So, I don't know what 50 will be like. I know that my sister found out she had cancer at 50, and that sucked. I know that some people sail through 50 like its forty and others. . . don't. So I will just speak to 49 and 364 days of life.
49 and 364 days
On this day
the sun shines
the mountains stand majestic
my dog and I hike 3 miles
in the most beautiful place in the world
Tai Tam Country Park.
I walk 15,750 steps.
On this day
my homeroom sings Happy Birthday,
my students work together in groups to
discern the meaning of Carver's "Cathedral"
and come to know that enlightenment
can come in the smallest gestures
a hand on a hand drawing a cathedral.
On this day
I didn't weigh in because I didn't want to
but I'm pretty sure I'm at 78 kg
which is my biggest weight
and I'm not happy
but I'm also committed to changing the situation
starting Tomorrow!
Well, probably the day after tomorrow.
The Universe is helping me learn something new -
Adam as vegan, Biggest Loser, Master Chef and Primal.
On this day
I have a cold that I've been fighting a few days
I had Meet the Teacher Night until 8:40 PM
and I'm writing this at 9:45 PM
so I would call that a LONG DAY
yet it was a good one too.
On this day
thanks to Eckhart Tolle and Christianity
I know I am both Human and Being
and that the Being Part is the Real part
and the part that matters and lives on.
And I know that life is not the opposite of death
but birth is. Because life has no end.
On this day
I have committed to the "Year of Brenda",
a year in which I reset for the next 50 years
my mind, body, and spirit.
I've chosen the motto "Big risk. Big reward."
On this day
I am me.
Thursday, September 22, 2016
Thursday, June 2, 2016
The Noose: Adam in Crisis
"Mom, I have something to tell you that you're not gonna like," said my 14-year old. We had just gotten into a taxi after a therapy session with his psychologist.
I stopped playing Candy Crush and gave Adam my attention. "Yes?"
"A few weeks ago, when I was really feeling low, I attempted suicide. At least I consider it an attempt. At the time I was very desperate because nothing clear was happening with transitioning. We weren't yet seeing a doctor for testosterone and everything seemed to be at a standstill."
I hadn't seen that coming. Yet I wasn't exactly surprised either. Right now, though, I had a healthy child in a good frame of mind sitting next to me in the cab, so the panic or dread that one might expect when hearing the words "suicide attempt" did not pass over me. I stayed calm and asked a few questions. When exactly? Where exactly? How exactly? What stopped you, exactly? Why didn't you tell me earlier? What could I have done differently? What would you have done differently knowing what you know now?
Each question was answered in turn. Some weeks back. At the playground wall platform. With a homemade noose. I realized my choice would make my family and friends unhappy and my dad mad. Fear. Talk to me, really talk and ask questions when I am noticeably down. Bring back the bedtime talks. I would tell myself that things are going to get better.
For me this is a warning. I knew my kid had been battling depression before, had been doing better, and then seemed to be entering a new slump. But I didn't realize that that slump was so low as to result in suicidal thoughts and an attempt. So, even with my eyes open, with the family seeking specialists to help, such a thing could still occur.
These weeks leading to summer break could be very different right now if the attempt had been carried out more completely. A death would mean a funeral and loss beyond comprehension, sorrow and grief, and debilitation. A failed attempt may still have resulted in massive brain damage from air loss and damage to the neck/trachea etc. We could be in a hospital right now at the bedside of an unresponsive child on a very long recovery with no guarantee of a full recovery.
Such alternative futures don't compare to the current peace and joy I am experiencing as the school year unfolds and as we look forward to a trip to Paris as a family. So, I remain positive but vigilant. Mental illness is not to be taken lightly.
I stopped playing Candy Crush and gave Adam my attention. "Yes?"
"A few weeks ago, when I was really feeling low, I attempted suicide. At least I consider it an attempt. At the time I was very desperate because nothing clear was happening with transitioning. We weren't yet seeing a doctor for testosterone and everything seemed to be at a standstill."
I hadn't seen that coming. Yet I wasn't exactly surprised either. Right now, though, I had a healthy child in a good frame of mind sitting next to me in the cab, so the panic or dread that one might expect when hearing the words "suicide attempt" did not pass over me. I stayed calm and asked a few questions. When exactly? Where exactly? How exactly? What stopped you, exactly? Why didn't you tell me earlier? What could I have done differently? What would you have done differently knowing what you know now?
Each question was answered in turn. Some weeks back. At the playground wall platform. With a homemade noose. I realized my choice would make my family and friends unhappy and my dad mad. Fear. Talk to me, really talk and ask questions when I am noticeably down. Bring back the bedtime talks. I would tell myself that things are going to get better.
For me this is a warning. I knew my kid had been battling depression before, had been doing better, and then seemed to be entering a new slump. But I didn't realize that that slump was so low as to result in suicidal thoughts and an attempt. So, even with my eyes open, with the family seeking specialists to help, such a thing could still occur.
These weeks leading to summer break could be very different right now if the attempt had been carried out more completely. A death would mean a funeral and loss beyond comprehension, sorrow and grief, and debilitation. A failed attempt may still have resulted in massive brain damage from air loss and damage to the neck/trachea etc. We could be in a hospital right now at the bedside of an unresponsive child on a very long recovery with no guarantee of a full recovery.
Such alternative futures don't compare to the current peace and joy I am experiencing as the school year unfolds and as we look forward to a trip to Paris as a family. So, I remain positive but vigilant. Mental illness is not to be taken lightly.
Saturday, May 28, 2016
Name changes
I was born Brenda Lynn Guetzke. Then I married and became Brenda Lynn Brayko.
Alec was born Alec David Levi Foster. When his adoption was finalized he became Alec David Levi Brayko.
Adam was born Anna Ivanovna Ovchinnikova. When the adoption was finalized the name changed to Anna Mikayla Brayko. When he transitioned from female to male he chose Adam Ivan Brayko Mitchel as a name. It has yet to be finalized.
Our dog Rigby was named Bill originally. But we renamed him Rigby Moon Brayko.
Our cat came as Jigs. We changed it to Jigs Chuseok Brayko.
Brent was born Brenton Scott Brayko. He is still Brenton Scott Brayko but he goes by Brent.
Alec was born Alec David Levi Foster. When his adoption was finalized he became Alec David Levi Brayko.
Adam was born Anna Ivanovna Ovchinnikova. When the adoption was finalized the name changed to Anna Mikayla Brayko. When he transitioned from female to male he chose Adam Ivan Brayko Mitchel as a name. It has yet to be finalized.
Our dog Rigby was named Bill originally. But we renamed him Rigby Moon Brayko.
Our cat came as Jigs. We changed it to Jigs Chuseok Brayko.
Brent was born Brenton Scott Brayko. He is still Brenton Scott Brayko but he goes by Brent.
Visitors from abroad: Sein
Sein was a senior in high school when I met her. She was an international student from Korea, one of about twelve that year at the private school I was teaching at in Green Bay. Her English was spot on and her smile radiant. She had a big heart and lovely straight black hair and exquisite make up. Unfortunately, she was also very unhappy.
It seemed her home placement was with a woman who boarded several students at her home but did little else for them. She didn't cook for them or arrange for transportation to school events, even though she lived way out in the country. Without a driver's license, Sein was stuck for her senior year in this isolated home, unable to engage in typical teenage life. As I learned of Sein's story, it became clear that she needed a new placement. Why not us?
It wasn't long before we were converting our den into an extra bedroom. We covered the glass doors with sheets. Sein turned the couch into a bed and hung her Korean flag on the wall. My husband and I agreed that we didn't need to demand much rent, but would she baby sit our six and four year olds on weekends? Sein happily agreed and so began our only experience housing an international student.
Sein wasn't a very good babysitter, but she was fun to have around. She taught me a few words in Korean (anyung) and how to count (il -ee -sam - sah - oh). She shoveled snow in high heels. She taught us how to make rice and forced us to buy a rice cooker - best thing ever! She made Korean eggs and Korean BBQ - American style. She had us on a quest for the hottest food we could find! Even the nearest Korean restaurant wasn't Korean enough for her. She complained about the price of healthcare in the US and the price of prescription drugs. She took amazing photos of our family with her Nikon camera. So much of what Sein taught us only would come into clearer view when we would move to Korea ourselves a few years later and have the privilege of being taught how to use the subway system in Seoul by Sein herself!
The most unexpected aspect of providing a home for Sein was that she was in the middle of getting her driver's license and needed "road time". Now, I didn't know about this when she arrived at our home. It just so happened that one day a driver's ed car showed up in our driveway to pick her up for a lesson. After a few hours, the instructor returned with a report on what Sein should be working on. "She needed to work on backing up and parallel parking," he said to me expectantly. It was only at that point that I realized that he expected I would be the one to help her learn the art of driving. "You want ME to take her out in MY car?" I asked, stunned. In MY new Prius? He had to be mad! She was from another country, for goodness, sake. What was the law about getting into car accidents in such a case? Would my insurance cover an accident of a foreign driver without a license? This was not good.
We proceeded, nonetheless. Pretty soon I was sitting in the passenger seat of my Prius and Sein drove around the small neighborhoods and eventually onto the highway. After a few months I was waving to her and wishing her luck as she drove my car for the driving test. She failed. Perhaps she was too cautious.
I remember an incident when she was practicing. She was approaching a 4-way stop sign. She stopped well behind the sign - entirely according to the book. Unfortunately, the female driver behind us was NOT impressed with he slow stop so far back. As it is usual to slide to almost the middle of the intersection before checking for other cars, driving by the book flew in the face of the woman's expectations. Boy, did she get pissed. Poor Sein kept saying, "I'm just doing what I'm supposed to, right?" "Yes and no," I explained as the woman zoomed past us swearing loudly out her window and honking.
It seemed her home placement was with a woman who boarded several students at her home but did little else for them. She didn't cook for them or arrange for transportation to school events, even though she lived way out in the country. Without a driver's license, Sein was stuck for her senior year in this isolated home, unable to engage in typical teenage life. As I learned of Sein's story, it became clear that she needed a new placement. Why not us?
It wasn't long before we were converting our den into an extra bedroom. We covered the glass doors with sheets. Sein turned the couch into a bed and hung her Korean flag on the wall. My husband and I agreed that we didn't need to demand much rent, but would she baby sit our six and four year olds on weekends? Sein happily agreed and so began our only experience housing an international student.
