A Family Affair

         

There are many victims of Covid-19: those who contract the virus and their family, friends, and even acquaintances.

In the aftermath of trying to recover from the ravages of Covid, all of my relationships have been altered in some way—sometimes for the better and other times not. I am trying to come to terms with those changes: extreme fatigue, an annoying cough, a now raspy voice, in addition to the loss of feeling in my feet and changes in my vision. I find it difficult to carry on a conversation because of the raspiness of my voice. I also am suffering from PTSD. I often think about what I went through, dredging up memories of the many difficulties, and even the little triumphs. I’ve written about some of my challenges, including having to re-learn to sit up, walk and swallow. Recovering these simple bodily functions was a long and arduous process.

 But I wasn’t Covid’s only victim.

Of all of the people who were affected in some way by my battle, there is one person, in particular, who it deeply touched: my daughter Brenda. She was my chief advocate, making difficult decisions about my treatment and hoping that I would recover. I had at least three occasions when my family was advised that I probably would not make it through the night. My daughter and I talked about the first such occasion recently. April 4th of this year was the one year observance of the first time my family was told that I was near death. When we talked about that night, she related how she sent me healing messages, encouraging me to cling to life, telling me that I was strong enough to survive. She lifted me up with her loving thoughts and her strength from the other side of the country where she lives. And she admitted to a sleepless night full of anxiety.

When I had problems with a CNA treating me harshly, Brenda called the nursing supervisor of the hospital. And that rough treatment ended promptly. Brenda also conferred with my doctors and nurses on a daily basis. Because of the Covid crisis, she was advised against traveling to be with me by my care team. There was literally nothing she could do—including seeing me. As I started to recover, she and I had frequent telephone calls.  She did all this even though she is the Director of the Honors College at a University in Portland, Oregon, a position which carries with it huge responsibilities. And of course, at that time, the University was developing on-line classes, a change that my daughter had to guide her staff and faculty through.

Through all this, Brenda was supported by her wife, my family, and two dear friends.

Many people in my community knew about my battle from my brother Brian’s Facebook posts which he wrote after conferring with my daughter about what information should be shared.  Eventually, I was able to text and tell him what I wanted people to know. I always included a message about wearing masks and social distancing.

Those posts had a deep effect on people who read them—some of whom are acquaintances as well as friends. I‘ve met many people who tell me that they prayed for me, or were concerned about me because they followed these posts on Facebook. A few have even teared up when they see me.

When I think about the many people who were affected by my struggle, I am humbled by their love and concern and grateful for the outpouring of prayer and support I received which overflowed to my family, especially Brenda.

I owe them my thanks and so much more. I try to honor the concern and love shown me by not taking unnecessary chances and by practicing safe protocols like wearing a mask and limiting my exposure to other people, even though I’m fully vaccinated. I have a responsibility to the other victims of my Covid battle.

My experience with Covid wasn’t just about me. Without this extensive community of caring people, especially my daughter, I know I wouldn’t have survived.

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My Covid Anniversary

The first anniversary of my diagnosis with Covid is looming on the horizon. A year ago, I was the pre-Covid me that I now mourn. I was healthy ( or seemed to be) and happy. My relationships were wonderful and I felt like I was in the best place I could be. I loved my life.

It’s a year later and it feels like everything that matters has been altered. Yes, I survived a five and a half month hospitalization where the only respite from fear and anxiety was sleep, three intubations and several near death events. But my life has changed drastically. One of the most noticeable things is that I lost a lot of weight—something I struggled with all of my adult life. Now I’m much thinner having lost the equivalent of a fifth grade student in weight. The negative of losing that much weight at my age is that my skin looks like a slept-in wrinkled shirt—saggy and baggy. I tell people that I look better with clothes on. Because  I’ve gone down several sizes, I had to give away all of the clothes I loved and replace them. I wasn’t sure of my actual size—so it was a guessing game at first. I’ve become adept at returning stuff to QVC and Amazon.

