A Disjointed Perspective; Love and Courage

“Didn’t we eat sap from trees one time? Ten year old Joshua asks as he licks the maple syrup dripping off his fork.

“I vaguely remember that Josh…I think it was something we did at the homeschool co-op.”

“Well it didn’t taste good like this.” He says making sure to clean off every bit of sweet goodness that has covered his fingers.

“Ahhh, good old corn syrup!” Eric says, also licking his fingers and explaining to Josh the difference between a manufactured corn syrup product made to taste like maple syrup and the real thing. Eric’s lecture on the importance of real foods and the dangers of modified corn products fades into a pleasant background white noise. His voice is soothing, so is this Norman Rockwell like scene of a family morning brunch. My half awake teenage daughter is quietly nibbling at her breakfast, still comfortable in her flannel pajamas, Josh and Eric are having a pleasant conversation with one another, Jamie, my 17 year old has emerged from his cave in the basement. The smell of our fresh bacon and buttermilk pancakes made with eggs gathered this morning will coax Jamie out of bed before 11am on his day off where otherwise he would sleep past noon. “Butter”, our big fat yellow lab sits obediently far enough from the corner of the table so as not to be obnoxious but close enough to take care of any accidental spills or discreet hand outs of bacon fat that might come his way. Looking out over the deck a wash of bright yellow daffodils and spring green buds on the rose bushes surround the pool that the kids recently uncovered in anticipation of 80 plus degree sunny days soon to come. I turn to look out of the huge wooden framed bay windows that look to me like windows that belong in a captains quarters section of an elegant 1800’s wooden ship. The windows overlook the barn and the pasture; the cows are grazing on fresh spring grass. The lambs, when not nursing are bouncing around playful and happy. I am having a (hopefully more than momentary) reprieve from this latest illness. Was it just yesterday that I feared dying cold and lonely, homeless and unloved? Was it just yesterday I sat in this same room with theses same people overlooking these same views? Why, yes it was, but yesterday I was extremely sick. The same views out of the same windows held only mud and muck, endless chores and reminders of hemorrhaging money. These same people, who today are a quaint loving little family yesterday appeared to me to be thoughtless strangers who could care less if I lived or died.

This last bout of an acute phase of being chronically ill has lasted for about six weeks. The last three of these weeks have thrown me into an illness induced isolation and as my description of my vacillating perspective of my surroundings above suggest I am also suffering from psychosis. My lungs, as heavy, dark and wet as this Spring’s rainy clouds, have kept me mostly in bed and constantly in my robe. I feel like my robe has grown a cowl and I have transformed into an image of the ancient hermit Diogenes of Sinope. I feel thin and pale, slightly crazy and cynical. The coffee cup I carry, I imagine becomes Diogenes lantern that he carried in the daylight “in search of an honest man”. In his quest to find an honest man, a search perhaps to find some sort of anchor from which he could hold onto a realistic perspective when life becomes overwhelming and hard to decipher. Diogenes believed human beings live artificially and hypocritically and would do well to study the dog. The word cynic is derived from the Greek word kynikos, the adjective form of kyon meaning dog. Diogenes, not finding what he was searching for either in himself or others chose to live as a dog, naked with no possessions, performing “natural” acts regardless of whether they were preformed in public or privately. Like a dog he simply responded to his bodily needs or desires as they would arise, so to speak.

We all need to retreat sometimes; retreat and renewal are necessary for growth. The Hermit goes into a dark seclusion to integrate the lessons of the sunlit world. Treasures can be uncovered through contemplation of what is brought forth. Monsters also may be found. In retreat and isolation the hermit faces the potentially dangerous aspect of being tempted to completely withdraw from the world, not because the journey is done, but because the dragons of the real world are too daunting, or because the trivial pleasures of the cave are too intoxicating. Withdraw at the wrong time or staying withdrawn too long will ensure that spiritual growth will stop.

My dangerous hermits cave consists of the three rooms I occupy day after day after day. This Illness induced seclusion I am experiencing , in my mind for some reason, doesn’t seem to hold the opportunity for spiritual growth as a voluntary hermitage would, although I certainly am discovering plenty of monsters. Diogenes had the direction of the oracle of Delphi guiding him in how to navigate the sea of monsters he found within and outside of himself…I am venturing forth on this voyage alone. The monsters I am discovering are my own as I struggle with accepting and simultaneously fighting this illness. Monsters of my own guilt and shame, helplessness and unworthiness rear their ugly heads and I become needy and co-dependant, ironically pushing everyone away. Cynical like Diogenes with a side of psychosis panic I decided yesterday that I was dying of some rare disease. In my panic I contacted the nurse who attended to me on my last Emergency Room visit. While in the ER I was able to cover my altered state of mind with that cynical humor that seems to develop for us hermits. Scott, my ER nurse is the husband of a friend of mine and the poor misled guy suspected me to be of sane mind and gave me his cell number. “Feel free to call me Kerri if you have any questions.” He said. I spared him the exposure to the frantic conversation I knew would ensue and texted him instead of calling hoping to mask my exaggerated anxiety but to no avail. “Scott, it’s been six weeks. I’m not any better. Any suggestions?” I wrote. Vague I thought…he won’t suspect my insanity from this text.

“Perhaps it’s time you go see a pulmonologists.” Scott writes back.

“Eeeek! A pulmonologists! I knew I was dying! “Maybe I should see an immunologists too. I think I have TB!!!!. I think I’m dying!!!!!” I responded including all those exclamation points so Scott would understand how very sick I was. I had been up all night researching my symptoms. Besides suffering from illness induced depression and psychosis, which I suspect are very real, I also discovered I have all the symptoms of tuberculosis, which I suspect are mental products of my depression and psychosis and NOT real….but I am certainly in no position to make that distinction. I probably could have convinced myself of having contracted about a hundred other scary diseases, TB just happened to be my focus on Google search that evening.

“What?!?! You are freaking out!!!” Scott replies in his text.

I text back “I know… sorry.”

“Look, an unusually long period of a common illness is way more common than contracting some rare disease. Besides your blood work and last xrays were fine. It’s all a matter of perspective” Scott texts me…I can almost hear his annoyance and I wish I would have never texted him at all. My needy panicky behavior is transparent even in a text! Its like I’m drowning and I don’t care who I grab onto or how I might annoy, hurt, or push them trying to stay afloat myself. No wonder everyone is backing away from me. That was the last text I received from Scott and I sheepishly pulled the covers over my head vowing silently to myself not to try to talk to anyone “on the outside” again. My perspective is skewed and surreal. My perception of the world has become distorted like one of Salvador Dalí’s melty, ethereal paintings. Clearly, I’ve crossed the line into insanity, having lived like a hermit for far too long, the dragons in the real world are too daunting to take on. Unlike Diogenes I don’t care to display my “hermitage” publicly. I’ll just lie here with my eyes shut tight and ear plugs in because I can no longer trust what I hear, see or think and subsequently say to be of a realistic perspective nor to make sense to anyone else. I will just lie here until either I get better or die…hopefully quickly….I don’t care which one.

That thought lasted all of five minutes then I realized I have four kids that rely on ME. Arrrgghh! I kick off the stupid covers and drag myself to the computer. If I’m going to die I can’t leave the kids with all this financial mess. I emailed my ex to see which kids I am supposed to claim on the tax returns this year.

“You’re late in filing your taxes.” My ex writes back as if I didn’t know. Jim has always been under the impression that I am dumb. I suppose I let him think that all those years because it was easier to hide that way.

“No shit…” I start to write but then decide to be a little gentler “Really? I did not know that…(insert sarcasm here).” I wrote. “Just tell me which kids I get to claim please”

At this point Jim-berly (I like to add the “berly” to his name to make it feminine. I always accused him of not being a real man when we were married and I suspect things have not changed much since I left) decides to write me an email lecture on how I waste my time bloging and doing yoga but claim I am too sick to file my taxes. I read his harsh condescending words but did not respond. Jimberly would represent one of the Dragons in the outside world, my reaction to him one of the monsters. But I don’t need for him to understand me or my choices today besides I got the information I needed and sent off my figures to my accountant. Next on the list are bills.

Greg. I owe Greg a lot of money. He is an acupuncturists and Chinese herbalists specializing in Lyme disease. I have been seeing him for nearly two years. Adhering to my self imposed rule of no phone calls today as I tie up loose ends before I get well or die, I email him. “Greg, I know I have not made my April payment. Sorry. Just filed my taxes. As soon as the returns come in it’s yours.”

I was surprised that Greg wrote back immediately. I have not been in for treatment in a couple of months and assumed I had burned some kind of bridge there with my lack of communication. “How are you feeling? Don’t worry about the money right now.” He wrote.
I wrote back and told him how sick I have been”…I don’t think it has anything to do with Lyme this time though I think my body is just weak and susceptible to infection and incapable of healing at a normal rate.”
“I can see you at 4:30.” He writes back and I find myself driving to his office with a little bit of hope.
I have never met anyone like Greg nor have I ever experienced any type of healing treatment like he provides. Greg is a Sufi healer so “bringing out the demons” is all part of treatment, and something I am apparently in desperate need of. Two Frogs Healing Center (Greg’s clinic) is located in an historic building in downtown Frederick. The old settled and crooked corner brick building was originally the town’s butcher shop. I’m quite certain that my grandparents and great grand parents purchased meats at this very spot. In fact, Nanny, my Great Grandmother lived right on this very same street. As I sit in the chair in Greg’s office waiting for him I think of Nanny and try to conjure up her strong spirit.

