Following one's heart

Way before Claire was born, I had picked out two of her godparents. It seemed like a no-brainer to me: they were social justice Christians, great fun to be around, and I knew they would take the job seriously. I was right, too. Claire was eleven days old when Bob dragged my soon-to-be-homeless self around, found every low-income deal available, and walked me through the paperwork. On the day of the closing, he and Bobbie showed up to paint. Bob has made home repairs, laid laminate flooring, done my taxes and makes me laugh. Bobbie gave Claire her first haircut and on my birthday one year made a cake for Claire to decorate for me, complete with all the sprinkles a little girl could dream of. She tells the funniest stories one could imagine.

Their house, a log cabin in the woods in Apex, was a gathering place of sorts for lots of people. Both my girls learned to swim in their pool. My over-confident niece almost drowned in their pool and THEN learned to swim there. Both Claire and Elizabeth watched "Frog and Toad" and "Balto" too many times to mention. They loved the bunny house and Elizabeth still played with it on her last visit. Bob and Bobbie's daughter's family lives just down the street and so visiting was like getting a great two-for-one deal. We have Christmas dinner there yearly.

But it's the nature of life that all good things come to an end, and Bob and Bobbie finally decided they needed to make the logical decision to sell the house, move into Chapel Hill, and get something with a first story bedroom. You know, that aging thing. They found a great house, full of light and quite near to me, and moved in. I was really happy they were so close to me. My parents could stay there when they visited. But . . . .

It was not a surprise that their decision was difficult for their grandchildren. What surprised me was how difficult it was for MY kids. Claire was very upset; she no longer enjoys the swimming like she did when she was younger, but she said, "I feel like a piece of my childhood is being sold." I explained the reasoning behind their decision, and that just made her even madder. "I DO NOT see Bob and Bobbie as being old," she said. Elizabeth cried. She still enjoyed the pool, and Bob and Bobbie's grandkids, and seeing her friends at parties there. She and a granddaughter and their friend went looking for Jesus there and claimed to find him by the well. In her mind it was like a shrine.

When the first offer came in, an inspection was scheduled, one that found some structural damage that had to be repaired. They were there almost every day, supervising workmen and knocking down the spider webs that are inevitable when one lives in the woods. At their new house, they hung pictures and enjoyed the back porch. Finally the work was done and the house could go back on the market. But . . .

I saw them at church Sunday and they asked if I had heard their news. "You sold your house?!" I asked. Bobbie laughed. "Yes, to ourselves." I was trying to work THAT one out when Bob said that they were selling the new one and moving back. "Why?" I wondered. It turned out that as a potential buyer got more serious, they felt the loss more strongly. They couldn't stand it. Their common sense decision wasn't the right one for their hearts.

The moving wasn't physically easy nor will be the moving back. But they are moving downsized possessions into a spotless house that they have loved for 27 years, and couldn't we all use that kind of spring cleaning? My kids weren't even surprised. "Oh good," they both said matter-of-factly.

My starting a school has disturbed some of my friends, who feel like it is an illogical and risky thing to do. I'm sure Bob and Bobbie will take a hit financially with selling the new house in a down market and moving back. But often, what looks like an illogical thing to do is something one's heart demands. What good is money if your last twenty years are spent in a lovely safe house that makes you miserable? What good is taking a safe job with a guaranteed salary when my heart tells me I can provide more that a subpar education for my child and others? What good is it to major in something marketable in college when your heart tells you that safe thing is all wrong? What good is having a "real job" if what you really want to do is start a brewery or an organic farm? Why adopt a child who will almost certainly have problems? Conventional wisdom isn't the highest order of wisdom. If we'd listen to our hearts more often, we'd all be happier and saner.

The truth is, there is no safe thing. Most people regret the things they didn't do more than the things they did. And thus, another reason that I am happy that I chose Bob and Bobbie for Claire's godparents. They know what's important and they listen to their hearts. I'll miss their being so close. But I'm glad my kids and I have the example that the "right" thing isn't always the best thing and that it's okay to admit a mistake and ask for a do-over. It's a pain for Bob and Bobbie at the moment. But I hope it will truly be a good story later. It already is for us.

