Do This In Remembrance of Me

I used to hate working with a woman I'll call Carly. Carly was one of those women who worked her entire professional career at one company... and was therefore entitled to certain respect (wether or not she earned it). To be honest, she was a pain in the butt to deal with. I hated working with her, yet I found her interesting as a human being (She kept 19 cats in her home... She wore so much perfume, she could never hide from anyone... She once told me, "Kelly, I know this may sound odd, but when I get home from work, I can eat an entire stick of frozen butter. I just love it.").

She became less of a co-worker and more of a person the year her husband got cancer. He was dying, and it was horribly sad to see it happen. I felt badly for her. It's not easy to lose someone you love.

Anyway, she called me at the office one day, and told me a sweet story. "Kelly, you know those peanut butter cookies with the Hershey's Kisses on top?"

"Yes."

"They're the only thing my husband asked me to make for him at Christmas.... I just opened up the oven door, and it looks like the cat shit all over in here..."

"Um," I suggested, "You might want to put the Kisses on the cookies AFTER you bake them."

She paused before thoughtfully saying "Oh."

Where this is the funniest story I have about Carly, it at least showed me she was a real person... Even though I hated every minute of working with her, at least she was, down deep - trying hard to do something nice for someone. It was one of the first moments I held any real respect for her.

Anyway, later that year, I met Ardath Rodale, CEO of Rodale Press, publishers of 'Men's Health Magazine,' 'Runner's World,' and 'The South Beach Diet' Books. I was interviewing her for a story I was doing about depression survivors. As I got up to leave, she signed a copy of her latest book for me.

In it, there's a story about the anniversary of her son's death. Instead of moping about, she invited all of his friends to her home, and served them all of her son's favorite food. She reported a lovely evening of remebrance - a celebration of her son's life.

The next year, Carly's husband died. I didn't know what to do, so I wrote her a note, summarizing Mrs. Rodale's story - and attached it to a tin of peanut butter cookies with Hershey's Kisses. I felt like it was the least I could do.

She called me immediately, "Kelly, I have no idea how you could possibly remember that my husband loved these... but thank you."

That may be the funniest part of the story.

The Club

About 5 years ago, I found myself stagnating in a job that had absolutely no future. I couldn't move up, I couldn't be more creative, I couldn't get anywhere. I'm not bitching about the job - I'm just stating for the record that I learned a lot from this experience, and a lot happened because of it.

In case you feel like you know where this is heading, I'll put the moral of my story up front: What I learned that when I feel this way about a situation, it's time to get out. There's no shame in moving out, and moving on.

What happened to me in this process was: I got to the point where I was so overwhelmed with my feelings that I could barely get through a day without crying. I never knew crying and driving were possible. I had a hard time justifying my time... I finally broke down, fashioned a white flag out of every Kleenex I could get my hands on and waved it until I needed to wipe my nose.

I scheduled an appointment with a counselor. It was a hard thing to do... Difficult not only because it was expensive, but difficult because I'd always felt I could remain in control and up until then, felt I had the answers to everything I needed.

Luckily, a friend referred me to a counselor who worked for me. (Not every counselor can work with just anyone...) She didn't mind that I cried a lot. She didn't mind that the first thing I said to her was, "I just need you to know that I don't want to be in therapy forever..." She listened and asked a lot of poignant questions that maybe should have seemed obvious, yet weren't. We worked together for maybe a year... And was the only person who correctly suggested that I was suffering from Depression.

If that wasn't a blow - I don't know what is. Depression meant that something besides my personal will was hindering my abilities, my emotions, and my success... It was a lot of things - if not... well, darn depressing.

I e-mailed my doctor, and cried as I typed. He scheduled an appointment with me and felt so badly for me at the end of our teary discussion (my tears, that is), that he actually hugged me when I left (have you hugged YOUR doctor lately?). He prescribed a low dose of Zoloft to see how I would do with it.

