How To Say What You Mean

I recently saw this quote on Pinterest:

"Sometimes when I say, 'I'm OK,' I want someone to look me in the eyes, hug me tight and say, 'I know you're not.'"

I do not understand this, and even though I know I should not be judgy, I sort of am. I realize that I am a horrible person. I realize that many people in my life, including people that I love, and including people in my family, can probably totally identify with this.

The Pinterest quote reminded me of an episode on a recent vacation: I had prepared and served a festive meal for the family, and a few minutes after we finished eating, and well before our digestive systems had fully engaged, my SIL started clearing the dinner dishes.  "Sit down," I suggested, "Relax.  I'll get to those later."

She kept cleaning up, and said, "You don't really mean that." She asserted that everyone appreciated help with the dishes after whipping up dinner for a bunch of people.  "I always do this for my girlfriends," she said, "Even when they say, 'Oh, don't bother!'--because I know they don't really mean it."

"Well, I really mean it," I said.  "I wouldn't say it if I didn't mean it.  It's really nice of you to do the cleaning up, but I honestly wouldn't mind cleaning up a little later. I'd be happy to have you sitting down and relaxing."

Apparently, this is what people do: they say things they don't mean. Folks seem to believe that people don't say what they really feel, and that their true meaning and intention must be discerned from something other than their words. And on the flip side, they communicate in the same way, skirting around a direct statement and expecting their listeners to read between the lines or interpret their body language.

Sometimes I feel like I am from a different planet, or that I have some kind of narrow form of autism that makes me unable to read social cues, because this just does not make sense to me. This confusing mentality leads to Harlequin-romance-type misunderstandings and conflict. 

I believe that we should take people at their word, and act accordingly. Say what you mean. Don't say what you don't mean. Ask for what you want or need--but at the same time, have very limited expectations of what people can and will do for you. This is the Peevie Rule for Clear and Sensible Communication.

My immediate response to that Pinterest quote is, instead of saying that you're OK, why wouldn't you say, "I'm not OK. Could I have a hug?" This seems more--incoming judgyness!--mature--and more likely to elicit the outcome you hope for.

It is a fundamental sign of emotional health to take responsibility for one's own happiness. I tell my kids, "You are responsible for your own happiness. Not me, not your siblings, not your teachers, not your friends. If you are not happy, do something about it."

"Most folks are just about as happy as they make up their minds to be." --Abraham Lincoln

What good does it do to say you're OK when you're really not? I mean, unless you're in a social situation, like your workplace, where it's not necessarily appropriate to ask for hugs and to lay your true feelings right out there. But I'm guessing that those are not the people you want looking deep into your soul and sussing out your need for a moment of physical reassurance.

When you're around people from whom a hug is appropriate and would feel good--why would you not just say, "I'm so sad. I could use a hug"?

It is one goal of this blog to encourage people to say what they need, and to express in direct, non-metaphorical language, how they feel and what would help them feel better. Let's practice together:

"I'm feeling lonely. I'd like someone to hang out with tonight. Are you available?"

"I feel sad. I really miss [person's name that you miss]. I'd like to talk about him/her."

"Would you be willing to help out with the dishes tonight?"

"I'm sorry to cut you off, but I need to get off the phone now."

"I know you want to keep reading my delightful blog, but I really want to end this post and go watch some TV."

Let me know how it goes. Alternatively, let me know if you think my expectations are completely unrealistic and that I don't have any understanding for how real people communicate in western culture. I can handle it.

Please, Make Me Cry

My dear friend Roseanne came over to watch movies and drink margaritas. She told me that she and her daughter had been to the cemetery, to visit Aidan's grave. The grave is marked with a flat granite headstone with a slightly curved top and a simple inscription: "Aidan Kenneth Bradshaw, 1997 - 2012."

Roseanne continued her story: "Darlene sat down on the ground next to the headstone and we talked about Aidan and your family," she told me. "She brushed some leaves off the marker. Then when we left, she kissed her fingers, touched them to the stone and said, 'Goodbye, little buddy.'"

I felt tears beginning to burn and press behind my eyelids, and I couldn't stop them. I put my head in my hands and sobbed, grief stabbing through my chest, my lungs, my voice. Roseanne wrapped her arms around me and held me while I cried. We stood like that for a long time--me weeping, Roseanne holding onto me, holding me up, crying her own tears as well.

Eventually the tears slowed and stopped, and we resumed our conversation about pretend boyfriends and realbeverages; we poured and talked and laughed and remembered. Later in the evening she said, "I'm sorry I made you cry when I told you about going to the cemetery."

