Being Em
Dad is in the hospital again. Mom and I went to visit him last night. I enjoyed hearing them talk about family and old friends. We laughed as we often do when we get together. When I am around my immediate family I am a relentless tease, so I have been told.
Helga, my stepmother, called on Thursday evening to tell us Dad had been admitted for congestive heart failure. He had been having trouble breathing and had gained ten pounds in ten days after receiving his pacemaker. There is something about his recent operation that triggered the congestive heart failure. We prefer to call Dad's chronic illness congestive heart stuff. Although his heart is not pumping at maximum efficiency, it is still working. The word 'failure' seems to imply otherwise.
Dad's condition is serious, but it is not a crisis. We (my brother, sister, mom and I) struggle with the meaning of a string of hospitalizations over the past few years. None of us is as close to the situation as we used to be. After Mom and Dad divorced, the brunt of Dad's caretaking fell on the three of us kids. This period coincided with the most critical of all Dad's illnesses when his kidneys stopped functioning after his quadruple bi-pass surgery and the lithium he took on a daily basis reached toxic levels in his body and caused him to go into cardiac arrest. I no longer think of the images I see in the movies and on TV of individuals recovering from cardiac arrest as accurate. We were fortunate because our beloved family member lived. Others connected to people with whom we shared the intensive care waiting room did not. There was a moment, shortly after Charles flew from London and Margs flew from Connecticut to join my two uncles, my mom and me, that we actually decided to pull the plug. Dad was thrashing around like an animal and preliminary tests showed undifferentiated brain activity. It appeared that he had suffered irreparable brain damage from the cardiac arrest. We waited a few more days for additional tests and to see if Dad's condition would change. After ten days of being in a coma, he opened his eyes and showed signs of recognition. He was and continues to be a fighter. He had more life to live.
Within a month of Dad's release from the neurological rehabilitation center, Dad had a date with one of the women on his list of eligible divorcees and widows. After a few more dates, Dad threw away the list. He and Helga were married two and a half years later in November 1999. Initially, Charles, Margs, and I had a hard time accepting Dad's decision to marry this German woman; however, it has proved to be one of the biggest blessings of our lives. Helga's presence in Dad's life has given us the freedom to follow our dreams and live our lives. We were tired. Mom was tired. We had given so much of ourselves in the pursuit of caring for Dad through his many illnesses related to heart disease, diabetes, and bipolar illness that there was little left to give even ourselves. I will remain forever grateful for the vitality and love Helga brought with her to the marriage.
Hearing that Dad is in the hospital triggers all kinds of emotions inside of me and my immediate family members. Instantly, we are reminded of past hospitalizations and recovery periods at home. It feels as if the solid ground on which we had been standing prior to the news turns to sand. Balance is required to stay upright. All my life I have lived with the idea that Dad might die at any time. I have always found peace in the idea that it is quality not quantity of life that is important. Maybe this is why it is so hard to come to terms with Dad's present state. Although it is congestive heart failure that has put him into the hospital this time, seeing his swollen, red, oozing, semi-dead feet protruding from his suit trousers is a reminder of his already diminished quality of life. Maybe it is time I redefine the idea of quality of life in light of the happiness Dad feels at this stage being married to Helga. Maybe what my family and I are witnessing is the strength of the spirit over the physical body. Regardless, I am grateful that my Dad is still alive and we are able to laugh together.
Recently, I have felt as if I have been riding a giant glass elevator, moving up and down the floors of my life at random. I am functioning as a voyeur, able to witness but not touch. On several occasions I caught a glimpse of the construction occurring above floor 34; however, the elevator didn't stop. It will be interesting to return once the upper floors are complete. In the past two weeks, floors 24 and 27 have captivated my interest.
Floor 27 is humid. The sun breaks through heavy rain clouds to illuminate a rainbow. There is much to see. In the background sits an extended family huddled together in the intensive care waiting room, bonded by love and laughter. In the foreground a German/Austrian man and an American woman, a Southern woman, plan a wedding. Theirs is a passionate relationship. A date is set and then changed to appease the man's parents. After months of tension, the man's mother forces him to choose between her and the woman. He chooses. The wedding is called off. The relationship ends.
