It’s been a week. After a few pleasant days of lower temperatures and less humidity, the air is once again thick and stifling. For someone like me, who runs hot, the atmosphere is oppressive. Within seconds of being outside, I’m pouring sweat. I feel disgusting and look like I feel. When I try working outside, the mandatory layers of sunscreen and insect repellent add insult to injury. Sitting inside for the bulk of the day isn’t good for my body or soul. I’ve still gotten my swims in, but an hour in that sanctuary is not enough to balance all those other inside hours, when my mind seems to skitter from thing to thing.
But let’s get real. These physical discomforts are hardly worth whining about, especially in comparison to what other people are going through, in more places than I can count. After all, I’m not starving while dodging bombs and drone attacks. I’m not starving at all, because there’s no famine where I live. Rival drug cartels are not shooting up the streets in my neighborhood, making me fear for my life. I’m not afraid that vans filled with armed, masked men are going to track me down, throw me to the ground, tie my wrists with zip-ties and disappear to me to civil war-torn countries. At least not yet. Yes, I’m crabby because of merciless weather, but the fact is that I think I’m getting worn down by too much bad news. Every day I tell myself to stop paying so much attention to all the latest infuriating articles which show up in my morning email. I know it’s so toxic for me. And I think I actually have stopped reading and watching as much as I once did, back when the jaw-dropping first presidency of 45 began. Back then, in early 2017, even as it became clear that Michael’s cancer trek had finally taken its last dark turn, I was doomscrolling constantly, trying to navigate the shocks of that mad administration. Ha. What did I know? Here I am, eyes popping at every latest soul-crushing news story illustrating this seemingly inexorable march to the end of democracy, such as it is. Or was. All in just a few short months. Although I know enough about history to understand that what’s happening now isn’t forever, at age 74, will I still be around to appreciate the recovery from all the destruction? Unclear.
That’s the macrocosm. And then there’s the microcosm. The whole mortality question is certainly getting harder to ignore in my 70’s. In the past few days, four people I know, some more intimately than others, have all wound up in the emergency room and beyond, with cardiac and circulation issues. Swollen legs and insufficient blood vessels seem to be making the rounds. I find myself checking out my ankles a lot, looking for the telltale puffiness indicating water retention, which can itself be a sign of congestive heart failure. Sometimes you just don’t know when it’s your body’s turn to say your lease on reasonable health has just expired. Even more concerning is the condition of one of my dearest old friends, who’s waiting for his newly unearthed chronic lymphocytic leukemia to be staged. That cancer can be anything from a slow growing condition which can be survived for many years, to one that storms quickly through the body. The uncertainty is hard for him and his family, along with those of us who shared so much life together. Nothing about these situations is surprising or unexpected. But it’s still hard. In similar moments, my mother, who survived a couple of cancers, poorly controlled diabetes and numerous other issues, would periodically trot out her gallows humor and say, “look – you leave this life the way you come in – toothless, bald and alone. That’s it. Period.” One of those lines I think I’ll always remember.
In the hope of distracting myself from the weight of the current news and personal crises, I decided to watch “The Roosevelts – An Intimate History,” the film made by Ken Burns for PBS back in 2014. Seven episodes long and clocking in at 14 hours, I found myself utterly consumed by this fascinating wealthy family, with its multiple branches and participation in varying political parties. The three principal characters, Theodore, Franklin and Eleanor championed progressive domestic policies, navigated world wars, laid the foundation for most of the institutions under attack by today’s current administration, and remained influential in American politics for 80 years. I wasn’t completely uneducated about them when I started this series but I learned a lot I didn’t know. Imperfect as these people were, their obvious passion for improving the lives of everyday people was so inspiring. And different from now. I think this summary by a journalist best describes how I felt after watching it.
Hank Stuever, critic at The Washington Post, writes, “Let’s start with the end. When it’s over — when you make it through the marathon that is Ken Burns’s beautiful, seven-part documentary The Roosevelts: An Intimate History, … you may find yourself with a lingering, nebulous grief. You’re sorry it’s over. You’re sorry they’re over. You’re sorry a certain expression of American ideals is, or often appears to be, completely over.”
If escapism was what I was looking for, I can’t say I succeeded in meeting that goal with this particular choice. I was frequently in tears while watching this show, way more than I usually am in what I’d call my regular life. Crying has never really been a go-to emotional response for me. When people would talk about how cathartic a good cry was for them, I could never quite relate. I usually feel terrible after I cry, swollen-eyed and snotty, more often than not with a headache, and zero energy for anything other than sleep. My more customary response to the hard parts of life is getting angry and active, ranting around, or hurling myself into some tiring task or other until I burn off the bad feelings. But I guess I was overdue for the style I usually shun because crying it was. In the midst of it, I was kind of fascinated by this full-up well of emotion that needed to be released. I know that for a long time I’ve felt that my grief process about Michael’s death has been entwined with the pain I feel over the bigger picture, the profound alienation I feel from the MAGA universe and all that it entails. Throughout my life, I’ve always felt like I never really belonged anywhere, always somewhat out of step, even with ideologies, organizations or groups with which I had some natural affinities. But lucky me, when I almost instantly became best friends with Michael when I was just twenty, I finally felt like I fit somewhere. No matter the hard times, that comfort only grew over time.
Even now, with him gone, the powerful framework we built for so many years has still been enough to sustain me on my own. And yet. When I sat there sobbing over the Roosevelts, I realized that despite my resilience, I retain mental and emotional vulnerabilities that add dimension and depth to my fully adult self. Uncomfortable, yes, but I still believe that’s a good thing. For me, becoming a person incapable of ever surprising myself again would feel like death. I recognize that I can still have more going on inside me than I sometimes realize. That means there’s yet more room in this life for me to continue developing and to understand myself in relation to my ever-changing circumstances. Nothing new means being stuck. For me, being stuck is worse than periodic sobbing, whether I particularly like it or not.
I guess I have to chalk this week up to what I’ve continued to learn over the years. People are complicated and layered, with multiple aspects of personality and character operating inside them, sometimes in tandem and sometimes apart. Often, they are in the dark about themselves, intentionally or not. Not everyone is interested in looking back to trace how they got to here from there. But I always was. In my late 30’s and early 40’s, I was seeing a therapist who was helping me develop better management skills at coping with my mom after my dad’s death. Figuring out that the parent/child dynamic between us had been severely compromised for a long time, was knowledge that I was only vaguely unaware of – that is until this professional helped me think my way to the core of my problems. She presented me with options on how to confront difficult circumstances in ways significantly different from my previous style. And most importantly, she helped me realize that my mom would likely not be interested in my process and thus, never be able to put herself into my shoes. Recognizing that the only change I could expect was my own was significant. I didn’t want to be limited in the way that my mom was so I needed to accept responsibility for myself. My task was to break old patterns and get myself unstuck. One really great experience I had during my therapy involved bringing Michael along to one of my appointments. My counselor felt that having someone close to me participate in conversations about my issues allowed her, and ultimately, me, to view my problems from different angles instead of just my own. She likened this process to walking around a statue, being able to see it three-dimensionally, instead of just head-on. I learned a lot from hearing Michael’s perception of me during my conflicts, instead of only looking straight into a mirror and seeing myself. That lesson stuck with me. Stepping back from the moment and changing my own behavior helps me navigate the world. And there will always be the need to adjust. After all, I think that no matter how well we think we know anyone, including ourselves, there will always be surprises and secrets to discover. Hell week’s reminder and lesson learned.
The paintings by Hovak remind me that humans are more than what’s on the surface.
Sending so much love. ❤️❤️❤️