I don’t give the memoir writers in my classes assignments over the break. Many of them write on their own during time off, though, and when they do, I encourage them to bring their new essays to read aloud in class when we reconvene. All five of my classes are back in session after winter break, and this piece Kate De Mille brought to read for the first memoir-writing class in 2019 at Admiral at the Lake was so much fun that I asked her if we could share it with you Safe & Sound readers here. Lucky us — she said yes!

by Kate De Mille

Today’s guest blogger, Kate De Mille.

It seemed like overnight when I noticed the dramatic change in my appearance. Yes, I had gained a little weight, but I’m talking about my face here: wrinkles!

I pride myself in having pretty, smooth skin for my age. At least, I used to. But now, little red veins, sagging cheeks, fuzzy eyebrows, bags under my eyes, a mustache that I could trim with my cuticle scissors and 2 “things” that looked like they may be warts starting to poke up near my eyelids. What was happening?

I started using makeup every morning — taking at least 20 minutes to apply the foundation, then the powder, the eyeliner, mascara, and putting some cover up on the “things.” Every time I passed a mirror I looked at myself. I used an X10 mirror to be sure I was seeing what I was seeing. It was true. I started to feel really down. I must be sick. Some insidious disease was causing my bodily distress.

Finally, I made an appointment with my doctor. I told him that I was feeling depressed. Tired. Not well. Something had to be wrong. After about 15 lab tests and a complete check up, the answer was that I appeared perfectly healthy. My blood pressure had increased, but only slightly.  He gave me a prescription and told me to call if I was still feeling out of sorts.

At home, I took another good look in the mirror and noticed my eyelashes with the globs of mascara looking like two droopy spiders hanging on for dear life. The wrinkles were still there. This is ridiculous, I thought. How can I be so upset when my life was so fine. My husband insisted that I looked the same as always.

To relax myself, as I often do, I folded my arms on the sill of my bedroom window. Looking out I was thrilled to see the detail of the leaves on the trees, even the waves coming off Lake Michigan. Looking down, the flowers in the garden were so clearly detailed since my cataract surgery last month. That was something to be very grateful about. I now had 20/20 vision for the first time in my life. Before that my vision was so blurry.

Wait. My vision. So blurry before. Oh, no. Reality had struck!

I understood.

Here’s why I like being in focus groups:

• I am sometimes the only person with a disability in the group, and I feel strongly about people with disabilities being included in decision-making
• People ask you questions about what you think about things.
• Your response is important to the person asking the question.
• Even if they don’t ask a question, they are interested in just about anything you say.
• Often you’re paid for your trouble, either with gift cards, or, sometimes…cash!

I’ve participated in focus groups about web sites, travel opportunities, health care, but the focus group I was in last week, called “Exploring Growth After Vision Loss” was one I could really, well…focus on. The focus group was part of a research study exploring whether people who were once able to see experience any psychological growth as a result of losing their sight.

The four of us who were there for the two-hour study all lost our sight at different ages – one as a teenager, me as a young adult, a third when they were in their thirties and another in middle age. The first half-hour was a discussion of what the words “adaptation” and “acceptance” and “growth” mean.

The rest of the time was spent exploring whether going through a stressful, adverse, or traumatic event might leave a person in a higher place psychologically than the level they were functioning at before the event.

We shared our experiences with each other – and the focus group leader – about losing our vision and adjusting to vision loss, and we were asked specific questions like “What does it mean to you to consider how you may have grown from the experience of losing your vision?” We were asked to come up with some Examples of ways we think we may have grown since losing our sight. Each of us got a pre-paid debit card for participating in the study, and when the focus group leader gave me mine, I told her I should be the one paying her. The whole thing was like group therapy!

It’s not that unusual for me to be among a group of blind people – I take computer classes at Second Sense, I regularly attend touch tours before plays at Chicago theaters – but those groups include people who were born blind. Last week it was oddly comforting to be part of a small group of people who’d all been able to see before going blind. A lot of what we said to each other required no explanation, and we could talk honestly about the experience without anyone feeling sorry for us. By the end of the two hours, we’d each been able to come up with at least one example of the growth the focus group leader was looking for.

One who’d volunteered a little before losing their sight feels said the volunteer work they do now is much more heartfelt. “I used to volunteer because I knew it was something I should do, but now I feel more empathy, I want to help people whenever I can, I give – and accept – help with love.” Another said they deal better with challenges now. We all agreed that blindness had made us more resourceful, and yes, we appreciated the growth and all, but still….

As we were getting ready to leave, one participant compared our experience to that saying about going back to being a teenager and knowing what you know now. “Everything we’ve learned about dealing with challenges, acceptance, adjustment, just think,” they said. “If someone figured out a way for us to get our sight now, we’d be unstoppable!”

