Today I am 60 years old...

I was 23 years old when my mother was 60. I think my grandmother, Minnie Mama, was always 60, as I remember her as forever being an old woman…and maybe I loved her more because she was the oldest person I knew.

Minnie Mama around 63 years old

So, what does being 60 years old today mean to me? Am I now very wise? Am I suddenly decrepitated and infirmed? Am I the new 4o? Am I better than ever? Am I reaching the last decades of my life, or do I have still have a few more ahead of me?

I’m not sure what it means to be 60 years old. Is being 60 any different than being 59? Probably not. What I do know is I am very content with being 60. I don’t wish I were 40 again, nor do I want to be 50, and I definitely am done with my 20’s and 30’s.

So here I am. Now what do I make of this milestone? 

My life hasn’t been a perfect storybook life. I can’t imagine the “Once upon a time there was a beautiful, talented, smart little girl who lived a privileged life...” story describing my life. Nor can I imagine the “Once upon a time there was a poor, pitiful little girl, born of lowly means” describing my childhood. 

In reality, I grew up in a lovely home with a mother, father, and two older sisters. We had our fair share of family struggles, and I hope I learned to thrive and endure because of the difficulties I experienced growing up in a family that was far from perfect. There were times my childhood was tough, but, don’t we all live through times that enable us to become more sensitive, more vulnerable, more compassionate because we have endured?

I was fortunate that my parents were able to pay for me to attend college. Those years were broadening, fun and they enriched my life. I am thankful for such an incredible college experience and will always cherish the friends and relationships I made during those years.

I married very young, at 20 years old. My children were born by the time I was  25 years old. Life in Midland, Texas was easy, fun and full of rich experiences and I developed lifelong friendships that I still enjoy. Brent and Brooke were the biggest and best part of my marriage of 18 years. When my marriage ended I was 38 years old, I thought life was over. I thought I would never experience anything more devastating than the agony of divorce.

It amazes me to think back on myself at 38 and imagine I was so sage, such an expert in life’s experiences. Oh, I was so young, my own children today are close to the age I was when I thought life was over. Little did I know, a new and wonderful life was just around the corner.

Steve asked me to marry him on my 40th birthday, the best birthday ever! Suddenly, it was as if I were starting life anew. While, not perfect, it was close to perfect and I found I had new things to learn, not only about life, but also about myself.

My Best Birthday Gift!

A 40th Birthday Roast

Steve and I went through some interesting years raising two active, well liked and very normal, exasperating teen-age children. Steve proved to be the perfect balance for each of us. He was fair, even tempered and loved us with all his heart. Life was good and I could breath and enjoy all that it had to offer.

My fifties arrived. Our children were now all adults. They began to marry and have children of their own. Steve had retired early and we traveled frequently, adventure awaited us. Life was full and promising, we were on a roll and enjoying all that it had to offer.

I celebrated my 54th birthday at a dinner party given by good friends. I will never forget driving to that birthday celebration with a pit in my stomach. Steve, was not himself. There was something terribly wrong and I can remember thinking, “I’m not ready to face whatever it is that lies before us.”

Steve and I had returned from a wonderful trip to Austria and Croatia mid October and I knew we were in trouble. Steve’s first symptoms of a brain tumor were his inability to read. For the first time, he had difficulty navigating through Europe. He was suddenly unable to stay interested in books, finding them difficult to hold his attention.  Arriving home, word finding became increasingly more difficult and my fears grew like dark clouds in a brewing storm. I remember sitting at my 54th birthday party, surrounded by our dearest friends and trying so hard to cover for the blips and misspoken words in Steve’s conversation. I hoped none of our good friends would notice that our storm was about to turn into a hurricane of gigantic proportions.

You all know the rest of the story.  A love story that will forever be the greatest. I was so incredibly wrong when I thought at 38 that I had experienced the worst life could hand me by living through a divorce. Divorce, is terrible, but the death of someone you love with all your heart and soul...there is no comparison.

I feel I have ripened through all of my life’s experiences. Richard Rohr writes that "Ripening, at its best, is a slow, patient learning, and sometimes even a happy letting-go—a seeming emptying out to create readiness for a new kind of fullness—which we are never totally sure about."  I hope I have learned to let go of what needs to be put aside, and make room for a new kind of fullness to come.

If asked today how I would describe my 60 years of life? I would say I have had a wonderful life. I am blessed daily by my family, who will always be the most integral part of my life. I am so fortunate to still have incredible friends from each decade of my life. These lifelong friends and I continue to share our journeys together. These friendships bring depth and meaning to my life and keep me grounded when I feel disconnected. My life would not be full, rich and incredible without these relationships that I so cherish. I will take the sadness my life has encountered, and, when balanced with with the excellence life has given me, my scale weighs heavy on the side of good.

