A Year Ago This Month -- Was It Only a Year Ago?

A year ago this month, the world shut down. It felt unprecedented but very temporary at the time. "By summer," we told ourselves. "By summer this will be over." We had no idea.

 By March 8, 2020, there had been 539 officially diagnosed cases of Covid-19 in the U.S. and 22 deaths. On March 8, 2021, there have been 28,771,749 officially diagnosed cases of Covid-19 in the U.S. and 540,973 of us have died. 

 We have lived a year of fear and isolation, of uncertainty and virtual connections. We have seen rampant political cynicism, heightened political polarization and a violent challenge to a smooth transition of power in Washington. We've seen racism exposed in all its ugliness and we've seen it challenged with new resolve and a flicker of cautious optimism that so many wrongs can be corrected at last. We've also salvaged hope in the form of vaccines that will, at the very least, sharply curtail the death toll from Covid-19. 

We're looking to summer and then on to fall for some return of normal. And yet, what will the new normal look like? What parts of pandemic cautions and customs will we keep? What have you learned from this memorable year?

 Here's what I've learned: 

 I've learned that technology can bring us together as well as keep us apart. We've all complained in the past how our smart phones and tablets have kept us apart, diverting our attention as we avert our eyes from each other to text or surf the internet. But sometimes technology can keep us connected -- in our work, in school and for doctor's appointments -- when it's too scary to leave home. 

A year ago this month, I saw my last in-office client for what we thought would be a few months and a year later, I have no immediate plans to resume in-person, in-office therapy. In addition to my private practice, I had been working three days a week for two telehealth companies since October 2019, so felt at ease with the technology of virtual therapy sessions as I transferred most of my private practice clients to a special online platform. 

 A few chose to halt therapy sessions for a time rather than go online "because this is just temporary and I'm not comfortable with technical things." We're still waiting, of course. And in the meantime, some previously in-office clients can't imagine going back. The last client I saw in person a year ago recently told me that "I was skeptical at first but now I LOVE online therapy. No dressing up, driving 20 minutes and hunting for a parking place! And you've had a chance to get to know my new kitten!" 

 Yes, I've found it as easy to bond and communicate with clients online as it was in the room with them -- and I do get a chance from time to time to have a sense of their homes, meet their pets and an occasional child or spouse who drops in briefly to say "hello." It is a different, but generally positive, sense of intimacy. 

 As life has unfolded in the past year, I've found new comfort and joy in having a partner. 

 Several months before the pandemic shutdown, in January 2020, my left foot was crushed in a freak accident. I had surgery to reconstruct the foot with metal plates and clamps in February last year. Then in March 2020, I visited the doctor's office to have my temporary cast, post-surgical dressings and stitches removed from my foot and a new, more permanent cast applied. In pain from the stitches and the swelling, I had both anticipated and dreaded this appointment. But, as with the pandemic, I had no idea, on a smaller scale of course, just how bad this could be.

 I took a deep breath as the doctor began to upwrap the bandages, increasingly bloody as the layers were peeled away. I looked over at my husband Bob and saw his eyes widen as my foot emerged from the bandages. My heart began to race. 

 Bob had been at my side throughout the long ordeal since my injury and surgery -- helping me with the most basic daily rituals from using the bathroom to bathing in the early days after my injury and surgery to lifting me and my wheelchair out of the house and into my office twice a day, taking over all household tasks, organizing grocery shopping expeditions and offering comfort during times of pain, sleeplessness and frustration. He never complained or ignored the faintest sign of my distress, sometimes just sensing my pain from a quiet intake of breath. He never saw himself as a hero. "I'm just doing what a good spouse is supposed to do," he would tell me. "I love being able to help you. I know you'd do the same for me." Still, I remained grateful on a daily basis. 

 Now, in the doctor's office, he left his chair in a corner of the small examining room and came over to me as I reclined on the table. "Close your eyes," he said, taking my hand. 

 The doctor had been shaking his head. "Get a surgical packet," he told his assistant quietly. Then he turned to us. "I'm going to remove the stitches now," he said. "But I'm also going to have to do a little more surgery here. You have a large area of necrotic tissue on the top of your foot. I'm going to have to remove that layer of skin before we can put the new cast on. I'm so sorry. But it's absolutely necessary." 

Bob tightened his grip on my hand. "Take a deep breath," he told me quietly. "Let's go to Maui together. It's morning and we've just finished breakfast at the Sea House on Napili Bay. We're walking on the beach. Look how the sun is sparkling on the water and those beautiful blue, translucent waves. Smell the scent of flowers in the air -- jasmine? Plumeria? Breathe deeply and just savor that scent. Feel how warm the water is as the waves wash over our feet..."

