Sunday Afternoon Movie

I just finished watching the George Clooney film , "Up in the Air", via my cable company. I've been so busy lately, I have not had time to get to the theatre to watch a movie, so the "Movies On Demand" function of my remote is a welcome perk.
I'd heard this was a good film and the trailers looked interesting, so I thought I'd give it a try.

I must say, I found the movie profoundly depressing. Don't get me wrong, it was well acted by all the principal stars, an interesting viewpoint from which to tell the story and very well executed, but from the first few minutes, I found myself silently sobbing. Tears streamed down my face intermittently throughout the whole picture, at the depictions of middle-aged people being told they were no longer needed and had been let go from their jobs.

I relate to this pain on a visceral level. I know first-hand, the utter despair and sense of worthlessness you feel when being told by your company that they no longer need or want you as a part of their operation. I know what it is like to be dismissed one day, left with no recourse, after years of dedication and hard work. I remember lying awake in the early morning hours wondering how in God's name I would pay my bills and fill my hours. I have an intimate connection to this terror; I know it personally.

None of it seemed real to Ryan, the protagonist. He managed to keep the ugly reality of his work neatly compartmentalized, and didn't let it get to him. He was unscathed by the hardship and pain of the strangers that he was paid to fire. The tables were turned on Clooney's character, when his romantic foil, Alex, showed him that his emotions were just make-believe to her, as much a non-reality in her life, as the emotions of the victims of his cold dismissal services were in his. In the end, although he'd started to become a sympathetic character and I did feel sorry for him, I think he sort of got what he had coming to him.

The Decline of Catboy

My male cat is now almost fifteen years old. Despite his geriatric state, he is sleek, active and animated most of the time. His glossy, black and white fur feels like satin, and his green eyes still shine. He is busy much of the time, watching the birds through the window pane, nibbling on my houseplants or dodging Rigby the dog, as she makes clumsy attempts to play with him.

He has always had a ravenous appetite, but last year he became insatiable, crying and begging for food immediately after eating his meals. He started following me around from room to room, wailing and reaching out to me with his giant, polydactyl paws, stroking the side of my face to direct my attention. Clearly, something had changed.

A trip to the vet revealed something that neither I, nor the doctor expected; Catboy has diabetes. The vet spent some time showing me how to inject him with insulin, which I must do twice a day, right after he eats his breakfast and dinner.
We bought him a special food for diabetic felines, which he ate with gusto at first. It was a case of large cans, but before the last ten cans were consumed, he'd rejected it completely. Back to the tiny, expensive cans that he had come to favor early in his life with us. A discerning gourmet of a feline he is, his birth in a dumpster aside.

His appearance has changed drastically in the past few months. The flesh has disappeared from his huge, multi-toed paws, leaving them thin and skeletal looking. His face is gaunt and thinner than that of a siamese. His spine protrudes from his back, the bones now prominent as he continues to lose weight.

Catboy’s life is approaching it’s natural end now- I know this. I have reached the mature age when romantic, overly sentimental notions of life and death have long since fallen by the wayside. I look upon the death of the body in old age as necessary and not something to be dreaded or staved off. All things must pass…It is the natural turn of events, but as it draws closer for him, I have been thinking lately about Catboy’s life.


If I had not intervened and left him to live his life as a feral cat, his life would have been much shorter. I have seen statistics that claim that a cat living outside has an average life expectancy of about three years. Feline Immune Deficiency Syndrome-the cat version of HIV/AIDS apparently rages through the feral population, and those cats whose owners let them roam out of doors are frequently exposed to it. Coyotes and fishers roam the backyards and vacant lots of suburbia, hunting small pets for food. Throw in speeding cars, ticks and fleas and the diseases they cause, and the outer world seems like a deathtrap for domestic cats. That’s why I have kept Catboy and Ceecee inside for their entire lives with me: for their own well-being.

