Be Careful When You Bitch

 

 People sometimes say you really see the mess around your house when you look at it through other people’s eyes. Like, if you’re having company and you’re cleaning up. You look around as if for the first time and see cobwebs dangling from almost everything, outnumbered only by the collection of stink bugs lying on their backs with legs up like they’ve been there a while. And the dirty fingerprints around the drawer pulls in the kitchen that give the appearance you came straight in from working in the garden without washing your hands before you made dinner. How had you missed those?

Well, I've come to realize the same “through others' eyes” test applies to our behavior as well as to our housekeeping standards.

On Friday I wanted to work in the garden (fully intending to wash my hands before starting dinner later). I normally keep my dirty overalls and muddy tennis shoes in the basement, but they weren’t there when I looked. My husband had cleaned up the basement recently so right away I was suspicious he’d done something with my gardening clothes. I called up the stairs to him. “Cecil, what did you do with my overalls and tennis shoes?” I could have started off by asking if he knew where they were but I went right to what had he done with them.

He came with some trepidation into the basement to help me look, but the clothes simply were not there. Finally Cecil admitted he “might have” thrown them away. I got agitated because these would not be the first of my things Cecil had taken it upon himself to discard. He was getting agitated because this would not be the first time I had gotten after him for such conduct. 

So we started revving each other up. Cecil was giving me a good taste of passive aggression. I would have to admit to a certain escalating bitchiness on my part, laced nicely with sarcasm and snide remarks such as “I hope that filthy jacket you wear everyday doesn’t have itself an accident.” Suffice it to say neither of us was at our best in the exchange.

Then the phone rang in his pocket. For reasons that don’t matter here, it was my cell phone that Cecil had been carrying around. Instead of answering it he kept snotting off at me which, of course, infuriated me because I imagined he was causing me to miss a call of some urgency. Maybe God was trying to reach me to tell me where my muddy tennis shoes were.

“Will you please answer my phone?” I snapped. By the time he got the darn thing out of his pocket the caller had hung up. I dialed the number back and was greeted by a 911 operator.

“Is everything all right?” the woman wanted to know without even saying hello. “Yes it is,” I assured her. 

“We received a 911 call from this number.” 

I paused, trying to understand, and then realized Cecil must have made a pocket call down in the basement. The woman continued. “It sounded like you were looking for something.” She stopped short of asking if I’d found my shoes. OMG, I thought, she heard the whole friggin’ conversation. I cringed as I thought back to the less than attractive tone I’d lent my voice for emphasis. The various jabs at Cecil that had felt good at the time seemed mean when I considered them as they must have sounded to the operator. “So, there’s no emergency?” she confirmed. She probably wanted to ask “Did you find your damn shoes, lady?” 

“No there’s no emergency.” I hoped I sounded convincing so she didn’t decide to send a patrol car to make sure one of us hadn’t taken a screw driver to the other. Naturally I was a tad hesitant to give her my name and address when she requested them but figured it would seem suspicious if I refused. So now she had a bitchy woman and a name to put with it. Great.

After I hung up I remembered that 911 calls are recorded. So somewhere in the call center my less than sweet display is now of record. I pictured the operator shaking her head and calling me a nag and playing the recording for her co-workers. Then I imagined the call somehow making its way to YouTube and wondered if 911 calls have privacy restrictions. Forget that I thought as I flashed on the countless calls I’ve seen replayed on television, the words scrolling along at the bottom of the screen to make sure everyone gets them. Next I’m thinking Stephen Colbert or Jon Stewart or someone’s gonna get a hold of my tirade and have some fun with me.

Or maybe the operator will just go home and tell her husband who will repeat the story to his friend who happens to be a radio announcer or a columnist at the paper. The possibilities become endless; it’s only the permutations that vary. The one thing they would all have in common would be me crabbing at my husband when I thought no one else was listening.

