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It’s My Blogaversary!!

Posted on by Susannah Warner

“Don’t be ‘a writer’, be writing.” ~William Faulkner

Today marks one year since I started a blog. “Happy Blogday!” My husband said when I told him, although we both agreed that “blogaversary” sounds better. In any event,  this is my 58th post, so I’m averaging about one a week. That’s a lot of words, and I’ve yet to run out of them. Actually, it has only wet my appetite to write more. It’s almost like other good-for-you good habits like exercise and eating right; they are both hard to start, but once you do, it almost becomes an addiction.

“To write something, you have to risk making a fool of yourself. ” ~Anne Rice

I had five viewers on my first post, a year ago. Two of which, were my views I think. Of the other three, I think one was my husband, one was my sister, and one was my niece, all of the members of this OG trio have been tireless cheerleaders this past year. My last post by comparison, has had 498 views so far. My blog has 109 followers on Facebook now, I have 115 e-mail followers, and I’ve had views from people in 39 countries, some of them quite surprising (hello, Kazakhstan and Guyana!). This is really nothing in comparison to some bloggers with thousands of readers, who can make a living on blogging alone. I must say, to get paid to write would be a dream come true, but I have no plans of giving up my day job of nursing. I wonder if people who get paid to blog have editors or if they have to still rely on their own skills. Boy, that would be something. I try my best, but the fact that I slept through my sophomore honors English class has become woefully apparent over the past year. My apologies to those of you out there cringing at the lack of commas, misuse of colons and semicolons (I can never get those straight!) or out-and-out wrong words, such as last week when my mother pointed out after I had posted that I wrote “feint of heart” rather than “faint.” Oh well, one of the first hurdles I jumped when I started, was the feeling that I should only post something if it was perfect. I decided right from the beginning, that I’m not an editor, nor perfect, and my blog won’t be either, and that I wouldn’t let that stop me. However, I’m not embarrassed or upset if someone wants to point out my errors. I welcome constructive criticism.

“Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.” ~William Wordsworth

Even more than that, I welcome all the wonderful comments, on Facebook, on my site and in person. The fact is, I would write anyway, it’s gotten to be a necessity for me. I don’t post everything I write, a lot of it is therapy for me, and not intended for the public. But, I do put alot of personal things out there, because I believe that good writers are honest writers. It has been the things that I write that make me emotional as I write them, that people have responded to the most. Some have said that they’ve cried when they read certain ones, some have said that they have laughed. To have someone say that they felt something, good or bad, from what I wrote, is the biggest complement I could ever receive.

“No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader.” ~ Robert Frost

Reflecting over this past year, I’m very grateful to my family and friends who encouraged me to start a blog. My goal, a year later, is the same as when I started, which is to get my thoughts out of my head and on paper, hopefully for someone to enjoy, but as an oulet for myself if nothing else. I would love to write a novel, and to that end, I have pinned about a hundred inspirational quotes on a Pinterest board, from some of the world’s greatest writers. As I’ve yet to write one word of this future best-seller, I might have to stop pinning and start doing. Hmmmm, that reminds me of that pallet swing I want my husband to get going on. Anyway, as most writers do, I do my homework (ha!) by reading for pleasure. But mostly, I just observe and notice. I try to remember to smell, feel, look and listen wherever I am, and whatever I’m doing, because stories are everywhere, something my poor family and friends have learned over the past year. Be careful what you say in front of me, because it might end up in print!

“My aim is to put down on paper what I see and what I feel in the best and simplest way.” ~Ernest Hemingway

My first post is below, and as only five people saw it, well, possibly only three, I decided to show it again.

My first post ( I’m sorry this is ridiculous but I had to start somewhere)!

Posted on 
  • Well, this is exciting! My first post! I found my way here by literally googling “how do I start a blog” this morning. My desire to write and to share my life has finally outweighed any reticence I have felt about this strange new world. Currently I am befuddled by terms such as widget, gadget and cookies. I know this is pathetic but if you are out there and are miraculously still reading, please be kind and offer any insights and pearls of wisdom that you may have. In the meantime, I will carry on, stumbling through the blogosphere like a virtual Mrs. Magoo, blind and clueless, but basically harmless. No doubt, many blogging blunders await as well as an occasional social gaffe. But like thousands of explorers before me, I will plunge in and forge ahead, secure in the knowledge that at least for me, movement in any direction, even occasionally backwards, is better than sitting around and waiting for something to happen.  Thank you for reading.

Susannah Warner

 

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Up and Down

Posted on by Susannah Warner

My husband is a good father. Let me just say that right off the bat. He loves his children, has supported and protected them, played with them, and comforted them throughout our 26 year journey together as parents. Even after his diagnosis of bipolar, with its 20% mortality rate, and 90% divorce rate, he’s managed to never let our kids doubt that he has their backs and loves them unconditionally.

Bipolar, with its classic ups and downs, one would think, must be even more bewildering and frustrating to children than it is to the spouse. Before his diagnosis, and even for years after, as we struggled to find the right combination of meds, there were nights full of giddy plans and days spent in bed. Promises made to go to the playground, ride bikes, and go swimming in the throes of hypomania, often dissolved overnight into excuses, lethargy and a blanket of depression. My kids grew up with this though, they didn’t know anything different. They knew his moods so well, that my daughter could tell in one word if he was “up or down.” He called her “apple-blossom” when he was up, and “chick” when he was down. His tone too, would give it away, lilting and quick when up, gloomy and slow when down, so that even “Hi” on the phone gave it away. Our own Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, or the kid friendly version of Tigger/Eeyore.

