Lainie Petersen's Open Salon Blog

Why I Believe Lorraine

Mon, 4 Oct 2010 01:10:56 -0400

Outrage on Salon is nothing new. Even its most innoccuous articles attract trolls, haters, prigs, and the occasional psychotic. Clawed commenters do their best to leave their mark upon the author, particularly if she is a woman who admits to having had sex.

(The circumstances of the sex don't seem to matter.)

Knowing this, Lorraine Berry nonetheless took the plunge and re-told the story of a lover who suffered a brain aneurysm the day they met in-person.

(After a week of online courtship. Soon after they made love.)

(Sex on the first date. Get those claws ready!)

I read the story and thought it a good one. Sensitively told, it reminded me that while fiction can be crafted to offer satisfaction, real life has no such obligation, but sometimes delivers anyway.

Of course, the haters emerged. First in trickles. Then in droves. In divided camps: Some didn’t think much of Lorraine’s choice to write about her time with Yves in a public forum. Others “called bullshit” and claimed she made it all up.

(Then things got weird.)

Cary Tennis, of all people, stepped into the fray and told folks that he believed Lorraine. A friend stated that she believed Lorraine. The article’s editor explained that Salon was removing some of the ruder comments and that yes, she believed Lorraine.

For what it’s worth, I believe Lorraine.

Why?

Two things, really.

(But first a bit of background.)

In 1995, my father dropped dead while we ate lunch together at Shaw's Crab House in Chicago. His heart stopped. I had difficulty sleeping for about six months, ended up on anti-depressants for a bit, and carried a chip on my shoulder for more years than was proper.

(I still cry about it.)

Yet even in the first few horrible minutes after he lost consciousness/ in the thick of restaurant managers administering CPR/ greeting paramedics at the restaurant door/ riding in the front of the ambulance to the hospital/ getting the official word from the doctor/ telling my sobbing stepmother how much my father loved her/ I became aware of what Lorraine describes as the “privilege” of being with someone in their dying. Yes, it is often horrible. If the death is sudden, it is a shock. But it is a privilege, and one that crept into my traumatized consciousness, remaining there throughout my many years of grieving.

(Lorraine speaks of the privilege as one who knows.)

This brings me to the second reason why I believe Lorraine. Lorraine wrote of the kindness that Yves' family showed her during his short hospitalization and after his death. Salon commenters could not comprehend why a family would reach out to a stranger while grieving the loss of a family member.

(But I do.)

The suddenness of my father’s death was a shock, and watching it was traumatic, but at least I know, and those who loved my father know, what happened. More than a few times, we discussed among ourselves what could have happened. My father traveled a lot on business. He could have died in a hotel room, perhaps lying on the floor overnight until housecleaning arrived to discover his body.

We would never have known the story. We would have always wondered if he’d been afraid. If he’d tried to reach the telephone. Or became dizzy and confused minutes or hours before his heart finally gave up.

(I saw what happened. His eyes were open. He asked if I wanted dessert. He asked if I wanted some fresh fruit. Then he wasn’t there.)

(His eyes were still open.)

We know he didn’t suffer, and we know that he didn’t lose consciousness or die alone. We know the story, even though it isn’t a pleasant one to own.

Because of Lorraine, Yves family knows the story. Someone was present for him as he lost consciousness. They have a description of how he expressed his pain. They’ve been spared both the torment of not knowing and the temptation to prolong the torment by guessing at Yves story.

(Because of Lorraine they know.)

(And this is why they are grateful.)

Why Not Getting Naked (Sometimes) Matters

Thu, 13 May 2010 20:05:05 -0400

Ann Bauer's recent story about her covert escape from a marriage encounter weekend has inspired some pretty pointed comments. While some are predictably cruel and trollish, others ask this reasonable (and paraphrased) question:

"Nobody was holding you against your will. So why did you feel the need to sneak out of the hotel in which the program was held?"

I can't speak for Ms. Bauer and her husband, of course, but my suspicion is that, like many of us, they are uncomfortable with confrontation. A less dramatic, but more obvious, retreat could have resulted in a regrettable interaction with their manipulative hosts and, perhaps, other participants.

(Sometimes discretion is the better part of valor.)