Saved by a song

The year I was 32, I started feeling constrained by my life. Unmarried and childless, I held a very intensive job at a boarding school. I worked like crazy during the year, but I was lucky enough to have my summers off. I needed to be somewhere different. That summer I planned a six-week budget trip to Ireland, Scotland and England. I was by myself and knew only what the Let's Go travel guide told me. I budgeted $25 a day based on a friend's experience, not realizing the dollar had done poorly in the last year and this came out to about 20 pounds a day.

I flew into Shannon Airport and had my first financial shock when I realized the taxi into town would cost me seven pounds. As I stood there dithering, a RC priest bounded up, thrilled to meet someone from the United States. He was even happier to find out that I was from North Carolina, home of the great Jesse Helms. He had lots of questions about that fine man. I swallowed my pride and answered as kindly as I could. He offered to give me a ride and gave me my first piece of advice: "Don't bother with the cabs, hitchhike!" As I later told my skeptical parents, "But a priest told me to!"

Twenty-three years ago, Americans were loved in Ireland, and I had no trouble getting rides. I looked Irish enough that they were sure I must be related to some friend of theirs now living in the states and there were numerous inquiries about relatives in Boston and Georgia. I enjoyed those encounters because I knew no one. Being on my own was still new to me and I often hovered on the sidelines watching in pubs and towns. I quickly discovered the food wasn't good enough to waste my precious money on, so I subsisted on chips and warm Coke. I was lonely.

One morning I woke up in Doolin and decided to take the boat to the smallest of the Aran Islands, Inisheer, or in Irish, Inis Oírr. If you look for transportation to this island now, you will find several different ferry lines that go there, large boats that serve drinks and snacks. That option wasn't available then. I was told a small motor boat would be delivering a goat to Inisheer, and for a few pounds, I was welcome to go along. That seemed fair, so I climbed aboard and we set off over the choppy sea in windy conditions. There were four or five other travelers, all men, and they switched back and forth from English to Irish. The goat was absolutely cool with the trip and sat calmly on his seat. I was trying to be at least as cool as the goat, but it was becoming increasingly difficult as my stomach started heaving along with the waves. I consoled myself that the journey was under an hour and we would be there soon.

Then the boat stopped. The language switched entirely to Irish and became loud and excited. I became even more nauseated and anxious. Bobbing along in the Atlantic Ocean in a small nonworking motor boat with no radio was not a comfortable situation. The goat and I looked at each other. I tried to be as calm as he was, but as the discussion got louder, I found it hard. Several of the men held one by the belt as he leaned over the stern and looked at the propeller. He exclaimed loudly, and I gathered the problem had been discovered, but I had no idea what it could be. The others shouted advice and finally he was pulled back in the boat, clasping a plastic bread wrapper that had become entangled in the propeller. We all cheered except for the goat, whose expression never changed.

Twenty extra minutes on the ocean had not done my stomach any good, but I was not about to complain. We pulled up to the dock on Inisheer. It seemed like the whole town had turned out to greet the goat. I sat back, waiting for the honored guest to get off first, but the captain of the boat turned and bellowed, "Let the lass off first, she's about to puke!" I really couldn't argue with that, so I staggered off and sat until my stomach returned to normal.

There wasn't much on the island except rock walls. They are interesting because they are so individual that natives can tell you whose handiwork each wall is. But they aren't interesting for long, and so I found the only pub in town and went in. They looked at me pityingly, the wind-blown, green-faced, and homesick lass. I ordered a bowl of soup and sat down as the sounds of Irish surrounded me, both from the people in the pub and the radio that was playing. I had five and a half weeks to go on this trip and I wasn't sure I was going to make it.

As I sat there blinking back tears, suddenly the unmistakable beginning of Derek and the Dominoes' Layla blared from the radio. I sat up in surprise and then smiled. The people in the pub smiled back. And the world seemed a bit smaller and kinder.

