Birthday

In one week, on November 3rd, I will celebrate life at 71 years. I have never, that I recall, hoped or wished or craved anything specific as a gift. This year is so very different. I am asking that I live another year, maybe two, or five, or ten. In the morning, laying in bed, my mind becomes a cacophony of noise: goals for the day, thoughts, memories, songs.

Mike is up and working out just before the sky lightens and the birds start their daily rituals: meet at the birdfeeder, take a bath, calling their buddies in the neighborhood. All this activity is outside our open bedroom windows, so I feel included in their morning meet and greet.

Then, dark thoughts invade which force me to begin a form of prayer: let this country have peace today. Let’s get through this day without hearing anger, name calling, accusations, ugliness. I try to be optimistic for the good of my physical being. Stress is the enemy who sneaks into my psyche daily. Hatred is the prevailing theme in all our lives. We see it, hear it, feel it through the news on t.v., radio, in print. I want so much to live in peace; to resolve the current events assaulting our brains, poisoning our outlook from hopeful to downtrodden.

On my birthday, maybe I will be gifted hope. Hope that our country heals, becomes productive, we take care of each other and hate floats away never again to be a fog that permeates our lives.

Too much to ask?

Iteration, Metamorphosis

Life forces analysis.  As time passed, I adjusted my viewpoint and attitude, to reflect circumstances of each challenge.  I survived ugly times by slogging through the mud.  

I will never understand where the impetus to fight the thieves of my happiness came from.  Dealing with those who have an agenda or unseemly motives made me stronger and more resolved to be true to myself.  Not caring what others thought was my mantra. 

I believe that with each demand to my sanity, I actually grew stronger, more determined, more sane, more insightful.

Instead of repeating mistakes that caused me unhappiness on some level, I told myself that never again would I repeat “that” booboo.  So, the bottom line in my mind, was to be happy regardless. 

Not allowing others or circumstances to intrude on my mindful joy of life was my goal.  There were those who tried to disrupt my journey; telling me that I was “drama queen”, or too emotional, or too “this” or too “that”.  For a nano second, I had doubt, then through my iron resolve, I moved on discounting the negativity or personal attacks.  

Where does this demand for happiness originate?  Was it a seed in a dysfunctional childhood that grew into an iron fence – protecting me from unhappiness? Who knows – who cares.

If I look back, which I rarely do, I do not see a straight line.  I meandered, wandered, roved, fell down, scraped my knees and even broke bones. 

I am here today with many scars, physical and emotional, knowing I have morphed into a person who has been damaged yet recovered; in pain but loving my life.   

How lucky am I?

Life Aromas

Sitting on a chair bent over the clover, pulling out the invaders one handful at a time, enjoying the warmth of early summer sun and being cooled by a brisk breeze, I am overwhelmed by all my senses.

Wafting out of the kitchen window is the yummy smell of the butter-brushed, bagel-topping bread baking in the oven.  When the breeze changes direction, then the gardens’ and the land, take over:   Milorganite, chicken manure, magnolia blooms, ant killer and the always-present evergreens.

While sitting in this beauty and feeling as though I am enveloped in nature’s love, and even though I am elderly, restricted in movement, and trying to ignore all the pains of ageism, I am so grateful for the senses of smell, touch, and sight.

Screw the limitations.  Nature is all that matters.

 

Covid! Shmovid!

Being isolated and in temporary but happy aloneness, I must confess I have enjoyed every glorious silent moment.  I am so content to be in my own head and not deal with the outside world, that being forced to live this way is actually my ultimate dream come true.

I am not easily distracted and productivity for me is geared toward my artwork.  My home, baking, cooking have become even more enjoyable.  I have spent time repairing, replacing, scrubbing, and correcting all the little annoyances that I never seemed to have time to complete.

As I am medically and age-wise classified as “high risk”, my beloved husband has protected me with a ferocity that makes pit bulls look impotent.  His sideways glances at me while driving, and chastising:  “stop touching your face, don’t touch your mask, use the sanitizer...”.   At times, I felt like I was 10 years old – but always felt loved.  What more could I ask for?

Right now, I have it all:   silence, thinking time, creative time and no job to rush off to; just preparing our meals, baking breads, rolls, desserts.

In this dark time in society, I have found my coping mechanism:  peace.

