Author: Becky Sarwate

Let’s Do It Like They Do on the Discovery Channel (March 1, 2013)

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Scared Panda

 

Although I work in a creative field, one of the personal attributes that instills the greatest amount of pride is the ability to think logically and rationally. Although knee-jerk instinct is often emotional or sentimental, I am proud of the fact that I am usually able to take a step back and evaluate the potential short and long-term effects of a decision.

Yeah, but all of that good sense goes right out the window when we’re talking about anything involving a trip to the doctor’s office. Stop me if you’ve heard this one before: a young mother takes her 5 year-old daughter for booster shots right before the start of the kindergarten school year. The mother’s 3 year-old daughter needs a shot too and comes along for the outing. The mother has chosen a Catholic charity as the vendor for the immunizations as the family is on a tight budget. The nun in full habit (this was the early 1980s) who has been assigned to the little girls decides to start with the younger one, surmising that she may be the more scared patient. She whips out her air gun and gently walks the toddler through the procedure before the injection. The 3 year-old barely moves and doesn’t make a sound. The perfect disciple.

The 5 year-old witnessing this exchange decides that, despite her sister’s fortitude, she wants nothing to do with what’s coming and takes off at a full bore run. Cue Hollywood-style chase scene with mother and a pack of nuns hitching up their skirts in hot pursuit of the runaway kindergartner. Our heroine manages to evade the villains for long one stretch of hallway and a full flight of stairs before being snatched by her angry and embarrassed parent. With mom virtually sitting on top of the hysterical child while clucking Sisters lament the little one’s irrationality, the nuns finally manage to disperse the inoculation.

I will leave it to the reader to decide which child was me.

This anecdote was chosen for its physical comedy as well as to drive home the point that not much has changed. Several years ago my ex-husband Eddie drove me to the emergency room to seek help for a violent gastrointestinal infection. The IV inserted into my arm dispensed necessary electrolytes as well as antibiotics that would immediately start to attack the bacteria. In principle, I understood this. In practice, the unnatural feel of a tube extending from my arm won and it was only by calling in nurses with restraints that the IV was permitted to continue its work. If you think I bore Eddie’s traitorous behavior with silent resignation, then you haven’t been following this post. I am the nightmare, worst case scenario patient about which medical students are warned.

Tomorrow morning, bright and early, I am to undergo to CT scan with contrast in an attempt to identify the underlying causes of a chronic, cluster migraine condition that has grown persistently more acute and resistant to treatment. I have scheduled the procedure first thing in the morning so as to decrease the amount of time I have to overthink, perhaps even flee the scene, before the doctors can do their work. This strategy will in no way prevent me from spending a sleepless night imagining all sorts of innovative horrors that cannot possibly live up to the hype, but this is the best I can do to work around an absurd and delirious self that I barely recognize.

When it comes to enduring emotional trauma, I am a veritable Odysseus with a seemingly endless capacity to pick myself up and move forward. Yet the idea of a pinprick elicits foolish hysterics of which I would otherwise be ashamed, if I weren’t too busy dropping banana peels while bolting out the door.

Pity the long-suffering partner who has volunteered to escort (perp walk) me to this appointment. Neither one of us has had much time to consider the actual possibility that the CT scan will reveal a larger problem, busy as JC has been deflecting my attempts to evade the whole experience. So manipulative has this baser self been this week that, well aware groundless emotional appeals will fall upon my partner’s scientific-minded deaf ears, she has resorted to more logical-sounding budgetary concerns. As we know America’s health care delivery system sucks, and even with a “Cadillac” insurance plan, the CT scan will still run upward of $1,000 dollars I don’t have. JC says this is why God made credit cards (an avowed atheist, this retort is an obvious dig at my willingness to grasp any straw to avoid the scan – harrumph!).

I have worked for years in therapy sessions, through writing and silent contemplation to attempt to understand and overcome this situational Dissociative Identity Disorder – to no avail. A simple comprehension that the CT scan is a pathway to unlocking a year’s worth of on and off pain and misery is not enough to calm Crazy Becky, or dissuade her from concocting ever more desperate plans. As calmly as I sit here analyzing and disavowing her refusal to engage reality, I also understand that when the moment comes, all bets are off.

Why is rational self-control so difficult, especially for a grown woman in possession of her faculties, completely aware that the actual discomfort of the scan cannot outlast the torture she inflicts on herself and others? Just a drop of fortitude would expedite everything for everybody. I hate Crazy Becky just as much as everyone else does. But she takes control at the mere smell of hospital antiseptic. It’s at moments like this that it becomes starkly clear when all is said and done, I am not the cosmopolitan thinker I imagine. I’m just a dumb animal obeying a carnal flight or fight response, a lemming going over the cliff, unable to understand she’s running toward her own, avoidable misery.

