The Church of Santa’s Misfit Toys

Posted on March 23, 2014 | 2 comments

Seven years and a day ago, my family said goodbye to a most remarkable man.  He was the Dr. Reverend Thomas Barth, but to me he was simply “Uncle Tom.”

It is a rare and beautiful thing when you have the opportunity to connect with someone whose spirit is so loving, so disarming, that you can truly be yourself – all of you- without hesitation.  Keenly and wisely connected to a God greater than himself, there is no question that Uncle Tom was steadfast in his Christian beliefs.  But unlike many others who so deeply believe and identify themselves as Christians, Uncle Tom was comfortable in the midst of anyone.  Atheists and agnostics were not welcomed in with a plan to convince them otherwise; they were welcomed in with a plan to love and accept exactly as they were.  I will say this boldly:  more than anyone else I’ve ever known, Uncle Tom embodied the spirit of Jesus Christ.

Uncle Tom’s story, as he told it to me, was that when his older sister Sally – my mother- was on her deathbed, she cautioned him, “Life is short.  Go be you.”  This life-altering exchange put him on a trajectory to take an honest inventory of himself and his life.  Over the course of the next 18 months, Uncle Tom lost and buried many more people in his life, including his own parents. He struggled with his own health challenges and faced his own mortality.  As dark and lonely as this time of his life was, it ultimately led to him ending his marriage and telling his family after 40 years of painful secrecy that he was gay.

Now I would love to tell you that my family applauded his efforts to be true to himself and sprang into action to provide loving support, but that simply is not the case.  It took years and countless hurtful exchanges for some people in the family to arrive at a place of peaceful acceptance.  I have no doubt that there were some very dark days where Uncle Tom felt the searing pain of a broken heart.  Even so, he stayed the course.  He had left the corporate world so he could follow his passion and return to seminary school.  He eventually received his doctorate in theology and was installed as a pastor in the United Church of Christ.  After being part of a few different churches, he found his home as the pastor for a small, fledgling church in Waukegan, Illinois – a church I had affectionately dubbed “The Church of Santa’s Misfit Toys.”  It was the perfect place for him to be, because no one can heal a broken soul like one that has been previously broken itself.

It was over the course of these years of painful growth that Uncle Tom’s life really coalesced.  He met and married a partner who was a partner in every sense of the word, and was eventually assigned the term of endearment “Aunt Bill.”  He built an incredible allegiance with his two children, Todd and Carrie, and loved them as fiercely as I’ve seen any parent love.  When he moved just an hour away from my sister and me, he welcomed us in as part of his “Christmas family” and treated us as affectionately as he did everyone in his life. He told us stories and made us laugh with his silly, outlandish antics, and he helped my sister and me keep the memory of our mom alive.  He even provided mentorship to our friend Matt, and helped him understand that it was possible to fully reconcile being gay and a Christian – a reconciliation Matt desperately needed and carries with him to this day.

Greater than any of this, though, Uncle Tom lived out the values he so frequently preached.  In short, he forgave. It is the single most important thing I learned from him, that the key to a happy life is forgiveness.  He lived it, he breathed it, he taught it by example.  His forgiveness of those who had hurt and betrayed him in his times of desperate need was one of the most profoundly beautiful things I have seen.

He left us in the blink of an eye, but Uncle Tom stays with all of us in subtle and tender ways.  A cardinal landing on a branch to pause and sing their sweet song, a bowl of chocolate ice cream before going to bed, a hearty laugh at the absurdity of life.   Seven years and a day have gone by, and I’ve never stopped missing him.  I’ve also never stopped knowing my life was richer for having had him in it.

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Erin Go Braghahaha

Posted on March 15, 2014 | Leave a comment

I believe that a life well-lived should be a collection of happy memories, and there is no greater way to accumulate these memories than to travel. I consider it my great fortune to have taken many fantastic trips in my lifetime, but none has been so great as my trip to Ireland in 2001.  There were a lot of factors that contributed to this trip’s greatness.  First and foremost, I was with four of my favorite people:  my sister, my then-husband Tim, and my dear friends Kate and Eric.  My life was in a really great place, too:  I had finished my graduate degree a year prior, I had just landed the job of my dreams and my sister was moving to Milwaukee. But aside from all of that, there is something just blissfully, perpetually celebratory about Ireland.  We ran with that sentiment, and made this trip uniquely ours.  The trip was 8 days of unadulterated joy (and 20 minutes of rage).

