love

“Daring to set boundaries is about having the courage to love ourselves, even when we risk disappointing others.” 
– Brene Brown

I LOVE This. Amen sister, Amen. Happy Sunday fellow juicy, creative, life liver’s

Xox

Even though my neck is developing a waddle, my arms are jiggly, and my bra size is a 36 long, I’m FAR from dead.

I feel great, look pretty darn good for my age, and I want to just give life a big slap on the ass for providing such incomparable entertainment, (because we all came here to be entertained, right?)

Here’s to fifty and beyond!

1) No more zits. That’s huge for me. I literally had chin acne up until five minutes ago.

2) More free time because of reduced mirror time.
I can’t really see anymore but I’ve decided that using the magnifying mirror is masochistic, so, if I have an occasional chin hair or stray lipstick creeping into the creases above my lip line, cut me some slack.
While I used to relish getting ready in the morning, these days the routine ends with me throwing my arms up saying: “Okay, f*ck it! This is as good as it gets.”

3) My BS meter is finely tuned,
I can smell a “phony baloney story” a mile away.

4) I BE WISE.
Not necessarily smart, more like crafty and clever.
I may not have a ton of what some would call common sense, or be very tech savvy,
but I have a keen street sense. In other words, “I be wise in the ways of the world.“

5) People expect less of me because my hair is gray and I often wear more sensible shoes (idiots) so when I get off the back of the motorcycle or I’m funny or say something current, they’re like, “Damn!”

6) My bucket list is getting shorter —and it seems suddenly attainable. Bo Shizzle!

7) I have felt all different kinds of love (except for a child…next life.)
But I DO know the difference between dog love and cat love, teenage crush, misguided 20 something love, sibling love, infatuation (not to be confused with love), lust (also not to be mistaken, under ANY circumstances for love), “I love you, but I’m not in love with you, love”, platonic love, love of country (don’t wince, travel; then come talk to me) And last but certainly not least—Self-love.

8) I give less F*cks.
I have so few left, why waste them? My inhibitions are almost non-existent. I offer my opinion, I don’t shy away from conflict, I’ll sing first at karaoke night and I’ll dance in Greek restaurants.
There’s not much that scares me anymore, much to the horror of my introverted spouse.

9) I stopped asking why. It was just SO exhausting. I wish I’d stopped decades ago.

10) I realize that I may have more years behind me than in front of me, and that doesn’t make me sad (most days)—on the contrary, it mobilizes me.
Listen, times a-wastin’!

Okay, you over fiftys! What can you add?
If you haven’t reached fifty yet, what are you looking forward to?

Xox

Intimacy
I invite you to read the word “intimacy” as “into-me-see.” We create intimacy with others when we allow ourselves to be seen.
~Christine Hassler~

Who sees you clearer than your friends?
Not the acquaintance at the office, or the barista who makes your coffee every morning.
No.
Your REAL friends. The ones that you can’t even remember not knowing.
The ones that GET you. I mean get you, in the deepest, most soul stirring, tear jerking way.
They know every hair style you’ve ever had, and they told you you rocked it.
But, they wouldn’t let you leave the house in those God awful green pants.
They are brave enough to tell you he’s not good enough for you, and almost more thrilled than you are, when you find someone who is.
You’ve had dinners where you’ve talked until the candles burned down, and New Years Eve’s that were hilarious disasters and days on vacation that were magical. Those experiences are etched with a permanent groove in your brain and make you weepy when you replay them.

Intimacy is the capacity to be rather weird with someone – and finding that that’s ok with them.
~anonymous~

They are on your speed dial (now speed text) for those three in the morning, pillow punching, holy shit, “will you just talk to me until I fall asleep” nights.
You’ve shared clothes, bathing suits, a toothbrush in a pinch, recipes, even candid details of the fight you had with your mom on her birthday, or the bad sex you had with that someone who you thought was “the one.”
You hold hands at funerals, weddings, baby showers and the Sunday farmers market.
When they lost the baby, you were there, to hold their hand. When they had the baby, you were in the room, to hold their legs.
When you’re an ass, they feed you, because they know how you get when you’re hungry.
When they hurt, you hurt.
When you laugh, they laugh louder, and longer, which makes wine come out your nose.

In-to-me-see is earned.
It is doled out judiciously. We are not transparent to the casual observer. Not to the blabber mouth or the revealer of secrets.
This kind of friendship, this kind of bond feels ancient and epic, almost older than time.
We carry it wherever we go, even into death.