 

The Aliens Always Find Me

My ongoing search for a permanent job is futile to date.  Late October I received a phone call from a woman who asked if I was still looking for a part-time paralegal position.  I said YES and she reminded me that I interviewed with her last Spring, she had offered the job but I declined as she wanted full-time, and I needed part-time.  She had been impressed with my experience.

She said she was opening a solo practice and really wanted me as her part-time paralegal.  I was thrilled as her office is ten minutes from my home; she was youngish, hep (or so I thought) and the rate of pay was just what I needed.

When we met to finalize the job, her secretary sat in with us so we would learn whether or not we could work hand-in-hand.  Her new secretary was certainly a jewel.  Fully capable, computer/software savvy and seemingly “efficient”, which are my strengths.  We hit it off.  The attorney proceeded to babble, espousing her hopes and dreams for her solo practice. As she went on and on,  I felt that this woman has issues, which she somewhat confirmed.  She advised that she was medicated to help her cope and regularly meets with a counselor to deal with life.  I never judge another human for seeking help  with emotional issues but, in my mind, as an employer, I had serious doubts concerning her stability.

Throughout the month of November, awaiting the start date of December 2nd, a nagging, persistent voice kept telling me that “something was amiss” with this woman.  I should have continued to apply/interview for jobs.  I didn’t.  I was so relieved to have a job that I relished every minute of every day awaiting December.

On November 25th, that inner voice proved to be correct.  I received an email advising that she had changed her plans, was joining “an established firm” and thus, had no need for me.  She apologized for the change and claimed she would proffer my “availability” to her new employers and ask that I be hired.

This is the second time in less than six months,  I have had to deal with bosses whose emotional instability has caused me interminable financial and emotional stress.  It is as though I have a neon sign on my back that flashes:

“IF YOU ARE UNSTABLE, UNHAPPY WITH YOURSELF,

PLEASE FOIST YOURSELF INTO MICHELLE’S WORLD” 

I hope that I will find a job soon.  I will do any type of work –  please hire me if you are stable, kind, and need a dedicated employee.

 

Random Emotions

I was inspired to chew on my current fate – congestive heart failure (CHF).  The statistics say that 50% of CHF patients die within five years.  I am in year one and a half post heart attack and surgery.  Thinking that I may only have three and half years remaining is, without hyperbole, SCARY.

Recently, a friend who had metastasized cancer, chose to stop fighting the insidious onslaught on his body, and died within a very short period of time.  He shared his thoughts with me prior to stopping the chemo.  I had so many reactions to this including  anger, sadness, self-pity.

The chemo was exhausting and he had no quality of life worth living.  He was down and out after treatment for such an extended time, that by the time he was feeling somewhat “normal”, he underwent another treatment.  The normal time between treatments became shorter.  He reached that inevitable decision to stop chemo and say goodbye to all, under his terms.

The anger stemmed from my long-held belief that one must never give up for any reason at any time for any problem.  I am wrong in this thinking.  He had no other choice.  Life was not worth living when the treatment is worse than the disease.

The sadness will never go away.  When I think of this man and the joy he gave through his multi-talents, intellect and kindness, I am sad.

Self-pity overwhelmed me because I am NOT debilitated.  I am living, somewhat, a normal existence.  I will slowly decline until my heart cannot provide life any longer.  It is not a painful daily battle; it is a struggle to be the woman I once was which was active, athletic, and strong.

I no longer have dreams of growing old with my beloved husband.  I am trying to prepare him for the inevitable.  I am throwing out that which is unnecessary and organizing  what remains.

I sometimes feel my friend was “fortunate” to have a choice.  I am not as he was.  I am not “sick” – just limited.  This means I must live on and try to make our lives as meaningful as I can so the memories will be sweet.

 

 

 

The Workforce Needs Me

I was forced to return to work once my disability was ended.  A decision to end my long-term disability was made inadvertently by my doctor’s entries:  no syncope, no spasms, no nuttin’.  I had progressed to the medical/insurance company standard of “normalcy”.  What a joke!

I was forced to accept a real estate office “receptionist” position at $10.00 per hour, 20 hours per week because time was running out on our financial clock.

I knew that I could NOT tolerate the pressure of my previous job, so I inched my way back into the work world, expecting that I would excel at the do-nothing job.  The phones never rang, there were no walk-ins and the sales women who came into the office infrequently, were my only respite from the boredom.

My small income became a “burden” and the “handwriting was on the wall” (or bank account statements, more accurately).  I started submitting my resume to every job that paid more than a “living wage”.  I felt that I did not want to work for attorneys as I had done my entire business life, but law firms were the only businesses in this economically-depressed area that paid more than a “living wage”. (Other than the casino industry).

