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Live(r) Your Life

Deb Zuroski, , , , , 2 Comments

I’ve spent so much time in hospitals that I have that instant clarity of meeting an old acquaintance and falling into conversation as though you’ve never been apart. No matter which hospital you are in, the smell, the sounds, the directions (follow the arrows for elevator E, bring your ticket for validation, show your ID to enter the building) are basically universal. 

And yet, despite that deep familiarity, there are things I always forget – the way patients wait for hours, the texture of the food, the unique kindnesses of the support staff, the emotions that fill the air, leaking from various open patient doorways – grief, panic, fear, acceptance, relief. 

Roomie 1, the OG, had already been in the hospital for a week when I arrived. She was angry, her mood emanating from her like a toxic gas. I celebrated her return home for her benefit and mine. #2 roomie was very elderly, stuffed into my room for the night for observation. She’d fallen out of a car and was pretty banged up. Roomie 2 was beloved by her family. She had so many phone calls and visitors that I wanted to remind them that she was supposed to be resting – and so was I. But she wasn’t even there 24 hours so I left my bitchy comments on my side of the floor.

My third roommate, let’s call her Marietta because that couldn’t be farther from her real name, arrived from another high monitor unit in the hospital. She was very sick. The hour was late. Her care team was with her into the early hours of the next morning. There’s no privacy in hospitals so, since I couldn’t sleep, I listened to the conversations. The staff talked to her, asked her questions. She frequently didn’t know what was going on, wasn’t aware of some of the care decisions that had been made. 

At some point, I was able to put together enough pieces to realize that she’d been unconscious, unable to consent to some of the care she received. We were in a high-monitor surgical oncology unit so it’s not that surprising. Things come up during surgery. My care team and I went through the major decision forks that could appear so that they would know what I wanted before the anesthesia was administered but that isn’t always an option. 

Eventually, her care team left for a few hours but the doctors round early. They arrived to talk with her before the sun was above the horizon. The discussion was one I’ve experienced. Hospital familiarity can be reassuring – sounds and codes don’t make me anxious but there’s a certain food served in the cafeteria that I can’t smell without feeling a cold sweat on my forehead. 

Anyway, she asked when she’d be shut of all the bags she was wearing. If you don’t know anything about these, just google ‘ostomy bag’ and you’ll have a general picture. Since Ken had colon cancer, I know quite a bit about ostomy bags because he was supposed to get at least one. While I sat in my curtained-off alcove, the doctors explained that she was entering palliative care. 

Have you any idea what it feels like to be sitting on your uncomfortable hospital bed, no headphones, unable to easily move around because you have four brand new and very sore holes in your abdomen, and nowhere else to go anyway, listening to a young doctor tell the unseen woman beside you that she is dying and there is nothing they can do to stop it? He kept saying “let’s focus on making the time you have left as pleasant as possible.” I know he meant well. I do. I had forgotten, perhaps on purpose, that this is another part of being in hospitals. 

Ken’s care team would use phrasing like “keep him comfortable” and “most potential for extending his awareness.” I wanted to go through the curtain and ask her if she understood what they were saying, though I could hear her tears. I also wanted with an all-consuming passion to be ANYWHERE ELSE. There are no exits from a locked unit but if I’d been allowed to walk unaided, I might have become a human ISS, traveling the unit hallways for the foreseeable future. 

We weren’t friendly, exactly. It’s hard to become even acquainted with one person (me) constantly resisting the connections that the other (her) continues to offer. We talked a little bit, occasionally. Each time I struggled with a task, she’d make strange offers of assistance – and what exactly are you going to do to help me, occupant 2 of Room 899B? Your care team won’t allow you out of bed so quit asking me if I need help. 

Because I can’t help you. I can’t.

I took many walks with a walker or when I could manage it, just holding my IV octopus – I had five active lines. Basically I was constantly tangled in or tangling things, some of which hurt when you tug on them. There was a young man, later 20s probably, taking the same walks I did, though he had a single room and wasn’t guilt-walking the corridor to hide from his terminal roommate. Like I said, it’s a surgical oncology unit so unlikely he was there to get a bunion removed. His gait was better than mine. He’d been walking longer. We’d pass each other on the route. There was little maneuvering room so occasional clipped wheels were common but we never spoke. 

