Connected by Crazy

I made a best friend the other day. Granted, the relationship only lasted about 30 seconds. Maybe it was a minute, I'm not sure. Nevertheless, for those few seconds we were the only two people in the world. The next thing I knew, she was gone.

Never underestimate the power of a chance encounter with a stranger.

(Source: Google Images) 

The day hadn't started off great. Well, actually the day started off just fine but shortly after waking it took a bit of a turn. As I was enjoying some early morning coffee and alone time, my peace was disrupted by a phone call from my beloved cat's veterinarian. The doctor apologized for calling so early but said that my Princess's blood chemistry revealed some fairly dire health concerns. My girl is quite sick and while we can't cure her, the vet felt the most compassionate thing we can do is make her comfortable so she feels better until the inevitable happens. That call and the subsequent trip to the veterinarian's office, with the unhappy cat in tow, changed the tone for my day. Although I'm not one for feeling sorry for myself, the truth is, I was decidedly sadder.

I couldn't just sit around and feel sad, though. There were things to do and life to be lived. I love my cat very much but she is, after all, a cat and not a human. I will do what I can to make her remaining days comfortable and when she dies I will grieve, but I've been through enough feline deaths and human deaths to know they aren't exactly the same. Life will go on and, in fact, on that particular day a lot of life needed to happen.

Anna was home for Thanksgiving break and she, Steve, and I set out to do a few errands. I needed to go to Costco. Of all things. Two days before Thanksgiving. Who in their right mind goes to Costco two days before Thanksgiving?  Apparently all of Denver.

And us.

The crowds were thick. Oodles of people were steering gigantic carts in front of others, cutting them off without warning, to grab a bite-sized sample of canned cinnamon rolls. People in motorized shopping carts weaved wildly through throngs of shoppers, as though they were being pursued in a high-speed police chase. Small children dawdled in the middle of the isle, dancing and singing to themselves while harried shoppers tried to navigate past them.

A typical day at Costco.

I wasn't overly bothered by all the mayhem. It comes with the territory. If you're gonna go to Costco two days before Thanksgiving, don't expect to shop alone. The problem wasn't the mass of humanity buying groceries, office supplies, and twerking Santa's. No, the problem was my very own darling husband who, for whatever reason, chose this time, this location, and this day to temporarily go insane.

I'm not entirely sure what was the actual problem. We were at the store to purchase food for an event he was attending. Right there, in the middle of Costco chaos, Steve's ability to make any decisions vanished. Along with losing decision making capabilities, he lost all capacity for hearing and considering my suggestions. Frustration, anger, and agitation all entered the scene as we stood, in the way of frantic shoppers, having a circular conversation about what to buy. Or not. Reasoning skills made a hasty, stage right exit. It went on and on and on. At one point Steve stepped away and Anna quietly said to me, "Is this weird, or is it just me?" My response...."So weird!"

I had no idea what was happening to Steve, but look, we all get nutty at times. I get it. He just happened to have chosen a very bad day and a very busy place. At some point in the ever deteriorating scene, he decided to purchase a pre-made Ceaser salad. Whew. We started making our way from the back of the store to the cash registers, navigating the human landmines grabbing samples like they had been deprived of food for days. When we finally got close enough to survey the lines and choose a lane to stand in, a man whom I'd never seen before in my life, sidled up next to me and said hello. I said hello back. He proceeded to stand there smiling at me like I should know whatever secret he held. I awkwardly smiled back.

OMG. Now what was happening??

Finally he said, "I see you have a salad there." Glancing into the cart I said, "Yes, I do." He proceeded to say, "I just heard on the news that there is an e coli outbreak and they are recalling ALL Romaine lettuce."  Seriously? We just spent 45 minutes in chaos deciding what to buy and now, just as we are about to pay for it you tell me it is contaminated?  I thanked the man for telling me, as Anna quickly looked up the information on Google and confirmed that he was right, the announcement had just been issued. Literally. While we were debating what to purchase, the CDC had put out a statement saying all Romaine lettuce was unsafe to eat. There hadn't even been time to pull Romaine from the store shelves yet. A defeated Steve muttered, "Well, I can't buy that now," and pulled the salad out of the cart to return it to the refrigerated shelves in the back of the store. Back to square one.

