Bad Hippie, No Patchouli!

Twenty-four years ago today, my maternal grandfather died after a struggle with lung cancer. The smoking habit that he had acquired during WWII had long been given up, but the non-filtered Camels he favored during his stint overseas had done their damage. I was 11 years old, and he was only in his mid-70s.

I don't remember much about my grandpa, but at least I got to know him a little bit -- my youngest siblings never even got to meet him. He's just a picture to them. What I do remember is that he had a thick head of curly white hair up until the chemo took that away from him. (My uncle has that same head of hair, minus the "white" part.) I also remember that my grandpa did the dishes for my grandma after every meal -- without prompting. And in the summers when my brother and cousins spent a week visiting with them, grandpa always made blueberry pancakes for breakfast at least once as a treat for his grand kids. It was, my grandma said, the only meal he ever mastered.

My grandpa was the first person I ever knew to buy a diesel car -- a huge boat of a late '70s station wagon, white with a faux-wood stripe down each side. I remember riding shotgun with him to a neighboring town on a shopping errand for my grandma, and having him point out local landmarks to me along the way. Riding shotgun was a big deal back then, but having him all to myself was even better.

Grandpa was a veteran, but he didn't talk too much about the war. He told me a bit about it, mainly because I was the only grand kid who was old enough to ask about or be interested in his experiences. I have the insignia to his uniform in my jewelry box. I found it in my grandma's jewelry box after she died, and pocketed it before anyone could throw it out. I remember him telling me that he was stationed near the front, but only in an administrative capacity. He had bad vision (and glasses), so the higher ups wouldn't let him join the infantry. It's a good thing, too -- he managed to break his glasses at least twice during his tour overseas, and had to write home for replacements.

My grandma met my grandpa on a blind date, just a few weeks before he was scheduled to leave for Europe. She was in her mid 30s then -- older than the average single gal, but still at home to take care of her younger siblings and sick mother. I wonder sometimes if she worried about her future, or was envious of her married friends. But according to grandma, she fell in love the minute she set eyes on my grandpa. Grandpa later told her that he had made up his mind to marry her when he saw her sitting on her mother's porch. He proposed one week later, and they were married in her parent's living room three weeks after their first date. My great grandma cried during the entire ceremony, mainly because her Catholic daughter had decided to marry a heathen of a Lutheran. (Oddly enough, it was my grandpa who later made all of his kids go to Catholic Sunday school and my grandma who would let them skip this weekly obligation.) Grandma wore a green velvet suit with a giant corsage for the ceremony, and grandpa wore his army uniform. In the picture a friend took of them after they said their vows, she is radiant -- and he can't take her eyes off of her.

My grandma had always wanted to be a writer. A "real" writer. So she practiced by writing long letters to grandpa during his tour of duty, but more often than not, she wrote him poetry. Poetry about how much she missed him, poetry about day-to-day things, humorous poetry to cheer him up. Grandpa would pay his more literary army buddies to write poems that he then mailed back to her. I have that correspondence now. I took the fat envelope of yellowing letters from her top dresser drawer a year before she died, at her request. She wanted them to live on in someone's memory.

Grandpa was a gardener, but I really can't remember working in the garden with him. I remember it was a pretty good-sized garden for two people to have, and that he spent a lot puttering around in it. I do remember weeding it during a few of my summer visits, and shelling peas in the cool garage next to his work bench. Grandma always had a garden, even after grandpa died. She even planted a patch of rhubarb in his memory -- his favorite pie was strawberry rhubarb. The funny thing was, Grandma hated rhubarb. But not as much as she hated grandpa's experimental bottles of dandelion wine.

My grandma and grandpa spent the winter months in Florida, so that grandpa could avoid the harsh winter air. They had a crew of snow bird friends down there, and bought a trailer next to my grandma's younger brother Roy. Roy lived in Florida year round, and would great my grandparent's annual fall arrival with an expansive smile and the same greeting year after year: "Welcome to Utopia!" Grandma and grandpa did come home for Christmas, though, to visit with the grand kids and to deliver bags of fresh grapefruit for our holiday brunch.

I don't remember when my grandpa was diagnosed with cancer. But I remember that he was suddenly very sick, and seemed suddenly very fragile. For some reason I can no longer remember, I was sent to stay with my grandma for a week to help her take care of grandpa. He had started chemotherapy and was not feeling well. I remember that my grandma helped him take a bath one morning and then asked me to dry his hair. He sat in his old brown chair and patiently let me blow dry and comb out his curls. But that day, his hair began coming out in clumps. I remember that it was this loss that finally made my grandma break down and cry.