Eventually, I’d have to return to my room. There’s no place else to go – bed, sitting upright, or chair, also sitting very upright. Marietta would launch a possible conversation grenade at me and I’d answer briefly before muttering about a nap or a sponge bath. In the early morning hours of my last day, we were both propped up in our spaces as the hospital began to come awake. “Can I say something?” she asked through the thin barriers of our privacy curtains. 

“Sure,” I said, sure that she was going to comment on her life or my evasiveness.

“Your daughter ….” She paused a moment. “Well, she’s beautiful but that’s not even what I want to say.” I heard her fidgeting. “You’re lucky. She’s wonderful. And I can tell that she loves you very much.” 

God help me. I wanted to cry, was determined not to cry, didn’t cry. I am so very lucky. She’s right and I know it. My children are amazing. Mostly, I asked them to stay away from the unit. We spent so many months, painful, traumatic months in hospital rooms. They did not need to see me beside a woman who is the living embodiment of their dad’s illness and future death. 

I thanked her and was quiet again. There aren’t good words to tell a dying woman that my blessing isn’t her curse. There are almost no good words to say to someone who is dying. When I left later that day, I walked around the curtain to meet her. She’s older than I thought, looks vaguely like a well-known comedian. Her hair, short like mine, is a vibrant color, startlingly against the hospital bed. 

When I spoke, she said, “Oh, you’re the woman behind the curtain.” 

I nodded and held up two unopened water bottles I had left. “You want my extra water?” I asked her. 

She smiled at me, her eyes tearing up again. “Yes, thank you,” she said. “Go. Live a joyful life.” Marietta waved her arm above her head like she was cracking a stage coach whip before a team of horses. “Go now. Live.”

Much love. 

Live(r) Your Life

A little rain under the robotic knife

Deb Zuroski, , , , , 5 Comments

Life is so crazy some days. And then others, you’re sitting on the side of the road in Texas waiting for the police officer to issue you a warning for doing absolutely nothing.

My paternal grandmother, Myrtle the Turtle Traffic Light, as my sister and I use to call her before dissolving into the sorts of giggles produced only by very young children, was the kind of woman who would absolutely have been a rule-breaker, a flapper, a radical feminist. She was a little bit wild, an assertive leader, who received surprisingly naughty letters from her future husband. Those letters have changed me (what is once seen cannot ever be unseen) in ways that are probably not for the better. I think I’d have preferred to see her letters instead of his but apparently men of that era were less inclined to keep love letters tied in a bundle.

Many years ago, probably in the late 1970s, Grandma MtTTL took my sister and me to see a version of The Ink Spots perform at The Brown Derby, a long-ago restaurant in Erie. We were the only children in the audience and those elderly men were absolutely delighted to introduce us to the music that has influenced so many musicians who came after. 

The Ink Spots profoundly proclaimed in one of their songs “Into every life, rain must fall.” No one, in the history of forever, has been more right than they were in that song. 

There’s a thing – it’s not X, Y. or Z. It could be an anomalous A or a blah, blah, blah. It’s big and it’s on my liver. By the time most of you read this, I will be in robotic surgery, after which I’ll rest in some high-monitor unit of a hospital. I’ll be lighter by 20% of my liver and grumpy. Neither of these would be normal for me; nor were they on my bingo card for 2024. See the above paragraphs for pithy wisdom about predicting your future.

Why am I telling you mid-event? Why am I telling you at all? Why me? (Why not me?) There are no good answers to these or many other questions. I won’t have access to technology for a few days and then I’ll be using my initially limited energy to finish a project I’ve been working on. I will check in, though, to let you all know about life with less liver.

Don’t worry about me. I’m in good hands and in good spirits. And I’ll have a cool scar to add to my collection. Maybe, if it’s worth it, I’ll write a blog about the experience. 

Life is crazy some days. 

Much love. 

A little rain under the robotic knife

The Endless End

Deb Zuroski, , , 3 Comments

Mortality is that person you never think about until they start texting you to “hang out.” They aren’t a friend or even an acquaintance, however you choose to define that. You’ve seen them in passing, at a funeral or in the eyes of an elderly neighbor, but you don’t KNOW them. 

