How's The New Place?

 Sunday, August 4, 2024

"How's the new place?" they ask. 

Some might wonder how I could not love the "new place".   After all it's cute, right?  Reminiscent of a little New England style cottage. 

Everyone who visits always comments on how cozy the "new place" feels. 

"It's low maintenance, gated security, plenty of activities available and clubs to join," they say. 

I am trying to love the "new place".  I've dressed it up with curtains and carpets.  I'm in the process of giving the kitchen a face lift with shiny new cabinets. 

I've hung Ross' prized artwork and displayed his precious thrift store finds.  

All of the furniture here in the "new place" is the furniture I brought with me from our old place.  I've re-arranged the living room a hundred times.

I placed the "Big Toe" flower pot, the one that always made us smile, under the front yard tree and had the landscaping redone.

But as much as I try, for now, it's just a place to hang my hat and rest my weariness. 

And so, when they ask "hows the new place?"  

I answer, "Ross isn't here."

My Joy My Ross

 My love, my Ross, passed away on February 12, 2024, exactly twenty-seven years and one day from the first time we met. 

And each and every one of those days of  knowing him, being with him and loving him brought me joy.

Joy, a seemingly simple little three letter word, embodied all that was Ross. 

 I believe it was just his nature to generously give of himself.  

One foggy and rainy winter night we were on the way to a holiday gathering at a friend's house.

As we headed down the dark highway, only several yards away, we witnessed a car swerve and crash into another car. When we got close enough, Ross immediately pulled over to the side of the road, jumped out of the car to see what help he could give. 

Yes, he was that person. 

I think what I loved most about him was his respect for my individual self.  

We were opposites as far as personality goes.  He a confident social extrovert, I a shy introvert uncomfortable in a group.

But, whenever we were in a gathering he made sure to encourage and include me in the conversation.

"Did you know that Lynda writes a blog?" he would say.   Or, "Lynda is a beautiful knitter." 

He was a kind soul.  His soft brown eyes gave that away.

Even if someone may not have been kind to him he would say, "But she's a good person." 

He was great with customer service people.  Never expressed irritability but somehow always got what he set out to achieve.  

With a twinkle in his eye and a sly smile, he would say, "I just used the force." 

Did you know he had a dancing name.  "Boogaloo Swimp".  Don't ask :)

He had a catalog of jokes, sometimes complete with accents when necessary.  And although he probably told me the same joke more than once, I'd still giggle. 

He was my yarn shopping buddy.  My podcast co-host.  He knew the knitting lingo.  "Do you have any FO's to show me?" he'd ask. 

He loved being Pop-pop.  

Although I miss so much already, am achingly heartbroken and wonder what I'm going to do without him, 

I feel so blessed to have had those 27 joy filled years with my love, my Ross. 

A to Z 2019 April Blogger Challenge - The Letter Y - Yearly

I will be posting six days a week for the month of April - (with a rest day on Sunday).
Each post will begin with the corresponding letter of the alphabet beginning with A and finishing with the letter Z.

I began participating in this challenge in 2012.   With the exception of last year, I believe I completed the challenge each year.   Last year I lost steam somewhere around the letter W.

Yearly

I have mentioned in my previous posts that I host a YouTube podcast called Joey's Scarf.  The main themes are knitting, crochet and yarn.   The podcast name is in honor of my son Joe.  Joe passed away from colon cancer in 2011.
I started the podcast in January of 2017.  On an episode in February of that year I asked followers of my podcast to join me in knitting or crocheting something in honor of someone they lost.  Or perhaps they would want to create an item for someone they care about.
Personally, when I am making something for a specific person, I am thinking about that person while I am knitting or crocheting.    
I asked the participants to share what they were making, who they were making it for and why.
I explained that on the anniversary of Joe's birth, April 4th, I would randomly select someone from the group and send that person a gift of appreciation. 
Beside me there were six others who joined me.  The stories from each one touched my heart.  The items they made were beautiful. 
One of the women had just lost her daughter to cancer.  Even though we are thousands of miles apart, we made a connection and continue to keep in touch through social media.
That first year I decided to send each of the woman a little something to show my appreciation.  Their participation was a comfort to me, especially at that time of the year, near Joe's birthday. 

