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Elaine
The Rookie Transplant
Tuesday, April 19, 2016
Sunday, July 26, 2015
Packing
The first thing I placed in the shipping box was a container
with his ashes. It was lightweight because scoops had already been removed and scattered.
One batch of my second husband's remains went to Jackson Park where Tommy got a
hole in one. Another was spread among the plantings outside the YMCA, his
longtime gym; and one more in the park where every morning for 12 years we
walked our dog.
Next, I tucked in his watch and wallet -- both decades old
because he thought it foolish to replace them. I slipped his wedding ring on
the watch strap, threaded it closed, and tucked it in.
Just as I was about to seal the box and affix a mailing
label for Chicago, I heard, "I was wondering when you were going to get
your butt home."
Tommy! My deceased spouse had decided to visit. "Get
your butt home," he'd order when he was alive and I traveled away from
him. He was teasing back then, and now for fun, repeating the phrase.
"I'm not surprised you're glad I'm returning to
Chicago," I said, smiling as I resurrected his voice, which was clear
rather than dimmed by his end-of-life aphasia. "You were never a fan of
Los Angeles," I said. "Too spread out, horrible traffic, wasn't that
your view?"
"Listen sweetheart," he said. "We both grew
up in Chicago. We've got friends there we've known since childhood. That's not
easy to replace."
My make-believe visitor was a clue it was time to take a
break from packing. As I was about to continue with Tommy, another speaker
seeped through my head.
"Remember I told you Princess, that I always wanted to
live at State and Madison?" It was my dad who's been dead since 1958, but evidently
eager to have a say. "I heard you're moving into a building downtown. Terrific;
you're finally listening to me." He held a cigarette between two fingers,
and when he saw my stare, said,
"Carte blanche. No restrictions."
"We're happy you're returning to Chicago, too."
This was a duet. "Mom, Dad!" I said to my former in-laws, a lovely
couple that came with my first marriage. "This is the only time you've
returned for a conversation since you died. Why now?"
"To be honest, we were very unhappy when you moved to
Los Angeles, but it wasn't our place to pry." It was my father-in-law
taking the lead. "Even though you divorced, we felt sure you'd be in Chicago,
in our child's life forever, watching over each other."
My mother-in-law, ever the polite one, said, "When we
learned you were moving back, and picked an apartment near our dear one, we
just had to come and tell you how pleased we are."
Wow, this was getting to be some pow-wow! Just as I was
about to respond, another speaker joined in. I was wondering when she was going
to show up. "Am I the only one unhappy that you're leaving L.A. and my
grandchildren and great-grandchildren?" she said. "I finally had you
all in one place, and typical of you, you're on the move again."
I wasn't distressed by my mother's opinion; I was just happy
to have the chance to conjure her vision. She died in 1981, still a beauty with
hair barely touched by gray. Our kids were teens then, old enough for their
talent to dazzle her.
"I knew it; I knew it, back in their high school years,"
she said. "I predicted they'd be remarkable. " She looked triumphant,
as if she were on stage with her
granddaughters, holding their hands as they accepted awards.
My in-laws soon leapt in. "Those girls are something
else," they agreed, wanting to assure their DNA was also credited.
"Listen," I said to the celestial crowd. "I
know you have differing opinions about my returning to Chicago." Four
heads nodded. "But for now, I'd really appreciate it if you'd just watch
over me and my move."
Tommy was the first to offer: "Since I'm the most
recent up here, I'll be closest to your flight home. I've got that
covered."
"No worries," Dad said. "I'll ride shotgun in
the delivery trucks coming your way, just to make sure everything arrives on
time."
"I suppose we
can handle the reserved elevator," my father-in-law said. "Oh
dear," from his wife. "Thirty-seventh floor. I suppose it'll be
fine."
We waited for Mom to volunteer. "When all of the
furniture is in place and you're finally in bed in your new home," she
said. "I'll tuck you in."
