The Free Life

Synopsis: Woman (20's, total idiot) moves from Iowa to Los Angeles to become a famous television writer. But before making it big (spoiler alert, she never does) she has a baby. That babe is diagnosed with cystic fibrosis. Two divorces, a majorly hurt ego later, Woman (now 40's, much wiser) returns to Iowa, buys a house with too much yard to raise a teenager, Corgi, two smug cats and spends most days behind this thing called a mower and another thing called a shovel but still finds time to write and not get paid. Lots of plot twists, laughs, and ridiculousness ensues.

Great Was Never Great: Breaking Up With An Abusive President

1/19/2021

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It starts out with big promises. He is charming, says the right things, buys you flowers and oil pipelines. He tells it like it is and everyone seems drawn to him, enamored even. This initial wooing is called a “love bomb” and you are his target.

You’ve been hurt in the past and he knows exactly what to say. He’s chosen you for a reason. He’s unlike anyone you’ve ever loved and at first you believe that to be a good thing.

As the months go by and the orange layers peel away, you begin to have questions. But those around him are so engaged, steadfast, loyal, so you wonder, “Maybe it’s me? Maybe that thing in my gut telling me this isn’t right, is actually wrong.”

You decide to stay and suddenly the red flags blow away like a dandelion in the breeze or a bird into a giant wind turbine.

Friends comment on social media how happy you look as your cheeks ache from fake smiling. You pose for the photos and wear the outfits he deems suitable, not too sexy, but attractive enough to adorn his arm. If you look at anyone else, even scanning a room or talk to another man, you’re accused of cheating. You have to be loyal at all times but may never question him. Those are the rules.

You find yourself defending atrocious behavior. It starts out small, little insults masked as humor. He tests you to see how much he can get away with, but after a while the little insults become character bashing. You stay because you believe this is not really who he is.
When you argue, he replies, “It’s a joke! Don’t be such a snowflake. Don’t be such a bitch. All guys talk this way.”

You think, “Maybe he’s right. Maybe this locker room talk is acceptable.”

The world tilts upside down, so to adjust you start walking on the ceiling. Eventually living upside down becomes normal.

It’s a slow transition. At first it is shock, then disbelief, then numbness, until all actions are justified and eventually condoned. He is skilled at making you believe you are the problem. It’s not him. It never is.

You voted for this, you brought this into your life. You are invested, physically, financially, emotionally, spiritually. You are complicit, aligned with his behavior and abandoning him now would reflect poorly on your character, not his.

Admitting this is wrong would mean that something in you is faulty, that you are unable to discern truth from fiction, right from wrong, good from evil. You shouted from the rooftops it was GREAT!

He buys you theatre tickets for your birthday to your favorite show. He brags about it on social media. Tons of likes! What a great boyfriend! Hashtag lucky lady! Tickets in hand, big smiles. But on the day you are to attend, he takes the tickets away and says you don’t deserve them anymore. He goes alone, comes home and pushes you against the wall because you ruined his evening. You made him go alone. You take a bath and sob and wonder how in the world you got to this place. You agree with him in a way, “What is wrong with me?”

He spoils you with nice dinners but punishes you afterwards for enjoying it. He calls you a gold digger. You tell him you’re fine with inexpensive meals, that you’re happy to cook and camp and live simply. But he doesn’t want to. He wants 5 star accommodations but shames you for going with him. You should know your place. You are not in the top 1%. You are not a Mar-a-Lago. You are a Motel 6. You are lucky and owe him everything. You would be nothing without him.

You walk on eggshells. You give praise because praise is the only behavior acceptable. He only asks for your opinion because he knows at this point, you’ve come too far to disagree. He’s groomed you. Loyalty is everything and you are loyal to the end.

