Eating ice cream in the car, putting bacon on everything, watching Elvis movies, soaking in a bubble bath . . . everyone has one, or maybe two. Guilty Pleasures. Things we do to amuse ourselves, soothe our angst, relax, or to pamper ourselves after a stressful day. They’re the activities we indulge in when life gets us down, or we’re bored, or to while away an unexpected evening alone.
I know people who love Hallmark movies—even though the plots are paper thin, the settings are impossibly perfect and the characters are always stunningly beautiful. Others may enjoy a gory, terrifying horror movie, or my favorite—a rom-com in which people meet” cute” fall in and out of love and back in love in the span of a 70-minute film, and live happily ever after.
But my real guilty pleasure is watching an incredibly flawed series on Netflix set in the City of Love—yes, I’m a fan of Emily in Paris. I know the fashions Emily and her friends wear are outrageous and probably are not what sophisticated French women wear, and Emily herself is the quintessential American—refusing to learn to speak French even though she has been living there for three years. I’m aware of the critique of her typical American personality—always working, even in her free time, and always having the perfect solution to every problem. Despite acknowledging all of this, I still enjoy the show—the intrigues, the relationships, and especially the scenery. I enjoy that the lovely City of Paris is showcased, even though it’s on a glob of cotton candy like Emily in Paris.
I’m more than aware of the shallowness of the show—but that’s why it’s a guilty pleasure. It’s improbable, silly even—and escapist. So, I make no apologies. I know there are better ways to use my time, but none take me away like my guilty pleasure.
Why do we need Father’s Day or Mother’s Day? Are they only a “made-up, Hallmark” holiday? A boon to card companies, restaurants, and florists?
Two of the most difficult jobs in the world—with no prerequisites except for the physical ability to have children– are being a mom or a dad.
There’s no training. There’s no paycheck. No award. No appreciation dinner is thrown in their honor. Instead, parents learn this job by observing their own parents, for better or for worse. Moms and Dads bring their backgrounds to the job and have to refine their skills the hard way—while in the throes of doing it. Adding to the difficulty of the job, parents bring all of their emotional baggage with them, too
Yet, most parents dive in optimistically and make a sincere effort to be loving parents. Knowing that the only reward will be for that child to become a functioning adult who cares for others, and maybe has children of their own whom they nurture. Most parents hope that their children will find a niche in life, find a career, a partner, and a role to play. I think most parents wish for their children to be happy.
Of all the developed countries in the world, the united States stands out as one of the only countries that has almost no safety net for families. And the safety net that is in place is under constant threat from budget-conscious government officials. There’s no universal health care, no universal child care, no paid parental leave like many other countries. Having kids is a job that’s done almost in a vacuum. There are tremendous financial burdens a family bears and few ways our society supports families.
So what does any of this have to do with Father’s Day or Mother’s Day?
Maybe it’s a reminder of how challenging both of those roles are. And a reminder that the people who make the sacrifice to have children deserve a thank you and a day to be celebrated.
If you were to win an Oscar, or a Tony, or an Emmy—There would be laundry.
If you were to win the Nobel Peace Prize—there would be laundry.
Even if you’re in the hospital—there’s laundry.
Even on the day you’ll be buried—there will be laundry!
On your birthday, your wedding day, the day your baby is born, the day your other baby is born, when you go on vacation, and of course, when you get home from vacation—there’s laundry!
As soon as it seems to be done, there’s more of it. You can never catch up and you certainly can’t get ahead of it. That’s absolutely impossible.
Because that’s how my life seems to me. And I’m only one person.
I often wonder about multiple-person households—how do they keep up with laundry? Do they accumulate mountains of the stuff and then do nothing but wash clothes day and night for a weekend?
