HE KNEW.

MAD AS HELL

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sdQCPlAZjbY

194,000 and counting deaths.

"This is more deadly than the flu." HE KNEW.

"Now it’s turning out it’s not just old people, Bob. Just today and yesterday, some startling facts came out. It’s not just old- older...Young people too. Plenty of young people." HE KNEW.

"This is deadly stuff." HE KNEW.

He knew. He knew. He knew. I thought he was just an idiot. I really thought that he just chose not to believe it because he's incompetent. He didn't. He believed it and still he chose to lie to you. And so did all those people that work with him. EVIL.

He called it a "hoax" so you wouldn't wear a mask when HE KNEW people would die.

And while we're at it...

He says the same thing about Climate Change... as the country burns to the ground. HE KNOWS. HE DOESN'T CARE.

He says race isn't an issue... as he stokes the fan of racism. HE KNOWS. HE DOESN'T CARE.

He says that he's Pro-life... as he puts children in cages and separates them from their families. HE KNOWS YOU WILL BELIEVE HIM. HE LIES. HE DOESN'T CARE.

He says that he's pro Law and Order... as he gets his Attorney General to defend him against libel accusations made by a woman he sexually assaulted. HE KNOWS IT'S UNETHICAL. IF NOT ILLEGAL. HE DOESN'T CARE.

He called our military personnel, our heroes, "losers" and "suckers" after taking five deferments to avoid serving. Then he calls himself a PATRIOT and tells YOU I'm anti-American. He suggests that not getting VD is akin to fighting in VIETNAM. HE DOESN'T CARE about our service men and women. HE JUST DOESN'T CARE.

He told you he'd have a new health plan in "two weeks". He's said that since he ran for office. HE LIES. HE DOESN'T CARE... because you don't.

YOU LISTEN, BELIEVE, JUSTIFY and SUPPORT.

Today I drove downtown to interview someone about community theatre's trying to survive. It kills me what we've all had to endure in terms of loss of revenue, loss of jobs, loss of livelihood, loss of joy. And then I drove past the abortion clinic where 6 mask-less men and women carried signs saying they were Pro-life. I don't believe them. I don't believe they are any more pro-life than he is. It struck me that I am probably more pro-life than any of them. I should carry the sign.

I AM PRO-LIFE. I wear a mask when I go out that I don't accidentally infect someone. Because I know... because science tells me... I could have COVID and not know it. So I protect YOU. I try and limit my carbon footprint or give money to organizations that I know will help me limit my carbon footprint or that of others because I don't want to contribute to climate change. I support Planned Parenthood that women have access to contraception and safe procedures. I contribute to organizations that are working to save the planet and save my beloved birds. I support Gun Control organizations because I know that better gun control is an answer. I support conversations and organizations taking actions that ALL MEN and WOMEN and anyone in between (POC, DISABLED, LGBTQ, ECONOMICALLY DISADVANTAGED) have access to a quality life. Because I am PRO-LIFE. PRO-QUALITY OF LIFE. FOR EVERY PERSON.

On November 3 (and/or the days ahead), we have a choice to vote for Biden/Harris and if you do, you will have done tremendous work towards righting the wrongs that have happened in the last four years... but that vote is not the only thing you can or should be doing. Throw open the window. Yell out. And after you've screamed, get to work. Make a call. Make a donation. Volunteer your time. Learn about climate change. Gun Control. Systemic Racism. And after you learn... know this. KNOW THAT THE DEMS ARE NOT GOING TO FIX THIS FOR YOU. KNOW THAT BIDEN/HARRIS ARE GOING TO GET THINGS WRONG. KNOW THAT POLITICIANS DO NOT HAVE ALL THE ANSWERS. But work with them. Educate them. Educate yourself and know that the work is yours. Then act towards building a better tomorrow.

Help! I've Fallen... or maybe don't help. Gah! I don't know what to do.

I've avoided this conversation for weeks. This week I needed help, so here it is.

I needed a walker. I knew if I put it on Facebook, someone would surface. That’s one of the best parts of Facebook. People are really helpful. I know when someone posts that they need something I’d be delighted to help if I can. I just knew the same would be true for me. But I avoided my post for weeks. Monday that changed and I got one to borrow. That’s not all I want to say. This ended up being much longer than I had anticipated.

