tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77546848199088015362024-03-18T21:59:09.743-07:00Dr. Kathy McCoy: Living Fully in Midlife and BeyondMake the most of midlife and beyond! We'll share the joys and rewards of maturity. This blog covers concerns you may have about emotional issues, health, sexuality, marriage, love relationships, parenting, retirement planning and more.
Dr. Kathy McCoy Official Website: www.drkathymccoy.comDr. Kathy McCoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02903015507894951725noreply@blogger.comBlogger328125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7754684819908801536.post-80718156920367571662023-12-27T15:28:00.004-07:002023-12-29T11:37:35.806-07:00<p style="text-align: center;"> </p><p style="text-align: center;"><b style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; text-align: center;"><br /></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; text-align: center;">Memories of an Amazing Once and Forever Love</b></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFkAOTdBSFwU1ctMJGkDS7XUc7hz2M6XGnmRvM481jfjJP6twp9HcAnA2iVb_oduvwiYsSkerno3UjPTm-gn3s334flfWQk23SB65-NTaedqS68r5i5bixRSE7gx_IoghW_mCiIV8vqh70idngmDIRWPaTYJ0o98dw23Humi6k6h1owVNhQTteiXtb/s640/Maurice.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFkAOTdBSFwU1ctMJGkDS7XUc7hz2M6XGnmRvM481jfjJP6twp9HcAnA2iVb_oduvwiYsSkerno3UjPTm-gn3s334flfWQk23SB65-NTaedqS68r5i5bixRSE7gx_IoghW_mCiIV8vqh70idngmDIRWPaTYJ0o98dw23Humi6k6h1owVNhQTteiXtb/s320/Maurice.jpg" width="250" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Maurice Sherbanee 1930-2023</td></tr></tbody></table><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">His voice on the phone was gentle and loving, taking me back through the decades to our time as lovers. “I love you, Kat,” he said, using the nickname only he ever called me. “I always loved you and will love you forever.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Struggling to keep my voice steady, fighting sudden tears, I replied “I love you forever, too, Maurice.” In that quiet moment between us, I realized that he was saying “Goodbye.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">The loving friendship I shared with Maurice Sherbanee was a journey of more than 55 years. We met as actors at the Desilu Studios talent development program. He was hard to miss: tall and muscular, well over six feet, with a warm smile and a soft foreign accent. But for several years, we were simply friendly acquaintances. I was in my early twenties, still very much a kid, combining acting ambitions with a rapidly evolving writing career. He was pushing 40, a recent immigrant with a history he kept secret along with his true ethnicity because he didn’t want to be typecast. During his successful acting career in U.S. and foreign films, on television and stage, he played nearly every ethnicity but his own. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Maurice was easy to like, but hard to know. However, our friendship took a warm turn after we worked together in a musical revue and a year later, it became romantic almost by accident. An actress friend of mine confessed that she had an unrequited crush on Maurice. But she had hope. She had tickets to see him play the role of Pannise in a Los Angeles revival of the musical “Fanny” and invited me to come along. I marveled at his joyous, tender, nuanced performance, weeping through his death scene near the end of the show. I was still snuffling when we went backstage to congratulate him. He handed me tissues, then asked me out. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Startled and embarrassed, I declined, mostly because I knew my friend liked him and was hoping he would ask her out. But there were other factors in my reticence. Our 15 year age difference was also daunting. At 40, Maurice was so far ahead of me in life experience and maturity. Also, I didn't like dating actors.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8i9Ge-ikJt96qNk2rPwX1ksVJW8Zxr5DC0WK6aeWACPF4Rd8fg-AWAzNVKG4bQiM0wYSuLs-SjCyPZXcHhyphenhyphen2vGn_1p1avhR1JHsXNoNnVV40x5T2OTCifFp87oZlxOh9U0N5S3Djn9O9zKuXMLAcJBGNEWgouUIDjpW5kBUTHanNiMZr9ozfeYmnT/s640/Maurice%20Headshot.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="484" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8i9Ge-ikJt96qNk2rPwX1ksVJW8Zxr5DC0WK6aeWACPF4Rd8fg-AWAzNVKG4bQiM0wYSuLs-SjCyPZXcHhyphenhyphen2vGn_1p1avhR1JHsXNoNnVV40x5T2OTCifFp87oZlxOh9U0N5S3Djn9O9zKuXMLAcJBGNEWgouUIDjpW5kBUTHanNiMZr9ozfeYmnT/s320/Maurice%20Headshot.jpg" width="242" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A Headshot from 1972</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Maurice called me a time or two after that to say hello and ask me out for coffee. I demurred with excuses so lame it made us both laugh. Finally, my actress friend broke the impasse. “Look, he’s never going to ask me out,” she said. “So please validate my taste and go out with him. What’s your problem? He’s handsome and kind and so talented. He works a lot as an actor. He’s a wonderful person.” I nodded, agreeing with her description of him.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I said “Yes” the next time he called – and loved our times together – going out to small ethnic cafes, long talks, listening to music together, lots of laughter. And, in time, I learned about the mysteries of his ethnicity and life before Hollywood. He was a Mizrahi Jew from Iraq, born in Baghdad of an Iraqi father and a mother from Singapore. He told me that he spent a happy childhood in Baghdad but that ended when he was not quite eleven. World War II spread to Iraq. His family fled to safety in India where he spent his adolescence. Then when civil war broke out in India, his family, unable to gain admission to the United States, fled once more -- this time living stateless in post-war Japan for 20 years until they were finally able to emigrate to California. His father had died in Japan, so his mother moved with him to Los Angeles while his sister Katie and her family settled in San Francisco. Having lived through so much together, he and his family treasured one another. He felt particularly close to his sister Katie Wahba and her daughter Rachel. He doted on Rachel's young daughter Tiffany Wagner who was a very little girl when we were dating. He loved doing Tiffany Wagner imitations, recreating her particularly cute and clever moments for me. And, in a moment of vulnerability, he told me sadly that he would love to have a child, but was sure that would never happen.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Maurice and I shared much love and laughter in our years together. There are so many memories, vivid despite the passage of time. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Maurice was a consummate entertainer: a wonderful, multi-lingual actor who worked in both U.S. and foreign language films. He was a dynamic musical theatre performer -- a terrific singer and skilled, graceful dancer. He brought singular humor to the many commercials he made. He was a gifted musician and composer, specializing in pieces for classical guitar. His career in entertainment began as a nightclub singer in Japan, but truly flourished when he arrived in the U.S.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1vra4fsM1zX39QyXnnhq7RA7NBzF7ygH79Wb366VlIqfTAJvy62MEoj8t_4aXSP-FLLWlPfppqx4gmiRY4eAKW0QQZMoFMLrWMqRtbkgzhpjdyjylLjRjp-Q8XNRCqkm5l6fubQa8gLptrCXzYS2GosCKHchaQjqO7tSse-A1KXoYXtYZ4acdRGaB/s4032/Maurice%20Commercial%20Shot.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1vra4fsM1zX39QyXnnhq7RA7NBzF7ygH79Wb366VlIqfTAJvy62MEoj8t_4aXSP-FLLWlPfppqx4gmiRY4eAKW0QQZMoFMLrWMqRtbkgzhpjdyjylLjRjp-Q8XNRCqkm5l6fubQa8gLptrCXzYS2GosCKHchaQjqO7tSse-A1KXoYXtYZ4acdRGaB/s320/Maurice%20Commercial%20Shot.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A commercial shot</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIRk9k8wf8T13XXpd-3fYolyyA9sgC-lFj4VImYrbm8DE0M1nSiQY_1Hqd93-LZ98dNbDCZYi6IakyCBBhDnSBJXROs-btgpnAedl_1d4dpCdGF_iEJZh9EC3hy66pxW0YHe1CFTK0jrqtJwSYlv7D8kPnWKvpGgYPcRS64XggxE87BWSh5gEogTcH/s4096/Maurice%20Memory%20Wall%201.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4096" data-original-width="3072" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIRk9k8wf8T13XXpd-3fYolyyA9sgC-lFj4VImYrbm8DE0M1nSiQY_1Hqd93-LZ98dNbDCZYi6IakyCBBhDnSBJXROs-btgpnAedl_1d4dpCdGF_iEJZh9EC3hy66pxW0YHe1CFTK0jrqtJwSYlv7D8kPnWKvpGgYPcRS64XggxE87BWSh5gEogTcH/s320/Maurice%20Memory%20Wall%201.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Maurice's Den Wall 1</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq2MZvXk27N1iLpkGPk27drOSqEWHuTd3krJK8E72rPgTurB97AkTRjfApKHrjHA_gk8oKOD7mOm5ZiXsIaoEAPaS25U7l6f-PcNjkeRm1caAwSpWh8JJqJWbZMLX4fin4ejIxthY47x8mTZ8W3bbVyN9HHlrBN5kdWrt3nYEGX1bG-4wdvIHDIS0H/s4096/Maurice%20Memory%20Wall%202.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4096" data-original-width="3072" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq2MZvXk27N1iLpkGPk27drOSqEWHuTd3krJK8E72rPgTurB97AkTRjfApKHrjHA_gk8oKOD7mOm5ZiXsIaoEAPaS25U7l6f-PcNjkeRm1caAwSpWh8JJqJWbZMLX4fin4ejIxthY47x8mTZ8W3bbVyN9HHlrBN5kdWrt3nYEGX1bG-4wdvIHDIS0H/s320/Maurice%20Memory%20Wall%202.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Maurice's Den Wall 2</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">He was incredibly competent in his personal life, too, with a myriad of skills, from expert hair cutting and styling to fixing household appliances as well as car repair and maintenance. I remember how patiently and expertly he coached me through the technical parts of a magazine article I was assigned to write for young women on maintaining one's own car. He only chuckled and rolled his eyes once or twice and then only when I wrote something totally clueless about distributor caps or alternators.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">He had effortless charm and grace in social situations, managing challenges like deflecting, with calm, kindness and tact, drunks of both sexes who made surprisingly overt passes at him at several industry parties we attended together. He felt comfortable conversing with just about anyone. The only time I ever saw him struggle was when I convinced him to attend an arts discussion group with me at the invitation of a professional acquaintance of mine. It was a stultifying evening, with too many pretentious, pompous people talking about the intellectual nature of art. Maurice was unusually quiet. Then someone asked him a question and he gestured helplessly, pretending that he couldn't speak English. We escaped as quickly and politely as possible. Jumping into his car, I said "Well, that was quite an act." He scowled at me, and, talking like Donald Duck, as he often did when annoyed, said "Fuck you!" We faced off for a moment and then started laughing and, paraphrasing "Tea and Sympathy", we said together "When we remember this in the future -- and we will -- we <i>won't </i>be kind!" </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Maurice had a wonderful sense of humor and playful impulsiveness. I remember how he teased me once by singing the theme from the movie “Love Story”, which he knew I loathed, as we walked down a city street, prompting a variety of touched reactions from fellow pedestrians as I blushed furiously.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBEtZtIGOzX4Hczps91809VtDaUDq_dgNrviUewVtXIZwWQ9WP0W7Ht0u5MFkkEK-uuPXjWdtfv3i3m3BG1pagdd0CQhdt8Vs6-qubbI3AAtMqnqo5Dm8xAp9f-8vVY4GuVMoJdx4PbQ-M8SbU4o7nXnFd7PgImWPyG5SyJkT9zuXKfAAqbOVEUxNK/s3500/Maurice%20with%20guitar.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3500" data-original-width="2333" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBEtZtIGOzX4Hczps91809VtDaUDq_dgNrviUewVtXIZwWQ9WP0W7Ht0u5MFkkEK-uuPXjWdtfv3i3m3BG1pagdd0CQhdt8Vs6-qubbI3AAtMqnqo5Dm8xAp9f-8vVY4GuVMoJdx4PbQ-M8SbU4o7nXnFd7PgImWPyG5SyJkT9zuXKfAAqbOVEUxNK/s320/Maurice%20with%20guitar.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Maurice making music</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"> I remember how tender he was as a lover and how he told me that I was beautiful, words I had never heard before. He was a gentle and tender friend as well. A year or so after we parted as lovers, he comforted me when a new love broke my heart. Maurice held me as I sobbed, stroked my hair, and said “Honey, he’s not worth such anguish. You’re a treasure and someday you’ll find a love worthy of you.”</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Although our age and cultural differences as well as life goals at odds ended our romance after four years together, we never stopped loving each other as dear friends. He was supportive of my marriage to Bob several years later. I urged him to marry Rosemarie, a woman he dated for 18 years. I thought she was perfect for him: a smart, accomplished widow his age with wonderful adult children and grandchildren, all of whom readily embraced Maurice and considered him family. He was hesitant: "What if it doesn't work out? How can I ensure that my mother will be okay? In my culture, we don't discard our old people, you know." (His mother was not particularly amused at the prospect of Maurice marrying his longtime love.) We supported each other emotionally through many life challenges – his cancer, my graduate school and new career as a psychotherapist, the deaths of his beloved sister Katie and, some years later, his mother who had lived to be 104, and died in his loving arms.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgELUby7Yn_J5zYidkLwqe9v0XlMTqI8kyfQ9LBHza0RiWG_zKDc7mLUiKeumkCdqb9ROLVUddjVxLqWvM_eOC38epOrxc5TDep6a8QBDErploEc5ye07dTi0RMp-AozJZU0Lswb-9g6UAQ_LYdgzTZdM5J-mDCgwwNIVXEUWnj6mcKj1S4i5Rh6fSF/s2857/Maurice%20at%2090.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2857" data-original-width="1827" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgELUby7Yn_J5zYidkLwqe9v0XlMTqI8kyfQ9LBHza0RiWG_zKDc7mLUiKeumkCdqb9ROLVUddjVxLqWvM_eOC38epOrxc5TDep6a8QBDErploEc5ye07dTi0RMp-AozJZU0Lswb-9g6UAQ_LYdgzTZdM5J-mDCgwwNIVXEUWnj6mcKj1S4i5Rh6fSF/s320/Maurice%20at%2090.jpg" width="205" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Maurice at 90</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">We spoke often through his years of declining health and increasing isolation: two excruciating bouts of colon cancer, several heart attacks, a quintuple bypass, a stroke that made it difficult to use his hands and to walk. Sadly, he never did marry Rosemarie and, exasperated, she had finally walked out of his life. But his niece Rachel, Katie’s daughter, was a loving constant in his life and I finally got to know her during this time. Rachel is only a year younger than I am, a writer and psychotherapist in the San Francisco area. Over time, she filled me in on family history I had never known. Maurice had told me about his family's flight from Iraq to India to Japan, but he was vague about what started them on that long journey. What I didn’t know, until Rachel told me, was that Maurice was a child Holocaust survivor, having experienced the infamous Baghdad Farhud with his parents and two older sisters when he was not quite eleven. He was so traumatized by the violence of that event that he had never been able to speak about it in all the decades since.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">When I wrote my memoir “The Crocodiles Will Arrive Later” several years ago, Maurice asked why I had never told him in detail about my experiences growing up with an unpredictable father who was mentally ill and alcoholic. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“Why didn’t you tell me about experiencing the Farhud?” I countered.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“Some things are just too painful to tell, aren’t they?” he said, suddenly understanding.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJISxjgfz407R5B71Tdvro057gchThVt87V4gbETWoeXJEjXUI2nHCooxHOWZqMs2Q0jzBPrpDXrWmOFacLF2ZfhAh9NxSiruc59yLr3vRQfm8568FEYhhrLlTP0jsmdW0DbaRiDvXWlL81eQr8hzpjYtnvzo8GE3fLRg-CpnLg0YGh1vnIY05MpRS/s609/Maurice%20-%20last.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="609" data-original-width="608" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJISxjgfz407R5B71Tdvro057gchThVt87V4gbETWoeXJEjXUI2nHCooxHOWZqMs2Q0jzBPrpDXrWmOFacLF2ZfhAh9NxSiruc59yLr3vRQfm8568FEYhhrLlTP0jsmdW0DbaRiDvXWlL81eQr8hzpjYtnvzo8GE3fLRg-CpnLg0YGh1vnIY05MpRS/s320/Maurice%20-%20last.jpg" width="319" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Recovering from Surgery</td></tr></tbody></table> <span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"> </span><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I felt pain more recently when, during that last phone call, I sensed him saying “Goodbye” before going into hospice care. And though it wasn’t a surprise when Rachel contacted me this week to tell me that 93-year-old Maurice had died, quietly and gently, his tender heart simply giving out, it made me gasp, trying to imagine a world without my dear friend.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM2sSrroIE0i5KYWv6KCm1YGoxa-drYIrg9w79FEWggSdBylh0Yfbm90BQ5suTcMso7w9EgE2hoqRqYunIqy56qZIucg9vI8_rbtQTSkYOG8KgNeUiy0vxE0CM49IkDthh6VKhdm0fXHFVH7WN7VZsGDKB05-whpYgELkwuDaD6UcHTvlO1_1TDre2/s4096/Rachel%20at%20Maurice's%20Funeral.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4096" data-original-width="3072" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM2sSrroIE0i5KYWv6KCm1YGoxa-drYIrg9w79FEWggSdBylh0Yfbm90BQ5suTcMso7w9EgE2hoqRqYunIqy56qZIucg9vI8_rbtQTSkYOG8KgNeUiy0vxE0CM49IkDthh6VKhdm0fXHFVH7WN7VZsGDKB05-whpYgELkwuDaD6UcHTvlO1_1TDre2/s320/Rachel%20at%20Maurice's%20Funeral.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rachel Wahba, Maurice's beloved niece <br />at his recent funeral in San Francisco</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Grieving a close and longtime friend is complicated, even more so when that friend is an ex-lover. There are rituals for families, cards for widows, for surviving adult children and grandchildren, nieces and nephews.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFDL82AlOCZKzS8KOqIuM9W9BdkjyVkXfOeqH3beNZybeaa3h2cqXV_wueuiU6xJ3QEC9KrTaWeT6wMcGQ-wxJnDf-6Xck5D0gEXqRf-cIfFrWHdy38kiLha8hXwYxNSyUIz63qEv7g2-lsg9gh7uXbPFCxTf_3IHJxYVyO3bBvHzZ2K-6vfKsfDm0/s1600/Maurice's%20Family%20at%20His%20Burial.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFDL82AlOCZKzS8KOqIuM9W9BdkjyVkXfOeqH3beNZybeaa3h2cqXV_wueuiU6xJ3QEC9KrTaWeT6wMcGQ-wxJnDf-6Xck5D0gEXqRf-cIfFrWHdy38kiLha8hXwYxNSyUIz63qEv7g2-lsg9gh7uXbPFCxTf_3IHJxYVyO3bBvHzZ2K-6vfKsfDm0/s320/Maurice's%20Family%20at%20His%20Burial.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Maurice's nieces and nephew at his funeral:<br />from right, Rachel Wahba, Rebecca Wahba,<br />Tiffany Wagner and Elliot Wahba</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"> But there is none of that for someone filled with love and memories but with no official standing in the life of a lover turned lifelong friend. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">On one level, it makes perfect sense. I can hear the logical observations now, both from others and in my own head:<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“But he was just a boyfriend. And then you were just friends…”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“But you and he broke up nearly 50 years ago…”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“But you both found other loves that were more enduring and sustainable in the years since…”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">All of that is true. But Maurice was never a “just” either as a lover or as a friend. He helped me to grow up, learn to trust and stop fearing men. At the same time, he helped me learn to enjoy life with the ease of a child I had never been, singing when happy, being silly, laughing between the stresses of daily living. He was special to me in so many ways and the years since have not diminished his unique place in my heart, even in my 48 years with my husband Bob or his 18 years with Rosemarie.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Unexpectedly, he appeared in my dreams several times in the weeks before he died. And each time, he repeated what he said during our last phone call: that he would love me forever. I had sensed that the end was near.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">But what now? </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">What does one do with the flood of tenderness and pain? Travel back in time to linger with bittersweet memories of long-ago passion? Cry over songs that defined our time together? Reflect with gratitude on the blessing of this once and forever love? Write thoughts, feelings and memories, perhaps for one's eyes only, perhaps for the world to see? Talk with someone who knows you well about someone who mattered so much?<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">As I sat, feeling sad and overwhelmed, my husband Bob took my hand. “Do you want to talk about Maurice?” he asked me.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I hesitated, surprised and a bit self-conscious about my obvious grief. “He was such a good person,” Bob said. “I had so much respect for him. What an amazing man he was. Let's talk about him and remember. What was he like when you were together? What made your time with him so special? What are your best memories of Maurice?”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I smiled through my tears and squeezed his hand. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>Dr. Kathy McCoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02903015507894951725noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7754684819908801536.post-1378593314124486142022-04-25T15:37:00.001-07:002022-04-25T15:37:27.622-07:00The Privilege of Growing Old<p> I'm amazed these days at how readily one memory can spark another with so many criss-crossing connections over the years.</p><p>Reading the newspaper list "Daily Birthday" of celebrities, both major and minor, the other day, I noted that Johnny Tillotson turned 84. Even back in the day, Tillotson was a "B-List" teen idol eclipsed by Elvis, the Beatles, etc. But to some die-hard fans, he was the true king.</p><p>My friend Marie Traina, who was the president for life of his national fan club, was his greatest die-hard fan. She described herself as a "perpetual teeny bopper" and, indeed, maintained a youthful, enthusiastic attitude all her life -- whether she was singing Johnny's praises or cheering on Northwestern's basketball team or simply being a caring friend.</p><p>But there was a tragic twist to her story: Marie never had the privilege of growing old. She was murdered when she was one month shy of her 29th birthday.</p><p>Many other dear friends have passed away since, but Marie was cheated out of many more years of life than the rest of us. I've never stopped being sad for her and have never stopped missing her.</p><p>Celebrating my 77th birthday today, I feel incredibly blessed with years, life experience and the people who have brought so much joy to my life.</p><p>Beyond the predictable aches and pains and medical issues our advanced years can bring, there is so much to celebrate. </p><p>Like what?</p><p><b>Being increasingly comfortable in our own skin. </b>This is a time when we finally make peace with the imperfections of our bodies. When we were young and our bodies closest to perfection, we were, too often, relentlessly critical of ourselves. We thought we were fat when we weren't. We agonized over noses too large or teeth too crooked or hair that refused to conform to a bubble-do.</p><p>Too often, we had help from society in our scathing self-assessments. Briefly in my twenties, I pursued an acting career. At 118 pounds and 5'4", I was considered overweight by agents, casting directors and acting coaches. I was even cast in a comic role as the "Fat Dancer" in a musical revival. I hated my body and I wasn't alone. Not long ago, some neighbors and I were comparing photos taken in our twenties. We marveled at how beautiful we all were. But we didn't feel beautiful then. And what a shame we couldn't enjoy our singular beauty -- at any weight or shape or size.</p><p>It's easier now to relax and accept what is. There are many days when I actually do feel beautiful. There are many days when I can laugh about wrinkles and bat wings and other unmistakable signs of aging. I worry about and watch my weight only for health reasons. </p><p>And I've come to realize that one's worth is intrinsic and has more to do with character than appearance. Didn't we always know that? But we didn't necessarily <i>feel</i> that level of self-acceptance back in the day. We're more likely to be blessed with that acceptance of ourselves as we mature into older age.</p><p><b>Being thankful for the health we do have. </b>Very few of us have not had our health challenges as we've aged. I grew up from a sickly childhood overshadowed by bulbar polio and disseminated histoplasmosis that left me with severely scarred lungs. But in adulthood, I was blessed with robust good health and strength. I danced for many years. I got into running in my thirties. I've enjoyed gym workouts for decades. But there have been hints of new limitations in the past 20 years. I survived thoracic surgery to remove an esophageal growth and the upper lobe of my right lung in 2003. I survived a heart attack later that same year. And in 2020, a temporarily disabling accident kept me immobilized and in a wheelchair for nearly a year.</p><p>How wonderful it feels to have a reprieve: to be mobile again and able to walk, bike, swim and get back to the gym; to wake up feeling healthy and hopeful. I know what it is to lose one's mobility and to nearly lose one's life. I no longer take the ability to walk for granted. I welcome every day that dawns, knowing that everything could change in an instant.</p><p><b>Gaining perspective on what truly matters. </b>With age and experience, we learn to filter out what doesn't really matter and to focus on what does. I used to obsess about professional success and getting ahead, building a platform, selling books. To be honest, I still care more about my continuing career than most of my peers, but I'm not obsessive to the exclusion of everything else.</p><p>I was talking today with my friend Chuck, a recently retired physician whom I have known for nearly 50 years. Our lives have been intertwined on several levels over the years -- an ill-fated romance when we were young, a successful professional partnership on four books, one of them a best-seller some years back, and an enduring friendship. I told him how I regretted often putting deadlines and other work priorities ahead of people who mattered to me. He sighed and said "I know...I did too..with too many. When it was the people who really mattered most." And we promised that we would focus more going forward on the loved ones in our lives. Some friends are way ahead on this one: I've happily watched some driven professionals of my youth becoming doting grandparents, insisting that these are the best years ever. </p><p><b>Treasuring the loved ones of our youth and welcoming new people into our lives. </b> There is something quite wonderful about having family and friends one has known for years or a lifetime. There is only one adult from my childhood still living: Sister Rita McCormack, a nun who was my brother's first grade teacher and my special friend since I was 8 and she was 23. She turned 92 this past February and, despite some physical frailty, she is the same vibrant spirit who inspired and encouraged me as a child. We have morphed from being teacher and student to being dear friends. She knows how far I've come since then. I know what she has endured and how she has triumphed. </p><p>The same is true of many lifelong friends -- some from grade school, high school and college and many from my first job at 'TEEN Magazine -- with whom I shared youth and a full list of "firsts", the highs and the lows, the life experiences and so much growth over time. </p><p>Being in a marriage of 45 years is a particular pleasure. Bob and I see each other both as the lively 30 year olds we were when we met and as the gentler and wiser people we've become -- a kind of emotional collage that is both comforting and fun. </p><p>Siblings can be immensely comforting, too, the age differences and even the spats of the past blurred by the joy of continuing to be there for each other. </p><p>And it's a joy to welcome new people of all ages into our lives: not only the nieces and nephew who bring such love, hope and vitality but also our younger friends who are fun and supportive and patient and some new older friends who are a source of inspiration in aging.</p><p><b>Living fully in the present. </b>Now that we know, with new clarity, that we have many more years behind us than we have years ahead, we have an opportunity to savor life anew. Whether it's the wind on my face as I ride my bike, the scent of jasmine growing outside my office, sudden affection from an often-aloof cat, the taste of a crisp salad or a juicy peach, the sound of a familiar song bringing happy or even bitter sweet memories, birdsong at twilight, a hug from a child, another chance to be kind... In short, everything that each new day has to offer, is an incredible blessing and a reminder that old age is, indeed, a privilege denied to many and that each day can be a celebration.</p><p><b><br /></b></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Dr. Kathy McCoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02903015507894951725noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7754684819908801536.post-65574017561916070772022-04-10T16:23:00.001-07:002022-04-10T16:36:59.022-07:00Magical Black Cats -- in Life and Memory<p> I've always had a soft spot for black cats. When I was a child, we got our first cat -- a black Angora kitten we named Edie. Edie was a joy to all of us, but had a special love for my sister Tai, only a toddler at the time. Edie would wrap her paws around Tai's neck and hug her. She hugged Tai through some very tough times -- and losing her, when Tai was 14 -- was devastating. Tai and I have both had other cats through the years, all of them special, but our memories of Edie are everlastingly warm.