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Perfect

Posted on by Susannah Warner

“Nah, I don’t really want to go now,  I have a lot of things to do at home, and I know you have a lot of work to do too,” I said to my husband, as we sipped our morning coffee together, side by side on the deck. “Besides, when we talked about it last night, the forecast was for full sun, and now there are tons of clouds in the sky.” We were discussing plans for the day, a conversation we’d had the night before, when we’d talked about “leaf peeping,” an autumn activity so popular in Northern New England, that tourists come from around the country, and some even come from around the world to see the fall foliage in all its glorious splendor. Some people make reservations months in advance, and spend hundreds, if not thousands of dollars to witness Maine’s grand finale. Yet, here I sat, with a sour look on my face because, now the weather wasn’t perfect. In addition, I was actually in a cleaning mood, and didn’t want to be interrupted, because that mood is fleeting and I’ve found it wise to harness that sucker and ride it while it lasts, or else I’d never clean out a closet, wash a window or dust.

He was quiet for a minute as we both looked over the railing to our overgrown field, the morning dew sparkling on the amber birch leaves, while the sun ignited the reds of the maples in the background. “I guess you’re right, ” he said, squinting in my direction, I should finish painting, and go to the dump.” His smile disappeared, like the sun at that very moment, as it hid itself behind a cloud. I thought of how little he asks of me, and the unavoidable guilt I’d feel by getting my own way and breaking the plans we’d made, so I relented. “Ok, fine, let’s go. I’ll go get ready, ” I sighed, getting up reluctantly and going inside.  I threw some jeans on over my yoga pants, put a hat on my head, grabbed a sweatshirt and a water bottle, and I was ready.

Off we went, into the mountains of Maine. He chattered like a magpie, while I looked out of the passenger side window, answering questions, and offering  one word answers, but I didn’t participate much at first in the way of conversation, partly because I’d left my enthusiasm for the day back with the mop, and partly because the clouds were like a wet blanket on my shoulders. This seemed like a waste of time, when we wouldn’t be able to see the vividness of the changing leaves against the clouds as well as we would against a bright blue sky. I knew I was being ridiculous–that I’m blessed to live in Vacationland, where beauty is literally out my back door, and that I have a husband who loves nature even more than I do, and even better, that he loves nothing better than to share the beauty of the earth with me–but, you know how it is, sometimes when you let yourself get into a funk, it’s hard to pull yourself out, and the fact that you know you’re being ridiculous, makes it even worse. For me, this kind of mood is only improved by one thing, and that is to not only think outside the box, but to literally get out of the box, and into some fresh air.

It is so easy to limit our minds and our lives to the four walls we live and work in. We live in a box, we sleep in a box, most of us work in a box; and so, our minds and our passions can sometimes be limited to what we can control. I can turn on the light if it’s too dim, turn up the heat if it’s too cold, the AC if it’s too hot, and turn on the TV if I’m bored. I live in a controlled environment, but nature will not be controlled, which can be  exciting, disconcerting, but oh, so beautiful. My husband knows this, and sometimes I know it too.

“Ohhh look!” I said suddenly, as we sailed past an overlook. Braking quickly, we turned into a horseshoe-shaped turn with one of the most fabulous views I’ve ever seen. Silently, we got out of the car and looked at the artistry before us. Colors, as far as our eyes could see; brilliant reds, oranges and yellows, set against a backdrop of green pines, “a bouquet from God,” my husband said, and I had to agree. Beyond the trees, a lake framed by mountains in the distance, some as far away as Vermont and Canada, with a flamboyant carpet cover, the whole effect as dramatic, yet dazzling as a fireworks display. Above it all, a layer of clouds adorned the top, the striations adding to the scene, not taking away from it.  My mood lifted like the breeze, as I silently thanked God for his handiwork and my husband for helping me to appreciate it. Why should I wait until the conditions are perfect to enjoy what is before me? I’d be waiting a lifetime, for there is no perfect on this earth; not in our lives, our homes, or even in nature, it’s all in how we choose to see things.

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Try

Posted on by Susannah Warner

There’s a saying that my nephew and I both particularly despise, we discovered one boozy, confession laden, rainy afternoon when he was in Maine for a visit. Actually, I’m sure we are not the only ones who dislike it. It goes something like, “shoot for the moon, even if you miss, you’ll end up among the stars.” Its one of those cliches that seems so smarmy that it’s embarrassing in its cheesiness. It gives me an internal squirm, every time I hear it, as well as other disingenuous quotes like it. The kinds of quotes, plastered on the walls of a high school guidance counselor’s office, or a family planning facility, anywhere that there are cement walls painted a hopeless color of greige. You know, the gag-worthy ones with the kitten dangling from a tree limb, “hang in there” emblazoned across the poor things chest, or the rainbow with the oily commandment to “look through the rain to see the rainbow.” For awhile, my nephew and I would text them to each other and groan at the ridiculousness, until I looked at Pinterest quotes so often, I started stumbling on ones that I actually love; advice from Tolstoy, The Bible, Hemingway and Fitzgerald. I never really expected to identify with a cliche, although admittedly, it’s a cliche for a reason, nor did I expect to gain inspiration from another lazy, rainy afternoon at home.

Today, my husband and I found ourselves at odds; I had a day off from work, and no grandmother obligations to fulfill, and he could not do the work he needed to do outside because it was too wet. Thus, we did something we never do; we watched a movie in the daytime together, and without a shred of guilt. The movie I picked, was “The Glass Castle.” I’ve read the book, and I had already seen the movie with my mother, and both times, I thought to myself, that my husband’s formative years, would make an excellent memoir, similar in it’s dysfunction to that story, which is why I’d thought he might like the movie, and he did. To me, it was as touching as before, but this time I found myself struggling not to cry, my throat aching and tears welling up in my eyes, not so much because of the story, but because of the message I’d missed before. The message to me today was clear; try, just try.