I remember my Mom doing a lot of laundry—there were 8 kids in my family, Mom and Dad, and my Grandpa, too. I remember putting clothes down the laundry chute and an enormous pile of laundry accumulating in the basement. I often helped Mom with the laundry. Here’s the kicker—she had a wringer washer for the longest time. This meant that all of the clothes were first sorted by color, then went into the laundry tub which was then filled with a hose. The washer was turned on for a specific time period, and then I ( or another sister or brother) would go to the basement and help. Our help entailed doing one of several jobs—handing Mom clothes from the wash tub which she then put through the wringer so they could plop into a tub of clean water to rinse and then fishing the clothes out of the water-filled rinse to go back through the wringer. Doing a load of laundry was a time-consuming and difficult task. I’m sure she had to do laundry every day. I wonder if there weren’t days when she wished she could just throw all the clothes away, and just go and buy us all new things to wear.
Somedays, I despair of ever being caught up with my laundry. In reality, it’s not even a goal anymore. The only way to get away from laundry, I guess is to go on to our heavenly reward. Wouldn’t it be funny if there were laundromats in heaven?
Dear Readers, I hope you enjoy this Christmas story which I originally shared several years ago. This memory still moves me.
In the waning afternoon sun on a Christmas Eve many years ago, my daughter, husband, and I anticipated a snowy drive to Buffalo from Angola, where we lived with my husband’s father. As the gloomy afternoon wore on, snow began to fall. Not the fairy tale, picturesque snow of maudlin Christmas movies, but big, fat, serious snowflakes that rapidly coated Albeeville Drive in front of our house, and weighted down the tall spires of evergreens lining it all the way to Lakeshore Road, a tricky route even in good weather.
The phone rang shrilly, disturbing my anxious thoughts as I watched the snow piling up in marshmallow mounds in our yard. My sister’s voice crackled through the phone wire.
“Are you going to try to make it?” Susan asked.
“How much snow do you have there?” I asked anxiously.
“It’s starting to pile up, but the radio said that the south towns were getting a blast of lake effect snow. You know, we want you to come, but…” her voice trailed off.
We’d never missed a Christmas Eve at the Joyces’. It was part party, part dance, part feast, and just plain fun. Everything and anything happened on our Christmas Eves: square dancing in the front hall as my sister played the piano, singing Christmas carols, a frenzy of gifts, hugging, crying, saying ‘I love you’, and of course feasting on great food. We topped the evening off by trudging through the snow to Midnight Mass at St. John’s church. Sisters and brothers traveled from miles to gather in our parent’s home—even keeping this tradition long after both of our parents died. I wanted this Christmas Eve to be no different.
I muttered a little prayer under my breath as I went outside to assess the situation. It soon became clear that we were staying put that evening. I looked up into the nighttime sky, a swirl of snow, as hot tears of disappointment stung my eyes. I couldn’t even see across our two-lane road. A phone call from Dan’s brother, a New York State Trooper, confirmed the diagnosis. He warned us to stay home; they were pulling the state troopers off the roads until things improved—probably sometime after midnight.
So here, we were, stuck in Angola, for what should have been the most festive night of the holiday season. Worse yet, I really needed a break from taking care of my father-in-law, whose brain was ravaged by Alzheimer’s disease, changing one of the most creative, vital people I have ever known into a child in a man’s body. To make matters worse, when I went to the pantry to try to invent a makeshift meal, all we had, other than the holiday turkey and side dishes, was some frozen pizzas.
I put together a hurry-up meal of frozen pizza, salad, and our Christmas cookies.
We all sat down to dinner, surrounded by the soft glow of our charming Christmas tree, and munched on the pizza and salad. We then topped it off with the festive cookies Brenda, our daughter, and I had decorated so lovingly.
The snow continued to fall, blanketing the house with silent winter coziness. We put holiday music on the record player and exchanged gifts.
Grandpa Joe, as we called my father-in-law, delighted in the winter hat and gloves we gave him, putting them on and insisting on wearing them all evening. He took great pleasure in sharing his box of Danish cookies with Shadow, his ancient black Labrador.
We found ourselves laughing and exchanging funny stories. Could it be? Was Joe a little more aware that evening? I’m not sure, but I do know that the snowstorm that night was part of God’s great plan for my family and me.
