A Slice of Humor

by Edna Wallace, LMFT

Edna Wallace, LMFT, is a long-time therapist at El Camino Hospital working in the Adult Mood Program for Depression and Anxiety and the OATS program for older adults. She has a private practice in Los Altos. She worked for a decade on the Luncheon Committee for SCV-CAMFT and has been a luncheon presenter as well. Edna is an avid writer in her spare time.

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  • Thursday, September 12, 2024 4:41 PM | Anonymous

    back to September 2024 newsletter  
    by Edna Wallace, LMFT


    you age….
    But you vow
    you’re not going
    to be like them.

    You’re going to keep active.
    You need a
    stimulating life.
    Other people
    can sit in their
    armchair,
    waiting to die.
    Other people
    can be okay with
    being just
    “grandma.”

    But you’re
    going to keep up
    with the best of them.
    You’ll be climbing
    mountains,
    riding waves,
    biking through France.

    You do Botox,
    eye creams,
    sunscreen.
    You listen to
    podcasts.
    You work.

    But your body has
    different ideas.
    When you do that
    2000-foot gain
    in two hours,
    and come
    home sweaty
    and exultant,
    you can’t walk
    for a week.
    When you try on
    that cute little skirt,
    … it looks wrong.
    When you work
    into your 70s,
    people just…
    begin to wonder.

    You’re old, they think.
    You’re not old, you think.

    But you’ve already
    proven yourself,
    my dear.
    You were young
    and beautiful.
    You could compete
    with the top tier.
    You saw success
    at work, at love,
    at edge sports.

    You don’t need to
    do that now.
    You can actually
    take time
    to sit …
    to sip your coffee,
    to volunteer.

    Who are you now?
    It really is okay
    to be you now.
    What are you
    afraid of?


  • Friday, August 16, 2024 6:33 PM | Anonymous
  • Thursday, July 18, 2024 10:49 AM | Anonymous

    back to July 2024 newsletter
    by Edna Wallace, LMFT


    It wasn’t like she wasn’t there;
    she was there.
    But she looked
    out of herself
    and saw herself
    getting dressed.
    She didn’t get dressed.

    She narrated
    the person
    getting dressed.
    “Now she’s getting her
    underwear out,
    now she’s deciding
    which shirt to wear.
    She hears noises
    downstairs
    and knows Mummy is
    making her breakfast.
    She yawns.
    She’s very tired.”

    Sometimes she
    couldn’t stop
    narrating.
    It scared her.

    She rarely talked at school—
    except to her best friend.
    She looked down.
    She didn’t know what to
    say to people.
    She was “too quiet and shy,”
    the kindergarten teacher wrote
    in the report card.
    They held her back
    in kindergarten ... twice.

    She wore jumpers with pockets.
    Her hair was matted.
    She rarely washed it.
    It was hard to comb,
    so she didn’t.
    She saw herself as she felt:
    not there.

    She imagined her mother not there.
    She wished her mother not there.
    She imagined Mummy
    was a mother-thing,
    an alien being.
    She imagined her real mother
    had been kidnapped
    and was trying to get home.
    The mother-thing who
    screamed at her
    to set the table
    wasn’t her mother.
    Her mother was kind
    and beautiful
    and aching to come
    back to her,
    to kiss and hug her
    and tell her she was loved.

    She would do a test.
    “Do you love me, Mummy?”
    she’d ask.
    Mummy wouldn’t
    answer right away.
    Then she’d say she did.
    She wished Mummy
    would turn from her cooking
    and kiss her.
    But Mummy
    would keep on
    chopping onions.

    She’d ask the same thing
    a few minutes later.
    Mummy would answer,
    chopping:
    “Yes, I love you,” she’d say.
    She’d sound impatient.

    Sometimes she
    would look
    at the chopping knife
    and imagine threatening
    Mummy until she’d
    relent and leave,
    and her real mother
    could come back.
    She was terrified
    by the thought.

