Finding Your People

campfire-no-shadow-hi

As a self-professed Camp Geek, I’ve grown to embrace my title. There were years in my 20’s where I would try to explain the Wonder of Camp People to non-camp folk. But it is hard to explain what it is like to feel so connected to someone that you can meet them on a Friday and leave on Monday with a sneaking suspicion that you just met your best friend. In fact, I’m aware that even writing that sounds crazy, but there it is, so what can you do? It is daunting to explain what it is like to push yourself out of your comfort zone and share your fears and struggles with total strangers. You’d be surprised that it is almost easier with strangers than when your friends are in the group.

Like I said, I’ve tried to explain it to people, but I’ve mostly given up.

I turned 43 yesterday. The 40’s have been weird for me. I think that’s primarily because I got sick when I was 36 so the latter half of my 30’s was spent seeing doctors, taking drugs, gaining weight from those drugs and carting around an oxygen tank. My friends were hiking, dating and most definitely NOT going to the doctors enough to know their dogs’ names.   Now I’m in the 40’s and sans oxygen tank, way less doctor drama and I feel like I fell asleep for a few years and suddenly now I’m 43.

This afternoon I read Pamela Druckerman’s article in the New York Times What You Learn in Your 40’s (link below.) The line that resonated with me was, “By your 40s, you don’t want to be with the cool people; you want to be with your people.”

I think I might have to worship at the alter of Ms. Druckerman for a moment. You see, Friday I had 3 friends over—three Camp People—to be specific. They came over for about 20 hours. We are Camp People after all, there needed to be sleeping bags. And after the pleasantries of “How was your day?” and “How’s work?” we shifted gears and got down to business. We’d planned a number of activities, fun, sharing and deep to be Camp People together.

Just as a joke and for the sake of tradition we started with a name game.

Me: Ok, we all know them, who has a name game? (keep in mind, we all know each other’s names)

K: I’ve got one. Ok…we’re all on a ship together. My name is K and I’m going to bring a……

It went on from there. I lit up a little. Where else could I say, “Who has a name game?” and have the group effortlessly flow into the activity?

We shared the last photo we’d taken on our phones and the story behind it. We shared the song on our phone we are currently most obsessed with. We shared the photo we are currently obsessed with. We were easing into this—light and breezy—every good cabin session needs to start like this. Low risk.

We went on from there, answering questions, laughing and accumulating inside jokes on the carpet and couch. Just like camp, suddenly the phrase Schmidt Fingers made us all giggle like kids and sent K into a mock-band intro, “Let’s give it up for Schmidt Fingers!” Or when asked why farts smell (it was one of the questions in the box) somehow the phrase Poop Toxins—also an excellent name for a band—came into the conversation and we referenced it repeatedly.

And in the accumulated stories and sharings, there was the activity of sharing a memory, not as the way it occurred but as how you WISH it happened. Memories were shared but tweaked. Other memories of things that never happened were shared as if they had happened. The energy of the room shifted into serious and quiet.

It was an excellent way to start a birthday weekend.

And when I think of these people, ages 24, 32. 39 and 43. I think of how we are a varied group of women. Various levels of education, varying life experience, various families etc. We are still Camp People. It is our common language.

Druckerman is right. “By your 40s, you don’t want to be with the cool people; you want to be with your people.”

Here’s to finding your people.

Link to Druckerman’s article

http://www.nytimes.com/2014/03/01/opinion/sunday/what-you-learn-in-your-40s.html?WT.mc_id=2015-Q1-KWP-AUD_DEV-0101-0331&WT.mc_ev=click&bicmp=AD&bicmlukp=WT.mc_id&bicmst=1420088400&bicmet=1451624400&ad-keywords=AUDDEVMAR&kwp_0=10646

Advertisements

Confessions from a Camp Counselor

IMG_1898

I have a confession. I am a memory hoarder. I collect meaningful experiences, stacking them in corners, hiding in special wooden boxes, folding them in books and framing them. It is the thankless job of the sentimental. It is the savoring of the moment.

I blame 19 years of camp for making me this way. You can’t write “warm fuzzies”—epic kind notes delivered to your friends at mealtimes—for that many years without attaching some meaning to them. They were sometimes funny, sometimes colorful but mostly spontaneous outbursts of affection and caring.

“I think you’re wonderful! I’m so glad we’re friends!”

