Tears

Tears. They make some people uncomfortable but with others, it’s just a natural outpouring of emotion. My dad was a “tough guy” but he shed them over the years.

I remember him crying when Robert Kennedy died.  If memory is serving me correctly, he cried as we watched the televised funeral processional. I was upset by his emotions, as I cannot recall seeing him cry until that day. I asked him what was wrong and he replied, “Bobby Kennedy was a great man.”

 I remember him crying when he watched the famous football movie, “Brian’s Song,” same too with “Love Story.” My dad cried when my brother was in the Army and left to go to boot camp and later as he left for a tour in Germany. Dad cried when my sister Paula drove away on her honeymoon. Again, the tears came when my sister Laura flew away to one of her faraway homes in Boston, New York, Wisconsin or wherever she and her family were living at the time.

He cried the day he, my mom and I were driving home from Carmel. It was a bittersweet weekend. I have lovely memories of dog walks on the beach, lunches and dinners and shopping…all while awaiting to hear the specifics of his cancer and treatment plan from his doctor, a call we were all anticipating the following week. My sister Laura had called as we were driving home. The silent tears streamed down his face as I could hear her telling him that both she and her family would come out that Easter to visit. He was crying because we were apart but would be together again. He was crying because the damn cancer was going to separate us.

Two and one half years later, he lay in his Hospice bed in my parents’ TV room. We had just told him, agonizingly, that he could not get out of bed that day. We had said he was too heavy and if he had another seizure we simply could not lift him off the ground. His normal routine of getting dressed and sitting up to read the paper or watch the latest news or sports program proved too tiresome for him and too difficult for us without my brother around to help.  He was angry and barked at us to go in the other room to “regroup” and leave him alone. I stole a glance at him as I was exiting the room. The silent stream trickled down from the corner of his eye, trailed down his ear and splashed upon the pillow. He was crying because he did not want to leave us. He did not want to leave this world.

This weekend I went to visit my son in San Diego. He’s in college and we’ve not seen much of one another this year. He’s maturing, we don’t talk as much, even to “check-in” during the month as we did last year. I am trying to let him be the lead. I am a tough mom. But when I went to say good-bye and we hugged one another in a tight embrace, the tears came. I told him I loved him. 


He got out of the car, pivoted briefly to face me as he began to stand up. As he looked into my eyes, I saw the mirrored image of myself. His big blue eyes looked “full” and he quickly turned away and walked up the pathway to his front door. I couldn’t see his eyes then but I know when he walked inside he had to wipe away the excess liquid.

My son appears to be a “tough guy” just like his grandpa and his mom. 

An Anniversary "of Sorts"

Have you ever stopped in your tracks because of the feelings you are experiencing? That is, until you realize it's your anniversary, or anniversary "of sorts"? Or your un-birthday? Or the acknowledgement of a loved one's death? Or the butterfly beginnings which have begun to fade or threaten to be *gasp* forgotten? What about the realization of the passage of time? Children growing up? The acknowledgement to yourself that yet another year has come and gone,  and you have yet to make changes regarding your job, your marriage, your living situation and more?

If so, you are not alone.

Many of us do, too. It's that feeling of not quite being able to pinpoint what it is that you're feeling. Until you remember. And feel. Again. Anew.

Sometimes, it's a warmth that washes over you as you recall. Pure joy. Happiness. Love. At other times, it is a feeing of regret or sorrow. Or of longing. 

No matter. Remember, tomorrow will bring new beginnings. New todays. New days to celebrate and toast and to anticipate. 

So here's to me, and you, Happy Un-anniversary.

Marco*

Marco*

By Kathy Dillingham

Sometimes when you are a teacher, you become the student. Today, Marco was mine.

Marco is a young man who attends the school where I teach. Venture School is an alternative high school for students in grades kindergarten through Adult Education. They can enroll in either our Home Study Program or like the majority, our Independent Study Program. The students come each week and meet with their teacher for approximately one hour. They are expected to have completed about 20 hours of work at home. They correct their homework, take tests, watch related movies at their weekly appointments and can come attend additional math or writing labs for extra support or take small group classes for painting, ceramics and more. Frequently students find that they come in to meet with their teacher on one day and to take tests on another. Sometimes getting to school is the biggest obstacle students face. Marco was no exception.

Marco is a twin. His brother attends a charter school in another county. His brother lives with his father who can really only financially support one of the twin boys. His mother, now remarried, is working full time and supporting Marco, his younger siblings, her diabetic husband and I believe, at least one grandmother.  Money is in short supply.