Cherish these people. Hold them close to your heart, no matter how far away they may be. They’ll feel it. Then consider yourselves lucky to be accepted and loved that way.

Xox

Pain can only feed on pain. Pain cannot feed on joy. It finds it quite indigestible.
~Eckhart Tolle~

You will touch joy and suddenly realize that you have never felt joy because it requires abandon. It grows from gratitude and cannot exist where there is mad cynicism or distrust.
You will touch this joy and you will suddenly know it is what you were looking for your whole life, but you were afraid to even acknowledge the absence because the hunger for it was so encompassing. 

—Eve Ensler, In the Body of the World

Loose your fear and touch joy today…..Happy Sunday!
Xox

Damn, my mom looks good. She looks like Jane Fonda from her “Klute” days, in this picture.
Makes sense, it was taken in the early seventies. She was about 35 years old.

My mom was just getting aquatinted with herself right around that time.
Divorcing my dad, getting out from under her Jackie Kennedy bouffant, becoming politically active, getting back into the workforce and finding her independence. Her musical tastes changed from Andy Williams to Bruce Springsteen.
She became a free spirit, a hippie of sorts.

I have a very different experience of my mom than my brother and sister.
I was the oldest. To me, growing up, my mom was a hard ass.
The disciplinarian. The enforcer. Strict but fair.

She made sure my Catholic School uniform skirt touched the floor when I kneeled.

She took me to see live theatre, which in turn got me hooked on live theatre.

She insisted I walk the one mile to and from my Catholic school every day, rain or shine. It was no big deal back then. ( I was the only one in the family that went to Catholic School all the way through grades 2-12)

She enrolled me in Girl Scouts so I could learn teamwork, sales and acquire some camping and outdoor skills.
(It barely worked)

She enforced a strict 7pm bedtime, even in the summer, when it was still light 
outside.

She indulged my fear of the dark. She checked under the bed for monsters, never shut the door to my room after saying goodnight, and made sure there was a nightlight on in the bathroom.

She “locked” us outside in the summer with a kiddie pool bought with green stamps. (She made a game out of wetting the sheets with a sponge and putting them in the books) and prompted us to run through the sprinklers.
At noon she provided a lunch of bologna sandwiches and pitchers of Kool Aid.
At three, homemade Popsicles made from freezing grape juice in Tupperware Popsicle forms. All the neighborhood kids hung out at our house.

She sat with me, and nursed me back to health when I had Scarlett Fever at seven years old. She would walk up to my school every day and get my first grade schoolwork. I missed almost the entire year.

She washed my mouth out MANY times with soap for being sassy.

She made every holiday a big hoopla. Parades with red,white and blue streamers on our bikes, watermelon eating contests (with no front teeth) and backyard fireworks for the fourth. Egg hunts and clues that lead us to HUGE elaborate baskets for Easter. Imaginatively wrapped presents (my name in red licorice whips, my sister’s in Hershey’s kisses) under a giant tree whose every branch was lit, ornamented and perfectly tinseled. Elves on shelves and Gumdrop villages. Cookies and milk for Santa, who left a ridiculously nasty mess of ashes and wood on Christmas morning.

She never gave us soda, so I got to sidestep that addiction.

An addiction she did introduce me to was the Rose Bowl Flea Market and my wallet has been the thinner for it.

She made sure my dad bought me a swing set after I escaped to a neighbor to swing on theirs.

She gave me an appreciation of history and current events.
She sat me down in front of our black and white TV for the 1968 Democratic Convention and corresponding riots, the Watts riots, the March on Washington,the astronauts stepping foot on the moon for the first time, the coverage of Apollo 13 and the funerals of President Kennedy, Martin Luther King Jr. And Bobby Kennedy (for whom she campaigned).
Classic mom phrase: Pay attention, this is history!

She always had the Dodger game on in the background……always. Still does.
Vin Scully’s voice is like a natural sedative to me.

She gave me books and talked with me about sex. (funny story alert)

She made sure I did my homework, polished my shoes, loaded the dishwasher and made my lunch in my Partridge Family lunch box (sigh) every night before I went to bed.
Often she would write me a love note on my napkin and sneak it inside before I left in the morning. I felt love and embarrassment at the same time, so I threw them away. But I did thank her now and then.
(I wish I’d kept them all)

She taught me how to: 
walk, talk, go potty in the potty, tie my shoes, ride a bike, tell time, read a book (I knew how to read before I entered kindergarten), change a diaper, burp a baby (my sister), set a table, say please and thank you, whisper, write a thank you note, braid hair, swim, roller skate, brush my teeth, paint my toenails, make chocolate chip cookies, wrap a present, embroider, climb a wall AND a tree, pick myself up and brush myself off, collect lady bugs, collect leaves for our silk worms, finish a puzzle, love cats, love food, love music, sing, clean a house, be on time, love the holidays (especially Christmas), weed a garden, trim a rosebush, body surf and love the beach. To name a few.

