Thoughts on a Road Trip

We went on a road trip Sunday.  Didn't have much money in our pockets, but we had a full tank of gas and an itch to be on the road.  Our destination was somewhere up north, as far as we could get before we’d turn around and return the same day.

It's 17.2 miles from our house to the Golden Gate Bridge, and then it's all freeways. The Golden Gate has always represented a portal to freedom to me. Once I get there, I know I’m going somewhere special, somewhere outside our usual stomping grounds. It was encased in fog, but there were plenty of walkers getting blown about like leaves.

On the freeway, there was a moment when we wished for a laser gun to use on the person in the red Ferrari ahead of us. He was in desperate need of absolute disintegration, talking on his cell phone, oblivious to the travelers around him, and driving a good 15 miles slower than the rest of traffic. Once Leslie's coffee kicked in, she started navigating traffic like the professional she was and still is. We left him in our smoke to pick up coastal Highway One at Mill Valley. 

Before too long, we noticed there were many buses, tour buses. Then, it occurred to us we were close to the Muir Woods.  By the time we drove the twisty-turny hairpin turns that took us up the mountain to the Muir Woods Overlook, Elizabeth was horribly and unexpectedly car sick. How could we forget about her car sickness? She moved to the front seat, but it didn’t help. 

The poor baby was green around the gills, so we hung out at the Overlook deciding what to do.

I hiked around for a bit and took a few pictures.  It was windy, much like the Golden Gate Bridge. Mist hung on everything.  People still stopped to take in the vistas, though, even those wearing a towel wrapped around a bathing suit.  It was very chilly.

Given that the next cross over to Highway 101 was a good 100 miles of north bound twisting and turning, we decided to head backward toward home and call it a day. Elizabeth was sick enough.  The drive back down the hill was slow and careful. The stress of high school is gone right now, so she let Leslie mother her through the car sickness, rubbing her back, and offering bi-carb so she’d feel better. I sat in the back seat listening to Leslie and Elizabeth converse, struck by the subtle differences in our parenting styles and how we communicate with her, but always in awe of Leslie’s tenderness and caring. I got a clear and increasingly rare glimpse of how much our daughter relies on and shares with us as she balances the tightrope that runs between childhood and adulthood.

Once we got past the Bridge and into the City, Elizabeth was herself again, talking and laughing. We discussed topics revolving around school, social interaction, and her friends. She’s not afraid of things like teen suicide, which she runs up against at least once a year, or discussing the kids we know who’ve tried to kill themselves. She has a logical way of rationalizing and understanding it without passing judgment. She is more reserved, for example, if she needs to tell us she got a C on a test, but if it’s about her feelings getting hurt or some sort of problem at school, with a little prodding, she’s up front with it. Leslie knows when something is amiss, for example, and will gently ask repeatedly if everything is okay until finally Elizabeth tells her what’s going on. We are very fortunate that Elizabeth is as well-adjusted as she is, and that’s she’s not afraid to talk to us.  And we’re also fortunate she can navigate her way through high school without getting lost. 

We also talked about silly topics like the boy group, One Direction, and Elizabeth’s frustration when we can’t identify which one is singing. My short fall, I’m sorry to say, as Leslie seems to nail it every time. When I look at Elizabeth with that blue hair, I still can’t believe she came out of my belly. We know some parents would have a problem with a head full of Manic Panic Blue, even if it is a perfectly harmless way for a teenager to express herself. We feel quite strongly, however, that there will be no piercings or tattoos, thank you very much. We figured out long ago that a parent must carefully pick where to put a foot down.  A heavy hand or judgmental tone can easily alienate a growing teen.  And then what do you have?

We had a wonderful family day in spite of the unexpected problems.  After all, that was the point right from the start.