It’s awkward, really. Because you have friends in common, you don’t want to upset them by ignoring their “have a chat” messages; but you also would rather pull out your own teeth than associate with Mortality. They’re so, so  …. What is there to say? They make you uncomfortable. You can’t quite put your finger on the problem, on why you dread interacting with them. 

They are oddly omnipresent at certain times of your life, too, which is beyond frustrating. Just when you most want peace and brightness, look who’s calling. It’s Mortality with a “you up” message that’s as far from sexy as your partner saying, “who gets to use the bathroom first?”

It’s 3AM. You’ve kept your eyes closed for hours in a determined attempt to sleep even though there’s no chance it will work. All of a sudden, there’s an almost physical tap on your shoulder. Mortality has tucked themselves into bed next to you and they want to chat. You’re sure that, if you could just lie still for another minute, you’d fall asleep but not with Mortality in the bed. Worse than them wanting to talk is their preferred topic: all the things you least want to discuss. 

“Want to talk about things you regret, times you hurt someone whether intentionally or not, the all the things you might never get to do again?” Ouch. It’s as painful as a parental look back on all the ‘last times’ you did something with your child – the final time you: carried them up to their bed, gave them a piggy back ride, tucked them in, read them a story, played with them. Oh, hey, Mortality, thanks so much for bringing up all the other potential LASTS in our futures and our pasts. 

Mortality isn’t vindictive. Imagine if they were. The merciless brutality of their existence would be worsened incalculably if the focus of their attention was also their latest victim. The potential for true cruelty is endless. “Hey, Mortality here, let’s talk about that time you watched your crush kiss your best friend.” Instead, Mortality is just saying, in the gentlest manner, “hey, thinking about you” and “are you thinking about me?” 

God, yes, I am but I sure wish I weren’t. 

Much love.

The Endless End

New Year, New You?

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So, it’s 2024. Do you have a Holiday HangoverTM? Did your 2024 resolve become reluctance when your alarm buzzed this morning? Don’t be discouraged. Time is a construct. You can actually start anew anytime. The date on the calendar is irrelevant, actually meaningless, unless you’re complying with America’s outmoded tax filing laws or you’re a child counting the days to your birthday – “Mom, mom. You told that lady that I’m 7. I’m not. I’m 7 and a half.” 

Is there a point to all this? Not really. True change can and does occur without resolutions and calendar pages. It took leaving the corporate world for me to be kinder, to be present, to know the people around me. I hope that, when I near the end of my days, my thoughts will be on the smiles I created and not the times that I failed. As the darkness closes in on me, I’d like to know that I helped someone, not that I won something. When I am gone, I’d like for people to remember my love for them, not my fumbling mis-steps, of which there have been many. 

All those self-improvement social media posts and books that challenge us to have “no regrets” don’t really mean that. They’re actually telling us not to lament where we focus our time, energy, and attention. Everyone regrets careless words, poorly worded jokes, unkind actions. No doubt it is the worst use of energy when, instead, we could set the intention to learn from our unkindnesses and then, ACTUALLY change our behaviors. Nonetheless, behaving better in future is not self-forgiveness for past actions. 

When my husband was receiving chemotherapy, his skin deteriorated – yes, this story has a related point and I recognize what a surprise that is. The chemo was very drying. He was supposed to moisturize heavily … and we had to be careful what kinds he used since some contain ingredients that are very hard on chemo skin. He refused to use any moisturizer – and I’m talking hardcore, back-to-the-wall noping. His skin – particularly his feet – began to peel and crack. I searched for different versions of body lotion, thinking he didn’t like the texture or the unscented scent of the various brands I bought. He continued to resist. We became Virgil Earp and Frank McLaury. 

I’d had many conversations with his oncology social worker about where to draw the line, where to encourage him instead of doing on his behalf but I’ll never know if the lines I drew were in the right places. None of my choices would have changed the outcome but could my actions have made his days more peaceful? Perhaps, on the other hand, if I’d done more for him, he would have done progressively less. Thus, my deep and abiding relationship with regret and forgiveness.