She thought I could DO anything and BE anything. She still does.
Thanks mom, I wouldn’t be who I am without you.
I love you.
Happy Mother’s Day!

Xox

Never Can Say Goodbye
Never can say goodbye
No, no, no, no
I never can say goodbye
I keep thinkin’ that our problems soon are all gonna work out
But there’s that same unhappy feelin’ there’s that anguish, there’s that doubt
It’s that same old dizzy hang-up can’t do with you or without,
Tell me why is it so?
“Never Can Say Goodbye” by The Jackson 5

The other night in our Women’s Group, we did a simple exercise.
We closed our eyes and surveyed a line of people that had played various roles in the movie of our lives. They were our bosses, co-workers, lovers, friends and family. We acknowledged them and the part they played. We took responsibility for our role, in order not to have to repeat that shit again. We blessed them and honored them for the lessons they imparted. We offered an apology or forgave them as needed. We wrote down their names. 
There were no running tackles, no hands around their necks, or endless strings of curse words.
It felt solemn and sacred. It was an exercise in clearing our pasts, in order to be free.

But something unexpected happened.
As we perused our lists, several of the suspects kind of stepped forward, in that criminal line up kind of way. One of the women looked up, amazed. “Can I just say something?” she asked, “There’s five or six people here who ALL have the same thing in common.”
“I struggled with endings………I never can say goodbye.” 
She elaborated, “None of the endings were elegant. Nothing was easy. Either I’m afraid to end the association, or I’m the one that won’t let go.” 
“One man napalmed our life, just to get out.”

All our mouths were hanging open. Another woman shook her head, “Me too, I don’t know how to end a job OR a relationship.
I stay in them wayyyyyy past the expiration date.”

I could relate.
I remind you all how my therapist cautioned me back In the day: “Janet, you don’t love, you take hostages. Watch that.”
Obviously, I wasn’t alone.

There are some people that cut and run at the first sign of trouble. I’ve dated them.
The opposite is true here. Trouble comes, sets up camp, builds a house, and stays………with a very convincing argument as to why we can’t kick them to the curb.
We buy the seat next to them on the GUILT TRAIN, listening to them explain how their “will to live” shall evaporate when we leave. Soon we can’t imagine our lives without this long expired person. They have become a bad habit.

A spiritual teacher back in the day, “T”, gave me stink eye as I whined about canceling dinner plans with a friend.
I wasn’t feeling it. It was a “school night” and I was just too tired. I worried that that wasn’t a legitimate reason to cancel. My friend would be mad at me for leaving them high and dry without dinner plans.
T} “That’s all ego, your friend will be fine. They’ll probably thank you.”
J} “Hey, thanks pal.”
T} “Your ego tells you that you are so important to the other persons happiness, that their evening will be ruined, when quite the opposite is true.”
J} “Fuck you.”
T} “Call her”
So, I called and sheepishly canceld. I may have even coughed, hinting at an oncoming cold. She was relieved. She’d had a hell day at work and all she wanted was a bottle of wine and a bubble bath. We cheerfully rescheduled.
T} “Works for relationships too”
J} “Don’t be a smug know it all”
But he did know a lot about this subject. And I slowly learned.

That ego is a shifty character.
He can show up in the disguise of kindness and loyalty. He convinces you to ignore your feelings, to be the people pleaser. He tells you you’re not a quitter, that you’re in it for the long haul. Sorry, but if it feels like a long haul to you, it does to the other person too.
Even if they’re begging you to stay, you’re just THEIR bad habit.

If you stand in your truth, that truth being that the relationship or job or whatever has run its course. If you use loving vocabulary, and come from the heart, an ending doesn’t have to be a cut that never heals. They will be fine. They will find someone who’s a better fit. And so will you. It’s the more loving act than “going for the long haul.”

The same holds true for anyone that you have handcuffed to a chair. If they want to go, let them go. Don’t even take it personally. It’s about them, just like you wanting to leave was about you.
Say goodbye…..so you can both regain that forward momentum in your lives, and break that bad habit.
It’s a Win/Win. I swear.

