Archives for August 2023

At a get-together recently, I met an older woman, Lillian.

Lillian and I had an immediate connection. In that she was too old to walk around and circulate, and I was too introverted to walk around and circulate. It worked out perfectly.

Lillian and I ended up talking for hours, as I waited for the event to be over because our connection was so strong.

She told me that when her boys were little, her husband had left her for his secretary, and left her with nothing. Lillian struggled raising the kids. But, she said, “Jesus was always there for us, and we always got by, thanks to Him.”

She added, “As a matter of fact, just this past month, I had bills to pay, and I didn’t have the money. And the money came to me, thanks to Jesus.”

What a comfort that must be. But I couldn’t help wondering, ’cause I’m a tad agnostic…Did Lillian pray to Jesus—but also mention to one of her kids that she didn’t have the money? But I dismissed the thought. Rather, I so wished I could have faith, like Lillian does.

“Yes, every single time in my life that I have ever needed any kind of support, including financial support, I asked Jesus to take the wheel,” Lillian said. “And He has helped me. Every. Single. Time.”

I leaned towards her and whispered, “Lillian, I wish I had known about this Take the Wheel strategy a long time ago. My parents didn’t raise me in a faith. I’ve spent 33-plus years sitting behind a desk, just to pay the bills, and even then, living check-to-check. If I had known Jesus was there for me, I would have pursued my writing career and simply asked Him for help along the way.”

Lillian laughed and said, “Yes, you should have.”

I wasn’t kidding.

And I don’t think she was, either.

When I turned 33, I recall thinking, “Wow, I never thought I’d live this long. That was the age Jesus died on the cross.” (I’m not religious, but the thought had occurred to me.)

And now, I have made it to 55-1/2 years old. I am 666 Months. Yes, the irony is not lost on me.

I’m mad about aging altogether. But this is one of the key things that concerns me about being 666 months old. And it’s not Satan. It’s:

I think I might still be able to get pregnant, but probably not.

Not that I WANT to get pregnant. I just want to be ABLE to get pregnant.

On a related note, this past Spring, I had to have a uterine polyp removed.

(My son: “Mom, you don’t need a gynecologist. You need an archaeologist.”)

The archaeologist got in there and rooted around, then showed me an ultrasound of my uterus.

I had a flashback and said, “Wow. The last time I saw this kind of ultrasound photo, there was a baby in there.”

He replied, “Well, not anymore. Here is your polyp.” (Points to it, I have no idea what he is pointing to)

He also noted, “You have one egg left.”

I said, “WHAT? Don’t women start out with like a few hundred thousand eggs? I figured I would have a few hundred beat-up ones left.”

He replied, “Yes, women start out with about 400,000 eggs, on average. And now you have one. Literally, I only see one. And it’s probably just the follicle, there isn’t even an egg in there.”

I replied, “YES, THERE IS AN EGG IN THERE. And I will nurture it, and love it, and if it comes out, I will make a diorama like in 3^rd grade, and it will be a shoebox with a regal throne, with my egg carefully placed on it, for all to admire.”

Doctor: _________________

So, in my March post-surgery appointment, I said to the surgeon, “So now that we’re all set with that…in a couple weeks, I turn 55 and I’m supposed to go off birth control pills. Is that still the plan?”

The young, somewhat shy surgeon replied—and I am not kidding: “By the looks of things in there, you can stop taking them now.”

So—I should only be missing 510 eggs. One for each month since I started getting periods when I was 14.

Where the heck did the other 399,490 eggs go?

My sister says, “Those other eggs were probably so decrepit, they just turned to dust.”

That observation is coming from someone who is EIGHT HUNDRED AND TWO months old.

She has uterine seniority.

So I guess I believe her.

I had to go to a wedding the other day.

I reluctantly squeezed into a hippie-type pastel paisley dress which fit my personality. Or at least fit the personality I wanted to have. Grace Slick, 1969. Would the 20somethings at the wedding recognize the look I was going for? No. But their Grandmas might.

More importantly, the dress complemented my “figure” by hanging loose in the tummy area. Twenty-five years after having my first child, I still looked a little pregnant.

Once the dress and the SPANX® were in place, I plomped myself down on the bed—and cried. I thought, I just can’t go. Given the current circumstances. I just can’t.

After hours of consideration, making myself late for the wedding—I went. I figured if I couldn’t bring myself to attend the ceremony, at least I would have made the attempt to drag myself there. If need be, I could just go inside the reception venue door, put the card in the appropriate box, and get back on the road for the two-hour drive back home.

By the time I arrived at the ceremony site, I was determined to get out of the car. Mostly because I’d already had to wear the dress for two hours. I don’t wear dresses. Ever. I had already suffered enough from just wearing the dress—psychologically, as well as physically.

