My lovely, crazy, loyal, loving dog died today. We had her put to sleep. She was around fourteen years old. I got her in 2003 off Craigslist from someone who rescued her from the high-kill Pinole shelter so I never knew much about her. They said she was around two when I got her which would have made her fifteen this year, but she gained so much weight in the first few months I had her that my vet at the time thought she was probably closer to a year old when I got her.
I grew up with dogs though my mom really did most of the work. I wanted a dog for years as a young adult and spent hours at my less-than-fulfilling desk jobs look on Petfinder.org and Craigslist. When I found Sadie I was living on Steiner Street in a huge Victorian with four roommates. I didn't ask any of them if I could get a dog. I thought I was just fostering her, that's what I told them too. But the first time I took her to an adoption event as her foster mom, tying a bandana around her neck like they tole me, like the other animals up for grabs, I knew I would be keeping her. My roommates were not thrilled. More like pissed. The first night she was home, after getting spayed, I went out with some friends and a roommate ending up taking care of her. I often did not deserve her.
She was completely nuts for a long time. She was afraid of furniture. Wood or linoleum floors. A couple times I had to pick her up and carry her out of a house after she'd crossed the slippery floor and then refused to cross it again. Afraid to get in the car, afraid to come inside the house. She barked at every black man she saw which was incredibly awkward for me. I kept wanting to shout "I didn't train her to be racist, I swear!"
She was house-broken and trained as far as knowing how to sit. She pulled like crazy on the leash. I had no idea how hard it would be to have a dog. How hard it would hit me right in the place where I have some of my biggest struggles--dedication to doing the same thing over and over, showing up and taking care of someone even when I didn't feel like it. Giving a whining being love and affection when the whining made me crazy. I yelled at her more often than I would like to admit. I was impatient. I was not as good at being a dog mama as I thought I would be.
The first time I took her to the beach she was, and still is, the closest thing to joy in living form I've ever seen. She embodied pure, deep, true joy. She ran and ran and ran, blood pumping, legs stretching, tail flying. She looked like she felt free and fully alive for the first time. I will never forget that.
I took her to Alamo Square park every day, twice a day. Those were her dog park years. We made dog park friends and it was a good routine for both of us. She would steal these soft little squeaky balls from other dogs and run huge circles around the park forever until I despaired of every catching her and getting the ball back. She drove me crazy. She tore up every toy she ever had except for these soft, rubber squeaky balls with the little faces on them when I finally got her some of her own.
She slept in my bed, all seventy pounds of her, and I always had sand and black dog hair in my sheets which was disgusting. I eventually kicked her out of my bed and she was pissed and hurt for months. My hairdresser Rosette scolded me for kicking her out and told me I should let her back in but I didn't
She drank tons of sea water at the beach as though she was dying of thirst and could not tell that it was salty and not thirst-quenching. And then she would puke all over the place. She rolled in any dead thing she could find--dead seals were the worst. She rolled in shit many times and I would have to wash it off her, cursing her all the way.
She and I moved at least ten times together. The big Victorian with the roommates first. A studio apartment with just the two of us. Into my dad's house with my ex-boyfriend and me. Into the new apartment that boyfriend and I shared. That's where she first started biting people--mostly nipping ankles but sometimes breaking skin and making me question whether I needed to put her down then. Into a friend's house for a few months where I left her in the beautiful, fenced, grassy yard during the day and she apparently barked all day driving the neighbors crazy but I didn't hear about that until after the fact. Into a big loft apartment in the Dog Patch that we shared with another friend and eventually a new kitten who peed on my bed every day and on the clothes in my closet the other days mostly because he was scared of Sadie who chased him constantly. Into a one-bedroom on Beaver Street where it was just the two of us again. That's where she jumped out of a window for the first time--a high-up window onto the street below where she sat waiting on the corner for me to come home. Out of San Francisco and into the 'burbs where she jumped out of every window in the house at least once and squeeze through a hole in the wall left by the broken air-conditioner. She disappeared that time and I thought I'd lost her for good. A guy down the hill found her running across a busy street and enticed her into his yard where he fed her hot dogs and wanted to keep her. After a couple days he called the animal shelter who called me to let me know a dog matching my description was down the street. She ran away another time, I can't remember how, and some little girls found her up the street. I went to get her from the shelter that time.
She was my animal familiar and a lot of times I didn't really like her. I did not fall immediately in love. I often took out the anger I couldn't or wouldn't direct where it truly belonged on her. She reflected so many of my moods. My anxiety. She started having anxiety attacks a few years ago and we tried Prozac, the thunder shirt. They got less frequent when I started staying home with the kids all day.
This last house was her final house. A huge rambling yard which would be many dogs' version of heaven. She was never one to hang out and explore outside on her own though--she wanted to be where I was. She got depressed and withdrawn when I left her to go on a trip, often not eating until I came back. She got upset when suitcases were packed. I was her person and she loved me in a way no one ever has and I don't think I deserved it. Other people in our lives throughout the years were much sweeter to her than I was. My mom. Terry. Grey. She was a great dog.
I knew it would be time soon. I knew she would tell me. She was in pain and old and mostly blind and pretty deaf. Other people maybe thought it was time before now. But I knew she still wanted to be around, even if it was hard. When I took her in to the vent a couple weeks ago they admired her greatly, saying what a beautiful dog she was, how good she looked considering how old she was. We agreed that we would try to feed her lots of treats and love her while we could. As we were getting ready to go to Vermont for a week as a family Stephanie asked me what my wishes were if it looked like Sadie needed to die while we were going. I was taken aback and appreciative that she had asked because I truly hadn't thought about that. I knew Sadie would want me to be there with her and I just figured she would wait for me. That kinda sums up our relationship. I knew she would do what she needed to to do what I needed.
When I got home from work last night at almost 1 am I knew she would die today. She was done. I laid on the floor with her, stroking her and loving her. I brought her water bowl right up to her face so she could drink. Then I went to bed in my older kids' room because I missed bedtime and everyone was asleep and I knew one of them would wake up soon looking for me. And I wanted to be near them.