This has become an annual event.  April 4, 2019 was the completion of the third one.  Some of the same women have participated each year,  as well as a couple of new people.   I continue to appreciate the sometimes heartbreaking and but always heartfelt experiences that have been shared with me each time.

A to Z 2019 April Challenge - The Letter E - Essy's Easy Chair

It's April - That means I will be participating in the A to Z Blog Challenge.

I will be posting six days a week for the month of April - (with a rest day on Sunday).
Each post will begin with the corresponding letter of the alphabet beginning with A and finishing with the letter Z.

I began participating in this challenge in 2012.   With the exception of last year, I believe I completed the challenge each year.   Last year I lost steam somewhere around the letter W.

Easy Chair

Essy bent over, the chair.   Her arms were spread open as wide as the width of the chair, her fingers gripped the overstuffed arms.  She began to tug hard as she could but the chair would not move over the plush carpet. 

Out of breath, she straightened up, turned around and with a sigh sank down into the well worn seat. 

The chair sat between the two corner windows of their bedroom.  On clear days the afternoon sun streamed in, warming the room before the evening chill. 

On this afternoon, though here was no sun.   The wind swept rain made a shushing sound as it brushed passed the windows.  Although it was early afternoon, on stormy days like this one, the room was dark.  

Thankfully, the "Thoughts and Prayers" cards and letters, which, in the first weeks gathered by the dozens in her mailbox had now dwindled to only a few here and there.   

The "Essy, you are remarkable."  "So strong". "How do you do it?" telephone calls and text messages had slowed too. 

She ruefully thought about the many times she had perfunctorily sent those same cards and expressed the exact sentiments to family and friends.   

In the beginning everyone offered, "Don't hesitate to ask..."  "Whatever you need." 

Right now what she needed was for someone to help her move this chair!

She glanced around at the dove gray walls.   They should have painted them a cheerier color she thought.  She fought the tears that were beginning to mist her eyes.   



  

This Time It Will Be Different?

Yesterday I went to a Bereavement Group meeting.  The group actually had their first session last Tuesday.   I thought about going.  Then I thought about not going.  Then I thought I should go.  Then I thought I probably shouldn’t go.  Then I started doing laundry and then the dog needed to go for a walk.  Then the View came on and then it was lunch time.  And then it was 2:00 and it was too late to go.
During the first few months of my grief, I did try a couple of these types of support systems.   I  went to the first meeting of each of them.  The seating arrangement was the same. We sat in a circle facing one another.  I felt as though I were a slice of “of grief pie".   We each had white labels with black magic marker letters stuck on our chests, mine carefully placed over my heart.    I kept touching it to make sure it was still there.  
I recall that I was so intent on silently rehearsing what I would say when it was my turn to speak,  that I’m sure I was only half listening to each of the other slices relate their stories.
Even though my ears were somewhat distracted by my own thoughts, my eyes would automatically shift to a new tone of voice.   My head would nod in a sympathetic and understanding way.
I don’t remember the specifics of their stories.  The images of their pain come back to me in flashes of twisted and scrunched up tissue covered eyes.
After each of these meetings, I would become somewhat defensive.  How dare those people make me cry.  What did any one of them say that could possibly ever make me want to come back and do that again?
It’s been nearly three years since Joe passed away.  Actually it has been two years, nine months and 19 days.
As I said, yesterday I went to my first meeting of this new group.   Since I was not there for the first meeting, the facilitator took me aside for a pre-meeting conversation.
She has a kind face and soft voice.    As I told her my story,  I found myself crying the hard tears of a new loss.   She asked me, “Do you know what we do here?”  I was puzzled.  Of course I knew, we would all sit in the “grief pie” circle and cry.  But of course I didn’t say that.  She followed up with , “What do you expect to get from this?”
I stumbled over my answer.  I told her that I supposed I expected comfort and support.
She explained to me that this place was indeed a place to come for comfort and support.  More importantly, though, it was to be a safe place where we were expected to not only explore but share our feelings.  Then she said the thing that I think I needed to hear.  “You are here to work on you own grief, not the grief of others.” She asked me if I thought I would be able to do that.  Then she asked me if I wanted to join the group.  I said yes.
The meeting started with us all sitting in a circle.  We each had white labels with black magic marker letters stuck on our chests, mine carefully placed over my heart.  I kept touching it to make sure it was still there.

