Month: September 2015

Band of Brothers (March 30, 2014)

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It was several minutes after the three of them, dressed in matching Iowa Hawkeye “bibs,” took to honking the horn and chanting “Big Ten Champs!” on loop as we cruised the highway, that I really regretted coming on the trip. I hated long car journeys to begin with, and the obnoxious testosterone overload I was currently experiencing in G’s “classic” (rickety) station wagon was churning along with the Dramamine in my stomach to create a most vile sensation.

Goodnaturedly on that March afternoon in 2001, I’d agreed to grab a bite with the boys at a sports bar in Anytown, Midwest, somewhere along our route from Evanston, IL to Hilton Head, SC via Columbus, OH, where the lads knew some other college pals. As we drank beer and consumed unhealthy pub fare, the Hawkeyes faced off against my alma mater, the University of Illinois and its Fighting Illini, during the final game of the Big Ten Tournament. It should have been an easy win for the Illini but the travel gods of confined spaces would not have its so, and it is in this post’s opening scene that we find our heroine (me) all but hating her life.

The roughly 10-day jaunt, punctuated by a return stop in Cleveland to check out the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, came at a critical phase in my then 22 year-old existence. Pre-9/11, I was excited about my first ever professional promotion: the opportunity to get out of the travel agency call center and sample corporate communications. It’s no coincidence that I’m a busy and successful manager in that field today. Fresh out of college, happily employed and not yet touched by the reality of terrorism in the 21st Century, a vision of uninterrupted young American exceptionalism was unconsciously entrenched. I’d not yet been laid off and unable to find another position in the field (as I would be six months later). I was still able to believe that my hard work and ambition would always be enough.

G and I had been dating for about five months, and even before I’d agreed to this sausage fest of a journey, we both had suspicions that the relationship had run its course. I was dragging my feet about saying the words because it was already kind of hard to imagine life without him. I didn’t yet comprehend that the friend who might not be “the one” could outlast your two failed marriages, career and health challenges and everything else life can throw, to become family. I didn’t have the experience or the maturity to consider it possible.

And I absolutely didn’t understand that the adventures I’d have with G and the boys, including being kicked off an Ohio dance floor with my gay partner for being too “NC-17,” are the stuff of which memory-filled laughter is made. That H and I would still be emailing vignettes years after G and I took a post-breakup hiatus from each other.

Next weekend for the first time in 12 years, I am going to get in a car and travel four hours to be in the same room with three of my favorite men. I’m G’s plus one at a wedding in Iowa. The other boys are going to be there, with the wives and families they’ve raised in tow. The alcohol consumption may be lighter. The hijinks and hilarity might conclude somewhat earlier. But my awareness and appreciation have never been more acute. These dudes I thought I might just back over with the station wagon more than a decade ago loved me before I lost weight, ditched the co-dependent monogamy and figured out what I wanted to do with my life. I can’t wait to hug them just before the eye rolling starts.

I remain grateful that wedding dress code prohibits the damned Hawkeye bibs.

Tilting at Windmills (February 27, 2014)

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It’s been awhile since I wrote about the struggle to find some relief from an extreme, medical science confounding case of pompholyx eczema. Also known as dyshidrotic eczema, the condition is a really unfortunate autoimmune disease that manifests itself in swollen, pus-filled blisters that eventually consume the hands and bottoms of feet entirely. The blisters burn and itch, and after beating back a flare-up to a certain degree with topical steroids, patients are treated to peeling, cracking, flaky skin that is a magnet for infection. It’s unsightly, painful and makes many basic tasks challenging (washing dishes, exercise, writing) or outright impossible (swimming in pools, encounters with chemical cleaners or metal objects). Have a look at some really disturbing Google images to get an idea of where I’ve been, where I am and where I’m going. As yet my feet have been spared and I’d offer that the second picture from the left on the top row is where my hands stand today.

Most people afflicted with pompholyx experience acute symptoms that last for up to a month followed by brief periods of reprieve. I am approaching 10 months of continuous outbreak. I have spent most of the last year alternating between two weeks of steroid application, followed by two weeks of prescription-strength lotion to mitigate the cracking and peeling. Repeat ad nauseum. There are no definitive conclusions regarding the long-term use of topical steroids, but every doctor agrees it’s not a great idea. In addition to irreversibly thinning the skin on which they are applied, a steady flow of the chemicals are entering my blood stream. There are plenty of cautionary tales about how this affects the body from the sports world. Also, in the short term, steroids inhibit the skin’s ability to fight off bacterial or fungal infections. I am basically an immune system crash waiting to happen.

