In a quick backward glance I am driving my Mustang on the Nimitz Freeway near Hayward California . I'm on my way to my first teaching assignment, barely older than my students, and I am singing along with Dionne Warwick: while combing my hair now, and wond'ring what dress to wear now, I say a little prayer for you....
To me the song is about Vietnam. I don't have a boyfriend or husband fighting there but I keep the boys in my heart; they are my friends, my classmates, my contemporaries. I want them to come home. They do not belong in this war they cannot - and perhaps should not - win.
I can't see ahead and so I don't know the violence, the losses, the tragedies that await us in 1968. We have already been unspeakably changed by the assassination four years before. We Baby Boomers, who for the most part lived a golden, sheltered life in the fifties with Howdy Doody on the tiny TV screen and doting parents who rented cotton candy machines on Halloween and took us to a fledgling Disneyland...we now knew that bad things can happen, that terrible events can transform us, but in 1967 we don't yet know that the ripples from that poisoned pebble will expand throughout our lives and muddy the waters decades later. It is not an easy fix. There is no closure for this kind of wound.
I say a little prayer for you.
Today, I say one for Barack Obama and all of our candidates. I say one every morning. Because I know bad things can happen, and I know hateful people always live among us. And I am disturbed by the language I am hearing in the McCain campaign. The tenor of the talk has become feverish and infused with meanness. I am worried, I am frightened by it.
I am waiting for John McCain to step up and ask his followers to stop it.
Because John McCain knows bad things can happen. He has lived through them. He remembers.
Sarah Palin does not. Sarah Palin is proud of being in the second grade when Joe Biden was already in Congress. Sarah Palin thinks youth and ignorance are prizes to be worn like beauty contest sashes.
Sarah Palin was not yet born when a shot from a rifle rang through the Dallas morning and cut down a young president. She cannot know the great grief that never quite heals. The place in the heart that one carries in silence. The assassination of a president, regardless of one's political leanings, is something that hurts and in many cases hardens. The death of John Kennedy robbed a generation of its youth and much of its idealism.
Sarah Palin was four years old when Martin Luther King and Robert Kennedy were gunned down. She cannot understand. There was anger in the land, an unpopular war and an ineffective, hated president in the White House. There was indecision, worry, and strong words among the people.
Some politicians used the fear in the land to advance their own causes. Anger was condoned, racial slurs and half truths abounded. Rumors spread rapidly, even without our instant internet communication. Violence marred a political convention and blood ran in the streets.
And today, in an atmosphere of strife, economic disaster and an unpopular war, the most disliked president in our history sits helplessly on the sidelines while another campaign draws to its conclusion. And out of desperation, out of a sense that they must win at any cost, again the comments are being made.
They are reckless comments. They use a candidate's middle name because it conjures a hated dictator. They imply that a candidate "pals around with terrorists." They suggest that he is dangerous. They cast doubts. They play on fear and pander to the worst in their supporters.
I ask John McCain to stop. I ask him to tutor and rein in his young vice presidential nominee.
She thinks that whatever she says, she can say freely and without consequence. She does not know the horror of the consequences and I pray she never learns.
She does not know that her words can reap the whirlwind.
I remind my fellow Boomers to tell the story. Share the pain and the lesson with a new generation, who only read of John Kennedy in dusty history books. Who don't remember Robert Kennedy's campaign born of sorrow, or Martin Luther King's devotion to his cause.
Tell the story you carry in your heart. Quiet the noise, take a deep breath, step back.
Both campaigns : have respect for one another. Our country cannot bear another tragic loss. Keep all of our candidates safe, let them fulfill their destinies whatever those may be. Let them sail these treacherous waters with all of us as ballast. Let all participants in the political wars show responsibility and restraint.
I say a little prayer.
Thursday, October 9, 2008
GET A LIFE
I went over to the local Wal Mart the other day to get a life.
Everyone keeps saying “Get a life” these days. They tell each other to get a life on TV, in movies, in commercials, and especially when they are disgusted with each other. So I figured, I would just go on over and get myself one.
The thing was, WalMart actually had several different lives for sale over on the Notions Aisle.
At the very front of the aisle I found Married Life, and just beyond it, Single Life.
They were both CDs I could easily run on my home pc, and the best part was, they had them on sale two for one. However, they warned me if I tried to run them both at the same time I might be in for some serious download problems.
So I took my two lives home, and checked them out.
I installed the Married Life first out of curiosity. Having been single for such a long time, I was naturally interested in what I had been missing.
The Married Life CD had a lot of really cool stuff on it.
It offered a very good looking opposite sex spouse of my choice (I had chosen Marriage, Traditional, not Marriage, Alternate) and I decided to name him Max, a solid name, a name with a future.
I could morph Max into any age, hair color, height or weight, but no matter what I did with him, he was always smiling, never complained, and always looked very attractive.
He dressed nice, too, kind of preppy in golf shirts and great fitting slacks with a v-neck sweater tied across his shoulders and unpretentious sunglasses. And I assumed he smelled good, although my pc doesn’t come equipped with that capability yet.
Max came equipped with an entire monologue that, in a nutshell, boiled down to the following phrases: “Yes honey, I agree, you’re certainly right. Gosh you look beautiful. Of course you don’t look fat. Can I give you a massage? I’m sorry you had a bad day. Come here and give me a smooch, you sexy thing. What do you want for dinner?”
Also in the Married, Traditional program was a bouquet of flowers of my choice from 1-800 –Flowers, a Kama Sutra book, a king size, heated water bed, two tickets to Sandal’s Couples Only Resort in the Caribbean, Max’s 401K plan (richly endowed), one 4-bedroom, 3 bath, 3800 square foot home exquisitely decorated with gourmet kitchen, two walk-in closets just for me, a private hot tub off the master bedroom, and a time-share in Aruba.
I selected the No Kids button, but I did opt for Grandkids. Hey, I could have it all without any of the aggravation. This was my life, after all. I decided I liked this Married Life a lot. Reluctantly I closed it and inserted the disk for the Single Life.
It contained a copy of “Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus,” coupons for one latte at my local Starbucks, an individual pizza from Pizza Hut and a map of all the straight singles bars within 10 miles of my house. (Remember, I chose Single, Traditional, not Single, Alternate.) It offered two potential dates, who promised they were sensitive and “authentic,” but they were both too short.
This Single Life CD didn’t impress me, so I took it back to the WalMart and complained that there seemed to be a lot more in the Married Life package.
The manager asked if I had chosen my CD from the Married- Life- Is- Better Preconceived Notions Aisle. I said I had no idea.
“Well,” said the manager, “these Get A Life programs are all set up to match your expectations. If you were divorced, say, and hated being married, you’d pick up a Single, Traditional program in the Single- Is- Better section. But you obviously think being married is great, so that’s the program you picked.”
Could I exchange my two CDs for the other two, in which single was better and married wasn’t so hot? I could.
Back home I came with my new lives, and popped in the Married CD. All it offered was a bald, tired-looking guy named Howard asking me where I had been and if I had taken out the garbage. Oh, and an appointment with a marriage counselor in my neighborhood.
But the Single CD Rom? Spectacular.
As soon as I opened it, the room was filled with upbeat Latin swing music. Dozens of incredibly good looking men, who could be adjusted to whatever specifications I desired, appeared on the screen. They all assured me that I was beautiful, desirable and interesting. They presented their credentials. All were well educated, emotionally and financially secure, and knew how to cook. I had my choice of any of them, and when I grew tired of one I could come back for my choice from an infinite variety.
When I felt tired, or irritable, or bloated, I pressed the “Not Tonight” feature and all of them disappeared from the screen. Up popped scruffy slippers, an extra large t-shirt, an old video of “Sleepless in Seattle” and a pint of Ben and Jerry’s Chunky Monkey super rich ice cream, spoon already inserted.
Single Life, Traditional, also came with standard features such as my choice of cat or dog, my choice of neighborhood, my choice of décor, my choice of the right or left side of the bed, my choice of vacation spots, and exclusive access to the TV Remote.
