How in the HELL Does One Relax?

So today was interesting.  Two ethics consults before 10 a.m., lunch with a nun, and being put on bedrest.  

By "bedrest," I hope "chaiselounger rest" is acceptible.  

It's been a rough going lately.  Not in the sense that operations was, but I almost feel like I'm catching up, like my body is in recovery of sorts.  I logged almost 2,000 miles this month and our hospital system isn't that big.  My back has been a mess of knots and I think I was home four weekdays during August.  So when I got home this past Wednesday, I quickly brushed my yuckiness off; of course dizziness, a thumping heart (palpitations...duh), and crazy headaches are normal for people who travel a lot.

Or those with high blood pressure.  

Or extremely high blood pressure.  

I was at the hospital today for a couple meetings, a retirement celebration for a long time radiology employee, and then lunch with Sister.  My head felt weird, lightheaded, and I was dizzy.  I've only felt that feeling once before, when my BP was 155/100.  

This time?   170/110.  

I actually went down to Imaging to visit a nurse who works down there in recovery.  She was off today.  Instead, I found today's replacement nurse resting comfortably in the patients' recliner.  35 weeks pregnant, she sprung to her feet and, upon seeing me in my suit, screeched out "I'm so busted!  I'm sorry!"  

To which I replied, "I'm the FORMER director of this department, oh, and by the way, can you take my BP really quick?  I feel like I'm stroking out."  She lept into action and was so nervous she couldn't get the machine to work.  I finally said, "Dude (yes, dude), I'm a human who doesn't feel well right now.  Relax, maaaaan!"    She still couldn't make it work.  

So after talking for a few minutes (and trying to not fall over), I wished her luck and bid her farewell.  I felt so crummy that I didn't care about the loafing.  That's so un-Dorrie.  (haha).  Not really wanting to be seen, I crept back through Imaging to the CT department.  They take BP's all day long and I sort of hid behind one of the curtains so that I could wave down one of the techs.  Instead, I get a GROUP of techs walking down the hall (probably returning from the retirement I attended earlier).  It only takes .382 nanoseconds until I am spotted and they are reaching out to help me.  Do I really look that bad?

Yes, it turns out.  With a hugely-inappropriate blood pressure.  They tried to get me to go to the ED but agreed to let me visit a nursing director pal (okay, the director of the ED) who pronounced me in "urgent" shape, not "emergent."  

Well, that's a relief.  But yikes.  No wonder I feel like #$(*@&.

So while I have a doctor's appointment first thing Monday morning, my nursing friend feel it is best if I cool it this weekend.  No galavanting.  No stress.  No caffeine (um...WHAT?)  I will heed it because, well, my father died of a stroke from uncontrolled BP.  I have to take this seriously and I will.  

It's just so ironic.  When I went to the retirement party gathering, everyone kept commenting on how rested I look.  Funny that my head was swimming with dizziness and I could feel my pulse in my ears.  

Time to relax.  For realz.  

Yikes.........Time to figure out HOW to relax.   

I hope my life these past several years with the insane stress has not damaged my body too much.  Here's to hopin'.

Real Moments

I've been writing a lot but trying to discern what to share "publicly."  Work has become interesting as I am now dealing with the intersection of egos and tradition, Church and secularism, ethics and operations.  I'm not really sure if I'm coming or going and I continue to struggle with the change from ops to ethics.  I do know that my stress is 1/10th of what it was.  

I'm always tempted to look back on the rough times in leadership with fond memories.  But it was hard, exhausting, usually-taken-for-granted work.  I have a great deal more mental health these days; I consider   mental health a quantitative measurement, like beans in a jar.  The more beans, the more health.

Today, I'm enjoying a lovely day in my chaise lounger.  A day of dreams, where I sit outside and read "The Help" while sipping a crisp Chardonnay under a blue sky with strategically-placed fluffy white clouds (cue Louis Armstrong's "It's a Wonderful World").  Jack is at the state fair today and as much as I wanted to visit him in his company booth, I needed to re-up the beans in my "aloneness and introversion" jar.

I am coming off a month of extreme travel.  I have covered Indiana probably 5 times and for August, my mileage check is going to be larger than my usual check.  My poor Carmy is probably tired but I'm trying to keep her washed to sort of compensate for the crazy mileage lately.

As much as I hate being away from Jack, travel offers great opportunity for reflection.  I was up in Chicago earlier this week and was very reflective as I approached the hospital at which I used to work. The road sort of dips and the hospital looms, as if taller than it actually is.  I drove that familiar way and was shocked to realize that my stomach clenched up the same way it did years ago.  My stomach muscles remember the stress and reacted as they normally did.  When I had to keep telling myself that I was "blessed to go here" and "lucky for this opportunity that I GET to do this."  

It's weird to realize how conditioning really works.  My stomach remembered the place!  

In that position, I dreaded Saturday nights because Sunday's followed Saturday's and Monday followed Sunday.  Talk about dreading one's life away in a forlorn, strange way.

Even stranger, I stashed my stuff in my former boss's office and glanced into my old office there, now occupied by the local legal counsel.   I instantly flashed back to those early days in mangement when I worked nearly around the clock to finish the insane load of projects.  So desperate to prove myself and to not let down my executive team.  I lived on trail mix, M&M's, and diet coke at work.  Security regularly came to check on me and I'd regularly leave campus after nightfall...even in summer.  Only to go home to a Lean Cuisine and maybe a glass of wine in a box.  

The upscale wine in a box.  Just to clarify.  

As rough as things were in that position, with the stress and never-ending work, I got through it.  And now, looking at it through a very different lens, I am appreciative.

When you're living in an igloo, the beach is even more wonderful.

A new realization has been sinking in since one of the executive leadership retreats a few weeks ago.  A very pious woman explained how she instilled the concept of "real moments" into her teenage children; during a recent trip, one of her daughters exclaimed that the beautiful sunset they were enjoying was a "real moment."  

A real moment means that time could stop, right then and there, and you could remain in that spot forever and be happy.  Thrilled.  Fulfilled.  Complete.  Real moments = Happiness.  

Happiness is an elusive concept.  As soon as you realize you're happy, the moment is passed.  

Ever since that retreat, I've realized several real moments.  As I drove through Chicago to visit my old stomping grounds, I felt lighthearted that I no longer lived there - that I now live in Indianapolis and love my city, with the Colts, awesome cultural offerings, and a husband excelling in a significant marketing career.  It was a real moment of gratitude for our journey, of which Chicago was a step.

Driving home from SB, through sunny, peaceful countryside and cornfields, I no longer had to rush to save 11 minutes so that I could use those 11 minutes to catch up on email.  Me not being in a rush is a real revelation.  Real moment.  

When I sat on my parents' deck a couple weeks back, on a random Tuesday night when my travels brought me closer to my hometown....sitting out there with my parents, sharing the seemingly mundane, everyday details of their lives.  The wind rustled througoh the trees and a low-humidity August evening became a fond memory.  Real moment.  

As Jack prepared a lavish meal last weekend, quickly whipping up a delicious offering, taking up the whole island in our kitchen, all while talking about his new job, its challenges, and opportunities.  Real moment. 

We have so many great things approaching this fall...a long weekend at the beach house with my brother and his soon-to-be fiancee, two weeks in Italy, a couple Notre Dame football games, a couple Colts games, a [secret] Taylor Swift concert, and who knows what else.  

We're living the hell out of our lives right now...recognizing the real moments along the way.

Don't forget to find your real moments.  I'm convinced that life happens there and that is where memories are born.  

It's a Beach House Moment

Well, it's Sunday, the last day of vacation.  

Except that it's not.  My immediate boss is on vacation this week so the pace will be lesser than usual. Which is completely okay with me.  It lets me ease into the week and ramp up almost at leisure.  Two whole weeks before me where I do not have to travel beyond the confines of my office.  My parents are visiting this coming weekend; we are their getaway and they're going to bum around Indy while we work.  But again, that's welcome.  I know they will have something perking in the crock pot for when we get home.  

This year's beach house vacation was a great success.  They are always great experiences but this one blessed us with a great house about 200 steps from the lakeshore, wonderful fellowship with our friends-turned-family, and weather to suit everyone's tastes.  And a lot of wine, cured meats, and cheeses.  

We are crafting our beach house traditions a little bit each year.  The routines create a feeling of familarity and comfort; without one element, the beach experience is incomplete.  For instance, as soon as we arrive, the boyz drop the girls off at the beach house, pick our bedrooms, and unload all the luggage and gear.  The girls stay back (okay, cracking the week's first bottle of vino) and unpack, settling the house.  The guys head to the store and stock us up on beautiful steaks, seafood, and enough gourmet meats, cheeses, and olives to cause immediate, irreversible heart damage.  

We open up the week with a stellar dinner and if possible, a beach bonfire that night.  

