Month: April 2020
I Am Writing.
I don’t feel like writing. I don’t feel like posting. I don’t feel like sharing anything – good or bad – about my life.
What I want to do now, every day, is just stay in bed and watch TV. This tells me two things: (1) that I am depressed, and (2) that I need to get up and do things.
So today, I am writing. Here I am, writing.
That’s all for right now.
But…
Back in January, Shane and I were on a college road trip in California.
Our first college visit was in Orange: Chapman University. We strolled around for several hours there, then stopped for lunch, and headed on to our next college.
Two days later, California announced a coronavirus case – one of, if not the first – in Orange, California.
I know what day it was, because we were watching TV in the hotel all day, so we saw the news.
We were watching TV in the hotel all day because … Shane had a fever. He felt achy all over and declined to go to Six Flags. The fever was short-lived, and he ended up not having a lot of energy the next day, but he was fine to travel back home.
It’s not likely that Shane contracted coronavirus that long ago, right? And without the cough, it’s unlikely that he had it – but who knows?
But…
Two weeks later, Dylan was sick. He had a fever for at least three days. In fact, the entire campus was sick. He dragged himself to the health center, where they determined that he did not have the flu – but they didn’t tell him what he did have.
He developed a cough a couple of days later – a bad one. Even with his reactive airways disease, it seemed unusual. It was a low, deep, angry cough.
More than three weeks later, he was still coughing. Nobody bothered testing him for coronavirus because, of course, coronavirus headlines were still a few weeks away. No one in Tennessee suspected anything more than a very contagious flu-like virus spreading through campus.
All of the backtracking in the news lately has got me wondering: did both of my kids have it already?
Part of me thinks, yes! I think they did! And then I feel happy, because they both lived.
Another part of me thinks, probably not. Wouldn’t we have known? And then I feel concerned again.
And probably the most rational part of me thinks: Dylan probably had it. Shane probably did not. But who knows?
I am going to try feeling happy today. After all, regardless of what they had then, they are not sick today.
As always, and especially lately, that’s the important thing.
Shane is Growing Up.
Spending 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, with Shane is helping me to see things that I hadn’t noticed before. The most important of these things is that Shane is growing up.
While we are purposefully having family time, Shane is choosing to be independent most of the time. He’s doing his school work on time – in spite of my consistently asking about it, which is just an old habit from Dylan’s high school days. Shane is learning new material, getting everything done, and checking in with teachers if he needs help. So I don’t have to wonder if it’s getting done.
Shane’s also doing the typical teen things: hanging out on his phone, watching YouTube, watching TV, playing video games. And while I wish Shane was connecting more with people, even online, right now isn’t really the time to push that agenda.
Because Shane is also doing Shane things: playing drums again, making Instagram videos, lifting weights, climbing trees, and challenging himself to get better at whatever he’s decided to learn. He’s chatting regularly with his youth minister, exploring his spiritual side. Emotionally, he’s handling the OCD like a champ: in spite of the pandemic, he’s incredibly balanced and calm.
And physically, he’s on fire. A couple of days ago, I asked him to hang up my new hummingbird bench – made by a friend – in our tree, and he did. Then he did a handful of pull-ups on the bottom branch.
Shane is very athletic, and loves net sports in particular. But I’ve never seen him so interested in fitness before. Or at least, I’ve never noticed. Yesterday he said something about his “cardio workout” and I nearly fell out of my chair.
This is, of course, wonderful news. Shane used to turn to me when he felt low; now he’s taking care of himself more like an adult. He’s not completely absent, and he’s never rude. But he gets things done for himself in a way that I have never really noticed.
I wonder if, because of our unique situation, I was just too busy to notice before – or if Shane decided to take this time to do things he’d always wanted to do, but never had.
Either way, it is a sheer joy to watch. I miss him; I miss my baby. He’s always going to be my baby, and I’ll probably always see that toddler in him.
But I’m so happy for my “baby” to be a mature young man now. And even if it took a pandemic, I’m thrilled that he’s being himself, taking charge of his life, and becoming more confident in himself. I’ve always known he was strong and smart and funny and interesting.
Now, it seems, he’s finding out those things about himself, too.
We Talked About Forgiveness.
An added benefit of having Dylan home during this disaster is that, sometimes, I learn a ridiculous amount about myself.
