What I'll remember about Christmas 2015

I was prepared for this Christmas to be the worst Christmas ever.  After a fight full of pain and disappointment, my brother lost his battle with stomach/pancreatic cancer and died on December 4. Just the thought of him not being around to eat all the chocolate chip cookies so Helen would have to rush bake another batch was enough to make me cry. I'd catch myself checking the catalogs and thinking something would make a good gift for him; then I'd realize there would be no more gifts. My eyes would fill with tears when I'd pass the men's departments in my favorite stores and remember the bike riding clothes I'd purchased during the past few years. Television commercials where the child came home from college or the mom/dad surprised their families by returning from war would be enough for me to cry all night.  Every day this month was one of anguish.

I fully expected this Christmas would be remembered as one of the worst our family ever experienced. The first Christmas without Uncle.

In truth, we will never forget the Christmas of 2015, but not for the reasons I'd been anticipating.

The weather this season was record breaking. We had a white Christmas after all, but the white was thick, thick fog. We had warm summer rains.  Yes, I said summer.  The windows have been open for days.  We've slept at night with the ceiling fans gently buzzing. We ate Christmas dinner on the deck. I wore shorts and a red T-shirt for Christmas.  Helen was in her flip-flops.  All over Facebook people posted holiday pictures of families in summer clothes. This happened in Maryland and Pennsylvania on December 25.  Never in my lifetime have I experienced such a warm holiday.  Next year as we shiver in typical December weather we will talk about last year when we threatened to turn on the air-conditioning.  Each holiday from now on, we will refer to Christmas 2015 as the warmest winter holiday ever.

Our family will forever remember this Christmas as the year of the turkey.  Our friends, Carol and Vincent, provide the Christmas turkey.  They get big, juicy fresh turkeys. ( A few years ago, the drippings from their turkey, the biggest one Helen had ever cooked, set our oven on fire and we had to call 911.  But that's another story.)  This year, Carol went to the farm, observed the birds doing their free-range thing, then she selected one to join us for the holidays.  She helped the farmer chase and catch the bird.  Once in hand, the farmer took it off to wring its neck and pluck its feathers.  Since the farmers had heavy accents when they said something to Carol about the feet, she didn't understand.  So, like all old people who don't hear well,  she did the shaky smile thing and said yes.

Christmas morning 2015.  Helen is removing the bird from its bag.  I'm typing away on the computer, and I stop when she yells, Oh gross!!!  There, popping out of the bag are two huge white turkey feet. Upon further removal, we realize the turkey head is dangling from the dead turkey neck which is still attached to the dead turkey.  Ew!  Ew! Ew! Poor Helen.  Without a meat cleaver, amputating those turkey parts was slow going.  She's yelping, I'm laughing, the dogs are circling hoping that something will drop to the floor.  What a site!

Christmas 2015 will be, as I fully expected, a Christmas I will never forget.  But, I did not expect to remember it as the Christmas Eve we slept with the windows open.  Or the Christmas Day that Helen had to play pioneer woman in order to prepare our dinner.  Or a Christmas unexpectedly filled with friends and unending laughter.

When we look back on the Christmas of 2015, we may feel tears come to our eyes as we miss Uncle Glenn.  But we'll laugh, uproariously, because we'll never forget the turkey feet, the summer weather, and the friends who enjoyed the holiday with us.  I know Glenn, Mom, and Dad looked down and laughed with us.

a poem

November?
sitting outside
in my red plaid nightgown.
Hot sun warms my face
as it burns a hole through the
chill in the air.

Holiday Hissy Fit that you probably don't want to read

It's almost Thanksgiving, and I am having a hard time being thankful.  I am angry. I wake up angry and I go to bed angry.  I feel ashamed of this anger because my common sense tells me I should focus on being thankful for all that I do have, not what I'm missing.  Well, I can't right now. I'm a mess, and I have been one for quite a few months.

I used to get so much pleasure from Facebook and reading the updates.  Lately, I am angry and disgusted with this formerly pleasant past-time.  Supposedly, there is a war on Christmas demonstrated by a coffee store producing a plain red cup instead of  one full of snowmen and snowflakes.  People are actually proud of themselves as they fight back by boycotting the company. What kind of crazy are these people? I had to stop reading the posts from one of my favorite pages because some kid with too much time on his hands led a campaign to get the local mall to change its futuristic holiday decorations.  My blood began to boil over at the comments congratulating this kid on his stand to save Christmas. Save Christmas? Who gets their Christmas at the mall?  Most of FB, I think.

I am angry and annoyed at the same discussion that comes up every year at this time... the "they" who are no longer allowing people to say Merry Christmas. Nobody is stopping anybody from saying that. Why does this become an issue every November?  Yet, people puff out their chests and proudly "stand up for their faith" by planning to fight with anyone who says anything other that those two words to them during these next few weeks.  To quote the kids, WTF?

What is wrong with people who think their intolerance is acceptable?  I was shocked to read a FB article about a stupid, stupid woman who physically attacked a young woman for speaking Swahili with her family in a public place. All of this nonsense about English being the only language that should be spoken in this country is just that, nonsense!  So what if signs are multi-lingual?  So what if you have to push a button to hear English on a business call?  So what!!!  I taught English.  And let me tell you, a lot of native born Americans don't know the first thing about this language they claim to love.  If you think it makes you more of an American to roll your eyes at someone speaking a foreign language in your country, I pity you for your lack of tolerance and the superiority attitude it gives you. Such disdain doesn't make you a better American; it makes you a bigot.

