the apparent disregard of my own history of therapy on my own dime.  Our contact was invariably hurtful.  

When I tried to talk to her, within five minutes the conversation would be filled with accusations from her revisionist family history.  My mother could not control her conversation with me.  It was so painful that it wasn’t worth the contact.

For the last ten years, we have settled into cards for each of our birthdays.  Her's in May.  Mine in December.

The last couple years, I have sent her flowers which she has really, really appreciated.  There is not much I can give my mother.  If I initiate more contact outside our birthdays, it results in strange boxes of things coming in the mail that I have no use for.  I call it poking the bear.  I say to myself, “Don’t poke the bear.”  Contact twice a year seems to be our max.

Over the years, I have drafted so many letters to her either in writing or in my head.  I crave to tell her I love her.  I want to tell her the things I appreciated about her.  I have less of a need to tell her what hurts me from my childhood.

I keep a file of her mean or strange communications.  I want to look at it when she is gone so I will remember why I couldn’t maintain contact.  I don’t want to torture myself with, “Why didn’t I try harder?”  I have tried harder many times.  I have learned, though, not to poke the bear.

L’Chaim.

Joceile

1/25/17

Step on a Crack...

I've always had a thing about lines.  No, not the kind you stand in.  Nor, the kind that hang from telephone poles.  It’s what captures my attention.  The lines where a wall meets the ceiling or one type of floor intersects with another type of floor.

I think things should line up.  My shoes should be pointed just so on the floor.  When moved, the TV should be moved exactly back to where it belongs.  For me, most things have a place.  On my desk at work, things are placed carefully.  I can tell in an instant when someone has moved something or been in my space.

I can't stand it when the handle of spoons or forks in bowls or on platters point at me.  In fact, I don't like it when they point at not only me, but also my daughter and my partner.  At a round table with friends and family, I have to just give in.  Everything can't be not pointing at someone.

It can be a bit annoying.  However, my partner has lived with me for so long, and some of my behavior mirrors her father, so that she just doesn't take it personally.

I know this is a touch of OCD for me, also known as, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.  I am lucky in that it appears to be fairly mild and doesn't get in the way of major life activities.  Many people with OCD are not so lucky.

My partner has long since gotten use to my sitting in a chair and then getting up just to move a magazine on the coffee table to be square with the edge of the table.  Don't get me started with magazines on round coffee tables.

When I vacuum the bedroom, I see that my partner's shoes are placed every which way.  I think to myself, "How can she stand to live that way?"  Fortunately, I do not feel the need to straighten her shoes but only my own.  That fact alone has probably saved our marriage.

When I went to live with my grandparents at 14, I wore long, white knee high socks.  I had issues with the pairs of socks being the same height on my legs.  So, I devised a plan to keep them properly paired.  When I got a new pair, I used a black marker to number the foot of the socks.  I had pair “1,” “2,” “3,” etc.  I had an issue with sixes and nines.  I could only use one or the other, because I couldn’t be sure which side was up.  I feel for my poor grandmother who did the laundry.  But, she was patient with me.

When I was 15, my grandparents took me to Florida.  My grandfather was attending a conference.  One afternoon, I was sunning myself on a deck chair by the pool in my bathing suit.  A man walked by, looked at my feet, and said, “You know, they do that to dead people.”  I had no idea what he meant.  He gestured to the bottom of my feet.  I looked at the bottom of my foot and there was a black “3” clearly marked on my foot.  Sweat had transferred the sock number to my foot.  For a 15 year old, that was embarrassing.  

When I was young adult, I had a 1969 Mustang that my grandparents had given me.  I had to leave it parked at a parking lot several blocks from my work.  I was terrified it would get stolen.  I had a hell of a time leaving my car.  "Did I lock it?"  Go back and check, "Yes, it's locked."  I start out again.  "Wait, did I turn off the lights?"  Go back to look.  "Yes, they're off."  Walk away again.  “But, is the dome light off?"  I’d go back and check.  I couldn’t hold onto knowledge that things were all right long enough to leave the car.  This would drive me nuts.

It got so hard to leave the car that I finally just figured out the six things I needed to check before I left the car.  I would count the six things off:  driver side locked, head lights off, dome light off, passenger side locked, car in park, do I have the keys?  It made it much easier to leave the car and more timely to get to work.  Although, I felt like a pilot checking the plane before take off.