</p><p>More recently, my husband Bob and I have treasured our own two black cats: Maggie and Ollie.</p><p>Maggie came to us during a time of sorrow. We had lost our beloved Timmy -- one of a bonded pair of brothers -- due to melamine poisoning during the pet food scandal in 2007. Timmy's brother Gus cried all night, every night, for three weeks until our vet suggested getting him a kitten to love and take care of. That kitten was Maggie and Gus loved her at first sight.</p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9aFMFZ6qvVBAxQ4pdDeogZlSAfVwxCV41E38S-aesGfbeDEE6dn9kPkmanHelJWuc58f2AWkkmE2B0x9ODEMBSaLbBGGV9fHyYX-r8fDBP6aX36kopIP6DnUJ82jv0Vm8A0-4pzBuwr_EJ75s0UF6WyYG0Ja84bAVNmIiXN6gv2XD4hFMkgHu8w/s2048/Kitten%20Maggie%20and%20Gus.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9aFMFZ6qvVBAxQ4pdDeogZlSAfVwxCV41E38S-aesGfbeDEE6dn9kPkmanHelJWuc58f2AWkkmE2B0x9ODEMBSaLbBGGV9fHyYX-r8fDBP6aX36kopIP6DnUJ82jv0Vm8A0-4pzBuwr_EJ75s0UF6WyYG0Ja84bAVNmIiXN6gv2XD4hFMkgHu8w/s320/Kitten%20Maggie%20and%20Gus.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p> </p><p>Bob felt a special bond, too. Maggie was a sleek, shiny Bombay, a black Burmese who had been dumped into rescue by a Beverly Hills breeder because she was such a homely kitten. She grew into a beautiful cat: loving, smart, kind and protective of Bob. When he would have epileptic seizures or night terrors, she would jump on his chest and put her paws around his neck. Once, when he had a seizure so severe that I called 911, she stayed on his chest, hanging on tight when the paramedics arrived even though she usually rushed to get under the bed when strangers would arrive at the door. Maggie was sweet to me and always seemed mindful that I needed love, too. But Bob was her most special human.</p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTcM4IEzIDBN1sxWYFiaXCkr_v-oWmSG9sMiM7gcVZJsrnjsVkbHMhjai1gdF-CRp19-HqP9SBh6zAAHV2PZfJs2ig0FloeFRjSPiw_tki3TSvm3cylHjVACOjchv9boJ_Hh89etBgqo_EECAP2VJAhLIEr_qh1ODrUD1xeS5C8ScuAuKGEtfafA/s2048/Kitten%20Maggie%20and%20Bob.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTcM4IEzIDBN1sxWYFiaXCkr_v-oWmSG9sMiM7gcVZJsrnjsVkbHMhjai1gdF-CRp19-HqP9SBh6zAAHV2PZfJs2ig0FloeFRjSPiw_tki3TSvm3cylHjVACOjchv9boJ_Hh89etBgqo_EECAP2VJAhLIEr_qh1ODrUD1xeS5C8ScuAuKGEtfafA/s320/Kitten%20Maggie%20and%20Bob.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguPbFdYIghavz3Dh9wRNGI3i967BfAmk0LeNKXSpRKMqosgnFFOEZoS7VsuM8b7BsPvmeyWdef8SxkP0wWLF8OrCCIlKg5tAa01d-AzFlffjNPMiZJ4461I3tMud_dgOOu1VG2-fqz1KO1P-XevwO5LDhqquBCfE2CFHSF9iqN0Y7uDbX6pNELZQ/s2232/Maggie%20and%20Bob%20Buds.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2232" data-original-width="1896" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguPbFdYIghavz3Dh9wRNGI3i967BfAmk0LeNKXSpRKMqosgnFFOEZoS7VsuM8b7BsPvmeyWdef8SxkP0wWLF8OrCCIlKg5tAa01d-AzFlffjNPMiZJ4461I3tMud_dgOOu1VG2-fqz1KO1P-XevwO5LDhqquBCfE2CFHSF9iqN0Y7uDbX6pNELZQ/s320/Maggie%20and%20Bob%20Buds.jpg" width="272" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP-mmxfmLov-YgOxzrIDUslBJCPSg9kJVKm2EigSz2kdPbSTwbq71RfRr9Xs6joRkBKylMo7haYa7ehFWATGbgElYJrtCWRB33uqdHQrjjc6AronIxK5V1q2CydiX2zO0f-xK7ltoKAaF_fpmdzFoeRNZAhS8nKG65E0Va2zTYrQ1-selP3aXDOA/s2924/Maggie%20and%20Bob%20Neuro.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1940" data-original-width="2924" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP-mmxfmLov-YgOxzrIDUslBJCPSg9kJVKm2EigSz2kdPbSTwbq71RfRr9Xs6joRkBKylMo7haYa7ehFWATGbgElYJrtCWRB33uqdHQrjjc6AronIxK5V1q2CydiX2zO0f-xK7ltoKAaF_fpmdzFoeRNZAhS8nKG65E0Va2zTYrQ1-selP3aXDOA/s320/Maggie%20and%20Bob%20Neuro.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p></p><p>Ollie came to us seven years after Maggie -- a fortunate accident. I was in the L.A. area to promote my book "Purr Therapy" which was about the two cats -- Timmy and Marina --who had worked with me one day a week doing animal assisted therapy in my private practice. At one event -- Catoberfest in Santa Clarita -- there were rescue organizations offering animals for adoption. Taking a break from book signing, I walked outside and then I saw him. He was the poster kitten for unadoptable animals who needed financial support to keep living in rescue. His name at the time was "Herbie the Love Bug" and he was two months old, all soft black fur with a daunting past. He had been mutilated shortly after birth -- his right hind leg mostly severed. He also had a giant hernia. The newborn kitten had been thrown into a trash at the curb but was saved by his big voice -- a resounding yodel that never ceased to startle us -- that alerted a passerby who took him out of the trash and to rescue. He needed some expensive surgeries and was considered a long shot for adoption. I sent my husband a picture of him and Bob replied "Let's take him! Let's give him a good life!"</p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCwOPEFIuqtVWaYTA04z8HnqXAaaXwNeTtGvMAOwcWgrnQ6_8Wh41j55xQq2XmdWsSZK0ri49svvhXa_TdYu9C-FPYtwsIi5GIVf3dJbo9hcW8qmYMP1ei4Ux_hpcOQ5dZk2bYfY9Ji3f77bKGBPMfZgotF7XJR9Z7n6kinWPh3J_vG2i20a75ng/s3264/Ollie%20-%20First%20Sighting.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCwOPEFIuqtVWaYTA04z8HnqXAaaXwNeTtGvMAOwcWgrnQ6_8Wh41j55xQq2XmdWsSZK0ri49svvhXa_TdYu9C-FPYtwsIi5GIVf3dJbo9hcW8qmYMP1ei4Ux_hpcOQ5dZk2bYfY9Ji3f77bKGBPMfZgotF7XJR9Z7n6kinWPh3J_vG2i20a75ng/s320/Ollie%20-%20First%20Sighting.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnYNAXjHfIlONoHzG6WfBqPKbNd8EobB97_9eo-z306RWgTNPq22ISA_nutgI9hsKNXXUqdbKdz916WFzxJKavBd26CTd9CdA8KWylN4CstWKCec6eAALyWEvLSKBuBqtB8ShPlM0c3326s6hjJ-W73V8KkXZALYTNYSde4F0_YMgpSlMlC1WQIQ/s2115/Ollie%20and%20Me%20-%201.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2115" data-original-width="1632" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnYNAXjHfIlONoHzG6WfBqPKbNd8EobB97_9eo-z306RWgTNPq22ISA_nutgI9hsKNXXUqdbKdz916WFzxJKavBd26CTd9CdA8KWylN4CstWKCec6eAALyWEvLSKBuBqtB8ShPlM0c3326s6hjJ-W73V8KkXZALYTNYSde4F0_YMgpSlMlC1WQIQ/s320/Ollie%20and%20Me%20-%201.jpg" width="247" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzZ69hL0wSMUtEmwcEWH2t9oK069NsMRykvBKm0hd_Hhc6uUoVH3PtsMLpDZOKUoWuxj1s19rM5h0m-ucRGpEdozpj_4-tNoT_xlpCkujI7nbGGxgv9fvCgZay5r6cJFpflwXnqZds4I-CISECNCPrA17Yvx7Z4xGlC3E67cUEvGjehpNr1u7nNg/s3114/Ollie%20Wound.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2598" data-original-width="3114" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzZ69hL0wSMUtEmwcEWH2t9oK069NsMRykvBKm0hd_Hhc6uUoVH3PtsMLpDZOKUoWuxj1s19rM5h0m-ucRGpEdozpj_4-tNoT_xlpCkujI7nbGGxgv9fvCgZay5r6cJFpflwXnqZds4I-CISECNCPrA17Yvx7Z4xGlC3E67cUEvGjehpNr1u7nNg/s320/Ollie%20Wound.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrWDRof9svHIkl3WgptRBlMwnajUdBZxGHGrlvGKLxULpHgaM-VQCl-crvkKbiVtVnEgPyGjTUPYTewrmpw6faHlxFsw7b9MubirVe_iNvayIsVB-KwRxOBcQa9JPKfUuDkLXFsTTYuxe7vfZ00e-kQKsB_IP8h8QhcKgys2uA3E-8rA70nQrm5A/s4032/Ollie%20Rx.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrWDRof9svHIkl3WgptRBlMwnajUdBZxGHGrlvGKLxULpHgaM-VQCl-crvkKbiVtVnEgPyGjTUPYTewrmpw6faHlxFsw7b9MubirVe_iNvayIsVB-KwRxOBcQa9JPKfUuDkLXFsTTYuxe7vfZ00e-kQKsB_IP8h8QhcKgys2uA3E-8rA70nQrm5A/s320/Ollie%20Rx.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQbCYusJL4VkTxrA64n7uyfRqyXFjKtliOyNyHxW4wdBrYRYujCiKebScccAL9b2QPhPJY0PhEnU4ftwhI7e4gwi9GU5FpXsR-0Qlt9BfuTp3XvOm4U2aDk1OEXJeapx1NrD4fi6h1wOgzNr_yVWfNeGRpJ5ozYOGv0aKpCwHMQYyezYLi5KvMyw/s2378/Cuddling%20Ollie%202019.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1849" data-original-width="2378" height="249" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQbCYusJL4VkTxrA64n7uyfRqyXFjKtliOyNyHxW4wdBrYRYujCiKebScccAL9b2QPhPJY0PhEnU4ftwhI7e4gwi9GU5FpXsR-0Qlt9BfuTp3XvOm4U2aDk1OEXJeapx1NrD4fi6h1wOgzNr_yVWfNeGRpJ5ozYOGv0aKpCwHMQYyezYLi5KvMyw/s320/Cuddling%20Ollie%202019.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div> We were able to keep that promise. Renamed Ollie, the little kitten survived three surgeries and never had another sick day. The most major of his surgeries involved the removal of the stump of his leg and his right hip. He was chasing lasers again three days after surgery. He could run like the wind on his three legs and jump as high as any of his feline companions. He loved to be cuddled, would come when called, purring as he jumped up to snuggle. He rushed to comfort me when my left foot was crushed in an accident in 2020, rubbing the casted foot and purring. He often was so busy saying a joyous "hello" that he was late to meals. He not only lived a good life, but also made ours better because he was with us. Someone's trash was truly our treasure.<p>There were times when we would look over at each other -- Bob cuddling Maggie, me cuddling Ollie -- and tell each other that black cats were magical and wonderful and that life was good.</p><p>Life <i>is</i> good, but also fragile. </p><p>Maggie's health began to decline rapidly just as she was about to turn 14. She lost a significant amount of weight, suddenly looking skeletal. Always a very proper, well-behaved cat, she began to defecate outside the cat box. We cleaned up after her. We gave her special medication for her thyroid condition. And tried to love her back to good health. But love was not enough to keep her with us...and Maggie passed away in February 2022 just weeks shy of her 15th birthday.</p><p>There hasn't been a day that has passed without missing her. Our one consolation has been that our other cats have been healthy and are younger: Sweet Pea is 12, Hamish, 10 and Ollie, 7. I imagined enjoying Ollie's cuddles for many years to come and thought that he would most likely be the last of our surviving three to pass away.</p><p>Life can be surprising, strange and cruel.</p><p>I spent much of yesterday in bed, suffering flu-like side-effects after getting my second Covid booster shot. Ollie and his best buddy Hamish cuddled with me much of that time. I got up to feed them about 5 p.m. last night, noting that all three cats were eating their dinner enthusiastically. I returned to bed and fell asleep. When I woke up several hours later, I saw Ollie lying across the threshold of the bedroom door. I called to him, expecting his usual response: to make a running jump onto the bed and into my arms. But he was still. I moved closer. I spoke his name. I petted him and cupped his head in my hands. His neck was limp. His pupils were dilated. He wasn't breathing. Ollie was gone.</p><p>We were totally shocked. He hadn't shown any signs of illness or distress. He had had an ordinary day and a hearty dinner. Bob held him tenderly in his arms, telling him how much we loved him and what a wonderful cat he was. Part of this was saying "goodbye" but part was disbelief. How could he be so suddenly, inexplicably gone? Once again, we were quietly hoping love would overcome the inevitable. We checked and re-checked, hoping against hope that this was all a mistake, a misunderstanding, a bad dream. But he lay still in Bob's arms.</p><p>And so, in an instant, another magical black cat has become a memory. But, oh, what memories! And how blessed we were to have these two unforgettable black cats in our lives.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFOVoaWJrBW-xNUFqmvrsWGijT8ZXqWcZyHlSpChLv1H3AA80SXuqLM11hRGYU6dZ1aDMNIrXBN2uNKSHOGNDUVr4rSAYU4F7YyXuc8f-qAkOj5RL-i64fMolcBwnM9wVEQ-RWJfaNbtcxfsBSK34lWh3RMMuio7VnpG3yxV4jPXtrlajzcJN7IQ/s1420/Maggie.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1420" data-original-width="1330" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFOVoaWJrBW-xNUFqmvrsWGijT8ZXqWcZyHlSpChLv1H3AA80SXuqLM11hRGYU6dZ1aDMNIrXBN2uNKSHOGNDUVr4rSAYU4F7YyXuc8f-qAkOj5RL-i64fMolcBwnM9wVEQ-RWJfaNbtcxfsBSK34lWh3RMMuio7VnpG3yxV4jPXtrlajzcJN7IQ/s320/Maggie.jpg" width="300" /></a></div> <b>Maggie</b><div><b> 2007-2022</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQbMUl42oGqxj_1EQY2FQ75u-16VGvHsiZz4ouQ4g2eNJ3yTSHoerGLX1xihrXPqwlqG-kH-teBkyPAFzq6d8DvI5FYdnVzjAkzVyAsWj8uG0sYpBQoUmyByWLvhKy1K974OgkQ1wlbxVc3AzEQSvNET9DFzJCPnIGdsSIe-2u8C0EEvur3-fY5w/s1414/Ollie.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1414" data-original-width="907" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQbMUl42oGqxj_1EQY2FQ75u-16VGvHsiZz4ouQ4g2eNJ3yTSHoerGLX1xihrXPqwlqG-kH-teBkyPAFzq6d8DvI5FYdnVzjAkzVyAsWj8uG0sYpBQoUmyByWLvhKy1K974OgkQ1wlbxVc3AzEQSvNET9DFzJCPnIGdsSIe-2u8C0EEvur3-fY5w/s320/Ollie.jpg" width="205" /></a></div> <b>Ollie</b></div><div><b> 2014-2022<br /><br /></b></div><div><b> <br /></b><p><br /></p></div>Dr. Kathy McCoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02903015507894951725noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7754684819908801536.post-19460709848701359682022-02-24T10:31:00.000-07:002022-02-24T10:31:46.382-07:00Toxic Impatience<p>The signs of increasing incivility have made the news during these pandemic years: the surly passengers on airlines verbally and physically attacking flight attendants, the confrontations in public places over masking, the shouting matches at school board meetings. I've seen hints of toxic behavior myself lately: the guy in front of me in a grocery line who swore not so quietly when the frail elderly woman ahead of him was taking longer to pay and exit than he would have liked; the Karen at a fast food restaurant who berated the frazzled young woman at the counter for pausing as she counted out her change.</p><p>And I had a close encounter with such toxic impatience this morning as I was driving my husband Bob to a Phoenix hospital at 5:30 a.m. for surgery. It was a cold, very dark predawn morning. Since the pandemic has limited our social activities including theatre going, I haven't driven any significant distance at night for several years. What I noticed this morning, with some alarm, was that my night vision has deteriorated significantly. I struggled to see lane lines, especially in the glare of oncoming headlights in the early morning commuter traffic to Phoenix. Usually a fast and confident driver, I stuck to the speed limit this morning and, on occasional sharp curves, slightly below the speed limit. </p><p>On one of these curves, on a busy freeway interchange, it happened. A car roared past me on the right shoulder of the road, just at the sharpest point in the curve. Then the driver cut in front of me and slammed on his brakes. I had to brake suddenly and hard to avoid a collision. Fortunately, no one was following close behind me. The toxically impatient driver, having made his point, sped off. And I continued on to the hospital, my hands uncharacteristically slick with sweat and shaking on the steering wheel. </p><p>"Road rage," Bob said, exhaling slowly, his surgery anxiety temporarily secondary to his concern about our safety on the road.</p><p>It could have been catastrophic if I hadn't been able to stop in time, if the person behind me had been tailgating. I was driving my small Honda Fit amid hulking SUVs and now was feeling suddenly vulnerable. I've driven this little car solo between my home in Arizona and Los Angeles many times, cruising comfortably at top speed among semi-trucks for the full 500 miles. But I've always taken my long driving trips during daylight hours sharing the road with truckers and vacationers rather than pre-dawn commuters. I've heard of road rage incidents, but have never experienced one until now.</p><p>I wondered how much time our road rager really saved by passing me and if making his point felt worth the considerable risk.</p><p>When we got to the hospital, we saw huge signs both in the admission and the pre-surgical waiting areas:</p><p> "THIS HOSPITAL IS A HEALING PLACE. WE WILL NOT TOLERATE DISRUPTIVE, RUDE BEHAVIOR."</p><p>And I felt sad that such warnings were necessary.</p><p>When did we start getting so toxically impatient with rules and with each other?</p><p>When did some people decide to punish and terrify a slower driver rather than simply sigh and change lanes? When did common courtesy and civility in public places slip into churlishness and worse? When did compassion and respect for differences start to disappear?</p><p>I've been thinking about how much energy it takes to be angry and oppositional, to judge and humiliate rather than take a deep breath and try to understand.</p><p>Yes, other people can be annoying whether they're taking longer at the cash register or driving slower on the road. The elderly person walking slowly with a cane down a parking lot aisle can hold you up for a minute or two. The young mother with a screaming toddler in tow in a grocery line almost certainly wishes even more than you do that her child would calm down. Is an annoyance worth cursing, road rage, honking, dirty looks or hurtful words?</p><p>What if we could, more often than not, manage patience and compassion? Would it ruin our day to let a mother with a crying child go ahead of us in the line? Or wait as an old person, walking heavily on a cane to his car, temporarily blocks our way to a prime parking spot? After all, most of us have suffered through our own past experiences with toddlers having public meltdowns. And most of us are or will be old someday. A bit of empathy can spare the nerves on both sides.</p><p>At the same time, knowing or imagining a raging person's back story can help us to calm down and move on. I'm trying to imagine how the day started for the person who risked our lives and his with his road rage this morning. Perhaps he was transitioning from a miserable home life to a job he hates, frantic to be on time. His toxic impatience may be making his life difficult at every juncture and rather than look inward, he blames everyone else. One could call him an asshole or a jerk. But angry labels can't fully explain such behavior or help to soothe one's spirit in the aftermath. </p><p>Now that my hands have stopped shaking, now that Bob's surgeon has let me know that his thyroid surgery went well and that, after an overnight stay, he will be ready to come home tomorrow, I think about our earlier brush with road rage from a more measured perspective.</p><p>I need to see my ophthalmologist about my impaired night vision and avoid driving at night or in the predawn hours whenever possible. I need to forgive that rage-filled driver for my own peace of mind and be thankful that I have never encountered anyone like him before in my sixty years of driving -- much of it in fierce L.A. traffic. And I need to let gratitude suffuse my spirit: that I avoided the accident, that Bob is recovering, that I am safely home.</p>Dr. Kathy McCoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02903015507894951725noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7754684819908801536.post-4622852639693219202022-01-16T16:25:00.006-07:002022-01-17T10:17:23.188-07:00Happily Ever Before<p>In a lovely column recently, E.J. Montini of <i>The Arizona Republic,</i> recounted his first Christmas with his beloved wife many years ago when they were just starting out in life, too poor to buy lights or ornaments for their little Christmas tree. So they decorated it with popcorn strings and ornaments cut out of construction paper. And his wife, who passed away last year, always said that it was the best Christmas ever. </p><p>As he braced himself for his first holiday without her, a reader who was also a recent widower sent him a comforting note. The reader told him that he had remarked to family members that, in his grief, he was convinced that there could be no "happily ever after." His young granddaughter piped up with "What about 'happily ever before'?" The concept resonated with him and with Mr. Montini, too, who found comfort in warm holiday memories of that long ago tiny apartment, the popcorn decorated tree and the love and hope that made his first married holiday so special.</p><p>The idea of focusing on our "happily ever before" in dark moments or as we age and lose so many beloved friends and family members as well as certain aspects of ourselves isn't a matter of living in the past. It is more like savoring moments from the past -- moments that may not have seemed quite so positive at the time -- to complete a warm and largely positive life summary that is comforting in the present.</p><p>Looking back, what were the events, the people, the situations that were challenging at the time that now spark joy as you look back? In the past, what made you feel comfort? Who brought love to your life? What and who made you laugh? What have you learned from adversity? When you view the long narrative of your life -- the pleasures, the disappointments, the devastating moments and the learning experiences -- what is your overall feeling?</p><p>Tapping into our "happily ever before" moments may be especially useful now as we head into our third pandemic year, perhaps impatient with restrictions, perhaps yearning for that time before that seems increasingly distant. We have a choice between comparing then and now and finding the present wanting or letting the lovely memories and perspectives of life before give balance to our lives at a challenging time. We have a choice, too, if our "before" times were rough, between clinging to the sorrow that was and allowing it to overshadow the joy that could be or focusing on the positive aspects of life in the past.</p><p>For many of us, our lives have been bittersweet, with an abundance of ups and downs. If we can look back and find the joy between the pain, the humor that can bring light to some dark times, we may find more sweet than bitter in both past and present.</p><p>I know.</p><p>Growing up with a mentally ill, abusive, alcoholic father was not easy nor was it fun having a mother who was too frightened and passive to protect my brother, sister and me from abuse and too focused on my external imperfections ever to know me well. But for all the stress and tears and frightening times, I remember my father's humor, charm and genuine caring during his sober moments and my mother's enthusiasm for my dreams and her encouragement of my close relationship with Aunt Molly, my father's bright, career-oriented sister who never married or had children but whose life was incredibly full. My brother Michael, sister Tai and I never knew which version of our father we would encounter when walking in the door, but we agree that we would not have wanted to grow up without each other or without our sometimes caring, sometimes distressing family of origin. We remember laughter as well as pain, intellectual curiosity and impassioned discussions as well as moments of despair and a sense of being loved amidst the chaos and terror of our shared childhoods.</p><p>There is baggage, to be sure, but there is so much else, too: an appreciation for nuances and the complexity of human beings and an inclination to keep moving ahead. None of us were tempted to extend our adolescence as some do, living with parents into young adulthood, putting off learning to drive, not focusing on the future. We were out into the world and on our different life paths early on. We worked our various ways through school. And eventually we all found ourselves in helping professions: my brother as a physician, my sister as a nurse and myself as a psychotherapist and writer of self-help books and articles. We look back on an increasingly distant past as a time filled will humor and horror, valuable life lessons, and guerrilla training in resilience and in compassion.</p><p>As I contend with the isolation and intermittent loneliness of the pandemic, I am comforted by both present realities and warm memories of loving relationships. I treasure family relationships and those of friends, especially those relationships stretching back in time to a shared youth. My loved ones all live at a distance, all in different states. The visits we once enjoyed have been precluded by pandemic realities, but we're warmed by the memories we've made together: long talks with my treasured friend Mary; celebrating some holidays and life in general with my beloved friend Tim; laughing with and enjoying the support of my college friends Georgie and Jeanne and their wonderful husbands; sharing so many feelings and experiences with Pat, my friend since kindergarten; savoring the Maui surf with my sister Tai, who remembers our time together there as "the absolute happiest week of my life!"; delightful discussions with my brother Mike, fun times with his wife Jan and his children Maggie, 12 and Henry, 9, who are growing up to be truly good people.</p><p>I also enjoy happily ever before memories of relationships lost: my cousin Caron, whom I loved and admired all her life; my first serious boyfriend Mike, a wonderfully kind and gentle man whom I took for granted fifty years ago and whose upbeat letters and quiet emotional support I have missed greatly since his death in 2018; the caring and enduring relationships with three college roommates Cheryl, Lorraine and Lorene who all died way too soon; the joy of singing with my friend Marie, who taught me to open my throat and my heart in song, and who, tragically, was murdered while still in her twenties; and Elizabeth Swayne Yamashita, my most demanding college journalism professor who became a lifelong mentor and beloved friend.</p><p>Especially now, as I face the losses and limitations of aging, I find comfort in my long marriage with Bob and in our memories of our younger selves -- memories of getting up before dawn to run several miles together, of discovering each other's favorite music together, of adopting our first cat Freddie who was a great life companion for seventeen years, of making a home together. It is immensely comforting to be with someone who remembers my young, vigorous self who could run for miles and who danced into young middle age. And he can laugh ruefully with me at the present surprise of our age-related limitations.</p><div>I find new pleasure in remembering challenges of the past. My first post-college job as a writer and editor at 'TEEN Magazine felt like a distinctly mixed bag at the time. I loved my co-workers -- the best ever -- and the readers. I loved the writing, the travel and the people I met along the way. But, at the time, the pay was painfully low and I was mortified to be working for a teenage girls' magazine when so many of my journalism classmates from Northwestern were working for more respected publications -- like my friend Tim who spent some years early in his career as White House correspondent for the Wall Street Journal. However, I've come to realize over the years that 'TEEN was exactly the right place for me to start a career that has focused on psychology and health. Some of my most treasured relationships are those that began at 'TEEN. My first book -- <i>The Teenage Body Book</i> -- which was a best seller in 1979 and has endured through updates including the 2016 edition -- came directly from my work at 'TEEN. Robert MacLeod, 'TEEN's publisher whom I found strange and a bit chauvinistic in my short-sighted youth, has taken his rightful place in my heart now as a generous mentor in my career.</div><p>And I think "What a blessed life I have had and have to this day!" </p><p>The comfort and wisdom gleaned from our "happily ever before" times can help us through the uncertainties of the present. This is a time of political and philosophical divisiveness. It is a time of a pandemic that threatens our health and our lives. It is a time, for many of us, when most of our lives are in the past with less time left in the future to continue to savor life and new discoveries and to watch with wonder as new generations come of age.</p><p>And yet...add up the blessings of the happily ever before times and our imperfect present: we have lived more joyously than not, more fully than we once imagined possible. And we have loved, enjoying so many complex and wonderful variations of love in our lives!</p>Dr. Kathy McCoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02903015507894951725noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7754684819908801536.post-88168237961016633432021-03-21T15:49:00.127-07:002021-03-21T16:45:15.419-07:00A 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.<div><br /></div><div> 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. </div><div><br /></div><div> 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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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?</div><div><br /></div><div> Here's what I've learned: </div><div><br /></div><div> 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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div> 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!" </div><div><br /></div><div> 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. </div><div><br /></div><div> As life has unfolded in the past year, I've found new comfort and joy in having a partner. </div><div><br /></div><div> 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.</div><div><br /></div><div> 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. </div><div><br /></div><div> 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. </div><div><br /></div><div> 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. </div><div><br /></div><div> 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."
</div><div><br /></div><div>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..."</div><div><br /></div><div> 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. </div><div><br /></div><div> 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." </div><div><br /></div><div> 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. </div><div><br /></div><div> 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. </div><div><br /></div><div> 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. </div><div><br /></div><div> 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. </div><div><br /></div><div> 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. </div><div><br /></div><div> We've learned what's important -- and what's not --
in our lives. </div><div><br /></div><div> 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. </div><div><br /></div><div> 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. </div><div><br /></div><div> 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. </div><div><br /></div><div> 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. </div><div><br /></div><div> 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.