Content now, I returned to my task and assembled another box,
larger this time, to hold family photographs. Everyone was coming with.
Tuesday, June 23, 2015
Best Of Both Worlds
I have been accused of being a dabbler -- someone who hops in
and out of jobs, groups, and residences quicker than the average person.
Others have named my disorder a reaction to boredom, which
involves a constant need for a new, challenging project.
Lately, I've named myself a "participatory
journalist" like George Plimpton who recorded his various experiences from
the point of view as an amateur -- but in my case, rookie.
I have no problem accepting these labels, although I especially
like the last one, and because I have no regrets about my quick decisions.
Every job I've had, including salesperson at the Gap,
specialist at the Apple Store (three months apiece), and press aide for a
Chicago mayor, communications director for a school superintendent, and account
supervisor for public relations firms (one year each) introduced me to new
friends, challenging assignments, fresh skills, and most importantly, essay
topics.
The same "no regrets" applies to all of the
neighborhoods I have convinced my spouses to move into. In my first marriage of
30 years, we lived in 15 different apartments, condos, or homes. Dear Tommy,
who had lived in the same house for 25 years before I wandered into his life,
was schlepped to three homes in 14 years. Since his death in 2012, I've lived
in two different apartments, and now -- drum roll, please -- I'm ready to leave
Los Angeles and return to Chicago.
So at lease end, I hope to move to an apartment in one of the
high-rises in Lakeshore East, a location that will put this participatory journalist
in the midst of the city's vibrancy and near friends and relatives -- some of
whom could use support as they care for aging partners, or need a pal at their side for their own medical procedures.
This reverse move may come as a surprise to my readers and to
viewers of published photos, all of which praise Los Angeles.
These examples of my delightful eight months here with family and celebrities
are accurate; there was no exaggeration.
But, being the quick decision-maker that I proudly call myself,
I recognize I'm better off in Chicago, a city much easier to navigate for an
older woman who elects not to drive. While my hometown does have its struggles, it has moved ahead on tough urban issues, such as a reliable and speedy public
transit system, addressing homelessness, and creating a downtown
viable for residents, college students, retail, and visitors. And then there's the pizza and hot
dogs.
My decision doesn't mean I have flunked here, or have regrets
about the cross-country move, for I have learned things about myself, which
wouldn't have occurred if I hadn't done the shift.
For example, with a Metro senior citizen pass, I get to
far-flung shopping centers and doctors' appointments. I find fulfillment by
volunteering at a nonprofit agency, and by attending weekly Torah study. I have
made a good friend -- another grandmother transplant -- who drives and shares
her favorite L.A. highlights. And, I took a 6-week workshop on How to Write a Half-hour TV Comedy,
completed an original pilot and a spec script, and gained a manager who continues
to seek opportunities for me.
All of the above was accomplished relatively easy for a speed
demon like myself, but the primary reason for my move to Los Angeles was much
trickier. Because I had not lived in the same city as my daughters for 25
years, and since I was unfettered in Chicago (no husband, house, dog, car,
debt), I thought the time was right to jump into their world.
It turns out that my daughters' whirlwind lives are already
over-stuffed with career and family responsibilities. While they try to include
me in as many events and gatherings as possible, I find myself insatiable. No
matter how often I see them, it is never enough for me. Trying to make up for
lost decades, and likely attempting to fill the void left by Tommy's death, I
turned needy and greedy -- features unbecoming to me and difficult for my
beloved daughters.
But, instead of considering this decision an abandonment of Los
Angeles, I'll add Bi-Coastal to my labels
and
have the best of both worlds.
For special events and family celebrations, in harsh winter months, and
when the itch for something fresh enters my brain, I'll return to the city of
treasured children and grandchildren, temperate climes, and glitter.
And when my L.A. and Boston daughters book a visit to see both Chicago
parents -- hopefully with grandchildren in tow
-- they'll have my new playground as an attraction.
