500 Blog Entries and Pushing Forward

For anyone who likes statistics, my last blog entry was the 500^th one that I’ve written since becoming a widow four years ago. I don’t know how to feel about that. On one hand, it's hard to be proud of something that came about because of my husband's death but on the other hand, it feels like I’ve reached a cake-and-candles worthy benchmark. Either way, this blog and the caregiver blog I kept while Don was alive both helped to keep me sane when my world was flipped off its axis. Both helped me find my sense of humor again while forging my way through some difficult challenges. And both blogs gave me a sense of purpose, that I might be helping others by exposing my journey to other caregivers or widows who could identify with its ups and downs.

Caregivers and widows have a lot in common, but society seems to judge widows with a harsher eye. With caregivers, others can see the on-going stresses and the changes in life-style and they’re often looked upon as “angels” who buck it up and do what needs to be done. But with widows others look at a calendar and at varying points along its timeline they will send out silent messages that seem to say, “Get over it, already!” Caregivers and widows both tend to feel isolated and feelings of fear, regrets and longings are kept increasingly closer to the vest. For me, being a diary keeper since I was ten, it’s second nature to unpack those feelings in a blog like this. I write mostly for myself, but I'm grateful that people have found it worth reading here from time to time, giving this blog over 224,600 unique views since I started it. For statistics junkies, like me, that averages out to about 450 views per blog entry and viewers have come from eleven countries including 6,038 from Russia of all places. I try to write around 800 words per blog which equals about 400,000 words written in this blog. The most read blog entry---a letter to my deceased husband---has 7,041 views and hopefully Don got to see it, too, where ever he is in the Great Unknown. 

Now on to my daily grind. This week my Red Hat Society Chapter went to our adopted nursing home where we make residents, who were interested, into honorary members of our group---we do a total of four events there per year plus send bags of goodies over on three holidays. Wednesday we served cookies and punch to thirty women and five guys and helped them all hot glue bling onto red visors. A few ladies were disappointed that we didn’t have bingo on the agenda this time. What is it about bingo that seems to go hand-in-hand with aging? With this group, it could be the prizes we hand out. We roll out a cart full perfumes, body creams, socks, books, etc. and it takes the winners forever to pick out their prizes. It would be fun to sneak a pair of sexy, red lace panties in with the other prizes and see what happens, but the World of Proper Decorum can be glad my actions rarely follow behind my mischievous thoughts. 

Honestly, though, it’s a good thing my chapter sisters all wear red hats when we go to the nursing home because it’s getting increasingly harder to tell us from the residents. Four of the ten of us who showed up were using canes and two couldn’t stand long enough to do much besides give moral support to those of us serving and interacting with the residents. And guess what, I finally graduated up to working at the glue gun station. Well, sort of---I only got to glue a few bouquets onto visors near the end. But that’s okay. After working twenty years in the floral industry, I don’t enjoy creativity by committee. As others debated if this flower or that one should go here or there I resisted the temptation to flaunt my two floral design school diplomas to get them to do it my way. But I didn’t do it because being right isn't as important as keeping peace in the valley and letting diplomacy be the star of the show. Mostly, I helped residents pick out their bling and ran it back to the glue station for someone else to marry it to a visor.

I’ll be the first to admit I’m never enthusiastic about going to our adopted nursing home, but my better self always shows up when I walk through the doors. I do my best to make eye contact with the residents I come in contact with and to show genuine interest in what they’re trying to say. One old guy, for example, wanted to talk about the fiddle he used to play and I told him it’s my favorite instrument to listen to. When Don and I first started dating we went to a lot of bluegrass festivals and my honorary Red Hat guy had played at a few of the venues I named. Who would have ever guessed that finding some foam rubber musical notes to hot glue onto a visor could evoke good memories for two passing strangers? But along with the good memories a hint of sadness followed. We could see it in each others eyes. And that’s why after writing 500 blog entries I still may have something to share. My memories of the past, the accomplishments of my present and my dreams for the future still come filtered through a lens known as widowhood. ©

