You Are Not Alone

"Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans."

~ Allen Saunders

This is a longer and much different post that I intended to write in February.  Life did indeed happen while I was making other plans.  What follows is a compilation of excerpts from my personal journal.  I share them, not to offer any profound insights or solutions, but in the hope that you can identify with some of my thoughts and emotions and find that at least a little comforting.

Mar. 3 - This virus - why am I only attending to it now?  Apparently, it's been ravaging other countries for weeks now.  This is the downside of not watching the news.  How many other Americans are unaware of the problems that may be coming our way?

Mar. 4 - At a recent rally, the President actually said we could wake up one day and it would be gone.  It's one thing for me to be oblivious, but the President?

Mar. 6 - Italy has shut down all of its schools.  And still, we do not seem to be taking this seriously.  This denial and even arrogance is astonishing and bodes serious concerns for us, I fear.

Mar. 9 - Why am I feeling such a sense of trepidation?

Mar. 11 - Italy is in complete lockdown.  I just watched videos of Italians in Siena, Naples and somewhere in Sicily standing on their balconies singing together to try to uplift their spirits.  One of my favorite memories is of a visit with friends to Siena on a bright afternoon, eating gelato among a throng of tourists.  Today both husbands are gone, taken by cancer within the same week and Siena looks like a ghost town. I weep at the breadth of loss.

Mar. 12 - We've canceled our April and May luncheons.  If our government won't give us a clear direction, we have to make decisions to protect our selves and our membership.  I am so proud of this Board.  And speaking of decisions, I am putting boundaries around watching the news.  I've been glued to the TV, seeking information and recommendations from the scientific and medical communities.  But too much information and I leapfrog across depression into despair.  I need to pay as much attention to my mental and emotional health as I do my physical health.

Mar. 13 - Emerging voices are sounding an alarm that we are not prepared for a crisis of this magnitude.  Not enough ICU beds, not enough supplies or personnel should this hit us the way it has hit Italy or Spain.  Not enough people taking this seriously.  The attack on science and our press in recent months has diminished their authority.  I fear this pandemic is going to accentuate the cost of our political polarity and expose the underbelly of our society.  We are certainly going to see an interesting cast of heroes and villains.

Mar. 14 - A FOX commentator asserting this is a hoax, accusing opponents of using the virus to embarrass the President.  This is not helpful.  We need facts and reliable information.  How do I remain responsible and sane amidst comments like this and the name-calling and diatribe on TV and social media venues?!  Boundaries, boundaries!

Mar. 15 - I just created a binder of lists - books to read, friends to contact, projects to complete, topics/ideas to explore, hobbies to take up again, etc.  At least, it helped to restore a minimal sense of control.

Mar. 17 - I woke this morning and set about my usual routine - breakfast, taking a few moments to notice and appreciate the shrub beyond the courtyard wall in its coat of purple spring buds, then curling up in my favorite chair with my journal in hand.  Then, I made the mistake of checking the stats - 4565 cases in the U.S. and 87 dead.  The juxtaposition leaves me at best confused and at worst, anxious.  And if I am anxious, retired here in the safety of southwestern UT, what about all those millions of people out of work, many in congested cities?  How are they coping?

Mar. 18 - Watching views of people ignoring the call for social distancing - or is it that they just don't care?

Mar. 19 - Sixteen months today since John died.  I am taken by a wave of relief that he died when and how he died - his valiant heart simply giving up the struggle, in our home, his hand in mine, my sister here to support me.  How would I have handled watching him struggle for air behind a glass barrier as I have seen images of people in just that circumstance?  What if our doctors have to decide who they will try to save as Italian doctors are facing?

Mar. 21 - Structure, focus, mindfulness, gratitude - I cling to these words.  Far too easy to descend into anxiety or outrage at the ineptitude of our federal government.  Thank heaven for some of the governors who are showing up in this leadership vacuum.

Mar. 23 - Thankfully, I have much to be grateful for - friends checking in, the network of support I'm blessed with, learning to use new technology, spring weather, living in a relatively small and safe community, and always the companionship of my sweet rescue dog, Rufus.

Mar. 26 - The cloudbursts of personal grief seem to have subsided, blown away by the larger sense of loss, existential grief as it were.  So much loss - jobs, security, trust in our institutions, in one another, in the belief that we will be strong enough, resilient enough, smart enough and united enough to emerge from this whole and healthy.  My habit of recording five things to be grateful every night is a sanity saver.

Mar. 27 - I have to remember not to try to make sense out of nonsense - it's impossible and exhausting.

