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Tulips and Off-road Diesel

Posted on by Susannah Warner

“What are you thinking about?” I asked my husband, as we were driving home last summer after a day of playing outside in the Maine woods. Full of sunshine and fresh air, our bodies were comfortably heavy while our minds were clear, and we’d both been quiet on our way home from a trip “up-north.” But after 15 minutes of daydreaming, I was suddenly curious to know what he was seeing in his mind’s eye. “Off-road diesel,” he answered immediately, eyes still on the road. I turned my head to him as I laughed out loud, and a slow smile spread over his face as he slid his eyes in my direction. “What?” he asked shrugging, as confused by my reaction as he was pleased to hear me laugh. “Want to know what I was just thinking about?” I asked, and continued before he could answer, “I was thinking about tulips!” We both laughed then, mostly I think, about how different we are.

We fell silent again, and still a few miles from home, I had time to reflect on our differences, as I thought about the day we’d just spent together. We’d rode the four-wheeler on some old logging roads, stopping occasionally when one of us would spot something worth investigating up close. Sometimes, it would be a stream with large rocks as our only bridge to the other side, and he’d insist on going first to make sure the rocks were stable enough to land on, then turn back to offer me a steadying hand. Sometimes, one of us would spot the ruins of an old farmhouse foundation and since we both love a good treasure hunt, we’d stop and dig through piles of broken glass, hoping to unearth an unbroken antique bottle. And if I found one, he’d insist on pulling it out of the ground so I wouldn’t cut myself. I thought about the preparations necessary to even go on such an adventure, involving ramps and ratchet straps, tire plug kits and portable battery chargers, all things I rarely even mention, let alone ever, in a million years use. He knows about things that I don’t know about, he knows about off-road diesel.

But, he knows about tulips too; he can plant them, tend them, cut them, surprise me with them, and arrange them. He also knows how to build a house, sell it, and clean it. He can catch a meal, and cook it. I’ve also seen him sew (cloth, and on one memorable occasion when we were young and poor, his own hand! It worked!). He can walk around patting a colicky baby’s back for hours and make the best omelettes ever. He knows how to do things, but I know how to express things.

I can turn a conversation into a story, a memory into a paragraph. I can remember what was said, when we said it, where we were standing and sometimes, what we were wearing (although I’m quite confident that this whole statement will garner an objection from my husband when I read this post to him!). I can remember how I felt, imagine how someone else felt and put it down on paper. But I don’t know anything know about off-road diesel, I thought to myself, suddenly feeling panicky. A quick google search just as we pulled into the driveway reassured me I actually did know what that was, I just didn’t know I did. Just as there are things that I bring to our relationship that I might not know, I bet he knows, as I know the things he brings.

We are as differently shaped as two pieces to a jigsaw puzzle. Our outer edges don’t match up and trying to fit those parts together would never work, there would be nothing to hold the two pieces together. But, the inside pieces fit perfectly and easily. The colors, although slightly different, compliment each other so that when they are joined, become one. Both of us a small part of the big picture, just as God intended us to be.

Last night I was in bed when I realized that my lips felt uncomfortably dry and I found myself in the ultimate first-world conundrum – I felt desperate for some relief for my lips, but I was already cozy and perfectly positioned for a good night’s sleep and didn’t want to get up. Just when I thought I’d actually have to get out of bed, my hero arrived, and in the nick of time. He had come upstairs to give me a goodnight kiss but I seized the opportunity and asked him to grab me “some lip stuff” from my bathroom. “It’s to the right of the sink,” I reassured him as a look of uncertainty flashed across his face since he rarely goes in my bathroom. I could hear him rummaging through lipsticks, lip glosses, lip-stains, pencils, chap-stick and two lip balms, yet he emerged victoriously a few seconds later. “You use this little tub thing at night, right?” he said handing it to me with a smile on his face. “Yeah, I do.” I said as I reached up for it, smiling back at him, while inside I thought, “tulips.”

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Light (A Dystopian Fairy Tale)

Posted on by Susannah Warner

Once upon a time, in a land not too far away…

The land was dusty and dry, the sky red. They marched together, down a straight path toward a destination only their spirits knew. They knew they must keep moving toward the great light ahead. It’s purity beckoned them forward and they were pulled like magnets toward it’s sweet promise of rest and beauty. They knew this barren land was not their home; there was little comfort there. Instinctively they knew that they must not deviate, they must not let go, they must march together, and they must stay on the path.

They were focused and determined at first. Their faces were set toward the light and they broke their intense gaze only occasionally, and only to turn to each other to exchange a sweet smile of encouragement. Her gown was gauzy and light, and blew behind her as she walked. Her feet were bare, and her step was light. She wore a backpack stuffed full of joy, hope and devotion. And sometimes she was so happy she skipped like a child, while he smiled fondly and indulgently at her. His boots were sturdy and he was dressed for battle. He had pockets where he kept his weapons and a canteen on his hip. He had a backpack too; it was chock full of love, loyalty, and protection. His hands were rough, but held hers gently.

They were not tired, they were not thirsty. They had each other and they were sure of their mission, although they did not know what they would find when they got there. And although the weather had been calm, a sudden gust of wind tugged at her dress, and threatened to pull her way, but his grip on her tightened and her feet come back to the dusty earth. She smiled up at at him, unaware that a bit of joy had spilled out of her bag. He smiled back, but a creeping vine reached out and wrapped around his foot, nearly tripping him. He stumbled, and nearly fell, but her small hand gave him just enough stability to right himself, although when he did, a little love leaked out of the side of his backpack. Unaware of what they’d lost, they smiled at each other and marched on, but not before they stopped to pick up two beautiful pebbles as keepsakes.

They pressed on, although they were wary now as they saw it was not as easy as they had initially thought. For the first time, her gaze swept from side to side, instead of looking straight ahead at the light. She was looking for danger and she found it, although to her, it was not scary at all. It looked like a puppy floundering in a pond just off the path to her right. She started to pull away from him, and go off the path to help the pitiful thing, but he held fast. He did not see a puppy, he saw a wolf, and it was not in distress, it was nashing it’s teeth as she strained to go rescue it. He pulled her back, a little more roughly than he’d meant to, before she could go any closer, and together they continued, a trail of joy and hope staining the ground behind her, while loyality and protection ran down his leg and out of his boot. And although angry with each other, they both stopped at the same time to collect more beautiful pebbles scattered in front of them.

