When I think about how happy I am to have my delightful dog Sparkle in my life, I am amazed.
For a long time, I resisted having a dog. First of all, I am actually allergic to dogs, and I feared that I would be sick all the time. Secondly, I knew that a dog would tie us down. My late husband, Dan and I loved our freedom and being spontaneous—often deciding to take an overnight jaunt to the beach when we got up in the morning. Dogs are very social, of course, and need to be around people—especially their “parents.” I didn’t see how our lifestyle would accommodate a dog.
True confession: I really didn’t like dogs—I thought they were a nuisance and I avoided them as much as possible. And then there was my fear of dogs, which started when I was just 3 years old. Our family had an Irish setter—a puppy. My Mom had her hands full with my brother and sister and me—and she was expecting her fourth child. So, I’m sure she had no available time to train a rambunctious puppy. My Dad worked shift work and had a long commute, so the dog sort of trained himself.
I remember playing in the backyard and the dog knocking me down and tearing the sash on my dress. (I refused to wear pants when I was little. I told my parents that “Pants is for boys.”) Shortly after that, the dog (whose name I can’t remember) went to “live at the farm.” The result of my interactions with this pet was a fear of dogs that stayed with me into adulthood.
Sparkle came to live with us after my late husband’s first cancer. Seeing his transformed face when he cuddled a dog at the hospital during his recovery, I knew we had to find one I could tolerate. People suggested a French poodle, claiming that they were “hypoallergenic.” But quite frankly, I found poodles to be cloying. And I thought that they were probably high maintenance princesses. But, by mixing a poodle with another breed, you get a delightful and cute dog that I can tolerate. (By the way, my allergist wished me “good luck” with the dog—16 years ago!)
Finding a reliable, caring dog sitter who charged a reasonable fee to keep our pet in her home when we wanted to go away or had a busy day, made having a dog easier.
With all of the obstacles to including a furry “baby” into our home overcome, we found a little Yorkiedoddle puppy that we named Sparkle.
I’m astonished by how much I enjoy being a dog parent. Here are a few of my insights:
What I learned from my Dog, Sparkle
It is easy to love an animal.
A 14 pound one-foot-tall dog can be in charge of adults!
Petting a dog is soothing and helps to deal with stress.
Taking care of a dog is a job—and is a lot like having a toddler.
Kissing a dog does not lead to a fatal attack of “dog germs” (ala Lucy in “Peanuts”).
Playing with a dog is not only fun, but it’s also comical and relaxing.
Dogs are a great comfort when you are sick, stressed, or lonely.
Dogs love to eat—all the time.
Dogs have the most pathetic way of begging for food—all the time. And it is very easy to give
into them.
You can learn “doggie-talk.” For example, I know the difference between a bark that means, “I want to go out” and “I want a treat.”
Walking a dog is a great way to get to know people.
A dog can quickly learn that if she sits just right, you will give her a treat.
Living with a dog brings new energy into your household.
It’s easy to spoil a dog.
You can give your dog a cute name, and she won’t mind.
Stuffed dogs and dog books are no substitute for the real thing.
A dog will find a place deep in your heart and, at some point, you realize how grateful you are that she is there.
Why do we slog through challenges, hoping to survive, no matter what the cost?
I’ve wondered this many times since my epic struggle with Covid-19. A struggle that tried to rob me of so much—my autonomy, my relationships, and even my life. Here I am almost three years later, and, in the words of Elton John, “I’m still standing!’ But why? Why am I not just a memory?
Much of my survival I attribute to being incredibly determined and /or stubborn—take your pick. I prefer determined.
But I was also surrounded by a network of love and prayer that lifted me up during the darkest moments when I was tempted to give in to despair. There were many days when, confined to a hospital bed with everything I knew and loved so far away and seemingly gone from my life forever, I wondered what would become of me—would I ever go home again, be able to resume my life, be with the people I loved—even pet my sweet little dog again? Would I ever be able to walk again, learn to swallow so I could eat like a normal person, cook a meal or even take care of myself? Sometimes, despair would cloud my thoughts and plunge me into its dark night.
