The Stories That Define Our Lives

My sister Tai, who lives in Seattle, and I were relaxing in my kitchen the other day, winding down from a busy day of medical appointments at the Mayo Clinic Arizona for her life-threatening aneurysm of her abdominal aorta.

We were talking about our childhoods, only briefly shared, as she is ten years younger than I am and spent a large part of her growing up years as the only kid left at home. Still, there was much we did share: the terror and uncertainty of living with a mentally ill, sometimes violent, alcoholic, pill-popping father and a stressed-out, frightened mother. As we grew older, we understood just how damaged our father had been by his own nightmarish childhood. And we also found that, as much as the terror, we remember the laughter and the moments of love.

"He really did love us," Tai said quietly. "As much as he was able. There were times when I could really feel his love...."

And we talked about those times: times when his face would soften and he would tell us how much he loved us, times when illness or misfortune hit us and he was there, worrying over Tai and her broken arm, and gently reassuring her, weeping over me when I was diagnosed with polio at age six, times when he made us laugh with his stories or delighted us with fun adventures.

Later, my husband Bob told me that he was puzzled over our conversation. "He was a monster," he said. "He treated you kids horribly. I really have a hard time hearing you talk about his saintliness."

I saw his point, understanding his anger and outrage. My father was no saint. He could, indeed, be a monster. How does one begin to explain a life story with so many contradictions? For all the horror of our growing up years, we all came away with the feeling that we were dearly loved by both parents and with gratitude for the good times. We don't forget the terrible times, but, as we grow older, the positive moments resonate the most.

"I'm truly amazed," my brother Mike, now raising a five year old daughter and two year old son, both born when he was over 60, told me recently. "I'm amazed that, as damaged as he was, Father didn't kill us, given the stresses of raising small children. And he did make us laugh and we did feel loved..."

This made a critical difference in all our lives.

Not long ago, I was having dinner with my dear friend Sister Ramona, my favorite teacher from high school. As we were discussing a classmate of mine who has struggled for years with mental illness, Sister Ramona said "It always seemed to me that your family was, by far, more dysfunctional than hers. But then I realized the crucial difference: your parents loved you and your siblings so much. I saw it during parent-teacher conferences and when they came to see you in school plays and just during informal talks with them. As flawed or as crazy as they could be, they loved you so much. And what a difference that made!"

And what a difference, in my own life narrative, it has made to have other adults who loved me as well, especially my unforgettable Aunt Molly, Sister Ramona and a very special elementary school teacher, Sister Rita McCormack. Both Sister Ramona and Sister Rita became life-long friends of mine and it's interesting how their insights and memories add immeasurably to the stories I tell myself about my life.

My dear friend Mary recently attended a Catholic charity fundraiser and found herself sitting at a table beside Sister Rita, whom she had not met before, but she knew that I have loved her for more than 60 years. They traded pleasantries, then stories. Sister Rita told Mary about her first memories of me as a shy little girl who would walk around the playground at her side, tightly clinging to the sash of her nun's habit. This underscored my own memories of needing her love and attention so much as I struggled to fit in at school during my recovery from polio and how grateful I was that she was there at that time and place and that she was so loving with Mike and me.

During our kitchen table conversations during the past week, Tai and I talked about the stories we tell ourselves about our lives and the impact this can have on us and our current relationships.

We tell ourselves stories of a past remembered for its pain or its possibilities.

We can choose to remember primarily the pain, the feelings of powerlessness we had as small children with troubled parents. Or we can focus more on the ways that we were fortunate. We can choose to label ourselves throughout our lives as helpless victims or as survivors. We can be angry or bitter or we can forgive, if not forget, and go on, making our lives very much our own, taking responsibility for our own growth and happiness.

The early difficulties, undeniably, have had an impact on our lives. And sometimes these have been negative. There have been times of depression and devastation when love relationships have foundered. There have been moments of perfectionism as painful as Father's stern insistence that "An A-minus is NOT acceptable!" And there was Mike's long period of commitment-phobia that led him to postpone marriage until he was in his mid-fifties and met Amp, who brought to their loving bond her own understanding and unique insights born of a childhood filled, once again, with both love and pain.

We can be aware of the residual pain of the past while not surrendering to it.

We can tell ourselves stories of survival, of triumphs both large and small, of understanding that comes from hearing the stories of others' lives.

I remember seething, years ago, as I listened to Father talk about his tortured childhood -- his beloved father's death when he was only eight years old, his mother's lies (she told him for a year and his younger sister Molly for four years that their deceased father was on an extended business trip), his mother's alcoholism and her physical and emotional abuse of her son, his being forced to support the family from age nine on with an unwanted, but reasonably successful career as a child actor in silent films. "Your mother was so horrible!" I said at last. "I hate the way she treated you. I'm so sorry it was so hard for you. What a terrible person she was!"

"Oh, no," he replied softly. "She was a wonderful person in so many ways. I guess you had to have been there. She went through some very hard times. But that didn't mean that we weren't loved..."

And I began to understand more about the shades of gray in all our lives. To tell the stories of our lives in terms of absolutes limits the glorious complexities of the individuals we grow to become.

Even those of us growing up in the same family have life stories that are uniquely ours: Tai and Mike both have life stories that have some similarities to mine but with some themes that are all their own. And all of our stories are the truth for our own lives and contribute to a central life theme.

