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[saharaphoenix]

It’s ok to hate repetitive greetings (and still use them)

I hate small talk. 

If I’m on personal time, I just abstain. Sure it means I stand there awkwardly, but at least I’m being authentically awkward. 

At work however, I use them frequently: 

“How was your weekend?” “Good. Yours?” “Good.”

“How’s it going?” “Living the dream. You?” “Not too bad.”

“How are you doing today?” “Pretty good. You?” “Alright.”

And on. And on. Every day. For weeks. For years.

I have denounced the banality of it all to my lab partner and my home partner so often the denunciation itself has become banal. 

And yet...I think that I have divined the reason for this persistent irritation of modern society. These regular greetings set a baseline for our continual interactions. They set a standard from which we determine if our fellow humans are ok. If the regular greeting is not uttered, we may follow up with a more direct inquiry into their well-being. If the greeting is offered more enthusiastically than usual, it may indicate that a congratulations is in order. 

I still loathe the trite exchanges I engage in day to day, but I now see them as having value as a social barometer. And I am no longer devising a scheme to exempt myself from them forevermore.

[saharaphoenix]

Nothing makes you realize you have no control like having a loved one who is hurting and you cannot help them.

Content warning: grief, cancer, dogs, death

I should probably talk about it, but I cannot. I think about it, but when I try to articulate my thoughts all meaning gets lost. My words sound hollow. My phrases are misconstrued. I cannot make anyone understand. So I don’t try. 

But I just wanted to get my thoughts down here. My writing is much more articulate than my speech. Plus, it has backspace and edit options. Or delete if I have created a complete disaster in communication. Thus, I will try to write the things I cannot say.

In September I lost my pup. He was only 5 years old and it was a fairly shocking chain of events. I don’t think I have really recovered from the emotional bomb that was dropped on me. I feel traumatized, but I think most would argue that I didn’t go through a trauma. Certainly I have lost others close to me. I have experience other events that people would characterize as traumatizing and was, not unaffected, but remained rational and in control. 

Maybe control is the key.  Nothing makes you realize you have no control like having a loved one who is hurting and you cannot help them. It started with him dragging his paw during walks. At first I just thought his nails needed clipped. Then I noticed he was scraping the top of it raw. 

The vet diagnosed a deep inner ear infection that had gone unnoticed-he’d just been to a check up a month before. The infection was assumed to be causing some vertigo, and therefore movement issues, like the paw dragging. Treatment seemed to be going well. 

Then he went off the steroids and experiences such disorientation that he was throwing up constantly and would hardly move. We spent a weekend lying in bed together. He wouldn’t get up so I fed and watered him on the bed. I think he really enjoyed the special attention:) Except that he wouldn’t. or couldn’t, move. 

The vet put him back on the steroids. He should no longer have needed it for the inner ear infection, but it was clearly doing something. The vet saw that the infection had cleared up. And yet, something was still very wrong. We continued to search for answers and reached out to a neurologist on the vet’s referral.

His ability to move, even with steroids, had deteriorated to the point where we lowered the bed to the floor so that he could climb up there with us to cuddle. He’s a proud pup, and a large one-90+ lbs! He refused to let us help him up. Plus, it seemed to increase his disorientation. 

One day he had what appeared to be a mini seizure. It felt awful to be taking a video instead of comforting him right away but I knew it would be the best way to show the vet what happened. I took him to the emergency room and had to let them lead him away while I waited in the parking lot. 

Examination revealed nothing more substantial than what had already been observed. Neuro issues are difficult at best. They said he needed an MRI and I was happy to say yes; I knew that we wouldn’t get answers without one and he needed help. 

I had to give consent for the MRI, which needed anesthesia, including authorizing CPR and for them to open him up and directly stimulate his heart. Apparently that’s a much more effective way to revive dogs than CPR. I could barely do that. I was bawling and hardly coherent. I couldn’t see him before he went under because it might upset him. I didn’t want to upset him but I also couldn’t imagine that I had possibly already seen him for the last time. 

Fortunately he made it through anesthesia like a champ(he’s a brachycephalic dog and they can have difficulties going under.) And fortunately the doctor was able to give a definitive diagnosis. Unfortunately, that was: inoperable brain tumor. 

It was in his cerebellum which is why he was having movement problems similar to inner ear vertigo. The cerebellum control proprioception and other movement processes. The treatment is steroids which is why they were working so well and why he got worse off of them. 

As I drove him home, he whimpered at me. The driving messed with his battered brain and made him hurt and confused. I didn’t want to make him take any more rides. 

We contemplated our options and tried to catch up with reality. It had changed so fast. He was dragging his feet in June. Now he was on a heavy regimen of steroids just to get around by walking down the hallway having to lean against the walls. 

It was so weird to see our otherwise robust healthy dog dying before our eyes. And nothing we could do. Radiation would have been the most effective treatment but only gave a few months-no guarantees in medicine. It also would have cost a small fortune and required more trips and treatments for our pup. We decided against it. It wasn’t fair for us to put him through more just because we weren’t ready to let go. 

I’m still not ready.

