Good Ideas

            The post it-notes finally tipped the scale. They were everywhere—cluttering up my nightstand, coffee table, kitchen counter, dining room table, closet door, desk.

They had been such a good idea. I had noticed I was having trouble remembering all the stuff my brain manufactured: Books to read, movies to watch, blog ideas, shopping list, writing notes, sites to visit, friends to call, and the endless ToDo list. Everything I read, saw, or heard triggered an idea I wanted to keep. And I couldn’t hold it all in my mind, not with all the other distractions. (I suspect my aging brain was not helping matters, but we aren’t going there.) I knew I had to do something and so began the process of mucking about in my head to come up with a workable solution. And then I thought of post-it notes. What a good idea!

Costco sells them by the bunch and in lovely pastel shades. I bought them in all sizes and colors and placed them strategically about the house. And now, months later, I was knee-deep in pretty little scraps of sticky paper. I had a whole stack I couldn’t decipher. What on earth was I thinking when I wrote “mag—coda?” Or what about “X O language?” “fruit--mistake?”

I thought (segue-like) about the horse problem in New York City back in the olden days. That had been a good idea. People needed to get around and horses seemed like a good solution to that problem. Didn’t take long until everyone was knee deep in –you know what. And then they built the automobile. Good idea! Only now we’re nose deep in pollution. It seems that answers to problems just create more problems. What’s next?

But back to the post-its. This morning I thought about a notebook. Writers love notebooks.  No more sticky papers getting misplaced. No more random ideas floating about the rooms in my house. No more undecipherable messages. I’d have a whole page for an idea. I could get a nice fat one with a spiral binding and take it with me everywhere. Or maybe a composition book, those cheap notebooks with the mottled cardboard cover.  A Moleskin. How about a hand-made one. The possibilities are endless. And I’d have everything in one place. Good idea! I wonder if Costco…

Suicide

Suicide. The word can hardly be spoken, it’s beyond our understanding and the numbers are staggering. This year, in this country, there will be more suicides than murders, one every 14 minutes around the clock. There will be more than a million suicide attempts. It is the second leading cause of death among college students and those between 24 and 34 years of age.
For every U.S. soldier killed on the battlefield this year, about 25 veterans will commit suicide. About 6,500 veteran suicides are reported every year--more than the total number of soldiers killed in Iraq and Afghanistan. (The Week, April 27, 2012)

For those left behind, it is devastating for they feel not only their grief, but also guilt and abandonment. This became very real for my family twenty-three years ago when my son Bill took his life. My grief was brutal, rock-hard, stripped of all but the raw reality of death. It has taken many years, but I’ve finally completed a book about it and that book is now available. So far, the people who have read it have reported amazing transformational results in their lives. It is my hope that the book will bring comfort to those who read it. 

          SUICIDE: LIVING WITH THE QUESTION is a personal journey of healing and recovery. It shows how one family struggled to survive the agony and shock of a loved one’s suicide. Although it cannot answer the question of “why,” it can offer comfort as it asks other questions that open the possibility of looking at suicide in new ways. This book can offer solace to the many who are affected by suicide: Parents, siblings, spouses, children, friends, co-workers. For each individual left behind, the suicide is devastating. And the attitudes and lack of understanding in society add salt to the wound. SUICIDE: LIVING WITH THE QUESTION offers hope to others, a small ray of light to penetrate the dark shroud that covers the subject of suicide. 

       SUICIDE: LIVING WITH THE QUESTION is now available on Kindle on www.amazon.com. The print copy will be ready very soon and you can order it now. Here is a review of the book:

There may be no answers to the question and....., April 13, 2012

By 

John Star - See all my reviews

Amazon Verified Purchase(What's this?)

This review is from: Suicide: Living With the Question (Paperback)

What a wonderful, heartfelt and well written account of a mother's questions after the suicide of one of her sons. There may be no direct answers as it is such an individual and personal family tragedy, but the insights Ms. Maxwell shares about herself and their family are at the center of this book. Not just for families or individuals that have experienced suicide, this book is for anyone interested in family dynamics and the course we each choose to take. A very easy read about a difficult subject.

The Loons

            I was in Maine one September, visiting my son Doug who was on location working on a movie. He had rented a cottage on a pond (that’s Maine talk for a lake) and asked me to visit. “You’ll love it, Mom,” he said. He was right. I did.

            I had lived on the shore of a lake while growing up and although I’d envied my city friends being able to visit each other whenever they wished, the quiet of the country was right for me. There were three Lombardy Poplars at the edge of our property that my father called “the old maids.” I’d lie out on a summer night and listen to them whisper to one another, secrets I would never fathom.

            Growing up, the bedroom I shared with my sister had a dormer window that looked out over the lake. My father had built a window seat there and my mother had made a pretty cushion for it. I spent hours reading and dreaming there.

            One summer night, I woke and went to sit in the alcove. The moon over the lake was full and cut a shining path across the dancing waves. I stared in wonder. And then I saw them, a pair of loons swimming across that silver band of water, their sad call cutting through the night air. I felt a chill rise in my back. This was a scene I would never forget and I knew it. I sat quietly for a long time to honor the moment and the loons. This is my life, the movie I’m working on.

