The first 5 letters spell Exist

      I do not think an existential crisis is possible before the age of 40, maybe even 45. Prior to that we are knee deep in life - and all it brings with starting out . We are raising children , building a career , trying to get to a point where we are comfortable . We are busy , too busy for introspection . Existentialism requires quiet reflection and the years prior to middle age seldom offer us that . The flip side of this is maybe we know to bury ourselves in our work , in our children , as long as we can so we can avoid looking inward for as long as possible . Eventually , however , things settle . Children grow up , careers level off giving less satisfaction than they used to and all of a sudden you’re left with , gulp , YOU. And you are seldom happy with YOU. Even if you are liked and respected by others , even if you seemingly have never suffered a day in your life it isn’t enough . There has to be more . So you begin the journey inward , and this can be tricky because it usually comes with a questioning of our life choices . The questioning slowly turns into regret , which peeks into our mind like sun coming through an opaque curtain - slight but just enough to keep us awake . You begin looking at others wondering if they’re truly happy , are they questioning their lives - their marriages , careers , and their shortcomings? You become envious of those who chose different paths and are seemingly thriving and happy because that could have been you . As the years have gone by , however , and my 40’s morphed ever so quickly into my 50’s I have come to realize no one feels 100 percent happy or content with their life , or the path they’ve chosen . There are always questions about the path not taken , Robert Frost knew this in 1815 , at 41, when “two roads diverged in a yellow wood “.  Reading that at 53 hits different then when forced to analyze it in English lit at a liberal arts college in 1989 when  the world was still mine to take. It was all of ours to take at one point . Questions now of purpose , and what if’s,  are urgent . Leaving a mark , a footprint , an impact become a beat the buzzer type situation . No one wants to exit our time here quietly , but the fact of the matter is , most people do . That silent exit , the being forgotten by others and not doing everything we feel we were meant to do, is the crux of what terrifies us. The years pick up speed as we age , and we see our hour glass running out of sand . This is what causes the deep inward search for “ what else is there “ , what do we need to do , be , discover, before that hourglass empties . No one is turning it over , no one is starting our timer over . These thoughts become common as we get closer to not being here anymore , and we seek answers . Did we do enough ? Is there more than this , that we can look forward to on another level? Because if not and I’m a believer that there is nothing else ( I want to be wrong ), we have to make this level one full of personal fulfillment , contentment and happiness . That’s a tall order , so it’s no wonder they call it an existential crisis . I have no answer , nothing to offer as a suggestion other than when looking inward decide what you can’t leave this earth without doing . Whether it’s a real tangible thing like traveling more , volunteering more , or a personal goal like focusing on your peace and happiness - whatever that looks like to you . My focus has shifted to peace , removing toxicity, whether that’s situational or an actual person who invades that peace . Spending the next chapter of life on autopilot isn’t an option . Time is pushing us all and as scary as that is , it’s scarier to not take a harder look at ourselves and see what we really , really want for the rest of our lives . 

I Cant Remember

                        I can’t remember the last time I saw my mother alive. I mean, I can remember a string of long and dreary days in a very seemingly oxymoronic beautiful month of May that led up to her death,  but the actual last day she opened her eyes to see me ? Nope , I got nothing . What I do have memories of  are a lot of “ it’s almost time “ days. Days where I would drop the kids off at school and pre school , and rush to a bedside to visit the woman ,who up until that point , signified strength to me. I would watch the Hospice nurse bathe her , do mouth care and try and keep her as comfortable as possible from this demonic disease that had ravaged her every organ. The whole time I was there I wanted to be somewhere else. Anywhere but witnessing the deterioration of my mother , who no longer was really “ in there”. I so desperately want to recall when the last time I laughed with her was, when the last time I bitched to her about being a mom of three little kids who drove me a little insane was , when we last shared a cup of tea and a Law and Order marathon . I legitimately do not remember , because the minute her illness got to the point where it stole her from me I shut down. And that is a cross I bear every day.

                         The relationship between a mother and daughter is complicated . I know this , as I have been both in my lifetime. My role as daughter did not last long enough , and its abrupt ending made me quite cynical. Cynical of religion ( my mother was a devout Catholic and look where that got her ) , cynical of treatments, doctors and so called trials that in the end made her life a little better for a blip of time , then really sick for the remaining time. Cynicism and sarcasm grew in me tenfold on May 23 2005, the view I had of the world going forward would be very different. Fear of illness , health obsession and anxiety , served with a side of depression are just a few things that I have dealt with the last 18 years. The complicated part of being someone who is no longer living’s daughter is you have to learn to navigate many things alone , whether that be tackling motherhood yourself, wanting to know if her marriage was as hard as yours, and how she coped daily with trivial things while not losing her sanity. There is no one to look to for this . That person who created you and knows you best is gone. It’s Not your husband , not your friends and certainly not your own children  because you are their “Go To person” not the other way around. 