Nanny’s husband, my great grandfather was a cop during prohibition. He was shot and killed in the line of duty when he busted a moonshine still operation on South Mountain just west of Frederick and in fact very near to where I live now. Officer Clyde Haulver was tragically shot and killed when…reads one of the pages of the “Historic Frederick” book Greg has in his waiting room. My Great-grandfather’s old faded photo in the center of the page and the article of his bravery and ultimate sacrifice in the line of duty immortalizes him on these pages as a great and fearless hero…but I know the truth. My Great-grandfather was a lousy husband and terrible with money (much like Jimberly) and it didn’t help that he was having an affair with probably more than one woman. When he was killed Nanny emerged from the role of quiet dutiful wife and became a strong and unshakable force. I remember sitting on Nanny’s porch as she would tell me the story of the day when the state tried to take away her three children after Clyde’s death because she had no money to provide for them. Clyde was too busy purchasing gifts for his lovers to leave his wife and children any money I suppose. Nanny literally pushed the officers out of her house who were trying to take her kids and locked the door. “I will have my financial affairs in order by the end of the week!” she yelled through the locked door. “Come back then but not before. I have Clyde’s guns and I know how to use them.” She threatened and I highly suspect she not only knew how to use them but would not hesitate to do so! Apparently Nanny, though only having a 6^th grade education was no dummy, and never pretended to be. That very week she sold her house for a good profit, bought two smaller houses, lived on the first floor of one and rented out rooms. This provided her with a steady income and she was able to keep her children. Not only did she keep her kids but her real-estate business blossomed and she had enough money to pursue other business ventures opening a general store in town and managing several other small businesses. I can’t picture Nanny as young. I see her as I remember her. Old and solid, her blue eyes, like mine- loving-but Nanny was careful to have filters and boundaries with people. The loving blue eyes she shared only with a few. Not afraid to cry, not afraid to feel and not afraid to do whatever it took, no matter what anyone thought to take care of herself and her children Nanny achieved social, financial and personal success. She had a full and happy life that she made for herself and her children. NO ONE took advantage of her. She never remarried and lived well in to her nineties. The image of Nanny faded from my mind as Greg walked in with his clip board and little microphone which he uses to record our sessions.

Greg looks young like he could be twenty-five years old except that he has salt and pepper silver hair and he is far too wise to only be in his twenty’s. He is slender and wears thick glasses which aesthetically contribute to his brainy sort of straight-laced personality. Greg is always gentle and focused. Every now and then he will surprise me with an attempt at a joke that’s often presented with poor timing. We will be in the middle of some deep insight, identifying and lifting the demons from the dark recessed corners of my heart and he will crack a joke…maybe he does this on purpose, like a psychologist who’s patient is in a deep hypnotic state and about to enter a place they just might not yet be emotionally strong enough to embrace, a snap of the fingers and the patient is back in the room back to reality safe from the terror in her own heart and mind…Greg’s jokes work like that. When I went in for my weekly Lyme treatment Greg would first ask me my physical symptoms, then ask me “How does that make you feel? (emotionally)” Then he would ask me to give the pain, either physical or emotional a voice and figure out who’s voice it was and give it a name, This part of the treatment was way more painful than the countless needles that would get stuck in various parts of my body during the acupuncture.

On this visit I sat curled up in the chair, arms and legs crossed and face turned sideways “Greg, I’m too sick to give this illness a voice today.” I refused to open up emotionally. “I’m too tired to cry…ok?”

“Ok, let’s get you on the table and check your pulse.” Greg put down his clipboard and left the room while I undressed and got on the table. We started with cupping “Cupping has been around for thousands of years since the time of Abraham and is thought to be the cure for all diseases…”Greg recites this every time we do cupping…I think it’s some sort of prayer, I don’t know. I never asked and he never told me. During the treatment I asked about his family, the business, what sorts of fun plans he had for the weekend. I don’t want to talk about me. While I was on the table I felt the congestion in my chest begin to loosen and move. “Something is different” I told Greg.

“Okay, what do you feel you need now?” he asked.

“I want to be warm.” I answered. We proceed with a moxa treatment which are little herbal volcanoes that are placed on various parts of my back and lit on fire. As soon as I feel the heat Greg scoops them up and lights another, like one would strategically light a fire work display. As the heat penetrated into my lungs I began to feel warm and I started to sweat. I felt an energy- like somehow this treatment had rebooted a circuit that had been shut down for far too long.

“That’s enough” I told Greg. “I feel I need some cupping on the front of my chest. There’s still some congestion that I don’t think you can reach from the back.”  As Greg placed the two cups on my chest, over my lungs and right above my boobs I started to laugh. These cups are small rounded clear plastic vacuums. On the tops of the cups are little red nipples that fit into a device that sucks the air out of the cup drawing mounds of flesh into the cups and blood to the surface of the skin and causing movement and loosening of “stuck” energy, lymph, toxins, phlegm, etc. When I looked down I saw these two plastic perky little “bobbies” on my upper chest and Greg was looking at me with a straight face. I started to laugh so hard I cried. He managed to crack a little smile at my amusement I think more than the actual scene. At this point my phone rang. It was my kids. “Yes Jamie.” I answered still laughing.

“Mom!” Jamie sounded unusually abrasive. He is my calm go with the flow kid. “Where are you?” he yells.

“I’m at the doctors Jamie. You know that.”

“You SAID you would only be an hour! I need to get to my dads house and you need to take me!” He was really angry. I hated this. Jamie is almost always loving and sweet to me. Plus Elizabeth texted me at the same time: “how much longer I’m bored”

 Sorry you’re bored sweetheart How selfish of me to try to find some help not to die, I thought.

“I’m sorry Jamie, I am naked on a doctors table…you don’t need any more details…but I can’t just hop up and leave right now. I am trying to get well son. I have been sick for so long be a little patient would you?” At this point Jamie yelled at me and then hung up on me. I was no longer laughing but quiet hurt. I already felt worthless and guilty. The monsters of guilt shame helplessness and unworthiness dredged up during my hermitage, took over my spirit once again and Greg saw the opportunity and pounced on me. “What are you feeling?” He asked

“Damn ungrateful kids!” I yelled trying to hold back the tears.

“Go ahead” Greg urges “Just let out what ever is in there don’t censor it.”

“Okay you asked for it.” I warned him. I felt odd dropping “F” bombs in front of proper straight-laced Greg but I also felt safe. What difference did it make at this point? I thought. I was naked (under sheets) on a table, needles and mini lit volcanoes on my body, two little plastic perky bobbies exposed what did I possibly have to hide from this man?

“F” them!” I said “maybe I just won’t pick them up at all!” When I said this I started to cough and everything in my chest became dislodged and clear. The constriction felt like it had loosened and I could breathe.

“Sooo…what just happened?” Greg asked as if he already knew.

After I struggle for a bit in my own mind to figure out what just happened I finally said; “When I let go of the impossible obligation I hold myself to of being in five places at once for my kids, being everything for everybody, giving them everything they want all the time so they will love me my chest seemed like it let go. I felt the sadness of letting it be okay that Jamie was angry with me, not trying to make him love me and what ever was stuck in my lungs moved and came up.”

Greg looked down at me over his glasses and asked “So, are we done now?”

“Yes.” I looked up and realized what has just happened... When mind, body and spirit are all connected and flowing together dis-ease lifts and healing has a chance to begin. He removed the cups, said a prayer and left the room while I got up to get dressed.

I looked through the slits in the blinds on the window as I dressed. I could see Nanny’s house. I don’t think Nanny allowed any monsters of codependent, helpless victim behavior to take control over her life like I do. I begged her spirit to teach me how to have courage, how to love.

