The Age of 'Ologists

You know you're middle-aged when you've entered the age of 'ologists: neurologists, cardiologists, dermatologists and on. After age 45, I felt compelled like I never had before to have minor ailments checked out by expert 'ologists. The fear behind this being, "what if it is not minor?" Would I want to know about something serious? Yes, of course.

My father was diagnosed with a brain tumor when he was 47. He died at 52, after 2 1/2 years being bed-ridden. He would not go to any 'ologists. He was in several car accidents before he finally hit an 18 year old (who was ok) but wherein he was injured. Because he was slurring his words, the cop thought he was drunk and sent him to the hospital for a blood alcohol exam. My father was not drunk. The ER docs said he would be admitted. He had a major issue: a stroke or a brain tumor. I remember praying for a stroke and was upset when we found out he had a 3rd grade malignant tumor. The neurologist gave him 6 months to live. This was 1986. At the time, I wanted to move out but my siblings were still in college. My life was on hold for 5 years.

My partner's mother had a brain aneurysm when she was 47 and my partner was 14. Her mom went into a coma from which she never awoke before she died a few months later. My partner was devastated.

Our parents' deaths at such a young age for them (and very young for us to experience parental loss) quaked our cores. (Fodder for many therapy sessions!) My partner and I try to be careful health wise. Our kids are 6 (soon to be 7 in August). We both want to be there for them for as long as we can. She thinks she will exit the world around age 70. I hope to make it to 100. (A vanity thing: I just want to say that I did!) Because we had children in our middle age, we are keenly, hyper-vigilantly aware of our age and of how the loss of our parents impacted us at a much later age.

Hence: the Age of 'Ologists. I am pending a return to the cardiologist who discovered I have a heart murmur a month after my primary physician discovered an irregular heartbeat via an EKG. Who knew? I appear to have high blood pressure. (A genetic thing. I am the only one of my siblings and mother not on hypertension meds.) Part of me cannot believe it; yet, I do and I will do what I need to do to address it. Even taking dreaded medication. Ugh!

Within the past two years. I also saw a neurologist for migraines (stress and hormones). I had all kinds of tests due to the brain-cancer ridden father. End result: "normal brain" per a catscan. Hooray! Brain cancer has been an albatross of dread. The neurologist said surprisingly (thus more re-ensuringly) that most brain tests she reviews are not declared "normal."

Dermatologists. Two grandparents with minor skin cancer. Abnormal PAP plus mother with endometrial cancer. See uber-gynecologists. I am ok. Weird stuff on mammogram coupled with breast cancer aunt. Finer breast exams and diagnostics. Ok. Glaucoma in two grandparents: eyeball-ologist (I forget what they're called). Ok. And on.

I am grateful for my health and for my health care. A middle-classed privilege. An age of 'ologists is only possible if you're middle class (or better) with good health insurance. I am humbled but relieved.

Credit: my partner, lls, for the idea.

all shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well

So sayeth Julian of Norwich: anchoress, mystic, recluse, medieval author. She was a "proto-Universalist" according to Wikipedia and other Internet resources. She believed all would eventually be saved and God's love and forgiveness were available to all. She experienced visions which she wrote about in the 14th century and 20 years later. Yes, she was a Christian mystic and limited by medieval constraints. Yet, she was open-minded and hailed as a heroine by Martin Luther in the Reformation, but because she understood and explained orthodox dogma well, she was heralded as a champion of the Catholic status quo. I question this. She was catholic in her universalist theological approach but she was all about embracing matters scholastic with an inquiring, inquisitive mind. This should have pissed off the Catholic hierarchy: reformist, conforming female says "think for yourself" and "all is forgiven."
But Julian lived in a cell for much of her adult life. She would not have seen many people and would have spent most of her time in meditation and prayer, walled in her hermit cell.

I am fascinated that anyone would voluntarily, isolate themselves, remove themselves from others and then write gloriously of the event which propelled them to become a recluse. Odd. I love it; like I love most things medieval. Not that I'd ever want to live then. Sucks to be an outsider: Jew, Muslim, gnostic. Forget gay. Well, there was always the church. Aargh!

I believe in God ( and I don't care if you do or don't)

Today, at the Unitarian congregation to which I belong, the minister gave a sermon about getting beyond inner Unitarian labels which despite there being a plethora usually boil down to God-believers and humanist / atheist /agnostics. I am firmly with the former. Many in my congregation align with the latter, my partner included. Some are so entrenched, they profess outrage at the mere mention of the "G word", ie God. They will seek the minister out after a service if they think she has been too liberal in mentioning God.

