Tag: Uplifting

Assessment and the Amanas

I was still assessing and evaluating last week’s performances while driving between routine medical appointments Wednesday morning, the latter being in Hiawatha IA on the north end of Cedar Rapids. As expected, I had the initial letdown through last weekend. But the funk lingered into this week.

I was pleased with my performance on Friday of last week. I played as well as I hoped. Not completely error-free, but with only minor hand coordination mistakes that I doubt were noticed by the audience. I did, in fact, remember all the words. Everyone stayed for the entire performance, allaying my second deepest fear that people would just get up and walk out. “And the first?”, you ask, was that I would get lost mid-song and freeze up. How embarrassing!

But I was less than satisfied with people’s response to the songs. One person’s comment was that old people don’t want to hear sad songs. I thought I had left those out of the playlist! Another clearly disliked what is probably my most popular song, Bad Habit Creatures. But I suspect it was a political dislike. Most who attended liked it over the other songs.

Returning home that afternoon, I felt numb. Part of it was having worked so hard in preparation, just to have it over in less than one hour. But it also felt empty. Of course, I had achieved what I set out to do, play in public, having an opportunity to share my stories through song.

What I realized over the next few days was that I didn’t enjoy it. I didn’t enjoy having to pare down my playlist and manipulate it to fit what I thought was the audience I was playing to. I didn’t enjoy practicing only specific songs in hopes of playing ‘well enough’ for that particular crowd. I didn’t enjoy worrying about whether my music would be accepted or appreciated.

By Wednesday, the conclusion I came to was that, though I accomplished this project that I set out to do, I was not being true to my original goal and commitment of just playing what I want, when I want, where I want. What I want is to be able to just play. Play the songs I want as my mood dictates. Like it or don’t. That I can handle.

Still, I was unsettled as I sat in the parking lot in Hiawatha trying to figure out what to do next on this Wednesday afternoon. I had no reason to rush home. I decided to make the trek to The Amana Colonies about 20 miles SW of where I sat. I had read an article in Only In Iowa just that morning about a hotel in Homestead, the only Amana Colony without the word Amana in its name. I thought it might make for a little get-away sometime where I could stay as a base for branching out to tour all of the colonies. I’d been through them, but only briefly in most.

My second motive for going was to pick up some wonderful smoked salami’s at the Amana Meat Shop and Smokehouse. That place is so much fun for a guy like me. So many meat, cheese, and kitchen gadget choices. Plenty of other tasty morsels as well. As usual, I came out with more than I went in for.

Having increased my groceries and decreased my bank account, I sat in the car again, planning to head for Homestead, just a few miles away. But it’s almost past lunch time. Surely there are places to eat in Amana. Then I remembered that Millstream Brewing Company, the first craft beer establishment in Iowa, had added a brew pub, “Millstream Brau Hous.” Since I’d never been there, I decided to go.

Somewhat typical in style, but with the cultural design on the exterior as well as the interior, I was greeted and ushered to a window-side table. Sitting down, my eyes immediately fixed on a blonde Ibanez guitar hanging on the wall on the other side of the room near the bar. There were few people in the room. I asked if someone played it. It belongs to the owner and is there for anyone to play.

That was all it took. I quickly ordered my burger, fries, and Widow Maker hazy IPA, and headed for the guitar. Nice tone. New strings. Sounds good. I planted myself on a bar stool facing the bar, and began to play. It came easy. It sounded good. I was having fun. I barely noticed that my food had arrived across the room.

However, the beer was not at the table. I finally went to the bar to ask for it. The server apologized, saying he was distracted, enjoying the music, and forgot. I took that as a compliment.

After enjoying the food and quaff, I went straight back to the Ibanez. I noticed the bar tender tapping his hand on his thigh as I played an instrumental riff that I enjoy. Turns out he is also a musician.

Returning to the table to pay the tab, the two ladies at the table next to me expressed their appreciation of my playing. That’s the effect I am going for.

My assessment complete. My analysis spot on. I never wanted to be a performer, though I like to play for people, hoping they enjoy and get something out of the listening. I just want to play my songs whenever and wherever I can. Be it in the garage, in parks, in brew pubs or coffee houses. I’m not in it for the gigs. Now I remember the vision and the commitment. I hope to be true to it.

On to Homestead Iowa. Home town to Ashton Kutcher. Homestead is literally a one street town with its homes and businesses lining it. Stop signs only at the two ends of the half-mile long road. I found the hotel about 3/4 of the way through town. It had a for sale sign on it. So much for that cozy getaway.

Just drive on home. Play my guitar. It’s a good day. I’m back on track.