Each morning, I'm always first or second to rise.  It's always me or Mr. Vera.  Mrs. Vera and Jack always sleep until 9:30 or 10; they come staggering out of their respective rooms, glasses on, grappling for the nearest coffee pot.  We sit and share the space until someone says, "Well, is it beach time?"  Then the girls usually go to the beach first and the boys join us a little while later.  I'm always the one who has to go to the bathroom first, a few hours later, so when I return to the beach house, I usually make us a munchy lunch of crackers, meat, cheese, little sandwiches, carrots/hummus, etc.  We sit in our beach chairs, reading our books, looking up to share funny quotes or stories from our books, or just to share random memories from beach vacations past.  

We sit out there until about 5pm (sometimes later...one day this week, we stayed out until 7:30).  We go in and each shower and then begin dinner preprarations.  We rarely eat out while up at the beach house.  Why do so when it's so much more fun to pour a lovely chardonnay while cutting up veggies?Why drive somewhere and eat a subpar cheeseburger when our houses always have fully-stocked kitchens?  After some fantastic eats, we will either retire to the adirondack chairs and bonfire in our yard or to the beach for sunset.  

And if it rains, we hit the wineries nearby to stock up for the coming year.  We no longer do the wine tastings; we purchase a bottle and head out to the gorgeous decks overlooking peaceful brooks and ponds.  And yes, we have our regular tables and seats at the wineries.  I think they are starting to remember us.  

That's pretty much the routine.  Except that this year, a few moments really stood out to me.  

Our house this year had the bonfire pit in the front "yard."  It wasn't really a yard but the area in front of the house was surrounded by hostas and tall zebra grass so it felt private.  Once we fogged the plants for bugs, it was quite nice.  One particular night, after a long beach day, we chose to forego sunset and stay up at the house, at the fire pit.  We were listening to Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong, it was a chilly evening for a cool front had gone by and unleashed some serious waves - so we could hear the waves from our chairs, and if I closed my eyes, it could have been 1940.  The area has not changed since the beach community was constructed in the 1920's and 30's and time really does slow there.  Ray Charles' "Georgia" or Ella's "Summertime" transports all of us back in time, to a simpler time when life wasn't rushing by at such a dizzying, frantic pace.  The crashing waves provided a stellar backdrop for our bonfire, the lake breeze cooling us just enough to require sweatshirts.  It also felt like fall, which wasn't a totally unsettling feeling.  I was feeling wonderful as long as I could sit in that chair.    

Another moment occurred at that same front bonfire area.  Vera and I were sitting out there, just chilling after our showers as the boys cooked us dinner.  [On the menu was beach house po' boys.  Try it sometime...start with raw jumbo shrimp and after de-seeding it, cut a jalapeno long-way.  Put the jalapeno slice where the vein of the shrimp was.  Then wrap the whole thing in bacon and secure with a toothpick.  Then grill until both the shrimp and bacon are done.  After browning the insides of a sour dough bun on the grill, melt habanero Havarti on the bun and then add the de-toothpicked shrimp.  Whip up a Sriracha aioli and you will have a happy tum-tum.  Trust me.]  But as we sat there, relaxing, our bizarre neighbors came and went, without even acknowledging us.  They were all extremely skinny and we decided, unhappy.  They ignored us several times and so we dubbed them the "angry elves" from the South Pole.  It became quite funny because when one of us would spot a neighbor on the beach, we would ask, "hey, is that an elf?"  That whole thing ushered in some quotes from "Elf" that quickly defined this beach house as the great 1920's craftsman house with the angry elves next door.  

We had several fabulous beach days but the last one was probably the best.  We logged 9 hours on the beach that day.  It was hot, so we played catch with a football in the shallow waves.  We went for walks down the beach, dreaming of owning one of those grand lakefront properties (for both the summer views and the majestic winter storms).  At precisely 4:35 p.m., our beach neighbor (not an elf) pulled a bottle of cold, crisp white wine from one of their coolers.  Vera looked at me and said, "we need that wine."  After a quick google search, we found that the closest neighborhood shop closed in 25 minutes.  So we hightailed it, on a "code wine" to get to the store before it closed.  We were succesful, returning to the beach a little while later with cold white wine of our own and some beer for the guys.  It was then that we dragged our beach chairs down to the water's edge and enjoyed our beverages with the tiny waves gently crashing on our feet and calves.  The sun glittered on the water, like diamonds.  Others took their chairs out to the shallow sandbar and set up camp in 8-12 inches of water.  Kids played around us while adults taught them how to skip rocks.  It was an ideal beach scene.  None of us wanted to leave and that ended up being our 7:30 p.m. night.  And we only left because scary clouds were building to the west.  We probably would have sat there all night.  It was okay, though; even though our sunset bonfire was rained out (by a ferocious storm, I might add), we shared our Last Supper in the safety of the beach house's dining room.  The Last Supper is where we eat all the leftovers in a grand, holiday-esque feast.  Nothing really flows and dishes come out in courses.  But man, is it good.  

Beach life is good.  As much as I wish I could take 2-3 months off each summer to spend them by the Lake Michigan shore, a week is enough to reset my bearings, breathe a bit, and recharge for the job that I love and feel very (very) fortunate to have.  The Yankee "Dunegrass" candle also came home with me so whenever I need to have a "beach house moment," all I need to do is put on some Louis and Ella, light the Dunegrass candle, and grill up a beach house po' boy.  

Beach house moments are all such wonderful blessings.  

Here's to the summer, to the beach, and to lifelong memories.

Whole Hearted

No matter where I am in the world, if I'm on a beach, there comes a time in the afternoon when I have that beach to myself.

In Anna Maria, it was around 5 p.m.  The beaches quickly cleared as people showered and headed to dinner.  In the fading light of day, the waves take on a majestic hue and I look around for someone with whom I can share the beauty...and...no one.  

It's just me.  Out here with the wind and the waves and the beach and the gulls.  It seems that I'm the only one for miles.  I gaze down the beach and marvel at my luck to have such a piece of creation to myself.  

The beach is mine.  No one to share it with...but what I want most is something with whom I can share the experience.

A similar encounter occured the other day during our Lake Michigan beach house escape.  Once again, we are vacationing with our beautiful friends, loving and tolerating and patient.  They teach us what love is about and accept us through all the hysterically funny times and crazy down times.  We're family and it's just what we do.  

But on an overcast Monday afternoon, Jack and our friends all wanted to nap.  I didn't fault them this but felt the draw of the beach, beckoning me to visit.  So I packed up my chair, towel, and bug spray, and hit the beach.  When I first arrived at 3:30 p.m. or so, the beach was pretty crowded.  Dads playing with toddler kids and moms chasing after preteens to coat them in sunscreen.  

But as the time progressed, fewer and fewer shared the beach space with me.  By 5:15, it was me and the gulls.  Everyone disappeared to their beach houses, in pursuit of the perfect burger or kabob concoction.  One other guy was out there on the wind-swept beach, teaching his young golden retriever how to retrieve, praising him with every successful return.  Soon after, even he and the puppy went in and it was me, left to discern my thoughts and absorb enough sunshine to get me through until March.

I've always been a beach bum.  My mom taught me the art of sunbathing when I was a kid.  The goal was to relax, get just enough sun so you don't burn, and come back from the beach with at least one good story.  

My mom had skin cancer last year and she's done with the "just enough sun" phenomenon.  I like just enough sun for a souvenir tan, so that I can feel as though I've been somewhere great, absorbing said greatness to max out my bars as though I'm in a Sims game.  

The beach is always where I have felt whole.  Complete.  Gestalt.  Like a piece of me is missing when I am inland, going about my day-to-day business.  Like there is an itch, a longing, of something I can't quite obtain when I'm somewhere else.  There are few things I like more than to watch waves rolling in from afar, wondering about their origins, their stories.  Did a storm rile them?  Wind out of the north?  Small earthquake?  Why is that pulse of energy rippling through the water at that point in time?

But as we sat on the windy beach, hair billowing in the breeze, I noticed something different in the waves.  Their story changed....they were no longer angry, seeking the shore in mad pursuit.  They seemed...reluctant.  As though they didn't want to pound the shore, their energy spent, anger receding.  They seemed almost apologetic and yet destined to roll over, just because there was enough wind and energy to compel them. 

They seemed placid.  Six-foot tall waves on Lake Michigan were placid.

I felt placid.  No longer angry but compelled to keep rolling because of the energy I've been riding for a long time, for hundreds of miles.

It made me reflective about my father.  I still keep thinking about him, wondering if I will randomly run into him in SB, Chicago, or anywhere in northern Indiana.  I think about him way more often than I thought; his death was four months ago and I still think I could meet him in the neighborhood Meijer.

He's gone.  I will not see his particular shade of green eyes ever again.  I will not be able to look into his eyes and see the placid green I observed in the waves, on the beach tonight.  Anger gone, just the waves riding out the stored-up energy propelling them for miles.  I don't know nearly enough about his later life and I really don't want to create a psychologicial complex about how I never really knew my dad and then he went off and died without us reconciling.  Yet when I return to the beach, my soul feels a wholeness and I know he's there with me.  

The angry waves have passed.  Now we are riding out all that stored-up energy until peace and calmness return, once again, to the shore.  

