Always Go To the Funeral

I read a great article yesterday called “Always Go To the Funeral,” which was originally recorded for NPR’s show “All Things Considered.” They asked people to write short essays on the topic “This I Believe,” and Deirdre Sullivan, a lawyer in New York, wrote that she had learned from her father to always go to the funeral. To learn why, you should read the piece--it’s really great and also short. Here’s my favorite part of the essay, though:

“In my humdrum life, the daily battle hasn't been good versus evil. It's hardly so epic. Most days, my real battle is doing good versus doing nothing….In going to funerals, I've come to believe that while I wait to make a grand heroic gesture, I should just stick to the small inconveniences that let me share in life's inevitable, occasional calamity.”

We needed to go to a viewing tonight and it wasn’t very convenient. We can’t attend the funeral during the day tomorrow, so that left tonight from 5-7 p.m., at a funeral home at least 30 minutes away, maybe more at that time of day, and we are hosting a Limu party at our house at 7 p.m., to be followed by homework and snacks and “Oh my gosh, it’s after 9:00, you have to get in bed NOW!”

But there was no question that I would go. I didn’t know the deceased man very well, but I do know his sons and their families, having attended church with them for nearly my entire life. I babysat one son’s daughters, and the other son and his wife helped us start a small group ministry. Both have been great examples on how to do parenting right. Now their children are grown and they have lost their dad--a reminder to me (as if I really needed another one) that life is short. It may be less than convenient for me to fit a funeral home visitation into my schedule, but it’s worse  to lose someone you love.

In the article, Sullivan makes the point that we should always choose to do things that are inconvenient for us when they would be meaningful for the other person. I have often thought that I want to be a more thoughtful person, who sends encouraging notes and remembers birthdays and gives excellent presents because I pay attention.  Well, guess what: this is a way to actually start being more thoughtful.

When Justin’s parents died, ten years apart, I was struck by how much the simple gestures meant to us. There is a reason that people traditionally bring food to the grieving: it’s one less thing for them  to have to deal with, and on top of that, it’s delicious and therefore comforting. I promised myself I’d do better about providing food to the bereaved, and I have remembered to keep trying. So for this funeral, I offered to bake two cakes, and was told that one would suffice. I know this was not because my baking skills were being disparaged, but because plenty of other people had volunteered to bring or pay for food for the family meal after the service. That is encouraging, in this world which is full of so much animosity. We can still be a village.

So I baked the cake and frosted it, and it’s on the counter in its disposable foil pan. It fell a little in the center, but that just means those pieces will have extra frosting on them. I went to the viewing, and the family was happy to see me. And I was glad I had gone.

Purpose

I'm back! Well, actually I've been back on the Internet for several weeks, but I didn't have anything I wanted to write about until this weekend. That's the way it goes when I have a bout with anxiety: first I withdraw from Pinterest, then blogs and Twitter, then Facebook, then actual books (gasp) and even my friends and family. I suppose I should view lack of interest in social media as an early warning sign.

I  want to write more about my struggle with anxiety and depression, including some encouraging information in a book I'm currently reading, but I'm still processing what I want to share. For now, I'll just say that I'm feeling much better, after going back to my doctor and saying, "I downplayed how I was feeling two weeks ago, and then things got worse. I do need to make a change." He added another antidepressant (later we will probably try to increase the dosage on this one and taper off the one I've been on, which apparently stopped being fully effective--a reasonable assumption given my symptoms and the fact that I've been on it for nine years.) 

So. Today I want to write about how my struggle with mental illness has given me a gift. 

It's really freaking hard to be thankful for anxiety and depression, because this silent illness has stolen big chunks of my life. 

This time it was a month. If that doesn't seem like a long time to you, imagine spending almost every minute wishing it would pass and that you could take your medicine and go to sleep since that means you don't have to feel your horrible feelings any more. Wishing you could tear off your own tensed-up skin and float away. Fighting away thoughts of how much you are ruining your family and how much better off they'd be without you. Constantly, for thirty days.

