Tough It Out

I was born with asthma. During the first five years of my life, Mom and Dad rushed me to Emergency six times. I almost died four of those times—or so mom told me.

            She kept me alive. She put her finger down my throat when it clogged. Thumped my back. Rocked me. Gave me mantras to recite in the midst of an attack.

            “Distract yourself,” she told me. “If you think about breathing you won’t be able to. Just think about something else. Ice cream cones. Raggedy Ann. Look at picture books.”

            Distracting myself helped. In fact, those library books helped me learn to read when I was four. Ever after, The Little Engine That Could, Ferdinand, and The Story about Ping have been dear to me. One may explain why I push myself to accomplish things. The other two, why I so love animals. 

            Another thing Mom told me was to “tough it out.” The fact is that I did this so well for so long that ultimately, as an adult, I had trouble acknowledging pain or extricating myself from difficult situations. I kept toughing it out. Maintaining a stiff upper lip. Much of my adult life has been given over to enduring and so I've caused myself unnecessary pain and stress.

            But back then, when I was a child, Mom’s advice kept me alive. As a child of three, I knew that I had to will myself to live.

            As I grew older, the asthma didn’t lessen in intensity. In kindergarten and first, second, and third grades, I missed three out of nine months of school. I’d miss a day or two or even a whole week at a time.

            Every time I returned to school, I was behind. The other kids had moved on from where I’d been. They knew more spelling and arithmetic. They reeled off answers to the Baltimore Catechism questions.

            Teachers would call on me, with or without raised hand. I had no ready answers. So the kids thought I was dumb. On the playground they shouted, “Dummy. Dummy. Pain in tummy.” I hid behind the trashcans. 

            I was always trying to catch up and always exhausted from trying to breathe. So exhausted that I couldn’t think of answers.

            Mom wanted to change all that for me. So the summer before the fourth grade, she and Sister Corita who’d taught me in the third grade—and would have me for the fourth—encouraged me to try for perfect attendance that year. Each of us committed to doing something.

            Sister Corita would watch me carefully in class. If I looked overly tired, she’d send me to the cloakroom to nap.

            Mom would watch me carefully at home. She’d send me to bed immediately if I came home from school drooping. She’d make sure I got lots of extra sleep on the weekends.

            I’d rest whenever it was suggested to me. I’d try to breathe slowly when an attack started and not panic. I’d “go the extra mile,” as Mom said.

            She promised that if I pulled this off, I’d get a charm bracelet like the one the scout leader had. Incentive enough for going that extra mile. In June, I actually got two rewards: a certificate for perfect attendance and a bracelet, which jangled seven small, silver objects whenever I moved. Wow!             

            The frosting on the cake came in fifth grade. The class voted on who were the five smartest students. Out of twenty-eight, I was number five.

            I beamed all the way home. I wasn’t a dummy. I was number five. Five! Imagine.

One Swift Kick

One summer while in the convent I attended Marquette University in Milwaukee. The convent asked two things of those of us who went away to study: to pray the Office and to attend Mass daily.

            This wasn’t a hardship. I liked both praying and giving thanks and I had a lot to be grateful for. I was getting to study another language—Old English—what could be better than that?

            Every weekday after class, I’d step into the coolness of the campus church—Gesu. It was spacious. In my mind, like a medieval cathedral. Jesuits staffed the church. Each day one of them celebrated Mass.

            Now picture this: I am at Gesu on July 2 to celebrate the feast day of Mary’s visit to Elizabeth. A Jesuit priest, one I’ve never heard preach before, steps up to the lectern.

            “Today’s Gospel relates an exciting event!” he announces, surveying all of us gathered at Gesu with an air of anticipation.

            Beaming, he says, “Just think of it! Mary comes to visit Elizabeth. One’s really old. One’s young. Only a teen-ager. Both are pregnant. They’re big with child. Big. Think of it. Big.”

            My funny bone starts to vibrate.

            He continues. “ What happened when Mary says ‘Hi!’ to Elizabeth?" He looked around at us, clearly expectant. "I ask you. What happened?”

            I wait with baited breath.

            “I’ll tell you what. That baby in Elizabeth’s womb gives her one swift kick and laughs out loud. Right there in her womb—kickin’ and laughin’.”

