Lucky me

Today I had lunch with a dear friend I don’t often see. She remarked that “everyone’s life is hard and I told her that mine felt pretty easy these days.  I reflected on this observation on the way home and realized that I have regained some of the optimism extruded from my soul during my last years at the institution where I worked.

I’m so excited by the lack of stress and repeated frustrations in my life. I feel like I should throw a welcome home party for my brighter side. I’m having to become acquainted with it.

But life truly is easy even with Mom’s dementia. I have to care for her, but I’ve gotten over the guilt of not having her move in with me and I haven’t had to put her in a nursing home. I believe she’s getting good care in assisted living. And she’s a delight to be around. She’s funny and agreeable, just slow moving and hard to clearly communicate with. She has not lost her core personality.

I have enough money. I don’t need a lot to be able to say that and I think that attitude is a blessing straight from my parents. I don’t need a lot to keep me nourished physically or emotionally or spiritually. I feel blessed that HabMoo is willing to take on the bulk of the bread-winning without rancor. I’m lucky that I have an education and skill that I can charge people to access. I can enjoy flexibility and open space in my schedule. And I find scrimping and saving to be a rewarding challenge if its not an impossible task.

My husband will be deployed this time next year, but again I feel optimistic. He’s not likely to fire a weapon unless he’s allowed on a shooting range. Our marriage is strong enough that I don’t have to worry about a year’s time being more stress than it can handle. We’ve been through it once and it sucks and it’s survivable.

I feel strong today and lucky. This makes for a rather boring blog post, but I want to be able to revisit this feeling when, as is part of the human psyche, I trip into frustration or despair and judge my life against others who seem to have it better. If I ever again get to the point where I feel like I can’t summon up any enthusiasm and I’m embarrassed by the personality people introduced to me see, then I can come back to this post and remember that this bright, optimistic and confident self is also a part of me. It’s resilient enough to return to my consciousness if given the chance.

Cowboy boots: Why I need a dozen pair

Daddy believed that those of us who inherited his flat feet would find greater support and comfort wearing boots. He was right. There used to be photos of him in shorts and cowboy boots. I think they are all missing now or have had his image inked out. I’m not sure which is more embarrassing, a father in black socks and sandals wearing shorts or a father in cowboy boots and shorts.

While camping I’ve given up on my hiking shoes and switched to cowboy boots. They aren’t great in the mud, but my feet feel better after an hour of hiking than they do in other footwear.

Plus boots are fashionable, right? When I was in third grade and girls were allowed to wear pants to school I asked the principal for permission to wear my boots to school. It was a pretty brave thing to do if I do say so myself. He granted permission and Theresa and I got to wear our boots. But I promised the principal that we wouldn’t wear them with skirts. Now I wear them with skirts all the time.

Maybe I’m not a cowboy’s wife with handmade boots and I’m not from Texas like the girls in the photo below, but I still deserve a few more pairs. It’s really my best avenue for self expression, I think. They are part of my history and are yet so classic.

I wish I had had a wedding with bridesmaids in boots. I had considered getting white ones for my wedding, but finally decided they didn’t go with the dress.

I’ve put an old pair to use as planters and I have a second pair ready for the same use next year. So it’s time to make the replacement. I mean I’m a responsible cowboy boot owner. I wear them for years and years and then recycle. I’m deserving.

What do you guys think? Which of these should I buy?

• Old Gringo

• Dan Post (on sale now!)

• Dan Post 2

• Lucchese 1

I bought my first paif of Lucchese boots this year and they have been the most comfortable I’ve ever owned.

• Luchesse 2

I have a pair of turquoise lizard skinned boots. But my previous pair of lizards are now planters.

• Lucchese 3

• Lucches 4

I’ve never even seen a black and white pair before.

• Lucches 5

I probably need a new red Western shirt to go with these.

• Lucchese 6

• Lucchese 7

Reluctant Army Wife

I’ve written before about my conflicted feelings about being an Army wife. Or a Army National Guard wife. It’s not an identity I chose, but it’s coming on with additional force. There’s nothing like a spouse’s upcoming deployment to focus your attention towards the Army and how it affects your life.

