We leave the USA in 13 days. Wednesday, September 8 we fly to Brussels, Belgium where Friday Douglas will meet with local port authorities with whom he will be doing business from Tashkent. I get to roam around Antwerp while he's working! Doug's cousin, David, lives in Rotterdam so we're going to meet up with him Saturday. Sunday we'll fly to Tashkent overnight and land early Monday morning. Our local sponsor, Jennifer, will meet us at the airport to make sure all goes smoothly.
In the meantime it is quite exciting.
I had another medical scare. I had to have another biopsy - benign!!! I had a peace about this but that didn't stop the "what if" thoughts from invading my mind. Worst case scenario, my medical clearance would have changed and Doug would have to be reassigned. I've been praying for discernment the last few weeks since I'll be living in a primarily Muslim country and learnig alot. I say that I had a peace about this because, I believe, God was telling me to settle down and that everything would be okay. I recognized God's 'voice'. I did think through all possible scenarios so I'd be ready for anything - as ready as one can be.
It is hard to keep my thoughts in the present. Obviously, I'm excited to see Belgium and Uzbekistan so that is always on my mind. Doug and I already talk about where we'd like his next post to be (St. Petersburg, Russia). But I know that if my thoughts do not stay in the present that will affect my future. I need to focus on getting everything together that we'll need there or my time in Tashkent will be spent figuring out what to do without certain items. That's not how I want to spend my time there. I'm setting priorities for living abroad. First priority is to keep the foundation I've built here in D.C. strong. I'm speaking of my body, spirit and mind. Secondly, my marriage and relationship with Doug. I want to support him and make his new life as easy as possible. Third is to collect and share folk tales. This, I believe will be a wonderful way to relate to local people in Uzbekistan.
Now I am concentrating on buying two years worth of consumables. Our apartment is about to be stuffed to the rafters with cases of confectioners sugar, tissues, toilet paper, granola bars, peanut butter, canned tomatoes, chickn stock and more. The hardest part is seeing the amount of money we're speding. It's no more than we would spend in an ordinary year or two - it's just that it's all at once. Ouch.
Remember the inventory list I had to make before we left St. Paul? I thought that was so much work. Well, we have to have our things insured so now I have had to put a price on every item. What a job.
Doug is still in training. This week he is finishing his General Services Officer training. This is the training that is most specific to his actual job at the embassy. Next week, he has three more training days then two consultation days.
The packers arrive Thursday to pack three shipments from our apartment: consumables, household effects (kitchen items, electronics, and books we've recently purchased) and unaccompanied baggage (clothing and more personal items we've accumulated).
I am going to post one more entry on this blog then I'm going to retire it. My next blog will be called "Back to the Desert." As I was born and raised in Phoenix and will be living the next couple years in Tashkent (also desert), I like the "full circle" effect. I intend to make the next blog better than this one. This, you know, was my practice blog. I'm going to post pictures. We have purchased a digital recorder I plan to use to post sounds of Tashkent. Maybe I'll even get fancy and post a video. No promises there. You can find my new blog at:
http://morelaurastales.blogspot.com/
Give me at least a week or two after I close "If I can . . ." before looking for any posting at that sight, please.
We can keep in touch through this blog and your comments. You can e-mail me. You can set up a (free) Skype account and we can talk and see each other. There is an 11 hour time difference between here and Tashkent (they're ahead of us) so using Skype will take some planning.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Friday, August 6, 2010
World Peace (or at least inner peace)
A couple weeks ago I came home from a walk and sat down and deleted all the games on my computer. I decided that they were a waste of time. Yes relaxation is important. (Did I mention I just came back from another walk?). I do relax. Plenty. If I want to play a game, I have a pile of old Games magazines in the other room (there are only two rooms here, remember?) and at least when I'm doing a word puzzle I'm learning and figuring things out - stimulating my precious brain. So far I have only thought about the computer games a few times and, honestly, have not missed them. I have only fired up Doug's computer to play his games twice. (So, you see, it was not that much of a sacrifice as I have a back up.)Anyway, this leads me to writing more.
Lucky you, dear readers (all five or so of you).
I'm going to talk about a couple of human weaknesses that I believe to be the root of all evil. (Cue grand music.) I know that's pretty dramatic, but stay with me here. My biggest frustration with people is our selfishness. Because I love a good debate, even if it's with myself, I'll start by defending selfishness. We have to be selfish to a degree. I have to think of my own best interests because few others are going to. I have to put myself first often or I will be left out. This is not to say that many, many, many people have not stood up for me, comforted me, bailed me out (not literally) or done a host of other good deeds for me. I mean that this is my life and I must live it and part of living it is being vigilant to my own best interests - sometimes at the expense of other's. I think we've all heard the analogy about the oxygen mask on the plane - put it on yourself first then the kids because if you go unconscious putting it on a child what good are you to that child? I will add to that. Those of you who recognize this next analogy, I confes, I watched Oprah last week. We need to take such good care of ourselves that our cups run over so we have plenty to share with all those around us. This made me feel better about all the time I've spent going on about myself and my accomplishments in this blog. I am actively demonstrating and sharing what we are capable of.
I believe selfishness leads to nearly all crimes and legal violations: I was in a hurry I had to speed, I didn't see a trash can and I didn't want to carry it, I didn't want to/couldn't pay for it. I didn't want to use my car ashtray so I tossed the cigarette out the window. (Oh, sorry about the forest fire everybody.)Frankly none of us are so stimulatingly interesting or indispensably important that we cannot spare the extra seconds or minutes to do something right. Just think of all the tax money we'd save if we simply obeyed the laws of the road and stop littering. But, of course, it gets worse.
A few posts ago I wrote that I was selfish. I am but I'm dealing with it and have been for years and I'm making great progress. One thing that helps is being surrounded by unselfish people. Generosity and kind deeds truly are infectious. It's almost a paradox; I want to do something nice for someone else because I know I'll feel good and it will rub off on them and then they'll do something nice for someone else - maybe me! (Anyone out there read the Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis? There is a character who realizes he's learned to be humble for which he's proud of himself.) But seriously, when you see the example set by others and see how well it works you can't help but want it. Parents often tell their children to not hang out around the wrong people. Good advice. Let's hope they take their own advice.
Being less selfish would make society more peaceful. If we took (even occasionally faked) an interest in others and what they have to say not only would they feel good but we'd gain a perspective we could not otherwise have. Because people don't know how to talk and listen to each other in conflict - like debate - we are drowning in lawsuits. And, it is my belief, that this practice (there's that word again) of listening to others that leads to companies listening to customers, governments listening to citizens and countries listening to other countries. Thus a more peaceful world. (Cue grand music once again.)
Doug's biggest frustration with people, and I've come to share it, is ignorance, specifically chosen ignorance. Again, I'll begin by defending ignorance. Obviously we can't all know everything. This is why we are all down here together and we have specialists on whom we depend. For instance if we were to know all there is to know about our own bodies that would require years of medical school. If we were to have enough knowlege to read and thoroughly understand legal documents we are required to sign to get loans, make wills etc. that would require years of law school. Who has the time, money and, frankly, the interest for that? Then there's that ever present trap of finding yourself in a tight spot and hearing someone say "Well, you should have asked." Great advice, but what if you don't know the questions?I've had some tough conversations with some people who are worried about my moving to a predominately Muslim country. "They want to kill us, you know." I have worked closely with two Muslim families and neither were the least bit interested in expediating my demise. The people with whom I had these conversations were confusing Muslims with Muslim extremists.
