On Wednesday, while Ali and I are biking home from school, she tells me that a boy was mean to her and her friends on the playground at lunch, so they reported him to their teacher, and all were sent to the school Counselor. The boy, crying, returned to the classroom to pack up his desk, and was escorted out of class. You’d think I would have pressed Ali for details, but I was on overload, so I took it as classic third grade play yard conflict. My husband is out of town all week to procure business, and the constant stream of breakfasts, lunches, dinners, snacks, chauffeuring, laundry, clean up, homework supervision, and bed times has me in constant motion. Add in two huge work deadlines (one Tuesday, one Thursday) for which I am….well, unprepared (remember that trip to Boston in which I thought I’d get stuff done? I worked on my parents' stuff the whole time, not mine). So when Vice-principal Montoya calls shortly thereafter to tell me, “Your daughter did the right thing by reporting this incident”, all I ask is, “Did this boy get suspended?” She cryptically replies, “I would go by whatever your daughter told you.” I dive back in to my work that is haunting me: an analysis for my lit group of the book Hamnet by Maggie O’Farrell. It has been years since I’ve read a book that has so astounded me with its lyricism and story. In the prologue (so NO spoilers) we are told that Hamnet, the only son of William and Agnes Shakespeare, dies at age 11. When I grow up, I want to write like O’Farrell. Here’s an excerpt from when the family has just buried Hamnet’s body, and now has to leave the cemetery: Her husband takes her arm as they reach the gate; she turns to look at him and it is as if she has never seen him before, so odd and distorted and old do his features seem. Is it their long separation, is it grief, is it all the tears? she wonders, as she regards him. She can see in his face the cheekbones of her dead son, the set of his brows, but nothing else… She cannot leave this place, she cannot pass through this gate. She cannot leave her son here. She gets hold of the wooden gatepost and grips it with both hands. Everything is shattered but holding on to this post feels like the only thing to do. If she can stay here, at this gate, with her daughters on one side of her and her son on the other, she can hold everything together” (pp. 232-233). I live the week partially submerged in this powerful book grieving a child's death, partially treading water in my own chaotic world. After Lillie’s hip hop class, Ali debriefs us that night at dinner: “So here's what really happened. First XX said that boys run faster than girls. So we chased XX around the yard and proved that he’s wrong. Then he said, ‘Well, my family has more money than any of yours’. To this, I replied, ‘You don’t know that. You can’t just assume things about people.’ To which he replied, ‘Well, I do know that we have a gun at home (he named the type) and I’m going to bring it to school and I’m going to use it to shoot all of you in the gut.” She says this very matter of factly. I am stunned. Speechless. All I can think of to utter is, “I’m glad you reported this...I see why he was suspended.” “Oh, so rude of him!” Ali agrees, showing none of the fear that is coursing through my body. The school is closed for the night. Awake at 3 AM, my mind is racing. My rational part wants to dismiss all of this…just a kid talking. But in every school shooting, doesn’t the boy (always a boy) give warning before he strikes, verbally, or on social media? After the shooting, don’t people always say, “Oh, yes, he said something, but I never thought he’d actually go through with it!”? Don’t many residents have guns out here? John Lennon’s song about the absurdities we never expect to face comes to mind: “Nobody told me there’d be days like these!” Yeah, and look how the gun thing turned out for him. With Jory out of town, and Hamnet's poetic loss of a child in my head, I watch Ali sleep. As she nestles under her blanket, I try to imagine my world without her vivaciousness, her smile, her big heart. I see my life cleaved in two: Before and After. But my brain cannot even imagine the After part because my body cannot cope: tears run down my cheeks, my heart races, my head pounds. At 8 AM the next morning, I call Vice-principal Montoya back, somewhat peeved by her obtuse message from the day before. After formalities, the call goes something like this: “I’m concerned about the death threat my child received on the playground yesterday.” “Well, safety is our number one priority, I can assure you.” “So what you are doing to mitigate this threat?” “I’m sorry. I’m not at liberty to discuss the other student with you.” “My concern is not the other student. I just want to know how you are keeping my child safe.” “Oh, we have all protocols in place: we keep the school itself locked, and we have lockdowns, and a swat team is – “ (I cut her off) “No – no – most of that is in RESPONSE to a shooting that is in progress. What are you doing to keep this from happening?” “By law I have to honor the other child’s privacy, M’am. I cannot tell