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mizannethrope · 7 years

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Mother’s Day - it’s complicated

Today is Mother’s Day. I’m trying not to be sad.

I have been very open about discussing my mother’s fight with cancer and her death. I write about it a lot. I find catharsis in it so I continue. By writing about it and examining the feelings I have, I keep her alive with me a little bit longer. I keep up the exploration because I continue to learn so much from it. To counter the sense of loss I feel around the Hallmark holiday of Mother’s Day, I have sought to focus on all the other women in my life who have been like mothers to me. My mother loved me to an infinite degree but she also was acutely aware of her own limitations. I think she overestimated them but they were very real to her. My mother pushed me toward others that she felt would “improve” me. During my early life my mother sought out other women who could teach me the things she felt she could not. She was always striving on my behalf. In this pursuit my mother found or encouraged me to seek out surrogate mothers to learn from. She actively encouraged my friendships with these other women.

Let me tell you about some of these women and what lessons I learned from each.

When I was in early elementary school, Bonnie lived down the street from us in our townhouse complex. I’m guessing she was early 30s then. She had no children of her own, though I believed she wanted very much to be a mother. It wasn’t in the cards for her. Bonnie’s husband was a career Army officer and Bonnie was, at that time, a stay at home wife. My brother and I got to know her because we loved playing with her black lab, Machen, German for “girl.” Just as kids would go knock on a friend’s door and ask, “Wanna ride bikes?” I would knock on Bonnie’s door and ask, “Can Machen come out and play?”.

Bonnie had a challenging relationship with her own mother and father. Her mother favored her older brothers. Her father was remote and often cold. My mother, facing disappointment and problems in her marriage, confided in Bonnie and the two became close. Hours in Bonnie’s kitchen would reveal stories of her youth that stay with me today.

Bonnie had studied home economics in college. I’m sure this would be a questionable choice at best today, if such a choice were even an option. People often ask me about my love of food. I got it from Bonnie. My mom was not a very good cook. She never learned to cook in Korea. She improvised once she got to America but her repertoire was largely traditional American fare she learned from my great-aunts. Meatloaf. “Broiled” steak (more like boiled steak). Stew. Mashed potatoes. Frozen green beans and succotash. Because my mother worked, she stocked the house with Hostess cupcakes and Hungryman frozen dinners.

Bonnie was not a gourmet by today’s Food Network standards but she could work a cookbook. What I loved more than anything was watching Bonnie make and decorate cakes. She would make buttercream frosting and turn it into roses and flowers and leaves and grass and basketweave along the edges of a sheet cake. It was like watching something come to life out of a Wilton how-to pamphlet. Every cup of flour was carefully leveled. Every bowl of powdered sugar was meticulously sifted for lumps. Bonnie could also sew and crochet. At her side, I hooked endless potholders. One Halloween I recall we made sugar molds of black cats to put alongside a cake she baked for a friend. We tried over and over to get the sugar to turn pitch black (no gel food coloring back then). When I got the mix just right, we pressed the sugar into the molds and voila! Angry black sugar cats emerged, ready to stand along the orange frosted cake.

Bonnie was my main adult supervision and spirit guide for all my Girl Scout badges. We would pour over the Girl Scout Handbook and dog ear the pages with the badge requirements for the ones I hoped to earn that year. I hosted my first complete dinner party at her house (of course I got a badge for that one). I made whipped sweet potatoes with marshmallows and Swedish meatballs. I invited my parents over and served the whole thing. Bonnie gifted me cookbooks and let me watch her make sewing patterns and sew baby dresses for her nieces. She had a silver collection and a closet full of Kewpie dolls that she collected from childhood. Bonnie also had a weight problem and as a fat kid myself, we bonded over it.

Bonnie had lost 30 pounds at Weight Watchers but she had gained a good portion of it back when I met her. I was just a chubby kid. My mother fed me and fed me and then complained about how fat I got. I remember going to my first Weight Watchers meeting with Bonnie at the age of 12 at my mother’s urging. Having Bonnie to talk to about this was such a help. My mother had been too thin growing up and had never been fat. Her push-pull with me about food gave me whiplash. Bonnie could understand the torment I felt of loving food but hating it at the same time. It was good to have someone to confide in who got it.

Bonnie also had some coping mechanisms that were unusual. When in pain, Bonnie would laugh hysterically. One day she burned her hand in the kitchen. Rather than yelp or cry out, she began to... laugh. I looked at her like she was deranged. Once we wrapped her hand, she confided that her older brothers had often picked fights with her when they were children. When they would hit her, she learned to hide her tears so as not to give them the satisfaction of seeing her hurt. Instead, she began to laugh. Her reflexive pain reaction was laughter. Never let them know you are hurt is something animals know as a survival skill. I had never met a person who had adopted this strategy in such a way. It made an deep impression on me.

Then Bonnie moved away.

Pat was our immediate next-door neighbor. She moved in when I was in 4th grade. She seemed to me to be a successful career woman. She was recently divorced with custody of her 3 kids who were all around my age. Pat subscribed to Cosmopolitan magazine and drank White Russians and pink wine. She was a potty mouth but very pretty. You could tell that she had been sought after in her younger years. Even in her mid-30s, life had not yet worn her down. In my 11 year old brain, Pat was very sophisticated. It was obvious she had had many boyfriends after her divorce. I had never met anyone like her before.

In our neighborhood everyone’s door was always unlocked. We all came and went without knocking, especially in the summer when everyone was home from school. No one went to summer camps back then. Some kids visited their grandparents. Most of our neighbors had family in Tennessee and when summer came, off they went to the Smoky Mountains. My best friend’s family was Cuban so her summers were spent in Miami with her abuelo and abuela. I was bereft without her company. The summers were long. One year Pat’s kids went to spend the summer with their father. I spent almost all summer at Pat’s house while they were gone.

Pat had a stash of Cosmo magazines from the late ‘70s. Every issue was about sex, make-up, and dieting. It was the summer between 5th and 6th grade and I would go over to Pat’s house and spend hours going through issue after issue. I learned about the Grapefruit diet. I read articles about the mythical G-spot. Does it exist? Is it real? How would you know? The Atkins Diet was a thing. Lose 10 pounds in 2 weeks! Then the Beverly Hills Diet was a thing. Eat this, don’t eat that. Eat ONLY this. For 2 weeks. Then eat that. How much should you tweeze your eyebrows? Here is how to get the ultimate St. Tropez tan. I read every word and memorized every image. This was what being a liberated woman was all about. Right there in those pages.

Pat had, in a prior life, gotten her cosmetology degree and license. I would sit in her kitchen and she would cut my hair and put it on rollers. She also sold Mary Kay Cosmetics and had drawers and drawers of samples. Make up nirvana! All in pretty pink bottles. I would try on the different colors but because we had read Color Me Beautiful together, I knew that I was an “autumn” and should stick to the warmer shades. Pat also always had perfectly done nails. Long, polished talons, she would rap them on the counters and on the dashboard while she was driving. Click, click, click, click. When one broke, she would slap on an acrylic tip and lickety-split, they would be perfect again. Perfect looking but not real.

For all that she was worldly and intriguing to my 11 year old mind, she was also clearly struggling to stay afloat. Her job situation was often erratic. She moved from one thing to the next, finally falling back on her cosmetology degree and working in a beauty salon. Her kids seemed to be in perpetual trouble and were not doing so well in school. Her oldest son went to go live with his father. She found herself pregnant by her married boyfriend, had the baby and then found herself pregnant again. Her liberated woman veneer didn’t hold up so well once you scratched the surface. Sometimes the most important lesson you learn is what not to do. Pat was like that older sister you are intrigued by but who winds up being a cautionary tale. I caught onto that pretty quick.

Then my family moved to a new neighborhood.

I met Jenna in high school. She was my boyfriend Garrick’s mom. I think I was probably a sophomore when we first met. In senior year, Garrick and I dated. He was my prom date and we were together until the end of our first semester of college. While in high school, and even after we started college, all of our friends hung out together and we often landed at one house or another near our high school campus. Garrick’s house was one of those houses where we often found ourselves. We were a small posse of nerdy kids who got together on Saturday night to play charades and board games and did student government and band in school. (I was not in band, for the record but I was a big into Model UN and student government.) If we weren’t at Garrick’s house we were at Torunn’s house. Torunn remains to this day, the only truly natural blonde I’ve ever known. Garrick and Torunn lived in the same neighborhood and both had split level houses. The lower level of each home became our regular gaming and movie haunts.

Jenna and her husband were from Oklahoma. They were 25 years out of the University of Oklahoma but she still had a clearly distinct southern twang. Her husband Jim had a deep voice with no discernible trace of southern inflection to my ear. He was a perpetually calm presence. As even-keel and reserved as Jim was, Jenna was vivacious, warm, and very, very chatty. You can pluck a girl out of the south but you can’t pluck the southern out of the girl. I immediately took to her. We were fast friends, me at 17 and her at 46. Which is, funny enough, how old I find myself as I write this.

