The Ending of Friendships

I've been thinking a lot about friendship lately.

Lifetime friends, mostly.

I have a few. I feel blessed. But there are a few that, long ago, were close to me and no longer are. In fact two were in my wedding party. Last week, I sent an email to wish one of them happy birthday and my email was returned because the email address was disabled. Honestly, it was kind a kick in the gut. I knew our friendship had fallen away but this seemed like a death knell.

I blame myself. (Full disclosure, I blame myself for almost everything.) I wasn't a great friend during the year that I was engaged. I guess that stuck with her...forever. I'm sad, because I like her as a person. She's smart and interesting. I did see her since our wedding and spent a lovely day reconnecting with her and her family in California. I can't help but feel really, really hurt. Part of me wants to reach out and apologize and say: "Please take me back. I promise I've improved."

But part of me is also pissed. Because as a wise person once said: "We are never as bad as the worst thing we've ever done." I was a complete moron when I was a young adult. But I wasn't the only complete moron young adult. And perhaps I should think that maybe this person isn't as great of a friend as I thought she was. Why can't she accept my flaws?

The answer is that as you get older, through circumstance or choice, you may add and subtract friends from your life. Life gets complicated. You grow out of some friends and grow into some others. Sometimes it's just people that connect with you because of what you're going through at the time.

I think the real problem is that I have a very hard time saying goodbye. I do not like the finality of things. I hate the end of vacations. I hate the end of events. There is something about endings that is really rough on my psyche. Maybe I need to learn to accept endings. Or maybe I need to look forward to new beginnings. I'm honestly not sure.

60 Things

On January 15th, I woke up and realized that it was exactly nine months until I turned 60 years old. That was a sobering thought. I've never spent much time anguishing over getting older. I don't color my hair. I actually look forward to turning completely grey, instead of the grey highlights I currently have. I pride myself on understanding social media, something that most people my age seem confused by. I like to know what young people think and do, even if I don't embrace it myself.

But 60. Woo. That seems irreversible. And it is. I get it. But I refuse to spend my "twilight years" being a sad sack.

So I started thinking about the fact that in nine months, a mother "grows" an entire human being in her womb. What could I do in nine months before I fell off the cliff of youth?

So I made a list of 60 things. Truth be told, I'm still compiling the list. Apparently, it's harder than it seems to come up with a list of 60 things to do before I turn 60. This isn't like a grocery list or a list of things to pick up in Target. (Side note: I could more easily purchase 60 things at Target than I could create a list of meaningful accomplishments.) Today, on March 1st, I'm at 51, which actually isn't bad. Just nine more to go. I'll do it because, stupidly, I blabbed about doing this on social media. I do that sometimes when I get all warm and fuzzy about sharing too much.

The list is quirky and weird and very few people will ever see the entire list. Some things on the list are like tasks or errands - cleaning this and calling that person or going to see that thing. Some are about learning something WAY outside my comfort and skill zone. The hardest one is absolutely the dumbest thing I will ever do. It's not dangerous, except to my ego. And I will try like hell to get it over with because then everything else on the list will seem like a piece of cake.

But actually, the truly most difficult thing on my list of 60 Things is something I added this morning: "Be kinder to yourself in regards to how you think about the way you look." I added this because a few months ago, I realized that EVERY time I looked in the mirror, I judged myself. It's so subtle and so insidious that it never occurred to me that it might be a bad thing that every morning I subconsciously said things in my head, like: "I hate that double chin." "I hope nobody notices the rolls of fat around my bra line." "I wish I had eyebrows." "I wish I were thin."

You see, it's so common that I never notice it. But friends, I will tell you that saying these things to yourself, even if you don't say them out loud, will eventually chip away at your self-esteem. You will begin to believe your badness...and not in a good way.

So today, I read this article and I've never felt more seen. I've spent a lifetime feeling overweight and less than worthy. I've been told "You'd be pretty if you lost weight." I've been taught to believe that because I don't fit in tiny clothes, I'm not worthy of love or admiration from other people or, worst of all, myself. My daily berations are taking their toll and I must stop.

So, today, I will look in the mirror and say something kind. I will do this every day until it becomes a habit. I've gotta learn to love me with all my flaws and imperfections and fat rolls. I must because if I don't love myself, who is going to love me?