When events are scheduled, especially ones that require months of planning, it is hard to fathom them not happening. We cannot predict what will trigger past memories; however, not running the Boston Marathon has reminded me of the year I planned to marry Ben. Maybe the linkage in my mind has something to do with the number two. Thinking about not being able to run the New York Marathon last fall and Boston Marathon next week reminds me of watching the two dates I planned to be married pass by after my relationship ended in 1997. Postponing my defense date felt different. The defense is just a matter of timing; whereas, running the Boston Marathon (since it conflicts every year with a professional conference I am expected to attend) and getting married feel less certain.
Floor 24 is exotic. The atmosphere is giddy with love, but weighted by courage. There are elephants, camels, and cows. There are friends in many different countries, former students who attended the University of Warwick in Coventry, England during the 1990-1991 academic year in addition to Bashir and Ben. On this floor a young woman sets off on a solitary around-the-world excursion. After passing through South-East Asia, she lands in New Delhi, India at 11 PM without a previously arranged place to stay. The Japanese business man she sat next to on the plane, worried about her well-being, drives her to the backpacker's section of town in his hired Mercedes, where she wearing her backpack climbs on the back of a pedal rickshaw and turns around to wave goodbye before she is enveloped by the darkness and an adventure that heightens each of her five senses. She spends ten days with eight Muslim men she meets while walking down a crowded street and contracts Hepatitis E after drinking their 'purified' water. She does not diagnose the illness or find a doctor who is able to articulate the specific strain for another 3 months, after she returns to the United States. First, she acknowledges her passion for international travel and for interacting with people from different cultures, voices her desire to study international public health, and turns yellow from jaundice.
Whereas contracting Hepatitis E pushed me into epidemiology and solidified my interest in international public health, discovering I have Celiac Disease is forcing me to delve deeper into the field of nutrition. My eyes are wide open. My brain is brimming with ideas of research projects for which I wish to seek funding. Encounters that I have had in the tortilla chip aisle at my favorite food store and with fellow graduate students, interviews I have heard on the radio, advertisements I have seen on television, and research I have stumbled across on the web have validated the need for someone with my skills to take action. It excites me to think that after all these years of studying I might be able to use the power I have sought by earning a PhD to address some public health issues both inside and outside this country.
While I believe our unfulfilled desires are often recycled into something more practical for each of us, sometimes I wish that I could witness the fulfillment of a few of these desires. I wonder if it is possible to grow without experiencing character-building challenges along the way.
Easter Sunday is winding to a close. After spending the past three years in Nepal among Hindus and Buddhists, I had forgotten how important this Christian holiday is to such a large percentage of the American population. I spent the first part of the week observing American culture from a foreigner's perspective. What is the connection between rabbits, eggs, and Jesus? How do they fit into the idea of resurrection? Rabbits certainly are prolific, but rabbits don't lay eggs. Why are the eggs colored? Is the Easter bunny supposed to be some sort of messenger from God? Does chocolate come from God? Spending the morning cooking and the afternoon socializing formed a bridge between the present and my memories of past Easter celebrations when my extended family gathered at my paternal grandmother's house for lunch and an Easter egg hunt and later when Mom, Margs, Charles and I began meeting in New York City. I missed my immediate family, but enjoyed spending time with them last weekend when we met to celebrate Mom's 6oth birthday. As I sit at my desk and reflect on the day, I feel satiated by my interactions with two different friends. It was especially meaningful for me to be invited to brunch at my friend Gina's. Festivals all over the world are punctuated by food. I enjoyed participating in my first 'pukka' (real) Easter feast in four years.
All week I had been planning to attend an Episcopal church a block from my apartment because I wanted to sing some of the familiar hymns I grew up hearing; however, when I woke up this morning my motivation for going disappeared. It occurred to me that I feel more Buddhist than Christian. Sitting through a service did not feel genuine. Having said this, I have spent the last week mulling over Christian theology. I have been contemplating the idea of resurrection and how it applies to my own life. Reading my friend Bruce's Maundy Thursday poem about the love Jesus expressed in his action of washing the untouchables' feet evoked some vivid memories of my experience in Nepal (see today's entry for 'Making Sense of Nepal': www.maomshanti.blogspot.com). It amazes me how difficult it is for us to love one another when the act of giving and receiving love can be so simple. Why is it often easier to express our love for a total stranger than it is for us to embrace the people we hold closest to our hearts? It seems that the closer we are to a situation the more we fear acting outside our normal inhibited roles. These questions seem to transcend Christian teachings.
