The Truth About Fried Things with Cheese

I realize that the things that I write make people uncomfortable. There have been many days when I questioned myself about the foolishness of letting the general public inside my head. Something about future employers and grandchildren sent up warning flags. Yeah, well, that’s nice.

Last Wednesday I went to lunch with my coworkers, gobbled down raw carrots and ate my Healthy-Choice steamer bowl of sodium with broccoli thrown in for colour and went back to my office to eat more stress. I stood up from my desk and I thought, initially, I had a carrot twisted sideways behind my breastbone, just below it. I pushed on the top of my abdomen like I had an infant foot lodged in my ribs (thank you Sarah for that reference). Nope, tubes are tied. My stomach had been swollen for months but I attributed it to discovering I actually had a bulging stomach after my breast reduction last January. My surgeon retorted, “Yeah, I’ve heard that one before.”

Audible grunting is not usually a good thing at work, so I walked into my bosses’ office and said, very abruptly, “I think I swallowed a carrot wrong, I have to go now. I’ve called Chris and he’s on this way.” God bless my employers – they are patient people. Then I stood outside on the front porch of my workplace and paced like a panther back and forth, back and forth, rubbing my belly.

I was certain I was having a heart attack.

“You have pain behind the breastbone, radiating toward the back?” the triage nurse eyed me and smiled. “Your blood pressure is pretty good. Do you feel like if you just threw up you’d feel better? How about if you took your bra off, do you feel like you are in a bear hug?” All of the answers were yes. “Yeah, it’s classic gallbladder.” Hallelujah! Ok, now make it stop hurting. I looked at the clock and it was 1:30 p.m. They performed an ECG to make sure that it wasn’t my heart but the pain was so intense they had to do another one because the nurse deemed the first one consisted of scribbles of an unreadable nature. The technician was massaging my arm, “Calm down, think of rivers and streams.” Look lady, I feel like I’ve got a sledgehammer hitting me repeatedly in the gut – YOU think of rivers and streams. Mumbling, “Rivers and streams, beachfront property... Glen Rose... calm, be calm, be calm.”

I thought to myself, “Ok, you’re crazy. You are not having a heart attack. You can’t even do an ECG right and they’re going to look inside you and find out that you’re lying.” My own voice makes my father’s worst days as my critic look genteel in nature. My book’s largest discovery was that I was my biggest abuser and the lesson was unfurling, again, before me.

4:30 p.m. and it’s time for Chris to go get Sarah from school. We’ve sat together in the waiting room. The attack or whatever it has subsided, the nurse asked me what the pain level was between one and ten. “It’s a three,” I countered. Ok, well, that’s it. I’m crazy, the pain is going away, I want to go home now. If I go home then I’ll go back to work and they’ll know I’m crazy. As if that isn’t already up for debate, right?

At around 6 p.m. there’s a cattle call and seven of the lucky contestants get to go to the next waiting room. I’m one of them. I stand up very quickly and realize that I am not doubled over but standing up straight. Maybe I’ll just go now. Twinge. I rubbed my gut, absently, thinking about the email at work that would be piling.

My kingdom for something to read. The nurse handed me a “William and Kate: The Love Story” magazine and I want to tell you that did absolutely nothing for the nausea. Chris had kindly bought me a People magazine but I ate it in ten seconds flat and completed the crossword puzzle shaking my head at probably grade seven complexities. I don’t really care if Catherine Zeta-Jones is bipolar. In fact, I’m sick to death of that word. Is everyone either bipolar or has Aspberger’s?

9:00 p.m. and the rumble begins. I’m now in a room waiting for the doctor to see me and I lean over a bit. This isn’t even a wave. This is an onslaught. “Nurse? Can I get something for the pain?” “Just a little while and he’ll be with you,” she retorts, resuming her conversation on the phone. She’s smiling.

10:30-ish and I’m grunting. I can hear myself sobbing and I feel like I’m four years old. My husband is at home because I’m too proud to tell him I’m frightened and it’s game seven of the NHL playoffs. He’s a Habs fan. “3-2b,” the text message reads. Okay... Habs at 3 and who the hell is “b?” Bruins? “OW son-of-a-bitch” and every expletive I know is chorusing out of my mouth. I’m not shouting, I’m whispering them. Above all else, do not show pain. DO NOT show pain. Ok, heaving and nothing is coming out.

