#22 Interview a Person You Admire

Sharing 365 life lessons, tips, or hacks; the things that make life easier, happier, and more productive. I hope you’ll follow along and find them helpful too.

#22

Interview a Person You Admire

The point of this suggestion is to take some time to ask questions of a person whom you deeply admire. It may be a high profile person, a town celebrity, an old teacher, an executive of your company, the pastor of your church, or it could be an elderly Aunt that you’ve never ‘really’ gotten to know.

Life Lessons

The goal is to garner information that you may not yet know about living a good life. How did they become someone worthy of admiration? What are their takeaways from their own experiences? What perspectives helped them through tough times?

When we take the time to listen – we learn. Sitting with someone with whom you’d like to emulate offers a tremendous opportunity to get into the life lesson fast lane. While their experiences are undoubtedly different than yours, the perspective and skills may be generally applicable.

Tips for Success

I’ll make the assumption that most of us will be interviewing someone who has had some success either in their professions, in their spiritual journey, or in their relationships. How did they do it? What goals did they set? What steps did they actively take to reach those goals? How did they handle the challenges? What attributes allowed them to persevere? Did they fail? What did they learn from failure?

In this era of instant gratification, I know many of us don’t want to work through all the kinks that learning presents. We want to be successful now. Knowing how others accomplished the pinnacle of the mountain you’re climbing may offer a more clear path to the top. Take the time to learn the tips and tricks they used to get there.

Lifelong Student

I don’t see this as a ‘one and done’ kind of activity. Because our lives are always changing, there will most certainly be people in our lives frequently with whom we can have these conversations. It may be a great tradition to practice annually. Choose someone in your life with potential to ‘teach’ you and invite them to lunch or dinner. Pick their brain and then record the essence of that conversation for inclusion in your own life plan. No matter where you are currently in your own journey, there is someone there you may learn from. Take the time to look around and…

Interview a person you admire.

TTAH

Listen to me on Try This at Home – a series of conversations about making life better.

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Only Darkness

“Someone I loved once gave me a box full of darkness. It took me years to understand that this too, was a gift.”
― Mary Oliver

I was a widow.  Prior to this moment I was mostly untouched by death; the very old grandmother of a childhood friend and my own grandfather that I had barely known.  One day we were talking about more babies, going to school, buying a house, and our next vacation – two weeks later I was picking out a coffin and planning funeral music. It was the most surreal experience of my life. Please people…. Pick out your own coffin!! Make your own funeral arrangements!! Do NOT let your loved ones have to do it…

How does one coffin shop?? A funeral director ushers you into a room full of them and explains the benefits of one from another. This one is particle board covered in velvet – it’s the least expensive. This one is Brazilian Cherry and lined with satin. This one has 7 layers of steel with a lead core to survive a nuclear explosion. This one has a time capsule for DNA so the body will never have to be exhumed. Are you f***ing kidding me? I want my husband back!

I left my body. I was aware of sounds and people. I was aware of where I was but I became someone else. It was as if I was back in high school, on stage, playing a part. Rocky wasn’t the velvet type… maybe Cherry… it was warm looking. I wanted him to be warm.  I saw something with a flannel interior and chose that one.

Do you have a favorite reading? Do you want someone to sing? What kind of music? When? Where? How? Who? Holy shit… shut up people. Leave me alone! My soul was screaming but my voice was deciding. He loved Journey and Little River Band – play those songs. Yes, On Eagles Wings – that’s nice… Sure, she can sing it. I floated above it all remembering our wedding night when some fool packed the car air vents with flour so that we were blasted as soon as the car was started and looked like two old people checking into the hotel. It was apparently, not… a vision of our future. I was remembering our first kiss… it was some kiss! I was remembering the sight of him holding our son for the first time… such love. So many dreams, not enough memories.

My sister-in-laws took me shopping for something to wear. I wasn’t so concerned about being stylish or fashionably chic, nor did I care about how well my purchase would fit. My primary concern was finding something that I ‘felt’ beautiful in, not for me – for Rocky. I wanted to be beautiful. I was searching for something that felt calm and comfortable yet highlighted my best features, perhaps the color of my hair. It couldn’t say happy but I was adamant that it did not shout sad. It could not be black, navy, or brown. It shouldn’t be too short or too long; the fabric not too thick or too thin. I was not sure if it should be one piece or two, and I was undecided about the sleeve. We were in hunting mode, searching for just the right thing. Eventually, I settled on a light peach linen suit and an ivory blouse with satin buttons and a round collar. It was feminine, soft, and quite respectful. It worked with my strawberry blonde hair and most importantly, it didn’t scream funeral.