Last night, I tried to explain to him why some people can be so bothersome, even hurtful. I explained my theories about why beautiful, innocent babies occasionally grow up to be spiteful and manipulative adults, due to poor parenting, dysfunction, tragedy and trauma.
“You want so badly for everyone to see you for the good, kind, decent person you are,” I said, hugging him, absorbing that truth. “But no matter what you do, some people just can’t see it.”
Then we talked about forgiveness.
After Dylan left, I started thinking about the people I still haven’t forgiven. One is Bonnie, who completely upended my world by “unfriending” me on Facebook after – I thought – 30 years of close friendship. The other is Mindy, who was never a friend and bullied me from 4th through 7th grade. Both nearly killed me with their heartlessness.
To myself I reiterated: “You want so badly for everyone to see you for the good, kind, decent person you are.”
I thought about that for a long time.
A lot of people don’t like me. I am definitely not mainstream. I can be too liberal and too pessimistic, and I often share unnecessary wisdom when trying to “help” people. I am learning that most people don’t want me to help. And often I’m too open about my innermost feelings with people who aren’t ready to share.
But I want so badly for everyone to see me for the good, kind, decent person I am.
Two people will never see me that way. Mindy – who bullied me relentlessly – decided she hated me without ever speaking to me. And Bonnie – my dearest friend, or so I thought – never cared about the “real” me, possibly because she’s a narcissist. But all I ever wanted was their approval.
Why would I put myself through years of agonizing over how I might change their perceptions – even though I know enough to tell Dylan that some people can’t be changed?
Partially, I think, it’s about control. I want to control the way others see me, and I only want people to see the good in me. I don’t take criticism well, and I am the first one to dish it out. (This isn’t really a positive character trait, and could easily affect people’s perception of me.)
But when someone flat out says, I don’t like you, my gut reaction is: WAIT! I’m a really good person! I’ll try harder to prove it to you!
And then I keep myself up nights, worrying about people who don’t even care that I exist.
So last night, I chunked the bully and the narcissist together for the first time. I thought: how can I forgive them – both of them – these people who live in my head, but not in my life?
An answer came immediately, something I learned long ago: acceptance is the answer to all of my problems.
Accepting what they did doesn’t mean I have to agree with it; I don’t. But accepting that they did it – that this happened to me – and that I have no control over any of it: that is something I can do.
Then, like I told Dylan, I can accept that they are just broken. They can’t see who I am, because they aren’t capable.
It’s just the way it is.
And that tiny realization has made it possible for me to sleep peacefully, without regret or anger, for the rest of my life.
You Should Sing With The Turtles.
I came up with an idea. Because it was my idea, I believe Dylan had trouble deciding that it was a good idea.
But wow, it was a great idea.
Back in the fall, I discovered that Dylan had an opportunity to take a class with a professor who had once played guitar with Frank Zappa and, maybe more notably, was a founding member of The Turtles.
Dylan ended up not taking the class with that Turtles/professor – but the professor is still teaching on campus, so….
In my spare time, I did a little research and discovered that The Turtles are still touring together. They tour during the summer – from the end of May, when college is done, until mid-August – when it reconvenes.
“Dylan,” I said one night, casually. “You should sing with The Turtles. What do you think?”
“That would be cool,” Dylan said.
Of course, Dylan doesn’t know the founding member of The Turtles. But that doesn’t mean he couldn’t – at the very least – ask if he could take part in the summer tour.
So in February, Dylan asked if the dean could introduce him to the singing professor. And Dylan discovered that, up until a few years ago, entire classes went on tour with The Turtles!
So I guess my idea wasn’t unique, but it was still a great idea.
The dean had an idea of his own. He asked Dylan to email him a resume, and he’d look into it.
Dylan spent a week getting his resume together. A whole week. I could have knocked his block off. Dylan wanted to make his resume “perfect” so he dilly-dallied until he told me, “I think I’m just going to send it like it is.”
Then, finally, Dylan turned in his resume – however it stood with Dylan being fresh out of high school – and now the dean has it in his possession.
And then, Dylan waited. And I waited.
And while we were waiting, the coronavirus hit the country.
