It damn near killed me - but here I am

 I feel like I’ve told this story about a million times, and in reality, it’s probably pretty close to that. But I’ve never actually told the entire saga start to finish, and as boring as it is, for some reason I want to just get it all down before I forget it.  So here we go.

 It was still the height of Covid the fall of 2021. We took our regular vacation, the last week of September and first week of October.  On Monday, the 27^th of September, I went with friends to a county fair in a small conservative college town. Everyone was having a wonderful time, hundreds of people getting out for the first time in months for many. Some masked, most not. It was a beautiful day, a little on the warm side. We had a great day! Our anniversary, September 30^th I wasn’t feeling well and thought I was getting a cold and dinner was just not appealing. But something told me it as more than that. Between the fair and our anniversary, I noticed one morning that my toothpaste didn’t taste right. I didn’t want to admit it, but yeah, I probably had it. From the end of September, I only got worse. I started sleeping in the middle bedroom because I was so uncomfortable, tossing and turning, with a high fever that I just couldn’t break. Then I couldn’t breathe, but I wasn’t congested. I dragged a chair into the bedroom so that I could sit upright and sleep, but it didn’t really help. I had a pulse-ox that I was using to monitoring my oxygen (I ordered it when “they” said it was a thing everyone should have in the house during the pandemic). On Thursday, October 7^th, I forced myself to shower and wash my hair and get dressed. I could barely function. I finally told the husb – please call 911 – I can’t breathe. My oxygen levels were in the 50s. I laid on top of the bed waiting for them to come. At exactly 11:30 on that day they came to pick me up, put me on oxygen, and without even a hesitation, took me straight to the closest hospital with sirens blaring. Never for the rest of my life will I ever forget seeing him on the porch (also so sick himself with Covid) crying as I left him. I know it was 11:30 because my phone alarm went off in my bag in the ambulance to remind me to pray for my father’s soul – he had died the previous April.

 When I arrived at the hospital it was like something out of a movie. Everyone was gowned, masked, hooded, encapsulated. I was put into a triage room and left there for hours, absolutely starving. But at least I was on oxygen. Finally, someone brought me something to eat, and I think I fell asleep for a bit. Friends were texting me – “do this!” “don’t do that”! “don’t let them give you this that or the other thing!!” It was so overwhelming!!  I was then admitted early evening and taken to a room on a dedicated Covid floor. No shared rooms, a dedicated nursing staff that did not rotate to other floors. I was in a large room by myself, next to a massive window that I could not close the blinds. It was impossible to sleep. The Infectious Disease doctor came in the first morning and looked me right in the eye and told me that he could not guarantee that I was going to go home. I was very very sick. I was placed on a regimen of Remdesivir, heavy steroids, and other drugs, to combat the damage to my lungs and the virus. I was also placed on high flow oxygen through a canula in my nose – it was cold, wet, loud, and blasting, 24/7, at very high levels of concentration. For days. I barely remember this period. I wasn’t unconscious in any way, but I was so dazed and out of it, and my body was so incredibly weak that all I could do was lie there and let them do whatever needed to be done to get me better. My mind was so occupied with making my body well that I couldn’t even pray. I could not remember the most basic prayers, the Our Father or the Hail Mary. I couldn’t even THINK “God have mercy”. All I could do was ---- be.  I will forever be so grateful for all the prayers and Masses being said for me back home because I could not say them myself to save my own soul. 

 Finally moved to the next bed in the room away from that damn window.  After about a week I was downgraded to low flow oxygen. I was able to sit up a little, though they wanted me on my stomach as much as possible to keep my lungs clear. My bed didn’t go perfectly flat, so my spine was arched in the most horrible position when on my stomach (my preferred way of sleeping actually), but it was extremely uncomfortable. I tried as much as I could, but breathing was still so difficult, the oxygen uncomfortable, and the steroids made me jittery, so I pretty much didn’t sleep at night at all. More like a nighttime doze, and then I would sleep during the day. Hospitals are no place to rest. The room was constant glowing with the nursing terminal and emergency floor level lighting, noises outside, oxygen blowing, monitor beeping. The worst was when someone would code, and the announcement went out over the speakers. I would hear the scrambling of staff from all corners, rushing to save the life of someone on my floor, all of us victims of a horrible virus hell bent on killing us. Then I would also hear when they didn’t make it. At least five times there was someone lost while I was there. The psychological impact of that was intense.