I’m not much of a trier. I prefer to be good at things right away, and then I like to stick with them. This is why I’ve worked in the same place for 30 years, I’ve lived in my home for 19 years, and I have been married to the same man for 27. There’s nothing wrong with sticking with something, and I’m certainly not about to change any of the things that I’m already committed to. But, I’m feeling like I should try out something new, good at it or not. I’ve been plugging away at my little blog for a year and a half now, and this has been a good opportunity to try something I’ve loved to do since I was little, even though I have no idea if I’m good at it or not, it’s just something I need to do, I have to get out. I’m really not sure if it’s a mid-life crisis thing or not, but lately I’ve been dissatisfied with just getting by, which has pretty much been my life’s motto, especially where academia was concerned. I’m feeling like I want to stretch a little, out of the comfy little corner I’ve painted myself into. Oh, I still want my job, my house and especially my husband, family and friends in that corner, but I’m wondering if there just might be a little more out there for me. I think it might be called growing pains, although I’m not sure if that’s what it is, or if it’s actually a calling of some sort.

I’ve always admired people who just jump in and try new things, I’ve never felt comfortable doing that, because if I did try and failed, it would feel like a weakness, which is curious that I would feel that way, because I’ve never felt that way about other people who try something and it doesn’t work out. I’ve always studied the way someone handles defeat; whether they shrug their shoulders like, “oh well, at least I tried,” or did they wipe away furious tears because they wanted it so badly and set their faces to try again. I’ve always appreciated both attitudes, one for its easygoingness and one for its grit and determination. It funny to think that what I admire in others, I think of as a weakness for myself. Or, at least I used to.

I think that at this point in my life, I’m ready to try some new things. I’ve realized lately that life is too short to not follow your dreams. I may fail, I might not get very far, I might shrug and say “oh well,” or I might be determined to try again, but at the end of my life, I won’t wonder what could have been if I had been brave enough to just try. I don’t know if I will get to the moon, but at least I know, I’ll land among the stars….I’m sorry Matt! I just had to end it that way! I hope you all have inspirational music in your heads right now too. Also, if you do, please picture me walking into the sunset with my hands raised triumphantly, as the credits roll. Thank you, and thanks for reading. Please stay tuned.

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Vocation

Posted on by Susannah Warner

A few nights ago I attended a banquet held by my employer to thank me and some of my fellow employees for our loyalty and service. It was a celebration of our longevity and commitment to serving the community. I work at a local hospital as a nurse, and I have worked there for 30 (!!!) years.

It wasn’t meant to be a career. At the time I had just turned 16, and I was thinking about a summer job. My mother was a LPN at the local hospital, and had heard about a desperate need for CNA’S. Apparently, they were in such short supply in our area in 1988, that the hospital came up with a program that would train 10 high school students for free, if we agreed to work full-time for the summer. I had no aspirations to be a nurse, and I abhorred the idea of assisting anyone, least of all a nurse, but it was either that or continue babysitting and since I’m not a “sitter” at all, I ended up spending the entire time playing with the kids, which made me in hot demand, but completely burned me out. Then, there was the matter of the inconsistent paycheck; 20 bucks from a doctor and her stay at home husband for a few hours while the kids slept, VS 5 measly ones to be up until 1am with a screaming Mimi in a filthy house. Thus, the 3.35 an hour WITH night differential, was a clear winner, even if it meant being a nurse’s assistant–a certified one at that.

So, every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon after school, and all day Saturday, from February until June, I learned how to care for patients. I learned how to take vital signs, and the proper way to write them down (that’s TPR for you younger nurses, not all scattered about like some do today, so that you have announce the respiratory rate, instead of just doing it in order!), make beds you could bounce a quarter off of, and how to give bedbaths, while preserving modesty (theirs), and without embarrassment (mine). I was taught everything I needed to know except for one thing… how to literally walk into someone bedroom and assist them with all manner of basic human needs, all while chattering about the weather or last night’s ballgame, like it’s nothing. I remember the first day of work, walking up and down that long hallway trying to summon the courage to walk in to a patient’s room and ask them if they’d “like to wash up for breakfast?”  I finally did, and continued on from there; working days, evenings and nights the summer I was 16, then all of my junior and senior years of high school, and even after I graduated. I wasn’t ready to go to college yet; I’d was pretty wrapped up with a certain bad boy from Lewiston at the time (LOL!) and back then there wasn’t the same push to go to college right after high school ready or not; thank God, because I wasn’t ready, although I had plenty more to learn.

I found that I really enjoyed helping people, not the nurses so much, because many, many times I thought to myself that I could do a better job than some of the nurses, but the people in need; people who were hurting. It was truly a pleasure to wash and rub the back of the old farmer who had gotten run over by his own tractor and had been stuck in a hospital bed in traction for months, because it made him feel so much better. I loved making their beds fresh and wrinkle free, and helping the older lady, so debilitated and weary from a severe stroke, and hearing her sigh with relief and pleasure as she sunk into the clean bed.  Awkwardness? I got over that really fast, caring for a 23-year-old man who had been nearly killed in a motorcycle accident and was bedbound and nearly immobile for weeks in traction. At that time, it was not uncommon for patients to be in the hospital for weeks, especially when traction was involved. My, how things have changed.

I liked taking patients outside for “fresh air,” (I brought my own “fresh air” out with me on those occasions, and yes, I quit years ago!). I liked feeding the ones who could not feed themselves; I’d put lots of butter, salt and pepper on their potatoes, and sugar and cream on their oatmeal just how I like it, and felt as proud as a mother when they ate it all, especially when the patient’s sweet little wife came in to visit, just as I was wiping her husband’s mouth and exclaim, “that’s wonderful dear! He hasn’t eaten that well in weeks! Thank you for taking such good care of him for me.” I glowed with pride, as I did when I walked by my assigned rooms and admired how tidy they were, everything neat and inviting, and how clean and comfortable my patients looked.

