Hiking with Abigail

The mountains call when I seek to feel small

Where problems are pebbles in the quarry of the cosmos

The trees loom terrifyingly tall

With caches of creatures hiding in the hollows

 

Equal parts minuscule and mettle

I take on the challenge of climbing to the crest

With my offspring made muse, I will not settle

I know that I must put forth my best

 

Slithering snakes and scurrying squirrels cross my way

Roots, rocks, and inclines so steep

I have to keep hiking and cannot stay

Small creeks traversed by brittle bridge or long leap

 

At the height of tiredness we spy delicate alpine growth

Shorter shrubbery indicating the summit is near

An extra surge of energy now spurs us both

Love has finally overcome fear

 

After well-earned respite on the bald peak

We begin our descent, with challenges its own

By this time my middle-aged muscles are weak

I keep my eyes focused on every loose stone

 

It happens so quickly I cannot explain

My foot slides under me as I spin and fall

The shock of it hits me before the pain

And I realize I cannot even attempt to crawl

 

Roles reversed as my girl gives aid

She washes, bandages, and assists me to standing

Waves of nausea and swirling colors fade

As she encourages and waits instead of stranding

 

Several hours later we make it down, we pair

With a full story for the family to eventually hear

Because of courage and strength, but especially care

Love has finally overcome fear

 

Right In My Own Backyard

Over the past few months of this pandemic, I have developed a new appreciation for my modest backyard.  In the past, I never much considered it.  Sure, it had a swingset my four kids enjoyed while growing up, and it provided a space to cook out on occasion.  Other than that, it contained a lawn to be mowed, leaves to be raked, and mosquitoes to be swatted.  The yard was an extension of a busy household needing maintenance.

     In mid-March, quite suddenly, schools and pretty much everything else closed.  The threat here in New York was very real as we saw our rates of illness and death rise dramatically each day.  The quarantine affected everyone.  I particularly felt for people in the City, who really could not safely go anywhere and had to remain in their apartments as much as possible.  More and more, I found myself wandering into our backyard.

     While many in our area have swimming pools, trampolines, fire pits, and other amenities in their outdoor space, our yard is fairly minimalistic.  Still, it is as if I rubbed my eyes one day and woke up to its wonder for the first time.

     We have our own safe plot of earth beneath our feet.  We can lie down on it and see the sky through the leaves on our trees.  I can breathe the fresh clean air whenever I want to.  I have come to know the noisy cardinal couple who make their residence near our shed.  I spotted one of the wild Long Island rabbits scampering across the grass.

     During distance learning with my 10 year old, we took breaks in the backyard for "gym".  We had running races, played wiffle ball, and read on the swings together.  Now that it's summer, we have added the sprinkler to our play, and we may camp one night in a backyard tent.

     When it first became evident that we would be spending more time at home for the whole summer, I expressed to my husband that we had to do something to keep the mosquitoes under control.  He began to rip up the ivy on the side where they had been breeding.  Not only has that been successful so far, but we've also discovered a treasure trove of artifacts from our family history buried in there (along with many of our neighbor's lacrosse balls).  With the ivy gone, too, we planted a garden and will soon be enjoying the tomatoes and squash growing there.

     Right in my own backyard, I have found safety and privacy, as well as the sense of curiosity, exploration, and freedom that only nature can provide.  It makes me wonder...what else do I already have that I'm not yet fully appreciating?  What else are we thirsty for that we already have access to?

While I Wait

(written Fall 2016)

The transitional minister at the Unitarian Church I attend was recently ordained.  A well-meaning congregant, asking how our minister now felt, started to answer her own question by saying something along the lines of, “it’s just a confirmation of what already was”.  Interestingly, the Reverend Laurie denied this.  Whether it be the official title, or the collar, or even that something supernatural occurred when we all laid hands upon her, charging her with a new responsibility, something fundamentally changed on that day.

This idea of a label changing reality instead of just describing it is something I am grappling with for the next few months.  My quirky, ultra-sensitive little girl will finally be formally assessed in the springtime by a pediatric neurologist.  I fully expect that she will, at the very least, be diagnosed with high-functioning Asperger’s. 