 I think that through the entire experience the worst part had to be without a doubt the panic disorder brought on by the massive steroids I was on to reduce the very serious inflammation in my lungs. I watched my father live with this for many years. I saw him in the throes of a full-blown panic attack, clawing at himself and his hair, his eyes bulging out. I thought he was having a stroke. Never did I realize how truly horrific it is until I lived it myself. The anxiety was SO BAD I could hardly function. I felt like I was paralyzed and jumping out of my skin at the same time. And the biggest trigger for me, get this, was standing up. That’s right, just standing up caused a MASSIVE meltdown panic attack. Consider how many times you stand up in a day. Every single time an attack came again. I could not breathe, I could not walk or move, my body shook so hard I could not balance on my own. In the hospital, I was tied to the IV and oxygen, so as a result I could not use the bathroom, only the bedside commode. This sounds so pathetic, but that was so traumatic for me because it required me to --- stand up. Going to the toilet became a massive panic trigger that followed me home.

 I had the best staff caring for me. The nurses were wonderful, patient, helpful. The aides were truly angels, cleaning up after me, helping me with bedside bathing (I still could not use the regular bathroom), getting me ice water, tracking down food when the cafeteria screwed up. I was told by my nurses that had I been admitted only a couple of months earlier that I would have been intubated. In that case I probably would have died like most did as a result of that treatment method (may they all rest in peace). I was fortunate enough to have missed that era of Covid treatment, and as a result I got to go home when so many never had that luxury. Once I was no longer considered contagious, they were so glad they didn’t have to completely gown up every time they came in the room. What a relief for everyone involved!  And best of all, this meant I could have a visitor. My dearest best friend – my true Godsend. She came to me with food and shampoo! Me on oxygen, straddling a hospital bed, oxygen up my nose, my head bent over a basin IN THE BED. She poured pitchers of water over my head while I scrubbed three weeks of grunge out and we both had a pretty good laugh. The water was disgusting. How could your hair possibly get SO dirty when all you do is lie in a bed and not go anywhere? I washed it the day I came in, remember? Anyway, it was the most glorious hair washing I’ve ever had in my life. I will be forever grateful for her. And for the beautiful cheese she brought with her that day.

 Hospital food always gets a bad rap. But I must put in a word here. The food was actually pretty good once you found out what to order and what to stay away from. Every morning, I had a fantastic egg burrito, with sausage, and scrambled eggs on the side. Yep, eggs and eggs. It was gloriously and delicious. It was the one highlight of every day. Lunch was always a scoop of the best chicken salad I’ve ever had, with raw veggies. Dinner was something off the dinner menu – this is where they fell over a bit. But my doctor said he wanted me to eat, and so I did. And then I needed insulin – thank you, steroids, you turned me into a temporary diabetic. No more English muffins for me in the morning!  

 I had two rotating doctors who would come to see me every day. One of them came very early in the morning, before there was light in the sky in that world outside. We would talk for about 45min every time. Both of us likeminded regarding the virus, vaccines, and all the political crap surrounding the moment we were all living through. He truly was an inspiration for me, encouraging me to get better, be strong, have a good attitude. I missed him on his off weeks. My other doctor was good looking, friendly, helpful, compassionate, but he was as liberal as they come, even appearing on local television to push the narrative of the day. Our visits were very friendly and cordial, but all business. I will, however, be very thankful to him for prescribing Xanax to manage my anxiety and panic attacks. I was finally able to sleep a little bit, as we weaned me off the steroids, which wouldn’t actually happen until after I was home.

 I hated being there. I hated using the bedside commode. I hated not being able to shower. I hated not being able to sleep and being woken up constantly in the middle of the night because my oxygen was dipping into the danger zone. I hated not knowing when I would ever go home. As a result – I just didn’t want to see or talk to anyone. I know this is incredibly selfish and a lot of people didn’t understand. I know it was especially difficult on my mother, and probably my husband as well. I just felt so gross, sick, pathetic, ugly. And I couldn’t really talk anyway, so why come to just look at me being in the worst condition of my life? It just didn’t make sense. I am sorry that it was so hard on others. I just couldn’t do it.

 I kept getting closer and closer to getting out, but my oxygen requirements needed to be at a certain level for me to go home. It took what felt like forever. Then, finally, 32 days after I was admitted, I went home.

