I Read the News Today, Oh Boy

(1) Curtis Reeves and the Popcorn Shooting

Curtis Reeves

Many of us have been known to throw popcorn.

It could be that Chad Oulson, out with his wife at the movies in sunny Wesley Chapel, Florida, after texting the babysitter, really did throw popcorn at an irate 71-year-old retired police officer. The retired cop, Curtis Reeves, shot and killed him.

The two men had an altercation about noise in the theater and the illegality of texting just moments before Lone Survivor was about to begin. Lone Survivor is a film about the Navy Seals. Shots rang out. Violence in vivo.

The victim happened to be a former U.S. Naval officer who served his country from 1990 to 1997. The perpetrator, a retired captain of the police. Two veteran officers facing off, only one carrying a .380 automatic pistol.

Blood gushing from his mouth,Oulson cried, "I can't believe I got shot!"

Incredible. It could have been a mint or a peanut butter cup, just a theory, not popcorn, because Richard Escobar, the defense attorney, insists a heavy projectile hit Reeves in the forehead, triggering his reach for the trigger. Not one to be disobeyed, Reeves popped off that .380 pistol, and dutifully shot Oulson in the chest, ending the argument.

It is a story worthy of The Onion. Ridiculous. How could such a thing really happen?

Police records praise Reeves for his work ethic and leadership. One evaluation from 1979, however, indicates a show of temper when dealing with supervisors. This is all we need for a quick and dirty assessment and diagnosis, keep in mind, purely conjecture.  Reeves had a critical father, worked hard to please him, but displaced his own anger upon other authority figures, even as an adult. The choice of career is not unusual for those born to such family dynamics.

The psychiatric diagnosis is likely to be Intermittent Explosive Disorder, 312.34 (F63.81), based upon the history. But we need much more information to make this call.

The criteria for Intermittent Explosive Disorder (for full details, read the DSM-5):
A. Recurrent behavioral outbursts representing a failure to control aggressive impulses
B. The magnitude of aggressiveness expressed is grossly out of proportion to the provocation or to any precipitating psychosocial stressors.
C. The recurrent aggressive outbursts are not premeditated.
D. The recurrent aggressive outbursts cause either marked distress in the individual or impairment in occupational or interpersonal functioning, or are associated with financial or legal consequences.
E. Chronological age is at least 6 years
F. The recurrent aggressive outbursts are not better explained by another mental disorder, a psychotic disorder, antisocial personality disorder, borderline personality disorder, and are not attributable to another medical condition or the effects of a substance.

Mrs. Oulson, now a widow and single mother, instinctively tried to block the bullet intended for her husband with her hand, but the bullet went right through that. She wanted Oulson to stop arguing with Reeves. She could probably sense something going on behind the glare, real trouble.

Reeves has neighbors who had no idea. Perhaps they never saw him angry:

"I just can't imagine," said Elnora Brown. "I can't imagine what happened that he would do that." Brown has been a family friend of Reeves for the past 45 years. She described him as a good Christian man and a loving grandfather. "I thought it just can't be. He's just not that kind of person," Brown said.

The sentiment echoed down the Brooksville street where Reeves and his family has lived for years. "Curtis is a good guy. He's always been very nice to my wife, myself, "said Reeves's next door neighbor Bill Costas. "Personally, I'm very shocked."

"You just never know what's going to happen anymore. The world is getting more and more evil." said neighbor Joann Spence.  Read more: http://www.abcactionnews.com/dpp/news/wesley-chapel-movie-theater-shooting-suspected-gunman-curtis-reeves-jr-makes-first-appearance#ixzz2qPR1gCAW

You never know. Watch the video of Circuit Judge Lynn Tepper patiently hearing out the defense. She isn't buying Escobar's claims that this is not murder in the second degree. Escobar tells the judge that Reeves is a model citizen who regularly attends bible study, who has been married forty-one years, who has raised two fine children, one a police officer. Reeves is a grandfather. He has arthritis. A regular guy. He retired way back in 1993, after 27 years of service.

It isn't clear if he's still working security at Busch Gardens. Likelihood is that now he'll be let go.

Retired, yet still carrying a .380 pistol. And a toddler has no father.

Remember James Holmes, the man with schizophrenia who dressed up as The Joker and killed a dozen people, injured seventy, in a Colorado movie theater? We doubt Curtis Reeves suffered such psychosis. All we know is that he didn't like being thwarted. And he didn't like that Oulson scoffed at the rules, at authority. 

