everyday life

An MRI, and being smart and brave

Last weekend I had an MRI on my knee, because of some funky stuff that’s been going on.  It was uneventful (though I did think to myself: I’m glad it’s December, because my requesting Christmas carols on the headphones doesn’t seem weird): I was chilly in my enormous hospital pants and double gowns, and Grace sat patiently in the waiting room for 30 minutes.  What the experience really did is make me respect, in a new and wild way, my daughter’s bravery.

Let me explain.  Over the summer, Grace participated in a study at MIT where they watched her brain activity on MRI while she did memory games.  She did it for a number of reasons, which included cool pictures of her brain, the opportunity to contribute to science, and an $80 Amazon gift card.  I had never had an MRI at that time, so I didn’t think much of it.  I stood in the room with all the controls and computers and watched her through a thick glass window.  She nodded as a stranger explained what was going to happen and then lay down obediently on the table.  She was slid into the MRI tube, and then I heard her voice over the speaker.  “Grace, say hi,” the technician prompted.

Her voice shook and I heard tears in it as she said, “Hi, Mummy.”  I said hi back and then the tech turned the microphone off and turned to me.  “This is when they lose it, if they’re going to,” he said with a shrug.  I left and spent an hour and a half building a marble run with Whit (not a surprise, is it, that the MIT waiting room had the best engineering toys ever?)  It turns out Grace didn’t lose it, and she spent an hour and a half in the tube playing games with the PhD students on the other side of the thick window.  When she was finished she bounded into the room where Whit and I were sitting holding print-outs of brain images, Amazon gift cards, and lots of stories about the games she had played.

For weeks after her MRI experience Grace regaled people with the stories.  I did not realize the extent of her pride in what she’d done – her justifiable pride – until I lay there on Saturday, listening to the loud whirr of the MRI machine even through the Christmas carols playing in my ears.  My head wasn’t even in the machine; my neck and face stuck out (thank God).

When Grace was a toddler, I always used to say that I wanted her to grow up to be smart and brave.  For some reason, these were the two traits I picked, mostly to combat what felt like the wave of emphasis on being pretty.  Smart and brave.  Brave and smart.  I thought of those two words as I lay there motionless in the MRI machine.  Whether it’s flying alone at the age of 5 or sliding into an MRI machine for two hours in the name of her own understanding and that of the world: she’s smart and brave, and I am proud.

Miracle and wonder

a daytime moon: sure to flood me with emotion, awareness, reverence

Thursday last week was cold and crystal clear, the sky the saturated blue that most makes my heart ache.  I was driving home from some meetings mid-afternoon and as I waited to turn onto a familiar street in my town, I watched the blue pickup truck that was waiting, perpendicular to me.  My blinker clicked as I noticed the driver, who was yawning, and his passenger, who was wearing a thick wool mitten on one hand and navigating the smart phone that she stared into with the other.  I turned past them onto a street that each fall has the most spectacular orange leaves and was hit by a wave of something – an inchoate emotion, somewhere between powerful gratitude and powerless awe – so strong I had to pull over.

Does this happen to you, this sense of being overwhelmed by this world, this life, this right now?  It’s as though an aperture inside my spirit yawned open and was overcome by what it saw, by the brilliance and the brutality, an onrush of wonder so extraordinary it had to snap shut, unable to take any more.  I sat in my car pulled over on the street, my eyes swimming with tears, slightly out of breath as I stared around me.  I’ve looked at these fences a million times, these houses whose owners are as foreign as the permutations of their hydrangeas and particular shapes of their cornices are familiar.

This is my life. 

This, right here.  It is such an outrageous miracle, human life, this planet we walk on, these days we fill with activity.  Sometimes I wonder if other people have this same experience of skinlessness, this sensation of being literally stunned by the fact of life itself.  I suspect they do.  They must.  The very fact that we are born and grow and build families and careers and lives is a breathtaking marvel.  We are microscopic ants on the surface of this great turning ball, whose existence it itself a miracle that renders me inarticulate as I try to comprehend it.  And even though we are so small, we are granted glimpses of the universe that yawns, cavernous, all around us.

I don’t know why this happened last Thursday afternoon, what combination of environment and personal and physiological factors combined so that the man in the pickup and his companion and the leaves and the sky and the cold air on my face startled me, like foil being shaken in my eyes.  I do know this happens to me a lot, with varying degrees of intensity, this slicing realization of the wonder of it all.  The frequency with which I’m brought to tears is one manifestation of the phenomenon, as is, I suspect, my propensity to trip because I’m staring wide-eyed at the sky instead of at the ground in front of me.

When I got home I opened the door onto the noisy chaos of after school, homework being protested and hockey gear being thrown around and dinner being reheated in the microwave.  I kissed Grace and Whit hello and asked about their days and then retreated to my office, where I shut the door and sat looking out the window at the pink-tinged sky, trying to settle my racing heart before my next work call.  These reminders of how extraordinary this life is leave me fragile, shaken, more porous than usual.  But I would never choose not to have them.  They are the streaks of silver that shimmer in the fabric of my life, glinting in certain lights, almost imperceptible in others, but I always know they are there.

