He’s a Super Hero, or Maybe a Saint

Did I mention my husband, Dale, has become my caretaker? If in our earlier, hectic married years of parenthood and trials . . . you know the ones where you pass each other in the doorway, coming and going, stopping long enough to say, “We’re overdrawn at the bank again honey,”. . . yes, those years . . . If I ever wondered if my husband would stick around for the thick and thin of it, well I have my answer. He would, and he has! Our family and friends think he’s a real super hero, maybe even a saint.

I always loved the children’s novel, “The Velveteen Rabbit,” by Margery Williams. Its simple, yet profound message of how toys become real was a true commentary on our lives. “It doesn't happen all at once,” said the Skin Horse. “It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are ‘real,’ most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in your joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are ‘real’ you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand!”

Just like in the beloved storybook, becoming a “real” saint doesn’t happen all at once, although in my husband Dale’s case that point might be arguable. Real life heroes or saints are usually molded one painful step at a time. It takes a long time. Dale was not always a saint, ready for knighthood. He used to be a regular everyday, ordinary, tired, overworked, unappreciated husband. In the early days of his newly acquired motherhood duties, he couldn’t even clean the bathroom, let alone cook a meal fit for human consumption. Once I heard him whispering to our (then) 12-year-old daughter, Ashley, asking her how to clean the toilet! To be fair, it’s not that I entered marriage with any amazing cleaning skills of my own, having to finally take a professional cleaning class, learning how to rid myself of that annoying bathroom scum build-up around my sinks.

Dale and I, though similar in some things, are very different in others. Similarly we both love the theater, creative arts, and travel. He’s hilarious as a traveling companion with his quiet, dry sense of humor, murmuring humorous comments under his breath and lightening my mood. I have truly only seen his temper flare a few times during our marriage. The first time was at me – in the early married days of “Who is this person I married anyway?” and then again at a car repairman trying to rip us off. All of our girls remember his anger when our one and only teenage son talked back to me “once.” In all cases Dale eventually walked away to calm down, avoiding potential bloodshed and violence, a trait I have come to appreciate.

Dale and I are different in that I love to talk, rattling on for hours about this and that . . . well I don’t really talk all that much, not like those people in the PTA meetings who have an opinion about everything, that you’d just like to yell at saying, “Please shut up, because we want to go home tonight!” But I talk a lot more than he does. Dale is a methodical thinker, who would never put his foot in his mouth, bursting forth with the first comment that came into his head. He thinks about his answers profoundly, before carefully giving his answers, usually good ones too, if you are patient and can endure the silent wait. I’m not . . . patient I mean, even though Lyme disease has worn me down into almost patient city. Our conversations go something like this, “Dale, what do you think about [insert topic]?” Upon which he begins thinking, forming his well thought out reply, his words of anticipated wisdom. I am breathlessly waiting, really wanting his opinion. Minutes pass. It seems like years. I wonder if he has fallen asleep with his eyes open, like the time he did in the downtown intersection during rush hour traffic, causing numerous people to spring from their cars to see if he’d had a heart attack. But no, he is still thinking. Impatiently, I move on to my next comment, telling him how I feel, inserting yet another question, sometimes a third. And suddenly it happens. He opens his mouth and his philosophical words of wisdom, akin to King Benjamin’s in the Bible, spill forth. He is responding to my original question, which sadly, I have now forgotten, having no idea what we are talking about!

In the beginning of my Lyme disease, Dale’s cooking skills included three things: spaghetti from a can, canned soup, and homemade whole wheat bread. Not overlooking his can opener talents, you have to admit the homemade bread thing was impressive, even if it was my recipe, which I admittedly hating making, as it created confusion and a messy kitchen in my already chaotic life filled with constant interruptions. He on the other hand, found bread making relaxing after a hard day at work. Not having formerly given cooking much thought as I entered married life, my newly acquired cooking goals were basic in nature (right after learning to boil water). Basically my cooking goals could be boiled down (pun intended) to one simple three word statement . . . “fast, nutritious (meaning a green salad with every meal), and preferably delicious,” but not absolutely necessary on the later. Cooking was not a creative outlet for me, so our early shared cooking routine became this. On nights Dale made bread, I’d bath the kids and do the customary bedtime schedule. Later we would enjoy a warm piece of freshly baked bread together, before slicing and freezing the remaining loafs.