Garrick had an older brother so Jenna was mom of 2 sons and no daughters. I have even more in common with Jenna now than I did then. As the mom of 3 boys, I understand how impenetrable their lives can seem. More than just a friend to her, looking back, I’m convinced I was her conduit to her younger son and his social circle. Like Jenna, I live for conversation. Through our long talks I think she got to know her son just a bit better. Because I was a girl and I would spill. Boys share so little. I got to be a surrogate daughter and in exchange, I got another surrogate mother out of the deal.

Jenna would invite me to join their family dinners often. She had little choice. I would overstay my welcome at every chance because I so enjoyed the company of this family. At their dinner table I found a more adventurous menu than I had ever seen in my own home. Jenna made an arugula salad with strawberries. What is this insanity? Arugula? What is that? Fruit? In a regular salad? Salad in my house was iceberg lettuce and Wishbone Italian dressing. Jenna was a meticulous chef. Also a Weight Watchers veteran, she weighed and measured every meal like it was a science experiment. Everything was portioned and plated meticulously. It seemed so… fancy. I learned a lot from watching her prepare each meal. Salad, entree, dessert. Each carefully and lovingly prepared with more thought than any meal I’d ever seen in any person’s home. More than the food, there was the spirited verbal sparring that took place like nothing I’d ever seen. Words were not blunt force instruments lobbed across the table intended to inflict fatal injury like they were at my house. Here they were carefully sharpened little barbs meant only to agitate the opposing party enough to up the state of verbal play.

Garrick’s dad was an economist for the International Monetary Fund. Their dinner conversation covered world affairs and national politics. I soaked it up and tried my best to keep up with the conversation. Once in awhile, I managed to hold my ground and even best my companions. I recall one dinner where Garrick, in an effort to show his clear superiority in all things world affairs, threw down and challenged me to identify what the acronym SWAPO stood for. Having just dealt with a Model UN resolution regarding recognition of the South West African People’s Organization as the official government in exile of Namibia, I felt pretty confident on that one. I did not, however, correctly identify the role of the Shining Path in Peru in the follow-on questioning. This was the kind of thing we talked about. It wasn’t the kind of thing we did in my home. I didn’t go back to dinner there without reading the day’s Washington Post headlines.

This was also a family that had lived abroad and had traveled extensively. I was perhaps the only 17 year old girl in all of Northern Virginia, perhaps the entire eastern United States, who enjoyed watching multi hours-long travelogue slideshows with live commentary. But I *really* did. Garrick’s family had trekked all over the world, whereas I had never left the DC metro region. Sitting in his basement, I traveled the world with this family through their carefully curated slideshows. It made me curious. I loved their stories and I loved being part of their family rituals. I felt included and I felt like I became a little bit smarter just by being around them all.

There was an episode of Sex and the City where Carrie reluctantly breaks up with her boyfriend. Reluctant only because she really, really liked his mom. I can relate. I think I spent almost as much time on the phone with Jenna as I did with Garrick. When Garrick and I finally broke up, I might have been sadder to lose my girlfriend than to lose my boyfriend.

Of course we kept in touch but over the years that too, has waned. I hope that I can be a friend to my sons’ girlfriends and, someday, wives in the way that Jenna was to me. I recall that she was the first person who ever told me that I was a good writer and who encouraged me.

No one is shaped by only one person. These women I write about were not the only ones who influenced me or taught me things. It’s a complex calculus, making a whole person. I think my mom understood this. Only much later in my life did I come to realize how difficult it was for my mother to see me connect with these other women. How much it made her feel inadequate and how jealous she was of the time I spent with them. She never said this to me. One day I just understood it to be true. In knowing this and upon looking back, I value her and those relationships even more.

Happy Mother’s Day to all the women who shape our lives.

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mizannethrope · 8 years

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Madeleine L’Engle, mitochondria, and other childhood recollections

My father turned 70 this week. His birthday is August 18th. He shares his birthday with Bill Clinton. That, and a common gender identity, are the only attributes he shares with Bill Clinton.

While I took note of the occasion, I didn’t reach out to wish my father a happy birthday. These days, since mom died, we don’t talk very much. To be fair, we didn’t really talk all that much before she died but afterwards, everything came to a halt. Might have had to do with the time my dad told me that my mother’s cancer was my fault because I didn’t get her to the doctor in time to catch it before it metastasized. He said that. To me. Out loud. My father is not a very likable guy. He’s not a bad person, exactly. But his actions over the years have been horribly hurtful to the people around him. I try not to chalk up his behavior to malice. I prefer to think of him as being wired differently than most people.

For many years I suspected that my father is somewhere on the autism spectrum. I did some of those online quizzes that said, yeah, he totally is. Legit, right? I agree, not so much. Rather than rely on online sources, I am instead going with my therapist’s assessment. She’s heard me share many stories over many years now. She seems to think my father is pretty classically Asperger's. If he is, it would explain a lot of things.

Many people I know are parenting kids on the spectrum. I don’t know anyone who is the child of someone on the spectrum. As a parent, I know that what a child needs above all else is to feel loved. And that’s the thing my father was never able to do. Is it because of the Aspy thing? I really don’t know. But it presents one possibility.

I have a very good memory for details. I am pretty good at trivia games because I absorb arcane details about random and varied things. I get it, ironically, from my father. So does my brother. We would religiously watch Jeopardy every night when my father was home and wasn’t working. Dad and I would race to answer (always in the form of a question!) each question before the contestants. I was good at it and the ability to recall facts and details has always been a strength of mine. My friends find it amusing at reunions and gatherings that I can recall the most bizarre and minute details. It’s my go-to party trick (that and the 3-finger swipe to change Slack teams on iOS - check it out). At my 20th college reunion I saw my major advisor for the first time in ages. In conversation, I casually rattled off his long-deceased dog’s name and breed, his wife’s name (including her maiden name that she uses), his son’s name - including both of his middle names, he has two, and the other names they considered but didn’t choose, his wife’s occupation, the dish that his wife served when he had a bunch of students over at his house (chicken with mushrooms from the Silver Palate cookbook), reminded him of all the Northern Exposure references he made in class (it was on the air when I was in school), and the make and model of the car he drove when I was a student (Saab 900 - which isn’t really unique since I think every professor at every New England school drove that or a Volvo). He stared at me like I was a stalker. I file details away in my brain about the people and things I care about, find important or that otherwise matter to me. When I pull them back up again, it’s my way of saying, “I see you, you matter to me, let me show you how much.” In turn, when people I care about seem to take no note of me or fail to file away these memories or details, I find myself thinking that they must not really care. Because if they did, wouldn’t they make some effort to remember? Especially if they know how much it matters to me that they do? Anyone who has read The Five Love Languages knows that different people show love differently. We cross wires because how we want to receive love isn’t how someone else is showing it. If everyone knows how the other wishes to receive love, they can try to tune accordingly but it also helps if you are receptive to how someone else is demonstrating their love in turn.

Knowing this doesn’t make the feelings any different, I’m afraid. I am pretty logic-driven in most things but it’s hard to apply a rational thought process to emotional responses. Okay, not hard. Impossible really. For me, at least.

For a person obsessed by memory and detail, imagine what it’s like when you have people in your life that take little to no note of things. It’s agonizing. My father, I discovered, recalls next to nothing of my childhood. He can do literally any crossword puzzle and go toe to toe with the lineup on Jeopardy’s Tournament of Champions, but he can’t remember anything of note about my life. Dad can remember where we lived, when we lived there. But if the detail is about an actual human interaction, he comes up empty. I realized this once when talking to him about when I was learning to read.

I was in kindergarten. My father was reading a book to me about the sun and moon. He would drag his finger under each word as he was reading it so I could follow along. My teacher recommended this approach. He stopped to talk about how the earth, sun and moon were related. I was having trouble with the concept of the moon going around the earth while the earth goes around the sun. He put the book down, went into the kitchen and he got out an apple and an orange. An apple to represent the earth. An orange to represent the moon. He took out his ballpoint pen from his shirt pocket (he was one of those people who always had to wear a shirt with a chest pocket in which to carry his pens - no, he did not use a pocket protector). I remember being startled that he would draw on fruit that we were going to eat. But he simply put a dot on each piece of fruit and then proceeded to show me how one orbits the other and how each spun on its respective axis as they were orbitting. This all happened when I was about 5 years old.

Years later, I mentioned this memory to my dad as one of my earliest, clearest and fondest memories of him. I was seeking to connect with him over a shared memory. He shrugged. He didn’t remember it at all, but it proved, he said, “That I wasn’t such a bad dad, if I did those things.” He was very proud of himself in that moment. I sat there, deflated. Those things. The things he couldn’t remember doing. The memory that I filed away so carefully that he had not the foggiest recollection of. Yeah, those things. There are other examples of his not remembering. My brother has his own personal inventory with the accompanying emotional scars.

Fast forward to this past week. The week my father turned 70 with Bill Clinton.

At the dinner table, my son Ben mentioned that the book A Wrinkle In Time has become very popular since Chelsea Clinton (sensing a Clinton theme here - truly, a coincidence, but since we are on that topic, let me interject that you should all be voting for Hillary) mentioned it when introducing her mother at the Democratic National Convention. Ben asked what it was about. He is a big science fiction fan and like me, a big time reader. I perked up.

