Onward and Upward

 Obviously, I need to make a change. I am not recovering at all well from the death of my dog. The depression is deep and the solitude is palpable.


Crazy habits are hard to break. For example, I find myself watching tv alone in the dark. I forget to turn on the lights because for twelve years I had them on all day when I was gone. There was always a part of me that worried about getting home late, so I always left out a bowl of dry food and the lights blazing all day with the tv on for company. It gave me assurance that I could work some overtime or go out after work for a drink, if so inclined. (not often,usually, it was the OT.)



I've been single for fifteen years now. Before that, I went through serial relationships. It wasn't until I met my dog that I realized I much preferred her company to any significant others I'd had so far.



It wasn't just her company I needed, she gave me purpose and got me off my lazy ass three or four times each day for runarounds. That much of my schedule was consistent and inflexible. I know I could be walking still, without her, but that doesn't seem to be happening and that can't be good for me.


It's hard, too, not to be in a hurry to get home anymore, not to have someone so excited to see me she waits at the window. Ouch. Tough walking into a dark, empty home.



I'm sure you know where this is going. You're right. I can't go it alone, I don't want to and so, knowing it's impossible to replace Ms. Georgia, I found somebody else to keep me company and help me stay grounded.



She is the same breed, different color and only eight weeks old. Please join me in welcoming 'Maggie' into my world.

I'm up to the challenge, I'd better be, I've already claimed her as my own. Never, never, will she replace Georgie-girl, never, ever could she. But she is here, she is the cutest cure I could imagine and the best, the very best way to begin to heal is puppy breath and a facefull of kisses.

It took Charles Schultz to remind me : "Happiness is a warm puppy."

Welcome home, Maggie May McElroy



you have a tough act to follow

Six Degrees of Separation

Frigyes Karinthy is a name you probably never heard before. I'm betting you know of his theory though.  He was a Hungarian journalist and a translator who lived between 1887-1938.  His theory is that of the above, "Six Degrees of Separation." He is also famous for his translation of A.A. Milne's 'Winnie the Pooh' giving it a cult following in Hungary.  (Some cult, they could do a lot worse.)


According to Karinthy's theory, any two people on earth can be connected by a chain of individuals, giving new meaning to the phrase "a friend of a friend."


I think it's amazing and true. A tiny example would be social networking, like ,of course, Facebook or Twitter. I have both found and been found on Facebook. When you 'friend' someone, the site suggests people you know in common. Of course, there's no need to pursue these little points of interest, and I seldom do, but your privacy is protected, and the possibility of being in touch with someone whom I barely knew a lifetime ago, is mildly interesting.


I've worked with and have many Jewish friends and relatives, close enough to know all about "Jewish Geography."  I envy that. It's fun to do the detective work. Everybody knows somebody who's related to somebody else. Like unraveling a mystery. I've seen this phenominon in action. I just stand there and watch as people become so animated when they discover that their own doctor is married to their cousins ex-wife ! Fascinating !


You can come up with your own examples. Imagine that your father attended a banquet and was introduced to the speaker by a mutual cousin. The speaker once heard and shook the hand of Nelson Mandela. So, in a small way, there's a connection, noteworthy at that.


In many families, mine for one, there is a network among people who have been married, divorced and remarried enough to connect and reconnect people all over again. I attended a backyard reception last week and ran into an ex-sister in law who is still called "Auntie" by my grown kids. Of course she is, she is still their cousin's mother.


Even though the worlds population has grown measurably since Karinthy's theorum, it still applies, and I find it comforting, somehow. Safety in numbers, perhaps. Despite the math, it makes the world seem a smaller place.


We're all in this together, so, reach out and touch someone.



The Final Act

It has come to pass : the end of my little dog's life. I've been dreading it, but not quite believing it, for about three months...Ending her life took more courage than I knew I had, and that's saying something.  She was diagnosed officially with Transitional Tumor Carcinoma, malignant, three weeks ago. Since then her symptoms exacerbated quickly. I gave her codeine, I took comfort measures as long as she would eat and at least, wag her tail.  I thought her quality of life was still good (for the most part) and I delayed the inevitable.


And then, she turned on me, in the only way she knew how. She bit me, hard & viciously, causing a helluva laceration. It was only one of the scars I have left from her. The rest you can't see. But that isn't why I put her down, I can take a bite, if that's what it takes to make me understand she wasn't even in there anymore. It was her way of telling me to let her go and she meant it.


I made the call, I made the appointment, I got ready to go.  Then, she was up in her window seat for the first time in weeks. I canceled the appointment, only to reschedule two days later. It was quick, it was merciful and it hurt me more than it hurt her, fersure.



They left me alone with her after giving her the initial injection to sedate her. I had time to hold her and pet her and repeat some of our nonsense she'd been accustomed to. I cried into her fur, as I've done many times before. That little girl took many secrets to her grave. 



I promised God would kiss her hello and I reminded her I'd be along and she is to wait for me.



