Full

Tonight is one of those night where I truly feel that my life is full to overflowing. No half-full vs. half-empty here.
It has been a good day. We got errands done as a family this morning, indulged in a trip to the Library, got some good chores done at home, and made dinner on the grill. The weather was agreeable, the temperature comfortable, the family in a good mood. With grass freshly cut we made burgers on the grill and had dinner on the porch. What a nice way to end such a nice day.

So here I sit on the porch in the fading light. I am listening to the birds singing, Connor and Drew playing in the yard, and the hum of the Spring evening. I feel full. Full of happy, full of hope, full of contentment. For a person raised to believe that life is frequently out to get you, days like this are soul healing.

Well, I am off to work out dessert for us all, though today has been awfully sweet already.

I wonder

Susie Isabel Clay- 1888

Was it a whim? Was it a long-planned for and much-anticipated outing with friends? Did she board public transit, walk through the cold Chicago streets, or get a ride with friends? How did she start her day? Did she read the paper, eat toast and coffee, indulge in a breakfast out? It was school vacation, was there a stack of papers to grade calling to her? Did she leave that stack behind to treat herself to an afternoon of fun in Chicago's newest and fanciest theater?

I don't know the answer to any of these questions. What I do know is that on December 30, 1903 Susie Clay, native of New York State found herself in the audience of the Iroquois Theater in Chicago. She was about to become a part of American history. The day, that may have started with such promise for so many was about to become the last of their lives, Susie included. They died when the Iroquois Theater, billed as "fireproof" went up in flames, killing 650 in the audience, mostly women and children on a school holiday outing to see a matinee in the City.

Susie is a mystery to me for a number of reasons and she haunts me more than any other ancestor I have uncovered. Susie is the aunt of my husband's great-grandmother. They shared a name, and I believe an affinity for each other because of it.

By the time Susie was 17 she had lost both of her parents, who had been Potato Famine survivors. I can't imagine facing life at 17 in the late 1800s as a young woman alone. She must have been feisty, a trait I admire and am drawn to. Instead of settling down and marrying a nice boy from the area, Susie became a teacher. She taught in her home area, I've seen her mentioned in teacher union information published at the time. She must have been innovative and dedicated, because she is particularly singled out for her teaching strategies.

Why she decided to move to Chicago is beyond me. Yet, in 1891 she appears in the Chicago City Directory as living alone in a boarding house. She is in her early 20s, far from home, hearth, family and friends and making her way in a new city. Susie spends the next 12 years teaching in Chicago and moving from boarding house to rental apartment. Each year her name appears in the City Directory as she determinedly continued with her independent and solitary life. No husband, no children ever appear in her life. What independence! Independence I believe it to be, I've seen pictures of her and she was lovely.

So now I find myself at the Christmas Break of 1903 (before we thought to call it Winter Break or wish Happy Holidays). For reasons known only to her she did not make the trek home to be with family. I don't know how long it had been since she had been home at all. When was the last time she saw her siblings, put flowers on her parent's graves, checked in with former students and colleagues? Did she feel lonely and at loose ends? How did she spend Christmas Eve and Christmas morning? Was the trip to the theater a mid-Winter "pick-me-up" for a homesick woman?

I can imagine the theater sounds and smells. It was so new I bet it still smelled of paint and fresh varnish. All those women and children were gathered to enjoy a matinee in Chicago's newest theater. I can hear the excited voices, mothers trying to still squirming children. The rustle of coats, the click of heels, the playbills crackling, and the frisson of anticipation in the air must have been wonderful to be a part of. I can imagine the lights going down, the last flurry of movement as everyone settled in to be amused. It was a comedy play, with a well know male lead. The laughter must have been wonderful. I can see doting mothers grinning at the delight of their children. Susie was there, I can see her as part of the crowd, with her smart clothes, and straight back.