Marco chose to switch schools in his senior year so he could help support his mother’s household. He began with a seemingly manageable course load with hopes to graduate this spring. After we had our initial meeting where curriculum was chosen, Marco was enthusiastic in his gentle and mild-mannered way.

For our first follow-up meeting I noticed Marco’s penmanship was precise. He wrote in nearly all capital letters and his work was neat and thorough. He did well on the tests and he looked confident. Soon however, his attendance became spotty, at best.

Upon investigation, Marco reluctantly shared that the cost of the travel expenses to and from Venture were considered very prohibitive for he and his family. Through a little creative thought and legwork, I was able to find a generous individual who was willing to donate “transportation scholarship money” (i.e., “bus and BART fair”) on a weekly basis, totaling nearly $15 roundtrip. The caveat was that Marco had to attend school each week in order to receive the next week’s bus and BART fair. To insure Marco’s integrity, I had him do an Internet search and write an email proposal with the exact costs involved. But first we had to set up an email account for him. He had to learn how to log on, create an account and write an email in “business letter” format to outline the needed funds.

To keep both individuals anonymous, I had them email me. I then would delete names, email addresses and any personal information.

            And so we began. Marco wrote Mr. “X.”

Mr. “X” wrote Marco back. He explained that he understood the obstacles that Marco faced, as his father was a steel mill worker. He explained that through hard work and dedication the American dream of education is still alive and well. As Marco walked into my workstation for our scheduled appointment, I was excited to have him read the email. That is, until I looked at Marco.

“Marco, you look so sad. Are you okay?”

He began to cry softly as he entered. He sat down in the chair and composed himself. He had just walked in from an uncharacteristically cold winter commute. He had on a thin black coat and jeans that was topped off with a black knit hat. As he continued to cry, he pulled the bill of the hat down to the tip of his nose and he slumped down into his chair.

“I’m not going to lie. I did not get my work done this week,” he softly stated, followed by silent tears.

                       

“Forget about the work right now. What happened Marco?”

            “My girlfriend was raped on Monday.”

            When you go through graduate coursework to become a teacher, you discuss many situations that can occur with students throughout your career. Suspected abuse, neglect, hunger, and more. When I had my training over 20 years ago they did not discuss cutting, anorexia, and bulimia, Oxycontin addictions, Lime disease, Celiac Disease and other conditions that teachers face today. They also did not discuss what to do when a boy’s girlfriend has been raped.

            As the morning progressed I listened to Marco. As he told his brief version, he cried a little more. I realized I had no tissue as I wiped my eyes and nose too. Together we met with one of our school’s counselors. We were able to give him phone numbers for the Rape Crisis Hotline, Suicide Prevention and scheduled an appointment for a follow-up appointment the next week. He had not slept all week due to the stress of being his girlfriend’s only confidant.

            We do not have a nurse’s office at my campus. There is no place for students to lie down and sleep. We brainstormed what he could do, including sleeping on BART, if needed. Soon we decided the best course was to continue the day by working a little bit, to get his mind off of the stress.

            He took tests. He watched a few short clips and had a few moments of welcomed normalcy.

            I remembered the email and asked Marco if he had checked his account. He explained that due to the stress of his week he had been unable to do so. Marco then pulled out his folder and read his notes recalling how to open his newly created email account. As he read the email from his “transportation scholarship” mentor, his eyes welled up again.

            Mine did too.

            “This man sounds real intelligent.”

            “He is. And he believes in you. He wants to see you graduate from high school this June. So do I.”

            “What happens now?”

            We discussed how the system would work, that each week that Marco came to school, he’d get the next week’s transportation monies. With a subtle suggestion from me, he slowly and carefully crafted a thank you email. He asked what he should say. I told him to just be honest.

He wrote, “Thank you so much for this opportunity to further my education. I'm sorry it sounds blunt and so shallow but this week has been very rough for me. I still sincerely mean my gratitude.”

I said, “You came today so I have the money to give you.”

            “No, I don’t need it. I saw someone who can give me a ride home today.”

            “Are you sure?”

            “Yes. What’s this?” he asked while looking at the Pennies for Patients jelly jar on my desk.

            I explained about the Leukemia Lymphoma Society donation that our school was collecting. He asked what Lymphoma was, which I explained further, sharing how that was what my father died from two years ago.                       