In addition to these changes, I need to use a walker to get around. I’m doing okay with it and don’t feel diminished by it. Yes, I can take about 5 steps without it—but I look like an overgrown toddler—my balance is poor and my gait is awkward. But that’s ok. Sometimes, pressure is brought to bear on me by well-meaning people. I’ve had people tell me that “if I practiced enough with that thing ( as they point at the walker), you could get rid of it.” At first, I felt diminished and angered by that. I’ve come to realize that walking with an assistive device is fine and I’m more than okay for needing it. Often, when people make that remark, I recall the first time I sat up on the edge of the bed in rehab. My head wobbled like a bobble doll and I fell back on the bed, unable to hold my body upright. It took work and persistence to develop the physical strength I needed just to sit up. Then I had to learn to stand. I remember distinctly my terror of falling as I was lifted to my feet by my therapist. I was so disoriented and I couldn’t feel my legs which I thought were buckling under me. “I’m falling, I’m falling,” I shouted into the therapist’s ear while he yelled back, “No, you’re not!” He was right. It was exhilarating to be able ( eventually) to stand with a walker for a few seconds and finally, to take 3 sideways steps. I was overjoyed at this progress.

Physical Therapy was challenging. I had to sit in a grotesquely uncomfortable wheelchair for hours every day to develop my core strength. There was nothing to do but watch daytime TV. I got to know  Hoda, Barbara, Tamara, and Ellen through this experience. My go-to channel was HGTV  I had always enjoyed “Love it or List It,” and I became enthralled with “Good Bones” in addition to “Property Brothers.”  When I walked down the hall on the walker, with a foley tube, feeding tube and wound vacuum attached to my body, the therapist pushed a wheelchair behind me so I could sit down every ten steps. Standing and playing catch with another therapist was exhausting. I was frightened that I would never gain enough mobility to live in my own home. That’s when I started calling assisted living facilities to inquire about the services they offered.

After a draining two months of therapy, I was finally able to walk with a wheeled walker for 100 feet without needing to rest.

So when people tell me if I just would practice more with that thing—I tell them “I’m fine  the way I am.”

In addition to all of that, I had intractable pneumonia which was exacerbated when I ate. I was aspirating tiny amounts of food into my lungs. I had a feeding tube inserted into my chest, and received all of my nourishment from that for several months. Speech therapy helped me to learn to swallow properly again. The therapists taught me several exercises which I had to do every day, and gradually introduced solid food into my diet. I’ve learned that there are foods I can’t swallow easily even now—white bread toast is one of them.

In addition to all of the physical changes in my life, I am trying to cope with what appears to be a form of PTSD, for which I am seeking counseling. I desperately want to write about what I went through but those words elude me.

I can do most of what I want or need to do, except take my trash and recycling bins in and out of the garage—tasks I lean on my significant other, Mike, to do. I am able to prepare my breakfast and lunch because they are simple meals. For dinner, I rely on my friend Susan who whips up a filling meal most evenings. I used to cook several times a week and invite Mike and Susan here—but now I depend on take-out or prepared meals that I can simply heat up in the microwave. Occasionally, we go to a local restaurant that uses safe protocols. Over the years, I’ve collected all sorts of kitchen gadgets—most of which I will never again use. I’m thinking of selling them at a garage sale next Fall.

 The house is orderly and clean—and I’m proud of myself for being able to keep it that way.  I get the laundry washed and put away—eventually! Same thing with the dishes. Other people do most of my grocery shopping—including a friend who sends in a Walmart order and has it delivered. I am anxious about going into stores because I think I got Covid at the supermarket.

All of my relationships have changed. I depend on my friend Susan a lot—dinners almost every day, walking my dog in the morning, and her understanding when I am upset. She shops if I need a few things and has helped me to update my wardrobe. My sister ( also a Susan) texts me every morning and evening. She reminds me that I have survived an extraordinarily difficult illness and always encourages me to “ Be kind to yourself.” She points out that I am more than surviving, I am thriving in many ways.  My other brothers and sisters have shown their love to me in wonderful ways, too. One of my brothers, Michael, sent pizzas to the staff the first time my life was saved. Brian, another brother, updated my family and friends on Facebook as I struggled to survive.  When I was hospitalized, I got lovely handwritten notes that lifted me up from my sister, Rosemary. another brother, Tim, texts me every day. I  feel cherished and loved by all of them.

