The tipping point in the parent-child relationship

Sort of like the waves of tsunami debris piling up on Oregon beaches, the unpleasant realities of my life are piling up outside my mental door. I'm afraid to go outside, metaphorically speaking. I don't want the world to change, but it is. Argh. I want off this Z-ticket ride. I don't want to play anymore.

Everything feels out of control. My mother has been in an nursing home for almost two weeks, recuperating from a broken pelvis just one floor away from the folks who will leave in a body bag. While she languishes in a hospital bed, knitting a pelvis and a baby blanket and hobnobbing with her roommate who is wrestling with Stage 4 lung cancer, for the first time in my life, I did my mother's laundry, folded her underwear, washed her grimy coffee cups, and vacuumed her dusty carpets. A tipping point has been reached. For a few years, a brief moment in time, we were poised at the top of the roller coaster, equals, friends, and now we are falling down the other side. Now I'm the reluctant parental unit. She's the demanding child.

The institution is mere blocks from my apartment, so I walked down the hill in the setting sun. She and her roommate were just finishing dinner: turkey sandwich, condiments in little plastic packets, fruit cocktail in a tiny white unbreakable dish. I picked up more dirty laundry and sat on the bed, visiting and watching the northern sky darkening with flat gray clouds. I did my best to be present.

A half hour later I hiked home in sprinkling rain and whipping wind, feeling grateful that I could leave, at will, on my own two feet. I found a letter in my mailbox from my landsharks. Uh oh. Sure enough, in poorly typed, terse words, they informed me that my rent was going up $50 and that I'd better weed the front or else.

I went out front and dug up a few of the more obvious weeds with a knife, trying to avoid the nearly invisible strawberry plants, but I didn't even glance at the area my mother was weeding when she took the misstep that tossed her down a flight of concrete steps thirteen days ago. When I couldn't see through my wet glasses, I went back inside, just as the skies opened up under a massive rip of thunder.

I always wondered what it would feel like to finally hit my limit. I'm not quite there yet, but I can tell by the feeling in my chest that it may be close. I'd like to say I'm ready to drag up on the whole thing. Pull a geographical. Take my marbles and go home. But this is home. For now, anyway, and reality is outside, knocking on my door. I'm going to bury myself in a book and pretend I hear nothing.

What should I say when a student says, “I can't do it”?

I've been covering a keyboarding class for a colleague who was out for the first two weeks of the term. On Monday she returned in high dudgeon because her schedule had been revised and no one had bothered to notify her. (Not my job.) Her day probably went downhill from there, but I only saw the hour we spent together in the keyboarding lab. I found myself wishing my cell phone had a video camera. What I saw was a lesson in the power of our brains to create complete and utter shite.

We keep some of our keyboarding materials in a big dented metal cabinet, imprisoned by a combination lock. When I told her the combination, my colleague (I'll call her Betsy) solemnly proclaimed, “I can't do it. Not gonna happen.”

“What?” I said, taken aback.

“I can't open those things. I can't do it. Not gonna happen.”

We walked out of the classroom and stood in front of the metal cabinet. She stared bleakly at the lock. “I can't do it. Not gonna happen.”

“Try it.”

She gingerly touched the lock. She turned the knob as if it were a handle on a jack-in-the-box, like any moment a leering evil head on a spring was going to jump out at her and make her look like an idiot. She cautiously turned the knob again, and then gave it a weak yank. It didn't open. “See? I told you. I can't do it.”

I refused to take her word for it. I muscled her out of the way and grabbed the lock. I twisted it expertly.

“Like this. To the right, then back to the left, then right again, and stop.” I stood aside and made a motion that she should pull the lock open. It opened, of course. She looked resigned. “I told you.”

I stared at her for a moment, wondering how she had managed to survive life thus far. Then I briskly implemented Plan B.

“No problem!” I said brightly. “See this file cabinet? We keep a few in the top drawer. Just make sure you have at least five books in here and you'll be fine.”

That was how our “training session ” began. I'll tell you how it ended in another post, if I remember. What did I learn? I'm not sure. When a student says, “I can't do it. Not gonna happen,” should I take her at her word? Or should I hold the possibility of success for her, until she can achieve it for herself? 

Surrendering to the inevitable

Seeing my mother mending her bones in the rehab down the street is triggering my awareness that I spend a lot of my time believing in the silly misconception that I'm in control of my life. Wow. How's that for a sentence.

What would it be like to surrender to life? To stop fighting time and space, other people, my body... to just accept things as they are? Would my experience of my life feel any different?

