Pet Names: Standardized Patient Care…or Just Insulting?

When I was five, my family nicknamed me “Lutefisk.” They got great joy out of seeing how much the name annoyed me. For those of you unfamiliar, Lutefisk is a popular Scandinavian food; it is white fish soaked in lye. (I am not kidding).

Those of us hailing from places like Minnesota and Iowa, who boast either Norwegian or Swedish descent, often serve this fish as the main dish during many Christmas and New Year’s celebrations. And, as a child, encouraged by my relatives to “try it,” I hated it. To me, it tasted like the slimiest, fishiest fish, soaked in detergent. Soap was a distinctive flavor, no matter how much hot butter you tried to add to it. No thank you.

Anyway, having been christened after this white fish soaked in lye, enduring family gatherings as a tiny tot, I gradually gained some feistiness in the attitude department. And that led to one of my first memories, one of me being quite vocal and confrontational.

On a shopping trip with my mother, we encountered a “family friend” who greeted me in the following manner:

“Hi there, Toots!”

I never met this man before. I was, however, all fed up with being called a fish by the people I, supposedly, did know. I had had it! I retorted, with as much five-year-old indignation as I could muster…

“Oh yeah, well how’d you like it if I called you Lutefisk!”

I remember the awkward shock, the uncomfortable laughter and the looks on both my mother’s and this guy’s faces. Clearly, my clapback created a moment.

It wasn’t long after that my family stopped called me Lutefisk. Maybe word finally got out.

Anyway, this memory has gotten a lot of replay for me lately as I have been in doctor’s offices and assorted appointments since my 2017 Breast cancer diagnosis. It has been within this context that I found myself not that far removed from five-year-old me. You see, as I have undergone tests, treatments and now, “survivorship” checkups, I have repeatedly run into complete strangers calling me by pet names.

“Honey”

“Hon”

“Sweetie”

“Sweetie Pie”

“Baby”

“Baby Doll”

“Darling”

“Dear”

Everything but my actual given name, even though that’s the first question I answer at the beginning of an appointment, test or procedure: name and date of birth. No pet names exist within either of those pieces of data.

Yes, within two minutes, I, inevitably, get called a term of endearment, usually, “Honey” or “Dear.”

I have nothing against pet names if there is an endearment present in a relationship, say, older than five minutes. My husband usually calls me “Honey” or “Baby;” I do, likewise, with him. But we’ve been together for well over twenty years. And, with my good girlfriends, I admit, I’ll also drop a “Honey” or “Sweetie” their way.

Why is this name calling a-happening? Because there is love and a relationship there, not name, rank and serial number kind of stuff. But, if there is a patient number or code attached to me in a clinical setting, maybe we can agree there’s not automatic love and long-term relationships going on here, huh?

It’s just something that has gotten me a little cranky. And yes, I know, I can hear the murmurings already. It’s harmless being called a pet name by an ultrasound tech, doctor or even a receptionist just checking you and I into a medical appointment. It can be argued, I suppose, that this medical professional simply wants to make the patient feel more comfortable, relaxed and cared for.

I admit I am a fussy patient. So being called “Honey,” “Sweetie,” or “Baby Doll” does none of those things for me. Especially if I hear those pet names falling from the lips of someone I could have once babysat. Yes, not just motherly women in their fifties and sixties are addressing me this way, I get twenty-somethings, with freshly scrubbed faces, calling me this stuff also. Male and female, by the way, as well.

That is especially patronizing. I have encountered a male medical professional, especially someone meeting my “once- could- have- babysat- you” criteria, calling me by a name I reserve for my loving hubby. When not irritated by this fact, I sometimes envision this same male medical practitioner calling me “Sweetie” in the presence of my tall, dark and handsome (and intimidating-looking) husband. I note, these male doctors and techs never do such a thing within his earshot. Coincidence?

Regardless, at the end of the day, I’m still the one who is hearing the pet name applied to my person. Even though they have, in black and white, in the computer system, my vital statistics, including my name. My name is Sheryle Cruse. I will gladly spell it again for you if that makes things crystal clear.

I’m not “Honey.” I’m not “Dear.” I’m not “Sweetie.” And I am certainly not “Baby Doll.”

Ruminating about this madness in many a waiting room, I’m reminded of a list of negative reasons for name calling and bullying I encountered years ago. I know there’s not the malevolent intent to bully or harm a patient here. Like many of the irritating and harmful things within our society, it, unfortunately, has more to do with the insidious, underground attitudes which seep into a person’s assessment of an individual, especially, if, yes, that individual is female.

According to this bully/name calling list, some of the reasons for the behavior point to the following…

To cover up mistakes…

To disarm…

To distract or divert attention…

To manipulate into compliance…

Huh. Interesting.

Again, it’s not some maniacal villain cackling and wringing his/her hands with plans for dastardly deeds. But there is a reason, perhaps, an infantilizing reason, why you and I may be called “Honey” and “Sweetie” at our next medical appointment. It’s assumed, however wrongly, perhaps, that this is a part of standardized patient care. We are reduced to pet names, ignoring our very real and documented given names.

Again, if I know you and love you, pet names are generally welcome, except for Lutefisk, of course.

Everyone else out there, especially those who tout themselves as “professionals?” You don’t have the privilege of calling me anything other than my given name. To do otherwise is assumption and it’s insulting.