</div>Dr. Kathy McCoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02903015507894951725noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7754684819908801536.post-18261907848226243722021-03-06T17:07:00.001-07:002021-03-06T17:42:47.374-07:00The Joy of the Dance<p> 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.</p><p>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.</p><p>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. </p><p>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.</p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6b8Bg4wGojk6HfePXUHjq6vl9unjAe5i9L-wjMHraZW4wLqC0FtlPq2TcPp1mp2W1hc556ZB6xGRjjItzvHF5lvyKScqODmcgpfH7DRVwTqkTtwH0qQ8j5JgD45dOjly5nrWgiM2ABg/s640/Caron+-+On+the+Farm.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="507" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6b8Bg4wGojk6HfePXUHjq6vl9unjAe5i9L-wjMHraZW4wLqC0FtlPq2TcPp1mp2W1hc556ZB6xGRjjItzvHF5lvyKScqODmcgpfH7DRVwTqkTtwH0qQ8j5JgD45dOjly5nrWgiM2ABg/s320/Caron+-+On+the+Farm.jpg" /></a></div> Caron, Jack and me with our grandparents<p></p><p><br /></p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3KRZfQ6KQEF6qMI7AuQfC1DQMVaZIQMSi2NevB7-XzKWfjF6YkSl0NxOCdURNjuiuTKercJ7lT2jj9VRnum3x3jhDBiaBc5x3bn0ddcOB1cTO5HFkCG2u03L13sfdHk-pbhg5Dbm3XQ/s640/Caron+-+and+Me+1955.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="556" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3KRZfQ6KQEF6qMI7AuQfC1DQMVaZIQMSi2NevB7-XzKWfjF6YkSl0NxOCdURNjuiuTKercJ7lT2jj9VRnum3x3jhDBiaBc5x3bn0ddcOB1cTO5HFkCG2u03L13sfdHk-pbhg5Dbm3XQ/s320/Caron+-+and+Me+1955.jpg" /></a></div> Caron, newly in love, and me in 1955<p></p><p><br /></p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p><br /></p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7YzYs7uXOb19C2nSX8IfjvxxlzljmtF5y5jJQBE_8NxlmZH5nLUzl17fXxLZ-jmnf_IV4A6ExDaODXcqEg8IFO1tQYXuMuodlQJxVPf9BBCpFGATQHvSHgLhaI7Ndld528zCTuT1ebQ/s909/Caron+and+Bud+as+Teenagers.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="909" data-original-width="884" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7YzYs7uXOb19C2nSX8IfjvxxlzljmtF5y5jJQBE_8NxlmZH5nLUzl17fXxLZ-jmnf_IV4A6ExDaODXcqEg8IFO1tQYXuMuodlQJxVPf9BBCpFGATQHvSHgLhaI7Ndld528zCTuT1ebQ/s320/Caron+and+Bud+as+Teenagers.jpg" /></a></div> Caron and Bud as high school sweethearts<p></p><p><br /></p><p>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.</p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFI9Nv_UsCTnwLI_gj95_xJW42kWfwSeYfBHMGLnswm44-aYX-XEgGTWNonpABmTEyPC3Pr8KFzKaB7d_2x2z1C_O7VJErH0f9YPsqmV42y4ILAo17G47wpav5HydeSp0XU3KvbSSYug/s2048/Caron+-+You+and+Me+%2528Favorite+Photo%2529.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFI9Nv_UsCTnwLI_gj95_xJW42kWfwSeYfBHMGLnswm44-aYX-XEgGTWNonpABmTEyPC3Pr8KFzKaB7d_2x2z1C_O7VJErH0f9YPsqmV42y4ILAo17G47wpav5HydeSp0XU3KvbSSYug/s320/Caron+-+You+and+Me+%2528Favorite+Photo%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></div> "You and Me": Their Favorite Picture Together<p></p><p><br /></p><p>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.</p><p>"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!"</p><p> 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.</p><p>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.</p><p>By 2010, Caron began to experience unmistakable symptoms of COPD. As her condition worsened, Bud finally retired to take care of her. </p><p>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?"</p><p>She smiled. "Why yes," she said.. "I would like that very much!"</p><p>We all knew that Caron couldn't shower without Bud's assistance. Yet, he always made it her choice to have him accompany her. </p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p> </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWIbJdUWdorIucM-d71k8OaYY7pR8WasgZ2DtwkoYuqb8h-EyaSwpKu5B252BXHtJAFRD2OAUNIYRz_5Ra4oXw5ysIbi61ucaZUj8SMSU8tLlm-r3HGGoAVPQQ9NTCpeHVy4tiP3PVdg/s2048/Caron+and+Bud+-+Last+Photo.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1582" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWIbJdUWdorIucM-d71k8OaYY7pR8WasgZ2DtwkoYuqb8h-EyaSwpKu5B252BXHtJAFRD2OAUNIYRz_5Ra4oXw5ysIbi61ucaZUj8SMSU8tLlm-r3HGGoAVPQQ9NTCpeHVy4tiP3PVdg/s320/Caron+and+Bud+-+Last+Photo.jpg" width="320" /></a></div> A joyous life together even in their later years<p></p><p><br /></p><p>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!"</p><p>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.</p><p>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 <i>not </i>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!"</p><p>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. </p><p>During the challenges of the past year, the Garth Brooks song "The Dance", especially the last two lines, held special meaning for him:</p><p><i>My life is better left to chance.</i></p><p><i>I could have missed the pain, but I'd have had to miss the dance.</i></p><p>They danced an imaginary dance as they held each other, quietly celebrating their 62nd wedding anniversary on February 15.</p><p>Time moves on steadily, relentlessly. And there are so many losses along the way.</p><p>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.</p><p>Caron's joyous dance through life, ended on February 26. She took her last breath, gently, quietly, with Bud holding her hand.</p><p>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!</p><p><br /></p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTEL5JKEwrCCTYm7V4VThkp6y-vfx3bJqx53rVgmPY6ttN-7Af1s4QVstxuGYxBVpsS9SuLJfITTRvWEs3QQXyirhJ8kqele8coKhbblwu9Bt9Xh5zE_MH4Mib5pNUsR5y9g0hdIkBlw/s1800/Caron+-+Bud%2527s+Tribute.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1800" data-original-width="1800" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTEL5JKEwrCCTYm7V4VThkp6y-vfx3bJqx53rVgmPY6ttN-7Af1s4QVstxuGYxBVpsS9SuLJfITTRvWEs3QQXyirhJ8kqele8coKhbblwu9Bt9Xh5zE_MH4Mib5pNUsR5y9g0hdIkBlw/s320/Caron+-+Bud%2527s+Tribute.jpg" /></a></div> Bud's photographic tribute to Caron<p></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Dr. Kathy McCoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02903015507894951725noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7754684819908801536.post-28146058433217303522021-02-07T16:07:00.003-07:002021-02-07T16:19:42.419-07:00Letting Go<p> 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.</p><p>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."</p><p> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR9h_UEUaul9g-0rOOMx73XtgL6aZIKNbqszbwLthdFFK51iYGuprhM2xWHwNlHl_bfv6SUsQ7AxlD3oObGlywsbPQf2Uqae_O4G2GmBSzJ7jd2e3BcdRW6GuQ9_yJSZ3HMR4c9TZzRg/s640/High+Button+Shoes+-+Group.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="467" data-original-width="640" height="305" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR9h_UEUaul9g-0rOOMx73XtgL6aZIKNbqszbwLthdFFK51iYGuprhM2xWHwNlHl_bfv6SUsQ7AxlD3oObGlywsbPQf2Uqae_O4G2GmBSzJ7jd2e3BcdRW6GuQ9_yJSZ3HMR4c9TZzRg/w463-h305/High+Button+Shoes+-+Group.jpg" width="463" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In the 1972 revival of "High Button Shoes", Gavin MacLeod is in the foreground,<br />Mike Henry is in the back row, second from left. I'm in the back, third from right, with only<br />my right eye and a portion of my hat visible in this photo taken during a performance.<br /><br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table></p><p><br /></p><p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtqbjvg1Yv1WDMgUb0WTwVcwETmqCOvdEV4VoOD1zrTTFztCHZwEC2dU-Qfeb-uuSbZRK6uqX_UO5EEmZY0Au61xIGfraV_voB1gpixbecQr0rgk7FLWs5ICdFtrkFM6QHALCqsVa7MA/s640/High+Button+Shoes+-+Portrait.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtqbjvg1Yv1WDMgUb0WTwVcwETmqCOvdEV4VoOD1zrTTFztCHZwEC2dU-Qfeb-uuSbZRK6uqX_UO5EEmZY0Au61xIGfraV_voB1gpixbecQr0rgk7FLWs5ICdFtrkFM6QHALCqsVa7MA/w300-h400/High+Button+Shoes+-+Portrait.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A backstage photo of me during "High Button Shoes"<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table></p><p>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?"</p><p>And I would look at him, at bit embarrassed, shake my head and say I didn't know. </p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>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. </p><p>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. </p><p>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."</p><p>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.</p><p>Traveling back in my memory to that time has made me think once again of Gavin's question "What does this all mean?"</p><p>From the vantage point of age, life means so many things -- and letting go is a prominent part of this meaning. </p><p>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. </p><p>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.</p><p>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. </p><p>It means rejoicing in the successes and the happiness of others as well as your own blessings.</p><p>It means embracing failures, disappointments and setbacks as learning opportunities. </p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Dr. Kathy McCoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02903015507894951725noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7754684819908801536.post-66131100277927690882020-11-09T14:52:00.002-07:002020-11-09T14:52:51.422-07:00A Long Time Dream -- and a New One!<p> </p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaAeYWILhFXIPOC4FyuwdTjMm2g1Nnk4kl6JyMTcvNgjCsFuXDL3lyGxHIxMKw3ZjIzJ9bGZ1jIfRWSWlpEuLt56zHbXe7VjaaucFGwb_PsQGfX11-ha9NW36SxgrHvR7w6wGVMecUYA/s640/Crocs+-+Age+Four.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="542" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaAeYWILhFXIPOC4FyuwdTjMm2g1Nnk4kl6JyMTcvNgjCsFuXDL3lyGxHIxMKw3ZjIzJ9bGZ1jIfRWSWlpEuLt56zHbXe7VjaaucFGwb_PsQGfX11-ha9NW36SxgrHvR7w6wGVMecUYA/s320/Crocs+-+Age+Four.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p> I was a frightened young girl -- dreaming of escaping my childhood home and the dysfunction within -- when I first thought about writing a memoir about my crazy family. </p><p>Starting when I was six, I would write stories scrawled in my father's discarded day planners, usually tales of happy orphans making their way in the world. I begged my father to tell me stories of his own childhood because I was determined to write a book about him. In his better moments, he laughed and complied with some stories that were fun and some that were harrowing: about his early life in Arizona in the arms of his loving Navajo nanny, about his mother's abuse and his father's kindness, his traumatic discovery of his father's untimely death nearly a year after he had died (his mother claimed he was on a business trip) and then his adventures as a child actor in silent films and in vaudeville as he struggled to support the family from the time he was nine years old. </p><p>By the time I was sixteen, I even had a title in mind for my memoir: "The Crocodiles Will Arrive Later." </p><p>The inspiration for that came from two different sources. My father, who suffered from schizophrenia and alcoholism, called his depressions and delusions "crocodiles", envisioning them stalking and devouring him in an endless cycle of fear and hopelessness. </p><p>At his best, Father was charming, fun and loving. At his worst, he was abusive and threatened our lives on a daily basis. My brother Mike, sister Tai and I never knew which Father we would find when we walked in the door. And we feared that even if Father didn't manage to kill us during one of his rages, the crocodiles of his mental illness might consume us, too, as they had not only our father but also his mother before him. Mentally ill and alcoholic, she died when our father and his sister, our beloved Aunt Molly, were in their teens, leaving them orphaned. </p><p>But they put themselves through UCLA and did well: Father became an Army Air Force pilot and test pilot and Vice President of Engineering for national aerospace company. Aunt Molly became an award-winning poet, television writer and a civilian speechwriter for the Strategic Air Command. Our mother was a registered nurse who became a pioneer flight attendant for American Airlines from 1935-1943 (a time when flight attendants had to be RN's and no taller than 5'4"). She did a lot of PR appearances for American, including hosting First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt on a tour of airline facilities in Los Angeles. </p><p>But though Aunt Molly continued to thrive throughout her life, my parents lived lives of not so quiet desperation that became worse -- sometimes horrifying -- as the years went on.</p><p> </p><p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><b>My Parents in Better Days </b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifBLT9l29KGWKvQ_h0RxoSwcaDtcXilKF5QGVuyPaAlFGagFQ_8EKUlSohntu7pbb4ym0IWbuNszlTrbaI8R2XdHii_bmwrk1jZiA7U3pybAi86OibgTgYG4ZVn8i28V9ePsKHLjzVgw/s640/Crocs+-+Father+in+Uniform.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifBLT9l29KGWKvQ_h0RxoSwcaDtcXilKF5QGVuyPaAlFGagFQ_8EKUlSohntu7pbb4ym0IWbuNszlTrbaI8R2XdHii_bmwrk1jZiA7U3pybAi86OibgTgYG4ZVn8i28V9ePsKHLjzVgw/s320/Crocs+-+Father+in+Uniform.jpg" /></a></div> As a World War II Pilot<p></p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe6MJzVtDGPA6a3_Cgu7UIYh1GHcCt6viWqZwQf0XbZKhEhQ7S6voy57OhD4p6OS6yN6V_zsCu7eUBi-l-upcTRpNShIGNYS-SZry1N4LVkklQASHGBkw09YeHAs9-4pqvCMZyzAxWYQ/s640/Crocs+-+Father+with+Howard+Hughes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="538" data-original-width="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe6MJzVtDGPA6a3_Cgu7UIYh1GHcCt6viWqZwQf0XbZKhEhQ7S6voy57OhD4p6OS6yN6V_zsCu7eUBi-l-upcTRpNShIGNYS-SZry1N4LVkklQASHGBkw09YeHAs9-4pqvCMZyzAxWYQ/s320/Crocs+-+Father+with+Howard+Hughes.jpg" width="320" /></a></div> As a test pilot, greeting Howard Hughes.<p></p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7LJbdIOMlEkh23iCfUun4G3eXVwAYTja2L3et7wxr2KQZrdblG-SJL-6P50ew38kG3yxVJsEdlpexeT4wfehvPw_fC951xOO0NxAyzG0n-LrezA1rYL1jCZTyYMi5RfP6GEngVHj6QA/s640/Crocs+-+Mother+in+Her+Prime.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7LJbdIOMlEkh23iCfUun4G3eXVwAYTja2L3et7wxr2KQZrdblG-SJL-6P50ew38kG3yxVJsEdlpexeT4wfehvPw_fC951xOO0NxAyzG0n-LrezA1rYL1jCZTyYMi5RfP6GEngVHj6QA/s320/Crocs+-+Mother+in+Her+Prime.jpg" /></a></div> Mother was a pioneer American Airlines flight attendant<p></p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMYH0R9J4yhBYnNzs6b9qoFC4ArCPo4KwpcrEJWd2YSebEgIVAiDipa_1RHAR9ozJOU3XlXu7EPh9_cJZB9rmfdK0sfWD6XKHqHmh1NV1YBkhgKNgsySPWVqfGBEUBRfgBHvvsDxUxNw/s640/Crocs+-+Mother+and+Eleanor+Roosevelt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="604" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMYH0R9J4yhBYnNzs6b9qoFC4ArCPo4KwpcrEJWd2YSebEgIVAiDipa_1RHAR9ozJOU3XlXu7EPh9_cJZB9rmfdK0sfWD6XKHqHmh1NV1YBkhgKNgsySPWVqfGBEUBRfgBHvvsDxUxNw/s320/Crocs+-+Mother+and+Eleanor+Roosevelt.jpg" /></a></div> Mother and First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt <p></p><p>I was determined to write about our lives -- and how love and fear, deep pain and laughter could co-exist and how learning to laugh between the pain could soothe one's soul. I was always thinking and dreaming of writing that memoir. </p><p> I discovered the exact title for it when I was sixteen. It was a phrase embedded in a letter to parents of students at my sister's ballet school. The letter was discussing strategic arrival times for an upcoming recital featuring dancers from age two through six. This production was, on paper, a dance version of "Peter Pan." In reality, it was something of a fever dream: all 10 of the six year olds in my sister's ballet class played Peter Pan simultaneously. The five year olds were Wendys, the four year olds Lost Children, the three year olds Tinker Bells and the two year olds were crocodiles, tasked with holding their arms in front of them to form imaginary snouts and rocking back and forth with as much menace as they could summon in their one minute stage debut.</p><p>The instructions for the arrival times were firm: The Peter Pans would arrive at 1:30 for the 2 p.m. performance and so on in 15 minute increments until instructions for the Crocodiles. There was just a terse directive: "THE CROCODILES WILL ARRIVE LATER." The plan was to have them arrive just before their number and be picked up immediately after before any backstage mishaps occurred.</p><p>I waved the letter at Aunt Molly, my idol and mentor. "This will be the title of the book I write about our family!" I told her.</p><p>She smiled. "That's perfect," she said. "But please remember, when you write it, that as well as crocodiles, there was love and laughter."</p><p>Yes, indeed.</p><p> <b>Our Third and Best Parent</b></p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEeOLX3Zflsp9vN2HF01XcZ6qMr3tcd9snhIHQY0anTuGBmy2S4tMefort7CLiYBVph0Sn4znBAfSSEUZY3tfxoDRiGuTsl0V57sQ5twWi3u1SR3-aRoIY58hrngSU2UBszwlMFm5d6g/s640/Crocs+-+Aunt+Molly+Prime.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEeOLX3Zflsp9vN2HF01XcZ6qMr3tcd9snhIHQY0anTuGBmy2S4tMefort7CLiYBVph0Sn4znBAfSSEUZY3tfxoDRiGuTsl0V57sQ5twWi3u1SR3-aRoIY58hrngSU2UBszwlMFm5d6g/s320/Crocs+-+Aunt+Molly+Prime.jpg" /></a></div> Aunt Molly, my hero and inspiration<p></p><p><br /></p><p> <b>The Three of Us</b></p><p><b><br /></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEintaO6QulXnSn-CfJiwgiHi5waCzsBPZB3X6joIYmsO4r2NdnME-E35aNR7uCoHBaqC0UP5SukofDDgP4zOfRRlg0j5m9enl4I_yd4vITRKAAGbQia7uHYRCTDOXh0o0TYsOjKpFGqQA/s640/Crocs+-+The+Three+1958.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="630" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEintaO6QulXnSn-CfJiwgiHi5waCzsBPZB3X6joIYmsO4r2NdnME-E35aNR7uCoHBaqC0UP5SukofDDgP4zOfRRlg0j5m9enl4I_yd4vITRKAAGbQia7uHYRCTDOXh0o0TYsOjKpFGqQA/s320/Crocs+-+The+Three+1958.jpg" /></a></div> We Three: Kathy, Tai and Mike in 1958<p></p><p><br /></p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqVEJEx92cyanXoJI7Nq4cwnhB3EFtKTRQQtRAdgszgIovYF5MYanyu0gg3pWuYkwta6t4S_4B9IBAHq4cZwCzT6o6jWMN4jFxBwN-Pzefs_lnwOEwwju9-dBzpy1wbO6s3eyzGenYpA/s640/Crocs+-+The+Three+2015.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="604" data-original-width="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqVEJEx92cyanXoJI7Nq4cwnhB3EFtKTRQQtRAdgszgIovYF5MYanyu0gg3pWuYkwta6t4S_4B9IBAHq4cZwCzT6o6jWMN4jFxBwN-Pzefs_lnwOEwwju9-dBzpy1wbO6s3eyzGenYpA/s320/Crocs+-+The+Three+2015.jpg" width="320" /></a></div> We Three: Tai, Kathy and Mike in 2015<p></p><p><br /></p><p>So years and decades passed and my dream was always there. I wrote a number of other books -- self-help books for teenagers, for parents, for those suffering estrangement. Through my adventures as a journalist and author and a psychotherapist, the dream of "The Crocodiles Will Arrive Later" lived on in my imagination. But it took years to make sense of my childhood of horror and humor, cruelty and love and what came after.</p><p>My literary agent Stephany Evans wondered if a memoir would be the best use of my experiences and insights. She suggested, with good reason, that a self-help book for those suffering the aftermath of troubled and painful childhoods might be the way to go. I trust her judgement. And I'm working on the proposal for the book she suggested, looking forward with hope and enthusiasm to writing it. And if anyone reading this has experiences to share or suggestions about what <i>must </i>be included in such a book, I'd love to hear from you. (Feel free to contact me at drkathymccoy@gmail.com). That's my NEW dream for the future!</p><p>But in the meantime, I couldn't get that long-time dream of a memoir out of my head. My brother and sister encouraged me to write it as did a very special nun -- Sister Rita McCormack -- my brother's first grade teacher who intervened to stop our father's abuse for a time and who has been a treasured lifelong friend. My husband urged me to write it on a daily basis. Blogging friends like Jeanie Croope, Rosaria Williams, Dee Ready and Sally Wessely also urged me to give it a try after reading some autobiographical blog posts. </p><p>So I did -- at long last: <b>The Crocodiles Will Arrive Later</b> is being published today!</p><p>My memoir tells the story of my family's tumultuous experiences with a mentally ill, alcoholic parent and how my siblings and I fought to create new, very different lives for ourselves in adulthood. It talks about what and who helped along the way -- two courageous nun teachers who intervened at different times, our beloved Aunt Molly who brought joy and imagination to our lives and even a couple of celebrities whose kindness helped me to keep hope alive. Some places of refuge that may be familiar to some -- like St. Bede School, Flintridge Sacred Heart Academy, Northwestern University, 'TEEN Magazine and Vroman's bookstore in Pasadena-- figure prominently in my story</p><p>My long-time dream is finally reality: <b>The Crocodiles Will Arrive Later </b>is now on Amazon, BarnesandNoble.com, Powells.com, Walmart and Vroman's. It is available as a trade paperback or as an e-book. </p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivRovwVOsfvNgy2dDUnOQaczAv0j3T045rYATpHlKtCEF5J26iGRi00OSDkweHd_gxtzLTA6ZyWHkJSPAVgsDI-kG454b8aQs2sG4SqTINGLZ9fsdDXeLCbSNMjv_09FmFQix2shAqYQ/s500/Crocodiles+Cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="333" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivRovwVOsfvNgy2dDUnOQaczAv0j3T045rYATpHlKtCEF5J26iGRi00OSDkweHd_gxtzLTA6ZyWHkJSPAVgsDI-kG454b8aQs2sG4SqTINGLZ9fsdDXeLCbSNMjv_09FmFQix2shAqYQ/s320/Crocodiles+Cover.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>Now I'm getting busy with that new dream: to write a self-help book for those whose painful childhoods continue to haunt them in adulthood. In the meantime, I'm hoping that my memoir will give others who have grown up with fear and pain the inspiration to look back and begin to let go of what was and to imagine what might be.</p><p><br /></p>Dr. Kathy McCoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02903015507894951725noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7754684819908801536.post-58445265011849602012020-11-01T19:24:00.002-07:002020-11-02T12:41:50.575-07:00The Longest, Strangest Year: The Foot Saga, Etc.<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">Who knew what a truly strange year 2020 would turn out to be? </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">Besides nasty politics and an even scarier, nastier pandemic. this has been darkly memorable for me.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><p>It began for me in mid-January when a new patient came for a session so ill she had to lie down on the couch, coughing and moaning through her session. Though I urged her to go home, stay in bed and take care of herself, she insisted on staying for the full session. I cringed inwardly but reassured myself that I hadn't been ill for years and had had a high intensity flu shot.</p><p>A few days later, I woke up with a scratchy throat, a severe cough and a high fever. I had an ear infection and bright red eyes from a concurrent eye infection. I went to the local hospital ER, tested negative for both strains of flu and also for strep, got a prescription for the ear infection. There was no testing for Covid-19 then, which still seemed a world away. So I came home and crawled under the covers, leaving it to Bob to entertain our weekend guests: his former Little Brother Ryan Grady and his husband Michael Collum who had come for the long Martin Luther King weekend.</p><p>I was awakened from a feverish sleep (103 degree fever) that night by Bob's screams from the bathroom. He was coming out of a grand mal epileptic seizure. I jumped out of bed, raced to his side and promptly fainted. When I fell, my left foot twisted behind me at an angle and then I fell on it, shattering all the bones in my mid and fore foot.</p><p>Michael stayed to watch over Bob, who simply needed rest, and Ryan took me to the Emergency Room where the doctor said my foot might be fractured and put an orthopedic boot on it. After visits to my primary physician, a podiatrist and a surgeon, the news got progressively worse: I had a severe crush injury, a lis franc fracture to my foot that would require surgical reconstruction with metal plates and clamps. The recovery period would be at least a year. And the surgery itself was delayed for four weeks because of my severe cough (which would have precluded me from having a general anesthetic). The surgery finally took place on February 18 with an extremely painful, extended period of immobility, two different casts and a variety of orthopedic boots, and eight months wheelchair bound.</p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrz762LD6MQELlThweDIp6hNAZP90_R7m5_H4AtzI7dcKpjU6iO6o_NoBTYrN-BL2wUz6PfDuGGyNBw_zvcM2m8XxzYgn40rQ8ULwODl6dQeE22gY0eLg6GDL5WYjdyT9kxUVYZgpoUw/s640/The+Day+-+January+19%252C+2020.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrz762LD6MQELlThweDIp6hNAZP90_R7m5_H4AtzI7dcKpjU6iO6o_NoBTYrN-BL2wUz6PfDuGGyNBw_zvcM2m8XxzYgn40rQ8ULwODl6dQeE22gY0eLg6GDL5WYjdyT9kxUVYZgpoUw/w243-h213/The+Day+-+January+19%252C+2020.jpg" width="243" /></a></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Back from the ER with Ryan and Michael</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">January 19, 2020</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_8C4csrzdCBvA_C5qiPQXbxmUK7nwgVbvwFEQEIp1fnfqKIy2UZKyN_SmMCNOiyDgs-J2EwE9QaVxgLwhdxYKH-ntmnsZLmyqfH9iBr4Fow6WgbzeZfzxTWwNQaoSozVcgb4lepFqNA/s2048/Foot+One+Week+After+Injury+-+Jan.+27.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_8C4csrzdCBvA_C5qiPQXbxmUK7nwgVbvwFEQEIp1fnfqKIy2UZKyN_SmMCNOiyDgs-J2EwE9QaVxgLwhdxYKH-ntmnsZLmyqfH9iBr4Fow6WgbzeZfzxTWwNQaoSozVcgb4lepFqNA/s320/Foot+One+Week+After+Injury+-+Jan.+27.jpg" width="320" /></a></div> One Week Post- Injury: January 27, 2020<p></p><p><br /></p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyt9bkuuhBEOAXKfchaleVc7M3yZwh8McNPArrOC71xExJ2nA9DRB1EB23bqjRR7ZaI66M2_AP7tQCbGNZ0n_0FaQu6Gxp4F_sm4rroKvj5QONFPuwaQi52xtCm_6SvKEowqvSvHkV5w/s2048/Surgery+Day.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyt9bkuuhBEOAXKfchaleVc7M3yZwh8McNPArrOC71xExJ2nA9DRB1EB23bqjRR7ZaI66M2_AP7tQCbGNZ0n_0FaQu6Gxp4F_sm4rroKvj5QONFPuwaQi52xtCm_6SvKEowqvSvHkV5w/s320/Surgery+Day.jpg" /></a></div> Going to Surgery: February 18, 2020<p></p><p><br /></p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtbbxdFU72KaV79s3Pbh0N24OoqREGb8k_u7BPHWvAqX-Vs5axtKVZkgYpvZPlULQAhZVSTXsZwqT9fXnQ-fhUxDt0jDrDWIDaLhE6BMSZ24Qf7GhfrjGm98H-0AHCn6_JpaNk_w4X9A/s2048/Two+Days+Post+Surgery+-+Februar+20.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtbbxdFU72KaV79s3Pbh0N24OoqREGb8k_u7BPHWvAqX-Vs5axtKVZkgYpvZPlULQAhZVSTXsZwqT9fXnQ-fhUxDt0jDrDWIDaLhE6BMSZ24Qf7GhfrjGm98H-0AHCn6_JpaNk_w4X9A/s320/Two+Days+Post+Surgery+-+Februar+20.jpg" width="320" /></a></div> Recovering attended by felines: February 22, 2020<p></p><p><br /></p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinrzW2NTchwSBYgi82YezLSpBvW-F1CSG-W5YZMbqC0wYaD92QORWqdD0HMdWvE7XbirMhoRi6aV6YAXWJ-MTEKP8RKgk9XL4vrEGel4KBK6UJf3jr1EaWVgYidDxKV4aSPySUZPKEug/s2048/With+Georgie%2527s+Picture+-+March+7.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinrzW2NTchwSBYgi82YezLSpBvW-F1CSG-W5YZMbqC0wYaD92QORWqdD0HMdWvE7XbirMhoRi6aV6YAXWJ-MTEKP8RKgk9XL4vrEGel4KBK6UJf3jr1EaWVgYidDxKV4aSPySUZPKEug/s320/With+Georgie%2527s+Picture+-+March+7.jpg" /></a></div> With Georgie's painting: March 1, 2020<p></p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrSE9oY-XuYgmwmrMAOBG2rjwPtzLAeXJ4h7CjKaA5aiyjepv2y8XujMkyiNYR2oFWBnvsPwoJussVrd4bK_TOioC3Mb8J0TkbY22Z-ehDCspYX1Lp0rVlJtoGNnPNymYGajbinsidXg/s640/Empathy+from+Ollie+-+March+23.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrSE9oY-XuYgmwmrMAOBG2rjwPtzLAeXJ4h7CjKaA5aiyjepv2y8XujMkyiNYR2oFWBnvsPwoJussVrd4bK_TOioC3Mb8J0TkbY22Z-ehDCspYX1Lp0rVlJtoGNnPNymYGajbinsidXg/s320/Empathy+from+Ollie+-+March+23.jpg" /></a></div> Empathy from Ollie: March 23, 2020<p></p><p><br /></p><p><span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8vsKxT2LqsEBKIGdkCJ1SQLLYoiDihytfLKpgxQl9fZYb-Ya12whHcmm2wGrpPy4YE_T5-zV7-z-Nh8v7xc5OefxkA8QWIhOhJ_JQcqslpfnZtT-u3YuUYeDL7kM07QFyVfJ2kq0w_g/s640/Blog+-+Foot+Out+of+Cast+April+27.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="487" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8vsKxT2LqsEBKIGdkCJ1SQLLYoiDihytfLKpgxQl9fZYb-Ya12whHcmm2wGrpPy4YE_T5-zV7-z-Nh8v7xc5OefxkA8QWIhOhJ_JQcqslpfnZtT-u3YuUYeDL7kM07QFyVfJ2kq0w_g/s320/Blog+-+Foot+Out+of+Cast+April+27.jpg" /></a></div> Out of cast: April 27, 2020<p></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMG62Kky_dAV3evRZ4CGoNSxXPyAW1H89ZeaI9Ig-QWteveORnU2LJ60lHO8sR0FOBFGhOePn9AJ2y-iDI71RMwFnLZQ0ofCKflN5fXNMBs3W5IE5SZUQmNvbxkTs2RsLdeJI-23EaVg/s2048/The+Boot+.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMG62Kky_dAV3evRZ4CGoNSxXPyAW1H89ZeaI9Ig-QWteveORnU2LJ60lHO8sR0FOBFGhOePn9AJ2y-iDI71RMwFnLZQ0ofCKflN5fXNMBs3W5IE5SZUQmNvbxkTs2RsLdeJI-23EaVg/s320/The+Boot+.jpg" /></a></div> The Boot: May 4, 2020<p></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4Ax5p5K88eXFLWnygy5btmfXZwtp1YP77yEyCmJqAbjGZWBQB9TqtLi_PraXqrCsckqycvZP5yNue6kwXoP3OhgF8E7-sw1dc2OBAHFqOh5oePzd65zl3dj9wVLPtV6rHcOXFzD3jdg/s2048/First+Stand+-+September+16.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1530" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4Ax5p5K88eXFLWnygy5btmfXZwtp1YP77yEyCmJqAbjGZWBQB9TqtLi_PraXqrCsckqycvZP5yNue6kwXoP3OhgF8E7-sw1dc2OBAHFqOh5oePzd65zl3dj9wVLPtV6rHcOXFzD3jdg/s320/First+Stand+-+September+16.jpg" /></a></div> First stand: September 16, 2020<p></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3dtUd6Kcxlk4k1gDLD3tGKKg_cHAIvYK1v2orkhj1ecHcFGHEd2nt5dSjsnZ09devknvrGPIJ4xDIx-J8IXdwIR2txVRcFBK8807aHERx5Qn20_sdrDNpi6QZA6P1vnar_t9L045FPw/s2048/Biking+on+a+Windy+Day+-+November+1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3dtUd6Kcxlk4k1gDLD3tGKKg_cHAIvYK1v2orkhj1ecHcFGHEd2nt5dSjsnZ09devknvrGPIJ4xDIx-J8IXdwIR2txVRcFBK8807aHERx5Qn20_sdrDNpi6QZA6P1vnar_t9L045FPw/s320/Biking+on+a+Windy+Day+-+November+1.jpg" /></a></div> Bike ride on a windy November 1, 2020 <p></p><p> </p><p>Then the small miracles began: being able to use the bathroom by myself, being able to take a sit-down shower without assistance, being able to stand briefly, taking my first tentative steps in late September. Taking my first bike ride in late October. </p><p>Now I'm walking: sometimes with a cane and more often very carefully on my own. I can wear regular shoes for at least some of the day and am beginning to exercise again -- very carefully -- riding our three-wheeled bicycle two miles a day. The doctor says I will continue to improve over the next year -- perhaps able to take long walks sometime next year, able to walk barefoot long enough to get in the community pool for some lap swimming in a few months. Every step along the way feels wonderful and miraculous. </p><p>I'm immensely grateful that any of this is possible and humbled by how much help I've needed and received along the way. My husband Bob has been quite literally supportive and immensely patient through this ordeal. Friends and neighbors Marsha Morello, Vicki O'Hara, Kelly Hartwig and Sherri Brown brought food and comfort in those early, very painful days. And friends nationwide have offered support in so many ways: Georgia Bohlen painted a cheerful cat picture and sent it to brighten my days; Jeanie Croope sent a gift card for Panera Bread and Kathy Bernath, the daughter of our former neighbor Wally Skurda, sent flowers and visited. I got many messages of love from friends Mary Breiner, Tim and Mary Kate Schellhardt, Pat Hill, Robert Luppi, Pat Cosentino and Sister Rita McCormack. I have also been grateful for the patients in my practice who hung in there through all the cancellations and uncertainty of those winter months. All of this has meant so much to me.</p><p>Now in healing mode with my foot, I look around at the fears and divisions we're all having around the pandemic, Election day (whatever our political affiliations) and how incredibly our daily lives have changed this year. </p><p>Dealing with the dramatic changes 2020 has brought isn't easy to be sure. But trying times are so much more bearable when we support each other with kindness and compassion.</p><p>I was reminded of this during a recent phone conversation with my friend Bob Luppi, whom I have known since grade school and who renewed our friendship a few years ago after his retirement. I mentioned that these are turbulent, uncertain times. "They are," he replied. "I don't want to know your political affiliation and I won't tell you mine. I just want there to be peace and love and kindness between all of us. That's what matters most."<span> </span></p><p>That is everything.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Dr. Kathy McCoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02903015507894951725noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7754684819908801536.post-15406316266422133432020-03-30T17:29:00.000-07:002020-03-30T18:16:59.258-07:00An Emotional Survival Guide to Covid-19: Caring and Calm Amidst the Chaos<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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As the toll of Corvid-19 climbs alarmingly around the world, there are sights that can't be unseen and words that can't be unheard such as:<br />
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<li>Crowds of shoppers battling in the aisles of big box stores for dwindling supplies of toilet paper and bottled water, oblivious to store managers calling for peace and civility </li>
<li>Bare shelves stripped of sanitizers, cleaning supplies, paper products and bottled water.</li>
<li>Crowds of young people, feeling invulnerable to the virus or simply not caring, packing bars, pubs and restaurants in cities across the nation, offering an unparalleled opportunity for the virus to spread among these healthy young people to be carried on to the elderly and otherwise vulnerable.</li>
<li>Political and generational divisions spawning verbal ugliness -- from contentions that the virus is simply a media hoax to the belief that the virus' penchant for killing more older people is just punishment for those loathsome Boomers </li>
<li>Wealthy people retreating to their doomsday shelters in old missile silos or to remote vacation homes</li>
<li>People buying guns in record numbers...to protect themselves from each other.</li>
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It's time to calm down and accept one central fact: we're all in this together.<br />
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People of all ages, ethnicities, professions and social standings have become ill from Covid-19. While the elderly and those with underlying health issues are most at risk for serious illness and death in this pandemic, Covid-19 affects us all in terms of health and loss, disruption of work, income and lifestyle. These are scary, trying, uncertain times.<br />
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It all makes me think of an earlier time when panic reigned: the Cuban Missile Crisis in October 1962 when the world teetered on the brink of nuclear war and those of us in our teens feared we would never live to see young adulthood. People were hunkering down in backyard bomb shelters, hoarding canned goods and threatening to shoot anyone who intruded. It was my introduction to a very real sense of mortality and to the worst of humanity.<br />
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My Aunt Molly, a professional writer and award winning poet, wrote a poem back then about that "I've got mine, screw you!" bunker mentality that crisis inspired over half a century ago. Her poem was originally published in <i>The Antioch Review.</i><br />
