Sheila Flaherty's Blog, page 2

And then…JOY!

The present moment is filled with joy and happiness.

If you are attentive, you will see it.

~Thich Nhat Hanh

I’ll admit, my last few posts have been on the “downer” side. Some people find it hard to read about the impact of cancer. It’s hard to write about it, too, even though I’m also sharing the positive life lessons I’m learning in the process of recovery. While I have two more posts planned for Breast Cancer Awareness Month, right now I’d love to share an unexpected joyful benefit I’ve gained from the tough stuff.

It was a cold and windy day last Saturday, October 20, when the Ragdale Foundation in Lake Forest had its third annual Halloween extravaganza called “Rags to Witches.” After months of preparation, the entire Ragdale house and grounds were turned into a magical spooky kingdom. Even the outside of the house was decorated as an enormous Cheshire cat called “Fang.” Inside were ghoulish portraits, animal skeletons dining at a lavishly decorated table laden with creepy treats. There were flickering lights, cobwebs, spiders, a lone, ghostly bride—and too many more exquisitely spooky details to list.

Activities over the day included Tarot and palm readings, creepy portraits, a pet cemetery, a very curious scavenger hunt, an original play, the witches’ kitchen, Michael Jackson’s Thriller dance lessons, a makeup madness station, ghostly storytelling, a parade to the witches ring, and a costume contest. There were food stations scattered about including The Sweet Shoppe and Grub Station, and a cauldron of hot cider served by a cackling witch.

All day, eerie violin music played and, parading through the grounds, were a ghostly bride and groom, figures wrapped in white gauze and wearing giant skull masks, spookily costumed poltergeists on stilts, walking skeletons, and assorted other creepy creatures. All these were in addition to the many costumed artists and volunteers, and those of the hundreds of guests who chose to dress for the occasion. It was spectacular!

Although it was chilly, everyone seemed to be having a wonderful time. There were broad smiles to be seen everywhere, along with the excited shrieks and exuberant laughter of children.

I spent much of the day co-leading the mad-libs ghostly writing activity with a man named Steve. We had two poster-sized written ghost stories with blanks to be filled in by the kids (and adults) in attendance. Sometimes there were exuberant (and occasionally inappropriate) words shouted out. Some kids politely raised their hands to answer. Others were too shy to participate and Steve and I had to help them along. But it was all good. This was my second year to volunteer with Rags to Witches and I was loving it.

An hour into the afternoon my son Jeff, daughter-in-law Brie, and 28-month-old granddaughter Ada arrived. Ada was wearing a pink and white unicorn costume and looked adorable. Since I rarely wear makeup, I was afraid Ada wouldn’t recognize me in my fortune-teller costume and heavy, glittery (professionally applied) makeup, but she did. In the short time between arrival and seeing me, Ada had already been enjoying the various costumes on parade. She was fascinated by the large white skulls, but particularly enthralled with the poltergeists on stilts.

They stayed for a couple rounds of ghostly mad-libs, then took off to explore the rest of the activities. I joined them much later, when it was time for the poltergeist parade to the witches ring for the costume contest. Ada and I joined the end of a very long line of shivering hopefuls and her parents and I suggested she wave her arms like she was flying once onstage. When it was finally her turn, she held tightly to my finger and appeared to have stage fright. We got to the edge of the stage and I stepped down and reached back to pick her up. But as soon as Ada let go of my finger, she started waving her arms as she turned circles on the stage. Shy no more, she stole the show! The watching crowds laughed and cooed at her cuteness, while the Ragdale photographer snapped multiple pictures.

After the final contestant crossed the stage and the judges conferred, the results were read and winners received goodie bags full of treats. The last category was Cutest Costume. The judge announced the winner, “The baby unicorn!” Ada laughed and cried out, “I won!” as her daddy carried her up to get her prize.

After that, the kids and I went to The Lantern in Lake Forest for dinner. It’s a funky diner, very kid-friendly, with free popcorn and trains constantly circling on tracks overhead. There’s even a claw crane arcade game to win stuffed animals. That night two sweet little boys were big winners and shared their loot with Ada!

After dinner, we hugged and kissed goodbye and I got in my car and they got in theirs. We went our separate ways. For a moment, I had that sad separation feeling you get when you’re suddenly alone again. But then I had a rush of pure joy! As I drove home, I replayed the day in my mind, from start to finish, and I was overwhelmed with happiness. That night, I had trouble falling asleep, but it was because I felt like a kid at Christmas. It’s been such a long time since I’ve felt such happiness. And it has stayed with me. Even now, as I write, tears of joy fill my eyes.

Ever since Saturday night, I’ve been thinking about the purity of my happiness. And I’ve decided my experience is a direct result of my mindfulness practice, which is a direct result of my healing process. For months now, I’ve mostly felt fear, or sadness, or anger, and only fleeting pleasure. The negative emotions have been the most insistent—demanding the most attention. Like the squeaky wheel, they’ve been so noisy I haven’t been able to fully attend to happiness. It’s like fear, sadness, and anger were so tightly woven together they formed a veil through which I’ve been gazing at the world. The veil has been lifted when I engaged in work, or spent time with Ada and Jeff and Brie, or went out with friends, but the happiness was short-lived.

On Saturday something shifted and I was mindful in every moment—truly and completely present in the joy. And, because it has stayed with me, it feels as though that heavy veil has been lifted for good. I know there will still be dark times, but I can choose to let those be my fleeting moments. Now that I’m once again in touch with pure happiness, I intend to make it a priority. Although I can’t walk the magical kingdom of Ragdale every day holding the hand of a cute baby unicorn, I can imagine life as an arcade game and claw for the prize of joy whenever possible!

Life Lessons I’m Learning from Cancer: Number Two

I Can Choose My Immediate Reality

Cancer: A term for diseases in which abnormal cells divide without control and can invade nearby tissues. (The National Library of Medicine)

I’ve discovered cancer doesn’t just invade your body—it invades your entire life. It invades your waking hours and what little sleep it permits. When it isn’t taking over all your thoughts, it hovers on the perimeter of your mind—like a fluttering distraction in your peripheral vision. Cancer becomes your constant companion.

It invades your time with friends and family, by either hogging the conversation or morphing into the elephant in the room. And this isn’t always the fault of other people inquiring as to how I’m doing. Sometimes I feel cancer is all I have or need to discuss. Other times, it’s the very last thing I want to talk about.

Cancer invades your “real life” by requiring appointments with doctors and specialists, where it destroys any remaining sense of dignity by demanding to be examined by foreign eyes and cold, strange hands. It’s easy to feel dehumanized during these exams.

Forever the scene-stealer, cancer draws attention like flies to a carcass. Encounters with family, friends, acquaintances, and even strangers can take treacherous turns. Casual mentions of a friend or family member recently diagnosed, or suffering through treatment, or, my personal favorite, dead from cancer—can haunt my thoughts and dreams for days.