you.” I think, well, as far as I’m concerned, when this boy threatened my daughter, his privacy became secondary to her safety (but I realize this will not help my cause, because…bureaucracy over reason). What I say instead: “Do I need to go down there and take my child out of school?” “Not at all, M’am. As I’ve said, I assure you, safety is our number one priority. I understand your concern. Look, his parents were notified, the counselor was notified – there are only three days left in the school year. We are on top of this.” I finally get her to compromise with me, and I put our agreement in writing in an email titled “Safety in Ms. S’s class” and send this to the school principal, Ali’s teacher and my husband in Belize. While much of the school's protocol deals with what to do in response to an active shooter (lock down, squat team etc), the Vice-principal finally agreed that should the student come to school in the next three days, his back pack and person will be searched to ensure he is not carrying the weapon that he said he will bring. I cannot believe I am writing this email, but being relatively new to Albuquerque, we know nothing of the student or his family other than he threatened our child's life. We have learned that many people do keep guns in their homes out here. Two requests: 1) that the counselor follow up with the girls today to make sure they feel safe, and congratulate them on advocating for themselves. This is not the last time these girls will face intimidation in their lives, and I would like the congratulations and reinforcement of how important it is to speak up for themselves be made loud and clear to them. (Somehow it never sounds the same coming from a parent!) 2) Although your window to request certain classmates not be in class next year has closed, I formally request that should XXX attend Georgia O'Keefe next year, he NOT be in class with Alexandra. I think any of us would have a hard time feeling safe with a colleague who verbalized a desire to put a bullet in our gut. Please let me know your thoughts on this. By the end of the day, the principal has agreed to both requests. It is the rock star teacher who privately lets me know that according to the boy’s mother, they have no gun at home; this must have come from the video games he plays. (Third. Grade.) However, for even making this threat, the boy will be attending school virtually for the remaining days of the school year. (Thank you beloved teacher - was that really such a breech in protocol?) I am at once relieved, grateful, and, let’s be honest, exhausted. The discussion on Hamnet and the Shakespeare family loss is nothing short of inspired. But I cannot stop thinking of my dear friend in Los Angeles whose vibrant daughter unexpectedly passed away after her 11th birthday, three months before COVID hit. Unlike “widow” or “orphan”, we don’t even have a word for a grieving mother, as if our language itself cannot bear the anguish that comes with this state. It is luck. Wrong place, wrong time, genetics, illness: just a heartbeat separates us from crushing tragedy. We need to be more gentle with each other, I think. We are all of us fragile, headed for the same fate. We want joy, but isn’t the point of life to embrace whatever comes our way: to experience loss when we encounter it, feel the fear when a child’s life is threatened? Professor of biology and mindfulness-based author Jon Kabat-Zinn put it this way: “We can be tempted to avoid the messiness of daily living for the tranquility of stillness and peacefulness. This of course would be an attachment to stillness, and like any strong attachment, it leads to delusion. It arrests development and short circuits the cultivation of wisdom”. So here’s to messy, complicated, unpredictable LIFE. As our modern day Irish bard Bono reminds us, “We’re One, but we’re not the same...We’ve got to carry each other, carry each other.”
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I stayed with cousins in Quincy who are prepping their family home to sell since their parents' deaths. We are both letting go of so much of our pasts....One morning, unable to sleep, I caught a gorgeous sunrise... It’s been said that having a parent with diminishing brain function, be it dementia or Alzheimers, is like being given a loaded gun. One’s lifestyle choices will pull the trigger or not. What’s the difference between the dementia and Alzheimers? Dementia is a group of conditions that includes Alzheimers, which is why they are often used interchangeably. There are specific tests for Alzheimers (which my mom has always refused to take), so while she can't be officially diagnosed with Alzheimers due to lack of data, there is no question she has some form of dementia. Thanks for the outpouring of support with regards to Mom. To clarify: her long term memory is still incredibly impressive. It is her short term memory that is troubled. For example, once I convinced her at our visit that I was Stephanie, she was thrilled to see me, and then cried because she realized she had not recognized me. She will often forget where she is, but still knows