February 12, 2024

My friend, Lisa. Most of us born in the 50s and 60s remember the pleasant family television show, “My Friend, Flicka” about a young boy and his horse. It was charming, all-American, and never wavered far from the family principles we all adhered to in that era and many of us yearn for today. My friend, Lisa, is someone who exemplifies good principles, treating others well, being true to herself, and always striving to do her best, even when things are not going well. Things like stage four cancer. I also used the Flicka reference, because Lisa loves horses, bulldogs, the water, the outdoors, her husband, her kids, and her friends. What she doesn’t love is cancer. OK, to be honest, she pretty much hates cancer and all that it entails–the endless tests, surgery, radiation, chemotherapy, the fear, the upheaval it has placed on her family, her job and income, the uncertainty. The uncertainty must be particularly hard to take. Doctors have a unique talent for speaking in very measured tones. You often just don’t know what’s coming next. With all this to handle, Lisa is a master at simply dealing with it. I marvel at her balancing act and her carefully choreographed “dance.”

Lisa’s dance with cancer is not a new one. It began in 2012 when she was diagnosed with stage 2 breast cancer. No big deal, right? That was her attitude. Have a lumpectomy, chemo, radiation and move on. Or so she and her family thought. Before I tell you the next chapter of Lisa’s cancer “adventure” let me give you some back story.  She is a tall, red-haired, hardworking dynamo who’s not afraid to get her hands dirty. She’s very resourceful. In fact, she won’t pay someone to do it, if she can do it herself. She’s not cheap, she’s frugal. She loves horses, raises bulldogs, and until recently lived on a small farm with her husband and two children, who are now adults. The farm was home to the horses and dogs, as well as chickens and donkeys. While it was a lot of work, it was the life she always wanted. Lisa worked for a non-profit for many years and most recently was a successful realtor. Her husband is a liquor distributor. Life was good. Cancer, the bastard, stole all that from Lisa. This is how insidious this disease is. Not only does it rob you of your health, it ebbs away at your subsistence. It’s heartless that way. The financial ramifications are seemingly endless. To meet day-to-day expenses, as well as medical bills not covered by insurance Lisa was forced to leave her job because of the ravages of her illness. Perhaps the cruelest blow, her husband, the “healthy one” was then felled by a serious stroke. As the dance continues, where both are now not working, Lisa has since gone through all her investments, her retirement account, and her 401K. They have been forced to sell their farm and move to a small house on a river, a pleasant concession to all that they have endured. Bankruptcy is not far behind. This is what the dance with cancer does. It depletes you physically, emotionally, and spiritually. It has no soul. This dance is a cruel one with nothing but plodding, painful steps.

So, since 2012 Lisa has endured innumerable distress, pain, and worry. And through it all, she has never lost her spunk, her humor, her ability to see the good in her life. Her amazing positive energy that gives US strength, when it’s really OUR responsibility to bolster HER is something we have all learned volumes about and her capacity to give to others. We are shaking our heads at her resilience. She will post her chemo and radiation appointments on social media to let us know the latest and always does so with a humorous little quip about how she expects her day to go. She has continued to dance with cancer while learning from an eye doctor after she finished treatment for the stage 2 cancer early on that NOW she had a cancerous tumor behind her eye that had metastasized from her breast and to show what an asshole cancer is. A little later the dance continued to her bone, and that back pain she felt was more than just pain; you guessed it – more cancer. Lisa kept dancing and kept smiling. And her attitude and funny quips never wavered. I am not saying she was some saintly hero as portrayed in a Lifetime movie. She’s had her moments; still does; she’s not Mother Theresa, after all. But she epitomizes strength; always has, even before she started dancing.

Lisa was in her late 40s when she was first diagnosed. She recently celebrated her 55^th birthday and it was indeed a joyous occasion, because she wouldn’t have it any other way. Her husband has mostly recovered from his stroke with some limitations, but he is thankfully back to work. Lisa has a part-time job that is flexible enough that should she need to she can take time away. She continues to “dance” with a hateful partner, has had more incidents of cancer discovered in her spine, liver, brain, and eyes. She has had medical grade concrete poured into her spine to help stabilize her pain. She continues to receive radiation and chemo. She keeps dancing and yet the bottom line: she is stage 4. She is terminal. She is positive. She is fighting. She is a good friend. She is thoughtful. She thinks of others before herself. I have known her for close to 30 years and I consider it a gift. You’ve done enough dancing, Lisa. I think we all agree that you have earned the right to sit this one out.

Disclaimer

This blog is born of a health scare I experienced a few weeks ago resulting in a hospital stay as well as subsequent treatment in a medical rehabilitation facility. To be clear, I have nothing but profound respect for members of the medical profession and additionally, I have utmost sympathy and compassion for people suffering from chronic and often fatal diseases and individuals afflicted with emotional and mental illness. Sometimes, however, we just need to laugh. This blog is known for its sometimes, scathing humor, but it is NEVER malicious. I want to make that very clear. All names have been changed to protect privacy and, in some cases, certain information has been altered to disguise other identifying scenarios. With that, as I often tell folks: if you are easily offended, don’t read it. I make no apologies. One more thing: I am sorry the widow has been absent so long. Grandchildren take up a lot of time, particularly in the spring. I have attended two First Holy Communions, several band and orchestra concerts, chorale performances, school plays, soccer and scout events, and a very meaningful and emotional high school graduation of my first-born grandchild. When he goes off to college in a few weeks I will likely need to be medicated and may end up hospitalized again, this time in the psych ward. Stay tuned.

July 30, 2023

Taking Stock

Several weeks ago, I had my quarterly meeting via telephone with my financial advisor. After the obligatory niceties, talking about our kids, vacations, the state of the world, etc., we got down to business. He let the hammer drop. He told me I’m too nice. What? I have heard that before. My work husband of 30 plus years has accused me of just that. He has also used the word agreeable. Huh? What? It’s a bad thing? Should I be nasty? Whatever. I prefer being described as easy to get along with, thank you, very much. Much better than being thought of as a contentious asshole. At any rate, not looking for accolades here; I have a blog to write. So, since the title of this blog is “Taking Stock,” it stands to reason that he wanted to take some of my stocks from my vast portfolio and sell them, buy some other stocks to add to my vast portfolio, and discuss why my vast portfolio wasn’t so vast at all. For those who haven’t caught on yet…folks, I am using the word vast ironically, because my portfolio is anything but vast. Between the economy, both my husband and I working for non-profits our entire careers, our investments were hardly flush with millions, but I do like to think that we made the world a better place, so there’s that. And let’s not forget that my financial dude said it was time to stop being nice, or in his words – “no more donations to anyone in the coming calendar year!” Whaaaaat???? That’s right. He wants me to close my wallet and stop giving money away. He wants me to focus on ME and ME ALONE. He wants me to “rein it in honey!” I am not getting any younger and my money is not magically reproducing in some sexy way other than the “normal” way money grows. Nothing to see here perverts. It’s all about dollars and cents. And sense. I am a middle-class widow of meager means. Basically, my financial dude was telling me I might run out of money if I don’t stop being so nice. I need to be more unflinching. So, I either become a miserable selfish bitch or remain the nice agreeable person my mother taught me to be and end up on the street. These are my choices. Sigh. Damn, life is hard. I told him I would think about it. And then, as luck would have it, a few weeks later, life kicked me in the teeth. Or ass. You pick the body part. Either way, it was a nightmare. And it made me take stock about a lot of things. I got sick. Really sick. Make a batch of popcorn and read the story. Personally, I prefer the Movie Butter flavor, even though we all know there’s not a bit of butter in it. Like everything else these days, it’s nothing but another lie to lull us into a sense of complacency and then kick us when we’re down. Relax. It’s just popcorn; a metaphor for the shit that life deals us sometimes, but in the end, we learn something, and we take stock. I know I did. And I am pretty sure I am better for the experience – the entire experience. Let me know what you think.

It was supposed to be a quick little getaway: three crazy widows spending a long weekend at the beach; an oceanfront condo, bar adjacent to the pools and the beach, upscale restaurants, we parked the car and Ubered everywhere, late night cocktails on the balcony, laughter, and conversation. Just a nice harmless weekend with friends. And that’s what it was. Until it wasn’t. I felt fine. Until I didn’t. I felt good. Until I felt deathly ill. It was that sudden. We were getting ready to head home anyway. It’s because I am so nice, I waited until the end of the weekend – because I am so nice and agreeable. It’s just who I am. I just didn’t want to inconvenience anyone; but, I did, and it couldn’t be helped, because I was so freaking sick. For a few scary moments, I thought to myself, “Could this be IT?”  

