I Will Say The Wrong Thing

I've been a member of a lot of support groups. Support groups for cancer moms. Support groups for grieving moms. Some have been on the phone. Some have been in person, with people sitting in chairs, arranged in a circle. Some have been email groups. I've never done the chat room.

These are the kind of groups I have done. Perhaps you have participated in groups yourself. If you've been to Weight Watchers meetings, then that is a support group. Same with AA meetings. There are message boards for people in treatment for almost every disease process.

The reason you are in this group, with other people with a similar profile is that you need some kind of support you are not getting from your day-to-day life.  At least some of these people get you. Like it or not, they might be the only ones who do.

Every support group is different. But here is a common thread I've noticed among all of them.

There will be a point at the meeting when someone - you or another group member - tell a terrible story about someone in your personal life who said or did the wrong thing. You can pretty much count on some or all of the people present to commiserate with you. Sometimes the social worker or therapist facilitating the group will be quiet and listen to what all of the participants have to say. Other times, if the wrong thing is bad enough, they will join in the commiserating.

If you are telling such a story, chances are, as unique as the situation feels to you, someone else will pipe in that their boss, mother in law or crazy neighbor said the same thing. You feel sorry for this other person. But it's good to be understood.

There was one time when Jeremy and I told a story about someone saying a wrong thing that no one else in the group had heard. The group members were silenced for several minutes. People just stared. Even the people who never stop talking stopped talking. After a bit, they shook their heads.

It is important to have a safe place to vent. It is important to feel validated.

For a long time, I was too busy telling terrible stories, listening to terrible stories and commiserating with people about their terrible stories  to think about what I am about to say. When I had a little bit of mental bandwidth I thought about it a little. Once I had more bandwidth I thought about it quite a lot.

I will say the wrong thing.

I will be that person who someone brings up in the support group.  No one wants to be that person.

People who haven't been to a lot of support groups might not even think about this. They don't know what goes on in these places.

I've been careful. If someone says they are on a diet and going to Weight Watchers, then I'm not going to bake a chocolate cake, cut myself a big slice and eat it lustily in front of them. I want to be supportive. I don't want to be branded as the food pusher at the Weight Watchers meeting.

It wouldn't occur to me to ever ask an adoptive parent who the "real" mom is, tell a grieving person to snap out of it, assume a woman wearing a diaphanous blouse is pregnant, or pat a man's spare tire. The only reason I know about this is either from witnessing or reading about it.

Then there's the things I think, but don't say. Shouldn't that kid be in bed? I think you're on the Autism Spectrum.

There are lists published daily about what not to say.

Part of what worries me is that there are so many lists of things not to say to new parents, the infertile, the childless by choice, the moms of kids with dyslexia, the moms with dyslexia, the newly retired, the newly religious, prodigies, insomniacs, people with chronic illness, the obese, people who have lost their jobs, people who have lost their pets, the Gluten Intolerant, and people who have many competing multiple issues that there are too many potential bad things to remember. I'm afraid that I might forget something I'm not supposed to say.

To further complicate matters, no two people are alike. Every cancer mom I've ever talked to hated it when people brought up the idea of them having another child. They're insulted that anyone would say such a thing. They feel that there is an implication that the sick child can be replaced with a healthy one.

It turns out that two people gently brought up more children after Jacob was diagnosed. In my case, I wasn't insulted. I didn't think they were asking me to replace Jacob. My feeling was one of support and encouragement. I'm left happy that these two people didn't get the memo. Because for me, they actually said the right thing.

In spite of being careful, I have said the wrong thing. My wrong things seem to fit into three basic categories.

The canary in the coalmine

I'll notice something. I will often be the first to notice something. Other people do not notice or are not ready to notice. They feel I am being ridiculous. I have said the wrong thing. Then weeks, months or years later, they notice the same thing I did some time ago. But when I said it, it was too early. Now I try to wade in more gently. I made this improvement the other day and it worked out. But I'll probably say the wrong thing again. It's not easy being this canary.

Letting the cat out of the bag that I didn't know was in the bag

Sometimes I talk about things that are taboo to other people. I seem to have fewer topics that feel taboo for me. I'm not big on certain kinds of euphemisms. I don't know why people are ashamed or secretive about such things. But I need to remember this and respect them.