Three weeks ago I was having the first really great day in quite some time. My husband was given his negative test result from COVID. This meant we were nearing the end of our quarantine. Just a couple more days to be safe but we were certain he was fine. For the quarantine, he had been relegated to the second floor and basement. I was managing the kitchen and living on the first floor. He was extremely disappointed to be waited on hand and foot. Not that I do a bad job, mind you, I’m an awesome helpmate. But, because he’d much prefer to be able to function on his own. We are both fiercely independent. Most importantly, however, his lack of access to the kitchen meant a break in routine for him. "You mean, I can't just go grab my *schnibbly throughout the day?" "Nope. Quarantine baby. You gotta protect me too!" He understood. Still, bummer for him. FYI: *Schnibbly is what he calls the nuts, dates and chips he snacks on throughout the day. He's adorable.

Anyway, I was headed down the stairs when I noticed a Blue Jay was at my newly placed bird feeder. There's a window at the bottom of our stairway leading from the main floor to second. I was delighted at the sight of the bird and completely distracted. I thought I was at the bottom step. I was not. I was third from bottom. I stepped out and my dear, sweet ankle couldn't handle the weight of the fall. It twisted left and right before dropping me to the floor. I cussed like a sailor, threw off my shoe as quickly as I could and yelled for Fred, who was already bounding towards me.

There we were, face to face, maskless, for the first time in over a week. I asked him to bring me an ice pack. “Asked?” Wait. Not that. I’m sure it was more of a scream. “Oh My God! Oh My God! Oh My God! I need ice. Get me ice. Now. Please. Ow. Ow. Ow.” Followed by a few more expletives. Yes, definitely a scream. For the first time in more than a week there the husband was… in the kitchen and in the refrigerator, no less. I was devastated. Fred was elated. Not immediately, of course, but soon. The elation certainly wasn't because I was in pain, but because my accident meant his home quarantine was over. No being waited on. No denial of kitchen access. Complete role reversal in the span of a second.

That happened June 9. No break. Phew! But a torn ligament. No weight bearing for two weeks, the doc said, initially. (He'd add a week later.) A neighbor offered her crutches (so nice) and we rented a knee scooter. The PT recommended a walker next and then a cane. I have a cane. I didn’t have a walker. Why didn't we keep all the old people medical paraphernalia from our parents? We keep kicking ourselves. Admittedly the kicks aren’t as hard as they used to be. There’s been some muscle loss over the years.

That's pretty much the story. So why then does this post get so long? Because I’ve been doing loads of contemplating from the couch where I sit, lay, eat, read, binge and sleep – day after day after day after day committed to R-I-C-E. Thought I’d share some of those observations and questions with you.

First observation. Life can turn on a dime. Of course I knew this, but now I am in it. 2020 has been such an experiment in how to live. For all of us. I recognize now and did so almost immediately that my abrupt change was necessary. I'd been burning the candle at both ends trying to paint and finish a kitchen, create a new garden, clean-up the existing, clear out a basement, organize family photos, organize personal photos, find time to bird, to write, prep for a garage sale, learn to cook loads of new foods and do all the work-related activities I needed to be focusing on including directing an online piece for a local theatre company. Then life said, "Um, no. You've not been centered spiritually. You've not been taking good care of yourself. You haven’t done any self-reflection this whole pandemic, little exercise, etc. despite being given ample time to do so. If you won't do it, then I'm going to do it for you." Then blam! Down I went.

First Question. To ask or not to ask. Right after it happened, I wanted prayers, good juju, happy thoughts sent my way. I’m a firm believer that if you put that good energy towards someone in the world, it can manifest. It’s not an exact science but even the placebo affect makes it worthwhile. I reached out to a few friends, but I didn’t post anything on Facebook. I didn’t want the world to know I was having a problem. That’s not what Facebook is for. (This is something that has been repeatedly reinforced to me by friends and family. And I've said it myself a dozen times.) Still I was torn. I kept this argument going in my head. “Just post about your ankle on Facebook. Ask for some good juju, prayers, thoughts. It’ll help.” And then there was...  “Don’t post anything on Facebook? You want sympathy? For something so miniscule? What’s wrong with you?” More on this in a second.

Second Observation. When given the time for self-reflection, take it.  After I fell, I was engulfed in online news. I mean good God, the world really had gone to hell in a handbasket. I had just started an anti-racism dialogue group and was knee deep in that. I was bingeing on social media and entertainment to avoid the pain. (That sucker hurt!) Plus, who knew that watching people throw water on unsuspecting family members could be so hilarious (Tik Tok anyone?) Ten days after the fact, I realized that more than a week had gone by and I hadn't really done any self-reflection. If the Universe really had just said to me, “slow down and take care of yourself,” then why wasn’t I listening? I hadn't done any writing to speak of. I was irritable. I was stuck. The next day I tried to improve the focus of my meditation. I even did a little spiritual reading. There was certainly no groundswell of change. The next night I was listening to a podcast, heading to the bathroom on crutches, thought I'd pick something up off the floor to throw away, half paying attention, lost my balance and down again I fell. Stepped right on the foot with the injured ankle. Blam!  It happened again.

