Visit to DC

Starting the past September, my D#1 had a fellowship in Washington DC.  An internship with a congresswoman was a key part of this opportunity.  She received a stipend and housing quite close to the Capitol.  The young man who she is seeing was serving as a White House intern during the same time period -- one of relatively few who worked in the actual White House.  Two weeks ago, because her fellowship was ending, I drove to Washington DC to help her move out of the house she shared with other interns from a variety of programs. We took that chance to visit the Capitol building and to see the holiday-bedecked White House (thanks to said young man who fast-tracked security checks for us... well, for me anyway!).

Our visit to the Capitol building was fairly fast-paced so I didn't have time to take many photos.  Left is the Capitol rotunda and below is the statue in the Hall of Statuary of Henry Melchoir Muhlenberg, the pastor-soldier of the Revolutionary War, one of two statues placed by Pennsylvania.

(Yeah, I know that Henry is sideways -- need to figure out how to get him to rotate 90 degrees counterclockwise.)  

There were a number of Christmas trees (duh) in various rooms, but my camera didn't like the lighted ones, which all came out blurry.  The main one in the Blue Room was more cooperative.

I was told the White House florist likes putting "Bo" in different arrangements 

around the building.  Here's one near the entrance -- easily two feet tall if I remember correctly.

The library had another "Bo", lying by the fireplace.  The White House Christmas card portrayed a similar scene.   (Ask me how I know...[wink])

This beautiful Nativity scene was in the State Dining Room.  Wish I could have viewed it more closely!

At the end of the Dining Room was the replica of the White House, in white 

chocolate!  (Another Bo -- not to scale.)

The sunset view from the Blue Room (I think), with the Washington Monument 

at left, was stunning.  Straight ahead is the Jefferson Memorial, though it's lost in the shadows of the photo.

 

Here's the tree in the Blue Room, as seen from the foyer of the South (?) exit.  

Note the Presidential Seal above the door.

And, finally, my daughter and me!  

 

D#1 is home until mid-January when she returns to the Capital.  Anyone who wants to keep me company on a trip to deliver her belongings, just let me know! 

If I were a widow

Last week marked four years since my husband blindsided me with the news that he no longer wanted to be married to me.  We had been married over 19 years and, coincidentally, that day was the 20th anniversary of the day we met.  I was, in a word, shattered.  Since then, I have noticed many ways in which I would be better off  if I had been widowed that day.

• Most important of all:  I would know that, while I was alone, my husband loved and cared for me until the end.
• It would be all over, instead of just beginning, and the healing could have started immediately.  
• No secrecy would be required – keeping the “news” from all but a couple of people and, especially, from our daughters initially – in the vain hope that he would “change his mind.”  
• My daughters would have known that their father cared for them – unconditionally – and put their needs before his.  Which, in all honesty, he did, until that unknown day when he chose to leave the family rather than to make an attempt to preserve it.
• We could all speak openly and happily about the man who was such an important and precious part of our lives, both with others and with each other. 
• My children would not have to worry and work at figuring out how (or if) to have a relationship with their father, nor be concerned that doing so would somehow hurt me.
• Widows are supported and cared for, from the time of the husband’s death.  Left-behind wives are invisible.
• I wouldn’t have to be concerned that I was being judged by those who believe that “it takes two to make a marriage and two to break one.”   That is utterly and completely false.  A relationship or marriage absolutely can be broken irretrievably by one person alone.
• There would be “A” date to “mark”, sad as it would be.  Instead, I have: the date he told me, the date I found out painful things, the date I asked him to leave, the date our “legal separation” began (our 20th wedding anniversary, not coincidentally), the date he moved out.  None of them are known to anyone except me.   I’m still waiting for “the date” of the final divorce decree. 
• My church would be a place of safety.  Instead it became a place of pain, as he continued to attend alone, acting as if nothing had changed.  More often than not, I’d end up taking refuge in the bathroom, sobbing.  Eventually, as I began to feel alone even there, I began to skip worship rather than risk seeing him.    I often wish someone had asked him why he continued to show up, when he’d overtly rejected his vows.  But, of course, no one is supposed to “take sides”…   (Yes, I know.  We are all sinners and should all be welcome in God’s house.  But it seems to me that it would not be too much to ask to have the “church” – or someone in it – question when a person decides unilaterally to reject a faithful spouse and end the existence of a family.)
• My financial situation would be improved.  His life insurance would have paid off the house and put money aside for both daughters’ educations.  Instead, I drained my savings paying for half of one's college expenses and getting the other through her last year of high school, while trying to hold onto our home as long as I could.  I did have “child support” but it by no means approximated what he had brought into the home.   When I could no longer continue, the house was sold and my daughters and I moved.   While retirement always seemed like a mirage, it is now a financial impossibility. 
• I would not have to worry, to this day, that I would meet him unexpectedly, fearing my own uncontrollable gut reaction.   Nor would I have to see a person I shared my life with for two decades, and had two children with, nod his head in my direction, acknowledging me as if we were vague acquaintances.
• My ability to trust in another person would not have been destroyed.  

