The Professor's Last Lesson

"The arrow flies when you dream

The hours tick away, the cells tick away

The Watchmaker keeps to his schemes

The hours tick away, they tick away."

- Neil Peart, The Garden

We all have celebrity deaths that hit us hard. As a matter of fact, many of us are now mourning former President Jimmy Carter, who lived a long, fruitful life, but we feel his loss nonetheless because he was such a beacon of good for so long, and we mourn that light lost in a darkening world. And I imagine everyone reading this will remember precisely where they were when they heard the news about John Lennon. But, for me, the celebrity death that hit me like a gut punch was five years ago, and that was the death of the incomparable Rush drummer Neil Peart.

I was curled up in my the wingback chair in my bedroom on a Friday night reading and, because our phones have ruined our ability to concentrate, I put the book down for a moment and picked up said phone and was scrolling around on what was then Twitter and started seeing what looked like tributes, so I dared to Google it: he had died earlier in the week, but the family was just releasing the news. I think I forgot how to breathe for a minute. I had the same sort of surreal moment I had when the trooper woke me to tell me I needed to call home the night my daughter died.  It's like a part of you separates, floating above, whispering in your ear, saying, "Don't worry, this isn't really happening. It can't be real." But it is real, and when that little denial piece comes crashing back down, it's like a physical blow. I began to cry. And I could not stop. Somehow, I ended up in bed, curled in a fetal position, sobbing. My husband came in to ask what was wrong and actually was irritated with me for a while (looking back, I get it - having lost a child, mourning a person one's never met seems almost like a betrayal to that more significant loss, and he couldn't accept it). When I couldn't get it under control, even into the next few days, just breaking into shoulder-shaking sobs at the drop of a hat, he might not have fully ever understood it, but he accepted my sincerity, and I think he has always felt a tad guilty for his early derision.

Why was I sad? Rush was a massive part of our lives, including my daughters'. They felt like a part of us. Both girls knew the band's work. If they were on the radio when we came home from something, we sat in the driveway and listened until it ended. Rush was the soundtrack of my life. Love or hate them, one has to admit their lyrics, penned by Neil, are thoughtful and well-crafted. And who can argue (I dare you to try) with the genius of his drumming? He was the beating heart of all those songs.

To illustrate how much and for how long I had worshipped at the altar of their music when I was in Bozeman in January of 1992 as my father was dying, I managed to find the Power Windows CD, which I'd had a hard time locating, and even though I didn't have a way to play it, I remember just holding it as we waited for the ambulance to come to take him back to the hospital the final time (shit, I'm crying now actually) like it was a talisman. A year later, I sat in the airport waiting area in Austin listening to Counterparts on a Discman, waiting for Mom to fly in so we could drive to San Antonio for a reunion of Dad's Air Force group, where he would be memorialized in the courtyard of the Alamo.

But they were the background to happy times, too: I have marvelous memories of traveling with Marissa to see them in concert. I always got a new outfit for a Rush tour, and I remember both kids taking me one year to pick it out for me. 

Whatever I was doing, happy, sad, small or large, Rush was a part of it. I trusted in them. I trusted that even though Clockwork Angels was clearly their last (and, in my opinion, finest) album, the "fact" of the three of them was still there. They existed, and I felt anchored in that knowledge. And I assumed they would probably come out of retirement from time to time for this or that, and I definitely assumed Neil Peart would continue to write. When those possibilities were gone, I was shattered.

But it was more than that. Neil Peart was 67, not that much older than I was. He had lived the life he had wanted to (despite surviving his own horrific tragedy) and was the master of his craft. But what had I done? And what time would I have left to do it? I was thrown into a crisis, contemplating it.

Those questions that haunted me five years ago have remained. And I feel the clock ticking ever more loudly. 

Just hazarding a guess: Neil Peart would eschew the thought of trying to be the inspiration for anybody to do anything. He would tell us to be our own inspiration. I'm curious if Jimmy Carter wouldn't tell all of us, on the other hand, that if we miss the light we believe he was in the world, we should be our own small beacon of light, and he would encourage us to follow a path that we find inspirational.

So today, as I think about those two very different men, I plan to do that in whatever time I have left. But, I'm sorry, Neil, you'll have to accept some responsibility if I follow my true path for teaching me to question my life and pushing me to move in that direction.

