Eulogy for Gramma Bella

When I went to write this, I looked for a few quotes about grandmothers…  The first two I found were:

“Grandmas never run out of cookies or hugs” and the next: 

“A grandmother is a little bit parent, a little bit teacher, and a little bit best friend.”

Done.   My work was done.

These so perfectly fit our Grandma Bella, that it made me feel a little deflated- those are so generic- anyone could look them up on the internet...  and OUR gram was so special…

You probably read in the paper that my grandmother had 21 Grandchildren, 22 Great grand children, and 1 great-great grand daughter.  It is remarkable to note that FIFTEEN BABIES: 1 grandson (Alex), 13 great-grand kids, and baby Mackenzie (The great-great-grand) were born in the last 9 years since our grandpa died. 

Gram experienced a lot of grief after Grandpa died, but looking back, these years were teeming with babies-

and she LOVED that.

But of course if you knew her, you know she didn’t have just 44 grandchildren.  Our spouses, our inlaws, our cousins on the other sides of our families, any one we brought to her house, anyone who was our friend… she counted all of them too… that’s literally hundreds (possibly thousands of people that knew her as

Grandma Gaetano or Grandma Bella) and she welcomed and treated everyone one of us with love and respect.

I had the idea that I might get up here and mention some of the most important things that Gram taught us.

THAT is a completely overwhelming prospect.

I mostly wanted to represent the grandkids in taking an opportunity to publicly thank her for all that she did for us.  I think we all did our best to tell her this every chance we got- to get as many hugs from her as we could…

What is hard to put into words (in the face of losing her) is that we are losing a relationship that was above all else uncomplicated. 

To be Bella Gaetano’s grandchild was to be loved and appreciated. 

Period. 

She loved us without exception and without expectation. 

She wanted to know us, and see us, and be seen by us. 

She met us where we were and asked nothing more of us than what we could (or were willing) to give. 

She bragged about us. 

She laughed with us. 

She didn’t compare to us each other. 

She just enjoyed us.  

For many of us, she was the first person we brought our grievances and heartbreaks to: When our parents took our favorite toys away or bestowed some insult or punishment, she brought out the cookies and the hugs- sometimes tough love, too- but usually not.

When we started showing up at her door with our tattoos and our more legitimate heartbreaks, scholastic and relationship failures, and other mistakes and adult struggles…

She behaved as a friend. 

She treaded lightly.

She listened more than she preached.

She offered compassion and reassurance…

She reminded us that life was hard, but it was long. 

Without minimizing our pain, she asked us to see hard times as necessary and temporary.

She worried about us when we were hurting…

She locked her blue eyes on us- daring us to see what she saw: that no matter what we did or what we didn’t do we were enough, always worthy of love.

She mostly did this without words… 

Truthfully, a LOT of the time she did it with FOOD. (She could heal a heart with a little plate of parmesan cheese and sautéed zucchini, a plate of food that your parents wouldn’t have been able to get you to eat if all of your lives depended on it.)

She might also cheer us up or distract us with a funny story, or a ride on the golf cart,

or invitation to walk with her or to help her clean up her yard.

Gram was such a good role model.

She had LOTS of friends.  Because she was so generous and so eager to help a neighbor, she collected people and racked up loyalty the way some folks rack up debt.  And her friendships were long lasting and withstood the tests of time, because she knew that giving to others did not subtract from, but only added to what was hers… 

She liked to keep busy and visit with people. She was quick to laugh and forgive small grievances.  And mostly her friendships were strong because she was a good judge of character but never a harsh judge of people.

She taught me that a life well-lived usually means losing labels like “us” and “them”.  And accepting and finding things to appreciate about everyone that wanders into your life.  She was eager to meet new people. She enjoyed watching people do things they enjoyed, even if it was something she would never be interested in doing.  She gave everyone the benefit of the doubt.  She sometimes suffered fools GLADLY.  She expressed and experienced gratitude.

Gramma knew her worth and stood her ground- with her husbands, in her business dealings- but she was not immovable.  She was always willing to show vulnerability.  She would put herself out there even if it meant sometimes getting her feelings hurt.

She didn’t stifle laughter.

She didn’t stifle tears.

She was present. 

She was participatory. 

She never shied away from having her picture taken.

She made her mark on people- on purpose-

not because of what they might do for her but for what she might do for them.

In the last 2 weeks of her life, my gram attended 2 weddings.  The one I was lucky to be with her at, she would have stayed all night. 

This was not a woman who prioritized sleep over living. 

Who looked for rest over dancing or watching others dance.  

Who couldn’t keep up with the kids. 

Who would leave a lobster uneaten.  (If you know her, you know she was no joke with a lobster).

Katy and I apologized to her that we were interested in leaving before the dancing was actually over (we were her ride back to the hotel) and in her usual form, she said something like,

“Yes, you two work so hard, you’re probably exhausted.”

(She wasn’t even rolling her eyes at us when she said it).

My sister and I were talking about our sadness and we know that there has never been a moment of our lives (because we were her grandchildren) when we didn’t know that this day would come. 

But this is the other side of being loved so completely. 

This is the bittersweet nature of having been so perfectly nurtured. 

These are the tears that are shed for you when you live in such a way that hundreds of people know they have lost one of their best friends.

We celebrate these tears, because they are from and for you, Grandma.

And the most important thing is –

We will try to take care of each other- using you as a role model. 

Because, if we do our job right, people who never even got to meet you will get to feel how it felt to be loved by you.







 

First wake

My dad's Uncle George died the day before Thanksgiving (last week).  As I prepared to go to the wake on Sunday, Jake asked where I was going. 

Me: Papa's uncle died and TT and I are going with Gram'ma Bella to the wake.
Jake: What's a wake?
Me: Well, when someone dies, there is usually a wake and a funeral... Or some kind of ceremony where you can go say goodbye, and go hug the family and tell them that you are sorry about losing the person they loved.
Jake: Who did they lose?
Me: Well, Papa's uncle George died.  So Papa's cousins lost their dad, and Papa's aunt lost her husband.  When someone dies, we say we "lost" them.
Jake: Oh.

I absentmindedly asked Jake if he wanted to go.  It wasn't an accident exactly.  He seemed interested and there is something I want to try to teach these boys early on about life being special and about death being a part of life. And about what it means to belong to a clan of people- that you have respect and are generous with your time, and sometimes you stop what you are doing to show up and bare witness at these events. 

Jake: Maybe... I have to think about it.
Me: okay (In my head: "ut oh")

(I never thought he'd agree...
After a few minutes, I thought of a way to deter my 'soft pants' loving boy...)

Me: You know, if you go, you have to put some dress clothes on.
Jake: What do you mean?
Me: I mean, I am going to put work clothes on and you will have to dress up.
J: Like, in what?
Me: Like a sweater, or a shirt and tie, and church pants and shoes.
J: What sweater?
Me: I don't know... like the new one that TT bought you...

(After a few more minutes...)

Jake: I'll wear a tie.

Me: Oh... Okay. (pause)  So, we should talk about what it will be like...  At a wake, there is usually a box called a coffin that the person who has died will be laying in.  And there will be flowers and pictures and his family will be there and we will go through and hug all of his family- Papa's aunts and uncles and cousins.
Jake: Okay.
Me: And at some wakes the coffin is closed and you can't see the person inside but sometimes the coffin is open and you will see the person.
Jake:  LIKE A SKELETON?!?
Me: Oh, no... He will look like he's sleeping.  He will have his clothes on and of course all his hair and his skin... Maybe his eyeglasses...
Jake: (interrupting) HE HAS EYEGLASSES?!?  (The idea that he might see eye glasses seemed as shocking to him as the idea that me might see a skeleton.)
Me: (giggling) I don't know... maybe he does or maybe he doesn't...  The coffin might be closed, but it might be open.  And he will look like he is sleeping, but he won't be sleeping because he isn't alive anymore; remember how we talked about what happens when a person dies?
Jake: Yes.
Me: Their heart doesn't beat anymore, and they don't breathe, and their body is still there, but their spirit isn't inside their body...  ?
Jake: Yes.
Me: Do you still want to go?

