In The Eye of The Storm

It’s scary

how some of us discover

we’re alone.

Lorna says

most people make that discovery

when they are in their forties

so it must sometimes coincide

with the experience of

the so-called “mid-life crisis.”

But I also think it is possible

to realize that fact

when a person is younger than forty

and it is likewise possible

that a person could live a lifetime

without ever learning

that he or she is alone.

By “alone” I mean

finding out you are

a completely separate entity

from everyone you know and love,

that no one will experience life

in exactly the same way you do,

that no one can truly understand your pain,

and that life will go on

virtually without change

whether or not you are around.

I plunged into this ice cold realization

at the age of 35

when I learned I had

an incurable illness.

In the months immediately following

this realization,

I spent every waking minute

thinking about and fearing my aloneness.

When we went on family outings,

I’d look at the houses we passed

and think,

life goes on in these homes

just as it always has.

In them are families

going about their regular business—

eating, sleeping, going to school or work,

watching TV, reading books, cleaning house—

as if nothing has changed.

How can this be

when the structure of my life

is crumbling into ruin around me?

It must mean

that my problems and I are insignificant

and I am truly alone

in this experience!

During that same period of time,

I would lie on my bed in the afternoon,

not resting,

but probing my conscious mind

in a frenzied effort

to find ways out

of my predicament.

My eyes never fixed

on features of the room

or on how the light

streaming through the window

struck the furniture in the room.

Instead,

they darted back and forth feverishly

in a desperate attempt

to escape from

a very tricky, very lonely maze.

None of my mental pacing helped

because I was seeking a cure

for the aloneness I felt

outside myself

rather than from inside myself

where the answer waited for me

to discover it.

Time, Lorna’s psychotherapy,

and my earnest desire

to find inner peace,

have brought me to the place

where I am right now.

It isn’t a joyful place

(because I never would have chosen

to have the experience of this illness)

but it is a place of peace

like that which is found

in the center or “eye” of a hurricane.

Whenever I stop thrashing

at the raging hurricane outside myself,

I soar like a seabird

over the ocean far below me.

I am in the eye of the storm

and I find healing in the quiet there.

While I know God is with me

at all times,

I only FEEL his presence

when I enter the eye.

I wish I could always remain

in this gentle, peaceful place

where the pain of my loss

doesn’t hurt so much.

But I am human

and, therefore, am very attached

to the world.

I can remain in the eye of the storm

only so long as

I allow my conscious mind

with its worldly concerns

to rest.

When I turn to the world,

which turns me away from God

and from the vast healing resources

within my unconscious mind,

I am thrown back into the hurricane again.

Now when I look back on

the early months of my illness,

I feel sympathetic ache

for my struggle to accept it.

It took a long time

for me to feel comfortable at all

with the knowledge

that as far as the world is concerned,

my illness and I are alone together.

But if I could get

just one point across

to the readers of this poem,

it would be

that given time, professional guidance,

and earnest desire

to find inner peace,

they can join me

in the place where I am now.

I am not alone here.

By, Laura Schiller

November 15, 1988

Dandelion Tears and Wishes

Me and my Laura, taken by my very talented, and very dear friend, Trisha Madrid

In these passing days, months and years I see you everywhere. I see you in my neighbor’s mom who comes three days a week to take care of her grandson. I see you in my other neighbor, two doors down, during a spring dinner of tomato-basil soup in the company of her two adult daughters and three grandchildren. I see you arm and arm with mothers and daughters of every age--passing me by in streets, cars, coffee shops and grocery stores. I even see you in the arguments, bickering and misunderstandings between my closest girlfriends and their mothers. You float through these scenarios like the minuscule windblown seeds of dandelion puffs I’d make a wish on and then blow away as a kid.

I’m often angry and sad by the scattered pieces of you left behind; tiny indiscriminate parts of you I can never quite grasp. All the moms and daughters, their abundant love, anger, and other oozing communal emotions bring me to my knees. I cry without abandon as I tote my 2-year-old twins across the parking lot thinking, she was robbed. My little brother was younger than they are now when you became sick. You would have unwillingly forsaken holding his small body against your own. Already, pieces of you are separating from the whole, and the only wishes being made are the kind that can’t come true.

I think about my friend who recently lost her mother. We sit on the couch and she says, “No one can replace her.” And I wonder, is there a hint of question in her words? Or, is the question my own? For in my own past I spent many years petitioning a stand-in for you. At times I’d bathe in a feeling close to Mom, but inevitably it evaporated into misty disappointment. It wasn’t fair to put the unwritten expectation on them. It’s impossible to replace the irreplaceable. Sooner or later my unattainable expectations of them would squelch us both and one or both of us would recoil, our relationship withering like the limbs of the ill-fated Wicked Witch of the West. Sometimes you can never return to Kansas.