So, what follows is not so much a blow-by-blow description of what happened to me over the next several days (though some more, shall we say “interesting” moments will be shared for your reading pleasure) but rather my impressions of the people I met and the more memorable ones I observed, quite a motley crew. The world we live in is quite baffling at times.

So, thanks to the quick thinking of my friends and my daughter and son-in-law, I am rushed to the hospital to the ER and for me, the rest, at least the first several hours is a bit of a blur. Your vitals tell the story, and my story was that this old bag needed help pronto. So, I am whisked backstage of this shitshow and poked, prodded, and have all sorts of needles, tubes, probes, lines, you name it, inserted, taped, artery is hit – not fun I assure you. The bruises have finally faded but I am at a loss as to how to remove the adhesive from the various devices taped and attached to my body at various junctures of my stays in the hospital and subsequently a rehab facility. I am starting to think a putty knife and gasoline are the only answers. Back to the day I was admitted. When I see the evidence of how sick I am, I get inordinately apprehensive. I am frightened and begin to “take stock” of my life. Was I a good daughter, wife, parent? What could I have done better? What mistakes could I have corrected? What people do I need to beg forgiveness from? What good have I achieved in my small corner of the world? Believe me, when you are lying on a gurney in the ER, you do a lot of thinking and you do it in triple time; it just comes flying at you, often with musical accompaniment – in your rattled brain.

I am eventually moved to my private room which has a real, and I use this term loosely, bed. Torture device would be more apropos. My cell phone took a beatin’ inadvertently getting thrown to the floor numerous times by nurses, respiratory therapists, CNAs, dietary staff, doctors, phlebotomists; it always seemed to be in the way; but give it up? Hell to the no. It was my only connection to the outside. I could not stand the sound or the visuals of the television. I think I turned it on once in the entire six days I was incarcerated in the hospital and never turned it on at the other joint.  

My stay at the Hospital Hilton wasn’t bad all things considered. I was a sick little pup and the staff was great to a fault, but WHY do they YELL? Is it naturally assumed that anyone over a certain age is naturally hearing impaired? The smart-ass part of me really wanted to do one of two things: Yell back at the same decibel level or keep saying huh? What? I can’t hear you. Speak up. But I didn’t. For some reason, I was the model patient, but I did keep them entertained, requesting a Tito’s martini, extra dirty, when they asked if I needed anything. I never complained about the food because it was beyond redemption. I hardly ate, because first, I was very sick, and didn’t feel like eating and second, it’s hospital food. Enough said. One thing, though, my morning coffee must be hot. If you can bathe a baby in it, it’s lukewarm. Thankfully, the lovely staff took care of me, every.single.morning. I think my dearly departed husband somehow communicated with them to SAVE THEMSELVES by making sure I had hot coffee, or it wouldn’t be pretty. Thank you, Frank.

Speaking of coffee, let me get to the unpleasant, but kind of funny, but not if you were in my position, or the people dealing with my situation, though thank God for their professionalism and sense of humor (and mine). So, why did I mention coffee? We all know that coffee can, shall we say, work its magic on our, shall we say, certain intestinal areas that, shall we say, store bodily “stuff”? Get the picture? And as an individual who, shall we say, mentioned in earlier blogs, suffers from certain afflictions related to the body’s tendency to, unexpectedly, without warning, jettison one’s innards immediately and without any ability to forestall the inevitable ugly aftermath of said jettisoning except to simply lie back and just let it happen….. “Clean up on aisle four.” Six times at last count.  I share because I care. I have lost every shred of human dignity, frankly don’t care anymore, because I can’t waste energy on something I can’t control (obviously) and because of that, I believe it has made me a better person. I can carry on a conversation about any topic as I am being “repaired” and reassembled.  It’s a new-found skill I have acquired late in life for which I plan to publish a brochure and present a TEDx Talk. My people are working out the details. It will be entitled Taking Stock: How Cleaning Out More Than Just Your Intestines Can Change Your Life – a working title. Stay tuned.

I would be remiss if I didn’t mention the specialty professionals who visited me regularly. They didn’t work on my floor, but my illness required their unique skills. First were the people with the huge needles – the needles that were injected directly into my abdomen – once a day. I am not afraid of needles. I was a triple product platelet donor for many years. I’m a bad ass. BUT having a needle injected directly into your belly – that’s a different story. I didn’t like it AT ALL. But I sucked it up and took it like a big girl, because the alternative was a high risk of blood clots. Just do it, ladies, and gentlemen.

I mentioned I used to be a platelet donor. Doubtful that my veins will ever welcome the large gauge needles required to extract platelets. My body was beat up and soon it became increasingly difficult to find a vein. So, they brought in the big guns. First a device – a helmet of sorts that resembles what kids wear when playing video games.  No luck. Then they called in the superstar of the IV department, who apparently has a 98% success rate. She arrived with a portable ultrasound machine, and she nailed it, finding the last elusive vein in my body with which to extract some blood. Yee-Haw!

And finally, the respiratory therapists were very familiar faces in my room because they would visit me at least four times a day. There were several but just two stand out because I feel like we forged a special relationship, each in a different, unique way. The RTs administered breathing treatments, checked my oxygen levels and pulse, listened to my breathing and heart with their cold stethoscopes and because they spent at least 30 minutes in my room each visit, we got to know each other on a more personal level. First there was Raymond, a gruff, but kind country boy, who would do his job, not much for small talk. I worked my charms on him and was able to get a laugh out of him. He told me to do my breathing treatments at home because, in his inimitable manner, he didn’t want to see me again.

And then, let me pause and do a breathing treatment, there’s Tyrell. TY-I’m going straight to hell-RELL. Suh-weet Baby Jesus. Six foot three of God-given deliciousness and muscles to match. Muscles that wielded that stethoscope like he MEANT IT!!! And a voice so smooth and deep that it could melt a cold heart and end the Ukraine war. I beg the Lord’s forgiveness for the evil thoughts going through my head. And Tyrell called me Miss Princess. Uh huh, he did. There was something between us. That young man had a mommy complex. And I was ready to give him a much-needed spanking. He had been a bad, bad boy. And my final confession before I check out of the hospital and head to rehab: whenever TY-I’m going straight to hell-RELL leaned over me to place his shiny stethoscope on my sexy hospital gown to hear my panting heart, I would, hand to God, hear the strains of the whiny guitar opening track of Marvin Gaye’s Let’s Get It On.  I could print all the lyrics here, but all of us would get really distracted. Sigh. I miss Tyrell.

I left the hospital to be sent to a so-called medical rehabilitation facility for a few days of extended “mobility strengthening and oxygen evaluation.” I felt fine, but I did what I was told. I was strapped to a gurney. A wheelchair would have sufficed. My suspicion was that someone was making a few more bucks. I felt like I was in a Jack Nicholson movie. Very odd. I told a friend that my entire stay at the facility was like a Seinfeld episode. First, I am greeted at the door by some idiot dressed in a Hawaiian shirt, welcoming me in a loud voice, because of course, I am hearing impaired. He hands me a gift bag and a folder with my financial obligations (can’t forget that.)  I am wheeled, still strapped to the gurney to my room. My roommate is fast asleep with her mouth wide open and the only body part exposed is her head on the pillow. She looked very old, by my conservative estimate, she was in her early 80s. Well, kick in the teeth, I found out later, that she is five years younger than I!!! My sister reminded me that we come from good genes with very few lines or wrinkles. That made me feel a little better. My roommate was a lovely woman with a good heart, but dear God she never shut up. I mean, never.shut.up. So, I just listened to her inane view of the world and how much Daisy cottage cheese cost and how she couldn’t wait to go home and open a can of fruit cocktail and mix it with some Daisy cottage cheese. I listened and listened and listened. I recorded her and sent it to my two sisters and SIL and they couldn’t believe it. She just talked about total nonsense. But I had to forgive her because she was so sweet and truly meant no harm. Something told me she didn’t have a lot of people to talk to. She and her husband, Chester, lived in the country and raised coon dawgs. It was exhausting listening to her and I know bourbon would have helped. But maybe this was part of taking stock.

