…Step Away From The Cat!

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I have a cat. There. I’ve admitted to it. Anyone who knows me or follows me on social media knows that I am a dog lover and have three who I refer to as “my pack.” But only those in my closest circle know that a cat also resides in my house.

Before you make assumptions that I’m just a “dog person” or that I am some sort of cat hater, let me stop you right there. I love cats. I’ve spent a lifetime scratching their furry chins attempting to elicit a motorboat purr. I’ve slept with cats curled around my head or perched on my hip as I lay in fetal position. I have a series of urns that hold the cremains of every cat I’ve adopted, cared for, and loved for the past thirty-five years. So, no, I don’t hate cats. It’s just this cat.

When I was fresh out of college and still living with my parents, my first act as a “real” adult was to adopt a cat. I adored Oliver, and he quickly imprinted on me. He followed me everywhere and cried when I left the house. Imagine my confusion when I took him to be neutered, and the vet later called to inform me that the spay was a success. Clearly, I had not been paying close attention but happily brought Olivia home. Soon after that, I met the man who I’d eventually marry and informed him at the outset that I came as a packaged deal. “Love me, love my cat.”

A few years later, my husband and I adopted an orange and white cat, Rex, as a companion for Olivia. Next came Oscar, a plushy gray and white beauty whose tail twitched like Ricky-Ticky-Tavi while I prepared his meals. Roughly two years later, I discovered a colony of feral cats, most of them still kittens, and coordinated efforts with a local vet to capture, spay or neuter, and give vaccines to each of them. While I found homes for many, we added four more to our private collection. That made seven. The following winter, we added Shelley and Leroy to the mix when their previous owner abandoned them in subfreezing temperatures.

Our happy family of nine cats was soon joined by our son, then three years later, our daughter. I remember calling my mother one morning, exhausted from another sleepless night with my colicky baby, and crying in utter defeat on the phone. “My whole life is nothing but cleaning up poopy pants, baby spit-up, and cat vomit.” While she made all the appropriate sympathy noises, I am certain I heard her chuckling to herself on the other end.

One by one, the cats began to die. I lost my beloved Olivia first and bought a bronze urn to enshrine her cremains. Next was Rex, then Oscar. When that urn was full, I bought a second, then a third. As each of my precious cats reached the end of his or her life, my heart would break anew. And, my house grew emptier and lonelier. When we lost our final cat, Cleo, who lived to the impressive age of twenty, my long-suffering husband begged me to let her be the last. While he had loved them all, he wanted a break from the litter boxes and the cat fur and the cigar-shaped hairballs that he’d step on in the dark with his bare feet.

I agreed, fully intending to keep my promise. But, what could I do when I spotted something rustling in the shrubs outside of the restaurant where my aunt and I had just had lunch? I crept closer to see what was there and a tiny, emaciated kitten wobbled toward me on shaky legs, emitting the most pitiful meow I’d ever heard. She was covered in dirt, so I wasn’t even sure of her color, and I scooped her up in my arms. My aunt offered a piece of leftover fish, and the kitten gobbled it without chewing. An employee of the restaurant came out just as I made up my mind that I couldn’t leave that poor creature to fate. I asked him to go back into the building and find me a box, during which time I began to devise a plan to get the kitten into the house without my husband blowing a gasket. By the time the employee returned with a carton that had Budweiser printed on the side, I knew that if I claimed the cat was our ten-year-old daughter’s, my husband would be more likely to relent.

I went to pick up my daughter from a playdate and called to give her a heads up. “Just wait until you see,” I told her with exaggerated enthusiasm as I drew her into the scheme I’d concocted. “I have a surprise for you. A gift!” As I pulled into the driveway, Tara and her friend met my car, bouncing with excitement to see what I’d brought.

The friend peered into the car with mixed confusion and disappointment. “You got her a case of beer?” she asked.

“No!” I laughed, trying to hide my nervousness. “It’s not beer. Here, look inside.”

“You got her a dead cat?”

I peeked into the box and could understand the mistake. The kitten was asleep on her side and looked almost flat from starvation.

“She’s not dead, I swear. I found her outside of a restaurant.” I looked at my daughter, pleading with my eyes. “She’s for you, Tara.”

My ploy worked. Tara was thrilled to have her very own pet, and my husband wasn’t about to rob her of that joy. She named her kitten Cynthia after her recently departed grandmother. We called her Cindy, which became Cindy Lou Who, which became Who, which became Hootie. We bought food and toys and a four-tier indoor cat tree with perches. We cleaned her up, made her an indoor pet, and took her to the vet to begin her on a path toward health.

