A New Moon

The magic bullet! I’d prayed for it, long ago, back when I was a chubby girl. Why did I have to endure the slow metabolism gifted to me? Life was painful. I was bullied everywhere I went excepting church and Girl Scouts. I would wish and wish for the overactive thyroid the underfed bullies seemed to have. Fifty some years later, I got my wish.

There are times I feel as if a lamprey clings to my throat, sucking and sucking the last breath and word out of me. It is difficult to speak, swallow, think.

The warm spring season is to me oppressively hot. Everyone it seems to exult in the fair temperatures. I want to bite their heads off, this is Death Valley to me. Sensitivity to temperature is an understatement.

I have lost weight without trying. Muscle mass is being replaced with empty skin. Strands of hair clog the drain, hairbrush, carpet my bathroom floor. Brittle ends fly in the air with the Zodiac dust. One pass of a pocket comb my hair hangs lifeless as a straw broom.

I sleep in the afternoon, a fitfull thing. Perhaps I rest to get a break from the headache I’ve had for a month, maybe longer. The left eye has the sensation of a baseball bat pushing it from behind, sort of like an ice cream headache without the actual treat.

A walk uphill and my heart is pounding. It takes about four steps up to kick into overdrive, a very long time to slow down. My stomach joins in, a hammering duet of bodily discomfort. Sometimes I feel faint. The world swirls around. I grab anything tied down: the counter, staircase railing, a tree, brick wall, anything. This is not the life I expected of my body. I thought thin would be easy. Not a joyride at the carnival at all.

Look up symptoms of hypothyroidism. I have experienced all except a goiter. Two weeks from now I will have a nuclear test to get a good look see of the beast in my throat. Yippee. I wonder if I will glow in the dark. Shut off all the lights: on night of the new moon you may see me.

Rusty sled

We had a red saucer

Rusty, beat up hitting trees

Thrown around

Tossed about

The random slide down

Man-made hill

Who knew where what how

the trip would end.


Boredom ruled the life I lived.

Day in day out no fun

No friends.


They took me sledding a Sunday night

End the week start the next

A pinch of joy,

Laugh, smile!

Dad in the saucer

holding on tight

Mom pushes him gently

Down  he goes, a tiny spin

A little circle

They do this for me.


My turn, frozen unable to play

Weeping, tears slalom down my chubby face

They ask questions, I don’t know why.

Rusty thrown in the trunk another dent

We go home silent.


They are gone these

Many snowfalls

Each one I see them,

Agile willing parents waiting, patient.

The answer arrives sixty some later

I cried for them, their offering, Love.

Back to the hilltop

rooted in place

a small tree growing in place,

Never leaving the spot,

I wish to run

Throw my arms around them,

Thank them for their love.






I was living in the Florida Keys the first time radon entered my vocabulary. A wildly improbable concept, radioactivity seeping up through the earth invading living spaces in that area of the world. Thanking my lucky stars for where I resided,  I went about my life ignoring the need for a radon test in my home.

I have been living in Colorado for 20 years. I’m rethinking the need to test for radon. Having fled the gray gloomy skies of the Great Lakes I have managed to keep Seasonal Affective Disorder at bay by living in beautiful sunny places. Sure, I have incurred little specks of benign skin cancer. My Gynecologist informed me sunblocks have been shown to increase the incidence of pelvic fractures. Gonna need a big hat, like that of Large Helmet in SPACEBALLS. My sunglasses haven’t stopped sunny skies growing cataracts (my last eye exam showed 13 growing in one eye). Cataracts were probably going to happen regardless.f soils, geology, structures. His work took him spelunking crawl spaces  holes in the earth. An otherwise healthy looking fellow who hardly looked the part of someone who would later be a victim of the Big C. He fought for his life; chemo, stem cell, radiation therapies, etc and zoomed through a bucket list to dream of. A pretty penny spent in the battle, he left behind 6 kids, a large number of friends and relatives who thought the world of him. He is missed, his widow misses him most.

I decided to get a Radon test kit and it is collecting from my basement as I write. We have lived in this house for 10 years. In that time three of our cats have become very ill before I had to make that heart-wrenching decision to let them head for the Rainbow Bridge.  When I get there to collect my kitties there is going to be a heck of a catfight over me. Woohoo!