This is not to say that he never did anything with them. Many, many times, he fought off the demon of anxiety and depression’s oppression, to fulfill his promises to them. He took them to the circus, parades, and amusement parks, many times without me as I have worked every other weekend since I was 16. These public outings for him left him riddled with anxiety, but he did it anyway. More calming to him, and just as fun for the kids, were the days spent outside; hiking, camping, fourwheeling, exploring the woods and getting dirty and tired. He did these things when he could, and the kids loved it, especially because of the life and energy that swirls around a “Tigger.”

Who can’t help but be drawn to the frenetic spark that hypomania brings?  The sky is bluer, the grass is greener, the clouds have interesting shapes, and the whole world is a playground. There are few worries in the world of Up, and boundless energy. No request need be denied, no financial concerns, even physical ailments, such as bad shoulders or aching back from years of carpentry, cease to be a consideration. It must be like a tiny slice of heaven on Earth.

But, Up’s evil twin, Down is never far away.  He also goes by the name of Eeyore, depression, hopelessness or shame. He is as heavy and gray as Up is light and sunny. Every task seems monumental, worrying turns to anxiety, and every ache and pain pile on the top of the sufferer, weighing him down and threatening to bring down the whole household, if you let it. It’s as if the brilliant sun is suddenly dimmed by storm clouds. A deluge of negativity and pain threatens to wash us all away, carrying everyone down a river of despair. A tiny slice of Hell on earth. But hold on, because summer is right around the corner. Melancholy will move and joy will return.

I liken my experiences with Bipolar to life in the Pine Tree State.  It is not uncommon in Maine to have the heat on in the car in the morning, and the AC on in the afternoon, snow might fall one day, and the next day, it is so warm, winter jackets are shucked off like snake skin. A gorgeous sunrise, the sky streaked with orange, crimson and promise, slowly fades to billows of gun metal gloom that overshadow the whole day. Life in Maine is not for the feint of heart, and neither is life with a person who suffers from a mood disorder. But, Maine is called Vacationland for a reason. It is beautiful and rugged and teaches perseverance and strength, and how to cheerfully navigate the hard times while looking forward to the good times. My kids have learned these things, and I’m thankful that they are strong, determined adults, with no signs of the infirmity their father bears. Just as Maine could never be called bland or boring; no endless flat cornfield, or boundless sunshine here, growing up with a bipolar parent has never been dull for my children. I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t trade their father or their home state, so full of color and vigor, for an anemic, yet sensible landscape. Both predictable in their unpredictableness, and more precious for it.

 

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Sick Bean

Posted on by Susannah Warner

Tines and I were both off yesterday, and had planned to visit my father. He is in a local hospital and very sick with a blood infection. We had our coats on, and were ready to go, when our daughter called from work. “Bean’s school just called. she has a temp of 103. Can you get her?” Can we? This is what grandparents are for! Responding to a distress call and swooping in to save the day is what we do best!

Our plans now completely changed, we drove the 22 miles to her school, where we were met with a flushed face, glassy-eyed girl and a relieved smile. She struggled into her coat as I asked if she wanted Papa to carry her to the car. “Nooo Noni!” she said. Even in sickness, five-year old Bean didn’t want to be seen as a baby being carried out of the school.

We drove home, Bean falling asleep within minutes, and Papa carried her in (no complaints now). Taking off her coat, she vomited twice, all over herself, and the couch. Nurse Noni sprung into action; soothing, wiping, tucking in, cleaning up, taking temperatures, offering cool drinks and warm blankets. And so, the morning and afternoon passed, Bean listless and quiet on the couch, Papa concerned and helpful, Noni in her glory.

That sounds weird, I know, even to my own ears. Why would a grandmother enjoy seeing a child so sick? Well, maybe because, thank God, I’ve never had a critically ill child, which would be a very, very different story. In fact, a co-worker has a child who is fighting for her life as I write this. A vibrant and healthy three-year old, little Brylee was struck down by the adenovirus, the same bug that made her three siblings ill, but for whatever reason, has left her fighting for her life for the past seven weeks, even in the hands of one the world’s best children’s’ hospitals. That is obviously different from fluffing and puffing a little one at home for 24-48 hours.

I think there are two reasons that I enjoy taking care of sick kids. The first is, because my own two children never, ever stopped moving from the time they could walk, and the only time that they would let me love on them, and fuss over them was when they were sick. From the time their little eyes opened in the morning, they were off like a shot, never lighting for anywhere for more than a few minutes. So, I hardly ever sat either, as there was always some near catastrophe to prevent. I could never touch them enough when they were well, they moved so fast, and they never let me cuddle with them on the couch. But, a child with a fever, loves to snuggle, nestle, be rocked and they want your presence as they never seem to care about when they are well.