It sucks when you can't enjoy anything in your life, even when you know you have so much to be thankful for . No wonder that when I feel better, everything seems so much more precious and my gratitude overflows.

But I have always known that human beings can bear almost anything if they can find a purpose in their pain. I knew that others had found that purpose in helping others on the same journey. But I couldn't see how that was supposed to happen, if I couldn't see any glimmer of hope for myself, much less anyone else. 

"If you want me to help other broken people, You're going to have to hold me together a little better," I told God through floods of tears one night. "Because I'm way too broken to help anyone right now."

It's so much fun to live with me.

Then I went to the doctor and gradually started climbing out of the pit. And I had two opportunities within three days of each other to help women who were struggling.

Interestingly, neither of them seem to suffer from a mental illness themselves. They are dealing with diagnoses their children have received and trying to do the best they can for their kids. One mom whom I'd never met before told me about how her going-into-sixth-grade son, who has ADHD and Asperger's, has been consistently bullied at school. Another mom shared her mixed feelings about medicating her six-year-old, who has just been diagnosed with ADHD and ODD (Oppositional Defiant Disorder). 

It turns out I'm a pretty good person to tell such things to, for the following reasons:

1. I'm familiar with conditions and diagnoses many people aren't conversant with. I was a psychology major, then a teacher, so I have some experience with children and parents who are dealing with such challenges. 

2. The Internets have educated me about what it's like to walk in these parents' shoes. If not for the stories I've read, I would very likely make some of the ignorant assumptions many people make (although I hope I wouldn't be as mean-spirited or selfish). Thank you, everyone who has written about your reality with painful honesty. I recently started following The Mighty, a blog written by people who deal with disabilities, either their own or their children's. It has changed the way I look at these children and their amazing parents.

3. There's some evidence that depression and anxiety affect highly sensitive people more than others. While this is a bummer when it strikes, it means that I can deeply feel others' pain and empathetically connect with them, like fellow veterans in the war with faulty brain wiring. I listened to both of these wonderful mothers, both of whom were trying with all their might (along with their husbands) to help their children. I listened, and asked questions, and empathized.

And then I did something that isn't always a good idea. I shared my opinion. 

I did it because both of them were experiencing self-doubt that they were doing the right thing for their child. Whereas I, the momentary observer they had briefly invited into their world, could immediately see that they were absolutely doing the right things for their kid. 

"I'm just not sure about the medication," the mom of the six-year-old said, "because it feels like I'm giving up on him."

I felt like an old, wise woman, even though I'm only about five years older than she is. "Oh, honey, no, you're not! You are not giving up on him at all! You've done the hardest thing and admitted to yourself that your kid needs help--and then you are getting him that help. You're not just saying, 'Medicate my kid so I don't have to deal with his issues.' You're taking him to an expert who can help y'all develop strategies that he can use later in life rather than staying on ADHD meds. But he may need to be on the medication for now just so he can get to a level playing field. But you are not giving up on him if you and your doctor decide he needs it," I declared, trying to be as convincing as I possibly could.

The other mom, whom I'd just met at a birthday party that evening, reached to hug me, her eyes filled with quick tears when I said, "I believe your son is going to be all right. The very best people I know had a hard time in middle and high school. And from what you said, he has you and his dad to talk to. Most importantly, he knows you are on his side. He doesn't have to face this alone."

I hope something I said resonated with those wonderful moms, because depression and anxiety have showed me that just feeling that you're not alone, that you will not be abandoned, that you are loved by someone who won't give up on you...is enough to keep you going for another day.

And if I can help one person feel that way...my life will not have been in vain.

I'm Back!

The scrapbooking weekend WAS wonderful. We stayed in a big farmhouse that holds 25 or so guests, with four scrapbooking rooms, plus the dining room, kitchen, fitness and spa rooms, and a TV area with a couch that connected all the bedrooms. Oh, and the family who owns it has a private wing.