The true Hootie began to show herself within months. First, she’d squirm to be released when Tara would try to snuggle with her. Then came the hissing. Okay, so maybe she doesn’t want to be held, I thought. We can deal with that. We found that we could hold her for short spurts as long as we kept up the chin scratching. Soon, that was no longer acceptable. But, we could still pet her, so that was what we did. That lasted about six months before she would hiss and smack at the offending hand.

I used to love brushing her long, silky hair but within a year, she’d attack the brush if she saw me brandishing it. Keeping her nails clipped? That became impossible unless I was okay with losing a finger or two. It was about that time the seizures started. After the first, I rushed her to the vet who did the whole battery of tests but couldn’t find the cause. After the second, I tried to get Hootie into a carrier to take her to the hospital again but was met with a menacing growl, hissing, and flailing claws. I backed away.

The years progressed, as did the seizures, as did the increasingly feral behavior. Hootie would hide in rooms and lunge, in full growling-hissing-flailing-claws mode, at passersby. The dogs, who used to think she was another playmate, began giving her a wide berth when walking by her. Even placing her food down became a challenge if she was anywhere in sight. She, quite literally, would bite the hand that fed her. I remember laughing about a story I’d read when a husband and wife called 911 because their cat had them trapped in their bathroom. After finding myself in my own bathroom, with Hootie standing outside of it, wild-eyed, crouched, and growling at me, I no longer thought that story was funny.

With each seizure, Hootie took longer to shake the disorientation, seeming to grow angrier and more ferocious. The vet wanted to see her, but it was impossible to corral her into her carrier. Finally, on New Year’s Day, I knew we couldn’t keep on like this. As our guests relaxed after brunch, the cat came howling into the room, eyes unfocused, and fur going every which way. She seemed confused about where to go. She dashed toward my son who instinctively pulled his legs up on the chair. He’d had more than one instance when contact with the cat left him looking as if he’d been manhandled by Edward Scissorhands. She disappeared under a side table, yowling and hissing. The dogs were panicked, attempting to approach her, then running in terror. I finally managed to help her escape to another room.

The next day I called the vet. I knew it would be impossible to take Hootie in for an exam unless fully sedated, but who could possibly get a tranquilizer down her throat? The doctor listened to my description of the cat’s behavior – the fluctuating moods, when she’d seem perfectly fine then suddenly spitting mad; the occasional confusion, like entering a room and not knowing what she was doing there; her fur disheveled as if she’d forgotten how to groom herself; the yelling and howling. As I heard myself listing the symptoms, I found my heart softening toward her. While the doctor’s distant voice was explaining that, without tests to diagnose, her best guess was a neurological misfiring likely attributed to lack of nutrition as a kitten, I gazed at my beautiful yet misunderstood kitty and felt both sympathy and kinship. I realized that her behavior, minus the seizures, was very similar to my own since I’d started menopause. The mood swings, the mental confusion, the yelling, the unkempt appearance. I knew her cause was neurological while mine was hormonal, but still.

“What can I do for her?” I asked the vet.

“Well, some people might find this behavior too much to handle. It’s really your call. Is she even having any quality of life?”

Quality of life? I knew what the doctor was saying, but I’d never put down an animal unless in obvious pain and distress. How could I do something like that to this cat without pulling out all stops to help her?

Quality of life? Had that thought crossed my husband and kids’ minds when they cowered at my mood swings? When I’d forgotten to brush my hair as I stood in the middle of my living room trying to remember why I’d gone in there?

“Isn’t there something I can give her to calm her down?” I asked, noting the hint of desperation in my voice. “Make her less moody? Maybe help with the seizures?”

She thought for a moment. “Well, since you can’t get pills into her, I’d suggest cannabis oil. We have a formulation specifically for animals. Some pets respond very well to it.”

“Let’s try that!”

Off I went to pick up the oil. I forked out $130 for one bottle and decided my husband didn’t need to know that. Since giving it to her, Hootie has not had another seizure. Maybe it’s a coincidence, but I want to believe this is helping her. I think she’s slightly less aggressive, too. For the past week, she hasn’t growled at me when I set out her food. Plus, she’s back to doing some of the cute things that had endeared her to me at the start, like when she comes running if I call out, “Treat!” There she’ll sit, slightly crazy-eyed but so beautiful, waiting for me to put her Cat-Man-Doo tuna flakes out. She still thinks her long, fluffy tail is a foreign agent that she can’t outrun, but it’s been at least a few days since she’s screeched and waged an attack on it.

