Saturday, September 28, 2024

Sixteen is wax (and honesty)

Yesterday was our 16th wedding anniversary. 

Weirdly and foreverly, it's also the anniversary of my double mastectomy. Last year I told my surgeon that it was our silicone anniversary

In case you're wondering, 15 is crystal. This year is wax.

I'd heard about golden anniversaries and such, but I learned about year-by-year commemorations of anniversaries from The English Patient. Paper for the first anniversary. 

Pretty sure that for me, deep in grief over my father plus undiagnosed post-partum depression, I'd have crumpled that paper, stomped on it, doused it in kerosene, and set it ablaze with an entire box of matches.

I've joked about lying awake at night that year, dividing up the furniture. But that's not really true, because it's so clear what furniture is Nick's, and what's mine. We'd never vie for the other's. 

Until recently, before I felt empowered to voice my actual needs, I'd say things like, oh, look how well our furniture fits together! Because look, Nick, yours is from the colonizers, and mine was all purchased in those colonized countries your ancestors were busy dominating while they were running around wrecking the world.

Instead of just saying: you need to come home from the office and participate nightly in the care of our children. 

To which he could've responded: when the entire world economy collapsed, everyone stopped paying their bills, and I have to work all the time to keep the business afloat.

Me, I had a secure job, but it didn't pay enough to cover our mortgage and expenses. 

And we didn't have that conversation until years and years later.

You cannot expect to have your needs met, or even examined, if you don't voice them.

So over the last maybe year and a half, I realized I had to take responsibility for my actions. I had to look at how my own actions contributed to my happiness or lack thereof in my relationship and in life.

It kind of sucks but is also kind of a relief when you recognize you are your own problem. 

Until recently, I didn't have the ability to confidently and consistently say no in our relationship. No, I don't want to do this. No, this doesn't work for me. 

Or, anyway, the way I said no wasn't the way Nick heard no.

I'd say it in an oblique way, like, well, I don't prefer that. Or, I like this one better. Um, not really.

My concrete and perpetual example is a toilet paper holder.

After seven years in the house, we were going to have a master bathroom. And we got to choose everything.

I said I wanted a particular style of toilet paper holder, the kind where the holding bar flips up. So Nick said to find one. And then he didn't like any of the links I sent him.

Nick wanted, and purchased, a massive monstrosity that would also hold magazines.

I kept saying I didn't think we really needed one that big, how about this one, I prefer this kind, etc. etc.

This was over a number of weeks, as our bathroom was being renovated. And then we stopped talking about it. I didn't see the matter as decided.

And then, on what turned out to be the day of installment, Australian Builder held up Nick's large magazine holder with a bar for toilet paper and said, "Lisa, do you actually like this? Because I'm going to drill a whole lot of holes in your new tile."

And I was all, "Kim, I hate it so much."

He nodded and said, "Yes. I thought I should check." 

But if he hadn't asked me, and had put it up, I'd still be looking at it and feeling bitter every single day. It's not even easy to change the toilet paper. I know, because it's installed in our downstairs bathroom.

(As it is, we never got a wall one in our bathroom. Nick bought a stand, and for the first couple years, without saying anything about it, I wouldn't change the roll when we ran out. I'd just put the new toilet paper on top. My passive-aggressive little fuck you.)

Anyway, when Nick came home that night, I said, "Kim didn't put up your toilet paper holder."

And he said, "Why?"

I said, "Because I fucking hate it."

This was news to Nick. I didn't like it? Why didn't I say anything?

I was raised to say yes. If that's what you want for us, then yes. OK, sure. I mean, not really, but if it's what you want, we can do that.

For him to hear no, I had to explicitly say no. Very strongly, no, absolutely not, I hate it, no. 

I understood this, but I was not equipped to do this. I tried, but I just couldn't. I mean, I could say my sort-of nos, or no-adjacent things. But standing solidly by my no, when Nick wanted me to say yes?

Ha.

Added to this, if Nick doesn't get the answer he wants the first time, he'll ask repeatedly.

