I just happened upon an amazing early-morning exercise routine. It’s absolutely all-natural, includes breathing method(s), and results can be seen even just once-a-week activity. Follow instructions to the letter:

A. In half-awake drowsy state while still in bed, listen to morning sounds (i.e., birdsong, squirrel chatter, distant trash trucks).

B. Roll over to get comfy. Take lovely deep breath. Set intention to relax back into slumber.

C. Sit bolt upright because “someone” forgot to take trash bins out to curb last night with holiday approaching.

D. Gasp loudly. Pause to consider ramifications if bins were not curbside today.

E. Panic. Fling back covers, grab sweater, shove feet into garden shoes, run out back door. Forget gloves.

F. Shudder at cold blast of air on teeth.  Check bodice for complete coverage. Run to bins.

G. Stop and stare. Sigh loudly. Forget which trash truck comes first. Swear.

H. Spring to action. Lunge for smallest bin. Roll onto patio. Run over own foot so bin falls down. Yank to standing. Clean up trash mess. Run bin out to street. Place at curb.

I. Check for trash trucks. See nothing. Hear truck noises “somewhere”. Run back to remaining bins while swearing under breath.

J. Choose big, heavy yard waste bin filled with oak leaves. Wrestle onto patio. Groan loudly. Try to brush spider webs from arms. Get all heeby-geebie-ish. Pick up stick to remove said webs from handle. Check for spider….twice. Run bin out to curb.

K. Marvel at one’s adrenalin. Search street for trucks. Take deep breath of relief. Run back.

L. Grab recycling bin. Drag over patio to back door. Rush into house. Grab newspapers. Rush out of house. Dump in bin. Rush back into house. Grab more recycling. Rush out. Dump in bin. Rush in; rush out. Dump. Rush in; rush out. Dump. (Repeat as necessary.)

M. Feel endorphin response kick in. Feel empowered, blissful. Race effortlessly with recycling bin to curb. See no sign of trucks. Throw arms up in air. Run around front yard in triumph. Sing “Barney’s Clean Up Song” because nothing else comes to mind and moment deserves music.

N. Go back into house. Search for even more trash. Strike gold in son’s room. Run with armful to street. Dump in bin.

O. Wave to neighbor taking one, tidy trash bag to her bin as you pick up dropped trash bits. Be grateful pjs resemble sweats. Drop trash bits in bin.

P. Saunter into house as you brush last spider web from arm. Put kettle on. Hear first trash truck lurch by, sigh deeply, pat self on back.

Q. Make coffee, read paper you rescued from gutter, enjoy day.

© 2012 Beverly Belling, Rarely Balanced, All Rights Reserved

All photographs & drawings are original and © Beverly Belling, Rarely Balanced, unless otherwise noted.

It is early morning, but not too early. Our front porch  has been miraculously cleared of cobwebs, dirt, and those awfully prolific Brown Widow Spiders. I sit, holding a steaming mug of coffee in one hand and today’s newspaper in the other. The headlines read:

“Work Done by Parents & Caregivers No Longer Invisible – Currently the Highest Paid Jobs in the World.  Teachers Salaries a Close Second.”

And further down:

“New Discovery: Scientists have confirmed there is enough time, money, space, silence, food, creativity, and chocolate-covered raisins to go around.”

I take a sip of coffee while enjoying the usual morning sounds – birds chirping, squirrels scampering, weed-whackers whacking. Our screen door opens and out walks my only child with a tray of freshly baked cinnamon buns. Setting it on the porch ledge he…

… morphs into a baby – gurgling, laughing, and doing his funny singing thing. Just before he poops, he morphs again into a two-year-old and runs out back to eat the cat food.  Now, at four, we are butterflies who suddenly encounter a Big Wind, get blown willy-nilly through the house, and end up smashed against the back door. Six-years-old brings us to an all-nighter at Children’s Hospital for a broken wrist – he is happy, talkative, and brave. At nine, he plays the Star Wars’ theme at his piano recital; at ten, it’s Linus & Lucy. He opens his first business at age 12 – the Student Store – just before he morphs back to 13 and makes me laugh with his crazy antics and love of life.

