Category Archives: Reflections

A Love Letter to My Daughter: You Inspire Me! <3

Posted on March 28, 2015 | 2 comments

Alyssa looking down

My Dear Alyssa,

I sit in the airport beginning for at least the 8th time to write you this letter. I sit in Starbucks for the second day in a row in Vegas, writing this letter. I’ve been writing this letter to you since before you graduated from UNLV in December. In fits and starts I’ve written, starting fresh, talking from my heart.

Alyssa and Stefan

Every important letter I’ve ever written you probably includes the precious sound you made when the doctor lifted you from my body. I can still hear it. The tug on my heart was visceral. I didn’t want you to leave the safety of my body. I didn’t want the connection between us to be severed. I wanted to see your face, hold you in my arms, smell your smell, touch your skin. I wanted to watch you grow, crawl, walk, run, dance. I wanted you my whole life, dear one.  I have loved watching every moment of your growth, even the hard parts because they have helped you become the woman you are today. Both joys and sorrows will help fuel you to be the woman you will be tomorrow. You asked me if it’s hard for me to see you grow into an adult. That is the path you have been on since the moment of your birth. It is all I ever hoped for. I cherish it!

I once told you that coo sealed the deal, that from then on you owned my heart. To be honest, you owned it long before that and you have claimed it so many times since.  I love you, dear daughter, with a passion for which I have no words, me who always has words. At times it makes me fierce and fearless. I would stare down any demon, any monster, for you. I would protect you with my life. At times it makes me weak and tender. I can cry when I think of you, when I see your precious face. The love I have for you is beyond anything I could ever have imagined. My heart is bigger, stronger, fuller, richer because of you.

You have always been one of my most important teachers. Do you remember when we did the presentation for OSCLG on love languages and how we like to give and receive love? That was such an incredibly powerful experience for me. Showing love to and receiving it from Stefan has always been so easy. With you, often, you did not receive my love in the way I intended it. When we did that analysis, I understood. I still love it when you say “talking, Mom”, when I’m trying to support you as you work through an issue. It helps me realize that I am acting out of my comfort level, not yours. It reminds me to adapt to your style, to give you what you need, which is always what I want to do in those situations.

You have the strongest sense of fairness and equity of anyone I know. It grew in you in funny places, like your dislike for the Honda Accord because it had seat warmers in the front seat, but not the back. It didn’t matter to you that you still had to sit in your car seat. It was simply unfair that you had to sit in the back and there weren’t seat warmers there. No cajoling that one day you’d be able to sit in the front mattered, because, as you pointed out, whoever sat in the back wouldn’t have seat warmers.

It grew in your understanding of family, friends, relationships, your certainty about how you deserve to be treated, your unwillingness to let those who don’t deserve you have any place in your life, your knowledge that some people are simply not worthy of your time. I marvel at your strength and clarity. It humbles me that I have been an anti-model for you in this area. I am so glad that I have you as a model for me in this.

You were also a model to me when you hurt your knee. You were fully present. Of course in that kind of pain, it’s hard not to be. You were open about your needs and communicated clearly. Your need for touch was so strong at that time, one of your preferred love languages. You slept entwined with me, your arms or legs always against mine, your head on my shoulder. I believe I made you feel safe, secure, loved. You let me know what you needed and I cherished the ability to give. I treasure the memory of the long morning walks during which I fell in love with Las Vegas. I took pictures of flowers and often ended up at Einstein’s Bagels or someplace else getting breakfast to bring back to you, waking you gently to start your day, helping you with showers, washing your hair, helping you dress and eventually get to classes, helping less as you could do more for yourself. It was my pleasure to do these things. You were so strong and you made me feel like my support helped ground you. I loved that Stefan came to stay with us. In those days we proved again that we are the family I hoped we would be. I would never have been anywhere else but with you. Neither would Stefan. Know that I will always be there for you should you need me.

Your model helped me when I was so dependent after breaking my wrists. I had always been great at giving care, but lousy at receiving it. How you were with me after you hurt your knee helped me relax into needing care and being dependent on someone else. I had loved doing it for you. You helped me realize that others would be fine, even enjoy, doing it for me.

Watching you come back after that and reclaim dance in your own time, at your own rate was so inspiring. Your strength and tenacity impressed me. Again, it was your clarity, your strong sense of self, your confidence in who you are and what you wanted, your understanding of your body and your capacities, regardless of what medical providers or dance teachers told you, your willingness to fight for  what you wanted.

Before I had children, I wished for them to be independent, strong, and loving. You are these things and so much more. You are intelligent, insightful, witty, funny, incredibly graceful. I see you relaxing into your life, into yourself. I see a competent, confident, happy woman. I delight in you and am so happy I’m your mother. I cherish every moment of your life and watching what you will do next.

So, what words of wisdom do I have? Trust yourself. You will find your path step-by-step. There really is no right or wrong choice as long as you are true to yourself. It is all about what you do with the choices you make. I wish for you that you live your life to the fullest, in technicolor, no regrets. Choose whatever you choose with love and passion. Change your mind. Choose a different path, whenever you desire or need to do so. Apologize. Love passionately. Live fearlessly. This life is a gift that deserves to be made the most of. As the song says, “I hope you dance”. I don’t care if it’s actual physical dance or not (although watching you dance makes my heart happy). I hope that you embrace your life fearlessly and make of it whatever you choose. You are amazing, my darling and I love you dearly.

Alyssa and GreysonAlyssa at work

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Posted in Daughter, Inspiration, Reflections

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My Leadership Awakening: Following My Mission & Visioning the Future

Posted on March 23, 2015 | 1 comment

I took part in an AMAZING Leadership Awakening Workshop in Dallas, TX, offered by Scott Black of Like it Matters, LLC. You can find them at www.likeitmatters.net. I can’t begin to describe the workshop beyond saying it was intense, insightful, life-affirming, and life changing. We built an amazing team in 2 days and I brought back changes I am integrating day-to-day into my life. I learned so much about myself.