But, what about the quality of that life? Would they have been happier outside? Chasing chickadees and bumble bees, rather than watching them from a window ledge, through a screen? Seeking out a sunny spot to sleep on the grass, rather than on my living room carpet? Climbing trees instead of bureaus? Would a shorter life outside have meant a more satisfying life for the cats, even with the risk of an early and perhaps violent end? Do I have the right to make this decision for them? These are the questions that nip at the edges of my mind now as I watch his decline. I think about these things, as I run my hand down his back and feel the vertebrae, now prominent, as the muscles and fat melt away from his bony frame.

I wanted him to be safe and sound, and that was the life I created for him, but he had no say in any of it. I wonder whether he resents me for keeping him a prisoner inside, even though my intentions were good. I believe I made the right decision. He has enjoyed a long life. I wonder whether he would say he has had a good life.
I sure hope so.

Update on Emery-Sunrise

I want to let my readers know that Emery, the little lady that I wrote about in an earlier post has made some recent progress.

At the urging of several friends and aquaintances, she sought out a new doctor, who has assured her that he has options for dealing with her serious health problems. She has agreed to more tests to determine if she is a candidate for some new treatments that he has in mind for her.

She is faithfully wearing the scapular necklace that I gave her every day. In accordance with my instruction that it will only be effective if worn with total confidence of its healing powers, she has stopped agonizing out loud over her problems, and is making a strong effort to smile, breathe deeply and even laugh more than usual.

I watch her catch herself as she begins to think about saying something negative; she takes a deep breath, presses her lips together tightly, and smiles with determination.

She is reading a book today that another friend recommended. It's titled: Being Happy.

"It's a really good book!" she told me, with enthusiasm.

Things seem to be looking up for Emery. I think it is because she is now looking up.

photo courtesy of J. Choate, 2008

Seasons turning

Well, it is mud season here in the great Northeast of the U.S.A. Winter's back is finally broken and we have tumbled into the rainy, raw month of March.

Last week when Mac, Rigby and I went for a late afternoon walk, we turned a corner and were confronted by a squadron of about a hundred blackbirds filling a dormant maple tree, squawking and jockeying for position on the bare branches. A little further on, another dark cloud of them, mostly Grackles, descended on the neighborhood. They are dark and mostly non-descript, while some sport pale, yellow eyes or deeply wedged, boat-tails. They are suddenly everywhere. The Swallows may not be returning to Capistrano with such faithful resolve, but the grackles have not let us down.

Now it is getting difficult to find the Juncos, the little slate-colored birds with the snow-white bellies that ply the ground under the hedgerows and patrol the weedy margins of the yard. Some folks call them "Snowbirds" because they seem to follow the cold. I saw one yesterday, all alone, looking as if he he was trying to find a flock to fly north with, now that these clacking, squeaky invaders had landed.

A big storm rolled up the east coast on Friday and had been soaking us with waves of cold rain all this weekend. Last night, gales buffeted the trees and rooftops throughout the night, and the Charles river has come up out of its banks today. Despite the seemingly nasty weather, I can feel the gray blanket of my seasonal depression lifting off my shoulders and something like enthusiasm for life budding inside me at my core. I feel like I am waking up from a soul coma. This evening's twilight will be the longest coming since last fall when we moved the clocks back. Last night the time sprung ahead again, and I almost forgot about it. I remembered just in time to avoid missing Mass this morning.

This afternoon, Mac came into the kitchen where I was concocting a savory stew for dinner, and announced that there was a Cardinal out on the top of the sycamore tree in the side yard, "...singing his brain out."
He wondered out loud why the bird seemed so happy, considering the weather we are enduring this weekend.

"It's because he knows that the best weather is coming now!" I said to him, as I dropped a handful of celery into the pot.
That bird knows the winter is over and he's full of joy because of it; So am I!

Frail fairy

There is a woman I know who was a puzzle to me, until now. The first time that I ever saw her, I wondered at the way she approached me, tentatively, almost as if she was afraid. As she came toward me across the room, I was struck by her appearance. She was like a little bird, maybe four and a half feet tall, a delicate being with wispy hair, large moist eyes and a drawn face. Weighing about ninety pounds, she was trembling as she came closer to me that day that we first met. She made me think of a little fairy woman, fresh from some Celtic glade, leary of contact with mortals.