I love laughing.  Laughing’s my favorite.
Day One: Preparing for Take-off.  This is a picture of me in Chicago’s O’Hare International Airport. Our flight was going to be leaving in a couple of hours, and we had nothing but time on our hands.  I distinctly remember what we were talking about when someone in the group snapped this not-so-flattering photo of me.  It was a high-brow, very intellectual discussion about … pinworms.  Yes, pinworms. Apparently pinworms are little parasites that can live in your colon and rectum.  And apparently the way you determine if you have pinworms is to put a piece of Scotch tape on your anus.  For some reason, that visual led me into uncontrollable hysterics. Now what I can’t tell you is why we were having this discussion, because I am confident no one among us was suspected of having pinworms. Anyway, this is the kind of laughter I experienced for the next eight days. I loved every minute of it.
Sorry, Tim.  We had to crop you out for obvious reasons.
Day Two:   We Made It!  Look at us.  We have arrived, and we couldn’t be happier.  This was us, about an hour after getting off the plane.  I think it was about 9:00 in the morning, and we stopped for our first beer. There would be many, many more beers to follow.  But this one was special because a) we were drinking Guinness in Ireland for crying out loud, and b) the barkeep made a little imprint of a shamrock in the froth of said Guinness. Shortly after this picture we ate some bad Irish food and rode in a horse carriage.  Then, jet lag and fatigue set in so we checked into a hotel and took a nice, long nap. When we woke up we drank many more beers in a variety of Dublin pubs.  This beer-drinking business would be a recurring theme for us.
Strangely, Finbar has all of his teeth.  He is an Irish anomaly.
Day Three: Exploring Dublin.  Dublin is a fantastic city, and we had an absolute blast turning it upside down.  We did a few traditionally touristy things, including a tour of the Guinness brewery and a visit to Trinity College to see the Book of Kells. After a long day of touring the city, mostly by foot, we decided to treat ourselves to a nice dinner. Tim forgot to pack black socks for the trip, which prompted Eric to note that he was probably the only person to ever step foot in this fancy-schmancy establishment wearing both white socks and a Mickey Mouse watch.  The dinner, in the end, was over-priced and quite underwhelming. We needed to shake it off so we got off the beaten path to find a local pub.  This was our last night in Dublin, and we were ready for some fun.  Also ready for some fun was a group of local soccer fans in the pub we happened upon.  They had just attended a soccer match and were primed for a night of debauchery because the following day was a national holiday, the Queen’s birthday. (They didn’t like the Queen, but they liked the idea of a day off of work.)  We proceeded to have an evening of absolute, unbridled hilarity.  The picture is of me with my new friend, Finbar.  He, like all of his friends, was crazy funny and made me adore everything about this unforgettable night.
Day Four: Heading into Northern Ireland.  We made a decision when planning our trip to go to Northern Ireland.  Mind you, most tourists don’t. But again, we had heard and read many wonderful things, and we wanted to do things our way.  So after our night of Dublin debauchery, we got up the next morning and had a traditional Irish breakfast (they are big on breakfast, I tell ya) where the innkeeper, quite hungover himself, declared, “This bread is not so wonderful.”  It was such a funny and polite way to proclaim his distaste for the bread, that we have continued to use that phrase to this day. We checked out and started to make our way to Belfast.  We weren’t in a hurry, and this ended up being one of my favorite days.  One of our first stops was at this incredible cemetery.  Jess is standing here with a more contemporary gravestone, but there were grave markers from centuries prior.  (You know a date is old when it has “A.D.” after it.)  We continued to make our way up the coast, and stopped for lunch (and, you guessed it, beers) in a small coastal pub where we had the most incredible fish and chips.  It was absolute perfection.  When we got to Belfast, we were acutely aware of the tension – there was no way to miss it.  I will never forget riding through the streets on the way to our hotel, and seeing the curbs of each side of the street – one side painted orange and green, the other painted red, white and blue.  There were men, pacing the streets, armed with AK-47s. There was a helicopter perpetually flying overhead.  It was all a little unnerving, but I’m still glad we did it. About two weeks after we got home, “The Troubles” reportedly kicked up again.  Scary stuff.
If you don’t turn the sound off, I will cut you.
Day Five:  Getting out of Dodge.  I’ll be honest, I wasn’t sad to leave Belfast. We left and made our way to the Bushmills Distillery, where we mixed things up for our liver a little bit by giving it some hard liquor instead of beer.  This was a beautiful part of the country, with stunning landscape and rolling hills. We stayed at the inn on the Bushmills property.  That night, we made our way into town and had an incredible meal.  In fact, although the Irish aren’t known for their cuisine, we had many incredible meals while there.  That evening was low-key; all this drinking and touring was starting to wear us down.  I vividly remember the depth of my fatigue at this point in the trip. And, much like a toddler, when I haven’t had enough rest I might be prone to get a little cranky.  This particular evening, we were relaxing in the quiet hotel lounge.  Tim and I were playing cribbage, and Jess was writing in her journal. Eric was quietly reading a book.  And Katie? Why Katie had hijacked my Travel Yahtzee game and was playing it over and over…with the sound on. Beep beep, beepbeepbeepbeep! Those who know me well, know that I am very sensitive to noise. This is true ten-fold when I am tired.  I asked Katie to play the game without the sound on, and she politely declined.  I asked again and she pretended she didn’t hear me. Beepbeepbeepbeepbeep for a couple more minutes, and I lost my fool head.  I remember storming up to our hotel room and sobbing because I was so mad. Jess had to do her best to talk me off the proverbial ledge. It’s super funny now, because it was really, really stupid.  But that is the kind of fatigue and stupidity that can happen when you travel.  Especially when you travel with people who know your every button (and aren’t afraid to push it) crammed into a Volkswagen Jetta all day, every day.  The next day, after a good night’s rest, our own version of The Troubles had fully dissipated.  This picture is an airport re-enactment of Katie stubbornly playing Travel Yahtzee…with the sound on.
This is what love looks like.
Day Six: Giant’s Causeway and Other Cool Stuff.  We left Bushmills and made our way to Giant’s Causeway.  It was, in a word, breathtaking. It was the kind of place where you can sit for hours and just look.  Take it all in. Think about your place in this world.  Give thanks.  And that is just what we did.  After a few hours, we made our way out of Northern Ireland and down toward County Sligo. On the way there, I insisted that I needed to see some authentic Irish sheep. As we made our way through the rolling hills of Ireland, we happened upon a sheep farm.  We could see them, maybe a thousand of them, off in the distance.  We pulled to the side of the road and went up to the fence.  Katie had the brilliant idea to try lure the sheep over by pulling some grass and offering it to them. Sheep aren’t known for their high IQ, so they when they saw humans at the fence, they came a runnin’ – all of them.  They made their way over to us, and looked at Katie trying to offer them grass through the fence.  The look on their little sheep faces was as if to say, “Uh, lady…we already got us some grass. About a thousand acres of it back here. Thanks for nothing.” Fearing a full-on angry stampede, we ran back to the car as fast as we could and laughed our fool heads off. It was the funniest moment in Ireland, for sure.
The Queen and her castle.
Eventually we made our way to County Sligo, and when we got there we stayed in a castle.  This is a picture of Katie standing in front of it. It was a once in a lifetime experience, and there was everything to love about it. It was a small establishment, so after another incredible dinner the staff sat and talked (and drank) with us. They admitted that the castle was haunted and they had all kinds of tales to prove it.  I slept with one eye open that night.
“Come on, Major!  Let’s go!”
Day Seven: Horsing Around.  The next morning, we had arranged to go horseback riding on the adjoining grounds of the castle.  What I loved about this is that I would never have chosen this activity on my own – I really only did it because Katie insisted.  I think that is one of the great thing about traveling with others – they convince you to get out of your comfort zone. This is a picture of Jess on her horse, Major. Major was a laid back fella, and he was mostly interested in snacking.  Throughout the whole ride, Jess and Major were about ten paces behind the rest of us, and you would just hear Jess repeatedly say, “Come on, Major, let’s go!  Enough snacking!”  I, on the other hand, did not have an easy-going, snacky horse.  I had a beast named Taz.  Taz was an absolute maniac, and at a few points during the ride I feared for my life. Although it was a beautiful, sunny day when we took off, about 30 minutes into the ride the clouds parted, it started pouring rain and then it started to hail.  We had to gallop at full speed into a forested area until it cleared.  With my heart still racing, we eventually were able to make our way back toward the stable.  The guide warned me of yet another quirk about Taz:  He loves water.  Watch out, he said.  Well, sure enough, when Taz saw the stream along the way he ran full force down into it, stood in the stream and kicked up water at me for a good five minutes.  I was absolutely drenched by the time he was done, and it took everything I had in me to get him to go back up the embankment and out of the stream.  It was funny and kinda scary and another day of memorable bliss.
I am officially over you people.