I had read A Wrinkle in Time and A Wind in the Door, when I was in fourth grade. I didn’t read all of Madeleine L’Engle’s books but I did read those two. I told Ben that, in the first book, a girl and her siblings have scientist parents and her dad is trapped in the 5th dimension and the children had to save their father and return him home. While the first book is about space-time and multi-dimensionality, the second book goes inward into the cellular structure of the protagonist’s brother who is sick. That’s as far as I got in describing the books. I did a quick plot summary search and began to read aloud from the Wikipedia page for A Wind in the Door.

Main character Meg Murry is worried about her brother Charles Wallace, a 6-year-old genius bullied at school by the other children. The new principal of the elementary school is the former high school principal, Mr. Jenkins, who often disciplined Meg, and who Meg is sure has a grudge against her whole family. Meg tries to enlist Jenkins's help in protecting her brother, but is unsuccessful. Later, Meg discovers that Charles Wallace has a progressive disease which is leaving him short of breath. Their mother, a microbiologist, suspects it may be located upon his mitochondria and their symbiotic farandolae.

I got to the word “mitochondria” and I stumbled as I read it aloud at the table. Then I started to cry. I am pretty certain that in the history of psychotherapy, I am the only person for whom “mitochondria” is a trigger word.

When I was a child reading A Wind in the Door, I could never pronounce that word. Mitochondria. Ugh. The worst. Nothing about it sounded aloud like it looked on the page. As a child, I was a voracious reader. There were many, many words that I had never heard spoken aloud but had read frequently in print. For most words, I would just decide on a pronunciation that I would make up. Usually phonetic. It didn’t matter until I had to say the word out loud. That rarely happened. This was my way of managing the hard, big words. When I couldn’t read something, I would get so angry. I would literally bang my head on the wall in frustration because it made me feel stupid and I needed a way to physically express it. But… Mitochondria. It was a head-banging word for me. I would get to it on the page and my brain would freeze because I had no mental model for pronouncing it. Something about the word would stop me in my tracks. Time after time, I would take my book, open to the page with the word, downstairs to my father, I would point at it and say, “Daddy, please say the word again. THAT word. I can’t remember.” And he would say it. I would repeat it aloud. And then, a few hours later, I would do it again. “Daddy, say the word. I can’t remember how to say the word.” And he would say it. As I read the synopsis for A Wind in the Door aloud to my son, I got to “mitochondria” and once I had said it, all the memories came flooding back. Just as quickly as that happened I realized, if I relayed this story to my father, he would certainly remember none of it.

And that, folks, was why “mitochondria” made me cry at the dinner table. Despite having given myself permission years ago to not speak or engage with my father, the little girl in that memory as an adult, desperately wants to be loved and seen by her father. The memories I have of those interactions with my dad are clear and well-preserved in part because they are few and far between. Which is what makes it that much more hurtful that they are absent for him. That this came up the week of my father’s birthday is not a coincidence. He’s in my head because it was his birthday.

I am not a person to forget such things.

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mizannethrope · 9 years

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Ouch. That hurts.

Tonight I was helping my 8 year-old with his homework. The assignment? “Student Superhero Registration Form.” The boy wanted to be known as “Super Weirdo.” Super power: teleportation. But the assignment was not going well. I asked the boy, “Why teleportation?” He replied, “I dunno, it seems cool.” Okay. The assignment was framed around his superhero story based, in large part, on the superpower selected. So I asked him, “When would teleportation be a good super-power?” I tried to brainstorm, “Let’s think of some times you wished you could have teleported to help someone! Maybe you get a phone call that someone is in trouble! How cool to teleport and save them!” The boy got quiet. And then tears began to pour down his face. “Why does this have to be about Harmony?” he cried. In Korean, the word for grandmother is pronounced, “hal-mon-ee.” In English, it’s easier to harden the L-sounds into R-sounds and make it out to be “Harmony.” Which is what we did. The boy had not spoken of my mother in many, many months. I was not prepared to deal with this. I sat back. My mother died more than 2 and a half years before of stomach cancer. When she passed away, my son was in Kindergarten. The day she died, he was oddly calm. But today, he was not.

“Sweetie, are you sad about Harmony?” “Yes.” “Why?” “I don’t know!” Everyone wants to be a superhero. Everyone wants to save the people they love. I loved my mother more than anything. I could not save her from her cancer. My son, more her son than mine perhaps, loved her too. And now, more than two and a half years after her passing, I can see that he wishes that he could have saved her. Because in the movies all superheroes can do magical things. In real life, we just make do.

#cancer sucks #superheroes

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mizannethrope · 9 years

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Do you feel lucky?

There are a few ways to examine what it means to be be lucky. Some folks I know have been thinking about this with me lately. First, let’s examine at the definition of “luck,” shall we?

The simple definition seems to suggest that being lucky means stumbling into something good (or in the case of being unlucky, something bad) without one’s actions having any direct bearing on the outcome. It’s not about you. It’s about the universe. In the case of good luck, there is another view. Consider this:

In this rendering, luck refers to the chance opportunity arising and not the outcome. The outcome is determined by the individual having done the necessary prep work to seize the opportunity when it arises. Being lucky here just means being at the right place at the right time. The individual is in charge of being the right person, who just happens to be at the right place at the right time. So which is the best way to think about this? The fact that I was born a girl of an American parent in South Korea in the late 20th century and not a girl of, say, poor Sudanese parents in Sudan or born an orphan in 19th century London, is “good” luck that I had nothing to do with. There was no preparation needed on my part to be born one place or time versus another. That I have a normal set of chromosomes and no freakish physical defects (unless you count the fact that I can actually see my pulse) is also luck that I have been made abundantly aware that I had nothing to do with. I have all my limbs. I have all 5 senses intact (as far as I can tell). I have an above average native intelligence (so I’ve been told). I have good hair and teeth. (No braces!) So all these things are good. And make me lucky. But wait. There are more than a few times when things could have gone terribly wrong. And many of those times, I did have an active role in making luck happen. I happened to be a rising freshman when the Thomas Jefferson High School for Science and Technology was recruiting new students for its first class. That was lucky but I wouldn’t have gotten in if I hadn’t busted my ass in school my whole life. I was lucky to meet a guy a in college that I fell in love with and followed to California. I like to think that something I did, rather than luck, was responsible for him loving me back. But who knows? I was lucky to get a job at Yahoo! in 1998 when the Internet was exploding. But I worked hard to get to a place where I could do the kind of work I was hired there to do. I was lucky that I DMed my future boss at just the right time and that he offered me a job before the place starting blowing up (in a good way). But he wouldn’t have offered me a job if I hadn’t made a name for myself at Yahoo! after 13 years of slogging through that place and having met him in the process. Of course I wouldn’t have met my current boss if I hadn’t been at Yahoo!. I wouldn’t have been at Yahoo! if I hadn’t followed that guy to California. And I wouldn’t have met that guy if I hadn’t gone to college in Boston. I very likely would not have gotten into that college in Boston if I hadn’t gone to that tech high school. I wouldn’t have gone to that tech high school if I hadn’t been living in Fairfax County. I was living in Fairfax County because my father worked for the Department of the Army. My father worked for the Department of the Army because he had enlisted in the Army after college to avoid the draft. Because he was unlucky to have bad sight, he got lucky to be sent to Korea and not Vietnam. In Korea, he met my mother and was lucky that she married him. Which was actually really unlucky for her because my dad was kind of a shit. But at least he was an American shit so I had the chance to grow up here. Which was pretty lucky. These were the circumstances that were in place that made it possible for me to exist. And I had nothing to do with most of that. Yet I am here. No matter how you look at it, I am pretty darn lucky. I am also very grateful and I worked very hard. So, I made some of it happen. But no one makes it all happen on their own. If it had happened totally differently, maybe it all would have been just as lucky and things would be just as good. I imagine I must have literally dodged a bullet or two over my lifetime that I’ll never know about. For all those dodged bullets alone, I’ll count myself especially lucky. Because under no circumstances is getting hit by a bullet lucky. Unless the alternative is being hit by a missile. So I guess it is all a matter of perspective at the end of the day. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

#luck

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mizannethrope · 10 years

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Funny or Die

You can’t look at the news or social media today without seeing a Robin Williams retrospective. A lot of people are shocked that someone so funny could be so sad or suffer from such debilitating depression. I would suggest that *only* people who are broken in some way, can be as funny as he was. For that matter, I believe that only people who are basically broken can be great at anything. People who are “normal” don’t seem to have the chip on their shoulders that drive them in the same was as the people who know how fundamentally flawed they are or who feel the need to prove themselves better than their circumstances should have allowed.

Being broken is a powerful motivator.

Where humor is concerned, I have found it to be a coping mechanism of the best kind. Many comics and writers are acerbic, cynical, and witheringly cutting in their craft. Many were bullied as children for being fat, or for being unattractive by the standards of the day, or for being gay, or just for being unusual. How many conventionally good looking comedians are there? Very, very few. I honestly can’t think of one.

