After The World’s Longest Hospitalization for a Simple Knee Replacement, my son became my cheerleader.

At 9 or 10, he already understood his mother’s need for encouragement.  Years before, he had invented a silly character who pranced around the house saying, “I am an old woman. . .”.  He deployed those antics whenever his mother grew despondent.  I would sit over my paperwork in the breakfast nook, struggling not to cry.  Patrick would stretch the back of his t-shirt over his head like a nun’s veil and begin to croon, “I am an old woman. . .”.  I got the giggles every time.

The knee replacement went badly.  I never made the degree of bend that the doctor demanded before discharge.  Seven weeks after the surgery, he finally released me from the hospital, ruling that I had come as close as I ever would.  I went home to a wheelchair-bound husband and a serious, thoughtful fourth-grade son, hopeful that all would be well.  A day later, my husband got crushed by his wheelchair lift and my hopes shattered on impact.

My recuperation took a back seat as we struggled to make sense of what had happened to Dennis.  His employer, Sprint, came through for us in many ways:  Visits to the hospital; catered meals; approval of long-term disability as he tried to recover from the hypoxemic episodes which nearly killed him. Meanwhile, I faced the challenge of learning to reciprocate stair-walk with a knee that refused to cooperate and spastic legs that loathed the metal now housed within them.   I had never been great at stairs.  I took them slowly, first one foot, then the other slid beside it.  But to make the knee work, I had to bring each foot to the step above, challenging enough for spastic legs but doubly so learning to use a recalcitrant replacement joint inside resentful muscles.

Everywhere that my son and I went, he would cajole me into taking the stairs “the right way”, reciprocating, as he knew I was supposed to do.  He praised every clumsy effort.  I kept trying, inspired by his encouragement, not wanting to let him down.  Eventually, I could do it without more effort than I was willing to expand.  My physical therapist cheered.  I satisfied the last tick in her box and she, too, discharged me to continue with my normal life.

This morning, as I climbed the stairs to the gorgeous wood-clad room which sold this house to me twenty-three years ago, I remembered the agony of the hours which I spent in therapy, trying to force my right leg to behave.  A recent visitor asked me, How can you climb these stairs every day?  Why isn’t your bedroom on the first floor?  I looked around the beautiful haven of my bedroom with its cathedral ceiling, the rocking chair, my wooden thrift-store desk, and my new beautiful bathroom.  I smiled.  I can’t make sense of it for someone not living inside my soul.  I answered as well as I could:  I climb those stairs because I can.

It’s the ninth day of the twenty-ninth month of My Year Without Complaining.  Life continues.

On the wall under the new light fixture hangs an angel which my son gave me for Christmas in 2014.

Stay with me now, listen:

The thunder rolls and rumbles above my house.  Wind whips through the back door and whistles through the rooms.  The dog paces, restless.  Lightening cracks across the sky.  I stand at the sink, mindlessly washing dishes.  Something struggles to the surface of my mind.

I’m driving; the end of a long trip.  The radio plays an interview.  An actress, a game show.  “Have you ever given autographs, sat at a table and met people?”  the announcer asks.  The lilting voice, the laughter.  “Yes, yes.  It is so strange.  People come to you, excited, animated.  They have a relationship with you.”  A pause. ” And you don’t have one with them.  They say things to you that have such meaning for them.  But not for you.”

I stand and watch the rain from my front door.  The gutter needs cleaning and the water pours over it in great sheaths.  I think, I should fix that, but my brain hears the woman’s voice, over and over.  They say things to you that have such meaning for them.

But not for you.

The dog stands in the living room with an expectant look on her face.  She does not understand why I am on the porch, darkness falling around me, water blowing through the screen.  I shiver.

They have a relationship with you.  And you don’t have one with them.

Stay with me.  Stay with me.  Stay with me.

The quiet house engulfs me.  The phone has rung twice.  My son; one of my sisters.  A friend came for coffee, early, long before the storm.  Another dropped by with a bag of greens from his organic farm.   I chatted on the porch with one of the guys from next door about the vacation which he and his husband took this past week.  Then my voice fell silent.  Only my own thoughts filled the space of my hours.

Meaning.  For them.  But not for you.

I stand in the hallway, letting those words scatter on the scarred wooden floor.  Meaning.  For. You. But. Not. Them. I think about loyalty.  About eternal love.  About commitment.  About the falling away of connections.

The voice of the actress echoes around me:   “People come to you, excited, animated.  They have a relationship with you.  . . And you don’t have one with them.  They say things to you that have such meaning for them.  But not for you.”

A light breaks through the darkness.  It is the cruelest of dawns.