I woke up this morning and went to check on my dog and she was laying on our bedroom floor, in much the same spot. She was working harder to breathe. I brought her water again and she drank and laid back down. The house woke up like it always does, with a vengeance. The reality of regular life, little kids needing me, needing stuff, the reality of trying to make a plan so that I could take her to be euthanized filled me with irritation. I wanted everyone to go away, to leave me alone, to take care of everything without my needing to ask.
My dad came. My husband called his parents who are in town and asked them to cover over. I sat on the floor with Sadie and wondered what to do about the kids. What to tell them. How to tell them so it wasn't too scary. They get shots and they go to sleep...how do I explain that my dog, now their dog, is going to die? My husband and I talked about it a bit and he offered to tell them. I wasn't sure yet. And then they all wandered in and it took care of itself like so many things do. I was crying and they could see that. I explained that Sadie was old and tired and sick and that we had to say good-bye to her today. My son cried out, quickly, and then was done. They patted her. In the words of the great Anne Lamott they sat shiva for this dog, in a toddler way, which looked like Cleo bringing in three kernels of dog food and holding them up to Sadie's nose and then handing them to me when Sadie didn't eat them. It looked like Daphne going out to grab fistfuls of dog food and bringing them in to dump into the water bowl, like they have done countless times, only this time I didn't tell them to stop. Lily was feisty and lashed out at her siblings and I asked her to come sit with me a couple times. And then I left them to my dad to watch so I could lay next to my dog, because no matter who else has been in the picture she has always been my dog, and I started saying good-bye.
My teacher. My friend. My companion. My protector. My irritant. My shadow. My responsibility.
My dog died today. She looked into my eyes the whole time, shining with love, knowing she was safe, knowing it was time. She drove me crazy, I wish I could have been better for her, I know I saved her life, and I will miss her so much.
About Me
- Hands Full
- Learning and trying to be kind and living my life as fully as I can stand it.
Wednesday, June 22, 2016
Thursday, May 19, 2016
PW, part 2 unedited again
If you had told me that one day Phyllis, or PW as some of us called her, would be folding piles of my kids' laundry on my dining room table, I would not have believed you. Not because I wouldn't expect her to do something kind and helpful like that but because. . .I mean. It's like the coolest girl in school offering to come over and fold your laundry. Wait, no. Not the coolest girl in school. The coolest, young teacher at school who you love talking to and learning from and want some day to be like and can maybe some days imagine being friends with because you have a connection and if she weren't a grown up and you weren't a kid and. . . .yeah, it just never would have crossed my mind. I can tell you that I'm not the only one who feels this way because when I mention to some colleagues, the ones who have worked there for a long time and who worked with and for Phyllis, that she is home watching my kids they look at me as though I just said "Oh yeah, Sting came over to babysit today."
Not exaggerating.
There are so many things to say. I already described what it was like to have her as a boss. It would be another essay entirely to describe what it was like, organizationally and professionally and personally for many people, when she retired so I won't do that here. I can say that we have been friends for years--sharing books (well, mostly she brings me books) and going to Giants games (she took me to Giants games) and talking about love and friendship and travel and work. About motherhood and how much I wanted to be a mother.
We had one another's phone numbers after she left and we stayed in touch, going out to dinner (she took me to dinner). Sometimes we talked about work and I always wanted to know her opinion about things, especially when I was a manager and struggled with so many different aspects of the role. She always kept her commentary about work brief. I could tell she missed it. I could tell she had opinions she wasn't sharing. We never got deep into the dissection of challenges or practice changes or people. She was a mentor and a dear friend. She came to our wedding. She bought us china.
Somehow she started coming to my house once a week after the big twins were born. Was it once a week back then? I can barely remember anything but if not once a week, close to it. She is a loving grandmother to two girls who are growing up and she was happy to spend time with some little babies. She was already coming when I got pregnant with the little girls and noticed how wan and exhausted I was, before I knew the reason why. She just kept coming, holding babies, helping, taking care of us.
The littles are almost two and she has rarely missed a week. Every Tuesday she drives across the Bay, bringing me coffee, lunch for the whole family, snacks and treats for the kids. She was always a great dresser at work and she somehow manages to have the same style now but in clothes that can be muddied and streaked with paint and snot and everything else that propagates our house and covers those eight little hands. She changes diaper and diaper. She climbs into the back of the minivan to load kids in and out of those hard-to-reach car seats. She reads and plays and takes kids to the playground, puts them down for naps, talks to them. They call her Aunt P, or Auntie P, and they not only love her they expect her and ask for her and position themselves temporally in the week based on when she is coming. My husband and I absolutely do not know what we would have done or would do without her.
When I started working at the donor network again she not only wanted to keep coming on Tuesdays but she offered to go solo--to watch all four kids alone, all day. Let that sink in. There is nothing I have ever done in my life that is more exhausting than taking care of my four kids. At the end of the day I flop onto the couch and do not want to get up, not even for food or water. I am done. The only other people who take care of them alone are Stephanie, our babysitter, and Haku, our other babysitter. I was worried about Phyllis when she said she would do this and gave her as many windows as I could to change her mind or back out. She hasn't yet. And though I worried, I knew absolutely that she could do it. She's PW. She can do anything I think.
All of this is to say how much we love her and appreciate her. But I haven't said yet how hard it has been for me to, slow by slow, relax into the reality of having this person whom I admire so hugely come into the most exposed version of myself. The true truth. The mess, the food stains and poop and crazy hair and no bra and dirty clothes and crazed eyes. The rawness of how hard this life is with all these kids. It took many many months, more than a year, for me to stop feeling like I needed to entertain her and talk to her and treat her like a guest. That was hard hard hard for me to do. We keep peeling back layers, talking about death and the hard parts of marriage and health issues. We have been friends for years but this is something different. Family is a good word for it but it's something different than that too. I'm not sure I have the word for it yet, just the feeling.
But Tuesday, when I was practically overcome with rage at the shit on the floor, at the overall powerlessness of my role as a mother, I had moments of wishing her away. Not wanting her, or anyone, to see how ugly I could get. How miserable. How mad. I stalked around, I hid. I was tempted to release her, to release myself, by suggesting that she leave. At one point, even after I was mostly calmed down, I came back out to the living room where she was folding laundry and huffed "Well motherhood doesn't live up to the dreams I had about it!"