Now, a fever is a matter of debate and at times, contention between Tiny and me, and has been since our daughter was born 26 years ago. You see, I believe that a fever is a good thing, intended by God to force the patient to rest and to promote healing, There is a science behind it too, involving pyrogens, which produce heat and stimulate the immune system, making it harder for microorganisms to flourish and to help shuttle iron to the liver, so that it’s not as available to fuel the growth of invading bacteria (note: end of the Susie Science lecture). However, when you compare a listless and feverish child, to one who is now playing, its hard to argue when a fever reducer makes them “seem” better. The medical community too, is quick to bring down a fever. Nurses and doctors alike, seem to want to see quick results by rushing in to reduce fever. As a nurse, I struggle with this concept, but ultimately go along with it because it is my job. However, at home, I only treat a fever if it’s dangerously high, and also before bed to help the child rest more comfortably. This is one of the many subjects “the Bickersons” butt heads over. Bean’s fever of 103.7, coupled with her malaise made the choice clear though.

The second reason I enjoy a cuddling a sick child, is because I have seen many of them in the hospital, at times with parents who are not even physically present. I remember one time, when I was still a CNA, my daughter, around two, was sick. I didn’t feel like I could miss work, because it was the weekend and her father was home. She cried when I left because she wanted me, but I left anyway and I cried myself, as I drove in to work. Strangely, my assignment that day was to be “1:1” with a very sick infant, whose parents had decided not to stay with him. I rocked him, and cuddled him all day, but the irony was not lost on me. Here I was, comforting this baby, whose parents did not care that a stranger took care of him, even when he was very sick, while I fought back tears as I rocked him because I wanted to rock my own sick baby, even though she was with her father. I think this experience has taught me that it is a blessing to be able to comfort another human being, especially a little one, and even more so, your own.

At the end of the day, Bean’s fever started to rise again, despite the Ibuprofen we had given her a few hours before. She shivered as I put her boots and coat on while Papa brought her things out to the warmed up car then returned to carry her out. The plan was for him to meet her mother at work, when she got out at 8pm. I buckled her in, and tucked a fleece blanket under her chin. “Noni! Can you come?!?” she asked desperately as her teeth chattered and she looked at me with tears in her eyes. “Yes” I said as I grabbed my coat and jumped in the back seat with her.

We met her mother as planned, and our duty as grandparents ended for the day but my duty as mother took over, as I received reports via text from my daughter that Bean had vomited once again and her temperature had climbed to 104.5. I offered my advice and prayed for them both. At the same time, I was perusing Facebook and saw a photo of little Brylee, well at the time, with her little hands clenched as if in prayer. Her mother had posted this sweet photo, and was begging for prayers from anyone and everyone as her condition was, and remains quite grave. If you have read this far, please take a minute to pray for Brylee and her family. I’m so thankful to have had a day comforting Bean. I know that she will soon be well, and moving too fast to kiss and love on, and I’m praying that Brylee will too.

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God, Bean, and The Red Balloon

Posted on by Susannah Warner

The other day at Hannaford, a local supermarket, a cashier asked Bean if she wanted a balloon. She was as ecstatic as only a three-year old can be when offered a helium balloon. I was a little surprised, as in all my years of shopping there, I have never seen them hand out balloons. The cashier spoke to the bagger, who left and came back with a red balloon. Bean was so excited, she literally jumped up and down and shouted, “I’ve been praying for a red balloon!!!!” The other shoppers couldn’t help but smile at her, and at each other, as most people do when witnessing a display of pure joy and thankfulness. They returned to their tasks, a smile still on their faces.

I knew Bean and her mother said prayers every night, as I did with her mother when she was a little girl, but I didn’t realize that they were so specific. I thought that they were more of the “bless Mama. and the kitties…” garden variety prayers. So yesterday, when Bean was visiting and we were shopping again, she told me sadly, as we entered Reny’s, that the kitty had popped the balloon and she was praying for another one. Reny’s always has balloons so it wasn’t a huge surprise, at least to me when her prayers were once again answered. Bean, however was as excited as the first time and these shoppers were just as enamored with her response as the others were at the supermarket. It made me stop and think of  how much joy it must have given God to answer yes to such a simple request. I know that He answers all of our prayers but sometimes the answer is no, just as sometimes we must say no to our children when they ask for things that would not be good for them. But, imagine how it felt for Him to see her joy, not only for the balloon itself, but also for the realization that He heard and answered her prayers.

This morning, her mother told me that Bean has decided that she wants her to have a boyfriend. She said that she would pray for one until her mother found one. This is going to be interesting,,,

Update: I wrote this and posted it on Facebook two years ago. Bean is now five, and a big girl in Kindergarten. Sadly, I don’t know if she prays with her mother every night anymore, I hope she does. But, oh yes, maybe thanks in part to Bean’s prayers, her mother “found” a boyfriend over a year ago. A boyfriend who just last night ordered pizza for them to have together while her mother was at work, and who has a son Bean thinks of as an older brother. A brother who reads to her and rides bikes with her, and although a bit reserved himself, tolerates her boundless affection. I’m thankful for the faith of a child and I’m thankful for the answers. For yes, and even for no. I think I’m going to ask Bean to pray for Papa to quit smoking, Any other prayer requests out there?

 

 

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Full Circle

Posted on by Susannah Warner

“When you get little, and I get big, you can sit in the back seat and I will sit in the front” one of my older sisters is rumored to have said when she was a preschooler. We have chuckled about this over the years, and it was brought up again recently, when my mother and I picked up my eldest sister at the train station for a long weekend visit. I was the driver, and my mother insisted on riding in the back, finally fulfilling the prophesy spouted off by a cranky four-year old, some fifty years ago.

