Living in the Land of Five-Foot Giants

Challenges in life come in a variety of shapes and sizes. We’ve all known them, battled them, been laid flat by them, and triumphed over them. Adversity is the tool that refines and defines our character. It builds for us the perseverance, the tolerance, and empathy to enlarge our tents and continue being a greater vessel for ourselves and others.

One day last week, I was on the phone, discussing a project obstacle with a client. We’ve been working on this single project for weeks now, and we keep running into the same stumbling block—a five-foot tall woman, a flaming red-head, with a temperament to match. We have worked patiently, diligently, and with as much objectivity as we can muster to address this woman’s concerns about the defined course of action and the outcomes on the project. Every permit, funding source, authorization, and minor go-ahead has been obtained. Hers is the only voice of dissention on an otherwise fruitful project.

During the length of the phone call, the client and I developed our final plans for obtaining this woman’s agreement on the last details of the project. Basically, we decided that we are going manage the situation one issue at a time, and move on. In looking at the project from some different perspectives, we discovered a political equation that we believe is going to compel this woman to cooperate with us. Her dissention was, upon further evaluation, only a problem if we continued to look at the project from the same angle we always had.

As the client said his final good-byes, he commented, “Great job taking down this giant, Susanne.” We both laughed as we hung up.

Upon checking my phone, I discovered the grossest of dark ironies; a missed call from the doctor’s office, informing me of more test results, and a request that I come in for a consultation. During the very span of time that I was on the phone slaying one five-foot giant, another was rearing itself to further engage in battle.

I was pleased to learn that the current medication has been successful in eliminating most of the growths. The problem, as the doctor explained it to me, resides in a five-foot stretch of area that bridges both the small and large intestine, where the tumors continue to resist treatment.

The doctor and I are at odds over next steps. He is suggesting surgery, and I am resisting. I want to try one more round of a different medication. That five-foot giant inside me reminds me of an intestinal problem my mother had when she was in her 30’s. She wound up losing a portion of her intestinal tract, and things were just never quite right afterward. We never really knew the cause of her problem, but I had always assumed that it was due to a lot of hard living—drugs, alcohol, and inadequate medical care. Now I wonder.

Last night, I had the family chat with my folks about where I’m at and what I’m wanting to do with regard to my condition. I am fortunate to have family who, when it comes right down to it, support me when I need them. We drive each other bat-crackers crazy most of the time, but when things are on the line, everyone manages to drop the dysfunction for a minute and pull together the right way.

The strangest most unexpected thing happened as my dad, step-mom, and I were talking about my condition, options, and how I should manage the five-foot giant in my intestines. While trying to compare my situation with the mystery ailment of my mother’s decades before, some of the old frustrations of her suicide surfaced. From a purely strategic perspective, not having more information from her, even anecdotally, leaves me at something of a deficit in choosing a path to wellness.

Pretty much, the prevailing emotion for me when it comes to my mother is ambivalence. I try not to think about how much she’s missed of my life in the past 27 years—high school, marriage, career successes, my children--and their entire young lives’ worth of living so far. Lately, it’s leaned more toward anger and some quiet resignation. I could really use a mom right now. I am thankful for my step-mom and how much she has taken over that role over the years, but sometimes, it’s just not the same. We love what we know, even when it’s just a memory.

Part of my ambivalence for my mother comes from having long lived under her shadow. She was beautiful in every sense of the word. She had this charisma about her, that even though she was sort of just average in looks, everyone knew when she entered a room. Petite, at just under five feet, she had a svelte figure that no amount of diet and exercise will ever reveal to me. I’m bigger boned and fuller figured, much more plain in appearance. For all the talents she possessed—poetry, sewing, art—my skills and abilities always seemed to pale, in part because the things at which I excel seem to be less tangible than the gorgeous afghans she would crochet, or the amazing meals she would cook.

She had so many gifts, and so much to offer, and in her mental suffering, she chose to throw it all away. Others in my family have dealt with that loss by idolizing my mother posthumously to extraordinary heights. Even in her death, I am still compared to her, as if all that I am was her achievement alone. She is another five-foot giant I’ve battled my entire life.

As my step-mom was talking about her, she mentioned casually, as if I knew, “…it’s why your dad and I still keep some of her ashes on the shelf…”

I had no idea. In 1983, when we cremated my mom, we put most of her ashes under a fruit tree, as she had long requested. After that, I recall vaguely one of our cats spilling some of the ashes that had been placed in a vase in our home. I guess I just really never knew what happened to the rest.

I looked at Debbie and said, “What? You have her ashes?” My step-mom looked stunned, realizing that this was information that I did not previously possess.

“Can I see them?” I asked, through tears that I am still at a loss to understand.

Debbie led me into the dining room and pointed to a cobalt blue vase sitting about six feet up the wall on a trinket shelf. I gently removed the vase from the shelf, veritably staring through the ceramic in my hands.

Sobbing, I took the cork out of the vase and poured some of the remains into the palm of my hand. These small flecks of human ash are all that remain of my mother, aside from some memories that seem to have really morphed out of proportion.

In that moment, I realized that one more five-foot giant had just been deflated. I carefully poured my mom’s remains back into their container, gratefully laughing with my dad as he said, “Yep, that’s my Jeannie in a bottle!” Gawd, my family is weird, but I love them.

I walked away from that encounter realizing that I need to find a better perspective in which to manage my mother’s memory. Infinitely doable, I think. Somehow, holding a handful of her remains really put into focus how askew my own self perception has been over the years in light of the experience that was and is my mother.

With all the slaying of ‘giants’ this week, I have also found some reserves and the additional resolve I need to keep fighting this five-foot giant in my belly. The past few weeks have been hard, and I’ll be honest, the news that I’m not done yet was a real blow. The physical part of this is getting hard. The mental part has been a real challenge, too. I have spent a lot of time lost in thought and in fervent prayer over what to do from here.

What I’ve learned this week is that it is yet one more problem that I need to look at from a different perspective, noting that its relative size is much more diminutive than that which my perspective has lent it. This thing inside me is still on the track for eviction.

I am bigger than any five-foot giant that is put before me.