I like things to do with money. I like to plan my budget and figure out new ways to save money. I like to go to the bank. I like the smell of the bank. One of my favorite field trips in grade school was when we went to the old Farmer's and Mechanics Bank in Minneapolis. Go figure.
It's not that I'm stingy with money or all that great at staying on a budget. On the flipside I don't need new things all the time, either.
I just like the concept of money.
So I've been thinking that there should be a 'pay to play' tax on cigarettes. The money would fund medical care for smokers if they get lung cancer or emphysema. Sort of a cross between medical insurance and life insurance. It's easy for me to be smug and angry and petty about this, with all the mixed up emotions I have about my mom's lung cancer. But I'm not above giving into my own craving for some things.
My mom couldn't overcome her nicotine cravings. I struggle with food cravings. And, to be true to my inner financial wisdom, I think there should be a 'pay to play' tax on fatty foods. Anything over a certain percentage of saturated fat should have what I call a 'cheesecake tax'. Think of all the tax money that could help offset the medical costs of strokes and heart attacks and diabetes.
Burgers, fries, and of course, cheesecake, would all be taxed. If we had this tax I think sometimes I would give in to my cravings and hope that the rest of my healthy living habits would offset a heart attack. Other times I'd forgo the urge for something fatty and opt for healthier food (maybe). And I'd be helping other people that struggle with food abuse. That feels good.
There's a song that my kids listen to. It's about a friend who has a girlfriend that doesn't work and spends his money. The advice he gives is to tell his girlfriend 'I won't pay, I won't pay, no way'. There's more to the song, and lots of swearing, but the tune is catchy and I like the message. No one likes to be taken advantage of. With money or anything else.
I don't want my tax money to go to people on medicare who smoked and are in need of medical care because of it. For that, I won't pay. No way.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Summer at home
I miss my mom most in the summer. My sisters and I spent our summers at home and we'd cook and sew and garden and do arts and crafts. My mom taught us the basics in these areas and then we took off on our own. I remember making a macrame chair and candles and a quilt from all the fabric remnants from all my sewing projects.
When we were younger we'd play outside all summer long. We rarely watched TV and we didn't snack much. Back in the '60s there wasn't much snack food. No chips other than Fritos. Potato chips were bought to go along with meals. Ice cream was for an occasional bedtime treat. Sometimes my mom would give us popcicles or soda crackers for a snack, but we didn't go looking through the fridge or cupboard for something to eat.
Sometimes my mom would send us up to the corner store - it was called Rog & Jim's - to buy her cigarettes. She would send along a note giving the cashier permission to give us the cigarettes. We would buy penny candy with the change. Back then you could get a brown paper lunch bag sack filled with candy - normally 5 pieces of candy for a penny. A quarter bought lots of candy.
Or we'd buy candy cigarettes or wax lips or candy lipsticks.
It seemed like such an innocent time back then. When you're living your life, living in the moment, you don't really expect that things will change so dramatically.
Forty-some years later the 'mom and pop' stores have been replaced by Super America gas stations. Children can't buy cigarettes with a hand-written permission slip. The penny has become obsolete.
Some things haven't changed. Summer comes every year. I still like to can tomatoes and sew and cram in as much gardening and arts and crafts as I can while I have time off from my school job. People still smoke. Lung cancer still kills more people than any other type of cancer.
My mom's spirit is strong in the summer. Actually, her spirit is strong within me all the time. Sometimes I feel like I'm strong in spite of her. Today I feel like I'm strong because of her.
When we were younger we'd play outside all summer long. We rarely watched TV and we didn't snack much. Back in the '60s there wasn't much snack food. No chips other than Fritos. Potato chips were bought to go along with meals. Ice cream was for an occasional bedtime treat. Sometimes my mom would give us popcicles or soda crackers for a snack, but we didn't go looking through the fridge or cupboard for something to eat.
Sometimes my mom would send us up to the corner store - it was called Rog & Jim's - to buy her cigarettes. She would send along a note giving the cashier permission to give us the cigarettes. We would buy penny candy with the change. Back then you could get a brown paper lunch bag sack filled with candy - normally 5 pieces of candy for a penny. A quarter bought lots of candy.
Or we'd buy candy cigarettes or wax lips or candy lipsticks.
It seemed like such an innocent time back then. When you're living your life, living in the moment, you don't really expect that things will change so dramatically.
Forty-some years later the 'mom and pop' stores have been replaced by Super America gas stations. Children can't buy cigarettes with a hand-written permission slip. The penny has become obsolete.
Some things haven't changed. Summer comes every year. I still like to can tomatoes and sew and cram in as much gardening and arts and crafts as I can while I have time off from my school job. People still smoke. Lung cancer still kills more people than any other type of cancer.