On Friday night, we got there around 6:40 and dinner was at 7. The owner is a fabulous cook--she used to be a chef for Marriot, but this was no bland banquet food. She hires an in-house baker for at least some of the desserts--the Cafe Mocha chocolate cake was my favorite, but the carrot cake was excellent too. They offer a continental breakfast to tide you over until the hot brunch at 11:30, then snack at 2:30 (chips and cheese dip and homemade cookies), then dinner. I am surprised my non-stretchy pants still fit. My other favorite dish was the sausage, egg, and tater-tot casserole, which I got the recipe for and I will share with you as soon as I try it.

Not all of our group of 6 knew each other. I already knew Lisa, who invited me, and another woman who was Miss Pink's preschool teacher two years ago. Each of them had invited a friend whom I knew to speak to, and there was another lady none of us had met. But we all bonded like crazy. I didn't get much scrapping done that first night because we talked so much (shocker, I know!) Lisa's friend Button (her name is a long story) said she thought I was quiet until this trip--and now she knows better! We laughed a lot and also there were some "therapy moments" in which people shared difficult things they've gone through--amazing how close you can get so quickly in such an intimate setting. Lisa and I stayed up till 2 or so both nights talking. It has been SO LONG since I've done that. Fortunately I was able to sleep in the next mornings. OH! And I got a pedicure, for the first time in a year and a half. That makes me feel so pampered.

I did get a lot of work done on my "Week in Review" album which includes all my weekly blog posts with some random pictures from the year. I'm pleased with it so far. When I finish it, I'll show you some sample pages.

And I am totally going back next year. They can have Vegas; I'll take the farm!

What She Taught Me

As a child, I played with a small group of kids. This was because almost all of the children I knew attended our church-school, and most of those also attended our church as well. Some came and went, but a core group of us remained year after year, as familiar with each other as with cousins. Some were my dearest friends, some I hated and feared, and some I ignored. But no one could be avoided for long, because we were together so much.

I was never one of the most popular kids in our group, but I had an accepted position, probably because a) my father was the pastor of the church and thus in charge of the school; and b) I did know how to act in a socially acceptable way (most of the time.) When my father introduced me to Becky, I knew two things without being told: that he wanted me to be nice to her, and that the reason I needed to be nice to her was that she wasn’t going to fit in on her own. This was because it was clear that she was different—that kiss of death in the child’s social order.

It was also obvious that Becky didn’t have the same kind of parental attention directed at her that I did. Her cheap clothes hung awkwardly on her narrow shoulders. They didn’t always match. She wasn’t dirty, but I could see that no one ever chased her around with a comb, either. Her almost colorless eyes were magnified behind enormous round plastic glasses (oh, those terrible crimes inflicted by ‘80s fashion). And Becky was painfully shy. When we played together, I was the leader. She was willing to play whatever games I devised, hardly speaking. Every once in a while, though, a smile crossed her face, showing her small, grayish teeth, before she hid her mouth behind her hand, afraid to show too much joy, lest it be taken away.

I was conscious of feeling pride and responsibility, that my father had silently given me a mission: to Include Becky. I knew I was up to the task. I sought her out at church, invited her to sit next to me in Sunday School. I dragged her over to my friends after church, indicating that she was now A Part of our group.

It didn't work all that well. For one thing, my friends didn't act hostile toward Becky, but they seemed puzzled as to why we needed to pay attention to her when she didn't have anything to say and was barely willing to participate in our elaborate games of make-believe. Becky had simply been on the outside so long that when invited in, she didn't know how to behave. As weeks went by, I found it easier to stop trying so hard. I let Becky drift while not completely rejecting her--thank goodness I wasn't capable of being that cruel.

