I tried calling Walgreen’s pharmacy to tell them that my son would be late for his booster appointment as he was on the way back from a snowboarding trip, but I kept getting recordings. The only thing to do in that situation, my friends, is to remain completely silent on the phone. If you don’t give the bots a choice, it defaults you to a human being, which is what happened today. It usually works.
Usually.
Using the silent treatment in a face-to-face human interaction can be trickier, because you’re dealing with personality and temperament. I used the silent treatment so effectively last week at Barnes and Noble that I want to share it with you. You might see this quick skit on my Netflix series in the future:
(Mary ready to check-out at Barnes and Noble, and not in the mood for chit-chat):
Old chirpy store associate: Hi, you find everything you were looking for?
Me: (Determined to avoid small talk): Yes.
SA: Are you a member?
Me: Yes.
SA: Can I have your cell phone number?
Me: (Gives it).
SA: Hey, you have a $1.00 cookie from the bakery today, it expires in 3 ½ minutes, would you like to redeem it?
Me: No.
SA: You’re sure? They’re still warm.
Me: No. Look, I’m kinda in a rush.
SA: (Slightly miffed) I also see that you have the educator discount, but it’s expired. Let me get that current for you.
Me:
SA: Taps. Taps. Taps.
Me:
SA: (Taps. Taps. Taps).
Me:
SA: I’m so sorry, I’ve forgotten my employee ID.
Me:
SA: Let me try something else (taps taps taps).
Me:
SA: I’m so sorry, it’s not working. I must be getting old! (laughs)
Me:
SA: You said you were in a rush, I’m so sorry, thank you for your patience.
Me:
SA: (Taps. Taps. Taps.)
Me:
SA: Got it! There we go! Last time’s the charm!
Me:
SA: I changed my password from my dog’s name to my cat’s Instagram handle. You a cat person?
Me:
SA: Not a people person either, I can see. So that’ll be $12.99.
Me: (Hands her money).
SA: Sorry for the inconvenience today, some days are like that, right?
Me:
SA: (Hands me bag). Thanks again for your patience.
The morning of December 26th found me skulking around Cherry Hill. I can’t really recall why I was there. It was a different lifetime, and I was a different person. But I think it’s reasonable to assume that it probably had something to do with unwanted cured meats, or pesky security sensors.
Enjoying a leisurely cup of coffee in a café, I enjoyed the view of the quiet almost deserted parking lot. The preparation leading up to Christmas finds me a veritable prisoner in my own home for days at a time, so it was refreshing on this day to be out and about in the post-apocalyptic world. Holidays done, travel imminent, I sighed in satisfaction and sipped my coffee.
I soon noticed an inordinate amount of unaccompanied men running in, out and around the specialty food store. Never having witnessed the world on December 26th at 9:00 a.m., I hardly knew what to expect, so the appearance of so many unaccompanied men made me pause and jot down some insights.
They were alone. I know you know what “unaccompanied” means, but it was jarring. ‘Lil wifies are always lurking around their men, and until you’re single, you probably don’t notice that. The men I saw on the 26th looked so vulnerable, like the pale pink flesh of feet freed from ski boots at the end of a long ski day. I imagine the convo went like this that morning:
Him: (opens fridge) There’s no milk.
Her: So go get some.
Him: Why me?
Her: Because I did every other fucking thing leading up to this holiday. Ya think you can handle grabbing some 2%, or is that too tough for you?
Him: Be right back.
They looked dazed and confused. No kidding, every single one of them looked shell-shocked. Whether from overexposure to family or from holiday buyer’s remorse, they all looked like they were considering throwing the 2% onto the lawn then driving off to begin new families and careers.
They were all in workout gear. Some were running around the building, some were on bikes, some looked like they were on their way to or on the way back from the gym. They were all wearing sneakers and breathing heavy.
Him: I think I’ll run there.
Her: Why in the world?
Him: I can get my workout in and get your milk in one trip.
(This is my last week of blogging for 2021. Friday is Christmas Eve, then I’ll see you on January 3rd).
