Disney - I Wanted to Punch You in the Face

 

Once upon a time...
I took the kids to the movies. Which really isn't that exciting except that we didn't actually get to see the movie.
When we lived in Austin, TX, I was at the mall with my kids. (I'm not sure if malls are still a "thing". Malls are buildings with lots of stores in them. It is like Amazon.com in building form.) We were at the mall and I had a good, lucky feeling I was going to enter a drawing that was advertised and win. The drawing was for tickets to see the movie Ratatouille. My good, lucky feeling rarely fails me. Back in college, I would occasionally listen to the radio and the DJ would say, "Call  now to win a pizza!" The three different times I heard this, I called, and I won pizza. Friends would sometimes hear the DJ tell us to call and my friends would say, "Call, Ivonne!" But, no! If I didn't feel the lucky pizza vibe, I would not call.

What I'm trying to say is that I won movie tickets! I received the tickets with instructions to be at the movie theater across town on a specific day to get a special pre-release date viewing of Ratatouille...a Disney tale of a rat chef. Surely the kids would love the movie and mom would be the hero of the day. Maybe we would even get a $15 bag of popcorn drenched in hydrogentated oil. My boys and I along with two of their friends were giddy with excitement driving to the theater. It was a hot, humid Texas day but, never mind, we were winners.We got out of our fairly new minivan (which now proudly has approximately 244,000 miles on it and the side left door sometimes opens and sometimes doesn't) and skipped to the theater.

There sat the gate-keeper. The gate-keeper was a sweaty teenager who was not terribly happy to be caged in the glass box but, I would say, they should thank their lucky stars there was a barrier.

Me: "Here are the golden tickets we won to see the fabulous new Disney movie about the rat chef."
Teenager: "No. You can't go in."
Me: "HI. Um. Here are our tickets."
Teenager: "I said you can't go in."
Me (gettin' hot): "What do you mean we can't go in? We won tickets. Here are my tickets."
Teen: "The theater is full. There's no room."
Me: "I won tickets. How do I win tickets and then get turned away. I'm the lucky winner!"
Teen: "Haha, everyone in that theater won tickets."
Me: "You mean to tell me that I got scammed by Disney, the happiest place on Earth? I'm not really a winner?"
Smirking Teen: "Looks that way."

And sadly, shoulders slumped, tears in their eyes, I walk the walk of parental shame with five wailing children in tow. Have you tried explaining this to a child?  The most magical place on Earth, and perhaps the universe, has absolutely made you miserable and I fell for their evil trick. I've failed as a parent. Disney, you are the grim reaper of childhood dreams and you will rue the day you toyed with me!

Tears in their eyes, the children rode home in the minivan. I had to adjust the rear-view mirror to avoid seeing their red, swollen tearful eyes and snotty noses. During that ride, however, a plan would hatch. I would let Disney know exactly what I thought.

I sat a my computer and composed...composed the most venomous email I could. After typing out the details of our misadventures, I believe that I typed something like this, "I would rather take my family to Hell than to your Magic Kingdom. Good day, Sir!" Yes, this was good some of the best writing I've ever had. Full of emotion, full of revenge, full evil Disney queen laughter. But who would be the recipient of my fine literature? Ah, that's easy. I went straight to Google and straight to the top. Searching: "Who is the CEO of Disney?" Why do they even list this information? Don't they know that angry mother bears aren't gonna to play? We go big.You list the CEO? Well, that's your own fault that the CEO gets emails from small town moms who are ready to break out the verbal fisticuffs. Ding. Ding. Round one is all I need to KO Bob Iger.

Now really, his email was not listed so, I had to get creative. Just start typing the possibilities and eventually, one will hit:
Bob.Iger@Disney.com
BobIger@Disney.org
BIger@Disney.com

You get the idea. I also managed to discover the name of an administrative assistant that works with him. They got emailed as well and Jiminy Crickets, something DID hit!

A few days later, we received a large box from Disney. I'm afraid to open the box. What if opening it detonates the explosive held inside? What if that email was a HUGE mistake? What if Disney is sending me one way tickets to Hell? Is it possible for Disney to hate me? My God, what have I done? I hug my kids, "It was good knowin ya," and we hold our breaths and open.

@$#@#%$^you Disney! Why are you so nice? A kind letter from my pal Bob's Administrative Assistant was the first thing we found. An apologetic and kind letter: We're sorry, accept these, please forgive us. Grrrrr, I want to hate you. We dig deeper and  I may have seen fairy dart out of the box and I think I heard "Bibbidi Bobbidi Boo" somewhere in the air. Yes, my friends, magic was in that box. MAGIC. A whole box of Ratatouille goodies: coloring books, the CD, books, shirts, and magic! Disney, I forgive you and thanks for the loot.

The Apocalypse But, Not Really. Maybe It Was Just The Beginning

A year later, I find myself thinking back to last November 8. Between the election and our house fire, I can say that Nov. 8, 2016 was a bad day. It wasn't the worst day we'll have in this home. We've been fortunate. One day, we'll meet our match and that will be much more difficult

While rattled by the events, nothing but good has come out of that day (except for the presidential stuff). I have a new job that I love, I'm able to engage more in my life, my family, and I'm happier as I've taken more control about how I feel and think. I suppose I learn things the hard way. The only thing left is for me to get back in to exercising. I've taken a "sabbatical" and I realize that physical health (while I've gone rather overboard in the past) has to be incorporated. It's hard to find balance but, I'm okay with that.

