Dear Mom ... I Choose to Learn

*I had initially intended on posting a story I wrote based on my first reading of "Dear Erin ... To Learn or Ignore?" but upon my second reading, this is what came out. In my mind it came out of "nowhere." My great writing mentor Pat Berge however, once taught me that sometimes nowhere produces the best kind of writing--or perhaps the most sincere ...

Dear Mom,

I’ve been wondering what it was about this last post on “our blog,” that has had me twisted in an emotional pretzel all week. I read your letter about the fish tank analogy in the not too distant past. I cried when I read it then, and yes, I cried when I read it again. But there was something else in the cry this time.

It was something in the carelessness of the stack of letters I’ve kept from you all these years. Amidst the untidy stack, I noticed a phone number for “Sears Portraits” scribbled in pink highlighter across one of the letters you wrote. Others had liquid-stained splotches and still others had corners missing, and/or the paper was crumpled.

I was seized with guilt as I re-read your beautiful words about humanity, fish and God. I doubt I ever read that letter at the time you intended me to read it. If I did, it was far beyond my incapacitated, juvenile, and alcohol-drenched brain to comprehend. I didn’t give a damn about choices then, unless it involved instant gratification, which typically involved choosing between one sort of destructive behavior and another. My only choice then, was to make the choice that would make me forget about you ... and the disease. So, it was easier I suppose, to cast your decadent words aside and trample them with pink highlighter, liquid spills and crumples.

For all my short-sightedness, I’m thankful I saved the letters. Maybe both of us hoped in the back of our minds I would. Maybe one or the both of us had enough ingenuity to foresee that your letters would serve a greater purpose and enlightenment at a later time.

More than being sorry I didn’t read the letter (I just posted) for so long, I’m sorry it took so long to write back. I want you to know: I think I understand what you mean about consciousness and to a lesser degree, about God. I know much more about choices now, and you will be pleased to know those in front of me today are infinitely better than when your letter first came to me. I am working on resisting the urge to flee from that big hand that dips into my fish tank, realizing that maybe I’m being spiritually fed rather than terrorized. I hope you take a little comfort Mom, as I do, in that I want to learn from all this—you, ALS, alcoholism. My days of travel on the path of ignorance and denial are over. Thank you for loving me before I was able to make the right choices.

I love you,

Erin

Dear Erin ... To Learn or Ignore?

*From time to time I will include personal letters that my mom wrote to me, in addition to her actual stories. All letters were written on my mom's specialized computer (refer to her bio). Most were written during my tumultuous, angst-filled high school years and sadly, most were never read in full, or never read at all. Some have phone numbers carelessly written in my hand, others are crumpled or stained with unidentifiable liquid (I shudder to think what kind). Still, I have them and they are legible. And it might strike you as interesting as it does me, that although written to her high-school-aged daughter, the language and content seem at times more suitable to an adult. I'm rather glad I read them now-- in full, hoping at the same time, that perhaps she would too.


Dear Erin,

As your mom, I’ve often tried to protect you from getting hurt, physically and emotionally. Because I love you so much, I can’t stand to see you in pain. But if I somehow managed to protect you from all suffering, I would be denying you the opportunity to develop consciousness. I would be obstructing your path toward God.

I believe all our life experiences, good and bad, are chances for us to learn responsibility, generosity and compassion. The disease I have is an experience which is giving our whole family a chance to become more conscious and to open ourselves to the needs of others. It is a terrible, wonderful gift from God we can choose to learn from or ignore.

Though I’ve learned a lot about God during the years of my illness, I have to admit that life is still basically a mystery to me. A story Flak read to me one day helped me understand God’s relationship to us best of all. The story was written by a Christian author/editor, Philip Yancey and was about the aquarium he had set up in his office. First, he described the elaborate measures he took to keep his fish healthy and contented, including keeping the water in perfect chemical balance, feeding them precise amounts of nutrient-rich food, oxygenating the water and isolating sick fish. But were the fish grateful for this excellent treatment? On the contrary … In their ignorance, they fled in terror every time his hand appeared above the tank.