My sweet husband brings out fruit and cheese, and the three of us discuss environmental concerns and technological discoveries. We also take turns reading the comics out loud.

During my shower, I have the bathroom to myself. There is no persistent knock on the door, no “excuse me” yelled through the shower curtain, no asking about today’s agenda. Dressing takes little time because no one desperately needs an emery board from the mirrored cabinet I’m using, meaning, mascara does not have to be scraped off my cheek. I also get to use the toilet.

My sister, sisters-in-law, and girl friends join me for brunch at an outdoor cafe where flowering peach trees line the garden and wild flowers set in Mason jars grace the tables. We share healthy foods, personal triumphs, and future dreams. Someone tosses out a question: What is it about caring for a spirit in a young body that fills your soul? At that moment, a small bird lands on the table looking for crumbs. We fall silent and watch as my sister feeds it part of a seeded muffin. The bird eats a bit, then grabs a larger chunk and flies off – perhaps to a nest? No one speaks and the question lingers unanswered. Soon, our conversation moves to exercise, education, and retaining – or gaining – one’s sanity during summer vacation.

Afternoon tea arrives with my mother, her mother, her mother’s mother, and a few more generations of Hungarians. At my Granny’s home, the table is beyond elegant – linen, silver, China, rose petals. Except for my mother, our attire consists of 1940’s era, Christian Dior-style skirted suits complete with gloves, hats, and dainty bags. My mom, however, is in Levi’s, sneakers, and a T-shirt. She carries a baseball in her front pocket. We discuss the many changes women have faced, the hardships and good times, the war that wiped out this family. Much to my surprise, a particularly hot topic is disposable diapers… for which they would have apparently given their eye teeth. Even so, it’s agreed that although new inventions are welcome, the amount of work remains the same. What makes it bearable is the village of women who understand, who have been where each of us has been. What makes it bearable is the love.

The evening meal approaches. I’m late and run to meet my dad’s mom as well as a few more of my Russian ancestor moms for drinks. We invade a fancy restaurant bar – scotch/rocks all around. Eventually, a hearty dinner is served complemented by an equally hearty cabernet. We prepare to close down the joint with cognac and a tray of gorgeous desserts. At this round table, no subject is sacred. We know who’s on a diet, who’s gallbladder was removed, who’s shacked up with whom, and who’s been insulted most recently (only I never know who it is because they speak in Yiddish).  On the whole, raucous laughter permeates the evening, the restaurant, and my heart. I feel the hardships they felt as mothers – losing children in childbirth or before – but  more so I feel their joy, their gratitude. In fact, I feel my gratitude.

It’s late now and I come home to my small family. My husband is asleep but my son peaks his head up from the covers … as usual. I give him a hug and kiss, smiling down at him from the generations of mothers that came before me. He smiles up at me from the generations of children yet to come.

“Mom,” he says. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure, honey. What is it?”

“So….what’s on the agenda for tomorrow?”

~•~

© 2012 Beverly Belling, Rarely Balanced, All Rights Reserved
All photographs & drawings are original and © Beverly Belling, Rarely Balanced, unless otherwise noted.

“The leads are all wrong, they have to be redone.”

“What? OMG! What the hell does that mean?”   My over-the-top reaction flies at my sister through the speaker phone. Nice! How did Instant Panic become my first response again? I’ve worked hard to maintain a refined demeanor in these situations – patient, contemplative, steadfast. Think Kathryn Hepburn in “The African Queen” as she calmly pours Mr. Allnut’s whiskey into the river. I attempt a few deep breaths…

My sister is speaking again, “The leads. You know, the wires for Mom’s Neurostimulator … they’re all in the wrong place. They could have slipped when she lost weight or just over time or maybe the first doctor screwed up. This new doctor says he NEVER would have put them in her head like this and wants to start all over. It’s surgical.”

