On "Caregiving," Fear, and Growing Up

I recently received the advice to write about my experiences as a “caretaker” for my father after his heart attack. I’m not sure whether I embrace that title, for a variety of reasons. I envision a caregiver as someone who sits by an ill person with a wet washcloth. Not, necessarily, as someone who does all the other small and crucial tasks, like cooking and driving. This logic, however, follows the flawed and ubiquitous notion that domestic work is not valuable. I can rationalize that, and still I feel uncomfortable claiming the position of “caregiver.”

In reality, I often suspect that my parents would have gotten along just fine without me. It might have been slightly more difficult for them, but they would have survived. And I could have just as easily moved someplace else as soon as he was out of the hospital. So why did I stay?

Though I didn’t acknowledge this until recently, my motivations to remain here were entirely selfish: I was terrified of leaving.

Before I dive into that, let me share some context.

The summer before I left for college, my dad spent several weeks in the hospital. At first, he’d developed a simple staph infection. Before long, it spread to his blood, and then his bone marrow. After having a portion of his clavicle removed, he came home to several months of outpatient home care. I learned to change bandages, to clear his PICC line, to inject his medicine twice a day. I learned what a wound vac was, and how unforgettable it smelled. I learned which gauzes and wipes to bring the nurse each afternoon he or she visited. I learned to call 911 when he’d stopped breathing. I learned the comfiest ways to sit in waiting room chairs. I learned to give serious phone calls, and to give cautiously optimistic follow-ups. I learned how to politely respond when people told me, retrospectively, that they didn’t think he’d make it. I learned, finally, to be present with the people I love.

Even if I don’t always act on it, I learned a lot in those three months, and then I went away to learn some more. My dad was cleared for travel not long before I left for school. I’ll never forget his grin when he realized he would be able to see me off to college. He and my mom helped me move into my first dorm room, which I shared with two strangers (and ultimately, two of my closest friends). They said goodbye, and left me to forge my way.

In the sheltered bubble of campus, 1500 miles away, I felt detached. I knew my parents were physically healthy, but I worried constantly about them. After all, they were getting older, and I didn’t know how to cope with that knowledge. On breaks, I would go home to stay with them, eat their food, and hear about everything that had changed while I was away. These moments helped soothe my anxieties, but on some level, I was always conscious that our time together was limited (and perhaps moreso than most).

Of course, this awareness helped me appreciate my parents more, and I’m grateful for that. I’m also grateful for the relationships that were born out of these fears. My first-year roommates, Mikey and Saraphin, had endured similar difficulties during college. We initially bonded because of loss and tribulation. Though our relationship has grown far, far beyond that, I can’t think of many other people who understand my fears the way they do.

That seems like adequate context, so I’ll get back to the “fear of leaving” that spurred this whole post.

A week after graduation, I was already scared of losing my incredible friends and bungling my job search. I didn’t know where I would live, or what I would do. When my mom called me to tell me that Dad was in a coma, every single one of those anxieties paled next to the thought that I might not see my parent again. I flew home the next morning, and I’ve been back in Kansas City since.

Every single day, I wonder where my life would be if I hadn’t gotten that call. Where would I be living? What would I be doing? What other arbitrary fears would I have? I wonder this, and I also wonder whether I’d be so damn thankful to have both of my parents, whether I’d have as many memories with them. Whether I'd have relationships as fulfilling as those that have developed here. Whether I'd feel any differently than I do now.

As I get older, I realize that loss is inevitable, and that fear is always an option. Fear of action, fear of inaction, fear of simply being. This is a part of life, and one that I’m slowly learning to handle. Anxieties cannot dictate the course of my life, but maybe I can lever them to develop a new perspective. To be appreciative of what is, and to accept what is not. To realize what's genuinely important to me. Maybe, one day, I can look certain fears in the face, defy them, and stop feeling so scared.

I’m not there yet, but I get closer every day.

Intention

I made more accidents! These photos were doubly exposed last summer by simple ignorance. This roll was processed by the knowledgeable folks over at Express Photo. If ever you're in Brookside, be sure to pop in and say hi to Steve.