I think the universe of Philip Yancey’s aquarium is like the universe we live in. Humans are as incapable of comprehending God’s behavior as fish are incapable of understanding human behavior. Yet we humans have an advantage over fish. We have much more brain power, we can learn, and we can change the way we do things. So if we choose to use the brains God gave us, we can bring about the goodness on earth which will be the reflection of God in heaven.

It is much easier to say these things than to live them, Erin. But if all you can manage to do right now is pray for me and the other positive changes you’d like to see in the world, that’s okay. Then, as you learn to be more conscious, you will see that your prayers are being answered.

Love,

Mommy

Voice on Paper

Laura is ruler of the world; a blonde-haired, blue-eyed tyrant; a sweet tyrant, but a tyrant nonetheless. “I love you Mommy,” she hollers in her pilgrim hat during the middle of her preschool Thanksgiving play.

Julia is sensitive; she fears bushes, the sound of dog food hitting the bowl, and the vacuum (oddly, only when turned off). She sobs for extended periods of time for reasons unbeknown to the rest of the world, then stops abruptly and beams at you.

Elizabeth is stoic and independent; she walks with a purpose … but oh, is she a love. She rests her head on my chest and pats my back with her tiny hand, then chirps a protest at being held and quietly gets down to go about her business.

I spend my days chasing the sweet tyrant, the sensitive and the stoic. I soak up every preschool presentation, extended sob session, and pat on the back.

Sometimes I spend my time worrying about ALS. Oh God, I panic, what if I get ALS and can’t chase them anymore? A sick feeling washes over me and I lose my breath for a moment. Sometimes I confess my thoughts to Paul. “I’m worried I’ll get my mom’s disease,” I say. “We can’t live that way,” he tells me.

He’s right, but I can’t hear it from him. I want my mom. I want to have a conversation about my fears. I want that very person who died from that nasty ALS to tell me everything will be okay. But she can’t because she’s gone. I get angry, sad, and occasionally throw tantrums about it.

On a rainy Monday I read Bortis and Bee, and realize something significant. My mom does talk to me; not in person, not in verbal voice—but voice on paper. This is a gift and I know it when I read, “But to live a hundred healthy years without experiencing that powerful, painful love, could never be for me.” She does not reassure me that everything will be okay, but she does tell me that the magnitude of love I have for my children is okay.

Today I am healthy, strong, and filled with comforting words that have been safely tucked in a big red binder … waiting for the rainy Monday when I was ready to hear them. When the sweet tyrant, the sensitive and stoic awake from a lengthy nap, I will seep them in my magnitude of love, and be grateful for my mom’s voice on paper.

Hooked on Bortis and Bee

When my daughter, Erin, was born,
it was love at first sight,
The doctor held her up
for John and me to see
and we both agreed
without a doubt
that she was absolutely perfect.
Unlike the typical newborn,
Erin had a round head,
pink skin,
unsquashed nose and ears—
in other words,
she was beautiful.
After 17 hours
of exhausting labor
I was suddenly alert.
Adrenalin gushed
through my veins
as I watched
our tiny pink morsel of child
kick her feet
and make funny grunting noises
on the warming table
where she lay.
I could hardly wait
to get my hands on her.

Within a week of her birth,
I was completely recovered
and thoroughly enjoying motherhood.
No postpartum blues
marred my happiness.
Through a sun-filled
spring and summer
we played
and cuddled
and learned about each other.

The Mommy/Erin bond
was strong in the beginning
and grew stronger and more intense
as the months passed into years.
My ego was fed
by Erin’s reaction to me.
She liked being with me
or near me.
When I worked in our house,
she played at my feet
and when we were out
she held my hand tightly
or I carried her snugly on my hip.
Erin listened to me
and (for the most part)
cooperated with me.
She and I both
were filled with contentment.
I showered my girl with kisses, hugs
and nicknames,
among which there were
Der, Diddo, Beeduh and Bee.
Both John and I still call our 10 year old girl, Bee
(unless we are angry
in which case she hears
the full Erin Leigh Schiller).

