Tag Archives: life

What’s Wrong With Me?

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Maybe the answer is as simple as my wife, Lynn, is aging at warp speed due to her Multiple Systems Atrophy, a rare degenerative neurological disorder for which there’s no cure. But one thing gnaws at me. Compared to most caregivers, I have so many more resources. So, what’s my problem?

Physically, I am healthy. Not all caregivers are.

Most significantly, we can pay for her care without undue worry. That includes two health care aides who work weekdays. It’s not cheap. Together, they account for about 45% of Lynn’s total care. I am also fortunate to have two helpful daughters who I team with on weekends. Their help equates to about 10% of the total, meaning I fly solo the other 45% of the time.

Also, there are numerous friends and family who love Lynn and are supporting us in myriad ways. Especially my niece and sister, who, like clockwork, fly to Seattle from Salt Lake City and Northwest Indiana, drive down to Olympia where we live, and rent a place for five days every three months. My niece is an ace physical therapist, and when she visits, she works with Lynn almost non-stop mostly making accommodations to our house and improving Lynn’s routines.  

Then, there’s Kris, Marybeth, and Joan, who show up every Saturday at noon with Lynn’s favorite lunch from the local deli. They talk, and talk, and talk. And giggle. And garden. And inject much needed levity and normality.

Also, there’s Susan, who brought dinner over this week despite her dad dying, in Seattle, at age 98, a few days ago.

Then, there’s Vince, who knocks at the door, hands over amazing Ziploc bags filled with wonderful produce from his garden and jets. Kevin sends UberEats gift certificates from SoCal. And similar to Susan, Michael, Dan, Mary, and Travis show up with food and good cheer. And Monica. And a few of my daughters’ friends who I have never even met. If I stop long enough to reflect on these random acts of kindness, they bring me to tears.

Altogether, Lynn’s CaringBridge website has 94 people from other neighborhoods, states, and countries who are reading my manic/dorky updates, praying for us, sending supportive messages, and ultimately, seeing us from afar.

And despite this all-world support, I’m completely broken. So again, I wonder, what’s wrong with me? Why am I shattered. Emotionally bereft. Socially toxic as a result of not a short fuse, but no fuse. Why have I not just hit an MSA wall, but been completely crushed by one?

How about an anecdote to give you a feel for my sadsackness. First though, let me summarize how my work colleagues talk about me. In short, they say they most appreciate my poise, thoughtfulness, and calm demeanor. LOL.

Lynn decides to make an ice cream cone. To get the cone, she has to get into a cupboard in the smallish laundry room. She ends up repeatedly moving her wheelchair forwards and backwards in the tight space. Fast forward a few minutes. Part of the door frame lies on the ground. There’s ice cream all over the floor. And counter. The ice cream container fared poorly in this ordeal too and is now too crumpled for the top.

Because you’re rational, you’re thinking, “Big shit. The door can be repaired. The floor and counter quickly and easily cleaned. The container and top? Come on bruh, get real. Altogether, minor trade-offs for Lynn feeling a wee bit independent.”

But what you’re not factoring in is the cumulative effect of this type of experience hundreds of times over. Combined with other, way more substantive challenges, that have completely chipped away at my reservoir of patience, kindness, and humor.

I lost it, yelling, “WHY DIDN’T YOU ASK ME TO MAKE YOU AN ICE CREAM CONE?!” And then stayed Mad. Yes, you’re absolutely right, a complete and total overreaction.

There are two ways I could pivot from here. The more obvious one is to ask the question on most people’s minds, what can/should I do to better manage my anger and heal more generally? Or more specifically, when the hell is Ron going to find a good therapist? Sorry sports fans, I’m choosing the second, less obvious one, where I ask, what exactly has been MSA’s toll on me? Buckle up.

The losses are overwhelming because the challenges are multilayered. Some hard, others harder, two especially hard.

Hard

• We can’t do the ordinary day-to-day things we always took for granted because they were so easy to do. Things you mostly like still take for granted because they’re still easy for you and yours to do. We can’t go out to dinner. We can’t go for a walk. Or for a lake swim. We can’t go to Victoria for the weekend. In the end, these small things are the lifeblood of intimate friendship. Gone.