A note on depression: Doctors have a wide range of medicines available to them - and each affects people differently. The trick is to find one whose side effects aren't debilitating... There are SSRI's, or Selective Serotonin Reuptake Inhibitors (which current research believes affects glutamate, not serotonin), Tricyclic drugs, and Monoamine oxidase inhibitors ... They all work differently. Some block the body's production of certain chemicals (like norepinephrine or dopamine) - so the body works harder to produce more. Others simply aid in the production of chemicals that help us feel better.... I don't want to go into a lot of detail - if you want it, it's more than availble online... Suffice it to say that a lot can go wrong when you're on the wrong type of medication.

Zoloft was the wrong drug. It worked in that it did make the doldrums seem less severe... But it also made the emotional highs less enjoyable. In short, Zoloft rendered me an emotionless lump. I didn't really care to talk to anyone, I didn't go places, I couldn't think of anything to say... The lack of emotion became even more depressing...

What made matters worse was my first weekend on Zoloft. I was talking to my friend, Bob, who out of nowhere, started telling me stories of a social group he once led. He said, "There were some real loonies. My wife and I often commented that we should serve Zoloft Cookies at all of these functions!!" I'm not kidding. I was *this* close to offering him my stash.

After a time, my doctor and I decided to switch meds to Celexa (which I believe is now Lexapro). Both drugs are SSRI's, but I responded very differently to Celexa.

My sense of humor slowly returned. I started to take ownership of the things that were bothering me. I began to feel better. I actually quit my job - because I felt it was really the reason I was feeling so badly in the first place. I told my counselor that it was easier to get through the days... "You know," I said, "I'd like to market a depression kit... It would consist of sunglasses, to hide the fact that I'd been crying... Kleenex, and a bottle of allergy meds..."

"What are the allergy meds for?"

"So when I'm wearing my sunglasses and wiping my eyes, I can pull the bottle out of my pocket, rattle it around, and say, "Damn allergies!" and exit the room sans suspicion of crying.

I knew I was feeling better when I had the courage to start telling other people what I was going through. I realized that many of my friends, their parents, and some of my colleagues had either gone through or were going through the same thing... It was such a great number of people, I started calling it "The Club..." and would frequently have conversations about medications... "Oh really? I didn't try Prozac!" "Zoloft worked for you? That makes one of us!" "What are you trying next? I had a good result with Celexa!" "Have you heard about the depression kit?"
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Three or four years ago, I felt better enough to get off the meds (although I reserve the right to start them again if I ever need to.) I learned that there's no shame in depression. In truth, it's probably made me more compassionate, less quick to judge and maybe just a tad more.... vincible.

Oh, and by the way - If you're wondering what I did with my leftover Zoloft? Why I made cookies of course!

I shellacked them and gave them out to my favorite Club Members...

Crashing in My Dreams

Last night, I wrecked yet another car while sleeping... Not at the wheel - in my dreams.

For the past several years, whenever I'm feeling out of control, I have a dream about crashing a car... Now, there are varying degrees of this, in order of worst to best. They seem to indicate the level of control I'm feeling in real life.

1) I lose control while driving a vehicle that isn't mine: For example, in one dream, I was moving a huge dump truck (for reasons I don't remember). I was driving down a slight incline - and many of my friends were lining the road. My old landlord (who apparently owned the truck) was watching... I kept slamming the brakes into the floorboard, but nothing helped. The truck picked up speed. I distinctly remember starring at my friends one at a time. Where I never specifically asked for help, I told the landlord I couldn't stop. He merely watched me coast by and did nothing.

2) I lose control driving a vehicle I used to own: For example, one night, I dreamt (dreamed? What IS the past tense of dream?) I was behind the wheel of my old Nissan Sentra. I was driving down a gravelly, snake of a road that descended a mountain. The car skidded on gravel, and my car (backwards) - careened off the road and down into a steep ravine. I remember the car landing. I was unhurt, but frantic about getting the car back on the road.

