And So It Goes.

The cardboard box was heavy, almost 40 pounds in total weight. It was reluctantly dragged out of the garage and into the office for the unveiling. The brand new synthetic, pre-strung Christmas tree inside was bound by string and tape. A few snips here and there and its branches began to spread out on their own.

Harry Belafonte was crooning in the background, and we laughed out loud as we sipped our wine. Childhood stories were shared back and forth, and the cats were purring in tandem as they stretched out in front of the fire.

"Let's move the couch so the tree doesn't touch the sheers," I suggest.

"OK," he replied. "I'll move the furniture, you sit there. Do you want that light on the table over there behind the couch?"

"You bet."

I sat back with a smile on my face as the room began to come together.

He commented on how good everything looked. The Christmas lights, the fire, the decorations on the mantel. I was nodding in agreement when there was a sudden, loud crash.

The lamp had been carried by the top of the shade only, and it fell down onto the antique side table. I jumped up and ran over...only to find three large gnashes scarring the venerable 19th century walnut tabletop.

It was if someone had dunked me into an Alaskan fishing hole.

The festivities came to a screeching halt, and the warm, charming moment in time was o-v-e-r.

Now, here I sit typing and there he sits watching television.

And the Yin/Yang Dance of Marriage continues on.

I Am So Tired of Not Being Normal.

"Women want men, careers, money, children, friends, luxury, comfort, independence, freedom, respect, love, and $3 pantyhose that won't run."
Phyllis Diller

Ten out of twelve are good odds for most people. Except when one of the missing items is children. Then it becomes a stark void.

Heavy sigh.

I received an email from a dear friend who lives in Philly...with photos of her son, who is darling.

That 'ol pang within my belly started up again. It's that repeat angst over the fact that all of my friends have been able to have babies...except me. It's the realization that I am "not normal." It's the guilt that my husband will never have a baby from his own seed. It's the inner despair that my life is nothing more than a 9am to 7pm job that could replace me in the snap of a finger.

As I sat with my mom and sister in front of the fire tonight, I realized how lucky I am to have them. If and when anyone passes away...there will be no one to replace them. We'll be all alone. And then what?

I'm unsure of where we stand with the adoption. I'm not reading my husband's "signals" very well, and we haven't been able to sit down and genuinely talk about it. I'm too busy working. He's too busy running errands for my parents. It's very much like being on a treadmill: A whole lot of work just to run in place.

I don't want this to be the core of my existence. And we've been doing it for so long, it's begining to look like a Pattern.

It's a Wonderful Life

Waiting for the clan to arrive this morning - I'm prepared with lox and bagels and scones from Starbucks.

A few highlights from the holiday weekend:

Took mom to the hairdresser to have her hair styled. I advised her not to wash it out until after the weekend. So, when Angie arrived Thursday morning to assist with her shower, mom had 3 pairs of underwear over her head. A polyester turban of sorts...because she didn't have a shower cap.

I continue to refuse to believe the diagnosis for Pierce. He is communicative. He is loving. He is just, well, slow at talking. In February, he turns three and will start attending a pre-school for special kids. Which means he'll be in with others who have cerebral palsy, downs syndrome, et. al. I've lived long enough to learn and appreciate the advantages of knowing these types of kids. But a part of me is scared that this is going to somehow limit him...prevent him from being with kids in public school and learning those social graces. I love him so much, it sometimes feels as though my heart is going to burst.

Last night my sisters and I were lamenting about the fact that our body composition takes after my dad's side of the family...which has a strong heritage of farming women. Mom is tiny - just 5' 3" tall and barely weighs 100lbs. And she's bodacious. And you could drive a volkswagon through her thighs, they're so skinny. My sisters and I are 5' 8" tall and we weigh, well, a lot more than 100lbs. Dad listened intently to our complaints. Then he apologized for not having bigger breasts. And somehow, that statement made sense.

I continue to have a chronic infatuation with the little critters in our backyard. Everyday, the squirrels get peanuts in the shell, peanuts not in the shell, sunflower seeds, corn and fresh water. So when I ran across two very lifelike stuffed-animal squirrels while out shopping yesterday, I had to buy them. I brought them home and mom gave them The Eye. She picked them up and started to pet them. She carried them around the house and sat next to them on the couch. "Hmph," I thought. "Ignore the signals. Ignore the signals." In the end, I couldn't, and mom went home with the squirrels.

