Does everyone feel like this?

10 February 2020

Sixty. That's how many years I have occupied space on the earth. Sixty years, six months and twenty-five days to be exact. On one hand, I can hardly get my mind around the fact that so many years have passed since I graduated high school and college, or since I was young and had babies. But on the other hand, I wonder how long I'm going to have to wait until I can retire.

I spent precious years during which my career was rearing my children and keeping my home. But for almost two decades, I have been a public school teacher, spending most of that time at the high school level, with a five-year patch in middle school. The funny thing is, I went into teaching on a whim. I hadn't majored in education. In fact I earned my BA in theater arts, which allowed me to start my career as a drama teacher. After the first year, I switched to English, and later spent seven years as a media specialist, returning to the classroom eight years ago. Now, in my twentieth year, I marvel that I've made it this long.

I spent that first year feeling like I was barely keeping one nostril above water, and the next many years wondering when someone would realize I was faking it. Somewhere along the line, though, I managed to learn a thing or two, and in the last couple of years, I can call myself a teacher without feeling like a fraud. At every single meeting, in-service, or training, for most of my tenure, I left knowing I did not belong in this field. But . . . and this is will sound extraordinarily juvenile . . . since this was a "real" job, I had to stick with it. I earned tenure and was placed on a professional service contract; those no longer exist for newbies entering teaching. My pay increased at a snail's pace, but I'm still making more than I have made doing anything else. I never saw myself as a career person, so when I was young, I didn't invest time and energy building a career. The one thing I knew I was put on earth to do was be a mother, but the pay is nothing to write home about. By the time my children were all out of elementary school, I started to feel like I should find a paying gig.

The truth is, I began to feel bored at home. My kids were increasingly self-sufficient, so my role as a mom was less demanding. I didn't garden, nor did I have a passion for any particular crafts or hobbies. Eventually I felt like I was wasting time. So at the age of forty-one, I became a teacher. The best training I had, preparing me for this role, was being a mother. The same instincts necessary to parent well, are also employed in the classroom. And having had a brood at home was a practicum in classroom management.

But back to my question: does everyone feel like this?

Like what?

I'm glad you asked. Is it universal to reach the point at which you just want to be done? When you either don't have to set an alarm, or if you do, it's because you have something special you're doing, and you want to get up early for it. Is it "normal" to just not want to play the game anymore? You know, the political games necessary to keep those around you happy . . . or at least . . . not miserable. Don't get me wrong. I work with some outstanding people, and I can and do find creative outlets in my work. And yes I know it is a great paradox to say that though we are grossly underpaid (in my state and county), we do enjoy more than average amounts of time off. Still, I just want to not have to do it anymore. I want my time to be my time.

So, tell me, dear readers . . . is this universal? Is it normal? The closer I get to closing this chapter, the more I believe I will not for one moment look back and miss it. I wholeheartedly believe that on my last day of teaching I will breathe a sigh of relief, drive home with a smile on my face, and turn off my alarm clock. I don't want to do nothing, but I do want to be able to choose where and how and with whom I spend my time. I want the freedom to choose. Yes. That's what I'm looking forward to. Freedom. All things being equal, and barring an unexpected (but highly desirable) windfall, that freedom is still about five years away. And given the speed at which the previous sixty years have flown by, five years will pass in the blink of an eye. In the mean time, I will continue to set that alarm, and do what I do, finding joy along the way.

Until next time . . .

Still chugging along . . .

2 February 2020

At 60 years of age, I am fortunate to still have my parents with me. My dad recently turned 86, and is in excellent health, unlike his twin brother and their older brother, both of whom passed away after suffering with Alzheimer's. My mom, on the other hand, will be 89 in a few short weeks, and she is not so fortunate. Mom was diagnosed more than 6 years ago with pulmonary fibrosis, a disease that causes lung tissue to become thick and stiff, resulting in the build up of scar tissue in the lungs, making breathing increasingly difficult and eventually impossible. This is considered a fatal disease, and life expectancy from diagnosis is generally 3 to 5 years. I have heard my mom say she is on borrowed time.

