Sanctuary at Sleepy Hollow. My place at the Jersey Shore.

Sanctuary at Sleepy Hollow. My place at the Shore.

It’s a seasonal campground in Scullville New Jersey, close to Ocean City and Somers Point. Scullville is a tiny hamlet that is actually in Egg Harbor Township, a town with no actual harbor. The lore is the ‘Egg’ name came from early Dutch settlers calling the water ways the Harbor of Eggs, noting the numerous sea gull nests full of eggs. 

There are many waterways that surround the mostly wooded areas but they are actually creeks and large ponds.  The creek that borders this wooded parkland is called Lakes Creek and it eventually empties into the Great Egg Harbor River heading to the Ocean. This is a place that is rich in history and family landowners that go back to pre-revolutionary times. 

But that is not the magic for us of the Sanctuary at Sleepy Hollow Campground. 

Over 15 yrs ago we planned to purchase a year-round mobile home in Capy May Court House in an over 55 complex.

Those plans fell through. With our change of plan, we then attended an RV show, made a purchase but had no place to put our purchase.  We did some extensive research. Kind of like buying a house except there was no multiple listing book to refer to or a Homes.com website. We tried to stay in the Cape May Court house area but the campgrounds were restrictive on dates and some were even gated. Imagine that, a gated community for camping.

The days of ease with camping seemed to get a little high falutin for our experience and tastes. 

Hubby kept researching and claimed to have found the place. He actually said “this is the place. I like their back story”. 

Armed with a list of parks to check out from Cape May, Wildwood and finally Somers Point we found Sleepy Hollow Family Campground…emphasis on the Family part. 

 

Sleepy Hollow’s story is one of a continuing legacy of a family business. Our hosts are grooming the 3^rdgeneration to take over this family business they grew up around. As they are building their own young family lives they are embracing and sustaining Sleepy Hollow family campground.

Out Hosts are Randy and Lynn. They met as teens. Randy’s family already had Sleepy Hollow established. Randy and Lynn married and lived their newlywed years here and continue to live on the grounds. Their grown children are learning the ropes of maintaining  a “Campgroundhood”, this tiny wooded neighborhood. 

Enough background for this Sleepy Hollow on to the magic. I have named our site the Sanctuary. It is a place where I can disconnect from everyday stuff. That is not to say we truly disconnect. It is an option, but Camping today, seasonal camping is hardly roughing it in a tent and sleeping bag and cooking breakfast on a table top Coleman gas stove. If you’ve ever had that experience you know that exercise.

My trailer, also known as ‘Sanctuary’ has 2 air conditioners, 2 electric fireplaces, 3 TV’s and free wifi. Before the start of the next season, we get our propane tank filled and our electric bill from the previous season. 

This year we did some renovation work - extended the deck of our screen room and added a hardtop roof, all with the expertise of a fellow Sleepy Hollow neighbor. We call him Bob, as in the Builder. Those are the technical details. Now for the fun parts. 

We have developed a wonderful social circle of like-minded and age similar friends. We should call ourselves the Grey Brigade. I think I will hold on to that moniker. I like it. It fits.

A couple times during the week, if we don’t go to the lake we head to the beach in Ocean City with our beach badges in a baggie. Pop up the sun canopy and lather on sunscreen. We read and doze and later head back to the Sanctuary for a nap.

There are free concerts of various music groups on Friday nights on the point beach in Somers Point called Tony Mart Presents. The closing act last year featured Mitch Ryder of the Detroit Wheels. He’s old, but so are we.

Sleepy Hollow provides with many weekly activities geared towards all ages. There is yoga on the beach on Saturday mornings, sometimes with singing bowls. They host several events with themes throughout the season, Halloween, Christmas in July and finally the grand finale is a Luau complete with a pig roast, hula dancing and fire dancers.

We have a book club, meeting on Friday once a month. It’s a comfy get together meeting other campers. A couple of this year’s books were Remarkably Bright Creatures, Broken Country and Kristin Hannahs’ the Women. It’s mostly women and always great conversation.

Most of my mornings here are spent filling my bird feeders and watching cardinals, wrens and hummingbirds while I have my morning coffee. The hummingbirds seem to be a little aggressive with one feeder, but are mesmerizing and fun to watch.

My neighbor shared with me that while she has her morning coffee, she also enjoys watching the action at the bird feeders. A little more incentive to continue to feed the birds.

Last year I started a new trend for the Grey Brigade, a Camper Crawl/ it’s like a pub crawl, but we visit others’ participating sites, have a few snacks to eat, a few drinks and just plain old social conversation. This year was our largest, 10 campers’ sites participating. We are people who enjoy the company of others and what better way then around a campfire. When it’s all done for the evening, we head back to our own little home away from home in Sleepy Hollow.