My significant other, Mike, and I had to restructure our relationship. Unfortunately, when my anger about my situation overwhelmed me, I lashed out at him. I was angry because he chose to go out several times a week and  I felt threatened by a friendship he forged with a woman friend during my five and a half month hospitalization. I’ve come to understand how lonely and anxious he was during my illness. I realize that he needed a friend. But I was afraid that he was exposing me to the possibility of being reinfected with Covid by being around other people. When he would come to visit me at my friend Susan’s house where I was staying at first, we had to sit on the porch, wearing masks, 6 feet apart. The visit would last an hour, and then I would be too tired to have any more company. We never touched or kissed. The closest we got to being affectionate was waving goodbye and throwing a kiss with masks on.  It has taken months for us to get to become reacquainted, and for me to feel secure in our relationship.

When the Covid vaccine was offered here in Solivita, I breathed a sigh of relief. Finally, I could get the vaccine and feel that I was safer than before

While I know that the Covid vaccine isn’t a free pass to my old lifestyle, I feel better knowing I’ve had it. I’m still terrified of grocery shopping and feel horribly uneasy about crowds. If I find myself in a situation with a lot of people, I leave immediately. I’m anxious that people are going to stop taking precautions. I wear a mask all the time, even when I’m out riding in the golf cart to walk my dog. My “pod” is 3 people—me, Mike, and Susan. Almost all of the events or meetings I attend are on Zoom. Recently, I was talking to an acquaintance who has been attending plays, going to her time-shares, shopping, and playing cards almost every day. She had been vaccinated which is the only reason I was talking to her. I felt angry toward her—she was leading a pre-Covid life—the life I am mourning.

I lost six months of my life to this virus and have spent the last six months trying to make sense of what happened and to fix what’s broken. I’m not sure I’ll ever get back to my pre-Covid life. The thought of normalcy—not wearing a mask and socially distancing, avoiding crowds, keeping my circle small and tight—fills me with dread.

Covid has diminished all of our lives. Mine maybe more than others. I am not willing to take a lot of chances. I don’t gamble, and I don’t think this is the time to start.

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A Christmas Miracle

This Christmas was, for me, a miracle.

Last June, while lying in bed at the third hospital I’d been in since March 27, 2020, I wondered if I would celebrate Christmas in my own home with my friends. As I lay in that bed with a feeding tube, a wound vac, unable to walk or stand up, and too weak to hold my cell phone for more than a few minutes, I despaired. I couldn’t share my despair easily, because my voice had become a raspy whisper after three intubations,  The very idea of cooking, cleaning, washing clothes, and taking care of meals for both me and my dog, Sparkle, deemed impossible. I mourned for the life I led before Covid-19: A life rich with family, friends, travel, activity, and a busy social life. I was involved with a man I loved, Mike, and still love.

Then I was diagnosed with Covid-19  and my life changed forever. I become seriously ill and was hospitalized for almost six months.

As I lay in that hospital bed, I wondered what would happen to me. Would I ever recover from the debilitation of COVID-19? Would I ever be strong enough to walk again? Would I be able to live in my own home and take care of myself and my dog? I envisioned living in a facility, hoping that I would be able to manage independent living and dreading the possibility of more restrictive care. My outlook was bleak.  Celebrating any holiday in the comfort of my own home didn’t seem possible. Many days, I would lie in the bed, tears streaming down my face as I contemplated a future that I didn’t want.

Eventually, I recovered from the intractable pneumonia that is common with Covid and was transferred to a rehab center.  There, I learned to walk again, and to swallow. I exercised every day with my therapists and on my own. I grew stronger and finally, after five and a half months of confinement, I was released to go home.

I was terrified. I was still very weak. I could walk, but needed a walker.  It took enormous energy to bathe and get dressed. I had to take naps after doing the simplest tasks. And I was going home where I would have to not only take care of myself, but manage a house and care for my dog.