When I think of funny people and women in particular, I think of people who are not particularly conventional or attractive in the Hollywood, Barbie-doll sense. Melissa McCarthy comes to mind, Roseanne Barr, Gilda Radner, Jane Curtain, Joan Rivers, Margaret Cho, Phyllis Diller. The list is really endless.

These women look at you and challenge you with their humor. As if to say, “Hey, I get it. I’m not the prettiest girl in the room. But fuck you. I will be the smartest and the funniest and you will ignore me at your own peril. Don’t you dare look away from me.”

I’m occasionally funny. Mostly on purpose. Sometimes not. My therapist tells me to stop downplaying my strengths. I have a hard time taking myself seriously. Besides, who really wants to be with someone who thinks so much of themselves? My narcissistic side is on display plenty these days. Check my Instagram feed or Facebook. It’s there. I am plenty self-absorbed. That said, self-deprecation is the meat and potatoes of humor and it’s the armor that makes insecure people feel less exposed. Myself among them.

Make fun of yourself before someone else does. Downplay the things you are good at, before anyone else does. If you do it first, it hurts less. If you tell it, it’s your story and you can be the goofy hero. You aren’t a victim if you can make it funny.

“My mother wanted us to understand that the tragedies of your life one day have to potential to be the comic stories the next.”

― Nora Ephron

When bad things happen, I look for a way to make them lighter in the re-telling. The glass-half-full is that I can share a moment in my life that might have sucked, but in the sharing, make it suck less. Or appear to suck less. You have reached a special place in the comedic pantheon when you can make cancer seem even remotely funny. Once and a while, I reach that place. It's a good place.

Nora Ephron was among my favorite writers. She made her divorce funny. She made Sally Burns’s neuroses comic. I saw myself in her characters and assumed that meant that I was seeing myself in Nora herself. She was humorous but real about what it means to grow old as a woman. Her humor was authentic and rooted in her life experiences. She’s always been my inspiration. She’s gone now. And now Robin Williams is gone. The greats will always come and go.

For now, I am just happy that we still have Tina Fey. While she seems normal by all appearances, I’m guessing she really couldn’t be all that normal or I wouldn’t like her so much. I don’t know which way she’s broken but I’d be willing to bet she’s been on Lexapro once or twice in her life. 10 mg. Once a day, sometimes twice a day when shit gets real.

Been there. Done that.

#depression #funny #broken

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mizannethrope · 10 years

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#yogamat #rest (at Esalen Institute)

#yogamat #rest

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mizannethrope · 10 years

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Real/not

Have you ever felt like you know someone, only to realize you don’t? Or reconnected with someone that, by all accounts, you don’t really know well, only to feel like a day hasn’t gone by since the last time you spoke? I’ve noticed it a lot this week. Strangers can show you the greatest kindness. Lifelong friends and family can see past you with a single glance. Things aren’t always what they seem and people can surprise you in both good and bad ways.

I’m dumbstruck by how you can know someone for years and completely lose track of who they are. It might be a matter of thinking you know them, based on who they were when you met. Only to discover that they changed and you didn’t notice or keep up all this time. Or they reveal themselves to you in moments that make you realize, wow, they don’t really know me at all. Nor I, they.

I think the Internet in particular creates a lot of odd relationships. There are people that you get to know from afar and feel close to. People that you “talk” to daily or even hourly. The online banter creates a sense of intimacy and closeness. When experienced in real life, sometimes it’s surprising how well it holds up. And when it doesn’t, sometimes it’s truly disappointing how much it doesn’t.

It’s hard to know what is authentic. Technology is getting good at blurring the lines. People, as usual, realize this too late. What’s real anymore?

Yesterday at dinner I heard a fellow talk about his workshop with a leader who “channels” things and people. The people at the table attending his workshop were mesmerized by his gift. I fought not to roll my eyes and shake my head, cynic that I am. But I won’t judge. Whatever they are feeling may well be real. I’ve felt more over a lot less as I think about it. If they believe and they want to believe, who am I to ridicule that? We all live in a bubble comprised of things we choose to believe. Sometimes choosing to believe makes them so. Not always, but sometimes. I think it might be a wonder, in and of itself, to be able to live in that world. It’s a world that children live in. Seeing the world through child-like eyes, if you can sustain it, would be a glorious thing I think.

Picasso said that artists are people who can see the world as a child sees it. Perhaps that’s why I’ll never be an artist. Even as a child I saw the world through adult eyes. I’m too far gone to the dark side of cynicism to be able to claim the gift that was never mine. I’ll simply admire those that possess it.

This morning I drank my coffee while watching 5 whales frolic together close to the shore. Blowing, flapping, tail-smacking, rolling. So close, you felt you could swim for a scant minute and be with them. Yesterday, I stood 6” away from a Monarch butterfly. I wanted to reach out and see if it would perch on my finger. It flapped its wings as if trying to maintain its balance on the flower it was clinging to, the breeze trying to blow it away. When I arrived the first evening, I could hear the sea otters playing just off of my room. My first night here, I found myself awakened by a moon so bright in my room, I thought a fire had been lit on my bed.

Those things are definitely real. Everything else… I’m not so sure.

#real

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mizannethrope · 10 years

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I am woman, hear me roar. #art (at Esalen Institute)

#art

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mizannethrope · 10 years

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Giant #sunflower (at Esalen Institute)

#sunflower

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mizannethrope · 10 years

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#succulentgarden (at Esalen Institute)

#succulentgarden

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mizannethrope · 10 years

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#nofilter Night sky (at Esalen Institute)

#nofilter

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mizannethrope · 10 years

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Final resting place

#goodbye #mom #esalen #bigsur

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mizannethrope · 10 years

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Butterflies and bees

#butterflies #bees #esalen

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mizannethrope · 10 years

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Goodbye

When I started my weeklong roadtrip I decided, at the last minute, to bring my mother with me. My mother died 18 months ago. So, no, this isn’t Weekend at Bernie’s. I brought half of her ashes with me. The other half remain at home until I can take them with me to Korea. For a week, my mother has sat behind me in my car as we traversed California through the Central Valley and up the coast. The entire time, I’ve wondered what exactly I should do with her.

When my mother passed away, her request was that she be cremated. She didn’t leave specific instructions for what to do with her remains. Her feeling was, once you are dead you are dead. What do you care?

Of course she cared. I tend to think she would have enjoyed a large memorial service where everyone she ever met could cry and chest-beat about how unjust her life was. But while that might have been her secret wish, I don’t think I could have managed it. So once she was dead, I didn’t undertake such an event. Because I was the one who was left alive, ergo, I got to decide. That, my friend, is the power of living.

Instead, my mother was quietly cremated. The date on the box she was returned to me in says — “Sun Kum Antonowicz, Date: 2/20/2013.” She was cremated 6 days after her death. I began to get calls from the mortuary that my mother’s “cremains,” a nifty little contraction of “cremated” and “remains,” were available for me to pick up just a few days after her cremation occurred. I got several calls. The mortuary is walking distance from my home. Yet, I could not bring myself to stop in to collect her last earthly remnants. I suspect the mortuary is not entirely unfamiliar with this avoidance pattern.

At least 6 weeks had passed and I began to feel sheepish about leaving mom on a shelf in a box with strangers. What would she think? She would not be happy with me. So, on a lark, I dropped in one day. Don’t know why it was that day. It just felt like the right day. Within 10 minutes, I was driving home with mom in the passenger’s seat. It struck me as odd, how easy it was to just pick up a dead person’s ashes.

"Um yeah, so I’m here to pick up some ashes. Who? Oh, uh, Antonowicz is the name. Okay. Do you need me to sign anything? No? Oh. Okay. Thanks. Bye. See ya."

I had indicated, when filling out the original paperwork, that I would be taking half of my mother’s remains to Korea and leaving half here. As such, they boxed her in two containers. Nothing fancy. Two brown plastic boxes, both enclosed in a brownish velvet pouch. I was surprised how small and light the containers were. I took them home and placed them on a shelf in my bedroom. There they have remained since. Since last Friday to be precise.

On Friday morning of last week, I opened the dusty brown velvet pouch and placed one box in a small bag. That bag went with me.

Originally I thought I would deposit a scoop of mom here and there, up and down the coast. But as I journeyed along the coast, that really didn’t seem right. The beaches of Santa Monica and Santa Barbara are so different than the beaches we have in Northern California. The beaches down south are almost hospitable. They are warm. The sand is soft underfoot. They are swimmable. They are approachable. They seem inviting. The beaches farther north are forboding. They are shark-infested. They are cold. They are rocky. They seem to say, “Fuck you if you try to hang out here, I will fucking kill you. I have killed better men than you. Who do you fucking think you are?” My mother was not soft and inviting. It seemed more appropriate to leave her in waters that reflected the nature of her being. And of mine. So I left her in her box. Until today. Today I let her out.

I arrived at Esalen on Friday. When I booked for the weekend, I had a few different lodging options. I elected the most expensive option - a solo cabin on the water. Price-wise, it’s actually a decent deal. All meals plus a killer view and the sound of waves crashing all night. You can’t be closer to water without actually being in the water or on a boat. I can’t imagine anything along the coast with these views would cost less.