And to my heart.      

I'm Living in a Movie Right Now

It is a superb Fourth of July.  

July 4th is quickly becoming one of my favorite holidays.  No family drama, no worries about presents and specific menus that keep with tradition, and a feeling of "anything goes" summertime attitude accompanies everything.  We buy store-made potato salad, drink copious amounts of margaritas, and join random neighborhood parties.  Well, just because.

So, last night...Jack had the brilliant idea to walk the neighborhood after we grilled our ribs and shrimp (if you want a wild shrimp experience, boil some jumbo shrimp in a Miller Lite and some Old Bay seasoning.  An unexpected gastronomic experience).  We walked down to the cul-de-sac a few houses down, following the sounds of Rihanna and Whitesnake.  Instead of feeling like outsiders (these were new neighbors), we immediately felt welcomed and part of the crowd.  One of the guy's dads was there and reminded us EXACTLY of Arthur from King of Queens.  It was awesome.  In that "is this really happening?" type of realization as Jack and I walked home at 1 a.m.  

That was after the cops came.  

Yeah, the cops.  

Someone in the neighborhood called the police on the block party (which was actually the "pre-gaming" of today's block party.  Hell yes, we are going back tonight).  There was one house not represented at the block party so we knew who called.  But the funniest thing was that the cop merely got out of his car and said, "great party...just make sure no one tries to drive home" and left!  We thumbed our noses at that one house.  

But we really underestimated the party scene of our neighborhood.  Everyone is 30-40 with the requisite 2-3 kids ranging from ages 7-15.  You know those movies that portray kids' idealistic childhoods, like "Now and Then?"  That's where I live.  I can barely fathom the stories they will tell when they are 40 or 50, with their own kids.  We're part of a developing history here.  

So yes, July 4th rocks.  And several neighbors spent hundreds of dollars on fireworks so as long as the subdivision doesn't burn down, we'll be having a fabulous night. 

***********************

Work is going well and despite a super-early deadline for budgets this year, I'm feeling good about things.  Because I'm an ethicist now and report to Corporate, my budgets were due by July 3.  I submitted them on July 2 and 4 p.m. and quickly hightailed it to the nearest hamburger and glass of vino.  I hated that they were due before vacation but now that they are complete, I'm SO glad that monkey's off my back!

And yes, vacation is coming soon.  We leave this coming week for a glorious 8 days in the sands of Lake Michigan with our dearest friends.  The texts going back and forth are hysterical.  Our friends found us Tommy Bahama beach chairs at a Costco in Chicago and here I am, stocking up on Tide pods and ziploc bags for the beach house.  Each year, we have learned something.  Like, that we need lots of laundry soap so that we can wash our beach towels every evening.  Or that we really never use the mayo we buy at the store.  Or that the ladies go through way more Chardonnay than we anticipated.  Hypothetically, we start with our first glass of Chardonnay at 11 a.m. some mornings.  

I just wanted to clarify whether it's 11 a.m. Central time or Eastern?  Haha.

So summer is in full swing here at Chez Dorrie.  It's beautiful, relaxing, and full of lots of parties, beaches, and soon-to-be finished comps for my master's degree.  The last step is upon me...written comps on Tuesday and oral comps on July 21.  Then I get a year off before the PhD.  Yay!  Bring on the sunscreen, Chardonnay, and awesome neighborhoods full of new friends!

Holy Hell, I Went Camping. But Not Really

It's been an interesting weekend.  A retreat of sorts.  Jack was in Chicago with his buddy and they partied it up at a Rush concert, the Blues festival with countless craft brews, and a local pub for the Blackhawks game.  If there was every such a thing as a "Jack" weekend, that would be it.  

I tried to not be jealous.  

I wanted to fly to Florida to visit my bestie, Nurse Starbucks.  But it just did not work out.  Instead, I texted her countless Friends quotes just to annoy her.  She and I can have multi-day text conversations that consist only of Friends quotes.  

If there is ever a "Friends" Olympics, we are so there.  We would conquer.

So because I have a round of terrifying exams looming, I chose to stay home and study.  I have a five-hour written exam over moral theology and its concepts on July 7.  Then on July 21, I have a two-hour oral exam over the entire Master's degree.  I think I can wing the written exam but the oral exam is giving me pause.  I'm scared to death.  The key subject matter areas are Scripture (and as a faithful Catholic, I suck at Scripture), Dogmatic Theology (whose classes I dreaded and only completed with the assistance of Aquinas.  The nice red wine, not the saint and doctor of the Church), Ecclesiology (which, surprisingly, I picked up in Rome and at the Vatican.  So that has to count for brownie points, right?), Sacramental Theology (I think I will be okay here, it's hard to mess up the seven sacraments), Church History (of which I took ONE class...and we were in Florida for two weeks that semester so all I remember is "studying" the Ecumenical Councils with a hard lemonade next to me...), and Moral Theology.  I have to know and apply the precepts of moral theology daily for my ethicist gig.  But I'm afraid I will miss key concepts or verbiage.  I decided to make a study guide out of the "suggested studies" topics for the oral comprehensives.

With each question given 4 "returns," the study guide I made is 41 pages.  

Joy.  Happy, happy, joy, joy.

So while Jack was on his Jackweekend, what better time to start my study guide?  Honestly, I sort of enjoyed the refresher in ecclesiology and moral theology (where I started yesterday and today) and instead of pulling St. Thomas Aquinas off the shelf of my bookcase, I grabbed my copy of "the Shack" and enjoyed that not-quite-theologically-correct treatise on the Trinity.  That counts as studying, right?

When I wasn't studying (or "studying"), I exercised.  My lungs are finally healed from my bronchitis-tonsilitis-pneumonia wannabe-mularky and I could run.  I ran!  Cue the "Flock of Seagulls" here - "and I ran, I ran so far away!"  I was on my newly-repaired treadmill and my lungs were so grateful for the A/C instead of the "it's so humid that it could storm at any point" central Indiana air these days.  Not complaining; it will be snowing in 5 months.  But man, it's so hot outside that I just want to take my clothes off and play in the sprinkler.  Our pool opened a couple weeks ago but I'm so over the sun these days...I've known about 5 people who were diagnosed with skin cancer this year alone.  

What I really wanted to talk about was being alone.  Because of my job transitions and the like, I am used to living alone.  I am at ease with myself and do not get lonely.  If I feel the twinges of loneliness, I put in a movie or play some upbeat 80's rock to make me feel centered and grounded.  

Except that yesterday, both the Directv and internet stopped working.  Holy hell, was I camping?  

That is how I define camping.  A lack of wifi.  [muuh-haa-haa]

So what was I to do?  I did what any sophisticated, secure woman would do.  I poured myself a glass of wine (on ice), lit the tiki torches on the patio out front, and started yet another book.  Check me out!  I can open my own bottle of wine!  Yay!  With a (gasp) CD playing that I had to dig out of the boxes from college.  [Hello, Gogo's!  Bananarama!]  But while I sat there reading, I kept thinking of Cheryl Strayed from "Wild."  Have you read that book?  It's a goodie, sort of like "Eat Pray Love"...but on a mountain trail...without food...and without praying.  It's actually like "Hike, Find Water, Sleep."  But whatever, the story is so magnetic.  I see myself in Cheryl, wanting to conquer these massive mountains without the pedigree or proper equipment.  And yet, she keep going, with a triathelete's endurance and mental perserverence rivaling the most tenured coreman. 

"Wild" reminds me of a cross between "Eat Pray Love" and "Rudy."  Minus the Irish Guard and football.  But man, the Irish Guard would have made "Wild" more pretty.  Ha.

I'm quite comfortable alone and wouldn't mind a solo journey someplace somewhat wild.  By wild, I mean a place that has running water, bathrooms, beds, potable water, and regularly-occuring food.  Jack has expressed several times that he wants to hike the El Camino, the Way of St. James, in Spain.  Maybe that's a memoir I'll write as I journey through the hostels and homes of those who shelter pilgrims.  Oh wait, that's already been done, it's called "The Way."  

That's the trend I am noticing....I am entranced by other peoples' journeys.  Their path to self-discovery and fulfillment...it's never easy and offers enough obstables that they can publish a book and /or sell a multi-million dollar story line.  

My life is a journey.  I've been touched by death recently, with the sudden passing of my father.  I received papers in the mail yesterday, from a lawyer up in his neck of the woods.  They requested that I relinquish my right to his estate because my "stepmom" wants to administer his estate.  There was no will.  Of course there was no will.  But while the act is just a step in the probate courts' administration of his worldly assets, it feels so final.  To be served papers about "your father's estate," it hits home hard.  There will be no chance of reconciliation on this earth.  His wife wants to cut all ties with me, legally.  There is probably money out there that I should inherit but do I want the strings attaching me to that money?  Probably not.  On one hand, it's freeing.  I am truly free of that family, of the guilt, of the obligation to "honor my father" even though he seemingly did not want me.  I have chosen to forgive him, to remove my hands from around his neck.  He deserves peace and it's beyond me to judge what he did with his life.  