For a time, I had trouble with locking the front door of the house.  "Did I remember to lock it?"  Got back and check the lock.  A few more steps, "But, is it really locked?"  Go back and check.  It got so bad that I finally decided that if I checked three times, it must really be locked.  Therefore, I will would not check the lock more than three times.  Fortunately, this was a line I could hold.

It was really problematic when someone broke into my workshop and stole $3000 worth of tools.  I had good homeowners insurance and learned that tools don't depreciate.  But, are things safe?  Were the thieves coming back to my house?  For a bit, I got so worried on some days that I would put a stuffed sleeping bag on the couch and turn on the TV so someone would think I was home sick.  Oh boy, I really didn't want to go too far down that track.

When I'm bored or exceptionally upset, I look at lines on walls, ceilings, or floors.  While waiting in restaurants, I look up at the ceiling and look at the wires, lighting, pipes, crown molding, or anything that's in a straight line.  Somehow, I think it might clue me into something important.  I have no idea what, but it is comforting.

I assume this is somehow related to trauma I experienced as a kid.  While enduring something very upsetting, I distracted myself by looking at lines.  I believe it is something I used in my mind to feel I had control.  I remember doing it in junior high when I reached the height of my early mental health issues.

From when I was a child, I made patterns of sevens with my fingers.  I touch three fingers down and then four.  Or, five fingers down, and then two.  I still do that when I am stressed, but I have learned to be subtle so no one else notices.

We all find something to comfort us in trying times.  Sometimes, that comfort item is reasonable and regular, like getting a hug or holding a teddy bear.  Other times, it turns to something that is irregular or strange to other people.

Fortunately, in my mind, I no longer feel trapped by these things.  Sometimes, I can even let the magazine on the coffee table stay crooked.  But, DON'T point that spoon handle at me! 

Joceile

1/1/17

Can you guess which shoes belong to whom?

Why Would I Reboot?

I have been thinking about what makes a person get through life to a better place.  I think of it as rebooting.

I started my employment with the state of Washington on April 10, 1978.  I made $513 per month as a file clerk for the Department of Labor & Industries.  I had moved to Olympia and been unemployed for three months and was in terrible need of a job.

Previously, I had been a clerk typist with two different private insurance companies.  I didn’t mind being a file clerk.  There were tens of thousands of files for employers in the state of Washington.  Each employer filed a quarterly report, and we file clerks filed them.

Sometimes, we got fabulously behind.  The eternal pull of not enough staff and too much work in government caused us to have mountains of reports needing to be filed.  We would sit at desks pushed together and sort quarterly reports by six to eight inch stacks by their six digit numbers.  We set them out in ten piles by the first digit, picked them up in number order, and laid them out by the second digit, repeating the process until we had gone through all six digits.

It was a time when there was still smoking at the desks.  It was common place and accepted that we engaged in verbal harassment by gender, religion, politics, and whatever else came out of our very bored minds.  None of us knew anything about laws against discrimination.

We knew too much about each other’s personal business.  There was one guy I remember for whom no topic and razzing was out of bounds.  I called him “Rotten Roddy.”  He delighted in poking people in places where they were most vulnerable.  The work we were doing was painfully mind numbing.  We were just trying to get through the day.

One day, I looked at all those files and said to myself, “Well, this isn’t going to keep me out of the mental hospital.”  I tried to think of what my options were.

I put myself on the hiring register for a clerk typist job.  I got hired just a couple units over and was tied to a desk.  I couldn’t play or joke.  It was way too serious for me.  I talked to my old file clerk boss and told her I was really depressed.  She told me I could come back.  So, I decided to voluntarily demote.  I made a lot more money as a clerk typist 3 but hating the job wasn’t worth it to me.  I know I was supposed to hate being a file clerk, but I could get up and move around make jokes and tell stories.

Sometime, in my second year of full time file clerking, I learned about tandem employment.  It was where you shared a job with someone fifty fifty.  I knew filing could be easily accomplished by two people in a week.  I started lobbying my management to allow me to job share so I could go to college.

I set a date to begin in July 1980 so they could hire someone in time for me to start school in September.  In typical management fashion, they put me off by telling me they weren’t sure.  But, I kept coming back with, “When can we start?”  Finally, in July, it was approved, and they recruited for the other half of my job.  When someone was hired, I started making $268 per month now working half time.  