Move It or Lose It

I've been thinking a lot about aging lately. And to put a punctuation mark on this thought process, I tweaked my back yesterday. I wasn't doing anything particularly strenuous. I was playing tennis (doubles) as I do every Monday morning. One minute I'm running around the court, the next, walking kinda hurts and I desperately want to walk hunched over.

I pushed through the discomfort and made it through my day. But, honestly, I was kinda pissed. Although I'm not exactly "in shape," I feel like I exercise more than the average American. (Of course I'm fully aware of the fact that the average American is pathetic in movement goals when compared to the rest of the world.) Nevertheless, my slowly aging body betrayed me yesterday. I'll be fine, but it certainly was a warning shot over the bow of my creaking ship.

So as I was laying on the massage therapist's table today, I thought about the articles I read and videos I watched yesterday. Yesterday was the 75th Anniversary of the Liberation of Auschwitz. There was a march in which survivors gathered at the wall in the prison camp - the same wall where countless people were executed by the Nazis. They gathered at this wall and then marched, arm-in-arm, away from the camp. They did this as a remembrance of the atrocities that happened so long ago and also as a warning to all countries today - do NOT let this happen again.

Don't worry, this isn't a political post, although I will ask people not to vote for or re-elect those whose hate-filled rhetoric emboldens those that want to divide us and segregate us and drive out those that are different. Don't do that. That's not political. That's merely humane.

Nevertheless, I thought about the concentration camp survivors who are now in their 80s and 90s. They suffered so much physical and mental trauma when imprisoned by the Nazis. They were starved and beaten and tortured and yet, somehow, many were able to show up at Auschwitz and march. Honestly, I can't believe they survived this long. It's a testament to the strength of the human spirit. I'm humbled by what they've been through and how they keep going.

Then I thought about my 88 year-old Mom. Seven years ago, when we moved my parents in with us due to failing health and other circumstances, Mom was the healthier parent. Although she was legally blind, she walked unaided and moved around pretty well.

Today, Mom uses a walker and struggles to even move across her tiny apartment. She has a permanently dislocated shoulder, an unstable knee that should be replaced but can't be (because of her age) and macular degeneration. She's a shadow of herself.

I've long thought that one of the reasons that Mom stayed in relatively good shape was because she did everything for my Dad - she cooked, she did laundry, she looked after him. Once Dad passed away, she lost her purpose. Is losing your purpose a major blow to self-preservation?

But I also couldn't help but wonder if Mom's deterioration is a result of taking away her independence and virtually forcing her to rely on help for nearly every task. I know that she's in assisted living because she definitely needs help. But do these circumstances for her and so many other elderly actually hurt more than help? And how can we make sure our parents are safe, but also promote independence and continued movement and self-care?

The other day, I was at Mom's and walked down the hall past the Friday morning exercise class. On Fridays, Ron runs the class. Ron seems like a very fit man, likely in his late 60s or early 70s who wants everyone to move more, no matter their age. That's great and Mom did try Ron's class...once. At that class, a few minutes in, Ron told everyone to sit down on the floor. (Mom didn't, thank God.) Everyone looked at him and asked: "How do we get up from the floor?" Ron hadn't really thought of that. Last Friday, Ron was energetically instructing people to kick their legs diagonally across their bodies. He casually said "don't fall down" and nearly instantly, I heard a crash. Someone had fallen down. I guess the person was OK, but I kinda think Ron needs to be supervised. Mom refuses to return to his class...thank God.

In any case, I realize that I've raised more questions than I've made suggestions or supplied answers. This should not be surprising as I mostly have no idea what I'm doing.

But I do think that the old adage "Move It or Lose It" has some merit. Whatever keeps us going, we need to get up and move, especially when we don't feel like it. Sure, we might tweak our backs or our knees or some other strange malady my befall us, but I guess we're still better off taking the risk.

Kleenex and Perspective

I promised myself I'd start writing again. Not because I'm great. Just because I think writing is good for me. Also, I'm quite certain that nobody else is reading this. I originally started this blog to vent about my parents living with us. That was hard. If you look back six or seven years, you'll see I was struggling...a lot. And, see, that's when I often do my best writing - when I feel strongly about something...when I'm not great.

So, I'm back...I hope. We'll see.