Jake: Yeah, but I want to wear the red tie...

Katy likes to tell people that before she met me, she had never been to a wake or funeral.  And now she never stops going to them.  She is gracious about this and says that if it weren't for me, she would have had no idea how to conduct herself at her grandmother's funeral.  I almost skipped Uncle George's wake, but it was at her "it's the right thing to do" urging that I was getting dressed to go.  As a former ICU nurse, I'm more confortable than the average bear with corpses.  I sometimes have to stop and remind myself that these things can upset "lay people".  There are some funerals that children should NOT attend.  Very tragic, unexpected deaths... funerals where the adults are generally falling apart and so grief stricken that they are not able to look out for the emotional well being of kids in the room...

When our friend Liz's husband died leaving her widowed with 4 children (3 of the 4 were grade school age and younger), of all of the things she did that impressed me, none impressed me more than her plan for the kids.  After a brief appearance at the wake, she had them brought back to the house where Katy and I played with them and fed them dinner and got them to bed.  Of course they had to go to their dad's wake, but the emotions were too intense and the line at the funeral home too long to subject them to the entire event.

When my friend John died, I have this stark memory of his nieces a few feet from the coffin only 6 or 7 or 8 years old and my brain was forming the judgemental thought, "What are these parents doing letting their kids just hang around here near the casket all night?!?" when their kiddie conversation came into auditory focus:

Munchkin 1: Do you know why he doesn't look like himself?
Munchkin 2: No?  Do you?
Munchkin 1: I think it's because his soul has left his body
Munchkin 2: Yeah, so it isn't really him anymore... just his body.

I had the urge to stoop down to eye level and grip their shoulders gently and tell them that he didn't look like himself because the mortician in this joint isn't worth shit and has clearly never heard of blush or hair gel... but as I exhaled, the psycho urge passed and I realized that (of course) these children were wiser and more balanced than I.  Truthfully, kids just don't have the baggage that we do.  They don't usually bring their accumulated insecurities and fears into the room; or if they do, their accumulation is miniscule as not to even register.

When my mom saw Jake at the funeral home, she tried to hide from me that she was a little freaked out, asking several times, "Aren't you worried that he will have nightmares?"

And here's the thing.  Jake already has nightmares.  He's just like his freakin' moms.  A few weeks ago he crawled into our bed and told us he dreampt that there was a fire and he was trying to save Milo.  [A FIRE?!?! Seriously?  Where did that fear come from, Disney?!? I promise, we've never talked about fires around the dinner table...]  And last week, he was crying because he dreamed that his grandparents left without saying goodbye.  Some kids have more bad dreams than others.  I've got to try to find some books to see if there's a way to teach or talk your kids out of bad dreams, because I was one of those kids.  At a very early age, I dreamed scary, stressful things.  I still think that is part of the reason I stay up so late- Some of those dreams are sad and exhausting- maybe it's better just to stay awake.

Anyway, I've come to believe that 1) My dreams are not necessarily premonitions.  2) Bad dreams are not something that always happens because of unrest in your conscious life.  It doesn't necessarily have anything to do with your perception of safety or security.  I know this because I was a very safe, protected, nurtured, sheltered child.  And so are our boys. 

Jake is a thinker and he reasons things out.  He likes to be prepared.  And even though Milo is comparitively our "spontaneous frat boy"... He also is a thinker, and a dreamer. 

"You are not quite right" is what I've heard in response to the explanation that this first wake was a "dry run" for Jake.  He will have to see some people he loves in coffins in the coming years and decades and this was his first.  I'm sure we will have follow up conversations and clarifications, but he came through the event without a flinch or twitch or question.  This was just an experience to him.  Not positive.  Not negative.  Not even that big of a deal.  Just something to stash away in his mental filing cabinet.

My working theory is sometimes (maybe) the sheltering and protecting that we do for kids is unnecessary. Sometimes (maybe) that "protecting" contributes to anxiety and unsettled emotions.  (Emotions like, "What if I am not good enough? What if I can't handle all that I am asked to handle?") Trying to pad the sharp corners of the world isn't what I want to accomplish as a parent.  Life is full of struggle and sadness, disappointment and grief.  Our job is to teach them how to deal with downsides, show them that they can handle uncomfortable situations.  Create a time and space where they can safely learn to be vulnerable and successful in struggle.  I kind of believe that is the only way to fully appreciate joy and love.

Uncle George's wake was the perfect opportunity for Jake to see death. To see a body that was without it's spirit. Someone that he didn't know. An event that had no personal sadness or confusion attached to it.  He observed a portion of the ritual without experiencing the associated loss/discomfort.

And when a kid that cries in the morning trying to decide what pants to wear (because he sometimes has trouble making decisions). When that kid tells me he wants to put on a tie and come with me to a wake, I'll go ahead and take him at his word.  I won't tell him he can't handle it.  I will stand next to him and let him see one way death can look.  Because I trust Jake.  Even at this young age, he is so trustworthy.

And I trust myself.  I know if we stumble into a room or situation that upsets him, I will be able to talk him through that discomfort.  I know Katy will always help me with that.  I know she and I will resist the urge to remove painful obstacles so that our boys can learn to overcome difficulties (at least a bit) on their own.  It won't always be easy.  Sometimes we will fail by doing too much for them and protecting them too vigilantly and either forgetting to let them struggle or losing our steel when confronted by the reality of their discomfort.  But we're lucky...

These boys already have the minds and hearts of strong, wise men.  I'm so proud of them.

First day of Kindergarten: Hopes and Dreams

During orientation today, the principal at Jake's school encouraged us to "get to know" her and share with her our "hopes and dreams for his kindergarten year."  Kate and I sat side by side in a humid basement that they call the "gym/auditorium" and even though I was closer to bursting into a puddle of sweat vs. tears, that line did make me shrug away an emotional shudder.  Maybe I hadn't realized I did have hopes and dreams for him at this early stage in the game, maybe i was shocked in these first few seconds of contemplation how basic they were.

Perhaps to a fault, I don't give a shit where he is with his reading or math.  The kid is smart and a "pleaser" with two academic-minded moms, he will excel in school and be reading like a champ in no time...

I hope he has fun and learns to love those put in charge of his learning.
I dream that what happens this year sets him up to trust the people we call "teachers" and to feel safe in the buildings we call "schools".

I hope he makes friends and learns how to be good and generous to other kids.
I dream he has the experience of acceptance and friendship without learning to crave and chase the "high" of feeling popular.

I hope he somehow learns to appreciate the special qualities of others without feeling jealous.
I dream he learns to appreciate the special qualities in himself without feeling superior.

***************
In the middle of the first 1/2 hour in his class room, Jake pulled at my pocket and said, "I have to go potty."  His teacher showed him the room and he was in there for several minutes before the motion sensor light went out.  Over the din of the classroom, I heard quiet yelling, "Anyone... Hey, Anyone... Anyone out there..." it was soft at first and grew louder.  I realized what must have happened and the lights flew on as I opened the door and rushed in.

He shrugged at me, "Hey," he said, not quite embarrassed.
"Hey, buddy!" I said laughing in a way that I'd hoped would reassure him.  "If that ever happens again, you just have to wave your arms around to get the lights back on again."  I offered several more sentences in the way of explanation.  And then I noticed his red face and watering eyes...
He was about to cry, and I didn't want that to happen...  All these emotions rushed to me: he is way more nervous than we realized... He's afraid.  And he was literally left in the dark, oh no...

And then I heard the splash as he dropped (what I later realized was the third) rather large turd in the tiny "to scale" toilet. Misty eyes, cleared and the normal color replaced the red in his cheeks.

Here's my kid!  First thing he does at kindergarten is take a huge dump!!  When I told the story to Katy later, she mocked me with her mind-reading skills: "Oh MY GOD... it's like when you go into a book store and the info overload sends you running to the public restroom!!!"