It’s a curious thing, this circle of life. One day you are a child, the next you have children of your own. Another blink of an eye and your children are grown, and giving you advice as freely as you once gave them, with the same reception. An eye-roll, perhaps, or some other outward expression of indifference or annoyance. Yet, ultimately the advice or command is usually followed because you know that this person is one of the few in the world who loves you unconditionally, and says these things out of love and concern for your well-being as you have always done for them. As a nurse, I’ve seen this over and over again. The majority of the patients on the floor I work on are elderly, and sometimes confused. Sometimes it’s from a change in their surroundings, sometimes it’s medication induced, sometimes dementia, but mostly it’s a combination. All nurses know that when an elderly patient becomes restless or agitated, it’s best to call in a family member. Most often it is one of the children.  The “child” is quite often elderly themselves, as it is not uncommon for our patients to be well into their 90’s. The daughter or the son usually comes in regardless, even in the middle of the night.

“Mom! What’s this I hear about you giving these nurses a hard time?” is quite often the first thing I hear as they enter, a feeling of peace descending upon the room. Occasionally, the patient will have such an advanced case of Alzheimer’s that they might not recognize the family member, but still, there is some thing there. A discernment of spirit; soul to connected soul. Sometimes the presence of a family member can cause the patient to become more upset, because they want to go home with them, but I’ve seen this more when a spouse leaves, than with the children. The child holds a connection and authority that the spouse does not. Many times on the way out one of them, usually a daughter, will sidle up to the desk, and as a mother does when leaving instructions for a baby-sitter say, “now, you call me if she gives you any more trouble, and if she won’t take her pills, tell her I said that she must. ”

Now, don’t think that we as nurses don’t use this to our advantage, a scenario that goes something like this; “I know you don’t want to take your medication, Mrs. Smith, but Ruth said that you should take it. ” “Oh Ruth! ”  Mrs. Smith will scoff, swatting at the air with a hand worn smooth from a lifetime of loving. “She’s so bossy! Always has been.” Yet, the hand tips for the medication and the mouth opens for the water to wash them down.

It makes me wonder about my own days ahead. Already, my adult children give me advice and admonishment, which is not always unwarranted. I already know who will be the “bossy” one. That status unquestionably goes to my daughter. With a commanding presence and a quickness of step, I can just see her now, bustling into my hospital room, a plant in her hands (so much more practical than flowers!), 50 years from now, where I will quite possibly be languishing in bed. “Mom! It’s time to get up.” I’m pretty sure she will say, snapping open the window shades. “Breakfast will be here soon and I want you to sit in the chair and have a good meal before you take your medication. Then, we will walk in the hall, while we wait for the doctor to round and see what the plan is.” No doubt, I will be ready for breakfast, up in the chair, hair combed, teeth in, and glasses on when my tray arrives which I will gamely attempt to finish.  My daughter will be the one to gather information, give instructions and handle all the unpleasant business. She will make it look easy, and she will pass information to her brother and tell him when he should visit. She will give instructions to the nurses on her way out to call her if there are any problems or changes. She will answer the phone on the first ring, even if it is 3 in the morning.

My son will arrive with a dozen roses, because they are beautiful, not practical. He will look cautiously around the door frame to make sure he isn’t waking me. He will give me a hug and kiss my forehead as I do to him now. “How are you Mom?” he will say. He won’t say much, certainly he won’t boss me around. He will probably sit beside me and watch a TV show, he will encourage me to eat my supper (in my bed because he won’t make me get up and sit in the chair to eat), and read to me if I request it. He will help me take a walk, holding my hand to keep me steady, as I once held his when he was learning to walk. His quiet presence will be the perfect calming end to the day, just as my daughter’s vibrancy was the spark I needed to start it. He will stay with me until I’m almost asleep, then he will say “Love you Mom” as he leaves the room as quietly as he entered. He also will approach the nurses station on his way out, but with a shy smile and an offer to come back if I need him. He will also answer on the first ring even it’s 3 in the morning.

This is all conjecture, of course, based solely on how I see my children now, and from what I know of the circle of life from 30 years of caring for the elderly. I’m so thankful for the children I’ve been given, both so precious to me in their own way. I can only hope and pray I did right by them when they were little and vulnerable, and in the backseat, so that they will do right by me when I’m little and no longer the driver of my own life. I’m pretty sure I did a good job, and that they will too.

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Waving Goodbye

Posted on by Susannah Warner

It was dark when she left, bundled in her winter coat; full of hugs, fresh air and cookies. She was five and she was exhausted from a day of entertaining her grandparents and being the center of attention all day. I stood at the window, watching her mother, my grown daughter, strap her little girl in her car-seat. After they were settled, they looked to the picture window where they knew I would be standing. They drove off, as I blew her a kiss and waved, until I could no longer see them, just as my grandmother always did.

My grandmother was the sweetest woman I ever knew, and had the inexplicable gift of making me feel like I was her only grandchild, although she had 10 others. I didn’t see her very often, as we lived 500 miles away, but when I did, she was all mine, or at least she made me feel that way. Our visits were never long enough, and when we prepared to leave her house at dawn, she would be awake and downstairs in her pink fluffy robe. She always fluttered about, handing my parents care packages for the 8 hour trip full of things my mother never bought (Twinkies! Goldfish!) and, finally hugging me one last time, she always tucked money in my hand. Climbing in the backseat, I would spin around to see her. She was always there, clutching her robe, and waving goodbye. She never stopped waving until I could no longer see her, and I turned around with a lump in my throat, thinking of her going back in without me. She was the only grandparent I ever knew, but she was more than enough.

