March's Challenge

Although content in February for the most part, there was something brewing that month – about which I was aware –  that would threaten to upend me in March.    The woman I call my ‘heart mother’ (see blog entry Feb 3, 2013), who has been a significant part of my life for 32 years,  was diagnosed with cancer. My emotional world imploded.   

For the first time since I left NYC in September, I did not want to be in Batavia.  I wanted to be back in NYC. With her.  For her.  I experienced something similar when my mom was sick. In fact, I had sat with my ‘heart mother’ at the time and lamented – I just want to be there (Batavia) with her (my mom). Being at work all week was an interference.  I wanted the weekend to come and I wanted to go to mom.  Nothing else in my life would get accomplished. It didn’t matter. I felt I was in the right place when I was with her. Shopping, doing laundry, or cleaning, helping with my brother, fixing what she felt like eating, sitting for long hours in silence or being an amicable companion when she felt like talking….that was what I wanted to do, where I found my purpose, and what helped keep my anxiety at bay.   

My ‘heart mother’ was having her own struggles. I called her daily to see how she was doing. Terrified of doctors and surgery, she was at times, vague. Without body language or close physical proximity, I felt panicked and frantic. She didn’t really want to know what was going on inside her body. But I did. Our opposing “needs” clashed and many times,  I would hang up gripped with fear and confusion.  It carried over to my daily life. I started finding it very hard to concentrate, very challenging to “be where I was”. My stomach churned much of the time and I lost my appetite. My heart did double flips. I was often close to tears for no good reason.  

I knew I had to get a grip. I struggled to not make what was happening to her all about me while trying to remain conscious of what I was feeling.  I was scared at the prospect of possibly losing her, angry with her for not taking care of herself, and filled with dread and sadness about the choices that she might have to make and the pain or suffering that she might have to endure. But I didn’t want her to have to deal with any of what was going on in my head while I was working it out.  She had enough on her plate and did not need to be taking care of me.  Still, she had always been the person I turned to in difficult times, and now I didn’t have that option. I felt very alone.

She allowed me to accompany her when she met with the surgical oncologist and for that, I was grateful.  I made my first trip back to NYC since the new year began.  Going gave me a direct pipeline to solid and complete information, which I craved. Leaving afterwards, she asked me if it was “too much information.” I assured her that it was not – I was feeling a little bit of ‘been there, done that’ because of my experience with my mom. I was internally adamant that I wanted to be there for her whatever it took. She had been there for me and now she would need support. I was up for it.  It was a very long three weeks between that visit and the scheduled surgery at the end of the month. 

She was subjected to further testing during that time, and although in hindsight, I realize she did the best she could at keeping me in the information loop, I just felt stone-walled and dismissed. I struggled to stay home, to continue living my life, and not run to her in NYC. There really wasn’t anything I could “do” and it was just a waiting game.

Retirement Journey

Life got in my way. I look at my blog and cannot believe that my last entry was in January of 2015. My entries had been sporadic at best for a couple of years. That was because I had landed in a place where the thoughts that were front and center were such that, I knew if I wrote about them -- wrote my truth, that I risked alienating people in ways I sensed I would regret. A writing coach might have egged me on but I wasn't ready to go there.

There was also a lot going on in my life with elderly relatives who needed my time and attention. That's a subject for another entry. 

In May of that year, I turned 62. Although I had not anticipated that this particular birthday would have any impact on my internal state, it did in a very big way. Suddenly, I had options relative to the workplace. 

I. could. retire. 

The recognition of that was riveting.  My job in a university, as director of a department that was integral to the functioning of that school, was very, very stressful. While there were elements of the job that I very much enjoyed and many people with whom I worked that I valued, increasingly I felt just plain worn out.

There were many external factors at play -- the withering of needed resources as a result of the economic climate, increased competition from at least a dozen other schools vying for those limited resources, the constant demand to produce more with less and years of walking on eggshells with someone at the top that had demoralized me in ways were not healing. 

I felt in a constant state of agitation. I had stopped answering my office phone because I desperately needed to insert time and space between myself and those on the other end who were always demanding something from me. I had begun to look at everyone who walked into my office with a battle-ready wariness, expecting to be accosted and dumped on. A particularly horrifying painting from junior high art class kept coming to mind – The Flaying of Marsyas by Titan.  I felt like I was being flayed… that people were picking away at me a little at a time.    

Previous to turning 62, I had planned, kinda, sorta, to retire in the summer of 2017. My second-in-command, who had been by my side for 15 years there, and for 6 years in a previous job, and I dreamed about exiting at the same time -- neither of us wanted to imagine life there without the other. I soldiered on. Two years to go and we would jump ship together.