Dad and I have played a few games of Canasta. It's just like old times. Which is what this holiday weekend is all about, isn't it?

Dear God,

I'm sorry that I continue to hurt inside so much despite all of the incredible blessings you have passed my way. I think I understand now that the purpose of my life is not for me to be happy. Which is really hard for me to accept, because I've always thought that was the goal.

I'm trying to love other people despite the storms that beat against me. To live with compassion and to not judge. To live from my heart and to do the Right Thing, even when that means I don't come out on top.

I'm sorry that I'm so competitive. It's hard to control sometimes.

I'm grateful for the moments that I feel content - even the blips of happiness that override the inner angst. But my hurt is always there. Will it ever go away?

I know that I have more in my life than I deserve. Sometimes I try to boost myself up by thinking that my childhood was so bad that you've given me abundance to make up for it. Deep down, I know that's not true. Because I've seen people live tragic lives without ever getting to a better place, a place of peace.

I'm sorry I'm jealous of the woman at mom's table who just won the lottery. I'm sorry that I can't feel happy for her. I'm sorry that I keep wishing that it was me.

I know that this is partly tied to the story about Mr. Webb and the reason he didn't leave his money to my Aunti Hazel. I'm sorry I get mad whenever someone brings up Webb Towers at USC and for being furious at my dad for years because he was the reason we weren't in the will. I'm sorry I've allowed myself to feel a deficit from all of this for so long.

I'm tired, God. Tired of feeling heartbroken over the tough paths my family faces. Tired of beating myself up. Tired of seeing the bad guys "win." Tired of dealing with criminals at work. Tired of dealing with petty issues. Tired of wishing I was someone else or somewhere else.

I wish I could see the hope in my own life that I am able to see in others' lives. I wish I could feel excited again, and just take everything in stride. I feel so blase.

This is my prayer for 2005. Please, God. I'd like to feel hope for myself again. I've come a long way, I know. I just don't want to get stuck here and live this melancholy existence forever. If there is a lesson that I need to learn so I can move on, please God, please help me get it. I really want to move on.

Thank you for giving me such a wonderful husband.
Thank you for helping my parents experience peace and happiness.
Thank you for helping Ann catch the cancer before it spread.
Thank you for giving Denise one daughter who brings her sheer joy.
Thank you for giving us Pierce.
Thank you for providing me with a job that keeps us afloat.
Thank you for my cats.
Thank you for teaching me about forgiveness this year. I'm sorry I was so resistant.
Thank you for teaching me to respect the value of life - human, animal & insect.
Thank you for keeping my husband's family well.
Thank you for keeping us warm and safe and dry.
Thank you for continuing to give me a chance to do good.

Please continue to bless this family and please help us as we start the process of the adoption again. In your son's name I pray. I love you.

This is an amazing story. It makes you wonder how genetics work to create this type of skill so early. Marla started painting when she was 1 year old. Now, at the ripe old age of 4, her paintings sell for up to $5,000.

Halloween, 2003. 

There comes a point where one has to choose: Get out of bed, take a shower and get out of the house...or stay put and risk having your eyeballs pop out of your head from crying so hard.

The futility of living in despair is not lost upon me. But it's not as though I have a spicket inside me that can be turned righty-tighty to stop this avalanche of grief.

I did the one thing I swore that I would never do - I called my sister last night sobbing. I know she's already been through the wringer...wondering if the initial diagnosis was correct...waiting for the appointment with the best pediatric neurologist in Southern California. Having to sit in a public space and hear a dreaded confirmation of the diagnosis. I know that there have been days when she has been distraught, and the last thing I wanted to do was heap more distress at her.

But talking to her was good. It helped us both...by putting her in the role of advisor and by giving me insight into Hope. They caught it early. My nephew is putting words together and learning imaginary play. He kisses them smack-dab on the lips with love. He occasionally plays with other children at the park. Actions that will hopefully overshadow the other stuff: His penchant for repetitive behavior, his inability to speak in sentences, his temper tantrums, et al.

