Free to be me

For the most part, I take things in stride. I get it from my grandmother and my mother. You could tell them the sky is falling and they would say, "oh no...let's see what we can do about that".

My grandmother, "Mimi", died last year. Her battle with cancer (her third) was pretty hard, but she took it in stride. She drove herself to 20 radiation treatments, tried her best to maintain a positive attitude, and continued smiling right until the end. The year before, she lost her only son to cancer. She sat right there while my mom cared for him - watching her child wither away. I can't imagine. Right before the funeral home came to get my uncle from my mom's house, we told my grandmother she needed to say goodbye. Through his entire ordeal and even through her own sickness that was the only time I saw her cry. She went in and looked at him. She hugged him and sobbed. She looked at us and said, "he's going to be with Grampy (my grandfather) now". She walked away and went to my mom's kitchen, got herself comfy in her favorite chair and said, "I think I'd like some chicken salad".

My mom recently found out that she has cancer. Leave it to her to have some rare form -  neuro endocrine. Surgery is the answer and it will happen in the next couple of weeks. By now she's already made her lists of foods and snacks to keep at her house for my family while we are doctoring her. She's bought new patio furniture for her days of rest and recovery. And she has a list of things that have to get done.

So yeah, I come from the kind of stock that just rolls with the punches. I don't brag about it. That's just the way it is. Sometimes something will happen and a whole army of emotions goes to war inside me. While others are crying or getting angry, I'm thinking..."what's next?", "how do I fix this?", "what's the right thing to say?"...so I usually spring into take charge mode or do nothing - just wait.

I have my moments where I get a little loud or animated (that's when the blood of my father and grandfather kicks in). But I was raised to maintain a ladylike calm and to not act in haste. My grandmother used to say "don't be so loud".  Even when my grandfather died and I tried to get in the bed with him, my grandmother told me to be quiet so as not to wake the other patients in the hospital. My mom told me to calm down and let him have a peaceful journey. They were sitting there like it was an afternoon tea - well maybe not a tea. They were commenting how peaceful he looked, thank God no more pain...blah blah blah. I went in the bathroom and looked at myself.  "Oh no," I thought, "this just won't do". So I got myself together and by the time the next nurse came in we were all having tea (figuratively speaking of course) and comforting the nurse.

Because of this thing I've inherited from two extraordinary women, people tend to freak out when I'm showing anything other than mild forms of sadness, anger, frustration, grief, or any other emotion that makes folks uncomfortable. It drives me nuts! Don't  get me wrong, I appreciate the concern of others - truly I do. But it took me many years to grow to the place where I'm free to be me.

My husband and my kids are very good at "getting it". And even though they don't always understand the things that send me into a tailspin, they mostly sit by in silence watching me spin and then go on about their usual business once they are sure I don't need anything from them.

Last night my husband sat close by (but not too close) while I sulked, yelled, cried, and stared into space. He tiptoed out while I sat in the dark. I was feeling everything and nothing...work, autism, college tuition, my mother's upcoming surgery, aging...I needed a good cleansing release and I got it.

This morning I woke up feeling great! My husband gave me a quick once over, assessing whether my storm had passed, and we moved on to talk of food and and the rest of the day.

For a long time, I compared myself to others and wondered why I'm so different, so strange, so weird. Then God started sending me equally and wonderfully weird folks to fill my life and I realized weird is good.

And it's good to be free to be ME!

60 and 28

It had not been long since I arrived home from work. I was relaxing a little and toying with the idea of ditching my workout. I was doing double electronics duty playing games on my iPad and halfway following the usual end of day catch up between my my running buddies in our group text when I saw the words "Did you see what happened in Instanbul?" from my friend Juliet. "Yes, very sad," Danielle responded.

"Reading now," I typed. A queasy anxiousness settled in my tummy while I entered "Istanbul" on my iPad.  I did a quick sweep of the first story, skimming the article to get the basics of what happened.  "Suicide bombers" "outside the airport terminal" "chaos" "at least 60 injured" "28 dead"...I stopped reading.

I asked my husband if he'd heard the news about Istanbul And he hadn't  - no surprise there as he'd spent the day nursing his wounds from a tumble he took on Friday.

Anyway, he asked me what happened and I told him.

"Suicide bomber," I said, as I shook my head and made the same clucking sound my mother and grandmother made to show disgust (among other things).

"How many dead?"  he asked.

"60 injured and 28 dead," I responded.

He made a little "humph" sound, shaking his head in the same slow motion I had done earlier, then walked walked away.

Just like that our conversation was over. In seconds.

I picked up my iPad and my phone again and continued what I was doing before.

Then, it hit me.

I recall my grandparents watching the television as the news of terrorist attacks broke. There was no CNN then, no 24 hour news outlets. Every channel stopped their programming to broadcast emergency updates. My grandfather would watch the news so long that my grandmother would get up, clucking and fussing in disgust. She couldn't take watching so much pain and didn't see the point of watching it over and over again. I remember being fixated on the grainy images...Ireland, London, the thrwarted American Airlines hijacking, Saudi Arabia, Israel, Belgium, a second (failed) American Airlines hijack attempt, Italy, Germany, France, Kenya...

I remember shivering in fear - tears spilling down my face no matter how I tried to hold them back. My grandfather reassured me that most of these places were far away. That didn't stop the crying. I was so sad when they showed the kids that lost their parents and the parents that lost their kids. But eventually, and for a few years, I believed my Grampy that those bad things didn't happen here. I held the same false sense of security that many Americans still hold today.

As I grew older and started tuning into the news myself, I became painfully aware of the reality.  The CIA shooting, the first World Trade Center attack, the murders of the women's clinic doctors, Ted Kaczynski's  ( "Unabomber") attacks, the Brooklyn Bridge shooting, Oklahoma, the Olympic bombing, the Jewish Community Center shooting, and the Empire State Building shooting all occurred during my twenties and they all occurred on American soil. I would sit, terrified, watching the news of each of these events unfold with the same disbelief and panic I felt as a kid.

Somewhere along the way, it seems I've been numbed and didn't even realize it. The events happen so fast, so frequently. The media coverage is so immediate. I am no longer surprised by these attacks, no matter where they are. I expect them.  I accept them as part of this cruel cruel world. I pause; I read (skim);  I tune in then tune out; I shake my head; I cluck in disgust; I'm numb.

I don't know how long it took for those horrible people to carry out such a ruthless attack that took lives and changed countless more forever.

 I do know it only took me and my husband less than a minute to discuss it and move on with shakes of our head.

I do know that those people and their families deserve more from me. Not just in Istanbul, but all of them.

So tonight, I'm allowing the anesthesia to wear off, I'm accepting the pain and the fear, and swallowing the waves of nausea that rise up as I look at my daughter and my husband and think of all those people who lost people they love.

I'm pretty sure that going numb is a coping mechanism. I'm pretty sure I'll never be numb again.