PPA:

It’s a TLI
PA: It’s also a TLI, or a TLA

I used to do this in the classroom. There were so many abbreviations. In my jargon, a TLA is a three-letter acronym – and also a two-letter acronym. But I know that actually, PPA is not a three-letter acronym. It’s a three-letter initialism.

Acronym

a word (such as NATO, radar, or laser) formed from the initial letter or letters of each of the successive parts or major parts of a compound term

Merriam Webster Dictionary

Initialism

an abbreviation formed from initial letters

Merriam Webster Dictionary

“Okay”, you might say, “Wut’s this all really about?” Well, I thought I might be coining a new acronym/initialism, but once again, Google search saved me from embarrassment.

PPA is an initialism for Pre-Performance Anxiety. According to WebMD, pre-performance anxiety is stress and anxiety about performing in front of people and causes performance anxiety. PA can be considered either an initialism or an acronym since its letters also form a colloquialism for father. Performance Anxiety is also known as stage fright.

Now do you see where I’m headed with this? I now have two performances scheduled for next week. On Thursday I will participate in an open mic at Sidekick Coffee & Books in Iowa City. I recently added this venue after previously committing to the 55+ Connections Lunch at the North Liberty Recreation Center.

I’ve known about the 55+ gig for some time and have been practicing a set of songs that I hope will engage and somehow positively affect the lives of those who attend. Now that the time is near at hand, I find myself second guessing. Are my music and lyrics really “good” enough for public consumption? Is my presentation polished enough to expose myself to scrutiny? Will my aging, stiff fingers work!!!? On the up side, I do think I’ll remember the words.

I am not self-absorbed enough to think I am the only person who experiences performance anxiety (stage fright). I immediately think of my 13-year-old granddaughter who landed a major part in a community theater musical that opens next Friday, the same day as my 55+ performance. Break a leg, E! And there are others in my immediate sphere who have upcoming meetings and interviews who may deal with similar anxieties.

I found an interesting article, Get excited: reappraising pre-performance anxiety as excitement, on the National Library of Medicine website. Just reading the abstract helped me reframe my perspective:

Abstract

Individuals often feel anxious in anticipation of tasks such as speaking in public or meeting with a boss. I find that an overwhelming majority of people believe trying to calm down is the best way to cope with pre-performance anxiety. However, across several studies involving karaoke singing, public speaking, and math performance, I investigate an alternative strategy: reappraising anxiety as excitement. Compared with those who attempt to calm down, individuals who reappraise their anxious arousal as excitement feel more excited and perform better. Individuals can reappraise anxiety as excitement using minimal strategies such as self-talk (e.g., saying “I am excited” out loud) or simple messages (e.g., “get excited”), which lead them to feel more excited, adopt an opportunity mind-set (as opposed to a threat mind-set), and improve their subsequent performance. These findings suggest the importance of arousal congruency during the emotional reappraisal process.

Alison Wood Brooks 
PsycINFO Database Record (c) 2014 APA, all rights reserved

Next week will be a culmination of an extensive period of hoping, dreaming, and preparing that began even before my retirement and Pam’s illness and death. I’ve conveyed many times my desire to “take it on the road” with Pam during our retirement years, using venues as a tour guide for going places and seeing things together. Something we so enjoyed together.

These two gigs also mark the beginning of a new phase of reaching for the dream. Though I have performed at very limited open mic sessions and in front of a friendly audience of family and friends at a church, these are the first true public appearances in front of people whom I don’t know. No one will have heard the songs. No one will know what to expect. At the 55+, I’m not even sure they know that the program is a musician. They only know that there is a program every last Friday of the month.

Success will look like people not walking out during the first song or shortly thereafter. It will look like people looking at me, perhaps nodding with some sort of mutual understanding. Maybe even clapping? Success will catapult me forward in my journey, give me confidence to book other performances, find other ways to get my music out there. Obviously, failure will look and feel quite different.

Therein lies the fear with pre-performance anticipation. I am excited that I have followed through with the commitment to pursue my music. I believe that I have a message of humanness, one that not everyone is willing to share. It happens to be through music. I am fearful that my musical message will not be received, even though those who have listened have encouraged me.

Performance anxiety, stage fright, is another matter. My mouth gets dry, my heart rate goes up (even more than when I just play the songs), and I have trouble staying focused. My eyes and ears seem to work overtime to ferret out any peculiar distracting input, of which there are ample, when one is on stage. Practice, even trying to imagine myself at the venue, helps. Just thinking about looking out over the audience during practice is enough to distract me. Thus, the more I do it, the better I will be able to focus – I hope.

Again, none of this is unique to me. I am sure that many of you can relate at some level. And again, I am just egocentric enough to think it’s worth writing about. That you might enjoy the reading, and maybe get something worthwhile out of it.