So, maybe this cannabis oil is actually helping to address the underlying cause of Hootie’s problems. Or, maybe she’s just stoned. In any event, life with her is less stressful, at least for the time being. Now I’m wondering if menopause is listed as one of the approved medical conditions in my state for obtaining cannabis. I may have to investigate. My family would certainly appreciate it.

…Timber! A Christmas Tale.

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When I was a teenager, I was a member of Grace St. Paul’s Episcopal Church. As with all churches, the highlight of the year was the Christmas celebration. For us, this included the annual decorating of the tree.

The congregation planned for months. The format was always the same. Our priest read the Christmas story – from Mary and Joseph’s journey to Bethlehem, to arriving at the stable filled with animals, to the birth of Jesus, to the arrival of the Three Wise Men. As the story progressed, we listened for our cues and, when it was our turn, we proceeded to the massive tree by the altar to hang homemade ornaments. Once the story was over and the tree was bedecked in all its glory, we sang hymns and rejoiced in our shared fellowship.

In 1976, the year Lori attended this beloved service with my mother and me, we were asked to make two angels and the crown jewel, the baby Jesus. My mother took this honor seriously. To the craft store we went, up and down the aisles, hunting and searching. Mom was on a mission, and she’d be damned if anything would stop her from displaying her strong religious faith and her artistic talents. We arrived home; our arms were laden with heavy cardstock, colored pencils, markers of varying thickness, new scissors, feathers, glitter, and a sheet of gold leaf.

Mom looked through old books and children’s Christmas stories, hunting for models for her designs. No, she wouldn’t copy or trace or rip off anyone else’s creations. She was too much of a purist for that. This was the woman who handmade every Halloween costume I’d ever worn. This was the woman who had baked and decorated every one of my birthday cakes. She doodled while on the telephone; she crafted stained glass treasures for gifts; and, she created magnificent bouquets of flowers, each petal made of twisted wire dipped in liquid plastic, dried, then assembled into lilies, roses, and orchids. My baton twirling outfits were of crushed velvet and bedazzled with rhinestones and pearls. Hell, no. This year’s Christmas ornaments were going to be showstoppers, she determined.

The patterns were drawn, nearly a foot high, and laid carefully to the cardstock. The new, razor-sharp scissors precisely hugged every turn and sharply snipped each corner. With a pencil, Mom sketched in the details of the angels’ faces, with wide eyes and rosebud lips, then colored brilliantly with markers. The plump, baby Jesus was in a manger, a crown angled impossibly on his head.

The finished products were magnificent. Scraps of shimmery white gossamer, leftover from an old project, had become angelic robes. Feathers crafted wings. Long, acrylic hair, cut from discarded dolls – one blond, one dark – had been attached to their cardboard heads, parted in the middle in front and flowing nearly to their feet in back.

And, little Jesus – what a triumph! Real hay had been glued inside the manger and, on his head, the crown shimmered with gold leaf. He was pink-cheeked and cherubic, a nod to the Gerber baby. Crafted in loving detail, you could almost hear him gurgle with joy as the angels sang.

Lori and I could barely contain ourselves as we waited for the big day. We filed into church, proudly holding Mom’s masterpieces, but we couldn’t help noticing what the others had made. Skimpy hand-drawn images on paper – colored only on one side, some curling at the bottom – were so pathetic that we found it difficult to hide our ridicule. But, we were in church, after all, so we smiled graciously to the others, reveling in their naked envy.

Entering the nave, we gasped when we saw this year’s tree. It rose higher and higher, reaching toward Heaven in the rafters of the cathedral ceiling. We took our seats, jittery with anticipation for the service to begin. As the priest read the Christmas story, families and friends rose to walk down the center aisle toward the towering tree to hang their ornaments. We followed along in the program, waiting for our turn. At last, it came.

Mom, Lori, and I rose as one, paused as we entered the aisle to allow everyone the chance to see our extraordinary ornaments. A sprinkle of glitter from my dark-haired angel fell like fairy dust as I held her high for those in the back to admire. Lori, with the blond angel, did a similar sweep. But, Mom took the lead as she was carrying the most precious of all. Like a bride approaching her awaiting groom, Mom proceeded reverently toward the front of the church. There were whispers and smiles of appreciation for the gold-crowned baby she held delicately in her hands. Lori and I followed at a respectful distance, our angels reaping equal admiration.

