Category Archives: Life

2007 in review

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Each year is good, bad, or indifferent in its way. Some are memorable for the number or depth of happy or unhappy events, for example, weddings, births, deaths. Others pass without leaving an impression. For most of 2007 I have felt stressed and stuck, yet at the same time I have discovered emotional resources within myself that were not available before. Perhaps finding them is part of the wisdom of age.

I am not sure why, but I have a sense that flatness of feeling, which sometimes seems a curse, sometimes a blessing, is the best coping mechanism that I have.

The good
My friends who tolerate my sadness and my odd sense of hopelessness, even when they are at their worst.

My home, where the views of the water and the moon are therapeutic and at times inspirational.

My dreams, which, although never satisfying, help me to experience a shadow of the wonderful feelings and sensations of the past and to understand my present-day desires.

My opportunities, such as going to the Renaissance Faire, White Fence Farm, and Waterfall Glen.

My rare encounters with nature, such as seeing hundreds of fireflies like jewels in the woods at Waterfall Glen, watching two tiny and friendly rabbits grow into aloof adulthood, and lying with held breath as red admirals alighted fearlessly on my ankle and arm.

My health — several age-related issues, but oddly at some point in the past few years I’ve become so used to a certain level of pain that I don’t remember life without it.

My employment means I’m self-supporting and can afford a few comforts.

The bad
Issues at work, the source of much stress. On the positive side, at least I have plumbed certain traits in myself, including a combination of idealism and grim determination. On the negative, I have a sense that this changes and lessens me somehow.

My fears and lack of will that keep me from finding or making bends in the road (from the Anne of Green Gables series). I must find resolve soon.

A lack of purpose that keeps me adrift in a day-to-day existence without meaning or joy.

Personal setbacks that have squeezed some, even much, of the meaning from life. It can become a downward spiral if I lose control, which is a constant possibility.

With all of the professional and personal problems killing me slowly, 2007 has been a year to forget. For now, I hope 2008 is a year to remember — for the best reasons.

Flying over the moon

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I don’t like flying, so usually I try to fall asleep before or during takeoff and to stay that way if I can. It might have seemed even easier to do Saturday, when I returned to Chicago from San Antonio. I’d been up until after midnight, packing and digesting my niece’s fifteenth birthday dinner (held at Chuy’s), I’d woken up several times during the night, and I got up at 4:35 a.m. to catch my 6:50 a.m. flight (selected because it was the most cost effective). I hadn’t slept well the night before, either, thanks to the pinched nerve and muscle spasms episode. And, as it turns out, I was also in the throes of late PMS, which drains me and my energy like a vampire. With all that going for me, you’d think I’d have passed out the moment I was seated.

You’d be wrong. I was fully alert during the entire takeoff process and couldn’t even will my eyes closed.

As the Caribou Coffee slogan goes, “Life is short. Stay awake for it.” I’m glad I did. Before I succumbed to exhaustion mid-flight, I experienced something magical — the sensation of flying in the dark over the moon.

The sun had not quite risen, and when I looked out my port window, the just-past-full moon was beside and below me, and soon behind me, among the clouds in the deep blue sky. For a moment, my heart felt as though it were within touching distance of its strongest desire. I was so moved that, after making sure he wasn’t asleep, I tapped the shoulder of my seat mate, a stranger, and demanded that he “look at that.” He did, and said, “That’s pretty,” before he returned to staring at the bulwark in front of us.

“Cold-hearted orb that rules the night . . .” And my heart.

I am not Borg, or growing older, part 46

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Growing older is a learning experience if only because you have expanding opportunities to discover what can go wrong with the human body.

My latest learning experience occurred at my brother’s house in San Antonio, Texas, toward midnight on Thanksgiving. I had feasted on a wonderful mix of American and Lebanese dishes sandwiched between two glasses of wine. We watched a DVD, and I felt good. Just before midnight, I became sleepy enough to go to bed, so I did. Somewhere between the couch and the bedroom, though, the left side of my torso imploded.

I tried to read myself to sleep, but was seized with spasmodic pain and couldn’t find any position that didn’t hurt. The pain seemed to be centered on my left shoulder blade and radiated to my rib cage and lower back. Even my left arm hurt.