But I can still decide what I do with mine.  I'm on a journey and wherever it takes me, I'm trusting in God, that God knows what he is doing.  Whether I hike the El Camino, the hills of Assisi, or just the rolling hills of suburban Indianapolis, the journey will not be in vain.

Nope.  This is wonderfully and totally worth it.  

Willing Myself to Heal

I tend to get reflective when I'm sick.

Lucky you, I guess.

I am on week 3 of some bronchial plague.  I woke up with a raging sore throat on Memorial Day and the cough followed the next day.  A week of travel around Indiana precluded the good rest and sleep that I needed and I came home that next Friday night and did not move from my favorite blue scrubs and couch all weekend.  I thought that two relaxing days would see me into a lovely week of stunning accomplishment.  

[I'm still struggling with my job transition.   I'm on the road two weeks out of four and when I am in town, I am working over distances to consult the most bizarre ethics cases and develop ethics formation for physicians....long gone are the days where I could easily and succinctly measure my self-worth by the number of items I ticked off my to-do list.]

I feel insecure when I stay home sick.  Like it's a weakness, a fraility.  However, I can't imagine that I am projecting a confident, sturdy self when I can't shake this stupid bug.  I earn something like 11 hours of PTO each two-week pay period and have the time off...but I hate taking it when I'm "sick."

Except that something is different this time...I am not getting better.  After two doctor visits, two rounds of antibiotics, a couple inhalers, and approximately 394,297 coughs, I am still sick.  

Instead of my Fitbit tracking my steps, I have been trying to finagle it to track my coughs.  

My abs are tighter from all the coughing, but my chest and back are aching.  Time to throw in the towel and heal.  Even if it is 85 and sunny outside and all I want to do is sit out in my chaise lounger outside. Apparently, due to my bronchial issues, I am supposed to stay in the A/C.  And it helps the coughing spasms if I do not get my heart rate up too much.  I'm just so bummed because I have been logging 10,000+ steps a day and was getting into a great exercise routine.  Well, as much as one can exercise before coughing so much I choke.

Sigh.  It's been peachy.

So I come back to the question and sage advice that my dear friend Nurse Starbucks offers.  She tells me I need to take care of myself.  The concept of self-care is as evasive to me as relaxation.  

How do I relax?  How do I take care of myself?

I'm starting by staying home.  Yes, I'm on my laptop but "relaxing" with some Friends, a huge mug of OJ, and crazy doses of expectorant.  But I slept for 5 hours today.

5 hours of sleep (filled with dreams about me raising baby Tyranasaurus Rex's in a playpen) and I feel .39% better.  Here's to figuring out how to heal, rest, and replenish my immunity reserves.

Whatever those are!

97,338 Steps

As a disclaimer, I have no idea why my fonts are different in this post.  Chalk it up to trans-atlantic plane wifi, I guess.

I am on the plane returning from Rome, just having flown over the majestic (and cold!) mountains of Greenland.  Rome was in the 80's and humid most of the week.  Our rooms were not air conditioned so we were sweat hogs by 11 a.m, touring in the hot Roman sun.  So I'm sitting in my window seat, staring out at the snow and ice-encased mountains, freezing.  The plane is probably 60 degrees right now but I don't care.  I'm not  sweltering in my oven of a hotel room with a sunburn.  I'm also stretching my ankles because I want to prevent DVT's on this 11 hour flight.    

And because my legs are sore.  I walked 7 miles in high heeled wedge sandals yesterday.  The grand total number of steps for the week?  97,338 steps.  

That's something like 43.6 miles.  For once in my adult life, despite copious (okay, scandalous) amounts of homemade Italian pasta, veal, and wine, I am returning from a trip lighter than when I left.  That 43 miles probably has something to do with it.  

And the 47 stories of stairs we "climbed."  Some were actually climbed, around the monuments of ancient Rome and in the dome of St. Peter's, on the way up the cupola but others were logged because of the sharp ascents in Assisi.  

Thank you for tracking our trek, Fitbit.

We were "only" in Italy from Sunday morning to Saturday morning.  It's a pretty short trip when you consider that Italy is 6 hours ahead (from Eastern time) and by the time you start feeling like yourself again, it's time to board that plane and return home.  Urban legend says it takes one day to adjust for each hour of timezone you traverse.  For me, I feel very "normal" once I complete that first painstakingly long day (from Saturday morning in the States to Sunday night in Europe) and can usually get by on 5-6 hours of sleep.  

But on day 7 or so, it catches up with you.  I experienced a marked delay on the return flight to Chicago from Rome - 4 hours.  So I got up at 6 a.m. to pack and have breakfast, depart the Roman hotel at 8, arrive at the airport at 8:30, spend an hour in security and various passport checkpoints, to arrive at the gate at 9:45 a.m. Rome time.  We were boarding at 2:00 p.m.   Fabulous.  If there is one thing I hate more than waiting at the BMV, it's waiting at the airport.  When we boarded the plane, it was 7 a.m. in Chicago.  

My body thought it was 6 or 7 a.m. but that I had been up all night.  Actually, my body has no idea what day or time it is.  My body did think I had been up for at least 36 hours.  And I looked like it.  Have you ever looked in the mirror and thought "Wow.  I look like a hag from Haggsville and I'm subjecting humanity to this?"  I wish I could put a bag over my head because my next shower is 18 hours and 4,592 miles away.  

Vanity lives.

I guess it's not SO bad to have a long wait in Rome's main airport; there is excellent pizza, Tuscan wine, and espresso around every corner.  Being delayed in Rome is probably 1294% better than being delayed in the Congo.  Or maybe Burma.  

Nothing against the Burmese.  But they probably don't have a salad bar that includes fresh basil, buffalo mozzarella, and tomatoes that looked as though they were harvested this morning from the Roman sunshine.  

I digress. 

The trip was wonderful, of course.  This year, I spent a mere $100 or so on my portion, mainly to pitch in for beer and to settle my hotel mini bar bill (from which I took several waters....at 3.50 euros each).  I went to Rome for almost nothing and had yet another life-changing course of events.  

I keep thinking that my blessings HAVE to be running low by this point in my life.  How does someone end up with such a great life, an awesome marriage, and a job that beckons them to Rome on an annual basis for FREE?  To tour the holy sights and shepherd burgeoning leaders while feasting on fabulous Italian food and vino?  And yet, the blessings continue to flow.

If one opens their heart to God in Rome, God arrives.  Not unlike a bull in a china shop, God quickly and succinctly lets you know He is there, making lots of noise, trying to get your attention.  He seemed to slam through the door in my heart, sprinkling key words and kernels throughout the week...whether I was ready for them or even wanted them.  I feel a bit like I was pushed off a cliff with God looking at me lovingly but with a sly grin on His face saying, "You say you trust me...now prove it to me, Grasshopper."  I visited the tomb of St. Peter during this trip and it surprised me to find that it took my breath away  Sure, it's ornate and beautiful, in the crypt of St. Peter's Basilica, right under the main altar.  All I could think was, "This is the guy who stepped off the boat and sank?  This 2000 year-old faith has somehow survived, despite the meddling of humans creating wars and inquisitions, to become this worldwide source of peace?  And it was started by a guy who doubted Christ."

Maybe there is still hope for me yet.  

I tried to open my heart on the trip, cognizant that I am no longer a pilgrim but a leader of pilgrims.  It's daunting; you're not really sure if you should add conversation or reflections in group discussion or go galavanting around Rome with your colleagues as they seek a well-earned, ice cold Italian beer.  

I think I rode the middle line well.  I kept quiet, allowing the pilgrims to experience the trip on their own and come to their own conclusions.  I caught myself saying "on the trip last year" a bit too often and bit my tongue.  But I did go galavanting with the group on two evenings.  This year, sleep felt more important than nightly Lambrusco across town by taxi.  Running a pilgrimage is exhausting work.  Two Lambrusco experiences were enough for this "seasoned" Roman pilgrim.  

That is how the group perceived me - the pro.  Seriously?  People pulled me aside to ask "stupid" questions.  No question is stupid, of course, but the pilgrims wanted answers to questions...how does the papal blessing work?  Will the blessing accidentally hit my sunglasses and if so, how do I make sure only my rosaries are blessed?  What's the deal with indulgences?  Why does St. Francis preach a simple life of poverty and concern for the poor and yet Assisi is filled with glorious basilicas of priceless artwork and frescos?

I have no idea.  I'm sure St. Francis would be appalled at the grandiosity of Assisi's churches.  Peter would probably be appalled at the grandeur of the Vatican, too.  

********

Several poignant memories stick in my mind from this week.  I saw Lino Rulli, an author whose books I've read.  I was about 10 feet from the pope and I *swear* he looked at me.  This isn't my ego talking here - we were right beside a railing at the papal audience and he stopped his papal "cart" RIGHT in front of us.  He kissed several babies, giving us a few perfect photo ops.  The picture I have of him looks like it's from a publication.  I have to print it just, well, because it's the pope and I took the pic without a zoom lens.  He is just that approachable.  You sort of wonder if you're going to run into him when you're galavanting with your colleagues on a fine Roman evening.  

