Holy Moly

Nearly a year ago, a new mole appeared in the small of my back and even with two mirrors, I couldn't get a good look at it so I finally went to see my dermatologist. To be precise, I went to the office of my dermatologist, whom I have not actually seen in years except in passing as he spends most of his time performing expensive cosmetic procedures while those with unexciting medical issues are relegated to his Physician's Assistant. I have never had a problem with that as she was a lovely young woman who did my yearly skin cancer check and always had time to answer questions.

Unfortunately (for me) she recently married and moved to the east coast so I saw her replacement, a young, good looking man who seemed to have more important things to do. He quickly appraised my new mole, pronounced it harmless and managed to call me "honey," "dear" and "sweetheart" several times in the five minutes he spent with me. I also asked him if an itchy, bleeding rash on both arms was eczema and he said it was, and that I must not be applying body lotion very often. Guilty as charged.  He didn't offer to do my yearly checkup which was a relief because I didn't want to bare my body to him anyway.

I had noticed that the waiting room was full of elderly people as well as a couple of women probably there for Botox in their facelifts, and wondered if Wednesday was Over-60 Day. Do older women like to be called endearments by brash young men they don't know? Does it make them feel young, attractive and flirtatious again? Well, I do not. To say it rings of insincerity does not do it justice -- it clangs. It feels demeaning and condescending. I am not stuffy enough to demand that he address me as Mrs. P_, but my first name will do fine. It should be noted that if I do not introduce myself as "Honey" or "Sweetheart," I do not want to be called such things. What's next, Honey Boo Boo Second Childhood? I think the crux of my displeasure is my suspicion that I'm being lumped together with those REALLY old patients, and that if I were still young he would not call me such things because it would be sexual harassment. Do they assume that a woman past sixty is also beyond having a sexual identity? Or do they merely believe that we are all so silly and starved for attention that we welcome it in any form?

I am looking for a new dermatologist. Dr. X is impressive, but if I am not going to see him personally because my needs are medical, not cosmetic (which pays more, cash on the barrelhead,) I may as well find someone whose staff practices respect. I considered whether I might be finding fault because I'm disappointed that the PA's predecessor is gone but decided I do, indeed, have a legitimate complaint. I thought of mentioning my concerns to the doctor, but that would be awkward if I saw his assistant again. Also, I think the doctor himself has addressed me by endearments in the past, but in his case it seemed to be a sign of genuine affection. Maybe he's a better actor. And he's older. But I've always had the feeling that we liked each other, and he made a point of seeing Flip personally long after I was passed on to his former PA, so I cut him slack. Perhaps the new assistant is modeling himself after his boss and mentor, but he has not earned the right to such familiarity. Maybe I'm making mountains out of molehills, but if I'm uncomfortable and do nothing about it, I am conspiring to be treated without respect. And that is never good for anyone. We teach others how to treat us by what we will or won't tolerate, and if we are paying attention they return the favor. It's kind of like having a manual. Or a personal Bill of Rights.

I am still brooding, however.

Beauty School Dropout

I joined a grief support group given by the hospice organization which tended Flip in his last months. It consists of several women who have lost their elderly mothers and me. I know that grief is grief and cannot be compared but with all respect, it is different to lose your life's partner and best friend who was relatively young; a parent, no matter how beloved, presumably lived a full life which ended in her 90s. One of the women had a minor psychotic break because her church, the one in which we hold our meetings, forgot to mention her mother on All Saints' Day. She has mentioned her female partner many times and I wonder how she can pledge allegiance to a church which is at war with homosexuals. Of course, I can't ask.

This week a new woman joined the group and confided that she recently attempted suicide. She was laughing inappropriately, which I think is usually a sign of desperation, and I have spent many hours worrying about her and trying to think of ways to help her. i also believe that her issues are beyond the scope of a support group. Hospice asks that we commit to the entire series of six weekly meetings, but I am seriously considering dropping out because I believe this concern is impeding my own healing process. We signed a pledge agreeing not to discuss anything that occurs in the meetings with anyone, even privately with other members of the group. What happens in St. Agnes stays in St. Agnes. It isn't a lack of empathy but perhaps, that I have too much empathy which makes me uncomfortable. I left a voice mail for the facilitator explaining that I don't think I'm a good fit although everyone is very nice and she is doing a great job. She is a young family therapy intern, kind and caring, but I think she is over her head with a suicidal group member. I hope she is getting advice from her supervisor.