Fast-forward another year. A different Christmas Eve, crisp and clear; with roads that were easily traveled over as we hurried into Buffalo to my sister’s home. This would be the first Christmas that my father–in–law was no longer with us. The impromptu Christmas Eve from the year before was, indeed, Joe Glascott’s very last Noel. What a blessing that we were able to spend that last Noel with my beloved father-in-law, Joe.
No, this isn’t a “hack” on how to rescue or conserve soap.
I’m finally coming clean. I love soap. I collect soap like some people collect sea shells or dolls. Full disclosure, I also have a small doll collection and a larger sea shell collection. But I’m always looking for unusual soaps or ones that are decorative.
In fact, I’ve bought unusual soaps as souvenirs. When we went to Alaska, I sampled soap made from the silt from glaciers. So, of course, I bought a bar. In Hawaii, I saw soap that was hand-carved into a flower shape enshrined under a little plastic dome. I bought one for me and my dear friend, Susan.
Years ago, I was in Philadelphia visiting my brother and we went to a huge indoor market. I bought soap carved with a hunting dog. One of my favorite soaps is a glycerin soap that shows a beach scene. I don’t remember where I got it, but more likely than not, It was at a craft show in a beach community. Recently, I was at an upscale Arts and Crafts Fair which showcased professional level crafts. And yes—I found a soap that I just had to have. Like all souvenirs, these soaps do remind me of the places I’ve been and the people I was with.
Soaps actually make a great souvenir. They’re small, portable and relatively inexpensive. In addition, soaps are useful, and you don’t have to worry about buying the right size.
Many of us remember “back in the day,” the little soap dishes that displayed fancy soaps in people’s “powder rooms.” Many times, those soaps had plastic shrink wrap over them, thus making it impossible to use them. Year after year, the cute little sea shell or heart-shaped soaps would languish unused under the shrink wrap gathering dust. And Avon Cosmetics sold decorative soaps to enhance your home or give as gifts.
Well, I’ve collected some of those cute soaps myself—and yes, I’ve kept them like special relics, too. Then one day it occurred to me that these were soaps—one of the most mundane and useful items we have in our homes. Now I’m enjoying using them. There are one or two I won’t use—the silt soap was too messy, and the beach scene glycerin soap reminds me of the place I love best—the beach.
I still like collecting pretty, cute, and unique soaps—but I also love using them.
We all have little things that annoy us. My pet peeve –well, ONE of them, is when I receive a birthday card or other greeting card from an insurance office, doctor’s office, hospital or any entity with which I don’t have a personal relationship.
When my birthday month rolled around, I braced myself for them–the preprinted, generic, birthday cards from these parties. At least a month out from my birthday last September, I received two cards: one from my insurance company, and another from a credit card company. Sure enough, as my birthday drew nearer, I received other cards.
An insurance agent told me many years ago that a marketing company had promoted the idea of sending birthday, anniversary, and holiday cards to clients as a marketing tool. But every time I open them, I feel aggravated. Using my birthday—a day I actually look forward to—as a marketing tool seems cynical to me, and opportunistic.
I don’t send a birthday card to my credit card company, and certainly not to my insurance agent. In fact, my last interaction with my insurance agent was an email he sent, written all in capital letters, where he demanded that I not get my car insurance from a new agency! So why on earth did I get a birthday card from him? We’re not friends—or even acquaintances. I can’t imagine that if I ran into him at Publix, he would recognize me because I’ve only seen him in passing at his office.
Now maybe you enjoy getting these cards. That’s fine. Maybe you’re annoyed by too-personal questions, a nasally voice, ads on TV, or a know-it-all. You are welcome to those aggravations. When I get these unwelcome missives, I gleefully throw them away—usually after ripping them up into teeny-tiny pieces. I love cards ( as we all do) from actual friends and family. Phone calls are great as are e-cards and text messages with cute birthday gifs. All of those greetings make my day.
Maybe in the future, if companies stop sending them, I’ll miss these cards. And I’ll write a blog post about how much I miss them! But it seems very, very unlikely. In fact, I can’t wait for the next one, so I can cut it up into as many minuscule pieces as possible and grin happily as I throw it away.