“Okay, let me rinse off and call you right back.” My son, who’s been holding the speaker phone up to the shower curtain, asks if he should hang up now. For the last nine months, we’ve been in a near weekly crisis with my mom – even with her recent move to an assisted living facility – so he has standing instructions to bring the phone to me whenever my sister calls. He does his duty well.

“Sure, Sweetie, thanks. You can leave the phone here.” I’m slightly calmer, but only just.

“Okay doke,” he chirps, “no trouble at all.” He snickers a bit as he leaves the bathroom. He’ll ask me later about the Neurostim-thingy, about Grandma and how he can help. But right now I know he’s chuckling at my use of profanity because a middle-school mind knows cussing is wrong and, therefore, cool – right up there with nonchalant eyebrow-raising.

The idea of failing yet again at my role-model duties adds to my angst, but louder thoughts swarm my head, such as, ‘What the hell do we do now?’ I recall a recent conversation with Mom – the one that prompted this doctor visit:

Me:  Hi, Mom, how are you doing?

Mom:  Well, I’m okay except for the wire.

Me:  What wire? (thinking TV or lamp)

Mom:  Oh… there’s a wire sticking out of my head.

Me:  What? You’re kidding. Where?

Mom:  All the nurses here came to take a look. They can’t get over it. It’s the nuttiest thing.

Me, slightly strained voice:  Where is the wire, mom?

Mom:  It’s strange. Every time I turn my head to the right, a wire pops out the back of my head on the left (Uncle Martin from “My Favorite Martian” edges into mind and I smile even though I know this can’t be good).

Me: Okay, Mom. Let me make some calls. We’ll get this handled.

In an attempt to stop her severe head pain due to past brain surgeries, Mom recently underwent a very new procedure placing wires under her skin in the area of pain. A connecting wire runs down her back to a control panel thingy and then to a small battery pack just above her hip. Most visibly, one can see a U-loop of wire on her forehead – rather like a perky vein; the small battery pack is only visible because she is so thin right now. Simply stated, this device emits electrical impulses to circumvent nerve pain – rather astounding, actually. But while many people find benefit from it, Mom has never found this comfortable – not the idea, not the wires, and especially not the battery pack she feels when sitting or reclining… which is almost always.

What exacerbates the situation is her waffling, dementia-like cognitive state due (in part or in whole) to the fact she’s still detoxing off some highly addictive pain medications. When asked, Mom’s short answer is she wants the “contraption” out. Period. But how much does she understand what that means? There is still potential that it will curb her pain without medication. Plus, this is her only shot with it due to costs, insurance, etc.

Quite a delicate line we walk here – mom’s comfort, mom’s body, mom’s semi-mind vs a whole new century of therapies. How much do we push? When do we let go? Where is the dang manual? Disappointment looms in the many conversations between my sister, brother, and I. We can’t force her into some therapy just to appease our own desires. Ultimately, we must do our best to see the thread of her decision no matter how thin.

After another trip to the doctor and about 37 conversations with her – each – we believe Mom is cognitive enough to know what’s what. It’s clear she is done experimenting. Frankly, at 75 years old, who wants wires potentially popping out of their body at the turn of a head or the lift of an arm anyway? Kinda creepy even if you were a ‘Martian’ fan. We respect that. So, the contraption will be removed and we’ll locate those new and improved, non-addicting, pain-control drugs. I’ll even throw in some free meditation options with a touch of visualization… but only if Mom’s up for it – promise!

One day at a time is the standing motto.

One day at a time.

© 2012 Beverly Belling, Rarely Balanced, All Rights Reserved
All photographs & drawings are original and © Beverly Belling,
Rarely Balanced, unless otherwise noted.