Even Halloween caused an uproar this year because a school in New Jersey stopped its parties and costume parade. Parents went into an uproar over the end of this "great American tradition."  NEVER MIND that Halloween festivities were celebrated by various community groups for a week before trick-or-treating even happened.  Never mind that parents sit back and complacently allow schools to drain their children with excessive testing and age inappropriate education. Who cares about that? It's the party that matters. When Halloween was canceled at that school, Americans were happy to blame the Muslims and immigrants to this country for this "tragedy." I'm not sure why FB warriors targeted Muslims for the end of this tradition, but they did. It seems to be open season on Muslims according to what I read on FB.  Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

I have read page long threads written by people who are furious that schools have winter concerts and not Christmas concerts. You want a Christian celebration, take your kids to church!  How many of the people complaining about no Bible reading in school or no religious songs at the school concerts are taking their children regularly to church?  Everybody has their excuses.  Sunday is the only day they can sleep in.  Kids have sports on Sunday.  They can't get their kids to church because it's not "fun." And my favorite excuse, people don't go to church because all they do is beg for money.  Well, stop expecting the schools to be your church.  Nobody has taken God out of the public schools.  In my opinion, that is impossible because God is everywhere.

I am angry because at this time of the year, people throw a few bucks at the charities to help the poor, and they feel they've done their part. Or, and this is my favorite, they "adopt" a family at Christmas and then later complain that when the gifts were delivered the family already had better things than they did. They post on FB that the government is giving too much to the poor.  Welfare is full of fraud. Let's drug test those lazy good for nothing welfare mothers.  People are living high on the hog with government handouts. The people I see weekly at the food pantry are barely surviving, let alone living the life on your dime.  Yes, many have made some bad decisions.  But, who hasn't?  However, the young man crying in embarrassment because medical bills are about to force his family into homelessness and he has to grovel for food, hasn't made a bad decision.  He's stuck in a nightmare. The little girl who came to our Coat Giveaway in socks because the dog had ruined her only pair of shoes hasn't done anything more than being born to a single mom unable to work for a living wage and pay for childcare.  I am angry that a nation this wealthy would rather roast the poor than share the wealth.  Since when has doing what Jesus asked us to do become Socialism?

If you're still with me, I thank you for your patience.

I am angry.  I am heartbroken. I am impatient.  I am furious.  But if I'm going to be truly honest with myself, something else is behind all of my rage at the "stuff" that happens every season. Since I know all of this comes up every year at the same time, why can't I laugh it off and let it roll off my back? After all, the people posting this stuff are mostly people I like whom I believe are as entitled to their opinions as I am to mine.  Why don't I just take a break from FB and shut the hell up??

Because I can't. I am obsessed.

Because my life has changed in a way that chains me to the house.  And while stuck in the house, I have watched more TV and read more FB than ever before.  And in the midst of those repeatedly irritating FB outrages, I hear another message whispered by the more optimistic members on my FB feed: Christmas is the season of miracles. No matter what is said about red cups, welfare, or wars on everything, that is the message I see repeated and that is probably what upsets me the most.

Because my world has been rocked, and my family needs a holiday miracle. Now. Anything else I get upset with is just a cover-up for a hurt and and an anger and a fear that I can barely face let alone deal with in a healthy way.  Be glad if all you're worried about is a damn red cup or a decorative igloo.

The End of Another Summer

This has been the worst summer of my life, far worse than the summer I broke my leg. This summer has been continuous emotional pain, which scars much more deeply than physical pain. It's been bad enough that people have actually felt sorry for me. Truth be known, I felt kind of sorry for me, too.

I love to travel, but I could not take the trip to China that my sister had planned for us. I have dismally accepted that I will probably never get back to China because my body is weakening as I age, and getting around in China isn't easy. (Heck, when I was in good health I needed a couple of farmers to carry me up the steps in Chung King, but that's another story and I digress.) So, I lived at her house and took care of enough animal poop that I felt like I was low man on the totem pole at a pet store. When I did get home to Maryland, I could count on a fight with the post office over the holding/unholding of my mail. I felt isolated and was pretty much left alone this summer because, well, you know, (say this in a hushed tone) she has family obligations.

My brother has been sick.  He has gastrointestinal cancer and possibly pancreatic cancer.  He began chemo, and I took him to and fro.  The treatments have been brutal, and watching him suffer has taken a toll on me.  I've been at his beck and call, and I hope my being here made his unrelenting misery somewhat more bearable. Though I did my best to always be cheerful no matter what he took out on me that day, the stress of worrying about him actually caused me to lose a little weight. If he couldn't eat, my stomach churned and I couldn't eat either. I watched him shrivel as the summer days passed us by.

Labor Day signals the end of summer, customarily with a hammering finality as the weather abruptly turns cold enough to need a sweater.  Usually, we are disappointed because it's too cold or rainy to squeeze in those last few precious days at the pool. Cookouts get rained out. It's inevitable; the fun is over and it's back to the grind of school and work. However, this year, this strange summer, even Labor Day was different. My sister and I were remarking on what a beautiful weekend this had been, and how much we had enjoyed the sunny weather. I got to spend some time at the pool with my girls. We even had a barbecue at the neighbors'.  So this year, Labor Day has come and gone in such a way that I can safely say that summer isn't over yet. It seems to have promised us that there are good days yet to come.

And I take that as a good omen.