Some might say,  “Death is final; where there is life, there’s hope.”   For most of us surprised and shocked spouses, there is no hope.  Once, there were fervent prayers and desperate wishes, but we sensed that there was no real hope.  And, after a time, we realize that too much damage has been done ever to be with that person again.

[Please note that I mean no disrespect to real widows and do not wish any harm to my ex-to-be.  This is a compare-and-contrast piece that has been stirring inside for a long time and re-surfaced with the “anniversary”.]

Vacation "downtheshore"

Recipe for one three-day vacation:

Take one mother,  

and two daughters.

 Add ocean, sand, sun.

Mix in 10 (or so) books.

Blend with a couple of movies on DVD.

Stir in Italian food on the Boardwalk, Chinese take-out, and vegetarian and seafood at an outdoor cafe.

Garnish with one movie at the theatre.

Makes: three women relaxed and refreshed.

Reclaiming a favorite place

I woke up this morning, with the startling thought that I'm reclaiming San Francisco for myself.  I'm here alone on business for a few days.   Though I am by no means a world traveler, I have visited a number of cities in the U.S., mostly for work.  San Francisco is one of my favorite cities in the country.   As it has worked out, I happen to come here once a decade. 

My first trip was in the late 1980s, before I met x2b.  That was when I fell in love with this place. In fact, when we first met, one of the things he and I discovered we had in common was that we felt the same way about this city.  We had wanted our honeymoon to be spent taking a train cross-country to S.F., but reality set in and no honeymoon ever happened. 

Ten years ago, my job sent me here again.  Our daughters were 9 and 11 and we brought them with us.  They,  too, immediately succumbed to its charm.   While I worked, x2b and our daughters went several places things I'd gone before (boat trip to Alcatraz -- a truly FASCINATING place), and some I hadn't (they walked across the Golden Gate Bridge).  Together, we rode the cable cars, climbed the stairs to Coit Tower, visited the "crookedest street" (complete with spotting a large hairy man dressed as Wonder Woman), and celebrated D#1's "graduation" from grade school and "matriculation" to 7th grade with dinner on Fisherman's Wharf.  One evening we went to a restaurant in Chinatown which did not fit the stereotype of "Chinese restaurant" or look like much from the outside.  We feasted on incredible food.   Nearby was a playground where he and I sat on a park bench, watching them run off some of their pent-up energy. 

Now I'm back, by myself once more.  I flew in early on Wednesday, so I would have the whole day to explore and I'm taking a red-eye out on Saturday night to give myself some free time when the conference ends.   After I checked in to my hotel on Union Square, I took BART to Berkeley (never been there) to a quilt shop that had been recommended.   On my way to the station, I took a picture of a cable car with my phone and sent it to each of my daughters with a single word:  Here!   D#1 replied that she was jealous, ordered me to eat some sourdough bread for her, and, of course, told me to have a good time.  I responded telling her where I was and where I was going, and she texted back that that was right up my alley!  (Yes, my daughter knows me fairly well...) 

I had hoped that in this S.E.X.(Stash Enhancement eXpedition) I would find some fabric specifically related to the Bay area, but no luck.  It did yield a cut of fabric with California sights and a few assorted FQs.  There was a lot of stock there different from the shops I frequent at home, but nothing that tempted me strongly -- except for the yardage of the entire William Morris Tapestry line!  However, I held back, as I already have way too much WM until I use up .... oh about... mumblety-mumble yards of what I own. 