The shard of hope I grasped onto was realizing how much I loved my life. How much I wanted it back. That knowledge and understanding were what motivated me to keep trying no matter how difficult each day seemed, no matter how hard I had to work to get stronger, to learn to hold my head up, stand, and finally walk. It motivated me to keep exercising when I was tired, or just wanted to give in.
I came to know that life was the ultimate gift. A gift like no other and that I was fortunate to still be alive.
Life is miraculous —to be able to have relationships that give us joy, to be an actor in the world.
I wanted to live so much, it was woven into the fabric of my being. And that desire is what made me determined to face each and every day, no matter how much fear, anxiety, pain, or humiliation it took.
Yes, prayer, the myriad messages of support and love, and the care of medical teams, all these things made it possible for me to grapple with Covid-19. But ultimately I believe it was the sheer joy I experienced in living that kept me going.
And that was what my battle with Covid-19 meant to me.
There are some things I am positive about. My age, my name, my address, and my dog’s name pop into my mind.
But, I am not a subscriber to the gospel of positivity that has taken root in our society. In other words, I don’t believe in being positive all the time.
I think being positive has been overly glorified in our society and it forces people who may be suffering to hide their fear, their need for comfort and to pretend to be better than they are both physically and spiritually. It negates a person’s suffering—after all, if you’re positive you can’t be depressed, admit you’re frightened, admit you need help or can’t cope. Instead, you’re forced to put on an artificially happy face and lie to yourself and others.
When I had cancer several years ago, my writing sisters assured me that I would come through my cancer journey to once again be a thriver—like several of them had. It was a great response. No one said, be positive, be upbeat, it’s all going to be okay. I had done everything I could to be sure I would be “okay.” But I knew there was a road ahead that only I could travel. I would have to swerve around the potholes, and follow the route until I came to wherever it would end. And yes, there was a “happy ending” to that challenge. Thank God no one urged me to be positive. Instead, they listened, offered sympathetic help, and allowed me to lead the way.
Contrast that to when my late husband was trying to process the news of his impending cancer battle when his friend said, “You have to be positive,” when Dan expressed fear and sorrow. I can still remember the tears that filled my husband’s eyes as he tried to force a smile.
When I had Covid-19 ( with a capital C), I felt anger, despair, anxiety, confusion, and abandonment—but I never felt positive. I was trying to survive. That’s where all of my energy went— to survival. To just getting through each day, each treatment, and each encounter with medical personnel.
What I did have was determination. I was determined to work hard at recovery, to cooperate with the doctors and nurses, and to keep trying no matter how difficult it was.
The incredible support network and the many prayer warriors on my side lifted me up when I was faltering. And there were many times when I was tired, feeling alone and frustrated.
I didn’t recover because I pretended everything was great—it wasn’t! It was hellish and frightening and profoundly lonely.
My best role model for facing a daunting challenge was my late mother. When she found herself in an epic struggle with lung cancer many, many decades ago, she was honest, forthright and brave. That’s how I want to face my challenges, too. With determination and courage.
I love kitchen gadgets. I can spend a lot of time in kitchen gadget stores, looking at all of the tools that promise to make me a better cook. Unfortunately, I often buy kitchen gadgets, too, even though since Covid, I don’t cook all that much.
At one time, when I was cooking several times a week, I searched for the perfect garlic press. I bought several different variations of this tool—only to find that the old-fashioned garlic press still did the best job. So now I have at least three garlic presses that take up space in my kitchen utensil drawer.
One of my other treasures is a tool that is meant for
pulling hot oven racks out without burning yourself. It’s shaped like a Devil’s
head and has a handle. Now ask me how many times I’ve used it! I never think of
it until after I’ve burned my hand removing something from the oven!