So I will inadvertently let something drop that was supposed to be covered up. It isn't a surprise party kind of thing. It isn't something that someone told me in confidence. Its something I was supposed to know not to talk about.

So now if I have something like that to say, I might just have to zip it. Or use a whisper voice.

Giving the wrong advice when the person just wanted to vent

The person will seem to be asking for advice. I give some advice. I give reasons for my advice. Then it turns out that my advice is crappy. I have said the wrong thing.

The next time someone seems to be asking for advice I'll ask them directly if they want advice or if they really just want to vent. If they say they want advice, I might remind them how crappy my advice was the last time.

There are probably people who do not care that they said the wrong thing. I'm not one of them. When I say the canary in the coalmine wrong thing or the cat out of the bag wrong thing I remember it forever. It becomes a hot memory.

Just thinking about being that person in someone's support group gives me the same deeply embarrassed feeling that is hard to live with, even though I won’t be there to witness it.

After a long-suffering time, I decided a different approach was in order.

I've come to accept that in spite of my best efforts and in spite of my awareness of what gets me into the most hot water, I will say the wrong thing. Allowing myself to think about patterns of saying the wrong thing and admitting that saying the wrong thing is something I do took some of the sting out of it.

The next thing is to figure out what to do when I say the wrong thing again.

I've apologized of course. But I'm thinking that maybe asking the other person what else I could do to make them feel better would be good. I might put forth some suggestions.

Sometimes I'll be the one saying the wrong thing. Other times I'll be on the receiving end.

A person I have known for a long time said something to me. Unfortunately, it's playing over and over again in my head like a broken record. I feel unmoored. They have said the wrong thing.

If this were a bereaved parent bad thing, I could take it to a chat room I've been invited to. I could call my very best Camp Sunshine friend.

This particular wrong statement is homeless. I'm not in that kind of support group.  I've thought about joining a support group about this topic. Unfortunately this topic has me so busy that I haven't looked for one, which is ironic.

This wrong thing that someone said needs an audience. I'm thinking if I'm this upset that the support group might need to move from the back burner to the front one. Things that don't bead up and roll off are a message. The message isn't for the person who said the wrong thing. The message is for me.

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July 1999

It was a month after Jacob died. Hannah was six months old. We were spending a hot and humid few days in the Berkshires with our extended family. Jeremy and I took Hannah to the beach to splash around. We were walking her in the stroller back to the house.

We recognized a car that belonged to one of Jeremy's siblings. It may have been a rental.  It was stuffed to the gills with children, parents and stuff. It was a right squeeze-up in there. In this state it reminded me of one of those clown cars you see at the circus. It sped by us. It seemed like they didn't see us. Or maybe they were in a hurry.

We arrived at the house to greet Jeremy's dad who was there by himself. My mother in law was playing tennis. Hannah fell asleep in her stroller. We wheeled her into a quiet room so she could finish her stroller nap.

Jeremy's dad seemed confused. Why aren't you at the pool party? He asked.

Jeremy and I were mystified. What pool party?

My father in law looked annoyed. They didn't tell you about it? We shook our heads. The three of us sat down at the dining room table. Jeremy's dad proceeded to decant pills and vitamins into shot glasses.

After a few minutes he said, they really should have invited you.

Jeremy said that he wasn't sure he wanted to go to a pool party anyway.

The three of us sat quietly for a few more minutes. One of the things I like about most men is that they don't always feel the need to fill in the silence with chatter.

I think I know why they didn't invite us I said. My father in law looked up. We locked eyes. We both looked at Jeremy who was reading the newspaper.

We all went back to what we were doing. The decanting. Jeremy started the crossword puzzle. I continued sitting in the chair and staring vacantly.

After a few more quiet minutes I said, I could be wrong. Maybe I'm reading too much into it.

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Aftermath

Hard Anniversary

Your brother and sister keep me busy in June. Their lives are bold, messy, and in my face. But soon you announce yourself too.

My body acknowledges it first. I feel tired, spacey and wired all at once. If I didn't have a calendar it wouldn't matter. A mom knows what a mom knows.

It’s a hard time, this anniversary of when you died. What a crappy anniversary. There are the days leading up to it and then the actual day. There's no way around the fact that it stinks.

There are things I know and things I don't know.

At two you were very much your own, fully formed person. You'd be that now. The 18-year-old version of that.

You're good natured and adaptable. That thread would remain intact.