Do you have trouble saying goodbye? Have you stayed too long in a job or relationship because you were afraid of hurting the other person? Do you believe that it’s the ego at work? I’d love to hear your thoughts on this.

Xox

I have a slogan for when things get messed up: Wait for the turnaround.
~Debbie Harry~lead singer of the punk rock band Blondie
( If you don’t know that – shame on you)

I’ve always been a “fix it” kinda gal.

If you present me with a problem or a mess, I’m gonna brainstorm it until I find a solution.

I’m going to fight it and wrestle it to the ground, I rarely take NO for an answer, and everything is figuraoutable.

I’d like to think I’m a lot like Debbie Harry…in more ways than one.
Truth is, I have waited for the turnaround…after I have exhausted every other option known to man – and then some.

Then I wised up.

I bet that wasn’t her slogan at 25 or even 35.
That’s the kind of wisdom you gain with maturity; the end result of many, many, many, mess hp’s.

Fifty – I’m going to guess that she came to that epiphany after fifty.
It’s around that age that you realize that there can even BE a turnaround.
That there will ALWAYS be a turnaround.

After fifty THIS you know for sure: You have to pick yourself up off the bathroom floor to be ready for the turnaround.

You have to make it until the sun comes up, because in the deep, suffocating blackness of 3am, you can’t even imagine a turnaround.

That you have to get sober to start the turnaround.

That tears make your eyes that much more capable of seeing the turnaround.

That sometimes you have to be alone, inside the silence, to listen for the turnaround.

That your wounded heart, with its bandages and skid marks, has to open enough to let the love in.
That love, is hidden in the turnaround.

Note to self:Look away.
The turnaround doesn’t reside anywhere near the mess, so if you stay digging around in that pile of shit, it will allude you.
You can’t stalk the turnaround, you can’t cajole it. You can’t bargain with it, or coerce it into place. AND……you certainly can’t rush it.

Believe me, I’ve tried.

When things are messed up. When they are epically trashed. There WILL be a turnaround. History has proven it.
It comes in its own time. It can take years or days or even just hours. Look at every disaster, natural and man made. Things appear bleak, all hope is lost, but eventually the dust settles and in rides…….the turnaround. Remember 9/11?
We were in shock, then despair, then pissed off, then….wait for it…we emerged stronger and more united than ever.
Humongous, miraculous, turnaround.

You gotta love Debbie Harry. Gorgeous, Sexy, smart, 70’s-80’s rock star icon and a guru after 50. Just like me.
I bet she never thought she’d be quoted in a spiritual blog. There’s a first time for everything…even for you; Debbie Harry.

Tell me about a big turnaround in your life. I’d love to hear about it.

Xox

As I write this, I can feel the soft, cool underbelly of the big, older dog snoozing on my feet.
The puppy appears to be asleep except her eyebrows give her away. They signal that she is following my every move. She is plotting another caper and is patiently waiting for me to quit writing, get up, and leave.

“Everything that falls on the floor is MINE!”

That is their credo, their theme song, and the canine unspoken agreement.
If I’d let them get tattoos, that’s what they’d say.
But that statement gives ME a pit in my stomach. It sparks a crusty, old, unkind memory that hits me like a sucker punch.

“Everything that falls on the floor is MINE!”, is a quote is from the cover of a book about dogs.
It’s kinda funny, but it got me to feeling and thinking, which makes me run to start writing. Isn’t it weird how something as innocuous as the title of a dog book can trigger an emotion?

“Everything that falls on the floor is MINE!”
That is a declaration of ownership of…the scraps.
The stuff that is tainted enough that it isn’t fit for public consumption.
It can’t even pass the five-second rule.
Most likely the crap on the floor came off the bottom of someone’s shoe — literally.

“I call it! It’s mine!” That’s fine for Fido, but not for us.

“Everything that falls on the floor is MINE!”
It is the cover page and the first rule in the Dog’s Life Handbook.
Not ours. Our first rule is “Call Your Mother.”

But what about us? How many times have you and I settled for the scraps in life?
From the blouse at Target that is marked down to 99 cents but is missing a button, (which as much as we say we’re going to—we never replace), to accepting pity sex from your ex-boyfriend?

That shitty “bridge” job that was just supposed to get you through the summer?
What happened? It’s five years later, why are you still there?

I’ve been so broke I have lived off scraps. Specifically, days of leftovers salvaged from one meal or my sister’s “doggie bag” from El Toritos. The irony of the name does not escape me.

I drove a piece of shit car that wanted nothing more in its life than to shimmy sideways.