It also included a great group of girlfriends to hang out with, a job perfectly suited to my talents which I loved and could work late at with no apologies, and 139 pair of Manolo Blahnik shoes. Size 6, what else?
I really couldn’t make up my mind which life to get. So the other day I took both CD programs back to WalMart. They’re pretty good about refunds. I decided the life I already had was okay because, after all, it belonged to me, and I liked the idea that every day was a fresh new adventure and not pre-programmed. Que sera, sera, I told myself, and decided to stay away from the Preconceived Notions Aisle from now on.
Everyone keeps saying “Get a life” these days. They tell each other to get a life on TV, in movies, in commercials, and especially when they are disgusted with each other. So I figured, I would just go on over and get myself one.
The thing was, WalMart actually had several different lives for sale over on the Notions Aisle.
At the very front of the aisle I found Married Life, and just beyond it, Single Life.
They were both CDs I could easily run on my home pc, and the best part was, they had them on sale two for one. However, they warned me if I tried to run them both at the same time I might be in for some serious download problems.
So I took my two lives home, and checked them out.
I installed the Married Life first out of curiosity. Having been single for such a long time, I was naturally interested in what I had been missing.
The Married Life CD had a lot of really cool stuff on it.
It offered a very good looking opposite sex spouse of my choice (I had chosen Marriage, Traditional, not Marriage, Alternate) and I decided to name him Max, a solid name, a name with a future.
I could morph Max into any age, hair color, height or weight, but no matter what I did with him, he was always smiling, never complained, and always looked very attractive.
He dressed nice, too, kind of preppy in golf shirts and great fitting slacks with a v-neck sweater tied across his shoulders and unpretentious sunglasses. And I assumed he smelled good, although my pc doesn’t come equipped with that capability yet.
Max came equipped with an entire monologue that, in a nutshell, boiled down to the following phrases: “Yes honey, I agree, you’re certainly right. Gosh you look beautiful. Of course you don’t look fat. Can I give you a massage? I’m sorry you had a bad day. Come here and give me a smooch, you sexy thing. What do you want for dinner?”
Also in the Married, Traditional program was a bouquet of flowers of my choice from 1-800 –Flowers, a Kama Sutra book, a king size, heated water bed, two tickets to Sandal’s Couples Only Resort in the Caribbean, Max’s 401K plan (richly endowed), one 4-bedroom, 3 bath, 3800 square foot home exquisitely decorated with gourmet kitchen, two walk-in closets just for me, a private hot tub off the master bedroom, and a time-share in Aruba.
I selected the No Kids button, but I did opt for Grandkids. Hey, I could have it all without any of the aggravation. This was my life, after all. I decided I liked this Married Life a lot. Reluctantly I closed it and inserted the disk for the Single Life.
It contained a copy of “Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus,” coupons for one latte at my local Starbucks, an individual pizza from Pizza Hut and a map of all the straight singles bars within 10 miles of my house. (Remember, I chose Single, Traditional, not Single, Alternate.) It offered two potential dates, who promised they were sensitive and “authentic,” but they were both too short.
This Single Life CD didn’t impress me, so I took it back to the WalMart and complained that there seemed to be a lot more in the Married Life package.
The manager asked if I had chosen my CD from the Married- Life- Is- Better Preconceived Notions Aisle. I said I had no idea.
“Well,” said the manager, “these Get A Life programs are all set up to match your expectations. If you were divorced, say, and hated being married, you’d pick up a Single, Traditional program in the Single- Is- Better section. But you obviously think being married is great, so that’s the program you picked.”
Could I exchange my two CDs for the other two, in which single was better and married wasn’t so hot? I could.
Back home I came with my new lives, and popped in the Married CD. All it offered was a bald, tired-looking guy named Howard asking me where I had been and if I had taken out the garbage. Oh, and an appointment with a marriage counselor in my neighborhood.
But the Single CD Rom? Spectacular.
As soon as I opened it, the room was filled with upbeat Latin swing music. Dozens of incredibly good looking men, who could be adjusted to whatever specifications I desired, appeared on the screen. They all assured me that I was beautiful, desirable and interesting. They presented their credentials. All were well educated, emotionally and financially secure, and knew how to cook. I had my choice of any of them, and when I grew tired of one I could come back for my choice from an infinite variety.
When I felt tired, or irritable, or bloated, I pressed the “Not Tonight” feature and all of them disappeared from the screen. Up popped scruffy slippers, an extra large t-shirt, an old video of “Sleepless in Seattle” and a pint of Ben and Jerry’s Chunky Monkey super rich ice cream, spoon already inserted.
Single Life, Traditional, also came with standard features such as my choice of cat or dog, my choice of neighborhood, my choice of décor, my choice of the right or left side of the bed, my choice of vacation spots, and exclusive access to the TV Remote.
It also included a great group of girlfriends to hang out with, a job perfectly suited to my talents which I loved and could work late at with no apologies, and 139 pair of Manolo Blahnik shoes. Size 6, what else?
I really couldn’t make up my mind which life to get. So the other day I took both CD programs back to WalMart. They’re pretty good about refunds. I decided the life I already had was okay because, after all, it belonged to me, and I liked the idea that every day was a fresh new adventure and not pre-programmed. Que sera, sera, I told myself, and decided to stay away from the Preconceived Notions Aisle from now on.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Fortune Cookie
There’s a wonderful, fun, dishy movie from 1954 called “A Woman’s World.” In one scene, the always elegant (and disgustingly slim) Lauren Bacall offers up a plate of goodies and a great line to the beauteous Arlene Dahl: “Have a cookie, Cookie.” If you remember that flick, you’re at least as old as I am and you probably thought of June Allyson as “the good one,” Arlene as “the bad one,” and Lauren as “the smart one.”
My, how things have changed in a woman’s world since the fifties. But Bacall somehow never did. She was always smart, always sophisticated. So I tried to think the way she would to come up with what Luck and Good Fortune might mean to us women of 2008. We are not, as were women in the Fifties, dependent on or limited by the success or failure of our husbands. That is a stroke of luck in itself. But along with sweeping and dramatic changes in our lives have come a slate of new choices and challenges. How to survive? How to prosper? How to take a picture with that cell phone?
So here’s what I would wish for us in the way of good fortune today:
Even if you’re officially retired, some kind of work that inspires and rewards
A bathroom scale that always weighs two ounces less than you expect it to
Someone – just one person will do – who really “gets” you
A moment of supreme enlightenment, in which you finally understand how to add an attachment to your e mail
A call on that fancy Bluetooth razor thin cell phone from the one person you’re dying to hear from
A short line in the ladies’ room
A long visit with your best friend
At last, a bra that fits properly
The perfect table at every restaurant (if that’s next to the men’s room, so be it)
World peace. Okay, we’ll settle for peace and quiet at home.
A good, down-to-your-socks belly laugh, at least once a day
Fret-free moments before you drift off to sleep
All the right, healthy choices to eat and drink so you’ll stay healthy and fit… but despite all of them, every once in awhile,
Have that cookie, Cookie.
My, how things have changed in a woman’s world since the fifties. But Bacall somehow never did. She was always smart, always sophisticated. So I tried to think the way she would to come up with what Luck and Good Fortune might mean to us women of 2008. We are not, as were women in the Fifties, dependent on or limited by the success or failure of our husbands. That is a stroke of luck in itself. But along with sweeping and dramatic changes in our lives have come a slate of new choices and challenges. How to survive? How to prosper? How to take a picture with that cell phone?
So here’s what I would wish for us in the way of good fortune today:
Even if you’re officially retired, some kind of work that inspires and rewards
A bathroom scale that always weighs two ounces less than you expect it to
Someone – just one person will do – who really “gets” you
A moment of supreme enlightenment, in which you finally understand how to add an attachment to your e mail
A call on that fancy Bluetooth razor thin cell phone from the one person you’re dying to hear from
A short line in the ladies’ room
A long visit with your best friend
At last, a bra that fits properly
The perfect table at every restaurant (if that’s next to the men’s room, so be it)
World peace. Okay, we’ll settle for peace and quiet at home.
