Aging Gratefully

Among the many impacts that COVID-19 has had on our society there is one unexpected one for me.  These days, I am proudly announcing my age as my passport to getting vaccines that will keep me healthy and alive.

It’s been a long time since I proudly proclaimed my age publicly, because ageism is real, my friends.  I never wanted to have my experience minimized because I’ve lived this long.  Strangely enough, I want to live even longer than I already have. 

You remember those age-related milestones that we were happy to acknowledge:

“I’m 16!  I can get my driver’s license!”  This was purely hypothetical for me, as the local driver’s ed class would interfere with my waitress job at Winky’s Drive-In Restaurant and my family had this rigid work ethic thing going on.  I knew that even if I got my driver’s license, my parents would never let me drive their car, and I could get literally anywhere I needed to go without one.  When I was about ready to graduate college, I got my license.

“I’m 18! I can vote!” This was an interesting process for me because I was a student at Clarion State College at the time.  Because I fancied myself a bit of a maverick and independent thinker, I wanted to register as an Independent, and not affiliate with either of the major political parties. The registrar in Clarion had never heard of such a thing, I could not convince him that this was a “thing,” and he simply didn’t know how to do it. Honestly, the universe really didn’t want me to be a maverick just like it didn’t want me to be a hippie, so I relented and registered as a Democrat. 

“I’m 21!  I can drink legally!”  I remember this one fondly, because I turned 21 at 12:10 a.m. on a Saturday (Friday evening), and the student apartments at Clarion where I lived were handily adjacent to a bar.  Some friends and I marched over there, and I had my first legal drink the second I turned 21.  That was fun.  I was a Junior in college on that fateful day, so we won’t talk about the illegal drinks I had before then.

And now we skip, just a few years ahead, to the latest one:

“I’m 65! I can get the COVID vaccine/booster shot!”

Even before all this COVID mess, and despite my general aversion to needles, I was always a staunch supporter of vaccines. You mean that by having a shot, I can prevent a disease that at the very least will make me miserable and at its worst may kill me?  Sign me up! I had vaccines when I was a kid, my child had them, and I grew up to take whatever preventive shot they would allow me to take. 

So, you had better believe that during the horror show that was 2020, I was more than eager to sign up for my COVID vaccine just as soon as it was available. I turned 65 in March of 2021 but was able to get the shot in February because (and I’m not bragging) I had a few other risk factors that suggested that if I did contract the virus, the outcome might not be so good.

Of course, it wasn't too long before any adult in this country who wants one (with a few exceptions) could get the vaccine, but I was happy to get it early. I breathed an especially heavy sigh of relief when my loved ones and I received the original vaccine, and my sigh was even more heartfelt when I received my booster shot two days after they became available to people 65 and older.

I can’t help but to be grateful to have reached the age of 65, alive and well enough to enjoy my life with prospects of living to be even older due in part to the vaccinations. I suppose I subscribe to my father’s philosophy.  He once told me, in his late 80’s, “The thing is I’m just not ready to go yet. There’s always something to look forward to.” 

The (Scavenger) Hunt is On

 Mr. Rip and I have always enjoyed a good scavenger hunt.

We were big fans of The Amazing Race, which features teams of two people on a race around the world where they complete challenges ranging from eating disgusting bugs to mental challenges to strenuous physical challenges like bungie jumping off skyscrapers.  The overall winner takes home $1 million and believe me, they earn every penny of it.

Mind you, we enjoyed watching other people compete in these madcap challenges as we sat comfortably on our couch with our feet up and cold drinks within reach.  There wasn’t enough money in the world to convince me to ever go on this show, and I shared this sentiment out loud every single time we watched.

One year for my birthday Mr. Rip set up an Amazing Race scavenger hunt in our house where I had to follow the clues to locate my gift.  That was fun and was just my kind of Amazing Race, although the final leg of the race up to the attic was a little hard on my knees.

So it came as no surprise to me that Mr. Rip wanted to do the Aviation Tour challenge when we visited Dayton, Ohio a few years ago.  Dayton is the home of the Wright Brothers, aviation pioneers, and the Aviation Trail is made up of 17 aviation-related attractions. If you visit at least 8 of these attractions, and get your passport stamped at each of them, you get a free Wilbear Wright teddy bear as a prize.  I probably don’t have to tell you that we were successful in this quest. Here’s Wilbear:

As you can imagine I jumped on the chance when a nice museum worker at the Phoenix Art Museum asked my sisters and I if we wanted to participate in a scavenger hunt on our visit that day.  I happily and eagerly accepted this pursuit, which involved finding specified pieces of art during your visit. 