I am fortunate to have a wonderful friend, Susan, who welcomed me into her home and her life. She had been taking care of my dog during my hospitalization and she made room in her home for me, too. I was at Susan’s for two months, during which time I received therapy to help me gain strength and learn to accomplish simple tasks. Finally, I returned to my own house and managed to survive. Susan and I have an arrangement now where she cooks dinner for us most days, and I clean up. I prepare my own breakfast and lunch—tasks that, at first, were draining. I hired a helper to come in and assist me. Over time, I found that I was able to do a little more each day and I decided that I could manage without the assistant. November came, and Susan and I celebrated Thanksgiving. And of course, Christmas was on the horizon.

Christmas, my favorite holiday, meant decorating, baking cookies, and preparing a festive dinner. I wondered what my holiday would be like post COVID. Would it be a mere shadow of the holiday I celebrated in years gone by? Could I manage decorations or make Christmas cookies, an important tradition in my family? I knew that I had to try to make this Christmas the best I could manage given all of the challenges I faced. I sensed that a Christmas devoid of any decorations or traditions would be depressing. With Mike’s help, we were able to put up a small tree. I knew the regular 5 foot tree would be too much, but my tiny tree was festive and set the right mood. I found and displayed my  Christmas towels, table runners, and wreaths. I ordered all of my gifts online and sent out Christmas cards. It was beginning to “look a lot like Christmas, “ as the song says.

Christmas cookies were the next challenge.  I ordered refrigerated sugar cookie dough from a local store and baked two dozen cut-out cookies and decorated them. It took two days to accomplish this task and a nap after each activity—but to me, it was Christmas!

Christmas day came. After surviving a brutal fight with Covid, I had learned to walk again, swallow, had regained my voice, and I had defied death at least three times.

I celebrated the Christmas that seemed so elusive just a few months earlier filled with joy and gratitude. It truly felt like a miracle.

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Going Viral

We’re in the middle of a worldwide health crises—Covid -19, known commonly as the Coronavirus. I  wondered what to write about on this blog. Could I give you tips on how to be optimistic as the days drag on and we are still wandering around in a wilderness with no reliable answers in sight? Or should I give you ten tips for having fun under the circumstances—if  only I had any tips for having fun, which I don’t.

So, how are you filling your days? I’d love to know.

Here’s how it’s going for me.

My significant other, Mike, is staying with me and we are incredibly compatible. I wonder if that’s because we’re older and are not working or raising kids. I’m pretty sure I’ve mellowed a lot. There, I said it. I’m a nicer person now.

We are watching “Homeland” on Prime—thank God for streaming TV! It’s an intense show—so we limit ourselves to two episodes each night. It’s all I can take. We are so very lucky to have reliable Wi-Fi that I can afford and a giant TV screen to watch it on.

Of course, I have been reading as much as possible—and inevitably, playing my games on my iPad. I’m cooking a lot more and sleeping too much—and trying to be on some sort of schedule. I’m not a schedule type of person—so, that’s a challenge.

Like so many of us, the ever present news is the background to our lives. Shopping for food has become my main occupation—although I’m cutting back on it to isolate myself a bit more. Thankfully, we are supplied well and not worrying about necessities. Not even toilet tissue! ( I’m still wondering why toilet tissue became such a focus of hoarding, but I guess it’s a scary thing to run out of.) I figure if I run out of paper towels, I have plenty of rags—a lifetime supply. I am a lot more conscious of conserving my use of paper products—with the exception of napkins. But, there’s always the possibility of substituting paper towels for them—or a shirt sleeve!

Our dear friend has been eating dinner with us—either at her home or mine. We only see one another—no other friends. Even if we wanted to go out, there’s no place to go—our community closed down at least 10 days ago—a good thing, in my opinion. I am on Facebook a lot more than I should—but it helps me feel connected. Two good friends reached out by phone—so that was a blessing to talk to them. Remember the good old days when we communicated by phone—not just by text? It’s nice to hear another human voice and the give and take of a conversation. My brother brought me up-to-date on some important family news and I’ve been in touch with my daughter who is shepherding her staff and faculty in placing their university classes on-line.

Needless to say, my little doggie Sparkle has to be cared for and she gets her share of attention and especially treats! What a great life she leads—she gets rewarded for peeing in the right place! Ha! Can you say that?

The one thing I’ve been neglecting is my writing—with all of these long days—I’m still not carving out the time. So, that has to be prioritized more. I have a second novella to get back to and this blog which I’ve neglected.