The National Guard has more influence on my life than I’d like. It’s the reason I got married. HabMoo and I might be married by now even if he hadn’t deployed, but it was one huge reason I wanted to marry. If something happened to him, I wanted that knock on my door. I didn’t want a visit or call from his parents who I didn’t know well yet. I wanted a person trained in how to deliver such news. Plus he made more money if we were married, so it was a good financial decision, but one I felt a little rushed into making.

This week I’ve taken a few steps to accept this Army wife identity. I joined the family readiness group (FRG—everything has an acronym.) I’ve even volunteered my time to the organization. But I do it with some amount of resistance. And I found myself bristling at so many things I might normally take in stride: website terms and conditions, commander’s approval needed for newsletter content, online discussions needing a moderator, etc.

While working on this blog entry I finally realized where so much of my emotional reaction is coming from. My introduction to the Army was through my high school sweetheart. She was a woman. This meant that everything even remotely indicative of our relationship was hidden. I did not officially exist. Any hint of me was buried. When my partner was at Basic Training I received phone calls only when she could get away from everyone and be as secretive as possible. She didn’t even want too much correspondence from me. I resent the fact that the Army created so much stress in our relationship. I resent the fact that now I can be part of the community because this time I fell in love with some with more testosterone.

I think I need the FRG, however. Being home alone during HabMoo’s deployment and a few extended trainings has been difficult and isolating. I have great friends and family, but I could use the additional support of being around a few others who understand my situation first-hand. I have hopes that if I’m a volunteer for the group, I can shape it a bit so it’s a place where other reluctant spouses and loved ones can feel welcome.

Today I took the additional step of signing up for Military Spouse newsletter. I’m not up to subscribing to the magazine yet. The cover they use to entice you to subscribe shows the 2008 military spouse of the year. So for one thing, I’m appalled that they haven’t updated their ad. For another, it feels too much like other popular women’s magazines. I don’t identify with the spouse of the year image at all. I think I’m a good wife, but I don’t think a childless, bisexual, liberal, agnostic really fits the spouse of the year mold. I am not interested in how to stretch my makeup budget nor about choosing the perfect wine. Luckily, I’m positive that there are others in the FRG group who also have little or no interest in these things.

Here’s what I learned from a page on the site. This should give my friends another sense for why I’m a little uncomfortable with the Army’s intrusion into my life. While my spouse is in uniform, I have specific etiquette to follow.

• Offer your husband an umbrella in the rain, but only if it’s black. He’s not allowed to carry any other color.
• Push the baby carriage or stroller so your spouse doesn’t have to. It’s considered “unmilitary” to do so while in uniform.
• Help your spouse carry any packages or bundles to make it easier for him to salute.

I’m actually happy to know these things. I’m not terribly good at etiquette in any situation and it’s easier if I know which rules I’m probably breaking. And those rules are more for active duty situations. I’m not sure I’ve even seen my husband salute.

I feel like I’ve joined some society with a language and mores I don’t understand yet. I’m slowly learning a few acronyms HabMoo uses, but even at the FRG meeting there were a few I had to ask about. And I know that once I become more of a part of this world, the more I’ll be using that same language and drawing that same boundary around me. I do not like that. I distrust any group large enough to have its own jargon and the Armed Services has layers of it. I don’t want to make someone feel like I felt so many years ago.

I think HabMoo gets a good feeling from being part of an institution with a long history. I wish I felt that same connection. My father served during WWII, but he wasn’t married to my mother at the time. So she has no experiences to share with me other than having a boyfriend killed during the war (and she was never willing to talk about that.) My brother served during Vietnam, but I was too young to remember and he never left the country. I’ve been around only a few people with loved ones serving and mostly I paid almost no attention to that part of their lives. My circle of close friends hasn’t included service members for a long while. So I haven’t found where I fit in history. Can anyone recommend any good book about the history of military wives?

I’m trying to be more comfortable with this identity. You’ll know I’ve drunk the Kool-Aid once I join I ♥♥ Being A Military Spouse! on Facebook. I’m just not there yet. (And those hearts will probably forever keep me out. Are those military spouses all 6th graders?)

Does facial hair make me a witch?

