The "Crapshoot Theory" of Parenting

I had the best Mother’s Day ever this year. Mom farm/critter-sat so Ray and I could road-trip to the Black Hills, where we got to hang with my oldest kid and his family. He had a gig at the Dahl Arts Center in Rapid City, a benefit for the Americana Music Festival. He was on the bill with other friends of ours – Boyd Bristow & Kenny Putnam, Hank Harris & Jami Lynn, and others. At the end of Ryan’s set, he announced that he didn’t usually do un-original music, but he wanted to do a song that was a poem by his favorite poet – his mom – he’d set to music. And he said his mom was in the audience, so he’d “better not screw it up.” It was a total surprise to me, so of course, Ray and I both sat there crying like the babies we are. And before the night was through, I also got to sit in on a couple songs, singing with a stage full of jamming musicians. Could I BE any luckier?!?

On the drive back, our youngest son called just to wish me a Happy Mother’s Day – just a cheerful, non-emergency thinking-of-you call. While we were gone, my daughter and her family went out to the farm to spend Mother’s Day with Mom, and when we got back home that night, my daughter’s beautiful, delicious pink champagne cupcakes were waiting for us.

I’d like to take credit for the amazing adults our kids are becoming. I’d like to say I have wise parental advice. But I know the truth: it’s a crapshoot. I learned this important life lesson back when Ray had a heart attack and quadruple bypass surgery at age 50. He’s a fit, lean, non-smoking, tofu-eating, hard-working man. One evening during his recovery, we were sitting in Ray’s room at the Heart Hospital when a man walked past his door, looking for a friend he meant to visit. The guy was 60-ish, had a belly like a full laundry sack dangling and swaying over his belt, smelled like bad cigars, and – seriously – was eating a cheeseburger. He was strolling around the HH in his devil-may-care oblivion, while Ray had just been cut, probed, stuck, sliced, power-sawed, and cracked open like a walnut. Ray and I looked at each other for a long minute as the guy went by, and that’s when the Crapshoot Theory hit us.

The Crapshoot Theory, as it applies to parenting, accounts for crack moms whose kids grow up to be volunteer dentists with Doctors Without Borders or theoretical physicists whose kids grow up to be serial 7-11 stickup men. We can talk about nurturing, nutrition, good karma, guidance, education and the rest all we want, but there’s simply no clear reason why some kids grow up good, some go astray, and some end up Wall Street grifters.

All I can say about my own parenting is that I did the best I could. I made LOADS of mistakes. I had TONS of help, including my mom and grandmother – the Super Women – and Ray’s patient love, tolerance, and quiet determination (crucial balance to my hyper-parenting style). I was sometimes waaaaay too intense. I was overprotective. Or I was completely in the dark.

I pushed inner stuff over outer stuff. I didn’t drive my kids to get straight A’s, dedicate themselves to sports, or go to church every Sunday. Maybe as a result of this (or planetary alignments, barometric pressure, Universal whim…), none of my kids was interested in college. They’re all artists – in music, with cakes, or on skateboards (maybe I should have drilled in some sort of ‘make a decent living’ lesson…).

Instead, I pushed (nagged, harangued, harped on) my kids to trust in family, love, and peace; to write thank-you cards; to see everyone – even big meanies – as part of the Big Community; to be grateful for the richness of their lives (even back when we were on Food Stamps & living on Kraft macaroni & cheese); and to be aware of others’ suffering. And yes, you should be visualizing me in a peasant blouse and a tiara of daisies right now, with “Get Together” playing in your head. And maybe as a result of this (or more likely the Crapshoot Theory), our kids have all become kind-hearted, affectionate, generous, compassionate human beings. And THAT’S a pretty incredible roll of the dice.

Here's the poem my son set to music...

Old Family Photo

This is the grandmother.

You see how she has dressed

the daughter in dark broadcloth,

eyelet at the sleeves, each fold pressed.

The sons on either side,

smooth and starched,

circles of cropped hair shining,

form the beginning and end of the arch.

You see how the grandfather

looms black and white

above them all, unsmiling,

hands hidden, small eyes glaring, frightened.

The seated grandmother

spreads her flowering hands,

touches them all.

Below the waist, she melts into shadow.

The Big Universal Crapshoot

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Brain injury can lead to wearing funny hats.