Back to School

I remember a long time ago, probably thirty years, sitting on the steps of my friend's apartment building and waiting for her to come home.  A neighbor boy, approximately four or five years old, plopped himself beside me and asked what I was doing.  Thus began a conversation that lasted ten minutes or so. During our talk, I told him I was a teacher.  His eyes grew wide and he was so excited to meet me because he was going to start school in September and he couldn't wait to meet his teacher. He knew he was going to love school.

Eventually, the little boy's mother found us and scolded him for wandering off. "But Mom," he said, "I was talking to my teacher."  Yep, I was already his teacher.  I probably would be his teacher when he got to seventh grade, but I doubted either of us would recognize each other.  I never forgot that little boy and his excitement about starting school and meeting his teacher.

I hope all of my teacher friends, and those teachers who would be my friends if I was still working, are having a great summer.  I hope they are relaxing, recuperating, and regenerating their enthusiasm for a very special calling.  In a few short weeks, they'll be back on the job.

Teachers are rarely appreciated. The administrations of most schools make showy attempts on those first few days to give lip service about how they value their teachers while at the same time making their jobs harder by having  schedules incomplete and holding boring, pointless meetings during times teachers could better use to prepare their classrooms and lesson plans. I would get so overwhelmed and depressed those first few days back.  Nothing I did was ever "enough."  It was so discouraging.  (I do post a disclaimer here-the Wayne Perry years were some of the most satisfying of my career.  But admins like him, Bill Hallock, and Natalie Holloway are few and far between.)

Finally, the kids would come.  And despite what they'd heard about that mean old Ms. S, they couldn't wait to meet me.  They laughed with me.  They willingly completed my first homework assignment-writing a short letter to me about what I needed to know to be a good teacher to them. They had hope in their eyes for a good year.  They had hope that their teacher would understand them and be patient with their shortcomings.  They were excited to begin.

Dear teachers, I hope you are rested and raring to go.  I hope you don't let the lack of support from your administration discourage you.  I hope you don't let the constraints of a canned curriculum defeat you.  Stay strong, stay positive, and remember that all kids can learn and most students really want to learn.  Be kind.  Be consistent.  Be the adult, not the buddy.  Be their teacher.

My former students are adults, some in their twenties and some all the way in their fifties.  When I see them in town, they remember me.  When they introduce me to their children, they call me "my teacher."

Teacher friends--that is who you will become to this year's students.  You will be their teacher. It's an honor.

Call me Caitlyn

Bruce Jenner is now Caitlyn Jenner, and she debuted with glorious pictures taken by the legendary Annie Leibovitz.  Since I think Annie could even make me look glamorous, lucky Caitlyn to be photographed by such a talented artist.  There's been a lot of media hoopla and a lot of mean "jokes" about the transformation.  I wish people would just shut the hell up about what they don't understand and try to put themselves in someone else's high heels.

Twelve years ago, three of my high school classmates and I traveled to Las Vegas to celebrate entering the nifty fifties.  We met another classmate there, one who had undergone a major change. Our friend, and Donna's former prom date, was no longer John but Jennifer.  We were curious, but not one of us was critical.  We had always liked John, and we figured if this is who he needed to be, then we'd get used to the change and the new pronouns.

She was beautiful.  Her long brown hair was healthy and shiny.  She had a cute little figure and she looked great in a dress.  She enjoyed wearing makeup to express her femininity.  I remember thinking what a shame she had to wait to be fifty to do this. Here we were, her contemporaries, and by this age we were tired of that stuff.  Short hair was much easier to do.  Why wear dresses and pantyhose when shorts and a T-shirt were much more comfortable? Shoes? Ha! The more comfortable, the better. Jennifer loved her shiny mary janes because they made her feet look cute;  I loved my practical walking sandals because they didn't give me blisters. And makeup? Hells bells, it would only melt in the heat, so lipstick was enough for us.  Poor Jennifer, while the rest of us were glamming it up in high school, she was yearning to dress like us, be like us. She was suffering in a way entirely unimaginable to us.

When Jennifer debuted, she did not get the reception Caitlyn did.  Her family cut her off completely for years.  Her marriage did not survive.  While she needed this change to be whole, many holes grew in the form of absences from her life.  It was not an easy transition, but it was necessary for her well-being.

Our classmates in Pennsylvania were unaware of her metamorphosis because Jennifer lived in California and hadn't kept in touch.  All of that changed when a story about her journey (later developed into the documentary I Stand Corrected) was broadcast on public television.  She was definitely the talk of the town, the subject of nervous giggles and speculation, but I don't remember anybody being excessively mean or ignorant about it.  She came to our last high school reunion, and we welcomed her.  In fact, one of the guys asked her to dance, and it was sweet to see.  From what I understand, her family is coming around.  And I have to chuckle because just like the rest of us sixty year old women, Jennifer complains about fighting that inevitable battle of the bulge.  Life is back to "normal."

Nobody goes through such a transformation on a whim.  People who dismiss Caitlyn as nuts or an attention seeker just don't get it.  I get especially irritated by "celebrities" who claim they will still call her Bruce. What arrogant jerks!  Why not just be thankful that you have not lived a life of such painful confusion?  What does it hurt to be compassionate?  To be kind?  Just because you don't understand, doesn't mean you have to condemn.

Welcome to the world Caitlyn!  May the rest of your life bring you that elusive butterfly known as peace.

A Message from Above?

The strangest thing happened to me yesterday.  Where better to share than on my blog?

When I left my sister's house, I decided to use that handy dandy feature on my car's dashboard called "TRAF." I know that it uses the radio to search for traffic problems, but I never used it before so I wasn't sure how it worked.   Since we're talking holiday weekend, I pushed the button.