Mar. 28 - Thank heavens for images of individuals helping their older neighbors or the creative uses of technology to stay connected, or the generosity of some of our athletes and celebrities and the amazing courage and compassion of our health care workers.  These images comprise a life preserver in this sea of uncertainty. They restore a sense of hope for me.

That's enough for now.  I hope this does as I had hoped for some of you out there - you are not alone.

Because He Listens

"The first duty of love is to listen."
~ Paul Tillich

I write this as we approach our 35th, and I fear our last, wedding anniversary.  We met 38 years ago, Aug. 18, 1980, to be exact.  In a bar in Kansas City, as the song goes.  Just 15 minutes before I had determined to leave.  I was there with a colleague, sharing with her the highlight of a long road trip I had taken alone, so proud of what I had done.

John walked in with a friend to celebrate a successful business transaction and sat at a nearby table.  His first trip to Kansas City, he asked a question of his friend that the man could not answer.  But I could, and without much thought, did.

We continued to talk - about the city, and then work, and backgrounds and interests - and he listened, at a level I had rarely experienced.

When we parted, we exchanged telephone numbers in case I ever got to Cleveland, his home base.  In case he ever visited Kansas City again.  Which I seriously doubted.  

The next day, I told my mother that I had met someone who, though I was sure I would never see again, gave me hope that there might be someone with whom I could build a lasting, supportive relationship.  In fact, I told her, were we to live in the same city I was sure we would end up married.

He called the following Sunday morning just to talk.  And he listened.  As he did every Sunday morning for weeks.  And eventually every Wednesday evening, and eventually every night.  As he did throughout the challenges of determining how to create a lasting relationship across miles and different careers, across different backgrounds and commitments, across significant hesitations and considerations.  Somehow, even when he became most fearful or I became most frustrated and angry, he strove to listen.

And I came to realize that for all the reasons I had come to love him, at the top of the list was that he always listened, no matter how difficult the conversation.  I moved to Cleveland, and we married in l983.

That foundation of talking and listening through the tough conversations has served us well.  Sustained us through several moves, career changes, presidential campaigns, caregiving for my elderly parents, and battles with cancer.  It continues to be a basic survival skill as we deal with this, the greatest challenge we have ever faced, the most difficult conversations we have ever had to have.  Still, he listens.  I have never loved him more.

Reflections on Christmas Past

"Christmas is a season not only of rejoicing but of reflection."

~  Winston Churchill

I woke the other day with the sudden realization that this is my 76th Christmas and a flood of childhood Christmas memories washed over me.  For no apparent reason.  No dreams that I could recall.  No family traditions binding me to the past.

Then again, I have been decorating with a vengeance and friends have called to say they will be visiting.  And I have indulged in more than a few Hallmark holiday movies.  You know the ones, filled with romance and fantasy, ideal families and happy endings.  Simple plots and enough good cheer to last all year.

Our family was not filled with good cheer.  Money was tight. Relations could be strained.  But, somehow, we were at our best at Christmas.  

I loved watching my mother bake cookies for weeks starting right after Thanksgiving.  Enough chocolate chips and pecan snowballs, Spritz and sugar cookies, pinwheels and ladyfingers to fill the turkey roasting pan and several large bowls.  All made with real butter and leaving an aroma that filled the house for weeks.  Enough to give packages to all the family who came to visit.  And they came - all six brothers of my dad, and the two brothers and a sister of my mom, and their children.  They flowed in and out for days.

I loved decorating the real tree, purchased only a week or so before the holidays and laden with family heirlooms and silver tinsel that had to be layered a string at a time - I remember feeling so grown up when I was finally allowed to do so.  And the cards, checking the mail every day to see if we received a card from someone Mom had sent one to, her cards signed in red ink for the season.  She would read them, looking for a message, and then tape them to the archway to the living room.  And count them, every year.

The other sure sign of the season - the music.  Not only did Mom enjoy the traditional Christmas carols, (well, I think Rudolph was tolerated), but once we attended Catholic school, I sang in the church choir.  And Midnight Mass was the second time Dad could be dragged to church, Easter being the other.  Such a treat to get "dressed up" and sing before my parents.

And of course, the food.  Both Mom and Nonna were great cooks.  We celebrated Christmas Eve with Nonna who made pizza, from scratch naturally, and fried the leftover dough and rolled it in sugar, a treat for the grandkids.  Then, returned for Christmas Day to a feast that took days to prepare and almost as long to clean up after.

Gifts were simple - coloring books and crayons, puzzles, roller skates, a game.  And always pajamas and for me, and later my baby sister, a dress that Mom sewed.  Gifts that appeared while we were at Nonna's.  Gifts that I discovered Mom and Dad had bought when I finally noticed that Santa's name was always signed in red ink.  Gifts that were given and received with love and appreciation.