I interviewed with a female solo practitioner and was THRILLED that she hired me as a part-time paralegal, paying $25.00 per hour, for 30 hours a week.  MAH-VELOUS DAHLING!

I was hired specifically to help streamline her practice.  She had two office locations and her data was scattered among 5 different software.  It was obvious what needed to be accomplished and I explained the corrections she needed to make to control her data.

She interpreted everything I “criticized” as a personal attack.  Her face got red, puffed up, and she stomped to her desk, which was approximately fifteen feet away from mine,  and pant so heavily I thought she would pass out from lack of oxygen.  This behavior, as well as calling me “Mildred” (after an elderly aunt)  or “the old lady” rather than saying my name, revealed her “emotional age”.

Seven days after I started, she sent an email advising that “our relationship was not working out”.  She would pay me for my time and “good luck”.

So again I am faced with interview after interview.  I apply for everything and anything.  I need an income and I need it now.

After a recent interview, I was chastised by a delightful woman who advised that I should NOT refer to myself as “old”, as I did not look old, act old, etc.  I had responded jokingly to “where do you see yourself in five years?” with “alive”.  Tsk, tsk – naughty little girl that I am.

So today I am headed to a job fair at an addiction recovery center.   I suppose I need to control my humor and beg on bended knee for a job!

Wish me luck.

 

 

 

 

 

Almost Normal

I am now working 5 hours per day, 5 days per week.   Quite the shock.  After 50-plus years of working full-time, sometimes, two jobs, I do not feel quite “normal”.  I am so amazed at the changes I have experienced after the heart attack, surgery and rehab.

I live an almost normal existence.  But, I am not myself.  I never again will be “Michelle”.  I no longer tolerate and ignore things,  I react.  When I am alone, I reveal my anger, frustration and sadness.

Michael has been incredibly strong throughout this drama.  It is now one full year since surgery and he has been steady-Eddie for me.  He is my hawk.  He watches everything I eat, do, or attempt to do.  He knows I am no longer that “woman of physical strength”, even though sometimes I think I am and when I try for physical feats , I fail. Which is pretty funny, most of the time.

In August 2018, I completed cardiac rehab.  I then began working out at the gym on my own.  I have always belonged to a gym and had equipment at home.  I have always prided myself in my “strength” for being a short, small framed woman.

Not anymore!  I am barely making 70 pounds for the leg press.  I barely can lift 15 pounds free-weights for upper body/arm work-outs.

I am “doing laps” in the pool – which is a misnomer.  I only use a noodle and my legs to maintain joint health and keep my lower back pain under control.

This is it, kiddos.  A heart attack and the recovery has reduced me to an old lady.  I will continue to post my diary of recovery on The Ladies Room site.  Maybe change the name to THE OLD LADIES ROOM!

(This was written in March 2019 – it is now August and I will be writing a new entry soon)

 

 

 

 

 

Heart Ache

I had a major heart attack on New Year’s day. I subsequently had open-heart surgery. Prior to the heart attack, I believed I was in “good shape”. I went to the gym 4-6 days weekly. I swam, worked out on equipment and weight-lifting; did stretching, yoga and ballet moves in a warm therapy pool to keep my joints loose.

Last August, I started losing weight and did not feel very good. It was a vague sick feeling – nothing I could point to specifically. I stopped going to the gym on a regular basis. Yet, I continued to lose weight.

I was 67 last August and 68 years old at the time of the heart attack. I spent a lifetime walking, in lieu of driving; riding a bike and generally, I was in good shape. Or so I thought.

At the hospital emergency room, I was rushed into “cardiac catheterization”, which failed. The doctor could not get the “wire” through my VERY small artery(ies).

Lo and behold – unknown to me, I had extremely SMALL arteries, somewhat of a birth defect!

Bottom line: if we do not know our weaknesses, we cannot control the future.

Ladies Beware

I recently had a heart attack. The symptoms were easy to attribute to “other” illnesses: i.e stomach issues; flu: etc. I ignored my pain for four days. By the time I went to the ER, I had allowed the heart attack to cause permanent, extensive damage. I was forced to wait two months for my heart to heal before open-heart surgery to replace valve and two by-passes.

Please ladies: heart attack pain can feel like muscle strain (through the shoulders) – pain into the jaw as well as nausea and other symptoms.