Tattoo, or not to tattoo, that is the question.

by Joanie Butman

There seems to be a growing number of young men and women sporting large, obvious tattoos. I can’t understand why and certainly can’t be judgmental having one of my own. What I can do is testify to the fact that THEY DON’T AGE WELL! What you think might be cute now (though the size of the ones I’ve seen defy that description), look dramatically different thirty years later. They begin to resemble a Rorschach inkblot. Hard to imagine, but your body will not retain the shape or firmness of your youth. It is a fact of life, and it happens faster than you think.

Among the myriad of poor choices I’ve made in life, the decision to get a tattoo is pretty close to the top. Luckily, that decision didn’t affect anyone else except maybe my husband who has to look at it every day. The image I chose brings it even higher on the list: a lion. What was I thinking? The obvious answer: I wasn’t! You will laugh when you hear why I chose a lion. I happened to be dating a Leo at the time. I suppose once I made the decision to brand myself, that seemed as good a choice as any, and at 18 seemed perfectly logical. If you saw my boyfriend, you would understand the tattoo decision more clearly, but that’s another story for another time. It must have been divine intervention that made me choose a size and spot that wouldn’t be visible publicly. I’ve always used it as an excuse for not wearing a bikini, even though the extra twenty pounds I’ve been lugging around all my life is the more noticeable explanation.

Why does everything have to be so out in the open with this generation? Discretion is a wonderful thing. It adds mystery and allure. When you are walking down the aisle, you will probably want your guests noticing your dress without a glaring tattoo stealing center stage. When you are sitting in an interview, it is not going to work in your favor. When you are sitting on the PTA or on the soccer sidelines, it is not something you want front and center. Why? Because many people won’t look beyond it. That’s not right, but it’s a fact of life. And if there is any doubt that what you find fashionable and attractive today will be dramatically different as you age, just take a look at your parents’ yearbook photos! Or, depending on your age, maybe even your own.

Now that I am older and hopefully wiser, I’ve adopted a “no sharps” policy. Simply put: nothing painful, nothing permanent. Meaning I will use any number of beauty or diet strategies, but will never again do anything permanent or use anything sharp on my body. No surgeries, needles, electrolysis, etc. Not even the sadistic practice of pouring hot wax on your body and ripping out unwanted hair. Who in their right mind invented that process? I think it must have been used as a method of torture at some point. Regarding physical appearance, a general policy of not doing anything that can’t be easily undone might be a prudent one.

Anyway, if you are considering getting a tattoo, keep these images in mind as a guiding principle as to where you want it to be showing twenty years from now. Choose wisely!

Make Good Choices!!

 

I have been told that the term Choose Wisely! is confusing. What do you mean by that? Great question and EXACTLY what we want our audience to be asking. “What does it mean to choose wisely?” That’s the basis of the discussion we’d like to initiate.

Let me start by saying that when you were leaving the house as a teen and your mom called after you “Make good choices!” no one had to explain what she meant. Now that I have teenagers of my own and use that same line, it still doesn’t require an explanation.It is a universal warning, which we all intuitively understand. Don’t do anything stupid!! And the choices referred to were clear: drinking, getting in the car with someone who has been drinking, sex, smoking, drugs. One of our responsibilities as parents is to prepare our children to make difficult, unpopular choices. To point out that there is always a choice in every situation and to encourage them to consider the consequences of their choices before they make them.

When creating the logo, we specifically chose grey for choose and white for wisely because the grey areas in life are where the difficult choices reside. The black and white decisions don’t require much thought – discipline and self control, yes. It doesn’t take a genius to know that getting in the car with someone you know has been drinking is NOT a wise choice. Having unprotected sex is NOT a wise choice. Kids have been lectured on those kinds of choices repeatedly.

The more challenging questions arise in those grey areas, which seem to be multiplying daily. Often it is not a decision between a good choice and a bad one – just the best available one. Our Choose Wisely! project is merely an effort to provide a venue to discuss some of these choices in an effort to promote a dialogue regarding how others handle those grey areas. If we as adults struggle with the grey areas, you can imagine how confusing it must be for the upcoming generation.

The reader will have to consider for themselves what wisdom or inspiration, if any, each story provides. What speaks to one person may hold no meaning for another. The story you might think is the worst may be the one to offer clarity to someone else.

