jennethink

ANY BODY AND EVERY BODY

I've always been fascinated by the human body.

Growing up I was the kid who played with worms. I never minded getting or being dirty. Living on a farm meant there were many duties that involved the grosser side of life - these never bothered me. When I was 12 I helped birth a lamb by sticking my hand (and half my arm) up the business end of a ewe. It wasn't the last time. In high school, I took advanced biology which composed of a semester of dissecting many, many animals, including a cat. Which I skinned, stripped the fascia from, identified each muscle and eventually cut into to see the inner workings. In college I worked with eyeballs, frogs, and did kidney surgery on a rat - who, by the way, did swimmingly well through the surgery but fell prey to the open festering wound on its back which I cultured and discovered to be a nasty strain of staph. Throughout my life, as animals and were sick, I was the one to investigate. I've long contemplated the mysteries of digestion and the ability for the body to turn multiple colors into one solid hue. I've always been the one in my family to examine, clean, prod, squeeze and bandage suspicious wounds. I'm also responsibly for the success of shows like "the woman with the 400 pound tumor" and "born without a face" - I just can't get enough of that stuff.

I guess what I'm saying is that my gross-out factor is low.

And my fascination with living creatures and how they work is high.

So when I heard the Bodies Revealed exhibit was coming to my very own Union Station, I was quite pleased. This description of the display taken from their website only increased my desire to go.

These Exhibitions--which feature actual human specimens--allow people of all ages access to sights and knowledge normally reserved only for medical professionals. Take the opportunity to peer inside yourself, to better understand how your elaborate and fascinating body works, and how you can become a more informed participant in your own health care.

Actual human specimens

Peer inside

Understand how your body works

Awesome.

Not everyone has been excited to see this exhibit. Some, in fact, aren't sure it should even be out there at all. This has led to all kinds of news stories and investigations. In other cities, there have been big protests to this exhibit of real human bodies. Long lines of picketers ...news cameras capturing sound bites from locals ... church rallies against what I always thought would be a really amazing glimpse of people without their skin. But Kansas City just sort of took the whole thing in stride.After all, we're in the middle of the country. Halfway between the left side and the right side. So it is fitting, I suppose that we would feel very "middle" about this whole thing. And maybe this is why no one around here really reacted to the Bodies exhibit. I mean besides my "HOLY CRAP I CANNOT WAIT TO SEE THIS!" reaction.

We decided to go a few weekends ago when my mom was in town. We made reservations. We talked about it all weekend ... what we thought it would be like, how excited I was, how interesting I thought the whole thing would be, how I couldn't wait to see these real human bodies in various dynamic positions and be able to touch my own body and probe muscles and fibers and oh my goodness I couldn't have been more excited if they served chocolate and alcohol at the thing. We got there right on time. We presented our tickets. We entered the exhibit. We walked around a corner and saw the first body.

And I about threw up.

When I was about 10 years old I was helping my mom clean out a dresser drawer. She was working on cleaning out her filing cabinet. It wasn't a hard chore and in many ways, it was quite fun. It was the top drawer of her and my father's dresser and you know how top drawers can be. Over the months, perhaps years, since it had last been cleaned and organized it had gathered all kinds of fun treasures - little tokens from the mini-golf place, broken cuff links, a misplaced sock or two, a monogrammed hankie, loose change, etc. At 9 or 10 years old, you can imagine how much fun it was for me to discover these items. Most of them I commandeered for myself and my own junk drawer. A couple of things I threw in the trash and some I neatly placed to the side to be put back in the drawer once I had emptied, cleaned and re-lined it with new shelf paper. One item, however, had me stumped.

It was at the bottom of the drawer.

It was small - fit neatly in my hand.

It was in a foil package.

It felt like there was something round inside and It squished a little when I pinched it between my fingers.

Sure, NOW I know it was a condom - clearly. But THEN ... back then I had no idea. Not a clue. I might as well have uncovered a mammoth tooth or something else I would never recognize, like my history text book. The completely weird thing about it is that even though I didn't know WHAT it was, I somehow knew I shouldn't be seeing it. I had a deep understanding that this was something beyond my ability to comprehend, that this was my parents' business - not mine, that I had crossed a line. I folded the thing into my hand and went to my mother on the other side of the room. I stood for a moment, not quite knowing what to say or ask. Finally I said, "Mom, I think there are things in the drawer I shouldn't see."

