“Number seven… Lucky 7,” I muse and smile. “Seven, Seven, Seven,” I whisper to myself as a row of 7s skid to a jackpot stop on the slot machine in my mind’s eye. I open the metal door and move in –clogs, stethoscope, pens, scrubs– the accoutrements of life in health care. Locker Seven initiates the part-time journey I’ve now attained and coveted for years: the promise of better work-life balance for my sanity and for that of my family.
There’s been a cosmic shift at our house.
Trickster March tiptoed in like a lamb with her seductively warm temperatures, nesting birds, and uncharacteristic gluts of sunshine. Yet like a good date gone bad, the she-beast abruptly reared her lioness head with snow, gray skies, and accompanying sour moods. Such is the course of nature in these parts. It’s no wonder that, compared to other locales, March in the North boasts the pinnacle of poor mental health.
Lions, Lambs, and Axes Read More »
I knew this day was coming. It inevitably does. Overall, parenthood has been a great ride. Yet now we are all in transition. And some days it’s just plain hard to navigate.
The pilot light’s whiff of natural gas readies twin caverns in the behemoth 1940s Chambers Range. High octane coffee in avocado green melamine cups jump starts the holiday baking marathon for a well-seasoned 10-year-old and her favorite grandmother. It’s the early 70’s and caffeinated coffee (yes, even for the younger set) is the elixir of inspiration as pans clang and beaters whirl. Como, Crosby, Martin, and Sinatra croon while the official Blue Bowl of Goodness makes its way to the counter.
“Please – let me know, somehow, that you’re OK up there?” I ask my mother earnestly on what seems her death bed. Holding her arthritic, frail hand, I continue. “You know, come visit me sometime as a little bird or something. I just need to know you’re OK up there.” She slowly nods, staring straight ahead while I glance out the adjacent window in time to see two large buzzards roost on a light pole in the hospital parking lot.
From where I sit, a sea of amber, red, and gold reminds me that change can indeed be beautiful. Autumn is upon us in full swing.
My face burned fiery red as I left my patient’s room into earshot of the charge nurse’s bellowing rage, her index finger stabbing in my direction. It had been a busy night and with final patient care tasks complete, this exhausted newbie headed to the nurse’s station to report off on my patients.
My face burned fiery red as I left my patient’s room into earshot of the charge nurse’s bellowing rage, her index finger stabbing in my direction. It had been a busy night and with final patient care tasks complete, this exhausted newbie headed to the nurse’s station to report off on my patients.
“I’m in!” my daughter exclaims as I broach the idea of a road trip south. She’s on break, not starting grad school until late summer, and I have a week off work. With her twin sister sucked into a new job and the hubster out of town for work, we take the serendipitous bull by the horns to get out of Dodge (IN a Dodge)…
Transition Trippin’ Read More »
I have rarely sipped the spring-cleaning Kool-Aid, but this year I had a sudden, irrepressible urge. One of my triggers was an old file cabinet. Placed in our garage “a few years ago” to make room somewhere else in the house for heaven knows what, this piece of office furniture has continually hindered entry and exit into the passenger side of my vehicle. So, as winter waned and my annoyance bloomed, I deemed it necessary to (finally) address the cabinet’s contents and either donate or relocate said steel monstrosity.
“We want to be in YOUR family!” hotel staff would buoyantly exclaim in response to my kin’s general tomfoolery and raucous laughter. Affectionately dubbed “the prisoner transfer,” we siblings would convene semiannually in random Interstate 57 motels to pass the aging-parent baton allowing both ourselves and parents a change of scenery and posse of caregivers. Our planned weekend overnights to share the load would occur somewhere between our cities and include a rollicking catching up, routine medical updates, and typical slapstick fodder of our collective DNA.
A recent reader essay in Victoria magazine got me thinking. It was a loving tribute to a set of bone china, recently passed to –and eagerly accepted by– a younger generation. My own cupboards reveal that I am the lucky (though some would label me unlucky) recipient of three sets of ancestral dishware, each with its own pattern and ethereal dialogue of its forebears encompassing joy, hardship, and most notably, perseverance.
And THAT’S why we should have a dog, Dad,” our ten-year-old daughter asserted with conviction and cool confidence, closing her power point presentation …
The Angle of an Angel Read More »
My fingers gently grasp the 37-year-old sheet of onionskin paper. On it are the sentiments of a woman whose life was cut short, whose voice I sadly did not have time to commit to memory. Rarely does a mistake surface on these delicate pages — a testament to her pre-word processor typing skills.
