loss

Skin Like Talcum And Lemon-juice Cuts

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , , , , , 1 Comment

I’m knocking on the door of *that* age. AARP offers are arriving weekly, along with the announcements about senior living open houses and classes on preparing for retirement. I never imagined being this age. Mentally, I’m still a teenager, at best. It is a regular challenge to reconcile my internal view with the person I see in the mirror, the hands I see in my periphery as I type. 

My N-Aunt’s hands were an older version of mine–wrinkled, the skin appearing more and more like tissue paper, age spots darker and more copious. Before she died last week, at 94, she was mostly non-verbal, dementia having stolen her voice, along with most of her memories. I’ve been expecting, for months now, that one of my visits would be the last, a final handholding, a last kiss on her forehead and smoothing back of her baby-fine white hair.

When my husband was dying of cancer, I left for his hospital room every morning knowing that one day I would return home a widow. That’s just a fact, simply knowledge, not preparation. It’s not actually possible to “prepare yourself.” I’d describe it more as awareness, an acknowledgement that my role has changed from participant to spectator, witness to an ending, to a closing of that door on which my own knuckles rest.

Having spent a lot of time in N-Aunt’s memory care facility, I’ve adjusted to the sounds of people whose cognitive reality is different. A woman there chants the Hail Mary in fraying strands of sound, voice rising on the Hail Mary and fading to a whisper, before she starts again. The words blur together, barely recognizable. Over and over she chants the words, like she’s saying the rosary and is stuck on one bead. While N-Aunt Ginny dozed last week, holding my hands, I became immersed in the repetition of that prayer. I’m not religious but I hope the Blessed Mother heard her.

In a very Life of Pi experience, on my final visit, a resident called out for help removing a tiger from her room. You wouldn’t be alone finding it funny. I got a lot of mileage out of texting my eldest son about the tiger loose in the facility. It’s okay to laugh. In fact, I think laughing about the situations life throws our way is important to coping. 

Today, the day after my 60th birthday, I went to the hospital for my early morning CT, MRI, and bloodwork. There was some sort of confusion. I sat in the waiting room for 30 minutes, deep breathing while I tried to concentrate on a book, the scan-xiety eating away at my confidence. Finally, I went up to the counter. 

They’d forgotten to check me in when I arrived 15 minutes before my appt time. I was annoyed but kept it friendly. There was nothing malicious or intentional. It was just Monday morning. But I had to WORK at friendly. I was anxious, hungry because I have to fast before my scans (birthday dinner was just a milkshake from Page’s Dairy). Of course, according to the system, I’d missed my appointment time. I had to wait. Deep breathing can only get you so far in addressing scan-xiety. 

After that awkward start, everything went awry. I had to be stuck twice to find a vein for the contrast. And that $#@% HURT today. It always stings but today it burned like lemon juice in a paper cut for like 15 minutes. Really; it was a little unnecessary and I silently cursed the IV gods for doling out a secondary punishment. The CT was not noteworthy. The MRI was odd; I think I had a trainee behind the controls (which admittedly might be a perception caused entirely by my grumpy mood a solid two hours into the experience). 

Finally, I was able to head down to the lab for bloodwork. The staff there was lovely, prepared for a high volume of patients on a Monday. The phlebotomist teased me about being used as a sprinkler to water the plants, thanks to all the holes in my arms. It made me laugh, pushed aside the gray mood I’d sunk into as my hands fell asleep in the MRI (see?! A very odd MRI experience today). 

Now, the waiting begins as my brain fights with my emotions. My daughter always encourages me to ignore the “my chart” app until my doctor appointment. She has experience with my scan-xiety and tends to get annoyed with me because of the torture I put her through while I worry. I don’t mean to, of course. In fact, I talk big about how I won’t let cancer control my actions. My mama would say, “The path to hell is paved with good intentions.” It’s a good thing, I guess, that I don’t believe hell is a place. 

I’m at the coffee shop now. While I was in line, one of the baristas gave me my order before I placed it. I laughed and told him that he’d read my mind. That got us talking. The man in front of me in line said to me, “You don’t want to read minds because you’d know that, when you walked in the room, several people said, ‘Ick.’” Now, I know the point he was trying to make. A less open-hearted person might have taken that as offensive. Because, honestly, who suggests that a person’s arrival will make people say, “Ick”?! 

He walked away with his cherry danish and I paid for my iced tea. Before I left the counter, I said to the baristas, “Just saying: No one says or thinks ‘Ick’ when I walk in a room. I refuse to believe that.” They laughed. I laughed. Seriously. That was just rude, sir. My day started rather poorly. I won’t give you, stranger, permission to make it worse. 

Much love.

Skin Like Talcum And Lemon-juice Cuts

Steak And Busking And Chocolate

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , , , , 2 Comments

The trombone player is sitting in a doorway, playing poorly. This is his norm, though he’s been absent from Walnut Street for weeks. Perhaps the cooler temps drew him back. It’s humid and starting to rain, which will undoubtedly make busking a less profitable activity today. Sometimes, he comes in to the coffee shop to use the bathroom. The owners put a code on the doors to make it harder to access them. Eff them. I’ve shared the code a million times and will continue to do so.

Until we have safe, clean, accessible public toilets, businesses should recognize that they’re going to receive visitors who need a bathroom. I don’t care about the reasons businesses shouldn’t “have to” allow non-paying customers to use the bathroom. I may not be a Christian but even I know Jesus reminded people that how we treat the least among us is how we’re treating him; I feel really confident that he was including bathroom breaks in that.

Last week, a busker sat on a bench outside Blick, an art store up the street from the coffee shop. They had a guitar and an oil pastel. I didn’t ask; the implication, of course, is that they made it. I was walking by but paused to talk for a moment. They told me that their art supplies had been stolen. Could I give them some money to replace their supplies?

A pause here–I’ve been talking to unhoused and vulnerable people for years. I’ve even told some stories here about the lovely and, sometimes, terrible people I’ve met. Don’t allow media and Hollywood tell you what to think. There is not a single person on earth who woke up one morning and said “Gosh, I think I’ll stand on the corner and ask for money today because I’ll definitely take home more than I would if I had an “official” job. It’ll be fun. Everyone will be nice.” 