"Don't be," I said. "Crying is good." I don't necessarily understand this, but I know it's true. I know that when someone gives me the opportunity to cry for Aidan, I am always grateful. I know that it hurts, it's exhausting, it's ugly--but it's necessary.

William Shakespeare wrote, "To weep is to make less the depth of grief" (Henry the Sixth) and Victor Hugo said, "Those who do not weep, do not see" (Les Miserables).

As always, the opinions expressed in This Blog are backed up by research: In 1977, William H. Frey wrote the first definitive research book (discussed here) on the biochemistry of emotional tears. He proposed that emotional tears, which have a different chemical composition than irritant tears (caused, for example, by cutting onions), not only lubricate, clean and protect the eyes, but that they remove toxins from the body. They literally produce a physiological response that makes you feel better.

I loved that story about Darlene. I loved picturing her there, caring about Aidan, missing him, talking about him. 

What I know about crying is this: when we have lost someone dear to us, there are tears inside of us. We have three options: we can keep the tears inside, we can cry alone, or we can cry with a friend. Repressing the sadness--keeping the tears inside--is only going to lead to anger, depression, panic attacks, and possibly hair cancer.

When I cry for Aidan, it's not an elegant, Hollywood kind of crying, with a delicate tear wetting my long eyelashes and tracing my perfect cheekbone. No, it is not even a bit pretty. It's monsoon-like, with wracking sobs, swollen eyes, and frowny, joggly jowls. But I don't give a damn.

And if you are willing to be with me when I'm having one of these episodes, if you are willing to hold my hand or let me smear snot and mascara on your shirt, if you are not afraid of the ugly cry, you are giving me the only gift that means anything to me right now, in this season of grief.

Sometimes a friend will say, "If there's anything I can do for you, just let me know." There's very little you can do for me that will help me get through this excruciating grief--except this: say Aidan's name to me, ask me how I'm doing in this lonely valley and really want to hear the answer; tell me a story, thought, anecdote, or memory you have of Aidan; if you didn't know Aidan, tell me a thought about what you have learned about him since he died, or ask me a question about him. You can even ask me about his death. Any of these will most likely make me cry, and sometimes this crying is going to be ugly. 

It may make you uncomfortable; it may make you want to help me feel better or get over it. Resist this temptation. Rather, just be there with me. Touch my arm, hold my hand, cry your own tears--but don't try to say anything or do anything to make it stop. It will stop, eventually, and I'll look horrible and feel exhausted--but I'll also feel relief that that quota of tears has finally been released and will never need to be cried again. There are more to come--there will never be a time when I have cried all the tears I need to cry for Aidan; but you will have given me the gift of releasing a small portion of this grief, and I will be grateful.

Please: make me cry.

Cafe Surreal

The vegetarian diner in Wisconsin was not crowded, and there were many empty tables. Nevertheless, our party of 10 was asked to wait in the mostly-open and mostly-unused upstairs party room. There was a piano, a fully-loaded bar, several tables, some upholstered chairs, and a couch. A couple other parties sat around the small tables with board games in front of them. It was so hot I thought I might burst into flames--so I headed back downstairs to wait outside the restaurant, in a landscaped garden.

Our waiter, let's call him Phil, wore a pink short-sleeved dress shirt with a button-down collar and a madras-plaid ribbon-shaped bow-tie which looked sort of like this:

Phil came around to take our drink orders, and everything seemed normal, if a bit languid. Our drinks came, and Phil eventually showed up to take our food orders. This is where things went hooey. He seemed to have trouble understanding everything that AJ said, even though she spoke English plainly and clearly.

"For an appetizer, I'd like an order of the hummus, please," she said politely, "but I'd like chips with it instead of bread." Then she ordered a veggie burger with cheese for her entree.

"Would you like pita bread with your hummus?" Phil asked, having short-term memory or hearing problems.

"No, thank you," AJ said politely and patiently, "I'd like corn chips instead, if you have them."

"We have some nice pita bread," Phil insisted. "You don't want that?" AJ somehow remained cool and collected, and tears formed in my eyes from holding in a giant guffaw.

"No," she said. "Just corn chips. Do you have corn chips? That's what I'd rather have."

"Oh, corn chips, sure, no problem," Phil agreed. "Would you like me to bring that with your dinner or before?"


Beat. "Before," she said. "Since that's what typically happens when you order an appetizer," she did not add.

