Subdued Tones

My Quest for Personal Power. But in a good kinda way.

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I recently read this blog post by my friend Stephanie.  Two days later, I was embroiled in a family conflict.  I could feel gray hairs popping out from my latest dye job from stress as I thought about Steph’s words.  But it was stress I brought on myself.

If I would have communicated better early on, I may not have gotten an upset stomach.  Nor would I have been tempted to play the blame game.  Or label a certain someone as a bossy brat (even if it is apropos).  And perhaps, I wouldn’t have been tempted to become a hermitess and disown certain extended family members  (I admit, I muttered, “who needs family?”).

There is a finesse to good communication skills.  A person, especially a woman, who takes charge, is quickly labeled with the negative connotation of being “bossy.”  I know I’ve done it.  Personally, I need to learn positive communication habits.  Or in other words, how to say what I want and then hear what I may not want to hear.  I believe poor communication habits have led to 90% of the stress in my life.  And maybe even my premature gray hair (just kidding, that was genetic).

Perhaps, perfect communication skills will be a key in obtaining the utopian society we all strive for.  Until then, in the words of John Mayer, I need to say what I need to say.  If I don’t, I can’t blame other people for my stress.

Missives to the Missing: The Hardest Lesson

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This is the third and final installment of my advice to my children.  You know, the ones I don’t have. But this is what I would tell my child if I had one to bore to death.

You’re a good kid.  You’re also my kid with my genes flowing through you.  As much as you don’t want it to be, I’m sorry to say, you’re going to have some of my attributes.  It’s inevitable that you will act like me in some matters.  Sorry I didn’t give you more to work with.

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My Goodbye Soapbox. Feel free to disagree.

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Goodbyes should be hard.  They should get stuck in the throat, weigh heavy on the heart and kick you in the gut.  An easy goodbye is a mark of wasted time.  Farewells that roll off the tongue without causing pause and reflection means something wasn’t done right.  The moment wasn’t seized.  Life wasn’t lived. 

A parting should threaten one’s peace. It should cause at minimum, a moment of agonizing doubt.  “Should I leave?  Is this right?”  There should be at least one person being left behind that makes the leaver wonder, “How will I ever exist without this person in my life?” True, some circumstances are better viewed in a rear view mirror but not people.  Maybe some people are better as memories.  But not every person.    

Promises to “always remember” and “never forget” should be made with the best intention to fulfill.  Of course, time takes care of such promises.  The intensity of the moment lessens.  Memories are idealized.  Until one day in the future, those people that made such an indelible impression are the same ones whose names are on the tip of the tongue but the mind can’t quite recall. 

Our connection with other people is one of the determiners of our happiness.  Harmony with every person is a bit too much to hope for.  But there needs to be at least one person in every situation that makes the goodbye difficult.  That is the sign of a well lived life.

May 2012

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First Mother’s Day: check.  I handled it by running away for the day.

First Memorial Day: check. I handled it with routine.

We made our yearly pilgrimage to the cemetery today.  I’ve always wondered if Memorial Day is recognized the same in the big city as it is in the small town.  My guess is, yes.  A city, after all, is made up of blocks.  A zip code may be in Metropolis but life is lived in the neighborhood. 

In a small town, people start gathering at the cemetery in the morning.  Since I have fallen in with morning people, we were the first to arrive.  Mini-reunions are held as fellow grievers arrive armed with cleaning supplies, flowers, and memories.  When the weather permits, we can linger and chat.  Today was not one of those days.  The wind made it bitter cold.  It was all we could do to shine the stones and tether the flowers. 

In addition to the normal gravesites, we now have an extra one to visit.  Mom’s favorite thing was having her family surround her.  She still has that power to bring us together as we gathered around her tombstone.  Dad worked hard to make her stone shine.  His name is already on it.  I asked him if it made him nervous to shine his own name.  He just laughed.  Much to dad’s disgust, mom’s death year has not been added on the stone, yet.  I say, if there’s no end date maybe that means she’s still here.  That’s okay with me. 

We visited the other cemetery to place flowers on the graves of mom’s grandmas.  Even though one died before I was born and the other died when I was too young to remember.  Mom loved her grandmas and she always placed flowers on their graves.  They were important women in her life and helped shaped who she was.  So, we took flowers and placed them on their graves, too.  Perhaps someday we won’t.  For now though, we will. 