When we reached the front of the church, we turned to face the congregation and, once more, raised our ornaments high for all to see. Then, Lori went to one side of the tree to hang hers while I went to the other. Mom, holding the heart of the entire event, moved to place hers front and center. I struggled to secure my angel to the branch I’d chosen and began searching for a new one. As I reached to loop my angel’s hanger over the pine needles, it moved away from me and, simultaneously, I heard someone from the back of the room yell, “Timber!”

I watched in mixed horror and fascination as that colossal tree tipped, almost in slow motion, toward the congregation. Suddenly, Lori was staring at me, wide-eyed and mouth gaping, over the branches of the fallen tree. I think my face must have mirrored her shock, but then she began laughing. Lori has an infectious laugh that makes it impossible not to join in. Plus, we were fourteen. We found everything funny at that age. We were nearly doubled-over in hysterics.

The priest rushed forward to help Mom out from underneath. She crawled from where she’d been trapped, pine needles sticking at all angles from her hair, a sprinkling of glitter across her fiery red face. Lori and I looked at each in momentary panic as Mom was helped to her feet. But, when she yelled, “Goddammit, Lori! You pushed the tree over!” we pressed our hands to our mouths to hold the laughter back.

The entire church was silent except for the echo of Mom’s words. As we slunk back toward our pew, I glanced left and right from beneath my lowered lashes to see that no one was admiring us now. In fact, they deliberately avoided looking in our direction. As some helpful people at the front of the church worked furiously to right the tree, we kept right on going past our seat and headed out the back door. That was the last time we participated in the yearly Christmas story tradition at our church.

…When Will I Get My Life Back?

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Mom was the purveyor of all knowledge and sage advice. As a child, I thought she knew it all.

“Girls can achieve as much as boys can; they just need to work twice as hard.” Or, “It’s just as easy to fall in love with a rich man as it is a poor man.” At the age of seven, I found these words baffling, but would smugly repeat them to my wide-eyed friends who were as clueless as I was.

When I was thirteen and past regarding boys simply as adversaries in Mother May I and Red Light, Green Light, Mom felt it was time for the Big Talk. I think I was expecting something characteristically straightforward and clinical. At the very least, an inventive version of the birds and the bees. Instead, as she coughed, cleared her throat, and failed to meet my eyes, she muttered, “Don’t have sex until you’re prepared to have a baby. It will be eighteen years until you get your life back.

Mom’s parochial attempt at discussing birth control by putting the fear of long-term commitment into me seemed bizarre. My idea of a commitment was putting a flower-power patch over the hole on my favorite jeans that I’d worn at least three times a week for the past year. Now, that’s commitment!

Pearls of Mom wisdom would follow me into adulthood as her way of trying to influence my choices. From my college relationship with Joe, the serious-minded business major who never laughed at my jokes—“You have to find someone with a sense of humor. How can anyone go through life without a sense of humor?”—to my brief engagement to Jeff, who had barely finished high school—“You need someone you can have a real conversation with.”

I must have paid her some heed. At twenty-six, I married Guy, a man who could both keep me laughing and hold up his end of a discussion.

Inevitably, once the ring was on my finger, questions about plans for a family began to flood in. The threat that “it will be eighteen years until you get your life back” was never far from my mind. Would I ever be ready to give up impromptu trips to the Bahamas or late nights at karaoke bars? For the next eighteen years?

At thirty, I decided if I was ever going to have children it had better start happening.

Mom’s added little warning, just in case I wasn’t apprehensive enough, hovered in the back of my mind still. “You’ll be tired every minute. You don’t know what tired feels like until you have children.”

As my husband and I happily celebrated the impending birth of our first child, I secretly dreaded the constant exhaustion for the next eighteen years until I got my life back.

One thing Mom had failed to tell me was how over-the-moon in love with my baby I would be.

Two days after his birth, I dressed in my street clothes preparing to leave the hospital and skipped down the hall to collect my newborn from the nursery.

A nurse stopped me and asked if she could help.

“My baby and I are going home today!” My face ached from its perpetual smile.

“Your baby?” The nurse looked me up and down. “You just had a baby? You mean you’re a patient?”

