loss

A Million Years Ago….

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

A million years ago, I had the very great pleasure to spend time with a team of 25 Indians who traveled to the US to work on a project. Today, I was ordering pastries (at a Paris Baguette) from a young Indian man and he did something that made me feel such melancholy for that team from so very long ago. The work? I don’t give two hooey’s about that anymore, though at the time we were making history. Today, I miss the people on that team. 

So, what did that young Indian man do? Well, it’s a little hard to describe but basically it’s a head motion common in India, a sort of head nod/shake. The first time you work with a large group of Indian men, you’ll wonder why they appear to be shaking their heads in a sort of “no” gesture when you’re talking to them. They aren’t, in fact, saying “no.” They’re telling you to continue, that they’re with you, grasping what you’ve said. 

When that young barista did his nod/shake, I had to hold in the outpouring of *something* that tried to spew forth in a glory of half-sentences and laughter. Yes, I did, in fact, keep it to myself. As memories go, it’s a little inexplicable, a memory that one holds close because no one else will really understand. I doubt that I’ve thought of that head shake movement in ten years but today, in a second, I was transported right back to a huge room at the top of Highmark’s Pittsburgh building, leaning over a table as I tried to convince one of the men that I was right about the enrollment process. I did not win that argument.

Have you read Project Hail Mary? I’ve been having difficulty finding time to sit down with a book but I was on a longer drive recently listening to it. And I’m speechless. It’s that good. I’ve only cried twice but there’s still three hours left in the book so, you know, plenty of time for more tears.

 I spent a good part of two days in the company of a person with cognitive decline. They were having some work done in the house but sometimes can’t remember the work that’s being done and can’t answer questions about the work. So, I’m there, keeping them company, and providing support when there’s a question. It’s exhausting. Part of it is answering repeatedly the same question without getting annoyed. When I was in training at Disney World, our trainers would remind us that we could never be frustrated over the number of times we answered a question–about the time for the next show, the location of the bathrooms, why they couldn’t bring their ice cream into the theater, why they couldn’t take their beer from the building–because, as the trainers said, that was the FIRST time that person had asked ME that question. 

What, however, does one do when the same person asks the same question or a variation thereof about 16 times in an hour? Well, one still cannot get frustrated because the cognitively declining person thinks they’ve never asked that particular question before. Mostly, frustration isn’t the issue for me, to be honest. Coming up with interesting distractions IS. My daughter gave me a big container of buttons–yep, buttons–and suggested that, as a project, this person might enjoy sorting the buttons by color and putting them into another container (with compartments) that Haley also thoughtfully provided. It was great. Worked like a damn charm. They found it soothing. I had a solid 30 minutes of peace to just take a breath. I owe my girl BIG TIME for the idea. 

On the flip side of cognitive decline symptoms, I was visiting my not-my-aunt Ginny and she decided AGAIN that we needed to make a break for it. She concocted several very elaborate plans to get us out of the facility and into my car. The woman can’t walk anymore but she’s somehow maneuvering herself FASTER THAN I AM toward the exit. I keep trying to turn the wheelchair but she’s digging in her heels. How is she this strong?! 

Feeling rather melancholy recently in the run up to the quarterly scans, I decided it would be a good idea to think about all the strong women in my family who have left this earthly existence. There are so many. I don’t know if that means I got more than my share or if, more likely, we all have had strong women in our lives that we just, maybe, didn’t realize were so amazing because we were children at the time. I was calling on them, I guess, to give me strength, lift me out of the doldrums, who knows…. The mental exercise accomplished none of those things but did make me miss them more than ever. 

Scan-wise, I have no updates to share. Scans were December 1st because nothing says “Happy Freakin’ Holidays” like starting the month by checking one’s body for bips and bops that don’t belong. I follow an author, breast cancer remission, who, this week, talked about the cruelty of the wait. She has a mass that might be nothing or might be something. She has a biopsy in two weeks. When she said that, in her Insta reel, I felt that same stomach drop that I get every single time I have scans. Disease takes normalcy as well as health. It steals peace and quiet moments of joy, if it can. 

I know the strategies of distraction and mindfulness but I am also deeply familiar with the anxiety of the wait–for news, for treatment, for results, for appointments. Even when the news is good, there is regular checking for the possibility of new bad news. GAH. It’s a relentless battle. And then well-meaning scientists conduct a study to see if cancer patients are more likely to be depressed than healthy people…. I’m sorry. Was that a question? What could their hypothesis have been other than–OBVIOUSLY? What are they going to do with those incredibly obvious results in a grotesquely under-funded mental health industry? 

Anyway, happy December to all who celebrate the last month of the year. I’ve always thought that the end of the year should come with a sticker, like a checkmark or a big smiley face, and then we should get recess. Instead, we start the year with taxes due, a new deductible on our health insurance ($9,100 for me), and debt from holiday extravagance. I’d much rather have the recess, thank you.

A Frank Nowalk original is up for auction this week. I desperately want it to be purchased by someone who will love it as much as he loved making it. It’s an incredible homage to Pittsburgh and currently has NO BIDS on it.

Also, if you look at the rest of the catalog, you’ll find some Ed Eberle art. If you don’t know who he is, check him out!! The Eberle Gallery is still in Homestead and very active in supporting growing artists. 

Musical interlude–”Christmas Time Is Here” by Bela Fleck and the Flecktones. The whole Jingle All The Way album is delightful. New takes on familiar music. Lots of banjo, some didgeridoo, and more. You won’t be sorry. And if you buy now, you’ll get this set of steak knives, sharp enough to cut through this can of cranberry sauce. 

Much love…and maybe some good luck?

A Million Years Ago….

The (Early) Winter of Our Discontent

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , , , , , , , , 4 Comments

Francis Nowalk’s here in Pittsburgh is closing its doors after more than 75 years. Frank, as he was called, worked in the store he built until Covid brought him literally to his knees in 2023. After he passed away last year, his children and grandchildren began the process of closing up the famous business, finally reaching the stage of selling off the lighting solutions and the brick-and-mortar multi-story showroom and warehouse. https://pittsburghquarterly.com/articles/a-pittsburgh-treasure/  

Since we’ve been looking for period-appropriate sconces to replace the modern lighting in our very Victorian house, we raced to their sale and what a delight it was. We were even lucky enough to get one of his handmade pieces (not even realizing he’d made it until one of the sons told us its provenance). I can’t begin to tell you how dirty we got, digging through boxes of bips and bops. I haven’t had so much fun spending money in a long time. 

There was something very bittersweet about having his children, all around my age, reminiscing about various pieces as they were sold. “Wasn’t this in the house at one point?” one sister would ask and another would agree, while one of the brothers answered, “No” in a very confident voice. Occasionally, while we were there, we’d see one of them grab something from the showroom. They’d call out, “I’m taking this to the car.” A brother or sister would sigh and call out, “Okay.” The siblings all laughed about it, though, and told us that everyone in the family has pieces from their dad’s business. “He lives in all our houses,” one of the daughters said, which is a lovely legacy. I think most of us would like to know that we’re remembered with such sweetness.

I went to a screening of A Princess Bride that included a Cary Elwes Q&A. As a single ticket, I was able to swoop in at the last minute to get a cheap seat in the third row, perfect placement for a good view of the movie and the Q&A after. There was an interesting prohibition; absolutely no pictures of Cary were permitted. We were warned that violators would be politely escorted out. 

The screening was a delight. It seemed like everyone there knew the movie. Some attendees were dressed up as Buttercup, Wesley, or the dread pirate Roberts. I even saw a six-fingered man (without his sword, of course). With the first use of “As You Wish,” there were ooohs and aaahs. When Andre the Giant appeared, the room erupted in cheers. It was wonderful. 