Researching alternative treatments for cancer can be a slippery slope to self-loathing. A popular self-help author built an entire empire on the theory that we all “create every so-called illness in our body.” According to her we’re to blame for whatever ails us and the probable cause of cancer is “Deep hurt. Longstanding resentment. Deep secret or grief eating away at the self. Carrying hatreds.” As a psychologist, I’m well-aware of the mind-body connection. Too much prolonged stress can definitely contribute to health problems. But the theories this author pushes veer way too close to blaming the victim. The last thing a cancer patient needs is to be told she’s at fault.

Not even deliberate efforts to find entertainment and temporarily escape your painful reality are guaranteed successful. Suddenly magazines and the internet are full of articles on cancer. You’re blindsided by cancer plot-points in movies and TV shows promoted as light entertainment. With the turn of a page, an engrossing novel delivers the protagonist into the abyss of cancer!

To cope with the invasiveness of cancer, I’m learning to intentionally seek solace and joy while creating firm boundaries against negative surprises. I’ve strictly limited literature, TV programs, movies, or conversations having the potential to take me to dark places. That threaten the peaceful moments I’m able to collect during my days and nights.

I’ve made a practice of prayer and meditation, and have become an ardent fan of Pema Chödrön. Her words soothe and comfort and inspire. I’ve also read a lot of David Sedaris and Anne Lamott—anything that can make me laugh.

Whenever I’m able, I deliberately and mindfully create a small oasis of calm. I’ve learned I can choose my immediate reality. As I write these words, soft music plays on my stereo, a scented candle flickers nearby, and a vase of vibrant pink roses rests on the table before me. Life, at this very moment, is beautiful.

Now, I leave you with a quote and a request.

Cancer reminds me of a very bad but tenacious performer who, although no one wants to see, insists on doing an encore, having a return engagement, making a comeback, and, worst of all, going on tour.

~Valerie Harper

Women, get your mammograms! All readers, remind women in your life to get theirs! Early detection saves lives…it saved mine.

Life Lessons I’m Learning from Cancer: Lesson One

Sometimes Comfort is Found Beyond Your Comfort Zone

October, being breast cancer awareness month, is a perfect time to share some of what I’m learning from having breast cancer. My very first blog post, Hope and Action, was published October 2012, when I was a ten-year survivor. It was about my first diagnosis of breast cancer. Now, two recurrences later, I have much more I’d like to share.

This time, the third time, cancer has taken a much greater toll on me—physically, psychologically, emotionally, spiritually. Reading my journal entries from before my surgery on April 6, and immediately following, I realize I had no idea how hard I’d be walloped. My plans were to face it all head-on and jump right back onto my feet afterwards, barely skipping a beat. Little did I know.

In retrospect, it all makes sense. This time, the cancer was invasive and life threatening—now and possibly in the future. The immediate treatment, a mastectomy and reconstruction with an implant, was much more involved and impactful in every way than a lumpectomy. And on June 7, nine weeks out from surgery, I had complications—an infection the most heavy-duty antibiotics couldn’t resolve. On July 2, following another hospitalization, I had surgery to remove the implant. I’ve been recovering ever since.

I’ve long known life is one big classroom, so I’ve been looking for the lessons I’m meant to learn from this particular assignment. There are many. My hope is by sharing them, anyone walking the same path as I might have an easier time of it. Or, if someone you know is dealing with cancer, perhaps an insider’s view will help you to help them.

One thing I’ve learned is having cancer is piercingly lonely. No matter how many professionals or supports or friends or loved ones surround you, in the end you are an island. Alone with your body, your pain, your churning thoughts, your sleepless nights, the decisions you have to make, the consequences of those decisions—and your fear. Surrounded by loved ones, you still walk the most terrifying path of your life alone.

My tendency has always been to retreat like an animal to its lair in times of despair. I isolate. I’ll listen to a message being left by a dear friend, and not pick up the phone. Especially after all my years of being a caregiver, it’s been hard to assume the role of care-receiver. However, to cope with the loneliness of cancer, I’ve learned to be more open to reaching out for help and receptive to those reaching for me. To say, “Please help.” And to say, “Yes, please” when help is offered. And, always, to say, “Thank you.”

I’ve never been a “joiner,” but I’ve joined two breast cancer survivor groups and immediately felt warmly welcomed into “clubs” no one wants to join! From both, I’ve gained valuable insight from shared stories and I feel a kinship with these women. I’ve gotten helpful feedback on my questions, and I’ve been able to put my own experiences into perspective. As much as I hate having to go through everything related to my cancer, I’m now so aware of how much worse it could have been. The stories women bravely share about their bilateral mastectomies, stage 4 metastatic cancer, radiation, and chemotherapy make me grateful my own story is much less complicated. Much more hopeful. Reading their stories, I weep for them. Many of the women in these groups are so young, with small children, careers they have to put on hold, and little in the way of support systems.

My support systems are my biggest blessing. My last post was a tribute to my best friend, Tanya. Now I wish to express my deepest gratitude to everyone else who reached out to me in any way at all, to help ease my pain. These are people for whom I’m eternally grateful. There are so many, I don’t dare try to list them, lest I leave someone out. Thank you for your calls, cards, notes, emails, texts, messages of any and every kind. For the balloons, flowers, plants, cookies, candy, candles, scented soaps, lotions, lavender products, books, gift cards, offers to run errands or to do whatever I needed. For the meals, home-cooked or store bought, delivered with love. Thank you for your visits, your time, your energy—your love. Thank you for making me smile during my most difficult times. It all meant more than I can possibly express.

All these angels came from every aspect of my life—family, friends, neighbors, patients, my therapist, my spiritual advisor, FaceBook friends, and members of my community I see only in their stores or places of business. People I never expected. I am blessed and humbled by the love I’ve received.

I’ve learned that by daring to reach beyond my personal comfort zone, I have found comfort. Even in the loneliest, most difficult, and painful times of our lives, solace can be found from others—hands to hold, people to listen—if we learn to ask for the help we need and we learn to receive what is offered. Over these last many months I’ve learned to do both—and I plan to continue. Now, I leave you with a quote and a request.

Good friends help you to find important things when you have lost them…
your smile, your hope, and your courage.
~Doe Zantamata
Women get your mammograms! All readers remind the women in your life to get theirs!

A Tribute to My Best Forever Friend

I would rather walk with a friend in the dark, than alone in the light.