 I imagined and hung on as I focused on Bob's words, the images and the memories that helped to block out my pain and fear. And I was immensely grateful to have a partner who knew just how to help me through this latest challenge. 

 The procedure finished, the doctor's assistant was building the cast on my foot and leg. I opened my eyes and looked at Bob. "You did so well," he said quietly. "You were so brave." 

 Tears filled my eyes as I struggled not to cry. Bob knew my fears of medical procedures and pain that are rooted deeply in a sickly childhood of battling polio and another life-threatening illness. And he knew just what a comfort this guided imagery escape would be. It felt so good to be known so well and comforted so sensitively and expertly. 

 A year later, I am largely healed from my ordeal -- walking, back to sharing household tasks, back to our old life in so many ways. But I am immensely grateful and still especially moved as I remember that day -- was it only a year ago -- when I realized anew the blessing of being known and loved so well. 

 Now, in our post-vaccine euphoria, the new "firsts" feel strange and tentative. I got my first haircut in many months today. As I sat in the waiting area, an older man, socially distanced from me, reached over and touched my shoulder. He smiled through his face shield. "It feels so nice to touch someone," he said. "I hope you don't mind." I didn't. 

 I look forward to hugging friends and family. How will that feel? Will it be safe for them? Will we be so accustomed to elbow bumps that a hug will feel incredibly awkward? I look forward to rediscovering the joy of reaching out to and hugging those I love. 

 We've all gained new insights in this year of solitude and adversity -- whether from the fallout of a global pandemic or from personal challenges. 

 We've learned what's important -- and what's not -- in our lives. 

 In the time before the pandemic, Bob and I enjoyed a number of meals out each week. It has been a year since we've eaten in a restaurant and we're fine with that. While it might be nice to have a weekend breakfast out or a special dinner at our community golf course view restaurant from time to time this year, we're mostly content with simple, healthy meals at home. 

 In the time before, we felt pressure to be more social. Now we're more at ease with solitude. It will be wonderful to see good friends again after all this time, but we treasure quiet time as well to pursue our various interests. 

 In the time before, we tended to take good health for granted and the spectre of mortality was dark but distant. Now we know, with new clarity, how fragile life can be. We've lost neighbors to Covid and other health crises in the past year. Family members have become frail and my dearest cousin recently died. We've felt newly vulnerable. Even though we now have the comfort of being fully vaccinated against Covid-19, we're not making any asssumptions. We are embracing good health and the habits that make this possible with new fervor. 

 There are some joyful possibilities on the horizon -- going back to the library, the gym and the community pool, the chance to travel to see family and dear friends once again and maybe even to go to Maui once more to smell that perfumed air and feel the warmth of the waves for real. 

 But now, more than ever, there is gratitude for what is and for the blessing of love -- being known and loved well -- expressed by family and dear friends remotely or, in Bob's case, at close range through this painful, unprecented year.

The Joy of the Dance

 There are many stories within a life story. When I reflect on the life of my beloved cousin Caron Hill Roudebush, I remember so many stories of her dance through life with humor, strength of spirit, unconditional love for family and friends and joy in each day.

There is the story of her birth on May 7, 1940, in the sunny front bedroom of a house in Burlington, Kansas. She was the first child of Evelyn Curtis Hill and Elmer Hill. Their landlady had welcomed them as a couple but said she didn't like to rent to families with young children. Caron's birth changed her mind: she fell hopelessly in love with the winsome dark-eyed baby girl and happily helped to care for her. The family would eventually move to Kansas City, however, where Elmer was hired as a mechanic for TWA. Her mother, who had a brief career as a teacher before her marriage, was a loving stay at home mom to Caron and her younger brother Jack.

Caron spent many happy days of her childhood visiting our grandparents' farm in Toronto, a small eastern Kansas town that was still thriving in her childhood. Caron had so many memories from those days, far more than the rest of the grandchildren who were born after World War II. She was the only grandchild to know and love her Uncle George. They played together on the farm and he adored her, writing to my mother that she was "the cutest, most beautiful little girl ever." Caron went to the train station with our grandparents to see him off to war in July 1944. She and Grandma burst into tears as he boarded the train. They held each other on the drive back to the farm, weeping together as Grandma moaned "I'll never see him again."  Four months later, George was shot down over Germany, dead at the age of 24. Decades later, the memory of Uncle George waving and blowing her kisses through the train window as she cried would still bring tears to Caron's eyes. 