Yesterday, D#2 sent a text asking me if I was going to eat in the Chinese place we'd been -- and I assured her that it was in my plans.  After the conference ended yesterday, I changed clothes, unwound for a little while, and headed off on foot to Chinatown -- more than around the corner but less than a trek.  By chance, I passed the playground and took a picture for the daughters.

Waited in line at the restaurant (as I expected to do) and was seated with a Spanish-speaking mother and daughter. It's that kind of place -- a single and a pair at a table for 4.  As we ate, my tablemates and I chatted a little. While the mother appeared to know no English, the daughter, in her early 20s, spoke it well.  They were from Mexico City, and spending a week vacationing together.  I told them a little about my last trip with my daughters and how they'd gone from playing-on-the-monkey-bars age to just-into-college and graduating-from-college ages.   

As expected, the food was delicious.  I had an appetizer of shrimp and green onion packets in peanut sauce, and an entree of sesame chicken with sweet potatoes in honey sauce.  This was the first -- and only -- Chinese restaurant where I'd ever had sweet potatoes, and I remembered them well from that 10-years-ago dinner.   We all had "blossoming flower tea".  The tea was served in a clear mug, with a floating rough-textured, walnut-sized ball that looked like dried moss.  Over about ten minutes, it sank to the bottom and opened up like a flower.

A little later, I noticed a light yellowish "stalk" rising from the base of the mug, waving gracefully with each movement of the mug.

Enjoying the mild evening air, I walked back to my hotel with another wonderful memory of this unique city.  The sidewalks sparkled with something in the concrete reflecting the streetlight, and I seemed to be walking on a path strewn with diamond dust. 

Tonight I'm taking the cable car to the Fisherman's Wharf area -- maybe Ghiardelli Square too.  (I will skip the ice cream place where the 4 of us shared a gargantuan ice cream treat designed for a family -- something like 10 scoops, with multiple toppings!)   I will eat seafood, buy trinkets for the daughters, maybe some chocolate for others.   And, like last night, I'll remember wistfully the wonderful family time we had back then, while making a new memory for myself -- coming full circle to spending time in a beloved place again, without an intense longing for what was, but with a satisfaction for what is right now.

Helping NEDA fight ED

Cryptic?  
Translation: 
NEDA = National Eating Disorders Association
ED = Eating Disorder(s)

On Sunday, older daughter and I are walking in Washington DC as part of the effort to increase awareness of these deadly mental diseases.  If you want to help, you can contribute here.  As a bonus you get to see recent photos of my beautiful younger daughter who continues to fight for her recovery every day.

Here's a photo of all three of us taken a couple of years ago.

I am so blessed. 

R.I.P. KRZR

OK, so I guess it wasn't REALLY about cell phones.  In retrospect, I realize that the whole cell phone rant was about being unable to communicate whenever and wherever I am, being disconnected (from my daughters, especially), dealing with my budgetary issues, and, not least, still adjusting to doing everything myself.

And it was about loss.  About losing -- without warning -- the contents of an object that had been with me almost constantly for three years, since before my life, as I knew it then, was shattered.

Late August 2007: Just days before my older daughter went off to college, we (all four family members)  hopped into the car, heading for the nearby phone store so we could all acquire "real" cell phones.  This was how we were all going to stay connected with each other: family plan, no limitations on calling among ourselves.  Initially I got the "plain Jane" handset, while the other three got fancier phones.  When I got home, for the first (and, so far, only) time in my life, I got "technology-envy".  So back we went and I swapped my "plain Jane" black-no-camera model for a sharp-looking, shiny, fiery-red model with texting and camera (not that I was ever planning to use them, mind you). 

When my life imploded less a few weeks later, that little red device became my lifeline; in my unbearable pain, my talisman.  Though, of course it couldn't really avert evil or bring good luck, it was a critical tool for coping with the destruction of my life around me.  I remember, immediately after receiving the Rejection Speech, when I simply could not stay in that house for one more minute, when I knew I was incapable of driving safely, when all I could do was walk away....  Phone in hand, I got as far as the end of the block, where I collapsed on the ground and called my sister to break the incomprehensible news.  Weeks later, I sat on a swing at the local elementary school playground and, through my wracking sobs, just two clicks would "contact" a friend, so I could just let it out.  On late night/early morning walks when I couldn't sleep, I carried it with me, for comfort as much as for security.   When my younger daughter's therapist would call to touch base prior to an appointment, I would pull off the road and park to talk to her.