I liken Muslim extremists to "Christians" who kill doctors who perform abortions.
Again, we cannot know everything. It's impossible. What bothered me so much about these conversations is that they could not back up their accusations with facts other than a few news stories. I shared what I knew and hoped it would take root and give them an interest in opening their minds to learn a little bit more.
When I was in college, I chose ignorance. I didn't know it at the time; I just thought I was right. I studied music and Bible in college. I was VERY Christian. If it was not in the Bible then it was wrong. If it was in the Bible then you'd better not argue with it. If the Bible seemed to contradict itself - we just weren't understanding it properly.
I eventually came to the realization that a relationship with God was more valuable then Bible interpretation so that became my focus and, I'll be darned, if the one didn't follow the other! And thanks to years of storytelling and learning about oral tradition I can pretty well understand the contradictions within our holy scriptures. I would be missing out on SO much today if I were still stuck in my chosen ignorance.
Thank God and Darwin for evolution!
Lucky you, dear readers (all five or so of you).
I'm going to talk about a couple of human weaknesses that I believe to be the root of all evil. (Cue grand music.) I know that's pretty dramatic, but stay with me here. My biggest frustration with people is our selfishness. Because I love a good debate, even if it's with myself, I'll start by defending selfishness. We have to be selfish to a degree. I have to think of my own best interests because few others are going to. I have to put myself first often or I will be left out. This is not to say that many, many, many people have not stood up for me, comforted me, bailed me out (not literally) or done a host of other good deeds for me. I mean that this is my life and I must live it and part of living it is being vigilant to my own best interests - sometimes at the expense of other's. I think we've all heard the analogy about the oxygen mask on the plane - put it on yourself first then the kids because if you go unconscious putting it on a child what good are you to that child? I will add to that. Those of you who recognize this next analogy, I confes, I watched Oprah last week. We need to take such good care of ourselves that our cups run over so we have plenty to share with all those around us. This made me feel better about all the time I've spent going on about myself and my accomplishments in this blog. I am actively demonstrating and sharing what we are capable of.
I believe selfishness leads to nearly all crimes and legal violations: I was in a hurry I had to speed, I didn't see a trash can and I didn't want to carry it, I didn't want to/couldn't pay for it. I didn't want to use my car ashtray so I tossed the cigarette out the window. (Oh, sorry about the forest fire everybody.)Frankly none of us are so stimulatingly interesting or indispensably important that we cannot spare the extra seconds or minutes to do something right. Just think of all the tax money we'd save if we simply obeyed the laws of the road and stop littering. But, of course, it gets worse.
A few posts ago I wrote that I was selfish. I am but I'm dealing with it and have been for years and I'm making great progress. One thing that helps is being surrounded by unselfish people. Generosity and kind deeds truly are infectious. It's almost a paradox; I want to do something nice for someone else because I know I'll feel good and it will rub off on them and then they'll do something nice for someone else - maybe me! (Anyone out there read the Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis? There is a character who realizes he's learned to be humble for which he's proud of himself.) But seriously, when you see the example set by others and see how well it works you can't help but want it. Parents often tell their children to not hang out around the wrong people. Good advice. Let's hope they take their own advice.
Being less selfish would make society more peaceful. If we took (even occasionally faked) an interest in others and what they have to say not only would they feel good but we'd gain a perspective we could not otherwise have. Because people don't know how to talk and listen to each other in conflict - like debate - we are drowning in lawsuits. And, it is my belief, that this practice (there's that word again) of listening to others that leads to companies listening to customers, governments listening to citizens and countries listening to other countries. Thus a more peaceful world. (Cue grand music once again.)
Doug's biggest frustration with people, and I've come to share it, is ignorance, specifically chosen ignorance. Again, I'll begin by defending ignorance. Obviously we can't all know everything. This is why we are all down here together and we have specialists on whom we depend. For instance if we were to know all there is to know about our own bodies that would require years of medical school. If we were to have enough knowlege to read and thoroughly understand legal documents we are required to sign to get loans, make wills etc. that would require years of law school. Who has the time, money and, frankly, the interest for that? Then there's that ever present trap of finding yourself in a tight spot and hearing someone say "Well, you should have asked." Great advice, but what if you don't know the questions?I've had some tough conversations with some people who are worried about my moving to a predominately Muslim country. "They want to kill us, you know." I have worked closely with two Muslim families and neither were the least bit interested in expediating my demise. The people with whom I had these conversations were confusing Muslims with Muslim extremists.
I liken Muslim extremists to "Christians" who kill doctors who perform abortions.
Again, we cannot know everything. It's impossible. What bothered me so much about these conversations is that they could not back up their accusations with facts other than a few news stories. I shared what I knew and hoped it would take root and give them an interest in opening their minds to learn a little bit more.
When I was in college, I chose ignorance. I didn't know it at the time; I just thought I was right. I studied music and Bible in college. I was VERY Christian. If it was not in the Bible then it was wrong. If it was in the Bible then you'd better not argue with it. If the Bible seemed to contradict itself - we just weren't understanding it properly.
I eventually came to the realization that a relationship with God was more valuable then Bible interpretation so that became my focus and, I'll be darned, if the one didn't follow the other! And thanks to years of storytelling and learning about oral tradition I can pretty well understand the contradictions within our holy scriptures. I would be missing out on SO much today if I were still stuck in my chosen ignorance.
Thank God and Darwin for evolution!
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Thank You
I am in my final few days in our country and posting my final blog (before I begin my new blog, "Back to the Desert"). I am thinking of the goals I set for this blog. First, I wanted to stay in touch with my friends. Secondly, I just wanted to see if I could write with a deadline regularly. Thirdly, I wanted to share my experiences living this new life and hopefully be an inspiration to you who read this. I think I succeeded in the first goal and did rather well with the second goal (except while my mom was sick and I was a bit of a mess). The third goal only you know whether or not I succeeded.
I think it appropriate, however, to let you know what a difference you have made to me over the years. Some of you I've known since you were preschoolers (or the parents of preschoolers) and some of you I only knew for a few precious months before I moved. I am embarking on a life in which I will make many temporary friends. That can sound lonely but love and friendship can grow FAST and I know that enormous influence can happen in a short time. Here are some of my memories of what a difference you've made in my life.
Many of my students had a lot going on in their lives - school, relationships, family upheaval, health issues, etc. Yet I watched them come to their lesson each week ready to further themselves in music and piano. Some of my students stuck to their practice better than I ever did. I saw some students practice while a well-meaning parent would audibly groan at wrong notes. I saw some students struggling to get principles while being laughed at by a family member for their slowness or inability to understand. I am a sensitive person and either of those would have unraveled me. But these students acknowleged the interruption and, as though to say "I'll show you" went right back to the piano and figured it out. As those strong students showed me, I am learning to tune out the negative voices in my life. By the way, not all the 'negative' voices are really negative. The laugher I mentioned? Sounds terrible, doesn't it? It wasn't meant to be. I know that the laughter was unease and an inability to understand why such a 'simple' principle would be so evasive. So watching you work through it helped me to gain that perspective. Thank you.