It's funny because it's true.

I couldn't help it. I reached down and planted a kiss on the top of that kid's head.  "I love you so much, Jakey."

"Yeah," he said absentmindedly contemplating the status of his bowels.  The absurdity of the situation hit a peak as he obviously bared down one last time.  He relaxed his abdomen, shifted on the seat, took a short breath in and out, and I easily identified the cues- he had completed his business.

Looking up at me, he shrugged: "Can you believe I'm in kindergarten?!?" He asked excitedly.

Brief, awkward silence.

"Yes, baby.  I'm so proud of you," was the only thing I could think to say.

I've admitted it before, and I'll say it again, this kid is weird.  His moms are fine with it.  In fact his brand of quirky, honest sweetness is probably less weird than we are.  I'll sometimes tell him he's weird so he recognizes that word doesn't have to hurt: everybody is weird in some way(s).  I dread the day when someone makes him feel bad or insecure about the amazing things inside of him.

I hope that doesn't happen to him in Kindergarten.
I dream for him that when that does happen he has a good friend near him to reassure him that he doesn't need to make apologies for who he is.

Jake has a bunch of friends that he's gone to day care with for several years.  Today, KK shouted to him in the parking lot, "Thank you, Jacob!"

"You're welcome," he spouted over his shoulder as we all walked away from the bus.  When I asked him what he did that she was thanking him for he looked at me as if to say, "What the fuck are you talking about?"  It became crystal clear in that moment that this is just the beginning of me asking what I think is a perfectly legitimate question and him acting like I'm blind, deaf, and dumb.

Colin is Jake's BFF since he was 6 months old.  It's because of Jake and Colin that we are friends with Col's parents.  Now those kids are stuck with each other at least through high school, because Katy and I have really grown to love those dirtbags (Private joke).  When Jake asked us what a "kindred spirit" was recently (after the term came up in Puss in Boots) hearing the definition prompted him to report to us that Colin was his kindred spirit.  Sometimes the two boys greet each other with this term of endearment (sigh).

Life can be hard, even for kindergarteners.
I hope that he hits some bumps (even at this tender age) so he can start to grow confident in his ability to overcome challenges and obstables
I dream he'll have some good little peeps by his side reassuring him and giving him sound toddler advice.


***************
A few weeks ago, katy and I both picked Jake up from day care.  When the kids saw us come in together, it set off a sewing circle of banter among 4 four-year old girls.  They were working on some craft at a low-to-the-ground, circular table and the image in my peripheral vision was oddly similar to a group of old ladies gossiping while shucking peas- heads bent together, hands busy, absentminded familiarity with one another.  While I tried to get Jake to gather his things, I started to catch the content of their conversation:

Girl 1: Yeah, that's how it is.
Girl 2: He has two moms...
Girl 3: No dads...
Girl 1: No, he didn't come with one.
Girl 4: Not a dad in sight.
Girl 2: Nope, just only moms

Jake was oblivious and I realized that the arrival of the two moms simultaneously (when we usually took turns picking up our boys) likely prompted some solidification of the concepts that these little girls have been well aware of for a long time.

They weren't questioning the legitimacy of our family structure.  They weren't trash-talking.  Just hammering the points home to each other in a way that old friends might discuss the inevitability of an impending summer shower:

"Looks like rain"
"yessir, there's no way we're getting out of this one..."
"I guess we better bring the laundry in"
"These rains come and go"
"The sky is sure dark"
"It's been dry- we could really use the rain."

I hope that it will be sometime before Jake is exposed to a conversation where he realizes there are people in the world that have a problem with his family.
I hope if someone indicates there is something wrong with his family structure, there is a teacher (or one of those pea shuckers) right there on hand to immediately correct that lie
I dream we have a few years of solidifying his confidence before he gets a wiff of this part of the world from anywhere.


I didn't cry today. If it hasn't happened yet, I've probably avoided it.  But I wouldn't be surprised if it hit me later in the week or month.  Putting this kid out into the world,  further out of the sphere of our protective capabilities is humbling.  It makes me feel the intense weight of human vulnerability.    It makes me want to grab the break and slow down time a bit.  It makes me want to pray more.

Okay... there.  A few tears dripped down...
Is everyone happy now?

Come out, come out, wherever you are... Part 2

On St. Patrick's day this year, I was in Texas.

I've talked about how the political climate struck me as a tad bit suffocating in Part 1.

I was having a good time and it is quite lovely on the San Antonio river.

Missing my boys and my sweetie, I still wasn't going to ignore the fact that it was ST. PATRICK'S DAY. And on most years that goes by fairly UN-celebrated by me (due to familial and work obligations, not because I don't want to get all sloppy on green beer and Irish car bombs.)

There was that one time when my sister and I took the day off to spend it in a bar in South-ie...

and we drank all day until everyone in that place seemed like a pal...

But usually it's a toss up: "sleep... Green beer? Sleep... drunk girls in a too crowded bar, spilling green beer everywhere?? Sleep... spending too much money on bad Irish food and over priced car bombs???"

I know... I'm lame. I usually chose the sleep. Especially since the kids were born and wrecked my ability to sleep off green beer.

Anyway, this year, I was away from home, getting plenty of sleep, only responsible for myself. I had intended to round up some nurses or others from the conference to go rouse a little rabble.

It didn't work out. The 2nd day of the conference ended weird with some opting to go visit a site and others rushing away early and I was somewhere in between, ending for the day far too early for dinner. I went back to my room. Had an ichat with my family and then decided to head out on my own.

Going out to a bar on your own is strange, especially when you don't have any sexual favors to barter with or center banter around. It's not my game, but I think I understand why there are those people that travel a lot for work who make up an alias... It can only get you into trouble, but it's just so that you can go out and "hunt" for a dining companion, right? Anyway... I found a bar Durty Nelly's

This place was all set for the night; the piano-man was in the center of it all, singing ditties and limericks and keeping everyone entertained:

I found a seat about 12 feet from the piano, up against one of those boxed-in support poles. There was a small (14") table to my right and one empty chair besides mine. I was there for about 30 minutes when I started to get restless and feel awkward about being alone. I wasn't really in the mood to be so outgoing as to make new friends, and I for sure wasn't interested in giving up my seat to go make screaming small-talk (over the sound of the music) with strangers.

I sat for about 10 more minutes, my blood feeling like mercury rising as it measured my increased discomfort. Then in walked two couples looking for seating. They seemed disoriented like when you step from the sunlight into a darkened room and can't quite find your bearings. After I watched them twirl around a few times scouting for unavailable seats, I motioned that they might want to pull some chairs around the small table next to me.

Shuffling.
Confusion...
I got up and quickly corralled 2 extra chairs, pointing to a 3rd in a far off corner. They were happy and silly and it calmed me. We introduced ourselves and ordered up a few more drinks. The "Hi"s and "Where are you from?"s and "What brings you to San Antonio?"s lasted 10-20 mins. They had a few stories of this long trip they had taken to the western edge of Texas, and being social with them was as easy as stirring up a pitcher of iced tea in the summer.

We weren't too far into it when Mary asked about my kids (I showed pictures) and if they were okay with their mom so far from home...

I paused. I admit it, it is not how I roll usually- hesitating to bring up my wife- but this Texas place is strange. People down there seem to have a special way of not expecting the obvious (or what might be obvious to me...)

I smiled. Giving her the most reassuring and genuinely friendly vibe I could muster:

"Well, they have two moms, so they are doing okay..."

"What's that?!?" Mary asked blinking.

"I'm married to a woman, and our boys have two moms, so they are in very good hands when I'm away."

Two blue eyes stop blinking and fly open - wide as saucers.
SRSLY.
She literally brings her hand to cover her mouth which is now gaping open.

I can't even formulate the mental "oops" because her reaction is so extreme, so cartoonish that I am actually giggling.

I wait. There's not much more for me to say, so I let her get a grip of herself and recover from the (apparent) shock.

