Last night on the drive from La Guardia to our hotel on Times Square, I thought of Linda Schwartz. I hadn’t thought of her in years, well decades actually.
She was married to Rick’s youngest brother, Ron and was from some pretty serious money here in New York. In 1979, after Rick and I got married that December, we spent some time with Ron and Linda up here (they weren’t married yet but were engaged). I vividly remember going to her parents’ penthouse apartment overlooking Central Park—the elevator just opened right in their space, no need for a separate hall or anything as they had the entire floor. She came from that kind of money.
But she wasn’t happy, I don’t know what the pain was from but it was there and she and Ron didn’t have a good relationship. Let’s be clear, he wasn’t happy either and I have a much better sense of where his pain came from, so this isn’t a bash Linda story.
What stays with me the most, all these years later, are two things:
She didn’t care for the ring Ron bought her. If I recall correctly, it was 14k gold and she wanted 18k gold. So she replaced the ring herself. I always thought that didn’t bode well for them. There’s nothing wrong with wanting something different, it’s the not talking about it that seemed to indicate things weren’t going to end well.
When Ben was born, she was livid about the name. That was the name she was going to use for her (as yet unborn, not even a glimmer on the horizon) son. That baffled me. OK name your kid the same thing, it will be confusing but there are worse things and oh by the way, that sure wasn’t aimed at you. But she took it as an attack.
I think they limped along together for about 8 years, maybe a bit longer, and had two children, one of each I think. But that’s all I know.
Last summer I’d joined a Crossfit-esque gym run by a woman who’s a national expert in exercise for cancer survivors. I loved the classes, loved the atmosphere and was gutted when she decided to retire early and travel around with her husband.
I knew I wanted to keep this kind of workout going so I looked for other options. I found a Crossfit gym that’s a lot closer to us plus it has 5:15 AM classes 4 days a week, which our previous gym did not (plus it was a good 20 minute drive away). I am most definitely a very early morning workout person so Kent and I decided to check it out.
The woman who owns this box had been out of shape and overweight most of her life. Then about 9 or 10 years ago, she decided she wanted to get in shape. In 2019, she opened her own Crossfit box.
What I love about this box has a lot to do with her:
Form always over hitting achievements
Encouragement but also pushing when needed
She never gives up on us
I also really like it that I am doing things I’m horrible at doing. Case in point:
Jump rope. Let me tell you, the first workout of the day that used jump rope about did me in. As I told the coach that day, it had been well over half a century since I jumped rope. I’m terrible at it. But I’m going to get better.
Also things like pull ups, or a devilish push up variation called an Archer ring row push up (we did those today, I most definitely modified it).
Oh or the work out that had a total of 350 air squats. Boy I felt those for nearly a week.
Over the last several years, he’d gotten grumpier and grumpier, often attacking Eddie (who’s his litter mate). He’d also gotten a lot more feeble, not able to jump directly to our desks or the counter, things he did effortlessly when we first moved into this house in 2013.
The last three months were even worse. He started attacking Annie, randomly and with no provocation on her part other than existing. All the things that used to bring him pleasure no longer did. And then the last three or four nights, he started attacking Stevie.
These attacks were violent, not a small hiss fest with a couple of swats. Twice, Stevie ran in terror down the hall, voiding her bladder the whole way. I think if Wally had caught her, he would have tried to kill her. As it was, in addition to the urine we found tufts of her fur scattered down the hall.
We’d taken him to our vet several times during all this. We were convinced that something had to be really wrong, that he was in extreme pain, something was causing this change. But his health was good for a 14 year old cat: very early signs of kidney disease, the start of cataracts, but nothing else.
After Tuesday night’s attack, we realized we were at a decision point. We didn’t think he could be re-homed, he wasn’t nice to anyone but to the two of us. Plus he puked all the time, had always done that (apparently some cats do and his brother Eddie also pukes a lot), and then there were the aggression issues.
Our vet fully supported us with this. He told us yesterday that some cats just never quite get socialized and that with his aggression issues, we were lucky not to have been bitten ourselves. He pointed out that he and the rest of the vets there all knew Wally, that he had a reputation for violence. And I’ll tell you, those middle of the night attacks were definitely scary because Stevie sleeps up by my head. When Wally came screeching up the bed at her, he didn’t pay attention to my face being in the way.
Because he was always a screaming attacking terror at the vet, he was fully sedated when the vet brought him to us before administering the terminal drug. I realized then that I had not seen Wally that relaxed in years. He was always tense, always on edge, always wary. My heart broke and I knew this was for the best.
Even though the vet assured us Wally wouldn’t know if we were with him when he died, we both needed to be there. And I think somewhere in my Ginger Prince’s heart, he knew and felt our love as we stroked his fur and cried and told him we loved him.
Every night when I go to bed, I sit cross legged and read for a bit. And every night, Wally gets in my lap, and Eddie plasters against my right leg and I give them cheek rubs and say “wiki wiki wiki” (like the DJ sound effect) as I rub their faces. Last night, my lap was empty.
A few years ago, we had a neighborhood cat who liked to loll around on our patio, our front porch, our AC dealie which is right outside our office window. He was gorgeous, a lovely dark grey with a black nose and he had cattitude for days. One time he was lying on the AC thing, and I guess he got really curious because he reached over and banged on the office window. Wally and Eddie were NOT amused.
Today I saw this grey kitty clearly hunting something at the base of the smoke tree. It’s not the same cat, this one isn’t as long and doesn’t have the black nose. But he’s sure a hunter.