She didn't say much but and she didn't get scared away. We didn't have a big talk about it and we mostly moved in symphony for the next little while until she left. But the next day she sent me this text:
"Keep thinking how hard you are working at being a good mom. You don't give yourself enough credit for handling an overwhelming responsibility. I just wish you had more time to spend with them one on one. Lily is never going to let anyone take advantage of her; Cyrus will be the love of life for so many people; Cleo will be that great observer and then will throw herself into things full force; Daphne will always have that cute smile on her face and will get away with a lot because of it. They are amazing kids and you are responsible for that."
This is my love letter to her, to PW, Auntie P, to Phyllis. To my friend, my mentor, my boss. The gifts you give and have given will stay with me, have lifted me, continue to save me and humble me.
Thank you forever.
Not exaggerating.
There are so many things to say. I already described what it was like to have her as a boss. It would be another essay entirely to describe what it was like, organizationally and professionally and personally for many people, when she retired so I won't do that here. I can say that we have been friends for years--sharing books (well, mostly she brings me books) and going to Giants games (she took me to Giants games) and talking about love and friendship and travel and work. About motherhood and how much I wanted to be a mother.
We had one another's phone numbers after she left and we stayed in touch, going out to dinner (she took me to dinner). Sometimes we talked about work and I always wanted to know her opinion about things, especially when I was a manager and struggled with so many different aspects of the role. She always kept her commentary about work brief. I could tell she missed it. I could tell she had opinions she wasn't sharing. We never got deep into the dissection of challenges or practice changes or people. She was a mentor and a dear friend. She came to our wedding. She bought us china.
Somehow she started coming to my house once a week after the big twins were born. Was it once a week back then? I can barely remember anything but if not once a week, close to it. She is a loving grandmother to two girls who are growing up and she was happy to spend time with some little babies. She was already coming when I got pregnant with the little girls and noticed how wan and exhausted I was, before I knew the reason why. She just kept coming, holding babies, helping, taking care of us.
The littles are almost two and she has rarely missed a week. Every Tuesday she drives across the Bay, bringing me coffee, lunch for the whole family, snacks and treats for the kids. She was always a great dresser at work and she somehow manages to have the same style now but in clothes that can be muddied and streaked with paint and snot and everything else that propagates our house and covers those eight little hands. She changes diaper and diaper. She climbs into the back of the minivan to load kids in and out of those hard-to-reach car seats. She reads and plays and takes kids to the playground, puts them down for naps, talks to them. They call her Aunt P, or Auntie P, and they not only love her they expect her and ask for her and position themselves temporally in the week based on when she is coming. My husband and I absolutely do not know what we would have done or would do without her.
When I started working at the donor network again she not only wanted to keep coming on Tuesdays but she offered to go solo--to watch all four kids alone, all day. Let that sink in. There is nothing I have ever done in my life that is more exhausting than taking care of my four kids. At the end of the day I flop onto the couch and do not want to get up, not even for food or water. I am done. The only other people who take care of them alone are Stephanie, our babysitter, and Haku, our other babysitter. I was worried about Phyllis when she said she would do this and gave her as many windows as I could to change her mind or back out. She hasn't yet. And though I worried, I knew absolutely that she could do it. She's PW. She can do anything I think.
All of this is to say how much we love her and appreciate her. But I haven't said yet how hard it has been for me to, slow by slow, relax into the reality of having this person whom I admire so hugely come into the most exposed version of myself. The true truth. The mess, the food stains and poop and crazy hair and no bra and dirty clothes and crazed eyes. The rawness of how hard this life is with all these kids. It took many many months, more than a year, for me to stop feeling like I needed to entertain her and talk to her and treat her like a guest. That was hard hard hard for me to do. We keep peeling back layers, talking about death and the hard parts of marriage and health issues. We have been friends for years but this is something different. Family is a good word for it but it's something different than that too. I'm not sure I have the word for it yet, just the feeling.
But Tuesday, when I was practically overcome with rage at the shit on the floor, at the overall powerlessness of my role as a mother, I had moments of wishing her away. Not wanting her, or anyone, to see how ugly I could get. How miserable. How mad. I stalked around, I hid. I was tempted to release her, to release myself, by suggesting that she leave. At one point, even after I was mostly calmed down, I came back out to the living room where she was folding laundry and huffed "Well motherhood doesn't live up to the dreams I had about it!"
She didn't say much but and she didn't get scared away. We didn't have a big talk about it and we mostly moved in symphony for the next little while until she left. But the next day she sent me this text:
"Keep thinking how hard you are working at being a good mom. You don't give yourself enough credit for handling an overwhelming responsibility. I just wish you had more time to spend with them one on one. Lily is never going to let anyone take advantage of her; Cyrus will be the love of life for so many people; Cleo will be that great observer and then will throw herself into things full force; Daphne will always have that cute smile on her face and will get away with a lot because of it. They are amazing kids and you are responsible for that."
This is my love letter to her, to PW, Auntie P, to Phyllis. To my friend, my mentor, my boss. The gifts you give and have given will stay with me, have lifted me, continue to save me and humble me.
Thank you forever.
PW, unedited
Speaking of tantrums I nearly threw one myself on Tuesday. Nearly? Maybe it was fully thrown--what constitutes a tantrum in an adult? As previously mentioned, I am not much of a yeller or a express-your-anger-in-a-healthy-external-way-er. I get pissed and I go quiet. That's what happened on Tuesday when I was home all day with the kids.
I won't go into all the reasons as they're myriad and nothing special. Typical toddler stuff driving me nuts. It was when nap time was a bust and no one but one was sleeping and I ended up having to clean up shit from the floor for the hundredth time. Hundredth is an exaggeration. Fifteenth? Let me just say that cleaning human feces that has been deposited all throughout a room with deliberation and artistic concentration takes it's toll and adds up exponentially so that each time feels like ten times. I was pissed.
I've gotten pissed about it before and I've yelled. I've held the small child by the shoulders and looked said child in the face, sternly and grimly, telling my beloved young person that pooping on the floor is not.ok.
Ok, the child says.