Making his viewpoint seem reasonable, and persisting until he gets his desired outcome is his actual job. And he is very good at his job.

So even if I started with no, eventually, I would be worn down enough to agree. And then I'd be pissed.

At some point in my youth I learned to just agree with my dad, and then on the side go ahead and do what I wanted.

This was the easiest approach with my dad and people like my long-ago boss who wanted me to find a way to make Canada look smaller than the US.

Be agreeable and subversive.

Eventually I started doing this with Nick. I recently admitted it to him.

In dysfunction, things get complicated and twisty.

But now, with a tremendous amount of work with my therapist, I can say no. This approach doesn't work for me. I don't want to do that. I will not. No thank you. Absolutely not.

I don't manage it every time, but most of the time.

And then he can say OK, or we can have a conversation. But at least it's starting from an honest place.

This makes things so much better. 

It is awful for everyone if you say yes and then are super crabby about it. Agree, and then resent being stuck somewhere you don't want to be, and pick a fight about something completely different, not realizing why. Say yes and seethe and smile and pretend it's all fine, but with a bitch-faced I fucking hate you smile.

Ooh, I did so much of all those things.

Because I can now say no to things I don't want to do, I can now also be generous with things I don't particularly want to do but I know would make Nick happy or would make for greater family harmony.

And I'm not perpetually angry.

Growing up, I was taught to stuff anger down. Don't make anyone else uncomfortable. Or anyway, don't make men uncomfortable, if you want them to love you. And you want them to love you.

Quietly simmer and seethe and swallow it. Preferably forever, but if not forever, then until you absolutely cannot hold it in any longer.

Nick, on the other hand, was raised wielding anger self-righteously. A useful tool. 

And together, we had so much anger. 

The Anger could be a whole series of posts.

So much anger. And so little emotional regulation.

Part and parcel with saying yes when I wanted to say no, I didn't feel like I had the right to voice my needs.

I didn't really even know how to recognize them to voice them to myself.

All those jokes about stabbing Nick? Hahaha! 

They didn't originate in a place of joy.

Now, as much as I can be, I'm honest. I say: this is what I need. If you want to make me feel like a priority, this is what I need you to do to show me I'm a priority.

Which is not to suggest that Nick hasn't been there for me, because he's been incredibly solid through huge, terrible things. Nick is good people. He's loving and kind and supportive.

We've been there for each other through some very painful events. And being there for those you love is imperative. But the crisis ends, and you still have the day-to-day.

It's true that I'm still quite resentful about the early years with the kids. Even now that I understand how much Nick had to work to keep the business going.

And I understand now that while my mom was helpful, in those young kid years I was also already doing a lot of caretaking of her. 

It was too much for many reasons.

Our new dynamic means that sometimes Nick does not get his way, or we come to a compromise. It also means that I'm not constantly accusing him of having everything his way and resenting him for it. 

It seems so simple, when I think about it now. But those fucked-up learned patterns are powerful.

I mean, how do you communicate in an honest way when you're not even aware of how you're being dishonest?

Gosh, this all took so long to learn.

This isn't a remotely romantic anniversary post, but I don't actually think marriage is all that romantic.

Maybe it's more romantic for other people? I don't know. 

Maybe it's easier for other people? I think, given my family of origin, it was never going to be easy for me or my partner.

Nick and I were old enough when we met that I thought we were grown up. But it turns out we both had so much growing to do.

I know we have more work to do, but 16 years in, I'd say we're in a happier, more solid place than we've ever been.

Friday, September 20, 2024

Ca-caw! Ca-caw!

I'm trying to make some crow friends.

Several people I know are trying to do this. Nicole has been actively working at it in Texas.

Apparently, when crows like you, they start bringing you little gifts, like pebbles and sparkly things.

Obviously, I don't need little gifts, but I love the idea. Also, I feel like I'm kind of like that. If I like you, I'll send you memes and videos and shiny little random stuff. 

Or very dark things. One of my friends and I exchange Goodbye Earl-type memes and videos regularly.

This is love.

Anyway, I didn't know till recently that magpies were in the corvid family along with crows and ravens.