Call me by an unwelcomed pet name and you may hear me respond with, “Thanks, Lutefisk.”

You have been warned now.

Copyright © 2020 by Sheryle Cruse

7 Types of Rest You Need...

Narcissists Attack...

Friendships: Silver and Gold…Really?

If you were a Girl Scout, perhaps, you remember this friendship song. In my troop, we usually sang it right before we joined hands and wound ourselves into a cinnamon roll hug.

Anyway, this song has been imbedded in my head ever since. As I’m typing, I’m humming it. And, in recent days, it’s prompted a challenge to that friendship ideal...

“Make new friends, but keep the old,

One is silver and the other gold.”

Really? Should we focus on that? Accumulating- hoarding- friends?

Popular culture is all aglow with Marie Kondo and her art of tidying. She encourages each of us to get rid ourselves of whatever doesn’t “spark joy” in our lives, while we roll our socks and t-shirts. An anti-clutter principle is employed in her method: if it no longer fits your current life and you don’t want to carry it into your future, release it.

Therefore, I started thinking about “Kondo-ing” my relationships, a very anti-Girl Scout friendship song thing to do.

I had expelled bags, boxes, papers, clothes and material clutter. I felt better, having done so. However, I was still overwhelmed, distracted and drained. Why? Look at my sock drawer! Look at my closet! Look at the freer, emptier space in my home! Surely, new, fresh air was circulating, right?

Not quite. I heard the song again.

“Make new friends, but keep the old,

One is silver and the other gold.”

Hello, Clutter of my unprofitable relationships. Relationships akin to that fluorescent green crop top I purchased, believing with complete confidence, I’d wear it real life. Or that jaunty hat. I tend to look like I’m doing a bad impression of Diane Keaton in the movie, “Annie Hall.”

Still, it could not be denied. My so-called friendships were taking up space…and mocking me in the process.

So, why do I keep these relationships around? Well, like the stuff of clutter, I found there to be similar excuses, pleading for their right to exist.

1)      “I might need this someday.”

It’s that dress, the one that does not fit. The “go-to,” even though I haven’t gone there in years. But I hang onto it because “it’s always been there.” Familiar. Comforting. A safety hatch.

I had a once-close friend that fit that bill. I thought we were inseparable. We shared eerie similarities, both coming from an “only child” world view. And those suckers have been hard to come by for me.

Anyway, I moved away years ago and we stayed in touch by phone for a while. And then, things trailed off. The calls lessened. Even Facebook messaging screeched to a halt. No “explanation.” After attempts by phone, email and social media, I got the message. The two of us “once-close” friends…weren’t. No explosive argument. Just life moving on. Time to let go.

Most of us women live and die by our relationships. It starts early. How many best girlfriends did you go through by the time you reached the third grade? How many times do we proclaim, “Friends forever?”

“People come into your life for a reason, for a season or for a lifetime.”

I usually roll my eyes whenever that gets quoted. But sometimes, it’s dead-on. I struggled to hang onto a temporary “seasonal” person, trying to make then a “forever” variety. It doesn’t work that way. The incessant attempts to stay connected frustrated, drained and blocked me.

Indeed, for each person you and I cling to, who is not a willing party, we say no to someone who is an enthusiastic candidate.

We need to admit truth. The “we” that represents us plus them has changed. And we cannot change it back.

2)      It’s not that bad; I can still get some use out this.

I had a purse that was kept together by safety pins. But I was convinced I could still use it. Straps would give way in public. I’d scoop the purse up and once home, try to repair it with still more safety pins. The thing was still falling apart.

In one friendship, I was free counseling. Repeatedly, I chose to be on the listening end of the latest tale of woe, a bad divorce and other assorted drama. Yet, whenever I managed to slip in an issue or two of my own, all of a sudden, she “had to go.” Until the next crisis. She had a wicked sense of humor and whenever it wasn’t about the crisis du jour, we could have some great back and forth. But alas, the lion’s share of our discussion was me as a sounding board, her as a patient.

I stayed connected to her for those few fleeting good conversations. I convinced myself, “If I can just get through this hump, it’s all good. Just hang on.”

It was not about devotion. It was about some sick need that gets met from the dysfunction.

And it wasn’t just my friend’s needs. No, I got my need met from the crisis-heavy discussions. I was the comfortable therapist, nonchalantly peering in on someone’s problems. I was safely at a distance. My issues must not have been “that bad,” because I never felt an urgency to plead for them to be heard.

But that became more difficult to maintain after my Breast cancer diagnosis. Now I needed to be heard and the status quo, one-way therapy did not work. After fifteen years, it was time to end things.

3)      It over-promises, yet under-delivers.

“I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”

Maya Angelou

Years ago, I bought some high heels with leopard print all over them. They were fabulous and hobbled me every single time I tried walking in them. I was Bambi struggling on the frozen pond.

But I believed they were a staple; animal print, after all, is a neutral. They’ll never go out of style. I can always count on them.

I had a twenty- year friendship with someone who I thought was a supportive person.

Yet, once again, I placed myself in a situation to chase someone who really wasn’t interested in being caught. I tried to reach her by phone. She was always “busy,” “en route to a conference,” “in a meeting.” When I finally got ahold of her, voice- to- voice, the obligatory “what’s going on with you” question surfaced. And I finally had the chance to tell her about my Breast cancer diagnosis. She was shocked, asking why she never heard about it.