With the closing of 2023, I found myself listening to a lot of introspective music, perhaps coming to grips with some of my more questionable life choices? Some of the songs continue to resonate as the new year begins:

“Playing God,” by Polyphia. The band was started in 2010, when Tim Henson was only 17. At that age, I was learning to drive, working at McDonalds, and wondering whether I’d ever tell my high school crush how I felt. Tim was taking garage band to the next level. He plays an acoustic-electric guitar created specifically for him. His virtuosic acoustic performance of “Playing God” is astounding, though you should also listen to the full band performance. 

“Little Life” by Cordelia. It’s a new song, all the rage on social media. The lyrics are a bittersweet acknowledgement of our own failings, of falling and standing again. There’s an earnestness to it that I keep having to acknowledge as my life choices slap me over and over again. No matter what happens, I think I like this Little Life.

“The Mountain Song” by TopHouse. This song is a bit of a departure for me, a bluegrass-y sound with Irish influences. I don’t know where I first heard it but the mountain metaphor for the struggle and beauty of connectedness is particularly lovely to me. My days are often surreal in ways that aren’t really explicable except when compared to the concept of climbing and falling and starting up the mountain again. 

Much love.

New Year, New You?

A Thousand Ways to Ruin a Wreath

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

My eldest and I were joking today about wreath-making. It was the annual Nature’s Wreath fund-raiser at the Pittsburgh Zoo. We go every year and — every year — we agonize over our wreath decorating. I was (secretly) absolutely delighted … Okay. Okay. Flattered beyond the power of speech is more accurate … when our long-time wreath mentor told me that (after 25 years of making wreaths), I’m starting to show real growth. I can’t even tell you how much that made me laugh.

Anyway, I was encouraging my son not to over-think his wreath design, told him there’s no wrong way to design it. And that’s when he looked up from his work, his green eyes bright with laughter, and said, “Maybe not, Mom, but there are a thousand ways to ruin a wreath.”

It’s the single best thing, you know. The time you spend with people. Let me amend that — the time that you are physically, mentally, and emotionally present with people. For years, I was required to vacation with my phone at the ready, with my laptop in my tent. I had to check email. I was chided for not responding quickly enough. I attended meetings while my children road rides at Universal Studios. I sat at a table in Dave & Busters on a call with a project manager while my son ate nachos and waited for me to play with him. I was not present.

Today, there were no conference calls separating me from family and friends. We laughed and teased and shared suggestions. We pranked each other by sneaking unexpected items onto wreaths and sang along to silly holiday tunes. We praised other participants’ wreaths and made terrible hot cocoa with boiling water and packets of Swiss Miss. We started the day with cheap diner food at a sticky table and stayed an extra hour talking. It was one of those spectacular small moments in our lives that are so easily missed, that cannot be recaptured.

When one of my kids asked what I want for Christmas, I said, “More of this. More time together. The gift of your presence.” I think, perhaps, nothing else matters.

Much love.

A Thousand Ways to Ruin a Wreath

The Last Red Leaf

Deb Zuroski, , , , 4 Comments

Okay, who shortened October and November? The last time I checked in, the leaves were beginning to flame and temperatures were dropping. Bad news: I was just outside. There’s one tree on the street yelling “I’m still gorgeous” with its bright red leaves while all of the surrounding plants have covered themselves in a shroud of gray silence to wait for spring.  

My pneumonia was confirmed – ground glass opacities in the lungs, in case you’re interested in the details. I’m better, still coughing but no longer struggling to inhale. When I go out, I make the occasional announcement – asthma, not covid – or wave my inhaler around if I happen to have a coughing spate. 

In fact, I’m feeling so healthy I had the opportunity to take my neighbor shopping. She wanted to go to Marshall’s but doesn’t like to drive on the highway. Since I’m soundly somewhere between her kids and grandkids age-wise, I have the pleasure of being her chauffeur. After shopping, she treated me to an iced tea and a bagel (and a little bag of biscotti to share). We sat for an hour and talked. I think she likes to go with me because I’m a new audience for her stories. She has led an amazing life and is an excellent storyteller so, honestly, I don’t mind.