This afternoon we had a family BBQ.  Well, a Wyoming BBQ.  We cooked the burgers inside where it was warm.  The burgers were good.  The conversation was enjoyable.  We laughed and had a good time.  For me though, I kept thinking of our Memorial Day a year ago.  Mom just found out the CLL cells had come back and started treatments again.  She was sick but she came home for the weekend for Bubba’s graduation.  I had no idea she’d leave us in six months.  Last Memorial Day was the start of a very hard and trying summer.  But I’d do it again if I could spend a little more time with mom.

So, I survived my first Mother’s Day and Memorial Day without my mother.  Whose bright idea was it to put those two commemoration days in the same month? Not cool. Do the days get any easier?  Or has May become a bitter month?

As I tell Lyn, take a deep breath and remember, you got this.  I got this.  I know I do. Another deep breath.

Winter on the Sisters

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This might come across as a bit melodramatic.  I know if my brother were to read it he’d just roll his eyes.  Good thing he never reads my blog.

My weeklong stay-cation ended with an overnight trip to Utah.  Unfortunately, I could only stay one night and had to come home Saturday morning.  Even though the rest of my Wyoming family headed to Utah for the night, I had to to get some things done at home.  After stopping in Evanston to watch my youngest niece play a school basketball game, I headed home by myself. 

The sky had been overcast and the wind blowing when I left Utah.  Early in the morning, I received a text from my sister-in-law informing me it was sunny at home.  We met in Evanston and watched the game and I switched vehicles with my dad.  He took my SUV to Utah and I drove his Toyota Corolla home.  When I arrived in Evanston, the weather was wintry but decent.  But when I left an hour later, it took a turn for the worse.  The wind picked up velocity and snow started to fall.  At least, it tried to fall despite the heavy wind.  All this made for unpleasant driving conditions. 

I am a Wyoming girl.  A little snow and 50+ mile per hour winds can’t deter me.  I really needed to get home.  Besides, I’ve driven in much worse weather.  So I left my family and headed east while they continued west. 

Just east of Evanston, I-80 travels over three hills known locally as the Sisters.  Keep in mind, Evanston is already at 6700 feet.  So, the Sisters are more than mere hills.  During winter this part of I-80 can become treacherous to travel over.  There are gates on either side of the hills and when they are down the interstate is closed to traffic.  Just Thursday morning the road was closed due to high winds preventing me from going to Utah as planned.

I made it over the first Sister and wisps of fog started to sweep the road.  Normally, it’s small patches and can be driven through.  As long as the driver doesn’t panic and do something stupid (ie slam on brakes) fog can be navigated through safely. 

I started to climb the second sister and the fog became denser.  The combination of snow and wind had left the road slick.  My palms became sweaty as I realized I could see less and less in front of me.  Finally, the only thing I could make out was the back of a semi.  And then it disappeared.  I looked down at the road so that I could keep my car between the lines.  The lines disappeared.  I couldn’t see anything.  And to make matter worse, the fog wasn’t lifting.  Get to the right, Lee, the thought came to me as sure as if I heard someone commanding me.  I obeyed.

A semi passed me on the left and threw more snow and ice on my window.  That wasn’t helpful.  I didn’t even see it coming up behind me.  I’m not sure if it saw me or not before it passed me.  This was a predicament.  I crept along at 10mph.  My only salvation was occasional glimpses of the lines dividing the lanes.  I thought about pulling over and waiting for the fog to lift.  But if I didn’t get far enough over I’d be pummeled from behind by another vehicle.  And if I did get far enough over, in my dad’s car, I’d run the risk of getting stuck.  There was no choice.  I had to keep inching forward and hope everybody behind me was doing the same.

This next part should be filed under the bad timing file.  A couple of weeks ago, my officemate shared the story that added to my jitteriness.  A former co-worker’s daughter was decapitated on the highway when she slammed into the back of a semi.  The gruesome scene ran non-stop in my head as I struggled to see.  If I picked up speed, I ran the risk of coming up on a semi too fast to stop especially with slick roads.  However, somebody could come up behind me and run into the same trouble.  I saw the scene play out in detail both ways.  Either way didn’t end pleasant for me.

I thought of a conversation with my brother the other day.  It was one of those talks that took a weird, morbid turn and focused on death.  “I’m not afraid to die,” I boldly claimed.  “Just afraid of dying.”  Was this a test to see if I meant it?  I said a prayer, “Please help me know what to do,” I asked Heavenly Father.  I’m ashamed to admit it, but I even started to cry.  But I quickly stifled it.  Breaking emotionally wouldn’t do me any good at the moment.  “Momma,” I called out, “help me.”

