I was a charter member of the Lonely Hearts Cub throughout my high school years. I wasn’t one of the cool kids who dated and fell in love—or even seemed to garner any interest from the opposite sex.
I went to an
all-girls Catholic High School which was coeducational with a Catholic Boys
School. To translate—that meant that both schools were housed n a monstrosity
of a red brick building that had been a juvenile delinquents’ institution for
many years.
After high school, I was recruited by our parish priest to be the Prefect of the Sodality, which was a group devoted to the Blessed Mother. Our purpose was to pray for others and to do good works. Hmmm…
Anyway, there was a young man named Jim who joined the group. And as luck would have it, he fell in love with me. He saw me as the perfect “girl” and thought that I was beautiful. How do I know this? He said so. I had a car by then and was in my early 20’s—still not dating much, but I was busy praying and doing good works.
One of the good works I did was to visit shut-ins—people who were homebound due to age, infirmary or disability, Most of these shut-ins were women who probably were the age I am now—early 70’s. Interestingly, when I was infirm from my life-altering Covid experience, I didn’t consider myself to be a shut-in. Oh, how times have changed. Anyway, Jim and I worked as a team and went to visit a lovely woman who was a shut-in.
I remember the visit well. She proceeded to tell Jim how attractive I was ( at least to her), saying “You have everything, beautiful skin, curly hair, and lovely eyes.” Jim agreed whole heartedly and also added that he saw me as the ideal Catholic young woman. ( I’d like to say that I tried to correct them as they heaped lavish praise on me—but I didn’t!)
Fast forward a month or so later. Jim asked me to go to dinner with him, so I did. It was obvious that to him, it was a date. To me it was dinner out with a friend. After we ate at one of the best restaurants in Buffalo, Jim left a 50 cent tip in the form of a Kennedy half-dollar—which was chintzy even then. Try as I might to distract him and leave a more generous tip, I was unsuccessful. I was embarrassed as we exited the restaurant wondering what the server thought of us. To make matters worse, he talked about the great tip he’d left as we drove home. I remember him telling me that he’d saved the Kennedy half-dollar just for this occasion.
Anyway, it
was our first and last date. I’m not sure if I discouraged him or just was “too
busy” the next time…but I’m pretty sure I broke his heart.
I have little memory of anything after being admitted to the hospital on March 27 with Covid-19 pneumonia in both lungs, until I woke up from a coma on May 6, 2020.
My time in the ICU is a mash-up of real events and dreams. There were moments of fear, sadness, and confusion all mixed in with life-saving medical procedures. And, when I started the long, arduous journey back, I even found humor. I remember lying in a hospital bed at the second hospital (of a total of four), thinking I have to survive…I have stories to tell.
In my
family, stories are the myths and legends that define you. I knew I wanted to
share mine.
I was intubated three different times. Intubation seemed like a dream-like sequence where I was being held underwater in a large plastic zip-top bag. In the bag with me were two impressive pinkish stones that I think represented my lungs. As my doctor and a nurse removed the respirator, I thought the water was being emptied from the bag and the rocks were discarded. And then I gasped for breath. The nurse said peevishly, “ You could have told me she had Covid.” That’s my first memory of hearing that word.
Then I
thought the nurse insisted that she needed a souvenir of my intubation—a small
ruby she extracted from my tooth while the doctor took another tooth as a
memento. I don’t have to tell you that I never had any gems in my mouth and all
of my teeth are where they were before Covid!
The medical staff who brought me through this had to “gown-up” ( in hospital parlance) in outfits that looked like exotic space suits bearing a strong resemblance to C3PO from Star Wars. The gowns covered the nurses from head to toe—and to be honest, I could be standing next to them on the street and not recognize the people who literally saved my life. But can you imagine thinking you are being cared for by a group of aliens!
During my treatment for Covid, I thought that I and other patients were on a rickety tug boat on the ocean. One time I saw a case of ice-cold diet cola on the boat. I wanted to drink it—but the nurse told me that it would kill me if I had any. After arguing with her, telling her that it was good for people who had low blood pressure, I was angered by her refusal to let me have it. I resolved that the first thing I would drink when I got out of the hospital was a frosty bottle of cola. I became quite obsessed with it, daydreaming about cola dripping water from the ice it was in. Strangely, I actually don’t like cola—and rarely drink it.