Because Erin is our first child,
she is the guinea pig
in our Parenting Technique Experiments.
Each developmental stage
Erin passes through
is agony for me.
Though I burst with love and pride
at each of her triumphant leaps
to a new level
of skills or maturity,
a part of me
always cringes in fear and guilt
that something I have done
will scar her for life.
On the other hand,
I have never doubted
that she needs me
and I find comfort in that knowledge.

In contrast to all of the above,
there is Evan.
Our son was born
after 10 hours
of very difficult labor,
which took its toll
on his appearance.
I remember holding him
and looking him over
in the delivery room.
Evan’s head had two lumps on top:
one caused by ramming his head
against my pelvis
during the final stages
of labor,
the other from the vacuum extractor
which the doctor used
to yank him out.
His skin color was blue-white,
his eyes were puffy
and his facial features
were mashed and bruised.
I looked at him
znd felt only relief and fatigue.
No rush of adrenalin,
no instant bonding
as I’d had with Erin.
I expected
and waited for
the magic moment to come.
Instead,
I began to feel guilty
about not falling in love
with my new baby
and about ruining Erin’s life
by having another child.
My physical recovery was slow.
I couldn’t lose weight
or fit into my old clothes.
A long, rainy, gray winter
Followed Evan’s birth.
I was trapped in the house all day
with an infant
prone to frequent
ear infections
and his hostile six year old sister.
I became very depressed –
it was a classic case
of post-partum blues.

Late in April of the next year,
when Evan was 8 months old,
spring finally arrived.
Gradually,
as I felt better about myself,
I began to appreciate
the beauty of my son.
I saw qualities in him
I never possessed
but always wished I had:
total self-confidence,
independence,
physical strength and agility,
socially outgoing nature,
high pain threshold
and a happy optimistic approach
to life’s challenges.

It was soon apparent that
though Evan needed me,
it was in a far different way
from the way Erin did.
Evan became attracted to
Daddy’s style of play
which was more physical
and aggressive.
I envied the camaraderie
that developed between them
but also knew
it was a very positive development.
John showered his boy
with hugs, kisses
and nicknames
among which were
Futurehead, Connie Conehead,
Bortis McTortoise and Bortsball.
Bortis stuck.
When John would say loudly,
“Booorrr-tis!”
Evy responded,
“WHAT, Dad!?”
Then, when John smiled at him,
Evy threw his arms
around his daddy’s legs
and squeezed him as tightly as he could.
Though I had grown to love
and eventually to absolutely adore
my young son,
I had a lingering doubt
that I still had failed
to bond with him.

When Evan was 14 months old,
the doubt vanished.
I had decided to wean him
from breast feeding.
Through his own choice,
we were down to just one
nursing session day
which was in the morning.
He showed no signs
of wanting to give up
this morning feeding
and I enjoyed that brief time
when he would allow me
to hold him really close.
But subtle pressures
were being exerted on me
by well-meaning family and friends
to quit nursing him.