I hope you are finding ways to make these days productive. I’m sure many of you are creating art, taking classes, reading great books, running or walking miles every day, and finding ways to stay connected. Or maybe you’re sleeping a lot. Whatever gets you through the night—and the days.

Take care.

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Who’s the Crazy One?

Florida winter is upon us, such as it is. Florida winter usually means a few days of chilly and, here in Central Florida, some downright cold weather—lows in the 30’s and highs in the 50’s, Now I know that my Northern friends and readers are not having a pity party for us as they struggle with heavy snow, sleet, ice and frigid temperatures. But, after living here for 20 years, “my blood has thinned” as the transplants like to say, and I feel cold once it gets to the high 60’s!

So, when I walk my trusty companion, Sparkle, I dress for warmth— two layers including  a jacket, sweatshirt, gloves (on occasion) and one ugly but warm hat. Oh, and sunglasses.  And sometimes I’m still cold, so I might add a poncho over that ensemble. Needless to say, I hide from the Fashion Police.

Sometimes I see “snowbirds” those who come here for a break from real winter. They usually are sporting shorts and maybe a light jacket while I am dressed like a displace Eskimo!

Sparkle appears to not notice weather—except for rain, which she hates—and walks along quite happily despite the temperature or the winds blowing.

And I wonder, Who’s crazy here—them or me? Somedays I think it might be me—especially when I see other transplants who are wearing just a  fleece jacket and seem quite comfortable.

However, I was truly astounded today when I saw two folks working outside their home in shorts, tank top for her and a tee shirt for him. I took one look at them in the 50 degree weather ( which, by the way, was also windy) and I knew…they were the crazy ones!

Photo courtesy of Bing
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Walking the Dog—A Dog Tale

Having a dog is like having a two –year old. They need a lot of attention, affection and they need to be kept clean and fed—and they need to go “out” to do their “duty.”

I walk Sparkle (the delightful puppy who allows me to live in her house) at least twice a day. These are long walks—usually we are out for a half hour—sometimes almost an hour.

We traditionally take a walk late at night—and I do mean late. In fact, we’ve been out as late as midnight. I’ve never felt nervous being out at that time because of where I live.

Recently, that illusion has been shattered.

They’re back!

I saw them for the first time about a month ago as we headed down the driveway for the vest-pocket park across the street from my home.  They were lurking in the shadows of the night.

Rather small for their species and sleek, the deer looked up as Sparkle began to bark at them.

I stopped.

The deer stopped and stood as still as statues. Sparkle pulled on her leash to try to go toward them, still barking urgently.

In the dark of night and through the haze, they were mystically beautiful to see.

 But I wasn’t sure what they might do—would they run away, would they come toward my impertinent little dog who thinks she can take on all of the Animal Kingdom?

I hurried Sparkle back into the house reasoning that if she couldn’t “hold it” until morning, she could use the emergency pad in the utility room.

We’ve seen them several times since. The other night was a bit of a surprise because they weren’t in the little park. Instead they were feeding on the bushes in front of the house around the corner. Sparkle and I quickly changed our route, and when we came back, the deer had moved to the house right next to mine. As we approached our driveway, the deer startled and ran away.

It is little unsettling to see the deer—but it still seems wonderfully exciting at the same time.

But I decided that I need to take Sparkle out earlier for her final walk of the day.

After all, the deer need their space—and so do we.

Image courtesy of Bing Free Images

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This selection was written several years ago. I plan to revive this blog–so, this story seemed like a good reintroduction to old and new readers of this blog.                                                   

Young Again

The car races along the patent leather- like streets as the mellow Jazz tunes waft from the radio.  I hug the door, staring straight ahead. Earlier I had been shocked to hear a Beatles tune played as part of the play list on the “Cool Jazz” station we have tuned in.

We are headed to a party; some friends are celebrating forty years of marriage. What an amazing milestone!

I try to remember my husband and me  all those years ago—young, and attractive. I open the vanity mirror on the back of the visor, flipping the light on, as my husband zips along, cursing the other drivers who, according to him, are all idiots. I pull a pinch of skin on my jaw line, smoothing out the fine lines and wrinkles that have made their home along my mouth. “What do ya’ think? Would I look better with a face lift?” I ask, knowing fully well I would never subject myself to that invasion.