    She retreated into her books:
    All of a Kind Family,
    All of a Kind Family Uptown.

    One day Mummy
    took her to get a haircut.
    The woman tore at her hair
    to get all the knots out.
    It hurt each time she pulled.
    She started crying.
    “Don’t you ever wash your hair?”
    the hairdresser asked,
    tearing.
    “Sometimes,” she whispered.
    “You have to wash it
    every week. And you
    have to comb
    it every day,”
    the hairdresser said.

    The hairdresser
    looked upset.
    She turned to Mummy:
    “If you brushed her hair daily,
    she wouldn’t
    have these knots.”

    It hurt so much.
    She cried.

    Mummy said,
    “I tell her all the time to
    comb her hair.”

    She imagined her real mother
    washing and combing her hair,
    kissing her hair after.
    When the hairdresser
    finished,
    her head ached
    and her hair hung
    straight and clean.

    Mummy picked up
    a black comb from
    the salon basket
    and gave it to her.
    “If you used this
    all the time,
    you wouldn’t
    be crying now.”

    She put the comb in her
    jumper pocket.
    “Do you love me, Mummy?”
    she asked quietly.
    “Yes, I do. Now let’s go home.“

    They went home,
    and she set the table
    for dinner.

    back to July 2024 newsletter

  • Friday, June 21, 2024 9:00 AM | Liliana Ramos (Administrator)

    back to June 2024 newsletter
    By Edna Wallace, LMFT


    You don’t know
    what it will be like. 
    You think it will be 
    the best thing ever. 
    You can’t wait!
    It’s your solution 
    to Zoom, Better Help,
    AI, marketing, 
    subletting—
    the headache of it all. 

    You have your main gig
    at the hospital. 
    You don’t need this. 
    You’re too old
    for the struggle. 

    You’ll close it down. 
    So what. 
    You’ll say good-bye
    to your private clients. 
    No more need 
    to plan or fret. 
    No more heart sinking
    to the bottom 
    of your seat
    at suicidal talk. 
    Hallelujah. 

    But then 
    you miss them.
    That’s what’s
    unexpected… 
    your feelings. 
    Turns out 
    you can attach. 
    You’re feeling the
    sadness …
    right there 
    amid the relishing. 

    Strange,
    the way this works,
    the way you 
    never thought 
    this would be you. 
    You thought you’d be 
    all about retiring —
    playtime! —
    but you’re about 
    the loss too.
    You haven’t 
    escaped the
    business
    of being human. 


  • Tuesday, May 21, 2024 11:20 AM | Anonymous

    back to May newsletter
    by Edna Wallace, LMFT

    You hear the stories…
    the man
    losing his daughter;
    the woman
    raped by her brother;
    the trans woman
    mocked and bullied;
    the woman
    in whom
    speaks the girl
    locked in the
    bathroom
    because she
    cried.

    You hear the stories,
    you witness,
    you understand,
    you don’t know
    what to say.

    You do know
    what to say…
    you know
    how to help.
    You do the work.
    Your client
    breathes,
    softens,
    relaxes.

    But at night,
    alone with
    your cats
    and your
    glowing fire,
    sitting in your
    favorite chair,
    watching
    your favorite comic,
    you don’t know
    what to think.

    It hurts.
    The listening hurts.
    You feel it…
    right there
    in your heart.


  • Friday, April 12, 2024 2:44 PM | Anonymous

    Back to April newsletter
    by Edna Wallace, LMFT

    When you’re sick
    of your husband
    and you’ve looked
    at your phone
    a thousand times
    and there’s nothing new
    (imagine that?),
    you tell the world
    you’re going for a walk
    and you go.
    Well, first you fuss
    with your shoes
    and coat
    and sunglasses
    and list
    (which needs updating)
    and then you go.

    There’s something
    that happens
    when you’re out.
    Your body does
    its thing.
    You’re moving.
    The sun is there
    just for you.
    You’re cushioned
    by a soft breeze.
    You’re 100% alive.
    You’re happy
    (imagine that?).