                I am writing this because I am about to turn 52 in a few weeks. My mother was initially diagnosed around 50 years old , and battled for close to 10 years. That’s a long time to never feel good, to try and live your life knowing the black cloud is always just right overhead - and that umbrella is only going to last for so long. I have been trying to imagine how she must have felt for those years in her 50’s and I  cannot even fathom it. Because I was In my late 20’s and early 30’s trying to live my own life and start a family , not concentrating on being a daughter. In fact, not concentrating on her at all , until the last couple of years when I was forced to . When I would sit next to her hospital bed and talk to her , hoping for any coherent response . Those were few and far between by the time I began being “ present” for her, being her daughter for the last leg of her journey . My mother never said she was ready to go,  never said she loved me or goodbye during that blur of a month . I know she loved me of course but the things left unsaid are always what we long to hear. My futile wish for this birthday is to remember the last time I saw her living , not just alive but living. 

                So take it all in with those you love. Take pictures even if they’re silly , spend extra time chatting even if you have to be somewhere ( because in the end who is taking attendance ?)  and try to be cognizant that any memory you have with someone could be the last one. 

Is Kim Really To Blame?

        It has been a minute (as the kids today say) since I have written anything. Two plus years to be exact, and this lines up with the timeline of doom we have all been living in since March 2020. Lately, I am having a hard time not letting my feelings out - even if it is on a blank page and may not have anyone even read it. Surprisingly, the thing that spurred this on was the ever shallow Kim Khardashian (sorry Miss Kim) . She was recently being roasted for losing 16 pounds in 2 weeks to fit into Marilyn Monroe's iconic "Happy Birthday Mr. President "dress. She accomplished that lofty, possibly even dangerous, goal- wore it for a short while , then changed into a replica that actually fit better and she could spill cocktail sauce on. Where am I going with this? Hang on , I hope it will become clear. 

         Let's fast forward to the current mess that is SCOTUS and Roe vs. Wade. This is where women's rights for control of their bodies hang in the balance , at the mercy of old men (mostly) making decisions based on , what?  I mean, last I looked they don't have a uterus in their old man abdominal cavity. They do not know what it feels like to have to make a decision that will color their life - no matter which way they decide. Women are used as vessels if you will with no regard to what they want, how they feel , or what their circumstances in life allow. I am outraged by this. Why are women treated like their bodies belong to someone else? Why does society make women feel like they have to look a certain way, choose a certain way , and pretend to be okay with it all?  Why are we, as a society, going back to days where a woman who faces an unwanted pregnancy will have to risk sepsis, multi system organ failure, possible loss of her uterus (if she lives) ? Don't for one minute think this is about babies, and sanctifying life . It is about control and women having less rights and beating down a woman's mindset to fit a mold. 

           Back to Kim, and even myself. So, Kim is shallow and vain and will do anything for money- we know all this. So her wanting to wear that dress , and losing serious amounts of weight to do so should shock no one. In fact , my first twisted thought was "I'm going to eat tomatoes for 14 days too, and see what happens". Luckily my GI system would not allow such crazy behavior without leaving me dehydrated and chained to the porcelain potty . I fortunately know my vanity limits , but the thing is I thought about it. And if 51 year old me , with common sense and a history of stupidity for vanity, thought about it - I  guarantee your daughters thought about it.  And , drum roll please, those thoughts are perpetuated by the way women are viewed in society. Rather, the way their bodies are viewed. Like they are not their own. They are viewed as something to look at , something to be obedient and do what it takes to fit. Whether it be in a 60 year old dress or to go through with something that may ultimately harm them - physically or mentally . 

            I  have no answer to how to change this. I am probably not even the right person to try. I mean I just had my second breast augmentation 6 days ago . Fifteen years ago I had my original one because I was actually mentally beaten down by people (some were related to me) always saying hurtful things about my flat chest. I  allowed myself to fall into the trap of "what a woman should look like". Women have been under this cloud of what they "should be" for as long as I can remember . I had hopes for my daughter's and subsequent generations for a better world, a world where there is equality and security in how a woman looks and acts, and the choices she makes for HERSELF.  That hope is fading fast when things in the news , and current events are revolving around what a woman cannot do, rather than what she can do. 