My Non-Pink Journey with Breast Cancer Revisited

 

 

I wrote a similar post about my Breast Cancer journey. Most of it is a re-hash about my very personal feelings about breast cancer and the treatment, not awareness.

I’m not sure why October has been designated for so-called “Breast Cancer Awareness”, but my most memorable moments in October are the trees turning to autumn colors, my husband’s birthday, and Halloween, but not Breast Cancer.  Soon enough there is the ensuing rush of things to do and places to go, leading up to and including Thanksgiving and Christmas. 

 

It had been over twenty years years since I finished my first breast cancer treatments.  My breast cancer journey has been relatively easy when compared to what others endure or don’t survive. Some cancer patients call themselves survivors.  I don’t.  I see myself as someone who has thrived regardless of the bump in the road that was Breast Cancer.

 

It was a big friggin’ bump, but a bump that derailed life as I knew it for that time.

 

But I got back on track. I did what had to be done and moved on with my very busy and noisy life.

https://weneedmoresundaydinners.blogspot.com/2015/10/my-non-pink-twelve-year-journey-with.html

If you read the previous post you’ll see I had a really good personal connection with my surgeon and team. I like that he used the first person plural when discussing my condition, it was a bond in a weird way, that we’re in ‘this’ together. It was a like a good marriage.

 

On the occasion of almost twenty years, my appointment was with a practitioner who has navigated with me through this journey. I was her last appointment as she was retiring. She assured me that twenty years was a great time marker for disease recovery.

But the following year before my next mammogram there was another occurrence, a bump in the road. Stuff happens.

 

My original surgeon relocated to another state. I had made up my mind early on that I would opt for a mastectomy. It was not a difficult decision for me and I had family support. It is true when the someone says, “it’s not the cancer, it’s the treatment…”

 

My new surgeon ‘valiantly’ argued that I did not need a mastectomy. She advocated the ‘gold standard’ of treatment today was so much better and advanced than what it was twenty years ago. 

 

We screened for the type of cancer and the size. I held my ground for the mastectomy. Empathizing with her professional expertise, this was a time for me to advocate for myself and my body. I considered my age and other health issues and was firm in my decision. 

 

I believe I said out loud, “I am over this shit. They’ve given me nothing but trouble.”

 

I got a double mastectomy. It was uneventful. I healed relatively fast. As anyone whose been there knows, the drains are the worst. My husband became the best assistant nurse in the daily grind of stripping and measuring those drains. 

 

On any given day I have a few not so monumental decisions to make as I get dressed – but have fun with it. I have a drawer full of prosthetics. My biggest decisions include this: shall I choose big ones, little ones, soft ones, hard ones or none at all. It’s a variety pack of assorted textures and sizes. I have no problem going flat. Flatties will tell you that it is liberating.

 

Along this new journey I’ve found a lot of support for women who opt for no reconstruction. I also have enlisted to volunteer for a group called “Knitted Knockers”, https://www.knittedknockers.org  providing free handmade breast prostheses for women who have had breast cancer and undergone mastectomy or lumpectomy. They are soft, comfortable and beautiful. When placed in a regular bra they take the shape and feel of a real breast.

 

Along this journey the best medicine was something not procured by prescription or a surgical procedure. My husband’s constant presence and support is more healing than anything a doctor could prescribe. We lend strength to each other and get on with life. That’s thriving.

 

 

 

 

Revisiting Somethings I Really Want to Say About Mother’s Day, Again

Like many moms, I’ve experienced some pretty different and interesting Mother’s Day gifts over the years. On this day Moms will be given gifts that might have Mom give pause and think to herself, “hmmm, did I drop you on your head or some something when you were younger?” She might really want to say out loud, “WHAT were you thinking?” She will smile anyway. You’re her kid.

There are also Moms who will get the kind of gift that will bring tears of joy, genuine gratitude and maybe even pride.

If you are lucky enough to have mom still with you this Mother’s Day, I want to say there are cues and clues your Mom might offer when and if you ask what she would like for Mother’s Day.

Some moms are coy. When asked what is wished for on Mother’s Day, they wave you off and say with a breathy sigh, “Oh, honey, you don’t have to get me anything.” This is a lie.

You might not really have to purchase anything gift-wise, but you’d better have at the very least a pretty and elaborately designed die-cut Hallmark card with gooey sentimental verse, in the mail, and delivered no later than the Saturday before Mother’s day. You get extra points if it’s delivered Thursday or Friday giving her more time to show it off and admire it. This also indicates that there was forethought in this particular selection. Moms like it when their kids think about things in advance. It shows good training.

