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.

Blaze of Glory

All I can hear is my own breathing, accelerated with adrenaline. Within seconds, it’s thick, heavy, and hot inside the giant stuffed dog’s head the school nurse has just awkwardly lifted to my height and plopped on my (stuffed dog) shoulders. Everything inside the suit is amplified: my breaths, with their Vader-esque density; my voice, as I assure the nurse, Yes, I am okay. Yes, I can see . . . kind of; the piercing velcro adjustments and readjustments as she works to hide any sign of the human within. I do my best to “get comfortable,” and rest my (already damp) forehead against the metal bar designed, I suppose, to literally keep my head on straight. Everything outside the suit is muffled, underwater, as both my peripheral vision and my place in the room  become compromised. The nurse, I can make out through the screens that comprise my new eyes, straps on one giant paw and then the other. For no reason, I clap my paws. I encourage her (once, and then again for extra measure), to recheck the giant velcro seam that runs the length of my back, because my only fear in this adventure is the opening of said seam and the revelation to a crowd of hundreds that underneath is, in fact, a human woman sporting nothing but a wife-beater and her husband’s lucky-clover boxers.

It’s time, the nurse tells my screen-eyes. My heart races, but not from this claustrophobe’s worst nightmare. I am thrilled.

She leads me down the elementary school hallway, and even across the building and through my fake fur, I can hear the kids screaming. It’s the Blazer Blast, the quarterly pep rally designed to celebrate the school and the spirit within its walls. Instantly, I realize my celebrity status, as a teacher walks past and waves enthusiastically, “Hi, Blazer!” I wave my paw, and blow a kiss from my giant snout. It comes naturally for me to exaggerate my movements, I discover, and there, in the hallway as I stumble awkwardly toward the cafegymnatorium, something inside me awakens.

I am SO ready for this. 

Hidden behind closed doors at the back of the giant room, I wait in the hall, kicking my paw-covered tennis shoes, pacing a bit, and steadily streaming sweat. The noise swells as Mr. D congratulates honor roll students, asks grade level after grade level to “make some nooooiiiiise!” and amps up the crowd. On the other side of those doors, I know from five years of attendance, is a room full of some 400 anticipatory students plus the eager parent paparazzi corps. 

Suddenly, through the windows in the back of the room, I’m spotted.  A little sister in the crowd stares wide-eyed directly at my screen-eyes, simultaneously screaming in her mom’s ear, begging her to come see me. I wave; I blow my kiss. The mom and daughter, amidst the chaos, sneak out of the crowd and into the hallway. Instinctively, I reach out my paw for a high-five, but the girl, unable to contain herself, runs directly at my knee for a tight, deep hug, where she remains for a good fifteen to twenty seconds, until she is finally urged away by her camera-snapping parent. I fall in love within two of those seconds.

At last, my cue. Screaming. Piercing, giggling screaming broken only by Blazer’s theme song, which blasts out of the now open doors. “Who Let the Dogs Out?” with its fantastically cheesy, dance-inspiring beat electrifies the crowd and pulls me into the packed, frenzied room.

I am a star.

I high-five. I wave. I blow kisses. I sing to myself loudly (no one can hear me, after all). I wave to my unsuspecting friends. And I dance like I have never danced before, with abandon and with energy I didn’t know I possessed. The crowd is wild, reaching for Blazer, cheering for Blazer, and as I slowly dance my way up to the front of the room, relishing these seconds, I notice the evolution of the crowd’s reaction. Because up front sit the kindergartners, and the closer I dance to the younger kids, the more the frenzy melts into amazed awe. Toward the front I slow down my energy, bend down for the high fives, silently reassure the timid, and share the joy. Once up front, at the base of the stage, next to the principal and in front of thousands of eyes, I let loose, pulling out dance moves from decades past and making up some strange innovations in time with the music. Out there, somewhere out there beyond my sweat-blurred screen-eyes, is pure, unbridled, love. I soak it all in, and I revel in giving it right back.

I am as goofy, as happy, and as free as I have ever been. It is fantastic.

My celebrity passes too quickly. I only have a few minutes, and I know it, so I use them wisely. I single out kids, one by one, looking for someone who is sad or someone who seems afraid. Pointing directly at those waving to me with the pure joy and innocence of those in this room. My friend’s daughter is here, here at her retreat from her mother’s chemotherapy, and I give her a special wave. Another child looks petrified. I blow him a kiss, and he looks around, back and forth, as if to say, “Who, me?” I nod overenthusiastically. It becomes my mission: Sad kids? I will find you! As the principal revs the crowd, I put my paw to my gigantic ear high above my actual head: I can’t hear you! The crowd goes wild. I dance some more.