I have a job that I look forward to every day. While I may be tired, I look forward to seeing almost 800 of my new kids as a school nurse. I value them, I treat them as I would treat my own kids. I have a lot to learn but, I've got the caring thing covered. My coworkers work tirelessly, are engaging, and dedicated - aside from being welcoming and flexible with me.

The boys are growing and I'm thankful that they hug me, joke with me, and can have solid conversations with me. Michael is my champion and I am his - reliable as always and I hope that I have relieved some of his load with the recent adjustments in my life. There's still work to be done, right?



I have nothing much to say other than this November, I am more thankful than I have ever been - and maybe all thanks to that spark that lit up our house last year.

Before the fire, my eldest son woke up one day and said that he had some strange little bug bites on his body. Small, round, red...a bit itchy but, no really big deal. Then woof! The house caught on fire. We were out of our house for a bit of time, trying to enjoy life at the Greensprings Resorts. There's nothing that feels resort-y when you've left your house due to a fire. Nothing. The day we moved back in to the house and felt as though we might begin to have some peace, we discovered bed bugs in my son's bed. It was 5pm on a Friday. Bed bugs survived the damn fire. Are you kidding me? No. I'm not. They would survive atomic bombs, zombies, the apocalypse. I asked friends for exterminators and found one. I called him. Haven Exterminators. How appropriate, "haven", a place of refuge. I cried and cried as I spoke to my new best friend. "We have bbbbbbbed bugs. We we we we just moved back in after a fffffffire buh buh buh buh!" He was so compassionate and offered to come that evening. I didn't actually want to ruin his weekend so we agreed to see him on Monday but, I did want to cry and cry and have some one hug me and say, "There, there...all will be well." He did that over the phone. In any case, he took great care of us.

The lesson here? I have no idea except that if you think smoke and fire will kill bed bugs, you're wrong.

I'm laughing today as I sit here alone and ready to go to work. I hope you smile. I wish nothing but acceptance, warm hugs, an open heart and mind, free Starbucks beverages for you and your friend between 2 and 5 pm, and love.

"There Goes My Hero"

My father has shared some terrific stories with us.  When I was a kid, I thought that the stories were a mixture of sadness and humor and many made me ache.  As an adult, I find them to mostly be stories of resilience and part of the reason my father developed such  tensile strength.

Dad grew up in San German, Puerto Rico. If you've been there, you know that it is an incredibly hilly, small town. As a pedestrian, you find yourself holding on to railings that have been added to the exterior walls of some of the buildings. The roads and sidewalks are that steep. You find yourself wanting to hold on. It's a colorful town...like you might imagine a town in the Caribbean. The walls of the buildings can be blue, yellow or even orange. The streets are cobblestone and there's a town square. That town you have imagined, so charming and bright, is this town.

Dad tells the story of when, as a little boy, he received his first real leather basketball. You can imagine the excitement. The smell of the leather, the feel of those black lines encircling the orange orb with those small bumps. I can imagine Dad with his striped shirt and black hair enjoying the feel of that prize in his hands. He went outside and dribbled - probably imagining himself in a PR league game, the crowd chanting his name. He shoots...he misses. The ball goes over the wall and the ball's fate is unknown. Dad scrambles and there, there lies the catastrophic outcome - his beloved basketball stuck on a board with a lone nail piercing its orange skin.

My father fondly recalls stories of his parents' ice cream parlor. Dad prides himself on working there and his skill of being able to serve up 2 cones of ice cream at one time. I believe it was a soft serve machine and he would hold a cone in each hand while perfectly swirling the ice cream on each cone. He was an artist in his element. Growing up, I can remember Dad's love of chocolate ice cream. Ice cream is a food group.  He recalls his mom's cupcakes and I remember hearing Dad's friends , during various visits to PR, confirming that they were the best cupcakes they've ever had. The name of the store was the Dairy Delite and you can still see the storefront if you know where to look.

Dad was more of a city boy -well, I suppose, small town boy would be more appropriate. His parents bought him a little chick once. The city boy with a chick. He loved it and played with it, but the chick ran around a lot and so did Dad and Dad accidentally stepped on it. I think this is one of the reasons that Dad does not eat chicken.

One Christmas morning, Dad woke up to find his gifts under the tree. Dad was an only child. His mother had experienced several miscarriages, so Little Pedro was her pride and joy. She loved him dearly, but had a watchful eye and probably controlled and protected him too much. As a mother, I realize that there is some justification to this after so much loss. How you recover from "losing" your babies, I do not know. So, here is Pedro, beloved only son on Christmas. Dad said he had wanted a toy motorcycle to play with. That morning, his dream had come true. He opened the box that contained that toy motorcycle and the handle bar was broken.

Dad is the type of guy that unites people. He has kept his grade school friends. He checks in on them to this day. Once, when Dad was just a boy, one of his friends had humiliated him - maybe even clocked him, I'm not sure. When my Dad got home and shared the story, Abuelo (my father's father) promptly took Dad over to his friend's house. When his friend opened the door, Abuelo forced Dad to throw a punch because that's what men do. This friendship, however, remained lifelong and loyal. Dad tells that story with a laugh and a wince.