• We can’t plan for the future. Before MSA hit, we never made the time to make a list of fun future activities, but it’s still hard to come to grips with the fact that there’s nothing to look forward to on our calendar. The four of us will not be going to Spain or hanging in an Alderbrook cabin anymore. Hope for fun in the future. Gone.

Harder

• It feels like my second global pandemic with all the lockdown rigamarole. Since returning from a cycling trip to Bend, Oregon on June 1, 2024, I have been completely housebound because Lynn’s so dependent upon her meds, her bathroom, and her hospice bed. I’ll spare you the details, but her digestive system is completely whacked, meaning even day trips are too difficult to tackle. Spending a few hours at Alison’s apartment in Seattle recently felt like an international trip.

For fourteen straight months my daily routine has been the same. I wake up and wait for Lynn to ring my intercom doodad which I can’t wait to chuck in the trash. Then, absent our healthcare aides, I help her with everything, pretty much non-stop. Because MSA is like a demented dimmer switch that someone’s slowly turning, she needs more help each month, meaning my breaks have grown increasingly short. And ultimately, insufficient. Lynn mistakenly thinks if I could just get away for a few days I’d be fine. I tell her I don’t need 4-5 days, I need 4-5 months where I don’t have to cook, clean, or care for anyone. At all. Any meaningful flexibility of movement. Gone.

• We’ve had a modern marriage meaning we’ve split the work pretty evenly. Now, I’m wilting from the pressure of having to do everything I’ve always done plus everything Lynn always did. Among other things, she used to help with groceries and she did the bulk of the cooking, and all of the laundry, and half of the housework. And she called the service peeps. Now, it’s all me, all the time. I cook every meal, clean the kitchen every night, do the dishes, the laundry, take care of the trash/recycling/compost, vacuum, take care of the yard, stay on top of our personal finances, and ended up having to partner with a CPA to close Lynn’s parents’ estate for which she was the executor. That old energy saving division of labor. Gone.

Hardest

• Overwhelmed by her symptoms, Lynn has lost the ability to perspective take. She’s always been uber-caring, but now, not so much. Here’s what I wish she’d say, “I’m really sorry for what this disease has taken from you.” I’ve tried to understand this change. All I can come up with is her life is so hard, there’s not any psychic energy left for anyone else, even me. Whenever I try to express my profound sadness, she tends to take it personally, gets defensive, and immediately starts talking about her own feelings. Instead of doing the only thing that creates connection, asking follow up questions, and genuinely probing for more insight. I want her to say, “Tell me more so I can understand even better.” But it’s not going to happen. Because of MSA. Curiosity and perspective. Gone.

• I am the loneliest I’ve ever been. There’s two parts to it. The first is I’m disconnected from my friends. Because, remember, I’m housebound. On top of everything else, I keep Lynn’s social calendar. I organize friend visits for her almost daily. But ironically, I almost never see my friends. Not to mention, meet anyone new. Zilch socializing.  

On top of that, right now, my connection with Lynn is tenuous at best. We’ve always enjoyed an intense physical connection. In fact, truth be told, we may have gone all the way in an empty Norwegian university swimming pool locker room. A few times. Now, MSA has doused those flames. The mind is willing, but the body is not. Which saddens both of us greatly.

We don’t have in-depth conversations either. The other day I told her about an article I had read about “anchor offs” which you can see from our deck. These are destitute people living on boats anchored in Budd Inlet. I summarized the article, explained how they prefer the water to the streets, and . . . nothing. I’m sure she was thinking about what I was saying, she just couldn’t communicate her thoughts. She doesn’t really maintain eye contact either. So, it’s like playing tennis against a wall instead of with another person. Mark told me Lisa got a real kick out of his story about the 30 mopeders who passed us on 113th on a recent ride. I was a little jelly. Lynn isn’t able to ask about where I’ve cycled or how it’s gone. Post ride, I think to myself, she’ll never have any feel for those two hours of my life.

A few weeks ago, I told her I was thinking of buying a house in Bend. I wanted her to say, “You’re crazy” or “Cool, which ones are you considering? Show me.” Ultimately, like with the “anchor off” story, I was looking for connection. But there was none. If a convo happens in the forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound? Deep-seated, profound connection, built over decades. Going.

Two Worlds

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Public and private. All of us behave a little or a lot differently whether we’re in public or not. In extreme cases, people live “double lives”.