Thank you to both men for making the world a better place. That won't change because you're no longer in it. You live on in all of us.

Won't You Be My Neighbor

This post isn't about aging or politics, although it will touch on them. But this past week in particular, but not exclusively, I've been thinking a lot about the word "neighbor" and wondering how we can regain a sense of neighborhood because the last three presidential election cycles have stretched it to the breaking point. It may have started before that. Perhaps the foundations began to break down in 2008 when Barack Obama took the stage in Chicago the night of the election when half of us were elated and hopeful but unaware that we had just created a situation where a large portion of the population suddenly felt unseen. Maybe it started the day Sarah Palin first took the spotlight and began to stir the pot of division. Whenever it began or whatever the opening salvo was, it is out of hand now. 

For readers joining from other areas, Pittsburgh proper generally votes blue, but I live in Shaler, a working middle-class suburb primarily populated by an older population mixed with many Catholic Joe the Plumber types who tend to vote more conservatively. As the older crowd passes on, some more liberal families—even families of color and same-sex couples have moved in, and the political landscape has become mixed. That never posed a problem that I saw when I first moved in.  I am liberal (in case you didn't know). It didn't take people long to figure that out, but it never ever stopped my original neighbors from being friendly with me, nor I with them. That's the way it's supposed to be, right? You think one way, I think another. Still, at our core, we both love the country and whoever's party was in power at the time wasn't causing us to worry that the government was on the verge of collapse - we just worried that our political agendas weren't being pressed forward. Still, we made our voices heard at the ballot box and knew that when it comes to party power, the pendulum swings, and what is now will not always be.  When socializing, we followed the rule my Pennsylvania-born and raised dad used to caution me, "Don't discuss religion or politics," especially when it came to the most significant issues that divide us: abortion front and center on that stage.

We put up signs during the campaigns (Yinzers love to decorate) but took them down soon after the elections.  I know I felt it was important not to rub anyone else's nose in it when my candidate won, and down they went the next day. 

Then came the Tea Party. A couple of households in the area sported Don't Tread on Me Flags (they still do) year-round. And, despite my best intentions, I have strong feelings about Tea Party members. I have a different phrase for them. I won't repeat it here...yeah, I'm no saint.  Then came 2016. You don't need me to rehash the last eight years - you've lived it.  That is when the hate "the other side" has for me became almost a palatable sensation, and I started to think of them as "the other side." And for my part, I feel a mix of dislike, distrust, and, in some cases, fear about the people now referred to as MAGA. I definitely hate what they support. Some households put up Trump signs and flags during the 2016 campaign and never took them down again. We were taunted by passersby as "liberals" like it's a dirty word.  Conservatives started to communicate that they were patriots, and those of us who disagree are less so.  It's gotten more and more abrasive with each election cycle, and now, candidly, emboldened by their win, the hard-line MAGA crowd is ramping it up to a frightening degree.

But there are no clean hands: I have to confess I tend to think of MAGA's in a negative light. I have a less-than-polite nickname for the red hat wearers.  Of course, they're not helping to redeem their image in my eyes when this is what some are out there posting publically:

But that worrisome woman isn't indicative of all of them, and I know that. Many people voted for Trump because they honestly felt he would be the best option for the country. They do not hate me for disagreeing with that. And I was heartened to see that many of my neighbors took their Trump signs down on Wednesday, probably accepting that many of us were hurting following a tight election that did not go as we hoped so it was unnecessary and wrong to gloat. But not everyone. One family in particular doubled down. I have little doubt they feel like Ms. Republic up there. I used to try to stay civil with them as I walked past their house with Carly. But I can't do it now. I simply cannot bring myself to do it. They do not try and wave at me any longer either. I would not be surprised in the least if they'd gladly tase me if given half a chance. And because there is that kind of vitriol out in the world right now, we find ourselves hopelessly divided.

Yet at the end of the day, we're all still Americans. For Trump supporters, allow me to say this: believe it or not, I do not love this country less than you do. On the contrary, many of us who vote Democrat believe strongly we vote for the well-being of all people. I disagree with you about what that means, but I am devoutly sincere in my intent to try and do what I can to make this the country my father went to war to defend.  I will accept you feel the same way but that you disagree fundamentally with me on how to do that, even if I cannot accept the candidate you backed. 