A series of life-altering events transpired during that summer with the afore-mentioned elderly relatives. And summer is traditionally a very, very busy and stressful time in my workplace. Preparation for the upcoming academic year typically requires very long days and nights (not to mention weekends) and generates significant anxiety and sudden deluges of tears. There is too much to do and too little time in which to do it, even when one is efficient and competent.  The calendar is a relentless task-master. September is coming. Students are returning. We must be ready.  

One particular week, returning from a weekend of attending to my relatives’ needs, feeling like the air was being squeezed out of me by invisible hands circling my throat, I had a realization. It was:

I don’t have it “in me” to do this more than one more time. 

Could I possibly engineer an earlier exit? My mind spun in its characteristic way with a new idea. Money would be the biggest issue. I had quite a bit saved for retirement, but I also had a co-op with 13 more years of a hefty mortgage and monthly maintenance fees that were about to be higher than the mortgage. And like many co-ops, the board was threatening a series of capital improvements that would require extra assessments for owners. On a fixed income, that could be catastrophic.

So for the first time since I had moved there in 1984, I contemplated leaving my beloved NYC.  After considering and rejecting several options, my swirling brain landed on moving back home to the small town where I grew up. Previously, going back had been less likely than, oh – say, my becoming a brain surgeon or rock star. But my perspective about the place had slowly been undergoing a change. “Home” was no longer the stifling prison without possibilities I had fled. Now, I could imagine living there and being content. 

Moving home would also eliminate another huge stressor by rendering unnecessary the twice-monthly trips I was making to care for my brother, David. For ten years, since our mother died, I had been on the road at 2:30 a.m. on alternate Saturdays, arriving in Batavia in time to pick up my brother for breakfast. And then, without skipping a beat (or taking a nap), we would go on about our day -- running errands, going bowling, seeing movies, eating out, doing things for our aunt/uncle. I would collapse late that night, sleep like the dead, and get up on Sunday to take him out for breakfast again and another round of activities, before driving back to New York City late in the afternoon. I was exhausted. I had so many close calls drifting off on the road that I am convinced I am alive today only because my mother in heaven whispered WAKE UP in my ear a dozen times every trip.

I started stalking realtor.com. 

Stay tuned for more of the journey.

Serving up Poetic Justice

This story begins in a convergence of back alleyways on a recent Friday evening in my hometown where a free concert, one of a summer series,  is about to begin. The band is a popular local group of sixty-something-year-old males who play country music and know exactly how to please their audience. The alleyway is crammed with people – young and old – and by the time the concert is underway, there is standing room only. Looking around, people north of fifty and those who are specially-abled are over-represented in this crowd.

My brother is one of those who are specially-abled. I have brought him to this concert because the band, TGR, is his hands-down favorite.  And although the direct care workers in his group home do their best to get him and his housemates to these concerts, occasionally circumstances arise that prevent them from doing so. I’m not taking any chances.    

It is a gorgeous night. The heat wave has broken, there’s a pleasant breeze and everyone seems happy and relaxed. It’s ‘bring your own chair’ so I set mine up next to T, who works in my brother’s home and who has, in fact, come with two of his housemates. There are other employees from other group homes – angels all – there with their excited charges and I am introduced to everyone.  

Promptly at 7 p.m.  the band members take their place on the stage and in a moment, the distinctive and familiar opening bars to Amarillo by Morning flow from the stage.  I love this song. I love TGR's rendition of it. I sink into musical bliss. I glance at my brother and wait for his metamorphosis. To watch him in this moment is to experience the true meaning of the 1970’s song, I’ve Got the Music in Me.  His facial expression grows intense. His feet start tapping. His arms begin moving.  He no longer appears to perceive anyone around him. It’s just him and the music. Within a few measures, every cell in his body is chair-dancing with a vengeance. Soon his chair can no longer contain him and, as if propelled, he springs suddenly to his feet.

He will dance every single dance tonight, with gusto, mostly by himself.  And he’s damned good.  His teachers include the best – Gene Kelly, Fred Astaire, Elvis Presley (those hips) – even Barbara and Bobby (and later Cissy) from The Lawrence Welk Show.  He's got all the moves. He’s light on his feet. He keeps the beat.  The words ‘debonair’ and ‘suave’ come to mind and stay there.  Oh, and a pinch of The Fonz coolness for good measure.   