As we played and danced, sharing secrets, stories and dreams throughout our childhoods, Caron was so much more than a cousin to me. She was like a wise and affectionate older sister who told me she loved me every time we talked and, throughout my life from childhood to my ungainly teens and all the decades beyond, she told me that I was beautiful.

                                                          

                                                      Caron, Jack and me with our grandparents

                                                    

                                                   Caron, newly in love, and me in 1955

She was the beautiful one, though, even winning a local beauty contest. And she was popular in high school with a great group of friends who called themselves The Divas and vowed to be friends for life. (They kept that promise!) But the most beautiful aspect of her life -- a wonderful love story -- began at the end of their freshman year when she and Bud Roudebush discovered each other.

She was giddy in love when she came to spend the summer of 1955 with us in California, to help out after my sister Tai was born. She wrote to Bud every day as I hung over her shoulder. Sometimes, but not always, she would let me read his replies. Once she wrote him a note with all the words for "Unchained Melody", a hit song that summer: "Oh, my love, my darling...I hunger for your touch." We eagerly awaited his reply and laughed when it arrived: 'Caron! What happened to you? Did you fall on your head or something?" Even though the memory of that unique mail exchange faded for them, "Unchained Melody" became their special song for decades to come.

                                                        

                                               Caron and Bud as high school sweethearts

Caron's high school days were a blur of parties and dances and just hanging out with Bud and The Divas. She begged her parents to let her drop out of school and get married. They insisted that she finish high school and attend a secretarial course first. She and Bud were married on February 15, 1959. After a tour of duty with the Air Force, Bud worked as a surveyor while Caron was a stay at home mom to their children Cescilie, Aaron and Jason. She returned to work as a school secretary to help pay for their college expenses. Even with the inevitable challenges of life -- raising three bright, lively and resourceful children, then watching the nest empty -- their love only grew.

                                                       

                                             "You and Me": Their Favorite Picture Together

As Caron and Bud danced and loved and grew through all the transitions of their lives together, Caron never stopped exploring, learning and triumphing over obstacles along the way. After her kids finished college, Caron began taking classes at a local community college, finding herself drawn to a scientific curriculum. She had a perfect 4.0 gpa and was surprised when her advisor told her that she had earned enough credits for her Associate's degree. That graduation was very special to her.

"Imagine!" she told me. "I'm smart! In high school, I was too focused on being in love and getting married to care about academics. I wouldn't change a thing, of course, but it's nice to know officially that I'm smart!"

 She was also graceful and strong, studying Hawaiian dance, exercising daily and giving her eldest grandsons a run for their money in basketball sessions. When I visited in 2007, Caron, 67 by then, was nursing a broken arm, suffered when she leapt into the air to make a successful jump shot and then fell during a fiercely competitive basketball practice with her teenage grandsons. She had just as fiercely fought  and won a battle against breast cancer some years earlier and now she glowed with good health. She was dedicated to healthy eating, exercise and lifestyle changes, having given up her longtime smoking habit as she entered midlife.

Bud, in the meantime, focused on his long-time interest and talents as a photographer, particularly enjoying capturing Caron's growth from teenager to grandmother with special love. He also took some breathtaking photos during their travels -- to see hot air balloons in New Mexico, ride a train through the Rockies, explore the Egyptian pyramids on the backs of camels and the beauty of the countrysides and capitals of Europe during several trips abroad. Winning a small state lottery in midlife had enabled them to plan for both financial security and fun. We all rejoiced in their good fortune, happy that they had a chance to travel the world together while still healthy and active.

By 2010, Caron began to experience unmistakable symptoms of COPD. As her condition worsened, Bud finally retired to take care of her. 

As her dependence on him grew, he was careful to honor her independent spirit. One morning when I was visiting in 2013, Bud, Caron, her brother Jack and I were sitting around having coffee, talking and laughing. Bud finally looked at Caron and said "You know, Caron, I'm enjoying our conversation so much that I'd like to go into the bathroom with you when you take your shower so we can continue our talk. Would that be all right with you?"

She smiled. "Why yes," she said.. "I would like that very much!"

We all knew that Caron couldn't shower without Bud's assistance. Yet, he always made it her choice to have him accompany her. 

We talked a lot about the past -- our past, our mothers' pasts -- during that visit. I teased Caron gently about the many artifacts from the old farm that had landed in her home: our grandparents' bed in the guest room, the small children's chairs on the hearth that had once belonged to our mothers and then later to Caron and Jack when they were small.