Anyway, back to the busker. I introduced myself and asked what name they use, which I won’t share here to protect their privacy. (I actually had a brief internal debate about sharing their name on this blog but decided there was no justification.) Then, I gave them a choice–I could buy them supplies (I had an internal limit that I did not share) or give them the $20 bill I had in my hand. Art supplies cost a lot more than $20, as I told them. We talked for a bit longer and I decided to do both. 

The folks at Blick told me to make an online donation (a ko-fi, for example) to the busker instead, though they readily helped me pick out some oil pastels and pencils. Blick staff thought they’d receive a visit from the busker later trying to return the art supplies for cash and told me they wouldn’t accept them back without my presence. I promised to warn my new acquaintance, which I did, when I handed them the bag. Total cost: the $20 bill and $41 in art supplies. Would I do it again? Yes, though I think I’d handle it a little differently. The choice I initially offered was unfair. If you’re hungry, you’re going for the food in front of you, not the promise of a cooking lesson.

Last week, I drove to Jeffersontown, Kentucky for an author talk. Before leaving on my trip, I stopped at the coffee shop to get a BIG iced tea for the road. I told the baristas that I was going to see if Mitch McConnell is actually alive because someone has to. It made them laugh, the intent of my comment, obv, but shouldn’t we feel deep grief that we’re at the stage of our democracy that politicians hide and lie?

The author talk–Christina Lauren, Susan Lee, and Nikki Payne–was a delight. I laughed a lot and bought more books for the TBR. (I’m going to live forever if my TBR is anything to go by.)

I probably talk too much about my food issues–malabsorption, from losing part of my liver (like I set my liver down on a counter and forgot to pick it up), but if you couldn’t absorb nutrients and most food made you feel like butt, you might also talk about it too much. Lol Anyway, I wanted something to eat and chose a steakhouse because if I’m going to be sick anyway, I might as well enjoy part of the experience.

The steaks were all about the same price. The restaurant was quiet, nearly empty on a Monday night. I told my server to ask Chef to pick the steak and prepare it as it should be. I chose my side–based on the server’s description–broccoli the size of trees. The whole meal cost me less than lunch for two at Steak and Shake (which was $55 last week with my dementia friend). The server and the manager came over to chat with me; they’re friends. She gave him a job because he just graduated from college and is still looking for something in his field. Chef gave me a free dessert, strawberry shortcake with homemade vanilla ice cream, and I gave the server a big tip. I took the dessert back to my hotel room and ate it with my hands because they forgot to give me a spoon. It was delightful.

Yesterday, I was in Erie, visiting N-Aunt Ginny. She was less present even than the last time I was in town two weeks ago. Our usual selfie tells the story. Her eyes aren’t seeing what we see.  Visiting her breaks me into smaller and smaller pieces each time. I go there because she is as present as she can be and she deserves the best of my presence from me. And when I visit, I get to wipe her hands clean after lunch, like she did for me a long time ago. It is a gift, an honor, to be a trusted presence in someone’s life. Also, because I can always find something to laugh about, I have to tell you: She broke up with me at the end of our visit. I’m not sure which former boyfriend I represented but she let me down easy. And I told her, in turn, that I’d always love her, which is true.

Before going to the long term care facility to see N-Aunt Ginny, I stopped, as I usually do, at the candy store, Romolo. I was running late, due to some really bad traffic in Pittsburgh and several construction areas on the highway. It was 11:45AM. I didn’t want to miss lunch with her. So, I grabbed dark chocolate peppermint patties (N-Aunt Ginny’s favorites) and small gift boxes of chocolate for her three lunchmates. The line was unmoving. Usually, I just mind-wander while I’m waiting. Being in a hurry made me pay more attention, which I am delighted that I did.

The two young people–do you remember being that young? Perhaps you, dear reader, ARE that young–were making a purchase and didn’t have enough money. One of them ran outside to get more from their car. I stepped up to the counter, looked at the cashier, she nodded, and I tapped my card against the payment machine. The transaction went through–$20.75. The young many who was waiting at the counter realized too late what I was doing. 

He was horrified. “No, noooo,” he said. “You didn’t have to do that.” I looked at him and said, “I wanted to.” (And not because I was in a hurry. I wasn’t in THAT much of a hurry.) His friend came running up with the additional dollar that they needed (yes, they had a $20 on the counter) and gasped when the $20 was returned. They both hugged me and promised to do something nice for someone else and then, they left, treat box in hand. 

Here’s the thing: I will never be Mackenzie Scott or Beyonce or even a multi-millionaire. I don’t have a big, visible life. But I can make a difference for that person whose standing, embarrassed, at the register. It cost me $20.75, literally a lunch, to make two people smile like the sun just broke through the clouds. It isn’t even about the money. It’s about the community we form when we see the people around us, when we look up from our mind-wander or our scrolling or whatever and pay attention.

Much love.

Steak And Busking And Chocolate

Kitten Heels Are Not For Kittens

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , , , , , 2 Comments

That person I help–my dementia friend (DF): I misplaced her when we were out together. It was maybe a minute though it seemed like days. I compare it, not unfairly IMO, to losing one of my kids at the store when they were little and hiding behind a mannequin or under a clothes rack. Only she wasn’t doing either. She left the store. Just walked away. Believe me; I ALWAYS say, “Wait for me right here. Do not leave.” She always agrees. And then, boom. She’s gone. 

She has an airtag on her keys. It’s necessary because she sometimes forgets her phone but never her keys. Her gerontologist suggested it, brilliant really. We’ve been fussing about how we could make sure she kept her phone with her. She swears that she always has her phone. If I had a dollar for every time she doesn’t have it, I’d have enough money for a pittie dog farm, big and fenced and shady so I could rescue all the pitties and keep them safe.

DF is going out with another friend this afternoon. We, the friend and I, chatted by text early today to make sure she’s prepared for the work involved, particularly when DF gets anxious, which is often. 

It’s the last days of Pride. The bagel place is ending its month-long run of bagels with sprinkles. I did not get one because I’m one of only about 10 people in the world who does not like the taste of sprinkles. Yeah, I know that’s weird. No, I don’t know why I don’t like sprinkles. But I don’t. And like most things, you can talk me to death about it without convincing me that I just haven’t tried the right kind of sprinkles. 