Day Eight: Winding Down.  We packed up and left the castle with the acute sense that the fun was drawing to a close.  We made our way to Gallway and did a little shopping, a little eating, a little more drinking.  But by this point in the trip, we were slowing down.  Jess had already been nicknamed “Half Pint” a few days prior, and I had sworn off of beer.  I love this picture of Katie, because it depicts how we all felt:  spent, but happily so. Armed with a new collection of happy memories, our hearts were full and we were ready to head home.  Thanks for everything, Ireland…we did it our way, and it totally rocked.

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Veronica

Posted on March 8, 2014 | Leave a comment

Sometimes when you leave the house in a hurry, you forget something really important – like your bowling ball. This is the story of Veronica.

In 1993, I made a bold move that would change the trajectory of my life forever.  Young, inexperienced and in love, I packed up my bags, left the Twin Cities, and moved to Milwaukee.  When people today ask how I ended up in Milwaukee, I always explain: “I moved here for love that has long since passed.”  At the time, the plan was to move here for a year – maybe two – and then head back to the Twin Cities.  Twenty-one years later, I am pretty sure Milwaukee is home.  Today, there is a finite list of reasons I would consider moving:  1) Scott Walker is elected President (in which case it is compulsory that I move to Canada); 2)  I am inspired and propelled by love again; or 3)  Milwaukee is destroyed by a zombie apocalypse.

Anyway, if you have ever moved to a new city, you are probably aware as I was that it is really hard to make new friends.  It can take seemingly forever.  I am so lucky now to have an incredible group of friends, but I am very aware that this has required over 20 years of interviewing, nurturing, harvesting and weeding out a few clunkers.  Good friends are worth their weight in gold.  Once you have them, you should never let them go.  I’m not sure if I would have the wisdom to value friends the way I do now, had I not had a period of time where I didn’t really have any nearby.

But when you are in a new city and devoid of any meaningful friendships, you have to find things to do that don’t require friends.  There are only so many movies you can see or festivals you can attend.  In my case, I decided to engage in something fun that I could add as a skill.  For the first two years I was in Milwaukee, Mr. Jennifer Wittwer and I went bowling on a weekly basis, sometimes twice a week.  I actually got pretty good over time, and could consistently bowl an average of 200 or higher. I really grew to love it.

One day, Mr. Jennifer Wittwer came home and said he had been at the closing-out sale of a local sporting goods store.  While there, he found a bowling ball that was the right weight, had finger holes exactly the right size, and – get this – already had his name engraved on it.  He had invested a grand total of $5.00 on this purchase, and was beaming with pride at this almost unbelievable turn of events.

At the insistence of Mr. Jennifer Wittwer, I too went to the sporting goods store to see if I could find a bowling ball.  The store was in its final close-out, so it was dirty and disheveled.  People were everywhere, frantically trying to get the deal of a lifetime.  I made my way to the bowling ball section and took a quick inventory:  the pickins’, as they say, were slim. But then, tucked away in the back of the shelf, I caught a glimpse of her – the bowling ball of my dreams.  Perfectly marbled in an array of purple tones, she was eleven pounds of pure beauty.  I picked her up and felt her smooth surface in my hands.  I held her up to my face and instantly fell in love.  I tried the finger holes and they were a perfect fit.  “I’ve found her!” I exclaimed.  I then looked at the name on the ball, and had a good, hearty laugh.  Engraved on the ball was the name “Veronica.”

From that day forward, my bowling alter-ego became Veronica.  I embodied the cool, casual spunk of a Veronica the minute I would step foot into a bowling alley.  While Jen is fun and sassy in her own right, Veronica had a little spring in her step that let the world know she was in charge.  Veronica was also fiercely competitive and could have a little temper flare if things weren’t going so hot.  The bottom line is this: Veronica was the kind of girl everyone wants to befriend, but nobody dares to mess with.  Veronica meant business.

Years later, when Mr. Jennifer Wittwer and I ended our relationship , I left the house in a hurry. After 12 years together, my sister and brother-in-law helped me pack up and move out of the house in about a 3 hour period of time.  The circumstances necessitated my haste.  It was the most emotionally tumultuous and difficult time of my life, a time I don’t care to re-live or ever repeat.  Somehow, someway, I made it through. As I settled into my new life, and then into my new home, my stomach dropped when I one day suddenly realized: Oh my God, I forgot Veronica.  In the midst of all of the chaos and the sudden, abrupt changes, Veronica got left behind.

I try not to think about it too much and I push it to the recesses of my mind.  I don’t know where Veronica is today.  For all I know, she is in a landfill.  Maybe she got donated somewhere and a young girl in a junior bowling league has taken to her.  I shudder at the thought, but it is possible that the new wife of the former Mr. Jennifer Wittwer is using Veronica on a regular basis.  I simply don’t know where Veronica is, what she is doing, and who is loving her.  It breaks my heart.

Is it normal to have regrets in life?  I think so.  I certainly have a few.  It has become a joke, a metaphor of sorts, when I reflect on my broken marriage.  “I want my damn bowling ball back!”  And I say it in jest, but truly, I do.  I’ve offered $100 to the person who is brave enough to go ring the doorbell of the former Mr. Jennifer Wittwer and demand Veronica back.  So far, no one has taken me up on it.  Until then, I will patiently wait.  Someday, maybe someday, we will be reunited.  Until then, I will just continue being Jen – the best Jen I know how to be.  Even when I go bowling.

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Oscars on the Couch

Posted on March 2, 2014 | Leave a comment

As a self-proclaimed movie buff, I love all things related to the Oscars. Now don’t get me wrong, I generally fashion myself as a reasonably simple, down-home kind of girl.  I am not drawn to glitz or glam and I usually wear flats.  I’ve never even once worn what I would characterize as an evening gown. I’ve only ridden in a limo twice in my whole life.  On 364 days of the year, I actually think that our society’s obsession with celebrities is shallow and kind of dumb.  But one day each year, I grant myself the delectable treat to shelve that kind of haughty judgment and just take it all in.  Today is that day.

