A River Runs Through It

The Boy has become a Montanan.

He has lived here for eleven months and is now a resident. 

"I don't plan on living in Seattle ever again permanently," he said. I think the Capitol Hill Autonomous Zone (aka CHAZ) might have been hard for him to explain to his non-Seattle friends at school. To the rest of the world, they saw CHAZ and thought "WTF?" To Seattlites, we knew this was the uber-left co-opting the Black Live Matter movement to justify taxing Amazon, not to change policing practices towards people of color.

The Boy is becoming an outdoorsman. He imagines his first car will be a pickup truck. He likes Dodge Chargers. He thinks there is nothing inherently wrong with Republicans and one day he might own a gun to hunt.

The Boy has become a Montanan.

Since the Boy can't mountain bike or hike or ski with his newly repaired knee, he has found a new sport. The Boy collects sports the way I collect books: just because I found a new book doesn't mean I don't love the ones I've already read. This sport is one that will likely never leave him: fly fishing. 

"In our family, there was no clear line between religion and fly fishing," opens Norman Maclean's A River Runs Through It, a book read and re-read by the Boy. We watched the movie tonight at the Boy's request. The story takes place in Missoula, about 150 miles from the Boy's school. In Montana terms, 150 miles is considered the next town over. The scenery is breathtaking.

Norman's brother, Paul, is played by a young Brad Pitt. Paul is charming and smart and handsome and an artist when it comes to fly fishing. He also has a gambling problem and some other addictions that in the end ruin his life and break the hearts of his parents and sibling.

"Why do the people who need help the most refuse it?" Norman's girlfriend, J.C., asks. Her own brother is a very hot mess, but lacks the kindness and grace of Paul.

I was talking to a fellow boarding school mom the other day and she was moaning about the cost. Another parent a few months ago also kvetched about the cost. While I have no solid proof, my guess is that these families have some means. If they can afford this, why are they complaining? Don't they know they are lucky to be able to save their sons, cost be damned?

Why do I think this? I am the queen of investing and saving money. Shouldn't I be evaluating the cost-benefit analysis of this spending? Why am I so okay with shelling out an obscene amount of cash when people who I am guessing have way more money than me are complaining?

My brother was Paul Maclean, minus the fly fishing.

I couldn't save my brother, but perhaps I can save my son. If I lose him to Montana, I am okay with that, as long as he finds himself.

Downtown Awakens, I hope

Yesterday morning as I was walking Fox on First Avenue, I smelled something I hadn't smelled in months: bacon. I just passed the Biscuit Bitch, which had just re-opened post COVID. When I turned down Pike Street, I smelled croissants from Le Painer. It was wonderful. I didn't realize how much I missed the aroma from all of the restaurants in town. I hope this bodes well for downtown, that it will come back alive.

Right now, it is quiet without the workers and tourists. I miss them. They brought a vibrancy to my neighborhood. I miss the hubbub and the busyness. Now, people are spending most of the time only where they live. How strange is that? That might be good for the local neighborhoods, but it is killing downtown. Downtown thrives on being a center of activity. Hopefully, downtown is just dormant, not dead.

Still, I am glad I live downtown. I hope when COVID is over people can be together again, and they will come here.

Downtown Seattle. Thursday 8:30 a.m.

Intuition

I am starting to learn to listen to my intuition, the non-thinking part of my brain. My friends tell me to trust my intuition, and to see where it takes me.

I have an interesting story about a friend from last fall. We were at a bar after work and he said he wished he had a friend telling him he was making a mistake. He didn't say what the mistake was about, and I didn't ask. I probably should have but I didn't. I figured he wanted to volunteer the information, he would.

Now I would answer that question differently: If you think you are making a mistake, you probably are. Why do you need a friend to tell you are making a mistake when your intuition is already telling you that?

Friends can provide validation. They can reflect what we are thinking, and let us know if our view is distorted or not. But for the most part, our intuition serves us well.

One of my big issues is that I don't trust myself. I hear my intuition, but I might tell it to be quiet, to go away. Or, I'll need to run things past committee: what do all of my friends think?

While I love and adore my friends, I am learning to listen to myself.

Crazy

I had thought I was crazy, and I didn't know why.

As you all know, I am in a recovery group and in therapy since the Boy has been in treatment this past year. In my recovery group, there are people whose loved ones have addictions, mental illness or both.