On that mere four ounces of electronics, I had photos my older daughter sent me from the National Mall on the frigid day of the President's inauguration, when she walked several miles because the Metro was overcrowded.  There were text messages from my daughters, saved from their victories, large and small, and from their reaching out to me for advice or simply to express their thanks or their love.  The texts were locked to prevent accidental deletion, and were there for me to read over and over whenever I needed to remind myself why I had to continue to do whatever had to be done.  Because they needed me to be there, for whatever reason.

Three years later, I'm (mostly) used to doing everything by myself.   It's not like I have a choice, is it?   I'm even at the point where I find myself doing the most of the legwork toward finally divorcing.  Partially by my choice (goal of saving money since we've dealt with the property/financial stuff), but partially because of his inertia.  It's time.  I'm ready.  And, for my own reasons, I don't want to wait until he decides to make it a priority in his life and in his schedule.  I know how long that can take. 

But sometimes, in a moment of weakness or mental exhaustion, I'm hit with the memory that I used to have someone to share the responsibility: to take out the trash, to clean the litter box, to work with me to put the shelving unit together, to stop and get milk on the way home.   Someone to compliment and thank me, to make me coffee in the morning, to listen when I had a bad day, to tell me that it would be OK -- whatever "it" was -- that we would get through it together. 

Now, I have to be all about DIY.

Follow-up: Within 48 hours,  I'm supposed to have a refurbished "stupid" phone.  Don't really want much more right now, and it's all I can afford, especially since I have now taken over paying the bill for the girls and me.  The one bright side?  It will be purple.

Spreading the words: "Hope" and "Recovery"

"Conventional therapy holds that eating disorders are not about eating anyway, but about control.­" -- Harriet Brown, author of  Brave Girl Eating and mother of a daughter recovering from anorexia.

Daniel Le Grange, director of the Eating Disorders Program at the University of Chicago Medical Center, maintains that it [conventional therapy] accomplishes little. "There's no evidence that understanding what causes an eating disorder helps the adolescent recover," he says. "But we know that if you give the child medicine—in this case it's food—she has a much better chance of recovery."(Quoted in this article in "U.S. News & World Report.")

Why didn't I know about this three and a half years, 2 residential center stays of 3 weeks each, thousands of dollars (mostly unreimbursed by health insurance), hundreds of therapy hours ago?  Thankfully, a little over a year ago, I found someone familiar with "Maudsley" to validate the gut impulse I had in early 2007 -- when all I wanted to do was to feed my child.   Until then, I was cautioned not to be the "food police", that she had to "choose" to get better, and all manner of other bull**** by the "professionals" who claimed experience and knowledge.  I realize now that what they could not claim was success.   They poked and prodded mentally at her and at our family -- all but accusing us (primarily me) of causing this life-threatening illness. 

If a child had cancer, would medical personnel refuse to treat until they knew what had "caused" the cancer?  Would doctors tell the parents to keep their hands off, that the child had to "choose" recovery, that she had to be totally responsible for taking her medicine, even though she didn't want to and every part of her rejected it, and therefore, she most certainly would not??? 

Daily, I thank God for the therapist who helped us work together -- primarily my precious child and I -- to allow her to make sufficient progress that 3 weeks ago, she could go away to college!   We prepared in all the usual ways -- clothes, school supplies, dorm decorations, textbooks.  But, in addition, a support system involving several people had to be designed and put in place.  Now that she is physically stable, she is able to work with a therapist to deal with problems that co-existed with her eating disorder, but which were all too often treated as fused or causal -- problems that are not uncommon in adolescence, problems that are experienced by multitudes of children, most of whom (thankfully) are not in danger of falling into the clutches of an eating disorder.

I know she still struggles at times.  I know she still has "fear foods", but I have trust and faith in her that she has come too far and has too much to lose to go back there, and that she knows that too.   Perhaps someday we will be able to celebrate a full recovery -- victory over ED -- together.

Changes

My D#2 is home from Europe.  My German daughter is here for a few weeks.  Teenagers are swarming about most evenings.  There are a record number of soda cans in recycling

Life is good.

[Updated to add photo.  Yes, I know it's not a clear photo and it wasn't even taken in the US.  But that's on purpose, since I'm not sure how they would feel about being shown on my blog.  Anyone who knows my daughter will recognize her.]