Is it Here Yet?

I don't know about you, but I'm kind of Covided out. Yet I'd feel somehow remiss ending the year without writing one more Coronavirus missive. 

I can only recall feeling sheer unadulterated terror three times in my life. The first was in the final days of my first pregnancy, knowing that the permanency of motherhood was not only imminent, but irrevocable. The second was on the morning of 9/11 as I sat on a plastic-backed chair in a waiting room of a car dealership, watching as crashing airplanes changed the world. And the third time was this past March when I found myself on a cruise ship – despite Dr. Fauci’s warnings, despite my ever-loving spouse’s pleading, despite the Covid outbreaks surging at sea. But it was still all so new then. Who woulda thunk that each day of vacation would bring a new, terrifying story of shudderings and shuttings back on dry land? 

 

Since we were all in the same boat, we coped as all avid cruisers do. With an umbrella drink.  And another. And another. Until we were tippsily sure we were safe and sound. Though no matter how many umbrellas we collected, we never passed a Purell station without taking a double shot. 

 

We were the last mega-cruise allowed to set sail – unbelievably, to this day. We were the sole ship given permission to dock in St. Maarten that week because we were the only one with a completely Covid-clean manifest. I bought two silver bangles, at full-price, from a shopkeeper in Philipsburg who was petrified, knowing her business relied completely on cruise ship traffic. I’ve never taken the bracelets off.

 

I’ve been on many, many cruises but this was one to remember. I’ll never forget the buddies we bonded with on that roller-coaster of fear and fun, with all conversations eventually turning to Covid. Throughout the week, March Madness was cancelled, the NBA shut down, schools, casinos, bars, gyms, and hair salons were closed. Every day brought more chaos and uncertainty. I remember my gut sinking when I got the text from my friend, Janice, telling me her husband and his brother were both in the hospital. I remember how, with each passing day, we came to believe we were safer at sea than at home. But most of all, that cruise will be forever etched as a scar in my heart as it was the last one with my soul- and shipmate, Patty. 

 

Because, by October, Patty was dead. 

 

When I arrived back in New Jersey, I learned that my little town of Teaneck, whose claim to fame was that it was the first in America to voluntarily integrate its schools, was now known as one of the first to voluntarily quarantine its residents. I had returned to the epicenter of Covid-19 where toilet paper shortages and restaurant closures were the least of our worries. Our friends were sick. Our friends were dying. 

 

It was a really strange and scary year, especially back in March and April. I kept lists. A lot of lists. Lists of how many miles I walked. How many hours I biked. How many friends got sick. How many friends were hospitalized. How many friends died. And, in my trusty moleskin planner, I kept track of everything I did in 2020. You know, just in case it was needed for contact tracing. Or my memorial service. 

Never in a million years would I have thought that late-February dinner in Maplewood with Tom and Jackie Shea would mark one of two times I ate indoors in a restaurant. The second was in October when my sister, who I hadn't seen since Christmas, came up from Charleston. We couldn’t eat outside because it was raining but found a restaurant with a high-ceilinged atrium and wide-open windows. We shivered through our shellfish, but no one got Covid. 

 

Never in this friend-craved life of mine would I have thought I could count on two hands the number of times I socialized this year. We had only two back deck dinners with the Santostefano’s. In the best of times, we eat and drink them out of house and home, sharing a second Thanksgiving dinner cooked up by Jean, watching 4th of July fireworks with them, celebrating Christmas together, and spending the past umpteen New Year’s Eves bemoaning the fact that we “have” to go out. 

 

We had a couple of New York City, grab-a-slice and go meals on the sidewalk, and a lovely Indian summer dinner outdoors with the Riverols and the Pintos. In real life, I hate to eat outside, primarily because my extra cup of ice melts too fast. But, desperate times…

 

Monthly lunches with Ann and Gail were replaced with one single outdoor gathering at which Gail replicated our 101 Pub salads. She continues to feed my spirit by leaving containers of homemade tzatziki on my front porch. 

 

We couldn’t have a 95^th birthday party for my mother, but I was able to spend a lot of days on the Daisy Lane Deck with her and two of my sisters. 

 

I haven’t seen Karen and Theresa at all. 

 

Yoga with Ann and Holly and Kathy somehow didn’t translate to the screen. Maybe because I couldn't hear them breathing. So up until the beginning of December, which also marked the beginning of too cold even for the fire pit weather, the four of us bubbled together to grouse and gripe and share Covid war stories. Because it always seems to come back to Covid. 

 

In a normal year, I go away at least half-a-dozen times, often twice that many times. Since Covid, not counting the cruise because the cruise was technically pre-pandemic, I’ve slept outside my home exactly once. We canceled our annual jaunt to Maine, but in the middle of July in the calm after the storm, which turned out to be the calm before the storm, four of the college girls met at Jeanne’s in Pennsylvania. We sat somewhat distantly at her sprawling picnic table, getting closer and closer with every bite. But we all made it out alive, and the risk was well worth the reward. 

 

We were invited to four weddings in 2020, none of which happened. Two of the couples got married on the date they had planned and all four will celebrate or re-celebrate in 2021, hopefully without masks. 

 

I walked and walked and walked, air pods tuned to all-Covid, all the time, news channels. I had a constant loop of doom and gloom going in one ear and not going out the other. But as the new normal normalized, I found my diversions. I started borrowing audio books from my library and always had at least one book beckoning me by my bedside and another one encouraging me to walk -- just 1,500 more steps -- to get to the end of the chapter. I read or listened to 48 books this year, with The Heart’s Invisible Furies, Daisy Jones and the Six, The Great Believers, and The Rules of Civility topping my list.

 

I watched tons of TV. I even taped the Trump press conferences because the needler in me loved to see how long it would take before the journalists made him blow. I flipped back and forth from MSNBC to CNN to FOX to see who was saying what, and why. And, then I stopped. Not completely, but I scaled way back. 

