Little Thumbs

Exhibit C has been a thumb sucker since the day he was born. At four years old, it was still one of my greatest pleasures when he curled up in my lap to snuggle and I heard that sweet little sucking noise as he drifted off to sleep.

I'm not one of those moms who gets overly concerned about things like thumb sucking, picky eating, potty training, or other such things, for, as my father would have reassured me: "I never saw a bride walk down the aisle with a pacifier in her mouth" or "My friends all know how to use a toilet" or "You know, I never met a grown up who only eats mac'n'cheese".

I don't quite understand parents who feel the need to put horrible tasting things on little tiny thumbs or who tie down the thumbs of sleeping children. Most kids who suck their thumbs do so only when they are tired, feel nervous or uncertain or maybe when they get bored. It seems to me that the ability to self-comfort in the first two situations is something we should all be so lucky to have and that creating drama around it doesn't do much to empower or reassure a child. In the case of boredom, well, a little creative parenting can go a very long way.

That said, I recently broached the sacred thumb sucking subject with Exhibit C just to see what he'd say.

Me: Do you think you might stop sucking your thumb any time soon?
Him: *big doe eyed, long lashed blink* NO. (immediately followed by insertion of thumb in mouth)
Me: Alrighty then

Three days ago, though, he announced that he would no longer be sucking his thumb and that at the end of one week with no thumb sucking, he would require a new DS game. Ummmm... OK.

And with that, he promptly stopped sucking his thumb.

This afternoon he curled up in my lap and we talked about important things like Spiderman, birthday parties and why kitties have bristled tongues. I kept expecting him to start to fade and accidentally put that tiny thumb in his mouth, I kept thinking that at any moment I'd hear the familiar, rhythmic, self-soothing sound... but I never did and, truth be told, as glad as I am he did it on his terms and in his own time, I already miss it just a little.

I Am, Indeed, A Quitter

Someone recently called me a quitter. At first, it made me angry because it was so obvious to me that he had no earthly idea the kind of fight I put up every single day. It's an interesting concept really... for most of us really don't intuitively know what each other goes through, so I am not sure how we arrive at such conclusions, but it happens quite often, I believe.

My immediate thoughts were as follows, in no particular order: Do you know how much effort is required to slap on a happy face every freakin' day regardless of what havoc is being wreaked in my body at any given moment? Do you think it's easy to try to go about my business, maintaining a sense of normalcy not only for myself but so that the small human beings who once dwelled in my belly can feel secure and know they have the world at their fingertips? Does wanting to be in control of my own destiny, be surrounded by the people I love and be in the places I want to be in make me a quitter? Does signing a DNR order mean I've thrown in the towel or is it perhaps a sign that I understand that in both living and dying, prior proper planning prevents piss poor performance? Is it so wrong to want to handle things on my own terms? And, perhaps, most telling, are you presuming that your way is the only way and therefore the right way?

However, upon further consideration, I must say, I concur. I am, indeed, a quitter... for today I do, in fact, declare that I quit. I quit putting effort into people who can't be bothered and who don't appreciate how fleeting time is. I quit taking medications that make me feel worse than the disease for which I am taking them, and I quit hanging my hopes on unkept promises and arbitrary statistics. You tell me there's a 94% chance that something bad will happen and I will look you in the eye and say there's a 6% chance it won't. You say quitter, I say fighter, but I do, indeed, quit fighting with you. So there. You were right. I am, indeed, a quitter.

For whom?

I do not believe that it is selfish to value quality of life over quantity. I believe that someone asking another person to endure pain and medications and procedures that are sometimes worse than the condition itself and adding the words "for me" or "for them" to the end of the sentence is far more selfish.

That is all.

Reflections on a Year

Exactly one year.

One year ago I was 8 days away from tackling 40 with all kinds and sorts of celebrations planned.

One year ago I was 2 days away from starting an exciting new job that landed in my lap unexpectedly.