Sein wasn't a very good babysitter, but she was fun to have around. She taught me a few words in Korean (anyung) and how to count (il -ee -sam - sah - oh). She shoveled snow in high heels. She taught us how to make rice and forced us to buy a rice cooker - best thing ever! She made Korean eggs and Korean BBQ - American style. She had us on a quest for the hottest food we could find! Even the nearest Korean restaurant wasn't Korean enough for her. She complained about the price of healthcare in the US and the price of prescription drugs. She took amazing photos of our family with her Nikon camera. So much of what Sein taught us only would come into clearer view when we would move to Korea ourselves a few years later and have the privilege of being taught how to use the subway system in Seoul by Sein herself!
The most unexpected aspect of providing a home for Sein was that she was in the middle of getting her driver's license and needed "road time". Now, I didn't know about this when she arrived at our home. It just so happened that one day a driver's ed car showed up in our driveway to pick her up for a lesson. After a few hours, the instructor returned with a report on what Sein should be working on. "She needed to work on backing up and parallel parking," he said to me expectantly. It was only at that point that I realized that he expected I would be the one to help her learn the art of driving. "You want ME to take her out in MY car?" I asked, stunned. In MY new Prius? He had to be mad! She was from another country, for goodness, sake. What was the law about getting into car accidents in such a case? Would my insurance cover an accident of a foreign driver without a license? This was not good.
We proceeded, nonetheless. Pretty soon I was sitting in the passenger seat of my Prius and Sein drove around the small neighborhoods and eventually onto the highway. After a few months I was waving to her and wishing her luck as she drove my car for the driving test. She failed. Perhaps she was too cautious.
I remember an incident when she was practicing. She was approaching a 4-way stop sign. She stopped well behind the sign - entirely according to the book. Unfortunately, the female driver behind us was NOT impressed with he slow stop so far back. As it is usual to slide to almost the middle of the intersection before checking for other cars, driving by the book flew in the face of the woman's expectations. Boy, did she get pissed. Poor Sein kept saying, "I'm just doing what I'm supposed to, right?" "Yes and no," I explained as the woman zoomed past us swearing loudly out her window and honking.
Rat Tail
I picked up the rat by the tail and tossed it into the cage, shut the cage door and thought, "Crap! Did I just pick up a rat?"
Let me back up. It's not that I often have opportunities to pick up rats. And, no, I wasn't in a New York alley or anything. I was actually in a science classroom in a small Wisconsin town named Monroe. The bell had already dismissed students for the day and I had ventured from the English wing to the science wing in hopes of catching up on the day with my friend Jacque.
For some reason she had just gotten a small shipment of live rats. I sauntered in with the usual hello. As I made my way across to her desk, I noticed a rat climbing on the OUTSIDE of the cage. Now, I'd never actually held a rat before, but I had been around the rat lab with my college roommate several times. Somehow my brain was working subconsciously and putting a bunch of things together. 1) A rat climbing on the outside of a cage is not the norm. 2) Someone needs to put the rat into the cage. 3) I recalled Wendy demonstrating that if you pick one up by the tail it can't bite you. 4) I had multiple experiences with mice and mouse traps and holding pet snakes, why not do this?
So, before I knew it, I walked over to the cage, picked the white rat with the pink tail up by his tail, tossed him into the cage and shut the door all while still talking to Jacque about the school day.
It wasn't until the action was complete that both she and I reacted, "Holy shit! What just happened? What did you do?" We laughed and laughed. All was safe and sound. Small heroics in a high school science lab.
Let me back up. It's not that I often have opportunities to pick up rats. And, no, I wasn't in a New York alley or anything. I was actually in a science classroom in a small Wisconsin town named Monroe. The bell had already dismissed students for the day and I had ventured from the English wing to the science wing in hopes of catching up on the day with my friend Jacque.
For some reason she had just gotten a small shipment of live rats. I sauntered in with the usual hello. As I made my way across to her desk, I noticed a rat climbing on the OUTSIDE of the cage. Now, I'd never actually held a rat before, but I had been around the rat lab with my college roommate several times. Somehow my brain was working subconsciously and putting a bunch of things together. 1) A rat climbing on the outside of a cage is not the norm. 2) Someone needs to put the rat into the cage. 3) I recalled Wendy demonstrating that if you pick one up by the tail it can't bite you. 4) I had multiple experiences with mice and mouse traps and holding pet snakes, why not do this?
So, before I knew it, I walked over to the cage, picked the white rat with the pink tail up by his tail, tossed him into the cage and shut the door all while still talking to Jacque about the school day.
It wasn't until the action was complete that both she and I reacted, "Holy shit! What just happened? What did you do?" We laughed and laughed. All was safe and sound. Small heroics in a high school science lab.
Tuesday, May 24, 2016
Making a Boy
When we discovered that we had trouble with fertility, we launched a full-scale endeavor to conceive through the magic of modern medicine. For twelve months Brent and I waited anxiously for "the stick" to indicate that I was ovulating. We would then call our places of employment, take a half-day off, hop in the car at 5:30 AM and drive the two hours to Milwaukee for the 30 - 60 minute doctor's visit. First we'd grab breakfast at the coffee shop at the hospital, talk about normal everyday things as well as our hopes for a family, and then head up to proceed with the IUI (intrauterine insemination). This was not easy on either one of us but it was physically painful for me and included a long, thin tube which would be inserted through the vagina and cervix and directly into the uterus to deposit its payload of sperm. The procedure itself didn't take long, but I would stay reclined for an additional twenty minutes in the hopes that the little guys would have an easier time swimming to find their mark. We would then drive the two hours back to our community and return to work for the rest of the day like everything was normal.
Unfortunately, my body somehow interprets sperm as enemy and kills them all. 100%. So, no baby making that way.
After a year of this routine and further testing to verify the hopelessness of making a child ourselves, we turned toward adoption as our preferred option to have a family. Part of that journey included filling out a questionnaire from Russia about the kind of child we wanted to be matched with. We chose "healthy toddler girl." In part this was because we already had an infant son. What could be better than one boy and one girl, right?
Fast forward to 2015. Our teenage daughter tells us she feels she should be a boy, that "something's missing." For a year she sees therapists, dresses and takes on the mannerisms of a boy, and takes on a male name and insists on male pronouns. She is a "he" in mind and presentation but not in body. This is where modern medicine comes in to play again. We find and endocrinologist who works with transgender people to administer hormones aligned with their gender identity - in this case testosterone. Monthly, I take my child to the doctor to have him injected with a substance which will slowly - over a year's time - turn him into a boy.
And then I see the irony. I wasn't able to make a baby from scratch. I thought I had control over gender through adoption. And while I'm not a biological mother to any child, now I'm making a boy! Without our support, this girl would remain a girl, but we are helping her become a boy. The long year-long "pokes" sixteen years ago produced nothing at all. But this year of shots will produce a boy, and I will have been instrumental in making that happen. It's all quite contrived and crazy; but it is the life we are leading. Thank you, modern medicine!
Unfortunately, my body somehow interprets sperm as enemy and kills them all. 100%. So, no baby making that way.
After a year of this routine and further testing to verify the hopelessness of making a child ourselves, we turned toward adoption as our preferred option to have a family. Part of that journey included filling out a questionnaire from Russia about the kind of child we wanted to be matched with. We chose "healthy toddler girl." In part this was because we already had an infant son. What could be better than one boy and one girl, right?
Fast forward to 2015. Our teenage daughter tells us she feels she should be a boy, that "something's missing." For a year she sees therapists, dresses and takes on the mannerisms of a boy, and takes on a male name and insists on male pronouns. She is a "he" in mind and presentation but not in body. This is where modern medicine comes in to play again. We find and endocrinologist who works with transgender people to administer hormones aligned with their gender identity - in this case testosterone. Monthly, I take my child to the doctor to have him injected with a substance which will slowly - over a year's time - turn him into a boy.
And then I see the irony. I wasn't able to make a baby from scratch. I thought I had control over gender through adoption. And while I'm not a biological mother to any child, now I'm making a boy! Without our support, this girl would remain a girl, but we are helping her become a boy. The long year-long "pokes" sixteen years ago produced nothing at all. But this year of shots will produce a boy, and I will have been instrumental in making that happen. It's all quite contrived and crazy; but it is the life we are leading. Thank you, modern medicine!
Monday, May 9, 2016
Chopped
I learned much about life my four summers as a worker in the garde manger section of a kitchen at a Jewish Country Club. One of the things I learned was how stupid rich people could be. Okay, I know that sounds very judgmental, but at the time I was a poor college student working for wealthy Jewish families with strange behaviors and requests.
Let me clarify. As an employee in the garde manger I worked with cold food from 7 AM until sometimes 11 PM six days a week. Four of us prepared the salad bar, crudite displays and fruit displays, prepped lobster halves, extracted crab meat, made salad dressings from scratch, and prepared individual identical salads for parties of up to 200 people.
While all this was going on we would be periodically interrupted by a frantic waiter holding a huge plate piled beautifully with fixins' from the salad bar, dressing included, with the command to "chop this salad, please." The command was really coming from a rich patron in the dining room who for some reason believed sending a salad back to the kitchen to be "chopped" was a good idea.
"Please, let me interrupt my de-gutting 30 lobsters to chop your salad, ma'am" I would think as I slopped the whole plateful onto a wet cutting board. Taking my "big knife" I would chop away until the salad was one half-digested melange of color and ingredients. I would then transfer the whole mess onto the same plate and hand it back to the waiter.
Sometimes the very same plate would come back a second time, with "It's not good enough" as the tag line. Resisting the urge to spit in the salad or place it into the blender, my fellow compatriots and I would give knowing glances before chopping the hell out of the plate ingredients and sloughing it back onto the plate again. Rich people! I would think. What idiots.
Another report from a waiter had me chuckling one day. Mitch, one of my best friends who also worked at TOCC the same summers, came back to the kitchen to tell me that a patron had believed that our crown cut melons were cut by a machine. A machine! "No," he had told the lady, "our kitchen staff cut the melons so they look like crowns." "You're kidding!" she breathed. Rich people!
Another day I was working in the main dining room opening oysters at the oyster bar. I tried to stay silent and invisible. But at one point two patrons were speaking about something and searching for a word. "Onomatopoeia," I interjected. "Why, yes!" said the smartly dressed middle-aged man glancing at me with a bit of shock. "I am a college English major," I thought to myself.
