I’m still here. Just haven’t had a spare moment since I can’t remember when. I’ll be back to my long-winded self in a couple of days. REALLY looking forward to the three-day weekend!
Have a GREAT day!
I’m still here. Just haven’t had a spare moment since I can’t remember when. I’ll be back to my long-winded self in a couple of days. REALLY looking forward to the three-day weekend!
Have a GREAT day!
I did it. I have finally proven to myself that speaking in front of group is not going to kill me in spite of having fully convinced myself to the contrary. I performed a role-play today in front of nine pairs of scrutinizing eyes watching my every move and nine pairs of ears listening to every word I spoke. Granted, I stumbled and stuttered and you’d better believe I was sweating bullets, but I got through it without dying.
I almost cried afterwards, but that was just a matter of being so very relieved to have put the whole experience behind me. I had let my anxiety get way out of control!
Did I say recently that sometimes I am my own worst enemy? I have proven that to myself in spades. I think I let myself get so worked up about this that my self-consciousness nearly paralyzed me. I had myself so convinced that my best method of communication is not face-to-face, but from behind the scenes that I sabotaged my own ability to do well at this.
Hey, Self? You’re a jerk sometimes!
Ah, but anyway, surviving the role-play was not the real golden moment of the day. The golden moment came afterwards. See, what happened was this. As each of the participants performed their role-play, the rest of us watched and listened. When it was over, the rest of us would leave the conference room while the performer stayed behind with the presenters and our CEO, at which point the performer would receive feed-back from presenters and CEO. (And they were very kind and supportive after my role-play, so it wasn’t nearly as painful as I’d anticipated.)
As the last performer was receiving feedback, the rest of us gathered outside of the conference room and talked about what we’d learned and how we felt, etc.
As a side note, one of my frustrations over the last couple of days was that I was receiving training in a sales technique. I am not a sales-person, and may never be a sales-person in the traditional sense, though I could understand the value of what we learned and can see putting this knowledge to work, not only in a job, but in everyday relationships. I just felt that the expectations were a bit high considering I was trying to become adept at something that is so far from my typical job duties.
Back to the gathering of participants standing outside of the conference room… As we conversed, one of the people who is very directly involved in sales made a comment. She said, “You know what would have really been good in this seminar? We should have had a copywriter there. A copywriter could use this information in all kinds of written communications, including on our website.”
Everyone in that small group was aware that the company’s copywriter had resigned a few months ago, and because the company is still working to get on its feet, a replacement was not hired. The woman who made the comment lamented, “Too bad Amy isn’t here anymore.”
But at that moment, I noticed my boss pointing her finger in my direction and nodding. She was looking intently at the others and saying, “Terri. Terri can write!“
She went on to heap praise on my ability to compose quality communications to our customers, and raved about some of the writing I had done for various projects and even within small group assignments we had done during the training of the past few days.
“Terri can really write,” she said again!
The others looked over at me with pleasant surprise on their faces, asking, “Really? You write?”
And though I was slightly embarrassed by such high praise and normally would have brushed it off and downplayed my abilities, I heard myself say, “I do. I am a writer.”
I am a writer.
That’s the first time I’ve allowed myself to admit it to myself, much less out loud. I didn’t say, “I like to write.” I didn’t say, “I enjoy writing.” I didn’t temper my statement like I usually do with comments like, “I’d like to be a writer someday” or “I hope to write better someday.”
Someone else called me a writer! But more importantly, I called myself a writer. I’ve been blogging for three years and have written in some form or another throughout most of my life, but today, for the first time, I admitted it. I am a writer.
God, that felt good!
Today’s training seminar was no less painful than yesterday’s.
Poo. And I went into it with such high expectations. I was determined not to allow myself to be dragged down by my discomfort with speaking in a group and being the center of attention. It was a great plan for a short while.
But then… dun dun DUN…there was role-playing. Yes, you heard me right. Role playing! My worst fears were realized. Not only did I have to come up with some original ideas and opinions, but I had to voice them in front of the group. And the group got to critique me. And I was expected to show emotion and “non-verbal” expressions. I was supposed to be animated and put some inflection and tone in my voice.
And I sweated bullets.
And the presenter pointed out my flaws, which I’m sure is part of his job and was only meant to steer me in the right direction. But it felt like criticism and ridicule. I know you probably think I’m being overly sensitive but I wanted to crawl in a hole. Seriously. I was fighting tears for a little while there until I forced myself to get it together. I hate that this kind of thing is so far out of my comfort zone.
