Another generation

My op-ed about farm succession is in today’s LA Times: http://www.latimes.com/opinion/op-ed/la-oe-ryan-family-farm-20171119-story.html

These many months of driving between Alabama and Illinois to assist my parents and learn what I can about farming for another generation have been difficult, but also a blessing. I’ve learned more about my family–both the one that raised me and my husband and daughters–than I thought possible.

The print version of the essay, by the way, should feature an aerial view of our family farm!

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Muddling through mania

Joe called my parents’ house last night. Dad was already asleep, so I picked up.

“Mary Ann?” the man on the other end of the line asked.

“No, this is her daughter,” I replied.

Within seconds, my brother had been handed the phone and began a 20-minute rant. He was manic, speaking at an extremely rapid pace, one thought blending into another:

“I’m in Colorado Springs, at a concert, he’s about ready to begin another set, I love you, how are the kids, are Mom and Dad ok, remember when we were kids, I haven’t touched drugs since 2014, I love you, September 16 I had a major heart attack, thought I was gonna die, I’m sorry everybody is disappointed in me, I never meant to do anything wrong, I love you, I never really hurt anybody, I hope I see Mom and Dad again before I die, . . . ”

The conversation went on and on, and I found myself attempting anything to end it.

At least half of what Joe uttered was untrue. Some was complete nonsense. The last bit was based loosely in reality.

As I’ve written before, my brother is mentally ill, bipolar with signs of schizophrenia. But he’s also a long-time addict, liar and abuser. It’s not easy to reconcile these many sides of Joe, or to forgive and forget.

I’ve spent 53 years trying to survive as his sister. I’m tired. I imagine Joe is tired, too.

Innocence for some

The op-ed “Let Black Kids Just be Kids” appearing in today’s New York Times addresses the racialized notions of innocence and corruption and children that have dominated American culture since the mid-19th century:

According to the author, White children have been associated with purity and innocence whereas Black children are portrayed as more sexualized, violent, and adult-like. One result, according to Robin Bernstein, is that the appearance and behaviors of Black children are judged through a harsher lens in our society. That’s one of the reasons why a Black child wearing a hoodie is perceived as dangerous, while a White child in the same attire might not attract much attention at all.

Bernstein’s essay is solid and provides ample historical context to prove her point. I also think that (too) many African American children, like the little girls who regularly congregate in Edwina’s apartment, have a look of weariness and distrust in their eyes. They have felt racism, both direct and indirect, in their short life. Survivorship in such a setting requires donning an extra layer of guardedness.

 

Routines

This morning, Bob, one of the farmers who began working our family’s land once Dad retired, agreed to come over to install some safety features in the bathroom. Dad is home from the hospital, at least for now, but the house that my grandparents built clearly needed some updates to accommodate the situation. Although we don’t know for sure how much Dad’s life will change given his current diagnosis, Dad told me that he wants to stay at home if he can and feel as secure as possible going about his everyday routine.

As soon as Dad found out that Bob was headed our way, along with Bob’s brother-in-law/partner and the rep for crop insurance that they all work with, Dad began talking about needing help getting out of his pajamas and into his bib overalls and seed corn hat. The guys were coming to visit, and Dad wanted to look the part of, well, Jerry–a fourth-generation farmer whose standard attire has been the same for just about all of his 81 years.

As we sat waiting on Bob and the others, Dad and I started talking about a future with Congestive Heart Failure–the new “bland” sodium-reduced diet; morning rituals of recording and reporting vitals; an onslaught of visits from home health, home helpers, and friends and neighbors prepared to drive Dad to and from a host of appointments.

“I’m not sure how long I’ll last if I can’t get outside, walk out to the field, see the crops coming up,” he told me.

I reminded Dad that the purpose of cardiac physical therapy, which he’ll begin on Friday, is to help him restore as much strength as possible to his heart muscles and lungs. Over time, the goal is to move him closer to doing the very things that will make his life more like it’s always been.

“I don’t think it’s going to be the same, though,” he responded.

Dad’s eyes began to water as he told me that he isn’t confident that he can make so many changes at his age–and without my mom by his side.