My sons received a few simple house rules to abide by for Christmas break.
No cooking of pork products after 10 p.m.
Laundry loads should include more than one sock and a t-shirt.
Personal shit contained in bedrooms. No leakage into the living area.
Buy needed supplies as necessary, and cook and clean up when appropriate.
Unless friends are going to pay rent, I don’t want them standing in my kitchen every single night.
And most importantly, no waking Mom up in the middle of the night with noise and light.
A few nights ago, I was roused from sleep by boisterous laughter and light coming from under my door. My bedroom is like a sound-proof chamber, so something has to be pretty garish to wake me from a sound sleep.
From the bathroom there arose such a clatter, I sprang from bed to see what was the matter…
I stood outside the closed bathroom door, eavesdropping on two boys talking full volume and laughing, the sink and shower both going. I stood outside that bathroom, rubbing my hands together like the Grinch at the top of Mt. Krumpet.
“I got ‘em.”
Waking Mom up in the middle of the night is the deadliest no-no you can make if you hang out here. Even the boys’ friends know this sacred rule. Momma O wakes up at 5:00 a.m. to start her workday, so whatever you do,
don’t. wake. her. up.
It was 2:00 a.m., and I was pissed.
I stood outside that bathroom ready to blow a gasket, when suddenly, I froze. One boy was in the shower, and one was brushing his teeth, and they were sharing an annual family Christmas “inside joke.” As my older son built up the scenario, the youngest kept laughing harder and harder through his toothpaste.
Classic brother bonding. And like the intruder I was, I had almost interrupted it.
With the noise and light still pumping out into the hallway, I retreated back to my bedroom, unseen and unheard, and fell asleep smiling to their noise.
There’s this new horror movie out. It’s about a woman who is raped on a train for 40 minutes while bystanders record it with their phones.
No one intervenes. No one helps her.
But this is not a horror movie. This is what happened on a Philadelphia train on October 13th. People on the train watched as the attacker groped the victim and eventually raped her through TWO DOZEN TRAIN STOPS. At this time, police believe that no one called the authorities.
Flashback:
In the early hours of March 13, 1964, Kitty Genovese, a 28-year-old bartender, was stabbed and raped by Winston Mosely outside the apartment building where she lived in Queens. Thirty-eight witnesses saw or heard the attack, and none of them called the police or came to her aid. The incident prompted inquiries into what became known as the bystander syndrome, or “Genovese syndrome.”
What Kitty and the poor woman on the train went through haunts me, and I don’t say that easily. And I can’t help but wonder what was going through the minds of the people who either ignored what they were watching or worse, recorded it. I have a few theories, all of which are probably wrong. But since Malcolm Gladwell is not available right now, I’ll take a stab at it:
Fear. Were they afraid of the man? The situation? Of becoming victims themselves? Did it not occur to them that they could all rush to her aid as one strong unit?
Idiocy. Were they the dumbest people on the face of the Earth all riding the same train at the same time?
Lack of empathy. Did they simply not care? Were they so far mired down into the pain of their own lives that they simply didn’t care as a fellow human being was being brutalized?
Sadism. Did they enjoy watching it? Did they get some kind of a sick thrill watching this poor woman suffer?
Bystander effect. The bystander effect, or bystander apathy, is a theory that states that individuals are less likely to offer help to a victim when there are other people present. Would this poor woman have had a better chance of intervention if there was only one other person in the train car besides her and the attacker?
Psychotic disorders. Much like what has been said about Adam Lanza, the killer responsible for the Sandy Hook massacre of twenty children, were the people on this train unable to distinguish between fantasy and reality? Did they think they were watching a video game? An Instagram post? A hologram? An SNL skit? What are the odds all of these people had the same disorder?
The scariest part? These people aren’t monsters. They’re just people, like you and me. It’d be easier if we could call them sociopathic. But they’re just people. Flawed people who will have to live with their inaction for the rest of their lives.