That same question to a different Mom might get you this response, ”Please, you don’t get me anything, just a card if you want.” THIS would be MY response and it is not a fib. I really don’t want the card, but if you feel you must, don’t waste the stamp, because I know you are going to stop by anyway, I will still proudly display it in recognition of your thoughtfulness and good training. You are, after all, my kid.

Pay very close attention if, when asking that same question, you get a response like this, “Just once, I’d like to stay in bed all day, drink my coffee with the Sunday paper and my book, have some Chinese food delivered around 2 o’clock and just decadently hang out in some solitary time.” THIS is what I really want. You asked. I answered. Don’t make a screwed up face because it’s not what YOU want.

This decadent self-indulgent wish can only be achieved if the house is vacated. If you counter the suggestion that this could be achieved in the living room, this is a fantasy on your part even if the house is empty. There are too many ‘to-do’ things in plain sight of moms that are simply not in anyone else’s field of vision.

If you offer to make dinner, make the meal she requests. If it’s meatloaf and baked potatoes, make her meatloaf and baked potatoes. A counter suggestion for something you would find more tasty undermines your own offer in the first place. 

Another thing I want to say is, “Don’t expect your partner to buy your own Mom a Mother’s day card.” If you’re already buying a card for your wife, include your own Mom’s while you’re at it, unless of course your wife forbids you from making the selection. That also indicates good training.

Mother’s Day shouldn’t be a complex ordeal. It is simply one day that officially and maybe a little superficially honors Mom. It is the occasion to honor the gift of our own mother. It is the opportunity to shower her with a little more love, care and warmth that we might not take the time to do throughout the rest of the year. No material gift can match our love for Mom, but it does attach meaning and significance to the occasion in our own small way.

Here is one final sentiment that I really want to say about Mother’s Day. My own Mom is dead but I remember her every Mother’s Day with purchasing the card I would have sent to her and I give it to my Mother-in-law. She loves it and proudly displays it, right next to the one purchased from her son and me. Of course I mail it so that it arrives by Thursday.

Old Man Winter and Mother Nature are Beefin’

I think Old Man winter and Mother Nature are beefin’.

It feels like there’s a tug of war between the Old Man with his brown and bare brittle limbs and this entity we call Mother whose life force is to nurture us with budding flourishes of blooms and pollen. Let us not forget the pollen.

The hard frozen ground is trying to thaw. It struggles to awaken and yield to restart this cycle of growth and abundance only to be reclaimed again by harvest and Old Man winter. 

So, here’s my question, Madam Mother Nature. What’s up? 

Is this a "couple" thing? Are you and the Old Man at odds with each other?

That Old man had his way with us this year with a seemingly appropriate seasonal cold and just enough snow for a picture post card look. The snow wasn’t a burden. It was pretty and didn't linger.

I can see your struggle. The trees are budding like a slow blush. The daffodils are almost done and my tiny Siberian irises are still standing but should be fading by now. The tulips are up but not budding.

So what’s up?

Those March winds are still with us. In case you haven’t checked your calendar, we are in April. I know this because I’ve just paid the bill for our Spring clean up and first lawn cut. 

I don’t mean to sound impertinent or ungrateful. I do appreciate the rain. It was desperately needed. But seriously? Couldn’t that be spread out over a span of days rather than during an entire week? 

What’s up with this "wind chill feels like" temperature?

I need 50+ degrees so I can attack my attempts to grow a magnificent garden of bachelor buttons and zinnias with my dollar store seeds. Hopes and dreams being dashed by temps that feel like 30’s instead of 50’s and there's that bitter wind. 

I know there are things in life that can’t be controlled, weather being at the top of that list. 

So here’s my wish for you and me. Tell Old Man winter to beat it. His time is up.

I have seeds to plant and hopes to nurture, And the shore is calling to me. End this conflict and kick him to the curb with the rest of the winter clean up. 

 

That's my dad!

A young man stands up among thousands of loudly cheering people. He is beaming as Tim Walz, his dad, is about to accept the nomination for a very public office. His pride and love for his dad has him so overcome with emotion he is moved to tears as he exclaims to the crowd, “That’s my dad”! The crowd might not have heard his exclamation because of their own joyful cheering.  The cameras did not spare this young man’s very personal and loving response. 

It was raw. It was heartfelt and full of unconditional love.

I found Gus Walz’s reaction to his dad’s acceptance of his vice president nomination on that stage refreshing. How many 17-year-old boys are self-aware and confident enough to be so openly emotional? As a culture many boys are sometimes brought up to not cry or show emotion that might be perceived as weakness. 

It is bullshit. 