Later, the presenter asked me why I disliked role-playing so much. I hated to even admit it to him, but I explained that being the center of attention made me crazy. He said, “Don’t let it make you crazy. You’re good at this.”
Pffft! I tried to brush off his remark but damn if it didn’t stick in my head. (He did that on purpose. Manipulator!) BUT, I forgave him again for making me blush and carried on as best I could.
Tomorrow brings the biggest pain. I “get to” speak in front of the group, on two separate topics, while displaying emotion and passion and non-verbal messages. I have to follow a particular order and also “be in the story” whatever the hell that means.
Gah! At least tomorrow is only a half-day session and I get to go home afterwards.
Maybe I should have a beer for breakfast.
My cat, Tigger, in an unusual display of bravery, ventured into the family room while I was sitting in here this evening and climbed onto my lap of his own accord. This may not seem impressive to anyone who doesn’t live in this house, but that’s because you can’t possibly know what an amazing feat that is for one abnormally skittish cat. Normally not one to show his face or seek any amount of attention, Tigger spends most of his time hanging out on my bed or hiding somewhere in the corners of the house. When we seek him out, it becomes a game of how fast he can run before his human family members manage to to grab him. He prefers to wander at night unseen. He does not like to be watched. So I was impressed when he climbed up on one recliner, stepped over onto the lamp table, and then over to the chair where I sat. I scratched him under the chin and told him what a brave boy I thought he was.
To some degree, I can relate to Tigger. I do not like to be the center of attention. At forty-something years old, I still feel claustrophobic when all eyes are trained on me in any situation. And please! Oh, please don’t make me speak in front of a group. Big group. Small group. I don’t care. I prefer to remain slightly anonymous and invisible.
I can blather on incessantly here, on the pages of my blog, in the written form. I can take risks here and even be a little adventurous by stepping out of my writing comfort zone. It doesn’t intimidate me because I can’t see your reaction. I can’t feel the weight of judgement when I’m hiding out behind a computer screen.
But personal, face-to-face attention with more than a small group of people has never been my cup of tea. I have always worried too much about what others think of me. And to this day, when I voice a thought or opinion, my first instinct is to wonder if someone else considers it ridiculous and then I second guess myself to the nth degree.
I was forced to face my fears today at work in the first day of a two-and-a-half day training seminar. I was one of a small number of people selected to go through this training. I’m familiar with all of the other participants. I have worked with each of them in some capacity during my five years with the company. But still, when gathered with all of them in a conference room all day, with four trainers present, trying to bestow upon us their wealth of knowledge, I would have preferred to just sit quietly by and absorb the information.
Guess that wasn’t allowed.
As I could have guessed, what I would prefer and what was actually expected are two different things. And in spite of my preference to sit back quietly and refrain from risking embarrassment by offering up my own personal thoughts and ideas, there is a part of me that refuses to give in to that shy little girl who often still resides inside of me.
Also, there are rewards for participation, so to some degree, my slightly competitive nature was battling my extremely shy nature.
Still, I can’t figure out why one of the thoughts I did voice played right into my phobia of drawing attention and speaking in front of a group. Without boring you with all of the details, the presenter raised a question about why people tell stories. Thoughts and ideas were contributed by various members of the group. The obvious ideas were voiced but the presenter was still seeking more. And since this was a sales training seminar and the perspective was on the business aspect of story-telling, I responded with a thought of my own.
People tell stories “to get attention.” (This makes sense, doesn’t it? If one business is offering the same product as another business, the goal is to make the most sales. If Business A wants to out-sell Business B, then Business A’s story needs to draw attention away from Business B and toward themselves.) Well, I thought it made sense anyway.
“To get attention.”
I don’t know why that particular answer fell out of my mouth, but it did. And the presenter found humor in that answer and seemed to think that it was not only a statement about business, but a statement about me! After all, this was a light-hearted session and he did try to make it fun for everyone whenever possible. If he only knew that while he was drawing the group’s attention to me, I was breaking out in a cold sweat and mentally counting off the seconds until they moved on!
Much to my dismay, as the day moved on, the presenter managed to find ways to remind me over and over again about my response, constantly bringing us back to the “get attention” theory. (And by “over and over” I mean, probably two more times. And that was two times too many for my liking.) This is where it got painful for me. Each time he brought it up, it was like he was nudging me and laughing again. And the group found this quite funny. And me? I could feel myself turning eight shades of red every time he made the joke and steered everyone’s attention back to me.
