by Kathy Warnes “Some people reinforce human spirit while others simply rob it. - Elin Stebbins Waldal In the introduction to Tornado Warning, a memoir about her long journey from an abusive teenage relationship to understanding, rediscovering herself, Elin Stebbins Waldal considers her hysterectomy scar and its symbolic significance in her journey. In a metaphorical sense, a hysterectomy is a surgical assault on a woman’s body to heal it and the ending and beginning of another phase in a woman’s life. Elin Waldal endured her teenage boyfriend Derrick violent assault on her body, mind and spirit, dissected it with an emotional scalpel and survived to rebuild her life and go on to healthier relationships. Violence Dominates Some Teenage Relationships Violence and the emotional and social factors that combine to create it stalk some relationships like a punch in the mouth in response to an affectionate smile. Statistics reveal that approximately one in three girls will be involved in a controlling abusive dating relationship before she graduates from high school – ranging from verbal or emotional abuse to sexual abuse or physical battering. Females ages 16-24 are the more vulnerable to intimate partner violence than any other age group at a rate almost triple the national average. Elin Stebbins fit into the female 16-24 age range when she met Derrick. Contrary to the stereotype, Elin came from a loving, supportive family, who believed in her and wanted the best for her. Elin herself writes, “Yet despite the abundance of love, despite the outpouring of belief in my abilities, despite the confidence I had accrued, I was vulnerable – vulnerable in a way that allowed my abuser to slowly get a hold of me.” Abuse Doesn’t Discriminate Like many young women and their parents, Elin didn’t know the signs of a potentially abusive relationship- in fact, the warning signs are some of the things that girls find most flattering. If a boy pages and calls a girl often, wanting to know her every movement and encounter, it is a form of control, not affection. Elin writes that abuse doesn’t discriminate and anyone can fall victim to it. It is easy to enter a relationship without recognizing warning signs of potential violence. In the beginning of their relationship, she saw Derrick as a core of potential buried by a rough childhood and bad experiences. She thought that she could help him realize his potential, but as she later said, “living with potential is exactly and only that.” Elin points out that batterers don’t usually begin their abuse on the first date or in the beginning of a relationship. Like Derrick, they take time to fall in love and have their partner fall in love with them, and like Derrick, they snare their partner with their extreme need of them. After each violent encounter when she tried to break away, Elin felt Derrick pulling her back. Elin compared the violence and pulling back and constant repeating of the pattern to a Midwestern tornado. The warning signs appear in the sky and she tries to evade or run away from them. The tornado strikes and she survives it and she is so busy picking up the pieces of her shattered house that she doesn’t notice the darkening of the sky and the wind picking up. The pattern endlessly repeats itself until Elin recognizes for it for what it is. She explains it as having the feeling that only she could save him from himself. It took her a long, painful three years to realize that Derrick was the only person who could save himself. The Erosion of Self One of the observations that Elin makes in Tornado Warning is that “abusive behavior erodes a person slowly.” Elin found herself being absorbed and eroded by Derrick's anger, hurt, and dependence until she eroded away into a person that she didn’t recognize. Derrick’s brittleness and need eroded Elin’s self confidence until she disintegrated into equal brittleness and confusion. Elin discovered that in an abusive relationship, the standard for normal behavior is elastic and continuous abuse keeps stretching its boundaries. As she put it, “normalization of self depreciation left me vulnerable.” The Rebuilding of Self- The Courage to Rethink Your Normal It took years of therapy, a broken marriage, and the courage of self knowledge for Elin to be emotionally healthy enough to rebuild her life. Her memoir illustrates an important truth for all survivors of abuse and their loved ones to face: the abuse doesn’t end when the abuser is gone. It remains in the mind, heart, and soul of the abuser and the abused until each chooses to remove it with painful, surgical self awareness. Elin Stebbins has done that. She illustrates the progress in her emotional and spiritual journey when she writes: “My life has been shaped by my survival and allowing what I endured to settle in my marrow has infused me with a strength that will not waver. Abuse had an effect on me, but it has not made my life any less worthy, any less important, or any less valuable. I refuse to walk around leaning on that experience like a pair of crutches. I am not damaged goods. I am me.” Voice is the most important factor in a memoir, and in Tornado Warning, Elin Stebbins compellingly illustrates how she developed hers from a silent scream into a triumphant shout. It is possible for the reader to sink into the depth and elegance of the writing in some parts of Tornado Warning and in the destructive patterns of the teenage mind in others, but the book will shatter the attitudes of abuse survivors like a Midwestern tornado shatters a house. References Dugan, Meg Kennedy and Hock, Roger R. It’s My Life Now: Starting over After An Abusive Relationship or Domestic Violence, 2nd Edition. Routledge, 2nd Editor, 2006 Hicks, John. Dating Violence: True Stories of Hurt and Hope. Millbrook Press, 1996. Levy, Barrie Dating Violence: Young Women In Danger. Seal Press, 1991 McMurray, Ann and Jantz, Gregory. Healing the Scars of Emotional Abuse. Revell, 2009 Murray, Jill. But I Love Him: Protecting Your Teen Daughter from Controlling, Abusive Dating Relationships. Harper Paper Backs, 2001. Links to Studies about Violence Against Girls and Women and Informational Websites University of Michigan Study Family Court Review National Online Resource Center on Violence Against Women Child Abuse & Neglect Jane Doe Inc. – The Massachusetts Coalition Against Sexual Assault and Domestic Violence Pigtailpals- Let’s Change the Way We Think About Our Girls