Back to my “crapshoot” theory of life. You may have read about it in an earlier blog post of mine: http://uncanneryrow.blogspot.com/search?q=crapshoot. The theory was reinforced by my recent stroke, affectionately named BS. In my previous life (before BS), I considered myself a pretty healthy person. Ray & I are old granola-eating hippies. I “eat like a rabbit,” as my son likes to say, which means very little fast/restaurant food, as much local and organic food as I can get here in the land of livestock, loads of veggies, tons of whole grains and legumes, olive oil, few sweets, hardly any bread, tofu, homemade tabouli, falafel, homecooked soups & stews, and mostly chicken, fish, organic venison, and organic lamb when we eat meat. I’m slightly overweight (good winter insulation for prairie folk), but I’m active, and I work damn hard. Oh yeah…and that granola? It’s homemade, low-fat, low-sweet (honey and agave), with all organic ingredients from the co-op.

In spite of our healthy lifestyle, Ray’s had two heart attacks and I’ve had a stroke. Us—not the bazillions of cheeseburger pounding, beer guzzling, sedentary NASCAR-watching, hairspray wearing, preservative-eating, pork rind and sour cream dip aficianados out there. They’re often perfectly healthy. (Sorry…I’m working on my teensy weensy bitterness.)

Anyway, BS left me with left-side “weakness and incoordination.” That’s stroke-speak for no paralysis or numbness but an inability to use much of the left side. Try touching each fingertip of one hand to the thumb on that hand—I couldn’t do that with my left hand at first. But it’s coming back—I can do most things now, though everything’s much slower and requires concentration. My left knee still can’t quite decide if it’s supposed to lock or not (c’mon Brain…we need a new neural pathway for this!), so it just kind of flops back and forth, and I look like Frankenstein when I walk (ironic, since this is the novel my Honor’s students are studying this semester in my absence). I wouldn’t admit this for a long time…till now, really…but my entire left side was affected, so the left side of my throat is weak, and if I talk (or try to sing) too long, I get tired and hoarse. Also, if I’m upright for a while, my stomach muscles start to hurt just like I’d done 100 crunches. It’s almost as if trying to control (ha! such a myth…) or re-route my left side requires so much new brain and muscle energy that it quickly wears my body out. In fact, any use of my left side seems to require extraordinary effort followed by a nap.

Granola & morning meds...mmm!

I don’t quite have a handle on the emotional baggage of BS, either. Sometimes, suddenly and for no apparent reason, my stomach muscles tighten like a giant sash, and the floodgates open. I’m really good at quickly bringing this under control (hehe...there's that myth again), but I’m not sure that’s such a good thing. One possible disadvantage of immediate and constant loving care after something like this is that one is never alone to really let go emotionally till one is tapped out. I think a person who’s had a stroke, accident, heart attack, etc. needs to grieve for their former life. Otherwise, it’s like a constant shadow a half-step behind. 

Anyway, this probably wasn’t a smart move on my part, but last weekend, we went to the funeral of our friends’ son—a 26-year-old kid just pulling his life together, who died in an accidental apartment fire. We had just gone to his dad’s funeral last summer, making it doubly sad. Then, the next day, I went to our semi-monthly SOPD (Sisters of Perpetual Disorder) dinner. When all 20+ women stood to say they’d do whatever I needed to help me recover, I was completely overwhelmed. I had to beat a hasty retreat, so I wouldn’t burst into tears and turn the dinner into one giant sobfest of gratitude and sister-love. Mom is still coming every day to stay with me. Having my 77-year-old mommy commute daily to the farm to take care of me isn’t exactly how I saw things developing in my life, though I can’t imagine how we would all have gotten through this without her.

In addition to the immediate physical and emotional wreckage of BS, the stroke brought other changes, as well. No more daily caffeine, which for me was dang near a French Roast IV drip. Now, I buy incredibly expensive decaf beans, so I can keep my daily coffee rituals. And I’ve started drinking a bit of decaf tea now & then. No nicotine anymore. Yes, I still smoked, though not that much and only chemical-free cigs. Smoking was a ritual, too…10 minutes on the back porch, watching the rural scene, away from the gizmos and noise…ah. Meds. Before BS, I never took anything except Advil or vitamins. Now I have a daily pill reminder case. Argh. I take my blood pressure at least twice a day. We just finished a sleep study (people with apnea are 4 times more likely to have strokes and/or heart attacks), and it looks like we’ll be picking out his & hers CPAP machines in the next couple of weeks—they come in blue paisley, right? Praise all that’s holy my neurologist said to keep up the red wine because it can lower cholesterol. Giving up wine would have been the last straw…

