Farewell, Facebook

On any given day, several of my friends are taking a "Facecation," a little vacation from Facebook. Most of them report that it was refreshing to spend some days without the constant pull of checking their Facebook page. I've taken a few of these shorts breaks myself, citing the usual downsides of Facebook participation: like many online activities, Facebook is a "time suck" -- one click leads to another, and before I know it, I've wasted an hour -- or more -- doing basically nothing. Even worse than wasting time, personal interactions on Facebook are often stressful and frustrating, especially in the current political climate. A Facebook discussion can quickly devolve into the equivalent of an in-person group of people talking over one other, growing louder and angrier until someone snaps. And seeing descriptions and photos of happy families and seemingly perfect lives delivers an emotional blow at times when I'm feeling down. The list of negatives goes on, but where are the positives?

In these busy, over-scheduled times, Facebook is a fun and efficient way to keep in touch. Unlike other social media platforms, that only provide content-limited snapshots, Facebook actually promotes meaningful connection and conversation. Or so I’d convinced myself.

Recently, I received a message from a friend who commented, "I've enjoyed seeing your Facebook posts and being able to keep up with what's been going on in your life over the past few years. Your friendship means so much to me." But had she really kept up? Were we even really still friends? We hadn’t spoken on the phone or seen in other in person in many years. We occasionally commented on each other’s Facebook posts, posts about safe topics that we could share confidently with a large group. I recalled what I knew about her current life – her son played some type of sport and went to a school dance (many photos of teens in fancy attire). One of her kids was in college now . . . maybe? I think she’d had the same job for a while. Her dad had been very sick, but I realized -- to my complete dismay -- that I didn’t even know if he had recovered.

This led me to question whether I was actually maintaining – let alone building and deepening -- friendships on Facebook. Was I having substantive conversations with people I liked and cared about? Was I offering important details of my life and hearing about my friends' successes and struggles? Was I genuinely supporting friends who were suffering instead of just replying with a crying emoji? The answer to all these questions was sadly, but clearly, “no.”

When it came right down to it, I realized that Facebook was allowing me to fake my way through friendships. I was using my limited time for superficial interactions with dozens of people rather than spending that time listening, sharing, supporting, and enjoying my real-life friends, the friends I valued beyond a social media link. I was using Facebook to keep myself at a distance, to avoid the hard work of truly relating to people. When I was on my Facebook page, I didn't feel connected; I usually felt lonely, and that was my own doing. I realized that I didn’t need hundreds of virtual friends; I needed authentic relationships with my small group of actual friends, and that meant that I needed to stop clicking on emojis and start concentrating my efforts on sharing actual emotions.

I don't know if I used to get more out of Facebook or if I'm just more aware of its shortcomings now. Maybe Facebook has changed, or maybe I have, or both. But rather than trying to analyze how I got here, I'm focusing on where I am and where I want to be. I've been spending time on a social media platform that provides me with the illusion of having friends and being a good friend, when I'm doing neither. This might not be true for everyone, but I'm pretty sure it's true for me. I'm nervous that walking away will leave me with a hole where my Facebook friends used to be, but I'm hopeful that it will be filled quickly by visits and phone calls that served as the foundation of my friendships long before Facebook came along.

— Published on November 14, 2018

Kindness Ever After

  Once upon a time, there was a blog that was more than a blog. "Mommy, Ever After" is the online presence of Rebecca Fox Starr, a warm, honest, mother of two, openly sharing her experiences as a mom, a wife, and a person recovering from illness. By sharing details of her real-time journey of healing and growth, she inspires readers with her candor and wit.
  My path crossed Becca's before I ever read her blog. But I quickly became sucked in to the Mommy, Ever After universe, not so much by choice, but rather like being swallowed by an irresistible force of nature. Becca's warmth and honesty attracts others who share those traits, forming such a likable group of women that it's hard to resist being swept up into her fan base. And through this association - or membership - or badge of honor - as an "MEA" follower, I have connected with many women - some moms, some not - who are struggling to find more happiness and fulfillment in life.
  A recurring theme among these women is "mommy guilt." Which, as it turns out, can be more universally described as "female guilt." I am astounded by how many women (mothers or not) are plagued by guilt - guilt about not being a good enough mother, wife, partner, daughter, sister, friend. The more I listen to other women, the more I feel as though we have all had enormous expectations placed upon us, and we have accepted that burden without a fight. Many of the women I've heard from were taught that they should be traditional wives and mothers - making dinner every night, keeping a tidy home, and serving as primary caregivers for their children - while also having successful careers and taking advantage of opportunities for "modern" women in higher education and the workplace. Add to this the new norm of over-scheduling (for ourselves and our kids) and 24/7 availability by cell phone, and it's no wonder that these women feel like they can't "do it all."
  No one can do it all. And more importantly, no one needs to do it all. What we need is to be kind to ourselves, to recognize that we are not failures when we can't do 150%. We need to realize, to believe, that we are amazingly successful. And that we are not alone. "Mommy, Ever After" has helped me to see that, for better or worse, I am far from unique. My struggles, my challenges, my insecurities, my guilt - these are shared by so many other women. So I have resolved to let myself off the hook. I will try to remind myself that the moms who seems to have it all figured out probably don't. And I will try to show myself the kindness and forgiveness that I strive to show everyone else. I hope that other women, struggling with guilt and trying to achieve some impossible level of perfection, will stop, if only for a moment, and be kind to themselves too.

