Traveling in Poland

It's an established fact Mickey Mouse makes the best ice cream with chocolate sauce in Rzeszow, Poland.  Apparently people queue up in a little corridor inside a building in the promenade for hours to eat this ice cream.
     You are supposed to wear your Sunday best to walk down the promenade with your partner, family, or medium size, well-behaved dog on a leash, at a perfectly synchronized stroll, pretending not to notice if anyone else is watching you.  Of course you know you're being watched, because you're wearing high heels or trendy sandals, are well-coiffed, and your outfit is casually chic. 

If you do happen to see someone you know, then hugs and kisses (three on the cheek) are acceptable, but otherwise you are totally oblivious to the other people walking next to you, sitting on benches, or in one of the numerous sidewalk cafes.  You must hold the hand of your significant other to establish ownership, stroll down to get your ice cream, and then stroll slowly back down the promenade eating it, without getting any chocolate sauce on your perfect outfit.  These are the unwritten rules for a Sunday afternoon in southeast Poland.                          
Clearly I am spending way too much time on this promenade, but short of going to church, which is right across the street from my hostel so I can hear the bells toll and the people singing day and night anyway, going to the museums and pretending to read the signs in Polish, or watching movies in Polish at the cinema, there isn't much to do other than people watch to the strumming of the street musicians.  They even speak Polish in the Irish Pub, which is aptly named the Irish Pub, and is across from the London Pub and Club.
   
This is not really a tourist city, so the only organized tour is the underground cellars beneath the town square where you can see a plastic replica of the remains of some poor Jewish person who hid there trying to escape the Nazis. Clearly they weren't successful in escaping, because only a few hundred of the 24,000 Jews in town survived.  Very little evidence remains of this once vibrant Jewish quarter.  Most of their synagogues and cemeteries were destroyed.  Only a few plaques on buildings remind us of the once infamous Rzeszow ghetto.   

Vote for Love not Hate

It is no secret I am a lifelong Democrat, a liberal, a feminist, and support Hilary Clinton as the first woman President of the United States.  That isn't surprising.  What is surprising is how often I have to defend my views to other women.

I've been told, "I just don't trust her."  Well, I trust her more than Donald Drumpf, the trigger-happy Fascist who invited Russia to hack into our computer systems.  He said it was only a joke, like his attacks on Latinos, immigrants, women, and disabled people.  We don't need a president who can't control his own mouth controlling our nuclear weapons.

I've been told, "She doesn't represent all women."  Of course not, no more than Barack Obama represents all African-Americans, but I can still remember the pride in the voice of one of my seventh grade students when he was elected president.

"Obama looks just like me," he said.  "I could be President someday!"

"Yes, you can," I told him.

Just as John F. Kennedy's election gave Irish-American Catholics the hope for social acceptance in this country, Hilary Clinton's election will lead the way for other women to make their marks in politics and in the world.  Too many young women have forgotten the sacrifices our mothers, grandmothers, and great-grandmothers made for us to have the freedoms we take for granted today.

When my mother was 17, she was told she could not go to college or into the military service.  Her only options as a woman were to become some man's secretary or his wife.  So my mother made sure all of her children received the best education possible and encouraged her daughters to go to college.  Eventually she proudly earned her own bachelor's degree later in life.


I've had people suggest Hilary would only be a mouthpiece for her husband, as if married women cannot think for themselves.  No one would dream of saying this to Michelle Obama, who proved at the Democratic National Convention she is just as eloquent a speaker as her husband, and certainly has a mind of her own.

I will never forget the courageous women who made unimaginable sacrifices to make it possible for all women to vote and to have control over our own bodies and our destinies.  So I will proudly vote for the first woman President of the United States.

I will vote
for love not hate,
for hope not fear,
for unity not division,
for compassion not narcissism,
for an America which keeps it promises
rather than threatens people,
for the first woman President of the United States
and the women who will follow.