When I was at a new doctor’s office a few days ago, I mentioned to the nurse that I had a very severe case of COVID-19 at the beginning of the Pandemic in 2020. She smiled at me and said, “That was a long time ago. Covid is over!”
I was, as the Brits say, gobsmacked!
My first thought was that Covid would never be over for me.
It’s not like a cold where you get sick, lay around the house for a few days, and then—voila! You’re all better and memories of the cold fade.
It’s more like losing a limb or having cancer or dementia.
You are reminded of it daily.
Like when you try to do too much in one day and end up exhausted. Or when you try to walk as fast as your friends, and you’re breathless. When the memories of the 30 days you spent in a paralytic coma filter into your mind. When someone reminds you that you came close to death six times. When a memory from the six months you spent in institutions pops up while you’re making toast. And especially when you think that maybe you should have given up and died.
Or when you try to be friends with the woman with whom your significant other had an emotional affair—while you were struggling to learn to walk and swallow again. Or when your family gently reminds you that even a cold can be serious now and that you have to be vigilant.
When you realize that you will never snorkel again. When your partner asks if you could get onto a catamaran for a sunset cruise and you know that you couldn’t. When you make plans to fly somewhere and have to arrange for wheelchair service.
When you try to carry a basket of laundry to the washer and have a breathless struggle to get it there. When you get up to walk across the room and must reach for the ever-present walker. Upon seeing pictures from a solo trip from a few years ago—before Covid. When you read about the startling number of cases of Covid even now and the deaths that result from it.
When you see pictures of lungs damaged from Covid. And especially when your doctor tells you that you have irreversible lung damage, too.
Do I fret about these things? No. It’s part of my life now—restrictions that are a direct result of my Covid battle. I’m still on a journey to live the best life I can and appreciate all I can do while honoring my struggle.
But it scares me to think that a medical professional would say that Covid was over. We still need to be careful and be ready for the next version of Covid and the wave of sickness that will inevitably follow it.
Sadly, for me, Covid is not over. It will always be a part of who I am—and who I was before.
My ideal place is without strife and discord. A place where everyone gets along. And everyone loves me and understands me and I never make a mistake and I’m never venal or angry or tired or sick. And I’m beautiful and all the people around me are beautiful and kind and caring and …well kind of bland now that I think about it. Because while we’re all being so damned nice, we’re also being very plastic.
Okay, my ideal place is –wait, wait, I know! It’s the beach.
Oh, yeah. I forgot. The beach is sometimes way too hot—and I can’t sit in the sun, so I have to carry enough stuff to put a pack animal to shame. And then I have to sit in the shade. And I have to slather on the sunscreen. And God forbid, if I fall asleep and get a third-degree burn because I’m really fair-skinned (the Irish heritage, you know.)
And then, of course, there are the days when the beach is windy or cold…It can be less than ideal.
Ideal place…ideal place…I know—you think I’m going to conclude that there is no ideal place.
That’s the easy way out because there must be an ideal place. A Shangri-La where the water is clear and turquoise without hidden pollutants and the sand is like talcum powder with a sprinkling of the most translucent, fragile sea shells—none of which are sharp enough to cut the sole of your foot so you bleed all over your new towel and then your husband yells about how much money you spent on them. (Oops! Sorry!) And the jellyfish live somewhere else and there are no sharks and there are no scary surfer dudes or weird-looking guys wearing two–sizes–too–small Speedos with those incredibly hairy backs they all seem to have…
No, really there is an ideal place. Wasn’t that a song from West Side Story? No? What’s that? Oh yeah, it was called “There’s a Place for Us”—didn’t that song just make you cry when Tony and Maria sang it to each other?
What? You want me to focus? H-m-m…Could I ask why? Just do it? Isn’t that some kind of a slogan? Yeah, yeah, I know– the topic.
What’s that? Mountains. You’re right, they are awe inspiring. Except when I can’t breathe because you know, of course, I have asthma, and when I drove through the Rocky Mountains with my daughter I was in danger of developing…never mind.