I learned tricks along the way too; getting someone to suck on a straw, when they couldn’t even open their mouths. I learned how to shave a mans face, with an electric and a disposable razor, wich is a tricky business when the skin is loose, and the angles are sharp. I learned how to make the ladies permed hair look like they came from the beauty parlor with some no-rinse shampoo, and a pick. I learned how to roll a 200+ pound person alone, even though I was a little over half that myself, and I could pull that same person up in bed by myself (Patients tend to slide down in the bed, and constantly need a “boost,” usually by a person on either side of the bed lifting with a sheet or pull pad) by pulling the bed down and lifting them from the top, and I could safely transfer that same person to a chair, with no help even if they couldn’t put weight on their legs. I learned that warm prune juice works like a charm for sluggish old bowels. Also, along the way, I learned how to make small talk. A tomboyish introverted bookworm, I would have described myself prior to working with sick and injured people, I had absolutely no clue how to make small talk, because it didn’t come naturally to me. Thanks to thousands upon thousands of conversations with strangers, I can talk to anyone about anything.

Most importantly I think, along the way though, I learned how to make people feel better– to make the worst day of their lives, just a little bit better. I learned to joke with the surly ones, kid the old men, agree with the confused ones, and listen to the sad ones; and I learned that this is my calling. I continued to work as a CNA for 16 years, in the same place, before finishing nursing school. The only reason it took that long, was because I loved the work so much, and didn’t want to trade the closeness I had with the patients, for paperwork and medications. Eventually  though, the lure of a higher paycheck, coupled with the annoyance I sometimes felt at some of the nurses because I knew I could be more efficient, more compassionate and less judgmental than a few of the ones I worked with at the time (those slackers are long gone, the nurses I work with now, are a wonderful group of people).

Now, I spend the majority of my days at the front desk, and I miss the time I was able to spend with my patients. 30 years ago, I worked closely with two older nurses, who had my dream job. They no longer worked as nurses, because they were past retirement age and felt that they couldn’t return to all that responsibility, so they were allowed to function as CNA’s  but with their old nurse pay. While I know this would never fly today, it seems like that would have been a nice way to ease out of the most trusted profession in the world, in the same way I entered into it; helping those, who for whatever reason, can’t help themselves and in the process helping myself.

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Grace Under Pressure

Posted on by Susannah Warner

Here’s to you mom, the young and the old,

with dishes to wash, and shirts to fold.

Here’s to you mom, the rich and the poor,

the one herding everyone out the door.

Here’s to you mom, the single and married,

with lives that are full, and too often harried.

Hold on Mom, your time will come,

when there is no more work, it’ll all be fun.

So, enjoy it Grandma, now it’s all downhill,

A feast to enjoy, and never a bill.

 

Yesterday was Monday, and every other Monday during the school year, starting today, I’ll be playing mom to my six-year-old granddaughter for the afternoon. This is because my daughter and I have unusual work schedules since we both work at a hospital; she in the ER, and I work on a medical/surgical floor. She works every Monday, from 8-8, and has to rely on her father and me to pick-up Bean at school, take her to dance, and get her to bed. It turns out, that this is an exhausting afternoon for a grandmother, even a fairly energetic one like me.

it’s not that I haven’t done something like this before—my children are 27 and 21, and they both participated in a variety of sports that required numerous trips to and from school, not just after school, but before it as well…as in 4:30 am for a powerlifting program they inexplicably loved. I somehow acclimated to rising at 3:50 am, throwing on sweatpants and a hat and winter jacket (hey! This is Maine!), and sleepily driving the five miles to school, a silent teen, huddled like a turtle in it’s shell, inside a hooded sweatshirt beside me. Afternoons were more lively; sweaty, dirty and triumphant after a great game, or sometimes loaded down with friends bemoaning a loss, the afterschool task of chauffeuring my kids was always fun. I’m used to all the “running around” required of a mom with active kids—Or, at least I used to be.

“School gets out at 2:50, get there 10 minutes early, go to the office and fill out the pink sign-out sheet. Then wait in the hallway. You will have to watch and pluck her out of the herd of kids because she doesn’t always see me. Dance arrival is 3:45, her pink dance bag is in the living room. Please pack a water. Dance pick up is 5:30. Please ask her if she has homework. She should go to bed at 7:30.” My daughter is very organized, and gives explicit instructions which I appreciate, because I seem to have lost any sense of urgency that I used to employ to make sure that we were all where we were supposed to be, with clean faces and a minimum of five minutes to spare. I ran a tight ship back in the day, but now my ship is more like a pleasure cruise, and I am happy to let my daughter be the captain. She’s very good at it.

After a few clarifications, I showed up at the school and waited with the others, 3/4 of whom were moms. They’re easy to spot. Some hold coffee cups, some hold toddlers, all hold their phones, either in their hands, or stuffed into the back pocket of their jeans. They lean comfortably against the walls and chat about mom stuff, “I know! Harper always wants to watch that show,” and “I just can’t believe how fast they’re growing! My oldest just turned 15!!” The dads look uncomfortable and shuffle their feet, communication limited to a nod of sympathy to other dads, angling for a spot on the wall. I could almost hear them thinking of each other, “poor bastard, wonder how he got roped into this…” They too hold their phones, squinting fervently into the screen, which I know instantly is a ruse, because being an outsider myself, I also tried casually scrolling through my phone, so that I would feel less awkward and out-of-place, only to find to my disappointment that there was absolutely no service in that part of the school. Everyone waits for the kids to come out. Finally they do—and just as my daughter predicted, I did have to fish her out of a stream of kids. She threw her arms around my waist, and shouted ”Noni!!” She smiled a jack-o-lantern smile, while looking over her pink glasses like an adorable little librarian. French braided pig tails with loose strands springing out, and a giant backpack on her back, water bottle tucked in the side pocket, off we went, through the school doors and into the unseasonably hot September afternoon.

