Things Laryngitis Taught Me

• There is a lesson in every thing. (I spelled the word everything in two words on purpose for em-pha-sis)
• If you can't yell you don't yell.
• When you speak softly, other people around you start to do the same.
• There is something to be said for talking less and thinking more.
• Taking pause and reserving comment for another time is most useful when engaging with your spouse. (Love ya, honey.)
• Talking less increases your patience.

Exercise Update

Last I visited the topic of exercise was in my post Running As Fast As I Can where I engaged in wanderlust about running and committed to a runner's life (or my version of it. )

The day after I wrote that post I injured myself by lightly running for fifteen minutes on a treadmill.

Not exactly sure how I did it. I am sure I spent the next week walking around with hip, lower back, and shoulder pain along with the overwhelming feeling that my joints were on fire.

Enter Crazy Track Lady who was almost Crazy Trampoline Lady until my husband convinced me that jumping up and down on a trampoline was not going to be the best solution to my fragile bodied woes.

He suggested I walk on the track at the Y (slowly) and listen to music.

Well, walking around slowly didn't appeal to me until I put my own spin on it.

Introducing The Dance/Walk Workout. All it takes is you, music, earplugs and a willingness to shake your groove thing in public when no one else is dancing.

Yup! I'm that lady who people try to avoid making eye contact with because I'm dancing like no one else is watching except they are watching because I'm at the gym. 

I dance to Beyonce, Broadway, Bono as well as artists whose names start with other letters of the alphabet.

Due to my physical limitations, I use small movements and I keep the dancing somewhat low key.
It's hard to contain myself, though. If I had my druthers, I'd be in full on Fame-I-want-to-live-forever mode.

An acquaintance who takes the Spin Class that happens at the same time I workout told me that she tells her fellow cyclists, "She's a writer! She's working on her next idea."

What she inadvertently revealed was that her fellow cyclists talk about me and whatever they say compels her to come to my defense.

I don't care.

I've seen just as many people looking my way with longing wishing they had the boxy to do my workout rather than have their trainer barking in their ears.

Anyway, that's what I choose to believe.

So now, I'm not running as fast as I can. I am dance/walking as fast as I can. Which is pretty slow.

But it sure is fun.

Disney Needs a Princess with Some Kink

My daughter thinks she's a Princess.

She adores Ariel; a mermaid who gives up her entire underwater life to marry a Prince. Hence, becoming a Princess.

I've ruined her.

I first showed her Little Mermaid and Beauty and the Beast; those durn Disney films because I love Little Mermaid and Beauty and the Beast.

They are good movies with great soundtracks (granted I'm a musical theater geek but--ahem, I digress).

When she started playing dress up at preschool and wore the princess dresses and jewels everyday, I couldn't help buying her a few so she could do the same at home.

She wore them morning, noon, and night and would have worn them to bed if I'd let her.

Ruined.

At least when I hear her playing at the park and her dialogue consists of "Save me, Prince. Save me!" I counter it with, "Don't forget you can save yourself, honey!"

That strikes the right balance, right? Riiiight.

Now I'm grappling with the fact that my precious girl, with her kinky-curly-just-above-her-shoulders-brown hair wants long straight hair; like Rapunzel (whom she learned about in Disney's Tangled.What?! I wanted to see it and figured she'd like it, too!)

Anyway, Disney's Rapunzel is an empowered ingenue who doesn't fall into your typical princess stereotypes. Well, except for that long (really long) straight blond hair.

Aw crap.

Now, she runs around the house with an apron tied around her head so she can feel it swishing on her back.

While the princess dresses she wears are cute it drives me nuts to look her way and see that apron on her head. With great determination, she heads for the door with the intention of wearing it in public. I'm all for self expression but there are limits. The apron just makes her look like she's a crazy person.

The picture below was taken in the back of our house. I won't let her go past the driveway with that thing on her head.

The desire for long hair that covers your back is a rite of passage for most girls (unless they actually have long hair that covers their back).

Even Whoopi Goldberg in her1984 self titled Broadway show played a young black girl with a shirt on her head pretending it was her long straight hair; the hair our culture upholds and adores.

Generally speaking, black hair grows at a much slower rate than Caucasian hair because the hair coils in the follicle which makes it more difficult to come out.

Therein lies a problem.

I happened upon a solution the other day. In the dress-up aisle at Target there was a kid-size long blond Rapunzel wig made by Disney. I got dizzy thinking how much my princess would love it but then my excitement waned.

Then I began to think that getting her that wig would be a set up that would exacerbate her desire for a kind of hair she'd never have.

I figured it'd be irresponsible of me to let her wear it. Then again, it is better than an apron. Hmmm...