The dichotomy between Lynn’s public life, by which I mean when friends and family visit, and private one, where I’m the only person around, is so glaring that it got me thinking.

Specifically, I’ve been pondering why she’s not just okay when friends and family are around, but especially smiley (and today, extremely giggly) and physically better than normal. There’s a wonderful lightness. I guess it makes sense learning what we’re learning about the importance of close interpersonal relationships to our overall health and well-being.

But man, the whiplash that comes when friends and family leave is intense. And disorienting.

When home alone she pops boosters between timed meds and her body is off and on, and when on, she’s bored, and she struggles with any sense of purpose. There’s a heaviness.

Why am I telling you this? Not sure. Maybe to help you mentally prep for this phenomenon if you’re ever a primary care giver. Or maybe I’m letting you in hoping for some sort of connection.

Last night, I had an epiphany. A tough one that I was hesitant to share with Lynn because I expected a negative/defensive reaction.

I told her I had an observation I wanted to share with her. “You have a restless spirit.” There, I said it. Fortunately, I was wrong, because she didn’t argue the point. She listened carefully as I told her I missed her, that it felt like all of her time and attention was taken fighting her Multiple Systems Atrophy. That there was no time or attention left for me.

That I felt more like an employee than best friend.

Most people confined to a wheelchair and unable to do hardly anything independently watch a lot of tv and read. Since Schitt’s Creek ended, Lynn doesn’t watch tv and her reading glasses, despite repeated trips to the optometrist, aren’t working well enough for her to read much.

Thus, when alone, if she’s feeling okay, she’s in constant motion searching for something to do. Anything to do. Or she’s laid out on the couch waiting for her meds to kick in. The only time she’s not on the move is when her body completely quits or she’s asleep.

Our convo, mostly about how dying is scary and spiritual malaise, deepened. She cried and said she didn’t know “I loved her that much”. I took in what I think was her deeper message, “I didn’t know I’m that lovable.” I told her lots and lots of people love her.

I told her I was having a hard time dealing with her restlessness and with her constant MSA fight. That caring for her took all my energy, that there was no leftover energy to just hang. And that it would be really sad to spend our final months or years together not really together.

Case in point. Saturday and Sunday nights I throw dinner together for the fam and then sit at the kitchen island with my own dinner while one or both daughters join their mom at the dining room table. Hell, during the week I do it too, leaving Lynn to eat by herself. Yeah, you’re right, I am a lowlife.

While I am a lowlife, I probably deserve a few points for being vulnerable and risking the convo. Sadly, in part, I risked it because soon we won’t be able to have back-and-forth conversations of that sort.

But not being especially centered myself these days, it’s really tough to take on her anxiety about dying, her exasperation at MSA’s relentless progression, and her general unease and utter restlessness. Especially given the cost that restlessness is taking on our friendship. For now.

Postscript: We ate dinner together. Afterwards, there was more slow dancing in the kitchen. The roller coaster keeps rolling.

Paragraph to Ponder

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Via LOliver by way of JByrnes:

“There is so much to tend to, hold, be with, feel. May you find so much gentleness for your own process. May you let your humanity unfurl, over and over again. May the grief and hurt wrapped up in facing the world be held by your own willingness to look. May love soften the hard edges. May light soothe the dark places. May you return to your own heart’s knowing and trust what it whispers to you. May you let yourself do all of this so imperfectly, that imperfection a reminder that you are a human being, figuring it all out for the first time. I’m with you.”

Early evenings, like a lot of the time that I care for Lynn, I’m on the move. Making dinner, getting her fed, eating myself, doing dishes, cleaning the counters, taking out the trash, vacuuming the hardwood floor.

Activity blunts the grief. But I pressed pause Monday evening and it rushed in.

I stopped cleaning to dance. In the reflection of the oven, I saw the real dancer watching me. When I try dancing, she just smiles.

And now, the dancer pushes her wheelchair away from the table so that she can move toward the pretend dancer.

“You want to dance, don’t you?” Bigger smile. I expedite things by wheeling her into the kitchen. Where I help her up and embrace her. We slow dance like first-time junior highers slowly swaying back and forth.

But dammit, it’s The National singing “I Need My Girl”.

