Blank Page

1/29/09

The blank page stares at me again; some strange urge tells me daily to sit down and write something memorable, noteworthy of the experiences I am having.  There must be some sage wisdom I can impart, a fleeting thought that came to me of the middle of the night to bolster and inspire me and others.

I settle down to write and find my mind a muddle of numbness.  I remind myself that this is nothing new - when I was in a fever writing my memoirs, essays and poetry ( which I remind myself I should get back to) the old blank page syndrome would rear up, leaving me immobilized - that persistence,  patience, and pausing usually will bring results.

I am grateful for my life and all it encompasses; that's always a good beginning, and it is especially true at this crucial point in my life.  I have joined two singing groups of welcoming people, eager to extend friendship; I have a good clear  voice that can still project and be in tune; a warm house the envelopes and comforts me; books of all kinds to savor and devour; a mind that responds with reason, self-determination, and compassion; money enough to be comfortable and giving; children who love and encourage me; a loving man who admires and respects my being; friends who await my call to support my mood.  I am even grateful for my intestinal tract which reminds me, as it has in the last few days, that I must keep stress at bay as much as I possibly can.

Yet the nagging at the back of my head remains:  Am I doing enough?  And what could I do more?  It is late in life to be running that tape in myself; I am more than aware that enough situations will present themselves in the coming months for me to realize that this experience with Carrie and all involved will be more than enough to prove my mettle.  All I must do/be is already in place.  I sometimes feel as a warrior must, preparing for battle, steadfast and wary, ready with all he can muster; trusting and hoping it is enough.

My blank page has suddenly filled, for now!

Commonalities 1 21 09

We have a new President and there is joy in the land, justifiably so after the long fight.

As I watched all the proceedings yesterday I was struck by the commonalities of his struggle and ours, Carrie's and mine.  We share an immense, unknown, scary future; we must depend entirely on the cooperation, talent, dependability, and expertise of others or we won't get the job done.  Other factors we have going for us, and they are I believe most important, are hope, trust, faith that this ungainly and incomprehensible challenge can and will be surmounted.

There will be healing and wellness at the end.  That is my daily meditation and vision.

Inauguration Eve 2009

Today is the eve of inauguration day for President-elect Obama and the national excitement is building to a crescendo. I watched some of the festivities in cold Washington DC last night; it is uplifting to realize that outside our tumultuous private world, there is hope in the nation, and joy for the future, as rough as it might prove to be; seems strangely familiar, not knowing what the future holds, but willing to accept the outcome with as much tenacity as we can muster. Pete Seeger and friends leading thousands in the singing of This Land is Your Land at the Lincoln Memorial was truly inspired; miles upon miles of ardent fans bearing the cold and dismal weather to proclaim unity.

I also feel strangely removed from the world and its problems; almost trancelike somedays I manage to cope, sometimes deeply saddened, other times bordering on euphoria. Carrie and I have made a pact: we'll be honest and forthcoming with our feelings while realizing, for now, that we cannot both 'go south' at the same time!

Shannon emailed the other day to give us her input on what she thinks of our postponing the operation for six months to gain time to acquire health insurance that will cover after that time; the possibility of a faster growth of the tumor than is expected; the intrusion into the sinuses; the kind of monitoring to be done between now and the surgery, etc. I answered her honestly: that Carrie and I go through this litany of possibilities almost daily, either aloud or privately, and I am trying to support her in every way that I can; she has to make the decisions, a daunting task, which may change momentarily. We will be in constant contact with the doctor who is available every evening to consult with or talk with individually; CT scans are planned, and whatever is deemed necessary.

We have come to realize, also, that the possibility exists that we will have to proceed sooner, insurance or not. So we are left with questions and fears, but we cannot stay in fear; it is non-productive and energy-depleting. While trying to establish a positive and permanent attitude, we are also willing to be as open and flexible as possible. It is a difficult tight-rope dance we are experiencing and a horrifically emotional time for us both. She is fragile in her emotions and the very fears that she has quietly professed over the years - resistance to drugs into her body, non-fat and careful eating, pain and intrusion to her body - have manifested in this manner somehow. A humbling experience for her, yet she is very strong in many ways, and upon those strengths we must rely. Shannon will support our decisions, whatever they may be. I assured her that she not hesitate to express them; one more emotional roller-coaster ride won't kill us!

Carrie's friends are very supportive; a small cadre of them are meeting soon to plan several benefits for her huge expenses; in the coming warmer months they will be held in different locations in the city and environs. She is constantly dismayed by what unknown people and her friends think of her; their immediate offers of help and support. She has not been aware of her impact on others has been: her uplifting spirit, her shoulder to cry on, her heartfelt advice, her home-cooked meals, her beautiful smile. She is a treasure beyond measure, and I am daily more proud of her. Another 'daily' to add to my others.

Me, Abroad

When my daughter Shannon recently asked me what I wanted to name my blog, the first title I chose was "My Dailies." (One of my story titles was "Our Days, Eleanor's and Mine," a small tribute to both Eleanor Roosevelt and me for our shy beginnings, our warrior-like attitudes toward life, its challenges, our fortitude in facing them. Her daily newspaper article, "My Day," inspired me.) However, when my daughter checked, she found that "My Dailies" had been taken, so we had to decide on another title. I have also written several essays under "Me, Abroad," but that also was being used, so we segued into "Phyllis, Abroad" as the name of my blog.

But "My Dailies" refers to Melody Beattie's The Language of Letting Go and Iyanla Van Zant's Until Today!, the two inspirational paperback books that have aided me for more years than I care to count; have become my ritual each day to remember that I am a recovering person and need a regular shot of grounding. In my case, "Recovery" meant reinventing myself after many years of being someone's daughter, sister, wife, mother, mother-in-law, grandmother, widow (twice), friend, lover, etc. My particular drug-of-choice was not a substance, by my knee-reaction to the woes of my children; I took on their troubles as if they were my own, worried them like a dog with a bone, plunged in with both feet to keep the bad world from their doors. I finally realized that my pain was far worse than theirs, that I needn't take that first dip into their lives, that my influence was over. All I could offer was my support and love.

So it is all the more intriguing today that I face my daughter Carrie's surgeries in a far healthier state of mind than I could have in 1986, when I first started on my inner quest, a daily one, as it has turned out. I cannot imagine what tools I could have gathered then to help me through this test, or what support I could have offered.

We are in the 39th day since her diagnostic surgery to discover what the odd growth was that had appeared in her upper gum line. It is a desmoplastic ameloblastoma, a very rare (less than 100 cases worldwide are known), non-malignant, but spreadable tumor. We are still reeling, after 39 days, from the emotional, physical, and potential financial blows to our psyches! The one one-two to the gut is what we experience every time we keep another appointment with Dr. Traub; we leave his office doubled over with, and clutching tight to the grim reality that we somehow manage to keep hidden somewhere in the folds of our brains, between visits.

Each day we die and are reborn; literally, in some manner we are not the same people as yesterday. Our own private resurrections occur every day. Our other, and unfamiliar, "Dailies."