I hope I have learned through my difficulties. I pray I have been able to pay it forward and help others who have lived, or are living through similar circumstances that I have endured. I desire to be a kinder, wiser, more patient person.

At 60, I know that I have much more to learn, I have much more ripening to do, much more life to experience and I welcome the challenges ahead of me. I like where I am in my life. If God wills, I think I am ready to face whatever the next decades have to bring me. 

I may not like my neck, I may not be thrilled that my body does not run as smoothly as it once did, I may find myself in a wave of pitifulness from time to time, but that's all part of ripening, right? 

Today, I am thankful and blessed that again, I will be celebrating another birthday in the company of wonderful friends. You see, there is always good in life!

For what it’s worth,

Janet

Ecclesiastes 7:14  “When life is good, enjoy it. But when life is hard, remember: God gives good times and hard times, and no one knows what tomorrow will bring.”

“Hallow-eeen, the witch is riding high…

Have you see-een her shadow in the sky? 
So beware, don't you dare scare a ghost, BOO!”

I’m not sure how old I was when I first learned this song. I’m not even sure if I learned it at River Oaks Baptist School or Briargrove Elementary School, or by a neighborhood friend.  What I do know is I have been singing it ever since I first learned the lyrics.

Brooke and Brent sang it with me every Halloween until Brooke learned a different variation from Stephanie Howard. I think she trusted Stephanie’s choice of words more than mine. Now Harper and Harris are the third generation to sing the Halloween Song.

This song may be the only thing that has remained unchanged in celebrating Halloween since I was a child.

If you were a child in the late 50’s and early 60’s, some of my memories might also ring true for you.  Sixty years ago, the common Halloween costumes were accessorized with those Lone Ranger style mask that covered your eyes and the top of your nose. They came in a variety of colors, sparkly for girls, mainly black for boys. Inevitably, the thin elastic string you placed over your head to hold the Domino Mask in place would break halfway through the night, resulting in the most exotic part of your costume resting in the bottom of your trick-or-treat bag. 

A second variation of the face mask and very popular in my day were the plastic face masks.  They incorporated any number of notable characters; Casper the Ghost, Bozo the clown, witches, Mickey Mouse or Goofy, to mention just a few. There was really no such thing as the horrifying masks of today, unless you count a green Frankenstein or blood-free Count Dracula.

The main problem with these masks were the eye holes usually hit around mid-cheek, so the wearer pretty much stumbled around in the dark, clinging to a non-vision impaired friend.  They would usually trip over some sidewalk, blood would surface and their trick-or-treating would end for the night…a tragic event to happen to anyone. An even worse problem with the plastic face molds was that trick-or-treating in Houston, Texas on October 31st was always hot, humid, sticky and miserable. You might as well have smothered yourself by pulling your mother's Playtex girdle over your head and cut out holes for your eyes, nose and mouth. Most kids who chose this costume ended up wearing their mask more like a hat rather than a face cover, not very effective when taking on a new persona.

I have looked through all my childhood photos and have concluded that I never had one single picture taken of me on Halloween as a child. I know, whaaa. Now I will never fully be able to embrace my childhood Halloween memories.

Most of the kids living on Valley Forge Drive chose to dress up as gypsies, kitty cats, witches, football players, cowboys, skeletons, or more commonly, ghosts and hobos.

These latter two costume choices seem very un-pc in today’s world. Think of the implications of a child dressed in a hooded white sheet with only the whites of their eyes showing. Dressing up like a homeless person today might not be considered as effective as the popular hobo outfit of the 60’s. 

Hobo wear consisted of your dad’s old dress shirt and tie, baggy rolled up jeans with patches sewn all over them, a charcoal blackened face, an old rolled up brown paper bag hanging from your mouth, which was supposed to look like a cigar, and a knapsack on a stick thrown across a shoulder. I think I was a hobo for at least five years, but who would know, as no one ever took a single solitary picture of me on Halloween. Whaaa.

Speaking of brown paper bags, who says we didn’t recycle in the 60’s?  I mean, there was the hobo cigar, there was the decorated brown paper grocery bag that was carried to shove as much candy in as possible (until you graduated to the pillowcase, which was the best candy toter ever thought of). Even when it wasn’t Halloween we recycled those grocery bags, who didn’t cover their school text books with those bags? Whose mom didn’t use those grocery sacks to absorb the grease from their homemade fried chicken, or the morning’s bacon drippings, or all the other deep fried “healthy” food that went into our bodies? I’m off topic, I know.