After consulting with the doctor and trying a sedative, which failed miserably by putting us all through a hell of extreme disorientation and confusion instead of the intended rest and easing of anxiety, we scheduled an appointment with a service that comes to your house to help your loved one pass on. 

I’m not done, but I can’t write anymore at this time. I will finish when I am able.

[saharaphoenix]

I got a mole removed today...

and I’m not sure how I feel about it. It was mostly cosmetic. Sure, it caught on my pants sometimes and had grown bigger over the years. Every time I noticed it, I wanted it gone. 

Now it’s gone and I kinda miss it. It was on my hip and had been there my whole life. It is a memory of a white Marilyn dress I wore that made me feel beautiful. The fabric of the dress was so revealing that the mole could be seen. The material wasn’t sheer, it just clung to every contour. Including that mole. 

And now it is gone. It was removed yesterday and the hole that replaced it aches. I have become so attached to the accents and imperfections of my body after inhabiting it for almost 40 years. The collective media would have us think that we abhor what we see in the mirror, but I love my face, my body. It is not perfect, but it is mine. It is part of who I am. To change it would be to change me.

Should we desire such a change? Are we supposed to be happy in our bodies or are we supposed to make them into our perfect vision? Should we see the world as it is and appreciate it? Or should we mold it into our version of what we think it should be? What damage does it do to our psyche if we say that we aren’t good enough as we are?  

Our DNA and experiences make us unique. What are we saying about ourselves when we refuse to accept our appearance? What of those that are disfigured? Society is cruel to those viewed as different. Should the disfigured change or should our attitudes? Value based on looks is decried publicly and sought privately. Billions are made playing both sides. 

What if everyone was valued as is? Everyone is born equal, but not the same. Our differences make us unique and uniqueness is valued. Why then do we strive to look like ours, or someone’s, ideal version? What is ideal? If it is truly ideal, then why does it change? And why do we feel we should strive for it? 

What if we are already our ideal selves? What if our ideal self grows and changes with our minds and our bodies? Is my ideal self that which could only exist in my twenties? Or my teens? Will I never again be able to attain my ideal? 

Now that I am middle aged, am I only allowed to embody those ideals? To become matronly. To age well. To... I don’t know what I am expected to look like at this age, because I don’t care what is expected of me. One things for certain, those around me may cycle through my life, but my body will be with me always. 

And I have cut a piece of it off. Not for anyone else, for myself. Still, it feels like a betrayal. My body grew this and yet I saw fit to remove it. As if it was a tumor. Which a body also grows. It would be hard to argue that a tumor shouldn’t be removed. Where then is the line between what should be removed/altered on the body and what shouldn’t? 

And what about piercings and tattoos, of which I’ve had my share. Maybe our bodies should reflect our true internal selves? How sure are we that we know our true selves? Enough to make permanent changes to the vehicle of our souls? Or is it an external manifestation of finding our true selves? Do we not know who we truly are until we make such changes?

I can’t put my mole back on, but now I must process how I feel about losing it. 

[saharaphoenix]

What do I want to leave behind?

I’ve started writing here, as I mentioned, because I feel that I would’ve wanted to read through my grandmother’s thoughts since the kinds of conversations I wanted to have with her would’ve seemed inappropriate for our relationship. What determines this? Maybe my imagination? Restrictions of societal thinking?

So I write in case my indirect descendants eventually become interested in my thoughts. Indirect because I’m not having children. But my siblings have/are. 

So what do I want them to know? What do I think they might have wanted to ask me? Will I have perpetuated the idea that certain topics are inappropriate and off limits? I hope not, but can you really have all the conversations with someone that you’d like to have while they are living? How many conversations exist in our heads and are simply confirmed/refuted in person with a few simple sentences?

Hello Sa and Cl and to all those who are not here with us yet:) You are still so young and full of potential. Potential for great things. Potential for terrible things. Potential for nothing. 

It reminds me of options trading, where for long term options the extrinsic value is high due to the amount of time left for the option to change-gain in value. Children are high in extrinsic value and low in intrinsic value. In our society, focused on high production and short term gains, investment in children seems less important. This is a mistake. The long term gains are limitless with an investment in the future of our children with all their possibility. 

Even though I’m not having children doesn’t mean I don’t understand their importance and value. For our future. For our present. Or maybe it is because I’m not having any. I am not too close to the problem. I am not preoccupied with raising them, protecting them, not letting them drive me crazy. 

You don’t have to have children to see the world through their eyes. We were all children and saw the world that way once. Try to remember. Feel the pain of learning. Experience the joy of anticipation. The disappointment of dashed expectations. The realization and horror as you slowly learn that everything you thought you knew was wrong. Or maybe that’s just me... as an adult. 

So what is it that I know that I would want them to know? What can I impart that I can’t reasonable expect that they won’t learn on their own? With all their potential, what won’t they realize?

What would you say? What would you leave behind?

[saharaphoenix]

Is Awkwardness hereditary?

My last moments with my grandmother run through my mind often. We were on a video call. She was sick with covid and 1000 miles away. Dad told us not to come. We still don’t know how we feel about that. But there’s nothing we can do about it now. 