"So What Time Are You Not Going Today?"

Saturday, June 29, 2013 11:15 AM
It's going to be an Iffy day.



















Even though I kept insisting that I wasn't going to go, I knew I would go.
I probably always knew I would go.  I knew I wouldn't be able to stay away.  I balked right up until the last minute, but I knew I would go.  Johanna teased me at breakfast.  "So, what time are you not going today?" She asked.
I knew it would be hard.  Going without them, being there without her, and not having him there, would be especially hard.
In the car, on the way, I daydreamed.  I imagined what it would be like to walk into the back yard and find them there. I would see them and I would cry.  My tears would be sugary sweet tears filled with joy.

Ross, and I are going to the Pugliese Family Reunion today.  I was a first born twice.   Bella was a first born twice, it seemed only fitting that she would come with us.

When we walked into the backyard, there were already a lot of folks mingling and gathering around.  The greetings were the familiar ones you hear from those who haven't seen each other in a while.  They call out to you, as if they are surprised that they have remembered your name or can recognize your face after all of these years.  Hey, Lynda!   "And who is this young lady?" They want to know.   Bella stands shyly by as I introduce her.
As each family comes around the corner and into the backyard, I begin to feel emotional.  I suppose it is partly nostalgic.  I sense those around me who stand in the shadows.  I look around for my mother.  Her presence is strong.  I feel her.
Bella takes off  to go play with Nicky.  Even though they have only been with each other a few times in their life, it is important to Bella that she is somehow connected to Nicky.  It doesn't matter that the connection is 2nd cousin once removed, it only matters to Bella that she is with family.
There were ten siblings of my mother's generation.  Each one of the sisters and brothers married.  I believe that with the exception my Uncle Red, Aunt Sue and Uncle Anthony, each sibling was represented by at least one member of their family.

















I counted 82 people in attendance.  I surprise myself that I can identify each and every person, perhaps not always by name, but I can particularly identify which branch of the family they are part of.

I chat up with a few, but mostly I participate with my camera.

When the family band begins to play, there is hooting and hollering, clapping and singing.  Joe would have liked that.  I imagine someone trying to coax him to get up and play.  I feel tears welling up and I must walk away.

On the way home I asked Bella if she had a good time.  She said, "No, grandma, I had a great time!"

 I always knew I would go.  I knew I wouldn't be able to stay away.  

A Visit to The Sixth Happiest Seaside Town in America Rowayton Connecticut

Wednesday, June 5, 2013

It has been 18 months since Joe passed away.

A part of me feels as though Joe is just only away.  It is, I’m sure, partly an indulged fantasy, but mostly it is a coping mechanism.

Escaping is another coping method, especially when it's the fifth of the month.  Those anniversaries are cold stark reminders.  And no matter how hard I try, I cannot reach into a photo and touch him.

The weather is going to be splendid, a good day to escape to some other place.
The "10 Happiest Seaside" towns were listed in the June issue of Coastal Living magazine.  Listed at number six was Rowayton, Connecticut.  Since that town is the closest one to where we live, a 2-1/2 hour drive, we decided to check out this happy place.