As a nurse, I have had to clean more than my fair share of other people’s dentures. As my parents aged, theirs were also added to the duty queue. Let me be honest and say I abhor this task, even when performing it for loved ones.
As the saying goes, “Getting old is not for sissies.” And the truth is… I am aging just like the rest of us. Indeed, the sands of time seem to be racing faster through the tiny waist of that blasted hourglass.
Staring Down Father Time Read More »
“It’s a curse being a woman,” I thought as I opened a few recent invites to fall nuptials. Out of it erupted my vortex of analysis paralysis to find the right frock. I thought my closet had been streamlined to wardrobe perfection. Like Goldilocks, I wanted a dress that was just right. But three cranky bears showed up instead: my disposition, my family, and the Citibank bill …
“Tomato and cheese omelet and large coffee to go, please,” I tell the cashier in the coffee shop. I sidestep other patrons and take my place in the wait queue. It’s 2AM and the hospital’s only food station for us night owls is soon to close.
A huge fan of perennials, I prefer to plant something once — usually too late in the season — and rely on Mother Nature to do the rest. This allows me to spend winter fretting over its fate. Even if sparse, the magic of freshly green shoots year after year bolsters my shaky sense of horticultural success. The only annuals I entertain are those that quickly erupt into florid color, and the irony of a favorite – impatiens – is not lost on me.
My daughter, a burgeoning nursing student, recently asked me, “If you had to do it over again, would you still be a nurse?” I thought for a moment and responded affirmatively, that it was, quite simply, what I felt I was meant to do. A nod of satisfaction was her relieved response that she too had made the right vocational choice …
On Becoming A Nurse Read More »
I recently finished my first half-marathon, a 13.1-mile trial of discipline and perseverance. Unlike my past rollercoaster rides of inactivity followed by bursts of overachieving, this was a respectable, incremental effort of kinder steps followed by an event completed without needing four day’s rest. I will, however, admit to experiencing a migraine requiring meds and a nap later the same afternoon. And, yes, according to the data from my fitness tracker, I still overachieved, but far less than the usual gross negligence of my physical wellbeing. I still have work to do. Fitness is a process and the discipline required to stay fit never ends. So, how do I persevere? Baby steps.
Our eyes adjust to the dim light. Faint rays of late afternoon sun illuminate suspended dust particles in the cavernous warehouse. The musty scent of bygone eras greets us and tickles our nasal passages. A few sneezes later, our expedition begins: Dad and I are in search of an old stained-glass window – my college graduation gift …
Considered “too fancy” by some, this perennial space is where I prefer to start and end my day. An abundance of ancestral artifacts and trappings of ladyhood render the atmosphere calming and restorative. Most importantly, I hear the whispers of women in my past. I feel their presence here, young and old, shimmering individually and collectively with the changing light of each day.
Lifeless flesh undulates to the rhythm of external chest compressions. A crowd of providers streams in from a variety of departments as invasive lines are placed, medication timing recited, and respiration commandeered by a surrogate. Several minutes of continued effort offer little reward…
Another dose of caffeine seeps into my bloodstream while my teenage chauffeur drives. Heading home from a two-week, five-state college tour blitz with my twin daughters, I feel the road weariness, the bloat from vacation dining, and the weight of parental concern for two young ladies leaving the nest …
A Slightly Skewed College Road Trip Guide Read More »
“Are you EVEN kidding me?!,” I annoyingly ask out loud to the flat round screen on my wrist. Having just completed a two-hour sweat fest, I feel as though my efforts have gone somewhat unnoticed by this feisty fitness “friend.” Based on the data she has collected, her smug determination that I have merely maintained my fitness, and not improved it, tweaks my ire. Rolling my eyes, I cave to her assessment, vowing to train a tad smarter with the next workout …
With reverence for this weekend that remembers so many lost, each pilgrimage to this part of America’s heartland starts with this foremost habit of paying our respects and reconnecting the dots of our past …
We stand vigil around Mom’s hospital bed sporting matching yellow isolation gowns and masks. Our humorous spectacle as a banana bunch offers the dichotomy of levity and the gravity of life’s potential end. As family of humor seekers, laughter, as well as respect, has been part and parcel of our DNA through all our earthly trials, even death.