At first, I was impatient with her skittishness and lack of confidence. It took me some time to realize that Emery lives in dread. Emery is a prisoner of worry, anguish and despair, and drags those chains around with her every day of her life. She doesn't sleep much, although she is very tired most of the time and she is plagued by phobias. Finally, I've learned why.

See, Emery has been damaged. When she was born, she was frail and suffered from birth defects that required many surgeries and much isolation. Her family let her know that she was a burden on them. Her siblings resented the attention she got because of her physical limitations and hospitalizations. Her mother let her know she was a big disappointment and would never measure up to the other kids. Most horrifying of all, a trusted family member molested Emery when she was seven. She was a precious little child, sick, and nobody protected her. Everyone failed her.

Those who failed Emery aren't suffering now. None of them are are in prison paying for the things they did to her. They don't seem to be burdened with guilt for the way they treated her. In fact, her parents are dead now and those relatives who are still alive have abandoned her, and seem not to give her a second thought. They live in well-heeled comfort, while Emery struggles to make ends meet. They gather at family parties and enjoy each other's company while Emery sits with her little cat and cries on Christmas Day and Easter. They try not to think about her, because she's out of their lives, now that they have homes of their own and new families.

She's angry - very, very angry. Deep inside, her anger has started to fester, and now Emery has more problems with her health. Her stomach aches, her arteries are closing up, she has dozens of symptoms that defy explanation. She is terrified of dying young. Her eyes leak constantly, sometimes because she cannot help crying and sometimes, just because. She always clutches a tissue because of it.

Emery has been to counselors, but they don't help much, asking her how her week was and giving her the bill. Maybe she should find a new one, I suggest. Her doctor said there is nothing more that can be done for her serious health problems. Maybe she should get another doctor, I offer.

Now that I know Emery's secret, I am dedicating a little time each day to try to pull her toward the light. I tell her that a terrible past need not ruin a bright future. I tell her to breathe deeply and to eat. I tell her that she must realize that despite what she has been led to believe, she did nothing to deserve the terrible treatment of her childhood, and that she needs to let go of it, if it is ever to let go of her. I say that the past is gone, and she will only continue to be a victim if she accepts that role.

I bought her a blessed necklace to wear, and I ask her to have faith instead of letting worry consume her; I know that faith and confidence can heal her, and worry is the opposite of faith. I tell her to try to let go of her anger, because the ones who hurt her can't feel the pain of her wrath, but she can, and it's truly only hurting her more. I try to say things that will make her laugh.

It is up to Emery now to choose to reject her ugly past and resolve to be happy, despite all that has happened to her. I hope she can rise above it and find some joy in her life.

What devastation we humans can wreak on one another.

God, help me to be extra kind each day, because everyone I meet is fighting some kind of battle.

Strange Brew: The Mothman Mystery

I like nothing better than to discuss and trade theories on crypto-zoology, UFOs, and all aspects of the unexplained with other curious minds. One of my new co-workers is a sharp, eccentric, funny guy who, like yours truly, is interested in the weird and the arcane. The other day at lunch, he and I were mulling over tales of a number of strange phenomena and our discussions harkened me back to some of the better books I have read on this type of subject. There exists for me, no tastier food for thought.

One of the weirdest, most unexplainable (in ordinary terms)cases of strange sightings, is the puzzle of West Virginia's Mothman. The late paranormal investigator, John A. Keel wrote the ultimate account of the happenings, a classic documentary of weirdness, from which a major motion picture was eventually developed: The Mothman Prophecies.

This book chronicles decades of sightings of a seven foot tall, brownish-gray being with leathery, bat-like wings and blazing, red eyes, reported by average folk in and around the town of Point Pleasant, West Virginia. As if being terrorized by a giant, demonic bat-man wasn't enough, at around the same time, these simple, church-going, working-class people also experienced multiple UFO sightings, as well as visits from the notorious "Men-In-Black", those odd-looking, humanoid types in rumpled, ill-fitting, three-piece suits, well known to those familiar with UFO lore, who ring the doorbell after you report that you've seen something strange. Various and sundry giant birds, Sasquatch creatures and other bizarre things also popped up along the dark roads of West Virginia in those days and still do from time to time.