He lies of course, but that’s just him. It isn’t really hurting anyone. Image is the most important thing and who are you to stand in his way? Even if he is deeply flawed, we’re all sinners, right? Even though he doesn’t ask for forgiveness, that’s okay too. He says if you ever say anything negative about him, he will sue you and take everything you have. He has already destroyed your self-worth so you believe him.

And then one day you see the playback, clarity hits, the red flags, the lies, the promises, the orange layers peeling down in fast forward to something rotten and vile and you think, “How could I not see? How could I have been part of this awful thing?”

You finally say, “This wasn’t me. Isn’t me. I just didn’t know.”

You realize it is okay to walk away. It is okay to accept that you were fooled because you are not an awful person. He was. You believed a lie. You believed a lot of lies. You believed someone who spent a lifetime perfecting the art of the lie. It’s not you. It’s him.

For a lot of us who have experienced emotional abuse in our past, these past 4 years have caused PTSD and depression as we relive the nightmare with every article, newsfeed and watching, like our lives, our country fall prey to a narcissist.

Trump’s discourse, demeanor, humiliation of anyone who disagrees with him, his isolation of supporters and complete need for loyalty is all too familiar. We lived it personally, not just politically. It was not just in the White House but in our house.

Now, we leave. We move on and know from this point we can recognize the red flags, the fake promises, the grooming, the emotional abuse and we will never stand for it again. We are better now. Great was never great. But the future will be.

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I Gave Birth To A Feral Child

12/31/2020

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Originally published on Scary Mommy 11/30/2015

My daughter is feral. Not in the way that she walks on all-fours and hissed through infancy, or scratched up her doctors arms and refused motherly affection, but in the way that she is not like other children. There is something about her, something wild. She was born this way and no one could have prepared me for the daunting task of domesticating my own child.

Addie was the toddler we have all witnessed at the playground, who teetered to the top of the monkey bars, pausing for a brief moment before hurling her body into the air like a preschool base jumper. She swung so high on the swings, I imagined, much like a cartoon, one day she would circle all the way around, shooting out into the stars with a joyful “Weeeee!”

The instant she learned to crawl, she began climbing—book shelves, dressers, sinks, counters, desks, any place that was at least a hundred times higher than she was. After baby-proofing our apartment, our dwellings resembled a prison, more than a home, earthquake tethering every heavy item to the wall so she could not pull down the house while repelling off of it.

Before she was age-appropriately ready for a big girl bed, we ditched the crib. Even as an infant, I’d walk into the bedroom to find her straddling the bars like Edmund Hillary climbing over the the top of Mount Crib. At 8 months, she stood in her high chair with a look on her face that I swear meant, “I will not be restrained for strained peas!” Straps were no match for my little Houdini, and the first time I placed her in the seat on my bike, she said in total deadpan, “Just. Go. Fast.”

She was the kid who immediately upon walking into a house would zero in on all electrical outlets and locate something (preferably metal) to stick inside them. I called Poison Control at least 15 times in her first 2 years. And it was not (I swear) out of negligence. All poisons, cleaners and medications were locked up. But on walks, she would reach her little baby hand out of the stroller, grab a flower or plant and shove it into her mouth. My calls were so frequent, I knew the operators by their first name. After a few calls to Theresa at Poison Control, I got smart and printed out a list with matching photos of all poisonous California plants for our walks, so I would know when her appetite for indigenous foliage warranted an ER visit. When that got old, she ate the little packets from shoe boxes that say, “Do not eat.” These are surprisingly non-toxic, or so Theresa from Poison Control assured me. They are just not to be confused with food, ya know, for those people who get incredibly hungry while shoe shopping.

She shoved Mexican Sage up her nose. She ate a sharpie. She broke her ulna and radius on the monkey bars. She had stitches in her forehead from a flying wooden tool box (don’t ask). On walks with our dog, I had a leash for her and a leash for our Pomeranian. And yes, I saw the judgment from other parents as I walked my dog and kid in unison. But those judgy parents didn’t know that just like a puppy, my kiddo, if allowed to roam free, would beeline for the house across the street to shove a marigold or bird-of-paradise up her nose.
She is the female version of Mowgli from “The Jungle Book,” more attracted to nature and danger, than order and safety. She came out of my body fast and loud and that has never changed.