I’ve also settled for the scraps of affection thrown to me in a dying relationship.
I’ve been seated at the table. I’ve enjoyed the love feast. But when I sensed the end, I did not push away and say my goodbyes with dignity. I dove for the scraps.
Ouch. Oh, hi Fido, funny to see you down here.

I have pretty healthy self-esteem, but there have been some glaring lapses.
I wasn’t alone. Gwen Stefani of the band No Doubt had a hit song “Bath Water” during that time.
Part of the chorus being: ‘Cause I still love to wash in your old bath water, Love to think that you couldn’t love another, Share a toothbrush….you’re my kind of man.’  UGH.

At a certain point, I’m gonna say around my mid thirties, I said: no more scraps.
And I meant it.

No more second-hand clothes, no more beat up chairs-full-of-promise fished out of dumpsters. Enough of the stuff left on the curb because it didn’t make the cut at the neighborhood yard sale. Enough of the sloppy seconds from lovers. I was finished being broke, I was done with settling.
I deserved better than that. I deserved the best.
The best love.
The best life.
The best-made plans.

“Everything that falls on the floor is MINE!”
That is my dog’s credo, I’m clear about that now and they can have it.

Tell me, have you ever settled for the scraps?

Carry on,

Xox

We first met on December 18, 2000. Then he died. On this, the nineteenth anniversary of our first blind date here’s a recounting of just what happened from back in 2014. This is our very personal Christmas miracle.

“Life is a dream walking. Death is going home.” – Chinese proverb

He died for a minute and 56 seconds. His heart stopped and his breathing ceased. I’d just say 2 minutes, but hospitals and doctors are exact. They are to-the-second precise. So, when he tells the tale; he died for a minute and 56 seconds, because four seconds more would be way too long.
Just writing this makes my eyes well up.

He…is my husband.

In December of 2000 he contracted bacterial spinal meningitis on an airplane. Or as I now call them, flying, metallic, germ delivery systems.
He’s a car guy, often referred to as a gear head. That second week of December he took a one-way flight from LA to Houston to look at a car, which he then purchased and drove back with a buddy. Trouble was, he boarded that flight with a bad head cold. It was mid-December, everyone’s sick with something around the holidays. Right?
As luck would have it, that was just the route an opportunistic virus used to infect him. The meningitis rode in, like a sinister villain in a spaghetti western, on the back of streptococcus pneumonia. Once the pneumonia had chewed up his lungs, to the point where they resembled snowflakes, all the meningitis had to do was dismount, and stroll on in.

Meningitis is a jerk.

He’s a fragile, lazy, coward of a virus. If everything isn’t just so, he takes his badass self and leaves town. But pneumonia is efficient and the path had been prepared, so he set up camp in my husband’s lungs.

Three days after he got back to LA, as pneumonia went about doing its dirty work, he felt pretty lousy. Meanwhile, meningitis was still lurking in the shadows. He felt lethargic. By then he was probably running a fever, but men don’t check that stuff. He just got out of bed, showered and dressed. He had plans that night.
He had arranged a blind date with someone who was recommended by a friend’s girlfriend. She sounded…intriguing. And she had big boobs. Yep, he was just that shallow.

That someone was me.

The blind date story is epic and meant for another day. We got married nine months later, so I’m gonna say it went pretty well.

I’ve always been fascinated by near-death experiences (NDE’s.) Now I live with someone who’s had one and he’d be the first to tell you, it profoundly changed him, it set him free.

Two days after our first date, he drove the new car up to San Jose, with his dog, to celebrate the Christmas holidays with his younger brother, his wife and their two young kids.
He was driving five hours to cook the Christmas bird.

If a turkey is involved you drop everything and call my husband. He is the turkey Whisperer. THE turkey cooker extraordinaire. The next morning he did all the prep, in between long stints in bed. He was trashed, feeling sicker with each passing hour and had developed the headache from hell. Now, he figured, he had a hell of a bad flu bug.

I will remind you, my husband is a BIG guy. He’s 6’3″ 230 lbs of big handsome, and that helped save his life.
When he makes a promise, he keeps it. It’s one of the things I admire about him, and damn it, he cooked that turkey. From his sickbed, even though he never had a bite.

The next day he got out of bed once and collapsed. The paramedics were called and he was rushed to a local teaching hospital that was affiliated with Stanford.