The last time he did it, I found myself growing irritated and mumbled something to my coworker about keeping my mouth shut from now on. Of course, the trainer heard me and happily informed me, “Nope. Sorry. That’s not allowed.”
For a while after, I refused to make eye-contact with him, not wanting to invite any further attention. My inner-rebel took over and it seemed to work. I didn’t offer any more ideas and I wasn’t called upon to offer any responses for the time being. But sometimes I’m my own worst enemy. I quickly realized I was only punishing myself by refraining from participation (and attention.) The trainer was very engaging, and in spite of myself, I found myself wanting to focus on what he was saying, wanting to participate, in spite of the “repercussions.” This was good stuff and I soon realized I was only shooting myself in the foot by holding back.
Maybe the presenter noticed that my discomfort had reached epic proportions because he finally let the joke slide. And after he did so, I began to realize that any other time I’ve been in such a situation, the leader always seems to find someone in the group whom they can engage in the topics of discussion in order to keep things lively and interesting. I may have been that person today. And if I didn’t give in to my fears so easily, if I’d bothered to think about the fact that all new experiences involve some level of risk (in this case, embarrassment) I might have found the whole experience to be less painful, maybe even enjoyable.
Regardless, we later broke into smaller work groups, which is much more my style. I found that I was actually learning and enjoying the information and able to put it to use with ease in our practice sessions. After all, we were “learning” to tell stories, and I am a story-teller.
I have to go back again tomorrow for another full day’s worth of training. I already know that there will be more “opportunities” to be the center of attention and speak in front of the group and possibly feel that horrible emotion, embarrassment. I still won’t like it. But I’ll do it anyway.
I think they refer to this as “growing and learning” and oh yeah… “Conquering one’s fears!”
Hey, if my cat can do it, so can I!
My maternal grandparents had four daughters; Shirley, Elaine, Arlys and Margie (my mom.) I’m going to tell you a little bit about Elaine and her family.
Elaine was married to Ben and they made a living as farmers in the town of New Richmond, Wisconsin (which is about a forty minute drive from where I now live in Minnesota.) Ben and Elaine lived in a modest two-story home on the farm. Their little yellow house sat just off of a quiet, rural road. Just across the road was another, older farmhouse. In the farmhouse lived Ben’s Brother Keith and his wife, Lois. Together, Ben and Keith ran the farm that had been passed on to them by their father.
I have fond memories of visiting Aunt Elaine and Uncle Benji’s farm. The barn fascinated me. So did the cows that lived inside, even if I was a little bit scared of them. Sometimes my cousins (one of them the one who remembers me as a “little shit”) would take us up into the loft and show us how to climb the hay bales and find hiding places among the stacks of bales. I loved the country feeling of their town and home. Everything seemed quieter and more relaxed, as if time was standing still for a little while. I was used to city life, so being on the farm was a whole new experience for me.
Uncle Benji passed away several years ago, but Aunt Elaine still lives in the house where they raised their family. Much of the farmland has been sold off, and the area has become much more residential. It’s been years since I’ve been there. I’m not sure I’d even recognize it anymore.
Elaine and Benji had four kids; my cousins Brad, Chris (the only girl), Jeff and Greg. Chris now lives in the neighboring town of Star Prairie, Wisconsin and she is the one who organized the family reunion we attended yesterday which happened to be held at a park in Star Prairie.
After spending the better part of yesterday at the family reunion, we came home and headed over to our neighbors’ home for our friend, Bill’s 50th birthday party. (I know this seems like a total change in subject. Trust me. This is going somewhere.)
At Bill’s party, we met up with many friends and acquaintances, some of whom were the couples with whom we go on vacation to Bayfield, Wisconsin every August. We have been going to Bayfield with these same people for… I don’t know… six or seven years now. Dave and Julie make up one of those couples. We would not know Dave and Julie if we hadn’t met them through Bill and his wife, Tammy. (And just for the heck of it, let’s throw in the fact that Bill is originally from the state of New York.)
So…Dave was kind enough to give my Brad a job last summer and hired him back again this year, so the two of them were conversing at Bill’s party, when Brad called me over to the table where they sat.
“Mom, tell Dave about your cousin who lives in Star Prairie,” he asked.