My studio is on a ravine that separates the north and south side of the property. I walked toward Murphy house, on the other side of the ravine, when I first arrived. I found a set of precarious stairs that wound their way down to the ocean. On the gate was a sign forbidding access. The gate had a rusted chain blocking the way. But it was easy to hop over. I took note and looked down. Down below me walked a man along the water. He wore no clothes. His partner stood next to me at the top of the bluff. She lamented his choice to swim in the dangerous waters. But still he did it. And within me, a seed was planted.

I spent last night recording my thoughts on my mother’s last day. I wrote them on the deck behind my little studio, the sound of the waves crashing behind me. Only when the sun had set did I find my way back indoors.

During the night, I awoke to hear the waves and to see the full moon illuminate my room as if I had flipped on every light. This place really is magical.

In the morning, I rose to have my breakfast and to visit the baths before my massage. These are things that are must-dos. I’ve had plenty of massages in my life but none that match the one I had this morning. I spent the day thinking, when should I take mom to the ocean?

I had my bath. Had my massage. Walked the grounds and took some photos. Ate lunch. And just after lunch, the skies parted and the sun came out. I had been thinking, perhaps I will release mom’s remains at dawn on Sunday. Or maybe, at sunset on Saturday? But as the skies parted, I just had a feeling that I should do it now. Don’t overthink it. In my life, I overthink everything. Now is not the time for that. Go with the feeling. I was born near noon. My mother told me that it was a powerful sign that I was born when the sun was high in the sky and its most potent. I felt that the sun’s emergence was a sign. I was ready.

So I returned to my room. I found the brown box. The top was taped down. I looked in my toiletries for scissors and finding none, I resorted to cuticle clippers. With the clippers, I sliced through the tape that held the top of the brown plastic box in place. Once it was released, I held my breath and slowly eased the top off. I wasn’t sure what I would find.

I removed the lid and under it found a large wad of scrunched-up brown butcher paper. Apparently a box of this size was meant to hold a whole person, not half a person. I removed the paper and under it, found a clear pastic bag. In the bag, was half of what remained in this world of my mother.

I had eaten lunch. I knew mom wouldn’t want me to say goodbye on an empty stomach. She always wanted me fed. Skinny, but fed. I took the clear plastic bag of her ashes, placed them in a carrying bag. In that bag I put the only sharp object I had available to me - the cuticle clippers, so that I could cut the bag open. I placed inside 2 stalks of tuberose and a handful of sweet peas that I cut here from the farm onsite. Then I headed for Murphy house and the steps down to the ocean.

As I walked toward the house, I found a bird feather. It reminded me of Amy Tan’s opening chapter to the Joy Luck Club. I smiled and placed the feather in my bag.

When I reached the house, I saw several people at the top of the lookout. I stared down and surveyed the beach. The tide wasn’t too high. It seemed safe. After looking over the angles, I told the two men that I was headed down. One smiled back at me and said, “I’ll never tell.” I replied that I’d be safe but I was never one to follow rules. I smiled and jumped over the rusted fence that blocked me from the stairs down. It occurred to me then that perhaps I should not have chosen to wear a skirt on the one day I was fence-jumping. But this is, afterall, Esalen. What could I do that could possibly shock anyone? I was on my way.

I walked gingerly down the rotting wood stairs and down the slippery stone steps to the water. It was a steep climb down. I’ve done worse. Although maybe not in a form-fitting skirt and flip-flops, but there is a first for everything.

I looked at the water and closer in, it appeared more trecherous than from above. I was certain that mom would not want me to die in trying to scatter her ashes. I walked along the rocks and found the stream that came rushing down from the waterfall at the top of the ravine. This water was running off from the cliff above and into the great Pacific Ocean. I sat on a log and watched the water rush by me. This, I thought. This is where I will let her go.

I opened my bag and found the small plastic bag that held mom’s remains. It was tightly taped. With my small cuticle clippers, I worked the edges until the bag was opened. I sat it down. I wasn’t sure what to make of the ashes at first. They aren’t gray. They are nearly white. They aren’t silty. They have the texture of coarse sand with small bits of shell. But they aren’t shells. The bits you feel are bone fragments. The sun was high above me and I was warm. The flowers in my bag filled the air with a syrupy sweetness. I was carrying tuberose and sweet peas. White flowers have a heady, sweet smell. Almost too sweet. You can group them - tuberose, lily of the valley, orange blossom, gardenia, sweet pea.

When I was a little girl, my mother worked at night. She would get ready for work at my bedtime, around 10 pm. The last thing she would do is spritz herself with White Shoulders. It wasn’t a fancy perfume. Definitely a drugstore brand. But it had the cloying, sweet smell of white flowers. White flowers. White shoulders. I always think of my mother when I smell it. The smell of the flowers I carried with me reminded me of her.

I sat on a rock by the stream rushing past, hearing the ocean just beyond. I looked up above me. No one on the lookout up above. Given how warm it was, I decided to undress. Not that it mattered if someone were there. This is, after all, Esalen. I said my first hellos to my mother while naked. Why not say goodbye naked? So I removed my skirt. I removed my top. I wasn’t wearing anything else, so it was easy. I sat back on my rock and soaked in the sun.

I took the bag and slowly poured the contents into the stream. The water turned cloudy white. I stopped and reached for the flowers. I started picking the blossoms off and began throwing them into the water. The water began to clear. I held my hand out and poured some of my mother’s remains into the water across my hand. It was, I determined, the last time I would touch or hold her in any way, really. As the bag emptied, I threw in more flowers. I threw in the bird feather. I found a stick to agitate the water and move more of her remains toward the ocean.

I want to tell you that I cried. But I didn’t. I have said so many goodbyes already. My mom sat on my shelf for 18 months and I really wasn’t sure I was ready to let her go. Today I knew that I was. I don’t know why I knew. I don’t know how I knew I was ready. But something told me that I was. After the last of her remains had been poured from the bag, I looked at my cell phone. The time was 2:00 pm. My mother died at 2:00 pm.

I dressed myself and started back up the steps. I feel okay. I feel lighter. I feel like she’s still with me. What I know is that what we leave behind isn’t the part of us that matters. Everything I ever needed from her, I have deep within me. I know this now.

#goodbye #esalen #mom

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mizannethrope · 10 years

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Good naked, bad naked

A friend of mine, upon hearing I would be visiting Esalen where he understood that nakedness was not just tolerated but encouraged, told me that there was “good naked” and “bad naked.” Most people, he estimated, were the latter. In a display of self-deprecation, he declared himself among the “bad naked” majority. Never having seen him in the au naturel (and valuing the friendship of his wife) I choose to take him at his word. I, however, promised to try to bring up the average, fully planning on putting my naked self out there. Unlike my friend, I was confident in my own naked superiority. Which might have been a bit presumptous of me in retrospect.

Having now been here and experienced the nakedness, I can attest that there is actually more good naked here than bad. Oddly enough, this week started out with a bunch of naked and ended on a lot of naked. Odd because it’s possibly the most naked I’ve been in the course of one week in my entire life. Probably worth some explanation. But explanation aside, the experience has me thinking that we need to all be naked a lot more. In front of other people. I’ll explain in a moment, first, why was I naked?

This week has been a week-long solo roadtrip. The first time I’ve been alone for a whole week in my life. So weird. Last Friday I drove down to Orange County, Saturday through Tuesday morning I was in L.A., Tuesday through Thursday I was in Santa Barbara, Thursday afternoon to Friday morning I was in San Luis Obispo. Friday afternoon through tomorrow, Sunday, I am here at Esalen in Big Sur.

The first few stops were all about connectings with friends. It was L.A. where I started the naked journey.

My good friend Genie now lives in Studio City. She was the one person I completely and totally fell in love with while we attended grad school at Berkeley. Genie was from 90210, a fact that we teased her about to no end. It was on her driver’s license! She was quintessentially L.A., even after having gone to college back east. It was in her accent, it was in her viewpoint, it was ON HER DRIVER’S LICENSE. Please. Genie, to me, was L.A. embodied.

At least once a week during grad school, Genie and I would have lunch at the Korean restaurant in a small food court on Hearst Avenue just downhill from where all our classes were. Hearst marks the north edge of the Berkeley campus. Named for *the* Hearsts (as in William Randolph, the newspaper scion who built and owned San Simeon, aka Hearst Castle, also the inspiration for the greatest film of all time though I doubt he would agree that it was) I always found myself thinking about Patty Hearst every time I would look up at the sign. Hearst is where the Graduate School of Public Policy sits, now known as the Richard & Rhoda Goldman School of Public Policy. We called it GSPP then and thankfully, the initials still sort of work. The cramped, run-down, (and since replaced) dark brown shingled building sat high up on a hill. This I remember because it just always seemed that everytime I was running behind for class I was somehow downhill of GSPP, desparately running uphill and arriving for class a sweaty mess.

Genie is full Korean while I am just half. At Berkeley the once-derogatory phrase “hapa,” Japanese for “half,” meaning half-Asian and half-something-not-as-good-as-Asian (because what could be better than being full Asian?), became embraced in a positive way. Hapa clubs abounded. Which made sense because in California you are hard-pressed these days to find anyone who isn’t hapa of some kind it seems. It was the first time I felt like I belonged in a group in my entire existance. Growing up half-Asian in Virginia in the ’70s just made me a freak.