I came away with another kernel to chew on with regard to vocation.  Last year, I felt my vocation placed squarely, heavily on my shoulders.  This year, the sense of vocation seems different.  Equally heavy but with a different sort of stress and trials.  It's something I need to tease out in the coming months (or years, decades).  I hope to be able to better discern whatever this new sense of vocation is when we return to Italy this fall.  

Despite the long, cramped flights, crappy airline food that both burns your tongue and gives you rapid-onset digestive woes, and ragamuffin appearance, it's all worth it.  

It's always worth it.  

Weeds, Ants, and Vodka. Without the Vodka

As a snippet of my "Independence Weekend of Late-April 2015," I engaged in another oft-forgotten task.  

Weeding.  Ughhhhhhhh.

We bought a new construction house that was built almost two years ago.  The builders sodded the yard and while we've had the boasting golf green of a lawn these past two years, the grass grows quickly.  

Like, if it even thinks of raining 100 miles from here, Jack has to mow.  

A side effect of this awesome lawn is that it frequently encroaches on the bricked-in flower and shrubbery beds I lovingly created last year.  Time to pull those bastardly grass roots from my landscaping.  

Whenever I complete this particular chore, I'm sore for approximately 5 days.  And 13 hours and about 20 minutes.  So I have to plan it accordingly, when I don't have to do a lot of squatting, standing, or stairs.  

It's probably a sign that one should exercise more when such weeding makes one afraid to have to sit on/get up from the toilet.  Eek.  Yes, I just said that.

So there I go this morning, weeding the flower beds.  Because everything has been neglected for a while (thank you school and wicked crazy job), the weeds were overgrown and the roots ran deep.  As I sorted through them, using my bare fingernails to isolate the weedy offenders, I got to thinking.  As much as I need to weed my flower beds, I need to weed my soul.  And my emotions.  And my physical presence.  

All of the stress of these last few years have taken their toll on me.  I'm about 10 pounds above my favored weight (okay, maybe 12.  15?).  I love my "new" body but I really cannot afford to purchase several suits in my volumptuous size.  Seriously...curves rock and I've never really felt sexy before this point in my life.  But my entire wardrobe is one size and I finally caved and purchased a few pairs of black dress pants in my "more lovely" larger size.  I really don't care...I have made it this far in my life and if people are going to judge me for my body, go ahead and judge away.  I have nothing to prove to anyone.  If I'm at home in my body, that's all I have to worry about.  

Pontificating aside, I want to feel better.  I want to be able to randomly run a mile or two without dying or thinking my limbs are going to turn to pure, white hot ash as I push my body into some oblivious state of crap bag.  So this "physical weeding" involves the uprooting of some not so healthy habits.  I love midnight nachos.  Midnight nachos have gotta go.  One of my BFF's, Nurse Starbucks, agreed to help keep me accountable.  No nachos.  Oh, and no Cadbury eggs that I *may* have stashed in case a rainy day presented itself.  More exercise.  Fewer carbs.  I'm here to *clap* wreck your foodie husband's gourmet meals [that sort of rival Paula Dean in the butter department.]

Emotional weeding is going to involve the uprooting of negative, self-doubting thoughts.  My self-talk has improved drastically over the last year but I still feel those awful twinges of workaholism, nipping at my heels, like a pretend demon chasing me up the stairs at night [we all think like that, right?].  That voice that sarcastically reminds me that, "you only have value if you're working and accomplishing something!"  It sucks.  I hate that voice and its sultry reminders that constant productivity will make me happy!  Fulfilled!  Yeah, right.  Please pass the blood pressure meds.  Part of my challenge with this new position has been to tell that stupid voice that it has no power over me.  Yet, it does.  It sneaks in, like an odor that you don't notice is there until your whole kitchen smells like rotten Chinese food and you're wondering who forgot to clean out the fridge.  I have to keep reminding myself that my job has changed (drastically).  I'm no longer scored by the number of tasks I complete, the number of construction projects I successfully wrap (on time and under budget, thank you), or people I fire.   I'm now judged on...well....I don't really know.  Being an ethical human and helping those in our healthcare ministry discern the course of our patients' lives or clinical circumstances.  

Yeah, no pressure.  But it makes it hard to establish measurable goals.  Hmmm....should my dashboard read "successfully avoided abortions" or "people we have counseled into allowing their parents to die with dignity and peace?"  Sure.  Why not?

I'm still trying to uproot the awful weed of workaholism.  I'm not well versed in other addictions but I do think workaholism drains one's very soul.  You have no value as a human being without having accomplished something for your company.  It's so sad...and yet I see myself strugging with that stupid temptation.  This is an area full of weeds...needing a lot of attention as I continue to heal from hospital ops and progress into my new life.  I read a "nouveau" book from one of my former radiologists called the "Four Agreements."  I don't agree with the theology in the book but it makes a few great points.  Most namely, that people wake up in the morning thinking about themselves.  Not you.  Or me.  So odds are, we have no need to worry about what others think about us because about 97.8% of the time, they're thinking about themselves.  If you consider this, it's true.  I am so hard on myself but no one usually appreciates the self-depreciating sentiments I give myself when re-hashing a conversation or thinking about a critical interaction with another.  They're worried about their own self-depreciating sentiments.  

I guess that's sort of a relief.  

The last big area, spiritual weeding, has a life of its own.  I don't mean to get religious but sin (or bad habits) remind me of when you find those tiny ants in your kitchen.  You see one small one, then two, then 14, then all of the sudden, you have a line of them going across your counter (where you forgot to clean up the maple syrup you spilled at brunch).  Each tiny choice throughout the day matters.  Each small decision about what to eat, what to think, what to feel, what will offend you, not offend you, etc. gets you to some larger destination.  I don't want to worry about having to flick ants off the counter.  I want to put some bug deterrent around the base of my house so bugs can't even get inside.  At the very least, I want to be able to recognize when an ant or two has somehow gotten into the kitchen so I can find the source and mend it there.  

It's a Sunday night and even despite attending the "last chance" mass at 6pm and finishing chores at 9 pm, I don't have a case of the Sunday's.  

I have a lot of gardening and weeding to do.  But I'm ready to start shaping the beautiful mess that I've become.

Unreal Kitchen

I've been dreaming of this day for the past few years...Drooling over the prospect of having a Saturday to do what I want without looming paper deadlines and theological books and papers I "ought" to be reading.  Despite meeting those deadlines, there was always more I could have read and never felt finished with schoolwork, to the point that it left my mind.  

Probably just part of my neuroses!

So how did I spend my first Saturday, truly off since about 2007?

[Please don't judge.]

I watched a certain (and will remain nameless) 90's movie featuring Alicia Silverstone.  Then Jack came downstairs and turned on the Cooking Channel.  I don't usually care about food, I don't enjoy cooking, and it's not something I consider a hobby.  But I felt entranced by Bobby Flay's brunch offerings.  I called one of my BFF's and as we hung up, I noticed that a new show had begun: "Real Girls' Kitchen."  The "star" on it was surprisingly inviting and charming.  Upon googling her, I found that I was shamelessly watching Haylie Duff.  There's something magnetic about her "real kitchen" in which she makes a "skinny salad" in her Malibu beachhouse.  

Um, okay.  Yeah, that's real, Haylie.  After I finish filming movies, I ALSO retreat to my oceanside beachhouse and eat microgreens before my personal boxing trainer comes to whip my butt into shape in my open-air Italian garden.  Yup.  It's like we're cut from the same cloth.  

But I can't help it.  I absolutely refuse to watch the Kardashian's but the Duff's are really cute.  In their "unreal" kitchen.  And hey, if I ever want to rent out an entire restaurant in Manhattan for my mom's birthday, I know how to do that now.  

I can't even articulate the feeling of peace I have today.  Not just because my degree is FINALLY done, but because work has also downshifted.  Instead of 500 emails a day and 10 hours of meetings (and then catching up on said emails during the evening hours), my days are now either crazy or dead.  I'm either having a 15 hour day with hundreds of miles of driving and life or death decisions or I'm hanging out at home, watching the morning news because I don't have a meeting until 9 or 10 a.m. and can easily monitor incoming emails from my lovely iPhone.

The treadmill is now a leisurely walk.  I can run if I want to, but I control the pace.  I lunched with a colleague on Thursday (another revolution...In my 6 years in hospital operations, I think I left campus for lunch MAYBE 10 times.  Most of the battle was that you lose your parking spot and would have to walk 15 minutes back to your office - all while being windblown and hurried.  Yeah, I'll stick to my trail mix that I throw back in my office.  My new life enables me to meet my awesome hubby for lunch iin downtown Indy.  In fact, this week, we are lunching at "Goose, the Market" on Friday. )  So anyway, my colleageue is still on the treadmill.  She confided that she sought out the help of a therapist and is debating a career change because things just keep moving faster and faster and she feels the treadmill is hurting her personhood.  