I gave him a questioning look and Dave explained, “Julie is from Star Prairie!” I found that amazing, as Star Prairie is a very small town.
So I proceeded to briefly tell Dave that some of my family are from New Richmond and one of my cousins has lived in Star Prairie for years.
“What’s their last name,” he asked?
When I told him, his eyes got wide and he called Julie over to the table, saying, “Terri has a cousin in Star Prairie and also has family in New Richmond!”
Of course, then Julie wanted to know more, so I started to explain about Elaine and Benji and the farm in New Richmond.
Julie asked, “Wasn’t it a little yellow house?”
“Yes…,” I replied, now very curious that she was familiar.
“And across the road was another farmhouse? And behind the farmhouse was the barn?”
“And the man who lived in the farmhouse closest to the barn was Keith, right?”
“You know them,” I exclaimed!
“Yes, my aunt was married to Keith,” she proclaimed.
So all of these years that I have known Dave and Julie, it has escaped our notice that Julie’s uncle was the brother of my uncle.
It really is a very small world, isn’t it?
I just find that amazing!
Well, anyway… how about some pictures from the family reunion which I stole from my sister’s Facebook page?
Can’t wait for the next reunion!
We were about half-way there when I slapped my leg and uttered an expletive. Mark looked over at me from the driver’s seat.
“You forgot your camera, didn’t you?”
“Want to go back and get it?”
“No, we’re halfway there. Forget it.”
So, I’ll have to rely on my sister to share pictures because she remembered her camera.
Oh well. It was fun, anyway, and I hardly missed my camera because I was busy catching up with my cousins and second cousins and aunts. No uncles, though. Sadly, they are all gone now.
One of my cousins informed me that I was a “little shit” when I was little and also that I was incredibly shy. I knew about the shy part. I didn’t think anyone but my parents really thought I was a little shit, though. The accusing cousin also informed me, basically, that he thought I grew up to be pretty cool, so I didn’t feel so bad about the “little shit” label.
It was a really fun day. It looked like it was going to rain, but it never did. The sun even showed its face for a while. I was so enthralled with my extended family that it escaped my notice that maybe Mark and Brad and Heather probably weren’t as enthralled as I was. (Jake and Kacey didn’t come – work and softball took precedence.) Brad asked if I minded if they took a little jaunt over to the trout farm just around the corner from the park where the reunion was being held. Of course I didn’t mind.
I proceeded to gab and gab and gab with my cousins and second cousins. It seemed like the three were hardly gone at all when they returned with a bag of ice and trout, which they then tossed into the cooler which held our beverages for the day. Gross. Good thing I had already drank my share for the day.
Mark caught the tiniest trout. I thought that was funny and couldn’t stop laughing. Apparently, you’re not allowed to toss ‘em back at the trout farm, so he had to keep the baby trout. Here, Brad and Heather display Heather’s trout chasing Mark’s trout:
It’s hot out today. It’s humid and it’s windy. But I run anyway.
For a split second, I think maybe I should have done the treadmill instead today. Then I tell myself I’m stronger than that. I can do this. I start out walking for a few minutes. Stretch my muscles. Tighten the arm strap on my iPod. Adjust the ear buds. I can already feel the wind pushing me sideways.
One time around the block; Two times around the clock; Three times, don’t cross the little lady…
I start out on an incline. Thank God the wind is against my back. Traffic is heavy on the road next to me. I turn up the volume trying to drown out the sound of tires on the pavement.
So pretty and oh so bold; Got a heart full of gold on a lonely road; She said, “I don’t even think that God can save me.”
I make it to the top of the hill, but my lungs start to burn already. I’m not used to running in humidity. Damn it. I reluctantly let myself slow to a walk for a few yards.
I pick up the pace again, but I can’t find my rhythm. That damn wind keeps trying to knock me off-balance and it messes with my breathing. I let it intimidate me and I’m breathing too hard. I keep pushing though.
Am I gainin’ ground; Am I losin’ face; Have I lost and found my saving grace; Thankful for the gift my angels gave me.
At the half-way point I have to slow down again. I’ve got to pace my breathing. A few yards and I speed up again. I figure it out this time and the burning feeling in my lungs goes away. It only took me half the run, but I’ve put all the pieces together.
Born alone, we die alone; ‘n I’m just sittin’ here by the phone; Waitin’ for the Lord to send my callin’.
