Brain on idle

I have been on vacation for the past week and I haven't been thinking deep blog worthy thoughts. It's been an "at home" vacation which for mothers might seem a contradiction of terms. Since my chicks are all grown up, it's great to have the opportunity to do some modified clucking over them. It was a very good visit with youngest daughter. Son was around quite a bit too. Since I have dedicated myself to simplifying the feast, I was less frazzled and enjoyed Thanksgiving far more. This is a healthy strategy!

The guys ate hot turkey sandwiches last night while I was taking youngest daughter to the airport, so we are down to just scraps of turkey. Actually the second annual flat chested mail order turkey lived up to the luscious juicy recollection of its predecessor.

Our Thanksgiving decorations will stay up a few more days since I'm not ready to start the hanging of the greens. The neighbors to the east always lead the annual Christmas decorating charge. Each year they create an amazing outdoor display of Christmas lights. Each year it grows bigger and bolder. This year many of the lights blink in synchronization to music, which we mercifully can't hear down at our house. Seeing as we do not live in a highly populated area, the glow from the neighbor's yard can be seen a good mile away, more if there were no trees to block the view. There is something outrageously wonderful about the display. It's not tasteful in the least. It's garish and haphazard, but it's fun. We get enjoyment out of the neighbor's exuberant delight and we don't have to pay their electric bill.

Saturday we went to our town's Christmas parade which is always fun. We were joined by eldest daughter's best school bud and her adorable 7 month old daughter who took all the noise and lights in stride. I admire the ingenuity of some of the floats which for the most part advertise local businesses. A memorable one was the brain child of a local plumber who created a Christmas tree out of lighted shower heads which then sprayed down streams of water. Only a plumber would think of something like that! Of course there were cubs scouts, tiny gymnasts cartwheeling down the street, the high school band, a grade school band, junior baton twirlers and pompom girls, the fair queen on her throne, local dignitaries, fire trucks and gratefully several churches reminding us what this season is really all about. Until I saw them marching in the parade, I did not know that our sheriff's department has a posse. It is a posse on horseback which trotted by in full uniform. Our tax dollars at work. The things I learn watching a parade!

Advent/Christmas Music Meme

This Meme comes from the Psalmist
1. What are your favorite Advent/Christmas Hymns?
The Candlelight Carol by John Rutter, In the Bleak Midwinter, How Far is it to Bethlehem? Joy to the World
2. What are your least favorite?
The Holly and the Ivy (monotonous!!), The First Nowell
3. Which secular seasonal songs make you want to run screaming into traffic?
The Little Drummer Boy
4. Do you play Christmas music in the house and in the car?
Oh yes. Everything from the Bach Christmas Oratorio to Clint Black singing "Milk and Cookies".
5. What is your favorite Christmas CD?
"Sing in Exultation" by the Choirs of the National Cathedral under the direction of the incomparable James Litton.
What are your choices?

Happy Thanksgiving

In between assembling the stuffing and prepping the big bird for the oven, I send wishes for a wonderful Thanksgiving. May it be a day of constant reminders of how richly blessed we are and how bountifully( said patting my plump tummy) the good Lord provides and cares for each of us. My prayer is that we can be lifted up above our own concerns and see with those inner eyes the wonders of this life.

On a personal note, youngest daughter arrived safe and sound with a big bag of fresh bagels in hand. What a great kid! The traffic on the interstate was only heavy in spurts so it was a pleasant drive to and from the major city airport. On the way I listened to Jan Karon's Light from Heaven on CD. It is sentimental, nostalgic and a good kind of story to enjoy at a sentimental, nostalgic time of year. The Mitford series, of which this book is the last, takes me back to my years as an Episcopalian. I can hear training analyst's voice saying something about regression in service to the ego at this point. Be that as it may. It is, however, very hard to see Fr. Tim, the series main character, attending this past year's General Convention of the Episcopal church . Does the church of this series even exist anymore? Or is it a kind of Brigadoon illusion? Anyway, fiction though it may be, the kindness, generosity, and faith of Karon's stories do warm the heart and I enjoyed my visit with Fr. Tim et al.