Dad's father had an interesting past (my Abuelo). My Abuelo was one of MANY children born out of wedlock. His own father, my great grandfather, was a dentist. Abuelo happened to be his father's favorite out-of-wedlock child so, when he and his siblings needed shoes (because his mother could not afford them or much of anything else) Abuelo's mother sent him to ask for shoes from his father. Abuelo was fortunate enough to hang out with his father in his dentistry practice. He spent enough time there to pick up some skills and make a bit of a name for himself. Abuelo's dad had dentistry practices in 2 different towns on the island. When he was away at the other practice, Abuelo would occasionally open the local practice and perform dental procedures. Remember, he was not a dentist and he was young. At my Abuelo's funeral, someone showed me a cavity Abuelo had filled. Abuelo the "dentist" was also the guy that did a "Mexican hat dance" on someone's hat in a bar. Of course, he really didn't know the dance but, he did know how to stomp on things, including the hat. The gig was up when the hat owner grabbed his machete and scraped it on the floor causing it to spark. The line in the sand had been drawn. Needless to say, Abuelo spent the next day driving all over the island in search of a similar hat. Abuelo grew up without. As an older man, I think he demanded respect. He was well-put-together, he smelled nice, shiny shoes, he got under his cars (and he had many throughout his adult life...many) with a toothbrush to clean the underside. This paints the picture for you.

My father is an accomplished man. You wouldn't know it had you seen him in grade school. My grandmother, mentioned earlier, doted on him. My understanding was that as much as she loved him, she was overbearing and Dad learned that he needed her in sight. When Dad went to school, he had some trouble. Whenever a teacher would call his name, he would get really nervous and start dry-heaving and even vomit.  Pedro? Puke. Here's your paper, Pedro. Puke. Pedro, what's 2+2? Puke. It was an issue. My grandmother found  a way to fix this. She would sit outside the school building where my Dad could see her through a window. There she sat throughout the school day. My Abuela died when Dad was 19. I can't bear to think of the funeral pictures. The look on my father's face...I can't write about it. Dad ended up being top of his high school class, a physician, and an Air Force General - and motherless.

My Dad was a Pediatrician. I'm not sure why he chose this specialty. I think it has to do with his upbringing. Actually, I do think I know why. My father started a very comprehensive interventional program in the military to prevent child abuse. I suppose that as a pediatrician, dad saw his share of child abuse. I remember (and this was before the privacy act) dad poring over slides of his young, beaten patients: cigarette burns, irons placed in just the right spots where no one would know, bruises, even a punch to the eye that when you shone a light in that eye, you could see the imprint of the ring worn on the fist that delivered the blow. I sat with him at times looking and wondering how and why and just not grasping the reality. I think that dad became a pediatrician to protect those kids. In today's terms, I would say that dad "got the shit beaten out of him" physically and emotionally when he was a boy. Abuelo, while kind, funny, and generous to my siblings and me, I think he gave my Dad what he knew how to give - pain, suffering, strength, fear, sadness. I think Abuelo just didn't know how to love or,  he loved but, HIS love wasn't necessarily something you'd hope for.  My Dad was intimidating in my youth. We knew boundaries, we'd get spanked , we'd get "the look' - but we never were "beaten". We never experienced that. Somehow, some way, Dad broke a cycle. When my father told Abuelo he was going to be a Pediatrician, Abuelo asked him why he wasn't going to be a Surgeon. I'm certain Dad saved many kids from life threatening illnesses and from their own parents.

Dad was really passionate about his work. He worked to save kids - all the kids that walked into the clinic were his kids. Once, a family decided not get treatment for their dying child. I believe they sighted religious reasons and they had decided to pray. Dad suffered with this one and I bet that family did too, but, they had a lot more faith in God than in science. Dad was devastated and he banged his fist on the desk and banged his fist some more trying to make sense of their decision. Eventually, the parents began to wipe their faces. Dr. Dad stopped and realized they were wiping his blood off of their faces. He tore the skin on his hand and ended up with a fracture. When Dad returned home with a cast, our crazy cocker spaniel jumped up and bit Dad's arm. It may not have been right what Dad did, I don't know. How do you judge this?  Consider the internal torment. Not saving one was like not saving any. It wasn't an ego thing, it was a deep sadness.

Years ago, my Dad had a coronary bypass graft surgery on the military base where he and mom were stationed. The General was in for surgery! Yikes. During bypass surgery, staff will visit the waiting area to inform anxious family members about how the procedure is going. At one point they tell you that, well, the heart is being bypassed and machinery is keeping him alive. Dear God, science is amazing but, no one really wants to hear that. In any case, he had a successful procedure. While recovering in the hospital,  he had to have an injection. The nurse walks in with the syringe ready to inject Dad's gluteal muscle. Nope. Remember, Dad is modest and Puerto Rican macho (at the time) all rolled into one. He grabbed the syringe and plunged it into his own ass - never mind that every nurse and doctor had probably already seen him in "all of his glory" while unconscious. I love that story. I won't mention the part about how upon returning home and not too long after surgery, he decided to bench press. I'm not sure what the big cracking sound in his chest was but, he did show some common sense by putting down the weights.

I don't know - some of these stories evoke laughter on some days and tears the next. Stories of a man that has never stopped trying or laughing or giving. Really, things could've gone badly. I mean, where does someone find hope when you're not good enough for your own father? How do you recover from the sadness, the sense of failure? Who are these people that decide not to give up? How do you reassess and change your reality? My Dad has worked hard to become the person he is.  He is passionate about things, including being a better person and discovering who he really is.  Now, Dad doesn't wear a watch, he doesn't care what time it is. He has taken up croquet, learned how to play the accordion in his 60's, he talks and talks about feelings - the talking part is not new, the feelings part is. Dad has always been playful and even more so now.  When my boys say, "I love Grandpa so much" out of the blue , there just isn't a better feeling. I know this feeling so well. It's like a tidal wave of joy, it almost knocks me down.

I'm so glad Dad never gave up and that mom never did either. She's another story for another day.