That was the hard part.  Now, only one day later, I'm still weepy, I cry spontaneously, in the car, at my desk, on the phone. I've replaced her window seat with a plant, I put her water dish away and I've got her collar around my wrist, for now. It's a hard habit to break, letting go of someone who was omnipresent for twelve years. I find myself holding the door a moment longer than necessary, moving my feet under my chair so she'll have room under my desk, and last night,I slept on her side of the bed.



So, with all the attention to detail, all the acts that make up closure, there is one thing I forgot.



I forgot to say 'Thank You,'   Thank you, girl, for choosing me. For letting me cry into your fur, for listening to secrets I would trust to no one, and for tolerating me. The nights I was way later than I should've been, the times I forgot to pick up your treats or even your food, Thank you for keeping my feet warm and my heart even warmer.

I love you, girl,

Go with God.


GOOD girl !



Fun With Dick and Jane

There’s probably nothing I enjoy more than reading. As soon as I learned to read, I became engrossed in anything I could read. I annoyed my family by reading everything out loud, Road signs, directions on packages, names and addresses. I waited for the mailman so I could read the addressee out loud. I even got busted in the first grade for keeping my reader on the seat next to me at all times. I think I read the whole reader on the day it was distributed. I was fascinated by Dick and Jane and Spot. (Or I was fascinated by being able to read about Dick and Jane and Spot.)
　
As I got older and advanced through grade school and high school, I continued the habit. I was caught with my history book during English, my English book during math and my religion book during history. I’ve always had a voracious appetite, and the one I have for reading is the least harmful.
　
　
The funny thing is, no matter how engrossed I am in any particular book, if you ask me what I’m reading (and people do ask me that, all the time) the chances are, I won’t know. I can rattle off the storyline and the character names, but have no idea about the title or the author. In order to do that, I have to be really impressed, not always the case. Still, I plod through.
　
　
It’s like an escape for me, it’s my ‘drug of choice.’ I can get so lost in the written word, it can be detrimental. I don’t hear the phone ring, or your voice if you’re speaking to me. I’m sure my kids were neglected over time because of my habit. Reading during their practices, on the bleachers, or on road trips when my husband drove. When I was in school for nursing, I didn’t allow myself to read anything but text. All the time, anytime. But that was pure memorization. When I look back through those tomes (Harrelson's Book of Technique and Procedure) and see the highlighted places, all over the page, I’m amazed that I ever got through it. But that’s where my head was then.
　
When I was thirteen, my sister gave me “Gone with the Wind.”  When I was sixteen, my parents took it away from me. I read and reread it so often I think they were worried I’d had a break with reality !
　
　
Well, it is my drug of choice, my obsession. There are far worse things to get caught up in. I’m so grateful that my grandson seems fascinated too…he loves books, gets very excited by new ones, even the presentation, you’d think it was Christmas! He’ll sit with me and follow the words along with his finger, babbling happily, convinced he’s reading to me. Best stories I’ve ever heard.
　
　
Come along with me, Luca, the best is yet to be.
　
　
Love,

Gramma

Dream a Little Dream.....

...of......???


God only knows. I just awakened from another of my epic extravaganzas. No wonder I'm always exhausted.


I wish we could hit rewind when we are awake and cognizant. My dreams are so bizarre, so nonsensical, so full of light, color, sound and emotion. Sometimes I wake up with my heart slamming against my chest wall. Thirty seconds later, I have no idea why.


Often, I dream about work, Sometimes I'm a hero, sometimes, a real loser. I guess after years of working full time, it's not going to be easy to forget about it. I'm glad we don't remember our dreams for long, I would hate to put so much feeling into something without getting paid for it.


Often, I dream about my kids when they were little..since they're quickly approaching forty, that's really about the past, the far past. It was the time of my life, so that must be why I harken back to those (idyllic?) days.  I bet their dreams are a lot different.


I dream about deceased loved ones. That's heavy. Must mean unfinished business, I know there are schools of thought about dream interpretation, but I just can't go there - look what happened to the Virgin Mary, not too mention her betrothed ! YIKES !


Usually I can at least connect the dots. I was just thinking about so-and-so, no wonder I dreamt of her.  I can dream about poker hands, backgammon boards, scrabble. I dream about game shows and animals. These are all things I love.


When my curiosity gets the best of me, I'll cave and look up some of my dreams on the internet or in books, but I ain't buyin' it. They say your dreams are of wishes unfullfilled, or unfinished business or unresolved anger.  I'm pretty sure all my anger is resolved, most of my business is finished and I hate to think I'm so shallow that my biggest wish is for a good poker hand.

All in all, it's at the very least, mildly entertaining...at the very most, exhausting.



Erma Bombeck said : "It takes a lot of courage to show your dreams to someone else."



They don't call me chicken for nuthin'.



Stressed is Just Desserts Spelled Backwards

Everything is relative, right? We all have different takes on the same things.  I'm beginning to think I have a really weird perspective.



I just returned from the grocery store, at the ungodly hour of 8 am. I set my clock because we're in the middle of a heat wave and I can't take it. I got up early to run errands, walk the dog and watch a friend in a tennis tourmament for awhile.  After that I will sequester down, make a pasta salad, read, nap and do laundry in the air conditioning. Life is good.


Except.