    Your husband
    isn’t actually a jerk.
    Your lists are
    manageable.

    Whatever you pass,
    it hardly matters.
    It’s you in you,
    moving.
    It’s that miracle
    you rarely
    remember
    to thank
    your body for
    until that day
    that it’s gone.



  • Thursday, March 28, 2024 11:31 AM | Liliana Ramos (Administrator)

    back to March 2024 newsletter
    by Edna Wallace

    Hard to imagine when it’s not—
    when you’re sitting
    in Starbucks,
    huddling in the winter
    warmth,
    sipping a steamed milk,
    trying to focus
    amid the music
    blaring its rock-heavy
    distraction.

    You’re distracted—
    watching the man
    talking at a white wire,
    the girls laughing
    at their laptops,
    the crinkled woman
    leaning over her
    shopping cart
    full of paper and cans.
    Hard to imagine in that space.

    But it’s a gift,
    in its time,
    that inscrutable gift of quiet.
    It’s a time to reflect.
    How can you not?
    In that space,
    it all comes up. 

    They live there:
    the things you fear,
    the things
    you treasure.
    It happens
    in the black of night,
    when you wake
    up before dawn.
    It happens.

    It’s not bad.
    It’s just a time
    when the decks
    are cleared,
    when you are with you.
    You can think
    or be…
    whichever is safer.

    It happens
    when a poet
    pauses
    in his lines.
    It happens
    when you pause
    in the throes of
    Starbucks.

    Everything happens
    in that space—
    the good,
    the bad,
    the magnificent,
    the terrible.

    The quiet holds it all.
    The quiet is
    really your time—
    it’s what you have.
    You can choose to listen.

    back to March 2024 newsletter

  • Thursday, December 21, 2023 9:35 AM | Anonymous

    Back to Winter 2023 Newsletter            
    by Edna Wallace, LMFT

    What happens when you leave,
    when you have to say “good-bye”?
    You’re choosing to go.
    No-one is making you.
    You’re excited about
    what’s next -
    the new thing
    or the freed-up time.

    But you haven’t figured in
    the pain,
    the heartbreak.
    You’re leaving a longtime thing,
    a familiarity.
    You’re leaving
    your dreams of what could be,
    your experience of what is,
    your vision for the future.
    All that ends
    with the good-bye.

    But beyond the thing
    is the people,
    those lovely people!
    You’re leaving a family.
    No longer
    the close contact,
    the jokes,
    the wows and the fails.
    You’re saying good-bye.

    You promise you’ll keep in touch
    maybe you will,
    maybe not,
    but you know
    it’s not the same.
    It will be something else,
    a different connection,
    diluted.

    And yet
    there are always good-byes.
    And, of course,
    beginnings too—
    that thrill of something new,
    something better?
    something to look forward to.

    You hold both together—
    Inscrutable Change—
    the looking-forward-to
    and the sadness.
    That’s where you sit.
  • Saturday, September 23, 2023 10:21 AM | Anonymous

    Back to Fall 2023 Newsletter
    by Edna Wallace, LMFT

    You’re supposed to be fully “in” the session. You’re supposed to be empathetic and caring. My friend, who is all those things, tells her clients she loves them. I have never said that to any of my clients. Sure, I say I care (which I do). I am (mostly) present for the session. Sometimes, I think of the walk I’ll take at 5:00pm once we end at 4:50pm. Or I might think about dinner and how I’m going to eat the potatoes this time, not just watch my husband eat his while I salivate.

    Lots of times I glance at the clock. I’ve become good at that. I dart my eyes over, register, calculate, and return. 3 seconds max. I don’t think the clients notice. And when the bigger hand mercifully passes the half-hour mark, inching towards the ten-to end, I think “you’ve got 20 minutes more, honey” or “well, it may be on your mind day and night, but you’re going to shut up about it here very soon.” One client commented one time: “I saw you look at the clock.” That was embarrassing.  Mostly, I put on my serious face and nod. Sometimes I even hold my chin. I figure I’m sixty now; I can get away with that.