A day with Whit

One day a couple of weeks ago, Whit stayed home from school.  He’d been sick to his stomach the night before, and though he woke up feeling 100% fine, I felt I should abide by the rule that says you can’t come to school if you’ve vomited in the last 24 hours.  I rearranged a bunch of meetings and was able to spend the day at home with Whit.  For most of the day, I was at my desk and he was watching TV, reading, or playing with Legos in the room right next door.  But I managed to carve out a few pockets of time for us to do quiet things together, and it turned into a lovely, lovely day.  One of those absolutely ordinary days that I know I’ll remember forever.

In keeping with my fierce belief in the healing properties of both fresh air and books, we went for a walk to the library.  On the way we walked past a barren bush that was full of sparrows.  Their dun-colored feathers made them almost invisible to the eye, but their music was loud enough to stop Whit in his tracks.  “Do you hear that, Mummy?”  He tilted his head.  I nodded.  He squinted, and leaned towards the bush.  “I guess I can see them, if I look carefully,” he peered even more closely.  “But not at first.  And they are so loud!  It’s magic.”

Yes, Whit, it is.  I’ve been startled by the beauty of the song of sparrows before, and to witness Whit having the same reaction was powerful and surprising-but-not.  We continued down the street.  I pointed out birds’ nests, newly visible in the bare branches of the winter trees.  At one point as we walked he slipped his hand into mine, and I squeezed it, and we walked on.

I asked him what he would like for lunch, letting him choose, as a treat.  And he asked for a Panera grilled cheese, so that is what we got.  Then we drove to the car wash.  As we lurched into the tunnel of the wash, I looked back to watch Whit’s palpable wonder.  His eyes were wide and his head was swiveling back and forth as he watched the action around us.  “Look, Mummy!” (what’s better, ever, to hear than that?)  “Look at the lights!”  Then he held his hand to the window, noting, “I can feel the flaps banging against the side of the car.”  His delight was infectious.

I picked up my phone and noticed several new Safari windows open.  “Have you been on my phone, Whit?”  I glanced back to see a mischievous smile on his face.

“I asking Siri questions.”  I shook my head, smiling.  I am not a Siri fan.  “Siri is really good, you know, because if you don’t have anyone to talk to, you can always talk to her.”  Meet my son: a true extrovert.

Then we went to the farm stand where I buy our Christmas wreaths every year.  We picked out two: boxwood for the front door and pine for the kitchen window over the sink.  Whit counted out 12 paperwhite bulbs, putting each one carefully in a brown paper bag.  The man behind the counter gave him a sheet of space stickers and a lollipop.  As we drove home, dusk gathering around us, Whit sighed, “That man was so nice,” and I thought to myself: please don’t ever, ever stop noticing kindness in strangers, the magic of bird song, the adventure of a car wash.

When we got home we hung the wreath on the door and walked upstairs.  I had to get back on my computer.  But first I looked out the window.  “Whit, look!”  he poked his head around the corner from the family room.  “Look at that sky.”  I pulled him onto my lap, his legs long and knobby, his feet almost touching the floor, and we watched the sky streak with pink through my office window.  He leaned his head back against my shoulder.

“Mummy?”  I pressed a kiss into the side of his cheek.  “I really love days like this with you.”

Oh, my Whit, my still-seven year old son, my savant, my sage, my spirited comedian.  I do too.

A Healthier Holiday Table

We all know we are supposed to eat more vegetables, and fewer refined grains and sugars, right?  At least I do, but the challenge remains doing so in an easy and delicious way.  Especially when one is cooking for children.  I have one child who wants to be a vegetarian, prefers rice milk over dairy, and eats every single fruit and vegetable you can imagine (with the notable, and random, exception of avocados).  I have another child who eats only meats, cheese, and yogurt, and who eschewed all fruits and vegetables (including such favorites as raisins and apple sauce) until he was 6 and I lowered the boom.  At 6 he had literally never had a fruit or vegetable.  He is almost 8 now, and his repertoire remains limited.  He eats – exclusively, but voraciously – lettuce, spinach, chard, arugula, and kale.  I am not complaining about his intake of greens, but I do wish he would sometimes eat an apple or a potato!

I am a casual cook, and an inexpert one.  I learned from my mother, who is one of this world’s great cooks and entertainers, that the kitchen is not a place for angst.  Unfortunately I lack her talent, so the results aren’t as spectacular, but at least there isn’t a lot of hand-wringing.  I don’t really use recipes very often, and when I do I am haphazard with such things as measuring.  As a result of these biases, I don’t have a single holiday recipe to share.  Instead I have three of my standard vegetable and fruit preparations, each of which is in constant rotation and has become a favorite of my children.  I hope they may help you get a fruit or vegetable into your children soon!