I had resolved a few years back when I stopped coloring my hair to its more youthful deep sable color, to age gracefully. Age gracefully, h-m-m, I wonder, does that mean looking old? I look again in the small mirror. Not too bad—yet!

I remember when I was in my early twenties, when my generation, the renowned Baby Boomers, first began to flex their muscles, at Woodstock, at peace rallies, pushing our free love, anything goes philosophy to the forefront. For better or for worse, we have changed society.

The rain has let up as we pull up to the multi- storied hotel. I dread stepping down onto the pavement, knowing that my knee is so unpredictable. Will it hold out this time, I wonder, as I gingerly emerge from the car. My knee has decided to act normal today. Hooray!

 We enter the fairy land that this hotel has created for the convention guests it caters to. Ahead of us is a marble lobby, decorated with Oriental carpets, chairs upholstered in mauve and pink, with asymmetrically curved backs. To the right of the smoky black mirrored piano bar is a large tropical themed pool. I have no desire to stay here, like I might have when I was younger, for a romantic weekend. After all, now I live in a resort! One without kids, where I can go to a quiet restaurant, and swim in pools sans babies and splashing ten year olds. I guiltily acknowledge that I  enjoy my adult oriented life.

We find our friends, and exchanging hugs and quick kisses on the cheek, congratulate them on forty years of marriage. Jokes are made about how difficult marriage is— but how wonderful it is to have a shared history, companionship, and support as we age.

Age! Yikes!

A young couple is in the restaurant, trying to convince their squirmy two- year old to sit and enjoy her food. Each parent takes a turn, trying to find something to amuse their young child, to no avail. I look at the parents, their smooth unlined faces beautiful the way young people are… and I feel a pang of jealousy. The image of a handsome fully -accredited plastic surgeon wielding his scalpel above me as I drift off to sleep pops into my head.

I turn to my husband. “How do I look?” I ask.

“Very nice, is that a new outfit?” he replies. Well, I’ll have to be content with that; it’s the most I’ll get out of him.

Eventually the thirty -something mom picks up her fussy baby, and struggles to leave the restaurant gracefully. The dad packs up the food they couldn’t eat, pays the bill, and hurries to the door.

Yeah, youth. Looks like fun on TV, but the reality can be very different.

Later as we leave the hotel, I turn to look at my husband. We have shared a lifetime together, all the anger, pain, hurt, joy, happiness, and success that are the hallmarks of a marriage. He pulls the car out into the traffic, just as the sunset blazes across the sky, filling the horizon with lavender, pink and gold.

A song drifts out of the radio, a familiar tune, “love is lovelier….love-like youth is wasted on the young.” I hum along, as I smile a little crinkled smile.

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Where Is Sparkle?

Sparkle, my little dog, came to live with my late husband Dan and me after his first cancer. It was esophageal cancer and its low survival rate was a visceral threat to his survival. But Dan made it for another 5 years, a feat I attribute in part to Sparkle. Her sweet personality, charm and big innocent eyes got Dan up and moving. He delighted in having her sit on his lap for hours, petting her soft curly fur. She knew she owned him—all she had to do was yip or vocalize and he was on his feet, taking her for one of their legendary walks. It was nothing for the two of them to walk for an hour at time, even in the suffocating heat of a Florida summer. Along the way, Dan would meet other people with dogs and chat. He’d come home, excited to share what he called “dog-walker community” gossip. Yes, Sparkle was a key to his recovery and survival. Then the other cancer reared it’s ugly head and he died 8 months later. But the 5 years he lived, and even the last months of his life, were made richer by the presence of Sparkle in our lives.

Now, seven years later, Sparkle has entered a new phase in her life. She appears to be suffering from “doggie dementia,” a real condition called Canine Cognitive Dysfunction. It first manifested itself when she stopped eating (one of Sparkle’s favorite activities), and then became listless. I was alarmed when I noticed her sitting with her back to me staring at the wall. She stopped playing with her favorite squeaky toy, a talent she had perfected over the years, and ignored people we’d meet on our walks. It was obvious something was wrong. I wondered if she had had a stroke. Upon doing a very easy Google search, I found the information I needed. And it was unsettling. After consulting with her Vet, Dr. Rich, we decided to try her on a supplement to hopefully slow the deterioration.