But the dress was the least of my concerns at the time, really. How was I going to get through this wedding without losing my shit? Subtly clutching a huge ball of Kleenex® in my fist, I awkwardly stumbled to my seat, in unfamiliar heels.

In order to be mentally and emotionally prepared, as I sat in the pew, I reminded myself of the platitudes and ceremony that I should expect.

I was encouraged that the couple was in their early 30s and had been together more than ten years. They had not rushed into this massive commitment. Studies show that couples stay together the first three years largely based on infatuation, then settle in as companions. (Forgive the absence of citations in this blog post. If this was published in the New Yorker, I would have to cite that reference. But this is also an anecdotal observation.)

After sitting down for a while, I started feeling a bit uneasy. In order to detach myself from the situation at hand, and not embarrass my friends with any hysterics, I decided to concentrate on taking photos. I became so intent upon this endeavor that I likely did embarrass my friends by nearly bowling over the professional photographer several times in my quest to get the best shot. We were in the same place so often, that I ended up having to apologize to her several times. That doesn’t mean I moved to accommodate her. It just meant, Hey, I got here first, better move faster, b—-. (No worries, I provided the family my photographs at no cost.)

My friend, the groom’s mother, offered a beautiful reading. Which, unfortunately for me, was not the traditional Corinthians 13, which I was indeed emotionally prepared for. Corinthians 13 had been read at my civic wedding.

Corinthians 13, as I recall from my own wedding in 1995: “Love is kind, love is something else…time for the party. I love this person. Don’t you? We are going to have kids and have a great life together. DUH! We are head over heels in love. Of course, that will last forever!”

So what does “marriage” mean, anyway? I contemplated the vows.

“For richer or for poorer…” I’d certainly always understood that part. Throughout our marriage, my husband and I had financially struggled. That said, one of the best times of my life was when we were first married, before kids. We had a hard time paying the bills—but who cared? We had each other. We’d both grown up fairly poor, so money didn’t matter to either of us. We got by. Marriage was more about love than money. That’s what I thought, anyway. There were legal obligations, but they didn’t even enter my mind.

“In sickness and in health…” When I got married, I was 27, and my husband was considerably older. In fact, when we first moved in together, I used to check during the night to see if he was still breathing. (At 55 years old, looking back, I find that quite hilarious.)

“For better or for worse…” Hmm. This one’s a doozy. Had I really understood the “for better or for worse” part? Should I have stuck it out when it got worse? I’ll never know. But I am sorry for it. I gave up when it got worse. Does that mean I am a bad person? Intolerant? Picky? Unappreciative? Impatient? Probably most or all of the above.

Anyway…that is likely why I had been touched by the reading at this particular wedding. I had never heard it before. Almost thirty years since my own wedding day, I found that the reading was much more meaningful to me—a 55-year-old woman with a heck of a lot of perspective.

The following is what my friend read to her son and his wife. It is what I wish for, for all couples, married or not—and certainly for our sons:

May your marriage bring you all the exquisite excitements a marriage should bring, and may life grant you also patience, tolerance, and understanding.

May you always need one another—not so much to fill your emptiness as to help you to know your fullness.

The valley does not make the mountain less, but more;

So let it be with you, and you.

And the valley is more a valley because it has a mountain towering over it.

A mountain needs a valley to be complete;

May you need one another, but not out of weakness.

May you want one another, but not out of lack.

May you entice one another, but not compel one another.

May you embrace one another, but not out encircle one another.

May you succeed in all important ways with one another, and not fail in the little graces.

May you look for things to praise, often say, “I love you!” and take no notice of small faults.

If you have quarrels that push you apart, may both of you hope to have good sense enough to take the first step back.

May you enter into the mystery, which is the awareness of one another’s presence—no more physical than spiritual, warm and near when you are side by side, and warm and near when you are in separate rooms or even distant cities.

May you have happiness, and may you find it making one another happy.

(James Dillett Freeman)

***

Note: this was certainly a significant day of reflection, as it was then that I fully realized that I was bad at marriage…and also bad at wearing a dress. Yes, the focus of the wedding was the bride, but generally every chick gets a “You look great!” out of courtesy, even if they look like crap. No one at the wedding said my dress was cute. Either because I was so old that no dress would be cute on me (likely); and/or the dress wasn’t flattering (also likely); and/or no matter what the dress, I was clearly so uncomfortable I looked like the Hunchback of Notre Dame (perhaps most likely)—so I’m never wearing it again. Many of you on Facebook are asking for pictures of me in the dress. No, because 55-1/2.