Just think of the essays that await us.
Tuesday, June 2, 2015
Therapy
The door was locked, so I took a seat on the floor opposite
the office of my new therapist. Because I was early, I wasn't unsettled about
my blocked entry; and I resisted taking it as a sign that this latest round of
soul scrutiny was off to a bad start.
However, if she (let's call her Sarah) didn't arrive by my
appointed time, then I would rise, dust myself off, and chalk it off to
evidence that therapy need not be a weekly calendar notation.
But a few minutes before the hour, Sarah appeared --
breathless because she had ridden over on her bike. She apologized for the
locked door and I was speedily ushered into a room that felt as familiar as a
childhood bedroom.
There was the three-cushioned couch in a subtle grey and
floral pattern, the side table with a box of Kleenex and bottles of water,
landscapes and other serene artworks on the walls, a facing armchair in matching
upholstery, with its own side table of clock and notepad.
In my 76 years of life, I have turned to therapy a handful
of times. My slim record is not because I disdain the practice or am reluctant
to reveal my secrets. Au contraire, I love therapy! Fifty-five minutes focused
on me, a sympathetic witness to my angst, a collaborator in my version of the
story; who wouldn't relish the experience.
All of my sessions were jump-started by a query. Some visits
continued weekly for nearly a year; others curtailed in a few months.
Sondra (fictitious, too, but interestingly, all of my
therapists' names did begin with the letter "S") was my first,
sometime in the late '80s. I was lured to Sondra through an article she had
written about weight issues. I was a perpetual dieter, and thought Sondra could
help me untangle my eating issues and enable me to drop 10 pounds.
But somehow during the very first session, our theme veered
from my heft to my marriage, both of which were affecting my happiness. I can
still see Sondra from those long ago days. She was wearing a loose-fitting
tunic top and matching long skirt. Shrink
wear, I thought at the time, flowing,
unrestricted, the better to encourage comfort and open dialogue.
I discontinued therapy when my marriage improved (I still
had the extra 10 pounds), but returned after my husband's surprise leave-taking
in 1990. I went solo for a few sessions, he joined me for one, and despite
Sondra being charmed with him, my spouse had his foot determinedly out the door.
My next bout of therapy was with a woman we'll call Stella,
and it was to her whom I would come back to over the coming years. Stella is regal,
with salt-and-pepper hair, and dressed in the requisite draping wardrobe.
Our first round was very short term, perhaps only three
visits. I had only one question: if I was so unhappy in the marriage, why was I
still crying about its demise?
"You were married for 30 years, sadness is normal,"
she said, which satisfied my need for any further sessions.
I returned to Stella in 2009 after my second husband, Tommy,
and I had been together for 13 years. “He's a jerk,” I told her. “When we first
married, he’d write me love letters, hide syrupy Post-it notes in my gym bag.
Now, nothing, and on top of that, he says inappropriate things to strangers.”
As our appointments and Tommy's odd behavior continued, something new was added to the mix: he lost his ability to speak. Stella suggested a visit to a neurologist, and that's how my husband's dreadful brain degeneration was diagnosed. Once I realized his unsettling symptoms matched the illness, I ended therapy and transitioned from puzzled wife to compassionate caregiver.
As our appointments and Tommy's odd behavior continued, something new was added to the mix: he lost his ability to speak. Stella suggested a visit to a neurologist, and that's how my husband's dreadful brain degeneration was diagnosed. Once I realized his unsettling symptoms matched the illness, I ended therapy and transitioned from puzzled wife to compassionate caregiver.
Before I left Chicago for Los Angeles at the end of 2014, I
had a few more sessions with Stella. She listened as I questioned my motivation
for the move, and like a professor watching a student puzzle out an unsolved
math theory, she sat patiently while I tossed pros and cons.
