Michael (Mish)

I see the pale-yellow station wagon pull up to the front of our house. You, the new addition to our family, have arrived. I’m not terribly pleased, as Mom has been gone a while with your difficult birth, and at five years old, I think…surely it must be your fault. You cry through lunch in your blue, fold-able baby crib, drawing even more attention. Not at all sure you are a good idea.

I want to hold you, in your tiny, terry onesie. You are plump, sleepy, and warm. Mom places you in my arms as I sit cross-legged on the floor. The weight of you is so pleasing. I watch your sleeping face and study the blue veins on your eyelids. Your head grows so heavy for my arm, yet I am not done holding you. I feel so grown up and responsible. My little brother.

I see you as I sit on the couch as we ready for school. You are studying yourself in the hallway door mirror. Khaki shorts and a buttoned up, plaid short-sleeved shirt. You smooth your hair over to the right with the palm of your hand. So serious for such a little guy. 

When did you get so lithesome and tall? Polo shirts and pleated pants are worn to high school. You tell me you don’t much care for jeans, really. You only wear those when you are working on the Thunderbird you got from Uncle Lloyd. Or, taking apart a carburetor to see how it works. All the pieces laid out on a table. ”Will you know how to put these back, I ask?” ”Of course,” you reply. 

You travel to Japan and have a host family there. It all seems so exotic and foreign to me. I find you brave to venture out so easily on your own. You bring gifts and make us an authentic Japanese one-pot meal when you return. My worldly brother. We laugh at how you had to crouch down to shave in the host family’s bathroom mirror because of your height. 

I always ask you for advice on buying used cars. You go with me to get that Volvo and that Saab and eventually, that BMW. I want to be like you, so I change the oil in my own vehicles, under your tutelage. I have two silver chains on my wrist the day we do the Volvo, and as I cross the alternator wire with that metal, I get a shock. Shaky and a little freaked out, I say, “Please finish this for me!”. ”No way!”, you reply, with a grin. ”Just go get some of Mom’s rubber kitchen gloves and finish it”. 

You are in London with Brandon. I sell anything I have of value to buy a ticket for our impending travel around Europe. You have a pea green Mercedes and the three of us take off on our adventure. We walk the beaches of Normandy. We drink way too much at a Gasthaus in Germany where the proprietors are charmed by your formal German usage. You are fearless driving through the narrow roads of the Italian Alps. We laugh on a ferry to Greece, where we spend two glorious weeks in Tolos. We watch the L.A. riots footage from back home on a hotel TV.

I come to see you in Kauai on my 30th birthday. Once again, I sell everything to be on an adventure with you and return to stay. We send Christmas cards because they say, “Mele Kalikimaka”. We eat sushi and wear flip flops. I see you with your long hair. You ask me to cut it, as it’s starting to annoy you, and I do…saving your ponytail.

We are headed to Budapest! Are we crazy? Only Brandon knows the language, yet we go. We get a flat on the Pest side and the elevator doesn’t work. So, we race each other up the stairs to our apartment. We have plans for a cafe’ that won’t happen. We explore the city, the museums, the restaurants. You fall in love with my friend from art school back home, and spend countless hours on the phone. We can’t imagine the phone bill.

Back home. You are with Mark now, and I am so happy you are so happy.

Scotland on a trip with Mom. You play the bagpipes up on a hillside in the Highlands. It is a perfect moment in time.

I call you and you call me and the years fly by. Our father dies and you play the pipes at his memorial.

I have surgery and you call to tell me you have cancer. I can’t sob because it hurts my newly fused back.

We talk about how you feel after your chemo infusions. We talk about movies and Netflix series and mundane things, too. I say, “I love you” as I end our chat. You say, “love you lots”.

I text you and you don’t text back. 

Farewell, my dearest brother.

 

Love: The Complete Package

Ollie is at the vet

and all I can see are the

spaces where he is not.

And my heart and mind dip a toe

and then a body into that

empty space,

Knowing it is an eventuality,

if not today or tomorrow,

Someday.

And, I realize when you

Love deeply

with a full heart,

You get the complete package.

The one that opens you up

and tears you apart,

Because you signed up and

signed on to be a vehicle

for it

All.

On A Personal Note

In second grade, I had to use the restroom during the Iowa Basics exam. My teacher wouldn’t let me go, even though I asked her several times. The expected happened, and I peed in my chair. I remember a lot of things about that day, yet I also remember my Dad being quite upset with the teacher when I told him what had happened. As a biology professor, he knew that it was not healthy to try and ‘hold it,’ let alone the fact that she had disrespected my assertion of a bodily need. He made it very clear to me that day that I was in charge of my body, and in the future; if such a thing were to happen again, I was to feel free to ignore her saying, ‘no’.