Chicago, July '16 / KCMO, August '16

Summer Sun

Zippin' around, trying to use my time wisely to make things and do things. This is easier said than done. I'm somewhat overwhelmed, even in these bright summer months, but I have small bursts of motivation to write reasoned prose.

This afternoon is not one of those bursts, but here's a nice picture to tide things over.

A welcoming sky (or a better-fitting adjective)

The Unknown

Self-doubt is rearing its ugly head once again.

My yearlong lease is nearly up, and I’m yearning for a change of scenery. I love Kansas City, happily and desperately. I also grew up here. I moved back here out of obligation with twelve hours’ notice. In many ways, Wellesley was my ticket somewhere new, and I still ended up right back here.

In every different place I’ve lived: Massachusetts, D.C., Córdoba; I’ve found solace in the unknown. Nothing could make me feel the cloudy bliss of wandering around a new neighborhood. This holds true, even now. But I’m not sure whether I should stay in K.C. simply because I’m already here. Circumstance brought me back, and conscious decision kept me here. I don't regret staying here, and I can’t accept that without questioning it. Life doesn't seem long enough to stay away from new places and adventures.

I have a few months to think it out, and I intend to do so. The confusion is part of the fun, I suppose.

How did you end up wherever you’re currently living? How do you feel about living there? If you had to leave, where would you go? Leave a little comment on this here blog. (To be honest, I’m not responsible about reading Facebook notes, but I try! You can also email me, call me, text me...)

Let me know what you’re thinking of. Let’s have a real conversation about it.

This view of Westport High is one of the best pieces of my day-to-day.

He Needs Me

I can't help but watch this and imagine Shelley Duvall singing instead to Jack Nicholson in The Shining.

- "He Needs Me" as performed by Shelley Duvall in Robert Altman's Popeye (1980)

How I Learned to Love My Body Hair

I'm a hairy person. I don't really remember a time when I wasn't. By nine or ten years old, my legs were vertical forests. I wore shorts to school every chance I got. Other kids were mystified by my premature leg hair: did I shampoo it? Did it ever tangle? What did the breeze feel like on my legs?

I was proud.

That changed somewhere around age thirteen, when my pubescent insecurities were especially swollen and tender. A well-meaning loved one, who happened to be a bit further along the stream of adolescence, told me that body hair was a source of shame. The only people who had hairy legs were men, and I wasn't one of those. In order to fit in and be a "normal" girl as I transferred to a new middle school, I had to shave.

So I did. After an hour and two single-blade Bic razors, my legs were smooth (if a little bloody). I proudly felt like I was growing up, though I also felt a heavy sense of loss. Without my hair, I was paradoxically more a "woman" and less a "child."

I continued shaving for years. I would spend an hour in the shower every weekend, trying my hardest to obtain the satiny smooth legs all my female classmates had. At several points, I even used Nair on my arms (my arms!). I had become increasingly ashamed of my own body.

During a routine sports physical toward the end of high school, a clinician noticed my hair. She quickly recommended that I be tested for PCOS, or poly-cystic ovarian syndrome. After the tests came back negative, I instead received an official diagnosis of hirsutism. This was an enormous blow to my teenaged ego: how was I supposed to be a real and beautiful woman if I looked like a werewolf?

Somewhere along the way, though, I realized that beauty, femininity, and body hair were not mutually exclusive. I wish I could point to a singular epiphany, but in reality, I think I just got tired of shaving my legs. I stopped about a year ago, at first as a sort of "screw you" to the patriarchal world outside Wellesley. I wanted to spend my time writing, or playing the guitar, or reading. I didn't want to be forced into diverting my precious attention to my appearance. Plus, it was wintertime so my legs would be mostly, safely hidden. Before long, though, spring reared its colorful head, daring me to maintain the hair that had populated my legs. I could only wear pants for so long.

I stubbornly decided to try not giving a fuck.

The first day I wore a knee-length dress to work, I was beyond uncomfortable. Everyone in my male-dominated workplace could see my hair, exposed and vulnerable. But I stuck it out. Shaving was no longer worthwhile. I hated feeling obligated to use my time in pursuit of an arbitrary beauty standard, one which I hadn't chosen for myself. I hated spending money on razors. I hated being itchy. And I was beginning to enjoy the defiant feeling that grew along with my body hair. I found amusement in each stolen glance at my legs. I could tell that, for a lot of eyes, my swishy dresses and body hair didn't fit into the visual prototype of "feminine."