Two pretty young women just walked by in kitten heels. And now, they know why no one wears kitten heels for very long. Their outfits are charming–short shorts and matching midriff tops but DAMN their feets are a-hurtin.

A group of women parked near me this morning and puzzled over the solar parking meter, how to use it and how awesome the old days were. I have to agree that the old days were kind of awesome when it comes to parking. If you were lucky, you’d pull into a parking spot that still had time on the meter. That was a little like a lottery win, which is funny because parking cost like 10 cents an hour. For a time, we had these little parking receipts (?) to put on our dashboards and, again, if you were lucky, someone would hand you their unexpired receipt to put on your dash. 

Once they paid for parking, the group of women–five in total–started walking down the street but worried that they wouldn’t be able to find their car again. One of them took a picture of the intersection, in case they couldn’t remember. If you ever visit this neighborhood, you’ll know why it’s basically impossible to lose your car. They were so sweetly excited to be here, in this tiny, one-street, shopping district.

My eldest and I are going to the Netherlands in about a month. I’ve been shopping for some place to stay and having a delightful time. I can remember getting hotel rooms in the pre-internet days and I’d never go back to that. Travel agents were basically a necessity if you were leaving the country. Now, I can find out with a few clicks that our prospective hotel has a mandatory no swimsuit rule in their pool. I was thinking a pool would be a good idea given the extreme temperatures Europe has been experiencing. I’ve decided, however, that my puritan roots will not allow me to get into the same pool–naked–as my adult, also naked, son. Lol We’ve found a great place and are super excited about our travel agenda. It has no pool but is about 30 minutes from the beach.

Don’t worry. I’m going to share obnoxiously. Did you know, for example, that NL has TWO different cheese markets during the summer?! I have no idea what I’m going to do with all the cheese I’m going to buy, particularly since I’m lactose intolerant, won’t have a kitchen, and can’t possibly bring it back to the US. (Can you imagine the smell of my luggage?!)

A young man in a maroon shirt just walked by with a pastry box that he threw in the garbage can before licking his fingers. I don’t know what he had but he really liked it. It’s Monday; the bakery across the street is closed. The coffee shop doesn’t provide pastry boxes. Maybe Paris Baguette, down the street? I worry sometimes about it, a chain, pushing out the local stores here but at least it’s locally owned. Does that make it better?

Those pretty girls in their short shorts and midriff tops just walked by again. They’ve changed into flipflops. They still look cute and their feet no longer hurt. I call that a win for unfashion.

Growing up, our house was miles from the nearest library. There was a bus stop about a mile away, though, with a corresponding stop at a shopping plaza where the library was located. I’d walk across a huge field by the nearby school, red brick, one story, with a playground in the back, worrying that the bus would arrive and leave before I was close enough to catch it. It never did, though I recall clearly seeing it arrive early at the stop one time. I ran all the way there, just in case the driver decided to leave.

There was no bench, just the wide-open field for sitting. One time, I waited near a former friend, J. We stopped being friends when she got into some trouble, along with her brothers. They sold; she used. I was afraid to get too close, as though drug addiction is contagious. She was friendly, tried to have a conversation with me; I didn’t know how to be normal around her. I can still picture her, sitting on the ground, criss-cross applesauce, in jean shorts and a red striped tee, long hair loose around her shoulders, big, dark glasses covering most of her face. She overdosed a few years later. Unrelated to J’s death, her brothers served some time for selling. The family moved away but I heard that J’s momma never recovered, her heart broken beyond repair by multiple losses.

The bus ride always seemed long to a pre-teen/teenager. I worried about missing my stop, which adult me realizes is ridiculous. The same man drove the route every single time I rode the bus. I’m sure he was watching out for me. I, on the other hand, was alone, feeling very adult, of course, and very centered in a universe that actually is far too large to even notice a young girl riding the bus. 

The library had a literal storefront because it was, in fact, located in a strip mall with boutique clothing stores and a Hornes department store. I’d go in, drop off all my borrows and spend the hour before the return bus picking out the next week’s reads–Trixie Belden, Cherry Ames, Nancy Drew, Flowers In the Attic, Gone With the Wind, Fahrenheit 451, Dandelion Wine, and every Harlequin romance written, I think. lol 

Sometimes the librarians (and my teachers) would ask if I was allowed to read the “more adult” books. Of course, I’d say yes but I’m pretty confident that my parents never checked on my reading preferences. This was the 1970s, the time when parents had to be reminded to check whether their children were even in the house. 

The only thing that changed after I learned to drive was that I’d also visit the library’s main branch, which was much larger. When there was a library book sale, oooohhhh my, I would go crazy. I still have books I purchased at those sales, their “withdrawn” stamps faded now, the spines worn, treasures, all of them. Weeding, it’s called, as Rachel Maddon discovered at the ALA conference recently.

The ambulance pulled up next door after midnight. The neighbors are in their 90s, vibrant and busy but nonetheless elderly. I watch over them unobtrusively, making sure their routines continue, that the garbage cans go out to the curb and return to the side of the house, that he goes grocery shopping (the same day every week, clockwork), that they put out their usual decorations for each holiday. When I saw the EMTs, I did not rush across the yard to their house, of course, but I did text the next day to check in. 

She fell down the stairs. My 90+ neighbor fell down the stairs. She broke a finger, her clavicle, her ankle, and bones in her back. The daughter gave me permission to visit. Just being honest here; this is one of the things that overflows the cauldron of grief. 

The coffee shop is busy today, the overhead door open to the warm, sometimes hot, breeze, the sky a muddled blue, like someone mostly mixed in a spot of gray and then added a bunch of fluffy white with gray to cloud the edges of the canvas. It wasn’t the “art guy” who sits near me with a big bag of pastels. He’d be more likely to draw the sky as a piece of modern art and we’d stand under it, our heads tilted, as we try to absorb his vision.

There was an estate sale just down the street, less than a block away. When I saw the picture of the house, I knew that it belonged to the elderly lady who used to walk her Great Pyrenees, Maestro, in the neighborhood every day. She would invite people to “Come, drink wine with me on my purple porch.” (The porch is, in fact, a deep, lovely purple.) She was tiny with fine, long, white hair and at one time, she was famous, traveling the world with her harp, performing with all the major symphonies. She also painted, embroidered, made tapestries. Her house, which is falling apart, is bright with high ceilings, furnished with beautiful Victorian settees and inlaid mahogany tables. I hope her son took Maestro to live with him in California. 

