Growing up, I didn't have a whole lot of interaction with people who weren't like me. I'm talking across the board, culture, age, income bracket. We lived in the suburbs and everyone around us was like....well, us.
My parents, however, had grown up differently. My mom grew up in a very ethnic neighborhood, where if you didn't speak Czech or Polish, you couldn't function. Everyone spoke Czech as a first language, read the Slavik papers, and English was a second language.
My dad grew up in rural Illinois, but from a very culturally diverse and huge family. Because my grandfather was one of the only people in town who didn't lose his job during the depression, my dad said that their dinner table always had strangers. Local people, people passing through. Black, white, young, old. The feeling was that since there was enough food for the 8 of them, there was still enough for a couple more. The rule was....wash your hands and sit down. It wasn't fancy, but it was food.
Anyway, I think my parents knew I was missing out on an important piece of the life puzzle growing up as I did. So when I was 14, they had me volunteer as a candystriper at a large, metropolitan medical center.
It was the best thing that ever happened to me.
I got an education that no amount of schooling would ever teach me. I was around black, white, hispanic, oriental. Old and young. The sick and the infirm. The dying. I saw burn victims and car crash victims. I saw young people dying from cancer. I saw "dead".
And I saw what drugs can do to you first hand.
I was taking papers into the emergency room. There was a policeman standing by a gurney, where a young man lay, eyes wide, frightened, shaky, sweaty, painfully thin and dirty. I saw that the young man was handcuffed to the steel bars of the gurney. As I passed, with his free hand, he tried to stop me.
"Please get the bugs off me....Please...." he pleaded.
He was scary and pathetic at the same time. I really didn't understand. The policeman looked at me and said gently, "Drugs. Take a good look. Don't let this be you someday."
I never touched a street drug in my entire life because of that policeman and that sad young man.
My parents never knew the true depth of what they did for me. I learned so much more than they ever had probably hoped for. Compassion. Understanding. Patience. Gratitude. Our gift of choice. I was a candystriper there for almost 3 years, until I got a regular part time job.
So this is my call to everyone. Volunteer. Share your talents with those who are less fortunate. And involve your kids. The lessons learned will be with them for a lifetime.
Friday, January 25, 2008
Me and Volunteering
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Portrait of the Writer as a Young Girl
Yes, that's me. 1958-ish. Obviously winter and obviously dressed to the nine's with my muff, matching hat and burgundy coat.
In case you were worried, I still have that chair I'm sitting on.
So how, do you ask, did a cute little thing like me with devoted, kind, intelligent parents end up depressed and suicidal in WAM-ville?
Oh, wait, let's see if I can get Rose and Frank's pic in here too.
There they are. Wedding day. September, 1948. (Go ahead, check the dates. They were married years before I came along).
Q: Lara, didn't you KNOW that WAM was a possessive, nasty, control freak? You dated him for 3 years before you married.
A: Remember this and remember it well: abusers chose their victims with care. They are as persistent and well educated at reeling you in as Captain Ahab. You will almost never see through their screens. I had a few bad feelings in the pit of my stomach, which I didn't listen to...and my dad never liked WAM, which I didn't pay attention to. Perhaps standing back listening to my "little voice" and paying closer attention would have helped.
Q: What about your parents? Did you recreate your family home like so many do?
A: Nope. My mother was an excellent role model. She had her own stuff, maintained a job, took no crap from my dad, who was mild-mannered, more on the reticent side and very respectful of women. My mother had me read Thoreau’s “Essay on Self-Reliance” when I was 13. So, bottom line? No. I jumped into a whole new nightmare that I have to worry about my children recreating.
Q: So what did your Mom say when you told her about WAM?
A: Well, both my parents became ill after I got married. My mother died 366 days after I got married, my dad a year after that. So I really couldn't dump my horrid marriage on them. When I did mention to my mom that that marriage wasn’t EXACTLY what I had anticipated, she told me in no uncertain terms that I wasn’t to take shit from anyone. She didn’t raise a daughter to cow-tow to some two-bit moron. I was to value my own intelligence and self-worth above all, and basically bag anyone who didn’t subscribe to the same agenda. My dad concurred.
Q: What happened?
A: Maybe because I lost them so quickly and so close together, I dropped into grief and mourning and didn't have the strength to deal with WAM. Or eventually the strength to leave him. I became the antithesis of who my parents wanted me to be. I was frightened, abused, petrified, numb. I felt stupid, useless. I told Anne that in WAM’s eyes, I was FULS. Fat, ugly, lazy, stupid. That’s how I was treated and that’s how I began to see myself.