Since the pocket call incident I have been more aware of the tone of my voice. I’ve caught myself slipping into accusation when simple inquiry would do. I’ve heard myself snap or quip or chide when I didn’t need to. I hadn’t stopped to consider how I sound from time to time when I indulge myself in the comfort of my primary relationship…the one people so often take for granted. As a divorce attorney you’d think it might have occurred to me before this, but I had not taken the time to sit up and notice myself. 

That awareness came only after I learned someone else had overheard me. I’d felt justified and rightfully put out during the conversation, but when I listened through the operator’s ears I didn’t like what I heard.

So, my new rule—one I might recommend to others—is choose your words and your attitude carefully. Not because a 911 operator might be listening, but because no one likes a bitch, not even the bitch herself.

Riding Time

I’ve been suffering from lack of inspiration lately. You know how when even you find yourself boring? You turn inward to find something meaningful to say or write and you face a blank page, devoid of anything worth sharing. 

          I’ve begun research on a new book…an ambitious project that needs lots of attention. I’ve got this blog, a web site in development and a short story to shop around. There are still some 8,000 POW/MIAs waiting to be found. All of these tasks have sat stewing for weeks, gnashing their teeth and spewing epithets at me. “Get over here and do something with me, you lazy good-for-nothing wretch.” I’ve managed to turn from each of them, stuff away the guilt and put it all off to another day.  

          In retrospect I can see it started when we got ready to put our house on the market…again. This is its third selling season. Each year we cancel the listing for the holidays and manage to thoroughly trash the place by Christmas. So as January rolled around we dragged ourselves into that hideous state of mind known as Staging the House. How the attic got so full in just a few months is beyond me. And when did things in the basement crawl out from their corners? Let’s not mention the damn spices— would it kill them to stay in some kind of order up in their cupboard?

          I will say it feels good to get rid of clothes from high school that make me feel like a fat woman in the circus dressed up as Bette Davis’ Baby Jane. And I guess it was time for the broken VCR and the old bag phone to go. All in all it has been a productive experience, except that it has taken me over and sucked the creativity from me as though I’ve had an IV running in reverse.   

          As I felt myself dissolving into a pasty little blob I cast my listless mind about, wondering what might call to me. What will return me to life beyond clearing out closets and bagging up yesterdays I can barely remember? Ironically, it was death that brought me back.

          In a fit of madness I’d decided to clean up our address book because, God knows, prospective buyers might look in there to see if we secretly keep our affairs in a mess, such that they can infer the whole house is actually ready to fall down. As I turned the pages I came across the name of a friend of mine who had just died. I hadn’t even known she was ill. She was a beautiful, inspirational individual and now she was gone. Her name would need to be deleted. Another friend on the next page. She too must go. Then two colleagues, my aunt and my uncle. All had passed away recently. Delete. Their names disappeared and with them went the space they once filled.

          I took a walk and came upon a cemetery. Row after row of headstones stretched over acres. Space filled with people who are not here anymore. So many lives lived and lives ended. What difference had each of them made before they moved on? An empty trash bag blew in the wind, rambling over the graves, somehow emphasizing the nothingness of life after it has passed.

          There is a greater purpose to which I aspire, though if truth be told I’m not sure what it might be. The collective consciousness is a fine concept, but I would like to rise above the din, at least now and again. I’m not really sure why but I’ve always wanted to be heard above the crowd, maybe just a little. And here I’ve been lately just descending into it. I’m not happy with me.

          As I looked at the contingent of head stones, I thought of the hundreds more waiting to join them each day; people passing through. My day will come around the corner soon enough. I need to consider myself accountable to the time I’ve been given between the womb and the ground that will hold me. Make something of it, Donna. There is none of it to waste. We are all only riding along until we fall away and time passes us by.

          So now I’m ready to jettison myself from the doldrums. There is much to discover and much to do before my name is ready to be deleted from the next guy’s address book.

Simple Things

           I understand the attraction of the standard vacation: a week at the beach; your trip to Paris or Rome; skiing or diving at some exotic resort. I’ve done those things and they’re great. Sometimes, though, it’s good to go off and find smaller experiences, less spectacular in some respects but equally enriching in other ways.

