death

“I will not write sales copy about the death of my mother.”

Writing, even under the best of circumstances can be an excruciating endeavor.

Authors, like most wizards, are supernatural in their ability to create something from nothing. Memoirists are a special breed altogether. I don’t know how they do it, how they manage to let us inside their lives, warts and all, literally turning themselves inside out— (I’ve seen it up close…it’s messy) and in the process wringing every emotion from their raw and ragged guts, and then managing to translate all of that pain, joy, grief, and love into words that live on the page long enough for our eyes to devour them.

It gets me all verklempt when I even try to imagine it, the tears running brown from the emotional-support chocolate that’s smeared all over my face.

Anyhow, my best friend, Steph Jagger, her life a seemingly endless series of Heroines Journeys (which comes in handy because nobody, except you guys, wants to read about a person’s mundane life) writes memoirs. Tales of courage and triumph, love and loss. Her latest,
Everything Left To Remember — My Mother, Our Memories, And a Journey Through the Rocky Mountains 
centers on her mother’s slow decline into early-onset Alzheimer’s disease and how that profound loss effects Steph and her family. Here, her editor describes it better than I ever could:

“An inspirational mother-daughter memoir that follows two women on a poignant journey through a landscape of generational loss. As they road-trip through the national parks of the American West, they explore the ever-changing terrain of Alzheimer’s, deep remembrance, and motherhood.

A staggeringly beautiful examination of how stories are passed down through generations and from Mother Nature, Everything Left to Remember brings us the wisdom of remembrance under the constellations of the vast Montana sky.”

I mean…come on!

And this is where you all come in. I love my blog community so much, wickedly loyal, you have been with me since 2012 so you know I love writing, connection, and passing along all the things I adore—And I adore my friend, and LOVE this book!

Here’s the deal, since the advent of social media, authors are expected to build an audience, publicize their own books, and endlessly pitch their stories to the various mediums. It can be soul-sucking, especially when your story starts living a life outside in the world while still inhabiting all your exposed nerve endings. There comes a breaking point. A boundary that begs to be set. I’ll just let Steph explain in her own words:

“It has been the greatest honor of my life to be able to write about my mother, to put our story into words. I feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude about the opportunity I have to share that story. And I am terribly excited about the idea of those words being in your hands.

I’m also looking forward to being on podcasts, to visiting book clubs, to talking with you about your mothers, and fathers, and sisters, and friends who have been, or are on, a similar journey.

I cannot wait to weave my mother’s aliveness, all the things she has left to give, into the world at large.

I am committed to doing that by way of words, shared in as many ways and in as many places as I can.

And . . . I will not write sales copy, for my mother and I are not things to be sold, but precious beings to have and to hold.” 

So, I suppose as an author you leave that to your council of writers, right?
Your friends.
Your sisters of the pen.
You let them be your hallelujah chorus and shout your name from the rooftops, “Come, pre-order and read Steph’s book, you will be the richer for it!” 

You guys, when have I ever steered you wrong?

Carry on, xox

Pre-order made simple: Amazon link 

https://www.amazon.com/Everything-Left-Remember-Memories-Mountains/dp/125026183X/ref=tmm_hrd_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr=

Hate Amazon? Here’s a link for Indie Bound —and Eagle Harbor Books, Steph’s local bookstore, where you can get yourself a signed copy!

https://www.indiebound.org/book/9781250261830

https://www.eagleharborbooks.com/signed-everything-left-remember-steph-jagger

More Steph: https://www.stephjagger.com

This post from waaaay back has been requested twice in the past few months and I keep forgetting. So Sorry.

“My fake plants died because I did not pretend to water them.”

I could have died last Thursday. You laugh. But I could have.

It was a distinct possibility. I was going to be put under general anesthesia. As dead as you can be without actually ceasing to live. The thought of my demise was planted via the doom-delivery-system otherwise known as the mountains and mountains of legalese the hospital, doctors, parking attendant, and cafeteria lady gave me to sign. This charming pre-op ritual made it clear that I was to hold absolutely no one responsible for my death—should I find myself actually dead while faking it.

Doctors make you do that just before they put you under.

“Do you have a pen?” The person in charge of responsibility-dodging asked with a straight face. “I’m wearing a paper gown, what do you think?”

Culpability. It’s a thing.

I could have choked on my pastrami sandwich at lunch today but the deli didn’t drown me in documents before I took my first bite.

Sheesh.

I get it. It’s their duty to remind you. That’s the thing about being injected with drugs that render you ‘fake’ dead so they can cut you wide open—they up your odds of becoming ‘real’ dead.