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Herman the Hermit Crab and I first met the day my daughter and our friend Rick picked him out of a tangle of crabs in a local department store. From the beginning, Herman and I had a personality conflict. "You don't like that crab. What have you got against him?" Rick teased. "Nothing but his claws," I teased back. I was worried about Rick. He was in remission from multiple sclerosis and sometimes got very depressed. But now Rich was smiling and my daughter was laughing. Herman was bringing sunshine into their lives. Herman did not bring sunshine into my life. During the day he was left to his won crabby devices because of work and school, but the evenings belonged to him. He must have felt the vibrations of the front door closing behind my daughter and me when we got home. As soon as the door closed, he skittered out of his bowl and onto the coffee table. My daughter held Herman in her hands and he ran up and down her arm without so much as a pinch. I was a different story. I picked Herman up and talked gently to him. He grabbed my nose. His attitude improved when I fed him bites of meat, but as soon as it was gone, he turned surly again. Then came that Sunday. Rick had dinner with us and after we ate, the crab lovers went into the living room for a romp with Herman while I did the dishes. Suddenly, I heard my daughter howl. I ran into the living room without even drying my hands. "What did that crab do to you?" I shouted. "Herman didn't do anything," my daughter sobbed. "He's just laying here. He won't even run up and down my arm anymore." "You'd better take a look at him," Rick told me. I peered into my daughter's outstretched hand. Herman was not moving. "Let me hold him," I said. "That usually gets him moving." I cuddled Herman in my hand, but for once, my touch did not make him come out fighting. He just lay there, still as death. My daughter cried harder. "Herman's dead, Mom. Will he go to heaven?" she asked. "A crab heaven!" I scoffed in my mind. Of course not! Heaven is reserved for people and people disagree about the population there. But as I gazed into her tear stained face, my cynicism faded. "God has room in heaven for every person and everything else He made," I told her. Rick and I assisted with Herman's burial. Then he went home because he wasn't feeling well. His illness was a taxing one and some days for him were more tiring than others. "Do you really think there's room in heaven for everybody?" he asked as he left. "Sure," I said. Now, I agonize at my insensitivity. I could have said something more profound, more comforting. I could have done something to prevent what happened to Rick. Three days passed with no word from Rick. I tried to call him several times to se how he was feeling and to report that my daughter needed his help to pick out Herman II. There was no answer. Finally, I went to his apartment. There was no answer to my pounding on the door. I called his pastor. "Sit tight. I'll check on him," the pastor said. I sat by the phone, praying that Rick was all right. Finally, the phone rang. "I'm afraid that Rick is dead," the pastor said. "It looks like he took an overdose of sleeping pills." For my daughter, Rick's death was understandable. "Rick's gone to heaven, just like Herman." For me, the complexity of Rick's death is agonizing. Factors like guilt, theology and blame enter into it. For a long time I blamed myself because I was his friend and I wasn't there when he died. I beat myself with, "I should have knowns. I cried, "Why?" with the same pain and anguish he must have felt before he died. Rick's death made me rethink my life, the whys and hows of it, the whys of all of our lives. It made me look with more sensitivity into the hearts of others. In this way, his death had a positive influence. But oh, I would rather have him sitting beside me, teasing me about Herman, than all of the positive influences in the world. If only he had given me or someone else a chance to help him work things out. I stand beside Herman's grave on our apartment house lawn. People passing stare at the lady crying over a patch of grass. But I am beginning to understand and accept. Starched white shirts dancing on the clothesline like paper dolls and blouses twining arms in the wind were Monday madnesses to me when I was growing up. Washing, starching and ironing clothes was a chore because there were eleven offspring and two parents in our family, which added up to a department store full of clothes a week to nurture. Simply washing them wasn't enough. I had to starch and iron them to complete the unholy trinity. It seemed to me that the pile of Dad's white shirts was as high as Mt. Everest and just as grueling to conquer.
After the basic clothes were hung out ‑ things like sheets (I'm glad we didn't starch them!) underwear, socks, overalls and slacks‑ it was time to starch the skirts, blouses, dresses and pillowcases that remained. We used a powdered starch called Niagara that came in a box with a picture of Niagara Falls on it. You had to pre‑mix it to the desire consistency ‑thick, medium or thin. If you misjudged, your mistake showed up when the clothes dried on the line. One time I mixed the Niagara with a heavy hand and the clothes were so stiff that I couldn't bend them to fit into the clothes basket. Most of the time though, I brewed the right combination and the starched garments obediently sat in the clothes basket waiting their turn to be sprinkled. Sprinkling clothes was like watering your entire garden with a thimble. You got a pop bottle and put a cap on it with little holes poked all over it. You put water in the bottle, segregated the clothes ‑ white in one batch, colored in the other. Then you shook your sprinkling bottle. The object was to soak the garment uniformly, because if you got it too wet you'd scorch it before you ironed it dry. If you didn't get it wet enough, it would iron full of wrinkles. After the garment was sprinkled, you rolled it up into a little ball like a porcupine and put it in the basket. You put all of the white clothes together and all of the colored clothes together for obvious reasons. One time I forgot the obvious reasons and put my favorite white ruffled blouse next to a red shirt of my brother's. As I ironed the blouse, I noticed that it had taken on a Christmasy striped candy cane look. It took me a year or so before I could listen to my brother's teasing about my striped blouse without lunging for his vulnerable spots! As for the actual ironing, it made my shoulders and the back of my neck ache and my temper heat hotter than the iron at times. My Dad's white shirts were my special trial. Wrinkles had a way of finding a permanent home in them and could only be evicted by hair‑pin turning and 90 degree angling. The collars came first, cuffs next, then sleeves, and finally, the blessed wide‑open spaces of back, slides and front. I had this formula down pat until one day I decided to try a shortcut. Since I hated ironing the sleeves and cuffs so much, I decided to do them last and the wide open spaces first. By the time I had finished maneuvering the shirt to get at the small spots, the wide open spaces were bent and wrinkled and needed repressing. The air over the ironing board is probably still blue from my comments as I lengthened the shortcut. Speaking of boards, that's exactly what my mother's ironing board was ‑ a board with wooden legs that you thumped the iron across. It wasn't one of those modern metal marvels with the stubborn notches that can't be swayed from their purpose in life ‑ holding the ironing board at permanent attention. No, my mother's ironing board had an adventurous spirit and would set off on journeys of its own at the slightest provocation, usually when I was ironing a white shirt or blouse that I wanted to be perfect. To announce its intentions it would say THUNK. Then it would lose altitude, not gradually like a balloon floating down from the ceiling, but speedily like a water balloon dropped from the sixth floor of an apartment house. If I had been foolhardy enough to put the next two or three items in line to be ironed on the end of the board, they usually ended up in the tangle of ironing board legs, iron cord and live limbs and had