Thank You for Listening to Me Bitch

Sometimes a catch phrase catches on:
"You might be a redneck..."
"Here's your sign,"
"Would you believe?"
"Where's the beef?"
"Did I do that?"
And so on.
I have decided that my new catch phrase is, "Thank you for listening to me bitch." Last night I was talking to Rick, and every once in a while I would realize I was complaining or ranting about something, and I would say, "Thank you for listening to me bitch." He says it's OK, I do the same for him, and that's true.
It's not written into the wedding ceremony, or at least any ceremonies I've seen, but part of being married is listening to each other complain, gripe, whine, bitch - whatever you're calling it in your relationship. It's a loving thing we do for each other.
Some people will abuse the privilege. Our older son, JD, tends to rant, and as he rants he builds up a head of steam and starts pacing around the room, and after ranting and pacing for quite a while he paces right out the door, ranting over his shoulder as he goes, and you're left sitting there in the silence wondering what that was all about.
It was about bitching. I wish he'd learn to say, "Thank you for listening to me bitch." I'd feel better.
You know how it is - you marry someone, you figure you made a choice. While you may have chosen to give birth, you were only the passive container of these little aliens who became your children, and their personalities often have traits that if you'd had a choice, you'd have said, "No, thanks."
If they're 28 and living with you again and subjecting you to traits you wouldn't have chosen, like marathon pacing rants, you might wish for a little acknowledgment on the kid's part that you're doing something for him while he sputters, pops, whines, and disgorges his discontent.
Well, he doesn't acknowledge that we've done anything for him, but it's made me think that when I'm ranting about something I owe my listener a thanks, at least, and if it's my husband, I owe years of thanks for listening to me. So the least I can do is say it.
Thank you for listening to me bitch.

Setback

My husband has had a setback in his dialysis progress, which you can read about on the other blog.
I am just tired. Today has been spent digging through papers, sorting, tossing, making phone calls, answering phone calls, doing over the phone an application I already did on paper wrong, so it had to be done over.
Rick and I are both feeling a little down over how things have gone. We felt he was so close to getting onto the overnight cycler machine, which, for him, meant he was close to going back to work. Now that hope is dashed, at least for the time being.
My own struggle is with paperwork. There is so much of it. And that's all I'm going to say about that.

My Special Peanut Butter and Jelly Sandwiches

Picture by Nancy Reeder

My cousin Nancy sent a nice big Easter package with gifts and games for our grand daughter, and there was also a sealed brown paper lunch sack for me. When I opened it, out came a mini-jar of jam and a single serving container of peanut butter, and a copy of this story:

My Special Peanut Butter and Jelly Sandwiches
As a young girl I took many family trips. I have many fond memories of these trips. But it is my own special little trips close to home that I cherish and remember the most.
There were days when I just couldn't deal with things and would want to "run away from home."
My beautiful loving mom would sense the need for me to follow through with my plans. I am sure she realized it was my way of coping with what ever was on my mind that day. I would say to her, "I think I'm going to run away today, Mom." With her sparkling green eyes and loving smile, she would reply, "I can help you pack if you want me to. Would you like me to make you a peanut butter and jelly sandwich?"
Together we would pack a brown paper sack with some clothes as well as make that peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
Mom would give me a big hug and kiss, then say, "I love you," and "You are always welcome to come home."
You have probably figured out by now that I only went to the end of the front porch. She was a very wise woman.
I am 62 years old and dealing with cancer. Yes, I feel like running away, but I think I will have a peanut butter and jelly sandwich instead.

*
You can stop reading this right there if that's enough for you.