Second Question. When is bad really bad? As I lay on the floor, I tried to cry. Tried. There wasn’t an immediate flow of tears. The fall wasn’t bad enough. I thought a good cry would make me feel better. But I couldn't cry. Instead I laughed. I laughed at myself for trying to cry. It wasn't that bad, the fall, and somewhere deep inside I knew that. I just wanted to feel sorry for myself.  Right after the second fall, I wanted to send a text to my sister letting her know I fell again. I knew she’d be great on the nurturing response front. But I hesitated. I wanted her compassion, but I didn’t. (see first question) I was embarrassed to want sympathy. I was embarrassed to want others to know that I was hurting. I compromised. I sent a text to my sister, but I went for the laugh. “Can you believe what your idiot sister, just did?” She responded with a kind word. I was so appreciative. Still I knew. Sure, all of this sucks. It does. Not going to deny that. But in the grand scheme of things it doesn’t suck that much.  I mean my friend Kathy has been climbing her way back to health in a rehab facility since February following a heart incident. Racism is rampant. Climate change is killing all of us. Brown children are still in cages. I sprained my ankle. Boo Hoo.

Third question. Even if it's not that bad, can we/should we still ask for help? I’ve discussed just this quite a bit with the same sister in the last few weeks, as well as the hubby and a few friends. What is the balance to recognizing that life is shitty and you’re sad vs. moving on? When do we ask for sympathy or empathy and when do we buck up? There are degrees. Surely. But when I was laying on the floor the second time thinking to myself, “Why can’t I catch a break?” somewhere I knew I’ve been given breaks my whole life. Does that make it not okay to ask for emotional support? This weekend a friend and I were talking about this very thing. He said, “Why is it so easy to ask someone if you can borrow a hammer, but not ask them for a emotional support?” Why is our first instinct when we are having an issue, personal/physical/emotional to beg those in the know “don’t tell anyone.” Why is it so bloody important to hide our challenges? I vividly recall a particular moment upon return from our 20^th Anniversary trip to Italy. A friend saw my pictures on Facebook and asked me how it was. The pics were stunning and she could see it was a remarkable adventure. I told her we had a great time, but my birthday, the 10^th day of the trip, really sucked. She grinned ear to ear and actually chuckled and said, “Thank God!” It’s so nice to see that people don’t live perfect lives.” 

The Conclusion (or non-conclusion.) I still don’t know the formula. All this contemplating hasn’t provided an epiphany. It has given me permission, though, to ask for some good juju, thoughts and prayers for a speedy recovery. I’m not sure I’ll post about a personal challenge again. I will write about it though. Maybe I’ll put it on my blog. Maybe I won’t. But I will write about it, because I am a fan of self-reflection. I do want to be the best human I can be and maybe showing my flaws or my challenges more honestly, either with you or simply for myself, can help get me there. Both the doc and the PT told me that the healing process can take up to three months. At least I know I’ll have more time to think about. Maybe I'll have a different response at the end of all this. I'll let you know. Or I won't. I'm just not sure. 

Application Denied (or Love With and In Michigan)

Photo from Porcupine Wilderness State Park Website

Artist-In-Residency Application: Denied

by Teresa L. Thome

I submitted this story to Friends of the Porkies for an application for an Artist-in-Residence Program. I made a few edits, but this is 98% the submission. I was uber-bummed. I worked hard on the application (this is a piece of it), so I thought I'd share it here with you. It is a love story. Oh, and while I wasn't chosen for the program, I am eager to research other artist residency programs. 

My mother wasn’t one to mince words. As a child I often heard, “If you’re bored, it’s your own damn fault.” I got the point. 

When I was ten, my parents moved to the country – cornfields, cow pastures, meadows, miniature golf. (It actually wasn’t that far out of the city, just far enough.) Still, when I’d played long enough with my Lego’s, got tired of Lite Brite or coloring Little Lulu and there were none of the five neighbor kids to be found, I wouldn't cry "I'm bored" for fear of my mother's scolding. I’d do something else to occupy my time. I’d walk through the woods, back roads and apple orchards of Alpine Township, Michigan. While I grew up in a home with its fair share of dysfunction, these walks weren’t always a means to get away from it all. In fact, I dare say… rarely. At some point, I stopped waiting to get bored and I’d just go. Outside. By myself. For hours. My entire late childhood/young adulthood. These walks were a chance to get outside, breathe, take in the woods, re-calibrate. I was practicing “forest bathing” before I knew such a thing existed.