How we returned my brother to the straight and narrow

After my first year of college, I returned home for the summer to the house on Nokomis Avenue in Venice, Florida. Two bedrooms and minuscule, it held our family of six, two Mikes, a pregnant junkie, two cats and Mike Williams' dog. We did pretty well together for the most part. Mike Williams, Scott, the junkie and I all worked, as did my parents. The other Mike smoked a lot of pot and didn't do much else. Randy and Leslie were twelve and ten. Randy spent most of that summer in trouble and Leslie did her unsuccessful best to keep him out of it.

It's hard to believe now, because Randy is a model citizen, track coach and beloved semi-celebrity in Boone, but he spent most of that year being a delinquent. He'd throw rocks and shout "Pig" at police cars, talk back and disobey my mother, and was a general pain in the butt. When he started sneaking alcohol from my parents' liquor cabinet, we decided that enough was enough. There was no point in wasting good (or bad) alcohol on a twelve year old. Mike Williams, Scott and I decided if he wanted to drink, we'd get him good and drunk. Mike invited him to join him in a drink or two; we all adored Mike, and Randy jumped at the chance. Scott and I poured the drinks, starting with a rum and Coke, then a beer, some sherry I found, scotch and water, gin and tonic, a glass of wine. Mike, a big guy, was starting to look a little bleary-eyed, but Randy, having the time of his life, kept asking for more. I pulled out the Kahlua and the peppermint schnapps. Mike gagged, but got it down.

We were getting nervous; we all had to get to work and Randy showed no signs of inebriation. Mike's friend Irving stopped by, surveyed the scene and the clock, and offered Randy a cigar. He was thrilled and lit up happily.

That did the trick. He became quite sick and as we all left for work, our last view was Randy holding on to the curtains for dear life, begging us to stop the room. Unfortunately we had to leave him with Leslie, who still hasn't forgiven us.

Of course she told my parents and of course they were furious. They explained about alcohol poisoning and we were all in the doghouse for a while. But it was a long time until Randy drank again.

I wish I could say he never did, but he spent some time in college imbibing heavily. Luckily he had the good sense to call one of us to get him instead of driving himself home. We were in Boone then, and the Mikes and the junkie and the dog had been replaced by foster kids Steve and Lori along with rented sheep and chickens. But I was the one he called most often and I'd drag out of bed to get him. I got my thanks once when I stopped on the parkway so he could be sick. Getting back in the car, he leaned back, eyes closed, and said, "You know I love you, even if you are a bitch." Um, thanks?

Randy crammed all his wildness into two periods in his life instead of dragging it out like most people do. He's an example to youth now and I like to think I had a part in making him so. You'd think my sister would be over it by now, but she still gives us a hard time about the mess she had to clean up.

So many reasons for a broken heart

Having had a child in the hospital for 25 of the last 32 days has exposed me to a huge amount of distress, most of it belonging to other people. A big hospital is a microcosm of the world's pain, and broken hearts are everywhere. In the burn unit, a victim from the earthquake in Haiti still suffers. Heath care reform? A total of fifty-four hours spent in the emergency room waiting for a bed and people-watching brings it home how many people use the ER for their primary care. Unable to afford a doctor's visit, they end up waiting until it becomes a real emergency. I stop and chat with Elizabeth Edwards' oncologist and wonder how SHE feels about a man who would cheat on a sick wife. Immigration reform? There are a lot of Hispanics here and I look to see if I can pick out the ones who come to the U.S. to freeload and take what they can get. They must be in another part of the hospital, because I see in them the same things I see in the others here: fear for a sick child, a glowing joy in a new baby, pride in a floor newly shined. I hear the helicopter landing overhead and know someone's life has just changed in a major way. And mental health reform? Don't get me started. The hospital pressed charges against a young man in the adult psych ward who broke a table while he was doing what he was hospitalized for. And so it goes. Band aids for big hurts, lots of routine fixes, a few miracles.

There are those of us who feel way too much at home. We know how to get out of the parking garage without the long line, which locker sticks, and when the Starbucks' (the world's largest!) line is apt to be out the door. We're so much at home that the nurses greet us by first names when our loved ones are admitted—again. I find myself wishing I was a drinker because this is a perfect place to play one of those drinking games. Take a shot whenever you hear the words "waiting", "no beds", "they think", "discharge", "tests". I'd be crawling after ten minutes. But I'm not a drinker and so I think.