So, how do we get back to being neighbors? How do we return to those light-hearted conversations about the Steelers or the Penguins, or complain jointly about the Pirates? How do we get back to helping one another look for lost dogs, or shoveling one another's driveways if one of us is sick or injured? How do we get back to the moral lesson our most famous citizen, Mr. Rogers, said to us, "Listening is where love begins: listening to ourselves and then to our neighbors." I will commit to listening if you will do the same. Maybe we can find some common ground because we will need one another over these next four years.

Mind over Matter

Here's the recurring theme in this blog, in case I haven't bludgeoned all of you over the head enough with it: there's a lack of control we have to contend with as we age.  For most of our lives, assuming Dear Reader, you are like me and have been relatively healthy, we controlled the show: we don't like the hair, we dye it. We don't like our weight: we diet. We love that outfit, we die for it, and get it one way or another and figure out a way to squeeze into it. Then we hit 60, which I read recently, is a physical watershed where our bodies hit a massive change, and suddenly, said body and our bodily limitations begin calling the shots. For individuals such as myself and my mother (thinking back to her overreaction to her mild Parkinson's), that's not an easy transition.  I was brought up by a control freak. I learned that mindset well.  So, I don't adapt well to the change in the pecking order. Sue me.

Now, if I take a step back, I must confess: we were never as in control as we thought. I've worn glasses since I was 5 when a routine school eye examination caught my lazy left eye. That fact alone landed me in the nerd column (honestly, I would've gotten there eventually) with my peers.  I could never do well in gym class, which cemented the nerd, unpopular girl status. It wasn't until I was a junior in high school (the last year PE was mandatory and very definitely the last year I wanted anything to do with it) that my teacher realized I struggled with a lot of it because I saw items slightly off-kilter from where they actually were.  I did okay at volleyball because the ball was large enough that it didn't matter, but in tennis, badminton, ping pong, etc. I sucked. Balance beam: forget about it; it was terrifying.  Hurdles?  Same. I could jump high enough if I ran next to them, but I slammed into them whenever it came down to actually competing. We both knew in that moment she could have coached me to compensate if she had realized it earlier. Too little, too late. But, it was a relief to know there was at least a partial cause for my ineptitude, and hopefully, her realization helped her to help someone else along her career path.

Knowing and being cognizant of the fact that things aren't quite what (or where, in my case) they appear and that there was a reason I struggled at so many things others found easy, rather than I just "did," was a weight lifted off my shoulders. It's hard to describe, but at that moment, my lifetime of needing to know the "why" of everything turned on. If you understand why something happens, you have some control over how to handle it. There are things you can do about it, and it all makes sense.

But, sort of like I don't know why I have a lazy eye, I don't get the why when it comes to aging. Why did I develop a tumor that sucked the calcium out of my bones, and why do I still, even weeks after the surgery, have dropping levels of vitamin D that contribute to the problem (and is the likely culprit of my depression - another topic for another time). Why do I have the map of Middle Earth on my right leg? You probably have a list of your own bodily issues that you ponder as to why they are happening to you because you did nothing to deserve that kind of abuse from your own body.

But here is the reality. This is me. That's you. Now. As we are. Weird leg veins and all. As I was reminded after my last post, some acceptance must accompany our new realities. Or, as some might say: we have to suck it up, Buttercups. 

So, I've been pondering the question: where do we go from here? Obviously, for all of us who have these little issues popping up as time marches on - and that's probably all of us - we consult our doctors and do what they say. We research what my surgeon calls "Dr. Google" and try to educate ourselves even more about this or that. We try to make intelligent decisions about what we do and how we treat our bodies (most of us), which is how we exercise some control. 

But maybe, most of all, we get our minds wrapped around the reality of aging and decide it can't stop us from being us.  I faltered a little in that resolve a couple of weeks ago, but getting there...

Sticks and Stones

...may break my bones because it turns out I have osteoporosis, and boy, howdy, do I have it bad apparently.