Years later I would meet a man who would eventually become my husband. On our first official “weekend getaway”, I planned a surprise trip for him. I booked a B & B in the Leelanau Peninsula. For three glorious days, we hiked and strolled, meandered and lollygagged through back roads and cemeteries, pastures and streams. I was in my early twenties and it was my first time north of Ludington. Sure, there was one brief trip to Cheboygan for a theatre festival, but I was inside for the entire time. No, this was my first real adventure up the Mitten and it was everything I had hoped for and more. We had such a great time that we decided we would make annual visits to Northern Michigan and/or the Upper Peninsula. Over the course of our courtship and marriage, we’ve made every attempt to travel annually and we’ve done pretty good.

We’ve hiked Sleeping Bear Dunes, gotten lost on a few different “two tracks” and toasted marshmallows at Harry and Gert’s cottages somewhere in the U.P. I forgot the town but I’ll never forget Harry and Gert.

“Hi, my name’s Harry… and I’m not very!” He’d say with a laugh.

She’d implore, having heard this a million times, “Oh Harry. Please stop!”

We have driven, breathless, through a mystical, magical early evening fog on Old Mission and stood in wonder at the Soo Locks. We’ve dipped our toes in coastline from Empire to Munising. We’ve basked in the glow of the sun walking along nature trails under shimmering red, orange and gold leaves in Glen Arbor and Marquette. We’ve taken in sunsets at Frankfort, Charlevoix and Torch Lake. We’ve driven countless miles looking for vegetarian pasties and have eaten lots of cherry pie and cherry jam and cherry salsa and cherry candy and plain ol’ cherries. 

We’ve enjoyed fireworks in Indian River and parades in Harbor Springs. We’ve meditated on the banks of the Pigeon River. We’ve even experienced Escanaba in da moonlight. We’ve taken the two-seater plane to Beaver Island where we roamed aimlessly for days. Oh, and there was that time we accidentally broke into a bank on Mackinaw Island. (True story for another day!) 

And… we have birded (viewed and recorded birds) in Seney Wildlife Refuge, Whitefish Point, Alpena and... wait for it... the Porcupine Mountains! Well, mostly, I bird. The husband proudly calls himself a Junior Birder. He’s the best.

I think it would be easy for me to say that I fell in love with my husband at the same time I fell in love with Northern Michigan and the Upper Peninsula.

When I heard about the opportunity for the artist residency, my head started spinning with excitement and, well, fear. Because as much as I love the outdoors and actually love being alone (more about that in a second), I’m also a wee bit afraid of being in that outdoors alone. I’m constantly on the lookout for bears, bobcats and snakes. Oh my! 

As a survival mechanism I’ve decided that pretty much every outdoor plant is poison ivy, so I won’t get it. Neurotic or clever? I’m going with clever. I’ve been spooked by Canada Geese and Sandhill Cranes. I mean, have you seen those attack videos? Trust me, though, I’m a high functioning adult. I really am. Just a healthy dose of fear inflicted by the mother I’ve mentioned.

“Go through life like everything and everyone is out to get you and you’ll survive,” she’d offer far too frequently.

“Thanks Mom! Great advice,” I say sarcastically, looking over my shoulder.

Despite this underlying unease, I’m incredibly independent. I should probably add, even somewhat courageous. At least that’s what I’ve been told. Five years ago I loaded up my car to drive Route 66 by myself, write about my adventure and then spend time in Los Angeles living and working towards performing a solo show. That Junior Birder is a very low maintenance husband who more than tolerates me living part-time in California to this day. That’s what I meant before about “love being alone”. I think all those walks by myself at such a young age not only became something I was good at, but something I craved. This time I really do mean, “Thanks Mom!”

Often in those alone times, I like to write. I use writing as a tool to understand the world around me and my place in it. I’ve found that the more vulnerable I am in describing my own experiences, and the more humor I can mine from the situation, the more relatable stories and lessons can be. I write for others to read (in blogs or stories or long Facebook posts) or for me to perform (in telling short stories or my solo show.) My goal is to make people laugh and think. I understand that challenging oneself provides the best material. I could think, therefore, of no better challenge and/or opportunity then heading to a cabin in the woods in the splendor of the Porkies for two weeks to help me find and tell a new story.

From this residency, I will gain a life-changing experience and a new story to tell. What that experience will be, I do not know, but I’m thrilled, albeit slightly nervous, to discover. I will gift to the park a personal story in performance (live and recorded), images and personal essay that seeks to inspire others, through humor and honesty, to appreciate, conserve, and hopefully explore the Porcupine Mountains. Oh, and I’ll use my social media platforms, Instagram, YouTube and Facebook to shout about my experiences to the world wide web. 