My sisters declined, and I could have sworn that they were embarrassed that I participated because they thought the challenge was for children and because they looked and acted embarrassed. They tell me, though, that they weren’t embarrassed, one clarifying that she was just laughing at me.  Perhaps it was designed with children in mind, but the museum worker did ask if we wanted to participate, although it was probably clear that we were old enough to drink legally. How could I pass it up?

I had a ball completing the Phoenix Art Museum Scavenger Hunt, and not just because I thought I was embarrassing my sisters.  That was just a bonus.  A friendly docent was waiting at each designated art piece, and they shared information about the art, and some were delighted that I was an adult completing the challenge. I won a pin and bragging rights. The real icing on the cake was when I was mistaken for a docent after being overheard discussing one of the pieces with the real docent. I couldn't be prouder of this accomplishment.

Next time you hear about a good scavenger hunt, count us in, as long as I don’t have to eat bugs or jump off any buildings.

On This Day My Child Was Born

 It was February 13^th.  I was 8 ½ months pregnant and returning to work after my weekly gynecologist appointment.

My doctor said he thought I may come a little earlier than my February 28^th due date.  That was okay with me. I had had enough of the whole pregnancy thing- the tremendous weight gain, the sharp pain in my abdomen they called “heartburn,” the inability to sit, stand or sleep comfortably.  I really did Ache All Over. I was more than ready to meet my baby.

Snow was beginning to fall as I headed back to work, but I wasn’t worried.  The roads weren’t bad yet, and my workplace was just four miles from my house.  Nonetheless, I was pretty happy when I arrived at work safely, just in time for lunch.

When I stood up after lunch, I felt an unfamiliar sensation.  I realized with a shock that my water was beginning to break.  I calmly called the doctor’s office, and they advised me to return to the hospital immediately.  I was not able to reach my husband, who was making deliveries for his family’s business in a time before cell phones.  I left the message with his mother that I would go home and pack my bag and he could just meet me at the house.

I let my boss and my friend and co-worker Joan know what was going on and left.  I got in the car, turned the key and…the car wouldn’t start.  I had turned the headlights on when I was on my way back to work in the snowstorm and left them on.  My car battery was dead.

Okay, so now I was beginning to panic.

I found Paul, my co-worker with jumper cables.  Paul felt strongly that a woman in labor should not be driving herself anywhere, especially in the snow.  He refused to jump my car.  I explained that I just planned to drive the few miles to my house, and probably wasn’t even technically in labor.  Paul didn’t care.  He offered to drive me anywhere I needed to go.  I explained to him that this was my only car, and I could not leave it there, dead, especially if I actually gave birth to the baby.  Paul was adamant.  We argued for several minutes.  I was getting desperate.  I begged.  I cajoled.  I cannot swear that I didn’t at one point grab Paul by the lapels and yell “Jump the damn car, Paul!”   Finally, Joan, a very persuasive person, intervened and Paul grudgingly agreed to jump my car.

I drove home and packed my suitcase but hadn’t heard from my husband.  I called the doctor’s office.  “WHAT??!!!,”  the nurse said, “You mean you haven’t even LEFT yet?”  The last professional I saw get this excited was the whitewater rafting guide after I fell into the Youghigheny River.  I thought better than to mention the dead car battery.  She asked how long it would take me to get to the hospital.  About 30 minutes when it wasn’t snowing, I told her.   “Oh honey,” she said, “You need to get here RIGHT NOW!”

I called my mother-in-law to tell her that I was leaving for the hospital and to tell my husband to meet me there.  She offered to come pick me up, but after my conversation with the nurse I didn’t think I should wait. 

My mother also offered to drive me, which was very sweet but not really feasible.  My mother was terrified of driving in the snow, and lived in Swissvale, which was just about an hour away from my home in Washington, PA.  It would have taken my Mom 2 hours or more to pick me up and take me to the hospital in the snow, and I was certain that Mom would not want to drive in the snow and deliver her grandchild herself, at least not on the same day.

It was snowing a lot harder now.  When I finally arrived at the hospital, I told the doctor that aside from my water breaking and driving 30 miles in a heavy snowstorm, I was feeling fine.  He examined me and informed me that I was indeed having contractions and I was “officially” in labor.  Perhaps I was in shock as I drove to the hospital in the snow, and therefore numb to the contractions, or perhaps I had unknowingly been employing those breathing exercises they taught us in Lamaze class.