His support that day meant the world to me. Even as a young child, I knew that by his words, he had my back with regards to my body being mine, and I was in charge.

Later in my life, he would assert this lesson in other ways. If I were at a doctor’s appointment, for example, he would tell me to ask what my vitals were, if they didn’t readily share that information. He would say, “this is about you, and you have every right to have any information pertaining to your body.” Seems a small thing, really, yet his point was that since I had stewardship of this body, it behooved me to have all the information required to make informed decisions.

Yesterday’s ruling to abolish Roe v. Wade was a punch to the gut. At 58 I no longer am in danger of having an unwanted pregnancy, yet I was once in that situation. In 1993, I had an abortion of an unexpected and unwanted pregnancy. It doesn’t really matter what my situation was at the time, yet what does matter is that I was in charge of what did or did not happen to my body…not someone else. It was a difficult and challenging time in my life and I was lucky to have the support of family, including my father, who saw this as MY decision. I simply cannot fathom how much more difficult that time would have been if I had to seek out services in a different state, or potentially services deemed as illegal.

These are disturbing and unsettling times. Our efforts and energies could be better directed at issues such as climate change, gun control, improving our health system…just to name a few, yet a small minority of people want to exert power and control over others in order to feel…what??? Better about themselves? Righteous? What gives anyone the right to decide something that is not their decision to make?

It is My body, and My choice.

Spill The Beans

When I was young, there was a game called, Spill the Beans. Players would take turns adding one more bean to a pot, hoping their bean wasn’t the one to topple the pot full of beans. Kind of like the game, Jinga, yet with little plastic beans. If your bean was “that” bean, you lost the game.

Metaphorically speaking; we humans often do not know how full our ‘pot’ is until that one extra stressor comes along, or that one additional bit of bad news hits your psyche.

Yesterday was such a day for me. I felt ‘off’ the entire day, had a hummingbird take it’s last breath in my hand, and received news last night that one of the fox kits in our neighborhood was killed by a car. So sad, of course, yet this news about the sweet, little fox turned out to be my bean. It broke me wide open, somehow. I realized I had no where to put this news. I didn’t have room for it…and it kept coming back out in tears. I have been crying all day. They just keep coming, these wet things from my eyes. I am truly sad for the wee fox, yet I am also realizing that this deep grief cannot all be about the fox.

Years of Covid stress, the war in Ukraine, mass shootings every other day, political division, selfish humans, and the wildfires burning in our beautiful New Mexico (just to name a few), have packed my personal ‘pot’ full of beans to the hilt.

I just didn’t realize how much so until yesterday.

I reckon it is time to figure out a way to release the grief and sorrow, a new way to replenish the space needed for sad news, for I am not necessarily optimistic these days.

I know there will be more beans.

Non-Altered States

Two months plus into sobriety and I am realizing that the hardest thing for me now as a sober person is the constant awareness of just regular old Alison. After 40 years or so of altering myself and my perceptions with alcohol, I can no longer escape the real me. The unaltered me. The sometimes anxious and antsy me. The depressed me. The boring me. The uninspired me.

It is somewhat alarming to realize that I have been altering myself with booze for so long that I am weirdly in a relationship with myself and I feel like we are strangers. That is probably a tad dramatic, yet the reality is that after all these years, I really may not know myself as well as I thought.

I was never a Jekyll and Hyde drinker with wildly changing personalities when I imbibed. I just liked getting buzzed and feeling like I was a bit removed from things. I still felt like me, just fuzzier. Now that I don’t drink, I can’t dampen or diminish the edges. It is like being in a really bright room after spending time in a mood lounge with selective lighting. No wonder bars are so poorly lit. It sets the vibe to imbibe. Bright lights, metaphorically speaking, are a completely different mood. A mood, I now realize, that I am going to have to embrace.

Maybe like any new relationship, this dance I now do with myself with take time, and patience. It is a new way of being, and I know in my heart, a better way of being.

The Princess and the Pea

I think there may be something akin to a honeymoon phase in the first month of sobriety. It all feels new and kind of squeaky clean. No more dark, guilty thoughts surrounding alcohol intake. Listening to sober podcasts and reading a lot of ‘quit lit’ for inspiration and camaraderie feels like progress. There is a sense of accomplishment as each day is ticked off the calendar as an alcohol free day.