For all my stories of growing up fearful and joyous, excluded and embraced, anxious and hopeful, one theme stands out above all:  I have been dearly loved.

Fifth Anniversary: New Perspectives

Five years ago today, I left my office at UCLA Medical Center for the last time.

I thought I knew what was ahead. I thought I had an accurate picture of life after our jobs were only a memory, after we left Los Angeles for a new life in rural Arizona.

Five years later, life isn't exactly as I imagined then. There have been surprises, disappointments and delightful discoveries.

Five years ago, retirement life, vigor, money, fun and new friendships seemed unlimited. Now, though life is good, connections warm, health enduring and bank account solid, our limitations, both immediate and long-term, are more apparent. We've become more cautious, less expansive, more content with living simply day to day. Meals out, movies, plays, and travel are all rare treats rather than daily reality. And we're not feeling deprived. It doesn't take much to make us happy these days.

Five years ago, we were thrilled at the prospect of living in a resort community. Now I can see it as a mixed blessing -- with increasingly crowded facilities during the winter season when the population here nearly doubles due to the return of the snowbirds from the upper Midwest and Canada. I can also feel the small resentments and uneasy differences between the often more affluent residents who have multiple homes and those of us who live here year around - while realizing that the snowbirds pay dues here 12 months a year, helping to support the amenities that we get to enjoy full-time.

Five years ago, I had visions of reclaiming a bit of youth --  getting skinny and fit, dancing through my days. Now I realize that fitness at 70 doesn't mean reclaiming the weight and body shape of my 25-year-old self and that revisiting youth can mean, at times, reliving junior high with cliques and packs of aging mean girls. But good health, mobility and intellectual vigor are a joy -- even if I can't revisit my passions for ballet and tap, even if I'm lighter and firmer though still undeniably matronly.

Five years ago, I was thrilled at the prospect of  having time to fully re-ignite my neglected writing career. I wanted to publish at least one more book -- and I have. But the best part of getting back to writing has been something I couldn't have imagined five years ago:  this blog and some treasured blogging friends who are bringing so much unexpected joy to my life.

Five years ago, I worried about losing long-time friendships by moving away while also anticipating close new friendships in a new home town. Now, I'm delighted with the resilience of old friendships, relationships that have grown through the challenges of distance and time, and a bit disappointed with the difficulty in making new friends here.

Five years ago, I was excited about the prospect of small town living -- where people knew each other and one had a sense of belonging. And, indeed, that has been part of our new reality in many ways -- from Jasper and Barb at the Florence Library who know our reading tastes and set aside titles they know we would enjoy, the local pharmacist Michelle, who cheerfully greets us by name, the supermarket checkers Sandy and Arlene who ask about our kitten Ollie's recovery from his recent surgeries. But there is a darker side as well to small town life: learning more about people than perhaps you ever wanted to know and malicious gossip that can erode one's sense of belonging. There is, at times, a nagging feeling that, try as one might, one may never really fit in.

Five years ago, I anticipated life being quite different in a new home and a new place. The new house is great. But there is a lot of truth to that saying "Wherever you go, there you are!" We still enjoy the same pursuits, battle the same demons and live semi-reclusively here -- very much as we did in our previous home.

Five years ago, I looked forward to settling in happily with our animal companions Gus, Maggie and Marina for many years to come. I had no idea that five years later, only Maggie would still be alive. Despite the loss of young Marina and elderly Gus and fact that no animal ever replaces another, I treasure the additions to our feline family -- the truculent but loyal Sweet Pea who joined our family in the summer of 2010, gorgeous and loving Hamish who came two years later, and precious little Ollie, our three-legged kitten with a brave heart and magnificent purr, who won my heart last October at a book signing event in California.

Five years ago, I didn't realize how much pleasure I would feel in watching, savoring and, in a variety of ways, sharing in the lives of our younger friends -- Ryan, Mary Kate and Eliza, Carrie and Brian, Sharon and Virginia --  as they reach their prime years. It's wonderful to see them succeeding in their chosen fields, finding special people to love and, in Eliza's case, becoming the loving mother of two beautiful baby girls in a span of 15 months. But the greatest joy of all is in seeing these young people grow from being our dear friends'  babies (in Ryan's case, a bright, quirky nine-year-old Little Brother) into good, caring, responsible adults --  people we're proud to know.

Five years ago, time seemed infinite. Now there is a new sense of limits as I watch those close to me deal with life-threatening health issues. My sister Tai, ten years younger than I, is suddenly facing a dangerous medical crisis. My friends Pat and Joe, who are my age, both are facing unexpected medical challenges. I see warning signs in others: my neighbor Phyllis, my long-time literary agent Susan, my beloved cousin Caron -- all five to seven years older than I am, all previously vigorous, all suddenly fragile. I grieve their loss of health and vitality while anticipating my own decline. I hope that these challenges are some years off for me. But I know, with new clarity, that the blessing of good health is not forever.

There is an upside to bittersweet realizations: I treasure each moment more.

I am realizing that, as the song goes, the best of times is now. I have better health, more money, and more options today than I am likely to have later on. I want to make the most of the next five years because there are no guarantees. Five years ago, retirement fun seemed open-ended. Now I feel the limits more than ever as I live each treasured day with gratitude and love.