There were twenty-five other people in the theater. He could have moved.

(I'd love to know the punishment in that house if Little Curtis accidentally on purpose spilled popcorn or had a popcorn fight with a sibling.) 


(2) A 12-year-old Shoots Two Other Middle School Children, One in the Face

In other news, a student opened fire this morning at Berrendo Middle School in Roswell, New Mexico, critically wounding a 14-year-old boy, his intended victim. He put a 13-year old girl in the hospital, too, in serious condition, a bullet to the shoulder. A student witnessed it. Odiee Carranza described the shooter as a "smart kid and a nice kid."

A sociopath, probably, a child with Antisocial Personality Disorder, we might think, initially. (Search APD here on the blog, we've talked about it before). But no, he was likely depressed, and turned his rage outward. There's some discussion (Robin Meade, HLN Morning Express) that he had been bullied. The most interesting part of the story is that a social studies teacher, John Masterson, talked him down, walked into the barrel of the gun and talked until the boy put the shotgun down. He's a boy, after all.

Police said the 12-year-old suspect, whose identity has not been released, entered the middle school gym, pulled a shotgun out of a bag and opened fire on students waiting for school to start. Two were wounded.

"We've confirmed that it is a 20-gauge shotgun," Kassetas said. "That the wood stock was sawed off."

A 13-year-old girl, Kendal Sanders, was in stable condition Tuesday night following surgery, New Mexico Gov. Susana Martinez said. Kendal suffered injuries to her right shoulder.

Oh, just one more story. It has been a busy day in January.

(3) William Golladay is Fed Up with People Who Abuse the Express Checkout Line

William Golladay

In yet another southern town, Punta Gorda, Florida, William Golladay, a 77-year-old grocery checker, fed up with people who check more than fifteen items in the Express Lane, finally let loose. He unleashed his rage by yelling at, then hitting a 65 year-old man in a motorized cart. Not finished, he pushed an empty metal cart at the object of his wrath. (FD says the seventies are tough for men).

The victim isn't denying his guilt for going over fifteen items; he had twenty. He noticed the employee counting before the altercation began. 

Enough stories, the lessons are obvious.
(a) if someone tells you to quit texting, maybe quit texting.
(b) best not to mess with 14-year-olds who may be nice but have access to guns, 
and finally,
(c) never, ever go over 15 items at the Express Lane. 

How I wish this were funny.

therapydoc

Two Snapshots: The Cold and Promise Land

Before we begin: Are the ads on this blog getting in the way?  I had to ask. Anything I shop for on Amazon automatically is advertised here! And what about this Dynamic Views Blogger format? Yes? No? Who cares? 

It's been awhile since we had any snapshots.

(1) The Cold and Saving Lives

Chicago Cross-country skiing

The wise among us, I am told, will not leave home today. That's how cold it is.Nobody's flying to Florida; the planes are grounded. Subzero temps cut a wide swath and it is dangerous, moving about out there.

I was at a birthday dinner last night for a couple of really small but well-padded toddlers, and it was all anyone could talk about, think about, worry about, surviving the deep freeze on its way.

I can't help but text my daughter (I am a Jewish mother, after all):

Please tell me you aren't driving downtown tomorrow to work.

She quips back:

No, gonna WFH.

The salt is getting annoying

This makes me happy. Then again, only a day or two ago, at three degrees below zero, her father and I trotted out our cross country skis and had an amazingly great time. We heated up within minutes.

This morning, predictably, television news people shivered outside to tell everyone else to stay inside. It will be 45 below if we factor in the windchill, and in Chicago, we do.

FD has his towel in hand, ready to swim at the community center nearby. We both try to swim several times a week, rain or shine. Swimming keeps us young and one of us is sorely in need of young.

Never one to waste energy, I suggest we call to make sure the pool is open, rumors have circulated to the contrary. Yes indeed! I bundle up to go out, because frankly, if I'm doing therapy on the phone all day (nobody's coming to the office and everyone seems to need therapy) the prospect of eating uncontrollably between patients (because I can! WFH!)  is very likely. Maybe I will bake.