Christmastime was approaching, and my father and I were going shopping for some presents I needed to buy. It's the only time I can remember us going out on this kind of shopping trip together. I needed to buy the requisite $5.00 gifts for church and school gift exchanges, and somehow the idea was born that I would also choose a present for Becky. I am almost positive that this was my father's idea; I don't think I ever would have thought of it myself. But once he presented it, I was excited about it, since I didn't have my own money and hardly ever bought anything for anyone.

We went to a five and ten cent store. (Remember those? Now they've been replaced by dollar stores.) I looked around at all the choices and finally selected a plastic purse for Becky. At that age, I thought that having one's own purse was the epitome of being grown-up. I don't remember if it came with anything like a fake lipstick or keys (I know there wasn't a cell phone, because they didn't exist) but my father thought it was a fine choice.

The next Sunday was the last one before Christmas. I approached Becky and said something like, "I have something for you." All of a sudden I felt as shy as the girl in front of me. I realized that by handing her the present my mother had wrapped for me, I was running a risk. She might be thrilled to get another present when she didn't get very many at home, or she might feel horrible that I had gotten her a present when she obviously couldn't afford to get me one.

Amazingly, though, she said, "I have something for you, too."

As she opened my present and oohed and aahed over the purse, I stared at the small yet heavy object she had placed in my hand. It was wrapped in a scrap of newspaper and covered in too much tape, obviously stuck there by Becky herself. I pulled off the paper to find a silver dollar, one of the few I'd ever seen. I knew in one of those inexplicable flashes of insight that seem to light up the world that this was one of her only treasures.

And she had given it to me.

I didn't deserve it. I knew that with the same searing clarity. What had I done? I had only done my duty because my father asked me to. I would have never thought of befriending her, let alone buying her a present, if it hadn't been for him. He'd even paid for the present. Giving it to her had cost me nothing.

Her present had cost her much more. But she wanted me to have it, because I had been friendly to her. She didn't know that when I included her, I was feeling smug and proud of myself for including someone so obviously beneath me socially. Look at me, I was thinking, being nice to the poor little girl.

Becky wasn't poor. She was rich in ways I couldn't then imagine.

I don't remember seeing Becky again. I'm sure I did--but I can't remember anything but that moment of shame and gratitude that let me see myself as I really was. It's certain that before long, her family moved away (something that they apparently did a lot, which couldn't have helped her shyness) and I lost the chance to make a true friend of her.

Yet for years I kept that silver dollar in my most cherished hiding place, and I have never forgotten what Becky taught me.

Weirded Out

Ever wake up in a strange mood because you dreamed strange things the night before? Sort of like a stain the subconscious left in your mind when it was in charge. Clean up after yourself, subconscious--I don't like dealing with your mess!

I'm generally against telling my dreams to anyone except my husband, because no one really cares about anyone else's dream. Suffice it to say that it felt like I dreamed ALL NIGHT LONG. Some dreams weren't nightmares, but had a weird mood about them--one was about a gypsy love potion a wife buys to use on her husband, and another was about the most gigantic garage sale of clothes I have ever seen. Like, it filled a warehouse. What's wrong with THAT? I should only have been bummed that the dream wasn't real!

One dream, though, was about a serial killer being tracked by his father, a cop. He was trying to kidnap a little girl and his father was desperate to stop him (I guess I was another cop or something). Now that was a yucky dream. I sometimes have dreams like that--in which I am trying to protect an innocent person from harm. I am always very afraid that I won't succeed. I can't think about the bad things that happen to children for very long.

I'm also feeling bad for a good friend of mine. She is dealing with something that cannot be fixed overnight. I wish I could do something to help her, but all I can do is listen and care and pray. And wait with her for things to get better.

I think it was Anne Lamott who said something about we need shiny miracle tools to fix the bad things in life, and we look in our tool box and all we have are these rusty, broken-down tools like kindness and empathy and hope. And somehow it's enough.

Anyway, I went and worked out and that helped. It DOESN'T help that there's no chocolate in the house. Who didn't buy any chocolate? No one needs to be that healthy! (Oh right, it was me. Oops.)