A group of women enter the dance space and begin line dancing. My brother studies their moves, joins them on their periphery and tries to copy them. It is hard not to laugh and I admit I do but it is with glee. In his seriousness, he is just too funny. He is about ½ step behind because he’s following them.  They turn 180 degrees and he spins around, perplexed at what they did when his back was to them. They lift their leg, he does too. They clap, he claps. He scrambles out of their way when they suddenly switch direction and threaten to run him over.   And when they leave the floor, he is still practicing what they did.

A slow dance comes on and couples come out to two-step, fox-trot. My brother is still intent on his line dancing. I can tell by the look on his face that he is getting lost in his dance practice and soon he will be oblivious to everyone around him. On a crowded dance floor, this is not a good thing. I get up, I’m only a few steps away. I put my arms around his shoulders and say, “How about a dance with your old sister?” and I steer him in to a slow dance with me. His t-shirt is wet from his efforts. He stiffens at first – I’ve interrupted his escalation, but then he allows me to defuse his intensity.  I tell him I noticed how hard he was working to line dance with the women and what a great job he was doing. He looks at me so earnestly, and says, “I try.” Yes, my sweet bro, you try.

******

Not long before their break, the lead singer who I shall call BM (real initials, swear to God), waves a pile of 8-1/2 x 11 fliers and announces that it is their performance schedule for the near future. He sets them down on the stage. Three or four of the specially-abled attendees immediately take one and head back to where we are seated to present these to their staff chaperones. “Hey!” calls BM into the mic. “You guys can’t read!”

It takes a split second for this comment to register, to realize which “you guys” he is talking about. I look up at T, sitting next to me.  “That wasn’t very nice!” I exclaim. She agrees with me, as do others with us. BM begins to sing again. I am sitting, appalled and in stunned silence. Well, that’s not exactly true. I’m stunned, yes – but silent, no. I am fuming. How dare he make that stereotyped assumption and into a microphone no less! T is upset too because not only was BM insensitive – what he said was patently untrue.  You can be sure that if there is a piece of paper with this band’s name on it – TGR – all three of the guys traveling with us would be able to read it AND the dates AND the venues.

At intermission, I approach the stage. BM is fumbling with equipment. My brother and his friend, G, are close to the stage. I put my arm around both of them and look up. “Hi BM, my name is Jan and I’d like to introduce you to my brother, David, and our good friend, G.”  BM is eyeing me suspiciously, unsure of what to make of me. I continue, “These guys are two of your biggest fans…… they come to every concert you give that they can get to.”  BM is fidgeting  and looking like he wishes to evaporate. “And there’s something else you should know about them.” I pause for effect.  “They can READ.” BM looks everywhere except at me. I repeat myself, “They can READ.” BM starts to back away and mumbles, “I saw him singing.”  My brain explodes.  I lead my brother and G away – they do not know they’ve been dissed, and I can see that the big BM just does not get it. Back at my seat, the others let me know they watched BM’s reaction carefully and agree that the man is clueless (and classless, I might add).

*****

The next evening after dinner, I meet my friend Jim for ice cream.  Jim is a drummer and he knows this band – TGR  – well because he subs for their drummer on occasion. He tells me that he will, in fact, be working with them later this week.  I tell him about the events of the previous evening, hoping that he will “get” why this has upset me.  I can see in his expression that he does and I am relieved. He volunteers to say something to BM and I tell him, no, it’s ok – he doesn’t need to do that. But I am grateful for his willingness.

We are quiet for a moment. Then Jim chuckles and I look at him questioningly. “You know,” he says, conspiratorially. “None of these guys can read music.”  I wait for more, unsure why he is telling me this. “On a gig, when I pull out sheet music…. they can’t relate to that.”  He continues. “Maybe I’ll just hand BM a piece of music, then say, ‘Oh that’s right!  You can’t read this’ and pull it away.”  Jim is grinning at the thought.  I laugh with delight, inwardly marveling at the poetic justice of this plan.

What goes around doesn’t usually come around quite this quickly!

Excuses, Excuses, Excuses or Why I Missed a Week

I’ve been writing this blog for almost ten months. Amidst numerous competing responsibilities and pressing “must-do’s” I have managed to crank something out on a more-or-less weekly basis. But last weekend was different. I got bogged down. Overwhelmed. I couldn’t focus. 

It wasn’t a particularly unusual weekend. 

I was on the road at 2:30 a.m. last Saturday driving across the state to my brother. This is my thinking time, my life-planning, blog-composing, blissfully alone time. I do not mind doing this. I have my routines. I stop in Binghamton, mid-way, at 5:30 a.m. at a Dunkin Donuts for a cup of coffee and yes, a donut. Boston crème. Then I stop at a 24-hour Wegman’s to wander about the aisles for a few minutes. I look at their flower section, the expansive magazine display, the children’s books, the gluten-free items. I don’t buy anything, I just look.