I assume she was in the balcony, inexpensive seats, and the most dangerous. As the play moved on, none knew what was in store for them. At some point in the play, a piece of scenery came to rest against a stage light, it began to smoke, it began to flame. The audience saw what had happened and a small nervous energy ran through the crowd. The leading actor broke character and encouraged everyone to sit down and remain calm. The crowd responded and the stage hands began to lower the ASBESTOS curtain to contain the fire to the stage. The wooden bar that weighted the bottom of the curtain caught, allowing only half the curtain to fall. Someone opened a back stage door, giving the fire a blast of cold Chicago air. The fire blasted free of the stage, billowed out over the balcony, killing hundreds as they sat. Now panic would not be stopped, and everyone ran for exits. Children were trampled, doors and gates were illegally locked and bodies stacked up at them, fire escapes hadn't been built and people rushed out doors stories in the air with no ladders or stairs. The carnage is beyond imagining.

The chaos in Chicago should be easy to envision. Injured, dying and dead were transported to hospitals and morgues all over. Some by hearse, some by ambulance, some by public transit. Nobody knew where anyone was, and many were unidentifiable. There are tales of fathers losing wives and all children, entire families wiped out. One poor soul searched the city and when his daughter was found, he gathered her poor broken body and brought her home by public transit. For days the paper carried names of the injured and dead and where they could be found.

Susie had no family to worry, no husband to notice her absence. There was no person to wander the morgues and hospitals seeking her. Ultimately she was identified by a woman who identified herself as a friend. Was she a fellow teacher, a former student? What made her able to say that Susie was missing and go looking for her? How was Susie identified? By sight, by clothing, by jewelry?

Susie was sent home to New York State to be buried beside her parents. She was 34 when she died. Her life leaves so many questions for me. Was it a whim? A whim that took her to Chicago to begin with? Was she trying to start over, start at all? Why did she leave her home and her siblings to teach in Chicago and why did she find herself at the theater that day?

Susie haunts me. I feel like it is important that our family remembers this solitary, independent woman. I keep her picture nearby and look at it often, wondering about her. Someday, I hope to find a newspaper article from her hometown that might answer some of my questions. Until then, she makes me think about how seemingly innocent choices can lead to very unexpected moments in time. Imagine, she started the day a Chicago teacher out for an afternoon's amusement, and ended up a victim of America's worst theater fire EVER.

I remember you Susie, and I want to know your story. I wonder.....

Winter Weary

I never considered myself as a person that suffered from seasonal depression, but I will admit that this Winter has me on the ropes. It has been grinding cold since the beginning of December, and one snow storm after another since Christmas. I am so sick and tired of cold, snow, and frozen precipitation of any kind I could cry. I am so worn out I can't even dream of planting and gardens right now. I want to, but it seems so distant and remote.

So here is my little message to Winter- I generally like having a few days curled up by the fireplace (which is a whole other saga at my house this year), but I think we have had our fill. It would be nice if you retreated to those areas that are used to you being there year round and leave us to balmy breezes, green grass, and growing plants. I am ready for warm sun, swaying flowers, warm garden dirt and fresh vegetables.

Here I am, slogging through the snow and slush, trying to remember that this too shall pass.

Trying to Understand

My mother was adopted as an infant. This something that was never a secret. She never sought out her birth-parents for reasons of her own. After her death I found all the paperwork related to her adoption, including information about her birth parents that would have allowed me to track them down. Still, I did nothing out of respect for my mother's wishes, and for their privacy.

Many years after my mother died, I gave birth to my first son. He was born with a terrible genetic disorder that took his life at just two days old. I was devastated and terrified. This was the time that I decided I needed medical information at the least.

A bit of genealogical sleuthing quickly led me to their graves, and from there to a nephew of theirs. Contact with him, led me to contact with a cousin. Good news and bad- no known connection to medical history, but they had never had another child so who really knew? Years passed and I was able to find other distant cousins, none with direct knowledge of my birth-grandparents.

I've had my healthy son, but my curiosity remains. Recently, a distant cousin came in contact with another cousin who had a close relationship with these people I so wanted to know about. Hope sprang to life. Could I finally see their faces, hear something of the people they were?