They continued on, but they were beginning to feel weighted down. Her feet were not as light as they once were, and she had no energy to skip. His feet felt hot and heavy, and he did not smile at her. Even her dress hung limply around her ankles and they were both vaguely aware that the pebbles they had collected were beginning to feel heavy, while the reassuring weight they’d always felt in their backs was uncomfortably light. Trudging on toward the light, following the path set before them, they heard a sound behind them, bearing down on them like a freight train.

They turned to look, hands still clasped and saw that it was a tornado, far away still, but coming closer. Still looking over their shoulders, they saw the dry earth and tumbleweeds rise up to join the swirling air, which sucked everything in like a vacuum. The cyclone devoured the sky and obscured the light, and it was headed straight down the path and right for them.

She wanted to run, but her burdens were too heavy, he wanted to fight it, but his arms were full. It was coming closer, following their path and threatening to suck them both up. They realized that the only way to be safe was to leave the path, break apart, and dive to safety, each on their own sides. They took one final look at each other, as the noise from behind them became deafening, her hair and dress swirled around her as they nodded to each other that it was time to let go and save themselves.

But the wind that was threatening to blow them apart had also stirred the earth stained with hope, joy, devotion, protection, loyalty and love. The letters swirled around, becoming words, words became meaning and meaning became feeling. Her gifts were all mixed up with his, and showered down on them both, until it became theirs. And the power that tried to carry them away, had instead blown away the once beautiful pebbles, which had become ugly rocks over the years. Resentment, anger, hurt and sadness were wrestled from their arms, instantly swirling above their heads and sucked up in the abyss behind and over them.

Lighter than they’d felt in years, they looked at each other, hands still clasped, and saw that they were infused with each others strengths. No longer afraid, they laughed and started running together, wind nipping at their heels, kicking up a cloud of dust behind them that was absorbed into the whirlwind chasing them. It followed them the whole way, but did not devour them, because love covered them like a shield. It felt good to run together, unencumbered and free. His boots supported him, and her bare feet flew as her dress and hair fluttered behind her. They did not leave the path, they did not stop, until breathless and laughing, they finally reached the light.

He was waiting for them at the end of the path, glowing as the light behind Him spilled out around Him. They stopped short and looked up at Him. He was spotless and beautiful and smiling at them both. Their smiles faded as they looked down and saw that they were both shamefully filthy. Her dress was torn and her feet were dirty. His boots were covered in dust and his face had dirt smudges on it. They were suddenly embarrassed to show up at such a perfect place this way. Together they turned to leave. But He put a hand on their shoulders and kindly said, “what is in your backpacks?”

They were so used to carrying them, and they had gotten so light that they’d forgotten them. They slipped them off their shoulders and unzipped them and inside, much to their surprise, they found new clothes, without spot or rip. “They are for you, “ He said. “I’m giving them to you so that you can come with me.” They were stunned, and grateful. He turned and beckoned them to follow Him. She was suddenly happy, so happy that she skipped through the doors, behind Him, light as a feather in her spotless clothes. He smiled at her fondly as he dropped the dirty backpack at the doorway and entered too.

And they truly, lived happily ever after. The end.

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Today is Armistice Day at my house. My husband of 28 years and I have come to an understanding, signed an agreement, and shook hands on it, in keeping with the original of 1918, but we also sealed it with a kiss, which may or may not have happened back then. Probably not.

Wait, Armistice? You might now be thinking, if you’re still reading. Isn’t that in November, and isn’t that what parents, or maybe grandparents used to say instead of Veteran’s day? And what is Armistice anyway? I had to google this one because I really wasn’t sure, just as I really wasn’t sure what I wanted to do about some long-standing, years-running arguments my husband and I have had that have recently resurfaced. There is no google for that answer, but it turns out that I didn’t need it…but I’ll get to that later.

Apparently our grandparents were right in calling November 11th (now known as Veteran’s Day) Armistice Day, because it marked the temporary cessation of armed conflict between the Allies, and Germany at the end of World War 1. The agreement was signed on the 11th hour, on the 11th day, of the 11th month and effectively brought hostilities to a close (although true history buffs will know that while the fighting ceased on that date, a formal peace agreement was reached when the Treaty of Versailles was signed on January 10th, 1920). Armistice Day was the first step, and a major one, in ending a world war. While this War(ners! HA!), is not of world proportions, we are not for nothing, known in previous posts as The Bickersons.

My compatriot and I have always fought the good fight, side by side for a long time, longer than many. We’ve always had each other’s backs, and still do, but there are times, in any relationship, when a guard can go up, and a mask takes the place of that precious face you know better than your own, so that you might not know who this person is. It can be hard to know who to love, and who to hate, and if you are not careful, and constantly on guard, suddenly you might find yourself attacking your beloved, and he you, as if you were enemies instead of soldiers in the same army.

My husband and I have found ourselves here before. We’ve revived old hurts we should have drowned decades ago. We’ve given CPR to betrayals stiff and cold with rigor mortis. We’ve pumped blood into the broken parts of our hearts to watch it squirt out grotesquely, and all just to flaunt to the other, “See?!? You’ve hurt me! You did this! YOU!” And so, we hurt them back. An eye for eye. A heart for a heart. And, sometimes it ends there. Not just the argument, all of it. I don’t fault anyone for that. I don’t blame those who can’t do it anymore. I’ve thought I might be there many times, including yesterday, until I had an idea as I traipsed through the Maine woods, while taking pictures of the autumn display of scarlet maples and amber birches.

I thought, if bull-headed nations can honor a peace treaty, and put the past to rest, why can’t two bull-headed people? Sometimes talking about the past can be helpful, but it has not proven to be beneficial for us, and after almost three decades of marriage I think we can, and should move on. So that is what we did today, on the 10th day, of the 10th month at 10:10 am. Will this work? I have no idea. But, I do know that God honors agreements, and that my comrade in arms and I will do our best to do the same.

