On Halloween, I turned 75. It seems like an impossible number to me. Most days, I feel great. I stay active, walking the dog, taking care of the house and working on a new freelance writing project for Nemours. We see a lot of our daughters and three grandchildren, and even during this long quarantine, enjoy hanging out in our house. As I've often said, I feel very lucky to be alive and doing well, as many friends and loved ones have not had that chance. The kids surprised me with a very special gift: a brand new computer system, including a small laptop that serves as the CPU (central processing unit) and a 27" monitor. My old system, purchased 15 years ago, was a genuine antique although it was still running just fine. The system came loaded with the newest versions of Microsoft programs, as well. I really appreciated it, as it will help me so much with my freelance work. A real surprise was a visit from my son Pete, who lives in Richmond, VA. We had not seen each other since last Christmas when we all gathered in Nashville for our 50th anniversary celebration. Hannah and Reagan treated us to a memorable dinner at Fearing's in The Ritz-Carlton Dallas. Eight of us, including my 13-year-old grandson Booker, sat at the large square Chef's Table, first ordering cocktails. Reagan ordered barbequed oysters and trays of miniature Tex-Mex specialties. First came a tiny glass of delicious carrot soup with a Parmesan garnish. Then we all chose entrees from a very interesting Southwest-inspired menu. Booker, who was wearing his first suit and was giddy with excitement about being there, ordered a buffalo filet with grits and vegetables, which was a sophisticated choice for someone his age. As we were perusing the dessert menu, the wait staff came in singing Happy Birthday with a special dessert for me and miniature citrusy drinks topped with a meringue ghost for Halloween. Desserts included a pumpkin tart and apple hand pies with a cheddar crisp. Some of the guys ordered port to have with their coffee. Just as we were ready to burst, they brought in small stone tiles with tiny confections, including a chocolate lime one that looked like an eyeball! The next morning, we gathered at a nearby park for a family photo shoot. The photographer took lots of group and individual shots. I can't wait to see the results. Then we headed off to a neighborhood restaurant for a big breakfast. Andy and Pete enjoyed multiple football games in the afternoon and we watched one of our favorite movies, Diner, while enjoying beef stew. On Sunday, we enjoyed a Tex-Mex feast at Hannah's house for our regular family dinner that included tortilla fillings, sauces, guacamole, refritos and queso fundito. I had baked a Mexican chocolate cake, which features ground pecans and chocolate with lots of cinnamon. On Monday, it was back to work and school for most of the family and we drove Pete to DFW to catch his plane home to Virginia, with wishes for another reunion in the near future. Thanks to Alison and Matt, Hannah and Reagan, and Pete for making these plans and keeping them secret! All in all, it was a fabulous way to celebrate my 75th.
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Andy and I thought we had this nailed. Weeks ago, we sent in requests for absentee ballots because we really didn't want to wait in line to vote. In Texas, you can request one if you're over 65 or have a disability. After a few weeks, Andy got his ballot. Mine never arrived. I should mention that he is a registered Republican and I am a Democrat. Hmmm. We thought that even if mine arrived, it might not get processed in time for the election, which is now less than three weeks away. So off we went to the Rowlett Community Center, only to find a very long line snaking around the building. We picked up some lunch and headed home. Toward dinnertime, we returned and found a nice short line. Took our place at the end and waited for about 40 minutes in the 89-degree October heat. I noticed a woman wearing scrubs directly behind us not wearing a mask. I turned and pointed to mine, only to receive the smarmy response of "I'm outside and I'm healthy, so I don't need to wear a mask." OK, then. (She did put one on as she neared the building.) Finally, we got inside and