A good, down-to-your-socks belly laugh, at least once a day
Fret-free moments before you drift off to sleep
All the right, healthy choices to eat and drink so you’ll stay healthy and fit… but despite all of them, every once in awhile,
Have that cookie, Cookie.
A Certain Smile
Your day goes the way the corners of your mouth turn.
When I saw this quote I fell into quite a a debate with myself. (Do you ever do that? Debate with yourself? Do you do it out loud? Come on, just between us, do you find yourself walking around your home and sort of muttering to yourself? You might say something along the lines of “I just can’t lose a single ounce!” And then you’ll answer yourself “Well why would I expect to lose any weight when I ate a third of that carton of Chunky Monkey last night. I have absolutely no will power.” And then of course, you’ll have to respond to this rather harsh attack with “But I just had to have something sweet, and if my son hadn’t bought it and put it in the freezer in the first place I probably would have had an apple. And where are my glasses? Where did I put my glasses?”)
So you do know what I mean about debating with myself.
I asked myself “When ‘Anonymous’ wrote this (and, who, by the way, is this Anonymous Guy? I figure it is a guy, not a gal, because women are just more likely to take credit for what they say, not so much because they are proud of it but because they feel responsible for it, whereas some guy will just blurt something out and leave it there on its own.) But when ‘Anonymous’ wrote this, was his mouth turning up at the corners, or down?
Because you can see that it could make a great deal of difference. What kind of day was he having by the time he picked up pen and jotted this little ditty into some kind of journal, or did he just scribble it on a cocktail napkin? Of course, if he was having cocktails in the middle of the day, I bet the corners of his mouth were turned up.
In my case, it’s hard to tell whether my mouth is turned up or down because frankly, after a certain age, the mouth kind of does whatever it feels like. You might think you have a slight smile on your face and catch a glimpse of yourself in a store window and wonder who that grumpy person is. In fact, after a certain age the mouth tends to take on a life of its own. It eats things like pickled pigs feet and smelly cheese. It comes out with tart observations of life that embarrass the kids, and complaints about various aches, pains and unappetizing disorders like excess gas, which don’t make for scintillating dinner conversation. Sometimes you just have to leave the mouth home when you go out.
So who cares whether the corners of your mouth are turned up or down? I say, let your mouth alone. Put a little lipstick on it, perhaps some lip liner but only if you have a nice upper lip. Otherwise you don’t want to draw attention to it.
(And you thought this was going to be another one of those dreadful little motivational self-help articles, didn’t you. )
-Anonymous
When I saw this quote I fell into quite a a debate with myself. (Do you ever do that? Debate with yourself? Do you do it out loud? Come on, just between us, do you find yourself walking around your home and sort of muttering to yourself? You might say something along the lines of “I just can’t lose a single ounce!” And then you’ll answer yourself “Well why would I expect to lose any weight when I ate a third of that carton of Chunky Monkey last night. I have absolutely no will power.” And then of course, you’ll have to respond to this rather harsh attack with “But I just had to have something sweet, and if my son hadn’t bought it and put it in the freezer in the first place I probably would have had an apple. And where are my glasses? Where did I put my glasses?”)
So you do know what I mean about debating with myself.
I asked myself “When ‘Anonymous’ wrote this (and, who, by the way, is this Anonymous Guy? I figure it is a guy, not a gal, because women are just more likely to take credit for what they say, not so much because they are proud of it but because they feel responsible for it, whereas some guy will just blurt something out and leave it there on its own.) But when ‘Anonymous’ wrote this, was his mouth turning up at the corners, or down?
Because you can see that it could make a great deal of difference. What kind of day was he having by the time he picked up pen and jotted this little ditty into some kind of journal, or did he just scribble it on a cocktail napkin? Of course, if he was having cocktails in the middle of the day, I bet the corners of his mouth were turned up.
In my case, it’s hard to tell whether my mouth is turned up or down because frankly, after a certain age, the mouth kind of does whatever it feels like. You might think you have a slight smile on your face and catch a glimpse of yourself in a store window and wonder who that grumpy person is. In fact, after a certain age the mouth tends to take on a life of its own. It eats things like pickled pigs feet and smelly cheese. It comes out with tart observations of life that embarrass the kids, and complaints about various aches, pains and unappetizing disorders like excess gas, which don’t make for scintillating dinner conversation. Sometimes you just have to leave the mouth home when you go out.
So who cares whether the corners of your mouth are turned up or down? I say, let your mouth alone. Put a little lipstick on it, perhaps some lip liner but only if you have a nice upper lip. Otherwise you don’t want to draw attention to it.
(And you thought this was going to be another one of those dreadful little motivational self-help articles, didn’t you. )
Sunday, September 7, 2008
AM I BLUE
Am I Blue … Women and Depression
A personal journey
By Leslie Lafayette
We get them coming, and we get them going.
We get them as teenagers, when an innocent look can spin our world out of control, a careless remark break a fragile heart.
We get them, some of us, every month of our lives in the form of pre-menstrual syndrome. The kind of grinding, mind-numbing despair that lays us low, shuts us down and tears us to pieces.
In a particularly ironic blow, we get them, many of us, after completing a nine-month journey and producing a new life.
We get them in perimenopause.
We get them in menopause.
We get them in old age.
We get them with new jobs or old relationships, with the burdens of childrearing and caregiving and social butterflying. With every pound on the scale, with every glance in the mirror.
We get the blues.
Women seem particularly prone to this personal eclipse, this thief of joy and peace of mind. And the question becomes one not of Why the blues, but How. How to cope. How to endure. Ultimately, how to triumph.
Because women do triumph over the blues.
My first memory of that stomach-in-the-falling-elevator feeling, that Big Empty that lives inside of us all, is myself sitting in the backseat of my parents’ Oldsmobile. I am twelve years old and something from Jimmy Dorsey is playing on the radio. It’s melancholy, and what twelve year old knows from melancholy? Yet I do. I know it in that moment, that sadness without a reason, without a face, without a purpose.
I wouldn’t have known what to say to my parents. “Help me, I’m lost,” comes to mind now, but then, I just felt small and alone despite the presence of the two most important adults in my world just inches away from me, and the Santa Monica sand shimmering next to the bluest of waters.
After years of battling what are now called “mood disorders,” ranging from mild bouts of tears to occasional intractable dark moods … panic disorder to a sort of loss of appetite for life (Woody Allen, who battled his depression demons for years, nearly named the movie “Annie Hall” after this condition, called anhedonia, a lack of gusto or enjoyment, a sort of emotional limbo) …and enough ups and downs to rival any elevator… I can honestly say that this time of my life, past menopause, is reminiscent of the first eleven years of my life, those childhood days when I was less aware of myself than of the world around me … and therefore I have to grudgingly admit that this is also – if not the happiest time of my life, certainly the least unhappy.
(A disclaimer here: I am Russian and Hungarian, and I would find it genetically impossible to brag about my cheerful disposition under any circumstances.)
The chicken-and-egg battle in the world of depression is about physical depression (researchers say chemical imbalances, particularly low levels of serotonin in the brain, cause depressed feelings) versus situational blues (the marriage is no good, the mortgage is too high, the first born is into drugs, the shoe doesn’t fit so you can’t wear it…the list goes on ad infinitum.)
The argument that we don’t see things the way they are, we see them the way we are, still doesn’t answer the question, does it. If our brains are not producing the “feel good” chemicals, we are bound to see the world through a glass darkly, and that glass is likely to be half empty. So for some of us women, anti-depressant medications have truly made all the difference in quality of life. For others, hormonal therapies in peri-menopause and menopause itself are the answer to our prayers.
And then there are those of us who somehow muddled through and went to sleep at night covered not with a down quilt but a dozen self-help books; who asked themselves the same questions over and over (what does all this mean? Why aren’t I happy? What is to become of me?) but didn’t get the answers; who cried the tears and lost their way again and again but eventually triumphed over this most perplexing and debilitating of all life ailments – this godawful depression – by changing the way they thought…by giving less credence to the feelings of the moment and practicing a different way of being in the world. We stopped romanticizing depression and looked at it straight on and saw it for what it was: a destroyer of precious moments, one after another, moments that add up to lifetimes.