You are talkative and social. When you don’t have a word for something, you make it up. You don’t like to interrupt the flow of conversation.

Had you gone to school, I would have had some phone calls. The teacher would start with the positive. Jacob is everyone's friend. Jacob is a people person. But Jacob never stops talking.

We took you to an Early Intervention Evaluation. You charmed everyone there. We all had a great time.

After the evaluation, the team has some concerns. Your social skills were right on target and some were ahead of the game. But you also had some delays.

I bristle a little at one thing. They said that you have a bit more trouble paying attention and staying on task than they like to see. You’re supposed to be putting pegs in holes but you keep looking over at the balls and the squishy climbing toys. They want to keep their eye on that.

I’m puzzled. I don’t like what they are implying. I feel that all two year olds have these issues. In retrospect, I recognize how well I adapt myself to you. Since that time I have been with other two-year-old boys. I think the Early Intervention people saw something that I am able to see with clarity now.

You and your brother always slowed down and became watchful when I read you your favorite books. You'd be a reader now. I think that's safe to say.

Music is important when you're two, and I'm certain it would be a big part of your life now. Your sense of rhythm and ability to dance are exquisite. No one else in our family is like this.

The part I'm not sure about is whether you and your Dad would like and dislike the same music the way Hannah and Dad do, or whether you'd need to purposely differentiate yourself. You've always been strong -minded. Maybe you'd lock horns musically with Dad. Or maybe Dad would change his mind because of you. Your Dad was always a softy around you.

Other moms have kids your age that died and I am a Facebook friend with some of them. They feel bad because their 18 year old is missing prom or some other rite of passage.

You’re a very unique person. People call you a character. This is accurate. Because of this, it's difficult for me to simply plug you into these events then get upset that you can't go. Maybe it's a blessing in disguise that when it comes to things like prom, that feels like maybe yes, maybe no.

Maybe you'd go all out for it. But it's also easy to think about you blowing it off and doing something completely different with your friends. Or maybe you'd go to one of those alternative schools where the prom is quirky and kids wear whatever they want.

I wish I had the opportunity to know for sure because you'd be taking up your share of physical space the way your brother and sister do. I miss who you are.

Jeremy and I take the subway to a memorial service. It is for someone older than you, but still very young. Out of all the things we could be doing, this feels the most right on the day before the hard anniversary of when you died.

I see an excellent mom on the train. Her two-year-old daughter is having a tantrum in her stroller. Mom is attentive but relaxed. She deals with it all matter of fact and with humor. Some parents sitting nearby look on affectionately. I follow suit.

The mom tries a couple of things to no avail. The little girl is doing something I'm personally familiar with, which is arching her back and screaming while constrained in the stroller. Finally she takes the lightweight blanket she's got in the stroller basket. 

The mom puts the blanket over the child. Not in the regular way you might think. She puts it over the entire child. Head and all. The little girl calms down immediately. A minute later the resourceful mom removes the blanket and tucks it around her in a more conventional fashion. The child is calm and sleepy looking.

Mine were like that too, I said. They're teenagers now, I added then I gave her two thumbs up. I include you when I think about toddler tantrums. I think of you as a teenager now even though I don't know exactly what you'd be doing.

The Hatchet Job

I wrote something recently. It seemed almost good. I though it needed some fleshing out. That is what I set out to do.

Just as I was ready to add a little color to the piece, I unexpectedly and suddenly did the opposite. I deleted something.

After deleting a little of it, I liked what I saw. So then I cut the rest of the paragraph. I liked that too.

At this point, I’m on a roll.  I went through the writing, paragraph by paragraph. I deleted a little at a time at first. Then I became bold and started eliminating wide swaths of writing. Entire threads went into the trash.

This non-writing was extremely satisfying. This non-writing started to feel like writing.

After getting rid of most of my writing, I looked at what was left. I didn’t miss what was missing. Even though I had acted very spur of the moment, I knew that I did the right thing.

I was so satisfied with this hatchet job. I didn’t add anything back. I didn’t add anything new.

I’d arrived at the crux of it. I experienced happy minimalism.

I don’t know what this means going forward. But I have a feeling it’s leading somewhere.

The Best Thing Someone Never Said to Me

I'm at Jacob's memorial service. I just finished eulogizing him. He's two years old.