After today's service, there was a "congregational response" wherein the folk in the chairs added their two cents. Most of it was intelligent. My response was that we needed to evolve to become "post-God"; in other words, to not let the belief or lack of of belief in deity bog us down from moving forward, which was essentially the thrust of the minister's sermon. One of the congregants mentioned he thought the anti-God bent of the congregation perhaps turned off some people otherwise drawn to Unitarian Universalist values. Most congregants expressed the need to discuss beliefs generally, not in a manner deity-centered. One woman remarked that writing a credo of beliefs about life and other issues, which she had done as part of the minister's religious education program, was empowering for her.

Tonight, I was wondering about why it irks so many Unitarians that other Unitarians strongly believe in a deity despite allegedly overwhelming evidence for atheism or at worst agnosticism. A few weeks ago, a substitute minister preached about prayer and its importance in her life. At some point in that service she used the phrase "let's pray" to begin a meditation exercise. Afterwards, I heard some congregants complaining how outraged they were that she had invited the people to pray. I think I even heard the phrase "how dare she?" I was shocked. I had just congratulated the substitute minister on how much I enjoyed her sermon and how nice it had been to pray.

I do miss public praying. We recite a bond of union and have closing words at our congregation but there is an astonishing (to this lapsed Catholic) lack of prayer which I guess is the historically agreed upon compact. I acquiesce to majority will but find it startling there is so much hostility to God and to prayer. I don't wish to proselytize for God or evangelize for prayer but it is disconcerting the degree of contempt in which belief and spiritual practice are held. I understand why this is based upon history, but can't we remove God from discussion?

I believe strongly in a positive, present life force which I for convenience call God. (I've written about this previously). Sometimes, I can feel the majesty of the divine in sweeping, singular moments and memories. Mostly, I feel It (yes, It, the pronoun I've always used internally) daily in mundane, trivial, ordinary ways: common decency, passionate living and loving, all the corny stuff like sunsets and rainbows, my kids. Every day, I say a small prayer of thanks for what I have, what I am and for just being alive. I feel Its presence in me and through others.

Because I have felt It my entire life, I have always believed in It. My mother, who is an atheist, told me as a teen I was stupid if I believed in a deity because only stupid people needed an opiate like God to help them cope. So, I tentatively labeled myself an agnostic during my late teens because I could not commit to outright denial of the divine. I was never happy being labeled as a non-believer. Not when I could hear God in music, and poetry and see It in art and nature and my self. I have a soul and in my soul is a spark of the Soul Divine. In my 20s, I reclaimed and re-avowed my belief in God, a Higher Power, a Deity, something beyond and above myself. And each day, I am grateful for It and Its presence in my life.

I need no one's validation. I desire none. I prefer much of this remains internal.

I wish my fellow congregants would understand that belief does not equal ignorance or lack of education. It should not matter that I believe. In the words of my minister, "what's God got to do with it?"

There may be no reprieve

So your adolescence and / or childhood sucked. Yes, it was hard. Acknowledged. Don't let it consume and subsume your life. Well, that is the message after 20 odd years of therapy. I understand and do the best I can. My partner and I are in a funny head space. We had couples' counseling this week with her therapist and I wound up discussing things long-processed and analyzed. Clearly, this area is still sensitive.

I sincerely hope our kids our not burdened with the long, never-ending issues my partner and I cope with. Just when you think it's been buried under an avalanche of other memories or it's been discussed so much it should be in a psychological journal, something shifts and it is less urgent. But it remains. Ah, man. More needs to be written .

Outing where I work

Ok, I am outing the location of where I work because I want to do a blog about Newark, NJ (and its environs) and post photos from my blackberry. My other blog, Suburbia - NJ - A Day, (previously known as Mobile Dyke) was an attempt at this but the location anonymity made it hard. It's not a novel concept. There are many sites, blogs etc devoted to a photo a day. Well, this will be my own little attempt at pseudo art here in the blogosphere. It will be called This Dyke's Newark .

Pompous word

Tonight, I read to the kids: a book about machines for my son and a book of rhymes for my daughter. Both kids listened to both selections. We were in my daughter's bed while I read and cuddled with the kids. Variously, I would say a certain word that both makes my kids cringe and laugh depending if they are or are not the one to whom the word is applied. It's always funny if it's the other kid but horrifyingly appalling if it is you.

