Andrea Wilson Woods' Blog

Remember Lucy from Peanuts? I always related to her more than any other female character in that comic strip. She was tough, she had a younger brother, she loved a musician, and she picked on other boys. However, my favorite part about Lucy was her entrepreneurial streak. Instead of selling lemonade, she sold advice for 25 cents.

Even though I have made some horrible decisions in my life, people often ask my advice. Either they believe I am knowledgeable about the subject (e.g., teaching, writing) or they know I have had that specific life experience (e.g., dating brilliant assholes). I don’t even consider myself a good listener most of the time, but on one occasion, I gave the best advice ever.

Four years ago, I worked on a research study at UCLA. Due to having two titles (i.e., two jobs, one salary), I had two offices: one on the same floor as my boss Jan and the other in the building’s basement tucked away from the world. In my “private” office, I blasted music, as I audited the research data. Occasionally, I even danced around because there was so much space. I was bopping my head to the music from the Chicago soundtrack, singing the lyrics, my fingers flying across the keyboard when the phone rang. I looked over—it was my boss’s extension. Sighing, I walked to the stereo, turned down the music, and picked up the phone.

“Hi Jan.”

“Hi Andrea. Do you have a minute?” (I love when bosses ask this question as if their employees can say no.)

“Of course.”

“I wanted to ask your advice about something.” Jan paused. Her hesitation piqued my curiosity.

I replied, “Sure. Go ahead.” I could almost hear her foot tapping under her desk.

“Well, I thought … maybe since …” Each pause annoyed me. I wished she would just spit it out already.

“There’s a mother. Lydia. She has four children. She’s in group 2 on Saturdays.” I didn’t work on Saturdays so I had never met Lydia.

I responded, “Uh huh” as I picked at my cuticles and eyed the stack of paperwork that still needed to be processed.

“She left me a message. She hasn’t been feeling well lately. Horrible headaches, fatigue. Umm … She has an inoperable brain tumor. She has cancer. She is dying.”

My body froze even as my hand gripped the phone so tight that my veins popped out. Why was my boss telling me this? She knew what had happened. I didn’t want to hear the “c” word … oohhh … it’s because of my experience. Damn her.

Jan continued. “I thought … because of your sister … you would know what to say. If it’s okay that is … I wanted to know what you think I should say to Lydia.”

Me? My boss was asking me for my advice? About talking to a cancer patient? I should have been flattered, but instead I felt like actor on a stage with a spotlight shining on me as I searched my memory for my lines. I closed my eyes and thought of the stupid things well-intentioned people said to me when Adrienne was sick.

• “Have faith.” Faith in what and in whom?
• “Things will get better.” Really? Can you personally stop the tumors from multiplying? Because the chemo can’t.
• And my all-time favorite, “God only gives you what you can handle.” So my sister got cancer because she is a strong, vibrant person. Yeah, go sell that shit somewhere else.

“Andrea?” Jan almost whispered my name.

Knocked out of my reverie, I answered, “Tell me about Lydia.” Jan described Lydia’s devotion to her four children—her desire to provide them with a better life, to give them a good education, to allow them opportunities that she never had. I could tell by the tone in Jan’s voice that she admired Lydia. I wanted so desperately to say the perfect thing because I didn’t want Lydia to feel any anger, resentment, or disappointment toward Jan. If I were Lydia …

Taking a deep breath, I plunged forward hoping my bluntness wouldn’t get me fired.

“When you call her, the only thing you should say—that you can say—about her disease is ‘I’m sorry.’ Don’t say anything else. Start with ‘I’m sorry’ and move on. Focus on what you told me. Talk about her qualities as a mother. She respects your opinion. It will mean a lot to her knowing that you think so highly of her. And … tell her that her children will remember her—especially the older ones.”

Jan thanked me, said goodbye, and hung up the phone. I sat there listening to the dial tone wondering what just happened. Wondering how many people had already said the wrong things to Lydia. Wondering if she had her affairs in order. Wondering who would take care of her children. I finally put the phone down. I did not play music. I did not dance. I stared at the paperwork. Eventually, I started typing. The phone rang. I knew it was Jan.

“I just spoke to Lydia. Thank you, Andrea. Your advice—it was perfect. We had a lovely conversation. She thinks her older children will remember her, too.”

“Good. I’m glad … I mean, you’re welcome.” I controlled my sniffling but I couldn’t stop the one tear from falling down my cheek. Jan and I exchanged goodbyes and I hung up the phone for the second time in twenty minutes. Then I cried. I cried for Lydia because she would never see her children grow up. I cried for her children because they would lose their mother. I cried for Adrienne because I think she would have been proud of me.