I sent this story to several friends with this added message:
My cousin Nancy is fighting colon cancer now, and she knows that my husband and I are going through our own hard times, and she wanted to cheer us up by sending us this story and the peanut butter and jelly. She did.
Her wise, beautiful, mother was my father's sister, my aunt Vivian, whom everyone called Chick. Chick had multiple sclerosis and passed away at the age of 43. Chick was in a wheelchair all of Nancy's childhood, and I can see why Nancy might have wanted to run away sometimes.
As I thought about this, I thought, you know, this reminds me of the emails that come around on the internet, and, just for the fun of it, I'm going to put this out there, and ask the people to whom I send it to pass it on to people who might enjoy it, and then see how long it takes for it to come back to me from a complete stranger who has read it and been cheered by it. Then I can say to Nancy, "Look, your story has been cheering people up around the world." And that might cheer her up.
  Probably won't hurt peanut butter and jelly sales, either.
  Are you game? Two requests: send me an email saying "thank you, Nancy" at:
shipoftuels@hotmail.com,
 and I'll forward it to her, and then please pass it along. The thank yous will tell her what an important person she is, and passing it along - well, we'll see what that does! Thank you!
blessings, love, hugs
Mary
*
Well, I sent that out last night, and as of this morning I've had over 30 replies from people saying thank you to Nancy for this story. I started to forward them to Nancy, and then realized that I would be clogging up her email inbox, so I started copying and pasting replies into a word doc. Then I copied all of them (so far) and pasted them into one email to Nancy.
My cousin Nancy is an extraordinary person whom I have loved, admired, respected, and looked up to my whole life. She has tackled life with good humor against great odds and adversity, and she still keeps plugging away – even when she'd rather run away.
As I read people's replies to Nancy's story, I found myself tearing up. That's not unusual these days; my husband is ill and the challenges of getting along are sometimes dire. But the way people pull together to provide encouragement, inspiration, and love to one another in the hard times – man, that's almost enough to make me revise my occasional conclusion that people are no damn good.
Thank you, Nancy, thank you, everyone who is being touched by Nancy. Sometimes when you're somewhere past the end of your rope all it takes is one person to love you, understand how you feel, and make you realize you're not facing your troubles alone, to help you regain your grip.
So thank you.

The Constancy Waltz

Life is not offering much in the way of fun and encouragement these days, so the thing to do is sing. So here's one of my songs.
Once upon a time, a long time ago, someone said to me, "I'm making a list of people who I want to be in the nursing home with me, and you're on it." I thought this was a high compliment, and in the spirit of that compliment, I wrote this song.
It's as much about friendship as romantic love - it's about marriage, and other challenging relationships.
I made a video last night that I am replacing with a new one. In this one I remember all the words! Yay!

A brief word about my hair: this is how it looks right after I wash it these days. It has taken two years to get it this long. I had the idea that I could be this aging hippie woman with long flying frizzy gray locks. So far, so good. Then I thought I could let it get long, and then cut off the length and donate it to one of those organizations that make wigs for people who have lost their hair for medical reasons. It seemed like the most effortless way of doing good. What could be easier or cheaper than letting your hair grow? Well, for whatever reason, it's long and some days, like this morning, I want to grab hold of it and whack it off, but I haven't yet. One of the cool things about it - people don't recognize me with long hair. Kinda fun to walk through a small town where you've lived for decades and not be recognized.
Song: The Constancy Waltz, copyright 1987, 2010, Mary Litchfield Tuel. All rights reserved.

Why Don't I Get a Job?