I had posted about my diagnosis on social media. We were also Facebook friends. I was not hiding.

After that voice- to- voice recap, I tried, again, to reach her by phone, to no avail. We kept setting up times to speak. She kept cancelling, again, citing “busy.”

I heard- and felt- something different. I was not a priority relationship in her life.

I get it. Busy.

We’re all busy. Life is busy. But come on, somehow, in life, you and I find the time, make the time for who and what are truly important to us. Once is an event, perhaps. Twice, a coincidence. But if a behavior keeps happening, that is a pattern; that is a habit. Actions do speak louder than words.

Clutter, here in this kind of relationship dynamic is represented by the accumulation of experiences in which we are not treated as an important priority. I believe that too often, “busy” is code for “I’m not interested in you.”

Again, does it keep happening? When you walk away from this person-or this attempt at connecting with this person- how do you feel?

Pay attention to that and declutter, if necessary.

4)      I don’t know. (Is ambivalence the silver or the gold? I can never keep it straight).

Once, upon receiving an online clothes order, the company threw in a gardener’s bag for free. For customer appreciation. The bag was yellow and came with a set of tools, to boot. I hate gardening. But, don’t look a gift-bag in the mouth, right? So, I added it to my closet. And never once used it. It didn’t spark joy. It was just there. Mocking me with its abundance of pockets, just perfect for holding the gardening tools.

Social media gives us the illusion of “friends,” from different eras, from different walks of life and from different locations. But how many are exactly that? Friends? Maybe counted on one hand, maybe even two?

I have accumulated clutter on social media. I’m guilty of allowing this relationship hoard to exist. I’m in the process of culling my list of individuals “following” me. Because, let’s face it, there’s no following going on with some of them. I have gotten rid of many “people of my past:” theatre comrades from my college days that I’ve never met for coffee, a few stray acquaintances from a passing interest like axe throwing (don’t judge, please).

And, yes, unfortunately, some of my supposedly true-blue friendships have also gone by the wayside because, apart from the internet, there is no evidence of the two of us in each other’s lives.

Does this sound like I’m an impossible person to know, let alone, befriend? Perhaps. I’m working on my internal, emotional clutter.

But I think there’s a bigger issue we all share. Some people just need to exit our lives. No yelling, no fighting, no crying jags need to always occur. Sometimes, things just end.

Instead of singing the Girl Scouts’ friendship song, maybe we should start singing “Let It Go” from Disney’s “Frozen” (Yes, I know, it’s an insufferable earwig. Many of you have probably heard a toddler belt in out at high volume in your minivan. Sorry).

Still relationship endings can be okay. When we end a friendship, another will surface in its place, sooner or later. And, in the meantime, we can clean ourselves up a bit. We can address why we’ve gotten comfortable allowing this clutter to exist in the first place.

What need or excuse does this person fill?

What is comfortable about him/her?

What is masochistic about this dynamic?

How are we the sadist in the relationship?

Clutter obscures everything.

It could be possible that the true, meaningful relationships are from people we deemed least likely. Or, maybe they are people we have yet to meet. Regardless, we have a difficult time seeing anything silver or gold in its quality, if distracting quantity is all around us.

So, we need to ask…

Does this person truly “spark joy?” How?

Are they interacting, supportive and healthfully involved in my life?

Do they still fit in my life?

Why is this person still here?

Is this relationship silver? Is this relationship gold?

That is the song we need to sing.

Copyright © 2020 by Sheryle Cruse

You Didn't Deserve It

This Trip is Theirs

What IS My Job?

Beauty Marks

Marilyn Monroe. Cindy Crawford. Madonna. Some ole timey saloon girl.

What do they all have in common?

Beauty marks.

I am amongst those ranks, both pre and post-Breast cancer diagnosis.

Pre-diagnosis. I have a dark brown mole perched on top of my collarbone. Growing up, I often fell for the prank, “Oh, you have a tick on you!” I’d shriek, panic, trying to get the insect off me until I finally remembered, nope, that’s just my mole. For most of my life, my beauty mark buddy and I have peacefully coexisted, as I remained vigilant concerning peoples’ “tick pranks.”

And then came my Breast cancer diagnosis, followed by my bilateral mastectomy. I was prepared (as much as someone undergoing this surgery can be) for the reality, yep, my breasts will be gone. A quite visible chest change, yes, indeed-y.

But I hadn’t counted on other changes to the area. My little beauty mark was included in that. Because of the drastic nature of the surgery, yes, all breast tissue was removed. Besides my stitches, closing my wounds, my skin was pulled- stretched- to accommodate that breast removal.

And, that meant that my notorious tick/mole traveled south. Not a dramatic change. It didn’t wind up on my knee. But post-surgery, my little beauty mark now hung out about half an inch below my collarbone. That took some getting used to. It was kind of like when you see a photograph of a person reprinted in reverse. It’s the same person, the same image, the same features… but it’s different. If looks “off.”

I looked at my reflection in the mirror, not only taking in my flat, bandaged chest, but also seeing the “off” placement of my collarbone mole. I didn’t obsess about it; I wasn’t weeping in the streets. But this was another aspect of my changed life. My beauty mark- and my beauty, itself, were different now. Not less than, just different.