Visiting Paris

            It was my first trip to Europe. I was badly in need of some kind of reward. I’d just left my marriage and now was alone, needing to find a way to support myself. I’d spent twenty-five years raising four children who had surprisingly turned out to be wonderful adults. I’d managed a household, cooked and cleaned, successfully moved this family all over the country, creating community everywhere we went. I had no complaints, for I had loved that job, but there was no place for those skills on a résumé. So I was poor and scared.

            I had received a settlement from an insurance claim, enough to make a trip to Europe if I went courier. I knew about that system as I had friends who used it when they went to auditions in New York. It paid for my crossing and my only cost was my return ticket home.

            I stopped first in London, as that was where the computer parts I was couriering were expected. I stayed at The Dolphin for four days. This was a combination B&B, hotel, and apartments. There was even a green grocer’s. I had a large room with the bath and toilet down the hall. Had a marvelous time and even bumped into a neighbor at the Seamen’s Chapel. Small world.

I then visited my father’s cousin Beata in Lillehammer, Norway and let her feed my five times a day. After four days and ten pounds, I flew to Germany to visit Helga. This was an ex-Lutheran nun who had come to the States to get her Masters Degree in social work. We had met and I invited her to our home for holidays and Sundays. We played duets, she on the recorder, me on the piano. In Munich she filled her tiny apartment with her friends to entertain me. Then we went to Ulm for the weekend and climbed the church tower, the highest in the country (I was younger then). Then visited her brother, the Head Master at a school in a monastery that was built in the 1400s. We stayed in a little town in an inn. There had been a wedding and we were invited as guests. The following morning, I was awakened early by loud “moos” as cows exited the barn beneath us.

And then I went to Paris. City of love. I stayed in a tiny hotel in the Left Bank, in a room in the attic. The ceiling sloped to the floor. My first evening, I asked the owner where I should eat. He was delighted and told me of his favorite restaurant only a few blocks away. I went. The maitré de hotel was polite and seated me near the door. I told him to serve me whatever was the best, and he did.

The following evening after a marvelous day of sight seeing, I went again to the restaurant. This time I was seated closer to the fireplace. Same maitré de, same routine.

I did it again on the third evening and was seated beside the fireplace.

On the fourth evening, I decided to go one last time. On my way, I passed a flower stall. Primroses, in tiny pots, were blooming. I bought eight pretty plants, one for each table. I arrived at the restaurant, my arms filled with blossoms. The maitré de opened the door and gasped. “Oh, but Madam, I am married!”

City of love, indeed!

***NOTICE***

We’ve taken my book Suicide: Living With the Question out of production. I apologize to those of you who have already purchased the unedited copy (mia culpa). As soon as the corrected version is ready, I’ll let you know. As Winnie-the-Pooh says, “This writing business. Pencils and whatnot. Overrated if you ask me.”

The Big C

For those of us who try to make lemonade out of all the lemons, cancer is a real challenge. (Hear a Bogart voice) “Okay, Sweetheart, let’s see you make lemonade outta this baby!”

            When I was a girl, it was never said out loud for it was so terrifying. “The big "C” was what my father called it. Cancer. That’ll scare the b’Jesus out of even the big guys, even Bogart.

            I’ll admit the anticipation alone is a killer. I’d spent several weeks going from doctor to doctor trying to find out what was going on with me. No diagnosis as yet. Next step was a C/T scan. I’d never had one and was fascinated. The technician said they’d send the results to my primary care physician. I got in my car and was driving home in heavy traffic about 5pm when suddenly it was pouring rain, unusual for Seattle—we usually just drip. Out of nowhere, I was overcome by a feeling of absolute terror.

Where that terror came from, I had no clue. The morning after the C/T scan my doctor called to say they suspected the tumor was malignant and serious. She then told me what the next steps were, but I hardly heard her. My mind was frozen in fear. 

But I am a most fortunate woman. (Some of my friends think the angels take care of me.) My writing critique group met weekly at my home on Tuesdays. This was a Tuesday. I had told no one, not even my family as I was still dealing with the terror. It was too late to cancel, so I composed myself and prepared for the meeting. I read the chapter I’d written that week. Then Jeanne, who was writing a paranormal adult novel called Dark Breathe, read one of her chapters. In it, a high priestess is speaking to a young woman: “Halah, there is a long road before you but it consists of a single moment. The one you’re in right now…If you reach for time behind you or try to arrange things for the future, you are stealing time from this moment. And this moment is the only moment in which you can effect change.” Tears came to my eyes, for I felt she had written it for me.

           The following day, I still had told no one. My dear friend Judi sent this quote in an email. Christopher Robin is speaking to Pooh: “Promise me you will never forget. You are braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think.”

In very mysterious ways, God was letting me know I was okay.

Well, that took care of the terror so I told my family. They were wonderful. Then gradually told friends. More goodness.

            When I finally finished the chemo sessions, my friend Craig, from Southern California, took me out to dinner. “So,” he said, “what lessons have you learned?”

            There were lessons aplenty. But here are my top six.

            #1. People are wonderful.

