I Know, I Know, It's a Virtue

"I guess that's why they call us 'patients,'" my husband observed. We'd been sitting in the doctor's office half an hour past his appointment. We watched a parade of other patients file in and out until, at last, it was his turn. We wondered how "patient" doctors are when they have to wait to see a doctor themselves.

Why is patience such a difficult thing to master?

I am a Type A personality, and patience has always been a challenge. I get frustrated waiting behind the elderly person in the bank who chatters away with the teller about her family, her garden, her aches and pains. It is torture for me to sit in traffic that is creeping along at 15 miles an hour. And I begin to hyperventilate when I have to explain to the third nimrod at my cell phone company that they are not entitled to a late charge because I have a cancelled check that proves they received my payment on time.

I don't know why I'm wired this way, but I've observed I'm not in the minority. Last night, we were trying to cross the street after dinner. We were in the crosswalk, the signal indicated it was okay for us to go, but cars turning left didn't want to wait and, in the game of chicken that's played every day a million times around the world, they zoomed past us. The worst offender was an elderly lady who braked at the last minute. My husband waved her on and yelled, "Go on, you're in a big ass hurry." She looked straight ahead and plowed on. And turned into the gas station. Apparently, her getting gas at that exact moment was the most important thing in the world.

Then there was the guy behind me in our local discount drug store. I hate shopping there because the people who frequent the place behave abominably. (What is it about cheap prices that brings out the worst in folks?) Anyhow, we were in line, and there was a woman in one of those carts for people with disabilities. She had a small child on her lap and was maneuvering her way to the checkout. It took her maybe an extra five seconds to work it out. The guy behind me was muttering under his breath the whole time. The woman completed her purchases and asked the cashier if she could get assistance to her car. At that point, the guy behind me became apoplectic. I turned to him and said softly, "Would you just chill out?!" Did no good. In all, the extra time the cashier had to spend helping the woman was less than a minute. But even if it had been five minutes, what was this man missing out on that was so important?

And that's where it comes back to me. Considering his bad behavior, I had to think about my own. Even though I was not vocal, was I just as bad for getting worked up over having to wait? Where was I going in such a hurry? Was I on my way to cure cancer or save the world from global disaster?

Of course not. I was just on my way back to work or home or to another errand. I could have spent the extra few minutes planning dinner or counting my blessings or just taking the time to breathe and relax. Time is a luxury. We take it for granted, but we don't know how much of it we have left on this earth. Pretty much everything in my world can wait an extra few minutes without dire consequences.

So this has become my mission. To work on slowing down just a little. To remember that the elderly lady in the bank is probably going home to an empty house, and the teller may be the only one she talks to today. That the slow traffic could be because of an accident, and how fortunate I am not to have been involved. As for the idiots at the cell phone company, I held my tongue, and the lady I ultimately spoke with was able to resolve my problem and was pleasant and professional. She did good.

I'll continue to work on being patient. I'm not sure I'll ever be able to smile placidly and say, "No, that's okay, you jumped the line but I'm good with it."

I guess I'm not going to inherit the earth anytime soon. But maybe I can enjoy a smiling baby or a colorful sunset while I'm waiting.

Heavy Petting

Petting is therapeutic. Not the kind that's done in the back seat of the car in the park (although that kind may be considered "therapeutic" for completely different reasons). I'm talking about our furry or feathered friends. The family members who cannot speak our language but who communicate with us just fine.

They wag and beguile their way into our hearts, they share our joys and our sadness. They become members of our family. And they leave a space that cannot be filled when they are gone.

When I was growing up, my parents told us we could not have dogs or cats. My mom didn't want larger animals because she didn't want to have to be the one to take care of them (she already had six kids). My dad had a menagerie when he was growing up, but his heart was broken when his beloved dog "Teddy" died, and he didn't want to become attached to another animal. We were allowed to have small animals...gerbils, birds, turtles and once, even a snake. (I had a guinea pig, but she only lived six months.)