to be rewashed and restarched. Then there were the live drawbacks to ironing, mostly in the forms of my brothers and sister. If I had a popular shirt or pair of pants in the current batch of ironing, I'd be pursued by the owner demanding, "When are you going to get done?" Occasionally I had delusions of being ahead of their question and would hang what I thought was going to be a popular piece of clothing on the door. My brother's blue shirt hung there for two days once before he discovered he needed it! I don't want to do mountains of ironing again. There are too many disadvantages to the chore! But there is one permanent press disadvantage to the old fashioned method. The biggest advantage of old‑fashioned ironing that the permanent press generation will never discover is the joys of smell and feeling. Smell was the tangy odor of freshly starched, steamed and ironed clothes. Feeling was the pride of accomplishment as I watched the army of well‑ironed clothes accumulate on the door knob, the clothes rack, and even the sides of the ironing board until I was buried in my accomplishments! Although the elderly couple wore anxious expressions as they carried their burden into the waiting room of the veterinary clinic, they managed to project an air of desperate optimism. Their story had to have a happy ending. If it didn't, what would they do?
The cat, hunched in the double-decker plastic laundry baskets they carried between them wasn't crying out in pain. The cat looked around alertly, which seemed to rule out deep shock or fatal injuries. My friend Paula articulated my thoughts. "He doesn't seem to be in shock. What happened to him?" The gray-haired man swallowed, appearing to blink back tears before he spoke. "He was outside today. He just loves to go outside and we think that somebody in the neighborhood shot him." His wife nodded in agreement, never taking her eyes off the cat in the baskets. After a few sympathetic murmurs, the other people in the waiting room went back to their respective worries about their own pets. I did the same, wondering why I had to wait so long to retrieve my cat, Benjamin. "How long does it take to carry a cat into the waiting room and accept a check? Are we going to have to stand here for two hours just to pick up Benjamin?" I complained to Paula. It had been a tough week for me and all I wanted to do was hurry home to the soft comfort of the couch and a mindless TV program, but now my mind would not sink back into comfortable self-absorption. The tense, anxious expression on the lady's face as she watched over her cat made me realize how minor my own troubles were. Every time the cat moved, I could track its movements by the lady's concerned grimaces and the way she pressed her lips tightly together. Her husband sat staring straight ahead, a stubbornly cheerful smile on his face. "He just loves to go outside," the elderly man repeated. Eventually the crowd in the waiting room thinned out, until there were only a few people left, including me. Even the minutes ticking away could not distract me from the lady's face. Now her lips moved as if she were praying. Finally, the vet called the couple's name. They carried the cat in the basket between them as carefully as if it were their hearts in their hands. After the couple disappeared into the consulting room, I relaxed and even resumed my soundless tirade against the wait. Naturally, the cat would be fine. Wasn't that a foregone conclusion, modern veterinary medicine being what it is? Besides, the cat hadn't screamed or carried on at all. Somehow it's easier to associate fatality with noisy rebellion, instead of silent acceptance. A few minutes later, a vague feeling of unease jarred me out of my thoughts. I glanced at the consulting room door. The elderly woman stood there, her face crumpled in grief, all the more terrible because it was silent. Her heart shattered into pieces all over her face, but her voice didn't keep it company. I stared at her, spellbound at the agony in the absence of sobbing or screaming. The lady stumbled blindly past us. As she went by, Paula reached out and hugged her. "I'm so sorry," Paula told the lady. I watched the lady stumble out to her car and slump into the passenger seat. Where was her husband? Why wasn't he out there with her, comforting her? Nobody should have to sit outside alone in a car on a bleak rainy day sobbing with a broken heart. I stared at the consulting room door. It remained closed. I wanted to rush out to the car and comfort the lady, but I stood glued to the spot, What could I do? After all, the lady was a complete stranger. What right did I have to intrude on the privacy of her grief? To a degree I could put myself in her position, imagine how I would feel if the cat in the basket had been Benjamin. Still, I could not completely imagine her shock and pain at losing her pet, because mine was still alive. Suddenly, a squeal shattered the silence of the waiting room, sounding like a scream of torment, a protest at being trapped in a prison of pain that was worse because it was not comprehensible. The rational part of me cautioned myself about being too emotional about the scream. Perhaps the sound was amplified by my own emotions. Perhaps it wasn't even the injured cat crying out. But in my soul, I knew it was the cat, emitting a final cry at the injustice and cruelty that have existed as long as humans and animals have co-existed. The consulting room door opened quietly. The elderly man walked toward us, shoulders bowed. He held the empty baskets in front of him as if he were scooping in memories. The waiting room was so quiet that I heard people breathing and the sound of a stifled sob. I wish in some magical way the last protest of that cat could resound forever in the ears of the person who shot it. I wish the desolate faces of the elderly couple could be permanently superimposed over the life of that person. I wish that person will be forever hunted by the inhumanity of those two empty baskets and the stifled sobs of the elderly couple. The June 7th anniversary of retirement of Helen Thomas in 2012 and her death on July 20, 2013 still pose some pertinent questions: Do older people automatically acquire Alzheimer's and twisted tongues? Are older people still capable of making meaningful contributions to society? On June 7, 2010, Helen Thomas, venerable White House correspondent and Washington columnist retired – some sources say that her employer Hearst News Service, forced her to resign- when she made some offensive remarks about Israel and Palestine in an online video. The Comments about Helen Thomas Were Offensive A random, reading of comments about the resignation of Helen Thomas at the time on such sites as Politico, and various internet blogs reveals that the reaction to her retirement is equally if not more offensive than her comments. Feedback to her comments features words like: "ugly old hag, senile, crazy old woman, Alzheimer’s, and “this pathetic hag should have retired years ago.” There are several hundred of them, most of them as vitriolic and intemperate as the original remarks that ignited them, some even more so. Many of the comments are connected by the underlying assumption that people 89 years old- give or take a few years - can not possibly be in control of their faculties and are incapable of fitting words together