My Life as a StepGILF (February 22, 2013)

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My Life as a StepGILF

 

 

As many of my friends, family and readers know, I made the decision somewhere along the way to bypass motherhood. A large piece of that resolution stems from a childhood and young adult years spent as the caretaker of several key people in my life: parents, maternal grandparents, younger sister and to a more brief degree, oldest niece. There is a certain amount of resentment involved in being the forced custodian of adults who really should have been looking after me and my sibling, but we all have our juvenile crosses to bear and that was one of mine. Nevertheless, having to think strategically about the safety and security of others, before I was really ready for the job, left an aversion to the responsibility that comes with shepherding a child from womb to world.

There are certainly other factors that influenced the resolve: a sustained and deep-seated fear of the birthing process (that Miracle of Life video in my high school health class was no help at all), the selection of romantic partners during prime childbearing years who lacked the maturity to function as successful co-parents, and yes, I will admit it, the recognition of selfishness on a grand scale. It took me 29 years to finish my formal education, 30 to figure out what I had to do to earn my bread, 32 to actually start developing said career and nearly 34 years to find a man I could trust to do right by me and any child we might create. That’s a late start certainly, but compounding the ticking of the biological clock is a realized preference for my career and personal life over the 24/7 demands of motherhood.

I am a happy and devoted aunt to the children in my circle. My oldest niece and I share happy memories of sleepovers, trips to McDonald’s and many other activities throughout the years. She has also experienced the shame of enduring my tears of pride as she competed in beauty pageants, karate tournaments and school plays. First question when Aunt Becky is invited to an event: “Is she going to cry again?”

But I digress. Two paragraphs ago, and sprinkled throughout other written posts, are mentions of a special man with whom I entered into a committed relationship nearly 10 months ago. In March we will begin the process of looking for a new apartment – the first home we will share together. In ways too numerous to detail here, JC is the one. A lifetime pattern of self-doubt and second guessing has been completely upended by this alliance. As sure as I know the sun will keep rising, Taylor Swift can’t sing live and the U.S. Congress will leverage its inertia to run the nation into the ground, I know that my future lies with this man. How do I know? I just do. I don’t need to wonder – and that’s freaking refreshing.

Of many elements from our growing love and companionship to treasure, one in particular stands out today. Planning a life with JC involves immersing myself in the worlds of the two other most important people in his existence: his 22 year-old daughter and three year-old granddaughter. That’s right. For all intents and purposes, I am a stepmother and stepgrandmother.

JC’s daughter is a grown adult with a full and demanding life. She also has a mother with whom she enjoys a very close relationship. Our association thus far has been quite warm and open, and in time I hope that she’ll be able to look upon me as a trusted friend/older sister figure.

Ah but the little adorable granddaughter! I met her early last summer and I am pleased to report that it was mutual love at first sight. Precocious, loving and impossibly cute, I was responding to calls of “Grandma Becka!” before the first weekend of our acquaintance was out. I might also add she came up with that moniker of her own accord.

At first I reveled in the perverse delight of walking down the street, a 34 year-old white woman holding the hand of a small mixed-race darling who unironically addressed me as “Grandma.” But as the relationship grew, I found the role of granny to be rather a natural fit. I skipped right over the less glamorous aspects of parenthood (rule setter, disciplinarian, moral role model) to the fabulous privileges of grandparentdom. I never say “no” when I can possibly say “yes.” I coddle, spoil and indulge with the best of them. I think “Grandma Becka” is the role I was born to play.

As JC and I plan an out-of-state road trip this weekend to visit the girls, it occurs to me that circumstances have required me to walk unconventional and circuitous routes where interpersonal relationships are concerned. I have been the parent where I should have been allowed to be the dependent. I have been the mother where I might have preferred to be the sister (through no fault of my sibling). I’ve been the divorcee where I would have much rather remained the devoted wife. But this time idiosyncratic situations have yielded wonderful results. Though I never asked for or planned it, I am now a de facto stepmother and grandmother…and I’m overjoyed.

The Valentine’s Day KISS Principle (February 14, 2013)

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The Valentine's Day KISS Principle

 

 

It’s 11:00 am on the morning of Valentine’s Day 2013. Thus far I have suffered a nocturnal bite to the nose from my partner JC (an odd manifestation of some interesting dream) and have had bloodwork done to verify the proper function of my kidneys. Hardly the stuff of traditional romance, yet I’ve never felt happier or more loved than I do this Thursday.

