Amy Lu's View

I’ve never enjoyed waking up. Even under the best of circumstances, I find it hard to leave the comfort of bed to start my day. Of course waking up is even harder if it’s cold or early or I haven’t slept well or I’m hungover—which of course never happens. (Waking up is even worse when you aren’t even actually asleep because for whatever reason you woke up in the middle of the night and can’t get back to sleep but that’s a topic/rant for another day).

I don’t like waking up, but I did have a wonderful experience recently participating in a collection of one-acts called “Wake-Up Calls.” I played two very different characters in two very different plays who received two very different wake-up calls. Ophelia, (yes, that Ophelia, in a “Hamlet” excerpt) got a metaphorical call from Hamlet telling her to “Get Thee to a nunnery” or, in other words, “Get the hell out of my life.” My other character, Marie, received a wake-up call in the piece “Feathers” when her adult daughter literally sprouted wings and flew away.

The Wikipedia defines a wake-up call as “…a sign or warning that alerts one to negative or dangerous behavior or circumstances.” It defines the call itself, but not the response to it. Being in the production of “Wake-up Calls” inspired me to think about wake-up calls and I realized that I always assumed the response to a wake-up call was proactive and postive.

But of course that’s not always the case. To take an extreme example, Ophelia reacted in a spectatularly bad way (suicide) to realizing that all was not quite right in Ophelia-Hamletville.

I’m not sure how Marie reacted her to wake-up call, as the short plays ends before the audience learns what she does next. I like to think she’s stirred out of her middle-aged routine, and realizes there’s still some excitement and adventure possible for herself and her husband (coveniently played by Chad). My “favorite” line from “Feathers”: “We’re not old, but we are too old to fly away. At least with her.”—So fly away without her, Marie! Choose your own direction!

(Okay, the portion of this post where I attempt to give life advice to the imaginary characters that inhabit my head space has now conluded).

So how do I react to wake-up calls? If I’m honest, I think I mostly hit snooze or ignore them all together.

I have had some major wake-up calls in my life, most notably when my mom died, and, in typical middle-aged lady fashion, my own health scares (vertigo, potential heart-weirdness). But these wake-up calls were almost too big to be meaningful. Yes, yes, I realized that life is short and I should be more appreciative and grateful, etc., etc,, but that is so hard to put into practice on a daily basis.

So maybe more focused wake-up calls are more effective. Such as, when the checkout girl at Target asks me if frozen Weight Watcher meals are really “that good,” does that mean I should reconsider how many I buy and eat?

Maybe I expect too much from wake-up calls. Maybe they aren’t just one-time course corrections. Afterall, I have to reset my alarm every night, because I keep going back to sleep (or at least, bed). Maybe wake-up calls function more like that little floating guy in MarioKart who floats in front of you with a flag and a pissed-off look on his face to let you know you’re going the wrong way.

I’d also like to make the case for positive wake-up calls. As in, “Hey, look at this awesome thing this person is experiencing or doing, maybe you can do that, too.” I think that’s the type of wake-up call Marie gets in “Feathers.” No, she probably can’t fly off with her daughter, but that doesn’t mean she can’t experience her own flight. A different take on schadenfreude, where we’re inspired by others’ happiness and success rather than delighting in their dumbassery.

I don’t want to contradict the Wikipedia, but I think wake-up calls can also alert us not just of a problem but that things are actually pretty damn good and we need to stop taking them for granted.

Perhaps, as I get older, I’ll stop hitting the Snooze button as often because I realize I have less time left to sleep in.

Or, more accurately, I don’t have an actual snooze button to hit because we use our smart speaker, Alexa, as our alarm, and I keep forgetting the command and yell “Pause” at her.

I didn’t expect Sarah Silverman to break open my heart.

Chad and I were expecting, and hoping, that we would watch an episode of her comedy series “I Love You America” as a way to unwind before going to bed. We thought we’d watch something short and funny and not too stressful.

Perhaps we should have known better. We’ve often found “I Love You America” to be thought-provoking, poignant, inspiring, and cringe-inducing. Funny, yes, but not necessarily the light entertainment we were looking for.

Still,  how could we know that the episode Chad picked as our light pre-sleep entertainment (originally aired 11/2/17) would include a segment about Sarah writing and singing a heart-wrenching song about her dead mom?

The timing did seem appropriate, though. It was recently the 18th anniversary of my mom’s death (October 22, 2000). My mom’s absence is always a thread running through my life, but milestones such as this anniversary make her death more of a conscious fact.

I’d also been thinking about my mom more than usual lately because of the recent death of one of her friends. I was fortunate enough to be able to attend the funeral in my “hometown” (at least where I went to high school, I grew up in the country, not even an actual town) so got to reconnect with dear old friends and visit my old stomping grounds.

I even drove by the house where I grew up.  I didn’t stop (didn’t want to scare the people currently living there), but I think this was the first time I’ve been by childhood/young adult home without sobbing. Maybe I did’t cry, because, to quote another song, “I’m finally getting over the sad part of yesterday” (from “Angry Words” by Willy Porter). Or maybe because the house looks so different now, much snazzier than it’s final days of being a Luedtke homestead.

I also made a quick stop at the cemetery where my parents are buried, which is only about a mile from the ancestral homestead. I almost felt like I had to, even though my parents’ graves aren’t that emotionally-laden for me. I don’t think there is any part of them there, or anywhere, besides in me and those who loved them and were loved by them. If fact, I think that was the first time I’ve seen my dad’s grave. I was most stressed by the logistics of trying to find their graves, as it was chilly day and I was, of course, running late.

Um, I think mom would be annoyed that dad’s photo is bigger…

Gordon was a swell guy.

So yeah, an emotional and surreal weekend. And then, just about a week later, Sarah Silverman made me feel all kinds of primal and unexpected feels with her song, “Somebody Broke Her.”