in a relevant sentence. Therefore, old people should retire to some mindless puttering and not menace society. The people who think older people have not , can not, and do not make contributions to humanity are guilty of more than ageism. They are guilty of tunnel vision. Old Political Leaders Whose Tongues Sometimes Slipped Winston Churchill’s glory years occurred well past the age of 60 when World War Two brought him back into the center of things to help Great Britain survive the Nazi onslaught. His speeches are noted for uplifting the morale of the British people through six long years of war against an evil, equally determined enemy. He said in part …”We shall never surrender, and even if, which I do not for a moment believe, this Island or a large part of it were subjugated and starving, then our Empire beyond the seas, armed and guarded by the British Fleet, would carry on the struggle, until, in God’s good time, the New World, with all its power and might, steps forth to the rescue and the liberation of the old.” Winston Churchill was also voted out of office immediately after the war. One of his less popular quotes is: “The best argument against democracy is a five minute conversation with the average voter.” Supreme Court Justices Have Always Accumulated Some Snow on the Roof In February 1937, President Franklin Delano Roosevelt made a speech pointing out that six of the nine Supreme Court Justices were over 70. He announced that he intended to ask Congress to pass a bill allowing presidents to expand the Supreme Court by adding one new judge, up to a maximum of six, for every current judge over the age of 60. His plan failed and Supreme Court Judges are still in their sixties, seventies, and eighties. The current crop of United States Supreme Court Justices are all over 50 and Justice John Paul Stevens, was 90 when he retired in the summer of 2010. Franklin Delano Roosevelt used many controversial and comforting words when he advanced his New Deal Polices and broadcast his Fireside Chats to rally Depression demoralized Americans. He was age 60 when the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor in December 1941, catapulting the United States into World War II. He effectively used words to mobilize the American people beginning in 1933, when he told them “the only thing we have to fear is fear itself.” He stumbled over very few of his words. President Ronald Reagan's Soaring Tribute and His Famous Faux Pas In 1984, during the Cold War, United States President Ronald Reagan, then in his 70s, was getting ready for a radio interview. As a sound check he said, "My fellow Americans, I'm pleased to tell you today that I've signed legislation that will outlaw Russia forever. We begin bombing in five minutes." He and the sound technicians didn't realize that the microphone was open. On January 28, 1986, president Ronald Reagan again effectively used his words to unite Americans in mourning the loss of the space shuttle Challenger. He concluded his speech by saying, “The crew of the space shuttle Challenger honored us by the manner in which they lived their lives. We will never forget them, nor the last time we saw them, this morning, as they prepared for their journey and waved goodbye and "slipped the surly bonds of earth" to "touch the face of God." Age and talent often combine effectively despite the ticking of the human biological clock. Two Old but Accomplished Women Susan B. Anthony was born February 5, 1820. In 1890 when she was 70, she helped found the National American Woman's Suffrage Association which focused on a national amendment to secure women the vote. She served as its president until 1900. She founded the International Council of Women in 1888, and the International Woman Suffrage Council in 1904, which brought international attention to suffrage. Born in 1867, by 1911, Marie Curie won the Nobel Prize for isolating radium and discovering its chemical properties. In 1914, she co-founded the Radium Institute in Paris and became its first director. During World War I Marie Curie and her daughter taught a team of 150 nurses to use X-rays so that bullets could be located in injured soldiers. In 1922, as a member of the French Academy of Medicine she devoted her work to the medical applications of radioactivity. Helen Thomas, Another Old But Accomplished Woman Brushing aside politics and controversy, and looking at her bare biographical record reveals that Helen Thomas accumulated decades of service and dedication to her career. A few of her accomplishments include forty years with the United Press International White House team, beginning with President John F. Kennedy in 1960, and ending in 2000 with George W. Bush. In July 2000, she became a columnist for the Hearst News Service. Helen Thomas traveled around the world with Presidents Nixon, Ford, Carter, Reagan, Bush and Clinton, covering every economic summit. In February 1972, she was the only newspaperwoman to travel to China with President Nixon during his break through trip. Helen Thomas was the first woman officer of the White House Correspondents Association in its 50 year history and she served as its first woman president in 1975-1976. She also became the first woman member of the Gridiron Club in its history and the first woman to be elected its president in 1993. She has written several books about her career and the press and in 2008, she brought out her first children's book, The Great White House Breakout. Will Attitudes Toward Older People and Their Contributions Change? The United Nations Population Division estimates that over the next 45 years the number of people age 60 or older will almost triple, increasing from 668 million in 2005 to nearly 2.03 billion by 2050. The number of “older” people, older defined as 80 years or older, will soar to unprecedented levels during the next 40 years. The number of women living into very old age continues to rise. The dramatic shift in demographics needs to be accompanied by changes in public policy to allow for extended working years and the other political and social adjustments that an older population will require. Unfortunately, it may take decades longer for significant changes in the minds and hearts of people to create a country that leaves blatant ageism out of comments about a political slip of the tongue. References Thomas, Helen, Watchdogs of Democracy? The Waning Washington Press Corps and How It Has Failed the Public, Scribner, 2006. Twelve Healing Ideas to Keep the Celebration of Moms Less Painful Mother’ Day can be a sad day for a child without a mother or a mother without a child, but it can also be filled with happy memories and reaching out to others. Sarah stares at her mother’s picture sitting on her bookcase and sobs. She doesn’t know how she will get through this first Mother’s Day without her. Janet has the opposite problem. Her son was killed in a tragic accident and this will be the first Mother’s Day she won’t have a living child. Both women feel isolated and sad and surrounded by Mother’s Day. And these experiences aren't isolated; many childless mothers and motherless children find Mother's Day to be a painful and emotionally difficult holiday. Mother's Day Can be Sad and Happy Mother’s Day can be a sad day for a child to be without a mother or for a mother to be without a child. Mothers talk excitedly about