By this time next week, all of the anticipation, anxiety, excitement, and of course, the performances will be over. I will have an emotional let down, as I always do. I will review and evaluate the outcome. Then I will pick myself up and figure out the next plan. Yet I have made a greater commitment – to Pam:

I will go on. I will be okay.

Privilege

a right or immunity granted as a peculiar benefit, advantage, or favor : PREROGATIVE

especially : such a right or immunity attached specifically to a position or an office

Merriam Webster Dictionary

As I ponder Webster’s definition of privilege, I’m not sure if it is an accurate reflection of my topic. But I think my discourse does reflect common understanding of the word.

He walked into the dentist's office asking for help with a tooth that, by the way he talked, was clearly causing him discomfort. He explained that he had been to another office that he previously patronized where he was told that they would have to begin a new, complete work-up. Apparently, it had been a while. "Can you help me?", he asked. "I just want help with this tooth right now. I don't want to start with a whole mouth evaluation."

Assured now that this office would not deny him or make him jump through hoops to get immediate relief, he began looking for his dental insurance card to assist with the sign-in process. As he fumbled through a stack of cards in his wallet, he began to explain. "I know it's here somewhere. No, that's for my health insurance. Oh, that one's expired. I know it's here somewhere.

"I'm glad to have insurance", he continued as he fumbled. "The place I work has been laying off. It sounds like more layoffs are coming. Oh, that looks like it. No, that's for prescriptions."

His frayed baseball cap, faded plaid jacket covering a just as faded hoody, well-worn jeans, and scuffed up work boots betrayed his economic status. It certainly was not one of privilege.

While still looking, the assistant was checking the schedule. "I can get you in at 12:30 and it might be a bit sooner. "I don't think I can do that. I have to go to the unemployment office and then get groceries for my mother."

"How about two o'clock? Or two thirty?"

"Well, I'm not sure... Let's just make it for the 12:00. I can just go to the unemployment tomorrow and get the groceries after the appointment. Oh, there it is! I really need to clean out this wallet."

Sitting in the lobby, waiting for the hygienist to call my name for scheduled teeth cleaning, I was aware of the different world this man lived in. I have lived a life of privilege.

Oh, I’ve had my difficult times, economically as well as physically and emotionally. Everyone does. This man, at least from my snap judgmental viewpoint, is living harder times than I.

My father died while I was young. My mother, with four young mouths to feed, had to find a job. She did. But she and my father were really just trying to get ahead in life before he died. Now it was a much larger challenge. I knew times were rough, but didn’t really understand.

But I was young and unaware of how anything in the world works. I was unfazed by economic struggles, even when mom married again. A man in between jobs. That didn’t last too long and as I grew into my tweens and teens, our household was one of upward economic and social mobility. I have benefited from that economic stability throughout my life other than a self-imposed poverty period in my early 20’s.

My father’s death and that poverty did manage to instill in me some empathy for others who are less fortunate. But I did attend an almost all white high school in the suburbs and wasn’t exposed to many alternative cultures until going to college.

So what is this really about? It’s about trekking through my life with some empathy, and a lot of guilt. I am guilty of not being empathetic enough. I am guilty of not doing more to help others in need. I am guilty of judging them by their apparent economic status rather than by their character. I think, because I have been privileged. Although I know such judgements go both ways.

I am thankful for my parents’ hard work to keep me fed and clothed; to provide me with more than my needs, to give me at least some of what I wanted. I am thankful that, at many tipping points in my life, my parents and family have supported me and, possibly most importantly, have provided safe haven when my world was anything but safe. So many around the world don’t have the luxury.

This post is a reminder to all of us that we (you and I) have lived some level of privilege in our lives. Though we might be on varying levels of the economic spectrum, most likely if you are reading this, you are not on the lower end. I dare say that most of you can relate to my empathy, my thankfulness, and my guilt.

Times being what they are, it is difficult to determine how to help. We are deluged with requests for donations in written, online, and multi-media forms. Who can we trust? You already know of some of my choices that include the Arbor Day Foundation, Parkinson’s Foundation, EWALU, Habitat for Humanity, and our local community pantry. Organizations I know first hand, or have researched and trust.

But assuaging guilt goes beyond giving of my fixed income resources. It must include a change in perspective, a change in judgement. I have been working on this for decades now and still have work to do. It must be a conscious effort to recognize biases and prejudices. Then, act in opposition to those preconceived notions. And that I try to do.

Regardless of my ramblings, it is a privilege to be able to share my personal struggles with you. I do hope that the sharing adds value to your lives. You may empathize, you may think I’m out to lunch. But I hope I make you think. That, too, is my privilege.