Anyhow, it got me thinking about dying.

About my “exit strategy”, which is a term my deceased friend uses to refer to death. “Everyone has one, you have several opportunities actually” she reminds me all the time. Apparently, it presents itself in the form of an illness, a car accident, an egg salad at the beach, or airport sushi.

Everyone keeps telling you that shit’ll kill ya.

So even though I didn’t have a reasonable reason to feel as if my days were numbered—I just did.

I lived as if I was going to die.

Imminently. Like Thursday.

I’m not gonna lie, my fake death made me a little fake sad. Mostly it made me crave bad food (because hey, why not)—and wish I’d had time to get my hair straightened (good looking corpse rule #2. Rule #1 – Mani-pedi.)

Oh, and it made me pay attention to my life. I was suddenly ‘all in’. No half-assing.

Everything I did I felt like I was doing for the last time, so I savored it. Kissing my dog was delicious. Ice cream tasted better if you can imagine that.

Dislikes became definitive: I can’t stand cheap vanilla candles or cologne on men in elevators.

I noticed things I tend to overlook: The sound of the rain as it hits the pavers in our courtyard.
And have you ever noticed that lots of people hold hands? Have you? I never did. And not just parents and kids. Couples of all types. Young, old, fat, skinny, young and skinny, old and fat, didn’t matter. hands were being held. I think that’s sweet.

Did you know that studies have found that holding hands is good for your heart? I looked it up.

I took my time. I dawdled. I went to the movies in the middle of the day and ate a hot dog—with extra mustard. I walked my neighborhood without my earbuds. I noticed my feet and my legs and how they move me through life and instead of run/walking everywhere like I normally do, I wandered. I looked more closely at the street art. I splashed in puddles. I said hello to strangers which isn’t new, I just noticed how often I do that.

I wondered if my fake death was making me lazy? Oh, look, a fake problem.

You wanna know what I didn’t do?
Hold on tight to anything.
Worry (why waste my time?)
Diet.
Walk on eggshells.
Work more.
Forget to say I LOVE YOU.

Saturday I came down with the flu and just like that it felt as if the rumors of my death would pan out to be true.

My surgery was canceled, and as suddenly as it had appeared, the energy of my “exit strategy” passed.

Again, just like that.

It has left my consciousness so completely that as hard as I try I can’t even conjure the feeling.

I know that when I do get this surgery the thought of dying won’t even occur to me.

I had my fake dry run and the take-away was something real.

Appreciating my life.

Carry on,
xox

This is from back in 2015 when all we had to worry about was the threat of a nuclear holocaust. Awwwww…the good old days! But it’s still really good advice.
Stay well my dear friends.
xox

It never occurred to me that I might die in a thermal-nuclear holocaust. 

A motorcycle accident, sure. Choking on my gum or a large mouthful of  Raisinettes, huge possibility. But turned into toast at the hands of two man-babies with weird hair? Not so much.

I grew up during the Cuban missile crisis, we had “duck and cover”  drills twice a week in an effort to convince us we’d be safe under our desks. Like radiation and fire would skip over our grade school. Or Catholic kids dressed in their Gawd-awful uniforms with their hands clasped tightly together in prayer wouldn’t die. I knew even then that the whole thing was bullshit. I also knew that if the bomb dropped I’d die without ever kissing a boy, getting boobs or being allowed to order Coca Cola at a restaurant. 

You wanna know what really scared me as a kid? Nuns, clowns and math tests. The end.

So, now what? What if Kim Jong What-the Fuck picks California to nuke? Will the world even care? Will it miss Kombucha, man buns, and hot yoga? I tend to think not. My guess is that us whiny, liberal, coastal elites will not be missed.
At first.
I can only imagine how the political pundits will spin it once the radioactive dust has settled. “Good riddance giant blue state.” the headlines will read.  “One less thing to worry about in the 2020 election.” 

I bring all of this up because I read this recent Facebook post by one of my favs, Anne Lamott, who wrote about her concerns starting off with “We are so doomed.”

Are we?

My immediate thought: “Well, if that’s the case I’m done shaving my legs.” 

Then I remembered being a kid and watching all of the grown-ups wringing their hands with worry and how I knew, even five decades ago, that worrying wasn’t going to make anything better. So, instead of joining the hand wringing circle,  I grabbed my “bug jar”, ran outside to the field on the corner, and looked for more ladybugs. Because ladybugs are good luck (especially the rare ones without any spots) and being a kid gave me permission not to worry. To not know how to fix things. To just be in the moment, enjoying life.

That’s what Anne is saying below, and seriously, you guys, I know it sounds trite and you probably want to pummel my face—but that’s all we can do. 