Q: Why did you believe him? You were 30 years old -- had been on your own, traveled, had a good job, had many friends, came from a strong background.
A: When I married WAM, I loved and respected him. His opinion mattered. When I realized he thought I was worthless, I became worthless in my own eyes. (Can you say "co-dependent"?) I couldn’t see that his perceptions were a result of his own problems, his own issues with women. I couldn’t imagine that I had made a mistake falling in love with him or marrying him. I was the epidimy of the saying “A woman will do almost anything to avoid facing the truth about the person she loves.”
Are you getting the idea that I was a mess? I was a mess. "Was" being the operative word.
Q: So why you? Why WAM?
A: I used to joke and say: The planets aligned, Saturn's rings were in the 7th House of Usher, we met, we got married. But the truth of the matter is, if I hadn't met the WAM-ster, I wouldn't have Sean and Erin. Motherhood is the absolute best thing that ever happened to me. I've told both my children that because of them, I know that God exists in the universe. My parents and my cousin (who lives far away) were all the family I had and after my parents passed away, I felt disconnected and groundless. Having Sean and then Erin, especially since WAM didn't want children (there's another story) was a gift. A true and real gift from God.
And you know, things might have turned out differently. If my dad had discovered the actual true nature and personality of WAM before he passed away, WAM would have been dead, and my dad would have been in jail. If the timing of this well-justified murder was bad, I might have missed out on having my kids. Sometimes, you can just feel the hand of God on your shoulder.
Q: And what about now?
A: Now, I have my kids. I have my cousins. I have friends. I went to hell and came back stronger. I really did. I am living proof that sometimes, as pitch-awful as it is, we just have to let the bad stuff happen.
Then, when we are better, when we are healed, we can extend a hand to those who are where we once were.
Monday, June 18, 2007
Remember These Priceless Gems
My parents weren't really much on sitting me down and lecturing me on the finer points of survival in the world. They showed me what dignity was, they showed me the value of integrity, of honesty, mainly by example. They also imparted on me little chunks of advice that I have never forgotten. The information was never beaten into me, rather it was wrapped around a story or an incident. I remember so vividly sitting in the car with my dad, Frank, when a story came on the radio about the Moral Majority. All my dad said was "The Moral Majority? I don't think they're either." It took me years to get it, but it rolled around my cranium from the time my dad uttered it, to this day.
Now my parents did have other bits of advice that I've lived my life around. Little beauts that I will share with you because of their simplicity, their importance, their relevance. These gems are timeless and I've gotten to 50 fairly intact by remembering them.
So here, for the first time, is all the advice I ever needed from Frank and Rose:
From my Dad:
1. Always pump your brakes;
2. Always balance your checkbook;
3. Always be honest;
4. Always admit when you are wrong or have made a mistake, then take your lumps like a man;
5. When you shake a person’s hand, look them in the eye and shake like you mean it;
6. Always be a good girl.
From my Mom:
1. No matter what you do, where you do it, how you do it or with whom, make sure that when you get up in the morning, you can be proud of who stares back at you in the mirror;
2. If you want to be treated like a lady, act like a lady. No matter what;
3. Always be a good girl.
Done.
Thank you, Frank and Rose.
P.S. -- In my 30+ years of driving a total of 5 different cars, I've never needed a brake job.
Friday, June 1, 2007
Bowing Before False Idols
I walked into my 10 year old daughter’s room the other day and noticed that one entire wall was filled with pictures of various stars of the Disney Channel. As a mother, as a woman who was once a little girl, I wept. Wept. Any concern I had that she had taken after her father completely disappeared. She was mine. All mine. Those pictures of Zach and Cody and Hannah and Raven confirmed that my sweet girl did indeed carry a heavy load of my DNA.
I was whisked back in time to my 10th year in 1966, and remembered my bedroom walls covered with pictures of the Beatles, the Monkees, the stars of “The Mod Squad”, Donny Osmond and Captain James T. Kirk of the USS Enterprise (whose picture, I’m sorry to say, was always hard to find in the latest editions of Fave, Tiger Beat and Sixteen). As I move my time line to 1976, I see Robert Redford, that infamous picture of Al Pacino as Serpico, Shaun Cassidy and Barry Manilow. The 80’s – who else? The poster man of ALL poster men, Tom Selleck…and a newly issued picture of William Shatner as our Captain, now featured in the big screen version of Star Trek. The 90’s? Well, if I’d had the nerve to do it, I would have put David Duchovny up on my wall. The year 2000? Please. Johnny Depp, alrighty.
