Ode to Big Van

(To the tune of “Big Bad John”)

The van seated 11 so it took our whole crew
We could do bout anything we wanted to do
We drove down the highway like a great white shark
But it was impossible to parallel park
The Big Van.

It carried ball gloves and swimsuits away in the back
And if you were hungry you could always find a snack
We were ready for action as we rambled about
Coulda lived a week if the power went out
In Big Van.

We drove birthdays and baseball and trips to the zoo
Drove two hundred thousand miles and we took the dog, too
We drove that Big Van till it just fell apart
We were there at the end like we were there at the start
Of Big Van.

Well, we all headed east one morning in May
And the Big Van took us bout a half of the way
On a Pennsylvania mountain came a terrible noise
And Dad said, I got a bad feelin’ boys,
Bout Big Van.

The Van drug itself to the side of the road
Had to call a semi-wrecker to get the thing towed
It spilled all its oil till every drop was spent
The trooper said, That’s a catastrophic event
For Big Van.

We rented one car for five and another for the rest
Finished our trip and then we headed back West
The rental cars were nice and they were certainly game
But the kids all said they just weren’t the same
As Big Van.

Driving back through the mountains we were running late
Had to stop off to grab the license plate
Driving away crying just as fast as we can
Cause everybody knew they’d seen the last
Of Big Van.

Got a couple five-seaters now we’re ready to go
And I have to say they’re better when we drive in the snow
But the Van lingers on in the hearts of our clan:
Somewhere in Pennsylvania lies a Big, Big Van.

On Forgiving People Who Aren't Sorry

Recently we lost my dear mother-in-law, and as everyone knows who has ever been through loss, it’s a very sensitive time when hearts are raw and it’s easy to hurt someone without knowing it- or, as it sometimes happens, while knowing it perfectly well.

A situation arose with some family members who had not been involved at all, or very little, with Mom’s life while she was declining, but who felt comfortable setting up in her house after she passed, and then even decamping with a large amount of her belongings afterward with no notice. We walked into her house with the kids to try to come to terms with their grief, have some talk and prayer time together, and were greeted with big empty places where lamps, large rugs, and paintings had been. The place looked like it had been looted.

Now, it’s just stuff. We’re raising our kids, as best we can, to value people over things, and they get it, sometimes even better than we (ok, I) do. But this was the day after their grandmother’s funeral. And there had been no communication beyond, hey can we take these couple of small items? Of course.

My kids had lived in that home, and had known it since their birth. Everything in it spoke of happy times with their grandparents, and even of the sad times that they had shared during the long, painful illnesses and deaths.  We could cheerfully have parted with all of those things, and more- in time, and with communication. But as it was, the kids just sat down and cried. As one of them said, “It makes her feel more dead.”

We weren’t given either time or communication, at least not before the fact. In fact, we received several emails in the days to come detailing all the other items that we were not to dispose of, because these folks would be coming back with a U-Haul.  I was, in the old expression, fit to be tied.

First of all, my kids were shocked and hurt at a time when they were already shocked and hurting. They had been constantly at the bedside of their grandmother, through thick and thin, and gave her much joy and peace as she passed away.  This is an honor, and a privilege they would never trade, but they were in need of some consolation. And they got a big smack. As a mama, I really, really don’t like it when my kids get smacked, especially when they are down, and more especially by people who ought to be concerned about their well-being, and, dare I say it, who ought to be grateful to these kids for having been with Mom when they themselves couldn’t be bothered to show up while she was alive.  For years.

So, there was rage.

Some of it was righteous anger, that people could have their priorities so messed up as to wrong Mom with their absence when she needed them, and then to help themselves to her things after she passed.

Some of it was hurt for my kids, and some for my husband and myself.  All of it, I think, was understandable.

But it was killing me. I was trying to mourn and heal, and instead was bailing out my emotional boat constantly to keep from sinking.

I am a talker- when I am upset, I have to talk about it or I will have a conniption, which I think is a combination of a stroke and a coronary event, usually involving one’s eyeballs exploding. So not only did my poor husband knew how I felt in great detail, but I felt unable to help the kids deal with their own feelings, so swamped was I.

What to do. I asked my dearest friends, my folks, and my dear brother, and they all gave me great advice, which I will impart to you.  My question was: how to forgive, truly, and to conquer this anger, when the people I need to forgive are not sorry, even a tiny bit, for anything? And may not even realize what they are doing? Which sounds awfully familiar.

Here’s what I was told, what I tried, and what worked:

1. Ask Jesus for help in forgiving. He forgave his murderers from the Cross. While they were murdering Him. And they certainly weren’t saying, “Gee, I’m sorry.” Actually hand the burden to Him, and to Mary.

2. Pray as earnestly as you can for the offenders, for the softening of their hearts, for the development of their awareness of and compassion for others. It doesn’t take away the anger, but it is hard to feel really destructively angry toward someone for whose welfare you are begging.

3. Accept that you are going to feel angry for awhile. Stop trying so hard not to feel angry. Anger itself is not a sin. “Be angry, and sin not.” (Eph. 4:26)

4. Give it a little time. It’s amazing what a week will do.

5. Step as far back from the situation as you can. Set it down, and walk away. Even if you feel you need to take care of everything and it all depends on you, set it down. Even if only for a short time. Retreat to find peace. Even soldiers are sent back from the front to recoup during a battle. Watch Band of Brothers- it’s true.