What are these people thinking? I’ve been here since 1:30 this afternoon and I’m in pain. I’m not playing. I’m not looking for drugs. I don’t give a fat rat’s ass about diagnostic process, this hurts! These are the people who are supposed to fix it. SO FIX IT. “Chris? I’ve put my clothes on and we’re going to North Bay or Toronto or somewhere that they can help me. Can you come pick me up before I walk out?” My husband is on his way. The charge nurse is in my room at my request explaining to me that this “is emergency medicine in Canada these days and that there’s an 87 year old woman out in the waiting room...” His mouth is moving, but all I can hear is “Too bad, no soup for you.” He wants to know if I’ll put my gown back on. I’m eyeballing the IV pole in the corner and wondering if I heave it out the door if they’ll stick me with Ativan. I hear myself saying, “I couldn’t pick it up if I wanted to.”

Oh thank God, Chris is here. I’m yelling at my husband and cursing like a woman in labour who has clearly lost control of her senses. “THIS IS YOUR HEALTHCARE SYSTEM?” THIS? I might pay for it out the ass but in the States I wouldn’t be standing here ten hours later sobbing. (Of course, the States cost us our home in medical bills but in the middle of that particular night the fact escaped my logic.)

“Please go tell them I can’t do this,” I’m begging my husband; confirming my four-year-old behavioural technique is in progress. Chris goes out and fifteen minutes more of ranting later the doctor appears. He’s asking me about my symptoms. Do you even have a chart? The pain is no longer rational. My mind is no longer rational – it’s just red. I can see the fuzzy edges I used to see long, long ago. Rage. “Well, we’ll send you for some diagnostic testing and...”

After I finished whatever I said to him (and I have to admit to you that I didn’t say it anywhere near what my thoughts were exclaiming); he sent the nurse back with pain meds. Torodol. The nurse rooted around in my right arm looking for a vein and I found that when you are in that much pain IV's no longer hurt. Your body just kind of creates this numbness. It was nice, actually. Switch arms, honey. Then the Torodol pushed me back into the gurney and I became a reasonable, if somewhat dishevelled, human being again.

So what’s the point? I was laying on my back on that gurney and sobbing as she looked for a vein. I realized that the tears weren’t going to stop no matter how hard I tried to hide them. And the tears were humiliation. It wasn’t pain. It was having to beg to be relieved of the pain. Greg’s voice echoed in my memory, “Ben, you never have to tell a fat person they are fat. They carry the weight with them every single day.” I couldn’t tell them I wasn’t a drug addict in search of pain medication. I was a drug addict, twenty-four years ago. What I wanted to scream at them was, “I’m a sober member of a twelve-step program that has spent the last twenty-four years of my waking life facing pain that I caused myself and others. When I come into an ER and I’m grunting – don’t play with me. Don’t shame me. Listen to me because I’ve come about as close to death as I want to and I’m pretty much incapable of harming anyone else but myself. I’m not crazy, I’m a human being.”

It was my gallbladder. Two stones later and four incisions – I’m going back to that ER with this story in hand and stapling it to a wall somewhere. If I still had the organ I would hand it to that nurse.

Made a Decision

I'm up at 1:59 a.m. and I have the kid upstairs to thank for it. I never realized that not getting my sleep was so disturbing to me -- until I wasn't getting it. Funny how perceptions change, isn't it? At 19 years old or 20... being up at 2:00 in the morning meant a really good party was going on. At 23 years old, it meant that Ben wanted his bottle and at 25 years old it meant that Katie wanted hers. I slept pretty well through until age 35 when Sarah came along and then I promptly turned her and her bottle over to her father. At 44 I walked into my employer's office rubbing my eyes going, "what the hell is this?" Turns out a lot of women in their mid-40's aren't sleeping, don't sleep...and they don't die from it either. Who knew?

So, at 45 -- I've made a decision. I'm going to use these sleepless hours to write. Warning: I might write things that make absolutely no sense to anyone but me. Well, hell, isn't that what blogs are for?

I've been reading this book by Iyanla Vanzant called "Peace from Broken Pieces" and when I wrote The Truth About Whales I really thought that my experience would help someone, anyone. When I didn't get the responses that I thought I should, I wondered what the purpose was in the writing, at all. Self-promotion was exhausting and unfulfilling, at best. Finally, I resigned myself to the fact that I wrote the book for the one person who needed it the most -- me. This is what I am understanding from Ms. Vanzant's experience. All of the "victimhood" in my life to date has been voluntary and oh my God, if you only knew how shocked I am to have written those words.