To this very day, I always associate Genie with my sense of Korean-ness. It was only really in college and grad school that I felt a sense of kinship with being Korean. Friends like Genie introduced me to the foods and culture that my mother largely kept from me. For reasons I now understand but at the time, I found confusing.

So, fast-forward to this past week. Genie and I have not seen one another much over the years. Precisely once, I believe, since graduate school. Until I dropped in on her on Saturday afternoon. But there are some people that you feel connected with no matter how long you’ve been apart. I can’t quite explain it, but Genie is just one of those people to me.

I had reached out some time back to tell her that my kids were at camp and I was thinking of doing a girls’ weekend down south. Shockingly, I had never really spent any time in Los Angeles, despite having lived in California since 1993. We decided that it would be fun to do a Korean bath. One more Korean thing that, up until this week, I had never done.

The day I met up with Genie, we spent some time with her girls (hapa beauties, both!) and headed to Koreatown to experience the nakedness and to have our bodies completely voided of any excess skin and tissue.

Koreatown is rough around the edges to be sure. Not at all swanky but there are gems to be discovered there. Genie had booked a scrub and massage for us both. We entered the spa and Genie gave me the lay of the land. First off, shoes come off. Okay, got that. Next up, pretty much just a bunch of naked Korean ladies. Everywhere. Locker room, undress. Lock up your things. The obligatory robe was provided by no one was wearing them. Towels. Got it. Big room. Many baths. Some hot. Some with jets. Some without. Big cold dip tub. One steam room. One dry sauna. One section of benches with low spigots, in front of which older Korean ladies were scrubbing all their parts. Vigorously. Some ladies were scrubbing the backs of their friends. Some ladies were laying on warm, radiant-heated floors, asleep. Some were texting or talking on their phones. It was, really, a very casual vibe. A very naked, casual vibe.

To be clear, everyone was completely, totally, unabashedly naked. This was not “good” naked. Mostly, it was just old naked. There were some younger women, but mostly it was older ladies. Older ladies who could not give a shit what you thought about their naked bodies. They sauntered. They cleaned their girl parts and every other part. Not a second thought. I had not ever seen so much bravura before. I was like, wow. You go girls.

Genie and I looked pretty rockstar among the ladies, I must say. But no one was giving us props. There were some Western folks. Meaning white. One or two. But everywhere you looked, nakedness. Full-on, tits and ass out, glorious Korean nakedness.

Off to the left was a large treatment room. Genie and I would be headed there at 4 pm for a scrub. In the communal treatment room were vinyl-covered treatment tables. The floor was tiled and had a large drain in the middle. There were large containers of hot water that the treatment ladies were pouring on their clients. One must really pause for a moment to describe the ladies meting out the treatments.

There were about 5 or 6 ladies doing scrubs. The all wore identical clothing. A black bra. Black underwear. Nothing else. As they were all throwing water on everyone, it made sense for them to not be fully dressed but I found the choice of matching black undergarments curious. What a uniform choice.

Once on a table, you were at the mercy of the treatment lady. The scrub part of each treatment lasted at least 30 minutes during which every single part of you is scrubbed. I am not kidding. Nothing is spared. NOTHING. This is not for the faint of heart. They get into every nook and cranny. I don’t think I’ve been this thoroughly bathed since my mother had at me in my infancy. Don’t ge me wrong, I am big on exfoliation. I didn’t think I had much excess skin to leave behind. I was wrong. I looked down at my arms and saw bits of gray that had formerly been my upper epidermis now a fine film about to be washed away by a bucket full of hot water.

I have never felt so smooth in all my life. I have also never felt so liberated before. The naked thing is weird for about 30 seconds. After that, it’s like, whatever. Really. Whatever. No one gives a shit. Some people are fat. Some are skinny. The Korean ladies aren’t hairy but let me assure you that the Brazilian has yet to really hit Koreatown. It’s just ladies being ladies, most of them sporting 1970s pubic hair. And I thought it was awesome.

Now that I am at the end of my week, I am experiencing a slightly different kind of naked. This naked is co-ed naked. Koreatown naked was just ladies being naked. Here, it’s mixed gender nakedness. Okay, so time to recalibrate.

Really the only place where this is happening is at the baths. The baths are at the north end of the 120 acre Esalen property. Yes, 120 acres. Beachfront. Big Sur. I cannot fathom the market value of this place. It’s magical. In 1994 the baths were swept away at sea. They were rebuilt and use natural hot spring water. The water is distinctly sulphuric but not too egg-y smelling.

This morning I ventured out to experience co-ed nakedness.

I suspect there is some heavy duty self-selection going on but the people I saw naked were totally comfortable in their skin and their skin didn’t look too bad to me. There were all body types. Slender men and women. Big-bellied men. Women with large, pendulous breasts. Women with small, athletic bodies. Women with stretch marks. Skinny women with mottled, cottage cheesy thighs. Large women with smooth bellies and legs. Men didn’t seem too worried about how their endowments measured. And trust me, among what I saw there were no porn star prizes to be handed out. Which goes to my point - those people are not the majority. The majority of people look okay. If we saw normal people being naked instead of freaks of nature being naked, maybe we would judge ourselves in a kinder way. Maybe we would have more reasonable expectations of what people really look like.

I tried not to stare but honestly, I found the diversity fascinating. Not in a pruient way. I just realized that, in my life, I haven’t seen many naked people. And this got me to thinking. Why not?

Conclusion: we should be naked more. In just one short week I’ve seen more naked people in person than I have in a lifetime. And I am no worse for the wear. I think we should be naked more. I think we should be naked in front of each other more. I fully believe that if we were naked more and had more experience with other people who were unclothed we’d have a much better and healthier sense of our bodies. I daresay that this is one area Europeans have over us. Nakedness is not such a horrible thing there. This is where the Puritans did us wrong.

I used to shop at Lohmann’s. I’m still bereft that they closed. One thing I used to love is the “Back Room.” The Back Room was where all the really good designer clothing was. The Back Room was also its own dressing room. It was communal. That room was the ultimate equalizer. All the skinny ladies on the floor who look so great in clothes, once in the Back Room, you could see their lumpy bits, their scars, their freckles and moles. No one was superior to any one else in the Back Room. Nakedness is the great leveler. You have nowhere to hide.

Here at Esalen, and back in Koreatown, everyone is pretty much on an even playing field. Everyone is comfortable with who they are. And nothing is more attractive than people who feel the power of their own bodies in the best possible way. In both places, I only felt awkward for a brief moment. It passed and I continued on.

I’m not really sure I brought up the average afterall. I won’t post any naked selfies to be judged. If you want to see me naked, meet me in Koreatown or at Esalen. But first, I dare you to get over yourself.

#naked #esalen #koreatown

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mizannethrope · 10 years

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February 14, 2013

The day my mother died started like any other. That’s the funny thing. The days when momentuous things happen in your life start like any other day. You get up, you brush your teeth, have your coffee, and it feels like every other day you’ve ever lived. Then it happens. “It” being that thing that will make that day unlike any other.

This particular day was Valentine’s Day. My mother always liked her sweets. It didn’t matter that she was diabetic. Perhaps that was why she was diabetic. Mom wasn’t particularly highbrow about her chocolate but I refused, on principle, to buy Russell Stover candies. I purchased a couple of small boxes of chocolate, Dove chocolate I think, and made sure each of the 3 boys had a card or a box to give to mom. These demonstrations meant a lot to her. She had had them seldom in her life so I made sure to do them up now.

Mom rose that morning to see the boys off to school. She had started her hospice care before Thanksgiving so by Valentine’s Day she had grown quite weak. Most days she spent in bed but she was still able to get up and walk on her own. At 5’2” my mother had weighed 130lbs or slightly more. She liked to be 125, but would often tip 135 on the scale. Having been very slender in her youth, this bothered her. She liked to tell me about how she had a 23” waist before she became pregnant with me. Implied, of course, was that I was the thing that robbed her of that tiny waist. That’s how mom was.

Cancer had whittled mom down even before we knew she had cancer. Anemia, exhaustion, and a lack of appetite had peeled 20 pounds off of her in the first 6 weeks of her diagnosed disease. By Valentine’s Day, mom weighed about 75 or 80 pounds. Although that sounds horrifically small, at 5’2” it made her look painfully tiny but not so thin that it elicited gasps from others when we went out. She was simply shrinking, day by day, until it felt like one day she would simply disappear from view. Of course, that didn’t happen. She would shrink to about 75 pounds and that was as small as her physical form would be until her remains were cremated. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

On this Valentine’s Day morning, each of the boys greeted my mother with the obligatory box of chocolate and a hug. After being presented with her candy my mother shuffled as quickly as she could back to her bedroom while the boys finished their breakfasts. From one of her many small satchels and zippered bags, where she squirreled away her cash, she fetched $20 for each boy. Even in her last days, my mother insisted that I give her her own pocket money. She wasn’t exactly running around town any longer but cash in her hand always represented independence to her. Even if she had nowhere to spend it. But for these such occasions, it served her well. She enjoyed giving the boys gifts.