Then there’s Disney World, you know, the happiest place on earth? I enjoy it—especially the part where a hamburger and coke and park admission cost enough to send your firstborn to college.
How about a cruise ship? That’s ideal in a way, a microcosm of the macrocosm where people who are diverse (and total strangers) dress up and sit together at dinner and carry on civilized conversations. Except for the time the three other people at the table were good friends who talked only to each other in voices that were just above a whisper. And I don’t know if it meant anything, but every time I smiled that one woman just looked at me and said something to her friend behind her hand. And then they both would snicker or just, you know, smile one of those snotty- middle–school- girl smiles.
And did I mention that the seas were rough and my husband got sick, so we were confined to the 225 square foot cabin with guards posted outside for 4 out of the 5 days? And being in that room with someone who was in the bathroom all the time …oh, sorry. Too much information. Got it.
So enough already. I will not admit there is no ideal place! I will not, I will not! I will not!
No, whatever makes you think I’m throwing a temper tantrum? I was just stomping my foot to wake it up—it seems to have gone numb.
What? My ideal place?
Okay, seriously now. I have it!
I think for me, my ideal place would be to live in one of my stories (really!).
I just realized it! I am like a god when I write a story. I decide who gets in, what they look like, how they act, if and when they fall in love…if they live or die.
So, see here’s my plan. I write a story with me in it. I am married to the most handsome man who is a tireless lover and looks like a young Robert Redford and we live by the beach (the one without all the sharks and sharp sea shells) in a house that overlooks the ocean with a full staff of servants and I am famous and glamorous and (did I say) ridiculously beautiful (think Angeline Jolie without all those bothersome kids). And we just have one wonderful adventure after another. And then they invent a pill that allows you to live to be 100 but look 30 and whenever any other woman even looks at David (my husband) her eyes fall out and I get to decide if she lives or dies or she suddenly becomes as ugly as a troll…
And that’s my ideal place.
Look, I don’t mean to be rude or anything, But don’t call or stop by, okay? And cancel the lunch date next week.
While living to be 100 isn’t one of my stated goals, I think it would be interesting to consider the possibility. After all, I came through the Covid pandemic relatively intact even though all of the odds were against my survival. So, perhaps I am destined for a very long life. The other day when I was talking to my brother Brian, he said jokingly, “You’re never going to die. You survived multiple times when death was imminent…so…”
With that in mind, I put my imagination to work and thought about what my life would be like if I did live to be 100—and I wasn’t such a hard-nosed realist.
I would want to be interviewed on TV. And I hope I’d have the wherewithal to attribute my longevity to eating chocolate on a daily basis—and that I’d mention that it wasn’t cheap chocolate—but the good stuff, like Dove or Godiva or Belgium chocolate.
It would be great if I looked younger than 100—say more like 98 or even ( dare I hope it) 95!
I want to be spry– similar to how I am now. About a year ago, one of my Health Care nurses told me that I was quite spry! That certainly didn’t mesh with my mental image of myself. Spry seemed to describe someone old—not me! But considering everything ( like the omnipresent walker) I guess it was a compliment of sorts.
I’m lucky to be the second oldest of 8 children. My youngest brother is almost 14 years younger than me—so he will be only in his late 80s. And of course, my daughter would be only in her early 70s—still young enough to cater to my every demand. Another great thing about living to be super elderly is that the children in my family would be really young—in their 40s. I could call them up and guilt them into visiting me. So there’s another bonus– I’d still have family around, unlike many super elderly people.
Additionally, I could reminisce about all the changes I’ve seen.
“Why I remember when there were no computers,” I could say. “I remember when phones didn’t fit in the palm of your hand and were wired to the wall. And the phones had rotary dials. I bet you can’t even imagine that! I remember when Moms stayed home and raised the kids…” And the icing on the cake—“I remember when kids were respectful and studied hard like I had to…” The thought of being able to say those things with impunity brings me a certain kind of joy.