This Old Heart of Mine

  A few minutes ago, I was standing in the grocery store, sobbing. I read the words in front of me over and over, awed by their simplicity and truth. Let me back up - yesterday I had an unusual experience. Not a bad one, but strange. You know how sometimes a situation seems almost surreal and you feel like you have to tell someone, to put it out there and make it real? Well that was last night. My first and only instinct was to tell my friend B. No one else would do, no one else would understand. I needed to confide something complex, emotional, and deeply personal, so of course I chose . . . um, someone I barely know.  I didn't meet B. very long ago ago and we have spent almost no time together. We know each other primarily through a handful of electronic email exchanges. But there is something that connects us, something inexplicable but wonderful. B. told me that I "get" her. This is nothing new; people tell me all the time that I "get" them like no one else ever has. But what doesn't happen is people "getting" me back. But B. gets me. She really gets me. There are moments when it feels like we're women in a news story about twins separated at birth and reunited as adults - they run into each other's arms, crying, instantly joined as if they'd never been apart. Except that we're not twins. When B. was born, I was graduating from college. And yet, we are connected in this crazy and beautiful way. I sometimes feel like I want to explain it, but mostly I just want to embrace it. What a gift to stumble upon someone who can hear what my heart speaks and understand what my soul feels. 

  And so it was that I sent B. a message last night about my strange experience. And she wrote back and completely understood why I did what I did, what I was feeling, why I was feeling it, and what it all meant. And then today, I went to the grocery store. I pushed my cart past a display of magnets and one caught my eye: "Your heart and my heart have been friends for a very, very long time." YES! That's it exactly! Our hearts have been friends for a very long time. And I cried. Right there next to the self-checkout line. I don't know if people were staring; I was oblivious. I was just overwhelmed with the joy and gratitude of having found a heart that had known my heart for a very, very long time. 

Tara

February 29, 2012 at 10:31pm

Anyone who knew Tara knows that when she set her mind to something, it was probably going to happen. My first encounter with Tara was brief, but she set her sights on me and there was no escaping the warm and loving embrace of her friendship. The first time Tara and I went out, we fell into an easy rhythm, as if we'd always been friends, or, as Tara would correct me, "sisters."

We didn't actually have that much in common. Maybe that's why we sometimes seemed more like sisters than friends. We connected at a fundamental level, but diverged on much of the superficial. We effortlessly respected and supported each other regardless of our differences -- the way that family should.

There is an excruciating void in her home, in the world, in my life. Everywhere I look, I see her smile, I *feel* her smile, I hear her laughter. I try to cling to the memories of our happy times and to shake the sad and painful moments that were wrapped up in the dying process.

The morning after Tara passed away, my 5-year-old daughter Hannah woke up and the first thing she said was, "Mommy, I hope I have a fun life, even though Tara died." I told her I hoped so too, because that was what Tara wanted. More than anything, she wanted to live a happy, healthy long life. But if she couldn't, then she wanted her loved ones to keep living . . . and laughing . . . and loving.

In a New York funeral state of mind

I've been to funerals in many parts of the country, but nothing is quite like a funeral in the New York metropolitan area. For one thing, the cemeteries always seem to be far from the funeral homes, making for extra-long funeral processions. And where else do you see a hearse with EZPass?

Today I drove 40 miles as part of a funeral procession in New Jersey. As we left the funeral home with our high beams and hazard lights on, motorists honked, cursed, and cut into the procession without apology. When I flashed my "FUNERAL" placard in an attempt to calm people down, I thought I was sending the message "be patient, we are part of a funeral" but the other drivers seemed to be receiving the message "cut me off and it will be your funeral." And they reacted accordingly.

As we drove down the Garden State Parkway, a young woman pulled out from the entrance ramp and I slowed to let her in. She noticed my funeral placard and pulled over to the side of the road to let the procession pass. Must have been from out of state.