Ever since that magpie stole Bianca Castafiore's emerald, I've been a fan.

Before my newfound interest in corvids in general and crows in particular became a New Topic in our household, I said the following to Nick:

"I really want to make some crow friends."

And he was like, "That's an oddly specific and frankly racist way to try to diversify your friend group."

I was all, crows the birds! Not First Nation. 

Jeez. Who would even think that?

Honk if you love cheese sauce.

Since then, Nick's been trying to help me. He saw a group of crows screaming over a sandwich and called me to come out on the deck. One of them dropped the sandwich and another stole it and the others were outraged.

I went inside and got a couple handfuls of wild rice and spread it on our wall.

Those crows, they were zero percent interested. Clearly these are American crows. I need to try enticing them with Doritos.

And then I had to clean up the uneaten rice because DC has a rat problem. I'm not kidding you. We live near restaurants, and the rats in our neighborhood amble around in broad daylight smoking cigars.

They are not scared and they do not care. And they're too overfed to move very fast.

You don't want to poison them, because then you're poisoning hawks and other birds of prey. It moves up the food chain.

What I want are a group of rat terriers to decimate our rat population. Apparently they run around grabbing rats and snapping their necks and moving on to the next one.

I cannot maintain a rat terrier pack, however. I can barely manage one hound.

I wish crows were ratters.

Also, related but tangential, there is this song that I cannot find and the only word I know is "murder" in the chorus. It's sung like, "muh-huh-huh-huh-erder" and there are lots of murder songs when you google and it is driving me crazy. I think it's 80s with an upbeat tune.

Thursday, September 19, 2024

Very superstitious/Writing's on the wall

Are you superstitious?

I have no idea where I fall on the continuum of most to least superstitious.

Here's the genesis of this.

I'd been waiting for a third terrible thing. The first was my mom dying. The second was breast cancer.

As bad luck comes in threes, I figured there would be a third.

And then I got pneumonia. And I was like, OK, this was the third terrible. It's happened. Now the slate is clean.

This is super woo-woo, but yesterday I saw my chiropractor, who is also an energy healer. 

Have I told you about her? She was a medical doctor in Russia, and then became a chiropractor and energy healer when she moved here.

I've never met anyone like her.

Over the last 5-6 months, she's realigned my spine and helped me release childhood trauma.

I started seeing her because I had severe jaw pain after having fillings replaced. And I've had chronic lower back pain. No matter how much yoga I did, no matter how much stretching, I couldn't get rid of it.

But the crisis was my jaw.

My dentist is originally Russian, and she was trying to help me, she did this painful but effective jaw massage technique that she said she learned from her chiropractor. So I was all, I need to go to her!

And she said that she's amazing but you should know she's not a normal chiropractor.

She's not. She's extraordinary.

At my assessment, she showed me the model of the spine and pelvis and explained that my pelvis was tilted ever so slightly. And over years, all my muscles had worked to accommodate. You can go on this way for decades. Your muscles can work and work and work and hold and hold and hold, until finally, they just can't do it anymore.

I had arrived at this point.

She said reason I couldn't take really deep breaths was because my pelvic muscles were in spasm and wouldn't let me.

I knew I couldn't breathe deeply enough but I didn't know why. My yoga teacher was always telling me I was taking two breaths when I should be taking one. I could see this. I could hear it in the final OM, when I would run out of air much faster than others.

But no matter how hard I worked, I couldn't pull the air in deeper. 

She said in the beginning I'd have to see her quite intensely. Because both your muscles and your brain are used to everything in your body being in a certain position, even if it's wrong.

So for a while you have to continuously readjust, because every time, your body tries to go back to what it thinks is normal.

Kind of like growing up in a dysfunctional household and then finding partners who fit your dysfunction. It's not healthy but it feels right.

So.

She does the chiropractic adjustment, and then works with tuning forks. When I'm face down, she has the end of the tuning fork against my spine for the vibration. Face up, she is realigning the vibration of my cells with the pitch.

Nick thinks all of this is bananas. You can, too. It's OK.