As a toddler, my daughter was evaluated through our school district and received occupational therapy and social skills services.  I appreciated the willingness of the system to step in early and help, and by the middle of kindergarten, such assistance was not deemed necessary in her educational environment. 

The truth, though, is that my little one’s challenges extend far beyond performance in school.  She is bright and can do well academically.  She can “hold it together” behaviorally during the school day.  So, as far as the district goes, there isn’t a need.  It’s not their concern that she really doesn’t eat at school, and at home only consumes a very small selection of specific and not particularly healthy foods.  It’s not their problem that smells, tastes, sounds, and textures can easily overwhelm her.  Certain tactile sensations which come with daily hygiene, such as hair or teeth brushing, are downright painful to her.  A new or unexpected experience can be seriously anxiety-producing, and that won’t show during a routine school day. 

Many of the stresses in my little girl’s life are not going to appear as a problem in school; she’s in that gray area of superficially typical, but life is harder than it should be for her.  She and I both need tools and support to cope.  We need to use particular strategies for overcoming obstacles so that success and happiness can be achieved.  So I had to go look past the minimal services a school district will provide because actually, these are life challenges.  Last month, I made that first phone call to a specialist referred by our pediatrician, and I filled out a large stack of paperwork, finally putting it all out there.

Now I wait until the three lengthy evaluation appointments which are still months away.  And while I wait, I think about what I hope to gain from a diagnosis.  We may or may not get more services at school; they may not really be necessary.  Maybe I will feel validated in my suspicions, but that’s not particularly important.  Of course I hope I will get more encouragement and ideas about handling the difficulties.  That is my clear desire.

I think back to the minister and how the label actually changed her reality.  And it makes me a little sad that that might happen for my daughter in this case.  She may be a child on the autism spectrum.  Will the label change who she is?  No, but if it changes others’ perceptions of her, including mine, then honestly there will be a very real shift. 

So, while I wait, I will continue to love her unconditionally exactly as she is.  Especially, in fact, for who she is…because she is interesting, and funny, and tender, and intense.  I just want to make life easier for her, and I want others to understand her better.  I will pursue whatever it takes for these things to happen, but I fear a label, too.  It might not always be used in a positive way; I am aware of that.  As I wait, I will prepare myself for what I may hear, and I will steel myself to be my baby’s fiercest protector and advocate, no matter what.  And I will begin to accept the idea that her label might change who I am as well.

Viktor at 15

I wasn’t there when he was born

He hadn’t yet entered my mind

Today my son is 15 years old

And the words are hard to find

I don’t know how he looked

Or how he sounded as a baby

I imagine he had a pretty tough time

But he was strong, maybe

Now he has become a young adult

Big, with ideas all his own

Yet I can’t help but wonder

About the tiny seeds that were sown

What did he come from?  What did he face?

A history and mystery that’s his

Today we celebrate his birth

Who he was and who he is

Unlikely Advice for My Daughter

I believe in synchronicity, the meaningful coincidence of certain concepts coming into my life just when a message is ready to be received. There have been countless examples of this over the years, of course especially when I make myself open to it. Recently I have experienced this phenomenon as relates to some parenting guidance I felt compelled to give.

My oldest daughter, a young adult who has been living on her own since her early college days, suffers from anxiety and depression. It is incredibly painful as her mother to know of her struggles and try in whatever limited way I can to help. I have made sure that she has access to medication and therapy appointments, and there are countless phone conversations between us. We fight her uncomfortable feelings together, she’s okay for a while, and then they come back. Recently she said to me, after making a concerted effort to move past certain seemingly paranoid fears only to have to confront them directly, that she feels like the universe does not want her to be sane. I wanted to contradict that statement immediately. But then some ideas which have been simmering in me over the past couple of months bubbled up at once and gave me a clear piece of unlikely advice for her.