I'm exactly a week out from having minor surgery to remove one of my parathyroid glands that was the bad actor who put me in this predicament, and I underwent a "DXA" scan, which is essentially a bone scan (or maybe it's exactly a bone scan - heck if I know) to try and determine if there had been damage done in the time it had been malfunctioning. My sister-in-law told me it'd be the most straightforward test I'd ever take, and it was very much like Star Trek-level tech, and she was right on both counts.  Maybe a bit bulkier than the handheld devices "Bones" used on the show, but it's still among the many incredible machines I've been subjected to these past several weeks as I navigated through my first real long-term health issue as an adult (everything else, let's face it, has been griping for the sake of griping and hoping y'all would relate and join in because misery does love company). The test ran about ten minutes - about a tenth of the time it took me to commute to the location and back, but hey, it got me out of the house. They told me it would be two days before I received the results.  But they amazed me there, too; it took less than two hours to hit me with the news. And honestly, hit me it did.

I get it. In the bigger scheme of things - keeping in mind that a biopsy is still being done on the tumor on the gland that was removed - this isn't a big deal and a lot of people are struggling with so much worse. But please forgive me, it's still taking some time to wrap my head around. It's not something that can be cured, and my life, in the time it took me to log in and read the results, changed from a woman who was aging but healthy to one who is aging with a lifelong condition that I have to learn to spell so I can list it on every medical history I have to fill out from here on out. It's manageable, and I've never broken a bone outside of some toes, which was many years ago, and has everything to do with my tendency to go around barefoot when I shouldn't and nothing to do with a lack of calcium, so I'm not panicking or thinking I'm suddenly a female Mr. Glass (for all you M. Night Shyamalan nay-sayers, you can Google him to get the reference), yet I woke up thinking of myself one way and I'll go to bed realizing I'm another, and I can't just shrug that off.

I think about my mom at times like these. She was, in my opinion, overly dramatic when she got her Parkinson's diagnosis. And, of all the laundry list of things that she had going on, it always remained the thing that gave her the largest pause, and she struggled with the most mentally, even though it was always controlled well by medication and when you met her you would be very hard pressed to even know she had it. (Granting that by the time her Alzheimer's diagnosis got handed down, she was not capable of processing that one, or else I'm sure it would have taken over the pole position.)  She used to tell me, "You know, Parkinson's is fatal." It's not, but she used to tell me my cat was going to suck my baby's breath out of her too, so her medical knowledge was a little outdated (and this was a Registered Nurse talking). I was smart enough to know it can be a serious disease nonetheless, but, again, it was well-controlled in her case, so whenever she bemoaned the condition or tried to illicit sympathy or special treatment because of it I would tend to ignore it or eye-roll my way through it (had I been smart, I would have leaned into it when I was trying to get her driver's license away from her). But tonight, I am more sympathetic to the mental gymnastics she was going through, and I wish I'd been a better source of support and more present for her in those moments.

What I think we all have to know is that the one relationship we cannot divorce ourselves from is the one with our own bodies and minds. If my partner cheats, I can decide what to do with his cheating ass. Forgive him, drag him to couples counseling, or kick said ass out. If my body betrays me, I'm still stuck with it no matter what.  Even if the betrayal is maybe no more than, say a flirtation, which is probably akin to my diagnosis, there's still a moment when you realize your love affair is less than perfect and will never be the same as it was, and there's some trust that's eroded. That's where I'm at mentally. But at the end of the night, I gotta take this body upstairs and go to bed with it, even though it let me down, and I'm a little pissed about it.

Care for the Caretakers

I'm not Catholic, so all my lifetime's worth of sins are all bottled up in here.  If anyone were to hear my confession, they'd have to get comfy and cozy because they'd be in for a long listen. Sunday night would be on the list.