I think what prompted me most
to try weaning him, however,
was my self-induced guilt.
I felt guilty
for clinging to a pleasurable activity
that was no longer necessary.
The first morning I skipped
I felt terrific
though I was a little disconcerted
by Evy’s total acceptance
of the change.
By the next day
long dormant female hormones
began to reassert themselves
with a vengeance.
I’d thought my milk was almost gone
but my breasts were swollen and painful
and I started weeping uncontrollably.
On the third day
I stood in the shower
and watched the milk
pour from my breasts,
mingle with the water
and flow down the drain.
Caught up in some long-lost primal instinct,
a wailing cry
from a foreign place
somewhere deep inside me
escaped from my mouth.
That was my first experience
with total anguish.
It was an absolute sorrow
which traumatized
every cell in my body.
For a long time
I just stood there
letting the shower
wash over me
while I wept bitterly
over my loss.
By the fourth day of weaning
I was physically uncomfortable
and emotionally devastated.
So, I breastfed my son.
I knew instantly
I had made
the right decision.
The fierce agony of my mind and body dissipated
leaving behind
only a dull ache.
I was relieved but not happy
because I knew this “reprieve” was only temporary.
Holding Evan’s precious body
Close to mine,
I reflected once again
on the reality of change.
Life wasn’t going to wait
for me to choose my best time
to change my path.
If I fought change,
I knew I would miss the chance
to enjoy the next stage
of Evan’s life,
and of my own.
But the greatest discovery I made
in my aborted attempt
to wean Evan
was not learning how
to accept life’s changes.
It was the sudden realization
that I was totally hooked on Bortis
as well as on my Bee.
Knowing that
made the real weaning of him
just a little bit easier.

About a year later
I sat in a doctor’s office
and listened to him
calmly deliver my death sentence.
After I received the blow of learning
I had an incurable, progressive
degenerative muscle disease,
I heard only bits and pieces
of what the doctor said.
In stunned silence
I spent the first few days
after hearing the bombshell
passing back and forth
through stages of
disbelief, fear, panic and sorrow.
I mourned for myself
until I remembered
some of the doctor’s words
“Patients with this condition
usually live
between 6 months and 9 years
after contracting it.
The median is 3 years.”
Even if I lived the maximum,
Evy would only be 11 years old
when I died!
And my Erin,
who needed me so much
would be in the
very vulnerable late teens!
Then, I stood in the shower
and let the water pour over
my shaky, already weakened body.
From a foreign place
somewhere deep inside me,
came that haunting, howling cry.
I wept for my children –
about their future
unmet needs and wants,
because I would be leaving them
motherless.
And I wept for our
whole family’s loss.

Many times
in the past two years
have I cried like that.
Now that foreign place
has become a familiar place
and a refuge for my
continuing sorrow.
Perhaps if I had not loved
my kids so much,
such refuge
would not be necessary.
But to live a hundred healthy years,
without experiencing
that powerful, painful love,
could never be for me.
I’m hooked and I’m glad.

By, Laura Schiller

Finding Peace in Noritake China

For days now, since our move from Kansas City to Arizona, it seems that everywhere I turn, an unopened box awaits me, just begging to be unpacked. The living room, bedrooms, and oh-so-many toys—too many; all must be transferred from a box to … somewhere! And then there’s the kitchen; the dreaded of all rooms to assemble! Yet somehow in only two days, with assistance from husband and three pairs of little people hands (sometimes more distracting than helpful), my new Arizona kitchen was successfully unpacked.

Mid-happy dance I noticed two unaccounted for and, sadly, unopened boxes in the corner. In green sharpie, two beat-up boxes were labeled in my father’s handwriting: “Noritake China, serving platter, bowl, coffee pot, creamer, sugar bowl, special tea cups, wine glasses.” The boxes looked beat-up—almost pliable; but despite the crumpled corners and faded writing, the tape that secured them appeared remarkably fixed, unfazed by time and multiple journeys. I stared at them with a mixture of trepidation and excitement, similar to what one might experience when receiving a box in the mail missing a return address—who sent this? Is there a bomb inside? Or maybe (more realistically) it’s just that cute outfit I ordered? My mix of emotions was not however, produced by a package from an unidentified sender. The contents of these two misshapen boxes once belonged to my Mom, gone now for 17 years. I have been hauling them around like a gypsy for the past 13-plus years; unopened and intentionally forced-forgotten.