Afraid of Hospitals

My brother Michael and me

     Today I got my first call for a substitute teaching assignment.  Even though I could really use the money after my dead broke summer, I had to turn it down.  Why?
      My brother needs me.  Last week the nursing home called to say my brother refused, literally kicking and screaming, to go to the hospital for a check up with the neurosurgeon.  The poor guy looks exhausted when I go to see him later that morning.
     So I explain to the nurses and the social worker that my brother is terrified of hospitals.  After three brain surgeries and 39 years of being subjected to long hospitalizations to test the latest psychotropic drugs, who wouldn't be? 
     I promise I will accompany him to his next doctor's appointment, warning them not to mention it's at the hospital.  Truthfully, I'm not sure I can get him to go.  My brother can be stubborn and not even the bribe of his favorite strawberry shake can get him to do something he doesn't want to do, like take a shower.
     When I arrive at the nursing home around 7 o'clock this morning, Michael is lying down fully clothed on his bed.  He gets up immediately when I call him, with a smile on his face, expecting his usual snack of a banana, chocolate pudding, and a can of pop.  Today I come empty-handed. 
     Still he follows me down to the dining room by the nurses' station for his breakfast of cereal, juice, eggs and toast.  He doesn't ask where we're going when we take the elevator down to the lobby, where a CNA is waiting for us.  I can tell she's nervous about how my brother's going to react this time, as she gestures for me to go ahead.  
     When Michael sees the medicar waiting outside, he freezes.  Seeing the raw fear in his eyes, I blink back tears.  Keeping my voice light and casual, I say, "It's okay, Michael.  I'm coming too.  C'mon, we'll be back in no time."
     I'm not sure what he will do as I walk towards the door.  After a moment's hesitation, he follows me.  Wheeling himself to the ramp at the back of the van, he allows the van driver to strap down his chair.  I climb up to sit in a seat close to him. 
     Although he doesn't say much, I notice that Michael is looking out the window at places he hasn't seen in months.  That's when I get the automated telephone call on my cell phone for a job, which I ignore.
     When we arrive at the hospital, I'm relieved that Michael doesn't cause a fuss.  He waits patiently for the doctor's assistant to come in to take his blood pressure and temperature, not the least bit interested in the paperwork the CNA has given me from the nursing home detailing his diagnoses and medications.  She stays outside in the waiting room while I go into the examining room with my brother.    
     Seated companionably beside me, Michael follows another associate's instructions to close his eyes and hold out both his arms.  Then he firmly squeezes the two middle fingers of both the doctor's hands and grasp his wrists.  When asked, he gets up and walks briefly.  
     While he answers the doctor's questions when prompted, Michael keeps his head down most of the time, waiting to get back to his own internal conversations.  I can always tell when he's hearing voices, because his lips move soundlessly and sometimes he laughs for no apparent reason.  He's learned not to talk about them, however, telling me once, "I don't hear any voices and I'm not going back to the hospital!"
     Finally, the neurosurgeon comes in.  He shakes Michael's hand, asking him how he's doing.  Michael looks straight at him and says, "Fine."
     After a few more questions about any residual pain or weakness on his right side, with Michael shaking his head in response, the doctor says everything seems fine, but he would like him to get a CT scan just to make sure.  When I ask if any more visits to the downtown hospital are necessary, he says no.  That's a relief. 
     So we wait for the scrip for the CT scan, then for the medicar to pick us up, getting us back to the nursing home in time for lunch.  Before I leave, my brother has one last request for me.  Can I get him a can of pop?  
     Of course I can.  I buy him a Pepsi on the first floor at the little candy store and bring it back up to him, promising I'll be back to see him in a couple of days.  Tomorrow I'm taking my mother to the doctor.
          