I’ve had this weird ache on my ribs, feels like a bruise. Oh well, this too shall pass, I thought and maybe it will. However, the area has expanded from one to several on my right side. Should I roll onto my right during sleep, I am going to wake up.  Last week I was fatigued, often nauseated.  I felt short of breath and really funky on a Sunday Drive to Cripple Creek, something I usually don’t even blink at. Probably altitude sickness.   So what’s up with the hypochondriac party?  Why the Radon concern?

Silver Sneakers sends me newsletters via email.    I read one recently that noted the symptoms of lung cancer.  Pain in the ribs was one of them. Fatigue, nausea, yup.  Those too.  How do non-smokers manage to contract lung cancer?  Exposure to asbestos, second-hand smoke, living or working around areas of extreme pollution or carcinogens, exposure to radon.  Some of my neighbors have radon disseminators installed for their home.  The house directly across the street has one.  I can just about hear the Geiger counter ticking away, crackling like the snap crackle pop of a breakfast cereal.

I have made the decision not to put myself through the rigors of Chemo, the depletion of funds for other therapies and copays.  There isn’t money for retirement the way the tv commercials depict people my age.  I won’t be out daysailing, kayaking the days away in the Polynesian Islands, basking on the beaches of the Carribean.  I will work until I am no longer alive or able to work.  It just is a tough reality.  Money has never come very easily to me.

My bucket list was completed long ago.  I’ve lived on a sailboat, had my dream job, married my best friend, took my dream vacation, own my dream car.  The last time I spoke to my father I told him I loved him.  I apologize as quickly as I realize the need to do so.  I’ve learned to smile and smile most of the time.  I do not carry guilt around.  I still practice random acts of kindness.  I wish I had time to pick up all the litter I see trashing up our beautiful earth.  Please and thank you flow out of me when appropriate.  I rarely worry. I like the warm fuzzy feeling of being at home on Sunday nights. I learned to meditate.  I can say no to doughnuts.

The bucket is shallow: install a radon disseminator if need be and get some life insurance.  Make sure all my ducks quack in synchrony.  Get a chest x-ray.  In that order.  Maybe I just need to work out more often, pick up some weights.  Go dancing again.  I hesitate to say out loud that I think I may have cancer. I don’t want to worry anyone, burden them with concern.   The logical part reminds me of the advice my Grandpa would offer in the face of worries, “Don’t put the cart before the horse”.

I sure do hope I just need to go dancing.


Seasons Greetings and a rant

Janet on Santa's lap

I was a happy toddler.  Many a time my mom would recollect with melancholy how as a baby I would laugh endlessly and oh, what happened to me?  She’d scolded me to stop laughing somewhere around the age of 9.  Her anger was so deep and everpresent I did stop laughing.  There was not a deep enough breathe I could hold to float above her unhappiness and stay out of the danger of being punished for exhibiting joy.

You may think what follows to be unkind of me.  It’s been 27 years since she asked why did I stop the laughter.  Poor mom.  She’d suffered from Parkinson’s disease had become bedridden.  I sat at her bedside and fessed up she’d told me to stop.  She was mortified.

I believe that until that moment she had forgotten the miserable battle ax she was at one time.  Obese, her unhappiness selfishly furnished the little bungalow our poverty-stricken life afforded us.   I was an obese child from the age of 6.  Bullied everywhere I went, school, outdoors, the neighborhood and yes, even at home, she was just as much a tormentor to me as anyone else.  One day she found her way, discovered Weight Watchers and drove across Detroit to the other side of the tracks to lose weight and not be hungry.  It worked, way back in the old days as we at WW like to recall, when we made our own ketchup, substituted canned bean sprouts for pasta, ate liver once a week,  fish five, added no fats, sugars, starches, sweets, and ate specific foods in specific amounts.  She weighed everything on a tiny little scale she even took with her to restaurants.  Seventy-two pounds dropped off of her and she suddenly became a happy person.  I was suddenly seen as the grudge-a-mudgeon she and the rest of life had trained me to be.  Good lord.

She tricked me into joining Weight Watchers.  For a while, I succeeded.  Then I got distracted, I missed eating like a normal person, the skinny kids around me had sandwiches made with two slices of bread.  My sandwiches were made with one slice of toast that was then sliced or shall we say cloned in two pieces from top to bottom so that the bread appeared to be two separate slices.  I took enough hounding at school about my cracker sandwiches I would eat my lunch in the toilet stall so no one would see me struggle with the 4 ounces of tuna fish mixed with dried onion flakes and French’s mustard.  I often recall this regimen when taking a pee.

