Small Town Therapist on Death of a Very Dear Uncle

Patrick and sister Jane in @ 1960

As the future rolls by into the past, we all long to know what lies ahead, what we can expect. Ironically, the future can be known...by sagaciously studying the past.                                 J. Patrick McHenry from his book  A Short History of  Mexico

Uncle Patrick @ 1982

We all adored our Uncle Patrick, our mother's youngest brother. He was handsome, sophisticated, kind, multitalented and exotic to us his young nephew and nieces. We didn't get to see him very often as he lived in Mexico in the 1950's until the 1970's. He worked as a free lance artist, a bookseller and manager of Libreria Britanica. He was a soldier in WWll as an Air Corps radio man. Patrick taught at the American Institute of Cultural Relations in Mexico City.

The reason that I feel compelled to tell his story is I came across an old journal and I'd written a prose/ poem about Pat when we visited him in the assisted living facility in 1998.

Meet Patrick McHenry

All jutting bones, blue skin, stubble and a cut lip, blood on his finger tip---unaware of his hurt.

We come slowly into focus: four singing sisters, his nieces, bringing a piece of his past, we hope to jolt the Swiss Cheese that's become his brain.

So tentatively he rises up and engages each of us with his sad blueberry eyes.

Now lost in those eyes glimmered a man who:

studied at the Sorbonne, graduated in science from Northwestern University, taught himself piano and travelled extensively in Europe. 

He became an ex-patriot in Mexico:

 painted murals, met the president and wrote A Short History of Mexico, travelled all over Mexico with the American Book company. 

Pat loved what he did and who he was in Mexico, but his mother, our grandmother, fell ill, he felt compelled to return to Chicago. 

Pat lived on his own in a small apartment in Chicago:

studied Gurjieff, Buddism, returned to the Catholic Church and sang in the choir. 

In 1996 our mother remarried and moved to the Milwaukee area. Mom threw a big celebratory party and invited all the relatives from many states, old friends from Chicago area and all our cousins and us kids. 

Pat, along with his brother our Uncle Rob were planning to come to Mom's house for the celebration. Rob had flown in from California and then proceeded to lose his rental car somewhere in Chicago. Ultimately his son Mike had to fly out from California to salvage the trip and to drive his father and his Uncle to Mom's party. It was then we all noticed how drastically Pat and Rob had declined.

The march itself was like one long dreadful nightmare from which no one could awake.                                                                                                                      J Patrick McHenry from his book on Mexico about the Cortes March in 1524

There was no question, Patrick was no longer capable of living by himself. Fortuitously my mother stepped up and helped her failing brother and put Patrick in an assistant living facility in Milwaukee near to where she lived. For us, the sisters this was great because when we visited Mom we were lucky enough to have some time with Pat as well.  At the time we visited Uncle Pat, we had to remind him who we were---he almost knew. 

We picked up his stick arms and shuffle with him down the hallway as fragments of sentences would come to him. At last sister Kathleen took hold of his bony hand in hers, then haze clears and Uncle Patrick looks up and says, " the best days are hand holding days".  Tenderly we help him into the urine soaked chair in his room and bid him goodbye. As we're leaving a beautiful young Hispanic nurse comes to tend him. She smiles and says, "Mr. McHenry responds best when I speak to him in Spanish." We should have known. 

Dementia robbed him of his mind but not his kind heart or his gentlemanly demeanor. 

Our heels click on the floors like castanets as we waltz down the halls in our healthy bodies. 

That was the last time I saw him, it turned out to be the last year of his life. Soon after our visit it wasn't long before he died.

We of the vibrant minds, healthy bodies and the quickened pace, rarely brave the study of  the care worn face.

Cowards in the day time, we block off their pain--- omitting their confusion as we go on our way again. Forgetting life's frailty, back to our tentative stability, reality--- afraid to ask 'who's next'?

