Five

Since she was about two years old, my younger daughter Cammie and I could communicate without words.

Wait. That sounds a little stranger than I mean it. What I’m trying to say is that she can read my mind and I can read hers.

That didn’t help. Still sounding a bit crazy-lady.  But it’s true. It’s not all the time, and it’s certainly not to a Twilight Zone level of eeriness. It’s just really, really cool. Sometimes I know what she’s thinking just by the look on her face; that’s the most ordinary way our telepathy occurs. She knows how I’ll react to a comment, a jerk in traffic, a joke on Jimmy Fallon. I know what she’ll think about a certain movie preview, or how scared she is about an upcoming performance, no matter how much she tries to hide it.

All of that sounds pretty normal, natural for a mother and daughter who are as close as I’d like to think we are. Those kinds of nuances, moments of connection, are really just how well we know each other, how similarly we think, how deeply we feel. But the strangest part is this: our connection, our super-duper mind-reading capabilities are more complex than that. In fact, they can be downright creepy every once in a while. 

However, I love these little moments we share, and I treasure their sporadic nature. Out of the blue, I’ll ask, “Did you . . . “ and she will say, “Yes, yesterday,” answering correctly before I even asked the question. We will see something on the street while driving around the ‘hood, and it will remind both of us of something that happened in another city at another time ages ago, and we’ll both start talking about it at once.

One time, to test the reality of this zany form of communication, I asked a five-year-old Cammie, tucked in her booster in the back of the minivan, to play along with me:

“Cam, I’m going to think of someone in the world. Anyone. Famous or not. Anyone at all. Think for a second and tell me who you think of.”

I crunched my brain cells together hard and thought of her pediatrician. We hadn’t seen him in months, so I knew I was safe. No way she'd get this. I knew she’d say Laurie Berkner, the children’s singer, or Daddy, or the Wiggle in the yellow shirt.

“Um. Dr. Rowe?” she said loudly, answering in the form of a question.

I almost swerved off the highway. I can still remember the exact spot where she took all words out of my mouth.

We’ve not shared any crazy random connection like that ever since (and believe me, we’ve tried repeatedly), but you get the idea. She can read me like no one else, and she’s only thirteen years old. Sometimes, she guesses at what is making me tick at a given moment, and she’s off, but that’s rare, and she’s usually in the right ball park. Same is true for me, of course, but usually, I get it at least partly right.

Knowing what Cammie is thinking is not a mere superpower. It is a gift, even if it is one that is shared only occasionally. When that connection happens--that moment of insight when I know precisely what is worrying, delighting, antagonizing, or confusing her--I am grateful. Sometimes, it’s a lot of pressure. I feel like I need to fix or change or lighten the load or kick a bully’s ass, when really she’s just being her moody self, and I know should recognize that the moment is fleeting. When it happens the other way, and she figures out what is swishing around in me at a given moment, I feel good, understood. She will fill in my sentences or get frustrated with me before I speak, or we will crack up in absolute silence. And I just love it. It’s a soothing constant, a secret between us, a blessing. It is safety.

Last night, we shared a look. We were sitting close in a high school auditorium, watching fine arts dance students perform for rising freshmen. Our elbows touched lightly as we shared the armrest, and the room was lit only with the lights from the stage. All of a sudden, I turned to her and she to me. I could see her eyes, although their hazel was dim, and she mine. We smiled soft, tiny smiles, and in that moment, I swear I felt my heart open. I knew we were doing it, having one of those moments, one of those seconds in which we say everything and nothing at all. 

We smiled, we said it, we looked back at the stage and the moment passed. While I can’t be sure of the exact transcript, and I haven’t even spoken with her about this moment yet, I think it went a little something like this . . . 

I can’t believe you’re going to high school, my baby. I can’t believe we’re here.

I know, mom. I know.

I think this hurts a little.

I know, mom. I know.

Four

This will be a brief one, for a variety of mundane, exhausted-mommy-related reasons, not the least of which is that it’s 17 degrees outside (windchill of 4, thank you very much), and my warm bed and snuggly dog are calling my name.

Actually, it’s the dog I want to talk about, about a second shared with him today that tugged at my heartstrings a bit. I’m sure that, following my exciting life the way you must be compelled to do, you read about the cat guest we had in our home yesterday. It appears that my slightly neurotic, keenly anxious dog, Fergus, may have fallen in love. And now that she’s found her right place in the world again, he’s sad.