Addendum: In typical bi-polar fashion we skipped the armistice portion and went right for the treaty. We really saw no reason to wait. Bam!

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Armistice Day

Quote• Posted on by Susannah Warner
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Beach Day (with kids, and without)!

Posted on by Susannah Warner

When our children were little, my husband and I, like most parents, wanted to expose them to a variety of experiences; some for educational purposes, like museums, and the library. Some for fun, such as amusement parks, fairs, and playgrounds. We also felt it was important to share our love of nature with them by going on frequent walks, hikes, picnics, camping, hunting, and fishing. But always, every summer, there was… THE BEACH.

It wasn’t something we put much thought into, it’s just something that many families who are not landlocked, do in the summer. But, it was always on the top of my summer bucket list, one of those outings that I looked forward to, while daydreaming at work. I imagined the smiling, freckled faces, the sand castles, body surfing, collecting shells and sand-dollars…all of it. The reality of a trip to the ocean with children and a husband who is not overly fond of crowds is quite different. Yet, every year, like a woman who instantly forgets the pain of labor when the baby arrives, I too, forgot every June, how very ego shattering a family activity trip to the shore can be.

It always started well…usually something like this. My husband and I, sharing a drink and a late night cigarette (hey! Don’t judge, that was way back in my 20’s!), would concoct the plan amidst alcohol’s sweet amnesia, and just like Eve in the garden of Eden, I’d be the one to seduce my poor husband into believing that it would be great! “The weather is supposed to be nice tomorrow, and since we’re both off, how about we surprise the kids and take them to the beach?!?” My husband, a curious combination of travel buff, yet large crowd abhor-er, climbed eagerly aboard the figurative road trip bus, as he always does, no matter the destination. Thus, our cigarettes and coffee brandies forgotten for the moment, we both leaped into action, unearthing my mother’s old beach umbrella, and dragging the old sand chairs, the low kind that unfold with the itchy webbing, out of a corner of the garage where they had been tossed after last year’s fiasco.

And so, under the cloak of darkness and with alcohol’s sweet blessing, we happily prepared for our excursion. Sandwiches were made, ice trays full and in the freezer, ready to grab in the morning. Sand toys, towels, chairs, umbrella, sunscreen, all packed and in the trunk; all that was left was to sleep and surprise the kids in the morning. And we did, although the brightness of the day was a bit harsher than we’d anticipated the night before. But the children were as happy and as excited as we’d hoped, so off we went, kids bouncing around in the backseat (children did not sit in car seats until high school in the 90s!), singing songs and chatting excitedly…for the first mile.

Yet, anyone who has ever brought kids to the beach, or anywhere actually, knows how the rest of the story goes. Within minutes, someone in the backseat is accused of staring at the other, someone is taking up more than their share of the seat, someone has to pee, even though that someone had been told to go before the happy carload departed. Finally there, after several rounds of “what state is that car from?” ” Geography,” and “I spy” a parking dispute erupts… “Keep going, there might be a better spot further on.” “No, I’m not going to keep driving around and around, I’m staying here.” “But then, we have to walk so far!” The eagle, or rather our old Mercury Lynx landed, and there she stayed.

Everyone out, weighted down like Sherpas, with enough equipment to live on the sand for at least a week, everyone trudges happily along and along, and along… Finally an economy car sized area is spotted and the bedraggled children dump their bags and chairs and stand obediently in the blazing sun while I struggle to dig out the sunscreen and apply it to their rapidly freckling little Irish-skin bodies, while Dad wrestles with the old rusty umbrella, borrowed from my mother years ago, having dragged it out of its corner of the garage last night, where it was unceremoniously dumped next to the old chairs, 364 days ago.

I wont bore my readers with all of the harsh details of the rest of the day’s events. Suffice it to say that like life in general, it had its good times and bad. However, I distinctly remember having more good times than bad as a kid at the beach myself. All the things I had daydreamed about at work, were the things I remembered doing as a kid. For some reason, it really was not that fun anymore, as the mother. Of course there were squabbles between the children as any day, but add to that two hungover parents, the fact that the sun was too hot and water too cold, our sandwiches inexplicably had a fine layer of sand in them so that our peanut butter, and our ham, and our bologna now had an unpalatable crunch. Our bottoms got sandy, and our shoulders sunburned. The kids did not play as much as I had imagined and instead seemed to skulk around the umbrella, eating salty potato chips out of the bag and complaining of thirst that was apparently impossible to quench with the cans of soda we’d bought at a convenience store, special for the occasion, as they were now far too warm to ease their parched throats.

So, after an appropriate amount of time had elapsed, and having waited out the “OK guys, you have 5 more minutes,” term limit twice, Dad again, with grim determination, and a now intimidating set to his jaw, grappled with the ancient umbrella while I cheerfully stuffed wet and sandy towels in a straw beach bag, and helped listless children search for their flip flops. Trudging quietly now to the car, parked insanely far away to save a dollar on parking, I offered up the beach-day cherry on top to the weary beach-goers, whose heads were now bowed as if in defeat, under the weight of the shore accouterments…. “Anyone feel like ice-cream?!?” “YEAH!!” they cried, with a little pep in their steps, the final push they needed to stagger to the car, which sat in the farthest corner of the parking lot, shining like a garish red oasis in dessert sun.

And so, with sticky hands and faces, and with drops all over sandy bottomed shorts from ice cream someone had dripped on themselves because they had insisted on a cone only (“I don’t want a bowl!!!”), and uncomfortably sunburned, the Warner family sedan lurched home chasing the sunset and the happy American family dream. A determined father, a weary mother, a sticky daughter, and a sunburned son, but with another family achievement unlocked, and at least one annual summer expectation scratched off the list.