            When I returned home with my sullen teenagers in tow I felt only slightly hopeful.  As beautiful as this farm and the space I have created in these three rooms are it’s still a cave.  When I opened the door and looked around at the very familiar rooms, in my unstable mind I saw isolation and illness personified and dripping from the walls on the inside mimicking the incessant rain cascading out of the clogged gutters like mini waterfalls on the deck.  I sighed and dropped my bags in a chair closed my bedroom door and prepared to pull the covers up over my head again when my phone rang.  It was my oldest son Seth.
            “Hi Pooh.”  I answered.
            “I haven’t eaten all day….” Seth began then stopped.
            “What’s wrong?” I asked but already knew.  Seth is struggling with some of life’s heavy burdens.  As hard as it is to see him in pain I am happy that at 23 he is aware that he needs to work on some issues, aware that he has issues.  When I was 23 I buried any feeling I had so deep in alcohol there was no way any emotion other than anger could surface…which I hate to admit is partly why Seth struggles today.  But I cannot help him if I beat myself up for the past…I shook myself out of the grip of those monsters of blame and guilt and listened to my son.
            “Mom, it’s like this is all there really is!”  He tells me desperately.  “I feel happy and hopeful for a while but it always ends up back here, back to apathy.  Nothing makes sense nothing matters.  This is reality.  The rest is a dream.  I am questioning my choice to continue to exist.”
            My heart sank at the last words Seth spoke.  This phone call snapped me out of my depression much like Greg’s poorly timed jokes snap me out of an inner journey that has gone to far. There is something about being a mom that can bring forth great strength and courage when one of my children needs me.  I suddenly felt stronger than I have in months, sort of like when I was giving birth.  I find the permanent empowerment of the experience of childbirth an amazing gift.  Once I experienced that holy place of birth-of letting go and at the same time fully participating with my body, mind, spirit and my baby I’ve always been able to go back to that place, if I choose and draw on that power when I need it.  Feeling like I had been reeled back down to the earth, the walls no longer oozing frightening emotions I sat down calmly and confidently talked with my son, from my heart.
            “Seth, this apathy you feel is real, the pain is real, but so is the joy, the love and the feeling of hope and satisfaction that you experience.  It’s just that everything is temporary.  There is an ebb and a flow.  This feeling, this current reality will pass then you will experience joy to be your reality, then that will pass and so on.  Apathy and pain are not your entire foundation, just a piece of it. It’s all about perspective.”  I echo Scott’s words here…understanding their value.  I may not have the Orcale of Delphi guiding me but there certainly is a strength, a truth a knowing inside of me that when I allow it to surface anchors me and guides me. My surroundings become crystal clear despite my physical and mental condition and I can be fully present for my son.  I realized that, if I so choose, I can also be fully present for myself as I struggle with the similar pain that Seth is going through. 
            After our conversation I called Seth’s long time friend and asked him to help.  Seth and a few of his friends came to spend the weekend with me.  Watching him sit with the pain and work through it, not bury it gives me hope and a reminder of what he and I can both accomplish.  I also see the value in reaching out to friends.  Seth, like me feels like he’s pushed everyone away, like he has nothing to offer but from my perspective and his friends perspectives he is a brilliant wonderful young man with many gifts and opportunities.  Clearly people want to be around him as is proved my house filled with twenty-something year olds here just to support Seth all weekend. 

The Brunch table family scene that I began this story with ended with Elizabeth, wandering back to her room to read or chat with friends, Josh, heading outside with the dog and his football, Eric is off to do whatever it is Eric does and Jamie made some calls and plans for his day.  I was left with the dishes the views from the windows and my thoughts.

Since writing this piece my glimpse at health was unfortunately a short one.  I’m back to the struggle. Writing, putting it all down on paper helps me to realize that I have a choice in how I perceive and subsequently deal with these monsters and dragons no matter how disjointed my perspective and my writing are at the moment. Nanny certainly could have chosen to see the dragons of her outer world too daunting a challenge, the monsters of her inner world, to scary to look at and conquer. Barricading herself in her home for a week she chose not to succumb to the intoxicating perceived safety of a hermits cave but utilized that time to figure out how to navigate uncharted waters sailing over the perceptions of dragons and finding her way.  Every moment is a choice.  Trying to perceive what is real through the murky glass of the closed door in my cave I risk staying inside these rooms and melting into them, ceasing to exist in the real world.  If I open the door I can take with me what I have found in seclusion and create my own reality…it’s all a matter of perspective.

“A coward is incapable of exhibiting love; it is the prerogative of the brave.”
 Gandhi

Suspended in Time

Driving down route 17 my friend Linda is in the passenger seat beside me.  “Doesn’t Linda know she’s dead?”  I think to myself but don’t want to say out loud because I think the information would startle her.  I reach in front of her and flip the visor up.  If she were to look in the mirror she would see that her body is translucent.  She keeps on talking to me about the new recipe she wants to try for her boys.

“I know the twins will love it.”  Linda says and reaches into her bag to take out her shopping list.  I am driving her to the store because as usual Linda is drunk. Even when she’s dead she’s still drunk!  I wonder if she will get that dinner made for her boys before she passes out this afternoon.  Linda stops talking and starts to wheeze. It’s a terrifying rattling sound and I look into her eyes which are full of terror. Oh my God! She can’t breathe!

          As my eyes fly open the hazy fog of sleep begins to lift and the line between dreaming and reality become clear.  It’s not Linda wheezing.  It’s me!  I can’t breathe! Crap…I don’t have time for this.  I knock on Elizabeth’s door.  “Hey, I have to go to the emergency room.  Wanna come with me.”

I open the door and out pours sweet scents of flowery perfumes. Elizabeth stretches under her ironman sheets that she bought to be silly.  Her room is dimly lit by a colored light bulb in a soft hue of blue and it reminds me of walking through the earth and space science lab when I was in grade school. The black light in the tunnel leading to the planetarium, a tunnel then a doorway into another world always fascinated me.

“Sure,” she sits up on one elbow “I’ve always wanted to see what it’s like in the ER, I’ve never been.” 

“Gee, thanks Elizabeth,” I wheeze at her. “I’m fine, don’t worry about me.” 

She giggles “Well, maybe if you would stop quoting in a British accent ‘I’m not dead’ from Monty Python I would take you more seriously…Sorry mama, are you ok?” she asks sweetly.

“I think I have pneumonia. And ‘Bring out your dead.’” I think the humor is helpful in keeping us both calm.

“Oh, Is pneumonia very bad?” she mumbled still only half awake.

“I’ll be okay but it’s Sunday and I don’t think I should wait until tomorrow to get on antibiotics.”  Seeing that the beds of my fingernails are a deep purple hue and my skin has a blue cast to it, even when I’m not bathed in the light from Elizabeth’s lamp, going to the ER is probably a prudent thing to do.

          Driving into town the sun is just beginning to come up.  I wish Elizabeth could drive I feel so weak and dizzy.  To stay alert I ask Elizabeth to tell me a story.

“I’m too tired,” she yawns “You tell me a story.”

I tell her my dream about Linda.

“Ohhh!  That’s creepy.” Elizabeth sort of shudders and brushes her arms as if to remove some sort of cursed dust that might have fallen on her as the story of my dream seems linger in the air and hover over us.

“Yeah, it was sort of creepy.” I agree.  “Poor Linda. She just couldn’t handle the weight this world sometimes brings.”

“She overdosed on purpose right?” Elizabeth asks.

“No one is sure but certainly she would still be here if she did not drink so heavily. I wonder how her boys are doing?”

          Driving to the hospital at the crack of dawn my mind travels back to the time when I was often driving before dawn on my way to attend a birth.  I was drinking in those days, almost as much a Linda.  It is absolutely miraculous to me that I never missed a birth, never showed up drunk, terribly, terribly hung over but never drunk, and that I did not have an accident on the way to the births as I would often be sobering up on the ride to the hospital or birthing center.  As if reading my mind Elizabeth says, “This is sort of like when you would leave in the middle of the night to go deliver a baby…`cept, of course, I was not going with you, I always wanted to though.  What was the most memorable birth you attended mom?”  I imagine Elizabeth would like to hear a more upbeat story about the magic of birth to replace the creepy dream and the thought of Linda’s tragic death.

          I don’t have to search my memory banks for long, the most memorable birth is right in the forefront of my mind. It was June when Beth called me.  “Hi my name is Beth and I want to hire a doula to attend the birth of my second child.” The very articulate and professional/formal sounding woman says to me.

“Hi Beth, my name is Kerri, I can help you. When are you due?”

In our phone conversation I perform the typical routine of gathering necessary information and filling out all the proper forms. There were three specific aspects of this case that were not typical of my usual clients. One was that her due date was the very next day, secondly she hired me right over the phone and thirdly was the way she had become pregnant, for the both the first and second times.

“Okay Beth I happen to be available now, I just finished up my last two births scheduled for this month.  I’d like to make a date for an in-person interview…” I stopped as Beth cut me off.

“Oh, no, no, no, I don’t have time for that.  I want to hire you now!  I have looked at your website, talked with several people about you and I love your voice.  You’re hired I’ll send a check, payment in full right now.”  Beth is adamant but sweet.  I agree but insist that we at least have regular phone conversations hoping there is some time to get to know each other though only via phone before her birth.  The third thing that was atypical about Beth, the method in which she got pregnant she explained to me“…turkey baster, same as last time, different set of donors though.”  This method seemed so crude for someone sounding so very educated and professional.  Before I could ask she explained. “I’m 40, single and want more than anything to have a family.  I have no luck with men and I’m not interested in ‘switching teams’ so I decided to become a single parent and asked several of my male friends if they would donate their sperm, I don’t know which one got me pregnant the first time but it happened on the first try.  Same with this baby, so I feel like it was meant to be.” Beth finishes her story, though her words are carefully chosen and formal there is a mellifluous quality to her voice. It’s like a perfect a cappella harmony. I like this softness and I think we will be a good match.

          I pause in the birth story as we pull up to the hospital.  “Elizabeth could you grab my bags?” I wheeze.

“Sure mom.” 

Elizabeth is calm, she doesn’t seem worried at all.  I suppose my children have gotten used to me going into the hospital on a regular basis.  I’m not worried either it’s more of an inconvenience.  We check in, the staff is so sweet and they, unfortunately know me as I have been in there so often the past few years..if I’m not the one coming in with a bout of Lyme or related issues I’m dragging a kid with a broken something or other...but small towns are nice for things like making friends with your local ER staff.  After we are settled in a room Elizabeth asks me to continue the tale. “Mom, dad didn’t want you to become a doula did he?”

“No Elizabeth, your dad didn’t want me to do much of anything and then complained when I didn’t bring in enough money. I remember the day I told him I wanted to become a doula ‘Oh, you want to become a DOOO-LUUUH’ he mocked me. 

‘Yes Jim I want to deliver babies, I’ll make money, I won’t have to go to school just some training.’   I tried to defend myself.