I went to an author talk recently, Penny Reid in conversation with her sister. I’m not sure what I expected. She often talks about how awkward she is but, in fact, she was delightful–funny, engaging, and charismatic. The event was in Chesapeake, Virginia, quite a drive for me, but I turned it into an adventure, ate at a great restaurant, soaked in a pool, chatted with some strangers, laughed.

Next was a talk in Bedford, New York, with Annabel Monaghan. This time, I ordered my dinner at the bar. The bartender gave me a free drink, which, since I’m sober, was a cranberry juice (with a lime!). He was a no-nonsense guy from Brooklyn, the accent gave him away, who did NOT like the guy who came to stand next to my bar seat. I didn’t like him either. That might be what got me the free drink. I ate in my room, having spent just a little too much time outside my comfort zone.  

I’m doing that difficult thing, finding the person I am after the person I was. 

Much love. 

Kitten Heels Are Not For Kittens

Musical Feet

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , 1 Comment

The diner is my first stop. Breakfast there is one of the few meals I can eat without feeling sick afterwards but we’re not talking about malabsorption today. Waving hello to the cooks, I stop at my favorite seat. One of the servers, new, offers me a menu and I decline. They’re already making my order. I get the same one every time–two eggs over medium, bacon, crispy home fries, and an English muffin with grape jelly. I can eat about half, less sometimes. The cooks always give me way too much food; they love my son who used to work there.

I’m eating and reading when a table of 10 boisterous diners sits down next to me. An older man, white haired, a retired principal, talks to two middle school kids seated across from him. He’s trying to connect by telling one of them about someone who shares the child’s name. In case you are tempted to try this strategy, allow me the indulgence of discouraging you. The kids don’t care. Points for their upbringing, though. They were very polite.

On my way to the coffee shop, I pass a woman sitting in the shade. It’s early, the sun not yet above the house horizon, if you will. She suffers from the hunched back that women my age fight against, downing our daily calcium tablets with more excitement than we’ve felt since our first Backstreet Boys concert. I’d know her age from her fingers on the keyboard of her computer, no need to see the wrinkles and spots that match those on my own hands. It’s because her fingers hover just above the home row. She, absolutely, just like most women of a certain age, took a typing class in high school. 

A sound disturbs my navel contemplation. Not that I’m actually gazing at my belly button. I *am* staring off into space, though, not thinking so much as existing. I turn, puzzled, unable to determine the source of the sound. It’s not the whining child sitting at the table outside. She is very clearly saying, “I’m coooooolllllddddddd.” Her parents ignore the noise until none of us can. 

Still, the other sound continues, a repetitive clack, firmer than heels, and louder than you’d expect a shoe to sound on a tile floor. I keep looking. A very pretty older man sits at the table next to the whiny girl who would not be whining if her parents had listened in the first place. It’s not the attractive man. He’s just watching the world go by as he waits for a suited man to join him. I feel like he’s being sold something from the passion with which the other man waves his hands. 

Ah ha! I’ve found the source. A young man is breaking the law outside the coffee shop. Hehe He’s stapling documents to the wooden light pole that is covered with staples from prior flouters. There are so many advertisements attached to the pole that he has to reach up, on his toes, to attach the final one, firmly, six staples for that piece. The electric company rep will be by within a few days to do their monthly (or so) de-papering. I prefer the community-based adverts to the blank pole.

A bald older man just entered the coffee shop. He sees a barista and makes a gesture that looks disturbingly like a Nazi salute but then he bows awkwardly and fist bumps the barista. I doubt that he’s a Nazi. They’re rare around here and would most likely get thrown out of the place. Also, I doubt that they fist bump. 

Years ago, a woman on the street screamed the N word at a passing car. People on the sidewalk turned and started toward her, booing. I’ve never been prouder. They got closer, a dozen people, booing, while she backed up, trying to defend the slur. They just booed louder because there is no justification. She finally turned, flipped them the bird, and hurried up the alley toward Howe Street. Everyone cheered and then turned away, going back to their activities like nothing had happened. 

A guffaw has burst, unlooked (unlistened?) for, from the man sitting at a table on the sidewalk. He’s talking to a woman sitting across from him. I wish I were close enough to eavesdrop because she seems funny. I could use a guffaw or two.

Back briefly from my CNF writing to report that I have scored the seat next to the Great Guffawer, though he seems to have run through today’s quota of laughs.

A very pretty man walks by, meandering speed. I recognize this because I, too, am a meanderer. He pauses just beyond the coffee shop door and turns to look back the way he came, clearly waiting. I must tell you (yes, I am literally obligated to comment on all the attractive men who pass by; there are rules, you see) that this man has chiseled cheekbones and a well-kept beard. He’s not smiling, giving off the romance-trope impression of a grumpy man whose sunshine woman is walking toward him. She holds up a wrist and encourages him to smell it. Without a doubt, she was trying perfumes at Sephora. He leans into her wrist and sniffs, then nods; no smiles make an appearance. He’s going in the next novel. Sorry, not sorry.

A young man is standing outside, singing and dancing. He stops once to look at himself in his phone’s camera, fixes his hat, and continues to sing and dance quite awkwardly. He’s not the next Joy Machine, though I wish him well in his efforts to grow into that *something*. He dances off down the street a bit, out of sight but not out of hearing range. I hope he’s not trying to be discovered here. It’s the wrong neighborhood to expect to find a talent agent.  

Have you ever heard of Labi Siffre? I recommend that you check out “Bless the Telephone.”

A very tall Grandpa walks by holding hands with a tiny, tiny boy who dances along on his toes, his heels never touching the ground as he sings nonsense words. His little baseball cap is tilted to the side, looking, finally, correct when the boy tilts his head for a moment and catches my eye before dancing on, music on his tongue and in his feet.

A breeze rustles the napkin on my table and the strings on my blouse, disrupting, too, my confused musings. I wish it would blow the dust from my brain, a wish that remains ungranted. I’m trying to write something that may be unwritable, though I continue to try. Where are the words? Perhaps the next breeze will bring some.

Much love.