Jack had workaholism, which some therapists don't see as a real thing. Welcome to America, Home of the Protestant Work Ethic! (As if Catholics, Asians and everyone else doesn't work hard.) Working hard is good! It is normal! There is no such thing as working too hard!

...until your kid ends up in the looney bin and your wife leaves, then maybe you might want to look at how work is impacting your life.

Nevertheless, some therapists don't think workaholism is a real thing. Some regular people don't think it is a real thing. My father-in-law commented that I have nothing to complain about. His mother was married to an abusive alcoholic. I wasn't getting beaten. I should be fine, right?

Actually, it is complicated because I wondered the same thing myself. Jack's workaholism resulted in four tickets to Hamilton on Broadway, a strand of pearls from Japan and a trip to New Zealand. What did I have to complain about?

I began to think I was crazy.

I read about a woman whose spouse would drink after she went to bed. In the morning, her spouse would be on the floor, banged and bruised from his overnight bender. I never had to deal with anything like that. I never measured the level of alcohol in the fridge to see how much someone was drinking. Sure, I would count the number of nights on call on the calendar, highlighting them in yellow. But I got Hamilton tickets? How could that be a problem?

I was talking to a friend in my recovery group who read me a passage in a therapy book: workaholism results in emotional abandonment of the family.

Finally, I am not crazy.

I am not crazy. 

I could say that the workaholism paid for all of the trips and fun stuff, but Jack still had a job that he would have gotten paid the same without emotionally abandoning the family. 

Now, my recovery friends would say I should focus on me and not my qualifier, but this is about me. For so long I had thought I was crazy. I thought I was nuts. I didn't know why I was so uncomfortable, uneasy.

Validation is key. It is the first step in acknowledging a problem, and from there I can start to address it.

Emotional Math & the Perfectionist

A few weeks ago I was talking to one of my best friends from college. We both were in the same math program. I was talking about being seen and heard.

"You know that to be seen and heard is to be loved," she said. Suppose that were an equation...

to be seen + to be heard = to be loved

not seen = not loved

not heard = not loved

Here is more emotional math. Here is how a perfectionist thinks:

to be human = not be perfect

not be perfect = to be a failure

to be human = to be a failure

what? that's whack. Or at least deeply unsettling..,

This seems okay...

to be human = not be perfect

not be perfect = to fail

to be human = to fail

Why is the second one more sensible than the first? Noun...

to be human = not be perfect

not be perfect = to be a failure (noun)

to be human = to be a failure (noun)

versus verb...

to be human = not be perfect

not be perfect = to fail (verb)

to be human = to fail (verb)

I think of being a failure as a state of mind, a way of being. To fail, that is something that happens to everyone was we trot through life.

The Lead Story

Normally, I keep the anonymity of my family pretty tight. It is not their choosing to be main characters in my blog. Today is an exception as my family put themselves in the spotlight.

This week, Jack wrote a story about the Boy's mental health challenges on his workplace's website. Mental health problems are now the leading cause of admission at Seattle Children's. The leading cause of admission used to be asthma, but suicide ideation, self-harm, and generalized anxiety and depression are now taking the lead. Take that, respiratory issues! And this change isn't because there is a new miracle cure for asthma. Are kids more depressed than they were a few years ago, or are we breaking down stigma so parents feel comfortable seeking help? Is the world with people connecting on a screen and not in person taking kids down? Has FOMO (Fear of Missing Out) caused depression? I have no idea, but clearly something is afoot.

When Seattle Children's saw their main cause of admissions changing, they made mental health treatment a priority. When one of the division chief's kids was a PBMU patient, the kid becomes the lead story for the newsletter, beating out Seattle Children's CEO's COVID-19 story.

Here is the full story, for those who are curious. 

Jack and the Boy were both very brave to be in this article which is fine and awesome. 

I have one problem with it, though.

The unwritten story: inequity. 

My family is fortunate enough to afford the treatment for the problem. After having a front row seat with my brother's mental health crisis for decades, I had the will to get it done. 