The day before he died, we all gathered at my grandparent's house. The adults headed to the hospital to be with grandpa, but my aunt stayed behind to babysit the younger crowd. She decided to keep us occupied and make dinner for the entire family at the same time, so we were all given jobs. Peel the potatoes, chop the onions, measure out the ketchup, mix up the beef, cut up tomatoes for the salad. My grandpa died while we were cooking that dinner -- I remember my aunt answering the phone and then telling us all that our grandpa was gone. I don't think we finished cooking that meal, or that we even ate that night.

My grandpa asked for me while he was in the hospital, but I was too scared to visit him. I was the only grand kid old enough to be admitted during visiting hours, but I was too scared to see him in a hospital bed or even worse, without his hair. My mom and dad never forced the issue with me, so I didn't see grandpa before he passed away. This is something that I always will regret. He asked, and I didn't go. I was his first grand child -- and an adopted grand child at that. My parents waited four years to adopt me, and my grand parents were very much involved in the process. Grandpa doted on me. I still have a picture of him holding me minutes after I came home from the adoption agency, and he is beaming.

My grandma lived for 15 more years after grandpa died. We moved her from the home they had made together to a smaller house, where she would be closer to the rest of her family. She made friends, found a church, gardened, welcomed new grandchildren into the family, celebrated birthdays and weddings, and even got to meet three of her great grandchildren -- The Beavis, and my cousin's two children. I remember that she came to take care of me after The Beavis was born, and wouldn't let me climb the stairs to get him after his naps. Instead, she made the trek up and down herself, calming her crying grand baby all the way. When he learned to talk, The Beavis would refer to her as "great grandma." This always made her laugh, especially when she replied: "Why, hello to you, Charlie" and he angrily insisted that his name was NOT Charlie.

My grandma eventually outlived her oldest son -- her middle child. I'm sure this was almost worse than burying her husband. She grew frail and isolated, but insisted on staying in her home. She eventually fell down the steps and broke her hip. The doctors suggested admitting her to an assisted living facility and selling her house, because she was never going to be able to live alone again. Grandma staged a hunger strike in response. My grandpa was with her as she died -- or, at least, she thought he was there. She carried on long conversations with him in the end, and quietly slipped away during one of them.

We didn't celebrate the Fourth of July the year my grandpa died. And we didn't celebrate it for many years after that. Instead, we would take my grandma to the cemetery and then get together as a family for a simple meal. At some point, we did start celebrating the holiday with bigger barbeques and more guests -- but I can't remember when or who decided that it was okay to move on.

Some years I don't really think about my grandpa dying on the Fourth of July, but other years it really bugs me. This year is a "really bugs me" year, and I don't know why. I think it has something to do with watching my parents get older and physically age -- a phenomenon that I didn't really notice until the last few years. Maybe it's simply me getting older. Maybe it's hormones...or a combination of all three. But this year just seems a little bit lonelier celebrating the Fourth of July without the folks I used to see at our family cook outs.

It's official, folks. I'm now the mother of a teen driver. The Beavis earned his temporary driver's license this weekend, and took to the mean streets of Mayberry-on-Acid, U.S.A. in the soccer mobile to practice his technique:

Beavis says: "I actually think it's pretty awesome that I have my temps now, but there is no way in hell I'm going to let my dorky mom know that!"

So, now I get to ride shotgun while The Beavis learns to take turns at a reasonable speed and park in parking lots full of cars. And oh, the hills! The big practice hill is coming up soon. Will he get the car up it if we start from a full stop at the bottom? It kinda freaks me out that I'm going to be the one to find out the answer to this question.

And I thought it was a milestone when I sent him away to orchestra camp...for a whole week. Or when we sat in the ER with his first broken bone...and sat there again six months later with another sports-related break. Or when his high school orchestra traveled to ITALY to perform. That was pretty scary stuff, but it didn't involve moving vehicles and other potential life-threatening hazards. This driving stuff takes the cake in the "mom is really freakin' worried now" department. I think I may have to take out stock in Clairol if I want to survive the next couple of years with blond hair!

Question: Should I be concerned that the vast majority of ADHD books stocked by my library are currently checked out and/or listed as lost?

Either the whole town has ADHD, or one ADHD individual keeps checking books out and misplacing them! Lord help the rest of us, who are just as likely to misplace the books once we order them from the inter-library loan program. At least now I have an excuse to explain away my chronic and running tab at the library. I mean, really now -- how hard is it to return a book on time? Pretty hard, I guess, if you're me!