Iatrophobia

Fear of Doctors

Originally, I planned to write about fear in general. But that subject seemed too broad. I may take it up in multiple posts at some later time.

Cigna Healthcare defines iatrophobia as “…people [who] have such an intense fear of doctors that they are said to have a phobia of doctors. The clinical word for this is, ‘iatrophobia.’” They further define symptoms as follows:

  • You cancel doctor appointments or keep rescheduling them to avoid dealing with the fear; you don’t even get the preventive care and important vaccinations you may need to help stay healthy.
  • Instead of seeing a doctor when you’re sick, you try and self-treat.
  • In advance of a doctor appointment, you are unable to concentrate on anything else, lose sleep, may not eat, or cry at the thought of the upcoming appointment.
  • Do you have a fear of dentists, hospitals, and even sickness or illnesses? Some or all of these other types of fears are commonly combined with a fear of doctors.
Cigna Healthcare

To be fair, Cigna also states from the outset that some level of stress leading up to any type of healthcare visit is normal. Based on the symptoms listed above, I cannot definitively say that I suffer from iatrophobia. However, based on my personal experiences in the past couple years, well, let’s just say, I suffer! I found it interesting that Cigna also suggests working with a therapist to help alleviate the symptoms. Okay. I know that therapists aren’t necessarily doctors. But seriously. When you have this phobia, don’t they count?! (sorry Cynthia 😉 )

About three years ago, I finally went to the dentist due to an ongoing toothache. I hadn’t been for a few years. COVID, and caregiving were great excuses to avoid the dreaded chair. Unfortunately, this pain would no longer wait. I had a cracked tooth, presumably from clenching my jaw as I sleep. I later got a mouth guard to assuage that issue.

So I went through the process of getting a root canal and crown. It was stressful. In addition to my personal angst, Pam’s cognition was deteriorating and, as a result, I had to take her with me, leave her in the waiting room (and give instructions to the front desk assistant) while I went under the drill. But we got through it without a mental breakdown (on my part).

Forward to after Pam’s passing

About this time last year, I had a similar problem on the other end of my lower jaw. A persistent toothache. I knew the symptoms and the process. Still a result of clinching my jaw. Schedule a visit to the dentist, go for a root canal, get the crown. I can handle this. Except this time I was told that there wasn’t enough bone left for a crown and I would have to have the tooth pulled.

Instant anxiety. Another loss trauma. I broke down crying while still in the chair! And, I had to schedule with another oral surgeon to get the procedure. Unfortunately, that meant I had plenty of time to “stew” over the appointment. Mind you, I was in a fragile emotional state, dealing with losing my Pam and trying to get my health and my life on a new trajectory.

I knew I was not in a good place when I went to the appointment that day. The first thing they do when you get in the chair is take your blood pressure. Mine was extremely high. They were almost afraid to do the procedure. Take it again, similar results. And again, just a bit better. I told them that I have the anxiety and elevated blood pressure every time I see a doctor and this is extra stressful. Procedure done. Take blood pressure again. Still very high. Now they were afraid to let me get up. But, having no other symptoms, they let me go.

Over the next few days I knew that my BP was still elevated. Still no symptoms besides a feeling of high anxiety. Got a monitor. Yep, still high. Ended up at the hospital. Everything normal except BP. Long story short, I’m on BP medicine now.

I’m not sure how much of this I have already written. But I came to the realization, somewhat recently, that I was living every day in fear of dying. I’ve been afraid, to an obsessive extent, that if I eat the wrong foods, don’t exercise enough, don’t sleep well, high BP, whatever, I was going to die. It is an irrational fear, due mostly, I think, to watching my Pam deteriorate and die in front of me. It is not abnormal in those who lose a close loved one.

Forward to current events

Well, backing up for a moment. Last year my right thumb began to lock up at the joints. Movement was painful and I lost range of motion and gripping capability to the point that I could hardly hold a guitar pick. Problematic! Over time it eased, and I was able to avoid seeing a doctor.

Last November, my left thumb locked up and it’s been a problem ever since. It has impeded my ability to play guitar to the point where I stopped for days at a time. I’ve tried to work it out on my own and discussed it with family and my chiropractor. She, along with a daughter who knows of such things, suggested that I look into physical therapy.

I have an upcoming performance, the first for a bunch of people I do not know, in a public setting. I’ve been working through the pain and impediment so I can practice in preparation. I finally made the move Wednesday when my chiropractor recommended a specific physical therapy company. I went directly there. They were great and, after a quick referral from my primary care, I had an appointment for Thursday. Now I have a therapy plan and high hopes for long term recovery from tendinitis. I also found out that, at least on my left side, it may be related to issues I’ve been having with my shoulder. So much for fear of doctors.