The other members of her group are not really aware of what is going on... They are eating peanuts, looking around... the music is loud and they have missed the meat of our conversation. I don't think they have noticed her surprised expression.

She lets her hand fall to her lap and her mouth is still open when she forms the words, pausing dramatically between each one. Searching carefully for each syllable, it's as if she is inventing language from scratch. She leans towards me.

"Are..."

It is too loud in here for a whisper to be audible. Though she is shouting, her eyes focus and her posture grows conspiratory in nature.

"You..."

She glances left and then right.

"A..."

I can barely handle it. Is this for real? Is she going to have a stroke???

She squeals the final word: "Democrat?!?"

I about lose my shit. I expected LESBIAN not DEMOCRAT. I nod enthusiastically as I laugh and smile hard at her. (Unlike being gay, being a Democrat is NOT illegal in any state.) But I am wondering, will this be the thing that prompts her to overturn the tiny table between us??? I just can't figure out what is going on... What is about to happen?!?

"Yes," I tell her again as she continues to stare at me blankly.

Then it explodes:
"I AM A DEMOCRAT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
(yes, that many exclamation points)

And a round of hoots and howls and giggles.
She is speaking wildly now- dozens of words a second- it is even more cartoonish than before- Now I freaking love her!!! And yet I'm struck with instant empathy. Here is a woman, deep in the heart of TEXAS, who is so isolated in her liberal politics that an Irish (1/4 Irish-mutt) lesbian from the North-East who shows up at a bar on St. Patrick's day is her best shot of MAYBE...

NOT DEFINITELY... BUT MAYBE...

Meeting a fellow Democrat.

You know what this means, right??? In Texas (And Mary has lived there all her life and presumably been out there looking for others) you more likely to run across an OUT homosexual than an OUT democrat...

I don't believe they aren't there, it's just that they have to hide in the closet!!!

Holy shit.

I about pee'd my pants at that bar... The night didn't end until we had shared a few too many drinks and Mary dialed up her 18 (? I forget his exact age) year old son for me to have a chat with via cell phone. (I have no idea what that was about either, but he was just as sweet as he could be and didn't seem the least bit surprised- It clearly happens to him all the time.)

Though none of her other companions indicated to me that they were also democrats, they seemed pleased as punch that Mary had located another one of us in this quaint section of the world.

I say again, "Holy shit." Can you imagine if I hadn't come out to this poor lady??? She would have spent the entire night assuming I voted for George W. Bush and sent money to Sarah Palin's PAC on a monthly basis?!?

You have no idea how profoundly this effected me. Let's just say, there are people all over the world, that need to know they are not in this alone!

;)

** Let's Talk.About.Thanksgiving... Shall we?!?

Today, the world lost an amazing woman, and extraordinary nurse. I lost a friend, a mentor, and an occasional surrogate mom.

I was 23 years old when I met Deirdre. I was a new nurse, starting a new job in the MICU and everything I needed to know about her, I learned in that first shift: She was all business, no nonsense when it came to the job. At first blush, she scared the shit out of me. But you only needed to hear her laugh to know there was nothing to actually fear - she was full of life, heart, humor, mischief, giggles, and truth. Dee would tell you what was what without batting an eye. She could say to you "Why are you wearing that? You look ridiculous!" but make it sound like, "I've been thinking, and I have a great idea for a make over!" She was what my gram would have called a "rascal". To qualify for the label the way my gram intended it, you'd have to be someone smart, someone that intuitively knows exactly what is going on, someone that pays attention and "doesn't miss a trick", someone that speaks truth in a good-natured way, that can knock an arrogant fool down a few pegs without seeming mean or threatened, someone soulful but who truly enjoys a good joke.

Deirdre was all of this. And a real class act.

She taught me so much about what it means to be a nurse. Being a nurse means doing things the right way. Working fast but not taking shortcuts. Taking care of what you can, fixing and organizing what you can; and creating comfort and respectful solutions when things can't be fixed. Washing and rubbing a back, lotioning someone's feet, helping a person eat or go to the bathroom, listening as people talk about their lives- these are not small, insignificant things... They are usually the most important things.

I stopped working in the ICU almost 10 years ago... And Deirdre left before then. We hadn't spoken in a long time, until last year when I learned that she had been diagnosed with Cancer - stage 4.
We emailed a few times, and in November, we had a big party in her honor.



She looked fantastic! The last time she wrote me, she told me that her prognosis had improved... Today, I was caught completely off guard by the news. I hadn't realized that she had recently gotten much worse, that she was hospitalized last week and transferred to hospice.
She died last night, surrounded by her family. She was only 65 years old.

There are too many stories to tell about Dee and all that she taught younger nurses and all that she did for (hundreds and hundreds of) patients, and all of the laughter she encouraged, but these are two of my most vivid and treasured memories.

Grief Stricken Nubbie:
I worked in MICU right out of college. I had recently broken up with my high school sweet heart, my first love of 6 plus years, by BFF all through school. I spent that first year as a nurse, trying to learn how to be a competent professional, trying to recover from the break up, trying to figure out who I was, trying to make sense of it all.

I was happy though, making money, finding satisfaction in my work, developing really amazing friendships. All the people I met that first year, never knew me as John's girlfriend. Never knew me as any one's girlfriend. I didn't have a significant other, wasn't really looking, and maybe some guessed it, but I don't remember telling anyone that I was searching for a way out of the closet. It was complicated inside of me, trying to figure out a way to break the news to lots of people that I wasn't straight.

It must have been really confusing to my colleagues how devastated I was when John died in October of 1997. When people asked what was going on, I first had to explain about John and then had to try to convey the terrible grief I felt. Words were inadequate and so I used few of them. After trying on a couple detailed explanations, I shortened the tale to "He was my best friend" and now he was dead.

Those first few weeks, going to work was awful. You don't realize you work in a place that is all about death until grief settles in you like a magnetic field and the tiny, metal shavings of death (that lay like fine dust in a modern ICU) fly from their resting spots to coat your skin. I was a wreck. And it took several weeks before I realized that people there were watching me. People like Deirdre, looking out for me, moving obstacles before I bumped into them, intervening on my behalf- "You go help with this admission, and I'll do that" I'd be told when it was time for me to prepare and "bag" the corpse of one of my patients that passed away.

One night, I caught the Jay Leno show, and he had a clip from this new comedy called "South Park". Watching it, I laughed and laughed and laughed. It was one of the funniest things I had ever seen. I taped it and watched it over and over and realized, it was the first time I had laughed- really laughed- in almost a month. I brought the tape to work and showed several people (trying to figure out if everyone thought this was funny or if I was cracking up.) Dee was in that first crowd of people and she laughed even harder than I did. Hearing her laugh made me laugh even harder. The laughing felt good. She and I watched that clip a dozen more times that night. We set the TV and VCR in an empty patient room and every so often, we would go in there and watch it a few more times... getting more silly each time. After that night, I would have done anything for that woman- that experience really helped me start to heal.

What would your mother say:
The second story: I had started dating a woman that we worked with. She was a travel nurse and started on our unit a few months before, expecting to stay 3-6 months longer. She was colorful and funny and a good nurse. She was popular, but not quite comfortable in her own skin and had a tendency to be erratic- not at work, but when she wasn't working. Again, I was not really "out", but I wasn't NOT out. Anyone that asked a question, I told the truth to, but this was like 12 years ago, Will and Grace wasn't yet on TV, not a lot of people brought it up.

Still, even though people weren't asking me about it the way they would have if Dana had been a man, we had told several of our friends and there is no doubt it was probably the worst kept secret on the floor (maybe in the hospital). One night, Deirdre pulls me aside...

D: What's going on with this Dana girl?
Me: what do you mean, what's going on? What do you want to know?
D: She's no good for you.
Me: (laughing, slightly embarrassed) what?!?
D: I'm not trying to get into your business, but you are going places and she is not going anywhere you want to be- this isn't about her being a girl... you want to be with a girl, that's fine, this isn't the girl for you...