The hour-long procession gave me plenty of time to reflect on Jerry's passing and the heart-wrenching speeches delivered by his three sons at the funeral.

A recurring theme as Jerry was eulogized was the emphasis he placed on helping others, as evidenced both by his own actions and by teaching his sons to do the same. Somewhere around exit 142, it dawned on me that this family tradition of helpfulness is how I was introduced to Jerry and two of his sons before I ever actually met them.

Jerry's eldest son Mark and I were asked to help with a mutual friend's wedding. We worked together long-distance and grew to be friends before ever meeting in person. Later, when I was relocating to a new town, I was put in touch with Jerry's middle son, Sandy, who already lived in the town. Sandy and I exchanged email messages and he provided candid and helpful insights that were instrumental when I decided where to live. I chose the right neighborhood for my needs and was grateful to Sandy for taking the time to help a "stranger." Many years passed before I met Sandy face-to-face. And finally, before ever meeting Jerry and his dear wife Bunny, I spent a week in their home while they were out of town. No one who knows them will be surprised that their "open door policy" extended to people they didn't even know.

Another characteristic that was mentioned every time (and I mean every time) someone spoke about Jerry was his sense of humor and his repertoire of jokes. (You know the ones, the jokes that are told by your father or grandfather over and over until you can barely stand it.)

The first time Jerry told me one of his standards, he had barely started to set up the joke when I couldn't help but smile. He smiled back, realizing that I already knew the joke.  We delivered the punchline in unison and both started to laugh, enjoying the shared knowledge. He wasn't angry or disappointed that I "ruined" the joke. Instead, he was tickled that I knew the same jokes from my father and my zeyda (grandfather.) Jerry had an effortless way of connecting with others and putting them at ease, and that trait is readily apparent in his three sons as well.

All of Jerry's virtues that were extolled, all of the values he held dear, have all been passed on to his sons. As I stood at the grave and watched those three heartbroken men shovel dirt onto their father's coffin, I could barely stand the intense sadness permeating every person in attendance. But I knew that while they were burying Jerry's body, they were perpetuating his soul. Jerry's humor and kindness and generosity will surely live on. And we will all be the welcome recipients.

Not a Fan

I think the time has finally come for me to share my secret: I don't like football. In fact, I'm not much of a sports fan of any type. I attended Penn State when the football team won the National Championship in 1986, but to this day I've still never attended a football game. I'm also not a proud Penn Stater. Not that I have any particular ill will towards my Alma mater, but I'm not generally loyal to institutions. So that said, I don't care if Penn State's reputation is sullied by recent events or if the football program suffers. I'm past the point in my career where prospective employers will judge me by the standing of my undergraduate school, so the downfall of Penn State would have no practical ramifications for me.

So now you know, my friends and family who bleed blue and white, what I have always been nervous to state openly: I'm not a fan. I don't care about Penn State or football or Joe Paterno. But before you stop reading in disgust, please let me tell you what I *do* care deeply about: the safety and welfare of children.  And despite the fact that I don't even really know what the NCAA is or what it does, I care very much about the recent sanctions imposed on Penn State. Why do I care? Because to me, the NCAA is abusing its power in a manner that furthers its own agenda at the expense of Jerry Sandusky's victims.

Perhaps I am ill-informed about the system works, but from the basic news coverage, it seems that the NCAA (which even a sports ignoramus like me knows stands for National Collegiate Athletic Association) is punishing Penn State and its football program for something that is not related to athletics.  I won't recount the specifics of the sanctions, as I'm sure you have all heard them and read them countless times and probably understand them much better than I. But I will tell you what I think as an "outsider" -- rewriting history by removing wins from the team's record seems to punish the players most of all, players who had nothing to do with any of this. I don't see how these sanctions will do anything to rectify the appalling lack of a compliance infrastructure at the university, a problem which is not limited to the football program. (And here I do have some expertise, having worked for many years as a compliance professional.) Furthermore, the sanctions are being brought by an organization whose purview does not extend to the actions triggering the sanctions. In the past week, I have seen that when others criticize the NCAA, they are met with accusations that they are "die-hard" Penn Staters, overly loyal to JoePa's memory, biased and unable to see the "truth." But here I am, clearly not any of those things, and I'm saying it DOESN'T MAKE SENSE.  Do I care if the NCAA wrongly sanctions a college football program? Am I outraged by the injustice of it all? Honestly, no.  I don't support that type of injustice, but I have other fights to fight that matter much more to me. But in this case, I care because the NCAA's ruling is all over the news. People are reporting and blogging and arguing about the NCAA's actions. In a tragic situation where various parties keep shifting the focus off the victims,  the NCAA has stepped in and taken its turn at stealing the spotlight from the once-young men who were abused by Jerry Sandusky. So I am outraged. Not out of Penn State pride or long-standing loyalty to an iconic coach, but out of concern and respect for the men whose lives were forever damaged. Shame on the NCAA for stealing the headlines and distracting everyone from the tragedy that truly matters. The NCAA blames Penn State officials for abusing power, but even someone who's not a fan can see that the NCAA has done the exact same thing.

