Thursday, June 16, 2022

 Thursday, June 16, 2022 

 

    I slept like a baby last night. Ah, back to my wonderful sleep pattern. Scott walked Elsa this morning. She wasn't too keen to go out with him. He had to grab her and get the harness on. She cooperated then and went out with him. The changed circumstances disoriented her; I was on a walker and couldn't take her out, and Scott was taking her away from me. Whenever I sat in my old-lady chair, she sat in the frame of the walker as within a forcefield. 

     I had an appointment with Shelly this morning. I recited my recovery adventures from my total hip replacement, including my passive suicidal feelings induced by the hydrocodone. I would lie in bed, indifferent to everything, including continued life. 

     I talked to Shelly about an underlying sadness, primarily because I couldn't do anything right. I spent my life pushing myself over speed bumps to get myself to do most things other than the routine, brush my teeth and wash the dishes. Even cleaning presents a challenge. 

       This is an old problem. My mother would never allow me to do anything. I couldn't do it correctly. She let me, actually insisted I made my bed when I came home from camp, having learned to do it correctly. I was a master of the hospital corner, also known as the army corner. Anyone born after the advent of fitted sheets has no idea what I'm talking about. Before fitted sheets, we had to fold the corners of the bottom sheets in a specific way to ensure they didn't slide all over the place. Those corners served the same function as the corners of fitted sheets do now. I loved making the bed with the hospital corners. It was a skill. I was thrilled to be allowed to do something.

   My mother's constant criticism weighed on me. She had a variety of reasons for dishing it out. At the end of her life, I learned she thought this is what a good parent does for a child; criticize and never compliment. She believed it was bad for a child to hear praise from a parent. It was probably the way she was raised. Did she notice it made her feel lousy as a child? I know there is a culture of parenting that argues life is tough, and it is the parent's job to prepare the child for that life by constantly beating them down so they learn to survive it. The other extreme is the belief it's a parent's job to convince their child they can do wrong and protect them from all disappointment and pain. As with all extremes, both do harm.

   Today I saw a different possibility motivating my mom's actions. She was afraid that I would be better than her. My father articulated that idea. I was twelve when he said," One day, the student surpasses the teacher." He sounded sad at the prospect. If I held his values, I would be sad too.   

    My sister and I were downright rude to our paternal grandfather, who sat in our home every single day for years. We lived in a twelve-story building about half a mile from where he lived. Every morning he would come to our home and sit in the living room. I remember our parents sitting us down, telling us to treat him better. One of us, probably me, asked why. My father's answer had something to do with who he had once been, having to do with being a successful businessman. I didn't question that explanation at the time. Neither did I think that was a good reason to treat him with respect in the present. It took me years to hear the values my parents were espousing. Holy jumping frogs! The old man deserved respect because he was because all humans deserve our basic courtesy in the present moment for what they are now. 

    Back to my mom: I could see that she would have felt threatened by me. Not because I was so amazing, but because of her insecurities and a parent's tendency to see the firstborn as "perfect," at least the second coming. With my father's training, I was his intellectual companion rather than her. (I can't recall an adult filling that role for him.) My mother sat at his feet and admired his 'knowledge' of languages, history, and the arts. I was my dad's intellectual muse. Again around the age of twelve, he told me how women were treated in ancient Greece. Wives were uninteresting chattel who attended to domestic issues. The interesting women were the temple prostitutes who were the intellectual companions of the great minds of Greece. I got the message. I'm sure my mom did too. She had to destroy me. She tried. 

    I don't remember the complete visualization. It had to do with confronting my mom on her hostile intent toward me in the name of self-defense and experiencing my anger at her. No, I don't think she admitted the self-defense part. She knew something was wrong with me; she could feel it. She had to make sure I changed so people didn't hate me. Her self-awareness was close to zero. It wasn't her thing.

     The neighbor who went out especially to buy me my requested red raspberry jam came to visit. I put her off for a while. I didn't know her very well and felt she could be overwhelming. Indeed. She flooded me with too much information. I have another neighbor who does that. People in the neighborhood tend to avoid him. I have determined that I can tell him to back off. Once I learned he responded to boundary cues, I could enjoy him so much more. He is a wealth of knowledge, much of it interesting.

    Damon called on Friday and Saturday immediately after the operation and not again for a week and a half. It made me sad. I knew he was busy. He was traveling, visiting friends, one for a destination wedding and one for a destination fiftieth birthday party. He also stopped off to see his mom.  

  Jean, Damon's mom, had back surgery in February. It was a major deal. She spent three weeks in a skilled care facility. Her recovery has been slow and labored. Damon and Cylin made sure that his mom and step-dad got out of the house. They went to a nearby park. Jean told me about it. 

   Jean described reading from a diary Damon kept when he was eight or nine. They laughed together at the entries. Jean was so happy with the visit and her wonderful son. Damon was doing well as a husband, a father, a producer at DreamWorks Animation, and an all-around human being, except for his failure to contact me directly during the last week and a half.  

  He argued that he knew I was okay when I confronted him on his call today. His behavior made me feel like an object to be monitored rather than a human being needing human contact. He said he contacted Shivani, my niece, who stayed with me. I argued unless he was preparing a case for my mental incompetence so he could enforce his Power of Attorney, there was no reason he couldn't have called me instead. I was perfectly capable of giving him the information about my well-being. He argued that they had sent a card, and Cylin had texted me to find out how I was. That was from all of them. Cylin did a lot; she stepped up to the plate, texted me, and bought a get-well card she had Damon and August sign. 

   Cylin argued on Damon's behalf. Yes, he was busy, but he could answer a text of mine about two pieces of mail I sent him. Why couldn't he also text, "How are you doing?" It must have been that question mark that put it over the top. 

    I wrote Cylin detailing all the little ways she kept in touch with me and how much I appreciated it, but she was no substitute for him, and he was no substitute for her. 

    Linguists speak of scripted stroke patterns. "Hello. How are you?" "Fine, thanks. And you." "Okay." That is a meaningless exchange. The words communicate almost nothing. We don't expect an accurate account of how the other person is. If they do launch into a precise description, it comes as a surprise. The scripted exchange is there to reinforce the connection. "I see you. I acknowledge you as someone with whom I am supposed to have this exchange, someone who is part of my social circle." It's a small thing but also a significant way of maintaining social connections. We acknowledge each other through this stroke pattern.    

   I finished Judy's delicious chicken soup tonight.