Well, that and bury ourselves in a giant puppy pile while wearing that expensive dress we were saving for a special occasion and eating any carb that isn’t nailed down.

I give us all permission to be childlike.  Innocently oblivious. Also, it feels like the right time to tell anyone and everyone that you love them.

Now. Don’t wait. 

xox Love you guys. Who’s with me?

TAKE IT AWAY ANNE…

“We are so doomed. There is nothing we can do. We are at the mercy of two evil ignorant syphilitic madmen, the two worst people on earth. I mean that nicely.

Where do we even start?

We stop trying to figure things out. “Figure it out” is not a good slogan. We practice trust and surrender, and attention to what we know is beautiful: dogs, art, the Beatles, each other’s eyes. And we don’t give up hope. Emily Dickinson said that hope encourages the Good to reveal itself. We need all the Good we can summon in these Locked and Loaded days.

So what do we hope for?

Pivot! A perfect time for the Pivot.

Just kidding.

We hope and pray for the return of sanity, or even sanity-ish. I do not hope for a successful Trump presidency or failed Trump presidency. I hope that he does not blow up the whole world.

Is that so much to ask?

What if he accidentally blows up a little bit of the world?

Well, these things happen. We’ll stick together. What has always lifted my spirits is a promise that I made to myself, that if it looks like the end of the world, I get to eat every single thing on earth that can’t outrun me: the last few days, I will only eat nachos and creme brûlée and Safeway carrot cake. Oatbags of M&M’s. No vegetable matter!

That’s something to look forward to!

One more question: how do we get to hope in these dark ratty days?

We don’t think our way to hope. We take the actions, and then the insight follows. The insight is that hope springs from awareness of love, immersion in love, commitment to love. This begins with radical self love: to save the world, make yourself a lovely cup of tea. Put lotion on your jiggly thighs, clean sheets on the bed, the most forgiving pants you own. On the possibly last day on earth, you do not want to be wearing pants that pinch or tug, or ride up your crack.

Trust me on this.

Radical self-love means you treat yourself the same way you would treat your favorite cousin, or even cranky old mealy-mouthed me. Watch the self-talk. You would probably use a sweeter tone of voice with the cousin or me, that you would with yourself. This will change the world.

Get outside, even just to the front porch, and look up into the sky and into the tree tops, and say the great praise- prayer: WOW. Listen for the sound of birds–or bird. Surely there is one lousy bird somewhere in the vicinity. Close your eyes and really listen. If birdsong was the ONLY proof we have that there is a bigger deeper reality than what transcends what we are seeing on the news, it would be enough for me. Eyes closed, breathe, listen: secret of life.

And lastly, take care of the poor–right now. In Hallelujah Anyway, I wrote that when I got sober, I was taught that happiness lay in going from big shot, to servant. If you want to feel loving feelings, which is hope, do loving things. Send a donation to a group that feeds and shelters and clothes people, in your neighborhood, or Syria. Don’t tell yourself you have no money–pack up clothes and shoes to take to a shelter. Or cash in the money in your laundry room change cup, and give it to people on the street. Give away three dollars to moms on the street with kids, and give the kids colored pencils and journals, or index cards, and say,”It is good to see you,” even if you have tiny tiny judgment issues involving bootstraps and combed hair.

If you have time, register a few voters. Also, maybe a ten-minute nap–the writer Robyn Posin says rest is a spiritual act. Father Tom Weston urges, “Left foot, right foot, left foot, breathe.” Ram Dass tells us that ultimately, we are all just walking each other home. Let’s get started.

Am sending you love, whoever you are, and as pastor Veronica says, God bless you good.”

We first met on December 18, 2000. Then he died. On this, the nineteenth anniversary of our first blind date here’s a recounting of just what happened from back in 2014. This is our very personal Christmas miracle.

“Life is a dream walking. Death is going home.” – Chinese proverb

He died for a minute and 56 seconds. His heart stopped and his breathing ceased. I’d just say 2 minutes, but hospitals and doctors are exact. They are to-the-second precise. So, when he tells the tale; he died for a minute and 56 seconds because four seconds more would be way too long.
Just writing this makes my eyes well up.

He…is my husband.

In December of 2000 he contracted bacterial spinal meningitis on an airplane. Or as I now call them, flying, metallic, germ delivery systems.
He’s a car guy, often referred to as a gear head. That second week of December he took a one-way flight from LA to Houston to look at a car, which he then purchased and drove back with a buddy. Trouble was, he boarded that flight with a bad head cold. It was mid-December, everyone’s sick with something around the holidays. Right?