their plans with their children and show off mother’s day cards and gifts. Children make cards and gifts and make plans to take their mothers out to dinner. Television, radio, and magazine advertisements ceaselessly promote Mother’s Day. But Mother’s Day doesn’t have to be a traumatic day spent in solitary grieving. It can be filled with memories that bless and burn and heal. It can be filled with supportive family and friends. It can also be day of reaching out to others. Both Sarah and Janet have developed strategies to help them survive and even enjoy Mother's Day. Turn Memories into Mementos Working with photos, letters, and other memorabilia makes the absent person feel closer and eases the ache of missing them. Writing personal recollections of the person is therapeutic and a good legacy for family members. A memory book can be put on line, on a CD, or in a scrap book. Wearing something that belonged to that special person like a ring, a favorite sweater, earrings, a tie or scarf, can provide a sense of continuity and comfort. Sarah has decided to wear her mother's favorite sweater on Mother's Day. Enjoy Mother Earth and Mother Nature Doing something for the Earth as simple as picking up trash in the park or some other positive Mother’s Day activity that helps the earth is healing. Enjoying Mother Nature on Mother’s Day with physical exercise like biking, swimming, canoeing, or just taking a walk will help keep the day in proportion. Janet’s son liked to cycle, so taking a bicycle ride on Mother’s Day morning seemed a fitting tribute to Janet and eased her into the rest of the day. Nurture Yourself by Doing Activities You Enjoy Reading is one of Sarah’s favorite activities and reading in a warm tub sends her to stratospheric heights. She has decided to read her favorite novel for two hours in the tub on Mother’s Day evening. Doing a favorite activity on a Mother’s Day is a stress reliever. A long meditation walk or private time and then a time with family or friends can be good therapy, especially on the first Mother’s Day after a loss. Sarah plans to take a walk sometime on Mother’s Day morning before she goes out to brunch with friends. Plant a Living Memorial and Have a Memorial Celebration Sarah chose a corner of her garden and planted rows of her mother’s favorite Marigolds. She also inherited her mother’s house plants and carefully tends them. Janet planted a spruce tree in her backyard in her son’s memory. It had been their Christmas tree the Christmas before he was killed. Planting a tree, shrub, flowers, is a living memorial and the act of tending them is as therapeutic as writing about them. Take flowers, candy, or presents to someone your loved one knew and loved. Have a memorial conversation and lunch with them and celebrate your loved one’s life and the precious memories left behind. Laugh often about the humorous events. Janet had lunch with her son’s best friend and his mother. They laughed heartily about the time her son pitched six innings and as soon as the coach relieved him he had to race to the Port-a-Pottie for some relief of his own. It’s a memory that burns, but the laughter helps ease the pain. Visit Someone Who Needs You On Mother's Day, visit someone who needs a foster daughter or a son. Nursing homes always need volunteer visitors, especially on special days. Shut-ins from church welcome caring visitors. Sarah is going to visit an elderly lady from her synagogue on Mother’s Day afternoon. There are many children who need a caring adult in their lives..Volunteer at a local school or day care center. Janet signed up to conduct the story hour at the local library one day a month. She feels that is a loving memorial to her son who loved to read. Lean on and Use Faith in a Higher Power Sarah went to her synagogue the day before Mother’s Day and Janet is going to Church on Mother’s Day. They both say that spending totally on your own resources can be draining and depressing and they both stress that grief on Mother's Day or any other day doesn't completely fade, but actively managing Mother's Day Sarah and Janet suggest taking one day at a time, especially Mother's Day. It is perfectly normal to slip and slide emotionally on special days. Be kind to yourself when you lapse, pick yourself up and move ahead with hope in your heart. They both emphasize that there is no magic way to make Mother's Day the way it used to be, but taking charge of the day instead of it taking charge of you is a step toward healing. And, they both agree that eventually acceptance and even a glimmer of joy comes as surely as Mother's Day does every year. References: Sharon W. Betters, Treasures in Darkness: A Grieving Mother Shares her Heart, P & R Publishing, 2005. Susan Fuller, How to Survive Your Grief When Someone You Love Has Died, Create Space, 2008. I can say it today without self pity: When I was growing up as the oldest of 11 children, new clothes were as scarce as unicorns. I couldn't be matter-of-fact about it then. At one time I would have sold my brothers and sisters to the Russians for a new dress. There was going to be a special program at church Saturday night, and Dan the Dreamboat was taking me. I wanted to look as beautiful on the outside as I felt on the inside when he looked at me. I was convinced I needed a special dress to bring out how beautiful the real me was.
I talked to my mother. "I won't collect my allowance for the next year. I'll scrub floors and do dishes for six months without complaining. I'll make all of the beds." My mother wouldn't look at me, so I knew the news wasn't good. "Couldn't you get a baby sitting job for tonight or tomorrow night?" she asked. "Joe needs new shoes and I had to buy Ruth's special medicine again this week. We just can't afford a new dress right now." I ran to my bedroom and threw myself on the bed. It was too late to get a baby sitting job. I knew that nice, decent, mature teenage girls shouldn't feel soppingly sorry for themselves, but I couldn't help it. I wanted that dress so badly that I could its soft blue folds gliding over my hips and the spidery white lace prickling my neck and wrists. I even saw the dress the next evening at the shopping center. My friend Jeanette and I had walked over after school and were thumbing through the racks, when suddenly, there it was, shimmering into my vision like a fairy godmother. But there was no magic wand to make it materialize on my body. On the way home, visions of giving my uncle or grandparents a lifetime I.O.U. danced through my head. Or maybe Dad could put a second mortgage on the house. When I got home, Mom needed some dinner help. I have to admit that I set the plates down on the table a little harder than necessary, but I figured I had good reason. Then I walked into my bedroom. There, spread out on the bed, was not the blue dress I had loved so much, but one almost as pretty. This dress was a soft pink with a contrasting deeper pink skirt and a wide white collar and white cuffs that were so stylish then. I ran out to the kitchen and hugged my Mom. "I don't know how you did it, but thank you - a million times!" I even kissed her, something I hadn't done for awhile. I thought I sensed a sadness in her return hug and kiss, but I was too busy to think about it for long. I had to finish my dinner chores and work on my hair and nails. Time was getting