I’m moving downhill now and onto more level ground. The wind is still trying to distract me but I force my thoughts away from it and keep going.
Street wise from the boulevard; Jesus only knows that she tries too hard; She’s only tryin’ to keep the sky from fallin’.
Sweat is running down my back, down my face, and down other places best not mentioned here. I keep going.
Any man who says it’s Heaven and Hell; Prob’ly got somethin’ useless to sell; You ask me if I’m saved but what’s it to ya?
I hit the last stretch of my route; a nice, long, downhill section of path. The wind is hitting me head on, full force. I’m grateful I’m moving downhill or I might give in. I notice an ache in my right side. I don’t care. Side aches don’t scare me anymore. I used to feel them and panic, thinking they would get so much worse, but they don’t. I ignore it and keep going. Think of something else.
Blow a quarter, cop another eight; You’re runnin’ out of high, you’re losin’ your faith; Throw your hands up and scream “Hallelujah!”
Hallelujah, Halleluja;Hallelujah, Hallelujah; Amen.
One more block.
One time around the sun; Another year older and my work ain’t done; It’s time for me to write that final chapter.
Deal the cards and roll the dice; Sex, drugs and rock ‘n roll are my only vice; Tryin’ to figure out just what’s here after.
Damn wind is making me crazy, but I’ve finally made it. Traffic parts at the last busy intersection before I turn towards home and allow myself a cool-down walk.
I did it. (Thanks to Everlast for the help…)
Life is good.
Gina and I had a girls’ day yesterday. I was up early for a run and a chiropractor appointment. I took care of some chores around the house, and then as early as I dared (8:30), I sent her a text.
“You awake yet?”
She replied right away, “Yep. Just gotta shower and get the kids going on their projects for the day.”
Then she called me and we hatched a plan for the day. She didn’t want to shop. The last thing she needs is more stuff to pack for the move. I offered to help with any packing, or home improvement projects necessary for putting the house on the market, but she just wanted to get out of the house. So we decided we’d pack up our cameras and go to Stillwater and wander around downtown.
Stillwater is about a fifteen minute drive from my house and it’s one of the oldest and most historic towns in Minnesota. There would be lots of fun photographic opportunities there.
Gina picked me up and we took the scenic route to the highway that would take us to Stillwater. Of course, we talked the whole time about everything and nothing. It wasn’t long before we pulled into downtown. The streets were busy with traffic and tourists, even on a Wednesday morning.
At first we just wandered up and down the main street. We window-shopped and talked. We strolled through a clothing store and admired some summer dresses. The sales girls tried desperately to get us to try them on, but we politely declined.
There was an art gallery Gina wanted to go in, so we did. There were paintings there and a lot of photography featuring several local artists. At one photography display, I stopped, startled by one photo in particular featuring an adorable little boy peeking through the space of a wooden fence. I nudged Gina on the arm, pointed and exclaimed, “That’s Matthew!” (My nephew.)
Then I thought better of my statement, thinking it couldn’t really be Matthew. “I mean, it looks exactly like Matthew!” Then I looked a little closer at the artist’s signature and laughed. “It really is Matthew!” I had recognized the artist as Matthew’s grandpa, a photographer who has a studio in Stillwater. How fun it was to see Matthew on display in a gallery that way!
We decided we were hungry, so we went to Brine’s Restaurant. Brine’s is a well-known restaurant and bar and is also known for their market and deli. We enjoyed some sandwiches while talking some more and admiring the historic atmosphere in the restaurant.
After lunch, we decided to explore beyond the main street and all the shops. There are some gorgeous homes in Stillwater and we wanted to go admire them. So we took off on foot into the nearby neighborhoods. We wandered slowly through the residential streets, marveling at the historic homes and the way they were preserved. At one point, I walked up the steps of a bed & breakfast to get a better angle on a house I wanted to photograph across the street. After I descended the steps again and we walked around the corner to the other side of the bed & breakfast, we were startled to hear someone talking to us.
“What’s going on?”
We looked to see a man, leaning in the doorway of a side entrance. He was smiling, so he was obviously not annoyed with us, but clearly, he was wondering about two women snapping pictures of his house and the ones surrounding it. We laughed and explained we were just playing hooky for the day and were enjoying his neighborhood. He waved and said, “Have fun then,” and returned to his work.