Thing is, she was right. Not that the girl wasn't good for me, necessarily, but she was right to bring it up. She was right there for me... not letting her possible discomfort or fear of not being politically correct distract her from attempting to care for me. She was there to treat me and this relationship with the respect that comes from someone who tells you to "Pay attention!!!"... who reminds you not to shit where you eat... I wasn't even considering if Dana was "the girl for me" or not, but hearing that said out loud made an impression on me. I wasn't estranged from my family or anything, but there were no "parent-type" members that knew about this relationship (or if they knew, they didn't bring it up to me; and I didn't bring it up to them). Unless you count my MICU family (which I do...).

When you needed a mom or mother figure (whether you knew it or not) Deirdre was there. When you needed a mentor or a friend, same story.

The thing I'm having trouble describing in these memories of her is the love and vitality that Deirdre brought to every interaction. The perfect balance of salt and sweet. She would bust your balls, but it wouldn't be to break you down, it would be to build you up. She was a hard ass, with a heart of gold. She could be serious, but her laugh was seriously infectious.

When I got the news today, I felt sick and I felt sadness wash over me. For a few minutes, I thought I might start shaking with sobs at the loss of someone I haven't spent more than an hour talking to in the last 10 years. It's just this: As is true of most of the people who are our teachers, she is so much a part of special and important things inside of me, that she is kind of with me all the time. And intellectually, that's reassuring because that means (if she is living inside of me) I can never really lose her to death; those parts of her that she planted in me will still always be with me...

But...

That doesn't dampen the ache I feel knowing I will never hear her laugh or see her smile or her wise gaze again.
Sleep well, sweet-tough-nurse, funny-soulful friend.
You are loved more than you know and I miss you already.

**

Come out, come out, wherever you are... Part 1

When you come from and live in New England, places like Texas are not easy to understand.

This is a BIG-BOTTOMED GIRL of a state. ("As big as Europe," I was told.) While I'm intelligent enough to know that there is diversity of thought and opinion in every region, my personal experiences lead me to generalize things about the average Texan... S/He:

• Owns at least 3 shirts fashioned from or adorned with the American flag
• Would fist fight you over the statement, "All Americans were once immigrants."
• Thinks our president should be in jail (for some as yet undefined "crime")
• Has more friends that are convicted felons than friends that are Democrats

Not to say they aren't good people, I just think most Texans see things different than I do.

So far on this trip to Texas, I've come across a rash of folks who are afraid to say things that most of the people I hang with consider "facts". At this health care conference, for example, several people (including a few industry leaders) slowly and cautiously indicated to me that they (stutter, stammer) "Supported..." (swallow, deep cleansing breath) "health care reform" (pause with squinted eyes to see if my head was going to explode.) This tip-toeing around progressive politics is much more foreign to me than the accent or the climate.

It is uncomfortable- like being in the home of a woman who apologizes too much when she's serving you a delicious meal because she is used to the barrage of complaints that usually come from her husband.

On day one of the conference, I gave someone a reassuring, "Me too!" (about the “support health care reform” thing) But by day three I responded this way:

"I don't care what they say about Newton, I'm not embarrassed to say I “support” that gravity theory of his."

The Texan nurse on the receiving end of my sarcasm looked at me quizzically and then giggled like we were co-conspirators at a toilet-papering event on Mischief Night.

Nothing like watching a bunch of liberals coming out of the closet about their causes.

Still, I understand, because while here, I've found myself experiencing something I haven't in a long time: Hesitation to reveal my sexual orientation. When you first come out of the closet, the decision of how or when or IF to come out is a major aspect of every new conversation (though the person you are conversing with might never know you are doing all this debating and sweating in your mind.) In CT, MA, and 3 other states there is full marriage equality. When I meet new people, and they ask about my family or they bring up their spouse, I say, “my wife... our sons...” we all move on to the next thing.

This is a huge change in the last 6 to 7 years... It is a change in the world, but not a change in Katy's and my behavior, necessarily. She was the same when I met her over 11 years ago- comfortable in her own skin, unapologetic, not needing to soft-shoe around her identity or our budding relationship. This is one of the things that attracted me to her. Both of us agreeing on how we would communicate (who we are and exactly how we are related to each other) to the world. Meeting her and agreeing on this "code of communication" is how I got to live the life I wanted to live.

People who think the gay population should stay in the closet have a warped perception of what coming out entails... Coming out as heterosexual, for example, happens anytime you reference a “wife,” “husband,” boyfriend, girlfriend, your wedding, anniversary, your children, your grandchildren, your pregnancy...

Here's my personal code:

• I am not ashamed of who I am or who I love

• I am a little ashamed that it took me realizing I was gay to realize just how freaking homophobic the world is

• I don't believe for one second that God is ashamed of me either

• If your version of “God” has a problem with me, all you need to know is that my version of “God” doesn't – end of story

• I don't need to tell you about my wife and kids, but probably a lot of the time, I want to... They are awesome, after all!

• If the conversation turns towards families, and I have to hear about yours, you're sure as hell going to hear about mine

• I come out to people because it is the one sure-fucking-fire way to find other gay people

• I will not behave in a way that makes a closeted person in a crowd feel there is not an ally present for him/her, if that makes me “too open” tough shit.

• If some usually-silent alarm goes off inside my head that makes me want to hide my sexual orientation, I try to quickly determine why... (Am I in personal danger somehow?) If it is to protect your feelings or your bad politics, or to let you defame God's good name right in front of me... I pretty much come out, or at a minimum, walk right away from you.
  

• I will not be UNcomfortable so that you can be more comfortable... If my brain is spinning, “Should I say something? Should I say something? When should I say something?” That is a red flag for me that it is time to say something

• I will give you the benefit of the doubt

• I will not be rude, or aggressive, try to put blame on you, or not be generous with you...

• In the moment, I try not to judge you for your ignorance. I try to educate you. This may sound arrogant, “Why am I 'teaching' you after all???” But if you are not gay and you are talking to a gay person about gay issues, you should probably do more listening than talking. It is just a sound guiding principle.

• If you are going to keep saying ignorant things to my face, you are going to get the debate of your life (that may include some elevated vocal volume)

• I try to ask myself: WTFWJD?

When Katy and I went to Las Vegas about 5 years ago, we were at the gate of an airline waiting to board. Katy had a hat on and was playing a video game on her phone. I struck up a conversation with the 50-60 year old dude next to me who was from Texas and was in LV for some type of shooting competition – I know, right?1? So stereotypical, huh?!? I wish he wasn't pushing his lifestyle choices on me!!!

Anyway, I know a little about guns and so I kept asking him questions about ammo and qualifications, scoring, types of weapons used (not necessarily in that order.) It was very pleasant, I learned quite a bit and then he started asking me questions- what were we doing in Vegas, where was I from, etc. Katy looked up from under the visor of her baseball cap and said, “Can you give me some money? I'm going to get a drink.” Lord knows that was probably the only time I've ever been the money holder on a trip together, but it was enough for the dude to finally understand how we were related.

“Is that your daughter?” he asked without any hint of apology.

I almost choked on the wad of dip I had tucked into my cheek while chatting the dude up (What?!? it was before you could Facebook friend someone!?!) and said, “Um no... that's my wife.”

DUH... WINNING

This guy got all red in the face and before I realized that I should have “protected his delicate sensibilities” by staying in the closet and NOT throwing my “lifestyle choices” up towards his redNECK, he attempted a lecture that began and ended with: “I do not believe in that... that is not something that I-I-I-I am not going to... because I do not believe in...”

Quietly, I cut him off: “I don't care what you believe in...”

I said it in the neutral but friendly tone of a waitress who is really saying, “It doesn't matter to me if you'll be dining alone” when she asks, “Are you waiting for anyone else to join you?”

He stared at me, trying to figure out what to say next- I guess he was used to telling others that he “didn't believe in the gays” but perhaps he wasn't used to actually talking to one, or one that talked back.