The boys went off to school and my mother went to lay down. I cleaned up the morning dishes and prepared the house for the guest that was soon to arrive.

My brother Paul was flying into town that day. We were flying out to Colorado to take the boys on their first ski week vacation to Beavercreek the following day. I had exchanged our timeshare in Maui for the one in Beavercreek and the boys were very excited for the trip. Paul would be arriving that evening to look after mom while we were away. He had come for a visit over Christmas, which we all knew would be mom’s last, so he had been with us only 6 weeks before.

Oddly enough, I had another house guest that week, which was unusual. Jeremy Goldberg is a fellow I knew from high school. I didn’t know him well at all then. In fact, hardly at all, really. But having gone to a very intense magnet high school for science and math, all of us in the class had a sense of belonging and togetherness after the fact that was never really borne out by our interactions in high school. It’s a bit like I imagine prison camp survivors must feel. Anyone having lived through it feels bonded to anyone else who ever has been through it. There’s a connection to the shared experience. And then, there’s Facebook. The thing that makes you think you know people that, in fact, you don’t really know but think you do. Jeremy and I had 4 years of Jefferson together and 20 years later, he and I had Facebook. So naturally we were practically best friends in the way that only the digital era can engender.

Jeremy had messaged me that he was coming to the Bay Area to photograph Susan Wojiciki for AdAge magazine. Jeremy is a freelance photographer of some note. He asked if I had a place he could stay for a night or two. I have a small cottage on my property and told him he was welcome to use it.

The first night of Jeremy’s visit, he and I stayed up late talking and drinking wine. He met my mother that night. The next day, Valentine’s Day, he had his photoshoot. I gave Jeremy my cell number and told him to call me if he needed me, otherwise, he could come and go as he pleased.

The morning of Valentine’s Day, after the children went to school, mom disappeared into her room to take a nap. When she reappeared around 10:30 am fully dressed with her make-up and wig on, I looked at her in surprise. She announced that her pastor’s wife was picking her up to take her to lunch. My mom was funny with the pastor’s wife. This lovely Korean woman, probably about 10 years older than me, would bring mom soup and food on Sundays after church as a gesture. Rather than seem appreciative, mom would grumble that she was late, or that the food was cold, or somehow not to her liking. I would remind mom that this woman was doing her a favor as a member of the congregation but mom felt that her age, and probably, her disease, gave her the right to be crotchety. So she remained and it was one more thing we would fight about.

The pastor’s wife came (probably later than agreed upon), collected mom, and off they went. I didn’t think mom was up for so much activity but she sometimes surprised me. I continued to tidy the house and plan for the trip.

In just over an hour, mom arrived back home. She had had soup and she seemed happy to have gotten out of the house. When the pastor’s wife helped mom to the door, I noticed that mom’s hair looked a bit off. My mother never lost all her hair to cancer but between aging and chemo, the hair she had left was very fine. It bothered her a great deal so we had gotten her a wig. Mom could not, simply could not, manage to get it on straight. It was a short auburn style and she could not tell front from back. As I had not helped her that morning, naturally she had the darn thing on completely backwards. I hadn’t noticed before but when she arrived home on the doorstep I could see it was askew. I smiled and then I took my two hands to either side of her head and with one 180 degree tug, twisted the wig into its rightful position on her head. The pastor’s wife and I laughed and mom, rather than be embarrassed, laughed the loudest.

Mom went back to her room and changed back into her flannel pajamas and slipped back into bed with her dog in tow.

On my list of items for that day, I needed to get my ski boots tweaked and pick up the boys’ skis that we had dropped off for adjustment and waxing. I popped my head into mom’s room as she lay napping. Just as I did, Sweetpea, mom’s 3-legged attack Chihuahua began to bark at me. Mom slept with that dog and took her everywhere. Mom shushed the dog and I told her that I would be running out to get a few things done but would be home by midafternoon. I don’t recall what she said to me. I assume it was some acknowledgement. Either gutteral or explicit. I can’t remember. This bothers me a lot now because these would have been her last words to me. I will never know what she said or if she said anything. People put such stock into these things. Apparently, I’m among them. What did she say? I’ll never know.

I went off to Helm of Sun Valley, a local ski shop, about a 15 minute drive away. My visit there wasn’t too long. I was wrapping up when I got a cell phone call from Jeremy. He told me that he was walking through the house out to his appointment. He found my mom in the living room. She had fallen.

The first thing that popped into my head was just sheer, unadulterated anger. Complete frustration. Irritation. Mom fell down all the freaking time. All the time. We fought over this. Mom’s walking had not been very good over the past few years. She had slowed her pace and somehow she never really picked her feet up off the ground properly. She mostly shuffled. And when she did, she would always find something to catch her foot on and she would lose her balance. As she grew weaker, the problem became more pronounced. She had been living in the cottage when she was first diagnosed and one day the kids came calling out to me that my mother had fallen. There was blood everywhere as anyone who has ever had even the most superficial head wound can attest. She hit her head on what she couldn’t say, and needed 10 stitches. The stitches never healed properly so she had a deep groove across her eyebrow. She called herself Frankenstein. We joked that we would dress her up that way for Halloween. Of course we didn’t.

After her stitches she agreed, in theory, to use a cane. But in practice, she never really did use it. She would shuffle along and simply wave the damn cane around like it was an extension of her arm rather than a tool to keep from falling. Naturally, she continued to fall. And I continued to seeth at her insolence. And we would fight over it.

We moved mom from the cottage into my son Ben’s bedroom when she started her hospice care. There, she would only be a few steps from a bathroom and the rest of the house. Those steps would be bare, even floor. And still, she would frequently fall. I would yell - use your cane! Use your walker! She never would.

I told Jeremy that my mother fell all the time. “Can you help her to the couch?” I asked, feeling horrible that my houseguest should have to do this. I heard a muffled sound as Jeremy asked my mother if he could help her. I heard her equally muffled reply. Jeremy came back on to tell me that she didn’t want help. “Well, can you just make her comfortable then? She really falls all the time. She never listens to me! Ugh. I’ll be right home. 10 minutes, okay?” Jeremy said he would get some ice and he would wait with her.

I ran out of the store and into the car. I was equal parts furious with my mother and worried. How could she? She always fell down. And this was someone I hadn’t seen in 20 years. I was so embarrassed. I was so angry. Why now? Why did this always happen when I was out of the house? All I felt clearly was anger. How many times had I told her to be careful? Why was she so stubborn??

I got a call from Jeremy just as I turned the corner to come down my street. “Come quickly, something’s changed. I don’t think she’s okay.” I could hear my mother mumbling, gutteral noises, like a wounded animal. I couldn’t hear what she was saying but I would know that voice anywhere. It didn’t sound right. I panicked.

"Jeremy, call 911." Jeremy said that he had asked mom if he should and she got very angry. She said no. Oh my god, I thought.

I pulled into the driveway and ran into the house. I found my mother on my living room carpet. She was face down. Her cane was across the room under the television. I rolled her over but she was no longer conscious. Jeremy told me that she had just lost consciousness right before I entered the house. I dialed 911.

"What is your emergency?" “My mother fell down. I don’t know. I think she’s passed out. I don’t think she’s breathing.”

The operator confirmed my address and dispatched a crew.

"Have you ever done CPR?" she asked me. “No, no. My mother has terminal cancer. She doesn’t want CPR.” “Well, if she’s not breathing you should start chest compressions.” “But my mother doesn’t want CPR.” “You can talk to the paramedics. You need to start CPR.”

So, like I’ve alwasy done in life, I did what I was told. I don’t know why I did. I put the phone aside, and pulled up my mother’s shirt. She was so thin that she no longer wore a bra. Her ribs protruded. I placed my hands on her sterum and I pressed. I could hear the sound of bones and cartilege cracking. I stopped. I began to cry. I said, “I can hear her bones breaking.” The operator replied, “That’s how it’s supposed to sound, it’s okay.”

I began to sob. No, no, no it’s not. I can’t do this.

The paramedics arrived. I told them my mother had a DNR. They began CPR and started placing sticky tabs on her body to defibrillate her. No, no! I begged them to stop. Please. No. They told me they needed to see the DNR. I stared blankly. I knew we had more than one. Where was it? I ran to the basement. I ran upstairs to find mom’s hospice folder where we kept a copy. For 10 minutes I ran around the house looking for a goddamn piece of paper that, on any other day, I could have found in an instant. Finally, I found it.

And just like that - it was over. The commotion was over. My mother’s life was over.

The men all stopped working. They peeled the sticky tabs off mom. They removed their equipment.

The paramedic closest to my mom called it. “Time of death - 2 pm.” The police officer wrote it down. When had a police officer come to my house?

I looked up. “She’s dead?” I asked? It seemed so obvious but I had to ask. “What now?”

They called the coroner. Just standard procedure, they said. He wouldn’t need to be there to file a report, there was nothing suspicious about her passing. They needed the name and number of my mother’s hospice doctor for the death certificate. I was to call the funeral home and deal with the other arrangements now. That’s all.