My mom's spirit is strong in the summer. Actually, her spirit is strong within me all the time. Sometimes I feel like I'm strong in spite of her. Today I feel like I'm strong because of her.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Can you say EL-A-VIL?
I've gone through some guided imagery - sort of like hypnosis. I can't remember the exact script of this imagery, but you're supposed to visualize yourself walking through a meadow. After a while you come to a clearing and you see a tree. The tree can look anyway you want. I visualize an oak tree - huge and strong and comforting. I touch my tree. The bark is dry and weathered. I try to wrap my arms around it but the trunk is too big. That's O.K. This tree gives me strength.
If my mom had been a tree she would have been an elm tree. Slender, slow growing, providing some dappled shade for her little seedlings. Beautiful and graceful but vulnerable to storm damage. Swaying with the wind until a branch breaks.
My mom was hospitalized for 'nervous breakdowns' in the 1960's. That was the term back then for depression that spiraled out of control. People were allowed a much longer in-patient stay for mental illness in the '60's . She stayed at a place called Glenwood Hills Hospital. She missed my first birtday because she was at Glenwood Hills. She was also hospitalized when I was 5, and then later when I was 8.
My sisters and I were farmed out to friends and relatives during her hospitalizations. I have few memories of these times. I do remember visiting mom at the hospital and she showed us the swimming pool. I sense that she was distant; kind of shell shocked. She had lost alot of weight. She didn't make much eye contact. She had had shock treatments-that ultimately helped ease her depression quite a bit. Back then they didn't have the newer anti -depressants that may have helped. But maybe not. I think her bouts with depression were quite severe. I remember her being on Haldol and Elavil - heavy duty anti-depressants and tranqulizers used for psychosis. I don't know if she ever had psychotic episodes with her depression, though. I don't think so. She never told me.
All of these words and phrases were a part of her vocabulary, and so they became part of mine - Haldol, Elavil, Glenwood Hills (a.k.a 'the nut house') and Dr. Dorsey (her psychiatrist). I knew these words and phrases well.
One phrase that wasn't part of her vocaulary until shortly before her death was 'sexual abuse'. As a young girl my mom had been sexually abused by a relative and hadn't told anyone about it - not even Dr. Dorsey. Maybe if she could have addressed some of this trauma her depression could have eased. There's a theory that depression is anger turned inward. What happens when it's not anger but rage that's turned inward?
Mom didn't want to take a closer look at the trauma of her past. She said she had forgiven her abuser. My guess is that if she had focued on this in therapy maybe she could have grown stronger and more resilient. Maybe she could have found the strength to quit smoking.
She died an elm tree which is really sad because she started out life as an oak tree. I really needed the shade of an oak tree.
If my mom had been a tree she would have been an elm tree. Slender, slow growing, providing some dappled shade for her little seedlings. Beautiful and graceful but vulnerable to storm damage. Swaying with the wind until a branch breaks.
My mom was hospitalized for 'nervous breakdowns' in the 1960's. That was the term back then for depression that spiraled out of control. People were allowed a much longer in-patient stay for mental illness in the '60's . She stayed at a place called Glenwood Hills Hospital. She missed my first birtday because she was at Glenwood Hills. She was also hospitalized when I was 5, and then later when I was 8.
My sisters and I were farmed out to friends and relatives during her hospitalizations. I have few memories of these times. I do remember visiting mom at the hospital and she showed us the swimming pool. I sense that she was distant; kind of shell shocked. She had lost alot of weight. She didn't make much eye contact. She had had shock treatments-that ultimately helped ease her depression quite a bit. Back then they didn't have the newer anti -depressants that may have helped. But maybe not. I think her bouts with depression were quite severe. I remember her being on Haldol and Elavil - heavy duty anti-depressants and tranqulizers used for psychosis. I don't know if she ever had psychotic episodes with her depression, though. I don't think so. She never told me.
All of these words and phrases were a part of her vocabulary, and so they became part of mine - Haldol, Elavil, Glenwood Hills (a.k.a 'the nut house') and Dr. Dorsey (her psychiatrist). I knew these words and phrases well.
One phrase that wasn't part of her vocaulary until shortly before her death was 'sexual abuse'. As a young girl my mom had been sexually abused by a relative and hadn't told anyone about it - not even Dr. Dorsey. Maybe if she could have addressed some of this trauma her depression could have eased. There's a theory that depression is anger turned inward. What happens when it's not anger but rage that's turned inward?