We strolled and snapped pictures and just talked and talked. We talked about the kids and families. We looked at the houses and the landscaping and talked about things we’d like to do with our homes. And we talked about the impending move. I thought it would be hard to talk about, but it was actually therapeutic. Gina explained that although she was sad to be moving from the place that has been her home for so long and away from family and friends, there is still a level of excitement at experiencing a new place and new surroundings. She has always loved designing her home, trying new decorating ideas, and she’s good at it. She’s going to have a whole new house and plenty to keep her busy as she redesigns each and every room to her liking. And she was sure to tell me she will be coming back here to visit as often as possible. I’m happy for her. I’m sad that she’s leaving, but it eases the ache to know that a part of her is excited for this new adventure in her life.
It was a beautiful, wonderful, fun day with my best friend, and I know it is one I will cherish forever.
If I knew how to phonetically spell the sound of pitiful whining, I’d do that right here… Picture me lying face down on the floor, surrounded by an aura of self-pity. Of course, I’m not really there, because that would make it awfully hard to type. But trust me. I am this close to throwing myself down there and having a good old whine fest.
Yeah. I’m sad. I am very, very sad. And in a way, I feel so ridiculous for feeling this sad, but I can’t help it. My best friend, Gina is moving away in fourteen days. Yes, I’ve known this has been coming for about a year now. Having time to prepare for one of the sadder days in your life doesn’t make reaching that day any easier whatsoever.
I forget how long of a drive Gina said it was from here to her new home in Ohio. Fourteen hours? Fifteen? Something like that. And yes, I know I’m an adult, and I can make plans to go visit her. I can drive there. I can book a flight and fly there. And I know she will come back here several times a year. I know I’ll still see her and I know we will always be the closest of friends. I know it. I’m still sad.
I’ve been on the verge of tears for the past several days already. And sometimes I feel so juvenile about the whole thing. Who, at my age, still runs around calling someone else (not their spouse) a best friend? Maybe not many. But I do.
I wonder how many are lucky enough to have someone like her in their lives? She is someone to whom I can say, Sometimes I want to… Sometimes I think… Sometimes I just feel… And she gets it. She gets me. She knows my heart. I am someone who finds it hard to let people in. But she found her way in. She accepts me for who I am… the good, the bad and the ugly. She never judges. She just lets me be me. I find it so easy to be me around her.
For twenty-some years, she has been just a phone call away. (Okay. It’s the age of cell phones and internet. She’ll always be just a phone call away.) But she’ll no longer be a short drive in the car away. She’ll no longer be our crazy, fun-loving bowling captain. My shopping partner. My photography buddy. My partner in all things juvenile and silly. We can have a blast cooking food for a graduation party together, painting walls, sitting around a bonfire, or wandering a mall. We never run out of things to talk about. We can talk on the phone for hours on end, even if we’d just talked the day before. But now I have to get used to the fact that she’s not going to be my just-around-the-corner friend anymore. God, I’m going to miss her.
I have the worst feeling right now. So many moments of the day are spent counting down the days that are left. I want to squeeze in all the time I can with her while it’s still simple and easy. And yet, I still have to live my life and she has to live hers.
I’m in this icky place at the moment. I can only compare it to the days leading up to when we had to have Shelby, our dog, put to sleep. I knew a huge sadness was coming and I hated that it was coming but there was nothing I could do to stop it. That is the same feeling I have now. I know it’s morose and I need to knock this sh*t off soon! The thing is, I’ve been through losses. I’ve had close friends move away before. I’ve lost pets and even bigger, I’ve lost loved ones. And I know that there is life after these losses. It’s a new and different way of life, but it goes on. I just seem to be having trouble seeing that through my sadness.
Maybe it’s a bad habit I have, this tendency to put all my eggs in one basket. I have plenty of friends, but none that quite compare to her. She’s my favorite. I always said we were two peas in a pod. No one else is a pea like she and I are. Everyone else is carrots and corn and broccoli. And I like all of those things, but none of them are so much like me as my other pea.
Ugh. I feel like such a big baby. I’m going to go for a run now, with some music blasting in my ears. It will make me feel better. I’m going to hope the sun comes out tomorrow, because it’s been raining here forever (or at least since last Thursday.) I’m going to play hooky from work on Wednesday, Thursday and Friday. (Not really. I already booked those days as vacation time.) And I’m going to spend those days with Gina doing whatever we feel like doing, (which will likely include some bowling and beer) and we’ll cook up some plans for visiting each other as often as humanly possible.