It is the eighth day of the twenty-ninth month of My Year Without Complaining.  Despite everything, my life and my quest for joy both continue.

I drove all the way to St. Louis to put flowers on my mother’s grave for Mother’s Day, and I have no proof that I did.

I have a picture of the flowers.  Velvety roses from my cousin Theresa Orso Smythe’s garden, which she had the prescience to bring to breakfast this morning.  My cousin-friend read my mind.  Armed with her flowers in a little jar, a disposable cemetery vase from the stash which I keep in the Prius, and my water bottle, I traipsed around Section 14 looking for the Corley plot.  Sweat seeped through my Ann Tayor t-shirt.  My silly inadequate shoes barely held my feet steady as I navigated the hillside.

I finally went back to the car and telephoned the office to see if they could give me a bit of help.  A minute or so later, a pick-up truck slid in front of the Prius and John from the front desk guided me to my parents’ headstone.

We stood gazing at the ground. Your Mom died young, he said.  I told him that she had cancer.  He nodded, replying,   I have Stage 4 myself.  We studied each other’s faces for a few minutes and I murmured something consoling.  He shrugged.  He looked back down and asked, Is that your brother?, gesturing to Stephen’s name.  Yes, I acknowledged.  He glanced his question and I replied, He killed himself.

A few more exchanges and John finally said that he would leave me to my family.  I could picture them around me, watching him walk away, down the slight incline.  I placed the flowers and started to photograph the headstone when I realized that it bore a splatter of bird droppings.  Should I brush that away first? I asked myself. And then I laughed.  You’re standing over the grave of a woman who wanted to be buried in her backyard compost pile.  I don’t think she’d be offended by bird shit.

I got the giggles and ended up with a photo of lovely red roses and the top edge of the marble, in the right-hand corner of which lies that blob of excrement.

When I left Calvary, I drove to my brother Frank’s house to deliver a pair of baseball tickets and two paintings that he had bought from the Suite 100 gallery.  My nephew Devin came bounding out of the house followed by his sister Whitney’s little girl, Naomi.  My great-niece, whom I had not seen since before she could walk.

You’re old, she observed with the keen honesty of a five-year-old.  My grandma’s old but you’re older than she is. I admitted as much.  She said, Are you my auntie?  I explained, I’m your Grandpa’s sister.  She protested, No you’re not!  I know HER!   Smart and smart!  I tried to explain that her grandfather has four sisters but I don’t think I convinced her.

How come I never see you then? she asked.  I told her, Because I live far, far away.  Her lovely eyes grew large.  I bet you live ON THE HIGHWAY,  she cried, and I laughed.

I asked her if I could take her picture and she agreed. Her uncle — the 7th grader – told her to go stand by the tree, and I snapped several shots.  Then I asked my nephew to take one of me with Naomi, and he obliged.

A few minutes later, after Naomi had climbed into the driver’s seat of my car and pretended to steer, I told them both goodbye and started west.  I briefly toyed with the temptation to drive back north and get a better photo of Mom’s grave.  But then I shrugged.  My mother would laugh and say, Oh Mary, you got the picture that matters!  Don’t beat yourself up!  Tell Theresa “thank you” for the beautiful flowers!  And hug that baby for me.  She’d glance over to the children’s burial section, just east of where she lies. And then she’d smile, and put her arms around me, and I would know that she was entirely correct.

I got the shot that counts — a photo of our next generation.  Lucy’s legacy.

It’s the evening of the seventh day of the twenty-ninth month of My Year Without Complaining.  Tomorrow we honor our Mothers.  I feel that I have done so, by my journey home.  Life continues.

After my morning court appearance, I head east to St. Louis.  I’ll check into a small north county hotel and throw my overnight bag onto a chair.  At five o’clock, I’ll present myself at a restaurant in St. Ann, where at least two or three of my siblings will be dining.

I’m going home.

I find it odd to think of the eastern edge of Missouri as home.  I have not lived there in 33 years.  In the between-time, I’ve gotten a doctoral degree; married and divorced three times; moved to another state; and returned to KC with a baby and a fear of failure.  I’ve wallowed in lust; fallen in love; and had my heart broken by one whose eyes held the glare of disgust where I had once seen eternal devotion.  I’ve given interviews, written blogs, climbed mountains, and stood on the edge of the world with my heart in my throat.