#porkies #friendsoftheporkies #wildspaces #adventure #cabinlife #danscabin #storytelling #personalessay #writer #comedy #drama #creativity #artistinresidence #upperpeninsula #michigan #michiganmountains #wilderness #nature #birdsofmichigan #birding #birder #savethebirdssavetheplanet #climatechangeisreal #conservation

Self-Isolation Epiphanies (or the Difference between Self-Esteem and Self-Confidence)

I was supposed to attend a “kind-of” reunion with my high school alums. No one ever planned our 30^th Reunion so I offered to pick up the ball and aim for a 31^st, of sorts. Quick turnaround. Not a lot of planning. Low maintenance. I created a post on our Facebook alum website and an event page. A few people offered to help out. It wasn’t long before people were “in”. I was having fun. Then COVID-19 set in and our state received Stay-At-Home orders and that was that. Cancelled. I was sad... and really confused.

I was genuinely motivated to see these people but I didn’t understand why. Let me explain.

They’re good people. It’s not that. I knew lots of kids in our 250 plus graduating class, but surely didn’t hang with that many. I was shocked at the number of people I didn’t recall when they said, “YES” to attending. Some of my inability to remember is due to age, I’m sure. This was the 31^st reunion, after all, not the first. It’s been decades since I’ve seen some of these people. And, some of my inability to remember is because we just didn’t socialize. So why this deep-seated desire to make this happen? To be the person to spearhead the gathering? I surprised myself.

With extra time to think about such things (thank you self-isolation) I’ve been contemplating this unusual commitment to engage. At first, and maybe still partly, I decided it was because we’ve lost a few classmates recently. In particular, one of my closest high school friends. Gone in an instant. I wished we had connected before his passing. I couldn’t be there for his funeral. I was out of state. I was heartbroken. Thinking about him brought up a lot of high school memories. It definitely created in me a need to connect to the past. Shortly after he died I reached out to a woman in my high school friend circle and urged a get-together soon. I was clearly pining to relive some old memories. But that wasn’t the whole story.

I think it started when we lost the husband of a classmate. I had offered to provide a gift (a couple of bottles of wine) for a fundraiser for this man’s hospital expenses. In doing so I connected with another classmate. I was giving her the wine since I couldn’t attend the event and she could. I didn’t know her well in high school. She was a familiar face and a nice person. Smart. That was my sense of her, at least. Nice and smart. We met in a cemetery near our high school so I could drop off my gift, which felt very “high school” I might add. Passing bottles of wine in the cemetery where I used to party with friends when we skipped school definitely felt like a full circle moment. Anyway, we spent a good half hour talking about our respective high school experiences. And this… this I believe was the seed of my pending discovery. I was fascinated how differently she saw me back then to the person I thought I was. She was surprised that I didn’t feel as confident as I came across. (Yes, we went this deep in a 30-minute exchange.) I was surprised that she thought I was confident. This thought rolled around in my head for some time after we met.

A few months later, up pops this reunion opportunity. A guy I had gone to high school with, even hung out with some but was never really close with, had made a Facebook post suggesting he wished we’d all get together. I picked up the ball and the posting began. Then the same woman I met for the fundraiser offered to help. We decided to bring a small group together. Not in a cemetery but at a West Side party hall. If you are from Grand Rapids, and specifically the west side of Grand Rapids, then you are keenly aware of the Catholic Party halls, named for saints and in existence seemingly since the dawn of time.

Two other classmates joined us for planning and the same thing happened. One of the two (another woman) described the way she remembered me. I was completely flummoxed. “Wait? You thought I was popular? You thought I had it all together?” That was shocking to hear. I mean, who was that high schooler? I would have loved to have been that high schooler. I should say that I apparently had her all pegged wrong too. At least the way she understood herself.  

One week later, as I was posting the notice that we’d have to cancel the reunion due to the virus, it hit me… that’s what this is all about. Drum roll, please. Because this is some A level self-isolation, self-awareness emotional work that lead to Epiphany Number One: 

I’m finally becoming the high school person I always wanted to be, always knew I could be, but never tried to be.

What I wanted to be was an accomplished over-achiever, boy appealing girl, class President, getting straight A’s, who would go on to run the world. What I was, however, was an under-achiever with an insatiable appetite for social life, a non-existent boyfriend life, and an underwhelming desire to make decent grades.

And, now maybe another drum roll, because here is self-isolation, self-awareness emotional work Epiphany Number Two: 

I have almost always been both of these people. It’s just that sometimes I was/am more one than the other.

In a deeper effort to understand this, I jumped in the way back machine.