Homemade tomato sauce:

In a large saucepan saute a couple of cloves of sliced garlic in olive oil.  Once it is browned but not burnt, add tomatoes.  In the summer, I use tomatoes from the farmer’s market (to remove skin: make an X in the skin on the bottom, drop into boiling water for 30 seconds, remove, and peel the skin) coarsely chopped.  Maybe 8 big tomatoes.  The rest of the year, I use one big can of San Marzano whole tomatoes, including the liquid.  Add some basil leaves, if you have them, and a sprinkle of kosher salt.  Saute for about 15-20 minutes on medium heat, stirring occasionally.  Once this has cooled, I whir it in the blender for 10 seconds (chunks in tomato sauce being the kiss of death for Whit).  We use it for pasta, for pizza, for occasional dipping.  I always have a glass container of this in the fridge.

Kale salad:

Cut some washed kale (I prefer lacinato, but any will do) into very thin strips. Almost shredded.  In the bottom of a salad bowl mix 2 T of fresh lemon juice, 1/4 C olive oil, and 2 crushed garlic clothes.  Toss the kale in this mixture and let it sit for 30 minutes or longer.  In the meantime, toast some whole wheat breadcrumbs (such a good way to use up the ends of the loaf!) until crunchy and browned.  When it’s time to eat, put the breadcrumbs onto the kale and add some shaved parmesan or pecorino (use a vegetable peeler for long, skinny shreds) on top and toss.  Whit adores this.

Homemade apple sauce:

Peel and core as many apples as you can stand.  Mixture of types is great.  Chop into quarters (approximately) and put into a Le Creuset or similar oven-safe large pot with a snug-fitting lid.  Put the pot in the oven at 350 and let it cook for about an hour.   Check it, and once the apples are mostly broken down, stir well until all chunks are gone.  Bonus: this makes your house smell delicious.  Is a good thing to make after an apple-picking excursion leaves you swimming in bowls of fruit.  And also a good way to use up old or bruised apples.

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I am delighted to be participating in the American Cancer Society’s A Healthier Holiday Table effort.  A few pieces of advice from the American Cancer Society about eating more healthfully, in this season and always, follow.  The links are full of useful and practical ways to make changes we all know we should make!

·         Maintaining a healthy weight can reduce your risk of many types of cancer. Here are ideas on how to eat healthy and get active.

·         Did you know that eating lots of fruits and vegetables can help reduce your cancer risk? The American Cancer Society recommends eating at least 2½ cups of vegetables and fruits each day. Here are two resources filled with ideas for upping your fruit and vegetable consumption through the day.

·         Choose whole grains instead of refined grain products. Here are some innovative ways to add more vegetables, fruits, and whole grains to your day while watching your refined carbohydrates, sugar, and fat intake.

·         Limit how much processed meat and red meat you eat. Some studies have linked eating large amounts of processed meat to increased risk of colorectal and stomach cancers.

·         Drink no more than 1 drink per day for women or 2 per day for men. Alcohol raises the risk of cancers of the mouth, pharynx (throat), larynx (voice box), esophagus, liver, breast, and the colon and rectum.

·         Stock your kitchen with a variety of foods that you can throw together for healthy meals in a hurry. Keep these foods on hand for fast meals on busy nights.

Where they can find you

Poetry and hums aren’t things which you get, they’re things that get you.  And all you can do is go where they can find you.”

– AA Milne

I’ve been thinking about these lines since my friend Garrett reminded me of them a few weeks ago.

This is as good as any summary I’ve read of what my life is essentially about: going where life’s outrageous beauty can find me.  Remaining open to the poetry that exists in every day.  That sounds simple, or at least unequivocal: who wouldn’t want to be open?  Who wouldn’t choose that?

For me at least, though, it’s not that clear, nor very simple at all.  Going to where the poems can find me entails a great deal of pain.  A couple of weeks ago, I was folding laundry on a rainy Sunday night.  Matt walked in to find me sitting on the floor by the base of our bed, a blue t-shirt of Whit’s clutched to my chest.  My face was streaked with tears.  In alarm he looked at me and asked what was going on.  I held the shirt to my cheek and looked at him mournfully.

“This is a baby Gap size 4T t-shirt.  I remember buying it with Whit.  He was home sick, and we went to Harvard Square in the afternoon, just to get some fresh air.  He picked this shirt out.”  Matt nodded slowly at me.  “I won’t ever get that day back,” my voice caught in my throat.  “And I won’t ever buy him a shirt from baby Gap.  He is too big now.”  I shook the shirt out, looking at the robot on the front.  I could reach back and feel that day, turn it over in my palm, the memory visceral, real.  But also: gone.

“Lindsey,” My husband shook his head.

“I know.  Do you think most people get tearful when they fold the laundry?”  I wiped at my face as fresh tears streaked down.

“No.  I’m pretty sure they don’t.”

That is the poetry of life right there, isn’t it?  The swift passage of the years, the brilliant, mundane, heartbreaking contents of a day, the blue robot tee shirt that contains in its soft cotton folds a memory of a long-ago day when my blond son held my hand as we climbed the Gap stairs.  So much poetry.  And so much heartache.  The poems and hums can find me, there’s no question about it.  I wouldn’t have it any other way, but it’s not easy.  It is never, ever easy.