                                                

Within minutes Gus Walz was ostracized by small minded and mean people who have no fffing idea what it is like to have a neuro-disconnect. A disconnect that can impair one’s ability to appropriately function in situations that can trigger overstimulation.  

Auditory hypersensitivity may cause one to overreact to sounds or overly noisy places, especially arena noise. If it can’t be filtered out the overload is mentally and emotionally challenging. 

I know first-hand what this is like. I have a grown grandchild who suffered a TBI as an infant. He leads a productive life, but noise can be a trigger, especially if he’s tired. It's brain fatigue. Dyslexia haunts a few in my family. My oldest granddaughter has found a way around her type of dyslexia by challenging herself to specific learning modes. Noise is not her trigger but she has learned how to navigate what does overwhelm her through her working life. I know myself as a brain tumor survivor. I don’t go anywhere without my noise filtering ear plugs. 

Neuro fatigue is your brain’s signal to take a break. It is a very real thing. But sometimes one can’t control the environment. Noise and crowds are sometimes a part of life. 

Whether or not neurodivergent how many 17-year-olds are equipped to know how to control an external environment especially of crowds and noise? There is no handbook or manual. We have to figure it out as we go along and we have to accept it.

Unlike computer code there are no patches to fix what the brain lacks but only workarounds. 

I wish for all those that said mean and obviously uneducated remarks never have to figure out such workarounds. 

Have a nice quiet day. 

Breast Elegy: Breaking Up Will be Easy to Do - Surviving vs. Thriving

Breast Elegy: Breaking Up is Easy to Do - My true Breast Cancer Journey set to rhyme. 

 

It’s been 20 years since we started this dance

And now I decided you are not worth the chance

 

This relationship has been deteriorating for a few years now

I have decided to end it with a quiet kapow!

 

It wasn’t a difficult decision for me

Some won’t understand or be able to see

 

This journey started with lots of anxiety 

That soon dissipated with time and propriety

 

Advances in medicine are quite subjective

Treatments and results depend on perspective

 

And so this relationship has taken its turn

It’s some peace this time, for which I  yearn

 

That’s not to say that I’ll never miss you

Right now you’re not much more than tissue

 

Adios, dear boobs, it’s time for heavenly ascension

I need no more negative apprehension

 

Although you’ve made it hard for me to forget about you

I plan to spend more life without you than with you.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Grammy, An Angel and "Todzilla"

Advent: The Coming of Something Momentous.

Advent for me is always what the definition is: waiting, lying in wait for something to happen. Growing up in the Catholic Church, my memories of Advent are of the dark purple vestments the priests wore for the four weeks at Mass, the Advent wreath, the hymns of waiting for the Savior’s birth (“Oh Come, Oh Come, Emmanuel”), and the bare altar that suddenly exploded on Christmas eve into a stage of brilliantly lit Christmas trees and holly lining the altar and a spectacular manger scene complete with the Holy Family, a crèche with lots of blessed hay spread around, shepherds and angels in diaphanous white gowns with wings that looked like Michelangelo himself had created them. Fast forward into my younger Mommy years, and immediately after Thanksgiving my Advent was coupled with that feeling of “lying in wait for something to happen”– and always with the angst of did I get it all done?! right up to midnight of Christmas Eve.

In my Grandparent years I still feel the “lying in wait for something to happen.” But the angst is replaced with anticipation for how I’m going to knock the socks off my grandkids with an experience they might not have had the opportunity to enjoy with their overbooked and exhausted parents. Sometimes it’s an expensive event, but the memories are priceless. This year it cost me less than $25 for my granddaughter Meghan.

Meghan is tiny in a family of non-tiny people. She is also “affectionately” nicknamed “Todzilla,” and lately, “Toddy.” She actually is proud of the moniker. Her small size is a shrewd disguise for her huge temper, the volume of her articulate voice and not the least of all her razor sharp intelligence. Her brain never shuts down. I find it amusing more often than not, but she gives her parents an emotional workout.

An application was sent home  for which role a child would like to be in the Nativity play. My daughter Kate asked Meghan if she’d like to be something different this year, maybe a shepherd or a reader. Meghan’s response was without hesitation, direct and terse: “No! You said I could be an angel.” Okay, we won’t dwell on the double entendre in the statement, but this is life with Todzilla, and angelic is not one of her characteristics .

Meghan’s mom was in that very place of anxiety I remember so well. When she called, I could hear in her voice the restrained panic: “Toddy wants to be an angel in the Nativity play, we don’t have a costume. The play is in two weeks.” We dug out last year’s costume. Because she is so petite the angel dress still fit her. But then we found the homemade wings and the halo. Toddy looked at them and stated, “I thought we threw those away.”