Then the cherry on the cake of the rehab facility was “the screamer.” She was three doors down from me and the staff had the good sense to not assign her a roommate. She would just randomly begin screaming. Sometimes words, sometimes just screams. One time she insisted she needed graham crackers. She never specified a brand name like my roommate. It became part of the rhythm of my existence in “the home” as I called it. When my daughter came to see me with some clothing etc., she looked around and said something to the effect of “this place is nice, Mom” when I knew what she was thinking: “Welcome to your future, Mom,” with a maniacal laugh. In reality, I have instructed my daughters to simply place a pillow over my face and hold it as long as necessary. You get the picture. And finally, the last vision I had at “the home” to remind me that we are all on borrowed time and I am not going to attempt humor here, but rather, simply speak from the heart was the night before I went home, I walked to the communal lounge after hearing piano music and there sat a very elderly gentleman playing Christmas carols. because that’s all he can remember due to his advanced dementia. It simultaneously broke my heart and made me smile. He was doing something that gave him joy. In his own way, he was living his best life. He was 97 years old. I am sure at some point, he took stock and told his loved ones he loved them and smiled with joy how happy his life had been before he could no longer remember. I hope so.

I think this may be my longest blog. I had a lot to say. I am taking stock. This is going to happen to all of you. Don’t think it won’t. When I first returned home, I was giddy with joy, just to be among the living, because for a short time I questioned whether this was it. I am glad it wasn’t. I hope to be around for a long time. I have many blogs to write and many adventures to experience.  Thanks for reading. I continue to take stock and I hope you are too. We never know what tomorrow brings. That’s all folks. I need to make a quick call to my financial dude.

March 29, 2023

Despite Billy Joel’s association with the adage “only the good die young,” it was not he who originated this sentimental truism. It was around long before Billy was but a twinkle in his parents’ eyes. It’s often used to memorialize an individual who has somehow been able to impact the world, local community, school, family, or maybe just one other human being. It can be global or local, large scale or simply a single act of grace. Regardless, what makes this person a person of substance, the common denominator is that he or she is young and sadly has left this world too soon and has left so much to be done in terms of the good that is still to be shared with others.

While I believe that “the good die young,” I am not a diehard proponent of the idea. In fact, I am writing this particular blog to argue the notion that it doesn’t matter what age a person is when he or she dies, if they are “good” they will be missed for their grace, contributions, empathy; whatever it is that made their lives on this planet impactful. The two special people in my life who died this month were as old as dirt, and I know each would laugh out loud at my description. They were also good people, which is such a simplistic description. Good, a four-letter word used for so many purposes: This dinner is good. Do I look good? Looking good! Go out and do good in the world. Be good for the babysitter. You get the picture.

My friend, Les, was a true Renaissance man. He died on March 17 at age 84. What a guy. He was short, a little round, bald, and from a distance, kind of nondescript. But once you met him and learned about his background and history, you knew you were in the presence of a wunderkind. More importantly you could not escape that smile, laughter, and generally jovial persona. He was one of a kind. First, his achievements set him apart. Born in Czechoslovakia during World War II, he had a variety of life experiences as a small child that would test the mettle of most strong adults. There is neither time nor space to list them all, but suffice it to say, Les endured and ultimately prospered. With his father’s advice of “whatever you do, do it to the best of your ability,” he did just that. With his innate intelligence and God-given talent on so many platforms, he achieved great things before he was barely out of puberty. He swam for the Hungarian Olympic Team He was an accomplished flautist under contract with the Hungarian Orchestra – at age 16. He ultimately settled in the United States, receiving a full music scholarship to Ithaca College, all without the ability to speak English. That didn’t last long. His English was impeccable albeit underscored with the most adorable accent. Fast forward to his life in his senior years. His significant other is a good friend of mine. They had so many adventures, sailing on his beloved sailboat, “The Harmony,” international travel, going on cruises, having cocktails, and dancing, dancing, dancing. Les was especially kind to my husband in his waning years. Despite the fact that he was five years older, he literally took care of him like the good friend that he was and I will never forget it. I mentioned his persona at the beginning. His happy approach to life, kindness to others, willingness to help, and genuine goodness. He is someone you don’t easily forget. I know I won’t–even though he was as OLD as dirt when he died. You were one in a million my friend.  Keep smiling.

My “Aunt” Regina, my Godmother, embodied class and dignity, but she was not afraid to laugh. She died on March 3 at age 99. She was a woman of means but never flaunted it. She was a woman of stunning beauty, but never seemed aware of its impact. She was generous to a fault and a devout woman of faith. She was GOOD. She was a modest woman, and my guess is that she didn’t want to burden her children with the requisite celebration to recognize her 100^th birthday. So, she decided to exit quietly and with grace. Regina was my mother’s best friend from when their ages were in the single digits.  They had fun, adventures, shed tears together and were comforts to each other in the worst of times. Ironically, both suffered the losses of their young adult children, a pain like no other. They both had this unspoken ability to understand just how the other was feeling. She was often a source of solace to my mother over the years when life became difficult. Mom would pack up her little ones and drive to Aunt Regina’s for lunch and an afternoon of conversation and commiseration. Regina knew just what to say to make things a little better. She had this innate ability to feel what the other was feeling and to lend just the right amount of comfort. She had a heart as big as Texas. Regina was educated at Columbia University, worked as an NBC page, previously a man’s domain, but due to World War II, was “drafted”  as one of the first female pages at Rockefeller Center. She has said that NBC “condescended” to hire the “girls” (my fingers are angrily typing) while the MEN were sent overseas.  Word on the street is that she excelled at her duties. Throughout her life, Regina made an impression.

My Aunt Regina was the sister my mother never had. She was the maid of honor at my parents’ wedding and subsequently the godmother of their firstborn, yours truly. She has been in my life since Day One. And to show how classy a lady she was (and her awareness of the finer things in life) on the day I was born, she gifted me with a piece of sterling silver flatware, probably a teaspoon. She continued the practice on birthdays, Christmas, etc. Ultimately, I accumulated a complete collection of Gorham sterling flatware. What a thoughtful and forward-thinking gift this thoughtful and forward-thinking woman gave me. I have treasured it to this day.

Aunt Regina and I didn’t see much of each other in later years, but we always managed a phone call fairly frequently. AND she had a Facebook page! She was always interested in what was going on in my life and thrilled when I became a mother. She mourned my mother’s death deeply. She was family. Two years ago, I was in Florida with family members the day before we were to embark on a cruise. Aunt Regina lived a short distance away from the hotel. I told my people that while they were lounging by the pool drinking cocktails, that I was going to Uber over to Regina’s. I am SO GLAD I did. She was every bit as gorgeous as she was in her younger years, albeit a little frail, but oh so delighted to see me. She made me feel special and loved. That was her unique gift. Just ask anyone who’s met her. She was an important and pivotal part of my life. I love you, Aunt Regina. I hope you and Mom are up there drinking martinis. You may have been OLD, but honey, you were timeless.
 

January 22, 2023

It’s a cold, dreary Sunday, and NFL Playoff Weekend. I have just returned from a quick visit to daughter number 2. She is certainly not number 2 in my affections, just in birth order though she’s undeniably more like me than her sister, having inherited my snark, sarcasm, and robust sense of humor. But I digress. I find myself in a veritable caldron of emotions. They cover the spectrum. I am happy, sad, introspective, depressed, grateful, questioning, angry, regretful, motivated, questioning, and filled with an all-encompassing angst. I am a mess, and I don’t know why. Maybe that’s why I am calling in the big guns, the professionals – I’m seeing a shrink. All the cool kids are. And I make no apologies. So, instead of parking my ass in front of the television to watch the first of two football games, I parked my ass in front of my laptop to write my blog. My goal is to finish in time to put on my pajamas in order to properly watch game number two like any self-respecting football fan – ass firmly planted in recliner and salty expletives emitting from my mouth. The widow is alive and well, ladies and gentlemen, well, not sure about the “well” part, and because I do love my football, the TV is on and loud enough to hear….