~ Helen Keller

Those of you who know me or who read my last blog post on May 30, 2018, know I’ve been going through a very dark time in my life. I had a bad mammogram on January 29th and, following an ultrasound and needle biopsy, I was diagnosed with cancer in my left breast on February 12th. It was my third occurrence. The next seven weeks were consumed with appointments with my oncological surgeon, a genetics counselor, and a plastic surgeon. On Friday, April 6 at 11:11 am, I had a mastectomy and reconstruction with a saline implant. Surgery lasted 3 1/2 to 4 hours and was successful in every way. My surgeon got it all, and my lymph node was cancer free.

Scheduling the oncological surgeon and the plastic surgeon on the same day and at the same time was a little complicated, but as soon as I knew my surgery date, I called my best forever friend, Tanya Boaz. We’ve known each other over fifty-two years, and she’s the closest to the sister I’ve never had than anyone I’ve ever known. When she answered the phone, I asked, “What are you doing the first week in April?” I will forever remember her reply, “Tell me when you need me and I’ll be there.”

And she was. She arrived on Wednesday, April 4 and stayed until Wednesday, April 25. During those three difficult weeks she drove me to follow-up appointments, took notes for me, and was my staunch advocate and protector during a traumatic and totally inappropriate incident with my now former oncologist.

Tanya grocery shopped, cleaned house, and did laundry. She cooked all my meals and made me eat, even when I had no appetite. She took care of my two old needy cats…food, cat box, cleaning up their puke. Made me rest when I couldn’t sleep, which was most every night. Tanya refused to let me lift anything remotely heavy and watched endless episodes of Grace and Frankie and Chef’s Table…the only programs I’d watch.

Tanya watered my plants and took care of the flowers being delivered. Ran errands to the post office and pharmacy. She put up with the many quirks of my ancient house, and tolerated my quirks, as well. (I wasn’t always the ideal patient!) In lighter moments, we just hung out and and talked and laughed at shared memories…as well as at the absurdities and indignities cancer brings with it. Our laughter was, indeed, the best medicine I was given throughout it all!

Tanya was the only person who saw the whole of what I went through. The only witness to my darkest days and nights. My darkest hours. She saw my pain and my fear and my rage and my depression. She saw what I wouldn’t show the world. She saw me the Sunday before she was due to leave when I had a total emotional breakdown and I shook and sobbed and raged and had a major pity-party for hours. She brought me water and a wet washrag and held my hand and asked me if I wanted her to change her flight and stay. And I almost said, “Yes, please.” But I knew Tanya was exhausted and rundown from caregiving. She missed her home and her grandson and her life. I knew she needed to go home. And I needed to be able to let her go. I calmed myself and said I’d let her know. When she left, as planned, we both cried.

Throughout the entire three weeks, Tanya exemplified grace and love and patience. I truly could not have survived without her. It’s a testimony to our friendship and our love (especially hers!) that there was no tension between us the entire time she was here. People use the phrase “like sisters,” but I’m sure sisters would have fought at some point! I missed Tanya when she left and I cried and I was able to carry on. She’d made sure of it. She left the house in good order, the refrigerator full, and with the promise to return whenever I need her. And I have no doubt it’s a promise she will keep.

Never, for a moment, do I take for granted the blessing in my life that is Tanya. I know most people never have a friend like this, and I am forever grateful I do. Thank you, Tanya. I love you with all my heart.

Read more about Tanya and our friendship in Soul Foodie. And, here’s one last quote:

You only really fall apart in front of the people you know can piece you back together.

~Sarah Dessen

And Then…Cancer.

“If you want to make god laugh, tell her your plans.”

~ Anne Lamott

This was supposed to be a good year. I planned to make it so. I intended to spend more time with people who make me laugh, and engage in activities that feed my soul and bring me joy. I wanted to write more and seriously work on my next novel. The whole of 2017 had been full of sorrow, heartbreak, and extreme stress, so I began 2018 with positive energy. On January 13th, I started Flamenco dance lessons…a life-long dream. On January 16th, I wrote a blog about my granddaughter, Ada. And then, on January 29th, I had my regularly scheduled, annual, diagnostic mammogram.

That Monday, the tech kept coming back into the room, taking more films of my left breast to show the radiologist. Finally, I was taken to the radiologist to have an ultrasound. Those of us who’ve had cancer, especially more than once, know the lingo.

Words like irregular, ill-defined, suspicious. Once you hear these words, “maybe” hangs over you like a noose.

Fear floods your mind and body. The bargaining begins. You’re back to the beginning. You can try to be positive, but you know all too well the results can be bad. The results can be positive. And you know what positive looks like. I didn’t feel good about this.

A needle biopsy was scheduled for Wednesday, February 7th. I wasn’t calm that day…I had a panic attack as they prepared me for the procedure. I would have called it off, but I knew I’d have to come back. Somehow, breathing and praying, I made it through.

I was supposed to have results by Friday, but there was a major snowstorm that week and they never came. My internist, Dr. N, finally called late Monday afternoon, February 12th, with the news. My intuition was right, I had breast cancer.

That Thursday, February 15th, my oncological surgeon explained how this cancer was different from the last two. The others were called ductal carcinoma in situ (DCIS)…which meant they were neatly confined within ducts. They still had to come out, but were contained. This time the cancer was not contained and it was invasive.

“The good news is that we caught it early and it’s very small. But you have to have a mastectomy,” said Dr. Y. “And we also have to take a lymph node to make sure it hasn’t spread to other parts of your body.”

That was the moment it really hit me. The moment every woman fears. I started to cry.

The next week, I met with a genetics counselor to see if I carry the BRACCA gene. Thankfully, I don’t. If I did, the recommendation would have been a bilateral mastectomy as a preventative measure.

The following week, I consulted with Dr. S, a plastic surgeon, to explore the possibility of reconstruction. Although given the option, I chose not to go larger. I’m happy with my body, and going larger would have involved a second surgery on the other side. I also insisted on a saline implant, instead of silicone. If anything ever leaks into my body, I want it to be something natural.

Because I’d had radiation therapy on my left side 16 years ago, there were questions about possible scarring that would rule out an implant. There were also concerns about the thickness and plasticity of my skin…also sometimes compromised by radiation. Neither of these concerns could be reconciled until the actual surgery. I wouldn’t know if reconstruction had been possible until I woke up from surgery.

Scheduling both doctors for the same day and same time was a little tricky. And I also had to work around a speaking engagement at the international women’s conference We Move Forward in Isla Mujeres, Mexico. My trip was booked for March 7th through March 13th. The date of my surgery was finally decided, Friday, April 6th.

As soon as I knew the surgery date, I called Tanya, my longest-time best friend, and asked, “What are you doing the first week in April?” I will forever remember her reply, “Just tell me when you need me and I’ll be there.”

Having to wait so long was both a blessing and a curse. There was so much time to have it weighing on me. And there was so much time to prepare. I started eating even better than I usually do. Exercising more, because I knew I wouldn’t be able to work out until at least a month after surgery. I had my will and trust revised, got my financial papers in order, and my billing caught up through March. I filed an extension for my taxes.