One of the things I learned was that I can’t “think” my way out of or into everything. I’m an academic. I live in my mind. It’s in many ways, my greatest strength. Sometimes though, I learned I just can’t do things with my head. Fortunately, I also have a big heart. I care deeply about people. In this workshop, I had to release my intellect and focus on feeling. It was amazing!

Fear of my wrists is one of the things that has been holding me back. As you know, dear reader, I broke my wrists in a dancing accident over two years ago. I know, in my head, that the bones in my wrists have healed more strongly than before I broke them. That said, I’ve still had a lot of pain and some issues with flexibility. Until this workshop, I held stress in my wrists and hands as well. You know how you get a stiff neck when you sleep wrong, I get stiff wrists when I’m stressed about something. My wrists ached and stiffened throughout the workshop until I had my watershed moment. After the workshop, I asked to be allowed to break a pine block, something I’d done for a different purpose with my foot earlier in the workshop. I wrote “fear that I can’t” on one side of the block and “hot yoga, confidence, and no limits” on the other side. I wanted to break that board with my right hand, the one that had healed from a triple fracture. The first hit, I didn’t break it. Scott looked in my eyes and said “visualize your hand touching the floor after you break the board”. I did and I broke it. I BROKE A BOARD WITH MY WEAK, DOMINANT HAND (yes, my dominant hand was the most badly damaged)!!! I have not looked back. Since I got home, I’ve taken 2 full 90 minute hot yoga classes and I’ve done a 90 minute weight lifting session. I have not held back. Although they are sometimes still a bit stiff and ache, I have my hands and wrists back.

If you want to live your best life. If you desire to live your life as if it matters (which it does), this Leadership Awakening experience will give you tools to take forward to meet those objectives. I cannot recommend it enough. A caveat: Your experience will be different than mine. Your needs, wants, expectations, strengths, abilities, blocks are different, so what you get out of it will be different.

Every morning I read my mission statement, often looking in the mirror and into my eyes. I’ve always been great at keeping my promises to other people. I am now great at keeping my promises to myself as well.

Here’s my Mission Statement:

My Mission – By Deborah S. Ballard-Reisch, PhD

Written: 3/7/15

Affirmed: Daily

I commit to living a fully authentic life!

  • I am present
    • I learn and grow from the lessons of the past but leave the emotions and experiences behind. I can do nothing to change the past.
    • I live now.
    • I am aware of how the “now” influences the future and advances my mission and vision.
  • I am mindful
    • With passion and a narrow, clear focus, I make a difference in the world.
  • I am open and honest in my relationships
    • I communicate clearly and establish appropriate boundaries.
    • I take time to see, to listen, and to nurture those I love.
  • I have integrity
    • I commit to myself; I follow through.
    • I commit to others; I follow through.
    • I commit to act “as if” whenever I need to do so.
    • I push the “GO Button”

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Posted in LIke it Matters, Mission, Reflections, Sabbatical

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On Surviving and Thriving after an Armed Home Invasion

Posted on March 19, 2015 | 1 comment

As many of you know, my son Stefan and I recently received a life lesson from a gun wielding home invader. Many people have asked for my story, so I’ll share it here.

Tuesday, February 24th had been a really awesome day. I’d gotten gorgeous pink highlights in my hair done by the wonderful Jessica Shoenhofer. I’d spend 3 hours working with my friend Davis Sickmon on my website: www.DrDeborah.co. I was excited about how it was coming along. Stefan had gotten a haircut and was feeling better after his back injury several weeks before and his WSU classes were going well. I was excited to see him at the end of the day and share our stories.

I drove home, first singing along with the Pippin soundtrack playing in my car, then checking in with my friend Andrew on the phone. I was in a fabulous mood. I pulled into the driveway, flicking the button to open the garage door, pulled into the garage, shutting the door behind me. I got off the phone, got out of my car, unlocked the back door to the house, entered, dropped my purse on the floor of the mud room and called for my son.

Stefan called back. He was in the kitchen making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. I entered the kitchen carrying my computer bag and dropped it on a chair at the table. Stefan and I talked about his sandwiches and my website, laughing and smiling. Then we heard an ear splitting crash, followed by a second crash. We looked at one another, startled and headed to the living room. Stefan was ahead of me rounding the corner. He turned around quickly saying “He’s got a gun”. We both moved back into the kitchen on either side of the table and the gunmen entered, his gun in his left hand out in front of him, pointing toward us. He pointed it at Stefan first, then me and demanded my bag. I picked up my computer bag and handed it to him, my right hand to his. I raised my hands. He took my bag and I told him to just take it and go. He waived his gun back and forth as he backed away telling us to stay in the kitchen. I told him it was all good and we weren’t going anywhere. As he rounded the corner, he told us that if we called the police, he’d come back and kill us. Then he left running.

I was aware of several things: 1) He wasn’t wearing a mask or covering his face in any way and the hood of his grey hoodie was back. I remember thinking, he has a reason to shoot me. I’d seen his face. So, I forgot what he looked like. (I will remember!) 2) When he asked for my bag I had this quick, smug insight that he thought my computer bag was my purse and that it was safely behind me in the mud room. It was a gift from my daughter and I was happy not to lose it. 3) For a split second he looked at my hands, raised. I wear a lot of rings, but he couldn’t really see them as my hands were up, facing him. I remember thinking, please don’t notice my rings. I only wear rings that mean something to me. I would have hated to lose them. I felt like Obi-Wan Kenobi. “These rings are nothing. You have what you came for. Leave now.” I thought. 4) I was amazingly calm. I could tell he was scared and my immediate goal became to get him out of the house as quickly and smoothly as possible. I didn’t even think this. I knew it. 5) My communication skills training kicked in without a beat. I wanted to appear cooperative and nonthreatening. 6) I felt the solidarity between Stefan and me. I saw us as surrounded by white light, the invader, like Pigpen from the Peanuts cartoons, preceded and surrounded by a grey dust cloud. 6) I thought that he, the invader, was new, scared, hadn’t done this before. I was worried that he might panic, but also glad that I might be able to get him to leave quickly. I wondered if this was a gang initiation.