I learned that just because you're rich doesn't mean you know everything. And just because you're not rich doesn't mean you're ignorant.
Let me clarify. As an employee in the garde manger I worked with cold food from 7 AM until sometimes 11 PM six days a week. Four of us prepared the salad bar, crudite displays and fruit displays, prepped lobster halves, extracted crab meat, made salad dressings from scratch, and prepared individual identical salads for parties of up to 200 people.
While all this was going on we would be periodically interrupted by a frantic waiter holding a huge plate piled beautifully with fixins' from the salad bar, dressing included, with the command to "chop this salad, please." The command was really coming from a rich patron in the dining room who for some reason believed sending a salad back to the kitchen to be "chopped" was a good idea.
"Please, let me interrupt my de-gutting 30 lobsters to chop your salad, ma'am" I would think as I slopped the whole plateful onto a wet cutting board. Taking my "big knife" I would chop away until the salad was one half-digested melange of color and ingredients. I would then transfer the whole mess onto the same plate and hand it back to the waiter.
Sometimes the very same plate would come back a second time, with "It's not good enough" as the tag line. Resisting the urge to spit in the salad or place it into the blender, my fellow compatriots and I would give knowing glances before chopping the hell out of the plate ingredients and sloughing it back onto the plate again. Rich people! I would think. What idiots.
Another report from a waiter had me chuckling one day. Mitch, one of my best friends who also worked at TOCC the same summers, came back to the kitchen to tell me that a patron had believed that our crown cut melons were cut by a machine. A machine! "No," he had told the lady, "our kitchen staff cut the melons so they look like crowns." "You're kidding!" she breathed. Rich people!
Another day I was working in the main dining room opening oysters at the oyster bar. I tried to stay silent and invisible. But at one point two patrons were speaking about something and searching for a word. "Onomatopoeia," I interjected. "Why, yes!" said the smartly dressed middle-aged man glancing at me with a bit of shock. "I am a college English major," I thought to myself.
I learned that just because you're rich doesn't mean you know everything. And just because you're not rich doesn't mean you're ignorant.
The Naming: An Alec Tale
I love the story of how Alec got his name. His full name is Alec David Levi Brayko. This sounds like a name of distinction. It's the name of someone who had great expectations upon his shoulders. That really wasn't the intent at all.
Alec's first name was written in stone long long before when I was about nine years old. It was at that time I read The Black Stallion. In it, the very likable young boy who tames a wild horse and wins repeatedly on the racecourse is named Alec. I'd never heard the name before and loved the sound and look of it. It was so exotic. Not quite Alex. Better because it was unique. And I loved that boy in the story. I decided then that if I ever had a boy I would name him Alec.
Fast forward to marriage and adoption of a baby boy and the birthmom's offer to name her son whatever we chose. I didn't even open a baby book. I just said to Brent, "I've always loved the name Alec." He said," Me too!" And that was that.
As that was so easy, we began musing about middle names. That, too, was almost laughably easy. Brent's deceased father's name was David. My father had always gone by David or Dave. Alec David seemed to roll off the tongue!
Soon after I received an email from Cindy. "Have you decided on a middle name yet?" "Actually, yes." I replied, wincing that there could be a problem ahead. "Oh. I was hoping we could collaborate on the middle name. I have some ideas." I thought quickly. How do we solve this so everyone is happy? "Well," I replied. "Why don't we give him two middle names?"
Cindy liked that and in short order sent a small list with names and meanings. Among them was "Levi: joined in Harmony." We loved it immediately! It was a name of Christian origin and the meaning fit our situation completely.
Alec David Levi. It has a lovely ring to it, don't you think?
Alec's first name was written in stone long long before when I was about nine years old. It was at that time I read The Black Stallion. In it, the very likable young boy who tames a wild horse and wins repeatedly on the racecourse is named Alec. I'd never heard the name before and loved the sound and look of it. It was so exotic. Not quite Alex. Better because it was unique. And I loved that boy in the story. I decided then that if I ever had a boy I would name him Alec.
Fast forward to marriage and adoption of a baby boy and the birthmom's offer to name her son whatever we chose. I didn't even open a baby book. I just said to Brent, "I've always loved the name Alec." He said," Me too!" And that was that.
As that was so easy, we began musing about middle names. That, too, was almost laughably easy. Brent's deceased father's name was David. My father had always gone by David or Dave. Alec David seemed to roll off the tongue!
Soon after I received an email from Cindy. "Have you decided on a middle name yet?" "Actually, yes." I replied, wincing that there could be a problem ahead. "Oh. I was hoping we could collaborate on the middle name. I have some ideas." I thought quickly. How do we solve this so everyone is happy? "Well," I replied. "Why don't we give him two middle names?"
Cindy liked that and in short order sent a small list with names and meanings. Among them was "Levi: joined in Harmony." We loved it immediately! It was a name of Christian origin and the meaning fit our situation completely.
Alec David Levi. It has a lovely ring to it, don't you think?
Miracle #1
"December."
This was the word I had heard several Decembers before while driving in my Corolla in Green Bay, WI, praying. The voice of God. He had responded to my urgent plea to start a family with two messages. "Everything will be okay" and "December". I held hope in my heart year after year. What did it mean? We would conceive in December? Bear a child in December? Finally and IUI would work in December? We would get word on an adoption in December? Complete an adoption in December? Several years had passed already and none of those had come to pass. Each year as December neared my heart beat a little faster, anticipating how God's word would manifest itself to be true.
Now it was January again. Another year until the next December and still no child. Another 12 months to wait. I envied Mother Mary.
It was the first week in January 2004 when I got a call from a birthmom. It wasn't the first call I'd received during our domestic search, but it was our last. And this one was duly unexpected for we had removed our profile from both our agency and Adoption.com in the previous months in pursuit of a new direction - international adoption. "Is this Brenda?" "Yes." "My name is Cindy. I'm 8 months pregnant and looking for a family for my baby. Can we talk?"
Cindy and I talked and talked and connected quite well. Pretty soon we were making plans to meet half-way between her community and ours. I was elated and reserved. Then I remembered the promise. "Where did you find us?" "On Adoption.com." "Really? When was that?" "Oh, last month. I set your information aside until now." "You mean you found us in December?" "Yes, I guess so."
This was our miracle! Not only had Cindy found us in December, she had found us AFTER we had pulled our profile from adoption.com in November.
Perhaps it sounds silly, but I put a lot of faith in that message from God. And His Word sustained us through the exciting and potentially unsettling weeks and months ahead.
The first miracle was Alec. No, I know, everyone says that about their first born child. But in the case of Alec, he really was a miracle.
This was the word I had heard several Decembers before while driving in my Corolla in Green Bay, WI, praying. The voice of God. He had responded to my urgent plea to start a family with two messages. "Everything will be okay" and "December". I held hope in my heart year after year. What did it mean? We would conceive in December? Bear a child in December? Finally and IUI would work in December? We would get word on an adoption in December? Complete an adoption in December? Several years had passed already and none of those had come to pass. Each year as December neared my heart beat a little faster, anticipating how God's word would manifest itself to be true.
Now it was January again. Another year until the next December and still no child. Another 12 months to wait. I envied Mother Mary.
It was the first week in January 2004 when I got a call from a birthmom. It wasn't the first call I'd received during our domestic search, but it was our last. And this one was duly unexpected for we had removed our profile from both our agency and Adoption.com in the previous months in pursuit of a new direction - international adoption. "Is this Brenda?" "Yes." "My name is Cindy. I'm 8 months pregnant and looking for a family for my baby. Can we talk?"
Cindy and I talked and talked and connected quite well. Pretty soon we were making plans to meet half-way between her community and ours. I was elated and reserved. Then I remembered the promise. "Where did you find us?" "On Adoption.com." "Really? When was that?" "Oh, last month. I set your information aside until now." "You mean you found us in December?" "Yes, I guess so."
This was our miracle! Not only had Cindy found us in December, she had found us AFTER we had pulled our profile from adoption.com in November.
Perhaps it sounds silly, but I put a lot of faith in that message from God. And His Word sustained us through the exciting and potentially unsettling weeks and months ahead.
The first miracle was Alec. No, I know, everyone says that about their first born child. But in the case of Alec, he really was a miracle.
Friday, May 6, 2016
Mud Bath: An Anna Tale
Anna decided that her passion project for school would be to create an auquaponics system similar to one her science class had made the previous year, when she was in sixth grade at a different school. Over the course of several weeks we collected all the needed components like a plastic bin, gold fish, clay beads, net pots, styrofoam slab and plants. The day came for her assemble it all. I happened to step out when she decided to move forward with the potting the plants phase. This happened to involve removing the plants from soil pots to replant them in the clay beads. Sounds easy enough and logical enough, but to a thirteen year old brain. . . Not so much. Her logic told her to loosen the roots from the soil by soaking them in water. . . In the bathtub!
I arrived home to a tornadic disaster in her bathroom which involved a gazillion little styrofoam beads and potting soil over everything. But the best moment was when I pulled back the shower curtain ("Mom, we have a little problem.") The bathtub was full of black water deep enough for a luxurious mud bath. That was the point where she handed me the drain stopper with, "For some reason it's not draining."
(Deep breath. Count to ten.)
"What are you thinking, Mom? Say something."
"These are going to be the most expensive green peppers I have ever eaten. Okay, let's get a pail and you can start bailing over the balcony."
And that's what she did.
Two hours, sixty trips to the balcony,and a gallon of liquid plumber later the bathroom was good as new.
Repotting 101: don't soak roots in the bathtub to remove soil.
Sugar Cookies: An Alec Tale
When Alec was in fifth grade, he and I made sugar cookies. He enjoys baking sometimes and was thrilled when there were enough cookies to share with his classmates. "Mom, can I take cookies to school for my classmates?"
Me: Sure. Just check with your teacher.
Him: I know! I could pack little cookie snacks for our class walk-about in two days.
Me: Perfect!
My son proceeded to package ziplock bags of three cookies each and each labeled with the student group names for the walk-about. He did this all on his own without any help from me. He put all the bags into his backpack for the next day. I was so proud of him.