You can watch the segment, and hear the song, (and DAMN, Sarah Silverman actually does an awesome job singing!) here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rNejAln3xDw/.

I’m a little sad that no one has posted the lyrics to this song, but there is no way I’m up to watching it again in the near future. So I’m just going to rely on my memory. In a way that’s good, because I didn’t want to get too lost in applying the lyrics literally to my mom’s life. I’m sure my mom was very different than Sarah Silverman’s and our experiences of loss are very different, but the song felt achingly true.

What really affected me and felt like “TRUTH” was Sarah singing about having strength because of her mom’s vulnerability. Because somebody broke Sarah’s mom, Sarah got stronger.

Hearing this song made me think of yet another song, “Killing Me Softly.” Sarah was “strumming my pain with her fingers, singing my life with her words…Killing me softly with her song” (those lyrics are widely available on the internet, I just changed gender).

I don’t know what this all means…I miss my mom. I miss my childhood home. I wish my mom had experienced a happier, easier life, and I’m thankful for all the gifts she gave me. I sometimes feel quite broken and wonder if I should face that more, but I’m mostly thankful for the strength, real of faked, that gets me through everything from grief to self-doubt to a lack of vegetarian options when I’m eating out.

Merriam-Webster offers 41 synonyms for “loony.” My favorite of those are: asinine, kooky, wacky, unwise and zany.

I’m interested in the meaning of “loony” because Chad and I recently did the Twin Cities in Motion “Ultra Loony Challenge.” This involved running a 10K and a 5K on Saturday, October 6, and then running the marathon (26.2) miles the next day, Sunday, October 7.

Why did we do this? I wish I could say we had an inspiring and coherent reason that involved wanting to undertake a new physical and spiritual challenge. Or at least an entertatining reason such as we signed up for it after too much wine and/or boubon. Or maybe we lost a bet.

But I think we did it for the vest. And, spoiler alert, it’s a damn fine vest. We both successfully completed the challenge and received “Ultra Loony” vests and it’s so awesome that I think I’ve worn it every day since the marathon (this from the woman whose husband once told her, “Not every outfit needs to be a catsuit.”)

Not only did we earn The-Vest-of-Most-Awesomeness, we both won our age/sex group for the Ultra Loony Challenge (our time for all three races added together). Okay, this is not an actual official award, but we can see from the official results that Chad was the top finisher for males 45-49 and I was the top finisher for females of that age group (you can verify our claims here: https://www.mtecresults.com/race/show/7061/2018_TC_10K-TC_Ultra_Loony). Yes, philosophers of the ages may debate if a tree that falls alone in the forest makes a sound, but middle-aged runners that win an award that doesn’t actually exist will definitely make a sound. Thank you, Facebook!

We may have also signed up for the Ultra Loony because of our schedule and our habit of doing a challenger series. For several years we’ve done series that have included doing shorter races throughout the year, but this time we couldn’t because we were going to be on vacation for the Valentine’s Day 5K.

Honestly, we signed up so long ago that I really don’t know what we were thinking. I guess we were just being “wacky” and “zany.”

Our lives were so busy leading up to the Marathon, that I kept forgetting we were doing the 10K and 5K on Saturday, too. When I did remember, it would be “Oh sh#t, we’re doing that.” And I would think, “How asinine was I to sign myself up for this?”

All three races added up to running a little over 35 miles (35.52057) in two days. I wasn’t so worried about the distance as much as the logistics of getting to races (that is, getting up early, before 5:30) on two consecutive days. Honestly, if races started around 9:00 a.m. and left a block from my house, I would run way more of them. But dragging my ass out of bed two days in a row wasn’t too awful, especially since we spent most of Saturday afternoon napping/dozing while listening to MPR. And, so we don’t sound too lame/sensible, most of post-marathon Sunday drinking.  

I was also worried about the half hour or so I would have to wait between the 10K and 5K and freezing my ass off. And turns out, that did suck and was the worst part of the challenge series.

We tried very hard to be smart and to run Saturday’s races relatively slowly so as not to wear ourselves out or injure ourselves before the marathon. And this controlled approach was HARD, in the midst of race excitement/competiveness and a cold day and wanting to finish and get the hell home (to our waiting naps and MPR). I think we did a pretty good job, although we were both worried because we were a little sore after Saturday’s races. This was probably, at least in part, just due to being overly concerned about and sensitive to how our legs were feeling.

I was also worried about carbo-loading. SO MUCH SCIENCE! I really had no idea, and still don’t, if the Saturday races would/did delete our carb stores to the extent that it had a negative effect on our marathon endeavors. We just tried to eat as much low-fat carbs as we could, when we weren’t napping, on Saturday.

So the big question is: “Did running the 10K and 5K the day before the Marathon affect our Marathon performance?” Since we’ve never done the Ultra Loony Challenge before, that’s hard to answer. We both did well with the marathon so I’m going to say: not too much.

Ah, the Twin Cities Marathon 2018. Chad totally kicked ass and got an overall Marathon Personal Record (PR) finishing in 3 hours, 34 minutes, and 3 seconds.

I was really happy with my time (4:03:55), too. It wasn’t a PR, but I did shave over 12 minutes off my first Twin Cities Marathon, so I can claim it as a TC Marathon PR. I’ve only done three marathons total, and the Grandma’s Marathon in June was my PR with a time of 4:02:48. But I think (and Chad agrees) that Grandma’s is an easier course.

Aside from the context of the Ultra Loony Series, what was the experience of running TC Marathon 2018 like? In most ways I was less nervous going into it because I had two marathons under my belt. I knew I could finish, and was even pretty confident I could finish faster than my first marathon. There was a bit of self-induced pressure to finish faster than Grandma’s but I tried not to get too wrapped up in that. And I just didn’t really have time to be that nervous before the Marathon.