I sent an e-mail and a Facebook friend request (ah modern life). Two long and anxious weeks have passed in silence. Deafening, heart-breaking silence. Tonight I wrote a follow up e-mail and wanted to publish it here. I know what this person is going to say (or not say) and I admit it breaks my heart. I don't think I am asking for too much, but perhaps I am wrong.

What do you think? Here is my letter, redacted to protect the innocent:

Mr. XXXXX- A couple of weeks ago I wrote to you about my birth-grandparents, Dorothy and William XXXXXXX. I have not heard from you, not have you responded to my Facebook friend request. I have to take that to mean that you wish no further contact. I will honor that wish, but please know that should you ever change your mind I would love to talk to you. Since you grew up surrounded by blood relatives, perhaps you don't understand why I would want to ask questions. Let me be plain, I loved my adoptive grandmother with all my heart. To this day I credit her with saving me from a rough family situation and allowing me to live a life I can be proud of and happy in. I can't imagine her not being in my life, I can't imagine a more perfect grandmother for me. That said, in my family my grandmother was the photographer. I am the family historian. When my grandmother passed away I inherited all of her photo albums. These were albums packed to bursting, well loved, and well worn. I can remember hours spent by her side as she turned pages and told me stories of the people in the pictures. Her relatives, my grandfather's relatives, my mother growing up, me growing up. I loved the stories and very strongly identify with that heritage and history. Since her death I have done the research to trace those family trees back as far as 1638. Though not my blood, they are my people still. Even so, as I look through those photos on occasion I will come across a photo of my mother as a child and she so resembles my son that it takes my breath away. Sometimes the same thing happens when I see a photo of myself as a child. There is a certain smile, tilt of the head, glint in the eye, even a way of curling up in a chair that tells me how much of me (and my mother) lives on in my child. This got me to thinking about how I never get that experience with my mother. Nowhere had I ever seen a photo of a relative that so looked like my mother that it amazed me. Only once in my whole life did that happen, when I saw the picture posted with the obituary of John XXXXX on oldchesterpa. He is my mother's blood uncle, but he could have been her father, older brother, grandfather. I burst into tears to see my mother's face, smile, eyes staring out at me from the computer. My husband happened upon me and he had to sit down when he saw the picture. It was stunning, humbling, and so unbelievable. I understand if you want no further contact. I respect that. I will ask one favor of you, and if you feel you can't fulfill it, I will find a way to live with your choice. I have never seen a photo of either Dorothy or William. I have gone to historical societies in the hopes of seeing a high school photo but Dorothy had no photo, and I haven't found William's yearbook yet. I know something of Dorothy exists today. In her yearbook she said she liked sports and history- my mother planned to be a gym teacher, and I am a history teacher. This scant bit of info, along with the bare facts my grandmother jotted down at the time she adopted my mother are all I have to build a person in my mind. If you could, I would love to see some photos of them- from the 1940s when they had my mother, and from later on. I would love to know something of the people they were. Were they happy? What did they do for fun? Did they seem content in life? Did they want a family in later life? Please try to understand and respect my curiosity as I am working to understand your silent request for privacy. Thank you for taking the time to read this letter. Thank for even considering my request. Whatever your decision, I'll try to understand. Respectfully Terri Hansen

Set for Self-Destruct

My recent thyroid surgery couldn't have gone any better. It was uncomplicated, over quickly, and has been relatively easy to recover from. While I was relieved to hear the word "benign" in reference to my now absent nodule, I was less please to learn it was autoimmune in nature.

Be definition, an autoimmune disorder is when your body develops an over-reactive response to things normally present in your own body. In other words, your own immune system sees your body as the enemy and goes on the attack. Talk about self-loathing behavior.

Currently, it appears that my immune system is having trouble accepting the presence of pigment in my skin, leaving me with vitiligo. I have large patches of de-pigmented "lesions" all over my body, and quite noticeably on my hands. These lesions do not tan, but will viciously burn, meaning that any time spent in the sun is fraught with stress. My skin actually stings the moment I am in the warm sun for more than just a few moments. People look at me, wipe their hands after touching me (strangers, not my friends), and I can see them wondering why I look like a calico cat. When I can, I explain, when I can't I try not to notice.