We had made many trips back to the tiny town of Toronto by then. Our last trip there together, in 2013, brought up wistful memories: the ice cream parlor where grandma would take us for special treats and the small town library where our Great Aunt Floss held forth as librarian, story teller and town news conduit, the hardware store initially owned by Uncle Elmer's family. The hardware store, the library and the ice cream parlor were all shuttered by 2013. In fact, all of the town's storefronts were empty. Toronto School, a magnificent brick building, stood gleaming in the late spring sun -- but it had been empty for years. Caron, Jack and I looked at each other and sighed.

On our journey to Toronto that year, we drove through Burlington and parked in front of the house where Caron was born. It had held up well and sported a new coat of paint. Caron looked at that house, at the windows of the front bedroom where her life began and she sighed once more. "So many memories," she said quietly.

                                                             

                                              A joyous life together even in their later years

In these later years, Bud has taken over the housework and cooking as well as caregiving. But Caron's mind was sharp and she was fully engaged with family and friends. Reading my memoir, "The Crocodiles Will Arrive Later", shortly after its November 2020 publication, Caron told me that she wasn't shocked to read about the terror and chaos caused by my father's mental illness and alcoholism, but she found it immensely sad that my brother, sister and I had lived through so much pain. "I hope you know that you had no part in your father's unhappiness no matter what he told you," she said. "We're all responsible for ourselves. We decide what kind of life we're going to have, what kind of day we're going to have each morning when we get up. And I hope you know, too, that I love you very, very, very much!"

I told her that I loved her, too, and was so proud of her for making it to 80 -- something she had not been sure she could manage. It was an age landmark that had eluded our mothers and their sister Ruth. My mother died at 67. Aunt Evelyn and Aunt Ruth had passed away at 79. I told Caron that she was an inspiration.

Being an inspiration took a toll: Caron was in and out of the hospital four times in the past year with a variety of health crises, including a coronavirus infection that was not Covid-19, but that proved a grueling ordeal nonetheless. "You kicked the coronavirus' butt!" her son Jason told her as she left the hospital. Caron laughed ruefully and replied "But I think it took a big bite out of mine!"

Through it all, Bud has been by her side, holding her as they listened to their favorite music and danced in their hearts with a lifetime of warm memories. Bud never complained, only expressed his joy and good fortune in spending so many years with the love of his life. 

During the challenges of the past year, the Garth Brooks song "The Dance", especially the last two lines, held special meaning for him:

My life is better left to chance.

I could have missed the pain, but I'd have had to miss the dance.

They danced an imaginary dance as they held each other, quietly celebrating their 62nd wedding anniversary on February 15.

Time moves on steadily, relentlessly. And there are so many losses along the way.

Jack recently returned alone to Toronto to walk the deserted streets we ran through joyously as children, fully immersed in the delights of a town where everyone felt like -- and often was -- family. Now the small family farms have been gobbled up by sprawling factory farms. A dam project 60 years ago that was supposed to make Toronto a water wonderland and tourist destination simply devoured more farmland and devastated the local economy. Now the town's demise is nearly complete. Jack walked past houses and stores that were not only shuttered but were also collapsing. He was astonished to see that Toronto School is being demolished and its bricks sold as souvenirs of a past we'll never see again.

Caron's joyous dance through life, ended on February 26. She took her last breath, gently, quietly, with Bud holding her hand.

The pain of her loss is great. We will miss her forever. But there is music in warm memories and warm memories in music. Oh, what a dance of joy, love, laughter and courage Caron's life turned out to be!

                                          

                                                      Bud's photographic tribute to Caron

Letting Go

 Amidst the headlines announcing the deaths of legendary actors during the past week -- Cicely Tyson, Christopher Plummer, Cloris Leachman -- there was a smaller news item noting the death of yet another actor: Mike Henry.

Mike Henry was a former football star at USC and with the Los Angeles Rams before turning to acting. He starred in three Tarzan movies, was Junior in the "Smokey and the Bandit" films and appeared in a number of other films, television shows and plays onstage in Los Angeles. Our paths crossed in 1972 when we both were cast in a revival of the Broadway musical "High Button Shoes", a production starring Gavin MacLeod, during his tenure with "The Mary Tyler Moore Show" and before he became the captain of "Love Boat."

                                                                

In the 1972 revival of "High Button Shoes", Gavin MacLeod is in the foreground,
Mike Henry is in the back row, second from left. I'm in the back, third from right, with only
my right eye and a portion of my hat visible in this photo taken during a performance.