Yesterday, I had my second appointment with my LA therapist, Sarah. It began in
a more traditional fashion. Her outer office door was unlocked, so I settled on
a chair in the waiting room. Exactly at the appointed hour, she opened the door
to her private space. As I unleashed my backpack and removed my hat, and placed
both on the cushion next to me, Sarah uncapped her pen and placed a notepad in
her lap.
"So, here's my question this week," I began.
Tuesday, May 19, 2015
How To Fight
I hung up on her. Our 30-minute battle exhausted me and I needed
to retreat. Instead of a neutral corner, where a trainer urging me to re-enter
the ring would tend to me, I dropped into the cushion of my lounge chair. My
abrupt halt to our cell phone conversation didn't make me feel like a champ;
instead, I felt flattened, as if I were an over-the-hill boxer.
I returned to the paused TV show I had been watching before the
phone call. As the images on the screen moved from scene to scene, and
characters' voices bounced from one to another, I realized I couldn't focus.
So, I left my viewing chair and paced as I rehashed my recent fight.
First I cried at our mutual behavior. Then, I fumed. I built a
case against my foe and layered it with past arguments. I found the pattern,
and while the themes were not fresh, my response was new: I had fought back.
With cell phone to my ear, I yelled at her. And while the hot exchange left me
exhausted, I was glad I had held my ground, gone toe-to-toe with my tough
opponent.
This experience spurred me to review my squabbling style, as well
as the one I had witnessed in my childhood. I propped two pillows on my bed,
stretched out, and let the file tape flow across my brain.
In my 2006 memoir, "The Division Street Princess," I
wrote this about my parents' quarrels: "Whenever I heard their arguments,
I’d duck for cover, like a
recruit frightened of battle. And although the two of them never came to blows
and seemed to recuperate quickly, my wounds took longer to heal."
Forgive me for the marketing, but I just love that sentence. I
believe it was this early experience that led me to the style I chose for my
first marriage. I was determined to not repeat those painful scenes, so when I
felt injured by my husband's actions, I chose silence. I sulked; complained to
friends, let my children fight my battles -- anything to not engage. And so,
during our 30-year-marriage, the two of us constructed a wall. Tiff-by-tiff,
the bricks grew taller and more impenetrable with each year, until it toppled
in divorce.
In comparison, my second marriage was a pleasure cruise. We
sailed along -- watching the same TV programs, walking our dog, taking
occasional vacations -- and on the rare instances we argued, it was always
Tommy who said, "Let's not be mad at each other. Let's talk about
it." A few words, maybe a tear from each of us, hugs, and then it was
over.
I remember once, when my first husband was at our house --
gratefully, we had stayed friendly through the divorce and in the subsequent
years, and Tommy enjoyed his company -- my second husband and I began to
squabble. I can't remember what the issue was, but we tapped lightly, as if we
were first-time kids in the ring.
"Why couldn't we have done that?" my first husband had
said, as he watched Tommy and I tussle,
and then make up quickly.
He was wistful as he asked this, and at the time, I answered,
"I have no idea." But I do: my parents' union had infiltrated that
first marriage and successfully silenced me.
Was husband #1 jealous that I had landed in a stable second
marriage, or was he wondering it could've been different if I had only learned
how to fight?
It isn't as if he and I hadn't booked therapy appointments way
back then, where each on our own time would spill our secrets, our unhappiness,
and our frustrations. But somehow, those scholarly souls couldn't solve our
problems, and so after our three-decade marriage and a six-year separation, we
signed the divorce papers.
After my most recent clash with a dear one, I pondered how I had
journeyed from watching on the sidelines in my childhood, to righteous silence
in my first marriage, to simple taps in my second, and finally, to the
loud-mouthed, hotheaded battler I had become. Was it age that had toughened me,
a conviction I was the injured party, or a desire to see only what I wanted to
see?
It's likely my opponent and I will take a few days to lick our
wounds. We'll kvetch to friends about the other's stubbornness. Then hopefully,
we'll edge our way back towards each other, and to love.