 

Instead I began binge-watching. First Ozark, then The Americans, both crazy plot-twisting shows that made our current situation seem somewhat sane. My friend, Peggy, had been telling me for years to watch Schitt’s Creek. But, I don’t like nonsense, so I refused. When I finally gave in, I found it was indeed nonsense, but genius nonsense, and will go down as one of my very favorite shows ever. 

 

I went from being alone in my big, old house with my hard-working spouse gone for 12 hours at a stretch, giving me the freedom to write at will, take my shower in a not-steamed-up bathroom, and eat my salad greens (and secretly-stashed chocolates) without an audience, to a life of the spouse, the youngest child, and I together. All. The. Time.  But we’ve taken tons and tons of day trips, exploring the Hudson Valley, Central Park, and other hidden gems -- something we haven’t had time to do since our kids were contained and constrained in car seats. 

 

The daughter comes and goes from Brooklyn, getting swabbed more regularly than she does laundry. The middle one visited once, demonstrating our conflicting definitions of Covid caution. When California shut down again, New Jersey ramped up again, and everyone and his brother begged the country not to travel, he/we decided to keep him on the other coast for Christmas. I mailed him and his girlfriend, Taryn, a huge box of presents on December 14^th. They have yet to arrive. 

 

My weekly mahjong games with Susan and Janice have been tabled. My book clubs, church services, work meetings, and writer’s group have been relegated to Zoom. I miss my college girl weekends. Vacations. Weekend at the Woolley's. Restaurants. Chapel Hill reunions. Thanksgiving in Pennsylvania. Claire at my kitchen table. Leo’s friends sneaking in the side door. And yes, even yoga. 

 

I snickered as I pulled a fresh bayberry candle out of the kitchen drawer this morning, wondering if perhaps last year I had forgotten about this family tradition that is reputed to bring good fortune and good luck. 

But then I remembered rushing out of the house after cocktails with Jean and Tom on our way to dinner at Amarone’s last New Year’s Eve. Jean chided me for leaving a lit candle, knowing my fear of fire. I explained that it was bad luck if you didn't let it burn to the socket and simply moved the candlestick to the sink as my mother had always done. When we arrived home in the early hours of the new year, it had burned out. 

 

As I light the bayberry candle this afternoon, it occurs to me that it did do the job last year. 

Losing Janice Preschel and Phil Pinto and so many others to Covid seems so surreal. Jack Peters and Phil Rodgers' deaths still hurt my heart. And the pain of losing Patty feels like it will never go away. 

 

But despite all we have lost, all we have given up, and all of the ways the world has changed, all of us, and all of you, still have the good fortune of being able to burn the midnight oil into 2021.

 

Happy New Year!

Broken Traditions

"Think of the excitement we are usually feeling at this time, on this day,” Sister Emily texted this afternoon. I had just returned from the grocery store, picking up potatoes for tomorrow’s mashing. 

On a normal Thanksgiving Eve day, I’d be on the turnpike right about now, imploring Siri to send a text to Sister Emily. “Be there in 45 minutes. Stuck in traffic at Exit 8.”

 

We’d buzz around her house, scrutinizing the step-by-step dinner directions sent by Sister Nancy, making a call to Sister Susan to confirm pick-up duty of our mother the next day, me running to Wawa for a bag of ice after determining that it would take way more than 24 hours for her ice maker to make enough ice to freeze away my fears of a lukewarm water glass. While I was gone, Sister Emily would have showered and put on the outfit of the year, me nodding from her high and fluffy bed with approval, perhaps selecting a bright accessory to enhance her image. 

 

And then, off we’d go to Schaeffer’s house. Not The Schaeffer’s house, for some reason, but just plain Schaeffer’s house. Every Thanksgiving Eve, including the year Nancy (not Sister Nancy, but ex-housemate Nancy who married John Schaeffer III out of IV) gave birth to her third, out of four sons that very week, we descended on Schaeffer’s for an inter-generational food and drink fest. 

 

We’d chatter away on the six-minute ride over, pre-gaming our hopes wondering who would be there. Would Taylor and Jenna fly in, literally, like he flies his own plane? Will this be a dancing night? A fire pit night? Which Schaeffer son will fill the house with the most friends? Would Tommy Dickinson and Jane really show? Would we beat Rob and Mon there? Is this Kit’s year to come and will Mark make an appearance with his bride-to-be? What kind of vegan delicacies would Johnny IV showcase between the filet and the pigs-in-a-blanket? And will Michelle’s bunion finally be healed? 

 

Every year at Schaeffer’s, while always different, is always the same. It’s the one time of year that there are no words to regret (well…), no calories to lament, only thankful thoughts that we have had a lifetime of tradition with lifelong friends. 

 

Thanksgiving Day has had many incarnations in my 60-odd years of life. But, it’s always been the same basic tradition. Always on fine china, always a big bird, always a family feast; first on Woods Road, right down the hill from Schaeffer’s, eventually morphing over to Sister Nancy’s gourmet kitchen in Oreland, and when she moved to Charleston, over to Sister Emily’s house on Preston Road. One year, and only one, we deviated. It was the year my father died, and for some odd reason, we all thought we’d feel better if no one cooked and cleaned and fussed and fumed. Of course, we were wrong. 

 

Thanksgiving is my very favorite time of year. It’s the perfect blend of everything I love most – friends, family, and food. And once the food has fermented into flab, the weekend is always topped off with a Friendsgiving feast at the Santostefano’s. What’s not to love about Thanksgiving? The most I ever had to do was mash the potatoes and show up with a bottle of Basil Hayden. 

 

Anyone who has known me for 15 minutes knows that I have many rules and proclamations, most of which make absolutely no sense to anyone. Least of all myself. 

 

For instance, I have never had a cup of coffee or tea in my life. I will never sleep without a fan blowing in my face, not at home, not in a hotel, not on a cruise ship, whether it’s 90 degrees or nine. I will never order a drink, neither water or whiskey, without an extra cup of ice. 

 

And I will never cook a Thanksgiving turkey.

