Spring has, in fact, sprung. . .

. . .from a neglected pot of dirt.  A few weeks ago, my very thoughtful dad sent us an Easter present — a pot with bulbs in it that if cared for properly, should bloom by Easter.  I thought it was the coolest thing ever.  So I watered it per the directions and put it in my favorite sunny spot where my other plants live.  It’s a really deep window sill off of our kitchen that is mostly hidden from the kitchen by curtains. 

So it’s somewhat understandable that a few weeks would go by before I realize as I am driving to work that I had COMPLETELY forgotten about my poor little plant.  As I drove to work I felt horrible.  This wonderful gift my dad had sent was probably dead and shriveled — if anything had managed to sprout at all.

I was almost afraid to look at it when I got home.  I was full of guilt as I pulled the curtain back. . .then I audibly gasped at what I saw.  There was the neglected pot, with beautiful flowers sprouting out of it!  The moss that had covered the bulbs was stuck to the tips of the flowers and leaves like a crown.  I could not believe my eyes.  This thing was watered only once and it was fully grown and beautful.

I removed the moss, cleaned it up and gave it some water.  It’s probably in rougher shape than it would be if I had cared for it properly, but it’s really pretty.  I have been admiring it all night. 

I have decided that this plant’s triumph despite difficult conditions is a sign — a sign of new and better things to come.  That is what Easter is all about, after all.

MP

I’m not kidding.

Happy St. Patrick’s Day, everyone!

MP

“Hello, I used to live here.”

Visions of my childhood home endlessly haunt my dreams.  In some dreams I still live there and it seems perfectly natural.  In other dreams we never sold the house and we go back to visit whenever we get a chance.  Most of the time my Mom is there, and none of us seem surprised that she is still alive.  In my dreams I can remember every little detail.  The glass doorknobs.  The sparkling chandelier that would fill the dining room walls with little rainbows in the late afternoon.  The fact that the basement door would stick and needed just a bit more effort to open and close.  The way the upstairs hallway creaked, right about halfway down the hall.  The sound of the wind rustling through the leaves of the three large trees in our yard, singing me to sleep at night.

Sometimes in my dreams I ’m an outsider.  I no longer live there, but I ’m curious about the current state of my old home.  I sneak around the yard, trying to peer in the windows.  It’s difficult to see inside, so I try the door.  Unlocked.  No cars in the driveway.  What’s the harm? 

I slip in quietly and wait for my eyes to adjust indoors.  Sometimes the house looks exactly as we left it.  A kitchen decorated in the late 70s with horrible orange and yellow wallpaper and cream-colored lace curtains.  Yellow shag carpeting and green drapes in the living room.  I ’m always shocked in these dreams that the new owner hasn’t updated anything.  The house needed updating when we left — why wouldn’t they care enough to redecorate it?

Sometimes the house is completely different inside.  In many of my dreams I barely recognize the interior and the new owner has added on in strange ways – a gigantic living room, a ridiculous two level deck.  In one dream, an entire third floor with a winding straircase had been added.

When I ’m an outsider in my dreams, there’s always the thrill and the fear of knowing that I ’m not supposed to be there.  Sometimes the new owner comes home and I ’m caught.  I try to explain that I grew up in this house and I was just curious. . .I just wanted to look around.

I think that many people have vivid and nostalgic memories of the houses they grew up in.  But I often wonder if others have recurring dreams that place them in their childhood home like I do.  I ’ve always theorized that the house is somehow a representation of my mom.  Maybe it’s from missing her, missing a time when life was a little more carefree.  The house represents a safe place, the last place where we all lived together as a family.

All of us drive by the house when happen to be traveling through town.  When my mom was still alive, she was practically obsessed with the house.  I’m probably not much better.  A few Christmases ago I made my brother not only drive as slowly as possible by the front of the house, but through the back alley as well so I could see the back yard.  Is the swingset still there?  Of course not.  They cut down the bushes!  Well, it looks better that way, actually.

Two years ago my Dad took a picture of house when he was in town.  He sent it to me with a note that read, “On our recent trip from Cleveland we stopped by Bowling Green to show Mary the town, campus and our home. . .I thought you would like to have a copy of one of the photographs I took.”  It’s hard to describe how that photo made me feel.  On one hand, some of the details I remembered so vividly were gone.  The tree next to my bedroom, the stone path that wound around the side of the house from the sidewalk that lead up to the front door.  On the other hand, it looked great.  It was well cared-for and nicely landscaped.  What else could I really ask for?

On her way home from Michigan to Cleveland this past weekend, my sister stopped in Bowling Green to visit an old friend.  Not surprisingly, she drove by the old house.  Slowly past the front, then slowly through the alley. 

Well, I might as well stop. 