For the most part, through age ten, I was a great student. Consistently. Either VG’s or G’s on the report car (Catholic School A’s and B’s.) Featured roles in school plays, winner of the 5^th grade spelling contest. I was chosen to both carry the baby Jesus to the altar for midnight mass and crown the May Queen (Mother Mary) on the lawn of Immaculate Heart of Mary School. I mean, Holy Jesus Batman, that’s some quality over-achievement.

Then my parents moved to Alpine Township. At age 11, somewhere between Dickinson Street in the heart of the city to Baumhoff Street in the middle of the country, I started to shift. This two-personality person started to emerge. I started band with a desire to be first chair clarinet and then slowly I’d move on chair over at a time until I sat last. I never practiced.  I’d get to my homework after watching “The Brady Bunch” reruns. At age 12, I ran for student government. I talked too much in class and my grades weren’t fantastic, but still, I knew I would be a great leader. My teacher’s thought otherwise. Because I needed six of them to agree that my running was a good thing and I could only get four, I forged two signatures. I believe they call that ballsy... or unethical. I never got caught, but also never got elected. Instant Karma, I suppose. As my grades diminished my social circle grew with popular people. They were the pretty girls, hanging out with the cute boys. As they developed into prettier versions of themselves, I could only see me as developing into a less attractive version of myself.

I recall vividly the day in 7^th Grade that Annette M. yelled out, “Teresa Thome has a bra on! Why does Teresa Thome have a bra on?” The whole class laughed. I was mortified. Still, Tom K. kissed me at the 8^th grade dance and Mark D. and I went to another. But that wasn’t enough to convince me that I was worthy of affection or worthy of praise. It shouldn’t have been the bar, but it was.

Then, from the depths of all this mind delving, I had another self-isolation, self-awareness epiphany.  And this was the big doozy, the dooziest of the doozies… Epiphany Number Three: 

I have almost always possessed self-confidence, but I’ve rarely possessed self-esteem.

Mind. Blown. I mean that’s some grown-up therapy I did on myself. Right? In trying to unpack that self-realization, I started with Google.

Self-esteem is how you feel about yourself overall. Self-confidence is how you feel about your abilities and it can vary greatly. Repeatedly I read how people with high self-confidence in certain areas can be seen as someone with high self-esteem in general, although that isn’t necessarily the case. DING. DING. DING. Damn, Google knows me.

I have had a fairly strong self-confidence throughout my life. I started making people laugh when I was six-years-old when I would do impressions of the old women in my grandfather’s nursing home. What I didn’t have was self-esteem. Why? I’m guessing it’s because I was one of the poorest kids in the richest school districts. That I believed myself to be the ugly red-head who hung with all the beauties (reinforced on the regular by neighborhood bullies and horrible boys all through my childhood and young adulthood). Perhaps it was too difficult that while I always got VG’s and A’s someone else always got VG+ and A+’s. And, well, I was certain that my dad loved my friends more than he loved me. There was that. And that's probably the biggest reason.

Regardless if it was any one issue, a combination of them all or just part of my DNA, eventually I gave up. I leaned into the parts of my personality that reflected my self-confidence (friend-making, socializing, performing) and buried the parts that would boost my self-esteem (feeling self-worth, limiting negative self-talk). I know that I have been slowly doing the work to better emotional health my whole life, it's just now, I have a deep understanding of what the work needs to be. 

I hope to look back on this time in a few years and see that it was the point in my life where self-isolation lead to self-care. And a time when self-confidence and self-esteem were finally able to express themselves fully in me and at the same time. Now that's a scary thought. I guess I have some more unpacking to do.

Thirty Years

FIRST DATE:

I met Fred Stella a couple of times before we worked together. Our connections were always very fun, but brief. Then I cast him in Noel Coward's "Private Lives" at LLC Classical Theatre.

Over the course of the rehearsal process, he was witness to my painfully unhealthy relationship with my boyfriend. Regardless, he took a liking to me, knowing full well that once I dumped said boyfriend, I'd be available. He'd do odd things to get me to notice him. He once stuck his nose through the curtains during a run thru. Just his nose. His courting rituals were not typical. He found ways to connect a few times after the show. He asked if we could meet so he could get some advice on some project. We went to dinner at Gibson's and he never really asked me any advice. All a ploy to keep himself in my life but I was still clinging to dysfunction junction.

Then, on April 29, 1990, he asked me to do a voice over for his production company. 

"Promise Light Margarine, even lower in saturated fats." 