Home! Glorious, beautiful, peaceful, comfortable, loving, happy, where my husband and kitty live – HOME!!! 
It took me getting medicated up for the trip, my anxiety was OFF THE CHARTS!!  I cried as they wheeled me off the floor, leaving like a graduating senior at the end of the last day of school. All the nurses and aides cheering me on as I gave my Miss America wave goodbye! By that point I had been on the Covid floor longer than anyone. It was so so so good to go. But what was ahead of me was honestly just as hard, if not harder, than being in the hospital for a month.

 I was incredibly weak. I didn’t use my body at all for 32 days. My muscles atrophied, I started to get bed sores. When I had to finally walk, I needed help. I used a walker around the house for the first few days as I gained my strength. Still on oxygen and hooked up to a huge concentrator machine in the back bedroom, I was tethered 24/7. And the panic attacks were so intense, so debilitating, so terrifying, humiliating, immobilizing. I know now why people with intense mental issues end their lives. I get it now. Now I understand why my father tried. Yep – it makes sense – that act that is so senseless, makes sense. Every single day, multiple times a day, I would deal with a “meltdown”. Or rather, I would live it, my husband would have to deal with it. How I would have ever gotten through all this without him I have no idea. He was (and is) the most patient, supportive, helpful man. He never pushed, but he never allowed me to be lazy. He helped me when I needed help, and he understood when I needed to struggle to do things on my own. He reminded me when I wasn’t doing what I was supposed to be doing but was never a nag. He loved me through it, he fed me, he even washed me and held me. Every woman should be so incredibly blessed as I am to have such a husband.

 I was on oxygen for a total of five and a half months, eventually ending up with a portable oxygen machine thing I carried around with me like a noisy handbag. I spent weeks going to pulmonary rehab, having in home PT and nurse visits. Then – just when I was starting to see over the hump a tiny bit, my hair started falling out. It wasn’t sudden, it was subtle at first. Starting in December I noticed a bit in the shower, when I brushed my hair, or tried to pull it back in a ponytail. It just didn’t feel right. Then in January it was coming out in handfuls. My beautiful deep brunette hair was falling out. The hospital stay, the medications, the anxiety, the virus, it was all too much on my system. That level of stress has resulted in hair loss for many women, even a stressful pregnancy can cause it to happen. I thought I was through with trauma with the illness and the panic attacks – nothing prepared me for having to shave my head after losing 80% of my hair. What a blow. Again, my incredible husband stepped up and was ready to do anything to help me. When I think of the money we spent on treatments, a ridiculously expensive wig, shampoos, it makes me sick to my stomach still. One night at dinner I was trying to make light of the situation, and he said, “well, I have my clippers, we can shave it all off” --- I said, “let’s do it.”.  No joke, we got up from our plates and went into the bathroom. He got his clippers – I got the shower bench. I put a towel down on the bathtub floor, hung my head over, cried and prayed and cried and prayed, while he buzzed my head with the longest guard he had on the clippers. I can’t even write this without crying again. It was so hard. In a matter of minutes my entire appearance – my own self - as I knew it was wiped away. I would never be a brunette again. I had a lot of shining silver under there, and I wasn’t prepared to go back to coloring my hair, something I had done since I was 18 years old. We shaved away what was left of looking young and pretty. I became “granny” as my mother called me (always the flatterer, that one). For about two years I wore it in a very short cut and ironically had more compliments on my hair than I have ever had in my life. Go figure. I hated it though. My last haircut now was right before Christmas 2024. It’s growing out finally, and there is a lot of gray and silver, and still a lot of my mousey brown. And wouldn’t you know it, after all this, I’m starting to lose it again in the past week. What a punch in the gut. Again. Oh well – at least I know the routine now. I won’t cut it all off unless it is truly dire again, hopefully it won’t get that bad. At this point I just throw up my hands and wait for the next drama.

 So here I am coming up on the four-year anniversary of being rushed to the hospital on that drizzly gray early October day. The entire experience has truly aged me. I’m 60 now, but four years ago I didn’t feel 56. I still felt like I was in my late 30s, and I looked like it. That summer, around this time (August) I was in the backyard one evening absolutely enjoying the outside, looking up at our beautiful trees, taking photos of our pretty gardens. Finally starting to feel whole again, 16 months after losing my father. I took a couple of selfies of me looking up at the trees. My dark hair shining in the early evening sunlight, my clear pale skin, and bright eyes. I had no idea what kind of Mac truck was about to body slam me in a few short weeks. I look at those photos now and I see another person. Someone who was ripped out of me by the virus and the illness and trauma that followed. I’m old now. I have diminished lung capacity, extremely sore joints, lingering anxiety, wrinkles….and granny hair. But I’m alive. Make absolutely no mistake about how grateful I am for that. I am far more functional and healthier than many who have extremely serious Long Covid issues. We all have our own stories. For better or worse, this is mine. Not saying it’s extraordinary in any way. It’s just mine. And so I go on from here, so very happy to be alive, surrounded by those who love me, who prayed for me, those who emailed me nearly every day to get me through the hospital stay, those who sent flowers and offered Masses. And through it all, my incredible husband who cried when I left, and was so happy to see me when I came home. I could never love another human so much.