I meet someone new in the locker room, always a good thing, and do something I have never done before, try out the shvitz. I stand in the center of the tiled steam bath in my bathing suit and wait, thinking no matter how hot it gets in here, I won't sweat, it is too cold outside to sweat and it isn't what I do, anyway. Then it happens, beads, oceans of salt water, and this feels better than anything else possibly could on a day like today.

the Schvitz, a wet sauna, winter self-help

Predictably, I am one of two people in the pool and the lifeguard chats idly with me as my feet dangle in the water. She likes it, she says, when it is empty and there aren't many lives to save.

(2) Promise Land

This is a self-help blog, I suppose, and people find it looking for almost anything. A topic is Googled, a link is followed, the searcher finds the answer (or not) at this smorgasbord, an all you can eat, help yourself to whatever proprietary knowledge you can swallow. Over seven years worth, it can add up.

The title is Everyone Needs Therapy, not The Self Help Diner, although that seems like a trendy name. The paragraph following the title advises readers not to consider this therapy, and certainly not to rely upon this advice, ostensibly protecting me from a lawsuit. I just learned that most real self-help writers post this type of warning in the front pages of their books, too. And to think I never even thought of this as self-help, not so much, until reading a new book. Oy vey.

For hundreds of years, we learn in Promise Land: My Journey Through America's Self-Help Culture, the self-help industry has provided a cheap alternative to real help, going to the doctor. (The doctor is expensive and inconvenient, comparably, getting grouchier by the moment at the thought of new healthcare proposals, how these will affect her profession.)

The self-help alternative, albeit interesting, really is the subtext of Jessica Lamb Shapiro's memoir. Ms. Shapiro didn't have it easy as a kid, to put it mildly, and as an adult took stabs at different therapies, cures for her anxiety-riddled, depressive psychology. The inside jacket, an appetizer:

“In writing this book I walked on hot coals, met a man making a weight-loss robot, joined a Healing Circle, and faced my debilitating fear of flying. Of all of these things, talking to my father about my mother’s death was by far the hardest.”

Can't wait, right? It does sound good, and it is.

The author comes by an interest in the self-help biz honestly, her dad a paragon of the industry. A child psychologist, Dr. Shapiro is the guy behind psychology board games for little and big kids, the games boasting to build self-esteem, teach children to identify and express emotions. Now he's making suicide prevention apps for the United States Armed Forces. His daughter wonders if self-help apps are destined to become the wave of the future.

I will be obsolete.

What me worry, Alfred E Newman might say. There is nothing like the human touch, a subtle glance. The slow nod.

This is a wonderful book, full of wry, compassionate (you can tell) personality folded into the snark. There will be belly laughs. Her best lines make you want to interrupt anyone who will listen. "Listen to this," you might shout to a wall, then read the entire paragraph aloud. Her story is proof positive that people need therapists, not self-help books, but she doesn't bang you over the head with that, indeed never even says it, not once.

A professional reading of her story thinks: Had the Shapiros had the right kind of therapy (family therapy, naturally), they might have been spared twenty years of sadness, avoidance, and anxiety. They could have talked to one another. But family therapy isn't an East Coast thing.

The findings of the author's research are spectacular, full of references to self-made self-help gurus such as: Mark Victor Hansen (the Chicken Soup books and The One Minute Millionaire, Samuel Smiles (Self Help, 1859), Benjamin Franklin (his autobiography), Zsa Zsa Gabor, those women who insisted that to get married depends upon following The Rules (Fein and Schneider), The Secret, Phineas P. Quimby (positive thinking ala Mesmerism), Norman Vincent Peale, Ralph Waldo Emerson (Self-Reliance and Other Essays), Henry David Thoreau, and a dozen or so others.

But it is her story that makes this a page-turner. How do you lose a mother and never talk about it with the one person who knew her best? It is a respectful distance they keep, father-daughter, mutually afraid to stir up the other's sadness. This love, too great a sacrifice.

Funny, but a few months ago a fellow by the name of Leif Gregersen wrote to me asking if I might want to read his story, Through The Withering Storm: A Brief History of a Mental Illness, about growing up with bipolar disorder. As opposed to the Simon and Schuster expensive, glossy, freebee, this work had less initial appeal for me. It is what a therapist does, frankly, during working hours, listen to stories of severe mental illness. Some feel like audiobooks, stories of illness unfolding over a lifetime. Nor did his offer come with the rave reviews on the back cover.