Son will be joining us later today. Oldest daughter and her husband are enjoying the day with his family. I am forever grateful to his family for so warmly welcoming her into their family. As her mother I think "what's not to love?", but it blesses me that she has found such a great home away from home. So now I'm off to consult a cookbook so I know how long to cook this year's second annual flat chested mail order turkey. Once the bird is roasting, I'll take daughter and son out to visit their grandmother at the nursing facility. This is this the gloomy part of this day since last year she was able to join us for Thanksgiving dinner. This year she is too frail so we must go to her. It should brighten her day to see the grands. Happy Thanksgiving to everyone who stops by and remember the words of the famous chefs "Baste, baste, baste".

Delurking

I am a lurker and I didn't even know I was one until I came across this emblem when visiting a blog. A lurker reads other people's blogs but never leaves a comment or any indication, however small, that they have been there. So this week is delurking week and I plan to say hello to the people whose blogs I read. You might do the same. :)

Diagnostic Labels

I am frequently astonished by the diagnostic labels that get slapped on people all too often by an uninformed "professional". I've encoutered a school speech pathologist diagnosing autism, a massage therapist declaring a patient has fibromyalgia, or an occupational therapist telling a mother her child was bipolar. And don't even get me started on nurse practitioners dispensing psychotropic drugs. What is this nonsense?

One of my patients was told he was depressed by a mental health counselor. He sees his depression as something external that once he sheds it, like a heavy overcoat, all will be well. I had him tested by Mecte, my esteemed colleague to the east, who is very skilled at such things. He does the standard intelligence tests and the MMPI but also administered the TAT, which looks at emotional themes and psychodynamic underpinnings. Well, this gentleman tested highest on anxiety and far lower on depression. I decided to use this to my advantage in treating him, by pointing out his worst difficulty was his fear not his depression. But he doesn't like that one bit. Being afraid is a lot different than being depressed. And he knows, because some counselor told him, that depression is his problem. He is depressed in the same way someone else is diabetic. He, like so many people, doesn't quite get the idea that the labels they wear might be wrong or that they might no longer be valid. In treatment, people change and with time and work, they get better.

But what would it mean if he were not that depressed any more? Well, it would mean his family is going to expect a lot more out of him and there will be fewer concessions made on his behalf. Being sick in the mind, as he calls it, does have its pay-off. If he's sick, he doesn't have to work, be responsible and be a grownup. The crazy person always wins and that's often tougher to treat than the presenting problem itself. I used an automobile assembly line illustration with him. At the beginning of the line, there is a chassis. Then the engine, the brakes, the seats, the doors, side panels are added. As the car moves down the line, more and more things get put on. Like an assembly line, his treatment is dynamic. He does not stay the same and will continue to change as we move on down the line.

Sacred cows make the best hamburger-Mark Twain

A colleague forwarded this story about happiness to me this week. I have read Dan Gilbert's book which I found worthwhile although a tad redundant. One point that I found useful was that what we imagine something to be and what it really turns out to be are two different things. And it's important to get a grip on what the imagined part is based on.

One woman is cooking Thanksgiving dinner for her six children, their spouses, significants, eight grandchildren and ex-husband in ex-husband's house, because it's the only place large enough to house everyone. Her reason for doing this is "my children want me to cook for them." She was fuming because one of her sons wanted to invite her ex-in laws too. There is no love lost between the long suffering cook and her ex-mother-in-law. Now, whose fantasy Thanksgiving is she trying to create? And is this even possible? Or rational? From the outside it seems like everyone is pretending that Mom and Dad didn't get a divorce.