The Devil Made me do it and Other Stuff

Monday was a Red Letter day for Levi. He got a long overdue walk followed by an afternoon at the doggie foo-foo beautify parlor where he was greeted by a giant-but-gentle pit bull. She belongs to the owner of the shop so she’s always there to offer a butt sniff to the clients---human and canine alike. It’s a busy shop with five groomers, a shampoo person and someone manning check ins and outs. Levi’s groomer is a guy in his mid-forties, he’s the Schnauzer specialist and owner of the shop. Levi loves him and that feeling is mutual but from my point of view, a forty-eight dollar haircut and a bath ought to come with a heavy dose of love. There are cheaper places around but I’d rather save money somewhere else like skipping professional pedicures. I don’t have the patience, lately, to have someone play with my toes or to listen to a random woman in the next chair spend ten minutes deciding on the color polish she wants. Just pick one, already! Of course, no one had better say the same to me about taking forever to find the exact shade of gray I want in an oriental rug for my bathroom. That’s different, says the widow who has suspended doing “girlie-girl” stuff until further notice.

I don’t mean to imply that my widowhood has anything to do with my lack of enthusiasm for girlie-girl prep-time. It doesn’t. My newest theory (read that as newest excuse) is there should be only one primped-and-pampered person per household and Levi gets that title here on Widowhood Street and judging by Levi’s excitement greeting the groomer it’s clear he thinks his beauty routine is worth every penny. Now, if pedicures came with a heavy dose of sweet-talk, kisses and petting from a hunky guy I’d probably break the one-per-household rule and hop right into a pedicure tub with the same enthusiasm that Levi shows when we pull up in front of the foo-foo beauty parlor. Did I mention the groomer calls me ‘Honey’? I don’t know why. It doesn’t sound patronizing coming from his lips. It’s not because he doesn’t remember my name; he also calls me ‘Jeanie’ which I find endearing because so many people called me that when I was growing up.

On Groundhog’s Day I attended a Mexican Fiesta/luncheon at the senior hall. It was different than our normal luncheons. This one was sponsored and planned by a local senior living facility and they spared no expense. They brought in truly great food and virgin margaritas and for entertainment they hired a three piece band from the local Council for Cultural Exchange. They played calypso/ Caribbean Music---but not modern versions. It was the historical beats and rhythms the African slaves brought with them to the Caribbean that got mixed with the instruments used by the indigenous people. It was a repetitive and “happy” beat meant to keep the slaves working at a good pace. The trio made up a “song” on the fly from three words said by an audience member to demonstrate how it was done on the sugar cane plantations. The songs of that era had just a few words repeated over and over again so that they required no thinking and evoked no longings. There was a dance demonstration of how the slaves were allowed to celebrate at the end of the work day. I’ve seen that dance somewhere before and it does look like a celebration but I never would have guessed its origins. 

I was in a mischievous mood at the luncheon so I mentioned that I stayed up late the night before to watch the Iowa Caucus coverage. That’s all it took for several of the ladies at the table to spit nails and venom at Hillary. And that's all it took for someone else to declare Ted Cruz will be the next president and for several others to argue that Bernie is too old to hold the office. It amused the heck out of me that at a table full of old people Bernie, at 74, was deemed too old. “Why would anyone want to vote for an old man like that?” someone asked. ” I wanted to answer, “Ask someone under thirty. That’s his demographic” but I behaved myself and sat there with my sociologist’s hat firmly in place, not saying a single word after confessing to why I was sleep deprived. Observe and record but don’t become part of the study. Ah, I’m good at doing that. It was fascinating that one of the nicest ladies I know from the senior hall and one of the nastiest ladies were both animated in their hatred of Hillary, trying to out do each other with their tales of Hillary’s wows and Bill’s hoes. I knew before I brought up the topic of politics that a discussion could turn out like it did. I live in a tomato red state in a crimson red county but, like I said, I was in a “mood” to be a lightning rod, hoping to get the sparks I got. It was my way of celebrating the way the 2016 Iowa Caucus turned out. ©