It was a set of fairy wings we purchased at the Dollar Store and covered them with foil. The only thing we could find were pink ones and had no time to find anything else. Meghan had declared she could not have pink wings in a white gown, so we improvised. We thought our resourcefulness of using the shiny foil did the job, but apparently other parents’ angels were adorned with real feathered angel wings trimmed in maribou. There was nothing homemade about their wings. Meghan looked angelic throughout the Nativity play, but she continued throughout that evening about how she was the only one with “silver wings.” That was last year.

This year, Meghan’s had no change of heart about the homemade wings and halo. We tried to convince her that her wings were special because they were different. But Toddy wasn’t having any of that nonsense and walked away, arms folded and chin out. With two weeks until the play, I was confident I could find a set of angel wings that would be suitable to Meghan’s standards.

Naturally, I consulted the internet. The initial search resulted in a lot of “sold out” or “out of stock” findings. It was beginning to look bleak. The feeling of anticipation and confidence that these wings were going to be a slam dunk was ebbing. After taking a break from the search, I went back online, determined we were going to have feathered wings for Todzilla in time for the play. Thanks be to God for persistence, patience and OrientalTrading.com: feathered angel wings, trimmed in white maribou, $8.50. Expedited shipping was more than the cost of the wings, but it did not matter.

They were delivered as promised and when I displayed them for her, Meghan exclaimed “Oh my God! They are HUGE!” Although the wings are almost the same size as Meghan, they are beautiful and look like real feathered angel wings.

The halo never fit well on her head, so we’re going to forgo the halo and go with a trimmed white headband. Toddy is just fine with not wearing a halo. As she so astutely observed, “it’s always slipping off my head.” YEA, No kidding.

Merry Christmas

 

 

I've shared my feelings on leaves before in Leaving the Leaves back in 2014.

Every year I have the same argument with my family. Every year, as soon as the leaves begin to change color, one would think we are expecting a blizzard. The anticipation of how much of a mess the leaves will make is unbearable to them. They linger by the windows, gaze out and watch for days into weeks, seeing and monitoring how the leaves are falling and wonder out loud how and when the leaves will be cleaned up. 

 

Every year I say the same thing, “Leave the leaves.” Their reaction is the same every year too, “WHY?”, more a whine than an inquiry. 

 

I never understood the purpose of raking up dying leaves only to expose the drying grass. It seems to me a dumb and wasted effort. 

 

Autumn is my favorite season and personally, I have always liked the look of a pile of leaves. I like the crunch under my feet as I shuffle through a nice pile of tawny crisp leaves just waiting and ready to be pulverized for their end purpose of food for the earth. Then there’s the smell of moldering leaves, musky and woody, to remind you that it’s almost finished its life cycle and ready for the last stage of their seasonal performance. Why not wait until the show is totally over? 

 

The best collection of falling leaves is under our maple in the back yard. Over the years this Maple has become a grand old lady. Every year it is a spectacular transition of dark green to blazing red to a brilliant yellow that almost glows in the sunlight. When the leaves begin to lazily waft to the ground they go from the yellow to a rich tawny gold where they collect in an almost perfect ring around the base of the tree, like a skirt that’s just dropped from a waist. 

 

I insist we leave the leaves where they fall and will eventually break down over the winter. It’s only natural.

 

Happy 50th Anniversary to Us

I was once asked,  “What’s your greatest accomplishment? What are you most proud of?” 

My immediate response was, “my marriage”.  The person asking the question responded, “Wow, your face really lights up when you say that.” 

 

I never really looked at my marriage as an “accomplishment”, but in the grand scheme of things, compared to what some other people experience in marriage, we have been very lucky and blessed that ours seems to have been relatively effortless. It’s not that there have never been bumps in the road and rough patches, those times where you look at one another and think quietly but smarmily to yourself, “GAWD, I can’t stand that you are breathing the same air as I do.” That is the reality of what happens when you live with someone. A person can not share a bed and a bathroom with the same person seven days a week for years and expect to always think they are the best thing to come along since unlimited texting.  We’re only human. And let’s be honest, only one of us is scrubbing the toilet and shower!

 

There is some personal sacrifice in every relationship and a great marriage is no exception. The ‘rough’ patches were brief and ended up being the glue that we didn’t know we needed at the time. Stuff happens. Time might heal, but moving forward as a team and a united front is one of hallmarks of our marriage. It hasn’t been hard. 

We were children when we got married. At 18 what could we possibly have known what life had ahead for us? What did we know about real life? When it’s said, “ignorance is bliss” I think it was our ignorance that became our bliss.  

 

On another occasion, a friend whose marriage was coming apart and soon ended asked, “Don’t you wonder just how long it’s going to last?” Well, no. It never really crossed my mind that being married was on some kind of time clock. 