Another recent acquisition is a pretty, red, folding funnel. The feature that sold me on this funnel is the fact that it folds! How handy! Now it won’t take up more space than it deserves in my already crowded utensil drawer. Whew!
The truth is that I could probably throw away 90% of the kitchen gadgets that I own and never miss them. After all, toasting an English muffin doesn’t call for many gadgets. Actually, I even have the correct gadgets for when I do toast an English muffin. I bought them many years ago on a trip to Maine. We stopped at a store, the Maine State Prison Showroom in Thomaston, that was run by the State Penal System where the merchandise was made by inmates. Inmates even worked in the store, although I’m sure there was an ample law-enforcement presence, too. One of the gadgets is a small fork with tines that works well for splitting an English muffin and the other one is a wooden tong that is invaluable when removing toasted bread from the toaster.
When my friend Susan and I go to Vero Beach, one of our favorite things to do is to shop—at least it’s her favorite thing to do. I enjoy it because we shop at upscale boutiques. One of my favorite stops is ( you guessed it) a store called Consider the Cook, I always manage to find something to buy. Sometimes it’s fancy napkins, fancy soaps or a special slotted spoon for poaching eggs. In fact, that’s the store where I bought all of my garlic presses!
This fascination with kitchen equipment stores goes way back
to when I was young and single and would go for weekends with friends to
Toronto. We loved to go to Eaton’s Department store where they had a wonderful
kitchen gadget section. I don’t remember what I bought—but that was the
beginning of my kitchen store addiction.
So, if you ever need a ladle, slotted spoon, garlic press, folding funnel, or spatula, you know who to call!
I’d like to share a short, short story I wrote and entered into a contest. I hope you like it!
By the time Lanie made her way through the overly airconditioned Fort Lauderdale airport, her brother-in-law had retrieved her luggage.
“I’m so glad you’re here!” Maggie,
her sister, gushed.
Walking to the car, Lanie felt like she was rolled up in a wet rug.
“Isn’t it great to see the sun and not have to wear a jacket, even in January?” Maggie said.
Two weeks! Whatever made
me think this was a good idea?
A sweeping view of the ocean captivated Lanie when she entered the condo. Maybe this will be nice, after all.
As she showed Lanie the guest bedroom, Maggie said, “It’s snug, but that’s okay because we’re going to be busy.”
“It’s lovely. But you know
that I’m looking forward to sitting on the beach with my book.”
“Why sit around when there’s
so much to do? Just for starters, we invited a couple from across the hall to
play cards. They’re bringing someone for a sixth.”
“Maggie—I need to know. Is “the
sixth” as you call it, a man? Please don’t try to play matchmaker.”
“You’re going to love our
neighbors!”
After dinner, Lanie sat on the balcony savoring the view. Weeks of tension drained out of her body.
The doorbell rang, and a
booming voice called out “hello.”
So much for peace and quiet, Lanie thought.
Reluctantly she joined the group in the dining area.
“Why you’re a cute little thing! Call me Freddie—just don’t call me late for dinner!” the neighbor said. Then he spun her around. Next, she was crushed into a hug by a buxom woman who introduced herself as Shirley. After plastering a smile on her face, Lanie nodded when she was introduced to their friend Paul. He returned her nod with a quick smile.
Later, she sat on the balcony watching a trail of light dancing on the waves as the moon rose over the ocean. Her tranquility was broken by Freddie and Shirley making their way onto the balcony. Behind them trailed Paul. Lanie forced another smile when he sat down. Soon Paul and Lanie were alone. They both stared straight ahead. Clearing his throat, Paul laughed and said, “Well, I guess this is the part where we get to know each other better.”
“I’m sorry about this. Maggie
means well. You see my husband died a year ago. She’s constantly manipulating
situations to get me “back into the swing of things,” as she calls it.
“Got it. Well, the view is
great and I did enjoy meeting you. But I’m going to call it a night.”
“It’s been a long day for me, too,” Lanie said.