I worked eight hours on Monday and Tuesday and a half day on Wednesday.  I had to learn to live on less money.  I moved from my apartment and in with roommates.  It was a lot less money but working half time was so much easier on my psyche.  I started to believe maybe I could stay out of the mental hospital.

I started at the Evergreen State College in the Re-entry to Education for Women program.  It didn’t work out for me.  I found it to be too great a challenge.  Before the end of the quarter I dropped out.  If I knew then, what I know now, I could have made it work.  But, I had limited knowledge about how to help myself along when I didn’t meet my own expectations.

The new problem was that I didn’t want to tell my employer, because working part time was so much better for me mentally.  I enrolled in a correspondence course in motorcycle mechanics.  I knew I wouldn’t actually be able to be hired as a motorcycle mechanic from a correspondence course.  But, I learned the world of engine mechanics, and I was fascinated.  I had a motorcycle that I loved.  I can't say how many times I took it apart and put it back together sometimes correctly and sometimes incorrectly.

My partner at the time helped me start volunteering for South Sound Advocates.  It was a small non-profit agency that advocated for people with disabilities.  I began learning American Sign Language.

After a year or so, I told my management that I had changed the course of my education.  By then, the tandem situation was working so smoothly that they didn’t feel the need to end it for which I was grateful.

I put myself on the half time clerk typist 3 register.  I would not consider a job unless it was part time.  My mental health was worth more than making the most money, having the best career, or being top dog.  

I told people that getting a little more each pay day did not make up for hating your job every day.  What you do every day is what matters the most.  Maybe you can’t have a new car every three years.  Maybe you won’t be able to get a new stereo.  Maybe you won’t be able to buy a house.  What mattered to me was how I spent my days.

I worked with people who actually said to me, “I only have 17 years until I can retire.”  I was flabbergasted.  

“You are wishing your life away,” I thought.  “How is that a good life plan?”

Of course, if you have children, it changes the equation.  I still think there are options.  If I am mentally ill, it won’t do my children any good.  We might have to live in a multi-family situation.  We might have to do more creative things to have fun.  We won’t be going to Disneyland.  I am willing to make those choices.

After about six months, I got a call for an interview for the Washington State Human Rights Commission that needed a receptionist in the afternoons.  I excitedly went to the interview.

I wasn’t the most stylish dresser.  I knew that might be a problem.  However, I had good skills.  I wanted the job.  At the end of the interview, the manager asked, “Why do you want this job?”

I thought a second.  My response was, “It would be the first time I ever had a job that matched my own personal beliefs about equality and the world I want to live in.”  I could tell by the look on her face that I got the job.

The point is that I looked at what wasn’t working for me, what didn’t seem sustainable for me, and found other options.  There are ways I was lucky and continue to be so.  There are also ways I was willing to adjust my work life to match the needs of my mental health.

I work with people all the time for whom their health is seriously impacting their ability to work full time.  We meet and talk.  I make suggestions to them that there are other options.  I am frequently rebuffed by how no other options will work and yet what they are doing is not working.

Making less money is a pain.  Sometimes, a person might have to get food stamps or change their living situation.  Some folks need to apply for disability benefits.  There may be other options they are not considering.  Of course, it isn’t easy.

I think sometimes our lives are like our computers.  Computers have millions of things going on inside them.  When your computer goes all out of whack and you ask someone what to do, what do they say?  “Reboot.”  It’s always, “Start by rebooting.”

Sometimes, our lives need a reboot.  We need a redo.  We need to stop and assess what is working and what is not.  

I go to counseling every week.  I self pay.  My insurance doesn’t cover the cost.  I can negotiate something reasonable with my counselor.  Not going is not an option.  It is like a utility bill.  I have to allow money for counseling every week, every month, year after year.  It is non-negotiable.

I can’t tell you how many times people tell me that they’d like to go to counseling but they can’t afford it.  Or, things aren't that bad.  Or, they don’t have time.  Or, they don’t know who to see.  I say, “Make a phone call.  Make ten phone calls or make a call a week.  Keep making phone calls until you figure out something that works.”  Life is short.  I need to do what I can to make the most of my life.  It is the only one I’ve got.  For all we know, it is the only one any of us has.  Make the most of it.

L’Chaim.

Joceile

Steve Macuk: Powerful with Love

February 18, 2013

A man I love is struggling with cancer.  I'm fortunate in that I am able to do the long good-bye. 

Steve is my former therapist who taught me about the power of love. 

"I want you to sit powerful with love."