The refrain rips through. “I need my girl. I need my girl. I need my girl.”

My girl has no clue I’m crying.

May love soften the hard edges. May light soothe the dark places.

Sorry

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Owe the Slo-mo Turtle* an apology. Of sorts. One day last week I was running around baby Cap Lake when I had an inconvenient epiphany. Of sorts.

After pulling the plug on the run, I did what I almost never do. I pressed pause and sat on a bench by the lake to gather enough energy to scale the 4th Street bridges. And I reflected on all the things I do every day to extend my life, like run, lift weights, and eat vegetables. I don’t do those to consciously extend my life as much as I do to improve the quality of however much time is left.

But still, it’s hypocritical for me to be critical of the SmT for doing everything in her power to beat back MSA’s progression. Yes, it does make it harder to care for her, but I’d have the same inclinations if I was in her shell.

Because there’s no way to control for all the variables, and there’s no counterfactual, I don’t know whether her efforts are having any real effect. I see them more as grasping at some semblance of normality.

Today the SmT fell asleep while eating lunch. Afterwards, Hospice Audrey, a very nice PLU grad, came for a visit. We talked about sleep among other things. The SmT is bothered by sleeping way more than normal. Audrey encouraged her to listen to her body. As I repeatedly do.

She’s not good at that. She’s choosing to crawl into the ring with twenty-something Mike Tyson.

All of us are trying to delay the finale. Aren’t we? All of us fight inevitable decline in some combo of small subtle ways and larger more dramatic ones. Don’t we?

Sorry SmT, upon further thought, we are more alike than different.

*Another nickname for the GalPal inspired by her morning routine.

Trying To Keep It Real

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Newish ritual. When Abigail comes at 8p during the week, I take advantage of the evening light and walk towards the co-op and then down the Garfield Nature Trail, popping out on West Bay and up West Bay back to basecamp. A serene 2k. All while whittling down the podcast queue. Since starting this ritual my sleep score has risen a bit. Cowinkydink?

The last “evening walk” pod was an interview with a male family therapist who explained men don’t learn to be vulnerable. Dude, not an original insight, but one that trigged one in me. While listening to him it dawned on me that The Good Wife wasn’t being vulnerable with me about her worsening condition and finite time. At all. And that, as a result, I wasn’t feeling very connected to her. Just the guy who helps her in and out of bed and the wheelchair. The bloke who cooks, cleans, and keeps her calendar.

And so I told her that, and said, “What gives?” And she deflected, saying I wasn’t being vulnerable, which was humorous because I had just defied my gender and communicated a heartfelt feeling. And I told her that too. And she was silent for awhile. And then.

She talked about my first marathon back-in-the-day which went by our street at mile 21 and how I had dropped out and didn’t even make it to there. And how I felt so bad for failing A and J. That it was a perfect opportunity to model toughness and I blew it. And how my beating myself up stuck with her. And she said I always praised her for any toughness she showed. And that if she’s tough now maybe she’ll slow down the disease’s inevitable progression.

Ah shit. Any chance of rewinding the tape? Of a do-over?

I told her I didn’t think toughness would slow down the atrophy, but that it most certainly would make it more difficult for us to connect.

Then she went deeper. Talked about being afraid of dying. About questioning lifelong religious assumptions. About specific anxieties tied to what will happen to her body upon dying.

Which allowed me to return to the old familiar fold of closest confidant and best friend.

I thanked her for her honesty and encouraged her to think about dying as a natural process that happens to her beloved plants, animals, all aspects of nature. To think of it as falling asleep, but not having to wake up.

I said it would be unbearably sad alone, but that she’ll be surrounded by people who love her dearly. People who are much better off having known her.

Right now, I’m the oldest and wisest I’ve ever been, so I don’t expect any of those words to ameliorate her end-of-life anxieties and fears.

But maybe, hopefully, a little.

Silver Linings

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If I press pause long enough to reflect on my wife’s Multiple Systems Atrophy, and the toll it is taking on her and us, it’s almost too much to bear. So I tend not to. Yes, you’re right, of course it will catch up with me eventually. Right now, cue the cliche, it’s one task and one day at a time.

Even though I resist completely coming to a stop, I do sporadically slow down enough to take account of ways that I’ve changed as a result of our travails.

There are some silver linings.