In order to help me, I think about Jackie Kennedy. I feel I am cut from stronger cloth than most people. And so I am.

There is a reception afterwards. Various people express their condolences.

An older gentleman named Ben approaches Jeremy and me. He is an old friend of my father-in-law's.

He clasps both of my hands in his. He looks into my eyes. He is clearly struggling. He does this for some time without saying anything.

When he finally speaks, this is what he says. There are no words. There are no words he repeats. He doesn't say anything else.

He continues to hold my hands. He keeps eye contact. Thank you, I say.

I will never forget this. I will never forget what he said because it is perfect.

Percolating

It's morning. I drag myself out the door. I don't particularly want to go jogging but I don't hate it either. Once I get moving with a slow run mixed in with some sprinting I'll want to keep going. Once I'm stretched and showered I'll feel like a million bucks. That and sheer willpower carry me my first few steps.

Running is repetitive. So is cleaning. Laundry, waiting rooms, commuting here and there. Food prep with its chopping, mincing, rinsing and sautéing. I know Target like the back of my hand and I shop systematically. Folding, filing, putting away. There is comfort in the familiar.

I could be bored but I'm not. Some of the time I entertain myself with podcasts. Other people's voices fill my head, elevating the dish soap, the dryer sheets, the file cabinet and the vinegar and water mixed with peppermint oil.

Other times, I have company. My daughter's voice laughing or touchy depending on the day. Split second pauses in my activity to advise, exclaim, or gaze at her. I smooth down the rainbow of tee shirts. I'll be right back, I tell her. I say I'm a lousy multitasker, but I do myself a disservice.

Then there are the other times. I'm not listening to anything. I'm not conversing with anyone. I'm doing mundane stuff without a soundtrack.

I don't like to be listening to anything while I'm running. It's better to remain alert. Sometimes I'm waiting for a delivery and don't want to listen to a podcast because I might miss the doorbell. Other times, I'm not actually talking or listening but want to seem available and welcoming. I know how I feel when I interrupt someone listening to a book or podcast. I don't want Jeremy or the kids to feel this way.

Often after I've listened to a few podcasts, I'll take a break to process what I've heard.

In other words, sometimes it’s just the dishes and me.

The kind of work I am talking about can be done without much thought. There are few surprises.  Before I know it, my thinking goes off the grid.

The washing, sweeping or pounding of the pavement inspire reflection. The sheer banality serves a dual purpose. I'm getting in my cardio. I'm putting clean sheets on the beds. I'm cleaning up after lunch.

If someone were to observe me they'd think that was all I was doing. But there’s a simulcast happening.

I might be thinking about strategies for helping one of my kids. I might get an idea for a new photography series. Quick, uncensored home-based business plans come, then go. One or two stick and get put in the hopper.

I've had epiphanies when previously I've been stuck in a behavior or habit. I've re-grouped, re-thought and pivoted as a result of vacuuming the rug or stretching. These seemingly ordinary activities are compost for my brain.

All of this happens automatically and has for as long as I can remember. If it isn't happening for you, I'll bet you could cultivate it.

Maybe you don't exercise. Maybe you don't clean your own house. In that case, I say roll up your sleeves. Some high- minded thinking can happen once you get off the high horse.  You could try some other repetitive things I haven't mentioned. Paint the second bedroom. Garden.

I set aside some time just for blogging.  My iPad in hand, I wrote this piece. After all the cleaning, working out and unpacking I did, it practically wrote itself.

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If I Am 80

I won't wither and scorn

Nor kindle and break

This crinkle smile, my rare currency

I practice now so I know what to do

You're welcome here

Those not buried, those younger than me, those yet to be born, those who still can.

I may reminisce but make no mistake.

The blood coursing through these veins is current

I'll mix with you, serve spanking fresh smart with my brand new food

1963 wasn't the goddamned depression after all

You'll come back again on your own accord

My face won't shoo you away with cracks and furrows made bruised and bullied from years of grousing

Soft white linen is what I want

Oft laundered, smoothed by hand, gentle creases, parchment or birch

Look at the texture! You'll exclaim

Or maybe that will be me.

My mornings will look like this.

I'll wake up and rise.

Tricking 20 lost years back into whatever my limbs are now

The task of being upright achieved I make my way out the door

Somebody will hold it open, or I'll wait

Thank you. I'll  say

To you, to all, to life, to no one in particular.