Let me suggest the exposition if this was a horror movie. The bystanders, after being questioned by the police, all go home to their respective lives. They are slightly ashamed of their behavior, but they move on. But each bystander finds that they are now being haunted by their worst fears. Every day they wake up, they have to face a different horror, a different villain. And each time they are tortured, brutalized and haunted, around them are people who simply stand around and watch.
No one intervenes. No one helps them. Day after day after day for the rest of their lives.
This is a tough one to tell. My closest friends and family know this story, because I gabbed it to anyone who would listen.
Last year I took a stint as a youth counselor at a crisis center, and worked with young people who, for whatever reason, had lost their way or their faith, and were trying to get back on their feet. Most just wanted jobs, or to finish school, or to have a bed to sleep in. Some warmth, hot food, Wifi, maybe just someone to listen to their goals, their visions, their dreams.
Food, education, a bed. You know, luxuries.
They rarely complained. These kids just woke up every day, ate breakfast, then walked out the door into a world that had never been too kind to them, hoping that maybe this day would be the day that would smile at them. They were not saints, certainly troubled and far from perfect, and the center was certainly filled with the kind of despair you would expect at such a place. I went in there expecting that.
But I didn’t expect the beauty. The strength, the laughter, the friendship, the love that just ooooooozed out of these kids when you made eye contact with them, when you smiled at them and told them you were glad to see them. Some of them were like blooming flowers, unfurling at the slightest hint of sunshine.
And I did o.k. At first.
Listen, it’s a tough place. And while counselors are encouraged to be kind, they are expected to be consistent and tough. Get close to them, but not too close. Love them, but don’t love them too much. Piece of cake, I figured. I’ve been a teacher at some pretty tough places for three decades, and I like to think I’ve seen it all.
Then I met this young mother and her baby, and proceeded to fall promptly and completely in love.
Ruh-roh.
What’s wrong with falling in love with a baby? Nothing, if it’s your niece. Your neighbor’s granddaughter. The baby your close friend babysits during the week as a nanny, when she walks her past your house for a quick hello. Nothing, in those cases.
But when you’re working at a center where young resident turnover is only a few weeks, and the goal is to help young residents work an employment and education program and get back out into society, obsessing over a resident baby is most certainly not conducive to the terms under which you’ve been hired.
I had worked with young mothers and their babies plenty of times, but for whatever reason, this baby girl rocked me. She was the sweetest, funniest, prettiest baby I had ever met, and within weeks of holding her, playing with her, and loving her, I began to worry about her and dream about her. I would wake up in the middle of the night and wonder if she was safe. Loved. Dry. Too warm, or too cold. I worried, and worried, and worried, until I worried myself sick.
I sought advice from colleagues, and they all said the same thing:
“Mary, we can only love them as best we can. At the end of the day, they’re responsible for themselves.”
They were right. Of course they were right. But I worried about her just the same.
I thought I was tough. I’m not tough. I’m a wimp. A cream puff. A gutless invertebrate. A yellow-bellied recreant.
Baby A wrecked me. Destroyed me. Thoughts of her consumed me so entirely that for the first time in my entire life, I thought about seeking a therapist. I could not, and still cannot, stop thinking about her.
But I must.
I have a picture of Baby A on my phone, and once in awhile I’ll sneak a peek at it and think about her. She’ll be turning a year old soon, and I hope she and her mother went back home to family. Then in the same breath I hope they didn’t, because it was a bad situation. I hope her mom managed to keep her job, and that she is still strong and confident. I hope that baby is still smiling and squealing with joy when she gets picked up. I still miss her. Sometimes when you meet a person, no matter how young or old, they lodge themselves into a place in your heart you didn’t know existed. This baby wedged her way into mine, and not a day goes by when I don’t hope and pray she is doing well.
Tomorrow I will post about “Songs That Sound Like What They’re About.” The following song “We Go Driving” sounds like motherhood, to me. That feeling of knowing you would do anything in your means to take care of your child. This young mother told me she was determined to make a better life for her daughter, and I hope and pray she is managing to do that.
I will return to the center one day. My schedule is too full right now, and the pandemic has caused me to take precautions due to my father’s health. And I hope to find out what happened to Baby A. Until then, this song is dedicated to her. I wish I knew how she is doing, so that I could stop worrying about her and crying when I hear this song.