Without looking up she said simply and lightly, "No honey, not at all." And so I unfolded my hand and held the thing out to her. Her reaction? Pretty simple really ...

"Oh!"

Then,

"Goodness."

Then,

"Maybe I'll finished the dresser."

I wasn't in trouble. But I was clearly being given leave of the room. I collected my treasures I'd already piled up and tripped off to do something else. I was glad to be off the hook. Who knows what else I would have found in there? In the years since I've thought about that moment. I've laughed at my mom's reaction. I've wondered about my own. How did I know? And always, I remembered that feeling, that awareness. That "I've just seen something too big for my britches" feeling.

It was the same feeling I felt when I walked into that exhibit and saw those Bodies, revealed, naked in a way only they could be naked. Exposed without even their skin to cover them. I felt like I was seeing something I wasn't old enough to see, wasn't important enough to experience. The churning in my gut I felt upon gazing at those Bodies was not one caused by disgust but by awe. I felt like I had stumbled into a very holy place. It was shockingly raw. I stared in wonder. I didn't expect my reaction. I wanted to run to the nearest authority figure and say, "I think there are things here I'm not supposed to see." But I'm not sure they would have understood.

So I walked carefully through the exhibit. I gazed and stared and took deep cleansing breaths at times. I felt my stomach knot when I saw features like lips and eyelids that were still attached and other bits of skin with marks and wrinkles that would make this person recognizable in life. I clutched my own body and felt my eyes well up when I saw an 11 week old fetus and could recognize it for what it was. I reverted back to jr. high and giggled when I saw hoo-has and dinguses in all their glory - which, I have to say, without skin isn't much glory at all. I was amazed by the way muscles attach to bone and skin attaches to muscle and it all comes together in a way that allows me to ride a bike or make a banana split without ever even thinking about my body.

Even though it was crammed with people, walking through the exhibit was a very personal experience. I don't know what was tripping through the minds of everyone else there but mine skipped back and forth thinking about what I've asked of my own body, about times when my body rebelled, about two years ago when my body tried to kill me. And I thought about the times when I've adored my body, when I've gotten much pleasure from my body, when I've run my own hands over my body or allowed others to touch my body and what reactions it causes - physical and emotional. I thought about how my body heals itself and protects itself and strengthens with each new obstacle overcome. I was so grateful for this glimpse into myself. Grateful for those who discovered the processes that made the exhibit possible. Grateful for those who chose to bring it to my city. Grateful for those who stood before me stripped and exposed. Grateful for them, especially. It was quiet in that exhibit and I was grateful for that quiet. Whether it was out of awe, disgust or respect, I don't know, but it seemed that we all knew better than to point and shout. We all knew we were seeing something amazing. We all knew these bodies deserved to be honored, treated with respect, cared for, enjoyed.

And I'm not talking about the Bodies on display.

I'm talking about the ones we took home with us.

British Teen Suffers Painful Shark Attack in His Bedroom

I've posted before about how I don't read the news. I have many reasons for this. But for ever good reason to NOT read the news, there is a good reason TO read the news. One of the most convincing reasons to read the news is because if you don't, you miss fantastic articles such as this. I know I shouldn't laugh. I just can't help it. I've always had a soft spot for Schadenfreudian delights and this one … whew dogs. It has everything. I knew it was going to be good when I read the headline but I never expected to laugh right out loud when I read this line,

Hawthorne was sleepwalking when the teeth of a dead souvenir shark from a family vacation, that hangs on the wall of his nautical-themed bedroom, became embedded in his face.

and I hate to say it but this is why you don't do theme rooms. Ever.

JUST BECAUSE YOU CAN DOESN’T MEAN YOU SHOULD

McDonald's Southern Style Chicken Sandwich

 

Today in my town, McDonald's is giving away their new southern style chicken sandwich to anyone who buys a soft drink and feels good about betraying Chick-fil-a. I know this will come as a giant shock to you but I'm not happy about this whole business. This "new" chicken sandwich McDonald's is premiering is suspiciously like the original chicken sandwich .. the one that started it all …. From Chick-fil-a.