The next morning as Lanie sat, coffee cup in hand, Maggie bustled in.
“So, what did you think of
Paul?”
“He’s pleasant.”
“So is that the way it’s
going to be? You mope around being sad while I knock myself out trying to make
sure you have fun? Would it hurt you to make an effort?”
“I appreciate everything you
do. Really. I know you like to be busy, but I need to relax.”
The next day, Lanie settled into a lounge chair by the pristine pool. When she looked up from her book, she saw Paul floating on a raft.
He waved. Lanie waved and went back to reading.
“I guess we’re playing cards
again tonight,” he said.
Lanie felt her shoulders sag.
That evening, after multiple hands of canasta, Lanie and Paul found themselves alone. Suddenly Freddie and Shirley invaded the balcony.
“You two have a nice evening,”
Freddie bellowed, winking.
Lanie wanted to disappear into the stucco wall.
“How long have you known Freddy
and Sally?”
“About a month. They’re very
friendly.”
”That seems to be their forte.”
Paul chuckled. He rose to leave
and asked, “Will I see you at the pool tomorrow?”
“I’m not sure. I think my
sister wants to go shopping.”
“Well, have fun.”
She hesitated. Making eye
contact with Paul, she said, “Just so you know, I’m not looking for anything
more than friendship.”
“That sounds perfect.”
Lanie smiled, feeling relieved.
After entering his condo,
Paul took off his shoes and placed them precisely on a mat. Then he picked up
his phone and tapped a number.
He smiled when his call was answered.
“Hey,” he said. “Guess what I
did tonight.”
“You played cards with that
widow again?”
“Bingo! I think you’re going
to like her. And she’s going to love you, just like I do.”
Harry smiled as he clicked off the call. He hoped Paul was right.
When I was a kid, we were very close to our extended family. My parent’s friends were mostly relatives. My Mom had a group of neighbors she regularly visited with, and there were two couples that my parents socialized with—Michelle and Jim Hungiville and Jim and Margaret Kearney. We were particularly close to Beth and Andy Baxter—who were what was sometimes called “shirttail” relatives—related to us through the marriages of aunts and uncles, but really family.
But I think that both Mom and Dad probably would have named my aunts and uncles as some of their dearest friends. In fact, my Mom’s childhood friend, Aunt Virginia, became her sister-in-law when they both married one of the Joyce brothers
So given this close family connection as a background, we
frequently visited relatives.
My mother had two sisters who were much older than she was, and their children were several years older than me. These cousins were my first experience with a mysterious group of people called teenagers.
Teenagers!
Teenagers were semi-adults—taller, bigger, and more experienced than me. They could do things on their own and sometimes even drove cars. They dated—another mystery to a ten-year-old in the ’60s.
One day, we were visiting Aunt Mary’s family, and her oldest
son, Terry, came into the house after
driving home in his own car. He then proceeded to go to the refrigerator
and drink juice directly from a carton! I had never seen that done in our
household—so it was fascinating. I actually thought that that was one of the
ways teenagers were unique—they could just go to the fridge and drink directly
from a container—no glass needed!
One time, my cousin Sheila ( who looked like a young Elizabeth Taylor) let me accompany her to the local delicatessen. I guess Aunt Mary needed something to finish cooking dinner. As we walked into the corner store, Sheila saw a friend—a guy—whom she greeted warmly and asked, “So, how’s your love life?” Oh wow! Teenage girls could talk to boys ( who seemed to be just like men) casually and ask cool questions! I was amazed. Would wonders ever cease?
Another time, one of these cousins, with whom I share a close relationship now, Ron, challenged what I was learning in 6th grade History I loved history and I remember saying something to Ron about the Crusades. It was Catholic School textbook information—obviously slanted heavily toward the Christians being heroes. Ron was the first person to make me wonder about the depth of what I was learning by asking some simple questions. Another discovery! Teenagers know more—they learned about some of the same things I was studying—but more in-depth!
