Author: tlee

In case you have not heard, Jimmy Carter announced he had cancer and needed to cut back on his schedule. He stated his words in such humble and matter-of-fact manner, it reminded me of my dad. And Joe Biden lost his son Beau Biden to brain cancer. I do not know how Joe Biden is standing. When he was young DC muckity muck, he lost his wife and daughter in a car accident. In that same accident, his sons Beau and Hunter were dangerously hurt. Here is some of the commencement speech at Yale that he delivered while his son was battling cancer. Here he is on Steve Colbert talking about, I don’t know, stuff in general when his son comes up. (Colbert also survived some BS in his life; his dad and brother were killed in a plane crash when he was a kid). People go through so much crap, a.k.a. suffering and I have no idea how they do it. I am very inspired by these two old white dudes and the way they just live it and are honest about. Let’s hope I have that kind of grace when it’s my turn.

We saw Sarah Ruhl’s “The Oldest Boy” at Lincoln Center in December. I can’t recall which December – 2013? 2014? But because it had been so long since we had been in the theater and because of the play itself, Husband and I took turns weeping in the audience of stoned-faced elderly white people (the majority of theater goers in NYC. Not a slam. I don’t mind them one fig. They remind me of lizards moving slowly on top of a rock to catch some sun).

The story revolves around a couple whose kid is the reincarnated spirit of a lama, and the story touches on reincarnation, death, loss, parenting, how to let go of your kid for their own good, and a little somethin’ on the precious bond between teachers and students – at least, those are the bits in the play that I responded to. She wrote a collection of personal essays that mention Shakespeare had twins, as did she, which just made me like her more, as a fellow twin, uh, survivor.

The actors playing monks somehow captured that beatific smile and emanated that same joy that’s always on the Dalai Lama’s face. The monk outfit (what’s it called? Robes? Uniform?) is one-shouldered, so you can show off one buff shoulder and bicep set. I commented to Husband how that was nice because then you only have to work out one arm. He shot me a look.

I was interested in the play because of faux-interest in faux-Buddhism, with its helpful nuggets on coping with and making sense of loss, but I did not expect that show would also be such a valentine to the teacher-student relationship, because the it turns out the threatened loss of her son touches off old wounds for the protagonist mourning the loss of her lit professor.

All of this actually reminded me of how fortunate I was to have Mrs. Garvin, my junior high school teacher, in my life at such a crucial time. We had stopped talking because we stopped clicking and I didn’t want to ruin my fantastic memories with negative ones. I found as I got older, her company actually got on my nerves. I’m not sure if it was because I was outgrowing her, rebelling, or what. . I had met her when I was so young that I always figured I’d find another mentor and I took her for granted. I did not realize she was a one of a kind and this kind of relationship would never happen again.

After watching that play, I thought so what, she spent so many hours listening and talking to me when I was growing up. I mean, if you think talking to me now can sometimes be annoying because I repeat myself and tell jokes that only I think are funny, how odd was my company at age thirteen? So I reached out after many years of silence to thank her.

She was old even back then, so I was scared I may have missed the boat. An old classmate who still talks to her every week told me to skip letter writing and go directly to dialing the phone. (Eeeek!) I swallowed any nerves and called, and I’m so happy I did! She was so positive and loving and encouraging on the phone, it was just like an amazing wave washing over me. We made plans for me to come visit with the kids, but I don’t think it will actually happen. She’s busy with doctor appointments and family, and she was a much loved teacher, so many students trek out to see her. I don’t think I will get on her calendar before she goes, but it’s okay. I’m grateful I got to talk to her and tell her how much she means to me, how much I love her, and how much she changed my life.

I love her, I love her, I love her.

I’m not always an honorable parent, but having already survived Toddler Survivor the night before, I put on the Disney movie “Lilo and Stitch” as soon as I got home so that I could make dinner. I had never seen “Lilo and Stitch,” but I know other families who have watched and the illustrated characters look warm and cuddly. I was expecting a story of like a little girl and her rascally pet getting into crazy adventures like mixing up honey with peanut butter by accident.

Um, do you know what actually happens in the movie? Aliens from another planet shoot guns at escapee Stitch and orphan Lilo, whose big sister is trying to adopt her after their parents died in a devastating car accident. There is a great deal of violence from the aliens — punching and hitting (thanks), anxiety over families being split apart (thanks), and Lilo’s house being annihilated due to alien enemy fire power (thanks). I had to explain what “Child Protective Services” was at one point, where the orphan’s parents were, etc., etc. I repeatedly reassured the kids this was only a story. My kids, innocent screen watchers who flip out during a challenging episode of “Curious George,” scream-cried throughout the movie. I looked at First Son who was screaming “Nooooooo!” with tears streaming down his face. [Face palm.]

Of course, I did think about turning it off. I paused the movie in the middle for a little belly breathing, which Wonder Twin Daughter said was really helpful, but they wanted to keep watching, and I figured, the happy ending could act as a healing salve after all the cinematic suffering they witnessed concluded.

I sat and held them, hid them from the action. Dinner ended up being was a random mix of noodles, fruit, whatever leftovers I could pull from the fridge in the rare moments Wonder Twin Son let go of my legs. Hooray! Parenting win! Winning!