Anyway, today's post is about illness and appreciation. The past two weeks, my husband and I have both been battling the mother of all head colds. (Hey, why isn't it the father of all head colds? Why throw mothers under the bus?) In any case, we've both visited doctors twice and we are both on antibiotics. We've gone through BOXES of Kleenex. It's not pretty. We've barely been able to rise above our feeling crappiness to talk to each other. It's like we're in the same house but not really.

Nevertheless, it occurred to me - we basically have colds. Fine, we have upper respiratory and sinus infections, but they're both just enhanced versions of a cold. And we feel lousy. And early on in the onset of this "illness" I thought about the people that I know battling cancer. (Yes, I went to a dark place.) And I thought about the fact that I was being a complete baby and I will recover. I can't imagine how my friends and acquaintances are able to be the shining optimistic versions of themselves with a life-threatening disease. I'm not sure I could be that strong. Then again, I guess you be what you have to be when you have to be it.

In any case, if you or someone you know is battling cancer - wow. I'm in awe. Wishing you or them strength and hope and love.

I Hate Goodbyes

I hate when things end. I hate goodbyes. 

When my job involved setting up for trade shows, I LOVED the getting ready, the preparation, the loading of product into displays. I LOVED making it “wow-worthy.” But I HATED when it ended – the tear-down, the packing up. It felt so very sad and final.

I love anticipation, but do not love the ending of things – good books, great TV series….great movies. (Except for “Into Great Silence.” That snooze-fest couldn’t end soon enough, in my opinion.) 

I really hate the end of the year. I hate the random listing and ranking of accomplishments and exploits, simply because of a calendar date. I especially hate thinking of those we lost. Nothing could be sadder. 

Goodbyes are hard for me and as we wrap up another annual visit by my kids – an especially good one, in my opinion - this image popped into my head. Having them home is like holding a handful of sand. While they enjoy their time with their friends and us, the sands fall through my fingers. I can’t stop the sand from falling any more than I can stop them from heading back home to Los Angeles. Yes, I said ‘home’ because that IS their home. They will always be from Tosa, but they are fully Californians. 

People often say to me: “Oh, that must be so hard to have your kids far away.” My answer is usually: Yes, it’s hard, but I’m grateful that they’re near each other and they’re happy. That’s all I ever care about – that they’re happy. 

So as we start another year, and our kids’ visit ends tomorrow, I’m feeling a tad reflective and melancholy. Maybe it’s because I’ve reached the age where I’m too aware of the passage of time. Maybe because caring for my Mom makes me realize that time is slipping through my fingers. Maybe it's because parenting adult children is a weird mix of holding on and letting go and leaning in and leaving space and trying not to step on toes. Mostly, it’s because I hate goodbyes. I love my life, but this ending of one thing and the starting of another is a challenge for me. I’m honestly not very good at it.

I share a lot with y’all – no doubt too much. (Sorry.) For some reason, I felt very compelled to share my complicated feelings this morning. While they’re still home for another day, I wanted to say all of this before they’re gone. I think most of you, especially if you’re parents, will understand. 

Thanks for reading. Happy New Year. 🥂🎉❤️

35 Years

Some people long for a life that is simple and planned
Tied with a ribbon
Some people won't sail the sea 'cause they're safer on land
To follow what's written
But I'd follow you to the great unknown
Off to a world we call our own

- Tightrope from “The Greatest Showman”

35 years. Wow. That’s the age of a full-grown adult. A lot can happen in 35 years. A lot DID happen in 35 years. 

35 years ago, I married my best friend. I know. That’s so cliché. Everybody says that. For us, it’s really true. I recently found a pack of letters from our engagement. I’ll tell you this: If somebody would marry me after receiving one of those letters, it’s a miracle. Boy, was I whiny and dramatic!

Nevertheless, we married. We had a blast at our wedding. I moved to Milwaukee and we started our life. Along the way, a lot happened. 

Here’s a list, in no particular order, of just some of our life events:

Set mousetraps.

Had babies.

Survived cancer.

Survived cancer again.

Had more babies.

Moved my parents in with us.

Sent kids to school.

Bought a house.

Sold a house. 

Bought another house.

Sold another house.

Got a job.

Parented a disabled child.

Traveled…a lot.

Sat in grandstands for sports.

Sat in theaters for concerts.

Got promoted.

Changed jobs.

Held our son’s hand while he passed away.

Held my Dad’s hand while he passed away.

Drove carpool.

Cried through graduations.

Laughed at mishaps.

Argued over small things.