Over the years, I have come a long way with the movies.  I say this with all sincerity – I think it’s made me a better person.  Back in the day, I had some pretty strict criteria about movies I was willing to watch:  no costumes, no accents, no black and white films and definitely no historical lessons.  This year, I think I overcame all of that successfully.  I saw a movie with costumes (Gravity), an accent (Philomena), a black and white film (Nebraska) and one with historical lessons (12 Years a Slave).  I have conquered all of my movie hang-ups.

A few years ago, my friend Colleen and I set out to create our own Oscars challenge.  To be honest, I’m not even sure how it started.  But now, each year, we do our very best to see all of the nominated films.  This was easier back in the day when there were only five Best Picture nominees. This year there were nine. Seeing nine specific films with a strict deadline takes a lot of hard work and dedication, let me tell you. Much to my own satisfaction, I have seen all nine and an additional two on top of that to ensure I also saw all of the movies nominated for Best Actor and Actress this year.  Whew!  I’m beat!

What I appreciate about this exercise, aside from the straight up bragging rights, is that I am forced to see films that are outside of my comfort zone.  Left to my own devices, I would probably only see whimsical little indie films with kick-ass sound tracks.  When you set out to see all of the Oscar-nominated films, you have to put your own desires aside.  Have there been any regrets?  Admittedly, a few.  I will never get back the 112 minutes I spent painfully watching District 9.  I am still haunted by some of the scenes in 127 Hours that forced me to attempt to simultaneously cover my eyes and my ears.  But overall, my Oscars exercise has expanded my horizons.  It has helped me to learn a few things I would not otherwise know, and think about a few things I would otherwise never contemplate.  Above all else, it has helped me to appreciate the intricate beauty of film-making.

Tonight, like every Oscars night for the past decade or so, I will put on some yoga pants and a hoodie and head to my friend Colleen’s house for our annual Oscars viewing tradition.  We will snack and imbibe while we cast a discerning eye on each of the Academy Awards attendees.  We – namely Colleen – will repeatedly shush her husband and children if they try to talk during the program, especially the parts where Ellen Degeneres is on stage.  It’s our night!  Your chatter will not be tolerated, people! Shhhhhhhhh!

As for the future, Colleen and I continue to hold out hope that we will have a dream fulfilled.  For years we had envisioned ourselves as Oscars Night seat fillers, but a little research indicated that you needed “prior seat filling experience” (like, how do you get that?) and there might be selections based on attractiveness (which we are both attractive in our own right, but perhaps not by Hollywood standards).  So we’ve altered our dream that we will one day be selected for the Oscar Fan Experience, which is the group of people who sit in the bleachers and scream like little school girls when all of the stars walk by on the red carpet.  That opportunity is based on a lottery, so we probably have a slightly better chance than we would being selected as a seat filler.  We are keeping hope alive!

So finally, since you are probably wondering, here are my 2014 Oscar predictions.  Mind you, I am not a member of The Academy.  But for what it’s worth:
Best Picture:  12 Years a Slave
Best Actor:  Matthew McConaughey in Dallas Buyers Club
Best Actress:  Probably Cate Blanchett in Blue Jasmine, though this one could be anyone’s race
Best Friend to Watch the Oscars With:  Colleen Dier, hands down

Until next year, everyone…

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The Good Doctor

Posted on February 23, 2014 | 1 comment

Many years ago, my career took a most unusual turn.  Truth be told, there’s been nothing normal about the path my career has taken, and looking back I’ve been grateful for each and every step on its broken and winding road.  In 2001, about a year after completing my graduate degree, I had the opportunity to apply for a job at Milwaukee County.  It was a job that would assist in the oversight of the publicly funded community-based mental health services, and it was a job I wanted so fiercely I had labeled it “The Job.” Against all odds, I got this job, and I was certain I would be there until I retired.  True to Milwaukee County form, however, within about 86 days I was bumped out of my position due to a massive round of layoffs in another department.  I called my brief stint at Milwaukee County my “summer internship.”  All kidding aside, I was devastated.

With the help of my new Milwaukee County boss (who is now a long-time, much beloved friend), I made a soft landing in a local non-profit agency serving adults with mental illness.  I’ll be honest, I was just grateful to have a job.  Granted, it was a director position and by taking it, I was jumping over a few precursory steps to be adequately prepared for it.  I wasn’t climbing the corporate ladder, it seemed, I was leap-frogging it.  I am not sure what people saw in me to give me these chances I hadn’t earned, but I knew I could not let them down. Fiercely determined, I had never worked so hard before, nor have I ever since.

About a year into my new gig, I got a lucky break.  Looking back, I’m convinced, however, that luck wasn’t involved at all.  It was an aligning of the stars, a moment of kismet, an opportunity that was truly meant to be. Our team’s psychiatrist at the time, who was….ahem…hmmmmm…how can I delicately say it…the President of His Own Fan Club….gave us a two week notice that he was leaving.  He had been the doctor for these most vulnerable patients for over seven years, and he gave us a two week notice like he was working at McDonald’s.  I spent about 90 seconds being annoyed, because statutorily we were required to have a psychiatrist on the team and two weeks wasn’t much time to find a doctor.  After that, I sprung into action.  I knew exactly what I wanted for my team:  The Dr. Vance Baker.  He was the best of the best of the best in this town; everyone knew that.

I remember telling my supervisor that this was my plan.  It was interesting, because this agency I had joined was really struggling at the time.  I characterized it that the whole agency had a self-esteem problem.  My supervisor let out a quick chuckle that admittedly kind of stung, and then realizing I was serious tried to bring me back to reality.  She said, “There’s no way Vance Baker would want to work for us.”  I set out to prove her wrong.

Now, there were a few things standing in the way of having The Dr. Vance Baker join our team.  One glaring problem was that I didn’t know him, I only knew of him.  Second was that he was already employed. Third was that my supervisor was right, our agency was not exactly the premiere agency in town (yet) and why would a rock star want to join this band?  Undeterred, I shut out all the noise.

My tactic was simple:  I was going to reach out to every single person I could think of who was a psychiatrist or who knew a psychiatrist.  I put the word out on the street that I needed a doctor for this team and I needed one yesterday.  That’s exactly where the magic began.