We were at our best at Christmas.  I think I'll bake cookies this year.

A Gentle Reminder

This week, rather than a single quote, I offer a poem.  It was just the reminder I needed while waiting in Houston, struggling to stay positive while I feared the worst.  If it speaks to you, too, you might find the book from which it was reprinted worth a read - The Last Gift of Time by Carolyn Heilbrun.  The poem, "Otherwise",  was written by poet Jane Kenyon

I got out of bed

on two strong legs.

It might have been

otherwise.  I ate

cereal, sweet

milk, ripe, flawless 

peach.  It might

have been otherwise.

I took a dog uphill

to the birch wood.

All morning I did

the work I love.

At noon, I lay down

with my mate.  It might

have been otherwise.

We ate dinner together

at a table with silver 

candlesticks.   It might

have been otherwise.

I slept in a bed

in a room with paintings

on the walls, and

planned another day

just like this day.

But one day, I know,

it will be otherwise.

But not today.

Today Is a Good Day...

"Today is a good day for a good day."

I don't know the origin of this quote, but I've been repeating it often of late.  I first heard it used on an HGTV series, Fixer Upper, with Chip and Joanna Gaines.  It not only makes me smile, but reminds me to declare each day as a new possibility, regardless of the state of the preceding day. 

It's not that I'm into denial.  I certainly know bad things happen to good people.  I believe we are in for some rough years ahead with the division in this country and threats around the world.  I understand full well that "aging is no place for sissies."  I face reality every time John needs another transfusion or I hear about another Trump nomination. 

In order to have some good days in spite of all that, however, I am focusing on what I/we can control.  I read my news from a source I trust. I call my representatives to express my opinions and concerns.  I take appropriate surveys.  I try to influence others to do the same. I make sure we stay in regular communication with the cancer clinic.  I learn as much as I can digest about John's condition so that we do our part in his treatment.  

And I repeat, sometimes more than once a day, "today is a good day for a good day."  It reminds me to focus on those things and those thoughts that contribute to a good day.  For me, that includes spending time with John.  It includes contacting a friend, taking time to journal and to read something inspirational.  (Right now, that's The Power of Now by Eckhart Tolle.)   It includes limiting negative news as much as possible, whether on TV or Facebook.  And spending time on a project whose completion brings me satisfaction, like simplifying our home or drawing.

It also includes watching something entertaining on TV.  When I had cancer some years ago, I watched every Fred Astaire or Gene Kelley film I could find.  I know every lyric to the songs of Seven Brides for Seven Brothers and can quote much of the dialog of The Princess Bride and The Wizard of Oz.  And I confess, I'm a sucker for Hallmark movies, especially over the holidays.

I could wish I had come across this quote years ago.  It might have made some difficult periods in my life easier to endure, but I suspect I might not have had the wisdom to appreciate and use it.  For now, therefore, I am adding this quote to tonight's list of gratitudes, followed by "it has been a good day!"

 

Gratitude Is an Attitude

"Gratitude is one of the sweet shortcuts to finding peace of mind and happiness inside.  No matter what is going on outside of us, there's always something we could be grateful for."

~Barry Nell Kaufman

It was an unusual Thanksgiving for the two of us, the first time in our 33 years of marriage that we celebrated alone. Had to cancel meeting old friends for our tradition of a marvelous buffet near Zion - can't risk being in large gatherings anymore. Had to decline the warm offer of sharing dinner with a friend and her family -- couldn't risk passing our debilitating head colds to her elderly relatives. 

Each year at Thanksgiving we take turns expressing what we are most grateful for. This year, as you might expect, the list was significant - having each other in this fight for John's life, our doctors, the wonderful hospitals we have at our disposal, modern medicine, the safe community in which we live, the remarkable network of support, my loving siblings, sufficient resources, the strengthening of our already strong relationship, our home. 

As we acknowledged one blessing after another, our lagging spirits definitely lifted. In the hours since, I've turned my thoughts to other, more personal gratitudes and the list is somewhat overwhelming. 