Meanwhile my husband had arrived back at the shop.  He arrived in the birthing room about an hour after I got there, in plenty of time for the birth.

I will not share all the minute details of the labor and delivery, because I hate when women do that.  However, I will tell you that I had to have a Caesarian section because the baby was large, and my birth canal was small.  I only mention this because I want everyone to know that there is actually a body part of mine that is too small, ironically located inside my body where nobody can see it.

At 10:15 p.m. on February 13, 1985, my beautiful, brown-haired, brown-eyed baby boy was born, 8 pounds and 9 ounces despite coming 15 days early.  When they put him into my arms, I was smitten- crazy about the kid from the start.  Every bit of the pregnancy and that day had been worth it.

That baby turns 36 today.  He is now the father of two beautiful sons of his own- a happy, active brown-haired, brown-eyed 4-year-old and a 3-month-old who made his debut two weeks before his due date this past November.  Looking forward to celebrating today and hoping for better weather than the day he was born.

 

Over the Edge of My Mask

Back on December 31, 2019, I published a blog called “Who’s on First?” all about the firsts I had experienced recently, like eating outside at a restaurant and reversing directions without using my GPS and being the first woman to sing with the North Hills Harmony Line Chorus.

I ended the blog with the sentence, “I can’t wait to see what new opportunities 2020 holds.”

I could never have anticipated what was waiting for all of us in the coming year. A global pandemic.  THAT’s what 2020 had in store. I probably don’t have to tell you that this was the first time I’ve ever experienced a global pandemic.

To complicate this further I was running an essential non-profit organization when the pandemic hit.
Adding to the overall uncertainty and stress was the responsibility of rethinking the organization’s business model and putting remote systems into place to continue to provide much needed services while safeguarding staff, clients, volunteers, and the public.   It was also the very first time in my career that I used the Crisis Management and Emergency Public Relations that were the topics of my master's thesis. 

I had my first video conferencing call back in March.  Since then I have been on roughly 150,000 video calls and none of us have mastered the technology yet.  Other firsts?  I made no-sew masks from old t-shirt sleeves, wore masks in public, sanitized groceries and any other packages that came into my house, and ordered some groceries for delivery. 

Can I say this was the most stressful period of my life?  Not necessarily, but it certainly makes the top five.

Oddly, it has not been all bad. There is nobody I would rather be in quarantine with than Mr. Rip.  We have always been very fond of one another, but we found out we love living and working together from home, essentially co-existing 24/7.  We have started taking walks around our nice neighborhood for the first time.  I put together a designated office space in my home.  The weekly video chats with family members have been great.

But then things really took a bright turn when I received two unexpected calls that could not have been more welcome.

First, we received the news that our son and daughter-in-law are expecting their second son and our second grandson this fall.  We were overjoyed to hear of this new addition to our family and cannot wait to meet the little guy.

Then came the job offer.  For a full-time 32-hour-a-week position that would allow me to continue to work in my field with a professional salary and full-time benefits.  A four-day work week, no evening meetings, and all this a few years before reaching retirement age.  I can’t believe my good fortune, or my three-day weekends.

Life goes on, even in the face of a global pandemic.  There are good things happening to us now and waiting for us on the other side of this crisis. I still can’t wait to see what the future holds, even if I am looking towards it over the edge of my mask.

P.S.  Wear your mask, wash your hands, and vote.

 

On This Day My Child Was Born

It was February 13^th.  I was 8 ½ months pregnant and returning to work after my weekly gynecologist appointment.

My doctor said he thought I may come a little earlier than my February 28^th due date.  That was okay with me. I had had enough of the whole pregnancy thing- the tremendous weight gain, the sharp pain in my abdomen they called “heartburn,” the inability to sit, stand or sleep comfortably.  I really did Ache All Over. I was more than ready to have my baby.

Snow was beginning to fall as I headed back to work, but I wasn’t worried.  The roads weren’t bad yet, and my workplace was just four miles from my house.  Nonetheless, I was pretty happy when I arrived at work safely, just in time for lunch.

When I stood up after lunch, I felt an unfamiliar sensation.  I realized with a shock that my water was beginning to break.  I calmly called the doctor’s office, and they advised me to return to the hospital immediately.  I wasn’t able to reach my husband, who was making deliveries for his family’s business in a time before cell phones.  I left the message with his mother that I would go home and pack my bag and he could just meet me at the house.