She stood in the alley a little while, taking in the yard.  It looks so much smaller than I remember! 

The doors were open, letting the fresh spring air fill the house.  She felt compelled to go up to the door.

“This may sound strange, but. . .I grew up here.  I. . .just wanted to thank you for taking such good care of the house.”

“What’s your name?” asked the woman.

The woman knew my parents from their time at the university.  She had heard about my Dad’s involvement in local goverment and his passion for preserving the neighborhood.  Our street used to be known as “University Row,” a neighborhood that several families called home.  The current owner told my sister that our old house is now the only property on the street that hasn’t become a college rental.

“Now I understand what it feels like to be sad that your old neighborhood has changed,” my sister said to me.

The woman who lives there now is really nice.  She didn’t mind my sister’s visit at all.  In fact, she was delighted to talk about the house and the neighborhood.

“Would you like to come in?”

My sister was hesitant.  Her kids were in the car and she had already stayed in Bowling Green too long.  The woman offered to keep an eye on the car while my sister looked around.

“How did it look?” I asked anxiously. 

“Really good.  Hardwood floors, nice colors. . .it just seemed so much smaller than I remembered.”

“What about the kitchen?  What did it look like?  Is it very different?”

“Um. . .white cabinets.  She added a small island.”

One question after another, my sister failed to quench my curiosity.  I wanted details.  What did she do to the bathroom?  Does the fireplace look the same?  Does the floor still creak in the middle of the upstairs hallway?  Not wanting to linger too long and knowing that the kids were waiting for her in the car, my sister moved quickly through the house, missing many of the details I desperately wished she’d noticed.

I was surprised that I didn’t dream about the house that night.  My sister’s tale only heightened my curiosity and I ’ve been thinking about the house a lot over the past few days.  I can’t help but wonder if seeing the house for myself would stop the dreams.  Would my curiosity finally be satisfied? 

Maybe I will be the next stranger to knock on the door. 

“Hello, I used to live here.”

MP

Bearing my soul

The Wisconsin Hospital Association sponsors an annual contest called the Wisonsin Health Care Employee Pride Program.  According to the entry form, its purpose is to “celebrate your career and recognize your commitment to caring.” I have never entered before, because the reason I take pride in my work is very personal. So personal in fact, that I had never put it into words to share with anyone. But this year I decided to enter. Not because I want to win an award, but because I have heard too many bad health care stories lately. I hope that my story will help the caregivers who read it to understand the profound impact they can have on patients.  Below is my entry. 

August 7, 2002 was the worst day of my life. That day has also been my career inspiration for the past three years. In short, I work in health care because no one should have to die because they were too afraid to go to the doctor.

My dad called me at around 7:00 a.m. on August 7, 2002 to tell me that my mom was in the hospital. At fist the doctors were not sure what was wrong with her. As the day went on we learned that my mom was suffering from congestive heart failure. I rushed to get to her, but I was too late. My mom passed away that afternoon and I did not get the chance to say goodbye.

We didn’t know my mom was sick. She hated going to the doctor, so she avoided it at all costs. Bad health care experiences from her past kept her from seeking medical care and this avoidance was eventually her demise.

There was a time when I also disliked hospitals. Like my mom, I associated hospitals with sickness and death. But when I became an employee at Aurora St. Luke’s Medical Center in August 2005, I experienced a profound change in thinking. Thanks to the wonderful people of Aurora St. Luke’s and my own personal Planetree journey, I have learned that hospitals are a place that you go to heal.

Planetree is a philosophy of patient-centered care that teaches employees to look at patients as whole people – mind, body and spirit. In my time at St. Luke’s I have had the great fortune to meet people who have ignited within me a passion for compassionate care. I write for the employee newsletter, so I have the opportunity to meet some amazingly inspiring people.

I have interviewed patients who have triumphed through devastating illnesses. I have spoken with caregivers with extraordinary dedication and compassion for their patients. Not only have these people made me want to be a better person, they have inspired me to share my passion for patient-centered, compassionate care with others. They make me proud to be an employee of Aurora St. Luke’s Medical Center.

My hope is that through storytelling in our newsletter and by teaching the Planetree principles to new employees, I can ignite that same passion in others. By inspiring compassionate care, I hope that I can ensure that people will have positive experiences so they will continue to seek the care that they need. Because no one should have to die because they were too afraid to go to the doctor.

MP

Give the man a drink.

I love my dad.  I really do.  Not just because he’s a great dad, but because he is also a genuinely kind person and he makes me laugh.  When he was in town for a visit recently, Andy and I showed him some of our favorite places to hang out in Milwaukee. We had dinner at Water Buffalo then headed to The Wicked Hop for drinks.  But it wasn’t the food or the drinks that made this evening enjoyable.  It was the stories.  But I am pretty sure that the drinks helped bring out the stories.