About 48 hours into this exercise, my phone rang.  At the other end of the line was none other than The Dr. Vance Baker. Now mind you, I had put it out into the universe that I wanted him on my team, but I had not yet made any efforts to contact him directly.  He said he heard our team was looking for a new psychiatrist and he wondered if we could talk.  We set up a time to meet at a restaurant a day or two later, and I think when I got off the phone I probably squealed like a girl in junior high who just got asked to the dance.  I did not know how or why, but things were taking shape.

When the good doctor and I met up a couple days later, I was nervous as all get out.  I had to convince him of the appeal of building a team with me.  I explained to him my vision for this team and described us as a Phoenix rising out of the ashes.  We talked through some of the job’s mechanics – what the job entailed, how many patients were on the caseload, what kind of hours were expected.  Somewhere in the midst of this, Vance said, “What I really want to do someday is retire and just spend my days on my land out west collecting bugs.”  To which I exclaimed, barely able to contain myself, “Oh my god!  I am a lepidopterist!” Vance might be the only person I’ve ever personally met who already knew that meant “one who collects butterflies.”  I don’t remember a single thing that was said after that.  The deal was done.

What was truly interesting about this whole ordeal was that more than a year prior, Vance had been looking for a way to leave his current outpatient practice and spend more time on his beloved prairie in the western part of the state.  One night, during a fit of insomnia, he realized that if he structured his weeks on a Wednesday-to-Wednesday basis, he could spend a full 7 days on the land, followed with a full 7 days in Milwaukee.  This would allow him to spend more time on his land, and be available to his Milwaukee jobs every single business week.  This newly revised and ingenious plan came to him in the dark of the night, and the following morning he woke up and gave a year’s notice at his job.  Funny thing, that year was coming to an end in just a couple of weeks when he got word I was looking for a psychiatrist.  He needed a job, and I needed a miracle.  In the end, we both got what we needed.

I consider the eight years I spent at this agency one of the hallmarks in my career and I am proud of every single thing that team accomplished together.  The secret I don’t say out loud very often, however, is that all of the transformation and rising through the ranks as an agency was really only because I did one great thing: I convinced Dr. Vance Baker to join our team.  Never before, and never since, have I been so clinically and philosophically aligned with another person.  We had the same ridiculously high and probably unreasonable standards and the same self-deprecating sense of humor.  We had the same love for the people we serve and the same intolerance for all the things that got in the way of serving them well.  In the end, I could reduce my job to this:  I take care of Vance, and he takes care of this team and our clients.  He taught me and my colleagues all kinds of valuable things:  the importance of honest self-assessment and admitting your mistakes, that helping someone with a mental illness complete a simple task is not in fact enabling them, that our work is riddled with ethical landmines but if you are smart and considerate you can navigate them, and that if you have acid reflux you should put two phone books under the posts at the head of your bed to make it slant so you lay at an angle.  Yep.  He knows a little something about pretty much everything.  He is amazing that way.

Many years passed and over those years, many things changed.  Eventually I was promoted and my duties took me further away from that team.  A couple years after that, the agency merged with another local non-profit and the landscape of my administrative duties took a turn I couldn’t reconcile.  After eight glorious years, I felt the pull back to “The Job” I had been bumped out of at Milwaukee County so many years prior. I struggled with the decision, but it was Vance’s wisdom that ultimately helped me.  He said, “Look, there are lots of people with mental illness who deserve your help.  It doesn’t have to be here.”

I left that agency knowing I had given it the very best of me.  I left a little broken-hearted, a little sad, but also a little excited for a new opportunity.  I knew I had done great things and that where I was headed, I would do more.  My colleagues gave me a journal where everyone wrote a page or two expressing their thoughts about our time together.  Vance wrote simply, “We will remain friends, but my career will lament your loss; I suspect permanently.”  Just reading that still brings tears to my eyes, because I feel precisely, deeply, in my heart of hearts, the exact same way.

Interestingly, my friendship with the Dr. Vance Baker has only strengthened since I left that job so many years ago.  We email, we talk on the phone, and once or twice a year I make my way westward to his land where we can sit and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk.  But my favorite of all the things we do is a monthly dinner outing we always keep at my request. I always pick the place, and he always picks the time. We almost always end up in a restaurant neither of us have ever tried, and when we get our cocktails we start the night by clinking our glasses:  “Here’s to keeping the love alive.”  And I have to admit, it is a love that is not just alive, but still growing.

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Making Your Bed and Lying In It

Posted on February 15, 2014 | Leave a comment

“It is better to be alone, than to wish that you were.”

These words of wisdom with honest, gritty staying power were shared with me by my former colleague Sandy (may she rest in peace) as I was wading through a path of post-divorce rubble about ten years ago.  They have carried me through days of doubt and angst and loneliness, and in a way, have been a guidepost for my new-but-not-so-new life.  ‘Tis true, Ms. Sandy, it is better. Thanks to you, I won’t forget.

On the heels of “Singles Awareness Day” which is otherwise known as “Valentine’s Day,” I find it is near impossible to avoid reflecting on my current state.  Sure, I am single and I have been now for a good long while.  And sure, I’ve grown accustomed to it over the years.  I long ago let go of the fact that I won’t be able to wear a dress that buttons up the back (like I ever would) and that there is no division of household labor when you live alone (but guess what, you can hire people to do pretty much anything).  I’ve settled in and I’ve found my way, but I’ve done a whole lot more than that.  Just shy of full-on embracing it, I’ve acknowledged that I’m really good alone.  Really, really good.

I think part of the reason I’m so good alone is that there is no one here to fuss with.  I have long believed that it is the minutia in a relationship that has the greatest chance of killing it.  People joke about the age-old annoyances of the toilet seat being left up or the toothpaste in the sink, but it’s true…if you let these things bother you (and many of us in the human species do) resentment can seep in and create cracks which turn into fissures and then huge, gaping canyons.  It happens all the time, and most people can’t find their way back from that.

I heard a story recently that was the greatest and saddest example of this I had heard in a long time.  A friend of a friend of a friend (or something like that) was in a long-term relationship and had been living with her boyfriend for several years.  Recent word had come about that they were breaking up, and then this story was revealed.  More than five years ago, the two had an argument that was reportedly the beginning of the end.  The argument was not about politics or religion or your mom is so rude to me or why did you have to flirt with the waitress like that.  It wasn’t even about I can’t believe you depleted our savings account at the casino or what do you mean you accidentally slept with your ex-girlfriend.  No, no, no.  The argument was about who was going to put the linens on the bed.