What did I learn from a lifetime of battling the blues?
I learned that “taking actions against a sea of troubles,” as Hamlet suggests in his famous soliloquy, really does work. Except sometimes, doing nothing is the better choice; if one doesn’t work, try the other.
I learned that there is no way to fill up “the Big Empty,” that place inside where you feel all alone. You have to live around it and with it, and in spite of it, and because of it. You can’t drink enough milkshakes or martinis. You can’t take enough drugs or love enough men or buy enough cashmere sweaters or play enough slot machines to fill up that space. It is part of you and part of every human being who ever lived, so make peace with it as early as you can.
Billie Holiday sang “Good morning, heartache, pull up a chair,” and I learned to welcome the pain of loss and heartache into my living room because it wasn’t going anywhere soon, so it might as well make itself at home. Funny, but it was easier that way.
I learned not to take myself so seriously. What was bothering me five years ago? I can’t remember. I will feel the same five years from today. I learned to “save the drama for my mama,” because nobody else was particularly interested, and I saved a lot of energy that way.
I learned to stop chewing on things, like a Rottweiler with a hambone. When I was younger I felt if I could only “think through” a situation in my life that was getting me down, I could “fix” it. Instead, I changed my thoughts, distracted myself, put on a funny movie, went out the door, weeded the garden, walked the dog. It wasn’t easy; in fact, it was the hardest thing I ever did.
I (mostly) learned to stop calling friends and dumping all over them unless I absolutely couldn’t help myself. This saved phone bills and friendships and gave me a break from my own thoughts.
Memories of the way we were might make for great song lyrics, but it doesn’t make for a great way to live. I learned that wandering through the past is walking a dangerous path. For one thing, it was never quite the way I think it was. For another, it is there and gone, and I am here and now. And if I want to keep living, that is where I intend to stay.
Most of all, living long enough has taught me that Scarlett was right. Tomorrow really is another day. It doesn’t mean my sorrows and losses will be gone. It just means I have another chance to eke out some moments of peace, laughter, contentment. Some days they come easier than others. Life bestows on us a river of gold every day, but it’s up to us to wade in and mine the good stuff , to keep it, marvel and reflect upon it, for every new day we’re given.
(Depression can be a serious, life-threatening disorder. If you need help, seek it out immediately. If you feel you are in danger of doing anything to harm yourself or others, go immediately to the nearest emergency room or call Suicide Prevention. There is always someone who will help you. Reach for that help.)
A personal journey
By Leslie Lafayette
We get them coming, and we get them going.
We get them as teenagers, when an innocent look can spin our world out of control, a careless remark break a fragile heart.
We get them, some of us, every month of our lives in the form of pre-menstrual syndrome. The kind of grinding, mind-numbing despair that lays us low, shuts us down and tears us to pieces.
In a particularly ironic blow, we get them, many of us, after completing a nine-month journey and producing a new life.
We get them in perimenopause.
We get them in menopause.
We get them in old age.
We get them with new jobs or old relationships, with the burdens of childrearing and caregiving and social butterflying. With every pound on the scale, with every glance in the mirror.
We get the blues.
Women seem particularly prone to this personal eclipse, this thief of joy and peace of mind. And the question becomes one not of Why the blues, but How. How to cope. How to endure. Ultimately, how to triumph.
Because women do triumph over the blues.
My first memory of that stomach-in-the-falling-elevator feeling, that Big Empty that lives inside of us all, is myself sitting in the backseat of my parents’ Oldsmobile. I am twelve years old and something from Jimmy Dorsey is playing on the radio. It’s melancholy, and what twelve year old knows from melancholy? Yet I do. I know it in that moment, that sadness without a reason, without a face, without a purpose.
I wouldn’t have known what to say to my parents. “Help me, I’m lost,” comes to mind now, but then, I just felt small and alone despite the presence of the two most important adults in my world just inches away from me, and the Santa Monica sand shimmering next to the bluest of waters.
After years of battling what are now called “mood disorders,” ranging from mild bouts of tears to occasional intractable dark moods … panic disorder to a sort of loss of appetite for life (Woody Allen, who battled his depression demons for years, nearly named the movie “Annie Hall” after this condition, called anhedonia, a lack of gusto or enjoyment, a sort of emotional limbo) …and enough ups and downs to rival any elevator… I can honestly say that this time of my life, past menopause, is reminiscent of the first eleven years of my life, those childhood days when I was less aware of myself than of the world around me … and therefore I have to grudgingly admit that this is also – if not the happiest time of my life, certainly the least unhappy.
(A disclaimer here: I am Russian and Hungarian, and I would find it genetically impossible to brag about my cheerful disposition under any circumstances.)
The chicken-and-egg battle in the world of depression is about physical depression (researchers say chemical imbalances, particularly low levels of serotonin in the brain, cause depressed feelings) versus situational blues (the marriage is no good, the mortgage is too high, the first born is into drugs, the shoe doesn’t fit so you can’t wear it…the list goes on ad infinitum.)
The argument that we don’t see things the way they are, we see them the way we are, still doesn’t answer the question, does it. If our brains are not producing the “feel good” chemicals, we are bound to see the world through a glass darkly, and that glass is likely to be half empty. So for some of us women, anti-depressant medications have truly made all the difference in quality of life. For others, hormonal therapies in peri-menopause and menopause itself are the answer to our prayers.
And then there are those of us who somehow muddled through and went to sleep at night covered not with a down quilt but a dozen self-help books; who asked themselves the same questions over and over (what does all this mean? Why aren’t I happy? What is to become of me?) but didn’t get the answers; who cried the tears and lost their way again and again but eventually triumphed over this most perplexing and debilitating of all life ailments – this godawful depression – by changing the way they thought…by giving less credence to the feelings of the moment and practicing a different way of being in the world. We stopped romanticizing depression and looked at it straight on and saw it for what it was: a destroyer of precious moments, one after another, moments that add up to lifetimes.
What did I learn from a lifetime of battling the blues?
I learned that “taking actions against a sea of troubles,” as Hamlet suggests in his famous soliloquy, really does work. Except sometimes, doing nothing is the better choice; if one doesn’t work, try the other.
I learned that there is no way to fill up “the Big Empty,” that place inside where you feel all alone. You have to live around it and with it, and in spite of it, and because of it. You can’t drink enough milkshakes or martinis. You can’t take enough drugs or love enough men or buy enough cashmere sweaters or play enough slot machines to fill up that space. It is part of you and part of every human being who ever lived, so make peace with it as early as you can.
Billie Holiday sang “Good morning, heartache, pull up a chair,” and I learned to welcome the pain of loss and heartache into my living room because it wasn’t going anywhere soon, so it might as well make itself at home. Funny, but it was easier that way.
I learned not to take myself so seriously. What was bothering me five years ago? I can’t remember. I will feel the same five years from today. I learned to “save the drama for my mama,” because nobody else was particularly interested, and I saved a lot of energy that way.
I learned to stop chewing on things, like a Rottweiler with a hambone. When I was younger I felt if I could only “think through” a situation in my life that was getting me down, I could “fix” it. Instead, I changed my thoughts, distracted myself, put on a funny movie, went out the door, weeded the garden, walked the dog. It wasn’t easy; in fact, it was the hardest thing I ever did.
I (mostly) learned to stop calling friends and dumping all over them unless I absolutely couldn’t help myself. This saved phone bills and friendships and gave me a break from my own thoughts.
Memories of the way we were might make for great song lyrics, but it doesn’t make for a great way to live. I learned that wandering through the past is walking a dangerous path. For one thing, it was never quite the way I think it was. For another, it is there and gone, and I am here and now. And if I want to keep living, that is where I intend to stay.
Most of all, living long enough has taught me that Scarlett was right. Tomorrow really is another day. It doesn’t mean my sorrows and losses will be gone. It just means I have another chance to eke out some moments of peace, laughter, contentment. Some days they come easier than others. Life bestows on us a river of gold every day, but it’s up to us to wade in and mine the good stuff , to keep it, marvel and reflect upon it, for every new day we’re given.