6. Try hard to find some extenuating circumstances, or to understand what in the world is going on inside those dopey heads of theirs. I.e. They are grieving too; they don’t realize what they are doing; we didn’t communicate well enough up front; the sun was in their eyes; even if it seems kind of lame to you, it’s something, and the act of trying to be generous is a good one- you will be less upset with yourself for feeling so bad.

7. Remember that forgiveness is as much, or more, for your own good than for the good of others. That kind of rage and hurt is toxic and will poison you after awhile, and will render you unable to help those around you who need you.

8. Think about hell for a couple of minutes- really think about it, envision it. Think, “Do I really want anyone in that?” Of course you don’t. You may truly wish to smack them quite hard in the face, but- not hell. That’s a comforting thought.  You do, deep deep down, wish for their ultimate good. Which, happily enough, does involve them coming to some sort of realization of what creeps they have been at some point. Just don’t expect it anytime soon… or necessarily even in this life.

9. Try some gallows humor. At first you may not be in the mood, but in the past week or so I have gotten a lot of cheap enjoyment out of pointing out to my husband various rugs that X forgot to take with him. Like the sanctuary rug at our parish church as we were kneeling for communion at the altar rail. It’s a lovely oriental. Luckily, my sweet husband has a good sense of humor. I hope God does. Anyhow laughing makes me less angry.

10. I saved this for last, because when you are really hurt and angry this is terribly hard to do- it can actually make you more angry, thinking things like, “Just because I “forgot” to pay back my son 20 bucks doesn’t mean it’s ok for these other guys to knife me in the back!!” Of course it’s not ok. It’s wrong, and getting knifed hurts, legitimately. But your stuff is not ok, either. Your kid probably needs that 20 bucks.  So give it some time and space, and then remember that you hope to be forgiven for your own stupid, careless stuff. We can’t ask God for forgiveness if we are clinging tightly to a grudge.

Has this all worked for me?  Well, it wasn’t like a whiteboard eraser, with everything disappearing at once. But a huge layer of resentment was washed away as soon as I got our Lord and His Mother involved, and then it just got better from there. When I allow myself to really think about it, I do still feel that anger trying to bubble up. So I am still maintaining a distance, until my forgiveness becomes more firmly rooted. The truth is, I don’t want to waste any more precious minutes of my life feeling like that.

Of course I realize that in the scheme of things, there are much, much harder things to forgive than what I have talked about here. I don’t pretend that I could just apply my convenient ten steps and be floating on a cloud of forgetful joy and love in every circumstance- maybe not in ANY circumstance. But forgiveness, as one of my friends reminded me, is an act of the will. Decide to do it for your own good, begin the process, and put it in God’s Hands. Whatever healing comes will come from Him anyway, so let Him handle it.  Meanwhile, know that there are people who are sorry that you are hurting, and who wish they could make it better for you, and be grateful for them. That kind of love can help begin to heal whatever injury you have sustained. Reflect on how you will someday pay them back for their kindness in your hour of need.

Which reminds me it’s time for a trip to the ATM for a twenty.

How to Become an Expert Apologizer

Step 1: mess up a lot.

Not a problem.

I am currently on the outs with my beloved husband.  Nothing major, just one of those weird sudden shifts in mood where we are both tired and don’t really understand what’s going on with each other, and we expect a different reaction than the one we get, and then we say stuff we kind of mean, but mostly don’t.

They say not to go to bed angry, but we both kind of passed out in the middle of the argument, from sheer exhaustion. “Oh yeah? Well this is what I think of YOU! zZZzzzzzz.”

Husband (we will call him Thurl for the purposes of anonymity). Thurl has to leave very early for work so I woke up just as he was leaving, with no time to do any repair work, I hate that.  He rides in a van with several other people so we can’t even talk by phone.

So I just watched him leave, obviously still hurt, or upset, though he rejected both those adjectives along with the nuanced “mad” that I offer, as in, “You still mad?”  “I’m not mad.” Oh good.

A little context: we have a really lovely marriage. I think he’s adorable and he thinks I’m hilarious; he calls me “Beauty” despite all evidence to the contrary and I call him “Love”- please feel free to be nauseous.

 We have learned how to get along pretty well over the course of 25 years, despite a couple of important differences that must have had God chuckling as we stood at the altar.  When things are stressful, I NEED to talk. He HATES to talk when he is stressed.  Note: the past several years have been fraught with illness, death, and financial strain for us, as they have for so many I know.  So, stress. So, more opportunities to learn how to bring our different selves into some kind of harmony.

So right now he is on the stupid Michivan, we are hosting 35 people for Thanksgiving tomorrow and did I mention we are just getting over influenza? What to do, what to do.

In my younger days, I was a fan of the Big Gesture. I would have been in my car driving to his work to apologize.  I still like that approach- it has the virtue of showing the person that you have set aside your life to make sure everything is ok between you. It tends to smash the little ice walls before they get very big.  Sadly, that won’t work today: sick kids, house needs cleaning and food needs preparing.  Other options.