‘That’s ridiculous Kerri, why don’t you go and get a real job.’  Your dad always shot down everything I wanted to do.”

“What did he mean by a real job” Elizabeth asked. 

“Heck if I know.  He certainly never had one.” I just had to throw that in and then regretted it immediately.

“But you did it anyway.”  Elizabeth smiled as she pronounced this fact.

“Yes, well I almost didn’t.  Had we not been going to marriage counseling at the time I probably wouldn’t have.  Our counselor, Mary watched as your dad made fun of me for wanting to pursue this path. Mary turned her chair to face me, she was eight months pregnant by the way.  As she turned to face me your dad just kept right on talking. Mary’s office was in the attic section of one of those old Victorians in Middletown and your dads voice bounced all around that cramped little space, off the ceiling and into the gabled windows where it would rattle around for a few moments…it was like the old words kind of mixed with the new words coming out of his mouth and it just made my head spin.”  Elizabeth shook her head in agreement and rolled her eyes as if to say she understood first hand what I was talking about.

“I often think..” I continued “that I missed a lot of opportunities because I would allow things your dad said to start a huge symphony of negative thoughts; the ‘I can’t section’ playing with the ‘I should have section’ then the ‘I’m not smart enough’ section would crescendo as the ‘It’s too hard/too late’ section would join in and the whole thing would become a negative and overwhelming fugue.”  I think I lost Elizabeth with this creative description. “Anyway,” I continue with more understandable jargon for a fourteen year old. “when Mary turned to me, letting your dad drone on, she caught my gaze and said ‘you GO and DO that workshop, find someone to take care of your kids and DO IT!  Look at it like I am giving you a prescription Kerri’ she said and I did!” Elizabeth understood this and said

“I’m glad you did.”

Me too, otherwise I wouldn’t have this story to tell you.”

          My phone rang at about three in the morning. “Kerri,” I heard a breathless woman on the other end of the phone.  A middle of the night sound I had long ago become accustom to as I had been delivering babies for about four years now. “I think I’m in labor.”

I had to get my bearings as the red wine was still affecting my head from the night before…who am I on call for? I think. Oh yeah, Beth.

“What’s going on Beth?” I ask, recovering my senses.

“Well the contractions are five minutes apart…”

I finish the phone assessment and decide that since the birth center is all the way in Bethesda I had better start heading down the road now.  I tell Beth to meet me there in an hour.  

          “Mrs. Smith?” the x-ray tech. comes in my hospital room interrupting my birth story.  Elizabeth picks up my smart phone and occupies herself with facebook.

“It’s MISS Eiker” I say with pride, emphasis on the Miss part.

“Oh, okay, we are ready to take you down for x-rays now.”  They pleasantly tell me.  The tech is bright and chipper, oh yeah, it’s 7am they just had a shift change so I get ‘fresh’ hospital staff now.  Good deal I think.  After the  X-rays are taken and read the doctor comes in.  “It’s bronchitis and pneumonia” He tells me. 

“Great” I say. 

“Sit tight, I will send in the Respiratory Therapists for you. You need some immediate breathing treatment to stop the wheezing and get to your heart rate down…” The Dr’s voice trails off as he exits my room before finishing his sentence.

“Well Elizabeth, I guess we are going to be here for a while.”  I tell her with a weak smile.

“That’s okay, finish telling me the story about Beth.”  I have Elizabeth remind me where I left off in the story and continue.  

          While I was driving to the birth center and before I even got on the highway towards DC Beth called again.  “Ker-ri!”  This time she was panting rather than breathing.  “I f-f-feel lot-s of p-p-pressure.”

Oh man!  I think I am at least 40 minutes away. “Okay Beth, have you called the midwife?” 

“Only just now and she didn't answer.” She tells me sounding a little panicked.

“Don’t worry Beth, I’m on my way.  Have your girlfriend keep calling the midwife I want you to ride in the back of the car get on all fours and put your head down on your forearms keeping your butt in the air.  Do you understand?” She say’s yes but I ask her to pass the phone to her friend so I am sure she understands my directions and why.

After we hang up I call my associate/apprentice Sarah. “Hey, can you come help me with this one?  We have a precipitous birth and those can be tricky, emotionally as well as physically plus they can’t reach the midwife.”

Sarah agrees to meet me at the birth center, I feel a bit relieved.

About 25 minutes after I get off the phone with Sarah, Beth’s friend/driver calls me.

“She says she has to push!” Her friend screams. “Should I pull over?”

“How far are you from the Birth center?” I ask.
"Two blocks." she tells me.
"No. I'll meet you there. Did you get a hold of the midwife?” I ask trying to keep my voice calm.

“Yes, but she can’t be here for a half an hour or more.  We should have called her earlier!!!”  a panicked squeaky voice answers me.

“Okay, keep Beth’s butt in the air I’m gonna keep speeding.” I had been traveling down 270 at about 90 miles per hour and was lucky I didn't get pulled over. I actually beat them there. When they pulled in the parking lot the back door of the car flew open and a large woman with short red hair poured herself out onto the gravel lot..  She immediately got on all fours in the gravel and began grunting guttural animal sounds.  A sweet familiar song of birth but maybe here in the gravel is not the best place to deliver a baby. 

“Beth, let’s get you inside the center.”  I coo at her.

“I CAN’T!” Beth grunts.

“Beth I want you to blow, here, do it with me.” And she and I make puffing noises together and make our way to the door.

I turn the handle…It’s locked. 

“Uh, when did the midwife say she would be here?”  I am very pleased that my voice sounds confident and calm unlike the trembling mass of adrenalin fed nerves I am on the inside.

Right then a car pulls up.  Drat! Not the Midwife but Sarah.  That’s a help at least.  I ask Beth to lie on her back on the small concrete porch of the birth center dimly lit by one tiny little, small watt, yellow bulb that flickers. Lying on ones back is a position usually contraindicated for natural birth but in this case we want to slow things down a bit.  As Beth lies on her back, her head on a pillow brought from Sarah’s car she opens her eyes for the first time since we got here.  She reaches a trembling hand to my face and brushes away my hair.

“I need to see your face…”She manages to utter. “You’re so pretty” she says and relaxes with a sweet smile.  I reach under Beth’s dress and put my hand on her perineum.  Beth begins the uncontrollable urge to push along with the guttural sounds again. 

“I CAN’T STOP!”  She screams.

“It’s okay now I said, go ahead and bring this baby into the world.”

I hold my hand against her as I feel the baby’s head crowning. Ping!  I feel Beth’s tight skin rip under my hand low and to the left.  I give a little more counter pressure as the baby’s head emerges. The baby is coming so quickly Beth’s perineum has not had enough time to become pliable and stretch with the birth.  I’m hoping to keep her from tearing any more but PING! Again off to the right this time.  I wish I could see, I wish there were more time. “Beth, lets blow again okay?”  Beth blows with me and the head eases out but I cannot control the tearing and I’m worried there might be fourth degree tears.  “Beth I need you to blow now the head is out and I need to check for a cord.  I can’t see so It’s important that you work with me here okay?”  Beth nods.  Damn! There’s a cord around the neck. Please God Please let it just be simple and slip off.  I closed my eyes so as to not confuse myself with the dark shadowy images that my mind could not clearly interpret.  With my eyes closed I could get a better picture of what was going on. I felt the cord and remembered watching at least a hundred times how the midwives would slip the cord over a baby’s head.  It’s loose! Thank God! I can feel it and visualize it and it’s only wrapped around once.  I run my fingers all around the baby’s neck to be sure.  It slips over so easily I wouldn’t be surprised if there weren’t an angel assisting us here.  As the first shoulder emerges then the second I realize we have no blankets.  Even though it’s a warm summer evening a newborn’s body temperature will drop quickly and that can lead to a whole cascade of unpleasant events!  “Sarah!  Do you have any clean blankets in your car? Towels? Anything?” I ask quickly.

“I have brand new sheets I just bought them today.” She hops up, then turns to me, hesitating, “they’re expensive, Egyptian cotton 800 count.” 

“GET THEM!!”  I yell.

As the baby softly glides into my hands it seems like moments of time stands still.  The light is flickering but it’s a muted distant golden glow.  The city’s traffic sounds as if it were suddenly covered with a thick blanket of snow and the sharp breaking and honking sounds are now just a steady hum.  Everything that is not about this birth has faded into the background like a canvas covered in muted tones, the birth is being painted by a great master and bright bold colors are used as the event is outlined and captured, plucked out of time and onto a canvas. Beth’s face is glowing and beautiful her hands reach for her little baby and I hand the baby to her in slow motion. Like a trapeze artists handing over their dangling partner in mid air.  So many moments during birth are like snap shots of life suspended in time, captured and held forever in our minds.  Beth is crying and laughing “Is it okay? Is it a boy or a girl?” she asks through her laughter and tears.

“The baby seems fine Beth.  He’s making good strong crying noises and his reflexes are good.  I can’t see his color in this light but I think he’s fine.  Why don’t you see if he will nurse.” I assure her.

“He? It’s a boy?” she asks.

 “No, I mean I don’t know.  I didn’t check.” I tell her.  And she doesn’t care.  She Nurses the baby successfully for a few minutes and then  the midwife shows up. 

“Oh, was the door locked?”  The midwife asks. She looks down at the little nativity like scene and says to all of us “Good job.” We take our little party inside.

          “Wow mom. That’s so cool.” Elizabeth says.  Just think, what would they have done without you? I mean if you had listened to dad and not become a doula?” 