Her personhood?  The core of her being as a human?  Ouch.

When something hurts your personhood, I agree, it is time for a change.  But on the "other side" of the treadmill, things look far different.  Sure, I have to drive at least 500 miles a week and am pretty much on call 24/7, but I can sleep in.  My boss trusts me and does not micro-manage (whew...SUCH a welcome change).  I miss my staff but this position has already been so much more "me."  I've been healing these past two months and replenishing my energy.  I'm amazed at how depleted I let myself become. Despite the major life change that a new job entails and the grief in the loss of a parent, I cannot remember feeling this well in years.  

I also haven't touched my Ambien.  All of the sudden, I can sleep.  How novel.

So what if I'm spending today with Haylie Duff?  We hosted a dinner party last night and are joining in a neighborhood card party tonight.  A little Haylie won't hurt anything.  Just pass me the keys to her beach house.  And help me save my reputation!

I Should Mop the Floor

I'm usually not a procrastinator.  I'm usually one of those nervous types who does everything in the house, makes sure everything is perfect, then collapses in a heap to sleep.  "Do what you have to do so that you can do what you want to do" is my normal motto.  No playing until the work is complete.

However, my procrastination is rearing its awful head on this beautiful, 75-degree Saturday in Indianapolis.  It's my LAST Saturday of having to study and do schoolwork.  I have a four-hour moral theology exam on Wednesday night and I've been working on a 54 question study guide for the last several weeks.  I have 11 questions left and it might as well feel like I have to pen a Calculus textbook or some equally impossible academic task.  Plus, I have to study "Vertitatis Splendor" which is a mile-long papal encyclical.  

I've already cleaned the kitchen, started laundry, put a pork roast in the crock pot, and sprayed weeds in the lawn.  

[See?  I'm desperate.  I normally do not touch the lawn nor do I cook.]

But it keeps ringing in my head that joke about graduating doctors.  "What do you call the person who graduates last in medical school?"  

"Doctor."

"What do you call the person who graduates last in an ethics degree?"

"Ethicist."

I already have the job I have dreamed of since college when I figured out what "ethics" even is.  I only thought that distinguished PhD's and tenured professors could call themselves "ethicists."  And here I am, neither of those things and I just received my business card proof with my new title and additional degree after my name.  It felt surreal...I really don't feel smart and it caused a semi-identity crisis to see this person represented on a card.  

While my healthcare system has requested that I work towards a PhD in moral theology or ethics, I am definitely taking a year or two off.  I did the math the other day; with the exception of age 0-5 (when I started Kindergarten), I have been in school for all but five years of my life.  Part of that is because I had to take 1 or 2 classes at a time as I worked full-time (and in this ethics degree, could only take one class because of my insane work schedule and the heady subject matter that made me inwardly cringe and ratchet up the stomach acid).  

But man, I cannot wait to blare Alice Cooper's "School's Out" on Wednesday after I finish my exam.  Even though I have a comprehensive exam this summer, it does not involve the regurgitation of Aquinas' logic or biblical exegesis.  Thank the Lord.

With that, time to stop procrastinating and nail these last 11 questions. 

Hmm.  Maybe it's time to empty the trash and trim the shrubs in the front of the house!

 

Granola Bars from a Semi

Well, it's been two weeks since I found out my dad died.  It's still an odd thing to think, let alone say out loud.  I thought I would be "over it" by now but I will have random moments where it hits me all over again.  

Grief is a weird thing.  Just when you think you're okay, some important memory or song blindsides you.  The hardest part for me is that there was no funeral, no memorial service.  I'm realizing the significance of those events, even if just for the family.  Services end the "formal" period of grief and allow for some closure.  I don't think there ever will be a memorial service so Jack and I are going to hold our own.  I need that formal goodbye, that closure.  

I put my nose to the grindstone last week and was on the road for 8 days straight (between meeings in northern Indiana and Chicago).  My bestie, Vera, had a big birthday last weekend so Jack and I traveled to Chicago to help her ring in the new birth year with family and friends.  Monday morning, I made the all-stupid decision to travel from Chicago to SB in the "faux blizzard" on Monday.  1-3" of snow became more like 5" and after some treacherous travels on I-65 and 80/94 (and lots of Hail Mary's), I found myself marooned on the Toll Road onramp for almost an hour.  People were throwing snowballs and one truck driver walked up the ramp, offering people granola bars.  

Granola bars from the rig of a semi.  Yum!  LOL.

We eventually moved and I arrived in SB nearly four hours after leaving Chicago.  I was never so grateful for the ergonomic lumbar support I purchased a couple weeks ago.  And the non-trucker granola bars at my folks' house!

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++

The weird thing about losing my father is that my stepdad is truly my dad now.  My Dad.  Capital "D."  When I visited them for the 2 hours during dinner and before bed, things had markedly changed.  My stepdad was no longer in competition with my father.  "Competition" is not the right word but for the last 25 years, dad was threatened by Dad and Dad by dad.  I've been calling my stepdad "Dad" for the last 15 years (at least) and meant it when I called him Dad and purchased Father's Day cards.  He loves me without condition and provides a caring example for our family.  On one hand, I feel as though I'm doing my father a disservice by honoring my stepdad as Dad.  But conversely, there is no longer division.  No longer the competition for my love.  

Things feel peaceful and no longer divided.  Divorce is a rotten thing and in my family, it became a necessary thing.  While annulment may heal the spouse and allow them to retain life in the Church, it makes the kids feel as though they have no "real" parents.  If the marriage doesn't exist, you're technically a bastard.  Not to be crass, but my bastardism is healing.  Or at least alleviated.  I'm back to having two parents like those "normal" kids.  It's a strange psychology.

The upshot to this whole thing is that I have reconciled with my aunt, my father's sister.  My grandpa was a stunning artist (I wish I inherited even 1/1000th of his talent) and instead of inheriting riches (or debt - haha), I am inheriting two very intricate charcoal drawings that grandpa did more than 50 years ago.  I will have to restore them but will display them in a place of honor.  

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

It's finally holy week, too.  Today is Palm Sunday and I saw several colleagues at mass.  Maybe it's the job change, but for the first time in recent history, I wasn't impatient during the 1.5 hour service.  I'm hoping this sense of peace and patience carries me through this week.  

Speaking of holy...a strange phenomenon has been occurring at work.  I pretty much only work with priests and nuns these days.  It is a benefit for my moral life; you can't even dream of dropping the F-bomb in the presence of dozens of Sisters.  It makes me realize how much of human sin is just habit.  But the funniest part is that I somewhat-frequently dine with religious at secular restaurants.  I feel comfortable doing out to dinner with priests and nuns and don't even realize I'm the only lay person at the table.  But the people around me stare like crazy...try sitting in the middle of Bonefish Grill with a bunch of religious.  You become a spectacle.

I don't mind being a spectacle.  Just don't spill my wine as you whip out your iPhone to photograph the Sister to my right. 

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

And finally, I applied for graduation from my master's degree since I finish my coursework this May.  They sent me the list of 50+ crazy hard comprehensive exam questions.  Like, "Explain the Trinity in 500 words" and "Why is the book of the prophet Isaiah important to salvation history?"  Ugh.  At least this degree will be finished soon and I will have my weekends back...until I have to start the PhD.  But I'm trying to put that off for another year.  I always thought that if I went back for yet another degree, I would go to law school.  Guess not...but darnit, I'm taking some time off to breathe.  And get back in shape.  And read something other than theology! 

Flood of Grace

The last two days have been the most peculiar of my life.  I guess this is my first big loss in my life.

Before this, I didn't know how to grieve.  Not that I really know now.  But I have two days' experience.  I worked for about 5 hours today, getting necessary things accomplished, and then came home.  I put shorts and a tanktop on and carted my lounger out to the back patio.  It was 76 degrees in Indy and, if I closed my eyes hard enough, the breeze made it feel like a day on a Floridian beach.  Or a Lake Michigan beach in the middle of summer.  I relished the breeze, letting the sunshine heal my broken soul.  

Yesterday, I recorded some of my recounting of Dad's last few hours.  At the time, "Sitting on the Dock of the Bay" kept coming on Pandora.  seeemingly mocking my emotions.  But it dawned on me that it's one of my favorite memories - sitting on the docks in New Buffalo with him.  With Dad.  Watching the boats come and go out of the harbor.  He introduced me to that existence, "beach life," if you will.  

I'm one of those crazy diamonds that feels their emotions even more acutely with alcohol than without.  Most people lock up their emotions with alcohol but a couple drinks make me feel mine even more acutely.  As such, ready to face the gaunlet of emotions, I had a glass of wine on my Indianapolis-turned-Florida/Michigan beach patio. 

UGHHHHH.  Here we go.

My last communication last night was with my new boss, Fr. Mark.  He told me that he would say a mass for me and my father today.  Then he asked if he could inform the chairperson of the board, Sister JD.  Of course I said yes, for she is my boss, too.  So my first call this morning was from Sister JD, crying, explaining that she lost her father in the same manner.  I shared with her some of the discord and regret I felt over the lack of true reconciliation with my father.  She simply listened and then cried along with me.  