"What is that?  Is that some religious thing?"  I asked. 

"No, it's just a state of mind."

"Is it some corporate wording?  Where did you get it?  Powerful with love."  I am not one to accept things easily. 

"No, I made it up."

"You made it up?  In your own mind?"  I persist. 

"Yes."

"You're sure, because I've heard wording like that before?"

"Yes, Joceile.  I'm sure."

"All right. What do you want me to do?"

"I want you to sit powerful with love..."

"I'm not using that phrase."

"You don't need to.  Sit powerful with love and visit a former self of you.  Can you do that?"

"Yes, who should I visit?"

"Visit you when you were upset a month ago.  Can you picture that?"

"Yes."

"Okay."  Steve said, "You visit yourself when you were upset sitting powerful with love."

That phrase again. "How long do you want me to visit?"

"I'm gonna leave the room for a few minutes. How long would you like?"

I pondered this for a few seconds. "Four minutes exactly."  I didn't want it to be too long or too short. 

"Four minutes," he said. "You understand what to do?  Remember to start by sitting powerful with love."

"I've got it."

"Okay, I'll be back in four minutes.  No more. No less."  Steve left. 

I was alone in his office.  I looked around at his pictures and bookshelf.  I took a breath and filled myself with love.  I grasped that part of me that loves my partner and loves my daughter.  I remembered being loved by my grandmother.  I imagined that I was loved and felt it.  Then, I took myself back a month before.  My former self was crying and hurting.  I wrapped my imaginary love arms around myself and held tight.  I sprinkled golden fairy dust over my former self.  I thought, "Why not?"

My former self and I basked in the glow waiting quietly for the minutes to pass.  Shortly, Steve opened the door and walked back in.  I stretched my arms and yawned.  

"How'd it go," he asked. 

I waited, gathering my thoughts.  "I met with her. She was crying. I spread love on her...and golden fairy dust."

"Golden fairy dust?"  Steve commented. "I've never heard of that before.  Is that some religious thing or corporate slogan?"  

No, he really didn't say that last part.  But, thus began an ongoing process with Steve and I.  He never failed to remind me of the power of golden fairy dust...and, of course, sitting powerful with love.

Postscript 

On March 24, 2014, the world lost Steve. I feel his spirit is strong.  I don't stop loving him because he's not with us anymore.  I just miss his easy presence. 

Video of Steve Macuk

https://www.youtube.com/embed/D9rNe3FLdZE

At Last, Thankfulness in Walking

An extraordinary thing has happened to me in the last month.  My walking has improved.  It is as if a switch was flipped in my nervous system.  My legs are getting the messages I am sending them through my muscles, and they are responding.

This started spontaneously about a month ago.  I do not know why.  Later, I went on a long trip and a few days into it, they started failing again.  But, after I got home and settled in, my walking improved again.

I am so excited.  I am able to once again go for walks with my dog.  I tend to go out at night.  I am not deterred by cold or rain.  Fortunately, neither is the dog.  I love the outdoor privacy when it is dark and damp.  Sheba and I have the world to ourselves.

As for me, I feel so blessed and honored to get to walk freely again.  Many people do not know what it is like to lose the ability to freely walk.  Others lose the ability and are not so lucky to get it back even if it is intermittent.

I haven’t been able to walk in the woods with my dog since last May.  Getting to do that again is better than birthdays, special celebrations, or getting an unexpected refund from some purchase.  

When I can’t walk well, I spend most of my time being very mindful.  I notice what I pass by.  I am moving so slowly there is nothing to do but notice what is around me.  I call it “The Smelling the Roses Syndrome.”  I have to accept that I can’t move any faster or any better.  I focus my energies on just noticing.  It includes cars, people, buildings, trees, or anything that stimulates my interest.

I find myself in buildings examining the ceiling.  Where do those pipes come from?  Why is that beam designed like that?  For what purpose?  Is this the original wall?  This kind of thinking stimulates my sense of myself as an observant person.  What could be wrong with that?

It also causes me to observe people more closely.  What does his posture say about his thoughts or intention?  Hmm, she is standing with her arms crossed.  Is she aware of that?  Could she be merely cold?

Watching people makes me more aware of my own body language.  If I’m moving slowly, I could at least stand straighter.  Why are MY arms crossed?  Are my hands above the table or below the table?  Do I seem impatient?  Is it okay to be impatient when I am uncomfortable?