This question has been directed to me so many times lately that I thought I would address it.
Yes, we are in dire straits financially. Rick, my husband, who was our sole support, has been unable to work since last October 5. We have lived since then on the incredible kindness and generosity of friends and family, and what savings we had. It is truly mind-blowing, to use the idiom of my youth, how kind and generous people have been. Some have gone so far as to contribute more than once, which at this time, when we are in the gap between our resources and Rick's disability payments and my Social Security, means more than ever.
People who are not in a position to give money have given from their hearts – time and love and art and chocolate, gifts both tangible and intangible, which have carried us through.
The obvious question that occurs to many well-meaning (and perhaps some not so well-meaning, I'm not naming any names here) people, is, why don't I get a job?
The first time I was on the receiving end of this rather sharp question, I was flabbergasted. I muttered about how I couldn't work because of various physical disabilities – my crappy knee, my broken back, nerve damage, chronic fatigue, etc., none of which cut any ice with my interrogator. I should get a job sitting down. I should type envelopes at home.
“There, I fixed it.”
Now that I've been hit with the question a couple more times, I'm starting to get my smart ass together: “Oh, I dunno. I guess I'm just a slacker.”
Another answer might be to slap my head and say, “Why didn't I think of that? A job! Of course!”
Maybe as I get it more together I'll be able to put together a written response which I can print up and hand to people. This is a start on that response.
One friend suggested that I reply thus: “OK, you come over to my house and take over what I do. Fill out and copy and organize the paperwork for Social Security, DSHS, the Kidney Program, the hospital, the IRS, various doctors and utilities and whoever else is standing in line with a hand out for our identity, income, and intentions. Figure out how to pay the bills and balance the check book and buy the groceries on what money we have. Buy the groceries - make sure there's coffee and cheerios and toilet paper and paper towels - and the prescription drugs and other requirements of Rick's illness. Drive Rick to his various appointments, procedures, and surgeries. Wait while he's there, or run errands that need to be done. Cook meals, wash some dishes, keep laundry moving, sweep and vacuum floors now and then, pick up the mail, pay the taxes, licensing fees, insurance premiums, etc. Keep track of the paperwork and dates regarding the lawsuit that has been laid on us by the woman who fell off our porch and wants lots of money. Come on over and do this and whatever else that comes up – cleaning out the perennially clogged storm drain, feeding the dog, making copies and typing dictation for Rick – do all that for me, and by golly, I will go look for a job.”
Of course I am fat and 61 and half crippled and don't have a degree and don't know all the computer programs that are mentioned in the job advertisements, but what the hell, I can get some shit-paying clerical work I suppose. Maybe. I hear it's hard to find a job these days, but it's usually easier to find a shit job.
If all I had to do was go to work and come home, it would be a nice break. Unfortunately, if I had a job, I'd still have to do all that other stuff, and I'm already pretty tired.
So that's pretty much why I don't get a job.

How Can I Keep From Singing?

Women, Women & Song used to sing this song, in three-part harmony. We started our first concert with it, and we ended our last concert with it.
You might say the song resonated with me. I first heard it sung by Pete Seeger, long, long ago, and then by a lot of people, including me. I sang it during labor with my second son; I sang it in the ambulance on the way to the hospital after my car accident ten years ago. The singing seemed to ease the pain.
It's a great song, and I know that I am only one of many who love it.