Who has a chairperson of the board of a huge corporation call you personally, to cry with you, when your father passes on unexpectedly?  I couldn't believe it.  And yet, I was so grateful.  Her love was palpable over the phone. I FELT loved.  It's one thing to know you're loved.  But it's another thing to be so surrounded by love that you feel it.  You feel you are surrounded by guitar strings and can "pluck" that love so that it reverberates in your soul.  I think it changes your soul's chemistry.  I suddenly felt what it was like to be truly vulnerable, one human connecting with another.  No pretenses.  No judgment.  No expectations.  Just one person being totally present to another in need.  

Then Sister JD sent out a message to all executive leadership and my fellow Franciscan leadership colleagues.  I received something like 148 messages in an hour, all expressing sympathy and prayers.  To work in an organization with such loving outpouring of support is a blessing I never imagined.  And I'm going to let them wrap me in their love and support.  

In times of sorrow and grief, I am so grateful for the love of hundreds of other people.  People who only know me professionally and yet, they shower me with their love and support during this most difficult time.  Rest in peace, Dad.  And thank you, God, for my most loving family, friends, and colleagues.  

Sittin' on the dock of the bay

Already, there is more to the story.  

I just hung up with my aunt, my dad's sister.  It turns out that she did not have a contact number for me and called my parents to have them contact me or to get my contact info.  My aunt called my parents' house twice....and they were in Indianapolis at my house.  

So my parents received those two voicemails today around 2:30pm, when they got home from visiting us in Indy.  That makes me feel better...the Facebook thing was because no one could seemingly find me.  

The other details are pretty marked...he had a massive stroke at some point Thursday evening.  His wife found him slumped over in a chair and barely able to mumble anything.  By the time the paramedics arrived, he was unresponsive.  It went that fast.  They rushed him to the hospital and all the while, he was unconscious.  He was in ICU from 12:30 a.m. Friday morning and they began the range of Imaging and neurological tests to determine brain function and the depth of the stroke.  It was a terrible stroke, massive, in the deepest recesses of his brain.  No surgical intervention could have helped and the stroke was progressing.  His brain was full of blood and it was getting worse.  

There were only two options...to trach him and keep him on a ventilator with a feeding tube until his heart gave out...or to discontinue the vent.  I'm so grateful, from a human and ethical perspective, that they discontinued the vent Saturday morning.  Palliative care nurses made him comfortable and he passed away peacefully within two hours of them discontinuing the vent.  It gives me such peace to know he passed quickly and peacefully.  

I'm still mad that we had to lose 15 years of relationship (or whatever it was) because he didn't want me or need me in his life.  My emotions are ranging from anger to sadness to a sense of helplessness regarding my own mortality.  But all things considered, it could have been far worse.  I do hope he is resting in peace.  

The song "Sitting on the Dock of the Bay" always reminded me of him.  I hope he's sitting on the dock of the bay in heaven.

  

A Eulogy...or Lack Thereof

I was going to journal this writing but thought blogging would be (at least for me), a freeing, honest experience.  You're about to get some very raw Dorrie here.

Here's the thing.  I found out my dad died yesterday.  My biological father.  He had a massive stroke and it went very quickly.  I don't know many details because I haven't been intimately involved in his life in about 30 years...and I found out about his sudden passing on freaking Facebook.  An aunt posted the news as her status.  Bleary-eyed this morning at 7:25 a.m. and still laying in bed, I scrolled through my newsfeed.  It's my tradition.  First thing I check is the weather.  Then Twitter for news headlines.  Then Facebook for other updates.  Then usually work email.  Usually, by checking these feeds, I learn who has recently had a baby or what ISIS is up to now.  

But this morning, I found out that my dad died.  

I had to read the status twice.  

My first thought was "God rest his soul."

My next thought was "I don't know what to feel."

I laid there for a minute, just sort of wondering.  Should I be sad?  Relieved?  Guilty?  Apologetic?

Rolling over, I woke Jack up to tell him the news.  He seemed dumbfounded, like he was trying to make sense of my words, teasing out whether he was still in a dream.  

We each got up and headed downstairs to the coffee pot.  It was then that I was able to name the emotion I was feeling: Numbness.  Jack and I sat in our recliners, beautiful sun streaming through the windows on a bright Sunday morning, just staring at each other.  Jack's dad also left him at a young age and neither of our dads really care about us.  My stepdad and Jack's stepfather-in-law has become our 'real' Dad over the last 25 years.  By some grace of God, my family was in town this weekend, celebrating my other brother's graduation from the police academy here in Indy.  They attended his ceremony on Friday and went to lunch to celebrate.  I had to chair and speak at a conference and Jack could not get out of work....but we were with him in spirit.  After the ceremony and lunch, they all descended upon Chez Dorrie and Jack for a weekend celebrating family.  And Dad's birthday.  All he ever wants in the world is his family together.  So by getting together, having a few beers and a lot of laughs, we give him the best gift possible.  

Friday night, we all needed to laugh, so I cracked open a bottle of wine and we all threw several scenes in a bag...to play "Scenes from a Hat" from "Whose Line is it Anyway?"  It was "Scenes from a Bag" and I laughed so hard I thought I was going to vomit!!  Saturday, I had to write a paper and the guys went to a new brewery nearby.  Jack made corned beef, cabbage, and homemade soda bread.  We cheered the Irish men's BB team onto victory last night and turned in early for once.  

Our house guests usually sleep in when they visit.  It's fine, it tells me their beds are reasonably comfortable.  However, my mom came down first this morning.  I couldn't even look at her with telling her the news.  As soon as she sat down with her coffee, I broke the news.  My voice cracked when I mentioned it.  She immediately apologized for my loss and I wondered how the news would affect her.  My dad was her husband for 11 years.  A lifetime ago.  She was more worried about me.  

I just needed to be alone.  While I was so grateful for the surrounding love of my family, I needed space.  I didn't know what I was grieving or how you grieve someone who didn't want you.  So I stuffed my emotions down my throat and started doing laundry (because that's important, right?).  My stepdad (who has been "Dad" to me for 25 years now) found me in the laundry room and just hugged me.  He didn't say anything, just held me.  He eventually just said, "I'm sorry."  

To which I replied, "Well, you've been my real dad for 25 years now."  He only hugged me tighter.  He could have said so many things..."sorry the bastard is finally gone" or "good riddance" or something to that effect.  He chose to just love me.  

That's all I wanted from a dad anyway.  Someone to love me without judging.  Someone to just meet me where I am and love me for that.  In that singular moment, he truly became my Dad.  I'd never loved a dad as much as in that moment.  Which felt extremely ironic because I was starting to greive my "real" dad.  

Celebrating my dad's birthday on the same day that my father died.

At that point, I knew I had some serious reflection and unpacking of my thoughts before me.  My family sensed this and soonafter, packed up and left for home.  I just needed time, space, and silence.

Which brings me to this point.  After talking with Jack for about an hour and a lot of internal thoughts over the last 7 hours or so, I have a few key points of grief

When I die, I want my friends and family to celebrate my life.  Me.  To relish their memories of me, our laughter, my presence in their lives.  I really want it to be a relatively happy event.  But in this case, I don't have many memories of my father.  I initiated an email exchange last year and he seemed like a bitter, angry old man.  He left me when I was 6, we had a strained relationship throughout my adolescence and teen years and our last real contact was just after my wedding in 2001.  I wouldn't have minded having lunch or dinner with him to reacquant but he didn't want to.  After all these years, all my education, and accomplishments, he still didn't want me.  Fine.  After a few days of grieving that, I let it go.  I can't force someone to love me or want me in their life.  

But I can't really celebrate dad's life.  I don't know who he is.  Hell, I don't even know if he was alone when he died.  I don't know if he has a will, an estate, or whether there will be a funeral.  I assume their will be but one never knows.  I'm grieving the lack of memories and good times.

The second thing I am grieving is the loss of a parent.  My mom always tells me it's awful.  She changed the day she lost her mom and I see it.  It makes me hug her tighter each time I see her and relish the goofy stories she often recounts.  I am now in a new category...a child who has lost a parent. Even though I did not have a relationship with dad, I am still, biologically, half his.  I am pretty much it on my paternal side... A half-orphan.  

And selfishly, I pick through this new territory of having lost a parent.  Sociologically, it's significant.  I am the next generation now.  And yet, I selfishly keep wondering about his health history.  Do I need to worry about dying from a sudden stroke now?

The last thing I am grieving is what could have been.  As I said above, I have a few memories of him that I hold close to my heart.  A few moments where I felt loved for being me.  When I was accepted to study abroad in Ireland, my mom said we couldn't afford it.  Dad said to GO!  That the money would end up okay and that I should never miss a chance to spread my wings.  He was right...I did study in Ireland and ended up traveling the world as a result.  At his prompting, I also backpacked South America in college because the money would end up okay.  It always did and I'm glad he encouraged me to take those risks.  