This morning, upon picking up the kitty at the vet and before her owner picked her up, we made a little kitty suite out of our upstairs bathroom. This bathroom gets few visitors, because it’s on the third floor, tucked around a corner. It’s big and bright and a nice warm spot for a temporarily homeless kitty. We made the mistake of letting Fergus accompany her up to her new digs (which she occupied all of 45 minutes). Because Fergus is the most intelligent canine on the planet (ask anyone), he remembered that’s where she was . . . all day.

I first discovered his lonesome pining when I got home from work and couldn’t find my sweet boy. Odd that he wasn’t greeting me at the door with gallops and spins. So I called him. Did not come running. Also odd. Went upstairs. Nothing. Finally, I heard the quiet jingle of his collar coming from the 3rd-floor landing where Fergus had planted himself, outside the closed door, waiting for his lost love. My older daughter found him up there earlier this evening, and my husband did just now. 

Poor Fergus. His lady love has disappeared. 

Just that second, finding him waiting outside a closed door, reminded me of a fact that once seemed silly to me: Dogs feel love. Perhaps in this case, it was simply intrigue (a mysterious lady all in black swooping in with all sorts of fancy smells and sounds is bound to wrap a boy’s brain in knots). But there’ve been a thousand times over the past six years when I’ve looked into his goopy little eyes and known that he loves me. Loves all of his humans. 

This amazes me. Dog lovers may be shrugging their shoulders, having known this for years, but it’s all new to me, because I’ve never loved a dog before. At the best, I tolerated them, and at the worst, their saliva created a wide assortment of hives all over me. The smell, the shedding, the licking . . . just never had an appeal. Until we invested our time, money, and hearts into welcoming our little hypoallergenic hero into our lives.

Fergus is so much a part of our family that none of us remember what it was like without him. His capacity to give and receive affection can save the crappiest day. What would we do without his crooked smile, nasty breath, and wet kisses? As all dog owners know, there’s nothing like coming home to a dog; be it a five-hour trip or a five-minute walk, the joy that awaits your return makes you feel like the most loved person on earth. 

Unless you’re a cat. Then you’ll have to settle for just knowing that a little lover is on the other side of a door down the street, pining away. Kitty, you don’t know what you’re missing.

Three

So, today I kidnapped a cat. 

It started while my older daughter and I were unloading groceries in the late afternoon “arctic megablastinator” or whatever the current meteorological name is for bitter cold. Ky, extremely cautious about most furry creatures, stated, “There’s meowing!” I had to ask her three times what the heck she was saying before I heard it too: repeated meowing coming from somewhere in our detached garage. Clearly, there was a little animal trapped inside. 

It was getting more and more blastinatious outside, so I sprang into superhero action quickly. I will spare you all the details of the stressful four or five hours that followed, mainly because there’s a lot to write and I'm still feeling a bit fragile, but they involved the following:

beautiful black kitty came to me instantly. . . she was a lover, a purrer, and a nudger . . .Fergus, the dog afraid of his own shadow, even liked her, and they followed each other around downstairs . . .panic set in as I realized, Holy Crap, I have a cat in my house and a daughter whose allergy will send her little asthmatic lungs into a state of chaotic phlegm . . . hives started forming on my forearms and legs because I guess I’m a little more allergic than I thought, too . . . sun was setting, things were closing, and I was at a loss . . . 

contacted HOA, sent them a picture, did same with Facebook. . . . feeling a little panicky, sent a more urgent Facebook request asking for advice from cat-loving friends . . . took the cat on a ride around my neighborhood to see if anyone was cat hunting in the freezing dusk . . . then, out of desperation and with the advice of a friend, took it to my vet.

I will most definitely leave out details there, because, well, it wasn’t that pleasant. The front desk folks did not share my concern, or so it seemed, and I definitely got the feeling that I was intruding. No, they could not keep her overnight. It wasn’t their policy. They searched her for a chip, then advised me to call Animal Control.

Like a mature, intelligent, and rational 45-year-old, I then begin crying with a shaking, nervous cat in my arms (hives be damned). Where was I to put this cat when I couldn’t keep her? Finally, they must’ve felt sorry for me and figured it was time for my meds, because they agreed to keep her, but only until 7:30 in the morning. They left me with a half-ass, “good luck.”

Thank God my friends on Facebook and in real life were much sweeter and could sympathize with the inner crazy cat lady I had chosen to discover as the sun set. Peeps were checking on the situation via text and offering advice on my post. One friend assured me, absolutely, that the cat could die in temps like we’re expecting tonight (below freezing with wind chill), and that was all I needed to hear. I still felt tense but had more of a sense that things were going to be alright.