            I decided to visit New England in the winter. My first stop was Boston. It’s always exhilarating to be in Boston, except it’s a little intimidating to drive a car there. I can see why everyone takes the T. There is no grid in Boston, no logical explanation for the layout of its streets. They are one-way. Some of them start out paralleling each other but end up coming together at right angles. And there’s always traffic so a misstep can be costly. People use their GPS to go around the corner to get groceries. And there I was trying to maneuver from Cambridge across the Charles River and then over the harbor to South Boston, a good mile or two away. I must have been out of my mind.

            Samantha’s GPS voice guided me, sometimes, but there were places where even she got confused and just stopped talking. My first inclination was to demonstrate the tiniest bit of road rage, but something eased me away from that into an enjoyment of the city, dressed as it always is in a cloak of vitality and beauty.

           Next I drove to Windsor Loch, Connecticut to visit the New England Air Museum. They have an exhibit of fighter and bomber aircraft. As I stood in the midst of those planes I was struck by how small they are compared to how they look in war shots and movies. At the same time, I got a heavy sense of the power and aggression that the planes embody. I could almost see the canopy flying off and the pilot ejecting from the F-86 after having been hit. From inside the bomb bay of the A-26 Invader, I pictured the doors opening and the load falling out, then the pilot turning sharply left or right to avoid getting caught in the devastating blast that would follow seconds later. Images notched themselves into my memory. I will think of them again.

            Next stop was my mother’s home on Lake Winnipesaukee in New Hampshire. This cottage has been in my family since Mom was a teenager. It has become the Old Homestead. Most of my trips to the cottage have been during summer months. This time, the lake was frozen and a crop of colorful bob-houses had sprung up off shore. It looked like an odd shanty town sitting out there in the middle of the bay. Between the shacks, children played hockey. Further out snow mobiles raced and spun themselves on the ice. Cars drove around, just because they could, and airplanes came and went using the unclaimed stretches as runways.

            How neat, I thought, as I watched this cluster of life dare nature at the same time it took advantage of her. I wanted some. So I stepped off our dock onto the frozen lake. It was thrilling to walk away from safety out onto a landscape that had the opportunity to crack open and suck me in. Each step was a flirtation with danger. The adventure was small, but it brought something different to me. It was a moment of excitement that formed itself into a memory as colorful as any other.

            During the week at Mom’s I visited my brother in Portsmouth. Every now and then you stumble across something wonderful that, for whatever reason, has been largely overlooked. Maybe the thing is understated or otherwise modest in its trappings. No flash that catches the collective eye, which is probably a good thing. So, there’s Portsmouth, a charming coastal city that sits an hour north of Boston and an hour south of New England’s lake and mountainous regions. The city center is a collection of restored historic buildings inside which you find a variety of coffee houses and book stores, eclectic shops, diverse eateries. The people are on the streets. They are energetic and engaged. I picture throngs of “Remote” workers living there. Portsmouth was a delightful find.

            I left New Hampshire and headed south to the Cambridge side of Boston  to spend a few days with my daughter, Kirstyn, and her boyfriend. I find it harder now to say goodbye to Mom. The visits have that sense of urgency that comes when parents get older. No matter how healthy they seem, they are advancing toward the end zone. There’s nothing we can do but love them, knowing in that bittersweet corner of our hearts that one day, much sooner than we can stand to think about, they will no longer be here to remember the old days with us.

            So I said goodbye and watched her disappear in the distance, like time fading away into itself. I memorized her smile and the love in her eyes and felt a renewed appreciation for having had a great mother.

            In Cambridge I spent a morning at one of Harvard’s libraries researching a photographic depiction of Soviet gulags. Empty eyes looked out from sunken sockets and told of horrors not understood by those of us who did not suffer them. Diagrams of the various camps had several things in common: double rows of barbed wire fence that loomed high above crude barracks; the Forbidden Zone; guard towers; the Punishment Room. Hand scribbled notes spoke of death by starvation or disease or exhaustion, if not by execution for some wrong word uttered. It was a painful and sobering glimpse of unspeakable torment.

