Forget the "why"

“Why?” might play an important role in criminal investigations as it goes straight to motive but I’m coming to terms with the energy wasted by asking it in times of personal pain. It rarely seems that the answer can justify the effect and it --- to date --- has never been able to reset the course of life after the effect.

Recently, I learned that a very lovely friend from high school died too early from cancer. (Mid-50s, which seems to be common among women --- me, two cousins-who-are-sisters, two sisters-in-law, and too many other women in the chemo suite with me.) Our paths crossed because she was my brother’s high school sweetheart.

Looking at some Facebook comments about her, one poster wrote. [She was] “wonderful, positive, quirky and fun…I primarily remember her with braces” …as do we all. Smile.

It was her joy, energy and excitement with life the made her stand out. And while her path took her away from my brother, it did take her onto a career as a neurologist, marriage and three daughters. Her focus in life was to do good and I can only imagine the difference she made for her patients and their families and in her community.

My sadness manifests itself in the realization that someone so young and contributing so positively is lost too soon. Getting an answer to why, “cancer” doesn’t comfort the sadness or fill the void created.

A year ago one of my best friends in the GALAXY died far too young at 67 due to health issues.

In high school he was told by a guidance counselor that he wasn’t college material. He went on to Princeton, Antioch College, and Newark State College focusing on guidance counseling and education. He then spent the rest of his days inspiring school students to see themselves as college students, helping them prepare to get into college, and ensuring that they were successful once they gained admission.

I recall telling him more than once that he saved lives every day to which I’d get a humble little blush and tiny grin…maybe a chuckle from time to time.

What struck me most about him and still does is that he never had a doubt about what he was put here to do and just went about doing it as best he could. “Leave a mark, now a stain,” he would suggest to anyone listening.

He left his mark indeed.

But I’m left wondering why the cosmos, my God, whatever karmic structure is out there decided that someone who helps so many young people and would have been happy to continue to do so for many, many, many years was taken so soon.

How could a spiritual being think we didn’t need these valuable people in the world?

God and I have had lots of words about this over that last year as I’ve come to terms with this absence. He (God) has let me stew a lot and finally, I was led back to someone’s comment on Facebook after this death.

“Who will fill his shoes?” someone posted.

To which I responded, “I hope we will all step up,” knowing that none of us alone were probably able to fill those shoes. After posting, I quickly forgot about it and went back to pondering “why?”

Perspective comes with time because indeed, that’s where at least a part of the answer has come from for me.

As painful as the losses are, perhaps those voids are created to remind us that we should not be so dependent on one person to carry the whole burden of addressing needs and coming to the assistance to those in need. While at the same time, the rest of us laud ourselves for whatever sideline support we offered.

Maybe, just maybe, we lose some of the best of us too soon as a “slap me into next Tuesday” notice that it’s our time and turn to step up and contribute to the needs around us.

Spending too much time pondering the “why” factor stunts us all and doesn’t honor those lost. The better question has to be: “How can I help now?”

Remembering Barb Jahnke, MD, 1959-2015 and Tendaji W. Ganges, 1948-2015

Media Skepticism Part II (local newspapers)

(Author’s Note: Sorry for the interruption between Parts I &II but I thought Flossie had something worth saying for all of us.)

 

I have lived long enough to witness the media I love the most --- newspapers --- teeter harrowingly on the brink of extinction ---- (It could happen in my 26 years but I have an old soul.)

I have also lived long enough to see the career I knew I was destined for --- journalism --- live out periods of high ethnics (post-Watergate) and surrender to sensationalism (pick a medium, pick a story).

I have a lot of bones to pick with this profession, but at 60, the one that bothers me the most is this natural and perhaps necessary evolution away from hard copy news to Internet rivers and streams of electronic news, and the audience that loses out as a result.

When the country switched from analog to digital in 2008, the FCC reported that less than 2.5% of American households were unready and did not make that switch. Interestingly, The Nielsen Company reported that by October of that year all but .05% of households had made the conversion and that those that hadn’t were most likely to be African American, Hispanic, Asian, younger, lower income and those less likely to have Internet access in their homes.