There was one winter day when the two of us took off for New Buffalo.  I was maybe 12 or 13 and I remember staring out at the barren, icy landscape of the lakeshore.  He had his camera and was taking pictures.  I was just staring out at the frozen scenery, letting the cold wind sting my eyes.  Even now, when we travel to Lake Michigan each summer for our week at the beachhouse, I think of that wintry day with dad.  I think he took me out to lunch that day and I felt special.  I felt like a daughter.  It stuck with me.

I'm sure I will have more to reflect upon in the coming hours, weeks, and days.  But so far, this experience is teaching me yet another thing I shouldn't do in my life.  In short, don't NOT have a life.  Live your life in a way that others will celebrate when you depart from this earth.  

Even though you didn't want me, dad, I never wrote you off.  Maybe now you will experience freedom and release.  Rest in peace, Dad.

Far Niente

So I've had an unexpectedly quiet weekend.  Jack came down with the flu (like, the mother of all viruses) Saturday night.  It's Monday at 5:30 p.m. and he still hasn't come downstairs.  He's in quarantine.  I think it's the sickest I've seen him; if it's anything like the flu I had a few weeks ago, he has to feel like absolute crapola.  

I planned to have a quiet weekend.  As though I jinxed myself, we had a huge snowstorm on Friday night and into Saturday.  I didn't go anywhere and happily stayed on my couch in Adidas pants, roaring fire in the fireplace.  I gave up wine for Lent but with the circumstances at hand (done with job and truly unemployed for a few days), it was time to open a bottle of 2012 Far Niente.  

Far Niente: "the art of doing nothing."  

And I truly did nothing.

We sat and watched the snow fly, drinking beautiful chardonnay, listening to Louis and Ella.  Louis and Ella is like audio valium.  My already lightened shoulders began to relax even more.  

Then Jack got sick that evening.  So I moved out of the bedroom and into the guest room and bath.  It's kind of like a get-away.  In my own house.  

So I've pretty much been alone in the house even though I can hear Jack walking around upstairs.  The ghost of Jack.  Ha. 

I just can't tell you how grateful I am to be out of hospital management.  I had to talk myself into it back in 2009, where I convinced myself I was all badass and could play ball in the big leagues with the big guys.  And I could and did...but it was at a price.  It certainly took its toll.  The other day, I tried to think of who I was before I took the Chicago gig and had I really changed that much?  I took today and tomorrow off to rest...I've been running this marathon for years now and my legs are exhausted.  So is my heart.  

I had a massage this afternoon, a two hour massage with my all-time favorite massage therapist.  I swear, his fingers get in between the very vertebrae of my back.  It's very painful but after a hot bath when I get home, I feel like a new human.  Couple that with the feeling that I have, for the past six years, been carrying around a huge camping backpack (picture Reese Witherspoon in "Wild") and left it behind.  In leaving the job, I left that massive backpack by the side of the road.  I left work on Friday and felt a million tons lighter.  

My wonderful staff threw me a huge going-away party.  They gave me so many presents - my favorite was a huge poster board card that all 500 people signed.  But they also chipped in to get me a stunning Pandora bracelet (my two favorite charms are a Notre Dame football helmet and Franciscan cross), a 12-pack of Easy Mac, several pounds of M&M's, caffeinated Crystal Light, and wine.  It dawned on me that that's pretty much what I lived on at St. Gonzo's: mac and cheese, M&M's, and crystal light (and wine!).  My staff cracked me up and at least 30 of us crowded into one frame for a fantastic selfie.  

But as my assistant helped me pack up my car with my loot, I felt joyous.  Excited.  Very relieved.  I was tempted to blare Alice Cooper's "School's Out" when I drove away from the hospital.  Even though I will be back for meetings (in two weeks), I won't have to run part of the place.  

I'm thrilled to be able to be "me" in my new job.  Not that I wasn't me in my last few jobs.  But there was a forced-ness to it all, where I felt as though I had to sell my authenticity.  Isn't that the funniest concept ever?  In my new position, even though I really don't know what it entails yet, I have a feeling I will get to be myself.  They want me to be myself.  Not some badass Big League executive.  Just me.  

I no longer have to work really hard to become what I should be.  I just get to be that person now.

It's a relief.  A tremendous relief.  

Insomniacs Unite

It's 1:30 in the morning and my usual insomnia has struck again.  My friend Vera (from Chicago) and I text during the night because we both frequent the insomnia train.  Tonight, though, she must be able to sleep because she didn't text back.  

I'm in a weird place.  I usually lose sleep because my brain is racing a zillion miles an hour and I lay there, trying to will myself to peace and to sleep.  My to-do lists mount in my brain and my strangest anxieties rear their annoying heads while my body is trying to replenish itself.  That's when I worry about some stupid mistake I made 10 years ago or how a colleague may have perceived a facial expression that day.  Whatever the space junk floating around my head, that's when it manifests itself.  

I was exhausted tired on Sunday.  It may have been from the long weekend but it felt like more of a work hangover, from my body trying to get over the fact that I wasn't stressed to the point of breaking. Monday, I barely woke up all day and drug myself to bed at 7p.m. (only to sleep a solid 11 hours...on a weeknight!).  Yesterday, I had a massive migraine and was nodding off even as I got my hair cut at 6pm.  By 8, I was in bed and already passed out cold.  So imagine my surprise when I woke up at 11:39 pm, completely rested.  It was as though my body was saying, "Okay, we're good now.  Please proceed."  

So now, I have similar physical feelings of anxiety and restlessness.  But it's almost as though I'm going through a withdrawal from work.  A physical withdrawal from hospital operations.  It's not a bad thing; these type of DT's are totally worth it.  They're a sign of healing.  

For the first time in six years, I don't care if we get a huge snowstorm.  I will get to stay home, in front of my fireplace, and watch the snow fly from the comfort of my Snuggie.  I will no longer have to be on-call to run a hospital, to open a command center for overnight staffing, or worry about a dozen offsite facilities and who would make sure they are safe for patients.  When huge storms hit in the past, I would visit the news apps and marvel at the number of schools and businesses closed for the weather.  Hospitals never close...so I'd get up and with a slight feeling of bitterness, fight through monsterous storms to help keep said hospital open.  But now, I will welcome the snowstorms.  Bring it on.  Now I'm stayiing home, too.

For the first time in six years, employee concerns will no longer worry me.  There were some weeks that I spent more than 40 hours just dealing with people.  And their shenanigans.  While I will still have personalities and perceptions to manage, I will have people to manage the people.  I will welcome quieter days without Human Resources issues galore (and the requisite documentation that accompanies them!)

For the first time in six years, I will enjoy the month of July.  July is budget month in the land of hospital management.  Last year, it was particularly gory and I don't think we saw the light of day from July 15-August 10.  Then we all had the post traumatic stress of having to catch up on everything from that month in the dungeon (a.k.a. conference room).  Once July 4 comes and goes, I know it's pretty much over until Labor Day.  But no longer!  I will welcome summer months that do not end in something called a "budget hearing."  Well, that's not entirely true - I will have two budgets to prepeare.  Not 110 like in 2014.  I will have a July!

For the first time in six years, my personal wellbeing and "centeredness" is an expectation of my position.  Wellbeing and work/life balance are the first things that go out the window in healthcare.  It's always "do more with less" and sometimes, there just isn't enough time, energy, funding, etc. to go around.  You cut corners.  You cut budgets.  You cut staffing.  You end up giving yourself massive eye strain as you answer dozens of emails from your cell phone or laptop after dinner.  You're forever checking your phone for new alerts because healthcare never stops and dammit, neither should you.  I will welcome a lifestyle change that, while certainly stressful, is expecting me to take care of myself.  Instead of managing nit-picky details and following up on countless tasks, my job will be the implementation of philosophy.  A doing of ethics.  Teaching execs how to lead.  Higher-level system activities.  It has the potential for huge stress but the expectation that I practice presence.  I will welcome this change in philosophy.  I will take care of myself.  Caring for myself is no longer an indulgence...

Isn't it funny the concessions we make along the way?  My "normal" became a constant job that never stopped (even during snowstorms), where I spent countless hours managing people, tasks, and strategy.  I dreaded (and I mean DREADED) the months of July and August.  And where it felt so self-indulgent to take care of myself and sleep when I needed to sleep.  Or go to the doctor for a physical.  Or get my glasses adjusted because they no longer fit my face.  Or to exercise to feel better.  I put off nearly everything I needed to function as a human, much less a successful leader.  I somehow made it through...but now I'm putting the pieces back together.  

And I got my glasses fixed.  

This new world is unsettling and wonderful.  I check my email after dinner and instead of seeing 30 new messages since 5:00 pm, I see 3.  And one might be junk mail.  It will surely pick up next week when I officially start the new gig...but for now, I'll take it.  I'll welcome the pause.  Maybe we'll have a snowstorm blow in so I can have my first snow day in a very long time.  

I'll welcome the heavy eyelids now and go back to bed.