I get it. I do. Dad’s being encouraged to accept a new normal that’s anything but. Especially for an Illinois farmer.

 

 

 

 

Tips from a cancer survivor and mom

I came across an amazing article in Working Mother from a mom with terminal cancer: http://www.msn.com/en-us/lifestyle/whats-hot/a-note-to-my-fellow-working-moms-as-i-near-the-end-of-my-life/ar-BBzLxej?li=BBnb4R7

Rachel Huff shares the choices she’s made now that her doctors tell her that she is nearing the end of her life. Rather than embarking on a trip across the ocean or retiring early to take it easy, Huff says that she is relishing in the everyday joys of her life. The people she sees and tasks she completes at work. Opportunities to drive her kids to school and activities. Time to sit and sip a cup of tea. A day without debilitating pain.

Huff’s words made me pause and think about all that I have to be thankful for: a beautiful family, a job I love, a place to lay my head at night, and all the little extras that fill my days that I too often take for granted.

 

An unfortunate delay

Early yesterday morning, I headed to Princeton Hospital to meet Edwina, who was scheduled to have surgery to remove the uterine fibroids that have been causing her great pain for more than a year. I’d been sitting alone in the waiting room for 20 minutes or so when Edwina and Tyrone wandered in, and we began the process of waiting for Edwina to be checked in and led back to the pre-op area.

I could tell as soon as Edwina sat down that she was anxious about having surgery. She hadn’t heard the results of a biopsy the doctor had done the week before, and she feared that the surgery would reveal that she is suffering from something more serious than benign tumors.

“What if I got cancer again, Miss Rayan?”

“Then we’d face it just like you did last time around,” I replied.

Edwina reminded me that she’s been dealing with a lot of pain “down there” for much too long, and she just wanted to “get it done” and not have to hurt all the time.

As we talked and caught up on family and recent challenges–for Edwina, a car in the shop and too many people wanting to crash on her couch–Tyrone stood up to head down to the lobby for a smoke. As he got ready to leave, he handed a Styrofoam cup filled with the coffee he’d just discovered in the corner of the waiting room to Edwina to hold.

Without skipping a beat, Edwina lifted the cup to her lips and took two quick sips.

“You can’t have anything to drink before surgery,” I quickly reminded her.

My comment came too late. The woman who had registered Edwina was standing next to her, in need of further information, and saw her drink from the cup. Within minutes, the message had been communicated to a nurse who marched out to the waiting room to tell Edwina that she wouldn’t be having surgery until Thursday since she’d sipped coffee with cream and sugar.

Edwina began to argue, loudly. She was angry “that woman [had] told on [her]” and insisted that she wouldn’t be coming back on Thursday. I knew that she’d be back; she just couldn’t process the idea of not getting through the procedure after dragging herself–body and soul–all the way to Princeton.

As Tyrone and Edwina’s sister, Clara, went in search of the car to take Edwina back home for the day, Edwina and I took the elevator down one floor and walked slowly towards the hospital entrance to wait.

“I’m just so tired,” she told me. “Them doctors just keep me waiting, this all’s been goin’ on for too long.”

“I know, and I know that you’re hurting,” I told Edwina, rubbing her back and drawing her close. “But you’re gonna get through this, I promise, and I’ll be right here beside you.”

It’s been a long time since I’ve seen Edwina so emotional, so vulnerable to circumstances over which she has no control. We shared a long hug, and I walked towards the parking garage as Edwina climbed into her sister’s car.

I called Edwina earlier this evening. Her surgery has been rescheduled for 10 a.m. tomorrow morning. I told her that I’d meet her in the waiting room at 8.

“Ok,” she replied, her voice shaken by the unexpected delay and knowing that tomorrow she’ll have to make her way back to Princeton, back to the worry and waiting for an answer to her pain.

 

 

 

 

My 2nd Act on New Focus Network

The documentary series focusing on My 2nd Act productions in different cities is soon to hit New Focus Network, which will carry the stories of female cancer survivors into viewers’ homes.

According to the following announcement, the Birmingham show in which I participated will follow the debut in the series focusing on women in the Raleigh, North Carolina production.

Let’s go, ladies!

https://t.e2ma.net/message/bm57db/76ytd5