I looked down at the dead body on the carpet. My mother’s dead body. I asked, “That’s it?” They all nodded. I just assumed that they would take her body to the hospital, but no. They only take a person to the hospital if you need treatment or, if already deceased, the coroner needs to examine the body. In natural death, they simply leave the body and go on their way. That’s not how it happens on television. I was unprepared.

They all gathered their things and began to leave. I found myself alone with my mother and with Jeremy Goldberg. Suddenly I realized that after this day, Jeremy would be part of my story. How strange how these things happen.

I leaned over her and kissed my mother on the cheek. She was warm. I held her hand. I looked at her hand and mine. So much the same. I stroked her hair. I hugged her. I looked at her and thought, I came from this body. 42 years before, this body gave me life. This body that now lies limp on my floor, grew me from within her, nursed me for nearly two years from her small breasts between which my hands had been forcing air into her lungs with violent compressions just moments earlier. These hands that I held, washed me and tended my skinned knees, braided my hair, rubbed my achy calves after my first marathon. She’s here but she’s gone. I wanted to say something profound but nothing came to mind. What could I say? I told her I loved her. I told her that I wish I had said it more to her when she was still alive to hear me say it. I told her I was sorry. I didn’t mean to be angry that she fell. It was just that she fell so much and I worried about her. Too late. Too late. So much guilt. Sadness.

Jeremy had his appointment, I told him it was fine to leave. I thanked him. This person I hadn’t seen in over 20 years was the last person my mother saw. I was go glad she wasn’t alone.

Next, I picked up the phone and called Greg. I could hear him catch his breath as he, too, broke into sobs. He would deal with the children. School was only 40 minutes from being let out.

My next phone call was to my brother. Paul was waiting for his ride to the airport. In 7 hours Paul would be in my house. His first words were disbelief and then despair. “Really. It’s just like mom. Should couldn’t wait 7 hours? She had to die while I am on the way to the airport. Story of my life.” And truthfully, it was like that between them. I asked him to call our father. I knew I couldn’t talk to my father then.

All of this was happening as I sat kneeling on the floor, my mother’s body at my knees. I got up, went into her room, and returned with a fleecy wool blanket. I put it over her. I wanted to keep her warm. Not because she could feel cold any longer, her tiny frame made her feel cold even on the warmest days, but because it seemed somehow more respectful to cover her. So I draped the blanket on her and folded her hands on her belly. My mother’s eyes were closed but her mouth was slightly open. I tried to adjust her head to a better angle, but to no avail. After the blanket was placed on her body, Sweetpea came over and curled into a ball by my mother’s body. She stayed there for the next 2 hours. My mother appeared to be sleeping.

I called the pastor’s wife. She was stunned. She had just seen my mother 3 hours earlier. How could she be dead? The pastor and his wife came to the house immediately. As mother laid on the floor, her pastor prayed in Korean over her as we all held hands. They told me how much she loved me, how proud she was of me. And then, they too, left and I was alone again with my mother.

I went into my desk and found the sheet of paper with the funeral home names. I called the one I recognized - Spangler Mortuary. There is one in Mountain View and one in Los Altos. The people there who answer the phone all speak in the appropriately muted and hushed tones of those trying to be respectful in dealing with the loved ones of the recently deceased. They explained their options to me. I knew my mother wanted to be cremated. That was as much as I could muster at that moment. They explained that I didn’t need to decide right way. They would come to take her body.

Greg arrived home. We sat there with mom. I held her hand. She had finally become cold to the touch. I don’t think you really believe someone is truly dead until they are cold when you touch them. Her face had grown pale. The blood pools. It’s amazing how fast it all happens. The mortuary people were coming but we weren’t sure when. It seemed wrong to have mom on the floor especially if the kids should come home unexpectedly. So, Greg and I decided then to move her back to her bed. Greg lifted her under her arms and I held her legs and we carried her. Although she was so, so thin, a lifeless body is remarkably difficult to move. Which is such an odd thing for me to be writing. How many times in life do you find yourself discussing the relocation of a dead body where you were the person to be carrying said dead body? I certainly never expected to write those words. Ever. And yet, here I am. I moved my mother’s dead body. Which almost makes me want to make some kind of horrible “Over my dead body” joke. I shall refrain. There was no joking that day, in that moment.

As we lifted my mother the change in position caused her lungs to push air out of her nostrils and mouth. It sounded like a loud exhale. For one very brief moment, I wanted to believe she was still alive. That it had all been a horrible mistake. My mother was alive. She was breathing. But I knew this was silly. I knew that the change in position had mechanically expelled air from her. It speaks to how desparately we wish for the dead to be not dead that we entertain these thoughts when all logic dictates the opposite. Your mind goes to all the absurd and strange stories of people thought to be dead, who somehow magically revive. Of course, that didn’t happen. It didn’t stop me from hoping though. In that one moment, I just wanted to cling to something hopeful.

We moved mom to her bed and placed her blanket over her. Now she really appeared to be sleeping. Just like every other day, except not like any other day. Sweetpea remained at her side, curled in a ball. Protecting my mother.

I called the hospice nurse. She quickly arrived. She didn’t say much. She just wanted the morphine drops back. We never had to use them, mom’s pain was manageable and for that I was grateful, but for one moment I wondered if I should tell her that we had. Who knows that the street value of that stuff might be? Why should I return it? Maybe I might need it. But you know, I’m such a goody-two-shoes, I gave it back to her. I have a weird feeling she knew damn well what the street value was. I still wonder if she had a nice little resale business going on the side. The nurse called the hospice people and the next day all evidence of my mother’s sick room would be disassembled and removed. Not quite as quickly as it all arrived but almost.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the Spangler mortuary men arrived. Two men, dressed in somber, ill-fitting, black suits. I let them in and we discussed the situation. They spoke in what seemed to me to be some kind of reflexive hoarse whisper. They asked where mom was. I told them that she was in her bedroom. I walked them to her room. They needed to figure out what kind of equipment they’d need to move her. When I brought them into the bedroom, the larger of the two men said, out loud, “Oh! Look at her! She’s so cute!” Which startled me. What? Cute? He quickly clarified. “She’s very petite, your mother. She’ll be easy to move. We won’t need any assistance. She does look very peaceful and darling.”

Then men asked that I leave her while they prepared her. They promised that nothing untoward would happen, that they had clear policies on respecting the deceased. I nodded. I preferred not to think of the things that have been done that compelled them to say this to me. They moved the gurney from the front porch into the hallway and began to work.

As the two men were prepaing to leave, the gurney rolled back toward the door. Mom was now fully draped in a white sheet. They pulled the sheet back from her face so I could see her one last time. I told them that my brother was en route and my father would be flying out. “Oh, yes,” said the larger of the two, “We understand that you’re not planning a full viewing for a wake but we often do a viewing for immediate family. A quick looky-lou is simple to arrange and there’s no added cost. No embalming necessary. We’ll just keep the body refrigerated until they arrive. Just call ahead and we’ll schedule the time.” I never knew if the smaller man was shy or just mute. He never said anything.

Just before the Men in Black left, I stopped them and ask how long she could stay. Could I keep her here a bit longer? My brother was going to be in town in just a few hours. Maybe she could stay here until he arrived? Best, they said, to move her now and place the body in refrigeration. Okay. Then, I realized this was really it. Our time was over. Each realization of this hit me like another wave pounding the sand, causing me to step back a bit as if off-balance. I nodded. They moved the gurney over the threshold and into the driveway.

As they pulled away, I was left wondering about a “looky-lou”? Is this a technical term? Honestly, dealing with death is surreal. It’s beyond bizarre. Every industry has their expressions. I just assumed this is one of theirs.

After the business of dying had passed, I began to think about the living. The boys had been fed pizza by friends. My brother arrived from the airport. He and I stayed up late talking. We all decided that Paul and I would deal with arrangements but that the rest of the family should proceed with vacation as planned.

I don’t remember what Paul and I talked about that night. I cried. But I think I cried more when I found out my mother was dying than after she actually died. They call cancer the long goodbye. My mother’s goodbye was 8 months long, during which we fought like we always did. I think that’s how it had to be. You die like you live, however that is or was.

I have come to believe that my mother chose the time of her death carefully. Since my mother’s passing I’ve read a lot about the process of dying. Hospice nurses and caregivers have documented that people near death often seem very aware of the nearness of their deathes. They know. They begin to talk about putting things in order. They mention long deceased loved ones. They seem to know exactly what is happening and how long it will take. And in many cases, they die before their loved ones can be there with them. The theory is that they do it to spare their families from the pain that comes with being there. I think my mother knew that morning would be her last. She gave each of the boys a gift and a hug. She arranged to see the pastor’s wife. She got dressed and went out. And when the time came, she made sure that neither of her children was there to see her go. I know the only thing that made my mother really sad throughout her illness was her belief that she was a burden to me. She never wanted to be a burden to me. A giant pain in my ass? Fine. A burden? Never.

And so it goes. So she goes. Gone but not forgotten.

[Note: I have decided not to edit this for length, syntax, grammar, or voice. I wrote it out as I remembered it. Something about it is just raw and I think it’s probably best to leave it that way. I may wince when I re-read it but somethings should be left in their unfiltered state.]

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