Musical Feet

With Great Power….

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , , , , , 1 Comment

We all hold such power–to make someone smile, to destroy someone’s confidence, to heal, to injure. During my training at Disney World about a million years ago, we were reminded over and over again that we had an incredible secret power; we could make or ruin a person’s day. I have so many wonderful memories of working there, of making people laugh, of helping parents find their lost children, of recommending activities, places to eat, overlooked treasures. I’m in hundreds of thousands of pictures that I’ll never see. I promise you, though, that I’m smiling, laughing, talking to strangers in every one of them. Sometimes, I am sure, I was caught mid-silly dance or goofy face at a child. 

Disney taught me how to recognize that secret power and how to wield it for good. The corporate world beat me up, encouraged–NO, expected–me to lean into the negative. When I walked away from corporate work, I shed all that with relief. Being mean is a heavy burden (and so aging). It’s so much easier, and so much more fun, to be kind. 

Kindness lifts people up. It also has the weirdly reciprocal effect of making the giver feel good, too. Last summer, a young woman sitting near me at the coffee shop was wearing a charming skirt. I told her that. She thanked me and said, “It’s vintage!” She was so proud. It still makes me smile to think of that three- or four-second interaction. I have many of those. 

I read something recently about the uptick of ChatGPT use by, primarily, men. The article suggested that men are more susceptible to the manipulation that can exist behind flattery because women, from an early age, learn to recognize it, whereas men are compliment-starved. I tested that theory, very unscientifically, on my children and discovered that they concur. My eldest even said that he can remember the last time he received a compliment from someone (other than me, of course), six weeks ago, and it was about a shirt he wore. 

When I give compliments, which I do readily, I’m always interested to see the different ways people respond. Last week, I complimented a woman’s outfit. She laughed, grabbed my arm, and thanked me with a big smile. The last time I complimented something about a man, he blushed, absolutely astonished by my comment. Here’s the most important thing, I NEVER, NEVER, NEVER tell someone that they’re beautiful or handsome. I pick out something I like and I tell the person. It’s easy. Your hair looks great. I love your shirt. I would die for those shoes. Your outfit is chef’s kiss. You should do an insta shoot with KeepPittsburghDope. I love your laugh. Your joy is making me smile (I said that to a group standing together, laughing).

Sometimes–well, usually–I’m incredibly awkward but that doesn’t stop me. Better an awkward compliment than a missed opportunity to be kind. 

Yesterday was a terrible, horrible, no-good day. Looking back, I can recognize that, in fact, 19 of 20 things went really well. Like many humans, though, I find myself focusing on the one thing that did not go well and that it is 100% my fault that it didn’t. The worst part of it going wrong, though, is that it went wrong in front of a man who smugly told me that it wouldn’t go right, as it was going wrong. He was so…mean. It’s rarely necessary to be mean (except to billionaires, whose money-hoarding is destroying the lives of millions who are barely surviving–but we’re not talking about that right now). That man was so pleased to announce, over and over, that I was wrong. And I was, which just makes his unkindness more bitter. He could have been not-a-dick. He could have been but he chose to lean into being mean. We both knew he was right. I acknowledged his rightness with a smile, my jaw clenched so tight it could have held back the Colorado River. I was gracious, even apologetic. He was so mean. So mean. It ruined my day. Yes, I am well aware that I gave a stranger power over me. See the first paragraph. Total strangers have that secret power. You have it. I have it. 

So, here’s my advice, which you didn’t ask for but I promise is actually easy to follow: be nice. There’s a great poem “Watching My Friend Pretend Her Heart Is Not Breaking,” by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer. ‘There are a great many reasons to treat each other with great tenderness.’ All of us…I’ll say it again for those who are skimming…ALL OF US are going through things.

Use your secret power well.

Much love.

With Great Power….

Making Up Stories

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Today’s music from the diner sound system is, as they say, “the soundtrack of my youth.” The server and I sing along and laugh. We’re both off key but we know the words, anticipating them in some cases, as one does.

There are four sets of older men sitting at tables, gossiping. In the old days, one would have said “gossiping like old women,” but I have been investigating the misogyny of my youth, discovering that, in fact, old women are no more or less inclined to gossip than old men.

Next to me, a young woman sits alone, reading a book whose name I’ve never been able to discover, regardless of the times I’ve snuck a peek at it. She’s picking at the remains of a Morning After Breakfast Special, so called because it includes a happy amount of eggs, bacon, and crepe-like pancakes with crispy edges. Before digesting food became such a challenge, the diner’s syrup-y pancakes were my favorite. 

The new server tries to hand me a menu. I smile and reach out to take it from her. One of the other servers takes it before I can and laughs. “Deb does not need a menu,” she says. I laugh and shrug. She tells the new employee what I usually order and explains that Malik is already making it. The new server delivers it and says, “Do we need anything else?” I hope she’s not deliberately using the royal we but I’m nice and tell her that I’m all set. 

A woman I know joins me, unexpectedly, at my table. She says, “I’m going down to see my mom next week. Did I tell you she has cancer?” Her eyes are full of tears. She gestures to them and says, “I’m getting pretty used to it. Now, I only cry two or three times a day.” She’s laughing through her tears, sure that I’ll understand. Of course I do. We talk for a bit about her mom, their plans, and her fear, her relentless web searching for answers and hope. Before she leaves, I say, “Can I give you a piece of advice?” Her eyes fill again and we take a minute for a tight hug. “We don’t know what will happen,” I whisper to her. She gulps back her tears and nods against my cheek. “We don’t know,” she whispers back. “We don’t know.” 

I move on to the coffee shop for a brief visit. I have a doctor appointment today so I’m mostly settling myself, my nerves, before I head to her office. There’s a young person in my usual seat. She’s working with delicate granny squares. There are nine laid out in a pattern on the table as she begins the process of sewing them together. As women walk through the door, they look down at her table and compliment her work. She looks up and smiles each time, thanking them.

It’s a gray Friday, too April-chilly for the big garage door to be open. A young man, colt-ish, as writers might describe him, lopes along beside a parental figure across the street. His stride is a little awkward, as though he had a growth spurt and hasn’t quite adjusted yet. He has the long, thick hair of a teenager who is rebelling against his parents, who also rebelled against theirs. 