My brother came over for dinner, and that was great. A glass of wine helped, too, but still, I was unsettled. What the hell was I going to do at 7:31 a.m. Could I call in to work saying, “Um. Can’t come in. Have a cat.” That didn’t seem like an option. Homework help was being requested, dishes were piling up undone, Christmas and Hanukkah gifts to open were being ignored. It all felt a tad zany. Thank goodness Facebook friends were chiming in with ideas, making me feel more normal and less like I had just stolen a cat and ruined its life. 

And thank goodness for number THREE: the second a stranger offered to help.

A text came in from a number I don’t know; she had gotten my information off the neighborhood email that was circulating about our little Kitty (now a capital K). She asked if I had found a place for her. I told her I had for the night. We exchanged quite a few texts about what I was going to do next and I started getting a little anxious all over again. Then she informed me, simply, that she’d bring me a spare litter box, kitty litter, and food, just in case I needed to keep her for a bit in my laundry room or in some Survivor-inspired tent construction I imagined myself having to whip up the next morning.

This stranger showed up just as the temps were entering the teens, wind rattling the kitty litter and food bags she juggled up the steps. Lisa lives in another neighborhood in our subdivision, one that goes to a different group of schools. I didn’t know her and she didn’t know me. But I greeted her like I needed her. And you know what? I did. Her kindness, the act of reaching out to a random stranger to help a cold animal, was exactly what I knew I needed to sleep tonight. If I have to shove that poor little kidnapped cat in a bathroom or wherever tomorrow for a temporary fix, I’ll make her a comfy bed, and she’ll be able to eat and poop to her heart’s content. All thanks to Lisa.

The second we connected, Lisa showed such kindness and selflessness that, when I shut the door a few minutes later, I knew I had learned something great. 

I can’t really put it into words right now, but I know it had something to do with helping others, strangers or not. And memories of Kitty’s warm purring next to my ear made the hives, juvenile tears, and melodrama nothing more than whispers of an eventful evening.

Lisa put things into perspective. No catastrophe after all. 

(Get it? I’ll be here all year.)

Two

Two

In 2003 or so, I joined Weight Watchers for the first time. Well, not really for the first time--it’s really the only time, I’ve just been an on-again-off-again participant ever since. I lost 68 pounds of baby weight, and I loved myself. Walk into the closet and pick anything to wear? Yep! Try on size 8s and have them fit? Yep! It was a glorious time in my life. It was also quite short-lived, but that’s beside the point.

Today, much has changed in my world. But some things have stayed the same, such as my regular appearances at the beloved, cozy, strip-mall Weight Watchers store a few miles away. Another constant: the fact that I only go on Tuesdays. Tuesday is Bobbi day.

Bobbi is my first and only Weight Watchers leader. She plays many roles in my life, including counselor, comedian, friend, commiserator, mother-figure, and motivator. (I was just going to say that her heart is as big as my ass, but I thought better of it. Let’s see . . .) She has a seemingly endless capacity to care for “her” members, to make each one feel important and understood.

Yes, I’m still talking about Weight Watchers here. Remember, I’ve known this place and this wonderful woman for 11 years. She’s a little piece of my existence. An important one, because she’s one of the kindest people I’ve ever met. The first few years, when mid-day sitters were hard to come by, she welcomed my baby girls and made them their own nametags so they felt welcome when they were coloring on the floor. When I was on chemo, she hugged me at length each time I walked in the door. (As did her colleagues, sweet ladies like Cathy, Mary Logan, etc.) She cared about how I was feeling physically and emotionally and was my biggest cheerleader. When it was time to get rid of our girls’ crib, I was sad and thought about keeping it up forever just for sentimentality. That is, until Bobbi announced that her dream was coming true and she was going to welcome her first grandchild. Then I gave it to her.

Bobbi listens straight from her heart. We know she does. All of us. 

What do we have in common outside of the meeting walls? I have no idea. Actually, that’s not true. She loves her family and speaks of them so fondly in meetings that it fills the room with warmth. When her son went to China, her pride and fear mingled in each story. Bobbi’s multiple grandchildren adore her; she credits Weight Watchers with being here to adore them right back.

And, we both appreciate a good, down-to-the-soul belly laugh. Quite simply, Bobbi is one of the funniest people I know. Her humor is squeaky clean and omnipresent. Each Tuesday, I can count on a half-hour of laughs, and so can the rest of the room. I don’t know how she does it. How does she appeal to so many people from so many ages, races, backgrounds? She rocks at it, that’s for sure.

And it’s her humor that brings me to number TWO.

Many people in Weight Watchers meetings feel compelled to share their tips, struggles, successes. And their stories. Lord, their stories. Most are cute and touching and of appropriate length. But some go on and on . . . and on and on. This never phases Bobbi, of course (another reason to marvel at her skill). Back to the inspiring vignettes: today, a cute old couple announced that they were back, devoted once again to the process and to helping each other lose weight. I recognize them. They’re adorable and overtly in love.

