Finding It: And Finally Satisfying My Hunger for Life (22 page)

I knew I could do it, though. I loved a good challenge, setting goals, and reaching them, as well as the idea of transformation and growth—what Obama referred to as change. It may seem silly, but I felt a little like I was plugged into a new trend that was sweeping America partly by choice and mostly by necessity. It was the idea of reinvention.

Obama spoke about it on a national scale, but also related it to individuals. In a way, I was one of those people, not all that different from the workers on Wall Street or at Ford or GM, where my father had worked most of his life. They were experiencing hard times. Everything they knew and counted on for decades had changed, broken, or closed altogether. Lives that had been stable were full of uncertainty. It was scary.

I had gone through a similar situation a few years earlier when my career seemed to have dried up, my income was nonexistent, I had to dip into my savings way more than I was comfortable doing, and I was fat and unhappy with myself. I didn’t know what to do. But I knew enough to recognize that my life wasn’t working and that somehow, someway, I had to make changes. Then Jenny Craig came along.

In hindsight, I had no idea if it would work or if I would embarrass myself on a scale I didn’t want to imagine. But I had to take
the risk. I almost had no choice. And once I did, I discovered hope where none had existed before. I also started down the path to where I am today, a better me.

Listening to Obama talk about change made me feel the way I had when I started my diet and couldn’t wait for my weekly weigh-in. It hadn’t been easy. I had felt the pain of altering my way of life as I confronted the problems, corrected the things that weren’t working, and used new muscles. But change had happened before my eyes. As Obama said, it was going to hurt for a while, but we’d get through it.

I knew some people were put off by Obama’s ideas, some because they were frightened and others because they disagreed. My dad was among them. But those ideas were the very things that inspired and energized me.

I counted down the days till the November 4 election, which was shaping up to be a big event in our house. Tom’s son, Tony, was voting for the first time, and both he and Wolfie suddenly showed interest in politics. As the boys realized the issues were going to affect their lives more than any other in recent times, they paid attention to our dinner table discussions and debates. It was neat to see their eyes opening in a new way.

On election day, I got up early, threw on jeans and a t-shirt, grabbed Tom, and went to our polling place, a nearby fire station. It was the first time we’d voted there. At the old polling place, I used to see friends and familiar faces, people I knew through Wolfie’s school or from around the neighborhood. This time I didn’t know anyone, but people were friendly and the mood was upbeat and almost festive, making me suspect this was a mostly pro-Obama crowd.

I squeezed Tom’s hand as we waited in line and thought what a cool chapter of history we were getting a chance to participate in. I hurried through the rest of my day so I could plant myself in front of the TV and watch the returns. It was like a ten-hour date with Wolf Blitzer. When Wolfie came home from school, he asked if there was any news about the election. I explained that results wouldn’t start filtering in until polls closed back East. I invited him to sit next to me and watch.

“I just want to know the winner,” he said, shaking his head.

“Yeah, but understanding why that person wins is pretty interesting, too,” I said.

“I know,” he said. “Call me when there’s news.”

I let him take two steps toward his bedroom, where he was going to phone his girlfriend.

“There’s news,” I said.

“Very funny,” he called.

But he was more interested than either of us suspected. After checking in with Liv, Wolfie came back out of his bedroom and stood behind the couch, watching the TV and listening as I explained what was going on. He didn’t scoff when I told him that we were watching history happen. I felt like patting the cushion next to me on the sofa and inviting him to cuddle up next to me, as I used to do when he was little and interested in a good afternoon snuggle. But I didn’t push it.

We seemed to watch in shifts. While I prepared dinner, Tom and the boys sat in front of the TV, shouting updates to me. Later that night, Tom and I were a cozy twosome as the boys played music in their room. By the time Obama made his acceptance speech, though, all of us were together, sharing the moment as a family, talking excitedly about the meaning of the election. I cried.

“I was waiting for the tears,” Wolfie said. “We should have made bets on when she would cry.”

“Oh, be quiet,” I said. “This is cool.”

“I know,” he said. “It’s not something to cry about.”

“I’m crying because I’m happy,” I said.

“At least you aren’t yelling at the TV like you did during the debates.”

Tom laughed and then said, “Remember she would yell, ‘Damnit, speak back to him! Tell him he’s lying.’ ”

Everyone had a good laugh at my expense. I was happy to admit that Obama was a much better man than I. And now he was president of the United States.

Early the next morning, Tom and I went for a rigorous hike in a nearby canyon, and as I took in the panoramic sweep of the Valley from atop the highest peak, I gushed, “Amazing.” I was talking about the view, but I was still filled with emotion from the previous night’s election. It didn’t matter whether I was at home or out in nature, I still needed to talk about it.

I took a deep breath, wrapped my arm around Tom, and waxed eloquent about Obama, the clear blue sky and sense of hope I got from looking out on the city. Whether I was on top of a hill or at home, I loved a good view. Hey, what’s wrong with being able to see great distances? I’ll take a vision any day.