But I wasn’t done with my beauty mark odyssey. Nope. For, six weeks later, after I recovered from my surgery, next came my course of radiation… and the reality of my radiation tattoos.

This was not the stuff of a sexy trip to the tattoo parlor to get some rebellious, feminine image forever “inked” on my body.

Rather, it was me, in a machine, making sure my chest site measurements were accurate and precise. I received three black radiation tattoos. Three new beauty marks. They spanned a triangular area on my chest, synching up coordinates, I suppose. During each radiation dose, I’d look at the machine’s neon number grid above my chest area, aligning me for the treatment; I hoped my beauty marks were truly “X marks the spot” when it came to eradicating cancer. There was massive important purpose to these beauty marks. A matter of life or death.

Now, as I go about my “survivorship” phase, with checkups to my oncologist, it’s regularly suggested I cover them with an elaborate, beautiful tattoo. A butterfly, a hummingbird or some hyper-powerful battle statement. Some women do that. I have seen photos of women who tattoo a peacock with fanned plumage or an entire bra, lacy and exquisite, onto their chests. And, that’s gorgeous. But, ouch! I hate needles- and pain. So, no. Getting my three dots was enough of a tattoo experience. These black dots remain on my body, just as they are.

Breast cancer has spotlighted yet another lesson about beauty for me. It’s re-introduced the constant of change. Those of us, having been dealt the cancer cards, with surgery and changed bodies to prove it, are faced with the dilemma of how to see ourselves. With stitches, scar lines, and body parts removed or changed, are you and I still beautiful? Still valuable?

And those questions don’t just apply to the diagnosed.  Everyone has been scarred. How many of us are, in some way, marked? Did we lose a part of our physical bodies? What about our psyches? How are we changed from who we once were?

And, when we answer those questions, do we come back with a response like, “ugly,” “unacceptable,” “damaged” or “worthless?”

I see beauty marks much differently now. They go beyond a famous face like Marilyn, Cindy or Madonna.

Beauty marks provide evidence that you and I have lived, that you and I could have died, that you and I have fought. They are not just dots. They can symbolize the essence of change.

And they are beautiful.

Copyright © 2020 by Sheryle Cruse

The Freezer in the Bedroom

As a kid, once upon a time, my childhood bedroom was upstairs, in our nearly one- hundred- year- old, poorly insulated house. Summers were tropical rainforests, complete with Minnesota mosquitoes, keeping me awake. Winters were Arctic, requiring multiple comforters at night. Long story short: it became next to impossible for me to sleep up there, in my baby blue- painted, but unhabitable, childhood bedroom.

Eventually, I slept in the living room, on the pull-out couch.

Fortunately, around the age of eleven, my family finally decided to replace the house’s deteriorating porch with the new addition promise of a “family room” and…drum roll please… a newer childhood bedroom for me.

Granted, it was not painted baby blue; wood paneling was its motif. And, it was a much smaller square room, as opposed to the vast pizza oven/deep freeze as my first upstairs bedroom.

Compromise, okay. I’d deal with it.

At least I got my own room, better insulated, a place I could really sleep in and await my joyous adolescent years (can you hear my sarcasm?).

So, after a three-month summer vacation, spent tearing off the old, replacing it with the new, finally, I had my small square bedroom. I was giddy. I walked into the empty space, imagining where I’d place my bed, dresser and vanity.

But before I could get any of my stuff in, furniture or stuffed animals, my family shoved a gigantic meat freezer along one entire wall of my bedroom.

That’s right, I said meat freezer, one of those humungous, topaz-colored models that looked like a full-on coffin. I think you could probably stick a full-grown man in that sucker, without needing to do any dismembering.

Handy.

And my family just assumed (you know what they say about assume) that I would have no issue with this arrangement. I didn’t have room for some of my bedroom furniture, but hey, I should be grateful to just get a bedroom, right?

I said that to my eleven-year-old self, trying to convince her this freezer was not encroaching on my development in any way. No biggie. I still had my little haven where I could write, read, draw, listen to music and enter adolescence.

Let’s get the show on the road!

Only, the show was frequently interrupted by a family member entering my room to extract some frozen meat from my room.

Oh, Rib-eye tonight, huh?

Meanwhile, I turned twelve. Then thirteen.

Years of lunches and dinners brought about by people barging into my room, opening the freezer coffin lid, chilling the room for about ten minutes after it was closed, and feeling like my privacy was invaded. My boundaries of separateness as a budding person were treated as nonexistent. After all, I should be grateful to have a room.

This eight-foot freezer is no problem; it’s not an issue.

But, as a feisty thirteen-year-old, I started voicing (whining) my displeasure, attempting to reason with certain family members, trying to negotiate a relocation for this meat freezer. I was growing up, getting bigger, needing more space and privacy.

Eventually, my negotiating (whining) won out. It was finally decided that this large monster would be moved to the garage, where, in my opinion, it should have resided the entire time. We also had a basement with plenty of space to inhabit the freezer.

Really, why did it have to land in my small bedroom, in the first place?

Answer? Because it was convenient.

And here, I learned a lesson about weak and disrespected boundaries of what is and is not allowed and enforced.

It was simply more convenient to place the freezer in my bedroom. No one needed to go downstairs, in the dingy basement to get the wrapped meat. No one needed to go outside to the garage.