The following is a blurb about Rowayton taken from the magazine's website:
"This picturesque New England village has lured artists for centuries. It's like Nantucket or Martha's Vineyard, say locals (4,000 call it home), but without the swell of tourists."

The print magazine was a little more detailed in its description of the "town" calling it "...straight out of a Norman Rockwell illustration."

I skimmed over the part about it being "sophisticated" and  "...one of the most expensive spots in the state (as well as in the nation)."

We got an early start.  I think we were out of the house by 9:00.   Unfortunately, the route to get there is not very scenic.  It is highway all the way.

About half way there we stopped for breakfast at a deserted strip mall restaurant called the Bus Stop Cafe in Carteret, NJ.  I was a little hesitant, but it turned out to be a cute place and the food was good.






















The drive included a view of the New York City Skyline,

 and a crossing over the George Washington Bridge.

At the crossing over the Henry Hudson Bridge we saw this sign. I didn't understand what this meant. I googled and found out that if you don't have an EZ pass, a picture will be taken of your license plate and you will receive a bill for the toll.   I wonder how many pay those toll bills?

We have arrived

As soon as we entered the "town" we immediately understood the meaning of exclusivity.  It is a small town, but certainly not welcoming.  There were "No Parking" signs on most of the streets.  In fact most of the streets were designated as private, no entry.  I observed the faces of the people walking around. I saw business people, women walk/jogging with baby strollers, dog walkers and constructions workers.  There were no smiles or friendly waves.  I guess I would say the looks we were getting were more of a suspicious nature.  I suppose our Jersey plates may have had something to do with that.

The village of Rowayton sits at the mouth of Connecticut's Five Mile River.
As we drove around we found a park.  The gate was open.  We did not see any signs to indicate that it was not open to the public, so we entered and parked the car.  I must say it was a pretty spot.  As we got out of the car, though, we were hailed down by a woman.  I waited by the car while Ross talked to her.  As it turned out, we were informed by this woman that we were in a members only swim club.   Quick thinking Ross told the woman that we were looking into moving into the community and just wanted to see what the town had to offer.   She agreed to let us walk around a little and I took some pictures.  Funny thing, the woman did not let us out of her sight the whole time.  It was quite uncomfortable.

Darn, and I brought my bikini too.


After I had enough of being monitored, we headed back to the car.  Ross, because that's the way he is, went over to the woman and schmoozed a little with her.  So, it turned out that she didn't live in Rowayton.  In fact she told us that Rowayton wasn't even a town.  It was a section in the town of Norwalk.  She also snidely said that the Rowatonians like to think that they are not living in Norwalk.  When I asked her who was eligible to join the swim club she spouted out that only those living in zip code 06853 could belong.
Now we really did not have a chance to talk to anyone else in the town.  And this woman actually warmed up to us and told us she was a school librarian, living in Norwalk, not in 06853, and that she was just picking up a little extra money by filling in for someone that day.

We also learned that Rowayton was severely hit by hurricane Sandy.  A lot of homes and businesses were affected. With that in mind and the fact that we did not have an opportunity to talk to anyone else in the town,  I will have to hold off judgment as to whether it is a most happy place or not.

Oh, we did stop at the local market, and there was parking on the street in front of the store. We had lunch on the back porch.

 

I must say that made me quite happy!

You Can’t Go Home Again? - Well Maybe to Thunderbird Lanes, You Can!

I have been hanging around the house for the past two weeks, per doctor’s orders, taking it easy, recuperating from my minor surgery.
As I am sure Ross will attest to, I think I might be going just a little stir crazy.
The subjects being discussed on the View and Katy are getting to be repetitive and mundane.
I have run out of  new-to-me TV show marathons to watch.
I’ve listened to hours and hours of audio books.
It is obvious that I have, too much time on my hands and apparently spend too much time studying my hands, because I have begun to notice that my pre surgery mani/pedi is way past its two week old expiration date.
Since I had shopped online for the April part of the WEBS 39th April/May Anniversary sale, and I have, thereby, added to my already substantial stash of yarn, I am desperately trying to hold back on my temptation to participate in the May part of the sale.