I’m not sure if I suffer from iatrophobia. I can relate to some of the symptoms. Maybe you have similar issues. Hopefully, with recent success, increased knowledge, and recognition of the normalcy of my experiences, I can better deal with health issues and abandon the fear of eminent death.

Monday I have a teeth cleaning and PT for my thumb. Wednesday, it’s an appointment for my hearing devices and PT. If getting out there and doing it help with overcoming a phobia, I must be on the right path. Hopefully also, with life in general. I guess the moral to the story is, if you have health issues, work with the professionals.

No Travel Plans – I Am Home!

Every week I hope to conjure up some new, interesting topic to write about. Something other than exposing my life and psyche for all the world to see. Once in a while I am successful. The task, however, is made more difficult by shying away from politics and religion. Maybe some day. Meanwhile, I continue to share my inner thoughts and feelings in hopes that the reading is worthwhile and maybe will touch someone in a positive, healing way.

For the first time since Pam’s passing nearly 20 months ago, I have no travel plans. No holidays, no projects out of town, no weekend visits. I have no planned trips to Atlanta (yet), or vacations to plan for. Nor do I have any camping or backpacking trips planned. Though I think about that often. I did, however, book my first gig for February. But it’s here, within a mile from home.

I am home. I sit in my easy chair and look around while I’m on the phone or reading. I’ve been in the music studio a few times since the year began. I view the other end of the large family room to see another sitting area along with my rowing machine. And while I am rowing, I see my studio (funny how that works 😉 )

My home is transformed. Much of the furniture is the same. Some a bit rearranged. Many pictures and mementos on the walls and shelves are as they have been for years. Some have been replaced with ones I found in storage.

I have many reminders of my amazing Pam1. Her Bluebird on the mantel. Pictures of us from our early years together. Always we are close together, always smiling – for real! Sometimes I still buy daisies and alstroemeria, placed in an Isabel Bloom vase on the dining room table. Based in the Quad Cities, their decorative concrete sculptures were integral with Pam’s growing up there. I have many figurines depicting angels, animals, and various holiday representations. I enjoy seeing them around the house. Happy reminders of Pam’s happy things.

As I look, I see that home is now mine. Though I sleep in the same bed, I am beneath different covers. Different towels, mats, and curtains adorn my ensuite. Dishes, tools, and gadgets are organized for my sole use in the kitchen. And from my chair I scan the living and dining rooms to find that they now reflect me, rather than “we”.

Now when I look I have memories. Not forgetting all we had together, nor how we lost it. But not so much constantly reliving the painful times. Beginning to reflectively smile at the good times. I am becoming comfortable at home.

  1. As I navigate through my new life, I am constantly aware – possibly more now than before – of what an amazing human being Pam was. Of course, no one is perfect. But seemingly, her entire being was of love and giving. Always seeing good in people, with the possible exception of herself. Kind. Gentle. Humble. Caring. Loving. Devoted. Sweet. Naive? I am humbled by having been loved by this wonderful woman and by my fortune in knowing her and loving her so intensely. It is truly better to have loved…!

Lost And Found In The Music

Happy holidays to you all! And an honest hope for a happy, healthy, and peaceful 2024!

I woke up Christmas morning with the realization that I had, in deed, been anxious about the coming holiday. I thought I was done with this level of anxiety subsequent to my recent travels and family events. Not so. I didn’t understand why my blood pressure was still higher than normal nor why I found it difficult to sit still during the day or go to sleep at night.

Sure. I know the tendencies of those who grieve to be affected by holidays and anniversaries. I’ve lived it. But I thought I was really doing better. Didn’t I just write about it? So what gives!?

Doesn’t matter. It is so. I cried. No, I wailed. Over and over as the morning passed and the rain (not snow) continued to fall, and the wind continued to blow.

The well-wishes started to light up my phone. “Thinking of you.” “Merry Christmas, Keith.” “Hope your day goes well.” All nice, warm sentiments that I appreciated very much. Knowing that family and friends understood my sorrow forced smiles in the midst of sadness.

By late morning, though, not knowing what to do or how to create a happier day, I found that I wanted to play music. I’ve been practicing with my Alvarez Yairi recently, so I unsheathed it from its case, tuned it, and began to play. First were songs for and about Pam. After all, it is she who I honor on Christmas more that any deity. For she loved the celebration of the holidays so.

So I played. And I played some more. I was lost in my music. Not necessarily playing well. I hadn’t been practicing much lately. It didn’t matter. I was in touch with the sound and the origins of the lyrics that meant so much to me, and that I did write them. I played for an hour. And then another. Taking breaks to rest my hands and voice, wetting my whistle, eating snacks.