short, and instant beauty takes time. On Saturday afternoon I began getting ready, and by the time evening came there was a line of six kids outside the bathroom door, pacing the floor and demanding to be let in. I didn't care. I was having a long, leisurely soak, polishing my nails, and curling my hair. After all, Dan was coming at 7 and it was 5:30 already. I had to take extra pains with my beauty routine because Dan's sister Gail and her date were coming with us, and she was known in our gang as a very sharp dresser. Finally, my overhaul was finished, and I swept into the living room. Dad was reading the paper and Mom was watching T.V. "How do I look?" I asked. I knew the answer, but I wanted proof. "You look beautiful," my Dad said. "You look very nice," Mom said. Her eyes lingered on my dress and I thought I saw a frown pucker her forehead. "I stared at my hemline in alarm. "Is my slip showing?" "Nothing's showing. You look fine," she said. The doorbell rang, and like a princess I eased it open, the cheers of my invisible subjects ringing in my ears. Dan thought I looked like a princess. I could tell by the dazzled look in his eyes. Behind him were Gail and her date. I invited them inside. "That's a pretty dress," Dan said. Gail's glance scratched over me like a garden rake through dry soil. "That is a pretty dress," she said. "Too bad I didn't like the color or I would have kept it for myself." "What do you mean?" I asked her. "I mean that I put that dress and lots of other things in the church "Clothes Tree." You know, where everyone puts clothes that they don't need any more and the church gives them away or sells them cheap. I hope you wear the dress a lot." My mind groped for someone to blame. I hated Gail. I hated Dan because I wanted to look beautiful for him, but most of all I hated my Mom. How could she buy a dress from the church "Clothes Tree," for me, especially this particular dress? Gail's smirk told me I'd never be able to forget that my dress had been her dress, and my date was her brother. Then Mom hurried up to me. She thrust a small, beaded purse in my hands that had belonged to my grandmother. "Here, you forgot your purse," she said. I gulped. This was her most prized purse; the one she saved for special occasions. The bitter words and the resentment melted away. "Thanks for everything, Mom," I said, managing a wobbly smile. I held my head high, swept over to Dan, and put my arm through his. "Let's go," I said, as my imaginary subjects gave me a standing ovation. Forty years ago my grandmother twirled the knobs of her square table radio to find out if a woman by the name of Helen Trent could find romance after 35. Today, her granddaughter is still romancing with radio after 35. Grandma sobbed and sighed over the sad plight of Stella Dallas, the true life story of mother love and sacrifice..."in which Stella Dallas saw her own beloved daughter, Laurel, marry into wealth and society, and, realizing the difference in their tastes and worlds, went out of Laurel's life..." But not for good of course, or Stella and grandmother's story would have been over. On another day, it was the continuing saga of the girl from the little mining town in the west, Our Gal Sunday, who was debating whether or not she could find happiness as the wife of England's richest and most handsome Lord, Lord Henry Brinthrope of Black Swan Hall. But the soap opera that Grandmother would give up shopping, bingo, and probably grandfather for, was Ma Perkins. From what my immature mind could gather, Ma Perkins was a widow who ran a lumberyard in Rushville Center. Her son-in-law, Willy Fitz, helped her with the lumberyard and her son and two daughters provided her with enough worry for four soap operas. Before she passed on to that big stage in the sky, I discovered that Ma Perkins had been on the air for 27 years, for a total of more than 7,000 broadcasts. I'm positive that Grandma didn't miss one of them. I couldn't direct too many complaints at Grandmother though, because I was just as fanatical about Saturday morning radio. I remember with greater clarity than my bank balance..."A Fiery horse with the speed of light, a cloud of dust and a hearty heigh ho Silver...return with us now to those thrilling days of yesteryear...with his faithful Indian companion Tonto, the daring and resourceful masked rider of the plains led the fight for law and order in the early west." Because of the Lone Ranger, I liked the William Tell Overture even after I discovered that it was classical music. And because of Sergeant Preston of the Yukon, I ate Quaker Puffed Wheat even though I hated the stuff. I had to eat it. Grandmother and Sergeant Preston said it was good for me and besides, it was "shot from guns!" Sergeant Preston made it more palatable, too. With the help of his fearless dog, Yukon King, the Sergeant responded to myriads of messages for help, rescued countless damsels in distress and fought off at least 10,000 Indians during the wild days of the Gold Rush in the Yukon. From the 1930s to the 1950s with the help of WXYZ radio in Detroit, the Sergeant and King made the Yukon safe for the Queen and her subjects. He was a consistent Mounty. He ended every broadcast with the lines, "This case is closed." And King, equally consistent, would reply, "Ruff, Ruff, Rowwww." Wheaties I ate because of who else, Jack Armstrong! When the show opened with its cheer "Jack Armstrong...Jack Armstrong...Jack Armstrong...JACK ARMSTRONG!" I chewed and cheered and sprayed Wheaties crumbs along with the best of the fans. Besides being a vocal testimonial for Wheaties, Jack Armstrong was the Ma Perkins of the kiddie set. Jack had high ideals. When he and his friend Billy were rowing towards his Uncle Jim Fairfield's yacht during one of their adventures, all Jack could think about was the future and his part in it. He even forgot about the pirate treasure and capturing enemy agents. Jack said to Billy, "Billy, when I think of this country of ours with millions of home stretching from sea to sea and with everybody working and pulling together to have a nation where people can be free and do big, fine things, why it makes me realized what a terribly important job we've got ahead!" Grandmother always turned up the radio when Jack got into patriotism and I wasn't ashamed of saluting our flag or getting a lump in my throat. But I have to be honest. I have to confess that my favorite radio program wasn't the edifying Jack Armstrong, but the sinister, sibilant, SSSS-Shadow. At the ending of his adventures, he would intone like Boris Karloff, "the weed of crime bears bitter fruit, crime does not pay...the SHADOW knows...hee, hee, hee, hee, hee, hee." I looked forward to The Shadow adventures more than Captain Midnight's coding machines and the Old Ranger's adventures on Death Valley Days, complete with the sound effects from the 20-mule team. The Shadow had power. He could cloud men's minds and bend their wills to his. He could hypnotize people into believing he was invisible. But he had moxy, too. After all, he fought on the right side of the law against "sharpsters, law breakers and thieves." And he helped Commissioner Weston and his sidekick Margo Lane survive all of his escapades. When Grandma told me the reason that the Shadow's voice changed after 1939 was because Orson Wells, who was the Shadow, had been replaced