(Depression can be a serious, life-threatening disorder. If you need help, seek it out immediately. If you feel you are in danger of doing anything to harm yourself or others, go immediately to the nearest emergency room or call Suicide Prevention. There is always someone who will help you. Reach for that help.)
Sunday, July 20, 2008
West Side Story on a Sunday Afternoon
It's an alley, just a back alley somewhere in a less toney part of NYC, narrow, with fire escapes spanning the brick buildings. There may have been a summer rain, because the asphalt is wet and reflects some lights from the street at the corner.
And standing up on the second landing we see a gloriously young Natalie Wood , her purple dressing gown swirling about her, and an innocent Richard Beymer as he stands below.
Their hands are outstretched to each other and they sing "Tonight, tonight, the world is full of light...with suns and moons all over the place..." The alley grows luminous, not an alley at all, the buildings fall away, and we're transported. We're in a place beyond pain and poverty, despair and loneliness. We're in a place beyond real life. We're in love.
That's what West Side Story has done for countless audiences on stage and that's what the 1961 movie did for me at the age of 17, when I first saw it in the Graumann's Chinese Theatre in Hollywood. There on the huge screen and hidden in the delicious darkness of my seat next to, of all people, my parents, I fell in love with this story as old as Shakespeare and as new as my first prom date, which would be the very next night.
In my life I have fallen in love many times. And yes, I think of them as love, every time. They were the closest experience I have had, anyway. The euphoria of the first days. The smile you cannot wipe away even when you want to. Your face hurts! The sleeplessness, the longing, the meal skipping as all appetites turn to the beloved.
The anticipation.
Who would not buy a bottle of that at any price?
Tonight. Tonight. I'll see my love tonight.
For at this moment in WSS, all is new and tantalizing in its promise. It is light and luscious, a frothy raspberry cream dessert that you will gladly skip dinner for.
This is my favorite part of the movie and my favorite part of love. Before gang war and hatred tear these lovers apart, before fear and habit take the magic days and nights of our romances and turn them back into...well, the same old 24 hours. This special time, captured forever on the screen.
West Side Story ages well, much better than I have. For awhile this afternoon I am young again. For there they are, Tony and Maria, always young, hopeful, beautiful, forever entranced. I see their glowing faces, hear their whispers of "Te Adoro," the tender last words of the song, "Good night, good night, sleep well and when you dream, dream of me...tonight." And we do. Through all the days and nights and joys and disappointments of our lives, yet do we dream of light and love and hope.
And standing up on the second landing we see a gloriously young Natalie Wood , her purple dressing gown swirling about her, and an innocent Richard Beymer as he stands below.
Their hands are outstretched to each other and they sing "Tonight, tonight, the world is full of light...with suns and moons all over the place..." The alley grows luminous, not an alley at all, the buildings fall away, and we're transported. We're in a place beyond pain and poverty, despair and loneliness. We're in a place beyond real life. We're in love.
That's what West Side Story has done for countless audiences on stage and that's what the 1961 movie did for me at the age of 17, when I first saw it in the Graumann's Chinese Theatre in Hollywood. There on the huge screen and hidden in the delicious darkness of my seat next to, of all people, my parents, I fell in love with this story as old as Shakespeare and as new as my first prom date, which would be the very next night.
In my life I have fallen in love many times. And yes, I think of them as love, every time. They were the closest experience I have had, anyway. The euphoria of the first days. The smile you cannot wipe away even when you want to. Your face hurts! The sleeplessness, the longing, the meal skipping as all appetites turn to the beloved.
The anticipation.
Who would not buy a bottle of that at any price?
Tonight. Tonight. I'll see my love tonight.
For at this moment in WSS, all is new and tantalizing in its promise. It is light and luscious, a frothy raspberry cream dessert that you will gladly skip dinner for.
This is my favorite part of the movie and my favorite part of love. Before gang war and hatred tear these lovers apart, before fear and habit take the magic days and nights of our romances and turn them back into...well, the same old 24 hours. This special time, captured forever on the screen.
West Side Story ages well, much better than I have. For awhile this afternoon I am young again. For there they are, Tony and Maria, always young, hopeful, beautiful, forever entranced. I see their glowing faces, hear their whispers of "Te Adoro," the tender last words of the song, "Good night, good night, sleep well and when you dream, dream of me...tonight." And we do. Through all the days and nights and joys and disappointments of our lives, yet do we dream of light and love and hope.
Monday, May 26, 2008
Sleeping Beauty
There was a time when I just went to bed.
It wasn't complicated, really.
I would notice I was sleepy, go brush my teeth, pull off whatever I had on and most often toss it into the closet floor, where who knows, it might magically arise and slither onto a hanger in the night...and crawl into my twin bed. When I first began tucking my own self into bed, the hall light was on and my bedroom door was open. Of course, I was seven years old.
Later, the hall light remained on but the door was closed a bit. Eventually, the hall light was off and the door was closed. As an only child I learned to demand absolute quiet, gothic darkness, and utter privacy. This hasn't made me anyone's favorite bed partner, obviously.
I would toss myself carelessly onto my tummy, right arm curled up around the pillow, left arm tossed out carelessly. Left leg pulled up and right leg straight, head to the side, and out like a light. Believe it or not I slept an average of nine hours a night throughout high school and never woke up with a backache.
Now, on the other side from that life to this life, with hormones having abandoned me like little rodents diving off the side of my capsized ship of life ("Hot Flash III") I wonder how in the hell I am supposed to get a good night's sleep.
First, of course, there is the fact that I don't even begin to consider sleep until 12:30 AM. Anything before that is simply too early. For I will wake up six and a half hours later, no matter what. And bouncing around the house at 5 AM just doesn't appeal.
Then there are the technological distractions. The laptop. The HDTV. The DVR. Come on! I have a week's worth of taped stuff to clear out. Am I going to watch The Tudors or not? Yes, it's 11 pm, but damn that David Rhys whats his name looks hot. And of course, there's the phone. Every one of my fellow insomniacs is no doubt awake, ready to be engaged in a late night gossip session.
And then there are the snacks. Kettle chips happen to be my current fave, but the bathroom scale is screaming "No!" and soon it will be rice cakes again. Sometimes it's a popsicle, or an ice cream bar. Occasionally it's a beer and a slice of gruyere. I think the late night snack is one of life's greatest pleasures, much less complicated to procure than sex and not nearly as messy if you use a napkin.
It wasn't complicated, really.
I would notice I was sleepy, go brush my teeth, pull off whatever I had on and most often toss it into the closet floor, where who knows, it might magically arise and slither onto a hanger in the night...and crawl into my twin bed. When I first began tucking my own self into bed, the hall light was on and my bedroom door was open. Of course, I was seven years old.
Later, the hall light remained on but the door was closed a bit. Eventually, the hall light was off and the door was closed. As an only child I learned to demand absolute quiet, gothic darkness, and utter privacy. This hasn't made me anyone's favorite bed partner, obviously.
I would toss myself carelessly onto my tummy, right arm curled up around the pillow, left arm tossed out carelessly. Left leg pulled up and right leg straight, head to the side, and out like a light. Believe it or not I slept an average of nine hours a night throughout high school and never woke up with a backache.
Now, on the other side from that life to this life, with hormones having abandoned me like little rodents diving off the side of my capsized ship of life ("Hot Flash III") I wonder how in the hell I am supposed to get a good night's sleep.
First, of course, there is the fact that I don't even begin to consider sleep until 12:30 AM. Anything before that is simply too early. For I will wake up six and a half hours later, no matter what. And bouncing around the house at 5 AM just doesn't appeal.
Then there are the technological distractions. The laptop. The HDTV. The DVR. Come on! I have a week's worth of taped stuff to clear out. Am I going to watch The Tudors or not? Yes, it's 11 pm, but damn that David Rhys whats his name looks hot. And of course, there's the phone. Every one of my fellow insomniacs is no doubt awake, ready to be engaged in a late night gossip session.