“I suspect they would have been fine Elizabeth. Beth would have found another doula or a taxi driver.  Babies come when they come.  They are almost always fine but I would not have had the honor of being present at such a very holy experience if I had listened to that lying orchestra in my head. It wasn’t so much about your dad telling me ‘I couldn’t’ as it was about ME telling ME I couldn’t ” I said.  I think of Linda and how the band in her mind must have become terribly out of control and overwhelmed her in the end.  If she would have only reached out and asked someone to muffle the French horns or turn the blasted music down, maybe she could have found a more peaceful melody with harmonies that sound pretty and make sense.

          The Dr. comes into my ER room and gives me some prescriptions the most difficult to swallow being an extended period of rest.  “Were done?” Elizabeth asks.

“Yes. We can go now.”  And I start to gather my things and get dressed.  “Thanks for coming with me E.”  I say and give her a pat on the head.

“No problem. I wonder if they would have found Linda in time if they could have brought her to the hospital and saved her?” She asks either remembering the story of my dream from earlier or reading my mind again.

“I don’t know Elizabeth.  Death is sort of like birth in that way.  It can be very unpredictable and catch us off guard. But birth is a doorway from one world to the next. So is death I think.”

“That’s sort of scary.”  She tightens up her shoulders and makes a little grimace.

“Maybe, but not really, birth can be scary too until we open up and let go. After we surrender to it the pain goes away and a baby is born.  I think death, like birth is just another doorway, into another world…we just go somewhere else.”  I like to believe this theory and say it out loud.

“Do you think Linda’s ghost was visiting you in your dream?” She asks

“Well I don’t think of it in terms of a ghost.  It’s energy.  I see Beth’s baby in my dreams sometimes too.  She is not a ghost but there is an energy there.”

“So it was a girl!”  Elizabeth picks up on the pronoun.

“Yes, it was a sweet little girl. And Beth’s tears on her perineum were not as bad as I thought thank God.”

“Turkey baster??? Seems weird that a turkey baster could produce a sweet little girl?”  Elizabeth wonders.

“It wasn’t the turkey baster that created that sweet little girl Elizabeth, she was created by the love in her mother’s heart first. Then her mom reached out and asked for help. Many people held the door for her and she just walked through it.

The Gift of Forgiveness

 

“Joshua!  Really??? Come on…”  I would normally be yelling but the pounding in my head has a sharp and raw edge to it.  I feel this pain with every beat of my unusually rapid pulse. It starts at the base of my skull then radiates  all the way around to my forehead, all I can manage to utter is a harsh whisper.    “I paid you to clean my car honey…I know you can do better than this.”  There was still trash and dirt, piles of old magazines, a couple of way overdue library books, coffee cups and half eaten cookies rattling around in my car. I see a bottle of Windex lying on the floor of the passenger side of the car, evidence that there was in fact an attempt made at the car cleaning chore.

Joshua looks at me with those big wide innocent eyes and says “I’m sorry mama.” He still calls me “mama” I think he knows he gets some mileage out of this affectionate name. “I will finish it today…I just really needed the five dollars because today is our book fair at school and I really want to buy some football posters.” 

I lecture him about being responsible and doing a chore when he’s asked too…not when he feels like it. I especially give a little sermon on how dishonest it was to take that five dollars before the job was done.  I was too sick last night to go and check his work, “Joshua, do you know what taking advantage of someone means?” I asked but before he could answer I explained for him. I suppose without supervision I would have done the same half-hearted type of work when I was ten. In fact, I did.

Saturday mornings in 1975 meant room inspection.  My dad would bounce us out of bed at 7:00am.  “Get your rooms cleaned and ready for inspection by zero-nine-hundred!”  Dad would ORDER.  Dad was a navy guy.  For six months at a time Dad would be subjected to living in the little tiny cramped tube of a submarine.  The thought of living in a sub hidden from the world for months at a time under all that water fascinated me. I loved going down to his office to look, in awe at the photographs he had carefully hung on his walls.  Dad’s office wall photos were well organized categories (of course) of his accomplishments.  There was the football section, the fishing section, the gardening section and the Navy section. I had two favorite photos in the Navy section, one where he was standing on the hull of the ship next to an iceberg in the South Pole.  To me someone who had traveled to the South Pole and had seen a real live iceberg was on par with astronauts who had traveled to the moon.  My other favorite picture was of one of the subs that was sunk in the Vietnam War. This particular picture was so captivating for me because one of dad’s friends, whom I had apparently met at some point in my life went down with that ship.  In the photo of the cursed vessel there is a marred rusty looking spot on the starboard side and I wonder if that’s where the torpedoes hit it, supposing that the enemy had some sort of evil power allowing them to find the weak spot in their helpless targets. I often ask dad to retell us the story about the sinking of that ship. I try to imagine it going down, the cabins being flooded with sea water.  Were the crew afraid?  Did they scream and cry?  Did they try to escape? No one survived that tragedy.

Dad, it seemed to me was still living on his sub in his mind.  He was the captain of the ship… my brother, my mom and I were the crew.  He taught us how to live with the bare minimum like they were forced to do in the Navy.  Bathroom stragities101; He taught me how to fold over a piece of toilet paper and use it again instead of being wasteful and using a fresh one.  He taught me that it was imperative to keep myself meticulously clean as germs and bacteria in confined damp areas could lead to deadly infections.  I hated putting soap inside of places in my body I would have been just as happy to have never learned existed. Dad had as little tolerance for frivolous and excessive things as he did for dirty things.  My brother and I were never allowed to tape our art work to the fridge like the neighborhood kids did at their houses.  That would look messy and everything must be in order.  This was a daunting practice for me to try and live by and an even more difficult concept to try to wrap my mind around.  Expressiveness in forms of art and in creating my own environment seemed insuppressible and effortlessly flowed out of me.  A plethora of art and expression grew from deep inside of me, seemed to escape out of my pores and drip right off of my fingertips manifesting itself into sculptures and paintings, and in arranging my bedroom furniture to look like some sort of magical ship that could both sail the sea as well as fly.  Saturday morning inspections were excruciating as I was required to take down all my art to pass inspection. I removed the colored threads of yarn I had hung in my window to form a living curtain. If I hung the long threads of yarn just right when the breeze blew in they would flow over my bed like a wave of rainbow colors that almost looked fluid. I was planning to attach little bells or pieces of bamboo to the ends of the strings so I would have a beautiful sound to go along with the delightful color show I had created.  All my art carefully taken down and my furniture put back in place I called dad to say I was ready for inspection-at zero-eight hundred hours-Ha!  But I was never ready, it was never right.  I would take all my precious art, put it in the toy chest and cover it up with blankets.  My plan was to recreate my nest after inspection. Dad would “inspect” much more thoroughly than I would anticipate and when he looked under my carefully placed blankets and found my art he insisted that I throw the *trash* away.  I would get pissed!  I’d stomp and scream, once he left the room of course. “Danny always passes inspection!” I yelled. “I never do!  It’s cuz Dad loves Danny!”  I must have been pouting louder than I realized because dad came into my room and asked if there were a problem. “Nope, no problem here.” I said wiping the snot off my face and onto my sleeve. I took my art in my arms, crumpled it and shoved it into a trash bag never looking at my beloved works but staring him straight in the face.  Like a little sailor dutifully obeying the commanding officer.

“Good work.” Dad said.

Although Josh is getting a dressing-down this morning for his slothful behavior my heart has melted and softened a bit because of him calling me “mama” and because of those big blue eyes full of contrition he uses to render me defenseless in attempting any form of disciplinary action that might have been taken for his transgression.

“Alright Joshy,” I say ready to cut the kid a break  “but do you understand what I have told you?”  I ask.

“Yes mama, I’m sorry you’re still sick and I will finish cleaning the car as soon as I get home.”

“Okay.”  I pat him on the head and then rub my own as this sharp stabbing pain in my brain feels like its well on it’s way to a migraine category headache.  Changing the subject from unfinished chores I say “Joshy, I guess I’m stuck at home again today.” Meaning as hard as I try to will myself well I am still sick. I let my body be in charge these days, not my will and I reluctantly yield to its needs.  “I guess I could get some baking done for the farmers markets.”  I suggest out loud to myself.

“Or you could write.” Joshua suggests. 

“What should I write about Josh?”  I peek at him through the slits in my fingers as I cradle my aching head.

“You could write about my football!”  he says excitedly “and include that part about Cotz. Remember last year?”  Cotz is the name the kids called their grandfather, my dad.  Joshua is a really bright and sensitive kid, artistic and expressive, apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, but mostly Joshua loves the sport of football! Cotz is like a rock star to Josh because of the fact that Cotz was one of the founders a semi-pro football team right here in our town.  Josh loves to pore over the old black and white photos and newspaper clippings of Cotz that capture his, seemingly now antique, football years. Joshua never witnessed the harsh navy side of my dad. Only my oldest son Seth was exposed to the end of that era and no harshness was ever directed at Seth, only at me. By the time Joshua was born my dad had considerably mellowed.  Actually he began to mellow and soften by the time I was about 30 years old.  His mollescent temperament began around the time my second son Jamie was born which coincided with dad having a major heart attack. 