I’m slightly less enthusiastic about the Q&A. Cary Elwes was very funny, very polished, very emotionally removed from the event. I felt like he’d memorized his responses and enunciated them with a minimum of engagement. I may be alone in that impression, as there was a lot of laughter during his stories. They were good stories, for sure. I just felt like he’d told the same ones a thousand times. Because he has. You know?

In 2012, I think it was, my husband got us tickets to see William Shatner’s one-man show, Shatner’s World: We Just Live In It. It was my birthday present, as I am a huuuuuuuge OG Star Trek fan and might, if needed, be called upon to recite dialog from most of the 80+ episodes. So far, surprisingly, I haven’t needed to do that. But I’m ready. You know. Just in case. 

Anyway, it’s likely no surprise that I’m comparing Cary Elwes’ Q&A with Shatner’s one-man show. The difference for me is stark. Every word of Shatner’s show felt like a conversation, like he was sitting in an easy chair across the room, reminiscing about his life, even though that show ran for, maybe, three weeks on Broadway before he took it on a national tour for another eight months. It was magical, slightly deranged, and riveting to watch. 

Speaking of Shatner, if you haven’t listened to his album Has Been, you have missed something spectacular and should rectify that as soon as possible. Unlike his earlier work, this masterpiece produced by Ben Folds is often wrenching and intimate. He reflects on his life, his many mistakes, his public image. One of the interesting things about it is that listening will not make you like Shatner the man anymore than he deserves but somehow it allows you to empathize with him. I like to listen to it on longer drives, when I can really focus on the lyrics. In my humble opinion, it is not the album that you play in the background while doing dishes. 

In other music news, if you’re in the area and you’re not going to see The English Beat, are you even actually in the area? I’ve been following them for a looooong time but this will be my first time seeing them live. The venue is table seating near the stage and then some sort of balcony seating in the back. My seats are at a table. In fact, I purchased the entire table and then invited some people to join me. I just can’t bring myself to sit at a 4-top with three strangers. It is too awkward. Well…okay…the truth is that I’m too awkward. 

Winter has arrived earlier than expected. The trees, overnight, made a yellow carpet of leaves on Negley Avenue, covering the sidewalks and road. Truly, Dorothy could have found her way easily on that not-brick road, despite the blustery wind. Although the temperature rises slightly during the day, the cold Canadian air continues to rustle empty branches, whip hair into eyes, and wrestle unbuttoned coats wide. 

An elderly woman enters the coffee shop, wool coat buttoned to her neck. She has on a fanny pack, the strap at her waist around the back, the pack in front snuggled lower, below her curves. She waits patiently for her drink, which the barista announces loudly, a large peppermint hot cocoa with whipped cream and a chocolate drizzle. As she walks by me, her gold dangle earrings glint in the afternoon light. She inhales the warm peppermint scent wafting from her cup and takes a delicate lick of whipped cream before stepping into winter’s windy embrace, her gray hair tousled by the breeze. 

Another woman enters the coffee shop; a few errant leaves join her, swirling in a circle around the brick floor. Her silver hair hangs to her chin in a bob that curls under, something I could never reliably achieve. She’s wearing a puffy coat the color of lilac. How is it that some people look effortlessly stylish and some people (me. I mean me) look effortfully like we close our eyes before we pick out our outfits?

Online guidance suggested creating playlists of music familiar to my cognitively declining acquaintance. Reluctantly, because I have to listen to it too–haha, I’ve done it: Leon Russell, The Beatles, Peter, Paul & Mary, Simon & Garfunkel, and a few early 70s bands, like Moody Blues, Doobie Brothers, etc. I passionately dislike The Beatles–I know, I know–but in early childhood, I was listening to my parents’ 40s and early 50s music. I literally had two albums of my own: a Jackson Five and the Carpenters. The Beatles, in particular, were NOT on the record player. Later, when my dad was an Outlaw Country fan, we were listening to 8-tracks of Willie and Friends. My mom’s favorite music was silence. She abhorred Outlaw Country, lol. I like Willie, in particular, but I prefer his folk and indie music, such as Last Man Standing. He’s renowned for his lyricism and I find his later stuff particularly smart and quite funny. I also admire his frank disdain for people who have forgotten or perhaps deliberately misunderstood what he represents.

This morning, I entered the coffee shop early and saw an acquaintance absolutely immersed in his computer screen. I waved but he didn’t notice so I bent to his eye level and waved until he looked up and saw me. It made me, him, and the barista laugh. Day’s goals met. 

I haven’t talked much about my health but had a reminder this morning from a friend that silence can be distressing to others. So, quick update and then we won’t talk about it again unless it’s necessary: September scans picked up a new spot too small to biopsy. It’s in the gallbladder fundus, which, so that you don’t have to google, is at the top of the gallbladder under the right lobe of the liver. (I no longer have a left lobe. lol) 

It might be something. It might be nothing. My healthcare team calls it “concerning,” though not to me, which I find rather funny. They like to be very optimistic and cheerful. I’m an optimist, too, and continue to buy green bananas. (Why do I know they call it concerning? Because a resident at my PCP’s office read the medical record to me. I’m pretty sure they weren’t supposed to. haha) My next scans and bloodwork are December 1st. I’ll see my healthcare team again in mid-December, at which point we’ll know what’s next, whether it’s more scans, surgery, treatment, or a combination thereof. 

Sure, I am occasionally awash with, to paraphrase Aragorn, “…The fear that would take the heart of me.” Cholangiocarcinoma kills 80-90% of patients. I wish this weren’t my path. “”So do I,’ said Gandalf, ‘And so do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.’” (Tolkien sure knew how to turn a phrase.)

I’ve had all the very difficult conversations. I’ve updated the will. I’ve made all the lists–finances, bills, passwords, etc. There’s even a spreadsheet with all the home repairs I’ve done over the years since Ken died. I’m probably more paper-work prepared for death than most of you who ALSO have no idea when you’ll die. (So, maybe, get on that. It will benefit your family.) Anyway, I’m as determined today as yesterday, and the day before, to keep living until I die. Some days the worry wins but most days I win. And now we’re done with that topic. If there’s more to say, I’ll say it when I’m ready.

Much love.

The (Early) Winter of Our Discontent

Forgo the Filter: Say the Mean Part Aloud

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

The weeks are busy, temperatures falling like the leaves. Gusty winds cause the trees to litter bright yellow and deep brown detritus on the sidewalk. As I’m watching, a dark red leaf is whipped into the street by the wind and smacks someone in the face. They start visibly and rub their cheek. Strange that a leaf can hurt like a word.

I’ve been helping a lot, recently, with a person who will remain anonymous (privacy, yo). They are losing life skills and sometimes boundaries. We went to breakfast recently and they asked me whether a specific individual was circumcised. That’s not even their most recent embarrassing question. I handled it like a champ, but not all of the people in hearing range were as comfortable. It was, you see, quite loudly asked. 

Things they said (in a NOT-a-whisper whisper) during our breakfast: Is that person a boy or a girl? There should be better portion control (as a very large person walks by). This bill is wrong (it wasn’t). I don’t like eggs (they ordered eggs). It makes me laugh but also it can be sooo awkward. A few weeks ago, I took them to the farmers market and they said, “I don’t like honey” to the beekeeper. It’s like social media. I’m caretaking the person who, if they could understand social media, would reply to your blueberry pie post with, “I don’t like pie.” Words that could, with a tiny bit of effort, reside only in their head fall out of their mouth like items falling out of an open backpack hanging off a jogger’s shoulders. 