So five years ago, neither of them wants to make the bed and so neither of them does.  Each of them is secretly resenting the other for not making the bed and holding their ground that I will not be the one to make the goddamn bed.  One holds their ground and sleeps on the couch, and the other holds their ground and sleeps in the recliner.  Day after day this goes on and and then before you know it, five years have passed and no one has made the bed and probably no one has had a good night’s sleep in half a decade and now here they are breaking up.  And still, to this day, the bed remains unmade. Five years of this!  Unbelievable.

Now, it is pretty clear that the unmade bed is the symptom of the problem and not the actual problem.  I don’t even know what the actual problem was, but I’m pretty sure that wasn’t it.  In fact, they probably didn’t have just one problem, they probably had a whole lot of them.  But what if it really did start right there, with a set of clean linens and a six minute task standing in the way of this couple and their happiness?  The problems had to start somewhere.  Maybe it started there.

And so, my point is this:  Whatever your relationship status is at the moment, you have a choice.  Believe it or not, you can always choose happiness.  If you are alone like me, love the fact that the only mess in the house is yours and that you can have peaceful, joyful solitude every minute you are home.  If you are in a relationship, take stock in the fact that you have someone to ask how your day was and snuggle with you while you watch Dexter.  The truth is that every situation has something that can make your heart sing, and every situation has the potential to incite the screaming in your head.  You get to pick if you feed the singing or the screaming.

There’s an old saying:  You made your bed, now you must lie in it.  Or in this case, you didn’t make your bed, now you have to sleep uncomfortably in a recliner.  Please, I am begging you, don’t be that person.  Be the hero in your relationship.  Or if you are single like me, be the hero in your own life.

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One Happy Memory

Posted on February 8, 2014 | Leave a comment

It was almost exactly a year ago when I received word through my extended family that my step-mother Jan had been checked into a hospice facility.  Word of this news came to me via email, from my cousin to my uncle and then to me, and within just a couple of hours a second email arrived saying that she had already passed.  When we first received the emails, my sister and I didn’t quite know what to say or to do about it.  We hadn’t had but maybe two or three instances of contact with Jan in the 16 years since our father had passed.

In the days that followed, my sister and I hopped onto a roller coaster of raw, gut-wrenching emotion.  There was a reason that we hadn’t maintained a relationship with Jan, a reason that there had only been those two or three instances of contact in all those years.  Those reasons were safely tucked between my sister and me.  Somewhere along the way, we took a vow of silence and made a deep and unwavering commitment to stay on the high road.  Besides the fact that it seemed to be the most right, most respectful thing to do, we had moved on.  We had each built happy, healthy, passionate lives for ourselves and that was the focus of our energy.

But there’s nothing like an impending funeral to get one’s buried emotions all stirred up.  The first stage of emotion was indifference.  Oh well, we thought.  I hope she finds peace on the other side.  But then the phone calls started coming in.  Jan’s family was reaching out to us, asking us to come to the funeral.  Telling us we were in the will.  Giving us details of her last months and days.  Our peaceful indifference dissipated.

From there we moved on to what could only be described as straight up dilemma.  I pulled up the obituary online.  I was shocked – utterly shocked – that my sister and I were listed as surviving family members in the obituary.  Granted, our names were wrong, with me being listed as Jennifer Swearingen and my sister as Jessica Wiener, but this was just a funny (and sad) marker of how lacking the connection was.  I called my best friend and told her the story, and told her that I hoped when I died, no one would be surprised to see their (wrong) name in my obituary.  It was all very telling.

For the next couple of days, there was a lot of back and forth between me and my sister.  At the outset, I had promised myself that I would follow my sister’s lead.  I was 19 years old when Dad and Jan had married and was already moved out of the house, but my sister was only 9.  She had the longest and deepest connection to Jan of the two of us.  I had to let her do whatever was right for her.  Initially Jess took a firm stance:  “We’re not going.”  Okay, I thought…but I wasn’t so sure it was the right answer.

The next day I emailed my sister and I said this:  “Look, I promised myself I would follow your lead.  And I promise you, I will.  But I just have to say this.  It is a little strange to me to be listed in someone’s obituary and their will and not go to their funeral.  As I’ve thought this through, over and over again, it occurred to me that this could be our last act of grace for Jan.  But really, we’d be doing it for our Dad.  The one thing that all three of us had in common was that we loved Dad.”

It took a few hours, but Jess wrestled with all of it and responded:  “I don’t know if there is a heaven, but if there is, and if by some chance I make my way in, and if when I get there I see Dad, I’d feel pretty small if this was the one thing I did that let him down.  Let’s pack our bags and go.”

It was actually on the evening of Valentine’s Day when my sister and I loaded up the Rav4 and headed south to Iowa.  True to form in times of turmoil, I had a massive stomach ache.  I always carry my stress in my stomach, and this was a whopper.  Jess poked fun at me.  “Why do you have to be such a feeler?  You are such a feeler.”  I poked back.  “Why are you always so numb to all of your feelings?  You bury everything so deep.”  The words hung in the air for awhile and became a fading echo; we both knew why she had learned to bury her feelings like this.  The why behind it was the reason we were heading to Iowa.

During the four hour car ride, I set out for us to find our happy memories of Jan.  Isn’t that what you do when someone passes on?  Well, we had a lot of memories – a lot of them.  There was no question we had experienced joy in the presence of Jan, most notably when our dad and his crazy storytelling was involved.  But we could not recall a time where we experienced joy because of Jan.  When we made it to Rock Island, about 30 minutes from our destination, I turned to Jess and said, “Okay girl, this is it.  We have 30 minutes to come up with one happy memory.”  Jess paused for a moment and looked thoughtfully out the window.  She turned back to me and said sweetly, sorrowfully, “I can’t.”

The following morning Jess and I got up and got ready for the funeral.  This time, both of us had stomach aches.  I’ll admit, I was kind of a nervous wreck.  Who would be there?  How would they respond to us?  What kind of emotions would the day bring?  We pulled into the church parking lot, and I paused and gave Jess a fist bump.  “We’ve got this, kid.  You and me.  Worst case scenario, we go in, no one talks to us, we sit in the back of the church and we quietly leave.  At the end of it, we still have each other, and we did the right thing.  We can do this.”

