Michelle L. Rusk's Blog, page 11

Why I Travel

My maternal grandparents lived near O’Hare airport and to get to their house, we had to drive by O’Hare. That meant we were inundated with billboards for all sorts of new destinations, or places to get away to when the cold and dark of winter had descended on us.

But my grandparents also traveled. While I don’t recall all their trips, I know they went to Europe, to Poland, and Egypt, too. My mom worked for an airline and my dad had lots of photos of him at various foreign places while he was in the Navy.

While it was never explicitly said, travel was about exploring the world, branching out beyond your own border (or bubble, as we might say today).

I have been lucky that life has taken me to so many places, places I wanted to go to (Australia) and those unexpected (Hong Kong, Morocco). And now, Bali.

Over the next few weeks, I’ll be chronicling aspects of our trip and what the trip meant to me and what I learned from it. We sort of picked Bali out of the hat, not a place either one of us had thought to go to, but we wanted a place neither of us had gone to before and was different enough that we would be somewhat uncomfortable.

Like Morocco, it wasn’t easy at times for a variety of reasons, but being uncomfortable, being outside one’s own box, is how we grow. I could already sense on the trip my growth and I’m looking forward to sharing more in the weeks to come.

The Week of Mom

In the years since both my parents have died (2006 for my dad, 2014 for my mom), there is something I have come to realize– no one will ever love us in this life more than our parents.

My mom’s birthday was May 12 so Mother’s Day was inevitably always intertwined with it. Fifteen years ago, we threw my doctoral graduation into the mix, too. While I might not be consciously aware of it all, in the back of my mind I know that all these dates are coming together as they are at the end of this week.

My event yesterday didn’t go great; it went okay. Without getting into reasons that aren’t relevant to anything related to this writing, I got in my car to drive home disappointed. When I turned the car on, “Every Rose Has its Thorn” by Poison was playing.

I probably haven’t written before that my mom loved that song. She even had the 45– I believe cassette singles were just coming out at that time. Whenever I hear it, which tends to be every few months, I know Mom is nearby.

I drove out of the parking lot, reminded that it wasn’t about the event, there was a greater message in my being there yesterday– after all, I wouldn’t have been in the car if I hadn’t been at the event. Mom was sending a hello; one I probably wouldn’t have gotten otherwise. And she was saying not to worry, move on, there is much to look forward to ahead.

As only a mom could say.

To Serve, Not Be Served

There was a theme that ran through the coronation of King Charles on Saturday- we are here to serve, not be served. I missed most of it live because I was out running and running the dogs, but I happened to catch the Archbishop of Canterbury reference Jesus when I was dropping off Ash and heading out on my run.

Jesus came here to serve, not be served.

We are here to serve, not be served.

How easy it is to believe the world is about us, that everyone is here for us, to make sure we have a good life, that nothing goes bad for us. I could go on and on especially given the pandemic has put us in our bubbles and many people aren’t leaving them (this is most prevalent in a store or while driving!).

I was raised that the world did not revolve around me, that I was not to expect everything was about me. Those felt like cruel lessons as a child, but they have served me well because they have forced me to remember to get up and dust myself off and keep walking. After all, no one is going to pick me up and carry me.

We all have a role to play in this world, this life. We all have something to contribute. Yes, life can be painful. Life is challenging and a variety of other things. But that’s part of the reason we must reach outside outsides and remember that we are here to serve, because contributing gives us a sense of fulfillment we won’t find any other way.

Sometimes we are in pain and believe we can’t get off the couch or out of bed. That’s the time when it’s most crucial that we remember, we are here to serve, not be served, because that’s what will carry out of our despair and challenges.

It’s all about reaching out beyond ourselves. The more we do that, the more satisfied and grateful we will be.

After all, we are here to serve, not be served.

Using a Tad of Negativity to Help

“…I’ve learned to be able to say some negative things, to say it’s OK to talk about something if you can help other people understand it” – Sammy Hagar

For me, it’s all about the rearview mirror.

My posts are usually positive because I learned early on in social media that when I posted something negative, I actually felt worse about whatever I was posting. While it might sound silly, I took some time to reflect on that because I saw many people always posting negative things about their lives. My belief was that they found relief in posting it, from getting sympathy for others, maybe prayers from others. They needed that support from the online community.

But for me, this felt all wrong. I found that if something negative happened, I preferred to wait until the situation had been resolved or had passed before I would talk about it online. And I realized that it was because I saw some sort of lesson I had learned in it and that’s what I was supposed to share.

If we can learn from something that we’ve been through, chances are, there is someone else out there who might benefit from our lesson. After all, isn’t life about helping each other?