Upon returning from school the next day I inquired about how his classmates enjoyed the cookies. With just a hint of a downcast face he said, "I never gave them to them." "Why?" "Because they all got crushed in my backpack." And with that, he took out the Ziplocks. Oh! Such a sad, sad sight, all those crumbs. But he didn't seem too phased, he shrugged, sat down on the couch and logged onto his computer to play a game.
Me: Sure. Just check with your teacher.
Him: I know! I could pack little cookie snacks for our class walk-about in two days.
Me: Perfect!
My son proceeded to package ziplock bags of three cookies each and each labeled with the student group names for the walk-about. He did this all on his own without any help from me. He put all the bags into his backpack for the next day. I was so proud of him.
Upon returning from school the next day I inquired about how his classmates enjoyed the cookies. With just a hint of a downcast face he said, "I never gave them to them." "Why?" "Because they all got crushed in my backpack." And with that, he took out the Ziplocks. Oh! Such a sad, sad sight, all those crumbs. But he didn't seem too phased, he shrugged, sat down on the couch and logged onto his computer to play a game.
The time he sang with the band: An Alec Tale
At two, Alec was talking. At three he knew his alphabet and how to spell his name. At four he knew how to read.
The time he sang with the band he was three and had just learned how to sing his ABC's. Brent and I frequently sang with our church spirit band. On this particular Sunday, the kids were hanging out while we practiced before church.
Before we knew it, Alec had a live microphone in his hands and started singing - in pitch mind you - the ABC's. The next I know our accompanist Kent picked up the note and tempo and started accompanying Alec. Then Dave our drummer joined in. Man, did Alec beam from ear to ear! He was singing with his own band!
Well, that ruined him for weeks. How does a three-year-old become a diva? He refused to sing anything in the mic again unless the mic were live and the band played along.
The time he sang with the band he was three and had just learned how to sing his ABC's. Brent and I frequently sang with our church spirit band. On this particular Sunday, the kids were hanging out while we practiced before church.
Before we knew it, Alec had a live microphone in his hands and started singing - in pitch mind you - the ABC's. The next I know our accompanist Kent picked up the note and tempo and started accompanying Alec. Then Dave our drummer joined in. Man, did Alec beam from ear to ear! He was singing with his own band!
Well, that ruined him for weeks. How does a three-year-old become a diva? He refused to sing anything in the mic again unless the mic were live and the band played along.
The time she peed on the floor: An Anna Tale
She's always been a stubborn cuss. At almost four years old, she also did not like the change of seasonal clothing. These two factors led to the infamous "peeing on the floor" incident.
Anna did not want to get dressed. A new season had begun and she didn't like the feel of different clothes. So, she refused to get dressed. She also refused to let me dress her. This meant that I had a whining, angry, four-year old on my hands who would not budge. Neither would I budge. We had to get going and didn't have time for this nonsense.
That's when it happened. Right there in the middle of her ultra-pink-everything room, buck naked, she peed on her carpeted floor. This was no accident. No siree. This was quite intentional - her silent protest against clothes and mom-power. This was her rage-against-the-machine.
Anna one. Mom zero.
Anna did not want to get dressed. A new season had begun and she didn't like the feel of different clothes. So, she refused to get dressed. She also refused to let me dress her. This meant that I had a whining, angry, four-year old on my hands who would not budge. Neither would I budge. We had to get going and didn't have time for this nonsense.
That's when it happened. Right there in the middle of her ultra-pink-everything room, buck naked, she peed on her carpeted floor. This was no accident. No siree. This was quite intentional - her silent protest against clothes and mom-power. This was her rage-against-the-machine.
Anna one. Mom zero.
Thursday, May 5, 2016
The Time I was a PK.
PK's know other PK's. We are a select subset of the population. We are preacher's kids.
For much of one's life it doesn't matter, but it sure does matter when you are ages 12 - 18. These are prime formative years. These are the years identity expectations are placed upon your shoulders. These are the years being a PK can really suck.
So you move to a new town of 1600 people in Podunk, Iowa and you're a PK. What does this mean? It means that the expectations of this Christian community are placed on your (and your sister's) shoulders. You've not made friends yet. Who will become your friends? Why, the church youth group kids, of course! What will you do with your time? Why attend youth group events, of course? What will you do on Sundays? Why attend church, of course, and pray that you aren't the last one out of the church door - AGAIN. Who will teach your confirmation class about sex? Why, your father, of course. What will the students at school assume about you? That you are perfectly behaved. And how WILL you behave? Perfectly. Of course.
This is not always the case for PKs. Everyone has heard of the tales of the "bad seeds" who are preachers kids, something straight out of Footloose. But for me, being bad was not in my nature; being good was. I WANTED to do well in school. I WANTED to participate in youth group and even lead it. I WANTED to make moral choices for myself.
Even so, such desires and expectations are tall orders in these growing up years. In some ways they steer your identity in a way that might not have developed without them.
Do I have regrets? Not too many. I regret being the only one NOT invited to the high school senior drinking party. I regret not taking more risks typical of that age. I regret stifling my voice at times for the sake of my father's reputation or because of expectations I believed he had of me. But I don't regret the life I lead now, which essentially grew from that identity and those very same expectations.
Where I attended college, being a PK was actually cool. Practically 50% of my classmates were PK's, or as we called ourselves then - T.O.'s (Theological Offspring). Two of my college boyfriends were T.O.'s. Two of my three freshmen roommates were T.O.'s. In a way, this new environment was freeing for all of us; we understood one another. We came to understand that we were, in fact, normal. We were freed to become who we really were and wanted to be.
Nowadays no one asks or cares if I am a PK, but if we somehow discover another PK during some winding, philosophical chat, a spark of true recognition results. We suddenly KNOW each other on a new and deeper level, one that can be simply summed up with a nod and a "Yup."
For much of one's life it doesn't matter, but it sure does matter when you are ages 12 - 18. These are prime formative years. These are the years identity expectations are placed upon your shoulders. These are the years being a PK can really suck.
So you move to a new town of 1600 people in Podunk, Iowa and you're a PK. What does this mean? It means that the expectations of this Christian community are placed on your (and your sister's) shoulders. You've not made friends yet. Who will become your friends? Why, the church youth group kids, of course! What will you do with your time? Why attend youth group events, of course? What will you do on Sundays? Why attend church, of course, and pray that you aren't the last one out of the church door - AGAIN. Who will teach your confirmation class about sex? Why, your father, of course. What will the students at school assume about you? That you are perfectly behaved. And how WILL you behave? Perfectly. Of course.
This is not always the case for PKs. Everyone has heard of the tales of the "bad seeds" who are preachers kids, something straight out of Footloose. But for me, being bad was not in my nature; being good was. I WANTED to do well in school. I WANTED to participate in youth group and even lead it. I WANTED to make moral choices for myself.
Even so, such desires and expectations are tall orders in these growing up years. In some ways they steer your identity in a way that might not have developed without them.
Do I have regrets? Not too many. I regret being the only one NOT invited to the high school senior drinking party. I regret not taking more risks typical of that age. I regret stifling my voice at times for the sake of my father's reputation or because of expectations I believed he had of me. But I don't regret the life I lead now, which essentially grew from that identity and those very same expectations.
Where I attended college, being a PK was actually cool. Practically 50% of my classmates were PK's, or as we called ourselves then - T.O.'s (Theological Offspring). Two of my college boyfriends were T.O.'s. Two of my three freshmen roommates were T.O.'s. In a way, this new environment was freeing for all of us; we understood one another. We came to understand that we were, in fact, normal. We were freed to become who we really were and wanted to be.
Nowadays no one asks or cares if I am a PK, but if we somehow discover another PK during some winding, philosophical chat, a spark of true recognition results. We suddenly KNOW each other on a new and deeper level, one that can be simply summed up with a nod and a "Yup."
The time I met my Mother-in-Law
When I met her, Joan was vibrant, young, and had been widowed just five years earlier. She was single-handedly raising a teen-boy and parent of two grown men, one of which was my boyfriend. Joan made a great first impression, and unlike some first impressions - hers lasted. She was soft-spoken and kind from the start. She asked just the right questions and seemed to accept me as a person instantly. She laughed easily. She dressed fashionably but not pretentiously. She made me feel welcome.
Before I knew it Joan and I were friends. In some freak accident of the universe, she ended up dating her future second husband (my colleague and friend Walt) at the same time I was dating my future husband, her son. Because we were both in the dating stage, we ended up sharing stories with each other and seeking advice, more as friends than as people a generation apart. I will always treasure those early memories of Joan. I remember being shocked to learn she had helped my boyfriend at the time to buy a neglige as a Valentine's Day present, something that would be unheard of in my family.
After my marriage to Brent and arrival of our kids, Joan became "Grandma Joanie." She played that role brilliantly, spoiling our kids whenever and however she could. She was the one who helped us in the first week as parents of a newborn.
These previous paragraphs capture some bits of who Joan was but not the most striking aspect of her person - her strength. She had a quiet strength like none other I have witnessed in person. Her first husband was killed in an accident after nineteen years of marriage, leaving her (at the young age of 38) with three boys, two still at home to raise alone. And she did it. She did it well. After only 15 months of marriage to her second husband Walt (previously mentioned), he, too, died young. Again she picked up the pieces of her life and carried on, still with that gentle chuckle and smile and gleam in her eye.
Then, after already becoming a grandmother, she bravely put her profile on a dating service which would eventually lead to her third marriage and love of her later-life, Jack. Jack, it turns out is also a quiet, strong and loving individual. What a match and what a blessing - because Joan was destined to die young herself. After battling a cancer for nearly four years that the doctors had predicted would take her in three months, she, too, headed to her heavenly home. She was just 65 years old.
Yesterday she would have turned 66 and in three days our family will celebrate our first Mother's Day without her. I can think of no better way to celebrate her than by writing this post. Salut, Grandma Joanie!
May 5, 2016
Before I knew it Joan and I were friends. In some freak accident of the universe, she ended up dating her future second husband (my colleague and friend Walt) at the same time I was dating my future husband, her son. Because we were both in the dating stage, we ended up sharing stories with each other and seeking advice, more as friends than as people a generation apart. I will always treasure those early memories of Joan. I remember being shocked to learn she had helped my boyfriend at the time to buy a neglige as a Valentine's Day present, something that would be unheard of in my family.
After my marriage to Brent and arrival of our kids, Joan became "Grandma Joanie." She played that role brilliantly, spoiling our kids whenever and however she could. She was the one who helped us in the first week as parents of a newborn.