With my eyes still swimming in water, I started laughing. I had just given the best advice I would probably ever give in my life, and it was to my boss. Not to my husband or a friend, but my boss. How absurd! Remembering the Chicago soundtrack, I walked over to the stereo. I pressed the PLAY button on the CD player.

Pop!
Six!
Squish!
Uh Uh
Cicero
Lipschitiz!

I smiled as the beginning sounds of the Cell Block Tango filled the room. I turned up the volume.

He had it coming
He had it coming
He only had himself to blame …

I sang. I danced. And I cried again.

AWW — XoXo

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After my last post, I decided to make a life map (yes, I made up that term) to better understand my behavior. In my head, I have always viewed my life through various segments, but creating a visual manifestation on a poster caused me to realize something else: I divide up the people in my life—excluding relatives—into three categories: the Befores, the Afters, and the Before/Afters.

The Befores are people who entered my life before I gained custody of my sister Adrienne in December 1994. I met the majority of the Befores during college. These are the people whom I didn’t keep in touch with after graduation—the friendships that faded away, the love affairs that ended. Although I am Facebook friends with some Befores (Facebook is excellent for finding former classmates), I can only think of one Before whom I actually talk to on a somewhat regular basis. The Befores are such a distant part of my past that I cannot imagine they would understand the person I am today.

The Afters entered my life after Adrienne died in October 2001. They primarily include former coworkers, other writers, and classmates from graduate school. One of my best friends happens to be an unusual After exception. We met 23 years ago in high school, but we didn’t become friends until 2003. He never saw me as a parent and he never met Adrienne; therefore, he is an After.

Of course, my most significant After is my husband. Just as I would give my life to have Adrienne back, I would give anything for my husband to have had the chance to meet her. I selfishly wish he could have seen me as a parent because Adrienne brought out the very best in me. I didn’t have time to be sad or moody around her. I worked hard, I focused on my goals, and I was, as Adrienne liked to call me, “The Bee.” Always buzzing around, always moving, never stopping. Do you ever sit still, Sissy? Can’t you just watch a TV show without doing two other things at the same time? I was “the Bee” who didn’t know how to be, but I was happy. My husband brings me great joy, but I doubt he would describe me as a truly happy person.

As you have figured out by now, the Before/Afters (BAs) are an incredibly special group of people. Even if I lost touch with them or they lived far away, they knew Adrienne, and they saw me parent her. The BAs include boyfriends and lovers; performers whom I acted with or directed; former classmates who became friends; and people who became my friends through another connection (e.g., a friend’s spouse). Well, the love affairs ended (don’t they all?). The last show I directed opened two weeks before Adrienne became ill. The last time I attempted to act in a theatrical production was in 2003, and I quit the entertainment business the following year.

As for the tight circle of friends who surrounded me from 1994 – 2001, most of them didn’t survive the transition after Adrienne. I used to blame the BAs for abandoning me, but the truth is I am no longer the person I was before. In some ways, I am better: Adrienne, cancer, depression, and my husband are teaching me to slow down—to play as hard as I work, to do one thing at a time, to spend time on myself, to appreciate every day I am alive. (I say “are teaching” because I am still learning.) In other ways, I am worse. I don’t trust people. The friend who dumped me was an After, and I thought for sure he had become a friend for life. My motto is Give me an animal over a person any day of the week.

I am Facebook “friends” with many BAs, but they are not active participants in my life. They are not my friends. They don’t know me anymore, but they knew me then, and that fact alone matters. Recently, I met up with a BA whom I hadn’t seen in nine years. Brian was an actor; I directed him in two shows. He is certainly not the only actor I ever directed or the only actor I ever worked with on multiple occasions. However, he is one of the few people I personally called when Adrienne became ill. I had to let someone know that I would not be returning to the show; most directors move on after a play has opened, but I usually checked in on my actors. We also had a last-minute cast replacement so I was expected to be at the theatre that weekend.*

I still remember standing at the pay phone in the waiting room of the fourth floor (i.e., the oncology ward) of Childrens Hospital Los Angeles. The Anne Geddes pictures hanging on the walls disgusted me because bright flowers and smiling happy babies do not cheer you up when your child/sister has cancer. I dialed Brian’s number; I don’t remember why I called him instead of my stage manager—the more logical choice. Perhaps because I knew Brian better, I thought it would be easier to say the words. My hands trembled as I touched the numbers on the keypad. I remember crying, but I don’t remember exactly what I said or how he responded.

