Loving Lisa

My niece Lisa is forty three years old and has a mental handicap.  But then, doesn’t everyone?  In some ways she’s a genius and I learn something important from her example each time she comes to stay with me.  When she studied my face at her departure gate yesterday, she said, “Are you going to cry?  Why are you crying?” and hugged me, I felt so sorry for any aggravation I’d expressed during her two week stay. The fact is, I felt regret every time I showed my frustration with her.  But, like she frequently said to me, “I can’t help it.”  I learned this time that my limitations in some ways are similar hers. 

When I think of loving Lisa, the word loving jumps back and forth from a verb to an adjective.  Sometimes loving Lisa is easy when she’s not burping or snorting or coughing abruptly or farting and saying, “Excuse me!” with surprise in spite of the constancy of her very loud offenses.  Sometimes loving Lisa is easy when she’s not hunkered down over her food with one focus, chewing double time, stuffing the next bite in before the previous one is barely moist, tearing her food apart with her dainty fingers, saying “oops” every once in a while when she drops a glob on her lap or the floor.  Sometimes loving Lisa is easy when she isn’t off to the playground in the morning to meet little ones, her water bottle filled with tea and margarita mix—complete with tequila.  Really, loving Lisa, or anyone for that matter, is a whole lot easier when I accept their limitations and mine.

Loving Lisa is curious and friendly. She can make six phone calls in a day, asking friends and family about their lives.  She walks up to complete strangers and asks them about their baby, or their pregnancy, the name of their dog or the beer they’re drinking.  She gives compliments to passersby. “I like your shirt.”  Lisa introduced me to my own next door neighbor.  She asks neighbors and visitors if they have brothers and sisters, how old they are, if they’re married, if they go to school, what they’re studying.  When given an answer she doesn’t understand, she may ask what it means, or she may just say, “Hm.”   I can’t tell you how many first dates I’ve been on where the man couldn’t seem to come up with one question about me.  Even when directed to ask about me, they cop out with, “Uh, I don’t know.  What do you want to tell me about yourself?”  Lisa asks me in the morning how I slept.  She asks me if I’m tired.  She asks me if I’ve ever had the same experience she’s had.  She asks me what I like, what I don’t like, and if I’m going to get my haircut soon.  With Lisa I feel part of the conversation, part of the relationship. I feel connected and valued.

Loving Lisa is sensitive and compassionate.  Beyond her understanding pat reply: “I know,” when I complain about the hard work of installing blinds in 90 degree heat, Lisa really feels for peoples’ struggles.  She asked our friend how she was feeling.  When the friend said she was having a hard time, Lisa asked, “You feel left out?  Lost?”  Exactly.

Loving Lisa is filled with music.  No matter what radio station she turns to in the car, she sings along.  I think she knows every song ever preformed.  She yawns and sings at the same time, on key. Try it.  That’s no easy task.  She has great pitch and a beautiful voice.  She has to sing.  At the movies she sang along with the opening song.  Later that evening we watched TV and she sang along with the background music.  She woke up yesterday morning singing “It’s a sha-a-ame: the way you mess around with your man.”  When I joined in she giggled.  We both sang the song periodically throughout the day. Lisa also has to dance.  At the outdoor concerts she wiggled her shoulders so fluidly, without thinking, like they were watery instruments.  And speaking of water, she has that same fluidity when she swims, gliding without effort, queen of the pool from one spot to another, apparently without a destination or goal.  Similarly, when she dances it’s without sha-a-ame, judgment or a goal of looking good and being seen.  She just moves.  She just floats.  She just delights in the feel of music and water.  And when I dance with her, I let go of my own other-consciousness and delight in the feel of being lost loving loving Lisa in our little wiggly bubble.

Loving Lisa is courageous.  In spite of others being frustrated with her, calling her stupid or retarded, or in spite of my useless scoldings about eating unhealthy or sneaking margaritas, candy, mints, prunes, an entire package of rice cakes, Lisa manages to come out feeling okay about herself.  She says, “I’m not stupid.  I’m smart and I’m independent.”  And she’s right. 

Loving Lisa has a delicate touch.  I love Lisa’s graceful, dainty hands.  She touches her phone, her laces, her lotion, me, and especially her food with delicacy.  She softly rubs my shoulder and brushes my hair back with her hand. “You need a haircut, huh?” Or “You have a pimple, huh?”  And here I am, pimply, bushy me, being delicately caressed. And I receive the rare blessing of feeling a little lovely and delicate.

When I’m in the middle of lecturing Lisa and she says “I know; I can’t help it,” I know that lecturing is useless and a waste of my energy.  I also know I’m lately overextended and I can say the same thing she says: “I know; I can’t help it.”  When I’m at my best, I can more clearly think about better ways to set Lisa and me up for success.  But loving Lisa is forgiving.  I see it instantly and I go back to loving Lisa—from adjective to verb.

People talk about different intelligences.  Lisa is a genius when it comes to social and physical intelligence.  She has forgiven me for being frustrated time and time again with her.  She taught me about my own handicap.  She demonstrated acceptance of her limitations and of mine.  In her genius she helped me share in a more mutual relationship, both with our faults, irritations and ill moods.

We have one more thing in common: food!  We both love to eat.  We just look different doing it.  But I believe I’m almost as consumed by food as she is.  Every day she would plan out what she would eat in the next hour, evening, morning, minute.  She wrote me a note one afternoon: “Would you wake me up at 8:30 or 9:00.  I want to make scrambled eggs if that’s okay with you.”  Every day she wanted salad for lunch, and sometimes for dinner.  Instead of a recipe, which doesn’t fit my unique niece, here is what we agreed would go in our salad nearly every day, all organic, of course:

·         Mixed greens

·         Green beans

·         Cucumber

·         Jicama

·         Grapes

·         Steamed yellow beets

·         Julienne sliced carrots

·         Grated sweet potatoes

·         Red, yellow and orange peppers

·         Avocado

·         Black beans

·         Sprinkling of hemp seeds

Lisa covered hers with ranch dressing while I poured a little olive oil on mine and sprinkled in salt, pepper—“I like pepper too.  Can I have some?”—and other spices.  We munched away, me with fork in hand, her with salad in hand.

Yes, I cried seeing her off, hoping the person on the plane next to her wouldn’t be too annoyed by her munching, finger licking, burping and hiccoughing.  I cried because I felt bad for being frustrated.  But she hugged me and continued to love me.  I cried because she’s loving Lisa.