The radio searched and the words "SEEK TRAF" flickered as it did its job. However, I glanced over when I could see out of the corner of my eye that the words had stopped flashing. A song was playing and these words appeared where the flickering words had been, "PRAY TO GOD."

In my typical fashion, I responded with, What the hell?

Not one to take chances, I immediately prayed.  Then I listened to the music, figuring I'd stumbled across a Christian music station that could somehow channel its message onto my radio screen. No, just a regular old station. So, I pushed the traffic button again, and the radio started its search.  It stopped on a few stations, but never again during the ninety minute ride home did that particular message appear.

So I ask you, what happened?  Did I indeed get a message from above? Was it a message for me alone? Am I supposed to share this message with the rest of the world?  Has something like that ever happened to anyone else?

I don't mess with God; I need Him too much.  So I prayed, for clear roads, safe travels, family, friends, and the health of those close to me.  And if I have motivated you to say a prayer or two, can you spare one for my brother as he begins a serious battle with cancer?  And one for his family who are preparing to fight this with him?

Thanks.

Mother's Day 2015

This week, I've read a lot of blogs and commentaries bemoaning Mother's Day.  Many of the writers complained about the sadness of the holiday due to lost children, incomplete pregnancies, and fertility issues. While I have not personally experienced the depths of their pain, I can understand this much. Mother's Day and all the hoopla surrounding it comes once a year.  You can't stop it, but you can work with your reaction to it.  Do not expect churches to be "compassionate" to you and not recognize mothers on that day. They will.  And this year, when Fr. James called all the mothers to the center aisle for a special blessing, I went with them.  Although I have never conceived, borne, or lost a child, I, too, am a mother.

I am a mother to my dog, Trixie, (and before her my dog, Lucy).  I am responsible to feed her, exercise her, keep her healthy, and mostly to love her.  I love my little companion.  I call her my baby and I am her Mommy.

I am a mother to my Godchild, Sarah.  I was an active part of her life as she grew up, but now that she is married I don't see her as much.  She is always in my prayers, and that is what a Godmother does.  She knows I will be there when she needs me.

I was a mother to many of my students.  So many of them came from lonely homes, and I was there in school to build them up and care about them.  In fact, every now and then, I'd have an angry parent tell me she was sick of her kid always talking about me and would I back off.  Many of them came to me with personal crises, and they trusted me enough to let me pass them on to the person who could do more to help them than just listen. I paid for lunches. I bought clothing. I loved them.

And I continue to love and care about my former students.  Right now, I am mothering one lonely soul who literally has no one in this world.  All he asks of me is to listen. To care.  I have found jobs for him to do at my house so I can pay him because he will not take money from me any other way. With my friend Nadine, we are working to get him some stability in his life.

I mother my siblings.  My sister knows that she can come to me for anything, and I will help.  With our brother's current illness, he needs me in a way that a mother is needed.  I sat with him all day every day that he was in the hospital.  I put cold compresses on his forehead.  I fed him ice chips when the nurses told him no gulping water. I did whatever he wanted so he wouldn't have to wait for an overextended nurse.  I am the eldest sibling.  I remember when Mom passed away thinking, I am the adult now.

I mother my nieces.  I was with Helen when she adopted them in China.  I call them my children that I keep at my sister's house.  I have never loved two people more in my life.  I have paid for private school, and I'm saving for college.  I take them to horse camp, shopping, to the pool, the movies, and out to dinner.  In November I am taking the family on a cruise.  That is something my Mother would have done had she lived a little longer.  So, I'm doing it for her.

So yes, I stepped into the center aisle at church and claimed my blessing.  For I, too, am a mother.

The Violence in Baltimore

Most of the country is aware that Baltimore was the scene of violent riots recently. Much of the country blames a corrupt and racist police force. The Mayor, who has been severely criticized for her lack of action, seems to think that an investigation into the police department will root out all the evil and make the Baltimore streets once again safe, and most importantly, tourist friendly.

If only it were so simple.

Hopefully, what I'm about to write will not be brushed off as racist by some who read this. As has been pointed out to me before, I supposedly cannot speak of black issues because I am not black. If you want to believe that, then don't speak for me if you are not white. Ok?  Have we gotten that out of the way?  This is a people issue. (However, for the record, if not for white people, the NAACP would never have been formed.)  My track record as a teacher reveals my dedication to educating my students about our country's struggles over racial issues. When other teachers were talking again about Martin Luther King and Rosa Parks during Black History Month, my students were studying the integration of Central High School in Little Rock, Arkansas and the impact of the Civil Rights Movement on our country. They presented a choral reading of the timeline of our country's black history to their peers during an assembly.  I went to Darby Township Elementary School where I was a minority.  My mother was the first parent in my class to integrate birthday parties.  She got calls from the neighbors for this because they objected to my black athletic friend leading a bunch of us in a running game around the neighborhood. I overheard two of my students discussing me once. Student A insisted I was racist. Student B replied, "Ah she ain't racist.  She's just mean." I rest my case.

Baltimore City is a hot mess, and the idea that ferreting out bad cops will make it all good again, is simplistic and unrealistic. The problems run so deeply that how they'll ever be solved is beyond me. But maybe if lawmakers and leaders would get real and identify some of the difficult issues, a start could be made.