Once home, Guy and I quickly settled into a routine and I forgot, for the time being, that I wouldn’t get my life back for eighteen years. On day three after my son’s birth, my hormones flew into a frenzy as they attempted to return to their pre-baby state. Mom had prepared me for that very moment. “Three days after giving birth, your moods will be crazy and out of control.” And, oh boy, was she right! Like a swimmer frozen at the edge of the beach watching a twenty-foot wave barreling toward her, I felt it coming. Luckily, I remembered Mom’s wisdom and was able to forewarn my husband.

“I just want you to know,” I began as he looked up from his newspaper. “My hormones are running amok right now. There’s nothing wrong. I’m really happy. But I can’t stop what’s coming. I’m going to sit here and cry for a while. No need to worry.” As he stared at me, I cried for about twenty minutes, then was done.

Over the next months and years, I settled into my new role as a parent. Running up to the grocery was no longer a quick errand. It required planning around feedings and naps, and likely would be hurried in case the baby had a public meltdown. Going to the bathroom now required my twenty-pound chaperone, and showering included playing peek-a-boo from behind the curtain while he chortled from his bouncy seat.

Since our life wouldn’t be ours for another eighteen years, we figured we might as well have a second baby. Two years later, our daughter was born. We tallied it up. We would get our life back in eighteen years from then, a total of twenty-one.

Having two young children brought on a whole new round of challenges. And new gems from Mom:

“Going from one child to two more than doubles your work.” – She was right on that account. I believe evolution should advance so mothers of two or more grow an extra set of arms.

“Get them on the same nap schedule. Otherwise, you’ll never get a break.” – Really? And how do you convince a colicky newborn that it’s nap time?

“Make sure the older one is potty trained before having the baby. You don’t want two in diapers at the same time.” – Again, really? I never mastered the reasoning-with-a-toddler trick.

My second child was a girl, and Mom’s newest advice carried an undercurrent of sexism:

“A daughter will break your heart in ways a son can’t.” – Both of my children seemed equally capable of breaking my heart from time to time.

“She’ll wrap her daddy around her little finger.” – That absolutely turned out to be true. I don’t know how much of it was a father-daughter thing, though, and how much of it was that they share the same raunchy sense of humor.

“Your son is your son ‘til he takes a wife. Your daughter is your daughter for the rest of your life.” I don’t know. I grew up hearing that one. Maybe it was Mom’s subtle way of ensuring I’d be around to change her Depends in her old age. My brothers certainly couldn’t be counted on. As for my own kids, that remains to be seen.

By then, Mom had retired and made herself available to help me when my active toddler and screaming baby had me reaching for the Xanax. One day, as I changed the baby’s sixth or seventh diaper, cleaned up my toddler from his second poopy-pants accident (yes, that’s how I’d actually begun to talk), and picked up yet another cat puke, I had a revelation.

“This is it for me, isn’t it?” I asked her. I felt a heaviness fall on me as I sank into a chair. “There’s nothing more. First you’re born, then you get married, then have children, then you die. Is that all I’m doing now? I’m just waiting to die?”

As I dissolved into a sniveling mess of self-pity, Mom rubbed my back in that tight area between my shoulder blades and said, “You know perfectly well there’s more to life. You’re raising your children right now; that’s important. You’ll find activities and community and, once they’re in school, you should go back to work. And don’t forget, once they’re eighteen, you’ll get your life back.”

I appreciated her wisdom in the moment. Though by then, I had started to wonder what that would look like anymore. Getting my life back. Back to what? I was too tired to even want to go back to a karaoke bar, let alone until 2 AM as we’d done before having children. Maybe back to our island getaways? It was hard for me to envision our hand-in-hand midnight beach strolls or dancing under the stars to a steel drum band when we were in our fifties. Wouldn’t we be too old for that by then? Wouldn’t a nice hot toddy in front of a fireplace be more appropriate for a middle-aged couple?

Through the years, as I kept my eye on the magic mark when I would get my life back, I discovered Mom was right about finding a purpose. Somewhere along the way, I stopped feeling as if I was just biding time until I died. My son started school, then my daughter. I had begun to work part-time in my husband’s business, and being married to the boss afforded me the flexibility to be a room-parent or chaperone on class trips. We joined a church where I taught Sunday school and started a nature-based summer camp. We made friends with other families and planned outings for groups of parents and their children. We bought a house with a pool and hosted summer parties. We vacationed at kid-friendly locations where we could ride roller-coasters and log flumes. As our children entered high school, groups of their friends found our home an inviting hangout. Our weekends involved stepping over sleeping teenagers in our family room.

Suddenly, our son was eighteen and heading off to college. Our daughter would be following three years later. We stood blinking in disbelief that we would soon be empty-nesters. Our goal was now in sight. In just three years, we would get our life back!