My husband and I celebrated our fully vaccinated status in grand style with another vaccinated couple: one of the first dinners outside the confines of our home since the start of the pandemic. To begin the festivities, our hosts proposed a toast to this milestone that would be best enjoyed “on the boat.”
As I honor the women in my history this month, my paternal Grandmother Ruthie’s spirit remains especially strong. She lived just down the driveway from us in a small house that was the safe haven my brothers would “run away to,” toting suitcases and trusted stuffed animals, when parental rules were too stifling.
Ruthie’s Mac & Beef Read More »
My mother guides us to our airport gate, my 5-year old hand warm and safe in her firm grasp. Hallways and doorways appear as an endless, towering maze to my low-to-the-ground wide eyes. I marvel at how Mom knows where to go. Affable smiles from passers-by are reciprocated with Mom’s knowing winks.
The one-eyed giraffe winks at me; not because he wants to, but out of necessity. He lost one of his small felt eyes somewhere along the past 52 years of loving use and storage. For whatever reason, I had chosen this souvenir from a family trip to the battlefields of Gettysburg, Pennsylvania – a far cry from a giraffe’s natural habitat – back in the late 1960s …
Giraffe and The Gettysburg Photo Read More »
Regardless of where I have hung my hat, the sight of blooming forsythia warms my heart every spring. Roots in rural Pennsylvania germinated my love of the perfume of rich, pregnant earth coupled with the eye candy of sunny yellow flowers brave enough to promise warmer days …
A toddler grins precociously from the faded sepia-tone shore along with her doting older siblings in period swimming costumes. The Atlantic City Boardwalk of the Roaring Twenties springs to life from these otherwise still shots. Carefree smiles captured for perpetuity coax me to join them in the sand.
The dazzling sunset plays along the crystal facets of the lovely wine goblet in my hand. I raise a toast to the warm spring day and to the goblet’s prior owner. My friend Nita, whose spirit glowed as colorful as the evening before me, lives on in my heart.
“Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life? – Mary Oliver
Sandpipers scurry in their zig-zag pattern to find snacks, following the ebb and flow of the surf. Despite their urgency, their behavior is strangely calming to me …
The Solace of Surf Read More »
Backpacks and shoes scatter as the back door is shoved open by the weight of the day, my work-weary frame pulled by agitated kindergarten twins in a hangry plea for sustenance. Amid the cacophony of snack requests, clanging pots and pans, and diatribe of school day doings, I ponder the most efficient way to sling dinner toward the table. At already six-thirty in the evening, there is no relaxation in sight…
All is quiet aside from the hum of rubber on pavement, our pensive focus on the fall colors whizzing by as we drive. While the change of scenery is welcome, this is not a dreamy sojourn. It is October. We are headed to Florida to see my elderly father-in-law, and timing is critical. Long- term care facilities recently reopened to visitors, and my husband and I have enough time off work to travel as well as quarantine. We feel this trip is now or never, and we await our bittersweet reunion.
A Quest For Connection Read More »
I have written on my penchant for perfectionism and I desired the perfect family. I had a wonderful husband, a wonderful career, and I wanted a wonderful family. It wasn’t happening.
The Perfect Family Read More »
Spring gradually unfolds outside my car window as the road and the miles gently whiz on by. I watch my private, time-lapsed arrival of the new season as we head further and further south. Dogwood and redbud blossoms float gently amid the soft brown haze of branches pregnant with buds. While viewing the scenery, I also lovingly polish the silver charms on my mother’s charm bracelet – a last minute inclusion to my trip wardrobe.
This essay was originally composed in May 2015 after the burial of my parents, long before the pandemic with its associated gathering size limits and travel bans. I hesitated to post something so deep during a time of already intense struggle, but writing has always been my creative outlet to productively process my spinning head.
My mother watches me as I dab tinted moisturizer on her face. The full face makeup of younger years has been replaced by cosmetic minimalism. Strong lipcolor has been tossed aside, a lightly tinted gloss in its place. Her salt and pepper hair color is now her preferred shade. Watching my mother’s transformation from youth to midlife and beyond has been, and will likely continue to be my blueprint without even realizing it. We strive to NOT be our mothers for a variety of reasons as we age. But the inevitable is, well, inevitable. The face in the mirror is mine.
On Becoming My Mother Read More »