            After spending several hours with the collection, I looked up to absorb what I’d been seeing. Out the window Harvard Yard was suddenly white. The snow wasn’t falling from above. It was howling from the side and swirling upward and blowing straight at the windows. The blizzard had begun. Time to hustle.

            Outside, I bent into the wind and felt the coldness of gritty grains slapping my cheeks. Was it snowing or was someone blasting a sand trap nearby? Before I’d cleared the campus I looked like a snowman. My eyelashes were almost too heavy to open up after a blink. In the square people were dashing about to grab a few things at the market, hit the liquor store one last time, and get home. My eyes met those of strangers and we shared a knowing smile.

            Kirstyn, Dave and I hunkered down and watched the storm descend. All day. Then all night. Then all day again on Saturday. Between us we must’ve had a dozen electronic devices charging, just in case. We could do without heat or food or lights but God forbid we should not be able to use our phones or our computers. 

           When it stopped snowing Kirstyn and I took to the streets, to the extent you could find them under the twenty five inches that had fallen in the past twenty four hours. There were no cars—they’d been banned. The T stood still. Store fronts were dark. Everywhere people climbed the smooth white mounds. Some dug tunnels; others built snowmen. Frozen hands held cameras this way and that to capture the beautiful spectacle. Kirstyn and I walked for miles, down the middle of the road; up over drifts; along narrow pathways hurriedly carved by a few ambitious souls. Cambridge was crisply silent except for the muted sounds of trudging boots and buoyant voices. It was lovely.

            On Sunday we drank mimosas and cooked delicious food with some of Dave's family who'd braved the storm's remains to come for brunch. We talked of so many things I can't remember them, except to recall the richness of conversation well spent.

             And then it was time to go home. I moved through security and to the gate like a loaded pack mule. I watched out the window as we sped up and away. Boston retreated first, then the harbor. The New England landscape shrunk below as we climbed through the cloud layer, a dizzying fog that offered nothing until it broke open and delivered us to a painted sky. Shards of gold and orange swept downward into a rim of sleepy red that settled itself into white clouds along the horizon’s rim. The blue sky gradually faded back, the festival of colors muted into night and we flew on.

            It had been a good trip.  

Rummaging Through the Attic

I went up to the attic to get something the other day and looked over at the mountain of papers, boxes and manila envelopes that spilled from one corner out into the middle of the room. It was the avoidance pile, the place to which we’ve relegated everything we’ve wanted to save or maybe ought to save or perhaps would enjoy reading again someday. But now it’s thirty years later and we don’t even know what’s in the mountain anymore, much less have any use for the stuff. It’s just been sitting there, growing and growling at us for a very long time.

I decided to purge. At first I was going to just toss it all. But then that same ‘what if there’s something I might want or need’ syndrome took hold and I resigned myself to dig through the intimidating slop.

For the past week I’ve sat on the floor and re-read the pages of my life. It’s mostly been those titillating bank statements from 1983 and of course each and every canceled insurance policy cuz you never know when you might need those again. There were thousands of slips of paper dating back as far as twenty five years ago that we’d kept in case the IRS ever singled us out. Every homework assignment the kids ever did was in there. Not as fascinating as I’d thought they might be all these years later.

Most of the stuff should have been relegated to the shred pile a long time ago, but not all of it. Buried within the layers of useless time keepers were treasures and tid-bits of our life as it has passed through the years. In the middle of the pile was a manila envelope labeled “Donna’s Freelance Writing.” In it was a piece I’d written years ago about my mother and my step-father. The story reminded me of the perspective I always want to have; the one I often write about in this blog. So, I decided to post an excerpt from the story. Even though I wrote it more than twenty years ago, I think it still holds meaning for each of us. The piece is titled The Great Masquerader.