And then it happens again. Not always but often enough. It happened on Tuesday and it was the last straw. I gave up on the naps and stomped my way back to my bedroom where I furiously folded clothes and cleaned up my perpetually-messy space, taking deep breaths and blowing them out. Stomping around. Trying not to think that I'm the cause of all the wild behavior and tantrums--that it's not because I went back to work that they're acting this way. Even though I think that's part of it.
A child came back. Not the pooper. Attempted to engage me. And I responded "I need you to leave me alone please. I am mad and I need some quiet time."
This was respected.
The pooper eventually came back and I said something similar. That child left as well.
It took me thirty minutes of angry clean-up before I felt decent enough to go back out. I felt shy and very exposed to have gotten so mad with Phyllis here. Phyllis being here was the only reason I could escape to my room to cool off, for which I was grateful, but which also made me feel so embarrassed. I try to hide the less than perfect parts of me. Of course no one who knows me thinks I'm perfect. . .but that doesn't stop me from trying. What is starting to stop me from trying is the slow, drip drip of acknowledgement that I am hurting myself with this behavior. With this fear of making mistakes, of getting mad, of not having it all together. I especially don't like to show this stuff to someone I admire so much. To Phyllis.
Who is Phyllis? I've thought about writing about her so many times, though never in the same essay as one that starts with poop on the floor. Ack. The incongruity of those two things is a good place to start in explaining this woman who means so much to me. To my family.
Phyllis was my boss. Not just my boss, my big boss. The biggest. The CEO of the company I recently started working for again. Not just the CEO but the one who started the organization and ran it for twenty years or so. Not just the one who started the organization but the one who made it into the leader in the industry for years and years. A legend. I do not say that lightly.
In the days when I was hired she did the second interview for anyone being considered for hire. Alone. I don't remember being scared, though I'd never had an interview with a CEO before. I was nervous because I had bombed my first interview and because I was sick as a dog, carrying a pint of orange juice with me into her office. Within minutes I was at ease, talking to a woman who was clearly smart as hell and who also clearly got me. She saw me, she knew I was someone to hire and so she hired me.
I was introduced to organ donation by an organization that she created in her own image. There was a deep respect for donors and donor families, a deep respect for how hard the work was and how much the people doing it matter. A love of learning and trying to be better. A commitment to community and team, to talking about all aspects of our process and working together. She bought people gifts for their anniversaries with the company. She threw a going-away party for a colleague going off to Irag. And a coming-back party many months later when he returned. She started each day walking through the office, saying good morning to everyone. It felt really good to work there.
As I took on roles requiring more skill and more responsibility, I saw behind the curtain bit by bit. Saw some of the difficult decisions being made and the challenges being dealt with. I traveled to national meetings and learned that we were among the best in the country at what we did. People wanted to be like us and that had a lot to do with Phyllis. There was instant respect, instant cred, that came with the name of our organization, that followed her throughout the room. I felt proud.
The main thing, the most precious thing, that she gave me in those years was a confidence in myself, in my ability to assess a situation and make a decision, in my ability to take a risk. There were fewer rules back then. From the beginning, I knew I could walk to her office and say to her "Here's the situation. This is what I think we should do and this is why." She didn't always say yes but she usually did. She had my back, had all of our backs, and that inspired me and most others to ask why not, to push beyond perceived boundaries, to do what we could imagine was possible. I will never stop being grateful to her for that because that is in me, deep in my heart and my bones, and it makes me the thinker and problem-solver I am today.
Was she perfect? Of course not but I don't know much about the parts of her that weren't. I'd sit in meetings with her and hold myself up against her, seeing her sitting sphinx-like in a room full of surgeons, keeping her emotions to herself. I want to be like that, I thought. I wore my reactions all over my face, in my voice. I felt too emotional, too reactive. How did she do that? I still wonder
She retired several years ago and it was a blow.
To be continued....
I won't go into all the reasons as they're myriad and nothing special. Typical toddler stuff driving me nuts. It was when nap time was a bust and no one but one was sleeping and I ended up having to clean up shit from the floor for the hundredth time. Hundredth is an exaggeration. Fifteenth? Let me just say that cleaning human feces that has been deposited all throughout a room with deliberation and artistic concentration takes it's toll and adds up exponentially so that each time feels like ten times. I was pissed.
I've gotten pissed about it before and I've yelled. I've held the small child by the shoulders and looked said child in the face, sternly and grimly, telling my beloved young person that pooping on the floor is not.ok.
Ok, the child says.
And then it happens again. Not always but often enough. It happened on Tuesday and it was the last straw. I gave up on the naps and stomped my way back to my bedroom where I furiously folded clothes and cleaned up my perpetually-messy space, taking deep breaths and blowing them out. Stomping around. Trying not to think that I'm the cause of all the wild behavior and tantrums--that it's not because I went back to work that they're acting this way. Even though I think that's part of it.
A child came back. Not the pooper. Attempted to engage me. And I responded "I need you to leave me alone please. I am mad and I need some quiet time."
This was respected.
The pooper eventually came back and I said something similar. That child left as well.
It took me thirty minutes of angry clean-up before I felt decent enough to go back out. I felt shy and very exposed to have gotten so mad with Phyllis here. Phyllis being here was the only reason I could escape to my room to cool off, for which I was grateful, but which also made me feel so embarrassed. I try to hide the less than perfect parts of me. Of course no one who knows me thinks I'm perfect. . .but that doesn't stop me from trying. What is starting to stop me from trying is the slow, drip drip of acknowledgement that I am hurting myself with this behavior. With this fear of making mistakes, of getting mad, of not having it all together. I especially don't like to show this stuff to someone I admire so much. To Phyllis.
Who is Phyllis? I've thought about writing about her so many times, though never in the same essay as one that starts with poop on the floor. Ack. The incongruity of those two things is a good place to start in explaining this woman who means so much to me. To my family.
Phyllis was my boss. Not just my boss, my big boss. The biggest. The CEO of the company I recently started working for again. Not just the CEO but the one who started the organization and ran it for twenty years or so. Not just the one who started the organization but the one who made it into the leader in the industry for years and years. A legend. I do not say that lightly.