Also, FINALLY, after eight weeks of coughing, I felt well enough to drive to Erie to see my not-my-aunt Ginny. She said that she thought I was mad at her since I haven’t been to see her in so long. She has cognitive decline, as I mentioned before, and thought my last visit had been before Christmas. I showed her our most recent selfie together. She didn’t remember, of course, but it made her feel better to know that I do usually visit regularly and that I wasn’t mad. (I don’t talk about illness because it just makes her fuss and worry.) 

The sad thing about her decline is that I can’t give her anything physical to comfort her because she loses the memory almost immediately after I leave. I visit her because I know it makes her happy in the moment and because someday it will be all I have left of her. And while that might sound melancholy, I really just mean it as a truth. All of us will one day exist only as a memory for someone else. 

Perhaps we should all work to make that memory a good one.

Much love.

The Last Red Leaf

Cough

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Cough. Cough. Cough. Holding up a hand in the universal “give me a minute” gesture. Cough. Cough. Co..cough. Ahem. 

Hey. How are you? I have pneumonia (probably but the doctor isn’t exactly sure). I know what you’re thinking but it’s really not Covid. Trust me on this. I even spent an entire day in the hospital, getting every manner of test and breathing treatment. That particular experience sucked all of the enjoyment out of the day, and I say that with all gratitude to the healthcare workers who did their best for me. 

It’s not my first asthmatic rodeo (does that work?) but it’s annoying me more than usual. I’ve been home for two weeks with very occasional trips to the pharmacy for meds and marginally useful cough medicine. My rear has, I believe, taken the form of the recliner in which I spend most of my coughing hours. 

Although I wasn’t diagnosed until a few years ago, I’ve probably had asthma my whole life, with, as I’ve mentioned before, many thanks to my parents and their lifelong smoking habits. Bronchitis was a frequent diagnosis in my childhood. If I had a dollar for every spoonful of the mysterious turpentine-smelling cough syrup that my mother forced on child-me, I’d still shiver every time I now drink the somewhat less horrible-tasting orange liquid from the little Dayquil cup. 

Mostly, I stay silent – talking leads to coughing. Breathing leads to coughing. Pretty much everything leads to coughing now that I think about it further. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking – not so much about coughing, though, oddly, it has occasionally entered the mental discussion. 

All of my silence has allowed much time for my brain to over-produce words that have gone unsaid. It’s a difficult position for someone like me, unable to talk and mostly lacking the physical energy to type. [Coughing takes a remarkable amount of energy.] What does one do with one’s words when there is no outlet for them all? 

So, yes, I’ve been thinking about all sorts of things while I endure the many fine side effects of prednisone … like sweating. That’s a fan favorite. O.O The advice for enduring the sweating? Wear a strong anti-perspirant. Really. And yes, I’m both enduring the prednisone sweating and thinking about the unpleasant aspects of sweating while I cough up my lungs. 

Here’s one of the experiences I’ve been thinking about – many years ago, when I was a grad student, I had to attend a dinner at a professor’s house. All of you current and/or former grad students understand the political importance of attending academia-issued dinner invitations. It was fine, I guess. I don’t remember most of the particulars, including what we ate. 

What I do remember with remarkable clarity was the three-plus hours we spent with the professor’s husband, learning about his favorite hobby – antique clocks. It was very cool, at first, you know? Talking to a much older gentleman who was so eager, so excited to show all of us “young people” his workroom on the second floor of their house. His workbench was wooden, a darker wood that matched the floor. The room was cluttered and softly noisy with clock sounds. 

If only the discussion had ended after a reasonable amount of time. Instead, perhaps because his spouse already knew or simply didn’t care to listen further, he – with so many words unspoken in his own head – trapped seven or eight grad students in his workroom and kept us there for hours as he expounded. We students, with homework to complete and classes at 8AM sharp, struggled to stay on our feet, squeezed together in a room that seemed to shrink as the hours passed. I remember being so tired that I was making little mental negotiations about just closing my eyes for a moment. Because we all know how that goes. 

He’d be delighted to know that I still remember the clocks and even have a few of my own, now. I hope he never realized how desperate we all were to leave when the last clock chimed midnight and he arose from his stool to send us on our way. 

Much love.