It is for these reasons that there are a number of other treatments dermatologists will recommend in extreme cases. The goal is to give the hands and body a break for however long that lasts, because pompholyx has no known cure. These treatments however offer no guarantee of success, and usually carry risky potential side effects of their own. For 12 weeks, I ingested progressively stronger doses of Methotrexate, a medication traditionally given to cancer patients undergoing chemotherapy. Its purpose is to try to suppress an overactive immune system, which is the biological root of my problem.

Methotrexate is taken once a week and among other detriments, it strains the liver and kidneys and significantly increases the risk of general illness or infection. In rarer cases (not mine fortunately), the drug also causes hallucinations. I emerged from the treatment none the worse off for having tried it, but none the better either. My condition remained impervious to the intervention. And even with the benefits of “good” insurance coverage, the experience flushed several hundred dollars down the drain.

More recently, my wonderful doctor (and she really is – all empathy, knowledge and urgency) recommended we try a course of UVB therapy. This has proven to help a significant percentage of people like me so there was every reason for hope, except I observed anecdotally that my flare-up was more extreme in the summer months than it has been throughout the winter. Another upside down state of affairs that seems unique to me. But it couldn’t hurt to try given the desperation. Six sessions was going to cost me $1800 out of pocket (thank you insurance deductibles) until my doctor offered me a sweetheart discount. Another $240 from my bank account spent on hope.

Well I think you know what happened next. My hands exploded. Yep, the rays of the sun are another huge trigger for me, a quirk that sets me apart from the rest of a small crowd of pompholyx sufferers. I had breakouts in areas never before afflicted, and already beleaguered skin swelled and pussed more extremely. Agony. Treatment was stopped and I was prescribed a super steroid (double the strength of its legacy cousin) just to bring me back to where I was before UVB.

I have a lot of feelings about all of this, not all of them entirely clear. There’s a good deal of fear and uncertainty in the mix. I am kind of out of options at this point, and it seems a life of steroids while I watch my appendages slowly decompose is a prospect with which I must come to terms.

When I read Harold Ramis’ obituary this week and saw that he passed from artery swelling, a complication stemming from an autoimmune disease, I blanched.

How can one ever really accept watching once beautiful, smooth hands, the extensions of the body that allow work, touch, feeling and expression (I am an Italian. There’s no talking without hands), atrophy? Forget the physical pain, the drain of my funds and the frustration of endless, ultimately pointless doctor visits and treatments. I am a doer, a solver. Yet here my only remaining role is that of a bystander, slowly defeated by my own body. I am learning in Al-Anon how to detach with love from the people and things I cannot control, in order to preserve my own sanity. Difficult enough to apply and practice with external influences. Much more challenging when the object from which you must detach is the self.

The Hunt for a Higher Power (February 18, 2014)

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Just like the Alcoholics Anonymous program that led to the formation of its sister groups, Al-Anon and Alateen involve the working of 12 steps that will guide participants along the path of recovery.

I’m all over Step 1: “We admitted we were powerless over alcohol [and other addictions]—that our lives had become unmanageable.” I am more than ready to seek help, look for new tools and develop solutions for the codependent mess that my personal life has become over the decades. No more enabling, covering, fixing, lying and trying to control the broken dynamics that have existed between myself and those who struggle with addictions and impulse control problems. I can retain a fondness for these people and their good qualities without driving myself insane, or depriving them of an opportunity to experience personal growth and responsibility…or not.

Let go of resentment, detach with love, accept the things that I cannot change. All challenging concepts but fundamental to breaking with unhealthy patterns of the past and opening up vistas of possibility. I came to terms with Step 1 before I ever set foot into a meeting room. An understanding of the limitations of my historical coping strategies is what brought me to Al-Anon in the first place.

I’m only a couple months into the early stages of recovery. Like any program that depends upon consistency, commitment and human struggle, there’s no prescription for how long the process could and should take. Accepting the unknowable is part of learning to relinquish control. But I am really stuck on a concept that I need to work through if I am to continue to grow and change in the program. Take a look at Steps 2 and 3:

“Came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.

Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood Him.”

Here’s the rub. I am a resolute atheist. Though I have folks I love and respect within my circle who ascribe to a variety of faiths and practices, the idea of God is not for me. I am not militant about it, nor am I lacking in experience, having been confirmed as a Lutheran in eighth grade before studying and converting to Hinduism for the expedience of marriage in my late 20s. It’s more that a combination of soul searching, critical thinking and experience led me away from the teachings of all organized religions. Some might offer that this renders me an agnostic more than anything, but I refuse to indulge my own temptation to hedge bets. There are definitely forces of nature and the universe at work that I don’t understand, but I can’t get behind the idea of an omniscient/omnipresent being without some scientific evidence. It’s not the way I’m built.