Let's begin with the family. I'm not going to throw out statistics, but too many of the children born in Baltimore are conceived by mistake, as the result of an act of recreation, as an attempt to hold onto a man, or in an attempt to prove some guy's manhood. This shit has got to stop.  Babies are cute.  But they have needs beyond anything that teen moms and social services can provide; it is not long before their constant crying and never ending need for attention is no longer cute. Once they pass the cute kid stage, city children are often neglected. These kids are susceptible to gang life, spousal abuse, drug dealing/using, theft, and a value system based upon what they see on TV. (NOT ALL KIDS.  Ok? Let's get that out of the way too.) If a male wants to father a baby, then that male needs to pay child support. No, baby daddy, an occasional delivery of formula and diapers is not child support. Women need to use those free clinics and not get pregnant out of irresponsibility or the stupid, stupid idea that the guy will stick around because you have provided him with an heir. In the city, lots of girls could be hatching his seeds.  Our city has a growing population of teens who have been raising themselves, who do not go to school, who seek gangs for support, and are ripe and ready to let off some steam through violent measures.  The rioters were not born to pillage and destroy. However, the lack of the family unit, in my opinion, has contributed to a breakdown in the city. The gangs are the new family units.  Crime is the new family recreation. The fights over territory, the fights over "respect,"and the absolute warlike activities in the city are the result of these communities being destroyed from within. Yes, there is a lot of police activity in the city. But are the Baltimore police going into the city and targeting blacks for the hell of it as so many seem to believe?  There is a tidal wave of crime in  the city.  Crime = police response.

When the same few shockingly glaring examples of police brutality are repeatedly broadcast by the media to convince us that the entire Baltimore City Police Department is full of violent, crooked, racist, incompetent police, I get angry. Yes, there are bad cops.  Yes, there are arrogant power hungry cops.  Yes, there are good cops having a bad day.  And yet, what would our city be without its police force?  I feel for the police men and women who go into the city daily to restore peace, solve crimes, rescue the innocent, get drugs off the streets, and protect the public.  They are often greeted with vulgarities that the general public thinks cops should just ignore.  They are physically assaulted. They are threatened with guns. They are shot in the face. They are lied to.  They witness the same people whom they struggle to arrest being released to re-offend. Nobody has their back. Seems like Freddie Gray, with an arrest record for drugs and all the related criminal activities that go with it, has the support of the media and a community looking to villainize a police department.

The Mayor seems content that arrests have been made in the Freddie Grey case.  I don't know what to think. If the police purposely denied him a humane arrest and proper medical care, they were definitely out of line. Such actions are wrong and shameful to the police department.  However, will anyone ever really know what happened that night?  One report states he was not buckled in, leading to his injuries.  Another report states he purposely tried to injure himself.  Who knows?  The federal investigators want to determine if Baltimore police "...use excessive force, including deadly force, conduct unlawful searches,seizures and arrests, and engage in discriminatory policing." The Mayor is convinced this investigation will reveal the truth of what happened that night and what chronically happens in  the police department. We'll see. I don't know what is next in the Freddie Grey case. What I do know is that the future of violence and discord in Baltimore City rests on its outcome.

Black lives matter.  Police lives matter.  When do we wise up and realize that all lives matter?  Is this 2015 or 1968? Are we a civilization or a dystopia? So many questions; so few answers.

A Look Back at The Old Neighborhood

Quite a few years ago, I awoke to hear a commercial on the radio suggesting everybody go to the Rusty Scupper and welcome in the new year with Ed Prutzer.  Prutzer, now that's a name you don't hear every day.  But for a time in my life, I did hear it every day.  Ed Prutzer's family were our next door neighbors on Stratford Road.  Stratford was a short row of what is now referred to by relators as townhouses, but we knew what they were: row houses.  Not row homes, but row houses with thin walls. We knew our neighbors very well. Ed Prutzer was a bit of a rascal, so we often heard his mom calling him by both first name and last name, the classic call for kids who were really in trouble. And Ed was in trouble a lot, almost as much as (or maybe even more than) my brother.

Eddie was the first person ever to tell me how babies were made.  I was horrified and didn't want to believe him, but he told me it was the truth.  I reluctantly agreed he ought to know; his Catholic parents had a lot of babies packed into that tiny row house.

It wasn't long after that first radio ad that my friend Dottie and I went to a show in the City and then decided to have dinner there and check him out.  Sure enough, he was Eddie from The Old Neighborhood.  Another time I brought some high school friends to dinner there and Ed greeted us; but it had been years since my last visit.  I recently heard another commercial, so I knew he was still there.

My sister, her daughters, and I saw the musical Wicked  yesterday.  Helen and I decided to go to the Rusty Scupper and say hello to Eddie as well as introduce him to her children.  When we got there, the place was very busy, and the staff at the door told us they would not be able to seat us at all that whole night. We were ok with going somewhere else for dinner, but we asked if Ed could come out for a few minutes to say hello to Barbara and Helen from The Old Neighborhood.  Miraculously...a table with a lovely water view opened. The very solicitous staff seated us and fell all over themselves serving us. My first experience with name-dropping!  Ed came over to talk and we caught up on old times in the 'hood.  Then Ed asked if we remembered our rabbit.

Of course we did. I remembered the bunny very clearly.  She was a black and white ball of fluff named Snooks.  Dad built a cage for her that we kept by the back door of our house.  One morning a neighbor called and we children were not allowed to go outside.  That was strange because in our neighborhood, the moms kicked the kids out and we weren't allowed home until we heard them calling for dinner. It turns out that a dog had torn into the cage, killing the rabbit, and leaving its remains on one of the front lawns.  My father watched for that dog to return.  When he did, he followed it home and confronted its owner.  He told the woman that if the dog ever came back on our property, he would shoot it. The woman told him that if he did that, his kids wouldn't have a father.  I hated dogs for a long time after that.