I tried harder to enjoy the experience and appreciate the little things, especially the beautiful fall colors of the trees. And most importantly, the amazing spectators. I knew from the first year they were impressive, but once again, I was moved, inspired and entertained by all the folks who came out to cheer us on. Yes, most of them were there specifically to cheer on friends and family that were NOT me, but they still cheered for random strangers like me. Some even yelled my name (it was printed on my bib, and it’s short and easy to read. Thanks Mom, who had no idea she was giving me a name that was good for races! After two kids with relatively long names she just wanted something that would be easy to teach me to spell). The spectators kept me engaged (boredom is my great mind-killer during long distance running) and motivated.

And then, just past Mile 20 (the dreaded “Wall”, although Mile 22 is my true wall) I was cheered on by members of my Facebook TC First-Time Marathoners Class of 2017. I can’t even…my heart is full of so much gratitude and fondness for these people. I know there are many problems with Facebook but this group is so amazing. Starting at Mile 18 I kept thinking about how I had to kick it up a notch to look lively for them. They may have slightly slowed me down by causing me to shed a few tears of appreciation after I passed them, but that’s a price I was willing to pay.

I finished the marathon feeling better (or at least less nauseous) than I did after Grandma’s but perhaps a little more tired than I did after my first TC Marathon. Stategy-wise, I may have failed a bit on dehyration and fueling since I didn’t consume nearly as much as on my two other marathons. But it was cooler and hey, I didn’t feel sick/dehydrated (not until after the celebrations, that is).

And the weather! So thankful that it was dry and cool, especially given all the weather craziness (dare I saw “looniness”?) leading up to (including Chad having heat exhaustion during a training run just three weeks prior to the marathon) and since the marathon (hello, nonstop rain).

It was so nice to be dry and cozy after the race, which leads me to the best possible thing of all marathons: the Tent of Bliss and Joy (okay, not the official name) for people (asinine, kooky, wacky, unwise and zany people) who finished a challenge series. The Challenger Series Finishers tent was HEATED! and had food! One of the women serving food said she could see my smile of disbelieving joy when I entered the tent. And, this tent was a new feature this year offered to all series challengers (not just Ultra Stupid, I mean, Loony, ones) so we may get to experience it in the future even if we aren’t quite as asinine (yes, I do just really, really like this word).

So, to quote the ever-wise “Buffy the Vampire Slayer,” “Where do we go from here?” Once again I’m trying hard to be very sensible until I am truly, fully recovered from the marathon/Ultra Loony Challenge and have not only healed all my muscles, but have flushed all the endorphins, alcohol, carbs, emotions, etc., from my body, heart and soul before making any decisions or commitments.

I’ll just continue to cozy up in my Ultra Loony Challenge vest. And just ask me…there is NO statute of limitations for seeing my medals.

In just about every show I’ve been in, the character I’ve played has had some striking lines that are interesting, quirky, funny, moving or wise (or some combination).

I’ve often wanted to share these lines in advance of performances, but I’ve worried about giving away too much of the plot or that the lines will be confusing out of context.

But I’m willing to take these chances with the upcoming show I’m in, “The Shadow Box” (playing September 27-30 at Dreamland Arts in St. Paul). My character, Felicity, doesn’t have a lot of lines (which sadly, does not mean I have all of  mine down cold yet) but many of them are doozies.

And yes, this is a publicity ploy…I’m hoping your interest will be piqued by seeing these lines untethered from the whole play, and you’ll be motivated to come see who in the world Felicity is and why she is saying such outrageous things.

My favorite Felicity lines (with some commentary):

• Sons of bitches! Felicity says this so much it could be turned into a drinking game (no drinking at the theater, though). If I forget a line, I can yell “Sons of bitches” and have a good shot of being right.
• That’s the spirit! But some balls into it! This is just inspirational. I’ll try to chant this to myself during the marathon.
• They’ll pass you by…They’ll leave you at the station with your suitcase in your hand a big gardenia tacked to your collar. More solid life advice. Plus, my mom used to warn me about “They” all the time so this resonates with me.
• You can’t run a place like this on dreams. Many years ago my friend Mark’s grandfather told me that “you can’t live on love” when he didn’t like my answer to his question about Chad’s prospects, so this reminds me fondly of that.
• She takes after her father…not too pretty and not too bright.
• Come on, spit it out, don’t be shy. You’re not stupid on top of everything else, are you? I think we’ve all wanted to say this at least once in the last week.
• Piss poor. I like this one because who says this anymore? It’s almost charming.
• The time for hymns is when I’m in the coffin.
• Patient? Patient, hell I’m the corpse. 
• It makes me nervous and I don’t even have tits anymore. I think everyone can agree that’s an interesting line

And though she may be but little, she is fierce. Okay, Felicity doesn’t say this, nor does anyone else in “The Shadow Box.” This is actually from Shakespeare’s “A Midsummer Night’s Dream.” It’s also taken on a new life as a popular and highly commercialized inspirational quote.

It’s one of my favorite motivational sayings for running and has gotten me through both my marathons. I’m wearing it right now as a temporary tattoo with it to get psyched for my upcoming Marathon #3. And it’s taken on new meaning, as it totally describes Felicity.

There’s no doubt about it, Felicity IS FIERCE. In some ways this is admirable, but Felicity is also exasperating, annoying, and well, just plain mean. And funny. And scared. She’s not likable, but she is real and relatable. Someone most of us can imagine turning into, or having our loved ones turn into, in the right (wrong?) circumstances.

Plus when I’m playing her I get to sing a bawdy song! So what are you waiting for? Buy your tickets now, sons of bitches (http://dreamlandarts.com/shadow-box-buy-tickets/).