I let my boss and my friend and co-worker Joan know what was going on and left.  I got in the car, turned the key and…the car wouldn’t start.  I had turned the headlights on when I was on my way back to work in the snowstorm and left them on.  My car battery was dead.

Okay, so now I was beginning to panic.
  

I found Paul, my co-worker with jumper cables.  Paul felt strongly that a woman in labor should not be driving herself anywhere, especially in the snow.  He refused to jump my car.  I explained that I just planned to drive the few miles to my house, and probably wasn’t even technically in labor.  Paul didn’t care.  He offered to drive me anywhere I needed to go.  I explained to him that this was my only car, and I could not leave it there, dead, especially if I actually had the baby.  Paul was adamant.  We argued for several minutes.  I was getting desperate.  I begged.  I cajoled.  I cannot swear that I didn’t at one point grab Paul by the lapels and yell “Jump the damn car, Paul!”   Finally, Joan,  a very persuasive person, intervened and Paul grudgingly agreed to jump my car.

I drove home and packed my suitcase but hadn’t heard from my husband.  I called the doctor’s office.  “WHAT??!!!,”  the nurse said, “You mean you haven’t even LEFT yet?”  The last professional I saw get this excited was the whitewater rafting guide after I fell into the Youghigheny River.  I thought better than to mention the dead car battery.  She asked how long it would take me to get to the hospital.  About 30 minutes when it wasn’t snowing, I told her.   “Oh honey,” she said, “You need to get here RIGHT NOW!”

I called my mother-in-law to tell her that I was leaving for the hospital and to tell my husband to meet me there.  She offered to come pick me up, but after my conversation with the nurse I didn’t think I should wait. 

My mother also offered to drive me, which was very sweet but not really feasible.  My mother was terrified of driving in the snow, and lived in Swissvale, which was just about an hour away from my home in Washington, PA.  It would have taken my Mom 2 hours or more to pick me up and take me to the hospital in the snow, and I was certain that Mom would not want to drive in the snow and deliver her grandchild herself, at least not on the same day.

It was snowing a lot harder now.  When I finally arrived at the hospital, I told the doctor that aside from my water breaking and driving 30 miles in the snow, I was feeling fine.  He examined me and informed me that I was indeed having contractions and I was “officially” in labor.  Perhaps I was in shock as I drove to the hospital in the snow, and therefore numb to the contractions, or perhaps I had unknowingly been employing those breathing exercises they taught us in Lamaze class.

Meanwhile my husband had arrived back at the shop.  He arrived in the birthing room about an hour after I got there, in plenty of time for the birth.

I will not share all the minute details of the labor and delivery, because I hate when women do that.  However, I will tell you that I had to have a Caesarian section because the baby was large, and my birth canal was small.  I only mention this because I want everyone to know that there is actually a body part of mine that is too small, ironically located inside my body where nobody can see it.

At 10:15 p.m. on February 13, 1985, my beautiful, brown-haired, brown-eyed baby boy was born, 8 pounds and 9 ounces despite coming 15 days early.  When they put him into my arms, I was smitten- crazy about the kid from the start.  Every bit of the pregnancy and that day had been worth it.

That baby turns 35 today, and is the father of a beautiful, happy, active 3-year-old brown-haired, brown-eyed son of his own.  Here’s wishing my son a wonderful birthday full of celebrations with his family, and better weather than the day he was born.

Through the Bathroom Door

One of the most intriguing features of our new house when we bought it 10 years ago was the fact that the house had two bathrooms, one for each of us.  We were ecstatic about the idea of having our own bathrooms. 

I realized that I had never had a bathroom to myself.  I grew up sharing one bathroom with five other people, and I went on to live in dormitories, apartments and three different houses where I shared one bathroom with the other people living there.

I was delighted with my new bathroom, which, despite being the shape of a small arrowhead, had everything I needed.  A full shower, a toilet, a sink, and an amazing oversized mirrored medicine cabinet. It would have been a perfect design but for one little thing.  The door opened into the bathroom, effectively cutting the room in half when it was open.

Why did the people responsible for designing this bathroom do this?  This is a question for the 
ages, one I have asked myself many times. It is a mystery, and we may never know the answer.

No big deal, I thought.  We could just turn the door around at some point.  That shouldn’t be too hard. It was the one and only change I wanted to make to the house.