Hey folks without kids, we get it already. You have plenty of time to yourselves. Your houses are neat and quiet. You’re responsible only for yourselves. Congratulations. Just answer a question for me:
If you’re so happy being childless, and if posts about children are so annoying to you, and if you’re happy and proud about your childless status, why do you follow accounts about parents and children, and then proceed to bash parents on every family holiday post?
Social media is a trip, isn’t it? These past weeks were National Daughters and National Sons Days, and Instagram and Facebook were a riot. I didn’t post pictures of my sons, because they were very clear when I texted them:
Me: Hey guys, it’s National Sons’ Day. Do you want me to post that picture I got of all three of you in the kitchen after you all went surfing? (They’re never all in the kitchen at the same time anymore, it was a super cute pic).
First boy: No.
Second boy: No.
Third boy: No.
(Alrighty then. Don’t beat around the bush, guys, tell me how you really feel).
Family Instagram accounts this past week were rife with cute kid videos, but then the comments started, and fights ensued. On one Dad account, people were actually arguing over who has a better life: people with kids, or without. So we’re back to my question:
If childless people aren’t envious of people with kids, why are they following Instagram accounts about people with kids? And then fighting about it? That would be like me following an account based on something I have no interest in, like, carving decoy ducks, and then blasting all of the decoy duck carvers with my vitriol.
Carving decoy ducks is stupid!
My life is so much better because I don’t carve decoy ducks!
Don’t you get depressed waking up every day having to stare at those decoy ducks?
I fill my time not carving decoy ducks with better pursuits!
Suckers! Don’t you wish you were me because I don’t have to carve decoy ducks?
Whether the childless are childless by personal choice or by physical or medical inability, the following remains true:
We concede that you have advantages. Benefits. There are so many things you don’t have to worry about.
Crib death. Choking risks. Poopy diapers. Teething. Stranger danger. Rip tides. Knee scrapes. Report cards. Food allergies. Mismatched socks. Loud music. Mean girls. Mean boys. Teenage disgruntlement. Unrequited love. College essays. Student loans. Career foibles.
Ad nauseum.
No, I’m not going to list the wonders and delights of parenthood. The list would be too long, and it’s been a long week. Maybe another time.
So fine, we acknowledge that while our lives without children might be easier, our lives would not be better. And popping up on social media just to tell us we’re suckers for procreating is silly. We don’t tell you you’re silly for not having kids, why should you tell us we’re silly for having them?
And never forget that someone had you. So it can’t be all bad, right?
I received an inquiry from a news outlet last week to write a blurb using this title:
“How to Know If the Man You Met Online is Looking for a Nurse or a Purse”
No kidding, this is a real thing. They’re called “hobosexuals,” men either looking for a woman to take care of them in their advancing years, or for a “sugar momma.”
I cannot attest to the “nurse” half of it. I mean, how do these men make their intentions known? Is the first date a request to drive him to his colonoscopy? Does he ask her to change his Depends, or check his blood pressure before nookie? When they go out to dinner, does he ask her to ask the chef to blend his steak?
Allow me some teasing room here. You’re probably married, whether happily or unhappily, so you have no idea what it’s like out there.
I gave up “out there.”
Personally, I don’t know what’s more disturbing: knowing that these kind of men are out there, or knowing that there are gullible women who fall for it. So here, for your use, are six ways to know if a guy wants to jiggle your pursestrings. Pass this along to your dating friends, mothers, aunts, daughters, whoever. I’ve done the research, so what you’re about to read is pretty accurate.
He’s too good-looking. I’m talking the kind of model good-looking that makes you stop at his picture and say, “Wow, he is REALLY good-looking.” DANGER DANGER, WILL ROBINSON!!! There is no reason that a seriously good-looking man is hanging out on dating sites unless there is something seriously wrong.