From my travels: Lolo Pass, I Look Away, Parkersburg.
Family; loves and losses: When Comes the Time, Rae J, Tell Elizabeth I Love Her, Sarah’s Song.
And, of course, my Pamie Sue: She Sleeps, The Song I Never Wrote For You, Our Lives In Love, Anything To Please.
And many, many more. Covers of Cat Stevens, The Moody Blues, Simon and Garfunkel.

On I played throughout the day. It felt good. I felt better. And I remembered the commitment I made to Pam, shortly after her death, to pursue the music. To follow through with the dream. To give to others that which I have to give. Not amazing, artistic greeting cards as was Pam’s gift, but my music, both old and new. To share myself and those in my life with anyone who will listen and relate, or just enjoy the sound.

The more I played, the more I realized that I am fulfilling that dream. Music is the one constant, the one calming, honest, and true gift that I have to hold onto as I learn to live on my own, without my Pam. And it is due to her that I have been free to write and play for the past almost 30 years. She has been my muse, my inspiration, my collaborator, and my fan.

Now I prepare for the next chapter in what has become the life of a singer songwriter – my life. I have been looking forward to it for a very long time. I have thirteen new, unrecorded, original songs and 6-8 covers that I hope to record over the next few months. Hopefully, I’ll be done by Spring, ready to “hit the road” armed with hours of live music to share. And there are several completed songs that I have yet to practice, to prepare them for performance and recording. Several additional in-progress songs also await in the fringes of my repertoire. I hope I get to them all.

Finding my voice in my music brings me joy and satisfaction. I celebrate my life with Pam, and without her. Being lost in the music is a good thing. I find solace and comfort, able to forget the anxiety of loss during the holidays, and of the challenges that lie ahead. At least for a while, while I play.

Maybe you, too, may find some comfort or consolation. Lost and found in the music.

Still it is difficult to grasp that she is gone.

Gains and Losses

Two Steps Forward

Yeah, I guess this is life! Recently made notes to myself reveal a general improvement in my psychological wellbeing. Such gains are tempered by yet another loss, though only a partial one.

I began to notice subtle changes as I prepared for and experienced transitioning Mom to memory care. I realized early this week that I had been gone every weekend, and over half of the weeks, from Thanksgiving with family in Ankeny, through last weekend with family in MN. I found myself feeling comfortable at home just before the travels began.

Last weekend I was visiting daughters and families in Minnesota. This has been an emotionally challenging trip since Pam’s passing. They are all great and I love them and seeing them in their homes, living their lives. Anticipating this weekend I realized that I wasn’t stressed over possible challenging emotions. Rather, I was just looking forward to being with them. Major – positive – change!

I had lunch with (fellow subscriber) Linda on my way to MN. Linda and I share very similar caregiver experiences (Dave passed 18 months before Pam). And though we continue to compare “notes” about our experiences, we spent at least as much time just talking about family and travels. In other words, we were focused on living our lives now rather than revisiting the past.

I am aware that I am feeling less guilty for feeling good. For the longest time feeling good ultimately led to another round of sadness/depression. How could I betray Pam by not being miserable?! But I actually feel happy at times. I am beginning to enjoy my life as a retiree. It feels good to feel alive again – to trust myself again.

None of these feelings are betrayals. I think of Pam constantly. Everything I do and see reminds me of her. I miss her intensely and tell her so. When I see a reminder, especially of who she was and how she lived life, I tell her that I love her. Though thinking and saying this is probably about me and not her, It is the truth non-the-less. This is what she wanted for me.

One Step Back

On the other hand, leaving Atlanta I knew that I wouldn’t be able to talk with Mom on a regular basis (we chose not to give her a phone, at least for now). I realized this week the sense of loss, in some ways similar to my feelings of losing Pam.

Anticipating such an emotional event does not lessen the impact when it comes to pass. Just like with Pam, I could hardly let my emotions interfere with what I had to do, as a caregiver for Pam, and as a businessman for moving our Mother. The aftermath still includes some management, but there is much more time to feel. Now these new feelings of loss are mixed with those I already had.

Some of my gains are now back in the shadows. I can see them, yet they are clouded by renewed sadness. I know good feelings will return, but I struggle to grab onto them again.

Another cloud looms on the horizon. I’ve seen this cloud before when it was clear that Pam would not survive her disease for long. Mother will be 99 years old in just over a week. She has moderate dementia, but still realizes that there is not much left to live for. She also has stamina! The end will ultimately come. Probably sooner than later.

As I navigate gains and losses, I am sure there will be plenty of both to come for the rest of my life. This is something important that I have learned. Every one is a new chapter that I am ready and willing to live. I still want to – live!