Just easy- peasy. Get it from Sheryle’s room. She doesn’t mind. It’s no big deal.

And besides, the freezer was once kept on the old porch. It’s the way things have always been done. Why change?

Recognizing any of the dysfunctional patterns, trampled boundaries or harmful assumptions within you own life?

Why am I harping about this freezer, years later? Why can’t I get over it, as many people are wont to say?

Because, sometimes a cigar is not just a cigar. Sometimes a freezer is not just a freezer.

This large behemoth was a testament to how there was a resistance to change, to respecting boundaries and to respecting privacy, as harsh as it sounds. My family did not see me as a separate individual who needed time, space and privacy to grow. Convenience and attachment to the familiar status quo were more important than acknowledging that me, as a child, had a right to develop and discover myself without encroachment.

To me, subjectively, that freezer encroached on my time, space and privacy. No one else saw it as an issue, because it was not an issue to them.

Silly, blown out of proportion, perhaps? Well, hang on. Because, again, the object, any potential object, is not just a neutral object. It is a representation to you, to me. And, even if it is that representation to only you or me, it’s still, nonetheless, valid.

It often, however, taps into the greater messages surrounding autonomy, self-esteem, boundaries, people pleasing and any number of mistaken thoughts and beliefs.

What is that for you? What is your freezer?

Like I said, I negotiated the freezer’s removal from my small bedroom. By age fourteen, my room was freezer-free. However, the issues, the messages and the refusal to allow me to be me were still in place.

And here I slammed head-on into an ugly reality many of us confront when it comes to our family dynamics: there can exist both an inability and an unwillingness for some individuals to view us with the respect, dignity and healthy treatment we inherently deserve. We need to face that and deal with how things are.

And then we need to make a choice. How will you and I treat ourselves, freezer or no freezer, metaphorically speaking?

We can often get talked out the validity of our experiences, dismissed as being too sensitive, taking things too seriously, blah, blah, blah. You’ve heard the criticisms in your own life, right?

If it’s a problem, an issue, a wound for you, that’s legitimate. If you feel a violation, that is valid and needs addressing.

If individuals refuse to acknowledge and validate what is bothering you, then you, all by yourself, need to come to terms with it for yourself.

Find your own personal meaning. And, while you are doing so, dare to embrace the real, eternal truth: you are worth being seen, heard, loved and valued. Don’t let anything convince you otherwise.

So, yes, I’ve been learning all about what are my personal feelings and boundaries. I am learning about my individual value.

All this from a freezer in a bedroom?

Yes, all this from a freezer in a bedroom.

Copyright © 2020 by Sheryle Cruse

Perspective

In high school art class, I was taught the definition of perspective:

“Two seemingly parallel lines meet at a vanishing point on the horizon.”

And, to get a more tactile lesson in that definition, my art teacher had us students draw our high school hallway, capturing that perspective.

So, there we were, a bunch of ninth and tenth graders, perched at various points of the hallway, our 18 X 24- inch sheets of paper taped to gigantic drawing boards that could be used to bludgeon someone.

And, from there, with our pencils and rulers, we endeavored to capture that illusive perspective line. No easy feat. I learned an art class lesson very early; draw LIGHTLY. It was hard to thoroughly obliterate a mistake of a dark line, even with the thickest of pink gum erasers.

Furthermore, the challenge of capturing perspective’s line, on the first attempt, was usually incorrect, meaning, what was supposed to resemble the flow of a long hallway, quickly became the row of lockers colliding into the opposite wall.

Two seemingly parallels lines meeting at a vanishing point on the horizon?

Hardly.

It was more like you’re never going to be able to open your locker again.

For the few weeks we students were doing our artsy sit-in, probably, while being fire/safety hazards. And, I have found myself learning a few lessons, beyond the drawing of a hallway, ever since.

The Seemingly Never-ending Row of Lockers:

They seemed to stretch for miles.

With my trusty-dusty ruler, I had to carve out several of these sliced buggers while, again, making sure that they, somehow, met at a vanishing point on the infernal horizon. These drawn slivers of locker had to be spaced accurately. You couldn’t just have a three-inch block of locker next to a two- millimeter slice. They had to TAPER!

TAPER!

As I was lightly drawing with my ruler and pencil, I kept thinking about the school lockers. How many instances of bullying, getting shoved into them and getting sexually harassed near them have occurred, since the dawn of high school time? I know I experienced a little of my own hashtag Me Too back in the day.

As I was sitting in the exact same spot on the hallway floor, day after day, I started realizing how much lockers were a metaphor for life.

Each locker was a contained space. Each locker held something: unique, personal expressions of its master. An athletic calendar of upcoming events, a photo of a boyfriend or girlfriend tacked on the inside of the door, books, lettermen’s jackets, gym clothes, maybe an unwieldly instrument like a trombone for band practice. Each locker was a representation of a life, positioned next to another locker, representing another life.

And so on, and so on…

But, as I was vexed with the task of drawing locker slice, after locker slice, it also occurred to me how much lockers represent something more universal and philosophical.

Uncertainty? Monotony? Tediousness?

Life going on, regardless? Yay.