    So, when Marcie (not her real name, of course) announced that she was going to find a hoarding* specialist,  I had to rearrange my facial features into a countenance of concern and wise but reluctant approval. This is an instance of appropriate chin holding. Marcie’s always been a pain in the butt. “If I don’t clear the study piles, at least the one blocking the door, I don’t really see the point in living. It’s that bad.” Really? Well, do something about it. I say it much more nicely, of course. And even so, for the ten years you’ve had a pile blocking the door to the study, that’s a reason to end your life? Right. Marcie brings my mood down, all the way to the ground floor.

    Now she’s telling me she’s going to leave me. She’s going to attack the hoarding issue straight on. It’s an excellent idea. I have to hide my giddiness. The “oh, goody” I have to keep to myself. I tell her it may well be a time we stop while she pursues this targeted help. I say this with brow furrowed and kind eyes. Marcie looks tearful… and determined. She was probably worried about my reaction, how I’d beg her to stay. “No, honey, go…and don’t let the door hit you on your way out.”

    I don’t offer her the three sessions of termination—or what we were taught to do in grad school. Termination is a stage, they’d hammer into us; you need to review progress and do a transfer of learning. You need to validate your client for making this difficult decision. You need to talk about the journey you’ve taken together and how brave it is for the person to leave now and practise skills on his or her (or their) own. I validate Marcie now. I tell her it must have been tough to bring this up. I tell her she’s very brave. She looks happy I called her brave.   

    I’ve certainly done the whole termination regimen with clients in the past. Often, I’ve meant every word. Often, I’ve been angry or hurt. “How could he just do that? Why is he really leaving? What did I do wrong?” I’ve had to process the termination in my own therapy. Often, I’ve panicked and worried about my practice disappearing.

    But now not. Not with Marcie. Now I just cross my fingers and hope she likes this hoarding specialist enough to vanish, to disappear into that crowded space she’s been talking about for years. It’s good for her too, I know. She might even clear that pile behind the study door. And I, in all my sixty years of splendor, with all the intention I can muster, I now get to plan out this newly found hour of freedom. I finish Zoom at the ten-to mark, close my laptop, and say a soft “goody!” to myself.

    *I altered “Marcie’s” primary issue as well (of course). Confidentiality, confidentiality.  


    Back to Fall 2023 Newsletter
  • Saturday, July 01, 2023 4:09 PM | Anonymous

    Back to Summer 2023 Newsletter
    by Edna Wallace, LMFT

    Well-being… what’s that?
    Who knows.
    But you know it when you see it—
    a person whose
    very presence
    emanates a kind of peace.
    Secure attachment?
    Who knows what that is.
    But again you recognize it
    sometimes
    right in front of you—
    in a person raised
    by a good enough mom.

    Anne’s a presence …
    she guides people in.
    She’s the first person you see
    when you arrive.
    There she is behind the glass,
    at her desk,
    greeting everyone.
    The ones she knows
    she checks in with—
    she mentions the weather
    or a book they both like
    or she asks about their kids.
    The new ones she welcomes
    calmly, smiling;
    Ann’s not in a rush.

    She knows them by name,
    connecting with ease,
    with confidence.
    And all this for no pay—
    for a meaningful life,
    a structured life,
    a life of kindness.

    It’s not easy to join
    a senior center
    (you have to admit
    you are one first).
    You have to like people
    (enough)
    and want connection
    (enough)
    or be bored and lonely
    (enough)
    to walk through the door.
    Once you’re there,
    you may wonder
    why you waited so long.

    But Anne makes it easy,
    accessible.
    Anne’s the gentle presence
    at the helm.

    That is well-being…
    what many
    people spend
    years in therapy
    and thousands of dollars
    trying to achieve—
    to be raised again by
    a good enough mother.

    There’s a lot to learn
    from a volunteer
    like Anne.


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