For all these years, I have not only carried these boxes with me from city to city and state to state in cars, moving trucks … I’ve carted other unopened boxes in my subconscious or soul, or some other hidden place. Piece by piece, I have begun the cathartic process of unpacking mom-boxes one by one. It’s been a sluggish process to open up my emotional baggage surrounding the near decade my mom endured Amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (ALS) or Lou Gehrig’s disease and eventually her death--even now 17 years later. I can trace the beginnings of my unpacking process to almost ten years ago when I stopped drinking. Lord knows you can’t be very successful at unpacking much of anything when you are blitzed half the time and pissed off at the world the other half. It’s a given that you will screw up and put things in the wrong places, or shove them into corners, and though you may have taken things out of boxes—you realize you’ve created a big ol’ mess. Until I had a clear mind and could face my emotions head-on, my unpacking process was precarious and counterproductive at best.

The past year has been a significant turning point in unpacking my mom-boxes. Somewhere between being closer to turning the age she was when she was diagnosed with her terminal illness (35) and my undergoing a remarkable spiritual awakening of sorts, I have become ready to open boxes like crazy! Physically I have opened boxes and binders of her memoirs and read them for the first time in my adult life. Emotionally, I have allowed myself to feel the feelings from reading her writing; sadness, anger, fear, laughter, love and many more. Has it been easy to open these boxes? No! Can I unpack them all in two days like I did my new kitchen? Certainly not! Does fear seize me at times and convince me I can’t do it? Yes! But with a little nudge from God, usually in the voices of the people who love me, I just keep unpacking. I do it when I feel in my soul that the time is right.

Yesterday when I encountered the green sharpie “Noritake China” boxes, I knew the time was right. I released the stubborn, sticky tape of years past and akin to an explorer on the verge of a great discovery, I unwrapped the “silver serving platters, bowls, coffee pots, creamer, sugar bowls, special tea cups and wine glasses.”As a bittersweet little addition, my three-year-old daughter, Laura, named after a grandma she did not have the privilege of meeting, shared in holding the delicate treasures of my two mom-boxes. We “wowed” and “oooo’d” together, and when the adventure lost its appeal, as it always will for a three-year-old, I cried a little on my husband’s chest. The tears for me are sometimes a necessary byproduct of unwrapping sadness from unanswered questions; “Mom did you pick the China out?” “How do I polish this silver?” “What kind of dessert can I put in those wine glasses?” Along with the sadness of the questions was the notion that my Mom didn’t have a long enough opportunity to use her silver serving platters, bowls, coffee pots, creamers, sugar bowls, special tea cups and wine glasses—at least in my human opinion.

After I safely placed each item of my Mom’s into my hutch and my tears subsided, I was able to reap the rewards of unpacking another mom-box. One more part of me has been released. And with its release, the sadness of what could or should have been is no longer important. I know this to be true because not even an hour after the last Noritake tea cup and saucer was proudly set out for display; I was overcome by a feeling of peace.

With peace, gratitude followed shortly behind. After all, I may still have questions about how the Noritake China came to be in my Mom’s possession or the fundamentals of silver polishing, but although my Mom can’t answer them … there are those who will; and they will be happy to do it. In fact, for some, to answer these questions might be a means of unpacking a few boxes of their own. Call me an idealist, a dreamer, or sentimentalist—I’ll gladly respond to each. I believe in the power of sharing experience in the healing process. Come share with me! Cheers to an exciting, fun-filled road to unpacking!

ANOTHER CHANCE AT LIFE

“Thank you, God, for a good day
and for another chance at life,”
Pastor Flak begins
our weekly prayer together.
those words say a lot to me,
particularly the phrase
“another chance at life.”

Ideally,
everyone should give thanks
for getting another chance
to watch the dawn,
to spend time with people we love,
to breathe in fresh air,
to smell good food cooking,
to hear beautiful music,
to learn something new,
to feel happy, sad, angry, proud, excited,
and simply to live.
But usually we don’t thank God
or anyone else
for the patterns of our lives.
If we are happy,
it is due to luck
or our intelligence
or hard work.
We take for granted
almost everything good
that touches our lives
because we are far too busy
to stop and contemplate
the incredible wonder of life.