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<b>You Can't Take It with You But You Can Always Bury It Alive</b><br />
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<b>by</b><br />
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<b>Elizabeth C. McCoy</b></div>
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Native rock and chemical toilet,</div>
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Air intake wary as a crone counting change</div>
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In an alien currency.</div>
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Dehydrated food and canned water</div>
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Sufficient for one for seven days.</div>
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$6.98 on special.</div>
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Mine.</div>
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And you needn't expect...</div>
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Well...see! You've smudged</div>
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That page I like to read over and over</div>
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All about Walden.</div>
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You've....shhhhh!</div>
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How <i>can </i>it be just a gopher?</div>
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Nothing can get through to you now</div>
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Except the faintest taste and smell of fear</div>
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If you hadn't forgotten the Air Wick.</div>
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If he comes,</div>
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If anyone comes,</div>
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Shoot.</div>
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All these years later, we can do better.<br />
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These are different times to be sure. The menace is a viral pandemic, unsparing and unstoppable. How can we begin to get a grip and to realize that, while life must change at least for now, we can find ways to be okay, to be happy, to be kind to each other despite our concerns?</div>
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1. <b>Don't let your panic get in the way of compassion and reason. </b>Those feral shoppers stripping shelves of necessities we all need have let panic and selfishness cloud their judgment. For all of our well-being, hand sanitizer should be available to all, not just a few who are hoarding a 20 year supply or have enough toilet paper to bequeath to great grandchildren. When Bob and I were making a regular supermarket trip the other day, finding that food supplies were still quite abundant though paper goods and bottled water shelves were bare, we saw a woman at the checkout counter with SIX shopping carts overflowing with everything imaginable --from cleaning supplies to cookies. She looked like she was headed for a 10-year hibernation. Cultivate a spirit of enough. What you have will be enough. Make supplies last. Stretch meals. Improvise. You'll be fine. Faced with the coronavirus, running low on toilet paper will be the least of your problems.</div>
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<b>2. See lifestyle changes through a positive lens -- as an opportunity to learn and to grow. </b>Most of us live hectic lives built around routines that keep us away from loved ones, hobbies and relaxation. Working from home and losing the commute, having more time with family and with pets can be a welcome change in your daily routine. If you're off work as a result of business shut downs, this time off can be worrisome indeed. However, this pause in your work life can also be an opportunity. One friend, who worked as a bartender, says that losing her job has been a blessing of sorts. "I hated my job so much!" she told me. "But I wouldn't have left anytime soon. The money was too good and I wasn't sure what I would do next. Now I have more time and incentive to consider what I really want to do with my life and plan a way forward." </div>
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<b>3. Limit your anxiety time. </b>Switching off the constant drone of dire news, taking a break, is good for your mental health. Yes, the crisis is very real. But, as long as you have good and accurate information and are doing the best you can to protect yourself and your family, obsessing about the pandemic and binge watching 24 hour news isn't useful or healthy. Lose yourself in a novel or in some of your favorite music. Short meditations, deep breathing, exercise, thought stopping can all help to keep a balanced view of the situation and to review your alternatives with a clear mind. </div>
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<b>4. Embrace gratitude. </b>Consider what you have rather than what you've lost. Be grateful for a home in which to cocoon and for the people you love -- those who are with you at home and those who keep in touch from a distance. Be grateful for the embrace of a partner when you're in the grip of fear and uncertainty. Be grateful for the warmth of your animal friends. My three-legged black cat Ollie has started lying on my chest, his front paws around my neck, purring loudly. It's an incredible comfort. Be grateful for your interests and passion that you now may have more time to pursue. And be grateful for your good health so far. Being healthy overall may help to protect you against the worst ravages of this pandemic. </div>
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<b>5. Strengthen community and familial ties. </b>Offer to help, keep in touch, check up on others, tap your inner kindness and compassion. You may realize how much nearby others mean. I've come to appreciate that in advance of the pandemic through my disability in the wake of my January accident when neighbors like Marsha, Vicki and Kelly brought meals over, when my neighbor Sherry dropped by with warm encouragement and just now, when Kelly appeared at our front door, keeping a safe distance, and handing us a bag of chocolate chip cookies warm from the oven. And I recently got a call from the wife of a young client of mine asking if she could do grocery shopping, pick up prescriptions for us or do anything else that would help to keep us safe. My brother Mike sends funny, insightful and loving messages from afar. My friend Georgie in Tennessee sent me a painting she imagined (correctly!) would cheer me up and keeps in touch with frequent messages. My friend Tim keeps me smiling with sweet emails, pictures, jokes and warm reassurance. His daughter Mary Kate calls with words of encouragement and love. My friend Mary, sidelined with her own disabling injuries and in a care facility for at least another month, sends me messages that are often as simple as "I love you!" Think about your own circles of family and friends. Whose day could you brighten with a call or text? What would you like to say to those you love most right now? Reach out now. Say what you would like to say...maybe something you've never said before.</div>
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<b>6. Rediscover old pleasures. </b> Bring out the board games and jigsaw puzzles. Try song fests in the living room, the shower or out the window(see Italy!). Write letters to those you love. Take time to journal. Rediscover the joy of gardening or the simple pleasure of tidying up. Get creative and make some meals from scratch, enjoying the deliciousness of old recipes.</div>
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<b>7. Express love fully -- and often. </b>Tell others how you feel in writing, online, over the phone, with warm hugs. I've had the joy in the past few days to hear from a variety of people in my life -- from my brother Mike who speculates that the Tooth Fairy let his daughter down the other night -- possibly due to self-isolating or due to needing a federal bailout. And he added "I love you" to his text; from my lifelong friend Sister Rita McCormack, who befriended my brother and me when we were young, scared and abused, and who called to say she loved us still and always; fun and loving emails from my friends Tim and Mary; and a call from Tim's wonderful daughter Mary Kate, full of warm encouragement, affirmation of life's wonders and loving admonitions to be careful.<br />
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Think about the people who matter to you. This crisis is an opportunity to say what you've always wanted to say to those you love, to remember the important people from your life whom you may not see or hear from regularly, to reach out over the chasm of social distancing to touch another's heart.</div>
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Dr. Kathy McCoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02903015507894951725noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7754684819908801536.post-19975465005413105102020-02-11T20:06:00.000-07:002020-02-11T20:06:19.890-07:00A Wild Saturday Night in Sun City (And What Came After)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhraczhxpzaK_FYLFF0umZrivc6ixSS2q2UKajXUIbUzC65Jqh8IWE4tUJHFaXzUn7ttiHYFAgkhSAuKAcc_Y7T-psz-r59eKl2ndx3pp-sUJT0868TxlcybZtkIWhXvaXlIhvyBemMIA/s1600/Kathy+with+Ryan+%2528plaid+shirt%2529+and+Michael.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhraczhxpzaK_FYLFF0umZrivc6ixSS2q2UKajXUIbUzC65Jqh8IWE4tUJHFaXzUn7ttiHYFAgkhSAuKAcc_Y7T-psz-r59eKl2ndx3pp-sUJT0868TxlcybZtkIWhXvaXlIhvyBemMIA/s400/Kathy+with+Ryan+%2528plaid+shirt%2529+and+Michael.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With Ryan (red shirt) and Michael the morning after</td></tr>
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At the dawn of 2020, my husband Bob and I marveled at the fact that, despite being in our mid-seventies, we were healthy, strong and active.<br />
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Bob recently discovered bicycling and was doing miles a day in addition to reading voraciously, studying ASL and discovering the intricacies of Wagner's operas. He is slim, fit and strong for his age -- or any age. </div>
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I was swimming laps for an hour a day, nudging my diet in the Mediterranean direction, determined to get my weight to a healthier level and was delighted with the rapid growth of my new psychotherapy private practice.<br />
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We agreed that we were grateful for this extended healthy, happy time in our lives.<br />
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"This won't last, of course," Bob said quietly, thinking of the recent deaths of several friends and the downward spiral in health for another.<br />
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"But every day that we're healthy is a blessing," I said. "I'm grateful for every day of our healthy, active lives."<br />
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We smiled as we talked about the upcoming visit of Ryan Grady and his husband Michael Collum, flying in from Los Angeles for the extended Martin Luther King weekend.<br />
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We call Ryan "the son of our hearts." He came into our lives as Bob's Little Brother in the Big Brothers Program in Los Angeles. He was a quirky, bright, funny 9 year old then, who regaled Bob with a full throated rendition of "The Glory of Love" in the car, only minutes after they first met. Ryan quickly became dear to us, the son we would have been proud to have. (And we marveled at how his parents had produced not one, but two marvelous kids, as Ryan's older sister Kelly captured our hearts as well.)<br />
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As a young teenager, Ryan helped me to study for my oral licensing exam as a therapist and said "I want to do this, too!" And he did, becoming a licensed clinical social worker, seeing therapy clients and working as an administrator in an agency serving veterans. He's 36 now and when he married Michael in 2017, Bob was his Best Man. We've come to love Michael, too. Michael is an attorney by day and pianist by night. We could talk with them for hours -- and do.<br />
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This time, we were looking forward to showing Ryan and Michael just how vital and fit we were despite our advancing ages.<br />
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Pride before the fall.<br />
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The first sign of trouble was subtle. A patient came to see me, curling up on the couch in abject misery, coughing and sniffling through her session. I felt bad for her as well as a fleeting fear I quickly dismissed. After all, I hadn't been ill in years. And, as usual, I got a high intensity flu shot. I would be fine, but still....why hadn't she stayed home? I asked her if she really felt well enough to continue the session. She did and left at the end of the hour with my admonitions to go home, stay home, drink lots of liquids and rest.<br />
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My throat started feeling scratchy two days later, the day that Ryan and Michael arrived, We went out for dinner. I started feeling worse. Saturday morning, I woke up with a wracking cough, a fever and a painful earache, something I hadn't had since childhood. I went to the local ER where a doctor said the ear infection was bad and gave me a prescription for antibiotics.<br />
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I opted out of the festivities that day....and out of lunch and dinner, too. My fever climbed, my infected ear -- my good ear -- was completely blocked. I could barely hear. I crawled into bed early and fell into a feverish sleep.<br />
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"Help me! Help me!"<br />
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In the dark of 2 a.m., I startled from a deep sleep to the sound of screaming from the bathroom. I jumped out of bed and raced to the master bathroom where Bob lay in the aftermath of a grand mal seizure. Bob's epilepsy is well controlled by medication. Seizures are few and far between, but when they happen, they're serious. Rushing to his side, I felt suddenly faint, passing out beside him. It was pain that brought me back to consciousness. My left foot had twisted and I had fallen on it. The pain was intense, the swelling immediate. Neither of us could move. My cell phone was charging on the bathroom counter. I pulled it down and texted Ryan who, with Michael, was asleep in the casita guest house in front of our home.<br />
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Michael and Ryan rushed in to help: Michael took charge of Bob, who simply needed to rest, and Ryan rushed me back to the local ER. The receptionist smiled with recognition as we came in. "Oh," she said. "Today you have company! Your sweet grandson brought you in!"<br />
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Ryan and I looked at each other and smiled. "Actually," he said. "Kathy and I are special friends, though I'd say we do have something of a mother-son vibe going on...." And we chuckled.<br />
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After studying my x-rays, the ER physician shrugged. "It's suspicious for a fracture, maybe a little bone chip" he said, giving me an orthopedic boot and telling me to follow up with my primary physician.<br />
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My primary sent me to a podiatrist who gasped when he saw the foot and took more x-rays and ordered a CAT scan. "This is very serious," he said. "This is a lisfranc fracture involving a number of bones in your foot and all three tendons that hold the bones together have torn. You need surgery as soon as possible! We have a narrow window of opportunity to fix the foot. The recovery time for this injury is at least a year."<br />
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He sent me to a surgeon who confirmed the diagnosis and the urgency, telling me that the surgery would involve rebuilding the foot with metal plates, pins and screws, that I would be in a cast for three months, a rigid boot for three more months and a modified boot for some months thereafter -- and in a wheelchair unable to put any weight at all on the foot during all that time.<br />
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There was only one impediment to surgery: my respiratory infection and cough.The surgery has been scheduled and canceled several times now. The window of opportunity for an optimal healing result has come and gone. I may always limp. Or need a cane. But anything would be an improvement.<br />
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Life with limited mobility is a humbling thing. I'm in a wheelchair. I need help going to the bathroom and bathing and dressing. Always fiercely independent, I've had to learn to depend on Bob, to ask for help, to rely on him for everything.<br />
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And now another development: I've lost my voice in the wake of weeks of violent coughing. And I'm watching another surgery date approach, hoping this one won't pass me by.<br />
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In the meantime, life keeps happening. During a routine echocardiogram two weeks ago, a mass was discovered on Bob's thyroid. He had a CAT scan and the result was "highly suspicious for malignancy." He is awaiting a biopsy. And someone very close to me, who prefers anonymity, was just diagnosed with kidney cancer. And a college friend of mine passed away last week.<br />
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It's all so fragile -- our health, our lives. In only an instant, everything can change.<br />
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Bob and I both are struggling to imagine what would happen if both of us end up needing surgery and recovery time in the weeks to come. The most routine tasks might become major challenges.<br />
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In the meantime, our home decor has taken a small but definite shift toward geriatric -- with wheelchair, walker, extended shower bench.<br />
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The cats were initially puzzled by my sudden disability but Sweet Pea and Hamish already have settled into quiet indifference. Maggie gives me extra affection. And my three-legged cat Ollie, convinced somehow that I'm being held prisoner in this chair, springs to attention every time I move, running circles around the chair, pouncing the wheels and lying down in front of it, blocking the way. Every journey is a perilous one as I learn to take evasive action to avoid running over my beloved feline companion.<br />
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Family and friends at a distance worry, wondering how they can help and express their love and concern. And friends here make heartfelt offers to help.<br />
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I'm immensely grateful.<br />
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I'm grateful to Bob for his patience and resourcefulness as a caregiver.<br />
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I'm grateful to my brother Mike and special friends - Tim, Mary, Pat, Georgia, Mary Kate, and Marsha -- for helping to lift my spirits in so many ways.<br />
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I'm grateful that when my accident happened, Ryan and Michael were here to lend physical and emotional help. It was not exactly the way we thought the weekend would go, but both Bob and I felt blessed by their presence nonetheless.<br />
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I'm grateful for my private practice and the wonderful clients who have hung in there through the uncertainties of the past few weeks. I look forward to getting past surgery and back to being fully present for them.<br />
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I'm grateful that my injury is somewhat fixable, that my time in a wheelchair may be long, but far from permanent. I feel hopeful for Bob's health and for my anonymous loved one's prognosis.<br />
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And I feel grateful for every day -- whether healthy or not.</div>
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Dr. Kathy McCoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02903015507894951725noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7754684819908801536.post-81903460831667301862019-12-30T16:09:00.000-07:002020-01-01T16:03:32.092-07:00Looking Back At Long-Ago Love<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
He came to me in a dream recently, looking young and vibrant and loving. He smiled and told me he loved me -- as he had many times before. The kindness in his bright blue eyes was striking, the way it was more than 50 years ago when I started dating Michael Polich, my first real boyfriend.<br />
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What prompted the dream about Mike or my recent reflections on the four men I loved and, in three cases, dated before my marriage to Bob?<br />
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Perhaps it's that time of year when we review the past and build hopes and resolutions for the future.<br />
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Perhaps it's a side effect of aging, revisiting youth as time takes a physical toll and seems ever more limited. I remember my mother recounting her premarital adventures in love with great delight as my brother, sister and I rolled our eyes and sighed deeply. Oh, no! Is it possible? Have I become her?<br />
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Or perhaps my current reverie was inspired by listening to the bitter ruminations of a neighbor about the "narcissistic, selfish, stupid jerks I always seem to end up with!" And I thought about patterns that define our youthful love lives. Some women I know went through a phase of favoring "bad boys" and others mistook jealousy and possessiveness for love instead of the control and abuse it really was. Some talk with disdain about worthless ex-lovers, loser ex-lovers and others not meriting any backward glance. And it makes me sad that their past love experiences were so negative.<br />
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When you look back on those you've loved and lost or left, what do you feel? What did you learn from relationships that didn't work out, at least the way you had hoped or imagined? Even when your heart was broken, were there some important lessons that ended up enriching your life or increasing your wisdom?<br />
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Looking back to my increasingly far away youth, I remember times of longing and heartbreak and insecurity and times of fun and caring and lasting love. I've learned so much, grown so much as a result of loving four very different men in my single years before I met and married Bob Stover, my husband of nearly 43 years.<br />
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When I think about it, I was fortunate not ever to have been date-bait. I was never beautiful. I never learned how to flirt. Guys liked me as a friend, but nothing more. In college, I had a wonderful classmate and friend, Tim Schellhardt. We were never a couple but we had fun and memorable times together -- going dancing, to movies, talking about past challenges and future dreams of careers in journalism. He helped me to lose both my fear of men and my terror of interviewing, the latter a major step toward my becoming a journalist. We supported each other emotionally through our years in the demanding journalism program at Northwestern (and throughout the decades since.) We laughed a lot. I felt so at ease with him and that I could talk with him about anything. Except for one thing: l was quietly, hopelessly, and very secretly in love with him. Totally unaware of my ardor, he unknowingly broke my heart by falling in love with and marrying someone else. But our friendship was built to last forever, thriving through the years. Tim is one of my dearest lifelong friends. We have never been lovers, but we will love each other forever. He is one of the greatest blessings of my life.<br />
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And I learned from this early heartbreak that there are many varieties of love -- all to be treasured.<br />
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When I look back on my three pre-marital lovers, I realize that the relationships were all built on the firm foundation of friendship. I feel only joy and gratitude that the pattern of my twenty something love life was a trio of men who were all, despite their considerable differences from each other, wonderfully kind. And I learned and grew so much from being with them.<br />
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Michael Polich was my first real boyfriend and, not so incidentally, my first lover. We were in our twenties when we met and in early stages of our careers -- mine in writing and, briefly, in acting, his in aerospace engineering. I felt comfortable with him immediately, though I sometimes dabbled in cynicism and snark at that point in my early twenties. I wasn't always gracious. Fresh from my dashed romantic fantasies in college, I sometimes unfairly displaced my negative feelings onto him. Fearful of finding my life limited by the power and control of a man, as my mother's life had been, I was unspeakably bossy and too often critical of Michael. I remember myself as a markedly imperfect girlfriend, a genuine pain in the ass. But, inexplicably, he loved me anyway.<br />
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Michael asked me to marry him several months into our relationship. I said "No". I felt I was too young to make such a commitment. I wanted more time to grow personally and professionally and I suspected that our dreams for the future were not a good match. Michael, whose father had abandoned him when he was a toddler to marry his mistress and start a new family, dreamed of having a warm and loving marriage and children he would never abandon. He yearned to have a daughter and, in his fantasies, had already selected a name for her: Gwen. He would support Gwen in whatever she chose to do with her life, love her unconditionally as she grew into the person she was meant to be.<br />
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But like many dreams from our youth, Gwen never happened. We dated for several years and my dreams for my own future continued to diverge from his -- away from home and family and towards a challenging career or series of careers. I finally left Michael for someone with different dreams. For a time, the hurt was deep. But somehow a trace of our love endured.<br />
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Even though we never saw each other again after our breakup, we kept in touch and updated each other as life happened. We both ended up getting married in 1977. My husband Bob encouraged my career ambitions and didn't want children. Michael's wife Shahin was older, already had teenaged children and it was biologically too late for her to start a new family. But Michael enthusiastically embraced the family he had married into -- and found his Gwen-substitute in the daughter of his step-daughter. Her name was Jasmine and he wrote long enthusiastic letters about her -- her many talents and the fun he had driving her to swimming and ice skating events and encouraging her to both excel and to enjoy her life, up to and including her young adulthood.<br />
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He was unfailingly kind and gracious to me, calling me at major life transitions -- when my parents died, when his wonderful mother died, when I faced major surgery in 2003. When I had written to him about the latter, he called me at work, his voice filled with concern. "What can I do for you?" he asked quietly. "What do you need? I'm here for you." And he was forgiving and/or graciously forgetful of my youthful snarkiness.<br />
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Some years ago, I asked Mike if he would mind if I wrote a blog post about our relationship. He replied with gentle humor: "How else am I going to be famous?"<br />
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When he read the blog post, his reaction was to tell me that I was being way too hard on myself, that he remembered the love, the mutual kindness and the fun we shared. He said that my cynicism and snarkiness must have been largely within and that he had always known the fear that fueled my bossiness and was never annoyed. And even all those years later, I felt immense relief and gratitude.<br />
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We had a celebratory ritual: writing to each other on our birthdays and at Christmas. So when I didn't hear from Michael last Christmas, I felt a pang of fear and loss. I Googled him and discovered that he had passed away suddenly six weeks before. And I felt a wave of grief that surprised me with its intensity -- and that recurred on his birthday in February and mine in April and once again as another holiday season has come and gone. I'll always miss that handsome young man with the bright blue eyes and the sparkling smile -- and the very special person he became, at a distance but forever warmly in my life.<br />
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The life lessons I took away from Michael were ones of the importance of being in the moment with another instead of dragging past resentments into a new relationship, the value of kindness and patience and forgiveness as well as the value of shared love and experiences, whether or not one's dreams ever match.<br />
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My next love Maurice couldn't have been more unlike Michael -- except for his essential goodness and his immense kindness.<br />
<br />
My relationship with Maurice Sherbanee threw my parents into a panic. He was from a foreign country. He was 15 years older than I. And, worst of all, he was an actor, albeit a steadily working actor.<br />
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"What are you thinking??" my parents shouted in unison. I reflected on their distress and my surprise at finding myself in this relationship. Maurice had been a casual friend for some years, ever since my days in the new talent program at Desilu. He was an established actor then, often playing foreign heavies or heros-- Arabs, Italians, Armenians, Turks -- in television and films, including foreign language films. He was a gifted musical theatre actor who appeared in a number of professional musical shows in L.A.<br />
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One night, I went with an actress friend of mine, who had a crush on him, to see Maurice play Panise, the second lead, in a major L.A. revival of the musical "Fanny". I mortified my friend with my tears and barely stifled sobs over his death scene near the end of the show. When we went backstage to congratulate him, my eyes and nose were still streaming. I was a tearful mess. Somehow, he found me irresistible and asked me out immediately.<br />
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Startled, I said "No." I knew that my actress friend was hoping to date him. He began to call me on a regular basis and I continued to say "No" until my friend said "Look, next time he calls, please go out with him. He's never going to ask me out. The least you can do is to validate my taste. He's talented and brilliant and handsome and kind. What's your problem?" So I went out with him...for nearly four years.<br />
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And in our time together, I grew up a lot. He encouraged me to open my mind and my heart and to embrace others' points of view, even when I didn't agree, even when it was hard to understand. He nurtured me in a way I had never felt growing up and helped me tame my snarkiness with humor. He also dreamed someday of having a daughter and, in the meantime, entertained me with stories and funny impressions of his much-adored grand niece Tiffany. We sometimes argued about his mother -- who lived with him and who had varying degrees of hostility toward any girlfriend he might have, though she cut me considerable slack because I was such an obviously unsuitable match -- not Jewish and too young. When I asked why he didn't settle his mother in a little apartment or in assisted living, he would look at me sadly and say "In my culture, we don't discard our older people. We cherish them. You will never understand what we have been through together."<br />
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It took me years to understand. I never did totally until I started reading some of the blog posts of his niece Rachel Wahba (mother of Tiffany), a psychotherapist and writer in the Bay Area who has shared stories of their dramatic and traumatic family history both online and in print. I knew that Maurice was cosmopolitan and spoke a number of languages, that he had been born in Iraq, moved to India when he was 11 and then to Japan after World War II. I discovered through Rachel the stories behind these travels: how Maurice, his parents and his sisters were Holocaust survivors, having lived through the infamous Nazi-inspired Farhud in Baghdad where hundreds of Jews were killed in their homes and on the streets during one terrible weekend in June 1941. Maurice, several months away from his eleventh birthday, hid from the attackers, first on their roof under blankets, then with a Muslim family his mother had befriended, trying not to hear the shots and screams on the streets below. Then they fled to India for the rest of the wartime years. They fled for their lives once again when India erupted in civil war and lived stateless for some years in Japan before being allowed into the U.S. These are details of his life that Maurice still can't bear to discuss.<br />
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We parted as lovers largely due to our age and cultural differences, but have continued to enjoy a loving friendship through the years. He never married. (His mom lived to be 104!) But he has lived a full and loving life. And he has taught me so much about kindness and courage and tenacity and gracious acceptance of what is. As his health has faltered and he has grown too frail to continue to work as an actor on a regular basis, Maurice has concentrated instead on his love of music, composing beautiful classical guitar pieces that, performed by others, have a major presence on You Tube. He has taught me to embrace change, including finding ways to grow past the limitations of age and to find new possibilities.<br />
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I got a note not long ago from his niece Rachel, who has become a friend of mine and with whom he spends an increasing amount of time in her San Francisco area home. "My uncle and I were talking about you the other day," she said. "And he had only the sweetest things to say about you. I think it's so wonderful and inspiring that you have shared such love and such kindness for each other for so many years."<br />