And yet. I am about half-way through, and must thank Mr. Gregersen for sending me his book. He has a nice voice. I like him, and I think most readers like him, and his interests are interesting (collecting army uniforms, for one). And from what we read, most of his peers did not like him, did not appreciate his sense of humor as his story unfolded. That's how misunderstood mental illness can be.

therapydoc

Best in Mental Health (weeks of 12/16 - 12/28/13)

Well, to end the year with referrals (it is always nice to refer to others), inspired by another blogger's online research, you're getting a link-full of articles and information some about changes in provisions to mental health care in only the past two weeks, but mostly a dozen or so blogger thoughts, old and new. We probably need to keep up with the new ones, refresh the old.

There are links to social work and psychology sites, nonprofit and private practice sites.

So if you have some time, maybe while thinking up those New Year resolutions, cruise my new best friend Dorlee's suggestions. They might make good reading. Or make you angry.

That depends, as always, upon your politics, for some of these bloggers have strong opinions. One, for example, takes issues with the new DSM, a fairly long read, caveat emptor.

Happy New Year, drive safe or preferably not at all, and as you obviously already know, it really isn't cool anymore to drink excessively on New Years Eve.

therapydoc :

Here are a few of Dorlee's suggestions: Social Work Career Development: Best in Mental Health (weeks of 12/16 - 12/28/13)

From her long list, I recommend the following:
How Bullied Children Grow Into Wounded Adults
Avoidance in Trauma
Child Protection Lessons
Able Road  Ways to get around disability, really get around.
What a Shrink Thinks (nice to know the thoughts of other docs on anger)


By the way, not everyone agrees with the DSM-5 boycott. (one of the links)

Internet Gaming Addictions and the DSM-5

Were it not for my practice, and now, the last section of the remarkable DSM-5, I wouldn't be blogging about this. It feels like such a scrooge-thing to do. A kid finds this awesome present, an X box 360 under the tree, and his mom reads ENT and warns. . .

Enjoy. But remember. It is a starter drug.

Like our first flip phone was a starter drug, too, right?

We can laugh, but couples do present in therapy, meaning they are in therapy because they disagree (fight) about one of them having a compulsion to play games online with friends. He isn't finishing his second shift responsibilities, and worse, isn't coming to bed at night. Every night is Christmas, up late waiting for an online Santa to lose.

Competition rocks, really raises those endorphins.

At the end of the DSM-5, page 795, we find a new disorder proposed for further study. Internet Gaming Disorder. No code yet.

Interestingly, Persistent Complex Bereavement Disorder is among these disorders under consideration. I have seen it in practice, had no proper way to diagnose the syndrome, other than to slap on Major Affective Disorder, Single Episode, Moderate. The patient's depressive episode felt severe, but different. Hopefully there will be a DSM-5 TR (text revised) or a DSM-6 coming up soon that includes Persistent Complex Bereavement Disorder, and provides an actual code, or number.

As you know, proper diagnosis has implications for treatment.

Not to get too distracted, sorry, but Internet Gaming Disorder, is among the conditions that haven't quite made it to prime time, are merely under consideration. But that is a big thing, implies we are certainly within our rights to warn kids, friends, co-workers about devices as starter drugs.

Here are the proposed criteria, paraphrased, for IGD, Internet Gaming Disorder.

Persistent and recurrent use of the Internet to engage in games, often with other players, leading to clinically significant impairment or distress as indicated by five or more of the following within a year:
1.  Preoccupation with online games, even past and upcoming games. Internet gaming is the dominant daily life activity.
2.  Withdrawal when Internet gaming is taken away, meaning irritability, anxiety, or sadness.
3.  Developed Tolerance-, needing to spend increasing amounts of time in play online.
4.  Unsuccessful attempts to control Internet game participation.
5.  Loss of interest in previous hobbies.
6.  Knowing it is creating problems in self and relationships, yet continuing to play excessively.
7. Has deceived others about the amount of time gaming online.
8. Uses Internet gaming to escape a negative mood.
9. Loss of relationships, jobs, or academic opportunity and success, due to Internet gaming.

Note: The above applies to nongambling Internet games, and does not include required professional use and is limited to gaming, not other recreational or social, sexual sites.

We will be asked to specify the severity, mild, moderate, or severe.