Yet, the same report shows that of that small percentage, one-third was age 55+ (no doubt also low income, without access to the Internet and of all cultures). A group of people who no doubt counted on their TV, along with their newspaper, as company in the household during the day as well as an important information source. Of approximately 116M households in 2008, that would mean somewhere around 5M households (some 5M+ citizens) lost this important companion.

I couldn’t find any estimates on how many households may still be without TV because they didn’t make the switch but I do worry that too many of them are elderly and out there alone.

Closely following the analog/digital switch and the gap in service it may have created, came the loss to too many newspapers.

I cannot help but remember my mother and aunt living alone, without the freedom of a car and only so much yard work to be done. I remember the talk radio station on all day to fill the void in an empty house. I also think about my mother’s dinner schedule around “M*A*S*H” reruns and the news, and her “stories” in the evening to pass the time.

The newspaper industry has struggled for decades to cultivate young readers in hopes of turning them into dedicated adult subscribers but electronic technology and the Internet got in the way.

Newspapers were very late coming to the realization that they had to change to survive. They still struggle to figure out how to remain a relevant and effective source of news with TV and radio long having held that breaking news position and a mindless number of alternative news sites on the Internet for newshounds to track.

Yet, their most loyal readers --- the seniors who grew up knowing that the newspaper was a constant they could count on --- are the least attended to by the industry today and the ones most likely to require this version. While seniors are certainly tech savvy, many are still not likely to spend their days following the electronic river of news, where the most coverage is today.

Granted, they have calculated that we aren’t their long-term audience, yet at the same time, the industry has discounted us completely.

HEY! we're still here. We’re the ones who still want ink on our hands when we finish the newspaper for the day ---- every day. We're the ones who want all of the news "that's fit to stream." We'll trade you the Sudoku, advice columns and other syndicated stuff for pages full of the news of our city!

And we're happy to pay for it...It's not like you have to do it forEVER! (see two grafs above.) I'll even put "She still subscribed" on my tombstone. (Full disclosure: I can't really do that since I'm going to be freeze dried and my dust thrown in the wind --- I've take up too much room on this earth already.) But I would put that on my tombstone if I was getting one.

Flint, Michigan’s Flint Journal is owned by Booth Newspapers and became a part of MLive.com when the parent company decided to form the MLive Media Group in 2012 to handle the advertising and news for all of its newspapers and websites.

From 30+ reporters to cover the MANY stories of this urban community prior to MLive, the Flint Journal is down to eight-ish reporters according to Managing Editor Bryn Mickle. And as Mickle explained to my students last year, those reporters focus on the daily Internet stream of news, not on the content for the newspaper, which publishes four times a week --- Tuesday, Thursday, Friday, and Sunday.

Interestingly enough, since the MLive group is based in Grand Rapids, Michigan --- two hours away from Flint and on the western side of the state, the Flint Journal is edited, designed and printed in Grand Rapids. (Pause to let this sink in.) People in Grand Rapids are making decisions, with a bit of input from the Flint staff, about what the Flint Journal hard copy will contain. Just as they are for the other community newspapers in the system: The Bay City Times,  The Grand Rapids Press, Jackson Citizen Patriot, Kalamazoo Gazette, Muskegon Chronicle, The Saginaw News and Advance Newspapers.

If one subscribes to the paper long enough --- one year for me --- the template of daily coverage is obvious and sacrifice of local news just as obvious. MLive tends to drop in the biggest story among their coverage areas whether it has relevance to the other communities or not.

A weekly entertainment column covers the highlights of performers across the state for that weekend, completely ignoring the amazing arts events that happen nonstop in Flint. ---- FLINT IS AN ARTS TOWN! --- But how would a columnist not in Flint know about Flint arts if he’s just surfing the web looking for events calendars to help him fill his column?

Often, from Friday to Sunday or Sunday to Tuesday, the same story is virtually repeated rather than covering ---- “NEWs --- as in breaking news or new news in case you don’t get that “news” means the latest not just the best we’ve got to help us save money in the production process.