Living to be 100 would have other advantages, too. If I did something obnoxious, it would be chalked up to my age. If I was still able to write a coherent sentence, others would marvel at my mental acuity. I could also play the elderly card and get people to take care of me—that has definite possibilities. No more guilt trips when I don’t do anything productive for a whole day. No more sense of obligation to get dressed up if someone invites me to dinner—or feeling that I must bring a dish to a potluck supper. My daughter would have to make sure my bills were paid and do all of my shopping. And she’d have to unload the grocery bags without expecting me to help. Wouldn’t it be fun to “hold court” and have relatives and maybe friends of relatives come and pay me homage? I think I would enjoy that. Then I could regale them with my memories ( see above).
One thing I hope doesn’t happen to me is to have a 100th birthday party with me looking confused while wearing a little kid’s party hat on my wispy white hair as people in nurses’ and aides’ uniforms sing “Happy Birthday”. If I get to celebrate my 100th birthday I hope it’s with a champagne brunch!
What I don’t want is to live to be 100 and wish I hadn’t. If I am chosen to survive to be super elderly, I want to be me—to be able to do as much as possible and to continue growing intellectually and spiritually. In other words—a miracle.
We were not a “dog family”—we never had a pet dog-except for a short-lived Irish Setter when I was a toddler. I don’t remember that dog’s name. My only memory of him was that he was rambunctious and would knock me down and rip off the sashes on my dresses. I literally don’t remember any of my extended family members having a dog, either. In fact, I was wary of dogs, even though I was never bitten or really threatened by one.
So, I grew up dog-less home and environment.
When I married my husband we lived with my father-in-law. There was a dog in the house. Originally “Rusty” was Dan’s late mother’s pet. My father-in-law doted on the Pomeranian dog that ruled the roost. Rusty was spoiled as most dogs are, I think. And he had a nasty streak—he would nip at people who would do kind things like offer him food or bring him in during a rain storm.
When my daughter was born, Rusty was jealous of her. One day, when she was about nine months old, the dog nipped her tiny hand when she reached out to him. I was enraged and went after the dog, threatening to kill him. He escaped. But I never trusted him again, nor did I like him.
My husband constantly campaigned to get a dog when we moved to our own home. I’m allergic to dogs, so that was always my excuse to not have a pet dog. And I was, quite honestly, afraid of dogs. I know now that when they sense your fear, they sometimes react by growling. But back then, I was just afraid.
My father-in-law had a few dogs over the years—and most of them were well behaved and I was fine with them. Eventually, I learned to not fear dogs by being around them.
Fast forward quite a few years. Dan and I retired to an “active adult” community in Florida. Then my husband was diagnosed with Esophageal Cancer. He waged a brave battle against it, and miraculously, he recovered, even though there is a high mortality rate with this cancer. We went to H. Lee Moffitt Cancer Center in Tampa for treatment where there were therapy dogs every Tuesday. When Dan held those dogs, he was transported. His joy was palpable and it was clear to me that a dog would help him to recover and overcome his depression. Fortunately, friends of ours acquired two dogs that were a Yorkie-Poodle mix. They were cute and even more importantly, my allergies seemed to be fine after we spent time with the dogs. ( Poodles are hypo-allergenic.) Serendipitously, the breeder had another female dog available.
That dog became our sweet little puppy, Sparkle. She was instrumental in Dan’s recovery from his cancer. They would go our several times a day for very long walks—sometimes an hour or more. Dan always said that she decided where they would walk! He became more engaged with life as a result of having Sparkle in his life.
Three weeks ago, I bid a heart-breaking goodbye to Sparkle. She lived to be almost 17 years old—which made her a centenarian in “dog years.” She outlived my husband by almost 11 years. Over the last few months, her health started to deteriorate. Sparkle had a sebaceous cyst on her side which was benign—until it became infected and began to bleed. Nothing I did—including giving her antibiotics and changing the dressing stopped the bleeding. Worse, her right back paw had a tumor and an open wound. When I tried to change the dressing, she bit me—something she had never done before. Then more tumors popped up all over her body, and her right front leg swelled up to three times its normal size. She wasn’t able to walk easily, and slept almost all the time.