I wonder if I might be a sociopath who lacks normal emotions because when my mother died I cried a lot but stopped soon after her funeral. It never occurred to me to seek a support group or needless to say, kill myself. While I am not sure I could survive the loss of any of my children, we expect to outlive our parents. That is the natural order of things. I hope my children will miss me when I'm gone but not to the extent that it interferes with their lives.

The bottom line is that if the support group is making things worse, I should quit. If it were merely not helping, I would give it more time, but it feels detrimental to my emotional health. Maybe I am simply too much of a loner to benefit from this kind of therapy and might do better to spend a few hours walking on the ecology trail Flip loved, or riding my bicycle to places we visited. Listening to his music hurts but helps, too. For whatever reason, the group experience doesn't seem to be working for me.

My mother once made a bargello wall hanging of a flock of white sheep facing one way, a lone black sheep facing the other. "That's you," she said, "You're the black sheep." I was hurt and discarded her gift as soon as she left. Now I think she was just stating that our true nature cannot be changed. But with all the changes in my life, I don't have the energy or inclination to change myself. Even if it were possible. Flip's illness has been a solo voyage from the beginning. I guess there is something to be said for consistency.

Changes

 

As if I needed further lessons in impermanence, today I visited the picnic area I have reserved for Flip's celebration of life memorial and found several very old, huge trees had been cut down, as well as all the foliage that provided a natural barrier at the edge of the slope leading to San Francisco Bay. It looks like a deforestation project. The incomparable beauty of the site has been destroyed, and I can't imagine why anyone would do that as the tree stumps do not look diseased, and they helped to hold the hill in place. Surely erosion will soon follow. If I had known, I would have selected another spot for the gathering.

Since I resist believing in a random universe, it is necessary to examine events which seem significant in order to discover their meaning. Obviously the loss of Flip is far greater than the loss of some trees, however magnificent they were. But that was never lost on me. And yes, I do realize that everything that happens is not about me. But when they happen so close to home, both geographically and emotionally, I have to take notice.

The Rolling Stones' song, "You Can't Always Get What You Want" comes to mind here, as it has so often the last few years. But we already knew that. We needn't belabor it, certainly. I could get mystical and imagine that Flip is expressing his displeasure at being commemorated there, but I'm sure he is far more displeased to be dead. And he liked that spot as much as I did. Plus, he would never cut down a majestic tree or mess with a gorgeous view. So it's mystifying that this lovely spot has been desecrated the very week I need it for an event which means a lot to me.

Maybe that's the key. The event is not important compared to what it concerns. That is not lost on me either. Apparently I am to understand that I cannot control anything, really. Not life nor death, and must view the world and everything in it as if it might be gone tomorrow and I will never see it again. Now that is something that with practice, I might be able to manage.

Witness

I am your witness,
Attending your demise.
I watch your chest move,
Momentarily relieved.
Not yet,
Not yet.

How many breaths do you have left, my love?

Do you stay
To shield me from your loss?
Can you feel my care,
Drifting toward eternity
Beyond us now?
Beyond us now.

How many breaths do you have left, my love?

Our lives so tangled
I cannot tell where you end
And I begin.
Who am I if there is no we?
You and me,
You and me.

How many breaths do you have left, my love?

We share everything.
Look! I have life force enough
For both of us.
I can sustain you if you just
Stay with me.
Stay with me.

How many breaths do you have left, my love?

(This was written yesterday.)

My Flip took his last breath this morning. Right now I cannot imagine my life without him, but I will have to find a way because I'm still here. I fear my own death less because he will protect me as he did when we swam in waters way too deep for my abilities. Flip was my safety net and my true north. Losing him feels like an amputation, but we were blessed to have found perfect love with each other and to live in beautiful harmony for 21 years. And that will have to be enough.

Pekoe

Why can't I have coffee and an almond croissant?

I lost my cat Pekoe today. He was really my daughter's cat as she raised him after finding him abandoned in a beer cooler at the beach in Santa Monica. He was too young to leave his mother so she became his mother, feeding him with an eye dropper and encouraging him to live and thrive. And thrive he did. He quickly took over her household, dominating her two older, larger cats, and captivating her heart and mine.