Cough

To Have the Audacity of Barbie

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , 3 Comments

The catbirds have gone silent. Every morning, lately, a young hawk begins calling as the sun peeks over the horizon. Hunting, I assume, though only the hunted and the hawks really know. She woke me again today, a few moments before my alarm reminded me not to burrow back into the pillow. The day is too full for extended sleep to be an option. And so, the day begins.

Walking in the early morning light the mile or two back from the mechanic where I left the car, I saw a man eating a boxed meal in the portico of an abandoned building. He’s made a home there, his bedding tucked under the roof, shopping car(t) parked next to his sidewalk-driveway. There’s no garbage pick-up, of course, but he’s keeping his very public little home tidy, his trash collected in plastic grocery bags and stacked neatly. He’s chosen an excellent location for his residence. The portico is barely visible from the street, essential for his safety, since the city regularly harasses those who are too public about their unhomed status. 

He’s living in one of the neighborhoods that needs healthy revitalization, not gentrification. I suspect, though, that the local government finds gentrification more financially beneficial. Until that changes, another community will lose its personality and culture to cookie-cutter high-rise apartments funded by greedy VCs and politicians. 

The neighborhood used to have a common grocery store, not a particularly safe one, unfortunately, but at least it was affordable. That store was torn down to make room for … another apartment building. Now, the primary grocery option is a Whole Foods, a store that reinforces the idea that food deserts are often, very specifically, places where the available food is not affordable. It’s remarkably effective – and completely lacking in human decency – if the goal is to remove financially fragile renters from a neighborhood. 

Three blocks beyond ‘portico house’, the neighborhood changes naturally as the landscape changes. That’s where I often spend the day. There are several local coffee shops, plus that national union-busting place (you know the one). Things have begun to change too at my favorite third place. I understand with horrible clarity how very irrelevant it is to desire the status quo. The world does not ask permission to change. People don’t either and isn’t that the worst betrayal? To expect everyone to stay where they are when, in reality, you will always, always be running to catch up. 

Children are an excellent example of that. But despite my years of experience being surprised by the various children in my world, I am still continually left stumbling along behind as they roar into their days with apparent fearless abandon. I am (probably not so) secretly constantly on the verge of a gasp with relief and admiration at their audacity.

Where did mine go? I’m absolutely certain that at one point in my life, my dear, so beloved mother was also gasping at my audaciousness. Now, instead of moving fearlessly to new cities where I have no connections, I find myself whining about the lack of black iced tea at my coffee shop. Nothing to fear – they steeped tea just for me since they’ve run out of the already-brewed stuff. And how embarrassingly privileged that is.

Over the weekend, I made a bunch of bracelets. One of my favorites from the Barbie movie is “Humans only have one ending.” There’s something reassuring about knowing that I only have this one life and that it’s on me to continually make a damned effort to do better. 

Another favorite, and the one on my wrist today, is a modification of the Barbie scene in which Barbie tells an elderly woman, “You’re beautiful.” And the woman responds, “I know.” 

And you are beautiful. I hope you know that.

Much love.

To Have the Audacity of Barbie

If You Don’t Stand For Something ….

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Let’s talk about uncomfortable experiences. 

Not long ago, someone close to me made a racist remark. While I was unhappy with his comment, it was not out of the realm of possible given that our conversation was already going south. I called him out. We had a fight. I think we’re not currently speaking. I mean, I’m speaking to him but I don’t think he’s reciprocating. 

Yesterday, I was at a restaurant when my server made a racist remark. What she said reverberates through my brain even as I type this but I will never repeat it – not ever. The situation with her was a little different. I was talking to my lunch companion. We were discussing the word piddlin’, which, depending on your community, either means “trivial” or “peeing.” (Isn’t language hilarious?) The server wasn’t even part of the discussion.  She was dropping off the check. She looked at me, made her racist comment like she was asking if we wanted a refresh of our iced tea, and then stood there, waiting for my response. 

Friends, my companion and I were so surprised we just stared. She doubled down on her racist bullshit and I gobbled like a turkey. I swear to god there were no words in my head. I have no idea what I said next. In my head, NOW, I have ALL THE WORDS. Regrettably – and I do regret it deeply – then, I had no words. None. I was a blank slate of horror, confusion, and disgust. 

