I'm feeling a little sorry for myself right now.

 A little lonely, a little sad, mostly about relationships that have ended, one that I have been nurturing in my own mind for over 3 decades.

So I called dear Karl, one of my favorite buyers of real estate. I've learned a lot from Karl and I admire him very much.  He does some sort of social work and he houses, in his own home, people who need care.

We looked at lots of places. We met some interesting animals including a pig that we posed with and a dog who attacked me. Karl loved them all and wanted to buy each one, instantly. He showed his parents a couple of them and they totally said no and withdrew their financial support from his dream. He let it go for that summer and saved up enough of his own money to proceed without the help of his parents. 

He struggled a bit with the decision in the end and my comment about the darling house under contract was, "You can pay that much for a car."

Done. He loves it and has made many excellent improvements. 

Turns out it was a great call for Karl, too. I'll ask his permission before I relay any of what he said, but I think we were both helped by my call. 

 Then I talked to Ruby, George, Bobbi, Joan, Sue, Beth and the vets office. I have an appointment with Dr. Neil Story to examine an abandoned dog that someone else may not be able to keep.  He is the perfect size and so handsome, plus he is two years old. I know it's a little soon to get a dog what with more chemo coming, but the doctor said walking is the best revenge. And I had no reactions  or symptoms of nausea or pain in the first round of the aborted cycle. So maybe a dog now is a perfect timing. 

Andy and I'd been talking about a dog: he wanted a pure Daschound and I want a doxy mix. I'm sort of surprised we never got a call from the ASPCA, where we registered for one of 71 Daschounds that had been rescued this "spring".

Connie thought I was doing fine

Because my blog seemed so easy breezy.
 I  haven't been writing about an especially difficult part of my life since my relationship is private. But Andy did make it public during my surgery by telling the kids, my sisters and three very good, old friends about our separating. I spent much of the weekend following surgery mourning the death of my family. Even though I am  grateful to be alone, I do feel very sad about the end of an era. And actually I think our family will be better for our separation, especially because there will be no tension during family get-togethers For some reason during my four-day stay at the hospital last weekend, I had a psych evaluation. The psychiatrist said it was about my scratching and letting germs enter my body, risking another infection. Andy told me it's because the nurses thought I am crazy.
After talking to me, Bambi and Becky, the psychiatrist told me she thought I am very resilient. I agree.
 But it is lucky this Evaluation happened before I caused a little panic in my sick ward. I left the premises, which the nurses knew. But they never expected me to be out for three hours. They called the plastic surgeon and hospital security. Dr. Liao called Andy and Blake and missing persons at the Police Department (I think he was really joking about that). I had dinner with Pat and Laura at the Liberty Hotel next-door. I did have a vodka, for which the nurse was grateful I was truthful. I was no longer on pain medication and they told me it was fine to have a drink then.

Dexter and I got two parakeets

When the kids were young, we had a little Flockette of birds, which flew around freely inside. One lovebird just loved perching on Macci's glasses.  One got shut in a kitchen drawer for a while. Fortunately we heard her and got her out. Every once in a while I run across and chewed book cover and have a warm feeling.
We visited a bird breeder in Florida who happened to be great uncle Chuck and aunt Janet's gardener.  I think Elizabeth was her name and she and her boyfriend raised birds and bonsai's. The only problem with their business was that they were not willing to sell the birds. We were very fortunate that she trusted us and shipped a very rare bird, I think it was a Sun Conure, to Blake.
One of the most tragic incidences in my life was the day Grey died.  Grey was a wonderful cockatiel. Blake reached me on the phone as I was boarding a plane home from burying great aunt Janet. I had been fortunate enough to be able to say goodbye to her at the hospital and spend several days holding Chuck's hand, making it through the cremation and service and sobbing.
When Blake told me that Grey was dead, I didn't know who he was talking about. But once I grasped the situation and the depth of his pain, I had to tell someone. So a very wonderful stewardess heard my tale of woe and brought me boxes of Kleenex.
Eventually we merged our little flock with the Reynolds' birds, at their house. The birds must've most enjoyed showering with the girls.
Truth be told, Andy was not nearly as enamored with the birds as the kids and I were. Their poop bothered him more than us. And he didn't really like their talking all the time.  So he was never very receptive to my suggestion that we start a new flock, just one bird, please.
But now that he is moving to South Carolina, he won't be bothered.
First, before buying anything, I checked with the  Reynolds to see if they had any unwanted adoptees.  Birds live a long time. Parrots can live up to 125 years and parakeets up to 20 years. So I thought maybe we could get one of our beloved's back, to no avail. The bird vet in Littleton listed no bird in need of a new home.
So Dexter and I went to the Petco where we know the employees are experts and animal lovers.
We chose the two parakeets that acted least afraid as Dexter did everything in his power to scratch through that glass tower.  I named the pure white one Cloud, after my grandfather, and the bright yellow green one Sunshine, which my beloved great aunt Janet used to call me. 