I would occasionally have the 'lesson of the week'. This was some exercise that I had discovered (often at my pedagogy classes at St. Thomas) that I was excited about and wanted to share with everyone. Some were more difficult than others. One was playing a short piece of music by sight memory. Meaning, the student leaves the piano, studies the music, and, when ready, puts the music down and plays it at the piano by memory. That is daunting. For those of you who don't play the piano, try reciting a short paragraph you have only just read a few times. Anyway, the spirit with which some of my students did this was beautiful. I am remembering Laura Nelson right now. She was about 8 or so and was wearing a long skirt. Many of my older students reacted in horror when I told them what I wanted them to try. She shrugged, put down the music she had been looking at the almost danced over to the piano bench, sat down and played it. Some students got it right the first time, some missed, went back, restudied, played a little 'air piano' then got it right at the piano. For me, seeing the casual spirit of adventure in Laura and the determination in so many others is a motivating memory in my life while I am facing new situations. I shrug and dance right in. If I fail, I try it again. Thank you.
Many of my students wanted to take on songs that were levels beyond where they were capable of playing. Many of those students succeeded. One of those students would play so many wrong notes at the sight reading, I was very discouraged and thought "I should not let her play this". But week after week we'd plod through just a few measures of new music, one hand at a time and when I returned the next week she'd have it down pat. I always told her that I wish I could become invisible to watch her practice. Many students learned complicated rhythms, four-note chorded songs, pieces with five flats or sharps or lengthy pieces simply because they wanted to. There was something about THAT piece of music that made them want to learn to play it. It is that tenacity that helped me through the Russian classes I took. We had to learn a lot in a short time. I never gave up. I (seemingly) never tired of it. I know that alot of that was inspired by my memories of my students. Thank you.
Parents, your turn. I think that parenting is the most selfless act of love there is. It is an overtime job often on top of another full time job. I am still amazed at how much my own parents actively love me. I am dumbfounded at how much they care for me with all that they are going through. I don't know how they remember all the good things and seem to forget all the #*&$ing crap (excuse me, please) I put them through when I lived there. I saw such good relationships in my teaching years. I was in a unique situation in that I went into people's homes - very intimate, indeed. I remember being confronted (kindly) by one parent who wanted me to ease up on her daughter who was not practicing much. This student could play fairly well and I, frankly, expected more from her. It turned out that school was particularly demanding that semester so her mother spoke with me privately and told me to just teach the lessons and that the practice would fall back in place when it could. We had that talk privately but I knew that the daughter knew we had talked. In her lesson that day, I said "You probably already know this, but you have a great mom. She really loves you and cares for you." "Yeah." The girl said. "She's really good to me, too." I told her. "A lot of people would have just been mad at me and fired me." I could go on and on here. You are all doing fabulous jobs being moms and dads to your kids. Thank you.
You have been open-minded with my teaching methods. Many times you have walked through during a piano lesson to see us juggling or prone on the floor doing push-ups. Once when a mom came home from work during her daughter's lesson the daughter was reading her diary to me. She summed up the faith I believe you all put in me. When I assured her that we were having a piano lesson and that I would be sure to get in 30 minutes at the piano, she said, "Laura, I don't think you could do wrong in this house." Thank you.
I think it appropriate, however, to let you know what a difference you have made to me over the years. Some of you I've known since you were preschoolers (or the parents of preschoolers) and some of you I only knew for a few precious months before I moved. I am embarking on a life in which I will make many temporary friends. That can sound lonely but love and friendship can grow FAST and I know that enormous influence can happen in a short time. Here are some of my memories of what a difference you've made in my life.
Many of my students had a lot going on in their lives - school, relationships, family upheaval, health issues, etc. Yet I watched them come to their lesson each week ready to further themselves in music and piano. Some of my students stuck to their practice better than I ever did. I saw some students practice while a well-meaning parent would audibly groan at wrong notes. I saw some students struggling to get principles while being laughed at by a family member for their slowness or inability to understand. I am a sensitive person and either of those would have unraveled me. But these students acknowleged the interruption and, as though to say "I'll show you" went right back to the piano and figured it out. As those strong students showed me, I am learning to tune out the negative voices in my life. By the way, not all the 'negative' voices are really negative. The laugher I mentioned? Sounds terrible, doesn't it? It wasn't meant to be. I know that the laughter was unease and an inability to understand why such a 'simple' principle would be so evasive. So watching you work through it helped me to gain that perspective. Thank you.
I would occasionally have the 'lesson of the week'. This was some exercise that I had discovered (often at my pedagogy classes at St. Thomas) that I was excited about and wanted to share with everyone. Some were more difficult than others. One was playing a short piece of music by sight memory. Meaning, the student leaves the piano, studies the music, and, when ready, puts the music down and plays it at the piano by memory. That is daunting. For those of you who don't play the piano, try reciting a short paragraph you have only just read a few times. Anyway, the spirit with which some of my students did this was beautiful. I am remembering Laura Nelson right now. She was about 8 or so and was wearing a long skirt. Many of my older students reacted in horror when I told them what I wanted them to try. She shrugged, put down the music she had been looking at the almost danced over to the piano bench, sat down and played it. Some students got it right the first time, some missed, went back, restudied, played a little 'air piano' then got it right at the piano. For me, seeing the casual spirit of adventure in Laura and the determination in so many others is a motivating memory in my life while I am facing new situations. I shrug and dance right in. If I fail, I try it again. Thank you.
Many of my students wanted to take on songs that were levels beyond where they were capable of playing. Many of those students succeeded. One of those students would play so many wrong notes at the sight reading, I was very discouraged and thought "I should not let her play this". But week after week we'd plod through just a few measures of new music, one hand at a time and when I returned the next week she'd have it down pat. I always told her that I wish I could become invisible to watch her practice. Many students learned complicated rhythms, four-note chorded songs, pieces with five flats or sharps or lengthy pieces simply because they wanted to. There was something about THAT piece of music that made them want to learn to play it. It is that tenacity that helped me through the Russian classes I took. We had to learn a lot in a short time. I never gave up. I (seemingly) never tired of it. I know that alot of that was inspired by my memories of my students. Thank you.
Parents, your turn. I think that parenting is the most selfless act of love there is. It is an overtime job often on top of another full time job. I am still amazed at how much my own parents actively love me. I am dumbfounded at how much they care for me with all that they are going through. I don't know how they remember all the good things and seem to forget all the #*&$ing crap (excuse me, please) I put them through when I lived there. I saw such good relationships in my teaching years. I was in a unique situation in that I went into people's homes - very intimate, indeed. I remember being confronted (kindly) by one parent who wanted me to ease up on her daughter who was not practicing much. This student could play fairly well and I, frankly, expected more from her. It turned out that school was particularly demanding that semester so her mother spoke with me privately and told me to just teach the lessons and that the practice would fall back in place when it could. We had that talk privately but I knew that the daughter knew we had talked. In her lesson that day, I said "You probably already know this, but you have a great mom. She really loves you and cares for you." "Yeah." The girl said. "She's really good to me, too." I told her. "A lot of people would have just been mad at me and fired me." I could go on and on here. You are all doing fabulous jobs being moms and dads to your kids. Thank you.
You have been open-minded with my teaching methods. Many times you have walked through during a piano lesson to see us juggling or prone on the floor doing push-ups. Once when a mom came home from work during her daughter's lesson the daughter was reading her diary to me. She summed up the faith I believe you all put in me. When I assured her that we were having a piano lesson and that I would be sure to get in 30 minutes at the piano, she said, "Laura, I don't think you could do wrong in this house." Thank you.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
The sign at the cemetery entrance reads: Dead End
One of my favorite walks is around the cemetery that is adjacent to our parking lot. I have made no secret as to my opinion of this tiny apartment with the puppy-poop brown walls and dog-caca station out our 'picture' window but at least the neighbors are quiet!