I discovered that while the physical challenges of caring for small children were behind us, the emotional challenges were ongoing. With teenagers came first heartbreaks and academic decisions. They began to look toward their own futures as independent adults.

“Will I ever find the right girl?” – I drew on my personal experiences and doled out Mom wisdom. “When you stop looking, the right girl will come along.”

“How should I pick my major?” “Do you think this is a good internship for me?” “What should I do after graduation?” “Will I find a job?” “What if I make the wrong choice?” – I had gained knowledge and insight and a perspective that can only be earned through having done it myself. “There are no wrong choices. Only lessons to be learned.”

And my kids listened to me. That was kind of a scary realization. That you are on the front line when your children want advice. “Be bold and take chances. You don’t want to look back on your life and think ‘I wish I had…’”

My husband, emboldened by my growing arsenal of advice, joined in with his own. “Life is a game. You’re allowed to cheat. Just don’t get caught.”

He’s been benched ever since.

I made my own attempt at injecting humor. “As you stroll through your field of dreams, steer clear of the poison ivy.”

The blank stares told me that I wasn’t as funny as I thought.

Now that both of my children are in their twenties and on their way toward independence, I can get my life back. Only, there’s no going back to being in my twenties as a single woman. There’s no returning to being a newlywed buying our first home. We’ve been raising our children for the past couple of decades, but we didn’t put our identities on pause during that time. We grew with our kids, taught them, and learned from them.

While Guy and I are still a couple, we are also a family. We no longer look for karaoke bars and have found that we’re not the hot toddy kind of folks either. Hanging out with friends or a night in binge-watching Mad Men or Downton Abbey is more our speed now. And we enjoy the company of our adult children on vacations, having wine with dinner, laughing over card games, and watching movies that aren’t G-rated.

I now understand what my mother really meant about “getting my life back” was that once they were grown, my children would no longer be dependent on me for everything. They still need me as a mentor, as a friend, and, yes, as the purveyor of knowledge and sage advice, but they no longer require my full, undivided attention and I can enjoy the fruits of my labors. I’ve also come to realize that I wasn’t treading water for eighteen years, waiting for my children to grow up and leave home so I could wipe my hands of that duty. The truth is, this is my life. It has been my life for the past twenty-plus years.

…One Night in New York.

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I was one of the cool kids back in the late 70s and early 80s. I’m quite convinced of this. I emulated Lynn, the girl who lived around the corner from me, and began wearing straight-legged jeans while everyone else was still wearing bell-bottoms. In middle school, my best friend Adrianne gave subtle instruction in the art of flirtation. Seventeen magazine showed me how to apply frosted blue eyeshadow and sparkly lip gloss to achieve that “winter glow.” I could butcher the lyrics to any popular song with confidence, like “I’m not talkin’ ’bout the livin’/And I don’t want to change your mind” from England Dan and John Ford Coley. The Surgeon General’s warning was still vague enough to give me license to light up a Virginia Slims Menthol Light and impress all my friends with perfect smoke rings.

My delusion continued into adult life, marriage, and even through raising children. Somewhere along the way, something happened. Actually, I know exactly what happened. My daughter became a teenager. I’ve come to believe we are granted little blessings in life to bring us humility. Or, as my too-cool-for-anything-especially-her-parents fifteen-year-old would say, she was my “reality check.” I was in my forties when I began to question if my life-long self-image had been built on a lie.

A few weeks ago, I was offered redemption. I’ve always been a theater nerd, a lover of plays and musicals—maybe this should have been my first clue about my cool factor?—and enjoyed all levels of performances from Jack and the Beanstalk at the local community college to A Christmas Carol in the regional theater and Phantom of the Opera on Broadway. I swooned over the music from Jesus Christ Superstar during a 1980s performance in London’s West End. I’ve supported local troupes and attended numerous school plays. So, when pondering a Christmas gift for my husband this year, I logged onto my computer to see if I could get tickets for Hamilton. Discouraged by the $600 price tag, I asked my daughter, now twenty and going to college in New York, if she had any recommendations for a show.

“Well…” She gave me the once over. (At least there was no eye-rolling or impatient sighing.) “There is a show that is hugely popular. It’s all the rage. It’s really not advertised so you only know about it if you’re…connected.”

“What is it? Tell me what it is!” My chance! This was my chance to reclaim my youthful image even more than I’d thought date night with my hubby would accomplish.