Not Me or My Amiga

 I finished a pair of socks and am now knitting Amiga designed by Mags Kandis.







Ross and I have become even more attached at the hip.
Yesterday, I decided it was time to venture out on my own.
Before Joe became ill, I was a member of  the Tuesday Morning Ladies Bowling league.
I left the league when Joe’s illness had progressed to the last stages.
After he passed away, the ladies tried to convince me that I should come back to bowling.  It would “do you some good” they said. “To get your mind off of things, you know” they said.
At the time, I thanked them for thinking of me but politely declined.  I was pretty sure that a few hours of bowling would not distract me from the pain of grief over the loss of my son.
It has been 17 months since Joe died.  I mostly now hide from the pain, kind of push it to the side.  It has become my way of coping with the life which, true to the cliche, “does go on".
But, yesterday, it being Tuesday morning and all, and me being just a little stir crazy and all, I thought a visit to the bowling alley might “do me some good.”
A little background on the ladies of the Tuesday Morning league.   When I started bowling with this league, about 8 years ago, I was still in my fifties and I was one of the younger women.
Although, at that time the majority of the women were in their mid 60’s, and a couple of the eldest ones were in their 80’s, they were a vibrant group.
I have not been to the bowling alley to visit since I quit the league a few years ago.
My memories of those Tuesday morning bowling sessions are noisy memories.
Each sound distinctly greeted me the moment I stepped through the double glass doors.
Practice was usually already in progress. Above the thunder of simultaneously thrown spheres, swiftly cruising (or okay, sometimes limping) their way down the boards, and over explosive cracks as ball met wood, were welcome shouts of “hi’s and how are you’s” .
As the games got under way, the racket seemed to get louder. There were high five slaps, cheers, hoots, and hollers for spares and strikes. Splits and near nine pin misses brought about foot stomping, and colorful expletives from the more bawdier women.
Voices had to be raised as the chatter of gossip, husband grievances, grandchildren stories and the how the days of the past week were spent could be barely heard above the din.
Growling, angry complaints were shouted when the alleys were too sticky or too slick.
A number of the women were knitters.  If you listened closely, you might have even been able to hear the click, clacking of needles as they worked on their latest projects as they waited for their turn to bowl.
Yesterday, I noticed it immediately, the moment I stepped through the double glass doors. The hush and quiet was, well, quite deafening.