But I digress.  

Ed told us that his dad had died a few years ago.  We talked a little about how most of the old neighbors were gone, how sad we were that our parents had died, and so on, but Ed had a story he needed to tell us.  Towards the end of his life when he was very sick, Mr. Prutzer told Ed about something that had bothered him for fifty years. He asked if Ed remembered our rabbit.  He did, and he remembered a stray dog had killed it.  No, said Mr. Prutzer in full confession mode, the Prutzer dog did it!  The little part doxie tore our bunny out of her cage and ended her life.  We were in shock.  Ed's dad wanted him to apologize to us if he ever saw any of us again.  So, he apologized, and  we accepted.  I'm so glad Dad never killed that stray dog, and I'm glad that Mr. Prutzer could finally rest in peace.

The bonds of The Old Neighborhood.  The subject of novels. The fabric of life... and deathbed confessions.

Everything You've Always Wanted to Know About Colonoscopies.... or not.

If you're my Facebook friend, then you probably figured this was coming... the colonoscopy blog. Yes, after many years of "Oops, my colonoscopy prescription has expired.  Again." I was finally forced to go through with it.

Let me add my voice to all those who tried to reassure me. Really, it isn't as bad as you convince yourself it is going to be.  After all, we're dealing with an invasive procedure.  And poop.  Heaven knows, we all hate poop. Ugh.  Poop. Yuck. But since the majority of people I know are full of it, poop is something we all must eventually deal with.

I approached the procedure with as much optimism as I could muster.  I told my sister that I planned to weigh myself before the cleanse and after it to see how much weight I lost.  I figured, whatever the amount of poo and excess fluid that left my body, I would subtract that amount of weight from my weekly weigh in.  After all, it's waste material, neither fat nor muscle. Due to its temporary status, I scientifically deduced that amount should not count.  I was anticipating being able to mentally deduct five whole pounds each time I weighed in.  Ha! It was a whopping total of .6 pounds.  Or poundlets, since it wasn't even a whole pound.  Ugh. Damn poop.

The cleanse itself wasn't as bad as I had anticipated.  A person used to have to fast while downing a very salty and gritty concoction that you picked up in its gallon jug at the pharmacy.  Every old person in line knew what you were in for, which was totally embarrassing.  They looked at you and saw poo.  Ugh. Poop. Yuck.

I got to drink a concoction of Miralax and Powerade.  I love lemon lime drinks (especially margaritas), so I bought the light liquid and figured this would be a breeze.  And the first glass went down easily.  But the aftertaste didn't.  By the end of my 64 ounces, I was using a straw, holding my nose, and closing my eyes as I sucked down each dose as quickly as possible. I never felt nauseated, even though a few of my friends had experienced projectile vomiting.  I was determined to follow the instructions perfectly. My friend Nadine had told me that her hubby Chuck had to do the whole thing over again because he hadn't been able to clean himself out.  No way was I going through that!!

Here's my advice about how to best use the bathroom.  Make sure the house has been cleared of people who might feel tempted to comment on the noises or fumes coming from the potty room.  No one needs to hear, "Holy cow! Light a match!"  And frankly, I'm not sure that match lighting would even be safe. My dog, who loves to sleep at my feet,  stayed at my sister's house because I didn't want to trip over her on my sprint to the bathroom.  (I did that once and put a hole in the wall the size of my butt.) Since I wasn't sure when the meds would kick in, I had my book, glasses, a small pillow, and a space heater waiting for me in the bathroom.  What can I say about the heart of the prep?  If you have ever had food poisoning, this is no where near as bad. I even managed to get a few hours of sleep before Dee came to get me at 6:30 am.

The hospital staff was very nice.  They are compassionate and understand that this is a humiliating experience for patients.  I actually felt compassion for them having to deal with poop on a daily basis. I thought getting up to go to work with maniac seventh graders was a challenge.  Ha! I can't imagine how one greets the day knowing you're going to spend it scoping people's colons.   I hope it pays well.

Once you are hooked up to the IVs and heart monitor, you're in dreamland before they wheel you out of the waiting area.  I woke up with a big smile.  It was over!  I survived!  And the drugs were gooood!!  Dee and I went out for a big breakfast, and then I came home for a much needed nap.

While I won't say it's a piece of cake, I will not have these fears when I go for my next one in twelve months.  You see, I need a follow-up.  The doctor removed four polyps, and one was big and needs to be biopsied. I had no idea that they would find anything suspicious.  I always felt fine "down there." And that is why you cannot ignore this procedure once you hit your fifties.  Colon cancer is silent and sneaky.  Maybe a bloody stool will alert you to a problem, but most likely not in time to avoid a problem. Had I done this procedure ten years ago, that polyp might have been removed before it had a chance to expand.  Katie Couric did her colonoscopy on live TV and exclaimed, "I have a pretty little colon."  I don't care if mine is pretty, but I am hoping for good news that tells me it's healthy.

March is Women's History Month.  We all know that, right?!?  It is also Colon Cancer Awareness Month.  Get your ass to a health center near you.

A Bad, Bad Blind Date

In honor of Valentine's Day, I've decided to share with you the absolute worst blind date of my life. It was so long ago that I am not sure I'll be able to remember the details.  I do remember, though, that I swore off blind dates after that one.

One of my dear friends thought I might be a good match for her hubby's best friend.  We'll call him Doofy (the best friend, not her hubby).  I agreed to meet him at his home where we would then go out to dinner.