<br />
Yes. Maurice is an inspiration and a blessing indeed.<br />
<br />
My mother was over the moon at my next love: Dr. Chuck Wibbelsman. He was the tall, handsome, Catholic doctor she had always dreamed I'd meet.<br />
<br />
Chuck and I met when a health educator I knew suggested him as a source for an article I was writing about male development and sexuality. I was stunned when I saw that he was young and handsome and sexy. The subtext of our interview was steamy as we mentally undressed each other behind our careful professional demeanors. But we didn't date until several months later, after Chuck came to my office for an interview for another article. Shortly before his arrival, I got the news that one of my closest college friends had been murdered. As soon as he arrived, Chuck noticed the distress I was trying so hard to hide. He shut my office door and embraced me as I cried on his shoulder. He asked me out to dinner. And what followed became a memorable part of my romantic history.<br />
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Chuck was lively, fun and caring in all areas of his life. We talked about marriage and children and books we might write together. It all seemed not only possible, but also inevitable.<br />
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Our hopes for the first two were dashed when, a year into our relationship, he realized with new clarity and considerable pain that he was gay. "I thought those feelings would go away if I could just meet the right woman," he told me tearfully. "But you are the right woman and still...." My mother was crushed by this turn of events and she blamed me for not being attractive enough or submissive enough to hold his interest. But he and I knew that wasn't so, that as much as we had loved and enjoyed each other, his long suppressed sexual orientation needed to be honored and expressed.<br />
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However, our third wish did come true: we wrote a very successful book together -- "The Teenage Body Book" -- which was first published in 1979 and which has had seven U.S. editions as well as a number of foreign language versions through the years. The latest U.S. edition was published in 2016. The book led to us appearing together on "Oprah" and a number of other national and local television shows. It helped to propel our respective careers -- his as an adolescent medicine specialist and mine as a writer -- onto a new level. We collaborated on three other books together over time and have built a loving friendship from the ashes of our long-ago dreams.<br />
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In my relationship with Chuck, I learned a lot about letting go and having fun, about the importance of honoring the truth about ourselves, even when it changes our lives and our dreams, about the joy of an enduring friendship built on the foundation of love, of loss and mutual forgiveness.<br />
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All these lessons I learned from my early loves served me well when I met and married Bob and as I've grown through the years. It strikes me that we <i>expect </i>to grow through a long and loving marriage.<br />
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But, too often, we don't realize what we might have learned and how we've grown from the loves that came before. I feel blessed to have known these very special men whose kindness illuminated my youthful life path. The memories make me smile all these years later and fill my heart with love and gratitude.<br />
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Dr. Kathy McCoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02903015507894951725noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7754684819908801536.post-17352331074677466412019-11-02T14:41:00.000-07:002019-11-02T14:41:52.538-07:00Surviving the Unthinkable: Finding Your Way As Life Goes On<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Thirty-nine years ago today -- November 2, 1980 -- what started as an ordinary Sunday was suddenly and forever a life-changing day.<br />
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It began with our usual happy Sunday routine. My husband Bob and I went to the Hollywood Newsstand to buy the Sunday New York Times and assorted magazines, laughing and joking with the proprietor Bernie Weisman and enjoying his usual outrageousness. Then we went to our favorite restaurant, the Shaker Mountain Inn, for a brunch of omelets and muffins. Our favorite server Flo smiled and entered our usual order as we sat down. It was just another sweet Sunday morning in our young lives. Then, suddenly, it wasn't.<br />
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Bob was paged over the sound system to take a phone call at the reception desk. Our eyes met, startled. He hurried away. Rooted in place by sudden fear and dread, I watched him from the back as he took the call. He bent over suddenly as if struck in the stomach and then straightened, one hand shielding his eyes. My breath caught. I couldn't move. On his way back to our table, he stopped Flo and talked with her for a moment. She embraced him, then hurried away, reappearing with our brunch order packed neatly in to-go boxes.<br />
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Bob came over and put his arms around me, saying softly: "Sweetie, we need to leave. Your mother has been found dead."<br />
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He told me later that the phone call had been from my brother Michael, then a fourth year medical student at Stanford. Our mother's longtime next door neighbor Wayne, noticing newspapers accumulating in her driveway, had discovered our mother's body, sitting in a chair just inside the unlocked front door of her home. She had died so quickly from a cardiac arrest that she hadn't even had time to drop the newspaper she had been reading. Wayne didn't remember that I hadn't changed my name after marriage, that I was listed in the phone book and lived only a few minutes away. So he called Stanford Medical School and officials tracked down my brother in his off-campus rented room. Michael had called me at home and got no answer. Then he called our sister Tai, who reminded him that Bob and I were probably having our usual Sunday brunch at the Shaker Mountain Inn. And so he called, tearfully asking Bob to take good care of me.<br />
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I was in shock as we drove to my childhood home. My father had died of a heart attack four months to the day before. And now my mother was gone. How could that be? It was too soon. Far too soon. Tai, the youngest of us, was only 25. Michael had turned 32 the day before and I was 35 and feeling suddenly catapulted to a new phase of life. I wasn't ready to lose her. I shook my head in disbelief. I felt suddenly and terribly alone in the world, despite Bob's firm and loving grip on my hand and the warmth of Tai's arms greeting me on my arrival minutes after our mother's body had been removed.<br />
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I wondered, as grief engulfed me, how the sunshine could be so bright, how the day could be so beautiful, how people could be going on with their ordinary Sunday lives when my life was suddenly and forever changed.<br />
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We all have those moments that turn ordinary days into extraordinarily painful turning points in our lives.<br />
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It may have been the loss of a parent or a treasured sibling or friend. It may have been a miscarriage of a much-wanted baby or a beloved child or, perhaps even worse, an adult child. It may have been the death of a beloved spouse or the demise of a marriage through divorce. It may have been the unexpected loss of a job or a career or a cherished goal.<br />
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Whatever the shocking loss, a line from a long ago Peggy Lee hit may have come to mind: "I thought I would die....but I didn't."<br />
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Life does go on. We do what we need to do: we make plans and persevere and smile politely and sob in the shower and in unguarded moments. We struggle to imagine life without the lost person or job or goal. We may make some bad choices along the way: mine was to adopt my mother's compulsive overeating as a coping strategy and double my weight in 18 months. And we make healthier choices -- to work through our grief, knowing that this loss will always, to some extent, be with us; to reach out to others, sometimes reconnecting with new warmth, sometimes reaffirming love that has always been and will always be with us. We turn to faith or music or sweet memories to soothe our pain. And we go on.<br />
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Others may watch us with empathy, with sadness and with wonder. "How do you stand it?" one friend asked a few months later, after my last grandparent, my maternal grandmother, died of a stroke only two months after my mother's death and as a beloved cousin was nearing an untimely death from cancer.<br />
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I didn't have an answer. Except that you do somehow stand it. Day by day. You get up in the morning and put on your shoes and do whatever you need to do. Sometimes you don't do it well. Sometimes the tears surprise you once again on a day when everything seemed a little better. And sometimes a moment of lightness and joy comes as a welcome surprise when you've been feeling that your sadness will engulf you forever. Maybe the joy comes from a visit from a dear one who understands. Maybe it comes from a sudden memory to savor. Maybe it comes as you bury your face in the soft fur of a treasured companion animal.<br />
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All the tiny steps forward bring some hope and peace. The sadness, the missing, the regrets will always be there, but tempered by new realities. Life goes on with its challenges and its joys.<br />
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Thirty-nine years later, a new generation has transformed our family: my sister's child Lex, ten years later, and my brother's children Maggie and Henry, born nearly three decades after we lost our parents. My brother and I are now considerably older than our parents ever got to be. Our lives and careers have had moments our parents couldn't have imagined. We have lived most of our lives without them.<br />
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All these years later, so much is gone: Bernie and Flo, the newsstand and Shaker Mountain Inn. Our Sunday routine. Our youthful anticipation and optimism. A decade ago, Bob and I left California for new life in Arizona. We're looking back on a long past and ahead to a shorter future.<br />
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We've come to terms with the past. We've all had moments of facing our own mortality. We've imagined the loss of ourselves and all that defines us as we've watched an increasing number of peers pass away. My first lover died nearly a year ago. He was a sweet and gentle man, forever a friend and, in my mind's eye, perpetually youthful. I couldn't imagine him growing old and passing away -- until he did.<br />
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Yet somehow, impossibly, life goes on. We dry our tears, cherish our memories and take one step at a time back into living lives filled with moments of joy and sadness, searing losses and enduring love.<br />
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Dr. Kathy McCoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02903015507894951725noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7754684819908801536.post-68286245553675382972019-09-22T10:47:00.000-07:002019-09-22T15:16:47.808-07:00Why Would Anyone Get Therapy?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Her decision was a quiet one. But the family fallout when my mother, suffering from stress and a mild depression, announced to those close to her that she had decided to go to therapy was far from quiet. There was a cacophony of unsolicited opinions.<br />
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"You're kidding, right?" said her old friend Jackie, peering over her rhinestone-trimmed sunglasses with a mixture of incredulity and ill-disguised disgust. "Look, we all have our problems. I have my three divorces and my grown kids driving me crazy with their antics and demands for money. But at least I've never felt the need to see a shrink."<br />
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My father, the major source of my mother's stress, weighed in with "That's just crazy... You got a problem? Talk to me. It's a lot cheaper than going to some stranger."<br />
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But Mother went to see a therapist anyway and found considerable comfort in what turned out to be the last year of her life.<br />
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Even though it has been nearly 40 years since her fatal heart attack, I still remember her quiet determination to get counseling and the peace she said it brought her to share her feelings with someone who would listen and care.<br />
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The bond she built with her young therapist -- Dr. Jim Alsdurf -- was warm and enduring. She was still seeing him for therapy when she died. When her heart stopped, she had just finished wrapping a gift for Hannah, the baby girl Jim and his wife Phyllis had recently welcomed. And, not really understanding the boundaries of the therapeutic alliance back then, we asked Dr. Alsdurf to give the eulogy at Mother's funeral. How very <i>California </i>of us to have her therapist give the eulogy! And how gracious he was to go along with our request, speaking eloquently about the emotional legacy she was leaving us.<br />
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Through the years, my own perceptions of therapy have changed from skeptical to embracing the process, first as a patient suffering from grief after the sudden heart attack and stroke deaths of both parents and my grandmother within a devastating five month period when I was 35. And then, in my forties, after years of writing articles and books in the areas of health and psychology, I decided to go back to school to become a psychotherapist myself.<br />
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In my work as a therapist, especially at a clinic for those with medical problems who saw me for depression and anxiety secondary to their injuries or illnesses, I initially saw a lot of the suspicions and attitudes that had attended my mother's announcement.<br />
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One patient in particular stands out in my memory for her resistance. Marianna was a Romanian immigrant and was so angry when her cardiologist referred her to me that she refused to speak English during our initial session. Her young adult daughter had come along to act as an interpreter and mom-wrangler. Every time I would ask one of our standard intake questions, Marianna would stand up and shout in English: "Stupid question! You're stupid!!" Her daughter would tug at her sleeve and say "Mama! Sit down! Listen to the doctor!" This process was repeated many times in our interminable 50 minutes together.<br />
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"Well," one of my fellow therapists who had overheard our exchange through our thin office walls, said, leaning into my office after the mother and daughter departed. "You probably won't see HER again...."<br />
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But they surprised us all by coming back the next week. And, free of the intake protocol, I asked Marianna what meant the most to her in life besides her wonderful daughter. She stopped scowling at me. Her face brightened. "My doggie," she said.<br />
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I smiled. "Tell me about your dog."<br />
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And that was the beginning of a lovely and memorable therapeutic experience. We bonded initially over our shared love of animals and I was able to help her in the months and years ahead to deal with the fear and anger she was feeling over the precarious medical condition that eventually led to her death. Her daughter still keeps in touch more than a decade later.<br />
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Times have changed considerably since my mother decided to go into therapy or since I faced initially resistant clients like Mariana. But the stigma still exists in some societies. That was what Princes William and Harry addressed not long ago in a video made to promote mental health in the UK. They talked about the ways that grief over the loss of their mother, Princess Diana, had lingered through the years, prompting Harry's wild risk-taking behavior in young adulthood. Prince Harry said that he finally sought therapy after some urging from his brother and sister-in-law and that it had made a real difference in his life.<br />
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Many who have never had therapy think that seeking professional help is a sign of weakness. But it isn't. As Fred Rogers once remarked: "It takes strength to talk about our feelings and to reach out for help and comfort when we need it."<br />
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Yes. I know that on a personal level <i>and </i>as a mental health professional.<br />
<br />
But many are still skeptical and ask a perfectly reasonable question: Why would someone choose to seek therapy rather than simply talking with family and friends?<br />
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Why indeed:<br />
<br />
<b>A therapist will be listening to you with a different perspective. </b>While a family member or a close friend may have a great understanding of your situation, it's possible that he or she may share your frustration in not knowing what to do or may be suffering from battle fatigue, having been through this crisis with you before. There are many times when someone dear to you <i>is </i>the best person to help you resolve a crisis. But sometimes he or she wants to help but doesn't know how. That's when a therapist comes in. The therapist, who is new to your situation, who is not being affected personally by your situation and who, as an outsider, may be able to see certain things with greater clarity, can be a great help in this instance.<br />
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<b>A therapist is legally bound to keep what you say confidential -- with a few exceptions. </b>In general, by law, what is said in the therapy room stays in the therapy room. What you tell a therapist will never hit the gossip circuit. A therapist won't rat you out to your loved ones -- with two major exceptions. If you are feeling suicidal and demonstrate a likeliness to act on these feelings, the therapist is bound by law to report this to your loved ones and to make sure you have a way to be safe, perhaps by hospitalization for a time. The other instance where a therapist has to break confidentiality: if you pose an imminent threat to someone else. You might express a lot of angry feelings about an ex-lover or ex-spouse without triggering any alarms, but if you appear to have a violent plan of action, the therapist has a duty to warn that person. Otherwise, anything you say in the room with a therapist will be between the two of you.<br />
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<b>A therapist has skills to see you through a crisis. </b>A therapist can provide you with the safety you need to vent painful feelings and to hear your thoughts without judging or criticizing you. He or she can sit with you in your pain, help calm you through a panic attack or period of anxiety and give you the support you need as you work through overwhelming grief.<br />
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Ideally. Some therapists are more skilled and empathetic than others. Some have their limitations and preferences. For example, some therapists work best with children and adolescents while others feel more comfortable working with adults. Some do well with depressed patients, but not with agitated, angry patients.<br />
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There <i>is</i> a matter of fit when you're choosing a therapist. It's okay to hold out for just the right therapist for you.<br />
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Therapists have different personalities and strengths. My brother Mike, a medical doctor, and I were comparing notes not long ago on the early days of our professional lives, when, as interns, we were assigned patients. Reflecting back, we found that our respective supervisors, at widely separated facilities, had matched us both with a lot of <i>really</i> angry patients. We looked at each other and laughed. We grew up with an angry, volatile father and, as a result, we both developed a certain comfort around angry people. We learned not to fear anger. We could stay calm and help patients to sort out the myriad of feelings behind their surface volatility.<br />
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There are times, though, when a therapist proves to be the wrong fit for a client before a word is spoken.<br />
<br />
When I was working at the medical clinic, a young woman came into my office, stopped and stared at me and then sat down at the edge of her seat, decidedly uneasy. I asked her what was making her so uncomfortable.<br />
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She looked down at her hands and her voice was a near whisper. "You," she said. "You look like...you remind me of someone...I'm sorry...I can't work with you."<br />
<br />
I quickly assured her that that was okay, that the most important thing was that she feel comfortable enough with a therapist for a session to be helpful. I praised her for her honesty and courage in speaking up and asked if she would like me to refer her to another therapist. She nodded. She worked wonderfully with my colleague Linda for some months after that.<br />
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You owe it to yourself to speak up if something doesn't feel right with a therapist. Psychotherapists are a varied lot. Some are warmer than others, some more cerebral. Some spend a lot of time in listening mode, interjecting occasional questions or comments. Others, who utilize more behavioral based therapies like Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT) or Dialectical Behavioral Therapy (DBT) may be more directive, focusing on skill-building interventions. Others may tailor their therapy very specifically to your needs whether you need guidance in one session or a listening ear in the next.<br />
There are times in therapy when it's uncomfortable to talk about certain things or when you may leave feeling a little worse than when you did coming in. But if you <i>always</i> feel worse or feel that you can't be honest with your therapist, it may be time to move on.<br />
<br />
How do you know that you might benefit from therapy?<br />
<br />
<br />
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li>When you have been feeling depressed for awhile and even loving reassurance from your friends and family doesn't seem to be helping.</li>
<li>When your anxiety is interfering with your life</li>
<li>When you feel overwhelmed with grief, even some time after a major loss. Friends may have sympathized but now say you just need to get over it. Family members may be locked in their own grief experiences and unable to help you. Or you may be grieving a beloved companion animal who was very much a family member to you -- but no one else seems to understand the magnitude of your loss.</li>
<li>When you're trying to deal with an issue or make a decision that you're reluctant or embarrassed to share with anyone you know and want to talk it over with someone who will not pass judgement or spread the news to the universe.</li>
<li>When you and your husband are at odds and need someone to be there for your relationship and not take sides.</li>
</ul>
<div>
In such instances, therapy can be a blessing --whether you choose to go for a few sessions or for months or even years.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
How do you find a therapist? A good place to start might be to ask your primary doctor for a referral or a friend you know who has been in therapy. Another good place to look: Psychology Today Therapist Finder. This online tool lists therapists in your area and gives full page reports not only on their education and licensure, but also information about how they approach therapy, what kinds of therapy they offer, the insurance companies they work with and contact information. Reading through that, you can get a fairly good idea what to expect going in.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The decision to get therapy or not is a very personal, sometimes painful one. But if you make the quiet decision to try it, perhaps despite some disapproval from those around you, you will find that it can make a wonderful difference in your life.</div>
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Dr. Kathy McCoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02903015507894951725noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7754684819908801536.post-43471817267896809812019-08-12T11:16:00.000-07:002019-08-12T12:49:46.244-07:00The Power of "No"<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I recently had a defining moment in an unlikely place: at a local establishment called The Riverbottom -- across the mostly dry Gila River from Florence, Arizona's huge state prison complex. It's a popular watering hole with amazingly good food. Most Friday nights, the Riverbottom is filled with a strange but congenial mix of real cowboys, heavily tattooed bikers and elderly locals in baseball caps and polo shirts, all enjoying the live entertainment.<br />
<br />
I was there with my friend Marsha on a blisteringly hot July night to hear a former neighbor give one of his memorable concerts, Hank Gooday, a Superior Court judge, moonlights as a country/rock singer with an avid local following. His music inspires people to get up and dance, even in extreme heat.<br />
<br />
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<br />
Marsha and I noticed a local cowboy who was dancing with his wife and smiled at their obvious ease with each other. Minutes later, after his wife sat down to rest, he came over and asked Marsha to dance with him. I could hear her sigh, but she got up and took a turn around the dance area with him. Then he asked me. And I said "No." There was a shocked silence all around.<br />
<br />
Taken aback by the looks I was getting from the other women at the table and his leaning in to me, I tried to be polite. "I appreciate your asking me," I said, smiling. "But no. I don't want to dance."<br />
<br />
He didn't move.<br />
<br />
I made quick excuses: "My knees hurt. I'm too old for this..."<br />
<br />
He smiled. "My knees hurt, too, and you don't look a day over 53."<br />
<br />
I laughed. "You silver tongued devil! But I still don't want to dance. Dance again with your lovely wife. I really enjoyed watching you two."<br />
<br />
"We've been married for 37 years," he said with a shrug. "I can dance with her any time. Aw, come on, just one dance..."<br />
<br />
"No," I said, folding my arms. "Thanks for asking, but no."<br />
<br />
When he walked away, the other women at our table looked at me, shocked.<br />
<br />
"I think you were very rude not to dance with him," one said.<br />
<br />
"You hurt his feelings," another scolded.<br />
<br />
Marsha was laughing. "You really did call him a silver-tongued devil!" she snickered. "But I don't understand. It wasn't a big deal just to dance one dance with him."<br />
<br />
Yes it was... for me. Because it was expected that I'd say "Yes" despite my discomfort. Because women are supposed to be nice and comply, to politely go along with another's agenda.<br />
<br />
Hell with that.<br />
<br />
My disinclination to go with the flow appears to be trendy. There have been a number of recent articles in the New York Times and professional journals about our society's expectations that women will invariably agree to requests.<br />
<br />
In her New York Times opinion piece, Jessica Bennet talked about starting a "No Club" which she described as "like a book club but for learning to say 'No'."<br />
<br />
"There's a lot wrapped up in the word 'No' for women, beginning with the fact that women are expected to say 'Yes' and feel guilty when they don't," she wrote.<br />
<br />
Vanessa Patrick, a professor in the business school at the University of Houston, noted in a recent study that "the ability to communicate 'No' really reflects that you are in the driver's seat of your own life. It gives you a sense of empowerment."<br />
<br />
She found in her study that saying 'I don't' rather than 'I can't' establishes more conviction in one's decision.<br />
<br />
Still, it's far from easy. Even when declining with courtesy and conviction, the blowback can be harsh.<br />
<br />
I recently said "No" to a speaking engagement after the organizer made a major change in the approach to the subject. I had agreed to a serious discussion of some emotional issues we face as we age. But she was envisioning a light-hearted party of sorts with sweet treats. I told her that I wasn't comfortable with that and suggested that we find a compromise. Otherwise, I told her, I would be compelled to say "No". Her reply was vitriolic and she cancelled my appearance on the spot.<br />
<br />
My overall reaction was relief. I'm just starting a new psychotherapy private practice in this area. While this talk wasn't meant to be a promotional gig, I still didn't want to do anything that might detract from my image as a mental health professional. There have been times in my professional past -- many years ago -- when I agreed to give a speech or endorse a product or a concept that I found embarrassing or that made me uneasy because I needed the money or the publicity or because I was afraid that my agent or others would be mad at me if I said "No."<br />
<br />
No more.<br />
<br />
It feels good when actions are more congruent with one's convictions and desires. Most of us have been raised to please, to give higher priority to another's wants or needs. There are, of course, times when that needs to happen. But there are many other times in our lives when saying "No" is necessary and empowering.<br />
<br />
So what do we need to remember about saying "No"?<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Saying "No" is living intentionally. </b> There is a freedom in giving yourself permission to say "No" to requests or options when you want or need to. Letting yourself be ruled by "should's" is incredibly stressful. There are times, of course, when we all have to do things we don't want to do or spend time with people we'd rather not be with for professional or personal reasons. But whenever possible, saying "No" can free us to live authentically and with considerably less stress.<br />
<br />
"I knew I had finally grown up when I could say 'No' to others without being witchy," my late friend and former college roommate Cheryl Rennix once wrote me. "Those of us who grew up in a certain time, in the dysfunctional families of our early years, were obsessed with being nice, with pleasing others, with ignoring our own wants and needs. Being a real grown up means taking charge of your own life -- and that means feeling free to say 'No' sometimes."<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Saying "No" doesn't have to be nasty. It can be kind but firm. </b>Saying "No" with grace and kindness is an acquired skill that many of us -- including myself -- are still learning.<br />
<br />
There is a learning curve, to be sure, in learning to be firm -- not leaving any room for negotiation -- while being gracious. You may find yourself sounding a bit like a pleasant broken record -- "I appreciate your offer, but that won't be possible for me." or "I won't be able to join you on that day, but thanks for thinking of me."<br />
<br />
One of the most stressful -- and problematic -- ways to say "No" is the hedge ("Well, I might. I don't know. Let me think about it and get back to you..."). In this instance, you're stressed about possibly agreeing to something you really don't want to do and the other person feels caught in limbo.<br />
<br />
Another habit those of us who struggle with "No" tend to have is the resentful agreement. People pleasers always say "Yes", but they often don't please themselves -- or others -- if their compliance is grudging. Or if they pull out of agreed upon plans at the last minute with a lame excuse. Saying "No" upfront can be kinder to yourself and to the other person as well.<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Saying "No" doesn't mean negativity. </b>It can mean being honest and true to your own convictions. It can mean leaving room in your life for positive events and people. It can mean building trust -- with your true intentions and actions closely aligned. Saying "No" when you must makes the times when you say "Yes" ever more meaningful.<br />
<br />
I recently said "Yes" to another speaking engagement organized by the same person who disagreed so vehemently with my serious approach to what she had hoped would be a light-hearted event. She recently offered me another date and topic --a serious one. I said "Yes" immediately.<br />
<br />
And if a man I know and love asked me to dance, I'd melt into his arms in a minute!</div>
Dr. Kathy McCoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02903015507894951725noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7754684819908801536.post-71981319583008579922019-06-27T15:25:00.000-07:002019-06-27T15:25:56.911-07:00Comfortable Invisibility<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
I had no idea just how lucky I was to have been born with an ordinary face and body until a gorgeous friend pointed this out to me some years ago.<br />
<br />
"You're so lucky that you've never depended on your looks for anything," she told me, tapping her beautifully manicured fingernails nervously on the table top as we sipped iced tea in a cafe near her movie studio workplace. "You don't have to worry about losing your looks. What do you have to lose? I'm not meaning this in a negative way. I think it's a real positive that no one notices you one way or the other even now. So getting older and looking your age won't be such a shock."<br />
<br />
I was in my early forties then, she in her late thirties. I noticed she was drinking a bit, adding whiskey from a bottle in her purse to her iced tea. "I really fear getting old and losing my looks," she said.<br />
<br />
I nodded, sensing her anguish over those first faint crows feet, and felt suddenly grateful that, indeed, I wasn't and had never been a beauty.<br />
<br />