After the woman spoke, Bobbi prompted her: “And that’s not it, is it?! Tell everyone about the BIG EVENT coming up this spring. An extra incentive to get healthy and look great?”

Cute old lady:  Well, this May, we’re having a big party to celebrate our 60th wedding anniversary!!! (her excitement was clear)

The room burst into a chorus of “awwwwww”s and clapping and general congratulations. We love good news. Successes. Cause for celebration.

Suddenly, Bobbi needed our attention.

“Wait, wait. Hold on. That’s assuming you don’t break up before then.” The room simultaneously erupted in giggles, more clapping. The joke was silly, but damn funny. For that brief, minute moment in time, there existed an energy that was quite palpable. The air felt lighter and thicker at the same time: light with joy; thick with happiness. We were all in the same place, true, but we were also on the same plane. 

We were joyous. Nothing else existed in that second.

It lasted only a second. Then the meeting continued, and the emotions separated and floated in their own directions, back to their owners. Some celebrated their successes, while others worried about their setbacks. Some had to run back to work and were likely concerned about being late, while others may have wished they had a job to go to. Some may have felt just tired, tired of having to work so hard to lose 30, 50, 150 pounds--a journey that can feel epic at so many times. 

Leave it to Bobbi to bring us all together for seconds at a time. 

That was a good one, Bobbi.

One

I’ve long wanted to challenge myself to a daily writing “experience,” for lack of a more inclusive word. To look at something inside and out, upside and down for an extended amount of time would mean to fully come to know it, understand it, grow from it.

But, that’s where I would always stop myself, for a reason that’s quite simple: I didn’t know what that it could possibly be. I didn’t want to be cliche, just another aspiring nonfiction writer looking for just another clever way to put things on paper (or screen). Ironically, it seems that being unique is currently overdone. There’s so much creativity out there, that keeping up can keep an aspiring writer from starting even before she begins. What if I “discover” something that’s already been discovered once, twice, or fifty times? What if there are whole Twitter accounts designed to mock cliched writers, and I’m going to end up the Subject of the Month? What if I put something on my blog with a typo or incorrect grammar, and lose all credibility as someone who has something to say? What if what I have to say means very little to very few? .  . . Well, you get the idea. Stopping before I began.

So I’ve been thinking. A lot. And late at night when I watch the vague silhouette of my ceiling fan wipe its shadows across the ceiling, I’ve come to this. I have to write just because I have to. For me. For me alone. That is my starting point. 

There. That feels better.

A long-term project would have to mean a great deal to me, have me invested to the core, because Lord knows I’m more of a project starter than a project finisher. I made myself concentrate deep into those shadows time and again. When do I feel true joy, a selfish kind of joy that fulfills me enough that I don’t even feel the need to explain it to those around me? Joy that lights me up from the inside out? 

Luckily, after a whole buncha ruminating, I found out something wonderfully surprising. The two things that bring me the most joy can actually relate to each other.

The first. Deconstructing moments through words. Slowing down life and time and looking at just a glimpse, an instance of the beauty of every day, every second. Taking simple events apart by the seams and exploring what each thread is made of. I love that type of writing. I love reading it, and I love writing it. It’s a challenge, but it’s important, because life too often goes by in blurs.

The second. These moments themselves. I’ll be damned if they’re not everywhere! I’ve always known this. Since I was a small girl growing up in Roanoke, Virginia, I have craved beauty. When I was young, I fed my craving through trees and mountains and kudzu racing alongside our Subaru. The smell of the pine tree beside our house stirred something unnameable in me, and the crown of clovers I made with my own fingers enraptured me. Today, decades later, I crave it even more, and I’ve realized, through the long years and the tough times and especially in the great times, beauty is everywhere. 

When I was going through chemotherapy for my breast cancer, I found the most beauty in people. In glances, in hugs, in meals made and carpools run. It was everywhere. And then I realized something even more exciting: I had always known that. I had just forgotten it for a while.

That was five years ago. Now, as years form a gap between the bad=sick and the good=well, I fear I’m losing my grasp on that beauty. Maybe I’m back to being the one doing the carpooling, so I’m focused on too many other things. Perhaps there truly is not enough time in the day to open my eyes and take a peek around.

But there is. There IS time to celebrate these moments, the beauty around us. We just have to MAKE it. Doing so promises outstanding rewards to not just our days, but our lives. These very teeny, tiny moments are what life is made of, where the love lies that keeps us human. And happy.