I picked up a book not long ago, ostensibly on a whim, called Big Magic by Elizabeth Gilbert. In it, she talks about the creative process and how there will always be an element of fear involved. Her advice is to invite the fear in, give it some room, and move on without letting it take control. That spoke to me, as did two of my favorite movies which often come to mind, The Sixth Sense and A Beautiful Mind. In the former, a haunted child is only able to achieve some peace when he allows the disturbing ghosts to have their voice and he listens to what they have to say. And in the latter, the genius John Nash is finally capable of living productively when he acknowledges the imaginary characters and voices in his life but continues along without allowing them any power. And in one of the most touching sermons I have ever heard in church, the pastor described her experience with a stubborn loneliness. When she finally “sat with it” and saw it as a cherished companion rather than an enemy to be feared, she experienced a life-changing shift in perspective.

Suddenly, with all of these messages in focus, I felt I had a unique suggestion for my daughter. She feels a high level of anxiety, which sometimes leads to depression. It is part of who she is. She is one of the most sensitive, perceptive, detail-oriented people I know. With these strengths, the other side of that same coin is the anxiety they can produce. So to my girl I say: Give that anxiety some space and some respect. Name it. Write about it. Talk about it if you want to. And then move forward anyway. Because my daughter is also one of the bravest people I know.

Grace In Surrender

The irony is not lost on me when my Japanese student comes up with the irretrievable word on the tip of my tongue as I am trying to teach him English. Or when my six-year-old is able to finish the sentence I started better than I can. I’m approaching 50 so I look up “menopause symptoms” on the computer and am relieved to see memory issues included. It’s just a momentary reprieve, though. The fear of Alzheimer’s disease lurks just under the surface.

My mother is suffering from dementia most likely caused by Alzheimer’s, and with her, everyone who cares about her. The matriarch we all knew and loved is fading fast. A frail and confused little person replaces her, repeating herself constantly and getting panic attacks that can only be alleviated temporarily, until she forgets whatever explanation or comforting words helped her to begin with. General terms take over the specific ones she would have preferred to use; cream cheese is “white stuff”, colander is “the thing with holes”, and the symbol of her lifelong faith is reduced to “the t-shaped thing”. Her concept of time is distorted. An event that happened just months ago, if recalled, might as well have been from decades past. She can name some family members, but not all, and she is inconsistent even in that. At this point it is unclear if it is only the name she has lost or the entire memory of the person.

As my mom began her descent, I experienced flashbacks to my junior high years. My dad's mother had come to live with us for a while after it was deemed unsafe for her to remain in her little apartment out in the Midwest. I didn’t have any concept back then of what a devastating thing it is for a person to lose their mental capacities. To my 13 year old self, it was kind of funny how Grandma would say the same inappropriate things (she was a character, after all) and ask the same ridiculous questions (no, I did not acquire a boyfriend in the five minutes since you last asked me) over and over. In fact, I didn’t know my grandmother before she came to our house so it wasn’t like I could see a change in her.

I remember the day when my father, a stoic man who really never engaged in conversation with his nine children, approached me in preparation of my grandmother’s arrival. “She forgets things”, he warned me, “and I don't want anyone to make fun of her.” When you can count the total number of words your father ever said to you, you hang on to them. This must have been serious business for him to break his silence. He must have really loved his mother. I will even say that when he uttered those words, I was suddenly able to see him as a real, vulnerable person, and I began to love him, in a way that was beyond mere filial duty.

It was okay having Grandma live with us, from my perspective at least. She was fine physically, she said humorous things, she didn’t seem disruptive. Then came the night that my just-older brother and I still recall as one of the most traumatic in our lives. Grandma took a wrong turn in the dark hallway and tumbled down the stairs. She broke her hip, and that was the beginning of the end of her time in our branch of the family tree.

I remember accompanying my dad to visit her in the hospital, following behind his long strides, looking up to him. He would come home after a long day at work in the city and go to his suffering mother. As she was recuperating, she would beg him to take her home, exclaiming “I promise I’ll be good!” It was heartbreaking as he explained the situation gently again and again. He would literally pull his own hair out as she insulted the nursing staff, but he remained tender towards his mom.