Finally, the crowd is told to say goodbye to Blazer. (The human inside is encouraged to not get heat stroke, so appearances must be brief.) Before I go, I have one last mission. I spot my target as I leave the room. She’s there, looking so old among the little kids, a fifth-grader in the back row, giggling with her friends. I stop. I wave directly at her until she notices me, and then I point and blow my final kiss. One special one for my baby girl, my daughter.

Cammie has no idea her mother is the one entertaining the room. She gives me the “Who, me?” and I nod, touch my paw to my heart, and saunter out of the room. My work here is done.

Out of hundreds of people, I am happiest.

Karen

Ask anyone else the first word that comes to mind when they think of her, and undoubtedly, it’d be “ugly.” Even I must admit there was a rather unfortunate aesthetic transformation as she aged alongside me. And in all fairness to those who didn’t know her the way I did, yes, I suppose she could be a rather surprising assault on the eyes. Okay, some could call her fairly hideous. But me? Picturing her now, each perfect imperfection wrapped up in that snuggly, scrawny package, brings to mind just one word of my own: “everything.” 

She was, you see. It wasn’t just that she was my most prized possession; it was more complicated than that. Because to me, she wasn’t a thing, a possession. She was a she. A companion. And she was mine.

If you’re one of the humans closest to me and you’re reading this right now, you know know who I’m talking about already. You knew from the word “ugly,” didn’t you? But once, she was beautiful: a bright pink, floral, cloth body, grandiose in its 1960s-ishness. The flower child taken to the literal, the boldness of skin choice ideal for a small girl. Her hands and face? Those were plastic of the caucasian variety. Tiny-little fingers, all stuck together in one plastic mold, topped with tiny-little carved fingernails. The head, true to the anatomy of a wee one, was huge. Bald save for etched, wavy “hairs” painted a pale whisper of brown. 

I’ve seen pictures of her this way: fresh, fluffy, pink. Well-dressed, hugged tightly between chubby toddler arms. Photographs tell only pieces of our story together, but there are a few, including one notable visit with the big man himself, Santa. I sit, staring mid-giggle just to the right of the camera (likely at the parent dancing to its side), and the top of her head peeks out from the crook of my arm. A formal Sears photo features the two of us, me in my smocked sundress (its innocence carefully chosen by my mother), she completely naked, pink skin glowing--small white polka dots, green and blue flowers all gloriously bright. By this point likely a package deal, a compromise, more entrenched in my history with each flash.

Through the years, I came to know every square millimeter of her. She was well-loved, to be sure, so as time marched on, the wear on those millimeters became more obvious. Not immune to the battle scars of youth, and not built nearly so well to hold up to them, her aesthetics, shall we say, suffered.  Over two decades, slowly, she eroded: bright pink faded to dull then morphed to “dirty.” Stuffing shifted, flattened out. Still, I would picture silk beneath her flowers as I rubbed her skin back and forth between my anxious (or tired, or eager, or excited) fingers, soothed by the smoothness, never even missing the fluff. Thick to thinner to thin, she aged rather ungracefully. A strange box floated within her, no longer making baby cooing sounds--just a clunk when it thudded against something hard. She grew tired.

Poor thing suffered at the hands of others, too. A fight with my sister resulted in a tug-of-war; she was the rope, and (thin arms nothing but faded fabric now) lost most of her hand in the process. My mother sewed her back together with dark blue thread, and those stitches remain. I’m not quite sure when her left eyeball began sinking into her socket, but family lore has it that the culprit was once again my sister. She claimed she wanted to see what would happen to the (beautiful) clicking sound if one eye was held shut and the other stayed open, and the result was rather disastrous. What started as as a left-eye-that-wouldn’t-blink eventually became a sunken, twisted mess that made it rather difficult to look either my sister or my companion in the eye. That accident, along with her tragically slow loss of eye lashes throughout the decades, the permanent dents left in those tiny fingers (from years of chewing? from the cat? from my baby brother? who really knows), and the increasingly tragic way she hung her oversized head in what could be interpreted as shame, marked mere parts of her physical decline.

Those in my life treated her presence with anything from mild amusement to agitated disgust, which, on a few occasions, led to outright abuse. She was hidden from me on numerous occasions by my siblings, playing not-funny jokes through the years until my tears brought her forth. Friends sleeping over found her creepy.  One morning in college I returned from class to my room, where I had left my boyfriend of two years sleeping that morning. There, hanging from the ceiling in a noose fashioned from one of my belts, I found my sweet thing, inexplicably swinging and not remotely funny. Another time, I developed film and found pictures of my guy friends singing to her, stroking her head. She had that reaction on people. They simply didn’t know what to do with this strange looking thing that was an obvious presence in my life. Most of the time, their reactions were quite funny, and I shared in and contributed to the laughs. After all, I was a grown woman. Even my own daughters haven’t known what to do with her, besides relegating her to the freezer for a week to kill off dust mites. All this time, and still, deep down, I don’t want Karen to be uncomfortable, hurt, tormented, made fun of, or laughed at. I tucked her in for far too long. I covered her tiny-little plastic ears to protect her from the mocking, but only in half-jest.