I don’t begrudge the faithful anything. In fact, I’m often envious of the security and peace of mind that comes with the conviction that you are part of a grand design, a purpose. The storyteller in me also finds something attractive about the idea of humanity as part of a larger narrative over which we’ve no jurisdiction.

Perhaps I’d struggle less with these philosophical ideas if I’d been afforded the luxury of trusting the adults who were supposed to be raise me. But I never regarded my father as a superhero or my mother as a selfless caretaker. I understood at an early age that the road up and out ran through me – the very opposite of turning my life and will over to a Higher Power. It had to be “I.” The cavalry was not coming.

I’m decidedly lacking in answers and that’s ok. I’m more comfortable with my innate cluelessness than at any previous stage of life. If I knew it all, I wouldn’t be reading this lopsided version of my story to date: achievement-focused with empowering friendships and collegial give and take on one end, competing with a heavy load of self-inflicted martyrdom on the other. As one group member said a couple of weeks ago, those of us working the Al-Anon program have been guilty of “trying to buy bread at the hardware store” – a metaphor for demanding and expecting the impossible from loved ones battling illness.

But in order to retain a sponsor, work through the coming steps and really, truly foment a revolution, something fundamental has to break. I can recite the Serenity Prayer without the word “God” at the beginning. No one in group is judging me for a lack of religious faith, but I have to come up with my own definition of a “Higher Power,” that idea that allows me to turn over my will and my life, something I admire and respect as bigger than me. My therapist has offered that perhaps the very idea of community is the answer, as compared with the fruitless commitment of years past to go it alone. It’s a thought – one amongst so many competitors.

My Friendly Valentine (February 12, 2014)

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There are two personal items on which I refuse to spend more than $15 – sunglasses and gloves. The reason is simple. I can’t be trusted to hang onto them. Case in point: today is February 12th and I have managed to lose four pairs of gloves and mittens with plenty of winter left to endure (Curse you Punxsutawney Phil!). At this point I consider it fiscally irresponsible to invest in another set. I might as well just set a stack of dollar bills on fire and call it a day. And since it’s hard to wash the WASPy values of my upbringing away completely, I am doing penance in the form of enduring the rest of the season without finger coverings. Maybe that will teach me to take better care of my things before next year.

While I am careless with seasonal accoutrements, I am pleased to report that a penchant for leaving items behind in cabs, trains and restaurants does not extend to people. With folks I love, I am in it for the long haul. My longest-running friendship dates back to the summer I turned four years old. Bob, the neighborhood boy who lived down the street from my grandparents, anointed himself my confidant and protector before I knew I needed one. 31 years later, he checks in periodically for an injury count (physical and emotional), career updates and wishes for my health and happiness. Bob is a constant, a touchstone when everything else seems to be evolving faster than I can grasp. Then, as now, woe be to anyone caught in the act of inflicting pain in my direction. I can take this for granted, but I don’t. It’s a rare and special gift.

My other best male friend, Gary, I encountered for the first time at age 13, enrolled in a summer school program a few months before making the leap from tiny Lutheran primary to Chicago Public High School. We both sacrificed time at the beach in favor of a full day of French lessons and algebra so we could be competitive in the International Baccalaureate program into which we’d been accepted. I was there under duress – forced into the challenging academic curriculum by a mother frustrated in her own youthful, scholastic ambitions. I was still working out some juvenile delinquent tendencies and didn’t appreciate the interruption. Gary was as good a kid as you could wish, a parent’s dream. I am proud to say that across 22 ensuing years, we’ve rubbed off on each other in mutually beneficial ways. I grew a little more rigorous and studious, while Gary got in touch with his inner troublemaker.

Then there’s the quadrant of bad ass lady pals, gifts presented as I worked through issues with female relationships (courtesy of a competitive, threatened mother and some junior high bullying). Jessica walked into my life at the age of 16 and once we finished our yearlong pissing war, we were emotionally, if not always geographically, inseparable. One tearful “I need you” SOS is all it takes.

Theresa came along at age 18, when I worked my first hourly gig at the Wendy’s in University of Illinois’ Campustown. Unlikely duo were we: me with my big city shoulder chip and bitchy sorority girl looks, she with her light Southern twang, brick shithouse build and black lipstick. It just worked. Nearly two decades later, we both get a kick out of keeping in touch via snail mail, like Hillary and Cece from Beaches.

I met Diane at work in 2007 through another mutual friend and colleague. Immediately taken with her talent, empathy and survivor ‘s biography, she may very well be the most likeable, gifted human being on Earth.