A few years have gone by since then, about 20 actually. My children are grown, one with a child of her own, and I no longer feel the need to plan a beach day because I believed that is what I should do to ensure my children had a happy childhood. My husband and I actually go now because we want to. In fact, we went the day before yesterday, on the spur of the moment because he had to pick up a part for his four wheeler near the coast, so we decided to check out a new spot. The only chairs we brought were the ones that are always in my trunk, but hardly ever use because we like to explore, not sit. We didn’t need an umbrella for the same reason and with no expectations or supplies weighing us down, save a trusty backpack that we put all the sand-dollars and interesting shells we’d found, we played and explored like children all day, and until the sun set. And when we drove home and stopped for ice cream, I got a Blizzard, so no drips.

I must say, I love my children dearly, and I would not change the experience of giving to them the absolute best childhood I could possibly give them, full of every adventure we could afford, and spending nearly every minute that I could with them, for anything in this world. And I used to think too, as I have heard many of my young mom co-workers say of their children, “stop growing!” But, let me tell you something on this Labor Day weekend, there is life after your children have left the nest, and it’s not at all laborious. It’s actually quite glorious.

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The Lazy Hiker

Posted on by Susannah Warner

You know, I’m really not much of a hiker. In fact, I jokingly refer to myself as “the lazy hiker,” I’m really in it more for the benefits and the rewards, not to push or challenge myself in any way. My favorite hikes are those with low impact, high reward; NOT the type described as grueling, difficult or perilous. I do not want to sweat and strain for 12 hours, eat beans out of a can, sleep on a rooty ground in a sleeping bag that I’ve schlepped on my back all day, get up after an uncomfortable, mosquito orgy, sleepless night, eat a peanut butter sandwich, and do it all over again. Nope.

See, what I like is a 4-5 hour (max! Round trip!) walk, a lightweight day-pack on my back, my phone in my hand, or in my handy hip pocket, so that I can document in pictures unusual findings, picturesque spots, or particularly difficult sections. I don’t mind sweating a little, and I don’t mind a few arduous climbs, even those that require “3 points of contact,” for safety, as long as they are brief, and there is a lengthy leveled off section so that I can catch my breath and so that my quads can stop burning.

And then…the reward. the summit. It needs to be awesome, it needs to be breathtaking and I need to capture it all, including selfies, so that I can post them later. I like to linger for a bit, and bask in my athletic prowess, my nature loving-ness, and my tenacity and then I like to go back down and find a pub, preferably with a deck outside and have an appetizer and a cocktail. See? Low impact, high reward. My workout is done for the day (actually, maybe two days), I’ve spent some quality time with my husband, and with nature, and I have social media fodder galore. Win/win/win.

My husband, on the other hand, is of the “push yourself” variety of weirdos. He’s the sort of person who loves to see how much his body can endure; how many miles he can cover (he did the 100 mile wilderness for funsies), how long he can handle the discomfort of the beginning stages of trench foot (literally happened to him one rainy June) and how much suffering it will take before he longs to come home. He likes to reach summits, but more as a personal badge of honor, instead of the public one that I like to display. When he comes home from these days or weeks-long adventures, he loves to sit on the couch and say, “This is great! I haven’t sat in comfort for days!” His fondest wish is to hike the whole AT, preferably with me by his side. Not happening (Umm, unless maybe some desperate cable network, would care to fund this fantastic folly, in a big way. I promise, “The Bickersons” can, and will deliver on the  guilty-pleasure, reality show type showdown daily, or at least per episode.).

I had a little time to ponder our differences, as well as the similarities between hiking and life in general, on our journey up Mt. Battie, today (a hike for me, a walk for him, which with a few wrong turns, a couple extra trails, and lots of switchbacks, turned into almost an 8 mile hike. Ugh.). The pace at which we climb, the baggage we carry, the people we choose to bring with us, the level of complaining, or not, that is done when the going gets tough, the wrong turns, and dead ends that you face, the roots and rocks that must be navigated, the people we help to reach the top, and the ones who help us… all of it could be compared to our own journey through life.

Of course the summit of life for many of us would be Heaven. Literally, and figuratively. I hope to hear the words, when I reach the apex, “well done, good and faithful servant,” and to hear Him say that to my fellow climbers too. That would be the ultimate reward, especially for this lazy hiker.

 

 

 

 

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The Bipolar Life of the Bipolar’s Wife

Posted on by Susannah Warner

“You take the good, you take the bad, you take them both and there you have…the facts of life.” So went the opening song to a sit-com in the 80’s. The lyrics are true enough for life in general, but they really strike a cord for me, a bipolar’s wife.

Much has been said about bipolar, a genetic mood disorder. Generalizations and jokes are made all the time in a way that would never be tolerated in society today if they were about a race, or sexual orientation. Even I have laughed and referred to things as being “bipolar” including, but not limited to, my state’s fickle weather pattern. But, as a die-hard, full-fledged, longstanding supporter of this wonderful, horrible, manic-depressive club, I feel justified in making a few jokes about it. As the the saying goes, “you might as well laugh, as cry.” And, I have cried about it, a lot. But I’ve also laughed, a lot.

You see, to be married to someone who is bipolar, means that you have it too. Not in the sense that I literally do, because, as my husband has pointed out on a number of occasions, “you can go to work, or sleep, or leave, and get away from me. I cant, I’m stuck with myself all of the time.” Many times, when the strain threatens to break, rather than bend me, I have thought that same thing to myself, but in a different way. I’ve often thought, “as hard as this is, it’s easier to be me, than it is to be him. ” Because it is hard. There is a reason that bipolar carries a 20% mortality rate, and a whopping 90% divorce rate. It sucks sometimes, and it’s also fantastic sometimes.

Of course, there are the highs of bipolar that my friends see on social media; hikes, trips, spontaneous adventures, over the top expressions of love, even after 27 years of marriage. But, then there are the lows that most don’t see; accusations, paranoia, restlessness, physical pain, and shame. Such is the life of someone with bipolar, and inevitably, such is the life of the bipolar’s loved one.

There is a level of figurative tiptoeing around, that I do when the pendulum threatens to swing towards DOWN. It is instinctual, and it is at the height of gaiety and fun, that something inside me says that IT is coming. Warnings like, “You’re so UP right now, you need to make sure you’re getting enough sleep, that you are eating enough, and getting plenty of exercise,” are as useless as telling someone to be careful, when they leave the house. It changes nothing. No one is going to be more careful just because you reminded them to be, any more than he can change anything about his UPness. But, to not say it, seems like you are jinxing yourself and your loved one.