Yes, a single sliver of Hope rests in my heart among the dull aches and pain. It's small and slight...but it's real.

Ten hours later and nothing has changed.

I've been crying all day and on the verge of throwing up. I have no one to talk to, no one who can counsel me through this.

Autistic. autisTic. auTISTIC. auTIstIc. AutistiC. AutiStIc. a.u.s.t.i.c.

I cannot get this out of my head. My heart is broken.

"Enough is Enough!" is a worthy sentiment, though something that we cannot enforce. The poor little guy was born to an unwed mother, ultimately rejected by her and raised by his grandmother, and he will never know who his father is.

I don't care to learn anymore lessons in life. I don't need any more tragedy or heartache. I don't want the good that will come from this. I don't want any of it. I want my little sweet boy to be happy and healthy and normal. I want my sister to catch a break. I want to stop crying from the utter grief of knowing this sweet little guy will be challenged for his entire life.

I would prefer that it be me.

November 20, 2004

Eminem Set for Another Big Week on the Charts.

Brawl Breaks Out at Pacers - Pistons game.

Michael Jackson Sued by L.A. Antiques Dealer.

U2 Likely to Surpass $104 Million Dollar Tour.

Jill's Nephew Diagnosed with Autism.


This world is a stupid place motored by trivial pursuits and idiots fighting over a basketball game or who's going to be the next big millionaire. My heart is broken by something that truly matters...but will never make the front page of the newspaper or a bullet point on Yahoo News. A single phone call, on a Saturday morning, and suddenly everything around me is frivolous. Let the world keep spinning to an audience of clowns. I don't give a rats-ass about any of it anymore.

Memories Are Made Of This

I attended a team building event at the Ritz Carlton in Half Moon Bay last week. After a morning session, we broke for an afternoon of spa treatments. I chose a massage and was delighted by the hot towels wrapped around my feet and over my shoulders. Lavender oil was applied liberally and it was a refreshing experience. Afterward, I went outside to sit on the deck that overlooks the ocean. As the sun dipped down toward the horizon, bagpipe music was played by a man dressed in a Scottish kilt. The ocean wind was fierce and crisp and it stung my face, but I sat in my Adirondack chair wrapped in a cozy, warm sweater. Flocks of pelicans flew by, battling the wind with grace. The fairway, off to my right, extended as far as I could see. It was a beautiful, saturated block of bright green...and I imagined this must be what Nova Scotia looks and feels like. The craggy coastline and the foamy, white waves crashing against the rocks were mesmerizing and I felt renewed just by having soaked it all in.

It was a perfect moment, one that I will bookmark in my memory for a long, long time.

"I've been cold since I lost my sight 20 years ago." An explanation by my sister about how she has to layer her clothing now because she is constantly chilled.

But I was focused on something else. "...lost my sight 20 years ago." It was like a sheet of ice water crashing over my head. Twenty years. I'm still shaking my head. It's such a very long time to not be able to see...the gas stove when you want to heat water for tea. The socks in the washing machine that you try to match. Your apartment, which should be filled with light but it's not because there is no need for you to flip the overhead on and waste money on the electricity. So instead, you sit in darkness. Internally and externally.

Being blind is horrible and hard. And my sister has lived with it for twenty years.

The first two years Ann had to travel with a ziplock bag because she got vertigo whenever she rode in a car. She threw up most anytime we went anywhere.

Ann's fingers are constantly covered in bandaids because she cuts/burns/jabs them on something. Same goes for her shins.

Six months after she lost her sight, I took her to to the flea market in Huntington Beach. It was always a favorite Saturday-morning activity of hers. She was holding on to my left arm and somehow, I don't know how to this day, I walked her straight into a concrete lamppost. We both fell to the sidewalk and cried. I have never been able to release the guilt and self-anger and despair.

There are facets of good that have evolved out of this tragedy, but the truth is that the loss of her sight is awful and she'll never be the same.

In the photo above, my sister Denise is the oldest and I am the youngest. Ann is in the middle.

This is how I like to remember her. Happy.

photographer unknown

If I could be anywhere in the world right now...I would choose the island of Moorea. This could quite possibly be the most beautiful place on earth. My hands are almost aching to reach into the water - to skim the very top and feel the warmth. I'd love to slowly immerse my entire body into the water and just feel it envelope me...so that I become a part of it. True beauty that is even more poignant because of its stark simplicity.