The next morning I took off the cover and I said, "good morning Sunshine," and a memory popped into my mind. My mother used to wake me up I saying, "Good morning Sunshine" in her cheeriest voice ever.  Of course it drove me wild every time she did it, but yesterday I felt connected to her once again, with love and tears.
So I changed Cloud's name to Mooncloud because I want to be able to also say, "Good Night Moon."

I Relived

Definition is complicated, mostly I lived through another operation.
Mom would've definitely defended that word. In Scrabble she once used re-fart, saying if you could do it once, you could redo it. She, who always claimed she never farted, no really. She had very specific rules about any game she played, suited to her need at any moment. I never played Scrabble with her. Not only was she a little too competitive for my delicate little self, but she was brilliant at making multiple words, in many directions, with the insertion of one Tile.  And those damned 2 letter words. Dad and Mom played Scrabble often. Becky played against Mom often. But it wasn't really that I was too delicate a soul, it was that I was far too competitive and combative to deal with her foibles.
Actually one of the proudest days of my Scrabble life came after Mom died. For my 60th birthday Dad took me to Churchill, Manitoba to see the polar bears. One cocktail hour, we played a game of Scrabble on the table between our beds, while watching an Eskimo ceremony in the cold courtyard. I beat him. He didn't mind a bit and we discussed no rules and made no challenges. Turns out, Scrabble is a fun game.
Reminds me of the time I beat my first father-in-law in chess. That did not go nearly as well.
BTW, this surgery was much less demanding the double mastectomy. I had been cruising along pretty well, until I looked at the site in the mirror. The pain tripled instantly. Lucky I had another pain pill available.

I tried to pull rank

But it didn't work. Darn it.
My boob seems a lot less red this morning, so I was hoping that the surgery could be called off. I begged the same plastic surgeons, again. I've had the oncologist on speed dial, with no answer yet. Then, the big kahuna walked in to see my roommate who was in the shower. I suspected it was he, lept into attack position, as best I could in bed, asked him directly, "Are you Jay?" Very charmingly, he reached over my toes and knees, to shake my hand and acknowledged he is. I told him that Ginger had advised me to use him and no one else. Now I was paying the penalty and could he please override Dr. Liao.
"No."