Circa 1955

My mother used to be the kind of woman who was always working. Always moving. The only times I remember seeing her sit and relax when I was growing up was in the evenings. At the end of the day, she would curl up in her chair and watch TV and smoke. As a matter of fact, those few cigarettes each evening, were about all I remember her smoking, unless my parents were socializing with their friends. Mom was never a heavy smoker, unlike my dad, who at one time smoked two packs a day. Thankfully, both parents quit decades ago. Mom, however, did not escape unscathed.

Before retirement, my parents took up golf, and once retired, golfed multiple times each week. They had worked hard, saved and invested, and happily retired in Florida. They lived the good life for several years, remaining active, taking trips, and going on a few cruises. Eighteen years ago, they moved from their first retirement residence an hour and a half south of me, to a gated golf community just a mile from my house. It's been nice having them so nearby. We have spent holidays together, and celebrated birthdays and special occasions.

I don't even remember what led up to my mother's diagnosis. My dad recalls that Mom had had bronchitis, and was having difficulty breathing, so their primary care physician referred her to a pulmonary specialist. That doctor ran breathing tests and ordered imaging and delivered the diagnosis. My parents told my husband and me that Mom had this . . . condition . . . I don't know if  they called it a disease. Pulmonary fibrosis.

Daddy learned about Mother's life expectancy, and mentioned it often. I used to get frustrated with him for talking about it so much. It wasn't possible that she had such a limited future, when she didn't really seem that sick. I remember when my mom began daily oral steroids because it seemed that overnight my ever-slender mother, looked as though her face had been inflated with a bicycle pump. The change was dramatic. Eventually she had to go on oxygen. In time, walking into her bedroom caused her to be winded. She started using a cane, then a walker as she began to weaken, and as losing her breath from activity worsened. The woman who used to move about the kitchen with ease and speed, cooking and baking, now needed a stool on which to perch when she worked at the sink.

My parents downsized from a lovely pool home to a small villa, where they lived for just over three years, and where Mom's condition worsened at an exponential rate. Her legs grew weaker, and would sometimes give out on her. More than once my dad needed help getting her off the floor where she had fallen. No longer able to trust her own legs to support her, she started using a wheelchair to get to and from the bathroom or bedroom, and ultimately to get anywhere she needed to go.

Five months ago, my parents moved into an assisted living facility; my mom needed extra care, and my dad needed help. Plus, Daddy wanted to be sure Mom would be well taken care of, so he moved in to be her watchdog. It's a nice place. They have a two-bedroom apartment, and plenty of amenities. All meals are included, which means that a few times a day they get out of their apartment and head to the dining room where they can socialize while eating their meals. I go almost every day and spend about an hour with them, often without much to chat about. But I go because I still can. I won't have my parents forever, and I feel like I need to be there for them while I have them. Dad still has his car and he drives to Walmart for odds and ends, or to the grocery store for prescriptions, or to the barber shop for haircuts. It's important for him to maintain a measure of independence.

For the most part, I don't focus on what is ahead for my mom. I focus on today, and talking about what she ate for lunch, and reminding her what day it is, and telling her I love her and that I'll see her again tomorrow. And each day I wonder just a little if she'll be there when I ride the elevator up to the second floor and walk the long hallway to their new home. I wonder if she'll be here to celebrate her 89th birthday in 20 days. On the bad days, when she appears to be little more than catatonic, it doesn't seem possible. But the next day, she wakes up and it's a better day. She's my energizer bunny, losing steam, but still chugging along.

I know that I am approaching life in a world without my mother in it. But for now, she's still here. She's still with me. And I will be there with her and for her. Because she's my mom.

Until next time . . .

Beginning again . . .