~~

It was six in the morning. The sun spilled through the window and onto the blanket under which Stan lay motionless. At first the light had warmed him, but now it was making him hot. It occurred to him how cruel it was that he could not push the covers back himself, but then he dismissed the thought. It had been years since he could manage even the simplest task and years since he had stopped agonizing over the fact that one of the harshest fates had sought him out. In the quiet stillness of early morning Stan waited for Ellie to wake up and come down to the living room where he now slept in a hospital bed. Ellie could pull the covers back for him.

Stan was forty eight when he was diagnosed in 1973. He and Ellie had been married less than a year at the time. Theirs had been a later-in-life romance that anyone might hope for. Stan was handsome and vibrant. His winning personality was hard to resist and Ellie fell in love quickly. They sang together and held hands and danced. Stan was an excellent dancer. Their days were dotted with long walks on the beach and candlelit dinners by the fire.

Double vision, a slight limp and numbness in his right hand brought Stan to the doctor that first year. Tests were inconclusive. Certain illnesses were eliminated. In the end, he was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis, or MS. There was no test to confirm the diagnosis. MS masquerades as other conditions, lurking behind symptoms that could be many other things, but then they’re not and in the end your doctor concludes you have MS. It is a disease of the central nervous system. There are four types and they vary in severity but each of them takes from the patient at least some of what he used to have.The Fast Progressive strain takes it all.

At first Stan and Ellie were hopeful. Odds were, since Stan was a male and already middle aged, his would be a mild case. The only test would be that of time. They had no choice but to see what course the disease would follow. They waited and worried as their assailant worked its vicious way upon their lives. One by one symptoms came and never went. Stan’s case would not be one of the easy ones.

At first he was weak on his right side. Then he couldn’t write. Soon he needed assistance to walk. From a cane he went to a walker; from the walker to a wheelchair. Finally he couldn’t get out of bed. In a very short time the MS had summonsed Stan from the building of his life and taken him down.

The progressive physical debilitation was, in many ways, not as difficult for Stan and Ellie as the emotional and psychological impact. Stan had to quit work, so they could no longer afford their home. They moved to Ellie’s family cottage in the boondocks of New Hampshire. As Stan’s speech became affected and his ability to control bodily functions diminished, it became increasingly awkward to be around him and friends began to drop away. Stan and Ellie felt hurt, then angry, then simply alone.

Stan lost the fighting attitude early on and became consumed by his fear and disappointment. It didn’t take long for depression to set in. Ellie couldn’t get him to do anything for himself or with her and, gradually, the affection between the two lovers began to fade. Eventually, Ellie became little more than a nursemaid whose drudgery consisted of not only her own ablutions each morning but Stan’s as well. After that she cooked for Stan then fed him then hoisted him in the lift so she could change his sheets and dress his bedsores. She counted out his meds and spent hours on the phone with various agencies.

Years passed. During the first nine of them Stan was still angry. The only available target was Ellie. She was healthy and he was not; it wasn’t fair. So he began to resent her, even though she was the one keeping him alive; the one who stood between him and an institution. Eventually, though, even the anger went away and left nothing in its place but the horrible suffering of a man who was locked within himself, unable to move, to speak or to do anything but lie there in contorted pain. It was so difficult to watch, so utterly heart breaking. What must it have been like for Stan as he passed through the countless days that threatened never to end?

In 1988, after fifteen years, Ellie could no longer care for Stan at home and she had to move him to the V.A. Hospital about an hour away. She visited him every day and sat with him as he lay curled in the fetal position. One day she got there and he had died in the night. They said it was heart failure. We always wondered if someone hadn’t put him out of his misery.

~~

Now it’s 2013. As I sit in the attic and look through the envelopes that detail the last thirty years of my life, I rediscover dusty and faded memories. I feel enriched again by the wonderful experiences and relationships that have visited themselves upon me. When I think of Stan, I realize how lucky I am and I hope never to complain about anything again.