At all ages, she was real to me.

Her presence went deep, past that sixth sense and well into the seventh: the sense of comfort. I miss her still. Occasionally, I’ll settle into bed, flip and flop to get comfortable, quietly aware that something is missing. I’ve reached for her regularly in the years since I’ve been married, since she was relegated to a bookshelf, a chair, or now, a box (where I hope she lies comfortably). I long to feel that silky comfort still, smell the familiar scent of her big head, and need her sometimes when things are a little rough. I’m not quite sure if this makes me normal, this attachment to a constant in a world full of inconsistencies and pain, or if this is a confession I should burn after sharing. But I’m glad she’s still around, even if it’s in a box, sleeping peacefully.

Thank God for my dog.

For NPR's Three-Minute Fiction Contest

This is officially the first fiction piece I've ever entered anywhere. I'm sure it's full of all sorts of holes and all kinds of fiction sins, but I'm determined to come back to my beloved Big Hips Open Eyes, and figured this is a good change of pace for any readers who have decided to stick with me.


I entered it in NPR's "Three-Minute Fiction" contest, the rules of which dictated 1) it must be 600 words or less, 2) must be fiction, and 3) must begin with the sentence, "She closed the book, placed it on the table, and finally, decided to walk through the door." Such parameters didn't feel as scary to me as normal ole' fiction for some reason.


But the topic was hard.


Room 19

She closed the book, placed it on the table, and finally, decided to walk through the door. With a feeble push, she is in Room 19, which is a good fifteen degrees hotter than the freezing waiting room where she has spent the past three days, shifting on uncomfortable hospital chairs, avoiding this exact moment. 

Just inside the door, a curtain blocks the room, and a cart blocks the curtain. On the cart is an endless supply of safety gear: masks, latex-free gloves in three sizes. She adjusts a mask around her ears, and breathes in deeply. The paper is supposed to protect her from her mother, her infectiousness, her poison.

If only it had been that easy, she thinks fleetingly, but then checks her bitterness. She remembers the words in the book, dog-eared and waiting, just outside the door. Slowly, she pushes the curtain aside.

The dusk barely drips its blue light through the blinds. In the dim room, countless machines surround the bed and emit green lights and numbers and wavy lines. The steady beep, beep, beep is at once mesmerizing, soothing even, and grotesquely harsh.

And then, she sees her. Swallowed by blankets, a skeleton. Her mother.

She closes her eyes reflexively, imagining the garden. The one she found two nights ago, when the racing confusion and absolute nothingness overwhelmed her, and she pronounced to a roomful of waiting-room strangers that she was going for a walk. Off the lobby, following tiny signs, she stumbled upon a tiny outdoor Japanese garden, scattered with pebbles and quiet corners.

It was dusk, and the garden was gauzed in blue. The December air cut to her lungs. In the far corner, a waterfall sputtered a slow, frozen trickle. On an icy granite bench, the feeling of nothingness that had overwhelmed her dissipated. And, at that moment, she felt close enough to God to know what to do. 

She prayed. For what, is between her and God. But it had something with everything ending soon.

Opening her eyes, rising to leave, she saw the book. Stuck behind the bench. As she read the title, her stomach lurched. Mothers: The Gifts They Give Us. Without thinking, she tucked it under her arm and headed back inside, feeling certain her prayers had been answered. Knowing, just knowing, she could find what she needed in this book: understanding. She felt certain that if she understood, she could forgive.

Two days later, and she had still not gone to see her mother. Instead, she had combed this collection of short stories, poems, and tributes. She had read. And read. Searching with a fervor she had not felt in years, desperately wanting to find her mother within its pages. 

She had found nothing.

At first she was angry. The words in the book isolated her. (What wouldn’t she give to have such fond memories? Such admiration for the woman who gave her life?) But as Room 19 visitors came and went, she knew it was, finally, time. Time to say goodbye, defenses high, but nakedly unarmed. 

And now, studying the woman in the bed, she cries without warning. She forgets worrying about how she is supposed to feel. The search for understanding. The answers that she’ll never find. 

She forgets the book. 

Kissing her softly on the forehead, she brushes aside gray wisps of hair. My mother loved me, she tells herself, willing herself to believe. Her mother’s chest is cold, which feels nice on her hot forehead. There she rests in room 19 until the blue disappears and the soft darkness comes.