It doesn’t stop at thrill-seeking. She comes up with ideas most children would never even conjure. At her third birthday party, she received a baby doll. Where most girls would cuddle and feed the new babe, my kiddo absconded to the bathroom, with a few accomplices, where they dipped the doll in the toilet (to get her nice and wet) and then rolled her in cat litter. When I walked in, I didn’t have to ask whose idea it was to make a cat litter turd doll. I knew. She is almost always behind the “big idea.” She was the kid who cut all of her playmates hair, played doctor, and encouraged the neighborhood children to embrace their wild sides too. It may come as no surprise that we’ve lost a few friends along the way. You know who you are. I hope you liked the fruit basket we sent.

And like Mowgli, my daughter prefers to pee outside and run naked through the yard. In the middle of winter, she refuses to wear anything but underwear. If I had a nickel for every time I yelled, “Addie put some clothes on, the UPS guy is at the door,” I would be a rich, rich mama.

Despite her wild ways, she is also a very affectionate little beast who is kind and funny and sweet and she has outgrown some of her jungle ways. Fortunately, at 10, she has developed a sense of fear, or caution, or possibly common sense. As much as I admire her ability to take life by the horns (and the bull too, if she had the chance), she has scared the holy crapola out of me more times than I can count. People without feral children, do not understand. They assume it must be lack of parenting or discipline and that I am terrible parent. Feel free to discuss that in the comment section. I’m sure the judgy wudgies with tame kiddos will attribute their child’s disposition to proper parenting. And maybe they’re right. I’m sure they think they are.

But I have had plenty of friends whose first born was a little angel, but whose second child came out with a forked tongue and talons. These are my favorite friends.

One of my girlfriends recently confessed, “I thought I was such a fabulous mom after having my son. He was polite and obedient and I credited myself for his good behavior. And then I had my daughter.”
She said the word ‘daughter’ through clenched teeth like the mere mention of her existence could invoke a plague of locusts or the apocalypse.

“She is difficult and stubborn, unafraid of any consequence or punishment! It doesn’t matter what I do,” my friend confided.

I know it’s awful, but I took great joy in that statement. Not because I was happy she had a difficult kid, but because she of all people gets it. She had the little kitten that would let you hold it and dress it in baby doll clothes and put in the buggy and then she had the feral cat, who hissed and bit and peed outside the litter box. And she loved them both.

She also mentioned something that I think only a parent who has experienced the whole spectrum has the grace to admit, “Sometimes my son is so boring, I can hardly stand it. At least my daughter makes life interesting.”

It’s not easy, but I’m glad I was blessed with my feral girl. She may challenge me on a daily basis and moon the UPS guy, but she’s also taught me that when standing on the jungle gym of life, rather than thinking, “I could die,” she thinks instead, “I could fly.” I can’t imagine a world without the spitfires, the feral kiddos, the piss and vinegars, the hellcats and the Mowglies. They not only make life more interesting, but they make life wild.

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Exit Through The Comment Section

12/20/2020

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I read an article yesterday about President elect Biden and his wife visiting the graves of his deceased former wife and their baby girl who died in an automobile accident. And then, despite my better judgment, I clicked on the comment section—the Dante’s Inferno of the internet.

“He deserved it.”
“Why is this news?”
“Karma, serves him right.”
“Libtard.”

And I thought, “Who are you people?"

Years ago, I wrote an article about my daughter going through a difficult phase. It was about choosing battles and understanding that little people are human. It was benign mama sharing stuff. While reading the comments, I was stunned to read, “You and your daughter are c*nts. You are what is wrong with America!” My daughter was nine. It was in all caps. It always is.