He is over-eager to get your phone number. After a few hours of conversation, he will say, “Give me your number so we can get off this site.” He wants to research you and pull your credit report so he can find your net worth. And if you have money, you will be shocked how fast he “falls in love” with you. Within one week he’ll tell you he’s dreaming about you, is ready to introduce you to his friends, and hopes to meet your family. If he lives far away from you, he’ll be “more than happy to make the drive,” or the flight, or the walk. To these guys, it’s worth the initial time and gas investment.
He has impeccable manners. By the time he’s done with you, you’ll feel like Queen Elizabeth. He’ll hold the door for you, pull out your chair for you, help you with your coat, tell you your company is just delightful. He will not make unwonted physical advances, and treat you like a real lady.
He wants to meet you at dinner, and if he gets a second date, asks if you’d prefer to drive. He doesn’t want to show you his car. Oh, and they LOVE being driven around, like they’re Miss Daisy to your Hoke.
He acts weird when you don’t offer to pay for anything. Maybe he doesn’t reach for his wallet right away when the dinner bill arrives. Maybe he doesn’t put down cash on the bar when you have drinks with him. Maybe when you half-heartedly say, just to be polite, “Oh, can I put something toward the bill?” he reacts with emphatic enthusiasm.
Take it from me: Run for your life.
After the first date, he hems, haws, and waits for you to make plans. He wants you to take charge, to make the reservations, to put the down-payment on the room, on the show, whatever. This is a huge signal of a a guy who wants to be “kept.”
Some of these gentlemen have fancy leather wallets, some don’t make that pretense. Some dress really well, some don’t. Some flash big stacks of cash while not offering it up, and some have only a crumpled one-dollar bill in their wallet alongside a beat-up old faded credit card from an old bank that doesn’t exist anymore. Some want to talk about money and real estate, some avoid the subject entirely to keep you off the scent.
Laugh if you will but they’re out there. Heed my warnings.
How important are you to you? Really ask yourself that question, because today is my birthday, and my gift to myself, other than a killer hike, a massage and a few margaritas with a friend, is to deliver some KAPOW!!!! into your day.
If you have a problem with tangents, deal with it, because it’s my party and I’ll stray if I want to…
So let me start off by sharing Thor’s opinions of human beings:
Thor is right. We all stoop to pettiness, it’s human nature. And we all have petty people in our lives, people with only one goal: to try to undermine our happiness by using emotional blackmail for some imagined or real slight they think has been perpetrated on them.
The question isn’t whether they exist, or whether they’ll be petty. The question is if you will allow them to get to you.
I admit it, I’ve been plenty petty in my 55 years of life. I’ve mostly overcome it, but it wasn’t easy. It took four long years of constant vigilance, intense practice and serious solitude to get out from under it. But for the most part, I’m free. Toughest work I ever had to do.
Toughest work I am still doing.
Most of the time pettiness is not personal, but stems from an insecurity or jealousy from the petty person’s past or present (that was a lot of “p’s”). A petty person could be suffering from low self-esteem because they weren’t “popular” in high school. Maybe their mother never told them they were worthy of much. Maybe they have career insecurities, maybe they have run out of options to get attention.
But I disagree with the experts who say pettiness is never personal. Sometimes it is personal. Maybe a person wants retribution for something you did to them in 2004, and it just makes them feel better that they finally “got” you. They figure trying to piss you off is better than nothing.
So fine and dandy. Let them have their “victory.” Who cares? Don’t enable a petty person by letting him affect your day, your mood or your family. There are only two possible reactions:
Silence or laughter. That’s all they deserve.
Now, if you read my blog with any amount of regularity, you know I have this ability of not letting other people’s comments, criticisms or petty overthrows affect me in the slightest. It’s my superpower.
I’m Deflection Woman.
I live by this quote from Dr. Phil, who responded to a guest expressing worry over hurting the doctor’s feelings:
“Don’t worry about hurting my feelings because I guarantee you not one bit of my self-esteem is tied up in your acceptance.”
Boom, roasted. Great moment, wish I could find the clip for you. And that happens to be my personal mantra.
