A Gust of Wind

marilyn-monroe-555603__180

 

There’s an iconic photo of Marilyn Monroe. Her skirt is being blown up by gust of wind as she tries to hold it down.  She’s all blonde bombshell in the picture, high heels and make up, laughing as she tries to keep her skirt in place. It’s a publicity photo from the movie “The Seven Year Itch.” Marilyn looks carefree, and of course, very sexy.

I wonder how she really felt that day.

Did she have her period and was she having cramps?

Was she hungry because her agent or movie studio mogul had her on a diet?

Was she lonely?

Did she feel exploited?

Was she drunk or high on drugs—prescription or otherwise?

Marilyn Monroe was, and still is, an American icon . She was the sexy, unattainable girl,  an ideal beauty, and the object of lust, envy, and disdain.

Reportedly, she was difficult to work with: chronically late, couldn’t (or didn’t) learn her lines, and perceived as not being very intelligent by some.

She was exploited by almost everyone she came in contact with.

She died alone at a young age.

Her’s was, in many ways, a sad life—rather like a coat of paint on a dilapidated house.

It seems to me that happiness for Marilyn Monroe blew away on a gust of wind—and every time she thought she could reach it, a bigger gust of wind came along, and it soared higher.

 

Picture Credit Pixababy

This is a photo of a wax statue of Marilyn Monroe

 

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I Feel Blessed

 

 

I feel blessed to be surrounded by so many wonderful people.

Trite? Maybe.Friendship chinese-676654__180 Pixababy

But consider this: my life took a drastic left turn on August 25, 2012 at 10 p.m.

My husband died.

I thought I was ready—six months of watching him die in bits and pieces should have prepared me. But it didn’t.

I went through the motions, appearing to be in control for several weeks.

Then I laid down on the couch and stayed there for months.

What dragged me out of my monumental funk?

Family and friends.

First it was my sister and sister-in-law who made me accomplish the important tasks necessary when someone dies.

I joined two key groups—a Widows Club and the Singles Club. These were the people who got it; the people who understood my pain and let me talk. I continued to participate in my Writing Group: a gathering of intelligent, vital, and interesting women who shared my passion for writing. Through that group I had opportunities to express my creative self.

The next three years brought challenges I couldn’t imagine: three surgeries, two bouts with MRSA, and then cancer, the deaths of my beloved brother and sister, in addition to several friends and other relatives.

My life raft through all this turmoil was family (of course) and the friends who stepped in and became a safety net.

Yes, I feel blessed.

 

 

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The Widow’s Club

 

It’s not a club I clamored to join. In fact, none of the members wanted to join it.

We were recruited in the harshest of all possible ways.

The initiation was almost as difficult as any street gang’s—we had to experience the death of the person most of us would call “our best friend, lover and life partner”—our husbands.

My inaugural date is coming on its third anniversary this August—the day Dan died.

I now know  that joining this club has helped me to make sense of all that happened in the eight months preceding my husband’s death. I’ve had many opportunities to share stories and memories, and I’ve received empathy and sympathy, but never pity, from the other women.  Knowing these women who have experienced what I did, and have continued to thrive, encourages me.

I see the common threads that are woven through all of our experiences: the feelings of loss, of being adrift, the anger, the sadness, and the confusion that follows the death of a spouse or partner.

Through the sharing, I’ve felt a lot less alone than I did before.

And on a more upbeat note, I’ve had some fun with my widow friends. We socialize, enjoy one another’s company, and have bonded individually and as a group. I’ve even learned to laugh again.

Losing my husband was a trauma. But I am grateful that the Widow’s Club was here, so when I went into my

woman-511849__180 Pixabay free fall, there was a safety net.

 

 

Picture courtesy of Pixabay

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Uggs I thought that my readers might enjoy a short story today.

 

Boots

Emma loved her boots. It had taken her a whole year of babysitting the brats down the street to save enough to buy them. Before she went to sleep each night, she would count and tally the total of the bundle of bills that had accumulated in an old shoe box under her bed. Then she would subtract that total from the cost of the coveted boots.