We recorded it on a Sunday afternoon. After the brief session we grabbed a meal at Vitale's. We chatted about everything from family to relationships to theatre to spirituality. We laughed and laughed and laughed some more. He was funny. He thought I was funny. He was handsome and smart. Really smart. Sexy smart. And he was nice. Very very very very nice. By the end of the day (a good 8 hours together) he made it clear, "I know you're in a relationship with a real putz, but when you're ready to walk away from him, I'm here."

I broke up with Putz the next day. Yes, I wanted to see where things could go with that Fred guy, but more than that, I realized that somebody who was smart and handsome and nice could like me. Putz was handsome, but not smart and certainly not nice. I had been attending Al-anon for less than a year when I started directing the show. I was beginning to shift, but I still had very low self-esteem. Fred's declaration was incredibly important to me. Putz was abusive on many levels. Fred's kindness (and therapy and Al-anon, of course, but Fred for sure) gave me courage to walk away. And I did.

I was free of Putz, digging this Fred guy, but terribly uncertain that jumping into another relationship was the right thing to do. I had learned in Al-anon to trust until you're given a reason not to... but once you're given that reason, trust it and walk away. I never got reasons to walk away from this Fred guy. He was quirky and eccentric (remember that "nose" move) to be sure, but nice. So so nice. I just kept trusting, even when that was something I hadn't really learned to do.

On May 29, 1990 Fred and I were hanging at his house. Quite out of the blue he said to me, "Happy Anniversary." I was confused. "We've been seeing each other for a month now," he added. I cried. He. Was. So. Nice.

Each year, for the past thirty years we celebrate "Vitale's Night" as the official anniversary of our first date. The day the adventure officially began. I look back at that time and wonder what was happening for me cosmically. If you believe in Divine Intervention, I'd say this was a great case for it. I was no great catch. I certainly was on my way to getting out of the bad relationship, but Fred made it easier - so much easier. He came into my life before I was ready for him, emotionally. It has taken loads of therapy to get on the other side of the early damage. The first 25 years being married to me were rough. Ha! (Kinda true.)

We've had our challenges along the way. Marriages are work. And some days work can be fun and some days work is work. NOTE: I am currently developing an essay series called "Honey, can you not..." reflecting upon all the times when once the work is done, we'd laugh about it.

So today is a celebration of all that work, the hard, the easy, the sad, the joyful, the mundane and the sublime.

Happy Vitale’s Night, babe.

Did You Get My New Shoes?

I was at the office with my business partner, Patrick. We’d been work colleagues for 10 years and friends for 30. He was headed to his parents house. I was headed out with my husband, Fred, to a storytelling event. I was jazzed. I love storytelling. 

I needed to call my dad, Bob, before leaving. After my mom died, I had become his primary caregiver since my siblings lived out of state. He was in Rehab at, well; let’s call it, Movenant Crillage. They once kept my father suspended for 45 minutes in a poop crane. Doubt that’s what it’s called. My dad weighed 300 pounds so no wee lass or beefy broad could help him on to a commode. Instead, they’d strap him in to this contraption, lift and crank him over to a toilet. Imagine a giant version of one of those games where you try really hard to get the claw on the stuffed zebra, so you drop it in just the right spot. Like that. Except for a person. Equal parts freaking genius and utter humiliation. Some aid forgot about him. His call button wasn’t working; so there he hung, long enough to develop sores on his thighs. 

Rehab was lasting a few months. We knew now that he wasn’t headed back to his retirement community. He was off to a nursing home. “It’d be cheaper to put me in a pine box,” he’d say. Or “Just drop me at the loading dock of the VA.”  My dad was always making light of things. Always joking. He was also obsessed with leaving his kids his meager savings. He was always putting others first. 
       Like he’d load up on candy and pop for the kids that worked where he lived. At the end of their shifts they’d stop by. “Now be sure to grab yourself a Snickers and a Pepsi from the riffy, Tony” he’d say. Or, “I got some of them little Pringles cans you like, Sarah!” When he’d see me, he’d say, “I have to stop doing that. I’m spending your inheritance.” 
       I’d push back. “It’s fine. I want you here long after your money runs out. We all do.”

Then he’d grimace and growl as if I said a horrible thing. It was this weird wheezing sound he’d make when his stress level went up.  It was a sound I’d heard my whole life occasionally accompanied with swearing, usually after misplacing his glasses... a wheezy, stressy sound followed by, “asshole-son-of-a-bitch”.  We all knew he didn’t want to spend more money on his care. He and I had had a long talk about it days before. We all wanted him to have the best care.  My dad, however, was going to decide where he would end up. And he did. 

The next day I had to bring him to the foot doctor. I called him to confirm details. I knew he’d be irritated because I hadn’t bought his new shoes yet. He asked every time we talked if I’d gotten them. He didn’t HAVE to have them before the appointment, so they weren’t a priority for me. But they were for him. I wouldn’t say I was a great caregiver.