Get to confession and call him after. I was going to go this morning anyway and I need some grace and clarity, which may be redundant.  This has possibilities, though I hate apologizing on the phone. A really good apology involves some form of touch if possible.

I could wait till he gets home, but I hate to let things fester, so phone call it is, and I’ll smooch him later.

I need to remember what I said and try to put myself in his shoes. Right in the middle of an argument, that is so hard to do- you just want to win, or break through, or accomplish some personal goal.  Arguments are about agendas- be they emotional, practical, whatever- the idea of just setting the agenda aside during a fight is heroic. I think I have managed it fewer than ten times in the course of our 30 year relationship, and it has always been incredibly healing and lovely.  I love the shock on his face when I suddenly pull up, calm down, and say, “I see your point. I do. I am sorry I am not really listening right now. Can we start over and just talk about this?” It’s so Dr. Phil.

The problem is I can never remember to try this in the heat of the moment. I am a hothead from Hotheadsville, USA.  Like the Heatmiser from The Year Without a Santa Claus. For that matter, Thurl is the Snowmeiser.  He gets chilly fast, and I get frozen right out the minute my fahrenheit increases.  It’s a defense mechanism, part temperament, and part born of our family cultures.

No one ever, ever yelled in Thurl’s family growing up. No one ever talked about anything important, either. If by some accident, something important came up, and somebody felt hurt or angry, there followed a lockdown where everyone fell silent and watched the game.  Then, later, when everyone was ready, they just calmly and rationally ignored the whole thing for life.

In my family, we had two approaches: one parent was quicker to anger and quicker to forgive. The other was slow to anger, but Katie-bar-the-door once the anger arrived. And forgiveness was, let’s just say, longer in happening. “Dad? I’m sorry I stepped on the freshly poured driveway concrete when you expressly said not to and left my footprints in in for all time. Am I still grounded for two weeks? (cry).”  “Oh, it’s ok. I know you’re sorry. (Hug.)”  vs. Mom being patient for months until we are finally such jerks that she lets loose on us, quite deservedly. “Mom? I am sorry I didn’t clean up the playroom for three years even though you asked me to one thousand times. Am I still grounded? Mom? Mom??”

So I have lifelong experience with the Snowmeiser Way- and I respect it. It has it’s upsides- but it makes apologizing rather a strenuous affair. You’ve got to be really good at it.

Being a Hothead, I have said and done a lot of junk in the HOTM (heat of the moment) that I regretted, sometimes even while I was saying or doing it. So I have had decades of practice at apologizing, and I have gotten pretty darn good at it.  I remember reading somewhere in a story that an older gentleman was reminiscing over his apologies, and how they had made his relationships with people better, so much so that sometimes he would commit a small offense just for the pleasure of making a good apology.  So that’s probably a little mentally ill, but it has its points.

A good apology, a really sincere, warm apology from the heart, is very endearing.  First of all, it’s humble.  To do it, you really have to swallow a giant helping of ego and self-will, and that is hard, and everyone knows it. Second, it shows more concern for the other person than for self, or for carrying the point. This is genuinely sweet, and hard to resist. It’s taking the Lemon of your fight, and making the Lemonade of Love with it. What a tortured, saccharine metaphor.

Once your stomach has settled from that last paragraph, consider this: give the other person a chance to be ready to receive your apology. I am by nature a speedboat: I want to zip in, apologize warmly, and be done with it already. My husband the Ocean Liner takes longer to turn. I had to learn to respect that, and give him a little space to be angry in. If he’s really mad, he takes a nap. Afterwards he is much more amenable to a reconciliation. I used to get my little feelings all hurt because I would say something like, “You are such a big jerk, you understand nothing and I am really sorry I said those hurtful things and I don’t mean it, will you forgive me?” Okay, it probably wasn’t EXACTLY like that, but close enough where he would look at me like, I am not ready to make up yet, and I would have more stuff to be angry about. Lose, lose.

And then sometimes the other person is so egregiously and singlehandedly wrong that a good apology seems like a lie. “Sorry, but Clive is just one hundred percent wrong, and the children’s welfare is at stake. If I apologize, he takes that as confirmation that he is right, and nothing changes.” Sometimes this is true, or almost true (few of us achieve perfection in a disagreement and have nothing whatsoever to concede).

But most often, it’s not. We moms tend to get all dramatic about our kids’ emotional well-being and feel we need to defend them from their hard-hearted daddies, when often what they really NEED is a dose of tough love (please do not read “abuse”) and we are just too empathetic to see it.

Or if it’s just between us, it is rare that the other person has just acted completely unprovoked, unless they are a total creep, in which case you’ve got bigger problems.

In any event, even if the other person IS mostly wrong, there is always something to apologize for if you are interested in finding it.