This, being the third time I’ve had breast cancer, might make one might think it gets easier. It doesn’t. In so many ways, this was harder. This cancer was much more serious. Life threatening. Especially if it had spread to my lymph nodes. I was terrified. My sleep was disrupted. I haunted my house in the night, while showing up for my patients during the day. The only time I felt normal was when I was working or with Ada.

I told far fewer people than I have in the past. The hardest thing about letting people know I had cancer was watching their faces crumble, their eyes fill with tears, witnessing their pain and fear and feelings of helplessness. Feelings that mirrored my own. I couldn’t get past my own grief. Whenever I tried to talk about it, I cried. When people were sweet to me or hugged me, I cried. Alone or with others, I cried. Other than family, friends, and patients I knew I had to tell, I told no one.

At We Move Forward, I tried going undercover. But I’d let Janeen, the founder, know, in case I wasn’t able to present. Therefore, her team all knew. I took much comfort in their sweet smiles, kind words, and hard hugs…but they made me cry. By the end of the conference a small number of other women knew, as well. My hope was WMF would give me some peace and some rest and help bolster my reserves going into the surgery. In many ways, it did. I felt fortified by all the positive female energy and all the love. But I also got sick with a respiratory infection and had to see my doctor as soon as I got home. My surgery date was closing in and I didn’t have the physical or emotional reserves I knew I needed. Dr. N agreed and prescribed aggressive treatment.

The infection, heavy duty antibiotics, fatigue from travel and sleepless nights, ongoing anxiety, and depression nearly took me out. I lost my appetite. My weight, already low, dropped by eight pounds. The two weeks before surgery I consumed as many calories as possible, and regained two pounds. Enough to pass my pre-surgery physical.

I picked Tanya up from the airport on Wednesday, April 4th. We spent time with Ada that afternoon and that night we went out for nachos and margaritas. The next morning, I had two sessions, then Tanya and I had manicures and pedicures.

Late that afternoon the hospital called with my surgery time. I was to report to nuclear medicine at 8:30 am for a procedure where they injected dye into my breast so, later, when the lymph node was biopsied, they would be able to tell if the cancer had spread. (It was, in the words of the late journalist Molly Ivins, “massive amounts of no fun.”)

My surgery was scheduled for 11:11 am on Friday, April 6th. I’d recently learned the custom of making a wish upon seeing it is 11:11. Some numerologists believe it’s an auspicious number, or signals a spirit presence. It was comforting, none the less.

Tanya and my son Jeff were with me before surgery, but I remember very little. Being hooked to an IV. The parade of doctors checking in. Dr. Y, Dr. S, the anesthesiologist. At times, the room felt crowded. Maybe we laughed, but I don’t remember laughter. Right before being wheeled off, I was given something in my IV to relax me and Jeff and Tanya were told to hug me quickly, because soon I wouldn’t remember.

I remember the hugs and them following as I was rolled down the hallway to the operating room. I remember huge round lights and a noisy crowd of blue-gowned people. I saw a clock and it was 10:56. I started feeling anxious and reminded myself that I’d already been given something for anxiety. That was my last memory until I woke up in recovery where I vaguely remember chatting with a nurse. Then, I was back in my room. My surgery had lasted 3 1/2 to 4 hours. Jeff and Tanya were happy to see me and told me the reconstruction was successful. The best news of all was that my lymph node was cancer free and Dr. Y was thrilled with the results.

I’m now seven weeks post-surgery and four months since my mammogram. It’s taken this long to be able to write about it. Recovery has also been “massive amounts of no fun.” (I’ll spare you the details.) Yes, I’m extremely grateful. Thank God for early detection! My annual mammogram probably saved my life. And I still struggle in the aftermath. I’m learning a lot. In my next post, I’ll share some of the lessons I’ve taken away from my experiences. For now, I’ll close with another quote from Molly Ivins:

“I have contracted an outstanding case of breast cancer, from which I intend to recover. I don’t need get-well cards, but I would like the beloved women readers to do something for me: Go. Get. The. Damn. Mammogram. Done.”

Loving Ada

“Truth be told, being a grandma is as close as we ever get to perfection.” ~ Bryna Nelson Paston

I never feel closer to God than when I hold my granddaughter. Ada, at nineteen months, is smart, loving, beautiful, and already has a wicked sense of humor. My afternoons with Ada are my best, happiest days…when I get the pleasure of her company for three to four hours, or more, if I’m lucky. During those hours, I call her “baby girl” and tell her I love her at least a hundred times. Afternoons, I let Ada lead the way. From what she wants to do to when she wants to eat. We have our favorite activities, and our rituals.

First, we take off our socks and get down to bare feet. Maybe it’s the Southern woman in me, but I’ve never been a fan of shoes and socks…especially in the house. Ada’s either inherited that from me, or learned from example, but she insists on socks off right from the start. The day usually begins with This Little Piggy, to be repeated spontaneously over the next few hours.

Another ritual Ada likes is wearing my jewelry. It started with a bracelet I wore early on to entertain/distract her when she got upset. Seven silver bands looped together are bright, shiny, and jangle when shaken. She insisted on wearing it. Soon, she added a necklace and another silver bracelet I always wear. Last week she added another necklace, my watch, Fitbit, and a ring. I’ll be leaving all my jewelry to Ada in my will!

Thanks to her daddy, Ada loves watching football, and she has two of her own. We toss the football to each other and, when we catch it, we roll on the floor while I shout “going out for the pass!” She also likes to dribble a soccer ball and shoot a few hoops in her brand-new basketball net. Ada is clearly going to be an athlete of some kind.

I’ve taught her some yoga. She watches closely and imitates my poses…reaching to the sky then touching our toes, downward dog, happy baby. Ada’s expert at happy baby! And I’ve changed the name of my corresponding pose to happy Grandma.

We always spend time at the living room windows, watching traffic pass beneath us… counting busses, trucks, and motorcycles. Rushing to the window to see an ambulance or fire truck race past. Ada loves spotting trains in the distance, or planes and helicopters overhead. Ada loves the sky. She especially loves pointing to the moon. And, in her bedroom, we lie on the soft, gray, sheepskin rug and stare up at the “stars” on the base of her chandelier.

Much of our time is spent in imaginary play. Picnics with her little people. Arranging and rearranging her menagerie of stuffed animals. Puppet shows. We draw, and color, and tell each other stories. I tell her about all the things that exist in the world…oceans and mountains and forests. Things I want to show her… the Eiffel Tower and Paris. Things I want to do with her… ride a train, see a ballet, attend the symphony. I tell her all the magical, wonderful things she will see and do. All the things she can be when she grows up. I speak in possibilities and tell her only the good stuff of life. Ada listens and absorbs and tells me her stories. They are long and elaborate, and I can’t always understand the plot, but I always get the message!