After he ran out, Stefan ran after him and slammed the door. Then, I lost it. I mean I REALLY LOST IT! I have never had a panic attack before and I was crying, shaking, and hyperventilating. I was terrified. Stefan got me a chair, which we used to block the broken door, told me to sit down, and told me to call my friend Andrew. I couldn’t speak clearly. I was shaking and sobbing. Andrew asked if we’d called 911. I remember saying “Yeah, right, call 911. That’s what I’m supposed to do. Call 911.” I hung up and called 911. I couldn’t remember anything. I couldn’t answer any question the kind, steady, female operator asked me. She stayed with me on the phone until the police arrived. Stefan made me move back toward the middle of the house to talk with her, reminding me that the gunman had said he’d kill us if we called the police. I moved back, but never let Stefan out of my sight.  He was so calm and composed. He answered all the questions the operator, and then the police asked when they arrived. I was still in shock and could remember very little. I was amazed at Stefan’s poise and presence, his ability to remember details I had blocked. My friend Andrew soon arrived and when the police and the crime scene investigators were done, we grabbed bags and headed to his house. His sons waiting for us, had already made a place for Stefan and his computer in their game room. They all welcomed us with open arms. They made us feel safe. I will never be able to express my gratitude.

There have been good and bad days over the last several weeks. We both went to see a crisis counselor. That at least helped us know that what we were experiencing was normal and what we might expect over the next several weeks. I was supposed to leave the day after the invasion to visit Alyssa in Las Vegas, but I couldn’t leave. I had to feel safe first. I had to get my feet back under me. I will finally go to see her next week. Stefan and I have found a new place to live with better security. We’re getting back to normal. I wouldn’t say we’re thriving yet. Our biggest hurdle is packing our house to move. I still get tightness in my chest whenever I go there and the idea of spending hours there packing is almost more than I can stand. That said, that part will all be over soon. We are moving forward!

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Posted in Armed home invasion, Crime, Family, Reflections, Self-determination

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Reflections on Hunger, Graduation & Insights 3 Weeks after My Return from My Writing Retreat in Florence

Posted on December 23, 2014 | Leave a comment

It is 3 weeks since I left Florence, Italy. These 3 weeks have been a whirlwind. When I got home, I had a two foot stack of mail to wade through. I finally got to that last night only to realize that there was another 3 foot stack in my son’s room. Note to self: Figure out how to reduce junk mail in my life. Even though there was a lot of junk, there were some important things in there as well, business that must be taken care of. Today has been about catching up on all the things I missed while I was away. My 3 month writing retreat in Italy fed my soul in a variety of ways, teaching me things I hope to be able to sustain here.

So why was my return a whirlwind? Aside from the typical issues with reentry, a couple really huge things have happened since I came home.

Hunger Awareness

After my return, I almost immediately went to New York for the presentation of the PUSH – Presidents United to Solve Hunger initiative at the United Nations.

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The Economic and Social Counsel of the United Nations, New York

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With Jan Rivero of Stop Hunger Now

That short trip, from December 8-10 reinforced for me the importance of the WSU Hunger Awareness Initiative we’re building. I do not believe one size fits all in hunger response. As a community-based researcher and engaged scholar, I believe that solutions must be tailored in collaboration with communities and responsive to the dynamics of communities and cultures if they are to be effective and sustainable.

Although Wichita State University has not signed the alliance, it was a thrill to witness the 60 + universities who have partnered in this effort to bring the power of universities, administrators, faculty, staff and students, to bear on ending hunger. The creative energy of the academy, for those part of the alliance, and for those who choose to act independently, will lead to innovative solutions to hunger in both the short and long-term. We will play a pivotal role in ending hunger in our lifetime.

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The inaugural group of University Presidents committed to the PUSH alliance

It was inspiring to see the power, insight and energy of all involved in this event. The alliance was invited to return to the UN in September to report our progress in line with the UN post-2015 development planning. Amina Mohammed Special Advisor of the Secretary-General on Post-2015 Development Planning delivered Secretary-General Ban Ki-moon’s message to the assembly. Here’s a link to his statement: http://www.un.org/sg/statements/index.asp?nid=8272

University Graduation

On December 12, I left for Nevada to prepare for my daughter’s graduation from the University of Nevada, Las Vegas on December 16. I’m not sure I’ve attended a college graduation in which I was not a faculty member in academic regalia since my own graduations. It was interesting to be on the other side. I loved the efficiency, the pomp, and circumstance of the UNLV ceremony.

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Matthew Gob, Mary Elton, Robert Reisch, Stefan Ballard-Reisch

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Alyssa with the Gob family

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Mary Elton, Alyssa, Andrew O’Leske

Surrounded by family and friends, I felt pride and admiration for my daughter, as dressed in her scarlet robe, she processed into the Thomas and Mack Center, found her seat, walked to the stage, received her diploma, and returned to her seat.

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Proud Mommy and the Graduate

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Proud Daddy and the Graduate

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Proud Brother and the Graduate

I was the first person in my family to graduate college. For me education has always been a ticket to fulfilling my dreams. I wanted that for my children. While college graduation was not expected of me, it was of my children and here was my daughter, completing her degree in psychology and communication in only 3 ½ years, the same rate it took me to complete mine. I look forward to what comes next for her. Her journey is only beginning.