We got the phone call that dad was being flown to DC for an emergency surgery. I drove my baby and my mom down to Washington Hospital Center where dad was undergoing a quadruple bypass.  When we went in to the post-op room to see him all he could talk about was how exhilarating  the helicopter flight was. “It was beautiful!” he said as if it were a ride at the fair.  “We took off from the roof of the hospital in Frederick and as we ascended we tilted back and forth giving me an incredible view of the city from east to west.  I could see the house where I grew up!”  This is typical behavior for dad, not afraid of much of anything as far as I can tell. During his hospital stay he made some friends, some fans and pissed off more than a few of the staff.  He would unplug his monitors so he could go out into the court yard to smoke.  The flat-line recorded on his monitor would send a code-blue call to his room.  The team of rescuers became more and more irritated each time dad would pull this stunt.  But the nurses loved him.  He would innocuously flirt with them and we would often find the nurses sitting in his room chatting away with dad, laughing at his humor, which had a Garrison Keillor twist to it that was very compelling to listen to.  We knew dad was unlikely to make the necessary lifestyle changes to keep his heart healthy as was evident by the constant sneaking out of the hospital, only hours after surgery to suck into his lungs the addictive poison that had contributed to his heart attack in the first place. Although dad didn’t seem to heed the warnings about smoking, the importance of exercise or his diet especially ignoring warnings about his alcohol consumption, he did pay attention to the fact that he needed to relax.  He found the perfect tool to help him achieve a stress free existence. Marijuana. And lots of it.

 Dad had been smoking pot for years but now, post surgery he refined his methods of smoking mixed with drinking that gave him a constant buzz while still retaining the ability to function. I feel compelled to mention here that this self medicating stress maintenance plan of his contributed indirectly, but not insignificantly, to his early and untimely demise. That said, to be perfectly honest, I really liked dad this way. He was softer, more present, more aware, aware of us anyway, not so much aware of himself and his health.  He became very involved in all four of my children’s lives and in mine.  I would call him for advice and he would openly share with me his stories and experiences helping me to form my own thoughts and decisions.  Dads behavior continued to become even more odd but adorably amusing. He began keeping very strange hours and often the children and I would wake early in the morning to begin our day of home-school and find Dad with his dry erase board ready with the math lesson for the day. Doughnuts and coffee and of course his thermos of Brandy Manhattans would be all set up on our kitchen table. Often dad would put a flower or two in a water glass for a center piece on our breakfast/school table.  The kids and I enjoyed my dad’s quirky, funny and joyful personality.  His voice was soft and gentle.  I don’t think my kids ever heard or could imagine him yelling.

Dad has been gone now for five years.   As dad lay dying in the ICU my brother Danny and I sang the song  Black Bird to him;

Black bird singin’ in the edge of night….

take these broken wings and learn to fly….

all your life…

you were only waiting for this moment to arise.” 

When I was a kid I never imagined feeling love for my dad.  I never thought I could ever forgive or understand his harsh and heavy hand as I was growing up. Had he not softened I might not have given myself the gift of forgiveness. 

Last year Joshua joined the football team.  I was at his super bowl game and they had won!  I was sick, as usual but as the clock ran out I found myself jumping to my feet on the bleachers cheering with all the other, much more physically healthy parents.  Josh, number 50, came running off the field.  He ripped off his helmet and held it in the air as a victory sign.  While I was clapping and cheering I looked at Joshua’s face but Joshua was not there…it was my dad…young and full of life running across the football field in his Falcon jersey.  It was night and it was cold, the falcons had just won and dad was ecstatic!  I felt so happy for him!  The memory of all the photographs in dad’s office from the football section flashed through my mind like they were stacked in a pile and I was thumbing through them creating a moving picture from still photographs as they flipped under my thumb. Dad kept running off the field and toward the bleachers where we were standing.  He looked through the crowd and found me, our eyes met and as he was giving me a big smile exposing that gaped tooth grin of his. Suddenly the gap in his teeth closed, the jersey faded from green to orange, the cold October night at a  football field turned into a bright sunny September morning and there was my son Josh, celebrating his win and flashing me a quick smile. 

The longer I’m around the more I see life as a circle of events.  I don’t think there are beginnings and endings. Life, at least to me is not linear. Dad isn’t gone. That harsh exterior of dad no longer exists so I guess it’s easier now for him to share some of his magic with Joshua as he wins a game, or my oldest son Seth as he goes off on yet another adventure to Africa or Chili not unlike, in an adventure sense, the thrilling expeditions my dad took to the to the South Pole.  I hear dad in my son Jamie’s voice and see his hands strum the strings on his guitar as Jamie uses his inherited musical talents from my father. With my daughter’s talent and ability to write beautiful poetry and stories it seems dad is guiding her hand or whispering thoughts into her ear so she perhaps will someday have volumes of writings, a collection like his.  And in myself, I think dad is guiding me as I attempt to be the best parent I can…”Remember, be gentle” he whispers as I go to discipline one of my children. “Remember, to really listen to what they are saying…” I hear him suggest while one of my kids is trying to tell me something and I am preoccupied with some trivial matter.  “This part of Life is but a drop of water in an Ocean of eternity…you have nothing to be afraid of or regret in this big marvelous full circle.  I am right here.”

Like Glass

April 4^th. Finally a warm spring day! I’m sick again, or rather still but intend to be outside as much as my weakened body will allow. Eric is outside and on the phone, as usual.  I walk up to him and put my aching head on his chest.  Eric always smells good to me, clean, natural like fresh tilled soil and salt.  I rest listening to his heartbeat and phone conversation he puts his hand on my back.  His hands are large and strong, like the rest of him.  I love the feel of his hand on my back I feel protected and small. Eric has a dancer’s body, chiseled and muscular, broad shoulders, tapered waist.  He seems to me to be a living paradox; the body of The David dressed in dirty farm clothes, and wearing a white scraggly beard.  Sometimes I stare at him while he’s sleeping. I try to imagine what he looked like when he was younger, with more hair on his head and less on his face.  There is a fifteen year gap between me and Eric. From time to time, and lately more often than not I feel those years between us like a bridge he long ago crossed and one I am just contemplating crossing.  The water between us in that gap is choppy, with gusty winds and sea devils which often make it impossible for me to hear what he is saying from the other side. He doesn’t hear what I am saying partly because of the conditions of the air and sea and partly because he has no need to look back over that bridge he crossed so long ago.

Eric is on the phone with a counselor from one of the many drug and alcohol rehabs who regularly call us looking to place one of their patients into group housing.  Eric and I run a 12 step recovery house for women with substance abuse issues.  More accurately described; Eric owns and runs it I am sort of an “ornament” that gets paid.  At least that’s how I feel.  Especially when I am sick.  One of the reasons Eric and I share an interest in running a house like this is because he and I both are in recovery for our own torrid and dramatic past relationships with Alcohol.  Eric has been sober for 20 years.  I stopped drinking three years ago; the sober part is just beginning for me.  After 35 years of drinking and the last 15 of them heavy daily drinking I’m finding, while piecing together the shards of glass that are my life, the dense fog that alcoholism left in it’s wake very slow to dissipate and lift .  I am only beginning to see glimpses of blue sky. As the months and years roll by the shards of glass become more rounded and soft like the sea glass I used to collect at the beach when I was small.  Those beautiful treasures from a North Carolina vacation lined my childhood bedroom window and when the light shined on them they lit up my whole room with wondrous color and magic.  Some days sobriety feels like the memory of my childhood sea glass collection on a bright sunny day and sometimes the treasures are just cold dark stones sitting on a dusty windowsill waiting for a break in the clouds.

Waiting for Eric to get off the phone I need to sit down I feel so weak. I have been sick it seems since the day I got sober!  Never before have I been sick in my life, well except of course for the very deadly disease of alcoholism.  I never even had a cavity until I was in my late 30’s.  Since I’ve been sober my ailments consist of and are hopefully limited to; a condition called Adenomyosis which is a medical condition characterized by the presence of ectopic glandular tissue found in muscle….blah, blah, blah it causes INTENSE pain and almost constant periods resulting in sever anemia.  I battled that disease for months.  I tried acupuncture, herbs, vitamins, prayer and voodoo.  Nothing worked.  I had such a hard time letting go of my uterus, the womb that so flawlessly and lovingly housed each of my babies.  Being pregnant and giving birth seems like the only perfect thing I’ve ever done. That organ was sort of my identity and my power but I was too sick to hold onto it and had to let it go.  While healing from that surgery I suffered a sudden and serious tooth abscess.  During that recovery I contracted Lyme disease and have been struggling with that, in and out of hospitals and chronic debilitating pain ever since.  When I mention the fact that I was never sick before I stopped drinking my oldest son said “Well of course not Mom.  Pouring all that antifreeze into your system day after day year after year, what germ or bacteria could survive!”  I thought I had successfully hidden most of my drinking from my children…they always know.

Eric gets off the phone and informs me we will be interviewing yet another woman who wishes to become a house member next week. The recovery house is a piece of work that speaks to me.  Working with women on this level I find appealing.  I never did and still don’t fit into the PTA, monthly card game, soccer mom crowd.  That crowd and those things remind me of a bowl of fake fruit.  The fruit looks perfect and appealing but there’s no juice.  Working and communicating with women at this real and often raw level there is sustenance.  Bruised and blemished myself I understand and fit right in with this crowd. I can sink my teeth into this organic work and come away feeling a nourishment of soul.