And then DOWN comes, like a violent summer storm disrupting your outdoor plans, bringing with it anger and sadness, accusations and guilt; a fierce Mr. Hyde, to his sweet Dr. Jekyll. It is a difficult time, and sometimes makes me wonder if it’s worth it, but what holds me still, is hope and faith that NORMAL will come again, a brief place of refreshment and rest before UP comes knocking, and it starts all over again.

Two weeks ago, my husband and I decided to take advantage of the beautiful Maine summer weather by hiking a coastal mountain about an hour away from us. The trip there was jovial and fun. We sang songs, joked with each other and pulled over to explore a place we spotted that we’d never seen before. We snapped pictures and decided to check it out fully when we had more time. We started the hike in good shape too. The roots and rocks were wet on the trail and at times slippery pine needles blanketed the ground. And although the trajectory was up, there are times when you’re hiking that switchbacks cause you to have sections that you must go down. In these spots, my husband always warned me to be careful, and reached back to offer a hand, as I’m not as surefooted a hiker as he is. Although stronger and faster than I, he solicitously kept my pace. And so we made our way to the top.

Glorious views of the Atlantic ocean, blanketed by pockets of morning mist covering parts of the coastal towns nestled in the harbors, greeted us at the top. Wanting a better look, I inched closer to the edges. “Be careful!” he warned, as concerned about my safety as a father would be with a toddler. He needn’t worry, I’m neither careless, nor without caution, particularly when heights are involved. He knows that, but warns me anyway, just as I warn him when the whirlwind of UP threatens to carry us all away.

At some point, the tides turned; the mood tide, not the Atlantic Ocean’s tides. Something was said that triggered a host of negative feelings and words and culminated in a sullen silence as we headed back down the mountain. Suddenly DOWN, he no longer turned around, hand outstretched to help me navigate the slippery rocks and his pace had quickened so that I didn’t bother to try and keep up. Angry tears blurred my vision and having foolishly packed no tissues for my oft runny nose, I used a suspiciously cheerful green leaf instead. He would have slowed down if I’d asked him, helped me if I’d pointed out that he now wasn’t, but I didn’t want the help and I was glad he was ahead of me. It gave me time to think.

I thought about how although I do not have Bipolar disorder, in a way I do have it. I’ve been the recipient of its fun, joy, creativity, spontaneity, tireless energy and reckless, extravagant love. And although I would be lying if I said I didn’t love these things, UP comes with the foreboding of DOWN, surely to follow. Just as Christmas Eve is more exciting for me than Christmas Day, and spring better than fall, It’s the thought of what is next that keeps me from fully enjoying the day, or the season. Much better for me, is the delicious anticipation of something good, rather than the knowledge that it will soon be over.

And that is the thing for a bipolar wife. You KNOW what is coming, you can read the signs as surely as a meteorologist can predict a storm. For some reason, My husband, and perhaps all who suffer with bipolar, cannot read the writing on the wall, as he lives so fully in the moment. When he is UP, DOWN is a thing of the past and cannot be spotted, even on the horizon. It must seem so far away, and as hard to fathom as it is to imagine yourself bundled up in January, when you’re currently sweating out a heatwave in July. By the same token, when he is DOWN, it seems to him as if there is no other feeling, no escape, and that the barrenness and frigidity of winter is the only temperature he has ever known, or will ever know.

Strangely, this is one of the things that I love about him; the ability to live so fully in the moment. It is childlike in its innocence and has helped me relish the good moments in life, just as I have helped him to look beyond pain when life is difficult to see that joy will come again. That is how we help each other, that is how we fit together, that is how our two imperfect halves make one perfect whole.

Afterword: Although it may seem as if we are passive riders on a manic depressive roller coaster ride, this is not entirely true. Medication helps, as does a routine of exercise, sleep, and eating as he often forgets to eat when he is UP or DOWN (I cant even imagine having this “problem!”). We have identified triggers over the years such as exposure to aluminum (soda out of a can makes him weirdly angry the next day. Strange, but true!), summer (which makes him not want to sleep, causing all sorts of UPS and DOWNS), and lack of exercise (which causes depression and pain). We manage it as best we can, and yet….

 

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A New Thing

Posted on by Susannah Warner

The second anniversary of my blog passed last week, just as my dissatisfaction with it had reached its zenith. It’s not that I don’t love writing tidbits, like appetizers about my life and my family…I do love those things. But I’m hungry for more than that, and I feel like my blog has served its purpose for me, for now. I’m not saying that I won’t blog occasionally, but with 102 posts in two years, I’ve averaged about one a week, and right now I’m feeling led to do a new thing.

I believe that God is pointing to a new path and I’ll need to look to Him for direction, because I’ve never been down this road before. But one of the many things I’ve learned since I started blogging is that it does no good to just think about something and never do it. I don’t want to have regrets at the end of my life, I want to close my eyes on that day and know that I took advantage of every opportunity that God gave me along the way, and that I didn’t squander any of the blessings He has given me, including time.

I waited for a long time to even start my blog. Why? Well, I didn’t know if I had enough to say (I do! Just not enough time to say it!), I didn’t know if anyone would read it ( some people do! But that’s not the purpose anymore), and I just didn’t know how to start. (Google! Duh!). Well, here I am, two years later asking the same questions for a bigger project. It’s scary and daunting, but you know what, I’m a little weary of appetizers. I’m kinda feeling like some steak and potatoes, something with substance that I can really take a bite out of. You know why? Because that’s the only way to get to the dessert. And if I fail? So what? If I never gave it a shot, I’d have failed anyway. At least I’ll know I tried. That’s all He’s asking of me. The rest is up to Him.