I can happily say that we did everything we were supposed to do (except for the shower her mother requested when she called at her dinner break; because, well, it just seemed like all too much), she had a snack, got changed for dance, got there in time, came home, had dinner, did homework, had a little tv time, brushed her teeth, read a story, and went to bed. But, because I’m a grandmother, I cheated a bit. Her snack was a cupcake from a local bakery, I let her watch YouTube videos in the car, dinner was a happymeal, and honestly, if she had whined about brushing her teeth, I’d have said, “oh well, it won’t hurt just this once!” But she didn’t.

However, even with all these shortcuts, I still found this afternoon exhausting. Usually when I’m with her, we have no agenda at all, Sure, I’ve had to pick a sick Bean up at school a few times, much to her working mom’s relief, and I’ve even taken her to an appointment or two, but usually we while away our days playing Barbies, baking, shopping, and going out to lunch.

There was a time though, when my life revolved around my children; their needs, wants and activities, and my husband and I managed it all while we worked and each went to college, and didn’t think anything of it. Not about the daycare that closed permanently one Friday afternoon, when I came to pick my daughter up, because as the daycare owner tearfully confessed, “my husband is cheating on me! I just can’t do this!” Not cleaning up vomit at 2 am, when I had to get up in 2 hours, or the battle royale faced every freaking night about homework (our daughter) and bedtime (our son). I look back now, and think, “how did we do it and not kill each other?” The answer is grace. God gives you the grace that you need for every season of your life. grace is quiet and gentle, like a soft sweater. You aren’t even aware of its presence at all, and there is only one way to know for sure that you were given grace, and that is when you look back at that time in your life and think… “How, did I do it all?” That does not mean that it’s not difficult, or that you don’t cry at night. Or nearly psychotically, endlessly, repeat Robert Frost’s “…and miles to go before I sleep” as you drive a wailing toddler to the babysitters at 5;30 in the am, both of you with blankets over your laps, and a scraper in your hand to clean the windshield of frost as you drive down the dark road because, the blower broke in your car, and you have no money to fix it.

But, I digress, clearly there is a lot of emotion left over if I  think about how hard it really was. It is difficult to be everything to someone, or several someones. It is scary to feel like your little ones future rests on your shoulders and that if you mess this up, they might end up being a bad person. It is tiring to always have to do things the right way and rarely “cheat” as I did with Bean last night. But, it is so worth it. Because someday, when you have come through that exhausting season of life, you might be the grandparent, breezing through the drive-thru, not a shred of guilt, or a morsel of remorse for that snack-time cupcake. Let me tell you, because I’ve been there, no grace is needed for this job. Hallelujah!

 

 

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All Things Work Together

Posted on by Susannah Warner

In the past 48 hours, we’ve had to take two different vehicles to the mechanic’s shop for repairs. One had to be towed with a broken transmission line, and the other one needed a new alternator. We’ve also had not one, but two broken brake lines, a flat tire, and for the needle that nearly broke the haystack… the lawnmower just died. I said nearly, because guess what we did, when I called to my husband to come see the gas that he’d just put in the mower, pouring out the side? We laughed.

“Well, that’s the end of that mower,” he said, as he took off the filter and the rest of the gas dribbled out. “You can’t fix it?” He just looked at me, “Bugs… it’s done.” I knew he was right; that 100 dollar push mower has been around for years and has been used weekly to mow our two acres, as well as at times, up to three other properties. I’ve mowed more lawns with that push mower than a teenage boy, not for an allowance, but just so that I don’t have to go to the gym in the summer!

At any rate, this newest domestic annoyance, while not earth shattering, was enough to put us over the edge. In the past, we quite likely would have been bickering, blaming each other, or at the very least, bemoaning our fate and lashing out with a “Great! What else can go wrong?!?” But not today, Satan, not today. It seems the Bickersons have learned a thing or two; maybe we are finally growing up, or maybe, just maybe, we’ve learned that blessings often come on the heels of tragedy, or in this case, vexatious situations.

So, we laughed instead, and we actually could see the “bright side” of each problem…The truck could have broken down while we were away this past weekend in a place with miles and miles of dirt roads, loaded down with a four-wheeler, two bicycles and a trailer with two kayaks, and absolutely no cell phone service. We are thankful to have AAA to tow us, and we were so relieved to find out that what we thought was a bad transmission, was only a broken transmission line, which cost 183 dollars, instead of thousands. The jeep also, when it broke down was conveniently in front of the eye doctor, where my husband had a much needed appointment, and had just enough juice to get him to the shop after the appointment, although without wipers on a very rainy day. In addition, the brake line that failed, as he was driving the truck home from the shop, did not cause him to completely lose his brakes and crash into someone, and the second brake line that blew while he was repairing the first, happened in our drive way. The lawnmower? Well, that does suck, but it’s September, and we’re bound to find some clearance mower out there.

It’s all about perspective I guess. The Bible tells us to “consider it pure joy, when you face trials of many kinds.” That seems nearly sainthood level and I’m quite sure I’ll never be happy about tribulations, but I’m very thankful that both my husband and I have learned this verse, and we stand together on this promise found in Romans 8:28… “All things work together for good to them that love God.” I’m expecting a blessing after all this hassle and all these unexpected expenditures! Stay tuned…

P.S. I would be remiss if I didn’t give credit to my niece Mollie, who has written a “grateful” every night for 1,331 nights in a row, never missing one. A “grateful” is a list of things good and bad that she is thankful for that day. She emails this list, which also serves as a communication tool so that her family and friends can see where in the world this Gad-about Gladys is on that day. What I love about this is that even when bad things happen, like a nasty fall she had recently that required stitches, and several days of unaccustomed idleness to recover, she always looks for the positive, and changes the whole situation around with her perspective. She is so wise for her age, and she is right; there is always something to be grateful for.