Now should you think I developed this fascination for celebrities through any fault of my own, let me correct you. Allow me to introduce you to my mother, Rose.
My mother loved Clark Gable. She snuck off to the theater to see “Gone with the Wind” when she was a young girl and was hooked. Hooked on Gable, hooked on movie stars, hooked on the movies. My grandmother NEVER would have allowed my mother to see such a movie. “For heaven’s sake, Rosebud,” – they called my poor mother Rosebud to distinguish her from the dozen other Rose’s in my family – “they show a woman HAVING A BABY in that moving picture!” Reason enough in my grandmother’s mind to disallow such a consideration. (Please note: Gramma was from the old country and thought the following: seeing a scary movie when you were pregnant produced birth defects and sitting on cement caused kidney problems. We loved her anyway.)
But my dear mother’s legacy of loving the movies, Frank Sinatra, Ella Fitzgerald, Chopin, Van Cliburn, Victor Borge, Van Gogh and Monet left an indelible mark on me. Not only did she love them and share them with me, she loved whom I loved.
1964. The Beatles on Ed Sullivan. My mom noted how innovative they were, how fresh, how different and how their music had a great, bluesy/jazzy beat. She also liked that John Lennon spoke his mind and except for that "Jesus" quote, never backed down from a confrontation.
My mother traveled with me through the Monkees (“didn’t Neil Diamond write some of their songs?”), Shaun Cassidy (“lots of talent there, Cookie! Check out his parents!”), Barry Manilow (“such a nice voice and a talented pianist – he likes Chopin! How can you go wrong?”), William Shatner (“Captain Kirk is the ultimate hero!”), and of course, Tom Selleck (she just fanned herself with a dishtowel).
Yes, I come from a history of bowing before false idols. But as my mother watched Star Trek with me and listened thoughtfully to Alice Cooper and Led Zeppelin, I reciprocated. I truly listened to Mozart and Mahalia Jackson. We watched dark film noir starring Robert Mitchum and that squirrelly little blonde guy whose name I’ve forgotten; giggled at Lana Turner, cheered on Joan Crawford as “Mildred Pierce” and was shocked when Bette Davis let her husband die in “The Little Foxes”. We loved William Powell and Myrna Loy in the “Thin Man” series and we watched every single black and white horror movie that Universal ever made. We watched Chaplin, Pickford, Cary Grant and Katherine Hepburn.
What did I learn? To share my enthusiasm for music and film and art with my children. The first song either one of my children learned was “Here Comes the Sun” by George Harrison. I have my Beatles posters from the 60’s framed and up on the wall. My Barry Manilow calendar graces my kitchen and we play his albums on my old turntable (When my daughter yelled, “Hey, where’s the other 6 songs???”, I had to explain that albums weren’t like CD’s with all the songs on one side; that you had to flip the album over to hear the rest of it. She was very put out by this ancient technology, and let out a heavy, 21st century sigh. She was even more aghast with my mono version of “Meet the Beatles” which is a worn shade of gray and produces more static than music.) We watch the original Star Trek episodes on VHS tape (“Mom, it’s so cool and CHEESY!”) and DVD’s of the X-Files and Magnum PI. However, I have learned to appreciate what my children love. Through my mother’s talent of finding something good in literally anything and everything, I can sit through Disney Channel sitcoms and laugh with my daughter. Not because it’s funny necessarily, but because she thinks it’s funny. I can listen to my son’s new wave/heavy metal music and smile, thinking of my mother trying to say something nice about “Welcome to My Nightmare” by Alice Cooper. I mean is there any difference between Green Day and White Snake when you come down to it, really?
It can be a struggle to come up with something brilliant to say about “The Suite Life of Zach and Cody”, but I think my daughter is just happy to sit with me and hear me laugh with her. Just as I was with my mom. “The Monkees”, “Gidget” and “Batman” just cracked us both up. I know my son is happy is have me in his room, while he tries to play his own guitar to a new song he just purchased by Alkaline Trio. This sharing forms a unique and long lasting bond that transcends time and teaches some valuable life lessons.
My mother has given me a great gift...to look for things to appreciate in what your friends and loved ones like, even if it really isn't your cup of tea. To find something to enjoy in what others may wrongly dismiss as idiotic or not worth their time. Life becomes more of a shared adventure and bottom line, it just might be fun, you just might learn something, or you just might meet someone who will be important to you the rest of your life.