It’s genetic, I guess, but I can also ascribe my implacability in the face of judgment as a result of having been a journalist and high school teacher for 35 years. Whatever it is, I thank God for it. But it’s not easy. Society doesn’t like implacability. I was speaking to a colleague about the lives of introverts, and we both agreed on the same thing:
Society doesn’t like us. They think we’re dangerous for wanting to mind our own business, to just live our lives. Say you remove yourself from what you consider a life of greed, abuse, anger, addiction, ingratitude, mental instability, whatever. You’re doing something good for yourself, right?
Of course you are. And that’s healthy.
But to remove yourself from that life, you must be vigilant. Because that life will try to pull you back, again and again. And if you somehow manage to prevail?
Society will try to beat the shit out of you.
In The Chocolate War by Robert Cormier, Jerry Renault got murdered for refusing to sell chocolate bars in the school’s fundraiser. The Chocolate War is so subversive, it has been removed from many schools. Not banned, just removed as an option. My favorite quote?
“They tell you to do your own thing but they don’t mean it. They don’t want you to do your thing, not unless it happens to be their thing, too.”
Yeah, society can be brutal and petty when you don’t fit the part it wants you to fit. Society likes joiners, agreers, brown-nosers, preeners, head-nodders, conformers.
And pettiness.
Let’s look at verbal pettiness. This is a tough one, because it’s easy to deflect petty actions. Say someone deliberately ignores you at a party, to display their “power” over you. So who cares? Let them have it. No skin off your back. Just talk to someone else.
But petty words are tougher. And unless we’re all prepared to become hermits in the mountains, we all need to know what to do in the face of these kinds of people who want to hurt you with words, or over social media.
My advice? Silence. Nothing, I repeat, nothing, speaks volumes more than silence and indifference. The message you send is this:
No matter what you do, no matter how hard you try, no matter what tricks you pull, you can’t hurt me.
Let’s say you just got a semi-prestigious job doing some side marketing work for a small but passionate company. It doesn’t pay much, but it’s a great step towards your dreams of a marketing career, and the addition of it on your resume and the networking you will have access to is priceless. You announce it proudly on LinkedIn. Later that day you get a text from Petty Patty.
PP: Hey, congratulations, I saw on LinkedIn that you just got that little job doing social media marketing. How cute! It seems like a lot of work for not much money, but I’m so glad that type of thing makes you happy! I know I couldn’t do it!
She just basically called you a foolish low-wage earner. Oh, and let’s not forget that she just tried to belittle your basic existence. How in the world to respond to this nitwit?
Silence.
Let’s continue. That job leads to a better one, with more pay. Here’s the same idiot when you bump into her at the supermarket:
PP: Wow, that’s awesome. That’s a shame it cuts into your weekends and that you have to travel. Ugh, traffic is the worst. But if it fulfills you, great! And I know those really high-paying jobs go to people with Master’s degrees and years of experience, so don’t lose hope, you’ll get there!
So now she has accused you of having no social life, and of being an uneducated hack. And my biggest pet peeve, faux pity, the tool of the unsophisticated and intellectually dim.
Don’t respond. Tell her that melons are BOGO, and move on. She’s just sad. You think she feels good after talking to you like that? Maybe for a few seconds, but that kind of shit comes right back to people, and becomes part of their flesh. That’s why her face always looks so pinched and constipated.
You ever meet a mean old person who doesn’t know how to speak lovingly, and still enacts pettiness even at an advanced age? Don’t worry about them. Let them do what they do, and let Nature take care of that shit. What goes around comes around, bitches.
Last scenario:
You finally have it. All of your hard work has paid off. All of the late nights, long drives, fast-food meals, have paid off. You have the job. The salary. The prestige. The power. And whattya know, here comes Miss Thing on Facebook messenger:
Hey congrats! I’m in Turks and Caicos, but I wanted to send my congratulations along! Have fun being busy, some of us just like to stay unemployed and travel, haha! Someone has to work and be successful, and it ain’t gonna be me! I’m toasting you with this peach margarita! Love you!