On Thursday I spoke with a Buddhist man who has started dating a Christian woman. He remarked how implausible the relationship seems, but how similar the couple's views are. Throughout history wars have been fought in the name of religion. The more I learn about world religions, the more I am struck by the similarities, not the differences. Yann Martel, the author of "Life of Pi" writes, "...Hindus, in their capacity for love, are indeed hairless Christians, just as Muslims, in the way they see God in everything, are bearded Hindus, and Christians, in their devotion to God, are hat-wearing Muslims." (p. 50).
What is my point? I had a good day.
For the past seven plus months, I have spent a lot of time thinking about attraction. It puzzles me. We meet people all the time, every single day of our lives. Our reaction to each and every one is instantaneous. If this is the case, why is it that we can come into contact with millions of people a year without feeling a spark and then one day meet one that sets us on fire? Is it because this one is marketed as being available? Is it because buried feelings of desire are released spontaneously upon occasion, no matter how hard we try to keep them buried? Is this release triggered by a first-time meeting? Is it because our mind enjoys an occasional out-of-season April Fool's joke? Is anything about it real? I've been struggling with all these questions since I met a woman last year. I keep wondering why a little voice inside of me marked her as being special and why. It was never possible to test the waters and actually see if anything was there, but I still wonder what it was all about.
Is attraction biological?
I had an interesting experience last week as I was running with two gay male friends. After passing a group of runners, the two of them remarked that the guy was good looking. With unadulterated surprise, I exclaimed: "What guy?" I was so focused on the women that I had not noticed the man's presence. This is not the first time this has happened.
Is attraction merely an element of our habitual patterns?
The last three women that I met and found interesting enough to want to get to know further decided to return to their previous relationships shortly after I met them. Two are still dating the same women. One is not. I have been thinking a lot about the idea of unfinished business and what drives us to do everything within our power to complete it. The last and only relationship that I was in with a woman followed the same pattern. I dated a woman for six weeks. She returned to her previous girlfriend shortly before I moved to Nepal. The couple broke up. When I returned from Nepal for a visit, we got back together. After I returned to Nepal, she started dating someone else. I returned from Nepal to give the relationship a try, but it didn't work. After I returned to Nepal, she got back together with the women she had dated briefly while I was away. The couple is still happy over a year later. Given my small sample size, I acknowledge that there is a lot of room for bias, but I wonder what it is about romantic relationships that drives us to replay the same track. Was I sorry that I returned to my relationship? Not at all. Returning was the best thing that could have happened to my self confidence. I wonder though how we eventually break our habitual patterns.
In the past few months, I have been working on defining my boundaries as a means of breaking out of my traditional role of caregiver and making my relationships healthier. This has meant saying "No" to a lot of people who are used to hearing me exclaim, "But, of course!" Although I do not have the energy to do anything else, I am finding this challenge difficult. It feels very strange to be putting myself first. Nevertheless, I am beginning to realize that in tending to my own needs first I have more room to be present for both my family and friends. It almost seems counterintuitive.
Over the past few weeks I have had an opportunity to participate in deepening a relationship with a male friend. When we started talking beyond the weekly 10-minute post-meditation social gathering, we defined the boundaries. They are simple, aren't they? Clearly they are because I am lesbian and am not interested in dating men. Despite the obvious, I found myself questioning this assumption as we became closer. This friend and I interact on a spiritual level that I find deeply satisfying. We have the sort of relationship that I long to find with a female partner. With him I do not have to wave any banners to announce my presence. He just gets me. Why don't I just give up on the idea of finding a woman and lean into the pull that I feel with this man? My interactions with him make me happy. Isn't this enough? After a week of clarifying my vision and contemplating the issue, I came to the conclusion that it just isn't. There is something about the biological aspect of attraction that feels too important to ignore. I am attracted to women. It is a fact that I cannot change.