So, you can imagine my nonsurprise to know that this concept is already a “thing.” Full research and books have been written on the subject. One specialist is a professor of psychology at the University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill. Her name is Barbara L. Fredrickson, Ph.D., and she is the author of (among other things), Love 2.0. I stumbled on her concept quite by accident, while I was tutoring high school students this fall. I tutor “college essay writing,” which is really a quite broad way to look at it. Specifically, I meet with kids five times to help them brainstorm ideas, come up with one, and map out what they want to say. I do none of the writing and all of the consulting, if you want to call it that. And I love it.

Two students applied to UNC Chapel Hill this fall, and the essay prompt stopped me, pen in the air, mouth open. It asked students to consider “micro-moments of connection,” as posited by Dr. Fredrickson, and write about such a moment in which they learned something about themselves.

The very thing I love in life: moments of connection, mutual understanding, instantaneous learning of something wonderfully important . . . and writing about it. Unbelievable.

Dr. Fredrickson. My hero.

So it’s in Dr. Fredrickson’s honor that I begin my project, finally culled from the recesses of my mind and of the ceiling fan shadows. I’m going to call it Three Hundred Sixty Seconds. Each day, I will, as the name of my blog suggests, OPEN my EYES, slow down, and let the beauty of the mundane soak in. Some days, I’m sure I’ll write absolute crap. Other days, one person in one location might find one thing to love.

After all, I am absolutely, without-a-doubt convinced that the connections I made, felt, and cherished during my sickness helped me to heal. Ones prior helped me to be who I am. Ones since have helped me immerse myself in the life I lead, head first. These moments have changed me. I believe with my soul that they can change everyone who opens his or her eyes.

As Dr. F says, “The love you do or do not experience today may quite literally change key aspects of your cellular architecture next season and next year - cells that affect your physical health, your vitality, and your overall wellbeing.” These moments count. 

As I write this year, I’m imagining we--you and I--will share similar experiences. Perhaps you’ll laugh at my melodrama (I tend to veer that way), or perhaps we’ll see pieces of each other along the way. I hope so.

That said, ONE second this fall, I discovered a professor who put a name to something I’ve long held precious: moments of sharing, spoken or unspoken, that change who we are in beautiful fragmented ways. 

Three hundred and sixty seconds from now, we will come full circle.

I can’t wait to see where each one takes me. Takes us.

A PSA of Sorts

What Not to Say

(A PSA of sorts)

Dear Stranger (or, in this case, new Dental Hygienist):

It was really nice to meet you today. Sounds like you are enjoying your new home, Richmond, after traveling cross-state from “the Valley,” as you called it. Upon investigating, I found out you meant Harrisonburg, which, as you now know, is where I went to school. I love it there. Miss the mountains every day.

I apologize if I don’t really remember much else of our conversation. First, as you must know from your many years in the field, it’s hard for patients to actually “converse” with various tubes and instruments in their mouths. I’m normally a talkative sort, but I actually look forward to the time at the dentist as a little respite from my usually overactive love of filling conversational holes. No pun intended, of course.

Seriously though, you seem nice enough, despite the way you started our relationship, so I plan on giving you another chance. On not letting this first impression ruin our professional partnership, the end goal of which is to keep my teeth both in my mouth and shiny. Oh, you don’t know what I’m talking about? You don’t remember what you said that could be so upsetting? If it's okay, I'd like to explain.

It begins when you look over my chart, ask me whether anything has changed in my history. Question the health of my teeth. Then, as I knew you eventually would, you get to the status of my overall health. “How are you?” you wonder, too intently, slowing down the words so I catch their depth. “I’m doing fine,” I say over-cheerily, hoping to keep the topic on my oral care, “Great, actually.” A small pause while you continued reading my chart gives me ample time to get comfortable in my chair. 

“Really?” you ask, in your best motherly voice, brow furrowed, looking concerned, “Doing okay?” 

By this point, I know what you’re getting at. You’re seeing notes about my breast cancer, with which I was diagnosed almost five years before. You’re pointing out to me that I'm taking Tamoxifen, the pronunciation of which you eventually butcher when you’re going over my medications. I ache to stop you there: “Yep. Doing great. Good report from my oncologist last week and everything.”

“On-COL-o-gist??,” you ask, and quickly look down again at my chart, surprised.

“Oh, yes,” I say, “I’m sorry. I thought you were asking about my breast cancer.” More silence. Dammit, I should've kept my mouth shut. “I’m a survivor,” I say softly, because the word still gets stuck in my throat whenever I try to believe it.