Ray and I are trying not to BE our health issues, not to be THOSE people—the ones whose world is all doctor appointments, lab numbers, and medical jargon. I like to think the Universe was tenderly hobbling us with these little setbacks, helping us slow down and re-prioritize before we end up with BIGGER problems from which we can’t recover. I like to think I’m learning important stuff from all this. I like to think it’s an opportunity to re-evaluate and re-direct our energies. And I did get a huge batch of yummy granola made (guess what everyone’s getting for Christmas this year?).

Sleep study or Borg assimilation?

These health “blips” might be the result of lousy genes—I just found out my dad and mom both have high BP. Or, they might be from too many vices for too many years—I did have the stroke “quadrifecta”: Stress, high BP, high cholesterol, and smoking. But then, I’m in Walmart picking up prescriptions and plantar fasciitis heel pads, and I get a gander at the people walking about who have NOT had heart attacks or strokes, and in a moment of brilliant clarity I know the ugly truth: It’s just the Big Universal Crapshoot.

Big and Broken Heart

Back to my “crapshoot” theory of life. Think of any heart attack you’ve ever seen on TV or in films; it probably looked like this: A guy suddenly clutches his chest then drops over dead. As Tim O’Brien’s character Kiowa says, “Boom. Down.” And the guy is usually 150 pounds overweight, and he’s either choking down a ½-pound double bacon cheeseburger at the time, or he’s having a red-faced screaming match with a mobster, right? Well, once again, Ray and I have been lovingly kicked in the arse as a reminder that real life is not like the movies.

Ray had his first heart attack ten years ago, at age 50. Ray is not overweight. He’s fit and exercises regularly. Our diet includes very little fat (and rarely anything but olive oil), loads of whole grains and vegetables, little red meat, as much organic stuff as we can get here in South Dakota, and Ray has been eating only fresh fruit till noon every day for many years. We both drink liters of water daily. Seriously…we couldn’t eat more tofu and tabouli if we tried.

The day of Ray’s first heart attack, he was at work when, mid-morning, he had a bellyache. He thought he had gas, and he felt faint. He called me and said he didn’t feel “right.” I told him to eat an aspirin and I’d pick him up. We went to the ER, and sure enough, he was having a heart attack. By the time the whole adventure was over, he’d had a couple of stents to get some temporary heart-healing blood flow, then quadruple bypass surgery to get around eight blockages in his coronary arteries.

His second heart attack was last week. He’d been having occasional heartburn for a month or more. It woke him up a couple of mornings but went away if he got up and moved around. Then one morning, it wouldn’t go away. It was right in the middle of his chest, and he described it as a slight burning sensation—hence, the heartburn—and he said, again, he just didn’t feel “right.” He took an aspirin and we headed to town to see the doc. An ER visit, ambulance ride, and hospitalization later, he now has a new stent in one of the original bypass grafts that had slowly closed down to around 99% blocked.

Ironically, I had been planning to spend the day of Ray’s procedure with a friend in the waiting room of another hospital, where his wife, our friend, was having surgery that morning. He and my mom had waited with me through Ray’s bypass surgery years before, and it had been a great comfort, so I was looking forward to doing the same for him. Alas, the best laid plans... It all got even more comical when I discovered another friend’s mom three doors down from Ray in the same hospital, in to have her heart meds adjusted. So now I’m calling the whole affair The Great 2012 Tuneup. It will be cause for a new party each January—one with heart-healthy red wine and a delightful assortment of low-fat, high-fiber, organic, flax-encrusted hors d'oeuvres.

Anyway, here’s the thing, people: A heart attack isn’t necessarily a single, sudden, isolated event. It may sneak up slowly, giving little warning signs that most of us would probably ignore. Ray didn’t have ANY of the classical symptoms this time: faintness, shortness of breath, radiating pain or ache in the arms, back or neck, clamminess, cold sweats, tightness or pressure in the chest. All he had was a little heart burn.