But it wasn’t like that at all.  The moment we walked in, a swarm of step-relatives and even one of our own cousins embraced us.  Were we the prodigal daughters?  Perhaps, but in that moment it didn’t seem to matter.  As is true with many funerals, there were pictures everywhere.  More than half of the pictures were pictures of our family, of us.  Granted, they were old pictures.  Even so, it was another telling marker.  Jan’s life with our dad, which of course included us, was her life.  She loved that man.  Even though she was only married to him for nine years before he passed away, it almost seemed as if her life began when she met him and ended when he died.  Her life was depicted as a time capsule.

Jan’s family insisted that we walk in with the family and sit with them during the services, a gesture that was simultaneously sweet and awkward.  The services were very nice, and we were told Jan had chosen several of the scriptures and songs for her own funeral.  There were scriptures about forgiveness and redemption.  There were stories of her acts of kindness to other church members.  Maybe, I thought, just maybe she had grappled with the harsh complexity of our relationship just as we had and tried to reconcile it.  Anything is possible.

After the service, we lined our cars up to make our way to the cemetery for the internment.  Now usually the cemetery would be maybe a half mile away and it will be a slow but quick procession.  Not so on this day.  Unbeknownst to us, we made our way out of the church parking lot and proceeded together, ever so slowly on this bright, brisk February day, about 15 miles to an old country cemetery.  It was situated out on a gravel road between a sea of corn fields and pastures.  Upon arrival, we learned that the cemetery was actually a family cemetery of Jan’s family.  There were maybe 50 or 60 people buried there,and they were all linked to Jan.  Her parents, her grandparents, and some of her siblings who preceded her in death.

The wind was brisk and unrelenting, so the graveside service was quick and to the point.  When the services had ended, family members of Jan pointed out graves of their loved ones and the stories that accompanied them.  The stories filled in some of the gaps, explained some of the pain that Jan and her family must have surely felt.  Pain that maybe went unresolved, and as I like to say, came out sideways as a result.  A wave of understanding washed over me.

Another thing that washed over me, standing in that little country graveyard, was I think what they call forgiveness.  Look, I can’t sugar coat it.  The relationship we had with Jan wasn’t good.  But I’d be remiss if I didn’t acknowledge that I was part of that equation.  And there were complicating factors.  Jan married a man who she loved deeply, but who had his own serious health issues.  He also had two grieving daughters who had not gotten over the loss of their mom.  In short, she married a man with an impossible set of circumstances.  On top of that, she had some issues of her own, but maybe, just maybe, that was the byproduct of her own upbringing, her own unresolved pain.  You throw all of this into a big old steaming cauldron, and out comes a bad chemical experiment.

I realized, as I began to reconcile all of this, it doesn’t mean that you have to assign “good” or “bad” to anyone.  I think what I realized on that day, more than any other day in my life, is that every one of us, every single one, is made of both good and bad parts.  Things we celebrate, and things we hide.  Joy and pain.  Happiness and sorrow.  Triumph and failure.  We are all, at the end of the day, a mixed bag – no one person necessarily being better in totality than the other.

We enjoyed a dinner back at the church with Jan’s relatives and shared a few stories, a few laughs, a few hugs.  We got in the car and acknowledged to each other – this was good.  It was unexpectedly cathartic and healing and good.  The four hour car ride home was quiet, contemplative, exhausted.  But it was also peaceful.  There was no longer a desperate push to find our one happy memory.  We had found it in an old Iowa country graveyard.

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Celebrating Your Inner Weirdo

Posted on February 1, 2014 | Leave a comment

Author’s note:  To protect the innocent, all names have been changed in this story.

It can be an intimidating experience to spend the bulk of your time with psychiatrists and psychologists.  This past week I was out at a going away party for Dr. Dom Farding and the place was crawling with shrinks.  For some reason, I kept blurting out unusual facts about myself and it just wouldn’t stop.  (Maybe it was the “just add alcohol” component to the evening, but really, I only had two drinks.)

A few of us were hanging out with Dr. Tara Doleman and her two adorable, precocious little girls.  I had asked the girls if I could come over some time and play with their Lite-Brite, and they seemed a little like “Who is this strange lady and why does she want to play with my toys?” but then said I’d have to ask their mom.  At this point, Dr. Bony Brasher joined the conversation and we had a stroll down memory lane about our favorite childhood toys.  Topping the list for me, of course, was Fisher Price Little People.  I noted how sad I was that they had changed the size and shape of Little People, which I had heard was because the old wooden version was exactly the same size as a 2 year-old’s trachea.  Dr. Brasher posed the question, “Who was eating them, anyway?”

All of this led to me remembering, and then over-sharing, that as a child I used to chew on Barbie’s feet.  In fact, I chewed on them so much that eventually the rod holding Barbie’s leg together started to poke out the bottom of her feet.  This caused Dr. Bony Brasher to cast a discerning psychiatric eye in my direction.  You know, the shrink look, the one with an arched eyebrow.  “But…it was a Ballerina Barbie.”  I stammered this out in my own defense, as if it somehow added to the acceptability of my Barbie foot chewing behavior. (Fortunately, it wasn’t until later that I recalled that my best friend Cindy and I used to pop the eyeballs out of my Sunshine Family dolls for entertainment.  I can only imagine the differential diagnosis Dr. Brasher would do if he knew that.)

All of this got me thinking…the truth of the matter is that we all have an Inner Weirdo.  The only difference is that some of us talk about it, and some of us don’t.  But the reality is that everyone, outside of the presence of others, does weird things.  A guy I once worked with was witnessed scraping his tongue with Scotch tape in his office.  Weird?  A little.  But the only really weird thing was that he did it where other people could see him.  Any of us, under the right conditions of tongue funkiness, might do the same thing.  Only privately.

So my point in all of this is that we should all celebrate our Inner Weirdo.  Don’t be ashamed!  Don’t hide who you are!  Be who you want to be!  Just know that being weird is part of the human condition, and it is part of what makes us more alike than different.  Because in the right set of circumstances, all of us pick our nose, talk to ourselves in the car on the way home from work, lick the last of the ice cream out of the bottom of the bowl, and chew on Barbie’s feet.  I guarantee it.

Now go be weird today.  I’m pretty sure I am going to.

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Bananas Are All the Rage

Posted on January 26, 2014 | Leave a comment

When I was 16, I fell madly, deeply, cuckoo-for-cocoa-puffs in love with a guy who had been one of my best friends for some time, and I made a complete and total irreparable mess of the relationship within about four months.  A couple years later I fell hard for a guy who was still ridiculously preoccupied with his last girlfriend.  In college, I dated the same guy for four years who was more of a best friend than anything.  When I was 23, I met and eventually married a man who – I hope you are sitting down for this – didn’t really think I was all that funny.  It’s no surprise we are not still together – clearly he had issues.  I say all of this so as to point out that I have had some complicated relationships in my day.  But none has been more complicated than my relationship with the ordinary yellow banana.