Would I be able to feel some gratitude that my mother didn't break her neck falling down those concrete steps (which happen to be in front of my apartment)?

Would I be able to serenely accept that my new dissertation Chairperson is just a higher-paid version of the previous flaky Chairperson?

Would I be able to calmly accept that our 15-day dry spell was bound to end sooner or later, because even though there may be climate change, this is still the Pacific Northwest, and rusty is our natural skin condition?

Will I be able to calmly respond to the alarm clock when it goes off tomorrow morning at 5:30 a.m., instead of smacking it five times before I crawl resentfully out of bed?

I'd write more, but 5:30 rolls around awful quick, and I am not a morning person.

Careening out of control into the wreckage of the future

My normal state is to feel precariously perched on a thin edge, like a malcontented gargoyle glaring at the world. As I listen to the gardener's blowing machine rattling outside my windows, I grit my pearlies and reflect on how it is possible to keep functioning despite being stretched like chewing gum stuck to a shoe. The air around me feels slightly more rarefied, or maybe my lungs aren't processing oxygen efficiently due to my freaking out every five minutes.

My father used to admonish me: “Relax!” I always sat in the same old dusty wing chair during my weekly visits, and he sat in his matching dusty wing chair. My foot would be bobbing, my knee would be jerking, my fingers would be picking at anything rough, for example, my other fingers, the chair piping, the creases on my jeans, my nose—I couldn't sit still.

“Relax! Like this.” He let his hands flop over the edge of the chair arms, hanging his head hang loose, an old bald white guy imitating his idea of a guru's meditative posture. I didn't try to explain to him that my erstwhile attempts to meditate, undertaken in Los Angeles when I was questioning the meaning of my existence, had been tainted by the groupies of the Church of Religious Science. Relaxation leaves one vulnerable to attack by nutbars and wackjobs. Nope, I'll keep on fidgeting, thanks, Dad.

So, now, when I really need to chill out, I can't seem to stop fretting. I have reasons to fret, as do all fretters. Life is hard, and worrying is one way to cope. Probably there are more efficient and effective methods—like crack cocaine. Gin and tonic. Right now even some Ben & Jerry's would soothe the pain... But I've sworn off everything except hot baths, naps, and smutty vampire novels. With so few havens (vices) left in which to hide, it's no wonder my cuticles are raw bloody meat. My friend calls it “dwelling on the wreckage of the future.”

My siblings and I have banded together via email and text message to deal with the latest crisis: The center of our existence, the maternal parental unit, took a tumble down some concrete steps on Monday, fracturing her pelvis and requiring some days of recuperation in the hospital, followed by a stint of as yet unknown duration in rehab. Now I realize her 2011 hip replacement was a dress rehearsal for this event. This time we were prepared. We swung into action. Collect clothes, books, cell phone, crossword puzzles. Move car, water plants, renew library books, notify friends and relatives. Fetch and carry, commiserate via text with the in-town sibling, and draw support from the emails of the out-of-town siblings. And teeter on the thin edge of my life.

When one is in disaster mode, it's always good to keep in mind the possibility of more trouble. What else could go wrong? There's another one of those useless questions again. Well, Carol, let's make a list of what else could go wrong. Let's see: your car could break down; you could get fired from your job; you could run over someone's cat; your committee Chairperson could tell you your concept sucks, start over; you could choke on a fishbone, really, the list is endless! So many possibilities. Drat! I've careened once again into the wreckage of the future!

More to be revealed

Finally, at the age of 55, I think I get it. This is it, this is my life; whether I like it or not, this is my life. It doesn't matter how much I complain or whine. Having hope that things might be other than what they are is a waste of the time I have left. Today I am pondering the idea that what I focus on reveals what I think is important.

I have spent so many hours, days, years thinking if-only thoughts. You know what I mean. If only I were thinner, if only I were pretty, if only I had a new car, if only it were 90 degrees everyday, if only people loved me for who I am.... then I could finally be happy. But if-only thoughts are a pointless dead end, leading me nowhere but down, back into the hole in sidewalk I've tried so hard to crawl out of. Today I am taking a new approach to the if-onlys.

If I am not thin by now, then it was never that important to me. If it were that important, I would have spent more time watching my diet and working out. Bah, who cares about thin! I'm giving it up. From now on, no more obsessing over my hips. I wear huge baggy clothes anyway. People already think I weigh 200 lbs. Who cares about a couple camel hip bumps! At least I'm balanced. And if there is a brief famine after the earthquake, I'll be able to live off those hip bumps for a couple weeks at least. Na na na.