As we grew, so did our neighborhood Halloween boundaries. The younger years were spent with parents walking down the sidewalks while we ran from door-to-door. Boring. Finally, the day came, I might have been all of 8 years old, when I was allowed to run the streets with  friends. Our boundaries and curfews slowly expanded with each year, and by the time we were all too old to trick-or-treat our territory was broad and our pillowcases overflowing. Halloween was so cool!

Quality of candy was essential and time wasted going to a house with crummy candy was maddening. My mother was a very frugal person. That being said, our house was one of the few houses that was shunned for bad candy. I was embarrassed every year. My Mother would pass out lollipops with the soft squishy u-shaped handle, the hard sticks were much preferred, but, much more pricey. She would also buy Necco wafers. These were the cheaper version of Sweet Tarts, only they forgot to add the sweet and the tart. Eating Necco wafers was consistent with sucking on tiny pieces of colored chalk. 

Cindy Knocke, a dear friend of mine, told me that, being the good Catholic girl that she was,  she would pretend the Necco's were communion wafers, and would administer them to her friends with great reverence. Boy they were a nasty candy, but my mother continued to hand them out, and disappointment followed any trick-or-treater that left my house. I was mortified.

Consistently, there was at least one very cool Halloween house within several blocks of mine. This house was constantly at the top of our go-to list. I was always so remorseful that it would never have entered my family’s mind to have our home be the desired hot spot of the neighborhood. 

These exotic families (the families never seemed to go to this effort more than once in a lifetime) would turn their garage into the creepiest spook house ever. Oh, they were the best! The mom was always dressed as a wicked witch, slowly stirring up a  large black, steamy caldron of dry ice (so exceptionally eccentric), evilly ladling out cold apple juice, so impressive, so Halloween. Entering the pitch black garage, we were told to feel the peeled grapes in ice water…plucked eyeballs! Cooked noodles sitting in strawberry jam…brains! Oh, the wonder of it all was overwhelming. The candy you left with was always the very best…M & M’s, Super Bubble, Tootsie Roll Pops (on a hard stick). Leaving, the best spook house ever, the metal trash cans sitting just outside the garage would start clanging and out would jump an older sibling dressed in a white sheet eerily yelling “Booooo!” We would run, shrieking down the driveway, dissolve in laughter, roll around the front lawn until we realized we were wasting valuable time and off we would go to stuff our pillowcases to capacity.

Grown-ups never dreamed of dressing up. There were no Halloween parties, no school carnivals. I never remember carving a pumpkin until I had children of my own. The only Halloween decorations we had, we made in school. Kleenex ghost that hung by their necks on string, black and orange construction paper link chains and jack-o’-lanterns cut from the same orange and black construction paper.

I look at Halloween today and it is amazing how it has evolved. Store decorations start popping up in late August. Homes with lawns covered in blow-up witches, ghosts, pumpkins.  Adults and children alike begin planning their costumes the day after Halloween in order to be prepared for the upcoming year. Parties and school carnivals gear up with bells and whistles in to order sidestep the danger of trick-or-treating. Everyone dresses up in their costume no less than 3-4 times a season.  One must do this in order to cover all the festivities that this holiday brings.

While I long for those innocent days of running wildly through the streets collecting candy with my friends, they somehow seem to pale with the excitement and hype of Halloween today.

I guess you love most what you experienced as a child. Those were moments memories were made of and can never be duplicated.  I know I would love nothing more than just one more time, to see my mother standing in the doorway of our Valley Forge home, holding a big bowl of Necco candy wafers. I know I would run up to her and, as taught I would only take a single roll of that horrid candy wafer. I would say thank you, as taught,  and skip off to the Sander’s house, then the Hick’s, then the Patterson’s…but not before I turned around and hugged my sweet mother with all my might, I would thank her for being my mommy and for loving me with all her heart.

For what it’s worth,
Janet

Ecclesiastes 3:1 “To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven.”

Disclaimer:  These photos were images taken from Google, as I have no Halloween pictures from my childhood.  I know, whaaa.

The Best of Halloween today…meet Princess Auora & Prince Phillip

In the news...

Brittany Maynard’s recent news stories have made me physically ache.  I ache for the pain and anguish she is going through.  I have compassion for the fear she is facing. I am so sad that she feels the need to end her own life, but I also strongly feel that to understand her fear and her wishes is to validate her dignity and her life. Unless one has walked in her footsteps, how can we pass judgment on her decisions?