My very ordinary looks had been an issue when I was growing up. My mother, for whom looks loomed large, was enormously disappointed in me. She kept hoping that my appearance would improve as I grew up.<br />
<br />
"Maybe you're just going through a homely phase now," she'd say, looking me over appraisingly. "When you're 16 or maybe 20, maybe you'll be beautiful." But that magical transformation never really happened.<br />
<br />
My father was more focused on my getting good grades, a good education and gainful employment. But he kept a practiced eye on my weight, insisting that I step on the scale as he watched every Sunday when I was in my teens. He scolded me when my weight soared to 112, even though that was perfectly fine for my height and build. "Your mother weighed 108 when we met," he would say, ignoring the fact that even then I was two inches taller than my mother.<br />
<br />
So I grew up fretting about my weight, feeling ashamed that I wasn't pretty and, at the same time, was alarmed and unsettled when I got occasional unsolicited male attention. While I treasured occasional attention and compliments from men I knew and liked, I cringed going by construction sites and didn't have an inkling of what to do if a male stranger hit on me. Part of me always thought he must be joking.<br />
<br />
But for all the early shame and sadness of not being a beauty in a family and society steeped in lookism, size-ism and chauvinism, I've been happy, overall, with my unremarkable face and body. I've found joy in developing my mind, my talents and social skills. I've found great pleasure in friendships with men that might not have been possible had I been a beauty like my friend. And I've come to accept and even celebrate my body as it is: decidedly imperfect, but blessedly healthy so far. The comfortable invisibility of mid-to-late life has been just the thing for me. I feel so much at ease out in a world where I go largely unnoticed.<br />
<br />
There are many advantages to growing older, comfortable with the invisibility of age.<br />
<br />
When we are noticed, it's for our kindness or wisdom or strength of character.<br />
<br />
Instead of anguishing over slight (or imagined) physical imperfections, as we did in our teens or twenties, we can laugh at our larger, very real ones. Not long ago, I had a delightful time over dinner with Tim Schellhardt -- one of my dearest friends since we were teenage college students -- when we laughed heartily over the great varieties of wrinkles and sags our faces and bodies have achieved in the past few years. And there are times when my husband Bob Stover will look at himself in the mirror and ask "Who <i>is</i> that old man?" And then he'll start laughing. Reaching a point in life where we can laugh at ourselves with abandon is a great blessing.<br />
<br />
Times are changing, too. The women of my parents' generation were very conscious of maintaining a certain look. My Aunt Molly and her friends wouldn't have dreamed of leaving the house without full make-up ("I have to put my face on.") And many colored their hair into advanced old age. That all seems less common now. Many of us feel free to forget about makeup most days and let our hair transform into varying shades of silver or white. My natural hair color when young was a very dark brown. I'm delighted with my head of white hair now. And, of course, the women of my generation and those younger are more likely these days to be valued for a variety of traits that have little to do with physical beauty.<br />
<br />
As the years go by, I have come to love the freedom of public invisibility, eluding the evaluation on the attractiveness scale by others and giving myself more latitude as well. Who I am inside is emerging more visibly on my face and in my spirit. Many of us feel more at ease with our bodies and ourselves as we age. These days I focus on health, with wiser food choices and daily exercise. I watch my weight in an effort to stave off diabetes, cancer and dementia. I dress for comfort. I'm happy with the person I've become. And I live every day with gratitude for my health and good fortune in surviving to see old age.<br />
<br />
And in such peace and acceptance, there is a kind of beauty.<br />
<br />
I see it in my dear friend Sister Rita McCormack, a cherished role model since I was eight years old and she a 23-year-old teaching nun just arrived from Ireland. Though Rita has not been blessed with good health the past two decades, her luminous spirit, filled with kindness and generosity and love in living, nonetheless makes her appear decades younger than her 89 years. The beauty of her face and spirit transcend the physical, delighting and inspiring everyone who knows and loves her.<br />
<br />
I'm growing to discover my own kind of beauty, something noted recently by a newer member of our family.<br />
<br />
"You <i>are </i>beautiful," my Thai-born sister-in-law Jinjuta, 36 years my junior, insisted, as she touched my face and smiled. "I hope someday I can be as beautiful as you."<br />
<br />
Who knew that beauty would come with age and quiet acceptance of the passage of time? The beauty we all discover with age is much more profound than physical attractiveness. It is the growth of our essence that can shine brightly, ever more luminous with time.</div>
Dr. Kathy McCoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02903015507894951725noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7754684819908801536.post-80539698621287598262019-05-12T14:01:00.000-07:002019-05-12T17:23:55.087-07:00Mother's Day Reflections<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
"Happy Mother's Day!!"<br />
<br />
I hear it from supermarket cashiers and from my favorite person at the McDonald's drive-thru as she hands me my unsweetened iced tea.<br />
<br />
It's just a reflexive greeting, I tell myself, feeling a stab of equally reflexive pain within.<br />
<br />
But I don't show the pain. I just smile and say "Thank you! And Happy Mother's Day to you, too."<br />
<br />
Mother's Day is always a bit melancholy for me. My only pregnancy ended in miscarriage 44 years ago. And my mother died 39 years ago, when I was only 35. I've spent a lot of Mother's Days feeling out of step with the world and reminded, with each cheery greeting, of my losses.<br />
<br />
I'm not feeling sorry for myself. Not exactly. I'm just feeling wonder at the diversity of life experiences I see around me and times of wistfulness as I imagine roads not taken and loved ones taken too soon.<br />
<br />
Many people have bittersweet feelings on Mother's Day for a variety of reasons.<br />
<br />
There are people who have complicated relationships in their adult children and those who are actually estranged, for whom the silent phone and empty mailbox are stark reminders of their painful differences. There are parents who have experienced the unimaginable pain of losing a child they loved and nurtured well into childhood or adulthood. There are those who live far away from loved ones. And there are mothers who love their children immeasurably but still, in quiet moments, wonder what might have been.<br />
<br />
Maybe it's simply human nature to wonder. <br />
<br />
A friend I'll call Betty interrupted a successful career to have and to nurture her four children. And they're wondrous children -- now successful, kind and caring adults with children of their own. When I fantasize about the children I might have had, I imagine clones of these fabulous four. And yet, at least in part, they are who they are because of Betty's sacrifices.<br />
<br />
Could I have made such a sacrifice? In truth? No. I saw my mother walk away from a career she loved to raise the three of us and, as much as she loved us, she had terrible regrets and much marital unhappiness. I vowed that my life would be different. And it is. But still I wonder at times about that road not taken.<br />
<br />
So does Betty, as proud of and totally in love with her family as she is. What if she had been able to resume her career? By the time she was ready to go back to work, the opportunities simply weren't there for her. She wonders what life might have been like if she had completed her Ph.D. I did complete my Ph.D. And I find myself thinking that, at this stage of life, the love of a family means so much more than any collection of degrees or years at work.<br />
<br />
Those of us who are not and have never been mothers find many ways to feel connected.<br />
<br />
We delight in nieces and nephews, knowing that an aunt's love can mean so much. Every Mother's Day, I think back with love and gratitude to Aunt Molly, my father's younger sister, who was a a pivotal person in the lives of my brother, sister and me. And she was a professional writer, the best of mentors. She never married or had children of her own. But we claimed her as our own, feeling fierce and loving bonds with her. We used to call her our "third and best parent." And for years after our parents both died of heart attacks in 1980, we used to celebrate Aunt Molly on Mother's Day. She joked about feeling like an imposter as we took her out to brunch. But she wasn't an imposter. She was our love. After she died in early 2004, I found a picture I had never seen, framed and tucked away in her nightstand.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgZv1t9-f2WAsvBf-JubtPYPVvUS-O1eoEdOJH14ByDlu_na8_vQzXTp5ffCk65BuHi2a6vgUk6tYCsHqD3TK9Fae120H2OZ95_7vOM01qgeUkV97aMzK5X5vMJjAj9eZK54Eq9ndVOA/s1600/Mother%2527s+Day+-+Aunt+Molly+and+Me.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="562" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgZv1t9-f2WAsvBf-JubtPYPVvUS-O1eoEdOJH14ByDlu_na8_vQzXTp5ffCk65BuHi2a6vgUk6tYCsHqD3TK9Fae120H2OZ95_7vOM01qgeUkV97aMzK5X5vMJjAj9eZK54Eq9ndVOA/s320/Mother%2527s+Day+-+Aunt+Molly+and+Me.jpg" width="281" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Aunt Molly and me back in the day<span style="text-align: left;"> <br /> </span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
It was the first picture taken of us together. I was a fragile premature newborn -- tiny, with a full head of hair and she was a 28 year old unfamiliar with babies. We both looked uncomfortable but curious to know each other. We were fortunate enough to know and love each other for nearly sixty years. Now that photo sits on my desk -- where it makes me smile as I remember this very special person who blessed my life. And I try to relive these memories in visits with my very young niece and nephew today -- though Aunt Molly's shoes are truly impossible to fill.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJXPxWytNclXbGEWzPE9fFBi_X8LQl-ENSE9fAj9_TBT5CWLq51poSZudEuskICkyVgf8CCblUJsRDOwpEGfMOpvKC6ALFx-PyfNFe6OH8fowgj2naPQ21RSX22BSwYPhIXGNhsaEXwg/s1600/Mother%2527s+Day+-+Maggie+and+Me.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="846" data-original-width="725" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJXPxWytNclXbGEWzPE9fFBi_X8LQl-ENSE9fAj9_TBT5CWLq51poSZudEuskICkyVgf8CCblUJsRDOwpEGfMOpvKC6ALFx-PyfNFe6OH8fowgj2naPQ21RSX22BSwYPhIXGNhsaEXwg/s320/Mother%2527s+Day+-+Maggie+and+Me.jpg" width="274" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Niece Maggie, 9, and me in December 2018</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
We celebrate our friends who are mothers-- and enjoy loving and cheering on the new generation and, in time, the generation after that. I deeply love some children of friends, get tremendous satisfaction watching their lives unfold with professional successes and personal happiness.<br />
<br />
I recently celebrated with Mary Kate Schellhardt, the daughter of my dearest friend Tim, when she turned forty -- not with the dread some of us once felt at reaching that milestone, but with a sense of celebration of her maturity and life experiences and anticipation of wonderful adventures to come.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLpD9OTEb4oKAkuZlq0-T3sbmKykteZhEtUd6LFkyl2tD5UYtABEVJqLEMpMOnHHB4b3pK666BSMOQhLWLwBYTFnsAr38ZJZf-oVzjwp_x0cuOBG2qZ3DH1gZujij3Lq1YqGuQdLErPw/s1600/Mother%2527s+Day+-+Mary+Kate+and+Me.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1136" data-original-width="852" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLpD9OTEb4oKAkuZlq0-T3sbmKykteZhEtUd6LFkyl2tD5UYtABEVJqLEMpMOnHHB4b3pK666BSMOQhLWLwBYTFnsAr38ZJZf-oVzjwp_x0cuOBG2qZ3DH1gZujij3Lq1YqGuQdLErPw/s320/Mother%2527s+Day+-+Mary+Kate+and+Me.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mary Kate and me celebrating</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
And I'm thrilled to wish Carrie Goyette, the daughter of my treasured friend Sharon Hacker, a very happy first Mother's Day! Carrie has wanted to be a mom since she was a toddler. I used to watch with amazement as she played so seriously with her dolls. But Carrie waited a long time for her dream to come true -- a long time before she found true love in David, a longer time -- and a heartbreaking journey through miscarriage and infertility and exhausting IVF regimens -- before she held Hayden Hope Goyette in her arms. Her baby was born smiling. She knew, somehow, how lucky she was to have Carrie and David as parents.<br />
<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOJXq8gZGwvqSsrGWQdXhY010V_1wIYcVKg5ESuKF1FOBTKR6VqXg4Tk6yMPW1jwWa0Ei1Z_DbEKmCH2fiuG9p5fINpE7_chpccOvu-fDLe6gqNJFk4se5vC_C7PYhstZFmRM_XAkiKw/s1600/Carrie+and+Hayden+Hope+Goyette.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="960" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOJXq8gZGwvqSsrGWQdXhY010V_1wIYcVKg5ESuKF1FOBTKR6VqXg4Tk6yMPW1jwWa0Ei1Z_DbEKmCH2fiuG9p5fINpE7_chpccOvu-fDLe6gqNJFk4se5vC_C7PYhstZFmRM_XAkiKw/s320/Carrie+and+Hayden+Hope+Goyette.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Carrie and Hayden Hope Goyette</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
We have the time to reach out to children who need care and attention from a non-parental adult. Ryan Grady, my husband Bob's third Little Brother in the Big Brothers program, came into our lives when he was nine years old. He was smart, quirky, opinionated and fun. He enjoyed singing and dancing to original Broadway cast albums -- much as I had when I was a child. "I'm your kid!" he would say, wrapping his arms around me. "I wasn't born to you. But I'm yours!" As a young teenager, Ryan helped me to prepare for the oral licensing exam to become a psychotherapist. As he fired practice exam questions at me, he made the quiet decision to do this, too. And he has. Now 35 and a licensed clinical social worker, he is a successful therapist and agency administrator and, even though he is not our biological child, we couldn't ask for a better son. He calls several times a week. He asked Bob to be his Best Man at his wedding two years ago. We visit back and forth between his home in L.A. and our new place in Arizona. He just left a sweet message on my cell phone wishing me a happy Mother's Day and expressing his enduring love. And that means so very much!<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ5AxiCSDi8i5AK3XsKi-W6xwZsAPpzuHxTSFkVrM8e5kpH38qlGkO5Am8ZfLvh0FNyqjoDL4dMvTfhajd2iBVq4huiQu7aWueYGI-3vIdF8DN1EPgX46ILTDFbqDQ1Oz9NjU9sogeWQ/s1600/Bob+and+Ryan+in+Kitchen+-+August+2013.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ5AxiCSDi8i5AK3XsKi-W6xwZsAPpzuHxTSFkVrM8e5kpH38qlGkO5Am8ZfLvh0FNyqjoDL4dMvTfhajd2iBVq4huiQu7aWueYGI-3vIdF8DN1EPgX46ILTDFbqDQ1Oz9NjU9sogeWQ/s320/Bob+and+Ryan+in+Kitchen+-+August+2013.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bob and Ryan during Ryan's most recent visit to us in Arizona</td></tr>
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Yet I have moments of wistfulness as families come together to celebrate the day and the times when people talk so casually about "my daughter" or "my son." Or roll their eyes talking about their parents. And I want to remind them what a precious gift they have in family -- in their children, in their parents, in the time they have to enjoy, annoy and love each other through all the good times and the challenges every family experiences.<br />
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They're so blessed -- and so are we, those who have no children but are, nonetheless, surrounded by love. Some of us may live alone, some with a loving spouse and/or some splendid dogs or cats, enjoying nieces and nephews and the children of our hearts, bound to us by love if not biology-- as we celebrate loving connections of all kinds, not just today, but every day of our lives.<br />
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Dr. Kathy McCoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02903015507894951725noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7754684819908801536.post-20081522711082198772019-04-30T14:46:00.000-07:002019-05-20T15:20:24.929-07:00Ditching The Baggage and Living a Life<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
A few days ago, I had a sobering conversation with a beloved longtime friend who is fifteen years older than I am.<br />
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Bound by love and cultural imperatives, he cared for his mother for sixty years after his father's death. She lived to be over 100 years old, guarding her place in her son's life fiercely against all girlfriends who came and then went, adoring the man, but discouraged by his mother. So he never married. And since her death eight years ago, he has lived alone in the Los Angeles home they shared for many years. I haven't seen him in some time though we've been in regular touch from a distance since I left California nearly a decade ago. We both talk about how we would love to get together, maybe for lunch, the next time I'm in Los Angeles. But the logistics are proving difficult.<br />
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His health is deteriorating rapidly and he is facing major surgery. His uncertainty on his feet, despite using a cane and, occasionally, a walker, has increased to the point that he hesitates to go out except for medical appointments. At the same time, he is too ashamed of the condition of his home to enjoy a take out lunch with me there.<br />
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"Oh, if you could see my kitchen now, you would just vomit," he says with a shudder I can almost feel over the phone. "It's a mess. Everything is a mess. My stuff has just taken over."<br />
This was beginning to sound familiar. My parents were hoarders -- ashamed at one point to have anyone visit, then passing beyond that clear-eyed assessment to the delusion that there was absolutely nothing the matter with the house. It was a small house that took us two years to clean out after their deaths nearly forty years ago. Rooms were filled to the point of impassibility with treasures from the past -- many rendered worthless, even as keepsakes, because they had been chewed by the rats that ran through the house, the attic and the walls. My husband Bob, brother Michael and I filled over a dozen truck-sized dumpsters and countless trashcans, often recoiling in horror at the rats and the wreckage of our parents' lives.<br />
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Our father had died in July 1980 and we rushed to help our mother clean the place and get rid of the rats. Only she wouldn't. She claimed that the rats didn't bother her and that she needed to go through every rat-chewed magazine and newspaper in the place. When we would throw stuff out, she would bring it back into the house. At the same time, she started taking a home decorating course at a local community college. The class was limited to six students because each week, the class would meet at one of the students' homes to make decorating suggestions. The visit to my mother's home was scheduled for the last week. I was horrified. My mother was oblivious to how an outsider would view the place. "I think French doors in the dining room would be so cute!" she said with a smile, pointing to an area obscured by piles of trash. She died of a heart attack four months after my father's heart attack death -- and several weeks before that scheduled class visit.<br />
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Compulsive hoarding is not uncommon. According to a recent report in The Washington Post, up to six percent of the U.S. population -- or 19 million people -- could be categorized as compulsive hoarders. They fill their homes with prized possessions that include a lot of what most would consider junk: old newspapers, food packaging, shampoo bottles and old clothing. The stuff of their lives takes over living spaces and can cause impairment of functioning in a variety of ways -- from social to occupational to financial. Some hoarders, unfortunately, collect animals in numbers that make it impossible for them to care for the numerous pets properly, impacting lives well beyond their own.<br />
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Why do people hoard? Some psychologists believe that hoarding can be triggered by trauma. Some recent studies have revealed that there may be a genetic component to the disorder. Brain imaging studies showed that hoarders had lower-than-average activity in brain areas related to emotions but spiked when they had to entertain the thought of getting rid of their possessions. Hoarding is considered to be an aspect of obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD), can start in childhood and/or run in families. While cognitive-behavioral therapy targeted at hoarders can be very effective, the challenge is to get through to a hoarder, helping him or her to see the ways that all the excessive stuff may be limiting or even threatening the hoarder's health or life.<br />
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My friend, who endured horrific trauma as a very young Holocaust survivor, is experiencing limits to his social life and his options as a result of his hoarding behavior. But he's not completely on-board with the necessity for change. He realizes that, at his age and with his medical problems, he really shouldn't be living alone.<br />
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So what's the answer? A live-in or daytime caregiver? Not a chance. A move to assisted living? He sighed. "I can't imagine being squeezed into a tiny room," he said. "I couldn't have my stuff. And it's my stuff that keeps me alive." His stuff, he tells me, includes more than 200 suits, 16,000 DVDs....<br />
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Could he donate some? I hear him wince. Could he give some treasures to friends and family? I tell him that I would very much like to have some pictures from his career, some specifically meaningful to me. He sighs. "It would be like searching for a needle in a haystack," he says. "I know I have them, but I have no idea where..."<br />
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He is resistant to the idea of help in clearing out the clutter. "People would see this as trash to be thrown out," he says. "I see it differently. Having my stuff all around me keeps me alive, it really does."<br />
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There are many who harbor the same delusion that it's the stuff in our lives that keeps us going. The truth is: the stuff can hold us back, make us pause when we need to charge ahead, weigh us down when we need simplicity and lightness in our lives.<br />
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And what keeps my friend alive is not his stuff....but his talents and passions which he still pursues and the loving circle of family and friends who cherish him, especially his niece who, like me, lives far away. She has hinted that she would like him to move in with her. He won't hear of it. "I love her so much and I don't want to intrude on her life," he says. "I don't know what I'm going to do, frankly. I don't want to be a bother to anyone."<br />
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I want to tell my friend how much he is loved, how much his niece enjoys having him with her, how quickly and willingly friends and family would be there to help him to organize, prioritize and begin to let go of some of his life-limiting possessions if only....<br />
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I want to urge him to let go of the baggage, to ditch the stuff. But I know that for him and for other hoarders, it's not that simple. Those who rush in to clean up the clutter may cause more anxiety in a hoarder and trigger even more accumulation. Achieving real change in a compulsive hoarder can require intensive cognitive behavioral treatment. One can locate a therapist specializing in such treatment through organizations like Children of Hoarders, Inc. (childrenofhoarders.com).<br />
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I want to encourage my dear friend to treasure his relationships above all else. But I know that he does, loving sweetly and generously all the days of his life. And I know that hanging onto his stuff is, for him, an intrinsic part of hanging onto life, a life that is becoming increasingly fragile and tenuous.<br />
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And my heart aches for him.<br />
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Many of us cling to bits of our lives, especially as we age. It can be hard to let go. I struggle as I slowly let go of the pieces of mine that are, increasingly, superfluous. I'm feeling a greater need lately to let go of treasures that might bring pleasure to another or that could be useful to an unseen stranger through a local charity. The bits of my life that still remain, however, do not interfere with daily functioning. These items are confined to plastic containers concealed in garage cabinets and in a walk in closet, that is, I'll admit, decidedly overstuffed. I need to whittle it all down significantly and I will. I'm feeling an increasing need to let go ...of the stuff, the physical and emotional baggage of my past. Everything I do let go -- whether it's a piece of clothing, a lingering regret or an old grudge -- makes me feel a little lighter.<br />
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I both empathize with and worry about my old friend. I want to see him, to help him, to let him know I truly care. I want him to know he's not alone. I want to reach out in ways he can tolerate. I try humor, though I'm not really joking.<br />
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"Well, let's see," I tell him on the phone. "We can always get lunch at a drive through and eat in my car."<br />
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He laughs, but with an edge of infinite sadness. "We'll see," he says softly.<br />
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And my heart sinks with the sudden awareness that I may never set eyes on or have a chance to embrace this dear friend again.</div>
Dr. Kathy McCoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02903015507894951725noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7754684819908801536.post-63933173497560417162019-03-11T14:10:00.001-07:002019-03-21T10:53:06.244-07:0010 Surprising Facts About Why Parents and Adult Children Become Estranged<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Being estranged from a beloved adult child can bring feelings of loneliness and terrible isolation. You watch others enjoy close relationships with grown children and grandchildren and wonder what went wrong and why? And you feel so alone.<br />
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But you're not alone.<br />
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When I wrote the post "When Parents and Adult Children Become Strangers" back in 2012, I had no idea that it would become day after day, year after year, my most popular, most read, blog post ever with hundreds of heart-breaking comments and observations from both parents and adult children.<br />
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This response made me want to learn more about this sad phenomenon -- and after some years, many interviews and lots of research, I wrote <i style="font-weight: bold;">We Don't Talk Anymore: Healing After Parents and Their Adult Children Become Estranged </i>(Sourcebooks, 2017).<br />
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In researching the book, I discovered some surprising facts about parent and adult child estrangement that I'd like to share with you.<br />
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1. <b>You are not alone. </b> A U.S. study of adult children found that 7 percent reported being emotionally detached from a mother and 27 percent were detached from a father.<br />
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2. <b>Fathers are more likely to become estranged from their adult children as the result of divorce, either in the distant past or via a recent "Gray Divorce." </b>Resentment over a long-ago divorce and alienation fueled by parental anger can cause an emotional split that endures into adulthood. A gray divorce between long-married parents can spark conflicts with adult children who feel compelled to take sides or who resent the changes this brings to their own lives. A study of late-life divorce and its impact on relationships between the divorcing parents and adult children found that while fathers are more likely to experience a decline in contact with adult children, the divorced mothers were more likely than married mothers to report an increase in weekly contact with adult children. Newly divorced fathers may find it difficult to talk about their feelings with anyone. And they are likely to remarry more quickly and in greater numbers than mothers. A late-life parental remarriage can be as disruptive to father-adult child relationships as the original divorce.<br />
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3. <b>Mothers are more likely to become estranged as the result of continuing demands for closeness or giving unsolicited advice. </b>This kind of estrangement can come from conflicting needs and perceptions about how much contact is too much, what advice can feel like criticism (particularly in the area of child rearing) and what actions can feel intrusive. The mother may feel she's just being helpful. The adult child may have a very different view.<br />
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4. <b>An adult child who is at odds with a mother's core values is more likely to become estranged than an adult child who is arrested or involved in substance abuse. </b>Strange but true! In a study of mothers headed by Dr. Megan Gilligan of Iowa State University, researchers found that clashing values -- such as differences over religion or partner choice -- were major factors in estrangement between mothers and their adult children. The study found that many of the estranged mothers were, on the other hand, quite tolerant of other adult children showing socially deviant behavior. One mother, for example, was estranged from a son who had divorced and remarried, life choices at odds with his mother's Catholic faith, while her two other children with histories of substance abuse, DUI arrests and, in the case of her other son, a myriad of run-ins with the law, remained close to her. In fact, she talked of her often-jailed second son with pride -- "He is my success story!" -- because he was still in his first marriage.<br />
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5. <b>Estrangements are more likely to come from a conflict of needs rather than verbal sparring.</b><br />
This divisive conflict is often the need of the adult child to be independent and in control of his or her own life and the need of the parent to remain closely connected and, ultimately, in control. When tensions rise, the adult child may seek autonomy by becoming estranged from parents. Researchers have uncovered a sobering fact: parents are more emotionally invested in their relationships with their children than their children are with them. This is called the "developmental stake hypothesis" and is consistent across the lifespan. This is important for parents to understand and take steps to safeguard their ties with their grown children by respecting their autonomy and, in the case of conflict, being the first to apologize.<br />
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6. <b>Some emotional distance can improve parent-adult child relationships and make estrangement less likely to happen. </b>The paradox of an intimate yet distant parent and adult child relationship has been pinpointed in several studies, most notably in research by K.L. Fingerman of Pennsylvania State University. She found that parents and adult children who reported close ties still had some psychological distance. She noted that parents tended to stop trying to direct their children's lives and their grown children, in turn, sought to protect their parents from worry, often by not discussing some problems with them. She noted that this distance tended to improve the relationship and could serve as a bridge to a different kind of intimacy.<br />
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7. <b>Helping an adult child financially can actually increase the likelihood of estrangement. </b>Why?<br />
Studies have found that giving adult children money can be an expression of power and control, giving the parent more say over an adult child's life. And an adult child's financial neediness (or irresponsibility) may also spark conflict with his or her parents that can lead to estrangement.<br />
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8. <b>An estrangement isn't just between a parent and an adult child. </b> Estrangements can impact the whole family. We see this in therapy all the time, especially with siblings, grandparents, aunts and uncles who get dragged (or insert themselves) into family conflicts, bringing up many feelings, old conflicts and rivalries from the past and complicating the situation in the present.<br />
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9. <b>Having a good relationship in your child's growing up years is no guarantee that you'll never be estranged. </b> Many now-estranged parents lament that they once had close and loving relationships with their children. Sometimes this later-on estrangement can come from changes in the family -- like a late in life divorce -- or from a reluctance to change -- such as parents who insist on being more involved and controlling of a grown child's life than the adult child can tolerate. And sometimes the later estrangement can come from a developing problem with substance abuse or mental illness. This is particularly common with personality disorders such as borderline personality disorder or narcissistic personality disorder, both of which may first become evident in late adolescence or early adulthood.<br />
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10. <b>Parents and adult children don't always agree on the reasons for estrangement. </b>A recent study of estranged parents and adult children found that parents tended to blame the estrangement of sources outside of themselves, such as relationships of their adult children that they find objectionable. Adult children, on the other hand, tended to attribute estrangement to personal characteristics or behavior of their parents -- controlling, toxic behavior or feeling unaccepted and unsupported.<br />