About the whole pretty thing. I'm old now, so pretty, like baby-making, is no longer on the bucket list. But grooming is always possible, if one cares about how one looks. For example, if I don't have manicured nails by now, then clearly I must not rate manicured nails high on my priority list. Nails, shmails. That is an easy one to give up—I have never cared much about grooming. (Just as a for instance, this morning I looked in the mirror and found a white hair growing among the coarse dark hairs in my right eyebrow. It must have been there for quite awhile, to be so long. I confess, I rarely look in the mirror. Grooming is highly over rated, in my opinion. Before long my eyebrows will be non-existent, if my mother's eyebrows are any indication of the future of my facial hair.) Anyway, so when it comes to manicures, I don't care what my nails look like, or my hands either, for that matter. I'm just glad I have hands and that they work, more or less. At least I can point to things and carry a cup of tea.

How about cars and self-image? Americans are obsessed over cars. Not me. If I'm not driving a Lexus by now, then I never cared about how my vehicle communicated my status, not enough anyway to earn the money or marry the rich husband so I had the resources to buy one. I've never participated in the must-have-new-car-every-three-years mentality. (Or the earning thing or the rich-husband strategy either.) I know some people would rather die than drive an old beater. Just like there are those who wouldn't be caught dead shopping at a thrift store. Not me. I happily shop Goodwill, and I'm content with my 11-year-old Ford Focus, with all its dents and scratches. It reminds me of me.

The weather thing is a non-starter, but I'll say something about it anyway, because this morning I had a conversation with someone about the issues of powerlessness and control. She admitted she didn't understand the concept of powerlessness, because people control the weather all the time. I was like, what? People control the weather? How did I get left out of that seminar? She proceeded to tell me that there is a cabal of powerful folks controlling the world's weather, so apparently there's no longer any point in complaining about it. Wow, think of the implications! Humans have been complaining about weather since at least the dawn of history. There will be a huge void in the water-cooler conversation if we all get to choose our own micro-climate. Maybe we can get some work done. Anywho, sign me up! Ninety degrees sounds about optimal to me.

The last one, being loved for who I am, is a tricky if-only. I'm demanding unconditional love, and I know enough now to know humans aren't capable of delivering. Somewhere along the line I guess I must have figured out if I wanted acceptance, I would have to be something or someone other than myself. Naturally I resented that realization, and fought it hard in ways both covert and obvious. Which may explain in part why I chose the difficult path of creativity. (And why my relationships have always been such a mess.) But what I think I'm really asking for is acceptance of my creative self. And it hurts to imagine that, applying the same logic I so glibly applied to my hips, if I haven't focused on my art or my writing by now, then maybe I never really believed in them to begin with.

I can't leave it there. I think my mind is trying to kill me again. This happens when I get close to achieving a meaningful and terrifying objective—and my educational journey might qualify as such an objective. After six years, I am beginning to think I might actually one day finish this Ph.D., that the objective might really be achieved. The thought is terrifying. My instinct is to turn my back on the possibility, revert to my childish self, and declare I never really wanted it anyway, this stupid Ph.D., all I really want is to create, and isn't is sad and unfair that no one loves me? Well, that might have worked when I was 25, but not at 55. Nobody cares about my angst. I have a squad of cheerleaders prodding me to make more art, sell it on Etsy, turn the blog into an ebook, sell it on iTunes. Who am I to say it can't be done? Who am I to put some if-only condition on the dreams I have claimed as mine since childhood? Why can't I make art and earn this Ph.D? Maybe it's not an either-or but a both-and. Memo to Self: This is life. So get over yourself and live it, already.

Pondering the questions

Here's an academic quality question for you. Just in case you care. What happens if faculty define academic quality as critical thinking skills, reasoning skills, and communication skills, while administrators define academic quality as student retention rates, job placement rates, and student loan default rates?

I'd like to say I pondered this question this morning, while I lay in a comfy dentist's chair having a filling replaced, but truthfully, this morning was one of those rare occasions when I can say I was truly in the moment. There's nothing like a trip to the dentist to bring you back to your body.

After I recovered with a nap and a pill, I walked into the park and tried to clear the mental fog away with sunshine and exercise. I do my best thinking while walking in the park. (Too bad I forget all my great ideas immediately. I suspect there is a limit on how many brilliant thoughts I'm allowed. Maybe the limit doesn't count if I don't write them down?) Today, I tried to apply my critical thinking and reasoning skills to the problem of defining academic quality, but I kept getting distracted by cute shaggy dogs, happy dog-walkers, hikers, birds, rocks and pebbles... What can I say? It's spring. Who cares about academic quality when the sun is shining in Portland?