I’ve never
actually seen any plays that could be called absurdist. But I think I directed
a real-life “absurd” event.
One morning, I hatched a plan to get various people to help me get released from the hospital. I reasoned that I was a captive, being held against my will, which was against my rights. So, I got on the phone and started calling people, including my sister-in-law in Buffalo, my brother, my sister, my friend, and my Significant Other. And possibly others. I made a case for them to intervene on my behalf—at one point making a conference call between a major airline, my sister-in-law and me. During that call, I demanded that Connie come to Florida to get me “out of here” telling her that I’d feel much better at home. I have a vague memory of Connie trying to be reasonable while the airline representative was trying to book her airfare, as I orchestrated the whole thing!
I called my brother Brian who is a minister and asked him in a very calm, cool way if he could call a colleague here in Florida who would come to the hospital and get me sprung from the claws of the very people who were helping me. Again, he reasoned with me, telling me that he didn’t think he could actually do that.
Finally, my
sister called and we had a conversation that went something like this.
“So, Kathy,
you’ve been very active on the phone today, calling people to get you released from
the hospital.”
“ Well, I
think I’m a lot better.”
“What do
your doctors think?”
“ I don’t know.
I haven’t told them yet. They’re forcing me to stay here and that’s against my
rights.”
“ Well,
maybe you should use that energy to recover, so when you get back, you will be
ready to be home…”
Finally, I played my ace card—my Significant Other. He did an almost heroic thing by driving to the hospital where I was and pleading with the security guards to allow him to rescue his damsel in distress. He finally had to leave when the guards threatened to call the police.
That’s when
my family knew he was “ a keeper,“ a real Mensch who truly loves me.
Interestingly,
I didn’t call my daughter because she lives on the West Coast and I knew it
would be too early.
Oh, and did
I mention that I could barely talk? My voice has been badly affected by my three
intubations and is raspy and hard to hear.
Later, when my family related this story to me, I had memories of doing it—but I had forgotten how determined I was to get my way.
I often
recall that morning and chuckle. Here I was, barely hanging on, but pushing
other people to do my will. I guess that’s part of why I survived.
My hallucinations included a dream-like sequence in which my Significant Other and I were at a sumptuous party hosted at a home that was partly a spaceship. It was owned by a bartender we liked from our local pub—a young kid who certainly wasn’t the very wealthy doctor-in -disguise as I thought. While we were at the party, I kept waiting to be driven home in the spaceship-like house. I remember my intense disappointment when that didn’t happen. But after being reassured that we’d be invited back, I was happy to know that I’d be driven home in the spaceship.
Around this time, I thought that Bart, a friend of ours, fooled everyone into thinking he was a doctor. I even imagined that he performed an operation on me inserting Styrofoam blocks into my chest and arms and legs. After that, he went and manipulated the blocks to inflict pain on me—rather like a demented Wizard of Oz. The pain in my legs was unrelenting. I calmed myself remembering that my vascular doctor had reassured me earlier in the year that my leg pain was from surface veins. “ Ha!” I thought, “ You can’t kill me, it’s just surface pain.”
Then I felt squeezing in my chest that took my breath away while Bart, the Evil Wizard, enjoyed inflicting it. My bravado lagged—and I had to acknowledge that he almost won that time. The pain ended soon after that. But I was still mad at Bart. Later, my Significant Other told me that Bart, in particular, frequently asked how I was and said he was praying for me, I was furious. How dare he, I thought, after what he did when I was in the ICU! It took me a while to realize that this whole incident was not real. And an even longer time to get over being angry at Bart.
At about that time, I became aware that I had been through a terrible illness. Sheila, my chief nurse, came in to check on me.
“What happened
to me?” I asked.
She took my
hand and told me that I had bilateral pneumonia caused by the Corona Virus. She
assured me that I would recover.
Five months
later, after being in four different hospitals and a Rehab Center I finally went
home.
My memories are a mash-up of reality and fantasy, which, quite h onestly, I find humorous in their absurdity.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!
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.
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.
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.”