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There are many variations of the heart-breaking stories of estranged parents and adult children. Understanding your own narrative -- the reasons, the solutions and what to do if nothing seems to be healing your relationship -- takes time, insight, a willingness to open your mind to another's point of view and to new possibilities in your life. Sometimes it can mean seeking professional help to sort out your feelings.<br />
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If you're curious to know more about reasons for estrangement, ways to begin to reconnect, and strategies for healing your heart -- whether or not a reconciliation ever happens --you might want to read my book <b>We Don't Talk Anymore: Healing After Parents and Their Adult Children Become Estranged. </b>It is available in bookstores nationwide and, of course, as a print book and an e-book on Amazon.com and BarnesandNoble.com. You can find direct links to these online sites by going to my website www.drkathymccoy.com and clicking on the book title.<br />
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And, remember, this book was inspired by those of you who have been reading and commenting on this blog for years!<br />
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Dr. Kathy McCoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02903015507894951725noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7754684819908801536.post-62364085717370609662019-03-04T15:16:00.000-07:002019-03-04T15:16:50.643-07:00Meditations on Mortality<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
"How are you really? You haven't had a heart attack or stroke or anything...have you?"<br />
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It was the voice of Pam Cresant, a my long-time friend from my youth at 'TEEN Magazine. We hadn't talked on the phone or in person since my move to Arizona nine years ago. However, we've stayed in touch by mail and social media.</div>
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I laughed and said that I was fine. </div>
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Pam told me that she had recently called another friend, had a delightful conversation, and then had found out shortly afterwards that her friend died suddenly, not long after their phone visit. "And I had this sudden urge to call you, to hear your voice and see if you're okay," she said. "I realized that we too often put off visits and conversations with friends who are so dear. I don't want it to be too late."</div>
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I sighed, knowing what she meant. Too many friends have passed away recently.</div>
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Mortality is on our minds as we age...past our parents' lifetimes, past the point when the fact that we are, at least chronologically, old is undeniable.</div>
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"My brother asked me the other day how long I thought I might live," my lifelong friend Pat Hill, a classmate from kindergarten through high school, emailed me the other day. "I told him I expect to live another 30 years. How about you? How long do you imagine that you'll live?"</div>
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I stopped, surprised by her question. I feel mortal -- and grateful to be alive-- every day. Everyone in the older generation of my family, on both sides, has succumbed to sudden cardiac death --some, like my parents who both died at 66, at much younger ages than I am now.</div>
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"I have hopes but not expectations," I told her. "I'd like to live in good or good enough health for some years to come. But I've made peace with the fact that I could die tomorrow."</div>
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How am I right now? I'm fine. There are some indications of age. My knees are intermittently painful, especially during cold, rainy weather. My hearing is impaired and I started wearing hearing aids some years ago. I never needed glasses until I was in my forties and now I can't do without them. But I'm strong. I can swim laps for an hour without a break. I'm intellectually engaged and writing better than ever. I exercise regularly and eat reasonably. Overall, I'm healthy, active and energetic. And filled with gratitude for my good health.</div>
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It's a time of life when health is, to a certain extent, a matter of luck. But personal responsibility seems to play a larger role as well when we're older. There isn't as much physical forgiveness for bad habits -- whether it's weight gain over a small treat or something much worse. Sometimes genes, old habits and bad luck converge to create a health crisis. There are people with strong constitutions and good genes who can thrive for years despite unhealthy lifestyles. And sometimes our own choices can determine whether we live more of our lives in good health or whether we spend years in uneasy decline.<br />
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My cousin Caron has been healthy, active and beautiful all her life. She didn't slow down after retirement, walking every day, studying Hawaiian dancing and delighting in shooting hoops with her grandsons. She has a loving marriage that is a true inspiration and has cultivated wonderful lifelong friendships. She has always cooked and eaten healthy food. Through the years, Caron only had one bad habit: smoking. She finally quit as she neared 70. But the impact of years of tobacco use led to COPD which has made life after 70 difficult for her. She is limited in what she can do, increasingly dependent on Bud, her loving husband of 60 years and is tethered to an oxygen tank 24/7. She shakes her head in frustration when she remembers all of the health-promoting behaviors she had and how her health was destroyed by her one vice. She is an avid anti-smoking activist and is forever reminding me to urge my sister, a lifelong smoker, to quit now before anything bad happens.</div>
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A neighbor I'll call Paula smoked for more than 30 years, ate red meat at most meals, drank mostly sugar-filled sodas and never exercised beyond pulling the levers at local casino slot machines. She had colon cancer and kidney failure during the last decade of her life. But, even as her health declined, she didn't step up to engage actively in fighting for her own health. When she would experience yet another health crisis, she'd storm to her doctor's office and say "I don't feel good. Fix it!" When she went on kidney dialysis and received an information sheet on foods to avoid -- with chocolate and sodas heading the list -- she continued to consume chocolate bars and colas throughout each day. "They can fix it," she'd say with a shrug. "I'll just take more binders." Even as she visibly declined, Paula refused to take steps to help herself. She died two years ago at 79 -- amazing everyone that she had lasted as long as she did. She probably had good genes: her mother lived to be 103 and her sister is thriving well into her eighties. </div>
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It's a strange time of life. It's a time when you may be fine one moment and not at all fine the next. "How was it that I was running through Dublin Airport one day and then, four days later, had a heart attack and was diagnosed with heart failure?" a dear college friend of mine asked recently. Her life has changed from one of active travel, volunteer work and expansive engagement with the community and her large extended family to a quieter lifestyle where she is cared for by a wonderfully loving spouse.<br />
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So we live with the specter not only of mortality, but also of painful, frustrating physical decline. Many of us who live in gratitude for our health work constantly to safeguard what we still have. We eat healthy meals and focus on getting to and maintaining a healthy weight. We exercise daily and work on building core strength and good balance to avoid falls. We meditate and seek balance in the daily routines of our lives. The overall goal of all these efforts is, quite often, not to pursue the illusion of living to be 120, but to live whatever years that are left to us in reasonably good health</div>
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And yet there are no guarantees.</div>
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My friend Pat just emailed me again, in response to my comment to her that I've made peace with the fact that I'm healthy now but could die tomorrow: "I've enjoyed knowing you...." she wrote.</div>
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Yes. It has been a pleasure, I replied, adding that I hope we have many more opportunities to say "goodbye" and "hello" to each other in years that may come.<br />
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These days it's important to say what we want and need to say to beloved friends and family, to greet each day with gratitude and to do all we can to enhance our own lives and the lives of loved ones, both in good health and in illness.<br />
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That said, I'm headed to the gym.</div>
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Dr. Kathy McCoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02903015507894951725noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7754684819908801536.post-83452430260601556452019-01-29T15:24:00.001-07:002019-01-29T15:28:17.543-07:00Sweet Remembrances<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
She's a friend from very different days: more than fifty years ago, Barbara and I were young actresses at a talent program at Desilu Studios. We studied with the same coach, worked together on some shows, shared audition triumphs and disappointments and also came from troubled families. Barbara had left her family home in Oklahoma as soon as she graduated from high school. I was back in my home town after graduating from Northwestern, living near my family and their continuing crises while fashioning an independent life of my own.<br />
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At some point. our paths diverged. I quit acting and concentrated on writing and, later, added another career in psychotherapy. Barbara stayed in acting longer, but supplemented her earnings with a series of day jobs that began to play a larger role in her life as time went by. She never married.<br />
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We stayed in touch, but the last time I saw her was at my wedding in 1977. She moved to Northern California. And many years later, my husband Bob and I moved to Arizona. We kept in touch with cards, emails and an occasional phone call.<br />
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Then her computer died and Barbara, beset with chronic illness, sank into further isolation.<br />
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I thought of her not long ago because she was born on the same day as my brother and both turned seventy recently. I sent her a birthday card and a note. And she called me, delighted. It was the only birthday card she had received. And our phone conversation was the first one she had had in many months. She told me that her sister had died in the past year and that now she had no family left at all. She lives in a mobile home in a small town in Northern California. Her health is fragile, but she does all she can to work with what she has, getting exercise gardening in her small backyard, enjoying her two cats, eating healthy food instead of taking pills.<br />
<br />
As we talked, I remembered why I had always enjoyed Barbara and her determination to live life to the fullest even under less than ideal circumstances. And it made me glad that we had reached out to each other with my card and her phone call.<br />
<br />
Our reconnection also reminded me what a difference a simple act of kindness can make to another.<br />
<br />
Is there someone -- an old friend, a co-worker from years ago, a friend of your parents you remember from your youth who has outlived most of his or her close friends, a neighbor who has been isolated by growing disabilities -- you might reach out to with affection and remembrance?<br />
<br />
There are so many ways you can make a difference -- even to someone who isn't tuned in, plugged in and active online.<br />
<br />
A longtime friend I'll call Ann -- we went to school together from kindergarten through high school -- has been elusive in recent decades. She has struggled with emotional problems rooted in a difficult childhood and adulthood and, when I went back to school to become a psychotherapist, she began to view me with suspicion, fearful of being analyzed and evaluated, not realizing that is something I do with clients, not with friends or family. It has been years since we've seen each other and she has been reluctant to talk on the phone. However, when I was going through a box of treasures from college, I came across a packet of letters she sent me during that time. I packaged them and sent them to her. She replied with a loving note, thanking me for giving her back a piece of her past. "That meant so much to me!" she wrote.<br />
<br />
Ann may never be comfortable seeing me -- and that is made more difficult now anyway since we live in different states -- but there is a bond of sweet remembrance of a shared time when so much seemed possible, with so many adventures ahead.<br />
<br />
I've found myself warmed by thoughtful notes recently as I've worked on my difficult memoir, a complicated mix of humor and horror sweetened, at one point, with some stories of young adult romance.<br />
<br />
There were three pre-marital lovers in my life and, with all three, there was a strong element of friendship, allowing these to become lifelong relationships even after the romance faded. Mike was my first, a lovely man with a sparkling smile and endless patience. Maurice, an actor and composer who is fifteen years my senior and wonderful in all ways, was my second. My third, Chuck, was a doctor (just recently retired) and my co-author for "The Teenage Body Book" and several other books through our years of close friendship that have extended into the present.<br />
<br />
Chuck and Mike were born on the same day, though not the same year. I was getting ready to buy birthday cards for them both when I found out that Mike had died. I felt terribly sad. It was a difficult sadness to share. Mike and I broke up well over forty years ago and I hadn't seen him since. But we kept in touch with warm, newsy letters on our birthdays and at Christmas and phone calls to each other at pivotal times -- my parents' deaths, his mother's death, his marriage, my thoracic surgery in 2003 when he called me at work to ask why I needed to have that and if there was anything he could do to help. His silence at Christmas this year was unsettling. I realized how eagerly I always had awaited his letters. So, feeling uneasy, I did some checking and discovered that Mike had died in November.<br />
<br />
I told my husband Bob and a few friends. They all said they were sorry to hear that. There didn't seem to be much more to say. It was Chuck, however, who realized the extent of the loss. "Mike was such an important person in your life," he wrote. "He was your first. I know how your ongoing friendship meant so much and how much you'll miss him. You had a shared experience that only the two of you knew and treasured through the years. Just as we do. So I understand -- and I'm so sorry."<br />
<br />
And not long after, I received a note from Maurice's niece Rachel, who is only a year younger than I am and who is keeping an eye on him as he gets into advanced, though still vibrant, old age. "When Uncle Maurice was visiting me recently, he could only say the sweetest things about you," she wrote. "It's wonderful after all these years to feel the kindness you have shared with each other. Sending you love..."<br />
<br />
Both of these messages touched my heart at a time when I needed understanding and sweet remembrances.<br />
<br />
Life can get busy. We have all the best intentions to write or call or otherwise keep in touch. But opportunities to be kind, to be present for another, to fill someone's darkness with light can take so little time and mean so very much.<br />
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Think about reaching out to someone today, this minute.<br />
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Dr. Kathy McCoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02903015507894951725noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7754684819908801536.post-40873512206244016832018-10-08T08:30:00.002-07:002018-10-09T13:04:24.236-07:00Celebrity Encounters: Life Lessons We Can Learn<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Sifting through old photos as I work on my long-postponed memoir, I recently came across a pair of vintage pictures that evoked some special memories.<br />
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In their youth, my parents both had well-publicized encounters with celebrities of the day. My father, a test pilot, appeared in a news photo shaking hands with Howard Hughes. My mother, a pioneer flight attendant for American Airlines, was pictured in newspapers nationwide giving First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt a tour of the airline's new Los Angeles facilities.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3d79czSCTIgojUTJPGrEfGCez8W5vldCeBOUolgEMO1Uyu48gX_Pl3QUsfx_DJLmqoVk-pYMy8qhZcskXFx_THcmg6fqF2qhzrtrK1e77HqVZIEGrCxMNSWI_w1EEzgnUU2wMrXc-6Q/s1600/Celebrity+-+Father+and+Howard+Hughes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="538" data-original-width="640" height="269" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3d79czSCTIgojUTJPGrEfGCez8W5vldCeBOUolgEMO1Uyu48gX_Pl3QUsfx_DJLmqoVk-pYMy8qhZcskXFx_THcmg6fqF2qhzrtrK1e77HqVZIEGrCxMNSWI_w1EEzgnUU2wMrXc-6Q/s320/Celebrity+-+Father+and+Howard+Hughes.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My father, Jim McCoy, and Howard Hughes<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpslSfkbzT_p7ZrUXgcTTI9vYyF4WCc__c-nJjo66nyinZsjRPyS5JvVWHsj1_LsHSSasFLby4wNFhVJIs6hVHbtNwjLu6HcY8TRfuKhdBF0bKpAtUZ1ImIcPXzbkHzZQZMfZryyOtww/s1600/Celebrity+-+Mother+and+Eleanor+Roosevelt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="604" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpslSfkbzT_p7ZrUXgcTTI9vYyF4WCc__c-nJjo66nyinZsjRPyS5JvVWHsj1_LsHSSasFLby4wNFhVJIs6hVHbtNwjLu6HcY8TRfuKhdBF0bKpAtUZ1ImIcPXzbkHzZQZMfZryyOtww/s320/Celebrity+-+Mother+and+Eleanor+Roosevelt.jpg" width="302" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My mother, Ethel (later Caron) Curtis and Eleanor Roosevelt</td></tr>
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My father, who had been a child actor in silent films, was nonchalant about his latest brush with fame.<br />
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"No big deal," he said. "Who cares? He may be famous, but he's just another person."<br />
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My mother was more inspired by her encounter with Eleanor Roosevelt. "She was just wonderful," she remembered with a smile. "She was so kind, so gracious. She made everyone else around her seem like a celebrity. She made me feel so valued, so much more clever and interesting than I probably ever really was!"<br />
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Both of them had an instructive perspective. My father was right: celebrities are just people. And my mother was right, too: some celebrities can inspire and delight us.<br />
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Celebrities have held a prominent place in our imaginations, particularly in the past century of advances in film, television and publishing. Although not all of us are prone to fandom, an encounter with a famous or semi-famous person can be memorable -- and instructive. Celebrity itself has been an evolving concept in recent years as so many build their brands, their You Tube Channels and flocks of followers on social media. And some -- like the Kardashians -- are famous simply for being famous.<br />
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In recent years, celebrity mania has seemed pandemic -- as supermarket tabloids obsess about the baby bumps, the contentious divorces and the scandalous secrets of the rich and famous, as a reality t.v. star inhabits the White House and books of advice on life and living, allegedly penned by celebrities barely old enough to vote appear on best seller lists.<br />
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Even those of us who don't tend toward fandom may have our occasional fantasies. What must it be like to have widespread acclaim and abundant resources? What must it be like to do work one loves?<br />
What must it be like to work with and socialize with people who are household names? What must it be like to be known and admired by so many?<br />
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Living most of my life in Los Angeles, and having encountered quite a few well-known people in my career as a magazine journalist and in my adventures on the television talk show circuit, I've met a number of celebrities -- and learned some lasting lessons from these encounters.<br />
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<b>1. Never make assumptions about another's life. </b> This was one of my earliest lessons, learned as a child. I never missed an episode of "The Mickey Mouse Club" and adored the Mouseketeers. I thought they must have wonderful lives and I yearned to be one of them. My best friend Mary and I both had a crush on Mouseketeer Lonnie Burr and, having read that he lived in nearby Glendale, Mary looked through the local phone book and actually found a listing for him! She called, planning to just hear his voice and hang up. But when his mother called him to the phone and he said "Hello" she was mesmerized. Without thinking, she invited him to a party-- an event that didn't exist until that very moment -- the next week at her house and he agreed to come.<br />
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When Lonnie and his mother arrived for the hastily-arranged party, I quickly realized that his life was not perfect after all. Like any 13-year-old, he was a little self-conscious, worried about acne (thus declining a piece of chocolate cake) and pretended not to hear his mother's narrative as he played party games with neighborhood kids. His mother, a children's talent agent, regaled my mother with the truth about his professional life: he was under great pressure to generate fan mail in order to stay on the show and so she hoped that all of us at the party would send him fan letters. She went on about his career accomplishments well before his current gig and her plans for him in the years to come. Overhearing her, I understood at once that his life was different from mine, but certainly no happier.<br />
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While he was unfailingly gracious at the party, I knew somehow -- deep down -- that his fame was no protection against loneliness or depression.<br />
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Lonnie confirmed this in a series of emails in the wake of my 2011 blog post about the party (<a href="https://drkathleenmccoy.blogspot.com/2011/08/mouseketeers-as-metaphor.html" target="_blank">Mouseketeer Party</a>) and in a more recent exchange when I told him that I would be writing about the party again in my memoir in progress. He replied, mentioning his own memoir <i>The Accidental Mouseketeer: Before and After the Mickey Mouse Club</i>, published a few years ago. I read his book when it first came out and found it both fascinating and chilling. Now a Broadway veteran, a college teacher and a writer, Lonnie remembers his years as a child star with horror. "It's a horrible thing to do to a child, no matter how altruistic the parent(s) may be" he wrote. "No child should be a professional until after the age of 18 or after finishing high school. Let them enjoy artistic pursuits for fun, as an amateur, until then. I began therapy at 20 after a suicide attempt, much of which, but not all, had to do with my childhood experiences of being in the 'biz.'"<br />
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So, thanks to Lonnie, I learned early on that fame is no guarantee of happiness or fulfilling relationships or even a positive self-image. In fact, the demands of a life in the spotlight, especially at a tender age, might make all of this more elusive.<br />
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<b>2. Fame doesn't confer wisdom or altruism or make a celebrity trustworthy. </b> We're conditioned, seeing famous people doing commercials, product endorsements and political statements, to regard celebrities as experts with a certain amount of instant credibility. That trust is, too often, misplaced. It's true that some celebrities are wise and insightful. They probably always were. And some are ignorant and uninformed. And still others are just plain nuts. So overall, they're pretty much like all the rest of us.<br />
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Some. however, do put the platform of their celebrity to good use for charitable and or otherwise worthy causes. And there are others who will say anything, endorse anything or anybody, just to keep their name in the news.<br />
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I learned this during one of my first celebrity encounters as a young journalist assigned to interview Arthur Godfrey, a mainstay of early television and the spokesperson for an environmental group, about his concerns for the environment. During our interview over lunch at Hollywood's Brown Derby restaurant, I quickly discovered that he had no interest whatsoever in the environment.<br />
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"Who cares about that?" he said dismissively, wheezing as he slid over to my side of the banquette. He nuzzled my ear and whispered "I've had a vasectomy."<br />
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I stared down at my Cobb salad, aghast. Unbelieving.<br />
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"What???"<br />
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He leaned heavily against me. "I've had a vasectomy, so I'm safe."<br />
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It couldn't be. It was so....off topic. So bizarre. And he was so....old. I decided to play clueless and pretend this wasn't happening.<br />
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I smiled and said "That's interesting. Was it your concern about overpopulation affecting the environment that led to your decision to get a vasectomy?"<br />
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He stared at me for a moment, then sighed and moved back to his side of the banquette. And we both left the interview disappointed.<br />
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<b>3. Celebrities are -- beneath the glitter -- just people and many revel in their ordinariness. </b>I learned this from my father and also from numerous encounters with celebrities through the years. Some are very good people. Some not so good. Some, caught in a frustrated or angry moment, may be forever misunderstood. And some revel in moments of ordinariness.<br />
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I remember encounters with three very different older women in green rooms over the years.<br />
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In the first, I walked into a nearly deserted green room, lined with tables and vending machines, backstage at the Los Angeles Music Center, arriving early for a stint as a super in a performance of the Metropolitan Opera Company, on an assignment for Opera Magazine. There was a non-descript older woman, dressed casually, sitting at one of the tables. She had a bunch of postcards in front of her. She looked up with a smile.<br />
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"I'm trying to pick just the right postcard to send to my daughter," she said, motioning for me to sit down beside her. "Which one would you say is most typical of Los Angeles? I want her to have a real feel for this place." As we looked over the postcards, an older man walked through the room.<br />
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"Hi, Bubbles..." he said as he passed. And I realized with a start that the postcard lady was Beverly Sills, the acclaimed opera star. She didn't blink. "So," she said, as before. "Which one do you think would be best?"<br />
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And I realized that this ordinary moment was a luxury for her.<br />
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The same was true of another older woman sitting in the green room of the Sally Jessy Raphael Show some years later. She was eating a salad out of a plastic container and looked up as I came in. I was fighting my stage fright, as usual, with false bravado: "HI! I'm Kathy McCoy and YOU are...???" She gave me a funny look. There was a pause. And then she said "I'm Bella Abzug..." I was crestfallen not to have recognized her and made a lame joke. "Didn't recognize you without one of your hats..." I mumbled. She shrugged. "It's okay," she said. "Nice to be invisible sometimes." And she went back to her salad.<br />
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The third older woman was less sanguine. In fact she was pissed off big time. I saw her the minute I walked into the green room at The Today Show which was just winding down its live broadcast. The Falklands War had broken out that morning and several of the guests -- including me and this pissed off lady -- were told that, due to expanded war coverage, our segments would be filmed for future broadcast after the live show ended. I sat down and looked at her. Her face was familiar. She was wearing a dark print dress, her legs apart , the tops of her knee length stockings showing. She glared at me and then looked past me as Gene Shalit entered the room. "It's not bad enough that I'm being pre-empted by some silly war?" she asked. "But I have to wait for HER...?" She gestured dismissively toward me. "SHE'S going to film her segment first?"<br />
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Gene Shalit slid by me with an apologetic look. "She's filming first because Bryant Gumbel has a plane to catch," he explained. "I'm truly sorry, Miss Merman."<br />
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I looked up. Ethel Merman? Yes, of course it was. Bryant Gumbel walked into the room and, sensing the tension, quietly asked an assistant to make a later plane reservation for him. Then he smiled at Ethel Merman. "You can go first," he said. "Kathy and I will wait. I'm black. I'm used to waiting." She didn't catch the irony, just nodded and said "Fine."<br />
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Remembering less tempestuous ordinary moments with well known people, I think of a celebrity junket one evening in the early Seventies from L.A. to San Diego and back. I had been invited to tag along on this adventure by a friend who, as a television series star, had been tapped for this decidedly non-glamorous event. It was like a fever dream with an odd assortment of celebrities who would be making an appearance to add glitz to a charity fundraiser with the cream of San Diego society. They were to mingle with attendees during the pre-dinner festivities, then disappear, whisked off in an old school bus back to the airport and the return flight to L.A.. Dinner wasn't on the celeb agenda. It wasn't even an option. Despite their hunger and weariness, not one of the celebrities acted like a diva or went into an entitled snit. On the bus to the San Diego airport, the people sitting closest to me -- Rudy Vallee, Margaret O'Brien, Loretta Swit and a young adult Jay North -- were joking about this being the Starving Celebrity junket. "Right now, I'd give my fortune for a hot dog," Rudy Vallee said and everyone laughed. Loretta Swit, sitting beside me, picked up the narrative: "Yes, this is all really happening. The glamour! The excitement! The hunger....!" We laughed again. It was after midnight when yet another bus dropped us at the dark, deserted parking garage in the Century City area of Los Angeles where this fever dream had begun hours earlier. Jay North, who had morphed over the years from Dennis the Menace to a very gracious young man, walked Loretta and me to our cars. We were still smiling.<br />
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Perhaps my fondest ordinary celebrity moment was during a interview with James Herriott, the humble British vet who wrote a series of best selling books including "All Creatures Great and Small", spawning a popular television series based on his life. He was delightful. We were sitting in a booth at the Polo Lounge of the Beverly Hills Hotel and he was greatly enjoying a glass of fresh squeezed orange juice, a rarity where he lived. Then he spotted someone sitting in the next booth and his eyes widened. "It's Neil Armstrong!" he whispered. "Oh, my! I admire him so much. Now there's someone who has really achieved something! How incredible to see him!" He thought of going over to say "Hello" and maybe ask for an autograph. But he decided against it. "He's eating breakfast," he said. "I don't want to be a bother. It's a thrill enough just to see him."<br />
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<b>4. Like the rest of us, celebrities are more complex than their public images.</b><br />
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Because they are, at once, so familiar to us and yet total strangers, it's easy to label, categorize, idealize or demonize a celebrity -- and be wrong each time. Some celebrities share much of themselves with the public while others give only a glimpse of the real and complex individuals they happen to be. Even more than we tend to see each other in black and white, hero or villain terms, we tend to label our celebrities as saints or sinners, good guys or total jerks. But, of course, it's rarely that simple. Meeting someone famous gives you only a tiny glimpse into the complex people they are -- and sometimes what you see is a surprise.<br />
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You might see goodness in a celebrity with a less than stellar public persona or a hint of steeliness and toughness or brusqueness in someone you had always imagined perpetually sweet and friendly. And you learn, if you look closely with an open mind, that celebrities, like the rest of us, are a combination of many different traits.<br />
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I've found this to be true over and over again in encounters with celebrities during my appearances on television talk shows:<br />
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<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li>Despite his sometimes controversial television reputation, Geraldo Rivera is very thoughtful and kind off-camera to his talk show guests. Unlike some hosts who don't bother to meet with non-celebrity guests prior to the show, he sat with me when I was in make-up, talking about the show and the topics he hoped we would cover. Noticing that I was having problems with my throat in the wake of a bad cold, he offered me a cup of hot tea and honey. And, during breaks in the taping, he would ask me how I was feeling and offer encouragement as well as more tea and honey.</li>