During transport, the paramedics called him Ralph. “Stay with us Ralph. Any pain Ralph?” My husband’s name is Raphael. I’ve been told they do that to piss you off and keep you conscious and talking. It worked. “My name is Raphael” he kept correcting them.
Genius.
But it was short-lived.
His brother told the doctor all he knew, that Raphael had complained of a terrible headache and the flu. He used to have migraines but this was different. The ER was about to send him home with migraine meds, but his brother refused. He’d never seen Raphael that ill. HE really saved his brother’s life.

Just about that time, it ceased to matter. His blood test came back with an astronomical white cell count, and he had gone into a coma. Now suspecting meningitis, they did a spinal tap. So normally our spinal fluid is clear and under pressure. Normal is: 70 – 180 mm H20, his reading was over 400 and the fluid was thick and black, like oil. As the story goes, it was right about this point in the evening where he flat-lined. After they brought him back, they wrote TERMINAL on his chart, pumped him full of morphine and wheeled him into a room to die.

It was during this time that Raphael remembers a foggy, all-white environment, no walls, ceiling or floor. He could see all sides at once. The best thing was, he was out of pain, his head no longer hurt.

He was looking at three beds which contained three Raphael’s.

The Raphael on the right was saying: I am suffering, why would I stay in this bed, I want to go where it’s peaceful. Where there’s no pain. Pointing at a bright white tunnel.
He represented the physical self.

The Raphael in the bed on the left said: Go ahead and go! Quit complaining. That’s fine, it really affects no one except those that are left behind. He represented the intellectual self.

The Raphael in the middle was the observer. He just listened to the two others arguing. He just WAS. No attachment. He represented the soul.

That white tunnel was the path home. It was a silent, pain-free, deliciously peaceful place where he wanted to stay forever.
But they started his heart and he came back.

That night a female doctor very much like Dr. House from TV, took a look at his chart. She specialized in ONLY terminal cases. Since it was a teaching hospital, she was allowed to literally throw everything in her extensive medical arsenal at these patients, searching for a cure. It was equal parts medicine, alchemy, and wishful thinking. She did everything she could, then she just handed it over to a higher power. Her success rate was 3%. I know, calm down, they were terminal after all.

It was the fight of his life and he was on the ropes. At that point, his size was the only thing saving him.

By that time the hospital had reported their diagnosis of bacterial meningitis to the CDC. Thirteen people from his flight to Houston had come down with it, four had died. Raphael’s brother was told to get his whole young family tested. It was a stressful, scary time.

I remember hearing it on the news. It struck me because one of the women who died was my age at the time, 43. Shit. I have to get on a plane in five days, I worried.

Since he was away, I had no idea he was even sick. We only had our one blind date, with a promise of a second on December 28th. He never showed. I called twice, which was only mildly desperate, and both times his cellphone went right to message. So I left for New Year’s Eve in Miami. When I didn’t hear from him by the end of the first week of January I told my friends, “He better be abducted by aliens or dead by the side of the road, because those are the only two excuses I’ll accept.”

Yikes! We still laugh about that.

His medical file is as thick as a phone book with the lists of drugs and scans his doctor administered that first night. There is even a straight jacket included. She did say he put up a hell of a fight to live. Apparently so.
By the middle of the second day of her treatment, he was slightly improved. She determined he would live, but he’d be a vegetable from the cerebral fluid pressure and its horrible condition.
No brain could never recover from that.

His family, his siblings, who were all now at the hospital, looked at each other to determine who would care for him and for how many months.

A couple of days later, with the determined doctor holding one hand, one of his sisters holding the other, he woke up. Just like that.

Startled, the doctor shooed everyone out of the room and started asking him questions, which he answered…perfectly…in detail. Not just, What’s your name? But since he’s an architect, and French, she quizzed him on the architectural intricacies of the Pompidou Centre, even speaking French with him. It was evident he could see her, he could hear her, and he was still his whip-smart self. THAT she could never explain. She considered him a miracle. Everyone at the hospital did. Honestly.

Finally, he asked what day it was. When he found out it was January, he said: I have to call Janet. For those standing around him, some doubt set in, because no one had heard of any Janet. They thought he had an imaginary friend. Uh oh, brain damage.

Nope, apparently, infatuation survives near death. I love that part of the story. It’s like a movie.

He remembers dying as easy, with nothing to fear.
He recalls that he had a decision to make, and either way everything was going to be okay.
Afterword, all the outpouring of love, together with the morphine, broke open his heart—and he was a changed man.

Luckily, he decided to stay and give me a second date, and for that, I am forever grateful.

Happy nineteen years baby! I love you.

Carry on,
Xox