I got to Doofy's house after work, about 4:30-ish.  I had brought a bottle of wine.  He grinned and said, "Oh, the good stuff." Then he put it in his refrigerator, and sat down to finish the beer he was in the middle of drinking. No, he did not offer me a drink of anything.  He asked if I wanted to go to a nearby steak house and told me we'd have to make a couple stops before we got there.  I knew I was in trouble, but I said that was fine with me. I ignored the reverberating "Danger, Will Robinson" that filled my head.

The first stop was at the local train station where he wanted to greet his incoming grandparents.  Not pick them up, his cousin was there to do that. Just greet them, just say hello.  His grandparents absolutely loved him and fawned all over him, but his granny did not like me. Not one bit. He introduced me as his girlfriend, and Bubbe's nose wrinkled liked she was smelling a fart.  I guess she thought I couldn't hear her ask her little Doofala what he saw in me.  The grandfather assured her I must be very nice. The screaming inside my head got louder.

Next, he needed to stop at a friend's house.  He and his friend cracked open a few beers, and I was left alone in the living room with a wife who wanted to do anything but entertain me.  I fielded such probing questions as "How long have you known Doofy?"  with answers that totally befuddled her. When she ran out of interview questions, I suggested I find Doofy so we could get off to dinner.  I found him in the basement admiring the friend's classic car.  He sucked down the dregs of the beer and I insisted we get moving.

In the car he told me he wanted to make one more stop.  He needed to go to his OA meeting (Overeaters Anonymous) so he could be prepared to not overeat at the steak house.  Finally, I pulled myself out of my shocked state and told him we could go to dinner now or he could take me back to my car.  We went to dinner.  During dinner, he ordered a carafe of wine. I had one drink.  He finished the carafe, and ordered a second.  He lectured me on how fattening and unhealthy my dinner was (a steak, baked potato, and salad from the salad bar).  He had a salad on a dinner plate that was drenched in blue cheese dressing, sunflower seeds, eggs, bacon, and macaroni salad.  His "healthy" salad had twice the calories of my dinner. He also ordered a steak dinner because he needed some protein to go with his salad.  I hoped all that food was soaking up the alcohol because I knew that I couldn't drive a stick shift, and I wanted nothing more than to get home alive.

Back at his house, I asked to be directed to the bathroom before I made my way home.  When I came out of the bathroom, the house was completely dark! Doofy had turned off every light in the house except a tiny lamp in his bedroom.  I peeked in and he was sprawled across the bed, shoes and shirt off, and posed as a gift to me.  He asked for a goodbye kiss.  I mumbled that I had to get home because I needed to get up early for work.  I nearly stumbled trying to find the staircase in the dark.

I was home by 11:30, but it took me forever to fall asleep that night.  When my girlfriend asked me how the date went, I told her that he didn't seem like he was ready to date anyone at the moment.  She said he was anxious to go out with me again because we had to end our date abruptly due to me needing to get up early the next day. Yes, readers, Doofy really said that to her.

I'm sure Bubbe was glad we never saw each other again.

Doctor Appointments

Once when a friend of mine and I were trying to schedule a date for our next luncheon, I glanced at her pocket calendar.  It was packed full of penciled-in engagements.  When I expressed envy over her busy social calendar, she shook her head and laughed.  "They're all doctor appointments," she said. "If I didn't have these appointments, I'd have no social life at all."

Now that's just sad.  But true for so many of us retirees.

I am in the process of follow-up doctor appointments concerning my most recent visit to the gynecologist.  And I hate it.  I don't necessarily dread the results of these appointments and tests.  I dread the time spent in that medical environment.  That special smell encountered when you enter a medical facility. The out-of-date magazines you're almost afraid to touch because someone with symptoms far worse than yours may have sneezed on them.  The looks on the faces of others in the waiting room.

I took my friend Nancy to some of her chemotherapy appointments.  The waiting room overflowed with people in various stages of the disease.  Some had hair.  Some wore cute hats and scarves.  The "society type" ladies often wore heavy makeup and slightly crooked wigs. Some were chatty, but most were eerily quiet.  The look in their eyes was universal, dull.  No light. No joy.  The look of acceptance, fear, exhaustion, and worry.  Being sick hurts, both physically and mentally.

I don't know what is in store for me.  My gynecologist left me feeling  hopeful.  I'm one of the lucky ones with good health insurance.  So, I will have all these tests.  I will pencil-in my appointments.  I will be poked and prodded.  I will take care of whatever ailment is plaguing my old body.

And no matter what the diagnosis/ prognosis, I will take that Thanksgiving cruise with my family this coming November.

Getting old is not for the weak.

I Really Hope I'm a Hypochondriac

I've reached an age where the expression, As long as you have your health everything else is chopped liver, has become my mantra.  I remember listening to my parents' friends discussing their health woes and shaking my head at such boring conversations.  Now, my friends and I constantly discuss our health. Many of us have pre-existing conditions that could have left us uninsurable in the days before Obamacare.  My friends have diabetes, MS, heart issues, back pains, and cancer.  Some of my friends are no longer here because of cancer. I worry about cancer because I have growths on my thyroid that could become cancerous.  I'm regularly checked, biopsied, and ultrasounded.  So far, so good.

Maybe.