           
     
         

               

Summer Vacations to Remember

Last year at this time I was exploring southern Poland, immersing myself in the history of World War II and the Holocaust to heal old psychic wounds.  Despite my bad knee, I forced myself up and down hills, stairs, and over cobblestones in extreme heat and humidity.  I stayed in historic hotels, Lemko cottages, and even on the grounds of castle in places with names I cannot pronounce.  I ate pierogis and pizzas with white sauce and tangy ketchup in outdoor cafes and watched endless streams of people pass me by.  I waited along the side of the road for three hours late buses and dragged my suitcase up and down the stairs to trains before I learned that private taxi is the only efficient way to travel if you can't drive gear shift.  And I thought that was a challenge. 
    In summers past I've wandered the islands of Tahiti, bobbing along in salty turquoise water, and eating pineapples and fresh grilled Mahi Mahi by the beach.  I stayed in grass huts and pensions, feeding scraps to chickens and stray dogs, and searching for the perfect black pearl.  
    On the tiny island of Bimini in the Bahamas, I've attempted to swim with the dolphins, only succeeding in getting seasick on the boat.  Thank you to all the kind staff of Wildquest who looked after me.  I have never met such a group of empathetic people living in harmony.
      I did find the trail of Ernest Hemingway, who apparently loved go to big game fishing on this island off the coast of Fort Lauderdale, but I didn't find any traces of the lost sunken city of Atlantis in those clear blue waters.

     Then there was the summer spent in the hot springs of Ojo Caliente outside of Santa Fe and bathing in the mineral waters in a funky little spa town called Truth or Consequence in New Mexico.  I'll never forget getting my rental car stuck in a ditch taking the back roads through cattle country and being pulled out by a nice guy who was recently home from serving as a relief worker in Africa.  What are the chances of that!
     I've driven from Seattle to Mount Shasta in northern California, staying in a small town named Weed, in search for vestiges of ancient Lemurians.  All these journeys I've taken alone, relying on the kindness of strangers to help me get by.  They gave me the inspiration to write during the harsh winter months.

Mount Shasta

     This summer, however, I undertook a much more difficult journey, visiting hospitals and rehab centers, to explore the frailties of the human mind.  For a long time now, worrying about mental illness has been relegated to the dark period of my past.  Having long ago accepted my brother's mental illness, I was content with the occasional visit to the nursing home where he has lived for many years.  I was comfortable leaving my brother's care in my mother's capable hands.
     This recent crisis has forced me to become much more hands on in my brother's care and to see in excruciating detail how mental illness can rob you of your freedom and dignity.  I've held his hands when they were shaking so badly he couldn't hold a can of pop.  I've had to explain to the occupational and speech therapists and CNA's how to motivate him to participate in activities and to change his clothes.  I've had to point out the side effects of over-medication to his nurses and doctors and fight to have it reduced.
     Mostly I've tried to make him smile and to laugh, to distract him for just a moment from the frustrating realities of having no control over your life.  It's been frustrating and humbling.  I wish I could tell you that I handled it all graciously, with deep compassion and empathy, but that would be a lie.  I'm still a work in progress.  
     The only good thing that has come out of this hellish summer is that my brother and I have become much closer.  Almost losing him has made me realize the depths of my love for my older brother.
  

You Don't Choose Your Family

"You don't choose your family.  They are God's gift to you, as you are to them."                                                                         Desmond Tutu

      When I was very young, my mother says that a large television almost fell on top of me and Michael saved me from being crushed.  He shielded me with his own body, holding up this massive television set and yelling for help.  Of course, I don't remember this.  
     Now it's my turn to protect him.  Only two years apart, my older brother and I were always very competitive.  We both did well in school, although he excelled more in math while I preferred language arts.  He was an amazing piano player while I loved to sing and dance.  I'll never forget him playing "O Come All Ye Faithful" on the piano for me in the school Christmas pageant when I was in fifth grade.   
     Valedictorian of his elementary school graduating class, my brother set the bar very high for the rest of us.  I knew I could not compete with him athletically, since he was so good at baseball and basketball, and I avoided playing ping pong or board games with him.  He was known to throw the game across the room when he lost.  I preferred to read. 
    We went to single sex Catholic high schools right next door to each other, both earning scholarships to prestigious universities, his in accounting and mine in journalism, and then the competition abruptly ended.  
     When he developed schizophrenia and had to drop out of college, I won by default but I knew it was a hollow victory.  
     Although I have dedicated my life to trying to understand these complicated brain disorders, nothing could stop my brother's downward spiral from private university research hospitals to state hospitals to overcrowded nursing homes.  Most people cannot see his keen intelligence under his rough exterior and accumulated battle scars, but I can occasionally catch glimpses.
     Recently an occupational therapist asked me if Michael understood the directions she had given him on how to put different size pegs into the proper size holes.  Instead he was standing them up on the wooden board, which is actually a much more difficult task of fine motor skills.  
     "Oh, he understands you alright," I replied. "He's just bored and doesn't want to do it."
     He laughed as I challenged him to see who could get more pegs into the right size holes faster.  Our competition isn't over.
            