3) I lose control driving my current vehicle - the one I have right now in real life: These are the best of the crash dreams... because it seems to indicate that I'm at least feeling like I am responsible for what's going on around me in real life, even though the situation that summoned the dream is difficult... I know life's getting better if I can lose control of the car - and in the end, regain traction and position on the road.
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These dreams came en masse years ago, sometime before I left a crappy job... - I crashed a vehicle every night for months. When I told a friend about it, she looked at me and advised, "Kelly - get out of the car!"

Eventually, I quit my job, and have been crash free for several years... (My dream insurance rates have returned nearly to the rates I had pre-crash dreams.)

Until last night.

(I'd explain what situation I'm feeling out of control with, but it's a work thing - and it's nasty...)

In the dream, I was packing from a video shoot - I was having trouble getting all of my equipment back. The location was a hotel terrace, post party. Everytime I organized my equipment, some of it would be moved by hotel employees. When I straightened out one pile, I 'd return to find my staff goofing off, and another pile would be gone.

Eventually I loaded the SUV (not mine - not even a vehicle of someone I know). I began to back out of the parking spot, but the brakes weren't working - the car started to move forward and hit a parking median. I was angry... and in my haste, I slammed the car into reverse, and crashed into a Jeep.

That just sucked - in both the dream, and my waking life.

Brokeback Mountain, King Kong, and the Faith Community

So I haven't been around much lately - My head has been full, but I haven't had the heart to write about it. I'll see if I can catch up.

First off, we rented King Kong last night - and loved it. Very sad - very human movie... We hate Carl Denham. Dave noted that he doesn't even like the name Carl. I especially liked the part after Kong fought three t-rexes, then tossed Anne Darrow onto his shoulder. Poor old Kong. He was a big old ape with no family and no one who wasn't afraid of him. His home was littered with the bones of his dead relatives, and he was even attacked at home. Poor old guy just wanted someone who understood him.
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Last week, something so truly awful happened, it's hard to talk about it. Suffice it to say that something was said in church that so offended a gay man in the congregation, that he left.... I'm watching him exit the sanctuary (it's a large room - so it was a long walk to the exit) and thinking, "No one, no one, no one... Ok, I'll go." I followed him out - and had a long discussion about why gays and church never seem to get along - Suffice it to say that I believe that if God has enough grace for me, he's got enough grace for everyone. Let me try to summarize what my pastor said that upset my friend - and what my pastor really MEANT to talk about.

In trying to discuss how the media should be more responsible for what it portrays - and the consequences of what it portrays, he used a current example that was based on a few phone calls he'd received - because of the movie "Brokeback Mountain." - Apparently, it incited a few gay-yet-married-to-women men he knew to ponder wether or not they should leave their wives.

The point my pastor was trying to make was about the marital commitment these men made... (- this is so difficult to explain - he just focused on what responsibility he felt the media has - and the far-reaching impact it has) It wasn't really about gay men, gays, or the church's stance on sexuality. - It was about the things in life that influence us. However, it really sounded like a gay bash.

It was a good example, in context. It's just that it wasn't spoken particularly clearly - The trouble was - the pastor's statement was finished sometime after the gay man and I left the sanctuary. I mentioned to my friend that we weren't sure where he was going. He acknowledged that - and continued.

"But Kelly," he retorted. This is the kind of crap that makes kids in church think there's no place for them - I can guarantee that there are at least 10 or 20 kids or adults in there who are gay." (my congregation consists of about 500 people). - It's serious. Kids commit suicide over this kind of thing."

I told him he had a very valid point - and then went out on a big limb... (halfway between my church and the pack of cigarettes my friend needed). I asked him to talk to my pastor about it. He, going out on an equally tenuous limb, said he would consider it- because it might save someone's life.

"Look." I explained, "The church needs to understand THEIR responsibility - and if Christ died for me - he certainly died for you too, and if you recognize your desire for God/Spirituality/Church in your life, you deserve to be able to sit in there too..." That's what I think. I'm not saying we can't be challenged - I'm saying we all deserve to feel safe in church. (Again - this is hard to write about - it's kind of complicated, isn't it?)