the names of all her grandchildren and asks for them. Dementia in all forms frightens me, so I read up on it regularly, especially with an eye on how I can avoid it. Turns out, the consensus is that I can, through diet and daily exercise. Cutting edge doctors like neurologist David Perlmutter MD, Dale Bredesen MD, and Dean and Ayesha Sherzai MDs have effectively proven the link between sugar, carbs and resulting brain cognitive impairment. In fact, in their book The Alzheimer’s Solution, the Sherzais say that 95% of dementia is preventable through diet and exercise. Those who have early onset Alzheimers are the 5% who cannot avoid it. This was great but bitter news. I love food. I really enjoy stuff like small batch ice cream, fresh baguettes, gourmet chocolate chunk cookies, hand crafted ravioli. So I looked for other opinions, to hopefully contradict the carb/sugar/dementia link. But the more I sought, the more I learned that diabetes is considered Alzheimers 1.5, and that carbs/sugar really are not our friend. Women are believed to get dementia three times more than men because during menopause, when our progesterone levels go down, our cortisol levels go up, so our insulin resistance levels do too. So I became interested in the keto diet, which cuts out carbs and sugars. I discovered that I get decent results baking with almond flour, that the natural (expensive) sweeteners can work, that I enjoy 90% chocolate. The meat and dairy were delicious. We didn’t feel deprived and I thought I had adjusted my diet appropriately to beat the dementia threat. (I did notice that men seem to shed weight much more easily than women on keto). Then, however, I had my first check up in 20 months. For the first time in my life, my LDL (bad cholesterol) levels were red flagged: too much red meat and dairy. I did a little more research, and it appears that this keto diet is the Atkin’s diet of my generation. We’ll have clear brains, but clogged arteries. We’ll look trim but drop dead of heart failure. In 20 years time, they’ll look at the keto diet the way we consider the Atkins diet. This week I listened to the World Food Summit hosted by John and Ocean Robbins (ironically of Baskin Robbins fame). While they are vegan, they interviewed omnivore neurologist Perlmutter, who spoke of how processed foods temporarily break down the connection between the impulsive self-centric amygdala and the wise rational pre-frontal cortex. This breakdown in brain communication explains why, after eating Oreos, my nine-year old will have a meltdown when I ask her to do her homework. It is why I feel unmotivated after the Ben & Jerry’s and blow off writing. Our spontaneous amygdalae have hijacked our brains, blocking communication from our enlightened prefrontal cortexes. Simply put, processed food interrupts our ability to think clearly. In this interview, Perlmutter even seemed to backpedal on the keto craze too, despite his keto cookbook. “Plant based diets are best,” Perlmutter affirmed. He went on to quantify: small amounts of meat and dairy, combined with mostly plant based food. Veggies, however, are a form of carbs (albeit healthier carbs) but carbs nonetheless, that can interrupt that fat burning state known as ketosis. However, our bodies are not acidic enough to handle meat daily. Had we the stomach acid of true carnivores (like dogs) it would burn a hole right through our stomachs. Ugh. First cut back on carbs and sugar, now meat and dairy? My husband has developed a following for his grilled steaks. Going cold turkey in my family would result in an ugly crash and burn barbeque-frenzy months down the road. Besides, a traditional vegetarian diet would feel too restrictive. As pointed out by Robbins, vegetarians often rely on pasta, pizza, some veggies and then rice. Having a parent with dementia, I remain vigilant about when I choose to eat sugar and carbs. I have to be. It seems the Standard American Diet (SAD) is slowly killing us. But hey – I try to rationalize, we’re all going to die anyway, so do we just eat drink and be merry? I think of my mom and realize that if I want to truly be merry, I must do all I can to be healthy enough to really live out the time I have. Food affects us all differently. Some can have coffee at 8PM and go promptly to sleep, while others drink decaf at 4PM and will stay wired. Some have an insulin spike after sushi, others don’t. Food is not one size fits all. But moderation is key. So Jory and I decide to recalibrate our family menu. Red meat once a week, chicken once a week, then fish, veggies, fruit and more veggies the other nights. We watch in astonishment as our picky eaters devour bean burritos (Ali), zucchini and mushroom burritos (Lillie) and quesadilla (Ty Ty). Our veggie baked potato night was also a big hit. It’s a huge victory for Ali to bring out celery and ranch because she doesn’t like brussel sprouts but wants to eat veggies. Added bonus: our grocery bill shrinks dramatically, always a boon for feeding a family of five. New adventure: how to make veggies continually taste really really good. We’re not militant. We love food and aim