Several weeks ago, Alyssa asked me how it felt to watch her grow up and become an adult.  I told her I had been watching her grow on this trajectory since she was born and that I loved every moment of her development. This is true. While many parents seem to view college graduation as the end of something, for me, it is simply a step into the next phase of her life, an important, momentous step, but a step nonetheless.

I stayed in Las Vegas with her until December 19th to help her prepare for the holidays. She won’t be able to come home due to her job, one of the realities of having adult children, but I wanted her to be fully stocked with food, household items, a full tank of gas, etc. before I left her. We’ll FaceTime Christmas morning and open presents together. The amazing advances in technology allow us to be together even when we can’t physically be in the same place.

What have I learned?

The last 4 months have been amazing in so many ways. The last 2 days since returning from Las Vegas, have allowed me to reflect on a number of things and I have several insights into myself:

  • I’ve learned that I value peace and calm, a more measured approach to my life. I gained this in Florence on my writing retreat. I know that to sustain this, I will have to consciously nurture the patience I have been developing since I broke my wrists slightly over 2 years ago, and reinforced over the last 4 months. I will have to be conscious of my desire to live my life mindfully. This will require scheduling time to walk and work out. I’ve performed at a C- level on this so far since my return. I’ve succumbed to a lot of fires. Fitting walking in as smoothly as I did in Italy will be important to maintaining this balance. I realize that this will require planning. It will also require saying “no” when “yes” is the wrong answer and remembering that because I “can” do something, doesn’t mean I “have to”, and because I care about someone doesn’t mean I have to agree to their requests. Still working on this one.
  • I’ve learned that I write all the time. And while much of the writing I have done since I got home has been directed toward grant applications for organizations I care about, email messages to friends and family, feedback to colleagues planning conferences, it has also been consistent with the two books I outlined in Italy. It’s a new approach for me to realize how often in my daily communication with others, I engage topics of importance to my writing. That said, I need to again make time to write in a focused, directed manner in order to continue to advance these and my other projects. Because I am living them, this is easier than it might be.
  • I spent 3 months largely in seclusion, a unique experience for an extrovert. I am back and the pull of social engagement is very strong, especially at this time of year. I need to remain mindful here as well. I need to make time for myself to continue to nurture this work that I am doing while engaging the world again as an extrovert.

Into my family:

  • It took my friend Andrew to point out to me that BOTH of my children graduated from college this year. My son earned an associate’s degree to go along with his theater certificate in spring and my daughter graduated with her bachelor of arts degree less than a week ago. I am so proud of both of them.
  • I have 2 very capable, independent, strong adult children. I am so honored to be their mom and I look forward to what the future (and our present together) holds for them.
  • I’ve learned that I can love as much 5000 miles away, as I can 19 hours away, as I can in the same house. That’s cool!

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Reflections on Death & Dying – The Beginning of the End of SOB (Sweet Old Bill) – Part 2

Posted on November 2, 2014 | Leave a comment

In July and August 2013, I supported my uncle, William Leo Pence, as he died. It was my chance to be there for a family member I loved. It was also an opportunity to put into practice my beliefs about human dignity, choice, and the power to make our own decisions and have them respected at the end of life.  It was one of the most grueling things I’ve ever done.

Born November 19, 1928, my uncle was a veteran of the Korean War. He stood 6’6” tall and his personality matched his height. Eight years before his death, he’d had a kidney transplant, but aside from that, and low level medications for slightly elevated cholesterol and blood pressure, he was very healthy. He was bright, independent and active. And, as Frank Sinatra would say, he liked to do things his way.

Once he took himself off all his medications, including the anti-rejection drugs for his kidney, he thought he would die quickly and peacefully. He put his affairs in order and went home to wait. (If you are reading this blog for the first time, the introductory post to this story can be found here: https://dballardreisch.wordpress.com/2014/10/14/the-florence-journals-reflections-on-death-and-dying-the-beginning-of-the-end-sobs-story-sweet-old-bill/) Unfortunately, will is not always the same as outcome, and what my uncle thought would take days, took more than a month. During that time, he gave me his durable power of attorney and I became his health care surrogate. Technically, he shouldn’t have needed a health care surrogate. He had spelled everything out very clearly. His advanced directives were in order: No invasive measures. No lifesaving interventions or life extending treatments. He wanted to live as fully as possible for as long as he had. He just didn’t want anything to make that longer than it needed to be. He did want to continue speech, physical, and occupational therapy so that he could be independent as long as possible. He wanted to live the highest quality of life he could.

During this process, my uncle made a mistake that almost took choice out of his hands. It had been a long, trying day. He was tired. He was uncomfortable. He was bored. He was fed up. Taking himself off medications had not led to the quick, painless decline he had anticipated. He wanted to talk with someone he thought would understand what he was feeling, but who wasn’t personally invested in his situation. He called 911. He wanted to tell someone that would understand that he was ready to die.

My uncle lived in Florida and his admission to a health care professional that he was ready to die led to his emergency admission into the hospital under the Florida Mental Health Act of 1971, the Baker Act. The ambulance came to my uncle’s house, took him to the hospital, and kept him for the full 72 hours allowed by law. He was furious! Unbeknownst to him, in Florida, it is considered against the interests of the state for an individual to be ready to die. The powers that be see it as a small step from being “ready” to die to committing suicide. The Baker Act required that he be assessed by a psychiatrist to determine if he was potentially dangerous to himself, someone else, or whether he had a mental illness. The key question was whether he was a suicide risk. Had they seen him as suicidal, the doctors told me that would have overridden his advanced directives even if he had been considered sane when he made them.