Today was one of the best days of my life

It's just not ending all that well. I spent the day with Demi and Paula, two of my dearest friends from Wells.  Huge bonus was seeing Paula's son Jon and his son Daniel. A cracked windshield lead to Jon volunteering to chaufeur his mom to our date. It felt so wonderful to hold a baby again. I brought a croissant doughnut from Dunkin' Donuts, betting cash money, that neither paula nor Demi would know what it was. I was correct, but of course, Jon knew and blurted out Cronut.
I complained about it costing $2.50 and he told us that in Brooklyn the original Cronut costs over $8 apiece, and there are lines of people around the block waiting to buy them.
We toured West Concord where Demi and Rob are planning to move temporarily. What an up-and-coming, hip community. Great lunch overlooking river, followed by tour of artful stone masonry and custom boat and tiny house builders (I have a Pinterest section called tiny houses, but I think our experiment in that department has pretty much failed. My goal was to have the slate clean and empty space. But we are failures. We apparently need a junk room to throw all the crap when somebody comes over.)
Went back to Demi's and played beggars whist for a few hours with lots of conversation and laughs. Twas rush-hour by the time I left so I drove through my old town of Weston and dropped in on Sue, whom I had not seen a number of years. We were both thrilled by our reunion, once she realized who that tall bald guy in her garden was.  Then I drove by Alric and his wife, another Sue jogging with their puggles, but had no chance to stop and say hi to another set of neglected beloveds. Toured the outside of the new elementary school. Then I skulked into the old folks home (I didn't want the evil manager to see me) to visit Frank, whom I wasn't completely convinced remembered who I am.
Picked up our favorite Chinese, called Andy to tell him I was still alive and was bringing dinner home, all good news as far as he was concerned.
Then I asked him if my right breast looked red and swollen. we debated that and photographed it and talked to the plastic surgeon on call, emailed the photos  and finally made it into Mass General emergency room. Bottom line, I'm having the right breast implant removed at the crack of dawn. That means more drains, no cat, probably a delay in my chemo. I'm second-guessing myself slightly, as I was in the same emergency room for pain in my chest on Monday night. Then I missed my Wednesday appointment with my GP. Maybe he could've caught it earlier and killed the infection.
Delaying the chemo may actually work out for the better in terms of my 50th high school reunion! It's booked for May 14-17. Fingers crossed.
Otherwise a perfect day, one of the highlights of my life.

Maureen's other breast is fine.

Thank god! I am thrilled for her.
I did happen to meet another recipient of one of Vinny's famous nipples, which Stacy calls her Titty-Tat.
Stacy Frey is a newscaster and morning show host on the local Fox station in Cleveland Ohio. She's an amazing friend of Bobbi's beloved in-laws, whose wonderful 20-year-old son died. We met in Columbus, Ohio at the funeral.
Stacey noticed a wrinkle in her breast and immediately went to her first mammogram in her early 40s. It was a lump that required a lumpectomy, but she chose to have a mastectomy and remove the whole breast. Of course she wanted to share her story on air and documented her journey. Not sure how she found Vinny in Baltimore when she's based in Cleveland, but so she did. Her nipple is as exquisite as is Maureen's. Vinny did a little touch up on her other nipple which had gotten a little stretched out of shape when she added a little volume to that breast.
Did I mention that Vinny is the artist who did Maureen's originally? He is a true tattoo artist and was getting a little tired of doing only nipples and announced his retirement. Not half an hour later his sister called to say that she had just been diagnosed with breast cancer. Cancel that retirement letter. Nipple art seems to be my destiny. He travels around the world to do his magic on women everywhere.
Maureen had her reconstruction during the mastectomy. It required a tummy-tuck, removing the fat that would be used in the breast. Stacy had her breast removed and had sacks inserted at that time, one in each breast. Those sacks required filling and gradual stretching of the skin, quite a painful process. Stacey had no chemo nor radiation.
Erica was my visiting nurse, who came to see me at least eight times post surgery, was a great comfort. She took my vital signs every time and commented on how well everything was healing. She agreed with me that it sounded like I had the best of all possible reconstructions available. No skin stretching. Tell me talk.  No multiple procedures.
As happy as I was originally with the reconstructed breasts, I am no longer as thrilled. I might've made a mistake at the plastic surgeons after he told me I didn't ever need to wear a bra again, of throwing away the support contraption issued by him. My boobs were certainly tired out within two days. Those muscles weren't  ready to support all that weight. And Stacy taught me something horrible I can do with my muscles holding up my boobs.
Back in Cleveland playing baggers whist with just us girls, Judy and Jane, we had lots of giggles over my dancing breasts. I bolted town before the final packing of  the moving van and came home to rest up for my next round of chemo.
I was feeling quite anxious about it really because of the nausea factor and it being the more intense AC treatment. But my nurse George said that his goal was to have me feel no nausea. And I have not, neither at the onset of the injections nor the following 48 hours.
Becky came to town yesterday, my birthday, and drove me immediately to MGH for neo-something injection.  I was supposed to be able to do it at home, but that would've cost me $4000, where as going to the hospital was covered by my insurance. We took the time to find the healing Garden which is just absolutely beautiful and can be used both in the winter and in the summer at MGH. We did get home a little later than planned and George and Katie and her sister Michelle had already arrived for 3 o'clock lunch. I don't think we ate until after five. Beckett prepare and the most magnificent and beautiful meal 98% of which George could eat. Who would've ever dreamt that beans and onions would look so beautiful in a nest of kale. And the pixie nectarines were  to die for and the pickled onions were heavenly.
The kids brought me a wonderful plant with it's own Little Blossom already poking out. Becky brought a treasure trove of goodies including a six pack of toilet paper, which my friend Andrea will be thrilled to hear about.
After the kids left and Andy dozed off Becky and I played gin rummy for an hour or so, the end of a perfect day for me.
Though I'm missed a few birthday calls, I did talk to a number of people yesterday.
 