Nan’s Argument Examination of Conscience:
Was my tone respectful?
Did I slip immediately into a pattern of talking that has never been helpful (“You always.. You never... the problem with your family is that…)?
Did I try, really try, to see it from his point of view?  
Did I bring up all kinds of other things because they are distantly related, and fog the issue? (“I remember back in high school, when you…”)
Did I make it about him personally rather than about the topic (“Why are you so unable to see this?”)?
Did I do something I know he hates during the argument, out of spite? (For us it’s the word “simply.” He hates that word. And I do use it, God forgive me.)
Was I emotionally manipulative (can’t think of what to say = time to cry or withdraw into a stony silence to compel instant guilt and contrition)?

So now that I am writing this, I am thinking of several things I might have done better. I won’t beat myself over the head with it- I was exhausted, he said/did some upsetting stuff too- ok, he was mostly silent, but I find that very upsetting and he knows it.

But I will think clearly and specifically about what I can honestly apologize for. (Dangle away, preposition.)

Then, I will make the actual apology. A couple of rules: no passive aggressive apologies like, “I’m sorry you got so upset.” Um, better to say nothing than that little firestarter.

Really mean it. You have to really BE sorry- this isn’t a formulaic thing: “I did x and x is wrong therefore I apologize. Beeeeep.” If you don’t feel it, even just a little, it is insincere, or just from the Brain. Nobody wants an apology from the Brain. You don’t say, “I love you with all my brain.” When someone hurts you, you don’t say they have broken your brain. You have to apologize from the heart. It takes generosity- you are giving something of yourself away. It is an act of love.

I can’t drive to Lansing today, but I can meet him at his Michivan stop tonight. With the highway under construction, this is an act of True Love. Now, off to confession. Prayers appreciated.



*Incidentally, Thurl Ravenscroft was the voice of Tony the Tiger. Why his name popped into my head I shall never know. Maybe I want Frosted Flakes...

**Thurl called (my husband, not Tony) and apologized while I was on the way to confession. Love wins!

Blessings in Disguise

“Sweet are the uses of adversity…” Which Shakespeare play was that? I think it’s As You Like It, and it’s followed by something about a frog with a jewel in its head. Wise words from the Bard, though a tad incomprehensible.  And true: there are some blessings you can only get from passing through the fire, or by finding a bejeweled amphibian.

This week our youngest was diagnosed with Type 1 diabetes. Weirdly, I had known it was coming. It runs -- practically gallops, as Cary Grant would say -- on my Dad’s side of the family. Both of his brothers were Type 1, and some of my male cousins are, too.

I won’t say there haven’t been some tears, at least on my part; but there hasn’t been shock, for some reason. In retrospect it seems God has been preparing us for this for many years, beginning with our other son’s Celiac diagnosis, and some other autoimmune struggles in our family.  I take after my Dad’s side of the family, and we have a love/hate relationship with carbohydrates: we love them, they kinda hate us.  So counting carbs is old hat to me.  I am familiar with the signs, and when Little Guy began drinking constantly ten days ago, I knew.

So once again our kids were called on to handle the home front while we were in the hospital, a drill that I know is all too familiar to too many families.  Thankfully we have a couple of adult kids at home, and that has been an inestimable gift.

So when my husband said that all this would turn out to be a blessing, I knew what he meant.  Sure, a lifelong chronic illness with potentially devastating sequellae is not what one would wish for one’s child. One is also not enthralled with the reality of harnessing one’s sanguine wagon to the very melancholic star of measuring and recording everything that passes the child’s lips, then sticking and poking him umpteen times a day. No, one most assuredly is not.

But... the challenges and losses that have been cropping up for a long time now have forced me to make decisions which ultimately have been a boon to our family peace and holiness.  My loss of health and mobility has drawn me back into my home, having to abandon the effort to help pay the mounting bills.

Being unable to pay the bills has led to a reevaluation of why we began homeschooling in the first place, and has led to the necessary withdrawing of our younger kids from a beloved co-op community.  The massive relief I feel at not having to be separated from my son at all while he adjusts and learns about his new normal is worth the price of admission by itself.  But something else has begin to re-enter our lives that has been missing for quite awhile now. Peace.

I used to laugh a bitter little laugh at the thought of ever having peace again. Who, I thought Martha-esquely, would get these kids educated? How would we get them through college? They need to play baseball and do ballet, don’t they? They’ve got to have a whole troupe of friends or they’ll have lonely childhoods, won’t they? Well then. Ha, God. There can be no peace in our time, no matter how much You want it for us, and promise it to us.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t currently sit here like a placid Buddha mysteriously smiling at all the busy bees, wishing they could have my nirvana. There’s lots to do, and a good percentage of it we mess up. The key is that God has herded us toward the right things for our family; things that are nourishing our unity and our contentment in one another.

I feel like this diagnosis is the final (please let it be the final!!) piece of our puzzle. We are so ready to step into this new life; it has been an almost seamless transition.  Beautiful friends are bringing meals and insights into managing diabetes; I am free to focus on doctor visits and redmond clay baths and measuring insulin.  Unstressed sibs are ready to play and cheer.  And best of all, my happy little boy loves having his mama around all the time. He knows that he and his brothers and sisters are top priority. They always were, of course; but it was harder for a child to appreciate when time was so limited and straitened.