I think of all the things I could have done differently. Perhaps if we'd caught the diabetes earlier, she would have been more stable. Perhaps if she hadn't had, not one, but two disastrous school placements this year, things would have been better. Perhaps if I were younger, or black, or married, it would have all been different. Maybe if I had ducked, that shoe wouldn't have broken my eye socket. It's all futile, but it passes the time as I walk from the parking garage or try to get to sleep at night.

And it doesn't matter; it's made clear to me that Elizabeth can't come home until she can come home safely. That decision isn't mine, but I take control of as much as I can. We're in a frantic race to make a plan before the insurance lords say she has to leave. I feel like I'm sprinting: choose a community support agency, fill out piles of paper work. Go down the options—Butner, Wright School, therapeutic foster home. Choose an option, which really isn't an option because the first two can't take her; fill out piles of paper, rush to a care review meeting to get permission for out of home placement. I've been doing this long enough that I know everyone on the community care review board, a fact which is both comforting and unsettling. Interview a foster home and then introduce them to Elizabeth. She is relieved; she had convinced herself she was either going to prison or would never see me again. Fill out piles of papers. All the while go to work when I can fit it in, visit Elizabeth, and try to remember where I've left Claire.

And now it's over. Claire and I took Elizabeth to her foster home today. I like them. They are young, black, and Christian. They have a seven year old and a two month old who is still in PICU. The dad comes from Kenya and has dreads; he just finished exams and looks exhausted, but I can tell he has a sense of humor that Elizabeth will love. The mom is calm and quiet. They're anxious about the diabetes stuff and we go over it again. Their daughter comes downstairs, glowing: "We get along!" Elizabeth will have her own room for the first time ever, and she gets to be the big sister for awhile.

It's a scary thing I'm asking Elizabeth to do. In our family we approach hard times in one of two ways. It can be an adventure or a good story later. Sometimes it's both, like the time my father was rushed to Charlotte in an ambulance for heart treatment while the EMT in back told him about all the ambulance wrecks he'd been involved in. I'm proud of her for being a true McDonough—she chooses to make it an adventure. Last night she solemnly made out a packing list. "You know you're coming home after a few months," I ask. She nods and adds something to the list.

And me? I write and hope it really will be a good story later. Right now it just feels like a broken heart.

Please be kind

It's been an exciting week. Elizabeth had a meltdown Monday night, during which she threw a small toy at me with unfortunate accuracy. The sight of my head bleeding copiously sent her over the edge, and I realized it was time for outside help and another hospitalization.

She was almost relieved by the time the police got there at 10 pm. We've had cops before who were angry at being called over such a petty thing as a parent being unable to control her child, but these three were great. They called the EMTs and we sat on the deck as they cleaned me up. The NCAA final game was going on and my sister kept texting me the score so I could keep them posted. I was finally cleared to drive myself to the hospital to be stapled and the policewoman took Elizabeth. I really like this particular cop; once before when she came, Elizabeth took off running. She surveyed the situation and dryly radioed for "backup wearing running shoes." And she never yells at me.

She stayed in the ER with us and we watched the game in the hall. It's a good thing she had a gun; she was a UNC fan and Duke was beating Butler and I think they could probably have heard her in Indianapolis. But no one told her to leave, and during the last minute of the game everything came to a stop as the full ER staff and patients expressed their various basketball loyalties. It was a nice moment of camaraderie.

At 1:00 am, they came to get me to staple my head back together. I'm in a state-of-the-art teaching hospital, and I had high hopes of some amazing technology. But no, they pulled out a staple gun. "Ka-chunk! Ka-chunk! Ka-chunk! Ka-chunk!" It sounded and felt just like you'd imagine having your head stapled would feel. I can't wait to see how much each of those four staples cost me. I should have gone to Home Depot; surely it would have been cheaper. It seems to me that duct tape would have worked too, but I guess that would have hurt more when they took it off.