The appellation: pompadour.

A few months ago, as I was combing my daughter's hair after the bath, I combed it back and up into that famous style named after a French courtesan made popular by certain men in the 1950s. I started laughing because my daughter looked silly. She wanted to know why I was laughing and I told her because her hair was in a pompadour. She frowned and was near tears. I felt really bad but could not stop guffawing. The word is just so funny. And her hair looked ridiculous. I did apologize. Over and over.

After that night, all I had to do was mention the dreaded word and my daughter would scream, as only she can, "NO! STOP IT! NO POMPADOURS!" To top it off, I would sing "Who Put the Pomp in the Pompadour" to the tune of "Who Put the Bop in the Bop-She-Bop-Bop-Bop" which would elicit more wails of protest.

The mere mouthing of the dreaded word or humming of the detested tune set off howls. Lest I seem smugly sadistic, let me interject that I used this as part of my parental arsenal to overcome whines, nags and vehement statements like "I hate you" and "You're the meanest mama ever"usually uttered in response to pleas to clean up toys or denials of more video watching.

Because this ploy was so effective at defusing or infusing situations with one child, I began to apply it to the other child. At first, he was amused. He actually asked me to put his hair into a pompadour which I promptly did; albeit with hair goop because his hair was dry. He laughed initially. Of course, I laughed as well. His mood suddenly shifted and he declared pompadours were bad as he toweled the goop out of his hair. After this incident, he accused me of child abuse via pompadour.

When reading stories at night, sometimes I add this word to the story at the instigation of either kid and sometimes on my own. But the non-instigating kid is always offended and the instigating kid is always delighted.

It is such a stupid word and is a really, really stupid hairdo. I am very amused by the power this stupid word has in our house. I suppose I should be appalled at its use as a tool of any kind) but it's just so silly. A stupid, silly word. I'm not sure that's not a politically correct thing to admit but there it is. Who put the pomp in the pompadour? Who is that man? I'd like to shake his hand. The hairdo is a stupid hair-r-do. A stupid word, oh. Man oh man!

Poetry and me

In my 8th grade yearbook, my future occupation is listed as a "famed poet". I was thinking about this after I took a quiz on Facebook which indicated my writing style was most like William Blake who was described as "one of the most creative minds there has ever been." I presume this is to suggest that I have a creative writing style. Debatable, certainly. (As a contrast, several friends have writing styles compared to Jack Kerouac: "right here, right now.") This highly amuses me because while I like some of William Blake, he is far from my favorite poet. And, I am certainly not a "famed poet", creative or otherwise.

From about age 12 to age 25 or so, I liked to write poetry. This urge has resurfaced at various times, usually when falling in love or breaking up. (Nothing so original about that!) Some of this poetry was ok on a juvenile level. Naturally, most of it was unadulterated dreck. But I was passionate about my poetry writing and miss the quiet mediation on words it was to me. I love words. I like to learn them; to use them; to abuse them; to mull them; to make love to them; to savor them. Poetry was a good venue to revel in words.

I love etymology for the same reason I love poetry: words. One of my favorite classes ever was a course on the history of the English language. Ah, me!

The best thing about having written and having loved poetry is that I've always enjoyed it and have never been afraid of it. When I was an adjunct English professor, I was astonished to discover how many of my students were petrified of poetry, even children's nursery rhymes. (I taught children's literature.) My own kids, like most kids, love poetry's rhythms. How could they not? They are learning their native tongue and before we read, we speak. Our ancestors could speak for thousands of generations before they could read. Poetry is a natural, beautiful manifestation of language. It saddens me that so many fear it because of...the way they were taught...its elitist connotation...its disappearance from daily life...

I am old school. I prefer dead white guys' poetry. John Donne is my favorite if I have to pick. John Milton is another. Of course, Shakespeare makes the cut. So does Edgar Allen Poe. My favorite female poets are Emily Dickinson and Adrienne Rich. Conventional. But that's ok. Their poetry is timeless. Which is why they are "famed poets." As far as I am concerned, all poets have creative minds.

Body and mind

I could rant about the home invaders but what good would it do? It's passed. Let's move on. I know they have major boundary issues. But let's look at the positive: J, the guy, moved lots of wood into the garage and best of all taught me how to chop wood. Chopping wood is fun. Lots of work but fun. When the wood splits, it lets out a satisfying pop. The only thing comparable is the smack of a kick or a punch against a bag in kickboxing or landing the perfect blow when sparring.