And then there are the snacks. Kettle chips happen to be my current fave, but the bathroom scale is screaming "No!" and soon it will be rice cakes again. Sometimes it's a popsicle, or an ice cream bar. Occasionally it's a beer and a slice of gruyere. I think the late night snack is one of life's greatest pleasures, much less complicated to procure than sex and not nearly as messy if you use a napkin.
When I finally doze off, it's not the pleasant drifting to oblivion it once was. It's more like unconsciousness hitting like a hammer. Clunk and yer out. Next thing you know, the sun is peeking in between the broken verticals and I am loathe to look at the clock. For I am afraid that most of the time it's too damn early.
Many times my sleep is interrupted but at least I no longer have to put up with sleepwalking. I hear I was pretty accomplished at this. To keep myself from nocturnal wanderings I used to pull out the chair from my desk and put it next to my bed, thinking of course that I would knock it over if I got up. However, as the story is told by my college roommate, one night sound asleep...I got up, put the chair under the desk, wandered around the room, asked where my lipstick was, and then headed back to bed. Before I went back to sleep (having never been awake) I pulled the chair back out to be sure I wouldn't sleepwalk.
One last thought about sleep - it really is about the pillow. I cannot travel without mine. I forgot it when I went to the hospital for surgery and I couldn't sleep. The fact that the bed was a board and pretty much everyone on the floor marched through my room all night had nothing to do with it. There are two schools of pillows, firm and mooshy. I am a fan of the mooshy.I like to smoosh the moosh. Sometimes I need two mooshies to accomplish this. To each his own pillow, I say, and to all, sweet dreams.
Monday, May 5, 2008
Encased in Lucite
I'm stuck.
It's as if I'm in a solid block of lucite, my arms sort of at odd angles to my body, perhaps one of my hands scratching my head. Suspended where I can see all, and all can see me, but unable to move.
Ever have that feeling?
There are so many things I should be doing.
My toenails, for one. They're too long and I don't like the way too-long toenails feel when you climb between the sheets. Neither would any bed-partner I might have, although I am bed-partner free at the moment.
Speaking of bed-partners ... I am truly in awe of those who have slept with the same person every night for years. Or even those who have slept with different people every night for years. We aren't talking sex here - we aren't asleep while having sex - or at least one of us has to be awake. Unless, of course, we've both taken Ambien and are having amnesiac somnorific sexual encounters of the unconscious kind. No, just talking about actually sleeping next to someone night after night.
We single types, or divorced, or those of us married to snorers, have a difficult time imagining someone over there on the other side of the bed, kicking, perhaps, or reading late, or not reading late and annoyed because the other lamp is on. My nocturnal habits are so bizarre that no one could put up with me.
There are the late night snacks (a Wheat Thin here and there, or a pretzel. Or some Cheerios, or half an apple. Or some marshmallows. Always brush your teeth after marshmallows.) There is the laptop. The television. The two dogs. The three or four books, each opened to a page in progress.
Which reminds me, I should be writing My Book. The one I started three times and have only reached page 81.
I should be brushing my dog Shadow so I can stop bending over to pick up big fluffs of his hair from the tile floor.
Of course, I should be on a diet. (Could it be those late night snacks?)
And as long as I'm shoulding ... I should be three blogs ahead, get my teeth cleaned, visit Istanbul, (is it still Istanbul, or is it called something else now?) clear out the refrigerator shelves, find the bank deposit box key, and order a bunch of stuff from Staples online.
But I can't.
I'm stuck in this block, you see.
The more I think about it, the better this block is looking. At least my back is supported.
It's as if I'm in a solid block of lucite, my arms sort of at odd angles to my body, perhaps one of my hands scratching my head. Suspended where I can see all, and all can see me, but unable to move.
Ever have that feeling?
There are so many things I should be doing.
My toenails, for one. They're too long and I don't like the way too-long toenails feel when you climb between the sheets. Neither would any bed-partner I might have, although I am bed-partner free at the moment.
Speaking of bed-partners ... I am truly in awe of those who have slept with the same person every night for years. Or even those who have slept with different people every night for years. We aren't talking sex here - we aren't asleep while having sex - or at least one of us has to be awake. Unless, of course, we've both taken Ambien and are having amnesiac somnorific sexual encounters of the unconscious kind. No, just talking about actually sleeping next to someone night after night.
We single types, or divorced, or those of us married to snorers, have a difficult time imagining someone over there on the other side of the bed, kicking, perhaps, or reading late, or not reading late and annoyed because the other lamp is on. My nocturnal habits are so bizarre that no one could put up with me.
There are the late night snacks (a Wheat Thin here and there, or a pretzel. Or some Cheerios, or half an apple. Or some marshmallows. Always brush your teeth after marshmallows.) There is the laptop. The television. The two dogs. The three or four books, each opened to a page in progress.
Which reminds me, I should be writing My Book. The one I started three times and have only reached page 81.
I should be brushing my dog Shadow so I can stop bending over to pick up big fluffs of his hair from the tile floor.
Of course, I should be on a diet. (Could it be those late night snacks?)
And as long as I'm shoulding ... I should be three blogs ahead, get my teeth cleaned, visit Istanbul, (is it still Istanbul, or is it called something else now?) clear out the refrigerator shelves, find the bank deposit box key, and order a bunch of stuff from Staples online.
But I can't.
I'm stuck in this block, you see.
The more I think about it, the better this block is looking. At least my back is supported.
Monday, April 28, 2008
THIS SPACE FOR RENT
Don't look now but you have a big empty space inside of you.
Oh yes, you. No use denying it, all the psychology, self-help, zen-ish, Eckart Tolle (Oprah's flavor of the month) books remind us that we shall never be full and we must make peace with this emptiness within.
So, hey, you out there in blogger-reading land, just knock three times on the ceiling if you want me...oh, whoops, sorry, wrong Tony Orlando and Dawn Swan song...I mean, knock on that chest and tummy of yours and see if you hear an echo. Helllo in there! Anybody home?
Feeling empty within can mean a lot of things. In my case it often just means I am hungry. Yes, I am hungry often. There's the dreaded late night snack run to the kitchen (and in my house it really is a run...there is quite a lengthy hallway.) There is the mid afternoon "pick me up," consisting of anything with chocolate in it. If I continue with these late afternoon pick me ups, no one is going to be able to. Pick me up, that is.
There is of course the standard between meal snack that you have about 10 AM when your healthy oatmeal breakfast has taken the last train to Clarksville and you just have to hit the snack machine in the lobby (and hit it hard or that Almond Joy is not going to fall into your waiting hands.) Well at least an Almond Joy has fiber and something approaching a fruit component.
My inner emptiness was so great yesterday that I actually bought a bag of Kettle Salt and Pepper Potato Chips. Now, if you want to have a galactical experience akin to great tantric (not to be confused with frantic) sex, buy yourself a bag of these amazingly good chips (perhaps you prefer vinegar and salt or barbecue or jalapeno) and just sit down in a quiet place where you can be alone with your newly purchased beloved.
Communing in a meaningful way with a great potato chip takes a certain savoire faire. First you must open the bag respectfully, so that it can be re-closed (you *are* going to leave some chips in there, aren't you?) and not tear it the way you would rip off Brad Pitt's undershirt if he ever agreed to play Stanley in A Streetcar Named Desire. Whew, let's just take a time out here for a moment. Kettle Chips and Brad Pitt, too much of a good thing.
These Kettle chips have a satisfying heft to them. The crunch is rewarding. No namby pamby paper-thin greased up processed chips for my empty space. It had better be Kettle or nothing. And the way my waistline has been expanding lately, I think many of my readers would vote for the "nothing."
But then I will be all alone with my emptiness within. How can I make peace with this internal space? Meditation can help. Reading insightful books is a must. Siddhartic yoga breathing while hanging ever so gracefully from a gravity boot or two might improve the situation.
Hey, while I'm down here with my head touching the floor, pass me that bag of Kettle's lightly salted crinkle chips, will you? Thanks ever so.