At the hospital, he rallied and convinced the psychiatric staff that he was not suicidal. However, without consulting us, they put him on medications to stabilize his mood and treat what they saw as depression. Now that they were convinced that he was stable emotionally, the question became what to do with him. After the 72 hours, they had to commit him or release him. He could no longer walk unaided and had very little strength. His insurance didn’t cover 24 hour nursing care. His friends, who were in their 80s, couldn’t care for him now that he was largely immobile. I lived 1300 miles away. He couldn’t go home. The doctors told us that they could not send him to a rehabilitation hospital unless he showed them that he wanted to get better. Because his test results were still so good, they didn’t think his decline was steep enough to warrant hospice care. The idea that he wanted to be as healthy and capable as he could as long as he lived, yet refused to take medication was confusing for medical staff. After much discussion, his doctors decided to give him a physical therapy consultation which would determine whether or not he could be placed in a rehabilitation hospital. My uncle used every bit of strength he had and cooperated fully with the PT assessment. They found him compliant, cooperative, and committed to building his strength. They decided to send him to a rehabilitation facility. Now if was my job to find one.

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Posted in Health and Healing, Negotiating end of life, Personal decision-making, Reflections, Self-determination

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The Florence Journals: Random Musings on My Birth Story, Grandparents, Literature & Identity

Posted on October 31, 2014 | 2 comments

I was born two months premature in the front bedroom of my grandparent’s house on Lafayette Ave in Urbana, Ohio.

Urbana house

The house where I was born

My mother, who had turned 19 years old two weeks before, was alone during her labor and my delivery;  her parents were “out west” on vacation. When she realized what was happening she called a friend, who called a doctor, who came to the house. After my birth, I was rushed to the hospital where I stayed for the first month of my life. Weighing 3 pounds at birth, I had to reach the 5 pounds that would allow me to go home. From what I am told, I was lively, feisty, and alert from the first. I charmed everyone.

As a child, I was well loved, especially by my maternal grandparents, particularly my Poppa. He was the “unconditional love” person in my life. Poppa and I had the kind of connection I share with my son, effortless. We simply understood one another. Poppa died in 1974 when I was 16. He and my grandmother had started wintering in Florida several years before. Grandma had severe arthritis and the damp, winter cold of Ohio was too hard on her. We didn’t know that Poppa was ill before they left, but there was something between us as we said our goodbyes and hugged for the last time. I think both Poppa and I knew we wouldn’t see each other again. As my mother and her brothers made plans to bring him home, I knew that he would not make it. I sat down and poured out my heart and my love in a 14 page letter. Only after his death did I realize he hadn’t received my letter. The hospital returned it to my grandmother and she gave it back to me, unopened. I burned it as a goodbye to my Poppa, again precious words lost to the ashes. I wish I knew what I’d written, but that letter was a gift to my Poppa, not to me.

For months, I would laugh at a story or see something interesting and think “I have to tell Poppa”, only to realize that he was gone and that we wouldn’t get the chance to laugh together over whatever silly thing had happened or interesting fact I’d learned. As I understand it, my first words were “bite butter” and my Poppa gave me a bite of butter, the first of many. Poppa stayed with my sisters, my brother and me during the summer months while my mother worked. He sat for hours, day after day on the deck at Meadow Lake in Ohio watching my siblings and me swim and hang out with friends. I have trouble understanding that kind of commitment, that kind of comfort in just being someplace.

As a child, I loved bedtime stories, particularly those my Mother and my Poppa told me. Once they told me a story, I remembered it word for word and if they changed it even slightly the next time I asked for that story, I corrected them. As a mother who told my own children stories (and was corrected by them if I changed plot lines or wording, I know how difficult it is to tell the same story the same way each time, especially if you are making it up on the spot). I must have been quite a handful. I wonder if this is why they started reading me books. For me, books were magical. From those letters on the page pictures and movies emerged. I could see what they read. I could not wait to read. I wanted to be able to make those pictures and movies happen too.

I got my love of reading from my Grandma, as well as my love of culture and history. My Grandma told me I could read by the time I was 3. She helped me learn by teaching me to pick words out of newspaper articles. She gave me a red pencil and I would circle the ones I knew. I could pour over a newspaper for hours at the table in her dining room. Then, when I was ready, she would point to each word, ask me to read it, ask me what it meant, and ask me how to spell it. She also taught me to try to understand the meaning of other words through the context of what I could read. Later, she gave me abridged versions of classic novels. They came in a series and I loved getting the next one. Through this series, I read the books that would have the greatest impact on my early years, Wuthering Heights, Pride and Prejudice, The Hunchback of Notre Dame, Little Women, Great Expectations, The Count of Monte Cristo. I loved entering the world of a book. I still do. These books also taught me an appreciation of the complexities of the world, from unrequited love and oppression, to unfairness and hypocrisy. They taught me to treasure fairness, justice, love, compassion, a strong work ethic, and care for others.

When I was 14 years old, my grandmother took me to see the movie Nicholas and Alexandra about the last Czar and Empress of Russia. I have no idea why she picked this movie, but when it was over she said, “I have never been able to travel outside the America. You will. Someday you will go to Russia.” I think my love of travel was born in that moment. Later, I would live in Russia for a year, on a Fulbright Fellowship teaching at Kazan State University in Kazan, Tatarstan, Russia.

From my Grandmother, I also learned that I have an almost photographic memory. This skill runs in my family. Once I learned a word, I never forgot it. When I would try to remember things I’d read my grandmother would say, “Picture the page in your head. Can you see it? Ok, read it”, and I would. I had no idea this was unique. I thought that if I could do it, everyone could. This later made memorizing speeches during forensics in high school and college very easy. To this day, I can picture pages in my mind and read them to myself. I’m lazier with it now. This is one gift I haven’t refined. Perhaps because I read so much I don’t want to picture or remember everything.  I just want to know where I can find it again later if need be.