Whoa, Nelly.

Something strange is underway.

It started several months ago when I was told that I was one of the top 2 managers who scored the highest on a management assessment (test). This basically means that I did better than my boss, my peers, even my VP. This came as quite a surprise, so I just tucked the incident into a back pocket in my brain and kept going my merry little way.

Since then, I've held a few training and think tank sessions with my team...and I'm truly starting to feel good about what I do. What I mean, is that I'm not going through the day with anxiety...wondering if I am doing everything correctly and not getting into trouble in someone's mind. This is something that I have always dwelled on - and it made me edgy and intense and unsatisfied.

I dunno. Maybe it's because I'm getting older. Maybe it's tied to the transcontinental shift in my emotions over the financial issues on the homefront - and the realization that I am married to a wonderful man no matter how much or how little he earns. Maybe it's the way that I'm suddenly fulfilled by all that I have. Or my fascination with birds and squirrels and the gentle dance of leaves falling off trees. Or my newly found willingness to consider losing weight... suddenly feeling safe to do it. And the fact that I no longer blurt out..."Don't touch me!" when I torment myself with stabbing, hurtful thoughts of how I have failed. Certainly, it has to be tied to the forgiveness issue with my parents...and my desire to take absolutely nothing from them, but to just give...and then give again.

I sincerely don't know what is happening to my constitution, but it is most definitely mellowing out and becoming settled. My newly found confidence and happiness at work plays a major role. But so does the softer stuff. The opening of my heart.

There was no ticker-tape parade and certainly no Paparazzi staking out my local haunts to commemorate my 42nd birthday. But I did get a decorated office, a 40lb chocolate cake (no kidding on this one) that fed my entire staff and a beautiful bouquet from the Hub. Overall, it was a very nice day. Not too many years ago, I used to feel excited about my birthday and I looked forward to all of the attention. Now, I'm mellowed out and do my best to dodge the festivities. Family members ask me..."What do you want?" And my reply, "Absolutely nothing. Just come visit and spend some time with us. We'll throw something on the barbeque." It's all about relationships and connections now. I realize this shift in values isn't supposed to take place until I'm in my 60s or 70s....but hey, I spent the majority of my young life being materialistic and shallow and this transition is long, long overdue.

The sycamores have turned a golden hue. At any one time, leaves will sporadically flutter from the wind...while the ones next to them sit perfectly still. I love the depth of the colors - and how the blue sky compliments the gold and rust tones. 

I call him John McCain. There's something about the way he purses his lips that reminds me of him. 

Atlas Man. He greets all of our friends, family and neighbors. 

This is a photo of my Aunti Hazel's dress shop in Redlands, dated 1929. I wish I could have known her back then...to be a part of the weekend parties that she hosted, observe the way she dressed and just be a part of the fun. I used to try on her shoes, which were stored in individual boxes in her closet. They were made from gorgeous fabrics - not leather. Satin, raw silk...in wild colors like fuscia and puce.  

Autobiography, Part IV
1990

My dad never held a job for more than a year, and he was unemployed most of the time. There were nights when we didn't have enough money for food - so we ate artichokes for dinner 3 days in a row...because they were 10 for $1. Apparently, we were on welfare though neither of my parents talk much about it. I know that we had to go on welfare when my dad left, because he took all of the money in the checking and savings accounts and left us with nothing.

There wasn't any money to go on trips or take vacation. We did go to Disneyland one year when I was about 7, although we weren't allowed to buy anything, not even one of those balloons with the ears.

My sisters loved telling me how I was not "planned." It was just supposed to be the two of them, and mom's pregnancy with me was a thing of shame. First, she felt she was too old to be pregnant (32) and secondly, she had no idea how they were going to be able to afford me. Mom decided that no one was to discuss the pregnancy, and my sisters were threatened to not tell any of the neighbors. Mom didn't leave the house in her later months and then I just sort of "appeared."

I think my presence put mom over the edge. She just couldn't handle life...or me. She had some sort of breakdown when I was 5, though I don't remember it much. She had to go away for a month and my grandmother moved in to take care of us.