 

This year, by no fault of our own, traditions have been broken. Hearts have been broken. Rules have been broken. 

 

But don’t get ahead of yourself. I’m still not cooking a Thanksgiving turkey. 

 

For the first time in as long as I can remember, there’s no Wednesday night at Schaeffer’s. No turkey and stuffing with my mother and sisters. And, no friends’ dinner with the Santostefano and Formisano families. 

 

And for the first time ever, I’m hosting - if you can call it that - Thanksgiving. It will be me, the ever-loving spouse, the youngest son and the only daughter. We don’t need a leaf in the table, we don’t have to borrow fold-up chairs from the Hargraves (actually, we never returned them from the daughter’s high school graduation party), and I don’t have to cook a 23-pound turkey.

 

Because the irony of it all is, along with everything else, my oven is broken. 

 

But we’ll improvise. The daughter’s good at that. I just have to take a deep breath and allow another human in the kitchen (my mother’s fault – she didn’t let anyone in until she turned 90). We’ve got an air-fryer, a crock pot, a microwave, an indoor grill, an outdoor grill with no propane, and a stove top. And, don’t judge me, a nice, small pre-cooked, pre-sliced turkey breast from Trader Joe’s. How bad can it be? 

 

We’ll get through the day. We’ll call the sisters. We’ll call the missing son. We’ll eat a week’s worth of food in a matter of hours. 

 

And, if the mother stays calm, once the kitchen is clean, I just may break another rule and descend the steps to the basement and succumb to the daughter’s wishes for a family viewing of her favorite movie. 

 

Because, despite our world being (temporarily) broken, there’s no denying the fact that It’s a Wonderful Life.

It's Not Covid, It's Not Cancer...

Well, it was, but, that was then, this is now. 

Ten years ago today, on the morning of my bosom buddy Claire’s 50^th birthday, I was admitted to the hospital to have my cancer removed. Ten years ago I couldn’t imagine ten days forward, let alone ten years. Yet, here I am. Alive and well. 

 

It never occurred to me that I would die from breast cancer, even though my college housemate, Betsy, (yes, same name – we also lived with Sue and Sue) relayed a cautionary tale when I was debating whether to get a lumpectomy, a mastectomy, or a double mastectomy. Her mother had died the previous year of breast cancer and told Betsy that she regretted not opting for the most radical treatment from the get-go, which may have prevented the recurrence which ultimately killed her. 

 

While that conversation sealed the deal for me, I knew that part of my decision had to do with logisitics. To me, it was way easier to lop them off than to drive myself to radiation every day for six weeks, endure chemo, hair loss, vomitosis, dependency on other humans, and all those other horror story side effects. And, while I was at it, I may as well do the two-for-one special so reconstruction, while double the everything, would be more symmetrical. 

 

Instead of focusing on the seriousness of the surgery, I obsessed over the minutiae. I made my friend, Janice, promise to come sweep the leaves off my back deck twice a week, if not daily. I worried about the meals Gail set up to be delivered to my house. Should I sit in the chair and moan so my friends would think I truly deserved their care rather than bounding to the door? Could I ask Claire to take me to yet another follow-up appointment, or should I just go ahead and drive, dragging drains and pillows with me into the driver’s seat? And, was it self-serving to put myself on the prayer list at church, another ploy for attention? These were the kind of things I worried about. 

 

When all was said and done, and I woke up, flat-chested for the first time since I was ten years-old, I was informed that it was indeed a good thing I had had a double mastectomy because there were cancer cells that had not been previously detected in the "good" breast. Which made me feel a little less selfish. 

 

Of course it wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. The drains were disgusting, I had a lot of discomfort and frustration in not being able to do things myself, but pain, not so much. I sent my spouse back to work right away so I could embellish my stories as friends rallied around me, helping me lug laundry baskets, wash my hair, wash the dishes, clean the house, and of course, sweep the deck. 

 

The best thing that came out of it was that I won a bet with my plastic surgeon, the Good Doctor Troy Callahan, that may well have saved me from future bariatric surgery. He, having done one or two reconstructions in his tenure, pushed back when I said I wanted to go smaller, way, way smaller with my new implants. He warned me that I would be way, way out of proportion if I went with the size I wanted. 

 

“What if,” I said sucking in my stomach as far as I could, which was not very far at all. “I lost 100 pounds. Then they’d be in proportion.” 

 

I won on both counts. I’m in proportion and I didn’t have to bolster big bosoms ever again. I lost 100 pounds in 14 months and have kept off 80 to 85 pounds of it (depending on the recent intake of ice cream) for the past 10 years. And while I bemoan regaining those 20 give or take pounds, what woman at my age isn't crying the same tears?

 

In the decade before the breast cancer, I had a hip replacement, followed four months later by a three week stint in the hospital for pancreatitis and an emergency gall bladder removal. Three years later, I had a hysterectomy – nothing urgent there, just pre-cancer cells. But, it was a lot while in the throes of child rearing. 

 

I made it a full nine years after the breast cancer with no surgeries and then had a double knee replacement. And while I had become quite good at managing my hospitalizations and rehabs, I put it off way longer than I should have. After recovering so well, and because there were no future surgeries looming, I went back to the Good Doctor to see about having extra weight-loss skin removed (I know, gross). 

 

But, then Covid hit and I put that on hold. 

 

So, here’s the It's Not Covid part of the story. In July, three of my college friends wanted to get together for an overnight at Jeanne’s house. It was summer, we could be outside, we could be safe. When I balked, they mocked me promising they'd take their temperatures every hour on the hour and dress in full PPE. I rolled my eyes and went. Of course I went. And two bourbons in, completely forgot about Covid for the first time in four months. 

 

I opted to sleep on the couch in the basement so I'd have my own private bathroom. When I woke up the next day with a stiff neck, morning after guilt kicked in. Was this a new Covid symptom? Was I going to bring the virus home and infect my whole family over a little bit of selfish fun? 