Instead of spending money on sufficient reporters to cover the local news, two full pages are given over to comic strips and Sudoku, more pages include three syndicated advice columns in a row (thanks, I needed that) along with horoscopes and other filler that has nothing to do with the community or the state --- just more paid for syndicated feature stuff.

Whew though! Plenty of pages are still dedicated to obituaries because most subscribers are 55+ and our parents (my mother) trained us well to check to see who we know who died. One service they’ve preserved for us ---- or actually the one service that makes them money since those death notices are paid for by the funeral home or family. Cha-ching.

It’s not that I don’t want the latest information on the Flint Water Crisis but that’s not the only story in town. And by the way, I’d much rather read about the other stories in my town than fluff features about Grand Rapids, Jackson, Kalamazoo, Muskegon or even Saginaw (my home town.)

I’m troubled by any justification behind generically filling each community’s paper with copy from other communities to save money. Whatever cash savings they are enjoying, they plan is at the expense of their subscribers who still hope for the the service that once was the community newspaper.

Will I cancel my subscription? Are you kidding! Newspapers are my life. I want my news in hard copy and I will always support my local paper ---- but that doesn’t mean it isn’t worthy of some constructive criticism from time to time.

Do you think it is still possible for publishers to think more about their audience than their bottom line? I don’t.

Poop! Aging jokes aren't so funny anymore

Poop!

Well, poop!

Well, poop already!

Remember when the jokes made by “old people” about bodily functions were funny not because we understood them or experienced them, but because our parents told us it was wrong to talk out loud about them?

The shock effect made them funny.

            The they-never-get-old fart jokes ("Blazing Saddles" need I say more?)

                        and then

            The constipation and bowel movement jokes flushed out the line-up.

           

Noisy knees and stubborn backs…

           

Jokes about memory loss --- You know, the ones they remembered they’d

forgotten.

                        “Oh, you tell it.”

                        “No, you go ahead.”

                        “No, you…”

AND THEN

            Old people and “sex” jokes! Eek!

(A friend tells me that in her 55+ community farting is a common as breathing, though the resident association strongly recommends that one not be done in close promixity to the other.)

Remember, this was when we didn’t get the reality of the jokes because our bodies moved us fluently, transparently through the world. We didn’t even process that we’d just squatted, kneeled, done the splits, tumbled, danced all night, climbed a mountain. We just did what we did because we could. That’s what our bodies were for.

From new car to old car (I’m from a car state folks) eventually something’s got to give.

The bodies we trusted mindlessly, the ones too many of us invested only minimal maintenance in have changed with age, and it doesn’t feel like a joke anymore.

So let me tell you about my bowel movement. Just kidding. ;-)

(my plate-and-screws repaired arm, 2011)

We’re fortunate to live in a time when creaky knees can be replaced along with crotchety hips. We’ve figured out how to repair and replace so many other parts to keep us alive and working. We know so much more about how the body works and what it needs to remain healthy…or to get it back on the path to health.

Pain relief comes in pill and pot form, and shots (not those “shots.” Ok, those shots too.) Fitness, nutrition, and health regimes have evolved from the one-type-fits-all presumptions to programs that can adapt to the individual’s needs.

Here’s the trick. We have to do the maintenance work ourselves to avoid living another joke.

So my question is: Why didn’t someone tell me when I was young to take care of this body? If they had, I wouldn’t be living these jokes today.

…Oh, that’s right, they did. I must have forgotten.

Actually, the jokes are pretty funny these days only because I know I'm not the only one f-a...passing wind. blush.

Come on, share 'em if you've got 'em. (Jokes that is.)

Memory loss is on our minds...or maybe not

Memory loss, dementia, Alzheimer’s are on the minds of a lot of middle-agers these days…or maybe not. ;-)

If individuals aren’t aware of their own weakening memory, they have someone in their lives who is noticeably struggling with it.

It’s been 12 years since my mother began her own transition away from this universe and us.