When I told my class (in Russian) that I like walking around the cemetery, my teacher was horrified. She told us that in Russia no one would even build a dwelling next to a cemetery because no one would buy it. They are considered very depressing places. I can see that, certainly. But I see more.
When I walk I see how many gifts are left at the gravestones. I have seen a tiny toy fire truck and race car on one, an empty box of cigars on another (there's a story behind THAT one I'll tell in a minute), on others a rosary, spent candles, burning candles in lanterns at night, folded notes that I have resisted reading, pictures, flags and fields of flowers. That is not depressing to me; it is uplifting. To think that I may be remembered long after I die with items that remind the visitor of me or that have a special meaning to them is heart warming - not to mention the time and thought spent coming to the graveside.
When I last walked there management had posted a sign that they were going to begin enforcing rules regarding what can be placed or planted near the gravesites. There are many, many people who are going to be disappointed to lose their little shrines.
I'll pursue the tacky for a moment. There is a grave that has been outlined (against the rules) in painted rocks. It has a solar powered lantern by it. There are several solar powered lanterns scattered about the cemetery which, if you think about it, is a little unsettling. This grave holds the record for ceramic figures. The most prominent is of a cherub making bunny-ears and face at a rabbit. The others include a few frogs, birds and other animals and angels. This is right next to another grave that has faded, cracked plastic Easter eggs hanging on a dead rosebush.
This is when I can understand management stepping in and enforcing the rules. Note to everyone who wants to grace someone's grave with something: give it a little thought. Remember that unless the wind blows it away or someone takes it, it will be there for a long time.
There are the ubiquitous flowers at many of the graves. Some real and some made from anything under the sun. I've seen beaded flowers, "silk" flowers in the most brazen colors not found in nature, fabric (or leather - I don't know; I didn't touch them) flowers and plastic flowers. I guess whoever puts them there figure they'll look better longer than real ones. True, it you like the look of fake flowers. However when they are past their prime they don't disintegrate nicely into the earth like those real ones. Seeing the old, faded, splitting plastic flowers near a flowering tree or shrub is, to me, like seeing a bones scattered about the graves among the living.
The shrines are interesting, though. One grave has a small basket with the following items: a garlic press, softball, 3 baseballs (one sealed and signed), a pizza slicer, spoon and a shell. Leaning on the headstone are a couple of newpaper articles, bottles of various spirits (no pun intended), small, polished stones engraved with names of herbs, a lantern and a fairy. The entire plot is otherwise covered with flowers - real, planted flowers. The rule is nothing outside of one foot distance from the headstone.
One more. There is a native-American looking wreath on one grave that has a dream catcher on it, feathers, a carved wooden flute and a glitter-covered "I love Dad" sign. Okay, but is it art? Mixed media, I guess.
I like reading the names on the headstones. Persis Proudfit is one of my favorites. Who hears names like that any more? Another is Icey Lucille Johnson. Icey Lucille. If ever there was a name begging for a ghost story, this is it. Icey lived to be only 19. Some more interesting names: Talmadge Thorne, Dicey Rhodes, Gladys Bean Sasscer, Minnie Munger, Hattie Shreve and Luttie O. Tapp. I noticed one name for the first time yesterday. It is carved on a narrow headstone, one with not much room for proper spacing. It reads: Albert L. Ives which, at a glance looks like Albert Lives!
I've saved the best for last - the party plot. This belongs to a Hispanic family that loves each other - those still alive and those passed. They gather regularly at the grave and it looks like a tailgate party complete with lawn furniture, barbeque, food, ice chests, liquor and cigars to party with the deceased. They leave the empties (one bottle of nice Scotch and carved wooden cigar box) behind not as trash but as a gesture of love and remembrance. I'll bet some of that scotch was poured into the ground. Next to this same grave is a Christmas tree with tiny pool balls hanging as ornaments. It has had balloons flying from it and still has a plaque and blue #1 Dad ribbon. Tacky? Yes. Loving? Oh, yes. They are always happy and greet me when I pass them. One day I'll stop to talk to them; since they don't strike me as the reverent type I don't think they'd mind.
I have a great uncle - Uncle Max - who doesn't want a sad, depressing funeral. My Uncle Max has a handle bar mustache and laughing eyes. He loves to sing Danny Boy. He wants to be buried with on eye open and a smirk on his face. He has left instructions that there will be no crying and no dirges at his wake or funeral; people are to laugh, tell jokes, jump up, click their heels together and fart. Now that's celebrating life.
When I told my class (in Russian) that I like walking around the cemetery, my teacher was horrified. She told us that in Russia no one would even build a dwelling next to a cemetery because no one would buy it. They are considered very depressing places. I can see that, certainly. But I see more.
When I walk I see how many gifts are left at the gravestones. I have seen a tiny toy fire truck and race car on one, an empty box of cigars on another (there's a story behind THAT one I'll tell in a minute), on others a rosary, spent candles, burning candles in lanterns at night, folded notes that I have resisted reading, pictures, flags and fields of flowers. That is not depressing to me; it is uplifting. To think that I may be remembered long after I die with items that remind the visitor of me or that have a special meaning to them is heart warming - not to mention the time and thought spent coming to the graveside.
When I last walked there management had posted a sign that they were going to begin enforcing rules regarding what can be placed or planted near the gravesites. There are many, many people who are going to be disappointed to lose their little shrines.
I'll pursue the tacky for a moment. There is a grave that has been outlined (against the rules) in painted rocks. It has a solar powered lantern by it. There are several solar powered lanterns scattered about the cemetery which, if you think about it, is a little unsettling. This grave holds the record for ceramic figures. The most prominent is of a cherub making bunny-ears and face at a rabbit. The others include a few frogs, birds and other animals and angels. This is right next to another grave that has faded, cracked plastic Easter eggs hanging on a dead rosebush.
This is when I can understand management stepping in and enforcing the rules. Note to everyone who wants to grace someone's grave with something: give it a little thought. Remember that unless the wind blows it away or someone takes it, it will be there for a long time.
There are the ubiquitous flowers at many of the graves. Some real and some made from anything under the sun. I've seen beaded flowers, "silk" flowers in the most brazen colors not found in nature, fabric (or leather - I don't know; I didn't touch them) flowers and plastic flowers. I guess whoever puts them there figure they'll look better longer than real ones. True, it you like the look of fake flowers. However when they are past their prime they don't disintegrate nicely into the earth like those real ones. Seeing the old, faded, splitting plastic flowers near a flowering tree or shrub is, to me, like seeing a bones scattered about the graves among the living.
The shrines are interesting, though. One grave has a small basket with the following items: a garlic press, softball, 3 baseballs (one sealed and signed), a pizza slicer, spoon and a shell. Leaning on the headstone are a couple of newpaper articles, bottles of various spirits (no pun intended), small, polished stones engraved with names of herbs, a lantern and a fairy. The entire plot is otherwise covered with flowers - real, planted flowers. The rule is nothing outside of one foot distance from the headstone.
One more. There is a native-American looking wreath on one grave that has a dream catcher on it, feathers, a carved wooden flute and a glitter-covered "I love Dad" sign. Okay, but is it art? Mixed media, I guess.