I began to wonder if I was having a heart attack.

After 15 or 20 minutes of not getting any better, I used my mobile phone to call my brother, who gave me ibuprofen, a heating pad, and reassurance that I wasn’t having a heart attack. An hour or so later, I felt well enough to try to sleep on my right side, and did — but not very well.

On Friday, I spent two hours with a massage therapist, who gave me a beating I still feel.

It’s Monday, and I have muted pain, numbness in my arm, and an occasional spasm. What is it?

A pinched nerve. I didn’t know that a pinched nerve can cause muscle spasms. Now I do. I’m here to tell you that you’ll feel each one, even as they occur on top of one another.

I’m mystified by what caused or aggravated it, but I’ll never know.

I’m thankful that it wasn’t a heart attack. I’ll be thankful if heals and never happens again. That is too much to ask for, I’m sure.

Week of October 28, 2007

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To my knowledge, nothing this week flooded, leaked, crumbled, broke, or collapsed — not even me. I did have odd dreams, although I didn’t remember much of them when I woke up. Also, thanks to PMS, I fell asleep soundly on the bus, even missing my stop one evening, and sometimes started to doze at lunch. I felt myself drifting off during a couple of department meetings, which may have been noticed because I had so little control. There were a few times when I felt overcome, almost sick with sleepiness. Then, at 10 or 10:30 p.m., when I tried to sleep, it wouldn’t come. I wasn’t exhausted, and it would take me unusually long to get to sleep. Then I would wake up two or three times during the night. Once or twice I overslept. All that should be relieved soon, but it’s an odd feeling to have so little say over one’s body and functioning.

On Monday, October 29, J. T. and I met after a Lyric Opera dress rehearsal and went to Red Light (Jackie Shen). At some point early on, perhaps during the small plates, J. T. started peering past me at something by the entrance. “I really can’t see very well and can’t be sure, but that looks like Mayor Daley and Bill Kurtis.” I turned around to look, although I did not have a good angle and could not see well through the plants, but I did spot a forehead that strongly resembled that of one of Da Mare’s family members, a niece with whom I had worked 10 years ago. “Looks like Daley to me,” I said. I’m not from Chicago, and I’m not fond of the Daleys in general or Richard the Younger in particular.

J. T. remained uncertain. “There’s no security,” she pointed out. “This isn’t a power place. And the mayor wouldn’t stand at the bar like that.” (Why not? I thought.)

A few minutes later, I looked to my left, and there could be no doubt now. Daley and Kurtis had moved to the center of the room and had been joined by Kurtis’s producer-girlfriend, Donna LaPietra, whom J. T. recognized from a ZooBall dinner. They spoke to Jackie Shen, then were taken to a private room, which I could just see into. J. T. was beside herself that there was no security. I noted that three or four men had gone in shortly afterward, but she said, “Those are suits.” Maggie Daley arrived some time later.

I’m recording this as this is the first time, I am sure, that Da Mare and I have dined at the same restaurant at the same time, perhaps even in the same restaurant. Most likely it will be the last.

Monday morning I read about the accident in Wadsworth, Illinois, that killed or injured 59 draft horses, many young, many Belgian. Every time I looked at the drooped eyes of the horses pictured, clearly in shock, I saw an inexpressible world of suffering and betrayed loyalty and trust. I cried every day at work. For many, including me, it did bring to light the use of horses in the pharmaceutical industry, the slaughter of horses in Canada and Mexico for French and Japanese markets, and, if that were not bad enough, the inhumane conditions under which horses are transported and killed. Like dogs, in our culture horses are working and companion animals. Their slaughter should be as repellent to us as it would be if it were poodles or Pomeranians.

Later in the week, I read about a fire in a foie gras company building that killed 15,000 ducks. 15,000! I imagine how those ducks must have felt, trapped, unable to flee, suffering unspeakably, and all for human greed. I also read about the slaughter of a dolphin pod, including babies, by the Japanese; the story was accompanied by a graphic, disturbing photo of the bloodied bodies these intelligent, sentient animals. All for human greed.