 

Two days later, the neck was fine, but my jaw was killing me. Killing me. I couldn’t open my mouth all the way which made it very hard to stuff with food, yawn, or over-talk. I got a Covid test. Negative. I went to the dentist and had no signs of an abscess. I got an antibody test thinking maybe it was a Covid after effect. 

 

Negative.

 

Then my right hand started hurting. It had actually been bothering me for a while, but I thought it was from playing too many Words With Friends games on my phone. Now it was so bad I couldn’t make a fist. I couldn’t grip the handlebar of my bike. I couldn’t tie my shoes or hold a pen the way I was taught in kindergarten. My finger looked like a sausage, gnarled like the Wicked Witch of the West, and felt like there was hot lava flowing through it. 

Oh, and then my neck kicked back in. It felt like a normal stiff neck like when you can’t look over your shoulder at the oncoming 18-wheeler as you merge onto the highway, but add excruciating pain. I couldn’t sleep on a pillow and if I rolled over at night, I had to put my hands on either side of my head to hold in the hurt as I turned. And my back, oh, how my back ached. 

 

Went to the doctor who pooh-poohed my guilt-Covid theory, especially since I tested negative. And, tested positive. For something called rheumatoid factor. 

 

Off to Dr. Anna Zezon I went, a rheumatologist I randomly picked by a random google search. Despite the unwelcome diagnosis she bestowed upon me, she quickly became my new favorite doctor, which in no way diminishes the love and respect I have for all my other favorite doctors. 

 

“You’ve got psoriatic arthritis,” she announced. 

 

Psoriatic arthritis. The chronic, incurable, autoimmune disease that closely resembles rheumatoid arthritis except for the scaly skin lesions often found on the scalp. (I know, again, gross). And here I thought I just had the everyday Head and Shoulders kind of dandruff. 

 

I’m clearly no stranger to pain. I can live with it for years and years and years. But, the thing is, you can’t really let this go without treating it. It will continue attacking, gnawing away, until there's permanent disabling damage to the joints.

 

Which brings me full circle to what I wanted to avoid ten years ago. Chemo. OK, it’s not really chemo, but it is methotrexate, which is a chemo drug. I am on a low, low dose so I may well avoid suffering those evil hair loss, mouth sores, nausea side effects. But, just in case, I take a daily dollar-a-day pill to help keep that all at bay. 

 

I have to shoot up once a week. For the rest of my life. 

 

I got a few free samples of an auto-injector, which is basically an encapsulated needle. You pull off a lid, push down on the end and you hardly know it’s happened. Especially if you have an extra two inches in your stomach to sink it into. But, alas, insurance didn’t cover it, so the out-of-pocket cost was a mere $133.08 a shot. For that price, I had no problem honing the fine art of shooting up with a vial and needle. The apparatus for which was mostly covered, costing me a total of $2.10 for three injections.

 

Miraculously, I received a letter from the “specialty pharmacy” informing me that my insurance decided to cover the auto-injector after all...for a $100 a month co-pay. By this time I was enjoying the progress I was making doing it the old-fashioned way so I told them I wasn't interested in forking out even that much money. But wait! Just call this toll-free number (and subsequently sit on hold for 33 minutes), and we'll waive the co-pay. Which I did. And they did. I’m now back to the auto-injector, but I assume it will be like a cable company deal. Once they’ve hooked you and the year is up, the cost will be back to $133.08 a piece, or most probably, even more. 

 

So, here I am, ten years cancer free, shooting up a chemo drug. The pain isn’t completely gone, and I don’t know if it ever will be, but I’ve learned to hold a pen between my first and middle fingers, work my bicycle brakes with half a hand, and have gotten really good at using back up cameras and rear-view mirrors.  

 

In no way do I mean to make light of anyone else’s cancers, or conditions, surgeries or sufferings. I just find for me, if I can laugh my way through the absurdity of it all, if I focus on the minutiae rather than the gravity of the situation, that getting through to the other side is way more bearable. 

 

So, until cancer or Covid gets me for good, I’m going to keep airing my dirty laundry, and thanking my lucky stars that for some unbeknownst-to-me reason, I just keep drawing the long end of the stick. 

Half a Lifetime

It’s official.

I’ve been married for half my life. 

 

At least for a year. 

 

I’d been looking forward to this milestone, but then did some simple addition and realized that this time next year when we reach our 32^nd anniversary, I will no longer be married for half my life, because I’ll “only” be 63, not 64.  Anything mathematical, statistical, or logistical hurts my brain so I don’t really understand this phenomenon, or at what age I’ll be when I fully cross over and can say with conviction, for the rest of my life, that I’ve been married over half my life.

 

All I know is that half of a lifetime, or anything close, is a really long time. 

 

“What’s the best thing about being married?” my youngest, not-so-young son asked us the other day in the middle of the woods in the middle of nowhere. I paused, still somewhat baffled that any semi-grown child of mine, would actually choose to be with me. I can say with unwavering confidence that the last place I’d be on a Saturday afternoon in October at the age of 24 would have been hiking in the lower Catskills with my parents. 

 

But, that of course, was a lifetime ago. 

 

“The best thing about being married?” I repeated, buying time. I’ve known from parenting for 45.16 percent (I googled it) of my life, that certain responses, certain reactions, certain non-answers can not be reconstructed or reversed. Ever.  

 

You know, the fury-filled, “I told you not to go” when you get the crashed-car on a snowy day call.

 

Followed by the, (gulp), “Yeah, I’m fine, Mom. Thanks for asking.” 

 

Or the, “You’re kidding. He’s asking HER to the prom?”

 

Followed by the completely innocent, “What’s wrong with HER, Mom?”  The HER who becomes HIS girlfriend three months later. 

 

“I DO like her,” you insist.

 

“Whatever.”

 

“The best thing about being married,” I said. “Is having someone you love with you all the time.”

 

I looked sideways at my ever-loving spouse who remained silent. 