Ray’s home for a week of R & R now, and he’s feeling fine. We’re grateful he didn’t need another bypass re-do (they tell us the average “life” of bypass grafts is ten years, after which some patients need the procedure re-done. Since it involves cracking the chest and stopping & re-starting the heart, we’d like to avoid that). We’re also grateful for yet another reminder never to take life—or each other—for granted.

So now we’ll both take aspirin daily. We’ll both carry nitroglycerin in our backpacks. Maybe we’ll institute an evening constitutional to get in a little more exercise. And we’ll pay close attention to anything that doesn’t feel “right.” 

I’m puzzled when I see people whose lifestyles or body conditions scream “heart attack!” but who have NOT furnished a wing in the Heart Hospital, as Ray probably has by now. I'm amazed at the powerful influence of a few crummy genes. I’m befuddled by how crafty, subtle, slow or cleverly disguised a heart attack can be. I’m baffled that it can happen to lean, fit folks leading healthy lives. But then I remember the lesson Life keeps throwing like an adorable little grenade in our path…it’s all a crapshoot.

Stroke Recovery & Teaching: the REAL Catch 22

I am TOTALLY grateful (to the point of weeping whenever I let myself really think about it) that my stroke last October was a mild one. A mild right ischemic brainstem stroke, to be precise. My left side was affected. But 8 months, lots of doc visits, oodles of PT, and tons of rest later, I can walk, talk, think, write, cook, knit, mow my lawn, and my singing voice is finally starting to come back. In fact, anything I could do before the stroke, I can do now…just slower, clumsier, and with occasional difficulty.

In some ways, folks like me who have mild strokes are caught in a Catch 22. From outward appearances, we look fine. So people who don’t know about my stroke expect me to be my former stress-driven, obsessively perfectionist, overachiever self: Another nap?!? are you kidding? do you have the flu? are you narcoleptic or just lazy?

Even people who know about the stroke forget that outward appearances can be deceiving. What they can’t see, they forget about, like the mysterious fog that sometimes settles around my brain. My memory can be spotty, and some things my brain stored pre-stroke are probably gone for good. I sometimes momentarily forget really basic stuff, like how to brake the riding mower I’ve operated for 6 years, or why I put a spoon in the freezer.

The old me.

Most people also can’t tell that depending on how tired I am, my nervous system load, barometric pressure, planetary alignment, or my crapshoot theory of life, the left side of my body may or may not cooperate. My left foot sometimes thinks it has cleared the next step, when it really has only lifted an inch off the ground. My writing & emails can be full of supplemental “S”s, upper-case letters, or random numbers/spaces, because my left hand (for now at least) doesn’t always navigate space with the precision I used to take for granted.  Other stuff people don’t see? My constant companion fatigue, an occasional locking jaw, sore or stiff muscles (sometimes from breathing or holding myself upright), rare but annoying confusion…the list of minor gliches is long.

The Catch 22? I’m not “disabled” enough to qualify for disability (even a neurologist can’t “see” most of what’s going on in my brain); in less than 6 months, I used up 15 years’ worth of accrued sick leave, so I can’t work reduced hours anymore; I need my job benefits (O nationalized healthcare…where ARE you?) too badly now to lose them switching to part-time adjunct; I live in South Dakota, where a less rigorous, less stressful full-time job probably pays 3 live chickens and a sack of flour...per year. So, because I have a mortgage and a car, and because I must have only the darkest, oiliest decaf coffee beans on the planet, I’m going back to teaching full-time this fall—a very hard decision.

I recently asked a friend how she managed to teach 6 classes in a semester and not jump off the student union building. Her answer was an “AHA!” moment for me. She said, “I’m a good teacher, but I’m not great.” I think she’s lying, and she probably IS great, but the AHA! for me wasn’t that I need to lower my standards; it’s to be less hard on myself.

The new me.

Here's the deal: the job will not be less stressful or demanding this fall than it was before the stroke. So I will have to be different. I'll manage stress better (meditation, sleep, good nutrition, as much exercise as I can manage). I'll rest when I need to. I’ll be honest (even with myself) about my limits and occasional need for help. I'll cast out my overachiever, competitive, perfectionist, SuperWoman demons. I'll say NO when I need to. I'll focus more on my students, less on my need to exceed. I'll laugh more. I'll relax more. I'll bring my humanity back into the classroom. I'll watch this Taylor Mali vid once a week - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RxsOVK4syxU. I'll be less tired, more inspired. I'll be a good teacher.