When I was little we went to the Methodist Church each Sunday and always sat in the same pew. (There must have been de facto assigned seating.) Around us were people I knew and felt comfortable and safe with. Except for one woman in the row in front. She had facial hair. That clearly meant that she was a witch. Everyone knows that witches have moles and hairy faces. I don’t think this woman had a mole, but she definitely had a mustache. So she had to be a witch. Except she was in church. I wasn’t sure if witches could get into a church or not. And I didn’t know why the adults around me weren’t scared of this woman. But I was sure she found some way to both worship God and be a witch. Adults were always coming up with strange logic to explain themselves. I was always afraid that she’d look at me and know that I knew she was a witch.

So one of my biggest fear about aging has been that I’ll get facial hair and turn into a witch. Or maybe just a bitch. I must be well on my way because I do have a few strong and healthy hairs that grow on either side of my mouth. I try to keep them well plucked. Sometimes my vigilance wavers, the hairs grown and I find myself actually playing with them. My tongue seems determined to seek them out and wiggle them back and forth. I’m betrayed by my own tongue. My tongue loves those hairs, but I do not. They mark me.

It’s not that I am particularly turned off my facial hair on women now that I’ve grown up and better understand folk and fairy tale illustrations. I spent several years not shaving my underarm or leg hairs. It’s not like I think women should look prepubescent. I have friends with polycystic ovarian disease so I assume they have facial hair, but I’ve never really paid much attention. It doesn’t matter to me. I certainly don’t assume that they are witches. You have to have both wrinkles and facial hair to be a witch.

I just have this lingering sense that in my case, a few hairs on my lip or chin might signal a personality shift. As if each hair might represent an old resentment. As if each hurt or wrong I’ve experienced and not forgiven finds its way out via a facial hair. A long, strong, black facial hair. People will see this and know that I’ve grown old and bitter.

So how do I deal with this? I look up “women mustaches” on Google. People online are cruel to women with mustaches. Now I’m scared of my face showing up on one of those sites. But I’m still not going to wax. Too painful and I’m too much of a princess to stand for that. And I’m too much of a cheap peasant to spend money on electrolysis. So when you see me and my witch hairs, don’t assume that I’m evil or a bitch. Just know that I’ve been too lazy to pluck them. Or just assume you won’t be kissing my lips and try to ignore the hairs. And I’ll try not to frighten your children.

Growing older: Didn’t I look forward to this age?

I’m over 40. That seems to be the sole reason why two of my four rotator cuff muscles have given out in my left shoulder. At least that’s what my doctor highlighted on a handout he printed out for me. I didn’t injure my shoulder, a couple muscles just got old and lazy. Like my left breast. It fails the pencil test and I chalk that up to age-related sloth.

I thought I’d age better. Not that my body would necessarily perform better, but that I’d be more comfortable with it. I watched my mother for clues about growing old and thought it looked pretty simple. She never complained about it.

When I was in grade school I wasn’t like the other kids who couldn’t wait to be in high school. I couldn’t wait to be in my 30s. High school didn’t look exciting at all when viewed through my sister’s experience. Life seemed to really get started in one’s 30s. After all Mom got married at age 32 and that seemed about the right time to me.

Not that I was looking forward to marriage. I thought I’d graduate, work a few years to save up for college, go to a big city for school, work some more, and then—after all that hard work—I’d get married and have some kids. It was all very hard to imagine. Twisting apple stems to determine the first initial of my future husband and counting bounces off the center pole of the ocean wave (playground equipment) to see how many kids I’d have really didn’t prime my imagination.

I think I was most attracted to the idea of responsibility of full adulthood. I didn’t have any chores to speak of as a kid and didn’t want any, but I did like the idea of being good,  hard working, responsible and selfless. For some reason when I was young, Mom never shared with me her stories of dancing and drinking in her 20s, so I really only had her roles of wife and mother to emulate.

While living in a dorm during my first year in college, I upset the young women on my floor by drawing wrinkles all over my face. I was astonished by how upset this made every one of them. They were horrified by the idea of turning 25 and here I was curious about how my face might sag. I loved the deep ruts in my grandfather’s neck. I planned to wrinkle deeply and with great character lines.