because of a certain "Martian Invasion" Broadcast on the Mercury Radio Theater, I was only slightly disillusioned. After all, the Shadow, like Santa Claus, lives on in my heart and memory even though his voice and role no longer exist. Grandma tolerated the Shadow, mainly because I enjoyed him so much, but she felt warmer toward John Barcley. In the 1930s broadcasts of The Shadow, the sponsor was Blue Coal, an anthracite from Pennsylvania, and John Barcley was the Blue Coal spokesman who broke into the Shadow's adventures with tips on how to keep your home warmer this winter, with the help of Blue Coal, naturally. I didn't like John because he always interrupted The Shadow at the most crucial points in his clashes with "Sharpsters, lawbreakers, and thieves." Besides John Barcley, grandmother had some other queer tastes in radio personalities. She favored Fibber McGee and Molly's messy closet, Jack Benny's bulging bank vault and Amos'N'Andy's problems with the King Fish and Saffire. One program that Grandmother and I listened to in complete harmony was Arch Oboler's "Light's Out." We actually did turn out the lights for this and I shivered deliciously and cuddled close to her while we listened to the story of an airplane that changed its flight pattern all by itself and similar happenings. At the end of the program when Arch said, "You can turn them on now," (meaning the lights), sometimes I didn't. I just sat in the dark and imagined. Another program we listened to in the dark was "The Inner Sanctum," with Raymond and the creaking of what I was positive was a coffin lid. That program was enough to make me devour the sponsor's product Bromoseltzer, Bromoseltzer, Bromoseltzer! I loved every minute of it! There were some programs that Grandmother and I didn't listen to together. In the 1940s on Sunday evenings at 9:30, she had already tucked me in bed and hurried back into the living room to listen to one of her soaps. Me, I had better sense. I eased on the bedside radio and hauled it under the covers with me. I huddle there with the warm radio, warm as my bottom would be if Grandmother caught me. After the announcer had extolled the virtues of Bromo-Quinine Cold Tablets, he introduced the New Adventures of Sherlock Holmes starring Basil Rathbone as Holmes and Nigel Bruce as Dr. Watson. I trod the brick cobblestones of London streets, heard Big Ben chiming the hour and Dr. Watson's voice, "This story beings in Baker Street one March morning in the early 1900s. Holmes and I were seated on each on the side of a blazing fire..." Is it any wonder that I sneaked the radio under the covers with me and yawned through school the next day? I remember lines from other shows that Grandmother and I listened to. "From out of the western sky comes Sky King," and there was "The Adventure of the Murdered Ship," and many others with Ellery Queen. And "The Thin Man" series with Nick and Nora Charles. After they had solved a case and reclined in domestic bliss in their own bed, Nora's famous line was always, "Goodnight, Nickeee." Then there was Bat Man and Robin, The Cisco Kid and Poncho, The Green Hornet, Charley Chan, Superman, Dragnet, Gangbusters...The list is endless and so are the memories. Now Grandmother is a memory and so are most of the radio heros. Now when I dial I hear music, commercials, and talk shows. But I still hear the airwaves of the past. I still hear a radio program called "I Love A Mystery." It starred Jack, Doc, and Reggie who participated in adventures all over the world. Doc sums up in one line how I remember the romance of old time radio. JACK: (Gasps) Save your breath for fighting... DOC: You bet you! (GRANTS) Honest to...(GRUNTS) grandma... (GRUNTS) I don't know (GRUNTS) when I've had so much fun..." Grandmother and I had a lot of fun, too, Doc! My memories of my grandfather are tinged with the pain of his alcoholism and the pleasure of his tomatoes. Often on brisk autumn days, grandpa would say to me, "It's tomato time. Ready to go to the garden?" We lived on a long, crowded street with houses lined up like dominoes. But there was a vacant lot, a place where grass, trees, and wild flowers grew about three blocks down the alley from grandpa and grandma's house. The garden was accessible for me too, because we lived directly across the street from grandma and grandpa. Grandpa rented part of this vacant lot for his garden. I am sure he planted other vegetables besides tomatoes, but the tomatoes are as firmly planted in my memories of him as he planted the tomato vines in the ground. Grandpa picked up his brown bottle of beer in one hand and a tomato basket, which was an oblong wooden, slotted basket with a wire handle, in the other hand. We walked the three long blocks through the alley to what seemed to be a miniature garden of Eden. I smelled those richly red, sunlight kissed tomatoes - solid perfume on the vine. I ran over, picked one, and ate it on the spot. Who needed such impediments as plates, napkins, or even salt? Sitting his bottle of beer under a tree, grandpa handed me the tomato basket. "Pick me a big basket for your grandma, will you? I need a peace offering." I understood what he meant. It seemed like grandma was always angry with him. I was certain her anger had something to do with grandpa drinking too many bottles of beer a day. Sometimes toward the end of the day he talked funny and often before I went home for the night I would find him slumped over the kitchen table, his head buried in his arms. Grandma called that "sleeping it off." Judging from the tone of grandma's voice, "sleeping it off" was something disgusting. I couldn't understand how grandpa or his tomatoes were disgusting. I darted up and down the two rows of tomato plants grandpa had set in the soil with such loving care last spring, searching for the splash of red that told me that the tomatoes were ripe. Quickly I stooped over and took off my shoes. I loved going barefoot in the garden, feeling the moist dirt crumble between my toes and the grass slither across the bottoms of my bare feet. The sun beat down on my back. I didn't care. I savored the feel of sunshine on my skin and the cool breeze ruffling my hair. I wanted to be sure that grandpa had a big enough basket of tomatoes to please grandma, so I searched extra hard for the ripest, juiciest ones. Once I dropped to my hands and knees to get a tomato from the bottom of a vine. Another time I untangled a large red one from the strip of bed sheet that grandpa had used to tie the vine to the wooden stakes to keep it off the ground. Finally, I had the tomato basket full of ripe, succulent tomatoes. I pranced in front of grandpa with the full basket, taking care not to spill any tomatoes out of it. "Aren't they just beautiful? Grandma will like these, won't she grandpa?" "They look good," grandpa said. I noticed that now there were three bottles sitting under the tree beside grandpa. He must have had the other two hidden in the inside pockets of his jacket. He did that sometimes and brought them to the garden to drink so grandma wouldn't see him. "I'll carry the basket, grandpa. You bring the bottles." He put the two bottles inside his jacket and picked up the third one. "Let's go." I skipped down the alley ahead of grandpa, anxious to get back and show grandma his beautiful tomatoes. "Not so fast," grandpa called after me. He was