Still, I’m doing alright by myself, and really if I think about it, I’m not alone. Not by a long stretch. And somehow, I find myself seeing you in different light. I see you as I rock my fussy girls to bed. I see you in the man who loves me unconditionally ever reiterating, everything is gonna be okay. I see you in your namesake as she stubbornly undermines me … again and again. I see you in my friends: In Liz who somehow never ceases to hear out my increasing lamentations (about everything) and picks up where you left off as writing sage and mentor. I see you in my friend Lori who always seems to bring me dinner or treats at the right time. I see you in Lauren, Natalie and Rhonda, who despite the many miles between us, always return a phone call, offer a kind word and tell me I’m a great mom, especially when I don’t feel like one. They do not replace the irreplaceable, only enhance the willingly enhanceable.

You float through these scenarios like the minuscule windblown seeds from dandelion puffs I’d make a wish on and then blow away as a kid. My heart is happy now because every tiny seed is a testament of your love for me, and like every good seed, you can be everywhere and I don’t have to hold you in my palm to know it. The peace in my heart tells me that for every piece of you floating through parts of my life that I can’t reach, the stem of you—the part that held everything together, still holds strong. It holds my ideals, my beliefs, my friendships, my children, my family, and it holds … me. Perhaps wishes do come true—although not in the way we imagine they will.

MY PHONE BOOTH

Laura Schiller was my supermom, even when her body
wouldn't let her be. In the spirit of Halloween, may you all
find the phonebooth that transforms you, into your most super you.

Clark Kent is a wimp

and so am I.
He is clumsy and awkward
and basically a nerd.
We have those characteristics
in common as well.
Yet, when Clark Kent
goes into a phonebooth
and tears off his everyday clothes,
he becomes Superman,
who is quite the opposite
of Clark Kent.
All of a sudden,
he is faster than a speeding bullet,
more powerful than a locomotive,
and able to leap over tall buildings
in a single bound!

In addition,
he can bend steel with his bare hands,
has x-ray vision,
and is damn good-looking!
His transformation from
Wimpy to Wonderful
takes just a matter of seconds.
Such a dramatic and rapid change
would seem to be possible
only in comic book pages
or in movies having large budgets
for special effects.
But I am living proof
that such transformations are possible
without cartoons or cash.

When I need to be strong
or powerful or pretty,
I simply enter my phonebooth,
which is in the form
of an easy chair and a computer.
Someone puts a switch in my hand
and in an instant,
I change from mild-mannered wimp
to Superwife, Supermom, Supreme!

There is nothing I can’t do
with the power of my imagination
and the marvelous machine
on the table in front of me.
I can climb
the treacherous and icy slopes
of Mount Everest.
I can explore the depths of the sea
to observe the behavior of the whales
I admire so much.

But more important to me,
I am able to enjoy the complex conversations
with my husband
and can join with him
to guide and discipline
our growing children.
I can physically hold and comfort
my daughter and son
or tell them stories
or play with them.
I can have another child
as I probably would have had
if I hadn’t gotten ill.

Skeptics will tell me
all these things aren’t real,
that they’re all in my mind.
They certainly are in my mind
but also on this paper
in black and white!
What’s more,
you just have to look at me
while I’m sitting in my phonebooth
to see how
my writing transforms me
from Wimpy to Wonderful
in a matter of seconds!

I sit taller,
have roses in my cheeks,
and a gleam of inspiration
in my eyes.
Since such a small movement
is required to activate the switch,
I feel no weakness in my limbs
as I create a different world
on my computer’s screen.
My phonebooth gives me confidence
in my ability to be
an important and worthwhile person,
which I rarely feel
when I’m away from it.

For as long as I am there,
I’m as strong and invincible
as Superman!

In case you were wondering,
I have something else in common
with Superman.
I, too, haven’t found a way
to handle the Kryptonite.

By, Laura Schiller
March 1988

Brownies, Ice Cream and a Lesson in Caregiving

Some people are naturally good caretakers. I am not one of those people. My husband Paul … now he’s someone you’d pick to be in your lifeboat after a shipwreck. Caring for others comes naturally to Paul. When we were dating, right before he proposed to me as a matter-of-fact, he was my sole caretaker during a nasty bout of pneumonia. He took me to all my doctor appointments, made me homemade chicken noodle soup and literally, was at my beckon call. In all times of sickness, sadness or otherwise down and out periods in my life, Paul has always gone above and beyond in caring for me.