Authenticity

One would think in a world where we allow so much to be “out there” thanks to the internet and social media, that people would be more authentic than they are. However, the digital world has instead created a questionable atmosphere because people think they have found it easier to pretend to be what they aren't.

I strongly believe in being as authentic as possible which is the harder road to travel because our society seems to praise those who pretend they are something they aren’t, or to praise those who follow rather than lead.

To be authentic, one must travel the road less taken, usually a road that doesn’t exist. I have often found myself on the outside of many circles because I wanted to take my road rather than one someone else had paved. It has also meant that along the way people haven’t helped me because for whatever reason I haven’t been good enough, interesting enough, or whatever-else enough.

But it always has been more important to me to be true to myself and if someone wasn’t going to help me on the paved road, then I’ve chosen to create my own, even when it’s been a more challenging journey.

There are occasional days when I question myself, but I know that in the end I will look back and be glad that I was my authentic self. After all, why would I want to pretend to be someone other than me?

Where the Past Remains as Inspiration

My Grandma Zurawski didn’t get to go to college. As I remember it, she had to help pay for her brothers to attend college, one of whom became a lawyer. She used to say how much she loved numbers and I’m sure there always was a sadness that she didn’t get to do more with that. She worked for the Nickel Plate Railroad in accounting and even golfed in the mornings before work.

But when she married my grandfather, who was a doctor, she devoted the rest of her life to her family.

Early in my college experience (before I went to Ball State University where I would get my BS from), I lived with her for about ten weeks. We would continue to write and call after I moved onto Ball State until she died two-and-a-half years later, just seven months after my sister’s suicide.

Always always always, she would say to me, “Don’t get into a relationship until you get your degree.”

Those words have always echoed in my head, words that I didn’t always heed, but ultimately listened to. At the time, I had no idea there would be two graduate degrees (both from the University of New Mexico), each one icing on the cake after the bachelor’s degree.

I think of her often and I have started to wear her locket. My mom had it and I believe it’s from the 1970s– the photo of my grandparents was taken in their living room– with her initials.

I wasn’t as close to my grandfather but I think of him often as well because I’m doing some volunteer work at the University of New Mexico hospital. I took this photo from the parking garage overlooking the medical school campus where I had been to record a video introduction for something coming soon.

I grew up hearing about the hospital where he worked and my house is filled with objects that I remember from their house. While my life forges forward, I don’t forget the past– where I came from and where I always wanted to go. And what I know what she especially wanted for me.

What Makes a Good Day?

I love to have parties, especially dinner parties. To me, there is nothing better than setting a table, making food, bringing people together. But the sort of dichotomy about me is that on holidays there usually aren’t any sort of gatherings at my house.

I grew up that holidays were meant for family and we spent all of them with extended family. After my grandparents died, it was more about immediate family, but we all gathered in some form or fashion.

Now that I live away from the little family I have left, holidays are more about doing other things. I gather people on days that aren’t holidays, on weekends that don’t have anything else marked on the calendar to represent the dates.

But in the earlier times of my family, Holy Saturday was the bigger of the two days for us. We went to my maternal grandparents’ house where we gathered with the rest of the aunts, uncles, and cousins, walking a basket of food to the church for the food blessing service, and then having a big meal afterward.

Easter Sunday was more low key especially after my paternal grandfather died and my grandmother went to a nursing home.

That means I don’t make big plans for Easter.

Greg and I went to the 8:00 am mass and were honored to be asked to carry up the gifts for communion. Afterward, we made a stop at the University of New Mexico campus where we took some photos of my new dress with Peep. The photo above isn’t one of the best for posting, but it’s one I really like– it shows a look between a look, the flowers blooming, and Zimmerman Library behind me. It’s a happy photo, one that makes me smile when I see it.

We still had house cleaning, laundry, a meal to prepare, and dogs to bathe the rest of the day. But after my first swim of the year in the pool, dinner in the oven, and the dogs drying from their baths, I rested on a lounge chair and looked around me.

It was a 70-something degree day. The sky was mostly clear. We had a nice day.

And that was all that mattered.

Making Change Even After Lent Ends

It’s hard to believe that Lent is almost over, that we have entered Holy Week, that Easter is less than a week away.

I wrote at the start of Lent how we can use this walk through the desert as a time to make change in our lives. When we make a sacrifice, it’s usually about making some sort of change (like giving up a type of food to lose weight) or vowing to exercise more. I often have used Lent as a time write more, reflect more, and to work on the always challenging, letting go.

Now that we’re less than a week from Lent ending, the question is– how do we sustain that change even after Easter has ended?