I've tread on this ground before, I realize. As a matter of fact, it was just over a year ago when I last did. I have an annual breakdown, I suppose. It brims to the top and bubbles over.  But bear with me because it's hard to be a caretaker. Harder still when you didn't want it or volunteer for it. And harder still when you've worked in that capacity for a quarter of a century. It's not burnout at that point; it's volcanic ash.  I had a few years of respite there, but my husband has not. After trying to care for our daughters and my mother, he barely had time to grieve before he was off to care for his brother, and now he has his mom.  And she's hard for all the reasons a 90-year-old person is hard: they're dying. It may be years before they do, but it's in progress. They know this, and they're scared. Growing up a pastor's daughter probably doesn't prevent you from wondering at the end if what you listened to your father preach all those years and you yourself believed all your life might, in fact, be smoke and mirrors. Life is what you know for sure exists. Faith must, well, be taken on faith. Plus, you're bored and lonely. Far from family, having outlived most friends, and too frail and ailing to go out any longer to do things. I think the last time we dared take her on an outing was last fall, and it didn't go all that well. So, in the evenings, she wants some time and attention. If you step back to think of everything I detailed above, it's a reasonable and understandable request, and compassionate people would grant it. But she doesn't ask like a lovely, caring mother.  She yelled it as a demand, and we both said no.  I begged off that I was busy. I was washing dishes, which was moderately accurate, but I could have set them aside. However, my resentment of having put up with this for six years bubbled more than the dish soap, and I just doubled down on my scrubbing.  My husband was just infuriated by how she yelled at both of us, demanding attention like a toddler (which really is more or less where she is mentally), and just met her angry request with an angry denial of it.

A family outing, which are harder and harder

That night, instead of sleeping, I sat pondering, regretting my actions. I can't control anyone else's, so he can atone alone—or not. And it is a two-way street, so I get it if he has no regrets. She's completely forgotten the word "please." About 90% of what she says is a complaint. And it's 100% delivered as a whine unless she's yelling, as she was that night and the next night and the one after that, leading me to believe this is how it will be moving forward. But that's old age for you.

Jan, my mom, and me in the 90's

This brings me to my point: everything I've ever said about aging pales compared to the fear of being "that person." The person whom the people who love you the most avoid being around and almost cringe when they have to. You have to remember I loved and was very close to my mother-in-law.  I've said this before, I think, but she was the very first person I told I was adopted the night I found out (because I couldn't get my daughter on the phone, but...). She planned my wedding. I wore her wedding dress, actually. She once confessed that I was hard to like (I can't disagree), but she took me in and treated me like a daughter despite that. All of that adds to the guilt of my situation.  But here I am, struggling to meet her bizarre, disruptive behavior and her constant demands with anything resembling compassion, and she was, for the bulk of my life, a gentle, caring person I loved deeply.  Who in the [bleep] will do anything remotely like this for me when I was never gentle and caring about anything not on four legs?

2008 maybe?

It terrifies me to be candid.  We're all part of the vast Baby Boomer generation, which the country knew was one day going to be the Geriatric Boomer generation and tax the healthcare system. I was struck by this conclusion in an article published by the National Library of Medicine, "...The real challenges of caring for the elderly in 2030 will involve: (1) making sure society develops payment and insurance systems for long-term care that work better than existing ones, (2) taking advantage of advances in medicine and behavioral health to keep the elderly as healthy and active as possible, (3) changing the way society organizes community services so that care is more accessible, and (4) altering the cultural view of aging to make sure all ages are integrated into the fabric of community life." Particularly points 3 and 4. 

But it was an article published by Vox that I think hits the spot where I'm afraid my family will live: "'We are in a crisis of care,' said Carlene Davis, co-founder of the nonprofit Sistahs Aging With Grace & Elegance (SAGE). It’s a crisis that American society, with no paid leave, a fragmented care system, and minimal public discussion around aging and disability, is woefully ill-equipped to handle.“We are in a crisis of care,” said Carlene Davis, co-founder of the nonprofit Sistahs Aging With Grace & Elegance (SAGE). It’s a crisis that American society, with no paid leave, a fragmented care system, and minimal public discussion around aging and disability, is woefully ill-equipped to handle."

As a society and in government, we must do better by our caretakers, both professional and non.  However, particularly the "nons" since they are the men and women who have never signed up for this and don't get a paycheck to do it.  They fell into it by the simple fact of being related to someone.  They have no training in what they're facing. They have very little support.  Sure, a caregiver support group meets at the local library in my township, but I can't go: I can't leave my MIL alone...and I work. But that's emotional support. I'm not aware of any training offered to teach us how to handle it when your mother can't remember your name or swears at you and tells you she hates you. Nor how to change an adult diaper or help with PT, or lift them into bed if need be.  Trust me, my MIL is small and frail but a full-on dead weight that can still be hard to lift so that neither one of us gets hurt.