Here's a gratuitous beauty shot of Stinky P. Boo, cat extraordinaire, to hopefully make this long-winded post a bit more appealing.

In other, not-joking-now-about-ADHD news, my doctor has added a stimulant to the mix. Zoloft wasn't cutting it for me...made me sleepy and almost comatose. Sure, it calmed me down, but anyone can be calm when they're ASLEEP! I'm now taking an Adderall-based stimulant, which I split in two and take twice a day to avoid crashes. Aside from the one funky day I spent getting used to it, I am amazed at how well it works. I'm awake! And focused. And not jittery. I guess I never realized that I couldn't sit still...I'm not exactly the type to bounce off the walls and run around distracting other people. But the wiggly legs, constant yawning, and propensity to talk were just ways to keep me up and stimulated while my brain was crashing. To just be able to sit still and focus on the task at hand (even if it is boring) is a true revelation. Not to mention my new-found ability to keep quiet. HWSRN particularly enjoys this new development.

It's incredible to have energy throughout the day. To wake up, do the stuff you have to do during the day, and still have the desire to go running or play soccer in the evening hours. Before, it was a battle of wills to get to activities after work -- i.e., me vs. my tired brain. Now, running after work is a joy. (It helps that I now have a running partner, too!) Soccer at 9 p.m.? No problem! Not that drugs have improved my game, but they certainly are allowing me to focus a bit more and not get distracted! But -- if you do know of a drug that improves foot skills, please let me know. I'll have the doc write a script, pronto! I'm also happy to report that the new drug regimen is helping curb my sugar cravings as well as the tendency to shove food into my mouth when I'm feeling stressed or sad -- or even bored. All together, a huge improvement!

Interestingly enough, however, the drugs aren't the only part of the equation. The doctor, while a fan of medicine, also is encouraging me to set three goals -- a personal one for myself, an "outside" goal, and a relationship goal. Once I name these goals, I should focus on them each day (through meditation, walking, praying -- whatever works for me) and then -- get this -- work on "growing my neurons out." Yeah. I'm not sure what that means, but I guess the ADHD can shut parts of your brain down and keep them from working to their full capacity. Your brain may have all the correct pieces and parts, but they aren't switched on. Growing the neurons out switches the non-functional parts back on and allows you to finally become a complete, fully-functioning individual.

Yeah. I alternate between trying to grow my neurons out and laughing at the concept. Do you think a t-shirt with a big brain plastered across the front and a bunch of little dangly neurons growing out would be a hit? Well -- I'd wear one, at any rate!

In other news, we've reached the end of the school year. The Beavis has survived his first year of high school with little to no problems, and has graduated to the rank of a sophomore. Next up -- his temps. Think of me on June 13, people. I'll be at the local BMV, signing away permission for my son to learn to drive. In my car. On a real road. With other real cars flying by. Please...send hair dye. I'm gonna need it to cover the gray.

While driver's ed is not a good way to grow your neurons out, gardening sure is. After reading way too many books on the subject, I'm taking my first stab at the home garden. The Beavis helped me build a couple of raised beds (I'm a bit scared of power tools) and we've planted lettuce, swiss chard, spinach, bush beans, carrots, onions, tomatoes, zucchini, peppers, and some basic kitchen herbs. I'm rather surprised and pleased to report that stuff is actually GROWING in my mess of a garden -- despite my best efforts to either over- or under-water it. See? I even have proof:

Strategic placement of the paving stones as garden pathway compliments of HWSRN. Mainly because I am a weak-ass girly-girl.And a harsh task master.

And here's a shot of the second bed:

Sadly, the heirloom tomatoes I grew so carefully from seedlings are looking a little bit peaked. I'm not sure if they're going to make it, but we've given them some fertilizer and will see what happens. Yes, I do have visions of eating a full salad from those tiny lettuce plants some day soon, and possibly putting away some beans for the winter. And perhaps making some spaghetti sauce for the cold months. A girl has to have dreams, you know. Even if they are a bit far-fetched.

The feline members of the Hippie Household aren't that concerned with the progress of the family garden. They'd rather hang out and enjoy the various sun spots we have scattered across the house:

Ziggy says: "I wonder if I should pounce on Stinky? Nah...I guess I'll just stay here in this sun spot and rest. I can bug her later."

Ruby, on the other hand, seems pretty focused on growing HER neurons out:

Ruby says: "Ommmmmm..."