The first thing Dylan missed due to coronavirus was a concert. The day before the concert, the Maryland governor said there would be no more gatherings above 250 people – so the concert was canceled.
I don’t think Dylan even remembers, at this point, that we were waiting to see if he could tour with The Turtles. Touring this summer – for any band, or any audience – seems highly improbable.
Still, I remembered that “we” were waiting to hear back from the dean. So I looked into the professor at Belmont, the guy who looks like such a fun professor, the guy who co-founded The Turtles.
Mark Volman has had at least one recent bout of throat cancer. And, even though class selection is finished for fall, Prof Volman is not scheduled to teach any classes at Belmont.
And tomorrow is Mark Volman’s 73rd birthday.
I’m not sure what it means, but it breaks my heart for the man. I want him to be well, to be singing, to be touring. I want him not to be a candidate for coronavirus fatality. I want him to be healthy and singing and laughing and happy.
I don’t know the man, but I worry about him anyway.
Meanwhile, Dylan has started thinking about other career avenues, and hasn’t even asked about The Turtles. He hasn’t followed up with the dean for other ideas. Like most of us, he hasn’t done much of anything.
And for right now, that is totally fine. We are all just waiting.
I Researched and Researched.
In spite of the pandemic, some things at Dylan’s college are proceeding as they normally would – namely, class and housing selection for next fall.
For me, this is like having a party. I don’t understand why everyone doesn’t feel this way – but getting to choose so much is such fun! To be fair, yes, it’s Dylan’s choice. In fact, other than us paying for college and housing and food, it really has nothing to do with me at all.
But OMG, I so enjoy the process! I “help” by organizing the various classes that Dylan needs for graduation. This requires my going to the college website, and cutting and pasting the requirements into a Word document. I mean, seriously, it’s not even actual research.
Then I go into the course catalog and look at descriptions, and I see what’s available on the “classfinder” and then I put those things on the list, too. Then I make it really pretty and give it to Dylan, who looks at the exact same stuff he could find on the internet, only it’s in his hand. And he picks which classes and schedule he likes best.
Then, at my insistence, he picks back-up classes, too.
And this time, I also visited “RateMyProfessor.com” – a site Dylan told me about – to check out all the professors. Currently, Dylan has one professor who – while a fine person – is not exactly teaching to the ADHD crowd. So reading reviews of the various professors helps me guess who will be best suited to teach Dylan.
Then of course, the classes started filling up before Dylan’s “turn” and he had to use his back-ups – a thrill a minute! It’s a bit like winning an auction, getting into the right classes.
But never before have we gone through the housing choice!
First, Dylan had no idea that different rooms cost different amounts. So there was some education involved.
Second, Dylan chose a roommate – and also decided he would like to have a single room. This was a new set of problems, of course.
Finally, Dylan and his roommate – together – chose two other people for an on-campus, four-bedroom apartment. Many of the dorms are “apartment-style” so Dylan’s chances were much better at getting into one of those.
And then – this was the most fun – Dylan had to choose, along with his three new roommates, where he wanted to live. Oh, the joy!
I researched and researched some more. I studied the floor plans. I asked questions on the Parents Page. I considered what it would mean for Dylan to have a kitchen. Where would the laundry be?
How high up should he be? What about tornados? (The city really was hit by a tornado about a month ago – so this was a real worry.) Did he require a fitness center in the basement? How close should he be to the cafeteria? How far away would he be from his classes?
Of course, absolutely none of the results had anything to do with me. Dylan and his friends did all of the choosing. I would not have picked what they picked, but I sure did know a lot about it when Dylan told me what they’d decided!
Having these things in my future keeps me hopeful. Even if it’s Dylan’s future, and not mine, offering that hope.
We Have Whatever We Need.
Several years into our marriage, when I was paying more attention to my kids than to my husband, he implied that I only married him for his money.
It was nearly laughable, except that he was serious.
When we got married, my husband was unemployed. He’d lost his job nearly nine months before our wedding. My dream honeymoon in Tahiti was replaced by a quick drive to the Outer Banks of North Carolina. And none of that actually mattered to me.
I did not marry Bill for his money.
Fast forward a couple of decades, and Bill is doing okay. He’s actually doing great: he’s supporting his family in a very comfortable style. We aren’t wealthy, but we sure aren’t suffering.