My mother waves goodbye to her children and grandchildren when we leave too, although her example was her mother-in-law, as her own mother died when she was 13. Still, she stands with the door half open and waves until we can no longer see her. She is a symbol of love, and a reminder that I will be missed. Is there anything sweeter in life than to know that you are special to someone, even if it is your own mother?

So, this small act of love comes naturally to me and probably to my three sisters too, although I’ve never talked to them about it. The women in my family are all very different in their appearances, political beliefs, education and career choices, but we have raised our children very similarly. How could we not, when the maternal figures we emulate were so kind and so sweet and so very motherly?

It is because of these examples, that I have no doubt that one day, my daughter will stand at the window, or the door and wave to her own grandchildren, until they can no longer see her. Then, they will turn around in their car seats, a lump in their throats, but with a fullness of heart knowing with this one gesture, that they are loved and missed, just I have always known.

 

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FOMO

Posted on by Susannah Warner

What is FOMO, some may ask? Is that like YOLO, fleek, Bae, lit or any other slang, used by kids today and embarrassingly misused by parents of said youth? Actually, Oxford dictionary defines FOMO as ‘anxiety that an exciting event may currently be happening elsewhere, often aroused by posts on social media.’  Is it really a thing, and if so, is this a new thing?

Well, as the baby of the family, I’m here to tell you that it is real and it is not new, it just finally has a label. My placement in the family has led to a severe, lifelong case of FOMO. As long as I can remember, my sisters (10, 9 and 7 years older), were doing things that I wanted to be a part of. Any youngest child in a large family can tell you that they always feel that they are missing out on something, because they are. Nap times and early bedtimes, are the most prevalent cause of this, but the fact that you do everything slower than your siblings is another. By the time the baby can do these things, the older ones are doing something else, and although my sisters were old enough, and kind enough to try to make it seem like naps were fun, and that they wished THEY had time to nap, or that they didn’t have so much homework and could go to bed at 8 too, I wasnt fooled. One of my first memories is dragging my “fle fle blanket” (don’t ask) slooowwlllyy up the stairs, while dressed in a snuggly blue sleeper, mesmerized by the jaunty Hawaii Five-O theme song. As always, by the time that enormous wave appeared, some adult, most likely my father, would have thrown out an admonishment to “get a move on.” Now, I never did get to stay up late enough to see an episode of Hawaii Five-O, and strangely I never bothered to watch it when, in recent years, a newer version was launched. The reason is, it really wasn’t the show at all, It was…”The fear of missing out.”

As a little kid, I was always the first one up in the morning, partially because I’m a natural “early bird” but mainly because I didn’t want to miss out on anything. Not that anything was happening, Actually quite the opposite, if my parents were up before me, they were doing boring adult things, nothing that I cared to partake in and my older sisters were sleeping in. I don’t believe I would have missed a thing if I had just stayed in bed, but I just couldn’t do it.

Not only did FOMO make me lose sleep, it also occasionally caused me to hurt myself and to watch unfortunate injuries happen to others. There was the time that, for reasons that have escaped me, my parents and two older sisters were gone for the evening and my 12-year-old sister was in charge. We lived in the suburbs of Trenton at the time, on a family friendly circle, where all the neighborhood kids would play outside together, until the street lights went on, and then you knew you’d better high-tail it home for dinner, or if you were one of the little kids like me, to get ready for bed. Anyway, my sister and her friends thought it would be fun to climb on top of my father’s van, which they all did, until six-year old me had a temper-tantrum because I was on the ground by myself and missing all the fun, so they hauled me up there too. It was pure bliss to be included, and it was everything I had feared I was actually missing all along, namely just being like one of the big kids. Until, they tired of that, and one by one they jumped off, including my sister so that she could catch me when I jumped. Nope, no way. I was not going to miss out on that opportunity nor was I going to risk being called a baby, so even though my sister said “Please, don’t jump!!!” I did anyway, and landed on my face. My sister, knowing in an instant, that she would be in big trouble when my parents got home, ushered me to her best friend’s house, apparently so our towels wouldn’t get bloody, but unfortunatley for her, the fat lip and swollen nose probably gave it away. I don’t remember how this drama ended, but I’m sure that my poor sister got the short end of the stick because she “should have known better.”

As I got older, I begged my sisters to let me come with them to whatever teenage tomfoolery was afoot. Many times I was allowed to go, sometimes because they thought I was cute like a mascot, and sometimes because someone had to babysit and did not plan on letting an eight-year old ruin their good time. Also, it helped that I never once told my parents. I saw things that parents today would not want their 10 year old kids to see, even on their phones, let alone in person. Like the time I was at my sister’s college and saw an inebriated fellow, purposefully run headfirst into a double pane glass door, the kind with the wire in the middle.  He got halfway through before his skull succombed to the wire and he was hauled out, delightfully bloodied and unconcious, and dropped rather unceremoniously on the grass by his buddies as they drunkenly laughed the whole time. Eventually someone thought to call an ambulance. Then, there was the time that I was at a pit party (I believe this was less of a FOMO situation as it was that my sister was forced to babysit) and saw a guy fall backwards into the fire. He actually climbed out himself, laughing and swearing and beating out the flames, while the girls screamed and the guys laughed. I’m sure you can understand why I didn’t want to miss anything.

