Mister, Can We Have Our Ball Back?

This is a two-months late letter to the man from France who stole my daughter’s backpack in Barcelona.

Dear Sir:  In July, you began talking with two young American women taking their first trip around Europe.  They had been there only a couple of days.  Everything my daughter had was in her backpack:  clothes, medication, toiletries.  And you took it all. 

I don’t really care about the clothes, the medication, or the toiletries.  But also in that backpack was a notebook, a journal – a recording of my daughter’s last year and a half.  And I’d like that back.

I don’t intend to get you into trouble – though really, you should probably take some time to think about how important it is to you that you break the hearts of young travelers.  Fortunately, her friend wears her clothing size, and they shared – or she’d have been visiting Europe in her pajamas.  All I want is that journal.

You see, I know what it’s like to lose a diary.  Back in March 1988, in New York City, I had a diary stolen, and with it went two and half years of my life.  I was in New York City, visiting my sister and her newborn baby girl with my husband and a close friend.  My parents had come in from Florida and were staying with my sister and her husband, and I was eager to see them all.  As we parked the car, I went to grab my suitcase, but my husband and my friend both told me I was being silly, that no one would see the suitcase, no one would take the suitcase.  They even put a bag of something – peat?  gravel?  – on top of it, to hide it.  I let it go.  When we came down later, the window was broken, the suitcase was gone – and with it, a small stone cat given to me by my sister, that had traveled around the world with me, never a night without it – and my diary.  The next day, in the daylight, I circled the streets, hoping to find the contents of my suitcase dumped, but I never found it.  There was nothing in there of value – clothes were replaced – but not the cat, and certainly not the record of those two and a half years.  Those were some pretty important years. 

Gone was the story of my first anniversary Star Trek convention where I “met” George Takei.  Gone were the many trips to Cape Cod or New Hampshire.  Gone was the middle-of-the-night decision to drive to the shore to see Halley’s Comet.  Gone was my decision to change jobs.  Gone was the heartache of graduate school.  And gone was the week of my baby.

I found out I was pregnant on Tuesday, February 2, 1988.  It wasn’t planned, but I was happy.  I was happier than I thought I would be.  I got the call at work – the test is positive, come in tomorrow for a follow-up test, congratulations.  There was a bit about mycoplasma, I’d need medication to get rid of it or it would complicate the pregnancy, congratulations.  All I really heard was “positive.”  The next day I floated into my doctor’s office for another test, floated to work, grinned and giggled as I rearranged words on my computer screen, kept it close and mine.  I think my husband was happy; I know I was ecstatic. 

On February 4^th, there was a blizzard.  I drove the normally 40-minute commute in 90 minutes, but I didn’t mind because I played the Broadway cast recording to Les Miserables and sang along, my voice aimed at my passenger, and I arrived at my office just in time to pick up the phone.  It was my doctor.  The test read that my pregnancy was failing, hormones going down, could be any time.  In a sudden daze, I went into my supervisor’s office and left her a note:  Going home.  Having a miscarriage.  And I left.

It was another 90 minute drive home, but this time in silence.  This time I had to concentrate.  This time, there were cars off the road but I hardly noticed them.  This time, I drove alone.

To be honest, I don’t remember how I told my husband.  Did I call him from work?  Did I call him when I got home?  Did I wait for him to get home?  The only phone call I remember was to my mother, and I half wonder if it’s too painful to share with you, stranger from France, but I will.  I called my mother.  I cried, something I did rarely.  I told her what was happening.  The phone beeped – she was getting another call.  She put me on hold.  When she came back, she told me it was my sister calling her – could she call me back later?  I don’t remember what I said.

The storm continued to rage outside.  How the evening passed, I don’t know, but it was bedtime and I had to remove my contact lenses.  Only, one of them wouldn’t come out.  It was stuck on my eyeball.  My husband tried; I tried again and again.  I flushed my eye with water – cold water, warm water, cold water again.  Eventually, I had to call my doctor:  what do I do?

And then we were on the road, headed for the Massachusetts Eye Hospital.  In my hurry to leave, I forgot to bring a hat, scarf, or gloves.  The parking lot, covered with snow, was across the highway from the hospital, and we had to cross a pedestrian bridge.  I was cold.  I was sad.  I was in pain.  And then I realized, as I walked, that I wasn’t just in pain in my eye, but I was beginning to cramp.  I was losing the pregnancy.

Well, the emergency room doctor got the contact lens off my eye with a teeny tiny suction cup, which he presented to me and which I still have (and use – and God forbid I should ever lose it!).  My husband took me home.  It had been one of the worst days of my life.  I thought about how, forever, February 4^th would be the anniversary of something awful, something unforgettable – that the following year, I would grieve, and for every year after that, February 4^th, a black day for the rest of my life.