I'm not faulting her because there is a lot of this that goes on within families, including my own, especially at the holidays. We bump into Hallmark and Norman Rockwell images right and left. We carry within us long faded postcard images of childhood holidays, which we magically hope we can re-experience. But sometimes what we re-experience is a lot of hurt and rage..like Uncle Ike has to take one more dig at how much weight you've gained or how bald you are, as if you didn't know, or Grandma lets you know she doesn't approve and never has approved how you are raising your kids etc. etc. One young couple grabbed their their little girl and in a huff left a family gathering after Grampa said that the child was retarded. Ah, families!

In thinking back, the traditional Thanksgivings have blurred together in my mind. It's the off beat ones I remember like the family gathering in Boston my sophomore year in college. We went to old North Church for services, paid our respects to Plymouth Rock and ate dinner at the Top of the Hub with a panoramic view of downtown Boston. There was another year in college where we cooked a goose with a bunch of friends in the kitchen of a Baltimore row house. We ate so much that we all ended up taking a nap between courses. Some years later, I recall eating fresh lobster as a newlywed when hubster was a young resident and we couldn't be with our families. I kept the lobsters in a crate in the kitchen and was amused as they rustled around. There was last year's flat mail-order turkey, or memories of the dreadful inedible green olive stuffing. And there were the poignant gatherings like the one at my brother's house right after Dad was released from the hospital after a nearly fatal episode of heart failure. He was so painfully thin and weak. It was his last Thanksgiving with us. As the years pass there are more of those empty chairs.

Three years ago I did a big blow-out Thanksgiving dinner for 25. My sister-in-law and I had an unspoken agreement for years that I cooked Thanksgiving dinner and she did Christmas. But things had changed. Our families were expanding, another family had joined us, and both of us had gone to work. The day after, a colleague asked how my Thanksgiving had been. I moaned that I was exhausted after spending all day in the kitchen. He looked at me and asked "Then why do it?" That was a very good question and a question I have asked myself every year since. Anyone for hamburger?

Eating ribs and shooting turkeys

To say I lived a sheltered life in suburban Ohio when I was growing up would be an understatement. It was a very narrow existence where everyone was more or less like myself. We were white, for the most part comfortably Protestant, college educated, Republican, middle class and very insulated. And I do not miss that life one bit.

It was an adjustment, a great adjustment, for me when we moved to this small town. I grew up in the city, surrounded by people like myself. Now there was no one like myself. It took me forever to figure out that each community has it's own way of doing things. For example, in my neck of the woods, it was customary to send wedding gifts directly to the bride's home in advance of the wedding or directly to the couple afterwards. Here, one brings the gift directly to the wedding because opening gifts is one of the reception activities along with tossing the bouquet and cutting the cake. If someone dies, the city tradition is to send flowers and a note of condolence to the bereaved. Here one takes over food and goes to the wake to personally express sympathy. I bumbled around for many years.

Hubster's vocation, as was my Dad's and now mine, tends to be isolating. We have been perceived as fat cats and snobs by some, and as people who really don't know what constitutes real work and are a bit dense. In many ways that was correct. One of the unexpected blessings of my work has been to peek inside the lives of people who live in very different worlds that I do. I treat a mechanic, an oil field worker, an automotive plant assembly line worker, a teacher, a cashier, a forklift operator, a warehouse supervisor, a bricklayer etc. Son's work as an electrician and firefighter has also helped me to understand the life of the working man and woman. And as a result I am able to connect more easily with the people in my town.

Last night we enjoyed an excellent rib dinner at the American Legion. It was a community fundraiser to provide goodies for our local men and women in the military. I have treated one of those young people who is currently serving in Iraq. Today we plan to head out to the Fire Department's annual turkey shoot. Despite the name, no live turkeys are killed in this process. It's actually target shooting. The winner of each round can either take home a turkey or a ham donated by local stores. Shooting competitions are actually a great equalizer. I've seen a judge square off against a hot shot 12 year old. Once it warms up, it'll be a nice day to be outside. And there's always lots of ribbing and that's part of the fun. As I slip shells into my husband's shotgun, I'll chuckle. I remember being taught to curtsy, now I'm learning to take aim.