For example, I have become a much better cook. Am I a good cook? The Gal Pal says I am, but I don’t know. All I know is I’m a lot more confident in the kitchen. My repertoire has expanded and we eat healthily.

I’ve also adopted more of a contractor’s mindset towards life. After we bought our current crib, we contracted with our builder to make some accommodations for the Good Wife. We threw in a cut-out for a t.v. and a bath tub for good measure. As a result, I got to know the builder and I was blown away by how calmly he went about problem solving. I was always afraid to bring up a problem, but he anticipated them, and rolled with them, immediately shifting to solutions. In fact, from watching and working with him, I realized that all contracting consists of is identifying problems, prioritizing them, and solving them. Full stop. Without drama or fanfare.

That’s not a bad approach to life. Being mechanically challenged, I’ve almost always freaked out whenever something breaks or doesn’t work as it should. Now, not so much. I think to myself. “This can be fixed. How can I fix it?”

And just as I’ve grown more confident in the kitchen, my home project bonafides have shot up from zero, to I don’t know, something more than zero. Just yesterday, I completed a home project that pre-MSA Ron would’ve never dreamed to attempt.

Long story short. Our Mitsubishi heat pumps came with nice digital thermostats on the second floor and mind numbingly bad remote controls on the first. By which I mean, the Japanese team that designed the user interface of the remotes should be brought before the International Court of Justice and slapped around.

So I did some research. And then bought and installed new digital thermostats on the main floor. Which entailed finding the circuit boards in each heat pump and attaching wireless dongles to the CN105 ports.

But like Rors after making birdie on 15 (shoulda been another eagle) on Sunday, I had too much momentum to stop there. Recently, I learned about apps that enable users to control heat pumps from their phones and said to myself, “Lets swing for the fence.” I know what you’re thinking. Then Ron channeled Rors on 13 and inexplicably dumped his wedge into the creek when he had the WHOLE FREAKING green as a backstop.

Not today friends. I bought second dongles only to learn I then needed to purchase splitters and then I had to connect everything to the circuit board and the dongles to the wireless network. Let’s just say when Olga came to my office this morning and said to me, “Can you turn off the heat in the kitchen, it’s too warm?” I said, “Sure, let me get my phone and PRESTO heat off.”

Felt like I hit a walk off homer. Or at least what I imagine that feels like.

DanDantheTranspoMan and Las Vegas had the odds of me succeeding on this project as the same as the Trump administration coming up with a coherent economic plan.

But sometimes miracles happen.

I Drive A Tesla (E)

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Hi, my name is Ron, and I drive a Tesla.

I’ve labelled this “explicit” because DanDanTheTranspoMan is the last person in the room with some semblance of clean cut, Midwest values. And he doesn’t like it when I write like George Carlin talked.

I bought a red Model Y with a tow hitch for the two-wheelers two years ago. The frictionless purchase process makes you wonder why anyone ever subjects themself to the conventional dealer experience. Brilliant.

And it’s outstanding transpo. Utterly amazing. There are are innumerable things to criticize the CEO (in name) about, but those who criticize the cars are being disingenuous.

Two weeks in, I somehow avoided a crash in Bend, OR as a result of one of the computers which stopped the car much more quickly than I could’ve. I also dig how it silently and ever so smoothly and slowly creeps in and around parking lots and in inner city Oly. With the home charger, it’s always ready for a good time. And it’s a fast motherfucker.* Rest assured, I’ll never be pinched in entering the fwy.

Of course, there are a few downsides. The insurance costs. The automatic wipers have a mind of their own, so much so, I have to manually set them. Oof, and most especially, the depreciation.

Oh, and I almost forgot, there’s the enriching of one of the most loathsome of the 8.062 billion people alive today.

And the increasing grief that comes with being associated with him. Which just recently started with this winsome greeting from a fellow driver, “You fuckin’ douche bag.” I told friends, I didn’t recognize him, but he obviously knew me! And yesterday, a woman on the other side of the road flipped me the bird.

Normally, being a modern, sensitive guy and all, these “greetings” would leave a mark. But these are not normal times. Both times I was picking up prescriptions at the pharmacy for my ailing wife. Caring for her has changed me. What constitutes a problem keeps getting redefined. The bar, for what gets to me, keeps getting raised.