The poorest of the poor can get the best care at the world class Seattle Cancer Care Alliance. Want to send your kid to Wilderness Therapy for twelve weeks or a therapeutic boarding school (TBS) so they don't kill themselves and then hopefully rejoin to the world as a functioning human? Here is how you pay for it:

• Do you have a good job with great health insurance? Doesn't matter. Insurance won't pay for it.
• Are you rich? If yes, write a check and fly your kid to Utah, Colorado or Montana on a private jet. Maybe take it out of Billy's trust fund. If your kid has a trust fund big enough to cover the cost of all of this, it is likely mom, dad, grandma, grandpa, step-dad, etc. have enough funds to cover this without poaching the child's savings.
• Are you upper middle class? Dig into that money you were saving to send your kid to college. At the rate your kid is going now, they aren't going to college. "Retrench" and adjust how you spend your monthly income. Take that bonus and instead of getting a new Audi or Tesla, you have now paid for six months of boarding school. Italy or Thailand for vacation? Nope. Hello, Durgango, Colorado! (Which is actually lovely.) In the long run, this is going to be cheaper than the cost of having your grown-ass adult child live on your couch for thirty years.
• Even for families with means, sending kids back to the motherland is an option. Maybe you have a kind and gentle grandparent or aunt who lives out of state or out of the country who would be willing to love your kid back into recovery. I have friends whose cousins and siblings were shipped back to rural Michigan, Taiwan and India when their mental illness flared. 
• If you are not in the previous groups, feel free to mortgage your house or empty your retirement account.
• Don't own a house that can be remortgaged or have a retirement account? No extended family that is willing to help? Good luck.
• Are you a person of color? Pray to god your kid doesn't flip out when the cops are around. At best, your kid will be locked up in juvie. At worst...I think we all know what the worst is.

Add on top of the tuition extensive travel costs. I spent twenty-five days out of town between June 1 and December 31, 2019 for the Boy's treatment. Think: airfare, hotels, rental cars and restaurants.

If your kid in inpatient treatment, you had better get your own butt to therapy, so add that to your monthly expenses. Kids don't get to the "sleeping-on-the-couch-all-day" stage of life all by themselves. While I didn't necessarily cause the Boy's problems, our family contributed to them. 

Then there is the spiritual cost. I am in the process of rebuilding my psyche and soul as a result of this emotional trauma, and there isn't a price tag for that. 

Working from Home and Homing from Work

Like many people during this coronavirus season, I've been working from home for the past four months. Or, homing from work. Sometimes I can't tell.

Overall, my job has been fine, with a few bumps as my team learns to work remotely. We recently had a mini re-organization of our roles, which for the most part has been okay. A few toes have been stepped on and there have been a few bruised egos. Most of the toe-stepping and ego bruising might have lessened had we been working face-to-face. There was an article in Medium or Harvard Business Review (they are so the same, right?) about how to successfully work remotely. I didn't read it and I probably should. I would hope it covers how co-workers can emotionally support each other while working remotely. I am not talking about holding hands and talking about feelings. I am talking about being moderately sensitive and not being a jerk.

Yesterday was a rough day at the home office. The rough day actually started two weeks ago. Each day, tensions rose and by Thursday, I was about to lose my shit. I was so glad to go home at the end of the day, but I was already home, so...I was glad to stop working?

The hard part was that I couldn't physically leave the office and go back to my sanctuary because my office and my sanctuary are the same place. I can see how people enjoy not commuting and eating lunch in their own kitchen, but I prefer different spaces for different tasks. I want to socially and physically distance from my job at the end of the day, and I couldn't because the space is the same. I am lucky enough that I have a nook where I work that is separate from the rest of my condo--not in my living room, dining room, or kitchen. But walking down the stairs at the end of the days wasn't enough to cut the edge off.

I suppose I am lucky that it took four months to get here instead of having this happen on week two.

The Boy, my Broken Heart & Questions

After keeping everything together for the past few weeks, I fell apart tonight now that I am back in Seattle. I have been having a few challenges at work which I settled out with my manager this afternoon. I talked to my good friend Ellen. She told me her problems which made me feel like a good friend.

And then I lost it. I cried for about a half an hour or so. After spending two weeks with the Boy, I realized how much I miss him. In the past year, I wasn't his day-to-day mom. Someone else was given in loco parentis. Then for the past two weeks, I was there when he went to bed and I was there when he woke up. 

We stayed at a vacation home that was owned by a man who had been to treatment as a teenager, much like the Boy is in now. When Jack told the guy where the Boy was at school, the man asked if the Boy had been to Wilderness Therapy, too. The man's question was an answer to a question that wasn't asked. The only people who know about Wilderness are people who have gone themselves or who have a family member or good friend who has gone. Outsiders don't know that this world exists.

Seeing this man, running his own successful business, was cool. He has a family and seemed like a nice guy. It showed me that there is hope for the Boy and fellow students to get better, to recover, to heal.