Either that or she's focused on her next meal. Who really knows?

Those of you who pop in from time to time know I like to babble about soccer, post anecdotes about the Beavis, and wow you with cute photos of the furry felines who live in the Hippie Household. On other occasions, I like to go off on tangents about strawberry picking and/or discuss my battles with depression, food allergies, and the medication I take for said maladies. Yeah. Sometimes I like to talk about the crazy. But lately the crazy has been taking over my life, and not letting me enjoy much else -- cats and soccer included. And the crazy has been driving other people crazy. So I decided to visit a new doctor -- an honest to goodness psychiatrist who could calibrate medicine to my particular biochemistry -- and get a definitive diagnosis.

It wasn’t what I expected, that’s for sure. I was prepared for a diagnosis of depression. Bipolar disorder. Batshit crazy. Something along those lines. But when the doctor put down his pencil, peered over the tops of his glasses, and announced "ADHD," I was taken aback. Floored, really. ADHD. Me? That’s impossible!

I mean, I can focus on tasks. I can study. I can read. I can (usually) sit still. How can I have ADHD?

After letting me vent and stew, the doctor pointed out that my talking is a symptom of hyperactivity. Now, I talk fast. I know that. My brain moves fast. I just figured that was how I was wired. I am so used to jumping from subject to subject (in my head) and keeping up with myself, that I’ve never considered how difficult it could be for other people to follow me. (HWSRN can vouch for this. My intensity is a sore point in our relationship.) As for the jiggling foot and wandering brain in meetings -- well, I just figured that most people had trouble sitting still meetings, too. Right?

Everyone has a stereotype of ADHD in their head, I think. You know what I mean -- that kid you knew in fourth grade? The one who wouldn’t sit still and couldn’t do his work and basically drove the teacher nuts? Bad grades, class clown, the whole nine yards? That was never me. Instead, I was quiet, shy, a bookworm, had excellent grades, and was often a teacher’s pet. Except for the talking. I always had my seat moved because I would talk to my neighbor(s). And the day dreaming. If the subject didn’t interest me (math), I would daydream. Still, my grades were awesome. I got myself through college while raising a toddler and working 20 hours a week. How can I have ADHD?

It turns out my ADHD manifests itself through hyper-focus. If I like something, I focus on it. And I practice it until I can do it well. If I don’t like it, it’s off my radar and "not my thing." I make excuses, and say: "That’s not me. I don’t do ‘math.’"

Weird, huh? The doctor also thinks that I’ve been trying, albeit unsuccessfully, to "fix" myself. Or, at least my brain has. All those soccer highs and the rush of adrenaline I get from running? It’s exactly what I need. My brain is trying desperately to produce the chemicals that will even it out. And all those anti-depressants I’ve been taking? They make me worse. Giving an ADHD person serotonin is a bad thing. It makes us crash, I guess.

Not that I totally understand ADHD yet. It’s too new. I’m not even sure I can wrap my mind around it. At first, I was happy to have a diagnosis. The doctor (who is pretty highly recommended) gave me an answer, and that means I can begin treating the problem. That was good news. But now, I sort of feel depressed. I mean -- I knew how to "deal" with depression. I accepted that it was a part of me. I didn’t necessarily like it, but I had learned to live with it. But ADHD? That’s a disorder. A disability, even. I don’t want to be disabled! I’ve always thought that I could rely on my intelligence and my ability to solve problems creatively to get through life. To find out that my brain isn’t exactly functioning the way I thought it was? Well, it’s a cosmic shift, to say the least.

It’s not the end of the world, I know. But still -- I’m not sure what to think. I’m used to thinking about myself in a particular way, and this diagnosis tosses all my of ideas about myself out the window. What exactly am I? Who am I? Has my particular brand of crazy been running my life and hiding the authentic me, or has the authentic me been coping with ADHD? It’s a mystery.

It’s funny, really. The few people I’ve told think the doctor is nuts. "You don’t have ADHD!" HWSRN met the diagnosis with initial skepticism (based largely, in part, on the huge number of misdiagnosis I’ve had over the years), as did my mother. My dad just about dropped the phone laughing. And The Beavis snorted, saying: "What? You’re not like those kids in my class. Well, you do talk a lot."

In two months, I’m going to be 35. For at least 20 of those years, I’ve been reading about and trying to cope with depression. It’s a bit earth-shattering to realize that what I really should have been addressing this whole time is something completely different. Something that could cause depression, I guess, but something much more than depression. I’m not sure how to think about it.