I went up to one of the desks, where a masked poll worker waited behind a Plexiglass screen. She asked for my driver's license and scanned it. Then she asked if I had requested an absentee ballot. Well, yes I had, but it had never arrived. I was sent back to the head of the line to wait for another worker to process me. She provided a green affidavit form for me to complete and sign. Then I received my ballot and headed to the machine to vote. Andy was initially told he couldn't vote, but then they changed their minds and put him through the same process. After voting, I headed for the scanner at the exit to submit my ballot. A friendly volunteer asked if I would like a sticker. Why, yes I would. I jokingly told her that was the main reason I voted--to get a sticker. That and cancelling out my husband's vote. In a matter of days, we will know who won the election. The pundits will analyze the results. The yard signs will come down. Democracy will survive. My hope is that civility, reason and bipartisanship will return to our political discourse. We'll have to wait and see. My mom and dad were very social. They took dance lessons at the Academy of Medicine with friends, bowled on a team for Hope Lutheran Church and often threw dinner parties over the holidays--one for close friends, the other for medical colleagues (my mother said this was so she didn't have to set up and clean twice!). They had scads of friends and enjoyed good times with them at their Clear Lake, IN cottage. One group of friends was very special to my mother. These women (I think there were 8 or 10) were girls she knew from high school and her early married life. One was my Aunt Betty, who was married to her brother Richard. Another was my Aunt Glenna, wife of her brother Bob. Each month, they would gather at someone's house to enjoy food and conversation. The central event of their lives was, of course, World War II. Most of their husbands had gone off to fight, although my dad was saved from that fate because he broke his ankle. They had lived through rationing, gas shortages and life on their own in the absence of their spouses. Aunt Glenna's first husband, Charles, had been killed in the war. She later married my Uncle Bob and they had four children. The two Lake families lived in houses that backed up to each other, with a gate in between. Husband were only included in these gatherings a couple times a year. Once at the holidays and another time at someone's summer cottage. The women (always referred to as The Girls Group no matter their ages) shared milestones: kids growing up, marriages, grandchildren and all that life can bring. In a shocking turn of events, my Aunt Betty (who had sung The Lord's Prayer at our wedding) collapsed and died just after singing in the choir at church. She was only 48. I can only imagine how the group must have mourned her passing. A touching story illustrates the closeness of these friends. My Uncle Richard, now a widower, eventually married one of the group, Carolyn Brumm. When he died very quickly of pancreatic cancer, Carolyn brought his ashes back to Toledo so they could be buried with my Aunt Betty, his first wife and her close friend. As the years went by, some women in the group moved from Toledo to warmer climes and others passed away. My mom kept in touch with Christmas cards and phone calls. One of my greatest regrets is that I didn't take the opportunity to interview each of them on tape for the purpose of writing a book, but being so far away and busy with my own family and job, it just never happened. Now my own friends are scattered across the country and it's sometimes difficult to keep those bonds intact. I envy the closeness (geographic and otherwise) that my mom enjoyed with her Girls Group. I didn't know her well. We worked for the same children's health system, but in different buildings, so Laura and I only saw each other occasionally. When I retired and began doing some freelance writing for Nemours, she was my supervisor, handing out assignments. Even then, we had very little interface. I would complete writing projects and send them back to her We became Facebook friends and I loved reading about her two teenagers, husband in the highway patrol, their dogs and family vacations.