At first I thought that I had the wrong day.  After all, the days seem to run into one another lately, and I have to frequently stop and think of what day it actually is.
The inside of the building was dimly lit and noticeably empty.  Presumably, Thunderbird Lanes was conserving on energy by providing necessary lighting on only the lanes being used.  When my eyes got adjusted to the low light,  I saw them, a handful of them, way down at the other end of the alleys.
As I walked up to where they were bowling, one or two of the women recognized me and waved.   I, on the other hand, only could identify a few of the women.
Erica, the league secretary, came up to me and greeted me warmly.
When I mentioned the quiet, she began to recite a linty of reasons why that was the case.
Over the years, it was obvious that time had taken its toll.
Sadly, now instead of happy animated conversation, tales of surgeries, forgetfulness,  injuries, illness and death have become more the norm, and spoken about in hushed tones.
She said that a lot of the members can no longer throw their balls with the same amount of strength as they once were able to.  The result is apparently reflected in lower scores and averages. She told me that each year the league has become smaller and smaller.
Most of the bowlers I used to bowl with have dropped out and it has become increasingly more difficult to find replacements.
Under five feet tall, with a petite frame, Erica is a tiny bit of a woman.  Her close cropped hair is still jet black and pixie cut.   Traces of her German heritage come through her speech.
Once a strong bowler, tossing a 14 pound ball without effort, it has become necessary for her to use a lighter ball.  Presently, she has been forced to sit on the sidelines, as a spectator, while she waits for her rotator cuff surgery to heal.
After Erica and I had spoken for a few minutes she gave me an intense look.  “Will you come back in September?” She asked.
Just then one of the women, Marie,  came up to Erica and told her that she would not be able to finish bowling. Her arm was hurting.  Marie was one of the women I bowled with.  She is not much taller than Erica with a full head of thick, snow white hair.   She glanced over at me and said, “Oh hi.  I didn’t recognize you.”  She wanted to know if I was going to be bowling next season.
Marie was there with her husband, Al.   Marie is a caregiver for him as he struggles through chemo treatments.
I watched as Marie and Al slowly made their way towards the double glass doors.  She trying to mange her bowling gear, purse and car keys, all the while steadying him.  He not able to help.
Erica asked me again if I would join the league and told me that they could really use me.
The image of Marie and Al still lingering in my mind,  I told Erica that I would think about it.
As I said my good-byes, another woman, Laurie, stopped me.  She told me I was missed and asked if I would please consider coming back.
Why do I hesitate with this decision?
Do the women of the Tuesday Morning Ladies League represent a futuristic mirror for me?  Am I seeing my not too distant reflection?
Or could I, shy me, be someone who could help breath back some of the life into, shed a small glimmer of light onto and perhaps even whoop up some noise again with the Tuesday Morning Ladies League?

Oh by the way, before I hit the double glass doors, Erica caught up with me.  She said, with that trace of her German heritage slipping in, “I have made a decision for you.  I put your name down.  You will be back in September!”

The Painful Choice of Yes, No or Maybe - The Pugliese Saga

So my mother's side of the family started planning a reunion about a year ago.  It is going to take place this year at the end of June.
My mother came from a large Italian family.  She was one of five sisters and five brothers.  Actually, my grandmother gave birth to 17 children.  Six babies died shortly after birth.  A girl, my aunt Antonietta, died from an illness at age seven.  I felt as though I knew Antonietta because of the beautifully framed photo which reverently hung in what was probably her bedroom.
My mother was the second eldest of the surviving 10.  I was the first of my generation to be born. As you can imagine, I have many cousins.
When my grandparents were alive, there were gatherings at their house practically every Sunday and always for every holiday.
I don't know what my grandmother's secret was, but she instilled a strong sense of family in each of her children.  The brothers and sisters were very close and to this day, those who are still with us, take care of each other.
As a way to preserve the strong bond after my grandparents passed away, my aunts and uncles began an annual tradition of a get together at the beginning of summer.   Each person would take a turn hosting.
This continued for many years.
Of course time brings about change.  The close knit core of siblings became older and then smaller.
The children of the sisters and brothers married and had children of their own.   Families moved farther apart and lives became busy.
Happy family gatherings became the weddings and christenings and significant birthday parties.
Grave side gathers have sadly become common place of late.
Naturally, the saga of this family is ever evolving.  Characters are old and new.

Once by word of mouth, now by tweets and posts, tales of new babies and brides, of illnesses and death, of troubles and joy continue to spread quickly from one to another.
The last reunion I attended was probably about four or five years ago.
My mom was still alive.  My son was not ill.  My youngest was settling in with a young wife and two young children.
When I reflect back to that time, I realize, comparatively speaking, that it was quite a happy almost idyllic time.
Since then, my mom and my son have passed away.  My other son has been heartbreakingly separated from his children.
A couple of weeks ago we received our e-vite to the family reunion.

It is a difficult decision for me to make.  Will I be able to attend without my mom?  Will it be the same without my son?  Will my two little grandsons ever know about this part of their family?

As I write this, I think about my grandmother's strength.  

To this day her haunting refrain of La Familia is carried forward by her two youngest daughters as they fuss over, care, wash and feed their elder sister. 