Marge, in her natural habitat

When I moved into my first apartment by myself, I decided to get a cat. My boyfriend at the time told me about a cat shelter where they let the animals live until a home was found -- they didn't put them to sleep. Off we went. There were rooms of roaming felines. Some of them yelled for attention. It was a little overwhelming. Then, one grey tabby came up quietly and rubbed against my legs. My boyfriend said, "that looks like a fine animal." I agreed, picked her up, completed the necessary paperwork, and home we went. After a short adjustment period, during which she hid under the day bed, we became fast friends. I called her "Muskrat," and the two of us grew very close. We played hockey on the wooden floors in my apartment. And she was a great lap cat. One of my favorite things to do was sit in the rocking chair in front of the window, sipping tea with a bundle of cat on my lap. The only thing she did not like about the apartment was my water bed. She'd tiptoe along the edge (the part that didn't move) and meow at me in the morning when it was time to eat.

I disrupted the apple cart when I rescued "Chessie," a very wily, soft grey cat who did not play well with others. The two of them fought all the time. Chessie eventually went to live with my boyfriend. And it was back to just Muskrat and me.

Fast forward to mid-1986 when my now-husband and I began to date. I made it clear that my cat had seniority. He was leery at first, but in short order, he warmed up to her...and changed her name to "Marge." (He didn't like "Muskrat," and after several months of tussling over her name, I gave in.) We moved Marge to Alexandria with us. And back to Cleveland. She was mostly my cat, but my husband was the object of her affection when I was out of town. For awhile I did quite a bit of traveling for work, and those nights when it was just my husband and the cat, the two of them were very cozy.

Then our son was born. I remember my grandmother cautioning me about cats, repeating the old wives' tale about them suffocating babies. I watched Marge to make sure she was cool with the new baby, but there was never any real concern. Marge was very protective of him. Her mom instincts were strong, and she watched him like a hawk. She didn't like it when people came over and tried to hold him. She was a good cat. She had a good run. Then, in January of 1999, her time ran out. The three of us were heartbroken. My husband said he did not want to get another cat.

Miss Mabel

It was a little over a year later, at Easter time in 2000, when my son and I wore down my husband, and the three of us went back to the cat shelter.We walked through the rooms until my husband spied one cat in a perch high above the floor. She was the spitting image of Marge, and my husband melted. He looked at me with "that look" and said, "Can we get this one? Please?"

Like I was going to say "no"...

This particular cat hated all of the other cats, which is why she was up high. Every time another cat walked by, she hissed at them. The folks at the shelter told us the cat was two or three years old (they really weren't certain) and she needed to be spayed. So I made arrangements to pick her up on Good Friday. I left work early that day and drove straight to the shelter.

When I walked in, she was pacing back and forth and yelling her head off. They told me she had been waiting for me. She continued her caterwauling throughout the 30-minute ride home. I had warned my son that it would take awhile for her to get adjusted to her new environment and not to worry if we didn't see her for the first few days. I needn't have bothered. I opened her carrier and released her. Yelling all the way, she went down in the basement and throughout the house, checking things out, then settled herself on the couch with a nod of the head and an attitude of "this will do."

We called her "Mabel."

Now, aged approximately 16 years, Mabel is coming to the end of the road. Her kidneys are like sieves and she sleeps most of the time. She hangs out in the basement a lot, and sometimes I don't think she recognizes us. About once a day, she wants to be petted and told she's a good kitty, then she goes back to sleep. I know it won't be long. And it will be a sad day. Mabel was supposed to be my cat, but she formed a deep attachment to our son. When he went away to college, her heart broke. We didn't think she'd live long after that, but she has surprised us by hanging in this long. She is a sweet little cat. And much loved.

Much like the humans we love, our pets can exasperate us at times. But the love and joy and comfort they give make us wealthy beyond measure. And life without them would be poorer indeed.

It's Vast, Ye Maties

Every morning I make it a point to go outside and look up. Some mornings it's dark, and I can enjoy the broad vista of the constellations. I've never been able to work out much beyond the Dippers and Orion's Belt, but I appreciate them nonetheless. Most mornings I'm admiring a cloud-streaked sky, blue or grey. Watching the clouds in their lazy journey over the earth or the stars in their courses reminds me of the vastness of the universe.

