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The “Just One More Thing”

A maple leaf, which is the tree that still stands in front of my childhood home.

A forewarning: Sometimes I talk about things in my past that might make people uncomfortable. This is one of those posts. I grew up in an alcoholic household and it wasn’t pretty, no matter how hard we tried to act like a functional family. My dad is an alcoholic who never sought treatment, although he could go for long stretches (sometimes years) of not drinking. Because of his drinking and our family dance around it, life in my childhood home was an unpredictable ride.

I learned that “Words of Affirmation” are my primary love language which surprised me more than it should as a wanna-be writer. The drawback of holding words so dearly is that the wrong ones can cut deeply. A quick example: I don’t appreciate swear words while arguing. It’s a cheap short cut, I won’t put up with it and apologize when I’ve lowered myself to this tactic. I don’t know this for sure, but I bet word-needing folks like me can ascribe deep meaning to phrases or oft-used sentences that dredge up childhood memories, too.

“Just one more thing” is one of those phrases typically uttered after I’ve spent HOURS care taking one of my octogenarian parents. Yes, I’m unbelievably grateful I still HAVE parents at this age and recognize this seemingly minor complaint could irritate the living shit out of my friends who’ve already lost their own moms and dads. But when I’m told “just one more thing” all I can think is, I’ve literally been here for hours, why is this “one thing” just coming up now? Oh, it’s usually just a small favor or another task they need me to see to before I depart but those damn words make my throat tight.

It’s buried deep in my psyche more than just a minor annoyance. Once I internally commit to leave (a party, a store, home, an event) the clock starts ticking on how quickly I need to execute my plan. I am anxiety-ridden and feel imprisoned (no, I’m not being dramatic) if I’m held back by “just one more thing” that gets in the way of my exit. I feel tension push at the walls of my chest.

This reaction harkens back to being a powerless kid with feelings I didn’t have the words for at the time. The toxic ire between my now long divorced parents was literally inescapable for me. My brother would take off when things got hostile between mom and dad, but me, being the younger one and a girl, I had nowhere to go. I had to stay and witness whatever BS was about go down. Sometimes, it was nothing. Other times, it was bad. And there really was no tell-tale sign of which path loomed.

The annoyance I feel now is almost liberating if that makes any sense. I embrace the right to get angry about “just one more thing” when before I had to just sit there and take it. It’s the rage I allow myself to feel for the injustice of having been a little girl, abandoned by her big brother (sorry bro, but that’s what it felt like) and subjected to her parents fucked-up relationship. You know that Dr. Suess Book “Oh, The Places You’ll Go?” My childhood memoir would be “Oh, The Shit You’ve Seen!” My emotional safety was at jeopardy then and here I sit today still having to deal with the aftermath of being exposed like that. Anxiety. Control issues. Armoring up. I hide it well, but I still struggle today.

Oh, don’t worry. When I hear the words that get my hackles up – it’s not payback time for Mom and Pops. After many years of therapy and continuing my soul work, I’m emotionally healthier than that. I’ve grown to accept that they’re flawed (just like me) and limited at providing me (then or now) with the type of support that they’ve never received themselves. They both grew up during World War II, in Germany nonetheless. Do you think anyone cared how emotionally safe they felt? Hell, as long as there was something to eat and they were alive at the end of the day, it was considered a good day. Still, I’ve tried these kinds of reckoning talks before. This is a conversation that is met with blank stares. It’s sad to say that because it feels dismissive and pitiful at the same time.

By choice, I work through the physical and emotional discomfort, while patiently attending to their last request of the day standing in the way me and the front door. These feelings are equally true: I love them beyond measure and I’m still processing how angry I am that they were unable to create a safe emotional space for me. Funny thing, I never felt physically unsafe – I was more concerned that they would harm each other than worried that either of them would turn on me.

Like other times, this is a broken part I realize I must fix myself. It’s just one more thing I deal with having grown up the way that I did.

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Daddy’s World

He breaks my heart into a thousand pieces by making the wrong choices with nary a thought about the consequences I suffer. 

I could never explain the lump in my throat sadness to someone who doesn’t have such an attachment to their own father.

Tough love!

Cut him out of your life!

Examples of the unsolicited advice offered. 

How do you “tough love” a damaged 86-year old?

How do you do cut someone off who literally only has you?

People mean well but they suggest cruelty that my heart doesn’t hold for him. 

I get lauded for being “so good” to him and I pay a price for my unconditionality. 