I, for one, am grateful that my particular obsession, blogging here, is back. Only yesterday Simon and Schuster sent me a book that is likely to roast everything we therapists do, Promise Land, My Journey Through America's self-help Culture, (note the grammar), written by a woman who has been through many different types of therapy none of them good. and probably is going to tell us that Everyone Does Not Need Therapy. Could be, but it sure feels that way.

I'm looking forward to reading Jessica Lamb-Shapiro's amazing read. The reviews so far are amazing.

Light reading, as opposed to the DSM. And let's talk. Until you've been to six AA meetings and hate them all, can you really say that AA isn't for you? Same thing with therapy.

Six therapydocs and you have the right to complain.

I'll get to it this weekend.

therapydoc

Blogging (Writing) and Reading, Even When You are Grieving

First, I apologize for blogging so rarely the past six months. We say that writing can be therapeutic, but you do need a certain amount of neuro-transmitters, endorphins, serotonin, zipping around upstairs to put out. 

But that's going to change. After all, I've studied the new DSM 5

DSM 5

and there's much to say about diagnosis.


 Yeah, it was expensive.

But mainly because time heals.  I'm beginning to notice things again, like in the old days, when something, any random thing, would happen and I would tell FD: I must blog about this. That's happening again.

The job, when a parent passes away, as any therapist will tell you, is to grieve, but also, to get out there, be in the world .When you're running on empty, that can be hard. So for some of us the best therapy is to sit around and read, preferably in some yoga posture, learn new things. Or listen to the radio, watch TV.

Listening to NPR last week I heard two journalists talking about books that might make nice holiday gifts. Below are a few of my own suggestions. If any of you have others, chime in. They don't have to be all that educational. Nothing too violent, and really, no gratuitous sex. Emphasis on gratuitous.

My thinking, read to yourself or maybe even better, to someone else. A personal favorite, The Ugly Duckling.

If alone, and you're choosing from the the National Public Radio lists, be careful about the late night thrillers.

Where'd You Go, Bernadette?

The books below won't keep you up, guarantee, with the exception perhaps of  
Where'd You Go, Bernadette: A Novel Maria Semple's novel is wonderful, you'll read it in one sitting.

Blind Spot and the Harvard Racism Test

Just in case you don't think you're a racist, think again. This book not only teaches you everything you need to know about improv, but about our unconscious biases. Blind Spot

We've talked about John Elder Robison's book, but if you're new here, check it out. A man realizes he has Asperger's Syndrome and rises to success in spite of it. Asperger's is now officially on the autism spectrum, no longer a disorder unto itself.

Look Me in the Eye

Look me in the eye 

 Mr. Robison's brother, Augusten Burroughs writes about everyone's favorite drug, alcohol in DRY.



 
dry

And because you can never read enough about BPD . . .

Borderline Personality Disorder in Adolescents




A patient just the other day asked me, literally, "Is happiness just a myth?"  I had to flash the book at him and say, "Unfortunately, yes. But it is a nice myth."
 The Myths of Happiness

The Myths of Happiness

Men on Rape 
What you'll find fascinating about this book, and you may only get it used, is the treatment of language, how men talk about women, how they talk to women. Talking tends to be something we don't think about nearly enough.Timothy Beneke's book has been on my shelf for years. I won't lend it out.



Monkey Mind
Daniel Smith's (300.02 DSM-5) struggle with a different disorder, what some of us call screaming anxiety.

That's what it is like to have a Monkey Mind. Not fun.

Language of flowers

 There are so many languages, but until this book, who knew that sending yellow roses means something entirely different than sending red or white roses. This book is worth buying for the glossary alone. It is an amazing story about foster care. As you might suspect, being punted around as a child from one home to another isn't always the best thing for a person. But some survive, and thankfully, they know how to either tell their story, or write about it themselves.

The Language of Flowers

therapydoc

Ten Survival Tips for that Family Reunion

Well, it isn't over until it's over, but as the first snowfall blankets Chicago, most of us are settling in for the holidays, glad to see 2013 go.

First snow, not so great

A patient asked me only yesterday when it occurred to her:

"Wait! If Chanucha is over early this year, then what do you guys do during the Xmas season. And what will you do on Xmas?"

She did look worried.

Poker on Xmas

On the day of, many of us eat Chinese food, play poker, or go to the movies, which sounds good to me.