Militant Nutrition

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Some gooder stuff

A psychic once told me that I starved to death in a past life in 1000 BCE China. So that’s gotta be the root of my obsession with food, right? Anyhoo, in the aftermath of our collective health scares, we’re going all OCD on our eating habits. The new plan: eat less meat and more fish; up the daily fiber; buy as much local and organic food as possible; eat low glycemic index/load foods; reduce fat & salt; and eliminate processed foods. In America, and maybe especially in the farm-belt state of South Dakota, this is like going back to hunter-gather mode—in the Sahara. We may eventually resort to a diet of only free-range peacock, rocks, and filtered water, though I’m highly suspicious of filtered water…

Jada's post-hedgehog-attack nap

In the past week’s effort to get on a better dietary path, we’ve been to four regular grocers, a health food store, and three Asian markets. Our fridge is jammed full of organic produce, cooked black eyed peas (that I now put in everything), a new batch of quinoa/bulgher tabhouli (with black eyed peas), and unhomogenized organic Iowa milk. The freezer’s stocked with wild-caught salmon and tuna, and free-range, grass-fed, local organic chicken, lamb, and venison (though the venison might be corn-fed, too). We’re scouring labels for any sign of corn-based products, which we’re also trying to eliminate (check here for the staggering list: http://www.livecornfree.com/2010/04/ingredients-derived-from-corn-what-to.html). And I’m now on a subscription plan to get 5 lbs. of Café Altura water-processed, organic Italian roast decaf beans delivered to my door every two months.

Canine cuisine: Basics food with yam & snow peas

In addition to our own burgeoning foodiness, we’re switching our two dogs and our cat to an entirely grain-free diet. We raised our Aussie, Jada, for her first two years on the BARF diet, because I believed in the idea of feeding her as close to a wild dog’s natural diet as possible (http://www.barfworld.com/html/learn_more/evolutionary.shtml). But I eventually got tired of grinding up 40-lb. boxes of bone-in chicken backs with greens and veggies, so we switched to New Balance kibble, high-quality stuff with no by-products or preservatives. It was way more convenient for memememe. Then recently, I came across a photo of Jada back in her BARF days. I was shocked to see her gorgeous silky coat and clear, bright eyes. Now, she sheds by the handful, she’s arthritic, and she struggles constantly with overweight and allergies. Since our furry buddies are mostly in the house and don’t hunt to survive, they have ONLY us to depend on for her food, so…

Yogi: Is he smiling? Yes, I think he is.

We switched all our furry friends to Blue’s “Basics Grain Free” foods: Basics kibble “dressed” with a little Basics canned. In addition, they get table scraps, but only raw (Jada loves tomatoes, Yogi loves sweet potatoes, and they both adore snow peas), and no grains. The dogs love the change. Rickie Lee, resident feline, is more stubborn and will carefully nibble around each Basics morsel to get to her old Purina standby (we’re acclimating her with ½ and ½ for a while), but we have hope. We figure it will take a month before we know if the change is making a positive difference, but so far, no dog breath, and that’s a good thing, since we sleep “pack” style on a frameless king-sized bed (So 13-year-old Jada has easy access). And yes, it’s no longer exaggeration—considering price-per-pound, our furry friends ARE now eating better than we are. The Blue rep pointed out the irony (without realizing it) of healthier foods when she said that the Basics diet was more expensive because “they had to take a lot of stuff out.”

Rickie Lee: Serve me. Serve me now.

I’d love to think our bodies can process whatever abuse we hurl at them. I’d love to think the adage is true that’s it’s not as important what goes IN our mouths as what comes OUT. I’d love to think our bodies will crave only what they need for balance & good health. Or, I’d love to think that in the crapshoot theory of the Universe, it doesn’t matter WHAT we eat. And we will, no doubt, fall off the holistic wagon often (who’s gonna eat those Sixlets and chocolate oranges in the freezer?). But tonight, we’ll dine on tofu-falafel burgers and steamed fresh Brussels sprouts. And we’ll stop feeding the peaflock corn, just in case. And if nothing else fights off the fluffy, pasty, midlife Pillsbury Doughboy bodies we’ve been cultivating until now, we have acres of organic hardwood trees, and our teeth are still good…