When Grief Leads to Introspection

I hadn't expected to post two essays on grief back to back, if ever; however, events from the last two weeks overtook my planning. This post had to come out now.

Backstory: I've known Art Elias, one of my dearest friends,for 35 years. We met in business, travelled to Japan together on business, shared a wedding anniversary when we both remarried, made move than 23 anniversary trips together, bitched at each other because of his unique stroke-counts in golf. He's a survivor: Pacific Theater in the Navy in WWII, bladder cancer, COPD, emphysema, bad golf (me), Kentucky basketball (his wife Betty), Alabama football (him). And I survived his mentoring.

Two weeks ago, he wasn't feeling well: chest pains. A trip to the cardiologist led to three options: meds, heart catherization to see what was going on inside, and open heart surgery. The cardiologist said those were the "standard" options. My friend had one: meds. His body wouldn't have survived surgery.

Last Sunday he felt worse. Betty called 911 and off they went to the hospital. ER and ICU docs said he needed more oxygen and a chest x-ray. Bad news from the x-ray: pneumonia in one lung. No wonder he was having trouble breathing. Going into congestive heart failure, but that could be treated. What couldn't be treated was a fairly massive heart attack. It was as if he looked at his watch and said, "Time to go." He went.

The funeral was this week. His wife of 28 years attended to the business of dying without a plan. All Art had done was write his obit. Nothing else, because he was superstitious about death. He refused to talk about it. Plans made, friends coming in from all over the country, and no rabbi to say any prayers. Art didn't believe in organized religion, but he was very proud of his Jewish heritage.

Over the years of fighting and winning against bladder cancer, Art and Betty came to meet a group of cloistered Carmelite nuns. Picture this: a New York Jew married to a Southern Baptist lady asking the Carmelites to pray for his recovery. They did. He did. He sent checks after every check up with the box score: Carmelites 1, cancer zero. They didn't have time to pray for his heart, but one of the order showed her heart by attending both the visitation and the memorial and reading a poem she wrote about their friendship. Not a dry eye in the house, including hers. No rabbi could be bothered, since he hadn't paid to be a member of a temple. The Carmelites knew the need. 'Nuff said.

After the business of visitation and burial were over, and we were stuffed with food at the wake, we returned to the house. And that's where we bumped into little traps all over the place. His laundry in the bin. Friends washed it. Pill bottles everywhere. I took them home for proper disposal through the pharmacy. Bags of munchies. Given to neighbors. Smoked salmon. Eaten for breakfast. Little things that reminded all of us of the person who was no longer there physically.

I drove the 500 miles home yesterday. I had nine hours to put my brain on autopilot, but my brain wasn't interested in being on autopilot. It was interested in thinking about what is (and isn't) important in life.

What's important: Friends and family. Not much else. Showing them how you feel. Helping others. Being there when needed. Having your affairs in order so that your family doesn't have to make decisions when it should be grieving.

What's not important: Acquiring stuff. Chasing the once-mighty dollar. Being captive to a job, if you can afford not to be captive. Sweating the small stuff. Keeping grudges. Anger.

And my conclusion: time to make the changes in life I've wanted to make for a decade. More on the changes as I make them. Fear not, I will make them sooner rather than later.

Political Musings

I've been piling these up for a few days. Today, they had to burst forth.

1. Government Accountability Office finds duplicate programs. A rider to a bill passed last year requires the GAO to do an annual audit. The first one was released yesterday and found massive duplication of efforts among different government departments. For example, 15 different agencies oversee food-safety laws, more than 20 separate programs help the homeless and 80 programs provide for economic development. Do you think if we removed some of the bloat from the Federal government, we might be able to pay down the debt? I wish the voting public would stand on its hind legs and howl about this waste. I know my tax dollars would go further if we didn't have 80 programs for economic development. Maybe this is something the tea partiers should get behind. More money, small government. Seems like it would fit into that group's stated goals.

