Is Sentiment Genetic?
My daughter recently moved … again. That’s an essay in itself, but I’m still recovering from the ordeal.
Anyway, in the process, I was advising her to start letting go of some things she was holding on to. Moving is a great time to purge, and boy, do I love a purge.
She was going through her card container. I remember moving this a year ago. It is one of those plastic under-the-bed containers that needs two people to move because of the weight. All cards, some going back to her baptism, 33 years ago!
I suggested that this time around, she should go through the container to see if it could be lightened up a bit.
As she was going through the mountain of memories, she found a $ 100 bill in a birthday card from her aunt celebrating her 28th birthday. Okay, did this come at a good time with moving expenses, yes. Did it add to her argument for holding on to cards? Also, a yes.
One thing this did was spark my interest in going through some much smaller containers of my own. Apparently, the guilt of throwing away cards is genetic. Who knew?
I realized I had sympathy cards from the passing of my father 30-plus years ago. I read through them and was pleasantly surprised by some of the senders who haven’t been part of my life for decades. I read them one last time, gave them a quiet farewell, and purged.
Next came birthday cards, ones that made me laugh, brought tears to my eyes, and left me with a full heart. I’ll admit, some of those had to stay. I’m not quite ready to let go of my mother’s handwriting… or the love within it just yet.
As I sorted through the memories, I found myself thinking about the importance of the written word. I know so many people who no longer send cards because of the cost or because, as they say, “I’m just not into cards.” Fair enough. I can understand both, right up until that little voice in my head whispers, I’m not worth a stamp once a year?
But then I remembered what I had just been holding in my hands. What gets lost in those thoughts is the sentiment, the memories, and the tangible evidence that someone existed, that they loved you, and that, for a moment, they stopped what they were doing and put it into words.
I also have a container of cards from someone I never met in person, but who has been part of my world for over a decade. A fellow blogger who appreciates a good card, the written word, and the U.S. Post Office, like me.
As I sat on the floor reading those messages, I was reminded just how much human connection matters.
In a world where texting and disappearing messages have become”normal,” the power of holding a piece of someone’s thoughtfulness in your hands is profound. A card or a letter is so much more than paper and ink; it’s proof that someone took time from their day to say, “I’m thinking of you. I remember you. You matter.
I’ll never second guess sending a written note again.
No wonder my daughter has a hard time throwing these things away. It’s a wonderful notion to remember how much someone, especially those who are no longer physically here, loved you enough to leave a piece of themselves behind.
Looks like we’re not saving cards, we’re saving the love inside them, and somehow the weight of that container feels different now.
Enjoy the Ride!
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Love Wrapped in a Rotisserie Chicken
Mother’s Day, what can I say? A lot.
This is the third Mother’s Day weekend I’ve spent moving myself or one of my offspring since losing my mother. This is it? My mother crosses over to the other side, and suddenly, I’m in the moving business at 60? Something about that feels deeply unfair.
First of all, no one, absolutely no one, should have to help move themselves or anyone else after the age of 35. Frankly, since our government seems to be operating in full rogue mode anyway, maybe they could make that a law.
Aside from a very sore ankle, two long days of schlepping and driving, I did receive beautiful flowers, an all-paid-for facial, and a homemade card from my grandbabies featuring black scribbles and a butterfly sticker, so it wasn’t a total disaster.
After arriving home from what felt like a tour of duty, my sweet neighbor stopped by with a gift. Diane is recently widowed and has become someone I’d truly call a friend. She’s in her early 80s and full of spunk. My favorite expression of hers is “what a dope,” which she uses to describe everything from people driving too fast to starting wars. There’s no middle ground with Diane.
Diane did not have human children, but she is the mother of her four-legged companion, Timothy. Yes, he is referred to by his legal name, and if you met him, you would know exactly why.
Back to my gift.
I can honestly say that this gift was unexpected and priceless. My husband brings in a bag from Fresh Market, a grocery store nearby, and says, “This is from Diane, it’s for Mother’s Day, she said it’s something Buddy (her husband) enjoyed, and it made dinner easy one night a week.”
First of all, how thoughtful was that?
I open the bag to find a rotisserie chicken and a local paper with fun things to do in the area.
I’m not going to lie, I had to pause as I pondered my gift. Honestly, it was perfect!