As luck would have it, that was just the route an opportunistic virus used to infect him. The meningitis rode in, like a sinister villain in a spaghetti western, on the back of streptococcus pneumonia. Once the pneumonia had chewed up his lungs to the point where they resembled snowflakes, all the meningitis had to do was dismount, and stroll on in.

Meningitis is a jerk. And an opportunist.

He’s a fragile, lazy, coward of a virus. If everything isn’t just so, he takes his badass self and leaves town. But pneumonia is efficient and the path had been prepared, so he set up camp in my husband’s lungs.

Three days after he got back to LA, as pneumonia went about doing its dirty work, he felt pretty lousy. Meanwhile, meningitis was still lurking in the shadows. He felt lethargic. By then he was probably running a fever, but men don’t check stuff like that. He just got out of bed, showered and dressed. He had plans that night.
He had arranged a blind date with someone who was recommended by a friend’s girlfriend. She sounded…intriguing. And she had big boobs. Yep, he was just that shallow.

That someone was me.

The blind date story is epic and meant for another day. We got married nine months later, so I’m gonna say it went pretty well.

I’ve always been fascinated by near-death experiences (NDE’s.) Now I live with someone who’s had one and he’d be the first to tell you, it profoundly changed him, it set him free.

Two days after our first date, and a super gushy follow-up phone call, he drove the new car up to San Jose, with his dog, to celebrate the Christmas holidays with his younger brother, his wife and their two young kids.
He was driving five hours to cook the Christmas bird.

If a turkey is involved you drop everything and call my husband. He is the Turkey Whisperer. THE turkey cooker extraordinaire. The next morning, in between long stints in bed he did all the prep. He was trashed, feeling sicker with each passing hour and had developed the headache from hell. Now, he figured, he had a hell of a bad flu bug.

I will remind you, my husband is a BIG guy. He’s 6’3″ 230 lbs of big handsome, and that helped save his life.
When he makes a promise, he keeps it. It’s one of the things I admire about him, and damn it, he cooked that turkey. From his sickbed, even though he never had a bite.

The next day he got out of bed once and collapsed. The paramedics were called and he was rushed to a local teaching hospital that was affiliated with Stanford.

During transport, the paramedics called him Ralph. “Stay with us Ralph. Any pain Ralph?” My husband’s name is Raphael. I’ve been told they do that to piss you off and keep you conscious and talking. It worked. “My name is Raphael” he kept correcting them.
Genius.
But it was short-lived.
His brother told the doctor all he knew, that Raphael had complained of a terrible headache and the flu. He used to have migraines but this was different. The ER was about to send him home with migraine meds, but his brother refused. He’d never seen Raphael that ill. THAT solitary act saved his brother’s life.

Just about that time, it ceased to matter. His blood test came back with an astronomical white cell count, and he had gone into a coma. Now suspecting meningitis, they did a spinal tap. So, normally our spinal fluid is clear and under pressure. Normal is: 70 – 180 mm H20, his reading was over 400 and the fluid was thick and black, like oil. As the story goes, it was right about this point in the evening where he flat-lined. After they brought him back, they wrote TERMINAL on his chart, pumped him full of morphine and wheeled him into a room to die.

It was during this time that Raphael remembers a foggy, all-white environment, no walls, ceiling or floor. He could see all sides at once. The best thing was, he was out of pain, his head no longer hurt.

He was looking at three beds which contained three Raphael’s.

The Raphael on the right was saying: I am suffering, why would I stay in this bed, I want to go where it’s peaceful. Where there’s no pain. Pointing at a bright white tunnel.
He represented the physical self.

The Raphael in the bed on the left said: Go ahead and go! Quit complaining. That’s fine, it really affects no one except those that are left behind. He represented the intellectual self.

The Raphael in the middle was the observer. He just listened to the two others arguing. He just WAS. No attachment. He represented the soul.

That white tunnel was the path home. It was a silent, pain-free, deliciously peaceful place where he wanted to stay forever.
But they started his heart and brought him back.

That night a female doctor very much like Dr. House from TV, took a look at his chart. She specialized in ONLY terminal cases. Since it was a teaching hospital, she was allowed to literally throw everything in her extensive medical arsenal at these patients, searching for a cure. It was equal parts medicine, alchemy, and wishful thinking. After she did everything she could, she just handed it over to a higher power. Her success rate was 3%. I know, calm down, they were terminal cases after all.

It was the fight of his life and he was on the ropes. At that point, his size was the only thing saving him.