And while others are making cookies, decorating the tree, and wrapping gifts in preparation, I'll probably do what I'm doing now, wrapping up therapy with sad people. Really, confused people. The holidays are tough on everyone.

Indeed, it was a crazy pre-Thanksgiving. The games began in October, well before Halloween. People worried about Thanksgiving in November. The family reunion head games.

Every year during this season to be happy and jolly, peaceful and thankful, at the top of the list of things to talk about in therapy is the question, a conundrum really:

"How In the h__(world) am I going to deal with my (extended) family and still manage to stay sane?"

We have stress without family reunions, to be sure. Some of us would rather skip the whole thing, use the time off of work as mental health days.

But invisible loyalties are very powerful, as is the guilt that drives our compliance, our trek across town, across the country to see family, perhaps to go to church like in the old days, visit old friends. We go, brave the stress. Even if the family isn't a particularly warm and fuzzy family, it feels right being a family. And we have so much to talk about. If only we could find a way.

There could be a fairly simple (not) protocol to consider, a humble strategy. Ten points.

(1) Begin by considering what you have, as not the absolute worst thing to have. At least there is something to complain about when we have family.

I tell people to think of children who survived the Holocaust who have no memories of their parents, or very few left, and grandchildren who never met their grandparents. Nothing to complain about there. And millions, face it, lose family in one way or another. No reunion. No stress. Would you trade? Perhaps, and nobody would blame you, certainly not me. But sometimes this shoe fits.

(2) Assuming this is a non-negotiable, you are going to see family in the next few weeks and you do hold significant grudges, see if it is at all possible to forgive and forget. You may need to air those grudges out loud to many people before you go, or in therapy, or even make a list. It is good to let go of the baggage, at least try, and talking is one way of letting go.

(3) Think of it, that inventory, that list of grievances based upon real life events, as a bad dream, many bad dreams, and file the memories.  File the angry memories full of hurts into mental envelopes that represent a stuck part of childhood, when the ego was too immature to handle the stress. You're older now.

(4) If you a sibling or a parent has spurned you, reconnect with others, or maybe an old friend in the neighborhood. It would be a shame to let the past wreck the precious few days off ruin a chance to see people you like. Latch onto your allies and make believe it never happened (see above about bad dream), whatever it is you're angry about, if only for a week or so. Give yourself a break. (Talk to your therapist about ways to cope with obsessive thoughts. Or Google it.)

(5) Think. It isn't good to judge people. Human error is a part of life. We don't know the whole story, can't understand, not what happened then, maybe not even now. The motivations of others are a mystery unless we ask, and even then sometimes. The family reunion is the best opportunity to ask about those motives, to get new information, to understand people who share our DNA.

It is a small handful, that group we consider family, and they tend to be the subject of therapy. So get more information. We'll  use it. Think of it as an informational interview.

(6) The informational interview may not be possible, obviously. Being in the same room does not mean that everyone is going to just open up and talk to one another. Best to script a few conversations ahead of time. The time together will surely be more fun, if we make the effort to ignore the past and pretend everything is okay.  Make small talk. Prepare a list of things to talk about ahead of time.

"Have you tried the sushi?  It is amazing."  "How about those Bears!"

 (7) If it is possible, if time together with family does miraculously become something of an extended family encounter group, then listen more, talk less. It is likely there is a vast amount of knowledge that you do not know about the person you wish wasn't coming to Grandma's this year. For all you know, this person has been through chemo three times. Still feel the rage? If yes, get therapy.

(8) To engage someone in a conversation of the past, difficult moments in childhood, it is best to keep it general. Rather than say,

"What were you thinking when you threw me down the stairs and when you hung me out the window?"

Best to ask, 

"How was it for you in that house thirty years (whatever the number) ago?  I was so miserable. I thought you hated me."

 Even that could be too specific. Start with the first sentence, see where it goes.

(9) To avoid any conversation about the past, if that suits you better, stay busy, help out, and bring a book or a tablet. It is likely that all of the above will be mute because everyone will be glued to an electronic gizmo anyway. We live in a wonderful age.

(10) Cater to those who have personality disorders. Resistance is futile. If someone is narcissistic, you won't be fixing this. Let this person have control, flatter to the degree that is necessary, and you might be able to hear some fabulous stories, a spin on what happened that year(s) Mom forgot her birthday.