Memorial Day Musings

Memorial Day 2013

Time accelerates as you grow older.  The years whiz by.  Just yesterday, Elizabeth was standing first in line outside her new fifth grade classroom, excited to meet her new teacher, wearing an outfit Leslie picked out for her. That’s changed because fashion, as she states adamantly, is an important part of who she is.  She takes up to 45 minutes at night figuring out what to wear the next day. Now, Elizabeth has completed her sophomore year of high school.  Sophomore year! And today was the very first day we didn’t have to be anywhere, go anywhere, or do anything. We all slept in and it was heavenly. In fact, just having Elizabeth home with no plans and no stress felt really, really good.  It’s as though time slowed down just for this weekend.

The last few months have been hard. Elizabeth’s schedule was off the charts with rehearsals, the high school musical “Grease”, a dance recital, homework, finals, and the pressure and angst that go with it.  She found her niche with the Drama Department, and even after the show, the kids are making a strong effort to stay together. A few weeks ago, they went to House of Air in San Francisco, which was a hoot (see video), then spent time at the new Round Table Pizza in town, which is clean and delicious. Saturday night, they were at Mary’s until midnight swimming, re-viewing their performance of “Grease”, and then descending on Ross in onesies. At sixteen, Elizabeth is reluctantly caught between being a child and being a young adult.  She expresses her independence in different ways, and now her hair, all of her hair, is a bright, Manic Panic blue.  We can easily pick her out of a crowd of 50,000.  Still, she and her friends seek out opportunities to be silly.  Soon enough, she’ll grow more serious as she paves a path to adulthood.

Leslie’s health is finally improving.  What started out as a singular case of cellulitis in her right foot in mid-March, turned into nine weeks of hell made tolerable only by the uncanny way our Boston Bull, Daizy, NEVER left Leslie’s side, and ministered to her literally whenever she got upset. It was really something to see.  Leslie spent four days in the hospital, but after the oral antibiotics left her system, the cellulitis rebounded with a vengeance. Elizabeth’s show “Grease”, and her dance recital, for that matter, occurred in the middle of all this. Sitting through a performance was painful as Leslie’s foot swelled like a blowfish. And she had to reschedule the trip she planned to see her sister in Iowa, which was very disappointing.

Two trips to the emergency room and plenty of IV antibiotics later, the cellulitis cleared up in time for the left foot to start in. No lie. At this point, Leslie was extremely frustrated with her lack of mobility, tired of taking so much medication, and getting worried it would never end.  Even a trip to the bathroom was difficult.

The left foot turned out to be the gout.  It wasn’t a stress fracture from hopping around with cellulitis, and it wasn’t a blood clot. We checked. No, her uric acid levels were super high.  It was no doubt the gout. The gout. How horrible does that sound?  When I was a kid, the gout was discussed in tones of disgust. Connie talked about it like it was leprosy.  “It hurt so bad,” she barked, “I told them to take my leg off!”  Leslie’s pain was an 8 on a scale of 1 to 10 even though we caught it early. The first round of medication was prednisone (steroids), and it did nothing but hide the symptoms for a short time and make her feel terrible.  A week later, two more medications, and daily doses of concentrated cherry juice, and the gout began to recede.  The pain, however, seemed to go on forever. The osteoarthritis was extremely irritated by all this, too.  What's more, she had to cancel her rescheduled trip to Iowa once again, as if the universe just didn't want her to go there!  

Today was the first day Leslie got out her walking sticks and walked tentatively down the street. It was a brief walk, although more than I expected, and it was an effort toward regaining her strength, which she feels intensely motivated to do.

Adjunct to this, and I’m climbing on my soapbox here, all of Leslie’s health issues were either caused by or exacerbated by her weight, which, for the record, isn’t that horrible.  She was much, much heavier ten years ago before her total knee replacement in 2002 and has been conscientious ever since.  When you’re at a point where moving or exercising is painful, and you’re plagued with muscles that tweak and joints that scream at the end of the day, it’s time to take the situation in hand. Bones aren’t made to carry extra weight, and aging bones will object vehemently. That’s what I had to do, and why I sound like I’m preaching (there’s nothing more annoying than a reformed fat person).  Despite still having issues I must work on, at the very least I’m not lugging an extra 120 pounds when I climb the stairs.  My thoughts are this: If you’re a large woman, a thick madam, of 50 or thereabouts, and frightened of disability or immobility, don’t be afraid to do something about it. The glitches have been worked out of weight loss surgery, and we’re lucky enough to have a pioneer in the field right here at Mills Peninsula. There’s no reason to remain caged by your body.  End of soapbox.