Oh yes, you. No use denying it, all the psychology, self-help, zen-ish, Eckart Tolle (Oprah's flavor of the month) books remind us that we shall never be full and we must make peace with this emptiness within.
So, hey, you out there in blogger-reading land, just knock three times on the ceiling if you want me...oh, whoops, sorry, wrong Tony Orlando and Dawn Swan song...I mean, knock on that chest and tummy of yours and see if you hear an echo. Helllo in there! Anybody home?
Feeling empty within can mean a lot of things. In my case it often just means I am hungry. Yes, I am hungry often. There's the dreaded late night snack run to the kitchen (and in my house it really is a run...there is quite a lengthy hallway.) There is the mid afternoon "pick me up," consisting of anything with chocolate in it. If I continue with these late afternoon pick me ups, no one is going to be able to. Pick me up, that is.
There is of course the standard between meal snack that you have about 10 AM when your healthy oatmeal breakfast has taken the last train to Clarksville and you just have to hit the snack machine in the lobby (and hit it hard or that Almond Joy is not going to fall into your waiting hands.) Well at least an Almond Joy has fiber and something approaching a fruit component.
My inner emptiness was so great yesterday that I actually bought a bag of Kettle Salt and Pepper Potato Chips. Now, if you want to have a galactical experience akin to great tantric (not to be confused with frantic) sex, buy yourself a bag of these amazingly good chips (perhaps you prefer vinegar and salt or barbecue or jalapeno) and just sit down in a quiet place where you can be alone with your newly purchased beloved.
Communing in a meaningful way with a great potato chip takes a certain savoire faire. First you must open the bag respectfully, so that it can be re-closed (you *are* going to leave some chips in there, aren't you?) and not tear it the way you would rip off Brad Pitt's undershirt if he ever agreed to play Stanley in A Streetcar Named Desire. Whew, let's just take a time out here for a moment. Kettle Chips and Brad Pitt, too much of a good thing.
These Kettle chips have a satisfying heft to them. The crunch is rewarding. No namby pamby paper-thin greased up processed chips for my empty space. It had better be Kettle or nothing. And the way my waistline has been expanding lately, I think many of my readers would vote for the "nothing."
But then I will be all alone with my emptiness within. How can I make peace with this internal space? Meditation can help. Reading insightful books is a must. Siddhartic yoga breathing while hanging ever so gracefully from a gravity boot or two might improve the situation.
Hey, while I'm down here with my head touching the floor, pass me that bag of Kettle's lightly salted crinkle chips, will you? Thanks ever so.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Lub Dub
Behold the beating human heart.
It is an awe-inspiring sight to some, a ghastly vision to others.
You might say beholding the human heart in its natural state is akin to gazing upon a newborn babe. Some are touched beyond measure. Others think it needs a good cleaning and one of those fuzzy caps, and the sooner the better.
I have not had a baby.
But I have seen my own beating heart and it could use a fuzzy cap, too.
All this came about because I had surgery for my prolapsed mitral valve in January of this year. A prolapsed valve is one that stretches too much. My doctor said most people have valves that don't stretch because they are similar to a fabric like cotton, but mine had too much elastic in it and was like panty hose.
Over the years the valve had begun to stretch out of shape and balloon in the wrong place (sounds like panty hose all right) and eventually it allowed oxygenated blood from my lungs to leak backwards with every beat. Once I had researched and thought about it for nearly a year I finally convinced myself that repairing the valve (in a surgery called a valvuloplasty) was the right decision... to stave off progressive weakening of the heart muscle and very possibly congestive heart failure. (By the way, if you have mitral valve prolapse, which is diagnosed in about 15% of the population, do not worry! Only about 1% of mvp sufferers ever have their valve progress to where it needs surgery. )
Aren't I the lucky one! I don't know why I don't beat these kind of odds when I buy a lottery ticket.
My surgery, at UCLA Med Center in Westwood, California, involved a couple of unusual things: a robot, and a Lifetime Television camera.
Lifetime TV was there to do a story on minimally invasive heart surgery, and had asked my surgeon (Dr. Richard Shemin, head of Cardiothoracic Surgery at UCLA) if they could meet one of his patients and follow him or her through the surgery. The Da Vinci robot enabled my doctor to perform open heart surgery without opening the chest. My incision is about 3 inches long and hidden under my right breast. My dreams of being a pole dancer have not been dashed. And besides, my recovery period was shorter ... and the risk to me less ... thanks to the robotic assistance.
My story appeared on the Walgreen sponsored "Health Corner" which appears each Sunday morning on the Lifetime channel. In fact, it you'd like to see the little 5-minute story of my open heart, bypass surgery, here is the link. http://healthcorner.walgreens.com/display/1812.htm
Lifetime's cameras were allowed in the operating room. On February 24, when it first aired, I was watching the little story of my Great Adventure when suddenly, ready or not, I got to see my heart.
I'm not quite sure how I feel about the experience. For one thing, I'm a bit of a heart phobic. I feel about my heart the way I feel about my car engine. Don't open the hood, don't explain how the pistons and the ignition and the doohinkeys work...just let me turn the key and drive off. I don't want to know much about the inner workings of my car or my heart. I just want to know they're going to get me where I need to go.
In another blog I'll share some interesting tidbits about open heart bypass surgery. It is amazing and a miracle and I am grateful and relieved to have it three months behind me. If anyone would like any more information on mitral valve repair surgery, e mail me - I'll be happy to respond.
It is an awe-inspiring sight to some, a ghastly vision to others.
You might say beholding the human heart in its natural state is akin to gazing upon a newborn babe. Some are touched beyond measure. Others think it needs a good cleaning and one of those fuzzy caps, and the sooner the better.
I have not had a baby.
But I have seen my own beating heart and it could use a fuzzy cap, too.
All this came about because I had surgery for my prolapsed mitral valve in January of this year. A prolapsed valve is one that stretches too much. My doctor said most people have valves that don't stretch because they are similar to a fabric like cotton, but mine had too much elastic in it and was like panty hose.
Over the years the valve had begun to stretch out of shape and balloon in the wrong place (sounds like panty hose all right) and eventually it allowed oxygenated blood from my lungs to leak backwards with every beat. Once I had researched and thought about it for nearly a year I finally convinced myself that repairing the valve (in a surgery called a valvuloplasty) was the right decision... to stave off progressive weakening of the heart muscle and very possibly congestive heart failure. (By the way, if you have mitral valve prolapse, which is diagnosed in about 15% of the population, do not worry! Only about 1% of mvp sufferers ever have their valve progress to where it needs surgery. )
Aren't I the lucky one! I don't know why I don't beat these kind of odds when I buy a lottery ticket.
My surgery, at UCLA Med Center in Westwood, California, involved a couple of unusual things: a robot, and a Lifetime Television camera.
Lifetime TV was there to do a story on minimally invasive heart surgery, and had asked my surgeon (Dr. Richard Shemin, head of Cardiothoracic Surgery at UCLA) if they could meet one of his patients and follow him or her through the surgery. The Da Vinci robot enabled my doctor to perform open heart surgery without opening the chest. My incision is about 3 inches long and hidden under my right breast. My dreams of being a pole dancer have not been dashed. And besides, my recovery period was shorter ... and the risk to me less ... thanks to the robotic assistance.
My story appeared on the Walgreen sponsored "Health Corner" which appears each Sunday morning on the Lifetime channel. In fact, it you'd like to see the little 5-minute story of my open heart, bypass surgery, here is the link. http://healthcorner.walgreens.com/display/1812.htm
Lifetime's cameras were allowed in the operating room. On February 24, when it first aired, I was watching the little story of my Great Adventure when suddenly, ready or not, I got to see my heart.
I'm not quite sure how I feel about the experience. For one thing, I'm a bit of a heart phobic. I feel about my heart the way I feel about my car engine. Don't open the hood, don't explain how the pistons and the ignition and the doohinkeys work...just let me turn the key and drive off. I don't want to know much about the inner workings of my car or my heart. I just want to know they're going to get me where I need to go.