These previous paragraphs capture some bits of who Joan was but not the most striking aspect of her person - her strength. She had a quiet strength like none other I have witnessed in person. Her first husband was killed in an accident after nineteen years of marriage, leaving her (at the young age of 38) with three boys, two still at home to raise alone. And she did it. She did it well. After only 15 months of marriage to her second husband Walt (previously mentioned), he, too, died young. Again she picked up the pieces of her life and carried on, still with that gentle chuckle and smile and gleam in her eye.
Then, after already becoming a grandmother, she bravely put her profile on a dating service which would eventually lead to her third marriage and love of her later-life, Jack. Jack, it turns out is also a quiet, strong and loving individual. What a match and what a blessing - because Joan was destined to die young herself. After battling a cancer for nearly four years that the doctors had predicted would take her in three months, she, too, headed to her heavenly home. She was just 65 years old.
Yesterday she would have turned 66 and in three days our family will celebrate our first Mother's Day without her. I can think of no better way to celebrate her than by writing this post. Salut, Grandma Joanie!
May 5, 2016
Tuesday, May 3, 2016
"Ta ka koi?" An Anna Tale
When Anna was three, and new to our family having recently been adopted from Russia, she stunned us with her language acquisition. She'd only been an American citizen for a few months but she was fully embracing English. To begin with, we weren't even sure if she knew much Russian, as she hardly spoke it at the orphanage and the director had told us she might have a speech delay.
Not so! Within days of her adoption finalization in Moscow, the tiny tot the size of an 18-month old was chattering away - in Russian, of course. But even there she began to learn English. Words like "Mama, papa, glasses, paper, potty" were mastered before our plane touched down in Green Bay, Wisconsin. At the airport she was greeted by her new grandparents with a bouquet of balloons. Before we'd left the premises my father had already taught her "balloon" - pronounced
"ball-ooooon!"
It wasn't long before we were privy to solitary review sessions in the sanctuary of her room. We chuckled as the baby monitor spoke in her disembodied high voice the new words from the day: "balloooon", "Roscoe", "doggie", "banana", "gramma", "Katie."
My favorite memory has to do with a stop we made at a gas station on a travel to see family or friends - I don't remember which now - in which Anna accompanied me inside to use the restroom. As she toddled her way next to the outside aisle, she kept pointing at objects on the shelves and inquiring "ta ka koi"? Now, I had learned a bit of Russian but not this "ta ka koi", whatever that was. She held my hand insistently and wouldn't move forward to the restroom.
Ta ka koi?
Finally it dawned on me; she must be asking me what this is called in English? So I named the object and she was satisfied.
"Tuna."
"Tuna," she would repeat. "Ta ka koi?"
"Batteries."
"Batteries. Ta ka koi?"
"Toilet paper."
"Toilet paper. Ta ka koi. . . "
This continued all the way down the aisle, Anna asking then repeating. She was a sponge! She never needed to ask again. And that is how she came to speak English only in three months versus the usual six months for children in her situation.
Just in case you are interested, ta ka koi doesn't actually mean anything in Russian!
Not so! Within days of her adoption finalization in Moscow, the tiny tot the size of an 18-month old was chattering away - in Russian, of course. But even there she began to learn English. Words like "Mama, papa, glasses, paper, potty" were mastered before our plane touched down in Green Bay, Wisconsin. At the airport she was greeted by her new grandparents with a bouquet of balloons. Before we'd left the premises my father had already taught her "balloon" - pronounced
"ball-ooooon!"
It wasn't long before we were privy to solitary review sessions in the sanctuary of her room. We chuckled as the baby monitor spoke in her disembodied high voice the new words from the day: "balloooon", "Roscoe", "doggie", "banana", "gramma", "Katie."
My favorite memory has to do with a stop we made at a gas station on a travel to see family or friends - I don't remember which now - in which Anna accompanied me inside to use the restroom. As she toddled her way next to the outside aisle, she kept pointing at objects on the shelves and inquiring "ta ka koi"? Now, I had learned a bit of Russian but not this "ta ka koi", whatever that was. She held my hand insistently and wouldn't move forward to the restroom.
Ta ka koi?
Finally it dawned on me; she must be asking me what this is called in English? So I named the object and she was satisfied.
"Tuna."
"Tuna," she would repeat. "Ta ka koi?"
"Batteries."
"Batteries. Ta ka koi?"
"Toilet paper."
"Toilet paper. Ta ka koi. . . "
This continued all the way down the aisle, Anna asking then repeating. She was a sponge! She never needed to ask again. And that is how she came to speak English only in three months versus the usual six months for children in her situation.
Just in case you are interested, ta ka koi doesn't actually mean anything in Russian!
Monday, May 2, 2016
The Fox River Drive walk: A dog tale
From about 1994-1997 my husband and I lived on Good Hope Road in DePere, Wisconsin. We had no children yet, but for much of the time we did have two dogs, Roscoe and Bucky. I thoroughly enjoyed walking them either around the neighborhood on Fox River Drive or up to and through the nearby Greenwood Cemetery. In good-weather months we would often head out for about a 2-mile walk around our neighborhood which bordered the Fox River. The road to a boat-landing where we often turned around was replete with interesting mansions. Some of the oldest families in DePere had waterfront property in this well-established area. One of the huge brick mansions even had its own tennis court (upon which I never saw anyone play). We would pass by an old three-story brick home with a wildflower garden next to the sidewalk; I always loved that place. If Brent were along on the walk, we would muse about which mansion we wanted to live in someday. On the way back we would head deeper into the offshoot streets which were much more middle-class - lots of duplexes versus mansions.
On other days I would take the dogs in the other direction - left and up the hill toward the cemetery. Here, on a good day, I could let them loose for a bit. They could run along the gravel road and then pee on the bushes surrounding the cemetery. The cemetery itself was always interesting to take in. The older section had stones dating back to the late 1800's. There were a few monuments for prominent Green Bay families. And, sadly, there was a single, small white cross commemorating the burial place for a young teenage boy who had drowned in the river a few years earlier.
One day I was certain Roscoe saw a ghost. He was trotting by one of the oldest monuments when he suddenly jumped for no apparent reason.
These walked always helped keep the dogs and me happy and balanced.
On other days I would take the dogs in the other direction - left and up the hill toward the cemetery. Here, on a good day, I could let them loose for a bit. They could run along the gravel road and then pee on the bushes surrounding the cemetery. The cemetery itself was always interesting to take in. The older section had stones dating back to the late 1800's. There were a few monuments for prominent Green Bay families. And, sadly, there was a single, small white cross commemorating the burial place for a young teenage boy who had drowned in the river a few years earlier.
One day I was certain Roscoe saw a ghost. He was trotting by one of the oldest monuments when he suddenly jumped for no apparent reason.
These walked always helped keep the dogs and me happy and balanced.
Sunday, May 1, 2016
The Tancheon river trail: A human tale
When we lived in Korea, just south of Seoul in the Bundang area, we have the good fortune of living in an apartment complex right next to a river complete with a walking and biking trail. Someone truly ambitious could ride a bike all the way into the heart of Seoul, I was told. But for me, the trail was more about a leisurely walk or bike ride, sometimes with - sometimes without- the family. I absolutely loved the trail because it was a green space to enjoy people and nature watching. As I walked down the trail toward my school (a one hour and 45 minute walk or 30 minute bike ride), the river would be on my left and an embankment and then busy road would be on my right. The river often housed large waterfowl, like heron, fish, and ducks. After a few minutes, I would arrive at a workout area common in our experience of Korea. Mostly, one would see older people stretching or strengthening, twisting or lifting. Much of the time the equipment would be in use as I passed by. A bit further, and periodically throughout the trek, there would be huge rectangular boulders placed strategically in the water to create a hoppable path from one side of the river to the other, where another walking path lined the river.
It is common for many people to be on the path, bikers, walkers, runners, friends chatting, families with children in strollers. It is also common to see people walking small breed dogs on their leashes. Sometimes the dogs would have a pink tail or pink ears, having survived some traumatic trip to a salon - no doubt. From time to time the path winds directly under a highway bridge, so the sounds of the city are anything but muted. Mostly, the cement structures were free of grafitti and garbage, typical of the cleanliness of Seoul.
A bit further on where the trail forked into a few different directions, I would cross a bridge. This would be a great spot to admire the dozen or so catfish usually hanging out there. The path would separate into to parallel paved paths, one for bikes and one for pedestrians. Sometimes an old gentleman would cruise past on his bike with his personal radio playing a local station with Korean music. Most days I would see at least one adjuma (older woman) covered from head to toe in fabric, afraid of any sunlight touching her body. It wouldn't matter the temperature, a hot day was as good as a cool one to be covered with a visor with fabric hanging over everything but eyes and nostrils, long sleeves, gloves, matching wind pants, and bright shoes.
Another fifteen minutes or so and I would reach the dog park section. This was basically a low metal fence with two doors bordering a 20X40 ft area for dogs of any size and their owners to let them off leash and run around. Usually there were 5 - 10 dogs there. It was the one place I might spot a golden retriever or some cute puppy with their giggly children throwing a ball. Further yet, there was an outdoor water-play area for little children. Continue on and the water would be on the right and the rising cityscape on the left. The hustle and bustle of cars, taxis, buses, and people walking at Sunae would waft down to me as I strolled along, one hour into my trek. If I made it all the way to Sunae and it were spring time, the cherry blossoms would be out in full force, thick and fragrant and all around you. This is one of the lovelier spots I know of - anywhere.
It is common for many people to be on the path, bikers, walkers, runners, friends chatting, families with children in strollers. It is also common to see people walking small breed dogs on their leashes. Sometimes the dogs would have a pink tail or pink ears, having survived some traumatic trip to a salon - no doubt. From time to time the path winds directly under a highway bridge, so the sounds of the city are anything but muted. Mostly, the cement structures were free of grafitti and garbage, typical of the cleanliness of Seoul.
A bit further on where the trail forked into a few different directions, I would cross a bridge. This would be a great spot to admire the dozen or so catfish usually hanging out there. The path would separate into to parallel paved paths, one for bikes and one for pedestrians. Sometimes an old gentleman would cruise past on his bike with his personal radio playing a local station with Korean music. Most days I would see at least one adjuma (older woman) covered from head to toe in fabric, afraid of any sunlight touching her body. It wouldn't matter the temperature, a hot day was as good as a cool one to be covered with a visor with fabric hanging over everything but eyes and nostrils, long sleeves, gloves, matching wind pants, and bright shoes.