            I’m laughing too, bent over with my face pressed against my thighs, tears dribbling onto the black serge—laughing so hard I begin to hiccup.

            “One swift kick! Elizabeth knows something’s going on. Then Mary tells her about Jesus. John kicks again. Another swift kick. Those women are sitting there gossiping and John’s just laughin’ and kickin’. For joy. Can you see it?”

            I could.

A Cat for All Seasons

While I lived in Ohio, a friend thought I was lonely for companionship in the long evening hours I spent in a compact attic apartment. She herself lived with Natasha, a five-year-old alley cat who’d just had a litter.

            Kathy hoped that the antics of one of Natasha’s kittens might help me wile away the hours after returning home from teaching. So, upon her urging, I visited her home one day after work. Delighted that I’d accepted her invitation, she led me to an upstairs bedroom.

            For over an hour, I lay on the floor, watching Natasha groom her brood, one by one, in their cardboard box. The rasping of tongue and the answering mews bemused me.

            The last kitten she licked, the lone female of the litter, wore white with black blotches. When Natasha wearied of mothering, she lay back to nap. Her four kittens, just four weeks old, jockeyed for position against her, eager to suckle. When they, too, wearied, they nestled in a heap against her belly. Their eyelids slowly closed and they slept.

            When they began to yawn awake, I held my hand out so they could smell me. I said nothing, merely held my hand steady. Would my scent attract the black and white one?

            Long moments passed. Her eyes discovered my hand. With the tip of her tongue leading the way, she staggered toward me. Close now, she licked my index finger, claiming me as her own.           

            For the next three weeks, I visited my friend’s home often to begin bonding with my new companion. During my third visit she gave me her name: Dulcinea—the “sweet one.”  Within the month I shortened this to Dulcy.

            In the years that followed, I learned that her deepest heartwish was for me to be a one-cat human. She, of course, would be the one cat. But at the outset of our lives, I didn’t know this. So I also brought home one of her brothers: Ishmael.

            His heartwish was to be surrounded by laughing children. Within three months, he’d wandered away and found them. I visited his new home and watched as he played hide-and-go-seek with these children. Seeing his exuberance, I assured them and their mother that Ishmael could stay with them. I mourned his loss but knew that the children could give him the life I couldn’t.

            Did I settle down after that with just Dulcy? No. Dunderhead that I am I thought she needed a feline companion for when I was away teaching each day. So I brought another cat—Bartleby—into our home.  Eight years passed and he died.

            Only then did Dulcy’s heartwish come true. Just as she’d planned, I became a one-cat human. For the next eight and a half years, she was the one cat. And I was the human lucky enough to be chosen by her.

            Many postings on this blog will be about Dulcy and the eleven other cats who have shared their lives with me and who have tirelessly trained me. Dulcy was the first to fine me worthy of training. In my more imaginative moments during our years together, I saw her as Antigone in the citadel of ancient Thebes. She was born to rule as queen. I, of course, was born to serve her as handmaiden.

Entering the Convent

The convent I entered has stood high on a hill in a river town for nearly one hundred and fifty years. When I mention this convent, strangers often ask, “Why’d you enter?”  “Why’d you leave?” “Why’d you stay so long?” “What was it like?”  “Do you miss it?” “Are you sorry you entered?” “Are you sorry you left?”

            Those last two questions are easy to answer: I neither regret entering, nor leaving. The others require explanation. Let’s attempt the first.

            My family never encouraged me to think about entering. Nor in sixteen years of Catholic schooling had I ever felt drawn to a nun’s life. Their habit looked hot for summer wear. Their shoes old-maidish. Convents had no sofas or easy chairs. No going barefoot. Always being in the company of another nun when leaving the grounds.

            It seemed to me—when I thought of that life at all—to be too much togetherness and no coziness. No comfort.

            I was used to my own creek and spending long summer days there. Listening to the stream’s burble. Dangling barefoot toes in water cascading over strewn rocks. Feeling the sun’s warmth on my eyelids. I liked leisure. It seemed to me that nuns had none.

            On April 10^th of my junior year in college all those negatives became as nothing to me. I had, some would say, a mystical experience.

            I came into the math class that day ready for differentials. I sat down, opened my textbook, and settled my mind on increments.