I’m sure that I fantasized about retirement more than beginning my career. My parents retired just before my senior year of high school, bought a 5th-wheel trailer, and were touring the states. That seemed like the good life to me. Much more rewarding than earning a paycheck.

I celebrated every gray hair I found on my in my 20s. I actually had them taped to colored paper which I hung on my bedroom wall. Now those are the hairs that turn orange when I regularly henna my hair.

I watched my parents hike all over Yellowstone trails—continuing on after first my brother-in-law, then my sister, then I all waited in the truck. Age didn’t seem to be the deciding factor of how much energy or stamina any of us had.

My 30s ended up being a huge disappointment. I was not happily employed. I finally had my B.A. but it didn’t seem to do anything for me. Bouts of unemployment and a few weeks on food stamps had never been part of my plan. My master’s program was a disappointing experience. And my body was rapidly gaining weight. But I thought my 40s would be better. After all that was the age when my mother’s life really began—with my birth at her age of 40.

So far my 40s have been interesting. I even got married. But marrying someone so young has really messed with my desire to get old. No matter what, I’m going to look two decades older than he does. He’ll probably turn gray in his 50s. I haven’t seen any yet. While my own gray has shown up everywhere except my eyelashes.

For a few years I shared my mother’s panic about aging causing forgetfulness. Mom was sure she was getting Alzheimer’s and did brain exercises every day. She discounted the doctors who would give her the exact same memory test as they had the year before. “Who can’t count backwards by seven? You just subtract 10 and add three.” Now that she actually has dementia both of us have relaxed. It doesn’t seem that terrible. People are willing to help out. It requires a lot of trust and resilience, but there’s still laughter and awe.

Now that I’m hitting middle age and can’t multi-task like I used to, I’ve decided that this loss is really a reminder to live in the moment rather than in the fantasy of future moments. I can live for my 40s and enjoy the youth I still have. Plus my husband is really good at reminding me to take my keys, check my wallet, etc. and I have long-term care insurance. I’m all set for retirement, but will get there later. There’s no hurry.

Small town girl

Originally posted March 6, 2010 and somehow lost.

You can go home again. Everything just looks so much smaller and March is probably not the best time to go. But I had a great time seeing my little home town again and showing parts of it to my husband who wasn’t even alive during the years I was there.

I grew up in Roseville, Illinois, population around 1,100 in the late 60s and early 70s. Don’t think hippies and free love. Girls wore their shirts super short. A few babies were born to high school kids. I’m sure some sons went to Vietnam; there were no protests. I think some kid died from inhaling Bactine fumes. But I don’t think flower power really made much of an impact here. My older sister might remember things differently. I recall it as a very quiet and safe time.

Mostly I remember riding with my sister as she drove our donkey around town, and biking with my friends to one of the ice cream shops in town. These opened and closed regularly, but there was always at least one in town. I remember walking the railroad tracks with the dogs and picking wild strawberries. I remember jumping out of the haymow. I remember walking through back yards to get to school. And I remember the great fun of the county fair held in the local park where we showed our ponies for 4H, where Mom sold her heavy-on-the-vinegar “church slaw” at the food tent, and where you could ride the Scrambler.

Some things haven’t changed. The small library is still there and has regular hours. The elementary school serves fewer grades and probably fewer students, but the playground hasn’t changed much. The seats of the swing sets have been replaced, but the dangerous ocean wave and the slides are still there. The one with wooden sides that Jalaine slid over the side of and got a huge splinter just before my very first attempt at going down myself is gone. The field were Candy and I were allowed by the boys to play soccer with them is still there, but so much smaller. My favorite tree with the exposed roots is gone. There was too much snow to know if you can still find fossils in the gravel around the basketball hoops.

Downtown still boasts most of the buildings I used to peddle my bike past. But commerce has dried up. There’s no dime store, no jewelry story, no whatever other stores were there that didn’t interest me as a kid. I didn’t even see a grocery store. But the bowling alley is still there, as is the roller rink where my parents met.