I cried for the horses, the ducks, and the dolphins partly because I cannot save them, I cannot comfort them, and I cannot reassure them that not all of my kind are hellish, heartless monsters. And because I know that what happened to them is the proverbial tip of the proverbial iceberg, that human cruelty is pervasive and unstoppable, that even now, at this moment, any moment, unthinkable cruelties are being committed without thought other than money and sadism against those with no voice, committed without conscience, committed without end.

Week of October 21, 2007

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I wrote this at Bonjour Bakery and Café. I thought it would be too chilly to sit outdoors today, but there’s no breeze so it’s very comfortable, and my fingers don’t hurt. My coffee is even staying hot.

The apartment troubles continued this week, but there is an end in sight. I noticed intermittent dampness on the bathroom floor under the toilet tank. On Monday, the wax seal was replaced, which seems to have resolved that problem. They also tore up the hallway wall and found nothing, so it was plastered and will be painted tomorrow. They think the seal problem may have caused the plaster to crumble, although I still can’t envision how.

After the closet was plastered, I noticed it seemed powdery in some places and damp in others, and the back of my mind registered that the wall was cold to the touch. The construction manager looked at it and had it torn out again. All was well, though, and this morning I moved everything back in. Yesterday I returned everything to the bottom of the linen closet except a couple of old sports bags that smelled of mildew, and also to the cabinet underneath the kitchen sink.

Now I’m tired, even a little sore, but everything is almost back to normal. At this point, normal feels a little odd.

To remind me that there is always the potential for something to go wrong, large or small, this morning the smoke detector started chirping at uneven intervals — a low battery, and another job for the hard-pressed maintenance men.

In terms of household tasks, I’ve gotten a lot done this weekend — washed dishes, cleaned the litter box, mopped the kitchen floor, put almost everything away, vacuumed, shopped — yet I managed to sleep most of yesterday morning and afternoon.

My exhaustion is not just from PMS or from working too hard. It’s from play acting every day.

"Like, you know, totally"

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One day when I was eating lunch at Caffe Baci on Madison, a nearby conversation intruded itself into my awareness. The speakers were two young male professionals. Their dialogue was along these lines:

“So he thought we should, like, tell the client . . .”

“Like, that is so weird.”

“Well, he was like . . . and then I was like . . . He’s so, like, annoying, you know?”

“Totally. Like, what are you going to do?”

And so on and on.

I looked at them. They were ordinary-looking men.

Who sounded like teenage girls.

Since then, I’ve noticed a lot of this, even in men I guess to be as old as 30 or even more. I heard another one the other day at Bonjour; he was pacing the courtyard, carrying on his end of a particularly mundane conversation on his mobile phone and peppering his contributions with nearly every poor speech habit imaginable, loudly, so we all could hear.

Now, I’m not a woman whose tastes run toward the macho. I do, however, like a man who sounds like a man (Richard Harris, Richard Kiley, and Howard Keel all come to mind). That means I like a man whose every other word isn’t “like,” “he goes/she goes,” or “totally,” a man who doesn’t remind me of a young woman.

Presumably, many of these men have wives or girlfriends. Do their women find their speech patterns and habits sexy? Do they match their own so closely that it never occurs to them how odd they sound emanating from an adult male? Does everyone, both genders, of a certain age talk in this way, and am I catching on only now? After all, in the past 10 years I’ve noticed more and more adult women, some as old as 45–50, who sound like chipmunks on helium, which I had not realized before. I’m starting to wonder if men are following suit. To wonder, and to be afraid.

What do I want to be?

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In the 1960s, boys wanted to be firemen or policemen, and girls wanted to be nurses or teachers.

Except me.

I didn’t know what I wanted to be. I didn’t know what it meant to “be” something. I never thought about adults or what they did all day, even the teachers I saw every day. I didn’t know what my father did when he went to work; I knew only when he left and when he returned. Once in a while, he would come home with a cut or scrape, but I never learned how they came about.

As I grew older, I figured out that doctors and lawyers had more money, but I couldn’t say why. I was naive about socioeconomic status and based my own affections on the merits of the person before me, not on what their father did for a living or how much money he made.