She was in and out of coherence. Lying in bed waiting to die. I was upset, but not as much as you’d think. 

I’d spoken with her recently. Her humor and nihilism struck a chord now. She was ready for this. She was in her eighties and had had two strokes. Lost some of her function and some of her mental facilities. She had always lived life on her terms. And enjoyed every minute of it. Her body was failing her and she was ready to move onto the next thing. She told me. This wild lady had raised four unruly boys into men with many grandchildren to fill her days. In between the times that she spent traipsing over the world following her favorite band. After her husband, the love of her life, passed when I was 10, Nonnie decided to do her own thing. Much to the chagrin of her sons. 

Children forget that their parents are people. I say forget, but they never knew. Until they do and then realize that they should have known. Everyone starts out as a child. Not as a parent. Her motherly duties less pressing, and having to cast aside the wifely ones, Nonnie threw herself into her crafts, activities, traveling, and her family. She did the things she wanted and was not apologetic. Does it sound like I admire her? I hope so. I do. She got a tattoo. Dad was appalled. 

But I had to say goodbye. How do you say goodbye to someone forever? What an odd thing! How do you know it will be forever? How can you adequately fit all of the conversations you want to have into a short video call with someone who is no longer able to really respond? You don’t. You can’t. What if she gets better? I mean, you hope she will get better. Isn’t it weird to say goodbye to someone you hope will get better? What if saying goodbye makes them sad because they see that you don’t think they will get better? Should we remain stupidly optimistic? Is goodbye for us or for them? 

So much of mourning seems to be a display for the living. And it seemed to start before her passing. Because she did die. I said some things on our video call. I told her how I was doing and that I missed her and loved her. She knew that already. There were no rifts in our family. We talked fairly regularly. Exchanged mail and calls. Saw each other for holidays. Even if I hadn’t said it, even if she didn’t comprehend when I did, she knew that. Why did it need to be said again? Because it was expected? Probably. I wasn’t the only one on the call. My dad was by her side and my aunt was holding the phone for my grandmother to see me. 

I said that I wished I had made a trip down to visit. Also true and I’m sure she would know that too. Then I said that I still would and made it sound like she might not pass. It seemed morbid and rude to talk to someone like they didn’t have a future, even if it might be true. It sounds reasonable and articulate here written down. It wasn’t. It was stumbling and awkward. I didn’t know what my aunt and dad thought about my words as they tumbled through the phone. 

My grandmother seemed so together and socially adept to me. As I realize now how similar we were, I wonder: was she? Or was she awkward too? Were the things that she blurted meant to be direct and pointed like I thought, or did she stumble in her expression too? Did the thoughts in her head have a hard time manifesting themselves in a language that persuaded other accurately as to their meaning and intent? Does my family understand each other because we process and express information the same way as everyone else or just each other? 

Is communication style hereditary? Or a result of the way we are raised? Would a child taken into our family communicate and understand the same way? Do people ever really understand each other? Fully. Every nuance. 

Do we just get better at following the script as we age? I will undoubtedly get better at saying goodbye the more often it occurs. Or will I? Are we all awkward at first and then some of us learn faster than others what language is expected? If we stick to the script, are we sharing more or less? Does the script make thoughts more universal or does it hide the details that make them unique? 

[saharaphoenix]

I decided to keep a journal...

Driving home this morning, I was thinking about my grandma and how I wished that I could have had so many unknown conversations with her. It wasn’t until she passed that I realized how much we had in common. We make weird crafts. Our decorating styles were eclectic. We both saw the same play in New York when we went (Chicago). So many things that didn’t hit my conscious mind until we had to sort through the things that represented her lifetime on earth. 

Are we represented only by things? No, she was also represented in all of us. Maybe me more than the rest. Maybe not. I lament that I didn’t know how much we had in common, didn’t know how many things I wanted to ask her about, until after she passed. I wished that she had left a journal. A diary. While her creations and her descendants told a story of her life, it was not the same as having her written thoughts. A real insight into how she viewed the world. We have to extrapolate from her things. From our memories. 

I always felt close to her. Now I know how much I didn’t know about her. I wanted to know. Maybe it is the role of a grandchild to only know the grandparent in their established role. Maybe. My relationship with my mother has evolved from that of parent-child to something more grown up. A mutual respect and camaraderie. I am now wishing that I also had that with my Nonnie. 

Although I am left with my questions, gleaning my answers from fading memories. Rewriting history as I try to hold onto them from the lens of the present. I decided that my thoughts may later be desired. What hubris! 

I was never good a keeping a journal when I was a child, or a teenager. I wrote many things, but I couldn’t keep anything on a schedule. What motivation? Who wants to hear my thoughts? Do I want to look back on them? Maybe. Am I going to do something so important that others would want to understand me? As I get older, is this more or less likely? I don’t know. All I know is that I wish my Nonnie had written her thoughts. 

I don’t have children, but I do have a niece and nephew and I expect that they will be joined by cousins in the future. Will they one day wonder what their crazy aunt was thinking? How she viewed the world? I don’t know. I think I hope so. 

So here I am. This may be the first post. Or the only one. Hopefully I will write something worth reading.