I pull into the driveway of my brother’s group home at precisely 8:50 a.m., chat with staff, then head to breakfast at Miss Batavia Diner. Fifty years ago, my dad often took my sister and me to dinner there when our mother was pregnant with our brother and suffering 24 hour morning sickness. After my mom died and most of my weekends were spent cleaning out her house, the diner became my kitchen away from home, its owner and the staff welcoming and friendly. We get to ignore the “please wait to be seated” sign and head for “our” booth at the front where Lisa, the owner, appears with the coffee pot, a hug, and the hazelnut creamer she knows I like.

In the car I have given my brother an article about Randy “Macho Man” Savage dying in a car crash. I had promised I would print it the evening before after he’d told me this terrible news over the phone. He studies the article seriously, picking out words he knows. Macho Man, car, crash, Florida, Miss Elizabeth, WWE.

Over breakfast, he asks me to read it and I do, scanning ahead for the gist, then summarizing convoluted sentences with briefer, more understandable ones. He listens intently. I read the part about his wife being injured. “She die too?” he asks. “No, she’s just hurt, not badly,” I add. “Whew, close one,” he says.

After we eat, we drop a time-sensitive package off at UPS. I’ve been trying to do that all week in New York without success. We pick up my brother’s suit jacket from the cleaners that I left there two weeks prior. Am I the only one who notices sleeves that are spotted with gravy?  Next stop is the Salvation Army store to drop off old books I have carted all the way from NYC. Then to the bank to cash a check. My aunt calls in the midst of this wondering if I would stop at the pharmacy to pick up a prescription for her.

A half hour later, we are heading to our favorite nursery/greenhouse outside of Rochester. My elderly aunt and uncle are along for the ride. This field trip, which could be accomplished in 30 minutes were it just me, stretches to 90 as they ponder their selections, move slowly, occasionally lose each other. My aunt hints, “Gosh, those hot dogs smell good.” This is a full-service nursery. It is 12:10 p.m. “How about a hot dog?” I say to my brother, knowing full well how he’s going to respond. He looks at his watch and frowns, “Not 12:30,” he says like I’m an idiot. “No, but it will be in 20 minutes,” I say. “I’m getting you one.” I direct the three of them to an unoccupied picnic table and stand in line for the hot dogs, sweating in the humid Rochester air. I hate hot dogs. After delivering them, with mustard, I head off in search of the vending machine for drinks. When I return, my brother hasn’t touched his food. He frowns again.  “Miss Batavia,” he says. “No,” I say, “We aren’t going back to the diner for lunch this time. Look, it’s 12:25, you’ll be hungry in five minutes,” I cajole.   “Oh all right,” he says, resigned. “Me eat.”  Thank you god(dess).

Back at home base, we unload my aunt and uncle and the trunk full of flowers. My brother and I head to the other end of town to Home Depot for dirt.  En route, he produces a booklet of coupons for McDonalds and points to a picture of a fruit smoothie. “Mmmm good,” he says and smacks his lips with gusto. I sigh at this second hint of the day. The coupons expire in a week. He’s not likely to get there unless I take him. “OK,” I agree, pulling into McDonald’s for his free smoothie.

Back at his house, we need to relocate his winter clothes to the basement and bring his summer things upstairs. But his room is an utter disaster. I remember hearing the strain in my mother’s voice telling me she was in a bad mood because she’d cleaned his room. Now, I totally get it. All over the place are little pieces of paper with the same sentences written obsessively on them. Videos and DVDs not in their cases lay strewn about in random places. He has several plastic bags hanging from drawer and door knobs, each with little collections of similarly themed DVDs in them. This one has an Elvis theme; that one has a Godzilla theme, still another with John Wayne movies. Bottle caps on the desk top, on the floor, behind furniture. Empty water bottles. Half-filled (and moldy) juice bottles. I open a desk drawer to find a pair of underwear sitting on top of papers. There are 3 layers of coats, sweaters, and shirts over the back of the desk chair. There are straw papers on the floor, old paper plates under his bed. A Christmas card with $20 in it, missing since January is unearthed under the desk. Behind the headboard of his bed, there is a pajama top on the floor, 3 or 4 mismatched socks, and a belt. There are gobs and gobs of dust everywhere. I unearth three toothbrushes from various hiding spots, and five or six old cleaning rags (unused). I am livid. The AC isn’t on yet in the house so I am also sweating profusely and I can feel my hair frizzing. After two hours of cleaning and tossing and telling him this is intolerable, we are ready to make the clothing swap. I carefully examine everything we are folding to take down to storage in the basement. “Is this clean?” I ask more than a dozen times. “When was the last time you washed this?” I explain for probably the hundredth time that just because he didn’t spill something visible on that white shirt doesn’t mean it doesn’t need to be washed before it is put away for the summer. He just doesn’t get the concept of body oil. Save your breath, girl.   