Another fifteen minutes or so and I would reach the dog park section. This was basically a low metal fence with two doors bordering a 20X40 ft area for dogs of any size and their owners to let them off leash and run around. Usually there were 5 - 10 dogs there. It was the one place I might spot a golden retriever or some cute puppy with their giggly children throwing a ball. Further yet, there was an outdoor water-play area for little children. Continue on and the water would be on the right and the rising cityscape on the left. The hustle and bustle of cars, taxis, buses, and people walking at Sunae would waft down to me as I strolled along, one hour into my trek. If I made it all the way to Sunae and it were spring time, the cherry blossoms would be out in full force, thick and fragrant and all around you. This is one of the lovelier spots I know of - anywhere.
Saturday, April 30, 2016
Ted Fritsch park trail: A dog tale
When we lived in Green Bay on Summer Place I got into the wonderful habit of walking our dog Boomer on a trail that began at Ted Fritsch Park. The park itself was just about five minutes from our home, just across Mason Street (HWY 54) and down a hill past a few houses. The winding entrance to the park is flanked by a grove of pine trees on the right and a ball park on the left. Surrounding the playground and groomed fields is woodland belonging to the Oneida Indian tribe. This wood was the perfect place for human and dog to bond every morning about 6 AM.
Boomer, a spry Australian shepherd-border collie mix, absolutely loved these woods! As we reached the trailhead I would take the leash off and he would run like the wind through the long grass incline into the woods itself. I wouldn't see much of him unless I whistled, as he would have squirrels to track.
As for me, I would enjoy the view, the sun, smells, and wildlife. The narrow trail quickly hit an incline with a view and scent of abundant lush undergrowth, seasonal wild flowers, downed tree trunks, deciduous and pine trees and last seasons dead leaves underfoot. The sunlight would prism down through the tall trees here and there and cause me to stop and say a prayer of thanks. Periodically, Boomer would check in, huffing and puffing with a big smile on his face, and then run off again. Pretty soon the trail would slope sharply down, then around a bend and open to a clearing where I could see the rushing creek to my left. Sometimes Boomer would head down to the water for a drink before whizzing back up to look for more squirrels. After climbing the next hill we would arrive at the flat forested area stretching some distance before hitting a golf course. There were several large tree trunks across this stretch of trail. This was a great place to teach Boomer to "jump"; he had his own obstacle course there and loved it. Sometimes we would find signs of someone's campfire - fire ring with beer bottles scattered. I would curse whoever was too lazy to clean up after themselves and vow to bring a garbage bag next time. We'd walk the big loop of the trail eventually meeting our path back out past the creek, down, around, up, and down until finally arriving back at Ted Fritsch park.
We very rarely ran into any humans on our morning hike, but occasionally would see wildlife. Wildlife could range from three deer, to a snake, to rabbits, squirrels, ground squirrels, to butterflies and bees. Not to mention mosquitoes.
Boomer's gone now - been deceased for 5 years. But whenever I'm in Green Bay visiting, I like to go back to Ted Fritsch woods and reunite with Boomer's spirit, which is no doubt there chasing some phantom squirrel, and eager to be with me too.
Boomer, a spry Australian shepherd-border collie mix, absolutely loved these woods! As we reached the trailhead I would take the leash off and he would run like the wind through the long grass incline into the woods itself. I wouldn't see much of him unless I whistled, as he would have squirrels to track.
As for me, I would enjoy the view, the sun, smells, and wildlife. The narrow trail quickly hit an incline with a view and scent of abundant lush undergrowth, seasonal wild flowers, downed tree trunks, deciduous and pine trees and last seasons dead leaves underfoot. The sunlight would prism down through the tall trees here and there and cause me to stop and say a prayer of thanks. Periodically, Boomer would check in, huffing and puffing with a big smile on his face, and then run off again. Pretty soon the trail would slope sharply down, then around a bend and open to a clearing where I could see the rushing creek to my left. Sometimes Boomer would head down to the water for a drink before whizzing back up to look for more squirrels. After climbing the next hill we would arrive at the flat forested area stretching some distance before hitting a golf course. There were several large tree trunks across this stretch of trail. This was a great place to teach Boomer to "jump"; he had his own obstacle course there and loved it. Sometimes we would find signs of someone's campfire - fire ring with beer bottles scattered. I would curse whoever was too lazy to clean up after themselves and vow to bring a garbage bag next time. We'd walk the big loop of the trail eventually meeting our path back out past the creek, down, around, up, and down until finally arriving back at Ted Fritsch park.
We very rarely ran into any humans on our morning hike, but occasionally would see wildlife. Wildlife could range from three deer, to a snake, to rabbits, squirrels, ground squirrels, to butterflies and bees. Not to mention mosquitoes.
Boomer's gone now - been deceased for 5 years. But whenever I'm in Green Bay visiting, I like to go back to Ted Fritsch woods and reunite with Boomer's spirit, which is no doubt there chasing some phantom squirrel, and eager to be with me too.
Wednesday, April 27, 2016
The Catchment Trail: A dog tale
In Hong Kong there are a few places I can walk our dog Rigby. The most frequent route is a 25-30 minute walk around Red Hill, a one-mile road that is one big circle. The sidewalks shift from narrow to wide and the view shifts from sloped and maintained mountain, to beautiful distant mountains with inlet ocean water dotted with bobbing yachts, to 20 story blond brick apartments with a view of the mountains and water where some colleagues live, to 5 story pastel condos that cost $10,000 per month to rent, minimum. On this route we meet many other dogs being walked on leash by their owner's helpers, mostly Philippina women who are likely to greet us "Hello, Mom." The dogs range in size from golden retriever to jack russell and are either guided to the opposite side or take a moment to sniff each other in choice areas. The women pick up droppings with newspaper and put it in the bins along the road designated specifically for dog poo. Rigby, a milk-chocolate chow mongrel rescued from Hong Kong Dog Rescue, walks with a spring in his 6 year-old step and sniffs as often as I will let him. He likes to back up against the slope on grassy areas to do his business. Depending on the time of year we may come home wet from the humidity even though the route is leisurely.
Another, and even more breath-taking route I like to take, but less often, goes down to Tai Tam village. First Rigby and I take the elevator from 7th to the 5th floor exit of our building, then down a series of four flights of stairs past the middle school campus, the track, the landscaped flowers, and the guard off of the grounds. From there we wind down a paved country-road until we reach the water's edge. This is a bay off of the ocean. It is dotted with yachts to fishing boats floating equidistance from one another on the dark blue, quiet water. We go left on the road with the sea inlet on our right and jungle underbrush and trees and a bit of trash on our left. After a few more minutes we will hit the edge of Tai Tam village. When I am alone I like to walk through the village and look at the gardens, the banana trees, the stone homes stacked up into the hillside with cemented in windows on the street level and signs of interesting water sports gear like kayaks and paddle boards. But when I'm with Rigby we turn back here because there are a few street dogs that are quite territorial and Rigby is afraid of them. They bark too loud and tend to growl or follow you, making you uncomfortable.
A third route is to take Country Road Park. This is the most beautiful of all. This one begins just a few minutes past the middle school guarded gate where the guard always smiles and says hello. We walk up an incline past drivers in Mercedes and Cadillac vans waiting for school kids when the day is done. They are parked all along and on the sidewalk so that we are forced to walk on the road instead. After crossing busy Tai Tam Road we reach the entrance of the Park. Here there is a waterfall on the left, (really it's the run-off from rain and mountain water cascading down a cement stair from the catchment above). On the right there is an amazing view of a 100 year old one-and-a-half lane bridge straddling a placid, freshwater reservoir which begins where we are and ends below a dam just on the other side of Tai Tam village. The reservoir reminds me of a Wisconsin lake, except because it is a reservoir the capacity ebbs and flows with seasonal rain and runoff and there are no humans allowed on or in the water. Recently, with all the rain, the reservoir is filling again, so there is maybe only one meter of exposed red clay sloped beneath the jungle trees which line the water and seem to go on forever, turning into misty mountains stacked on top one another. On a very ambitious day, Rigby and I could walk all the way over the mountain and into the city of Hong Kong. The entire route would be paved black and wide and we would see dozens of people along the way making the long trek up or down the mountain. But usually we just walk one hour; this takes us past three different BBQ picnic areas, over several bridges with the view of the pristine reservoir, and through the tree-lined, spider infested jungle. Here large dogs are usually off leash, well-behaved as they greet each other and Rigby. Singles, couples, families, expats, Cantonese, Chinese all come here to enjoy the walk, the hike, the picnic spots, or the view. We might run into a bride and groom on a wedding shoot. If we are ambitious there are many off-shoot trails we could take, some paved, some not.
Finally, there is the catchment trail. This is a trail that takes about 5 minutes to reach. It's entrance lies across Tai Tam Road just past our public bus stop. One must climb up like a child (and on the return, jump down) to get to the long narrow stairs which take you to the catchment. Turn left and you will eventually arrive at Stanley, our nearest town. Turn right, and you will reach a stair leading down to Country Road Park and next to that waterfall I spoke of. The catchment is a concrete ditch designed to catch the water run-off from the mountain. Along one side is the sloped mountain rising twice to three times as high as the Southwestern hills of Wisconsin. On the other side the concrete continues as a narrow sidewalk meant for repair workers to easily reach the catchment. We use it to walk. The views are beautiful up there. At points the view overlooks the ocean and our nearby local Turtle Cove beach. At points it overlooks the school and nearby Red Hill Plaza. At points all you see is bushes, trees, flowers, butterflies, and huge spiders pressing in on you. Much of the time there are metal railings, sometimes there are not. Such a trail is perfect for letting your dog off leash to sniff and walk or trot as he pleases. Here we spend about 30 minutes walking and enjoying the smells and the view, but NOT the spiderwebs that invisibly crisscross the trail and which cling to my arms and legs as I pass by.