Who are you people?

Another recently read article was about a woman in prison with a pre-existing condition. Her mother was begging authorities to let her go because of the risk of her contracting Covid. She was there on a parole violation. I clicked on the comments.

“She deserves to die.”
“If you can’t do the time, don’t do the crime.”
“Sorry, not sorry.”

Who are you people?

It’s like if all the bullies from middle school got together and learned how to type just to beat up people online.

I will often click on the profile of the person spewing hateful verbiage. It’s slightly stalker-ish, but I want to know, to understand. Do they have children, pets? Are they a Russian bot named Todd Smith with a faux picture of a polite looking Marine standing next to a yacht? Are they real?

I want to know, “Who are you people?”

But they just look normal, someone you’d stand next to in line at the grocery store. They would probably let you go first if you only had a couple items and talk about the weather. They have family photos with babies and cute Pomeranians and their favorite sports team. Go Hawks.

But who are you people? Really.

Why, when reading an article about a man grieving his dead wife and baby, do you put hands to keyboard and feel obligated to say “You deserved the worse possible fate in the world?”
At what point, as we sit behind screens do we stop being human? At what point did we collectively decide we have permission to be awful, only because we are hidden? Like a child playing hide and seek, covering their eyes while in plain site. We can still see you. We see you.

Who are you people?

I’ve done it. Not to this extreme, but have felt justified in tearing someone’s argument apart, breaking down what I felt was flawed thinking or logic and maybe in the process breaking them down too. I have wanted to be right more than I have wanted to be kind. I have beaten people up with words, not intentionally but because in a furied moment of rapid typing, I felt superior. I was right dammit!

It is a cowardice battle fought outside the ring, without the real blows of a … 3, 2, 1, you’re down, but a winner declared with the most likes. No boxing gloves, just words and pajamas. And maybe that hurts more.

In trying so hard to get my point across, to be right, I have stepped on cyber toes, but hurt real hearts. And I’m sorry.

Maybe the real question is, “Who am I?”

This disconnect, that space between us and the rest of the world is fragile, exposed, vulnerable. Before we choose to enter it, to meet a stranger, to engage, we need to pretend that space doesn’t exist. That person is there, in the room, in their PJ’s, a dog on their lap, kids in the background and they are just waiting for a kind response.

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The Hours

12/12/2020

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The hours

hold all the power
a pocket watch tucked
away in the tweed coat
of gods

keeping the pace of
us

the only thing constant really
moving forever forward
no matter what

everything ends
but the hours

Even when it seems to stand
still
or slow or speed away

it isn’t true
the hands are right
not us
So we’re told

enjoy this
the right now
because they grow too quickly

that dial is constantly moving
a race against
well you know

what seems like in an instant
is

a toddler becomes
a teen
and you think

where did it go
what was I doing
how did I not notice

the hours

that fragile space between
what was and what is

the only thing it cannot do
is stay

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It Will Not Be Easy

11/18/2020

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It will not be easy.

From the beginning
you will feel as if the earth has spun
off its axis
and yet
you still have to pack a lunch.

It will not be easy.

You will hold on even when the universe comes undone,
when laundry climbs higher than Mount Olympus
and you become the Sisyphus of dishes
and the Hermes of carpool.

It will not be easy.

You will be okay because
of little hands in clay and dandelions blown
into the wind with big, big wishes attached.

You will be okay because of laughter from the back seat
on a long car ride
and crayon drawings of aliens and cats
on the refrigerator,
messy baths
and sparklers in the backyard,
the made up songs about dog farts
and jelly beans.

It will not be easy

on days when sleep is like an old friend who
moved away leaving no forwarding address
but you will be okay.

Because the music will come on as you watch
a little person
who you made
tap dancing on your freshly mopped floors

and you will find yourself turning
the music up and putting down the mop.
Because something about you has changed.

You will never be the same.

It will not be easy.