I dressed up and showed up at the funeral home on the night of the private viewing. It was for family only. I did not go into the room where he was on display. I was unwilling to see my husband as a dead man (ultimately a mistake). I was told that the funeral director did a fantastic job with makeup, etc…

That’s nice ~ with a southern slur**

I was still detached. Existing on another plane where I was safe and not alone and loved.  In reality, I was surrounded by so. many. people. Rocky’s large family had all flown in. My dad and step-mom drove in along with a few other relatives. His co-workers, mom’s friends and neighbors whom we had started to know. I don’t know where Francis was… I seem to remember making a decision to keep him away from the ceremonial affairs because I didn’t want him to be negatively impacted by all the emotions, but I can’t remember who had him. I logically know many of these people loved – and still love – me. It’s just that, well – they weren’t HIM.

I got through it. We all did. Indeed – there were lots of funny stories and laughter that goes with them. There were tears – lots.

I couldn’t go back to the house where we had been a family; it was too much for my spirit. His brothers went through things so that I didn’t have to. Someone moved our stuff into storage. I kept a pair of 501 Jeans (because his butt…well, it was so HOT in them!) and I kept his Navy whites. I don’t really remember making all of those decisions and I’m sure some of them were made on my behalf, out of compassion and concern. I’m not sure any were made out of understanding; even my own. How does one understand the death of a 23 year old whose whole life was yet to be lived – or the wishes of his widow – or the lonely cries from his child? How?

I know I was not the only one struggling with these impossible questions but I was so deeply immersed in my personal loss that I was unable to really consider the experience from the perspective of his parents or siblings. It took me years if not decades to be willing to look in that direction. At some point, everyone left. Everyone went back to their own lives and I was left to face each sunrise and each sunset in a way that was unfamiliar to me; unwanted.

A friend took me to her parent’s beach house for a week. We took the kids too.  Then a week later, I went back to work because there was nothing else to do. I didn’t know how to be a widow. I was so very pissed at the world. This was NOT supposed to be my life. I thought God and I had agreed that me – as a single parent – was off the table. Rocky and I had mapped out our lives…. there was going to be three children, a house, and a career by 30. It was planned. It was imagined. If that wasn’t going to happen – what was? What was in store for me?  For our son? What did the universe want from us?

Each morning when I opened my mind – there was only darkness.

**That’s nice ~ with a southern slur** – My mother told a story about a proper southern woman who believed it completely unladylike and immoral to curse. And so, from time to time you could hear her say “That’s nice” with a gentle smile and a slight nod of her head. When asked if she ‘really’ thought it was nice?? she replied “Why no darlin’ – that’s how us Southern women say “FUCK YOU”.

Photo credit: Infomastern via Foter.com / CC BY-SA

No Coming Back

This is a continuation of the the post A Yellow Kite

In those first minutes, the blur people speak of became my reality. Life was happening all at once and had completely stopped simultaneously. I could hear the Life Flight helicopter approaching as I saw Rocky attempt to stand and Jack yelling at him to calm down. Someone had enough where-with-all to think that he was probably in shock and they were attempting to wrap him in blankets. They wouldn’t let me get close.

Where did all those people come from? We lived in the country – out in the middle of nowhere but the dirt road was lined with trucks and cars and people. The only real sound came from inside my head where screams overlapped with how? What? Shit! Oh my God! – his name on repeat between the sobs. Where was my baby? Someone had taken the children someplace and part of me didn’t care. I couldn’t think. I wanted my mother. I remember she was on the phone trying to tell me to get in the car and she would meet me at the hospital. I have no idea how I got there. I have no memory of the hour long drive. I’m pretty sure someone else drove.

As soon as I gave my name in the ER I was ushered into a private room where my mom and stepdad were waiting. They were with a doctor and I was convinced he was telling them that Rocky was dead. I buried my face in my mom’s chest as she wrapped her arms around me. I intentionally cried loud enough not to hear.  I wanted to fold into the floor, to go back to that morning, to say yes and steel five minutes of sexy time, to go even further and walk past the kite instead of buying it. I wanted to go back to anywhere but there.