When Steve was first diagnosed with Stage 4 Gliobastoma Multiform he was given approximately 9-18 months to live.  We lived those 9-18 months waiting for the proverbial shoe to drop.  The physician side of Steve was keen and he knew better than anyone that his diagnosis was dire. In preparing me for the inevitable, Steve told me of one of his first medical lectures.  When told his prognosis was Glioblastoma, he said he vividly recalled sitting in a first year med school class and hearing the professor saying, “Stage 4 Glioblastoma, a death sentence.”

We lived on eggshells those first years.  Every scan, every follow-up appointment, we left stunned at our good fortune.  Steve’s response never changed, when told he was tumor free, would respond, “Are your serious?”  We lived in a dying state for over two years. We lived preparing for Steve’s death.  Steve would verse me in family, household and monetary matters. We tried to brace ourselves physically, emotionally, spiritually on all fronts, yet the scans kept coming back clear year after year. God had huge plans for Steve to fulfill before he left this earth, and all I can be is grateful that Steve was given this time.

It was around the end of year two that I finally hit the brakes and proclaimed no more talk of dying, we would be about living. Steve was reticent, perhaps feeling, if he wasn’t anticipating death, the tumor would certainly return. I was more adamant, and in the end he allowed me to have my way.  Death talk ended and life resumed.  

Steve often spoke of his last four years being the best of his entire life. We spent hours on end speaking of our time together, our love for one another, what we had brought to each other’s life. In those four plus years there was no stone left unturned. We were given the gift of time and we used it well, speaking our hearts and our souls to one another, discussing our joys and sorrows and fears. We arranged chairs on the Titanic, but they were our chairs and it was our Titanic.

I will be honest and admit we were both incredibly fearful of the reality of Steve’s actual death.  He was afraid of being trapped in a nonfunctioning body, unable to speak or move, fearful of being fully cognizant of the horror of living, trapped.  Can you even imagine such fear?  I lived with it, and I know what it is to love someone faced with that probability, but to say I understood his fears...I simply can’t comprehend how he did it. I, on the other hand was fearful of how I would take care of Steve.  How would I know his needs?  How would I physically help Steve through to the end? How could I emotionally watch the person I loved so deeply deconstruct?

We discussed our fears.  We talked about every scenario that might have happened.  Those were painful conversations, Steve was stoic and matter of fact, I would end most of those conversations with my head buried in this lap, crying as silently as possible and praying for God's mercy and strength.

I know Brittany Maynard is facing all of those same fears today, maybe even stronger fears, as she is so very young. There is a huge part of me that wants to run to her, wrap my arms around her and beg, plead her not to go through with ending her life in November.  There is also a part of me that remembers a conversation I had with Steve early on.  He asked me one evening if, ever the time came that he was completely incapacitated, could I ever consider helping him end his life? It was one of the most painful answers I ever gave him when I told him no.  As much as I loved Steve, as much as I valued his quality of life, I had to say there was nothing in me that could have positively answered his request.

If I could tell Brittany anything right now it would be that each of us who was given the gift of watching Steve die experienced the example of how to die with amazing honor and grace. There is some unspoken gift that is unwrapped when you are able to be a part of palliative care. It is exhausting, it is humbling and it is simply sharing the last of life with someone your greatly love who is soon to leave this world. 

I may be tainted because Steve said when he was first diagnosed that he had made a vow to himself, he was going to die well. Steve lived up to that vow and surpassed it with the Olympic gold. He taught everyone who he encountered how to live by dying with grace, dignity and humility and it was probably the finest gift he gave us. Steve taught us how to live well and he taught us how to die as he had lived.  To the very end, he took care of every need imaginable, he never complained, he never sunk into self pity.  Steve never gave up, and neither did we. We knew when God’s timing was perfect, and we each let go and allowed Steve’s gentle passing.

What would I say to Brittany Maynard if I could? I would say, we all have different paths to walk in this life. None of us walks the same path the same way. Our footprints leave different tracks and may lead us down other routes. All we can do is try to remain true to ourselves, true to our beliefs and to true those who love and care for us. 

What about those of us on the sidelines, what are we to do?  I believe the best gift we can give is to support, comfort and care for our dying loved one as they choose.  To care for them in a way that makes easing from this place to the next as gently as possible.

So to Brittany Maynard I say, I am praying that no matter what decision is made, our loving and almighty God will hold you with his right hand and lead you into his kingdom where you will be whole and healthy and free forever.

For what it’s worth,

Janet

Isaiah 41:13  "For I am the LORD your God, who takes hold of your right hand, who says to you, 'Don't be afraid. I'll help you."