 

 

 

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Another Life

Posted on by Susannah Warner

Every time I travel with my husband, I end up creating a new life for us in my head. It doesn’t matter where we go; a quick getaway an hour from our home, or halfway across the globe, I always wonder what it would be like to live there. I don’t know if everyone does this, or if my imagination goes a little wild at times, but in the space of 5 minutes, I’ve created a whole new world in my head. It can be triggered by a charming piazza, a quaint library, a little hospital, or a homey restaurant that I can easily envision becoming “our place.” Anything that is familiar, but different; common-place, but new. This past weekend, on a spur of the moment road trip with my ever-ready travel buddy, I did it again.

It all started with a rainy day, a bustling bay on the banks of the St. Lawrence river, an enticing coffee shop with geraniums in a window box, and a few tables and chairs set cozily by a rain streaked picture window. My husband and I had just paid for our ferry tickets to see a castle on a heart-shaped island in the middle of the river. A tourist attraction, the story behind the castle is both romantic and tragic, and I was eager to see it for myself. It was raining hard when we left our motel, and I had given myself a mental pat on the back for remembering our rain coats. But now, the rain had slowed to a drizzle, and my husband had shucked his off, while we strolled through the town looking for a place to get coffee and maybe a pastry while we waited for the ferry.

We wandered in through the open door of a tourist shop that sold t-shirts, hats and souvenirs, because it had a sign out front offering us coffee and warm cinnamon buns. Finding an empty spot at the window, we plunked down to while away the minutes until it was time to depart. Chatting about how good the cinnamon bun was, while watching the passers-by, some with rain coats, but most without, we both turned our heads when a heavyset elderly man, wearing stained Dickies work pants, and a baseball hat that had seen better days, sat down beside us. He joked with the college-aged girls manning the counter; clearly he was a regular. “Hi there!” he wheezed heartily in our direction, “where are you folks from?” We told him we lived about 450 miles away, in Maine. “Maine, huh?” he said remembering, his milky blue eyes smiling, “The wife and I used to like to go up there in the fall, sometimes clear up the coast.” My husband continued chatting with him conversationally, while my mind started to wander.

“What if we lived here?” I thought. “What if we were regulars at this cute little shop too? What if we often saw Bud (no idea what his name was, but Bud seemed appropriate) and knew the names of the girls behind the counter. What if I worked at that adorable hospital, right on the banks of the river? It doesn’t look too big, maybe just slightly bigger than the hospital where I work. I bet I would like it there. I could take patients for walks on the path that leads right from the hospital door, and goes along the river. Tiny could work anywhere; he’d probably find a job in a day. We’d live right in town, and walk everywhere. We could eat at that dockside restaurant that we went to last night, every week. And that ice cream place! that could be a problem… but at least I’d be walking a lot. We would definitely want to get a boat. I wonder where the nearest grocery store is, and a church…”

Suddenly I was brought to my senses by “Bud” who nudged my arm and smiled in a crinkly, way, “So, you two are going to Boldt castle? That used to be helluva good place to party, got my name written on one of them walls before they started restoring it.” he said giving me a conspiratorial wink, making me like him right then and there.”Yeah,” I thought, I could get used to this place, we could make it a home.” I smiled at my husband who was finishing his coffee, while talking to Bud about the proportions and dimensions of a cargo ship we had seen last night, and what kind of cargo it carried; the kinds of things that men say to each other that make me think that they are adorable, but also boring, allowing my mind to continue to create my new microcosm.

“Bud’s probably actually a millionaire, one of those really frugal ones, who wears the same thing everyday and has money squirreled away all over his crumbling old mansion. I bet his real name is something like, Robert Edward Worthington III, (the ridiculousness of creating a fake name, off of an already made up name, lost on me at the time, so caught up in this reverie was I), he never had any children and is lonely since his wife died and he stopped caring about his appearance. Tiny could help him out as a caretaker and I bet he would eventually leave his inheritance to him….”

Before my mind could venture any further, my cellphone binged; a text from my daughter. She was sending me a picture of our granddaughter, and I instantly switched gears. Chloe! Emily! Isaac! I would never leave them, and start a new life so far away from my heart’s delights. I sent back a heart Emoji, as my husband stood to clear the table of our cups and plates, while telling Bud that it had been nice talking to him. I gathered my backpack, and put it on over my pink raincoat, while my husband threw his yellow one over his arm.  I looked over my shoulder and waved a goodbye to Bud, who was already turning his attention away from us, toward a young couple sitting at another table.

We walked out of the shop and into the warm soupy air, turning in the direction of the water, our shuttle boat having just docked. I was feeling a little guilty, like I’d betrayed them all for even thinking about a new life, when suddenly, Tiny leaned over and said, “I could get used to this place.” I smiled, experiencing one of those rare moments of clarity that a new experience can sometimes bring….”This is why we travel,” I thought, “to physically escape our daily routine while absorbing new ideas, new people and new thoughts, and to store all these things up inside our memory banks so that we can make a mental withdrawal anytime our emotional wallet is empty. No need to feel guilty…Traveling sparks my imagination because I feel alive when I travel, and when I come back, I’ve fallen in love all over again with the life I’ve already made…at home.”

 

“To travel is to live.”   ~Hans Christian Anderson

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Age is Just a Number

Posted on by Susannah Warner

My husband turned 53 two days ago, and our daughter 27. They were born on the same day, and although my mother-in-law crowed at the time it was same hour, it turns out that was a bit of an exaggeration, according to his birth certificate. But, both were born in the wee hours of the morning, on August 19th, so that’s close enough. My mother-in-law’s amplifications notwithstanding, it is pretty cool that 50% of my little family was born on this day, and even more impressive is the attitude that my husband has about his age; which he basically ignores, or in the wise words of Mark Twain, “age is a case of mind over matter, if you don’t mind, it doesn’t matter.”