There Goes My Hero

Know Your Enemy and Bring a Bag

Today I traveled just down the road to one of the few clothing stores we have in town. My goal was to buy two bowties for my son. They'll be a surprise gift for him this weekend. He seems to enjoy wearing them to the teen conferences he attends. He's been working so hard (if you have a high school aged child, you know high school is different these days) and this would be a silly reward for his achievements.

I chose two ties. One was America themed and the other, tropical. I was feeling especially happy about the price and the choices I made. I did a lap around the store just to browse and headed back to the check out counter. Little did I know this would be my warm up.

The man behind the counter reminded me of Kip in "Napoleon Dynamite". He had the same build, similar glasses, and attire. I'm not insulting him, Kip is my favorite character in that movie but, that blue, V-neck sweater was the same color as the collared shirt Kip wore when he said that things were "getting serious". Store Kip took good care of my items and told me about the amazing discounts I would receive. Splendid! I could not have felt more pleased and could just picture my son's smiling face. Even though he is 16, I can still see that 5 year old in him. It would be just like the time he chose a Spider-Man costume for Halloween back in Texas. When he put it on, he was Spider-Man. He posed and shot out imaginary webs from his wrists and climbed the bunk bed with fearless intensity. This costume was the ultimate...it had built in muscles. He was so joyful despite wearing a layer of polyester from head to toe in the blistering Texas heat. These bowties would have a similar effect!

This is from: http://filmgarb.com/kip-dynamite-shirt/ You can buy that shirt!

I politely said to Store Kip, "I don't need a bag today, I brought one." Store Kip, said, "We prefer you have a bag to prove you paid for your items." I remained kind and gentle but, chose to throw in a bit of a passive-aggressive challenge. If you know me, you know this is hard for me to do. I read an article recently about being "the good child". I could relate. I'm the one that's going to do my best not to "rock the boat". I want others to be happy even if it means tossing out what I need for the moment. I can do that but, I do it too much. So, the new "mean child" (ha) in me said, "Won't the receipt be the proof?" Store Kip says, "Yes, you'll get the receipt but, you are also getting a bag." Now Store Kip had unleashed a challenge. I know a challenge when I hear one. I'm game, Store Kip. Oh yes, let's dance. The line in the sand had been drawn, the machete had sparked across the floor, the knuckles had been cracked. No sir, no siree....I'm not taking your freaking bag. No way. Store Kip proceeded to place the bowties in the bag along with the receipt. He raised it up slowly and he held it up at eye level for me to take.

It was at this moment that a giant dust bunny tumbled across the floor and  I heard this:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AQPpFIPOO2o

You know the sound without even listening. Store Kip and I were at a crossroads. One of us was going to end up with that bag and it wasn't going to be me. Store Kip and I exchanged what felt like several minutes of an eye-twitching, intense stare with snarly lips. Who will flinch? Who will have the last word? My hand quickly reached to my holster - which, in this case, was the bag. I grabbed it and removed the patriotic tie. I removed the tropical tie. I removed the receipt. I placed the environment crushing plastic bag onto the counter, grabbed what was rightfully mine, and I bolted. I darted past the white, headless mannequins wearing Nike gear and Polo shirts and did a sweet, tight turn around the Clinique counter and made it out into the parking lot and safely into my minivan. While Store Kip would probably have been able to outsmart me, I felt confident that he could not outrun me. Know your enemy.

Here's a crowd gathered outside the store rallying against plastic bags (not really, but it is a clip of Rage Against the Machine hollering out "Know Your Enemy" and you can't hear the bad words as much or see the fiery album cover): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v2JQZonD2nQ

Build A Bonfire

We had a fire in our home. While I can create a title that's kind of funny, not enough time has passed to actually feel like a joke. Right now, I'm not sure that it will ever be funny. Is it supposed to be, though? Similar to not knowing what caused this fire, I can not comprehend why this recent event makes me upset, even cry on some days. I suppose there are many reasons and I'm trying to reflect (which I'm HORRIBLE at) so I can get through this with my family with not much scarring.

Andrew and I were home when it started. Thankfully, our fire alarms were functional. When we moved in to our home, none of the alarms were functional. My husband is all about safety. I think because he has experienced tragedy in his life, he can grasp the concept of invincibility and loss better than those who have not. So, he doesn't play around with:. safety, seatbelts, fire alarms, helmets, making sure you know you are loved and cared for, and a terrific mindset of "we can get through this". It's a great balance (even though some might see it as overboard or see him as a worrier, he is neither). When the alarms sounded, we ran towards them. Eventually we opened a door and there it was, like an angry dragon. The fire swirled across the ceiling looking for a place to go. Fire is a beast; it is fearless, it jumps, it has no boundaries, it doesn't care about you - it only wants to survive. The fire quite literally, jumped into the room we were in and immediately caught the cabinets on fire. Andrew and I ducked as it came over our heads and we shut the door as best we could. I don't recall ever having felt such an intense amount of fear and despair. I remember screaming, "NO!" because what we saw was unbelievable and maybe I was wishing it away.

Andrew was sent to call 911 as I went for the fire extinguisher in the kitchen. I pulled the pin, checked that it was full, went back to the fire, aimed and squeezed. The result was a small puff of white. That was it. The gauge then read: EMPTY. I had no plan B. Plan A had failed, now what? I reconnected with Andrew (but not until after tripping and falling on the floor, hollering profanities about the extinguisher, and tossing the container aside). We reached for the front door, but for some reason we went back to the kitchen and started filling pots with water.