Then in June of last year, she was diagnosed with breast cancer. Laura was upbeat about the whole thing, sure she could beat it. She posted all the details of her treatment to Facebook, needle biopsies, MRIs, X-rays, CT scans and blood tests. Her sometimes crazy sense of humor was on full display as she wrote about getting fitted for a radiation mask, being in unrelenting pain, losing her hair and coping with the unpleasant symptoms of treatment. A wonderfully gifted writer, she was not shy about posting her opinions about the state of politics in our country. She urged all of us to create lasting memories with our families--to go places and do things together. Eventually, the news got much worse. She and her family jammed in as many vacations and trips to the beach as possible when she was feeling up to it. She kept working for a while, but soon had to leave her job of 17 years. A meal train was set up for her family while Laura was in and out of the hospital, getting more and more treatments in an effort to stop the spread of her cancer. Then she was in a wheelchair, using oxygen and sleeping in a hospital bed at home. Although I knew the end would come soon, I nearly jumped out of my chair in shock when I read a Facebook message from her sister that Laura had died. I've wondered why I would become unglued about the illness and death of someone I didn't know very well. Perhaps it was the memory of my brother Pete's death from pancreatic cancer eight years ago. Maybe it was the utter unfairness of taking a beautiful hard-working mom in her mid-forties away from her husband and children just when they needed her most. I was at my daughter's house for our weekly family dinner when I saw the message and when I looked at Alison and Hannah and realized they are the same age as Laura. A chill went through me, knowing that this could happen to anyone. I think the isolation and uncertainty of the pandemic has us all on edge, not to mention the recent upheaval around the death of Ruth Bader Ginsburg, the upcoming presidential election and what it could mean for the future of our country. I'll repeat Laura's message here. Get out and live life (as much as possible these days). Keep your sense of humor no matter what. Enjoy all the times with your family and friends that you can. Vote like your life depends on it. Back in March, I was looking for things to keep me occupied during quarantine. I've always loved puzzles, so I went to Amazon and there was nothing available but kitty-cats with balls of yarn, dogs of many breeds and cutesy cartoon images. Looking for something a bit more stimulating, I visited the website of the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York and made two purchases: a 500-piece puzzle with tiny images of many famous paintings and a 1,000-piece Monet's Bridge Over Waterlilies number. I commandeered the end of the kitchen table, stole a lamp from the bedroom to provide illumination for the task at hand and began to laboriously flip over the 1,000 pieces, a task which took me most of an afternoon. I quickly discovered that other than the bridge and the waterlilies below it, everything was green. Good grief, what have I done. First, I separated the pieces with one flat edge to form the border. This took forever, but I finally managed to get it completed, all except for 3-4 pieces I couldn't find. I looked on the floor, in the box and they were nowhere. The next day, I looked at the puzzle and the border was complete. I suspect my husband, who is prone to trickery and deceit, may have held them out to gaslight me and finished the frame while I was out, but I have no proof. Then I started in on the bridge. There are three rails curving over the pond and it was challenging to figure out which piece went with which rail. I finally completed most of it and attached it to both side of the frame. I had sorted out the waterlily pieces and began to assemble them in long strands, not knowing which direction was up or down or how they might connect to the frame or to each other. Months went by. The best I could do was to put in about 5-6 pieces at a time without going blind. You see, the pieces of this darned thing were quite irregular in size and shape. I'd estimate it took me at least 15 minutes to identify each piece, examining everything spread out around the frame to find a matching color and shape. With the green pieces, and I'm talking hundreds of shade of that color, it was mostly shape. By this time, I had an epic case of buyer's remorse and considered dumping the whole thing back in the box, but as they say, "she persisted." Six months later, the puzzle is only about two-thirds complete. I've ramped up productivity and am now putting in more pieces at a time, since there are fewer to evaluate. I estimate that it may be Halloween before I can declare victory over this monster. It has given me a new appreciation for Claude Monet, as I can see the thousands of brushstrokes and various colors it took to produce this masterpiece, one of about 250 he painted of waterlilies. Next time around, it may just be a cute brown dachshund puppy playing with a ball, something I could complete in less time than it takes to have a baby. I miss good manners. I'm sure if I revealed my feelings on this subject to anyone under the age of 30, they would laugh out loud. As a teenager, I used to pore over my mom's Emily Post Etiquette Book to learn what was expected in social situations. I remember going to dancing classes at the high school. In addition to learning the fox trot and waltz, we were expected to observe the social niceties of dressing up, shaking hands and being polite. When I was in college, the food service started the tradition of a steak and lobster dinner once a month. In order to be admitted to this Saturday event, both men and women had to dress like they were going to church. The resulting atmosphere was amazingly civilized.