I Made Them Do It

Look at my reconstructed breasts.
I don't know why I wanted my Friday bridge group to see them. I tried to get them to look last Friday, but they refused, as we were sitting at the dining table at the Hyannis Yacht Club when I offered.
They, my breasts, are amazing (as are my friends), sealed underneath that square of saran wrap, which has been covering and supporting them for a month, tomorrow.
Hopefully that saran wrap type stuff will come off Thursday. And I hope that it has done a lot to shove much of my boob into my armpit. If not, I may have to ask for a redo. God no, I would never do that again. But I will be able to have some fat lyposuctioned out of me somewhere and injected into the depressions where the drains were. And apparently Medicare will also pay for new nipples.
Becky and I talked about losing our breasts. She's four years out from her double mastectomy and chose no reconstruction. Eventually she found that she felt more comfortable wearing a slightly padded bra, just to look and feel a little less different from her old self. She's an amazing writer and did a piece about her feelings after her surgery. I remember a description of her swimming, with the different feeling of the displacement of water.
I'm not sure she does it so much now, but Becky did touch her chest a lot at the beginning. I find I am constantly doing the same.
Hers was a major loss and void. Mine, on the other hand, though sort of a loss, it's actually a major improvement. I can now actually pass the pencil test. These new breasts feel about the same size and weight as my old ones, so there is no empty space. I feel feminine and sexy.
After I pulled my shirt back down and everyone had exclaimed over my new breasts, Maureen invited me into another room to see her trompe l'oeil nipple. It really is amazing, the same color and size as her natural one. She often forgets that she has one reconstructed breast and has to think a moment about which one it is.
During bridge, Maureen got a call that  there is something happening in her natural breast that the radiologist wants to examine further. She has to return for additional mammograms.
Oh God!
The dread of what is to come can be overwhelming.
I met with all of the doctors on my team last week and got a feeling for what is to come.
On April 10, I will begin a new round of chemotherapy, AC, four doses every other week. I filled prescriptions for 3 antinausea medications. Writing this is making me quite anxious.
A month or so off and then six weeks of radiation every day.
Then a year of Herceptin infusions, every other week or so, I think. At some point I'm going to have to give myself injections, when I cannot recall.
Maureen and I will be there for each other.

Talk About Stupid Living

That's what Dad said about living at deluxe, first-class, Judson Retirement Home, whose motto is "Smart living". 

Primary example is a battle he lost: he suggested that a Porte-cochère be added to the main entrance. It is the front door to the community center and main entrance to many living units along one half mile of hallways, in 5 buildings, connected by enclosed bridges. I could check with my sisters to see how far from a car drop-off-point to the front door it is, maybe 30 or 40 feet. But it's a long hike, on a walker, uncovered, in inclement, Northern Ohio, Lake effect, weather, unheated sidewalk, up a sloping, for handicap access, walkway. 