Those who share my DNA have fared somewhat better.  One sister has a twenty-year marriage to a man who thinks she walks on water.  A brother shares seven children with his college sweetheart in a three-story house which they rehabbed themselves.  Up north in Minnesota, my oldest sister has just celebrated her 37th wedding anniversary.  She learned to white-water canoe in her 50’s and spends six weeks in Guatemala each year on a medical mission, at the close of which she also works with women of the village in a cottage industry where they spin, weave, and make clothing from their own fabric. I could continue; I have six surviving siblings and they all have lives which I admire.  They have all accomplished much — degrees, children, marriages, homes, professions, and — as far as I am able to determine — happiness.

I look in the mirror and feel a bit grim.  I’ve gained some weight.  Over the winter I fell into a decline and did not exercise much.  I found myself unable to shop and cook, so rapid dining and processed frozen foods sustained me.  But I’m not complaining.  I have made it through to spring.  I  feel hopeful.  The tears hover behind the blue of my eyes but I also find myself considering the future.

It isn’t what I wanted.  But in the immortal words of Lucille Corley, “Where there is life, there is room for improvement.”  Or did I say that?  No matter.  It’s true.

It’s the sixth day of the twenty-ninth month of My Year Without Complaining.  I’m headed “home”.  Life continues.

A tenderness inside me bumps against the crazy ugliness in the world.

I see so much good around me; and so many whose pain and suffering could drag them into terrible anguish and anger but who lift themselves from the muck.  Their courage gladdens my heart and at the same time, gives me pause for a bit of self-study.  I know it’s not a competition, this life of ours, but I would lose if judged by my capacity for walking through travails without lament.

The desire to step on cobblestones and broken curbs without crying nudges me forward in the longest year in history.

Yesterday I leaned a new trick from my twenty-three-year-old secretary, Miranda Erichsen.  I’ll share it with you:  If 55,000 tries did not work, go for 55,001.

Here’s to my lunch-buddies, Miranda and Jenna, who brighten my shabby days and lighten my grumpy moods with the freshness of their outlooks.  It’s the fifth day of the twenty-ninth month in My Year Without Complaining.  I want to run away but Miranda says I can’t.  So, life continues.

Come drink coffee on my porch some day; and walk among the flowers.

My son dislikes memes — or so he has said.  He laughs at Twitter snippets, writes comedy, and hand-writes Thoreau quotes on my Mother’s Day cards, but he dislikes memes.

As for myself, I read nearly everything that passes before my eyes, from cereal boxes (when I ate cereal) to billboards. I collect book titles, potential card verses, and strings of lyrical phrases.  I adore language.

Memes speak to me in ways that often provide comfort, though such soothing might be both small and cold.  Today’s inspiration told me, “People only notice the one thing you don’t do; they overlook the four hundred things you’ve done.”  Oh man oh man! Bingo!  Exactly.  Can’t you hear it now: “You never. . .” whines your child, your spouse, your boss.  Rarely do you hear, “You always. . . .” tendered with a joyous smile.  Seldom do you hear a litany of thanks for the myriad of little lights and flowers that you’ve strewn in their paths to guide their way.

I don’t complain about ingratitude anymore though.  I found a different way to handle my dismay.  I make a silent, private list of all  that I have accomplished on behalf of the person condemning my one remission.  I close my eyes and review that list in silent contemplation.  Then I forgive myself for the single oversight; open my eyes; smile; and ask how I can help, now, in this moment, the precise second when they claim my failure has sentenced me to the eternal loss of their good regard and them to certain doom.  If they claim “too little, too late” and walk away, I smile and nod.  Later, when I wonder what happened. I tell myself, Life.  Life happened.

When someone exits from my life because I did not behave as they demanded of me, I will no longer castigate myself.  Instead, I resolve that with the next person, I will try to understand them and do what I can to meet their needs.  But if I cannot, again, I will accept myself. I will judge neither the complainer nor myself.  No matter how harshly I am judged by others, I will continue to feel good about myself provided that I honor my own values and my beliefs as to how I want to treat people.

It’s the fourth day of the twenty-ninth month of My Year Without Complaining.  I dedicate this entry to Paula Caplan, that she might believe in herself.  Mazel tov, my friend.  Life continues.

Ever since I first moved to my house, I have been receiving mail for a girl named “Michelle Corley”.

Michelle got invited to trunk showings, try-outs, and Girl Scouts.  A few years later, colleges started recruiting her.  After a suitable time, credit card companies welcomed her to the world of adulthood, attained by graduation.  Job recruiters solicited her resume.

While my own life wildly careened through trials and tribulations, Michelle became a young woman, a successful academic, and then a professional.

Today, Michelle Corley attained another pinnacle, a milestone in her path to living legacy status.

She received her first mailing from an Estate Planner.  Oh, Michelle!  You’ve done so well, they want to write your will and put your money into a trust!