And then in a heartbeat, there we are: in the midst of you telling me a story. About your relative (I can’t remember if it was an aunt or a cousin), who died of breast cancer not long ago. You are sad, you are shaking your head, still looking at my chart. You are in my shoes, as if you and I are both fighting the same fight. 

But if we were, the story would've remained silent. It wouldn't have needed to be spoken.

I am used to this. Used to strangers or people I barely know telling me, mere instants after finding out that I have had breast cancer, that their mother/sister/aunt/ cousin/grandmother/best friend had it, too. Each time I hear it, I inwardly cross my fingers and say a little prayer that you, stranger, won’t over share with me, unless it’s to tell me that they’re doing great, they’re feeling good, they’re living a fantastic life.

Too often, however, strangers and acquaintances share with me details of how short their loved one’s life was, how long her fight. How she struggled, how he hurt, how much everyone misses him or her so much. I end up performing a bizarre juggling act: apologizing for your loss, knocking on wood, praying out loud, while not upsetting you in the process, trying to soothe you, and curbing my anxiety. This is not uncommon. Most of the time, I can steer the conversation in a positive direction, especially since it's rarely an appropriate venue or time to discuss it. 

One neighbor stops me, as I stand, bald from chemo, holding my children’s hands at their swim meet the summer I was diagnosed, to tell me that “every single woman” in her family has died from breast cancer. “Every. Single. One,” she emphasizes during this story, which (believe it or not) I have heard more than once before. I loosen my children's grips, hurry them along to "go play," and try to escape as soon as I can. Another woman I know only through our children starts every conversation with me about my breast cancer; through the years, it's always the same. I care for her, so I don't say anything. Most recently, she shares the news that her best friend, the one she had been telling me about for years, had died just this month. She says it was horrible; she is hurting still. I tell her I am so sorry. And I am. 

I don't tell her I'm scared.

The very worst stories shared with me against my own will are those like the one you shared today:

“Yes, it was really just so sad, because she was doing so well and was so healthy for so many years. Then it came back and she . . . just . . .died.” Your voice and eyes are still raw with hurt. It is awful to see this, sitting a mile away in my chair, both because I hate to see people hurt and because I promise you I hate this disease as much as you do.

Now, your words are out there, floating in the light cast by the overhead lamp, drifting downward to where I sit, silent and helpless, below. Wishing I hadn’t heard. Wishing I didn’t know that new piece of information, the new anecdote I will never forget. Wishing I wasn’t letting it soak into my brain, my heart, my prayers.

We move on in our appointment through the standard routine, and I don't say anything when you flick my own spit all over my face. I guess I’m struck dumb because 1) you know I have had breast cancer, 2) you have just shared a horrible story about breast cancer, and 3) you don’t know me. In no way do these three facts fit logically into any equation. We’ve never talked about this before, but you still feel like you can share this painful truth, this awful result with me. This doesn’t make sense, and a small part of me wants to scream, “What the fuck are you doing telling me that? Don’t you know I pray night and day to be here to see my children grow?”  But I don’t. Because I look at you and see that hurt in your eyes, and I just can’t be the reason it gets deeper. I won't be.

Now, though, I wanted to write you (and all others out there who may ever read this) to give you some advice. Pass it along and share it if you wish, because I promise you it will help strangers and loved ones alike. Sweet Dental Hygienist Lady, I know you are hurting and I know you’ve been through something awful, tragic, and life-altering, but here it is: before you share, before you confide, think. Think about who you’re talking to. That’s it. It’s not necessarily easy, because when we hurt it’s human nature to reach out to other humans to heal and try to find comfort. But try to think about who you are asking comfort from, and whether they can really give it to you.

I know a lot about myself. I know that I’m weak in many, many areas (including but not limited to singing, athletic prowess, mathematical problem solving, remembering funny jokes, organization, domestic skills, and more). But I do know the following attributes make up who I am: I am funny, intelligent, compassionate, goofy, loyal, and--perhaps most importantly--strong as hell. These are more than just attributes; these are my defenses, my defining characteristics, that keep me going when the going gets tough. But not today. Today, they weren’t enough.

Today, dear stranger, you beat me. You knocked me to my knees. You hit me in my Achilles, so to speak. In the middle of a dentist’s office, without warning, you forced me to consider, once again, leaving my children motherless. For this, I have no defenses. Through no fault of your own but cluelessness, you sent me crawling home to grab my dog, curl in a fetal position under my favorite blanket, and cry. You slapped me in the face with my biggest fear, and it is still stinging hours later. 

Did you mean to? No. So that’s why I’m writing you this letter today. So you know. So you think before you share. So you get help and seek compassion from the right people. 