My girlfriend jokingly once told me, “you’d have fun at a garbage dump.” And I just might. Thanks to Mom.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
People I Have Known, Part 1
Oh, you think I'm gonna rattle off a story about how I met Paul McCartney, or when I ran into Johnny Depp at the tatoo parlor or that time I got a letter from Stephen King when he was ass deep in writer's block.
No. Sorry.
Not to say I haven't met my share of famous people: Cesar Romero...Shaun Cassidy...Bozo the Clown. You know, the biggies.
But this is more about real people I've known. Real people are incredibly more interesting that Paul or Johnny or Stephen. Not that the famous aren't fascinating, but we only know them one dimensionally...or only know what they want us to know. I remember reading an article about Robert Redford, who, for my dollar is still one of the sexiest men on the planet, and he pays publicists to keep his name OUT of the paper. And while I do an inordinate amount of fantasizing about my fantasy men, I still have enough grey matter focusing on reality to keep me grounded.
For now. At some point, Barry Manilow is going to have to go into the Witness Protection Program. (oh, fine -- take aim. I like Barry Manilow....can we just get past it?)
Anyway, I started thinking about people around me and the stories that I've heard and probably shared when I shouldn't have. Rest assured, I've never broken the "Chick Code" but I have changed names to protect the innocent in search of a good community laugh.
I would like to pick a moment in the life of Aunt Bernie. Trust me, it's worth it...and I bet you've got one tucked away in your family closet.
Aunt Bernie was one of those very few women who actually scared me when I was little because her face reminded me of an alligator. Her jaw flopped open and closed as she related some new terrible event, like who stole her favorite teaspoon or that she was sure the guy who stared at her in line at the grocery store had a picture up at the post office. She looked ancient when she was 30. Life just didn't seem to be kind to her ever -- and she never tired of telling you about it. She never married....although my dad took me aside one day and said Bernie was kind of married to the bottle.
Anyway, the story goes that her niece Christie and husband Jack had invited her over to see their new house. It was right after they had gotten married, but the memory of 60 year old Bernie getting drunk at the reception and trying to seduce the 25 year old head waiter had faded in everyone's memory. (We all decided it was a good damn thing the kid had a sense of humor. We passed the plate between the whole family and tipped him $250.00 at the end of the night.)
So it wasn't a huge surprise when she perhaps "had a few to settle the nerves" prior to her visit to Christie's. Bernie believed alcohol cured everything. It was especially helpful dealing with: anemia, shortness of breath, night disturbances, headaches, chills, bad leg circulation, nervous jitters, urinary incontinence -- all of which she had and why she could attest to alcohol's miraculous healing ability.
But Aunt Bernie was one of those people who was unhappy drunk and unhappy sober. It was hard to tell when she'd had too much until she'd cross a line and start yelling out racial slurs or trying to seduce any man in residence. After all, she LIKED sex...and she didn't get it....but she wanted it....and why shouldn't she? She was a normal, healthy woman who liked sex.... and on and on and on. And on and on. At all family functions, we had a designated "Bernie driver" who was in charge of tossing her ass in the car and driving her home when she first uttered the words men or sex. Off she went. Yelling about the indignity of it all.
So basically, she's tanked and on her way to visit Christie and Jack when she ended up grazing a neighbor’s dog with her car. It was summer, everyone was outside and stood stunned, watching all this unfold. The poor little dog was injured and needed help but Aunt Bernie is three sheets to the wind and trying to back the car up so she can hit it again. She’s hollering out the window that she’s doing the humane thing, trying to put the dog out of its misery. Well, the dog is snapping to and trying to get its bearings. Fido knows it’s way smarter than the person driving the big, banana yellow Buick and it smells danger. People are now running at my aunt, running for the dog, running for the dog’s owner, running to Christie’s house, just plain running.
Jack eventually saved the day. He grabbed the dog as Aunt Bernie flew past him and just kept on going, oblivious to the fact that she was on her way to visit her niece and her husband when all this happened in the first place.
Yes, Aunt Bernie. Still alive, still drinking at the ripe old age of 90. We no longer celebrate her birthday, but the day they denied her a driver's license.
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
The Good Mother
Remember that movie with Diane Keaton and Liam Neeson? Diane Keaton is a single mom who falls in love with Neeson. Her ex-husband eventually takes her to court over custody of their daughter because he believes Keaton's affair with Neeson is "unhealthy" for the child. It was directly very sensitively by Leonard Nimoy -- Mr. Spock from the classic Star Trek series. I won't give you any more information about it....rent it and watch it.