All I want, all I’ve ever wanted is for him to life peacefully with some sense of joy. 

He can’t give me that and today I ache as I once again pick up the toys he’s thrown all over the room.

Chicago Is My Hometown

Downtown Peoria, an actual small town, 2003

I recently uncovered this love letter to Chicago that I wrote back in 2003. It was “published” in an internal book titled “Creativity at Work, Foote Cone & Belding” – an advertising agency, I worked at but no longer exists as the amazing place it once was. I thought my fellow Chicagoans, (born and bred) might get a kick out of it.

Illinois is sometimes described as the land of hometowns like the quirky small places featured in TV shows like Gilmore Girls, Everwood and Ed. I want to live in these imaginary places of refuge away from all the trials of the big city. I want to live in a place where seasons changing are celebrated with time-tested rituals, long abandoned by those of us with urban tribes instead of blood relatives living under our roofs.

Yet I grew up in Chicago within city limits, not a small town so how do I long for something I’ve never experienced? Ah, but I have. Although I grew up in a neighborhood where I could look out of my kitchen window and stare into the sheer-curtained bedroom next door, I recollect a childhood that had many small town elements as did many of us who grew up in Chicago proper.

We caroled and treated, and looked for Easter eggs, sometimes in the snow. I made the likeness of turkeys with my handprint and cotton-ball ghosts. I played “Red Rover” and swung on swings in the corner play lot until the street lights came on. My mom hollered down the street in her distinct German/Lithuanian-accented call, encouraging me to come home for a hasty dinner. I wrote Valentines cards to everyone in class, not because my mom made me but because I felt everyone deserved to feel special at least for one day. I baked, bought, brought and sold treats for various clubs and occasions. I danced with the cutest boy in school at Homecoming. I know the distinct smell of fresh varnish on an old wooden school desk.

So how does a big city girl grow up with such small town experiences? Well, when you’re from here, you don’t realize how vast the city is and how ordinary it can be. Plus, I think it’s the weather. You cannot help but notice the seasons; Mother Nature will slap you sideways if you’re not paying attention. Layering is not an option; it’s as mandatory as childhood immunizations. It snows sideways in the wintertime but just as I curse every cold-weather day that my temperature sensitive body must endure, I rejoice with equal measure at the first warm days of springtime when I and about half a million other Chicagoans venture outside grinning like idiots. I swear on a holy stack of dictionaries every winter that I’m going to leave this damn city…but I don’t, springtime returns and Chicago reclaims it’s spot in my heart once again. After a stretch of being “too cool” for the rituals that accompany the seasons’ changes, my urban tribe and I spent an entire Saturday carving pumpkins, eating candy corn and talking about simpler times.

In my heart and mind, I did grow up in a small town. It just happens to have big shoulders, too.

The Test

Young Pops, in Germany

I admitted to the doctor that I might not be the best person to objectively tell if my father is beginning to show signs of dementia. He’s 87 now but to me his lack of responsiveness is attributed to the fact that he doesn’t hear very well (and his general immigrant stubbornness.) He grows silent in his obstinance or when he simply doesn’t want to deal with whatever you’re telling him. Doctors aren’t exempt from this behavior.

I’ve always thought he does NOT suffer from dementia – even though I hardly approve of the way he lives. He does what he wants. He’s hardheadedly independent. But what do I really know? Maybe a daughter’s love is blind to the obvious.

Cut to Tuesday of this week: He took a dementia test and I was there to witness the results. He was given three words to remember: daughter, mountain, heaven – and was asked to repeat back those words at various intervals throughout the test as he was guided through other activities. He was told he could get 2 out of 3 words and still pass.

“What are the words I told you to remember, Mr. Schikschnus?” asked the nurse.

 “Daughter, heaven, mountain,” he spit out in rapid fire.

He was asked to fill out numbers on a clock and because he always has to do things his own way – he started with “12 at the top. 6 at the bottom. 3 to the right. And 9 to the left.”

When the nurse pointed to where the 1 would go, he said, “What? That’s 5 minutes after the hour.” I laughed audibly. I couldn’t help it. This is the man I know.

“No,” said the nurse calmly. “What number goes there?” Of course, he finally responded with “One! What else would it be?”

“What are the words I told you to remember again?”

“Daughter, heaven, mountain,” he said again, faster than the first time.

He proceeded to fill out the rest of the numbers with limited sarcasm and was asked a final time, “What are the words I told you to remember again?”