            Marco reached into his pocket with his hand. He slowly pulled it out and held his fist over the glass jar. He released the small bits of change into the glass container.

            I had to look away as he gathered his book, binder and papers to put in his backpack. My eyes were welling up and I had a lump in my throat. I did not want him to see me cry, again, for the third time today.

            Today, I witnessed greatness. Marco was my teacher.

*Marco is not his “real” name.

The Equalizer

Cancer is an equalizer of sorts. It doesn’t matter if you are rich, poor, black or white, you can still have a loved one develop cancer. Your mother, your father, sister, brother, friend or child can get it. I lost my dad to a blood cancer two years ago. My children’s stepmom lost her father to a combination of degenerative diseases the year before I did. Sadly, it is one thing that has united us, in a way that someone who isn’t a member of the “cancer” club can’t really understand or comprehend. Those of us left behind are constantly trying to live with a “new kind of normal.”

I will never forget stopping by Lynn and Greg’s house after her father had died and mine was close to doing so. I knew the time was near. Carolyn, or “Lynn” to insiders, asked how my dad was doing. I listed the most recent developments and eventually the conversation turned to Lynn sharing about her dad. She was very empathetic and within moments I was asking details about her father’s last moments. She started to slowly recount the last week of his life matter-of-factly but as the retelling continued she soon began to cry and choke out the words. My eyes welled up, and soon I felt a familiar lump in my own throat and a mirror of tears begin to gently flow down my face matching the ones on hers. Eventually I crossed the room, and in my mind’s eye we embraced, sharing in our sorrow. My daughters were in the room observing this phenomenon, mother and stepmom embracing.

Over two years have passed since that incident. In that time my youngest daughter and I completed a sprint-distance triathlon in memory of my dad near anniversary of his “Heaven Day.” It was quite an accomplishment for the two of us, even more so for her as she juggles her Juvenile Diabetes. Somewhere along the line I fell in love with the swimming and biking portions of the 3-tiered discipline. I did not fall in love with the run portion. In fact, I loathed it. I did it because I had to do it.                  

Earlier that year at one of my more memorable triathlons it was very hot. In the weeks leading up to the race I had tried to run the route. The first time I could not complete it because I had stomach problems. The next time a friend and I went back for a “do over” but it was awful. Leading up to race day I knew I would complete the course but I simply dreaded it. As it would turn out, I finished but managed to lose three toenails and was quite overheated. I hated every step of the run portion that day. Do you get the full picture?  I HATED RUNNING.

No sooner had I completed another shorter triathlon than a friend phoned me up. She was recently going through a divorce, would turn fifty the following year and had a goal to run her first marathon. She had joined this group of people, a seemingly makeshift band of runners who tongue-in-cheek called themselves the “Diablo Harriers.” She talked about how great they were with her (a beginner) and how even though she was slow, their patience encouragement and sense of humor kept her attending the early morning runs. She hated running too.

We were a perfect pair.

Soon I joined in on the fun, feeling it was the ideal time to work on my feared portion of the triathlons, running. And so I began to get up at 5:30am three times a week. Together my friend and I huffed and puffed our way through the assigned distances. We rekindled out friendship. We made new ones with this Diablo Harriers’ running group. Slowly, their enthusiasm spread and my friend and I completed a half-marathon with them, in costume no less. And don’t let the fact that the men wore dresses, fishnets and skirts with us fool you. They ran fast. They even placed and qualified for Boston.

Over time my friend and I have developed a love for running. I look at that statement with sheer baffled amusement. Over this half year I have experienced the “runner’s high” which must explain why I signed up for my first marathon in March. The term “March Madness” has taken on a whole new meaning.

While I have been building my strength and endurance, Lynn has undergone her own battle. She was recently diagnosed with invasive breast cancer. It has been a very trying and frustrating process to even learn what has been growing inside of her body. The diagnosis and treatment is the most painful and serious you can experience. She is not finished yet. She is healing, resting up and preparing for the combat ahead.

Her husband, my former husband, has lovingly and devotedly taken care of her throughout this process. He is soft and gentle and steadfast for her, in a way that is a living example for our three children. He is a teacher to them right now.

This last time my youngest was staying with me, she mentioned something Lynn had jokingly said, "Ha ha, maybe your mom should run a marathon for me." Immediately, I knew instinctively I would do it.