Tony Jarvis, author of With Love and Prayers, commented at a recent presentation entitled The Deepest Needs of Teens that, “Parents and other adults working with teenagers have an obligation to share the insights and answers they have discovered on their own pilgrimage.” He went on to say that our silence is a betrayal. “Sharing our mistakes and struggles is the most valuable gift we can offer to the next generation.” During his long career with children, he said, “You would be amazed how many times teenagers quote the stories their parents told them. They remember! Teenagers want to see us as people with convictions, to know what we really care about, what we value, what we live by. They want to know what we stand for.” I will share one more thought from that presentation. Tony quoted something a teenager said to him: “Don’t you adults know anything? Tell us what you think. We’re capable of sorting out what we hear.”

That is what the Choose Wisely! effort is all about. Presenting a gift of stories sharing our thoughts, beliefs, values, mistakes, struggles, victories and whatever wisdom we’ve gained through life. It all starts with our choice to share a story. That story then takes on a life of its own affecting others in ways you will never know. 

jb

Choose to Enjoy the Ride

by Joanie Butman

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Years ago I went on a trip to Texas to escort my son to camp. The trip followed a difficult winter during which I learned I had a child-size malignant tumor in my gut. I underwent surgery to remove it along with a kidney. At the time, I was so relieved to discover it wasn’t another child giving me all the agita that the full impact of the diagnosis didn’t hit me until later. This excursion was going to be a chance to relax and reflect on my experience. For ten days I traveled solo through the Lone Star State. Coming from Connecticut, the culture was as foreign to me as if I had landed in another country. The only goal I had during that trip was to ride a mechanical bull, which I did with gusto. Shortly after that ride, I discovered a lump on my side indicating a recurrent liposarcoma and was not given much hope from the medical community. You may think this morbid, but before I went in for surgery, I decided to plan my own funeral.  What can I say? I like to organize things. Trust me, you will never hold people’s attention more raptly than at your funeral. Regardless of who you are, this will be your 15 minutes of fame. On the cover of the funeral booklet I put a photo of me on the bull with this caption, “Choose to Enjoy the Ride in ALL Circumstances.” It was also part of what I chose for my headstone. Personally, this statement embodies the key to a happy life. Given the same opportunity, what legacy of wisdom would you choose to share? This was mine, and being given an extra portion of the fun gene has helped me along somewhat in that pursuit. Obviously, I haven’t had the need for the booklet yet, but that doesn’t make the statement any less powerful or the pursuit any less noble.

Sadly, since the doctors put Humpty Dumpty back together again, I can no longer enjoy riding the bull, but it doesn’t hinder the amusement I derive from watching others. Living vicariously at a recent Hoe Down brought the memory flooding back in Technicolor. I don’t know if it was the beer I regrettably consumed that evening, but when a number of people mentioned, “It’s really hard,” I couldn’t help but nod in agreement, wonder why they would expect it to be otherwise, and reflect on how similar it is to life in general. “Yes. Life IS really hard.”  Despite our best efforts to stay in control, we are constantly being thrown off the bull. The duration of our time in the saddle varies widely, but it is the willingness to pick ourselves up and get back on that defines us.  Each fall is a teaching opportunity to learn and improve life skills which help us going forward. It’s a life-long process, and if we don’t practice those skills by climbing back on, what we’ve learned will be meaningless suffering and wasted tears. Sometimes we have to be thrown off balance in order to refocus our attention.

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I’ve been told that the most successful riders lean into the bull and move with it, which prevents them from being tossed. Bribing the person at the controls has also proven quite effective. However, that does not apply in life. You can’t make deals with destiny or God. Sometimes the thing you try to hold onto the hardest – that which you value most – is the very thing you need to release, but only by getting knocked off are you forced to let go and recognize that reality. It could be children, a spouse, your career, beauty and youth, a skill or ability that brought you great joy (singer losing her voice, an athlete losing a limb, a musician losing his hearing).  Or there are times when we cling to fears and past hurts: fear of failing health, of professional failure, of loss, of embarrassment or rejection, of emotional pain or bitterness, maybe even an addiction. Whatever it is, the fact that it is taken away either liberates you or forces you in a new direction, offering an opportunity to discover something new about yourself; and, more importantly, how God can take any situation and create beauty out of the ashes, blessing us even amidst our pain.

When you lean into life’s twists and turns instead of fighting them, their power to throw you is weakened and you stay in the saddle longer. Everyone gets on the bull already knowing the result. It isn’t a matter of if, but when. So why are we so surprised when it happens in life? We need to expect challenges – no one is immune. The secret is choosing to enjoy the ride even, or especially, when life gets rough. Life is less about the destination than the journey, because the one thing I’ve learned for sure is that your original direction will rarely be your last. The destination may or may not change, but the route you take to get there will be full of twists and turns – sometimes for the better, often not – each bringing their own wisdom to either correct our path or reveal an entirely new one we didn’t even know existed. Isn’t that the challenge in climbing on the bull, to discover the amount of time you can hang on? Where would the adventure be if we already knew the answer to that question? It would take all the fun out of the competition, because by rising to that challenge we always learn something in the process.