And this is blog-worthy...why? (You ask.)

I believe it's all about perspective. Every day I go to work and get sucked into the minor miseries and contrived catastrophes that define my life in that building. It's easy to get caught up and stressed out. To forget about the bigness of the universe, and how my life and the things that happen at work are just a minuscule part of it. Sometimes when I'm in a meeting and starting to get frustrated, I look out the window and think, "Yep, it's still there, a whole world full of billions of people who don't give a shit on shingle about what happens in this room." It's very comforting. It puts my work in its place. Of course, the work is important to me, it needs to be done and done well, but it does not define me as a person. Nothing I'm doing there will change the course of the universe. It is a job that needs to be done. Nothing more, nothing less. And when I am no longer roaming its corridors, there will be other employees to carry on.

Some might find this observation depressing. Not me. I find it liberating. When I walk out the door at the end of a long day and look up at the sky, I know it's okay to let go. And go home to the things that matter most to me.

That's what it's all about.

Bundle of Joy

"I don't want to have kids," I told my husband when we were dating. He was crestfallen. He loved kids. He was very good with his nieces and nephews. But he loved me and decided he still wanted to marry me, even though it meant he would not have children.

Flash forward to 1991. We're on a long-distance drive to somewhere, when I tell him, "I've changed my mind. I want to have a child."

He was  furious. I don't blame him. Asking him to shift gears after several years during which time he had gotten used to the idea that life was just the two of us. Not three. Not four. It took him awhile to adjust to the notion. Then we talked practicalities.

At that time, we were living in the house of his birth with his mother. We'd moved back from Virginia to take care of her after my father-in-law passed away. The house was very small, and even though his parents had raised five children there, when you factored in three adults, not two, it was not big enough for us. So, while he agreed that we would have a child, I agreed it would have to wait a little while.

The next year we bought a home and began trying. It didn't take very long. By Christmas, I was pregnant, and our son was born the following September, on the day of my baby shower at work. Two of my coworkers brought a photo of the cake. It was lovely.

As I had predicted, the baby was a boy, his head was too large, and the doctor had to go in and get him. During the procedure, I was very nervous, and the doctor asked my husband to calm me down. He had just been watching Jeopardy, so he asked a Jeopardy question -- What was Wilma Flintstone's maiden name? The doctor and nurses debated among themselves, and it was all very jolly -- for them. I was shivering and anxious. In short order, my son made his entrance, I cooed a bit, then asked them to please put Humpty back together again. (Kudos to my husband, who is icked out pretty easily, but who was able to keep his composure in spite of viewing all of my innards lying about.)

Having a c-section meant I could stay in the hospital a couple of extra days. I was thrilled. The hospital had new birthing suites, and there was only one other mother there. So the nurses were all over me and my son. Going home was culture shock. The first week was a blur. The odd thing was walking into the house, and nothing feeling the same. Everything in our lives changed. It was a wonderful, challenging time. I had six weeks before I had to go back to work. My husband had agreed to stay home and raise our son.

Looking back, there were times when I wish I could have been the one. I remember talking to them on the phone after they'd taken a walk in the park together or gone to the library or visited my mom and dad. And I would get teary and sad. Then there were days when two of them would come visit me for lunch. They'd bring sandwiches, and we'd sit in the park. Or we'd go to Wendy's and eat. Sometimes they would stop at the florist's and present me with a rose. Good times.

It was the right thing for my husband to be the stay-at-home dad. He took a lot of crap for it, but seeing how well my son has turned out is his vindication. Perhaps for him, the second-most important validation came from his mother, who said, "Don't pay attention to what anyone tells you. You are doing the right thing."

My time with our son was limited, but I made the most of it. Evenings were my time. We would eat dinner, I'd play with my son, give him a bath, read him a story, sing to him, put him to bed. Weekends were family time.

Then came pre-school. I didn't sign him up soon enough, so he went on a waiting list. One month into the school year, he got in because another kid was a biter and lost his spot. We have a photo of my son on his first day, so brave, smiling from ear to ear.