I did start to “cheat”, taking a taste of this, a dab of that, a bite of a candy, cookie, cake, ice cream, etc.  letting the little food scale go over slightly, or using heaping tablespoons instead of a level measurement.  But I was hungry, I just didn’t really understand what I was hungry for.   Sometimes, if the item fell out of my hand, I would remind myself God was watching, and watching out for me.  I spit out a lot of this and that tidbits.  Call me a spiritual anorexic who was not thin.  Just fucking hungry.

Because I’d been cheating, my weight stopped its decline and I held steady at a weight I wasn’t taunted for yet not trim enough to get a boyfriend.  Mom, who had been recruited by Weight Watchers to open and lead groups on our side of the tracks, decided to put me on the adult program with a LOT LESS food to eat.  That didn’t help.  It did save me from having to chew.  Growing even hungrier, I cheated more.  When I earned a driver’s license she would allow me to take myself to the Weight Watchers meetings for teens and children.  She would check to see I’d checked in and with a heavy sigh not understand why I wasn’t losing weight.   In hindsight, I see I was an unhappy child who was hungry for love, approval, and the opportunity to make some of my own choices.  I also needed a good laugh.

During true adulthood, I finally gave up being stubborn and joined Weight Watchers, determined to lose the weight.  I did. Not easily I made it to goal weight and earned Lifetime Member status thirty-seven years ago.  I struggle to keep it off, and that struggle is my own doing when I submit to drinking wine as if it counts pointwise like water, eat ice cream as if there is no caloric value to it, and frost my toast with enough Smart Balance it just isn’t smart anymore.

A niece of mine died suddenly on a Friday the thirteen this year.  I proceeded to drown my sorrows and grief in an ocean of wine and ice cream.  A late friend of mine who had been a recovered alcoholic for a number of years before he too passed, put his finger on it for me when I explained to him my unmistakable hangover as a result of having to send my cat of 16 years to wait for me at the Rainbow Bridge.  “You just don’t want to feel the pain, do you?” he observed.  I will always be grateful to him for that wisdom.

I knuckled down to WW (as Weight Watchers is now known)  when my jeans were fitting too snug and too short.  I didn’t want to feel the pain, but I was feeling the pain of not being comfortable in my clothing, or in my skin.  September 30th I went back to the meeting place to show up more than occasionally and get back the feeling of confidence I have as no longer the fat kid in the house, on the block, in the class, in the troop, in the hood, in the pool, on the earth.  I made my goal weight yesterday and damn, it sure feels good.

So here I am, and you are probably wondering about why Santa and I are featured on the page.  It is that most wonderful time of the year and I can feel that same smile I had on my face when the photo was taken.  I could use a good laugh but I will settle for being content.

Oh, and by the way, Mom apologized.




Rendered wordless

While I hammered out the previous post HOLDING THE END IN MY HANDS someone dear to me lay dying.

I have barely been able to hold a pen in my hands. Those times when I reflect on writing my final wishes that evening, I feel selfish.  Yet there wasn’t a thing I could have done to change the outcome.   On that I am certain.

I’d tried to reach them, tried to teach them, sharing my hard-earned wisdom of history, genetics, and unfortunate choices.  Never could I share an “I told you so,” my head full of old wounds offered to protect them.  They already knew.  They hurt enough and their wounds, like a protector, I wished would quickly heal.  I preferred to dish out “Atta girl, Follow your heart and happiness will follow, Do what you love and love will come to you, Lead with your gut but don’t forget your head, Life is short, and a complimentary You rock!”.

It’s over now. I will not dwell on the proximity I never had. I’m grateful for the times I had her ear, most grateful to have learned she had listened.  Selectively.  I’m grateful for the times we had together throughout our lives.  I’ve grateful she was brought into this world, so sad to say she is gone.

Thus I see how short life is and I say it often, I’m saying it to you:  Life is short.  Live every moment as if it is your last.  Forgive and forget.  Rock on.  Follow your heart and happiness will follow.