“Pffttt, you only had first-world FOMO,” my husband scoffed when I read to him what I had so far. “I had real, legit FOMO. Try moving three times in fifth grade alone and see if you have a fear of missing out.” This is true, I actually missed out on that experience, as well as at least one hundred other calamities that made his childhood so terrible. I’m kind of glad about that. Actually, I think I might be outgrowing FOMO, just as it is becoming a thing. Social media is supposed to play a major part in all this anxiety, and although I love seeing what everyone is up to, there is not one single part of me that is anxious about missing out on exhausting adventures with small children or even night-time adult shenanigans. What do I fear missing out on now? Home. When I’m at work, or even across the world, I’m always wondering what’s happening at my house. Which is usually nothing, just the way I like it. Like right now, the only thing I’m missing out on as I write, is a nap. So, here I go (cue dramatic 70’s theme music).

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A Walk in the Woods

Posted on by Susannah Warner

“I took a walk in the woods and came out taller than the trees.”  – Henry David Thoreau

“C’mon, let’s go!” He claps his gloved hands together, and looks at me with a twinkle in his eye. “It’s beautiful out, c’mon you’ll feel guilty if you miss it.” My husband has returned from a walk outside to get me, for several reasons. One, because it actually is beautiful out, as he says. By beautiful, he means it is not snowing or freezing rain outside and the temperature is hovering at the freezing mark, a remarkable 60+ degrees higher than earlier this month and unusual for January in Maine.  Two, after 26 years of marriage,  he knows that I truly am feeling guilty for not getting “my steps in” aka daily exercise, in favor of curling up on the couch with my cozy blanket and my Kindle. Three, he is a lover of nature and the woods of Maine and anyone who is passionate about something knows that it is most appreciated with someone you love.

“Okay, okay” I say as I struggle to my feet, tissues flying and my fleece throw falling to the floor. All afternoon, I had used a minuscule case of the sniffles to ward off guilt and to tell myself  that I should rest today. But, guilt is my best motivator and he knows it, and besides bundling up and going out in the fresh air was not going to affect my cold one way or another, I just needed to bring tissues and wear a hat.

Off we went, mid-afternoon puffy, layered gray clouds over us, stark white snow ahead. We headed for the snowmobile trail adjacent to our property, an old railroad bed, perfectly groomed with snow so hard packed, our winter boots made hardly a dent. Sometimes when it is very cold out, the snow squeaks underfoot, but today, because of the warmth, there was a pleasant crunch, as we started out in perfect unison.

We spoke a little, our words almost visible in the form of steam curling around our mouths, but mostly we were silent, enjoying the view and listening to the sounds of silence. Sometimes, one of us would stop abruptly, and the other would stay as still as a statue without a word, knowing that the other person heard something. usually it was a few deer, feeling skittish as we approached, suddenly bounding off, white tails waving as they leapt away. Sometimes, one of us would put a hand on the arm of the other and point, often at a deer, who with the simplicity of a child was spotted hiding its head, while its body was in full view, erroneously thinking that if he couldn’t see us, we couldn’t see him. Not wanting to disturb him further, and in search of other sites, we continued on. Occasionally a group of snowmobilers pass, they wave as they go by, we smile and my husband does the two finger wave that some men do. Some we know by their eyes, the only thing visible with their helmets on, some are strangers, but all nod and you can tell by their eyes alone that they are smiling too. Mostly there is no sound, except the wind through the pines, the crunch of our feet, and the occasional sound of glass shattering as ice falls off a tree limb. The smells vary, sometimes a whiff of wood stove smoke drifts by, sometimes the intoxicating scent of balsam, but mostly its just the distinct smell of cold.

The woods are a balm to the mind,  it’s no wonder that literary greats like Thoreau and Emerson found peace and inspiration there. The senses are stimulated but in such a gentle way, that you can choose to ignore it or absorb it. I have done both, There were times in my younger days when I snuck away to the woods for a cigarette as a way to escape the pressure of approaching adulthood, Back then, my already overloaded mind sought peace and tranquility, and I found it. After a few minutes in the enormity of the woods, my troubles felt as small as they sometimes do in the morning light, after the darkness of the night had magnified the smallest hill into a mountain.

As I have gotten older, I have started to allow the beauty I have seen to flow from my fingertips to my laptop, so that the woods have come alive. I have told myself to watch! Listen! Smell! Remember! I take pictures along the way, mainly to help me recall what my mind’s snapshots might forget. Looking back through these photos later as I write,  I see what I wanted to remember. Yes, here are the photos of deer, hiding behind branches as small around as my forearm, and clusters of them playing on the tracks before us until one of them gives an invisible signal and they are gone. Curious tracks, hard to decipher in the hard-packed snow, we discuss whether they are dog prints or coyote.  Playful, daredevil chipmunks darting in front of us, zigzagging across the trail, I can almost imagine that a teenage chipmunk dared his friend to cross in front of us. They are too fast to take a picture of, but I always remember them because they are so cute. Rabbit tracks make us wonder where they came from and where they went and woodpeckers ignore us completely, focused on the job at hand. All are captured on my phone, and in my soul.

My husband, eyes alight and movements as agile as a child, tells story after story as we venture on. There was the time he saw a mountain lion and also Bigfoot. Both considered impossible by some, believed by others. He tells of a beaver slapping its tail in warning at his approach, coyotes yipping close to him at night and Indian legends. Entertained by the stories, soothed by the sights and sounds, I have forgotten my head-cold and the fact that I am getting my steps in, until my Fitbit buzzes on my wrist, 10,000 steps. “Let’s turn back now” I say, suddenly noticing that the light is dimming and the pine trees, their needles dripping with ice like diamonds, are looking dark.