Still, I miss the Boy. I've seen how far he's come and how much he has grown. Before, I didn't miss him as much. The idea of him getting much needed help overrode the pain of separation. Now that he is getting better, I miss him more.

BLM and the GOAT

I was out of town when Seattle exploded with protests of the George Floyd murder. I was talking to a friend at work about the protests and the question came up, "Why now?"

Why weren't there protests like this when Charleena Lyles, a mother of three with a history of mental health issues, called the police to report a break in and was then shot dead by police officers? Why wasn't the nation outraged then?

I told my friend the same reasons that kept me busy for the past two weeks were the same reasons that allowed the protests. I was worried about my mom who had COVID. I was taking care of my son whose surgery was rescheduled because of COVID.

"I am working, you are working. I am taking care of my son," she said. "When can we protest?"

She and I might not have time to protest, but forty million unemployed people and millions of out-of-school students have time. 

What else?

I give credit to Michael Jordan and ESPN. In April and May (or sometime during COVID season), ESPN aired a ten-part documentary on the Chicago Bulls. There were no live sports on television or in stadiums, so anyone who likes sports was probably watching the ESPN special.

• MJ was the hero. 
• Scottie Pippen and Dennis Rodman were supporting actors.

• The primary villain: Jerry Krause, a short, square shaped white guy who managed the Bulls who thought he made the team great, not the players.
• The ghost villains: The young thugs who murdered Michael Jordan's father.

Aside from Detroit Piston fans, who doesn't love Michael Jordan? Across the globe, people love MJ. When I was in Thailand in 1998, a random guy came and asked where I was from.

"Chicago," I said.

"Michael Jordan!" he replied. The GOAT put my hometown on the global map.

I believe this ESPN documentary was another reason people took to the streets. If the greatest living athlete isn't immune to violent hate crimes in his life, who is?

Sent Away and Country Roads

I dropped the Boy off at his boarding school tonight after spending two weeks with him in Kalispell after his surgery. Overall, it was good but I am exhausted. So exhausted.

A new phrase entered the Boy's vocabulary: Sent away.

Time for him is marked as before he was sent away and after he was sent away. This strikes a little pain in my heart, as if I chose to ship him off because he was a pain or an inconvenience. Not true.

"The phrase isn't good or bad," he told. "It isn't judgmental. It is what it is. I was sent away, even if it was for my own good."

The Boy's school is about thirty miles outside of Kalispell in the middle of nowhere. We were listening to Spotify when the song Country Roads by John Denver came on about ten miles from the school. Jack said the song reminded him of the movie Logan Lucky.

I said the song reminded me of the Boy. He knew why.

Last year on the Boy's sixteenth birthday, I drove him and two friends skiing. When this song came on, the three kids sang along. It was one of those rare moments when I saw the Boy happy, carefree, having fun.

"After you were 'sent away'," I told the Boy, "I was driving to work and this song came on. I started to sob. When the song was over, I played it again, and continued to cry."

He looked at me and smiled.

"You are weird."

I am not weird. I am a mom.

Rollercoaster, or "May you live in interesting times"

One of my ethnically Chinese friends told me a Chinese curse: May you live in interesting times.

When I was a little kid, maybe ten or so, I thought it would be cool to live through a disaster like an earthquake or tornado, have my tonsils out or break my leg. My elementary school life in suburban Chicago was predictable and unadventurous. I wanted an experience where I could say "I lived through that!"

Decades later, I'm living the dream.

My mom, who has late stage Alzheimer's, has had our modern day plague. This has been a nightmare. I thought about making a chart to describe this struggle, but alas I am in Montana and I don't have my art supplies.

I might not have all of the correct dates for my three week rollercoaster, they are close enough.
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Saturday, May 16 or so -- There are two cases of Corona virus at my mom's nursing home, but we don't know which unit.

Sunday, May 17 -- The two cases are in the Memory Care Unit, where my mom resides.

Monday, May 18 -- My mom is tested for Corona virus. We wait.

Wednesday, May 20 -- Her test comes back negative, but she has a low fever so they test her again.

Friday, May 22 -- My mom's test is positive, but she is asymptomatic. If she gets sick, should they send her to the hospital? I vote no, but my dad votes yes. I fear a hospital visit will freak out my mother and prolong her suffering. Why should she die in fear surrounded by strangers dressed in biohazard outfits? That sounds like an X-Files death. Nevertheless, this is not a democracy. My dad has been spoon-feeding my mom for the past four years. He is the most devoted and dedicated man I've ever met. My dad's vote is the only one that counts.