During one of the many clinics my racing club held, I heard several speakers tell us to practice what you do during the races. And what you do in the off-season will pay off later. And so I sit here today preparing to run my first marathon. This is at the same time my ex-husband’s wife approaches the difficult part of her fight. I can envision running and it getting difficult, as did my Olympic distant triathlons. At those points, I thought of my dad during his cancer treatments and his steadfast nature. It fueled me to the point of finishing the most difficult leg of the event. This time, I will think of Lynn. My children, our children, will be there to cheer for me. My running partner will be there, as I will be for her marathon a few weeks later. Other friends will be there too. And although I don’t imagine Lynn being able to come, she is welcome. She will be there with me, for all 26.2 miles of the journey.

First Annual List of Accomplishments or “Firsts” (2010 Edition)

Had ice form on my bike clothes while riding in the morning during the winter

Celebrated the passage of time (my oldest daughter turned 21) with a bunch of women in SF & later in the year drank a shot with her & went dancing

Saw my son play college lacrosse

Puked while on a bike ride previewing a course (a touch of the flu, but still…) 

Completed both short and longer distance Sprint Triathlons 

Lost 3 toenails from running in one race (it was hot & shoes too short)

Finished Olympic Distance Triathlon, despite long week of no sleep

Note: 3 goals of having fun, finishing and not puking were accomplished in all events (but not previewing courses with a touch of the stomach flu, obviously)

Went to Wisconsin & then a road trip to Nashville w/ sister & family (& saw all the states in between)

Ate at the Cracker Barrel on ^ above mentioned road trip, got only slightly sick to my stomach (I see a theme is developing here)

Was given a new moniker “Gin Kitty” by my nephew (did not involve gin, btw)

Ran my first trail run

Joined a writing group

Started a blog

Got up at 5:30 to run 2-3 mornings a week with like-minded friends

Had my first “professional matchmaker” date, and liked the guy enough to go out and become friends

Rode my old mountain bike on crazy switchbacks in Tahoe & ate dirt

Rode a rented mountain bike on The Flume Trail in Tahoe & hugged granite

Swam pretty darn far in Lake Tahoe, no wetsuit

Biked up Old Hwy 40, followed by swim in Donner Lake

Kayaked

Used a paddle board, loved it

Completed a ride down the Truckee River w/ entire family & saved mom/grandma from getting dumped

Completed first bike tour down the CA coast visiting organic farms & learning it's about the journey

Pitched a one-man tent 

Took a flippin cold “bath” in creek

Completed first ½ marathon while chatting w/ a friend, (we all wore costumes which involved pearls, fishnets, feathers and skirts, even the men)

Attended 2 day Treasure Island music festival w/16 year old daughter & was only 46 year old in sight

Experienced my first road rash, damn pinecone

Rode bike in rain with Gortex jacket (I am now a believer in Gortex)

Learned that butterfly feelings can still exist, even at age 46 & contrary to what others may say

Wore a size 6 again, and it was baggy

Shoveled a snowy driveway

Drove while it was snowing w/ chains

Snow shoeing at Taylor Creek

Developed my first chafing & bleeding from running, sports bra band was involved (had body butter, just forgot to use it)

Ran up to 15 miles with dorky fuel belt no less

Grew a wee bit wiser in the ways of love and relationships

Christmas Wishes

Santa dropped off a stocking early for a friend this year,  there were several items packed inside...

Santa Stocking

Leather-bound journal-for sorting thoughts, prayers and contemplation

Lavendar sachet-to bring a sense of calm in times of stress

Candle-for lightheartedness and romance

A lime, a mini pumpkin, a small wedge of cheese and a perfect plump berry-healthy choices and restraint now will lead to rewards in the future  (key lime or pumpkin pie if you please, cheesecake or berry cobbler)

Swedish fish-sweets because life is good and no one should totally deprive themselves

Peace ornament-your household will be one of peace

Table Topics-for conversations with children, friends and family

One perfect pine cone-to see the beauty that surrounds you

Brass heart ornament-remember that you are loved by friends, family & God

An antique key-all the things you need to be happy are within your grasp and new doors can be unlocked in your future

I Am Woman, See Me Shovel

December 20, 2010

For those of you who don’t know me, I need to tell you I am a teacher. Because of this fact I have two glorious weeks off from school every winter holiday. Yesterday I meticulously wrapped all of the Christmas presents. I had paused only once in order to give a special friend a present, which Santa had delivered ahead of schedule.

