My favorite time of year has arrived. Cool mornings and nights, sunshine and 70 degrees during the day. Does it get any better than this? Although spring is a close second, my favorite season is fall. Sweaters, and boots, and fire pits, oh my! And then there’s the leaf peepin’ – a kaleidoscope of red, orange, yellow, green, and gold (lots and lots of gold).
This year, I’m going to New York to celebrate the season. Broadway, the Burroughs, and Brooklyn’s Botanic Garden are all on the itinerary. I’ve also heard rumors of shopping and cheesecake.
A street by my house is lined with crimson Sugar Maples; it is truly a sight to see. Too bad I’m not an Alabama fan. Go Tigers!
I recently listened to a podcast where the guest mentioned “the least, the last, the lost, the left out, the lonely, and those who have lost hope.” Turns out that phrase is from the Bible, who knew?! Certainly not someone educated in the Catholic school system back in the day. (IYKYK) Regardless of the source, the quote has stayed with me for months.
Truth be told, I have been some version of all of those at one time or another. If those experiences helped shape who I am today, then I guess I should be grateful. I’m not sure the lessons needed to be quite so harsh, but I’ll admit I can be a slow learner.
The best part of having survived those experiences is that my heart feels deeply for others when their L word arrives. It’s not always easy to recognize those in the throes of heartache or despair; people tend to keep that shtuff to themselves. Given the current state of crazy in our world, our country, our schools, our neighborhoods, our families – I think it’s safe to presume most everyone is some kind of L word.
Reflecting on this phrase has helped me remember what helped when I was knee-deep in survival mode. The unconditional love of family and friends was life-saving. People’s willingness to listen (again and again) was an immeasurable gift. Those who took the time to reach out brightened moments that felt hopeless. All of it, every kindness, made such a difference in my life.
Having been blessed beyond measure, my goal is to pay it forward. Please feel free to join me.
For most of my professional life, I had a Friday night routine. It started by reading People magazine from cover to cover (junk food for the brain) and completing the crossword puzzle. Then, I would watch one of two movies. This ritual was my saving grace.
My careers in oncology and hospice were incredibly rewarding, but they were also highly stressful. I often met people during some of the most difficult times of their lives, many of whom had just received devastating news. Talking to a social worker was usually the last thing on their wish list. Yet, there I was, offering reassurance and hope. Oncology patients and their families needed support and resources. Hospice patients and their families needed tenderness and comfort. By the end of the week, I was often exhausted.
Enter the movies The Way We Were and Dumb & Dumber. It’s an odd combination, I know.
If the week had been particularly emotional and gut-wrenching, I would watch The Way We Were and let the tears flow. The recent news clips of Robert Redford’s career reminded me just how much that movie cleansed my soul.
For weeks that were more chaotic, I watched Dumb & Dumber. Is there a more ridiculous movie? Yet, if you’ve ever dealt with Medicare, insurance reps, or drug companies, you’ll recognize the similarities. Laughter really can be the best medicine.
No matter where you work or what you do, I hope you have an end-of-the-week ritual that brings you peace and restores your sanity (what little you may have left)!
My mother is an avid letter writer. When politicians or organizations disappoint her, she voices her discontent with a personal letter to the offending party. Even her children have been known to receive such a missive! I am now officially a letter writer, too.
Maybe I’ve been a letter writer longer than I realized. Years ago, the Columbia Tribune featured a distasteful cartoon by John Darkow related to suicide. My letter to the editor appeared in the newspaper. In return, Mary Smith, aka Gam, and a kindred spirit, sent me a letter thanking me for speaking out.
Recently, I sent individual letters to three administrators at Boone Hospital expressing my disgust with the lack of empathy and care my dear friend Mary Wells experienced as she lay dying in the hospital. I methodically detailed Mary’s end-of-life experience, highlighting the various ways in which the hospital staff fell woefully short of attending to her physical and emotional needs. One administrator responded with a letter filled with platitudes, but devoid of any acknowledgment of the hospital’s failings. Worse yet, the response included misinformation and inaccuracies. Please do better.
Last week, I sent a letter to the Today show regarding their callous and insensitive interviews of the children who survived the school shooting in Minneapolis. I urged them to set a higher standard for media coverage of such events. I stopped short of suggesting NBC pay for the mental health counseling those children will need in the weeks, months, and years to come. Please do better.
On a brighter note, my friends Rick and Jessie have begun a weekly tradition of sending cards to their friends and family who have brought joy to their lives. I am proud to say I am the recipient of one such acknowledgement. I’m thinking about implementing a similar practice – it’s called balance.
I took a break yesterday. I silenced my phone and checked it once an hour for messages. I did not turn on the television, nor did I listen to any news broadcasts. I needed a break.
If you are someone who follows the news closely, I support you.
If you are someone who rails at the gods on social media, I support you.
If you find solace in nature, I support you.
If you find comfort in prayer, I’m right there with you.
Whatever your source of sanity, please don’t forget to take good care of you. Drink some water, go for a walk, breathe deeply, take a break. We were not meant for times like these.
You may or may not have noticed I took a hiatus from blogging this summer. I broke my right arm, again, and spent May, June, and July in a cast. I became proficient with voice texting; the ability to type has taken longer to master. I still have a way to go with physical therapy, but I’m happy to report that slow, steady progress is happening.