Beth is the latest addition to the BFF roster, making me fall in love with her at first sight in the spring of 2011. I would remark upon the surprising ease and speed with which we’ve become family, but this is no shock to anyone familiar with her humor, generosity and loyalty. After we befriended one another, I told Beth I wanted to be her when I grew up. I still do.

Last, but certainly not least, are the close relatives I’d seek out even without the bonds of blood – my little sister Jenny and my cousin by marriage, Carla. It’s a pretty terrific thing when people you have to engage anyway are those you’d have chosen to be part of your life, if given the opportunity.

I am without a husband or boyfriend this Valentine’s Day, but I have plenty of significant others. I experience more love, joy, companionship and laughter than a body has any right to expect. I’d be a first rate fool to indulge in Hallmark-related self-pity given such a huge portion of life-fulfilling blessings.

The Happy PANK – Professional Aunt, No Kids (February 6, 2014)

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While motherhood, especially the birthing part of the equation, was a life choice I ruled out long ago, that doesn’t mean I hate children. On the contrary, I love them. Little people, especially those 14 and under, tend to get me, as I do them. I can’t decide if my success in bonding with kids, which often occurs far more seamlessly than trying to connect with adults, is the result of my own arrested development, or a relatable black and white world view of “fairness” that appeals to the uncorrupted. I know that life doesn’t often work as it should and am in the process of adapting accordingly, but accepting reality isn’t quite the same as altering basic beliefs of how human transactions ought to work in a vacuum. I think children sense a kindred spirit in me in that regard.

I also think relationships with the lambs in my circle are necessarily affected by my own youth being prematurely snatched by adult chaos, and the expectation that I would and should carry the family through it. I had an epiphany with my therapist this week. In the work we’ve been doing together for the last half-decade, I am not chasing my 13 year-old self, or 16, 18, 21, etc. Nope I am after recovering Kindergarten Becky, the adorable one with the self-confidence to believe that every room she walked into was affected for the better by her presence. The one who assuredly refused to do that which didn’t make logical sense or was detrimental to her evolving personhood, consequences be damned. That sunny, brave child had most of her best qualities frozen or driven out of her by a need to navigate a decades-long succession of crisis situations. Self-doubt, guilt, fear and a need to prepare for worst case scenarios stunted adult attachments, trust and certainty. Every move had to be assessed from all angles with the survival of two people in mind (myself and my younger sister), until the time came when I could no longer move at all.

Every interaction I have with the children I love is motivated by the desire to help them remain as young and uninhibited for as long as possible. I am not perfect, but as much as can be controlled, I will not let my background and the lingering dark cloud that sometimes follows me as a result, affect my dealings with the delicate, evolving humans I adore. Or to put it more gauchely and succinctly, I won’t put any shit on them with which they shouldn’t have to deal. The memories of frantic wishes for escape, an exit route, when my father used to pull the car to the side of some quiet road, for the purposes of rendering me his confidant, are as keen as ever. He needed a therapist, a treatment plan and some personal responsibility – in that order, not an overwhelmed 10 year-old who suffered from migraines to act as his life coach.

So in my estimation, childhood is a stage to be jealously protected by the adults entrusted and honored with the privilege of helping little students of life learn and grow. They need to figure things out for themselves with a mix of love, support and guidance. Whatever the age of the child, the adult’s job is to try to think like them, to listen and understand, rather than project our own embittered, world-weary disillusionment on their wishes, dreams and ideas. I have stumbled in trying to attain this ideal, most notably and shamefully in the process of a Christmas 2011, post-divorce breakdown. But I take pride in the fact that for the most part my nieces, former step-daughter and step-granddaughter know that I am safe refuge where they can come for advice, help or good old-fashioned silliness.

I am not the one who knocks. I am the one who jumps on trampolines, hides in clothing hampers during spirited games of hide-and-seek, the one who explains menstruation to a confused and disgusted middle schooler, the lap provider, the beach playmate, the old lady who thinks nothing of setting an example by throwing herself headlong down the backyard Slip ‘N Slide. I tutor, I give word search hints, I furnish life advice nuggets such as “That’s the way to go through the world [youngest niece], you are onto something. You come up with the ideas and get other people to do the work.” I smile at my sister’s half-serious disapproval. I show up to the tournaments, games and recitals. I laugh at the fart jokes and hand out the candy. I consult and leverage my years of writing and editing experience to help produce compelling grad school applications.

PANK, Grandma Becka – I may not have figured out adult relationships yet, but these are the roles I was born to play. In being good to the people who trust me, in supporting the adorable faces and fancies of those I love, this is when I feel most useful and alive.