Posted in work

Work and 25 Dr. Seuss Quotes

Posted on by Susannah Warner

I love Dr. Seuss, I always have. My three older sisters and my mom always read his books to me before bed, and his wacky truths have reverberated in my head ever since. I’m a quote person anyway, and sometimes I have trouble refraining myself from reciting them to unsuspecting acquaintances. My family understands this predilection, as some of them do it too. So with them, I quote away without judgement or weird looks, as I once got when I said to a newly married co-worker, “my dear, Mrs. Kennedy,” in my best Clarke Gable voice. She laughed when I explained that it was from one of my favorite old movies, “Gone with the Wind,” but who wants to explain themselves all the time or risk sounding like a freak? So, at work, I merely think these things…

1. After graduating from nursing school…

“Congratulations!

Today is your day.

You’re off to Great Places!

You’re off and away!”

2. What I’m thinking when report takes way too long…

“SONG LONG A long, long song.
Good-by, Thing. You sing too long.”

3. When you just have a feeling something isn’t right with a patient, even though the vital signs are fine…

“Oh, you get so many hunches

that you don’t know ever quite

if the right hunch is a wrong hunch!

Then the wrong hunch might be right!”

4. Trying to recruit help when you’re short-staffed…

“If you never did you should. These things are fun and fun is good.”

5. When you look at the clock on a crazy, busy day and you don’t know how you’ll get everything done…

“How did it get so late so soon? It’s night before it’s afternoon. December is here before its June. My goodness, how the time has flown. How did it get so late so soon?”

6. When you have inservices on new iv pumps…

“They say I’m old-fashioned, and live in the past, but sometimes I think progress progresses too fast!”

7. Pep talk to yourself, just before you punch in…

“You oughta be thankful
A whole heaping lot
For the people and places
You’re lucky you’re not.”

8. When there is no point in arguing with a confused patient, so you just agree…

“Oh, the wonderful things Mr. Brown can do!

He can go like a cow. He can go MOO MOO.

Mr. Brown can do it. How about you?”

9. 3 am…8 hours down, 4 to go, on the night shift….

“A yawn is quite catching, you see. Like a cough.

It just takes one yawn to start other yawns off.”

10. Trying to psyche yourself and your co-workers up at the beginning of the shift, day three..

 “I know it is wet

And the sun is not sunny.

But we can have

Lots of good fun that is funny.”

11. When the s%&* is hitting the fan…

 ‘Then NEW troubles came!

From above! From below!

A Skritz at my neck! And a Skrink at my toe!

And now I was really in trouble, you know.”

12. What the cranky patient says to you, when you cheerfully bring in breakfast, and ask if they’d like to sit in the chair and eat….

 “I would not like them here or there.

I would not like them anywhere.

I do not like green eggs and ham.

I do not like them, Sam-I-am.”

13. What you think when the sweet elderly lady, whose johnny is so big for her, it drags on the floor, pushes the call bell for the first time and says, “I’m so sorry to trouble you dear, I hate to be a bother.”…

“A person’s a person. No matter how small.”

14. What you think about anyone who complains about the Christmas decorations you and your like-minded, Christmas loving co-workers put up to decorate the unit on a slow week-end…

 ‘The Grinch hated Christmas! The whole Christmas season!

Now, please don’t ask why. No one quite knows the reason.

It could be his head wasn’t screwed on just right.

It could be, perhaps, that his shoes were too tight.

But I think that the most likely reason of all

May have been that his heart was two sizes too small.”

15. Words of inspiration for the new grad you trained, on their last day…

“Kid, you’ll move mountains!

Today is your day!

Your mountain is waiting.

So get on your way!”

16. What you think when you start off a shift knowing that the “black cloud,” supervisor or charge nurse is on, who always seems to be immersed in chaos…

‘But we know a man called Mr Gump.

Mr. Gump has a seven hump Wump.

So… if you like to go Bump! Bump!

just jump on the hump of the Wump of Gump.”

17. What management says when they try to talk you into joining any kind of unit improvement team…

“Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot,
Nothing is going to get better. It’s not.”

18. Asking a co-worker to come with your for moral support…

“Things are never quite as scary when you’ve got a best friend.”

19.Consoling a frustrated co-worker…

The people that mind don’t matter, and the people that matter don’t mind.”

20. Trying to get an angry or confused patient to take their pills..

“You do not like them. So you say. Try them! Try them! And you may!”

21. When you and your CNA are in such a mess, that all you can do is laugh….

“From there to here,
From here to there,
Funny things are everywhere.”

22. When a patients family has brought in fast food, 10 friends and the family dog and you’re trying to squeeze in to get vital signs…

“I do not like
this bed at all.
A lot of things
have come to call.
A cow, a dog, a cat, a mouse.
Oh! what a bed! Oh! what a house!”

23. When you’re going over discharge instructions with a patient…

“You have brains in your head. You have feet in your shoes. You can steer yourself any direction you choose.”

24. Trying to be stern and tell the patient not to get out of bed alone..

“I meant what I said and I said what I meant.”

25. Me to my co-workers in the parking lot, after a 13 hour day…

“Today is gone. Today was fun.
Tomorrow is another one!

 

 

 

 

Posted in Uncategorized

Part of the Experience; Traveling with the Bickersons.

Posted on by Susannah Warner

“Give me ya confirmation number please,” the weary Delta employee with the crooked name tag reading “Yolanda,” said with a yawn. “Give me a break!” my husband quipped back. Yolanda’s eyes narrowed warily as she squinted at my phone until she looked up at the sound of him laughing. She laughed too. “Ms. Warner,” she said with a Georgia drawl, “I like ‘im, you should keep ‘im a’roun’! ” I laughed too as we got down to the serious business of figuring out how to get to Logan airport, even though all flights to and from were suspended due to a snowstorm.

We thought we had figured it out 5 hours ago back in Charleston, when the text cancelling our flight and rescheduling us for the next day had me on the phone, reluctantly agreeing to fly from Charleston to Atlanta, Atlanta to Richmond, Richmond to Boston, arriving some 14 hours after we’d started out, but at least on the same day. Hustling around the hotel room as soon as I’d hung up to quickly pack since our new flight was scheduled to leave in less than two hours, we checked out, google mapped our way to the car rental place, remembering to fill it up with gas first, took a shuttle to the airport and made it through security without incident. Well, not without having my bag searched as it almost always is, this time I think the culprit was my AirPods, which kept “showing something electronic, but I don’t know what it is, must be my imagination,” the bored agent shrugged, giving up after the third failed attempt. He gave me a once over, and apparently deciding I didn’t look like a criminal, waved me on.