Chick-Fil-a's Chicken Sandwich

Complete with the pickles. Of course, it is McDonald's right to do this. Of course, the McDaddy of all fast food, like an 800 pound nugget, can do whatever it wants but still. It frosts me.

 

My sister used to be a girl scout. Or is it, my sister is a girl scout. Is girl scouting like a sorority where once you are in you are in for life? Is it like a nationality? Like being Jewish … wait, Jewish isn't a nationality – sorry, Wendy – I guess I mean, is a permanent state or transitional? Is it something that stays with you for life or is it something you were once but as you grow and mature, you leave behind like being a 3^rd grader … or a cheerleader.

Anyway, My sister was/is a Girl Scout. I know because I went with her to many Girl Scout type things as we were growing up. I too, joined the scouts once but it was only because my scout troop met after school and I had to walk there on Mondays and Bryan Ellis would walk with me to my scout meeting and hold my hand. I guess my reasons for being a Scout weren't all that pure and I can tell you they did not have a badge for the various activities I was a part of.

Any.Way. One of the events I went with my GS Sister to was a kite flying contest. From what I recall, this was a contest for girl scouts and their fathers. Each team of two had to build and fly their kite. Once all the kites were in the air, and flying for a certain amount of time, the winner would be decided. I can't remember much about my sister and my father building their kite. I can bet it was a learning experience. I do remember them practicing – dad teaching Carrie all the techniques, letting her launch the kite, let out the string, watch it climb. I remember the day of the competition. I remember the four of us piling into and out of the station wagon and excitedly getting the kite ready. I can remember Daddy making sure my sister did everything, coaching her all the while. I can't recall if the rules stated that just the daughters could fly the kites or not but I do know that in our family, Daddy coached while daughter did. That's how it was with most things, in fact. So there we all were, in a deep green field on a spring day with what seemed to be about 100 other little girls and their kites. Daddy and Carrie got ready. We all ate a picnic lunch. There was some sort of official start. And the kites began kiting.

It was quite exciting.

There was, of course, only a certain amount of time to get your kite in the air and then another period of time to fly it and then came the judging. It was pretty simple, really, whosever kite was the highest won. Some girls never got their kites off the ground. Some flew then crashed. Some only stayed up for a few moments then drifted down like little lost slips of paper dropped from a rooftop. But some kites did quite well. Some leapt into the sky and dipped and turned like playful birds. Some found their way to that magical piece of sky where they could float and dance endlessly. Maybe it was the way the kite was put together, maybe it was technique, maybe it was the fact that my father was one of the best coaches around, I don't know, but my sister's kite … man, that sucker could fly that day. As we all watched, up up up it went … and kept going. Pirouetting and proud it climbed like a mutha.

"Easy now," my dad would say, "that's it! Just a little more string .." he would goad and encourage and instruct, "watch that yellow one .. don't overcorrect … good. Good!"

And so it went. Up that kite climbed. And pretty soon, although we'd never actually thought it could happen this way, we realized, Carrie just might win this thing. Which, if you know my family, you can understand why we would get pretty geeked over this. I mean, we weren't the coolest bunch of folks. We didn't have a lot of money. Sometimes we got our clothes from the basement of the church. We often "made do" and we frequently "made don't" meaning the ways we made do just didn't seem to work. So this whole idea of Carrie winning a competition well, it got very exciting for us. Go little guys!

The wind was just right. The kite was flying perfectly. Judging was just a few minutes away. And Carrie's kite was flying the highest. Daddy looked around. "I think we just might do it!" he said excitedly. "Way to go, kiddo!" he said.

 

And that's when it happened.

My dad was the first to notice another father walking around. His daughter was one of the few who still had a kite in the air. It seemed odd this father would leave his daughter's side but there he was scurrying from contestant to contestant. He was talking to fathers whose daughters were already out of the competition. He would say a few words then move on. Exchange a few words then move on. Finally, he got close enough that we could see what he was doing.

He was buying string.

 

The rest of the story is obvious. This dad … this big wig with a fat wallet who realized he wasn't going to win, this father who couldn't stand to see someone else succeed decided to do whatever he could to ensure a victory. He bought up some string. He jogged back to his daughter. He tied the string onto the end of their reel and … They won the competition. Why? Because he could, I guess.