And it’s certainly no thanks to me, working part-time while “raising” the kids. Bill has provided us with everything we have.
I know this, in the back of my head, but I don’t think about it often. I don’t think much about money, one way or another, except to try to save as much as possible when I’m buying things I want.
Fast forward to today, and I am living in this relative comfort even during a pandemic.
Bill’s job – it turns out – is an essential one. He works for a credit union. And the credit union is exclusively for another essential group: healthcare workers.
So Bill is still working – often from home. Some days, though, he goes to his (frequently sanitized) office, which is a quiet place with walls, rather than cubicles. The office is near – but not in – a hospital or a bank. And he washes his hands constantly.
But what amazes me is that I’ve been staying inside (with my family) for six weeks, and I am just now noticing how incredibly fortunate I am – mostly, if not entirely, thanks to Bill’s hard work.
Of course, I don’t mention this to Bill. Instead I screech at him to wash his hands when he gets home. And then I ask him what’s for dinner. (No one ever said that Bill should be grateful for me.)
Perhaps today, I will actually say, “Thank you.” Or maybe I will just point at today’s blog.
Also, I need to give some credit to God. In my life, there were times when I had nothing. There were times when Bill had nothing.
Now we have whatever we need, and almost everything we want. Quite honestly, I didn’t do one single thing to deserve this luxury. God just plopped it into my lap, along with Bill.
But it’s not just possessions for which I am grateful. More important than anything else, I am grateful that we are healthy.
A few weeks ago, my brother-in-law put a photo of his family on Facebook – something he rarely does. He captioned it: “All that matters.” Those three words pretty much nailed the feeling we are likely all having now.
I am so grateful that, for whatever reason, God has blessed us – for today – with everything we need to stay healthy. We might have to give up our Disneyland vacation, but gee whiz, if that’s all that happens…? We are very fortunate, indeed.
In fact, given what’s going on globally, I am living in Shangri-la.
I Don’t Want To Think.
When I was little, I wanted a pen pal more than anything in the world. I may even have had a pen pal – but I don’t remember it.
What I do remember is my mother saying, “Why don’t you write to your grandmother? She would love that!”
And so, I wrote to my grandmother. She lived a thousand miles away, so I didn’t know her very well, and I wasn’t even a teenager yet. I had no idea what to say. But I wanted to write, and I wanted someone to send me a letter, so I wrote to Grandma faithfully for a long time.
I have no idea what I said, but I remember her letters to me.
Grandma’s letters were always the same happy tone, lighthearted descriptions of life in Florida. “It’s 78 degrees and sunny,” she would say. Or: “It rained yesterday and all the flowers started blooming.”
She never said anything of substance, and I never knew why.
I was bored with talk of the weather. To me, weather is something that just is – not an entire topic of conversation. If you’re standing in the rain, you know it’s raining. If you look out the window, you can see if it’s windy or sunny or cloudy. Why would it be a topic of discussion?
To be totally honest, I still have a hard time with the weather thing. When Bill talks about the weather forecast as if it’s an actual “topic,” I want to run screaming from the room.
But today, only two days after taking a beautiful bike ride on a gorgeous spring day, I walked outside and I was struck with bitterly cold wind – the kind of wind that shocked, and took my breath away.
So when I sat down to write today – with absolutely nothing going on in my life – I realized: the only thing I wanted to write about was this surprisingly blustery weather.
And that, of course, made me think of Grandma. Which then made me think: I am old and I have nothing better to discuss.
Partially, that’s true. I am old. But the truth of the matter is, the weather is easy to discuss. And I don’t want to think about anything else.
I don’t want to think about the virus. I don’t want to think about online school. I don’t want to think about the numbers of sick people around the globe and in my backyard. I don’t want to think about Bill’s trip to the grocery store, whether or not it was safe. I don’t want to think about the pandemic that’s ravaging the earth, one life at a time.
More than anything, I don’t want to think about the director of the CDC who, on CNN, specifically mentioned “reactive airways disease” as one of the top three underlying conditions – along with diabetes and hypertension – that is likely to cause a coronavirus patient to die. I don’t want to think about how many times he named those three things, over and over and over.
So today I will just say: it is bitterly cold and windy.
So cold. So windy.