He responded, “Daughter, heaven, mountain. My daughter went up the mountain and yelled at the heavens.”

I’ve never felt so seen by him.

Bare your teeth, girl.

Me, age 16.

Yesterday, I released the plug on a tub that runs so deep in me that when it happened, I could physically feel the “whoosh” of protective space between me and this thing I’ve been hiding from.

It is the lowest part of me that repeats what she’s been taught. I don’t matter. I am not worthy of protecting and honoring. I deserve whatever bad thing that is happening to me right now because I’m not enough.

Not good enough. Not smart enough. Not worthy enough.

What the actual fuck?

She’s young – the one who will take her toys and go home – and wiser than she should be at her age. Around 16 is my guess and she is ANGRY. (I can feel the tension in my throat from the truth of that.) Honestly, I wouldn’t fuck with this part of me.

She’s is the part who takes over when I need safeguarding. She’s the one who will look a threat in the eye and think “I will kill you” and mean it. If you’ve ever thought, “when I first met you, I was intimidated by you,” it’s probably because you saw her lurking in my eyes.

Ever vigilant. Ever protective.

Even though I didn’t know she was there, and I certainly didn’t call for her in a benign situation like meeting someone for the first time. But I guess with her age comes lack of judgement. How is she to know the difference between friend and fuck-wad, when the lines of trust were so easily ignored by people who were in charge of her?

At 16, she was born as a maladaptive path to protect me from the bullshit I had already endured. And she has served me well over many years. I can see how she would intimidate, but she doesn’t scare me. She IS me.

So, what do I do with you now, my gritty, bare-your-teeth girl who’s never actually been IN a fight? Long ago I called you my “little bitch” inside because of how persistent you were in NEVER EVER letting me give up, even when things were at their bleakest.  

But that name doesn’t honor you as it should. You’re not a bitch. You’re a badass. And you’ve been ready to punch someone in the neck if the need arises for a while now.

I give you a new name and like a treasure, I keep it to myself.  

I want to thank you for all that you’ve done for all these years and give you a hug. You must be so tired! You’ve carried me for so long. But a new part of me needs to take over now. And like a cliched newborn fawn on fresh legs, I’m going to give it a good hard try.

I honor you and offer you a seat inside my heart because you’ve done your best to let me know that I AM worth fighting for. I AM enough. Just as I am.

Now sit down, my little badass. Time to rest. I’ll call you when I need you again.

Last name

I claimed a new identity when I took your last name.

My hope was that it would be something we’d build upon together

but instead I made it my own thing.

The one who I’m proud of.

That one who is smart and savvy.

The one who feels comfortable in her own skin.

The one who is the boss.

I can’t say I’m glad for the suffering it caused me

but I thank you just the same.

The death of us meant the rebirth of me.

My girl.

Trish and I.

Foreword: Yes, there is a lot of repetition here and it’s a bit braggadocious. But the original intent of this was a gift to my very best friend Trish on her 50th birthday. She’s an amazing human who I am beyond honored to share life with. Every now and then, she (just like the rest of us) needs to be reminded of her impact on others. Our inside joke is that if anyone met us individually and then learned of our attachment to one another, they’d be confused. We’re so very different! But we’re the same in the most important way: We take each other as we are; lumps, bumps, and all. Unconditional love fuels our nearly 50 (!!) year friendship.

May you all have a “Trish” in your life. I highly recommend it.

This is the history and reality of us.

Do you have a “would bury a body with you” friend? Not that you’d ever actually need it, but everyone should have one of these people in their lives. I do. She’s my girl.

Do you have a friend where it doesn’t matter if you talked yesterday or over a year ago, but you can pick up the conversation like no time has passed at all? I do. She’s my girl.

Do you have a friend who you’ve known since kindergarten, who has seen you through the most awkward stages of your life, and knew you when you were the biggest jerk but loved you despite yourself? I do. She’s my girl.

Check out the top row, 1st and 3rd kiddos from the right!

Do you have a friend who will help out your momma without even telling you, because she’s just that amazing and generous? I do. She’s my girl.

Do you have a friend who you’ve seen rise up from being a young, single mom with the biggest challenges to a settled home owner with a full, rich life filled with grandbabies and the greatest daughters and husband? I do. She’s my girl.

Trish with her daughters and granddaughter.
Trish and her husband David.
Trish’s grandbabies.

Do you have a friend who’s lost her beloved mother and father way too soon, but somehow managed to keep her own heart open to others through her amazing spirit and love? I do. She’s my girl.