People often hold doors open for me at work.  As I am moving slow, I often say, “Oh, that’s okay, it’ll be a week before I get there.”  

Many times, people say, “Take your time, I have no where I have to be right now.”  They go out of their way to make me feel like I am not imposing.  As we have time to watch each other as I get to the door, sometimes there are other incidental comments shared.  “It’s okay the evening can start without me.”  “Where are you going after work?”

I can respond with, “Ah, it gives you time to check your phone?”  Followed by, “Thank you.  I hope you have a good evening.”  I guess the point of these exchanges is that they cause a certain civility.  A moment of connection out of our busy or seemingly busy lives.  I appreciate these moments.  They make my loss of quickness far more bearable.

But, for now, I can walk even without a cane.  I recall when I was a teenager.  I would sit on the front steps of my grandparents’ beach house reading or looking out at the beach and the water.  All at once, I would launch off the steps, run through the yard, jump off the bulkhead, and run down the beach as fast as I could until I ran out of breath just for the sheer joy of it.  I wonder now what my grandparents thought.

I have to find sheer joy other ways now.  But, right now, this moment, I can walk.  I don’t know why or for how long.  I may have theories that may or may not be proven right as more time passes.  But, for this moment, for this instant, on this night, I can walk, and I’m grateful.

To Life.  L’Chaim.

Joceile

11.23.16

My "Aunt" Edith

I have a woman in my life who is going to turn 99 on November 14th.  Her name is Edith.  I call her my aunt, because it is so much easier than outlining the convoluted way we are related.  There is no blood relation.  She is my Granny's sister-in-law by Granny's first husband who passed away.  Granny was married to Edith's husband's brother.

Then, as if that isn't enough, my Granny and Grandpa (Granny's second husband) went into business with Edith and her husband, Wave.  They bought a service station in downtown Des Moines, Washington, in the early 50's.  So, really, to just say my Aunt Edith makes so much more sense.

Edith and Wave were my brother's god-parents.  This status was very important once upon a time.  She's been in my life since before I was born.  Growing up, she lived two houses down from me.  She is a seamstress and taught my mother to sew.  She is what one might call a "good Christian woman."  Her husband, Wave, was a preacher and a healer after he phased out his work at the gas station.

Edith has endured some big hardships.  She had three children.  Her oldest son went to Vietnam.  He was never the same after he came back with PTSD.  He died a few years ago of respiratory complications due to agent orange.  Her daughter died of leukemia in the 80's leaving two granddaughters.  Her younger son went to Germany when he was drafted.  He currently struggles with health issues.

In 1998 when my Granny was dying, Edith took her in.  My Granny was unhappy in the Masonic Home which was a retirement home in Des Moines.  Edith invited her to live with her and Wave.  My Granny was so happy to be living with Edith.  Edith bathed her and cared for her.  Their cultural upbringing was to care for members of the family.  Unfortunately, Granny only lived with Edith and Wave for three days before going into the hospital and passing away.

Since Granny lived with Edith, I reconnected with Edith.  I checked in with her regularly.  Wave's health issues became more severe, and he passed away in 2002.

I always call Edith and say, "Hi, Edith, it's Joceile."  She doesn't have caller ID.  It is a childhood habit that is hard to break, even though, I figure she knows my voice.  I just feel better if I follow the etiquette from the "old" days.

Edith tells me she never expected to live alone.  Her youngest son and wife live three doors down.  Her grandson lives next door.  She feels like folks are looking after her.  I live in Olympia.  Traveling is not my friend, so I call.  

Her son brings in her mail each day.  He doesn't want her to cross the busy street.  She never fails to remind me that her daughter-in-law is "a wonderful cook" and sends up left-overs with her son.

At first when Wave was alive, I called every other month or so.  After Wave died, I started calling every two weeks.  Now, I call weekly.  I never manage to call twice a week, although, I intend to.

Edith is rich with information about the world she has occupied.  She grew up in northwestern Arkansas.  Born in 1917, she lived on a farm with her family scraping by as best they could with gardens and animals.  She moved to Washington to marry Wave after he came to Washington as a mechanical engineer.  He may have worked for Boeing.  I'm can't remember.  His brother was similarly mechanically inclined.

Edith still has a garden every year.  She cans and freezes like a mad woman at the end of the summer.  She shared apples with me this year, so I made a lot of apple sauce.