I’ve come to think of Michelle as having attained everything that I aspired to accomplish.  I’ve fantasized about her credit rating, the type of car she drives, and whether she wears those three-inch girl shoes that I’ve yearned to cram on my arthritic toes.  Does she get manicures? Dine on the Plaza? To what club has she chosen to belong? What did she wear to her high school reunion?  Were the other women jealous of her spouse? Her accomplished children?

I carried today’s letter around the house before setting it on the table by the front door.  I used to put her mail out to be returned to the senders.  The letter carrier would take it away, but it would always come back.  It’s addressed to this house, after all.  For a while, I threw it away unopened; then I tried opening it and reading about the events to which Michelle got invited.  She never gets any personal mail; it’s just businesses, or schools, or financial institutions.  But she never gets bad news.  She’s never gotten a summons, or a ticket, or a thick packet of admonishments from the Internal Revenue Service.

I want her life.  She’s the girl I always wanted to be.  Only success; only good news; only people clamoring for her attention, her patronage, her presence.  This elusive girl, this Michelle:  I don’t know where or who she is, or even if she exists.  But I am more than a little jealous of her.

It’s the second day of the twenty-ninth month of My Year Without Complaining.  I’m still me. That’s okay; though some days, I’d like to be someone else.  In the meantime, life continues.

A month ago, the hardest task in my quest to live complaint-free involved not complaining about myself.  But my attitude about myself turned a couple of clicks towards true north.  Now I look around me and see people with control issues; folks who speak in judgmental language; and struggles for supremacy in every-day human interaction.  These folks challenge my resolve to use nonviolent communication and my determination to abandon complaint.

I’ve made a list of the words of judgment and control which I least like. The top five:

1. Idiot / Idiotic
2. Moron / moronic
3. “What in God’s name do you think you’re doing?”
4. “That’s got to be the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard!”
5. “I’ve just about had it with you.”

When I am exasperated, I find myself tempted to use a variation of number five.  If the feeling rises in my chest, I try to sequester myself until the urge  passes.  I don’t fool anyone, but if I can control my temper long enough to avoid an outburst, I leave room for regrouping.  If I can’t, I return to the scene of the crime and try to talk rationally afterwards, explaining that I did not mean to judge; that I had simply lost my way; and then I turn to the facts at hand and try to work through the problem.

That’s me.  That’s what I’m trying to do. But that’s not what today’s entry concerns.

Listen:  I realize the whole world has not decided to give up complaining.  Believe me, my mission would be far simpler if I had ample company.  But when I stand in the doorway of someone’s office and listen to them rant about the idiot on the other end of a slammed receiver, I long to  spin on my heel and rapidly retreat.

I’ve been that person — the person who screams on the phone, demanding redress.  Rage satisfies like alcohol: quickly and superficially.  Rage spreads like the plague.  I’ve spewed visciousness, regurgitating its putrid bile.  I understand the allure.

Like the reformed smoker, I can barely stand to be around the smell of judgment.  I gag; I want to run.  I would far prefer to practice peace in solitude than to live among the angry bearing a joyful countenance.

That dilemma confronts me today.  How do I keep moving forward in my quest to live complaint-free, when society prides itself on moral condemnation?  

I have some guidance.  Marshall Rosenberg addressed this obstacle to practicing nonviolent communication.  I greedily re-read his works. I pace in my room, my office, talking to myself, giving myself encouragement.   I listen to people explaining why we have to do things their way and understand the need behind their controlling demands.  I empathize; I’ve been that person.  I am that person.  She lives in me; I have just allowed her strengths to soothe her weaknesses; I’ve tried to calm her fears.  I understand.

But I still struggle with the faces of anger which I encounter every day.

I spent yesterday in a conference room at the Remington Nature Center in St. Joseph, Missouri, listening to Rotarians talk about being a gift to the world.  Tears rose to my eyes and nearly spilled down my cheeks when our District’s coordinator of the Shoes for Orphan Souls project led us in the roll call for each club’s contribution to this year’s campaign.  District 6040, which includes the Kansas City metro area and northern Missouri, collected 17,000 pairs of new shoes this year.  Seventeen thousand children in orphanages in Guatemala will receive a new pair of shoes.  Seventeen thousand.

I have said this before now, but I’ll repeat it:

It’s hard to be bitter when you walk with the angels.

It’s the first day of the twenty-ninth month of My Year Without Complaining.  Life continues.

120 pairs of Shoes for Orphan Souls collected by the Waldo-Brookside Rotary Club in our inaugural year of participation in the campaign.