This past Thursday three Chicago Police Officers, who had clearly lied in the interest of their fellow officer Jason Van Dyke, were acquitted on all counts. I’ve bounced between furious, disappointed, and plain sad since then. That kind of behavior—the same kind that enables horrific behavior in other institutions like the Catholic Church, Penn State, and Michigan State Universities—should be long behind us. But it ain’t. It’s still in front of us.

When Van Dyke himself got what, to this Chicagoan, looks like a slap on the wrist relative to the way other citizens are sentenced, well, it made me sad. I don’t wish prison on anyone, but he broke the law and he killed a member of the community he is charged with serving. I also couldn’t stomach his or his family’s statements, because their words were all about them, their hardship, and there wasn’t a hint of  understanding his culpability. Yet somehow, the pearl clutching about how awful it must be for that lunk—who had an ugly history of abusing citizens—went on and on.

We certainly don’t dole out the clutching evenly.

Last year about this time I wrote about how Martin Luther King’s death made an enormous impression on me. I was 10 years old when he died. And today, here we are.  We want to think we’re done with it, just like when I was a kid and I wanted to think that the Emancipation Proclamation, and the good guys winning the Civil War, fixed everything.

But the kind of sickness that enabled slavery and Jim Crow—the virus-like psychology and the tilted structures they left behind—it’s naïve to think it just fades away. Maybe it all will never be stamped out, but we’re obligated to try, aren’t we?

I’m trying to ask better questions and listen a little better, especially with, frankly, my black friends. It’s worth the risk and discomfort I might feel. For example, I’m well aware, intellectually, of the risks that young black men are exposed to simply by driving on public streets. That isn’t up for debate. Hard data and heartbreaking anecdotes say it’s a fact. It infuriates me. But, talking to a black friend with a grown son and watching her face when she recalls the time she recognized that she had to have “the talk” with her teenage son, well, there’s a level of fear and hurt in her voice that transcends the data or my outrage.

Anyway, we have a lot more to do. The good news, kind of, is that it shouldn’t take much to do better.

To that end, here are two pieces of reading that you may find worthwhile; I did:

We like thinking all the ugliness is in the rear view mirror, especially those of us who just want it to be over with. Bryan Stephenson thinks otherwise.

But, perhaps preaching to and shaming those that aren’t woke enough for out tastes isn’t the most constructive route, either.

Let’s fight the good fight, and happy birthday to Dr. King.

That’s me and Iliana. Photo courtesy Storycorps.

I am pleased to introduce Iliana Genkova as a guest blogger today. Born and raised in Bulgaria, Iliana completed a degree in the sciences there and came to America to work with weather satellites. From there she went on to live and work around the world — UK, the Netherlands, Australia— before settling in Chicago, where she now works full-time as an Atmospheric Scientist with the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA). The recent government furlough allowed her to sign up for one of my memoir-writing classes and do a StoryCorps interview with me earlier this month. I have interviewed three different people for StoryCorps, but this was the first time someone interviewed me. Sitting on the other side of the desk was challenging –- I wanted to ask all the questions! I’ll Let Iliana explain…

42 minutes with Beth

by Iliana genkova

The first time I stumbled upon StoryCorps I was meandering through the Chicago Cultural Center. I was drawn by their bright red, cursive sign. After listening to a couple of stories about love and forgiveness, I left the place charged with hope. I was reassured that despite our differences and how diverse our lives are, we all want the same: to be loved, accepted, and understood.

Since then, every time I pass by the Chicago Cultural Center I would try to think of someone I know that has a story worthy of sharing with StoryCorps. In anticipation of taking a memoir writing class with Beth Finke, I read her memoir Writing out loud. A few chapters in, the light bulb in my head went off. What a spirit she is; she would be a great StoryCorps guest. Luckily, she agreed to be interviewed.

I really wanted to do this. I worked diligently on thinking up good questions for the interview. I ran them by a teacher I had for an interview class. Yet, there I was on the day of the interview, nervous, questioning if I was right for this.

When Beth arrived to StoryCorps we first had to fill out some paperwork. I offered to help. The last question on the form, “How would you describe yourself in a sentence or two,” was a perfect segue to our interview.

The recording studio is in essence a wooden cube with a three-yard long side. Stepping in felt like jumping in at the deep end. Once in, however, it’s dimly lit, incredibly quiet ambiance gave a sense of intimacy and safety. I began asking questions in the order I had them written down. But interviews do not always follow order. I skipped, returned to, and improvised questions.

I’ve been taught to be an active listener, to nod occasionally, keep eye contact, smile and use facial expressions, but Beth wouldn’t see that. I’d like to encourage the speaker with verbal comments like ‘yes’ and ‘uh huh’, but the StoryCorps facilitator warned us the microphones are very sensitive so when one of us speaks the other must be quiet. I was struggling to adhere to the rules.