All at once, I wanted to reach over and gently lift his chin, so that his mouth wasn't hanging open in that embarrassing way. Instead, I raised my eyebrows and gave him that “Don't get mad at me, that's just the way life is” shrug that I inherited from my dad. I told the dude:

“You asked who she was, and that's who she is... It doesn't matter what you believe in.”

I might have been more openly hostile, but honestly, I was so thrown off by the postulation that I was old enough to be Katy's parent. I was like, “DUDE... How bad do I look?!?” It was this reaction that I was making a conscious effort to censor. I have to say, I was very nonchalant in my delivery. I wanted him to feel and believe my apathy. Hidden behind my yawn-worthy response there was of course something simmering. Something like:

I don't give a corn-fed-turkey shit if you approve or me or not!?! I am real. (Pause. Pause.) You and your beliefs are immaterial in this matter... You don't even get a vote!!!

But I held that in and just stared at him... Poor, big dinosaur about to go extinct and no one's even had the courage to tell him...

We weren't staring each other down exactly, but I was definitely looking at him to see if this was over or if he had more to say. And for his part, I guess, he might have been waiting to see if I was going to take this further too. And finally, he said, “Well.” And I said “Mmm” and we ended the eye contact before it caused one of both animals to bare our teeth.

After a few silent moments next to each other, Katy came bounding back with a soft drink, and I grudgingly noted how much she looked like a middle-schooler all bouncy, and casual, and what-not. Then a few minutes later the dude -blinked- piping up with some small talk about the weather forecast.

Score one for the bitches.

The first thing is, all these years later, I can't believe the audacity of that guy..

But then too, I also am still kind of proud of the balls on me ;)

I learned an important lesson that day. When coming out to strangers- the worst case scenario is actually kind of fun!

PART TWO - St Patrick's day 2011

Simply the best

My birthday present last June was tickets to last night's Tina Turner concert.

Katy took me out to eat (accompanied by Connecticut's most popular and widely-read music critic and his lady-friend... She's gonna love that that's her title.) We had a wonderful meal. We opted out of stealing the bread bucket that we liked from the restaurant and then we hit the XL (Don't ask me who owns the civic center now) for some ass-kickin' music.

I love Tina Turner. She rocks the world and she is the real reason I want to get to know Oprah better. B/c I think Oprah can put me in touch with Tina. The concert did not disappoint. There were some noticeable breaks and a 30 minute intermission where we envisioned the 69 year old icon hooked up to a little oxygen and perhaps IV hydration with some PT massaging her limbs backstage. Katy and I both woke up sore from the clapping, screaming, and dancing around we did in our seats (they were GREAT seats btw) so we can only imagine how fit this lady is to put forth the show she did.

As we were listening, cheering, smiling, enjoying the diversity in the audience, laughing that some of our peeps coincidentally had tickets only a few rows away in the same section, it was a celebration of the most pure variety. At some point, katy turned to me, grabbed my hand and said with a squeeze, "I have a great life." I agreed: "me too."

This past week has been a little of a time warp for me. The work week flew by, but my life outside of work seemed to be infinitely full of not-so-mundane events. My mind is never really away from our friend Adam who is hospitalized in a wreck of a (reversible but) devastating and terrifying diagnosis. Our friend IBO who is maybe pregnant again but nervous about what happened last time and in a good amount of physical discomfort. Our friends in Brooklyn who are waiting for their twins to gestate fully and will now be waiting on "bed rest" for the next 8 to 10 or 12 weeks or so. My friend LCD who's been trying to coordinate emergency care for her father in law. Then there's KK, whose mom started her first round of chemo... should I go on?

At 32 Our Street, JB this week has seemed to blossom yet again, somehow increasing his sweetness, his understanding of things, and his ability to interact with the world. He is a joy. He has an ever growing sense of humor. He is getting physically stronger and more coordinated.

I think there is an older version of me that would have perseverated on some of the difficult things our friends are going through right now as compared to our life right now, and tended toward the, "some bullshit is bound to ruin everything" state of numbness: Fear of the other shoe dropping, a dash of guilt, and a general discomfort about living in such a degree of contented happiness. I feel encased in and embalmed with gratitude and a kind of warm empathy. I do not feel outside of the difficult times that my friends are going through. Though we are not in their shoes, we feel sad and worried and stressed a little with them. But our friends are also the type that weave their blessings and gratitude into their woes. And I am somehow with them, sending positive energy without "steeling myself" or making it about my anxieties and powerlessness.

Katy and I and our friends are statistically (literally) some of the luckiest people to ever crawl the earth. Considering the nation, the wealth, the opportunities, education, and experiences that we have been exposed to, from a broad view it is hard to imagine what there is to not be blissed out about... But at the same time, we (and our friends) are no strangers to tragedy either.

Last night, beaming, I looked around the arena and realized that the last time I saw Jennifer P was in that room. Her husband, kind of lost to us now, is facing another Christmas without her or their kids. I stayed there with her, but pushed us both out of that "last time" and back into the joy and the driving pulse of a Tina Turner concert. It was not as much to deny sorrow as to bring her memory into a place that is about life and not about death. That is about Joy and not about grief. That is about living in the peace of a moment not the anxiety of the past or the future.

There was a lot of talk this fall about Hope. In my opinion, the word got knocked around a little, and walked away with yellowing bully-bruises and the caked on mud of mockery. I can't help but feel, though, that a climate of hope is what gets people through not only difficult times but happy, peaceful times too. Hope as a premise works in any season. The promise that things will change means that luck will run out, but luck will blossom again too. Time might appear as your enemy and then will rescue you out of the deepest hole; a gift for healing or rest or adventure. The musculature of hope is love and friendship that will hold you up when you can't stand (or feel your legs.) Hope exists in the web of community that is built not only when you offer to help but more substantially when you find yourself brave enough to ask for it.

Tina Turner is an icon not exclusively for her talents or powerful vocal presence, but her lasting power. Also, the humanity and personal frailty that she chose to share with the world and her fans... Her guts. Everyone's got at least a little of that inside of them, and sometimes you need some appropriate music to help drive it out.

Thanks for the wonderful night, baby. ily.

Sad Anniversary

At just about this moment last year, katy called me at work to say,
"Dr P called out sick."
"What?!?" I responded in mock alarm.
That was so unlike him, it was newsworthy...

Little did we know that the term "newsworthy" was about to become the central, understated adjective. Nor did we know that at that moment they were all still alive, but not for much longer.

More updates followed: "I guess he's in W. Hospital... He must have had a heart attack or something b/c otherwise they would have taken him here... We can't get in touch with Jen..."

Then the next call: "They're gone. Jen and the girls are gone."

At eight months pregnant, I was just getting the feeling that "everything was gonna be alright." In terms of our baby and the impending delivery, my fears were turning into confidence and excitement.

In a flash I was weakly shouting into the phone: "What do you mean?!? What are you talking about?!?" I couldn't hear that she didn't have all the details. My instincts told me to get more out of her and tell her, "Get out of there- GET OUT OF THERE- Get OUT of THAT office..." Fight or Flight inside of me translated to: Her safety is my safety; my safety is our baby's safety; and I swear my first cogent thought was, "If this is some kind of mob hit, her location is next."

Get. Out.
Hit.the.deck.
And the crawl the fuck out of there.
NOW!

Admittedly, I was starting to lose it... Katy, stunned, trying to hold herself together, and momentarily regretting her decision to tell me this over the phone, asserted that she was safe, we were safe, and perhaps I should call my mother. I did just that and was crying before I even got the information out to my mom. We didn't know who did this, why they did it, or if more things would follow. Since learning the answers to these questions, I realize that I was seeking to believe that the societal contract had not been broken. i was clinging to a sense of normalcy that would never exist again. Somehow the what, why, how should have comforted us and provided a measure of security; but coping in the aftermath of a violent, truly random crime teaches you one or two things about how false any "sense of security" might be. There's no truth to the perception that if you "follow the rules," you and your family will be safe.