 

Was it fair? I dunno. I guess it wasn't officially against the rules. I guess he was allowed to do whatever he thought he needed to do in order to win. But it sure didn't sit well with me then and it sure doesn't now. I don't like when the big guy trounces the little guy.

 

And that's why I won't be going to McDonald's today to get my free, copycat chicken sandwich.

WHEN YOU LEAST EXPECT IT

Sunday was Mother's day. A few years ago, I posted about how it feels for me to be a stepmom on this day. It's challenging, sometimes difficult, sometimes lonely. If I'm not careful, I can tumble right into a big case of the blahs.

The first year I was a stepmom on Mother's Day was probably the hardest. The Hub and my romance was a hyperspeed one and by the time Mother's Day rolled around we had only been together a handful of months - a few of them married. As his wife, I was experiencing motherhood for the first time by parenting his child. I was trying desperately to figure out my place in The Kid's life and what I could offer her as a "secondary mother." Those were tough months. It was difficult for The Hub to understand. He tried but just couldn't get his arms around it. He and his ex-wife had (and still have) a wonderful relationship. They were kind and giving to each other. They spoke often. They consulted each other on important matters and when it came to The Kid - they worked seamlessly together.

I often felt left out.

When I was in 6th grade, I went to basketball camp at Taylor University. It was a weeklong camp and I had to raise the ungodly sum of 300 dollars in order to go. I did various jobs around our farm and around town in friends' homes and farms to gather the money. One of the worst jobs I did was picking up rocks out of my 6th grade math teacher's yard to earn a few bucks. Mr. Brimberry was a good man and he paid me way more than I rightfully earned - but the work truly sucked. I was down on my knees in his pitiful, scratchy yard, gathering up every rock I could find, down to the gnat-sized pebbles that would earn me a few extra pennies. It was hard work. It was probably the worst of all the lousy chores around town there was to do. But I did it, and I earned the money.

Camp was great. We practiced daily, ran sprints, ran drills, scrimmaged. We learned from top coaches and got one-on-one attention. We were shoved into teams the first day with girls from around the country. Doing so meant you were forced to make new friends. And I certainly did. I quickly made friends with two other girls, Becky and Amy – who everyone called "Smiley". They were from Ohio, I think, and although they didn't know each other before they got to camp, they did meet the day before, at orientation. It took all of 10 seconds for the three of us to bond. We walked to and from the gym together. We sat next to each other in the bleachers during lectures. We ate together in the dining commons. Occasionally, one of them would reference something about Ohio, or the long drive they had to get to camp, or how they met in orientation. When this would happen, I would listen and ask questions and quietly look for a way back into the conversation. It wouldn't take long. Soon enough, the three of us would be back in conversation and all was right in the world.

Then Thursday came and everything changed. I don't know now, and didn't know then why things changed so radically. Everything started the same. Everything seemed normal at first. I walked into the gym Thursday morning as I did every morning and sat down next to my friends. They had arrived before me. Their dorm was closer to the gym than mine was. As I sat, I smiled. I said "Hi" ...and they both said...

Nothing. Not a word.

They were sitting cross-legged on the floor of the basketball court, staring forward and they said nothing.

I sat. I waited. My mind was a wobbly top barely staying on its end ... I didn't know what to do. I asked a generic question to them both. Asked when they got to the gym. Becky, who sat farther away from me, said coolly, "A while ago" but she didn't look at me. I ventured another question to Smiley. "Do you know when we are starting?" I said. She said nothing, again. Instead she shrugged - gave the standard "I dunno" roll of the eyes and kept looking forward. In a final attempt, I leaned in and said to her in a sing-song manner "Hey! You're not smiling!" And she huffed, turned her head to me and said with all the disgust she could muster, "So?" And then scooted over toward her friend.

Heartbroken, embarrassed, ashamed, alone. All I could think of was, it was so not worth picking up those rocks for this.

Clearly, I was out.

When The Hub and I first married, when I would experience the relationship he and The Kid's mom had, when I would hear him or The Kid talk to or talk about her, when I would listen to them share little stories about where they used to live or the car that would never start or the night The Kid was born, I would panic inside. One part of me loved the fact that theirs was such a healthy, rich relationship, that it was a really good Plan B, that they had each other's backs and that they could always come together and make good decisions about The Kid. But another part of me, a very deep, lonely part of me, was always secretly afraid of their relationship, of doing something and for no known reason, suddenly being out.