Happy Birthday, JD

Photos: John Devon at age 6 days, January 11, 1982, and John Devon and his baby, Allysan, last March.
Our older son, John Devon, or JD as he goes, was born 28 years ago tomorrow morning. A friend told me the other day that she had found a 1982 journal which she never used, and hey, guess what? 1982 and 2010 are the same! So she's using her 1982 journal this year.
So it was on a rainy Monday night 28 years ago I was lying on the couch watching a PBS version of “The Elephant Man.” It was a play, I think – it was not the movie of the same name which starred John Hurt and was a big hit at the time. So I was lying on the couch when I felt a “woosh” of water coming out of me.
Oh great, I thought. I've finally lost complete control of my bladder.
So I went to empty out what was left in my bladder, I thought, and was most intrigued to see little white specks of something floating around in the urine. I called my midwife, Susan Anemone, to report this strange turn of events, and she said, “Oh! Your water's broken! You're going to go into labor!” She was very chipper about it. I was stunned.
You'd think that nine months would be enough to prepare for giving birth. That's what nature gives you, more or less, in the usual order of things. I had wallowed in being pregnant. Loved to go around telling people how much I was enjoying pregnancy, I felt great, and that was true. When I was pregnant, my migraines went away, for one thing, and that was like being let out of prison. So I loved it. I read books and waddled around with a big grin and generally acted and felt like I was the only woman who had ever conceived a child. So, hurray, pregnancy.
Of course there was that point about half way through when I sat down and sobbed because of the lonely truth that there was only one way that baby was coming out, and it wasn't going to feel good. I was scared of labor. I was even more scared of how my life would be after the baby came. I would never have a private moment again. My days of puttering around the quiet house with classical music playing in the background were going to be over. These are the fears of a person who had never had much to do with children. I was right about that loss of privacy and solitude, but oh well.
There was a huge storm that night of January 4-5. We were swamped with snow. Down in California the rains were torrential. Mudslides in the Santa Cruz Mountains killed people that night, and elsewhere Highway 101 was closed by slides. I've heard since that many babies are born on stormy nights. Something about the drop in the barometric pressure, or something, sets off labor.
We were snowed in and all the plumbing frozen for days after John Devon was born. I finally begged, nagged, and entreated Rick to make it possible for me to take a bath. He took pity and thawed out the plumbing. I showered and was so happy.
But that night, that snowy stormy night, there I was about to be a mother and not believing it. Could this really be happening? Proof was soon to strike in the form of labor.
The first contraction hit about ten to midnight, and hit is the right word. Holy gazoly. There was no gradual build-up in intensity, it was just bang, hard labor, right now. Contractions that knocked me down and took my wallet.
Rick timed the contractions and breathed with me, and after a while we thought we should call Susan and ask her to come. She lived two or three miles up the Westside Highway from us. She was one of the founders of the Seattle Midwifery School, and the plan was for one of her partners to catch a ferry and come over when I went into labor. Well, it was two in the morning and there was a raging blizzard. She realized that she was going to have to improvise.
Susan woke up her husband, Barry, bundled up their nine-week-old son, Gabriel, and they traveled the two or three miles to our house in the snow. It took them about 45 minutes.
By this time I was completely lost in labor. My leg muscles were quivering like jelly and I really didn't see how I was going to make it through, but somewhere in there I decided that since I'd made it this far, I might as well carry on. Nice when reason decides to defer to reality.
Susan put Gabriel to bed in the crib that was waiting for our baby, and she and Barry and Rick were my team, coaching me, encouraging me, telling me what a good job I was doing. About five in the morning she said I was ready to push, and I did, for about forty minutes, and then, at ten to six in the morning of January 5, 1982, almost exactly six hours after the first contraction, our baby boy came out to meet the outer world.
He was, of course, the most beautiful thing we'd ever seen. We were instantly in love, absolutely mad with adoration for this child. Barry and Rick pulled the labor sheets off the bed, and removed the plastic sheeting that had kept a set of sheets underneath clean, and baby John Devon and I crawled in to have a well-deserved rest, after first calling the relatives, of course. Susan and Barry took Gabriel (who had slept through the whole thing) home.
The world outside was a snowy wonderland, and the world inside was the world of baby love. We were well and truly besotted, as most new parents are, and so taken with this tiny miracle.
Another midwife had given me the lowdown on children when I was pregnant: “This kid is going to give you some knocks.” I'm not sure why she said it; maybe I was so naive that she felt the need to slap me around with a little reality. I was a little shocked, and a little hurt. My baby was an angel, my baby...
Well, 28 years on I'd say she had a good point, but I'm not sure I needed to hear it mid-pregnancy. The dashing of parental dreams happens in its own time, naturally. Babies turn out to be children, and children become teenagers, and teenagers become adults, and by that time a parent's innocent dreams of long ago are a dim memory. I know I had them. They have been overwritten by 28 years of days.
JD, it was a good day when you were born. We were so happy. We had never loved anybody like we loved you, and that memory is not dim at all. It is bright and I can feel that love all over again thinking about that time.
Happy 28th Birthday, kid.