"So I'll bring it out a little before the rest of the food," Phil said. Oh, yes he did. I was glad he was standing behind me and was unable to see the look on my face. I watched AJ carefully, and she kept a straight face.

"Yes, that would be great," she confirmed, even though normally on our planet, this would not have been necessary; and when Phil moved on, we exchanged "what-just-happened-there!" glances.

Then Phil had problems understanding my FIL's order. "What's 'vegetarian sausage,' " FIL asked innocently, having never partaken of such a oxymoronic food group.

"It's...vegetarian sausage," Phil said, appearing to be completely oblivious to his utter lack of helpfulness. I waited for him to offer an addendum listing the primary ingredients, or the herbs and spices designed to mimic the pork-sausage flavor of a meat-lesss sausage--but he just continued to smile obliviously at my FIL. FIL, a risk-taker, ordered the suspect breakfast non-meat anyway.

My MIL ordered the Thai banana boat from the appetizer menu: fried bananas served with coconut curry peanut sauce. Learning from my SIL's ordering challenges, she clarified that she would like the banana as her entree, and that she would like it to be served when the other entrees were served. We were pleasantly surprised when it arrived, as desired, with the other entrees.

When AJ's veggie burger arrived, it was cheese-less, but the sides were as requested; but Mr. Peevie's veggie burger had unwanted cheese. AJ pointed out the error to Phil, who asked, "Oh, did you want a cheeseburger?" No one who has ever tasted both a cheeseburger and a veggie-burger with cheese would ever mistake the two--but Whatever!--AJ continued to patiently explain her wishes to the well-dressed but inexplicably confused Phil.

"You don't actually HAVE cheeseburgers here," she gently pointed out, "but I would like cheese on my veggie burger." Then she and Mr. Peevie discovered that his veggie burger had the cheese she was looking for, though his plate had the right side dishes--and they made the switch.

Phil looked confused, but solicitous, wanting to help. "Do you want me to get you a different plate?" he asked--and I don't know how we didn't just completely give up.

When the check came, we were all in agreement: Phil deserved a large tip for the effort he had put forth in attempting to decipher our neediness. He was our hero, an inadvertent Yoga Berra who entertained us with his unexpected confusion.

"Large tip," AJ said to her husband as he paid the bill. "Large tip. That was far too entertaining to not be rewarded."

But honestly? I don't think we'll be back. It was just too much like an episode of Twilight Zone for my comfort.

Untitled Poem, by M. Peevie

Petrichor
dust and rain
ethereal droplets
dance,
evanescent
lilies murmur,
lilt, and wither
demure and articulate.
She's weeping,
gently weeping.

Sometimes Shopping Is Not All That Fun

I was facing the worst summer experience of a mature woman's life: buying a new bathing suit. I knew I was in for a rough, sweaty few hours--and not in the fun sense; so I doubled up on the Xanax, strapped myself into three pairs of Spanx™, and headed out, the plaintive opening notes of an old Western shoot-out scene playing on a loop in my brain. I knew there were good odds that I would not come out of this alive.

At Kohl's end-of-season swimwear sale, I found 20 racks of strappy bikini separates in junior sizes, and no size Matron Full-Coverage Super-Structure Underwire Stomach-Disappearing bathing suits. Next store.

At Sears, I strolled through an entire Kardashian Kollection, but found no bathing suits, Kardashian or otherwise. Next store.

Undaunted, or maybe a tiny bit daunted, I headed into JC Penney. I didn't care about the recent defenestration of their CEO; I didn't care about their ongoing battles with One Million Moms; I just wanted swimwear that would not get me harpooned on the beach.

I found racks of mom-approved tanks and tankinis, and started piling suits on my arm. What size am I? I wondered. 14? 16? 18? 22W? I took suits in all sizes, figuring I'd optimistically start at the smallest. My last suit was a 14, I figured, and I was down one fibroid-packed uterus, so maybe the scale had been lying and I was still wearing the size of my lost youth.

Alas, it was not to be so. That size 14 wouldn't come up over my knee-budgies, those baseballs of flab just above the inside of your knees that on babies are so adorable you have to grab them and squeeze them and say "budgie-budgie-budgie" but on a full-figured middle-aged woman are just, um, unfortunate.

Then I tried on some larger sizes, which fit, sort of, if by "fit" you mean that after wrestling and sweating and swearing and yanking and contorting while reaching behind your back and stretching the fabric beyond its tested tensile strength you finally end up so tightly encased in stretchy polyester that every opening appears to be cutting off circulation to one extraneous body part or another.

