Translating a World on the Edge

“Mama’s Love”  is not a noun with a possessive adjective preceding it.  It’s an action, one that lasts a lifetime. I know this from loving my own children. But I also know it from the love of my  mother.

I was a shy child, always I wanted my hand in the hand of my mother. And her hand was always there. Sometimes not physically–after all, I had to grow up, be courageous, lose my timidity. She helped me do that. She saw that I loved to draw and gave me art lessons. Everything I drew or painted, she was proud of and showed it off–especially to her Bridge Club, a group of ladies who ended up playing bridge together, once a week for fifty years!

But still,  the idea of  her hand in mine, and the knowledge she would be there for me, no matter what, was  pasted into my thoughts. It gave me security. SHE gave me security. She gave me confidence in myself.

And she prayed for me, and for our family and friends. I remember kneeling around her bed at night for the rosary. Many times I wanted to do something else. For those who are not Catholic, the five decades of the rosary usually end with a prayer to the Blessed Mother, “Hail Holy Queen.” But not for my mother! She went on, with prayers to St. Jude for the sick and hopeless, prayers to St. Michael for our protection, prayers to the Holy Spirit that we might have courage, and on and on. And me? I used to pray for the phone to ring!

My mother was a beautiful woman—really. She received many compliments for that, but she knew people, too.  She knew when words were just show, and when they were sincere.  “People will sometimes tell you what they think you want to hear. Use your head to determine the truth.”  Not to be taken in by everything I read or heard was another thing she passed to me.

My mother had an ability to read people. And sometimes I thought she read them a little too harshly.  She was honestly compassionate, but occasionally, she dug her heels in when it came to who I was allowed to be around, or date. My mother had standards, and in her mind, people would either accept her principles,  or –should I say?–depart from  her company—because she changed her deepest principles for no one. One more characteristic she set into me.

As far as her Faith–it  was simple. Simple,  yet astounding at times. She grew up Catholic in the Protestant South, one of only three or four Catholics in her high school. She never denied it. She never shrank from it around her Protestant, and Jewish, friends–and she had many, caring about each one.  But it was  her church she loved and was faithful to, the same little white church I grew up in. One more precious gift–my Faith.  So, thank you, Mama. You were and always will be, my Rock.

Taking someone for granted is the act of not appreciating what that person does for us. Sometimes it means ignoring a person we say we love, by thinking more about ourselves than them. And sometimes, we don’t even realize we’re doing it.

We often take our loved ones for granted. We think we’ll always have their support no matter what, so we put off, or sometimes don’t even think about, telling them how much we love them, or how grateful we are for all they do for us.

But what if someone we love dies suddenly and we’ve never taken the time to express our love and appreciation? Or what if a friend who was always there for us, moves away, or finds someone they like more? Or what if the job we gripe about every day is taken from us?

Love is not one-sided. If love is real, it is shared equally–no taking the other for granted.

I think we should remember this, too: Nothing is guaranteed. A single day can make a huge difference in our life.

Now is the time to act lovingly. Now is the time to show appreciation. Not next week, not on vacation, not even tomorrow. Now.

Showing our love and gratefulness for others not only makes them feel good, it makes us feel good, too. When we see the same love and gratefulness returned in their faces, we can be certain we are sharing the goodness of God within us.

I don’t look forward to old age. Yet I know it’s a stage   that  comes for everyone who inhabits a  long life.

My grandmother lived to be nearly one hundred.  I loved her dearly, as well as my grandfather, for all the many years I knew them. My family lived in my grandparents house until I was five years old. To say that they were influential is an understatement.  They were crucial to each of us.

My grandfather worked his way out of the Great Depression and became  Executive Vice President for the Bay Line Railroad. I’m named after him.  His name was Kenneth Shealy,  but at the railroad he was simply called Mister K.  He was a tall man with a crooked smile, like mine. He was quiet and generous to a fault.  I remember Christmas mornings in my grandparents house when porters from the Bay Line inevitably appeared at the back door with their greeting to him.  “Just wanted to wish ya’ll Merry Christmas, Mr. K.” And my grandfather would have ready in his pocket a ten dollar bill for each. Just one of many examples.