                         

A backstage photo of me during "High Button Shoes"

It has been decades since I let go of my acting career and aspirations, but the announcement of Mike Henry's death took me back to another time and place when I was a twenty-something actress known professionally as Kaylin McCoy because there was a "Cathy McCoy" already in the union and I wasn't allowed to use a name -- such as my full name "Kathleen" -- where anyone might be tempted to call me Kathy. So I combined my first and middle names Kathleen Lynne to be Kaylin, though no one ever called me that except Gavin MacLeod. It was a painful time for him,  long before he discovered the comfort of religion. He was dealing with the end of his first marriage and, while appearing in "High Button Shoes", he had fallen in love with Patti Steele, the choreographer for the show, who would become his second wife. Gavin would occasionally sit beside me at cast parties and sigh "What does all this mean, Kaylin? What do our lives mean, really?"

And I would look at him, at bit embarrassed, shake my head and say I didn't know. 

I was in my own cocoon of pain -- in the process of making the decision to let go of my passion and my dream for an ongoing career as an actress. I was beginning to realize that, while I liked acting, I didn't like the business. I knew that, as a young character actress, my chances were slim in L.A. for a sustained career. I didn't have the looks, perhaps not the talent nor the drive to carve an ongoing niche for myself in acting. I had seen enough highly talented, middle-aged actors hanging onto their dreams well past the time when there seemed to be any chance of success. I didn't want to be one of them and was equally passionate about writing. In fact, I  was making a steady, if modest, living primarily as a writer. The rationale for my choice to quit was clear, but still it hurt to think of letting go of a dream I had nurtured since childhood.

It would be another year before I actually quit -- and during that time I did a few voiceovers and another play "Dylan" in the role of the one woman even Dylan Thomas, serial womanizer that he was, didn't find attractive. That show was a great way to end my brief career: I loved the play and everyone in it and even got a nice review in Variety ("a delightful young character actress"). I walked away without regret and have rarely looked back.

But Mike Henry's death this week took me back to that time as I remembered his gentleness, his kindness and his generosity when we worked together. He hosted several cast and crew parties during the run of the show at his lovely Valley pool home. And one night toward the end of the show's run, he was my hero. 

Someone had knocked a fire extinguisher off the wall backstage and it had sprayed a small spot of foam that no one, including me, had noticed. Getting ready to dance onto the stage for the curtain call, I had slipped in it, dislocating my left knee and falling hard on my right hip. I slid onto the stage area and, in my shock, got up, took a bow and exited, only then starting to feel the full brunt of my pain. In a moment, Mike was in the dressing room with a bag of ice and a first aid kit. Patti helped me remove my tights and put her arm around me as Mike sat beside me, my left leg in his lap. He popped my knee back in place, iced it with one hand, wiped my tears with a tissue in the other hand, and then taped my knee so expertly that I never missed a show. "You're going to be okay," he said, looking into my eyes with such gentle reassurance that I believed him at once. 

Sadly, life didn't turn out quite as okay for Mike. In 1988, he retired from acting due to neurological symptoms that stemmed from repeated concussions during his football days and from Parkinsons disease that doctors thought might also be due brain trauma caused by football. He suffered for 32 years of neurological decline, a fate made bearable in large part by the presence of his devoted wife Cheryl, who was by his side for 36 years and who described him in an interview after his death as "a lovely, lovely man."

Yes, he was. Although I never saw him again after "High Button Shoes" closed, I have always been grateful for his kindness. And I quietly said "Goodbye" in my heart to this lovely man, a sweet memory from a past I let go nearly 50 years ago.

Traveling back in my memory to that time has made me think once again of Gavin's question "What does this all mean?"

From the vantage point of age, life means so many things -- and letting go is a prominent part of this meaning. 

It means letting go of the dreams that no longer serve to advance one's growth as a loving, giving person and finding new and better dreams. 

It means making a habit of forgiveness, not holding onto grudges and even political divisions, giving others the benefit of the doubt and remembering to forgive yourself, too, for being hopelessly human.

It means paring down your life, as time goes by, to the essence: what soothes your soul, what brings joy and fulfillment, what enables you to contribute in significant ways to the lives of others. 

It means rejoicing in the successes and the happiness of others as well as your own blessings.

It means embracing failures, disappointments and setbacks as learning opportunities. 

It means living with gratitude for what is and what was, for friends and family who have been fellow travelers through all the phases and transitions of your life.

It means treasuring all the love in our lives -- including love that didn't last and love that has been constant, love that we've received and love that we've given, love expressed with gentleness and kindness that endures in our warm memories and brings joy to our lives in this moment.