I can only hope that wrapping my head around this latest development doesn’t take another 35 years. That’s a lot of time to waste being misdiagnosed and misunderstood. Plus, it would be nice to finally learn how to get the crazy under control. Seems like it’s about damn time, you know?

So. I have a friend named Kari, and she runs. A lot. In fact, Kari just finished the Paris Marathon with another mutual friend, Laura. That just blows my mind. These two women completed a marathon. In PARIS. Together. And they raised money for Polio Plus in the process. They are my heroes.

But do you want to know the best part of this story? Here goes: Kari lives in Italy and Laura lives in New York. Still, they trained for this marathon together -- via blog, and convinced an even larger group of our friends to meet up in Paris for an impromptu reunion/post-marathon celebration. Viva la Internet. Go, technology!

So, how do I know Kari and Laura? I met them both 17 years ago, when we were all Rotary Exchange students in Belgium. I was introduced to them through another mutual friend, who now lives in Brooklyn. We survived and flourished together through a rather madcap year of excesses -- trips to Amsterdam, weekend hiking adventures in the Haute Fagnes, schooldays in a foreign country, the inevitable and much lamented exchange student weight gain, and a world-wind, two-week bus tour across Europe to round out our year. There exists a ton of photographic evidence of our year abroad -- and unfortunately, it is now posted on Facebook. (Oh, 1990’s hair. How I hate you.) Still, I hadn’t talked to these two women for 17 years -- not until I signed up for Facebook last summer to keep in touch with local soccer updates. (Important stuff, I know.) I "friended" my friend in Brooklyn (who had already friended Kari) and we reconnected via the magic of the World-Wide Web. Now, not a day goes by that I don’t e-mail Kari or talk to her via Facebook. And although we weren’t the closest of friends in Belgium (we knew each other and moved in the same crowd, though), we’ve gotten to know each other and become pretty close -- thanks in large part to technology.

Well, technology and running. See, Kari is passionate about running. And that passion is damn near infectious. She is also a former soccer nut, having coached and played for many years. So, knowing that I play midfield, she’s been urging me to run as a form of cross-training. No, I said. It’ll tear up my joints. No, it’ll hurt my knees. No, I don’t like running. Running is BORING. No way. Nuh-uh. (Stomp foot here for emphasis.)

But not running is only an option when you have elliptical machines available at your local gym for "alternative" cardio workouts. Unfortunately, when those machines are getting more and more use and you don’t have time to wait around for ‘em, it’s time to take the plunge. Time to climb on that treadmill and pray you don’t go flying off the back end of it like someone on "America’s Funniest Videos." Time to plug the iPod in and crank up the rap music and RUN. One foot in front of the other, over and over again. Maybe you’re not very fast, but you’re doing it. One foot in front of the other, until LO AND BEHOLD, you’ve completed 3.5 miles. A 5K. You’re a runner!

At least that’s how I decided to handle this winter’s almost devastating "Lack of an Elliptical Machine" crisis at my gym. Instead of glaring at the sweaty people on the elliptical machines, I decided give the treadmill a try. After a brief prayer to whatever patron saint watches out for novice treadmill-users (and protects them from embarrassing falls), I took a deep breath and started running. And I discovered that I LOVED it. Loved it -- almost (but not quite) as much as soccer. Sure, I’m not fast. Not at all. It would take me three times as long as Kari to run a 5K. But for someone who always thought running was boring unless a soccer ball was involved (and who could barely make it around the track last summer), this is a major improvement.

Not only do I love running, I’ve decided that I’m going to run a half marathon. Yup. Me. A half marathon. 13.1 miles. With Kari. In Italy. May 2010, baby. The exchange students are hooking up again for another madcap, excessive adventure -- after we run our race, that is.

I don’t know about you, but I think it’s inspiring to have another person egging you on to new heights of foolishness when you’re stuck in a rut. Soccer in the rain and mud? No problem -- that’s fun (or so I've come to believe). Training to run a half marathon -- voluntarily? Why the hell not? Fun! Talk about motivation. All it took was the unprecedented boom of social networking across the globe, a lack of elliptical machines in my local gym, and a big push from someone who I think kicks serious ass. A perfect storm, if you will, of gigantic (and wonderful) proportions.

And it rocks. Every sweaty, achy mile of it rocks. Now, pass the Tylenol while I give a shout out to Kari and Laura for their continuing motivation, and lace up my shoes for today’s run. Thanks, Kari! Thanks, Laura! You guys rock!