Patrick and sister Jane in Mexico 1960

Remember:

The best days are hand holding days.                     J. Patrick McHenry

As the future rolls by into the past, we all long to know what lies ahead, what we can expect. Ironically, the future can be known...by sagaciously studying the past.                                 J. Patrick McHenry

susansmagicfeather 2022 Susan R. Grout 

Small Town Therapist on Patience

Have patience with all things, but chiefly with yourself. Do not lose courage in considering your own imperfections but instantly set about remedying them---every day begin the task anew.             St. Francis de Sales

Embarrassing to admit but I am not known for a wealth of patience outside of my office. My poor long suffering husband! With my clients, I'm most often calm, attentive, and steadfast in my devotion to listening, not reacting. Deliberate in my comments, reflective in any suggestions I might have, I hold still and allow the thoughts and feelings of the person before me to gel prior to interruption. Don't I wish that this was true of me all the time when I'm with people in various settings and meetings. 

When I'm in a meeting with any organization, eg. Democrats, community groups working on a levy, or on a volunteer board, I become impatient if the meeting is being needlessly drawn out. Sometimes in a group meeting, people will not only belabor a point but will veer off topic and bogart the room with something that we were never supposed to be talking about. Stick to the topic people! I mutter under my breath. Then if this verbal rambling goes on too long I will interrupt and suggest we get back to the points at hand not in the kindest of words.  As I see it, the solution is readily at hand. To sum up: I become impatient and outspoken. Sigh.

victim in Pompei

One of the origins of my impatience was my profession. As a psychotherapist I not only valued my time, but the client's time as well. If someone was going over and over the same problem [which therapists referred to as 'looping'] I'd gently suggest that time was 'a-wasting'. I'd remind the client that I said at the start our working together in therapy,  I'd intervene if I thought it could be helpful. Let me just add that I rarely interrupted someone who was grieving or people who'd been abused or the ones suffering from trauma.

 

This is a flaw I've been working on for most of my adult life. Mr. G  who loves me says, "if you look up impatience in the dictionary, there's your picture". Ugh. I sadly, must admit...there is truth to that rumor. Breathe in, breathe out.

Since I've retired, what methods have I employed to help me becoming more patient person? I'm quick on my feet literally. I move quickly and accomplish tasks quickly and read quickly. Because of all the quickly, I have to stop in my tracks. First of all [when I remember to] I caution myself to breathe. I've also learned to meditate most days, This sadly, isn't a very long list of tackling a difficult subject--- I'm very much a work in progress, I have to be patient with myself.  Aren't we all works in progress? I do laugh at myself on a daily, sometimes hourly basis that helps. Why am I in such a rush out of the clinical setting even at home? Let's blame someone, [not me, please].

I was raised in a large, loving, Catholic family where there was always hurry and insistence that we do things immediately if not sooner. I, as a little girl was always a dreamy kid, the kind who looked at her shoes while walking to school. I was frequently distracted by exciting phenomena like--- puddles! I could peer at bugs in the water and rejoice in clouds above reflecting on the watery surface. This did not help me gaining ground on the awaiting school. Late! Punishments, yikes.  Being one of six kids in a family and my mother needed help, pronto. Then I worked at the family restaurant, first in the kitchen where the chef was on you if you weren't working at warp speed. Waitresses have my utmost respect as they are required by nature of their profession to hurry and then be pleasant.  I could do that as a waitress. Then I had babies who, let's face it, are not the most patient of people when they're hungry or need a diaper changed. I answered the call in spades. I believed I was supposed to. It was stunning to me that some of the mothers I knew had a more lackadaisical approach and their babies were fine without the rushing and fussing that was my style. 

Currently I have all the time in the world to be that dreamy kid but there's this underlying emphasis inside me that fears I'm going to be late! for what?  Sometimes I secretly believe that I'm not doing enough, the yearning for peace from the war within...those insecurities and anxieties that run riot in my head when things are not going smoothly. Most fortunately for me, my life is mostly calm, peaceful and hopeful.