I would address this letter to any one of the dozens and dozens of people who used to tell the younger me (a 10-year-old giving herself an insulin injection in a restaurant bathroom for instance) that “Oh, my grandmother has diabetes. She just had both feet amputated.”  Or I would send it on behalf of my friends who have sick children or other relatives to any number of well-meaning, but ill-informed, strangers or acquaintances who overshare, tell too much about the could-bes and the what-ifs that we all dread and, sometimes, barely know how to handle. I wish I could do that for my friends, actually. 

My friends? Why yes, I’m here for them. Always. I’m not addressing my friends in this rhetorical letter, by no stretch of the imagination. That’s different, of course. We know each other and are traveling this rocky life-ride together. We support each other, we lean on each other, we confide our biggest fears, worst nightmares, and greatest dreams. And we know when a smile or a hug is enough. Speaking the unspeakable has a time and a place, and because of the intimacy of friendship, we know (or at least hope we do) when that is. In fact, I have no idea how I would be who I am today without my friends . . . the humor, intelligence, compassion, goofiness, loyalty, and strength that I mention above all radiate from their presence in my life.

New Hygienist, thank you for reading. I truly am so sorry for your loss, and I agree that cancer sucks. Feel free to pass this along to others, or to ball it up in the trash and consider me a bitter, scared old fool. 

I won’t send it anyway. I know you meant well.

Love,

Tracy

Oscar Race 2014: A Mom's Review

My love of movies started when I was three. I remember seeing Lady in the Tramp, and I remember the cool, dark, gigantic room, the thick red curtains on either side of the screen, and the prodding anticipation. Oh, and the popcorn.

What little girls' dreams are made of.

My terrifying fear of movies began one year later when, as a four-year-old cinephile, I accompanied my dad to such child-friendly, edge-of-your-seat narratives as The Towering Inferno and Earthquake. The prodding anticipation evolved rather quickly into an intense, piercing petrification of the world as I had known it. Not only did I become convinced that our car was going to be swallowed into the streets of Roanoke, Virginia, at any given moment, but I learned the typical child's life lessons of never taking the elevator in a flaming high rise. As in EVER. To this day, I remember the noise. And I start to sweat if stuck in my car on a bridge, in case the "big one" hits at that very moment. My recurring nightmares of plummeting (and zig zagging, oddly enough) elevators may or may not be related. Luckily, I can still light candles and visit my friends in San Francisco.


But I digress. There's a long period in my early childhood that is empty of movie memories, either because I didn't go to any what with a newborn brother and all, or because my subconscious blacked out further action thrillers. But then came Grease, Star Wars, and a plethora of other movies that were luckily over my head in their contexts but managed to hook me once and for all. I loved the movies then, and I love the movies now. I love their art, their passion, their beautiful way of slowing down life and examining it under a micro- (or macro-) scope. A good movie is heaven. It is painful, it is love, it is real.

This year, I'm on a quest to see as many Oscar-nominated movies as possible before Sunday evening, March 2nd. Sunday afternoon, March 2nd, you will likely find me, popcorn in hand, alone in a theater cramming in that one last flick. Because I've been indulging myself, friends have asked which movies I recommend, what my opinions are, and what's worth seeing. This cracks me up. I'm not a critic. I'm just a forty-four year old mom who is looking to soak into approximately two hours and twenty minutes of another life. Then come back to my own lovely reality.

But since some have asked, I give you my Energetic, Extremely Biased, Unofficial Update (or EEBUU, as they call it in the biz) on the Oscar Race, 2014 Edition. Although I am quite positive there is little to no redeeming value to my opinion, I recognize the preciousness of parents' free time and therefore consider this the (literal) least I can do for my fellow mamas and daddies out there. (Please note: the list is neither inclusive nor educated.)

Have Seen:

Nebraska. Thought I wanted to see it, then didn't. Then did again, then didn't again. Then went with two friends and am SO GLAD I DID. I loved its slow pace (thank you, Alexander Payne, whom I shall beg to direct the movie that I'm working on in my head), its simple beauty, it's real and painful humor, and the acting. The acting! June Squibb with the potty mouth and inappropriateness and negativity--we all know someone like her in our own families. (Except me, family members reading this.) Bruce Dern = quiet brilliance. Fun performances by minor characters, too. And holy moly, Will Forte, where'd you come from? I was so drawn to the way his character would simply look at his father in this film, trying to figure out who the hell he is. I get it. You'll get it. It's funny, beautiful, painful, and just plain great.

What big girls' dreams are made of.