Early this morning, around 2:00am, I was lying in bed thinking of my day and debated how I should spend it.  What I needed to do was file some paperwork and write some college recommendation letters…but why do that when I could procrastinate a bit longer and take advantage of my friend’s wee wood cabin home in South Lake Tahoe? The more I thought about the matter, the more I realized I had nothing but time to make the trek up the mountain. I had prepared my car a while ago, purchasing tire chains, getting the oil changed and new car headlight bulbs replaced. With that in mind, I rolled over and soon fell asleep.

By 9:00 I had packed all items into my Jeep Liberty, including a sleeping bag, water, food, headlamp and tons of winter gear to wear over the next few days. Other than rain, the beginning of my journey was uneventful. My friend Rob had given me the phone number for California’s highway weather reports. As I reached Sacramento I dialed the number and learned chains were required to pass over Hwy 50. I cautiously headed up. As soon as I hit higher altitude it began to snow lovely laced flakes. I smiled and thought to myself THIS is why I’m going to Tahoe, to see this beauty. Look at those snowflakes falling from the sky, sashaying down. Look at the trees! Look at the snow-covered cabin roofs!

Soon I began to wonder when the chains would be required. Eventually I came to the point where the cars are checked and the “chain monkeys” are in full force. $30 dollars poorer and mere minutes later, I found myself driving in snow for the first time of my adult lifetime. I pressed my foot on the gas pedal and as my back tires were spinning to gain traction, my front ones started to slide across the icy snow. I was fishtailing, smoothly slipping across the snow with little control.

Immediately my mind recalled the same sensation, the only differences were that it was summer, I was riding a mountain bike on the Flume trail and sliding across granite sandy gravel a few thousand feet above Lake Tahoe. My guide and friend, Rick, had coached me at the bottom of the hill before we began the day. He warned me that we would be crossing sandy paths and I would likely lose control. He told me not to panic but to feel my bike and body almost glide right through it. Whatever I did, he warned me not to brake hard and quick. If I did, I would likely flip over my handlebars and could end up getting hurt badly. That was a challenging day. I was thinking of my responsibilities as the mother of my three nearly grown children, financially and in all other matters of the heart and wellbeing. In the back recesses of my mind, I was acutely aware. I looked kind of dorky, hugging the granite wall located on one side of the narrow pathway. I shared the journey with Rick and Eric, while Eric’s dog darted on and off, as well as an endurance race taking place with teams of four bicyclists passing us from the opposite direction. It was a tight squeeze. Still, it was thrilling and at the end of the day I felt I had accomplished something…more mental than physical. I could have fun, pushing my body and mind but still be a dedicated and loving mom…

Today, as I felt the same out of control sensation, I did not panic. I decided to ride through the sliding of my car across the ice. This occurred numerous times on the way over the mountain as the snow continued to fall. The truck behind me could see my dilemma and gave me a wide birth. Every time I lifted my foot off the gas pedal or started to press on it again the fish tailing would begin anew. I was quite calm and made it to the cabin. The same feeling of accomplishment washed over me.

As I drove down the street I knew there had been recent dumping of snow and that the driveway would likely be blocked. I pulled over to the side of the road and put the car in park. I grabbed my waterproof Sorrell snow boots, located my gloves and a hat and threw on a light Gortex jacket to ready myself for the upcoming chore. I trudged to the side of the house and grabbed the two shovels.

Hmmm, where to begin? I asked myself. I decided to get underway with a narrow path to one of the doors to the cabin. Within minutes I could recognize the time and effort that were needed to carve a spot for my Jeep Liberty. I shoveled and shoveled and shoveled. I was grinning the entire time. I know I looked like a jubilant rookie. I also know that as I was enjoying the work, I was simultaneously thinking of my sister Laura and what it must have been like when she shoveled paths in Boston, New York and now, Wisconsin. I’ve always admired her can-do attitude in regards to snow and the harsh realities of winter but perhaps even more so today. I took short breaks for sips of water. Just as I was about to tackle the more daunting task of the curbside icy wall from the street cleaners, a friend named Joel came to pitch in and shovel with me. He even made a nice pathway for the mailman to deliver mail.

Quite some time later, I drove my vehicle into the rather lengthy driveway with a sense of satisfaction. To outsiders, or seasoned mountaineers, really, what had I done today? I had driven in adverse conditions and shoveled a snowy pathway.  But I was still grinning and inside felt such joy. I laughingly told myself I am woman see me shovel!  The familiarity of my inner strength was once again renewed through circumstances that were as polar opposite as sand is to snow.

With that, I trudged down the newly formed path to begin the next leg of my journey.