It’s funny how you change your tune
when you know your days are numbered.
Life, as you have come to know it,
comes to a screeching halt
and you look at all
the ordinary things around you
(things you took for granted)
in a completely different way.
At least
that is what I did.

Oh, the foolish games
people invent
to delude themselves
that their earthly bodies
will never wear out or malfunction!
All creatures on earth are mortal.
Short lives or long,
all creatures die –
even human beings.
Yet, we choose not to think about it
and spend enormous sums of money
as well as time
trying to evade old age and death.

For me
the way I went about cheating death
and the aging process
was by taking daily aerobic classes,
eating nutritious food,
staying out of the sun,
and just talking about it.
I thought I could avoid the inevitable
by using these clever evasive tactics.
I mean,
I KNEW I would die some day
but I lived my life
as if I would live forever.
I took the ordinary, day-to-day activities
of my life
totally for granted.
I believed myself to be
reasonably conscious
of how precious
the gift of life is.
I loved my family,
living in beautiful Northern California,
and my upper middle class lifestyle.
But I never REALLY appreciated
how delicately balanced
our lifetimes are.

Threats to our fragile existence
come in many ugly forms:
murder,
suicide,
war,
cataclysms (floods, earthquakes, tornadoes, etc.),
accidents
and, of course, disease.
With the exception of suicide,
none of us knows
exactly when we are going to die
yet we continue to put off
saying or doing the things
that can wait until “later.”

There are also people
at the opposite end of the spectrum.
Instead of facing life
in a blasé fashion,
they become crippled and immobilized
by the fear they are going to die
and try to protect themselves
by withdrawing
from this dangerous world.
At different times
I have waited until “later”
and also have withdrawn from a scary world.
Neither policy worked.

Then I was given
“another chance at life.”
Each day
since I heard I was dying
much sooner than I’d planned,
I have thought about
what it means to be alive.
The first several months
after hearing the devastating news,
I gathered together
everything I cherished
and clung to it
in a state of icy panic.


All the people,
the philosophical ideas,
and the plans for the future
which made up my life until then
were threatened with extinction
because I wouldn’t be around to keep them alive.
The end of me
and of all the things I loved
scared me in a way
I’d never experienced before.
My focus turned radically inward
To my little made-up world.
Although I didn’t know it then,
I’d already received the gift
and was using it.
My almost obsessive attention
to every detail of my kids’
appearance and behavior
and my suddenly keen eyesight
for the beauty of the world around me
were the beginnings
of my recognition of life’s value.
All of my senses
were alerted to the threat
of nonexistence.
For whatever time was left to me
I planned to absorb life
like a sponge.
I was going to appreciate life
if it was the last thing I did!

Over time
my tenacious grip
on the little world
I had created and adored
began to relax.
Instead of trying to shield my world
from inevitable change,
I began to treasure each special moment
that came my way
then let it go.

When Flak and I thank God each week
for “another chance at life,”
it reminds me
how lucky I was that day
to watch the dawn,
to spend time with people we love,
to breathe in fresh air,
to smell good food cooking,
to hear beautiful music,
to learn something new,
and to feel happy, sad, angry, proud
and excited.
Even in my weakened condition,
I love being alive
and I consider myself privileged
to keep getting so many chances
to start living all over again
every single day.

I don’t think that my experience
will influence others
to live their lives differently.
It isn’t my intention
to convince people
they should wake up
and start appreciating life.
Unless a person is
challenged by circumstances
--like I was--
nothing I or anyone else could say
would alter that person’s
value structure.
The sad irony is
that it often takes
a “lucky break”
like I had by becoming ill
in order to truly appreciate
life’s simple pleasures.
I hope you are as lucky as I have been
to have some time
to reorder your priorities.

Having another chance at life
requires time.
I wish it for you.

By Laura Schiller
February 1987