27 January 2020

Years ago I started this blog as an outlet for my thoughts, and for a means of accountability. My life and purpose had been radically changed as my children grew to adulthood and one after the other, moved out. In order to make sense of it all, I reached out with my words to whomever might happen upon them. I welcomed the responses I received with gratitude. They meant I wasn't alone grappling with the ever-present question, "Who am I now?" And the accountability I craved was one more attempt to end the battle my body and I had waged against each other for fifty years. Blogging gave me a place to rejoice in the victories and lament the pitfalls. It was going well until I received a note from a dear old friend, a well-meaning friend to be sure, who lovingly pointed out that I should paint with a broader brush. That I am more than this issue with my weight, and that there were other, more interesting things about which to write. I allowed those words of correction to derail me, and thus lost the focus and drive to continue regularly posting. I harbor no ill will toward my friend. The comments were meant to encourage me and expand my view.

Looking back though, I now realize that what I was doing, I was doing for myself. While I wanted feedback from and engagement with readers, and while I loved hearing that something I said had helped someone else feel less alone, my motives were self-serving. I did the work of writing and posting because it helped fulfill me in some way. And once I realized that, I knew I wanted to pick up where I had left off. I genuinely enjoy having an outlet for the thoughts and questions swirling in my brain. And unlike before, I now write with the hope that my words will resonate with others. That people will feel less isolated when they recognize themselves and their circumstances in me and mine.

I come to this forum with the intention to write regularly and often. Once the wheels are used to turning again, perhaps I will write more. I will write about my life, my faith, my dreams, aspirations, and struggles, and whatever else pops into my quirky middle-aged-plus brain. I will write about being sixty for the first time, because after all, every passage, event, and benchmark in our lives is a maiden voyage, right? Do we ever really take stock of the fact that for all of our lives, we are learning on the job? Growing up, getting married, becoming parents, building (or enduring) a career, preparing for retirement, even facing life-threatening illness . . . each one is a new first. We are figuring it out as we go, and oddly enough, about the time we've got it pretty well figured out, it'll be time to go. And that too will be a first.

Visit https://jamesclear.com/

When James Clear, New York Times Bestselling author of Atomic Habits, and renowned expert in the development and benefits of habits, decided to write a blog post twice a week, no matter what, he knew he was committing to this discipline regardless of whether he had written one sentence or a hundred. Whether what he wrote was crap or brilliance (my words, not his). It was establishing the habit of consistently writing that initiated the extraordinary success he is experiencing today. Until now I haven't been the kind of person who exhibited traits of discipline and consistency in my undertakings. I want that to change, and I'm the only one who can change it. If not now, when, right?

I hope you will visit me here often, and that we can share our journeys and lives together. We can encourage one another and build a community of friends. I know this world can sometimes seem like it's getting uglier and darker with each passing day, but I'd like to think that every positive interaction lightens the atmosphere and brightens the world.

Until next time . . .

The Perpetual Quest for Meaning

Is it just me, or is my seemingly insatiable search for meaning and fulfillment common to most midlife women? Of course I can only truly consider myself at the mid point in life if I intend to stick around until I am 118. 😳 What? It could happen! But I digress . . .

I have always been someone who dreams of more. Perhaps that's why I enjoyed performing in plays during my school years, and why I continued into college. Acting allowed me to try being different kinds of people doing different kinds of things, unlike many "grown up" jobs I have had, which quickly caused me to grow bored and become discontent. It wasn't until I began teaching back in 2000, that I found something I could stick with long term. But even now, I still dream of finding something that would provide a more personally fulfilling outlet for my interests and passions by which I could earn my income.

For example, my sister-in-law is an amazing baker and cake/cookie decorator, while my specialties are pies, breads and homemade soups. She and I have often fantasized about opening our own shop where people could come in and either buy yummies to take home, or sit and sip a good cup of coffee or tea, and enjoy a fresh-baked treat. Or both! I have seen it in my mind’s eye, set squarely on the main street of my hometown up north, with windows facing the thoroughfare. It would be our place to run as we want, season after season, becoming a fixture in the community. The reality of it is that the baking we love and enjoy could lose its luster by having to do it day in and day out, not to mention the constant focus on having to become and remain profitable.