By that time the hospital had reported their diagnosis of bacterial meningitis to the CDC. Thirteen people from his flight to Houston had come down with it, four had died. Raphael’s brother was told to get his whole young family tested. It was a stressful, scary time.

I remember hearing it on the news. It struck me because one of the women who died was my age at the time, 43. Shit. I have to get on a plane in five days, I worried.

Since he was away, I had no idea he was even sick. We only had our one blind date, with a promise of a second on December 28th. He never called. He never showed. I called twice, which was only mildly pathetic, and both times his cellphone went right to message. So I left for New Year’s Eve in Miami. When I didn’t hear from him by the end of the first week of January I told my friends, “Frenchy better be abducted by aliens or dead by the side of the road, because those are the only two excuses I’ll accept.”

Yikes! We still laugh about that.

His medical file is as thick as a phone book with the lists of drugs and scans his doctor administered that first night. There is even a straight jacket included. She did say he put up a hell of a fight to live. Apparently so.
By the middle of the second day of her treatment, he was slightly improved. She determined he would live, but he’d be a vegetable from the cerebral fluid pressure and its horrible condition.
No brain could ever recover from that.

His family, his siblings, who were all now at the hospital, looked at each other to determine who would care for him and for how many months.

A couple of days later, with the determined doctor holding one hand, one of his sisters holding the other, he woke up. Just like that.

Startled, the doctor shooed everyone out of the room and started asking him questions, which he answered…perfectly…in detail. Not just, What’s your name? But since he’s an architect, and French, she quizzed him on the architectural intricacies of the Pompidou Centre, even speaking French with him. It was evident he could see her, he could hear her, and he was still his whip-smart self. THAT she could never explain. She considered him a miracle. Everyone at the hospital did. Honestly.

Finally, he asked what day it was. When he found out it was January, he said, “I have to call Janet.” For those standing around him, some doubt set in, because no one had heard of any Janet. They thought he had an imaginary friend. Uh oh, brain damage.

Nope, apparently, infatuation survives near death. I love that part of the story. It’s like a movie.

He remembers dying as easy, with nothing to fear.
He recalls that he had a decision to make, and either way everything was going to be okay.
Afterword, all the outpouring of love, together with the morphine, broke open his heart—and he was a changed man.

Luckily, he decided to stay and give me a second date, and for that, I am forever grateful.

Happy nineteen years baby! I love you.

Carry on,
Xox

The holidays can be haaaaard you guys. And as much as I’d love to sugar coat it—I can’t.

I know, they can also be full of joy and wonder.

But when they’re not—when you’re just struggling to keep your head above water because of a health crisis, or a death, divorce, or something else unimaginable has you down for the count—it is helpful to remember (at least it is for me) that no matter how famous you are, how much money you have, or influence you peddle, or how many self-help processes you keep in your back pocket, at some point, THEY WILL GET YOU DOWN.

Here in California, the wildfires that raged a mere two weeks ago have left a literal shroud hanging over the state. So many people have lost so much it’s hard to fathom feeling much Ho, Ho, Ho.

My BFF is navigating a mother who is deep into her Alzheimer’s long goodbye, and although she’s maintaining a stiff lip and a brave face, I can feel her sadness all the way from the Great Northwest. 

I’ve felt wonky for the past few months which led to me seeing a cardiologist about an arrhythmia caused by a jacked-up thyroid. As somebody who usually runs circles around the holidays, this “health situation” had made me feel anxious, vulnerable, and introspective. The old adage, “If you don’t have your health, you have nothing”, has turned from a blah, blah, blah thing that old people say—to the god’s honest truth.

So, in a nutshell, I’ve really had nothing funny or uplifting to say. (As a sidenote it must be said that if I lose my sense of humor, it’s time to take me to the doctor.)

Then, the other day, I came across this picture on Liz Gilbert’s social media and it gutted me. This is her first holiday season without her beloved Raya, and it shows her seeking solace in the lap of her friend Martha Beck.  I stared at it for a long time, crying the ugly cry because, number one—I’d been holding onto a lot of fear around my health and it felt good to let it all out, and number two—when I saw it, it reminded me of pretty much everyone I know right now, including, perhaps, The Statue of Liberty. It reminds me of exhausted surrender. A place I initially have a hard time finding–but know well.

Then, on Wednesday, Liz wrote this and I wanted to share it with you.

THIS I can do. I can hold the hearts who are hurting in my heart ( just as long as y’all don’t mind a bumpy ride!) You are not alone. You are not misunderstood. We can do this.

Let’s all hold each other hearts. We’ll know when it’s safe to let go. We’re gonna be alright.

I love you.
Carry on,
xox

Holding your heart in my heart if this is your first Thanksgiving after the death of a loved one.