Unfortunately for me, our relationship could be characterized–on my part–as obligatory. We aren’t friends and, prior to their cognitive decline, we weren’t even particularly friendly. They rely on me now. I help willingly, even though, some days, this person says things so smack-worthy that I have to take a deep breath before I reply. The problem(?) is that, although there is undoubtedly a world in which I could just walk away, I don’t live in it. My kids ask me sometimes why I continue to help. There are so many reasons but possibly the most important is that I won’t treat this person the way they treat everyone. I will, I am determined to, act toward this person the way I think I should act. I won’t be like them. I will look back on my own behavior knowing that I did the best I could, not the least that I was able, though, occasionally, I have told them that if they don’t knock it off they will be walking home.

In a strange coincidence, two people in my life are declining cognitively. Unkindly, the one for whom I would do anything lives two hours away. Because she has sundowner’s, it is kindest to visit before lunch. After lunch, as the day lengthens into evening, her fear and anxiety overcome her conditioning; she lashes out physically and verbally. So, yes, planning is involved in every visit. I leave the house early, grab an iced tea from the coffee shop, and get on the road with a downloaded audiobook before 8AM. When I can see Lake Erie gleaming deep gray on the horizon, I know I’m almost there. If traffic favored me, I’ll have time to get breakfast, most recently at The Original Breakfast Stop. No matter what, though, I have to go to Romolo’s and get not-my-Aunt G her peppermint patties. Her favorite treat used to be chocolate chip cookies but something she can’t explain changed her preference. 

There is a particular grief to watching the end of days for someone you’ve known your whole life. My not-my-Aunt Ginny is a core person for me. My earliest memories include her. In my youth, months sometimes passed when I didn’t see her, but she’s always been there, a weight-bearing pillar of my existence. We’re not related by blood but she’s as close as any who are. She calls me one of her two girls. She can’t reliably remember my name, but she remembers that. 

Often, on my visits, I’ll push her wheelchair around the facility so she can wave to everyone. In the past, she told me stories that conflated the residents with former boyfriends, neighbors, and her six siblings. The stories were good, sometimes racy, and probably partially true, though it’s impossible to know for certain. Everyone I could ask is gone. None of that matters, though. The connection is the important part. 

We’ve reached that place in dementia, though, where we spend most of our visits just sitting next to each other, holding hands. She struggles to find words now and to maintain a thought long enough to say a full sentence. Often, she’ll start to say something, search for a word from the garbled data in her brain, and trail off without realizing it. One of these days she’ll stop entirely. Hand-holding will be all that’s left, then, and it will still be all that matters. 

Much love.

Forgo the Filter: Say the Mean Part Aloud

Disco Dancing at the Diner

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , 2 Comments

An elderly beagle left a little dirt on my pant leg and a saliva-sticky mark on my chin this morning. I met him on my walk. There is nothing more pleasing than to have a dog reciprocate a greeting. He eagerly did, meeting me at the halfway mark with a nose boop and a happy tongue. 

Further on, a young woman walked toward me, up the hill. She was clearly on her way to class, striding along, backpack on her shoulders, her head slightly down as she leaned into the hill. As we were about to pass, I said, “Your hair is beautiful.” She stopped to look at me, then smiled. I smiled back and walked on down the hill in the early morning sun. 

Somewhere in my community, as I was walking and not paying attention to the cross streets, I saw a sign on a glass door. The sign said, “Actual Size.” Nothing else. There was no other marking on the door. It’s mildly funny, made me smile. What, for me, was far funnier, is that someone thought that was worth putting on the door. Maybe they even created the sign on the computer and printed it, found tape and stuck the sign to the door, and then laughed about it. Someone went to all that effort for a laugh, for no purpose OTHER than the gag. Just a giggle or a smile for anyone who takes a moment to notice it.

The server at the diner where I got a late breakfast was dancing to the 70s music that was playing. She stopped suddenly and complained to me about how hot it was in the room. “I’m so hot,” she said. “Hot and spicy.” I replied, “That’s what Joe says.” (Joe is her partner.) And we both had a good laugh. “He wishes,” she said, with a wink.

A disco song started playing. Another server danced along the aisle, singing. I asked if she knew how to do the hustle and then realized that she’s TOO YOUNG. And now, I will diminish, and go into the West and remain Galadriel. I mean Deb. 

I just looked up from my editing, thinking about how I wanted to word something, and watched a gray-haired man hop up from a bench across the way to take a picture of an older woman, presumably his partner, who was eating a cup of gelato from the pizza place. He sat back down and smiled as he showed it to her. They’re sitting so close that their arms brush as they scoop the gelato into their mouths.

A very attractive young man with black curls hanging down his back is walking in a circle outside, a large circle. He’s waiting for someone. Is he a little nervous? There are two standard waiting postures: the shift from one foot to the other while looking at a phone and the walk aimlessly. I’ve done significant (undocumented) research on this. You can trust me that he’s waiting. He’s wearing a blue and white small-check shirt and one of those zigzag hair bands to keep the curls out of his face. 

Ah, good news, readers. It’s probably 10 minutes later than when I last looked. He has met up with someone and they’re now walking, with intent, across the street. Both have smiles, friends happy to be together. Over the weekend, I watched a group of men like that meet up, long-term friends, gray beards, some bent and arthritic, faces lined. They called out when each one arrived and hugged–true hugs, not those weird backslap hugs–all around, each time. There was so much joy in the room because they were together. 

I’m working on a project and doing some research around protest music. If you use Spotify (yeah, I know what Daniel Ek is doing–he sucks), there are some real bangers on these two playlists: 

  • Rolling Stone 100 Best Protest Songs of All Time
  • 100 Best Protest Songs According to ongoinghistoryofprotestsongs.com

A warning though: there’s a lot in these songs to make you sad. Some days it seems like we’ve literally been fighting for 125 years for things that should never have been divisive.  

“You kill people and break things for a living,” says our current Secretary of Defense. Look at those words, those deeply offensive words from a want-to-be tough guy who has no experience leading anyone. I suspect it is only discipline that kept those generals and admirals in their seats while Petey and Donny postured in front of them. I felt a strong urge to verbally flip both of those men off as I watched clips of the meandering speeches that clearly highlighted how little they understand their roles or our military or our Constitution. 

A young natural-blond man (fun aside here–I wasn’t sure whether to add an e on the end of that word and turned to Merriam-Webster for assistance. It seems that ‘blonde’ is a gendered spelling. M-W recommends eschewing that and going with blond, which would be correct in this context anyway)…back to that young blond man. He is frequently at the coffee shop working on a computer, very occasionally on a call. I have no idea what job he does but I have to remark (or is it that I want to remark?) that his biceps are so large his tshirt sleeves don’t fit over them. I imagine that men are particularly jealous, though I don’t know very many women who care about the size of a man’s biceps. Awkwardly, our reflections in the garage door glass just made direct eye contact and now I shall stare deeply at my screen for at least the next three years.  

Jeff Daniels will be in town next Friday, performing at City Winery. I LONG to go but the only tickets available are singles at 4-tops. There is as much chance of me joining a table of strangers as there is of me standing on stage to sing to them. He’s a genuinely lovely performer. I am very sad.

Oh no. The person at the table between me and blond man just left. We are facing each other now and just made direct eye contact again. It’s soooo awkward. This seat is right by the window so I’m not leaving but I am absolutely not making eye contact again. Guess I’ll be typing with my eyes closed. This experience is somehow worse than that time I was sitting beside the man whose pants were below his butt cheeks.

I’m working on a new project during editing breaks. I’m not going to share details but I’m really having fun with it. It’s not what I was planning to work on next but I can hear this new protagonist’s voice so I’m making lots of notes. Many of those notes are currently more questions than anything else, such as, is protagonist a reliable narrator? Also, does protagonist have a ride-or-die?