I haven't bought it. Just like I haven't bought one of those doll heads that lets young girls (and maybe boys) style hair and put on make-up. All of those things have straight hair. Even the black ones have straight hair.

Hey, doll makers! Curly hair needs styling, too! Hey, Disney kid-size wig makers! Why can't there be a long kinky-curly hair wig!

Ah well.

I guess I'll have to make peace with that apron, forgive myself for ruining her, stop trying to micro manage my daughter's childhood, and be grateful from the bottom of my heart that I get to have such "worries".

But that apron is not leaving the house.

The Incredible Hulk; What We Have In Common

I have an alter ego. Imagine a black woman who wears all black, high heeled boots, large hoop earrings, and an attitude. Did I mention she kicks ass?

She comes out when people have gone too far, pushed my buttons, messed with my peeps, or crossed my line. She has defended my husband, my children, and various friends who needed back up.

She doesn't have a name. If she did it'd be something like Shonda or Venus. Her last name would be Jones.

Here's a few examples of times when she has gotten "it" done when "it" needed to get done.

After my youngest was born and exhibited some problems with her breathing a doctor in the intensive care unit said (in the smarmiest voice imaginable) "It's not my fault your daughter has breathing issues," when I challenged the delay in test results that would cause her to stay in the hospital unnecessarily without me.

In a voice I didn't recognize I bellowed, "F*** You!" and proceeded to make a scene that resulted in the test results magically appearing within five minutes.

My alter ego showed up at a Cub Scout meeting after one of the Mothers (in a series of "reply all e-mails) trashed my husband's devoted service as a den leader because he didn't want to do things her way. Never mind she never once volunteered to take the reigns.

I showed up at the meeting unannounced and in a low and measured voice (in front of the other parents) told her in no uncertain terms to back off and quit disrespecting my husband who is a good man and did nothing wrong. She never mentioned him in an e-mail again.

In the case of my Mother; who was living in a nursing home and wouldn't even step out on to the balcony to get fresh air, I was informed that she would be required to come to her bank and vouch for the fact that I had Power of Attorney even though I had the notarized and signed papers with me. I screamed, "She f****** has dementia. She can't f****** come to the bank. I f****** need access to her account. Get the people who can make that happen, on the phone. Now!"

I had a lovely chat with the higher-ups and left with what I needed.

By the way, I don't like to swear. But "Shonda" does when she's gettin' "it" done.

Every woman needs an alter-ego who can push through the limits, get past the boundaries, kick butt and take names. Because it is in our nature as mothers and wives, sisters, daughters, and friends to nurture, be gentle and kind, it's easy not to engage the part of us that can get over, under, and through the things that stand in our way.

In particular, as a caregiver when your focus is being a soft place for your loved one to fall you can forget that "No," often means "I don't know." "You can't," often means, " I can't because I don't have the authority" and "It doesn't work that way," usually means, "We've been doing it this way forever and it hasn't occurred to us to change it."

It's never my intention to be unpleasant or difficult.

But like Dr. David Banner who would transform into the Incredible Hulk if baited, "Don't make me angry. You wouldn't like me when I'm angry."

Forget to Remember

This summer my sister Gina and I held the distinction of having two parents in the hospital at the same time. On top of that, they were in different hospitals; one hour apart. I was drawn to our Mother and my sister was pulled to our Dad. We didn't pressure each other. Our natural abilities paired with what each parent needed at the time.

Gina is a doctor in a teacher's clothing. I call her first when the girls are sick. Her diagnosis and remedy are always correct. She can read hospital monitors and converse with doctors as if she is their colleague. She retains what they tell her and is able to explain it to others. That's what my Father needed as he suffered with lung cancer. My mother needed an emotional touchstone while stranger after stranger ran test after test to determine whether she'd had a minor stroke as well as the status of her overall health.

Staying by my mother's side was not a conscious decision. I was a magnet and her needs; her heart were my base. Even in a hospital she held the homing device that guided me toward a soft place to fall.

That would've been all well and good if I wasn't also a mother of four, a wife, an adjunct professor, professional actress, small business owner, and writer who occasionally likes to sleep. ( My list is no longer than most people these days.)

In order to be there for my Mother I had to borrow from all of those areas at a cost. When I was with her, I felt guilt for not being with them and vice versa.

And it wasn't as if this was going to be temporary. After her one week hospital stay, we transferred her to a nursing home with a dementia unit. She would not return to the home she'd lived in for forty six years.  I felt responsible for my Mother's (Mommy's--pronounced Mah-mee) well being as if she were one of my children. It wasn't until I embraced that notion that I found a way to manage the responsibility.