Holding your heart in my heart if this is your first Thanksgiving after a divorce.

Holding your heart in my heart if you can’t be with your family this year.

Holding your heart in my heart if you are estranged from your family.

Holding your heart in my heart if you have a family member serving in the military, or if you yourself are serving.

Holding your heart in my heart if you have to work today.

Holding your heart in my heart if you a missing a loved one at your table today because of addiction or mental illness or sickness or anger.

Holding your heart in my heart if this is your first Thanksgiving in sobriety.

Holding your heart in my heart if you struggle with food, and you feel like nobody understands.

Holding your heart in my heart if family holidays bring up nothing but memories of suffering for you.

Holding your heart in my heart if you are alone, or if you are just feeling alone in the crowd.

Holding your heart in my heart today, all day long. Holidays aren’t always easy. But you are loved. Please know that you are loved.

Unclench your fist and lay your hand on your heart. It’s all gonna be alright.

We love you.
❤️LG

I have a question for ya. What is your exit strategy? In other words, how do you plan to depart this big, blue marble? I’m not so concerned with what comes after the dying thing it’s just the way I have to get there that makes me anxious when I think about it—and unfortunately, I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately.

I know, Debbie Doom.

But hey, none of us can escape it—we can neither buy our way out, bribe our way out, talk, bargain or cajole our way out of the inevitable.

Death is an equal opportunity sniper on a hill.

It’s just the way this game is played. So…knowing that, have you thought at all about your exit? I read about a man who did.

Thursday, a 104-year-old Australian man chose to die in Switzerland from assisted suicide. He was neither terminally ill (which is the condition required for most legal assisted suicide) nor was he mentally impaired.  

He was just so fucking old that his quality of life had diminished significantly enough to cause him to make what we can all agree is a pretty drastic and permanent decision. Or is it?

Even his family was on board. As a matter of fact, he was accompanied by his grandson… to Switzerland, silly, not the great beyond!

Do you want to live so long that you outlive everyone you’ve ever known and loved? I for one, think that would suck.

The reason I’m asking is that my husband was in a motorcycle crash earlier this week and although he had to spend a couple of days in the hospital, he’s going to be fine. But it made me think about all the ways to die and how  there is a part of me that every time he goes racing or off-roading waits for “the call”.  

If you were to ask me on any given day over a beer and a taco, I would tell you that dying on his bike would be the way he’d want to go. But it would have to be quick. No severe injury that would force me to make the decisions no spouse ever wants to make. A friend of his in his eighties had a heart attack on his bike, so, maybe like that.

Right? Quick and nasty. Here one minute, gone the next. He would like that. 

But when I got “the call” which was actually a text, “I had a bad fall, I’m in a lot of pain, they’re taking me to the hospital,” well, all of that flew out the window. 

No, no, no, no, no! I bargained. You MAY NOT take him now! He’s too young to go, I’m too young to be a widow and besides that, we have tickets to a thing in June!

I’m here to report that I’m a fraud and a phony where the “just let him die fast” shit is concerned. Every molecule in my body was just so fucking happy he was still alive. 

But what am I waiting for? When will it ever be okay?

Do you want to die of a disease? Yeah, me neither. 

So what does that leave?

I know I don’t want to choke on salad. What a fucking waste of a last meal!

I know I don’t want to survive a zombie attack only to be forced to live in a post-apocalyptic society. Attention all Zombies: If you’re reading this—just take me in the first wave, I’ll be the one waving the white flag. (That’s a lie too. I know me. I’ll probably lead the resistance, storm the zombie perimeter with a fire gun and make it to the freezer where they keep the antidote).

I know I don’t want to die sitting in traffic on the 405 because ALREADY KNOW HOW THAT FEELS!

I’ve already said I don’t want to out-live every one I know but I also don’t want to die on a really good hair day doing something fun with my friends.

So…licked to death by puppies?

I may need to give this a little more thought…or not.

Carry on,
xox

I watch the news these days with one eye closed. One eyes worth is all I can bear. The reason I even watch it at all is to stay current on politics which is the basis for a new screenplay I’m writing. 

You can also mix with that a dash of “car wreck” mentality. You know, when you drive past a bad car accident and you WANT to look away but you just can’t. You’re so afraid of what you’re going to see that you pull your glasses out of your purse and slow down. 

Is that just me or is it human nature? Please say human nature.  

Anyway, the events of each news cycle have been so “stick-your-head -in-the-oven” horrible for the past year and a half that local stations have actually started to devote an entire three minutes of a 1440 minute day to good news.