We don’t really know if these diseases are laced genetically through our family since both sets of grandparents and many aunts and uncles died too young. Yet, one aunt on my father’s side did declined into dementia before dying so it has appeared on both sides of our family.

When my mother started to show signs of dementia, my younger brother and I went to a workshop about caring for those with memory loss. Some 20 people had gathered around a large library table when the nurse conducting the workshop settled in and announced, “You don’t have it.”  Paraphrasing her: We spend too much time trying to multi-task when we can still really one do one thing well at a time. Something has to get lost somewhere along the way when we try to do too much at once.

The collective sigh of relief at that table must have disturbed other programming for a moment that evening.

Later during a break, my then 40-something brother admitted that he’d lost the Windex ™ one day. He’d taken a break to get a cold drink and then couldn’t find the bottle so he could get back to work. It drove him crazy. He was sure dementia was already setting in. He found it later, right where he’d left it…in the refrigerator. TIP: It does clean better when chilled (Just kidding but feel free to use this excuse if the opportunity arises).

I had stepped away from teaching for a period of time because I lost my train of thought in front of classes and was sure I shouldn’t be teaching if I couldn’t remember the subject matter --- curse you Menopause!

It’s said that it’s OK if you can’t find your keys but you’re in trouble if you find then and don’t know what they are for.

So far so good on the keys thing but what are those furry, purring balls that keep running around my house? Do they belong here or should I call an exterminator? What’s an exterminator again?

I know my brother and I aren't alone. Share your stories in the comments section below.

The notorious no-show friend

"We must work on getting together this year," demanded a friend during an once-a-year phone call on the eve of 2016.

By that, I thought, you mean I must do all of the work. I said aloud that I was skeptical about it ever happening.

"Oh but I really want to see you. We must make this happen. We'll make it a project for 2000-and-16," my friend replied.

This is a notorious no-show friend. One can invest in airline tickets, show up at vacation spots, get stuck in a blizzard on the way to a meeting only to get a extremely last minute bailing call.

To compound the irritation, the explanation is always urgent and involves me in some way.

"You'll never believe this but since you're a lawyer, I know you'll understand...," 

"Just my luck, but since you're a writer, you'll understand how this can happen," 

"I can't believe it either but since you breath air...."

I have a plan though. Once my friend sends me proof of arrival at said destination, I will dig out my suitcase, consider what I might want to pack, run a few last minute errands, ask for additional proof of arrival and then gas up the car...maybe. ;-)

An author  interviewed on NPR (I don't remember who and I can't find a reference) had catapulted a recurring protagonist of his novels into the character's 60s. It was a time, the character decided to "decommission" friends who no longer "brought anything to his table" and for whom the character could offer nothing in return.

Decommission, downsize, de-friend, unlink, block, ignore... Sometimes it's just time to say "enough" and let go.




I know I'm not alone in this experience. Share your stories in the comments section below.

Journaling: What a Gift

Each year on this day Doug sits down and reflects on the year past. He captures his thoughts in his one journal entry of the year. Just one, today, preserved.

I've been keeping a journal since my tween years, when I knew four things about myself: I would never get married (I tried anyway); I would never have kids (I'm the best eccentric aunt); I would live in an apartment (I'm baaack!); and I would be a journalist (well, writing and teaching will have to do).

Now, my journal takes the twice monthly form of a letter to a friend. We have for many decades corresponded faithfully. What I tell him is my record of my life and reflection on it. It's all stored electronically these days (with backup) but I have a storage unit near full of boxes of hard copy journals dating back to the 60s.

I do it to confront an issue or capture an experience. Maybe for someone in the family down the road to understand us all a little bit better.

I had a coworker who wrote brief comments in his day planner about important events in his life and those of his family as a form of journaling. Another who writes notations in her cookbooks about when and why she made a recipe --- someone's birthday, a wedding, other significant turning points...