We decided to hang in there. There was no reasoning. We didn't talk about what we would do, we just "did". In hindsight, I can see that we must have subconsciously chosen fight as opposed to flight. I don't know why, I don't understand it. I have some regrets about this as I recall just how powerful fire is, how big it had gotten at that point, the heat, the smoke, my son. And when I remember this, this is the part where it gets difficult to gather my thoughts and feelings. I remember thinking that the situation could potentially be controlled and I also remember thinking that we would lose it all. Losing it all seemed like the greatest possibility.

At this point, the heat and fire were causing things in the cabinets and in the storage room (where the fire started) to explode. So we ducked and splashed. At some point, Andrew tossed not only water, but the glass bowl the water was in. "Mom! I broke your bowl, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," he said. I love my son, he knows I love to use that bowl to make cookies for his brothers and him, but apology accepted a thousand times. He's a gentle kid, he has a great head on his shoulders - I am thankful he was with me, and at the same time, I would've liked to not have him in danger. My husband says that the most resilient people are also some of the happiest. When you experience life at it's worst, you find something in yourself that makes you stronger, thankful, and joyful. And, sometimes you learn something about yourself. So, maybe there's a silver lining...maybe.

Our small splashes weren't a challenge for this fire. It got to the point that we could not see, there was too much smoke and as we would find later, our hair and eyelashes were singed. When you are in smoke, your instinct is to brush it away from your eyes so you can see. This sort of smoke, doesn't swirl aside when you swat at it. The smoke is the air you have, which means there is no air to breathe. You can not see, you can not brush it away, you don't want to inhale it. The oxygen was gone and breathing and seeing became impossible. I thought of Andrew and his calm and how he was so brave and how I needed him more at that moment, but even more so in the years to come. We ended up leaving out a back door with the dogs. We exited and ran past the garden hose, then (ding!) ran back to the garden hose. It was by a stroke of luck that we passed it. Thank you, God. We turned it on, dragged it to the storage room double doors, opened the door and began to spray. When you open any doors, the oxygen you depend on for your sweet, dear life is also the oxygen that feeds the fire. The fire got bigger, but we sprayed and sprayed in that smoke. We could see the fire in the smoke glowing orange in the gray-brown haze. We managed to get the flames to disappear, but you could see that things were still burning and the heat was still incredible and this is when the firefighters arrive. From the discovery of the fire until this point, it was no more than 15 minutes and I am convinced that it was much less.

I can't say enough kind things about firefighters. They assessed us, the house, assessed us again, asked if our pets were out (they really would save your hamster, no life is too small for them). They will also spray the hell out of your house and apologize for having to destroy your drywall with an ax to make sure the fire is out. "Do whatever you have to do," was my response. They investigate the fire, they come back throughout the night to make sure your house is not lit up again, they make sure you have a place to stay, and they guide you through the process of recovering (call your insurance, air out the house, reassurance). I have not even mentioned that they walk into fire...fires much bigger than ours. I'm troubled by their amount of sacrifice and thankful for it.

So, here we are, together in a hotel. Our family has "rescued" us and the friends that are aware have pulled us through.  We did not lose much, we did not lose anything we can not live without. We lost appliances, structures, little things that really seem unimportant. When all is said and done, the costs will be close to 100K. No, it wasn't small and things don't feel "back to normal" at all. But, we are together and still there isn't "any wind in my sails". I suppose this is a process. It feels a little overwhelming but, week by week, it feels a little more manageable.

I can't compare this to the permanence of others' unfortunate situations. No one died, no one is ill, no one is truly suffering and there have been so many seemingly bad things happening on this planet recently, that this...this we can do.  Comparing one's grief to another's just doesn't seem right, though. I don't want to feel better because your suffering is greater. I don't want you to suffer at all. I am aware, also, that the processing of grief/discomfort/difficulties can vary greatly from person to person (I'm familiar with the stages of loss and grief, but still the time and passage through these stages is unique). Maybe the pain lies in having the simmering awareness that life can be too short, too difficult, and too fragile - come to a full boil. Maybe the pain is in that millisecond of fear when you open the door and see bad things (or receive bad news, or feel pain whether physical or emotional). I find myself squeezing my eyes shut and gritting my teeth when I think about opening the door and seeing fire. I don't want you to feel that, I don't want you to despair or your heart to plummet, but you will feel these one day (if you have not already...which would be rare). The discomfort is toe-to-toe with me. I don't need hard lessons to  be grateful, I feel like I make a point of feeling grateful every day. I have, over the past few years, become a more grateful person and it has changed by chemistry. I feel it deep in my heart and my gut.  But, truthfully, if this has done anything, it's made me just flat. Deflated. I don't do well without a sunny disposition, real or feigned.  Fake it until you make it. 

On a lighter note, after the fire, I have never received a more gentle or kind hug from my son. He held my face and we cried together for a bit. Then, he told me, "Mom, you lost you shit for a second, but you recovered." We laughed but, I did lose my shit. That damn extinguisher! I think I yelled out a heartfelt, "F*CK" after the extinguisher puffed a small, white cloud and nothing more. Whoops.

Some notes for you:
Get a bigger extinguisher. Those little kitchen extinguishers will put out a small blaze and that's about it. Anything larger, and you're going to be shit out of luck. Replace your extinguishers. If they are old, toss them.
Our alarms saved our house. Check your alarms, change the batteries. Put your alarms in non-living areas (garages, storage rooms).
 Knowing where our home phone was saved our home. We have a cell phone and we had just started keeping it in the same spot. It had been moved in the past.
Firefighters saved our home. Make sure the numbers on your house can be seen.
Have a fire plan.
Don't keep chemicals in the house: paints, aerosols. They explode.
Don't "run" appliances when you aren't home. This didn't cause our fire, but your house stands a shot if you are home to call 911. Trust me, your house will burn quickly.
Review your insurance policy. The contractors we have worked with really have excellent things to say about USAA. That's what we have and they have come through. There is always a deductible and you won't necessarily recoup the cost of your items lost, but they have been incredible.