In my spiritual journey for this lifetime I have chosen the victim role many times in my living. Sometimes I didn't have much in the way of choice -- until I was 10 or 20 years down the path still reliving what happened. That was my choice.

The greatest, kindest, most difficult and heartbreaking thing my son taught me was that I have no control whatsoever about what happens to another human being. I can be a part of their path, their living, their time here -- but it isn't my business to fix them. That belongs to them -- and in my belief, to God.

No one could have helped me if I hadn't sought it. Even in a stupor I was seeking. Twelve step recovery programs talk a lot about sobriety being a gift. I think that the grace I was given to be breathing up until the minute I found AA was the gift. What happened from 1986 until March 22, 2011 has been about choice. Today, this is what I have learned.

My husband just arrived and told me to go to bed. :)

The Walk

I have the stomach flu and I am irritable and grumpier than usual. I stayed home from work yesterday and slept all day long – it was wonderful and I needed it. This morning I got up, got my clothes out for work, opened the refrigerator door and just about heaved. Picked up the phone and called in sick again.

For those of you who don’t live in Canada, we have walk-in clinics that you can go to if you aren’t feeling well. They’re very convenient, but sometimes you might sit for two hours or more to be able to see the doctor. I just wanted to know if what I had wasn’t an ulcer. So I brought my book and picked up #89, waiting to be called like I was there for take-out.

People watching is my hobby because I believe that there are countless stories in conversations, in the way people sit, in how their bodies move. I watch them all the time and stories swirl in my brain. It’s great entertainment if you don’t have the stomach flu.

I should physically describe myself. I’m 5’1” and I weigh about 220 pounds. On top of that, my hair is spiked, I’ve got black circles under my eyes and when my face has no expression at all, I look surly. People often think I’m angry when I’m not even mildly peeved. It’s kind of embarrassing really because, inside, I’m a ball of emotion and I cry at the drop of a hat...or at least a good GE commercial, anyway.

Sitting in the chair as far away from the door as possible, away from any infants, with my back to the wall – I settled in with my book and was all snugly inside my blanket-coat. Before Christmas, my husband took me coat shopping at the French River Trading Post and I finally got the rainbow-colored sweater coat that I had eyeballed for two years. It’s particularly warm and cozy; and it is so thick that the coat requires its own seat at the movies. Reading, I heard this little boy. He was babbling and singing; fidgeting in his chair and generally being all of 3 or maybe 4 years old. I looked up from my book and smiled in his direction, letting everyone around me know that the surly woman in the gay pride coat was thinking that the little monster was cute. Smile!

Creeping silently back into my book, I tried to concentrate on a paragraph and I heard his mother say, “Stop being so bad! Stop talking to me like that!” He was standing in front of her and she had her hand around his wrist. The younger woman she had with her was trying to circumvent whatever was happening and pulled the boy away to put him on her lap. Then she placed him back on the chair and they played rock, paper, scissors until both of them lost interest. I went back to my book.

“STOP playing with those blinds! I told you to behave...” the mother leaned over him and was face to face, scowling. She didn’t even have the temerity to whisper. Personally, I always used to say to my kids – in a whisper – “If you haven’t realized it yet – you keep behaving that way and sooner or later we’re going to be alone.” Generally, that got their attention right away. The next question in your mind, did I make good on my threat? Stupidly, the answer is yes. More than I would ever care to admit, I promise you.

Ok, so now I’m talking to myself in my head and I’m saying, “SueAnn, this is none of your business. Yes, she grabbed his wrist, yes she twisted it. Yes, she got right in his face...” and I could feel my heart thumping in my chest. It was the old fight or flight feeling of “I have to say something. I have to protect him. I have to stand up and deck her properly.” So I continued talking in very stern tones to myself, “You are a grown up. If you deck her it’s called assault. This is socially unacceptable behaviour. And besides, you are that brash American Yank living in Canada where the people are polite and don’t go up and deck bad mommies.” Back to the book... my stomach was doing belly flops in stress acid.

I could feel it. I could feel the little girl in me going, “Be good. Be good and she’ll be nice to you.” Well, yeah, that’s me, and it happened a long, long time ago. And I wrote a book and outted my bad mommy. That isn’t this woman, it’s not today. It’s a memory.