While I was recovering, I evaluated my priorities and commitments. After all, I had plenty of time for navel-gazing. I realized that for someone who is ‘retired,’ I have a lot of jobs. It took some serious soul-searching to help me remember what truly brings me joy. Moving forward, I’m proud to say I’ve made significant revisions to my To Do list. The decisions were not easy, but the freedom I now feel is worth it. Cue Jon Batiste.
While considering which responsibilities to prioritize and which to forego, Matthew suggested my new mantra: “If it’s not Hell Yeah, it’s F*ck No.”
Our unlikely friendship started 16 years ago when I met her and her husband at MCA. He was a patient, and knowing of his stature and accomplishments in academia, I asked if he wanted to be addressed as Professor Larson or Dr. Larson. He replied, “I’d like to be called Precious.” And so it was. He became Precious, and Mary was Mrs. Precious. After Precious died, I stayed in touch with Mary. She was of the generation built on stoicism and grit. She declined grief therapy from hospice but kindly tolerated my calls and visits.
Our friendship was almost instantaneous. They say, “Friends come and go like the waves of an ocean, besties stick around like an octopus on your face.” Problem is, I don’t know who stuck to whom.
Mary lived life on her terms. She was single until she married in her late 60s – a marriage that ended way too soon, but a union filled with fun, laughter, travel, and Precious memories. After her husband died, Mary spent her remaining years doing as she damn-well pleased. She was fiercely independent (possibly to a fault, but don’t tell her I said that), stubborn, and predictable. A creature of habit – she had brunch at the Broadway Diner and visited with David every morning, devoured the daily paper with a “70-pound dog on her lap” every afternoon, and had dinner at Osaka or Jimmy’s Steakhouse most evenings.
Mary strongly disliked a particular political party and loved Rachel Maddow, cars, driving, Honeybun (the 70-pound dog), white chocolate mochas, pie from The Rolling Pin, and a good laugh. For almost 16 years, we spoke on the phone at least once a week. She was much more diligent about staying in touch than I was, but I enjoyed hearing her stories every time she called. (And yes, they were the same stories every conversation.)
Most recently, we’ve spoken on the phone a couple of times a day. Despite her diagnosis of cancer, Mary remained true to herself. She didn’t spend a lot of time dwelling on her illness or worrying about the future. There was no “Poor me,” it was more a shoulder shrug and, “What are ya gonna do?” She wasn’t in denial, she was just being Mary.
I’m going to miss her more than words can say. I’m happy for her, but sad for me. Yet, I will be forever grateful for the gift of her unconditional love and friendship. You go, girl!
💕💕
My nephew died a year ago today, and our family has not been the same since.
Everyone is dealing with the loss in their own way. Tears have been shed, stories and memories have been shared, and inexplicably, life has gone on without him. That’s what life does, and that’s what those left behind are forced to do. Despite broken hearts and unimaginable pain, we continue to move through the grief journey, one second, one minute, one day at a time.
Just when it felt like there was no end in sight, grace appeared.
Anne Lamott says, “I do not at all understand the mystery of grace – only that it meets us where we are but does not leave us where it found us.” Grace was given on Thursday, for that I will be forever grateful. ❤️
Our current political season has been a study in human behavior. It’s been interesting to observe how friends, family, and fellow citizens have responded to the myriad events of the past four months. Is that right? It’s only been 4 months?!
Some people diligently research issues and are well-informed about the Constitution, laws, and governmental activities.
Then there are the expats and activists who have moved to somewhere other than here, sold their Teslas, and protested in the streets.
Others have chosen the delicate balance of attunement. Empathy, compassion, and mind-size bites enable them to maintain their sanity and emotional well-being.
Last but not least, some post memes that bring a little levity to our existence, while others depend upon their faith to comfort them.
I have the utmost respect for each and every approach.
I have no idea what the future holds, but I will make this prediction:
If you thought last year’s Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners were awkward, wait until your family gathers for Easter. Good luck and God bless!
❤️
Each year, I read The Purpose Driven Life for Lent. As close as I can figure, I’ve been reading that book for the past 16 years, give or take a year or two. I have highlighted passages on almost every page, and I date the highlights to remind me where I was emotionally and/or spiritually that year. The Purpose Driven Life is one of the three primers I read every year, the other two being Man’s Search for Meaning and Traveling Mercies.
Although the book is filled with pearls of wisdom, there’s one term that resonates with me every year, EGR, an acronym for Extra Grace Required. The book defines an EGR as someone who is “difficult, a person who may have special emotional needs, deep insecurities, irritating mannerisms, or poor social skills.” I’m not sure anyone needs a definition to recognize an EGR. Truth be told, I have no trouble identifying people who fit the description. However, this year, I’ve decided to look a little deeper and recognize the ways I am an EGR:
- When I’m judgmental – hence the list of others who are EGR.
- When I’m impatient – usually just with insurance companies and healthcare systems that don’t do their job. Has anyone else attempted to transfer their medical records from one provider to another? If so, I know you feel me.
- When I spend too much time overthinking instead of trusting the process and God.
- When I lack the self-confidence to say or do the things I know need to be said or done.
- When old hurts and faults still haunt me.
- When I leave social events without telling anyone – I believe it’s called an Irish goodbye, but naming it doesn’t make it any more socially acceptable.
Despite my need for EGR, I’m thankful for those who love me for who I am, and forgive me for who I’m not.