However, my sudden illness and abandonment of our formerly shared household duties put everything in Dale’s ball court and he was caught completely off guard. At the same time as my illness began, Dale’s beloved father passed away. While grieving his father and perplexed by my sudden unexplained illness, Dale’s initial response was to buy a large case of chicken pot pies to feed our six hungry children, all with various different crazy schedules. Everybody but our three-year-old was literally fending for themselves! Even three-year-old Mckenzie became efficient in taking care of herself with Dale’s “pour your cereal yourself” breakfast menu and his brown paper bagged refrigerator lunches, both easily within her reach. But as my illness persisted with no end in sight, Dale eventually had to step up to the plate and swing the bat, remarkably hitting the ball way out of the ballpark! I know Dale’s mother, who was an accomplished cook and has now passed on as well, is looking down on her son’s new chief skills with pride, remembering how he and his older brother, Leon, once tied her apron strings to the kitchen cupboard while she made dinner for her two mischievous little boys.

Today, in our newly acquired roles, I have learned to appreciate the business like skills a man brings to running a household. I don’t know why I never considered organizing my menu and grocery-shopping list on a spreadsheet? . . . Oh wait, that was when we still remembered how to balance our checkbooks with a pen and a calculator. Now of course we have simplified our already complicated lives with computers. It’s difficult to remember how we managed without Internet banking, bill pay and Quicken downloads. In addition we need printers’ to keep copies in our old-fashioned file boxes and external hard drives to back up all our computer generated hard work, least we suddenly lose it!

Humorously, our present day interests are still as varied, as they are similar. While I enjoy movie genres of romantic comedies and heartfelt dramas, my husband enjoys watching sports, sports and oh yes, more sports. Oddly, he has also now become abscessed with the Food Network channel. Dale has become somewhat of an amateur, gourmet cook, even with all the crazy diets and limited food choices I’ve been placed on over the years. Like Bobby Flay, he cooks with flare, creativity and enjoyment, creating works of art to behold, tantalizing to the taste buds. He is my hero . . . like I said, a “real saint,” and "once you are real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand!”

It Takes a Village

There’s a 1966 song that still plays in my head, by Marvin Gaye called, “It Takes Two,” and statistically speaking, two people have proven effective in marriage. But when you have a crippling, neurological form of Lyme disease, no longer able to stand or walk, “It takes a village” of people to care for your needs and replace the former you. I have five neighbors who fill an appreciated service, as they come one day a week each, providing physical therapy and highly valued, “girl talk.” My husband has become chief cook and bottle washer, care taker, housekeeper, lawn mower, gardener, child nurturer, and dedicated Sunday School teacher, all while running his own business, mostly from home by cell phone and computer. He has many balls in the air to balance, so to speak, although claiming his are generally all lying on the ground. Three of our married daughters have volunteered and divide their time weekly as well, providing me with muscle soothing massages, five times a week. They along with my neighbors, provide a much-needed relief to my overworked, underappreciated, tired husband.

While my daughters massage, I am able to share in their lives and visit with my grandchildren. This provides for some hilariously, entertaining stories, and delightful conversation. It’s been said that, “Laughter is the best medicine,” and the stories about my grandchildren are more than entertaining. I must admit however, that these same experiences were not as humorous when they were happening to me as a young mother. But now I giggle under my breath, enjoying the mother-child scenes displayed before me in all their glory. It’s vindication somehow for all have gone through, having “been there, done that!” Now it’s their turn, realizing what they have signed up for and wondering why there were no specialized instructions with delivery.

Last week, for instance, my daughter, Ashley came to massage, bringing along three-year-old Isaac. Ashley’s older sister, Liz, was already at our house, doing her weekly house cleaning, a service we pay her meagerly for, but could never actually pay her what she is actually worth to us, as she does so many extras, like decorating Christmas trees, and organization projects. Liz brought her children too, Acacia, six and Joshua, four. Liz is normally an overprotective mother (I can’t imagine where she picked that up from, as I stop breathing watching Joshua climb our wall unit). However, on that particular day Liz allowed her active children to play outside on my neighbor’s swing set, giving Acacia her cell phone with our number programmed in, just in case Joshua decided to wander away. This was her plan, in order to be able to clean quickly and efficiently without whining children begging for her undivided attention. Acacia is a rule follower and very responsible. I could only imagine the brain cells churning in her head as she was probably thinking, “I’m going to be so good at this. I think I’ll be ready for my own cell phone.”

It was decided that Isaac could go outside as well, as he never gets to go outside without his mom. He agreed that he would stay by Acacia, never going near the road, with threats of having to come inside if said rule was disobeyed. (Where do my girls come up with this stuff? It’s like we all read the same mom book!) Anyway, less than five minutes later, Acacia called Aunt Ashley. “Ashley, Isaac is throwing rocks in my eyes.” “Let me talk to him,” Ashley demanded, rolling her eyes and muttering something under her breath about little boys. “Isaac, did you throw rocks in Acacia’s eyes?” she asked. I am thinking, “Of course he’ll say no. What kid would say yes?” To my surprise Isaac said remorsefully and honestly, “Yes.” “We do not throw rocks in peoples eyes,” Ashley patiently explained. “Say we do not throw rocks in people’s eyes!” “We do not throw rocks in people’s eyes,” Isaac repeated. “Tell Acacia you’re sorry,” Ashley instructed. “I’m sorry,” Isaac said . . . end of conversation . . . play resumed.