For all intents and purposes, she was a child; a dependent. I needed to accept that my mother was in line with my four other children. No, I didn't need to feed, clothe, and bathe her every day but if I opened my schedule to fit one more "child" than I wouldn't feel guilt over my attention being divided. (Or anyway, I'd feel much less guilt.)

Attention given to Mommy wasn't "taking from" it was "a part of" being a caretaker to my whole family. My heart was already open to taking care of Mommy. Embracing her as a dependent enabled me to open up my life and see a bigger picture.

Also, it didn't take away from my Mother's dignity, grace or everything she'd accomplished in her life that she needed my care. Circumstance had converted our relationship. I needed to let go of being "the child". That label no longer applied and I had to make a mental shift in my thinking in order to move forward.

I suppose I could have left my Mother's care to the nursing home but the magnetic pull was always there. (I will address the importance of due diligence and nursing home care in another post.)

The adoption of another dependent was the best way for me to take on my role as caregiver. A role that chose me but I was honored to play.

Forget to Remember

My Mother passed away on February 2nd after suffering a massive stroke. She was found unconscious on the floor of her bathroom at the nursing home she'd been living in for the past eight months. She had lived there since my Father passed away in June. My sister Gina and I had moved her from her house in the suburbs to a dementia unit in the city so she could be closer to us.

She'd been suffering from dementia most likely for the past five or six years. I say "most likely" because she'd only been diagnosed and medicated since she moved into the nursing home. Before then, she and my Father were in denial as the upkeep of their home and health declined.

I recently wrote a one woman show about the series of events that have taken place over the past eight months (Truth Be Told). It addresses living with my Mother's dementia, my transition from being her daughter to her caregiver, my rather confusing childhood narrative, losing both my parents within a short period of time, selling my childhood home, uncovering family secrets of soap opera proportions, and the importance of living a truthful life.

The process of writing the show and performing it once in front of an audience was cathartic. It will be even more cathartic in July when I perform it six times for Fleetwood Jourdain Theatre in Evanston, Illinois.

I've realized that as much as I covered in the one woman show, there is more of this story that I want to share; for my sake and others. People have told me that they relate to my experiences and appreciate my putting their feelings into words. That is the very reason I write.

So I will use "Writing My Mind" as an outlet to talk about this period of time where the circumstances of my life forced me to confront the very notion of who I am as a daughter, woman, Mother, wife, and sister.

I'll share what I learned, what I'm still trying to understand, some helpful information for current or future caregivers, as well as my concerns about elder care, bureaucracy, and how to help a friend in the midst of tragedy.

I am not an expert but in this case, I took a crash course in the school of life and discovered a great deal.

When I address these topics I'll put them under the title "Forget to Remember" because at this juncture one of my biggest challenges is how to grieve the loss of my Mother; a woman I adored.

It has been difficult not to dwell on her last days in the hospital as she lay in a coma. It's been hard not to think of her as a woman who lived in a nursing home whom I feared would not remember me the next time I visited. It's been challenging to accept that it took so long to realize she had dementia and recognize how it affected the last four or five years of our relationship. Now as I connect the dots I can understand behavior that seemed out of character, hurtful, confusing.

I can barely think about my Father because it's unnatural to grieve two people at once. But I can't escape the image of him meek in his hospital bed. It pains me to realize how he started calling more frequently the last six months of his life before I knew he was sick. I don't know if he knew he was sick and didn't tell us. If he did know, how sad to think he suffered alone.

I am still frustrated that it was so hard to get him to go to the hospital and how impossible it was to convince him to get my Mother professional help.

Now, I navigate the world as an orphan; in my opinion too soon. It is unknown territory to be in this world without the unconditional love they gave me. I'll explore that here.

At the same time, because these topics are at the forefront of my mind, I "forget to remember" the other things about my parents. Memories that could sustain me while I grieve, escape me.

I'll share my memories of two extraordinary people I called Mommy (Mah-mee) and Daddy (Dah-dee)

Not every post will cover these topics. I hope when they do, you find a piece that is helpful to you.

Type your comment below:

Cancel

March Madness; It Doesn't Matter If You Win or Win...

"It's alright. I'm happy for everyone." That was my answer when I was informed that I was clapping for the wrong team at my daughter Audra's Hoop Dreams Game. That ladies and gentlemen, is the full extent of my competitive edge. So what if the kid in a blue t-shirt made the basket instead of one of the tyke's wearing red like my daughter. The color of the shirt most likely had to do with when the kids were signed up for the activity. In my mind, nothing else separated them.