The house I grew up in is still there, but changed. The porch is enclosed, trees have died and been removed, the balcony and widow’s walk are gone, the slate roof and one chimney are gone. Those last two make great sense. I remember rain sliding down the wall of my bedroom and dripping onto my sister’s head in hers. And the chimney in the kitchen held an oven that Mom covered with a quilt in the winter to keep the cold from coming in too readily. Barn cats, horses, rabbits, and iris are also all missing. But the pump where I had to strip down to my underwear so Mom could wash the mud pies off of me is still there. And so is the clothes line, the barn and the well cover.

The best part of the visit was returning to my neighbor’s home. It, too, has changed greatly. But I remembered the parlor where they always had the tallest of Christmas trees and the porch we crawled under and almost set on fire, and the fireplace which has grown so small and short. And the little girl tormented by her older siblings and by me was there with a huge smile and great hospitality. I rang the doorbell but no one heard and I thought about just going in the back door and hollering like I did as a kid. But luckily Linda saw me pointing out changes in the yard and lot next door. We reminisced and looked at photos and I enjoyed the time immensely. Her mother, the lady who used to give us snacks and let us dig up half the yard for our Matchbox cars, also greeted me warmly. HabMoo was a good sport and listened and took the house tour with us.

No trip to rural Illinois would be complete without a catfish dinner. I couldn’t convince HabMoo to order any, but he did share the “world famous” onion rings from Club 41. And, as you can see by the photo, I got a real catfish dinner. The stuff you get anywhere else, except oddly enough in Oklahoma City, is not made correctly and usually features a catfish caught too large. I can get good sow belly around here, but not good catfish.

I loved growing up in this small town. When we’d visit after moving away we’d sit as a family on the front porch of MeMe and Papa’s, like many of the neighbors, and wave at the other neighbors out biking around town. I loved having the freedom to wander and am thankful for the adults who chewed me out when I did something exceptionally stupid. I knew my friends’ families and they knew mine. As as adult, knowing that everyone knows your business probably isn’t so great, but as a child it’s secure. I’m thankful that we moved away and I got the advantages of going to a good school in an urban area where I could see plays, attend a symphony, watch African dancers, etc. But I grew up among the cornfields and no stories worthy of the nightly news. That shaped me more than I sometimes realize and I’m grateful. I love my home town.

Related post:
Small town living

Reflections on being an Army wife

HabMoo is in his last week of training in Georgia and will most likely be leaving for another deployment in the next 24 months. I’m a little scared of that next deployment since it’s been hard having him gone for just over three months. So I’m taking some time to reflect on just what it means to be married to a soldier.

I’m actually a Army National Guardman’s wife so I don’t have to follow him from base to base or live in provided housing and I don’t have to rely on TriCare for my health insurance. I also don’t get the services and amenities of an Army base and surrounding community. Nor is there a large number of other wives and partners to go to for support and understanding.

But there are some good things about HabMoo’s choice of employer. For one thing the National Guard is more than just an employer. Its his opportunity to serve. He and I have different ways of expressing service. I’d much rather volunteer and give donations. I prefer to choose who I’m serving and he serves the entire state and nation. I respect his choice.

I’m not really attracted to a man in uniform, but the dress uniform is pretty sharp. He wore it for our wedding so he looked good without spending any money. His daily uniform is really not attractive, but since he wears it every day there’s more room in my closet. And less washing. But the thing is covered in Velcro and sometimes snags my sweaters if I forget and put them in the same batch of washing.

Two more things about the uniform. First the boots. The man has far too many pairs of boots. They really don’t need to issue him any more. And then there are the duffel bags full of odd equipment and clothing. That also takes up valuable storage space. Can’t they just issue that as needed? Or store it in a locker at the Armory?

There’s a Yahoo Answers thread about the benefits of being married to an Army service member and there’s consensus that some people marry for the health care and paycheck. I had better health insurance through the U of M, but the paycheck isn’t bad. HabMoo gets paid more because of me. It’s so strange to think we’re in the 21st century and he’s getting more pay just because he’s married. This makes some sense for regular Army soldiers because spouses have to move when their soldier does and can’t just immediately find a new job. It’s sort of similar to how a university might do a spousal hire in order to get the professor or researcher they really want to hire. And it makes sense for when a spouse is deployed since there are expenses caused by the soldier’s absence, but that’s what the extra family separation pay is for. The extra pay is something I enjoy, but feel is wrong.