The very best part about this blessing in disguise has been the discovery of our son’s remarkable courage and sense of humor. He had the docs and students in stitches on rounds every morning. Dr. Obvious told me to make sure to supervise him when he give himself shots, and I, a little naughtily, turned to Paul and said very seriously, “Okay, Paullie, so no running around the house with syringes, got it?” He fired back without a pause, “How about kitchen knives?” I about died laughing. Little snarkmeister! Where does he get that from? Happily the social worker in the room also found it funny. Whew.

It’s not all sunshine and roses; this morning as we drove to the pediatrician’s office, Paul scratched away at his Hand, Foot, and Mouth blisters (that’s right, picked it up in the hospital- yummy) while I mentally reviewed the contents of his travel pack- did I have everything I needed to make sure he wouldn’t die before we got home? Having answered myself with a tentative yes, I experienced a wave of frustration, and submitted what I would like to call a “passionate request” to God for some good ol’ fashioned undisguised blessings, you know, like unexpected checks in the mail or sudden weight loss.

Even as I made my demand, images of Paul’s brother Joe checking his sugar like a pro sprang to my mind, along with the beautiful face of my new daughter-in-law to be (Number One Son proposed the day after we brought Paul home), my folks asking when the diabetes care class is so they can attend, my awesome food values scale brought by a lovely friend with a Type 1 son,  my husband’s “not quitting” face as he learned to do a sugar check, Paul’s quietly ironic, “So hey Dad, maybe Mom could do the next one?” The existence of insulin, the advent of an artificial pancreas on the horizon, the fact that my crunchy doctor will still let me eat Doritos if need be, and even, a little randomly, the fact that Chesley Sullenberger landed a jumbo jet on the Hudson with no loss of life.

Yep, God’s here. We don’t know why we get the blessings we get, or the crosses.  But He really does weave it all together into something astounding, even if in deep disguise, and occasionally terrifying beyond belief.

Stress Management: How to Avoid the Self-Destruct Button

A year ago, I couldn’t have even watched the Presidential debate; I probably would have had a coronary just from the hairstyles alone, much less any reflections upon how on earth our country got here and speculations on where we could possibly be headed now.  I was fragile, anxious, and just about ready to snap in half from a variety of reasons.  I wasn’t sleeping well, eating well, or praying well. You can substitute “at all” for “well” in that last sentence.

I will spare you the specifics, because you already know them; you or people you know have been suffering from some or all of the following: financial stress, health struggles, feeling overwhelmed by caring for aging parents, for small children, for older children, for adult children. Toss in cultural chaos, uncertainty and division within our country and even the Church, and the current political climate, and you have a recipe for a kind of Cortisol Candyland, where stress rules, and peace is impossible.

One of the worst things about stress like this is it can rob us of our ability to effectively do the things we need to do to conquer it.  I can’t tell you how many times I told myself (and was told by others) that I needed to pray more, and better.  Sometimes in this valley, prayer can feel like booming echoes that do little but emphasize one’s sense of isolation, and give you a headache.  Hello? Is anyone there? Never mind.

“You need to sleep more, eat more, take care of yourself.” Agreed. How do I do that, again?

The truth about managing stress is not that we need to do more; it’s that we need to do less, and do what we do in a different way.

My training as a young mom was to do one million things every day.  I don’t think this is terribly different from people with challenging jobs outside the home: the wonderful boon of technology means that not only can we do more faster, but that we are expected to do it all faster, and never stop.  Now, truthfully, many of those things are non-negotiable in certain circumstances: when babies and little kids need to eat, you need to feed them; change them, bathe them, etc., and it all has to happen when it needs to happen. Schedules help, but let’s face it: there is just a lot to do.  As little ones get older, the immediacy of their needs lessen, but we insert more needs: playdates, activities, and hey! Younger siblings with all of the original needs!

Thank Heaven babies and toddlers come with their own built-in hormonal stress relieving system. We cuddle them, smell their heads, get kisses, and have these joy surges that largely help to counterbalance the strain.

As kids age, we have less access to that kind of relief, particularly if we are Marthas, concerned with many things: help pay the bills, care for the folks, help others in need- and woe betide if we should happen to fall ill.  The stress builds, and the relief fades.

We are like frogs in hot water- we don’t notice until we’ve boiled to death.

There has got to be a way to stop the madness, for ourselves and for our kids. ‘Cause guess what? We model stress for our families as we model everything else. We have to learn to calm down so that they can learn to handle what life has in store without breaking. But how? you ask.

Fortunately, I have done the breaking down for you! Having been almost completely physically, mentally, emotionally, and spiritually wrecked myself, I have been given the gift of more time to figure out how not to do that again, and I am delighted to share the fruits of my personal destruction with you.

So without further ado, Nan’s Hard-Won Keys to Stress Management:

1.  Do less. 
Ruthlessly hack away at your schedule. Pare it down, Chuck things out the window, even good things. Especially good things.  Focus in on what’s absolutely vital. Let the rest go, at least for now. No more extracurriculars, or fewer.  I had to get seriously ill to achieve this- hopefully you are less pigheaded and can manage it before your body breaks down. Stop helping everybody all the time! You will do nobody any good by having your head explode.