When I got married, my mother was all over me about proper manners. On the way to a bridal shower at the home of one of her friends, she admonished me to "act like a bride." I think she meant squealing in delight over each gift, which was not exactly my style, but I did my best. Thank-you notes for these gifts were to be in the mail within a few days. Same for wedding presents. When we returned from our honeymoon, there was intense pressure from her to get those notes out even though I was teaching full-time and there were about 200 to write. Flying seems to reveal the worst of manners. People are just plain rude, jockeying to get their ridiculously stuffed bags in the overhead compartment. You see passengers in flip- flops, sleeveless T-shirts and ripped jeans. Parents let their kids kick the seat in front of them and generally act obnoxious. When I worked in the development office of a large children's health system in Delaware, we put on an annual gala, including a sit-down dinner, for 700 people. It was a huge amount of work for our staff. We found that people fell into one of these categories: 1. They were attending. 2. Not attending but showed up anyway. 3. They said they were coming but didn't. It usually balanced out, but caused a lot of angst and running around for the person responsible for seating. Most women came in beautiful long gowns, but there were always a few who attracted attention with a dress that was way too revealing or shouldn't have been worn by them in the first place. I have only a couple of friends who send written thank-you notes or letters. Now these communications are often phone calls, texts or emails. Something has gotten lost in our digital world. One quality I admired in the elder George Bush was that he hand-wrote dozens of personal notes each day. Call me old-fashioned, but I'm finding that my mother was right about manners and their importance in a civilized world. So there. In a rare visit to the library, a book caught my eye. Elderhood was written by Louise Aronson, MD, a geriatric specialist from San Francisco who is in her fifties. She quotes many historical references about what age was considered old centuries ago. Of course, people did not live as long when medical treatments were few and nutrition not as good. Although people begin to age much sooner in life, Dr. Aronson categorizes the beginning of "old" at around sixty. In the United States, we are eligible for Medicare and Social Security benefits at 65 or so. Many people retire at that age.
I worked until I was 69 years old, and was planning to work another year in the development office of a children's health system in Delaware. At the urging of my daughters however, I decided to retire so we could move to Texas and help care for our new grandson. We lived with Hannah and her family for more than a year and then bought a nearby one-story house so we didn't have to cope with stairs. It is my fervent hope that we can stay here for a long time. On Halloween this year, I will turn 75. Thing is, I don't really feel that old. Surgery corrected some serious problems with my lumbar spine and I have much more stamina than before. I take care of laundry, cooking and other household tasks with little effort. My dachshund Toby and I walk a couple times each day and I've just started riding a few miles on a recumbent bike to get my heart rate up and my legs pumping. We take care of our grandchildren on a regular basis, especially Noah, an energetic six-year-old, and are the family Uber and errand doers when needed. However, I am well aware that my health, or that of my husband Andy, could change in an instant. A bad fall, stroke or heart attack could quickly change the trajectory of our lives. But I try not to think about that too much. Dr. Aronson's book points out that most people in their sixties, seventies and eighties actually find this time of life fulfilling and satisfying. By this time of life, you have accumulated knowledge, expertise and wisdom and have the joy of sharing these experiences with others. For me, that feels true. I've had a long, happy marriage, raised three great kids, had a wonderful career in health care fundraising, and are now enjoying being close to our daughters and grandchildren. I still love writing and occasionally get some freelance work from my former employer and the designer I worked with for years. Our health is pretty decent and we enjoy, as a friend of mine would say, just "being." When you get into your seventies, you no longer have the stress of raising kids and/or a demanding job. You can sleep late and take a nap if needed. I love having the time to read, write, do puzzles and play games on my phone. Recently, I completed a project which was great fun: assembling the biographies of my high school classmates. I was fascinated to see what others had done with their lives. Of our class of 96 people, 21 had passed away. About half of the surviving members, all now age 75 or so, participated. This group included doctors, lawyers, writers, veterans, authors, entrepreneurs, business people, educators, real estate agents and pilots. A few were still working full-time. At 75, you do have aches and pains, especially when you get out of bed in the morning. You may be coping with illnesses such as heart disease, cancer, diabetes or orthopedic problems (like me). But life is definitely still worth living, especially if you have the joy of grandchildren and time to pursue what you love, whether that is work or a hobby. Too many of my loved ones and colleagues will never get that chance. So as I move into what Dr. Aronson describes as the "old-old" period of life, I'm still a happy person, grateful for each day on the planet. Yes, we're still staying put, avoiding everything but some appointments in the last couple weeks. I've kind of gotten used to it, but like everyone, I'm wondering when this will ever end.