Last week was the 17-month anniversary of Pam’s passing. It was the Tuesday after returning from Atlanta. I was still catching up on – well – everything from the trip. It wasn’t until this past weekend that I realized that the day went by without my acknowledging it. It was the first time. Next month will be a more significant milestone. Will I remember? Probably. Then, on to two years, and beyond. A step at a time.

Words – Impacting Our Lives

If you did not read last week’s post, Dream Within a Dream, I recommend that you do so before continuing here.

Family gatherings such as weddings, funerals, and reunions, evoke normal emotions of joy, sadness/loss, and “Wow! I haven’t seen her/him forever. My how they’ve changed.” Often, however, they bring deep-seated, maybe suppressed, feelings to the surface. Sometimes they erupt with power and major fallout. Sometimes they rise to the surface and are shared as either fond memories, or with trepidation.

Coming together as a sibling team to transition our Mother to memory care was such an occasion. All preparations culminated in a smooth transfer, even some elation, as we sat around the house reviewing what transpired, and discussing our myriad of emotions.

Over sixty years ago our father died at the age of 37. My eldest sister was 13, followed by another, age nine. I was seven, and my little sister was four. Our young lives were in complete disarray, to say the least. So many confusing events and emotions that children should not have to face, but often do.

It was a few days after Mom’s transfer that our emotional history surfaced when our “little” sister relayed her long-held traumatic experience. “After daddy died we were given a contest on who could be the most help to Mom. At 4 I could not begin to compete… I’ve never felt I could do enough or be enough help.“

My eldest sister responded, “ Interesting about contest-you have probably been trying to catch up your whole life!!!!” And my other sister, “I remember the competition. I cleaned out my drawers over and over again. Maybe that’s why I don’t do it anymore.” The youngest, “I remember you vacuuming.”

My contribution; “And I am still convinced that Mom telling me I had to be the man of the family instilled in me a perfection complex and that I could never do enough or get it right.” My younger sister’s response, “Yes and this role you have now fits right into that. And I didn’t want the role because at some level I felt I couldn’t do it.“

My uncle (my Father’s brother) told me years later that he always felt guilty for telling me that “God needed your daddy more that we do“, thinking that it caused some of my adolescent and young adult challenges. I totally let him off the hook when I told him it was what Mom had said that left the lasting impression.

Though my eldest sister did not relay any deep-held reactionary words, knowing her and with a few faint memories, I am sure that she, being several years older than the rest of us, naturally took on the role of surrogate mother, trying to help our overwhelmed, grieving Mother. Mom had been a stay-at-home mother and was thrust into the role of family provider. Thankfully, her friends came to her aid with a job and other assistance. But my sister was often the oldest person at home. I can also attest that she later raised two amazing daughters of her own. Along with her natural bent, she clearly learned much from her early, traumatic experience.

Yet more impactful words:

Eldest sister – “And Daddy telling J to take care of M!!!“
Middle sister – “Those were his final words to me.“
I chimed in – “And Mom’s first words to me.”
Middle – ” I was thinking that Keith!“
Eldest – “Pretty heavy trips to lay on children!“

Though much of this history was known to us, the vivid memories, complete with mental pictures/video of the events, have rarely been shared all at once and together. This single horrific event was amplified and indelibly printed on our brains – with lifelong impact – by our elder family’s words.

As I look back on my family relationships and rearing my children, I know I have my own gaffs to come to terms with. I’m sure we all do. By this time in our lives, I assume that my sisters and I hold no grudges against those adults in our lives as they were doing the best they could. Imperfectly, as we all are.

But it’s something to consider. Are there unresolved consequences of our words and actions on our parents, siblings, spouses, children? On my part, I hope those I have impacted understand that I never set out to hurt anyone. There are few people who do.

And now I’m off to visit many of those people to celebrate the holidays. For me it is really about celebrating our relationships with each other. I am thankful for each and every one. And I hope that for those whose relationships I may have broken, I might still make amends.

May your holiday season be merry and bright. And may those who love you, and those you love, express impactful words of love and, if necessary, understanding and forgiveness!

Anything and Nothing

Musing to my sister of my difficulty deciding on what to write, she suggested I write about nothing. I could write about anything; too broad. Nothing; too narrow.

Where does that leave me? I guess I’ll try writing anything about nothing in particular. But what does that look like? How would it sound? What can I show that you would want to see?

Samuel Clemens, later known as Mark Twain was born in Florida, Missouri on November 30th 1835. He died on April 21st 1910. Both his birth and death coincided with the perihelion of Halley’s Comet. You can read a short, but interesting bio here. Do you know how he came about with the name Mark Twain? I’ve always been intrigued by these tidbits of trivia.