Ada loves bubbles! Every week we make bubbles using homemade solution and a big, intricate wand. First, I wave the wand and Ada chases the bubbles. Sometimes popping them, sometimes catching them in her tiny hands. Then I hold her while she dips the wand in the solution and I spin her around so she can do it. We make a terrible mess on the kitchen floor, and exhaust ourselves laughing and chasing bubbles.

Ada also loves sitting in a rocking chair and having me (repeatedly) sing The Eyes of Texas are Upon You, while holding a stuffed long-horn steer her daddy brought her back from a business trip to Dallas. Ada rocks, sings along, and strums on the small pink “banjo” I gave her for Christmas. The gift of the banjo was inspired by the verse someone’s in the kitchen with “Ada” strumming on the old banjo. Ada was fascinated by the word banjo. And, since I was once told I should “never even sing in church,” it’s a uniquely lovely gift to have someone request to hear me sing.

There’s always music. We listen to Pandora…usually Adele station, sometimes Bob Seger, and we dance in the kitchen. We mostly fast dance and twirl around, but occasionally I love to hold Ada in my arms and waltz her around the floor to a favorite slow song…Unchained Melody, The House of the Rising Sun, Make You Feel My Love.

A couple weeks ago, Joe Cocker’s version of You are So Beautiful to Me came on and I swooped Ada up to dance. When my kids were little, I used to sing that song to them every night after they said their prayers. Ada’s mom and dad chose it for their Mother ~ Son dance at their wedding. The last time I’d danced to it was that night in fall of 2012. As Ada and I danced, I saw our reflection in the tall dark window. I hugged her tightly, and cried a little bit… remembering. I held Ada until she squirmed to be let down.

Toward the end of the day we settle down on the sofa to read books or watch Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood videos. It’s then, she loves to sit on my lap. She leans back against me and I lean in toward her and wrap my arms around her, absorbing her sturdy warmth, feeling her heartbeat. Sometimes I hold her feet, ever awestruck by the perfection of her tiny toes. I rest my face against the top of her head and smell her soft hair. I kiss her sweet cheeks. Never am I more present in my life than in those moments when I take in Ada with all my senses. When I am lost in her. In those moments, I am consumed with love…pure and true…Godlike in its joy.

People speak of the wonders of being a grandparent, but there’s no way to understand until you feel it for yourself. Every grandparent I know thinks their grandchild is the very best…and they’re right! Because every grandchild is a gift of trust and innocence. Every grandchild is another chance to be the best you can be…another chance to get it right. Every grandchild is someone else to love unconditionally.

Loving Ada makes me want to protect her and make sure she always knows how much she’s loved. Ada makes me want to be a better person, to be stronger, to stay healthy. Loving Ada makes me want to live forever so I can watch her grow into adulthood. She makes me want to be there for her in every way she ever needs, on every step of her journey. And I’ve promised her, I will.

99-cent Promotion for East of Mecca on Kindle

Thank you, as always, to my readers for your continued love and support. I’m especially grateful to those of you who purchased my book to give as gifts over the holidays. If anyone else wants to share East of Mecca with family or friends, I’ll be running a 99-cent promotion for Kindle ebooks through Sunday, January 21, and I will be donating 22% of all profits from this promotion to Mary Lou’s Place, a domestic violence shelter for survivors and their children, run by the Evanston YWCA.

East of Mecca Accomplishments 2017

And, if you’d like to know what’s new with East of Mecca, please check out my list of East of Mecca Accomplishments for 2017!

New Year’s Eve Reflections and Gentle Suggestions

Our task is to say a holy yes to the real things of our life as they exist.

~Natalie Goldberg

It’s New Year’s Eve and the pressure is on! The busyness of the holidays is coming to a close, but first we must ring in the New Year and ring out the old! There must be a ball drop, a countdown, fireworks! 2017 must end, not with a whimper, but with a bang. But, what if we need to do it differently?

I’ve felt my own internal pressure to write once more, before year’s end. I want to share my thoughts on how to healthily reflect on the past year and move mindfully into the new. And yet, I’ve long known I cannot write under pressure…my own or anyone else’s. When I try, I run smack into writer’s block. And procrastination. Friday, when I began trying to write this post, I recorded my mental and physical process. It was, as follows:

Procrastination is a wily beast! I really want to write. I have so much to say! Yet, there are things to be done…like washing and drying my lunch dishes. Other urgent tasks call to me, too…cleaning the hall closet, rummaging through the junk drawer in search of AAA batteries, dusting the top of every picture frame in the house. Such is the nature of writing…housework is suddenly seductive. Procrastination is the foreplay of writing.

I’ve set the stage nicely. Viennese waltzes play on the stereo, a fragrant candle flickers, the Christmas tree glows. I sip yerba mate tea with honey. Yerba mate has magic powers for concentration. Still…no words. Outside, a salt-truck rumbles past, so, I check the weather. It’s 15 degrees with snow showers. I resist the urge to go peer out the window.

I set a timer for an hour…my recommendation to everyone facing a seemingly impossible task. I cannot leave my chair for an hour. I cannot do another single thing except write. And, finally, I was able to. Here’s what I want to share!

Many cultures and religions feel New Year’s Eve is a perfect time for looking back…an opportunity for reflection, learning, and gratitude. Yet, coming out of the frantic pace of the holidays, it’s all too easy to succumb to the momentum of New Year’s Eve celebrations and bulldoze, helter-skelter, into the new year.

I’m all for rituals of celebration, but I also gently encourage carving out quiet time for reflection…for what I call, compassionate journaling. In a journal or notebook, record events from the past year that come to mind. The book doesn’t have to be fancy, and your words need not be poetic. It’s about finding your own, authentic voice.

My wise-woman spiritual advisor, America Martinez, uses the term “classrooms” when referring to our learning experiences…good and bad. As I wrote in my last post, 2017 was a particularly difficult year. So, I well understand the urge to be done with it. And, yet, for me, there were so many “classrooms.” So many opportunities for learning! What I did right, what I could’ve done better, or differently. Lessons I can take forward with me into the new year and beyond. I’m on a quest to come home to myself.

The trick is to look back with compassion. For others, and for ourselves. Jot down what you remember, good and bad, without judgment. Look for the patterns, the lessons, the blessings. This overview gives us perspective and helps us live more authentic lives.

When I did this exercise, I learned I’m stronger than I realized, and also more vulnerable. In 2017, I learned to ask for and receive help. I now see more clearly what is healthy for me, moving forward, and what is not. What to keep and what to let go. I’ve learned if I show up and trust my process (in life and in writing!), things might unfold in unexpected and delightful ways. I’ve learned to say “No” and I’ve learned to say “Yes.” (Just this week I said “Yes” to snowmobiling for the very first time. I felt so brave, and had a blast!)