Five minutes later, the phone rang again. It was Acacia. Isaac had committed yet another infraction, bordering on a criminal act in Acacia’s mind. Once again Isaac was summoned to the phone and the conversation went much as before, substituting the new crime of course. Every 5-10 minutes there was a new phone call, sometimes with Joshua being the offender and sometimes it was just Acacia wanting to chat, hungry with her new found power. Finally, one last phone call and Isaac was again summoned to talk with his mother. The phone was on speaker and I could hear Isaac's reply in the back ground. "No thanks, I don't want to talk to her." He had obviously caught on to the conversational pattern occurring and didn't want to be bothered anymore!

We win some, we loose some, but there is always pay back for each new parental idea. Always, you can be sure that whatever worked yesterday may not magically work again today. The rules may change, but kids like to keep life interesting, least we become bored with our dull, uneventful days! Gratefully, if we are fortunate, we have family and friends to share experiences and ideas with. Living with Lyme disease and raising children are similar in that like the African proverb says, “It truly takes a village!”

I Blame Hollywood, or Maybe June Cleaver!

I was 44 years old, having taken my three year old and living with my parents for what I assumed would be a short two-week visit (which turned into two months). I had just been diagnosed with a mysterious illness called, Lyme disease. Having abandoning my husband and five older children, leaving them to fend for themselves, I sought refuge in my mother’s caring arms. Surely with two weeks of loving care, I would be back to driving carpools and cooking meals in my self-imposed career called, motherhood.

That morning my father came into my room to chat, he himself miserable with shingles and the aches and pains of old age. “Linda, do you know why they call old age the Golden Years?" I replied, “No Dad, why?” “Because the doctors get all the gold,” he laughed, scratching his itchy shingles rash. He had only been to but a few doctors in his life, yet it was funny all the same. Little did I realize how true of a statement it would become in the following 13 years as I have battled my disease. It was 1996 and I had been searching for answers to my unexplained symptoms for a year. I lived in Utah, where no one tested for Lyme disease at the time. “Lyme disease?” I’d said, to the Nevada doctor in the clinic where I was finally diagnosed. “What’s that? Do you get it from eating limes?”

As I begin writing this first entry in my new online blog, I smile at the irony of it all, having told my mostly grown children, “Why would anyone want to write a public journal?” I wonder if I will tell them about it or if it will be one of those dark, hidden family secrets, the kind that are eventually revealed when you are standing in line at the supermarket, only to realize your life has suddenly been exposed, openly displayed on the front page of a trashy tabloid newspaper. Ah, the justification of it all! It would serve my children right and give them additional material to complain to Oprah about, telling her how their formerly sane mother cracked under pressure, becoming “crazy mom!”

How did I get here? Why did I choose this crazy life of mothering helpless creatures, loving, nurturing, caring, knowing they will eventually come to a point in their lives where they blame me for everything gone wrong, as I did my mother. The mother-daughter bond is a love-hate relationship, one we’re never entirely able to break away from, even if we wanted to. I blame Hollywood really, or maybe June Cleaver! The movies fill our heads with romantic ideas of motherhood and June certainly didn’t help out either in her 1950’s Television sitcom, "Leave It to Beaver." June served three nutritiously prepared meals everyday, displayed on perfectly set tables with china and crystal goblets. She was greeted each morning by her well-dressed husband, eager to go to work and be the bread winner and her two shiny faced, clean cut boys, handsomely dressed and ready to begin their school day. Oh that Beaver, now he was a rascal, sometimes having dirt under his fingernails, but not June. She cooked breakfast immaculately dressed with wrinkle free, pressed, tightly wasted dresses, salon hairdo, and pearl necklace displayed neatly around her neck. I don’t know how she managed, as I think of my sleepy-eyed, nightgown attire in my years of young motherhood, yawning as I put cheerios on the table, wondering if I’d get a chance to shower that day. June wore this same outfit when cleaning walls and vacuuming her home, never breaking a sweat or mussing her hair! Oh wait, I don’t think her home ever needed heavy cleaning, it was dirt free and magically self-cleaning somehow!

So here I am today, in the middle years after raising most of my children, rapidly approaching my mature years (old age). I am wife, mother of six, grandmother to eight and counting (hopefully), living my life with Lyme disease. It’s not who I am nor does it define me, as I think of those whose voices have lowered with sadness when asking my family how I’m doing, as if my situation is tragic beyond belief. My disease has marched on as my husband and I have attended high school and college graduations, given four wedding receptions as our children found love and married, and as we have held each new grandchild for the first time. It’s true that this disease has been expensive and the medical professionals get all our gold, but my life is golden, nonetheless!