Some days life ain't fun

Lots of turmoil in the past week, but thankfully it is now mostly in the review mirror. I was really looking forward to a peaceful weekend last week after two months of riding the roller coaster with Mother's health and long days clearing out her apartment. But instead of a peaceful weekend, I found myself in a battle zone. Hubster's (and mine) unconscious anxiety in regards to a mass removed from his neck went underground and resurfaced in a bizarre fashion. The all-clear biopsy results finally came on Thursday of this week and everyone is back to what passes for normal around here.

In addition Hubster's little, and favorite, brother is having problems with his shoulders and chest muscles. Seeing as little bro can't walk and uses his arms to support his body, then shoulder difficulties are very serious indeed. Little bro is getting tests and in the best surgical hands, this will not be easy work. I suspect this didn't help Husbster's general mood and disposition.

Then my Mother's former roommate called her on Sunday and was placing demands on her that she could not possibly accommodate let alone comprehend. It took some twenty minutes to calm Mother down after the call. All I could think was "What kind of moron 'walks' into a sickroom and starts making demands?" Mother begged me to handle it. I wasn't sure just what I was supposed to do. I had to run it around my mind for several days, bounce it off my sister, while working through my furor at this so-called "friend". Eventually I composed and sent a letter to former roommate. I'd also come to the realization that "friend" might have been putting extra pressure on Mother in hopes of timing a visit around Thanksgiving and thus wangling an invitation to my house for the holiday. Don't blame her, because I am a very good cook.

So all of this doesn't lead to the creation of witty and interesting blog entries. I wrote two that I didn't think it wise to post. Anyway I needed to figure out how to bring some sanity and calm into all of this agitation and hang on until we hit calmer waters.

Another one bites the dust

I was saddened to see another Christian leader toppled this past week. It is good that the truth was brought to light but once again, the church gets smeared in the eyes of the world. So often, it seems, that we hate in others what we hate in ourselves. As Freud said when a patient talks he can only talk about himself. So when someone rants hard against dancing, gambling, greed, homosexuals, hypocrisy, drinking, smoking, or any other subject, I have to take into consideration the unconscious motivation of the speaker.

I don't know Ted Haggard. I gather he was a pretty influential man. I can't help but think of his family and the members of his church. One man I know is still hurting over the deception at the hands of his best friend and pastor. His friend/pastor was having an affair with a parishioner and he lied to everyone when the rumors started flying. This man stood by his friend when everyone else in town and in their church wanted to run the guy out of town. He was the only one to believe the fellow's lies. Finally his friend tearfully fessed up and resigned from the church. Three years later the ex-pastor is annoyed that his former parishioners are still mad and cross the street to avoid him. He seriously compares himself to David and preaches to anyone who will listen about restoration. Meanwhile his former best friend still feels betrayed and foolish for having trusted him. It takes a long long time to heal after trust has been broken

Various things

An additional thought concerning yesterday's dream analysis has to do with the hubster trying to use bullets that are too small. Sometimes people will dream about guns or being shot and this represents getting a shot. Hubster injected mother's hip on several occasions and she had several epidural injections too. These provided some relief but no healing, ergo the bullets just weren't big enough.

A while back I blogged about a woman who had plopped down in anger and was refusing to do much of anything, acting like a stubborn toddler. This week she called to move her appointment because she is working now. Yay!

Another bright spot was a proud Mama sharing with me her son's engagement. He's been dating this girl for ages and has been dragging his heels about making a commitment. I paraphrased Goethe by saying that when we move to commit, Providence moves too. I predicted some neat changes for this young man.

Other good news is that Mother is settling comfortably into the nursing unit and I can see clearly now that she does really need this level of care. It's easy to delude myself on her good days that she is doing better than she really is. It is precisely because she is receiving so much support that she functions as well as she does. And on her bad days, it is all too evident how far she has declined. This awareness decreases any second guessing on my part and I am such an expert on second guessing.