I often think about these cousins and their younger sister who is close to my age and their late brother. They were great examples of what it meant to be teenagers. They embodied some of the best qualities of maturing—and interestingly, they never acted disrespectfully to their parents—at least not in front of us. They were nice to me and my younger brothers and sisters and seemed to genuinely like us.
They made being a teenager seem to be a wonderful thing—even
though, I’m sure that they, like all teenagers, had moments of angst and had to
navigate their way through their teens to make their way in the world—which
they all did quite successfully. I do cherish my memories of these particular
cousins. They were, and are, quite special to me.
I see the start of a new year as an invitation—an invitation to living a fuller life. I don’t mean making resolutions which usually don’t change anything.
Instead of a resolution, I plan to take advantage of the invitation extended by the New Year to revive my long-dormant blog, to putting my work out in the world again and invite readers in.
Writing a blog is a funny thing. It’s like proclaiming to
the world that you have something to say or that what you think and write about
matters. In the best of all possible worlds, that would be true.
I hope by working harder on updating the blog, I’ll find a new purpose in writing and maybe entertain my readers from time to time. My blog allows me to share my journey through Covid, which is an ongoing part of my life. My battle with Covid was life-changing in profound ways—everything from my health to my relationships and how I live was affected.
The blog also allows me to share my sometimes quirky way of
looking at the world and hopefully, makes my readers feel less isolated. Shared
experiences and seeing how other people navigate this unpredictable world can
bring us together or at least make us realize that we are not really the only
one who thinks or feels like that.
So, that’s my new Year’s goal, promise, resolution, or whatever you want to call it: To bring my blog back, give it a little TLC and invite you, my reader, in.
It’s the season for Christmas music. In fact, if you really
love songs about Santa, reindeer, Rudolph and even dreidels, you can tune into
Christmas music radio stations easily starting shortly after Halloween.
I have a love-hate relationship with Christmas music. I hate
having it forced on me in supermarkets and other public spaces—especially when
it’s still a week before Thanksgiving.
I love it when I’m “in the mood” for Christmas music, which has been the case this season. There’s one Christmas song in particular that conveys the joy of the Holiday season and makes me smile whenever I hear it–“Feliz Navidad”. I remember it from Jose Feliciano many decades ago. It has entered the mainstream canon of Christmas music. Michael Bublé has a particularly good version of it on one of his Christmas CDs.
Everything about this song is uplifting— the beat and the
words convey happiness and joy—something that other Christmas carols often don’t.
When we moved to Florida two decades ago, we eventually moved to an “active adult” community, Solivita, where I still live. Our community chorus, the Solivita Guys and Dolls, a group of grandparent–aged music lovers, present an annual Holiday concert. I was teaching at a local Catholic school. Luckily, I was able to arrange a concert at the school featuring the chorus.
One of my merriest memories is the sheer exuberance of the children in the school spontaneously singing along with the Solivita Guys and Dolls Chorus at the first concert. The kids were an amazing audience, listening attentively and clapping appropriately. Then the Guys and Dolls began singing “Feliz Navidad”—and every kid in the audience joined in! It was fantastic! The kids were clapping and singing and just having fun with a song that meant a lot to them.
Whenever I hear Feliz Navidad, I remember that day. I relive the sheer delight of the young voices blending with the mature adult voices of the Chorus and the kids’ unbridled exuberance. I hope there’s a Christmas song or carol that brings the same joy to you.
I was a charter member of the Lonely Hearts Cub throughout my high school years. I wasn’t one of the cool kids who dated and fell in love—or even seemed to garner any interest from the opposite sex.
I went to an
all-girls Catholic High School which was coeducational with a Catholic Boys
School. To translate—that meant that both schools were housed n a monstrosity
of a red brick building that had been a juvenile delinquents’ institution for
many years.