2. Sitting in at the Wisconsin state house. Shades of the '60s when concerned citizens blocked access to government buildings to get their points of view across to their elected officials. This is democracy at work. Peaceful protests of serious issues, no National Guard called out (yet) to remove people, and a group of elected officials hiding in an adjacent state. A different kind of March Madness continues. Let it be a lesson to the countries looking for democracy. Democracy's messy and not always quick, but it's a better form of government than revolution.

3. And speaking of revolution, what about the madman in Libya? Gadhafi says his people love him and will fight to their last bullet. Maybe, but he reminds me of the Iraqi who was standing in front of television cameras telling his people that Iraq had not fallen. And the tanks were rumbling down the highway behind him. Regardless of what we think aobut Gadhafi, his people don't deserve what he's doing to them. Unfortunately, after the fall may come a void into which who knows what will pour. We can only hope that calmer and wiser heads will prevail when Gadhafi falls. And he will fall. He can't continue slaughtering his own people without them getting sick and tired of it. And then, his promise to die on Libyan soil could come true.

Enough ranting.

Better Living Through Chemistry

My husband Terry can tell you I'm beyond stubborn when it comes to admitting I get sick. I coughed and snorted through a week of unpleasantness before I caved in. I kee\pt telling him that I know when I need to seek help, because I know my body better than any doctor ever will. I live in it, after all.

I gave up on Sunday. After two nights of sleeping in fifteen-minute increments, and not being able to walk across a room without holding on and stopping for breath and spiking a fever, it was time to seek DRUGS. After all, Terry said, if Big Pharma didn't want us to live better through chemistry, they wouldn't make the drugs.

Since I couldn't talk without going into a coughing jag that left lungs on the floor, Terry called our family doctor. When the receptionist stopped laughing, she said they were down two doctors on Monday and had reached overflow capacity in the waiting room. All patients were being shunted to the emergency room or to doc-in-the-box.

We chose the local doc-in-the-box. Terry drove, since I have so little lung capacity that driving was out of the question. We drove into an empty parking lot. IN FLU SEASON? Based on the hours painted on the door, you can only need urgent medical help between one and eight pm. Back home to sit upright and cough. We returned at 1:10 and were fourth in line. When we left at 4 pm, the waiting room was full and sounded like an outpatient clinic in a tuberculosis ward.

The doc popped out of his box, poked and prodded, asked me to cough (BIG mistake), looked at my electronic health record (all of my doctors are part of a single medical system, so he could pull up EVERYTHING). Then came the diagnoses. Plural.

"You have cute sinisitis." I've never heard of cute sinuses. Then he said, "You have cute bronchitis." Kinda thick accent. Took me a couple of coughs to realize he meant Acute, not cute. And contagious as hell.

Doc-in-the-box believes in throwing the kitchen sink at what's "going around." I left with four prescriptions, two over-the-counter recommendations, and instructions to rest and eat lots of chicken soup. It's good for the soul, he said. I understood got that. Even read the book years ago.

One good thing about not being able to sleep: I got a lot of reading done!

And, because my writing group meets in a retirement community, I'll skip Thursday's meeting. I do NOT infect people when I can avoid it.

Mass Die Offs

We've seen several mass die offs in the news this year. Birds falling out of the sky in Arkansas. Fish popping to the surface of a river, dead. Stink bugs murdered in my house, but the mass die off that flew below the radar screen happened in my chest of drawers.

Over the past two months, undies and socks conspired to expire. One by one, not a pair, but one of two pairs, then two of three pairs, then three of four pairs, etc. Socks with no mates live in isolation, never to be worn again, because there are no matching orphans.

Undies are a different matter. Bought at widely different times, as many as half a dozen developed rips, holes or tears within a couple of weeks. What's with this? Why did so many give up the elastic at the same time?

I personally think it is a conspiracy designed to get women to go to their favorite shop and buy more socks and underwear. Thank goodness I had the forethought to ask for socks for Christmas and my birthday. One can never have too many pairs of socks. As for the underwear, I didn't think I needed any, so no letters to Santa for new "mentionables."

How weird is it that the mass die off didn't extend to my husband's chest of drawers? Yup. It's a conspiracy.