 So here’s to the next chapter – whatever that might be. God willing it will be better reading than this.

 A final note:  I have always been, and will always be, staunchly anti-vax when it comes to this virus. I didn’t take it then, I will never take it now, and I never have and never will regret that decision. I would do it all over again and still not take it.

She's Gone - A letter to my father

 

I never got to ask you why.

We talked about a lot of things near the end. The regret, the sadness, the guilt. But I never got to ask you why, or it just didn’t occur to me in the midst of other topics. I know you loved her so much. I know you loved her until the day you died. I know you regretted cheating on her. I know all these things because you told me. You told me that you married again as a last resort because you couldn’t be alone, she was your second choice. You told me you waited for years for her to come back. But you never told me why. You had a beautiful, intelligent, clever wife who loved you more than anything in the world. She gave you a beautiful home, and a daughter. Why were we not enough? Why were you more attracted to some other woman with another man’s child? I know her parents were brutal in trying to rope you into marriage. But for at least five years you carried on with her like we didn’t exist. Why? Why did you destroy our family? Why did you destroy my childhood? Why did you allow me to be put in a situation where I would be abused because I didn’t have our own home to be in? Why did you make me live with a woman who hated my very existence because I looked so much like my mother. A constant reminder to her that she would never have a child with you, something that would forever connect you to my mother.  For 50 years I’ve blamed my mother for leaving us and never really held you accountable. But you left us first. She just left what was left of us. How could I blame her for needing to preserve her own sanity? I have idolized you, and I’m sure she has wondered why. I wonder myself sometimes. You ruined my relationship with my own mother and I don’t even know how to repair that. I’ve grown up not wanting to be mothered by a mother who left me. I’m too old to go back to that now I suppose. I just get so angry over the outrageous stupidity of it all. You had no reason to leave, and so many reasons to stay. And yet I know that you knew all of this. I know your regret and guilt ate you up inside until it killed you. There is no comfort there at all for me, that would be cruel. Only sadness that we couldn’t be what we could have been. How I would have loved to have a family with the memories others have of vacations, dinners, holidays. I have so so few of them, I treasure every one, and as I get older they fade like the few old photos I have that end like a book with pages torn out after the 10^th chapter. And now, with no children of my own, no grandchildren, our story will just fade away entirely with no one to carry on after us. There was so much love there. How can two people love each other so much, and yet destroy that love at the same time? So many questions and no answers. You are gone now. I miss our talks. I miss your soft hands and warm hugs. I will be forever grateful for that last long phone call we had. Don’t worry, I still have not forgotten, “Don’t forget that your Daddy loves you.” 
Praying that one day we will see each other again and maybe God will give me greater understanding of all these whys.

Coldplayed

By now everyone on the social media planet is aware of the poor choices of two people who decided to cheat on their spouses and got caught snurgling at a Coldplay concert. My first reaction was pretty much like everyone else’s – BUSTED!!  LOL!!  Hahaha, etc.  Then the more I thought about it and saw how it was absolutely exploding everywhere from political ads to priests joking about it, to lawn decorations and advertising, I started to get really disgusted. Sure, it’s funny how they got caught and who they are (millionaire corporate types in high level roles), but funny really only ends there. The hard reality of this is that there are now two families destroyed by the STUPID decisions of two adults. Stupid not because they got caught and it was smeared all over every glowing screen, but that neither one of them had the sense to stop an affair before it started. That is stupid. Neither of them in their passion of cheating really truly down where it counts actually cared about what it would do to their families. Behind all the laughs, the memes, the drama, the press releases, are four children and two spouses having to deal with the fallout. Two families torn apart. This would all be horrible enough if they were caught in the lunchroom and outed that way, but heap onto this the public humiliation for these innocent family members to deal with. It makes you want to just throttle them both and ask them if it was really worth it, and how can two clearly otherwise intelligent people, be so utterly stupid.