After high school, I was recruited by our parish priest to be the Prefect of the Sodality, which was a group devoted to the Blessed Mother. Our purpose was to pray for others and to do good works. Hmmm…
Anyway, there was a young man named Jim who joined the group. And as luck would have it, he fell in love with me. He saw me as the perfect “girl” and thought that I was beautiful. How do I know this? He said so. I had a car by then and was in my early 20’s—still not dating much, but I was busy praying and doing good works.
One of the good works I did was to visit shut-ins—people who were homebound due to age, infirmary or disability, Most of these shut-ins were women who probably were the age I am now—early 70’s. Interestingly, when I was infirm from my life-altering Covid experience, I didn’t consider myself to be a shut-in. Oh, how times have changed. Anyway, Jim and I worked as a team and went to visit a lovely woman who was a shut-in.
I remember the visit well. She proceeded to tell Jim how attractive I was ( at least to her), saying “You have everything, beautiful skin, curly hair, and lovely eyes.” Jim agreed whole heartedly and also added that he saw me as the ideal Catholic young woman. ( I’d like to say that I tried to correct them as they heaped lavish praise on me—but I didn’t!)
Fast forward a month or so later. Jim asked me to go to dinner with him, so I did. It was obvious that to him, it was a date. To me it was dinner out with a friend. After we ate at one of the best restaurants in Buffalo, Jim left a 50 cent tip in the form of a Kennedy half-dollar—which was chintzy even then. Try as I might to distract him and leave a more generous tip, I was unsuccessful. I was embarrassed as we exited the restaurant wondering what the server thought of us. To make matters worse, he talked about the great tip he’d left as we drove home. I remember him telling me that he’d saved the Kennedy half-dollar just for this occasion.
Anyway, it
was our first and last date. I’m not sure if I discouraged him or just was “too
busy” the next time…but I’m pretty sure I broke his heart.
I have little memory of anything after being admitted to the hospital on March 27 with Covid-19 pneumonia in both lungs, until I woke up from a coma on May 6, 2020.
My time in the ICU is a mash-up of real events and dreams. There were moments of fear, sadness, and confusion all mixed in with life-saving medical procedures. And, when I started the long, arduous journey back, I even found humor. I remember lying in a hospital bed at the second hospital (of a total of four), thinking I have to survive…I have stories to tell.
In my
family, stories are the myths and legends that define you. I knew I wanted to
share mine.
I was intubated three different times. Intubation seemed like a dream-like sequence where I was being held underwater in a large plastic zip-top bag. In the bag with me were two impressive pinkish stones that I think represented my lungs. As my doctor and a nurse removed the respirator, I thought the water was being emptied from the bag and the rocks were discarded. And then I gasped for breath. The nurse said peevishly, “ You could have told me she had Covid.” That’s my first memory of hearing that word.
Then I
thought the nurse insisted that she needed a souvenir of my intubation—a small
ruby she extracted from my tooth while the doctor took another tooth as a
memento. I don’t have to tell you that I never had any gems in my mouth and all
of my teeth are where they were before Covid!
The medical staff who brought me through this had to “gown-up” ( in hospital parlance) in outfits that looked like exotic space suits bearing a strong resemblance to C3PO from Star Wars. The gowns covered the nurses from head to toe—and to be honest, I could be standing next to them on the street and not recognize the people who literally saved my life. But can you imagine thinking you are being cared for by a group of aliens!
During my treatment for Covid, I thought that I and other patients were on a rickety tug boat on the ocean. One time I saw a case of ice-cold diet cola on the boat. I wanted to drink it—but the nurse told me that it would kill me if I had any. After arguing with her, telling her that it was good for people who had low blood pressure, I was angered by her refusal to let me have it. I resolved that the first thing I would drink when I got out of the hospital was a frosty bottle of cola. I became quite obsessed with it, daydreaming about cola dripping water from the ice it was in. Strangely, I actually don’t like cola—and rarely drink it.
I’ve never
actually seen any plays that could be called absurdist. But I think I directed
a real-life “absurd” event.