In the last year, I have discovered a number of YouTube channels whose focus is beauty and skin care for mature women. Oddly, the YouTubers in this genre range in age from their 20s to their 60s. I relate more to the latter than the former. For a while I started thinking about how I could start a YouTube channel too and weigh in on the same topics while throwing in my own take on navigating this autumn season, which includes physical and familial changes. Our bodies begin morphing at a rate akin to puberty, but in not-so-pleasant ways. Children grow and leave the nest, creating their own independence; this is natural and needful.  In time, grandchildren bring a new and amazing dynamic to the mix. And let’s not forget that our own parents, if we are fortunate enough to still have them, also redefine our life and purpose as we become the caretakers of our original caregivers.

While I have shelved the fantasy of having a YouTube channel, it is the desire to express my thoughts on these very topics, and others, that has led me back to my blog. So here I am. Writing to satisfy that force in me that begs for outlet. And, hopefully, to provide a bit of guiding wisdom born of experience for the autumn travelers who will find themselves in this very place long before they ever expected to.

For my peers and me, there were precious few voices speaking to us of what was ahead. We are the offspring of depression-era parents, who kept themselves to themselves for the most part. Theirs was not a generation that talked about their feelings. As a result, my generation has been figuring it out as we go. And unlike our parents, we talk about everything.

As one by one my children left home for the last time, I lost my sense of identity. I had no road map telling me which way to turn or what lay before me. My identity was firmly planted in motherhood, and while I was still a mother, I no longer had children who needed me as they once did. They went off to live their lives, which was as it should be. Couple that with the onset of menopause, and I experienced the perfect storm of tangled emotions and confusion. It has taken me almost a decade to find myself fully past the angst of those years. And now, there is a wealth I hope to share for the benefit of women who are beginning their own upheavals. Perhaps this can provide some insight to men as well, helping them to understand the women in their lives. I invite ladies and gentlemen alike to come along for the ride.

I look forward to every blog post, and hope you will feel free to add your own thoughts as well. We will learn from each other. I do hope we can encourage one another to live our best lives and be kind to ourselves as we do.

Until next time . . . 

I'm baaaaaack!

I started my blog in February 2013 with ever intention of writing regularly. And I did. For a few months. Then procrastination and avoidance set in, and the longer the lapses between posting . . . well you get the picture. 2014 saw only 4 posts, and 2015 just 3. Then a little thing called life happened.

Less than 1 month after my last post, I was hit with a curve ball of sorts. And the resulting fallout lasted  through August of the same year. I was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. In the 5 months that followed, I underwent a major surgery, other surgical procedures, numerous appointments with a variety of doctors, and 6 chemotherapy treatments. As a result of the latter, I lost all my hair, and often felt like a wrung-out dishrag. I missed more than 2 months of work, but thankfully because of our school district's sick bank, I did not miss a single paycheck. What a blessing that was for us! I returned to school on August 17, 2015, the first day of teacher planning week, in the afternoon following my final chemo treatment that morning. I was bald and still somewhat weak, but I was alive, and knew I would be for a very long time to come. With long life He satisfies me and shows me His salvation (Psalm 91:16).

In the past three years, I have continued with physician follow-up appointments, occasional CT scans, and oodles of blood tests. I regained my strength and my hair. I'm thankful for every day I wake up. I am awed by the goodness of God, and His love for me. I learned that my husband is my champion. He was an attentive, compassionate caregiver when I needed him to be. He overwhelmed me with his love through it all. We are closer now than we have ever been.💖

I don't share all this to gain sympathy, pity, or praise. I don't want it. This experience humbled me in a profound way, because it is only by the grace and mercy of God that I am here. I do not label myself a "survivor." I am an over-comer like those in scripture who heard the words of the Master when He said, "Your faith has made you whole."

I do share this as a way to pick up where I left off three years ago. I am well. I am healthy. I am happy. And I have so much to write about in the days and weeks ahead. I hope you will stay with me. Please let me know you're here, and don't hesitate to ask questions if you have them. You can even just say "Hi!" That would be fun too.  I will let you know when I've posted a new blog. Consider it my invitation to hang out, share a cup of coffee or tea, and good conversation virtually. I will likely even venture into video blogs (vlogs) from time to time. We'll see. I'm excited to be back.