Another, and even more breath-taking route I like to take, but less often, goes down to Tai Tam village. First Rigby and I take the elevator from 7th to the 5th floor exit of our building, then down a series of four flights of stairs past the middle school campus, the track, the landscaped flowers, and the guard off of the grounds. From there we wind down a paved country-road until we reach the water's edge. This is a bay off of the ocean. It is dotted with yachts to fishing boats floating equidistance from one another on the dark blue, quiet water. We go left on the road with the sea inlet on our right and jungle underbrush and trees and a bit of trash on our left. After a few more minutes we will hit the edge of Tai Tam village. When I am alone I like to walk through the village and look at the gardens, the banana trees, the stone homes stacked up into the hillside with cemented in windows on the street level and signs of interesting water sports gear like kayaks and paddle boards. But when I'm with Rigby we turn back here because there are a few street dogs that are quite territorial and Rigby is afraid of them. They bark too loud and tend to growl or follow you, making you uncomfortable.
A third route is to take Country Road Park. This is the most beautiful of all. This one begins just a few minutes past the middle school guarded gate where the guard always smiles and says hello. We walk up an incline past drivers in Mercedes and Cadillac vans waiting for school kids when the day is done. They are parked all along and on the sidewalk so that we are forced to walk on the road instead. After crossing busy Tai Tam Road we reach the entrance of the Park. Here there is a waterfall on the left, (really it's the run-off from rain and mountain water cascading down a cement stair from the catchment above). On the right there is an amazing view of a 100 year old one-and-a-half lane bridge straddling a placid, freshwater reservoir which begins where we are and ends below a dam just on the other side of Tai Tam village. The reservoir reminds me of a Wisconsin lake, except because it is a reservoir the capacity ebbs and flows with seasonal rain and runoff and there are no humans allowed on or in the water. Recently, with all the rain, the reservoir is filling again, so there is maybe only one meter of exposed red clay sloped beneath the jungle trees which line the water and seem to go on forever, turning into misty mountains stacked on top one another. On a very ambitious day, Rigby and I could walk all the way over the mountain and into the city of Hong Kong. The entire route would be paved black and wide and we would see dozens of people along the way making the long trek up or down the mountain. But usually we just walk one hour; this takes us past three different BBQ picnic areas, over several bridges with the view of the pristine reservoir, and through the tree-lined, spider infested jungle. Here large dogs are usually off leash, well-behaved as they greet each other and Rigby. Singles, couples, families, expats, Cantonese, Chinese all come here to enjoy the walk, the hike, the picnic spots, or the view. We might run into a bride and groom on a wedding shoot. If we are ambitious there are many off-shoot trails we could take, some paved, some not.
Finally, there is the catchment trail. This is a trail that takes about 5 minutes to reach. It's entrance lies across Tai Tam Road just past our public bus stop. One must climb up like a child (and on the return, jump down) to get to the long narrow stairs which take you to the catchment. Turn left and you will eventually arrive at Stanley, our nearest town. Turn right, and you will reach a stair leading down to Country Road Park and next to that waterfall I spoke of. The catchment is a concrete ditch designed to catch the water run-off from the mountain. Along one side is the sloped mountain rising twice to three times as high as the Southwestern hills of Wisconsin. On the other side the concrete continues as a narrow sidewalk meant for repair workers to easily reach the catchment. We use it to walk. The views are beautiful up there. At points the view overlooks the ocean and our nearby local Turtle Cove beach. At points it overlooks the school and nearby Red Hill Plaza. At points all you see is bushes, trees, flowers, butterflies, and huge spiders pressing in on you. Much of the time there are metal railings, sometimes there are not. Such a trail is perfect for letting your dog off leash to sniff and walk or trot as he pleases. Here we spend about 30 minutes walking and enjoying the smells and the view, but NOT the spiderwebs that invisibly crisscross the trail and which cling to my arms and legs as I pass by.
The time he Proposed
I'll admit it wasn't the most romantic proposal. Matter of fact, the Prom-posals at the school where I teach are more romantic and planned: 8 friends lined up to give roses to the blushing potential date finished with the boy asking the girl. But that is not my story. In my story, I visit my beloved once again on the weekend during our year-long distance relationship. We are at Brent's one-bedroom apartment on a Saturday evening in November having a very chill evening together. The frozen salisbury steak dinner is cooking in the microwave when I hear Brent call me into the bedroom. He is standing near his dresser and suddenly trusts a small box with a diamond ring in it in my direction. "Here," Brent says.
I am caught totally off guard. We've not talked about getting married much. We've not ring-shopped like some couples do. It is just some nondescript Saturday night in November like so many others that have come before it. The microwave dings.
"Are you proposing?" I ask incredulously. "Are you going to get down on one knee? Are you going to say the words? You need to do it right," I demand. So he does. Moments later he seems relieved as I burst an enthusiastic "yes!"
The salisbury steak tastes particularly wonderful this night.
I am caught totally off guard. We've not talked about getting married much. We've not ring-shopped like some couples do. It is just some nondescript Saturday night in November like so many others that have come before it. The microwave dings.
"Are you proposing?" I ask incredulously. "Are you going to get down on one knee? Are you going to say the words? You need to do it right," I demand. So he does. Moments later he seems relieved as I burst an enthusiastic "yes!"
The salisbury steak tastes particularly wonderful this night.
Testosterone
It's not every parent who helps their daughter turn into their son. But that's me. That's what I've got to do.
The doctor's office sports a rainbow sticker and waiting men who look like k-pop stars. My 14-year old and I wait a long time before entering the doctor's small room. He greets us and checks the baseline tests for estrogen and testosterone from our first visit last month. The results indicate that Adam is biologically clearly female. Beginning this day, that will begin to change. Blood is drawn for a second month in a row to see what changes have taken place with the estrogen suppressor from month one. A bit of acne and a slight change in voice is already evident in just one month with more to come. The doctor has a rough time finding a vein, or "drilling for oil" as Adam says. He has him lie down and ends up trying the arm and the hand before finding a cooperative vein. Adam fusses about it and recalls the time he had an IV in his hand two years ago.
The visit isn't done yet, though. There's a shot of testosterone - literally - waiting to be administered. It goes directly in the bum. It is the real start of a new life, a life as a male. A life that is eager to emerge.
The doctor's office sports a rainbow sticker and waiting men who look like k-pop stars. My 14-year old and I wait a long time before entering the doctor's small room. He greets us and checks the baseline tests for estrogen and testosterone from our first visit last month. The results indicate that Adam is biologically clearly female. Beginning this day, that will begin to change. Blood is drawn for a second month in a row to see what changes have taken place with the estrogen suppressor from month one. A bit of acne and a slight change in voice is already evident in just one month with more to come. The doctor has a rough time finding a vein, or "drilling for oil" as Adam says. He has him lie down and ends up trying the arm and the hand before finding a cooperative vein. Adam fusses about it and recalls the time he had an IV in his hand two years ago.
The visit isn't done yet, though. There's a shot of testosterone - literally - waiting to be administered. It goes directly in the bum. It is the real start of a new life, a life as a male. A life that is eager to emerge.
Tuesday, April 26, 2016
The amazing scaffolding trick
Who knew bamboo was so darn strong? Until living in Hong Kong I never had an understanding of the strength of bamboo. In Asia bamboo is used for a lot of things; one of the more impressive is its use as scaffolding. Sure, I'd seen dozens of buildings in Hong Kong cocooned with bamboo and green or white mesh, but I never really paid attention until one day. . .
Our school and eight story apartment building were both scheduled for painting. This meant that in the span of two days these two structures (the HS and Scenic View) would be swaddled in gauze. I spent a good part of both days simply watching the dozens of men build the structure from the bottom up. It made me think of an army of ants building a grid from lincoln logs. Each bamboo stick varied from 5 - 2 inches in diameter with a length of maybe 4 - 5 yards. Bamboo isn't heavy, but it can't be that easy to balance! These guys made it look easy, though. Place the bamboo either vertically or horizontally, depending on the need, then bind it together with a plastic strap by winding it around several times every which way and then tying it off. No zip-ties here! One man would hand another man bamboo who would hand it over or up or whatever until the right guy got it, placed it, and secured it. He would then move to the next space and do the same.
This process was impressive enough in the 3-story courtyard of the school at a distance. But what really amazed me was watching these men seemingly climb up the outside of the wall below our 7-story balcony. At 4:30 my son called me out to the balcony, "Look, Mom, they are building the scaffolding just below us." Up, up, up, they built. First we could only see the tops of their heads one or two floors below us. Maybe 6 or 7 guys were visible. No securing ropes or hardhats, just monkey-men. Men straddled a single upward reaching expanse of bamboo which was accumulating itself higher and higher each moment, secured to the outside of the building every now and then by some drilled attachment. By supper time the men's heads were even with our balcony, and we watched them as we ate our tacos. It was a quite unusual dinner entertainment. A man posed for my picture, smiling and flashing a peace sign before turning into shoes by dessert. And so it continued through the afternoon until they had surrounded us entirely to the 8th floor.
The next day the men swaddled us in gauze. And now we are cocooned, awaiting our metamorphosis.
Our school and eight story apartment building were both scheduled for painting. This meant that in the span of two days these two structures (the HS and Scenic View) would be swaddled in gauze. I spent a good part of both days simply watching the dozens of men build the structure from the bottom up. It made me think of an army of ants building a grid from lincoln logs. Each bamboo stick varied from 5 - 2 inches in diameter with a length of maybe 4 - 5 yards. Bamboo isn't heavy, but it can't be that easy to balance! These guys made it look easy, though. Place the bamboo either vertically or horizontally, depending on the need, then bind it together with a plastic strap by winding it around several times every which way and then tying it off. No zip-ties here! One man would hand another man bamboo who would hand it over or up or whatever until the right guy got it, placed it, and secured it. He would then move to the next space and do the same.
This process was impressive enough in the 3-story courtyard of the school at a distance. But what really amazed me was watching these men seemingly climb up the outside of the wall below our 7-story balcony. At 4:30 my son called me out to the balcony, "Look, Mom, they are building the scaffolding just below us." Up, up, up, they built. First we could only see the tops of their heads one or two floors below us. Maybe 6 or 7 guys were visible. No securing ropes or hardhats, just monkey-men. Men straddled a single upward reaching expanse of bamboo which was accumulating itself higher and higher each moment, secured to the outside of the building every now and then by some drilled attachment. By supper time the men's heads were even with our balcony, and we watched them as we ate our tacos. It was a quite unusual dinner entertainment. A man posed for my picture, smiling and flashing a peace sign before turning into shoes by dessert. And so it continued through the afternoon until they had surrounded us entirely to the 8th floor.