12/11/2016: One month later, we have managed to move back into our home. The entire house was painted, all the textiles cleaned, every corner cleaned, and reconstruction is set to begin. One month isn't so bad (in hindsight). In fact, it's very fast and I'm convinced it was quicker than expected because we had some truly hard working people come through here and take care of things.

While enjoying the feeling of being home, my son discovered a bug in his bed. A bedbug. That's right. Day one home and his bed has bedbugs. It only occurred to us this evening how these bugs might have arrived. This summer, we went on a trip to a state park and my son noticed he had gotten some bites overnight. Here we are, 4 months later, with these tick-like insects living in his bed frame. How these may have survived the smoke in our house, I have no idea. In any case, the exterminator comes tomorrow.

Today, after a visit to Lowe's for cleaning supplies, a Christmas tree, and some new lighting, we came home to find our kitchen floor partially covered in water. Hopefully, this is a one time misfiring of our dishwasher, then again, I'm not sure I want to find out.

I suppose I have not mentioned that a few days before our fire, our minivan did not start. It had to get towed and needed a new starter. At 205,000 miles, I'm not surprised. A few days later, the engine light came back on and we had a new catalytic converter installed. And now, we ride around with the engine light on because at the next breakdown, we will have to pronounce her dead and dump her into the scrap heap.


Needless to say, we've had a run with some bad luck.

Backtracking...after tossing my son's mattress into the front yard and hollering out something unpleasant, I felt a little more worn out than usual. I started wondering aloud to the kids about what kind of energy I might have sent into the universe. Did I do something? Did I say something? I mean, truly, what is going on? Andrew, wise at 16 said, "I don't know Mom. I don't think it's anything we did. We've been so fortunate for so long, maybe it's just our turn. These things just happen." Damn it, Andrew. I want to be angry and ungrateful and have legitimate reasons to feel that way. I know, however, what Andrew said is true. Things happen. We'll take our hits and hopefully, come out stronger. I find myself less sad, but triggered by some things. Pictures that were burnt upset me today. Hearing a message from our pastor, the same message Andrew reminded me of, upset me. I don't live in gray, I live in black and white, and unfortunately for me, life is mostly gray.

Being ungrateful takes a lot of energy. It is exhausting and I'd like to be done with it. Tonight, I was shown a ridiculous kindness from friends (my friends and family have shown copious amounts of kindness, but this one was different). They had secretly collected a significant amount of money for us. I realized I had no idea what to do with this kindness, this generosity. I would much rather be on the giving end. It's difficult for me to receive. It pains me to confess that I need help, that I feel tired and flat. I found myself not telling many people about our mishap. When I dig deep, I can't decide if I'm too proud to admit that I need help or if I just really don't know how to receive gracefully. Maybe both. I find myself propped up by friendships. I feel like the wind is knocked out of me because I absolutely do not know how to feel what I am currently feeling. I am overwhelmed, but I recognize this sense of gratitude and love that even one day without, is too long. 

My Old Friends

I have yet to meet an elderly person who has stated that they want to be lonely and poor. My job requires that I complete home visits to assess senior citizens' (age 60 plus) health, living conditions and needs. Most of us envision retirement as a time in life filled with family, travel and doing those things you've always wanted to do. Maybe it's just my line of work, but there are a lot (A LOT) of people who aren't "living the dream." My husband says, "Remember, you're seeing worst case scenario." Maybe. But, I live in a town where poverty really isn't in the forefront. We're a resort town...people come here to vacation. We're fine. Buy some t-shirts. Retire here. Raise your cute family here. We're good at that.

We have a little work to do when it comes to aging and poverty.

Most of my people (my elderly clients) fall in that awful gray area. They don't qualify for Medicaid, they can't perform what is known as "activities of daily living" (bathing, dressing, toileting) on their own and their money is disappearing for various reasons.  They want to live independently in their home. A few, however, would really like to live in assisted living, but they certainly couldn't afford it.

Truly, I wonder how many did not consider conserving finances in their youth. I have no idea. As a nurse, my job is not to judge my patients (that's not my job as a human), so I have to put that aside. I wonder how many have alienated family members. It's not that I can only see their loneliness, I can feel it.  Sometimes it comes out as endless tears and other times it comes out as a fist banging on the table while shouting,"I hate being so alone!" For others, it is evident through the cookies and tea they've set out prior to my arrival. The table is set for a complete stranger. All I have to go on is what they tell me, what they show me. I can't dig into the past and decide whether or not they are worthy of love or finances. My goal is solely to help them, but truthfully, I end up loving them, too.

I lost one of my favorites in August. This person was a giant in their younger years. They were an athlete and caught they eye of others based on charm and good looks. Their blue eyes twinkled as if they were the only thing left over from a youth. In those eyes I saw an energy enslaved by a deteriorating body that just was not worthy of that spirit inside. I met them early in the year and as the months progressed, so did their maladies. Soon their happiness and joking, became buried under anger and frustration that is all related to the ability to observe one's own physicl aging. I had to dig and dig to find the person that I met. They were still there, I just had to work more to unleash the humor and lightheartedness. This person told me, "Ivonne, I think I'm going to stop taking my medications. I can't live like this anymore. I've had friends with illnesses like the ones I have and once they were diagnosed, they didn't last long." My friend was right about this. The illnesses were terminal, though you won't necessarily hear a physician say that. Docs will medicate you because, naturally, that is our instinct: to live. At some point, however, we know that we can't win this one. No one comes out alive. Yes, I encouraged them for a moment to take their medications as prescribed and then I caught myself. I was not going to say anymore about it. It's their choice. It truly is. How can I tell my friend to prolong their pain and suffering after having lived a long, fulfilling 80-some-years on this planet? I can't because I loved them too much. So, I gave one sentence of "nurse-speak", "You SHOULD blah blah blah" and that was enough bullshit for the both of us. Whenever I left, I felt it was the last time I would see them. We never left without mutual "thank yous" and I was the grateful recipient of  weak, but heartfelt hugs and a kisses on the cheek. I drive by their home often (not because I'm a stalker), but because my daily life takes me by. The home has it's blinds drawn and life has continued it's usual hum, but their home doesn't have a heart. It's more like a dark cave now - no charm, no personality - just an empty space.

