family, Uncategorized

The Working Title Is…You Talkin’ To Me?

In the often quoted classic 1976 film Taxi Driver, Robert DeNiro’s character imagines what he would say if he were confronted by a bad guy and practices his response by speaking to his reflection in the mirror.

I’ve taken a hint from his playbook and often preemptively planned conversations with my own reflection. But as I look back on my first half-century of life, I wish I had done that more often.

I was reminded of that this week when the New York Times electronically reprinted an article linked here that asked the question “What to Do with Their Stuff?”. This is a topic that will hit home for many peers entrenched in the Sandwich Generation. And it certainly hit home for me.

Closing up my childhood home a number of years ago was agonizing. I kept more than I should have because I just couldn’t bear to part with the memories associated with the items. With each passing year, I find myself painfully and courageously letting go, bit by bit.

I will forever cherish my parents’ beloved Hummel collection and their wedding album, but, truth be told, I’ve stood over the trash on more than one occasion with their wedding cake topper which looks like it still has crusted frosting on the bottom and a lock of my Mom’s hair from her first haircut. Both just gross me out, and yet they have been saved from the landfill every time.

Recently I came across a super creepy looking childhood scrapbook of my Mom’s that looks more like a witch’s grimoire but instead includes a gold star from a Spelling Bee given to her in 1943, coincidentally, from the same Franciscan nun who would be my freshman science teacher, 38 years later.

And then there is this….

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I have no idea why my Mom would have an egg with the decoupaged face of Pope John Paul II, but I can’t bring myself to toss this phony Fabergé that’s been shellacked with the smile of a steadfast servant now sacred Saint.

I wish I had talked about these things with my parents. And not just about what to do with their stuff, but I wish I had the really difficult conversations like the ones Atul Gawande talks about in his book Being Mortal. I wish we had conversations about plans for aging parents, siblings or adult children with special needs or terminal diagnoses.

There were many things, generationally, that fell under the category “Of Things We Will Not Speak” and so I didn’t have the benefit of those conversations with my parents. As a result, I have been winging it for quite a while with varying degrees of confidence and success.

But that was then. This is now.

I won’t do that to my own children. I don’t think anyone should.

And so I have resolved, and not just for the New Year, but also for all my remaining days, to be open to drafting a game plan rooted in love.

Before the clock strikes midnight and 2017 is a mere memory, I resolve to write a letter to my future self. It will be my 50-year-old voice telling my presumably much older self to trust my children when they tell me I am no longer bringing my A-game, and I need help. And because I know the effect ebullient flattery has on me, the letter will ooze self-congratulations for being such a good mom who has raised capable and intelligent daughters who love me and only want for me to be safe and happy. It will encourage me to reflect on the many things I did for them over their lifetimes and persuade me to reap the benefit of that investment by letting them take charge of some critical decisions. I will remind myself that the most selfless way to show love is to accept help. I will beg my future self to remember the sincerity and clarity of thought with which this letter was written when I was a spring chicken of just 50.

And it’s not that I will seal that letter up and store it away in a safety deposit box for decades. Oh no, I will review it annually. And if one of my smart, capable, focused, kind, loving, compassionate, level-headed girls inexplicably ends up with some dumbass who has her falling into a brainless trance of bad decision making, I will edit the letter.

But if we keep our communication as open, honest and respectful as it has been, no rewrite will be necessary.

I have planned for the worst, which I think, will help me live confidently in 2018 and beyond. Far beyond, hopefully.

I just purchased a Long Term Health Care insurance policy to ensure that my daughters will not have to worry about my care should the day come where living independently is no longer feasible. In retrospect, this was the greatest decision my Dad ever made following my Mom’s death. This wise investment not only protected many of his assets, but it subtly provided context clues toward acceptance of a potential future plan of care.

I also purchased an insurance policy to fund a special needs trust to ensure proper care for my brother should I get hit by the beer truck. Knowing this gave him great peace of mind and knowing that the responsibility will not fall on the shoulders of my children or extended family members brings that same peace of mind to me.