Writing about domestic politics and issues, or world events, is too fraught with diverse and conflicting opinions to share my thoughts and opinions thereof. It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World! Different subject, but it sounds right.

I’m having even more trouble than usual getting into the holiday spirit. I’ve never been good at it on my own, but Pam made it exciting and fun by her joy and enthusiasm, and her loving, giving nature. I don’t think I’m a scrooge. I don’t use any form of the term “bah, humbug”, but I suppose that I come across that way sometimes.

By this date of the year, we would already have at least one card table set up with scotch tape dispensers (Yes, multiple. Got to have the double-sided variety too.), ribbon spools, straight and squiggle-cutting scissors, you get the idea. And it’s not just the big gifts. It’s the little “stocking stuffers” that often delighted her most.

I left home with four inches of snow on the ground. It was a deep and wide swath, as I was through Missouri and into southern Illinois before the last traces disappeared in the fields and in the wooded hills. Enjoying the landscape and topography along the highways and byways as I drive is still a life’s little pleasure for me. I am constantly reminded of how much Pam enjoyed the scenery and we so enjoyed experiencing our travels together.

I also realized on Thursday the extent to which caring for Pam during her illness and grieving for her (and myself) after her death, zapped my energy. Now, however, I am being energized, and I like to think it is her universal energy, through pleasant memories of her, and of our life together. I recognize how her energy enlivens me still. It doesn’t make the pain go away, but I think it does put salve on the wound.

I hope to have something specific to write about next week, rather than anything about nothing. I will try to convey the experience of transitioning my Mother from home care to memory care. But it may be too raw to put into words yet at that time. Meanwhile I continue to consider topics to write about because I enjoy the writing. And based on reader responses, you enjoy it too.

Well, I kind of wrote about anything. But it turned out not to be about nothing. Now that I think about it, that’s difficult to do. If you get nothing out of the reading but enjoyment, that’s something too. In fact, that’s everything my writing is about. And that’s not nothing either.

Boys On Bikes

NOTE: This is not the subject planned for release this week. But the experience is too good not to share. Stay tuned for what will likely be a two-part travel log beginning next week (Sorry, Jan).

A Ray of Hope in a Troubled World

Back in June, when I was in Clear Lake for the Galilean gig, a woman came up to me where I was playing guitar on a park bench at the sea wall to put a $5 bill in my guitar case. I’m a professional! I told her it wasn’t necessary but she dropped it in the case anyway. It is still there as a reminder that what I do matters in some way to others.

On Wednesday of this week I was playing music in the garage as is my usual daily venue, but with the added activity of smoking chicken hind quarters on my Weber. It was after five in the afternoon, the normal time when parents with babies in buggies, parents with dogs, children and adults on motorized skateboards, bicycles, and scooters, all enter and exit the park on the walkway across from my driveway. And though many wave and smile, few stop to listen or interact with me in any other way.

Two boys on bikes were lingering a few hundred feet away on the walkway. Then, here they came, stopping at the street to make sure it was clear of the vehicles that travel much too fast on the long, straight residential street. They appeared to be between 10 and 12 years old. I was still playing as they entered the driveway, talking at me though I could not hear what they said. I finally stopped playing.

Cynical me started thinking of all the things kids might say and do that, frankly, I might have done as a youth. So when the taller, blond boy asked “Do you mind if I ask you something, not trying to be mean?”, my mind began to race. Would he complain about the smoke, or chastise me for using the smoker in the garage? Or would he complain that I was too loud playing, telling me to keep it down, that I might be disturbing those who were taking advantage of the beautiful day in the park. I feigned a smile and said “sure.”

“Would it be okay to give you some money for playing so good?” the boy asked while holding out his hand. The second, shorter, dark-haired boy chimed in to say, “It’s only change, about 45 cents.”

My heart melted as I looked at these two young men sincerely offering to reward my playing with what might be their soda or candy money. Of course, I declined their offer. Thanking them for the gesture. “Just your offer is wonderful. No other payment is necessary. Really, it means a lot to me.”, I said as they mounted their bikes to leave. The blond with the change smiled as they rode away.

I know I am not alone in being too quick to judge others before knowing their hearts. Preconceived notions based on my own ignorance and fear. Somehow I know that my aging has something to do with making it worse. Two young men who might have been here to harass me, instead gave me a huge compliment.

A ray of hope in a troubled world. These two youth (or “yoots(s)” as Joe Pesci would say in My Cousin Vinny) are part of the future of our society, our planet! Maybe not all is lost for them. It is nice to see some good in the midst of the negative news of our day. May yours be also blessed!