</ul>
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li>Richard Simmons is just as sweet and kind off camera as he is on. He gave me warm hugs and re-did my eye makeup -- beautifully -- when I arrived to appear on his show. But he can also be a tough-minded boss with clear-cut rules. His daily show, back in the 1980's, had three segments: the interview, a cooking interlude and then exercise. The host, the guest and the studio audience always wound up the show all exercising together. Rule #1 was that no one was allowed to stand around and watch the exercise. You either joined in or left the studio. The day I appeared, there was a group of teenage girls in the audience who had come to the show with their somewhat thuggish boyfriends. The boyfriends scoffed at the notion of doing the exercises. With a few stern words, delivered with an air of quiet, no-nonsense steeliness, Richard banished them from the soundstage.</li>
</ul>
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li>Katie Couric can ask tough questions on camera, but off duty, she tears up at unguarded moments. Once, in the makeup room at The Today Show, she was getting a touch up while I was getting made up. On the television monitor, tuned in to Today's live broadcast, was a previously filmed interview she had done with Barbra Streisand. Talking about her difficult relationship with her mother, Streisand suddenly fought tears as she said "My mother never told me that she loved me." Watching this, both Katie Couric and I teared up in tandem as both make-up artists cried "No! No!" and delicately dabbed our eyes with tissues to keep our eye makeup from streaking. She reached out her hand to me. "Oh, you're a crier, too!" she said. "I love it! So nice to meet you. I wish I were doing your interview today. Well, maybe next time..." and she squeezed my hand.</li>
</ul>
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li>Oprah has a well-earned reputation as someone who has made a major difference for so many. She has been generous in her celebrity and championed causes that might otherwise have gone unnoticed. But her on-camera caring, while genuine, doesn't necessarily translate into off-camera congeniality, especially toward non-celebrity guests. She rarely meets with such guests before or after the show, though we did commiserate briefly about our shared weight fluctuations during a break in filming during my second appearance on her show and, afterwards, she did send an aide after me with an autographed picture as I was leaving the building. But mostly, she was all business, keeping tight control of every aspect of the show. She was extremely tough and didn't suffer fools -- major assets, to be sure, in building a stellar career in a highly competitive field but a bit of a shock to the uninitiated. Both her caring and her brusqueness are all part of the inimitable Oprah.</li>
</ul>
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<b>5. When the power of celebrity is paired with kindness and empathy, some celebrity encounters can, indeed, be life-changing.</b><br />
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Most celebrity encounters are fleetingly memorable, but largely uneventful. Meeting a famous person makes an interesting story but doesn't usually change your life in any measurable or meaningful way.<br />
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Except sometimes. Sometimes you meet a celebrity who reaches out to you in a way that makes a major difference in your life.</div>
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The combination of kindness and the power of fame can be transformative to those who come in contact with someone so gifted.<br />
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In my youth, I was fortunate to have two life-changing encounters.</div>
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I'll never forget the kindness of Davy Jones during my interview with him (as a class project) when we were both 19 years old. I was a shy, scared sophomore journalism major at Northwestern and he a Tony-nominated Broadway star, not yet a Monkee. His patience and sweetness as I let nerves get the better of me, breaking into tears during our interview, helped turn our encounter into a delightful learning experience. Passing me tissues and holding my hand, he suggested that I put down my list of pre-prepared questions and we could just talk. So we talked and my fear began to fall away. This interview, rescued by his kindness, led to an article that not only got me an "A" in class, but also became my first published piece in a national magazine. This experience was critical to helping me overcome my fear of interviewing -- an essential step for a would-be journalist! (I wrote a blog post about this right after his 2012 death: <a href="https://drkathleenmccoy.blogspot.com/2012/03/remembering-davy-jones.html" target="_blank">Remembering Davy Jones</a>)</div>
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And I'll always remember Cyril Ritchard, the Australian Tony award winning Broadway actor and television star who entranced a generation of kids with his Captain Hook in Mary Martin's "Peter Pan." I first saw the show on television when I was nine years old and fell in love with him immediately. He played the bad guy, but I knew he was kidding. I had a fantasy that someday he would meet my beloved Aunt Molly, fall hopelessly in love with and marry her and adopt me and my siblings, whisking us off to the safety and security we had needed forever. </div>
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While this pivotal meeting of the hearts and thus my adoption never happened, he did soothe my soul nonetheless. We had a regular correspondence. Three years later, when he came to Los Angeles with the show "Visit to a Small Planet", he invited my brother, my friend Mary and me to visit in his dressing room after a matinee. (See my blog post about him and our encounter:<a href="https://drkathleenmccoy.blogspot.com/2011/07/remembering-cyril-ritchard.html" target="_blank"> Remembering Cyril Ritchard</a>)<br />
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During our visit, he showed such interest in who we were and what we thought. I felt so safe and happy in his presence. Finally, I told him quietly, how frightened I was of my father. My eyes filled with tears as I looked up at him. He took my hand, an all-encompassing love and empathy in his eyes. Then he embraced me warmly, saying a quiet prayer asking God to be with me, to protect me, to keep me safe. He suggested that we could be united always in prayer, every day, and that his thoughts would always be with me. That was enough. I envisioned his prayers keeping me safe and that sustained me through many a dark night of my childhood and beyond. It was a brief, yet immensely reassuring connection that warmed me for a lifetime. </div>
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Celebrity encounters can teach or reinforce some powerful lessons: about the importance of not making assumptions about others; about understanding that ordinary people, as well as celebrities, aren't always who they seem, but are complex, fascinating and unique; about the importance of critical thinking and making up one's own mind about an issue instead of simply taking someone's word for it -- whether this person is a celebrity or not. Most important is the lesson that kindness, whenever it happens, can be transformative to someone who so needs a listening ear, an open heart and a moment of caring and empathy. Such moments can, indeed, change a life -- whether or not fame is ever part of the equation.</div>
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Dr. Kathy McCoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02903015507894951725noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7754684819908801536.post-36518008844747864802018-09-28T10:32:00.000-07:002018-10-03T13:37:58.875-07:00Embracing Failure<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The news was not a day brightener: the publisher of my book <b>Purr Therapy</b> is terminating our contract, taking the book out of print and destroying any leftover copies. The reason, four years after publication, is quite simple: relentlessly poor sales, despite some excellent reviews. As of September 30, <b>Purr Therapy</b> will be no more.<br />
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This development wasn't a total surprise. Sales for the book have been dismal from the beginning. The numbers have been so devastating, in fact, that my literary agent wished that we could deny the existence of <b>Purr Therapy</b> altogether three years ago, when we were putting together the proposal for my most recent and considerably more successful book <b>We Don't Talk Anymore</b>. We agreed we wouldn't mention <b>Purr Therapy</b> specifically in the proposal. But we were still aware of the fact that prospective publishers, checking the Neilson sales numbers of my previous books, would certainly stumble on the embarrassing evidence.<br />
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<b>Purr Therapy</b>, in short, has been one of my biggest publishing failures.<br />
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It started with love -- for the two cats, Timmy and Marina, memorialized in its pages. And there was so much hope. Cat books are supposed to sell well. One with two touching and compelling cat stories should be irresistible to a vast audience of cat lovers. Except it wasn't. Despite my efforts at promotion, it didn't sell. Despite signings sponsored by the vet to whom the book was dedicated and the Barnes and Noble bookstore in Valencia, CA. it stayed stubbornly in the sales figures netherworld. It never earned back its tiny advance. It was certainly not a financial bonanza for me.<br />
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I've joked for some time that my most substantial benefit from<b> Purr Therapy</b> was my three-legged black cat Ollie, whom I adopted as a kitten from Catoberfest 2014, an annual event in Santa Clarita, CA, where I did book sales and signings for<b> Purr Therapy</b> shortly after its publication.<br />
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During a lull in the signings, I spotted him in a cage nearby: a tiny sad-eyed, crippled black kitten. He was the poster cat for the unadoptable and for animal rescue and sanctuary donations. He was missing most of his right hind leg and had a huge hernia. He had been rescued from a trash can where he had been discarded soon after birth. He would need future surgeries and lots of tender loving care.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdJsGp7_O_A7w-VAUhPgnqH3JNA2X1-Gaf58ZKN2lVgPKHovQrMV1KcEU4Q-LBqaNNhyQKm7Mdjvwvc_ztbupYcBbxKDP7rOhFEAbXDRORrSZsCjj-rRUtfsk2svFQLYUB1Gm0INDlnQ/s1600/Catoberfest+-+Herbie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1066" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdJsGp7_O_A7w-VAUhPgnqH3JNA2X1-Gaf58ZKN2lVgPKHovQrMV1KcEU4Q-LBqaNNhyQKm7Mdjvwvc_ztbupYcBbxKDP7rOhFEAbXDRORrSZsCjj-rRUtfsk2svFQLYUB1Gm0INDlnQ/s320/Catoberfest+-+Herbie.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ollie at Catoberfest 2014</td></tr>
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He was irresistible. I ended taking him back home with me to Arizona. Ollie did turn out to be the most expensive free cat ever-- needing three emergency surgeries within his first two months in residence with us. But how can one put a price on love?<br />
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When I heard the news this week about about the demise of <b>Purr Therapy</b>, I felt sad but it didn't wreck my day. Instead, I thought about it as a disappointment certainly, but also an opportunity to learn and to grow.<br />
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Failure can teach us a great deal. Our failures can keep us humble and open to new ways of thinking and doing. Our failures present an opportunity to admit and accept what isn't perfect in our lives.<br />
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And I value that perspective. Like many people, I tend to learn more from failure than from success.<br />
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When things are going well, it's too easy to get a bit smug and self-satisfied with success. With a failure comes self-examination. You ask yourself what went wrong, what you might have done better and how you might like to take a different path in the future.<br />
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Perhaps most important is this lesson: when you embrace a failure, you learn that you can fail and life goes on. The sun is still shining. There will be other opportunities and new adventures.<br />
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Embracing a failure can teach us not to fear less than perfect outcomes.<br />
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So many of us have been raised to be phobic about failure -- and that can hold us back. Fear of failure can keep us from trying as hard as we might to achieve a goal or dream. It can keep us from trying at all. It can also prevent our recognizing small steps that may fall short of a treasured goal, but represent progress along the way. When we fear failure, we not only avoid risks but also fail to give ourselves credit for incremental progress.<br />
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In many ways this is learned behavior, honed by parents who expected perfection and nothing less. I'll never forget my father thundering "An A-minus is NOT an A! You failed! You failed to be the best!" when I proudly brought home a report card with an "A-minus" in an advanced high school math class. Math had been my weakest subject my whole school career. Taking the risk of tackling four years of high school math -- with a small group of math-savvy classmates -- had been a huge challenge and an exercise in humility. No, I would never be the best student in that class. But that "A-minus" was hard won and I was thrilled -- until my father told me that it was not enough. That only perfection would do.<br />
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Many of us get such messages from parents or teachers or bosses or society in general. Women get messages about needing to look perfect, to be at a certain weight, in order to be worthwhile people.<br />
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But embracing perceived failures or one's own imperfections doesn't mean giving up. This<i> isn't</i> a matter of saying "Well, that's just the way I am. Take it or leave it!" or "That's the way I was raised!" or "I'll never be any good, so why try?" It means recognizing the value of taking risks and of celebrating steps along the way to a long term goal. It also means embracing the fact that you are valuable and lovable whether you achieve a goal or expectation or not, whatever your weight or physical imperfections, whatever your strengths and weaknesses or widely varying competencies happen to be.<br />
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As time goes on, I'm learning, more and more, to embrace my failures and imperfections. I'm learning to accept the parts of me that I'd rather not acknowledge as part of my whole. While my bright, most visible side is loving with an open heart and open mind, funny, pleasant and compassionate, my darker side can be depressive and self-centered, judgmental and stubborn. I'm learning to embrace all of what lurks within. Accepting my imperfections doesn't mean that I don't want to be better. I do strive daily to be more loving and less self-involved, more accepting and less inclined to judge others. Sometimes the diverse parts of myself struggle mightily. But accepting my dark side, embracing the fool within, takes away the covert power of the darkness. It makes me more comfortable with the imperfect person I am and more at peace with all of life's vicissitudes.<br />
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Accepting one's own strengths and weaknesses, learning from failures instead of considering these evidence of one's own hopelessness and/or victimhood or of the world's cruelty and unfairness, makes one more likely to enjoy life along the way -- whatever the outcome of one's efforts, goals and dreams.<br />
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I wish that<b> Purr Therapy</b> had been a huge success. I did the best I could at the time. And writing that book was a pleasure. What more could I really ask? There are a myriad of reasons why it failed -- some failures by others involved, some failures that were all my own. I have come to accept and own all of these. I'm learning and growing and writing better now. And I think I'm wiser today than I was four or five years ago.<br />
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Besides, <b>Purr Therapy</b> wasn't a total bust. It brought a little crippled black kitten named Ollie into my life. And he has turned out to be amazingly healthy and able -- running like the wind, jumping with strength and expertise. His missing leg doesn't hold him back. He is fully engaged with life, the crowd favorite among his three fellow cats in residence. Ollie is one of the most affectionate, wonderful cats ever, spending hours purring, cuddled on my shoulder or curled in my lap. And I never lose sight of the fact that we would never have found each other -- but for <b>Purr Therapy.</b><br />
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It's true that<b> Purr Therapy</b> didn't live up to my initial hopes and dreams. But it did bring so many positives to my life. There was the thrill of writing about animals so close to my heart, the extraordinary Timmy and Marina whom I loved so much and lost too soon; the pleasure of reconnecting with the wonderful Dr. Tracy McFarland in Santa Clarita, CA, the best vet ever, and then the unexpected, incredible joy of Ollie.<br />
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So I am blessed. And life goes on...with the sun shining brightly and each day a new adventure.<br />
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<i>P.S. Just got the news that Dr. Tracy McFarland, The Cat Doctor of Santa Clarita, CA, has passed away this week from an aggressive cancer. She was, indeed, the best vet ever and a wonderful person I'll never forget. She gave me Timmy and Gus, the best cat duo ever, back in 1998 and her last gift to me was my precious Ollie, after we signed copies of <b>Purr Therapy</b> together at Catoberfest in California in 2014. Every time I hug Ollie, I'll think of Dr. Tracy with love!</i><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dr. Tracy McFarland and me at Catoberfest 2014</td></tr>
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Dr. Kathy McCoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02903015507894951725noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7754684819908801536.post-87962048404597496562018-09-01T19:02:00.000-07:002018-10-13T18:21:50.968-07:00The Challenge and Joy of Seeing Each Other Every, Every Minute<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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There is a poignant, memorable moment in Thorton Wilder's "Our Town", when the recently deceased Emily is given a chance to relive her 12th birthday and travels back in spirit, unseen and unheard by her family. Instead of joy, there is anguish as she watches family members treating each other so casually, not really looking at each other, unaware of the toll that time would take.<br />
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Through tears, she pleads "Let's look at each other...It goes so fast. We don't have time to look at each other...all that was going on in life and we never noticed. Do human beings ever realize life while they live it -- every, every minute?"<br />
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This lesson resonated for me in a new way last week when I flew to Chicago to attend and participate in the Celebration of Life for my friend and former Northwestern classmate Maria Kulczycky.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Maria Kulczycky - 1945-2018</td></tr>
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When we were young, I saw Maria every school day for our five years as undergraduate, then graduate, magazine majors at Northwestern's Medill School of Journalism. I saw her as an awesome mix of intelligence, fierce ambition, amazing strength, assertiveness and confidence combined with intriguing earthiness and European elegance. I admired her, resented her and envied her as we competed relentlessly with each other on a daily basis -- in the classroom and in our shared affection for a certain male classmate Tim Schellhardt. Tim was blissfully unaware of the silent psychodrama swirling around him. He simply considered the two of us good friends and eventually resolved our situation by falling in love with and marrying someone else entirely while maintaining lifelong friendships with both Maria and me.<br />
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There were times in our years as classmates when I caught a glimpse of Maria's capacity to care, even if it meant doing or saying something hard -- like the time, sitting across a lunch table from me during our graduate year, she forced me to face the truth about something I hadn't wanted to imagine. In my feigned nonchalance, followed by tears, I was blinded by anger and embarrassment to the genuine caring in her eyes, though in memory, I see that flicker...<br />
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While Maria and I did not keep in touch for many years after graduation, our mutual friend Tim kept us posted on each other. I found myself rejoicing, in time, over Maria's success as a financial journalist, over the happiness she found in her marriage to Lamar Brantley, over her love for his three children by his previous marriage and over her joy when they were blessed with their daughter Nina, who grew up to be accomplished, adventurous and lovely, very much in the spirit of her mother. And so many times over the years, I wished we had been friends. We should have been friends. I had always felt a strong bond with her, given our shared ambitions and interests. But I never reached out to her until the year before our 50th college reunion.<br />
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Two things happened to make me reach out: the alumni office at Northwestern sent me a list of classmates to contact for the reunion and I was thrilled to see Maria's name and email address on that list. And looking through my small box of college mementos, I found a photograph that took me back years. It was a picture I had taken on assignment for my photography class, one I had churlishly discarded into my outtake file, somehow the only photo file that survived through the years. I had been taking a picture of Tim walking on campus when, suddenly, out of nowhere, Maria ran up and linked her arm in his just as the shutter clicked. But now, more than 50 years later, I took a picture of the picture and sent the digital copy, along with an email, to Maria.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tim and Maria, November 1966</td></tr>
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She responded immediately and warmly and it was the beginning of our year long heartfelt correspondence leading up to the reunion. And in this year of building a friendship -- one that should have happened half a century before -- I began to see Maria in a new way: I saw her tenderness, her kindness, her emotional generosity. And I came to treasure her as a new old friend.<br />
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She changed travel plans in order to attend the reunion, where we fell into each other's arms in front of our smiling, if somewhat surprised, friend Tim. The three of us spent a glorious day together -- talking, laughing, delighting in each other's stories, lingering over a three hour lunch. It was then that I heard the details of Maria's back story. She had been born in the Ukraine in the waning days of World War II and her family then fled to a refugee camp in postwar Germany where they spent the next seven years, where her sister Daria was born and where the family's lifelong friendships with other refugees were formed before they all started their new lives in Chicago's Ukrainian community. Hearing about her early life, I understood, with new clarity, why she was so strong, so assertive, so fiercely ambitious at such a young age. She had to be.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiigDIkch1BUbUz9q5BtfeNcY6mBMrRexjUVJmhEQ5GjSIlC9uAbVBhUVZ9jMCBt8LPjQLvpt2VwdD3zBYtmBjN30i-9TjdX1bDJhBUa3hx0ULMsJv3xnh65K3LFkeRFveqppQui1fYQQ/s1600/50th+Reunion+-+Tim+and+Maria+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiigDIkch1BUbUz9q5BtfeNcY6mBMrRexjUVJmhEQ5GjSIlC9uAbVBhUVZ9jMCBt8LPjQLvpt2VwdD3zBYtmBjN30i-9TjdX1bDJhBUa3hx0ULMsJv3xnh65K3LFkeRFveqppQui1fYQQ/s320/50th+Reunion+-+Tim+and+Maria+1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tim and Maria, October 2017<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Maria and me, October 2017</td></tr>
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When Maria was leaving the reunion at the end of the day, she kissed both Tim and me and hugged us tightly for a long time. I marveled at her warmth and her joy in sharing the day with us. Turning to Tim after she left, I said with wonder -- as if this were something quite new -- "Maria's such a wonderful person." <br />
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Tim look surprised for a moment, then smiled. "She always was," he said quietly.<br />
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We had no way of knowing that we had just said "Goodbye" to Maria in person for the last time, though many months of delighted emails would follow as she rejoiced in our good news and shared her own -- a wonderful trip with her husband to Patagonia and, a month later, her "best birthday ever!" and finally, an eagerly anticipated trip to Phoenix in May to see Lamar's youngest grandchild graduate from high school that would also bring a chance for us to get together again. They canceled the trip at the last minute because Maria was experiencing bouts of vertigo. She told me that it was probably nothing and that we would have our visit -- perhaps when Arizona cooled down a bit in the fall.<br />
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But that was not to be. Three weeks after our last email exchange, only eight months after our joyous 50th reunion, cancer claimed Maria's life. She had battled it, off and on, for some years -- something she had never told us because she didn't want to be defined by her disease or to be seen as an invalid when she was so very much alive, right up to the end.<br />
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And she came gloriously alive for us once more at her Celebration of Life on August 26 in Chicago. Tim and I attended and, at Lamar's request, we both spoke of our college experiences with Maria.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFspkbQkxeiugsEGHy-Pq7-vS7MKwviS8z94yc6gewSsmdWHYbPrvzCgb1_SJE43rBj5Zqn_WdvI5vrHiF2F1Q9caoBpiokYEGvwiuiOOBii81gTG_d9n-oqzWUwuTrtb6QMWvxfFHag/s1600/Chicago+-+Kathy+Speaking+at+Memorial.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1136" data-original-width="852" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFspkbQkxeiugsEGHy-Pq7-vS7MKwviS8z94yc6gewSsmdWHYbPrvzCgb1_SJE43rBj5Zqn_WdvI5vrHiF2F1Q9caoBpiokYEGvwiuiOOBii81gTG_d9n-oqzWUwuTrtb6QMWvxfFHag/s320/Chicago+-+Kathy+Speaking+at+Memorial.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Speaking at Maria's Memorial, August 2018</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8nucvlWzWW2lBTZsbgA4AcPzfZHsiuK0uqPqBn8wkB2rvtscrhgyfKh98oCPp8s80qN8SXQnOFZ0ajDDVkVLUSRbcL0kHxUQYaWkNHriDY0BYmcv5NdrcXR-MrAzlbnljKzJ0uWFrQg/s1600/Chicago+-+Tim+Speaking+at+Memorial.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="476" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8nucvlWzWW2lBTZsbgA4AcPzfZHsiuK0uqPqBn8wkB2rvtscrhgyfKh98oCPp8s80qN8SXQnOFZ0ajDDVkVLUSRbcL0kHxUQYaWkNHriDY0BYmcv5NdrcXR-MrAzlbnljKzJ0uWFrQg/s320/Chicago+-+Tim+Speaking+at+Memorial.jpg" width="238" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tim speaking at Maria's memorial, August 2018<br />
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But we both quickly understood that our perspective was limited and that this celebration was a wonderful chance to see and know Maria with new clarity...<br />
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...Through the eyes of her beloved husband Lamar, who started his tribute with "Maria wasn't everyone's cup of tea..." but made it clear that she was the love of his life.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgScZNjuH-_MHyYE7gJEzJFUk8unTuqhLH-7gv4iO0jDTeD7leuQc7ceZDYsIoSHNpl2-ZqcxrNWkwvrsTtetPc7ePdBtrFg8ONHPeR8vghyphenhyphenU4xri5PMeWY02vD4M29b7cseIwPXwomBQ/s1600/Chicago+-+Lamar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="906" data-original-width="827" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgScZNjuH-_MHyYE7gJEzJFUk8unTuqhLH-7gv4iO0jDTeD7leuQc7ceZDYsIoSHNpl2-ZqcxrNWkwvrsTtetPc7ePdBtrFg8ONHPeR8vghyphenhyphenU4xri5PMeWY02vD4M29b7cseIwPXwomBQ/s320/Chicago+-+Lamar.jpg" width="292" /></a></div>
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....Through the eyes of her daughter Nina who remembered her love, her sense of adventure and her quiet courage and who is living these splendid qualities of her mother's in her own amazing life.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjBn-3BW4_CGTdF_d8mXjODCDmJT-00eX_GWKSRVfAMzkn7VocqCxB7xtqqA1XqW_tiQE2cwcFvMODXwhbtYMKZiegQ_osuOle4bpnk0OACyYj_Kzf7Dgb1CTeIdvV12FcXfTOOnCQYw/s1600/Chicago+-+Nina.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1005" data-original-width="1072" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjBn-3BW4_CGTdF_d8mXjODCDmJT-00eX_GWKSRVfAMzkn7VocqCxB7xtqqA1XqW_tiQE2cwcFvMODXwhbtYMKZiegQ_osuOle4bpnk0OACyYj_Kzf7Dgb1CTeIdvV12FcXfTOOnCQYw/s320/Chicago+-+Nina.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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....Through the eyes of her sister Daria who asked us to imagine what it must have been like to be the younger sister of this true force of nature, but who sadly noted in ending that she had missed having Maria there to tell her exactly what to wear for this occasion.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgszs0eEgbDVIwnrsdQTYHrEsa6GcJAoBGcjAj9RajDo3pjKrCz0buz5YbJerN5Z9piIprQioSQZIe5f2Yfr9cgrcpo9ok2Ybn6ldyQHHp5v80ec11v18RkQc4-FRAYuqp43-YtuKE7Yg/s1600/Chicago+-+Daria.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="861" data-original-width="1130" height="243" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgszs0eEgbDVIwnrsdQTYHrEsa6GcJAoBGcjAj9RajDo3pjKrCz0buz5YbJerN5Z9piIprQioSQZIe5f2Yfr9cgrcpo9ok2Ybn6ldyQHHp5v80ec11v18RkQc4-FRAYuqp43-YtuKE7Yg/s320/Chicago+-+Daria.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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...Through the eyes of Nicholas, the grandson from Arizona, who expressed his love and gratitude for Maria, remembering how she always accepted and embraced him and took him to his first Gay Pride parade shortly after he came out to the family.<br />
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....Through the eyes of friends who had known her forever, since their days in the refugee camp in Germany and through decades of multigenerational friendships since, as their families became each other's extended families and who could look back in time to see her in her Chicago childhood as a Ukrainian Scout, then as a scout leader and a mentor to other young women growing up in Chicago's Ukrainian community. She never forgot where she came from and gave back, in so many ways, to those who came after her, time and time again.<br />
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We tend to see others through the prism of our own experiences with them. What a revelation and a blessing it is to get a chance to see someone we loved and thought we knew well through other, more knowing eyes. It was a special privilege to see Maria through the memories of those she loved most -- and to realize, with wonder, how much more there was to know and admire and love.<br />
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My brother Michael, who lives in Bangkok, Thailand, wrote a warm email in response to my glowing account of Maria's Celebration of Life: "I'm so glad that you were finally able to really <i>see</i> Maria after all these years before it was too late....in the way that Emily in 'Our Town' wished her family could stop and see each with time going by so fast."<br />
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Yes. It was a joy to see past those early rivalries to glimpse the inimitable Maria and to know her even better as I listened to the stories of those who knew and loved her best.<br />
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And what a life lesson, Tim and I agreed, as we stepped out into the steaminess of an August day in Chicago. It was a lesson in looking at and truly seeing a family member or treasured friend -- the pain and courage and strength of another, the concern, the care, the love in the eyes of another. It was a lesson in savoring each moment of life with those we love and of looking beyond the surface to the truth of another. It was a lesson in saying what is true and necessary and urgent before time moves on,<br />
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I looked at Tim and saw, at once, the lovable young classmate and the loving grandfather, and, consistent through the decades, his brilliance and talent, his warmth, his unique sense of humor, his goodness, his kindness, his generosity of spirit. I smiled as I saw him in all his familiarity and complexity and his innate talent for being, at once, dignified and wonderfully funny.<br />
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"I love you, dearest friend, unconditionally and forever."<br />
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And we embraced, united in our celebration of Maria, and of the time, the years, we've been blessed to share as very special friends -- suddenly cherishing every, every minute.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8nwN2r4jfIHiq0ORHbF5eV13mjAB9S7iX_NH753_5ln5Zyxrtc0EdoN_-n4DCnkQoZOI0lFVrzT4AHsJB6KWwBPGfDzZgO1b_FQUStwvXKQJ_eSSFy2IuI6I4V-8EFI4B-OGG7W72Rw/s1600/50th+Reunion+-+Tim+and+Me.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8nwN2r4jfIHiq0ORHbF5eV13mjAB9S7iX_NH753_5ln5Zyxrtc0EdoN_-n4DCnkQoZOI0lFVrzT4AHsJB6KWwBPGfDzZgO1b_FQUStwvXKQJ_eSSFy2IuI6I4V-8EFI4B-OGG7W72Rw/s320/50th+Reunion+-+Tim+and+Me.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tim and me in a photo taken by Maria, October 2017</td></tr>
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Dr. Kathy McCoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02903015507894951725noreply@blogger.com7