A couple with a toddler is now sitting at the table between me and blond man. Mom and the toddler are waiting in line and an absolute giant of a man–6’7” I’m guessing–is in line behind them. That toddler is NOT having it. He’s trying to make friends, even bending all the way over to be at eye level but she noped right out of there. The man is wearing a great striped flannel that is way too short for him but really lovely. It’s deep brown, gold, and red, perfect fall colors. He has given up on chatting with the child and is talking to the mom while the dad sits at the table scrolling on a phone. I will not point out what incredibly misogynistic parenting this is. I will not point out what incredibly misogynistic parenting this is. I will not…

Um. There’s a cat in here. It’s mewing. Everyone is looking around. Some people are laughing. The guilty party is not fessing up. I hope I get to see it. So does the toddler who is in “find the cat” mode.

This is crazy. Something just hit me right in the face. It stung but no damage done. It hit me in a downward arc so it was definitely thrown by someone who probably did not intend to hit anyone. That would be unacceptable behavior in this noisy but peaceful place. There are many shenanigans here but no mean-spiritedness. I said, “Ow,” quite loudly so it’s likely that whoever did it heard me. Also, I think I know who did it. Lol

Sisters have arrived. They’re elderly, the same height, same haircut. They *might* be twins but even so, I can tell right away which one is older. They’re sitting together outside. Older sister is in a light blue shirt and matching blouse unbuttoned, long sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Her sister is wearing a pink shirt with a pinky-peach checked blouse, also unbuttoned, cuffs rolled back. They’re eating the delicious pasta salad available from the coffee shop and sharing what looks like an Arnold Palmer. (I’m so nebby. haha) I wish I could hear them talking. I can tell from their body language that they finish each other’s sentences. And that they love each other. There’s a softness in the way they’re handing each other napkins and utensils. I’ll bet when they fight it’s hilarious to watch. Gentle, biting words while they work together to make dinner. Lol

My sister (Hi sis) and I do NOT fight like that. When we fight, it’s claws out, daggers drawn, pistols at dawn. Hehe My poor brother-in-law. What he has to endure. I don’t know why he puts up with us. Well, particularly me. He MARRIED you, sis. Lol

There’s a tiny, tripod terrier outside. It could not weigh more than 5 pounds. Cuteness overload.

Much love.

Disco Dancing at the Diner

Rose, Who Lived By Another Name

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , 2 Comments

About 20 years ago, I was seated next to a quite elderly woman on a flight to Las Vegas. Her name is lost to my memory but I’m going to call her Rose, which I think she would have appreciated. 

Rose had that terrible middle seat in a full plane. Everyone hates that seat, of course, but she was okay with it. We hadn’t even taken off when she started talking to me. If you’re anything like me, you have your in-flight entertainment prepared in advance. You’re working or reading or napping or watching something on your device. If you’re anything like me, you’re not chatting with your neighbors, except for the usual “excuse me; I need to visit the restroom.”

I was not delighted but Rose drew me in. She introduced herself to me by saying that she was fighting cancer. Obviously, I’m paraphrasing but here’s the gist of her introduction: “I don’t have cancer,” she said. “I didn’t want it, didn’t ask for it, would give it back if I could. It’s a demon that I’m fighting. I won’t ever own it but I’ll fight it for the rest of my life.” 

She was on her fourth fight and untiring in her objective. It was daunting to me at the time, to think about that fight. I didn’t understand, hadn’t had much experience with cancer yet. My paternal grandmother died within a month of her cancer diagnosis, long before the treatments that exist today, long before I met Rose. 

I could see how fierce she was. And joyful. She laughed often on that flight, telling me her story, asking me about mine–though, to be honest, mine seemed very small compared to the very big and important life Rose was living. She was a tiny woman, you know, whose spirit was the size of a dragon. I can still picture her, sitting to my left, a neck pillow around her neck, a book in her lap that she never opened and occasionally handed to me while she dug something out of her purse. 

Her hair was short and curly, more salt than pepper, her eyes brown, marked by laughter. It lined her cheeks, too, curving around a big, wide smile that, you might say, she shared generously. Her laugh was bigger than her small frame but suitable somehow. 

I think about her strength, her determination often and I believe, though I only knew her for five hours some 20 years ago, that she’d be delighted to have made an impression. Even if she won her battle with the demon–something that I’ll never know–she’s likely gone. But like all of us, she’s left memories that keep her alive. And for me, they’re good ones. 

Much love.

Rose, Who Lived By Another Name

Red Cardy For The Win

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , Leave a comment

It’s days after the Charlie Kirk murder and my daughter just went to see President Obama speak. I was nervous about her attending. We assert that we won’t be silenced by rhetoric demanding our silence but it’s another thing entirely to have one’s child in a place where political violence is a possibility, if not a likely event. 

I read an article recently that cautioned against suggesting that one “side” is violent but the other “side” is not. I understand the argument, though the data shows clearly that one “side” IS literally responsible for the vast majority of political violence. To suggest otherwise is a little disingenuous, isn’t it? It’s not that liberals are incapable of violence. Everyone can be pushed beyond rational into irrational behavior. Perhaps liberals are just generally more accepting of difference. 

Anyway, I was walking into Shadyside yesterday when I saw an elderly couple coming toward me. She was petite, with long white hair. He was tall, wearing a ball cap. He said something that made her laugh and then smile at him. She reached up and curled a lock of her hair between her fingers and I saw, just for a moment, the young woman she used to be.

Today, I am at a body shop. My car was sideswiped again, this time taking out only the driver side mirror. The actual mirror wasn’t damaged but the casing was cracked beyond repair. For several weeks now, my car has looked like an orange terminator as his facade was being torn away. 

The car is a manual transmission which, I know, is a rarity these days. When I have to surrender it, I always ask the young people taking the keys if they can drive a stick. I don’t have to ask anyone older than me because they, too, grew up with manual being the standard. Not long ago, I had to back my own car out of a big garage bay because the only worker who could drive a manual left early. When armageddon occurs, I’m golden, except that I won’t be able to get contacts or replacement glasses. That will suck.

Joel, owner of the body shop, just popped his head in to ask me if I can stay a little longer. He waved the new casing at me. It’s the wrong color. They’re going to have to paint it. He asked if I was okay with it being the wrong color. Friends. My car is ORANGE. Pumpkin orange. Not pumpkin spice orange. Not rust orange. Not peach. It’s ORANGE. Do I mind having a gray side mirror? Uh, YEAH. If I wanted a gray car, I’d have gotten a gray car. Honestly, I have moved through the world quietly, with little color in it for too many years. So, I’ll be staying at the body shop a wee bit longer than I’d planned.

Yesterday, I had the fright of my life, thankfully it lasted .02 seconds but I’ll be honest. My heart stuttered. I was walking up the sidewalk to my house, carrying one of our cats in a carrier. My 97 year old next door neighbor was walking down his steps. I may have mentioned that this man is the single nosiest human being to exist in this or the last century. Yes, I know. You think I’m exaggerating. Well, here’s my proof that I’m not: he was so busy rubbernecking what I was carrying that he forgot he was walking down his steps. He stepped forward and landed ON HIS FEET two full steps below where he’d just been standing. He Danny Kaye’d those steps like a boss. I’m kind of proud but also it’s a miracle that he didn’t break his hip. 

A brief public service announcement: someone has just joined me in the waiting room at the body shop. I briefly looked over as he sat down and got an actual eyeful of bare man butt. Do men 1) not care; 2) not notice; 3) not wear underwear? Now I’m afraid to look over there again, though I have a weird compulsion to keep checking whether he’s fixed the issue. But I’m not going to check because I don’t want to see anymore buttcrack.