That can be difficult when the negativity, the jealousy, the anger, is palpable. Refer to all above and bring out a deck of cards, or play checkers with someone. Or if necessary, Solitaire.

Better yet, join us for poker and Chinese.

therapydoc

Grateful for . . .

You may know that when it's cold outside I love taking the bus. Yesterday I insisted on it because FD needed the car. He could get me to work, but not home. The bus works just fine for me.

We share one car, multiple reasons. When the weather is good FD always rides his bike. But when it is bad, schlepping one another around to stay warm, which for others would feel like a hassle, feels intimate. Let's call that auto-intimacy.

This year Chicagoans have to use the new RTA card--the Ventra. It came in the mail. A friendly city employee even called the house to encourage us to use our new cards, charge them up, fill the city coffers, put those pieces of plastic to work. This is Chicago, calling every home-owner is quite a lot of calls! We can only hope it is stimulus money paying for it.

But I never got around to activating my Ventra card, still packing twenty dollars worth of rides on the old one.

Not Ventra but not bad

And last night I board the bus, and fumble for the one I bought from Walgreens (left). As the driver pulls away from the curb I ask, “Do these still work?” Then I notice that the old card-insertion hardware is still right there and swipe my old card through the slot. 

Because Chicagoans have been known to occasionally go postal on bus drivers ( wish I was making this up), drivers are now shielded from passengers by a thick plastic divider. My driver is mouthing words on his side of the divide.

“What?” I shout, like the hearing-impaired elderly I am becoming.

“You did that like an old pro,” he repeats.  “Like an old pro.” All I hear is old.

I look up and it feels as if the eyes of the entire bus are on me, a bus chock-full of seated passengers. The only seats left are for differently-abled passengers. After sitting and listening to people’s problems all day, I don't mind standing, like it. 

At the next stop a stocky ruddy-faced older guy in a tattered blue ski jacket, knit cap, slowly boards the bus. “It’s slippery on the sidewalks!” he exclaims to the driver. He takes a seat in the differently-abled section that faces the aisle, his back to the window, facing me.

His eyes meet mine often, then dart away, as do mine. Finally, he can take it no longer. 

“I can’t help but notice your bag. . . Hines V.A., huh?"   

  The nylon Veteran Administration sack is something that neither my mother, nor I, apparently, could give away. She never used it, but I did-- large, strong, light-weight. Good zippers. My father loved going to the V.A. for his medicine, his hearing, and his eyes, the little things, even though it was about an hour away. He shouldn’t have been driving, either, in his late eighties.

 "Were you in the second World War?" I ask.

"No, Korea. Then Viet Nam. Then I joined the Foreign Service. They pay you for that."

"Wow, thank you for your service. I'd take my hat off to you but it's too cold. What do you think of the new deal with Iran?"

"If it saves lives, I'm all for it," he says, serious. "I'm for anything but war. You know they just put on a new wing a the Hines V.A. and it is full of young people missing arms, legs, all kinds of dismemberment. Wars. Bombs. Lots of young men. Women. It's a beautiful wing of the hospital. For them."

We ramble on a little more about politics, and a woman sits down next to him, captures his imagination. She looks homeless to me, has a worn carry-on bag with all kinds of bold letters warning others not to tamper with it. She reaches into another bag and finds something to munch on and I turn away, look out the window.

I hear my friend asking her, "Are you diabetic? Cuz if you're diabetic you shouldn't be eating that."

I look and see she has an  Entenmann's chocolate crumble doughnut and is feeling no pain. "I ain't diabetic," she replies. She smiles broadly at me and I smile back.

A new passenger, a diminutive woman of color, has a seat. Our war veteran immediately turns his discussion to her. He knows her. "Of course I have it!" He reaches into his pocket to grab his wallet and thumbs through the cards, finds what must be a discount card to something. In the process an ID falls to the floor and I reach for it, return it to him. The woman is thanking him profusely for the discount card and he smiles at me, thanks me.

At his stop, as he rises to go, I introduce myself, tell him I hope to see him again. He offers a warm, beefy hand and tells me his name. "Thank you again, thank you so much for picking up that card," he says sincerely. "At my age, you have no idea, it is so hard to do things like that. I'm eighty, you know."

"No problem, you're welcome. Live long and prosper, sir"

"I hope so," he says. "I'm going to the casino."

therapydoc

P.S.  Happy Thanksgiving, friends.