I like gardening and physical labor. It's very satisfying and fulfilling. I can see the efforts of my handiwork. It's very tangible. I like this. The garden smells of damp and earth and new plant growth. The wood smells clean, fresh and of fall: brown leaves and sharp decay. I can wield an ax and control it and guide it down on the small, cut logs. It's heady. I'd happily be a gardener or woods woman if it paid reasonably well. Alas.

In high school French class, I read the Rene DeCartes' phrase "je pense; donc je suis" ("I think; therefore I am") which set the tone for my adolescence. I interpreted this to mean that my mind was more important than my body. After all, my existence, my individuality, my very self was validated by my mind. My mind was sharp and smart and swift. My body was clumsy, uncoordinated, slow, awkward; not what I wanted. Gym class was the only class that pulled down my otherwise excellent GPA. My body caused boys and men to stare. My mind gave them pause and protected me. Saved me. Kept me sane.

I wish I could tell the teenage me how wonderful, sweet and powerful is the physical. I love my strength. It anchors my middle age. Keeps me grounded to my self, my family. I revel in the physical. I am alive. I breath; therefore I am. I dig; therefore I am. I garden; therefore I am. I kickbox; therefore I am. Thinking is important but so is being. My body is here; therefore, I am. Alive. I am alive.

Home invasion

My partner has a friend, B, who was almost literally raised in a barn. Her parents, who were teachers, also had a farm with vegetables and horses. B and her partner, J, work on a farm / horse ranch at an exclusive boarding school their daughter attends (as part of their employment package. Actually, they work there so she can attend the school.) B has lived all around the county and has held many jobs, many of which were not conventional.

B is a kind, decent person who my partner has known since college. B is hardworking. J is a nice guy who talks a lot. I mean a lot. But not as much as B's ex-husband. J also has worked uncoventionally. Their kid is a nice kid. Her bio dad, B's ex-husband, had a very conventional career, albeit in an unconventional capacity as a military musician. These are the kind of people my partner surrounded herself with in college. A lot of people have friends live these in college and post-college.

College. College where it is ok to experiment and drop in and drop out and hang out and be a hanger-on. Ok to be unconventional etc. To crash at friends' places.

B and J are a whirlwind of chaos. (The kid is much more controlled.) They sweep through the house like the tornado that blew away Dorothy's house. And I am poor Aunty Em looking about anxiously; calling out but reluctantly retreating into the cellar.

I like unconvention. I was a post punk-rocker. I hung out in the East Village in the 1980s. I like many things uncommon and extraordinary. But I also like order. I work for the Establishment. I have worked since age 18 at conventional jobs. Fueled by a desire for the stability lacking in my youth. Desirious of a pension and the health benefits offered by a comfortable, conventional career.

While not a recluse, I urgently need downtime and quiet. (My kids think my favorite song is "Good Night Baby" sung to the tune of "Good Night Irene".) My sanctuary will be overrun tonight by the Northern Horde. Peace and tranquility will be elusive while the miasma of B and J blast through my house.

So, my dear, beloved partner, I have ranted and promise to be graciously social. Just know for me this is a daunting effort. But I love you and it's for better or worse or chaos or tranquility.

Why I am a big, fat dyke

There I was in kickboxing class tonight doing partner work (pseudo-sparring) with another dyke, when I blurted out that sometimes I really don't want to lose weight. It's true. I am 185 lbs and 5'4" which means my BMI hovers around 30 or overweight bordering on obese. I have hereditary high blood pressure and high cholesterol but outstanding good cholesterol and an excellent cholesterol ratio. So translating the medical mumbo-jumbo: I need to lose weight in order to be healthier.

One time I weighed about 210 lbs and then lost 40 lbs on Weight Watchers. This was 4 years ago. I've flirted with Weight Watchers ever since. I would like to be thinner. I would like to look better and feel better. But I hate dieting. I just want to not have to watch what I eat and drink. It's tedious and tiring and boring. But really is the only way to lose. Clearly, I am active enough because I kickbox 3-4 times per week, take walks at lunch time when possible and do yoga once per week. I would be more active if time and schedules permitted. Alas. Food is the culprit and my lack of willpower to stick with Weight Watchers or to control my myself.

It's not like I really enjoy all the food I eat. Often, I don't. I eat to fill up. Sometimes, I just crave sweets or junk. Sometimes I'm upset or bored. The usual fat person blah-blah-blah boo-hoos-hoos. I do know the whys and the hows of fat.