And a month later, all of this was stolen from me.  Of course, as you can see, it wasn’t really stolen from me, but for months I felt the loss of those words, written in my diary.  There I was, a short month later, gazing at my new niece, amazed at how her digestive system seemed to work, awed at how she had already changed my sister, sad and empty and alone in my grief.  I never told my family about the theft.  The following day, we went out to buy some clothes to last through the visit.  I bought a new diary and got back to my daily writing – only I never packed it to go away with me again.

I don’t believe my daughter has anything quite so dramatic in her journal, Frenchman, but her life is hers, and her words are hers, and I want her to have them back.  If you find yourself reading this, and you still have the journal, please return it.  No questions asked.  Carolyn Kintisch, Webster NY.

Oh, and you know what?  On February 4^th, 1989, I wasn’t thinking about my miscarriage.  I was holding a newborn, a little boy with Down syndrome born a day earlier, and that’s what mattered to me.  All the rest was just stuff.

My stuff.

Doing an Emotional Cleanse

A few weeks ago, a friend asked me if I was tired.  I laughed and asked her if sleepwalking was a symptom of being tired.  I wasn't tired at that moment, but it occurred to me that I seem to be tired so much of the time – just not physically tired.  My fatigue is more emotional than physical.  I've spent these few weeks pondering this state of mind, and realize that I am tired of

caring what others think of me.    I’m 53 years old, and it’s time to Be Carolyn, no matter the opinions of anyone else.  I've got this one life and I’m scared of getting to the end of it wondering who I am.  I want to pirouette in the halls of my school – and not just when I’m alone there – and I want to order what I want in a restaurant.  I want to wear clothes that don’t match but are comfortable.  I want to listen to my favorite music without apology. 

feeling negatively towards my body.  Once upon a time, I must have been happy with my then young, lithe, strong, working body, but I don’t remember it.  For as long as I can remember, I've felt too big, too tall, too fat, my hair too stringy or frizzy or straight or wavy or long or short.  I was told to lose weight from such an early age I don’t remember a time my weight wasn't a crushing concern.  But here I am, 53 (still), and I have a body that carries me through the day.  It shoveled my car out of the snow yesterday.  It carried and fed three children.  My heart keeps beating.  While I can feel it aging, I tend not to recognize any limits and when I ask my body a favor, it always says yes.

feeling shame about the general clutter in my house.  I don’t live in a pristine environment, but I don’t live in filth.  For reasons that go back to my childhood, I've been reluctant to rid myself of things – until recently, I’ve been comforted by the stuff that surrounds me, and threatened by those who would strip me of it.  Now I find myself feeling hemmed in by that same stuff that brought me comfort, and little by little, it’s been leaving my house.  Little by little, I've acquired me things – a coffee table, a cat tower, new silverware and dishes, a storm door – that appeal to my soul, and shed the things that have begun to weigh heavily upon me.  And I continue – junk to the garbage bin, books to friends and colleagues, unworn clothes off to Savers, gently used items to the school’s holiday store – carefully putting the past where it belongs.  In the meantime, my house is messy – I’m not a housewife, never claimed to be – but I’m tired of caring, of feeling guilty over what I've not done.  I live alone.  If people love me, my clutter won’t bother them.  I’m tired of feeling shame over a dish left in the sink, the laundry left for another day, a table piled with reading material, or cat toys scattered about.

feeling anger.  What is, is.  Here I am in the now, and no amount of anger is going to change how I got here.  So my neglectful parents are forgiven – I choose to remember the ways they loved me rather than the ways they pushed me away.  They did the best they could with what they had, as I do for my children.  My ex-husband too – I don’t like how he forced an end to our marriage, but he is the man I chose way back when to be the father of my children.  I choose now to find his redeeming qualities, not the ones that hurt me.  God, who gave me a lifelong sentence, but who also gave me the chance to experience the keen sweetness of an “I love my mommy.”  I struggle to release the anger I feel toward the man who made a unilateral decision that broke my son, then washed his hands of him, but someday I’ll come to it.  I’m still working on Reagan.

putting off until tomorrow.  I’ll be happy when I lose weight, and I’ll lose weight when the warm weather comes.  I’ll write when I have the time and I’ll have time when I rearrange my life.  I’ll crochet/embroider/other craft when I have room in the house and I’ll have room in the house after I’ve cleared it out.  I’ll save money when my children are independent, and I’ll travel when I’ve saved money.  No one is guaranteed the time or warm weather to come, and I’m not immortal.  If not now, when can I do these things?  The end of my life may come in 30 years, or in 1 day.  It’s my one life, and I’ve got to live it now.  But I also realize the folly of too many intentions.  I can easily overwhelm myself with lists, plans, and schedules.  My way of handling anxiety is to cover it over with surface management, so I’m making no schedules for now, no commitments to feel guilty about later.  All I need do for now is tweak my attitude.

the resentment that comes from judging others.  I try, I really do.  When that driver cuts me off, I tell myself there might be a good reason he (or she) is driving like a maniac – a wife in labor, a crisis at home, a child in danger.  That pushy person might not have seen me in the crowd.  The store clerk didn’t know I was here first.  Some are hard to explain away:  the man at Starbucks who leaves his garbage behind for someone else to clean up.  The people at Black Friday sales who trample others in their rush to get cheap(er) electronics.  How does one explain greed?  Selfishness?  The attitude that rules and etiquette are for other people?  Well, I can’t.  I cannot explain away the rudeness, the small hearts, the evil of others.  But I don’t have to carry the weight of judging them either.  I can allow the sadness that comes with seeing injustice, but the resentment is poisonous.  I know this will be an ongoing battle for me.  Is it human nature to feel “it’s not fair,” whether for ourselves or on behalf of others?  For now, all I can do is work at it – and perhaps throw out the trash left behind at Starbucks so no one else has to do it, bless that man’s soul.