Why write?

  Hi. It's been a while. I haven't had much to say in the last year or so. I mean, everything on Earth is said, ad nauseam , all day long on social media. So , anything I would write would be just a regurgitated piece someone else touched on , somewhere else on the Internet.  But tonight I went and re read a lot of my previous posts , and they reminded me that the writing I did was important in documenting how I felt at that particular moment in time . It might be all that my kids have of me someday, an echo of my voice so to speak. I  certainly wish I had that when my mother passed away. I only have a few things with her signature on it, and an old rather ugly jacket that still faintly smells like her . How I wish I had a glimpse into how her life was back when I  was a child , or a young adult too selfish and too busy to pay attention in real time. How she actually felt about me, her marriage , and her life as a whole would have been cathartic for me. Well, reading those old blog posts tonight I realize my kids will have that, after I am no longer here with them. As of late our world is a place that I  hardly recognize , but have had to adapt to in a very short time. My worst fear; sickness and plague have become the everyday reality that we all live in. Watching my children adopt practices of mask wearing , not touching anyone who is not in their "safe circle" and learning that grown ass adults can be an embarrassment while in in positions of leadership and decision making is what my new normal as a parent is. I have no answers for them or any way to reassure them. It is a rough time to be a mother , a prewired "fixer" who can no longer fix. It has been enough to cause me to have anxiety again, a little depression and an overall hopeless feeling. I overeat, I over exercise,  I cry ,  I sleep a lot and I doubt everything. I am willing to bet I am not the only one. That is another reason writing needed to come back into my life , even if it is just rambling posts just stating the obvious. Someday, this world we are living in will be a distant memory. All we have had to endure and adapt to will either be ingrained or forgotten- I am pulling for the latter. This post will be here for my kids - or my husband (if he out lives me- and he WILL  because he does NOT exercise or take care of himself) to read and maybe hear my voice again, remembering what I  had to say at that time. They can choose to remember fondly or to log off. 

   I had a wonderful summer, dare I say it was the best I have ever had. Yet I never left my hometown at any time during this season , and I gained a good solid 8 pounds. I  watched bad T.V. and ate all the food . ALL THE FOOD. I  took walks , had conversations that turned into life lessons and went out for late night runs to Twistee Treat - I  mentioned all the food, right? The best part was I did not do this alone, actually if did that would be scary... I  did it with my sweetest, best-est friend who also happens to be my daughter. It was a summer of lasts and we knew it. We were not going to fight about stupid stuff, we were going to laugh, watch dumb You Tube videos and shop. The shopping was second only to eating in time spent together. Every weekend was a marathon of dorm decorating and lunches. The nine weeks from graduation until today went by at warp speed. Today was the day my little girl left to go away to college and I had to let her go. Granted she is 30 minutes away, and will no doubt come home a lot , or as often as she needs her laundry done. But she left her room, her doggies and her home of 18 and a half years this afternoon and life will never be the same. Her life, and my life all changed forever. I am no longer the one she sees when she rolls out of bed, hair a mess, Superman t-shirt on whining for coffee. I  am not the person she will run to anymore to show the stupidest cat or dog video ,or ask me to watch an Insagram influencer with her . Those moments are to be shared with her new people, the people who will become her college friends, and ,more than likely , her life long friends. And I'm happy for her, so much so that I  ignored my nausea and panic these last 9 weeks to have the best time and further solidify our relationship. Today the stuff came out of the boxes we have been collecting for the past three months and was put to use and became the backdrop of her new home for the next school year.  Her room is great, her view is spectacular and her two roommates are adorable. She is at a top notch school in a fabulous city that she has always wanted to live in the heart of. She is ready. I am getting there, between bouts of crying and smiling to myself. From the minute they put this little girl in my arms I  knew she was meant to do great things, and I was meant to be thereto witness it. So this is Day One. So, as this summer ends and her life begins I know that she'll be fine in this new arena of independence and self awareness. I  just want to thank her for the best summer I  have ever had , a summer of nothing special was in fact the summer of everything I could ever want.