Do you have a friend who will pick you up from the worst part of town during a snowstorm because a cab wouldn’t dare come there? I do. She’s my girl.

Do you have a friend who will drive to the middle of boring-ass Ohio several times just to visit you because you need to see her and be a part of your life there? I do. She’s my girl. 

Do you have a friend who will drop everything to stand beside you in all the ceremony of getting married, wear a dress and heels just because you asked her to, give a speech even though it was outside of her comfort zone and look after your sometimes-difficult momma during the whole thing? I do. She’s my girl.

Trish and Ernie (aka, my momma.)

Do you have a friend who will be your comfort blanket when your marriage falls apart, and remind you that you are worth being loved again? I do. She’s my girl.

Do you have a friend who doesn’t care what your house looks like, who your friends are, or who your significant other is? I do. She’s my girl

Do you have a friend who doesn’t realize how amazing and beautiful she is on an everyday basis? I do. She’s my girl. (Read that one again, baby girl, because you are amazing and beautiful.)

Do you have a friend you admire for following her passions, despite what’s trendy or “cool?” I do. She’s my girl.

Trish and David, Contra dancing.

Do you have a friend who’s your oldest and dearest friend of all? I do. She’s my girl.

Trish, I’m proud to say that our friendship has been the longest and most successful relationship I’ve had in my life. You are and always will be “my girl” in the most significant, ride-or-die, Marquette-to-Hubbard-to-college-to-the-rest-of-our-lives way. You are a beautiful and amazing human being with so much love to give, and I’m so honored that you chose me to take this crazy ride of life with. I love you with all my heart.

Your girl,
Karen

Do not pity the middle age woman

Me with fierce lipstick and one of my favorite looks. My smile says, "proceed with caution."

She is in-between.

Sandwiched between two generations and care-taking for both.

Society tries to label her as no longer young and attractive, yet also not old enough to be distinguished or interesting.

Either mocked for trying to combat aging or mocked for “giving up” the fight.

At best, she’s underrepresented.

At worst, she’s invisible.

But…

Do not pity the middle-aged woman.

Her confidence grows and her character is solidified.

She’s financially secure, or at least more at ease about it.

“No” is a more common response, and the guilt is less in saying so.  

Her “give a damn” is broken, so she doesn’t.

She apologizes less for existing, if at all.  

She owns her choices and her look.

She puts more value in people and relationships that matter, and sidelines those who don’t.

She’s the glue that holds two generations together and seamlessly weaves between.

Daughter. Mother. Wife. Friend. Ex. Sister. Grandmother. Girlfriend.  

There is not a role she cannot master.

Do not pity the middle age woman.

She’s more than OK; she’s fierce.

Oma Chicken

My momma, age 19

I regret I didn’t get to know my maternal grandmother better (Oma). An ocean separated us and she died almost 20 years ago. I do know this: Oma was a simple woman, unlike her fashion-loving, sassy daughter (momma above)! Her demeanor was sweet and she was a bit quiet but she loved her family fiercely. She found joy in her garden and would spend all day outside up to her knees in the strawberry patch that produced the smallest, yet most glorious tasting berries I’ve ever eaten.

One of the things I remember fondly is that Oma loved a good, roasted chicken. Yes, chicken. You could get all parts of a pig in Germany in the mid 1990s, but to get a roasted chicken? That was a rare treat. In her later years when she no longer talked because of “old age*” her eyes would light up when you brought her roasted chicken from the pre-food truck vendor outside of Aldi’s in Waldbröl, Germany.  

(*Yes, that was an official diagnosis. Back in the day, it was acceptable to say that a disease state was simply due to aging, and it was rude to suggest that someone had dementia.)

I have a confession to make: Among my friends, I am not the foodie. I feel less than sophisticated when I admit that what I really want is a simple meal more than any of the latest trends. I have a ton of “tummy issues” and there are good reasons for why I like what I do beyond simply having an unadventurous palate. I swore off pork and beef years ago, and dear God, please don’t put a piece of organ meat any where near me! The most exotic I get is sushi but even that idea was put to the test when I went to Tokyo a few of years ago for work. We don’t do sushi like they do sushi.

Today I treated myself to a lovely, simple, roasted chicken and thought how pleased my Oma would be at the sight of it. It was delicious and uncomplicated and I didn’t care what it said about my taste. And just for a moment the woman that I longed to know better, felt like a part of me.