The last thing JHP ever said to me was, "I can't wait until this baby is born." I thought about that over and over again in the days after her death. The last thing I ever expected was to be attending her funeral with him still inside of me. That day, I'll never forget, the baby was going NUTS inside of me. I don't know if he was responding to my stress hormones, or if the length of time I was seated made us both uncomfortable, or if it was just his normal amount of activity that I perceived differently. It was one of the only times in my pregnancy that I could barely (mentally) handle that there was a thing inside of me... I was aching with anxiety and needed my space and this kid was crawling, and scratching and groping me from the inside. I wanted to scream... run screaming, but that was obviously due to more things than the baby.

We don't talk about it much. Especially katy. She learned her lesson early when i sent her to therapy and when she brought up the reason for her visit, her therapist started her own diatribe about how hard this has been for her and her family. This has been a prominent topic all over our state this year, but Katy has rarely opened up about it. She has endured a year of pt visits full of sobbing elderly men and their vengeful wives. The detailed depictions of revenge out of the mouths of grandmoms stuck with her in a more upsetting way than the wordless crying of the grandpops. Their doctor's family had been killed and they needed to talk about it even more than they needed their prescriptions refilled. At times too exhausted by her own grief to protest, Katy sat on the sidelines listening, to her patients, to her pregnant wife, even to her therapist- one part of her not willing to compete for support or "grief status" and another part expertly compartmentalizing.

We still shy away from acknowledging that this happened to us because, I mean... it didn't happen to us. But, it kind of did. In a completely startling way, the way the WTC coming down on sept 11th happened to "all of us," the torture and murder of this family happened to everyone who's heard the story. There seems to be something disgusting about "jockeying for position," but if we can ignore that for a moment- this did happen to our family in a much more personal way than to the towns' people in general.

Our friends are gone- so it turns our stomach a little more to see them in still-frame on the TV, and it burns our guts when we hear people say, "He's doing better than I expected." We go a little crazy when we hear ass-hats assert what they would do ("I would just kill myself") or what they "would have done" if they were the dad or were in the house. And we generally ache for what will never be- dancing together at weddings, celebrations of graduations, loads of un-delivered jokes and advice...

Over and over this year I've tried to stop imagining what it must have been like for them in that house. They must have at some point (fear aside, torment aside, danger aside) been thinking, "YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME?!?
THIS CAN NOT BE ACTUALLY HAPPENING."

When I can't help myself out of the semi-destructive mindset of "What must have been going on in there," I seek some glimmer of comfort in the nightmare. i find what I seek in the idea that an extreme sense of irony and disbelief might have crawled into their minds at certain points. A break from fear or pain.

"YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME?!?
THIS CAN NOT BE ACTUALLY HAPPENING."

The mind's way of looking for the punchline of the joke. I don't know why that comforts me, but it is something about the human spirit transcending misery and taking a moment to normalize the abnormal, to acknowledge and protest a glitch in the matrix...

It's raining now- intermittently drizzling and pouring- just like it was on the 23rd last year...
Katy and I will spend the day separately- occasionally considering the insanity, of what has happened to our friends and by extension to us. We will spend a lot of the day trying not to think about it; or pretending that we are not thinking about it.

But just to put it out there, we miss these women. We hope they are somewhere having some fun. We hope they are watching over BPJr. We hope he can feel our good intentions towards him... we miss him too. He's done a good job of preserving their legacies. When we think about our friends, we find ourselves trying not to think about how they died, but how we can work like they did to make the world a better place...

Day Care

Today was JB’s first day at day care.

Maybe the smartest thing I’ve ever done, was to plan to work from home today. I think if I had to go to work and act happy to be there, I would not have gotten anything done. When I drove away from the drop off, I called my sis (she’s done this before) and she said all the right things. Thank God she was in Florida on vacation and not on a cruise. (Not that she and I haven’t done extended “ship to shore” calls before…) And then when I hung up with her, I called kt. I might have called Kate first except, I didn’t want to upset her that I was freaking a little, and also, she’s been busy at work and I didn’t want to risk that she wouldn’t pick up.

Kt asked if I cried when I left, and I said “no.”

The emotion was more like “wanting to get in a fight with someone,” all “angry, mama-bear” not “sad mama-bear.” That’s kind of weird, right? It didn’t occur to me to cry b/c I was so tense and kind of “all business.” I didn’t really even know how to say goodbye to him because I was worrying in my head that I forgot to bring something he might need.

Also, I was experiencing a little denial. I kind of wanted to pull a “be right back.”

Mac has started saying this. She holds her forefinger up as if to say “wait a minute” and then looking up at you says: “Be right back.” Then she turns her head away for a few seconds and turns back as if she’s left and has now come back. It’s adorable on a 2 year old who understands what be-right-back means, but she doesn’t have a quick errand in another room of the house that might take her away for a few minutes. But now I think it’s the perfect tactic for when you know you should walk away, but you don’t really want to.

In that “good-bye moment,” I wanted to be more comfortable in my own skin. I wanted to be carefree and stay to play for a few minutes. But I wasn’t at all comfortable in that moment. I didn’t like the distant feeling that the back of my throat was closing up, or the concern that my presence was distracting the day care staff. In being attentive to me, the other kids were being put on hold. So I took his coat off, gave him a kiss, and said goodbye. It wasn’t sad at the time, it was stressful.

But now re-reading this, I’m choking up a little. In the quite space of the GSO, I can be gentler with myself and see why it’s okay to feel mad-protective, sad, or scared to leave him even for a few hours. It’s crazy how adults will pretend something emotional is not emotional just to get through it.

Or maybe I should just speak for myself.

4 hour road trip

We took JB to meet kt's gram today and see her dad's family.

He was on his best behavior the entire time. They showered him with love. He coo'd and giggled and ate and napped. He slept both ways in the car. This allowed the wife and I some alone time we haven't had in a while. Scrambling to get out of the house, we snipped at each other and spent some of our travel time fighting. Though I doubt that most American couples would categorize the discussion we were having as a fight.

There was some anger and some frustration but no yelling or name-calling. There were some tears, but honestly there were more, "I love you" tears as we started to make sense of the misunderstandings and admit that we "missed each other," as there were tears of frustration.

It is surprising how quickly we have become comfortable in the role of parents when I consider how long it has taken us to honestly be comfortable in the role of spouse. I think it has taken us all of these 7 plus years to know that we are a couple, eternally. That no matter what happens between us and to us, we intend to make this journey side by side. We know you can't account for everything, and maybe that is why it has taken this long. I feel like each of us might have (without telling the other) stashed a suitcase and a back up plan behind a locked door in the attic section of our hearts... "WE ARE TOGETHER FOREVER," we told ourselves and each other, and everyone else who was at our wedding...
but in case things ever fell apart...
you gotta hold on to who you were before all this love became your life, right?

Ask me and I'll tell you, I would rather love and lose than never love, but...
That doesn't explain that one, nearly forgotten, packed bag, does it?

At some point 2 years ago, Kt admitted she had a bag packed in her heart's attic. In fact, I think she dusted it off and moved it to the foyer. But once I called her out on it and convinced her to put it away, I had to be honest with myself and double check that I didn't have my own bag stashed away too. I had to jimmy the lock, but I found it. It was covered in cobwebs, full of clothes that don't fit anymore and treasures that are no longer valuable to me. I didn't even know it was there... I could barely remember why I packed and stashed it, but I knew it had something to do with not "playing the fool" even with my most trusted friend and my purest relationship.

But this year, I guess I needed extra space in my heart. Without realizing it, I unpacked the bag- giving most of the useless content to good will. I have a new truer truth now: that we are in this together, eternally. I say that to no one in particular because I don't need to proclaim it. I have no need to convince myself or anyone else. I know I can't be proven wrong or foolish even if we were to somehow stop being a couple.

So, during our "fight" today, I realize this. That a lot has changed in our relationship mostly as a function of becoming parents. We have less time for each other. We have more worries and more logistical considerations. We have wills and life insurance to put into place. Our interactions are less dreamy and romantic (not that we won't work on maintaining romance...) We are somehow suddenly (after 7 years) in this completely together. Where our fights are primarily about teaching and helping each other, and not hesitating to reveal fears and outline compromises. In this time of intense change, we are so damn solid. We are connected in a way that I didn't even know we weren't connected before. I feel it in my brain and conscience, but also in my muscles and blood and bones.