He didn’t get this attitude from his father. That man was one of those people who lamented constantly about being old when he was but a young pup of 60. I can say that he was young because after 3 decades of caring for the elderly, I really don’t consider anyone “old” until they are in their 90’s. Even then, there are still those vibrant nonagenarians, who although might move a little slower than they would like, have the mind and attitude of a young person, so to me they seem no older than 50. Conversely. I have seen people in their 40’s and 50’s, moan and carry on about being old (!?!?!), which tends to makes me agree with them. To be fair, some have serious mental and/or physical problems but I can’t help but wonder which came first, the ailment or the attitude?

I’ve decided that I want to be just like my husband’s uncle, whom I recently met, and instantly liked. He and Aunt Carolynn, are “snowbirds,” at least that’s what they are called in our area, which means they live in Florida, but spend summers up north, which in this case, is upstate New York along the St. Lawrence river. His only complaint about living in Florida is that there isn’t enough to do. He doesn’t mean recreationally, as no doubt there are a myriad of ways to relax, including  five hours long Bingo games, which Aunt Carolynn enjoys, but he eschews… “I can’t sit that long! I’m only good for about two hours.” He is talking about puttering around the house: fixing, repairing and maintaining a home inside and outside which are all things that have kept him active and fit as a fiddle. “I like to keep busy,” he explained, as we sat on the back deck, watching the ships cruise by on the river while enjoying a cup of coffee. I told him that I always ask my 90-year-old patients about their longevity secrets. Was it proper nutrition, working out, or maybe getting 8 hours of sleep every night that helped them live so long? Nope, they all have said the same thing…”I always kept busy.” That’s it. Not one of them said, “I took time to pamper myself,” or, “every day I would lie on the couch, watch The Price is Right, and eat potato chips.” Nope, according to these “old people,” all they did was keep moving. And so does Uncle Charlie, a man who, by his own admission, once smoked 3 packs of cigarettes a day, but now has a perpetual cup of coffee in his hand. “You traded in three packs, for three pots!” I joked with him.

I’m thankful to have many “busy” role models in my life. My stepfather Jake, who could easily be sidelined, as most are, by an advancing case of COPD, not to mention four prior heart attacks, always answers “excellent!” when asked how he is, and he never stops working. My mother too, a retired nurse, always keeps busy; swimming with her friends, going to prayer meetings most mornings, baking and puttering around the house (Mom! I know just what you’re going to say here…”Ohhh, I spend a lot of time reading on the couch, and I like to take a nap every afternoon.”…What she doesn’t realize is that if you were truly a lazy person, the whole day would be spent on leisure pursuits, not just a couple of hours in the afternoon). My husband too, always keeps moving. He is something of a natural due to the fact that he has ADHD, and restless leg syndrome, so awake and even sound asleep, he always moves. Anyone who lives with someone with ADHD, is well aware of the downfalls, but here is one of the benefits! He likes to work (by work, I mean carpentry, or any other physical task that involves a lot of swearing and sweating), hike, walk, climb, jump out of airplanes, kayak… basically anything that propels him forward, or in the case of skydiving, hurdles him downward. The proverb, “a rolling stone gathers no moss,” would be an accurate description of the way he lives his life, and maybe it is the same for those 90-year-old patients I’ve talked to, as well as Uncle Charlie, who will soon be an Octogenarian himself,  but I’m convinced it’s also a mental game as well.

I suppose you could argue that a busy person doesn’t have time to think about how old they are, and that is true, but what makes someone refuse to grow old gracefully, and instead choose to fight it every step of the way?  Maybe it’s a love of life, maybe it’s a positive attitude, or maybe it’s a stubborn streak, a refusal to give in, or give up. Either way, I’ve learned that if I’m going to ponder these mysteries, and other deeper philosophical subjects, I had better do it while I’m moving my body in some form or fashion. I want to be like Uncle Charlie when I grow up and say, as he did to me… “I went to a high school reunion recently, and it was just a bunch of old people.” I guess it’s really true that age is just a number, thank you for that reminder, Uncle Charlie, and thank you to my husband, that AARP card-carrying grandfather, who thinks, acts, and looks young; therefore he is young.

 

 

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Fight or Flight

Posted on by Susannah Warner

D1A62D9C-8964-4F5C-800E-D29DFBBAD4BDThere I was, innocently flipping the switch on my bedroom wall, reminiscing about the nice evening my husband and I had just had; riding bikes, watching the sun set over the river, watching a movie, my head in his lap so that he would play with my hair…When out of nowhere I felt a swoosh go right by my head, followed by flapping wings. My feet registered what was happening and started moving towards safety before my head did, my fight or flight instinct alive and well. Evidently, the flight aspect is my go-to when faced with what my body thought was grave danger. I screamed and ran, ducking at the same time as if under fire, to the bathroom, where I promptly slipped and fell, while trying to slam the door. After I assessed that I wasn’t seriously hurt, I opened the door a crack, to see a bat, frantically making a bee-line, or maybe a bat-line, for my head. I slammed the door shut, only to realize too late, that my phone was on my bed; I had no way to summon help.

“Wait, yes I do,” I thought, “I can open my window and yell to Tiny,” who was in the garage at the time. I’m not much of a yeller, so when that failed to elicit a response, I resorted to whistling, actually more of a high-pitched squeal until I saw a shadow and heard my husband say incredulously, as this is the first time I’ve summoned him with a whistle in 28 years, “Is that you Bugs? WHAT are you doing?” In a shaky voice, dripping with adrenaline and fear, I shouted to him, “I’m trapped!!” “Huh?” he said, struggling to reconcile the peaceful easiness of the night, with the note of hysteria in my voice. “I’m trapped!” I cried again, as my plight came out in a tumble of strung together words. “There’s-a-bat-in-our-room-and-I’m-stuck-in-the bathroom!!” And, just like any hero who is worth his salt would, he replied, “I’ll be right there!”