Now I, on the other hand, cannot readily confess that I have reciprocated the same attentiveness to Paul. Mothering, thank GOD, is something that comes a bit more naturally! It’s caring for big people that I find unnatural … and sometimes unsettling. I can’t really pinpoint my discomfort other than to say, that the thought of caring for an adult creates an overall sense of uneasiness within me. Am I doing this right? What if I screw up? Or, worst of all, the admission of: I wish I were doing something else. Part of these lamentations stem from the caretaking responsibilities I had as a child for my Mom, which although were not many compared to some, were enough to leave an impressionable distaste in my memory.

When I reunited with pen and paper (or fingers to keyboard), one of the first stories I wrote, was a story about feeding my mom brownies when she was in the height of ALS. Titled “Brownie,” the story was what I would call an honest piece of writing—but also an angry appraisal of caregiving. I now identify that I was angry for being angry at being angry about feeding my mom brownies, when really, I’d rather be doing whatever it was I thought I’d rather be doing at the time. It has taken me many years to forgive myself for all those brownies. But I have.

I was reminded of “Brownie” when Paul was in the hospital after a motorcycle accident. The night before he was scheduled for elbow surgery, he asked if I would feed him some chocolate ice cream. Willingly I obliged; and as I put each spoon full to his mouth, a familiar feeling crept over me. It was a feeling reminiscent of a time when I brought a spoon full of chocolate goodness to the lips of my Mom-- but the feeling wasn’t anger this time. It was fear. I remembered feeling utterly vulnerable as a kid, sitting there in a room, just Mom and I-- a brownie and a spoon. “You can do this”—the thought that willed my sometimes hesitant arm to lift the spoon.

There I was again, but this time, sitting in a hospital room, just me and Paul-- a chocolate ice cream container and a spoon. And again, I thought, “You can do this!” adding without realizing, “this is not the same situation.” Without much further contemplation, I fed him the rest of the ice cream. The next day, (post surgery) Paul wanted coffee. Again, I obliged and held a cup with a straw to his mouth. I quickly realized that my mind had wandered somewhere into “brownies past” again. The result: hot coffee dribbled out of the straw, down Paul’s chin. “You can do this!” … but somewhere between the ice cream, brownies and a few 24 hours in the hospital, I could feel my resolve begin to dissipate.

Paul home from the hospital three days later, I continued to site myself on poor caregiving incidents. I caught myself sighing at one of Paul’s simple requests. I openly threw a tantrum after hours of enduring our three girls having tantrums of their own. Worst of all, I started to feel angry for being angry that I’d rather be doing whatever it was I’d rather be doing at the time. “You can do this!” had completely degenerated into, “You suck at this!”

Perhaps my biggest flaw was that before the hospital release papers were even signed, I had already set my expectations to a degree fit for complete and utter failure. I was going to surpass June Cleaver in all her mothering, caregiving, house cleaning and cooking abilities. Right—because I am so like June Cleaver, who I might add, is just as fictitious (and not nearly as cool) as Superwoman. I suppose it’s kind of like expecting a child or teenager to be happy about feeding her adult mother brownies, with the absence of fear, frustration or embarrassment.

I don’t believe in blaming my behavior or shortcomings on situations that have occurred in my past. I do however; believe in using events from my past as information to help me grow in my present. It has not served me well to cast aside the memories of brownie feedings, or to discount my feelings tied to them. If I can accept my feelings and limitations tied to caregiving, I can replace “You can do this” with “I am doing this … the best I know how.” I don’t have to be June Cleaver and I don’t have to love doing something I don’t love to do. I only have to remember that just because I have forgiven myself for an event in the past, doesn't make me immune to feelings surrounding the incident. I have been given the tools to effectively field my feelings ... I just have to remember to apply them.

Lord knows I have a l-o-n-g way to go in taking care of big people. Poor Paul--the guy probably missed a few meals and baths here and there during my motorcycle accident caregiving days… but we made it through. I made it through.

A MAGIC PENNY

Before I had children,

I used to envision myself

sitting in a rocking chair

with my unhappy baby in my lap

and singing the child to sleep

with a sweet, soothing lullaby.

What a bitter disappointment it was

when my daughter and son came along

and were definitely NOT soothed

by my rocking and singing!

Neither of them

fell asleep in my lap

while listening to my vast repertoire

of sleepy-time tunes.

Evan always became wide awake

and used his time on my lap

to dance and wriggle.

But my rocking and singing

actually seemed to irritate Erin.

As soon as she was old enough

to express herself verbally,

Erin stopped me

every time I tried to sing

to her or with her.

When I asked her

why she didn’t want me to sing,

she said she didn’t like my voice.