If you live in the area, you might have heard about the four alarm fire in Squirrel Hill last week. I was with my son and completely unaware that there was a fire. Here’s me, all righteously indignant as that strong burn smell permeates the car, making me cough: “we’re in a drought. No one should be burning leaves right now.” My son looks at me like I’m crazy. “Mom, an apartment building is burning down two streets over.” OH. 

We headed to the waterfront and watched the dark, billowing smoke, the arcing jets of water from the firehouses. The building was a total loss but everyone got out safely. I drove by today, on my way to the body shop. It’s in the process of being demolished because part of the roof collapsed on the day of the fire. The smell of smoke still heavily permeates the air. The front wall is partially gone. The second floor reaches for the ground like Michael Jackson’s anti-gravity lean but with grief instead of beauty. People at the Levin Clubhouse down the street took the residents in that morning, gave them drinks, held them while they cried. I heard that the firefighters went into the engulfed building after pets and important papers, helping, risking their lives for others, as they always seem to.

Two weeks ago, my eldest and I were eating breakfast at Kelly O’s in Pittsburgh’s Strip District. Four firefighters, heavily muscled, their hair cut short, sat at a booth in front of us. The youngest was younger than my thirty year old son. The eldest was probably a few years older than me, grizzled, his bald head shining in the morning sun. We stopped at their table as we were leaving. They looked up from their seats and smiled at us as I thanked them for the work they do and wished them safe passage. We also bought their breakfast, which caused two of the men to blush. I’m rather disappointed that they don’t always eat for free. 

The current leader of the “Free Our Butt Cheeks” (FOBC) movement has addressed his body… no, no, um…has finished his business…hmm…has cracked the…not that…has wiped…. Wow. He’s not here. He’s gone. He sat in the only chair in the shade, which now has bare butt (bear butt?) (bare bear butt?) (bear bare butt?) on it so…I’m just going to roast in the sun. I have more cheeky jokes but(t) I’m going to grin and bare it instead. (No, I’m not)

I’m at the coffee shop now. I’m “supposed” to be waiting for a dishwasher delivery (not my dishwasher) but the wifi there isn’t sterling. Thus, with the hubris of a middle-aged white woman, I’m counting on my ability to arrive before the delivery truck when I get the warning call. Will I make it in time? We’ll see. Given that I am late for everything, even my liver surgery, I wouldn’t bet on me.

An older couple just crossed the street. They’re holding pinkies very casually, their hands swinging gently as they walk. My husband hated holding hands with the fire of a thousand suns. I was slightly taller and he complained that our height difference made hand-holding awkward. But I’ve always wanted to hold hands with my partner. I think I missed out, to be honest, but perhaps that’s just my desire for companionship.

An employee from the bakery across the street just tried to negotiate a pastry swap with the coffee shop, without success. I almost offered to participate but I don’t actually have any pastries so it would really just be me asking the bakery for free treats. That works for me but I don’t think he’d agree.

There’s an elderly lady sitting outside, on the opposite side of the big garage window from me. She has beautiful iron-gray hair and well-manicured nails that she is assiduously filing and has been since I arrived. In my life, I don’t think I’ve spent as much time on my fingers and toes, which may be why I just described her nails as well-manicured. 

Have you ever–even as a child–been hugged when you really didn’t want to be? Perhaps you didn’t know or didn’t like the hugger or maybe you just wanted to maintain your personal space, undisturbed. Once, I worked with a man who hugged and kissed all the women he worked with. He was in a position of power. Our options were limited unless we (by we, I mean women, obviously) were willing to be labeled “difficult to work with” by leadership. In a world where it was incredibly difficult to get ahead, being labeled difficult was tantamount to blacklisting. Thus, we kept silent. 

In my private life, I began addressing this imbalance, particularly with children whose voices are often less heard even than women’s. I was talking with someone today about that. She complained that her child relatives don’t like hugging her. I asked if she asked those children for permission and she told me that they have to hug her. She MAKES them. Hey, guess what?! I may have figured out the problem. Making anyone hug you is a violation of the very boundaries we try to teach children so they don’t have to put up with the creepy hugs (and kisses) we had to endure as children. And even as adults. So, just ask. And gracefully accept “no” if it’s given. You could even offer a high five, a fist bump, hand shake, wave, as options. When we teach children boundaries, those boundaries need to apply equally to us.

The men’s cross country team just ran by. I didn’t gawk at their young, fit, shirtless, tattooed beauty. I’m no creeper ogling young men my children’s age; but all of my young coffee shop neighbors did some very serious ogling. I watched the heads swivel from left to right as the runners passed in front of the window. Hehe 

My computer ran out of juice. I have moved to a squishy chair beside an outlet. There are two people sitting on the sofa next to me, chatting about things that mean nothing to me. Since I’m supposed to be working, I’m trying really hard not to let their conversation distract me. Nonetheless, occasionally, the man laughs aloud and I wish you could hear it. It’s delightful, a deep belly laugh that makes the listener want to share his mirth. 

The work day is NOT over. I have an article to finish and I cannot sleep until it’s done, which is why I’m now finishing this blog…wait. 

Anyway, before heading home, I walked across the street to our favorite pizza place to order take out and then sat on the bench outside to wait (and to continue working on my article). I was there for about 10 minutes when a young man and his date, a young Asian woman (we’ll call her cute shirt because she was wearing a cute shirt), left the pizza place with cups of gelato. They passed me on my bench just as a scream issued from across the street. Naturally, I turned toward the sound and discovered another young Asian woman (we’ll call her red cardy because she was wearing a red cardigan) watching the white dude and cute shirt approach. Red cardy screamed, “WTF? Another Asian girl?” Her use of vocal emphasis was perfection, by the way.

The white man ignored her, walked by with cute shirt. Honestly, a rather bold move, I thought. Red cardy followed them, yelling. Sadly, I could not hear her exact words, though I suspect them of being quite righteous. Certainly they were fueled by rage. He stopped and turned around.

Cute shirt is now the third point of their triangle, looking uncomfortably between the two. She has stopped eating her gelato. As appearances go, she’s well-placed, standing equidistant. Better not to choose sides or make alliances until all the facts are out. The conversation, muted now, continues for several minutes. Cute shirt turns to red cardy who is preparing to walk away. Red cardy says something to cute shirt who nods agreement. Alliances have formed. I suspect that the young man, who appears to have been dating two Asian women, is now dating zero Asian women. 

And now, I promise you, I am returning to my article so my poor editor doesn’t feel compelled to kill me, even though I definitely deserve it. 

Much love.

Red Cardy For The Win

Updated: An Autumn Fall

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

Hey friends, I deleted a few paragraphs about Charlie Kirk that made me uncomfortable. Period.

As I walked to Shadyside this morning, a large figure approached from the opposite direction. Initially, it appeared to be a bison walking on its hind legs. This seemed unlikely, though I prepared myself to have a conversation with the creature because who would NOT immediately want to greet a bison walking on its hind legs down a city street?! Sadly, it turned out to be a large man carrying a duffle on each massive shoulder. I did not attempt to start a conversation with the large man.

The diner is unexpectedly busy. A construction worker, probably from the project down the street, is gulping down a FULL breakfast. And I do mean full. He’s slender to the point of skinniness, his bald head a little dirty, like his clothes, though his hands are clean. 

An older couple is talking to one of the servers. They don’t notice that they’re standing in the aisle, blocking the way for the other servers, who are patiently–and impatiently–walking around them, hands full of stacked plates. One of the servers grumbles to me about it and then laughs. It’s a small frustration in a world of complex grief.