Here’s what I know. This Widow’s Pique blog won’t be uproariously hilarious, this time out, so for those of you hoping to be entertained….sorry, I’m fresh out of funny. But I did just make a nice big Bloody Mary, so anything can happen. Stay tuned. This is more for me, a personal delving into my gut and head. My gut is doing somersaults and my head is spinning and unless I am lurching into dementia, which would be a first for my gene pool (we are a proud family of being long in the tooth with annoyingly long lives chronologically with sharp minds and deteriorating bodies – I will take it. Put me in a wheelchair but leave my gray matter alone God damn it!!) The last several months have taken their toll and I am sure some folks have noticed. The realization that people I have known for years and years are no longer a big part of my life (their choice) makes me sad but it also reinforces for me that life is short and I need to take advantage of what I CAN control and embrace what is in front of me. Most notably in this regard is the amazing group of people who have become my dear friends and partners in crime since I moved south close to four years ago. The title of this blog refers to my widowed group WW, Widows and Widowers (Yay, my team scored! Sorry, let’s continue, shall we?) RD represents the two cities that our group encompasses, which in the interest of their and my privacy I shall leave to your imagination, though many of you already know. Out of this motley group of diverse personalities, stories, grief management coping solutions, and often difficult triggering moments emerges the most understanding, accommodating, kindhearted group of individuals. It is amazing how close I have become to some of these people. They genuinely care about one another. Perhaps it’s because we have all experienced the same loss. Of course, it’s not perfect. Some folks can be a little, shall we say, “challenging,” but when you have lost your spouse, you tend to be all the more forgiving. Some things just don’t matter that much anymore. (Oops, TD just overturned. Pity. Not my team.) Anyway, I love these people. A few have become very close friends, a fact inconceivable to me four years ago when I first arrived and sat in my new home, so depressed wondering what my next move would be, because, seriously other than my daughters, I KNEW NO ONE. NO ONE. For someone who loves people, that is depressing as hell.

I have had some health issues that have dogged me the last year. I am not dying. Well, OK, we are all dying if one is being annoyingly authentic. (Please stop, you patronizing asshole, who is not at all that impressive) It is a reminder that I am no longer “of childbearing age” And if one more medical office person asks me if I have fallen in the last 30 days, I swear to God I am going to lose my mind and get violent. If I fall, a winch and a pulley will be required to get me vertical, so I will be sure to tell you, OK? Please shut up about it and don’t remind me. Thank you.

Other things that have been preying on my mind and contributing to my angst, agony, and apprehension are related to my childhood, my adulthood, and stupid choices I have made; hence the decision to seek therapy. I am tired of feeling troubled. I feel things very deeply and I can’t figure out how to stop feeling or to let it go or to simply just get over it as some have encouraged me. It’s not  that simple my friends. My feelings are my feelings and I feel them deeply. Am I a lightweight or someone who simply needs a little support. Aren’t we all just unique human beings who cope differently?  It would never occur to me to denigrate someone who copes with things in his or her own manner. Whatever works folks. I am feeling confident that I will find my path. (Crap! Other team scored; currently up by 14 points late in the third quarter. UGH!)  

Anyway, back to ME. I often, well not that often, because I have been fairly prudent throughout my life with my decision-making skills, but when I veer off the path of sensible choices, I am the queen of doozies. Just call me Queen Doozy. When I screw up, I do it big time. I have hurt people for no reason and then regretted it with every ounce of my being. Fortunately, and I hope this speaks to my mother’s influence, these digressions have been few. And I feel such remorse and continue to be haunted by them and the people I have hurt know how horrible I feel.

As one passes through the “70” portal, I truly believe one begins to accept the realization that less is more and that becoming content with the simple things such as close friends and simple pleasures are really all we need. I could not care less about labels, designer clothing, shoes, or handbags. What does it get me except more debt? People who are impressed by that bullshit are not people I care to spend my limited time with. I would much rather spend that time “chauffeuring” my almost 86-year-old sister widow to our weekly lunch group, because, as I told her she “can’t drive for shit,” making an extra meal for a neighbor who has been driving all day coming home after two weeks with her seriously ill family member, feeling honored to be asked by one of my widowed friends to “be there” when she has to make the heart wrenching decision to let her furry four-legged child cross the rainbow bridge. To me, these gestures and acts of love keep me going and help me get through my own dark days. Thank you to my new friends of just four years for keeping me sane. You have no idea how special you are to me. You “get” me.

Finally, my anxiety. I think it has gotten a bit more acute as I have gotten older. When I was a child, I made a concerted effort to internalize everything for the very sake of keeping the peace. It was gut wrenching and at once torture. I don’t recommend it. It’s much healthier to verbalize your feelings – take it from me. I worry about EVERYTHING. I may appear to be the entertainment at any given juncture, but I promise you ladies and gentlemen, I am a quivering mass of emotions and often may be cracking a joke when in reality I am miserable. And now, as a grandmother, I constantly worry about my loves, the most wonderful grandkids I have been blessed with. Clearly it is an ugly and dangerous world we live in and I worry so much about what might befall them. I know I need to have faith and lighten up, but sometimes, my anxiety overtakes my common sense. It’s a constant battle.

There you have it. I am what I am. Criticize if you must. I remember years ago when I was probably in my early thirties and my mom said something to the effect of “I honestly don’t care what anyone thinks.” At the time, I didn’t understand what she meant. Now I do. If you find fault with what I have written here…tough. This is the bare bones, honest to God widow. Take it or leave it. Don’t care what you think. The only question I need answered after this long, meandering blog of self-discovery is quite simple: What Would Roger Do? If I ONLY knew the answer to that question………..

August 27, 2022

It’s been a while. I think I was having a dry spell and felt as if I had nothing worthwhile to say. You may read this blog and think I should have continued the spell, but I think I am back in the proverbial saddle.

I decided to make this a two-parter. First the serious stuff and, because some people are whining (you know who you are, you pain in the ass.) that the widow hasn’t been funny enough lately, I will interject a wee bit of mirth at the end. Bear with me please.

So, I am standing in the checkout at a big box store the other day and an angelic looking (emphasis on the word “looking”) young lady, aged approximately seven or eight standing in front of me announces to her mother that she wants a Heath Bar. I don’t blame her. I love Heath Bars. I should probably give more context. It was her method of asking that gave me pause. She didn’t ask; she announced – in no uncertain terms. She’d obviously had a lot of practice using that tone with her mother. “I want a Heath Bar.” Well, Mom made a feeble attempt to say “no” to her little darling. She obviously has been down this road before as well, and daughter, not the least non-plussed, just ramped it up, didn’t raise her voice, because she’s not a toddler after all. She simply grabbed three Heath Bars and tossed them into the cart. I suppose I should give her credit for not grabbing more. Does that count as some semblance of parental respect? And Mama just let it happen. She didn’t make the slightest attempt to show the kid who’s in charge. Oh, that’s right, the kid is. I bit my tongue, knowing that my grandchildren wouldn’t try to get away with such antics, nor would their mothers at that age. Because they knew better.

I predict that little girl and perhaps her siblings, if she has any, will transform into sullen teenagers a few years down the road with their noses stuck in cell phones and video games. They will speak in monosyllabic grunts to their parents and other adults, have few responsibilities on the home front and not be made to face consequences for their actions. They are not taught to be kind, empathetic, take no for an answer, and learn that having less can be a lesson in life that will carry them well as they lean into adulthood. They may never learn accountability. They may become bullies, and in a worst-case scenario, even inflict emotional and physical pain and/or injury on those weaker than they. And why? Because they have never mastered a fairly basic life skill. It’s called civility. Civility used to be a much simpler concept. Back in the late 1920s, my mother’s maiden aunt penned a short missive called just that, “Civility.” It sat on my refrigerator for years. In my move south it was misplaced, and I do hope I find it eventually because although it is dated in many instances, addressing proper etiquette, manners and the like, its basic tenets speak to universal themes that are relevant today, those of simple common decency and respect towards others. And these themes are not applied just to children and teenagers. In the current world we live in, a lack of manners, social conventions if you will, speak to much larger ills; it’s a bona fide toxicity that has become pervasive in human behavior and it’s frankly alarming. If one can’t speak kindly to another person merely because they are just that – a person, then we, ladies and gentlemen, have a significant problem. Beyond the child willfully throwing candy bars into a grocery cart, we are seeing punks for no reason other than sport cold cocking innocent bystanders into unconsciousness, and in some cases death, wreaking havoc in retail establishments, and in schools, not allowing our grossly underpaid teachers to teach. At the risk of sounding like an old fogey, “what is our world coming to?” My brother has a saying: “I weep for the future.” He is weeping and so am I.