At night, after you’ve read the stories
brushed the teeth and answered a thousand questions
about gravity, why cat’s breath smells like tuna and
how do butterflies know where to fly,
why children can’t stay up all night
and what happens when we die.

You will tuck her in and breathe a tired sigh,
one that every mother has known
from the very beginning of time.

It is a sigh that says

It will not be easy
but you
will be okay.

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The Secret's In The Ink

11/12/2020

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Watching "The Octopus Teacher" on Netflix reminded me of an essay I'd written when Addie was struggling with her health. If you haven't watched it, do. But first, read this.

It creeps up on me like the boogey man or an octopus.

We have great days of playing at the park, dinner around the table where we talk of playground politics and discuss Ben and Jerry's greatest ice cream flavors. After homework and a game of animal rummy, we catch an hour of a Jack Black movie during respiratory treatment, guffaw at his cartoon facial expressions and settle in with a library book about octopuses, cuttlefish and squids, learning how cephalopods exist without skeletons. They are the shapeshifters of the sea, who cannot only change color but camouflage their bodies by the pattern of their surroundings.

The blue-ringed octopus transforms its body to look exactly like the anemones beneath him, same color, same shape, even the same texture. How does he know how to do that, in an instant? How does he paint his pigment in those Van Gogh patterns, without a brush, without a cerebral cortex? How does he inherently know what will save him?

Instead of fighting, he fits in, meshes, like, "Hey dude, just hanging." In essence, the octopus pretends the danger isn't actually there. And it works.

This has been a tough year. Addie's gastronomy tube fell out and had to be replaced surgically, her stomach woes and blocked colon caused months of physical pain and missed school, activities and life. This cold that won't go away created a wet cough that sounds like heavy cement in her lungs. And now the antibiotics that fight the cement are causing diarrhea and night time tummy aches. Sometimes cystic fibrosis feels never-ending. We are fighting an invisible current, a secret enemy who is hiding in plain site, colored and textured like our daily surroundings, but always there. At the end of the day, even when it's lovely, the tentacles are showing.

This is a first, but tonight I was jealous of an octopus and her graceful ability to survive the depths of the sea without a weapon, except ink, writing her story in the ocean. "I WAS HERE."

Even if I were hidden when the dangers lurked above, I fought in my own way. I changed and worked to fit in to this environment that was always against me, that tried it's best to win because patients with CF struggle to breathe, as if air were the enemy, as if they were underwater and born without gills.

Without the metaphors, I'm just sad tonight. I wish my kid could fall asleep without any pain or discomfort. I wish a cold was not something to be feared like a shark or a stingray. I wish I could kiss her goodnight and not think, "She's almost eight, how long do we have?"

I wish I could sink into the bottom of the sea and camouflage myself into pretending we are safe, that there is nothing wrong, that we are just the anemones beneath us. There are no enemies. And whatever haunts us from above will keep on swimming. Just keep on swimming and leave us alone. Safe and shapeless, but happy, under the waves and the sun that seems to always find a way to reach us, even in the darkest of places.

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Why Bedside Manners Matter

10/23/2020

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When my daughter Addie was diagnosed with cystic fibrosis at the age of four months, she was immediately admitted to a prominent hospital in Los Angeles. For almost three weeks we lived in a “what if” bubble, not knowing if our baby would survive.

Cystic fibrosis (CF) is a genetic and fatal condition that affects the lungs and digestive systems. The average life expectancy at the time was only 37. This diagnosis not only shattered our world but we found ourselves physically living in a new home, a hospital. That may sound superficial but with a baby, comfort and sleep is paramount. We traded our cozy apartment of white noise machines, boppies, and tubby time for fluorescent lights, constant interruptions, beeps, pokes, prods and chilly sponge baths. Everything personal and soothing was replaced with sterile, harsh, painful, loud, bright.