Until next time . . .

February 5, 2015: Update on my Mom

I've been on quite an emotional roller coaster for the past eight days. Until yesterday, I wondered how in the world my dear mother would ever get out of the hospital alive. I have called her nurses every morning for updates, and gone to visit her every day, and I watched as she looked increasingly weak and frail, and doctors and nurses added to the laundry list of her illnesses and ailments. Early on, she blew through two IVs, and had to have a PICC line inserted. 

I have also seen the toll on her body of mass quantities of medications. Drinking the stuff that preceded her contrast CT scan caused her to have difficulty breathing, and sent her heart into AFib, for which she was given a new medicine to bring her back into normal sinus rhythm. Her oxygen was upped to fifteen liters for several days, and that alone kept her in ICU until yesterday. She has received large doses of steroids to help clear her lungs, but that has sent her blood sugar soaring over 300 more than once. Because of this, they have been giving her shots of insulin.

Finally yesterday, I was told that the amount of oxygen Mom is getting had been reduced to five liters. Good news! Her catheter had been removed. More good news. No more need for heart medicine. Great news. And she was downgraded from ICU to regular patient status. Brilliant. Though she's always tired when I visit her after school around 3:00, still she looked better yesterday, and I could see improvement. I desperately needed to SEE improvement.

I think the most difficult thing for me to deal with this past week, was the discussion I had with my parents about their advanced directives, and in particular, Mom's. I knew they/she did not want to be kept around via life support such as ventilators or something keeping the heart beating. But I did not realize that their wishes extended further than that. They signed DNR (do not resuscitate) orders, which meant that if for some reason my mom's heart stopped, they would let her go. No chest compressions. No CPR of any kind. She wants to be allowed to die naturally. 

Being a believer, and knowing my mother is as well, allows me to see in my mind's eye what awaits us and in particular, her, beyond this life. When my mom leaves this world, I am certain she will be greeted by her two children who preceded her in death, her first baby, lost to miscarriage, and my brother, Bobby who was hit by a car and killed at the age of six. Her own parents will be there too, and my cousins Jim and Brenda, and my cousins' sons as well. My Aunt Cecile will welcome her home as will so many others who went on before. She will be healthy and whole and at perfect peace. She will be young again, in her prime. No difficulty breathing or moving or walking. No more dizziness and coughing. No more pain. 

I thought about those things, and about how much I want my mom to stay here, but that means she will experience increasing shortness of breath due to the pulmonary fibrosis that has attacked her lungs. The pain she constantly lives with from arthritis and fibromyalgia. The frustration she experiences living in a broken-down body. My desire to keep her here is absolutely and purely selfish. I know how much better off she will be in heaven, but she's still my mom. And at some point I will have to surrender my desire to keep her close despite what it's costing her, and let her go to a place where I will know she is happy and healthy, and where I have no doubt I will see her again. And when the time comes, I will comfort myself in knowing that our parting is temporary.

I am immensely thankful that the times during which we have to face our own or our loved ones' mortality are usually few and far between. They are excruciating. But they also serve to remind us how very precious life is, and indeed, how finite. I can only be the daughter I want to be to my parents while I still have them. I can only be the wife or mother or friend I want to be, while I'm still breathing. It's insane to put off living to another day, because we have no guarantee of another day. I am so grateful that my mom's still here and that I'll get to see her and talk to her and hold her hand in about an hour from now. She is, after all, my mom.

Until next time  . . .

January 29, 2015: Yesterday I saw My Future

I received one of those calls yesterday about twenty minutes after noon. It was my dad telling me that he had taken my mom to the hospital. My nearly eighty-four-year old mother has been diagnosed with pulmonary fibrosis, which means that any cold or other assault on her pulmonary system must be taken seriously. Dad had had a bad cold the week before, and Mom must have picked it up from him. When she vomited on Tuesday night, then again Wednesday morning, Daddy decided to take her in to the ER and have her evaluated. That's where I found her the minute I could leave work and get to the hospital, mercifully only seven or eight minutes from the school where I teach.