On a Saturday morning at the YMCA watching a bunch of four and five year old boys and girls run back and forth on the court all I care about is how darn cute they are, what good exercise Audra is getting, and how soon I can get my next cup of coffee. I'm fairly certain that is the sentiment of most of the parents who sit on the sidelines and watch their little moppets but even in something as innocent as toddler b-ball a tinge of good, better, best emerges. The parents (me included) can't help but break into thunderous applause when a basket is made. The moans and groans are march-madness-ri-fic when a basket is missed. It's a natural impulse. We can't seem to help ourselves because we all grew up on a steady diet of "winning is everything". Even if that ideology didn't show up in our homes, we could not escape the message in school and in our culture.

What if we applauded the basket and the miss? Or what if the game was met with no applause at all? Okay, that would be weird. I'm not the type who believes in building artificial self esteem where everything is "Amazing" and every attempt at anything means the kids is a genius but I do wish there was a way to delay the inevitable programming related to winning and losing.

After Audra's "game" I observed a coach running some drills with some older kids. They did a passing sequence and then a kid shot the ball...and missed. "He shoots," said the coach, "And scores," he continued even though it wasn't true. I appreciated that. What mattered to the coach was the process, not the result; the journey not the destination.

I'm not sure if this is right or if somehow I will be depriving Audra of some important edge that will ensure her future success. All I know is that when I teach improvisation and acting and we play a game in order to highlight an important point, my students start to froth at the mouth at the very thought of winning. If I happen to miss adding a point to one of the team's scores, you'd think I was messing with the last few minutes of the World Series. The truth is, I could care less about the score and I try to encourage them not to care either.

In Audra's case, I hope she always maintains that beaming smile as she runs across the court and looks to see if I'm watching. I swear it could land a plane. Because it's not about winning or losing. It's about playing the game. Right?

And the Winner is...Viola Davis

So Viola lost. At the beginning of Oscar Sunday I posted this statement on Facebook: "Whoopi Goldberg is mad Viola Davis turned in the same performance Whoopi turned in twenty two years ago in "Long Walk Home". I got a couple of "likes" and a few agreeable comments. I'd been nervous to post the status update convinced that there'd be some backlash. For the most part, Viola Davis' performance in "The Help" has been described as transcendent, Oscar worthy, miraculous, revelatory. I disagree.

I could have also posted "Regina Taylor is mad Viola Davis turned in the same performance Regina turned in twenty one years ago in "I'll Fly Away". This isn't a criticism of Viola Davis' performance. Her characterization was fine. She connected the dots and delivered a competent perfunctory rendition of a maid in the 1960's; just like Whoopi and Regina did. Just like any competent contemporary black actress would when given the task of playing a 1960's maid. (Think stoicism, pride, straight-backed humility, and flashes of fire)

Viola Davis campagined hard the past few months vying to win the Academy Award for Best Actress. I saw her tell Nightline, The View, and anyone else who would listen that at first she was weary of playing yet another maid in Hollywood until she realized she could humanize the character and that it was practically her duty to do so. That is quite the cliche. It pretty much rivals the old "hooker with a heart of gold" adage. It's okay to play a stereotype as long as you "humanize" them. Whatever.

I was not offended by "The Help" as many people were. There was anger because the Civil Rights Movement was told from the perspective of a white person. It was as if these folks hadn't seen "Long Walk Home" (Civil Rights) "Glory" (substitute Civil Rights for the Civil War) "Cry Freedom" (substitute Civil Rights for Apartheid) or pretty much any other 1990's movie supposedly about black people. The whole "black people problems" through white person's eyes is as overdone as what I like to call the "Green Mile Effect" where magical black people solve white people's problems for them. (Think Will Smith in "The Legend of Bagger Vance"or Michael Clarke Duncan in "The Green Mile")

When I saw "The Help" all I thought was, "Is that it?" I wasn't surprised. I wasn't angry. I didn't care. I thought the movie was utterly benign.

I would have been annoyed if Viola Davis won last night. The right actress won. "The Iron Lady" is a bad movie but Meryl Streep is astonishing in it. Viola Davis was not astonishing in "The Help". She added nothing new to the archetype of the maid. We have seen this maid in the hands of many black actresses. She did what would be expected within the confines of the role. And I don't blame her for playing the part. She's been in Hollywood forever and it's the first time she had a lead. She did what she needed to do.

The fact that the Academy didn't let guilt over the lack of African American roles lead them to vote for Viola gives me hope. It means that black actors can be recognized but we don't have to be placated. It means that it is not going to be reinforced that the "humanized maid" is the only character we will be asked to play.

As a fellow Facebook friend (Tamara Kerrill Field) said, "I want Viola to win for an independent film written just for her." Hopefully her nomination will allow for that someday soon.

And congratulations Meryl. You kicked some ass.