Conclusion: Keep your diamonds, and give me a rosterrserie chicken any day of the week.
Maybe this is what Mother’s Day looks like at this stage of my life. It’s actually what I’ve always wanted, to be seen. About someone recognizing that, after two days of physical labor and a sore ankle, the greatest luxury in the world was not having to figure out dinner.
So no, this Mother’s Day wasn’t the most glamorous; it was exhausting, funny, a little achy, and unexpectedly sweet.
Somewhere between the black scribbles on my homemade card, to Diane calling the world “dopes”, and a warm rotisserie chicken, I realized something important:
Love is rarely wrapped in diamonds. Sometimes it comes in a grocery bag from Fresh Market.
Happy Mother’s Day.
Enjoy the Ride!
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Finding My Way Back To The Table
A group of people who only see each other on special occasions, or on social media, sit around a table for a holiday meal, each one quietly dragging in their childhood trauma like a plus-one. Is this the start of a bad joke, or simply what we’ve all agreed to call “the holidays”?
For decades, I hosted those holidays. I opened my door to everyone: roommates, significant others we never saw again, in-laws, outlaws, and anyone who needed a place to land. Then life did what it does best: it shifted. Everything familiar stretched, cracked, or disappeared altogether.
There were cross-country moves. There was death. There was a divorce. There was a pandemic. And then came the ultimate blow: the glue of the family had the audacity to die. And if your family has a “glue” too, you already know what happened next. Ours is far from the only one that unravelled once the person holding it all together moved on to greener pastures. It’s one of those realities, like menopause, that most people tiptoe around, even though it hits so many of us right in the center of our lives.
So here I am, approaching year five without the glue, still trying to navigate this new version of the holidays while doing my best to keep the connections intact. We’ve gone from everyone reliably gathering under one roof to everyone growing in different directions, at different speeds, with different needs.
My little family of four is now a family of seven spread across multiple states, with a daughter-in-law who brings her own blended family into the mix, plus two grandchildren. It’s been a lot to adjust to in a short span of time. It’s different. But it’s ours, messy, evolving, still figuring out its shape, and slowly, in its imperfect way, becoming a new kind of whole.
Each year, we get a little better at it—at redefining what togetherness looks like, at making the holidays our own, at seeing the beauty in the newness instead of mourning what used to be. And the upside? Fewer dishes to wash. Sometimes the small mercies carry more weight than they should. In this case, they go a surprisingly long way.
Love the ones around you this season. Enjoy the Ride!
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Be Kind To Everyone: 1926-2020
Well, it’s been quite interesting around these parts over the past few months. The original story is one that no one wants to hear while scrolling through their reader. And lord knows I don’t want to relive it.
The short version is my mother was in the hospital for 10 days with a flare of ulcerative colitis, Covid went through the roof in Pennsylvania, we refused rehab and converted my family room into a replica of mom’s apartment in 2 days so she could move in with us. Honestly, it’s still a blur.
That was back on November 18th, which seems like both 5 years and 5 minutes ago. For the record, let me be clear that I am not a nurse, nor do I exhibit the skills to provide medical services due to my large hands and not knowing my own strength. Trust me.
Mom was over the moon about moving into our abode for many reasons, but mainly to be around family, her family, which was the most essential part of her long life. As a Great Depression orphan, her family was important.
Let’s say mom crossed the threshold into her new digs with a bang or a Code Brown. Use your imaginations, folks. This led to a complete strip down, shower, and both of us feeling like maybe this was one of those ideas that looked great on paper, but the reality sucked—sort of like that 30 foot Homer Simpson Christmas decoration.
Once she was settled and my assistant, Nurse Peanut, greeted her with open paws, we had time to discuss, laugh, and cry about that grand entrance. We were both imagining more of a Scarlet O’Hara strolling down the staircase kind of moment. If nothing else, it was memorable.
Ok, that was Wednesday evening; by the time a REAL nurse arrived on Sunday, I looked like the 94-year-old patient! The bags under my eyes highlighted the dark circles nicely.
Meanwhile, my mom looked like a movie star! She was showered and dressed with her hair, nails, brows looking fab, and any unruly chin hairs removed. Just my two cents, if you’re in the position of caring for an elderly parent, the better they look, the less help you’ll get. Disheveled is the way to go.