Back to her side of the ER, where at 3:00 am we finally see a psychiatrist. He wants to admit her, but there are no beds. He suggests we sleep in the ER and see what opens up in the morning. We do this. Finally at 2:30 pm the next day, a bed opens up and we go up to the unit.

Elizabeth has been here before and feels comfortable and safe, especially when she has felt so out of control. The hospital school is great, there are kids to play with and they watch a movie every night. She settles in nicely. We've done this before and we both know our parts.

But something is different this time. Her blood sugar is dangerously high and tests show it has been for months. We receive a new diagnosis—diabetes. No wonder she was irritable and angry—she must have felt horrible. They start her on insulin and she really perks up. I go home and start the process of cleaning out the pantry and refrigerator. There will need to be some big changes.

I arrived at the hospital at 7:00 am this morning to learn how to do finger sticks and give insulin shots. I walked through the various connected buildings that make up UNC Hospitals: the general hospital where I had Claire, the children's hospital, then the women's, neuro-psych, and the cancer hospital. In every lobby there were people sleeping in chairs, staring out the windows, or walking restlessly. I wanted to stop each one and ask their story. They weren't there because it was a nice place to hang out. Someone they loved was upstairs and the exhaustion and pain on their faces told me the news wasn't good.

Those people will drive home at some point today, to feed the cat or to take a shower. They may stop at the bank to get more cash for the parking garage. Know that. Just assume that the car in front of you who doesn't go through the light fast enough, that the man fumbling his deposit at the bank, that woman who is taking forever filling her gas tank, just assume they are one who is living with great pain at the moment. Maybe not, but give them the benefit of the doubt. I can tell you from experience how much small kindnesses mean at these times. Forget random acts of kindness; it needs to be deliberate and systematic. Patience and a smile may give someone the strength to go back to that hospital and deal with interminable waits and bad news.

Walking through the lobby this morning I found myself praying the prayer from compline. Here it works 24/7.

Keep watch, dear Lord, with those who work, or watch, or weep this night, and give your angels charge over those who sleep. Tend the sick, Lord Christ; give rest to the weary, bless the dying, soothe the suffering, pity the afflicted, shield the joyous; and all for your love’s sake.

Amen.

Feeling the world's pain

The surest way to send Claire screaming from the room is to tell her she's just like her mother. Relatives in particular do this on a regular basis, coupling the comment with a smirk that I know from long experience means that I've gotten just what I deserve. I'll admit that there are similarities. When she tried to irritate me by reading a book on atheism in church, it did remind me of how I used to read Teaching as a Subversive Activity in study hall, simply to taunt my teachers. Like me, she loves Shakespeare and Springsteen. She inherited my dyslexia and ADD, and though she missed out on the McDonough nose, she did get the hyperbole gene, handed down from my father.

Another trait she inherited is one which I call pathological empathy. I don't think it qualifies as a disease, but it's not much fun. When I was a child, my parents regularly threatened to take away the privilege of watching Lassie because I would cry hysterically, even though Lassie ALWAYS saved the day. At the age of two, Claire would wail when I tried to sing her "All the Pretty Little Horses," with its lyrics of abandoned babies, or "500 miles". So it didn't surprise me when her kindergarten teacher called, concerned that she seemed traumatized when the class watched The Magic School Bus. Puzzled, she explained that she'd never had a child get quite so upset over a cartoon. People think we are weird because we don't have a TV in our house, but none of us can bear to watch the news. While she will now watch crime shows on her computer, I prefer comedy; there is too much real pain in the world to view it as entertainment.

As a four-year-old she begged to become a vegetarian. I held her off until she was seven, when during a trip to the Everglades, I ate alligator tail. She cried and I was never able to get her to eat meat again. When people would ask, she'd say, "Yes, I like meat, I just like animals better." She listened with her ears and her heart when the bishop preached that a child died every three seconds from starvation. She couldn't sleep that night from fury that we adults would allow such a thing to happen. Within days, she and her friends presented a proposal to the Outreach Commission at church, asking for $100 seed money to start a project to raise money for hungry children. They packaged innumerable bags of bean soup mix to sell and have sent thousands of dollars to Haiti over the last five years. She is a gay rights activist, believing that all people deserve to love and marry the partner of their choice regardless of gender.