Sometimes, however, I do enjoy being large. Not the way I look when I see myself in certain clothes. I used to be cuter but I'm also older. Not the way my gut gets in the way doing crunches in kickboxing or high lunges in yoga. Ugh! What I mean is: the way I feel when I feel my own solidity. I feel sturdy and powerful. I feel my strength. I feel that if I had to, I could kick ass. That is empowering.

But, I've never before articulated this aloud. Hmmm. I feel powerful when I kickbox especially when I spar. I am not good. I am not fast but I am strong and solid. Able to take a pounding and land a few good punches. (Seldom kicks because I don't kick high but I am getting better.) I can defend myself fairly well in offensive / defensive drills. I feel my girth gives me my protection and strength. I know that might not be true but that's how I perceive myself: as able and capable of taking it.

P, tonight's pseudo-sparring partner, and some other women of varying degrees of ability but of similar kickboxing level have all bought sparring gear and we will all hopefully be sparring on a regular basis. But, I am the biggest and probably least athletic or coordinated. But, I am solid and I am strong. This is a hold over from youthful / adult sports positions as goalie and catcher. I am not gifted but I am useful and strong and capable of pulling my weight. I can catch a ball and hit the ball and block the goal. I am strong and useful.

And people don't fuck with fat dykes. Especially strong, fat dykes. I am not butch. I am not a diesel dyke. But I don't like to be fucked with or to be weak. Or perceived as weak. I am solid; therefore I am strong.

Once, I was gay bashed and fought back. My father could mean but I fought back. Life could be unfair to white trash dykes trying to make their way in the world but they / I could be strong. Once, I was raped. On a date. With a guy. I did not fight. I was scared and not strong. I was thin and pretty and vulnerable. But I was not strong or powerful. I swore afterward that would never happen again. So, many years and many therapy sessions later, I am aware I am afraid not to be strong. I fear lack of strength. My solidity is like Samson's hair: it is my secret strength and I fear the loss of strength.

Blogging (not Facebooking) my hormones

My blog has been neglected. Usurped by that narcissistic siren, Facebook. I note many blogs are neglected. I suspect those which are not are have authors who have not succumbed. My own infatuation has waned thankfully. What Facebook lacks of course is depth. There, I can mention my cat's death. Here, I can talk about him more deeply and acknowledge his life.

Facebook limits me. I can tell people about my thoughts in short bursts. Here I can contemplate my life. Flesh out my thoughts. There I can mention my middle-aged hormones. Here, I can explore ad nasuem.

My menstrual cycle began when I was 10 1/2. It was painful the first time and ever since. I remember being racked by gut-crunching cramps. Unrelenting, unpitying. Curling me into myself, moaning with unmanaged pain. Causing me to miss school and activities. In my 20's, I discovered the sweet pain suppression of NSAIDs. Numbing and dumbing me but enabling me to function at school and work. Sleep was still in order. Still is. A lot of sleep.

I tried getting pregnant in my late 30s. Huh! But I found out I had a very regular cycle which was never an issue. Men were a youth passing fancy and were never explored without protection. Girls could not make me pregnant. No real need to track the cycle. My partner was regular too but was aware of her cycle due to past associations and greater medical curiosity. Our cycles danced harmoniously for years: 12 to be exact.

Synchronized menstrual cycles have many benefits. Predictability. Stability. However, two pre-menstrual people are not always harmonious to each other. Especially when each one has different patterns. Mine: tired, crabby, sleeeeeepy. Hers: very grouchy, manic energy with an overwhelming need to clean and create order. The very last thing I want to do that time of the month is clean. Ugh! Just leave me be. Just leave me alone. I have no energy. Zilch.

Enter the late 40s. Now, were peri-menopausal. (Her more than me. My mom was cursed/blessed until her late 50s.) Her cycle is mercurial. We are out of synch entirely. Hers is not predicable. Mine is. Still. Clearly, she is the alpha. Mine strives to keep up. It spends a lot of time and energy trying to keep up. My cycle is ever more exhausting. Plus all the stress has led to migraines. Monthly migraines and minor headaches. Oh, and the cramps are still there. I want to be more peri-menopausal. I want it to end. But I'll be older and more susceptible to old age stuff. What a dilemma.

All this stuff makes me aware of my age. Yet, I feel good. Better and in better shape than when I was in my 20s. But for the never-ending weight. The middle-aged weight I carry on bones and in guts. I wish I could just stop my food addiction. But that's another rant. Not a short burst on Facebook.