And then I will pray for Grandma, who probably just didn’t want me – in my youth and naïveté – to dwell on anything deeper than the weather.
I Am Doing Something Different.
This morning, I read a column from one of my favorite authors, Marion Winik.
I’ve been reading Marion Winik since my kids were very young. I found a book called The Lunch-box Chronicles about a mom raising two boys, just when I was raising two boys of the same age. It was funny and delightful, and made me feel less alone in raising Dylan and Shane.
So I read everything she ever wrote.
Marion Winik’s backstory is rough, in a similar way to my own backstory. Her sarcasm and wit, however, are substantially better than mine – and I love the way she describes the challenges of getting through normal circumstances.
I signed up for her monthly email years ago. Sometimes I don’t have the time to read it, but even the wording of her emails interests me.
So when I read her column about the current state of the world, and then tried to post my own blog post about how it’s going with online college, I simply couldn’t do it.
There’s no depth to what I am writing – mostly because there’s no depth to what I’m doing. There’s no depth to anything right now, except for my black, all-the-way-to-the-earth’s-core gut feelings.
So today, I am doing something different. I am recommending that anyone who wants to read how I feel – or anyone who maybe wants to dig a little deeper into how they feel – should read the latest column by Marion Winik.
I love to write. I will continue to write. But I will never be able to tackle the description of a pandemic with anywhere near as much power and realism as she did.
So you can find it here, if you so desire:
The Bondage is Gone.
4-4-2020.
It’s a pretty cool number, I think, and makes for an awesome milestone marker. 4-4-2020 is the date I celebrated 20 years without a cigarette.
For some people, this is just a number. Those people have never smoked cigarettes. They’ve never felt the tug of true addiction.
I thought about cigarettes before I opened my eyes in the morning. Smoking was the last thing I did before I went to sleep. And I thought about smoking all day long – when can I smoke? where can I smoke? is it time for another one? – and I smoked between 20 and 60 cigarettes every day for fifteen years.
This isn’t really a parenting issue – but for me, quitting smoking had everything to do with parenting. I’d tried to quit many times, but I never cared enough about my own life to do it.
Then I got pregnant. And suddenly I had to consider my unborn baby. Dylan’s life mattered. So I quit smoking, saving both of us.
Holding my newborn, I didn’t think, Gee, now I can have a cigarette. Instead I thought, I finally have a reason to live.
I quit so that my children would have a mother. They needed me. And they didn’t need to live with secondary smoke. Our health mattered.
But there have been side benefits. I don’t stink anymore. I don’t cough up phlegm. And I don’t have the yellow pallor I’d developed after a decade with a cigarette in my hand.
Most triumphantly, I am not obsessed with cigarettes. I don’t have the insatiable desire that forced me to leave home at all hours of the day and night to buy cigarettes. There’s no more nagging in my brain, screaming for MORE MORE MORE.
The bondage is gone. Instead, there’s a calm, quiet peace in my brain. (The nagging sometimes come back in the form of food cravings – but that’s another story.)
I would never have believed, back then, that two decades later, I’d be in the midst of a pandemic that attacks the respiratory system. Not only are my lungs healthy now, but my immune system – even with an autoimmune disorder – is stronger than it’s ever been in my adult life.
And my newborn, who spent his childhood coughing all night long for six months out of the year – until we figured out that he had Reactive Airways Disease – that boy is also stronger now than he’s ever been. He hasn’t had any issue since 2015, when we discovered that high altitudes are tougher on him than most people.
I worry about my husband. He didn’t quit smoking when I was pregnant. He didn’t quit smoking for many, many years after I did. Eventually, he decided that his life was worthwhile. I think.
Bill did quit smoking; I don’t know exactly when. But he’s older than I am, and he started smoking earlier in his life than I did, so he smoked for twice as long as I did. But he smoked fewer cigarettes a day, which gives me an unsettled sense of hope.
These days, Bill coughs and clears his throat all day, and blames the pollen. He doesn’t smoke. Doctors have scanned his lungs annually and found no issues. Still, I worry.
But for me, it’s been 20 years of freedom, 20 years of peace. And now, in a cruel irony, I have the added benefit of having a healthy respiratory system – at least for today – when I really need one.
It’s amazing to me how little any of that freedom would matter if something happened to my husband or children.