One morning, I hatched a plan to get various people to help me get released from the hospital. I reasoned that I was a captive, being held against my will, which was against my rights. So, I got on the phone and started calling people, including my sister-in-law in Buffalo, my brother, my sister, my friend, and my Significant Other. And possibly others. I made a case for them to intervene on my behalf—at one point making a conference call between a major airline, my sister-in-law and me. During that call, I demanded that Connie come to Florida to get me “out of here” telling her that I’d feel much better at home. I have a vague memory of Connie trying to be reasonable while the airline representative was trying to book her airfare, as I orchestrated the whole thing!
I called my brother Brian who is a minister and asked him in a very calm, cool way if he could call a colleague here in Florida who would come to the hospital and get me sprung from the claws of the very people who were helping me. Again, he reasoned with me, telling me that he didn’t think he could actually do that.
Finally, my
sister called and we had a conversation that went something like this.
“So, Kathy,
you’ve been very active on the phone today, calling people to get you released from
the hospital.”
“ Well, I
think I’m a lot better.”
“What do
your doctors think?”
“ I don’t know.
I haven’t told them yet. They’re forcing me to stay here and that’s against my
rights.”
“ Well,
maybe you should use that energy to recover, so when you get back, you will be
ready to be home…”
Finally, I played my ace card—my Significant Other. He did an almost heroic thing by driving to the hospital where I was and pleading with the security guards to allow him to rescue his damsel in distress. He finally had to leave when the guards threatened to call the police.
That’s when
my family knew he was “ a keeper,“ a real Mensch who truly loves me.
Interestingly,
I didn’t call my daughter because she lives on the West Coast and I knew it
would be too early.
Oh, and did
I mention that I could barely talk? My voice has been badly affected by my three
intubations and is raspy and hard to hear.
Later, when my family related this story to me, I had memories of doing it—but I had forgotten how determined I was to get my way.
I often
recall that morning and chuckle. Here I was, barely hanging on, but pushing
other people to do my will. I guess that’s part of why I survived.
My hallucinations included a dream-like sequence in which my Significant Other and I were at a sumptuous party hosted at a home that was partly a spaceship. It was owned by a bartender we liked from our local pub—a young kid who certainly wasn’t the very wealthy doctor-in -disguise as I thought. While we were at the party, I kept waiting to be driven home in the spaceship-like house. I remember my intense disappointment when that didn’t happen. But after being reassured that we’d be invited back, I was happy to know that I’d be driven home in the spaceship.
Around this time, I thought that Bart, a friend of ours, fooled everyone into thinking he was a doctor. I even imagined that he performed an operation on me inserting Styrofoam blocks into my chest and arms and legs. After that, he went and manipulated the blocks to inflict pain on me—rather like a demented Wizard of Oz. The pain in my legs was unrelenting. I calmed myself remembering that my vascular doctor had reassured me earlier in the year that my leg pain was from surface veins. “ Ha!” I thought, “ You can’t kill me, it’s just surface pain.”
Then I felt squeezing in my chest that took my breath away while Bart, the Evil Wizard, enjoyed inflicting it. My bravado lagged—and I had to acknowledge that he almost won that time. The pain ended soon after that. But I was still mad at Bart. Later, my Significant Other told me that Bart, in particular, frequently asked how I was and said he was praying for me, I was furious. How dare he, I thought, after what he did when I was in the ICU! It took me a while to realize that this whole incident was not real. And an even longer time to get over being angry at Bart.
At about that time, I became aware that I had been through a terrible illness. Sheila, my chief nurse, came in to check on me.
“What happened
to me?” I asked.
She took my
hand and told me that I had bilateral pneumonia caused by the Corona Virus. She
assured me that I would recover.
Five months
later, after being in four different hospitals and a Rehab Center I finally went
home.
My memories are a mash-up of reality and fantasy, which, quite h onestly, I find humorous in their absurdity.