I hear it when I think about my daughter and her husband and the new baby brother that Bella and Ryan will soon have.  I think about how special my other "daughter" Anne is and the delight of Domani.  I am hopeful that Jimmy will be strong for his sons.

Even though we may not see each other very often, I am reminded of the way my own siblings manage to stay a part of each other's lives.  

Yes, my grandmother's message was clear.  Gather together.  Laugh and cry together. Take care of each other.  

How was this woman, who knew the heartache of so much loss, still able to hold so many in her heart?

One thing I do know is that she would understand my pain.  I never felt judged by her, only loved. 

That is all I ask of my family as I struggle with my painful decision to check yes, maybe or no. 

 

Ask Any Robin or Blue Jay - Emp-t-ness

I couldn't quite figure it out.  I mean most of my feelings are obvious and to be expected.   At least that's  what the others have told me.   But there are other feelings that don't seem to fit into the stages of grief categories.  I know, everyone is different and each person reacts to grief differently.   Is that what these mystery feelings are?  Are they just my way?   Are they the winter blues in addition to the grief?
One of the photos I have of Joe, Anne and Domani, is one that I see when I first wake up in the morning.  Each and every time I look at that picture I have the same exact reaction.   It is a quick sharp intake of breath, followed by a shaking of my head in disbelief, and then finally a clutching of my heart in a gesture of overwhelming painful sadness.
The feelings of soulful melancholy, sharp sadness pain, fiery anger and the icy shock of acceptance are identifiable, to be expected and "normal".
I have adapted ways to cope with those types of feelings.
Most days, now, I adhere to a morning routine. This A.M. ritual is really a regimented form of intentional distraction.  It is my job.  My bonus comes in the form of an hour or two of peace.
But, it is the other nagging, unguarded and unexpected feelings that I seem to be experiencing more frequently.
I have two other children.
My daughter's family consists of a great husband, two especially wonderful kids, and four cats. They are excited to be happily expecting a third baby, a boy in a few months.
My youngest, a son, is struggling right now with the breakup of his marriage.   He is a father of the two of the cutest little boys in the world.  Yes, that is admittedly a biased grandmotherly opinion.  The boys live 800 miles away now.  It is a tough situation.
Joe's wife, my other "daughter" is simply special.   Their little boy,  is two and looks a lot like Joe did at two. In a word ADORABLE.
Just like most of today's families, my daughter and her family are stretched to the maximum. She and her husband have full time jobs, the kids have their extra curricular activities, and their calendars are full.  Baby number three will add another dimension of busy to their lives.  My contact with my daughter and the kids is usually by phone a couple of times a week.  Once or twice a month we manage a visit.
Even though My DIL's schedule is jammed packed, she reaches out to me on a regular basis. We connect with phone conversations and occasional visits.
My youngest son is lost in a sea of divorce, child custody battles and financial devastation. None of which were his choice.  My contact with him is mainly by phone and occasionally via Facebook.  Our visits are sparse.
Visits with my family are limited by layers of life.  One layer is their busy and complex lives.
The other layer is my self imposed hibernation.
My self imposed hibernation is where I spend most of time,  that is in  my various safety zones.
My main safety zone is my house.  My house is where I privately struggle with my grief, sadness, depression and anxiety.  
Another safety zone is my blog where I publicly struggle with my grief, sadness, depression and anxiety.  It is also where I have found much support.
My most import safety zone is Ross.  He provides the net and is the goalie protecting the net.  I could not get through the day without his support.