American Hustle. Oh, hell yeah, what a fun movie. Fun is a great word, I promise, because you'll just enjoy being there. It's quirky and odd, it's flashbacky and nostalgic, it's stressful in the best of ways. Great acting. I had a little bit of a hard time following the story at a coupla times, and because I went alone, I couldn't lean over and say "Huh?" when I needed to. Other than that, loved it. Jennifer Lawrence? Yes. Christian Bale? Perfect. Amy Adams. Love. And Bradley Cooper? Oh, Bradley. You are amazing and I heart you. I will forever cherish that scene of you next to the kitchen counter with Amy. Thank you.

Saving Mr. Banks. The family flick that should come with a warning to the effect of the following: If your life has ever slightly been turned to shambles because of alcoholism, please use caution when viewing this film. Mine, like many people's, has. Dramatically. But I thought I was going to see a cute little picture about Mary Poppins's uppity creator, so the hour-long nervous breakdown I had in the middle (how 'bout that Fair scene? Lawdy.) distracted me somewhat. But the acting was good, the scenery awesome, and it was entertaining. Colin Farrell owes me around $375 for therapy bills, by the way.

Dallas Buyers Club. Traditionally, a movie about drug use would be rated NFT (Not For Tracy), but I was compelled by the acting chops of Jared and Matthew. This is the one film that I tell all of my good friends they MUST SEE. It's perfectly acted. You will want to take a hot shower with an entire bottle of Purel afterward (that's one dirty lifestyle. Yick.), but you will leave knowing more about humanity. I will be floored if both Matty and Jared don't win Oscars. They should, in this girl's book. See it.

Animated Shorts. What a great, great night at the movies. These six or so films (with 2 runners up) were so amazing, diverse, intelligent, heartwarming, and (one in particular that started with a cute squirrel and ended with the total annihilation of the planet) just plain bizarre. This is the first year I've seen one of the less-commerical Oscar nom options, and now I can't wait to see more. Take the kids. Go. Explore new art. And let me know how much you cry during the mechanical dog cartoon.

Her. Um. What to say about her? I wanted to like it. I really did. I consider myself fairly artsy, intelligent, open . . . most of the time, at least. And I like Joaquin Phoenix. But I couldn't help but just say to myself, almost constantly, "That is so stooopid." Over and over. Probably out loud. I didn't get it. Sure, I know there's a profound statement being made about humanity and losing touch with each other in both the literal and emotional senses of the word, but. Still. It lacked something that I can't quite put my finger on, and it sorta drove me crazy. And I could've done without all the human-OS sex. I promise I'm not a prude.

Philomena. Lovely. Everything. The scenery, the story (no matter how painful in parts), the stellar acting, the subtle humor, the real-life-ness of it. This is what a movie should be about: transporting you to another place, another time, while pulling your heart along for the journey. Plus, who doesn't love some great British/Irish accents?

Haven't Yet Seen But Will Still Review:

Gravity. (See also: Towering Inferno; Earthquake; years of nightmares) I know Sandy is good in it, and I love looking at George Clooney until my eyes burn, but . . . seems like a lotta stars, loudness, and stress. Will I go? Yes, begrudgingly.

Wolf of Wall Street. Leo is growing on me, slowly, like a really sexy mold on a ten-year-old loaf of bread. Loved him in the movie about J Edgar Hoover, and he creeped me the f*** out in Django Unchained. In an amazingly acted kind of way. Plus, I love me the use of a good F bomb, so yes, I'll see it. Looking forward to the nuttiness. And Jonah Hill.

12 Years a Slave. I know I need to see this. As in, really, really need to see it to be an educated, informed human being. I know it's amazing, and I know the acting is incredible (despite Brad Pitt. Sorry, that was mean.) But it seems like it's going to hurt my heart a whole lot, so I'm putting it off. One day very soon I will get on my big-girl pants (and pack a box of tissues) and go. The film looks stellar. Go see it and tell me if I should.

Captain Phillips. I am torn. Tom Hanks has jumped the shark just by being Tom Hanks. But the Somalian pirates' actors are supposed to do one amazing job, so I think I need to get my butt to the theater to see this one. Not sure how the story will flow (and fill 2 hours), but maybe I'll be surprised.

Other Oscar Nominated Short Films, Documentaries, etc. Similar to how I feel about 12 Years a Slave, I'm scared. Ouchy. Some topics are so intense, so powerful . . . but I really need to suck it up. Want to go and support the movie makers of the world. Documentaries are an amazing art form. Love them so. Will go see them, but only if you go with me and comfort me and buy me Milk Duds.


Well, I hope my years of "experience" have helped you narrow down your list. Remember, these are simply my biased opinions. I wish you successful movie going and zero infernos, always.