Yet, there is also a lot of gunk that finds it’s way to the surface. Decades of drinking down feelings, thoughts and memories temporarily makes one think those unpleasant bits have drowned in bottles of bourbon. Sobriety equals happiness! Not so, it seems. While I generally feel better these days on all levels, having 37 AF days under my belt, I also am a bit surprised at how sad I am at my core. Some deep well of sadness that doesn’t seem to be easily identified hums in the background. What the heck is this stuff? Despite my years of drinking, I always felt like I addressed my problems and even spent years in therapy working through some particularly difficult issues. How can I still have such a deep (or seemingly so) pit of quasi despair?

Maybe folks like me who can’t moderate their intake of alcohol are “Princess and the Pea” types. We aren’t necessarily drinking to quell some hideous experience, or some really heavy emotional crap, but are big drinkers because that dang “pea” that may sit several levels below the surface is irritating enough to cause unrest and upset. Alcohol used to mimic layers of mattresses in this scenario, yet now I have to just sit with the pea. I have to own the pesky little pea and realize that being sober may open up me up to some lows, yet I believe it will eventually highlight the highs, not the “pea”.

I am a sensitive soul, and that’s okay. Being sober is new for me, yet this princess is peeling off the layers, and that’s perfectly okay, too.

Lucky 13

Day 13 alcohol free.

Day 13 of some pretty shitty sleep, even when I can fall asleep.

Day 13 of feeling agitated and weird when the light outside indicates it’s almost the witching hour of when I used to drink.

Day 13 of listening to podcasts about women like me who quit drinking.

Day 13 of waking up and not having to wonder how much I drank or ate the night before.

Day 13 of remembering the book I read before sleep (or that part where I try to sleep).

Day 13 without bleary looking eyes.

Day 13 of feeling like I have no skin. Why is everything so intense? Why am I crying?

Day 13 of being alternately mad and then sad that I can’t drink alcohol.

Day 13 of feeling pretty okay.

Day 13 of feeling pretty shitty.

Day 13 of marking days on my calendar as “alcohol free”.

Day 13 learning a new way of being.

My Long Slow Dance with Alcohol

The first time I got drunk, and eventually passed out, I was 14 years old. Dating an older dude, trying to be cool and keep up with the crowd at the party, I was pouring Jack Daniels into my Busch beer can. It was winter, and I passed out in the snow. I threw up on someone’s white bedspread. After being helped to bed that night, I woke up in jeans that were still wet.

Drinking became the normal thing to do on weekends in high school. It became the normal thing to do in college as well. The memories are many, and most are hazy from my 58-year old view, yet more than most are cringe-worthy, embarrassing, or filled with a certain amount of shame. Did I really go home with that guy? Did I really fall backwards off a bar stool? Did I really think I could drive myself home that night?

After college, I just kept drinking. The adult me assumed I didn’t have a problem because I could keep a job, didn’t drink during the day, and I really didn’t like the feeling of being drunk. I just wanted that nice buzz… that degree or two of separation from reality that seemed to make things more pleasant. I would try here and there to ‘temper’ the amount that I drank, yet I pretty much drank every evening. Even when I was sick (which was fairly rare), I would fix up a hot toddy with lemon, thinking that at least it was medicinal! For several years, I worked as a bartender, which only reinforced the “drinking is fun and normal and everyone does it” state of mind I had formed. It is easy to rationalize a bad habit, which alcohol definitely was for me, yet it was becoming much more than a bad habit.

Genetically, I am predisposed to addictive behaviors. It runs on both sides of my lineage. I just always assumed that alcoholics looked and acted in a certain way. They couldn’t control their behavior; I could. I could keep my drinking segregated into a nice time slot. I had rules I followed! I also had a whole lot of bandwidth tied up in my drinking. Did I have enough booze in the house? Maybe I should have that pre-party drink at home because there might not be enough alcohol at the party. Maybe I should say I’m having a party so the check out person doesn’t think I’m going to drink all that booze by myself. Yeah, sure. I didn’t have a problem.

I quit drinking for two years in my late 40’s for health reasons. I had read that inflammation in the body increases issues with joints, and I was having plenty of problems with my structural self, so I cut out animal products and booze. It made me feel powerful and in control.

Somewhere along the line, I had a glass of wine. I remember thinking I would keep it in check, yet eventually I was back to being a heavy drinker. I would quit again for a few days, here and there, when I noticed I was drinking more than even *my* usual, yet no matter how hard I tried at moderation, I could not moderate my intake. Still, I would think… man, I just need to try harder. Wanting to be ‘normal’, I would try harder, and fail, because moderation doesn’t work for someone who abuses alcohol. It just doesn’t.