Well, I feel better already.  No promises or commitments, just the recognition that I've lived long enough with these burdens to know when it’s time to relieve myself of them.  Like the items I’m sloughing off my physical world, these weights need to be shed from my emotional one.  Maybe then I can feel I’m no longer sleepwalking through my life, but waking up.

Some Gleeful Thinking in the Middle of the Night

I couldn’t sleep last night so I watched the most recent episode of Glee, “Jagged Little Tapestry,” in which the glee clubbers were tasked with mashing up songs from Alanis Morissette’s album “Jagged Little Pill” with songs from Carole King’s album “Tapestry.”  I don’t usually write about television shows – heck, lately, I’ve not been writing about much at all – but I have been growing increasingly disenchanted with Glee over the years and having no one with whom I can discuss my feelings, I suppose it’s time to put cursor to paper.

I think the best season of the show has to have been its second, the year that the Warblers were introduced.  That was a great a capella group, and I enjoyed every cut to Dalton Academy and the introduction of Darren Criss as a positive gay role model.  Initially conceived as an older, wiser, gay young man, Blaine Anderson was also presented as multi-talented, smart, an altogether together person.  Unfortunately, the show ultimately made him younger than Kurt (Chris Colfer), his romantic interest, probably so that he could stay longer in the show, talented as he was, but his use in the show declined once he transferred to McKinley and no longer appeared with the Warblers regularly.  His most interesting moments, indeed, came when he had the chance to sing with them again – for reasons that were highly improbable, but of course, much of the show is improbable.  And Blaine became less himself than he’d been:  he cheated on Kurt, he pined after Sam (Chord Overstreet), his tone became whinier, and he no longer played the older, wiser role.  Something valuable was lost.

The third year introduced a recurring character, Sebastian Smythe (Grant Gustin), a sarcastic, selfishly cruel Warbler who was interested in Blaine – and with whom Criss shared an incredible spark.  Some in Glee’s audience called for Blaine to ditch Kurt and create a new couple:  Sebastlaine?  The show even gave Sebastian a conscience, and he eventually redeemed himself, so much so that our last sight of him was when he helped Blaine to propose to Kurt.

Now Kurt and Blaine are once again apart, and the show has paired Blaine with Dave Karofsky (Max Adler), the boy who tormented Kurt through so much of the first and second season (because Dave was gay himself and couldn’t deal with it, which is a plotline I didn’t like and won’t discuss now).  Dave and Blaine have as little chemistry together as Kurt and Blaine had, and I find myself wishing they had brought Sebastian back (and I think the writers wanted that too, or else why would Kurt have silently wished for Blaine not to say Sebastian’s name when he was revealing his new boyfriend?)  Too bad Grant Gustin is off on another network, superheroing as the Flash.  Oh, if only…

Meanwhile, the improbable continues to weave itself through these three episodes of the show’s last season.  Suddenly, Lima is rife with McKinley alumni, and several of them are now in educator positions in their schools.  Blaine, having flunked out of NYADA, is the Warblers’ new coach (which at least enables him to don the jacket from time to time and join in, which can only be good); Rachel (Lea Michelle) and Kurt are working as coaches for McKinley’s New Directions (“Look at us!  We’re teachers!” Kurt exclaimed in the most recent episode); and with Coach Beiste’s (Dot Jones) upcoming gender reassignment surgery (wouldn’t you think she would need to provide more than “next week” as notice for being absent?), Sam is, despite having only modeling on his resume, the new football coach.

Then there are the other alumni, many of whom one would think should be at college, or in the military, but can easily arrange to “stay another week” beyond homecoming weekend.  It’s nice to have these oldtimers back to perform, but really? 

What am I thinking, though?  This is a show that regularly suspends the expected.  In this episode, Rachel declared her students ready to start down the road to sectionals:  did she happen to notice that she has only 4 students in her glee club?  I do believe they need 12 – she’d better get back to recruiting.  And perhaps decide what the set list will be before leaving for the competition.

I will admit that Chris Colfer and Darren Criss have voices that blend well, as they demonstrated in the opening number, "It's Too Late," but Colfer, despite his many talents, annoys the hell out of me.  Please, powers that Glee, do what you can to send Blaine off into the wild blue yonder with Sebastian.  It's the only thing that makes sense in this world you have created.  Then, maybe, I can get some sleep.