So many studies, blogs, news programs, weekend think tanks, neighborhood potlucks, spiritual retreats, drum circles, you name it, have attempted to solve the seemingly recent phenomenon of the ugliness that pervades our society. Personally, I think it’s always been here; but is now more pronounced and prevalent, because thanks to the availability of information and lack of privacy, everyone sees it. It does unfortunately start in the home. I refuse to engage in the “work outside the home versus work inside the home” discussion because I truly believe that is not the issue. I believe all mothers are working mothers, regardless of whether some draw a paycheck and health benefits. It is how the children are made to feel that is the issue, not whether Mom is there at lunchtime. I worked outside the home and my kids turned out great. I know folks where mom was “stay-at-home” and honestly, the children are pretty screwed up. What matters is what values children are taught, whether they are made to accept responsibility, understand that yes, there will be consequences, and that respect for others is paramount. My guiding mantra of parenting was always “I’m in charge,” “No means no” and my favorite, the venerable “golden rule.” I think it’s something so timeless that when you think about its simplicity, whether you are four years old or 64 years old, its beauty is its purity and straightforwardness. Now, today with social media, fractured families, an alarming increase in bullying, both in person and online, mental health crises, and food and housing insecurity, young people, in particular, are lashing out, likely because it’s the only outlet they have. Or, they simply don’t know how to deal with a complex range of feelings or perhaps, a more deleterious situation at home that they are ill-equipped to handle, so lashing out at someone weaker is their only release. It’s not an excuse, just a possible explanation. And without spending too much more space on the subject, the sad reality is that without being taught at home to love and respect one another, it simply doesn’t just happen. It takes a strong person to escape a bad environment and dangerous influences. I hope and pray that my grandchildren and their children have a bright and safe future. Realistically unless things change, I know that may not happen. Maybe if we all practice civility just a little bit better…Practice makes perfect. Be kind.

Part Two

Things I Refuse to Do Anymore

So, here’s the deal. I am 72 years old. I think I look half decent for an old bag. I mean I don’t think a person seeing me for the first time has the urge to retch or anything. I think, as the average senior citizen female goes, I pass the gag test, I am, I would surmise, of average attractiveness, “for a woman my age.” But honestly, I don’t really give a damn. I like myself. I am not obsessing over my looks at this point in my life. It’s counterproductive and a waste of time. Time, I don’t have. Of course, I take care of myself; I am not a total cretin. But in the overall scheme of things, it’s not something I spend a lot of time thinking about. I just don’t care.I like to dress up for a night out, fix my hair, put on some nice jewelry, etc.   BUT

• I will not wear heels. Or any shoe that is uncomfortable, narrow or dangerous. Who wants to break a hip at my age? Nor will I wear backless shoes or sandals that require me to have anything between my toes. Hell to the no on that one too. Wedge? And me fall on my fat ass? That’s also a NOPE! And those shoes that have toes so pointed that the shoe enters the room 30 seconds before the rest of you? What’s up with that?  And why??? Squashing my size 10 foot and the accompanying toes of a size 10 foot, (and did I mention it’s a size 10 WIDE foot?) into a pointed toe size 10 shoe, we are talking gondola here, people. Not a pretty sight, but more importantly, because this is about me after all, HOW can this be comfortable? So, without ever really entertaining the idea, this is a big, overblown, hell no. I think I have covered footwear sufficiently here. Let’s move on. Oh, one more thing. It’s time for UGGS to go. UGH.  ALSO
• I will not wear pantyhose. Hell no, to that bullshit. First, can we talk about the whole process of putting them on? It’s painful, it’s humiliating, it’s dangerous and in some instances, it’s chafing. Ladies, need I say more? And now that I am in the south, the fluctuations in heat and humidity; actually, there are no fluctuations in humidity; it’s always humid; ergo, pantyhose should be outlawed out of basic human decency. As for this enlightened female – I am done. In fact, I would hazard a guess that most women don’t wear them that often. Why put yourselves through that torture unless you work in the pleasure industry if you catch my drift. Then it’s part of the job, wink, wink. Moving on.
• I don’t wear a bunch of makeup anymore. When you are as naturally stunning as I, why spoil it with a bunch of garbage piled on your face, right? Kidding. Of course, one wants to enhance what the good Lord has given one, but I think less is more and women of a certain age should enhance rather than hide. As a result, I don’t wear foundation anymore. I read somewhere that foundation emphasizes our lines and wrinkles more thus making us look even older. Why don’t men have these major world problems to deal with? I try to keep what supple epidermis I have left moisturized, throw on some blush, a little mascara, call it a day. If it’s a special occasion, I will add a little eye shadow. I never wear eyeliner. Lack of a steady hand in the past made me look either like a goth princess or Ozzie Osbourne after a bad batch. So, I swore off eyeliner back in the seventies. On a related note, a point of contention for me has always been the beauty industry. My bathroom used to be overrun with products – creams, lotions, scrubs, peels, face masks, blah, blah, blah. All these potions and magic elixirs designed with mystical restorative powers to somehow make us young again. And we buy into it. And our wallets are lighter. And the beauty companies get richer. Note to self: call financial advisor requesting a stock purchase of highest yielding beauty product company fleecing gullible American women over 50. The truth is we all have to face the truth: while we can certainly forestall a few things, keep our skin a bit softer – for a while; smooth out some rough skin by removing a layer – for a temporary fix; inject foreign material to make things look smoother and fuller – until it needs to be done again; it’s just temporary because nature and time always win. So, I’m saving my time and money and just doing the basics. This is me – take it or leave it. All the above sounds so high and mighty, doesn’t it? The truth is I’m just a lazy bitch.
• I will not obsess about my weight anymore.  I shouldn’t use the word “obsess,” because I never have as much as others. I didn’t enjoy carrying around extra weight and I used to be much heavier than I am now. Even then, I always liked myself; I just didn’t like what I saw in the mirror. I hate that women are judged so harshly for their appearance. And it starts young. I accept who I am and if I need to lose weight, that’s on me and if you judge me, then step away, because you are not a person I want to waste my time with. Similarly, if you are someone who disparages others for how they dress, speak, etc., get over yourself. You are a jerk. Buh-bye. It’s time for lunch. Grilled Cheese or Cottage Cheese?
• Things I haven’t said never to – YET. Right now, I am hanging on to my hair color and highlights. It’s not that I have an aversion to grey; in fact I may just do it sooner rather than later. Many of my friends have taken the leap and look fabulous. It’s just fear of the unknown I guess, and the knowledge that my grey isn’t a pretty grey. The jury is still out. Stay tuned. I still plan to get my nails done, just out of sheer laziness; same for pedicures – which is laziness and the deliciousness of the process. Nothing better. For the good of the public, I will continue to wax my upper lip and pluck the errant hairs on my face and eyebrows. And finally, I will continue to shave my legs. You are welcome. And finally….
• I will never waste time on inane nonsense because time is fleeting. Pass the vodka. Let’s laugh. Tell dirty jokes. Don’t take life too seriously. Love one another despite our differences. Be kind. Help others. Perform a community service. Buy a lottery ticket. Travel. Visit someone who never has visitors. And Never Ever Wear Uggs. Ever.

June 25, 2022

A few days ago, a friend texted me bemoaning the fact that she hadn’t seen a new blog from me lately. In fact, she gently chided me for that terrible infraction and apparently inhumane thing to befall her otherwise idyllic life. So, she told me to snap to it, get with it, and grind one out ASAP. While I’m at it, she strongly urged me to produce one of my trademarked “funny ones,” because she didn’t want to read anything “sad and maudlin” as some of my recent blogs have been – in her words. Well, we have been friends for over 30 years and as such can feel free to just put it out there and tell it like it is. So, I called her out and gently chided her for dictating the “tone” of this or any blog I write. Admittedly I was in a “mood,” and normally I am not one who is confrontational. I am a peacemaker at all costs. But for some reason, her “demand” really triggered something, and I let her know. She was instantly apologetic and remembered that I had recently experienced the loss of my significant other, observed the nine-year anniversary of my baby grandson’s death as well as other family trials and tribulations. She knew that she had crossed the line. And she is fully aware that I am calling her out here and now in this installment of Widow’s Pique; in fact, it was her idea. And that’s why I love her.  