To give my mom a "break," I spent most of my summers living in Corona del Mar with my Aunti Hazel, who was technically my great-aunt. Aunti Hazel was born in 1898 and was raised on an orange farm in Redlands, California. She was an independent soul and didn't marry until she was in her late 50's. Until then, she own a ladies dress shop and invested her money in real estate and blue chip stocks. When she did marry, she was already a wealthy woman. However, the man she married was one of the top insurance salesmen in the state of California and was a millionaire. They were together for about 10 years until he died of a heart attack - which was before I was born.

Aunti Hazel's house was perched on a cliff overlooking the ocean. I remember waking up to the sounds of fog horns and the smell of the salty ocean breeze.

It was the only time in my childhood when I felt safe. Her daily routines were predictable and something that I could count on. Bacon for breakfast, cocktails at 6pm. She had a double scotch and I drank a Coke from a crystal highball set upon a little, black serving tray. Dinner always included candlelight. The best part was that we talked. About school, about my day on the beach, about the new people I had met in the neighborhood. She was interested in me. She also enjoyed answering my questions about her childhood or her siblings who had passed away years before. Opel, Homer, Harold, Neva, Clara Bell. She was the baby in a very large family.

Aunti Hazel knew about my parent's financial situation and helped us out all of the time. She bought me school clothes for every year that I can remember...all the way until I was 18. She would take me to Robinsons or Buffums and let me pick out anything that I wanted. Sweaters, pants, shoes and socks. She also gave me $4,000 for my first car...a chocolate brown Toyota Corolla (she did the same for my two older sisters.) , and she paid half of the cost for me to go to college.

Aunti Hazel taught me the value of being goal-driven and focused. She modeled what is possible in this life with a little elbow grease, a lot of blessings, and determination. Plus, she saved her money and invested it wisely.

Every day, Aunti Hazel told me that she loved me through her gifts and support. However, she never said the words out loud.

If I could live my life over again, the one major change would be that I would tell Aunti Hazel that in many ways, she saved my life. She helped me see another way to live. She helped me understand how one can start with nothing and build something solid and stable. She helped me see how I, too, could help others who have very little.

Autobiography, Part III
1990

My sister Ann began losing weight very quickly when she was sixteen. When she dipped below 118lbs, my mom told her to Stop. Ann tried, but the weight just melted off her body.

I remember the shouting matches between them. Mom screamed, "I know you're on drugs, dammit. Stop lying to me!" And Ann would respond, crying, "Nooo, I'm not! I swear."

This went on for about a month. Finally, mom took Ann to the doctor and she was diagnosed with diabetes. She would have to strictly regulate her diet and take two shots of insulin daily for the rest of her life.

Ann went into shock and became depressed. Adding to this tragedy was my family's inability to acknowledge and deal with the situation. My mother felt guilty and blamed herself. She would sit at the dinner table, rock back and forth and cry, "Oh God. It was me. It was me. My Uncle Eddie died from diabetes." The rest of us were unsure of what to say. Mom's guilt turned into Ann's shame. And to this day, this horrible pattern still exists.

This started Ann on a pattern of total denial. Her diet included donuts, chocolate and ding-dongs. None of her friends were ever told that she had diabetes. I was sworn to strict silence. Ann refused to participate in a maintenance program that mandated twice-yearly visits to her physicians. Eventually, she began having sinus headaches that lasted for months. Still, she refused to go to the doctor. One day she woke up and had lost the sight in one eye. At that point she began treatment to save the other eye, but she developed toxic shock about a year later and that destroyed the blood vessels in her only good eye. My sister Ann was blind at the age of 30.

To this day, Ann does not talk about being blind or diabetic and none of her friends or colleagues know about her illness. My other sister Denise and I harp on her to go to the doctor...and she swears that she does, but we have our doubts. Ann falls into diabetic shock frequently - about 3 times a month. If she stays in that state long enough, she'll fall into a coma. Consequently, my sister Denise makes it a point to talk to Ann every single day. She and her husband have found Ann in a semi-coma so many times, she's scared to death to not talk to her at least every three hours. Yet Ann continues to cut her insulin down very low (it takes a lesser toll on her body and organs) and the science isn't perfect.

It would help, of course, if she would go to the doctor.