The story of my life so far has taken some unbelievable and heartbreaking turns, yet this is the year I finally feel as though I’m coming into my own. No longer a confused stranger struggling to integrate my consciousness with the maps and scripts presented in girlhood, I reflect a confidence and security that I long believed impossible. Some of this evolution can be attributed to hard, painful personal and professional choices that brought me to the brink of what I thought I could survive. Other parts are owing to years of intensive psychotherapy with a trusted professional. The rest is self-reflection and the clarity of perspective that comes from silencing old, destructive voices. The dependable love of a man who really sees me and still likes the view certainly doesn’t hurt.

St. Valentine’s Day, from the traditional perspective of American consumerism, is a manufactured event with a definite marketing message: to love means to spend. It is only by lavishing trinkets, candies and expensive dinners in crowded restaurants upon our nearest and dearest that we can show the appreciation we are too busy or lazy to express the other 364 days of the year. But this year feels different and it’s not just internally. Friends, colleagues and unknowns alike appear to be, for lack of a batter word, more grateful. Are the root causes grand and general, a sort of collective relief that we’re all still here despite the lingering effects of the Great Recession, the paralyzed toxicity of the nation’s governing processes and a post-9/11 awareness that our lives are no longer insulated from what happens “over there?” In an era of so many big, complex challenges that start from the moment we open our eyes each morning, is it that much easier to notice and appreciate the small things?

Whatever the dynamics, I’ve experienced no small amount of satisfaction today reading open expressions of love from corners often regarded as cynical and jaded. It’s like an unwritten resolution was passed that, at least for today dammit, we’re going to experience joy in the connections, labor and hobbies that make struggling tolerable. There’s something poetic in that.

My contribution is to suspend examining the titular U.S. Navel of my personal blog and keep it simple. I love my life as it is today. I love my career and the direction in which it’s traveling. I love my partner, the one who nourishes my body, mind and soul. I adore the friendships I have built and the reciprocal delights of those strong bonds. I cherish my family, diverse, untraditional and thus, completely perfect. There will be plenty of time for overthinking and strategizing tomorrow and the days to come. Today is about gratitude for where I am and what I experience – in this moment.

Migraine Season (February 7, 2013)

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Migraine Season

 

 

This is the kind of winter that migraine sufferers dread. Take last week for example. Here in Chicago the temperature touched 61 degrees on Tuesday, the warmth punctuated by springlike showers. By Thursday morning, the mercury stopped climbing at 10 degrees with brutal winds and icy road conditions.

Remember when the El Nino weather pattern was the subject of much news coverage back in 1997 and 1998? Well as a native Chicagoan, I never saw what the fuss was about. It’s El Nino here all year-round. Many times we cycle the four seasons all in the same Windy City day. As a child and young adult, the varying climate was either a fun adventure or a wardrobe challenge, but as I enter my mid-30s, in peak mental condition, but somewhat hobbled physically, the volatile elements have a similar effect on my temperament.

Back in November of 2012, on Election Day to be precise, I fractured my coccyx and sacrum in a bad judgment call involving L’il Red, a yellow light and an SUV. As an avid gym goer and infamous pain intolerant, the long recovery of this injury, aggravated by the bipolar nature of a Chicago winter, has left me rather short on patience – with myself and others. Midsummer last year I was also diagnosed with a debilitating cluster migraine condition that has been stubbornly difficult to regulate. The worst fate for a control freak is the body’s capricious tendency to dive into a tailspin of throbbing pain and nausea that can endure for days. In the worst moments of these episodes, I cannot talk or write. The ability to communicate, an attribute I value so highly, drowns in suicidal levels of painful inertia. To look at my scientific, solutions-oriented partner in the eyes and see a helplessness I can’t comfort may be the cruelest turn of all.

As I sit here typing these words, it’s a manageable 32 degrees outside but freezing rain has been dropping in sheets since the middle of the night. I know this because I awoke with a dull pressure ache in my sinuses when the downpour began. My physician, the eminently patient and kind Dr. Gong, has theorized that the parts of my brain which trigger a migraine don’t seem to know how or when to shut themselves off. This could explain why the headaches can last for days and are immune to all the usual remedies. My brain just ignores what’s good for it. Wouldn’t be the first time.