In the days when I was hired she did the second interview for anyone being considered for hire. Alone. I don't remember being scared, though I'd never had an interview with a CEO before. I was nervous because I had bombed my first interview and because I was sick as a dog, carrying a pint of orange juice with me into her office. Within minutes I was at ease, talking to a woman who was clearly smart as hell and who also clearly got me. She saw me, she knew I was someone to hire and so she hired me.
I was introduced to organ donation by an organization that she created in her own image. There was a deep respect for donors and donor families, a deep respect for how hard the work was and how much the people doing it matter. A love of learning and trying to be better. A commitment to community and team, to talking about all aspects of our process and working together. She bought people gifts for their anniversaries with the company. She threw a going-away party for a colleague going off to Irag. And a coming-back party many months later when he returned. She started each day walking through the office, saying good morning to everyone. It felt really good to work there.
As I took on roles requiring more skill and more responsibility, I saw behind the curtain bit by bit. Saw some of the difficult decisions being made and the challenges being dealt with. I traveled to national meetings and learned that we were among the best in the country at what we did. People wanted to be like us and that had a lot to do with Phyllis. There was instant respect, instant cred, that came with the name of our organization, that followed her throughout the room. I felt proud.
The main thing, the most precious thing, that she gave me in those years was a confidence in myself, in my ability to assess a situation and make a decision, in my ability to take a risk. There were fewer rules back then. From the beginning, I knew I could walk to her office and say to her "Here's the situation. This is what I think we should do and this is why." She didn't always say yes but she usually did. She had my back, had all of our backs, and that inspired me and most others to ask why not, to push beyond perceived boundaries, to do what we could imagine was possible. I will never stop being grateful to her for that because that is in me, deep in my heart and my bones, and it makes me the thinker and problem-solver I am today.
Was she perfect? Of course not but I don't know much about the parts of her that weren't. I'd sit in meetings with her and hold myself up against her, seeing her sitting sphinx-like in a room full of surgeons, keeping her emotions to herself. I want to be like that, I thought. I wore my reactions all over my face, in my voice. I felt too emotional, too reactive. How did she do that? I still wonder
She retired several years ago and it was a blow.
To be continued....
Saturday, May 14, 2016
On tantrums--unedited
My son woke me up this morning, asking if he could come sleep with me in our bed. I said yes, although his twin sister was asleep on the other side of me and there wasn't much room. He climbed in, rustled around as is his habit, and kept talking in a loud voice to me. After a couple minutes I sat up, gathering my wits about me.
Let's get out of here so we don't wake Lily up, I said.
He started yelling and I got immediately pissed. I scooped him up and stalked out of the room, putting him down in the kitchen where he continued to scream. Not proud to admit that I held my hand over his mouth, trying to staunch the sound. He yelled louder and louder and all I wanted to do was yell back STOP YELLING. You do not get to wake your sister up just because you're having a fit for no reason! I wanted to smash him.
I put myself outside, like a dog misbehaving. I closed the door on the screaming and stood in the cool morning air, braless in flannel pajama pants, closing my eyes and taking deep yogic breaths as I tried not to listen to the yelling muffled by the wood and glass. It's disorienting and scary to go from asleep to in a rage in less that five minutes.
When I was six my mom took me to a psychiatrist to help me stop having tantrums. I remember nothing of the experience except that I got to pick a candy bar afterwards and I picked Mr. Goodbar and hated it. Getting candy was a very rare occurrence so to think and choose so carefully and have it not be good was devastating enough to still live inside me as a visceral experience, three decades later.
A month ago a friend asked me to write about how we deal with tantrums. I wrote a quick response on Facebook but that wasn't enough. This is one area of parenting that I wonder about with some regularity.
One common piece of advice is to ignore them. I am almost certain that this is what I did during the many years I took care of other peoples' kids as a baby-sitter. I can't tell you for sure since that is pre-child raising and we all know my memory is completely shot. Unless it's candy as a six year old and then that shit is iron-tight. The reason I'm pretty sure is that it feels like what I would have done, feels like what I believe(d) was the right way to respond. Not to pay attention, let the tantrum burn itself out. Or maybe, now that I'm really thinking about it, I distracted. That seems more right, and more in line with the "Hey, I'm only here right now so I'll do what works" philosophy of a teenage sitter.
Here's the thing. I have been stomping down my own emotions, especially the bad ones, for years. Decades. A lifetime. I can't remember not doing it, though I wasn't always as aware that I was doing it. The bad ones--rage, fear, resentment, jealousy. The ones I don't like feeling, feel ashamed of feeling, feel exposed and wrong for feeling. So I shut them off, turn Ice Queen, and go on my way. Feeling like you want to smash your kid because he won't stop screaming would fall into the category of reactions I am not proud of. Even the thoughts that run through my head during it arne illustrative:
You are screaming for no reason.
You don't have the right
I want my kids to know it's ok to feel mad. So mad that you want to kick and scream and throw yourself on the floor because it's just so not ok what is happening. Even if what is happening is not getting to eat a cookie for breakfast. I mean, I'm not saying I want to listen to it. And I don't want to sit there narrating it to them either. If I could choose exactly what I want it would be to create the space for them to let it all out. And after a few minutes for them to go somewhere else to yell and scream in their own room. Because I am not a bottomless vessel for patience. Far, far from it. And though I want them to know it's ok to feel their feelings. . . the truth is I don't feel that comfortable in the face of anger and sadness. I'm getting better. I hope. And I think I'm better with sadness than with anger.
The truth is. . .I don't know anything about tantrums. Not enough to write in such a way that will be meaningful for everyone. I will say what I think and wonder about. What I hope for. What I worry about.
Last week a mom friend from the NICU wrote our group an email entitled OMG, the gist of which was Good grief I can't take the constant tantrums. I read it and thought, yeah we deal with more tantrums than we used to but it's not so bad. . .
And then every day since then it has been a constant barrage of fits being thrown. Over the slightest things. It's hard not to immediately think there's something deeper going on, like the fact that I went back to work and they're missing me and having a hard time adjusting. That's one of the many reasons I appreciate my tribe of parents, chiming in "Me too" about much of this--not just the tantrums being thrown by the short people but the tantrums we throw ourselves, out loud or by freezing them out or in an ongoing inner narrative. Have we learned to handle them better?
Let's get out of here so we don't wake Lily up, I said.