In a geriatric assessment, two things are very important: Maslow's hierarchy of needs and identifying if a person can perform their activities of daily living or ADLs. In Maslow's hierarchy, which you probably studied in school, the foundation of a person's motivation and ability to fulfill other needs is based upon their ability to fulfill basic needs. Basic needs are food, water, breathing (physiological needs to ensure life). From their, you move on to shelter, resources, employment. And just above that is when things fall apart for my patients: love and belonging. Interacting, socialization, intimacy, family, friendship...they don't have these. Some have absolutely none of these.  Then again, going back to ADLs (which include: bathing, toileting, self care), some can't perform these either and these functions fall into Maslow's basic needs category, the foundation. These people, generally, have to employ someone to come into their home to assist them with self care. It's not cheap. This service will generally cost you anywhere from $15 to $25 per hour and most services require a minimum number of hours to be met.  Hopefully, these seniors find a caregiver who truly loves their job and cares about those they help. Wiping bottoms, bathing, changing linens...sounds like motherhood: it's not glamorous, but the reward can be enormous. Imagine doing all this for someone unrelated to you.  It's a sad and beautiful interaction all at once. These basic needs can be addressed and believe it or not, it might be the easiest part of this puzzle.

The more difficult need, to me, to fulfill is that of belonging, socialization, friendship. To feel that you are loved and important doesn't happen easily. All of us have felt this need unfulfilled in our lives. As a senior citizen, it's very easy to remain isolated with minimal interaction with another human since many feel they are a burden. I have met people who haven't been anywhere except to their physician's office in years. I've met someone who has not been outside in a year. I met someone too embarrassed to go out because they can not put on nice clothes, only clothes pants with elastic and maybe a t-shirt. Another recently told me that if she did not talk aloud to the picture of her deceased husband, she would lose her mind (this is an intelligent, educated woman who is absolutely aware of national and world events and who has an opinion). How fortunate I am to have met each and every one of them. Each has a unique story that I'm afraid will vanish. But the thing is, they want to share their life, their stories - with people like you and me. We are utter strangers and they WANT us and maybe even NEED us.

So, what do we do, my little town? How do we change this? We do what hundreds of other communities are doing: we include them in our daily life. We build places where young and old can coexist safely. We plan residential areas where it's easier for us to keep an eye on each other. We transform existing structures into affordable, safe housing and gathering places. Even easier, you develop programs that connect young and old. We create an daily routine of checking on our elderly neighbors. You open your mind and your heart and you fill them both with the friendship from a source you may consider unlikely.

*If you live near me, I would encourage to research Williamsburg Faith in Action (http://wfia.org/). It's the best thing going. Volunteers fulfill the needs of our local senior citizens. This is not rocket brain surgery. No one is inventing something new here - kindness, generosity, community - existed long before you and I did. Faith in Action "simply" does all the organization and planning that you and I try to avoid.

http://www.greatbigstory.com/stories/a-retirement-home-for-young-and-old/?xrs=CNNAPP#
https://www.facebook.com/aimediaAUS/videos/10153953588224220/
http://www.nytimes.com/2016/09/06/health/lonliness-aging-health-effects.html?_r=0
http://blog.csa.us/2016/05/green-houses-alternative-to-nursing.html

Truthfully, we are all headed in the same direction as the people I mentioned. My wish for you and for me is that we find ourselves in a different situation. Maybe we should get to work..

Misadventures in Camping

I've camped all of my life. I have been feeling particularly grateful to my parents for introducing us to camping when my sisters and I were young. My parents, I don't believe, camped a lot when they were younger. My dad was a Boy Scout, so maybe he had some camping adventures. Mom grew up on a farm, so I'm assuming she like the outdoors and has adventure in her spirit. In any case, they came to the U.S. from Puerto Rico and before too long, we had a camping trailer.

Our trailer was  Prowler brand trailer. I remember plastic throughout and retro/Brady Bunch upholstery. It was an innovative piece of engineering. The beds magically appeared from nowhere. The beds that were up high were actually folded down from the wall. Two slides from the hinges, and voila, you had beds above your head. I felt like I had won every time I got to sleep up there. Each of those beds had a tiny window next to it. I could crank open my window and peek out into the night or discover the weather in the morning. I was always happy up there.

We loved camping at Solomon's Island where there was always a flock of kids on bikes headed to the pool, putt putt, bowling or roller skating. We stayed up late at night crabbing. At the time, the crabs were enormous. We'd take the crabs back to the site, cook them and eat them well into the night beneath a starry sky.  My family and I also traveled to West Virginia where I learned to love rock hopping in rivers. What great memories my parents created!

Then again, I don't remember dealing with the gray water or actually setting up the camper. Not my problem. As I got older, the perils of camping became a little more evident.