How can you not just laugh and feel sorry for this person? And by the way, if this sort of thing ruins your mood or day, and you can’t just laugh at it, just get the hell off of social media. It’s the devil, and the only way insecure people can get attention.
So choose your life by choosing not to entertain pettiness. You’ll be amazed at how much better you feel, how much better your life is, when you choose what NOT to respond to. According to Seth Godin, ultra-marathon runners decide before a race under which precise circumstances they will quit. They don’t make a reactive decision when the pain sets in.
Decide what you care about and what you consider worth reacting to. Personally, there is no force powerful enough on the face of the Earth that can shake my peace. None. And at the end of day, guess who is in my house, and in my heart?
My boys. Oh, and myself gazing lovingly at my reflection in the mirror.
I’m 55. And yep, I do dare to disturb the universe.
I’m procrastinating. I have this pesky To-Do list that mocks me every morning from my kitchen counter. Nothing big, just stupid stuff.
Call the timeshare company to re-book.
Return dress.
Get bike serviced.
Set up Zoom account.
Call medical insurance.
Send thank-you notes.
Order new business cards.
Ad nauseum.
For some reason, I just don’t feel like digging my teeth into this list. And this is no small admission because I am NOT a procrastinator. When something needs doin’, especially something unpleasant, I do it.
I just feel…stuck.
Not just geographically. No, it’s like I’m treading water. With my dad on hospice and the world once again in a nonsensical pandemic free-fall, I’ve decided to not travel this fall, but rather stick close to home and get back into the college classroom. This past year was the first in 33 years that I did not have a student roster. So with a full teaching schedule and other passion projects I’m involved in, I have more than enough to keep me busy for the remainder of 2021.
So why do I feel stuck?
I have this uneasy feeling that it has something to do with my dad.
According to Ingrid Lee, stuck-ness is “essentially a feeling that life is on hold, that you’re not making the progress you’d like to in some part of your life. It often happens when we’re waiting for something in our lives to change, whether we’re ready to find a partner but are struggling to meet the right person, or we’ve hit a plateau in our career, or there’s a global pandemic and we’re waiting for case numbers to finally drop so we can get back to traveling, socializing, working and enjoying life.”
Feeling stuck means you are reluctant to invest energy into your physical or emotional space because you refuse to commit to your present situation, or home. If you refuse to commit to your present home, there’s no way you can commit to your present life.
When someone you love is on hospice, you are waiting for them to pass on, and nothing much else has any meaning. There’s no way to glamorize it, or sugar-coat it. It is a long, stressful, worry-laden process that can shake even the strongest family to their core. When I look back on the end of my father’s life, I want to be able to say that the end was good. Full. Prescient. So we work hard together as a family to ensure that.
But it’s not easy.
I’ve talked to many people who have had elderly parents on hospice, and I’ve read many articles about it. And other than grief and fatigue, the same emotion rears its head over and over in these conversations:
My mom hasn’t ate or drank anything in almost 9 days. Why won’t this end? It’s becoming hell for me. Me and my sister have been watching over her in 12hr shifts and every one gets harder and harder. I find now I’m past the point of sadness and am angry now. Angry she won’t pass on, angry my mom has to suffer like this, angry me and my sister are being put through this hell for SO LONG. Even the nurses here seem bothered by it. At this point I’m here more for my sister than my mom. I don’t think she will let mom die alone and I can’t leave her here to do it by herself. I just don’t feel like this is right anymore and it now just disturbing. I don’t think my mom would want us here watching her die like this. I just want to move on.
I’m not a therapist, and emotions like this can’t be addressed in a silly blog post. But the quote above sends home this message:
It’s hard to move on when someone you love doesn’t want to. Or maybe they want to, and don’t have the faintest idea how to. Or even understand why they haven’t.
But move on we must. Humans move on, it’s what we do. Forward motion is life. So I’m going to unstick myself, and stop feeling paralyzed by a silly to-do list. I’m going to be grateful for the time I have left with my dad, and grateful for a 34th teaching semester.
34 years. Wow.
And I’m going to heed my own advice:
Get your shit together. Don’t wait. Do it now. Be you now. Now is all you have.
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