Today I did my last long training run (3.5 hours, 21.48 miles) for Marathon #3.

So many mixed feels.

I’m thrilled, relieved, proud, wistful, nervous, sad.

This is the 9th such crazy ass run I’ve done since August 2017, in addition to 9 roughly 17 mile runs (2 hr 45 minutes in length).

Yeah, I’m bragging, but it’s also maybe a cry for help.

Running a Marathon is a big fucking deal, but in my third go round with this, I’m starting to understand how profound training is.

And after this marathon, I’m thinking it’s time for a break. This doesn’t mean that I plan to stop running (l was running regularly, if casually, for 15 plus years before marathons) but that I might not do another marthon for a year or so.

I’m considering…and also looking at spring marathons. My intellect and emotions have been run into goo, so now is not the time for decision making.

As a wise friend just said tonight (as I was out drinking wine to begin and celebrate the start of tapering) this marathon training has been life changing for me. And I love that I (and the forces of nature) am completely in control of it. Yes, life does intervene, but unlike my other passions, I’m not dependent on anyone else to do this. I don’t have to get cast or book a gig. And I get what I put into it (thanks Deb for writing this post for me).

I wish I could more fully describe what long distance running feels like for me. Yes, I work pretty hard to distract myself (audiobooksRme) but it’s still so physical. And maybe as a typically locked in my head person, it’s that physicality I crave, when even the garbage I see on my route speaks to me on some level.

But it might also be nice to have a little more time to spend on other things. To maybe not worry about carbo-loading and celebratory drinking weight gain (subsequent empty calories will have to be blamed on other things).

Today’s new temporary tattoo is “Marvel.” This was a little arbitrary but it’s feeling more and more appropriate. I marvel that I’ve done all this training, marvel that I’ve been fortunate enough to be able to do it, and marvel at how happy/sad I am that it’s wrapping up.

I’m also marveling that I’m going to attempt to go to sleep now before 10:30.

Today is a Rest Day Eve, and it feels glorious. Tomorrow is a day (1 of 2 per week) when my marathon training plan does NOT call for running, and this evening of anticipation of doing nothing feels so freeing.

I love being a runner (not always or necessarily running) and am so thankful that I can move and exert and challenge myself like this. But training and running and working so hard has made me appreciate the days off in a deep way I never thought possible.

If you’re thinking “Hmm, that sounds like saying you hit yourself in the face with a hammer so that it feels really good when you stop and aren’t hitting yourself in the face with a hammer,” I wouldn’t say you were entirely wrong.

I am in Week 12 of Marathon Training, smack dab in the middle of the hardest, craziest, most intense weeks of training. Last week I ran 8 hrs, this week I’m supposed to run only 7:30, and next week calls for 8:15 hrs and then tapering begins.

So I’m fluctuating wildly between “God, I hate this, I’m an idiot, I’m exhausted, why am I doing this AGAIN” and “I love throwing myself heart and soul into this and OMG I can’t believe this will be the last time I do this for…another year…or more?! WHEN is my next marathon?”

(And of course, woven through and underpinning both these extremes of the throught/emotional seesaw is I AM SO GRATEFUL THAT I DIDN’T HAVE TO STOP RUNNING BECAUSE OF ANY HEART DUMB ASSERY.)

The wonderful and awful thing about marathon training is it’s not just the time you actually spend running, but all the time you spend being exhausted from and obsessed with running. Hopeful about and nervous about running.

And all the time you (well, me) spends taking and posting highly unflattering selfies. Yes, my brain knows that the post-run photos where I’m all sweaty and red-faced/pasty are NOT attractive, but I’m just so proud to have survived I have to “brag.” And no matter how exhuasted I am, I can always find a little more energy to stop and take a selfie (or two or three or four) and look for the perfect filter/effect (why does the shocked cat have to stay in the left corner blocking my stats?)

For a little variety, today I decided to take selfies where I’m NOT all sweaty. Instead, I’m actually wearing makeup and sporting my ramen shirt dress, to convey how I will spend the next few days trying to eat as much ramen as possible for carbo loading without gaining too much weight. Okay, full disclosure, I may not strictly eat ramen…I may eat udon noodles or even gnocchi (all determined to have the most carb bang for the caloric buck). I will also not eat my ramen with pork, or other meat, as depicted on my dress, but hopefully with an egg.

I will wrestle with the great questions of the ages, including:

• Do I have the moral character to eat ramen noodles (udon noodles) for breakfast, lunch and dinner?
• If I eat ramen for breakfast, do I still want coffee?
• If I make a huge package of (insert pasta) will I be able to eat it all in the next few days? Will it go to waste?
• Why can’t I ever time my carb-loading with a meal out at a ramen restaurant? How do I keep missing this opportunity?
• And, back on the “I’m going ot miss this when it’s done” theme: I’ll never feel worthy of eating pasta again if I’m not marathon training. It’s all riced cauliflower for me after Oct. 7.

So Week 12 is an exciting, frightening, nebulous time in the boderlands between relief and regret. I’m not sure what post-marathon life wihout “A PLAN” is going to look like.

But I’m sure I’ll still have space in my life for goofy selfies and blog posts. And maybe even ramen in moderation.

I didn’t get it.

It pains me a little to say that, as the “it” in question is the Beatles “Yellow Submarine” movie, which I saw for the first time yesterday. For while there are many things in life that I don’t get, (including everything from instagram to instant pots), I’ve been a diehard Beatles fan for over 30 years. So I expected that groovin’ to the good-natured psychedelic shenanigans of “Yellow Submarine” would totally be in my wheelhouse (a phrase I just looked up to verify that it means what I think it means, and it does, just don’t ask me to literally define it).