I just narrowly averted a full blown panic attack. This was triggered by....(doon-doon...)  the self check out lane at my grocery store.  It was so early, the store hadn't even opened cashier lanes. I was forced to engage in a ritual that would be, for most people, mildly interesting. For me, paralyzing. I get nervous, downright scared and usually fumble my way through with help from the real cashier.



I have other day to day tasks that unnerve me, too. Things you wouldn't even give a second thought. I have anxiety over merging, I have not, nor ever will, stuffed a turkey and each Sunday mass I worry about being asked to take the gifts up to the alter. I've accomplished all of these  things (except the turkey) and beautifully, but in sheer panic mode. 



Here's the conundrum:  I can do things a lot of people cannot/would not without a glimmer of angst.



My life in medicine brought me much joy and satisfaction. I spent years in the operating room, scrubbed in on a myriad of surgeries, right there, ready with instruments, suction, and counting bloody sponges.  I have run and warned the surgeon when I would be shutting down the laser on vision correction. (It's not up to him, really, it's up to the laser)  I catheterized my own young son, for several years, every 4 hours. I accomplished all this with nothing more than satisfaction of a job well done. I was in my comfort zone.



How many other people can lay claim to that kind of accomplishment? Granted, not a lot, but I bet most people do not freeze over daily tasks, like merging or stuffing turkeys. 



I hope retirement does many things, but mostly I hope it gives me new perspective so I can relax and enjoy it.



Malcom Forbes said: "Retirement kills more people than hard work ever did."



He may be right !

If You Love it Let it Go....

if it was meant to be, it'll come back to you. (not so much.)


They say "Write it, don't send it"  (for obvious reasons) I hope I don't regret posting this, but, true to form, I'm goin' for it ! I wish I had the balls to call Oprah and set the record straight, but I'd probably get sued.


It's this: I am part of a miracle. One I never asked for.


In today's world, so many things have been challenged and changed. Some, for the better. In my case, not so much. The grief my miracle brought is starting to outweigh the joy.


Somebody (not me) should write a book about the heartache of adoption reunions. Ours is eleven years old.


I've seen and read a lot about these reunions because I have an avid interest. I'm a "Birth Mother." God, the stigma that goes with that can be an albatross around my neck. Now, adoption numbers are falling because mothers choose to keep their children, no matter what. A good thing? Sure, in many cases.


In my case almost 42 years ago, it didn't seem like a good option. I was married briefly, to someone I'd known, but lost track of for many years. We had no idea what the hell we were doing. Viet Nam was raging. I was completely without direction, just sort of treading water, living in a Godforsaken little town where I knew no one. He was sure to go to Viet Nam, and probably needed to set down roots to come home to. We were eighteen, fercrissakes !


I was horribly homesick and terribly pregnant.  My husband, who is a better friend to me now than he ever was then, could do nothing right, poor kid. I wanted to go home and I wanted to go NOW!. My parents were so confused, they liked this guy so much and could not understand why I wanted to abandon the very plan I'd insisted on carrying out several months earlier.

But you know what? I firmly believe in the "Everything Happens for a Reason" school of thought. Our daughter was meant to be conceived. It was all part of God's plan and it all had to do with DNA. She was meant to be delivered by me and placed in the much-more-capable-hands of her adoptive parents. If things had gone differently, she never would've come to know the wonderful people in her life, and certainly would not have come to know the father of her beautiful children. (Without whom she couldn't enjoy the wonderful life she has now.)


I wouldn't have had my reason for being, either. My twins, who arrived three years after she was born and placed. My husband, her father, would not have known the wife he chose to spend eighteen years with, or served overseas in a noble capacity, the Peace Corp, giving so much more than he got.


It's all good, right?


Not so fast.


When you see the constantly running stories of the tortured souls who spend years looking for each other, you only see the honeymoon phase. You don't get to see that these reunions sometimes wreak havoc in so many lives who didn't deserve it. The 'afterglow' is much more of a furnace. It burns, and in my case, left deeper scars than the original loss.


We reunited after my "birth daughter's" parents were deceased. That was the only way I could've ever agreed to meet. I never wanted to start these wheels turning, lest I hurt the very people to whom I owed so much. Certainly I was curious all those years, thinking of her on her birthdays, Mothers Day, Fathers Day. But thanks to her 'birth father's' diligence, her safety and well being had been established when she was still a toddler.


Now, she's back, she's reunited with her relatives, she's formed strong bonds with some of them and offended many of them, too. Mostly, us. her birth parents.


She can be polite, but distant. She can be fierce, in a covert way. She may share our DNA, but she shares little else. I've met her children, a true gift from God, and I'm satisfied in knowing everything turned out well for her, for all of us. But the emotions she plays with are in danger of triggering some aftershocks, even after these eleven years. Now, there are even bigger issues.


I love this girl, so does her father, we wish her only the best, as we always have. I don't know how to assuage her anger, though, and I thought that once she had kids of her own, she would understand. She says she has no regrets, but I'm saying she has residue. I hope one day she'll really come back to us, but I guess that would be too much of a miracle.


I'm posting this because I'm tired of walking on eggs, I needed to say this, and I'm safe because, she doesn't even know I blog.


DNA: the gift that keeps on giving.