for balance, not deprivation. I’ve never been one to count calories or weigh food. However, changing our everyday diet to more plants rather than mindlessly eating whatever we want is a WIN. Planning why and when to eat the decadent stuff matters. Maybe someday we’ll be able to eat healthy all the time. However, as long as that French bakery still makes those croissants, and I want to celebrate something, I doubt it. Progress not perfection: living with the prefrontal cortex as the five-star chef. Two weeks to the day after my second COVID vaccination, I saw Mom for the first time in 19 months. I had told her for weeks that I was coming to visit, and would even be there for Mother's Day. Every time we spoke, I brought up how excited I was to see her, and we kept a running countdown to this long-anticipated reunion. THE day dawned this past rainy Wednesday. I found Mom in her bed by the window. She was writing something in a notepad. “Hi Mom!” I said, running over to her, having traveled for hours for this moment. She looked at me and then asked, ever so sweetly and sincerely, “Who are you?” Who am I? I am flesh of your flesh, bone of your bone. I am the one you gave birth to three weeks early, too young and naïve to know that cigarettes and the occasional martini during pregnancy could make a difference. I am the one you fed, played with, taught, comforted, disciplined, put to sleep. I am the one who craved your attention, your approval, your praise. I am the one marveled at your warmth with others, and sought to copy your seemingly effortless ability to create and sustain close friendships. I am the one who learned all the songs you liked, liked all the desserts you made, made a mess of the house you could never quite tidy, even after I moved on. Who am I? I am the one who has the ear for language, eye for adventure, feet off the ground. The one who loves learning, traveling, the ocean. The one everyone believed would never marry. The one who still strives to make a difference, who overcomes many of the fears I learned from you, who wants to heal the planet, who finds solace in words. Who am I? I am the one who has chosen happiness, knowing that sadness and fear are never far off. The one who still wishes on stars and birthday candles and the wishbones of chickens. The one who kisses my children while they sleep, hoping they will embrace life as much as I have learned to. The one who has come to cherish above all else friendship, kind words, hugs, and laughter. The one who has thrills to see the moon dance on the ocean, or the crimson sun invite us to a new day as it rises over a mountain. The one who keeps striving to grow, embrace change, and challenge myself as I risk and sometimes fall, try and sometimes fail, but still I rise, take a deep breath, and step back in the ring. The one who finally married her best friend. Who am I? I am the one who will cry when you are gone. Who is now crying because so much of you has already left. Who will remember your birthdays and anniversaries as if they were my own. Who grasps in a new way that every beginning has an ending, and that endings, no matter how much we brace ourselves for them, leave us bereft. I stayed with cousins in Quincy, who are prepping their gorgeous family home to sell as their parents recently died. Needless to say, we are both experiencing tremendous loss. One morning, unable to sleep, I watched the sun rise. It’s been said that having a parent with diminishing brain function, be it dementia or Alzheimers, is like being given a loaded gun. One’s lifestyle choices will pull the trigger or not. What’s the difference between the dementia and Alzheimers anyway? Dementia is a group of conditions that includes Alzheimers, which is why they are often used interchangeably. There are specific tests for Alzheimers, and many other forms of dementia. My mom has not been diagnosed with Alzheimers because she refuses to take the test, but she has dementia. Thanks for the outpouring of support. To clarify: Mom's long term memory is still incredibly impressive. It is her short term memory that is troubled. For example, once I convinced her at our first visit that I was Stephanie, she was thrilled to see me, and then cried because she realized she had not recognized me. She will often forget where she is, but still knows the names of all her grandchildren and asks for them. Dementia in all forms frightens me frankly, so I read up on it regularly, especially with an eye on how I can avoid it. Turns out, the consensus is that I can. Cutting edge doctors like neurologist David Perlmutter MD, Dale Bredesen MD, and Dean and Ayesha Sherzai MDs have effectively proven the link between sugar, carbs and resulting brain cognitive impairment. In fact, in their book The Alzheimer’s Solution, the Sherzais say that approximately 95% of dementia is preventable through lifestyle. Those who have early onset dementia are the 5%. This was great but bitter news. I love food. I really enjoy stuff like small batch ice cream, fresh baguettes, gourmet chocolate chunk cookies, hand crafted ravioli, mimosas. So researched more, to