Happily we flew to Atlanta, our carry-on bags having been checked for free as the flights were full, something that I did not like that my husband had agreed to at all, as I knew for a fact they would not be waiting for us in Boston.”You’re not the one who has to stuff them in the tiny overhead bin, then get them out again on three different planes today,” he huffed. Since he graciously did not add that the bags were overstuffed  because I always overpack and insist on bringing five pounds of beauty products, multiple shoes and clothes for every sort of weather event, I reluctantly agreed for the second time that day. “Well, at least let’s get our bag of medications out of them, just in case,” I said. Sighing, he proceeded to rifle through six days of dirty clothes, annoyance increasing with every second. “I thought you said you were putting them in your backpack,” he grumbled. “No! I told you that I couldn’t fit them in there and asked you to put them in your bag! Oh! Just forget it then, if it’s that much trouble!” Apparently finding it to be too much trouble, he closed the bags, and wheeled them away, which would be the last we saw of them for four days.

Quarrel temporarily forgotten, we complimented each other on our travel skills, and ability to roll with the punches, until we checked in at the kiosk at our first lay-over and learned that our flight from Richmond to Boston had now been cancelled as well. Knowing we’d have a much better chance of finding something out of Atlanta, the busiest airport in the world, instead of tiny Richmond, we sidled up to the nearest counter and met Yolanda.

Fresh from our vacation in Charleston, where manners include kindness and consideration of others, not just please and thank you, and still in an expansive vacation mode mood, and never ones to take our frustrations out on anyone but each other, we waited patiently while she tried to get us home… “I have a 2:30 direct to Boston…but it’s delayed until 8 pm. Oh wait, that’s full. I have a 6:30 pm to Boston…but it’s delayed until 1 am, tomorrow. But, you’d be confirmed on that flight,” our smiles faded as we looked at the time and realized that meant 15 more hours in this airport, a three-hour flight to Boston, a shuttle bus to pick up our car, and a four-hour drive home, meant we would be getting home about 24 hours later. Portland and Manchester had no available flights, so my husband suggested Hartford. There was a flight available. “No way! How would we get to Boston to get our car?!?” “A bus,” he nodded confidently to himself. “Yup, that’s what we’ll do. You need to trust me on this.” Well, I didn’t trust him on this, not one little bit. My life? Absolutely. Eventually getting home in one piece? Sure. Making us take the most frustrating and least convenient way to get there? Yup, I did trust that. Yolanda and I looked at each other, a bond of sisterhood and understanding flowed one to another other like a rainbow. We knew we were thinking the same thing. Sighing, I indicated that we would take the flight to Hartford. She continued to look at me, and the long meaningful stare was not lost on me, “okaayyy, Miss Susannah, but if this don’t work out goooddd… ” we smiled at each other, and with new tickets in our hands, my husband and I started to walk away when Yolanda called out…. “Kev-in! Kev-in! I like her, you need to keep her a’roun’!”

I’d love to report that we flew off to Hartford, caught a bus to Logan, a shuttle to our car at the hotel, and sang songs all the way home while recounting our adventures in Charleston, arriving on the same day we set out. Alas, as any traveler knows, especially ones who are fortunate enough to travel with a spouse, particularly one that you’ve known for decades, such is rarely the case. I’m afraid that despite our initial glee at having been bumped up to first class by the kind Miss Yolanda (those little water bottles just waiting for me! The little pillow! the blanket! maybe even a free glass of wine when we took off!), our smiles turned upside down, as the pilot announced that “we are experiencing a mechanical issue, I’m afraid all passengers will need to disembark the aircraft.”

With a vague sense of relief that the Hartford scheme was now foiled, and with newly found hope, I marched down the aisle and straight up to another ticket agent while all the other passengers were wearily grabbing their bags from the overheads. As I was in first class, I was the first one in line to present our compounding problem.”Well,”  he said smiling into the computer screen, “looks like I can get you on a 6:30 direct flight to Boston!” I was so relieved that we didn’t have to go to Hartford, I didn’t even think about the fact that Miss Yolanda had already told us that this flight was delayed until 1 am. Gratefully we took our new tickets, rushed down the hall, took two escalators down, hopped on a subway, and headed to the gate, arriving there 20 min before it was time to board. But too late, because by this time, the Bickersons had arrived and they were not going to leave until we pulled into our driveway (which ended up being at 3 am). I’m sorry to say that the Bickersons further stepped up their game upon discovering that our new flight would not be leaving for another 7 hours and would necessitate more subway rides and another long, silent, arms crossed walk to the now changed gate.

At some point during the long trek (according to my Fitbit, I walked six miles in that airport!), Mrs. Bickerson took it upon herself to ask another agent if she and sulky Mr. Bickerson could be placed on standby for the 2:30, now 8 pm direct flight to Boston, which, much to Mr. Bickerson’s annoyance, prompted a turnaround and another subway ride to the new gate. Approaching the desk of the fifth Delta employee of the day, I swapped my Mrs. Bickerson scowl for a Susie sunshine face and inquired politely if the odds were in our favor. With 48 others on standby, it appeared unlikely until a quick search of our names revealed that miraculously we were in “the top-tier.” “What does that mean?” I asked stunned. “Well, Ma’am, that means you’re third on the list.” Thanking him out loud, and Miss Yolanda in my head for getting us in the toptier by bumping us up to first class, I looked around at the 48 other tired/mad faces. A little boy crying beside me caught my attention, and I knew before I even heard her say it, that this frightened mother with two fretful little boys, was also hoping to be called. “It’s ok, it will be alright. We will be together, don’t worry, we will get seats together.” Always one to think of quotes from movies and books, I was unpleasantly reminded of Titanic, when the poor Irish mother tells her children that as soon as the first class passengers were safe, that they would be let go. “Well, this is a fine kettle of fish,” I thought. “We can’t steal their seats!” But, as I gazed sadly at her, Mr. Bickerson’s face came into focus, and I shamefully thought, “well, maybe we can.”