In another blog I'll share some interesting tidbits about open heart bypass surgery. It is amazing and a miracle and I am grateful and relieved to have it three months behind me. If anyone would like any more information on mitral valve repair surgery, e mail me - I'll be happy to respond.
Friday, April 18, 2008
Time in A Bottle
Hey so here it is, Friday again, which brings up my thesis for the day - time sure flies when you're having fun. And also when you aren't. As we spring chickens get older we learn that there is no point in looking forward to anything; it's here and gone before you can work up a good whoop. I remember when I was a kid and had a dentist appointment (I promise I won't write "I remember when I was a kid" more than twice in any blog) ...it would come up on the calendar way fast, the kind of 'fast' we used to refer to some of the ninth grade girls who wore flats instead of saddle shoes and real lipstick instead of Tangee Natural. A can of Easy Off had nothing on them.
Ah but sitting in the dentist's waiting room, waiting to get drilled - well that would drag on interminably. (yes I know, and no, I am not going there)
Time and its mysteries...when we were v. young, our birthdays were definitely a year apart. Remember? There were 12 months separating one from the next. Now, several birthdays tend to hit me in the space of a couple of years. Seriously. One day I was forty and the next time I looked around I was fifty and menopausal. What happened to a nice year like 46, for example? I can't remember it at all. Talk about fast forward.
You know that time is passing too quickly when you start liking the same photographs you hated the day they were taken. You know the feeling - oh! I look fat! Oh! that is really an ugly picture! Then you take it out of the drawer or flip by it in a scrapbook and think,'hey I didn't look half bad, look how young I am there.'
Of course we aren't aging like everybody else. When I catch Sally Field or Meryl Streep in some recent appearance, I think, wow, they are getting a little old, huh? Not bad for their age but you know, no longer young, like me. I went to a high school reunion not long ago and when I was walking down the hotel corridor to get to the reception I thought "Wow who are all these OLD people? Gosh, pot bellied and bald, and that's just the women...there must be an AARP meeting or a funeral here somewhere," and imagine my shock when I realized they were all walking into MY high school reunion! I was almost sorry for all of them because I knew I looked at least fifteen or twenty years younger than they did. No one commented on it, of course, because they were all either jealous or trying to be polite. I think it was jealousy.
This time thing is freaky, the way everything speeds up. Makes me conscious of wasting any of it. Take today, for example. I took a walk, and then I was going to clean out some rooms, make some labels (you have to find a time to make labels every day or you can't call yourself organized), and instead here I am writing a blog, glancing at another "woman in the car trunk" flick on Lifetime, and reading Eckhart Tolle's "A New Earth" (Oprah approved). At least I am multi-tasking but I feel guilty when I'm not accomplishing anything . Thankfully, Eckhart assures me that just "being" is accomplishment enough. Maybe he never spent time in a dentist's waiting room.
Ah but sitting in the dentist's waiting room, waiting to get drilled - well that would drag on interminably. (yes I know, and no, I am not going there)
Time and its mysteries...when we were v. young, our birthdays were definitely a year apart. Remember? There were 12 months separating one from the next. Now, several birthdays tend to hit me in the space of a couple of years. Seriously. One day I was forty and the next time I looked around I was fifty and menopausal. What happened to a nice year like 46, for example? I can't remember it at all. Talk about fast forward.
You know that time is passing too quickly when you start liking the same photographs you hated the day they were taken. You know the feeling - oh! I look fat! Oh! that is really an ugly picture! Then you take it out of the drawer or flip by it in a scrapbook and think,'hey I didn't look half bad, look how young I am there.'
Of course we aren't aging like everybody else. When I catch Sally Field or Meryl Streep in some recent appearance, I think, wow, they are getting a little old, huh? Not bad for their age but you know, no longer young, like me. I went to a high school reunion not long ago and when I was walking down the hotel corridor to get to the reception I thought "Wow who are all these OLD people? Gosh, pot bellied and bald, and that's just the women...there must be an AARP meeting or a funeral here somewhere," and imagine my shock when I realized they were all walking into MY high school reunion! I was almost sorry for all of them because I knew I looked at least fifteen or twenty years younger than they did. No one commented on it, of course, because they were all either jealous or trying to be polite. I think it was jealousy.
This time thing is freaky, the way everything speeds up. Makes me conscious of wasting any of it. Take today, for example. I took a walk, and then I was going to clean out some rooms, make some labels (you have to find a time to make labels every day or you can't call yourself organized), and instead here I am writing a blog, glancing at another "woman in the car trunk" flick on Lifetime, and reading Eckhart Tolle's "A New Earth" (Oprah approved). At least I am multi-tasking but I feel guilty when I'm not accomplishing anything . Thankfully, Eckhart assures me that just "being" is accomplishment enough. Maybe he never spent time in a dentist's waiting room.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Writer's Blog?
Wednesday April 16
Did you get your taxes in yesterday? Neither did I. That's why God made extensions.
So man (woman?) created blog and saw it was good. Until, of course, she fell victim to writer's blog, which is the temporary - one hopes - inability to put written word to page. Or in this case, screen. Now, this is my first blog and brief intro to The Spring Chicken, and all I can think to say is, howdy. The Spring Chicken clucks, and having clucked, moves on...oh, no, she's quoting Omar Khayyam now.
I've been writing The Spring Chicken for quite awhile. I like to flatter myself that it's rather an Erma Bombeck-ish (or make that peckish) take on life for those of us great chicks who have reached a certain age of maturity (make it 50, or if you're in a hurry, 45.) There's so much to talk about, laugh at and cry over at this stage of life. For one thing, I can't do my toenails anymore without a weed whacker and a telescope. So I treat myself to a pedicure, only it's not really a treat anymore because I don't trust anyone's implements and just like Elaine in Seinfeld, I am convinced they are all talking about me and it isn't good. All of my insecurities come out when my feet are in a pedicure tub. I feel so exposed and vulnerable, and I can't make a quick getaway without slipping across the floor of the nail salon and falling head first into the hot wax (and then they'll charge me extra.) My feet are funny looking anyway. My big toe is big and the rest of my toes are little. They're perfect toes for pointy shoes but like many of us Spring Chicks I have given up wearing pointy toes, along with high heels (to me anything over an inch is a high heel) and anything that requires nylons of any kind, even knee highs.
Thank God for knee high nylons, but be sure to remove them before your pedicure.
Come back and visit me again soon. I'll share info on my web site, Thespringchicken.com as it takes shape. I'll love hearing from my sister chicks.
Did you get your taxes in yesterday? Neither did I. That's why God made extensions.
So man (woman?) created blog and saw it was good. Until, of course, she fell victim to writer's blog, which is the temporary - one hopes - inability to put written word to page. Or in this case, screen. Now, this is my first blog and brief intro to The Spring Chicken, and all I can think to say is, howdy. The Spring Chicken clucks, and having clucked, moves on...oh, no, she's quoting Omar Khayyam now.
I've been writing The Spring Chicken for quite awhile. I like to flatter myself that it's rather an Erma Bombeck-ish (or make that peckish) take on life for those of us great chicks who have reached a certain age of maturity (make it 50, or if you're in a hurry, 45.) There's so much to talk about, laugh at and cry over at this stage of life. For one thing, I can't do my toenails anymore without a weed whacker and a telescope. So I treat myself to a pedicure, only it's not really a treat anymore because I don't trust anyone's implements and just like Elaine in Seinfeld, I am convinced they are all talking about me and it isn't good. All of my insecurities come out when my feet are in a pedicure tub. I feel so exposed and vulnerable, and I can't make a quick getaway without slipping across the floor of the nail salon and falling head first into the hot wax (and then they'll charge me extra.) My feet are funny looking anyway. My big toe is big and the rest of my toes are little. They're perfect toes for pointy shoes but like many of us Spring Chicks I have given up wearing pointy toes, along with high heels (to me anything over an inch is a high heel) and anything that requires nylons of any kind, even knee highs.
Thank God for knee high nylons, but be sure to remove them before your pedicure.
Come back and visit me again soon. I'll share info on my web site, Thespringchicken.com as it takes shape. I'll love hearing from my sister chicks.
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