Warm fuzzies are like helium balloons. From the outside they are small, silly looking bits of nothing important, but when they’re filled inside, they elevate. I remember an early warm fuzzy, when I was starting as a counselor, that I got from my camper Erin. She was 14 and had opened up to me about her detachment from her dad. Inside the carefully folded 8 ½ by 11 lined notebook paper she wrote,

“You are one of the top best things that has ever happened to me.”

And the words, like helium, began their lifting. I was never the same.

In the theater, they talk about being bitten by the acting bug.   Camp has our version of that. It is an addiction to the real, unbridled embracing of your authentic self and a desire to see each other’s “real” selves. It is wanting to illuminate their greatness so they see it. All I wanted to do was to influence people like that for as long as humanly possible.

Some days I’m just not as cool as I would like to be…a patient’s guide.

I’ve been poked, prodded, xrayed, cat scanned, operated on, radiated, examined and infused. I am guinea pig. I am a patient.

Once a month I spend a couple hours sitting in a foam green reclining chair having an immunosuppressant shot through my veins. The nurses find a vein, we both hope for a one-poke success rate and we get to the business of giving me a—wait for it—$14,000 medication in a small baggy the size of a sandwich Ziploc.   Like having a Hyundai for your veins. It chills me a little so I take advantage of the warm blankets they have, open some carefully chosen snacks and entertain myself for the next 2 hours.

Sometime a close friend comes. A small, selective group of individuals have been allowed to observe this, to be welcomed into that part of my life. I like it when they come.   I like pulling back the curtain on that part of my life. It is the part they have only heard me reference in conversation. I like when they hear one of the nurses walk by and yell, “Hey Hot Pants!” to me.

Today I was solo. Solitude in the hospital is often interrupted by bells in the hallways, nurses conversations at the stations outside my room door and the alarm bells that go off on the IV machine’s mechanics. That’ll give you a jolt. When people say, “I’m so sorry you have to do that.” I point out that I get to sit quietly in a chair for 2 hours and pretty much not move.

Forced Be Still time.

And then there are days like today.

Have you ever wondered what it would be like to have someone ram a bar of soap under the surface of your forearm? Ever wondered what it would feel like to notice that your wrist was suddenly aching more than the typical irritation of where the IV goes in? I know.

I pulled the gauze and tape back, trying to get the tug and pull on my skin to ease, hoping that would help the ache. When I pulled it back, there sat a lump on my forearm, right near my wrist. It was the size of a bar of soap. My eyes bugged and seen it been there me quickly turned to freaked out me.

I grabbed the button to call the nurses and pressed, hearing the beep start outside my door. 2 nurses came in and saw the enormous lump on my arm. They seemed unfazed by it, calling it an infiltration and explaining that the medication apparently had escaped my veins and was now making the lump in my arm. Did they not see the grotesque bulge? Would it have killed them to summon some horror or gasp at the weirdness? Something? Something to act like it was a little bit worthy of a small freak out?

Next time I’m going to heed the self-help books and ask for what I need. It will sound something like this, “Nurse…I need you to say, ‘Holy crap, that’s a biggie. No wonder you panicked and knocked the empty Coke can off the chair’s tray. Let’s just put some heat on that and give it some time to go down.’”

Either that or they could have opened with, “That is an alien baby inside there so we’re going to need you to put this heat on it to make the birth easier.”

I should have known better

I should have known better. I saw “Breast Cancer” on the caller I.D. when I picked up my landline—the line only my parents and telemarketers use. I pushed talk. I should have known better. We beat ourselves up for should have known better.

A pause before the caller picked up—a surefire sign of a telemarketer—“You are a tough lady to reach!” My eyebrows knit together, do I know her? She is perky.

“I’m calling for the Breast Cancer something something.”  I think of Debby. “We provide services for women who are dealing with breast cancer.”  I think of Cheri. “Can I put a postcard in the mail and see if you can donate a little something to help us out?” She sounds too damn perky to be calling me about cancer.

“You can put it in the mail and I’ll look at it and see what extra I have after my other donations.” I answer, terse. I’m suspect that she’s some random charity. I’m not sure if I have donated to them before. I think of Meagan. I think of Hannah and how my latest cancer donation body part is pancreatic.

“Aren’t you an angel!” She cheers, sweetness dripping from her lips, through the landline and all over my sudden and involuntary mourning. I can’t even stop to tell her to take me off her list. I can’t stop to tell her just send the damn thing. I can’t stop to tell her to tone done the syrup. I pull the phone away from my ear and click END.

I’m swamped with guilt. She was just doing her job. I have tears in my eyes.   I want to apologize without having to talk to her. I want to say, “It’s not that I don’t want to give you money. My friends just keep dying.”

IMG_2266