One year ago I was heading into remission from a horrible 8 week flare that sent me to hospitals, kept me from driving, left me in bed for long periods of time and rendered me far less attentive to my support crew, though most showed up anyway to help me, feed my family, and bring good cheer... and not just of the adult beverage variety, though they did that, too, of course.

One year ago I found out that the person among them that I thought cared the most just wasn't strong enough to handle that which needs to be handled when the going gets tough in my world.

One year ago I was an awesome kickboxer despite joints that were screaming from daily pain.

One year ago my kingdom was shattered into a million little pieces.

One year ago I became a prisoner in a house I could no longer stand.

One year ago I weiged 45 lbs more than I do today.

One year ago I stopped going to the neighborhood pool.

One year ago I realized that I should have listened better to my screaming gut because it never fails me.

One year ago I remembered just how perceptive children are.

One year ago I realized, with great sadness, that I could no longer allow myself to love too many people unconditionally or trust even my most trusted friends.

One year ago I received the best note ever from someone I've never met that said, quite simply, "one piece at a time".

One year ago I made a commitment.

Eleven months ago there was a repeat performance and so I remembered that people don't change but that they can evolve if they put their minds to it.

Ten months ago I continued my attempts at diagnostic and prescriptive measures to aid in the evolution.

Nine months ago I found out the treatment option still wasn't working, which I should have known, because the necessary evolution was not my own and you can't force that upon another soul.

Eight months ago I realized it's exhausting to have the life sucked out of you and, being the cranky and stubborn princess that I am, I fought back, because I was determined to never again fall victim to a... ummmm... life sucker.

Seven months ago I found my voice... though most would argue I never lost it. I blame my susceptibility to strep for my bouts of silence.

Six months ago there was no number six. Obviously.

Five months ago I knew what I wanted.

Four months ago I wished I would be miraculously cured and never again have to worry about health insurance.

Three months ago I just knew something wasn't right in every single arena.

Two months ago I learned about monoclonal proteins and was forced to consider, briefly, the possibility that I might not have too many more years upon which to reflect.

Last month took me to paradise and back.

And here I sit, exactly one year later, wondering how it is possible to have been through so much, learned so many things, traveled so far and yet still be in the same place as I was back then on so many levels.

Life is funny like that.

The Truth (a precursor to a HF...)

"No man is worth your tears, and the one who is won't make you cry."

Well ain't that the truth. Not sure who said it, but as soon as i read it, I liked it.

Indeed We Do

Spring shows are an integral part of every dancer's world. When Exhibit A was young, as I've mentioned before, I used to dread sitting through the one and only recital in which her class performed. I just didn't get it on so many levels and watching all that flounce and twirl while waiting for my precious angel's 4 minutes on stage seemed like a colossal waste of my time.

As she matured as a dancer and I started to understand more and more about the techniques and processes, I began to enjoy every minute of every show and appreciate the work, dedication and passion that goes into producing them. When you can watch the three year olds take the stage and do what three year olds will (or in many cases will not) do one moment, and in the next be wowed by a senior taking the stage for her final senior solo, you see where your child has been and where she's going, and you simply can't help but be a little inspired.

This year marked a big milestone for Exhibit A in that it is the first time she and her company have performed on stage en pointe. She's had her toe shoes for fifteen months... fifteen months of technique classes, ouch pouches, tying ribbons, retying ribbons, countless battements, cutting V-s in toenails, moving straps, moving them again, breaking boxes, pancake spray, new auditions, lengthy fittings, private lessons, stitch kitting and ankle strengthening... and the moment finally arrived.

The dance was beautiful, of course, but what struck me more than the movement itself was the change before me. It was, afterall, as if I was watching her grow up right there in front of an entire audience full of folks who didn't even know that they were bearing witness to such a profound moment. It is true that we watch our kids grow, on some level, day in and day out, but it's not often that time is suspended for us just long enough to recognize it in the here and now, but this performance afforded me that opportunity and there's no pirouette-ing back. My daughter has crossed the threshold as a dancer and, really, as a young woman.