• homemade soups and biscotti delivered by friends who know I don't enjoy cooking
• a particularly thoughtful gift - a king-sized flat sheet because I can't fight with fitted sheets right now
• photos via the Internet by friends who suspect we may be feeling isolated
• the clinic office manager who heard my frustration and rectified a problem immediately and without attitude
• e-mails that have brought laughter and tears
• unexpected calls just to see how we're doing
• Robitussin and NyQuil, cough drops and throat sprays
• retirement - how do people who have to work find the time and energy for such a battle?
• the last Henry Fonda roses of the year
• jigsaw puzzles and adult coloring books, my meditation practices of choice
• afternoon naps induced by a few pages of a good mystery
• jokes John forwards, often outrageous, always fun
• and seeing that this blog is being read in Portugal and France, Germany and the Ukraine, amazing, humbling

My list is actually much longer than this.  A good reminder that in spite of John's disease, in spite of an election outcome I did not want and still fear, in spite of head colds and being alone at Thanksgiving, there is always something to be grateful for.  Some things, many things to be grateful for. Just need to remember.

A Balancing Act

"The word happiness would lose its meaning if it were not balanced by sadness."

~ Carl Jung

I was reminded of Jung's quote this past week as it has been a week of both pronounced happiness and pronounced sadness.  In the midst of news that two friends had been diagnosed with cancer and an acquaintance had committed suicide, we also got the news that John's biopsy for possible prostate cancer had proven negative.  Sadness and happiness within a matter of days,

I think I first grasped this idea on a Saturday almost 50 years ago, although I couldn't have expressed it as such that day.  Early that morning my ex and I, visiting our families for the first time since we had married and moved to California, were awakened with a frantic call from my grandmother.  Grandpa was having a heart attack.  We raced to their home to see him being put into an ambulance, and within an hour, got the news that he had died.  

While my parents and aunts and uncles attempted to console my grandmother and each other, I, as the eldest grandchild, was assigned the task of helping my siblings and cousins stay calm in the midst of Sicilian grief.  How I managed, I can't recall, but somehow we got through the morning.

And then, that afternoon, I changed clothes and attended the wedding of my ex's younger sister, the original reason for our visit.  A death and grief in the morning, a wedding and joy in the afternoon.  I do recall, vividly, two clear, distinct thoughts -  "This is surrealistic." Followed in the next breath - "I guess this is just the nature of life."

I expect, as we go forward, there will be more weeks like this past one.  Weeks with news that someone or some ones we love are facing a health challenge or have died.  We are, after all in our 70's now, living in a community that attracts retirees.  We most certainly will not go unscathed.  I have recognized this for some time.  What is clearer to me, however, is my responsibility to seek the happy moments, to create them with greater attention and diligence, and always, always to be grateful for them.

A Challenging Choice

    "To the question whether I am a pessimist or an optimist I answer that my knowledge is pessimistic, but my willing and hoping are optimistic. "              

~ Albert Schweitzer

I recently came across an expression that has taken up occupancy in the corners of my thoughts, popping up at the oddest moments.  "Realistic optimism"*, the term for at attitude that can support us as we face the challenges of aging in the midst of a "forever young" movement**, initially seemed an oxymoron.  Whenever I watch the news these days - a plethora of chaos and cruelty, fear and hatred - I have to fight off a sense of despair that can threaten to shroud the day in a dark consuming cloud.  When I receive a call saying another friend or family member is struggling with loss or incipient loss, it's hard to stay optimistic.  When I struggle to call forth a word or name that I know I know, I experience a moment of anxiety.

But then, an e-mail arrives with a photo of my nephew's beautiful children, or a friend's daughter, a lovely young bride.  Or I hear from someone I don't recognize telling me how the course he took from me years ago influenced him to be a better husband and father.  Or, surprise, surprise, a local TV station shares a story of compassion or generosity.  Or - best of all, I look at this week's calendar and see three dates with my husband and realize once again that we have found our way into a deeper, gentler friendship than I would ever have expected.  We have learned how to discuss our vastly different political views (well, much of the time); we laugh at the same jokes; we like the same people; we enjoy The Voice together - he a Country Western fan, me an Opera fan.   Go figure?!

Realistic optimism - accepting the reality that the world seems, no, is more dangerous, that bad things happen to good people, that we and those we love will decline and die.  Yet,  AT THE SAME TIME, remembering there are reasons to be optimistic. There are moments of unbelievable beauty and unexpected gestures of kindness and decency from strangers.  There are the people we love who return our love many times over.  Old friends who forgive our forgetfulness.  New friends who open their hearts and homes to us.  Another opportunity to learn, another possibility to contribute.  AT THE SAME TIME.

So, when John and I drive to meet friends on Thanksgiving Day for a splendid buffet that eliminates the need to cook, and we take turns sharing gratitudes from the past year as has become our tradition, high on my list will be discovering this concept of realistic optimism.  Not always easy to maintain, but always, always a blessing.

 by

Happy Thanksgiving!

* realistic optimism - from The Wonder of Aging by Michael Gurian
**forever young society - from Travels with Epicurus by Daniel Klein