The styles varied from criss-cross bust-lifting tummy-tuckers to frilly bandeau-topped sea skirts that covered several inches of thigh real estate but fooled no one. Many of the fabrics featured large florals that were more than vaguely drapery-esque. Every time I put on another suit the fat woman in the mirror stared back at me with an expression of mingled horror and disbelief. She just could not believe that any human would consider this exercise to be a good idea.

And yet, there I was.

I made it through. I bought not one, but two suits. I will wear them until they, like my current swimsuit, have become practically transparent from being over-worn because I DO NOT WANT TO GO THROUGH THIS AGAIN ANY TIME SOON.

Have You Ever Seen A Bunny Blink?

A plump bunny hunkered in the dirt under the evergreen shrubs in our front yard. She sat, still and unblinking. When I walked past her, her head turned slightly to track the threat, but otherwise she did not move.

I do not find bunnies to be magical as some people do, but I do think they're generally adorable as long as they keep their greedy paws off my Swiss chard. So I felt a twinge of apprehension when M. Peevie called me at work the next day about our own little Benjamin Bunny. 

"Mom, do bunnies have eyelids?" she asked with innocent curiosity.  

"Do bunnies have eyelids?" I repeated stupidly. "What?" Every conversation in my workplace has an audience, and the surrounding cubicles erupted in giggles.

"Yes. There's a bunny on the sidewalk in front of the house. He's either dead or asleep. He's not moving, but his eyes are open. Do they have eyelids?"

"Hmmm," I said, "I don't know if bunnies have eyelids or not, but you sure gave everyone here a good chuckle!"

"Why are they laughing?" she asked. "If you don't know the answer either, then I guess it's not a dumb question!"

"I guess I just assume that they do," I said. "Also, I don't think a bunny would sleep out in the open like that."

"Well, I've never seen a bunny blink before, so I didn't know," M. Peevie said, sticking fiercely to the Scientific Method.

"Well, that's a good point," I said. "I've never seen a bunny blink either--so I'm just guessing that they do indeed have eyelids."

When I arrived home, there was no bunny sleeping with his eyes open on the sidewalk. My thoughtful Next-Door-Neighbor (NDN) had handled the haz-mat clean-up, and I was grateful.

We Have Disappeared

I was making dinner and Mr. Peevie walked in the door from work.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey," I said back. I chopped an onion for Indian Mother-In-Law Savory Ground Turkey.

"How are you?" he asked.

"Fine," I said, peeling and chopping a hunk of ginger.

"What's going on?" he asked.

"Nothing," I said, smashing a garlic clove under the flat blade of a chef's knife.

"What are the kids up to?"

"I don't know."

He was quiet for a moment or two. Then he observed, "You seem to be kind of short with me."

"You seem to be kind of needy," I said helpfully.

"Well, I am!" he defended; and he had every right to be so.

I glanced up at him; he looked stricken. "Well, so am I," I said, with more than a tiny bit of coldness in my voice; and I was. I had no emotional energy to care for his wounded heart. I resented his neediness. I kept cooking, and Mr. Peevie walked out of the kitchen.

The loss of Aidan has changed us and broken us. We are empty, defeated, and fragile. We are facing what feels like a bleak future without our middle son: 40 years (give or take) of making new memories, none of which will include Aidan. It's unfathomable and wrong.

With Mr. Peevie, I find myself short-tempered, hyper-sensitive, and intolerant of the slightest offense. I can't stand his neediness, but if he were not needy, I would perceive that as a deficiency of grief, and would find a passive-aggressive way to punish him for it. I'm so messed up.

Clearly, bereavement strains relationships, sometimes to the point of breaking--but the research does not bear out that divorce is statistically more common among couples who have experienced the loss of a child. In fact, "methodological limitations associated with sampling and difficulties in tracking divorced couples make it impossible to draw clear conclusions about marital disruption" after bereavement, according to the National Institutes of Health. We just don't know.

But what we do know is that loss changes us. Our family has disappeared, and a completely different family has taken its place.

We have been snatched away from our most intimate relationships and have been deposited into a household that looks and sounds and feels alien. We are all changed; everything about our family has been touched and altered.

The way we relate to each other is different: Our hugs are longer. Our rituals are more prominent and precious. Our arguments are more rare and more painful; our apologies more tender. Our conversations, leisure activities, family events--everything has changed. Sometimes we seek each other out; other times, we retreat to our own forms of escape. 

We never stop thinking about the son and brother that we have lost, and he is with us, in us, bruising us with his absence.