He started yelling and I got immediately pissed. I scooped him up and stalked out of the room, putting him down in the kitchen where he continued to scream. Not proud to admit that I held my hand over his mouth, trying to staunch the sound. He yelled louder and louder and all I wanted to do was yell back STOP YELLING. You do not get to wake your sister up just because you're having a fit for no reason! I wanted to smash him.
I put myself outside, like a dog misbehaving. I closed the door on the screaming and stood in the cool morning air, braless in flannel pajama pants, closing my eyes and taking deep yogic breaths as I tried not to listen to the yelling muffled by the wood and glass. It's disorienting and scary to go from asleep to in a rage in less that five minutes.
When I was six my mom took me to a psychiatrist to help me stop having tantrums. I remember nothing of the experience except that I got to pick a candy bar afterwards and I picked Mr. Goodbar and hated it. Getting candy was a very rare occurrence so to think and choose so carefully and have it not be good was devastating enough to still live inside me as a visceral experience, three decades later.
A month ago a friend asked me to write about how we deal with tantrums. I wrote a quick response on Facebook but that wasn't enough. This is one area of parenting that I wonder about with some regularity.
One common piece of advice is to ignore them. I am almost certain that this is what I did during the many years I took care of other peoples' kids as a baby-sitter. I can't tell you for sure since that is pre-child raising and we all know my memory is completely shot. Unless it's candy as a six year old and then that shit is iron-tight. The reason I'm pretty sure is that it feels like what I would have done, feels like what I believe(d) was the right way to respond. Not to pay attention, let the tantrum burn itself out. Or maybe, now that I'm really thinking about it, I distracted. That seems more right, and more in line with the "Hey, I'm only here right now so I'll do what works" philosophy of a teenage sitter.
Here's the thing. I have been stomping down my own emotions, especially the bad ones, for years. Decades. A lifetime. I can't remember not doing it, though I wasn't always as aware that I was doing it. The bad ones--rage, fear, resentment, jealousy. The ones I don't like feeling, feel ashamed of feeling, feel exposed and wrong for feeling. So I shut them off, turn Ice Queen, and go on my way. Feeling like you want to smash your kid because he won't stop screaming would fall into the category of reactions I am not proud of. Even the thoughts that run through my head during it arne illustrative:
You are screaming for no reason.
You don't have the right
I want my kids to know it's ok to feel mad. So mad that you want to kick and scream and throw yourself on the floor because it's just so not ok what is happening. Even if what is happening is not getting to eat a cookie for breakfast. I mean, I'm not saying I want to listen to it. And I don't want to sit there narrating it to them either. If I could choose exactly what I want it would be to create the space for them to let it all out. And after a few minutes for them to go somewhere else to yell and scream in their own room. Because I am not a bottomless vessel for patience. Far, far from it. And though I want them to know it's ok to feel their feelings. . . the truth is I don't feel that comfortable in the face of anger and sadness. I'm getting better. I hope. And I think I'm better with sadness than with anger.
The truth is. . .I don't know anything about tantrums. Not enough to write in such a way that will be meaningful for everyone. I will say what I think and wonder about. What I hope for. What I worry about.
Last week a mom friend from the NICU wrote our group an email entitled OMG, the gist of which was Good grief I can't take the constant tantrums. I read it and thought, yeah we deal with more tantrums than we used to but it's not so bad. . .
And then every day since then it has been a constant barrage of fits being thrown. Over the slightest things. It's hard not to immediately think there's something deeper going on, like the fact that I went back to work and they're missing me and having a hard time adjusting. That's one of the many reasons I appreciate my tribe of parents, chiming in "Me too" about much of this--not just the tantrums being thrown by the short people but the tantrums we throw ourselves, out loud or by freezing them out or in an ongoing inner narrative. Have we learned to handle them better?
Tuesday, April 19, 2016
Lifey
This essay was written a couple weeks ago and put away until I could come back and edit. Reading it now I will leave it mostly untouched--not because it doesn't ask for editing but because I am tired and it seems good enough.
In the weeks since I've written this page has kept me company as I've wondered how to share the things I've seen and done and felt. Essays have partially formed in my head as I drove but none of those are there, sitting on a mental shelf, now that I'm ready for them.
In the weeks since I've written this page has kept me company as I've wondered how to share the things I've seen and done and felt. Essays have partially formed in my head as I drove but none of those are there, sitting on a mental shelf, now that I'm ready for them.
It's been a month since I went to work. A long, 31-day month but whoa. That's a lot of life to pack into one month. Work has been intense and amazing and sweet and slow and full. In the world of organ donation there is a lot of hurry up and wait--hurry to get to a hospital and then wait until the right time to be introduced to a family. I knew this but mostly from an office perspective-from a far off, semi-connected perspective where I was acutely aware of time passing and couldn't do much about it. To have a job where I sit quietly for long stretches of time is so rich for me right now. Because that sitting doesn't happen a lot as a mom of four small children. During the sitting I am very aware of the people around me. Of the energy in the room. Of the walking to and fro happening in the hallways, in and out of rooms. Of the phones ringing. There can be an edginess in me, of wanting to do something. To make something happen. But I am there to wait. To learn. To remember to pause. To remember that very rarely will rushing to get something done make anything better in these circumstances.
It will be hard not to write and write and write about the holy experiences I am witnessing. I want to share them with you because they will make your life better. Confidentiality is hugely important though. So I will seek opportunities to give you things to hold, even for a moment. Because they are so worth holding.
Last week I worked three 12-hour shifts--each of them more than two hours away from my house. I flew to one in a private jet. I took Uber to one, sitting in the back seat of a car with a stranger for three hours. I drove myself to the last one, ready for some alone time. I left a hospital at 9 pm after spending the day in an alternate universe. The universe of the grief of strangers. A room I am invited into and allowed to stay for a while.
I walked out of the hospital and found my car--my husband's sedan that I'd driven, leaving the minivan with four car seats with him because I knew I might be home late. I sat on a bench and Facetimed with my family, those four little faces lit up with smiles and love. My son asking "Are you coming back?" I walked out of the room where a man's heart stopped beating and got to sit down and talk to my husband and my kids. Gratitude and life poured through me. So much of each.