The other day, on a cycling reprieve, I got soaked in much more rain than I had anticipated. I thought to myself of the revered philosopher, Jay-Z, and his “99 Problems” treatise.

Ninety-nine problems, but a bitch ain’t one
If you’re havin’ girl problems, I feel bad for you, son
I got ninety-nine problems, but a bitch ain’t one – hit me!

I’ve got ninety-nine problems, but being soaked, cold, and filthy ain’t one I thought to myself.

Maybe that’s why I laughed to myself when the rando woman flipped me the bird yesterday at the Fifth Street circle.

Then I thought I should probably prepare for the next encounter and the next. My plan is to channel the restaurant or Airbnb owners when they get scathing reviews. Something along the lines of, “I am sorry my car purchase has angered you so much. But thank you very much for your feedback. Please know I will take your middle finger and/or invective into consideration as I work to be a better person.”

No doubt my mix of zen and humor will disappear if and when my car is vandalized. If I parked it downtown with any regularity, there’s no doubt that would happen sooner than later. I have a $1k deductible, so fuck you in advance.

So maybe I should trade it in for something more socially acceptable. Which of course, doesn’t solve the larger problem. Still, in prep for that possibility, please let me know which carmakers you approve of so I may avoid offending you in the future.

*Now that DDTTM isn’t over shoulder, I feel freed up.

People Are Cheering Fifteen Percent?

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My writing about my family’s experience with Lynn’s Multiple Systems Atrophy has resonated with a lot of people here and on our CaringBridge site.

A recurring theme is they appreciate the “honesty”. And how I sometimes use humor to lighten things. And many of my readers, like me, are also “on the back nine” and so final chapters are more relevant than if I had a younger, hipper readership.

Honestly though, the “honesty” feedback perplexes me because I feel like I’ve only been able to paint about 15% of the picture. There’s way more that I’m leaving out than I am including.

But maybe, everything really is relative, and people are used to even far less transparency?

Of course, it’s impossible to perfectly quantify how much someone lets their readers in. Just know, when you listen, read, or watch anyone’s story, there’s always way, way more to it. Always.

Why aren’t you and I more forthright with others? More vulnerable? More honest especially about what’s most difficult. And about our related, negative emotions?

As a male, I have the excuse of not having been encouraged to communicate my emotions growing up. But I’m sure that’s true for boatloads of women too. And so that’s a lousy explanation that really doesn’t get at my reticence to be more honest.

Another explanation that I’ve touched on previously is not knowing how to be more honest without compromising others’ privacy. Hell, the picture I included with the last post, I got in trouble for it. Because it was a “tender moment”. Which is exactly why it was such a good picture. So there’s that. Lynn didn’t want me to share her tenderness with you. So what’s a writer to do?

Maybe, if I outlive her, and the odds in Vegas are that I will, I’ll be freed up to paint far more of the picture. Even 16-17%.

Women For The Win

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My wife’s debilitating illness has given me a front row seat to a profound gender dynamic. A dynamic that informs today’s mostly mindless discussion of masculinity.

First, even before we dive in, let me muddy the water a little. Some men, albeit small in number, are superseding the ways males are typically raised.

Cases in point. When we moved into the new crib 11 months ago, Travis, unannounced, showed up with dinner for us on the first, exhausting night. A few weeks ago, Michael dropped in with (amazing) carrot cake and two loaves of Wagner’s (amazing) cinnamon bread. Allen (okay, sure with Patty’s help) baked dinners and drove over hill and valley to lighten our fall when I was teaching. Brian fills Lynn’s hummingbird feeder and repairs her recumbent.

National Public Radio ran on oddly common story on it’s website last week about a dying woman who needed lots of home care. A female friend of the woman ended up singlehandedly providing most of it until the very end.

I would’ve placed the odds of the woman’s key caregiver being female at 95%.

Almost exclusively, my wife’s female friends have taken action. The men in our orbit, on the other hand, have almost always offered sympathetic words. One close male friend recently sent me an email in which he said, “Let me know if I can do anything to help.” That, as it turns out, is the male default. It’s safe. A way to maintain distance. A sure-fire way to not be too bothered.

To my “one close male friend” who I hope isn’t going to read this, I need so much help I don’t even know how to start articulating it.