 

“You know, like you never have to go to a wedding alone. Or make decisions alone. Or take care of the dog alone. And, of course,” I continued, mother gene kicking in. “Having kids together. Because no matter how much your grandmother or aunt or best friend pretends they care about the color of your baby's poopy diaper, no one cares like a parenting partner.”

 

“So, then,” asked the introspective son. “What’s the worst thing about being married.”

 

I laughed.

 

“Having someone with you all the time,” I said, without skipping a beat. 

We walked along, the three of us, scuffing at the fallen leaves beneath our feet. 

“Which is why you have to marry the right person,” I added.

 

“And, how do you know it’s the right person, Mom?” 

There's that question. The one akin to What’s the Meaning of Life? or Which Came First, the Chicken or the Egg? The one that every unmarried, soon-to-be married, and sometimes even married, person on the planet wants answered. 

 

I knew if I gave my stock response of “You’ll just know,” to my philosophy-major son, it wouldn’t fly.  

 

We’re talking the rest of your life, he’d undoubtedly argue. People evolve. Circumstances change. 

 

Instead, I just said, “You know, I’ve been married to your father for half of my life.” 

 

Long enough to launch three children, bury three parents, buy a big, old,front-porched, till-it-falls-apart or till-death-do-us-part house, lose a job, change a job, pray for a job, total a couple of cars, raise a couple of hounds, survive more than a couple surgeries, kill a cancer, shock a heart, buy two new knees, a hip, two bosoms, knowing we’d willingly double our troubles to mend one of our kids’ battered body parts or broken hearts, of which there’ve been many. 

 

Thirty-one years is a long, long time. 

 

But of course, if you marry the right person, no matter how you do the math, half a lifetime isn’t nearly long enough.

Anchors Aweigh

My friend Claire has rightly accused me of being a cold-hearted Episcopalian, even though I've been a Presbyterian for over 30 years now. She doesn’t say this with any ill intent because she would never say anything with ill intent. But facts are facts. I am stoic and tough and would rather pee my pants in public than be seen shedding a tear. At least the former could be crafted into a good story. 

 

But, this has not been a good week for my stiff upper lip. 

 

I lost my buddy, Patty. 

 

I’ve powered through death before. It’s never been fun, but with all due respect to the dead, it’s been doable. 

 

I’m not sure this one is.

 

“This one is tough,” I said to my friend, Ann, who has had way, way more experience with hard deaths than I ever will. I was just trying to flesh out the guilt I now harbored for not mourning others more. 

 

“It’s different,” Ann said, in her infinite wisdom. “Patty was a soul mate.”

 

Patty and I had unspeakable fun on a couple of cruises in our 20's. It took us another 25 years before our lives were aligned enough to allow a repeat performance. Once we did, we did it every year. Patty and I were perfect travel partners on the kind of vacation that serial over-indulgers look forward to 51 weeks a year. We went on a dozen cruises together and have dozens and dozens of fun stories, most of which are received with blank, “Guess you had to be there” stares. 

 

This year’s cruise sailed on March 8^th. If you think back to what was going on then, you might feel a little empathetic angst for us. I’m a fretter, but my anxieties revolve around things like securing an extra cup of ice, or the fear of forgetting a favorite pair of shoes. Patty worried about the catastrophic, like hurricanes, and school shootings and ….Covid.

 

My spouse begged me, literally begged me, not to go on this cruise. He’s a journalist who knows things. At the time, the only Covid cases were on cruise ships. But, for once, the tables were turned. I was the one who was scared. Patty wasn’t the least bit concerned. It was one of our best cruises ever. 

 

We didn’t die. And no one got Covid. 

 

But, it was the last cruise. The ships haven’t sailed since.

 

I’m a big believer in signs and omens and twisting reality to fit my fate. I can’t help but wonder if Patty insisted we go because somehow, some way, she knew that this was would be our last cruise. 

 

I had the good fortune of spending a week a year with Patty, so many of my most vivid, top-of-mind memories include fun on cruise ships. 

One year, two porters, seeing the 20 dollar bill dangling from Patty’s fingers, got into a fist fight over who would take our bags. A literal fist fight. 

On another cruise, our one and only time at a craps table brought us inexplicable luck, drawing a huge crowd.   

“I think that’s Bruce Springsteen’s wife,” someone whispered. Patty, who shared the same name, and after six drinks, perhaps a slight resemblance to the Boss’s wife, ran with it. We had half the casino fully convinced that Mrs. Springsteen and her friend, Betsy, were vacationing incognito, asking them please, please not to blow our cover. For the rest of the week we’d hear "that's her," whispers as we passed by.

 

Another time, Patty announced we had to start ticking things off our Bucket Lists. Little did I know how close we were getting. She somehow convinced me to go zip-lining in Jamaica, something that would have made my Bucket List maybe half a slot above sky-diving. She later admitted a tinge of fear when the adolescent zip-line operator kicked the milk carton out from under my quaking body, way before I was ready, laughing hysterically as I flew down a flimsy wire through a thick, far-below jungle. 

 

We laughed at horrendous karaoke, got lost on a bike ride in the Cayman Islands, convinced our room stewards to bring us chocolate covered strawberries every afternoon at 4, placed our towel animals in compromising positions, "stole" copious amounts of shampoo and dinnerware, got involved with a family of shysters, and made hundreds of friends over the years. After all, who wouldn’t want to hang out with the two old ladies who acted like teenagers?

 

In the past month when it became clear that we might lose Patty, I spent a lot of time with the high school girls, texting, talking, and Zooming. Despite our overwhelming sadness, it was cathartic sharing memories. 

 

We talked about how it all began. Three beguiling girls, soon to be known as Patty, Anna, and Donna, dressed in rolled up to high thigh uniform skirts, appeared without warning in the waiting-for-the-bus line at Enfield Jr High. 

 

I have a long history of sizing up potential soul sisters by sight and bee-lining to befriend them. I went in for the kill, but so did half the school. There was nothing more intriguing than new blood in the hallowed halls of adolescence. Especially if they were cigarette-sneaking, make-up wearing Catholic school girls, bussed in for gym, music and art classes just a couple times a week. 