I like reading the names on the headstones. Persis Proudfit is one of my favorites. Who hears names like that any more? Another is Icey Lucille Johnson. Icey Lucille. If ever there was a name begging for a ghost story, this is it. Icey lived to be only 19. Some more interesting names: Talmadge Thorne, Dicey Rhodes, Gladys Bean Sasscer, Minnie Munger, Hattie Shreve and Luttie O. Tapp. I noticed one name for the first time yesterday. It is carved on a narrow headstone, one with not much room for proper spacing. It reads: Albert L. Ives which, at a glance looks like Albert Lives!
I've saved the best for last - the party plot. This belongs to a Hispanic family that loves each other - those still alive and those passed. They gather regularly at the grave and it looks like a tailgate party complete with lawn furniture, barbeque, food, ice chests, liquor and cigars to party with the deceased. They leave the empties (one bottle of nice Scotch and carved wooden cigar box) behind not as trash but as a gesture of love and remembrance. I'll bet some of that scotch was poured into the ground. Next to this same grave is a Christmas tree with tiny pool balls hanging as ornaments. It has had balloons flying from it and still has a plaque and blue #1 Dad ribbon. Tacky? Yes. Loving? Oh, yes. They are always happy and greet me when I pass them. One day I'll stop to talk to them; since they don't strike me as the reverent type I don't think they'd mind.
I have a great uncle - Uncle Max - who doesn't want a sad, depressing funeral. My Uncle Max has a handle bar mustache and laughing eyes. He loves to sing Danny Boy. He wants to be buried with on eye open and a smirk on his face. He has left instructions that there will be no crying and no dirges at his wake or funeral; people are to laugh, tell jokes, jump up, click their heels together and fart. Now that's celebrating life.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Time on My Honds
I smell like a chicken. A cooked chicken - which is better than smelling like a living chicken (right, Hamers?). I've been preparing chicken and noodles for two days now. Just what are you supposed to do with that sack of junk (giblets) you pull out of the poor deceased chicken? They must be there post mortem for a reason. It's things like that that make me understand just driving to KFC and ordering out. (That and those yummy biscuits!)
These days have been like the first couple of months we lived here. I have no one to answer to so I can squander my days or use them. I'm still studying Russian though I'm not speaking with anyone - that's bad. I'm still exercising and having quiet time - that's good. My mind is turning to writing again. As I walk or relax I think of story ideas and I'm ready to get back to that part of my routine.
I was taking a walk the other day and thought how satisfied I would be if I loved noise. I was walking down a major road with lots of traffic. About half way home, I turned off to walk the rest of the way (a little longer) through a park with an ornamental tree garden - lovely. The first thing I heard was running water, ahh. Very soon was the sound of a buzz saw. Harrumph. Then I thought that perhaps I could tune into my other senses and not be as bothered by the noise around me. It was overcast, dark and there was no wind so what I felt on my skin was only the motion of air when my arms swung. It wasn't cold but there was no heat from the sun. I wasn't walking fast and hard enough to sweat (I know, I know). It smelled fresh and moist and sweet near the flowering trees. My eyes were teased as to whether or not they could make out the faintest shadow on the ground before me. All this I do because when I get to Tashkent I'm there for two years. Whatever is there is my world and I must live in it. I hope I like it but if I don't I want to be able to adjust. I'm grateful for the time I have to give attention to things like that.
Here's an update on Doug and I. (I hope I'm not repeating myself.) We are leaving the country on September 8th. We fly to Antwerp, Belgium so Doug can meet with our port authorities with whom he'll be working from Tashkent. His responsibilities in Tashkent as the General Services Officer are customs, shipping and motorpool. After we spend a few days in Antwerp (where I get to relax!) we fly to Tashkent and our new life begins.
In the meantime, we are (slowly) making a list of consumables to take with us. We are allowed 3,000 pounds to last us the two years. This is tough. Exactly how much toothpaste do YOU use in a year? Toilet paper? Anyone? I don't really want to run out of either of those goodies. I'm not planning on taking very much food with us - I want to eat locally. However, I must have ingredients for my favorite Christmas candy (yes, Caleb?) as well as these yummy chocolate covered raisins I've discovered. It is because of those little guys that I lost several pounds. Hey! At least half of them are good for me.
Then there's the issue of clothes. Most of my clothes are in storage and, at this point, I barely remember what I own. I have been hard to fit in the past. It's easier now, but it's still a challenge. I am told that the seamstresses and tailors in Tashkent are quite good and affordable. That sounds good. They suggest, however, bringing fabric with us. Hmm. That sounds complicated.
We have our housing assignment. We will be living in the compound near the Embassy. We really wanted to live away from the Embassy in another neighborhood where we'd be more immersed in the culture but there are advantages for both locations. We'll probably be safer nearer the Embassy. I will have to push myself to get out and experience Tashkent. I don't want to turn into one of those people who lives in another country and hangs out with Americans all day. Nothing personal. We are about a mile from a metro station and we will be bringing Doug's car. We will be living in a 3-bedroom house not an apartment (Yay!). We will have a garage and a yard. There is a common pool and gym plus tennis courts for our use.
Well, now the entire apartment smells like chicken. It's getting a little old now, if you know what I mean. Time to bring out the insense. (Proud of me, Caleb?) I guess I should let the rest of my readers (all three of you?) in on this. Caleb burned insense at our piano lessons. It was a great mood for good music. Unfortunately it occasionally overpowered the smell of the fresh-baked chocolte chip cookies - but, at least, I got to eat some of those!
These days have been like the first couple of months we lived here. I have no one to answer to so I can squander my days or use them. I'm still studying Russian though I'm not speaking with anyone - that's bad. I'm still exercising and having quiet time - that's good. My mind is turning to writing again. As I walk or relax I think of story ideas and I'm ready to get back to that part of my routine.
I was taking a walk the other day and thought how satisfied I would be if I loved noise. I was walking down a major road with lots of traffic. About half way home, I turned off to walk the rest of the way (a little longer) through a park with an ornamental tree garden - lovely. The first thing I heard was running water, ahh. Very soon was the sound of a buzz saw. Harrumph. Then I thought that perhaps I could tune into my other senses and not be as bothered by the noise around me. It was overcast, dark and there was no wind so what I felt on my skin was only the motion of air when my arms swung. It wasn't cold but there was no heat from the sun. I wasn't walking fast and hard enough to sweat (I know, I know). It smelled fresh and moist and sweet near the flowering trees. My eyes were teased as to whether or not they could make out the faintest shadow on the ground before me. All this I do because when I get to Tashkent I'm there for two years. Whatever is there is my world and I must live in it. I hope I like it but if I don't I want to be able to adjust. I'm grateful for the time I have to give attention to things like that.
Here's an update on Doug and I. (I hope I'm not repeating myself.) We are leaving the country on September 8th. We fly to Antwerp, Belgium so Doug can meet with our port authorities with whom he'll be working from Tashkent. His responsibilities in Tashkent as the General Services Officer are customs, shipping and motorpool. After we spend a few days in Antwerp (where I get to relax!) we fly to Tashkent and our new life begins.
In the meantime, we are (slowly) making a list of consumables to take with us. We are allowed 3,000 pounds to last us the two years. This is tough. Exactly how much toothpaste do YOU use in a year? Toilet paper? Anyone? I don't really want to run out of either of those goodies. I'm not planning on taking very much food with us - I want to eat locally. However, I must have ingredients for my favorite Christmas candy (yes, Caleb?) as well as these yummy chocolate covered raisins I've discovered. It is because of those little guys that I lost several pounds. Hey! At least half of them are good for me.