Ironically, one part of the fight was about how we are going to decide what to cut out of our lives so we can be less "busy." How we are going to simplify in a way that is acceptable to both of us... But it was this drive together, attending to family relationships, travelling at breakneck speeds that gave us the time to just "be" a loving couple.

The Second Sunday of Advent

When I was growing up, I was one of those kids (read: "dork") who loved church. I loved the sitting, kneeling, praying; the folding your hands and pondering quietly; the reciting of the mass, etc. I felt safe there and it made sense to me. I bought into it all hook, line, and sinker.

I understood what they meant when they said that "Jesus Christ was 100% human and 100% God." When I prayed to Jesus as a child and as an adolescent, I knew that he had walked the same path I was walking on earth, and I knew he had felt the sometimes insignificant (in an eternal sense) pains and dramas of trying to be a good person. The lessons of the church never felt oppressive to me. If it was an indoctrination, it was very peaceful and agreeable to me. It made perfect sense for example that God could be one, singular entity; but also equal parts of a trinity. It was not confusing to me that communion wasn't merely a symbolic representation of life-giving bread, but transubstantiation that made body and blood of bread and wine. (I was on board with all of that and with the fact that we didn't believe in Magic, and we didn't believe in cannibalism.) Furthermore, I loved the singing and the sitting together with my family for an hour a week, dedicated to some ideas that were bigger and longer-lasting than our human existence.

When I was in college, I attended the Jesuit Church on campus regularly. Going to church at home became a little harder as I started to notice how sexist some of the rituals were. I didn't like how often politics seemed to creep into mass. There was one deacon at my family's church who rarely gave a sermon about feeding the poor, nursing the sick, or volunteerism as a way to wage war on earth in God's name, but he never failed to mention abortion... outlawing abortion... and birth control was also always on his mind. At school, though, the Jesuits kept me in touch with my pal Jesus and his father, God. They focused on the message of living a good life on earth for not only heavenly rewards, but also the benefits uniquely tied to that type of simple living. My boyfriend and I would go to 10pm mass on Sunday nights and leave feeling full of gratitude, rejuvenated and ready to face another week of work and classes.

When I graduated from college things were spinning a little out of control for me. I realized that despite the love I had for my sweet, amazing boyfriend, I really was drawn and attracted to women. The trusting relationship I had developed with God lent to quite a bit of praying about what to do. The interesting thing was, my prayer revealed very different answers than the Roman Catholic Church was teaching. I knew inside myself that love was love. I had a well-developed conscience. I knew right from wrong. And after talking it over with God, it felt more wrong to lie, try to change myself, or "settle" than it did to "choose the homosexual lifestyle."

At that point in my life, I had the humility to accept that my decisions might be wrong in the eyes of God or my church or society. But if I was going to be this introspective and hard on myself, I felt the leaders of church and state must also be in touch with the limits of their "knowledge" of what God might believe. To borrow the words of Anne Lamott, "You can safely assume that you've created God in your own image, when it turns out that God hates all the same people that you do." At a certain point, I acknowledged to myself, there was no (wo)man or bishop, or human ruler that could truthfully know God's opinion and I would not tolerate a religious or secular leader that was unwilling to entertain that perspective.

Then all the stuff unfolded about hundreds of pedophile priests... and then somewhere in there, my best friend dies. At that point I'm ready to walk away from church because it is just too much. Too much compromise on my part. Too much dishonesty and hypocrisy on their part. Too much following ceremony and tradition (not because it feels right inside myself) but because it is easier to fake it, go through the motions, not question the reason, not upset the apple cart. But I feel too "catholic" (and frankly too tired) to look for another church.

Then I meet Katy. And 2 things happen. The first is that I find someone that I really want to create a family with. And the second is, when I take her to my family's church, it is changed to me. It is much more offensive to me. It was as if sitting there by myself, all the little ways the church "did not agree with" or "did not support" it's gay parishioners went completely unnoticed by me. I didn't mind much if they were talking about (or just ignoring) me. But when they were doing it to her - it really pissed me off - and it seemed so loud and intentional and mean spirited.

If this was the "one true church" as I had been taught to believe, then I didn't need church - I decided I wouldn't do that to my (future) family. Still, cutting church out of my life left me a feeling empty - shouldn't you go and commune with good people for an hour or so a week to recharge your spiritual self before facing the next week's toils?

Katy and I tried to reconcile this and found a church to marry in. It was important to me that God be invited to that party. But this also marked the beginning of a different kind of struggle between 2 parts of me. Should I really leave the church - my church... my family's church because of their stance on "gay issues"? vs. How do I ask my wife to give these people the time of day? What is good for a little girl (an assumed straight girl) is not good for her adult self, her wife, or her planned but unborn children.

It is still an unresolved struggle. There is a part of me that wants to meet my family at church on Sunday... wants to go to coffee with them after mass, wants to be the same religion they are, wants to teach my son about the sacraments and communion. There's a part of me that just can't quite figure out how to handle communion: Is it their communion to give to me - and therefore I should follow their rules? Or is it my communion - a sacrament and gift that God gave me? Out of respect for my loved ones and for God, should partake when "the Eucharist" is blessed and offered to me? When I go back to my family's church for weddings and funerals? Or should I refuse? If I abstain, is it because I am rejecting the RCChurch or because they are rejecting me??? Do you see what a quandary I'm in?

For the last few years, Katy and I have been attending a Unitarian Universalist Church. A church we loved instantly. We walked into this church thinking it was a congregational church we might "try out," and we've returned nearly every Sunday for three years.

This UU has much more "God language" than many UU's (which is something that is important to me). And has a wonderful female minister that brings tears to our eyes nearly every week with her humility and poignant directives to BE BETTER humans and HELP one another and FORGIVE your enemies and yourselves, and to follow a great and amazingly difficult commandment to LOVE.

Love.

Sounds simple, right? It's only simple if it's half-assed. (The minister's sentiment, my curse word added for emphasis.) Love, if it's done right is a life long endeavor... Love yourself so you can live a healthy, productive existence and so you can take care of those around you. Love others- if you dare- because shouldn't we be living in less isolation with more frequent communion?!?

This is the first church Katy has ever known - the first church she has loved. This church has already seen us through some hard times. The first time we were pregnant and then a few days later we weren't. The time we thought our relationship might be falling apart. The several weeks after our friends were attacked and killed in their home. This summer, after that brutal event (when I was 8,9, then 10 months pregnant) our minister continued leading us in the usual benediction at the end of church:

Go out into the world in peace.
Have courage.
Hold onto what is good.
Return to no person evil for evil.
Strengthen the fainthearted.
Support the weak.
Help the suffering.
Honor all beings.

It took 6 weeks before my voice stopped cracking during "hold on to what is good" and before I could say "return to no person evil for evil" without tears falling out of my eyes. And that's when I turned to Katy and said that I was finally ready to "sign the membership book." (She wanted to sign 3 years ago after about 2 Sunday services.)

The thing is, that benediction is has been guiding me though the simple questions in life... Should I really be speeding up to the assh8le who cut me off just to offer him a one fingered wave? But when you brush up against some example of real evil- how you react to it (even if only in the quiet of your heart) matters. And when you choose a spiritual leader, you'd better choose one with values you can lean on- that make sense to you. This benediction is only one part of the reason we love this church. These words cut to the meat of how I want to live my life. And if this is what it means to be a Unitarian Universalist, than I guess that is what I am. It is very much in line with what I need and what I believe.

So we joined. And when JB was born they announced it in the service and in the bulletin. And when they plan the Christmas nativity at our church, they ask the most recently born child (male or female) to play the part of baby Jesus. And if that baby happens to have been born to a couple of lesbians... everyone there seems to get kind of an excited glimmer in their eyes about it!