The next day the men swaddled us in gauze. And now we are cocooned, awaiting our metamorphosis.
Elegy for Marsha
April 19, 1987. It was one month before college graduation and a day I would never forget. I was student teaching French at Winneshiek High School in Iowa, about a 15 minute drive from the apartment I shared with five other college senior girls. Someone interrupted me telling me Michelle was on the phone with an important phone call. I nearly didn't answer it; one never leaves the classroom for a phone call. But I did go. Michelle told me I needed to come home right away. I can't, I replied. I'm teaching. No. You must come home immediately. Marsha's been in a bad accident. Come home NOW.
I was young and we were all invincible. The words couldn't make meaning right away. But I heard the urgency in Michelle's voice and so I left for home.
In the fifteen minute drive home I had some time to process the brief phone call. It was true that Marsha hadn't come home last night. While not unusual, it could leave room for something to have happened. If the accident were as bad as Michelle's voice implied, then would she, could she die? If she did die, that would be horrible, unthinkable, tragic! But I didn't want to get ahead of myself. I needed to wait and see exactly what was going on. Yet, I remember also thinking, If Marsha does die, then I know she lived her 22 years of life to the fullest. Somehow that was comforting in this surreal moment driving the soulless fields and low hills of Northeastern Iowa.
I don't actually remember the details of what happened when I returned. But somewhere in there someone uttered the words we all dreaded: "Marsha was removed from life support and died at the hospital." She had been involved in a head on accident late at night and had had massive brain injury and other fractures. Had she lived, she would no longer have been the live-loving, piano playing, literature reading, boy crazy, angsty 22 year old that we knew. She would have been a vegetable.
What followed was immediate and unadulterated grief like I had never known and to this day have not known again. I felt a piece of my very soul had been ripped from me. I felt a chasm between the life I had lived and the life I would know thereafter. In that instant, Death became viscerally real. Death knew me and I now knew Death. Two days later the funeral sped by - drinking in the van with friends on the way there, the large crowd of students and church family, a grieving immediate family, a long trip out to a cemetery on a lonely hill that I would never be able to find again. In the weeks that followed I wrote my sorrow and anger and questions in poems. I cried. Friends gathered and talked endlessly about a precious life cut short and all the memories we had acquired. I prayed and found that God was just as grieved as I was and I learned the truth: that accidents do happen and that Fate is not always in control. I looked in the mirror each morning and told myself, "Marsha is dead." It was the only way to begin making a new normal - one in which the world was void of truthful short stories and beer softball, and long blond curls and a devilish smile, and a laugh that told you "Life should be Lived." A new normal where "Desperado" and Bon Jovi and Sharon Olds and Wagner would always make me smile and think "Marsha loved this."
And so began my life without Marsha - a life without my best friend and sister and roommate of four years. A life in which Her life would need to live on in ME. A life in which classical piano music would always make me shiver as her soul would brush up against mine. A life which would challenge me to write better, read more, play and practice more, enjoy more, forgive more, love more. - be MORE because she was no longer here to live it, so some part of me needed to live it for her.
Since April 19, 1987, I've lived falling in love and out of love (more than once), marriage, infertility, adoption. I've lived having a career and a life of travel all over the world. I've lived a life as daughter, sister, lover, friend, wife, and mother. In each case, for each year that I outlive Marsha, I live a piece of it for her, because she didn't get to do it or feel it or see it or become it. And I know her gift to me has been just that, that my life has been made more precious because Death had come and taken hers away on a day I'll never forget.
I was young and we were all invincible. The words couldn't make meaning right away. But I heard the urgency in Michelle's voice and so I left for home.
In the fifteen minute drive home I had some time to process the brief phone call. It was true that Marsha hadn't come home last night. While not unusual, it could leave room for something to have happened. If the accident were as bad as Michelle's voice implied, then would she, could she die? If she did die, that would be horrible, unthinkable, tragic! But I didn't want to get ahead of myself. I needed to wait and see exactly what was going on. Yet, I remember also thinking, If Marsha does die, then I know she lived her 22 years of life to the fullest. Somehow that was comforting in this surreal moment driving the soulless fields and low hills of Northeastern Iowa.
I don't actually remember the details of what happened when I returned. But somewhere in there someone uttered the words we all dreaded: "Marsha was removed from life support and died at the hospital." She had been involved in a head on accident late at night and had had massive brain injury and other fractures. Had she lived, she would no longer have been the live-loving, piano playing, literature reading, boy crazy, angsty 22 year old that we knew. She would have been a vegetable.
What followed was immediate and unadulterated grief like I had never known and to this day have not known again. I felt a piece of my very soul had been ripped from me. I felt a chasm between the life I had lived and the life I would know thereafter. In that instant, Death became viscerally real. Death knew me and I now knew Death. Two days later the funeral sped by - drinking in the van with friends on the way there, the large crowd of students and church family, a grieving immediate family, a long trip out to a cemetery on a lonely hill that I would never be able to find again. In the weeks that followed I wrote my sorrow and anger and questions in poems. I cried. Friends gathered and talked endlessly about a precious life cut short and all the memories we had acquired. I prayed and found that God was just as grieved as I was and I learned the truth: that accidents do happen and that Fate is not always in control. I looked in the mirror each morning and told myself, "Marsha is dead." It was the only way to begin making a new normal - one in which the world was void of truthful short stories and beer softball, and long blond curls and a devilish smile, and a laugh that told you "Life should be Lived." A new normal where "Desperado" and Bon Jovi and Sharon Olds and Wagner would always make me smile and think "Marsha loved this."
And so began my life without Marsha - a life without my best friend and sister and roommate of four years. A life in which Her life would need to live on in ME. A life in which classical piano music would always make me shiver as her soul would brush up against mine. A life which would challenge me to write better, read more, play and practice more, enjoy more, forgive more, love more. - be MORE because she was no longer here to live it, so some part of me needed to live it for her.
Since April 19, 1987, I've lived falling in love and out of love (more than once), marriage, infertility, adoption. I've lived having a career and a life of travel all over the world. I've lived a life as daughter, sister, lover, friend, wife, and mother. In each case, for each year that I outlive Marsha, I live a piece of it for her, because she didn't get to do it or feel it or see it or become it. And I know her gift to me has been just that, that my life has been made more precious because Death had come and taken hers away on a day I'll never forget.
Monday, April 25, 2016
The Time I loved my AP Lit kids
2015-16 I was blessed to teach an amazing group of students in AP Literature at my school. There were 11 students in all: Jeffrey, Andrew, Josh, Arjun, Sophia, Charlotte, Georgette, Elaine, Charlotte, Maggie and Lauren. We had decided that one day we should do a photo shoot of our class to get a great picture for our website. We all marched outside to the pictureseque island, someone mounted a good camera on a tripod and I positioned people. First, the idea was that I would be reading happily, while others were also scattered about with their books or computers or phones or whatnot. It was all staged perfectly. Our class entertainer, Arjun, brought out a soccer ball and tossed that in the air central to the picture. It was a lovely and funny juxtaposition to the rest of us. We laughed and joshed as we took new positions or sat together for a serious group photo. Fifteen minutes well-spent. . . until we realized that Elaine was absent! No way!
The Time I Met My Son
Before I saw him, I heard him. He cried from the other room while Brent and I waited on a low bench in a small dressing room usually used by nurses. Only a few minutes had passed since we had been asked to take a seat and wait in our silly blue scrubs. Our son was born C-Section from the belly of a remarkable woman named Cindy who had chosen us by our online profile just 5 weeks before. She had black hair, a short but petite build and a big smile. Well, not today. Today had to be one of the toughest days of her life - to bear a child and then to know she would say goodbye to him. We knew all these things as we sat waiting for the word that our son was born, but it didn't quell the excitement at that time.
In moments, a nurse appeared and asked us to follow her. My heart raced. The little baby cry became louder as we approached the sterile white room. We had had strict orders not to enter the operating room and were surprised when the doctor motioned us to "come". We were too confused to pass the threshold to cut the umbilical cord, so he did it himself while we watched.
It wasn't long before I was holding baby Alec. Cindy was being stitched up and going straight into the recovery room, so we would be the first of the three parents he would meet face-to-face. We were in awe of this tiny little purplish, squirmy, spindly amazing child who had already won our hearts. I was awed and humbled and had no idea what would lie ahead for any of us, just that we were destined to be a family.
In the hours to follow our family would begin forming, parents and siblings from our family and Cindy's family would all arrive at the hospital in turn to wish our two families well and to coo over the new life that had just entered the world. My sister and brother-in-law would arrive with fresh purple leis in hand for each woman there; they had just arrived back to the Mid-west from a Hawaiian vacation. Seeing my son with a gorgeous purple and white lei around his neck is one of my favorite first memories. This was to be the beginning of a very special bond that few outside of the adoptive world could imagine - and maybe few inside of it as well. It is a bond that remains strong to this day. It is one of love and mutual respect and gratefulness between two families brought together by disparate but mutual pain.
In moments, a nurse appeared and asked us to follow her. My heart raced. The little baby cry became louder as we approached the sterile white room. We had had strict orders not to enter the operating room and were surprised when the doctor motioned us to "come". We were too confused to pass the threshold to cut the umbilical cord, so he did it himself while we watched.
It wasn't long before I was holding baby Alec. Cindy was being stitched up and going straight into the recovery room, so we would be the first of the three parents he would meet face-to-face. We were in awe of this tiny little purplish, squirmy, spindly amazing child who had already won our hearts. I was awed and humbled and had no idea what would lie ahead for any of us, just that we were destined to be a family.
In the hours to follow our family would begin forming, parents and siblings from our family and Cindy's family would all arrive at the hospital in turn to wish our two families well and to coo over the new life that had just entered the world. My sister and brother-in-law would arrive with fresh purple leis in hand for each woman there; they had just arrived back to the Mid-west from a Hawaiian vacation. Seeing my son with a gorgeous purple and white lei around his neck is one of my favorite first memories. This was to be the beginning of a very special bond that few outside of the adoptive world could imagine - and maybe few inside of it as well. It is a bond that remains strong to this day. It is one of love and mutual respect and gratefulness between two families brought together by disparate but mutual pain.
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