So what makes a "Good Mother"? You don't need to be a single working mom to wrestle with that everyday. And if you have kids with medical problems or other issues, your load is twice as heavy.
Are you a "Bad Mother" if after healing from divorce, you begin dating again? Or are you hoping to show your children what a healthy adult relationship looks like? Now in the movie, Keaton makes an error in judgement concerning her daughter and Neeson. A mistake her ex-husband jumps on swiftly. He thinks he's doing the right thing, she doesn't think she's done anything improper or worthy of being called an "unfit" mother. They end up leaving it in the judge's lap.
Fortunately, I do not have much valid intervention from WAM. He works by insinuation that I'm a bad mother. He's told the kids I have no backbone and am weak willed. Wow. That hurts. He's yelled that I've interferred with visitation. He's spewed that I've "bad mouthed" his wife. Right. Whatever. But bottom line, he doesn't have the balls to back up anything that squirts out of his mouth. There is some functioning part of his brain that knows if he gets a lawyer and drags my ass to court, that he's looking at a staggering amount of documented damage he's done emotionally and physically to both me and the kids. So what's a bully to do but bully some more? The difference is, I've moved on, the kids are moving on and he hasn't.
So you tell me. What makes a Good Mother? I work full time, I have a great 4-year relationship with a wonderful man. My kids have a good relationship with Sam and I have a loving relationship with Sam's son, Thomas. Should I not have tried to move on and just stayed home, totally devoted to my kids? Or is it right to show them that I am a person, that I need adult time -- that most people do not want to be alone and enjoy the companionship of someone of the opposite sex?
Maybe it comes down to the bottom line choice: if my daughter was vomiting with 103 degree fever and Sam and I had a date, no, I wouldn't go out. If my daughter ever needed me to be somewhere for her, I would be there. The same holds true for my son. They come first before me right now (at ages 16 and 10) because one day they will be grown and on their own. And what I want them to remember is that Sam made me happy and I made him happy. That I worked so we could have a nice place to live and because I enjoyed what I did. But that most of all, through everything, that I was a pretty Good Mother.
Monday, May 21, 2007
An Affair of the Heart
Now that I've shared a couple of my nightmares: abusive ex-husband and weight control, let's move on. I will warn you tho, from time to time these very subjects will rear their ugly heads. I've actually polled my dear friends to pick their favorite WAM (Wierd-Ass Mason) stories. There are so many to choose from. For instance:
“The ACL Tear Nightmare on SuperBowl Sunday.”
“The Final Act Before Divorce Saga.”
“The Shower Query Affair.”
“WAM as Dad…The Whole Untold Story.”
“The Hamburger Restaurant Debacle.”
I could go on and on. And I will. Later.
Right now, I thought I'd take a minute and maybe help you save your own life. Yes, I'm writing down my journey through an abusive marriage, divorce and recovery to help myself and maybe help others. I know I've probably personally financed my psychologist's house in the country, but it was so worth it. Make yourself a priority and get the help you need if you are in an abusive relationship. It's even doubly important if you have children.
And here's something else to think about: your emotional health impacts your physical health more than you realize. Like I said, I had a heart attack at 41. A real, complete heart block, occluded right coronary artery, heart attack. Being a woman and 41, well, when I got to the ER of my local hospital complaining of stomach pain, they began working me up for gallstones, pancreatitis, etc. I was home alone with the kids and began experiencing terrible stomach pain, right in the "pit" of my stomach. Then I started flop sweating beyond belief. I was home alone with my kids (ages 8 and 2) and my 8 year old called 911. I went to the ER with no one suspecting I was having a heart attack. Luckily, I was in the ER having an abdominal ultrasound when I had the actual heart attack. I heard them say "atropine and nitroglycerine" and I knew what was going on. When I woke up, I was on my way to the cath lab for a balloon and a stent, signing the release as they wheeled me down the hall.
I was lucky. Very lucky. I don't have any residual problems because I was treated so promptly. So listen to your body. Heart disease is the number 1 killer of women -- and we don't present with the usual symptoms you've heard of: chest/jaw pressure, left arm pain. And just to make it more difficult, I didn't have high cholesterol or high blood pressure. I don't drink to excess or smoke or have a family history of heart disease. I was a medical cardiac mystery....except that I lived day to day, every day, 365 days a year for 15 years under the constant strain of a bad, abusive marriage. Dr. Dean Ornish wrote a book called "Love and Survival" about the relationship between physical health and emotional health. I highly recommend it.