So I'll lean on St. Francis de Sales and start each day anew with the desire to be patient with anyone I'm around, including my sometimes foolish self.

susansmagicfeather 2022 Susan R. Grout 

Small Town Therapist on Aging Well

You're only young once but you can be immature forever.            Germaine Greer

There are no old people any more, you are either wonderful for your age or dead.    Mary Poole 

It's no secret that I've aged, I live in a small town and everyone I used to consider old is now dead. Years ago at a New Year's eve party a bunch of us in our 30's and 40's were lamenting that some of the 'old timers' [who I just realized were only in their mid sixties or early seventies] were starting to die off. These people in my town were salt of the earth, kind, good people and real amusing characters. 

One of my favorite characters, Marge, was from a family that lived in our town for generations. Then, due to age, her sons and daughter moved her into a nursing home nearer to them, sadly, quite a ways away. This older woman Marge was glorious. She used to set out a chaise longue in front our local drug store, where she worked part time, adorned with her ruby red lipstick, her seasonal clothes and earrings ["it must be Christmas time if Marge has on her bells and holly"]. Marge routinely would greet everyone in town. She could play at parties a vigorous honky-tonk piano and held her nose when she laughed. Marge reminded me so much of my Grandma Florence who was fun, fun, fun. Both these gorgeous women were portly and seemingly unconcerned about the extra padding they'd acquired over the years. That just wasn't in their radar. 

Sadly most women I know are overly focused on their bodies, size, shape and limitations. Take me for example. This morning I woke up convinced I'd gained several pounds since Thanksgiving and I was stewing about it. With trepidation I hopped on the scale only to see that my weight was exactly what it always is and I hopped off smirking at my silliness. Now, if I had gained these fictious pounds I honestly would have been perturbed and a bit discouraged. Foolish but true. Would Marge or Grandma Florence ever, in their wildest dreams, be so overly concerned about a few pounds? Not on their lives. And they lived  good long lives.

Most of  the people in my generation are appalled that we have limitations with aging. When we get together we discuss these pesky aches and pains as if we deserve a refund. No! Let's sue! Rarely does the talk of gratitude enter into our discussion of being alive--- surprised we've lived so well this long.

I'm listening to Becca Levy's book Breaking the Aging Code, her research is all about how negative perceptions about aging seriously affect how we age. Ask yourself what are the first five words that come to you about aging? Are they all negative words and views? If so better change your attitude, it can definitely affect how you age. 

All those years ago the old timers didn't have the quality of life we have now and they definitely weren't obsessed with fitness. They were working too hard on making a living: farming, logging, running a business. They laughed heartily at joggers, ate mostly unprocessed food and tended to walk everywhere. The expected to age and to have fun along the way, at least most of them did.

I was surprised when I started getting old. I always thought it was one of those things that happened to someone else.  George Carlin

Imagine my surprise when I realized that the physical limitations in my case were not going to vanish without surgery. I have arthritis and it is certainly a limitation but thankfully it's not fatal. Because of it I had my first hip replaced ten years ago and that was a dandy decision. Recently I had to have my other hip replaced with hardware because it was cranky, keeping me from hiking and causing me abundant pain. Then the mirror is starting to bug and insult me. Where is that portrait of Doriana Gray now that I could use it? I'm joking because as a grandmother of four young adults how ridiculous would it be for me to obsess about lovely youthfulness when I'm surrounded by lovely youthfulness.

My pledge is to let go of that mirror that portrays me as a "citizen senior" as grandma Florence used to call herself.  A New Year's resolution is to embrace all that my future holds for the time I've got left with gratitude, hoping to grow in wisdom, generosity and kindness.