A little over a year ago he came to live with me, and my daughter could not have given me a sweeter gift. As I've been losing my husband an inch at a time, Pekoe has taken over my heart, filling me with love and joy. He was diabetic and had to eat and get insulin injections every twelve hours. It sounds like a chore but his schedule grounded me. I was happy to come home to him every day, and even waking up at 5:30 a.m. was not difficult although I am by nature a night person. Pekoe's chosen meal time was 5:30, morning and evening, with no adjustment for Daylight Saving Time, and he hated to dine alone so I was required to sit on the floor next to his bowls and supervise every mouthful. In return, he jumped onto the kitchen table and rested by my plate whenever I ate because fair is fair. No matter what he was doing, he would awaken at the sound of activity in the kitchen and dutifully join me at my repast, only rarely taking a swipe at something that looked yummy. There is a big empty hole in all his favorite places and in my heart tonight. I am keeping his toys where he left them so if he visits, he'll have his favorite mousies to play with. I thought I saw him out of the corner of my eye a few minutes ago. I'd like to think he is with me still.

The person who callously discarded him on that beach nine years ago will never know what a great spirit he had, or how much love he shared with us. Part of me wants to close my heart because losing a loved one is so very painful, but love is never wasted and always comes back to us in one way or another. I just wish we'd had him longer. Life is hard, with beautiful moments.

Baby Steps

When it rains it pours. I went out with two handsome men last night. I guess that's a double date, not a ménage à trois as they are a couple and I was the third wheel. Our friends Tom and Jim invited me to a Greek restaurant in my neighborhood, and it was delightful. As we walked down the street, several people took note of us. I hope they thought I was a slut and not the fraternity housemother. It would be great for my self esteem.

I had wine. White. I don't know when I last had wine. One glass does the job. I'm a cheap date. I really need to drink wine more often. I haven't allowed myself to dwell on all that I'm missing because self pity is ugly, especially when Flip is missing out on so much more. But such reasoning, followed to its logical conclusion, would prevent me from eating at all since some people are starving. Depriving myself would not help them - it would merely add to the casualty list. It could even be argued that by enjoying life as much as possible, I am helping to create balance in the world. And how could that be wrong?

I couldn't resist telling my friends that two people caring for Flip in the last few days asked if I was his daughter, and nobody could have been more surprised than I. "You look young," said Tom, "but you don't look that young." Truth, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder.

"Were you bad when you were young?" he asked. Except for some high school truancy, I wasn't. I didn't do drugs or drink to excess, and I wasn't promiscuous. What a fucking waste. But it's never too late. We reinvent ourselves every day, and the woman I am becoming is going to have more fun. Today I will buy a bottle of wine so I can enjoy it every night. Who knows where this could lead? The butterfly struggles to emerge from its cocoon, but without the struggle it could never fly. It's time to shed my cocoon and learn to fly again.

The Joys of Love

Sunrise over Bay Bridge, San Francisco, CA

I am learning happiness. Better late than never. It's not that I have never been happy before, far from it. But being happy when everything in ones life is perfect is no accomplishment. Those who can't be happy when all the signs are right are deeply flawed, I think. What I am teaching myself is that happiness does not depend on external circumstances; it grows from within. It is the result of seeing and appreciating all the beauty that surrounds us no matter where we are both in a geographical sense and in our minds and hearts, and cherishing it. Strange as it seems, I am falling in love with my life - because it is mine.

As most of you know, Flip is the love of my life and he suffers from a dreadful disease which has stolen him from himself, and from me. I visit him every day to honor who he was and the beautiful relationship we shared, and to offer him such comfort as I can. But I am still fully alive and able to enjoy all the things that gave me pleasure before I knew Flip and when we lived together. He would not want me to lose my own capacity for joy, to spend all my energy mourning his fate. Of course I do mourn it. Terribly. But I am also grateful for every smile that comes my way, for people who make me laugh, for the kindness of both strangers and loved ones. (Sometimes they are the same people.)

When I was a child I read a book called "The Story of 100 Operas." Aida was my favorite. I thought it terribly romantic that as the heroine's lover, Radamès, is sealed in his tomb, she leaps in at the last possible moment to die with him. I was eleven. My ideas of romance have evolved since then, and if I were to relinquish the things that bring me happiness, it would be like leaping into a tomb alive.

I am not a religious person but I am spiritual enough to believe there are still things for me to do for others and myself. Otherwise, I would not still be healthy and capable. As a child I didn't think I had any value, so perhaps that is why I was so willing to throw myself into another's grave in the name of love. Life has taught me that love involves helping others and that my life, like everyone's, is special and deserves to be honored by living it as fully as I can. This will not involve dancing on tables in bars (for those who wondered) but simply being fully present in every moment and trusting that even though I can't control most things, life works out as it should. For each of us. So as long as the possibility of surprise exists, I'm in.


"The joys of love are but a moment long,
The pain of love endures a whole life long."

Plaisir d'Amour