“Hmmm…I don’t know if you’d like it. It’s promenade theater. You don’t sit in a seat. You walk at your own pace through the building. It’s all these different rooms that are theatrically designed. The actors move around from room to room and floor to floor, and you can follow them.”

“Ah, I get it,” I said, eager to impress her with my vast knowledge. “It’s interactive theater.”

“No. It’s immersion theater. The audience can interact with the props and walk around, but they have no influence on the story line.” She gave a self-satisfied smirk as she eyed me up and down once more. “It’s really kind of a hipster thing.”

“I can do it! I can be a hipster!” I bought tickets that day.

Sleep No More is based on Shakespeare’s Macbeth with a nod to Alfred Hitchcock and film noir. It was created by a British theater company called Punchdrunk and set in the McKittrick Hotel in the Chelsea section of Manhattan. The hotel is really a block of five story tall warehouses that were converted to give the feel of a 1930s establishment. Having studied Shakespeare’s plays in-depth while in college over thirty years ago, I was intimately familiar with his work. I was set.

I’d decided to forego dinner at the hotel’s restaurant, The Heath, thinking we would meet up with our daughter instead. She was busy that night so that didn’t happen, and instead, I sprung for the upgraded Maximillian’s Guest ticket because this was a gift for my husband Guy, after all. When we announced ourselves, the usher at the front door checked his guest list and, discovering our VIP status, whisked us past the line stretched for half a city block and escorted us directly into the lobby.

As several other couples of our elevated position joined us, it began to dawn on me that Guy and I were the oldest guests in attendance by at least twenty years. I felt my new hipster certainty slip a little.

We were herded into a freight elevator with walls draped in black cloth to give the illusion of a hoity-toity hotel and as we exited on the second floor, we stepped back in time to the 1930s. We were handed white masks before entering the Manderlay Bar, a speakeasy where each employee was in character and period dress. A musical trio accompanied a dusky-voiced singer in a floor-length sequined gown as she sang “Embraceable You.” We were escorted to a table for two where we ordered drinks from a perky young woman. In response to my husband’s request for a Coke, she answered brightly, “Yes, dear, a Coca-Cola it is!”

When our group was called, we boarded the elevator once more. Our guide instructed us to put on our masks, and from that point on we were neither to remove them nor speak. The rest of the evening was to be spent in silent, anonymous observation. As the doors to the elevator opened, the guide informed us that such observation was best accomplished alone, and I was booted out. The doors shut behind me and a momentary panic gripped me as I heard the elevator take my husband away. What if I couldn’t find Guy? My sense of direction is as faulty as my aging memory, and I feared becoming hopelessly lost in the massive five-story warehouse. I was in near total darkness with only faint lights strategically placed and could barely see. All about me milled silent, faceless people behind white masks.

I didn’t want to wander far. I was sure Guy’s first objective would be to find me. At the same time, I couldn’t resist venturing into the first doorway off the endless hallway where I stood. In the partial light, I was drawn to a stark baby’s crib in the center of the room. I don’t even remember if there was anything in it because I was more interested in figuring out exactly what that giant mobile was overhead. The ten or so other white-masked guests were also frozen, heads turned upward. As each identical object on a branch of the mobile floated on the air currents, I finally realized what they were. Headless soft-bodied dolls, each about a foot and a half tall. To make it even more ghoulish, the bizarre structure cast a shadow against the ceiling, doubling its freakishness.

Suddenly feeling as if I was in a drugged state, I drifted back into the hallway, aware of faint dramatic music coming from somewhere. There was a light fog and white-masked people appeared from one room, then vanished into another. An anomaly—a bare-faced man—scurried into a room to my left. I realized he must be one of the actors so as if pulled by a magnet, I followed. As did another twenty white masks. This room was an ancient office with a bulky wooden desk as the centerpiece and a gooseneck lamp providing just enough light. The actor had a purpose as he sat in the chair behind the desk. He opened a drawer and peered into it for a few seconds, then closed it. He studied a letter on the desk blotter, then opened the drawer again. White masks against the darkened room watched every motion.