I should have known that God had other plans; plans that did not force me to confront my conflicting survival/beast mode vs. Christian /nurse battle raging inside of me. Thankfully six of us; weary mom, weepy little boys, surly Bickersons, and one sulky teenage girl managed to get seats. We were the only ones out of almost 50 others, and we felt like we’d won the lottery, a sentiment I actually exclaimed aloud until I was hushed by a still crotchety Mr. Bickerson. Several of the other stand-by passengers actually clapped when the moms name was called; although not one clapped for the Bickersons, least of all Mr. Bickerson. They didn’t clap for the teenager either, so that made me feel a little bit better. Exhausted, hungry and stressed, Mr. B was suffering from an intense craving for a cigarette, although he’d quit smoking five months ago. Hours earlier, Mr. B had actually succumbed to the call of nicotine and, having left Mrs. Bickerson at a TGIF with a mai tai in her hand, disappeared into the Atlanta terminal abyss, where he was not seen or heard from until an hour later, which is actually how long it took him to take four escalators, two shuttles and to go through security AGAIN. Apparently, his 10 minute fall from grace also involved a discussion partly in Spanish with a prisoner who had been released days earlier and assumed Mr. B was Puerto Rican (?!?). But I digress… Needless to say, Mr. B was met with a stone faced Mrs. B; mai tai long since consumed and its potential soothing effects turned inside out. Even the story of the spanish speaking jail-bird who was looking for his “lady” and a couple of bucks, did little to assuage her disappointment. Mr. B, having bought a pack of cigarettes for the first time since October, felt little joy at the site of the smoker’s roo, inside the terminal the B’s noticed on the way to one of their gates, in fact it seemed to make his agitation worse. And so it was with relief , when we finally boarded the plane headed North, that Mrs. B. sunk into a middle seat, Mr. Bickerson a row behind me.

The next seven hours did not improve the Bickersons mood much. Not after the 3.5 hour flight, not while discovering the bags were in Richmond, as were our medications; mine, for headaches, his for mood :/. No improvement while waiting for the shuttle to take us to the hotel in the freezing Boston weather, our blood having thinned by the short stay in the south. In fact, tensions reached the boiling over level, by the time the Bickersons had been dropped of at their vehicle by the russian speaking van driver, and found it covered in a foot of snow and ice, but curiously with the passenger’s side cleared off, and snowy footprints on the floor mat. Wasting no time to find out why this was so, Mrs. B started the car, while Mr.B, aggressively cleared the snow and chipped away at the ice, obscenities flying as wildly as the snow. A quiet and reflective ride home from Boston in the middle of the night, gave Mrs. B plenty of time to wonder if traveling was actually worth it; the cost, the bickering, the swearing, the crossed arms, the inconvience…As we neared our home, we tentatively started talking again. First, about practical matters… Would our son have shoveled the driveway (he did), then about the funny things (Puerto- Rican!), and we laughed. We remembered the laughter, the fun, the experiences, the people, the food, the sites, and we knew that we’d made more memories. Like a savings account, we’ve stored these things up in our minds and in our hearts, and even though the Bickersons make exorbitant withdrawals at times, the Warners know that they could never truly bankrupt them, they’re just part of the experience, and an experience is always worth having, even knowing that the Bickersons are coming too.

Posted in Uncategorized

Strength and Beauty

Posted on by Susannah Warner

What I noticed most while vacationing in the south this past week, was the softness of it all. The people, the dialect, the manners, the trees; all of it. A Northeastern girl, I’m accustomed to a harshness in the land, a toughness in the people, and a fierceness in the landscape. Even our trees, here in the pine tree state grow rugged, tall and proud. Our coasts are jagged, and our mountains are severe. Our weather can be extreme, so much so that Mark Twain said, “if you don’t like the weather in New England now, wait a few minutes.” And from its inhabitants, I’m used to speed, and assertiveness mixed with just a touch of hardness. What I saw and experienced in the south, at least in Charleston, was hazy, easy, and softer, and no where was that more apparent to me than in its trees.

Although South Carolina’s state tree is the palmetto, not the live oak as it is in Georgia, it was one of the most beautiful objects I saw in Charleston, and certainly the tree I photographed the most. Spreading its limbs generously, and luxuriantly across the landscape, the prodigious oaks offered abundant shade, and a filter, selfie specialists could only dream of. These massive trees grow more out, than up, a shape that allowed me to wander like a child under a canopy-like reprieve from the sun and the intermittent raindrops. A product of their environment, the live oaks branches grow out, sometimes up to 100 feet, while the height only reaches 40-80 feet, all of this to prevent it from toppling in the event of a hurricane. And if this isn’t magical enough, Spanish moss drips decadently, and enticingly down; an enhancement of beauty, rather than a deterrent, nature’s lovely tinsel. The effect is a covering of softness and beauty, much like the residents of Charleston, whose kindness oozed sincerity.

Maine’s pine tree by contrast, could never withstand the weight of snow if it grew out, and so must grow tall and aloof. Towering 160-180 feet, these trees are tough, strong, and useful, but lacking in the grace, and charm of the southern live oaks. What I find curious though, is that for all it’s bravado, the pine tree is considered a “soft wood,” while the genteel oak is known as a “hardwood.”  I’m no arborist; I know about soft wood only because my husband was a chainsaw carver, and hardwood ruined his  chainsaw blade, and his shoulders, and it was much tougher to carve over the more pliant pine. Hardwood is so durable that supposedly during the war of 1812, “Old Ironsides,” was so nicknamed because of its live oak hull which was so tough that the Brit’s cannon balls literally bounced off it.

I guess it’s true that you can’t judge a book by its cover, or maybe a tree by its shape. The toughest old Maine codger can be a softie inside, while a sweet southern belle can have a backbone of steel. I don’t prefer one over the other; both are a marvel of God’s workmanship. The Almighty sees the beauty in all of us-hard and soft, indomitable and yielding. There’s not one of us that is too difficult for Him to carve into a work of art. For that, and for the beauty to be found everywhere, I will forever marvel.