Chastity, her best friend, went with her every time she stopped at the store to try them on. Emma would slip her feet into the boots, feeling the stiff leather as it touched her calves. The fur on top sometimes tickled her legs, but she didn’t mind.

The sales clerk had gotten used to seeing Emma and Chastity at the store. Emma even knew her name, Marcia Anderson. Emma would seek Marcia out and look hopefully at the woman.  Marcia would peer over the glasses that were perched on the end of her nose.

“Sure,” she’d sigh, “go ahead and try them on—again.” Then she’d shake her head and lean toward the other clerk and whisper something.  They both could barely contain their amused smiles. Neither woman would admit it, but they enjoyed watching Emma prance around the store in the camel colored boots.

Now the boots were hers. She carried the clumsy square box into her bedroom and set in on her unmade bed.

Emma reverently removed the boots from the box, and caressed them as if they were kittens. The special silk blend socks she purchased to wear with them made it easier to get them on.

She turned each foot this way and that, marveling at how the boots looked. Then she walked in front of her full length mirror, watching her feet. She squealed with delight.

“I can’t wait until everyone sees them,” she exclaimed.

Then Emma grabbed her beach bag and towel from the closet floor and rushed downstairs.

Her mother’s expression said it all. She raised the spatula she was wielding like an extension of her arm.

“For Pete’s sake, Emma. Why are you wearing those boots today? Aren’t you going to the beach? I told you they were impractical for Florida!”

Emma sighed and rolled her eyes. “You just don’t get it, Mom.”

The door slammed.

And  Emma clomped out into the bright sunshine and 80 degree weather.

 

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An Unwelcome Visitor

 

 

The most unwelcome of all visitors called on me recently.

This visitor is never welcomed and usually not greeted with any enthusiasm.

If fact, when you, your friends, and family find that it has called upon you, they, like you, are worried concerned and fearful.

The visitor was cancer. The “Big C.”

It intruded into my life sometime in late January with the “incidental” discovery of a (thankfully) small tumor in my right kidney. Unbeknownst to me, it had been there for two years—but recently had started to grow.

I felt overwhelmed at first with the myriad decisions I had to make. Where to seek treatment? Should I go back to where my family is (now that I am a widow) in Buffalo? Stay here in Florida and lean heavily on my circle of friends? Could I still go on my much anticipated trip to Hawai’i? Would I survive? What would be the financial and emotional cost to me, my daughter, family and friends?

I finally came up with a plan—and after much consultation, thought, and prayer, I decided to stay in Florida and seek treatment at the Moffitt Cancer Center in nearby Tampa.

Happily, my surgeon Okayed my Hawai’i trip and I blissfully spent some magical time there.

My friends have rallied around me, doing all of the things I need. My family supported me in my decisions—and best of all, the surgery was a great success—so far.

I still have weeks of recovery to look forward to, but I’m trying to do more and more every day.

Writing this blog post is a huge breakthrough for me. Up till now, I’ve kept the “news” of my cancer limited to family and friends. I did make a onetime status update on Facebook as a courtesy to those who correspond with me on that venue.

Sometimes I wonder why I was  so reluctant to go public (as it were) with my cancer diagnosis.

I wonder if by not announcing it, I’ve made it less real to myself. Or if I was  trying to fool myself.

No matter what, I’m looking forward to being a cancer “thriver”—which is what my many friends who have looked this unwanted intruder right in the eye, and stared it down–call it.

 

 

 

 

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Hawai’i

Surf on the Black Sand Beach in Hawai'i

I finally got to Hawai’i. Three tries, three cancellations, and finally—I made it!

Hawai’i was all I hoped and dreamed it would be.

The weather was nearly perfect:  warm and sunny with a lovely breeze that kept the bugs and humidity away—and wrecked havoc on my hair.

The beaches were stunning with crashing waves and rocky shores built from lava. Everywhere I went I heard bird song.

