Change has been the norm these last few months. New job, new apartment…everything seems new. Added to that, I have a new primary care doctor. She’s smart, perky, and younger than I am. That’s new for me too and a situation I suppose I have to grow accustomed to, at least until I discover a Fountain of Youth. We discussed my changing personal situation and my medical history. After I rattled off the various ailments that led to the demise of my grandparents, she asked about my parents. In a very doctorly way, she said, “And your parents. How are they?”
She was asking about their health, of course. I knew that. I blurted, “My parents? They’re loonies.”
Nonplussed, the Good Doctor asked a follow up, “Is there a particular psychiatric diagnosis, or are they just being parents?”
I hesitated a moment, and then replied with a sigh, “They are just being parents.”
This conversation and many others set me on a steady course of pondering this week. Where exactly would I find a Fountain of Youth? And what does it mean to be a family? The answer to the latter came to me under the elm tree near the lake behind Wellesley College. Pepper and I were sitting in the cool, damp grass after a walk around the water’s edge. The air smelled of hay and lavender. Few noises disturbed us beyond the drowsy drone of insects, a small plane lazily buzzing its way across the sky, a jingling dog collar, and the crunch of shoes against pine needles. Warm sun, blue sky, a gentle breeze…the recipe for a perfect Sunday picnic on the lawn with family. Except it was just the two of us.
Then again, it wasn’t just the two of us. As we sat in the grass, I held a book in one hand and threw the ball with the other. (This is not quite the feat it sounds like. Pepper drops the ball in my hand, and she has a long runway. I can throw the ball in any direction without looking, knowing I won’t hit anyone.) I looked up occasionally from my book and noticed there were people around, watching us, sharing the day with us.
There was a dark-haired boy, about eight or nine years old, a budding photographer with an interest in the natural world, snapping away at everything with his small camera, taking pictures of Pepper. His parents laughed and joked with him in Russian (or some other Eastern bloc language; I admit they all sound the same to me). The father oohed and aahed as Pepper flew through the air shagging fly balls.
There was an elegant Japanese couple who paused on the path to cheer, “Good job!” when Pepper caught one off a bounce, leaping to reach it. They glided on after I returned their smiles.
There was a shaggy boy in a suit and tie, soaking his loafers in the wet grass. He was accompanied by two overdressed young ladies who turned out to be his sister and cousin, his companions for an afternoon wedding by the lake. As Pepper whistled past them, he remarked longingly, “I want a dog.” The girls giggled and the trio wandered toward a celebration under a white tent.
As I pondered the idea of family, I noticed—really noticed—the way these groups of people were families. They met the traditional definition of family. My family has always been different. Or perhaps it’s my definition of family that’s different. It’s been fluid, over the years. Perhaps because of a childhood characterized by family members coming and going. At times I’ve included, in my mental construct of family, friends invited for Thanksgiving dinner, a friend who slept on our couch for three and a half months, friends who asked us to be godparents to their children. Most people (myself included at times) would say these are just friends, not family. They would scold me and fall back on that cliché, “You can’t pick your family, but you can pick your friends.” As I work through the situation with the future-former Mr Snarky, I am increasingly less certain that statement is accurate.
I skipped my cousin’s wedding this weekend. My family, i.e., my blood relatives, all gathered in the middle of nowhere upstate to celebrate her wedding. I opted out. That may seem selfish to some, but it was the right decision for me. I opted to spend the weekend with people who love and support me without judgment.
There was my neighbor, having a tag sale. Although she is familiar with my situation, she and I barely know each other. We know each other’s dogs’ names but not each other’s names. Nevertheless, she sold me a curvy chest of drawers for $15 and helped me load it into my car.
There were the second degree friends (friends of friends whom I hope to make first degree friends) who insisted I take a large mirror off their hands, refusing to take any money for it. They loaded it into my car before I mount a defense. When I sputtered in protest, the spunky wife said with a laugh and a dismissive wave of her hand, “Fine. You owe me a drink.
“I owe you two,” I insisted. It was a large mirror.
“Sure! Two! Whatever!” she replied gamely.
There was a dear friend—the kind of friend who invites me in when she’s having a bad day and then proceeds to cook me dinner. She patiently listened to my ambling rants and wholly silly complaints. I repaid her with cucumber plants. She will repay the cucumber plant with pickles, thereby forcing me to think of some other way to show her I love her.
Our closest friends are the people we choose. They are like family but without the obligations. They are the ones we’re constantly paying it forward with or for or something. Happily doing favors with no expectation of return or keeping score, because if they love you just the same, some other favor will be headed in your direction.
I’ve tried to treat my own family this way for years. And it didn’t turn out the way I expected. So I’m giving up. But I feel neither doomy nor gloomy about it. Because don’t we pick our families all the time? Isn’t that what marriage and having children is all about? We choose to be together and to stay together. We grow a family, nurture, and cherish it. Sometimes, it fails. Sometimes, it doesn’t turn out the way we planned. Sometimes we leave them behind. Sometimes we choose to leave. If we’re good, we seize an opportunity to start over, to start a new family.
It looks like it’s just going to be Pepper and me for a while. But that’s ok. Family is what you make of it. I’m hopeful that we’ll get another chance to choose a new family. Maybe somebody will choose us.
Visualizing Shakespeare 