Then there's the issue of clothes. Most of my clothes are in storage and, at this point, I barely remember what I own. I have been hard to fit in the past. It's easier now, but it's still a challenge. I am told that the seamstresses and tailors in Tashkent are quite good and affordable. That sounds good. They suggest, however, bringing fabric with us. Hmm. That sounds complicated.
We have our housing assignment. We will be living in the compound near the Embassy. We really wanted to live away from the Embassy in another neighborhood where we'd be more immersed in the culture but there are advantages for both locations. We'll probably be safer nearer the Embassy. I will have to push myself to get out and experience Tashkent. I don't want to turn into one of those people who lives in another country and hangs out with Americans all day. Nothing personal. We are about a mile from a metro station and we will be bringing Doug's car. We will be living in a 3-bedroom house not an apartment (Yay!). We will have a garage and a yard. There is a common pool and gym plus tennis courts for our use.
Well, now the entire apartment smells like chicken. It's getting a little old now, if you know what I mean. Time to bring out the insense. (Proud of me, Caleb?) I guess I should let the rest of my readers (all three of you?) in on this. Caleb burned insense at our piano lessons. It was a great mood for good music. Unfortunately it occasionally overpowered the smell of the fresh-baked chocolte chip cookies - but, at least, I got to eat some of those!
Friday, July 2, 2010
I'm still here
I dropped a bomb in my last post and I'm ready to clean up now. In brief, my mom is back in her home after several weeks in a hospital and rehabilitation and maybe I'm not quite as selfish as I feared.
My mom suffered a low blood sugar diabetic episode which left her unconscious and, for a time, unrevivable. For a week or so she was in and out of consciousness (mostly out). She was thrashing around a bit trying to pull all the foreign objects that had been inserted into her out so they tied her to the bed. The day after I found out about my mother, my class had a field trip to a Russian grocery store planned. I decided to say nothing to the class until after the fun trip was over. I was fine with that until we passed an ambulance on the way and tears welled up at the thought of my mother being rushed at three in the morning unconscious to the hospital. When, at the end of the day, I told my teacher and classmates, they were very concerned and understanding. I was able to leave my phone on during class in case I got a phone call from my father. It was very difficult at times focusing to study with that picture of my mother in my mind. I kept imagining how scared and uncomfortable she was. I also kept thinking that I should be at her side so she could hear my voice (if, indeed, she would have heard me). I felt guilty for not being there for her and my dad and I felt guilty with the thought of walking away from my Russian studies early. For not being raised either Catholic or Jewish I sure suffer the guilt.
One of the foreign objects in my mom was a breathing tube down her throat. Even when she regained consciousness, she could not talk. To make matters worse, she lost motor skills and could not write. So there she lay unable to communicate. Furthermore, the breathing tube had irritated her throat to the point that it was too swollen for her to breathe on her own. Eventually she was given a temporary tracheotomy. When she could whisper her first word to my father was "Abby", their dog's name. Thanks, mom. I felt a bit like the father of the famous football players who yell "Hi, mom!" to the camera after a touchdown. Oh, well . . . Her next words were, "Why am I here?"
My heart was breaking. As I moved forward from chapter to chapter, my mother was in a dark, frustrating place in a state of confusion. I spoke with my father every day, often twice. He passed on any news which was too often during the first two weeks 'nothing new, no change'. To his great credit, he did a good job handling all he had to handle. My mother is the social secretary of their household. Now my father was answering calls from my mother's sisters, her Daughters of the American Revolution (D.A.R.) Chapter, the church, nosy neighbors, you name it. And he answered each one of them. Unfortunately my mother is also the tech support of their household and the answering machine quickly filled and he didn't know how to erase or retrieve messages. Nor does he know how to use e-mail. How he arrived at this place from his former life as an engineer I do not know. A very kind woman from the D.A.R. visited my mother and, with my father's permission, got information about her to forward onto my Aunt Katy. Unfortunately the information she passed on and the information that my father passed on didn't always agree. It was very frustrating not being there to know the truth. I had a code word (Abby) to get information over the phone about my mother but even that didn't always jibe.
One evening I had a message to call the hospital. This, I should mention, was before I was given the secret code to receive information about my mother. They needed my permission to remove or change or insert a feeding tube. Why didn't they call my father, I asked. They said they had a few times and he was not answering. Uh-oh. Now, of course, I'm picturing my father laying on the floor unconscious at home. I called him. No answer. I called again since sometimes he doesn't hear the phone or is outside. No answer. I knew none of their neighbors by name. The whole neighborhood has changed since I lived there - that's another story. My sister, who lives in Tempe, has nothing to do with my family so calling her was not an option. The only person who finally came to mind was my former vice-principal from elementary school who was also my mother's boss for some time. I found his number, he was home and he remembered me. He drove over to my parents house and found my father asleep in bed. He simply hadn't heard the phone. All was well.
All this, however, added to the urgency I felt to be in Phoenix. I was still plodding through a chapter a week looking forward to the blessed 'review week' when we do not take on a new chapter but review the past three. I remember being able to study, though. I didn't do as well on vocabulary as I had in the past. Partly, I think, because one of my times for vocabulary had been just before bed. The first week my mom was in the hospital, I was at the gym until midnight a few times because I couldn't sleep. But I was studying. I was pushing myself by signing up for "Walkie-Talkies". This is when one of the Russian teachers (not our own) takes about 45 minutes and chats with us about anything - in Russian. It's great practice. As my mother made more progress, I felt better about waiting to see her. I was hoping to be in Phoenix when she was finally released and sent home.
In time, my mother had her first meal - one of the requirements for moving into rehabilitation. The other was breathing on her own which the temporary tracheotomy provided. I will advise all of you readers to learn all you can about the human body. I paid just enough attention in school to pass the required tests. The amount of misinformation and miscommunication that I saw during my mothers ordeal was astounding. It is said that we know more about our cars (or televisions or Blackberries) than our bodies. I know this to NOT be true in my case but it is a good lesson.
I don't know if I've mentioned this before so forgive me if I'm repeating myself. As I sought the ability to carry on my life here as my mother and father suffered I recalled the tsunamis, earthquakes and other disasters that we humans have survived. I know this is dramatic but stay with me please. The tsunami really affected me in my thoughts. Here were people who lost everything and everyONE they had and yet they go on. That's strength. They probably didn't know they had it in them. We humans are capable of so much more than we realize. We just get soft because our troubles usually revolve around a malfunctioning car (or other technical thing which we own) or a missed payment on a house (which we were privileged to buy) a lost job (from which we may have severance or unemployment) or divorce (which may be ultimately for the best or even brought on ourself). Some of these are big problems but we are bigger. We are smarter. We are stronger. Especially together.
My mom did get released while I was in Phoenix and it looks like life is headed back to just about the way it was. My sister visited my mother several times and we had dinner together after my mom's release. Good medicine. To those of you who called or wrote your thoughts and support, thank you.
Have a great Fourth of July. I hear this is the BIG event in the embassies and consulates overseas. Lots of hotdogs! There is a story circulating about Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth who visited one of our embassies and was given a hotdog. She took it in her white gloved hand and inquired as to how it shoud be eaten. One of our diplomates took a big bite of his to show her. She then asked for a plate, knife and fork and commenced eating her hotdog. Oh, well . . .