I have a huge regret in my life.  I regret not talking to my mom more when I had the chance.  I’m not referring to frequency, because I was always in touch with my parents, even when I lived 12 hours away from them.  I mean talking.  Real, meaningful conversations. My Mom was your classic Irishwoman–private, proud and stubborn.  Which means that she kept many things to herself and rarely offered information without being asked.  So to learn more about my mom I would have had to ask, and for whatever reason that was never comfortable for me.  When she passed away in 2002, I lost any opportunity I had to ask her questions.  And now I have so many–about my family, her opinions, her scholarly work, her thoughts.

I made a promise to myself that I would not have the same regret with my dad, so I ask him a lot of questions.  Questions about our family, about his upbringing, about his scholarly work, about his thoughts and feelings on things.  My dad contributed to a budding field of study when it was just gaining currency in academia, and now I read his work in my classes.  I consider it a gift to share an interest with my father and to discuss my studies with him. But popular culture is not just my dad’s interest, it was my mom’s as well. I asked him about her work that night.  Her dissertation was on All in the Family, a groundbreaking program in television history.  What I wouldn’t give to talk to her about it now as I write my thesis. My research is also related to television. Sometimes when I am stressed out from school I wish I could call her because I know she would understand how I feel.  After all, she had a 6 year-old kid and was pregnant with me when she completed her PhD.

I love to hear my dad tell stories about my family, especially my mom.  That particular night his play by play account of his lunch in the city (Chicago) with my ninety something year-old great Aunt Tillie had me laughing until it hurt.  My dad swears that not a thing in her house has changed since 1950.  If you take her to lunch she will insist you come back to her place for dessert.  If she has a pie to serve and four guests, you will get 1/4 of the pie.  And yes, she still drives.  In the city.

The stories got better as the night went on and the drinks added up.  I think that part of growing up is learning to recognize your parents as people.  There are probably many things you don’t know about your parents and they are unlikely to tell you those things unless you ask.  In many ways having adult conversations with our parents is like getting to know an entirely different person.  And it’s great.

So anyway here’s to Mike, my dad and an amazing person.

MP

Best Christmas gift EVER

Meet our new niece, Morgen. She was born at 4:13 am on December 16.  She’s 8 pounds 3 ounces and 19 and 1/2 inches.  And she’s beautiful.

MP

A BIG reason to give thanks

I have always loved Thanksgiving.  I have fond memories of cozy days at home with family and friends and helping my mom cook the traditional meal.  When my mom passed away in August 2002, our family’s Thanksgiving tradition was suddenly thrown out of balance.  Our first Thanksgiving without her, my dad made the turkey and sweet potatoes and I made all of the other sides.  It was bittersweet–it is always wonderful to have the family together, but her absence created a painful void in the holiday.

That following March I threw a St. Patrick’s Day party.  This was another holiday that was especially difficult without my mom.  She was 100% Irish and celebrated the holiday throughout the entire month of March.  I would come home from school to Irish music blaring on the stereo.  She had shirts and sweaters with shamrocks embroidered on them, Celtic scarfs and Irish jewelry that she would wear throughout the entire month.  On St. Patrick’s Day, she would pack us a green lunch–sandwich, green apple and some sort of green dessert.  When we got older, my parents started throwing St. Patrick’s Day parties.  Corned beef and cabbage, Irish stew, soda bread and whiskey cake would be among the offerings, and the alcohol flowed freely.  One year my Dad “shook his shamrocks” for their guests–my mom had bought him a pair of shamrock boxers that year and he apparently felt the need to show them off.

My St. Patrick’s Day party was a bit simpler.  I stuck to appetizers and alcohol and it was a great time.  My sister, niece, brother, and Dad all came into town for it.  After too many glasses of wine, and surrounded by family and friends, my Dad was inspired to invite everyone at the party (including my friends) to our house in Marquette, MI for Thanksgiving.  The idea was met with a great deal of enthusiasm.  Once he sobered up, my Dad had to grapple with the reality of trying to fit our entire extended family (plus others) into our Marquette house for Thanksgiving.

His intentions were good.  Losing his wife inspired him to bring his family together for a holiday dedicated to thankfulness for what you do have.  With his parents and his older brother all gone, my Dad was the patriarch of the family, and he felt a need to unify all of us in a special celebration.  He just needed to figure out a way to make it work.

The solution was to have the celebration in DePere, WI instead.  The Kress Inn, a hotel owned by St. Norbert College where my dad works, could set up a room block with super reasonable rates.  The bar/restaurant next door, The Abbey, was closed for business during the day on Thanksgiving and the owners were willing to let my Dad rent it out for the day.  They would let us bring in our own food and cook it ourselves as long as we cleaned up and left everything as we found it.  One of their bartenders was willing to work for us.  Everything was coming together.