If I heard it once, I heard it a million times, “your mom looks great; she’s not sick enough for more help.” Were you ever so tired that you wanted to knock someone out, tie them to a chair, and force them to step into your shoes for a night? Asking for a friend.
We entered week two, a/k/a hell on earth, with a whole new bag of crazy. I gained another patient in the house. Officially declaring myself an RN working 24/7 shifts with no pay.
While mom was downstairs having everything that went in her mouth come out the other end and insisting on eating because she was hungry, my husband was locked in our bedroom coughing up a lung with, you guessed it, COVID! Oh, you can say it, I’ll even join you. NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
Just when you think things could not possibly get worse, at mom’s request, I made a homemade apple cake because she was craving something sweet. The aroma of this cake makes the house smell delicious, and lord knows with all of the other odors going on, it would be more than welcome. Just one of the many, OH SHIT, no pun intended, moments that followed.
I’m not gonna lie; losing my sense of smell was welcomed for what transpired over the following few days. Can you say a blessing in disguise?
The husband started feeling better, my symptoms stopped at no taste or smell, but mom’s condition was getting worse. FINALLY, she was “sick enough” to get hospice services. They arrived on Tuesday dressed like they were stepping onto the moon due to the COVID colony known as my home.
Wednesday was the last day that I was able to talk to mom. Her last sentiment was, “be kind to everyone, no matter what, this world needs kindness.” Truth!
Mom passed on Friday, December 4, 2020, with me and my husband by her side. Hopefully, at some point, after COVID, we will be able to celebrate the Queen of our family and her life well lived.
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The Honeymoon
As most of you know I work in the medical field, on the administrative side, not the actual healing side. Trust me, this is a blessing for all of us.
Although, I must say, after 15 years I do believe I could include therapist to my resume without an ounce of guilt.
I say this because, for whatever reason, some patients walk in the door with an agenda to unload. I’m not sure if it’s the glass window, my face or loneliness, but whatever the case may be, the stories just spill into the room. Some good, others require earplugs.
Don’t get me wrong this can be a blessing or a curse depending on the schedule. There are days when I have to take things with a grain of salt, and then there are days when a gem like the one I’m about to share falls right into my lap and heart. It’s like hitting an emotional lottery.
George and Pauline are longtime patients. They are both in their 90’s, with Pauline being 8 years older. Yes, Pauline is pushing 100.
They are both brilliant, highly educated, interesting, frisky and funny as hell! The full package.
Unfortunately for everyone, Pauline can no longer come into the office, but thank goodness George comes regularly.
On Thursday, when George was making his next appointment I inquired about Pauline and he said “the honeymoon isn’t over” and I smiled. This is when he spilled to this GEM all over my desk. Hmm … I hope I scheduled his next appointment.
One month after we were married Pauline was in the kitchen when I was heading out for a morning run. I yelled from the door “Pauline, I’ll be back I’m going for a run” and she replied, “hurry back and I’ll make it worth your while” The honeymoon wasn’t over. At this point, George is sporting a huge grin.
He continues to tell me that he hadn’t thought about that moment in a very long time, but today as he was leaving to come to this appointment, Pauline was settled in with her aide when he yelled into the room “Pauline, I’m going to see the doctor, I’ll be back shortly” and without missing a beat she replied, “hurry back and I’ll make it worth your while” As I was staring at George I noticed he was still wearing that big grin, but his eyes were welling up when he leaned in and said: “Looks like the honeymoon isn’t over yet.”
Honestly, folks, it doesn’t get much better than that now does it? Enjoy the Ride!
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Suddenly Is Sneaky Daily Prompt: Suddenly
Me & Mom 1968
The word suddenly indeed takes center stage with what is on my mind. Friday, like every Friday, is spent with my mom. Due to the nor’easter that hit the east coast this week, we decided to ditch our outside plans. Mother Nature had another idea for me.
Our usual Friday consists of errands. Bank, bakery, Trader Joe’s, and Whole Foods, which means we are in and out of the car a lot. Well, I am. At 91 getting in and out of a vehicle is not an easy task, now add Macular degeneration to the mix, and it’s downright difficult. Not that this stops mom from giving it her best, but knowing her limits.