I can attest to the fact that being tossed by the bull leaves bruises on your body and your pride – and it is in the latter where the wisdom lies. What challenge are you facing? And what about it is causing you to lose your balance and your grip? An interesting thing to consider when you find yourself on your back, dazed and wondering how you got there. Even though my “official” bull-riding days are just a distant memory, I spend as much time as anyone else being thrown by life in the most unexpected ways; but above all else, I can say with conviction, “I choose to enjoy the ride in ALL circumstances,” and why not? It’s so much more fun than the alternative. LIFE IS A WILD RIDE and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

I will share my most painful fall as an example of one of my life-defining moments. When I was in my late twenties, without warning (though in hindsight that’s really not true) my husband of six years told me he wanted a divorce. He had fallen in love with someone in his office. I was stunned, broken almost beyond repair. After a year-long, ugly divorce, one of the men in my office was given the unpleasant task of telling me that if I didn’t pull myself together, I would be adding unemployment to my long list of grievances. I can just see the three men I worked for out having a beer deciding who was going to do it, drawing straws.  It would be equivalent of volunteering to go into the lion’s den. I am sure the other two convinced Bob (with a logic that only comes with alcohol) that since I already didn’t like him, he had the least to lose, and they were right. Like a lamb being led to the slaughter, they sent him off on his mission. He was such an innocent. I would have felt sorry for him; but when you are drowning in self-pity, it is difficult to think about anyone but yourself.

As gently as anyone could deliver such a message, Bob told me I could wallow in bitterness and self-pity; but if that was my choice, I’d have to do it somewhere else as I was taking up valuable space. That conversation was one of the most precious gifts I’ve ever been given. I thought I had good reasons to dislike this man, and here he was giving me the mother of all reasons! He always made fun of me, which was a dangerous pastime teasing a bitter woman. I don’t know why I didn’t take these particular comments defensively as I did with all his jokes; perhaps because I recognized the truth in them. Or maybe it was because I desperately needed the job. I had a mortgage to pay, another failure would have been the final blow, and the loss of the support system in that office would have been my undoing. With a calm I didn’t necessarily feel at the moment, I thanked him and walked out of the office on a new course. There was no quick fix. Even with my bearings recalibrated, the healing process was slow and laborious, like turning the Titanic. It took a year or so before my joy and humor returned, and even longer to warm up to Bob. All I know is the happier I became, the funnier his jokes got. In any case, I chose to act happy before I felt it, and that’s a conscious decision. Once I made that choice, the healing began.  More often than not, you have no control over life’s jolts, but your response is always a matter of personal choice.

Bob’s comments forced me to face the hurt, which had been masked as hatred, learn from it, and either choose to get back on the bull or get out of the ring. It suddenly became so clear to me. The hurt was easier to deal with as hatred, but it had been consuming the best parts of me and destroying anything and anyone in its path. Of course, I hated Bob. He was no exception. I hated everyone, including myself. Don’t underestimate the power of the adage, “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.” I had lost my capacity to love or laugh – probably my two strongest assets. I was never a scholar or an athlete.  My SAT scores will go to the grave with me, and I am the only person I know who has ever failed gym consistently. People were my major, and I alone was ruining the only thing I had to offer, myself. It was one of the most defining moments of my life. I could either view the conversation with the scorn that had taken over my heart, or I could open myself up to God’s grace and begin an entirely new journey. I could give up my right to be angry and get even, but then I would also have to give up my new favorite pastime: fantasizing about various methods of inflicting a slow, painful death. I settled on something more sublime – a singing telegram sent to his office to the tune of Zippity Do Dah. It was all about cheating hearts and how “he’d done me wrong” – it could have been a country music hit. I guess I hadn’t totally lost my sense of humor after all. Having finally satisfied my need to have the last word and my flair for the dramatic, I then decided to refocus my energy on reinventing a new and improved version of my former self and an entirely new life.

The defining choice I made at that moment – to stop seeing myself as a victim – had a life-long impact on how I have approached every trial since. Never again did I allow myself to be a victim of my circumstances. I made a conscious decision to choose joy in all circumstances. It has served me well when facing subsequent hardships, but none more poignant than being handed a cancer diagnosis. In fact, my theme song at that time became one called I Choose.