I DID enjoy the artistry of the movie, and of course, the music. It was very clever and I’m glad I saw it. I’m sure the images will stay with me and percolate in my consciousness. My appreciation for “Yellow Submarine” is probably going to grow over time.

BUT…and I’m having to take a big breath to admit this… as I was watching it, I found it rather boring. A couple of times, I even almost fell asleep (although some of that was probably due to marathon training exhaustion).

It feels sacreligious to say that in public, but I’m trying to be more honest about my opinions and feeling as I get older, especially when it comes to art and culture. I don’t want to like things just because I feel I should, or judge other people because their tastes aren’t “cool” or “sophisticated.” (Of course, I will judge them, but  hopefully will at least call myself on it more). I’m trying to break free from the idea of “guilty pleasures” (unless the guilt makes the pleasure more exciting) and guilty displeasures, too.

Not loving “Yellow Submarine” makes me feel square and unimaginative (I’m a Blue Meanie), but there were so many psychedelic and whimsical images and characters that they started to lose their impact for me. To reference one of the movie’s songs, “it was all too much.” I think I would have been happier if there was more of a contrast between the real world and the fantasy realms of Pepperland and the various magical Seas. I also think I was a little letdown because the Beatles didn’t actually do very much except ride around in the Yellow Submarine and push buttons.

And yeah, I may have wanted a titch more of a plot. I might be too beholden to narrative structure.

I was completely sober when I saw the movie, so that may have had an impact, too. I’d probably appreciate “Yellow Submarine” more if I saw it with a glass (or two…) of red wine. Or, looping back to the beginning of this post (because I am just that talented of a writer) maybe if I had a different kind of pot (rather than an instant one. Which I still don’t get).

I like to think that as I’m growing older, I’m become a nicer person. Not nice, exactly, but nicER. A little more compassionate and empathetic, and less judgemental. I’m even more open to feeling some feels (and not just when I’ve been drinking).

I feel a little like Mr. Grinch. My heart hasn’t grown three sizes yet, but at least half a size. This is good thing.

However, when I faced the possibility this summer that my heart, or at least a part of it, was literally, physically, a little too big, it was freaky.

Before I got any further and cause any unecessary concern or drama, let me clearly state that MY HEART IS COMPLETELY FINE. NO NEED TO WORRY ABOUT THAT. YAY!!! I am extremely grateful and thankful.

But I can’t pass up the opportunity to make the most of some blog material, so I’m going to attempt to chronicle my adventures of trying to discover if there was anything wrong with my heart.

Again, let me say that there are NO PROBLEMS with my heart, and I never had (nor do I have) any symptoms. However, it was recently discovered that there is a heart abnormality that potentially runs in my family: a bicuspid valve (really, seriously, even though it sounds like it has to do with teeth).

So I had an EKG, even though it was assumed that really wouldn’t be able to determine much. But that is a test they can do a the doctor’s office and is apparently the first hurdle to jump through before any other tests can be done. And yes, it didn’t really show anything so I had an echocardiogram. (I’m actually not sure in what order I had these tests and I can’t decipher my online medical recorders, but the takeaway is the same).

This test revealed that I did NOT have the bicuspid valve (awesome!) but that my right atrium was possibly “moderately” enlarged. I needed to see a cardiologist to see if this was “significant.”

Oh yes, quotation marks are judiciously employed here, in an effort to be precise. In my normal world, “moderately” and “signficiant” aren’t really that signficiant. “I’m moderately hungover” or “I find it significant that you didn’t compliment me” don’t actually mean anything important. But how to make sense of these words when the stakes are higher?

The cardiologist I saw assured me that everything was likely fine, and I should pretend that I never heard about the possibility that I had a heart issue, and that I should just keep living my life normally (which meant that I could still keep running and marathon training which was what I was really worried about). BUT that I should have an MRI just to be sure.

WTF?

This seemed very contradictory and confusing to me. And, I kept coming back to the question of what could actually be done if I did have a moderately large atrium? Was getting an MRI just an annoying waste of time and an expensive waste of money? (Yes, luckily, I have insurance but there is still a co-pay, and I can buy a lot of bottles of moderately priced wine with that money).

I also was freaked out by the thought of having an MRI. Not to throw Chad under the bus, but for the almost 30 years we have been together, he has shuddered and muttered “Just shoot me if I ever need one” every time an MRI has been depicted on TV. That power of suggestion was bound to have an effect.

Eventually, though, I realized that although we share a lot, Chad’s fears are not always my fears (see zuchinni, artichoke hearts and the State Fair). For a more balanced perspective, I talked to some friends who had MRIs and thought they were no big whoo (some especially overworked friends thought it was even relaxing).

So after a fair amount of hemming and hawing, I DID have an MRI, and it wasn’t too unpleasant. I wouldn’t call it relaxing, more like annoying (I really got tired of having to hold my breath for the scans) but I didn’t feel claustrophobic and the noise didn’t bother me. The MRI was way less awful than a colonoscopy (yes, thank you, I didn’t blog about that).

And I was really proud of myself (and relieved) because I found the hospital at the University of MN all by myself, found a place to park, found the MRI place, AND found my car after the MRI.

So maybe getting the MRI wasn’t a good decision, and I was duped by the medical-industrial complex, but I’ll take a useless and annoying (and expensive) MRI any day over one where I got my money’s worth.

After months of indecision, ambiguity, and nagging worry (not a full-fledged breakdown or anything but defintiely a weight) I’d like to think I’m also a more grateful person than I used be. More appreciative of my good health and the preciousness of life and thankful that I get to keep marathon training (even while I curse myself for being an idiot).

Not sure there is a gratitude muscle—real or figurative—but hopefully it’s also grown at least half a size.

Now if only my bra size would grow, I’d be really thankful.

According to the theory of the multiverse, there is a reality somewhere in which my mother is alive and well and on Facebook.