Yelled at the kids.

Yelled at each other.

Waved goodbye as our kids moved across the country.

Filled our basement with crap.

Cleaned the basement.

Gained weight.

Lost weight.

Gained weight again.

Sat through 150 recitals.

Quit jobs.

Lost parents.

Made new friends.

Reconnected with old friends.

If you asked me what the secret to a long marriage is, I guess I’d tell you it’s what’s written inside my original wedding ring – love and respect. Love when someone needs you and you feel helpless. Love when you run out of things to talk about because what haven’t you covered in 35 years of dinner table conversations? Love, when you see their best qualities reflected in your children. 

Respect because you know that this person is willing to do whatever is possible to put your relationship first…forever. Respect because sometimes you can’t muster up the 50/50 effort and you need them to be the 80 or 90%. Respect because even when you disagree, you try really hard to understand each other’s viewpoint just because it matters. 

Life is so much more than a Hallmark movie. It’s boring and glorious and messy and hilarious and tedious and infuriating and terrifying and heartbreaking and puzzling and ugly and so very beautiful. It’s the richer and the poorer. It’s the sickness and the health, but I’ll be honest, the sickness is what throws you for a loop and proves your mettle. But, like actual metal, it strengthens you. And it doesn’t have to be sickness. It can be parenting, financial struggles, job loss, differing opinions, anxiety, stress….it all adds up and challenges every part of you. But if you believe in your relationship and trust it, it’s SO worthwhile.

Look, I’ll be honest – I got lucky. I got VERY lucky. Somehow, this patient, kind, smart, unselfish human chose me. If that ever happens to you, don’t overthink it. Jump in. I mean, definitely talk about all of it – the goals, the expectations, the hopes, the dreams, the fears – but then LEAP.

Happy 35th, Tom. ILY, Forever. XXOO

The Struggle Bus is Real

I’ve been struggling lately as Mom’s caregiver. (Full disclosure, I’m not REALLY her caregiver. I see her weekdays only, usually less than an hour.) I’ve been impatient, frustrated, petulant…angry. She’s diminishing, before my very eyes. There seems to be less of her than before. But it’s not just her stature, it’s her mind. She used to be sharp as a tack. Now, she seems confused, which irritates me and also makes me feel bad. 

She can’t help it. Her body is failing her, much like her vision already did. 

You know how they talk about the circle of life? She’s heading back down the other way. As I’ve explained to people, she’s a version of 11 year-old me. I didn’t like 11 year-old me. I was self-absorbed and constantly wishing that I’d be diagnosed with something so that everyone would pay attention to me. VERY immature. Mom’s a nicer version of that. I’m finding it hard to be a mother to my mother. I’m not very good at it.

She complains of dizziness and lightheadedness. So I take her to the doctor. They poke, they prod, they question, they test. Then they say they can do no more and want to send her to the emergency room. Suddenly, she perks up and says: “Oh gosh, no. That seems like too much.” If I felt that it would be a worthwhile trip, I’d do it in a heartbeat. But I know we’ll spend hours with more testing and poking and prodding…to no avail. 

I don’t NOT believe her complaints. It’s just that I think that they’re vague and borne of boredom and isolation, two things she can solve but wishes not to. She gets overwhelmed by “plans.” So then the plans are canceled and she sits and thinks about how shitty she feels. It's a vicious circle.

I bring her audiobooks which she ignores…for weeks. I return the books and then, two days later, she says, as if I’ve long denied her: “There is something I’d like. Can you get me a book to listen to?” I quietly say “sure” and then hang up the phone and SCREAM at it. It’s a rage I haven’t felt in years…against my elderly mother. How cruel am I? Very, apparently.

What I should do is listen patiently to her and empathize. What I do instead is tell her that I’m concerned because if she can’t live without full-time help, we’ll have to move her to a nursing home. That scares her. I didn’t mean to do that, but honestly, it’s true. 

We get a letter saying that four falls is too many and she has to sign a contract saying that she’ll keep her walker by her side more often…which she already does. 

We’re in this precarious place. It’s not really living. It’s applying band-aids to the gushing wound of aging. 

I try to remind myself to be gentler, kinder…but I can never seem to get there. I have friends who would do anything to be with their mothers again, and here I am, complaining about mine. 

When I get to be 87, I’ll surely reap what I sow and then my regrets will be oh, so bitter.