 2. Live deep, not shallow. 
I find that when I was most stressed, I was skating over the surface of life, no time for a story, no time to be goofy, no time to stop and look deeply into a child’s eyes, or Heaven forfend, my husband’s eyes. “Oh yeah, they’re green!” I actually said this recently, mostly kidding, as my husband and I stopped and took a minute to gaze at each other. Sit in the sandbox; stare at a wall, or a flower.

3. Stop kicking yourself for the cruddy quality of your prayer.  
So your prayer stinks. God’s used to it.  He is not booting you in the face, you are.  Stop trying so hard. Take more time for it, and flail around less. Shut up. Listen. Just snuggle with Him for awhile, He’s not going anywhere. He doesn’t need you to compose the new prayer of St. Francis. He’s already got one, and it’s fine.

4. Stop kicking yourself at all. 
Life will kick you plenty.  Do we need to examine our consciences? Of course- but limit it to once a day, preferably not at night.  And try to remember why God loves you. Because He does, which is weird, but there it is.

5. Stop dieting. Please, stop dieting. Please please please stop dieting.  
So many of us have developed hideous relationships with food and with our bodies- it’s a cycle of self-loathing that becomes a vortex. This food is bad, that food is bad, I am bad, it’s all bad, meals are occasions of guilt and punishment, instead of refreshment and gratitude. This is from the soul of the Italian in me: love food. God wants you to eat good food.  If you are having trouble digesting, get some nice expensive high quality supplements, preferably with enzymes to aid in breaking down that good food so you can get the benefit of it.

6. Touch people, as much as you and they can stand. 
Hug, caress, stroke hair- and try to remember to do that with kids, especially adult kids, as a replacement for talking, as often as they will allow. Sometimes we talk, and the words are good, and we mean well, and we are being very instructive, and all everybody needs is just some proof that they are loved well. I am not saying never talk; but how many times have words gotten us deeper into the woods, and love has gotten us out? Start with the unconditional love- and maybe stop there.

7.  Love rest, love leisure. 
These things are restorative, and God intended them for blessings. Slow down and enjoy things. I had gotten to the point where I could not stop working. I could hardly sit still at the dinner table- those dishes were waiting and it would be better if I could get to them right away. Sleep? Who could sleep? There were so many things that needed doing, and so many things to beat myself up over not having done. God wants you to love His gifts.  When you do move, move because it feels good to use the body that God gave you, not because you have an emotional gun pointed at your head.

Make yourself do a fun thing. So the cows won’t get fed for a half hour- will they DIE? So a doorbell or phone will ring unanswered- it probably isn’t the FBI or your long-lost aunt- let it ring, let them go away. So you’re unshowered and look like the wrath of God- your kids will adore you for sitting down for one half hour and playing with them. DO IT. STOP DOING OTHER STUFF. STOP STOP STOP. YOU HAVE TO STOP!!!

8.  Read for relaxation.
Not everything has to be spiritual reading.  Read you some Jane Austen! How about a buddy series set in the British navy during the Napoleonic wars? (Patrick O’Brian- oh yeah!).  Even St. Francis de Sales would tell you, enough already.  Relax.  Ok, maybe it would be Padre Pio or St. Philip Neri telling you- they are paesanos- they get it.

9.  Here’s a weird one: try for awhile not to read any books about saints that aren’t written by saints. Saints are very honest about themselves.  Saints tell the whole deal, how they screwed up, and continued to screw up after their conversions.  Biographers tell us how perfect the saints were, how pious, how gifted at prayer, how instinctively holy.  We get a lot about bilocation and the stigmata- well guess what? You’re probably not going to bilocate or get the stigmata, and if you do, it won’t be because you read about it somewhere.  I am not saying lives of the saints have no value; but when you are stressed, they can seem more like accusations or confirmation of your own hopelessness. Actual saints talking about themselves don’t have that effect. They talk about what brats they were as kids or the struggle to love somebody unloveable- the real stuff.  It helps. And it’s funny!

10.  Give yourself a break. 
Teach your kids that it’s ok to give themselves a break. And I mean this in two senses: one, take an actual break. And two, when you mess up, apologize, forgive yourself, and move on. Everybody messes up. Every-single-body. There were two who didn’t, but since you and I are not called to be Lord or Lady of the Universe, we can probably afford to make a few mistakes, like St. Augustine, like Pope John Paul the Great, like every other person who ever lived. Say out loud: “I am sorry. I forgive myself.” Yes, I know it’s God’s forgiveness that really counts, but He really doesn’t have much trouble forgiving. Forgive yourself; say it out loud even if you don’t really mean it. MRI research has shown that saying these words has a physically calming effect on the brain.  Every thought has a corresponding physiological action: it can be a cortisol eruption, frazzling your mind and body; or it can be a peaceful, antioxidant spa.  Say positive things out loud. “It’s going to be ok. God loves me. God loves you. Get me some Doritos.”

Oh, I’ve got a bunch more to say to you. But I won’t, because I am taking my own advice, and stopping. In closing, allow me to point out that almost every rule above has the word “stop” or “don’t” in it.  These rules do not demand more of you; they beg that you demand less of yourself.

Yes, I realize that the general cultural failing is not that everyone is trying too hard to be holy; but if you are stressed out from trying to live a good and holy life, you don’t need the same admonitions most people need.