            Suddenly I knew Light. It inundated the spaces between my pores. Light within light. Prepositions describe that Light and me. Above me. Below me. Before me. Behind me. Within me. Through me. 
             Yet there was no me, only Oneness. I was one within Light. Light was one within me. We were One.

            I may have breathed during those fifty minutes, but breath wasn’t necessary. Lost in Light, I felt no passage of time. It lost itself in Now. Nowness dwelt within and about me. Nowness became All in All.

            The next thing I knew was a tap on my shoulder. A voice saying, “Dee, are you all right?” Then the tap became a shaking. The voice more urgent. “Dee? Dee? Are you okay?”

            It was then I breathed. A shudder. I came to slowly as if from deep sleep. All movement, all moment had stilled within me. I had no desire to regain momentum. I welcomed timeless silence.

            Her voice persisted.  My eyes focused and I saw my friend’s concerned face. Awareness pressed upon me. I was in a math classroom. I was a junior in college. It was the 10^th of April. Wednesday.

            Yet all had changed.  

            As we walked down the hall, Barb asked, “Dee, do you need to go to the infirmary? Your face is flushed.” I assured her all was well. I needed only to walk on the campus and find breath again.

            My senses seemed finely tuned. The shimmer of sun on tulip yellow. The richness of pine-scented loam. The sough of wind riffling ginkgo leaves. And on my lips the taste of gratitude. “Thank you. Thank you for Mystery.”

            The next day I asked Sister Imogen, the college dean, what I needed to do to enter the convent that stood next to the college.            

            A year later, after graduation, I entered. Giddy, I walked with the other eighteen postulants into the refectory. There I witnessed the beaming faces of novices and scholastics. I wanted to shout, “I’m here! I’m home!” The Light shone bright within me. I felt beautiful that day. I had known—I did know—Joy.

Defined Anew

I didn’t take the circuitous routes Dad suggested to my first post-convent job. So men did approach me. They didn’t “hit on” me. They asked for money. I always gave them whatever change or dollar bills I had.

            I’d been taught that we could come upon Jesus unawares and not recognize him. In my mind, these men were Jesus. I couldn’t say no.

            One day the vice-president of the publishing firm where I worked saw me handing money to a man sitting on the sidewalk, his back against a wall. “Thank you, Ma’am,” the drifter said and smiled. A serene smile over the gaps of missing teeth. Surely Jesus.           

            As walked on to where my employer waited. “Dee, don’t give these guys money,” he said. “I know how much you make.”

            “They might be Jesus.”

            “What?”

            I explained. He shook his head. “If you have to give them something, tell them you’ll buy them breakfast for them. They won’t take you up on that. They’re only looking for booze money.”

             As we passed the café I could see Jesus and myself eating together there. And I did have breakfast with several of these men who inhabited the sidewalks, their heads drooping between tented knees. As we ate, they shared their life stories with me. They were down on their luck.

            One had a different definition of woman from what I’d learned in the Scholasticate. On the spring day we met, I wore a new dress. Short-sleeved. Bright yellow splotched with white daisies. A narrow belt.

             I was standing across from the office, waiting for the light to change. A man in soiled clothes teetered toward me. His face sported whiskers and dirt. His straggly hair hung against his hunched shoulders. This is Jesus I thought.

            I started to dig for coins.

            “Ma’am, you’re one mighty fine woman,” he mumbled.

            I dropped the coins and quickly leaned over to pick them up, my thoughts scrambled. He’s talking about my figure. This dress is too clingy. My body’s not hidden in black serge. He can see the outline of my bosom. I covered it with my purse.

            “Did ya hear what I told ya? One damn fine woman,” he slurred.

            “Thank you.”

            “Real perky.”

            “Thank you.”

            The light changed. I started across. He followed.

            “One damn fine figure of a woman.”

            “Thank you.” I was walking faster.

            “I’m tellin’ ya the truth, Ma’am. One mighty fine figure.”

            “Thank you.”

            I wanted to run, but this was Jesus. He might smell like whiskey, but who says Jesus has to be a teetotaler? He was the most famous brewer of all time. Witness Cana. Who says he has to wear newly laundered clothes? This was Jesus.

            “How’d you like some breakfast?”

            I treated him to a meal. Hank was a fine man.

            And I?

            I wasn’t a scout or a seamstress. But I was one fine figure of a woman.

            Damn fine.