Here's why.  Because society glamorizes cheating. In movies, on tv, in novels, in music, in every aspect of our entertainment, it is romanticized and glamorized to the point of rooting for the cheater becomes the expected response in many cases without even realizing it. Movies like The English Patient depict a passionate extramarital affair, shown as epic and tragic, overshadowing the morality of the betrayal.  In Gone With the Wind, Scarlett is married to different men, but all the while pining away for Ashley, while he returns his affections in subtle ways when married to Melanie. In The Titanic, Rose cheats on her fiancé with Jack, and we root for that relationship through the entire movie.  In music, songs like Me and Mrs Jones, If Loving You is Wrong I Don’t Want to Be Right, Saving All My Love For You, Lyin’ Eyes.... the list goes on and on. They ALL wrap the immorality of cheating in the silky satin of romance and somehow we fall in love with the song and sing it over and over, not realizing that we are only perpetuating normalization of cheating. Hey, don’t get me wrong, I freaking melt when Daryl Hall belts out Me and Mrs Jones, every single time. I know it’s wrong, and yet it’s a great song, and so well done.  Don’t get me started on TV shows – the list is long and endless. Millions tune in every day (does anyone actually “tune in” anymore? Hmmm...) – they watch every day something that contains themes and characters cheating on each other, and twisting us to root for the cheater, and have vague pity for the cheated, if that.

The world loves sin. It’s not a shock or a surprise. Infidelity is as old as dirt. While not married to God, Satan turned away from his Creator and chose evil. It is as old as recorded human storytelling. The Code of Hammurabi (~1750 BCE, Babylon), one of the first written legal codes where adultery laws were strict — women caught cheating could be executed (men had more leeway). Even then adultery was common enough to need regulation. And in the Bible, 2 Samuel 11: King David and Bathsheba, David has sex with Bathsheba (another man’s wife), then arranges her husband’s death. A clear and condemned act of adultery. 

So now what? We can’t change the world. We can’t change our fallen human nature, or those who use their free will without regard for those closest to them, or even for their own souls.

We need to live in this world, yet not be of it. We can support those in challenging situations with love and understanding, yet not accepting of sinful behavior. You know, don’t go on a double date with your buddy and his girlfriend, while his wife is home with their child. Avoid moral numbness by making excuses for the cheater – his wife is always with her girlfriends, she doesn’t pay him any attention anymore, she’s not fun like she used to be.  Engage art and culture critically, as an opportunity for moral reflection, and don’t allow it to suck you into the acceptance trap, but use it to build your understanding and resolve of what is wrong and know it when you see it.

All this to say – my heart is crushed for those left in the dust and debris of stupidity and bad choices. The children will suffer the most. Every child should have a stable home. And no one should ever have to see their mom on a jumbotron with her breasts in the hands of a man who isn’t their dad. It’s all so sad. This is our world. This is where we have to live. We don’t have to like all of it. Pray for the wounded. And for the stupid.

The soundtrack of my life

I have been thinking a lot lately about what music has meant to me though my life. Music is so instrumental (lovely pun, isn’t it?) in our lives as the canvas that our lives are painted on. Instantly a song or lyric or even a tv jingle can send us back to a day decades ago as if we never left. This can be a good thing or a bad thing depending on the circumstances. In my case music is what helped me to survive a disrupted childhood. It was where I hid, where I felt safe, and where I poured out emotions and feelings I didn’t even understand and had no way of otherwise expressing. When you are 10 and your life goes sideways, you don’t really have the means of coping with the really crappy decisions adults have made around you, and so you dive head first into whatever you can find. In my case, it was music. So how do I chop this up? By time, buy artist, by location, by event? I think the most relatable approach for you might be to do this by artist or song.  Let’s go.

 America

Their albums “Holiday” and “History”, released in 1974/75 are the defining sound track of me being 10 years old. After my mother left us, I spent time between grandparent’s homes until my dad got us settled. I would spend hours and hours in the basement playing their music on my plastic record player (which I still own). Singing a song like “Lonely People” at 10 years old and crying for all the lonely people – including myself – was so deeply profound. A song like “Glad to See You” was so sweet “God, I’m glad to see you, I thought you left me far away” really hit a solid nerve with an abandoned little girl. The actual context of the songs didn’t matter to me. The fragments that fit into my own brokenness to fill the gaps left by a missing family and absent parents were more important.