In college, I learned the importance of status and money to others. A young woman in my dormitory asked me what my father did before his retirement. Still unclear as to his exact job, I said he worked for Ford Motor Company. “Was he a VP? Of what?” she asked. I didn’t know what a VP was or did, but I told her what I did know, that he worked in shipping, in the rail yard. Her eyes and facial expression changed. “Oh, he was a worker,” she said dismissively. Neither she nor anyone in her circle of friends spoke to me again. In addition to being the child of a mere worker, I must have seemed the height of stupidity and social ineptitude. Later I would see the campus communists protesting speakers and would think, “What do they know of workers?” I seemed to be alone.

I thought about this the other day when I did a keyword search and came across job listings in health care. Registered nurses, licensed nurses, administrators, directors of nursing — all the usual health care positions.

For some reason, the position of “case manager” caught my attention. No one at age 6 wants to be a case manager. No one at age 6 has heard of a case manager. As with nursing and many other fields, to be a case manager requires specific education, training, and experience. At some point, you have to decide to become a case manager and then you must prepare for it. It’s a long-term commitment, different than becoming a store cashier or a call center operator. If you are a case manager, you are a case manager — your commitment, at least for now, has made the profession part of your identity.

This may be where I get hung up on career choices. I can’t get past thinking of careers as functions that society needs performed. To me, it’s something that someone pays you to do and that you perform so you can do what you really want to do — whether that’s buying a house and having a family, collecting lovely things, traveling to exotic or exciting places, or following your academic dreams.

Specialized functions seem so limiting to me. I don’t mind writing copy, but I don’t want to be thought of as a copywriter because I can do so many other things. I learn quickly and thoroughly, and I think strategically. I come up with ideas and develop solutions to problems. I’m a good judge of people. I can earn the respect of people of diverse personality types.

There are things I’m terrible at, too. I don’t have the patience for advanced math or physical sciences. I’m not mechanically inclined; in fact, I’m dimensionally impaired. I’m introverted, so I would not do well at anything that requires an outgoing personality, for examples, fund raising or sales. Authority and top-down discipline are antithetical to me; I could not succeed in the military, on the police force, or as part of any bureaucracy.

I have a clear idea of who and what I am, and of who and what I am not. If I remember accurately, my dad’s official position was “checker.” My current official position is “senior copywriter.” Just as my dad was much, much more than a “checker,” I am more than a “copywriter.” I chafe, I think, because the guardian types who tend to be in charge in any organization prefer to see people in terms of function instead of possibilities, and because i have not taken enough risks to find a function that focuses on my abilities, capabilities, and interests, not tasks.

There must be something comforting in knowing that you are a good case manager, that there will be a foreseeable need for case managers (or at least their talents, knowledge, and skills), and that there is little or nothing else you would rather do. You have a plan, a certain amount of job and financial security, and perhaps a general sense of contentment that balances the day-to-day frustrations any job brings.

I have but a vision — and it’s blurred, scary, and forever elusive.

And so I continue my function, paralyzed by inertia, never happy, always discontent and unfulfilled, forever dreaming.

Week of October 14, 2007

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This will be one of those entries in which I memorialize what is going on in my life, which isn’t much.

On Monday, I met with the director of learning and organizational development to discuss my Clifton Strengthsfinder results. My top five strengths are:

Intellection
Ideation
Input
Connectedness
Individualization

I’m not sure what this means in practical terms. I like to think it indicates I’m thoughtful, creative, spiritual, and insightful, with a bad habit of collecting stuff. I could wish my Self-Assurance or Significance were commensurate with my intellect, but since they aren’t my inner genius remains confined, trapped.

One of my top ten strengths, Adaptability, indicates that I need challenge and change. It’s interesting how lazy I am about finding either or making them happen, as though I am afraid of them — and of being happy.

Because of the leak I found under the kitchen sink, I have a new faucet. It’s relatively sleek and ergonomic, and operates more easily and smoothly than the old one. Such small changes bring me small blips of pleasure.

The new plaster in the hallway is already starting to crumble. This week I found a damp spot underneath the toilet tank that appears intermittently. I’m beginning to wonder if the crumbling plaster on the outside wall and the damp spot under the toilet are related, odd as that may sound. I’ll have to make a note of it.