While inconsistent, in terms of time spent or hours logged with my role (I cynically refer to as “Ornament”) at the recovery house when I do show up for work, I am fully present and committed to whatever “work” there is to do.  It reminds me of when I worked as a doula and a midwife’s assistant.  When attending a birth I was able to be 100% committed to giving these laboring mothers and babies all the love and knowledge I had. Helping them stay on their path reminding them of their desires while remaining unattached to the outcome. When I enter the recovery house it’s often because of a call of distress. Imagine that…a house full of women not always getting along.  I approach the house with an open loving heart but protect myself with equally loving boundaries.  I remember being very newly sober.  It’s as if someone is shining an integration spotlight in your face 24/7 after you’ve been in a dark cave or a coma for years and years.  It’s a frightening place to be, a panic similar to a drowning person trying to save themselves. If the lifeguard is not careful both the victim and the person who knows how to swim will drown.  I have been “swimming” a bit longer than most of the women at the house but am not close to having my lifeguard certificate.  Again, like attending births, I was not a doctor, midwife or even a nurse, I have simply been there and know the labor pains are temporary, not only are they temporary but when I allowed myself to surrender to them, allowed myself to go right where the pain was, face it and stop trying to hold it all in my throat it no longer hurt and the door, my cervix in this case, would open up a little more becoming ever more ready to give birth.  In between those contractions there is a resting period.  My birthing clients, much like the recovery house women, would take this time that they could be resting to worry about the next contraction-the next court date or unpleasant interaction with a difficult house member.  “Shhhh,” I would comfort the laboring mom.  “You are done for now.  There is nothing, absolutely nothing you need to do at this moment but rest.”  Some of these moms would actually sleep albeit only two or three minutes but those are the moms who continued to open with little trouble and usually no need for intervention as opposed to the moms who for whatever reasons would not let themselves rest.  Worry and fear lead to exhaustion, exhaustion often lead to complications and interventions but in the end in both cases a beautiful baby was born.  Some of us choose a longer more difficult path.  Of course this is a simplified metaphor, labor and birth like life, can be full of unforeseen obstacles that we have no control over whatsoever.  One of my most important roles while attending births and while working at the recovery house is listening.

Abby lived at the recovery house for a short time. It was late spring when she came to interview to become a house member.  We were all assembled on the back porch, the cigarette smoke hung like a low heavy cloud under the roof of the porch.  Abby was a thin wiry woman with gleaming black skin.  “Yes, Suh, Yes Ma’am.” Abby would say to me Eric and everyone else who spoke to her. 

“Abby, there’s no need for formalities here.  You are interviewing to become part of a family not for a professional position.” We told her.

Abby was accepted into the house.  There was a sweetness of spirit about her, a naive quality that made her very loveable, at least to us.  But as I suspected Abby was difficult to live with.  She not only suffered from substance abuse but was duly diagnosed with a psychiatric condition.  This condition, even though she was under a doctors care and was medicated, made Abby’s behavior beyond hyper.  She would be up at all hours of the night and display odd behavior that made the other house members suspect her of using.  I was called to come to the house one evening to pee test Abby for drugs. 

“Abby I need to come into the bathroom with you Okay?  You don’t need to be shy around me…” I began to reassure her but before I could finish my sentence to sit on the toilet Abby threw her night gown up in an exaggerated movement. Her night gown flew over her head and her thin naked black body was completely exposed.  She did not look like a woman my age, mid forties, which she was but like an eleven or twelve year old girl, so thin with only little budding nipples, no real breasts.  The pee test is for drugs.  To test for alcohol there is a swab that goes under the tongue.  I asked Abby to open her mouth and I held the swab for her for ten seconds, the recommended time.  In those ten seconds I studied Abby’s face, which also reminded me of a small child.  Her beautiful skin was shinny and flawless her eyes wandered around the room, her mind obviously in another world acting like five year olds do when you take their temperature. 

“You’re clean Abby.” I said

“I know.” She said without seeming offended.

“Can we talk?”  I asked

“Yes, ma’am.”

Up in Abby’s room she invited me to sit on the bed.  I explained how her behavior was causing concern in the house.  She listened then hopped up to show me pictures of her family.

“This one is of me when I was a kid.  There’s my ma, well not my real ma but my foster ma.” She explained “Haha” she laughed “Look at me in that dress, I was so skinny!”  Yes she was even skinner than she is now “These are some of my foster brothers. That one was nice to me. That one hurt me.” She put the pictures down and sat on the bed.  Abby was up and down fiddling with this nibbling at that, looking all around the room while we talked.  It just seemed impossible for her to sit still.  I could see why the women were having trouble living with such a constant and unpredictable current in the house. 

“That foster brother who hurt me..” she began.  “He rapped me and I got pregnant.  I was only 15 years old.”  I listened.

Abby told me the story of the pregnancy and how no one believed her about who the father was.  She told me how she lived through all that retaining her sanity because at least she would have a baby to love and take care of.  I understood that.  I understood the absolute unconditional love a mother can feel for her baby inside and outside of her body. Abby seemed to find the same strength and power of that love within her and apply it to that baby. 

“When my baby was born there was something wrong with how she was put together.  She had an esophageal fistula plus a heart condition..ano, no tettril…no…hydro…” Abby struggled to remember the term for the condition.  “I can’t remember what its called” she said “but they fixed the eating problem. “They couldn’t fix the other problem. She lived for a year.  One night I got a call from the hospital where she was at. ‘Come quick Abby’ they told me.  I got a ride to the hospital and they put her in my arms.  I held her for four hours.  Her breathing became raspy like but I just held her.  Then she died.  I kept holding her until she was cold. After she died…”Abby said looking at me deeply. “I snapped, you know went crazy. Later I started seeing the psychiatrist and he put me on all this medication.”

Abby told me all of this without showing any emotion, like it was a fictional story from a bad movie she had seen years ago.  Her emotions did not outwardly change but her behavior did.  It took Abby an hour to tell me the whole story and the more she talked the calmer she became.  She stopped fidgeting and her eyes were fixed on mine as she talked.  When she was finished we both sat there in silence for probably five minutes.  The river of white water rapids and dangerous currents that was normally Abby’s personality had found its way to a deep still place, currents moving underneath but the surface so still it was like glass.

I don’t feel like an ornament when I’m with Abby, I feel like a sister.  I only feel like an ornament when I’m dealing with Eric, trying to understand his language coming from the other side of that bridge. I have my own language and will cross that bridge in my own time.  Like labor and storms all I can do is rest (or worry) in between each contraction, each watery gust of wind.  Abby moved on from our house to a place where there is more hands on professional help for her.  I miss her sweet funny personality.  I will forever remember Abby, desperate for cigarettes the night after our talk. I took her to the nearby gas station. I parked the car, planning to go in to the store for her as she was dressed in her night gown.  But the wild white rapids had surfaced again for Abby and before I could unbuckle my seat-belt she was out the door.  Running across the parking lot in her pink fuzzy slippers that matched the pink fuzzy curlers in her hair.  Her bathrobe three times too big for her cinched around her tiny waist and dragging on the ground.  Seeing this funny little woman run across the parking lot in her bathrobe and slippers no one, not knowing her would guess the deep love and loss she suffered and the deep love she still has to give.  This recovery house, whether I am ornament, sister or business partner, continues to remind me deep down in every one of us is a story of joy and pain of love and loss we are all alike at the core.  Even those soccer moms have a story. When the water is still enough and if we listen we can see through the surface, we can hear the story.

Digging in the Dirt

 Is it really four in the afternoon already?  I have spent the entire day on my computer learning, what for me is a whole new language.  ‘Tweets’ and ‘hashtags’, ‘following’ and being ‘followed’, ‘tweeting’ and ‘retweeting’ etc. Sometimes, when trying to learn something I will read out loud because it helps me to better absorb the information, especially information that is extremely foreign to me. This is what I was reading out loud from the twitter help center when my daughter and her friend walked into my room: “Click the “Retweets” to see what you’ve retweeted, what’s been retweeted and who retweeted your Tweets! …read the retweets under the Tweet tab; 'Retweets by others Tweets.'”

“Ummmm, let me guess…” Elizabeth startles me. I was so engrossed in reading the retweeting information I didn’t notice her or her friend standing there looking puzzled by my odd behavior.  Well, actually only Elizabeth’s friend looked puzzled. Elizabeth is used to finding me engaged unusual activities.  “…you are reading Dr. Seuss tongue twisters?”

“No” I laugh “I am trying to navigate twitter.”  I tell her.

“Why?”  she asks.

“Because…it’s time.”  I answer vaguely. The two girls make their way into the kitchen to do some baking along with much giggling.  I reach for my ear plugs.  I can’t concentrate with all that ‘girl noise’. 

“Elizabeth, shut my door would you?”

“Okay, but now I’m going to call you Sherman the computer Geek.”  She teases me.

Attempting to become social media savvy is rather odd behavior for me.  Usually I cannot sit still for long enough to read tedious directions but I am still sick with some sort of debilitating cold that won’t allow for much more than sitting.  I decided to take advantage of this opportunity of forced sitting to learn a couple of things I have been avoiding learning. After spending the day on twitter and actually posting some ‘tweets’ I am feeling a little out of my element.  Sort of the way I feel (as I described in a previous writing) when I try to navigate a fast paced, upper-class, business professionals dominated, hot-spot lunch restaurant.