The article gave me a chuckle and reminded me of an incident that occurred about 15 years ago: A friend invited me to visit her new-agey encounter group. The mixed-gender group (there were about 9 or 10 of us) met in a posh, suburban home that belonged to two of its members, a middle-aged, married couple.

The evening began with the facilitator suggesting the evening’s activity, which was as follows:

Everyone strips naked.
Each person takes a turn sitting in front of a large mirror.
After appropriate contemplation of one’s own reflection, the mirror-gazer then tells the rest of the group what s/he likes about her/his own body.

She asked what we thought of this, and for a few seconds, nobody said anything. So I spoke up: I explained that I was completely uncomfortable with her proposal, and while I did not mean to disrupt the group, I would not participate in the activity.

She looked bemused and explained that, as nudity was commonplace in this program, she didn’t think it would be a problem.

My friend apologized for not explaining this to me before the meeting.

I offered to sit in another room.

The facilitator, showing signs of agitation, pointed out that the group’s purpose was pushing personal boundaries, and that maybe I should ignore my discomfort for my own benefit.

I politely acknowledged the potential validity of her assertion. I also explained that my clothes were staying on.

One group member (and its unofficial leader) became offended and offered to drive me home if getting naked was such a problem.

Over my friend's protests, I accepted his offer.

After a bit more huffing and puffing, the group finally conceded that, in the future, members should warn guests of possible required nudity. The group also asked the facilitator to choose another, clothed activity. The meeting continued without further disruption.

In truth, I felt badly about the incident. I believe in the “when in Rome” principle, and really didn’t like the fact that my refusal to remove my clothes was such a problem.

Then something strange happened.

When the program for the evening was over, we scattered around the kitchen for snacks. Several group members came up to me and thanked me for voicing my opposition.

(Apparently, these group members, including the people who owned the house in which it met, weren’t crazy about the exercise either. They each spoke of their fear of saying anything, and again thanked me for having the “courage to stand up for myself”.)

The incident left me befuddled. I was in my mid-twenties at the time, considerably younger than the other attendees, most of who were old enough to be my parents. Why were these folks, older and wiser than me, so afraid of acknowledging that that they wanted to keep their private parts private?

(They were probably afraid of having to tangle with the group “leader”, who didn’t hesitate to express his contempt for those less enlightened than himself.)

So I while I understand the commenters who question the choices made by Ms. Bauer and her husband, I’m not going to join their chorus. Heaven knows that I became significantly less brave over the years myself, often staying silent when it was wrong to be so. So instead of telling Anne Bauer off, I am going to try and remember the girl who kept her clothes on, figure out where that courage came from, and put it good use.

It's The Water

Fri, 30 Apr 2010 15:04:16 -0400

I've lived in Oregon for two weeks now, and things have gone better than I expected. I am getting to know people in the community, finding my way around town, becoming involved with civic projects, and developing a good work routine here at home.

(I am also not the least bit homesick.)

One of the most intriguing things about my sojourn thus far is that I feel incredible: I don't get tired (even when I have to wake up earlier than usual) my skin looks so good that I am mostly avoiding foundation, and even my teeth and gums are in better shape.

(I'm wondering what all this is about.)

I attribute some of it to the air, which is generally clean. Since I am quite literally living in the woods, I'm also getting all that good oxygen from the trees and other plants.

I also give the water here a lot of credit for my well being. It is good water. Really good water.

(In fact, there's a funny story about the water.)

Before I moved up here, my landlord mentioned that the property has "well water". This caused me to enter a moderate state of panic. You see, in Chicago, where I am from, "well-water" means a nasty, sulfuric, liquid that reeks of rotten eggs. Not only do I not wish to drink (or cook with) such water, but as a tea writer, quality water is essential to my work.

I quickly informed my landlord that I would need to find a local source of filters for my filtration pitcher before I could do any tea reviews. He was accommodating, if a bit bewildered by my request.

The first night here in the cabin, I decided to brave the "well water" to quench my thirst. To my astonishment, it was the most delicious water I had ever tried. Unlike Chicago, the wells out here are deep, and this water came up through 80 feet of shale.

(Best. Tea. Water. Ever.)

(My filtration pitcher remains in its box.)

In addition to the air and the water, the lack of light pollution means that it gets properly dark at night, which probably helps me sleep better. The lack of traffic, industry and crowds means I don't get overstimulated.