“If you don’t stop what you are doing, I’m going to take you for a walk.” She’s got him by the wrist again and he’s kicking his snow boots at her, not a full out tantrum but he’s scared and not willing to back down. Other people are coughing politely into their hands and looking away. I get up half out of my chair and then sit back down. I’m too angry to do what I want to do. So I sit and watch. I’ve put my book down and I’m looking right at her. I won’t break my stare. I smile. She has no idea what is smiling at her.

Finally, after what seems to be hours, they are called into the office and he walks past me. I want to grab him and say, “Listen – you talk about those walks, ok? You tell everybody within earshot about what happens on those walks. Ok?” And I don’t. I duck my head into my book and lament that I had my chance to say something and it has passed. Admittedly, I feel relief.

The woman, her friend, and that little boy walk out the door. I go into see the doctor and they’re gone from the lobby when I get out. So I’m walking toward the doors between the clinic and the pharmacy and here comes that mother – and she’s alone. I’ve got her now.

“Excuse me? Ma’am? “ My Texas is coming out. “Excuse me?” She turns to look at me and stops, even though she’s in a hurry. She’s young. Her eyes are light green... almost sea green. She has braces. “Erm... well, I couldn’t help but hear what was going on in there and I want you to know that you have a smart little boy. He knows how to push your buttons.” She smiled, “Yes, he’s a handful, he really does.” “Well, ma’am... boys like that will push every button you have if you let them know what they are...and he’s a smart little boy.” She nodded, still smiling, and my heart was calming. I smiled at her again. “But ma’am, one more thing, I have a suggestion. The next time he acts up like that – YOU take the walk by yourself, ok? He doesn’t need any more walks.” She stopped smiling and got the message.

You just never know who is listening in the clinic. You might just end up on YouTube... or at the end of the arm of a 220 pound woman who is walking down memory lane.

Who Knew

You know, we cry less now. And I'm not saying that to make you feel guilty in Heaven. I don't think guilt exists in Heaven, anyway. It's a hallmark that joy comes more frequently than the sorrow -- or even just a day, a plain old day. Plain old days come before the gut-twistng "why's," now, or the dull ache of just not wanting to feel anything at all. Those days are over. Thank God.

When the grief of your loss visits me, I know it isn't you. I used to wonder if you were settling your soul upon my body so I could taste what you felt that day; so that my questions would be answered bit by bit. I say taste because at those times I would feel this bitterness well up in me and it would come out of every opening on my face. It would wash and wash through me and out me until I could physically taste the grief.

Grief is such a polite word. That wasn't grief. It was anguish, it was torture, it was C.S. Lewis' "the eternal vivisector." NOW I understand what he meant! It's regret. I think I'm going to make regret a swear word in our house, just like we did with hate. You can drop the f-bomb in the house and get away with it. Say hate, and all three of my kids could say it in chorus, "Don't say hate, say 'dislike intensely.'"

Pink wrote a song called "Who Knew" and in the video they make it about a romance, about a boy/girl break-up. The lyrics speak too plainly and I'll let them finish what I have to say here. I was walking the dog this morning and the song came on. I jokingly told Chris that I sobbed in the jail parking lot, I snuffled on Applegrove Street. I horked up a big old ball of snot on Alder Street and by the time I got to our door it had almost passed. I sat on the steps in the hallway, took off my boots and the dog dried me off instead of me drying him off. You'd really like him, Ben.

I'm sending you a note to Heaven to tell you that you haven't been forgotten and you will never be forgotten. You are loved... imperfectly, sloppily and with lots of tissues, loved.

Mom

Who Knew <~~~~ click please

How do you know a Christian?

Now, I know a lot of people who talk about being a “Christian.” They belong to the most attended church in town. They are active in the adult Sunday school; they even serve on the church council. Some of them are leaders in their communities, publicly recognized for their efforts. None of this is a put down. I congratulate them on their efforts. They might even give money to a homeless person if they knew he or she wouldn’t drink it or shoot it in their veins. Those are what I call christians.

One lady, I’ll never forget her. She worked at the food bank here in Sudbury. I really liked her, a writer. We bumped shopping carts at the local Food Basic and she asked me what I was doing since I wasn’t volunteering at the food bank anymore. At that time, I was working with the volunteers at the Elgin Street mission on Saturday mornings, serving breakfast. She commented, “Oh, I see. Well, you know, the school that I come from says that we don’t help people giving them food for free.” Yeah – to quote Bill Engvall – there’s your sign. She’s a christian.