When I was little, after my bedtime story, and before I went to sleep, I loved to have my back rubbed, and my Poppa or my Mom would rub my back as I fell asleep. This is likely why I love massages so much today.  This is likely the foundation of my tendency to show physical affection easily and liberally. I’m a hugger, a toucher. I know how important touch is to health.

Because of my birth story, because of the gifts I received from my grandparents, because of many other factors that had formed my life trajectory, I have believed and still believe that my life is a gift and that much is expected of me. I believe I was born to make a difference in the world. This is not conceit. I don’t believe I am destined to change the world in any history making way. I don’t believe I am destined to have a big, splashy impact. I simply believe that those whose lives I touch should benefit, their lives be enriched, from our interaction, as my life was enriched through contact with my grandparents, as it is now enriched by those I know and meet. This is why I became a teacher. This contributes to my multi-tasking tendencies. This is why I’m not always good at just ”being”. At times, I do not know who I am unless I am doing something and what I am doing defines me. I’m working to both understand and moderate these tendencies. (Yes, I see the irony in my wording here. 🙂 )

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Posted in Florence, Italy 2014, Reflections, Who am I?

On why I LOVE Daylight Saving Time!

Posted on October 25, 2014 | Leave a comment

Ok, so while I’m in Italy this year on a writing retreat and not teaching, “Fall Back Day” will not impact me as it usually does. However, I’m still happy that the European Union, like the U.S., and a total of 70 countries worldwide, practice Daylight Saving Time! Like many of you, I often feel like there are simply not enough hours in the day to do everything I need to do. So often I wish for just one… more… hour… Once a year, I get that hour and I “feel” as if I have more TIME. I wake up earlier. I am productive longer. I feel like there is TIME to get things done. I even feel as if there is TIME left over at the end of the day to relax! That is why “Fall Back Day”, the glow of it which carries me for about 7-10 days beyond the actual day, is my favorite day of the year.

So, why Daylight Saving Time?

Did you know that Benjamin Franklin, the U.S. inventor and politician, first proposed Daylight Saving Time in 1784 and that Germany was the first country to implement it in 1916? It took a while to catch on. Also, Daylight Saving Time hasn’t always been an hour. Sometimes it’s been ½ hour or 2 hours http://www.timeanddate.com/time/dst/.

The original idea was to maximize the daylight hours and, among other things, reduce energy expenditures. Conserving energy in times of war has been the most common reason for the implementation of DST over the years. The general consensus in study findings seems to be that even though we get up in the dark in the fall, the extra energy used then is more than offset by the energy saved by having an extra hour of daylight in the evening. I can only speak to having more energy myself for 7-10 days and getting more done.

History of DST

On April 30, 1916, Germany and Austria became the first counties to use Daylight Saving Time to conserve fuel needed for electricity production. They advanced the clock one hour until the following October. Other countries including Belgium, Denmark, France, Italy, Luxembourg, Netherlands, Norway, Portugal, Sweden, Turkey, and Tasmania adopted the same policy. Great Britain, Manitoba, and Nova Scotia  followed later in 1916. In 1917, Australia and Newfoundland began saving daylight. The U.S. didn’t hop on the bandwagon until March 19, 1918 when “An Act to Preserve Daylight and Provide Standard Time for the United States” was enacted. http://www.webexhibits.org/daylightsaving/index.html.

That first pass at DST lasted 7 months until Congress overroad President Woodrow Wilson’s veto to end it. During WWII, Daylight Saving Time reappeared, again as an energy conservation measure and it lasted in the U.S. from February 9, 1942 until September 30, 1945. From 1945-1966, U.S. states got to decide if they wanted to observe DST or not. On April 12, 1966, President Lyndon Johnson supported, and Congress approved, the “Uniform Time Act”. The only way around Daylight Saving Time then was for a state legislature to determine that an entire state would stay on Standard Time. In 1972, Congress allowed states with more than one time zone to decide independently for each time zone whether or not to follow DST or stay on Standard Time.

On January 4, 1974, during the Vietnam War, President Richard Nixon signed into law the “Emergency Daylight Saving Time Energy Conservation Act of 1973”. Congress amended the Act, and Standard Time returned on October 27, 1974. Daylight Saving Time resumed on February 23, 1975 and ended on October 26, 1975. In 1986, Congress decided that DST would begin at 2:00 a.m. on the first Sunday of April and end at 2:00 a.m. on the last Sunday of October.

Some areas in the U.S. don’t observe DST, specifically, Arizona, Hawaii, American Samoa, the Commonwealth of Northern Mariana Islands, Guam, Puerto Rico, and the Virgin Islands.

The “Energy Policy Act of 2005” extended Daylight Saving Time in the U.S. beginning in 2007. Since 2007, DST begins at 2:00 a.m. on the second Sunday of March and ends at 2:00 a.m. on the first Sunday of November.

In conclusion:

In the EU, DST begins at 1:00 a.m. Greenwich Mean Time on the last Sunday of March and ends at 1:00 a.m. GMT on the last Sunday of October. That means that in Italy, I get my extra hour a week before you get yours in the U.S. I’m not totally clear on the implications of tha, but I’m hoping to figure out a way to get both “fall back” hours.

Anyway, that’s the scoop on Daylight Saving Time. The rumor that a bunch of Congressmen getting drunk in a bar decided to dupe the American public has no merit. Check back with me next spring. I’m likely to be a bit less exuberant then, when I have to give my hour back, than I am now when I get one for free. Ciao and enjoy that extra hour of sleep!