And then she started asking me questions about my family. It was like my answers confirmed what she knew.

One day during treatment an image of my brother as a kid, one of his school photos, popped into my mind. And literally one second later she asked if I had a sibling.

She asked about my dad, how he died. About his personality.

Sometimes she would do an adjustment, and I would just start to cry. I once had this sensation, not imagery but intense feeling, of little kid vulnerability and fear.

She gave me homework, specific things to say to offer forgiveness to each member of my family. And then to offer forgiveness to myself. She said she thought this would release some of the muscles that were holding.

It did. 

My back pain decreased until much of the time it was completely gone. My back is completely locked up after being so sick, and I knew it's going to take some time to open up and get back to where I was in August.

I can inhale (OK, not in this moment but in general) as deeply as I want.

I've had to practice deep breathing, because my body was not used to it.

Anyway, yesterday she said that she thinks the pneumonia is the final piece of my body processing trauma and letting go. I couldn't completely let go emotionally, and I had all this toxic stuff I was holding. 

So I got really sick, and my body finally purged it. High fever, night sweats, lots of coughing.

Out out out.

I told you all this was very woo-woo. But it totally makes sense to me. 

Maybe it wasn't the third thing. But I think it was, and since I'm a multidimensional human in the multiverse, I can believe both of these things and so much more.

Then I started thinking about other superstitions.

When I was a kid, if we spilled salt, we'd throw it over our shoulder for the devil.

I hadn't thought about that in decades.

We used to have our salt in little bowls with little spoons. So I think we spilled salt a lot. I don't think I've spilled salt in years. 

But there are others.

Like, I knock wood for luck.

I love the number 13, so for me that's good rather than bad luck. But clearly I still attach luck to it.

I also think that might be it for superstitions.

Because while I don't walk under ladders, that just seems like common sense rather than luck.

I don't believe black cats or broken mirrors bring bad luck.

I don't look in mirrors at night, but that's about me being a chicken and the possibility of Bloody Mary appearing behind me rather than luck. 

I don't know of any others.

What do you believe?

Monday, September 16, 2024

Pneu pneumonia (to the tune of Ophelia)

Until recently, I think if asked, I'd probably put pneumonia in the same bucket as arson or Nazis: categorically terrible, but not something I spent much time thinking about on a regular basis.

And then. Then I got pneumonia.

Pneumonia, you all. Pneumonia is insane. I've never been so sick. For so long!

The above photo was at one of my lowest points. I also got a cold sore for good measure. 

While I did feel tremendously sorry for myself, this is not a post to garner sympathy. I'm now dramatically better.

What I want to say is if you start getting really sick, go to your doctor! Or urgent care, or the ER. Do not wait. There are some terrible viruses going around. 

And if stuff sticks in your lungs, it can turn into bronchitis, or pneumonia.

And then you might feel like you are going to live in bed for the rest of your born days.

On August 26—three full weeks ago—I got in bed with fever and body aches. I practically did not get out of bed for two weeks.

After four days in bed Nick took me to urgent care and they were all, it's not COVID or Flu. There is this terrible virus going around and you should feel better in 10-14 days and come back if you get worse.

So I was just waiting. I wasn't really getting worse, but I wasn't getting better. 

Although when I think about it, I was getting worse, but it was like being the frog in the pot starting with cold water.

So by the time I had to put two feet on each stair and pause to breathe with each step, I wasn't really noticing how much worse that was. Because mostly I had stopped going downstairs and was spending the entire day in bed.

Nothing helped. Not the rescue inhaler. Not the daily steroid inhaler. 

I woke up every morning in a violent coughing fit. It was scary. 

One time I set my alarm sound to The Devil Went Down to Georgia, thinking it would really wake me up, but this is not a way I would recommend anyone start their day unless you like being jolted into sudden and inexplicable terror.

Anyway, last weekend I woke up in a coughing fit, and when I could finally inhale, my lungs were making this weird crackle sound.

Nick had to help me walk. I was panting, taking very shallow breaths, and still barely getting anything. Also, I was crying. Because I was very scared and felt very terrible.