I called.  We chatted briefly about my day, and then he said, “Did you get my new shoes?” I said, “Not yet. Don’t worry about it. I’ll get them in the morning.” I waited for the stressy sound. He was silent. Then this, seemingly snore sounding sound. Not quite a snore. Not not a snore. “What was that? Dad, don’t be an ass. I’ll get your shoes. Dad? Dad?” Nothing.

      I hung up and called the main desk. “Can you check on my dad in 111?” Some lady put me on hold for what seemed like an eternity. I called back. “Hi, I’m wondering if you found out anything?” “I’m sorry,” the woman said. “We’re dealing with an emergency right now.  Can you call back in a few?” “Would this emergency be for Room 111?” I asked. “Yes. Yes it is. We’ve called an ambulance.” 
       Seriously, Movenant Crillage!?

I didn’t have to explain to Patrick that he had to go with me to my dad’s. I called my husband who decided, since I had Patrick with me, that he’d head to the venue to try and sell our seats. He had paid $60 for two tickets. Oh sure, my dad was in some kind of trouble, but this THIS was also an emergency. I knew the kind of emotional trauma unused tickets would be for my husband, so I gave him the okay.

I was greeted at Movenant by Nurse Nancy.  Not her real name. I didn’t like her. It wasn’t her fault. She wasn’t mean. Just annoying. She spoke in a flat affect about inane things. “My cousin went to Davenport. Did you go to Davenport, Terry?” Terry. She'd call me, Terry. Grrrr. 
      She took my hand and led me down the hall to my dad’s room. Inside my head I screamed. “Oh God, don’t let him be dead. Please God... that woman... that voice... cannot be the one to say, your father is dead.”

As we got closer to the room, I could hear the flat line of a heart monitor and a team of EMT’s. He didn’t have a DNR Order (Do Not Resuscitate) at the home. I'd never thought about it. Like I said, not the best caregiver. 
       I wriggled my hand from Nurse Nancy’s and stepped in to the room, Patrick at my side. 
       From a corner I yelled, “It’s okay dad. I love you. You can let go. Patrick joined in. “Bob, You’ve been a great dad. It’s okay.” They pumped him full of something so I yelled. “Fight it, Dad. Fight it!” 
       At this point, Patrick got really confused. “Fight it?" I thought she wanted him to live. He half-heartedly tossed out a "Fight it, Bob? I guess.” 
      Then I yelled, “Fight the medication, dad. I know you want to go. It’s okay.” “Ahhh…now that makes sense” Patrick thought and added confidently, “It’s okay, Bob. Just let go.”

Then I heard something medical like, “Give him 2 more CC’s”. 
       I had always heard that loved ones will come to get you and take you to the light, so I said… LOUDLY… “Mom, if you’re there, will you please come get dad and take him to the light? Please.”

       Now you need to know my mom was tough on my dad. Tough on all of us, but especially my dad. Let’s just say, after she died I asked him if he missed her and he said, “Well, you know how you feel after you take a really big dump, how it’s so good to just get it out of your system.” Sure, my dad was playing for the laugh, but there was some truth in it. Still, my mom and he shared complicated love her for 49 years. So I thought surely, this is the time for her to be there for him.

            Again, I implored, “Mom, will you PLEASE take dad to the Light?” SECONDS later a paramedic says, “We got a pulse.” And I screamed “Holy shit! You just scared him back in to his body. Go away, mom. Go away!”  
       I looked over to notice every EMT staring at me. Mortified. I laughed and laughed and shrugged. “It’s just my family. It’s fine.” I was even laughing as the room grew silent. His pulse weakened. Then stopped. They didn’t try and revive him again. He was gone.

My dad’s death was so like his life. Had I not been on the phone with him when he died, I would have been certain it was Movenant’s fault. That he had pushed a call button and no one responded. He was protecting them. My dad. Always looking out for others.  And I laughed… he always made me laugh. And he would find a way to do so even while he was dying. Fred sold the tickets. Face Value. Maybe he had something to do with that too. And, most importantly, he left me with profound last words. Not “Rosebud.” Not “Forgive them for they know not what they do.” But… “Did you get my new shoes?” Followed by the death rattle, as I now understand.

I’ll admit, I often wonder what would have happened if I had gotten them? I probably would have blamed myself knowing I shocked him into a heart attack because I finally did something he asked me to do when he wanted me to do it. But I hadn’t. And he died. And it was sad and heartfelt and funny and fast. As death goes, a pretty good exit for a pretty good guy.