Looking back, more than ever, I recognize the abundant blessings in my life. I’ve learned to begin and end each day with whispers of gratitude…for my family, my friends, my patients. For my Wednesdays with my granddaughter Ada…the love and joy of my life!

While I don’t make resolutions, I intend to mindfully move forward spending time and energy on what I find truly meaningful and healthy. Writing more. Making time for people and activities that bring me joy. Letting those I love know how grateful I am to have them in my life. Learning more about myself. Continuing to grow spiritually. Creating opportunities to live more authentically, passionately, and compassionately.

My New Year’s Eve will be quiet. I’ve said “No” to a party and, instead, in the light of my Christmas tree and the warmth of the fireplace, I’ll write in my journal. I’ll bring in the new year with delicious food, good champagne, and conversations with friends and family. For me, 2017 will end, not with a bang, but with a whisper of gratitude.

Thank you, my readers, for your continued love and support. I wish you all robust health, hopefulness, and much joy in the New Year!

What This Shrink Knows: A Practice for Surviving the Holidays… and Life

Wear gratitude like a cloak and it will feed every corner of your life.

~ Rumi

Last week, December arrived with a super moon and the beginning of Mercury in Retrograde. Winter solstice, the darkest day of the year, is next week. Temperatures here in Chicago finally feel like winter. Skies are gray and snow is on the ground.

We’re deep into the holidays, with three weeks to go before they’re over. This season is always the busiest for psychologists. People are dealing with family dramas, stress, depression, disappointment, demands, and expectations. We grieve those lost to us. The holidays can leave us financially broke, emotionally bereft, and just hoping to survive.

No matter how we feel, we can’t escape… lights strung in trees, Christmas music, bell-ringers. Years ago I had a patient who was having a particularly difficult year. She said every time she went outside she wanted to scream, “Get your Christ out of my face!”

2017 has been a hard year for many people I know, and millions I don’t. There have been horrendous natural disasters here and abroad. At this very moment wild fires rage in California. There have been too many crimes against humanity to even begin to count. Everyone I’m close to is still reeling from last November’s election and the continuing, surreal, disastrous aftermath. And the “#MeToo” movement has triggered memories of long-suppressed abuses in every woman I know, including me.

On a very painful personal note, I was divorced in February. Ending my twenty-year relationship left me with the daunting task of discovering who I am as a woman on my own, with no partner and no kids left at home. And, my last remaining uncle, whom I dearly loved, died in April, leaving me in mourning and feeling truly orphaned. (And with no one left to answer all the questions I still carry about my crazy daddy!)

Together, all the traumatic events of the past year created a tsunami of profound sadness and anxiety from which I’ve only just begun to surface. I haven’t written in months. Every time I tried, I found myself just staring at the blinking curser on the blank page. During times of depression and stress, creative energy is the first to go. Navigating the holidays takes creative energy.

Over this year, I’ve found four practices most helpful for survival, building resilience, and creating happiness. I want to share them with you.

The first is gratitude. Early on, I began a daily gratitude journal in which I listed (at least) three things for which I was grateful… maybe something that happened that day, the name of a loving, supportive friend or family member (there were so many!), or, simply, that I had a warm bed to burrow into for the night. When keeping a gratitude list during tumultuous times, you learn to appreciate all the blessings in your life… and to be on the lookout for what you might otherwise take for granted.

Which leads me to the second practice, mindfulness… the act of being present in your body and your mind and paying attention to what you’re experiencing, feeling, or thinking in the actual moment. Mindful meditation is sitting quietly with what is. Most of us spend our lives in our heads, ruminating over past events or feeling anxious about what the future will bring. Practicing mindfulness can keep us from obsessing. Sometimes, being in the present means sitting with our discomfort instead of escaping in unhealthy ways. Most the time we find things are at least “okay” in the moment.  Sometimes, they are even enjoyable… when we’re paying attention. The practice of mindfulness helps us recognize the good things when they occur!

The third practice is compassion. When things are awful, we tend be hard on ourselves. We think we should be doing better, doing more. In times of depression and high stress, we become mired in the chaos and/or lethargy and it’s easy to get caught in a loop of self-loathing. Instead, it’s imperative that we step back and truly look at what we’re going through with the compassion we’d show a friend or loved one. And then give ourselves the same support and self-care we’d suggest for them.

Throughout the year, I learned to be easier on myself. I was careful to make healthy decisions whenever possible. I ate well, exercised regularly, protected my sleep, and spent quality time with family and friends. I showed up for my work… which is my passion and my purpose. I babysat my granddaughter… who is my very heart. I laughed as often as I could. I prayed, meditated, and went to my own therapist.

The last practice, intention, ties them all together. To lead healthy lives we must commit to doing whatever is in our power to make that happen. We must mindfully look for and gratefully recognize the positives in our lives. My intention was to be healthy and happy and to survive the year, and I committed to each and every practice to achieve that goal.

It has been said, “life isn’t a rehearsal.” But it can be a practice. By intentionally practicing gratitude, mindfulness, and compassion, I’ve become more resilient, learned to be fully present even in my darkest hours, and have a constant recognition, sense of awe, and overwhelming gratitude for all my many blessings. I’ve done more than just survive this traumatic year… I’ve found happiness and even joy, in unexpected places.  

I wish for you, my readers… my friends, the very same. I’m grateful for you all.

Of Freedom, Feminism, and “The Handmaid’s Tale”

Women’s rights are human rights. ~ Elisabeth Moss

I first read The Handmaid’s Tale the summer of 1989 while living in Saudi Arabia. Margaret Atwood’s award-winning novel was published in 1985, and I’d been aware of it, but completing my psychology internship and doctoral dissertation, while working and raising two kids, had taken precedence in my life. Suddenly, in Saudi Arabia, I had nothing but time.

My husband Curt had taken an engineering job with Aramco Oil company and we were living on the company compound called Ras Tanura, located on the shores of the Persian Gulf. We had discussed the move at length, weighing pros and cons, and it seemed like a good idea at the time. It was an excellent opportunity for him, the salary was so extraordinary we could pay off bills and accumulate savings, and I would have a “break year” before seriously launching my private practice. It would be our grand adventure.

All was well, until the first day in Saudi when, after being fingerprinted, I was photographed holding a placard with Curt’s employee number under my chin. From that moment forward I would be identified only by my husband’s information. And then, my passport was confiscated by Aramco. To get it back, my husband would have to file for an exit-visa for me. I had my first panic attack that morning in Saudi when I realized how utterly powerless I’d become. Unlike being in the States, it was not possible for me to call a taxi, go to Dhahran Airport, and jump on a plane for home.