walking slowly and occasionally he wobbled on his feet. I slowed down and walked beside him. He stumbled over a rock and I put my hand under his arm, carefully holding on to the tomato basket with the other hand. Grandma was waiting for us by the back yard gate. I held out the basket of tomatoes. "Grandma, we picked these for you." She stared at grandpa. "You're drunk again!" she said. Grandma took one of the best looking tomatoes from the top of the basket, one I had spent five minutes finding. She threw it as hard as she could. It splattered across the concrete pavement and splotches of it dotted grandpa's shoes. I stared at the symbol of his love of growing things and hard work, shattered into bloody pieces on the pavement. I ran into the house, the tomato basket bouncing up and down. I didn't even care that some of the tomatoes fell out of the basket and joined the one that grandma threw on the pavement. Today, I can see many parallels between shattered tomatoes and lives shattered by alcoholism. I can understand grandma's anger. But every time I pick a tomato from my garden, I see my grandpa's calloused hands showing me how to tie a tomato plant without damaging its leaves. I still watch him showing me how to pick a ripe tomato carefully so I wouldn't squish it. When I sit at my kitchen table eating a vine-ripened tomato that I grew myself, I see grandpa smiling at me. Now, it's not so terribly hard to forgive him. A hug is like a boomerang – you get it back right away.” ~Bill Keane January 21, is National Hugging Day, and there is still time to make a list of people in your life that need hugs. There is still time to stop and think about the meaning, benefits, and varieties of hugs. We bump our heads against the brick walls of life every day in this impersonal, hug deprived society that we have created for ourselves. Most of us have an inner child who needs a hug- not a romantic or sexual type hug which given and taken out of context can be misinterpreted and provoke leering looks or lawsuits, but a friendship hug. The healing, empathetic, heart print kind of hug is the suitable and beneficial hug for National Hugging Day and for the rest of the year. Good hugs are universal expressions of concern and support. National Hugging Day is the time to begin a ritual of empathetic, supportive hugs. Hugging is Good for Your Body and Your Soul In a 2006 study, researchers at the University of North Carolina discovered that hugs increase the hormone oxytocin and decrease the risk of heart disease. Lead researcher and psychologist Dr. Karen Grewen discovered in a previous study that hugging and hand holding reduces the effects of stress. Hugging benefits to your body include reducing stress, decreasing the risk of heart disease, lowering blood pressure and fighting insomnia. Hugs have a positive effect in a child's development and IQ. Hugs produce physiological changes in the huggers and the hugees. Dolores Krieger, R.N., Ph.D., is a professor of nursing at New York University and an expert in touch therapy. According to Dr. Krieger, one person hugging another stimulates the level of oxygen-carrying hemoglobin to the tissues. When the tissues receive increased oxygen they have new energy that rejuvenates the body. Therapist Kathleen Keating says in the introduction to her Hug Therapy Book that the easy, free gift people can give each other is the power of touch. According to Keating, elderly, disabled, terminally ill and long term care residents have acute needs, but their most basic needs are “your kind hand holding theirs and a hug from your heart. The gift of touch is the most powerful healing you can offer another, and it is the most powerful healing you can give yourself. Give generously and watch yourself grow rich in what matters the most. Hug often, hug well…” Keating writes in her book that research in the hugging field has shown that hugging helps reduce senility in people over 70 and substantially improves development in newborns. Hugging increases liveliness, curiosity, problem-solving abilities and physical well being. Emotional benefits of giving and receiving hugs include warding off depression, reducing anxiety, relieving grief and loneliness, increasing self esteem and enhancing feelings of belonging. Hugs make us feel better about ourselves and our surroundings. A Brief History of Hugging In Latin American countries, it is customary for men friends to greet each other with hugs as well as slaps on the back on festive occasions like celebrating the New Year. Western women often greet each other with a hug and a kiss on the cheek to express joy at meeting and sorrow at parting. Recently, teenage girls have started the fad of greeting each other and saying goodbye with a hug. In May 2009, the New York Times reported that in the United States, “the hug as become the favorite social greeting when teenagers meet or part these days.” In February 2010, Jeff Ondash, 51, set a new Guinness World record for hugging. The Ohio man who hugged outside the Paris Las Vegas Hotel-casino on the Las Vegas Strip to set his record, dressed as his alter ego Teddy McHuggin. He bestowed 7,777 hugs in 24 hours for a new world record. He said, “When you hug somebody, they all walk away from each other smiling. They say an apple a day keeps the doctor away; a hug a day – it’s just fun.” Hugs and Huggers Hugs are multipurpose and multicultural. In the Roman Catholic Mass, during the kiss of peace ritual, a hug may be substituted for a kiss or handshake. Many Protestants attending church services hug each other hello, hug during the welcome part of the service, and hug each other goodbye. Children hug dolls, stuffed animals, live animals, and parents. Children have an uncanny ability to match their hugs to the hugees and find the spots that need hugging the most. They can also turn hugs into presents. Nature lovers hug trees and appreciate the wonders of nature on planet earth. Sometimes they circle the trees with their arms and hug each other. How to Hug Effectively Some people are better huggers than others, but everyone can learn to hug and match their hugs to the comfort level of the hugee. Walk up to your hugging target from a few feet away with your arms open. When you reach the hugee, wrap your arms around the general vicinity of their midsection. Hold the hug for a few seconds, and then release. Approach a family hug cautiously, but hopefully. Family feuds sometimes block hugs, but forgiveness makes them stronger. Hug a friend affectionately. Use humor in your hugging. Hug in Morse Code. Make Up Secret Hugs. Hug Loosely. Let your hugee determine how tightly or loosely they want you to hug them by how hard they squeeze. If they squeeze lightly, squeeze lightly back. If they give you a bear hug, give them a bear hug back. Regulate your hugs so that you both survive to hug another day. Hang on to your hug. A long, loving hug can communicate how much you care. Sustain the hug until the hugee lets go. Remember, the best hug comes from one heart and touches another heart. References Bolton, Martha. The Official Hugs Book. Howard Books, 2002 Keating, Kathleen. The Hug Therapy Books. Hazelden Publishing, 1995 McDonnell, Patrick. Hug Time. Little Brown Brooks for Young Readers, 2007 Ross, Dave. A Book of Hugs. Harper Festival, 2001 |
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