About a year ago, Brian and I reconnected on Facebook, and we discussed getting together eventually, which means nothing in LA since most people don’t mean what they say. However, Brian recently accompanied me to a birthday party that I didn’t want to attend by myself. He met someone there, and I hope it works out. That evening gave us an opportunity to catch up, but I don’t expect anything else. The problem with BAs like Brian is that if they didn’t make the transition nine years ago, they are highly unlikely to make it now. Moreover, despite being a BA, we were never close friends. But that phone call is like a cattle prod that has been burned into my memory; therefore, I will never forget Brian.

AWW — XoXo

P.S. I dedicate this blog to the people in my speed dial: three BAs, four Afters, and my father.

*The entire cast of Once Upon a Wolf knew my sister Adrienne, and she spent her spring break helping me build props for the show.

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I need to stop taking Facebook quizzes. I’ve cut way back on this addictive habit, but recently, I couldn’t resist finding out “What is your Spirit Animal?” My friend is an owl: analytical, keen, and perceptive. What a perfect fit I thought to myself, this quiz must be accurate. I had to take it.

I wanted to be a big cat such as a lion or a tiger. Strong, fast, beautiful. But no … my spirit animal is a Bear. I figured there was a mistake so I retook the quiz and received the same conclusion. I am a Bear. “You are happiest when you are leading the charge.” (In real life, who follows bears?) I sighed and kept reading. “Whenever something needs to get done you always find yourself in charge, either through your own will or through others seeking you out.”

A sick feeling crept into my stomach. I am always in charge of almost everything in my life. From being a teacher to organizing social events, I do try to “lead with courage and integrity” and my “confidence and charisma cause people to gravitate” toward me. Here’s the problem: I don’t want to be a bear anymore.

There was no one particular thing that made me feel like stepping down from leading others in my life. A series of events occurred that caused me to shout, “No more. I am done. Screw being a bear!”

I no longer want to teach, a shame since one of the reasons I obtained my master’s degree was to be able to teach college. However, after a student committed plagiarism twice in the same term in my freshman writing class, I resigned. Even though I proved the plagiarism, the student only received a slap on the wrist; the offense is not going on her permanent student record. I cannot put up with the politics that come with both private and public education at every level.

I no longer want to allow new people in my life. Although most of my close (aka speed-dial) friends live far away and I am very lonely these days, I cannot risk getting to know strangers. Despite my outgoing personality, I keep most people at a distance. (We bears may seem sociable, but we are “the most solitary of all carnivores.”) For example, if you ask me how I am doing and I change the subject, then I am severely depressed and/or I don’t trust you enough to reveal my inner demons. After losing numerous friends after my sister Adrienne died, I concluded that people prefer my alter ego—happy, confident, friendly, funny Andrea—the Lucille Ball of every gathering. When a friend dumped me this past April after three years of what I thought was a wonderful relationship, I decided the third pig had it right: forget straw and sticks, I am building a wall of bricks around my heart.

I no longer want to plan events—not that I do this occupation professionally, but I organized my 20-year high school reunion from 2,000 miles away. The reunion consisted of five classes since my high school was so small. I spent 11 months of my life on this project, and I don’t regret a minute of it.

However, when a friend of 24 years flaked on her duties as both the co-chair and her class representative without ever calling or emailing me to explain why, the disappointment gnawed at me throughout the reunion weekend. Taking over her responsibilities less than two months prior to the reunion was overwhelming, but she didn’t leave me a choice. I resent her for adding to my increasing workload and for not bothering to explain her actions.

I no longer want to speak to seriously ill people. As president of my nonprofit Blue Faery, I often receive emails and phone calls from liver cancer patients seeking information. I listen to their stories and guide them as best I can. I used to love to help people in this capacity until I became emotionally attached to a patient who died this past July after her second battle with liver cancer. Even though she survived much longer than my sister did, this patient’s death brought back painful memories of Adrienne’s last days of fighting for her life. How can I offer hope when there is still no cure for liver cancer? How can I comfort individuals who will most likely die?

I no longer want to live in Los Angeles. If you read my blog, my dislike of LA is well known. I have lived here 20 years, and I must leave this toxic environment. I have only stayed because my husband, who works in the entertainment industry, did not think he could find employment anywhere else … until he received a job offer in Detroit! So now he is there and I am here, and we are apart from each other. I considered moving to one of the “Most miserable cities in America” but we would end up back here anyway after his job ends.

After seeing me cry off and on for several hours last month, my wise owl friend said, “You give so much to everyone else that there’s nothing left for you.” Other people have said the same thing to me in different ways, but I didn’t hear it until my beautiful owl spoke the simple truth.

