Close Calls

I was walking.

I am such a caricature of myself: the doctor’s wife, in my yoga clothes, with my yoga mat slung behind me, in flip flops, clutching a latte … but I digress.

There was a lot of construction. On one side of the street, there was a fenced-off lot with a backhoe working and on the other side, a big truck was slowly backing into a driveway.

Since the sidewalk along the fence wasn’t closed, I was walking there.

The fence was about 8 feet tall. The heap of rubble behind it was much taller. It had been a brick building that morning. And it was shaking. The backhoe, which I couldn’t see, was working behind it.

It began to occur to me that, perhaps, I shouldn’t be there.

The construction worker directing the truck saw me and waved me to the other side of the street. “Just in case,” he said.

Of course, he was right.

(Also, that sidewalk should have been blocked off, hello.)

After I had walked on, I turned. As I watched, that pile of bricks tumbled over, flattening the fence and spilling all over the sidewalk.

Whew, a close call.

We all have them and have more of them, the older we get.

Once you become a certain age, it seems, doctors are always finding things that could be terrible. I continue to have doctors monitor me for possibly horrific things. In fact, I just got another all-clear after a week of worry.

Even with all these all-clears (thank God), I am left with residual fear. What about next time?

Because something will eventually get you, right?

How are we supposed to deal with that?

Yet, the bricks didn’t bother me … I am going to buy that construction worker a coffee, though.

Yes, and ....

Really, improv is fun -- if scary -- to do.

Wrote about my experiences with it and Houston's improv scene recently for The Buzz Magazines.

Sick of Fear

I went through a period of about a year and a half, with an intense stretch of about three months at the end, of health scares.

Suddenly, it seemed, I couldn’t get a routine medical test without it coming back positive, possibly indicating something dire. Literally, at one point, I was standing in line at a doctor’s office, to get a follow-up procedure for one finding, when my phone rang, to let me know of another positive test result that could indicate something else dire for which a follow-up had to be scheduled … in a few weeks.

All I had done was get the routine screening tests my doctors told me I should, the way I always did: mammogram, pap smear, eye exam, etc. But this go-round, they led to, according to my count, a follow-up mammogram, three ultrasounds, four unpleasant gynecological procedures, in which, as my doctor-husband put it, gynecologists got “way up into my business,” a urology procedure, two MRIs, a CT scan, two sets of x-rays, excisions and a skin graft.

I am not blaming anyone. My doctors are very good at what they do, were doing exactly what they are supposed to do and very possibly saved me from something bad.

But, although it was no one’s intention, I cannot think of a better way to push someone, especially someone like me, who’s kind of anxious, right off the fear cliff.

I am fine, for which I feel lucky and grateful. I know I am also lucky to have access to healthcare.

But I also ended up seeing a therapist and getting on Prozac.

(Prozac’s great, so is therapy!)

Maybe that’s a silver lining: Feeling besieged led me to seek help for the anxiety I’ve come to realize has  always been lurking inside my head. J

I’m Going To Be OK With That

We’ve all heard, and used, that old saying, “Nothing’s perfect.”

So, why do I have such a hard time convincing myself not to run my life as if there is such a thing?

What do we even mean by “perfect”? What, for example, is the definition of a perfect movie or book or house or meal? Aren’t those answers all subjective?

I looked up “perfection” on Wikipedia, where there was an explanation of how people have contemplated perfection through the centuries. To me, it sounds like Plato, Thomas Aquinas, John Locke et al had way too time on their hands. A great deal of thought, for example, went into answering the questions, “What is the perfect number?” and “What is the perfect shape?”

The Wikipedia entry also pointed out that the root of the word “perfect” comes from the Latin “perfectio,” meaning “complete.”

Which reminds me of one of my favorite sayings: “Done is better than perfect.”

In other places, I’ve read the advice not to confuse “excellence” with “perfection.”

Ah, now I feel like I am getting somewhere.

“Perfect” is this weirdly fraught term, describing something that doesn’t exist, that many people, including me, use to drive themselves crazy. Or as sofilee on Urban Dictionary put it, “perfect” is “fiercely overrated and non-existent.”

Deciding that your goal is to be or to create something “perfect” strikes me as the same as labeling yourself or someone else “stupid” or “lazy,” words I hate.  Like “stupid” and “lazy,” it’s just this ill-defined, judgy word; it doesn’t get into the nitty-gritty of what you are doing and how to make it better -- or if you even need to.

It’s just a way to beat yourself up.

I’m going to listen to Salvador Dali, who said, “Have no fear of perfection - you'll never reach it.”

Don't Have To

I tend to be a mindless rule-follower.

Years ago, my friend and I were waiting on a quiet subway platform when he dropped one of his gloves – a nice, leather glove – onto the tracks. He looked both ways, hopped down, picked up the glove, then neatly pulled himself back onto the platform.

 “Yes, there are rules, but you can still think for yourself,” he explained.