After I left him, I went back into the sanctuary and expressed this to my pastor. I knew he felt badly. He immediately offered to call the guy. I'm pretty satisfied with that. I know he meant it because the next day, he called me at work for a phone number. I called my friend and asked if it was okay.

"Did you tell him what I said?"

"Barring the part where you called him a bigot, yes... And I'm excited that you're willing to go this distance. It needs to be done."

"Ok. Then you can give him my number." What brave guys, eh? I'm so proud of both of them... mostly because In my experience, it hasn't happened before.

Look - I know there will always be a huge schism between the gay community and the mainstream faith community (I'm even embarassed by writing this... It's not how I feel - but it seems to be true.) It angers me that my church has actively sought out dialogue with the interfaith community, people of different races/languages, addicts, third world neighborhoods in Haiti, Spain, Guatemala and Africa - and even (gasp!) those of less popular political persuasions (that's another post for another day, but suffice it to say that the Democratic Mayor of a local city finds he can tolerate going to church here!!!)..., but hasn't really made a lot of room for gays. I'm hoping that this discussion will at least open some doors. It can't possibly be this scary. It can't be that gays are so like Kong - so foreign and misunderstood that there's no place for them... I think it's ridiculous, I think it leaves God conspicously out of the picture, and it needs to stop.

I had no intention, btw, of writing about this - it feels like a big 'ol can of worms - but someone has to say it.

Quick to Cry Racism

I have two stories that aren't really PC, but they're kind of funny in their own way... They're about two instances when I was "accused" of racism... but it just wasn't the case.

One night, I was walking to my car. I had been at a show - so it was probably 11 pm. As I walked down the sidewalk, I could hear someone behind me - but I kept moving. As I got to the car, I stepped off the sidewalk and approached the drivers' side door. This, for some reason, incensed the African American man walking behind me.

"I'm not gonna hurt you," he steamed. He thought I was crossing the street to avoid him. He thought I thought he was a threat. He thought that by stepping off the sidewalk, I was running away.

"But dude, this is my car..." (I actually said 'dude...')

Second instance. I had photographed a Jamaican couple's wedding. The husband owned a Jamaican restaurant in town. Admittedly, it wasn't a part of town I frequent, but I don't actually GO downtown that often. I didn't know much about Jamaican food - outside of hearing about oxtail soup... so I asked, "So would you guys meet me there sometime? I"d like to go."

The husband looked at me and said, "It's okay. White people go there sometimes..."

"That's fine - but I was actually thinking it'd be nice to have you there to help me with the menu."

There was a short pause before the husband said, "Sure. Just call us up. We'll meet you there."

Aftershocks

This is a well-meant post about mourning, and what happened to me in the days surrounding Jay's funeral. It's been several years since my grandmother died, and I've since forgotten what to expect in the aftermath... In short, I've been a little overwhelmed by the outpouring of support. What follows is a detailed explanation of what happened and how I felt about it. It's not meant to offend, but it has severely changed my perspective on how to (and how maybe not to) offer condolences to the grieving.

When calling a few people to tell them the news, I got a lot of offers for help, a lot of advice I wasn't in the mood to hear, and a lot of well-wishing. I appreciated all of it because I knew the hearts of those I was speaking to. First, I'll tell you the craziest thing:

I don't know what came over me, but I went to work on Monday... I thought maybe keeping busy would be a good thing. I was wrong. I wasn't ready... Especially for this: my receptionist came into my office and asked if I'd report any possible communications from the grave: lights blinking at home, any power failures, or extra televsion static, whatever. "I have to know. Look for them!" she requested. (She follows the teachings of a popular psychic)

I just said "Ok."

One phone call caught me completely off guard (and forgive me, Reason 756 for telling this story - just know that I love you and will keep your identity a secret). We'd been discussing the details of Jason's death for quite a few minutes when he asked, "How's his kid doing?" Um What? Kids? What kids? Jason was 5. It turns out, my dear friend '756 thought someone else had died... It took me a minute to regroup and say, "No, Jason... my nephew..." I felt horrible to have unwittingly been a part of that misunderstanding...