Curiously, it was the vitiligo that led me to discover my most recent self-sabotage. When researching the latest advances on vitiligo, I found out that only recently have doctors begun to believe that this has an autoimmune facet to it. The article then went on to say that if you suffer from vitiligo, you may suffer from other autoimmune disorders. A glance at the list of warning symptoms led me to have my thyroid function tested, and viola! I was indeed hypothyroid, with a large nodule, which was unclear in testing. Upon removal I got confirmation that my second autoimmune disorder had been found.

It is supremely disconcerting to know that your own immune system is out to get you. It is like hosting a self-destruct button that activates spontaneously on its own I wonder what it will take a dislike to next, what hapless part of me is in for the next attack. Up until now it has been relatively benign (there's that word again). What if it goes totally rogue and goes after an internal organ, my blood vessels, my eyes, my joints? As it is, there is a lingering question about whether the severe anemia I suffered last year might not be yet another autoimmune issue- seriously, my blood?

So how do you treat autoimmune disorders? Well, lucky me. Right now the treatments are worse than what I am living with, so the only treatment for me is healthier living and stress management. How is easy is that, right? Healthy living and stress management, huh? Well, it could be easier to live more healthy when I am not stressed about what my autoimmune system is plotting as its next target.

So here I am, set to self-destruct with no way of knowing what the countdown clock is set for. What a joy. Stupid autoimmune system doesn't know who it messed with though. Frequently I find the easiest way to deal with my stresses is more fight than flight. So I guess for stress management I am about to embark on a journey to identify my options and take on my own self-loathing, punishing autoimmune system.

I'd kick and cry but what good would it do? Time to get to work, hoping that by the end of the year I have found a way to stop the progression right where it is.

Goodbye 2010

December 31, 2010, last day of another old year. Every year I find myself in the same place, making so many of the same promises. Some I keep longer than others, rare is the promise that lasts through the next year.

I used to be pretty tough on myself about giving up, letting promises slide. Then I decided that it was ridiculous to make pie-in-the-sky promises, only to feel like a failure by February.

Nowadays I split my resolutions into groups. There are those promises that should be easy to keep- read more, weigh less, be more active. There are those promises that are harder to keep- be more organized, be kinder to myself, take better care of myself. Easy or hard, this is the time of year for promises made to yourself. The rest of the year is for keeping them.

So for this last night I will think of my promises and hope that I will be able to keep at least a few of them. Tomorrow will be the day that I have to start working on keeping them. Yep, that's the hard part.

Winter Solstice

Tonight is the longest night of the year, in a year that has been full of long nights for me. I feel like I have drifted through this year, half-asleep, half in a nightmare of poor health and unhappiness. Not the face I have shown most people, but the face I have seen when I look in the mirror.

This night I find myself contemplating the significance of a Winter Solstice, with a full moon and a total lunar eclipse. How can such a convergence be without impact? Can you not meditate on what it means when the longest night of the year becomes even darker, when the moon goes into total eclipse?

I guess I see this as a coming through a final darkness before I can shed this year of uncertainty and fear. I am tired of thinking about my health, wondering about my health, fighting with my health. I am tired of battling through. With my thyroid surgery behind me, I am looking forward to sitting through this final long night of 2010, before I can begin to see the days lengthening again. Perhaps my health and mental well being will follow, growing, lightening, and energizing as the days grow.

So, on this Winter Solstice, this longest night of the year, when the moon will be in our shadow, let me wait in the dark, contemplating the light. Let my tired, sick self be left behind in 2010 to be replaced with renewed health and energy for 2011. Let the lunar eclipse take away those things that wore me out this year. Let the dawn find me renewed and re-energized for the new year. Let my health restore as the moon will restore.

Let 2010 fade into my past, and 2011 bring happier things.