We turn around, walking in heavy winter boots and wrapped in layers, strangely easier and seemingly lighter than when I walk on a flat treadmill, clad in a cute workout attire with lightweight sneakers on my feet. Pondering this, I thought how exercise like anything else, is mind over matter, or as Mark Twain aptly declared, “If you don’t mind, it doesn’t matter.” Just like my runny nose was no longer my focus, so my documented “steps” had ceased to be the reason for this adventure.

Home again, guilt-free and content. I sit down to write, to quickly capture all that I have experienced, while my husband prepares to go back outside, each of having taken back from the earth what our busy lives have stolen from us. We are grateful for each other, he that I shared his world with him. Me, that he knew what I needed before I did. Both of us once again soothed, yet exhilarated; a feeling only a walk in the woods can provide.

“I go to nature to be soothed and healed, and to have my senses put in order.” -John Burroughs

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It’s My Birthday (no phone calls, please)!

Posted on by Susannah Warner

“It’s paradoxical that the idea of living a long life appeals to everyone, but the idea of getting old doesn’t appeal to anyone.”
― Andy Rooney

Whoever said they want to grow old gracefully is crazy, or maybe they just gave up. I don’t plan to grow old gracefully, I plan to fight it every step of the way. By fight, I actually mean to ignore, which I generally find to be a fairly effective method of combat for me. Oh, I have a few weapons; I slather on the anti-wrinkle cream, use dollops of makeup and lately I have even resorted to eyelash extensions (!!), but to give up completely? Nope. Not going to do it. My mother claims there will come a day when I will revel in the freedom of pants with elastic waists, “slacks” are what my grandmother used to call them, and that being an old lady has its benefits. I can see that. It would be nice to not have to suck in my stomach all damn day and to get 25 cents taken off the price of my coffee, but I’m not ready to give in just yet.

Last week, I couldn’t remember how old I was, so I actually asked my husband in a panicked voice because it’s really kind of scary and frankly indicative of the number of years under my belt that I honestly couldnt remember if I was 44 or 45. It turns out that I am 45. Actually, I’ll be 46 by the time this is posted. My best friend Melody claims that she went a whole month preparing herself mentally before her 30th birthday. Anyone who knows her, knows what a circus this must have been as she can be a bit melodramatic. Anyway, she lamented and moaned for a month until her mother told her that she was turning 29 that year, not 30, and so she had to go through the whole process again, the following year.

What’s ironic about these two age amnesia stories, is that as we age we are supposed to be getting wiser; yet, when I was seven, I was “seven and a half” all summer, until fall at which point I became “seven and 3/4.” I eagerly awaited my birthday, all year-long. As the youngest of four girls, there really isn’t anything new under the sun when you are growing up. My parents were not all that impressed after all those years of raising my sisters, when I turned a cart-wheel or got an A. But your birthday?!? Now, that’s when you are special. The whole day was about me, even down to the birthday meal, which five other family members must eat because I picked it. I’m pretty sure it was pancakes.

But then…you become a mother. Suddenly, your birthday has nothing to do with you, because your little pumpkin loves parties and cake and blowing out candles. So, you find yourself, after a horrendous day at work, in a long line at the grocery store, a square (why square, anyway?)  Pepperidge Farm cake under your arm because you remembered that today is your birthday and cake is expected. Too bad you forgot the candles, so you have to decorate it with votive candles and pray they don’t notice. They do.

Now, I don’t know about you, but I feel like I’m going in the opposite direction at this point. What I used to long for as a kid (a day just about me!!! ), I now actually do not like the idea of at all. You know what happens on your birthday? Everyone calls you (ughh!) and wishes you a happy birthday. Voices I have not heard since last birthday, crackle over the phone and I do the “HIII, So good to hear from youuuu! We really need to get togetherrrr!” thing that is expected. I know how this sounds, I sound like a cranky old bat. Someone nobody would actually want to call. I’m sorry, I really am. I dearly love my friends and family, and if you love me too, please don’t call me on my birthday! Instead, text me randomly throughout the year when you hear a movie quote or song that reminds you of me and I will do the same. Unless for your birthday, you want a call. In which case, your wish is my command.  Also, while I’m on the subject, no need to bother with a card. Unless something falls out of it ($$$!!!), I’m not all that interested in it. except my BFF Melody’s cards. She takes a lot of time picking them out and underlines cute things, and I do love and appreciate that. But, my mother gets her cards, like 199 in a box and they have pictures of sailboats, or random closeups of Delphiniums, and no words on them but she puts things in there that fall out when I open it, so that is fine. Also, then I dont feel like a jerk for throwing it in the trash three years later.

So much negativity! I’m really sorry for that and if you gotten this far, you probably know that the best thing about getting older is that you care far less what people think of you than you did when you were young. This has been both a blessing and a curse as sometimes my mouth has gotten me in trouble in recent years. I’m already regretting the “don’t call me” rant above, and I’m considering deleting it. Nah, F*&$ it. Because If there’s another thing I’ve learned along the way, It’s that life is short, and therefore precious, and that there’s a time to be brutally honest (see above) and a time to play along for the enjoyment of others, as  I will be doing in a matter of hours at my “surprise birthday party” planned for me by my sweet husband and exuberant granddaughter. Those two have been plotting, scheming, shopping and laughing behind my back for weeks, but the clincher was the text to my phone, meant for our adult daughter that read, and I kid you not, “I’ll have everyone here by 4:30.” I truly am thankful for another year to fight the good fight, and for my family and friends, many of whom I will hug tomorrow at my party, after I let my granddaughter blow out my candles, and tell everyone we need to get together again soon.