Now that is stupid living.
He got drawings and estimates from contractors to cover it. He kept meeting resistance, so he kept streamlining the design, shortening the walkway, reducing the costs, all with no success.
A couple of successful improvements he got implemented, include: blinds that could be lowered against the setting, blazing sun in the dining room, translucent so you can eat dinner without dying of sunstroke and could still see the wonderful view across the pond (he had numerous water lilies planted in that pond, at his own expense); covering an outdoor dining area and adding similar blinds to that sitting area, allowing diners to enjoy that same Northern Ohio weather and nearly doubling the capacity of the restaurant for half the year; convincing the management to leave open the doors at the entrances and exits to those enclosed bridges, because once you pushed the automatic-opening button you had to leap back three or four steps so you didn't get bonked by the opening door.

He was working on an individual apartment-unit humidifying system, which Judson did not include when building this huge complex. On a personal level, he had the legs to his loveseats lengthened so that he and his friends could get in and out of them still. 

You get the gist.
Today at Mass General, I had a couple drains removed, half actually, one from each side and was commissioned a compression bra. It was quite a complicated process as the doctor rejected the original one the nurse had left for me. It was an 3X, which, thank God, he thought was going to be way too big for me. So she brought back an XL, which he thought would be the correct size. Well that didn't go around my rib cage so she tried the 2X next, which also didn't reach around my rib cage. So she had to finally get the 3X, which does fit the rib cage, but does nothing to compress the reconstructed breasts. 

I've already thought of ways to modify the bras:
Velcro extenders for the rib cage; inflatable packets or just extra pads for the cups; Velcro tabs to reduce the size of the individual cups.
Velcro is everywhere else. I mentioned the rib cage, but it also extends up to the bottom of the clavicle. Plus there's Velcro to adjust the length of the straps, which makes me look like a relative of the hunchback of Notre Dame.
This is MGH, a premier hospital in the world. The doctor doesn't know he's issuing me a non-compressing bra?
I'm impressed with the doctor, but the systems are pretty inadequate at MGH, at least some of them. Another instance: I was issued the "Jackie" and a lanyard.
First thing the doctor said today is don't use lanyard, it holds those bulbs far too high for you. They don't drain properly. He didn't know they were still issuing them with the Jackie's, of which he has a higher opinion. What the F? I switched to the lanyard for most of the last 10 days of recovery.
By the way, the other thing that he criticized was my placing the clutch of bulbs on my clavicle. Don't put anything on your chest. 

You're moving too fast. Move like a sloth. 

That almost is unimaginable to me. Though slothful in some ways, motion is not one of them. The worst news is that means that I can't drive yet and I can't get Dexter back tonight as planned.
Later, Demi and Rob dropped over and brought soup and chocolate. She's just gone through the same thing and has a cute short hairdo growing back in now. The worst thing she told me was her toenails just fell off. Mine are turning black and I look forward to what else they'll do. 

I decided to call the plastic surgeon to let him know the bra is not compressing anything but my ribs. His assistant Rachel told me to go buy something, dammit, available in the "as seen on TV " section at Target. It's a sports bra that comes in different sizes and will actually do the job. Bed Bath and Beyond also sells it and maybe Walmart. 

Yes, other people have had the same issue.

Probably Medicare doesn't want to pay for adjustable bras. 

So much for my revolutionary ideas.

I'm going out of my fucking mind

. It's going on 4 AM and I still haven't been able to sleep and my arms are so itchy that I want to rip my skin off.

I've taken a lot of pills starting around 8:30, my regular doses including one oxycodone , 2 antihistamines, followed later by a sleeping pill and then one more antihistamine, followed by another and my tranquilizer. I took an oatmeal bath, up to my waist, bent over forward, soaking my arms.

My sleep pattern have been stabilized for years really.  I take an SSRT, which allows me to sleep through the night. Miraculous change, made over 20 years ago. 