My mom suffered a low blood sugar diabetic episode which left her unconscious and, for a time, unrevivable. For a week or so she was in and out of consciousness (mostly out). She was thrashing around a bit trying to pull all the foreign objects that had been inserted into her out so they tied her to the bed. The day after I found out about my mother, my class had a field trip to a Russian grocery store planned. I decided to say nothing to the class until after the fun trip was over. I was fine with that until we passed an ambulance on the way and tears welled up at the thought of my mother being rushed at three in the morning unconscious to the hospital. When, at the end of the day, I told my teacher and classmates, they were very concerned and understanding. I was able to leave my phone on during class in case I got a phone call from my father. It was very difficult at times focusing to study with that picture of my mother in my mind. I kept imagining how scared and uncomfortable she was. I also kept thinking that I should be at her side so she could hear my voice (if, indeed, she would have heard me). I felt guilty for not being there for her and my dad and I felt guilty with the thought of walking away from my Russian studies early. For not being raised either Catholic or Jewish I sure suffer the guilt.
One of the foreign objects in my mom was a breathing tube down her throat. Even when she regained consciousness, she could not talk. To make matters worse, she lost motor skills and could not write. So there she lay unable to communicate. Furthermore, the breathing tube had irritated her throat to the point that it was too swollen for her to breathe on her own. Eventually she was given a temporary tracheotomy. When she could whisper her first word to my father was "Abby", their dog's name. Thanks, mom. I felt a bit like the father of the famous football players who yell "Hi, mom!" to the camera after a touchdown. Oh, well . . . Her next words were, "Why am I here?"
My heart was breaking. As I moved forward from chapter to chapter, my mother was in a dark, frustrating place in a state of confusion. I spoke with my father every day, often twice. He passed on any news which was too often during the first two weeks 'nothing new, no change'. To his great credit, he did a good job handling all he had to handle. My mother is the social secretary of their household. Now my father was answering calls from my mother's sisters, her Daughters of the American Revolution (D.A.R.) Chapter, the church, nosy neighbors, you name it. And he answered each one of them. Unfortunately my mother is also the tech support of their household and the answering machine quickly filled and he didn't know how to erase or retrieve messages. Nor does he know how to use e-mail. How he arrived at this place from his former life as an engineer I do not know. A very kind woman from the D.A.R. visited my mother and, with my father's permission, got information about her to forward onto my Aunt Katy. Unfortunately the information she passed on and the information that my father passed on didn't always agree. It was very frustrating not being there to know the truth. I had a code word (Abby) to get information over the phone about my mother but even that didn't always jibe.
One evening I had a message to call the hospital. This, I should mention, was before I was given the secret code to receive information about my mother. They needed my permission to remove or change or insert a feeding tube. Why didn't they call my father, I asked. They said they had a few times and he was not answering. Uh-oh. Now, of course, I'm picturing my father laying on the floor unconscious at home. I called him. No answer. I called again since sometimes he doesn't hear the phone or is outside. No answer. I knew none of their neighbors by name. The whole neighborhood has changed since I lived there - that's another story. My sister, who lives in Tempe, has nothing to do with my family so calling her was not an option. The only person who finally came to mind was my former vice-principal from elementary school who was also my mother's boss for some time. I found his number, he was home and he remembered me. He drove over to my parents house and found my father asleep in bed. He simply hadn't heard the phone. All was well.
All this, however, added to the urgency I felt to be in Phoenix. I was still plodding through a chapter a week looking forward to the blessed 'review week' when we do not take on a new chapter but review the past three. I remember being able to study, though. I didn't do as well on vocabulary as I had in the past. Partly, I think, because one of my times for vocabulary had been just before bed. The first week my mom was in the hospital, I was at the gym until midnight a few times because I couldn't sleep. But I was studying. I was pushing myself by signing up for "Walkie-Talkies". This is when one of the Russian teachers (not our own) takes about 45 minutes and chats with us about anything - in Russian. It's great practice. As my mother made more progress, I felt better about waiting to see her. I was hoping to be in Phoenix when she was finally released and sent home.
In time, my mother had her first meal - one of the requirements for moving into rehabilitation. The other was breathing on her own which the temporary tracheotomy provided. I will advise all of you readers to learn all you can about the human body. I paid just enough attention in school to pass the required tests. The amount of misinformation and miscommunication that I saw during my mothers ordeal was astounding. It is said that we know more about our cars (or televisions or Blackberries) than our bodies. I know this to NOT be true in my case but it is a good lesson.
I don't know if I've mentioned this before so forgive me if I'm repeating myself. As I sought the ability to carry on my life here as my mother and father suffered I recalled the tsunamis, earthquakes and other disasters that we humans have survived. I know this is dramatic but stay with me please. The tsunami really affected me in my thoughts. Here were people who lost everything and everyONE they had and yet they go on. That's strength. They probably didn't know they had it in them. We humans are capable of so much more than we realize. We just get soft because our troubles usually revolve around a malfunctioning car (or other technical thing which we own) or a missed payment on a house (which we were privileged to buy) a lost job (from which we may have severance or unemployment) or divorce (which may be ultimately for the best or even brought on ourself). Some of these are big problems but we are bigger. We are smarter. We are stronger. Especially together.
My mom did get released while I was in Phoenix and it looks like life is headed back to just about the way it was. My sister visited my mother several times and we had dinner together after my mom's release. Good medicine. To those of you who called or wrote your thoughts and support, thank you.
Have a great Fourth of July. I hear this is the BIG event in the embassies and consulates overseas. Lots of hotdogs! There is a story circulating about Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth who visited one of our embassies and was given a hotdog. She took it in her white gloved hand and inquired as to how it shoud be eaten. One of our diplomates took a big bite of his to show her. She then asked for a plate, knife and fork and commenced eating her hotdog. Oh, well . . .
Saturday, May 15, 2010
An old demon revisiting
Hello. My name is Laura Rose and I’m selfish.
For alcoholics there is help to be found in Alcoholics Anonymous. For overeaters, there is Overeaters Anonymous. For people who talk too much there’s On and On Anon. (Hee-hee! Sorry I couldn’t resist.) Often there is nothing anonymous about being selfish. Selfish people tend to be obvious; they are greedy, self-centered, unconcerned with following rules or laws, they don’t listen to others and may talk a lot and the most obvious of all – they don’t share. Some of us are more closeted. The selfishness lies within our thoughts and rarely manifests itself outwardly. Some of you know me well and may (or may not) be surprised to be reading this about me. I love people. I loved teaching piano and being a part of your lives and making a difference. I often bent over backward for my students because they deserved it and I wanted to and we all relished the results. So outwardly I probably did not appear to be particularly selfish. And, frankly, compared with who I was in my 20’s I have stepped outside of myself considerably. Well my old demon is alive and kicking this week.
I got some bad news Thursday night. My father called to tell me that my mother is in intensive care in the hospital. Briefly, this is what I know. She lost consciousness. He could not revive her nor could the paramedics. She was admitted into one hospital, transferred to another, put on a respirator and is now stable (though sedated and in and out of consciousness) with little to no help from an IV. They suspect an embolism and want to do a CAT scan or MRI on her but she is not breathing strongly enough on her own for that so we are, at this posting, waiting. This is not something selfish people like to do.
I was pretty stunned when he told me but, given my mom’s weakening health over the last several years, I was not caught completely off guard. Reality is rarely what we think it will be. My first reaction was getting all the facts I could from my father and asking him how he was doing in all this.