I reached the more personal questions. After hearing the first one Beth paused, adjusted in her chair, looked right at me and responded with honesty. I could see this was emotionally taxing for her. This was exactly the bravery that I was hoping to hear about, the strength to deal with life’s unfairness, the resilience in the face of adversity. The life experience gets relived briefly, the feelings from the past may resurface for a moment, but the story of the human spirit’s strength is told. It’s stories like this that inspire and encourage us.

It was an honor to interview Beth for StoryCorps. I doubt the 42 minutes we had in the recording booth would do Beth’s story justice, but I’d like to believe I gave it a chance to be heard by sharing some of her experience, highlighting her incredible ability to take things lightly, and proving that attitude and humor make life a bit easier.

I hope the interview piques the listeners’ curiosity and they read her books, take her memoir writing class, and maybe, hopefully, make Beth’s dream — to teach her Memoir Teacher Masterclass around the world — come true. I, personally got to know Beth better and that is something to cherish.

StoryCorps’ mission is to preserve and share humanity’s stories in order to build connections between people and create a more just and compassionate world. People of all backgrounds can record meaningful conversations, just sign up with one of the StoryCorps recording sites. That page also explains ways you can donate to help StoryCorps record, share and preserve these voices for generations to come.

Was it a virus? I don’t care, I feel better already!

Last night I woke up in the in the wee hours feeling like a little volcano was erupting in my stomach, forcing nearby areas to evacuate. It might have been something I ate, or a gastrointestinal virus, but at this point it doesn’t matter. I know it wasn’t the flu, because I’m sitting up straight and working on this blog. This morning, that didn’t seem possible.

Right now I’m having that feeling where, really, I’m still wiped out, but by comparison, I’m positively bouncy. Even if still in my robe. Feeling good is relative. Of course, while in the trenches of misery, I was resolving to go to the gym more often, eat better, you know the drill.

But that gall-bladder attack feeling so awful that I wanted to leave my body behind until it got its act together reminded me that, a) we humans can’t do that and so I had to suck it up and grin and bear it, and b) I’ve been pretty lucky for a long while to be mostly healthy.

I seem to have reached a new stage of life. I mean, I still feel like I’m 25, looking for the next adventure. But before I can embark, I feel the need to call out “oil can,” like The Tin Man, to get things humming.

Beth’s always dealt with a chronic disease—type 1 diabetes and all its ravages. And for the better part of my life, in a real way, I have, too. I watched her lose her eyesight, and I spent more hours that I can count maintaining hospital vigils for her and for Gus.

Any time I’d rant about how illogical and inefficient the health care system was, most friends looked at me with glazed eyes. Some would pretty much run away. I’ve come to realize that they just couldn’t relate. We were all 20-somethings, and had been healthy and had minimal experience with the system.

I’ve come to understand that because of my unique experiences compared to our cohorts, there were some lonely periods. I struggled with how far I should go with the stiff upper lip thing—I didn’t want people to think either of us couldn’t do something because our lives were taxing enough. Our lives could be really hard sometimes and I wanted to be able to say that without people thinking we were whining. Sometimes I think I isolated myself.

Fast forward, and whaddya know? No one gets out of here alive, and the people around us are catching up to us in maladies suffered, doctor visits, and hospital visits. A few weeks ago, Beth turned to me and asked, “Do you think that for the rest of our lives we’ll know at least one person going through radiation or chemo?” I would’ve liked to have said, “Nah.” I didn’t say anything.

I don’t like it much.

For one, I don’t want to lose friends or see them suffer. For another, I’ll be honest, I feel like I went through this whole health problems thing once, and now I have to do it again? Who do I see about this?

But I like to think that one upside of the struggles in our twenties is that it may have taught me, just a little, about how to be a comfort. It requires walking a line. The people that helped me keep afloat made themselves available. They knew when to be there, and when not to intrude. Being there has an intrinsic value. You don’t need to provide answers. Be there.

Just as important, they knew that sometimes, they could see things we couldn’t, and the injected themselves at just the right time and the right way. Sometimes, it’s best to intrude.

When I was in college literature classes, I used to scratch my head when professors or TAs would say something heavy like, “This book wrestles with the human condition.” What are they talking about, I thought, what’s the big deal about this human condition?

Now I know. The human body is both miraculous and wretched. We love people only to lose them or leave them behind. We want to live on, vaguely, but what if that life bears little resemblance to life as we have known it? Financial companies implore us to plan, plan, plan and make sure we have enough money to ,,, I don’t know. We are asked to trade off the present with future, when despite our best efforts, the future is one big crapshoot.

I don’t know about any of it.

What I do know is we just bought tickets to see the Sox play the Cubs in a spring training game—and Nancy Faust will be playing the organ!

The White Sox are still in the running for Manny Machado.

Last Saturday we made new friends over a scrumptious pot of red beans and rice made with the Camellia beans our friend Seth gave us while were visiting New Orleans last week.

We’re doing our best, and it ain’t all bad.