I spent most of the next five and a half hours watching her sleep in her emergency room gurney. Amid the noise and chaos of the ER, blood draws, nebulizer treatments, and even a CT scan, Mom slept. Normally when my mom sleeps, she wears her CPAP mask, but there in the ER, she didn't have it. So as she slept, I watched as her chest expanded and contracted and I listened as she snored and gurgled. Several times I saw her chest movements, but realized she was cutting off her own air supply. And though those moments passed within seconds, it frightened me to see how frail she had become.

See, my mom had a hip replacement surgery several years ago, followed by a torn hamstring, which occurred in her first rehab facility due to the negligence of the staff there. We didn't learn she'd torn her hamstring until almost two weeks afterward. What we did know was that my mother was crying out in excruciating pain, and asking Jesus to take her because she didn't believe she could endure the torment. She was returned to the hospital and spent another week there, during which time the staff did not diagnose the secondary injury, but instead tried to make us believe that she was becoming dependent upon the medications they were giving her for pain. After that week, she was sent to a different rehab facility; one where the staff actually knew what they were doing. After nearly a week there, they ran either an MRI or a CT Scan - I don't recall which - and they finally found the torn hamstring. They then realized that, because Mom had been on and remained on blood thinners, the tear continued to bleed internally, and when the blood would pool, it put direct pressure against nerves in the area of her groin and her new hip. No wonder she was wishing for death. Immediately they stopped administering blood thinners, and instantly she began the process of healing. Mean time, she was left with fear. Fear of pain. Fear of injury. And as icing on the cake, the hip surgery left one leg three-quarters of an inch shorter than the other one. This meant that for the rest of her life, each time she bought shoes, she'd have to pay in excess of a hundred dollars per pair to have a larger sole built onto the shoe corresponding with the shorter leg.

Because of the surgery and the subsequent injury, that perfect storm of horrible medical experiences took the starch out of my once active, healthy mother. The woman who always nurtured a garden when I was a girl . . . the woman who learned to play golf prior to retirement, and even shot a hole-in-one . . . that woman who moved with my dad to Florida to enjoy their retirement years in the warm sunshine . . . that woman was replaced by a woman who has become increasingly sedentary and plagued with one health problem after another. Pulmonary Fibrosis. Fibromyalgia. Bouts of pneumonia. She gained weight and moved less. As a result of the steroids she takes on a regular basis, her face is now so full and puffy. My mother was a petite woman for most of her life. She's on oxygen 24/7 now. She has dizzy spells, and often nearly falls because of them.

And as I watched her sleep and watched her body's effort to breathe, I knew I was seeing my future if I don't turn things around now. My weight has been an issue for forty-five years. And in the past fifteen years, I have ballooned to a morbidly obese weight on my five foot, three inch frame. I have noticed in the past six months or so that my mid section now looks as it did when I was about to deliver one of my babies. But at my post-menopausal age of fifty-five, there can be no other explanation than FAT. The heavier I've gotten, the less active I have become. Walking short distances which once took no effort at all, now leaves me winded and feeling the beating of my heart. I snore like a lumberjack (my husband's description), and often hear myself wheezing. I have six adult children and four grandsons, and I am way too young to feel so old that I can't enjoy their endless energy. I looked at my mother and saw what I do not want to become. I knew that I want to live.

I want adventures. I want to bike the Erie Canal trail. I want to kayak with my husband. I want to take ballroom dancing lessons. I want to sit on my husband's lap. I want to learn to play tennis. I want to breathe freely and tie my shoes. I want to shave my legs without breaking a sweat. I want to see the petite woman I know I'm meant to be, emerge from this shell of fat, and really live. I cannot start this journey from any place but the present. I saw what my future could be if I don't make changes in my life, and it is not the future I want. So today. Right now. I choose to find my way out of the life I've created, and into the life I long for. It will be a process of discovery, and I'll share as much of it as I can. Right here. By the grace of God, I will live, and live well!

Until next time . . .