The thing about bananas is, I want to like them.  Really, I do.  And sometimes, for maybe a day at a time, I find them tolerable.  The problem is, I have a very small window of opportunity with bananas.  I can look at a banana sitting in my fruit bowl and think to myself, “I am going to eat that banana for breakfast.  But first, let me shower.”  I am telling you, by the time I get out of that shower things might have changed.  The window of opportunity may have slammed shut, as a few brown spots may have appeared.  In the time it took me to lather, rinse and repeat the banana lost its appeal.  Get it – appeal?  Because bananas have peels?  Damn, I am funny.  Told ya.

Bananas, to me, are the fruit equivalent of whiny little bitches.  “Oh, hi.  I’m a banana.  Please don’t touch me or look at me or even think about me, because if you do I might bruise.”  My friend Colleen said it best – bananas do not travel well.  You can take a banana from your house, gently place it on the cushion of your car seat, and by the time you get to work it will be all battered and bruised like Mike Tyson just had his way with it.  Whatever, bananas!  You know what I think?  I think you need to shut your pie hole.  Get it?  Pie hole.  Somebody stop me, please.

My sister revealed to me that her solution to this nonsense is a banana carrying case.  Really?  This is what it has come to?  We have to buy luggage for our bananas?  The banana by design has its own carrying case, but I guess that’s not good enough. A banana carrying case may be the ultimate response to a first world problem.  What is next?  The banana is going to give me a list of his or her demands before agreeing to come to my house?  I mean really, come on.  This has gone too far.

Even in light of all of these petty annoyances, I still try to convince myself each and every week at the grocery store that I like bananas.  My inner turmoil sounds something like this:  “Bananas are good for you, Jen.  On paper, they meet a lot of your needs.  Everybody else likes bananas – you should too.  Even if you don’t like bananas, you know your parents would approve of them.  Just give the poor banana a chance. You can do this.”  Eventually, I acquiesce to the chatter in my head.  Every. Damn. Time.

Week after week there is the same result.  I buy two or three very green bananas and take them home.  I manage to eat one of them in the 12 minute window of opportunity I have to enjoy a perfect banana.  Then I have to find a way to discard the remaining one or two bananas, which, in the blink of an eye, have become spotted, brown, rotten, sugary, mushy, repositories for ready-to-hatch-fruit flies.

Since there is only so much banana bread you can make, I had to find a new solution.  I actually hired someone who would take my “past the Jen Wittwer expiration date” bananas.  Now granted, this person has a lot of skills to add to the team, but one of her most important functions is to take any banana from me, any time, no questions asked.  While I might make it seem like I am doing her a favor by giving her bananas on a weekly basis, the truth is she has become my banana savior.  And – wait for it, wait for it – I am so relieved I don’t have to monkey around with those rotten bananas anymore.  Get it?  I said monkey.  

I’m here all week, folks.

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A New Pair of Specs

Posted on January 18, 2014 | 4 comments

On January 19, 1986 I got a new pair of specs.  Things have never looked the same since.

The almost seventeen years of my life leading up to this day could hardly be described as normal, and yet our family had achieved its own unique brand of normal.  With my dad’s forever compromised health, there were ample and regular doses of worry and angst.  Even so, like any family we laughed, we fought, we played and we laughed some more.  We kind of had it figured out, in our own weird way.  It worked.

Then seemingly out of nowhere, what started out as an annoying cough for my mom was then diagnosed as bronchitis, then pneumonia and finally mesothelioma – a deadly and rapid growing cancer from exposure to asbestos.  Three days from this diagnosis to her departure – that was all we had.  Three days!  In what felt like the blink of an eye, Mom was gone.  Poof.  Just like that.

The thing was, no one – and I mean no one – could wrap their head around this turn of events.  At just 43 years old, Mom had been healthy, vibrant, fierce, strong.  She was the one thing our family could reliably count on.  It was Dad’s health that was tenuous, not hers.  Like a faithful sherpa who was devoid of complaints, Mom did all the heavy lifting for our family.  It was hard to imagine life could be any other way. Now it would have to be.

So it was on that cold January day when I got this new pair of specs.  I didn’t even know I needed them, and I most definitely didn’t want them.  But they were mine forevermore, permanently affixed to my head.  I’ve always said that my life, simplified, has only two relevant parts:  1)  Before Mom died, and 2)  After Mom died.  Her untimely death created a tectonic shift in my life, a shift ensuring that things would never, could never be the same.  “My name is Jen, and when I was sixteen my mom died.”  The words spill out of me sometimes when I’m not even expecting them.  It is one of the most important ways I define myself.

Clinging to me like moss on a sturdy oak, Mom’s death is a life imperfection that has been simultaneously tragic and beautiful.  It took a while – a good, long painstaking whatthefuckthistotallysucks while – but eventually my new pair of specs helped me see things more clearly. What I could see was this:

Life doesn’t have a single guarantee.

Since I can’t control how much time I get in life, I will surely control the quality.

I, and only I, am in charge of my own happiness.

I will always surround myself with people who believe in me and cast all the others gently aside.

There is no such thing as too generous.

Laughter is the most important measure of my personal success.

Forgiveness of those who have wronged me is always necessary.

Forgiveness of myself is harder, but even more important.

It is wise to say no often.

It is wiser to say I love you often.

Years before my mom died, my dad was in the intensive care unit of the University of Iowa hospitals, clinging onto his own fragile life.  Mom spent her days faithfully at his side until his health was restored.  One day, she took a break in the family waiting room and found a piece of paper someone had left behind that said this:  “The clouds that appear darkest in the distance are the ones the wind blows away.”  So moved by the lesson these words offered her in a moment of deep despair, Mom later embroidered them on a tapestry and hung it inside our front door.  Hauntingly prophetic, it has been a motto for my life.

Twenty-eight years have passed, and a whole lot of things have changed.  A few things have not changed, one of which is that pair of specs I got in 1986.  Do I ever resent them?  Sure, I suppose so.  I am human after all.  But what I know for sure is that without them, I’d be less wise, less loving, less me.  I think I’ll keep them.

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