I loved that.

Months later, my leg hair is still dense. I recently epilated my armpits, an extraordinarily painful and familiar process. I don't regret either decision. As I grow outside the Wellesley bubble, I feel increasingly empowered to make deliberate choices about my appearance. I seldom wear makeup, but when I do, it's because I want to. Following that same logic, I'm confident that if I shave again, I'll do so for my own motivations, and not for anyone else.

There are still plenty of days when I wonder how it would feel to have barren legs, but I've reached a point where my time and money seem too valuable to waste on shaving. My leg hair has become a symbol of my strength, my confidence, and my womanhood. I've reclaimed that loss for my insecure thirteen-year-old self. For the first time in my life, I can say that I'm genuinely unapologetic for my human body and all its hairy splendor.

As I wrap this up, I'm curious to hear other perspectives on grooming, especially as it pertains to gender. Do you shave/wax/epilate/etc.? What are your motivations for/against doing so? Have these changed over time?

Leave a comment and we'll have a conversation.

Thank you for reading this far!

A Taste of Sadness

- "A Taste of Sadness" by Walter Wanderley, from Rain Forest (1966)

The Emperor's New Clothes

Way back in the nineteenth century, Hans Christian Andersen wrote a short story called "The Emperor's New Clothes." (If you're interested, the English translation can be found here.)

The basic vibe, in case you're not inclined to read it, is that these weavers promise to produce magic clothes for an emperor. The weavers tell him that his clothes will appear invisible to anyone who's unworthy. Then the weavers commit some fantastic object-work, pretending to clothe the emperor without actually clothing him. (These weavers probably would have been great at improv. Perhaps they were court jesters in disguise?)

The Emperor, as illustrated by Vilhelm Pedersen

As you might have guessed, their little experiment yields some unsettling results: no one wants to tell the emperor he's naked, because they're afraid he'll condemn them.

Sound familiar?

Jeff Sessions's testimony before the Senate Intelligence Committee was like a sad, Billy Wilder sequel to that story. The way he squirmed in his seat, equivocating about laws and duties...it was clear he knew he was wrong. Furthermore, I suspect he knows that Trump is wrong, too—surely Jeff Sessions isn't that dumb. But throughout his testimony, I had a tingling suspicion that, no matter what happens, Sessions will take the fall for Trump. He is going down with that ship, no matter what the price.

I'm not saying Sessions didn't break the law, or that his politics aren't repugnant. What I am saying is that Sessions will stop at nothing to protect Trump, even if it means obstructing federal investigations. This frightens me. Is our democracy really so broken that we can't elect leaders who support us?

I don't think so.

I think that, speaking generally, the Russian interference in our 2016 presidential election was an attempt to undermine American faith in our democracy. It's not a perfect system, of course. But if this election has taught us anything, it's that we need to charge unflinchingly ahead within the framework of our existing system. We need to vote, and we need to elect leaders who want us to vote, too. We need leaders who will listen to their constituents and who will accordingly challenge the structure of our government. We need leaders who will speak truth to power, who will modestly admit their shortcomings, who will always strive for a better country.

Throughout this whole post, however, I'm circling the question I don't have an answer to: what about the damn weavers? What's their role in this? Instinct tells me that these weavers are heroes, for several reasons:

1. They outsmart the all-powerful emperor.
2. They draw attention to the societal inclination to affirm authority figures.
3. They're really good at pretending to weave.

Still, I can't place them in the context of our current political situation. Are our weavers the Russian government? Or maybe all the people who neglected to vote? Or maybe even the old white men who wrote our Constitution so long ago? Most of these figures aren't heroes.

Then again, maybe it's time to revise our conceptions of fairy tales.

Lightning Strikes

Baking banana bread and listening to this while my neighbor gets down to Bright Eyes below my window.

- "Lightning Strikes" by Klaus Nomi, from Klaus Nomi (1981)