I remember telling my mom

I didn’t like her singing voice

when I was a kid,

but unlike me,

Mom ignored my negative opinions

and went right on singing.

I think the reason I gave up trying

to sing to and with my children

was that I had no support

from my little family.

Whereas I grew up

in a large, musical family

whose members sang daily,

my family by marriage was small

and loved all music

but the sing-along kind.

Erin and John loved listening

to all kinds of music

but neither one of them sang –

unless you count

the songs Erin made up as she played

and sang to herself.

The fact that my husband and daughter

didn’t sing

bothered me most

when we went on long trips.

When my sisters and I were young,

we used to sing

on all car trips

which were longer than a half hour.

It filled our travel time

in a pleasing way

and it made the time pass by quickly.

The three of us had memorized songs

from our school, church, friends, family

and Girl Scout camp.

We knew nursery rhyme tunes

such as the 99 versus of

“Old MacDonald”

and “Mary Had A Little Lamb.”

We sang rounds

like “White Coral Bells”

and “Hey-Ho, Nobody Home.”

We knew many folk songs

among which were

“Oh Susannah,”

“I’ve Been Working On The Railroad,”

and “Yankee Doodle.”

Since our father was a singer,

we had memorized several show tunes

from musicals such as

“Oklahoma,” “South Pacific,”

and “The Sound Of Music.”

Probably our favorites

were the nonsense songs

which usually told a story

and dragged on for many, pointless verses.

One of those nonsense songs,

called “Found A Peanut,”

was so long, repetitive and boring,

our parents groaned

every time we started it.

I think that’s why

we chose to sing it so often.

For the most part, however,

Mom and Dad supported and encouraged

our singing.

Not only did they enjoy listening

to our three sweet voices

blending together harmoniously,

but they were saved from

having to think of activities

to entertain us

on long car rides.

Singing in the car, therefore,

had become a pleasant habit for me

which I wished to continue

with a family of my own.

But it was not to be.

As I explained earlier,

Erin would not permit me to sing,

not even in the car

on long, boring rides.

Without the support of my sisters,

I could not ignore the

“Mommy, stop singing!”

which came from the back seat.

I often turned around to look at Erin

and to try to convince her

it would really be fun

if we all sang together.

She always answered me with a scowl

and a firm, “NO, I DON’T WANT TO!”

When Erin started preschool,

I thought she would finally start

to memorize and sing some songs.

However, I still received

the same negative reaction from her

every time I encouraged her to sing.

… Until, that is,

the day we were returning

from Southern California

where we had spent Christmas

with Erin’s grandparents.

Erin was four and a half years old

and had been in preschool

since the previous August.

I figured

she had to have learned

at least a few songs in school

by that time.

After two years of enduring

Erin’s intolerance of my singing,

I didn’t dare start up a song

she’d probably been learning at school.

But on impulse,

I asked her if she knew a song

she wanted to sing to us.

I was stunned

when she said yes.

And I was as unprepared

for the wonderful song she sang

as I was for her agreeing to sing

in the first place.

Love’s something

If you give it away,

Give it away,

Give it away.

Oh, Love’s something

If you give it away,

You’ll end up having more.

It’s just like a magic penny,

Hold it tight

And you won’t get any.

You spend it, you lend it,

You’ll have so many,

You’ll end up having more!

That first time Erin sang to us

is etched in my memory.

I can see her

sitting on her old crib mattress

in the back seat

and leaning over the front seat

while she sang.

I see her Dorothy Hamill haircut

and her round face

set in such a serious expression

as she concentrated on the lyrics.

I remember watching Erin

and listening to her

without moving

for fear of breaking the enchanting spell.

My memory of that moment is so clear,

I even know where we were

on our journey northward --

just south of San Francisco.

It is probably such a clear memory

because it never happened again.

Erin never sang to us,

in the car or elsewhere,

until she learned camp songs.

six years later.

I can’t sing now,

due to my illness,

but from long experience

tunes still come into my mind

nearly every day.

Lately,

I’ve been humming to myself

Erin’s “Magic Penny” song.

So often, these days,

it seems to happen

that things which come into my mind

over and over again

are doing so for a reason.

This time, I think,

I’m being reminded

that love is nothing

if I hold onto it tightly.

It’s a natural reflex of my illness

to cling in desperation

to the people and things I love.

In my fear of drowning,

I am actually pulling

the people I love

down with me.

I can save myself and them

by giving the great love within me

away.

There is no limit

to the amount of people I can love.

The more I give away,

the more comes back

to support and heal me.

It’s just like my magic penny …”

as my daughter taught me

in a single, singing lesson

a long time ago.

By, Laura Schiller

March 1988