Seems to me that going rural was just what the doctor ordered.

(Who knew?)

Slots and Dancing and Cannabis, Oh My!

Fri, 23 Apr 2010 18:04:23 -0400

Culture shock is often caused by little things.

For example: When I visited Hawaii, I expected palm trees, sand, and coconuts. I did not expect roosters strutting around strip-mall parking lots, flattened frogs along the side of the road, or a Dairy Queen with oxtail soup on the menu.

(Even the local McDonalds offered Portuguese sausages and guava juice at breakfast.)

Oregon is closer to Chicago than Hawaii, but I've already encountered a number of cultural differences.

I recently mentioned to my landlord that I have been known to enjoy the occasional game of video poker, and that I wouldn't mind a visit to one of the Indian casinos sometime soon. He laughed and said that I don't need to visit a casino: Most Oregon bars have video poker and slots on premises.

"Yes", I replied, "but they don't pay out, do they?"

(Many bars in Chicago have video poker machines "for entertainment purposes only", paying out only to trusted customers.)

Landlord informed me that the state lottery runs the video slot and poker concession. Oregon bar owners cheerfully, and legally, pay out to anyone who plays the machines.

(Gosh.)

Then, of course, is the whole medical marijuana thing. While users aren't supposed to light up in public places, even if they have a medical card, some folks who have the charge of "public places" are pretty tolerant folks.

(People up here apparently have better things to worry about.)

(Double gosh.)

Strange as legal gambling and decriminalized pot may be, it's the dancing that really knocked me for a loop. My landlord took me to see a friend of his, a local musician, play a show at a sports bar. As the band got going, I noticed some people getting out on the dance floor.

(The fellow in the wheelchair was the best dancer by far.)

(No, I am not kidding. He is really, really good!)

As people danced, I got an uncomfortable feeling. Like somebody was about to get in trouble. I remained tense for a few seconds, when I realized what the problem was.

I turned to my long-suffering landlord.

"Those people are dancing."

He acknowledged that this was the case.

"In Chicago, that sort of thing is illegal."

He looked shocked.

I explained that in Chicago, it is illegal to dance in a bar or restaurant unless it has the proper permit. I further explained that it is very difficult to get such a permit.

He began to laugh.

Then I began to laugh.

After he was done laughing, he proceeded to tell everyone around us that I was unused to public dancing because it is illegal in Chicago.

They all started to laugh.

(It really is very funny.)

Of course, some things that are legal back home are against the law out here. For example, pumping your own gas is a big no-no in Oregon.

(Unless you are a biker or driving a diesel truck.)

Somehow, I think I'll survive.

What Comes Around

Fri, 16 Apr 2010 02:04:02 -0400

I moved to Oregon today.

I arrived with three suitcases. The rest of my stuff is either in storage or on its way via UPS.

(It is good to be here.)

There are no direct flights to Medford, so I had a short layover in San Francisco. It took me a few minutes of wandering about the terminal to remember the last time I had been there.

(It had been two years, almost to the day.)

In the Spring of 2008, my life went to hell. Nothing was good. Nothing was right. My marriage had ended. My job was going nowhere. I lived in my sister's basement.

Earlier in the year, I attempted to drug my pain by entering a rebound relationship. The relationship was profoundly disturbed, even by rebound standards. It ended while I was in San Francisco on a business trip.

I spent the day at the airport in withdrawal. I was upset, but also strangely relieved. The cruelty of the breakup bothered me far more than the loss of the relationship. It also brought about a change in attitude. I became motivated less by fear and more by a mix of hope and anger.

(This proved to be a remarkably productive switch.)

The next two years brought huge changes: Lost a ton of weight, found a great place to live, started a new career. Then came the offer of a home in Oregon.

Today's memories brought me no pain, only a somewhat embarrassing giggle-fit. Feeling peckish, I stopped at the Chinese restaurant and ordered some duck. The cashier handed me my receipt and told me to wait for my number to be called.

(I looked at the receipt.)

(The number was 360.)

I eventually made it to Medford and then to my new home. The stars are so bright. I've never seen so many stars in my life. The frogs are singing, and tomorrow I set up my workstation and get back to work.

(I can't wait.)