Now my least favorite word in the English language—no—is becoming my new mantra: “No, I cannot teach needy students, make new friends, plan any events, or hear sad stories.” Unfortunately, I am stuck in Los Angeles for the time being; however, I have an idea. Most bears hibernate, and the period of time depends on where they live. Considering I live in a warmer climate, I think I can get away with three months or so. Hopefully longer.

The quiz warns that, “A prideful bear is a lonely bear” and I am proud when my efforts at any endeavor garner favorable results. However, I would argue that I stepping back from responsibility requires a certain amount of concession of pride. After all, while I am in hibernation, I cannot predict what will happen, but I’m sure the world will get on just fine without me.

AWW — XoXo

P.S. After I wrote this blog, I discovered that my job assigned me five students to tutor this fall when I was only supposed to receive three. YIKES! My hibernation in this respect will be temporarily delayed.

UPDATE (9/17/10): After receiving valuable advice via blog comments, personal emails, telephone calls, and doctor’s orders, I decided to listen. I am no longer teaching; it is simply not in my best interest at this time.

Posted under General & People/Relationships | 4 Comments »

Do you remember The Game of Life? Originally created by Milton Bradley in 1860, Life received a makeover 100 years later, and I’m almost positive that we owned the 1963 edition. I played the game often as a child, but I didn’t enjoy very much. I didn’t like that girls had to be “pink pegs” in the pawns (i.e., plastic cars) and that part of the objective included obtaining wealth, getting married, and giving birth to children. I didn’t want those extra pegs in my car. Even at eight years old, the whole concept seemed so ordinary to me. I understood that the game was supposed to reflect “real life” but it didn’t represent the one that I wanted. Therefore, winning Life didn’t matter as much to me as beating my brother at Monopoly.

Except for The Game of Life, I have always been competitive. I never bought into that saying, “It’s not whether you win or lose; it’s how you play the game.” Bullshit. The objective is to win. Many people don’t play games with me anymore because I am too obnoxious. My husband and I can’t play each other in Trivial Pursuit because we get too mean, but we make a ferocious team. I love games because like math the answers are definite.
1 + 1 = 2 or Earn six pie wedges by answering tough questions and then answer one final question (selected by your opponent) in the center hub. Of course people interpret them differently, but for the most part, the rules of games are clear.

Real life, however, doesn’t work that way. It is far more subjective, enigmatic. I remember my dance teacher used to wear this t-shirt that read, “He who dies with the most toys wins”; he collected Porsches. Unlike the board game, I used to think “winning the game of life” meant having an incredible career. Later, I realized that being Adrienne’s parent made me happier than any acting role ever did. For example, I scheduled the final dress rehearsal of a play that I directed, produced, and wrote around Adrienne’s 13th birthday party, which I refused to miss. No matter what, she always came first.

Even though I did everything that I could, a part of me feels that I failed Adrienne. I didn’t help her win the game of life. I didn’t see to it that she made it to the finish line. It is as if she lost her turn and never came back to the game. Like she quit, but that is not what happened. She never gave up even when she knew her time was running out. Like a tired boxer in the ring, she kept fighting and every time a doctor counted her out, she got back on her feet and threw another punch. She refused to suffer a knockout. She finished the fight on her terms—she died at home in peace.

All of these years, I thought Adrienne had “lost” the game because she didn’t survive cancer and because I had lost her. I had it all wrong. Even though Adrienne was not as competitive as I am, I instilled in her the same aim: Play to Win. If life were a boxing match and the judges had to decide between Adrienne and her opponent—cancer, there is no question. Adrienne won. She led a successful life. She made some of her dreams come true. She inspired her friends; she continues to inspire me. While cancer may have beaten her down physically, she never allowed it to take away her heart, her spirit, or her soul.

When asked what they want for their children, parents usually reply, “as long as they are happy and healthy” but all parents have dreams for their children. When I was a kid, my father told me that I should be a doctor because I love to read. I guess he figured that I could survive medical school. I didn’t have a career selected for Adrienne, but I wanted her to leave home for college, preferably a four-year university such as Stanford, Berkeley or an Ivy League school on the East Coast. (She preferred my alma mater USC.) I wanted her to realize that there was nothing wrong with making money from her art. I wanted her to learn to drive a stick shift. And of course, I wanted her to be healthy and happy.

But Adrienne never graduated from high school, sold her art, or drove any car. She suffered from depression long before cancer invaded her body. She didn’t have a chance to do the things that I wanted her to do, but my dreams for her should have no bearing on whether or not Adrienne lived an extraordinary life. Even though I don’t like the outcome, Adrienne won the game.