Yesterday I went to a clinic because I had all the symptoms of a urinary tract infection.  They can easily get out of control, so I wanted to nip it in the bud.  The doctor was perplexed when the urine test came back with no indication of a UTI.  Then he did a series of blood tests, concerned that the pain in my lower right abdomen was a cry for help from my appendix.  Nope.  All clear.  He gave me three days of antibiotics in case a UTI really was starting up and sent me on my merry way, suggesting I follow up with my doctor if I'm not feeling better in a few days.

Of course, I followed up with the internet and worked myself into a frenzy last night.  A sleep losing, anxiety filled frenzy.  Because, these symptoms of mine are associated with the most difficult to diagnose cancer for women, ovarian cancer.  Ovarian cancer in its earliest stages is rarely diagnosed because the symptoms are ones that women experience for many benign reasons.  But, I focused on two that made me panic immediately.  In laymen's terms, one of them is a feeling of being full before one has eaten enough to actually be full.  I've been experiencing this phenomena for months. Sometimes I am in the middle of a delicious meal that I absolutely have to stop eating because to take one more bite would cause me to vomit.  After a dinner in Baltimore, I couldn't get into my friend Nancy's car right away because I was on the verge of leaving my calamari on the parking lot macadam. I just assumed I was eating too much, the food was too rich, etc. etc. Maybe those are the reasons, but this is something I had not experienced before this past year. And it's weird. You have to admit, it's weird.  I was also chilled by the symptom described as bloating.  My abdomen has changed shape this past year.  It's hard to explain, but I have not gained any weight (in fact, the recent weigh in revealed I'd lost a few pounds), yet my gut is rounder and bigger than it used to be.  I've just blown this off figuring my old weight was settling differently on my bones.

That is exactly why the early stages of ovarian cancer are missed.  The bodies of older women betray us in so many ways that one more change is taken in stride.

In this day and age of instant internet information, we often make the mistake of diagnosing ourselves according to what WebMD says we might have.  It's a stupid thing to do, and in most cases, internet research only results in one being one's own quack doctor.  The scary thought is, what if I'm right?  I diagnosed my dog's Cushing's disease from what I read on the internet. What if I'm right again?

Why not me?  At my age, one in six women will be diagnosed with ovarian cancer.  I can think of five friends right off the bat and not one of them has ovarian cancer.  Hopefully, I don't either.  I can't stand the thought of doing this to my nieces.  I can't get sick and put them through it.  I can't.  I just can't.

I go to the gyno later this week.  I am hoping for the best.  I'm praying that my self-absorbed, drama queen, doomsday, over-reactive attitude will eventually embarrass me. In fact, I'm looking forward to being branded a hypochondriac.

I'll keep you posted.

Life Can Turn on a Dime

Life can turn on a dime.  After sixty-one years, I have witnessed the reality of this cliche as I am sure many of you have, too.  A fall on the ice rendered me unable to walk or work for the next few months. An open door led to the loss of a beloved family pet.  One phone call and a loved one was lost forever. Life was going along just fine, and then....

I am terrified of car accidents.  I don't think I'm as good a driver as I once was.  Ask my friend Dee who screamed and stopped me from plowing into a car waiting to make a left turn.  I also don't think drivers are as good as they credit themselves with being.  Multi-tasking behind the wheel has made the roads increasingly unsafe.  Simple mistakes can be disasters.  Recently, I swerved out of the path of a car driving on the wrong side of the road in the early evening. Scary as hell. It was a mistake that luckily did not result in tragedy.  Others have not been so lucky.

I couldn't even read the latest Lisa Scottoline book that opened with a hit-and-run car accident that left a woman dead and a man and son consumed with guilt.  The opening of that book filled me with such anxiety that I had to put it aside.  It felt too real, too horrible, and all too likely to happen to anyone who operates a car.That's why a recent car accident that has touched my life in an indirect way has filled my thoughts lately.

If you're local, you know that an Episcopal bishop hit a bicycle rider and killed him. The accident happened in the late afternoon.  Complete details have not been released, charges have not been filed, but the media of public opinion has gone wild.  The grief of the bicycling community has been agonizingly expressed, and much of the speculation paints the woman as a monster.  She did what could not be forgotten or forgiven, she left the scene of the crime.

Many at my church know this woman and care deeply about her.  In fact, Sunday's sermon dealt with this catastrophe and our feelings about it. We prayed for the deceased and his family, but we also prayed earnestly for our church's friend.  She did not mean to hurt anybody.  But she did, and her first response was to run.

I had trouble with that.  How could she leave?  How could she not stay and pray over him? Call 911? Do something. Anything.  And then one of the parishioners made it very clear to me.  She said, in her quiet and gentle voice, that we all like to think we would do the right thing.  But in the shock of the moment, can we really be sure what we'd do?

I once thought I was sure.  But if I am truthful, I realize that I am not so confident I'd do the right thing.  Over a year ago, my sister's oven caught on fire.  I'd been trained in emergencies.  I should know what to do in case of fire.  What did I do?  I got myself out of the house.  Myself.  Granted, if one of the kids had not been outside, maybe I'd have sprung into action.  But we left the guinea pigs and birds in the house.  Animal activists could judge us brutally for doing that.  However, in the panic of the moment, we just weren't thinking straight.  And I didn't respond the "right" way.

Life can turn on a dime.  Like a roller coaster, we can be riding high and in the blink of an eye, drop to the deepest depths.  My heart goes out to the people whose lives recently took that painful drop. May the bicycle rider be in peace.  May his family and friends weather this tragedy and heal. And may God also hold the Episcopal priest in His embrace.  None of us are perfect.  None of us are exempt from the possibility of our own lives turning on that proverbial dime.