Speaking of money, there are a few discounts we’ve received because of HabMoo’s status. I tend to forget to ask about them and they aren’t as common around here as they are around military posts. We got excellent rates and a nice place to stay when visiting Seward Alaska. We pay a little less for our phones. Sometimes my husband gets a free lunch paid for by someone who appreciates the sacrifices soldiers make. But no one has ever offered me that honor. (Spouses should get a special uniform or badge or something so people could identify us and offer to pay for groceries, I think.)

None of these benefits really makes up for the time lost with my husband. We’ve been married for a little over five years but probably spent only about three and half years together in the same location. Extra cash in the bank can’t make up for that lost time. I’m not counting the one weekend a month he spends at drill. I like that time to myself. But the trainings and the deployments are a struggle. There’s just no avoiding that truth.

I’m not sure how it affects our marriage. The initial deployment for HabMoo was immediately after we got married so we were still a little giddy from all that and we’d never lived together. So neither of us had married life to miss. Now that’s different. He’s away and I miss him terribly on weekend mornings, on garbage day, at bedtime, around dinner time, when I spot cardinals in the bushes, when the truck needs to be washed, when I visit his folks, when I’m grocery shopping, when I’m excited and when I’m lonely. There’s something similar to grieving that I go through when he’s gone for more than six weeks.

I never wanted to marry a soldier. Like I said, I’m not attracted to men in uniforms and I don’t really get a charge from being married to a man who is defending freedom and the American Way. I wanted to marry HabMoo. Sometimes I can’t help but ask myself if he’s worth the worry, loss, frustrations, and hassles of the soldier stuff that comes along with him. I’d honestly prefer that he not be in the National Guard. I’m proud of him, but I’m also selfish and would rather not share him.

Would it be easier if he just had a mistress? This is the first time I’ve asked myself that. If he had a mistress he’d probably be home more often. I’d have a chance of winning him back or taking her out. Any anger I had would be justified in other people’s eyes. It would just make more sense and be more satisfying to hate another woman than to hate Fort Gordon. I’d better understand what he was getting out of the situation and I’d know just who it was I was hating and fighting. I can’t really fight the Department of Defense. I suppose I’d worry about him leaving me for her, like I worry about his next deployment.

So today I wish my husband was a computer geek working for some big company that was just trying to run his life. I’d prefer him not to be a soldier. But I still like being married to the guy. The excitement I feel when I get his evening calls still pays off for me.

Wanton act of optimism: One year later

I quit my job a little over a year ago. Unemployment was high, friends were being laid off, and the economy was uncertain. It didn’t look like a good time to just up and quit. No unemployment benefits. Just living off my husband until I could find a job. But quit I did, with more excitement and joy than trepidation.

At first I simply enjoyed not knowing what to do with myself–not because I was getting conflicting messages from the leaders around me, but because I hadn’t been out of work since the mid 80s. I felt incredible relief from stress. I still had nightmares and work dreams but they became fewer and fewer. I got out and took photos. I applied for work. I started cooking diners. I was afraid of becoming a housewife, but I was so grateful to my husband for making this big move easy that I discovered I was happy to play the role.

I planned a trip to see the niece whose wedding I missed because I could no longer afford the trip to Mexico. It became a road trip to Colorado which included my mother, another niece, and her three kids. It was a great way to share each other’s company.

Then Mom got sick from Denver’s high altitude. She was hospitalized and I still had to help my niece drive back home. I did that, had good conversations with her along the way, and then flew back out. Now I got a chance to get to know my niece’s new husband and get a real feel for their life and where they live. I certainly got familiar with their living room chair while waiting for Mom to recover from a heart attack she suffered while hospitalized.

Not having a job made it possible for me to easily spend the necessary time in Colorado. And when we got back home and Mom had another heart attack, it made it possible for me to continue caring for her. When she had another one and it became very clear that her dementia made it dangerous for her to live on her own, I had the time to quickly evaluate housing and care options. I can’t imagine how stressful that would have been if I had to arrange for someone to cover my work during that time. There was no one left at work to do anyone else’s job on top of the other two or three jobs they were doing. I would have felt a lot of guilt.