Next week, Leslie goes to see Dr. Wetter, the surgeon who did my weight loss surgery.  The appointment can’t come soon enough as far as she’s concerned.

The summer will be a chance to be together as a family and strengthen the bonds stressed by illness and crazy schedules.  I knew May was going to be a financial challenge, so we spent a lot of time doing yard sales and chasing bills.  It was the month stuck between transitions around income.  I’m glad to see May come to a close.  Leslie will teach Elizabeth how to drive (another rite of passage that blows my mind).  Elizabeth will undoubtedly spend a lot of time with her brand new acoustic guitar which she taught herself how to play. And she’ll do a month long musical theater summer camp in July at Spindrift right here in town.  Rehearsals are Monday through Friday from noon to 7 pm.  Awesome!  Leslie’s focus will be on nailing down the various mandatory tests and appointments prior to her weight loss surgery.

I want to spend the summer transitioning into my new responsibilities at Sanchez Art Center, which I’m excited about, working with Tracey on an art commission (which I’m exceedingly grateful for), and doing lots of art and writing (the inspiration for which is banging in my head).  I’ve got an art exhibition happening at Pacifica’s Community Center in July, and there are a few pieces I’d like to complete for that.  My fiction manuscript, which I’m more than halfway through, is pulling at me again.  If I get into the 50/50 at Sanchez, that means 50 pieces of small art (6x6) over 50 days which will be a challenge and an opportunity to complete my pop-culture tarot deck.

My spiritual mother, Sri Karunamayi or Amma, was in town just as Leslie’s cellulitis was at its worst, so I missed the Bay Area programs.  Then, in an unusual scheduling move, she came back a month later, just as Leslie’s gout was at its peak. I was very disappointed even as I knew for certain that my family comes before everything, even my spirituality.

If I’ve learned anything from the last several months, it’s this:  There are some things we can change and many things we cannot, but time marches on regardless and whether or not we change what we dislike about ourselves.  Change is self-motivated.  It can also be frightening. But it beats sitting on the couch because you’re too fatigued to do anything else, waiting for the next time your back goes out.  One day you may turn around, 150 pounds heavier than when you were 16, and staring down the barrel at 50 years of age.  That's not going to be me. 

Having the time to be with my family and to do my art and writing is a blessing. But, of course, it’s balanced by a need for greater financial security.  Someday soon, this time will come to an end.  I plan to enjoy it while it lasts.  I also know without a doubt, that my greatest wish is for Leslie and I to be present and healthy if and when Elizabeth has children. We're taking steps to make that happen.

Soon enough, Elizabeth will be off to college, Leslie will be 150 pounds lighter, and I really will be 50 years old!

Time really does fly.

"Pippin", "Grease", and the Benefit of High School Musicals to the Growing Teen

Grease is the word.

It is in this house, anyway.  Our daughter, Elizabeth, plays “Frenchie” in her high school’s musical “Grease”, and I can’t tell you how it tickles me.  I snuck back stage during rehearsals a few times when I picked her up, and doing so brought it all back.

The one thing that kept me sane when I was a teenager was children’s theatre at Constance Moore’s “Children’s Theater Workshop”.  Miss Connie, as we called her, had about 300 students and each year incorporated them and their dancing lessons into a musical.  We, the bigger kids, got to audition for the musical roles in each show.  Let’s see ... we did “Gypsy”, “Hello Dolly”, “Babes in Toyland”, “Music Man”, among others. The year we did "42nd Street", I was the character lead and the stage manager. I knew every single cue in that script. I was 16.  During the summers, we were occupied with community theater where we did “Oklahoma”, “Mame”, “The Unsinkable Molly Brown” and “Pippin”.  I was Fastrada in Pippin, and I tell you, it was one of the best times I’ve ever had.  Jody was Pippin, I was his stepmother, and Gina was Pippin’s grandmother, Berthe.  There was a scene where Gina sang to Jody. She sang “No Time at All” in a long flowing gown, her head wrapped in veils, and during one performance, she had Jody absolutely mesmerized to the point where he forgot his lines.  Those were such wonderful times.  Wonderful memories, too.