In Saudi, the list of restrictions, especially for women, was limitless. I couldn’t leave the fenced and heavily guarded compound, except via approved transportation…the company bus, certain taxis, with my husband driving. I couldn’t drive myself or ride a bike or even walk off the compound. There was a strict dress code. I wasn’t allowed to work, because I didn’t have a work-permit. (I worked, counseling Western and Arab women illicitly…risking Allah knows what!)

People sometimes ask me, “Didn’t you know what you were getting into?” The answer is, “no.” There was a glossy, coffee-table formatted book, Aramco and its World, extolling the luxurious good life in Saudi. There was a company orientation telling new-hires and their families what Aramco wanted them to know. This was before the internet, when we could have done our own research. The closest I found to an honest account was The Saudis: Inside the Desert Kingdom, written by an undercover journalist, Sandra Mackey, and published in 1987. Even after reading Mackey’s memoir, I thought I was prepared.

The truth is, reading is one thing…experiencing quite another. I didn’t know how it would feel to go from being a well-educated, independent, professional, free woman…to being locked in a compound and utterly dependent on a man’s (and a Kingdom’s) good graces. I didn’t know how it would feel to be without purpose, left idle and alone while my kids were at school, my husband at work. Every day I struggled with anxiety, depression, loneliness, and boredom. Most days I rose at dawn to run on the beach before the sun brought intolerable heat. I haunted the compound library, reading old, heavily censored magazines, and checking out books for home.

“Here’s one I know you’ll like,” said Trudy, the librarian, as she presented me with The Handmaid’s Tale.

I started reading that afternoon and I read straight through. I rocked and cried as the protagonist, Offred, narrated experiences and feelings that mirrored my own. When I finished the book, I wrote home to my family and friends in the States, telling them, “If you want to know how I feel living in Saudi Arabia, please read The Handmaid’s Tale.”

For those of you not familiar with the book, it is a dystopian novel set in a “near future” New England area of the United States. The government has been overthrown and what is now called The Republic of Gilead is a totalitarian theocracy in which woman, in particular, are stripped of all their rights, rendered powerless, and their bodies politicized and controlled…especially sexually and reproductively.

Birth rates all over the world have dropped precipitously from many factors, so fertile women in Gilead were separated from their own children and partners and ascribed the role of handmaid. They are then assigned to infertile high-ranking couples in order to (hopefully) become impregnated by the husbands so as to provide children to the couple and the Republic. Handmaids are easily identified by their long, crimson robes and winged white bonnets designed to obscure their faces and limit their vision. Handmaids are forbidden to use their real names and become known by names identifying the men who now possess them. In the real world, the protagonist’s given name was June. Now she is called Offred…of Fred. (In Saudi, I was Ofcurt!)

I copied a quote from the book onto a piece of paper, and put it where it could inspire me every day. The quote, Nolite te Bastardes Carbornundorum, translates to Don’t let the bastards grind you down.

This past spring, a televised series of The Handmaid’s Tale premiered on Hulu. The production is compelling, extraordinarily well done, and Elisabeth Moss is stunningly convincing as Offred. It is mostly true to the book, but, instead of the future, it is set in the here and now. The details of the take-over are alarmingly convincing, and paint a terrifying picture of what could conceivably happen here in the United States under our current administration. I highly recommend watching it.

As expected, there are criticisms of horrifying events portrayed in The Handmaid’s Tale as extreme, unrealistic. However, all are currently happening or have happened to women all over the world. Previously free women in Iran and Afghanistan have been covered in chadors and veils and forced out of public spheres and back into their homes. Google “stonings,” and you’ll see a list: stonings in Iran, stonings in Saudi Arabia, stonings in the Middle East, stonings in Afghanistan. Google “female genital mutilations,” and the list includes India and Michigan. Google “arranged marriage,” and you’ll find India, Iran, Afghanistan, Somalia, Saudi Arabia, European countries, the United States.

Everything portrayed in The Handmaid’s Tale happens to women and girls in Saudi Arabia every single day of the year. My novel East of Mecca was inspired by my own experiences in Saudi, those of the women I counseled, and what I discovered happens to Saudi (and other) women within the Kingdom on a regular basis.

Atwood’s novel and the series on Hulu have inspired women to don crimson and white handmaid’s costumes while protesting against gender discrimination and healthcare bills infringing on women’s reproductive and civils rights in Ohio, New Hampshire, Texas, Missouri, Washington, D.C., Colorado, California, and New York.

Last month in Europe, actress Emma Watson made news as she hid one hundred signed copies of The Handmaid’s Tale in different locations around Paris. The novel is a selection in her feminist book club, Our Shared Shelf, which is part of Goodreads.

You don’t have to identify as a feminist (I obviously do!) to recognize that women’s rights are human rights. But, if you don’t consider the infringement on women’s rights a personal issue, and, if you’ve never felt any kind of discrimination and/or abuse simply because you’re female, consider yourself blessed. In the meantime, millions of girls and women worldwide are not so fortunate. Aren’t we all sisters, no matter where we reside? To paraphrase Matthew, 25:40, isn’t what is done unto the least of our sisters, done unto us, as well? Aren’t we our sisters’ keepers?

While living in Saudi Arabia, I woke up to a new appreciation of all I’d taken for granted as a woman living in the United States. That 4th of July was the saddest our family ever spent. No charming, cheesy, hometown parade…laughing at hokey floats and tearing up at Souza. No watching fireworks reflected in the waters of Lake Michigan. No waving tiny flags in appreciation of the multitude of freedoms we enjoy in our country.

This week, I will attend the parade and marvel at the fireworks. At the same time, I will continue to resist having long-won freedoms stripped away…because I’m fortunate enough to live in the United States, where I can.

Wishing all of you the happiest Independence Day possible! Thank you for so much for taking time to read this post.

Inside, I am Screaming — ‘‘Vote for Hillary!”

Everyone who knows me well, knows I am passionate about being a shrink. From the moment I embraced this career, I’ve never looked back. I can no longer distinguish what I do from who I am. And this is a good thing.

And, sometimes, it’s hard to be a shrink. Like when I hear someone’s story and it’s so tragic and horrifying that it haunts my dreams forever. Or, when someone’s heart is shattered and all I can truly promise is that time will help heal it—somewhat. Or when I have to stay neutral in matters of religion and politics and, inside, I am screaming!

Fortunately, I’m also passionate about writing, where I can safely speak my personal truths. I know most of you reading this already know where I stand on political issues. Those who don’t agree have “unsubscribed” to my blog. During this election season I suspect I’ve been unfriended on Facebook, and I know I’ve done my own unfriending when reasonable discussion proved futile.

As my grandma used to say, “There’s no percentage in arguing with a fool.”