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The Florence Journals: Reflections on Death & Dying – The Beginning of the End of SOB (Sweet Old Bill)

Posted on October 14, 2014 | 1 comment

On July 4, 2013, Bill declared his independence. In the early 2000s, he’d had a kidney transplant. Aside from that, he was an extremely healthy 84 year old. As with most older adults, in the United States, though, he was on multiple medications to manage multiple minor chronic issues. That’s really context for our story. Approximately a year and a half earlier, after his wife’s death, a series of minor mishaps, literally missteps, started the journey that would lead to his declaration. He needed to have several toes removed due to poor circulation, causing significant mobility issues. Recovering from this, he contracted a virus that put him to bed for several weeks. When he was well again, he was extremely weak and needed to build strength to walk again. He got to the point where he could use a walker or a cane to haul his 6 foot 6 inch frame around, and ultimately take several steps unaided. However, his strength and vigor did not return. This frustrated Bill, an extremely independent man.

One evening he stepped on something sharp. He couldn’t see or feel what it was, but his foot bled profusely. His neighbor and good friend Dino, who had been his support person, particularly with activities of daily living, would be over the next morning to assist him, so Bill just put on a Depends, wrapped his foot in a towel and went to bed. The following morning, Dino found him this way, blood soaked towel wrapped around his injured foot, soaked Depends, his friend needing assistance. Dino cleaned Bill up as best he could, washing him, slathering his foot with antibiotic ointment, and bandaging his foot. The bleeding had stopped by then. Dino made Bill breakfast. Bill, not being one to lie idly by, fussed and grumbled about not being able to get around, but Dino persuaded him to stay in bed that morning and give his foot a rest.

The next day, Bill was still in pain and couldn’t put weight on his foot; Dino cleaned and re-bandaged it for him. This happened the next day and the next and the next, until the fifth day when Bill awoke with a fever and Dino recognized that Bill’s foot was infected. Dino called an ambulance to take Bill to the hospital.

Whether the toe removal, the virus, the item Bill stepped on that led to the infection, or the spiral of medical issues set in motion at the hospital when Bill arrived for treatment for his foot were singularly or collectively the last straw, for those who knew him, Bill’s July 4 declaration of independence quickly became a predictable conclusion. Bill was a proud man, an independent man. He’d been in the medical corps during the Korean War. He was not comfortable relying on others.

At the hospital, an inexperienced physician disregarded the information that Bill had had a kidney transplant and prescribed an antibiotic that disrupted his kidney functioning. He told Bill he was sorry, but they would need to do minor surgery to repair the damage. Bill took matters into his own hands, requesting a psychiatric consultation. After a 45 minute consultation, Bill asked the psychiatrist if she thought he was competent to make his own medical decisions. She responded “Absolutely!  I have no questions at all about your competence. Why do you ask?” Bill replied, “Because as of today I am taking myself off all my medications. I am also refusing this surgery to repair the damage caused to my kidney by the antibiotics and I don’t want anyone to be able to challenge this decision. Now, please get a piece of paper, we’ll write out each of my medications. I will sign that I refuse to continue them and you will sign that I am competent to do so”. Surprised, the psychiatrist did as Bill requested.

Bill remained calm and resolute as several medical professionals tried to talk him out of this decision. He was done with medical care. With signed paper in hand and fresh advanced directives and against his doctor’s advice, Bill was wheeled out of the hospital. His trusty friend Dino was there to take him home. Bill believed that he would die quickly as he thought that taking himself off the anti-rejection medication for his kidney would lead to his body rejecting the kidney, causing it to shut down. He believed he would die quickly and painlessly. That was not to be the case.

When Bill left the hospital, he believed he was going home to die. His two friends Dino and Kenny disagreed with Bill’s decision and it took him several days to bring them around to at least understanding his way of thinking. Once they were grudgingly on board, Bill called me, his niece, and told me of his decision. I listened quietly. We both shed a few tears. I told him I loved him and would miss him, but that I would fight for his right to decide. Neither of us knew what this would ultimately involve. But our trust and commitment to one another, and to Bill’s right to make this decision, strengthened our resolve to face whatever came next.

Bill got his affairs in and went to bed to wait.

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Posted in Negotiating end of life, Personal decision-making, Quality of life, Reflections, Self-determination

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The Florence Journals: On Social Media and being an Extrovert in a Foreign Land

Posted on September 13, 2014 | 3 comments

So, dear reader, as you know, I’m in Florence, Italy.

Florence

Just to clarify, I don’t speak Italian, although I can carry on a very thorough conversation about that, in Italian. (Rant: I have no idea why language programs teach inane information first. And I have found this to be true with every language program I’ve ever used (Spanish, Italian, Russian). I’ve just done 3 lessons on Pimsleur on being able, or not being able to, understand Italian or English and to ask people if they are Italian or American. I don’t have those conversations! All I need from that is one line! “I don’t understand”. (Non capisco). My first lessons on Rosetta Stone were about reading, swimming (really!!!) eating and drinking (ok, those were somewhat useful). However, when I go into a restaurant to eat or drink, I don’t generally find myself needing to broadcast that. It seems self-evident. I’m sure I’ll get to useful language at some point. (But, I digress.). (One more quick sidenote: I’ve found the translator on the app TripLingo, http://www.triplingo.com, to be extremely useful when wifi is available).

I also don’t know anyone here. So, I stroll the Ponte Vecchio and tourist hangouts in the evenings so that I can meet and speak with people. I’ve found it surprising how many English and Russian speakers I’ve met here. I seem to do pretty well in both languages and with maps and hand gestures have been able to carry on some pretty interesting conversations. I’m not sure why, but my Russian seems to improve in countries where English is not the first language.

That’s all well and good. In fact, I chose Florence because I didn’t know the language, because I didn’t know anyone, and because I fell in love with the city when I first came here almost two decades ago. I’ll continue to learn Italian. I’ll continue to put myself in situations where I have the opportunity to meet people. However, I am currently in a “between time” and I find it insightful. I am an extrovert without the ability to interact very much.