And he was, work gloves and an old flannel shirt on, a hat on his head, and a towel in his hands, as if he had a “bat disposal kit” at the ready, for just such an emergency. “C’mere, c’mon,” he cajoled the frenetic bat, while I peered through a slit in the door the width of a dime, and shouted unhelpful exclamatory remarks. “Get him! Get him! Oh, he’s terrible! I hate him!” “What?” he said, huge smile on his face. “He’s beautiful! Look at him!” ” I don’t want to look at him! I want him to go!” Just then, he lighted in the corner of the room, and my batman snuck up to him, covered him completely in the towel, and with a triumphant look towards the slit in the bathroom door, said “Don’t worry Bugs, I got him, you can come out!” Breathing a sigh of relief I emerged shakily from my hiding place, while he brought the bat outside and freed him.

It was at this point, I noticed that I had skinned my knee and bruised my thumb while I was fleeing. It made me think of how ridiculous I had just acted, especially considering that I am a nurse, and should be calm under pressure; and I am, but apparently not when frenzied, flying mammals are involved. I mentally added bats to my growing list of fears that I’m developing in my advancing years: surly dogs, mice, heights and now bats. I also realized that I am more of a runner than a fighter, and that conveniently my husband is a fighter. I don’t think this is just a gender thing, because I know for a fact that my own daughter is a fighter, something I learned quite by accident, when taking a walk with her when she was 16, and I cowardly jumped behind her when a German Shepard lunged at us. Using my own daughter as a human shield was not my proudest mom moment, but it did allow me to get a glimpse of her strength and fearlessness. “Get out of here! Go on home!” She demanded with such confidence and authority that the dog, who no doubt outweighed her, stopped in his tracks and slunk back to the decrepit, elderly house trailer he had attempted to defend.

Winged intruder gone, I conducted a thorough search of the bedroom for guano, then gratefully dropped into bed, but not without a wary, soured feeling which particularly distressed me as I had taken advantage of the beautiful day earlier, and washed and hung all the bedding out on the line. The sun-drenched, fresh smell I had been looking forward to all evening now felt tainted, but at least the bat was gone. “That was fun!” Tiny chuckled, reliving the moment with a smile on his face. When I didn’t respond, he looked at me and his expression softened, “I love that you were so afraid of that bat, it was very endearing.” I smiled at him, grateful that he relishes any opportunity protect me, even if it’s only from a bat. “Well, I love that you weren’t.” I said. So, content with our day, the fresh linen and each other, we slept.

 

 

 

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What’s For Dinner?

Posted on by Susannah Warner

I’m not sure why I can’t decide what I want to eat. Maybe it’s from almost 27 years of being a mom. You know, like when the kids are little and your “meal” consists of toddler leftovers; three spaghetti strands (with no “red stuff because it’s yucky! only butter!”), a drying crust with a smear of peanut butter left on it, three bites of cold scrambled eggs, and a triangle of soggy toast…that kind of meal. The sad remains that you could not coax, or guilt, as my mother used to do -“there are starving children in Armenia!” – ( btw, I had to text my mother and ask which country was deemed the most appropriate to ship leftovers to for those poor kids in 1979, because I was thinking it was either China or Romania for some reason. I’m ashamed to admit that I had to google, “where is Armenia located?” after she promptly texted back the answer. It’s in Asia, in case you’re wondering too…), your child into consuming. So, you nourish yourself on what was left behind after declaring that they need to “take one more bite. ” This is a statement that I learned to regret when my then three-year old daughter would absolutely not take one more bite, and sat there, alternately crying and stamping her feet for over 30 minutes, until her father tried to intercede on her behalf, but seeing the grim set of my jaw, wisely determined that I would not give in, at which point he turned to our tiny tyrant and cajoled her into taking a little nibble. The story ends on a sour note in my mind, even 24 years later as I vividly recall her letting that “one bite” dribble down her chin, rather than swallow it, as she slid out of her booster seat and ran away. Clearly this was a power struggle and not about food at all, but at least I can console myself with the fact that she has turned into a strong, independent woman, which soothes my still ruffled feathers a little. But, I digress…

Obviously toddlers and pre-schoolers dictated my diet, but even when they were babies, and just starting to eat the oatmeal that comes in a box, I’d usually match every spoonful I fed them with two in my own mouth. Hey, don’t judge! It’s really good, and goes great with cold coffee. In more recent years, when my children were teenagers, they still called the sustenance shots; Pizza! McDonald’s! I just went with whatever everyone else wanted, hoping that I could find something I liked, or in the case of the fast food option, something with the least amount of guilt attached to it, and if nothing else, a bowl of cereal has always been my go-to, often eaten standing up by the sink, because why get comfortable when cereal takes like 10 seconds to eat?

But then they grew up, and my husband and I are left asking each other the same thing whenever we decide to eat out…”What do you feel like eating?” The response? If I am the one answering, I have a standard reply, “I don’t care, what do you want?” Except apparently I do care, I just don’t know that I do until he presents options that I find objectionable…

Husband: “Chinese?”

Me: “Nah, we just had Chinese, I can only eat that when I’m in the mood for it. ”

Husband: “Pizza?”

Me: “Ugh, I’m sick of pizza!”

Husband: “Big Mac?”

Me: *makes face while inwardly crushing on the “special sauce” …and those onions! How do they make them so tiny and yummy?!?* …”No.”

Husband: “Mexican?”

Me: “Alright, I’ll go, but I’m only going because all I really want is a margarita…and maybe just a bite off of yours.”

It sounds like I’m not very good at making decisions, but actually my job requires me to make decisions for 12+ hours a day, some that could be life or death, so I think its safe to say that on my days off, I succumb to a little “decision fatigue.” My husband seems to be used to my indecisiveness and since neither of us are very adventurous eaters, generally we agree on where to go. By not adventurous, I mean that we aren’t really fans of fruits and vegetables. I mean, I do love mashed potatoes, so much so, that my co-workers can vouch for the fact that I eat them every day at work in the hospital cafeteria, because the only thing I like better than institutional mashed potatoes, is institutional oatmeal. I also have corn on the cob once a year, when a local farm sells them, but I’ve been told by a dietitian where I work that they are starches and don’t really count and besides I think you are supposed to eat them like three times a day, not three times a year. I’ve also heard that potatoes are “nightshades” and therefore evil, but they don’t scare me.