If I do have trouble sleeping, I make a point of not checking the time. But somehow I happened to see Andy's electric red clock numerals just a few minutes ago. Knowing the time makes it doubly difficult to fall asleep.

Reading in the middle of the night is usually quite relaxing, allowing me to doze off.

I finished The Art Forger around 11:30 tonight and I am nearly halfway through rereading it. It's about a young woman who is hired to forge a Degas, stolen from the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum. 

My college major was History of Art and my thesis was about the art of forgery or something like that. I wrote it in my dorm, the Victorian house of Henry Wells, of Wells Fargo fame. Of course, all my research had to take place in the library, where I took notes on 4 x 6 index cards. I then arranged those cards in the order I wanted to discuss my examples. I commandeered the lovely sun room overlooking Lake Cayouga by setting up my Smith Corona manual typewriter on the library table. Then I inserted the main page sheet of white paper, a piece of carbon and a second white page. And typed my thesis directly from those note cards. No drafts, just my final version. 

Any typo in that situation was a real bitch. I even think we had no white out back then. 

And then, just outside the sunroom was a bench with Donna Hakki making out with her future husband, every minute of the day and the night. The thesis was pretty well received and I've always been interested in the technical side of forgery.

I'm boring myself to sleep! Eyelids are getting heavy and I'm yawning.

I guess it's a good sign that itching is now once again my main problem. Now I can hardly wait for my post-op appointment on Thursday, when some of the drains maybe pulled. And maybe my shrunk wrapped reconstructions can be let loose. 

My plan is to tatoo them, not with fake nipples, but with a mermaid's bra. I think I found the artist I want to create the drawing and execute it. He's a Taiwanese guy named Andy Shou. He travels to the United States periodically. 

Good night. 

My Little Clutch

Yesterday I saw an adorable photograph of an Irish Setter nursing maybe 10 or 12 of 16 her pups, all collared in different colors, triggering all of my mothering instincts. 

We are going to get a dog shortly. And I can hardly wait.

We had to get rid of Dexter for a little while because he sometimes likes to leap onto my chest when I'm lying down. That would be quite painful at this point. So he's off on a vacation with his sisters/cousins Addy and Molly. Word is that he caught a mouse this morning and he has become Anna's hero, followed closely by Blake who transferred the mouse to the dumpster.

Pixiebobs are marketed as a dogs in a cat suit and he is, in many ways. But he really is pretty much a cat in his terms of his personal interactions. Very unsatisfactory in fact. I want a cuddle buddy. I have to be grateful for every second that he deigns to spend within touching distance.

So back to getting the doggie. I am ready to pull the trigger.

When I woke up this morning to race to the bathroom, I gathered my clutch of drainage bulbs, reminding me of that litter of puppies. 

And of the popular high school project that involves a student taking care of the raw egg every minute of the day and night for several weeks in preparation for having a baby. It's supposed to be a deterrent to teenage pregnancies. Seems like it would have to be something more irritating than an egg to be effective.

Drainage bulbs? You ask. You probably shouldn't have. The first time I saw drainage bulbs was when my parents had their back-to-back facelifts. Dangling from their bandaged skulls like gigantic earrings, were clear bulbs at the end of clear tubes. Not too bad, you say. The effect was complemented by what was flowing out of their heads into those tubes to puddle in those bulbs. The colors! All hot, ranging from bright red through the oranges to the most interesting yellows. And the viscosity. Yuck! Then the surgeon told my mother had never seen anything like it. Pretty reassuring, huh?

Rather than earrings, I'm wearing four bulbs, which could look like a clutch of ostrich eggs when cradled. Or maybe emu eggs, a little bit smaller than ostrich eggs. The bulbs are at the end of tubes that are about 2 feet long. If not supported, they would tug at the exit wounds at the base of my reconstructed breasts. 