Mom didn't want to take a closer look at the trauma of her past. She said she had forgiven her abuser. My guess is that if she had focued on this in therapy maybe she could have grown stronger and more resilient. Maybe she could have found the strength to quit smoking.
She died an elm tree which is really sad because she started out life as an oak tree. I really needed the shade of an oak tree.
Monday, June 1, 2009
Smokey smokerson
The attitude towards smoking was so different in the 70's and '80's. Restaurants had designated smoking areas and the VFW's and bowling alleys and bars allowed smoking. Even the high school that I went to had a smoking area outside for the students.
I worked at Sears as a teen ager and there was a 'break room' attached to the ladies rest room in the back of the store. That's where all the sales ladies went for their smoke break. You couldn't get to the bathroom without walking through a haze of smoke. Sometimes I'd sit down and visit with my mom's aunt, who worked in the lingerie department of Sears. She was a heavy smoker and I generally knew where to find her on her break. I got the feeling that the smokers felt like you were 'stuck up' or better than they were if you didn't stop to visit for awhile. So I'd stop and visit. I didn't want to appear rude. I probably got a contact high just from the second hand smoke. I'd walk out with a head-ache, slightly dizzy from inhaling all the smoke. It would take a few hours before I wasn't smelling smoke with every breath I took.
I wanted my wedding reception to be smoke free. I vaguely recall making a few whining noises to my parents about how smokey the wedding would be - but they wouldn't even pursue this line of argument. After all, my husband-to-be smoked, as did my parents and most of my aunts and uncles. In fact, between me and my husband only a hand full of our relatives didn't smoke.
And our wedding reception was at a VFW. Like my oldest sister says, the bowling alleys and VFW's are the last bastion for smokers. I don't know exactly what that means but I like to say it and it seems to fit.
After a few hours into our reception, you could see a thick cloud of smoke hovering below the ceiling. My mom and I had tried to make sure to find a VFW with good ventilation. (I wonder how things would have been with a VFW's with poor ventilation!). With the festivities over, I felt nauseous and head-achy and smelling of smoke. I would have rather smelled like perfume or flowers. The tobacco and smokey smell doesn't quite fit with a bride's dream of gorgeous flowers and white dresses and satin ribbons. I felt sorry for myself. I was a pretty bride but I felt more like a pretty ashtray. I hate second hand smoke.
I worked at Sears as a teen ager and there was a 'break room' attached to the ladies rest room in the back of the store. That's where all the sales ladies went for their smoke break. You couldn't get to the bathroom without walking through a haze of smoke. Sometimes I'd sit down and visit with my mom's aunt, who worked in the lingerie department of Sears. She was a heavy smoker and I generally knew where to find her on her break. I got the feeling that the smokers felt like you were 'stuck up' or better than they were if you didn't stop to visit for awhile. So I'd stop and visit. I didn't want to appear rude. I probably got a contact high just from the second hand smoke. I'd walk out with a head-ache, slightly dizzy from inhaling all the smoke. It would take a few hours before I wasn't smelling smoke with every breath I took.
I wanted my wedding reception to be smoke free. I vaguely recall making a few whining noises to my parents about how smokey the wedding would be - but they wouldn't even pursue this line of argument. After all, my husband-to-be smoked, as did my parents and most of my aunts and uncles. In fact, between me and my husband only a hand full of our relatives didn't smoke.
And our wedding reception was at a VFW. Like my oldest sister says, the bowling alleys and VFW's are the last bastion for smokers. I don't know exactly what that means but I like to say it and it seems to fit.
After a few hours into our reception, you could see a thick cloud of smoke hovering below the ceiling. My mom and I had tried to make sure to find a VFW with good ventilation. (I wonder how things would have been with a VFW's with poor ventilation!). With the festivities over, I felt nauseous and head-achy and smelling of smoke. I would have rather smelled like perfume or flowers. The tobacco and smokey smell doesn't quite fit with a bride's dream of gorgeous flowers and white dresses and satin ribbons. I felt sorry for myself. I was a pretty bride but I felt more like a pretty ashtray. I hate second hand smoke.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Cool Comfort
I have this recurring dream where I'm in a basement. It's cool and dry and sparse. And oddly comfortable. The floor is cement and the walls are sheetrocked and there's a few dimly lit light bulbs hanging from the ceiling rafters. The room is filled with dozens of closed wooden coffins on top of gurneys. The all look exactly the same, with the exception of my mother's coffin.
My mom is sitting on top of her coffin. She looks neat and clean and her clothes are freshly pressed (like always). And, of course, she's smoking. She's happy to see me and she asks, 'What took you so long?' And I'm thinking 'what took me so long?? What took you so long. I've been trying to connect with you for 14 years.' She has on a bit of make up and she seems so at ease.