My husband, for his part, eats more vegetables than I do, but never on a daily basis and certainly not the epic proportion that our daughter insisted on when she was little and inexplicably thought that peas were his favorite food. Every year, for years, for her “birthday dinner” and for her father’s as they share the same birthday, she would choose a “feast” (her term, not mine!) of steak, french fries, both liberally doused with ketchup, and “peas for Dad.” Poor Dad, who barely tolerates peas in a chicken pot-pie, had to choke down double portions, on his birthday no less, so as not to hurt her feelings.

In re-reading what I’ve written so far, it appears that what started out as a commentary on my indecisiveness regarding food choices, took a rather nasty veer towards the unsettling effect children can have on one’s ability to know your own mind. My husband and I sound like a couple of shell-shocked war survivors, trying to get a grip on our own lives, after 20 years were commandeered by little hands and big hearts. There is some truth to this, as any empty nester can tell you, and we wouldn’t change a thing. Especially since our “tiny tyrant” will be turning 27 in ten days, it actually was quite easy to decide on serving peas with her birthday meal.

Post Script: Upon reading this to my husband before posting, he blurted out… “I actually do like peas! Especially in potpie! I like they way they squish! It’s creamed corn I don’t like, but that’s ok, you can keep it that way, since it’s ‘loosely based’ on your life and apparently mine.” After I read that to him… “Jeez, you can’t say anything in this house!” Nope, not when you live with a blogger.

 

 

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In Sickness and in Health

Posted on by Susannah Warner

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“In sickness and in health,” is one of the phrases in traditional wedding vows, and one of the few that I remember. I don’t think about them much, but I live them every day. My husband is bipolar. He doesn’t just have bipolar, this part of who he is. Yesterday, overwhelmed, and distraught from a series of stressful events, my husband sent me the above message, called our adult children to say goodbye, and went into the woods with a loaded 9mm. Today, we went out to lunch, grocery shopped, and visited the chiropractor for a tune-up on his back. Does this sound unbelievable? If you are married to someone with bipolar it doesn’t. It’s real, it’s scary, and there is no cure. I vowed to live with him in sickness and in health, until death do us part. The problem is, death could have happened yesterday, it can happen today, and it can happen tomorrow.

Why doesn’t he take medication? He does. Why doesn’t he see a psychiatrist? He does. Why doesn’t he read the Bible, or go to church? He does both of those things, and he listens to worship music, and sermons on YouTube. His faith is very important to him, and has saved his life on more than one occasion. He is also diligent in making sure he gets enough sleep, lots of exercise and eats properly. He no longer drinks alcohol, consumes only minimal caffeine, and doesn’t drink from any aluminum cans, or use any product with aluminum in it, including certain toothpastes and deodorant because that affects his mood too. That’s how in-tuned to his body he is, how diligently we both monitor his moods. and how careful he is…but still the threat of suicide looms, as it did for his father for years, until he silenced that voice forever with a bullet to his head. “I can’t believe he held out that long,” my husband observed. He was 63 when he took his life.

“Selfish,” I’ve heard people say of those who commit suicide. The ignorance and judgement heaped on the head of those already suffering makes me sick; and so angry. They have no idea the struggle some people go through each and every day… it is truly a battle. They just get tired; tired of the mental anguish, whirlwind of thoughts they can’t escape, and the feeling like they are a disappointment and a burden. I don’t blame them at all, instead, I admire their tenacity and strength, because I’ve seen the mental fortitude that it takes to survive, over and over from my other half, my ride or die, my…Whoops, I was interrupted here, by an “up” husband, who came bouncing inside like an excited Tigger to ask me if I wanted to take the kayaks out on the river to watch the sunset. Of course I did, because this is the good side of his mood disorder; spontaneous, fun, creative and boundless energy are the good things, sadness, guilt and shame are the bad. The worst, is a mixture of the two; frenetic energy, coupled with hoplessness and total despair is the most dangerous of all, and that was the mood yesterday. But today, is an “up” day; because the darkness of yesterday’s battle is still lurking in the recesses of his mind, it makes him feel the lightness of today all the more.

There was a breeze on the river as we worked our way upstream. It wasn’t difficult, because we each had a good steady rhythm, even though we were traveling against the current. We paddled steadily for about 30 minutes, side by side, talking the whole way. I told him that I was writing about bipolar and about yesterday’s events. “Oh no,” he said, and when we got to point where we were ready to drift back, I pulled out my phone and read to him what I had written so far, right there in the middle of the river. “No, no way!” He said. “I don’t want anyone to know that!” I told him that I understood, but by hiding it, he was feeding into the social misconception of shame in mental illness, as if anyone would choose to be bipolar anymore than they would choose to have cancer. We verbally sparred for a few minutes; He, saying that he was ashamed and it would make him look weak; me, saying that this is the opposite of weak, and what if this could help someone who feels alone? We stopped talking about it for a few minutes as we continued to bob down the river, our oars in our laps, quietly admiring God’s artwork; the green of the trees lining the river, set against an azure blue sky; the reflection of both caught in the mirror of the stillness of the surface of the water. The sun slowly desended, leaving shadows on our faces, and a chill in the air, as we neared the boat landing, when he said, “I guess you can write about it.”  Now, I ask you is that weakness? Is that selfish? No, it is the epitome  of  courage and altruism. Mental illness is not for the weak, the strong survive, but the warriors thrive, and they are the only ones willing to expose themselves, and the demons they face, to help someone else. His generosity of spirit helps me to hang on, “for better and for worse, in sickness and in health, until death do us part.”