Who, in their adolescent mind, really thinks about boredom, the disappointment, the loss, beyond that of high school experiences? It can be further challenging as the “adults” force feed teenagers glimmering promises of pristine futures, limitless achievements, happily ever after, perhaps?

I know, I know, I know. You can’t break it to ‘em just what life actually is. Each person needs to find out for himself/herself.

These lockers just captivated my attention, way back when. If you focus on something for long periods of time, other thoughts show up.

And, no matter what age or stage we find ourselves in, past high school, there is still that row of clustered sliver blocks, lockers, representing us, veering toward some point, which, one can argue, is our mortality.

Decorate your locker with that!

The Floor:

You know the scene in the 1991 film, “Terminator 2?” There’s just endless road, lurching forward, ominously predicting how cyborgs were going to kill all of humanity? Well, that’s how I viewed the hallway floor as I went about my art project back in the day. It’s was smooth, polished green, and it seemed to keep going, always with the threat of tripping you up.

It appeared to be more menacing than the lineup of endless lockers. After all, there was no personalization here. To quote the band, REM’s lyric, just “three miles of bad road.”

Fantastic. Higher education.

I couldn’t quite get a handle on the hallway floor, this buffed, jade-green surface, for which many a times, I’d tripped and fallen, splat, onto it. Being uncoordinated didn’t help; slippery Minnesota winters, trudging in pools of melted ice further also created obstacle courses, en route to the lockers and classrooms.

But, overall, I suppose what got my attention was how the floor represented the path, life’s path. It just stretched before us, yes, tripping us up from time to time. There would be falls; there would be injuries. Graduating from high school would not- and could not change that.

So, hit the ground running, hit the polished hallway floor running, hit whatever pathway we encounter running, sooner or later, well, life happens.

Breast cancer, for me personally, was just one bit of evidence to support that theory. Although, yes, I was always uneasy with my breasts, no one ever told me, as a young person, that this experience would be part of my hallway floor, my path, the ongoing stretch of life set before me.

Sometimes, disease, illness, loss and death are the floors we must walk on.

Exit Sign:

As that high school student, drawing the hallway, my vantage point had an Exit sign within my sight line. Nothing extraordinary about it. You’ve seen one Exit Sign, you’ve seen them all.

It was positioned to my left, so, I proceeded to draw it in the top left corner of my paper. A simple, slightly rectangular box, with “Exit” written in it. Not much to write home about.

I thought my little sign was adorable. It made a statement. And it wasn’t just, “Go! Get out of here!”

No, rather, it was, “This is the way out.” Simple, less violent, no teenage stampeding, crushing bodies trying to escape the hell of high school.

I was enduring high school. Most of us do. It’s a time fraught with angst, bullying, rejection, awkwardness and lonely insecurity. So, naturally, we’d probably do anything we could to escape that.

All things are subject to change. It’s a universal truth, Inevitably, life does change, some way, somehow. Signposts, signaling an Exit here or there, prompt us to acknowledge and remember we will move on a have different experiences.

For me, personally, high school would end and an era of eating disorders, in their full expression, would begin throughout college into my young adulthood. And then other transitions arrived: marriage, my writing career, loss of one parent, caregiving to another… and cancer.

No one could prep me with a big enough Exit Sign for THAT one.

Yet, here I am, supposedly, in Survivorship mode, navigating the uncertain reality of what the ultimate Exit may mean. Yes, I think about how I once so innocently drew that little sign on the top left side of my paper, never entertaining how much thought I’d give it later.

But eventually, you and I do give our personal Exit Signs a lot of thought, don’t we? Something ends, something “phases out.”

And we need to start over again.

Vanishing Point on the Horizon:

Back during that high school art project, as we sat at the end of the long hallway, there was the destination apex, where, supposedly, our two seemingly, parallel lines met at a vanishing point on the horizon.

When it came to the literal high school hallway I drew, that was represented by a large window at the end of the smoothly polished jade-green floor.

A window- well, there’s a metaphor, huh? Let’s look outside. What’s beyond it? What does the world look like, from here?

The trick, in drawing the beast, was that, on sunny mornings, blinding sunlight would stream through. You had to be careful, looking directly at it. No one here was a wise Native American elder, practicing the ritual of staring at the sun until his/her retinas burned out, while simultaneously, achieving an enlightened vision.

Hardly. Remember, we’re a bunch of teenagers. One needs to lower that expectation a bit.

Still, as I averted my eyes, trying to capture the window, noting how the entire end of the hallway was Madonna’s white-hot set in the “Lucky Star” video, I couldn’t avoid one simple truth:

There is more.

Perspective.

We don’t always see everything when we think we should see it. That, I guess, is what hindsight is for. When you and I are finally mature, wise, compassionate enough to handle the deeper truth in life, then, the vision revelation often comes…

“Oh, so that’s what that was.”

If we try to force things, before we’re ready, we can burn ourselves out. Our retinas may be intact, but something else can be destroyed, if not seriously damaged.

We’re not ready for “it” yet.

Hopefully, we will be someday. But today- now- is not that day.

And, until we are, we need to keep learning the lessons our spirits were assigned, our cosmic homework.

We don’t get finished, actualized, enlightened, all, in one fell swoop. It’s a series of smaller vanishing points on the horizon, smaller, “Oh, so that’s what that was” revelations.

One after the other.

“Draw what you see, not what you know:”

This quote was uttered daily by my high school art teacher and it sticks with me, to this day.