Sadly, this is not that reality. My mom died in 2000, before the interwebs were widely adopted by middle-aged (okay, almost elderly) elementary school teachers from rural Wisconsin.

In this version of the multiverse, we will never be treated to my mom’s Facebook posts which would most likely alternate between “I live in a shitty shack,” “My son-in-law Chad is a genius” and “What is Amy’s work schedule?”

My mom never read a blog in her life. I can only imagine how she would have unintentionally misprounced “blog.” Plog? Blob? Gullag?

So it may be slightly ironic that I’ve turned to the interwebs and a blog to help me process my grief over my mom’s death and absence from my life. And it’s maybe rather meta that this is a blog about those blog posts.

Actually, it’s more a blog about the chance to read from my blog in-person, in front of real live people. I had the opportunity to do this recently and it was terrifying and exhilarating and humbling and beautiful.

It was such a powerful experience not because I’m all that as a writer or performer (although not being completely inept was a good baseline), but because there is such power in sharing and being open and taking a a risk. Oh, I definitely was seized by feelings of “WTF am I doing?!” and “This seemed like a good idea at the time I planned it!” and “Just how boring and self-indulgent am I?” and “Why didn’t I bother to see if I could actually pronounce all these words that I can type?”

And those feelings, like almost all feelings of self-doubt and inadequancy and questioning, never went away while I was reading. But as I looked out at the faces of my friends who came to hear and support me, they co-mingled with feelings of “Wow, how lucky am I that I get to do this” and “I think we’re all actually sharing a moment here. We have a connection.”

You can watch my reading (Blog reading) and/or read the blogs as I intended to present them (I did a little ad-libbing and introduced a prop glass of crappy blended red wine at the last minute. A prop, but real wine. I did agonize over if it was too embarassingly crappy but I was willing to suffer for my art.

My Dead Mom Blog Reading: 

March 21, 2014:  Say, This Is Amy Luedtke…and I miss my mom, due to the fact that, she is dead.

That may sound a little harsh, but that sentence actually makes me laugh. It combines two of my mom’s favorite sayings. Whenever she made a “business” call, mom always started it with “Say, This is Colleen Luedtke.” My older sister, Jenn, and I used to love to listen in on these calls while we imagined the person on the other end repeating, “This is Colleen Luedtke.” We don’t know how or why mom picked up this verbal quirk, but just thinking about it still makes me smile.

“Due to the fact that” was a favorite phrase of Colleen’s for written communication. Whenever I had missed school because I was sick (or pretending to be sick) the note my mom would write was a variation of “Amy missed school yesterday due to the fact that, she was ill.” Again, thinking of that one little (yet mysterious and completely unnecessary phrase) captures so much of my mom’s spirit.

On my mom’s birthday (which was St. Patrick’s Day), I had some aspirations of writing a blog post that would honor her and be a slightly profound reflection on life lessons learned. Or something like that. Something inspiring and poignant but not depressing. And while I certainly learned so much from my mom, I cannot put these things easily into words.

So, in no particular order:

• Mom was fanatical about doing laundry, and even insisted on doing Chad’s laundry on a weekly basis. She also regularly ironed everything, including t-shirts. She was actually very talented at “ironing out” t-shirts, and as a big lady, it was useful that they often ended up at least a size bigger than when she started.
• “They can’t take that away from you.” That was one of my mom’s favorite sayings. I wasn’t always sure who “they” were or what they wanted to take, but at least once it was meant as encouragement for the artsy fartsy liberal arts B.A. degree I was getting. As in, “you may never get a job, but at least you will have your education!”
• Mom was not a good driver. I offer this evidence: she hit a cow on two separate occasions, in the daytime. But she never admitted or recognized her driving deficiencies. Her biggest troubles were driving too slowly (so it was very ironic when she got stopped for speeding) and being distracted and flustered. One time when we made a field trip to the Cities to go to the Renaissance Fair, she accidentally turned her hazards on and drove around who knows how long with them on. It was actually a pretty good idea.
• If mom sat down for more than 10 minutes she fell asleep. And she moaned in her sleep. This could make church or movies a little embarrassing. She also never owned up to this, and would just say she was “resting her eyes.” She even started laughing in her sleep, to make it seem like she was awake and laughing about whatever television show we were watching. Again, this could be embarrassing at movies or church.
• Mom was a great storyteller. Some of her best stories included the time when she was a house cleaner for a professor and vacuumed up a Hummel figurine; when one of her high school teachers died during class while screaming at the students and they had to walk over her body to exit the classroom; and many tales about her high school days in Milwaukee where the girls fought with hat pins and they sent my mom to special ed because she came from the country. They also sent most of the black kids to special ed, just because they were black, and they looked out for my mom and watched over her at pot parties.
• Mispronouncing words and names was an art form for my mom. I can’t do her talent justice right now but sometime ask me what a “commune” is.
• Mom used to say sex only took 30 seconds. This wasn’t meant to instill me with a “why bother?” philosophy, but to support her position that teens will find a place and a time to have sex if they are really motivated. I always wondered but never had the courage to ask if the 30 seconds included foreplay.

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That was a post from my blog. My mom died before I had a blog, and I’m not sure she would have got the concept of a blog. She died before the internet was really an everyday thing, so I have a hard time imagining her living in the cyber-world. Thinking about her on Facebook is both hilarious and terrifying.

Anyway, I love to write. To illustrate: Here’s another snippet from my blog from a post on Feb 9, 2014: When I was in my mid-twenties (post-college) my mom told me she had run into Mike, a guy I had known (vaguely) from junior high. Reportedly, Mike had asked my mom what I was doing and if I was still writing, and mom said she told him, yes, I was a writer. I replied, “WHAT? Mom, what in the hell do I write?” (I was working retail at a now deceased mall bookstore at the time). And mom said, “Well, you write all the time. You write checks.” As often happened when my mom made (at least to me) nonsensical comments in her completely confident Colleen way, I was speechless.