My second reaction? Brace yourself. ‘Oh, I don’t have to study tonight because I can say I was too upset.’
Poor me.
My dear mother is in the hospital and I’ve found an out to doing homework. Lovely.
Now, the good part of this is that I immediately recognized what I was trying to do and, after making a call or two, I studied. A little. I perhaps should mention that my class was scheduled for a field trip to a Russian grocery store the next morning and I had specific vocabulary and phrases to learn and use.
I had a little chat with myself about how I was capable of being worried and studying at the same time. I told myself that if other human beings could survive earthquakes and tsunamis then I could be scared and sad for my mother and learn a few Russian words and phrases. I threw in the old “she would want that.” I told myself to not tell my class about it until after the field trip. Holding news inside is easy for me if it is confidential but difficult for me if it is not.
On the way to the Russian store we had to move and stop for two ambulances. This made me teary because I realized that my mother had to be transported to the hospital in an ambulance. I realized as the tears welled up that I could stop them or let them flow. I considered the others noticing and half hoped they would. I did stop the tears because we had all been looking forward to this trip and I didn’t want to spoil it on any level. It just bothers me that I have been so fixated on myself.
Now, so I don’t paint too horrible a picture of myself, let me say that I have been thinking about my mother. I’ve called and spoken to the nurse, I’ve written my mother, I’m praying a lot for her, etc. I’m debating whether or not I should hop the next plane to be by her side. Even that decision is fraught with selfless and selfish thoughts:
- What good could I do there? Support my dad. This, of course begs the question, could my dad and I live under the same roof without my mother refereeing? Do I really want to find out? Does he? Show physical support for my mother – be there when she wakes up. I don’t think she’d want me to see her full of tubes. Then again, she always wants to see me. She has a living will so I don’t want to be this far away from her. This is scary.
- I’d miss Russian class. This would bother my mother and me; it would make us both feel guilty.
- I’d be away from Doug. This would be hard on us, though he is busy with Russian classes and our time together is often spent in silent studying.
- And the question that no one in my position can answer: When should I go there? If I go now and she gets sent home with a clear bill of health and I return, what if something happens the next week. Not to be real crass but flying back and forth gets burdensome and EXPENSIVE. Selfish.
- If I fly there now, I’ll miss the yard party at Jean and Ed’s Saturday. This was a doozy for me. I am so ashamed that I actually weighed missing a yard party with being at my sick mother’s side.
I hate this.
Anyone out there been through this and have any advice.
As I write I wonder if I'm making too big a deal out of all these thoughts. Maybe I'm just a little paranoid of reverting back to the old me so I latch on to any potential sign of it. I hope that's all this is. My mom reads my blog - when she's conscious - and I don't want her to think she raised this selfish thing nor do I want her to think that she has caused any of this.
It could be that all this intensive self-examination may be my way of not finding myself thinking about my mother laying in the hospital bed with her hands tied (so she doesn't pull the respirator tube out of her throat).
I guess this is why we (I) write.
For alcoholics there is help to be found in Alcoholics Anonymous. For overeaters, there is Overeaters Anonymous. For people who talk too much there’s On and On Anon. (Hee-hee! Sorry I couldn’t resist.) Often there is nothing anonymous about being selfish. Selfish people tend to be obvious; they are greedy, self-centered, unconcerned with following rules or laws, they don’t listen to others and may talk a lot and the most obvious of all – they don’t share. Some of us are more closeted. The selfishness lies within our thoughts and rarely manifests itself outwardly. Some of you know me well and may (or may not) be surprised to be reading this about me. I love people. I loved teaching piano and being a part of your lives and making a difference. I often bent over backward for my students because they deserved it and I wanted to and we all relished the results. So outwardly I probably did not appear to be particularly selfish. And, frankly, compared with who I was in my 20’s I have stepped outside of myself considerably. Well my old demon is alive and kicking this week.
I got some bad news Thursday night. My father called to tell me that my mother is in intensive care in the hospital. Briefly, this is what I know. She lost consciousness. He could not revive her nor could the paramedics. She was admitted into one hospital, transferred to another, put on a respirator and is now stable (though sedated and in and out of consciousness) with little to no help from an IV. They suspect an embolism and want to do a CAT scan or MRI on her but she is not breathing strongly enough on her own for that so we are, at this posting, waiting. This is not something selfish people like to do.
I was pretty stunned when he told me but, given my mom’s weakening health over the last several years, I was not caught completely off guard. Reality is rarely what we think it will be. My first reaction was getting all the facts I could from my father and asking him how he was doing in all this.
My second reaction? Brace yourself. ‘Oh, I don’t have to study tonight because I can say I was too upset.’
Poor me.
My dear mother is in the hospital and I’ve found an out to doing homework. Lovely.
Now, the good part of this is that I immediately recognized what I was trying to do and, after making a call or two, I studied. A little. I perhaps should mention that my class was scheduled for a field trip to a Russian grocery store the next morning and I had specific vocabulary and phrases to learn and use.
I had a little chat with myself about how I was capable of being worried and studying at the same time. I told myself that if other human beings could survive earthquakes and tsunamis then I could be scared and sad for my mother and learn a few Russian words and phrases. I threw in the old “she would want that.” I told myself to not tell my class about it until after the field trip. Holding news inside is easy for me if it is confidential but difficult for me if it is not.
On the way to the Russian store we had to move and stop for two ambulances. This made me teary because I realized that my mother had to be transported to the hospital in an ambulance. I realized as the tears welled up that I could stop them or let them flow. I considered the others noticing and half hoped they would. I did stop the tears because we had all been looking forward to this trip and I didn’t want to spoil it on any level. It just bothers me that I have been so fixated on myself.
Now, so I don’t paint too horrible a picture of myself, let me say that I have been thinking about my mother. I’ve called and spoken to the nurse, I’ve written my mother, I’m praying a lot for her, etc. I’m debating whether or not I should hop the next plane to be by her side. Even that decision is fraught with selfless and selfish thoughts:
- What good could I do there? Support my dad. This, of course begs the question, could my dad and I live under the same roof without my mother refereeing? Do I really want to find out? Does he? Show physical support for my mother – be there when she wakes up. I don’t think she’d want me to see her full of tubes. Then again, she always wants to see me. She has a living will so I don’t want to be this far away from her. This is scary.
- I’d miss Russian class. This would bother my mother and me; it would make us both feel guilty.
- I’d be away from Doug. This would be hard on us, though he is busy with Russian classes and our time together is often spent in silent studying.
- And the question that no one in my position can answer: When should I go there? If I go now and she gets sent home with a clear bill of health and I return, what if something happens the next week. Not to be real crass but flying back and forth gets burdensome and EXPENSIVE. Selfish.
- If I fly there now, I’ll miss the yard party at Jean and Ed’s Saturday. This was a doozy for me. I am so ashamed that I actually weighed missing a yard party with being at my sick mother’s side.
I hate this.
Anyone out there been through this and have any advice.
As I write I wonder if I'm making too big a deal out of all these thoughts. Maybe I'm just a little paranoid of reverting back to the old me so I latch on to any potential sign of it. I hope that's all this is. My mom reads my blog - when she's conscious - and I don't want her to think she raised this selfish thing nor do I want her to think that she has caused any of this.
It could be that all this intensive self-examination may be my way of not finding myself thinking about my mother laying in the hospital bed with her hands tied (so she doesn't pull the respirator tube out of her throat).
I guess this is why we (I) write.
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