One of the line cooks is wearing a sun hat today. He is proud of his goofy look and grins at me when I gesture to the hat and give him a thumbs up. We both laugh and return to our tasks. He’s making (pan)cakes. I’m answering email.

Two young women of Asian descent are laughing as they press their cheeks together and take a selfie in front of Sephora. It’s a sunny, fall-warm day, the sky a clear, bright blue. They’re wearing nearly matching outfits, dark jeans and light-colored tops. Both have hoodies or cardies, it’s hard to tell which, slung over their shoulders.

After much energy unnecessarily expended, I have decided to cede “MY” parking place to my grumpy neighbor. She has a driveway but has taken to parking on the street in the spot where I have parked for the past 17 years. My other neighbors are chagrined about it and have counseled me to have a discussion with her about the inconvenience of parking far-ish from my house. Yesterday, I had Costco supplies to bring into the house and parked in that “usual” spot which was available solely because she had not yet arrived home. 

My friends, she blocked her own driveway to park on the street as close to my car as possible. It’s not worth my emotional health to continue this weird contest. I realized yesterday, when she smiled at me like the victor in a sporting contest, that she really cares about it. Refusing to fight with her about it is making me laugh. So, today, I moved the car. I hope she enjoys the spot. lol

A young woman in a bustier the same color as her skin–and thus, at first glance, topless–is sitting on the floor in a room of empty seats, near the sofa where I’ve been for several hours. It’s not the most comfortable sofa. It IS much more comfortable than the floor. The seat beside me is open, recently vacated by a young man who was working on a digital drawing–I tried to ISpy his work but it was difficult to do discreetly. 

She’s now singing to someone on a facetime call. Come to think of it, I’m glad she’s not doing that on the sofa beside me. It’s annoying. Her furry tail and terry cloth American flag short-shorts are fun, though. 

Much love.

Updated: An Autumn Fall

Who Are The People In Your Neighborhood?

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

My brain is a roiling mass of noise. But also, this weekend is the Latrobe banana split festival. In case you’re not aware: Latrobe is the HOME of the banana split. It’s a great story of a pharmacy student working at a soda fountain in 1904 who was challenged by young customers to make a fun treat using that crazy exotic fruit.

I’ve finally found the model for my current male protagonist. He’s a construction supervisor here in Pittsburgh who is doing his part to prop up that ‘90s Diet Coke commercial. I’ve been holding off describing my protagonist in detail because I just haven’t been able to see him in my mind. My friends, he is finally visible. I would never objectify anyone, so I won’t tell you about the construction supervisor’s, I mean, my character’s magnificent beard, biceps the size of a normal man’s thighs, and rugged, grumpy face. He’s PERFECT as my hero…I mean, my character’s hero. Hehe

Two regulars are playing chess by the window. The coffee shop doesn’t stock games. One of these men brought a whole-ass chess board ON HIS BICYCLE. It’s a full-sized board, too. No travel-size nonsense for them. 

The people sitting in front of me are speaking Portuguese. A man sitting beside me is speaking farsi, I think. A group of girls on the cushy chairs upstairs are speaking Korean. Several people are speaking English, some with an accent that suggests they’re from a different country. And you know what? I’m just fine.

This is a comment on our sudden fear of immigrants.

Oof. Someone spilled their 20oz latte. The completely full latte they’d just been handed by the barista. It went everywhere. I did that with my iced tea a few weeks ago, except that I spilled mine on the only carpeted section of the store. Also, and worse, IMHO, I didn’t drop mine. I put it on the table behind my computer and proceeded to knock it over when I slid my computer further back on the table. The tea stain is still visible on the carpet. I say, “Hi tea,” under my breath when I walk by it on the way to the restroom. It’s a greeting and word play. If you think that doesn’t make me laugh every single time, you clearly don’t know me.

There are two young children at the coffee shop negotiating with Grandma to get a treat. The little girl, maybe 5 or 6, has a pink bow in her hair. She’s being extremely naughty, trying to climb onto the counter and sitting in all the chairs like a little Goldilocks. The boy is rolling on the carpet in front of the counter. I keep gasping, thinking Grandma is going to step back onto him. Apparently, though, she’s got Grandma radar because no one gets injured. 

Unfortunately, Grandma yells at one of the baristas for not being friendly enough. That sucks. Don’t do that. Your barista doesn’t owe you friendliness. They aren’t your friend. There’s a significant power imbalance and you, as the customer, hold most of the power. Baristas are paid like $12/hour to make your drink, serve you a pastry, wipe off the tables, put toilet paper in the bathroom, and ask you to leave at closing. They’re not your friend. They don’t even owe you a smile. It’s nice to get one but it’s not necessary.

There’s a server at Kelly O’s in Pittsburgh’s Strip District who is slightly more animated than a cardboard cut-out. She’s had it with being artificially friendly. If she’s waiting on you, you are going to get rote questions (how do you like your eggs what kind of meat do you want sausage bacon or ham white wheat or rye toast). There’s no inflection, no commas in her voice, no pauses inviting conversation. She’ll also be giving you rote responses to your witticisms, questions, and attempts at connection. She does not give a f**k about you or your desire to be friendly. But her service is efficient and high quality. There’s another server there who, every time she sees me and Tristan, says, “Hey, babes. How are you?” She does this even when she’s not our server. It takes all kinds and it’s okay if the kind you get isn’t your best friend from the moment you meet.

Another server I know, Daisy, works at Ritters, a local diner that’s been a fixture of Bloomfield for longer than I’ve lived in Pittsburgh (and that’s a long time). We used to go there often as grad students to eat inexpensive food on laminate tables with vinyl booths. A much younger Daisy was already working there, though I didn’t know it. 

When my son lived in Bloomfield, we started going there pretty regularly again. Not much has changed, including the vinyl booths and laminate tables. Thirty years after I first visited Ritters, I got to know Daisy. She has now worked there for 45 years. We’ve been friendly for about 10 of those, I guess, but really connected while I was getting chemo. She’d had cancer about 15 years before and immediately was suspicious when I didn’t order my usual iced tea. 

We’ve compared notes on lots of things over the years, mostly superficial, though sometimes, it’s been mom-related stuff. I know that Daisy likes patty melts without the onion and French toast and never switched back from decaf coffee after she entered remission. I also know that she’s dying of bone cancer and that I’ll never see her at the diner again. She’s inpatient right now, fighting for another few months of life. I hear she has a grandbaby on the way. I’m not on her mind right now, probably never will be again, but she is on mine. I suspect that, like so many other people I’ve met, she’ll continue to be there.

Much love.

Who Are The People In Your Neighborhood?

Enslavement Sucked, Even if the Museum No Longer Says So

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

The president says the Smithsonian Museum is too focused on “how bad slavery was.” I’m sure you all saw his comments. For the president to suggest that we shouldn’t stare into the darkness of our history is an urgent cry to do just that, to know it, to share it, to understand what this country officially chose to do to human beings. We cannot, we should not look away. The lie has gone on for far too long. 

You were probably not taught the extent of the unbearable truth of enslavement. It isn’t in the Smithsonian, at least, not to the degree that the president alludes. History is written by the winners, right? And yet, we lost the voice of the formerly enslaved. Theoretically, they won their freedom via the Civil War; but they didn’t get to tell their story in any national way, certainly not to school children. Hell, when I was a child, we were taught that many of the formerly enslaved stayed at the plantations where they’d previously been owned, presumably because they were happy there (it was their “home”); but that’s grossly, egregiously false. Sure, some stayed; as children we never learned WHY. Maybe, as adults, some of us still don’t know, still parrot the “they were happy at the plantation” falsehood. 