A tap on my shoulder turned my attention to my own white-masked husband behind me. I nodded at Guy, then in the direction of the actor, and we continued to hang on his every move. The man rose, shut the drawer, and headed toward the door, white masks parting to let him pass. Then, like lemmings jumping en masse off a cliff, a swarm of white masks followed him. Not Guy. He was more interested in what the actor had found so fascinating in the desk drawer. When we opened it, we found a dead crow.

masks

Together, Guy and I spent the next three hours trying to make sense of what we were seeing. It was impossible to know what we should be looking at or where we should go, so we finally let go of the “shoulds.” I was tempted to follow scurrying groups of white masks, knowing they were in pursuit of an actor, but Guy shook his head at me. Breaking the no-talking rule, he whispered, “No, they look silly. It’s not cool.” By this time, I was over the whole “cool” thing and just wanted to know what the hell was going on. So, we explored room after room on every floor. We walked through the maze of a forest; a disorienting fog hovering over a graveyard; and a sanatorium, complete with a waiting room, beds, and a room with bathtubs. It was in the last that we saw our first real action.

An actress in a nightgown, who I soon realized was Lady Macbeth, was scrubbing furiously at the blood all over the sides of the water-filled bathtub. The mime continued as a nurse came in, proceeded to undress her, then helped the nude Lady Macbeth into the tub. The scene continued to play out as white masks peered. (Later, Guy would tell me that was his favorite scene. I’m not sure why.)

After bathing, Lady Macbeth replaced her nightgown, then raced from the room with a mass of white-masked lemmings in pursuit while the nurse went in another direction with an equal number of followers behind her. This would be the theme of the night. Bits and pieces of this 1930s version of Macbeth were taking place throughout the entire building, and it was up to us to decide which way to go. Actors would perform their piece in one room, then off to another room or even floor, often engaging with other actors they met along the way. They would then either move along together or in opposite directions. And always with the audience in pursuit.

About two-thirds of the way through the evening, I was frustrated by my inability to follow the story. It felt disjointed and chaotic; not a comfortable place for my linear mindset. We took a break at the Manderlay Bar so I could clear my head with a few of glasses of wine. The remainder of the night didn’t make any more sense than the beginning.

At the end of the show, many of the actors ended up in the ballroom at a long table with Banquo’s ghost for the finale. It was then I realized how hopelessly lost I’d been through the entire evening because there were several actors I had never seen. I was exhausted from chasing actors and running up and down endless flights of stairs. I was disoriented from hours in dimly lit sets, examining props without context, and atmospheric mist and music. I needed a nap. No wonder the median age of the audience was roughly twenty-five, having been skewed upwards by my comparatively ancient age of fifty-five. Much older and it might have been impossible to navigate the madness.

I wasn’t sure how I felt about it by the end. Guy and I walked back to our car in near silence, which is quite a contrast to our usual chatter after a “normal” show. All the way home, I scoured the internet for more information about Sleep No More. Had I been wise, I would have prepared better before going. I would have reread Macbeth. I would have familiarized myself with the structure of this version and the layout of the building. I discovered that each actor performs on a one-hour loop, repeating it three times throughout the course of the complete event. Guy was sad to find out that even though he’d managed to see the Lady Macbeth in the bathtub scene twice, he missed out on the scene with the three witches dancing topless. Evidently there was a nude scene with one of the male characters, and this bit of news made me think I might need to immerse myself again.

By the time we got home, my physical and psychological discomfort had given way to internal processing. I replayed the scenes again, thought deeper about the effectiveness of the design of each room, and found myself reading more about the production.

When my daughter asked us how we liked the show, my husband’s answer was immediate and decisive. “It was interesting. We’re glad we did it once, but give us a normal Broadway show any time.”

“So, you didn’t like it that much?” She directed the question to me.

“Actually,” I said as I rubbed Icy Hot into my lower back and repositioned the cold pack on my swollen knee, “I think I really liked it. While I was in the midst of it, I wasn’t sure. But, I can’t stop thinking about it now.”

I told her everything from the very beginning when we were whisked past the guests waiting in line because of our VIP status. How we were separated, but then how Guy found me. About the eeriness of the rooms and hallways, and the fog, and the music, and the clutter of props, and the white masks lurking in the darkness, and the actors performing here then racing there, and the speakeasy feel of the Manderlay Bar, and the silence, and the on and on and on. I couldn’t stop talking about it. I realized I needed to do it again. To go back much better prepared and gain an even fuller experience. I realized that even though I’d stepped out of my comfort zone of traditional theater performance, I had fully enjoyed myself. And, I realized something else. I wasn’t as old and stuck in a rut as I had believed.

“That’s really cool,” my daughter said.

“I’m sorry, did you say that I’m cool?” I asked.

She smiled, knowing full-well what I wanted to hear. “I wouldn’t go that far.”