My grandmother, Ethel, could do anything–really! And she ‘ruled the roost.’ She had marvelous ‘good sense’ and compassion.  There were not many times either of my parents disputed anything she said. Both of my grandparents were readers. On their bookcase in the living room were the classics they loved. Among them were Aesop, Grimm, and Andersen; Cervantes, Dana, and Defoe;  Poe and the Bronte sisters, and an old set of encyclopedias called The Books of Knowledge.

When I see aged people, I see my grandparents in them. People who led good and caring lives. And I know that one day I will look in the mirror and see myself as old. I may even say, as I heard my grandmother say, “Oh, that can’t be me!”

There is a textured story, though, in the face of every elderly person. We cannot possibly know the intricacies of their story, but we can appreciate them for the  lives they lived. And we can hope that one day the story of our life will be appreciated, and maybe even influential, in the mirrored memory of someone we care about.

When certain people bring nothing but drama to the table…you know it’s time to let them eat by themselves.–Anonymous.

I  admit it. There’ve been times in my life when I’ve been guilty of being a “Drama Queen” and blown small things out of proportion.  Those times were most prolific when I was around ten to twelve years old. Maybe I’d returned from seeing a movie with a friend–a movie that struck us in some way. What else would two ten year olds do but play out the movie again? Her part, my part-and all the drama that went with it.  Or when I went to spend-the-night parties with a bunch of other twelve year old girls and a sad song came on the radio. Oh, how we’d hang on to each other and cry—real tears!

Thankfully, most people outgrow these things, But some don’t, so we have to limit the havoc they can wreak on our lives. We cannot sit at their table . We have to let them “eat by themselves.”

Characteristic of an adult Drama Queen is the over-reaction to minor events with excessive emotion, and obsessive behavior, that exhibits theatrical, attention-grabbing ways. The damaging theatrics of drama queens may spring from defects etched in the brain. This is the type of friend or family member, who derails a casual lunch to tell you a two-hour story about the devastating fight she had with her boyfriend, or the co-worker who constantly obsesses about how he is about to lose his job and needs your support to make it through the day.

 Trauma to Drama
What drives the drama? Childhood trauma might be a trigger in some cases. Psychiatrist Bruce Perry of the Child­Trauma Academy in Houston has found that children who experience trauma—from abuse to natural disasters—undergo changes in brain chemistry affecting regions that make them moody, oversensitive to stimulation, and unable to accurately assess certain social and environmental cues.

Childhood neglect could also be a factor, experts in the field believe. If parents or guardians habitually ignore, discount or dismiss a child’s thoughts, feelings and experiences, the child may decide that dramatic presentations—from dressing provocatively to telling stories of wild adventures or crises—are necessary to get attention.

Genes could contribute as well. Excessive behavior runs in families, according to a 2004 study led by psychiatrist John Gunderson of Harvard Medical School. Gunderson’s team found that 27 percent of the relatives of BPD patients displayed aspects of the disorder’s problematic relationship style as compared with just 17 percent of the relatives of people with other personality disorders. Shared environmental factors—say, particular parenting practices that a child learns—could play a role in this pattern, although Gunderson theorizes that as yet undiscovered genetic variations may also predispose some family members to difficulties with attachment and mood regulation.

Altered Circuitry
Whatever the roots of their personality, the brains of drama queens seem to be constructed differently from those of calmer people. In 2007 psychiatrist Emily Stern and her colleagues at Weill Cornell Medical College used functional magnetic resonance imaging to measure the brain activity of 14 healthy individuals and 16 people with BPD while they performed a task that required reacting to negative, positive and neutral words. The BPD patients displayed diminished activity in part of the brain’s prefrontal cortex that controls planning and emotional reactions when they had to inhibit a response—in this case, pressing a button—to a negative word.

This  post was based on an article by Ophelia Austin-Small in  “Scientific American.”

The following video  is  the hilarious assessment and comedic prescription for the Drama Queens in our lives.