And, to further cement for you my year-end reputation as “Buzzkill Katie” you’ll be happy to know that I also updated my advance directives and my will.

As a result, I thought I would sleep soundly tonight. Knowing that I have documents in place is one thing. Knowing my adult children now know how I feel about topics often considered taboo is even better.

But as I sit here surrounded by my toolbox of items to keep me from kicking the bucket before my time (eight hours of sleep, foods with omega-3 fatty acids, cabernet, lots of water, leafy greens, cabernet, green tea, whole grain cereal, legumes, lean protein and cabernet), I realized I must immediately prepare an ancillary document with important details that are not covered in this Giant Redwood pile of papers I just signed.

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Addendum A – Additional Instructions for My Children Should I Fall into a Coma:

The Long Term Health Care insurance will kick in and provide for my care. You just have to find a facility that smells nice and has kind people working there like the one Grandpa lived in. Check on me when you can, but please have no guilt about not being able to visit as long you ensure the following:

  1. Instruct an aide to daily pluck those damn chin hairs that started showing up unannounced. If I wake up out of this coma as the bearded lady, there will be hell to pay.
  2. TV channels should be rotated between news channels of various political viewpoints to keep my subconscious mind open to all versions of the truth. Limit news viewing to one hour a day. During the rest of the day, background noise should be calming music, binge listening to the latest Netflix series or any Blue Bloods episode.
  3. Aides should rotate reading to me from People and Us Magazine and provide very detailed descriptions of the “Stars They’re Just Like Us” photos.
  4. Let my hair go grey. These roots are coming in a bright white. What better time to test and see if it is pretty? When I start to stir out of the coma, have the nursing home call both of you immediately followed by Maggie my hairstylist just in case I hate it.

And should my time on this earth come to an end, please know it will be ok. I hope my friends and loved ones will smile thinking of me reunited with so many people I love and have desperately missed.

I have often shared my belief that God allows those in heaven to communicate messages of hope to us through a multitude of couriers. Look for my messages.

However, unlike Dad who seems to have a real thing going with those hawks, I would advise against limiting my potential mode of communication to my spirit animal, the cow. Perhaps pay special attention to all things cow related: any situation that includes a dairy product especially cheese, a fabulously prepared medium-rare steak or any number of fine leather goods. I promise you I will find a way to get my message across. I am an Irish Catholic/Type A/Gemini/Control Freak…not even death can silence my voice, of that I am certain.

Addendum B: Additional Instructions for My Children Upon My Death

Following my death, identify a skilled document forger to create an autopsy report that would indicate “the body was found to be without muscles of the abdominal wall, including the transverse and rectus abdominis and the internal and external obliques.”

After my funeral, please gather my college roommates and show them report saying, “See, she wasn’t lying. She was born without stomach muscles!” (And if Carrie pulls out her magnifying glass to inspect the document, snatch it out of her hands immediately and run away crying.)

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As we bask in the twilight glow of another year and are filled with anticipation over the untold promise and potential of 2018, I invite everyone to consider setting the stage for the things no one wants to face.

There is a simple game plan for having the tough conversations, asking the difficult questions and coming to complicated conclusions.

Surround yourself with the love of family and friends. Embrace humor wherever you can…even where it seems impossible. And always live a life of empathy.

So if you choose to pull a DeNiro and have a trial run conversation with your reflection, first wrap yourself in empathy and try to understand, appreciate and share the feelings, fears and perspective of the other person.

And, yeah, I am talking to you.

kmp

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Uncategorized

The Working Title Is…Hamilton and My Kitchen Table

Talk less. Smile more.

Those just might be my four favorite words from the entire Hamilton soundtrack. And, almost two weeks into the New Year, I find myself repeating them; sometimes as a mantra with the centered calm of one skilled in meditation, and other times through clenched teeth while holding a fistful of booze and scrolling through Facebook.

The First Amendment ensures the privilege to speak one’s mind without fear of censorship, retaliation or societal sanction. I believe it is among the greatest rights afforded us by the Constitution. But like any right, it comes with great responsibility.