7/3/2012

Rubbernecking

I've never been much of a risk-taker. Maybe that's why my instinct is to run the other direction when I sense danger. Combine that with my belief that people have a right to dignified privacy and you'll understand why I don't slow down to rubberneck at accident scenes or hurry towards commotion that seems to be well-handled by authorities. (Which is to say that I have put myself in danger to help others in danger, but only until the experts arrive. Then I am sooo out of there.)

I thought about this most often when I lived in Manhattan. There was always some type of chaos attracting looky-loos. I didn't get it. I remember walking home from work one day and seeing a large crowd across the street. I heard someone say there was a sniper on the roof. WHAT?! I didn't wait around to hear more; I took off in the other direction and detoured around the scene to get home. When I told my co-workers about the incident the next day, they couldn't believe I hadn't stuck around to see what happened. Yeah, because I want to push my way right up to the edge of the police tape so I can be squarely in the crosshairs of the deranged guy with the big gun. 

Not too long after that, I saw the bomb squad near the Israeli Embassy. (I later heard on the news that there had been a car bomb planted by extremists.) Once again, people were pushing and shoving to get as close as possible to the action. What part of "bomb squad" and "Middle East" didn't register with them? I generously considered that perhaps there was a nearby meeting of the Hemlock Society and the members were just seizing a convenient opportunity. But no, these people weren't suicidal; they were just STUPID.

What draws people to gawk at messes like this, especially when there is danger present? 
I would much rather focus on something positive (and safe!)
 
I spent too much time on Facebook yesterday and today, reading posts from people I didn't know, about how much they love and support my friend Tara, who is battling cancer and just had a stroke. I was drawn to this outpouring of emotion and couldn't help myself: I read every single post on Tara's page. I don't know why or how Tara recovered from this stroke, a hideous fist-sized blood clot lodged in her brain, necessitating the removal of half her skull to extract the clot. I don't know how she managed to evade extensive damage, damage I was braced for, damage her surgeon predicted. She is alert and talkative and able to move the affected parts of her body. How is that possible? Is it a miracle, brought on by the power of so many concerned people praying for Tara's recovery? I'm sure the situation could be dissected to explain at a scientific and medical level how her cancer-ravaged body was able to overcome this latest assault, but I really don't care. It doesn't matter to me why or how she cheated death; it just matters that she did. Tara is beautiful woman with a kind heart who makes the world a better place. She deserves to keep on living. She is not ready to die and I'm not ready to lose her. I'm not jealous that she is loved by so many other people; I revel in it. I want to rush right up to the edge of the police tape and watch in amazement while Tara fights as hard as a person possibly can to hold onto her precious gift of life. And I want to see the crowd pushing and shoving to offer support and hope and love. I want to know that I am one of a throng, that I can lose myself in a volume of like-minded individuals who care about others and want the world to be good. And then I want us to disperse and all go home safely.

Sexy Legs

Sexy Legs. That's what we called him for a short while, until another one came on the scene and the two were dubbed Sexy Legs I and Sexy Legs II. We quickly shortened their designations to SLI and SLII, both for convenience and discretion. Then there were more, each with a secret nickname known only to the two of us. We whispered about them, passed notes encoded with the secret names.

We weren't the type of girls to gawk at boys' bodies. We were smart. More than smart. We were above all that girly giggling and physical lust. We needed maturity and intelligence to turn us on. But these boys were an exception; they weren't dumb jocks, they were athletes. They were runners. The members of the cross-country team were thin, but strong. They were subtle; their muscles didn't bulge ostentatiously. They were competitive, but often competed against themselves, trying to beat their own best times. They didn't grunt and push and pat each other's asses to make themselves a "team." They were a team of individuals. Smart, strong, healthy individuals.
And they had legs. The best of the best legs in school.

We were the smartest girls around. We didn't stoop to childish behavior. But those legs, who could resist those legs? After all, sometimes girls just have to be girls.