By 5 p.m., I’ve had quite enough of him and I’m sure he’s eager to get me out of his room, so we hug goodbye until morning. I leave with 15 summer polo shirts, horribly wrinkled after their long winter’s nap, to iron back at my aunt’s. I know they will never get ironed unless I do it.  

The day is far from over though. First, there are the 15 polos to iron. In addition, my aunt/uncle will soon be celebrating 70 years of marriage. I can not imagine being married to anyone for 70 years. This is a big deal, and I have made reservations to take them for dinner at one of their favorite places.

We are home by 8 and it’s still light enough for me to drag my potting soil out of the trunk and plant three kettles full of geraniums for the cemetery.  Then we sit out by the garage, watching the rest of the daylight fade, the hummingbirds draw the last drop of red sugar water from their feeder, the row of solar lamps in the garden burst to life one by one. This is the one peaceful moment of the day. I’m trying to be in it, not thinking about the final papers I should be reading for one class, the grades I should be calculating for the other, the laundry that won’t get washed, the food shopping for myself that won’t get done. I consider a week of eating oatmeal, hummus and carrots, and popcorn for dinner. It is nearly 10 p.m. and since I have been up since 2 a.m., my eyes are slowly crossing and my brain is closing up shop. Go to bed, girl.

Sunday morning, we go back to the diner for breakfast, then off to another town to deliver one crock of geraniums to my grandmother’s grave. We stop at the grocery store for snacks for my brother. Then Walmart for film for his camera. I remember that we need to shop for his gift for our brother-in-law, whose birthday will come before I will be back in town. Finally, with all missions accomplished, we head through town back to his home. I glance at him in the seat next to me. He has his glasses off and is rubbing his right eye. “What’s wrong with your eye?” I say. “Do you have something in it?”

“No,” he says. “I sad.”  

“What are you sad about?”

“Macho Man Randy Savage,” he says.

“Oh, yes,” I say, trying to summon up patience and empathy. “It’s too bad, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” he whimpers.

“But,” I say, “think of it this way. “He’s probably up in heaven already hugging Miss Elizabeth.” I learned from the article that she had been his first wife, and she had died of an overdose many years ago. 

“Oh,” he says, looking brighter. He ponders that for a minute. “That’s good,” he agrees, finally. He puts his glasses back on and looks out the window up at the sky. “You be fine,” he says presumably to Macho Man. Deluge averted.

We drop off his snacks at his house, but everything has to be first marked with his name. We stop at another cemetery to deliver mom and dad’s geraniums. Then back to my aunt’s house. I start to pack up my car for the drive home. I give my brother the card we bought for our brother-in-law. “Here,” I say. “Sign this.”  He laboriously – and very neatly –  pens his name, then waits patiently for me to spell the address for him as I pass back and forth carrying my stuff to the car. 

Finally, after hugs all around, I pull out of the driveway. Next to me on the seat is a wicker basket containing a raspberry turnover my aunt has baked that morning, 2 sticky buns loaded with walnuts, and 2 pieces of cake that she has saved for me in the freezer. This is not good.

I drive. I stop for coffee. I eat the turnover. I stop for gas. I stop at Staples for some supplies I need. I stop at Kohl’s to look for slim chinos for my skinny brother. I eat a sticky bun. And drink more coffee. I stop again at Wegman’s, buy some cards, buy some gluten-free items for my daughter. I stop at a Best Buy to look at computers because mine is driving me nuts. While there I decide I could be convinced that I need a new camera, a flat-screen television, and a wireless router. This is not good. Get out of Best Buy, girl.

Back on the road, I approach the Tioga exit for the casino. I am thinking about stopping. I need soothing and I have the idea that sitting alone at a slot machine might help. The loss of $70 on my last trip to a casino, however, is still painfully fresh in my mind. I step firmly on the gas and drive resolutely by the exit. Stopping is not a good idea.

It is 9 p.m. by the time I pull into my driveway. In 11-1/2 hours I will be back at work, racing against time. The laundry is unwashed, the refrigerator barren, 25 papers remain unread, 26 grades are uncalculated, the blog is unwritten. I.just.can’t.