 

Without knowing it early on, we nurtured our marriage like a family member. We ‘took care’ of each other and each other’s feelings. We were blessed with good health for the first thirty years and when illness paid us a couple visits, we took turns in stepping up and taking over the other’s role of caretaker, without pause.

 

Marriage is never a 50/50 proposition. If you’re lucky it can be 60/40. Sometimes, you get the 60. Sometimes, you give the 60. Then there are the times when it is 90/10, hopefully those times are few and far between, but it happens. Nobody is exempt. 

 

Our 50th anniversary is here. We both expressed that saying we’re married for fifty years sounds a lot longer than it feels. 

Awesome! That feels like 50/50!

 

About Harry

Very recently we lost a very dear friend to a sudden tragedy. Harry and half of his seven siblings were friends with my own siblings since grade school. Harry was godfather to my brother’s daughter. He was more than a friend. Harry was family. Harry travelled with us  on a big family trip to Ireland and Scotland.

Harry retired for the third time this past April. He was well-traveled and through much of this past summer he traveled almost non-stop and shared his possible plans for what would finally be his retired life. The next in his plans was maybe a move to Myrtle Beach, refining his golf game and enjoying the Carolina coastlands and as much golf as he could get in. 

After a visit with one of his sisters who also retired to Myrtle Beach, he could see this as his next step to a comfortable retirement. With a move to Myrtle Beach, after years in military service and a few career changes, it was a well-deserved plan for his retirement.

We came from a similar upbringing; city kids, big families, lots of interesting personalities and a daily dose of drama. We called it family dynamics. There always was and is somebody to talk about.

Harry was a single man and never married. Over the years he opened his home to one of his sisters and her son. The was a time when his mother needed end of life care and he brought her to his home. There was no way he was going to allow his Mom languish in a facility.

Harry’s sudden death left an emotional hole in many lives. For me, Harry was a regular for our weekly dinner at our local watering hole. He would sometimes razz my brother that I was his new bar buddy. We lived less than two miles from each other but my brother lives much further, like another state. 

Harry was my “plus one” for golf scrambles. He drove the ball, I putted. I don’t play much golf, but when with Harry there was no judgement, just good company and commiserating about our similar beliefs, mostly about political theater.

Harry was one of the most generous and caring people I have been blessed to know. I miss him. Harry was 66.

Black Holes and Role Reversals and a New Year

 

Black Hole image from EHT

I can’t say that 2021 was a year to forget because there are a lot of things I can’t remember. I don’t remember because I had a huge non-malignant brain tumor that was apparently affecting my personality, my walking gait, my short-term memory, instant recall and most notably I was forgetting my words while speaking. Friends and family are just recently telling me of how they felt I was “off”. Something wasn’t quite right, but they never relayed those feelings to me.

There were apparently several private conversations about me but nobody said anything to me, except my husband Mike who would repeatedly look for some material reason for this ‘slip’ in my usual daily spunky personality. His was the opinion that just one of my many pain medications was the primary cause, either that or early onset Alzheimer’s. I was and still am treating for Psoriatic Arthritis. I have come to realize and reluctantly accept that “Mister Arthur R Itis” and I have an arranged lifelong marriage. There’s nothing to do except to manage the marriage and try to find what works in finding some comfort and ease in daily tasks and mobility. I have resumed my yoga, some meditation and embraced alternative medicine and analgesics and with the start of Medicare pray that my current biologic treatment gets pre-authorized. 

Navigating Medicare is mess. I believe it’s by design to make it difficult.

The Pain management program I was prescribed is no longer the preferred supposed panacea for me.   I   must be able to function.

The Black Holes are just that, blank spots in my memory and recall, some huge, some brief snippets of time, but there is much I feel I’ve lost and have no hint at what it is that I’ve lost. Maybe that is best but it is no less disorienting and frustrating.

Role reversal was something that automatically happened. My husband took the reins I usually held. I often say, He makes things happen, but I make them better. This time he did both. I found after the surgery I was just fine with this. Recuperating from brain surgery was and is major thing, a BIG FFFing DEAL.

I was not prepared to be almost totally dependent on being taken care of by another. That was usually MY job.

Patients with brain tumors usually have to become reliant in a caregiver, because they’re not always able to do as much as they want to or were previously able to do, due to the side effects from the tumor location.

The incision was long around the top of my head, held together with staples. I am a relatively fast healer and was staple free in one short week. I had the mistaken assumption that this was going to be a recovery of a few weeks, not months if not the better part of a year.

It’s a disappointment I still struggle with, but I still move on.  