Now, I’m not talking about giving up pizza for the rest of your life. I’m from Chicago, I would never advocate for that! But I do believe there is a place for cutting back, for making things we love more of a treat, mostly to make us healthier and our bodies happier.

My Lent this year was about working toward letting go of certain worries that plague me. And in my house, while we eat fairly well, we’re trying to eat better and eat less (getting ready for those warmer months when we aren’t hiding behind our clothes).

Usually, I’m thinking of Easter as the end of this sacrifice to make change, but not this year. Easter feels like a checkpoint, a rest stop, a time to reflect and rejuvenate before starting the walk again. The walk might not be so desolate and dry as the desert walk of Lent was, but it hopefully still includes more time for the conversations with God that have increased during Lent.

Lent is a time to grow closer to God and you wouldn’t want that stop at Easter, would you?

Nine years...how can it be?

It was nine years ago Friday that Mom died.

I still can’t believe that nine years have gone by– it feels like she was just here and yet I know she wasn’t because so much has changed. I had four different dogs nine years ago (I have three now– I know that statement might confuse someone and think I have four). Greg and I weren’t married yet. Chelle Summer had yet to be created.

We were in San Diego Friday and it was a good day. We hit five estate sales and I found some great stuff at two. I’d like to think that it was Mom guiding me to the items or placing them in my path. And despite the many washed out beaches, we did get some beach time (on a rocky beach, no less) with a clear sky filled with sunshine. And we spent dinner with Mom’s cousin Pat and her husband Lee, eating Italian Beef sandwiches which Mom would have approved of.

Death anniversaries can be complicated, especially in the first years or the significant anniversary ones– five, ten, fifteen, etc. I never know how I’ll feel for them, but with Denise being gone thirty years this year, I was wrapped up in that and didn’t really dwell on the nine Mom is gone that hit the next week.

Maybe next year will be different when it’s ten, but I am grateful for a good day. While I was too busy to think much about her, it really is about the days she had with us, not how or when she left us. Still when I reflect back on Friday, it feels like she was part of the day, a day she would have enjoyed. Or perhaps she was enjoying it right along with us.

Telling the Story

I always knew I would write books. It was my dream from the time I was six years old. I just never dreamed my first book would be about not just surviving, but finding hope and thriving again, after my younger sister Denise’s suicide.

As I’m coming up the 30th anniversary of her death at the end of this week, the muscle memory is taking me back to the days leading up to her death (mostly memories of the NCAA Tournament, where I was when she died) and what would become memories of a different life, a life when she was still alive.

The book didn’t come right away after death. Honestly, it shouldn’t for anyone. We should be consumed with coping with the loss, finding our way through grief, and weaving it all together into what is a changed life. While Mom had said in days after Denise’s death that we should share her story, that maybe we could help someone else, it was several years before I understood what my sharing would be.

I had to travel a grief road I didn’t understand, especially as a 21-year-old college junior who just wanted to be writer. My path changed and I thought writing had slipped off my plate when I decided to become a high school teacher and coach.

But the writing never left me and I understand now that it was because I had to experience enough of my grief, of the reweaving, so I would have a story to tell.

I read as much as I could about suicide and grief. There was no internet as we know it (and no social media) in those days so my connections to other siblings survivors were mostly confined to my own brother and sister. I read about sibling loss, seeing how often it was downplayed even though they are the longest relationships we have in our lives.

The reading and research didn’t seem to end. There was so much to not just include, but to digest and find a way to use it to help others like me. The publishers weren’t interested; all the talking we do about so many things now didn’t exist twenty-some years ago.

But Jack Bolton understood. It was his wife Iris’s book that they had published when they couldn’t find a publisher about the death of their son Mitch. And that’s how Do They Have Bad Days in Heaven? Surviving the Suicide Loss of a Sibling became a book in July 2001.

There is much more I could say– it’s almost like what came after the book is a book, a journey, in itself. I sent order forms to support groups all around the country (I don’t think we were able to have direct ordering on the web site at that time although there was a web site that at least offered information and a message board).

Slowly, I began telling my story not just in Albuquerque as I had been while I was writing the book, but around the country. And then around the world. I earned a doctorate; I wrote more books on suicide grief. I began to expand into how the family as a unit grieved.

And I experienced more losses in my own life– my dad in 2005, a divorce (following my first husband’s head injury from a drunk driver in 2003) in 2011, and the death of my mom in 2014.

My sibling grief journey evolved, the book was updated to reflect that in 2021, and I now stand in a different place. It’s not about how Denise died thirty years later. It’s about the short time we shared together, the colors and prints of our childhood, of sharing those in unique ways as Chelle Summer.

It’s about finding hope even when everything seems dark as it did for her.