Sure, you can hire that kind of help and expertise, but then you'll bankrupt yourself quickly. I recently demanded we bring help in.  My husband semi-took me seriously and did some research, but the cost became daunting. We drain ourselves now; what will we live on when we retire? And we're middle class. We're luckier than most. Reasonable care should be available for all. Because if it's not, we all will pay one way or another when all of us overwhelm the welfare system when we age.

Long story short, this problem is going to get bigger. It's too late for me.  But for my poor only child, and for all of you who have parents who aren't quite to the point my MIL is: press for better options for the caretakers before you are one. Please.

The Good, The Bad, and the Ugly

 

Does anyone remember spaghetti westerns? I do, but I don't know why I watched them with some glee. Maybe the bad dubbing was amusing, the odd soundtrack caught my ear, or was it the wanton violence that drew me in from a young age (I'm an avid John Wick fan - although I always skip over the part where the puppy dies - so make of that what you will). Still, I didn't just watch them sitting with my dad. I would actually watch them by myself sometimes. Do I remember anything about them other than they featured Clint Eastwood scowling and a lot of gunfights? Nope. But that's okay because this isn't a post about B-level westerns. It's about life past 60, which is good, bad, and sometimes ugly.

Let's look at it backward. I'll start with the Ugly. I've talked about a lot of this: the facial lines might be where you think I'd start, but I wonder if some lines are a bad thing. Is that weird, ladies? I don't want too many, but some evidence that I'm a natural person who has seen real life is not that bad. And I'm afraid of bad plastic surgery. I think that's worse than letting your face show some experience. I spotted a blonde woman sitting on the glass at one of the Florida Panther's games during the playoffs. The camera just glanced at her, but I could immediately tell she'd had work done. To me, that's distracting. Suddenly I'm not paying attention to the real you, I'm preoccupied by the alterations. I don't want others to assess me that way. At the same time, I don't want to look like Valerie in The Princess Bride either. A nice in-between is just fine by me.

But, hypocritical as it might be, I would gladly do some cosmetic work to get rid of the weird river map on my right leg. I featured that last summer, and a year later, it's better actually, but still there, so I assume it's with me for life, and I'd prefer that instead, it takes a hike. The one bulging vein on that leg actually hurts on occasion and is truly a definition of ugly. (And did I remember to ask my doctor about it? Nope.) Then there's the fact that going braless is off the table. My arms take work to stay toned (and are not currently). Tummy control? Ugh, more like tummy-out-of-control. I bemoan a lot that I never thought twice about twenty years ago. Such is the march of time.

But then there's the Bad, which outweighs the ugly. By the time you hit your 60s, I am willing to bet you've seen some shit, and life has handed you some raw and painful deals. I don't care if you're rich (ask Jessica Biel how her last few months have been going after her husband decided to bring Stupid back) or poor; you don't get here without realizing life is both unfair and cruel. The question is, what should we do with that information? It can inspire you, or it can break you. Or, if you're like me, it depends on the day. But if you're still standing, which if you're reading this, you are, so I'm betting you went the inspired route.

As I'm finding out, falling into the Bad category is the fact that no matter how healthy a lifestyle you try to lead, your body may have some other ideas about your health. From small issues to large - the temples that house us sometimes have shaky foundations. I suppose that is true no matter our age. Cancer can strike at any point, just to name one evil doer. In my case, I was recently diagnosed with hyperparathyroidism. Which is a total mouthful, to name one problem. But, while it's minor surgery to correct, it'll mean I'll go under the knife soon for the first time since I was three and had my tonsils out. Was it anything I did? No. Just a thing that I've lived long enough to hit the odds of it happening - or something happening anyway. I'm guessing there will be more. Like eye floaters. You can say you don't want them, but they seem to want you.

But there's also good. There's something to be said about leaving youth, with its inexperience and self-doubt, behind. I don't think we are as fiery about things as we once were, although I suppose it's unfair to speak for others, and there are some of us (the Republican Presidential nominee springs to mind) that prove the opposite, to be sure. But in general, I think our youthful tempers seem to be balanced out by a level of maturity.  Some might see that as the death of passion or idealism, but that fire burned hot. I prefer the simmer it runs at now. Don't get me wrong, I'm still passionate about some things, but I think it's more focused and hopefully intelligently directed now. 