This morning it was about a recent medical miracle.

A thirteen-year-old boy in Alabama suffered a brain injury and actually died—for 15 minutes.  Although they got his heart to beat again, the lack of oxygen for such an extended period of time (a brain can survive without oxygen for only 4-6 minutes) left him brain-dead and on life support for several days while his parents made the agonizing decision to donate his organs.

All of the sudden, the day before he was scheduled to be taken off of life support he started to show weak signs of brain activity. That was two months ago. He still has a long recovery ahead of him but he is walking, talking, and nowhere near the vegetative state he should be in. 

“There’s no other explanation but God” he says. 

He should know.

My husband also suffered severe brain trauma due to spinal meningitis before he was my husband, so, BH. He was a healthy forty-seven-year-old man in the prime of his life and then he died. Once in the emergency room, they brought him back, did a spinal tap and pronounced him ”terminal” which meant he was pumped full of Morphine and wheeled into a room to die. As luck or fate or the angels who had listened to me cry my eyes out for a good man would have it, one lone doctor decided to treat him with everything at her disposal and within 24 hours she informed his family he’d live but would most definitely be a vegetable. (Which is why we currently have a health directive.)

But after three days in a coma, my before-husband-husband woke up quoting Proust and I.M. Pei. Okay, maybe only I.M. Pei, but my point is this: He could see, hear, and speak knowledgeably about French architecture—all of the things some of us humans can do that vegetables most certainly cannot.

“He’s a scientific miracle!” They all declared.

They should know.

Here’s what I know—

The boy is right. There is no other explanation but God. I mean, come on! 

Science can’t explain EVERYTHING. They try. We listen. They have rules and stats that are true for MOST of us MOST of the time, however…

If it ain’t your time—IT AIN’T YOUR TIME! 

If your brain dies and you wake up fine, I’d say it ain’t your time. 

If a piano falls on you while you’re walking down the street eating an eclair, I’d say carbs kill, no, I’d say sorry, it was your time. 

Nothing is certain. Apparently, not even death, (let’s shoot for taxes next).

Nothing is cut and dried, black and white, end of story, that’s all she wrote. Nothing.

I believe, or rather I know, there is a special ingredient, a secret sauce of sorts, a power greater than doctors, science and statistics. 

Call it prayer, hope, a miracle, or Miracle Whip, I don’t care, just as long as you know it exists.

That’s my good news segment for you this fine morning. Now skedaddle! Go out there and make it a glorious day! (And watch out for falling pianos.)

Carry on,
xox

We killed an animal on Saturday night. We had to. It was lurking in our bedroom without having been invited.

When I say we killed it I mean my husband did.

I hate killing things.

I carry spiders outside. I insisted on catch and release of the skunks that were torturing our dog earlier this year, and I absolutely refuse to let my husband shoot the crows even though one of them barfed up the nauseatingly smelly guts of partially digested roadkill all over my car windshield the other day.

So, yeah. Even when you provoke me—I won’t kill you. Well, not intentionally. At least not until this year.

If you read this blog you know how real the struggle has been to eradicate our rat infestation. For the past year, we could give that temple in India, the one devoted to rats, a run for the title of Most Rat Infested place on Earth.

We have an exterminator on salary, we were forced to cut the gorgeous Bougainvillea on our back fence down to the nub after they ignored all of our eviction notices, and I myself chased one out of the house in a drugged up stupor (me, not the rat—long story) which was asinine because it probably had survivor sex and three weeks later—more rats!

Even our beloved housekeeper, Maria (aka The Rat Assassin) has tears tattooed on her face like murders do in prison.

It all started while I was brushing my teeth before bed on Saturday night. I tend to wander while I brush and so I saw the little fucker out of the corner of my eye at the exact same moment as our dog Ruby and my husband Raphael. They were on the bed engaged an almost inappropriate display of affection when Ruby went all meerkat. (That’s what we call it when her head shoots up at attention and she starts frantically sniffing the air.)

“Uh oh,” I heard my husband utter as the three of us simultaneously spotted the rat running along the wall across from the bed. Does anyone else here feel like “Uh oh” is the understatement of the year when you discover a rat had taken up residence in your bedroom—at ten o’clock at night?

“Awwwww, fuck!” I yelled, spitting toothpaste everywhere. (A much more appropriate response, don’t you think?)
“How did he get in?
How long has he been in here?
Where has he been hiding?
OH shit! Do you think he’s been living under the BED?”

My husband wasn’t even listening. He was up getting a weapon.
I ran to spit and rinse. Then I dashed out of the room shutting the door behind me to keep the rat bastard contained…IN MY BEDROOM!