As we stood in the mass of humanity with endless lines to the cash register, I said aloud, "This is crazy." A woman about my age, maybe a little older, standing next to me, surveyed the crowd and offered, "Oh yes, isn't it?" I turned to her and gesturing to all the people said, "Oh, I didn't mean all this. This I can handle. I'm talking about my husband." A couple of seconds of silence hung in the air and then her eyes widened, she threw back her head and started laughing. Loudly. Her response sparked my own laughter and she grabbed my hands. There we stood, in a sea of harried Costco shoppers, two strangers, holding hands and laughing with abandon. Knowingly. Our souls connected.

We've all been there.

When our laughter finally slowed, she released my hands and off she went, immediately melting into the hundreds of people. Right then, right there. A stranger had changed the tone of my day.

My cat was still sick and my husband was still a temporary nut case, but in those few moments of laughter with a stranger, I knew it was all going to be okay. I'd deal with the cat issues as they came and my husband would eventually return to the sane, charming man he usually is. Spontaneous, unabashed laughter with a total stranger had been the release valve I needed.

Here's the thing. We forget how connected we are as humans. I didn't have to explain to my momentary buddy what had transpired with Steve. She just knew. Maybe not the details, but she knew. She had been there. That man who told me not to buy the salad cared enough to keep me from buying something potentially harmful. And that person who darted in front of me to get a tiny slice of ham, we had something in common too. Maybe not ham lust but...something. There is some experience or feeling we've both had that is a point of connection.

All it takes is a moment, a comment, or a small action to realize we are all in this together. Despite how it seems, there is more of love in this life than hate.

It is easy to get distracted by all the noise and fear and 'other-ing' bombarding us on the daily. Sometimes it just takes a burst of laughter with a stranger to remember.

We are all connected.

And our connection is love.

My Two Brains

My favorite color is fuchsia. Except sometimes it is red. And I love the independent spirit of cats. Only, I enjoy the eager friendliness of dogs too. I truly value the benefits of a healthy diet. But my favorite food is cookies made with real butter, white flour, and sugar.

F. Scott Fitzgerald is credited with saying, "The test of a first-rate intelligence is the ability to hold two opposed ideas in the mind at the same time and still retain the ability to function." Presumably he said this during a bout of sobriety, but it is a powerful and meaningful quote regardless of his state of mind when he wrote it.

I'm not entirely sure it is a test of first-rate intelligence. Maybe it is just a test of being human. Regardless, I've been holding two very opposed ideas in my mind a lot lately. Each with a great deal of intensity. We will be leaving Anna at college for the first time tomorrow. This makes me feel both happy and sad.

On the one hand, I've looked forward to this day for years. She's always been highly motivated and smart and talented. I knew one day she'd leave for college because it was the only natural outcome of who she has been up until now. She has worked hard for this opportunity and I'm immensely proud of her.

 

On the other hand, I've dreaded this day for years. She's my baby girl and we've had an unusually close relationship throughout her whole life. I can't imagine what life will be like not seeing and hugging her everyday. It leaves me feeling a little desperate.

Part of me is so excited for what she will learn and experience, the way she will grow, and the opportunities in front of her, that I can hardly contain myself. The other part wants to curl into a fetal position and cry for knowing I'll miss her company so much it will hurt. At least she could have chosen a college in the same state.

I've been Googling strategies for containing tears so I'm not that mother while we are moving her in to her residence hall and saying goodbye. One suggestion was to pinch the skin between my thumb and forefinger hard to keep myself from crying. The assumption being that physical pain will be a distraction from emotional pain. I might try it. I also might leave with a bruised hand and still have a tear streaked face. Something tells me I'm not going to be the be the only mother who cries anyway. I'll try to be strong. I'll do my best not to grab her by the ankles and sob. I make no guarantees though. 