Des Moines is no longer the small town that I grew up in.  Edith has been ripped off several times.  Her car has been stolen twice.  This last time two days after Christmas, at 97, she decided she would stop driving.  It makes me sad because she only drove to the grocery store and the post office half a mile away.  She says she misses having her independence.  She always notes that her son and daughter-in-law will drive her anywhere she needs.

She keeps her carrots in the ground during the winter and pulls them up as she needs them.  Last winter, someone stole all her carrots by pulling up two rows out of her garden.  It is mind blowing.  Really?  They stole her freaking carrots?

Once or twice, she has been the victim of fraud.  As a result, she takes scissors and cuts her return address off all her junk mail and throws it away hoping that will keep her out of the hands of the fraudsters.  I haven't told her that her name and address is electronically available all over the internet.  

Occasionally, she talks to me about her concerns that "they" are going to cut her social security because of some come on junk mail she has received.  I tell her not to worry that her social security isn't going to be cut.  I remind her that our Congress can't get its act together to do anything much less cut her social security.  I fear that she still worries because the junk mail keeps coming.

Edith watches a few television shows every week and reads romance novels.  She told me that she has several hundred in her spare room and occasionally just reads them over again.  When I call, we talk about the state of her garden and what she is doing with her harvest.  We also talk about the state of her TV shows.  We talk about either Dancing with the Stars or the Bachelor or Bachelorette.  I just barely see a few minutes of Dancing with the Stars each week but manage to hold my own in a conversation about any of the shows.  

She also likes Survivor.  I've never watched Survivor but apparently they take place on beaches all over the world.  For Edith, it is a travel log.  Also, she is pretty amazed by "what they put those people through."  I can only imagine.

I've asked Edith about growing up in Arkansas.  I've pumped her on everything I can think of about being in Des Moines during the war (WW II) and what happened with her family, my family, and my grandparents.  Since my grandparents have died, I am aware of the saying, "Everything that goes unasked, goes unanswered."  (I may have made up this alleged saying.)  I know if I don't ask someone about memories I don't have access to I lose that information forever.  I can't Google what's in Edith's head.

Ronnie and I try to take Edith out for dinner at least once a month.  Edith loves Wally's.  It is a seafood restaurant.  She always gets fish and chips with one piece of fish.  She always tells us that it is so much, she will be eating the other half for dinner the following night.

She went to a church up the street for many years.  Sadly, the church closed a few years ago.  The church her friends go to is in Federal Way.  Although they would happily come get her and take her to church, she doesn't want to make them travel out of their way.  "Oh, no.  I'm fine.  I don't want to make them come all this way."  All this way is probably three miles.  I know they wouldn't mind.  But, asking for assistance doesn't come easy to Edith.

She is fiercely proud.  She is used to doing for herself.  If I lived closer, I'd take her to church myself.  But, I don't live closer.

Making contact with Edith is so important to me.  I love her.  I care for her.  I hope if I should be that old and alone one day that someone will check in with me regularly.

Sometimes, we talk about her God.  When I was younger, I hated talking about her God.  Now, that I am older I don't mind so much.  I'm no longer threatened by her God.  I ask questions.  She has told me that she hopes I have made peace with God, because "it is so important."  I assure her that I'm good.

There is one special thing about my conversations with Edith even though sometimes they can be a bit redundant.  At the end of our conversations, I always say, "I love you."  Her response is so touching.  No matter what we have been talking about, her voice changes slightly to a warmer tone, and she says with such love and sweetness, "Love you too."  It is that incredible love and gentleness in her voice that touches me to my core.

I can't hear that sweetness too many times.  I know one day she will be gone.  I love you too, Edith.  You've already lived far longer than most.  Here's to you becoming a centenarian.

Joceile

Edith and Zack 

Conflict: Me & the Boogie Man

I have a young friend that does not understand the importance of conflict.  Actually, I believe a lot of people, young and old, do not understand conflict's role in everything life related.

First, a definition:  Conflict is the state of competing agendas.  Conflict can be the outcome of misunderstanding or misinterpreting what's been said to you.  It is not inherently bad.  It is like gravity.  It just exists.

Conflict is often seen as something to avoid.  Perhaps being an indicator of something wrong in a relationship.  Rather, conflict is the smelly fertilizer that enriches our relationships.  It is as  common as dandelions trying to get a toe hold in a perfectly manicured lawn.