They were instantly the “it” girls. 

 

By the time we got to high school, and they had become full-time public schoolers, I had weaseled my way into Patty’s heart, bringing along Rachel, Madge, and Debbie. Our girl gang intersected somewhat with the Anna, Donna, and Patty contingent, swapping boyfriends and Budweisers, but we became our own entity, vowing eternal friendship. 

 

Patty was the only one of us who had older brothers around and that opened up a new world for us. We watched Super Bowls at Jimmy’s house, and stormed Steve’s apartment under the guise of studying at the library. We basked in the beauty of being young and illegal. 

 

Once we came of age, or at least close, her brothers introduced us to a neighborhood bar, dubiously dubbed The Fly, where “everybody knows your name.” Steve and Jimmy made sure we were treated like royalty and protected from harm. Keeping in mind that harm has a rather diverse definition.

 

We reminisced about summers in Canada at Rachel's Charleston Lake house, and how Patty always, always baked bread from scratch. We recalled listening to the Beatles over and over and over in the Beech Lane bedroom, driving around and around and around in our parents' cars, and spending October weekends at the Kaller’s shore house. We argued about who dated Const first, Debbie or Patty, and laughed at the irony of me being the one who ended up his prom date. We remembered one day at Morris Arboretum, pinky swearing that no matter where we lived, we’d all meet up in the Bermuda Triangle the year we turned 40. 

 

Forty had different plans for us. Rachel was in California with a son and husband she had met in college. Debbie was dealing with a teenager. Madge was juggling a law career and motherhood and Patty was on the road to becoming a school principal in South Florida, future ex-husband and an English Bulldog named Binks by her side. I was in the throes of parenting three small children, and though I was likely the most tempted, couldn’t chance having it all disappear in the Bermuda Triangle. 

 

The five of us saw each other only sporadically during those tumultuous decades, but we always kept in touch, often receiving hand-drawn cartoons from Patty, detailing her life in little, witty squares. After her future ex-husband officially became the ex, and our kids became sufficiently self-sufficient, Madge, Patty, Rachel and I welcomed our 50s in Las Vegas. I brought my high school diary and we roared over excerpts never to be released to the public, unless of course, the daughter publishes them upon my demise.

 

That friendship revival brought a vow to see each other more regularly and was the impetuous for Patty and my yearly cruises. We brought Madge one time, but she had the same turned-up lip response my spouse had after his maiden voyage, “A cruise really isn’t my thing, you and Patty go, and have fun.”

 

And we did. We always, always did.

 

Patty was funny. Patty was smart. Patty was a true artist. Everything she did or said had a wacky, creative twist to it. Patty loved adventure. She loved animals, including squawking parrots, rescue dogs, and feral cats she fed on her porch. She loved her friends. She worshipped her brothers. She adored their wives. Patty was an esteemed educator, a consummate volunteer, and an avid reader. 

 

On paper, Patty was a pretty perfect person. 

 

But. 

There's always a but. 

In recent years she had been suffering bouts of depression, anxiety, and an eating disorder which she powered through by self-medicating. As her brother, Steve, so eloquently and honestly, said in her eulogy, Patty was a strong and independent person, perhaps too proud, or too ashamed to seek or accept help. 

 

Once the downward spiral began, I felt myself heading down the rabbit hole of guilt. I was one of Patty's closest friends. Shouldn’t I have been more aware? Couldn’t I have done more? Patty and I talked about everything. Everything. Except, apparently, the demons that were destroying her life. That, she kept that to herself. 

 

Until the very end. 

 

We talked as long as she could when she was in the hospital. Some days she even sounded like the old Patty. She skirted her diagnosis and her prognosis, but the last text she sent me read: 

“We’re not going to be able to do the unlimited drink package next cruise.” 

 

I smiled through my tears. In her witty way, she had finally fessed up to what she had tried so long and hard to hide.

 

I climbed out of the rabbit hole and back into my memories. There's no guilt. There's no shame. There's just Patty. 

Patty, who in my dreams, is dressed in a flowy, white caftan and a bold, jeweled necklace. She's draped over the balcony of a big cruise ship, pointing out flying fish and tossing breadcrumbs to swooping seagulls. She shrieks in delight as she spots me on the pier, flailing my arms and blowing her kisses as the sun sets over St. Thomas. The fog horn sounds its three short blasts and the ship slowly pulls out of port, sailing away to a place where my dear friend, my soul mate, can finally find the peace that surpasses all understanding. 

  

Life is Long

Had there been a 1990 CNBC yearbook, Janice would have surely topped the Most Likely to Stay Friends with Betsy list. 

Because our spouses also liked each other, it made perfect sense to be eating ribs and sipping wine with Janice and John Kerswell, in their backyard, in the middle of a pandemic, 30 years later. What makes it notable is that we haven’t seen each other in over twenty years. 

 

We bantered back and forth trying to pin down the exact date of our last encounter. 

 

“I know for sure, you were at my surprise 40^th birthday party,” I said. The one that I knew was brewing as I excessively agitated, having spent the two weeks prior (not to mention the two months after), picking lice out of the daughter’s hair and praying that the party was not going to be take place in my small and infected house. 

 

It didn’t. It was in the back room of Vitales Restaurant where I was greeted by 60-some people waving popsicle sticks adorned with photos from various stages of my life. Others held paper fans declaring, “I’m a Betsy fan.”

 

“I still have the book you gave me for my birthday” I declared. It was a prayer journal and I remember thinking, a part of you, a part of me. At the time, Janice and John were deeply involved in their church, and I was deeply involved in wanting to become a famous writer. 

 

“But, the last time we really hung out,” Janice said. “Was right after Leo was born.”

 

“He’s 24 years old” I gasped. “It can’t be that long ago.”