So we went to the ER, where when they asked me what was wrong I said I couldn't breathe and started to cry again.

When you can't breathe, they take you back very quickly.

And once in a room, we ran into our dear family friend Shannon, whose dad was two doors down from me.

Nick went into the corridor to use the bathroom or find snacks or some such, and I heard, "Are you kidding me?" And there Shannon. So we got to catch up over a long number of hours.

And on a side bar, Nick is always disgruntled by the lack of food options at hospitals. It annoys the crap out of me. Every time we've been at any hospital—and over the years this has been many times—he is upset about the lack of food.

This time at the ER I snapped, "Nobody comes to the fucking hospital for the food. You'll survive."

He still tells the story of making a big bag of gorp to take to the hospital when I was going to give birth to India. Like we were embarking on a trek in the Himalayas.

He's still disgruntled by the fact that our doula ate most of it. Once they were like, this might be another C-section, I wasn't allowed to eat anything. 

And then when they put me on an epidural, Nick left to shower and have breakfast.

He announced this proudly upon his return. He was in clean clothes and had had a meal. Like he was going to need his strength.

I was like, if I could feel my legs, I'd kick him right now.

Nick hates these stories because why, he wonders, why are my thoughts towards him so violent? Why so much anger? And I am like, you don't know the half of it.

But back to the matter at hand.

The doctor said I had pneumonia, and gave me IV antibiotics and sent me home with two more oral antibiotics.

For much of last week, I was pretty despondent. I was just going to languish like a consumptive Victorian until I faded away. My face was pale and my hair was pale and my pillowcases were pale, and at some point, we would all just blend.

Although I think consumption was TB?

Now that I can walk several blocks, have the energy and breath for chit-chat, and am confident I'll survive this, pneumonia one of my new topics.

Also, as I understand it, fixating on topics is neurodivergent behavior. The more you know!

This is how it started. I said, "Nick, pneumonia is a really big deal!" 

He was all, "Yes. George Washington DIED of pneumonia."

Whoa.

Then I started looking up famous people who died of pneumonia. And let me tell you, there are a lot lot  lot of them.

I started reading him a list. And he was like, yes, many, many people die of pneumonia. And I was like, wait, but did you know about this person?

Lawrence Whelk!

At a certain point with any New Topic, I think Nick just tunes me out.

But actually, what I'd really like to talk about is what I learned on the internet in the last few weeks.

I spent so much time in bed without much stamina or the ability to focus for long periods of time.

So I watched a lot of Instagram reels. Which I've learned are videos of what people posted on TikTok. But I am old and don't watch TikTok.

I learned that there are many young women who call themselves "tradwives" and are very proud of being in "traditional" relationships where the man has an outside job and the woman has babies and does all of the work in the home.

There is this couple in Texas, both models in their 20s. They're apparently Mormon. The wife is the more beautiful, and the husband, while good looking, has the kind of pale no real smile eyes that make me nervous. 

But they could well both be very nice people. What do I know?

They have three kids, and the wife narrates her professional quality videos with this bedtime-story kind of voice. She makes the craziest things, like Froot Loops from scratch, or if they're going to have grilled cheese sandwiches, she first makes the bread and the cheese. I don't know if she also makes the butter but it seems likely.

She does this while wearing full makeup and designer gowns.

The children, apparently, are with their nanny. I'm not saying this to be snarky. This is what I've learned.

As I said, I spent a lot of time in bed.

There are myriad iterations of this woman, young women who are not models, who are all about their role being that of babymaker, homemaker, foodmaker. In these videos, they are joyful and defiant.

Then there's this group of Mormon women who apparently now have their own show. There were part of a bunch of couples who would hook up with each other's spouses, in what they called "soft swinging" and everything was OK as long as they were all in the same room and there was no penetration.

And then one of them had full on sex with someone else's husband without everyone present, and that exploded everything.

I genuinely think people should live their lives in whatever way they want, as long as they're not hurting anyone. Lots of stuff goes on in the world that I would never have imagined.

And still, I am apparently easily surprised. Not shocked, just surprised.