I welcomed 2022 at a New Year's eve party in the middle of the eastern Caribbean, on a cruise ship appropriately enough called the Reflection. It was a fun celebration, as I remember it. 

Here’s hoping that I have fewer black holes in 2022.

Happy 2022!

 

 

Gratitude and Appreciation

 

I am thankful for the here and now.

On most weekdays, my house is relatively quiet as everyone but my husband and I has left for work or school. The noise of a full house of people and their day will descend on us in shifts from 2:30 to 6p.m.  Some days I welcome it, but sometimes in what feels like just as many days, I do not. I pine for the peace and quiet.

 The beginning of retirement was not the happy go-lucky days, as in “everyday is Saturday” that friends used to brag about to me. Although I did enjoy a trip to Key West celebrating my retirement, these last eight months were far from anything I thought or dreamed of how the summer of this retirement would be.

I had visions of weekday pool parties with some of my fellow retirees. I planned to spend one-on-one time with my younger grandchildren.

 I scheduled a much overdue knee replacement for the end of April. That surgery was relatively uneventful, rehab was challenging, more so than I and my rehab team could have imagined. Something was ‘off’. But I soldiered on, sort of, hoping to pick up with my summer plans.

Have you heard the saying, “If you want to make God laugh, just tell him YOUR plans.”?

I don’t recall conferring with the Almighty, but my plans were dashed by a Brain tumor. It was the pesky culprit that was making me seem ‘off’ and constantly falling, among other unsavory symptoms.

So, one might ask, “how can you write about gratitude and be thankful with such a scary and potentially deadly episode, derailing your summer of retirement”?

Let me tell you the upside to all this crap.

My family calls me the accidental matriarch. It’s not a role I signed up for or a club I wanted to join, it just happened and with our revolving door, and always seeming to have ‘room at the inn’, it is a place where more than a few have landed and stayed till their world stopped spinning out of control and made their way back into it. It’s what we do.

Where does my gratitude come in?

The matriarch had brain surgery on Friday the 13^th and needed constant care and attention and everybody stepped up into some sort of support role. My husband took the over and set up everything he thought I would need, from a hospital bed set up in our living room to a commode with special liners so it could be easily emptied (he was especially proud of his thoughtful and practical purchase). He took over my daily medications and being the Libra that he is, never missed a timely dose.

I am grateful for him stepping up and taking over the care I needed. He is a man that was not used to taking the reins of messy stuff like that, and he did it seamlessly. In all our years together, he never changed a poopy diaper, but never hesitated to empty and clean the commode.

All I had to do was sit back and get better.

I am grateful for the family members who dropped what they were doing and stepped in to do what needed to be done: my brother for making things happen and especially my sister, assuming the unpleasant task of keeping my nethers clean and fresh when I wasn’t able; my kids for always ‘being there’ and assuring I was comfortable and not in need of anything; my older grandchildren and their friends displayed their potential for empathy and caring for another person. It is a very rewarding feeling that our family is who we are and what we do.

I’m grateful that this bump in the road sent a timely message to my family that everybody has an expiration date, and mine came close.

I’m grateful that this episode has made my family realize that as strong as I appear and often hold others up emotionally, sometimes we all have cracks in our veneer, ‘even the tough up the middle’ matriarch.

I’m grateful for people that have offered prayers, sent get well cards and Mass cards. It’s a thoughtfulness that fills my heart.

With this holiday season, I am most grateful that I had thanksgiving dinner at my sister-in-law’s with my 86 year old Mother-in-law, who I am most confident says a second rosary in her nightly prayers, just for me, she has said so every time I see her.

Our annual family Festivus is tomorrow. We are a very boisterous bunch with lots of strong personalities that some might find overwhelming, and it only adds to our reason to celebrate.

I’ll be grateful to be there.

 

 

 

 

 

Leaves, Leaves Everywhere

 It's been over a decade since I wrote about Todzilla and Leaving the Leaves. 

It was a day that a rambunctious Toddler, named Meghan but aptly called, Todzilla, got the chance to blow off some of her endless energy and have some messy fun, much to the chagrin of her mother who preferred to dress her little girl like a prim doll. But through the years Meghan, also known as Toddy, has proven her strong will and among other things, dresses as she pleases, and it's rarely prim and polished. That day of leaving leaves in a huge pile and letting a toddler jump into it, tossing handfuls of leaves into the air, was memorable and most of us enjoyed it.

Today Toddy is putting most of her energy towards sports, mainly field hockey and basketball. She's a small person but has the hutzpah and spunk of a beast trapped in that small body. In our family we don't have too many smallish members, coming from 'good peasant stock', and she struggled emotionally when she realized that her lifelong height probably won't go beyond 5'2". She barely reached that height this past summer. It was a time of personal celebration.