When people first began standing on their soapbox, their opinions reached only as far as their voices would travel.   Now, with the power of the internet and social media fueled by a 24-hour news cycle, it’s nearly impossible to escape a diatribe of personal opinion.

Reasoned thought is often buried under blather spewed from the virtual soapbox. You can’t escape it without unplugging or scrolling at carpal tunnel inducing pace, which is what I’ve been doing lately. I am longing for the bygone days of people posting photos of what they had for lunch and mad at myself for ever calling the sanity of such a post into question.

The soapbox has crumbled under the weight of close-minded name-calling, sophomoric humor and downright nastiness.

During the election season, I tried very hard to be open-minded. I read everything from real news sources, fake news sources and the opinions of friends…the real kind and the Facebook kind. As soon as someone invoked some insulting nickname for a candidate, that person’s opinion was no longer of merit to me.

When someone I respected dealt a particularly low blow, or when an argument of issues turned into a personal attack, I called the person out. Never in the comments section for the whole world to see, but in a private email or even (gasp) a hand written note.

But that grew tiresome. I realized I am not the respect police.

Talk less. Smile more.

I’m sure many might think me ignorant, but the two things that shaped my view of politics were my kitchen table and my television set.

At my kitchen table, my parents would inspire thoughtful conversation and debate. Politically speaking, they were not party people. “We vote for the person, not the party,” they would say, and that resonates within me still today. Our conversations were about the issues and what we could do to make a difference…not what Albany or Washington could or should be doing.

Poverty in our community? Clothing drives and food drives were an ever-present part of our lives. A struggling educational system? My mom volunteered countless hours at a literacy center, and each school year we would clean our bookshelves and donate gently used books to that school’s library. We participated in walk-a-thons, read-a-thons, and we visited shut-ins. We’d take elderly members of our church to doctor’s appointments and, for many years, one man joined us for Thanksgiving and Sunday dinners. This lonely man was a hoarder with soiled clothes and an awful odor. Around our dinner table, we were taught to respect everyone. Everyone. No matter their color, creed or station in life.

After I left the kitchen table and turned on the television, it was what I saw and heard there that really impacted my impression of the leader of the free world. I learned it was possible to respect an office, but not necessarily admire the person.

My earliest recollections are of President Nixon. I remember the Watergate hearings taking the place of what should have been MY television shows and being told that the President did something very bad.

The seed had been sown.

President Ford was portrayed as a bumbling idiot who would trip over his own feet. He was followed by a peanut farmer from Georgia with a beer drinking brother and the potential to embarrass a nation. Then came the jelly bean eating divorced actor from California who co-starred with a monkey. Followed by a man who was a war veteran and former director of the CIA yet somehow always characterized as weak. Next up the philanderer; then the frat boy who was just riding his father’s coattails and finally, the community organizer turned Senator who was not ready for the world stage.

As long as I’ve been alive, there has been disdain for the Executive Branch. But when the soapbox stretched to cyberspace, the chorus of critics swelled to a deafening decibel.

People quickly share a post, but have they done their own research behind the claims? Supporters from both sides of the aisle mock and joke and create disparaging nicknames for people who are giving their lives to public service.

Truth is, each of these presidents accomplished great things when in office, despite the naysayers. But when I look at my personal history, the Executive Branch has had infinitely less impact on my life story than any branch of my own family tree.

In my professional career, when I was entrusted with the great responsibility of hiring people into a company, I paid no mind to race, color, creed or sexual orientation; not because the government told me so, but because that was the lesson taught at my kitchen table and repeated at the kitchen table my own children have grown up around.

Yesterday, I scrolled past posts and reposts from angry Republicans, Democrats and Independents until I finally came upon one from our church showing the multitude of donations delivered to a Warming Center our parish is staffing for the homeless this week.

And I smiled.

So to those of you endlessly complaining and name calling like a petulant child, I challenge you to step away from your keyboard and, instead, share those things you are actively doing to bring positive change in the world. And I pray our President-Elect will do the same.

Talk less. Smile more.

Let your kindness show what you’re against and what you’re for.

kmp

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