Throughout two years of recovery and convalescence, which began in early 2011 when I said goodbye to my ex-husband and our broken marriage, I was warned about the mind-body continuum. While I was in survival mode, on constant high alert, the ability to function without food, sleep or emotional balance was a phenomenon to be taken for granted. It was only paradoxically as I began to relax and morph into the new, less self-defeating person I am on the inside that the body started to give way: a battle with cervical cancer, the cluster migraines, alopecia, insomnia. If my psyche is in large degree healed, why can’t my body get with the program? It seems it feels the need to follow the arc of this typical Chicago winter: up, down, all-around and completely outside my jurisdiction.

Postcards from the Egg (January 23, 2013)

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Postcards from the Egg

 

 

During the summer of 1995, the season before my senior year of high school, my mother Gloria, younger sister Jenny and I embarked on a two-week long road trip in mom’s spanking new Geo Metro (the white, bullet-shaped, manual transmission vehicle that later became known as “The Egg”). The Egg enjoyed relatively solid gas mileage, a reflection of Gloria’s commitment to stretching the one-income budget of a RN with two teenage daughters as far as it could go. In these heady days before Mapquest and Google Earth, I set up our collegiate campus tour itinerary with little more than then help of a road atlas and a Red Roof Inn location directory. We three women packed The Egg as full of snacks and luggage as we could and hit the open road.

On a quest to find the institution of higher learning that I planned to call home for the next four years, our stops included many exciting places Jenny and I had either never been, or couldn’t recall: my younger sister’s birthplace in Hopewell, Virginia, sections of Ohio, Pennsylvania and New Jersey, and of course the grand dames of Northeastern cultural ideology, Boston and New York. Many hours of traveling music were audited, adventurous meals were consumed and winding, digressive conversations were enjoyed.

But a lesser known piece of family historical data is that there was one state we planned to visit, yet did not – Maine. Though my sibling and I were dying to check out some of the area’s plentiful liberal arts colleges, and despite a lifelong devotion to seafood, we cut our trip short by three days to return to Chicago that much faster. At the time, Jenny and I offered an unbearable absence from our then-boyfriends as the reason for the abbreviated journey, but the truth was much darker and more potentially damaging to our mother’s ego: we simply could not endure another night of her epic snoring.

Yes it’s true, Gloria was a storied log sawer, producing the kind of deep throated, rumbling commotion that my old Italian grandmother proclaimed would “wake the dead.” I have never been ever to prove this scientifically, but have hypothesized that our mother’s three to four pack a day smoking habit was not an asset in this regard (nor many others). The weirdest part was, despite a long career as a health professional, Gloria expressed little concern about her snoring, as it pertained to her own health or the mental faculties of those around her. Hell her estranged husband, our father Gregg, was nearly as bad. Both deep, sound sleepers, Gregg’s multiple broken noses as a young boy growing up on the baseball diamond, and Gloria’s fondness for smoky treats left Jenny and I pleased that our shared bedroom was far away from their loud, labored breathing.

But within the confines of a shared motel room, there is nowhere to hide. With a mixture of fondness and misery, I recall Jenny and I trying to bed down in hotel bathrooms, The Egg and when all attempts a peaceful rest failed, hatching semi-serious murder plots in the pre-dawn hours. Ultimately, after 11 straight nights of piss poor rest, we begged Gloria to drive us back home to the comforting land of separate bedroom doors. She acquiesced but it took her weeks to forgive our “selfishness,” longer before she could mention the trip to sympathetic friends without watery eyes

As an adult, and in part a response to this hellaciously under-rested excursion, I vowed to find myself a partner who neither a) smoked nor b) snored.

What is that they say about the best of intentions? I’ll have to consult with Dr. Freud on this one but for whatever reason, nearly every single one of my companions has been a chain smoker with a penchant for shaking the earth with nocturnal rumblings.

That’s no different with my current, and if all goes to plan, final squeeze, the hilarious, wonderful, infuriating, and idiosyncratic JC. The recent turn in Chicago weather toward the bitterly cold has left a thirst in the air that no humidifier seems to quench (we tried), bringing out my smoking lover’s most disruptive sleeping behaviors.

But unlike my teen years, I cannot run to the bathroom with a quilt, nor sleep in the car (we don’t have one) and even if I thought I could get away with the crime and the idea is sometimes tempting, I can’t kill JC. I love and need him too much.

So instead my small studio apartment is awash in accoutrements procured by my beloved in an attempt to restore nighttime harmony to our space: ear plugs, nose guards, mouth guards, breathing strips, headphones.

I couldn’t get away from my mother fast enough but as I hear my own repetitive, quiet and patient pleadings with JC to “Honey, please turn over,” followed by the whispered and sincere “I’m sorry baby, I love you,” I realize we have weapons in our arsenal one doesn’t normally associate with battle: commitment, self-awareness and unconditional affection.