The Sand House pt. 3

I've always tried to change things for the better. Or at least my interpretation of the better.  I believe I know what's right and how things should be and can never understand why people don't do the right thing. Some people may call me controlling. But those people aren't very nice. 

After years of trying to change the world, I've finally had to admit, I can't change or fix everything. Believe me, I've beat my head to a raw pulp trying to budge some of those brick walls that shape things into what they are.

This is how my world would look

Today that brick wall is my dad. I've had very limited influence over his decision-making processes in the past but I've had more than most. I've been trying to use that limited influence like a snake charmer trying to coax him into The Sand House.

We went back to have lunch there last Saturday. My husband, Howard, took pity on my solo plight and offered to have his dad watch the boys so he could accompany us. I wasn't sure about this. On one hand, I really needed the support and felt relieved to have him hold my hand as I traversed the narrow path between love and fear. On the other, I was afraid he would break the bubble I had created in my head to better deal with this situation. Within this bubble sat my dad who reluctantly agreed to enter into this new senior living situation and found he was much happier, healthier and surrounded by new friends. I didn't want Howard asking questions or giving opinions that touched, or even worse, burst my bubble. But I appreciated that he acknowledged how difficult this has been for me and wanted to help out. This was the part of marriage that felt like a partnership or a team.

So we picked up my dad and took him to The Sand House. Lunch was being served in the dining room which felt more like an oceanfront restaurant.

I think an ocean view helps with digestion

We were seated by the hostess and greeted warmly by our server, Helen, the Russian speaking immigrant who had wanted to meet my dad. Or at least welcome him as a fellow Russian. She was surprisingly fantastic, like a female Don Rickles. She was irreverant, poking fun at the residents but in such a kindhearted, loving way, she had everyone giggling. I could see the light in my dad's eyes as he gazed at her with a wonderous smile.

I felt hopeful.

We went and looked at his potential room again while my husband sprinkled appreciative comments along our path, "Wow, this place is great." He sounded sincere. 

"I know," I replied, "It's amazing. I really do want to live here someday." 

"No really," he said, like I was doubting him. 

"I know!" I replied, could we move on already? My dad just walked alongside us with his left foot slightly dragging. And we went into the room again to confirm just how amazing this place really was.

view from amazing room

We left feeling good. Or I was feeling good, like I was a step closer to him agreeing. How could he not? We even had an elderly gentleman stop by our lunch table and give an unsolicited testimonial about how great the place was. And my husband kept reaffirming how much better this place was than the one his grandma had lived in and how it was so much better than he had imagined. This made me wonder, does he not believe me when I tell him something? Because I had already told him it was perfect. But that's another story, ha ha.

We dropped off my dad back at his apartment and told him I'd call him the next day. When I called him, I wanted to casually ask what he had thought of our visit but couldn't find the courage to say the words. I wasn't ready for any responses other than the one I needed to hear. So we chit chatted and I called again the following day. At the end of the conversation, I summoned my courage and asked. "So. Wha'd you think of The Sand House?" Brief silence.

"No," he said with a deep sigh. "No." A little softer.

 I don't think his inner platelets ever budged, not far enough to create the type of seismic shift that would have allowed him to move into the direction for which I had hoped for him.

I couldn't hold it together any more. I was too tired to keep down the bubbles that begged to explode from the bottle. This last 'no' had shaken the contents until there was a little explosion. I didn't yell but I was very stern. I lectured him about what a good opportunity this was for him. He could heal, make friends and enjoy the beach anytime he wanted.  I urgently kept talking but I knew there was no hope. He had made up his mind and I couldn't shift his glacial stubbornness. I didn't want to make things worse by getting mad and yelling even though I was so scared for him and didn't know what else I could do to help him.

So I didn't. I had to let it go and have faith.

That night I got an email from my friend, Diana. She too is Russian, though so Americanized, like me, unless she told you, you'd never suspect. But being an immigrant, regardless of how young you were when you got to this country, shapes you. Maybe you have a stronger feeling for the plight of other immigrants. Maybe you are more empathetic to the struggle of being a loner in a foreign land, even if that land has been your home for decades.