You know, the kids are obsessed with “frozen,” so we’ll play “let it go” on youtube and it always links up/leads to other kids videos, including one called “Anya, the C-Section.” Thanks You Tube!

Oh no, my second big talk and his gauntlet questions didn’t go aw well. The other night, right before he fell asleep, he was babbling.

First Son: I can’t wait to have children.
Me: Oh yeah? Good for you. Please wait til after college.
First Son: Where do babies come from?
Me: Uh….men and women have sexual intercourse.
First Son: [laughs] What?
Me: I know, right? Good night!

I was too tired to think of any other more suitable answer and I also didn’t want to lie. I told Husband he needs to fix this one.

The last disease thing I watched was the ER midnight reruns back when my dad first got diagnosed. Anthony Edwards’ character dies of a brain tumor. My cousin Aimee was like that sounds excruciating, and it was, but I did it because it served was a blueprint, a sample of what it might be like.

Initially, I avoided this film about a lady professor’s descent into Alzheimer’s. Hologram Boss said it was depressing, and that was as good as police crime scene caution tape for me, but my mom said it was fine, so I gave it a go.

As a film, it’s quite simple. It’s not much different than a TV disease movie, simplistic and not great. What makes it remarkable is Julianne Moore’s performance and her scenes with Kristen Stewart, also believable and natural in this (is this pop star actress talented or does Julianne Moore make everyone up their game?) Everyone else in the flick is kind of like wallpaper, but I still found the film helpful. It helped to see this character lose it, to imagine what my dad might be grappling with and what we might expect in the future. Julianne Moore’s Alice says she wishes she had cancer instead–and I was so glad to hear that because I totally agree! If I could rank crap illnesses, dementia is worse than cancer, no competition.

Recently, I decided to be more open about dad’s dementia, as in, if it comes up in conversation, I won’t censor myself from mentioning it. When it’s this secret, it is more likely to torpedo my spirits. Maybe acting like it’s normal will make it feel more normal. Mom attended a lecture that said “people with dementia have left our world and cannot come back. All we can do is follow them into their world for a while.” That is tough. It is hard to just go with what Dad says and does, instead of trying to correct him and bring him back to the present (and in his case, since he has dementia, it’s not exactly like Alzheimer’s anyway. His short term memory, physical skills, and communication are shot but he still recognizes me and can get to my house). I recognize how my mom shuts down from time to time when dealing with the endless paperwork involved to get the right care, because I shut down too. I get a metaphysical and actual physical headache.

I thought I had found a neat trick to play on myself. I would pretend my father died in 2002 when we first found he had an aggressive brain tumor and that the person who is still here is his ghost. I thought, yeah, that could be comforting, because I see friends who have lost parents and miss them terribly, so I’m fortunate enough to see his ghost. I think it helped for like four hours, but when I shared the theory aloud, I checked my gut–yup, still hurt. I cannot Jedi mind-trick around this one.

But maybe that’s the point. You’re supposed to feel and get through the crap parts, there’s no secret circumventive passageway, etc. In the film, the character who can connect to Alice is the daughter who is an actress, which makes sense because actors are trained to be in the present, something necessary to get along with folks who now live in a different time-space continuum. I try to be as gentle with my dad as he is with me. He is the one person, after all, who loves me best of all in the world (everyone loves my kids more, as they should), and isn’t that something?

I read this recent GQ profile of Amy Schumer and greatly enjoyed her. Who knows how long her success will last, though I really like what I’ve seen of her jokes. What I really respond to is how honest and direct she is. It inspires me to keep writing. We all respond to honesty, dude, especially because most of the world is so fake!

If you have any love for me, please don’t bring balloons or bubbles into my home. I know those items are marketing as things kids love, but trust, it only causes tears of consternation and blood fights among my garden gnomes.

There are so many gross things to witness when you have kids. Buckets of poop. Bloodied heads, etc. etc. Husband said we needed to check the stroller because the bag had an odd odor, probably due to being outside during a torrential downpour. I emptied, sprayed it, boom. He still said it was stinky with a cloud of fruit flies orbiting its nucleus. He described a hereto ne’er used pocket where there was a banana. He said it had been there so long it had liquified…really? Was that necessary life? Sadly, it’s not my first banana tableu. I may stop eating them altogether.

Yes, the story is sometimes annoying, but I really like Noah Baumbach and Greta Gerwig’s work. Her acting is so natural, she is completely believable as the character to the point you think she’s playing herself, but there was a Times articles discussing how she filmed one scnee 42 times. Ugh. Art is so weird, you bust your butt to make something seem effortless but it actually doesn’t feel that when you perform. I think of dance as a more obvious example – they work out like fiends, take class, practice choreo over and over again, so that in performance, it looks like “oh it’s so easy to fly and make your leg 180 and be tucked behind your head at the same time). You move so easily, it looks like your body is a scarf someone threw in the air, when in reality, your knees and hips might be popping, your hammies are in excruciating pain, etc. etc.

In any case, this film reminded me of how spazzy people in their twenties are and made me feel like I have yet to transcend that spazziness. See entry on “coffee.”