Her empathy didn't just extend to people and fauna, but to flora as well. Veggie Tales made it difficult to eat friendly creatures like Bob the Tomato and Larry the Cucumber. Our Halloween jack o' lanterns turned to slime on the deck due to her unwillingness to let me dispose of them. Finally I came up with a tale of the Great Pumpkin swooping down to take our pumpkin back home to the pumpkin patch, a myth she accepted gratefully. Then I'd sneak out in the middle of the night and heave the soggy mass into the woods. Although it was irritating, I did understand when she couldn't bear to take our Christmas tree to a friend's Epiphany tree burning party. It had, after all, been a member of the family for a month. And I knew this empathy kept her from being critical when I always chose the tree no one else wanted because I couldn't stand to see its feelings hurt.

I've come to realize that the pathological empathy we both suffer from stems from an overactive imagination. It's why I had foster kids. The thought of any child being neglected or hurt is unbearable to me. Our licensing social worker knew I was the one to call on a Friday when she was desperate for a home to place a child in. She'd start describing the kid, knowing full well I was a goner. I'd imagine this child, taken from her parents with her few clothes in a garbage bag, as she sat wondering where she was going, how she would be treated, and who would sit with her in the scary darkness in the strange house.

It's a painful trait I've passed on to her. She'll probably never get rich. I've made peace with that myself and I hope she will as well. It's easy to be overwhelmed as I often am, engulfed by the pain of soldiers far away from home, Haitians whose world has literally come crashing in on them, Africans who have suffered unspeakable atrocities, children without a home. Claire started early seeing that her actions can impact the world. I hope she will continue and that she will use her photography, her acting, her writing, her determination, alongside that overactive imagination to feel what pain there is that needs to be fixed and fix it. It's the only way to live with it.

Fallen hero

My family were not big sports fans, with the exception of baseball. My grandfather was on the stadium committee in Atlanta, and we often went to Atlanta Braves games. Hank Aaron was our all-time hero, and I swear my brothers could tell you every statistic about him, including his underwear size. My mother wasn't much better, and she was probably the one responsible for naming our white poodle Hank.

The only exception to the baseball hero-worship was O. J. Simpson. Even non-football fans had to be impressed by his seemingly unstoppable runs as he shook off pursuers and set record after record. He made it look fun and it was beautiful to see. We were all fans. For years, all my PIN numbers had a 32 in them. He seemed to have it all: good looks, charisma and all-around athletic ability. We had a dog named after him too.

In 1975, my brother Scott was a high school senior in Venice, Florida. ABC held its "Superstars" competition just south of Venice, in Rotonda West. "Superstars" was a ten event contest in which professional athletes competed in sports outside of their specialty. That year O. J. Simpson, Bob Seagren, Kyle Rote, Jr., Franco Harris, and Lou Brock were among the competitors. Who could blame a bunch of high school seniors for skipping school to go watch?

Scott drove down in our white Gremlin and thoroughly enjoyed the competition. During a break, he drove to a nearby 7-11 and came across O. J. walking to the same place. His heart pounding, he stopped and offered the star a ride. O. J. accepted and during the short trip, found out Scott was playing hooky and suggested that might not be such a good idea. They got their drinks and went their separate ways.

Can you imagine the thrill of a teenage boy who has just given his hero a lift? Even then we knew it said a lot about O. J.'s generous spirit that he'd get in a Gremlin, a car that was not one of my father's better ideas. It made it worth Scott's getting busted for truancy when his picture appeared both in the local paper and on the evening news as he sat watching. It's hard to argue with evidence like that. But it was SO worth it. And it was made even better by the fact that O. J. won it all.

When O. J.'s wife, Nicole Brown Simpson, was found dead, we grieved for his loss. At work, Scott's co-workers, most of them black, jeered. "Of course he did it," they said. Scott defended him until it was not possible to defend him any longer. We were all crushed.

Thirty-five years later, I still hear sadness in his voice as he talks about that day. It certainly wasn't the worst thing O. J. did, but small cruelties hurt too.

My PIN numbers no longer have the number 32 in them.