And I’ll still cry when she goes.
And life will go on.
And in the meantime, it would be really helpful if I could find another pea. Not a replacement pea. That’s not possible. But another pea. Interested parties, feel free to apply for the pea position here.
We said goodbye to my Uncle Greg this week. He was only 55 years old; a victim of pancreatic and liver cancer. He died peacefully on Monday, June 7th in a nursing home, surrounded by his siblings and some nieces and nephews, including my sister, his favorite niece.
I’m glad that in the past few months, I put behind me the fear and unease of visiting him while his condition deteriorated. I won’t ever regret making those few visits to him in his last days. It was clear to me during those visits that even though we hadn’t spent much time together over the past many years, he still loved me and was interested in me, my family, my life.
After we learned of Greg’s death, Brad asked me when I started drifting away from my aunts and uncles. I know he was wondering about Greg, and how little he knew of him. I know he was thinking of his own favorite aunts and uncles and worrying that they’ll slip out of his life. I told him it doesn’t have to be that way for him. His relationships with some of his aunts and uncles are probably tighter than any I had with my own aunts and uncles. We are physically much closer to our extended family than I was to some of mine while growing up. That has allowed my kids to form close bonds.
But distance wasn’t an issue for me and Greg. I think it was personality. For one thing, he was young. He was fourteen years younger than my dad and only twelve years older than me. He was considered somewhat of a rebel in the family. To some degree, I suppose I have also been considered as such. I don’t let people in. I guard my thoughts and feelings. I’m trying to change that. I want to be open with my family. I want them to know that I love them. But I think I may, at times, (maybe more often than I realize) be seen as being distant. I’m working to change that.
I regret that I didn’t make a better attempt to stay connected with Greg long before his illness became debilitating. As I’ve said before, I know that reaching that point in our relationship (or lack of) was a two-way street. That doesn’t make it any easier. But this experience has changed my perspective. I’m no longer so willing to let family slip away so easily. I want to make a better attempt to stay connected.
Greg’s wake was held on Thursday. His daughter, Tammy had decided that in honor of her dad’s love for Minnesota sports teams, the wake would be sports themed. The obituary invited all who attended to come in the attire of their favorite team. And Greg was laid in his casket wearing his Minnesota Vikings football jersey. My dad, of course, was not pleased. He thought it was disrespectful to dress so casually for a wake. I was torn between displeasing my dad, and doing something I knew Greg would have loved. I decided to be a big girl and honor Greg. I wore my Minnesota Twins Joe Mauer t-shirt and I was glad I did. The room was filled with people wearing Gophers, Wild, Twins and Vikings jerseys. When my mom saw me, she asked, “Will you pull your jacket closed over that shirt when you see Dad?” I smiled and said, “No, Mom. This isn’t about Dad. I’ll dress up for the funeral tomorrow.” She smiled and said, “I know.” As it turns out, my dad never said a word, so if he was still unhappy about the sports theme, he must have given up the battle by then.
The funeral on Friday was nice; as nice as any funeral can be, I suppose. The weather was appropriate with dark, stormy skies. The worst was seeing how painful Greg’s death was for his daughter, and for his ex-wife, with whom he remained very close even after their divorce several years ago. My sister delivered the eulogy and it was beautiful. She helped all of us remember Greg for who he was… a son, a brother, a husband and father, an uncle, a grandfather. She painted the picture of a man who was loved for who he was, imperfections and all. She made us laugh and she made us cry with many memories of Greg. Some were honest, some were sweet and a few were typically silly. As she spoke, I remembered a man who came to my junior high softball games and who fueled my love of music by handing down to me the many 45 records he no longer wanted. I remember visiting at my grandma’s house when he still lived there and how he let us play on his water-bed because we thought it was so fun. I remember him playing with us and teasing us, giving nick-names to each of his nieces and nephews and how we all clamored for his attention.
After the funeral, there was a luncheon in the church hall where Greg’s family celebrated his life. I enjoyed the time with my cousins, who I don’t see often enough. As we conversed, there were many times that someone commented, “Why don’t we get together more often? We really need to plan something.”
I know this is a typical comment among family members at any funeral. I’ve heard it a hundred times. But this time, something is different. I’m getting older and realizing more every day how precious life is. My regret over my relationship with Greg may have changed me for the better. Maybe this time, I won’t wait for the next family get-together to be at a funeral.