So, with our change in plans, I was able to spend some quality one-on-one outside of the car. This is where the magic happened.
Suddenly I felt our roles had reversed. Not that V hasn’t given me the opportunity to play worried mother with her in the past. Like the time she didn’t answer her phone, did not let my sisters where she was going or me, which led us to frantically drive to her apartment only to see her laughing around a table with her friends. We all looked surprised as she asked: “what are you doing here?”
My NERVES!
Macular degeneration is something that little by little, but suddenly leaves you without full use of your eyes, something that has taken a toll on my mom physically & mentally. Just imagine having your independence pulled out from under your feet.
Now, my once never asking for help independent mother before it was fashionable, suddenly has to have her daughters read her mail. Along with everything else in print.
After reading the mail on Friday, I had the pleasure of reading a letter to my mom. Not just any letter, a letter from a friend, who just happens to be an avid reader and recently read an incredible book about Jackie O., her sister Lee and mother Janet. Knowing my mom shares the same love for Jackie O, she created a CliffsNotes version for me to share. The highlight of the day!
Over the next few hours, we not only discussed the story in the letter, but it also opened the door to discuss all sorts of subjects, including, but not limited to the fact that very wealthy people are weird. Money does not prevent weirdness, but it can pay someone to brush it under the rug.
My mom insisted on making my lunch. Considering cooking and serving are the two things she can do independently I said yes. What was on the menu you ask? A grilled cheese cut into four squares, veggie chips, and applesauce. Suddenly, feeling five years old again felt terrific!
As we were eating my mom suddenly got serious. Not the norm. Mom began explaining to me that she has been having more bad days than good ones, along with a lecture on the fact that people shouldn’t live this long. What?!
I’m not naive. I understand that at 91 life has an expiration date, but for whatever reason, it suddenly became very evident. Maybe there was something in the cheese?
Suddenly I realized that my days of eating grilled cheese cut into four squares are limited.
Suddenly I realized the promise I made to marry my mom when I was 3 was not going to be fulfilled.
Suddenly I realized that my daily phone chats on the way home from work won’t be around forever.
Suddenly I realized I’m not young anymore and neither is the one person in this world who loves me the most.
Suddenly has a way a sneaking up on you, so make sure you Enjoy the Ride!
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Lone Cheetos
I recently wrote about three of patients, that in spite of their age, are living vital active lives and they aren’t afraid to share their wisdom amongst the masses on the importance of doing just that. When Harry, Norman & Robert Met Lisa
The jury is still out on what has been happening since that essay. Is it coincidence, a conspiracy, my vivid imagination? Or all of the above.
While food shopping, a clerk who has never uttered a single word to me before, suddenly starts discussing the downside of growing older …. with ME …. as if we were one. My cart was not filled with adult diapers so back it up lady.
Just when I thought I was safe, my neighbor approaches to strike up a conversation about bones. Pointing out how “our” bones aren’t the same when “we” get older. My bones are cool thank you very much.
It’s now obvious to me that once the post office realizes you’ve turned the big 50, your regular mailman is replaced with the Grim Reaper. When death starts to moonlight … I can’t.
The amount of geriatric mail that enters my mailbox is ridiculous. Yesterday I received a pamphlet from the Sunny Hill Crematory. Seriously now! I’ll assume the Victoria Secret catalogs are now being placed in those younger, more attractive mailboxes down the street.
Not me!
AARP has literally hijacked my mailbox with their paraphernalia. The amount of literature is equal to political ads. I’m only 2 years in bitch, save your stamps!
Back in the day the Grim Reaper kept his distance, giving nature a chance to take its course. Sooooo …. WTF happened? Why the constant notification? What’s the rush to the grave?
To put this in perspective, at my current age, my parents were working, functioning adults with active lives. My dad was 57 when I was born for god sakes, so I wasn’t even thought of when he was 52. Let that fester for a minute AARP!
It’s as if society is pushing us closer to the cliffs edge to make room for the newer improved models. We’re not cell phones, so calm your jets!
No one is spared really. I see this rush is across the board. While adults are being pushed into the grave at 50, the poor 10 year olds are being thrown into adulthood. I was basically in a playpen at 10 compared to kids today.