I’m almost thankful for all the job stress that caused me to quit, to just give up and walk away from what once had been the best job I’d ever had. Not feeling all that stress made it much easier to rediscover positive attitude. Not being stressed meant that Mom watched me make arrangements for her while in a relatively positive mood and she didn’t pick up any clues that this move was anything other than normal and appropriate. If I had been receiving work calls while in her hospital or nursing home room, she would have felt guilty for taking me away from where I needed to be. And getting someone into long-term care can be a full-time job for a while.

I stopped looking for work during that time. I made one instead. There’s a website called the unintentional entrepreneur and I guess that’s what I’ve become. I love it. I love working with people who aren’t being forced to work with me, or who are trying to use me to get some unspoken need meet or agenda promoted. I know what I’m doing and for what reasons. I can once again be proud of my work. I’m enthusiastic once again.

Do I make as much money as I did before? No. Do I need as much money? No. I’ve found that the luxury of time trumps the feel of wearing new clothes. I’m a natural miser, I must admit. I love the challenge of spending less. After bringing home no income for almost a full year I now feel like every dollar a client pays me is an unexpected bonus.

Am I lonely? No. I’m an introvert so that helps. But I’ve found that seeing a former co-worker because we’ve both made the effort to see each other builds deeper relationships. I love seeing someone and not immediately bitching about work. I feel like I’m interesting again.

I’ve found that having someone home during the day makes a household crisis much easier to deal with. I’ve found that getting a thank-you from my husband for even a poorly made meal can make me feel valued.

Before I quit I worried that I could no longer feel optimistic about anything. I was a cynic, expecting the worse. No one these days tells me that I’m no longer any fun to be around. When someone tells me I’m talented, I once again believe them. It’s much easier to be creative when you have a chance for success.

A year ago I wrote that optimism in the face of despair is a visionary act. I didn’t envision my mother’s health crisis and I certainly didn’t envision that I’d be doing work I loved and getting referrals for my services. But I did have a measure of faith in myself and a faith in my husband that made it possible to reject the toxic environment where I had been earning my living.

Once again I feel trusted. My husband trusted me to make something of my time after quitting and to continue to contribute to our household. Former colleagues and friends trust me to provide professional services for their friends. My clients trust me to do good work on their behalf. I trust in my own talents, too. I’m so grateful to find this trust again. Trust is one of my highest values and I’m so thankful to be living in accordance with my own values once again.

My wanton act of optimism, January 2009

A caregiver’s confessions

I didn’t want to visit my mother yesterday. I was glad that her doctor had gotten ill and her appointment had to be rescheduled. I wouldn’t have to see her. I’d had a week of vacation and then saw my mother just two days prior and took her for an echocardiogram. Wasn’t that enough? But I didn’t feel like any of that was an excuse. Mom is still quite delightful most of the time, so that wasn’t an excuse either. I just didn’t want to see her again this week. Of course, I made the 45-minute drive out there anyway. And stayed for only 15 minutes more than it took me to get there.

Mom has always been very independent. She turned down several marriage proposals and never even said yes to my father whom she married at age 32. She married because she wanted children. I came along when she was 40. She was never my friend; always my mother. And she insisted that I, too, be independent. Vulnerability has replaced the countenance of strength I grew used to. So it feels wrong to have her dependent on me and for me to be taking care of her.

She handled all the finances in our home and for our church. Now I’ve tried to make sure that all her bills come straight to my home. Otherwise they will be lost. I received a new check card for her in the mail today and can’t decide if I’m going to allow her to have it or not. Allow her to have it. Allow her. But she’s given her number out to scam artists before and I don’t know if she will again. Am I protecting her or restricting her by keeping the card?

To add to my confession, I must say that I applied for a full-time job this week. This feels like a betrayal of my commitment to her care. I’m lucky that I can survive without working, but I need the order and stimulation and human contact work provides. Mom might be healthy enough now that she won’t need more than a couple of doctor visits a month now. She’s walking more and seems to be breathing with more ease. So I’m hopeful.