#2. I always thought taking care of my body was a “nusomes” (as Dylan said when he was little). Now I know I have to take care of it, as if it were my child.

            #3. I learned about teamwork. When meeting with the oncologist who would do the surgery and set up the chemotherapy, I was in the frame of mind that if it was my time to go that was okay. I’d had a great life. After he told me all the horrible things that could/would happen, he cocked his finger at me and said, “It’s not your time!” A wake-up call. I had this incredible medical team assembled and all ready to go. I’d better get with it, and so I got on the team. 

Virginia Mason is an exception hospital, one of the safest in the country. It’s not the incredible machines that make it safe. It’s the people. During one of my procedures, the doctors and nurses explained everything they were going to do (insert a port into a blood vessel above my heart). They bundled me into this amazing contraption and said they’d be doing a lot of fussing over me. After a bit, it became strangely quiet. The doctor said it was time for the “pause.” One by one, the nurses introduced themselves and told what they would be doing. The doctor did the same. Then he said, “Are you ready?” All loudly said “yes.” He put his hand on my shoulder and asked, “Are you ready?” I felt my body relax and realized I was also on the team. The procedure began and was successful.

#4. The biggest lesson was in the area of language. My eldest son John had flown up to take me to one of my chemo infusions. He asked about the procedure. I explained and then said that two days after the infusion I “crash and burn.” I saw a look of horror cross his face. I quickly amended the statement. “No, no. I just have a couple of crummy days. Everyone has crummy days.” I would NOT crash and burn.

On another occasion I was talking with a friend and said something about the poison they gave me. She paled. And I saw again the damage we inflict with our words. Not only for others, but for ourselves. Never again did I say “poison.” It became “strong medicine.”

#5. It’s okay to ask for and receive help. I will never be able to thank all those wonderful individuals who fed me, drove me to appointments, shopped, sent cards, made phone calls, prayed, and cared. All those hugs—even the long-distance ones. Wonderful.

#6. My last lesson was to find out that I am only one of thousands who have survived the cancer capers. As I went about with a turban covering my baldhead, strangers stopped me in the market, restaurant, or street to say they were recovered and to never give up. I can’t yet say I’m cured. That takes five years, but I am in complete remission and feeling great.

            To any of you with anything that is of great concern, let me join with your family and friends to say hang in there. Life may not be always be good, but it is can be very interesting. And you can make lemonade out of almost everything.

White Crane

I do not consider myself to be a poet. I have friends and family who are great poets. I read their work in awe. How do they do that? I wonder, find a way with words that open whole new worlds for me. I struggle with poetry.  And so I’m always surprised when I find myself being poetical. And yet, once in a while, something happens…

A white crane stands in the water,

   sees me

      and waits ‘til I’ve had my fill of his beauty.

Slowly, so slowly he lifts

and spells himself across the sky.

Born aloft,

   a part of my spirit goes with him

         forever.

A Leak in the Dike

Maybe it’s because I’m longing for Spring, or because I saw the workers harvesting tulip bulbs near La Connor, at any rate, I got to thinking about the little Dutch boy who saved his village by stopping the leak in the dike. Everyone knows that story, at least in my generation we do for we heard it every year. Got hammered over the head with the lesson it portrayed.

My first experience with the story was in kindergarten. The school was in the next block and if you ran down the alley and jaywalked, you’d be there in a jiffy. But my mother was raising her daughters to be ladies, and so I left by the front door, walked to the corner, looked both ways, and then crossed.

Our kindergarten room was large and airy, brightly lit from many windows. Everything was built to accommodate five-year old children. We even had our own bathroom with miniature toilets and basins. It was like playing in a dollhouse. Early every morning, the milkman delivered crates of milk, stacking them in the hall outside the kindergarten door. No cardboard containers for us. Our milk came in little glass cream bottles. In the middle of the morning, our teacher brought the warm bottles in, handed out packets of saltines and straws for our snack. The chores were handed out on a rotation basis and being one of the helpers was a big deal. To this day I find the thought of warm milk and crackers comforting. I loved kindergarten.

After our snack, we had story time. We sat on little rugs on the floor while our teacher balanced her ample frame on one of the tiny chairs. She leaned forward, clasped her hands and said, “Once upon a time…” the words that opened the door to magic and wonder.

            And so the story about the little Dutch boy went like this…Once upon a time in a land across the sea called Holland, a little boy was on his way home from school when he saw a trickle of water coming out of the dike. The dike was huge and vital to the village for it kept the sea from taking over the land. The boy was small, the smallest in his class; a boy who was bullied and called bad names, too small to protect himself. But he knew the danger of the leak. Water, as necessary as it is, can be pernicious, always seeking a lower level, going wherever, doing whatever needed in order to flow. The little boy knew that if the dike broke, his village and all the people in it would be destroyed.

            His hand was small, but so was the leak. So he stuck his finger in the hole and waited for the experts to come and fix it. He was a hero. To this day he’s praised for his bravery.

            The lesson seems obvious. Find a tiny leak; hold it at bay long enough for the experts to arrive. Let them do the dirty work while you’re busy signing autographs and giving interviews. Hero for a day. That is the moral, isn’t it?