                         Let me begin by saying I have not "played cards" since I was 15 , sitting at my cousin's house in Queens eating Italian pastries and listening to adults bitch about their lives.  Yet I  am a nurse. I have held a few types of nursing/medical positions over the years since I graduated in 1994.  None of them included master poker player, or even master break taker.  A state senator that I had never heard of put her political foot in her idiotic mouth this week by stating nurses get plenty of "breaks" in their 12 hour days and probably spend a good portion of it "playing cards".  I read it, then re-read it incredulously, wondering who, if anyone, could be this blind.  Nursing school was , hands down, the hardest thing I have ever done in my life.
                          Now, I have worked in three very different nursing venues over my lifetime, taking a big, long break so I could raise my children ( never had time for card playing then either). The first job I had was a supervisor in a LTC facility , 3-11PM shift.  I was 23 years old, and had two hallways full of patients to oversee, learning on the fly how to handle the dead weight of an 85 year old dementia patient, or the intricate wound care necessary for a life long diabetic. Sometimes these were the same person. I remember sitting down at 10:30 PM to chart , by hand. There were no cards in those hands as I recall. I did learn a lot and most of it was from the CNA's who made me look a little less like an idiot. (And they were never sitting down - much less playing a rousing game of Go Fish).
                          The rest of my "hands-on " nursing career was spent in home health care. Time management and independence is what nurses learn in this genre of nursing. I  spent a good part of my days listening, bandaging, teaching, advocating and then driving to the next location to do it all again. I ate lunch in my car,  stopped at convenience stores to pee , ensured my supplies were kept in two separate parts of my trunk- sterile area and non sterile area. I did this 5-7 times daily , then went home and did my progress notes , made necessary phone calls to my supervisor and called it a day. I     don't recall shouting "Gin" at any time during the work day.
                           Now I am in an administrative office, with no hands-on patient care but I still interact with them via internet or phone. My current position does not require a nursing license but it helps. A LOT. I  have learned a whole other side to medicine now ,and work with many types of people including Doctors and executives . Guess what ? THEY'RE NOT PLAYING CARDS IN THEIR DOWN TIME EITHER.
                             So, you see Senator Shit head, you know not what you speak of.  Stating that nurses do not need mandated breaks during a 12 hour shift is like saying you will never need a nurse to take care of you. It's ridiculous to assume that you know what they need, but rest assured they will know exactly what you need when you are sick and hospitalized. Just count your lucky stars I will never be your nurse because your call light would be secondary to my Poker game.

                       "...I have squandered my resistance for a pocket full of mumbles, such are promises..." What does this line mean to you? It is a line from the song "The Boxer " by Simon and Garfunkel ( I  need to put this in here so I don't get sued by their estate). I think they're dead? Right? I'm too tired to look up that pertinent fact .. so I am crediting them early on. Anyway, back to the meaning of that line. I  am going to be honest , I used to think it said "squandered my EXISTENCE" , and by used to I    mean up until fifteen minutes ago when I  looked up the lyrics for accuracy on Apple Music. You see , the word existence made a lot more sense to me when put in a sentence with squandered.  I have been questioning my existence for a while now, as do most mothers of children on the verge of beginning their own lives. I  seem to have fallen into a grey area of living. I  am needed by my family, but not crucial to their survival . I  am needed at my job, but really anyone can do it ( the temp they get to replace me when I am out is 78 years old , so ...). I  am turning 48 in three months , the time I  have spent up until now , has it been wasted ? I  mean it is definitely more than halfway over , probably less, thanks to my genetic makeup and heart disease/cancer /diabetes trifecta in my family blood line.  So, you see the words that I thought were "squandered my existence "spurred on my deep thought process regarding the state of my life and it turns out that wasn't even the damn lyrics.
                     "... Squandered my resistance for a pocket full of mumbles..." has a whole different meaning. It means you sold out, gave up your true self for the path of least resistance. Well fuck, I did that too. Turns out that's even worse than what I originally though old Paul and Art were singing about.  I sold out my dreams and wants for the life of motherhood and being a wife. It was enough for many years, but now I am needing more. This makes me an awful person to some of you, I  know. I  struggle everyday with the yin-yang pull of "you are enough" or "you contribute nothing " feelings . I stay in bed a little longer,  eat a little more junk food and listen to sad ballads by 1960's musicians . I  have self loathing and resentment. I  am probably depressed , like I was back in college when I realized I was in the wrong major and had a breakdown because of the money I had cost my parents. Yes, that's true. Hardly anyone knows it but now everyone reading this knows it. And that's ok , because I have a feeling some of you may be feeling the same. Especially after you look up the lyrics to this song and listen to it ( you know you are going to). We are all Boxers , just fighting everyday , for what we want, what we were and what we hopefully can still become. I  am depressed,  I am at a crossroads and I  am going to make every attempt to rectify the "squandering " of both my existence and resistance in the near future. Some of you may not look at me the same anymore. That's ok , neither do I .