He’s alive they were all saying. It’s bad but he’s alive. After minutes of deep breathing I could hear again. The doctors were trying to tell me that he’d been taken to surgery; that after electrocution, time was of the essence. He had been microwaved. They explained that the electricity entered through his hands (which were thrust up to his chest) and then exited through his feet and buttocks as he fell to the ground. The entrance wounds where the worst. They were going to have to cut away the badly burned parts if they were going to have any hope at preventing infection. I gave my permission. My parents had seen him as he came in off the chopper and told me he was conscious. One of the medics had even shared that while in flight – he had discussed his low blood pressure as being impossible since he was awake and alert (Rocky had been a Corpsman – medic – in the Navy and was headed to nursing school that fall). We all waited.

Eventually we were told that amputations had been completed on his left hand and most of his right arm. Over 80% of his body had been badly burned. He had a 90% chance of dying. Due to the massive amounts of fluid they needed to give him, we would notice swelling – extreme swelling. When I finally got to see him, sometime in the middle of the night, his head was the size of a basketball and his eyes were completely encased. He was bandaged from head to toe practically. He was on a ventilator but could hear me they said. I was simply numb. I was completely cried out. All I could do was sit there and go inside my head to that place where it was just us, where we were looking into one another’s eyes with passion and intensity and we knew that we would always be.

….

Rocky’s parents and siblings began to arrive as quickly as flights could get them there from the Mid and North West. Together we were a force that pretty much took over the Burn Unit waiting room. Everyone took shifts except me. I stayed. They tried to get me to go home but I can be pretty stubborn and I wasn’t leaving my man. Mom brought me clothes and the nurses allowed me to shower in the unit when no one was paying attention. People brought food, coffee, books, magazines, and sat with me. We laughed a lot and we cried a lot. Some people prayed. I wasn’t exactly ‘praying’. I was demanding. I was telling God what to do and when to make it happen. I was mad at God. Time continued to tick by. By Wednesday (the accident was on Sunday) it seemed that he was stable. I knew that our friends were keeping Francis and that he was safe and happy. I just really needed a night’s rest in a bed so I agreed to go home for the night – I went to moms. At 2 a.m., someone woke me because the hospital was on the line. Rocky was in respiratory distress. They had been doing blood gases every 15 minutes and they were not stable. I’d better come back. I knew it. I knew that I wasn’t supposed to leave. I knew he would know if I wasn’t there. I was pissed at everyone who tried to tell me otherwise. I didn’t care that they were trying to take care of me. I needed to take care of him and I did that by being there. To hell if I would leave again.

On Friday the swelling had gone down enough that he could open his eyes. We taped a photograph on the ceiling over his bed so that it was the first thing he saw – his wife and son. As soon as I knew he was alert they allowed me in to see him. He had the most beautiful blue eyes… they were open and looking at me.

They were not hopeful eyes. They were sad eyes. They cried soft tears that slid down each cheek and my heart slowly broke into a gazillion pieces. He was trying to talk but was still intubated. I attempted to guess his most pressing concern and started to play 20 questions but he was quickly frustrated because I would NOT go where he was going. I begged him to settle down and heal; to be strong for us; not to leave us. I begged him.

We were interrupted by nurses taking him in for debriding (removing dead tissue), which had to happen every couple of days. He was given anesthesia but I was told it was excruciatingly painful. As usual, we collected in the waiting room and allowed time to pass. It was an intensive care unit and we had become used to Code Blue announcements but your heart always skipped a beat or two when they were announced over the PA system. This time, a Unit nurse walked into the doorway of the waiting room and looked at me with silent, big, sad eyes. I lost it. I began screaming No!! No!! God No!! with my hands over my ears and my eyes closed. I put my head in my mother’s lap and refused to sit up.

Someone peeled my hands away long enough to tell me he was still alive. They had resuscitated him. He was still alive. Oh. My. God. It felt as though everything that was solid under my feet had been turned to mush. I had been hysterical, Rocky had died and then come back, it felt as though my life was completely upside down. Nothing felt real.

More hours and days passed. Doctors decided to skip the next scheduled debriding in an effort to give Rock’s body more strength. He had not regained consciousness since he coded in the OR. Actually, the neurologist suggested that he probably had sustained brain damage during the cardiac arrest and may not come back. I was in denial. It was now Monday – the 9th day. It was absolutely necessary to debride again so he was taken back into the OR. I just couldn’t stay there I couldn’t wait there again and wonder if every code called would be his. I left the floor and found myself in the chapel in another part of the hospital entirely.