She also is growing into a striking beauty. For the homecoming dance she wore a beautiful blue dress, cut high on the thigh hemline, cascading hair, perfect make up and finished off the look with white high-top sneakers. Yup, that's Toddy. 

For me, the beauty of autumn and falling leaves is awe-inspiring as the season changes and staging the finale of warm weather preparing for the short days and long nights of winter.

Meghan noticed that big maple tree the other day and said, "Grammy, look, the tree still has most of it's leaves."

And so it does and Toddy is wearing her white high-top sneakers.

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'Tis The Halloween Season', The Picture in The Pet Store 🎵𝆔𝆔𝆔💀🖼😁

 

"How much is that doggy in the window?

The one with the waggly tail."

That song by Patti Page played a constant loop outside the pet store as I walked along Fifth Avenue. I could hear it as I left the Starbucks sipping my $5.25 Pumpkin Spice Latte.

I browsed the pet shop window watching the cute puppies wrestling with each other in their fat fluffy puppy bodies. Knowing it was not wise to go into the shop, I lost my inner argument with myself and went into the store anyway. What harm could it be just to watch them at play?

I went in.

There was a tank full of Clown fish, almost as fat as the puppies. Next to the puppies was a cubby of kittens not as playful as the puppies but just as fluffy and pudgy. A solo bird cage across from the counter held a blue macaw.

Behind the counter was a young woman who seemed to be preoccupied with a program streaming on her tablet and listening attentively through her ear pods.

The Patti Page song continued to play over and over.

I noticed a faded picture was hanging on the wall behind the woman at the counter.

The picture blinked.

I thought it blinked and then it yawned! The macaw started to mimic the picture’s yawn. I looked back to the picture and it began to grin at me.

“Go ahead,” said the macaw. 

I motioned to the woman behind the counter, pointing back and forth between the bird and the picture but she was entranced by what was on her tablet.

All at once the bird began to sing along with the Patti Page. 

"How much is that doggie in the window?

The one with the waggly tail…"

And then the picture shouted, “Oh why don’t you shut up?!” The bird continued, “I do hope that doggie is for sale.”

The picture yelled at the bird, “I don’t want some parrot that talks.” But the bird continued, ”That doggie will have a good home.”

By this time the lady behind the counter looked up, unplugged her ear pods and said, “Can I help you?” Finally, I had her attention but the bird went silent and the picture faded.

I asked what was up with the picture and the macaw and their bickering, not to mention the singing. “Excuse me?” she asked and was clearly annoyed with my question.  The picture winked at me. “Never mind”, I said and skedaddled out the door.

The song still looped outside and I heard her say as the door closed behind me, “Okay, boys. Continue.”

'Tis the season for spooky fun.

Discretion be damned - Biting my Tongue and it Doesn't Come Easy...

Reading an article in Time magazine about how to support Older Relatives during the corona virus pandemic... 

I am the older relative and understand the danger of a compromised immune system. My real concern is my 23 year old granddaughter who THINKS she is practicing social distancing, but is truly putting her own life at risk as well as the people she is casually interacting with. She has been a lifelong asthmatic. 

If she contracts Covid-19, she could die. But she doesn’t thinks so. And nobody is going to tell her otherwise.

She is considered an essential worker in a healthcare environment, and her workplace is taking precautions to limit her interaction with the patient population. But she still travels back and forth from home to her boyfriend’s family house. She orders take-out meals for the households and to support our local small businesses. It’s all very humane and generous. 

It is the community support that just might lead to exposure. I worry and not needlessly.

At this time, this pandemic has not peeked. The worst is yet to come according to the medical experts. I believe them. I have survived the loss of parents, a cancer treatment, thriving through an immune disease, the betrayal of a family friend and many more emotional assaults. 

I do not believe I could survive watching my daughter lose her daughter because she refused to pay attention to a warning of concern for her own well-being.

We suggested she pick a place to stay until things calm down, the curve flattens out. She dismissed that, repeating “I’m only going back and forth.” That’s not true. She and her boyfriend are doing what they naturally should be doing a young couple in love. I remember all too well the comfort of being in lust and love. I married at 18 and by the time I was their age, I had 2 kids and a mortgage. Life and all the trappings that go with it was all too real.

This is a difficult time on a lot of different levels. With the years of life us ‘old heads’ have under our belt it is difficult for the younger ones to believe our warnings could hold any weight of truth or experience. Life has been very good to this generation. With the exception of 911, many of this generation has not experienced the threat of potential disaster. Staying home is not a hardship if it could be life-saving.

My fear is that has made them cocksure and soft.