Turn on your lights.  The headlights automatically come on but I needed to make myself visible from behind also.  Hazard lights!  Where were the hazard lights?  I felt for the button with my right hand as much as I dared while taking one hand off the wheel.  I couldn’t find the button.  “Please,” I begged one more time. 

Look on the console.  I looked at the buttons for the air-conditioner and heater.  There, right next to the wheel, was the button for the hazard lights.  I pushed it and hoped for the best.  Another truck passed me and I noticed its lights were flashing.  However, the whole thing was swallowed up in fog – form and lights – about ten feet in front of me.  “Please,” I said again.  “I don’t want my family to go through this now.”

Obviously, I made it through the ordeal.  Once I got to the other side of the far Sister, the fog started to lift and the roads were dry.  I pulled over at a rest stop.  I couldn’t help myself, I broke down emotionally.  My hands were shaking and I still had another hour to travel before I reached home.  By the time I pulled into my driveway I had become physically ill. 

I don’t know why this drive affected me so much.  It’s not like I haven’t driven in bad weather before.  But even as I type this I’m shaking.  Two things to sum up: one, prayers are answered.  Don’t tell me they aren’t.  And two, it really isn’t my time to go. Seriously.

Unstatistically Speaking: The Strong Woman Club

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I am pro-hero.  Thankfully, the Lord has seen fit to place many heroes in my path.  He knows I need lots and lots and yes, lots of guidance.  In fact, there are so many upstanding people in my life I’ve had to separate them into categories.  That’s right.  I’ve grouped my heroes into clusters.  It’s a work in process so I’m still working on cool titles.   But I’d like to briefly mention four heroes right now.

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A Little Break from the Blog

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I’m taking a break from my normal blog entries.  Mainly because the well is currently dry.   So I’m just going to write what’s on my mind right now.  My mom died 48 days ago.  This may sound odd but this is the longest I’ve ever gone without some kind of contact from her.  When I served my mission I could count on not-quite weekly letters from her.  Even when I lived in a different state, she was always just a phone call away – for chatting or emergencies (I just (sob) ran over Santa Claus!).  

I’ve become a member of an exclusive club.  A league I really didn’t want to join but here I am.  Now what?  I breathe in and out.  I eat and sleep.  I laugh and cry.  In other words, the current of life is carrying me downstream. 

I’m not worried about mom’s welfare.  I look forward to the time when we will meet again.  Yes, I believe that.  I have to hope in it.  Otherwise, what’s the point in today if there is no grand tomorrow?  Every person who sent condolences offered the same comfort – despite all the different dogmas. They offered the belief that mom was at peace now.  It’s funny how a lot of people with different faiths all agree on that point.  No, I’m not worried about mom’s eternal well-being.    I just miss her today.

I have what I refer to as, an acquired taste in humor.  There are only three people who get me.  I’m one of them.  Mom was another.  Yes, my audience is dwindling. The hardest part is not being able to share funny stories that happen.  This has led me to talk to myself.  I tell my stories out loud hoping she can hear them.  I close my eyes and imagine her reaction.  Whenever thoughts of her pop into my mind, I raise my hand and pump my hand three times.  Three squeezes and love you to pieces.

I entered the angry phase of the grief cycle.  Mom was an artist and painted ceramics for many years.  I talked her into taking it up again – with me.  Because I’m not an artist so she was going to help me.  We never got the chance, though.  So yeah, I’m angry about that.  There are a lot of things she will miss out on.  A line from the Princess Bride has been running through my mind.  An edited version, of course.  I’m not sure who I’m speaking to; it just makes me feel better to put it “out there.”  “I want my [mother] back you [son-of-a biscuit eater]!”  (That was mom’s fill in for the swear word so I thought it appropriate to use).

By no means am I claiming she was a perfect person.  But she was a pretty darn good mom for me.  Don’t worry.  I’ll be all right.  Thankfully, there were no hurt feelings before she died.  So, I don’t have any extra baggage to carry.  I’m grateful for the pain I feel.  It’s a mark of her well-lived life.  I’m honored I call her mom.  And I miss her.

I Believe There are Angels are Among Us

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My dad insists we live among angels.  He maintains that angels aren’t confined to otherworldly beings.   Some exist with flesh and blood.  They are imperfect but have one perfect moment in which they are in the right time and right place.  For some, they might have a series of moments.  I’m hoping I’ll have at least one perfect moment in which I can be somebody else’s angel.  That I’ll be in the right place at the right time to help somebody.  As opposed to my habit of wrong time, wrong place.  But that’s a topic for another blog probably dealing with my own psychoanalysis.  Or just a private journal entry.

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