My privilege, as a white woman, means that I can walk away from this event and take no action. Nothing will happen to me. Nothing will happen to her. In reality, it’s unlikely that her opinions will be changed by anything I say. But had I spoken up, she would – at the very least – have known that I am not a safe person to say those words to. Maybe a negative response from me would have meant that she’d consider, in future, before sharing her racist opinions with the next customer. 

I can’t let that experience go unchallenged. Maybe I didn’t have the words then, but I definitely have them now. And I’ll be using them tomorrow. What will happen after that? We’ll see, won’t we? All I know at the moment is that I won’t be doing nothing. 

Now for something completely different ….

There was a very young boy at the coffee shop this morning. He was with his dad who, apparently, never had responsibility for him before. Dad kept saying, “keep your voice down” and the little guy kept saying “NO.” And my stomach muscles hurt from laughing as hard as I did. Isn’t it time for men to realize that they aren’t doing women a favor by “watching the kids?” Yo, men, that’s called parenting. Seriously, how was that man so unskilled at talking to his son? I’m delighted by the interaction and hope that child tortures his dad relentlessly until his morning nap, the dad’s not the kids. There’s no way that kid is going to sleep anytime soon since Dad just bought him multiple doughnuts. 

I bumped into an indie author at the farmers market yesterday and told her which of her books I’m currently reading. Her stories are at the top of the spice rack, if you know what I mean, so she was a little embarrassed but in a good way, I think. For her, it was probably a little like going to see a movie with your adult child and discovering that there’s a sex scene. I know what she wrote. She knows I know that she wrote it. Hehe

Right now, my primary task is supposedly working on my novel. I AM working on the novel. Unfortunately, a significant amount of my typing, thus far today, has involved the backspace key. And not because I keep making typos. There was a rager across the street last night and it was still going hard at 4AM. So much drumming. If there’s a hell, I’ll definitely be on the drumming floor for all eternity. Usually, I like a good beat but it seems that today, at least, I’m that person, the curmudgeon who can’t appreciate an intense urge to drum before the sun arrives.

Much love.

If You Don’t Stand For Something ….

Pink Tea and Aunt G

Deb Zuroski, , , 3 Comments

Hey. Hi. Hello. How have you been? Busy? Me too. Me too. My daughter and her roommate are currently living with me. I might have mentioned that they had a month to month lease and their landlord decided to boot them at the end of June. He may have been trying to force them into signing another lease but this here mom stepped in to offer them temporary housing since they’re both leaving the city at the end of summer. 

The house is, as a result, something of a mess. It’s actually catastrophically untidy because their home is inside my home. But my youngest son and I are enjoying the company (and the cooking). Even in my bedroom, I can hear my girls, as I’ve been thinking of them, laughing and chattering with their friends on facetime. We’re going to miss them when they leave. The dogs are going to go into a decline because they have never been so loved as they are right now, with so many available hands to pet them. 

Since all of the bedrooms are occupied, my three dogs are with people instead of kenneled in the guest room. Yes, there’s a mini-doxy sleeping with me. We both object to this, quite strongly. I have a king mattress so, because she is NOT a cuddler, she is sleeping on the cat’s side. Which the cat does not appreciate. The cat is protesting by sleeping at the foot of the bed. I’ve accidentally kicked her off twice when I stretch out in my sleep. In other words, things are going great. Right? On the other hand, the cat is absolutely thrilled by my daughter’s return to the house so I’ll likely eventually be forgiven for allowing the dog on the bed. 

To recap: Chaos is generally the order of the day but the house is also currently overflowing with joy. I’d exchange a calm, tidy house for a joyful one every single time without a moment’s hesitation. 

Working at the coffee shop – a frequent, but usually not constant, event – is now a daily necessity. My desk, a rescued antique roll-top, is not even reachable due to the current state of things. But writing in this big, open building is an absolute hoot. I like the energy level. The constant hum of conversation. The people-watching options. The outfit inspiration. 