Thanksgiving 2003 marked the first celebration that became known as Gobblefest.  It has grown every year, peaking in 2007 with over 90 attendees.  If I could describe Gobblefest in one word, it would be welcoming.  It is not unusual for me to not know 30% of the people at my own Thanksgiving.  This is because Gobblefest is open anyone who would like to attend.  My cousin Jenna invited her in-laws one year.  Now her husband’s entire family comes.  Anyone who does not have a place to go on Thanksgiving is welcome at Gobblefest.  This is what makes it wonderful.

The celebration begins with a reception in the President’s Suite of the Kress Inn on Wednesday Night.  My Dad supplies the alcohol and people bring various snacks and appetizers to share.  This is our time to greet each other as we arrive in town and catch up.  On Thursday, my cousin Malissa and her husband Brad manage the kitchen.  They get up early to start the turkeys.  The turkey and sweet potatoes are always my dad’s contributions to the meal.  This year we had 70 pounds of turkey to feed our 90+ guests.

For most of us, Thursday starts with a 10:00 mass at the campus church.  Most of us are hung over from the night before, but we hardly mind.  The mass’ intentions are for the members of our family who have passed away, a special way for me to remember my mom on a holiday that is filled with memories of her.  The family is involved in the mass in various ways.  This year my dad did a reading, his wife Mary, my Aunt Joan and Mary’s sister Cathleen presented the gifts.

Immediately following mass, we head to the Abbey for appetizers and drinks.  Draft beer and wine is on my Dad–another one of his contributions as host of the event.  Kyle, our loyal bartender each year, is ready for us when we arrive.  Kyle makes a mean Bloody Mary–perfect for a Thanksgiving Day hangover.  The great thing about having Thanksgiving in a bar/restaurant is the range of entertainment available.  There’s a pool table, shuffleboard, video games, and of course plenty of TVs for watching the Packer game.  We bring crafts for the kids and we even set up a Wii this year.

So how do you seat and feed 90+ people?  It’s a team effort.  Everyone brings a dish to pass.  We have traditional dishes like stuffing and mashed potatoes and we always have some non-traditional stuff too.  My stepbrother’s wife, who is Chinese, prepares a Chinese dish for us every year. And I always look forward to my cousin’s homemade macaroni and cheese.

We set up several tables in a banquet room so everyone can eat together, and a bar in an adjoining room serves as a buffet.  Dinner begins with a welcome from my Dad, then we go around the room and introduce ourselves.  My Aunt Joan, my Dad’s older sister lead us in prayer this year, then table by table we helped ourselves to the delicious buffet.  The room was filled with excited chatter and laughter while we ate.

Then there’s clean-up. Somehow my cousins get their kids to head up this effort.  A group of us adults help to clear the tables, scraping dishes and piling them up for the kiddies to take them down to the kitchen to be washed.  They do a great job.  There must be some sort of bribe involved–I have never asked.

Then we go back to drinking until we decide we need a nap.  Oh, sweet glorious Thanksgiving!  Since our hotel is just steps away from The Abbey, there are no worries about drinking and driving.  After our nap we can head back to the The Abbey for more drinking and camraderie, or we can hang out at the hotel with family.  And I have to rave about The Kress Inn.  It’s a dog friendly hotel, so Steve was able to join us for the festivities.  Not having to stress about what to do with him during that time was a huge load off of our shoulders.

I am thankful for many things in my life.  This year I am giving thanks for my warm, welcoming family. 

I leave you with some excerpts from the homily from Thanksgiving mass.  It has a great message about living with a sense of gratitude which I found inspiring.

“Someone has said that there are basically two kinds of people: those who have a sense of gratitude and those who have a sense of entitlement.

For those who live out of a sense of gratitude, nothing is taken for granted.  Everything is a gift.

For those who live out of a sense of entitlement, everything is taken for granted.  Nothing is truly appreciated since they feel they are entitled to everything they have and more. 

The person with a sense of gratitude understands that they are not the center of the universe.  When something good happens to them, it is a gift to be treasured and for which they are deeply grateful.  The person with this understanding of life is grateful for their health, for their family, for their faith, for the people they meet each day.  Life is a gift and they are thankful.

 On the other hand, there are some people who look at life as if everything ought to go their way.  They are entitled to be smart, attractive, successful, wealthy.  They are entitled for all of the traffic lights to be green.  They are entitled to the biggest paycheck because they are so wonderful.  They are entitled to get their own way at work, at home, at school, in relationships.

We who were not entitled to anything were given the greatest gift of all–the gift of the Father’s love and grace.  When we center our lives on that gift of love, we see life and everything in it as a gift from God.  We celebrate this day of Thanksgiving.”

 MP