The Autumn of Life...

I have spent the morning in my flower beds.  I grabbed my garden gloves and a wagon full of hand shovels, fertilizers, pruning scissors, and out I went.  Even though it is fall in San Antonio, temperatures continue to hit the 90’s by late afternoon.  Mornings and evenings are cooler and give us a slight reprieve from the summer’s sun and heat. Flowers and bushes have a second chance for blooming and are as vibrant as they were late last spring.

I got down and grubby, digging my hands in the soil, pulling weeds, kneading all the necessary nutrients into the bases of each plant and bush.  I snipped off dead flowers from my roses and mums, hoping to get more enjoyment from their blooms before winter.

It was a perfect morning to work, because as I did, I was able to reflect on this past weekend.  I left early Friday and flew to Lubbock, Texas, home of the Texas Tech Red Raiders.  We had planned our second Pi Beta Phi Reunion and over 50 of us were coming from all parts of the country to reunite.  The weather couldn't have been better. Four of us drove to campus for a late lunch.  We were met by that unbeatable crystal blue sky, the crisp, dry, cool West Texas air, we were all 19 years old again, and we reveled in being young again, if only for a brief moment.

Two years ago, we gathered for our first sorority reunion in over 40 years.  It was so fun, we decided to increase our pledge class years and include classes initiated between 1969 to 1977.  Eight years of women, who at one time had spent four of the most formative years of our lives together.

Reunion 2012

As I worked in my flower beds this morning the thought struck me that between the ages of mid 50‘s to mid 60’s is a season of our lives much like autumn.  If spring were the first quarter of our life, fall certainly seems to be the third quarter of life.  

Spring brings planting, growth, the budding of trees, flowers and new growth.  Fall, at least in Texas, brings a welcome and much needed break in temperature, cool breezes and a few rains, allowing the flowers to again flourish after the stress of the previous hot summer months.  Flowers, that several months ago were withering in the oppressive heat are now able to take a breather, regroup and enjoy the lovely days before winter.

As I cut back dead flowers, I thought about the uniqueness of college years.  Four years out of an entire lifetime that leaves such an imprint on who we might be and who we have become.  Four years of living with more people at one time than we probably ever will again in our lifetime.  Four years of meeting new people, developing lifelong friendships, of planting seeds and flourishing, yet still so fresh, so malleable.   Still so young, still needing to grow, still needing to develop roots in order to endure the heat of the summer season of life to come.

I loved my college years.  I pledge Pi Beta Phi as a freshman and to this day some of my very dearest friends are my sisters.  When our family walked down the isle before Steve’s memorial service I will never forget the gift that will remain with me the rest of my life.  I remember looking to my left and seeing an entire row of my precious sisters who had come to support and love Ann (also a Pi Phi and my little sister) and me when we needed them the most. They had come from all over the country and did so because of those seeds that had been planted so long ago in the spring of our lives.  A definition of true friendship.

This past weekend involved much laughter over shared memories. Humorous, often bawdy college antics were retold and new priceless memories were made. There was however, an underlining tenderness and nostalgia, a binding cord, that ran so deep it is difficult for me to find the words to describe.  Perhaps it’s our age, perhaps it’s our journeys, perhaps it’s simply our season, but there was a sweetness that was visible in the eyes, in the voices, in the hearts of each of us that enabled us to be fed and nurtured and to again flourish.

I know I speak not only for myself when I say that there were so many instances during the weekend when we were able to share personal occasions that we had experienced during that summer season of our lives.  Some moments were joyous, some poignant, some tragic, but we found, in this special group of women, our root system had been grafted together to produce much of who we have become today. 

It was those college years that had established seeds that turned into young fresh blooms.  Those blooms may have faded and withered through forty plus years of life, but now that we are deep into our autumn season, we have found in each other, a new sustenance by taking the time to dig a little deeper with our life long friends. We found our spirits and souls were strengthened by the love of this remarkable group of women who all share a common bond in our love of this sisterhood.  We found because we had been able to share those precious, often fragile, formative college years together our bonds were refortified on a level much deeper than we could ever imagine.

It is not easy to make time for reunions.  Life, even in the fall of life, can be hectic and involved.  I’m so thankful that this amazing group of women took the time and made the effort to reconnect, to share our hearts with one another and to remind us all of those young, tender years that enable us to all flourish again.

With a heart brimming with love,

Janet

Psalm 61:1  "May God be merciful to us and bless us and cause his face to shine upon us."

Philippians 4:8  "Finally whatsoever things are true and honest and just and pure and lovely and of a good report, if there be any virtue or praise we think on these things."