Most of what I’ve learned has come from active searches for the details that teachers didn’t provide. Believe me; I don’t want to know. Once you see an image of a human muzzled, there’s no promise that it will ever leave your mind. Nonetheless, choosing not to know is an indulgence I don’t feel comfortable with simply because I’m a privileged white woman who would never have been enslaved. When I read Beloved, I had to research some of the punishments Toni Morrison wrote about. I’d never been taught in school about speculum oris, tongue restraint, iron muzzles and bits. Maybe that’s a horror we don’t want children to know. And yet, many children literally experienced that horror, those punishments. Why is it okay for them to have endured it, for us to have DONE it, but not for us to teach about it? 

Books that will break your heart – Beloved by Toni Morrison; 12 Years a Slave by Solomon Northup; Never Caught by Erica Armstrong Dunbar; Slavery and Public History edited by James Horton and Lois Horton; Bullwhip Days edited by James Mellon. 

There’s a great quote from a fairly silly move, Ever After. In the movie, Dougray Scott’s character, Prince Henry, says, “I used to think if I cared about anything, I’d have to care about everything.” In times like these, it’s worth remembering that you get to choose how much you pay attention to. You get to choose what you care about. People, like me!, will shout at you from every platform that you are a monster if you don’t lie awake at night, thinking about…. Well, you name it: Gaza, Ukraine, voting rights, marriage equality, the Smithsonian, mail-in ballots, the unhoused in DC, ICE kidnappings, vaccinations, the Epstein files, climate change, and every other critical thing that has momentarily slipped from my short term memory but will wake me at 2AM. 

Rationally, you and I know that we can’t, we simply can’t put enough emotional energy into all of the things that matter. They all matter. That’s why we feel such rage and grief. And that’s why we have to give ourselves the grace to breathe. You don’t have to cry about marriage equality today to care about marriage equality. You don’t have to think TODAY about babies starving in Gaza to know that it’s wrong and to want it to stop. You can give yourself room to process the grief that you feel, the exhaustion. You personally will not stop what is happening but staying fighting fit will enable you to stand up when you are ready to.

And if you want to borrow a book, you let me know. 

Much love.

Enslavement Sucked, Even if the Museum No Longer Says So

UPDATED: Anyone Here Order a Slice of Alzheimer’s?

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , , , , , , 5 Comments

Pamela’s Diner, on the weekends, can often be a place to avoid. One of the great things about it, though, is the joyful noise of people finally together who often cannot be. The restaurant was full today but I mostly travel in a pack of one which makes it pretty easy to get a table. Melissa, one of the servers, sat a group of six women next to me at my tiny table (it’s supposed to seat two but one side of the table is broken like an accidental drop-leaf table). Those women looked so young to me, a familiar proclamation of the middle aged (she says in an unsuccessful attempt to make herself feel younger), and delighted to be together. There were three children with them, a charmingly self-aware 6 year old, a toddler discovering that they appeal to their neighbors, and a baby who was all id, hungry and, once sated, sleepy. 

Sometimes, as I look around the diner, I catch the eye of another people-watcher. There are two types: 1) looks away immediately, 2) smiles and continues people-watching. When I was younger, I would have been in the first group, shy and perhaps flushing with embarrassment, but now, older and a devout member of the we-do-not-care club, I smile and sometimes, depending on who it is, I’ll even wink. Very daring, perhaps, but it makes me laugh. 

I know most of the employees at Pamela’s. Sometimes, when I walk in, several of them will call out, “Hi, Deb,” which makes me feel like I live in that old television series, Cheers. Hehe I like to think that strangers whisper about the famous person and try to figure out who I am. That makes me laugh, too. If only you knew, my friends. If only you knew….

There’s a barista at the coffee shop who has the greatest hair color – it’s really a blend of several colors, a little purple, a little red, a little blue. Every time I see them, I say something about their hair and we talk about how complex it is to keep a color fresh. They always say, “Oh, I was thinking how bad it looks.” And I always say, “You can’t see what I can see.” This is not a statement about hair color. 

Also, as just an aside, why in the ever-loving, noisy-ass, shrieking, are we listening to Squid as background music? Even with my headphones in and my music UP, I cannot escape the screaming. It isn’t in my head, I swear. It’s coming from the speakers and I’m really getting an understanding of the psychological warfare we once engaged in against North Korea. 

Things in the US are about to get worse, when the House and Senate finish reconciling their “big, beautiful bill.” Whatever your party, your community will be devastated by the Medicaid and Medicare cuts that are planned. It is clear to me that the average person is so busy demonizing Medicaid “waste” – just as our “leaders” intended – that they do not realize how many people rely on it and just who, exactly, those people are. I’ll bet, if you queried people at YOUR local diner, at least a third of them couldn’t even explain the purpose of either Medicaid or Medicare. 

Do YOU know which states in the US rely most on federal funding of Medicaid? Six of the seven states receiving the most federal Medicaid funding voted for our current president. The most vulnerable in those communities will lose their coverage and they’ll think it’s a mistake that our president didn’t know about, not a strategy to fill the coffers of the ultra-rich. Hospitals in high risk communities will fail for lack of funding, not for lack of demand. 

Your first thought might be that at least all these former MAGA voters will definitely vote against Republicans next time but guess what? The bill includes a section that allows the president to cancel elections at any time, for any reason. When this bill passes and gets signed, there may not be an opportunity to vote him or our current representatives and senators out of office. Since he wants to be president-for-life (aka king), you should, in fact, assume that he will cancel future votes. Because he will. Of course he will.  Fact-checked into oblivion. Thanks, Crescent, for the keen eye.

I don’t know the answer to the dilemma we’re in. But I do know that generating fear and hopelessness are two effective strategies of the fascists currently in power. We the People cannot submit. 

Next soapbox:  This might seem to be about Mamdani. And it is, sort of. It is possible to care about multiple things at the same time. For example, people can abhor the human rights catastrophes in the United States, Ukraine and Gaza AND, at the same time, not be antisemitic. This is not a skill unique to me. You can all do it, too. Just because I don’t want Palestinians murdered does not mean I want the Jewish state destroyed. It’s weird how successful the oligarchs have been at framing this issue in a way that makes people afraid to speak up. I’m not antisemitic. I am, however, anti-murder. There are always solutions that do not require the extermination of any ethnic community. If you think the only answer is killing, you’re probably reading the wrong blog. 

Even though I don’t talk about it much, I spend a not inconsiderable amount of time supporting someone who is declining cognitively. It’s a world of contradictions – a verbal obsession with cleanliness and dirty dishes in the cupboard; paying bills incorrectly while also refusing support to make the process easier. And fear. So much fear and yet the keys are often left in the deadbolt. I struggle sometimes to figure out how to provide the necessary support. I have no trouble living in their timeline, whatever it is, but then they do something dangerous like leave the house without their phone. Sometimes, they know exactly where they are and sometimes they get lost going to the restaurant they’ve been to a million times. This makes phonelessness terrifying to those of us who are trying to provide support. 

Googling “is it ethical to sew wearable trackers into someone’s clothes?” provides all kinds of terrifying results. I know exactly what you’re going to say: tell this person that you’re putting wearable trackers in their clothes. My friends, I can text this person 16 times that I’m picking them up at 9AM for their doctor appointment tomorrow and I’ll still either get a dozen frantic calls before I arrive (at 9AM or earlier) OR they’ll have forgotten that they have an appointment, even though it’s written in their handwriting in their calendar which is RIGHT THIS MINUTE open on their dining room table. 

It’s easy, so easy, to tell someone in cognitive decline to ALWAYS TAKE YOUR PHONE but sometimes this person is living in the 1970s, when phones weren’t mobile. Sometimes, even though their phone is in their hand, this person runs out to the car as I’m about to pull away – instead of calling me – because they pressed the wrong button on the TV remote and screwed up the TV. (Don’t try to solve this rabbit-hole problem: there are already notes with arrows on the remote control.) I even have spare copies of their house keys because they have lost their keys in their own pocket. That’s not a joke, like ‘I’d lose my head if it weren’t attached’.