And for her:




My heart beats bleeding

What do I say as my heart beats bleeding,

As the same blood flows from kin

The waterfall of pain ripped open by sleeping?

How many roses do I buy to get in the door,

Extend  arms out not simply to comfort

Show I care, show I am there?

How many times do I knock on the door

Pleading to come in

Feeling only silence?  Avoiding the din?

My heart beats bleeding

My desire  to teach

How I crawled on this journey

The dust the dirt

abrasions on my tummy

I might have saved you,

Would rescue you still.

Could only it matter

My attempt to reach?

You leave us shattered

The moment is here

No reasons for speech.



Holding the end in my hands

A postcard arrived in the mail from The Neptune Society recently.  My first thought,  “Burial at sea, hmmm.  I’ve always liked water.”  Second thought, “With my luck I’ll end up on top of Osama bin Laden.”

The Neptune Society is a company which allows an individual to preplan their cremation.  I have known for a  very long time cremation is what I wish for my remains, at least after any usable organs have been removed, harvested, whatever.  Just do not lock me in a casket, encase me in concrete, bury me beneath the surface of the earth.  I used to have bad dreams as a child I’d accidentally be buried alive and wake up after the dirt had been piled atop, everyone had left the after party and all the cake was gone.  Cake never really figured into any of this until just now.

I sent in their reply postcard requesting information from Neptune.  Figuring it would take a while I was very surprised to learn less than a week later, my husband and I had gotten a call from one of their agents to set up an appointment with us at our house.  He and I figured we would look at their plan and get some other quotes on final bonfires. In other words, we could kick that tire around until it went flat and forgotten.  We procrastinate way too much.

We signed on the bottom line.  Its all taken care of except monthly payments.  Unless I completely disappear, I will someday be blowin’ in the wind. I promise I won’t fart.

Detached is a good word for how I have approached my last wishes.  I am not one for wanting to go to my own funeral, and I really do not want one. I have had the pleasure of attending them throughout my life, exposed for the first time at the age of six when my Mom’s brother died. The experience wasn’t too terribly bad as I had my cousins to gang around the funeral parlor with, a ton of people attended, and I experienced Catholicism at its ritual finest.      Not long after, a Protestant Grandmother passed away. It was so sad. I remember cold, bleak darkness.   No hoopla for my favorite Granma. What a let-down.  Every other funeral has followed suit with hers.   Looking at a stiff, remark on how nice they look (For crying out loud, they are dead.  When does dead look nice?) sit on folding chairs and listen for pins to drop is not my idea of a send-off.   Aside from being a tremendous expense taking up valuable space in the earth strikes me as wasteful.  Someday earth’s inhabitants may need the area to plant or build upon.  I have been a long-term advocate to Prevent Poltergeist!

My husband and I received, in separate boxes, our ‘preneed’ kit.  We each got a beautiful box. They are shiny, smooth, and the top of the box is rounded. The interior is soft and plush.  Included are a candle and holder, a slab of acrylic with “Forever Loved” beautifully engraved upon it, and a tiny little plastic bag and plug for a tad of my cremains for someone to hold onto until thrown out or donated to Goodwill.  There is a circle carved out of the slab. I initially pictured a photo of my favorite dead cat in it until my hubby pointed out it is a place for the candle holder.  The plug goes on the bottom of the slab.

I’m not going in there. All of the above sits above a hidden interior compartment (not really hidden, there are obvious pull tabs. I was enjoying the haunted feel).  A Guide to Goodbye lays on top of a biodegradable box my actual cremains are to be placed into after I am cooked and crushed.

I want to fly like an eagle, roll down a river, ride the air and float the ocean to disappear into nothingness.  I do hope I don’t hang out in the box very long. I’m claustrophobic.

My husband heard me open up the cardboard shipping box, remove the packing, and asked, “Did our caskets arrive?”.   That sucked all the air out. I was getting an early look at my own funeral.  I could customize it.  Put in the names of everyone important, everyone who would find it important to come pay some last respects to me.  I find that regretfully humorous as no one comes to see me while I’m living and breathing and able to serve up some awesome cookies.   A very lonely thought, indeed.  I put everything away.  I hope the next time its opened will be when the time comes for me to be swept up off the conveyor belt and poured into the biodegradable box, temporarily.  Really temporarily or I will come back and haunt whomever.  No cookies for them.