A graying redheaded woman walks by the coffee shop next to a young man. She says something and he laughs, turning his head toward her, the smile still on his lips. I suspect that she’s Mom but that’s just me making up stories as I watch humanity pass by on an early Friday. 

Much love.

Making Up Stories

Valor and Vulnerability

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , , , , 1 Comment

The angry part of me wants to point out how much it has cost the US to attack another country– in lives, property, and whatever remained of our international standing. At least we got what we went in there for, right? Wait…what did we gain, again? I’m unclear about the purpose and result, even ignoring, just for the moment, that Iran is proposing to charge $2 million per ship to travel the Strait. (And what price does one put on dead school children?) 

On the other hand, on this blue-sky day, it is remarkably satisfying to acknowledge that there are few living people in the entire world who are more hated than our current president. If he had the capacity to understand, his narcissistic self would be devastated. No matter how awful a person might be to their partner, child, barista, server, contractor, employee, boss, they will likely never achieve the degree of hatred that Trump has. If he hadn’t become president, he’d just be a foolish, elderly man who people mostly didn’t know or care about. And the world would be significantly better off. 

There are four astronauts traveling through the vastness of space on their return trip to Earth. While we celebrate the success of their mission, I suspect that they are sad to return home. I read somewhere that having once gone into space, every astronaut would go back again. Although I’ve never had such a calling, and indeed have terrible motion sickness, I watch the videos of those joyful scientists and feel what must be merely a glimmer of the wonder they’re experiencing.

Imagine being so morally unhealthy that you can’t appreciate the vastness of our universe and our tiny place in it, that you can’t look at the work of our astronauts and all of NASA with the awe and excitement they deserve, that you haven’t the capacity to wonder at four people achieving what no one has ever done before. If he weren’t a terrible person who has done irreversible harm to humanity, I might feel a little sorry for him. But he is terrible and thus deserves only the amount of sympathy he is capable of feeling, which is none. 

As I look out the coffee shop window, watching people wander the sidewalks–some in matching jackets, some in clothes that scream “I didn’t check my weather app this morning,” I am making the choice to honor our astronauts and ignore the fool building a ballroom as Rome is burning.

Very shortly, I will visit DF (dementia friend), who will tell me about their day, ask about mine, and then retain nothing of the conversation. When you experience this, I must counsel you, it is a lot like working at Disney–no matter how many times you are asked the same question, you cannot ever get mad. The person asking doesn’t know the answer. That’s why they’re asking. 

For me, there’s a challenge in finding new ways to answer that still get the message across–it’s like the verbal version of a writing challenge: how many different ways can you say the same thing? I have found that, in fact, there are many and varied ways to tell DF that my day is busy, that the children are fine, that I’m hungry and don’t care where we eat, that I will explain whatever it is that DF can’t remember or understand or figure out. They never recall the answer but their brain, which can’t hold new information, needs the reassurance. 

Yesterday, it was supervising the task of writing a check for the new handrails on DF’s front steps. To protect everyone involved, I told the contractor that absolutely no financial transactions are to occur without me present. DF can’t remember the agreed-to price or how much upfront money we gave the contractor. I feel a little sick when I think about how vulnerable that makes them. I trust the contractor or else we wouldn’t be working with him. Nonetheless, I often get the kind of anxiety one might feel if they left a toddler next to a pan of boiling water. 

The peace of my coffee shop experience has been disrupted by a man. Isn’t that always the case?! Hehe Just joking. Well, not exactly. There’s a contractor repairing the sidewalk across the street. He is grinding down something and then using a leaf blower to clear out the dust, releasing clouds of white, gritty dirt into the air. The coffee shop window is closed but the dust has begun its insidious infiltration. 

“Chuck E’s In Love” is playing in my airpods right now. I love the twist ending, jealousy to joy. So great. 

You’re going to be shocked but there’s a very attractive older man currently proclaiming that 9/11 was an inside job. He “knows a little about implosions” and he’s pretty confident that the buildings were blown up just before the planes crashed into them. Sigh. Imma leave the coffee shop for the day. 

Much love.

Valor and Vulnerability

Repetition and/of Grief

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , , , , , , 2 Comments

The repetition is reassuring. “Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in and hold your breath.” After the first experience of having my liver scanned–I had confessed my nerves to the technician–he asked me how I felt. I told him the first breath is the hardest. You don’t know how long you’ll be holding it. Lying in a shallow cylinder filled with very loud noise and muffled, tinny music, seconds feel like minutes. Once the rhythm of the process is clear, it’s not difficult. The repetition feels like a test that you’re smashing. Yes! I held my breath. I kept still as a statue. Now, I can breathe again (for a moment, before the “breathe in” recording recycles). 

Keeping still is essential or they have to stop and restart the scan. One time, I cried but stayed completely still. The tears were silent as they rolled down the sides of my face into my ears and onto my neck. The technician asked if I was okay, if I wanted to stop. I said, “No. I’m okay.” And we kept at it. He didn’t say anything about it at the end, didn’t comment as I carefully wiped the tear stains with the edge of my hospital gown. We all have to wear two, one as a gown and one as a jacket, with a pair of ugly, ill-fitting, hospital pants. Today, they offered me a heated blanket, which I took happily. They blow cold air into that narrow tube. It’s hard to stay still when you start to shiver. 

The contrast burns just a little. It’s cold, running through the tube on my arm and wrapped around my thumb (to keep the tube from catching in the machinery and getting yanked out of my arm). This is my favorite part, not the mildly uncomfortable sensation but the chilly, stinging knowledge that we’re five minutes from the end of the scan. I don’t hate that narrow tube but I do hate what it represents. Now, the wait begins. This is the worst part, the worry, the anticipation, the sour-tasting hope. What will the scans reveal? 

I arrived home oddly tired, from the stress, and determined, as usual, not to think about the wait, not to watch for the notification that I have test results in my medical chart. Two of the contractors repairing the leak in my bathroom came into the kitchen as I emptied the dishwasher. They use the microwave every day to warm up lunch–a homemade taco bowl for one, meatballs in red sauce for the other. We always spend a few moments talking: one has a baby due next month and momma-to-be is at that stage of pregnancy where nothing is comfortable. The other is a foodie. We compared experiences eating Indian food and he told me about a Nigerian place he’s going to try soon. It’s far south of me, closer to Washington, PA so I probably won’t get there.  