I have three iPhones. One for each job and one for myself. Often I carry them all with me. The various vibrations and dings and rings can be hard to separate one from the next. Who is calling or texting? How quickly do I need to look?
On my way to the car a phone went off once. . .and then again. . .and then again. Not one text but three. I looked and saw notes from my mom. A quick response from my sister. Another one from my brother. The words referenced an email I hadn't read yet whose bad news was made clear. Family news from across the country. I thought I could guess at it and I almost didn't pull up the email in that dark parking lot in the land of lettuce farms worked by poor men and women. I was tired but glowing, as though the edges of my person had been mostly erased in order to hold space for necessary required unhoped for feelings. I ultimately opened the email because I couldn't leave it unread.
It was one sentence, written by my uncle. So stark and heartbreaking that I floated further away from my body. Confused. Lonely. So, so very sad. I drove a few miles in the dark, headlights shining only as far as their batteries could reach. Am I safe to drive? I wondered. I didn't want to sleep anywhere other than home so driving seemed like the best option. I called my husband to speak a few brief, full sentences about what was going on and how I felt. Strange. Other-wordly. Hearing his voice grounded me and I kept going, anxious to be home.
We all get those emails, or ones like them. Or phone calls bringing the worst news in the world. We sit at bedsides, hold hands, try to listen. And then go grocery shopping or for a tooth-cleaning, sitting in traffic, frustrated at a long red light, so many stories and losses or joys folded into our hearts for safe-keeping or to be discovered later or because there is nowhere else for them to go. Are we all just doing our best? We hold multitudes and I am reassured and bewildered by this fact.
We all get those emails, or ones like them. Or phone calls bringing the worst news in the world. We sit at bedsides, hold hands, try to listen. And then go grocery shopping or for a tooth-cleaning, sitting in traffic, frustrated at a long red light, so many stories and losses or joys folded into our hearts for safe-keeping or to be discovered later or because there is nowhere else for them to go. Are we all just doing our best? We hold multitudes and I am reassured and bewildered by this fact.
Wednesday, April 13, 2016
Wednesday call
On a muted conference calling sitting in the dining room, getting ready to present I case I was a part of this past Saturday. My first case presentation of this type though I've done in the past, from different viewpoints. The TV is on and the bigs are watching. Two of the three doors to the courtyard are open, the cool air drifts in, at least one child is unclothed. I can't see any of them but I hear sings of movement and, most important for me at this moment, no whining at my side. . .
that's changed in the past 10-15 minutes. Now I have one on my lap. One is standing on the couch, playing with the keys, glasses of water and Yahtzee cup that sit on top of the out-of-tune piano. I've already picked up poop from cement outside. We're in a a spectrum of potty-training and it is a combination of amazing and insane. Their pack mentality is in full-display--the alph has learned to use the potty and the other three are following in line, taking their time but stepping to. Have to keep up. We aren't doing much other than reminding them to go sit on the potty. Wiping butts. Cleaning surfaces of poop and pee. Putting on and then taking off and then putting on diapers. Spending way more time in the bathroom than I would ever choose to. But all things considered I will take it. I see the future and it looks good.
Sleep-wise, we've given up for the moment. Again. There is a session of musical bed, couch, floor mattress, crib. This is all with the bigs--the littles remain firmly in their cribs and oh please oh please can that just stay that way for much more time? Bedtime is no longer, or not at this moment, a nightmare. They get pretty hyper but we're for the most part avoiding the screaming when it's actually time to go down. Sunday morning I told them we would stop locking the door. They seemed glad about that. They have really not liked the locked door and I don't blame them--we both agree we would hate being locked in a room. It's one of the few parenting decisions we've made that I've felt icky about. But we did it because they would.not. stay.in.bed.no.matter.what else we tried and I couldn't stand extending the time awake another minute. My husband probably would have chosen to let them stay up until they got tired, though he too was pretty done by bedtime. It felt important to me that they have a firm bedtime, that they learn to fall asleep in their beds. That they get the rest they need. But we've spent the past two months taking turns sleeping in their rooms, getting shoulder muscles and back muscles tightened and stiffened up. I couldn't do it anymore. So now we put them down, I sing them a song or two, we close the but don't lock the door. They usually come open the door at least once. I tell them it's time for bed, walk them back and give them something nice to think about while falling asleep--our upcoming trip to Vermont, our visit to the fire station today.
Call done. Many strings of cheese consumed. Kids all quiet and engaged now but of course for the 5 minutes I was talking they surrounded me like a hula skirt. I'm working on a post about tantrums but for now, unedited update for your sake and mine.
that's changed in the past 10-15 minutes. Now I have one on my lap. One is standing on the couch, playing with the keys, glasses of water and Yahtzee cup that sit on top of the out-of-tune piano. I've already picked up poop from cement outside. We're in a a spectrum of potty-training and it is a combination of amazing and insane. Their pack mentality is in full-display--the alph has learned to use the potty and the other three are following in line, taking their time but stepping to. Have to keep up. We aren't doing much other than reminding them to go sit on the potty. Wiping butts. Cleaning surfaces of poop and pee. Putting on and then taking off and then putting on diapers. Spending way more time in the bathroom than I would ever choose to. But all things considered I will take it. I see the future and it looks good.
Sleep-wise, we've given up for the moment. Again. There is a session of musical bed, couch, floor mattress, crib. This is all with the bigs--the littles remain firmly in their cribs and oh please oh please can that just stay that way for much more time? Bedtime is no longer, or not at this moment, a nightmare. They get pretty hyper but we're for the most part avoiding the screaming when it's actually time to go down. Sunday morning I told them we would stop locking the door. They seemed glad about that. They have really not liked the locked door and I don't blame them--we both agree we would hate being locked in a room. It's one of the few parenting decisions we've made that I've felt icky about. But we did it because they would.not. stay.in.bed.no.matter.what else we tried and I couldn't stand extending the time awake another minute. My husband probably would have chosen to let them stay up until they got tired, though he too was pretty done by bedtime. It felt important to me that they have a firm bedtime, that they learn to fall asleep in their beds. That they get the rest they need. But we've spent the past two months taking turns sleeping in their rooms, getting shoulder muscles and back muscles tightened and stiffened up. I couldn't do it anymore. So now we put them down, I sing them a song or two, we close the but don't lock the door. They usually come open the door at least once. I tell them it's time for bed, walk them back and give them something nice to think about while falling asleep--our upcoming trip to Vermont, our visit to the fire station today.