Everyone who has read my blog posts and personal essays, also knows I’m an advocate for civil rights, women’s rights, and human rights. I grew up in the deep South and Texas during the 50’s and 60’s where I witnessed hard-core racism, hatred, bigotry, and sexism. Other than three years in Singapore, I lived in Texas throughout the 70’s. In 1982, I moved from Texas to Chicago for graduate school, no longer willing to subject myself and my children to the racist culture of the South. I live in Evanston, home to Northwestern University, making it one of the most liberal and diverse suburbs of Chicago. I joyfully voted for President Obama and grieve the rapidly approaching end to his terms in office.

I also grieve the tsunami of hatred, racism, bigotry, xenophobia, religious-intolerance, prejudice, homophobia, and misogyny flooding our country right now. Inside, I am screaming.

While I could go on and on about all the reasons NOT to vote for Donald Trump, I am ONLY going to focus on why women NEED to vote for Hillary Clinton. Life is hard enough for women, always has been, without the risk of losing all the RIGHTS we and women before us have fought and sacrificed so hard to obtain. I have lived in Saudi Arabia—a fundamentalist, male-dominated Kingdom—where women have no rights whatsoever. It is not far-fetched to imagine the same happening here if Trump is elected. Believe me, you do NOT want this to happen.

Trump hates and disrespects women and all his misogynistic, sexist comments and messages encourage his followers to do the same. There has been enough consistent, video-recorded evidence that I don’t even have to argue that point. The video released October 7th of Trump bragging and making lewd comments about his ability as a celebrity to do whatever he wants to women took him to a whole new level of despicability. And many women are now courageously stepping forward to report incidents of sexual abuse and sexual harassment at the hands of Trump over the years.

Sexual harassment by men stems from a sense of entitlement to look at, remark upon, and/or touch a woman’s body without invitation. Comments. Catcalls. Whistles. “Compliments.” Groping. Touching a woman during casual conversation. Assuming a hug or kiss is acceptable without asking permission.

An assumption of entitlement and imbalance of power is implied, and is always the case in an employer/employee sexual harassment. The boss’s hand on the employee’s shoulder. The “innocent” office flirting. Leaning in too close. Suggestive remarks. Overt groping and sexual assaults.

I don’t know a single woman—acquaintance, friend, or one of the hundreds of patients I’ve seen in over thirty-four years in practice—who has not been a victim of some sort of sexism, sexual harassment, and/or sexual abuse on some level or another during her lifetime. Not a one.

I was sexually harassed at Southwestern Bell phone company in Dallas when I worked there as a service representative in the late seventies. The new district manager, Clint Smith, was tall, dark, handsome, and slick. The office was comprised mostly of women and Clint had a “Rooster in the hen-house” strut about him. The very first time he was introduced to the women in my group, he said, “Oh, I know Sheila.” I had NEVER met the man before that moment.

Over time, his fawning over me had people asking questions, gossiping. Those who knew me well knew I was dying from embarrassment and confusion at his unwanted attention. I was married. He was married. I wasn’t interested, but sexual harassment didn’t have a name or options for complaint at that time.

At the company Christmas party when Clint asked me for a slow dance I didn’t feel I could refuse. Then he held me too close, swaying back and forth. Feet barely moving. I can still feel his hot breath on my neck. Smell his overpowering Aramis cologne. Hear him crooning into my ear, “You’re such a good dancer,” as he hugged me closer and I felt his erection. I knew I didn’t dare break away and belt him like I wanted to, because I would be fired. I felt humiliated, violated, and powerless.

Even as a clinical psychology intern in the 90’s, my three fellow female interns and I experienced sexual harassment from one of the two lead male psychiatrists. We took to strategically holding our clipboards in front of us in elevators where he liked to move in close. We were powerless.

I’ve had my share of whistles, catcalls, and comments over the years. Moments where I felt myself flush with shame as I stared straight ahead and pretended like I didn’t hear. I remember an adult male, upon learning I’d just turned thirteen, suggestively ask if I’d ever been kissed. And, at seventeen, trying to escape out the door of an ice cream shop, my hands holding chocolate milkshakes, as the leering owner approached me waggling his erection. I cried all the way home.

There have been more instances. So many more. And what they did to me and what they do to other girls and women is lead to feelings of shame and powerlessness. Self-doubt and self-loathing. Feelings of vulnerability, fear, and questions of complicity—from ourselves, but mostly from others. Blaming the victim.

All this doesn’t happen in a vacuum. We live in a rape-culture and women are programmed to blame themselves for unwanted sexual attention from a young age. At the same time, girls and women are constantly bombarded with messages of how we should look and act and dress in order to attract the “prince.” This has led to generations of girls and women basing their self-worth on how they measure up to supermodels, Sports Illustrated models, Playboy models, Hollywood stars, and the popular girls who get the most male attention.

The results are anxiety and depression, eating disorders, pressure to “hook up” to (possibly) get the guy, pervasive feelings of self-loathing, and, sometimes, suicide.

Just this week, two days in a row, I had young women patients talk about hating their looks and their bodies. Both are adolescents, smart, talented, creative, and beautiful. I carefully questioned why they felt that way, knowing better than to try reassurance. Because reassurance won’t work. They have so internalized the societal voices telling them they are not enough that it will take months, maybe years, to change their thinking—if ever.

The only way to possibly slow this speeding train is to publicly and unanimously call a halt to sexism being okay. Our boys must be taught to respect girls and women from infancy. And girls and women need to learn to respect and value themselves for qualities other than their physical appearance.

As the ads say, “our children are watching this election.” Unfortunately, the children watching Trump supporters have probably already been watching gender inequality, misogyny, and sexist, abusive male behavior their whole lives. And, quite likely, they’ve witnessed nothing but female passivity out of fear and/or social and cultural demands. But, think how things might begin to change if these children see Trump and his sexist, hate-filled, ideals rejected by a nation that strives to be honorable and truly believes in equality among all—including women and men.

When you cast your vote in this election, think about all the little girls and young women who will see a nation accept the value and power of women if Hillary Clinton is elected President. They will see our very first woman president and know that qualities like intelligence, perseverance, and hard work matter so much more than outward appearance. They, like millions of boys before them, can imagine growing up to be president! This is what I wish for Ada, my first granddaughter born this summer, and for all the girls and women living in this country.

• A note to those who choose not to vote for Hillary because she is pro-choice. Please consider the word “choice.” With Trump we, as women, are at risk of losing the power to choose what happens to our bodies. There are so many people I love who are adopted—including my own oldest son. And I am forever grateful their biological mothers chose to carry them to term and put them up for adoption. And I realize some didn’t have the choice to abort, because it wasn’t legal then. But a mother’s maternal instincts are fierce and who knows what they would have chosen? I’m grateful never to have had to make one of the hardest decisions a woman ever faces—but I will fight to the death for all of us women to have a choice in determining what happens to our bodies—in all regards.