At some point, endorphins kicked in. “The End of the Line” by the Traveling Wilburys came on my mp3 player (no, I'm not cool enough to own an iPod), and I started reflecting on the finite nature of life and art. Then I got frustrated with reflecting. I thought about my aunt who died last Friday at the age of 100. I thought about my sister and our matching quests for meaningful lives. I thought about my friend Karen who died way too soon. I thought about how short life is and how unimportant other people's opinions really are. For about 45 seconds, I was ready to claim my place in the world. I was ready to quit the tedious teaching job. I was ready to jump in my car and head for a new adventure. I was ready to tell the world, loudly and repeatedly, “Make room for me, I have something to say!”

Then I had to climb a hill, I got tired, I sneezed, people were in the way, and the path smelled like dog poop. I went back to pondering the question of academic quality as I left the park and meandered toward home. The sun went down, the pain pill wore off, and everything went back to normal.

I do my best work when I'm doing nothing

That is the conclusion I reached today as I trundled my way to Freddy's to replenish my empty fridge. Driving to the store is one of those mundane activities that allows my brain to roam free. My almost-ancient Ford Focus (Found On Road Dead, Fix And Repair Daily) knows the way. On autopilot, I can think about other things besides uninsured motorists, belligerent bicyclists, and kamikaze squirrels. For example, I think about my life and how it sucks. Today, instead of monitoring traffic, I monitored the current level of my malcontentedness. After pausing politely at a four-way stop, I heaved a series of angst-ridden sighs. I realized only one conclusion was possible: I should do nothing, because doing nothing is what I do best. I should just stop trying so hard to make things happen. As soon as I try to do stuff, everything goes to hell in a hand-basket.

This reminds me of a conversation I had with a friend back in 1998. He was a Lyle Lovett look-alike, tall, tan, over-the-top charismatic, and an avid proponent of Science of Mind. I was tagging along after him, metaphysically speaking, searching for my own belief system. My quest wasn't working all that well. One day, after I had shared my typical morose viewpoint, he said, “Carol, you need to re-frame your questions.”

“What? What do you mean?” I asked, not really interested in the answer.

“Well, what question are you asking right now?”

“Uh—why am I such a loser?”

“See, that's what I mean,” he said with satisfaction, as if I were the data point that had just proved the validity of his scientific theory on success.

“Huh?”

“Well, if you ask the question like that, what answers do you think your brain will come up with?”

I stared at him with some resentment. I could see where he was going, but mostly I was annoyed with his obvious smug satisfaction. I hadn't felt that level of certainty about anything in a very long time. To have that level of conviction! I still don't know what that feels like.

Now, in 2012, I can hear his voice smirking in my ear: “Carol, what question are you asking?” And doggone it, it's the same damn question!

Some people say our brains are like computers. If that is true, that would explain why I keep getting responses from my brain like, “File not found.” Maybe my brain is just responding to the questions I ask. The answer to the question “Why am I such a loser?” can only start with “Well, Carol, the reasons why you are such a loser...” Which makes me think I should just stop trying to think my way out of my malcontentdness. I should stop thinking. I should do what I do best. I should do nothing.

The post should stop here for dramatic effect, but since no one will read this except my sister, Bravadita, and a handful of visitors from Russia, I will add a little more. I am too old not to know that I can't expect to sit around and do nothing. I know where that kind of thinking leads. It's sort of like waiting for the bus to come to my front door instead of going out to the bus stop. The only bus that will come to my front door is the short bus, if you know what I mean. And the only place it will take me is the looney bin, where, yes, I will get my three squares, a bed, and lots of time to think. Is that really what I want? Even my malcontented brain knows the answer to that question.

My resentment slip is showing again

I had a 20-minute chat with my new dissertation chair this week, before all the end-of-term madness began. She actually called me. If there was any doubt before, right there you can tell she's not an adjunct. Adjuncts expect you to call them. Of course, makes perfect sense. They don't get paid extra for talking to students on the phone. Or via email for that matter, which is probably why I received communication from the previous chair that I would describe as both terse and sparse.

This new chair, let's call her Dr. C, sounds like a real firecracker. A regular pistola. Judging by her photo, she's half my age, and five times as peppy. I didn't have to say much; she did all the talking. I took notes like the good student that I am, and watched the next year and a half of my life get sucked down the drain.