Call done. Many strings of cheese consumed. Kids all quiet and engaged now but of course for the 5 minutes I was talking they surrounded me like a hula skirt. I'm working on a post about tantrums but for now, unedited update for your sake and mine.
Wednesday, April 6, 2016
A look inside
Some thoughts on raising four children under three. Aka an inside look at our life.
-I do not know what size shoe my children wear. Kids' feet somehow grow fast and slow and they are able to wear a size for a long time and then seem to skip two sizes over night. We have several bunches of shoes, some of which are definitely too small for the bigs but we keep for the littles. Some of which were lended by my sister and maybe once fit someone but now maybe don't fit anyone. Do twins wear the same size as one another? One has wider feet for sure. Some shoes are just designed in a dumb way and may fit but are so hard to put on that they might as well not fit. So yeah. What size do they wear? Not sure. There is a trail of shoes between our house and Stephanie's house, bridged by the seats and crevices of the mini van.
-Taking care of them is physically exhausting. By the end of a day of being with my kids my whole body hurts. They are heavy and fast and they treat us like essential, loved, pieces of furniture so we catch elbows and knees to the chin and nose. We receive full body tackles with a quick-shift to absorb the unannounced blow. Putting them in the car requires climbing into the van, reaching over seats, wrestling with buckles, negotiating strollers or bikes or bags in the way.
-Scarcity breeds desire. If I bring four full water bottles, no one will want any water. If I have one half-full bottle of water, everyone suddenly is dying of thirst.
-Any time I'm doing something I wonder if my time would be better spent doing something else. Is there any point in cleaning the kitchen right now or should I take this kid-free time to clean out the bigs' closet?
-Sometimes I get to just after bedtime and I have to ask myself whether I even made eye contact with a certain child.
-I crave alone time with them, and for them, and when it comes time to choose who will come out with me or spend time with Nana. . .it kills me. I hate to separate them. I struggle with trying to make it fair, trying to think of the week as a whole, trying to think of who seems to need it. It is so strange.
-There is so much poop. SO MUCH POOP.
-We own approximately 150 children's books. We read approximately 10 of them with any regularity. But we don't get rid of them because. . .they are books? Maybe someday soon someone will choose a new one?
-We own approximately 500 toys. The kids play with approximately 5 of them with any regularity. We have rotated them out several times but somehow we end up with piles and buckets of toys. The kids are more interested in getting the screw drivers out of the middle drawer in the kitchen and using them to "fix something". Of note, the bigs go to our neighbor's house about once a week. She has one toy--an old red barn with little people and animals that belonged to her now-adult children. She says Lily and Cyrus play with it diligently every week.
-There is so much laundry.
-Not only do we not keep track of milestones but we sometimes miss them entirely. Especially with the little girls. Hmmm, it suddenly occurs to me that you are talking? And I can understand you? And possibly this has been going on for a while and I didn't notice because I didn't expect you to be talking yet? Or hmmm, perhaps you keep taking your diaper off because you are ready to start using the potty? But how can that be??
-Seeing the kids interact in all the various combination of sibling is a joy and a gift.
Is there anything specific you wonder about? Let me know and I'll try to describe it.
-I do not know what size shoe my children wear. Kids' feet somehow grow fast and slow and they are able to wear a size for a long time and then seem to skip two sizes over night. We have several bunches of shoes, some of which are definitely too small for the bigs but we keep for the littles. Some of which were lended by my sister and maybe once fit someone but now maybe don't fit anyone. Do twins wear the same size as one another? One has wider feet for sure. Some shoes are just designed in a dumb way and may fit but are so hard to put on that they might as well not fit. So yeah. What size do they wear? Not sure. There is a trail of shoes between our house and Stephanie's house, bridged by the seats and crevices of the mini van.
-Taking care of them is physically exhausting. By the end of a day of being with my kids my whole body hurts. They are heavy and fast and they treat us like essential, loved, pieces of furniture so we catch elbows and knees to the chin and nose. We receive full body tackles with a quick-shift to absorb the unannounced blow. Putting them in the car requires climbing into the van, reaching over seats, wrestling with buckles, negotiating strollers or bikes or bags in the way.
-Scarcity breeds desire. If I bring four full water bottles, no one will want any water. If I have one half-full bottle of water, everyone suddenly is dying of thirst.
-Any time I'm doing something I wonder if my time would be better spent doing something else. Is there any point in cleaning the kitchen right now or should I take this kid-free time to clean out the bigs' closet?
-Sometimes I get to just after bedtime and I have to ask myself whether I even made eye contact with a certain child.
-I crave alone time with them, and for them, and when it comes time to choose who will come out with me or spend time with Nana. . .it kills me. I hate to separate them. I struggle with trying to make it fair, trying to think of the week as a whole, trying to think of who seems to need it. It is so strange.
-There is so much poop. SO MUCH POOP.
-We own approximately 150 children's books. We read approximately 10 of them with any regularity. But we don't get rid of them because. . .they are books? Maybe someday soon someone will choose a new one?
-We own approximately 500 toys. The kids play with approximately 5 of them with any regularity. We have rotated them out several times but somehow we end up with piles and buckets of toys. The kids are more interested in getting the screw drivers out of the middle drawer in the kitchen and using them to "fix something". Of note, the bigs go to our neighbor's house about once a week. She has one toy--an old red barn with little people and animals that belonged to her now-adult children. She says Lily and Cyrus play with it diligently every week.
-There is so much laundry.
-Not only do we not keep track of milestones but we sometimes miss them entirely. Especially with the little girls. Hmmm, it suddenly occurs to me that you are talking? And I can understand you? And possibly this has been going on for a while and I didn't notice because I didn't expect you to be talking yet? Or hmmm, perhaps you keep taking your diaper off because you are ready to start using the potty? But how can that be??
-Seeing the kids interact in all the various combination of sibling is a joy and a gift.
Is there anything specific you wonder about? Let me know and I'll try to describe it.
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