And then she smiles at me. There's light radiating from her when she smiles - not literally radiating from her but it's more like an aura or presence. This is the smile that's meant only for me. This woman has known me my entire life. She knows everything about me. (Even things I wish she didn't know about me). She sees right through me. She looks at me with a strong, even gaze but I have a hard time looking at her.
This happens in my dream but I remember these feelings when my mom was alive, too. She had such a strong presence, without saying much at all. I think it's a family trait; something inherited. When my oldest son was a young boy and did something wrong I would look at him and he would say, 'Stop yelling at me!'.
Maybe I can't look at my mom because I feel guilty. I can't think of specific things but I'm sure there were times when I hurt my mom. She often tried to help me label my feelings, often suggesting guilt, but I would dismiss this with a different feeling. Maybe I did feel guilty and I didn't want her to be right. Guilt seemed like such a weak emotion and I couldn't afford to be weak. Isn't guilt the great humanizing emotion? The one that levels the playing field? We all are human, we all make mistakes, we hurt others and therefore we feel guilty. I was in a double bind. If I didn't feel guilt, then I wasn't seen as quite human. If I did feel guilt then I was a weak link in a family that couldn't afford any more weakness. So I chose to keep my family strong, the best way I knew how, as a child. My mom knew me well -probably better than anyone has ever known me. Next time I dream about her I'm going to ask her why I chose not to feel.
My mom is sitting on top of her coffin. She looks neat and clean and her clothes are freshly pressed (like always). And, of course, she's smoking. She's happy to see me and she asks, 'What took you so long?' And I'm thinking 'what took me so long?? What took you so long. I've been trying to connect with you for 14 years.' She has on a bit of make up and she seems so at ease.
And then she smiles at me. There's light radiating from her when she smiles - not literally radiating from her but it's more like an aura or presence. This is the smile that's meant only for me. This woman has known me my entire life. She knows everything about me. (Even things I wish she didn't know about me). She sees right through me. She looks at me with a strong, even gaze but I have a hard time looking at her.
This happens in my dream but I remember these feelings when my mom was alive, too. She had such a strong presence, without saying much at all. I think it's a family trait; something inherited. When my oldest son was a young boy and did something wrong I would look at him and he would say, 'Stop yelling at me!'.
Maybe I can't look at my mom because I feel guilty. I can't think of specific things but I'm sure there were times when I hurt my mom. She often tried to help me label my feelings, often suggesting guilt, but I would dismiss this with a different feeling. Maybe I did feel guilty and I didn't want her to be right. Guilt seemed like such a weak emotion and I couldn't afford to be weak. Isn't guilt the great humanizing emotion? The one that levels the playing field? We all are human, we all make mistakes, we hurt others and therefore we feel guilty. I was in a double bind. If I didn't feel guilt, then I wasn't seen as quite human. If I did feel guilt then I was a weak link in a family that couldn't afford any more weakness. So I chose to keep my family strong, the best way I knew how, as a child. My mom knew me well -probably better than anyone has ever known me. Next time I dream about her I'm going to ask her why I chose not to feel.
Friday, May 8, 2009
I love trouble
My mother was goofy and fun loving. She laughed alot and she was so playful. She energized the room with her impulsiveness and good will and spiritedness. As kids we used to stand on our heads against the wall in the living room and see how long we could stay there. Of course, mom would be the instigator and us girls would take over the competition. The play would morph into some other active play, usually outside. By them mom was off doing something else - sewing or cooking. I wonder if she knew this would lead to alone time for her. If so, it was a pretty good strategy. Mom had lots of physical energy. Too much energy. Sometimes it got her into trouble.
When you read this, picture a cross between Lucille Ball and Erma Bombeck:
My mom was in the waiting room at the doctor's office. She had been waiting quite awhile- the waiting room was full. And she was sitting with her legs crossed. The nurse called her name. She stood up, took a step, and fell. (Her leg had fallen asleep). The nurse waited patiently for her. Mom got up, took another step, and fell again. This happened a few more times until she made it into the exam room. Afterwards, when she told us about this my sister asked her 'Mom, you were at a doctors office. Why didn't you ask for help?' Mom replied, 'I didn't think anyone noticed!'
Another Lucille Ball moment: We lived in the suburbs, not far away from our local high school. After school the kids would 'cut through' our back yard, tossing their cigarette butts in our garden. This irritated mom to no end. One afternoon she was so angry that she went outside and flipped off these kids. They looked at her quizzically and kept walking. She was proud of herself and told us about it when we got home from school. She told us, 'I went like this to them - (demonstrating a thumbs up sign!)'. My older sister corrected her on how to flip someone off. My mom laughed her head off at her own naivete. Plus we wondered what those kids thought when mom gave them a 'thumbs up' sign.