I sat there in fear. I needed to beg God to save Rocky but I didn’t deserve anything from God and I knew it. I cried. “Please God, I need you, please.” I was crying harder and much louder than was appropriate for a chapel but I was alone; or so I thought. A Chaplain came and slowly sat down beside me and put a hand on my shoulder. I leaned into him until we were engaged in a full on embrace.  He was holding me and I felt as though I could have absorbed as much – if not everything – he had to give. I settled down and caught my breath. We began to talk. I shared the events of that past week and the current circumstances. I was – there – the most vulnerable I had ever – ever been. I was broken and humble and stripped of defenses. I told him about an abortion I had at the age of 19. It was my deepest, darkest, most shameful secret and I just couldn’t hold back – I had nothing left to protect myself with.

The Chaplain was compassionate and loving. He was accepting and consoling. I felt stronger when I left and headed toward the Burn Unit. As soon as I walked into the new part of the hospital I could hear my name being paged over the PA system.  I knew it. I had taken a life from God and now God had taken a life from me. I ran.

Rocky had coded again – he had let go – and there was no coming back.  My first thought…

“Who’s going to love me now?”

Notes:

I will discuss abortion in more detail in another post – THIS post is not about Pro Rights or Women’s rights – it is about my shame and my loss. Please be respectful of that if you wish to comment.

There is no rational element that I can point to today for the thoughts I had then. I am simply sharing the experience of where I was and I will ultimately share how I got to a new place.

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Hello… This is Leslyn

I’m the one on the right. On the left is my youngest beauty as she headed off to Europe for a semester of study. I am smiling because she is embarking on a phenomenal journey; the experience of a lifetime. Inside I am much more pensive. She is my baby. I know she is ready, she is adventurous and has been saving / preparing for this trip ever since she got a taste of Europe in high school on a French class trip to Paris and southern France. She has planned side trips and packed efficiently. I wanted to say “stay, move home, and never leave” but that was only a tiny voice; the one that tries to keep me tied to the past or to my fears of the unknown. I know I’ve done my job and that she is well equipped to explore the world and study hard. That’s the story of the photo…. for my first post I want to be more profound.

This entire project is a product of the universe and its recent messages to me.  It was very simply – START.

For years (and I’m sure to write more about that) I’ve been led to write. I have much to say. Not only about my life – the details and the lessons – but about what I am still unsettled about and the questions that continue to expose themselves. I’ve been afraid. For all the reasons that Elizabeth Gilbert speaks about in her recent best seller Big Magic – I’ve not started. In her book, she challenges readers to “have courage to bring forth the treasures within you”.  Shortly after completing that read I moved on to Brené Brown’s Daring Greatly for the second time but this time heard “Because true belonging only happens when we present our authentic, imperfect selves to the world, our sense of belonging can never be greater than our level of self-acceptance.”

Ok… universe I am listening!! I am ‘daring greatly’ by making the commitment to expose my thoughts, my life, and most importantly, my imperfect self for the world to see. I am somewhat unique in my counseling practice in that when it is appropriate, I share some of my personal experiences. I believe in the power of universality – knowing that we are not alone in the world or in our struggles. I feel confident that the majority of my clients experience my ‘humanness’ in a positive way and I hope that the same applies here. I have struggled with imperfection even when the intellectual part of myself could clearly see that perfection was an impossible goal.

As I thought about this blog, the perfectionist in me wanted the “perfect” name – the one that would be ‘catchy’, or draw in gazillions of readers. What in the world defines that?? How am I to know what you all want? I sat on GoDaddy for an hour entering name after name, seeking something original.  I came up with a short list and sent a text or two to my people for their input….

“I’m finally starting that blog I’ve been talking about and need a name. Here’s a list… what’s your vote?”

My people responded with different preferences. Shit. No help. Think Leslyn – Think. What feels authentic to you? What sounds catchy? I slept on it. I woke up this morning with the reminder on my heart that this blog really isn’t about anyone but me… it’s my blog – my thoughts, my life, my words. It doesn’t matter how ‘catchy’ it is….

My phone rang and as usual, I answered.  “Hi, This is Leslyn…..” That’s it! I immediately realized that the most authentic thing I have done today is answer the phone in a way that identifies me to a prospective client. That’s me. Leslyn.

I have struggled a lifetime with a name that is different from everyone else. I realized at some point in the last 30 years that it allowed me to feel different.  It’s taken me some time and some work to feel authentic with the name “Leslyn” so there it was – so incredibly obvious…. This is Leslyn. (pronounced LESS LYN)

My promise to myself and to anyone who happens to be reading is that I will be authentically me here in this space. I am ‘daring greatly’ by publishing here but I am grateful and excited that the time has come for me to experience vulnerability in this way. I hope you will walk with me.