You Never Get a Second Chance to Make a First Impression

She was furious. She had flown over 2000 miles to see her first grandchild, a child so precocious that she started speaking at 5 months. Except that I didn't speak. Not a word. My grandmother accused my parents of lying. They bristled at the accusation, why would they lie? They hadn't asked her to come. Tension filled the house.

My grandmother was feeding me, unaware that I was perfectly capable of feeding myself. She had the routine down: scoop up the mushy food, scrape off the drip on the side of the bowl, and pop the spoon in my mouth. Mmmm. Liquid vegetables. What's not to love? And then I was full. I closed my mouth. "Open up," coaxed Grandma. I clamped my lips together tightly. "Yum, yum. Open, open." I was done. "Mmmm," said Grandma, trying to force the spoon through my tiny perfect lips. Last straw. "THAT'S ENOUGH, GRANDMA!"

She packed her bags and took the next plane home.

For a long time I couldn't understand why my grandmother didn't like me, was always at odds with me. Then I heard this story. And I knew I never had a chance.

Carpe Diem, Scarlett O'Hara

It seems like things are always waiting for tomorrow. I mean to call a friend, but the day flies by. I tell myself I'll call tomorrow. Days pass, weeks, even months. There are never enough hours in the day.

Today, I take a stand. I am not thinking about tomorrow. I drive over 200 miles to see a friend I haven't seen in almost 30 years. We had talked about getting together a few times over the years, but it never happened. This is not a great day to go. There are all sorts of reasons why I should wait for a better day. But I don't wait. I get in my car and head west. It's a beautiful fall day, warm and sunny, and the splendid colors along the tree-line roads are breathtaking. 

Our visit is easy and fun, with the comfort of friends who had seen each other just the other day. I feel happy and relaxed. I'm not thinking about all the things I need to do tomorrow.

As I head east towards home, a nearly full moon shines ahead of me, while I watch the vibrant sunset in my rear view mirror.  This was the day. Today was the day.

October

"He has breast cancer" my friend Helen replied when I asked after our friend Chet. "That's awful" I said. "I'd like to give him a call. Is it okay if I tell him that you told me?" "Sure," Helen said. "He's totally public about it." I had always respected Chet, but now I had even more reason to admire his bravery and selflessness in sharing his private diagnosis to promote cancer awareness.


I can't think about breast cancer without thinking about all cancers. Every year at this time, I'm reminded of the loved ones I've lost to cancer, of those who have survived, and of those who have spoken out about their experiences so that others might take preventive measures or utilize early detection options. And I'm reminded of the American Cancer Society ad reading "The five most dangerous words in the English language: Maybe It Will Go Away." We can't afford to wait for an unusual lump to go away. We need to remember that early detection is critical. We also need to remind ourselves not to jump to dangerous conclusions. We need to remember that men can get breast cancer, and that people who have a chronic illness can still get cancer even though they already have their "bad medical thing." (I've been told "I assumed my sister couldn't get cancer because she had Lupus." and "It didn't occur to me that my son could get cancer. After all, he has Down Syndrome.") If something doesn't seem right, it needs to be checked now, no matter who you are, no matter what your medical history.
When I was growing up, October was a glorious month filled with the color of changing leaves -- rich reds, oranges, and yellows. Somewhere along the line, October became pink. Every year, it seems to get pinker -- pink food, pink housewares, pink clothing & accessories. I wish we didn't need to be overwhelmed with pink. I wish women didn't need an annual reminder to undergo breast cancer screening. I wish breast cancer -- and all cancer -- would become a thing of the past, that my daughter could grow up thinking of October simply as a beautiful month filled with fall colors. But until that day, please, please be vigilant about your health. Take action while you can, and don't let yourself think "Maybe it will go away."

A Mother's Failure

My five-year-old daughter has lost one of the loves of her short life and she doesn't even know it.  She is in love with a sweet, kind, ten-year-old boy who dropped dead from an aneurysm. I like to tell my daughter the truth as much as possible, but I can't bring myself to tell her this. When I heard the news of this darling boy's passing, I saw his smiling face in my mind and I cried and cried. As the day went on, I went about my daily routine in a daze, seeing his face. When I closed my eyes that night, his face was there. And when I awoke the next morning, he was still with me, still smiling at me. I couldn't shake his image for three days. 

I didn't try to make sense of his death; I'm too wise -- or too jaded -- for that. But I struggled to do what I always do -- find a bright side, a silver lining to which I can cling. No matter how bad the situation, I can find that silver lining. But this time, no inspiration came. I had (and have) no positive feelings about this tragedy. And so I cannot tell my young daughter this horrific news, not without a single uplifting sentiment with which to temper the blow. The eternal optimist has stared defeat square in the eye . . . and thrown up her hands in surrender.