On the opposite side of the aspen tree is Kate. Kate is one of those fiery Scots – probably from a long line of Presbyterians. She used to work the Highland games slinging cans of haggis for recreation. Since I’ve known her, she’s worked in a couple of different jobs and been part of at least two 12-step programs, maybe three. She’s got a cat that’s skirting the edge of mortality. She was one of the first people to recognize my ire at God because it was something we shared. All this mumbo-jumbo about God being nice; what’s up with that? God is the entity that brought us more misery than anything. Because all this time we thought we were doing good -- bad things were happening. Children turned away from us. Money dogged us at every turn and we spent years in financial insecurity. And here we were, praying like mad – to the maddest of Matter. Ok, ok… anti-matter.

Kate and I have had more than one discussion that ended with, “I don’t know why God doesn’t like me.” The thing I find so odd about her is that she’s the one who gives me books about Father Tim, the Episcopal priest in Jan Karon’s Mitford series. Kate was the one who held my hand via email, telephone and any way she could when my son died. Every single time she showed up was when I was in the midst of a wrestling match with the Almighty – carrying messages full of “keep breathing, Scarlett, tomorrow is another day.” She doesn’t shy away from saying, “Yeah, your God… you know what the hell He did to me this time?” And I laugh and ask her to tell me all about what He did. If doubt were a religion – both of us would be elders in the church by now.

So, here’s a quandary. “Religious Tolerance says the most common definition of a Christian is one who is ‘a follower of Christ and his teachings.’”

I don’t know if Kate is a follower of Christ. If it’s the same guy I’m thinking of, she’s more of a bar stool mate. His teachings? Well, let’s give some examples:

“Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy.” – Matthew 5:7

I know that every single time I’ve stuck my foot in my mouth to the point of swallowing my ankle, Kate didn’t say a word. She didn’t have to.

“When you pray, do not be like the hypocrites, for they love to pray standing in the synagogues and on the street corners to be seen by men. I tell you the truth, they have received their reward in full. But when you pray, go into your room, close the door and pray to your Father, who is unseen. Then your Father, who sees what is done in secret, will reward you.” – Matthew 6:5-6

The story of Father Tim arrived on my doorstep when I was angrier with God than I had ever been in my life. I was so angry with Him that I wasn’t yelling anymore. I was silent in my rage because I didn’t have the energy or the will left to fight. A card and a book arrived in the mail. The card said, “When you reach the end of your rope, tie a knot in it and hang on.” On the inside, written in the prettiest cursive I know, it said, “I really do believe in you – you’re one of the toughest, most resilient people I’ve ever had the privilege to know…and remember the promises – it will get better!”

Recently, Kate was telling me that Charlie requires medication that she can barely afford, her physical pain is tearing at her and she doesn’t really know how much longer she can hold on to – well, anything. She’s tired.

Today, I came home from work and I’m tired. I think I’ve got a touch of the flu combined with a dose of the “I miss my children being in my house-itis.” Most of all, I think I miss my eldest daughter because she’s growing up and away from me. Hell, she was growing up and away from me at 12, but I didn’t mind it as long as I had charge over her laundry. I had some measure of control then, anyway, right? No clean underwear for you!

In the mail today was a package from K8’s Books and I knew, immediately, that Christmas had arrived on my doorstep. It was a copy of Fannie Flagg’s book, “A Redbird Christmas.” And Kate – I know that redbirds and cardinals are different, but my sponsor believes that when a cardinal shows up at your door, someone who has passed to Heaven is thinking about you. I believe that when a redbird from California shows up on my door, I’ve been blessed by a Scottish angel.

I’ve got something for you, my friend. God isn’t angry with you. God isn’t punishing you. God isn’t about that – and you already know all of these things. I think you shout them to me because you know that we are clanging… symbols. We are channels of His peace, teachers and students of the capital “C” Christianity. And no, silly, I don’t believe that Christ is, was or ever will be the only way to God. I believe he was a carpenter’s son – a fisherman’s and a whore’s best friend. Being a capital “C” Christian is not about spouting your beliefs – it’s about sitting, holding hands in the darkest days of doubt and waiting patiently for good things to return. You know, they always – in all ways -- do.

Here’s my Christmas certainty for you – my friend.

“Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more important than food, and the body more important than clothes? Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them.” - Matthew 6:25-26ish

Amen. <~~~ click, please….