I love this story, because it totally captures so much of my mom’s personality and her unabashed insistence of seeing the world her way. It also reminds me that I did want to be a writer from a very early age. I don’t know why my mom told Mike I was writer. I don’t think she was embarrassed that I was working retail, I think she just believed that I was happy and successful and that was her way of telling Mike that.

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And back to the present: blogging about my mom through the years has been a therapeutic way to process my memories of her and feelings about her death. When Suzanne proposed her cabaret about her experience of motherhood, I got inspired to share some of my blog for a different perspective of motherhood. This is an experiment that could fail spectacularly, as I’m not sure if what works—more or less—in print, will work when it’s read aloud, even though I do try to write in my speaking voice.

So thanks for taking this risk with me. I hope what I share with you tonight will make you smile and maybe even think fondly about a loved one you’re missing. And hey, even if this really sucks, my mom, with her superpower of overvaluing my talent, would consider this a resounding success.

And on to another blog post…

August 13, 2014

In the days following Robin Williams suicide, Facebook has exploded. I don’t have anything enlightening to add and I am in no way an expert on suicide or depression. But I would like to suggest that even a life that has such a tragic ending probably (hopefully) had moments of joy, love, and even just contentment and pleasure. After his death, Williams’ widow said: “As he is remembered, it is our hope the focus will not be on Robin’s death, but on the countless moment of joy and laughter he gave to millions.” No doubt that he gave those moments, but let’s not forget he experienced some of them, too.

Whether its a job or a relationship or a life, just because it ends in a spectacularly bad or painful way, the ending doesn’t negate the reality of the good or even mundane moments that happened. And again, not to minimize the suffering of depression or any illness, but just because a life has pain does not mean there isn’t any joy…sometimes occurring at the same time. I think one of my college professors would have called this the “coincidence of opposites.” We need to be creative enough to tell life stories for ourselves and each other that feel authentic but also aren’t too simplistic. People are rarely simply “good” or “bad,” “happy” or “sad.”

And yes, I am thinking a lot about my mom, and even my dad, as I write this. My parents certainly weren’t celebrities or comedians (or only for a very limited audience), but both their deaths have challenged me to tell their life stories in ways that are real and complex. After my mom’s death I was confronted with facts about her life that tempted me to despair it was all suffering and she was never really happy. But I now believe, and it is our unique human power to choose how we give meaning to our experiences, that the happy, funny, sassy, mom I knew was real, too.
It is a cliche to say you never know a whole person, or you never know what goes on behind closed doors. I agree, but also think that doesn’t mean that what you do know of a person isn’t real. We never see the whole picture, but that doesn’t mean the pieces we know are false. Human beings, and therefore human relationships, are extremely complex and multi-faceted, and so we will only know pieces of “the truth.” I think that just makes it all the more vital to pay attention to and really appreciate and value the pieces we do know and experience.

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October 22, 2014

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about what I keep and what I do with it, and what I try to let go of. This idea is a central theme of the one-act “Bird Icon” that Chad and I are in the midst of re-booting. The play opens with my character, Claire, going through her recently deceased father’s things and deciding what to keep or toss.

Claire is much more on the ball about such matters than I am. My mom died fourteen years ago today, and I finally took some time this afternoon to go through a stockpile of her jewelry. Although I didn’t specifically remember most of the pieces, it’s amazing how, after all this time, the jewelry reflected my mother’s tastes and personality and conjured her up in a way. These pieces were bold, colorful, and unique, just like my mom.
It’s hard to believe that I’ve put off looking at this jewelry for fourteen years, and even harder to believe my mom has been dead so long. Every year on the anniversary of her death I’m amazed another year without her has passed, and I’m sure I will continue to feel this for as long as I live. These death anniversaries are such strange milestones, mixing together how much I miss my mom with feeling old.

Or maybe “feeling old” is just a euphemism. I’m not really thinking about my age so much as my mortality. My mom was exactly twenty years older than I am now when she died.

The anniversary of my mom’s death is also a weird milestone because it highlights all the things, big and small, that have happened since my mom died that she never got to experience or be a part of. I also think about all the ways I’ve changed. It’s trivial, but way back in 2000, I didn’t drink coffee. Now I can’t imagine life without it. Somehow the fact that my mom never knew me as a coffee addict symbolizes many levels of loss.
Of course it’s not just about what physical things we have and keep, but what our possessions symbolize. All the intangible attributes, emotions, talents, passions, and whatnot that we inherit and accumulate are more crucial than any object.

I was motivated to go through my mother’s jewelry today, but I’m even more inspired to think about what intangible pieces my mother gave me (whether she intended to or not) and what I want to do with them. Some things are easy to identify, like the taste for loud jewelry that I inherited from my mom, or my willingness to put up with badly-behaved pets or my penchant for hyperbole. I would also like to say I’m as generous, compassionate, loyal and strong as my mother, but those are pieces I’m still aspiring to fully own.

What we toss can be just as important as what we keep. Again, sometimes these decisions are easy. I decided long ago that I don’t have to keep my mother’s love of cheap gas station donuts alive (although thinking of it always makes me smile). But what should I let go of? What don’t I even realize that I’m holding on to? I’m slowly letting go of the pain of my mother’s illness and death, but can I let go of some of the sadness and fear she carried her whole life?

I also worry about what I have unintentionally let go of and what is slipping away because of the effects of time. Worse yet I wonder what I don’t remember because I didn’t pay attention and notice in the first place. I find hope from the song “Home” by the band Field Report and the lyric “The body remembers what the mind forgets.” I know body memory is often seen as something of a curse, but if our bodies remember all our traumas, they should remember all the good things, too. I want my body to remember all the love I received, especially when I was too young to have any memory of it. I hope my body remembers all the hugs and all the spaghettios my mom ever gave me.