For those three weeks, Addie had blood transfusions, respiratory therapy and saw so many specialists, by the end of the day I could barely remember my name. We were learning a new language, the language of CF and relied solely on doctors and nurses to translate. We were figuratively and physically at their mercy.

Our nurses were our lifeline. I remember one in particular, whose baby was the same age as Addie. She cried with me and visited even when she was off duty. Thank you sweet nurse. Our phlebotomist, who had the unfortunate task of poking my babe every morning at the crack of dawn, entered the room with a defeated sigh and apologized while extracting blood from the teeniest, tiniest vein and always, always got it on his first try. Thank you sweet man. I will never forget you sweating over that little hair of a vein. To this day, I don’t know how you did it.

When your child is inpatient, you don’t always have the same doctor. Because of this, there are differing recommendations and medications. For a family trying to understand the details of a disease, consistency matters. It wasn’t just learning a new language but also deciphering varying accents and dialects.

As we were settling into our new normal, a new “to us” CF Pulmonologist visited our room with a team of residents. It is protocol or at least a kindness for doctors to ask if the patient and family are comfortable with 10 other people in the room. We would have said yes, but she offered no choice and marched in like she was staging a coup, not visiting a patient. She didn’t talk to us, she talked AT us. Her affect and demeanor were intimidating and condescending. This was her show. We were merely players.

Some of what she said was incongruous with Addie’s other pulmonologists. I was so flustered by her harsh demeanor, I couldn’t even speak. After she left, I needed clarification and asked the nurse if it was possible for the doctor to return. A few hours later, the pulmonologist angrily walks back into our room (sans entourage) clearly annoyed and said, “I heard you had some questions about how I do my job?” She was almost yelling. I tried to form a response but she sighed through each one, huffed and hawed and acted as if this was a personal affront to her, like I was requesting extra pickles on my Big Mac not talking about my baby’s life.

California did not have newborn screening in 2005 so by the time we realized Addie had CF, she was severely malnourished. Despite nursing her constantly, she was considered failure-to-thrive. At four months old, she barely weighed 8 pounds. We had been vigilant in trying to get a diagnosis but CF is rare and it took switching pediatricians, a village of moms, a lactation counselor, friends and family in the medical field and a myriad of tests before we knew why. By that point, it was almost too late.

During one of my questions, this doctor nonchalantly but judgmentally said, “Well she almost starved to death, so what do you expect?”

If someone had punched me in the face, it would have hurt less.

I later spoke with another doctor about this incident and the response was, “She doesn’t have the best bedside manner but she’s a good doctor.”

Nope. Nope. And nope.

There is no such thing as a good doctor with a bad bedside manner. If your patients cannot trust you to ask questions, if you terrify or shame them, you are not a good doctor. Hippocrates' “first do no harm” extends beyond the physical treatment of patients.

Fifteen years later, I have a healthy child. She will always have CF, but we are well-versed in the language of care. Our experiences since have only been positive. We left this hospital for another and later moved to my hometown in Iowa. Our CF team is phenomenal. At each clinic visit, our specialists ask, “What other questions do you have for me?” They are purposefully opening up a door for us to enter, for us to feel safe, so they can help.

I wish I could go back to that day. I was a new mother, a deer in the headlights of chronic illness. But today, I am a strong, fierce advocate for my daughter and I have a few words for that doctor. I hope she reads this.

When you approach that bedside, you are approaching a family who was possibly given the worst news of their life. They haven’t slept and every comfort of home has been replaced with industrial toilet paper and bright lights. Even the language you speak is foreign. The uncertainty and fear is something they never dreamed they would live. This is your job, but this is their life. Be kind. You may be the director of the show. But the patient is the star.

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The Free Life

Great Was Never Great: Breaking Up With An Abusive President

I Gave Birth To A Feral Child

Exit Through The Comment Section

The Hours

It Will Not Be Easy

The Secret's In The Ink

Why Bedside Manners Matter

Elise Free

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