A young person just walked by wearing a (very) colorful Hawaiian shirt with matching shorts. I’ve never seen an entire Hawaiian-shirt-themed outfit. It is fantastic and I mean that entirely unironically. I would love to wear that outfit. Many years ago, I attended a mandatory team-building overnight for work and the admin assistant tried to get us all to wear grass skirts and leis. (Her success was limited.) Perhaps things would have turned out differently if we’d all gotten to wear Hawaiian shirts and shorts? 

The main street in front of the coffee shop has been closed a lot recently – Jam on Walnut, Shadyside Sundays, Vintage Grand Prix, ShadySidewalk Sale. There were barricades set up to prevent driving and the lack of cars had the very unexpected effect of reducing the community stress. The space is obviously quieter without traffic. Pedestrians meandered. The coffee shop line was consistently out the door. And the weather cooperated, if you don’t mind heat that will cook your brains as you walk from sun to shade to sun. 

When I last drove to Erie, the weather up there was a little gloomy and cool. Not-my-Aunt G was having a less than stellar day. In a mental place that had no memories and no structure, she was sad and a little grumpy, as you’d expect of a person who isn’t entirely sure where they are. Because the weather in Pittsburgh was fantastic, I was wearing a linen dress – very casual, loose, summery – that she objected to strongly. Because, as usual, she thought I was a guy. She was worried for my safety since, as she told me, men wearing women’s clothing aren’t safe. 

Sometimes, people ask me why I visit since she doesn’t remember who I am. Here’s the thing, really two things – I don’t just visit for her. She’s been family to me for the literal entirety of my life. Just because she doesn’t remember me doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten her. Sure, it’s not always easy talking since we no longer have shared memories but I can FIND things to say. I ask her about a specific memory or talk to her about things that I know she used to value. She loves flowers so I’ve been keeping her updated on my pollinator garden. (She thinks I should plant more pink roses – her personal favorites. She tells me that every time I tell her about my garden.) Last week, I asked her what she wanted me to make for her dinner. We talked for an hour about what I should buy at the grocery store. We made a list. She found it very soothing because, she said, she never has any food in the refrigerator anymore. 

Also, even though she doesn’t remember me, she is always happy to see me. I usually arrive before lunch so I can escort her (aka push her wheelchair) to the dining room. We sit with three other women and talk. I often comment on the music – they have a rotating playlist of songs from each decade. The music is a great topic. All the residents have thoughts – and so do the staff. Luke, one of the staff, came over to talk about the music. He swore that Frank Sinatra would be playing soon and sure enough, when one of his songs finally came on, there was a resounding cry of “ole blue eyes.” 

Not-my-Aunt G introduced Luke as her boyfriend. I joked with him about that – scolded him for cheating on me – and he told me not to tell Elaine who eats in the other dining room because she also thinks he’s her boyfriend. Poor guy. 

Usually I bring my latest crochet project so I have something to do with my hands. Last week, in addition to the usual box of cookies from the bakery, I brought homemade strawberry pie that not-my-Aunt G had requested. She didn’t want it, though, wasn’t in the mood. And that’s okay. My mom’s recipe for strawberry pie – made with strawberry compote – is straight from angels. Believe me; it did not go to waste.

Have you seen the Barbie movie? If you haven’t, get your butt there! If you have, what did you think? I mean, beyond loving it with all the breath in your body, what did you think? My daughter and her roomie didn’t even notice a couple references that decimated me in the most accurate metaphorical sense. I can’t wait to see it again.

There is something wrong with the novel I finished writing last month. I can’t figure out what it is so I’ve put it aside. I’m going to have to read it again in a couple months, at which point I will hopefully have an epiphany about why it isn’t working. While that novel percolates, I’m writing my next story, a contemporary rom-com. My male protagonist is bisexual which means that I need to find a bisexual beta reader. Unfortunately, none of the bisexual men in my community are willing to read a romance – not even for ME. I know. I know. That’s crazy. But there it is. 

Like the letters I write to friends, this blog post has gotten too long. I’m going to cut it off mid-update. Picture me, sitting at the entrance to the coffee shop, sun shining on my sweating glass of pink hibiscus tea. My computer screen is shaded as I type and watch and type some more.

Stay safe in this increasingly foolish world.

Much love.

Pink Tea and Aunt G