To answer Elizabeth’s question, the reason I am attempting to master these media tools is because I am responsible for the marketing aspect of two businesses.  These businesses, the farm and the recovery house for women, are my only two sources of income.  Neither business is exactly humming along.  In fact both are sort of gasping for air as they seem to be slowly sinking in an enormous ocean clinging to their little life rafts while speed boats and ocean liners (other businesses of the same sort) travel along their plotted course with what looks like little effort or complication.  If I want my businesses to succeed I need to utilize the same technology that those speed boats and ocean liners do.  What intimidates me about the exposure of social media does not have to do with the businesses though. It is my writing that suddenly has me feeing vulnerable and exposed.

The reason I have been writing these blogs is because I am following the suggestion of a special friend and the encouragement from many other friends to share my writing.  Somehow, when I write it unlocks doors in my heart and mind and dredges up thoughts, ideas and memories from deep recesses inside of me I didn’t know existed.  It’s illuminating. It’s like when I write there is some microscopic scientist who travels from the keyboard through my skin and into my blood stream.  Once inside they shine a spot light on all the systems in my body, circulatory, digestive, endocrine, immune, lymphatic, muscular, nervous, reproductive, respiratory, skeletal, and urinary.  Also and perhaps more significant is the illumination the little imagined scientist’s spot light has on my spirit. I sense spirit stirring in all seven chakras as I write, forcing me to feel, to experience what I might normally stuff and ignore.   With this visual I am reminded of the educational cartoon my oldest son Seth used to watch “The Magic School Bus”. I feel a deep bittersweet sadness as I remember Seth when he was small.  Where did the time go?  I was just holding him sitting on the sofa watching this cartoon…I can still smell him and hear his sweet little four year old voice. Trying to fully grasp this memory is like trying to hold onto a vapor.  Seth is now 23 and while he lives only three hours away he might as well be in Africa.  I very rarely see or hear from him.  That’s the bitter part.  The sweet part is that the child, I mean young man, is having extraordinary adventures, working in a field he loves and is surrounded by friends..but I digress. 

Okay, drying my tears now.  Actually this digression is a perfect example of what happens to me when I write.  Had I not sat down at this magical keyboard I would have not tapped into the feeling of loss I have surrounding my oldest son that is stirring somewhere deep inside. Had I not discovered this feeling it would probably have manifested itself in some sort of activity like an extra half mile in the lap pool or cleaning the entire house ‘til it sparkles, working or working-out until I exhaust myself then collapse into bed at night where these feelings present themselves in my dreams.  That’s probably the reason I spend so many restless nights tossing and turning rather than sleeping. If I don’t get it out, the feeling turns into a gremlin.  I think I’ll call Seth later.

Charaks, Gremlins, my body’s systems splattered all over this page as I write, while cathartic for me to get out and onto (virtual) paper, it also leaves me feeling naked and exposed.  I was okay feeling naked and exposed here in the safety of my bedroom and in front of MY computer.  I put my stories, myself onto the computer, click a button and  my story gets sucked into the vacuous world of the internet, big deal. But when I began exploring this world of social media, I realized just how very exposed I am making myself and my little world, just by clicking a button.  The internet is not vacuous! It’s bright, full, intelligent and immediate! Yikes! Knowing this I feel inhibited which is a feeling completely opposite of the very natural child-like quality I usually feel when I sit down to write. 

When I write, oblivious to the internet world, it’s like playing in the sand or digging in the dirt when I was small. 

“Kerri you’re oblivious to everything!” my dad used to yell. He yelled this at me as long as I can remember, even before I knew what the word oblivious meant. Being oblivious felt better to me than being aware.  As a kid I would grab any opportunity to slip away into sweet oblivion. In the fourth grade, recess was like an oasis in a scorching desert.  I hated school.  I hated being inside! Being inside all day was not only unnatural it was smothering!  And being indoors at school was especially smothering as there were not even any windows or real light. The air was stuffy, heavy and smelled stale. When we were able to go outdoors I was free!  I would avoid the organized games of kick ball or the trios of girls jumping rope to a little rhyme. I was not coordinated enough to successfully participate in those games anyway and I always got yelled at for messing things up if I tried. I would walk out past the playground and onto the baseball field.  I would find a strong sharp stick and I would dig.  Unearthing rocks was my solitary game.  I would pretend I was a treasure hunter who had just sailed, alone, to a deserted island to find rare and precious stones.  As my expert eye scanned the terrain I would spot a glimmering stone and get to work.  The harder the stone was to remove from the earth the harder I worked at it because that meant, like an iceberg hidden by the ocean, the jewel was large, and bigger meant better.  I would pile my collection on the beach near my ship.  I would gather my tools and confidently take inventory of my find, ready to sail back home where I would be greeted with applause and praise for a job well done…but the whistle would blow and the warm sunny beach would disappear and fade back in to the baseball field. The sound of the crashing waves on the shore would reveal itself to actually be laughter and conversation from the other school kids.  Back to reality, back inside, back to being me I wanted to be anyone else but me.

Seth either by nature or nurture, most probably by a combination of both, inherited my love for the outdoors and for exploring.  Seth would spend hours in what he articulately, at six years old called his “archeological dig”.  Seth was and is a bright kid.  He could read very early and soaked up new information like a sponge.  We went to the library and gathered books on paleontology, archeology and anthropology.  I gathered tools for Seth’s dig and we roped off the area and he drew a graph just like we saw in the books.  Seth would dig for hours I would bring his lunch and he would show me his collection.  We lived at a farm house built in 1804.  The civil war happened near and all around our house.  Crapmtons Gap is just right up the hill and Burkitsville is just right down the street. 

“Mom” Seth asked.  “Do you think maybe our house was used as an army hospital in the civil war?”

“Could very possibly have been Seth.”  I answered. “In fact I’ll bet even if it wasn’t a hospital there were soldiers here.  Think about what might have happened in this very living room…soldiers, officers, sitting around the fire place planning their strategies and maneuvers, writing letters home, eating a stew prepared by the gracious lady of the house.”

I could see the wheels turning in his little head.  Seth would hurry through his lunch and get back to digging.  He found artifacts of broken pieces of china, some bone, clay piping, and unusual rocks that I could not identify.  We decided those were dinosaur bones.  Seth would go to bed with his stack of library books and his pile of treasures, all carefully cleaned and labeled in a shoe box by his bed.  I wanted to encourage his enthusiasm for exploring and decided to plant some gifts for him.  I went to an Antietam gift shop and purchased some authentic civil war bullets and buttons from soldiers coats.  While Seth was involved in something other than his dig I planted the treasures.  It felt sort of like when I would put presents under the tree for him pretending to be Santa.  The next day Seth unearthed and identified the artifact without any help from me.  I found this very impressive as the bullets covered with dirt just looked like an odd shaped rock.

“MOM!”  Seth came running in the house. “Look what I found! Do you think it was from a soliders gun and a soldier’s coat?” 

“Sure looks like it Seth.”  I said.

We took, what he thought was an impromptu trip to the gift shop in Antietam where I had purchased the artifacts.  Clued in to my little act for Seth, the shop owner played along as we brought our find to the counter and asked him his “expert opinion” in helping us identify the items.

“Yup,” he said in a sort of antique mason-dixon line drawl that matched the shop and the towns 1861 feel.  “These here items are genuine civil war artifacts.  You have quite an eye son.  Keep up the good work.  We need more fellas like you to help us keep on discoverin’ important pieces history.” 

I thanked the store keeper shot him a wink as to say “nice job.  I really appreciate your efforts.”  Seth and I walked out of the shop, Seth beaming with delight.  At home he not only cleaned and labeled his new finds but found a special clear plastic case in which to enshrine them. 

Seth went off to college to study anthropology.  One Christmas Eve around the candle lit dinner table Seth talked to the large gathering of family and friends about how he had discovered the bullet and the button in his dig when he was a kid and how that very significant moment in his life had helped him to form his decision for his studies and life’s work. 

“You know,” Amy, Seth’s drunken Aunt slurred from the other end of the table. “Your mom was soooo sweet to plant those things in your dig for you.”  She hiccuped then went back to sloppily swirling the red wine in her crystal glass before gulping the rest of it down then asking for us to pass a fresh bottle.

Seth’s jaw dropped as he shot me a look. “Mom? Is that true?”

“Yeah, Seth.  I planted those.  Remember the store keeper?  He was in on it too.”

Seth was mad!  I had never intended for him to hear that story.  The children have to learn that there is no Santa or Easter bunny but he could have held onto this magical memory. 

“Thanks so much Amy.”  I said sarcastically.

“ ‘s-not a promblm…” she slurred slumping over the table her elbow slipping off the edge oblivious to the fact that she had just ruined my son’s magical memory.

I watched Seth struggle and recover from this disillusionment and  from many other of life’s more difficult hurdles.  He has graduated and is working for an archeologist, digging in the dirt just like when he was a kid.  I’ll receive an excited phone call from him from time to time; “Mom!  You’ll never guess what I’ve found!”

While he tells me his story over the phone the image of him being six and running up to me, covered in dirt and mud with his arm load of treasures is fresh in my mind.  Seth has managed to hold onto that spark of child-like enthusiasm and that fearless inquisitive spirit in spite of the blows life can dish out and encouraged by the joys life also abundantly offers. Inspired by my son, I think maybe I can forgo the extra laps in the pool and live in a less that perfectly clean house while I dig deep finding my own treasures. Soon I will be sending this off in tweet, maybe never to be retweeted, on facebook, maybe never to be commented on but at least I will sleep well tonight.