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I never forgot the pain because it would have lost its value. There is a difference between living with pain and living in pain. Take my word for it, in both the physical and emotional sense, you can peacefully coexist with pain. Living in pain is anything but peaceful. No, I was never the same person and thank God – literally. Aside from some of the most horrendous hairdos you can imagine (and I have the photos to prove it), I was definitely at my worst physically and emotionally during that painful year. But God’s amazing grace took that ugly duckling and transformed her from the inside out. Thankfully, I found a decent hairdo; but truthfully, the beauty that people now see has nothing to do with what’s on the outside - and good thing as it is fading fast.

Did I ever reconcile with John? Not really, but I reconciled with myself. I forgave him, which freed me from the prison of my own pain and opened the door to a whole new world beyond anything I had ever imagined. I also forgave myself because no one gets to the point of divorce alone. I had to recognize what part I played in the disintegration of the marriage and relinquish my role as victim.

I’ll never know if John came to terms with his role in the divorce. He didn’t regret his choice, and in hindsight, it was the right decision for both of us though it took me years to realize it. John died in 9/11. My family and I attended his funeral even though the man we all loved died years before.

Ironically, the one person I disliked most did more for me in one conversation than all my so-called friends had during that painful year. Despite my obvious disdain for him, Bob was the only one with the courage to choose to hold up the mirror for me to see who I had become. Little did he know that choice would change both our destinies. We have now been married for over 20 years. He still teases me all the time, but the reflection I see in his loving eyes is a woman I wouldn’t have imagined all those years ago.

Do you remember that surgery I mentioned earlier? Even though it was painful, it didn’t compare to the removal of the bitterness in my soul which caused more damage than the basketball-size tumor they found in my belly. You are numb during the operation, blissfully asleep while they cut out the very thing that is threatening your survival. Following the procedure, they gently slap the side of your face prodding you back to consciousness, “It’s over. You can wake up now.” Don’t ever believe them; it’s just the beginning. I fell for that the first time, but the second time I was in no rush to wake up. I knew what was waiting for me. They call it healing pain, and it is very real physically and emotionally. No wonder so many people try to avoid it. But you can’t anesthetize yourself against the emotional pain in life though many try, and I am no exception. Healing can only be achieved through the excruciating pain of seeing what needs to be removed and going about the process of doing it, which can only be done when you are fully conscious. Both kinds of surgery leave scars, not as reminders of the pain but of the lessons we learned from reaching the other side.

There is no doubt that bulls—like life—are a wild ride, which is what makes both so much fun…but only when you choose to enjoy the ride, bumps and all.

My Darkest Hour

Guest Blogger, TMM, 79

"If you can hear me

Let me take his place some how.

See, he's not just anyone, he's my son.”

                                                                                     Mark Schultz

No mother should ever have to choose between her children. It is incomprehensible. Yet, there I was about to execute the hardest choice of my life – and one that has haunted me every day since. I believe I made the best choice available under the circumstances, but that didn’t make it any easier.  Sometimes there is no ‘good’ choice…just one that causes the least damage.

That day is burned in my memory which has managed to forget most everything else. As if the universe was sensing the mood of the day, we awoke with foreboding to menacing weather. The creepy old building loomed before us like the gloomy asylums so many movies portray, and the inclement weather did nothing to dispel the weight of what I was about to do. As bad as it was though, it couldn’t compare with the storm raging in my mind. And the dreary, dark sky was no match for the black pit of despair into which I had fallen. He was only six. How can I leave him here?

The fifth of my seven children is autistic though few even knew that term in 1959. It was clear to me early on that there was something wrong with Tom. When I brought my concerns to the doctors, they blamed it on laziness. My instincts refused to allow me to accept their “diagnosis.” He certainly wasn’t lazy – he was in constant motion. I explored the possibility that maybe he was deaf, which would explain his lack of response to external stimuli and his inability to speak. I admit there were moments when I considered on a subconscious level that Tom’s condition was some kind of cruel punishment for the sins of my youth. Even so, in my wildest dreams, I never seriously considered it would be me who was ‘diagnosed’ as the cause of Tom’s condition.

Bruno Bettleheim, the so-called autism “expert” during the 1950s and 60s was responsible for coining the phrase “Refrigerator Moms.” He used this term to describe cold, unloving mothers whose lack of affection towards their children resulted in autism. I’m sure his “theory” was responsible for irreparable damage to many like me who were convicted by his generally accepted theory that bad parenting was the cause of autism. Many years after and too late to matter, I learned that even though he claimed to be a psychiatrist, Bettelheim never even studied psychiatrics formally.