I'll begin by saying how lucky I am. There, I've blown the ending, but I wanted to share my story and hope you take something from it.
A couple months ago, I was astonished to see a bright pink spot on my chest, just left of the sternum. I called my dermatologist, but waited several anxious weeks for an appointment. The spot began to change, darkening a little and developing a somewhat irregular border. When I finally saw the doctor, she took one look at the worrisome spot and said, "That's nothing. It will fade. No worries." Sigh of relief. Then she did an all-over skin check and found two spots that looked suspicious, most likely a couple of basal cell carcinomas, the least risky of skin cancers. So she injected a bit of local anesthetic and took a tiny sample of the one on my temple. The one on the back of my neck, she "scraped and burned" after putting in the anesthetic. Relieved, I went on with my day. About four years ago, the same dermatologist biopsied several spots on my face and referred me to a skin cancer surgeon. In his office, he removed four basal cell carcinomas, two near my nose, one in the corner of my eye and another in my scalp, so I wasn't too concerned. Until I received a call from the dermatologist the following Monday. She sounded more than a little rattled when informing me that the spot on my temple was a melanoma, a potentially deadly skin cancer. This spot did not look like any pictures of melanomas I had seen. It was round (smaller than a pea), flat, pale pink and had even borders. In fact, the doctor had photographed it the first time I saw her and said she would keep an eye on it. So off I went to the skin cancer surgeon. He did a much larger biopsy sample and sent it off to the lab to confirm her diagnosis. The surgeon shared the pathology finding with the Baylor tumor conference (large group of doctors) to get more direction about how to proceed. One possibility was to get a sentinel node biopsy, so they could see if there was any spread. The tumor conference agreed that this was not necessary, that it was a Stage 0 in situ (Latin for "in place") melanoma. Another piece of good news. I still faced removal of the margins around the larger biopsy, a two-day "slow Mohs" procedure. After his assistant pin-pricked me about a dozen times with anesthesia (ouch), the surgeon removed a disk of tissue somewhere between a the size of nickel and a quarter and applied a pressure bandage. The tissue was sent to a lab to be dehydrated and examined for any remaining cancer cells. Everything was clear. Yay. Next step was closing the wound. The surgeon incised a triangle above and below the wound, so it could be neatly closed with many tiny stitches to ensure a good cosmetic result. Another pressure bandage and home I went. Now I look like I lost a fight. My eye is swollen half-closed and I'm pretty sure I'll end up with a black eye, but I'm assured the scar will heal beautifully. As a kid (before sunblocks), I had many painful, blistering sunburns. I remember wearing one of my brother's undershirts to swim in, but that did not protect my face. So here's the drill, folks. Wear sunscreen and stay out of the sun when possible. Get a yearly skin check from a dermatologist and report anything suspicious to the doctor. Melanoma killed nearly 10,000 Americans in 2016, so it's nothing to fool around with. Take it from me. |
AuthorI'm Chris Barabasz, retired from a 35-year career managing communications for health care development (that's fundraising for you civilians). I'm a wife, mother, grandmother and freelance writer. My husband Andy and I moved from Delaware to Texas to be closer to our daughters and three adorable grandchildren. Archives
January 2024
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