To my mind, the best and most thought-provoking thing about Keel's master-work, with its exhaustive research and scrupulous regard for detail, is the theory he puts forth to "explain" this unexplainable wave of weirdness that has held a community in its' grip for decades.

Rather than being distinct, separate, strange phenomena, Mr. Keel seemed to think that all this weirdness is, in fact, the same thing...or at least, it emanates from the same source. He stopped short of postulating exactly what he thinks it is, or who (or what, exactly) is behind it all, but he hinted that it may be the fault of a lapse of the veil that separates the dimensions. He suggested that we are not being visited by the denizens of far-flung galaxies, in other words; they are here among us already, and always have been, along with big-foot, wolfmen, ghosts and yes, mothmen...we just don't perceive them except under special conditions. Those conditions were surely present in the hills of West Virginia in the late nineteen sixties, and in many other places throughout our world, before and since.

Having read extensively on spirituality, metaphysics, and a bit about quantum physics, I have come to understand that our visible, material world is far from the only "reality" that there is. I find these accounts fascinating and I never tire of hearing or reading about them; one person can hallucinate, one person might be crazy, drunk or lying, but dozens of otherwise reliable, sane and honest people seeing the same something that can't possibly be real? How is that possible?

John A. Keel passed from this reality on July 3rd of last year, but he leaves a legacy of intelligent, matter-of-fact investigations into the unknown, along with his paranormal classic, The Mothman Prophecies.

Office Politickin'

It's been two weeks already at the new job. What a whirlwind!

Yet again, it seems that the most challenging part of this new assignment won't be the work at all, but negotiating the office politics. A dozen different personalities, a dozen separate egos, a dozen diverse, personal agendas to navigate around. Ah, but it keeps life interesting.

Because of hard lessons learned at my last two jobs, I made a decision weeks ago, before I even started in this new position, to keep a strong boundary wall up between myself and my new co-workers. I'm pretty determined to keep my inner life and my work life completely separate.

At my last job, I quickly made friends with a woman who was a few years my junior and seemed to be in about the same place in life as me. We had a lot in common and I quickly became fond of her. All too soon, I found out that she had betrayed my confidences and used me as a pawn to further her own agenda with others in the company. I vowed that the next time I had a fresh start, I would do things differently, and so here I am.

I am usually an open book. I try very hard to be "authentic"; what you see is pretty much what you get with me. I detest gossip and I don't engage in it, or repeat it if I hear it. I am generally very real and I try to say just what is on my mind, although I tend to err on the side of kindness and discretion.

But now I find myself choosing my words carefully and guarding my facial expressions so as not to completely give myself away. I'm willing to pass up new friendships in the interest of protecting myself and keeping my work life on an even and predictable keel. I am being careful not to share much about my personal life. I am trying to keep my opinions to myself,and maintain neutrality in arguments that may arise from day to day, keeping everything very much on the surface. I think that in the long run, it will prove to be the best policy.

My goal is to be able to stay above the fray, for better or worse, unaffected by the tide of feelings that, for me, always accompanies office politics. Although this means that I probably won't have deep, meaningful friendships at my new workplace, sadly, I guess it is just the price one has to pay to keep the work life sane.

Moments of Lightness

I've been having difficulty putting together a post these past few weeks. I have resisted writing because I know that whatever I write now will be tainted by the darkness that is nipping at the edges of my life. The winter has taken it's toll on me. That, combined with three deaths now, in the past month.
Three wakes, three burials, the light of three lives now missing from this world, and as always, the cold and darkness of a northern January are weighing heavily on me.

Though we speak or exchange emails about once a week, I never really recovered from the loss of the relationship I once had with my daughter that happened as she approached adulthood. This grief is a constant pain that I bear, but never more so than in this dark season.

I know that my fascination with television shows like Forensic Files and Paranormal State probably contributes to my dark moods. It seems that these dark subjects are the only things that capture my interest in these gray days.
I've been reluctant to post something depressing or excessively negative; it feels self-indulgent and I know it doesn't do anyone any good. Who wants to read things that bring you down? So I decided to write instead about the moments of lightness that sustain me as I struggle to navigate this dark sea.