The Dream

It is no surprise that my mother's rapid decline would prompt some unusual dreams and that has, indeed, been the case. Last weekend, as I was clearing out her apartment, I cranked out the following dream:

"I am climbing up a dark steep staircase from the basement. A girl (early teens) is going to break in a window, which is to my right. The window is a half window partially below ground and blocked part way by a shutter.I am terrified beyond belief. I scream and scream but no sound comes out of my mouth.I get to the top of the stairs, enter a kitchen where I find my husband loading a gun to get the girl. He has a 9mm handgun but the bullets he's trying to load are too small-more like 22 caliber.His hands are shaking so badly that he's dropping bullets. I know he won't be able to help me."

The dream is very complex and taps into multiple levels. When I encounter breaking into one's house in a dream, it is often a surgery theme, the house being symbolic of the body. Being unable to cry out for help is related to anesthesia. The girl outside is for some reason very scary. I, at first, identify her as mother, but upon later reflection, I realize she is my teenage self. Training analyst says this is an old dream which began in my teens. Outside I am a teenage girl soon to become a woman, wife and mother. Inside, however, I am terrified little girl who is silently screaming for someone to help her.

Sometimes the unconscious will do a reversal. So males are females. Big is little. Old is young. In that vein, I wondered if the menacing young girl was really old man death.The Blind Boys of Alabama singing "Hush" comes to mind. And instead of my husband, the person I go to for help is my mother. The shaking hands is the tip off here. The first association to people with shaky hands would be her and secondly to my father who would shake when he got agitated. And it is my realization now that my mother who used to protect me is no longer able to help me. She might want to, but her hands shake and the bullets are too tiny, that is, not powerful enough, to do the job. Once, if I were frightened, I could run to her to feel safe. That sense of security is gone. Now, I comfort her and I'm the one who has to keep her safe.

Reality TV: "Who wants to be a Saint?"

Happy All Saints Day to one and all! The concept of sainthood has always intrigued me, at times amused me since it seems to go so contrary to the humility that Jesus models for us. Yet, there sainthood sits with its implication that some people do the faith walk far better than others. They make the all-star team and win the believer's super bowl ring. They are held up as ideals of charity, fidelity, zeal and all manner of Christian virtue. Some saints in the making are blessed with stigmata and the ability to be in two places at the same time. Personally I'll pass on bloody hands. And I get in more than enough trouble as is, in just one place.

Saints, however, are rarely lay men or women, and to my knowledge never ever married lay women. So I am already out of the running. I might stand a chance, a very slight chance, should I outlive my husband, then become a nun and found a new religious order. What silliness it is to think that ordinary people cannot be Saints of God! I personally think that the world is full of these beacons of God's goodness who are doing his work anonymously out in the world every day. Anonymously, that is the right hand not knowing what the left hand is doing. These Saints may not be responsible for documented miracles, but their lives bless those who cross their paths. I think of the Saint who brought my mother a heated blanket when she was lying in the emergency room. Or the Saint who changed our flat tire and then gave us his jack because ours was broken. Or the volunteers who come to lead worship services or help with activities for the old people in nursing homes. Or Saints who bring food to bereaved families right after the funeral, send cards to shut-ins or prisoners, and treat all people as though they were God's children. Some differentiate between big "S" Saints and little "s" saints , a nod that saintly activity just might occur outside the walls of that church body.

I suppose a new reality show could be developed called "Who wants to be a Saint?", or "The Christian non-Idol". The Vatican's ratings have been kind of low recently. Canterbury's ratings aren't any better. A new attractive charismatic saint who could go on an international tour might just be the ticket. But my version of this reality show probably wouldn't have any bishops, heads of charitable organizations or theologians . My version would never get off the ground because the people I see as Saints never see themselves that way. They wouldn't even show up for the auditions because they'd be visiting the sick, feeding the hungry, raising their kids, and loving their neighbors.