Sara works for me; she’s a really neat woman, amazing at her job, smart etc. etc. A single mom, she’s also had her mother living with her for nearly two years because her mom was diagnosed with a form of fatty liver disease that’s genetic. So Sara may have to face this for herself someday.
Anyway, Sara’s mother went downhill slowly at first, and then as often happens with organ failure, that sped up. She originally needed a liver transplant but then her kidneys also started failing (which apparently is not at all unusual to happen). In early October, she crashed hard and honestly I didn’t think she’d make it--she was in ICU for two weeks, on a vent and on dialysis.
But she rallied enough to move to rehab and then we got great news that the VA had a donor for her for both organs. So Sara and her mom were flown to Madison WI for the surgeries.
On Thursday, October 21 she had the liver transplant. That surgery was rough, so her surgeons waited until Saturday, October 23 to transplant the kidney. And she did GREAT. The next day she was off the vent, talking with her family, making urine etc.
And then she died that afternoon. The preliminary autopsy ruled out a blood clot, which is what her medical team suspected killed her. But no. She just died.
What feels so cruel is that she came through both surgeries, she was alert etc. Sara and her sister were so excited, heck all of us who work with her were too.
Rhonda’s funeral is Wednesday at Fort Leavenworth. She was an Air Force veteran and wanted a military service. I will be there.
And I’m not sure how to decide. Normally I’d run off and ask my medical care team only here’s something I’ve noticed. I’m not sure if this is age or gender bias or a lack of common ground (because 99% of my medical care team clearly aren’t as into fitness as I am), but what I’ve heard since fracturing my pelvis in 2018, then struggling with side effects from radiation that affected my fitness and then breaking my foot goes something like this:
Why don’t you just take a long walk?
You just run to stay fit, right? So find another workout.
How about some yoga?
To which the answers are:
A long walk is beyond boring. Seriously boring. I would rather put that energy into mastering riding my bike.
I run to compete, not just to stay fit. So screw that noise.
I already do yoga. And Crossfit. And biking.
I do have one doctor who’s as into fitness as I am: my endocrinologist. He's an avid mountain biker, totally loves it. And that he's my endocrinologist is also good because he’s the one who keeps an eye on my bone health. So I’ve thought about emailing him through the patient portal and asking his take on this.
Because I really, really would like to run just one marathon.
So hello. No, I haven’t fallen off the face of the earth although I wouldn’t be surprised if you thought I had.
This kind of hiatus strikes me every year around late summer and early fall. Normally I return after a couple of weeks. This time it’s been a couple of months.
During these times, I tend to question why I continue to write blog posts that are rarely read, and almost never commented on.
Don’t get me wrong, I have no ambition to be some wildly popular blogger whose every post generates a ton of comments. But getting next to no comments, even from a couple of family members who tell me they read my blog, yet never comment--well that’s like talking into an empty room with sound deadening properties. What’s the point? Or to paraphrase the cliche, if a blog post generates no interactions, did it even get posted?
Adding to that, Mary’s death was quickly followed by my gym closing for good. This was the gym I had just found and where I felt so comfortable and as though I would be able to achieve my fitness goals. The owners are fairly young and decided to retire early. I can’t blame them for that, not at all. But I was devastated, more than I thought I would be or even possibly should be, so much so that I cried at that loss.
And then all the losses, especially since 2017, just overwhelmed me.
I am told all the time how strong I am, how they admire me, etc. etc. etc. Well nuts to that.
I’m tired, I’m sad, I’m mourning what for sure is gone (like my music career from damage to my right thumb that has never resolved even after nearly 30 years), or the sense of where my potential health issues might be (which never not once included melanoma or breast cancer or osteoporosis or this fucking Meniere’s Disease--oh no, I anticipated and who knows may still get a blood cancer given that my mother has leukemia, her sister has multiple myeloma and my aunt’s identical twin sister died of acute leukemia at age 7--THAT’S what I expected).
And yes, I’m doing all the things to regenerate my joy, my contentment, my sense of peace. I write down things I’m grateful for; the journal I’m using has three spots and if I have three things, then great. But if it’s a day where there’s one or maybe even none, I’m not putting something down just to fill the line. I’m keeping it real.
Right at the most bleak time, my parish held a healing mass. I felt like I got thrown a lifeline and reader (if you’re there LOL), I went. I find the liturgy to be so comforting. The words themselves aren’t holy, but the intent is and the relief I felt at being anointed and then prayed for comforted me.
The two areas I continue to struggle with are these:
Can I successfully train and run just one marathon? Can my body handle the load (because the mental part is not a problem) without more bones breaking?
Meniere’s Disease. This has been a terrible few months for me, with severe vertigo pretty much every week which means I can’t walk, heck I can’t even stand up, and I throw up violently for hours (no exaggeration). In fact, I write in my gratitude list when I have just minor vertigo or go a full week without throwing up.
Last week, I saw my regular ENT again, and asked for the referral he’s offered in the past for a more specialized ENT. I will see that doctor on November 8. In the meantime, my regular ENT prescribed Valium and a drug to stop me from throwing up. I am very, very sparing with that Valium as while I stay conscious I’m not at my sharpest. But when the world starts gyrating and spinning, you better believe I’ve taken it. I hope with all my heart this new doctor has a different solution as I really do not want to be on something like Valium. For now, though, it sure beats puking for hours while the world heaves and spins.
I'll leave you with a song that I have always loved, one that's brought me much comfort over the years.