When Tom and I started to date, I used to sit at my kitchen table and watch the planes coming in and taking off at Burbank airport, wondering if one of those was Tom’s plane. I still look out from home at planes and cars on the freeway with a curiosity about the people going places and the things going on in their lives. I told Tom that I had a sense most of us were celebrating today.

“Not your parents,” he said.

“Well, yeah—duh,” I said, ignoring the joke. “But I love the way Obama looks at his wife and the way she looks at him. Even better, I like the way they look at their daughters. You can see he—that both of them—want this world to be a better place for their daughters.”

“I can dig that,” Tom said.

For the next week, I looked for excuses to talk about politics and change. Like everyone else, I had Obama on my mind. I heard someone on a daytime talk show mention that women were having sex dreams about the president-elect. Not me. But I was borderline-obsessed with who he was going to choose for his cabinet and how he was going to tackle the economy, unemployment, the war, and health care.

My excitement reminded me of the way I had felt during the first days after I decided to go on a diet. Although it was way too early to see any results, I knew they were coming. I was full of anticipation and hope.

I keep returning to this idea, this word hope. It’s key. As far as I’m concerned, the first and most necessary ingredient for healthy, positive change is hope. Once you have hope, you begin to acquire faith, and with faith comes strength… and suddenly you have a whole new thing going.

By the time we went back to Arizona for Thanksgiving, I had moved past my initial enthusiasm about the election. As much as I liked voicing my opinion about politics and current events, I turned my attention to something even nearer and dearer to my heart, namely organizing the holiday dinner. Either I was at the grocery store, talking to my brothers or my sister-in-law Stacy on the phone, or visiting my mom, whose recovery was up and down.

Resting at home, she felt on the mend some days and lacking energy on others. A residence nurse came in three times a week to help her. My mom didn’t know whether she would be up to attending dinner, so I was thrilled when my dad called on Thanksgiving morning to say they would be over for dinner

“How’s Mom?” I asked.

“A little tired this morning.”

“But she’s okay?”

“Yes—and looking forward to being with everyone.”

Tom and I shared kitchen duties. He made the turkey and I prepared the mashed potatoes and various fixings. Later that night, my brother Pat and his wife Stacy came over with stuffing and sumptuous cheese grits, which I tasted and then immediately declared off-limits to myself since I feared one more bite could cause me to finish the entire pot.

As for dessert, I normally made pecan and pumpkin pies, but this year I opted for store-bought pies, figuring they wouldn’t be as much of a temptation. I heard plenty of complaints about that decision, including one from my mom, who spotted them on the counter as soon as she and my dad arrived and said, “Oh, you didn’t make your pies?” Suddenly we were debating our all-time favorite desserts. I realized why food was central to every occasion. It brought the family together and provided the opportunity for us to talk about and reflect on and compare notes about our lives.

Early into dinner, my mom’s stomach began to hurt. She tried not to make a thing of it, but it persisted and she got tired. You could see the sudden change. Worried, my dad put her jacket on and told the rest of us they were going to head home. He was in a hurry to get her into into bed, as if that were a safe zone where she could get under the covers and wake up feeling better in the morning.

A few days later, though, my mom had to go back into the hospital with a nasty infection in her sternum. I was back in Los Angeles. My dad was calm as he gave me the latest news from her doctor. Even though the doctor had warned such infections were tough and tricky, he told my dad that she would beat it. My dad didn’t sound convinced.

I was standing in the kitchen as we talked. I stared at my calendar and started to figure out which appointments I could cancel so I could go back and forth to Arizona. After the call, I looked out the window. A blanket of gray marine fog and clouds obscured my view. I turned on the TV and saw a report about Obama. I had no idea what they were saying. I was thinking about my mom. In my head, I heard myself say, “Yes, we can.”

On December 4th, my mom returned to the hospital. The next day she underwent surgery and, a week later, another one. Both procedures were related to the infection that had nested in her sternum. I was back East both times and kept my cell phone in my pocket even when I was in front of the camera. Every couple of hours my dad called and gave a detailed update. He clung to the facts as if he were an uncertain swimmer hanging onto an inner tube. I listened to the tone of his voice. The best I can say is that it was a difficult, precarious time.

Four days after her second surgery, my mom was moved to an after-care facility. She needed more specialized medical help than my dad could provide at home even with a part-time nurse. By then I was back home and talking to her throughout the day. She sounded tired and put off by the whole ordeal, as if it were a bother.
She was still pissed off that it had interrupted their cruise. She was also resigned to the plan her doctor had prescribed.

“What else can I do?” she asked.

Nothing. Two surgeries, a week apart, and now an after-care facility. This was new territory for all of us. We kept track of what we had to know, asked for second opinions, made the best decisions possible, and then just let go and let God.