These people are popular, and because they're popular, they make money from their content. Some of them make lots of money.

And then you know when you watch something, you get served more of the same. So then Instagram kept offering up videos of these ostensibly happy homemakers and Mormons.

I had to make a concerted effort to veer back to yoga and nutritious food makers and holistic health accounts.

I'm not saying these influencers are bad people, though I certainly don't want my children influenced by them. I'm not lumping them in with arson and Nazis. Mainly, I don't understand them.

And I know they're not new to the world or to the internet.

They're just new to me, like pneumonia.

Monday, September 02, 2024

Labor day/birthday year two

Dear Mama,

Today is your birthday. You said you were born on Labor Day, which your parents rather enjoyed because ha. 

September 2 is always your birthday, but it is not always Labor Day. Like that expression all Singhs are Sikh but not all Sikhs are Singh. Or maybe it is the other way around?

I remember how you used to always ask people like cab drivers where they were from, and I would be all, oh my god, just let people drive.

But this one time we had a Sikh driving us and you said, "Are you from Jalandhar?"

And he was all, "Yes! I AM from Jalandhar!" Delighted.

You'd do random things like that and instead of people being like, just because I'm a person with an accent does not mean I want to talk to you about my homeland, they'd be delighted that you'd taught at a school in Kabul and could still speak Farsi. 

I saw our neighbor Marie the other day, and she said she was just thinking about how much she loved sitting on her porch chatting with you. She said you were so interesting, and had so many great stories.

I should've asked you for more stories. I should've recorded them when I had you.

This is your second birthday not here with me, and I miss you.

I've been sick, like flattened in bed sick, for an entire week. At some point last week I called Nick sobbing because everything hurt so much I couldn't get out of bed. I couldn't walk the dog.

Urgent care said that what I have is a terrible virus that is going around, and that I should begin to feel better on day 10-14. I'm at day 7 and it is taking its damn time.

It's been brutal. I cannot remember being this sick for this long. Not even with Covid. Which I do not have.

I used to have a lot of versions of the loneliest me imaginable.

This past week I realized that the loneliest I could be was sick, really sick, without my mama.

You would pour me a glass of ginger ale, mostly ice, and leave it on my bedside table. I was dying for ginger ale. I was too sick to go buy any. I kept forgetting to ask the kids.

You'd come in and put your cool hand on my hot forehead.

Even if that didn't do anything, in the same way that throwing your arm across me when you braked the car hard wouldn't have done anything in a crash, what it did was make me feel loved.

You'd be in and out of my room quietly, which was perfect, because all I was doing was sleeping anyway. But I would know you were there.

I know you are fine, wherever you are, and this idea comforts me. I know that what hurts is all the ways that you are not here for me.

Being motherless for me is somehow being less protected in this world. It didn't matter that I'd gotten bigger and stronger than you.

That's not the point.

I wouldn't hesitate to give my life for either of my kids, and I think Jordan would believe it if I told him so, but our girl India, she knows.

She knows she is my heart in the same way that I knew that I was yours. She is forehead to forehead emotion meld.

You know this. When I tell her I love her, she says, "I love you more." And she got that from you.

The other day I had a quick vision of you laughing and saying, "Oh, Lisa, how I do love you."

When people ask how old you were, and I say 85, I know what they are thinking, and so before they can say anything I tell them that I knew you had a big, big life. Because you did.

But that's not what I'm thinking. I'm thinking, but what about me?

When I first saw Nicole after you died, I hadn't seen her in years. She disappeared into a hole after her mom died. She hugged me and said that as it turns out, it doesn't even matter if you have a difficult  relationship with your mom. When she's gone, you're flattened, she said.

It's changed my relationship with the world in a way I cannot yet quite describe.

I know ahead of time these days will be difficult, and still, I'm never prepared for how sad I'll be. Birthdays and anniversaries, they really fuck with you.

Anyway, we're all still here, and you're somewhere not here, somewhere I hope is really, really good, with all of our beloveds who also aren't here.

I miss you with my whole heart.

Love,

Lisa