The school years whizzed by. Grammar then high school, now college. He's a young man with a life of his own. Our son has turned into a fine human being, and we are proud of him. Together, the three of have laughed, fought, and loved each other. I like to remember the laughing most, it's the best part.

We are proud of our son. Our wish for him is a wonderful life. One that is long, happy, healthy and full of laughter. Mazel tov, my son.

P.S. Wilma's maiden name was "Slaghoople."

All Gone to Look for America

As we began our journey, back to the Old Dominion, back to our second home town, I heard the Simon & Garfunkel song, America, playing in my head. It's my traveling song of choice -- bittersweet, soft and yearning.

We knew the way. We had traveled back and forth, from Cleveland to Washington and back again. Now we were headed to the Washington Capitals Convention in D.C. We also planned to go to the Newseum to see a new JFK exhibit. And spend the day in Alexandria, in Old Town, where we both worked several years ago.

Why is it the trip always takes longer going there than coming back? The drive down was uneventful. We noshed on sandwiches from Burger King. Stopped for coffee and a pastry at Panera. Paid our tolls. Rode our road. Navigated various construction areas, many of them phantom, with no workers or equipment in sight. We tried to listen to an audio book, but nothing really fit. We were "restless and aching" but we did know why...we were headed back home. To our other home. The one we left behind for a fate that wouldn't let us be.

We arrived late afternoon to a note on the door from my brother-in-law. We were to make ourselves at home. We made a call to my niece-in-law, who came over, her three small children in tow. She was feeding our literary addiction by taking us to a library book sale. We supported the local economy rather generously before heading back to their home, where we saw my nephew, briefly, in his natural habitat of overgrown plants and wildflowers. Too brief a visit. Then back to our home for the next few days. A lovely dinner with new babies and small children and nephews and their wives. Family time. Nice. My mister was a hit, reading stories to two of the little ones, in his own quirky, endearing style. Then bed.

Friday morning, off to the Newseum. Very moving photographs that really showed JFK. You can't always hide from the camera. Which native American tribe was it that believed the camera stole your soul? I believe it's true. Photographs do capture your soul. We spent most of the rest of the day exploring the other exhibits. Then to the museum shop. Then to the shop at the National Gallery of Art. Then back on the Metro, whooshing our way back. Through tunnels, then daylight. Content. A little sad. My Mister went to the game my brother-in-law was helping to coach. I stayed and read my email. Played with my Kindle. Dozed awhile.

Saturday was Caps day. Rallies and speakers. Cowbells and Rock the Red towels and t-shirts and all manner of souvenirs. Silly photographs of each other. Nice to be among our own kind again. Then back on the Metro. The one day it rained, we were lucky to be indoors. We timed it perfectly so my brother-in-law didn't miss any of his football game picking us up at the station. A quiet evening in.

Sunday, my favorite day, spent in Old Town. Sitting by the Potomac, people-watching, drinking in everything. Reminiscing days from years ago, sitting here just like this, reflecting the sunshine. Walking along the riverfront, taking pictures that will never do justice to the original. We strolled up and down King Street, and parked ourselves in front of the building where I used to work. Then lunch at our favorite restaurant, Il Porto. Eating homemade raviolis in a cream sauce that I nearly wept over. Yes, it was that good. If I could have licked the plate and gotten away with it, I would have. I think I chewed every bite about 50 times. A white chocolate cake for dessert with raspberry sauce. We split it. Divine. We tipped liberally and tripped out to buy t-shirts and magnets and the usual stuff for ourselves and for our college-aged son. Exhausted, happy and immeasurably sad all at the same time, we headed out of town. Later, we were driving down the George Washington Parkway. We stopped at a small park to take pictures. Of the park, the Potomac, each other, our shadows. Then back to base camp for pizza and a quiet evening with family.