Our dog Olive doesn’t know that she looks pretty rough.

At least, I don’t think she does. I’m no expert on the inner life of dogs, but I’m pretty sure that she doesn’t know that her multiple skin cancer-caused bald spots (and the scabby scars that come with them) look pretty freaky. I also think (and our vet agrees) that she’s spared the existential angst of knowing she has terminal skin cancer and is in doggie hospice.

It gives Chad and me great comfort to know that she doesn’t know. (That sounds unintentionally Rumsfieldian…oh the good old days when we thought HE was a nut!) I think that’s one of the most beautiful things about animals is that they live totally in the moment without fear of the future.

Unfortunately, Chad and I do know about Olive’s prognosis, so we have to deal with the dread of facing her future. The benefit of this sad knowledge is that it does inspire us to appreciate her more, and to make sure we give her as many walks and treats and belly rubs as we can. (Okay, we may not appreciate her as much as we could when she wakes us up at 5:00 in the morning because she’s pissed at a cat).

We also know that we’re damn lucky that she’s made it this long. When she was diagnosed right before Christmas (around the time our other beloved dog, Oscar, died of old age) we were told her prognosis was not very good.

So now I present to you:

A very abbreviated version of the skin cancer saga of Olive (if I was a talented musician this could be a country song): Olive has a rare form of cancer that usually leads to death because it spreads to places like the mouth and paws and the sufferer can’t eat or walk. Olive does have it on her mouth but it isn’t affecting her ability or to desire to eat yet! And thankfully nothing on her paws. (It is also affecting her “privates”, which really makes this country song potential, but that also doesn’t seem to bother her. No she doesn’t do “yoga” anymore and sit on her haunches in a way that made it look like she was touching her privates and caused people to laugh hysterically but I think that is more due to old age). The spots she has on the rest of her body look nasty but she’s generally not irritated by them (in the winter we could have her wear jaunty jackets of denial that covered her cancerous spots and let us pretend they weren’t there but now it’s too hot).

We DID try chemo, but two rounds almost killed her (which was unexpected because usually chemo isn’t that traumatic for dogs) so now she is just being treated with prednizone and fish oil. Even if the chemo had been successful, it would have been amazing that she made it this long, so it’s pretty stunning that she is still alive. And, she is 15 years old (or so, we don’t really know because she was a stray we got her when she was about two) and 15 isn’t a bad run for a dog who doesn’t have cancer.

Plus, Olive almost died years ago when she was only around 8 and had the dreaded dachshund spinal paralysis malady (we learned that usually hits middle-aged, not elderly, dachshunds).

So we know we should we be grateful, and we are, but of course we still want her (and all our pets) to live forever. That day 13 or so years ago when she became part of our family seems like seconds ago. It was right after Christmas, and Chad surprised me one day by bringing Olive home (we had met her through the rescue organization but hadn’t officially decided to adopt her yet). We named her Olive after the book “Olive the Other Reindeer.” (Yes, there is a sequel “Olive My Love” also inspired by misheard lyrics).

There was some jostling for power between Olive and our resident dachshund Oscar (which involved a lot of humping which I found hilarious and Chad found mortally embarrassing, especially when conducted in front of guests) but they soon became deeply bonded. Olive loved “her boy” Oscar and was very possessive of him (AND didn’t think he should get too much attention from her people). While I do take comfort in thinking that Olive lives in the now, I do hope she has some sort of memory of her life with Oscar, a memory that causes her only happiness and not pain (okay, I’m probably living in unicorn and rainbow land now but still…)

Luckily for us this arranged marriage between Oscar and Olive worked out, because we soon realized that Olive has fear aggression and mostly wants to kill other dogs. She has definitely mellowed with age and maybe could even learn to love another dog in her household with enough time, but as it stands she could only abide being a “wife” for Oscar. (We used to call her “wife” as a nickname and I would often call for her out our backdoor by that moniker, which may have confused our neighbors).

I started this blog post positing that Olive doesn’t know that she is dying from cancer, but here are some things I think she does know:

• Treats are awesome. Meat is the best, but cheese and goldfish crackers are pretty good runners up.
• That Em human at Dad’s office is the best treat bestower ever.
• Mom must be followed at all times because she is the most likely household human to have food (sadly it’s usually vegetables but cauliflower is surprisingly good).
• Humans in general should be watched at all times.
• It’s good to be near humans and have them pet you and scratch your belly (and give you snacks, of course), but “cuddling” is weird and uncalled for and will only be tolerated for a few minutes.
• Parental band practice in your basement is awesome.
• There is one specific spot on the couch that belongs to you.
• CATS ARE ASSHOLES. AND STUPID. AND DO NOT REALIZE YOU DON’T WANT TO BE THEIR FRIEND. (Especially when you have ‘roid rage…okay, Olive probably doesn’t realize she has ‘roid rage).
• Even though you occasionally wag your tail when you go after aforementioned asshole cats, they are still assholes.
• You must sniff every. possible. thing. on a walk. (Why doesn’t mom realize this? But why does mom eat so many vegetables instead of meat? Why does mom let the cat live in the house? Sigh, mom must not be very smart).

Oh Olive, my love, it’s too soon, but yet we know we are so blessed. I don’t belive in people heaven, but I can’t help but dream about a pet heaven where you can hump your boy Oscar whenever you want and even glare at your cat sisters Rogue and Jubilee. You could even give your death snarl again to the family dog matriarch Poopie, whom you always seemed on verge of killing and eating in an effort to cull the herd.

But I must stop being sentimental and put the red wine down, because, for now at least, there is still a walk to be taken.