I knew it was time. I made an appointment (the fourth one in a month) to see the Vet. I kept hoping that there was a magic cure—but that was not to be. Together with my friend Susan, Sparkle’s other “Mommy,” I held her, petted her, and kissed her in between my sobs so she would know that she was loved. She gave me a little “puppy kiss” on my arm. Then she gently went to sleep forever.
There are so many lovely little stories I’d like to share about Sparkle. I think the most incredible thing to me is how she enriched my life. I never realized the sheer fun and joy a dog can bring into a household. I miss her presence in the house and her little quirks.
I remember BD ( Before Dog) I would wonder why people got so upset over losing a dog. After all, it’s just an animal. It’s not like a child dying. No, it isn’t. But it has its own level of pain. It shocks me sometimes to realize how much I am grieving my sweet, loving Sparkle. I know I could get another dog—but there are very practical reasons why I won’t.
But I am grateful and feel blessed that I was a “Dog Mommy” to Sparkle.
As I was walking my beloved dog, Sparkle, tonight along our favorite route, I remembered that I had written a blog post about this particular walk a while ago. Once again, being immersed in the natural beauty spoke to me and I thought this blog post merited another look.
A Special Place
Every day I take my faithful canine companion, Sparkle, for a walk along a route that we both enjoy. Sparkle likes it because it is a treasure –trove of (apparently) fascinating smells.
I enjoy it because it is beautiful and serene.
The route is a very popular path along Solivita Blvd which follows the course of linear stream. There is plenty of shade in the summer and shelter from the chilly breezes in the winter. I love this leisurely walk with Sparkle. It sets a happy tone for the day.
When I’ve felt anxious or troubled, I’ve sought its peace and calm. To me, it’s the perfect place to meditate. Even though we take this same route every day at least once, and sometimes twice a day, I never tire of it. The ripples on the surface of the water remind me that life has an ebb and flow to it. The trees, flowers, and birds that are attracted to this stream provide an ever-changing scene.
It is a piece of paradise practically in my backyard.
My sister Susan and I were in demand as babysitters when we were young teens. Having many younger siblings made us popular choices to care for other people’s children. Of course, we were well paid—a whole 50 cents per hour for taking care of as many as 4 young children at a time. (Sort of similar to what I earned as a teacher!)
One summer, I came up with a brilliant idea which I proposed to my sister. Why don’t we run a “Summer Day Camp” for the kids in the neighborhood, I asked. We could take the kids to a local park for 3 hours every weekday morning for the bargain basement price of $5 per week for each child. To make it more attractive, we even had a “family rate” of $10 for 2 or more children. We could provide activities, storytime, and snacks that our parents generously purchased.
I remember when we first went to pitch the idea to one of our neighbors who was also a babysitting client. Mrs. Fallon sat on her porch steps with her mouth agape. We thought she wasn’t interested and sheepishly backed away while saying something to the effect of “Never mind.” Calling us back, she immediately enrolled her 3 preschool-aged kids. While she ran into her house to get the money to pay us, we hugged each other excitedly. Wow! Our first client! Amazing. Soon we realized that our idea was the answer to a young mother’s dream—someone to give her a few hours of free time every morning–cheaply.
The summer camp went well and I remember the kids being pretty easy to handle. Our mornings sped by and our loot started to add up. Like many kids who didn’t have much money, we counted the bills excitedly. We wanted to do something really special with our riches, so decided to ride the bus downtown and splurge on a movie at one of the “fancy” theaters. The excitement of having all that money to spend on an afternoon out was heady–so we bought everything our hearts desired—popcorn, candy, and Cokes.
Even though the price we charged was modest, we accumulated more money than we ever thought we would—or could earn babysitting in a week. So we went on a lot of movie dates that first summer and enjoyed our hard earned wealth!
We ran the day camp for a few years and then decided to stop doing it. It was a sad day on Parkview Avenue when the Moms realized that the Joyce Sisters Summer Day Camp was no more.
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 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.
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.