I’d like to say that moment had an immediate impact on me, but it didn’t.

Every year, I water my Christmas tree because you’re supposed to, ignoring that none of my trees have ever sucked up a drop of water.

Turns out, I’ve been doing it wrong.

This professor of forestry, who, incidentally, never watered his own Christmas trees until he did his study and said none of his plant-physiologist buddies did either, advises, A., buy your tree super-fresh, as in cut a few hours ago. (As if I, in Houston, have any hope of that.) B., he says recut the trunk when you get home, the way you cut the stems of flowers before putting them in a vase. (Duh. Why didn’t I think of that?)

Even then, though, within 12 hours, the tree will cover the new cut with resin.

I might try cutting the trunk but, then again, I’ve done it wrong for years and it’s been fine. The hell with it.

I have always washed raw chicken, thinking I was getting rid of bacteria. When my husband told me that’s not right, I didn’t believe him; he had to send me a link. Turns out he’s right: You should NOT wash raw chicken and other meats because you don’t get the bacteria off but you do splash it all over the kitchen.

So, I’m going to change.

I feel so daring.

“The Glass is Already Broken”

I have a new favorite saying.

A wonderful commenter, Suzanna from Oregon, explained it recently on "Motherlode," the parenting blog of the New York Times.

I also found the story of it recounted, by author Mark Epstein, who was there, in his book, Thoughts Without A Thinker. (I love Google.)

Basically, Ajahn Chah, a famous Buddhist monk, whom Epstein visited in Thailand with a group, showed them his drinking glass. He told them he loved that glass, it was so pretty, and when he tapped it, it made a lovely sound, but, he explained, “The glass is already broken.” He went onto explain that it was inevitable that, someday, that glass would break. There is no way that it would last forever. Maybe he would knock it over with his sleeve or maybe it would fall off its shelf, but it would shatter and be gone.

Rather than spend effort trying to prevent the inevitable, twisting himself up with worry, maybe being grumpy to other people, maybe even packing the glass away in storage where he wouldn’t be able to use it or even see it, he chose to enjoy the glass now, while he had it, and not worry that it would someday be gone.

Cool.

Controlling the Impulse to Control

Since he was small, my son has been a rule-follower. And if there are no rules to follow, he will make some up.

Recent case in point: when he applied for his driver’s permit, the lady gave him a temporary paper copy, telling him grumpily not to rip it.

I said, “Let’s make some copies of that bad boy in case you lose it.”

“No, Ma, she said not to make copies.”

“No, she said not to rip it.”

“Well, maybe that means not to copy it too ….”

Sigh.

I know. He doesn’t want to mess up. And that’s good.

 

(If you wonder why I thought to make copies of his permit, it’s because he has a special gift for losing things.)

Control, though, is a funny concept. It can be good, like when you do have things “under control,” but it can be bad, like when you are “controlling.” (Ever notice: anytime anyone is called “controlling,” it’s a bad thing?)

Trying to be in control can quickly go off the rails. I’m convinced that all superstitions spring from the desire, the need, to feel, at least somewhat, in control. Our minds search for logic in what happens around us so we can harness that logic and stay safe – like this superstition of my family.

But such superstitions can also drive you crazy, because, you know what? We’re not in control, not really. Yeah, we can weigh risks and benefits, we can take precautions, but ultimately, things are not in our control.

The dangers of trying to be in control are, I think, why people going through AA are told to put their faith in a Higher Power. What that Higher Power is matters far less than that you don’t feel you have to control everything youself.

Up in the Air on Risk

For my birthday, my husband borrowed a small plane, hired a pilot and flew us to New Orleans for the weekend.

Very cool.

But we flew the same weekend a family (Dad (the pilot), Mom, three girls) crashed their small plane into the woods in Kentucky.

Only their youngest daughter, aged 7, survived, walking a mile through woods, at night, barefoot in winter temperatures, with a broken wrist, to knock on someone’s door. (In news reports, police officers, getting teary, say that if she had walked in any other direction that night, she might not have survived either.)

On our trip, our pilot told us there were some weather conditions he would be flying around, so the flight would be bumpy.  Regular, old turbulence is not dangerous, though it can feel so, especially in a small plane. You are in a minivan-sized vehicle, surrounded by windows. It feels like you are in a roller-coaster car that could fall off its invisible track at any moment.

Small-plane crashes are most often blamed on pilot error and inexperience. Our pilot, a professional, has thousands of hours of flight time, is certified every which way, including instrument-rated, meaning he can fly in weather conditions when he cannot see, and is a certified flight instructor. But according to news reports, the dad was an instruments-rated certified flight instructor, too.

And then there are all the psychological tricks my mind plays regarding risk. That little girl and her family are seared into my brain. And having our little plane buck like a horse felt dangerous even when I knew it wasn’t.

If we were ever truly aware of all risk, we’d never climb into a car or leave the house, let alone go on a trip for fun.

Eliminating risk is impossible; calculating it scary.