Burdened with Bettleheim’s confirmation that indeed I was to blame for Tom’s autism, I was now going to compound it exponentially by condemning my son to an institution for my crime. As much as those closest to me tried to convince me it was a matter of survival for me and my family – it still felt like abandonment. I’m his mother. I’m supposed to protect him, which was getting increasingly harder with five children ranging from 6 to 11 and another on the way.

My husband and I didn’t arrive at this decision without a lot of soul searching, hours on our knees begging for guidance, and counseling from countless individuals. We thought institutionalizing Tom was God’s answer and the direction we were being given. We were trying to be obedient while every fiber of my being was crying out “NO! This can’t be what you want!” Recently my granddaughter unknowingly captured my own thoughts at that point in time when she wrote about her mother’s cancer in one of her college essays: “How could something so wrong be right?”

The dirty, crumpled doctor who greeted us added to the sinister atmosphere of the place. His lack of compassion for us and his dismissive attitude towards Tom fueled our growing misgivings. I kept thinking, “This can’t be happening. I can’t go through with it.” The effort of walking away from my little boy took more strength and courage than I thought I was capable of. It was nearly my undoing, but I had four other children waiting at home. What I didn’t realize at the time was that I would feel the same after every visit and still do to some degree, though he seems reasonably happy where he lives now. He didn’t last long in that first place, and our instincts were correct as he almost died there.

Anyway, as we left it was only by the grace of God that I found the strength I needed then and for the months and years ahead. At that moment I was only concerned about holding it together until we got in the car. Once there, my husband broke down in tears before I had the chance. Mine needed to be put on hold just to get us through the ride home. My tears would come though, by the bucketful. Sadly, there weren’t enough tears to assuage the guilt and grief that consumed us.

I know I said that choice has haunted me for a lifetime but not necessarily in ways you would expect. We had no way of knowing it that day, but our choice to institutionalize Tom led us down roads to places and people we never imagined. We were stretched personally, financially and spiritually, but always in ways that helped us grow. Every time we were obedient, regardless of the cost and I don’t mean that monetarily, we were blessed far beyond anything we could have dared to imagine. From that moment on, our lives would never be the same; but against all logic, they were better. They weren’t without challenges and heartache, but neither are anyone else’s. The best you can hope for is to find moments of joy amongst them; and if you are really blessed, those will far outweigh the others as in our case.

That first choice led to another and another affecting Tom, my husband, myself, and also our six other children in ways only they could tell you. Each decision had different consequences for everyone involved and how they responded to them began their own stories. The ripples continue today as Tom continues to be a large part of our lives, and his situation dictates every decision we make… still leading us in unexpected ways and blessing us abundantly.

TM, 79

Going Through The Motions

by Louis J. Maresca, 85

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I was born of Catholic parents and grandparents and witnessed my mother, grandmother and aunts attend daily mass and receive communion. I went to a Catholic elementary school and a Catholic high school, which mandated weekly confession and communion as part of its curriculum. Armed with this type of background, I eventually became a lawyer and had the good fortune of marrying a woman who made me the proud father of seven children.

When I look back on my life, I find it difficult to understand how I failed to realize the real presence of God in my life. Yes, I did all the right things—attending mass and taking communion every Sunday and daily during Lent. I was careful not to miss making the nine first Fridays to ensure my getting to Heaven. The irony of all of this was I never found the time nor the inclination to pray. My prayer life consisted solely of the liturgical services that are cited above. In other words, my religion was completely compartmentalized.

At the age of thirty-eight I was invited to make a Cursillo (a spiritual retreat). My parish priest devoted three months of constant pressure to get me there, and it turned out to be the turning point of my life. For the first time, I experienced what it was like to pray. Not so much from the usual recital of the prayers I had been taught, but learning how to have a conversation with God in the same way I could converse with my wife. The three days of constant contact with nine other men at my table formed a bond that I never thought could be possible. In fact, eight of us met on a monthly basis for at least fifteen years, then on a semi-annual basis for perhaps another fifteen years. Sad to say that I am the sole survivor.

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The important thing is that it completely changed my outlook on life, giving me the impetus to reach out to people in various ministries. I cannot enumerate the countless experiences I have had with other people and the privilege of sharing the joy and sorrows of their lives, especially in the waning moments of their lives. (I became a hospice worker for many years after retiring from law.)

I am writing this at the age of eighty-five where I can be more correctly classified as a patient rather than a caregiver. But I thank God every day for a wonderful life and the gifts and opportunities that He has given me.

At the closing ceremony of my Cursillo, I was at the altar rail looking up at a priest who gave me a small cross and said “Christ is counting on you” to which I responded “and I on Him,” which is how I lived my life from that moment on.

LJM, 85