As an example, here’s a brief story of the terrifying world of cognitive decline: my friend, we’ll call them Sally because it’s as removed from their name as anything could be – you know I’m all about privacy! – lends their car to someone. That someone takes just the car keys and hands the house keys to Sally. When I arrive to pick Sally up later, they are in an actual panic because they cannot find the house keys in order to lock up. I remind them that the keys are loose because Sally lent the car. “Are they in your pocket?” I ask. Sally’s answer: “Now, I remember.” The keys were, indeed, in Sally’s pocket. 

My friends, they could put their hand in their pocket a dozen times and not realize those keys are the item they’re looking for. It’s not their fault. Half the time, when we’re in the house looking for something, they forget what we’re doing while we’re still looking. Sometimes, they’ll remember that we’re searching but forget that we’re looking for the bill that was due yesterday. One time, we were trying to figure out whether they’d remembered to register the car (which we have to do annually in our state). I was looking through their files, which are organized by the month in which bills are paid (don’t even ask, it’s a complete filing nightmare that we’ll fix LATER). They were wandering around the living room, picking up random pieces of paper and showing them to me. “Is this what we’re looking for?” None of the pieces of paper were what we were looking for. They had, in fact, forgotten to renew their car registration, which I was able to determine by checking the state website. We took care of that immediately but it might be time again. I’d better make a note to check with them. Anyway…IT’S NOT THEIR FAULT.

The first statement in the Bill of Rights of the Cognitively Declining should be “It’s not their fault.” It’s never their fault. Trust me: none of the cognitively declining people I’ve met intentionally lost their keys, forgot my name, burned their dinner. Their world doesn’t look like ours. And they are so AFRAID. 

I know that I’ve told the story before about pretending to make deli sandwiches with not-my-Aunt Ginny who worked at a delicatessen in the 1940s. Just a couple years ago, we made pretend turkey sandwiches, filled pretend jars with pickles, sorted pretend utensils. It might seem funny. Sometimes, you have to laugh or else you’ll cry. But the point is, she was worried, so worried, the entire time that we wouldn’t be ready for the lunch rush. Her fear was real, even though the pickles weren’t. 

Thirty-ish years ago, I met a woman living on the Alzheimer’s ward of a long-term care facility. Alzheimer’s wards, in case you’ve never visited one, are locked to prevent the patients from wandering off. If they walk or wheel themselves too close to the doors, an alarm goes off to give the care team a heads up that there’s someone potentially trying to make a break for it. 

I know I’ve mentioned this before so forgive me if you remember my story: I was at the facility with a team doing signage and space planning. We had to measure everything and I do mean everything: square footage of rooms, height of lights and doorknobs, depth of equipment. You name it, we documented it. This was in the days before technological support. We had measuring tapes and sketched room outlines to fill in with measurements. It was tedious and took days to complete. Yes, I’m a writer which makes this assignment a little unusual but it was a big job. All hands on deck, so to speak. 

We’re walking through the ward when a woman rolls up to me in her wheelchair. Just as you have probably seen depicted on television, patients use their feet to push themselves around the wards when they’re too unstable to be allowed to walk alone or with an assistive device. She’s holding a baby doll and tries to hand it to me. I attempt to refuse. Fred, who is working with me, is teasing me about becoming a new mom. I’m a little embarrassed because I’m young, so young, and at work, trying to be a useful member of the team. Also, the doll is clearly a treasured possession and I don’t want to be in charge of that. She insists, which might seem a strange thing for a wheelchair-bound, non-verbal Alzheimer’s patient to do successfully, but she did it. I have no other explanation than to say that she persisted more effectively than I resisted. I carried her baby for the rest of the day. She smiled every time she saw me as she rolled from long hallway to long hallway. And at the end of the day, I gave her baby doll to the staff at the central desk to return. 

So, what’s the point? Obviously, meeting someone with declining cognition sure does present opportunities to learn but also: it’s not their fault. Cognitive decline isn’t a failure of imagination or a personality flaw or a crime. Your patience and imagination and personal integrity are essential to work effectively with them but they can be frightened and angry and mean and confused and grateful and loving and FEARFUL. 

Sometimes, my not-my-Aunt Ginny is combative, particularly in the late afternoon because she has sundowners, which means that she gets more confused and frightened as the day closes. I don’t visit after noon anymore. It’s too hard on her. She used to cry when I left and verbally abuse me for refusing to take her with me, which upset us both, her because it was, in her mind, a betrayal of our relationship, me because it was awful to see her so afraid. “I thought I knew you better,” she’d say, deeply wounded because I wouldn’t take her home to a house that was sold over a year ago to pay for her long-term care. 

All this brings us back to the person close to me who has cognitive decline. Have you ever seen that old Will Ferrrell comedy skit, ‘The Landlord’? (“God, you’re mean.”) People with cognitive decline can be so damn mean. Even though IT IS NOT THEIR FAULT, it can still be very hurtful. Called out, they 1) didn’t say that, 2) didn’t mean that, 3) can’t remember what they said, 4) are already having a different conversation, 5) and so on. There isn’t a good answer. They simply no longer have the awareness or understanding to be accountable for their unkindnesses. Unfair, isn’t it? Because who doesn’t want to call out the instrument of their pain?! But there’s no point. It’s like shaking a child who’s crying. The child isn’t the asshole. 

Hurt feelings aren’t the worst part, though. When my mother-in-law began to decline cognitively, I was reminded of the most painful aspect of illness. “Grief has arrived…. Hello, old friend,” which I have borrowed from the poem, “We grieve but we do not drown,” by scar_poetry. We grieve those we take care of. They are becoming something different, something that doesn’t meet our notion, our understanding of who they are. We MISS the person they were and sometimes we don’t really like the person they’ve become. My mother-in-law frequently forgot my name, sometimes didn’t recognize me at all. She’d refuse to do the things I’d ask of her, like take a shower, change her clothes, eat the food I cooked. 

When we first got to know each other, many years ago, we had to work hard to find common ground. She didn’t like that I’m Irish. I didn’t appreciate that she saved every single, tiny sliver of soap, a holdover from her childhood during the depression. It drove her crazy that I didn’t eat much. It drove me crazy that she didn’t respect my food boundaries. But we figured it out. We discovered all the great things about each other. It took time and patience but it was worth the effort. We formed a friendship that lasted nearly 15 years.

Everything changed when she started declining. She sometimes hated me, not Deb, but me, whoever I was to her in the moment. Of course, she never meant anything she said and didn’t even remember it afterwards. I knew this then and I understand it now. Knowing that, though, doesn’t lessen the grief, the bereavement of missing a person who is still with you but also not. We are forced to care for them in their existing form while mourning the person that they are no longer. It’s a cruel torture. And it’s still NOT THEIR FAULT.  

Having closed the 35 open browser windows on a certain someone’s phone in order to figure out why there was an ad playing (at the loudest possible volume), I find myself thinking about this today and hoping for peace tomorrow. I know I won’t get it in my personal life or in Gaza or in Ukraine but I can and will persist. Hopefully, I’ll be a little more Elizabeth Warren tomorrow and a little less young me in that Alzheimer’s ward. 

Much love. 

Hey, also, if you have an interest in supporting comics by Black women creators, there’s this cool Midnight Mystics kickstarter. I’m not in any way affiliated, though I did back the project. Maybe you’ll want to as well. Check it out. 

UPDATED: Anyone Here Order a Slice of Alzheimer’s?