In the drawing context, the point she was trying to hammer home with us was to not get ahead of ourselves. Yes, we may know there’s an ear or a flower in the still life’s vase, but are we actively experiencing drawing the shape and the line of what is before us?

No, we, instead, want to go full steam ahead and draw what we believe is that ear or flower. We’re not in the moment, experiencing it with our pencil. We are assuming instead. Assumption rarely leads to great art.

Going beyond art class, my teacher’s wisdom is the gentle reminder to experience what I’m going through, not make assumptions about what I may or may not encounter. I have yet to master this skill; I can be a bit of a control freak, wanting answers.

Cancer was a doozy for me, therefore, in that department. I don’t know, I REALLY don’t know, what the future will look like. Sometimes, I’m uncertain about my present.

And the past? Well, I’ve had to face it and challenge myself with what truly happened. That’s more painful than just assuming the tale I’d like to believe.

So, yes, I’m currently in a state of challenging the past, present and the future. Although I’d like the tidy, fairytale, “happily ever after,” I have to face and live “what IS.”

I need to draw WHAT I SEE, AND NOT WHAT I KNOW.

And, the irony in doing so is this: I discover, learn and know more from practicing the “what IS.” Truth over story.

Eventually, when you and I face what we see, we, inevitably, stumble upon something. Some personal revelation. Some lesson.

I’ve read some affirmation statements, encouraging us to rejoice, to make the best of things when we find ourselves stuck in a hallway, known as our life circumstances.

Don’t worry. Soon, a door will open and ta-dah. Chin up. That kind of thing.

I don’t know how realistic that advice is. Some hallways are quite brutal. Waiting is the equivalent to agony.

Perspective: “two seemingly parallel lines meet at a vanishing point on the horizon:”

Not all of us draw our high school hallways, trying to get the accurate look of 3-D dimensions from lockers, doors and floors.

But ALL of us can achieve perspective. What do the issues, events, people and places mean to us?

What vanishes from prominence? What emerges as predominant?

No two perspectives are exactly alike. They are fingerprints; they are snowflakes.

A challenge, perhaps, is to recognize that, to find meaning from it. To face what intersects, what disappears and what remains visible.

Perspective. More than just an artistic term.

Copyright © 2020 by Sheryle Cruse

Thank You, Sheila E.

Imperfect Place

“Bashful: Exposing the Shy Narcissist”

“Bashful: Exposing the Shy Narcissist” discusses the attributes of the lesser-known Covert Narcissist.

https://www.elephantjournal.com/2020/01/bashful-exposing-the-shy-narcissist-discusses-the-attributes-of-the-lesser-known-covert-narcissist/

Permission To Rest

Just a Chapter...

The Dilemma..

Meditation for the Antsy

A field of flowers. An ocean of crystal blue. A sandy beach.

Nope couldn’t picture it, let alone, sit still for it.

Since my diagnosis, I’ve tried to get into meditation. Being still. Being present. Centering myself. And then, two minutes in, I’d remember I have to return a phone call or pick up cat litter. Wham-o, just like that, I’m out of my meditative state. So much for my still, present, centered self. So much for any trace of flowers, blue ocean, or being beachy.

As I’ve hopped along the bunny trail of de-stressing, detoxing, learning healthier life skills and keeping cancer at bay, I’ve taken stabs at this mindfulness stuff. Already praying since childhood, I thought, what’s the harm in adding meditation/visualization? It could be helpful.

However, most of these “guided meditations” I’ve been encouraged to try, again, focused on nature, and on some flute playing in a forest somewhere.

Don’t get me wrong; it’s pretty. But I found myself soon thinking about a weird piece of trivia from my past. I’d be asking myself a question like, “Did I have physical education class for first or second period when I was in the seventh grade?”

Over and over and over again, I’d start out with beautiful scenery and then devolve into remembering who was my math teacher when I was nine. After numerous attempts, it finally dawned on me to stop with the flowers, landscapes and mysterious flute playing and just skip right to whatever school memories I could entertain without trauma counseling.

No easy feat, by the way.

But I needed to stop fighting my mind when it wandered away from the pretty scenes. I had to channel it, instead, to those notorious school days.

I’m not talking about the bullying or the mean girls. That’s not helpful. I’m talking about something a bit more mundane, perfect for its meditative possibilities.

I’m a detail-oriented person. So, I first started to meditate on some of the details of my school building.

Originally built in the early 1900s and named after President McKinley, my high school had two major parts to it: the old and the new. The original old part of the school always struck me as being quite wooden with red painted walls throughout the small hallways.

Eventually, in the 1950s, because of the explosion of rural teenagers, they tacked on the newer addition. And, that part of the school struck me as being incredibly green and tiled. I don’t know. Maybe there was an unconscious desire to celebrate the complimentary color wheel or promote Christmas all school year long. Whatever the case, as a scurrying adolescent, I remember making hundreds of treks, zigzagging from red and wood to green and tiled classrooms, connected only by a bland library.

My first school meditation, beyond a building, focused on the class schedule from my senior year, mainly, the route it took small town, public school student me to get from class to class.

I remembered all of those treks, Mondays through Fridays, to and from seven periods of classes and classrooms. And, my senior year stood out the most. Maybe because it was equal parts “yay, I’m almost out of here” and “I’m soon going to be an adult; uh-oh.”