Ventura Highway

The emotions brought by hearing the opening bars of this will be difficult to put into words. The hours and hours of sitting with my uncle while he taught himself how to play this – then the hours of hearing him and his best friend play this and sing on stages, at parties, in basements, in backyards, on street parties. This strikes me to the core with memories of abuse and love at the same time. He abused me. He ruined me. He destroyed my innocence. He took from me what can never be given back. And yet I loved him as a dear uncle, my big brother I never had, his talent leaving stars and tears in my eyes. How is it that we can be so broken by someone and yet still love them? Now he’s gone. We never spoke of it. But of course he knew that I knew. Something destroyed him, I don’t know what, perhaps it was our shared hidden history. The saddest part of it all in the end is that he left his faith and died, not in a state of grace. Did he ever confess his abuse? Did he at his last moments repent? I certainly hope so. And so I pray for his soul and for God’s mercy. And when I hear this song my heart breaks and soars at the same time. A shattered ship of history sailing into eternity.

 Steely Dan

For a few months Daddy and I stayed with his best friend in his bachelor condo. Steely Dan was a constant on the turntable at that time and will always remind me of being there. I had a little mattress on the floor in my dad’s room. It was in this room where he took me into his lap and asked me “Do you know what a divorce is?”.  I said “yes”.  “Mommy and I are getting a divorce.”  I curled into his chest and cried – for the first and only time over their divorce, he placed me in my little pallet on the floor, and I fell asleep. My life changed forever.

 Hall and Oates – 70s

She’s Gone couldn’t possibly have been a more relevant song for the two of us after my mom left. All the excellent early H&O music happened in the 70s. Daddy and I lived alone in a little rented house for awhile. He always called me his Paper Moon. A 10 year old little girl who was playing dress up one day with her grandmother’s Chantilly lace wedding veil, and the next scrubbing a bathtub and washing dishes. Telling my friends that I didn’t have a mother, because that was my reality. I listened to their music for hours and hours because that’s what he was listening to. We had our shared yet separate pain. His colored with regret. What a dumb man he was, to cheat on us the way he did. And yet I loved him beyond all words.

 Chicago / Eagles / Funk

Can you even imagine what it must have been like for a 10 year old little girl to have a really talented cover band rehearsing in her basement every night? I was in awe. I grew up with fantastic music around me all the time. Into my 20s and 30s I would go to hear the band play and dance non stop for hours. I would sing, dance, and SCREAM in my brain “REMEMBER THIS!!!!!!! YOU WILL NOT ALWAYS HAVE THIS IN YOUR LIFE!!!!!”   Because I knew that one day it would end – because good things always end at some point. I was right, of course. But I can still hear these songs in my head and feel myself dancing in front of the band on the dance floor like dancing in a dream of heaven. I had one particular dance partner who would tear it up with me. We really knew how to dance together.

 Hall and Oates – 90s

I was so freaking stupid in my 20s. So so so many bad decisions. H&O of the 90s – wow, it’s really too embarrassing to even write. I was pathetically needy and still very pretty – a very toxic combination. By the very grace of God I didn’t become pregnant and ruin my life. I would blast this on my cassette player in the car and scream down the road at speeds that should have killed me and anyone around me, trying to run from my past and my present, only to end up right back at home every time.

I suppose I could go on and on, but that would be boring even for me. These are the highlights. The major points in my life where music has made such an imprint on my life, like a tattoo on my soul, sometimes ugly and faded, sometimes beautifully colored. But there for always, like it or not.

We begin again.

 

They say that “journaling” is a healthy thing to do. I used to journal almost every night for many many years, going back to when I was in junior high, possibly before. I had so many journals! When I was in my 20s I got rid of them thinking I didn’t need to keep all that history lying around as I was entering a new phase in my life. Well that was dumb, and now later in life I do wish I could look back to when I was younger and remember things that I’ve forgotten. Oh well, such is life, as they say. We move on and start over. 

This time without a pen, because I can’t write as beautifully as I used to, and my hands are now more accustomed to a keyboard than a pen anyway. It’s sad because I really love the feel of the page and the pen, but when the hand shakes it just makes it frustrating. So anyway, I thought I would try this again and see what comes. Random thoughts, random reflections on the past, current events, and who knows what else. 

For what it’s worth – I thought I might start writing some of it down for whoever might care to listen. Before I forget all of it entirely.