I suppose it’s not surprising then that social media is kind of a lifeline here for me. As an extrovert (and if I ever had any doubts, I don’t now), I NEED interaction with others. In fact, I’m not just an extrovert. On the Myers-Briggs test I score as an ENFP (extrovert, intuitive, feeling, perceiver). I am described as an “enthusiastic, creative, and sociable free spirit, who can always find a reason to smile”. Here are my results: http://www.16personalities.com/enfp-personality. I won’t go into that further here, but if you read the report, you might see why I react to this situation as I do.  If you’re interested in how you score, check out the free test here: http://www.16personalities.com. I was certified in Myers-Briggs years ago and taught it numerous times to classes of U.S. judges as well as American college students. It’s interesting stuff. (But, again I digress.).

Even though I’m an extrovert, I also need to disconnect sometimes and pull inward. That is the purpose of this trip, to claim some down time, to reflect, to think, to plan. Interestingly, I have found myself at times feeling isolated. It occurs to me that the possibility of connection, as a way of not feeling isolated, is extremely important to me. Not to overstate the obvious, no matter how interesting and life affirming living in a foreign country is, it can, at times, be lonely, especially if one doesn’t know anyone, or speak the language. So, to come around again, I am grateful for the internet, for my ability to connect with family and friends through Skype, FaceTime, text messaging, Facebook, Twitter, my blog, your blog, etc. On days when I don’t feel well, or when I can’t sleep, or when it’s raining too hard for me to want to venture out, I’m on here a lot. It helps me to feel connected. It helps me feel less isolated.

I think the researchers who decry the internet as the ruin of personal relationships have it wrong. The internet has the potential to allow us to interact with, to care about, to build relationships with, to strengthen relations with, and to share care with people in ways we would not be able to otherwise. I think what we are seeing is kind of a revolution in relationship that is enhanced by social media in all forms. (I plan to write more on this later and have, in fact, researched this, in an academic sense).

View from my window 2

This is where I write: View from my window

There are other characteristics of my being an extrovert and other insights I’ve learned in my 2 weeks here that I will share in later posts. But for now I would like to leave you with a big THANK YOU!!!!! Your engagement on social media helps me feel connected in this “between time”, and that is a real gift to this extrovert.  Ciao!

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Posted in Extrovert, Florence, Myers-Briggs, Reflections, Sabbatical, Social Media, TripLingo

The Florence Journals: On Writing and Reluctance

Posted on September 11, 2014 | Leave a comment

I’ve had some interesting insights into myself since I arrived here in Florence, Italy a little over a week ago.

This is the first entry about those insights. In my journal, I’ve noted that I’m aware of the possibility that someone else might read my words and I find myself silencing or editing myself because of the risk that my words might be judged, evaluated. I don’t necessarily intend to share my journal writing with anyone. I may edit writings for blog posts, like this one. But I’d like what I write in my journal to be for me, to be free of any “generalized others”, any audience that may read and draw conclusions. (Yes, I hear the echos of Kenneth Burke and George Herbert Mead in what I’ve written.) I desire to work on this.

As I revised my journal writing for this blog post, I had an insight. I know where this concern came from. Like all teenagers, my life had a degree of angst. I used to journal all the time. I can still picture the spiral notebook in which I wrote. The peach and pink swirls on the cover. I loved that notebook. I wish I could still picture the words.

One day, while I was in 8th grade, the principal, a very serious nun I did not particularly like or trust (She was one of those people who could make any information fly out of my head simply by asking me a direct question.) had a fellow student call me out of class to go to her office. That was never a good sign. In 8th grade, it typically meant our cheerleading skirts were too short (Yes, I was an 8th grade cheerleader) and we were going to have to kneel on the floor and have them measured with a ruler.

This time was different. I walked into her office and she just looked at me. Eventually, I felt myself squirming. However, we didn’t speak until spoken to, so I just waited. Finally she asked me to take a seat across from her desk. This never happened. No one sat down in her office. I sat nervously, wondering what I had done, what she wanted, what was wrong… A million thoughts flew through my head.

She opened with “So, I understand you like to write”. I was startled. I had no idea what she was referring to. I replied, “Yes, I guess”. “Well, do you or don’t you?”, she asked pointedly. “Yes”, I stammered, more of a question than an answer. “So, what is this?”, she asked picking my journal up from her desk. I panicked and froze. “It looks like my journal. How did you get my journal?!”, I whimpered. I had written my most personal thoughts in that journal. It was not for anyone else’s eyes. “You’re a very good writer. Keep writing” she stated, “Now go back to class”.

Shaking, I took my journal from her hands and left. Rather than feeling supported, as my optimistic self believes she probably intended, I felt betrayed. I felt rage! What gave her the right to read my journal, to read my private thoughts? And how did she get it anyway? I never got answers to these questions. On my way to class, I made a detour to the incinerator in the basement. I tore my journal to shreds, feeding page after page into the fire, last of all the peach and pink swirled cover. I watched as the flames licked it black and it turned to ash. When I was done, I walked, still shaking, back to my classroom. I have no idea what we studied that afternoon. I know only that I felt relief. No one could ever again read my private words. Often when I saw her in the hallway after that, she’d stop me and ask “Still writing”? I’d just smile. I’d stopped writing.  I stopped writing… for a long time.

Now, many years later, I would do almost anything to be able to read the words in that peach and pink notebook, to have access to those thoughts, to know what my younger self pondered, questioned, explored. Something precious was lost that day. While I can’t get her words back, perhaps I can learn to claim mine again, on paper, as I did then, so that one day, my older self will know me through my words. Or, maybe some other reader who cares to know who I was will read them. I hope that I, she, he will hear through my words the real, unedited me, not a redacted or silenced me. I hope they will see me in all my shades and passions, the angst and joys that I experience. That is my hope. We will see.

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Posted in Florence, On writing, Reflections, Sabbatical