To me, one of the most frightening feelings resulting from conflict is anger.  "I am angry at you for..."  "You are angry at me for..."  People fear that it can instigate violence and trigger memories of past violence.

People avoid conflict because they fear their own or another's anger.  Because of my traumatic childhood, anger evokes a lot of fear for me.  Raising your voice at me gets my attention instantly, and I freeze.  I had to learn that a raised voice now isn't the same as a raised voice and a raised hand from my childhood.

To successfully explore relationships, business, and performance opportunities, it serves me to embrace conflict for the learning opportunity it is.  Learning to effectively engage in conflict is one of the single most important things I can do to improve the quality of my life on all levels.

Conflict creates a tension between me and the other person.  This tension is when we are present in the moment.  It is where we have the most power to act.

Conflict allows an opportunity to look into more than one perspective of a relationship and grasp the essentials of what makes one side think or feel about things the way they do.  It is easy to succeed when things are going well.  It is far more telling how I react when things are going badly or when I've made a poor choice.

There is a tendency in this modern world to deal with conflict using the intractability of the written word either by email or text.  Trying to put my feelings into these one way messages does not allow for the give and take of conflict.  There is no opportunity to qualify what I am saying when I see a puzzled or angry look cross my talking partner's face.

I have missed many opportunities in my life, because I was busy avoiding conflict by not asking myself, "Why do I feel that way?  What caused me to react that way?  Is there something I should be asking of the other person?"  Because I didn't ask myself those questions, I didn't follow up with the other person either.

In my love relationship, conflict is something I have never loved.  I have never run with open arms to grasp and explore it.  However, it is the part of what allows us to draw closer together to understand each other better.

When we were young and very much in love, we would work through conflict which was usually some type of misunderstanding all night until we reached resolution.  Our idea was that there was a glass between us that we wanted to keep clear.  If we let something lay on the glass without examining it, it would be a smudge on the glass. The smudge would collect other bits on the glass and continue to grow into some small hill and possibly a mountain.

Things left on the glass unexamined made it more and more difficult for us to see each other on the other side.  The glass would grow dimmer.  We would not be able to see the one we loved on the other side.  My interpretation of my partner through this smudged glass would cause her to seem like someone other than my best friend, someone who was trying to make me different than I am.  Someone who was my enemy trying to drag me through perspectives that I knew were wrong.

My deepening depression in our 19th year caused me to see less and less of who my partner really was and her desire to connect with me.  As the glass grew dark, I could no longer see the woman I loved and instead saw someone who was trying to make me different and did not appreciate who I was.  I began hiding inside myself, angry, frustrated, and withdrawn.

Fortunately, for me, after a perilous time, my depression began to recede.  I was once again able to see the woman I had always loved but pushed away so hard when the conflict became frightening.  I could once again see the love she had in her face for me.

After several years of hard work, the glass is clear once more.  We see each other.  When conflict arises, such as a misunderstanding or an action of thoughtlessness, we are now too old to stay up all night.  Sometimes, the discomfort lasts for several days as we slowly work our way through it.

Resolving conflict can make relationships grow and support a system of balance.  Every day the sun rises and sets.  The night intervenes.  This is conflict.  Day versus night.

My young friend is uncomfortable with conflict.  Thinking perhaps that it is a sign of something wrong with the relationship or that she has been wronged by another person.  It is true that it needs to be addressed, talked through, and understood.  It is not true that it needs to be avoided.  The feelings do not go away.

To deepen a relationship is to seek to understand the other's perspective, to get to know what is inside of your friend, lover, or opposite.  There is much to learn about another person if you ask questions to gently pull apart the conflict, dissect it, and understand it.  "I reacted that way because I felt....  What was going on with you then?"

There are no streamlined methods for dealing with conflict.  I have to start with how I felt and why I felt that way.  I have to patiently listen to how the other person felt and why they felt that way.  The seesaw goes back and forth.  My turn, your turn, until there is understanding, followed by, hopefully, agreement.  It does not always work this way, but this is the goal.

Nobody likes conflict.  It is not fun to look inside yourself and admit to your own failings, pre-conceived notions, or baggage from hurts long ago.  But, if I care for you and us, I will ask questions, I will face truth, and our glass will stay clear.  I will ask.  I will listen.  That is the method of conflict.

Someday, those dandelions may grow on my grave.  It will not be because I didn't face conflict even when I was most scared, angry, and uncomfortable.  It will simply be that nature had the last say which is life in balance.


10.22.16