I went to the local high school’s brand new, state of the art theater to pick Elizabeth up tonight.  Typically, I have to go back stage to drag her out of there.  “I’m so stressed out,” she said to me. Then, her director decided to go over another number, and lickety split she was on the stage with a gaggle of other kids, and they were ecstatic.  No more stress, just joy.  That was an hour ago, and now it’s after 8:00 p.m.  They’ve been at rehearsal since 3:00 p.m.

For years, Leslie and I tried to get Elizabeth involved in one thing or another.  She didn’t like sports, didn’t want to ice skate, and had no interest in Brownies or even dancing school.  But this high school musical and the drama department has her hooked.

It had me hooked when I was a kid, too.

It feeds confidence.  It feeds the spirit. 

It's wonderful.

Make Art, Not War ...

... pick your weapon! ❤

Question the Universe

I used to have great faith in the powers of the universe. I’m not religious and never have been, so I don’t put my faith in god, and I don’t walk around thanking the Goddess for everything. Not out loud, anyway. So, it was all about the universe for me back then.

Now, I think the phrase is grossly overused. Every other person I bump into on Facebook thanks for universe for one thing or another. I’ve noticed the phrase is also used a lot by younger people, people with few real problems, and people who know they’ll have enough money for the rent because they have little responsibility and plenty of excess cash.  These people also see magic in everything. Seeing magic isn’t a bad thing, but in all things? Granted, I acknowledge magic in many things. I know that coincidences are rarely coincidences, and I believe in animal symbols and synchronicity.  I even believe in magic. I just don’t see it absolutely everywhere.

That used to be me. It was easy to see magic everywhere from my office in downtown San Francisco. I mean, the view there was spectacular. It was easy to acknowledge the power of the universe through the lens of $100K plus per year. Now, I have a non-profit job that I love.  I march to work in a baseball cap and t-shirt with my favorite comic book character on it, size large since I've lost over a hundred pounds, and the view sees me much happier. It might be easier to see through a $100K per year lens, but it doesn't make me as happy as this does, highlighting the enormous difference between "easy" and "happy".

My past certainty is replaced by unanswered questions, lots of unanswered questions. Like, why is it possible for bacteria to take down a robust 60 year old woman? Why is it so hard for me to find a well-paying job that has benefits?  Why is Daizy peeing in the bedroom upstairs at night all of a sudden instead of outside like she has without fail for the last 7 years?  Why is good fortune often accompanied by equally bad fortune, as if some kind of balance must be maintained, and how does one enjoy that good fortune without guilt?

Truthfully, I spend considerable time feeling tossed about like a leaf in the wind.  I always try to see the bright side of things because most of the time I have no idea how things work.  I can’t simply throw a blanket explanation on it.  Like, I don’t know for certain if we pick our lifetime before we’re born, and I don’t know that we all travel in soul groups. I can’t say with certainty that bad things happen to us so our souls can learn some specific lesson from it.  I like to believe there is a bigger picture because I don’t believe anything out of a book or religion without question, and because the alternative, the possibility that there is no purpose to life and our experiences at all, is simply to grim an alternative to entertain.

I do believe in a higher power.  It doesn't matter to me if it’s God or Goddess or the universe. What matters is the knowledge that God/Goddess helps those who help themselves.  Certainly, it’s the higher power that can deal you an Ace over a Queen in Black Jack.  But you have to understand what’s in your hand and take the initiative to ask for a card.

I guess what I’m saying is that at almost 50, I see less and less of those magic moments.  And when I do, I know they happen because I helped make them happen.

Donna L. Faber
April 5, 2013