Let's revisit camping in Shenandoah with my two sisters. I have older sisters and like good sisters do, we decided to bond up in the mountains of our incredible state, Virginia. I drove my minty green Toyota Tercel to a trail where I met my sisters. They had driven there in my sister's (Jo-Joy) Isuzu Trooper (the big, old boxy kind). We were incredibly prepared and even donned matching, beige safari hats. During our three hour hike, we stopped at rivers to chat and watch the water pass us by and we "helloed" fellow outdoors-people (who probably thought our matching hats were awesome). Things were peachy until the three hour hike became four. We were out of water, we were out of food and we were lost and we were starting to get punchy. Nevertheless, we flipped the map over and rerouted and continued. One hour later we felt we were making progress. Jo-Joy, however, was not necessarily loving the situation. She's the type that gets...how do you say?? Hangry. Hangriness was pulsing through her veins. Syama and I tried to appeal to her senses, but she was too far gone. She had legitimate reasons. In the fifth hour she seemed to hallucinate and babble about granola and water and that was exactly when a sign appeared:

 

She started to run. Never mind that the lot was still miles away - she ran and ran hollering about food and water and stupid hikes and female bonding. She ran. It was an hour or so before we saw her in the parking lot. Jo-Joy was disheveled. Her face was dirty, she was sweaty and barely "hanging on" and laid out on the gravel lot.  When she came to her senses she confessed that she had tried to break into the cars in the lot to find food and drink in order to survive. She resorted to these measures because my other sister, Syama, had the key to her Trooper. Thankfully we survived and chowed on nuts and berries like every good trailblazer and squirrels do.

 

Bellies satisfied, we hopped into our cars and headed to our tent camping site. We each had brought  gear to get us through what was sure to be a starry date-night with nature. My trusty waterproof tent was up, we made some food, and settled in for the night. All three of us cozy in my tent. Just like when we were kids...laughing, telling stories. This closeness with my sisters was all I could ever want.

 

Eventually, we slept peacefully side by side - until the rain came. My "waterproof" tent was, apparently, water resistant. Jo-Joy scrambled to her Trooper. Plenty of dry space in there. Syama and I held firm - no way were we going to bail out on our camping adventure. The torrential downpour continued in the tent. Syama caved - another one lost to the Trooper. I could see them staring at me through the foggy window. Waving. Laughing. I peered out from my sleeping bag like a turtle in a shell. "Troopers are for sissies,"  I told myself. It was a stare down. In the movies, the equivalent would have been a shoot out in the middle of town, hands near holsters and a squinty eyed, piercing stare that was enough to kill your enemy. No. I had to resist. Whatever... I didn't and I jumped in the Trooper after kicking my stupid tent. Ah, the Trooper - it smelled like a dirty swamp and the air was damp, but it wasn't raining inside. Now, because I am the youngest, I always give in to my sisters' demands. There is no way around this. Submit! Or, you will be beaten into submission. I had to sleep on the wheel hubs. My head was propped up and my feet were propped up while the rest of me sagged between the firm lumps. Perfect. That night, sleep was intermittent at best.

 

The next day was the closing ceremony of our adventure. How sad to see it end! We gathered our drenched belongings and prepared for our reintroduction to civilization. Because Jo-Joy wanted to look nice for her return, she pulled out the blowdryer for her hair. The white flag had been waved.

 

Years later, my husband and I were fortunate enough to live in the Pacific NW where we often hiked and camped. The United States has and impressive landscape not to be missed! On one particular adventure with friends, we backpacked in to our campsite. The hike itself was incredible, but our camping spot was surreal, a clear green lake surrounded by mountains and pines. I've never seen anything like it and would escape there if my mind needed calm - but I can't, because I can not shake the trauma of it all.

Green Lake in Oregon. It is now known as Brown Lake.

 

Tents were pitched and lovely evening had by all. Once again, we settled in to sleep under a starry sky - until the rain came. Really? Again? This time, however, our tent was indeed waterproof. Michael and I had a very small tent, cozy for two. I call it, "the coffin". It's best that you really enjoy your companion if you are sleeping in this tent.

 

On this misadventure, we had our loyal dog, Gus. She was a brown, furry Lab/Chow mix. A sweet dog, a well trained dog (we didn't have kids then, so all of our attention went to her - the exact opposite of our current two mutts). Gus started to bark and cry during this intense storm. Lightning lit up the sky and claps of thunder left our ears buzzing. Soon enough, we had no choice but to begrudgingly "welcome' Gus into the tent. Needless to say, the coziness factor was lost, but it's all relative. At least we were dry and our little family was together. We managed a few blinks of sleep (as is the norm with most of our camping experiences).

 

The next day, we woke to a majestic sunrise over the mountains with clouds burning off at their peaks. The clear lake reflected the scene making it doubly alluring. But, all good things must end. And that indeed was the end as Gus ran away. She had a fierce longing in her eyes - like she must go into the wild and discover something that was out there. She did indeed.

 

If you are backpacking, you know to bring a small shovel. The small shovel is used to create your toilet. There is a standard depth you are "required" to dig to create your toilet. This was a slight oversight to a camper, but not to Gus. She found the non-toilet and rolled and rolled and rolled until she was completely satisfied and dizzied with excitement. She was the drunk girl in the bar. She trotted back gleefully - matted fur and the air around her was unmistakable. Green Lake would never be the same as my nauseated husband washed her fur with cautious intensity.

 

Did I mention that we were ticketed by a Park Ranger for camping too closely to another camper?

 

 20 years is STILL not enough time for Michael to label "that camping trip to Green Lake" as "fun". My recommendation is to never mention it to him.