Now I watch as she becomes more diminished every day. Some days it doesn’t feel like a big deal. After all, she still enjoys her walks, eats well, and is sweet. But gone is the playful little girl who liked to toss and squeak her toys, get too many treats and shamelessly approach perfect strangers for affection. She is still a good natured, loving dog, but becoming a shadow of her former self.

Of course, like all creatures, she is aging. And there is a natural tendency to slow down. We see it in ourselves and others—and now I have a front row seat watching Sparkle enter her decline. I knew this would be difficult, and there are moments when I feel deeply saddened by these changes. As with any decline, human or in a beloved pet, we are faced with how powerless we actually are, and reminded that in many ways, life happens.

I hope Sparkle can hang on for a few more years—she’s a small dog, and they usually have longevity. But when the time comes, I pray that I will have to courage to ease her way over the “rainbow bridge.”

Meanwhile I wonder, where is Sparkle?

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Roller Coaster Ride

This week marks my fourth yearly visit to my oncology team. Even though I knew that the possibility of a reoccurrence diminishes each year, there was that little fear in the back of my mind. What if I got a bad report? What if the cancer came back? How would I handle it? Well, fortunately, I had an excellent report—no cancer and all of my tests were great! After the appointment, I felt exhausted not only physically, but mentally and emotionally, too. My reaction reminded me of this blog post I’m sharing today. Life is like the ultimate thrill ride—we hop aboard hoping for the best and then, no matter what, we have to ride.

                                              Roller Coaster Ride

I feel like my emotions have been on an out-of-control roller coaster ride this week.

My week started with a celebration—my brother Brian was ordained as a Methodist Elder. This is a major milestone in his life—it seals his commitment to the ministry he has chosen. The ceremony itself was a joyous celebration of the presence of God in our lives. And the next day, Saturday, it was a celebration of family highlighted by affection, sharing, music and, of course wonderful food. The congregation my brother ministers provide another tribute on the Sunday after his ordination—which added a loving and public dimension to this event.

Then we received the news that my aunt had died. It came in the form of a text message from another brother who was unable to attend the ordination.

And then my roller coaster ride began.

How can joy be intertwined with grief? How do we celebrate one event and mourn the other—all in the same moment in time?

We go from joy to sorrow back to joy—often within moments.  And yet, we make sense all of this and continue despite the way our lives sometimes seem like a riotous amusement park ride.

We sort out the feelings and sometimes even compartmentalize them to allow us to continue to function.

Sorrow can color our lives sometimes for years, but yet we soldier on, facing each day with great courage.

Finally we realize that joy is transient and that we must delight in those moments and hold them dear to our hearts—living them over again and again. Ultimately we come to know that to understand joy, we must embrace life’s sorrow.

And bravely, we get back in line for the roller coaster of life, throw caution to the wind, throw our arms up in the air… and ride.

Image by Alexas_Fotos from Pixabay
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Happy Birthday!

What’s more exciting to a kid than his or her own birthday! Wow! A day when you get to spend time with your friends eating cake and ice cream, running around, playing party games, and best of all, you get presents! What could be better?

As we get older, the hectic pace of working, raising kids, taking care of aging parents and maintaining a house, along with other burdens can sour us on celebrating birthdays. It seems like too much effort, or silly. After all, a birthday, like Christmas, is for kids, right?

I say no! Our birthday is the only day of the year when we are the stars of the show—a chance for our friends and family to celebrate our very existence, to tell us that we matter.

That’s why I love birthdays. It’s fun to have a special dinner, to sing the birthday song, and eat ice cream and cake like a kid. Gifts are not required as far as I’m concerned. But a birthday card should be a requirement. It’s fun to open cards that friends and family have chosen for us, whether they are funny, sarcastic, a little racy or sentimental.

I hope you celebrate your birthday, no matter what your age is—whether you’re 9 years young—or 99 years old.

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