       
     
     

Beware of Tigers

This is not how I planned my summer.  I imagined daily trips to the health club, rewriting my novels, and spending leisure time with friends and family.  But from the moment we got the call that my brother had been rushed to the hospital for emergency brain surgery a month ago, my plans were hijacked.

     First there were the daily long drives downtown during open construction season to visit my brother.  Then the daily visits to the nursing home to coax, bribe, and cajole him to eat solid foods, cooperate with his therapy, and change his clothes.  Then my mother ends up in the hospital from worrying about my brother so now I'm visiting two sick patients each day, while working part-time, taking care of the cat, and nursing my own miserable summer cold.
    Of course I realize that it could all be much worse.  My brother and mother both survived and are getting stronger each day.  It's just a cold and I'll feel better in a few days.  So why don't I just stop my whinging and be thankful.  After all, it's not like my brother asks me to come see him.  Someone else could bring my mother her robe.  The world wouldn't end if I got off the treadmill for just one day.
     Yet how can I begrudge my brother an hour of my time when I see how he immediately straightens up in his wheelchair and smiles when he sees me?  How he laughs when I tease him, knowing that I truly understand him like no one else.  Who could resist that?
     And how could I leave my mother all alone in her hospital room, even if it is more elegant than most hotel rooms?  Now that she's in a country club rehab center with full  waitress service in their sunny dining room and more equipment than most fitness centers, I don't feel quite so guilty.
     Yesterday after visiting both of them, I dragged myself into work to tutor an exhausted 11-year-old girl fasting for Ramadan.  She did not want to be there anymore than I did.  Realizing that demanding that she do her reading exercises would result in a struggle, we talked for an hour about her concerns and fears.  Finally she decided to do her reading program all on her own while I worked with another student.
     Although there are 44 years between us, I realized that both of us are struggling with similar issues.  For that couple of hours I gave her the opportunity to make her own decisions and to take back some small control of her life.  I listened to her and answered her questions openly and honestly.  It was such a gift for both of us.
     Then I went home and slept for the rest of the night.  Summer isn't over yet.             

The Strongest Woman in the World

Mother and me with Grandma and Michael

     I used to believe my mother was the strongest person on the planet.  Maybe most children do.
     She ruled our household, doling out punishments and rewards seemingly arbitrarily. There was no point in appealing to a higher court for Dad was no match for Mom's strong will.  She made the rules and punishment was swift and severe for a first offense to deter any future challenges.
     Knowing that direct confrontation was futile, I retreated to the basement and waited patiently for my opportunity to escape.  "Don't tell Mother" was our family battle cry as we kept each others' secrets.  
     Finally my time came to go away to college.  My present for my 18th birthday was luggage.  I finagled my way onto campus as a boarder in a sorority house and as a tenant in a fraternity house during the summers.  After graduating college, I moved into apartments with roommates and boyfriends before moving to Ireland to build a new life.  I never planned to live at home again.
     No one was more surprised than me by the sudden urge to move back stateside eight years later.  Just as I had packed up everything to move overseas nine months after my first visit to Dublin, now I reversed the process and gave away everything once again to move home.
     I only planned to live at home for a couple of months, but somehow this has stretched to 15 years.  There are many reasons, of course--financial reverses, failed romances, and caring for my father at home when he developed Lewy Body Dementia.  After Dad died, it suited us both for me to stay on.
     So when did my mother change from this intimidating authority figure into this frail vulnerable woman afraid of losing control of her independence?  And if it could happen to the strongest person I know, then will it happen to me eventually?
     No wonder I can't sleep at night unable to breathe from the worst allergy attack I've had in years.  Just help me, Lord, get through this day, this hour, this minute, this second...