Anyway, Diana reached out to me by giving me the phone number of a Russian home services agency passed on to her by her grandmother.

In the darkness of my disappointment, I felt a glimmer of hope.

It appeared we now had a Plan B.

Lostmnesia.....a process with some victories

I don't want anyone to think that just because I've had a short story and a feature magazine article published this month that I think I'm a rock star or some kind of super hero. But what really does deserves a pat on the back is that I overcame the limitations I placed on myself long enough to finally make something happen with that writing.

First off, Lostmnesia was rejected by twenty four literary magazines. Twenty-four. Twenty four times, I had to read why someone thought my story was good but needed just a little of this or a lot of that or just wasn't right for them at this time.  That's a little like: it's not you, it's me, so let's just be friends.

And then there are all the literary magazines that just plain ignored me. I didn't even get the closure that at least comes with a rejection.

If it wasn't for my supportive friends in my writing group - Writing Safety Tree - and my amazing husband, my writing wouldn't have happened.

Some of us couldn't come because of mommy duties but from top
left to right we have Laurel Janssen Byrne, Julie Gardner,
Charlene Ross, me, Kim Tracy Prince and Lexi Rohner

Writers (or me) are very sensitive people. So everything can hurt. But you have to be sensitive to pick up on the little things and then process them well enough to articulate what happened to complete strangers. Or friends. Or family.

It all starts with sorting through the feelings in your own head though. And that can be a sticky uncomfortable mess. You don't know what's in there or where it's been or who's touched it. Ick. I think maybe that's why many people stay away from it.

But then there are the masochists brave ones who insist on not only touching it but sorting through it and putting it together in an orderly fashion so that the next person might better be able to sort through their own sticky mess. I think that's what writers try to do. Or, I guess, what I try to do. Organize then inspire.

But then there are the mean voices. You may or may not have them in your head but the ones in mine do two things when I finally decide I'm going in. First they say, hey, look at all the stuff you have to do, like dishes and ordering prints for that summer album, before you can sit down and waste your time with your trivial writing pursuits. Then they say, you have nothing to say anyway and even if you did, you don't know how to say it in the right way.

Everytime.

I didn't used to have the strength to show up and write anyway. Well, maybe only in my journal but then I'd worry that someone would find it and I'd be exposed. But if the planets did align and I did actually find myself in front of my computer (avoiding Facebook) and actually getting some thoughts down - finding that kernel of truth inside that chaotic spin - the result inside my body after was almost orgasmic. Yes, it's that kind of high. Overcoming fear, deciphering the noise and putting together a tangible sentence leaves me walking on a euphoric cloud.

So, why can't I gather, to the forefront of my consciousness, all these fantastic memories of feeling just that and know that all I have to do is show up and sit down? Because the mean voices are louder than any others I can muster on my own. And it wasn't until I met my husband, who tries to drown out those mean voices with praise, that I started to suspect their lies. And it wasn't until I joined my writing group  that I no longer felt destined to share a lifelong prison cell, inside my head, with those mean voices.   I found out those voices live within every writer in our group. So, together, we lock hands and refuse to let them scare us anymore.

And, that's the real victory. It's not that I've had two things published this month. No, the victory is despite the roadblocks my own head has put up to deter myself from doing the only thing in my life (besides motherhood) that I've desired with my full heart, I've managed to break through with the help of my friends and the love of my husband.

So I guess that's the point. We are stronger together than we are alone.

It's still a challenge sometimes (um, especially now that there are kids in the picture who consider me their on call servant 24/7) but it's less so today than yesterday.

So, if you love something, go find someone that also loves that something and do it together. It's the miracle of communal creation. No one achieves anything alone.

And if you want to read my new short story, you can find it here. And if you want to leave a comment on their website to tell them what you thought of the story, you will have my eternal gratitude (well, only if you actually liked it, ha ha).