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The Day Tipper Gore Saved my Life

There was an afternoon maybe 6 months after the birth of my second child.  The baby was secured in a little bouncy seat, my 2 year old playing in the sun on the window sill of cinder blocks in the boys’ dorm room that doubled as our apartment.  I was wearing, honest to God, a shift.  Yes, really.  Those of you with Italian grandmas will know what that is.  The same shift I had been wearing for several days, I might add.  I was still carrying a few stone of baby weight and the after-effects of eclampsia.  My father was recovering from a colostomy reversal; my mother had just been diagnosed with the lung cancer that would in less than a year claim her life at 65.  My husband was working on campus, a short walk away and yet somehow never available.  I was fat, tired, overwhelmed by the responsibilities of motherhood, mourning the loss of my career – I had quit my doctoral program to focus on my family.  Nothing seemed within my control.  I sat on the couch in the shift, eating doughnuts and watching bad daytime TV.

Suddenly, there was Tipper Gore on the screen. The wife of the Vice President appeared before me, regaling the talk show host with details of her own battle with depression.  She mouthed all the usual platitudes:  you’re not alone, help is available, there’s no shame.   I stared at the screen, recalling being in the hospital after the birth of my first child, while a woman in the next room cried without ceasing.  She would stagger to the door and the desk nurse would pop up to usher her back to bed, smoothing her hair and saying “it’s ok – we’re getting you your happy pill.”  

I felt a stab of aversion that I was on the verge of needing The Happy Pill.  Wasn’t I stronger than that?  More self-aware?  I had been through rounds of therapy already.  I knew what my problems were.  Medication is for the weak.  

Nevertheless, I called the scrolling number below Tipper’s head for a 5 minute phone screen.  Nailed it.  I’ve always scored very well on tests.  The screener on the other end of the phone had the appointment booked before I could refuse. 

In the end, although I credit Ms. Gore, I think it was the shift what done it for me.  I mean, who wears one of those?  Whatever the impetus, that call set me on a path.  Not a straight path by any means, but the first healthy step on the journey to where I am now.  

Thanks Tipper.  

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Every Day is like Wednesday

Since my last post, the world has closed in upon itself.  The bell tolls and we’ve all retired to our respective corners.   Fear more than disease seems to permeate the air.  People when they do dare to leave the house dress like asbestos workers, eyes darting to search out anyone breaching the perimeter.  In the stores, we pile frozen foods, toilet paper, cleaning supplies up in our carts; fights break out over bleach wipes.  

Fear is the death of compassion.  

So I’ve been home for a while now and fortunate in that I can work remotely in comfort without fear.  No one comes in; I have few needs that require my going out.  I’ve plenty of work too – most people don’t see insurance as an exciting field and they’re right – but at such times as these, being a health insurance and employee relations expert has made me highly sought after.  The lethargy that has hamstrung others, including many in my own organization hasn’t hit me.  I’ve not baked anything or started drinking at 3 or watched so much as one minute of Tiger King.  

Maybe if I had, I’d be better off at this moment. 

In general I like to think of myself as energetic and goal oriented.  Checklists are my jam; seeing the elimination of tasks, a completed report, a mowed lawn, a nicely-turned paragraph, brings me joy.  Here’s your chance, I thought.  All this self-improvement stuff, more time reading, praying, creating – by the time we go back to the office, I’m going to be my Best Self Ever.  And so I am, assuming my best self eats an entire coffee cake at a sitting, walk-runs a 3 mile jog, and cries in the shower (which are rather less frequent than they could be).  

Hubris as every high school English student knows is overweaning pride.  Thinking himself better than others, better than even the gods, Oedipus ignores the prophesies of wiser men and commits the very crimes he is warned against.  Pride is a very dangerous sin because it’s the only one that can catch you even when you’re trying to be good.  Start feeling a bit too virtuous about yourself and wham.  Pride.  

Here’s the conundrum.  You want to do the “right” thing.  Be a ‘good” person.  You should have goals; it’s how things get done.  It’s harder to find a path if you’re not thinking about a possible destination.  And accomplishments make us feel happy – we’re built for creativity and meaningful work.  With me, however, I occasionally find that I am building myself up on these things, buttressing my flagging ego by proving myself better than.  There’s not even a real object of that comparison. Just better than something else.  

Humility is hard.  It needs to operate from a secure space for it to be fruitful.  Because it is, humility is the ultimate fruit-bearing characteristic.  When you acknowledge that there’s more than you, something larger, something greater, that’s when the real achievements come to the fore.  Sometimes that means realizing you’re not always going to play at the top of your game or even at the upper half.  Sometimes that means being okay with not being okay, hackeyed though that phrase may be.  You have to pull in, increase the tension, like a bowstring as you pull back an arrow.  If you throw an arrow, it won’t getting too far.  But when you pull that string back and hold it ack steady, briefly,  look ahead and seek the target, your chances of coming at least within range of the goal are much improved.  

So… what?  Try not to compare so much.  Try not to think I have to be X or Y in order to be worthwhile.  Try simply to be the expression of God that I am, that each of us is.  Whatever that may be.   

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Next!

Well, that was short-lived.

Back in February, I was researching 24 hour flights to Kathmandu, wearing a Darth Vader breathing mask, and reading up on cerebral edema.   Gathering my resources, checking out sales on supplies, shoring up my team to take over while I was off grid.  

Now it’s April, and while the Adventure to Annapurna is not officially off the 2020 table, I’m pretty sure that it will come to that.  Given the preparations necessary, I need to decide within the next few weeks.  But as with so many decisions that we think we’re making, I am becoming subtly aware that the choice has been made already.  

So instead of Nepal 2020, it will be Nepal 2021.   

That does however leave 2020 wide open for some new scheme to be born.  What?

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Lessons from Skiing

I’ve delayed posting anything after my first entry in paralysis over perfection.   Maybe I am terrible. Maybe I have nothing to say. 

Maybe I need to care less about what others think and more about what it means to me.  

Just do it.  Move forward.  Move anywhere. There were times in my life when I have thrown the cards up in the air, feeling them fall all around me, hitting my face, shifting my glasses.  A right mess.  I have crawled on my knees to pick them up and reorder them.  Sat crying in the disarray, not knowing how to move.  

Not knowing is the hard part.  I am not comfortable with being wrong, despite being so far more often than being right.  And I did move forward each time, surviving to live another day, make more mistakes.  Learn a bit more.

I learned to ski late in life, in my mid-forties.  I would watch the ski schools with their tiny students, 5 years olds following the instructor like ducklings, fearlessly flying down the mountain, as I crawled along, worried how I would be transported if I should break a hip.  

What I’ve discovered in skiing is that the more you try to control, the tenser your muscles grip, the more likely you are to fall and break a hip.  

There is much to learn from activity, from physicality.  When we let things happen, they happen as they should.  When we breathe and relax, we can flow into that movement, whether it is skiing or running or living.  

So I decided I would leap out there and throw up posts like so much bad graffiti.  Hell, there’s no one reading them anyway.  I haven’t told anyone about this.  So what am I afraid of?