Next came the question of "Is there anything I can do?" Honestly - there wasn't - and isn't much... but I felt bad that I couldn't give people anything helpful to do. After a bit, I finally thought of something. I asked them to pray that my ridiculous brother-in-law (who'd spent much of the last several years in a very demented drunken stupor) wouldn't create a scene at the services. Thankfully, my r-b-i-l had recently been in the hospital. He dried out, was sober (and on the right kinds of meds), and during the funeral, behaved with the most clarity I've seen from him in a long time. It is my personal belief that the doctors knocked some sense into him regarding his addictions - and the prayers kept him from relapsing. (Until you've watched this kind of thing take place, it's hard to understand the miracle we're talking about here...)

I also found myself in the odd position of comforting friends who called and sobbing, said, "I just heard! I'm so sorry...." I'm not sure what that's all about, but that's what happened.

Then the sympathy cards rolled in. Don't take this the wrong way. I really appreciate those who sent them, but I will admit, I barely glazed over what they wrote - and didn't bother reading the Hallmark sentiments... I promise, I will. I'm just not ready right now.

The thing I really appreciate about cards, however, is that they eliminate my need to accept condolences in person. This, in turn, eliminates the possibility that I will turn into a blithering mourner in public. It's just that I don't want to break down in front just anyone. I'm a private kind of break-down girl...

In fact, on Monday, when I should have been home... my boss came into my office with a rather intense "I'm so sorry" look on her face. In self-defense, I held up my hands and said, "Don't get nutty and don't touch me!" Of course, then I broke down and sobbed. I motioned for her to shut the door... When I got a hold of myself, I asked to be excused from the Monday staff meeting... I then quickly wrote an e-mail to my co-workers that I need a little space... Of course, one by one, they all came in to hug me... I hate telling people "Don't touch me," but it's by far better than letting them watch me break down. "It's not pretty," I explained over and over and over.

What followed was a long list of phone calls - letting me know either that they were coming to the funeral or not coming, where they could send donations (Incidentally, Vent Camp, Where Jason enjoyed two summer weeks of fun with other kids on ventilators), and again, if there is anything they can do.

I am frustrated to say there isn't anything that can be done. I don't need much (but I let Reason 756 bring me cake - because I like his company, and it was a really great cake...).

It's just an overwhelming, surreal series of events... I will leave you with a story that I haven't yet told my receptionist, and probably won't.

Recently, my sister, Jill, hung a birdfeeder outside Jason's bedroom window. Jason loved watching the birds - and was learning to identify the Chickadees, the Junkos, and the Jays. Sometime in the past couple of days, she mentioned that Jason, despite the cold weather, often made Jill open the window "because he wanted the birds to come into his room and see him."

In the hours following his funeral service, my other sister, Gwen, went home. Her heat was on the blink, and her place was as hot as blazes. She opened a window. A bird flew in the house. I couldn't tell you the last time I've seen a bird at night.

This morning, as I left my house, a chickadee sat on the fence just outside my front door.

Bryan

When I moved to this area (my stars! It's been a long time!) over 11 years ago, I rented the basement of an older couple, Bryan and Ardella. They were nice people. Ardella used to listen to radio shows in Old Pennsylvania Dutch. Bryan was a WWII veteran-turned-draftsman.

Last weekend, I ran into them at a diner. We sat and chatted about their family, my family, news, and events... Then Ardella turned to me and said, "Did you hear? Bryan has Cancer." Without a proper segueway, I was stunned, so I said something completely ridiculous like "Bryan, I TOLD you to stop smoking!" (Bryan didn't drink, didn't smoke... ever, as far as I knew) He laughed. I told him to take care of himself.

I just got a call. Bryan died on Sunday. He and Ardella had been married for almost seventy years.

I'm telling you this - because I can't tell you how grateful I am that I got to see him - and we got to talk before he died. It's kind of odd, actually. The odds of us being at the same diner at the same time and all...

Life is short, mon amis. Laugh while you can.