And as my first mother's day approached, this feeling, this panic, grew.

I'd like to say I worried for nothing. I'd like to say I awoke to a giant card and breakfast in bed. I'd like to say it was a wonderful day. I'd like to. I can't. Truth is, it was a difficult day. Many circumstances factored into it being difficult. We were away from home, The Hub's own mother passed away unexpectedly the week before, we were newly married and I was meeting many members of his extended family for the first time. We were a jumble of emotion, for sure. As much as I tried not to think about me that day, as many times as I told myself it didn't matter if anyone acknowledged me on that day or not, as much as I tried to focus on the positive and not on the fact that no one wished me a happy day, it was a very hard day indeed.

And in spite of my best effort, I spent a good bit of time feeling downright sorry for myself.

Ugh. I hate even typing it. Looking back, I'm not proud of those feelings. Looking back I wish I wouldn't have been so freaking tied up in what I thought I needed or deserved. Looking back I still wish I had breakfast in bed. Well, what can I say? I'm not perfect.

I've since thought so much about that day. About the feelings I had when The Hub and I first married. About how desperate I was to prove I was good enough and smart enough and deserved a place in The Hub's life and in The Kid's life. It's just so nothing like what I feel now. I can remember those feelings but I haven't felt them for a long, long time. I've thought about when it all changed. I've thought about when it went from being a challenge to being almost easy. When hearing from The Kid's mom became a fun occasion and not a something that sent me reeling. When talking on the phone and sharing ideas and emails and thoughts with The Hub's ex-wife became something I looked forward to and not something that scared me or caused me worry.

It changed the day I stopped focusing on myself.

At that basketball camp, I got my first real-life lesson in this concept. The concept my grandmother had been trying to teach me for years. "You don't need to focus on yourself all the time," she would say, "think about someone else when you're sad ... your life isn't so bad." On that Thursday, as I realized my world has shifted, and as I sat there feeling quite sorry for myself, I remembered that lesson my grandmother had been trying to teach me since birth. I remember her telling me, "Whenever I'm somewhere and I'm feeling left out, I just look for someone who is feeling worse than I am and I go and try to make them feel better!" And that's exactly what I did. I got up. I walked across the gym. I found a girl sitting by herself and plopped my behind down next to her and introduced myself. In about 10 minutes, we were both feeling much, much better.

I'd like to say I've never forgotten that lesson. I'd like to say it was burned so deeply into my core I never had to be taught it again. I'd like to say it, but you know me well enough by now to know that of course, it didn't happen that way. Thankfully, however, the world is full of 2^nd, 3^rd, 4^th and 247^th chances to learn the same lessons again. And somewhere along the step-mom highway, I decided to stop focusing on myself and what I need and want and how hard this all is for me and instead, I focus on the other people in our family ... The Kid's mom, The Kid's step-dad, The Hub ... and how hard it could be for them. It was a small change. But it mattered. It changed my attitude. And, as if almost by magic, I no longer cared if I got a card from The Hub or a call from The Kid on Mother's Day. It didn't matter so much to me anymore that no one acknowledged me on this day. What mattered was that I was in a family who loved and cared about each other.

People often ask me about the relationship I have with The Kid's mom. They don't understand it. They think it is weird that we know so much about each other and our families are so intertwined that when one of us needs help we can rely on the other one. People think I'm crazy when I tell them about how when I go to see The Kid, I stay with her, in her room at her mom's and step-dad's house. They think we're nuts when we talk about THEIR family members as if they are OUR family members. People ask me, how do you DO it?

And I guess my answer is, we work at it.

It's not easy being a step-mom.

And, more important,

It's not easy being a mom with a kid who has a step-mom.

Final note on this one … Sunday I woke up to an email. It said in capital letters, HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY! in the subject line. The body of the email said what a great step-mom I am and how obvious it is that I love The Kid and how much I've brought to The Kid's life. It said what a great role model I am. It acknowledged how hard it must be at times for me and how special I am. It said every delicious and heart-warming thing I've ever wanted to hear on Mother's Day.

It was from The Kid's mom.

 

Picking up those rocks in Mr. Brimberry's yard was so worth it.