But you can’t always get what you want.  It turns out that in my naivete regarding all construction-

related topics, I did not realize what a massive and difficult undertaking turning the door around
would be.  A succession of handymen and friends who know about this kind of thing explained
why that was so. It’s very complicated, but suffice it to say that it had something to with the way 
the frame was.  Turning it around would not only be complicated, but expensive, and we came to the conclusion that we might just need to buy a new door.

We agreed that we would indeed buy a door for the bathroom….someday.  Someday came and went, and there we were, 10 years later, and the bathroom door still opened into my bathroom.

So, when Mr. Rip asked me what I wanted for my birthday this year, I seized the opportunity.  “I want a door for the bathroom that opens out.” I said without hesitation.

“Okay,” he said, “but I will have to get you something to open that day.”

I assured him that would not be necessary.  “Just put a big bow on the door,” I told him.

Fast forward.  We found a carpenter who was able to turn around the existing door.  He completed the project while I was at work, so when I came home I rushed to see the door. This is what I 
found.

Mr. Rip really did put a big bow on it.  Of course, in true Pandora style I ignored the directive on 

the sign and opened the door immediately.  After all, my birthday was six weeks away.

It turns out that having the door swing out was just what my bathroom needed to make it all I’ve 

ever dreamed it could be and more.  The only thing better in the house right now is the guy who
put the bow on it.

Who's on First

Sometimes when you get to be my age you begin to believe all the hype that you are too old to ever do something you’ve never done before.

This thesis was supported when a Friend posted one of those lists on Facebook where you are supposed

to choose the activities that you haven’t tried.  There were only seven of the 24 listed that I hadn’t tried, because I’ve tried some things in my life. I also realized those seven things were things that I was never going to try.  Things like scuba diving, or sky diving or skinny dipping have always been on my list of things to successfully avoid doing until I die.
Then came my magical week of firsts.

It all started when  my husband and I ate outside at a restaurant on purpose.  You see, we don’t eat

outside. There are bugs and weather and wind and pollen there. But it was an exceptionally nice night, and I remarked casually that if there was ever a night for eating outside this was it.  Next thing I know my husband was asking the host if we could be seated outside, and there we were having a perfectly lovely dinner experience on the sidewalk of the restaurant.

During that very meal a second first occurred for me.  I ate the drippy grilled cheese sandwich I ordered

without spilling anything on my shirt.  This was more than just a first. It might have been a last. I sometimes, rarely, manage to eat a meal without spilling anything on my shirt, but it never happens when there is any drippy food on my plate.  

The streak continued the next day when I went into Target and only bought the item I went to the store

to purchase.  Yes, you heard me correctly. I did not purchase even one extra item. I don’t even have to tell you what an accomplishment that was.

Later that week, I was going to a work-related meeting in Turtle Creek.  I’ve been to Turtle Creek before

but I never went there from Allison Park, where my office is located, and the GPS took me on an entirely unfamiliar route.  When I left the meeting, I said to myself, “That was a pretty straight shot; I am sure I can get back without putting the GPS on.”  

Mind you, saying this was not new to me.  I say this kind of thing to myself all the time.  Then, I inevitably

take a wrong turn on my way back, and have to turn on the GPS after all. This time I really did drive back to my office by reversing the directions without turning on the GPS, or taking a wrong turn.  Another first.

But the best, brightest first of the week was still to come.
I sang “Lean on Me” backed up by the North Hills Harmony Line Chorus, a men’s barbershop choral group,

in a fundraising concert they were putting on for the non-profit organization for which I work.  It was an arrangement written by my husband, a Harmony LIne Chorus member.  

It was the first time I ever sang an a cappella solo  backed up by an entire chorus. I was the first woman

to ever sing with the Harmony Line Chorus. I never aspired to front a choral group, and I never, ever thought I would be the first woman - or person, for that matter- to do, well, anything.  

Sure, I was pretty terrified.  I didn’t want to let down the Chorus, or my husband, or my non-profit. 

As it turns out, the entire process was more rewarding than I thought possible.

I had the opportunity to work with a gifted conductor, and the kindest group of guys with whom you’d

ever hope to make music on a piece of music arranged by the talented Mr Rip.  They could not have been more welcoming and accommodating to me. I can't vouch for me but the chorus sounded great, and I sang the right words and notes at the right time. It was a thrill and an honor.

I can’t wait to see what new opportunities 2020 holds.