You gotta STOP. Get somebody to give you a hug. Breathe. Snuggle with God; let Him do the heavy lifting. He’s got you.

One Woman’s Take on How (and How Not) to Survive a Mommy Illness with Some Reasonable Amount of Grace

As I begin to write, I must note that when I agreed to write this piece, I was filled with this zany ridiculous optimism that I would be well, and this would be more a retrospective on lessons learned from this experience.  As it is, I still feel crummy (cue violins), so this will have to be more of a now-trospective on lessons still being learned during the process of being stuck in your bed for three weeks or more.

Lesson 1: Lying in Bed is, at First, Exactly as Fun as You Thought it Might Be

During my long years of having millions of babies, toddlers, middles, teens, and adults needing me for 30 hours a day, I would indulge in this occasional fantasy about lying around in bed. I would get a lot of rest, I thought; I would read a bunch of books. I would get tons of planning done.  If I remembered to, I would pray for everybody I know.  I would have a great excuse to just use my computer until it overheated, not till someone else decided my turn was over.

And the first four days were like that! Sure, I was in pain; incisions from a laparoscopy were healing; delightfully, what we used to call “my Aunt Martha” came to visit the day after surgery; and the gas that they use to shove your intestines out of the way during surgery was seeking to exit my body through my shoulder.  Sure, we were living in fear from moment to moment that the pathology report would come back not so good. BUT! My husband was home for four straight days when he would normally have been at work. My mother-in-law, usually an inmate of our home, was being cared for elsewhere for three of those days. I DID read, and use my computer, and pray my distracted little prayers, and I even did some of the planning I had dreamed of doing.

So I was a chipper girl, a real trouper, smiling bravely through the pain, apologizing for putting people to the trouble of making me an English Muffin or helping me cross the room. I charmed myself- who knew I could be such a sweetie? Bed rest was, in a hideously overused and almost meaningless word, awesome.

Lesson 2: Lying in Bed is, After the Initial Fun Passes, a Giant Pain in the Patootie (subtitled You May BECOME a Giant Pain in the Patootie)

So then my mother-in-law returned, and I noticed a sensible diminishment in the almost exclusive attention of my husband. This led to some rather unfair crankiness on my part, as Chipper Trouper Girl gave way to Ungrateful Snippy Wench.  It is a good thing I have had so much practice apologizing in my life; I have gotten pretty good at it.

Interestingly at about this time, I finished the books I had set aside to read and also unfortunately realized that Facebook is nothing more than a thinly disguised opportunity to make an ass out of one’s self.  I mean, after you have importuned your poor friends (and you know who you are) with more than a few private messages about the deterioration of your physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual state, it starts to turn from your gift of a chance to do good for a friend to- well, friend abuse.  Know the signs: usually these messages begin with “I think I may be pregnant!” or “I know you have to make dinner, slop the animals, finish math with your kids, and find something sexy to wear for your husband later, but I am pretty sure I am experiencing demonic attack- can you help?”

How to stay just this side of the Friend Abuse line: limit PMs/texts to no more than 3 a day, short ones with as little drama as you can muster, and know that you already have your friend’s prayers, because she loves you and wants you to get better as much as you do. Maybe more, because then she can actually make dinner and castrate the goats. Or something.


Lesson 3: Plan More Time than They Tell You to Recover

The day after my mom-in-law returned, my wonderful husband left to go back to work, because we had flippantly been told that the recovery time from having two orange-sized tumors removed from one’s body would be, oh, about 3 days, max. Lies. All lies. I still felt, 5 days out, like I had been worked over by a gang of toughs and left for dead, and now that my Lying in Bed Euphoria had passed, it wasn’t any fun any more.  Kids were realizing they missed me; the dog was missing the regularity with which he had been fed and let out; I felt the weight of Unmet Expectations, my own and others, descend upon my soul, and I knew fear.

I felt so much pressure to be better, mostly from myself, but also from my family who had been led to believe they would have their mom and wife and daughter in law back at full speed 72 hours after four incisions were made in her abdomen and parts of her body were removed. This, clearly, was stupid.  As my husband is fond of saying, “The key to happiness in life is low expectations.”  I actually asked him to please stop saying that (people would always look at me accusingly), but he is right.  Recovery is so very much easier if you set low expectations ahead of time for how healed you will be how soon.  If you think it’s going to be 3 days, tell people a week, and tell yourself a week.  Give yourself permission to heal fully before attempting reentry- you are doing nobody any favors by rushing things. This is especially difficult if you have young children, but this is a nice segué to Lesson 4.

Lesson 4:  Ask for, and Accept, Help, in Advance if Possible

I live an entirely different life in my head. In that light-filled space, doctors tell husbands that their wives will need to convalesce for a summer by the sea.  Husbands, in turn, are moneyed men of leisure who exist to dance attendance upon the mother of their heirs.  The maid packs the steamer trunk, and we are away to Brighton or Bath.