I had an Ah-Ha moment the other night.  I was speaking to my daughter, on the phone.  We usually speak during her micro segment of free time.  That's when she is preparing dinner.  I haven't quite figured out how she holds the phone while doing that, but she manages.
As is usually the case, the conversation was a five-way between Jen and me, Jen and Derek, Jen and Bella and mostly between Jen and Ryan.
As is usually the case, it went something like this:
Me:  How is everything, Jen?
Jen:  "Okay, it's okay.  Ryan, get down from there.  I mean it... now!"
Jen:  (to me, I think) "What's going on over there?"   "Bella, did you do your homework?"
Me:  "Oh, nothing much."
I hear water running, clanging of pots and pans, the sounds of the table being set.
Jen:  "Doctor says everything is good with the baby."
          "What did you say Derek?"  "No, look over there, that's where I put it."
Me:  "That's good, about the baby, I mean.  I bet you are relieved."
Then I hear Derek in the background calling the kids in for dinner.   I hear chairs shuffling and the kids arguing over who sat in the special seat last.
That's when it hit me.  That's when I figured out the mystery feelings.
I felt like a hungry observer.  I was an uninvited guest, pressing my face up to a fogged up clouded window, peering in, trying to be part of a life that isn't mine... anymore.

Ah Ha! "Empty Nest.  That is probably the cause of my mystery feelings. Intellectually, I understand that is the normal progression of life.  Ask any robin or blue jay.  I expect that by now we should have found our new niche.  But, our so called golden years have been tarnished.  Emotionally, I am having a hard time accepting the "normal" progression of life, because, you see, life didn't progress normally for me.  My son wasn't supposed to die.

To be brutally honest, for now my safety zones are what keep me teetering on the edge of the ledge, not going over.  They keep me from looking down.  Even though they may be a little shaky, my feet are planted right here on this side.


In my fantasy world, my dinner table is full.  Jen, Derek, Bella, Ryan and the little one.  Joe, Anne and Domani.  Jimmy, his wife, Kenny and Ty.  You know the way it used to be.

Today I Am Blue For My Son Joseph Christopher

March is Colorectal Cancer Awareness Month.    Blue is the color that was  chosen for the awareness ribbon.  Today, March 1st,  is "Dress In Blue Day".
According to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention's web site pertaining to this specific awareness campaign:
"Colorectal cancer screening saves lives. If everyone who is 50 years old or older were screened regularly, as many as 60% of deaths from this cancer could be avoided.

Of course, I support the push for people to get screened.  Early detection is the key.
So sad and so tragic is the fact that my son was 34 when he was diagnosed.  He had no symptoms and no family history and therefore no reason to even consider a colonoscopy.   Should the recommended age for a colonoscopy be lowered?  I'm sure the insurance companies would balk at that.  I suppose the question of where the line should be drawn is a difficult one.   I don't know what the answer is.

When my son Joe was diagnosed with stage IV colon cancer in January 2010, I  turned to the web for answers, but  mostly for glimmers of hope.  When I googled  "survivor's of stage IV colon cancer",  I happened on one of the most encouraging websites "Colon Cancer Alliance".
An inspiring area of the site is the "Personal Stories" section.

I browsed through their products and ordered the blue bracelets, and the star lapel pins.
When I think back to that time I realize how desperate I was for, well a miracle, I suppose.  Now, I also realize that in my state of shock and stupor, I actually thought that by wearing the bracelet and lapel pin, somehow Joe would get better.



I have such mixed feelings about any of the disease awareness campaigns.   I am mainly cynical about the millions and millions of dollar donations raised by hundreds and perhaps even thousands of separate and different organizations.   I often wonder, what if all of these separate organizations pooled their resources, wouldn't that be better?

I suppose if I decide to even get dressed today, I might consider wearing blue.   My blue makes me sad and it makes me angry, and it brings with it the bitter taste of the evil that is cancer.   The evil that took away a father, a husband, a brother, a friend and our son.

Today, my blue will be worn for my son James.  Go get your colonoscopy!  My blue will be worn for my aunt Dolores.  Go get your colonoscopy!
My blue will be worn for you.  Go get your colonoscopy!

But mainly my blue, though, will be worn in memory of my Joe.  I miss him so much.