Yep. Looks like this is going to take a lot longer than I thought.

She was properly sympathetic that my concept paper, submitted to the University with zero feedback from my former chair (I picture Dr. G. dusting off her hands with satisfaction at having passed the problem on to higher committee) has been kicked back to me with a “re-submit.” No big surprise, I guess. I have been blundering around out in the back forty for quite awhile now. Yuck. That's a disturbing metaphor. You know what happens to critters who blunder around out in the back forty. Yep. Hamburger.

Still, Dr. C. seems like a good egghead. She said she's a methodologist. I don't care what she calls herself. I can get along with all kinds of people. Wait. What? Oh, a methodologist! Considering my current approach is grounded theory, I'm sure she will have a lot to say. Oh boy. I feel another bout of inadequacy coming on. Deep breath. I told myself when I started the dissertation sequence that I was going to treat my chairperson as my client, do whatever it takes to please the client, you know—the old the-customer-is-queen ploy that marketers use to make you feel so special you want to reciprocate (i.e., buy things). I'm going to make this process so easy for her, she will feel like her pay-per-hour just doubled.

Ugh. Thinking of pay-per-hour just got me really depressed. My original vision of teaching online for a not-for-profit university has been pretty well shattered by now, what with the reports of poor treatment of adjuncts and the deep-seated mistrust of for-profit education. So much for retiring to an internet-connected adobe hut in the California desert. The hut probably is attainable, although I fear it will be made of cardboard rather than adobe. The California desert, though, is starting to feel like an impossible dream from my earlier, stupider days. Well, at least I learned something from this six-year-long, $45,000 journey into higher education.

Launch the lifeboats, the ship is sinking!

The term ended today at the career college. Last week was spent preparing finals, administering finals, and grading finals to the few students who actually showed up. (I know, like, who wouldn't show up to the final?) I took time out from all the grading to wonder how some students could, despite ten weeks of reminders, pleas, and threats, turn in no work during the entire term and have an expectation of passing the course. And as I reflected on how few Access tests I had to grade (bonus!), an increasing amount of my time was spent wondering how long this career college is going to survive.

I love that terms are only ten weeks long. I hate that, after the term is over, we have no time to process or reflect on our 10-week journey. No time to think about what we would like to improve. No time to create new assignments we hope will be more engaging than the lame things we did last term. I submitted my last grade packet this morning, but some instructors will be spending their weekend grading. Grades are due Monday morning, and first thing Monday morning we launch into a new term. With so little time to reflect, grade, and prepare, how can we possibly do a good job?

I wish I had something good to say, some cheery and uplifting observation, sort of like the pithy and pointed remarks my father used to say, along the lines of, “Hey, you have a job, what are you bellyaching about?” I should be grateful. I'm not. What I am is burned out.

The amount of effort, angst, grief, and frustration that goes into the ending of a term and the prospect of beginning a new one has led me to one unsettling conclusion: I need a new job. But where can I find a job that pays me full-time wages for part-time work? Until I finish this stupid doctorate, I am stuck.

So what, who cares. In about eight weeks, I will have forgotten how crappy I feel right now.

A little more venting, and then I'm done. Today, in addition to the grading and prepping, as we do at the end of every term, we attended three hours of in-service workshops designed to make us better teachers. I could tell them what would make me a better teacher: Let me get enough sleep. Give me some time to process what I've experienced. A door prize of a school t-shirt or a Wells Fargo grocery bag is not going to cut it. My boss's boss, who is the business program director at another campus, sat by me in one session. He wrote something on a piece of paper and turned it so I could see it. He wrote, “I had zero starts.”

Zero starts! He told me we need 64 students at our site to break even. If every new student actually shows up on Monday, new starts at all three campuses will total 64. Clearly the ship has crashed on the rocks and is taking on water fast. Launch the lifeboats. Mucky-mucks, no cuts. We are watching you.

Speaking of mucky-mucks, they were around at the end of the day, lurking like the mostly invisible creatures they are, coming out after dark to flit around the building. At 5:00, we got the news: Time to leave. Evening orientation was canceled due to lack of enrollments. Everyone out of the building. As I lugged my bags full of last term's binders toward the door, I passed the president of the college and another man in a suit. Both looked quite relaxed, standing in the lobby, smiling. I wanted to ask them what they had to smile about, but I didn't. Oh wait, let me guess. I bet you have some pretty nice golden parachutes to save you if the company goes under. Not me. But I'm not going down with this ship. Last one out is fishfood. Beat you to the lifeboat.