The reality, though more harsh, is still pretty nice; I do have a wonderful husband who loves me and wants me to get the best care possible.  I have 92% fabulous kids who also love me and want me to get better soon so I can cook again so we can once again frolic together in the Fields of Elysium.  But there is only so much they all can handle, your illness is stressful for them as well, and they still have all the expectations and duties of regular life to fulfill, plus yours.  Make this easier on them by accepting help from family and friends.  If none is offered, ask for it, or offer a trade if your family/friends are particularly lame/busy. Mine aren’t, and immediately competed to bring the most amazing dinners and take my younger kids for a day to give us all a break in the process.  It has made all the difference; they had an opportunity to be of real service, and my family had an opportunity to be humble and deeply grateful, always a nice state of being.

By the way, the trade I mentioned above is an offer of compensatory babysitting time, when you are well and truly better, to two or three trustworthy folks who could entertain your little ones for a day or two each while you recover, even for just a morning or afternoon around nap schedules.  Most people are lovely and will tell you they would be delighted to just help you out, no return necessary, but it is polite to offer if you are the one doing the asking. Perhaps your friend is in dire need of a day off herself, and your offer will come like a vision of light at the end of a tunnel.

Lesson 5: Accept Meals, and Lower your Dietary Standards for a Short Time

If people offer to make you meals, for the love of Mike, just say a grateful and hasty “Yes please!! I love you forever!!”  So what if you’ve got a kid with Celiac (like I do)- the rest of the family is magically fed, and all that remains for your exhausted hub or oldest kids to do is whip up ONE gourmet quinoa-based dinner.  So what if 5 nights in a row your family has goulash? Goulash is FANTASTIC, and you can lay off it for a month or so afterwards to get everyone back in the mood. So WHAT if people bring brownies and ice cream and your family Never, Ever Eats Sugar.  Give them to someone who will appreciate them, like me for instance.

Hint: do ask people to leave dinners on the porch or in the garage for you, and to let you know in advance when they are coming.  It is a cardinal rule of life that the very moment your pain meds kick in and your kids are quiet and you are juuuust drifting off to sleep, the doorbell must ring. Try to minimize this occurrence with this one very reasonable request: people who are kind enough to bring dinner will understand.  I always do Ding Dong Ditch Dinner when I bring a meal, with the difference that instead of ringing the doorbell and dashing madly to the car, I quietly shoot the recipients a text saying “Dinner will be left on your porch at 5:30pm. Get some rest and I will see you when you are well!” Don’t forget the heart and smiley face emoticons…

Lesson 6: Even When a Hospital has a Teeny Little Post-Operative Infection Rate of only 3%, You Should Still Plan to Get One

Sigh. More sighing. See Lesson about low expectations; see other Lesson about adding on more time for recovery if necessary.

Lesson 7: Always Have a Plan B

I totally forgot this most important rule of sickness, nay, of life itself.  This is what comes of my youngest being 8.  Truly little kids are constant living reminders of this rule, and great teachers of flexibility and docility to God’s Permissive Will.  Plan B is vital to your happiness at all times.  For instance, when you bring toddlers to Mass, Plan A is everyone will sit quietly in a pew in a well-dressed row, hands clasped prayerfully with their right thumbs over their left.  Clearly, a Plan B is needed if one’s head is not to explode. Plan B, of course, is that you won’t be able to find a shoe so boots will be worn in summer by at least one child, you will be ten minutes late to Mass because the teenager left the car 3 gallons below empty, and Challenging Child will become Exorcist Baby the minute his or her little soul passes the portals of your parish church.

With Plan B, you blissfully accept the “early Taylor Swift” look of boots and dresses, you have a gallon of gas sitting in the mower can for just such an occasion, and you carry holy water in your purse at all times. You also just give up on ever hearing a homily again, no matter how much you need to.  These lovely low expectations lead directly to contentedness.  So, in sickness as in life, do have this Plan B in place: you will be recovering much longer than the docs said, you will get a post-operative infection, your mother in law will drain away your husband’s caregiving energies, kids won’t get a ton of school done but will be introduced by your former friends to Avatar the Last Airbender which will lead them to both question western religion and kick box. Full disclosure:  I now love that show.

Lesson 8: Suffer Well- or As Best You Can

I remember vividly the advice given by a Catholic priest to a local Catholic warrior who was going into amputation surgery: “Suffer well!” he said.  Great advice. Decide in advance that you will suffer, and that your suffering is going to be worth something to Someone.  Decide for whom you will be offering up each day; with surgery you can do this in advance, but with illness it may have to be more of a seat of the pants thing, as in, “Lord…(retching), today I offer my vomiting for… uh… someone who really needs it.” God will know what to do.

Accept in advance that you will have cranky moments and less-than-stellar interactions, and vow to give it all to God, the good, the bad, and the ugly.  Dwell momentarily on the deathbed of St. Thérése of Lisieux, be inspired, and then let it go.  You are almost certainly not St. Thérése of Lisieux, but you can be St. You all the same, and offer up the gifts you have to give in your own way.  Even when we blow it, these intentions are precious to God. Give yourself a break- you’re sick.

So these are the lessons I am learning as I rot here in bed, I mean rest prayerfully here in my retreat, and I dearly hope they are of some value to you, or at least have given you a laugh. Which, after all, is the best medicine— be well!