Grief is something I liken to an octopus. It has many tentacles. It comes equipped with its own array of emotions and feelings. There’s shock, anger, sadness, relief, acceptance, disbelief, guilt, a sense of helplessness, the gnawing what-ifs that accompany the questions of WHY? Even if your loved one’s death was not unexpected, you still go through your own range of feelings. I know I did every time someone I loved left this world. When my husband died almost seven years ago, my daughters and I were devastated, but we weren’t surprised. He had been deteriorating for some time and his quality of life was not what he or we wished for him. He was a person who played tennis, sailed, and taught sailing, coached soccer, built our deck and pergola, loved gardening and flyfishing, was a talented woodworker, and just enjoyed life. When all those past times were gradually taken away from him, it diminished him – and he hated it. So, my grief began long before he passed away. I grieved that I was losing my partner. I grieved that I left a job that I loved to devote my time and energies to care for my husband – and I have no regrets. That is where I was supposed to be – in sickness and in health. I grieved that we never realized our retirement goals of travel and simply enjoying the proverbial golden years together. Instead, he suffered enduring multiple visits in and out of the hospital, getting weaker and weaker. He knew what was happening and yet he still had his most adorable smile and kind eyes. He never missed a chance to tell me he loved me and to thank me or to apologize for our circumstances. I grieve that his final days were spent in a sterile hospital environment, but I am grateful for the staff and the fact that my daughters and I were together as he passed. I relive those days and hours often. And my girls and I often relive little moments of his life, often with a smile or a tear – “Remember when Dad…..” That’s grief.

The grief I feel for my grandson’s passing is different. I continue to grapple with anger and disbelief, and it wells up at the most inopportune moments. It’s often so unexpected that I wonder if God is playing a harsh trick on me to somehow make me think that I am paying for some past sin that I need to atone for AT THIS MOMENT to remind me that HE is carrying all the cards and has all the answers. All I can tell you is that this type of grief is especially cruel because it just doesn’t make sense to me. I have even considered therapy (I will keep you posted.) I have written about Baby J’s death in other blogs so I am not going to go into details here but suffice it to say that it continues to have an all-consuming impact on my life, and I am not sure if or when I will be able to move on from it. In fact, I already know the answer – you never do. He wasn’t with us long, but he was an integral part of our lives, and we will love him forever. The grief is palpable, and it weighs on me like an anvil on my chest. It is a physical and spiritual pain like no other.

When my boyfriend (seems odd using that word in one’s seventies) passed away a few months ago after battling a terminal illness, my feelings of intense grief really surprised me. Not because I didn’t love the man (he was kind, smart, thoughtful, understood me so well), but because I wasn’t prepared to surrender so fully to the sadness I felt after a relatively short relationship. Was it because he was my first serious “person” to whom I gave my heart since my husband? Perhaps. Whatever the reason, when he died, I was bereft and feeling so sad at my loss. He was a huge part of my life and I continue to miss him. And unfortunately, at least for now, I think I have reached my grief limit, my ceiling, my brink, my max. At least for romantic relationships. I just can’t do it.

I certainly recognize that I can’t hide from grief, nor do I want to. It’s a part of life that all of us experience. I think that I and many members of my family have done more than our share of grieving, much of it premature, witness, my sweet grandson. I have lost two brothers at young ages, one in his twenties, the other his forties. It doesn’t seem fair. But somehow, we go on. Some days, I will cry at the drop of a hat just remembering. Others, I think I am forgetting but truthfully you never forget. And I suppose that’s the silver lining of grief. Because, grieving for someone means you loved someone. How sad would it be if we never experienced that?

April 2, 2022

So, imagine my shock and surprise when I open the mailbox and receive an invitation to my 50^th reunion. Not my high school reunion. My freaking college reunion. There must be some mistake I thought as I looked at the name and address. Yep. It’s addressed to me. Right name. Right address. Everything is spelled correctly. Punctuation is correct (always one of my pet peeves.) Margins and spacing seem legit. But surely, there is someone else with my name expecting this communication, surely not I. It’s much too soon for yours truly. Has it truly been fifty years since I received my bachelor’s degree? That would mean that I am officially old. There’s no graceful way around it. It can no longer be denied. What happened to that young girl in the tight jeans and army jacket who was able to score free food from the snack bar staff for her roommates because one of the workers had a crush on her? Oh, the shame of using my feminine wiles to get a couple grilled cheese sandwiches. What happened to that young girl in the granny dress and platform shoes and long hair parted down the middle, hiding most of her face but never hiding that come hither look? She was so innocent with nary a worry in the world, other than how to make enough money to pay for her books next semester. As an aside…I am so out of the loop: do college students today even buy textbooks? How do today’s college kids navigate the world? I suppose they have certain advantages what with all the technology at their disposal, the ability to have information immediately, to order food on a whim, (though I think the personal touch of flirty eye batting can be much more effective, if not enjoyable) to contact seven people simultaneously and set up “something fun” (such an incredibly banal and vintage word. I’m going to need to consult my grandson for a more appropriate and timelier descriptive.) However, I believe they are missing out in so many ways. Walk down the street in any college town. Most of these so-called scholars, and I mean no disrespect, are walking with heads down, ear buds engaged, and noses and eyes firmly aimed at their phones. It’s kind of sad. I hate to use the tried and true “in my day” but in this instance it’s warranted. We didn’t have the luxury of instant gratification, no texting, email, voicemail, Facebook, TikTok, Instagram, whatever the latest social media flavor of the moment is. Walking down the street was noisy, filled with talking, laughing, pranks. The same with meals. No phones on the table. No eyes averted to check said phone. You either sat alone either by choice or sadly because perhaps you hadn’t been fully immersed yet into the whole “scene,” or you were raucously enjoying a brief respite from class, the library, working on the dreaded research paper (with a typewriter!!!) using actual reference books. Typing was never my forte and many nights as the deadline loomed for submitting the paper, I would cry in frustration as my bleary eyes and muddled brain would often want to surrender in defeat. And let’s not forget those dreaded footnotes. Ibid and op.cit. anyone? UGH! Carbon paper was our “photocopy.” Unless I am dreaming, I do think we had just been introduced to some type of “white out” or eraser material, but regardless, it was a pain in the proverbial ass. Social plans were made on the fly and hopefully everyone was on the same page. Invariably someone was left out, possibly intentionally for whatever reason, be it drama, bad breath, bad choices, or typical young adult bullshit. For me, I tried to stay above the fray, not because I was so noble, but because I just didn’t know which end was up half the time. I always used to say that I was too stupid to be a phony. What you see is what you get.

My college years, 1968 to 1972, were uncomplicated, all things considered, though if you had asked me then I likely would have disagreed. There were a lot of disturbing events happening in the world in 1968 and forward. Both Martin Luther King Jr. and Bobby Kennedy were assassinated. The Vietnam war was at its height in 1968, with the Tet Offensive. The carnage and loss of American lives was heart wrenching, Its divisiveness had a palpable effect on the country with riots, defections to Canada, and young men barely out of their teens were being sent to fight a war they knew nothing about and didn’t understand. My campus had its share of turmoil. My school was about an hour away from the Black Panther trials in New Haven, CT and there were shutdowns, demonstrations, some police activity, and a small group of students who felt it appropriate to use violence to get their point of view across. I never understood why. The Chicago riots at the Democratic convention were further evidence of the culture of hatred in our country. Today in 2022 it seems it hasn’t improved. For me during this time of war the one thing that truly bothered me the most was the way our returning service men and women were excoriated and disrespected by the anti-war protesters. It always pained me to see people who gave up so much in defense of our country to be treated so badly. I have always believed in having an open dialogue; to my mind that is the only way to get problems solved, no matter which “side” you are on. I bet you thought this was going to be a typical irreverent piece by “the widow,” didn’t you? Honestly, so did I. I don’t know what happened. For those of you expecting more raunch and dirty words, my apologies. I will try to slip something in somewhere…maybe.