I am three days into being alcohol free. Something about this time feels different, simply because I have finally accepted a block of my own story that tells me in no uncertain terms that I can’t ingest alcohol. It isn’t my friend, and it isn’t going to make my life better. I’m the old lady who swallowed the spider trying to catch the fly she swallowed, only I was swallowing that fourth glass of bourbon. I’m the normal gal who gets a lot accomplished and loves her family and her cats and makes jewelry and knits and can’t drink alcohol. I *am* her.

So, yes… I am going to go along each day and name each day, “alcohol-free” day and hopefully the days will become months, and then years, and eventually I shall have sober stories to tell. For now, it is just an alcohol free day.

The Messenger

This beautiful owl passed away sometime last night. Her right wing was injured and though we had been trying for almost a month to ‘capture’ her to take her someplace where she could get care, she obviously had other plans.

I am not sure how she managed for so long without being able to fly. I fretted about her, sent healing energy to her, and dreamed of her several nights over these last weeks.

Yesterday morning, we looked for her again, after learning of a sighting of her the previous day, yet she was nowhere to be found.

Last night before I went to bed, I wondered where she might be, and how she might be faring. I worried that perhaps I hadn’t tried hard enough to help her. I wanted to save her.

Then I heard this voice in my head. I know this voice, for it is the one that speaks to me when I let my monkey mind take over and fret. It’s the woman in my head who is wise and insightful, and if I can truly hear her and listen; I am calmed.

This is what I heard, and I believe it was a message from the owl to me in some fashion, regardless of how that might sound.

“The owl did not want to live elsewhere. This Ranch was her home and she did not want to be at a rehab facility, regardless of how that decision might shorten her time. Her path was merely a path. No judgment on the whys, nor on the outcome. My need to save her was for my benefit… not for her.”

She existed as best she could with that injured wing, and for me this is quite profound in it’s simplicity. Most of us are offered a limitation of some sort, be that physical or not, yet we are only truly limited if we see it as such.

The point IS to live. The point IS to keep going, regardless of the path.

I so wanted a happy ending to her story. Who am I to say it was not.

Bird brained

I’m not sure when it happened, yet in the last year or so of feeding birds, or having feeders out for birds, I became a little bit obsessed.  The best feeders, the best food, the most food, the most diversified food, the best access to fresh water…etc.  You get the idea.  Over the top.  The birds loved it and I marveled at how many birds would come to the feeders at one time.  Mostly finches and pine siskins in those types of numbers, yet I felt like a mothering soul taking care of the wee birds.  My arms opened wider and wider to accommodate them all.  I was sure they needed me!  After all, how could they not?  I was an integral part of their survival.  I may not have thought this out loud as I know it isn’t true, yet it sure motivated my behavior.

The first time I saw a finch with the eye conjunctivitis disease a while back, I didn’t know what it was.  I had never seen a sick bird at our feeders.  It was surprising and worrisome.  So, I did some research, and within the research there are varied schools of thought.  Some say, take down your feeders until the sick bird disperses, and others say that they may be getting sick elsewhere and bringing the disease to your feeders, so what good does it do to take them down?  I struggled with the notion of removing all the feeders as how could these birds be okay without my help?  Again, I didn’t really believe this to be true, yet I felt guilty thinking about removing a reliable food source.

So, I diligently cleaned the feeders, and tried my very best to maintain a safe environment for the birds.  So much of this was out of my control, however.  No matter what I did, the needle will not be moved very far, as disease exists in wildlife.  I cannot make it go away.  I can only remove it from my sight.

This past winter, I saw several sick finches.  Sick pine siskins.  I thought if I just stepped up my game and swiped down the feeders at night with alcohol, in addition to cleaning them regularly, it would make it go away and keep the healthy birds safe.   I could adjust the amount of feeders and ‘control’ the way in which they were getting seed.

Tonight, heading into a spring that doesn’t even feel like spring, I took the feeders down for a while.  I spent the day following a few sick birds around with cotton swabs of alcohol, trying to clean up after their feedings.  It’s insane.  I am not helping.  When did this stop being fun?  What happened to my joy with having feeders?  Now it is just a burden and a worry.  I want to know that I am only doing ‘good’, yet I cannot feel this while seeing another sick bird on the deck.  What made me think that I was a necessary component in this scenario?  Who am I?  Just a nutty woman who loves birds, yet has taken forever to see that sometimes less is more.  Sometimes not being in the middle of it is actually better.  Sometimes loving something, like I do these birds, is not a reason to interject my thoughts, my behaviors, my needs into their lives.  Sometimes the best thing one can do for another living thing is to step back.  Step away.

So, for now, I will take bird pictures from afar, and hope that I haven’t done too much damage in having the feeders, and by ultimately taking them away.