When my mother's memory started to fail, evolving eventually into dementia and Alzheimer's, she started keeping a "notebook," (she would never have called it a journal) to recall what she did each day. She'd note the date, the weather, her schedule for the day. It sat open next to her place at the kitchen table, always faithfully at her side. We kids started to leave her notes in it as well. If we stopped by and she wasn't there, we'd leave a note. Hidden somewhere in the future pages we'd write "I love you," for her to find as she turned the pages on new days.

I have all of her notebooks but I haven't read them yet. I'm curious about the thoughts that she might have included beyond her daily activities but I'm scared to perhaps witness her decline captured among those pages as well.

Mom's been lost to Alzheimer's for 12 years now and my dad died too young. There's so much about them and our family history that we'll never know because we have no one to ask.

It doesn't really matter whether you think of yourself as a journal writer or how often or faithful you are to the task. It doesn't matter why you do it --- to preserve family history, wrestle your way privately through some personal challenge, make notes to yourself for future use... There are no rules, no requirements. You're the writer, the editor, the publisher. You decide.

What matters is that someday someone will be able to touch your words. Absorb them and the stories and lessons they tell. Imagine opening up your long gone great grandmother's cookbook to find her handwritten notes. What a gift.


Share your stories in the comments section below.

Standing in the middle of the road

I’m standing in the middle of the road.

A glamorous convertible filled with 20-somethings pumping out the party music and confetti races up the hill and past me unaware, invincible, carefree.

In the other lane toddles a pristine late model Cadillac tank. Behind the wheel is a shrinking and perfectly coiffed elderly couple. Their car crests the hill and slowly begins its descent.

 And here I stand caught between and looking both ways.

I’m told I’m a baby boomer, a member of the sandwich generation, not yet a senior and no way I’m a tweener, GenX or millennial.

Sixty is the new 40, but I’m only 26. That’s such a relief!

 Well, actually I’m 26  trapped somehow in a 60-year-old’s body.

No body switching movies plots. Twenty-six was just such a productive, creative, nurturing year that I choose to stay there even though my body did not.

In recent years, the aches and pains of this body, which has not aged as gracefully as I had intended, has caught up with me. Falls with broken bones and sprains. Cancer, surgeries and chemotherapy.

I am starting to admit that I am aging.

I am no longer invincible but vulnerable.

When we moved to a home that was suppose to be further down the road to retirement, I found myself slumping under the weight of the high anxiety my fears about aging, retirement, uselessness, and surrender were causing. (Every time I use the words “high anxiety” I start humming Mel Brook’s song from the movie of the same name.)

High anxiety ... it's always the same;

High anxiety ... it's you that I blame.

It's very clear to me I've got to give in.

High anxiety: you win. ©

At the same time, we were plotting “semi-retirement.” Working less in our career fields and making more time to enjoy our summers on the lake, volunteering, and travel. Yet, semi-retirement made me wonder if I was too outdated to continue to hold my own with the youngsters in my field. Anything left in me to contribute?

All of the economic fears came crashing down around my head as well. Are our savings enough? How do we ensure we can cover all of the health issues that we are starting to confront?

And then of course, what if one of us loses the other? What are all of the overwhelming tasks and commitments that we’ll have to muddle through alone?

And there’s nothing like grandchildren to jar one’s perspective about her age and fading place in the world.

Overwhelmed with me yet?

And then someone jolted me with “You’ve got 30-40 years left.”

“Well,” I thought, “That’s my adult life so far.” Heck, that’s lots of time. (Blatant but comforting denial).

My father died at 61 and I’ve always said that was way too young. I’m not even there yet.

Plenty of time to leave the old paths behind and head out in new directions --- professionally as well personally.

Plenty of time to address the gaps or flaws in the rest of my life plan.

And waaaaaaaaaaay too much time to surrender to some stereotypical image of an old lady.

While I’ll admit that I shouldn’t be standing in the middle of the road in the first place, I think I’ll stay right here, for a while anyway, taking all the risks and waving happily to all who cruise by.

© 1977 HIGH ANXIETY Mel Brook, arranged by John Morris

I know I'm not alone. Share your stories in the comments section below.