I like that I've accepted my age. I can embrace telling you I'm a grandmother; you can look at me and guess it anyway, so why shy away? Gone are the days when I felt like I needed to act older to get that job or promotion, but then later, required to act younger to avoid getting lost in the influx of young ups and comers. Have you ever noticed we were never the exact right age? It was exhausting.

And of course, I like getting a discount at the movies. 

I could go on, but the point is that it's not all bad to be a Golden Girl. Or Boy. So, here we all are: living our very own spaghetti western. Maybe we're not going to win an Oscar for it, but hey, it can be oddly entertaining.

The Roads We Should Have Traveled

I crossed vet school off the career list in 5th grade. A friend of mine hurt her knee pretty badly on the gravel in the playground after school. When I saw it, the image is still pretty clear to this day, all bloody and full of ground in dirt and gravel my stomach did a little backflip, and that was the end of telling all my parents' friends I would be a vet when they patronizingly asked what I wanted to be when I grew up. No one ever told me, and I never once considered, that there are other ways to be involved with animals for a living without being a vet. I had other passions, and I decided to pursue those. Do I do any of them for a living now, either? That's a no. I work in property management. Do I want to work in property management? Did I ever? Also, a no. No one - and I mean no one - grows up thinking, "One day, I want to enforce deed restrictions for a living." Now, some of us have found it fulfilling. I found a family with the people I've worked with and whom I work with now, but the job itself? Honestly, shoveling elephant shit would be more rewarding.

So, a while back, after a pretty rough period, I thought about said elephant shit and decided, "Well, let's put my theory to the test and see what kinds of opportunities there are out there to do just that." And, as it happens, the Pittsburgh Zoo and Aquarium runs an International Conservation Center where they house and care for a number (five currently) African elephants not too far from here - close enough to drive in for games and, as luck would have it, they had openings. When I read about them, I thought my dream job was about to be mine. Until I read the requirements, a BS in Animal Husbandry was a requisite. Next, I looked to see if they had any openings at the local zoo, which was very, very close to my house. They did, but - you guessed it - if you want to get up and close with the animals and actually "handle" them (including shoveling their shit), you need that degree.

And that's when I knew. I fucked up. All my life, I've surrounded myself with animals. Domestic and wild. I had deer who responded to me when I called them by name. Total strangers came up to me and deposited animals in my care because my reputation was that I would do it and know what to do (erroneously, but that's how urban myths are made). It was right there screaming at me all these years: I was put here to care for animals. Their welfare, I do firmly believe, is our welfare. Sure I've always had rescue dogs and sure I volunteered at shelters, but I could have made this my calling. I could have kept the roof over our heads by doing something that helped the planet instead of telling people to mow their yards.

Could I do it now? I looked into it and did some fast math: it was a losing proposition. I would never earn enough in the limited years I could do such a physical job to make the expenditure worthwhile. The other day, I decided I didn't care; I was doing it anyway. I was going back to school to earn a completely different degree than anything I studied initially—a degree, I should add, that is heavy on chemistry—my Kryptonite.  And if I never really earned it back, oh well. I applied and got accepted to a middling school where I could get the entire degree online (Penn State, where I would love to go, is a lot harder to get into and requires the last year to be on campus.) My husband was on board until I told him the cost. Then, he not only got off the boat, he jumped overboard. Next, I researched grants and aid money for seniors. It's out there, but it all starts with the FAFSA. I started filling it out and realized that the tax return they wanted was a good year for us - I could only imagine being laughed out of the program asking for aid under the circumstances. Turns out my husband jumped off a sinking ship.

So here I sit, on the eve of Independence Day, wondering if I have wasted my life and if I will have the opportunity to somehow set karma right. And feeling pretty guilty about it. I know full well there are people in Ukraine and Gaza just fighting to survive another day, and I dare worry I made a good living doing the wrong thing?! And what does that say about all the good people I know who do what I do for a living? How dare I question it as a vocation. Yet, here I sit...

The moral of this story is that the bitch of getting older is that the old saying, "It's never too late," is a damn lie.  There are doors that are closing. I often wonder if this whole blog is a morality tale that I hope my grandchildren will find someday and heed as worldly advice. If so, here's some: know who you are and - more importantly - why you are, and then be true to it from the beginning.  But if you get lost in the chaos of just trying to live, then at some point, try to find a way to realize your true calling and don't give up on it.

I hope I find mine.