 

“On my way home from meeting him,” Janice continued. “I got this funny feeling and thought I better stop at the CVS and pick up a pregnancy test. Sure enough, that was the day I learned that Ben was in my belly." 

 

“I know we would have come bearing gifts after he was born,” I said. “My ever-loving spouse would never miss an opportunity to hold a baby.”

 

It was a shoulder shrug. Maybe we did. Maybe we didn’t. Ben was the caboose of the collective gang, each of their kids born one year after ours. Our offspring are now  28, 27, 26, 25, 24 and 23 years old. We wouldn’t know each other’s kids if one of them stuck an IV in our vein at Hackensack Hospital. But, it didn’t matter. We spent the evening zig-zagging from kid to kid, sharing tales of their successes, setbacks, and everything in between. 

 

It’s quite curious to consider the mark our memories make and why one person remembers in sordid detail that which another has zero recollection. An advantage of not seeing friends for over 20 years is that there’s no shame in not knowing who did what or when or why or with whom. Our collective memories reconstruct our past lives to fit our current agendas. 

 

But, there are some unmitigated truths. Janice and I started at CNBC in the same month of the same year. Her husband, John, loving her enough to want to work with her as well as live with her, encouraged his bride to take a job at the fledgling cable station where he’d been employed since its inception. I had recently gotten married and moved to New Jersey and my spouse convinced me that it would be in our best interests to apply for the secretarial job opening at CNBC, with the hopes that I would rapidly move from fetching coffee to writing copy. 

 

I was surprised to learn that Janice and I only worked together for one year. She left to open a fulfillment center where all the CNBC (and subsequent other companies’) marketing materials and merch were stored, inventoried, and shipped. She wasn’t even 30 years old. I stayed another eight years until the creative services department (yes, I got that copywriting job) was dissolved and repurposed to California. John was there for almost 20 years before getting a dream job at the Metropolitan Opera where he puts his musical and technical gifts into connecting the world to the Met. 

 

Despite not being able to differentiate between Deep Purple’s Smoke on the Water and Van Halen’s Jump until I hear the first lyrical line, the musical genius of the entire Kerswell clan is not lost on me. Besides, my spouse, who I often turn to during The Voice and ask, “Is she a good singer?” assures me, the Kerswells are the real deal. Luckily, they seem to like me regardless of my passive passion for music. 

 

I wasn’t surprised to learn that Janice is now doing some kind of work that I can’t even begin to comprehend. I heard the words analytics and math and engineering and electronics and systems and master’s degrees in data science and plastered a smile on my face to counteract the vacancy portrayed in my eyeballs.

 

What I completely forgot, never knew, or blocked out in empathetic PTSD, was that Janice, in sound mind and in good conscience, home schooled their three children from start to finish. And finish they did. Every one of them is smart, successful, and seemingly unscathed. 

 

We turned our attention to my hard-working spouse who shared the news stories he sleuthed, the insights he gained, and the political opinions he is loath to voice in keeping with his impartial journalistic persona.  

 

And, then it was my turn. It was abundantly clear that I was out of my element with these smart and talented people. 

 

I tried to make my freelance career sound more meaningful, puffing out my chest and waxing poetic about the websites I’ve written, the essays I’ve edited, the clients I’ve had, the book I won’t finish. 

“Finish it,” Janice said firmly.

 

Which launched my litany into how writing a book (fame and fortune included) has been my life goal since Mrs. Dreifus handed the class mimeographed copies of Pokey the Turtle, the story I wrote in kindergarten. 

 

“Finish it," Janice repeated. "What’s the worst thing that can happen? Give it all you've got for say three years. If it  doesn’t sell, you move on. Change your goals."

I scoffed. 

"Betsy, life is long,” she said. 

 

With ever-growing evidence that life is short, I found myself perplexedly pondering her proclamation. Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was her conviction. Or maybe it was just the right person at the right time. I let her words sink into my soul.  

 

Maybe success shouldn't be based on kindergarten goals. Maybe I'll help launch a business. Edit a friend's book all the way to the NY Times Bestseller List. Teach a kid to write a killer college essay. 

Maybe it's OK to not do what I always thought I'd do. And maybe somehow, someway, as I turn a phrase or tie a tongue, my words will make their mark. 

Maybe someone will have a Janice and John call them out of the blue after two decades and instead of saying, "Let's get together soon!" they'll say, "Tonight is perfect. We'll bring the wine."

Go for that Doctorate. Win that Grammy. Earn that Pulitzer. Write that Great American Novel. But, as you're doing it, keep your eye on the real prize. 

Friends. 

The best of whom are forever and ever. Amen. 

One Mother's Super Power

I have long held onto a super power that has persistently proven problematic, yet I have continued to possess it way past its practicality. 

You see, I know exactly what someone’s going to say before they say it. 

I am so sure of myself, in fact, that I often just relinquish any real life conversation and act upon what I know for sure is coming next. 

 

For a long time, I thought it was specific to child-rearing, but I’ve found that my super power transcends all walks of life.

 

When I was in the throes of three children, four years apart from top to bottom, I expended a lot of energy wasting a lot of words.

 

“Child Number Two,” I’d say. “Will you run down to the basement and grab Number Three’s cleats for me?”

 

Of course, I knew before the words were out of my mouth that the response, verbatim, or a very, very similar narrative would be,  "Number Two can do it himself.”

 

“You’re not doing it for him, you’re doing it for me.”

“No thanks. I’ll be in the car.”

 

Then there were these conversations:

 

“What’s for dinner?” any one of them at any given time would say as he or she breezed through the kitchen, dropping a backpack, jacket, and one sporting paraphernalia or another, on the floor.

 

“Meatloaf.”

 

“Gross. I’m not eating.”

 

“it tastes exactly like hamburger.”

 

“I hate hamburger.”

 

“Since when?”

 

“Since forever.”

 

And as they grew and were given chores:

 

“Don’t forget to cut the grass.”

 

“It’s Child Number Two’s turn.”

 

“He did it last week.”