Maui, especially, was a feast for the senses. Dramatic valleys, cliffs, lush vegetation, waterfalls and flowers were everywhere.

One of the most interesting aspects of being in Hawaii for me at least, is how almost everyone is a blend of ethnicities. Our tour guides, with one exception – a New Jersey transplant–were mocha skinned people who recited a League of Nations list of their individual heritages. As a casual visitor, I had no reliable way to gauge race relations. But it seemed as if many different people were blended into “Hawaiians.” There is a movement in the Islands to preserve the culture of Hawai’i. As a result, many of the very few pure Hawaiians left have retreated to a private Island where they live according to ancient traditions.

For those of us who come as visitors, this desire to preserve the culture is evidenced in the authentic Luaus that are available on every Island. It was also evident in the pride that our tour guides took in talking about the wonders of their beautiful home state.

It’s amusing to me to realize that the hula—a truly lovely, meaningful dance form—was forbidden by the Calvinist missionaries from New England who came to Hawai’i in the 1800’s. The hula was described by none other than Mark Twain in his book about the “Sandwich Islands” as a lascivious dance.

The highlight of my visit to Hawai’i (which I have pledged will not be my last visit) was a tour of the Road to Hana with Jasmine, a Hawaiian of Portuguese and Hawaiian descent. She shared the history of Hawaii, the folklore, and many of the customs as we road along the sinuous road to Hana. The Hawaiian chants and music she played enhanced the tour. We saw some fantastic scenery—scenes that are impressed on my mind forever.

I felt like Hawai’i got into my soul when I was there. And I welcomed it.

 

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April Tenth

Joanne Poth Joyce

Joanne Poth Joyce

There are certain dates that are more meaningful than others. One of those dates is April 10,1983. That was the date my Mom passed away after almost two years of coping with lung cancer.

I remember that day with crystal clarity.

It was a Sunday—a week after Easter. The weather was perfect: warm and sunny. I had attended noon Mass and then rushed to my parents’ home to see my Mom.  It was around 1 o’clock in the afternoon. When I got there, it was obvious that Mom was dying. I helped my Dad change her nightgown and then kept vigil with him as she left this world.

The priest came and gave her the Last Rites.  At one point, shortly after she died, I was aware of her soul—her anima—leaving the room.

My brother Michael was there with his wife and boys and I remember my sister Susan being there, too.

Eventually, the rest of my brothers and sisters (except for my youngest sister who was in Honduras doing research for her doctorate) assembled at the house.

As the daylight waned, we sat on our parents’ bed and talked about our Mom and our loss.  It was both sacred and comforting to be able to be together in that way.

Now, all these years later, all that’s left is memories. I wish I could hear Mom’s voice one more time, or sit and talk with her again.

So much has happened since then. Our Dad died only a year and half later, babies were born, my sister and another brother got married, one of my mother’s children died too soon, my husband died, the grandchildren grew up and great-grandchildren were born. The family faced many crises and survived.

While time has tempered the grief, I still mourn for my Mom. She was only 60 years old when she died. We never got to see either of our parents grow to be old. They are preserved at a certain age and time in our memories.

Yet, I still yearn to spend one more minute, hour or day with my mother.

 

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Boots

winter-boots-258148_640

Emma loved her boots. It had taken her a whole year of babysitting the brats down the street to save enough to buy them. Before she went to sleep each night, she would count and tally the total of the bundle of bills that had accumulated in an old shoebox under her bed. Then she would subtract that total from the cost of the coveted boots.

Chastity, her best friend, went with her every time she stopped at the store to try them on. Emma would slip her feet into the boots, feeling the stiff leather as it touched her calves. The fur on top sometimes tickled her legs, but she didn’t mind.

The sales clerk had gotten used to seeing Emma and Chastity at the store. Emma even knew her name, Marcia Anderson. Emma would seek Marcia out and look hopefully at the woman.  Marcia would peer over the glasses that were perched on the end of her nose.