Anyway, I am at my grandchildren’s home for a few days, so I am taking advantage of a little down time to bang out this long overdue blog, so let’s get this baby banged out. Enough about old memories from fifty plus years ago. It’s back to that invitation that surely must be a mistake. I apparently graduated from college fifty years ago. Yes. Yes, I did. 1972. I had great professors. I had at least one horrible professor. I made many lifelong friends. I grew up a lot in those four years. Elie Wiesel, renowned writer, and Holocaust survivor spoke at my graduation. He inspired. An amazing human being was he. And here we are, ready to “celebrate.” I don’t plan to attend. The cheapest hotel room is about $350 a night. We are talking New York City suburb prices here, folks. And, as enticing as the brochure and accompanying literature makes it sound, I am just not that interested. I keep in touch with the friends with whom I have always had close relationships. With technology I can log onto the website anytime and see how the campus has changed. Blah, blah, blah. My guess is that the powers that be are expecting a similar response from a lot of us in the Class of 1972. We’re not that interested and hey, we’re approaching 71, 72 years old, arthritis, mobility issues, gastro issues, cataracts, knee replacements, hip replacements, glaucoma, irritable bowel syndrome, just plain irritable, irritable spouse syndrome, you name it, by the time we reach this age, we shouldn’t have to explain. We ain’t coming! And chances are after they wine and dine us and escort us around campus to see the new buildings, and we visit our old dorm rooms, they’re going to want a hefty donation. That will be a big negative from me, sir. My money is earmarked for ME, ME, ME. So, that said, the powers that be have requested that we participate in some sort of updated “yearbook.” We are SO dating ourselves. Earlier I asked about textbooks; let me ask about yearbooks. Do they still publish yearbooks? My guess is a resounding no. Likely, they will send us a link, right?

I don’t have the materials with me as I am away from home spending time with my grands, but my recollection is that I am to provide photos both from fifty years ago as well as from the present. I am to provide an overview of my life as it has transpired since graduation – the good, bad, ugly, indifferent, inconsequential, whatever I feel like sharing. Again, going on memory here, and at my age, memory and memories can be tricky. I am pretty sure they are asking the class of 1972 to provide what we consider to be our contributions to the world vis a vis our work, our personal goals and if any were achieved, our family life, our financial endowments if we are so blessed (not this chick.) and on and on. We are asked to write a brief treatise on what our baccalaureate education has meant to us and what it prepared us to accomplish in the ensuing years, personally, professionally, and I suppose on the world stage.

Folks, I got nuttin.’ Once I graduated, I traded four years of fun, frivolity, and freedom in New York, for parental oversight and sharing a bedroom back home in Delaware. It was and is for all recent grads, a shock to the system. I went back to waiting tables, got a job at an international insurance company, where I worked for a few years in a mind numbingly tedious job. I moved into a dump of an apartment with a girl I hardly knew; big mistake. Kids, sometimes it’s better to tough it out with Mom and Dad. I got married to a decent and kind man. We added two outstanding daughters to the world’s data base, which, in my mind is the BEST THING I EVER DID. I love my girls so much and am so proud of the people they are. End of story. Despite the typical teething, diapers, occasional whining, teenage eyerolls, I can honestly say, they never gave us a moment’s trouble. I like to take some credit for our luck and success. My husband and I believed in a firm approach to parenting, including compassion coupled with discipline, responsibility, consequences, love, and fun. They seem to have adopted some of our parenting practices with their own children. (Although, between you and me, I have never understood the whole concept of the “time out.”) Ultimately, I began a 30-year career with a respected non-profit organization in the public relations sector. It was a job I was and continue to be proud of because we impacted lives, often saving lives. It meant something to me, and my colleagues and I will forever be grateful that I was a part of it. I have been a freelance writer for most of my adult life, still have a small consulting business and those of you reading this are familiar with my blog. I hope you continue to enjoy it. I have chosen to just do it, for the sheer enjoyment. I make no money and will continue to make this a non-monetized venture, though the way our economy continues to sink further into the septic system, perhaps I should rethink that choice.

So, there you have it. Maybe with some edits, slicing and dicing, I will submit this blog to my reunion committee or whomever is running the weekend shindig which I will not be attending. I will accompany it with a few carefully selected photos; photos from my not so misspent youth when I was considered cute by most standards and photos from today when my face isn’t as wrinkled as a lot of my contemporaries (thanks, Mom, for the good genes), but hopefully I have garnered some wisdom along the way. It’s been a good ride. I haven’t set the world on fire, but I think I’ve done OK. I’m satisfied with where I am. Take it or leave it.  

January 23, 2022

I often ask myself what I want to do with the rest of my life. I am 71, in relatively good health, in relatively good spirits, and still in possession of my longstanding sarcasm and snark – thank God. It has held me in good stead throughout my life both in happy times and devastatingly sad times. I guess it’s part of my “charm.” At least that’s what some people tell me. Those of you who read my blog know that I meander between happy and carefree offerings to some reflective and morose stuff that can make you sad, to some seriously deranged offerings that border on offensive. I make no apologies. Don’t like it? Don’t read it. Obviously, our sense of humor isn’t of the same genre. Anyway, here I am attempting to crank out yet another offering of purple prose. Honestly, sometimes it’s a chore, because I feel as if I have nothing worthwhile to say and I ask myself, “does anyone really care.” Then, my friend, BB, smacks me back to reality. Apparently, SHE cares. She will call or text and tell me “Chop, chop, girlfriend! Get a move on! I and your minions are waiting!” Sigh. I will do my best, for I am truly not feeling it my people.

So, allow me to provide you with a little personal update on my so called heretofore non-existent love life. In previous blogs I have shared the pathetic stories of dates, potential dates, and online candidates of so-called perfect matches of men with questionable hygiene, missing teeth, possible arrest records and proclivities that would make a sane individual carry mace and a firearm. You get the picture. I was beginning to question everything about myself. Was I THAT grotesque that only trolls and mythical hobgoblins found me attractive? I USED to be cute. I USED to have my share of dates back in the day. I was married to my husband for 41 years and he was just adorable and understood my crazy sense of humor and it was balanced beautifully by his quiet, dry humor and slow to deliver but perfectly delivered witty comebacks. Sometimes when I was “on” he would just roll his eyes and chuckle. He just “got” me. Once I meandered through the grief process after he died in 2015 and at my daughters’ urging, I decided to dip my toe into the dating pond, I figured how hard could it be to find someone similar to my F? He was special I know. But there had to be others like him, right? How naïve could I be? Nothing but freaks I tell you. And be sure to throw in the occasional asshole. Lots of assholes in the mix just to make it interesting. So, after enduring my fair share of truly horrible encounters, I decided to just stop and enjoy life on my own. I had my dog, my widowed group friends and my Rotary club friends, and the other assorted friends I met along the way. And this is all in my new home state where I moved after more than sixty years living elsewhere. After F died, not only did I suffer the devastating loss of my life partner, a few years later, I picked up roots and moved south to where I knew NO ONE save my children. Let me tell you, a move like that is not for the faint of heart—even for someone like me who usually makes friends easily. I was scared to death. But here I am almost three years later and I am doing OK and I have my dog, and I am alone, and I have sworn off dating. I am single and content. Life is pretty good.

WAIT!!!! Hold that thought!!!! Things have changed ladies and gentlemen! And I know my friend B’s ears and eyes are at attention! Drum roll please!!!!!! This girl, yes this girl, ME…..this girl has a boyfriend!!!! Yes sir! A real live, honest to goodness, flesh and blood boyfriend. I didn’t find him on the internet either. We met the old-fashioned way. He seems to understand my weirdness, appreciates it even. Gets my snark and sarcasm; he better because he wouldn’t be worthy of calling himself my boyfriend. By the way, I call him D. He says I am beautiful; either he needs a complete eye examination or he’s just full of shit. He believes I am super intelligent. Well, he did graduate from Duke, so obviously he knows what he’s talking about. And he says I make him happy. And for this final statement, I have no plans to make any sarcastic comment. I will simply say that I plan to do my best to continue to make him happy as long as I can. Because he is simply one of the kindest sweetest people I have ever met – a lot like my husband, F. It’s probably what attracted me to him. But, and it’s a big but…here’s the rub. And here’s where those of you who have been following me from the beginning are going to lose your minds and say “are you effing kidding me? Does the widow EVER catch a break? It’s kind of why I named this blog The Circle of Life. I am not a saint. So many people have experienced so much more upheaval and sadness in their lives, but I do think I have had more than my fair share and I am ready to say ENOUGH already, OK, God? I have lost my parents, two brothers before their time, my husband, and undeniably THE WORST DAY of my life, the death of my grandson, Joshua. I will never recover from that sadness. It is a sadness that leaves a mark on your heart. The only good that came out of it is that it made me want to be a better person and it brought us our sweet angel, my granddaughter, A, through adoption. Anyway, my point is, I am tired of being sad and looking forward to being happy.  Meeting D has made me happy and he tells me constantly how happy I make him. But I kind of hinted above that the other shoe is about to drop. Get ready folks. Here goes.