 

“I did it the three weeks before that. Gotta go, Evil Coach Tony’s here. Basketball practice.” 

 

Or: 

 

“So how was the party?”

 

Blank stare.

 

Or: 

 

“What is Friend Number Eight doing these days?”

 

Shrug.

 

“Does he have a job?”

 

Shoulder hunch.

 

“You don’t know or you don’t want to tell me? “

 

“I don’t know.” 

 

“Weren’t you at his house last night.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“And it never came up? You never asked, ‘Friend Eight, what are you doing these days?'”

 

“Nope.”

 

“I’ll just text his mother.”

 

“Why do you care?”

 

“Why won’t you tell me?”

 

“I. Don’t. Know. What. He’s. Doing."

 

So, through the years, I learned to: 

A) Retrieve any cleats, books, jackets, backpacks, dogs, cats, remote controls, empty toilet paper rolls, egg-stained dishes, 2/3 full water bottles, or other misplaced items, myself. 

B) Become a short-order cook.

C) Buy a push mower (despite possessing super powers I won’t use power tools).

D) Limit offspring questions to those answerable by a simple yes or no. 

 

Having muddled somewhat successfully through motherhood, I have transferred my talents to the workplace. I’ve been a freelance writer for over 20 years, during which time our family has experienced some rather lean years. So, once the youth moved into the young adult phase and my child-oriented volunteering duties waned, I dabbled in getting a “real” job. It seemed way easier than trying to boost the freelance business that wallowed in the words, pro bono. 

 

“Why don’t you apply at (fill in the blank),” my ever-supporting spouse would suggest. 

 

“They’ll never hire someone who’s over (fill in the age),” I’d retort.

 

“You don’t know that,” he’d rightfully respond. 

 

“They’re going to say I’m over (or under) qualified. That they’re looking for a brunette/ Episcopalian/introvert/activist/ (fill in the blank).”

 

I would reluctantly fill out an application on Indeed and when they didn’t so much as acknowledge receipt of my resume, I’d smugly tip my hat to my super power. 

 

My sister, Emily, has always been one of my strongest advocates.

 

“My friend is looking for a freelance writer,” she’d say. “You should call her.”

 

“She knows I exist. She reads my blogs. She’d contact me if she wanted me.”

 

“Not necessarily. She may not know you’re looking for work.”

 

I shrugged over the phone line. 

 

“She’s never going to pay me enough,” I continued.

 

“How do you know?”

 

Oh, I know, my super power thinks.

 

“Just tell her you’re looking for X dollars an hour. You paid that much for SAT tutors and baseball lessons.”

 

“If I say X dollars, then then there will be dead silence and then I’ll say, OK, how about half that much and then she'll say OK, and then I'll be bitter because I’m working for half my worth.”

And of course, there are the doctor visit convos: 

"They're going to tell me I have to give up chocolate/bourbon/Words with Friends. I'd rather die than get that diagnosis." 

 

A couple weeks ago I was riding my bike in Saddle River Park, a spot reserved for mid-week, mid-day rides to avoid the crowds. But, on this particular day, I had underestimated the competency of virtual learning and it was mobbed with kids.  

 

Three miles in I was faced with my worst nightmare, second only to the Labradoodles on 20-foot leashes criss-crossing the path while their owners talked loudly and obliviously from their air buds. Six boys somewhere between 13 and 16 years old (I can no longer tell the difference) rode three astride, zipping betwixt and between pedestrians, doing wheelies, and riding long stretches standing up with no hands. And of course, no helmets. But, I couldn’t have cared less about that. 

 

I turned on my super power conversation starter but knew exactly how it would end. So, instead of following the politically correct bicycle protocol, announcing “On your left!” I circled the duck pond an extra time so they would get far enough ahead of me that I wouldn’t have to deal with them at all.

 

But, alas, at Milepost 5, I caught up with them again.

 

“On your left,” I resignedly said in my head.

 

“On your left,” the boy with the man bun (well, boy bun) would mock, veering over into my lane.

 

“Don’t be that person,” I’d call over my shoulder as I slipped by, slilently praying that I wouldn’t hit a tree root and land on the ground in front of then. Which would, sadly, start an entirely differnet conversation. 

 

“Don’t YOU be that person, you fat pig!” the one with the saggy shorts would yell.

 

“Think about what you are saying,” I’d calmly cry. “I could be your mother.”

 

“Grandmother,” boy with the music blaring from his handlebars would spit back.

 

“Grandmother? More like great-grandmother,” the wheelie popper would pop.

 

At which point, I’d blink back my tears and fury and pedal as fast as my granny legs would let me before the conversation escalated. 

 

Yup, I knew for sure exactly how this was going to go. But, I had to do it. I had to get past these evil adolescents. 

 

I took a deep breath.

 

“On your left,” I called meekly.

 

I clenched my jaw. 

 

“Thanks!” Boy Bun responded as he and his posse veered to the right.

 

I flashed a peace sign as I passed.

 

“Peace out!” Saggy Shorts screamed..

 

“Have a great day!” Wheelie Popper bubbled.

 

I thought about that encounter for the rest of my ride and all the way home. The home where I was greeted by a front lawn of long and leggy blades of grass rising through the weeds. 

 

I put my bike in the garage and eyed the push mower in the corner, playing the ensuing and unsatisfactory conversation in my head. 

 

But, instead of cutting the grass myself, I decided to test my super power one more time. After all, the misfire at the park was probably just an anomaly. 

 

“Child Number Three,” I called as I burst into the kitchen. “I have a job for you.”

 

I was greeted by raised eyebrows.

 

“Can you cut the grass?”

 

I realized I was gritting my teeth and flexing my fists. My mouth hung open, ready for sparring.

 

“Sure,” he said.

I crinkled my brow and let his answer compute. 

As I did, I slowly came to the conclusion that while listening to the voices inside your head can be quite amusing, more times than not, they're misleading. And, that while you may believe with all your heart that you possess a super power; the truth is, they're only real in fairy tales.