“Sure,” she’d sigh, “go ahead and try them on—again.” Then she’d shake her head and lean toward the other clerk and whisper something.  They both could barely contain their amused smiles. Neither woman would admit it, but they enjoyed watching Emma prance around the store in the camel colored boots.

Now the boots were hers. She carried the clumsy square box into her bedroom and set in on her unmade bed.

Emma reverently removed the boots from the box, and caressed them as if they were kittens. The special silk blend socks she purchased to wear with them made it easier to get them on.

She turned each foot this way and that, marveling at how the boots looked. Then she walked in front of her full length mirror, watching her feet. She squealed with delight.

“I can’t wait until everyone sees them,” she exclaimed.

Then Emma grabbed her beach bag and towel from the closet floor and rushed downstairs.

Her mother’s expression said it all. She raised the spatula she was wielding like an extension of her arm.

“For Pete’s sake, Emma. Why are you wearing those boots today? Aren’t you going to the beach? I told you they were impractical for Florida!”

Emma sighed and rolled her eyes. “You just don’t get it, Mom.”

The door slammed and she clomped out into the bright sunshine and 80 degree weather.

 

Picture Credit–Pixabay.com

 

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Is Nothing Sacred?

 

 

In the last two years, my life has been turned upside down by the death of my husband and then my brother.

These deaths affected everyone in my family—including my brothers and sisters.

Shortly after my brother passed away, one of my other brothers was “zinged” (his word) by a Face Book “friend” over the death of our brother.

Which leads to the question, is nothing sacred?

My first reaction to my brother’s posts about forgiveness and kindness were to want to beat this woman up—and I am a pacifist. I was utterly astounded that anyone could be that insensitive. Making a joke about our beloved brother’s death was beyond comprehension.

But, is that what’s happening? Is nothing sacred?

I wonder. Religion is fair game and tradition is fair game. Does this lead to less civility?

I’m not sure. I do know this.

Some things are sacred.

Death. The loss of a loved one is a heart-wrenching experience. Memories are all that’s left. And the ones left behind are alone, lonely, and sometimes frightened. They need kindness, understanding and solace, not a lame joke about death.

Religion. A person’s religious beliefs should be sacred, no matter your own feelings about religion. I casually mentioned that I pray every day when I was out with friends a while ago. While they were respectful, they were incredulous. The idea of a mature adult praying struck them as somewhat odd.

Confidences. The secrets people share shouldn’t be fodder for gossip. I once knew someone who would worm her way into someone’s life, become that person’s confidant. and then regale everyone with the secrets her victim had shared. I admit that this is an extreme example, but gossiping is just as devastating—just on a smaller scale.

Being kind and caring in an increasing cynical and angry society isn’t easy. Personally, I’d rather be the exception than find myself mired in the muck of cruelty and insensitivity.

 

 

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It’s Okay to Cry

 

 

Tears. Crying. Sobbing.

Some people can’t stand the sight of tears. They feel uncomfortable when someone in their midst starts to cry. They furnish the tearful one with tissues. They tell you that you don’t need to cry. And some even demand that you stop.  Then they’ll offer platitudes to “comfort” you.

“He’s in a better place.”

“She doesn’t want you to be sad.”

“Crying won’t change things.”

Sometimes, guilt is used.

“Everyone’s looking at you.”

“Stop acting like a baby.”

“Real men don’t cry.”

“C’mon, it’s been months.”

To me, tears are cathartic. I’ve had a lot to cry about the past several years: the death of my husband and brother and several friends.

I’ve hidden my tears, and shown a seemingly competent, albeit subdued front.

Time does, indeed, mute the pain. Notice I said mute, not erase. Nothing erases the pain. It’s there and it will be there for the rest of my life, I am sure. As I start to move on, and to participate more fully in my life, behind the smiles and the laughter is a deep well of loss and grief.

So, if tears should flow, I will let them. I will let them cleanse me and help me to cope. And then, once again, I will be ready to face a new day—alone.

 

 

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