D has terminal cancer, less than a year to live. I am not kidding. Seriously. It’s like a Lifetime Movie. I want to throw up. I finally meet someone who isn’t an asshole (well he’s a dude, so there’s always that potential) and the big C screws everything up. The thing is D is in a great place. No more treatment for him. He wants to live life, enjoy life and take what time he has left and just appreciate what he has. I so admire that approach. So many people whining about wearing masks and this guy has it right. He really is stopping to smell the roses — and my perfume. And he is focusing on me and telling me how beautiful, funny, and intelligent I am. I think he just wants to get me into the sack. Men! Terminal illness or not, some things never change. Maybe I’ll oblige. You know I’ll rock his world! D, you have taught me so much in our short time together. Let’s get this party started. It’s an honor to know you, D, my sweet, kind, funny boyfriend. And if the big C wins, I hope you and F become fast friends up there and enjoy a laugh at my expense.

December 8, 2021

My dog died last week. It sounds kind of simplistic to just say those words when the reality is that it crushed me to the core. This little nine-pound ball of fur and attitude has been my main companion for close to five years and even though he was “just a dog,” I am here to tell you that he saved my life on many occasions. Bruno was my go-to dude. He was at the ready with a cuddle or to simply splay across my lap snoring in total contentment. It was heaven to me. And now he is gone. I “rescued” him from a local organization. Allow me to editorialize for a moment. Rescue organizations do God’s work and with little reward. I will never buy an animal when there are so many looking plaintively through cages waiting for someone to say “yep, YOU are coming home with me today, buddy.” The joy on their faces is palpable and they will never stop letting you know how grateful they are. That’s how it’s been with Bruno the moment he entered my life. He was a senior little guy, and I knew he wouldn’t be around forever, but we packed so much joy and love into the five years we had together. He had a tough life before he came to live with me. He didn’t know how to play, had no interest in toys, didn’t know how to communicate his needs, so potty training was a challenge (I highly recommend the Bissell Spot Bot) and he was not a fan of tall men and barked incessantly. But we made it work because he had SO MUCH LOVE for ME. He followed me everywhere. If I wasn’t home, he was heartbroken and waited disconsolate because in his mind I might never return. Dogs have no concept of time.

So, he was 13 years old and costing me a lot of money. He had an enlarged heart, congestive heart failure, and a cough requiring narcotic medication. He also was given additional prescription meds that were, shall we say, difficult to swallow, as was the exorbitant price. And, because he was a real pain in the ass when it came to taking medication, I had to jump through hoops to please his majesty and “meet his demands.” The demands were as follows: Pills shall be placed in a small piece of gourmet deli turkey, topped with a dollop of Cheez Whiz, and then rolled up into a small bite-size hors d’oeuvre and gently placed into his mouth. Yes, that is how we did it. And I did it happily. He was my Bruno.

As Bruno approached the end of his life (I didn’t know for sure, but had my suspicions), he began acting a bit differently. On his final day, early in the morning, he died right by my side where he spent most of his time. I know that is where he wanted to be, with me stroking his back as he slipped away. He has helped me deal with the loss of my husband and provided me with comfort I never knew I needed to get through some dark days. This little nine-pound runt is my buddy, my dude, my hero. I love you, Bruno.

November 4, 2021

I suppose I need to step it up in my blog production. I know of people cranking out their purple prose at a much more prolific rate than I – as often as once or twice a week. Perhaps I can look at this from several perspectives. Those people have more to say. Those people have too much time on their hands. I don’t have enough to say. My words are so precious, they are to be savored and anticipated. My brain isn’t as large and oozing with content as my peers. Words are cheap. Words are gold. Who can really say? The possibilities are endless. Regardless, I am here now with a short offering of prose, not necessarily purple, perhaps merely a pale lavender or amethyst. It’s the best I can do on a dreary day which weather-wise and metaphorically, matches my mood, and I am not sure why.

Take my life for instance. I live alone, save for my 13-year-old, almost blind, and I am fairly certain, completely deaf, 11-pound Chihuahua. This little dude clearly didn’t get the memo, because despite his infirmities, he firmly believes that he is a Rottweiler. It’s comical. Annnnd, I am about to go to the pet supply store to purchase doggie diapers because not only is he peeing on the floor, this morning the little jerk thought it would be a nice gesture of defiance to literally wet, no, saturate the bed – MY side of the bed as I was blithely taking a shower. He’s never done this before and, I am afraid, given other signs, he is beginning his downward spiral. Also, I really shouldn’t accuse him of being defiant as he emptied his bladder, because a) I didn’t see it and b) of late he’s been anything but defiant. My Bruno has been almost a different (I almost wrote “person”) canine. He seems depressed but accepting of his fate. The eyes tell it all. He still wants to cuddle, but there are also days when he’s not interested, and would rather just retreat to his dog bed or under the adult bed. Perhaps to be alone with his thoughts. Much like the rest of us in our senior days. Those of us in our “twilight” years are lucky I believe. I think we can appreciate life on so many levels. Yes, we don’t have as much spring in our step, but we have a greater respect for the fact that we can still take steps, albeit more gingerly in some cases. I’m glad to be alive even when my dog is peeing all over the place. So, I stripped the bed and avoided eye contact with my Bruno, because I know he felt bad. At least I hope so. Ask me tomorrow.

I recently went to Las Vegas for a few days with some friends to catch a couple shows, eat some good food and enjoy some adult beverages. Two of the shows were renowned artists, Rod Stewart and Barry Manilow. Since I am talking about geriatric issues in this blog, how appropriate is it that I would buy tickets to see two of my favorites. They did not disappoint and demonstrated that when you’re good, you’re good. Neither has lost it. Maybe they are a bit slower; they are in their late 70s after all, but they demonstrated to me that when you love what you do, you continue to do it well. I also called my financial advisor to remove my daughters as beneficiaries from my estate because of their disrespectful remarks about these two fine gentlemen and their possible lack of stamina and maybe the need for spotters and walkers while on stage. No child of mine will be rewarded for such talk. They will think twice before disparaging such icons of modern music. My guess is that when they are in their 70s, that New Kids on the Block won’t be having a residency in Vegas. Just sayin.’

After returning home, I had a slew of appointments, doctors, dentist, etc. They quickly brought me down to earth with the realization that this old body is starting to betray me. I am not the sexy young broad I once was. Things are facing south that used to be facing east; other things seem to have relocated; I can’t seem to find a few things and neither can the doctor; one or two things may need to be removed or relocated, not sure why, etc. etc. You get the picture. I have friends who have similar, I won’t call them complaints, just realities. This is life and I/we will deal with it. As they say, it’s certainly better than the alternative. I did manage to make one doctor laugh so hard that he cried and said that I made his day. He was asking me to entertain the possibility of having a sleep study performed and I quickly put the kibosh on that suggestion, because I have had sleep studies done in thepast and I have also used a CPAP machine. I informed the doc of these facts and let him know that I failed miserably and took the walk of shame when I returned the CPAP because of my aversion to wearing anything on my face. I told him “The only thing I will have on my face is Hugh Jackman. So, unless Hugh is there to utter sweet nothings and blow moist air into my mouth and nostrils, just let me die.” Hugh? Are you listening, sweetie?

Seriously, some might say getting old sucks. I really don’t mind. I obviously wish I didn’t have my ailments and various medications, but it’s OK. I plan to live my life as actively as I can, travel, be with my kids and grandkids and enjoy what comes my way. I refuse to take things too seriously. Don’t worry, be happy. And make sweet Bruno’s waning years as comfortable as possible.