Most women, in my recent experience, don’t wait around for a guidebook on how to help, content not to receive it. Instead, a larger proportion of them move towards people in need.

Joan heard Lynn say she wasn’t enamored with the industrial gray plasticware I purchased on-line for her. So she showed up one day with much spiffier tumblers. Vivian routinely shows up unannounced with soup and gets down on her knees and huddles with Lynn when her body shuts down. She doesn’t really bother to email or text, she just appears at the door.

I watch Little Chris during one of her regular visits and tell her, “Man, you are so skilled and comfortable at meeting Lynn exactly where she is. It’s a beautiful thing.” She proceeds to tell me that when she was in high school, she cared for a housebound woman every day after school for a few years. And how formative that experience was. I don’t know if Little Chris had a brother of similar age, but if she had, I’m 95% sure her parents would not have suggested him for the job.

We expect girls and women to be nurturing as if they’re somehow uniquely built for it. We give boys and men a pass in the form of exceedingly low expectations. And so most males don’t develop that wonderful female instinct to act. Not to wait to be told how to help, just to show up. To look ailing people in the eyes. To hold their hands. To help them get undressed and dressed. To feed them. To console them. Until the end.

More men will be more hands-on caregivers when we expect boys to be more nurturing. Absent that expectation, women will continue do the vast majority of kind-hearted caregiving.

It’s My Parents’ Fault

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Suffice to say, my personal life has gotten significantly more difficult of late. Obviously, this isn’t the time or place for any details. Just know, as your humble blogger, I am “compartmentalizing” these days.

The GalPal wants me to find a therapist to help make things less difficult. I know lots of people who are benefitting from therapy, and intellectually I am definitely pro-therapy, but when push comes to shove, I am Resistant to seek the help of a mental health counselor myself.

Not only am I pro-therapy, I believe our well-being depends largely on the quality of our closest interpersonal relationships, and those relationships depend largely on our willingness to be vulnerable about our inner lives.

The gender stereotype that males think and talk almost exclusively about tangible objects—whether news, weather, or sports, okay maybe cars too—doesn’t apply to me. I’m always thinking about deeper things than just how bad UCLA men’s basketball is this year.* What to do with the nearly constant deeper inner dialogue, that is the question.

Two imperfect answers spring to mind. The first was modeled by a friend a week ago when he asked if we could talk. He suggested a bike ride, and despite the frigid temps, of course I was in. Looping FishTrap Loop shoulder to shoulder, I initiated, “So, what’s up?” “It’s a long story,” he started, but really it wasn’t. It was a very good talk/ride and I’d like to think he felt better afterwards.

What’s imperfect about that? With occasional exceptions like the one just described, my closest friends, being of the male persuasion, aren’t as adept as women at talking about their feelings. As a result, it’s rare for a male friend to genuinely ask, “So, what’s up?” Could I take more initiative with my friends in digging deeper into “real” life? Fo sho.

In theory, writing could be a helpful outlet too. That is, if I could figure out the endlessly convoluted privacy concerns of those nearest and dearest to me. Which I can’t. And before you suggest it, journaling ain’t the answer, because that’s just a more visible form of the inner dialogue.

So, given those limitations, why not just “do” therapy? Asked differently, what the hell is wrong with me, that I’m so resistant to “professional” help?

I’ve been mulling that around and around.

What I’ve concluded is that the Good Wife doesn’t fully appreciate just how much I am a product of my parents’ “too extreme for their own good” intense independence. Both my mom and my dad grew up without much, during the Depression, in eastern Montana. When my dad died, his obituary was in the New York Times. Individually and together, they developed resilient, “grin and bare it” approaches to life that worked for them.

Mostly. Better for my dad than my mom who would have benefitted greatly from therapy after my dad’s death, from which she never really recovered.

Again though, that knowledge of how helpful therapy can be is overridden by my parents’ modeling which was rooted in the brutal conditions of eastern Montana in the 1930’s. Suffering was synonymous with living. You just endure it, in whatever form it takes.

Asking me to just dial up a therapist feels like asking me to break from my past and my people, to defy my DNA. Despite all the decades, I am still of eastern Montana, still of Don Byrnes, still of Carol Byrnes, still of believing that I must grin and bare it mostly alone.

For better, or more likely, for worse.

*thank goodness for the women