The opening number this year was one of the most beautiful dances I've ever had the privilege to see. It was Bollywood-style, complete with coin skirts and ankle bells. They used every inch of space on the stage and took to the aisles of the theater, completely surrounding the audience at several points. No one there will soon forget the crispness of the movement or the level of energy the dancers created. One of the other fun pieces was a video about flashmobbing. It explained what a flashmob is and showed a clip of one of our instructors participating in a flashmob gig at Philips Arena. Oh, and then, of course, we got to experience a flashmob firsthand as our attention was drawn from the screen to what was happening in the aisles and rows all around us.

Throughout my daughter's dance journey, I've developed an eye for and appreciation of brilliant choreography. I've come to understand the subtle differences among the choreographers I know and can generally identify their work when I see it. I've learned how they each express a broad range of emotions through their art from sheer joy and whimsy to contentment to fear to utter despair and many things in between.

This weekend, however, I also learned how they, as well as a group of young girls, and even a few boys, express their grief.

As you may recall from a previous Hissy Fit, my daughter's modern dance teacher, Mr. A, passed away last summer leaving a huge void in the lives of many aspiring dancers. It's been a tough year not only for them but also for the parents and other teachers. The Nutcracker production this year was dedicated to his memory, but as the spring shows approached, it became very apparent that his picture and some lovely lines on a page in the Nutcracker playbill simply wasn't enough of a tribute to this man.

Therefore, at one point during the show, the bed used in the Nutcracker dream scene was wheeled onto the stage. An instructor, Ms. P, who, incidentally, was Mr. A's best friend, was in the bed. Cue music. "This Woman's Work". Dammit. That song makes me cry just because it is what it is and I feel connected to it on a number of levels, plus, it conjures up images of a tormented Kevin Bacon in that scene, though I suspect that image has now been replaced with this new one. So yes. The music. And then the dance.

Ms. P, in the aforementioned bed, appeared to be restless and dreaming. From stage left, comes RD, his dark skin juxtaposed against his bright white tank top and pants.

RD is a graduating senior whose senior page in the spring show program read, among other things: "Thank you for the gift you gave me. Mr. A, you are the reason I push on when times get rough because you never allowed me to settle for anything less than great". RD is an inner city kid who had a scholarship to our dance program for the past two years. Attending classes every day except Sunday, he relied on public transportation to get to and from the studio, a couple of train and bus transfers, each way. Mr. A used to teach at the arts magnet program in the city. He recognized the talent and potential RD possessed and made it his business to ensure that this young man had an opportunity he would not have otherwise had. RD was very hard hit by Mr. A's death and even performed a gut wrenching dance at the memorial service, another fact readers of both HF and BT may remember. RD resembles Mr. A not only in his physical traits but also in his dry humor, his movement, his dance style and, most certainly, his aura. None of this was lost on those in the audience who knew Mr. A.

And it hit me. I knew immediately what this dance was about. Ms. P was dreaming of Mr. A. RD appeared as an angelic Mr. A, and Ms. P was happy. They danced together. They smiled, they hugged, and then he ripped himself away from her. She collapsed on the stage in a breath-taking moment of pain. Out of the darkness, one by one, other female instructors took to the stage to "heal" her, to support her, to help her, to turn that moment of grief back to one of joy. Through their dance, they shared memories and happy thoughts.

RD suddenly returned to the stage and the women were elated, but it was short-lived. Sadness ensued as RD slowly did "the Mr. A modern walk" off the stage, a move we all recognized. Ms. P crawled, quite literally, back to bed, her friends surrounding her, their heads resting on the bed. And as they paused there, just breathing, comforting each other, doing what women do, RD returned to the stage and stood, perfectly still, at the head of the bed. And just in case anyone had any doubt about the meaning of this dance, in which not a word was uttered, RD was holding a Starbucks cup.

And the stage went dark.