I remind myself, daily, that we will really only be a phone call away. I've marked the calendar with her breaks and scheduled trips home. I also remind myself that I've known this day was coming since the moment she was born. In fact I've worked with her and for her so this day could come.

Nevertheless, it would have been nice if someone would have mentioned how this would feel before I started having babies. That full disclosure thing seems to be missing from the parenting contract. In a lot of ways.

Anyway, it is here now. The day my baby girl starts learning to live her life apart from me. She's ready. Even if I'm not sure I am.

Tomorrow I'll have moments when I'll feel I couldn't be happier.

And moments when I'll feel I couldn't be sadder.

But through it all I will still retain my ability to function.

I think.









 

September 12, a Dog, and Hope

All of us who lived through the horror of September 11th, 2001 feel the collective sadness of that day. Our hearts broke. We felt violated. Angry. Afraid. And, of course, we will all remember the moment when we realized what was happening. Life truly did change as a result of that one day. We still suffer. And we still prevail. We still grieve. And we still overcome.

The work of healing began on September 12th, 2001. Grief, as a process, never ends. It simply evolves. Anniversaries generate healing and pain; both at the same time. At other times, our feelings ebb and flow. The process of grief begins at the realization of loss. On September 11th, we watched in horror and disbelief. On September 12th, we awoke to the reality of what had happened.

On September 12, 2001 we stumbled about in our pain and anger and confusion and tried to figure out how to live. How could we possibly ever feel normal again? Tucked into all that emotion was one simple experience that highlighted the need for normalcy when nothing seemed normal. It provided hope. It didn’t change the world or make the tragedy go away. It didn’t minimize any of the confusion.

It just simply was.

My oldest child, Charles, was nearing 13 at the time, and he was being home schooled. Part of that schooling experience included volunteer work. I felt strongly that giving to others was equally as important as geography or spelling. Even before the events of September 11th, I tried to teach my children that becoming a good citizen of the world is as important as knowing algebra. As part of his schooling, Charles volunteered at the local library one day a week.

His day to volunteer fell on September 12th. Charles had been deeply affected by the events of the previous day. Being a highly intelligent, sensitive, and emotional young man, the terrorist attacks on the United States were equally as devastating to Charles as they had been to any adult. But, since Charles was in the process of crossing that life-bridge from childhood to adulthood, the vulnerability of it all seemed even more pronounced. The loss of innocence was profound.

Charles kept his commitment to volunteer at the library and was assigned to work with the children’s librarian during story time. The focus of story time was a series of books by Norman Bridwell about Clifford the Big Red Dog. The children’s librarian planned to read a few of Bridwell’s books and have Charles dressed in a Clifford the Big Red Dog costume to entertain the children.

Adults lined the wall of the children’s library while their kids heard the stories. The librarian bravely read the stories as enthusiastically as if this were any other September story time. The children listened and then…TA DA…Clifford made his grand appearance. Children jumped and clapped and squealed and ran up to Clifford the Big Red Dog. Charles, as Clifford, engaged each child with a wave or a hug or a high five. The kids were delighted! Their laughter punctuated an otherwise dark day.

One by one, the adults who observed, started to cry. Quietly. Every adult stood by and watched as their child became lost in the joy of being a child.

The children’s joy was so simple. So easy. So natural. Too young to comprehend what had happened the day before, they likely felt some of their parent’s sorrow, even if they were unable to attach meaning to it. But there, on that day when it felt like the entire world had fallen apart, my son donned a hot, red, fuzzy costume and an oversized floppy-eared dog head and brought joy into the lives of a handful of children.

There was hope.

Hope in the librarian who bravely forged ahead with normalcy for the children who needed it. Hope in the adults whose tears fell as they knew life had to go on. Hope in a serious, shy, 12-year old young man who carefully attended to every child in the room even in the midst of his own heartbreak. And hope in a handful of children who still had time to learn love and forgiveness, even as the world would never be the same.