I took my cue from my dad, and one day I decided I would go by myself to visit my grandmother after school. It was in walking distance, but it was definitely some big steps out of my comfort zone for me to go there. I sat there with Grandma and began to make awkward conversation. When a nurse came in and asked “Who do you have visiting you today, Gertrude?,” she said she didn’t know and she’d never seen me before in her life. Knocked down easily, I trudged home not feeling nearly as good about myself as I did on the way there.

These experiences from my formative years come back to me now. I’m in my dad’s place this time around. I see the change in my beloved mother. I know how painful it is to lose her slowly while she is still here, just as Dad did with his mother. (He actually died almost a decade before his mother, but he lost her way before that). I know it is important to be as kind as possible to those who were once the most powerful people in our world, now the weakest. My father was by no means a “hands-on dad”, but he left that message indelibly etched on my spirit.

So it turns out that this degenerative dementia exists on both sides of my family as I have seen it firsthand with both my mother and my paternal grandmother. It would not be particularly paranoid to fear getting it myself, especially when I can’t come up with that perfect word, find the item I placed somewhere special, or forget why I walked into the room.

When it became obvious that our mother could no longer live alone, we siblings had to communicate with each other to make decisions on her behalf. In each conversation I was a part of, my mind couldn’t help but replace “Mom” with my own name. Will my experience mirror my mother’s? I imagine my four children one day having similar discussions about me. Which might not want to face my decline at all? Which would want to help, but maybe not directly? Would any of them want to deal with me moving in?

Sometimes my mom will call me needing reassurance that I am well and my husband and children are okay. She cannot recall their names or ages or what they are up to, but she knows they are her family. She feels a compelling need to check on her “little chicks”, as she calls us all. And that is when I know she is still in there. And when I hope my own children will always be able to find me.

Little Kindnesses

My daughter is getting ready to graduate from high school as salutatorian of her class, and she is all set to start her Ivy League education in September. She is a talented singer and actress, a hard-working and intelligent student, a leader in extra-curricular clubs, and a fun-loving regular teenager as well. She's a wise old soul type, so much so that I have turned to her with my stresses and concerns for years, even though I know I shouldn't. We laugh and talk as friends; I won't apologize for that because she is well aware I'm also her mom. I know I will have tears when she leaves home for college not only because I will miss her like crazy, but also because I am so proud and excited for her that I could burst. I could list the dozens of academic and other accomplishments which fill me with that pride, but before she leaves, I want to remind her of some small acts of kindness she performed which were not listed on her college applications but that are etched forever on my heart.

Dear Abigail,

When your dad and I took a vacation to England three years ago, your toddler sister trusted you. You implicitly understood her sensory issues and helped her feel secure at bedtime by sleeping with her and indulging her in the strange rituals that soothed her.

When we left to bring your older sister to college four years ago, the first thing you did was to sit at the kitchen table and write her a letter.

When I was pregnant six years ago and having a particularly bad sickness spell while trying to pick you and your brother up from school, I ended up vomiting on myself and in the driveway. You helped me out of the soiled clothes and into the shower, you laid out clean pajamas on my bed, and you wrote me a sweet note in which you even asked me not to make a big deal of your help.

When you were a first-grader and we came home from Russia after adopting your brother, you made sure to scrawl a letter to Santa to inform him that we had a new little boy in the house who would need some gifts.

When you were four years old, your dad witnessed the horrific events of 9-11 from his workplace. He made it to a colleague's apartment where he called us, crying. When you had your turn on the phone, you could tell he was upset and you told him that when he got home you would cheer him up "by talking about farts and other inappropriate things". You were able to make him laugh.

Abigail, "source of joy", I love you so much and am obviously pleased with you for all of the usual reasons any parent would be. But I want to remind you that the little kindnesses which I have seen you show time and time again really are the most important things. Bring those with you out into the world, and with all your other amazing gifts, you will make it a better place.

Mom