Regardless, focusing on that last year of high school, I visualized myself at the start of the day. Arriving at 7:45, I’d wind my way up two flights of green- tiled stairs, to greet the long expanse of the second floor, which housed lockers for grades ten through twelve on the left side, classrooms on the right. So, there I was, getting set for first period, French II, which was almost directly across from our lockers. Not much zig, not much zag.

After about fifty minutes of being called by my French class name and feeling like an ignorant American, the bell rang and I’d start my first really big zig zag of the day, from the old to the new part of the school: art class. I’d plow down the length of that long, green- tiled hallway, dodging my fellow adolescents, weaving through the library connector. I’d go down one flight of stairs, lined with red painted walls, through a dark wooden area which sported four major classrooms. My art class was in the room closest to the original old steps, exiting the school. I’d walk into the wood-centric space and proceed to draw and paint.

Art class was one of my favorites. The fifty minutes sped by and, before I knew it, I’d have to clean my brushes of acrylic paint, mentally prepare myself for my least favorite class, Business Math. I’d hightail it back to the edge of the old school, bordering on that connecting library.

This classroom was an odd mixture of early 1900s wood and not- quite- sure- why- they- decided- to- add- it, 1970s wood paneling. An arsonist’s dream come true, possibly? One lit match and poof! The whole thing goes up like a tinderbox!

I had a lot of those kinds of wishes as, for the next fifty minutes, time crawled. Did I mention how much I hate math? No? I hate math! Math hates me! It’s a mutual hatred society.

Okay, so the bell rings again, mercifully, and I skedaddled from the too-wooden math room, winding through a white tiled hallway, half a flight up from the library. I descend three small steps and again, look at the long, green hallway on the second floor, with one of three classrooms close to the end of it. I make my way to fourth period, Choir.

Located in the newer part of the school, not surprisingly, this mostly white, “soundproof” classroom was right next to the band room. As the choir began doing “Me-May-Ma-Moe-Moo” vocal warmups, we’d often have to compete with the sound of a tuba. Almost always, a tuba. I never actually saw the tuba.

Anyway, after a musical (?) fifty minutes, the bell rang, signaling feeding time for the animals. Lunch.

Do I go to the cafeteria, located on the first floor, in the old, red, wooden part of the school, to enjoy pizza burgers and whipped potatoes? Of course not! Senior, remember? Cafeteria lunches were something only seventh and maybe, a couple of eighth graders did, before they reached the age of reason.

But being a senior, top of the totem pole? Where did we convene? Remember that three-classroom cluster, comprised of the choir and the band rooms? Well, that one remaining room was heralded as the senior room. I remember we were the first class to enjoy such a privilege.

Not that it was much to exalt. A classroom, with scattered desks and chairs, including one beanbag chair (not sure how and why it got there). And, when we weren’t going off campus to a local restaurant or grocery store (or, for some, smoking, drinking, possibly getting pregnant in a sketchier part of the school property or parking lot), we’d herd into that space and feel ever so adult as we huddled in cliques and had disdain for one another. This would go on for about forty minutes and then, ding!

Fifth period has arrived: Senior Social.

How can I explain this class? Part sociology, part history, part “To Sir with Love”-themed, we- gotta- get- these- kids- ready- for- the- adult- world.

Huh. Ready for the adult world.

This was my one and only class held on the first floor. I’d take the two sets of steps and go downstairs in that green-tiled part of the school and camp outside of the classroom, three doors down. Eventually, our teacher would surface, unlock the room and, for the next fifty minutes, we’d learn all about current issues, sex education, birth order and how to do taxes. Eclectic.

Bell rings again, signaling my sixth period class: English. Another favorite, neck and neck with art. Up we go again, to green-tiled, second floor, three doors down and closest to the bathrooms. This classroom was especially green and white. I don’t know if this was intentional from those 1950s blueprints, but I must admit, all of that green did have a soothing effect on me. Not that I really needed it in this beloved class with my favorite teacher. And focusing on words. I loved words. Those fifty minutes also flew by until the next bell rang.

Where to now? Study hall, held in this same classroom, with the same favorite English teacher in charge of the motley crew. As motley as rural can be, anyway.

Not surprisingly, I loved seventh period study hall. I spent most of it, doing my homework, getting hall passes to finish some art project, wa-a-a-y in the older part of the school. And, because my favorite teacher was also my drama and speech coach, I spent time writing and reciting lines, essays and speeches.

This last period of the day was a great way to wind down. Some would even say meditative?

If you’ve hung in there with me all of this time, first, thank you for that.

And second, why am I taking this stroll down memory lane when it has nothing to do with you and your challenges, you may ask? Well, by virtue of taking these strolls, concentrating on various details of the rooms, the routes and everything else occupying my senses, I am, indeed, meditating. I’m actually doing it!

And that’s really the point of mediation: to concentrate, to do it, to focus on something that gets you out of your stressed head and transports you to another dimension. You may not choose to go with the high school dimension. But is there another time, place and set of details you can comb over? Call up as many exacting memories as you can. What does that look like for you? Go there. Be there. Forget about the flowers and the beach. Work what works for you.

Namaste. I bow to the light in that!

Copyright © 2020 by Sheryle Cruse