The instructors involved in this piece were emotionally spent after each performance of it, often dancing through tear-filled eyes. Many of the company members barely made it on stage in time for their next act due to the amount of cosmetics touch up required. Runny mascara doesn't look good under the spotlights, it seems.

The show must go on, and so it did. It kept going right through to the finale.

"Breaking News" began with a newspaper girl shouting out the headlines... "Extra, extra, read all about it! War rages in the middle east... the economy tanks..." and so forth. She continued on while the dancers milled about on stage, ignoring her, until the moment when she called out "Beloved teacher Antonio S. dies at age 35, studio devastated, dancers vow to keep dancing..."

And dance they did. A joyful dance full of twists and tumbling passes and flexi-bendy poses. The newspapers became an integral prop as they threw papers into the air as if it was confetti to celebrate a life well lived. They performed to the song "Live Like We're Dying" because really, we should, and in many ways, Mr. A did. At one point the kids came off the stage and stood all over the theater throwing out into the audience red construction paper hearts. Each of the hundreds of hearts had a personalized message to Mr. A hand written on it by members of the company... the one that landed on my lap read: "Mr. Antonio, You told the best stories. I miss you." He did. And I miss him, too.

Returning to the stage, they sat in a row with piles of newspapers stacked neatly in front of them. Simultaneously they each picked up the first newspaper in their individual stacks and held them in front of their faces as if they were reading. A large, black letter appeared on the back of each paper and, down the line, a message appeared. "Dear Mr Tony", it said. In perfect unison, they put down the papers and picked up the next papers in their piles. "We Never Got". Next papers... "The Chance". Next... "To Say". Next... Goodbye". And then "We Miss You". At which point the letters M-I-S-S were put down and replaced with the letters L-O-V-E. "We love you".

We miss you, Tony. We love you.

Indeed, we do.

Fade to black.

Word Power

"Words have the power to both destroy and heal. When words are both true and kind, they can change our world"
~ Buddha

I often write about my belief in the power of words and their ability to connect people on an emotional level. Words do, indeed, have the power to hurt, anger, destroy and, conversely, to heal, uplift and unite.

Throughout the years, writing has been the greatest therapy I've ever known. For me, putting thought to paper (erm... screen?!), is utterly cathartic. It allows me to think aloud without actually... well... articulating out loud. It has enabled me to explore thoughts and analyze feelings and situations in ways that, were they stuck inside my head, may never really have been brought to light in any meaningful way. It's opened my eyes to patterns of behavior, both in myself and others, and allowed me to weigh options and make decisions in a most deliberate manner rather than relying on reactive response.

I was recently asked why it is I don't write more Hissy Fits and thought, perhaps, I should explain it here instead of elsewhere.

While I may not post here as often as some might expect given my obvious propensity to write, the fact is that there are countless Hissy Fits that reside in "The Mighty Draft Box". These are pieces that will likely never be seen by another pair of peepers. They are often just a few sentences or even a simple splash of words, filled with raw emotion that range from sugary sweet and sky high happy to streams of anger, frustration, sadness, resentment... sometimes all of the above and everything inbetween... and are often directed at specific nouns of both the proper and common varieties.

The fact is, though, that in the draft box is where they must stay. It's not that I don't acknowledge the events behind these thoughts, it's just that giving them a life of their own serves no purpose other than to stoke some fires that, in general, are better left to smolder and die.

That is not to say that my writing is all hearts and flowers, for as any Hissy Fits reader knows, it's certainly not. It's just that I believe that the true power of words lies much less in their ability to separate, accuse or hinder than in their ability to connect, build up and inspire.

And so you see, it's not that I don't write more, it's that, at the end of the day, while this space is, indeed, about me, I am acutely aware of the intellectual and emotional sparks that can and do reside in words and I want the effect of my own words to be that they leave each person they reach thinking slightly bigger thoughts, wondering more than knowing, changed just a little for the better and maybe, just maybe, a bit more inspired than before happening upon the power of my words.