They’re silent about the scans, of course. But one of the other contractors fusses, offering to move his vehicle so I can park closer to the house. He’s mournful, pitying, which always feels incredibly uncomfortable. They all know about the cancer because I joked with the GC one day that I’m going to have a nice tub before I die. I’m not dying but awareness matters. The life insurance company won’t insure me until I hit the five year mark–they know the score and so do I.

One of my nieces and I are planning a hiking trip to the Isle of Man, 100 miles around the whole of the island. The hike is called the Raad ny Foillan–pronounced rad na foil yan–the Way of the Gull. I’m hoping we’ll convince the family to go with us, at least for part of the trip. I think my dad would appreciate the idea of all of us visiting the homeland together, though I’ll acknowledge that I rarely act in ways that would please my father. Still, this is a trip I’d love to make. Something about it calls, like I’m a salmon rushing to get upstream. 

Construction work is nearly complete on my unexpected bathroom renovation. I was planning only to repair the shower. Then, when the GC pointed out the obvious, that I’d have to replace the shower tile, I realized that I’d also have to do something about the matching tile with which the previous owner lined the entire bathroom, including the built-in jet tub that I hate with the fire of a thousand suns. I’m not re-tiling the outside of that bathtub, I’m replacing it. You see what happened, right? From there, it was only a short jump to replacing the useless jack-and-jill sinks with a smaller vanity and STORAGE. This is how one starts with a minor repair and ends up with a renovation. 

I’ll admit to a moment or two of panic as the workers carried bag after bag of my former bathroom out of the house. The only reno I’ve ever done is DIY. This has been an adventure in learning new strategies and new coping mechanisms. They have taught me much about efficiency and tidiness while working. And laughter. There’s been something delightful about listening to the plumbers giggle together. Not so much the noises four men made as they carried my new freestanding, and very heavy, tub up two flights of stairs…those sounds feature in my nightmares. 

Early in the project, one of the young men, not quite an apprentice but definitely not a grizzled icon of construction work, slipped and fell through the newly floor-less bathroom, leaving a foot-shaped hole in the second floor bedroom ceiling. He wasn’t hurt. That’s the most important thing. He was CHAGRINED and has very gracefully endured my teasing ever since. He’s also done a great job on the repair, including repainting the entire ceiling because the sheen on the new gallon of paint didn’t match the original (even though we had the empty can to take to Sherwin Williams). File that under unsolved mysteries! 

It’s theoretically possible that I’ll be showering in my new bathroom this weekend. I sure hope I don’t hate the experience because I’m never doing it again. Maybe to the other bathrooms? If I do any more renovations, the kitchen is probably next. Some maniac former owner decided that the cupboards should be painted with floor stain, probably because they knew they were leaving a mess for a future owner. The floor stain is a misery–a curse on their gardens for the struggle they left with us. They also added cheap storage at the ceiling level that I was initially excited about. All the love to that naive younger version of myself, the one who thought she wouldn’t hate having to get out the step ladder every single time she needs something from those cupboards, which has proven to be way more frequently than the younger version of myself anticipated. 

After nearly a month with this group of contractors, I have affection for some, tolerance for one, and appreciation for another. I’ve gotten to know the individual sounds of their voices, their footsteps. I have inside jokes with the GC and talk to the apprentice like he’s my son (he doesn’t seem to mind having been “adopted” by me). They’ll leave at the end of the day today and it’s possible I’ll never see any of them again. I won’t hear about the birth of the baby next month, won’t know about the foodie’s latest obsession, won’t get the update of life after the move into a new apartment in two weeks, won’t hear the incredibly loud belching (which I’m not sorry to leave behind). Life is filled with these little bereavements. Ships passing in the night, the cliche calls it. 

But it’s more than that. Just as I’ve made room in my life for them, they too have created a world around this job. I suspect they do it with every project, moving their things in: a hoodie draped over the banister, house shoes by the front door for bad weather days, a ladder left in the second floor room after the ceiling repair. I found a construction pencil by the basement deep sink and a roll of blue tape at the top of the stairs. They’re incredibly tidy but also comfortable in the space, which feels very warm. I love to hear their feet pounding down the steps as they run outside to get something from the truck and their voices as they call to each other–a joke, a request, a question. 

The house will be quiet when they’re gone. Even the dogs will stop their barking.

Much love.

Repetition and/of Grief

Did You Stock Up For The Storm?

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Moby’s “When It’s Cold I’d Like to Die” (sung by Mimi Goese) is currently playing in my ear. Although I’m conflicted about Stranger Things, their music director made fantastic choices, some that I had completely forgotten. The “official” Stranger Things playlist is a walk through my teens and early 20s. I hear a song and I’m suddenly in Florida, laughing in the heat, the sky that intense blue of a summer afternoon. 

I’m delighted to report that my article, “Are We Not Evil?,” published in The Third Annual, has been called “…that oddball postscript…typical of the ‘don’t-give-a-fuck’ approach [Frans de Waard] habitually adopts.” The reviewer, Alan Rider, from Outside Left Literature, goes on to say that the Annual “…is superbly executed….” You can read the full review here. If you still haven’t bought a copy of the Annual, text me or leave me a note here on my blog. It’s 250+ pages of underground, out-of-the-mainstream fun. Be warned, though, I only have three or four copies left.  

In a coffee shop that is nearly empty, two children are now sitting so close to me that they can, and have, bumped into me multiple times, because, as we all know, children have the spatial awareness of your average bouncy ball. I love children. And thus, I am pretending that I’m delighted they are sitting nearly on top of me. I refuse to make eye contact.

Save me. Mom and the little one have gone to the restroom. The older child has taken the opportunity to rearrange their seating thus that I cannot leave mine. I am, literally, wedged into the corner of the store by an 8 year old wielding a chair. 

After an hour or more of older child’s fidgeting, pencil dropping (a coordinated activity for annoying teachers when I was in grade school that apparently has not gone out of fashion), getting up for a cup of water, getting up for napkins to wipe up water, getting up to “just look” in the snack case, getting up to change leg positions, leaning as far over the back of the chair as possible in hopes of hitting me with a very long pony tail…I am finding their presence distracting. I’ve read the same paragraph at least 30 times. My computer has gone to sleep as I’ve repeatedly tapped SOS in morse code on the window pane. 