Wednesday, May 6, 2015
YMCA: THEN, NOW
I used a fingernail to lift the silver circle
on the key ring. When there was enough of an opening, I pushed the hole in my
new YMCA fob through the circle until it closed and sealed.
That's when I felt a tap on my
shoulder, soft as a feather, but familiar.
"Finally." It was the
voice of Tommy making himself heard in my head at the Hollywood-Wilshire YMCA.
My response to my deceased
husband was mental, rather than aloud, as I didn't want those in earshot to
think me loony. "I knew you'd show up at the Y," I said, as I
pictured Tommy in his tank top and shorts, his body trim with muscled biceps
and calves.
At once, the small chest of
drawers that stood at his side of our bed appeared in my mind's eye. Second
drawer; that's where his gym clothes lived. Neat piles of tank tops and shorts,
most purchased from thrift shops, for my husband of 14 years was as slim in his
spending as he was in body.
I could see him choosing the
outfit he appeared in during this imaginary visit. First, he'd have removed
from the closet the gym bag he had used during his 40-year membership at
Chicago's Lakeview Y. His weathered shoes would already be stowed, along with a
towel. Would he find the note I had left him?
Tommy taught me that. At the
beginning of our romance -- both in our 60s at the time -- he would write
tender Post-its and hide them for me to find sometime during my day. Imagine, at
that mature age, being reminded there was this fellow who thought I walked on
water.
I hadn't learned this
sentimentality previously, but I leaped in, stowing my own notes to Tommy in one
of his gym shoes, or in a drawer, surprises I knew would light his morning.
Sadly, it's not all mushy stuff
when I recall my guy and his beloved Y. Much of that switched to spy
games when in 2009, he was diagnosed with Frontotemporal Degeneration and lost his
ability to speak. To be certain I would be contacted if anything happened to
him when he was not under my watch, I bought him a medical ID bracelet. The
band’s metal plate was engraved with his name, his illness, and my cell phone
number.
But, my Tommy refused to wear
the band. I didn't pressure him because I figured the gym was his sanctuary,
free of a hovering wife. It was the place where he didn’t have to talk; where
he was proud of his three times a week attendance, and routine of 33 minutes on
the elliptical, then 20 minutes of weight lifting. At the Y, he was a
strongman, not someone needing a medical ID bracelet.
"Hel-lo, are you still
here?" It was my fictional Tommy waking me from a scene that he evidently
didn't want to revisit.
"Sorry, honey," I
said, miffed at myself for clouding his drop in. "Were you surprised to
see me here, signing up at a Y rather than some fancy health club?"
"I knew you'd come around
eventually," he said. "Sure L.A.'s sunshine is great and the glitter
is fun, but I knew you'd wind up in a place that felt comfortable, familiar.
And affordable."
Ah yes, there was my
budget-minded buddy reminding me of my, um, tendency to fudge finances.
"Have you been keeping an eye on me since I landed in California? Were you
worried I'd be living on credit cards and wishful thinking?"
"Well, I can't say it
hadn't entered my mind," he said. "But, it's more than the low
membership fee that makes me happy to see you here. It reminds me of the days
we'd go to the Y together. Remember when we first married, the time I took you
on a tour and showed you how to operate each machine?"
"Of course I
remember," I said, as the slideshow slipped across my vision. Before then,
Tommy had been a long-time bachelor, and I felt his pride as he paused in his
instructions to introduce me to all of his gym pals.
"My wife," he'd say,
puffed as if he had won the state's lotto.
"He's the best," his
cronies would say.
In real time, my Strength Class
was about to begin, so I shook my head to tuck my spouse back to my brain. I
entered the Women's Locker Room and placed my belongings in an empty space. But
before closing the lock, I rummaged through my gym bag to be certain I hadn't
left anything behind. My fingers probed each corner.
Could a long-ago note be hiding
somewhere? Nope, all gone.
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