I know, I know, I must sound very geriatric right now comparing generations, but it’s more than a “back when I was a kid” comparison. I’m not that girl … I’m really not.
It’s just that when it comes to aging, society has become an aggressive seagull and I’m starting to feel like a lone Cheeto waiting to be swiped up by its talons. Back it up!
Don’t get me wrong, my inner geriatric has raised its snow-capped head for brief appearances, but I’m still young enough to shove it right back in the closet. Hey, those skeletons need some company.
I’m not trying to be a teenager here folks, I’m just trying to age gracefully while I continue to … Enjoy the Ride!
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When Harry, Norman & Robert Met Lisa
Three wise men walked into a Podiatrist office. No, this is not the beginning of a joke about aging feet, it’s the story of one of the best days I’ve had at work in a long time.
Let me introduce you to Harry, Norman & Robert. Three interesting, intelligent and inspiring men who walked into the office, dropped some wisdom and went about their day.
Harry -83 years young: Harry is a recent surgery patient with a wonderful sense of humor.
When he came in for his first post-op appointment he said, and I quote: “I want to thank Lisa for answering all of my questions, she is a fountain of knowledge.” I asked him to call my children to inform them of that fact, he thought I was kidding … I was not.
Believe it or not, the accurate conclusion that Harry made about me was not what captured my heart. But, it certainly didn’t hurt.
Harry told me that he volunteers in a first-grade classroom, and has been doing it for years. He was so happy that the teacher had the class send him Get Well wishes after his surgery, but there was a catch, they had to include a joke. Laughter is the best medicine.
This gesture filled Harry’s heart. He told me that he enjoys volunteering in the First Grade classroom because it gives him the joy to see these children enter the door not certain what to expect and leave with confidence.
He went on to explain that he has a special bond with this teacher. Harry lost his son years ago in November, just when this teacher was getting married. One young life ending as one began.
Shortly after the teacher was married she found out she was expecting and 3 months into the pregnancy her new husband died suddenly. Grief, let me introduce you to grief.
Their losses brought them together and they are wonderful friends who helped each other heal. He’s been volunteering ever since.
83 years old, still thinking, still living and still making a mark in this world.
Norman-86 years young: He came to us a few months ago via his family doctor, which is never good, and let’s just say that “the little piggy that went to the market” never came back.
When he called the other day he was very nervous that “the little piggy that stayed home” was on its way out too so we made room on the schedule. Podiatry office humor.
Norman came in as if he was the guest of honor at a celebration, not someone with a potential gangrenous toe.
He was wearing a Villanova cap to “make the doctor happy” since his daughter is a student and it was the day of the championship game. Well played Norman, well-played indeed.
Norman was excited to reveal he had recently written a paper on aging. When I took him to the exam room I had to inquire about the paper. I was very curious.
I was thinking he wrote it for the AARP magazine. Nope, he said, “I wrote it for my family, I want them to know how quickly it comes up on you.” A warning of sorts.
The title of the paper is “Getting Old Is Not For Sissies.” Norman told me he stole that line from Bette Davis, an actress I wouldn’t know because, and I quote “you’re too young to remember her.” He had me at “too young.”
Norman still can’t believe he is 86. He doesn’t recognize the person in the mirror. Still has a lot to share with this world. Has an incredible sense of humor, and wants nothing more than for his family to be happy.
Norman is going to drop off a copy of the paper for me to read. No worries, I will share.
Robert-91 years young: Robert came in for a routine appointment. As soon as he came to the window he showed my co-worker a photo of him and his wife from 1941. They looked like movie stars.
Robert is a tall man, but frail. No doubt more so since he lost the love of his life. He told my co-worker a story that left them both with watery eyes.
Later I asked her about it and of course, I too was left with watery eyes. We’re so sappy sometimes.
Robert explained that he and his wife were sitting at the kitchen table and she asked: “How long have we been married?” Robert responded with “65 years dear.” Her response was “I have not regretted one day in 65 years.” Robert explained that even though she is gone, he is still stunned by her words. He is a walking, talking broken heart.
I was also taken back by my co-worker’s response to Robert which was “It was nice to be able to hear that Robert.” Indeed, it was.
I must say, it was a pleasure to pick-up these three men while I … Enjoy the Ride!
Life With The Top Down 
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