It does not matter how you play the game of life  … it is how you define winning. Therefore, Adrienne is a champ.

AWW — XoXo

P.S. Happy Birthday baby—you are the champion of my world. I miss you so much. Keep playing Queen for me, okay?

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Although I am working on several emotional blogs about far more serious topics, I realize that today—the anniversary of my sister Adrienne’s death—I need some levity in my life. Adrienne often teased me about being too anal-retentive; she thought it was funny to watch me obsess over tasks. However, she decided to “get more organized” when she began losing her homework because she couldn’t find where she had put it. Adrienne spent more than an hour rearranging her papers by subject, putting her assignments into separate pocketed folders and matching each folder with its own spiral notebook of the same color. She beamed with pride when she finished and said, “There! Now I can find everything.”

I smiled and congratulated her on a job well done. Inside I was thinking … And you think we’re not alike. Ha! A few days later, Adrienne was diagnosed with liver cancer, and she never returned to school. Although we both used humor to deflect our pain, we never discussed the irony of that particular situation. Funny how some things don’t need to be said aloud.

Wait … this blog was supposed to be silly and serve as a warning to others like me who need to lighten up. So in honor of my sister, who understood me better than anyone else, here are five signs that you might be too anal:

5. You own a label maker and will look for any excuse to use it. I don’t only label binders. I’ve labeled our pet-food bins, our recycling can, my husband’s water bottle (he requested it), and various medication containers (the fine print is too small). You know you are in love with your label maker if you have used the device so often that you have run out of tape more than once in three months, and you have memorized the refill tape cartridge’s model number. Right now, the Brother P-Touch M Series is on sale at Costco so I had better stock up!

4. You have a specific method for eating corn on the cob and any deviation from your method causes you great distress. For example, I prefer the horizontal approach. I eat three to four rows at a time from left to right. Then I go back over those same rows from right to left to make sure I didn’t miss anything. The cob, of course, is dripping in real butter. If I’m at home, I use our corn-on-the-cob holders; they make the process less messy and guarantee your teeth attack every kernel. When my husband told me that he varies his method—vertical vs. horizontal—depending on the corncob, I was shocked. I don’t know him at all.

3. You review a check list in your head before you leave your house. Mine revolves around the five senses:

• Do I look good? (How’s the hair, makeup, clothes?)
• Do I smell good? (Am I wearing deodorant, perfume, lotion?)
• Do I taste good? (Did I floss and brush my teeth?)
• Do I sound good? (Do I have a water bottle and cough drops? My throat often becomes hoarse.)
• Do I feel good? (Am I happy about where I’m going and if not, can I fake it?)

Disclaimer: While I may run through this check list every time I go out, it doesn’t mean that I look “camera-ready” at all times. Far from it. But I am always acutely aware of what I did and did not do before going out in public.

2. You color-code all activities in your organizer. Whether you use software (e.g., Microsoft Outlook) or an old-fashioned day planner (e.g., DayMinder), you divide your tasks into color categories (e.g., appointments—green, social activities—yellow). I started doing this toward the end of high school, and my friends have always made fun of me. Even though Adrienne thought it was hilarious that I highlighted my activities for the week in different colors, she told me I was “weird.” If she had only known just how anal I was … I hid the highlighters so she wouldn’t use them. (To be fair, she once “borrowed” my theatrical glow tape and used all of it to decorate her room.) For the longest time I only liked Zebra Zazzle highlighters, but I’m learning to be more flexible. The colors in my Outlook calendar don’t exactly match the highlighters I use in my day planner, and I’m okay with it. Yes, I essentially have two organizers—and no, I do not want a BlackBerry.

And the #1 sign that you might be too anal …
your organization system is so complex that no one else can understand it. For example, when my appendix burst nine years ago, my boyfriend (at the time) was frantically flipping through my address book trying to find my father’s phone number. Apparently, he had already looked under “W” while I was in surgery. Nope, not there. Still groggy from the anesthesia, I heard Adrienne tell him, “Sissy organizes everyone by first name. Don’t you know that?”
My boyfriend sighed. He turned the pages. My eyes were closed, but I could imagine his expression when he looked under “Z” for Zelmer. The page was blank. He shook my arm. “Dammit, Andrea. I can’t find your father’s number anywhere.”

I remember smiling because the answer was so obvious to me. “Look under D—for Daddy.” My boyfriend groaned, Adrienne laughed, and I drifted off to sleep.

AWW — XoXo

P.S. I hope I made you smile, kiddo.
For what it’s worth, you were worth all the while. – Green Day

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