The plumbing repairs appear to have been finished early, and now the bedroom closet is awaiting a new paint job. Assuming the mold issue is dealt with (a big assumption), I should be able to return my lifetime’s accumulation of clutter to the closet this weekend. I wonder if I will sleep easier, or if my subconscious will always be on the alert for a downpour of water from above.

A friend tells me I may be a nemesis of pipes. He’s referring to the X-Files, I gather. Apparently, psychics take out their anger or stress on the plumbing, which comes apart. I doubt this is the case for me, unless I am emotionally suicidal. My subconscious would become a significant source of my stress, as wee-morning phone calls, water pouring behind walls, mold, and sodden and ruined possessions do not make me happy and contented, or relaxed.

Earlier this week, I bought two flattish pillows, not for any particular reason other than that they were on sale and looked comfortable. Because they are flatter than the old pillows, they seem to be better for my neck. Unfortunately, mainly because I seem to have a nagging ear/throat infection, my sleep has been restless and broken, and I have been waking up tired, sore, and head-achy.

There was the morning I dreamed that a friend (unknown, that is, not a real person) and I went to a local computer repair shop somewhere unrecognizable and surreal. The place was owned and managed by . . . John Denver. While he was talking to us about my friend’s computer problem and my Internet access speed issues, a large Amish family walked in with their troubled computer. At this point I think I felt like I was having a bad dream and struggled to wake up. It was too unreal even for me.

There’s something new to look forward to — glasses. I had my annual eye exam on Thursday. I’ve managed to dodge (barely) bifocals for one more year, and so illogically and because I like change I am splurging on Silhouette rimless titanium frames. Because there’s almost nothing to them, they weigh almost nothing. Alas, they cost enough to make me wonder about my sanity. I hear my dad’s voice saying, “More money than brains.” Right now, I am in short supply of both. By the time I go back to pick up the new glasses, most likely I’ll have decided I need the clip-on sunglasses, too. At this rate, I must win the lottery I never play.

And so it’s Friday. The closet, a load or two of laundry, and a good vacuuming await, as well as anxiety over damp spots in the bedroom ceiling and bathroom floor, but so do a couple of pleasant mornings at Bonjour and a few good stories. I may even start to write one myself.

Raindrops keep falling on my head

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At the other end of a phone call made between midnight and 3 a.m. is sure to be a lovelorn drunk or someone with bad news or trouble to share. By 3:37 a.m., when my phone rang, I should have known it wasn’t a drunk.

It rang four times, but I didn’t hear a message. I struggled to wake up, swinging my legs off the end of the bed and my feet onto the wet carpet. Wet carpet? My sleepy mind struggled with how I could have had an accident on the carpet.

Suddenly I snapped awake. Wet carpet. Phone call. I opened the closet and found wet walls, wet boxes, wet carpet, and water dripping down along the light bulb. Not again . . .

Yes. Again. At 4 a.m., I was pulling out the ton of sodden stuff I’d put back back into the closet last month when it had dried and the wall had been repaired after the last incident. The water leaking was hot, so the entire bedroom was like a sauna.

This time, I also removed everything from the floor of the linen closet, which I learned too late had gotten soaked last time. When I got to the back, I discovered that the plaster and wood had developed a healthy mold. Whoops . . .

A knock at the door proved to be that of two young Asian men who live downstairs. They had called the front desk when the water set off their smoke detector.

At no point in my childhood, youth, or adulthood would I have imagined myself standing in an apartment hallway at 4 a.m. in a nightshirt talking to college students in pajamas. Surreal.

I didn’t go to work. I tried to sleep but couldn’t relax. I would have read the last few pages of Wives and Daughters, but the last third of the book was sopping and is still wet. I went to Bonjour for breakfast and later took myself outside to write when, as if on cue, it promptly started to rain. So I took care of the laundry, washing towels that had gotten wet as well as bed linens.

My head aches slightly, I’m exhausted but not sleepy, and I can’t focus on anything or get comfortable mentally or physically.

I’m the first to be bored with and worry about the rut I am in, but now I want nothing more than a return to normalcy. I feel strange and discombobulated again, and this time I don’ t have a little trip to look forward to. I wonder what I will do with my Friday off now — more than I did today, I hope, and less cleaning up and worrying.