Monday was our day of departure. Time for farewells and promises to drive safely. Hoping we remembered everything. Did you pick up the two small containers that were on the dining room table? Yes. What about my jacket? I think it's in the trunk. I checked the room, I'm pretty sure we got everything. Then the trip home. Leisurely, recapping everything we did, what was said, what we should have done, what we were glad we did. Daydreaming about how cool it would be to live there again. Though we both know it's not in our cards.

The trip back is uneventful, and we arrive home safe and sound. The cat yells at us. We unload the car. Back to work tomorrow.

For the next several days, we will be saying, "Remember what we were doing this time last week?"

Yep, I remember...

We’re on a Need-to-Know Basis

My father-in-law had a favorite saying when his children asked him why the sky was blue or some other question to which he had no answer. He would reply, “We’re on a need-to-know basis, and you don’t need to know.

I love this answer. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate those who are intellectually curious. My husband is, very much so, in spite of – or perhaps because of – the nebulous response he got as a child. He loves the Great Courses series. He reads history voraciously. He loves learning new things in math. He has an amazing mind. I love going to museums with him, because he gives me my own personal tour, chock full of interesting facts that are far more fascinating than those inscribed on the little plaques on the wall.

Alas, I do not retain any of this kind of knowledge. He will read me interesting facts in some book he’s reading, and I will say, “Wow, that is so amazing.” Then the next day or the day after that, I will have forgotten. He, on the other hand, will file it away and retrieve it weeks or months or years later. And he’ll say, “Don’t you remember, I told you all about this.” And I will shrug and agree that he probably had, and that my mind is a sieve.

The things that my mind HAS retained are random and generally unhelpful. For instance, when was the last time someone asked you to sing the words to the Patty Duke Theme Song? Or to name the six wives of Henry VIII? Or ask you the meaning of life, the universe and everything? (It’s 42, by the way.)

I have come to accept my limitations. I am grateful that my brother understands and even embraces the world of electronics…that fiber optics are as familiar to him as the faces of his children. Stephen Hawking has my respect and admiration, but if I lived to be 193, his concepts would still elude me.

I don’t need to know why the sky is blue. Just that it’s there, above the clouds, predictable and lovely and just the color a sky should be.

Dad was right. I don’t need to know.

A Private Affair

My parents would have celebrated their 65th wedding anniversary last week. I hope that, wherever they are, they celebrated well. Although, come to think of it, they never did make a big deal out of it. They exchanged cards. But they didn't go out for a big, fancy dinner or share expensive gifts. Their wedding anniversary was not seen as an occasion that required a lot of hoo-ha.

Mom and Dad were never the hoo-ha types. They were quiet homebodies. They didn't socialize. They had each other and that was enough. Yes, they had us, too, but there was something very private and off-limits in their relationship. They didn't talk about the details of their disagreements. Presenting a united front to us was their mission, and they achieved it.

Looking back, my folks celebrated their love in small ways. She made his favorite dinners. He helped with the dishes. When I was little, my Dad worked down the street from the Whitman Candy Company. From time to time, he brought home a Whitman Sampler for my mom. Which she shared with us. A little. Alone in the kitchen, my mom would giggle and say things like, "Tony, stop that!" We'd yell from the living room, "What's going on in there?" and they'd reply in unison, "Nothing." Occasionally, my dad would add, "Mind your own business."

When my mom talked about my dad, she'd get a dreamy, far-away look in her eye. The one time she attempted to have "the talk" with me, all she would say is, "When you truly love the person you're with, it's wonderful." Then she sighed and changed the subject.

Like most men of his generation, my dad was not touchy-feely. He did not talk about his feelings for my mom. I didn't know until after he died that he sang "You Are My Sunshine" to my mom every night before they fell asleep.

My father was diagnosed with Alzheimer's. For the last eight years of his life, my mom took care of him, even when he didn't recognize her anymore. And after he died, she was certain he visited her at night. I believed her. I don't think anything, even death, could keep those two apart. Now I feel both of them as I sit here and type. How I wish I could sit at their kitchen table one more time and talk and tease and laugh and watch my own son play on the floor with the toys I enjoyed as a child.

I sure do miss you guys. Happy Anniversary! Have a caramel cream for me!