I miss my mom's laugh and her energy and her antics. I didn't inherit her musical talent but I inherited her spiritedness and love of laughter. I've had many Lucille Ball moments myself. So has my oldest sister. But that's for another blog. I'll probably title it 'Lucy and Ethel go Christmas shopping'.
Mom, I miss laughing with you.
When you read this, picture a cross between Lucille Ball and Erma Bombeck:
My mom was in the waiting room at the doctor's office. She had been waiting quite awhile- the waiting room was full. And she was sitting with her legs crossed. The nurse called her name. She stood up, took a step, and fell. (Her leg had fallen asleep). The nurse waited patiently for her. Mom got up, took another step, and fell again. This happened a few more times until she made it into the exam room. Afterwards, when she told us about this my sister asked her 'Mom, you were at a doctors office. Why didn't you ask for help?' Mom replied, 'I didn't think anyone noticed!'
Another Lucille Ball moment: We lived in the suburbs, not far away from our local high school. After school the kids would 'cut through' our back yard, tossing their cigarette butts in our garden. This irritated mom to no end. One afternoon she was so angry that she went outside and flipped off these kids. They looked at her quizzically and kept walking. She was proud of herself and told us about it when we got home from school. She told us, 'I went like this to them - (demonstrating a thumbs up sign!)'. My older sister corrected her on how to flip someone off. My mom laughed her head off at her own naivete. Plus we wondered what those kids thought when mom gave them a 'thumbs up' sign.
I miss my mom's laugh and her energy and her antics. I didn't inherit her musical talent but I inherited her spiritedness and love of laughter. I've had many Lucille Ball moments myself. So has my oldest sister. But that's for another blog. I'll probably title it 'Lucy and Ethel go Christmas shopping'.
Mom, I miss laughing with you.
The Kool corral
Did you know that lung cancer is the leading cause of cancer death in the United States? The only other thing that causes more deaths is heart disease.
Twice as many women die of lung cancer as breast cancer.
Three times as many men die of lung cancer as prostate cancer.
And the survival rate is still at about 15%. It's been this way for decades.
The statistics are staggering. How come not enough is being done for lung cancer victims?
I miss my mother. I miss her voice. She left a message on my answering machine about a month before she died. I kept it for the longest time. It was so comforting. It was something so simple - something like 'Hi, Lisa. It's mama. Just calling to chat. Call me when you get a minute'. It was heavenly to have a mother. Even after her death, I still had something tangible when I listened to her voice.
I don't have a mom anymore. I don't even have the recording of her voice. I want to blame someone for her death and I don't know who to blame. I blame my mom for starting to smoke. I blame the tobacco companies for making cigarettes so deadly and so increadibly addictive. I blame myself for not being able to get my mom to quit smoking. I blame societal pressures - my mom was a young adult in the 1950's when smoking was seen as cool. She went to school at the University of Minnesota where there were ashtrays within reach of every chair in the classrooms.
A freind of mine read this blog and commented that I seem really angry. Guess what? I am really angry. I'm pissed as hell. My mother is gone and I can't nail the blame on any one source. Placing blame on a tobacco related death is about as elusive as cigarette smoke itself. It just can't be corralled. And it makes me want to scream.
Twice as many women die of lung cancer as breast cancer.
Three times as many men die of lung cancer as prostate cancer.
And the survival rate is still at about 15%. It's been this way for decades.
The statistics are staggering. How come not enough is being done for lung cancer victims?
I miss my mother. I miss her voice. She left a message on my answering machine about a month before she died. I kept it for the longest time. It was so comforting. It was something so simple - something like 'Hi, Lisa. It's mama. Just calling to chat. Call me when you get a minute'. It was heavenly to have a mother. Even after her death, I still had something tangible when I listened to her voice.
I don't have a mom anymore. I don't even have the recording of her voice. I want to blame someone for her death and I don't know who to blame. I blame my mom for starting to smoke. I blame the tobacco companies for making cigarettes so deadly and so increadibly addictive. I blame myself for not being able to get my mom to quit smoking. I blame societal pressures - my mom was a young adult in the 1950's when smoking was seen as cool. She went to school at the University of Minnesota where there were ashtrays within reach of every chair in the classrooms.
A freind of mine read this blog and commented that I seem really angry. Guess what? I am really angry. I'm pissed as hell. My mother is gone and I can't nail the blame on any one source. Placing blame on a tobacco related death is about as elusive as cigarette smoke itself. It just can't be corralled. And it makes me want to scream.
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