Monday, May 24 -- My mom has low oxygen. She is sent to Riverside Hospital.

Tuesday, May 25 -- George Floyd was killed by cops in Minneapolis and it was caught on video. I missed the news because I am traumatized about my mom.

Wednesday, May 27 -- My mom is sent to the ICU.

Thursday, May 28 -- I have a meltdown at work during a conference call. My manager is kind enough to stop the conference call, call me back, and talk me off the ledge. I am so glad to work where I do. "Lauren, I am clearing your schedule for the next two days. You need to worry about your family." I have a great boss.

Friday, May 29 -- My mom is started on an experimental treatment for COVID where they inject her with the plasma of a person previously infected with COVID. My mom is given an experimental drug. I cannot recall the name. I have mixed feelings about this: what if she gets better? Then what? Shouldn't they test these things on people who have a normal life to return to? Or, maybe my mom should be a guinea pig. She has nothing to lose. Maybe they could harvest her blood for plasma to save other people? I find that simultaneously fascinating and ghoulish, but mostly ghoulish.

On a Zoom call with a group of friends, one mentions she is proud to call herself a "Social Justice Warrior," a derogatory terms used by the right-wing for left-wing people championing social justice. "I'm going out tomorrow. This isn't my first rodeo," she says. "I am bringing milk." I have no idea what she is talking about. What is tomorrow? Why does she need milk?

These friends think it is awesome that my mom might be used to help find a cure for COVID. "Wouldn't it be great if she could give back to society in her condition?" My friends are nicer than I am. Way nicer. I am glad I have nice friends.

Saturday, May 30 -- Peaceful protests by thousands turn into a riot by a few dozen in Seattle blocks from my condo. Forty million unemployed people plus millions of out-of-school college and high school students have plenty of time on their hands. At 5:00 p.m., the mayor calls a curfew.  A half dozen of my friends text or call to see if I am okay. Some say "Get the fuck out of there." I frantically pack the car to head north, but when I look outside of my parking garage, I wonder how I am going to get out of downtown. The police chief says stay off the streets so emergency vehicles can get through. My dad recommends hunkering down instead of venturing out. I talk continuously to friends, one after the other until I fall asleep. I get four hours of sleep, which is more than I thought I'd get.

Sunday, May 31 -- Drive to Montana. I am looking forward to the peace, quiet and change of scenery. The drive from St. Regis to Kalispell is one of the most beautiful drives I've even taken, and I've been to New Zealand and British Columbia. We pick up the Boy from school. When we get to Montana, we learn that a storm has blown through and power has been down at the school since the night before. Tree limbs are scattered on the road.

Monday, June 1 -- My mom is out of the ICU and in a regular COVID room. She is getting better. Wow. It is a miracle.

Tuesday, June 2 -- The Boy has his ACL replaced. All is well.

Thursday, June 4 -- My mom hasn't eaten in two days. My dad sees my mom for the first time via Facetime. My dad, the eternal optimist, thinks my mom isn't going to make it through the night. For my dad to think she is going to die means she is going to die. The Boy is freaked out about my mother's impending death. "Why isn't anyone else traumatized?" Grandpa and I have already been down that road, back and forth, for the past two weeks.

Friday, June 5 -- My mom is better, smiling and eating. Twice she has tested negative for COVID. She is moved back to her nursing home. When my dad called, I was preparing to hear the news of her death. Instead, she lives. When he told me she was doing better, I think I said "What? Are you kidding me?"

It is Claire-Adele's birthday. I am glad my mother chose not to die today. That would be bad. Claire-Adele spends the day protesting in Washington, D.C.. I text her to bring milk to protect her eyes in case she gets shot with tear gas. She replies: "That is not recommended. Saline solution or water is better. Like milk has bacteria." My bad.

Saturday, June 6 -- My dad sees my mom through the window at her nursing home. She is slumping. Of the twenty-six people in her Memory Care Unit who had coronavirus, eighteen have died. My mom might have won the battle, but she could still lose the war.
_________________________________________________________

The good news is I am riding my bike in Montana. If nothing else, it is beautiful here.

Birds

Sunday morning, the birds were singing.

Apparently, they didn't know there was a riot Saturday afternoon in downtown Seattle.

The birds didn't know anarchists took over an otherwise peaceful protest.

The birds don't know that George Floyd was killed by a cop who thought he was judge, jury and executioner.

The birds don't know there is a pandemic.

I wish I were a bird.