On the silver lining side, I’m getting a math refresher. We’ve been focused on the fives times table for nearly 15 minutes, a little too long, in my opinion. It’s time to move onto sixes. And sevens. Yes, that was a purposeful pop culture reference. Thank you very much. 

In other news, the boss (my doctor) asked me to lose 20 pounds but told me it would be difficult because I’m older than dirt postmenopausal. Challenge accepted. I’m down six pounds since our appointment. Ha, body, take that! It’s definitely not easy the way it used to be. I remember the “old” days, when I could eat chips and french onion dip for dinner and bounce out of bed the next day with the energy of someone who never lets unhealthy foods pass their lips. 

Tuesday was the weekly shopping trip for my cognitively declining friend. We used to try new breakfast places regularly. Now, our choice is based on “what’s most convenient.” I always say, “well, that would certainly be the focus if we were walking or taking a horse and wagon…BUT since we’re driving, we can go wherever we want.” They always laugh at that but still fuss about distance. So, we ate breakfast two minutes from Costco, but not inside Costco, so still a win. 

Ordering food is a challenge. They struggle to remember what they want and sometimes they order the wrong food. One time, for example, they ordered a reuben and fries; but what they wanted was a reuben omelet and home fries. How do they know they’ve gotten the “wrong” food? When they’re happy with their meal, it’s “the best food they’ve had in months,” every time. When they aren’t happy–almost always because they mis-ordered–they complain that it’s “hard to eat” or “doesn’t taste the way they’d expected.” 

I’ve learned! Now, before our server arrives, I ask what they think they’ll order. We’ve even gone over the menu to discuss whether any of the items–almost always omelets–are good. They’ve had all of the options so I can even steer them toward their favorites if they can’t choose. If they can’t remember their order by the time the server arrives, I jump in and say “You mentioned ‘X.’ Did you still want that?” 

My favorite diner, Pamela’s, eases the ordering confusion by always offering to make us the “usual.” Let me tell you; my friend LOVES that they have reached Cheers status. Even though they don’t know what their “usual” is, they’re always delighted to know that they have a usual and that Pamela’s kitchen knows what it is. And yes, it’s the same order every single visit: a well-done Greek omelet, crispy home fries, wheat toast with grape jelly, and hot tea with lemon. 

Their grocery list on Tuesday was written on a piece of paper slightly larger than a postage stamp. I’m not exaggerating, unfortunately. They couldn’t read some of the items on the list even with my handwriting decoding skills. It reminded me painfully of my MIL’s notes as she declined and my own mom’s handwriting as MS stole her hand function. 

Today, we went out again to “prepare” for the bad weather like we’re heading out on the Oregon Trail. First, we went to breakfast in Pittsburgh’s strip district. The food was good but they couldn’t find the honey for their tea–they couldn’t remember what it looked like. When I pointed out the honey packets, they put it on their home fries instead of in their tea. I’ve never had honey potatoes but they were pretty happy, which is really all that matters. 

Once we got to a very busy Costco, they insisted on shopping alone, as they often do. Usually, I check in to make sure all is well; but it was so busy today that I had a time keeping track, ultimately losing them entirely. Every time that happens, I wonder if I’m about to learn Costco’s protocol for when someone goes missing in their store. 

Be safe out there as the storm rages and don’t forget to check on neighbors and pets. 

Much love.

Did You Stock Up For The Storm?

Pancreas Goes On Performance Improvement

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , , , , , , , , , Leave a comment

Me: So, Pancreas, do you know why I brought you into my office today?

Pancreas: Is it about those vacation days I asked for? Because I’ve already bought the plane tickets. 

Me: Sigh. 

Me: First, as a pancreas, you don’t get vacation days. Because you are a PANCREAS. If you were the Skeletal System, we could talk about days off.

Pancreas: I work very hard.

Me: (sotto voce) And now we come to the crux of this discussion. 

Me: Are you entirely sure about that? 

Pancreas: That I work hard? Yes, I’m sure. Damn sure. There’s no harder working organ in this body.

Me: Okay. Okay. I think I should stop you right there, before Heart hears you. Or Lungs. Or Central Nervous System. Or Liver. Liver is working at full capacity even though it’s about half the size it was two years ago. Can you say the same?

Pancreas: Unfair. I cannot be cut in half. 

Me: (sotto voce) Well, you’re working like you were.

Pancreas: (suspicious) What was that? I didn’t quite hear you.

Me: I said, “I’m so cold. Brrr.”

Pancreas: (confused) You’re exactly 97.9 F. Perfectly normal.

Me: Right. Let’s get back to your performance. Can you explain your reduced enzyme output?

Pancreas: Resources are limited. I’m getting up there, almost 60 years old, you know. You had that surgery last year. It threw everything off. I’m tired. I need a vacation.

Me: Sigh.

Me: I assume you know that the heart is older than you are, by like 2 weeks. ANYWAY….

Pancreas: (makes raspberry sounds) Heart. Blah Blah Blah. All I ever hear is that Heart is better than me. Hmph.

Me: Look. Your enzyme production is down. Stomach and Intestines are requiring external enzyme support. I’m going to have to put you on a performance improvement plan. 

Pancreas: Oh yeah. How about I just quit? 

Me: Stomach and Intestines both think you already have. That’s why they’re demanding external enzyme support. Pancreas, this performance improvement plan is for your own good. If you don’t start making enzymes, you’ll be replaced entirely by enzyme pills. You don’t want that. You’d miss working. We’d miss your cheerleading at the daily stand up discussions. And your jokes! I’m still laughing about the hippo-zippo one you told last week. 

Pancreas: (a little teary) You liked that one? 

Me: I sure did. Do you want a tissue?

Pancreas: (nodding) I’m sorry. I’ll do what I can to step up productivity. I’ve just been feeling a little down. It’s the season, you know? You eat so much food during the holidays. 

Me: (angry face)…

Pancreas: Not that I’m blaming you. 

Me: Uh huh. Suddenly I’m excited to start taking those enzymes. (glares menacingly at Pancreas)

Much love.

Pancreas Goes On Performance Improvement