I thought I should write about the smell of the crysanthemums that decorate our church, and how the light looks as it filters through the stained glass above the altar. Or, the way the winter sun feels on my back when I walk the side streets of our town on weekend afternoons.

I have my husband, who is my best friend, to rely on. I have the knowledge that my children are healthy and employed.

Although they are growing old and their siblings are dying now, I still have both my parents.
I have all my brothers and my sister, their wives and husbands, my brothers and sisters in law, and their children, my nieces and nephews, who provide laughter, camaraderie and support.

There are the mourning doves that forage at the edge of the woods behind the barn, taking flight with a whistling flurry of wings when I appear. And the troupe of house sparrows that occupy the forsythia hedge next to our garage; how their gentle chirping lifts my spirits in the early mornings, as I walk Rigby out to the back yard.

Speaking of Rigby, I have only to see her smiling, brown, button eyes or hear her contented sigh as she snuggles next to me for a nap, to feel comforted.
Her sweet face and precious spirit is a constant and powerful source of grace in my life. Although they now require a lot of medical attention, my aging cats still have the ability to give and receive an enormous amount of affection.

I have the rising and setting of the sun, the colors of deep rose and amber and lavender mingling on the horizon, and the crescent moon, like a Cheshire cat grin, hanging in the western sky at night. I have the constellation Orion, moving from the south to the west, holding his bow, foretelling the coming of spring, making a promise.

I have coffee in the morning, hot, dark and rich, and cool green tea at night.

And tomorrow, I have a new job to start. For better or worse, it will be a new experience; God willing, it will prove to be a new source of satisfaction and fulfillment.

photo courtesey of J.Choate, 2008

It's been a long December...

Wow, it's amazing how much time has slipped by since my last post! I suffer from Seasonal Affective Disorder, so I don't do well in winter as a rule, and this one has been marked by two deaths in the extended family, to make it even more depressing than usual.
Now that the bustle of the holidays is over, I find myself looking at the clock each afternoon and longing for the night, so I can snuggle down and hibernate in my bed.
Things are about to be shaken up, though, because I FINALLY heard from the state about that job I interviewed for back in August. They offered me the position, and I have accepted it.

I will be reporting to a new job in a new office in just a few short weeks.
I am excited and a bit apprehensive. While I look forward to the shorter commute, the change of scenery and new experiences, I will miss the familiarity of this place I have worked for the past eight years. The new job is only a two-year position, but I will have the opportunity to apply for other state jobs that may become available. I had to take the risk of trying something new, but I hope I haven't made a big mistake. Only time will tell.

One of my resolutions for the new year is to get back to posting on a regular basis. I am also way behind on reading all my favorite blogs, and it is time for me to catch up. I hope you all had a lovely holiday season, and all the best in 2010!

freedigitalphotos.net

Our Son and Ben Franklin

In 1982 my first child was born; a son. Being only 26 years old and having no experience as a parent, I was nonetheless completely undaunted. I was extremely confident in my ability to raise a child. I looked around me at all kinds of people with kids and was sure I could do as good a job, if not better than they had.

Some early milestones came late for our boy. He crawled and walked behind schedule, but I wasn’t too concerned. It was plain to see that he was a bright, happy boy and apparently healthy in every way. When he finally decided to speak it wasn’t one word, it was a sentence. As I unlocked the car door one afternoon, he looked up at me and asked, “Go bye-bye in da car now?” much to my astonishment.

One day my sister took him up on her lap to read to him. She had just bought him a new book, and as she turned the pages, she asked him if he would like to read it himself. She nearly fainted when he opened his little mouth and began to read out loud. He was a little over two years old. I’d always gone slowly and run my finger under the words as I had read to him, and I was aware that he knew many “sight words”, because he would point to signs and say, “Bus!” or “Stop!” or “Open!” as I pushed him around the neighborhood in his stroller, but that was the first moment that I realized he could actually read.

The first two years of his life were pretty happy and otherwise unremarkable. When he was just over three years old, we thought we’d better get him into nursery school to nurture his budding intellect and give him the opportunity to socialize with other children. That’s when the difficulties started. While the other children were coloring and playing with blocks, my son was writing full sentences on the posters that decorated the classroom walls, or hiding under a table, refusing to come out.