susansmagicfeather 2022 Susan R. Grout

Small Town Therapist on Keeping Secrets

What they don't know would make a library anyone would be proud of. Graffiti

History is a set of lies agreed upon by the victor.  Graffiti

Tell the truth and duck.  Finnish proverb

Being a psychotherapist in a small town led to some revelations that, of course, I couldn't reveal or react to. I'd seen a prominent wife of a man who was well regarded and respected in his church and in the community. This wife was telling me the back story--- what she and her husband were attempting to hide. This woman was in her seventies and this was her second marriage, one she'd been in for almost forty years. She brought a daughter a preteen into that marriage. They then proceeded to have several additional children. The daughter, his step child, came to her mother when she was in her twenties and confessed that the step dad had been sexually abusing her for years. The shock was profound, but she had all these other children by this man, boys as it turns out. He was supposedly a very religious man, a pillar in his church. Now, many, many years later she was still so enraged, justifiably, and needed to make a decision about whether to divorce him or wait it out. She'd been diagnosed with cancer and her time was limited. Why did she not act years and years ago? "It was because of the children" she said.  One of the decisions she was debating was whether to confide this awful truth to one of her sons. This son also lived in the community and always had contempt for her. The son regarded her as cold and uncaring, especially to his father. What a decision. She was literally eating herself up over the latest diagnosis and her desire to let go of the rage. Now at least she'd confided to another living person outside of the family. Me. So I knew, the daughter knew, and my client knew what he'd done--- the community would remain clueless. The son? 

This was not the only case I've had like that. I still hold these secrets. Have to. My client's  daughter was grown and I couldn't press charges to the authorities. I had to let go of the disgust I felt towards this man.  I'd see him in the grocery store, the library and around town and basically did my best to avoid him. Ironically he died before his wife and I don't know if she chose to tell her son of the abuse. My client died shortly thereafter. I contend that the abuse her daughter suffered had made her suffer too, year after year.

In the fundamentalist churches, not just the Catholic church, there's plenty of abuse: verbal, mental, sexual and emotional of girls and boys too. Until very recently the Mormon church was actually sponsoring and supporting abusers who had multiple wives and scads of children who were subjected to all kinds of abuse. Recently. These cases were reported to the higher ups in the Mormon church to no avail. The higher ups chose to only "counsel" the abusive fathers. Fat lot of good that did. The abuse didn't stop until the police got involved thanks to one of the brave daughters.

 One excellent film, "Spotlight" a movie presented in 2015, illustrates the facts of abuse in churches.  Although not a documentary, Spotlight is based on fact. It's about the investigative reporters who uncovered rampant pedophilia in the Catholic church in Boston by priests.  In fact the church hierarchy knew this, they had many accusations from parents. Sadly, their method of "stopping" the abuse was to transfer these offending priests to another parish. You can guess what happened in these other parishes, how many many children were the victims of the abusive priests.

Abuse doesn't stop if the abuser is informed of repercussions for his actions. There is a stunning lack of empathy the abuser has for the child victim. This is true for the male abusers, as it is resoundingly the men doing the abuse. In the almost 40 years of my work in my field of counseling, only once did I have a female perpetrator of sexual abuse of her child. Once. According to several articles I read, sadly this abuse by a female perpetrator is becoming more common. Now, 14 to 25 % of sexual abuse cases were caused by women. Is it because I couldn't see it all those years ago? I'm not sure. 

These were the most difficult secrets that I held but only a small sampling. The number of people having affairs was astonishing to me when I was starting out my counseling practice in the eighties. When I started counseling, I took a married person as a client and she dropped the bomb that she was having an affair. She innocently asked if she could bring her partner in for couples counseling. Naively I said sure, as I loved doing marriage counseling. More naively I assumed she'd inform her mate of the affair and was coming for reparation. No so! Uncomfortably I was in the untenable position of knowing about the affair that the mate knew nothing about. That happened exactly once. Then I established the rule upon first seeing a client that if they were married and wanted to do couple's counseling I wouldn't withhold secrets from the marital partner. I'd gladly keep them on if they confessed to an affair but hustle them off to couple counseling elsewhere if they were unwilling to confess. This clarification made things so much easier for me, many clients chose not to tell. So be it. I'd see them as an individual.

I also learned that people must make up their own minds about divulging their secrets. Several couples that I see around the town, who I know have had affairs---with no true confessions--- have sustained long marriages. You never know who can keep secrets and ultimately be fine with them. Also, there are some who did confess and the partner was forgiving. Not my decision. I had to let go of the dictum, "secrets will make you sick" because bless their hearts, for some individuals it's not always true. 

susansmagicfeather 2022 Susan R. Grout