hopefully contradict the carb/sugar/dementia link. But the more I sought, the more I learned that diabetes is considered Alzheimers 1.5, and that carbs/sugar really are not our friend, especially if dementia runs in the family. Women are believed to get dementia three times more than men because during menopause, when our progesterone levels go down, our cortisol levels go up, so our insulin resistance levels rise too. Therefore I became interested in the keto diet, which cuts out carbs and sugar. I discovered that I get decent results baking with almond flour, that the natural (expensive) sweeteners can work, that I enjoy 90% chocolate. The meat and dairy were delicious. We didn’t feel deprived and I thought I had adjusted my diet appropriately to beat the dementia threat. (I did notice that men seem to shed weight much more easily than women on keto). Then, however, I had my first check up in 20 months. For the first time in my life, my LDL (bad cholesterol) levels were red flagged: too much red meat and dairy. I did a little more research, and it appears that this keto diet is the Atkin’s diet of my generation. We’ll have clear brains, but clogged arteries. We’ll look trim but drop dead of heart failure. In 20 years time, they’ll look at the keto diet the way we consider the Atkins diet. I just learned a lot at the virtual World Food Summit hosted by John and Ocean Robbins (ironically of Baskin Robbins fame). While they are vegan, they interviewed omnivore neurologist Perlmutter, who spoke of how processed foods temporarily break down the connection between the impulsive self-centric amygdala part of the brain and the wise rational pre-frontal cortex. This breakdown in brain communication explains why, after eating Oreos, my nine-year old will have a meltdown when I ask her to do her homework. It is why I feel unmotivated after the Ben & Jerry’s and blow off writing. Our spontaneous amygdalae are running the show, no longer even talking to our enlightened pre-frontal cortexes. Processed food interrupts our brain functioning and ability to think through decisions. In this interview, Perlmutter even seemed to backpedal on the keto craze too, despite his keto cookbook. “Plant based diets are best,” Perlmutter affirmed. He went on to quantify: small amounts of meat and dairy, combined with mostly plant based food. (the traditional keto diet features meats and dairy). Veggies, however, are a form of carbs (albeit healthier carbs) but carbs nonetheless, that can interrupt that fat burning state known as ketosis. However, our bodies are not acidic enough to handle meat daily. Had we the stomach acid of true carnivores (like dogs) it would burn a hole right through our stomachs. Ugh. First cut back on carbs and sugar, now meat and dairy? My husband has developed a following for his grilled steaks. Going cold turkey in my family would result in an ugly crash and burn barbeque-frenzy months down the road. Besides, a traditional vegetarian diet would feel too restrictive. As pointed out by Robbins, vegetarians often rely on pasta, pizza, some veggies and then rice. Having a parent with dementia, I remain vigilant about when I choose to eat sugar and carbs. I have to be. It seems the Standard American Diet (SAD) is slowly killing us. But hey – I try to rationalize, we’re all going to die anyway, so do we just eat drink and be merry? I think of my mom and realize that if I want to truly be merry, I must do all I can to be healthy enough to really live out the time I have. Food affects us all differently. Some can have coffee at 8PM and go promptly to sleep, while others drink decaf at 4PM and will stay wired. Some have an insulin spike after sushi, others don’t. Food is not one size fits all. But moderation, especially when it comes to carbs, sugar and meat, is key. So Jory and I decide to recalibrate our family menu. Red meat once a week, chicken once a week, then fish, veggies, fruit and more veggies the other nights. We watch in astonishment as our picky eaters devour bean burritos (Ali), zucchini and mushroom burritos (Lillie) and quesadilla (Ty Ty). Our veggie baked potato night was also a big hit. It’s a huge victory for Ali to bring out celery and ranch because she doesn’t like brussel sprouts but wants to eat veggies. Added bonus: our grocery bill shrinks dramatically, always a boon for feeding a family of five. New adventure: how to make veggies continually taste really really good. We’re not militant. We love food and aim for balance, not deprivation. I’ve never been one to count calories or weigh food. However, changing our everyday diet to more plants rather than mindlessly eating whatever we want is a WIN. Planning why and when to eat the decadent stuff matters. Maybe someday we’ll be able to eat healthy all the time. However, as long as that French bakery still makes those croissants, and I want to celebrate something, I doubt it. Progress not perfection: living with the prefrontal cortex as the chef. |
AuthorSteph: friend, writer, wife, mother, sister, daughter, lover of life, and of chocolate. Archives
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