Our son was no longer the happy, rosy-cheeked boy he’d been. We had never had any problems with him at home, but once he got to school, it seemed he just could not behave. He hated school and had difficulty making friends. He had started to cry and pull back as we approached the door of the school each morning. He would beg me not to make him go in. It was a struggle just to get him inside the building every morning, and then the teachers would usually end up calling me after a few hours, asking me to come and get him because he was running in circles around the room and they couldn’t get him to stop. One day he was able to sneak out of school just before I was due to pick him up. He managed to make it twenty or so yards down the sidewalk next to a busy street before I spotted him.

At the urging of the nursery school staff, we brought him to Boston Children’s Hospital for evaluation. The teachers weren’t sure what was wrong, but they couldn’t handle him and thought perhaps the Child Development Lab at Children’s could get to the bottom of it. So began the long years of going from doctor to counselor and back again in an endless loop of expense and frustration. His I.Q. was tested and found to be just below what is considered genius level. They told us our son was gifted and all his problems, no doubt sprung from that fact. We took him to an eminent neurologist who came to the same conclusion. A child psychiatrist (the first of many) decided he had Attention Deficit Disorder. Another was sure he suffered from clinical depression. They prescribed medicines that seemed to make everything worse instead of better. Somehow, I knew that none of these opinions were correct.

Finally, when he was eighteen and in his senior year in high school, a doctor told me that our son had a form of autism known as Asperger’s Syndrome. I was skeptical, because I had heard so many wrong diagnoses in the past, but he wrote down the name of a book by Tony Attwood, and told me to look for it. I found it in a book store that evening and read it from cover to cover. I saw my son described on every page. It was a relief to know that we weren’t crazy – something really was different about our boy, but it was unbelievably frustrating to know that if we had gotten a correct diagnosis years ago, we might have been able to get him some appropriate schooling that would have helped him cope and adjust to it.

Asperger’s syndrome is a condition that is on the autism spectrum. Some of the hallmarks of Asperger’s are the inability to make eye-contact or read facial cues, which causes social awkwardness, and the tendency to focus intensely on one field of interest to the exclusion of most everything else. Many have repetitive habits such as rocking back and forth when standing or sitting still. Aspies tend to be very literal, sometimes having difficulty understanding figures of speech and sarcasm. If you were to jokingly say: “I’ll kill you!” to a person with Asperger’s, it might make them fear for their life. Aspies have to learn things that neuro-typical people know instinctually, such as how to interpret body language. Many with Asperger’s have strong natural aptitudes in music, art or math and some are considered savants. It is now strongly suspected that Albert Einstein, Ben Franklin and Vincent Van Gogh all had Asperger’s syndrome.

My son is a talented artist and also excelled in math when he was in school. He struggled through the harrowing social mine field of high school, and attended art college for one year, and a technical school afterwards, eventually earning a degree in computer-aided drafting, but at least partly because of his difficulty in navigating the interview process, he has been unable to find a job in his field. He pays his bills with a part-time job at a convenience store and by doing freelance and commission art work. Last year, he decided to go to Japan by himself, much to our horror. He went and spent ten days in Tokyo, finding his way around the city by himself and having a great vacation. I thank God that he got home safely. He currently still lives with Mac and me, but yearns to have a place of his own. He has 3 friends, two of whom he met in kindergarten, but they are scattered around the country, so he spends his free time by himself.

Our son is not comfortable with the diagnosis of Asperger’s Syndrome and refuses to be defined by it. He thinks of himself as different, but not in any way deficient. In truth, there are more than a few doctors and other experts who now believe that neurological functioning is really a continuum and we are all spaced out along it, with the more typical people closer to one end, and those known as Aspies closer to the other. Maybe Asperger’s is really just a difference, not a disorder.

When he was a toddler, reading books and doing math, everyone was sure he would be an incredible success. All agreed that his talent and intellect would insure a bright future. It is still my hope that someday soon, someone will look beyond the eccentricities that hold him back and give him the chance he needs to shine his light on the world.