Update: No one has called me! I am truly blessed with wonderful, thoughtful, friends and family!

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Spry

Posted on by Susannah Warner

When I get to be an old lady, the adjective I hope that is used to describe me is spry. This is an aspiration I’ve had since I started working with the elderly, nearly 30 years ago. I’ve always admired the ones who are plucky and spunky, and whose minds are sharp and legs remain strong. I’ve asked many, many patients along the way, “What’s your secret?”  I only ask the ones who are at least 90, and who have remained nimble. You know the sort, the kind of people who are lean, agile, and move quickly. They never trudge, and rarely sigh. They are quick to smile and laugh, and hardly ever complain. I like to know what keeps these kinds of people in the shape that they are in, regardless of their advanced years. The answer is always the same.

“I always kept busy” they say. None of them have reported that they like “downtime” or prefer to lie on the couch, eating chips and watching Teen Mom as I like to do once in a while. They never say they liked to sleep in, go to a spa or take frequent vacations. Not one of them mentioned that they long for a snowstorm which forces them to “hunker down”, or that they enjoy devouring a book, an activity that every reader knows reaches its pleasure zenith when accomplished in a horizontal position.  What they did do, was remain vertical all day, and they always keep moving.

Many of these folks, if they are at least 90, were born a year before the Great Depression. I’m sure there was not much time for lollygagging, “me-time” or just chilling with Netflix. They probably worked from dawn until dusk, and by the time they sat down, they were ready for bed. It makes me wonder what their “workweek hustle” would have looked like on their Fitbit stats, if they had such a ridiculous thing. Imagine the folly of having to compete with each other to encourage more steps! Folly or no, I currently have two competitions going on, and if I want to win this challenge against my 20-something year old nephew, I better not just sit here writing all day.

To that end, and in my ongoing battle of the bulge, I walk daily, or now that it is cold and snowy in central Maine, and outdoor workouts are limited to shoveling (ewww, no), I go to the gym, where I  walk on the treadmill slowly enough that I can peruse Pinterest for inspiring pins, or type blog ideas on my phone. My younger friends from work, have recently encouraged me to try some fitness classes, and since it is a new year, and since I’m pushing myself to be a joiner, rather than a loner, I have now attended Zumba and something called “Pound!!!!” (the four !!!! exclamation points are not mine, it is advertised that way!!!!). These classes are actually fun, if you can get a coveted spot in the back, that is. Unfortunately for me, but to the merriment of my friends, the good Lord saw fit to dole only a miniscule helping of coordination out to me, which basically means that as soon as I get my arms and legs moving in the same direction as everyone else, they’ve moved on to something else. I can only console myself with the knowledge that at least I am moving my body somehow, and laughing while I’m doing it. However, arduous being an adjective I’m not exactly fond of, I was planning on attending a “Zumba lite” class this morning which my friends assured me was geared for the retirement crowd, a subset of fellow gym rats I may be able to keep up with. However, a snowstorm has hampered our efforts this morning (oh, snap!), and as I’ve already declared a moratorium, nah actually a lifetime ban on shoveling, I guess I will just “hunker down” today. By the way, “spry” might be my favorite adjective, but “hunker” is one of my favorite verbs, as it is by definition, the opposite of action.

My 77-year-old mother is well on her way to becoming a spry 90-year-old. She retired from a nursing career a few years ago and has been difficult to pin down ever since. If she didn’t have a cellphone, it would be impossible to reach her, as she is always on the go. She goes to the pool at the local gym, at least three mornings a week, where she bobs around with her “gang of Barbara’s.” They are her gym friends, three of whom are named Barbara and the other two have names like Joan and Ruth. They bounce around in the pool, while kicking their legs out, or floating on noodles and discuss their grandchildren, the weather, and Dancing with the Stars. They make plans to “get together for lunch” but never do it, and don’t plan the next workout, but everyone shows up anyway. I think they are cute, and I hope someday my friends and I do this when we are retired. One day, as I entered the pool area, I saw a bunch of them bobbing to the strains of  “Milkshake”, the phrase, “my milkshake brings all the boys to the yard.” prompting about seven matching, gray-haired, permed heads, to keep perfect time to the beat, completely and adorably oblivious to the words.

In addition to her workouts, my mother is always either giving someone a ride to an appointment, visiting friends in nursing homes, going to church several times a week or puttering around at her house, cleaning or baking. I know just what she will say after reading this too, “Ohhh, I don’t do that much. I spend a lot of time on the couch, reading or napping.” By a lot of time, she means maybe an hour a day, if that. She doesn’t realize that she is an inspiration. But, neither do those 90+ year olds I admire so much. I guess they don’t stop moving long enough to let the grass grow under their feet, or to ponder their effect on others. Now, excuse me, my Fitbit just buzzed on my wrist, reminding me to get moving. It must be time to head over to the couch for another laborious reading session.

(My mother and me at the gym. See her cutle little head in the pool?)

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