But there always a but, a however, an on-the-other-hand. She seems to be coming out of her delirium, but that doesn’t mean that the dementia is any better. She’s lost her keys twice this week, is convinced that another woman is wearing her clothes, doesn’t recognize some of her own clothing, and is absolutely unable to determine if it’s night or day. She’s also convinced that her stomach was operated on recently. Does any of this mean that she needs me? It certainly means that I feel a need to be with her for as long as she’s able to recognize and welcome me.

Last week I resolved to not contradict Mom unless it was medically necessary. I would allow her her own reality, even if it didn’t correspond with mine or make sense to me. Then yesterday I tried to convince her that a sweater was hers by showing all the hairs on it that matched her own. And, in jest, I accused her of being anorexic because of her obsession with the size of the belly on her tiny little 87 pound frame. I think I hurt her; I know if confused her. I’m not sure that I erased all that by kissing her on the nose. But I might have. I think I still have that much power.

The power to make Mom laugh or feel love is one that I enthusiastically embrace. It makes up for the boredom of sitting with her as she looks through her purse or wonders again about where the cars go that drive by. She was always unconditional in her love for me and for my sister and I think I can reflect that back. It’s the power over her finances, her health care, her access to the world outside her assisted living home that makes me uncomfortable and uncertain.

It used to be, only a year or so ago, that if I called my mother twice during a week, she would express dismay at the frequency. She’s ask me if something was wrong. For most of my adult life she lived hundreds of miles away and we found that a monthly letter and quarterly phone call was just about the right amount of contact. We each had our own lives and these lives intersected only in our hearts and during the one- or twice-a-year visits.

So my twice-weekly visits feel like an interruption in my life. I chose not to have children and I chose a spouse with whom I can enjoy parallel play. I see my closest friends only occasionally. Perhaps I haven’t grown up enough to learn how to be generous with my time and attention for extended periods. Or maybe I’m not so selfish and am really lucky that I still experience love and affection from my mother. At some point the dementia might take that away. I could be trying to distance myself from that day by distancing myself from Mom now. I guess I’ll leave the judgment up to you readers and any psychologists in the audience.

Fears: Part two

I’m currently afraid that the fly the cats can’t seem to catch is going to land on my face while I sleep. Then it’s going to crawl up to the corner of my eye and take a drink. Like they do to horses.

Thanks to a friend who educated me about these things, I’m also scared of dermoid cysts and teratomas. These are tumors with hair or teeth in them. According to Wikipedia — which I may have to stop reading — teratomas have even been know to have an eyeball inside. This is seriously screwed up biology. I want to know exactly where I have hair, teeth, and eyeballs. But I can’t help but wonder if if did have a dermoid cycst (and maybe I do, how would I know?), would the hair be gray or still brown?

I fear that Wikipedia will soon be authored only by men who think it’s fun to include photos of things like dermoid cysts to their entries.

I worry that the seas will rise and while we look pretty safe here in Minnesota, people from Miami and Virginia Beach might come knocking. Or people from the West Coast.

On a related note, I fear that not only will a warmer climate make life harder for polar bears and birds in the Amazon, it will all mean soggy and pale pork chops. I love pork chops.

I could cry tears of blood. Now that’s a pretty cool thing for a vampire to do in a movie, but can you image what that would do to your makeup?

I have anxiety about my wardrobe. I could be wearing the wrong color and people are judging me for it. I’m not referring to my fashion sense, but to how your brain is wired. I guess I better start wearing red to job interviews. I wonder if red cowboy boots are enough red.

I fear that I might be average. Luckily I don’t think I ever received a “C” while in school. And my personality type (INTP) is a very small percentage of the population. I worry more about becoming a typical old lady and somehow acquiring the three chronic health conditions that most senior insured women have. Really I’d prefer to have no chronic conditions. I’ve hit middle age without any so keep your fingers crossed for me. Unless you have chronic arthritis.

I think I share this fear with many others. I fear that I married a mutant. I think it would be OK if I was the mutant. Then there would be no way I could be average. But I don’t want to be sleeping next to one. I mean the guy might have teeth growing somewhere in his abdomen.

I’m also afraid that I might be reading too many stories about science.