A grenade, I thought. I have to find a grenade. If that rat has been living under my bed well…maybe napalm. Clearly, we have to napalm the place and start over. Duh.

Ruby and I cowered, she outside and me in a dark hallway while my brave and heroic husband did broom battle with the rat. We could hear it and I have to tell you despite what you’re thinking—it actually sounded like a fair fight. When we timidly tiptoed back inside after being given the all clear, we were both traumatized—pale and shaky.

Even my husband who has put many a dying animal out its misery was affected. “I killed an animal tonight,” he said. He doesn’t usually say shit like that. It was weighing on him.

As I saged every freakin’ corner of that room to dispel the dead animal juju, so I could merely entertain the idea of sleep—I wondered why in the hell animals put us in such a horrible position?

I remembered hitting a squirrel after it froze and then at the last-minute made the shitty, life-ending decision to run under my left rear tire. That dull thump, thump, haunted me for weeks. Once we saw a man finishing off a dear after it ran in front of his car, demoing the front end. I was even reminded of a conversation I had with a lovely woman at a party recently who was grieving the loss of their family dog who suffered from cancer and had to be put down.

Why do these animals use us as their exit strategy? It sucks. Hard.

Why do they choose to cross a highway at all? What in the name of God is so important they have to get to the other side?

Why do they cross streets in the first place? The memo that explains how deadly cars hitting soft, furry bodies can be has had decades to circulate.

Why do they linger when they’re sick? Why do they force us into making such a horrendous decision?

And why for the love of all things holy is the entire great outdoors not enough for a rat to enjoy? Why did it have to come inside—into our bedroom?

These are just a few of life’s great questions. If you have a clue I’d love to hear it.

Carry on,
xox

We are up in B.C this week. At an idyllic place called Tofino where the scenery is so splendid, it leaves me speechless (and that is not easy!). Our intention was to uplug, stroll the beach, nap & read, experience any kind of weather other than the African savannah heat that has plagued LA recently—and celebrate our sixteenth wedding anniversary.

But today is September 11th.

It’s two days after our wedding day. Just like it always was and always will be.
Just like it was back in 2001 when, as a country, we lost our innocence.
I remember that day as a collective gut punch.
Sorrow on a level I will not soon forget.

And so, no matter where we travel to celebrate love, this day will follow us; our narrative as a couple forever woven into the fabric of the heavy wet coat I put on every year around this time.

Back in 2001, I found it viscerally impossible to be happy after the morning of Sept. 11th. I went from being blissed out—to feeling sad, vulnerable and scared. It changed everything. The viscosity of the air—my understanding of life—and what if means to feel “safe”. It cast a pall over what should have been the happiest time of my life. Even today, all of these years later it tugs at me, trying to recreate that same level of loss.

I was walking on the beach this morning thinking, “It’s September eleventh. Who am I to be so happy?”

Then the voice in my head answered back, “Who are you NOT to? Life is short. Carpe Diem, Seize the day.” And I’m reminded of sixteen years ago, and my sweet, brand new husband of two days, consoling my inconsolable self. “All of those people would want us to be happy and enjoy life”, he said, trying to pull me out of the abyss. “They would if they could.”

And eventually, I believed him.

So the years have worn all of the sharp edges of sadness smooth like time has a tendency to do, turning it over and over like a pebble in a stream—transforming it into a quiet melancholy. But even that is fleeting these days. It visits only for a moment. Then, I see a dog running and smiling on the beach and happiness bubbles up from my feet and rushes to my face and I start to smile—and just at the point where in the past I would start to feel fragile, I ask myself, “Who am I to be so happy? And now myself answers loud and clear—”Who am I NOT to.”

And the circle of life continues…

Carry on,
xox

My dead friend at 9:18 am this morning: “How disappointed are you to find out that we came here to be happy?”

Me (With a mouth full of toothpaste): Whaaa…disappointed? What?

DF: Just be quiet and listen.

“LIFE.”

It’s not a business trip where all you do is work, work, work.

It’s not a prison for idiots and bad people.

It’s not a series of problems that need to be fixed.

It’s not a tourist destination where all you do is take pictures and leave.

It’s not a planet in peril that needs to be saved.

Contrary to some beliefs it’s not a schoolroom with a huge test at the end.

This beautiful blue planet was created for our enjoyment. Every animal, plant, rock and grain of sand is here to add to the fun.

Quit taking it all so damn seriously! Live life. Have fun. Be happy.

Me: That’s it?  Are you going without wishing me a happy weekend?

DF: Jeez. I think that goes without saying.

Carry on,
xox