A lot of people have thought about that and when I left MGH I was issued a "Jackie". It is a jacket that is easy access, meaning that the arms and sides are closed using Velcro squares (unsolicited, I mentioned that circles would be a hell of a lot less painful than those corners on the squares). The jacket has buttons down the front and many pockets inside to hold the bulbs. Jackie also came with a lanyard, bright pink, with green paisley ribbon, almost Lilly Pulitzer. Jackie herself it's really hideous, though the dull blue, pilling fabric is quite soft. I, it must be obvious to you, have switched to using the lanyard. Instead of four independent creatures, I have a pod with curling tentacles centered around my belly button. 

That's a Good Question

Barbara and Ed brought us an amazing brunch today.
Ed asked me what I was afraid of, having read this blog I assume. I told him I didn't really know. But I have figured it out.
Being without my Dad.
I wanted to talk about Dad all afternoon, to have Ed read his obituary to know what an amazing person he was. I even offered to share his genes with their daughter, through one of my cousins. OMG! I am really still off my rocker. I'm gonna blame it on the drugs, though I'm pretty much weaned off of them.
For me, this was a really bad time for Dad to die.
Bambi told me last week that she never went to dad in a crisis. She couldn't think of any crisis she had gone through. Becky and I were talking about it today and we did come up with one crisis, when she fell through skylight at Beloit College and broke her back. Dad did not go to her. Instead he was calming down his hysterical female household, which was getting ready for its first wedding, of its first daughter. You remember that walk around Shaker Lake.
He did arrange for his sister to pick her up in Wisconsin and drive her, in the back of the station wagon, lying flat on her back, to Cleveland. She was the star of the wedding, lying, in her bridesmaids dress, on an ambulance stretcher, raised to its full height, at the front of the church. I guess that same ambulance drove her out to the Country Club for the reception. There is a great photo of me and my now ex-husband posing with her while she is lying down, smoking. We do know that we rolled her out onto the porch behind the fireplace where the wedding party was seated and that fortunately somebody remembered to bring her inside before for she froze to death on that cold January night.
That is the same fireplace in front of which we held Dad's service last Monday. Over 250 people came, despite everyone we knew in the world being down in Florida for the winter. It's whereAdmiral Carr presented to our beloved Jane the flag in honor of Dad's military service. How will she go on?
And it's where we held a reception after my mother's service. The highlight of that evening was fireworks, for her, in January.
In the programs, for both my mom and dad's services, was a quote about a ship sailing away. The gist is that the people on shore wave goodbye until she disappears over the edge of the earth. But someone is on the other side waiting there and saying hello.  The ship is not diminished at all just not visible to us anymore.
The photo below the quote Dad perched atop the seat, at the wheel of a little motorboat, full throttle ahead, hair blowing in the wind as he races toward ????
My heart aches without him.
I scheduled my regular Wednesday bridge for here this coming Wednesday. And I'm looking forward to it. I wish I could tell dad that.

I lived

in my room at MGH. Sore!!!

So much for the gears

It's the afternoon before my surgery.
I want our place to be decent enough for friends to visit.
Last week Blake heled me lower the bed down from the first window ledge into its frame, having given up the idea of mounting the bed 2 feet in the air on the gears. We decided be a little rough to get in to bed climbing on those wobbly stairs after my surgery.
The very best thing about having it on the bedframe is that now I can stash all The Stuff that has not yet found a home under the bed. So much for my clutter free, just clear space, vision.
One example of my inability to realize that vision is I cannot throw away 2 non-working, robotic vacuum cleaners that we own. Maybe they can be fixed. Maybe someone else can use them. 2
I'm on the last leg of neatening up, but over-dosing on tranquilizers isn't helping my cause. They could make me not care how the place looks.

I am about 22 stops past limp biscuit now

In fact, I feel a bit terrified.
I guess Dad's death took a lot out of me.
I've been saying the serenity prayer over and over again, which is my standard prayer: God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can and the wisdom to know the difference.
I also took two lorazepam at 9:15 or so and I just calculated that it been five hours since then so I took another two. Wrong, only 2 hours. Anna says I should be napping shortly.
I felt no fear zip lining or rappelling down 200' last year with George. I felt no fear snorkeling two days after I'd been stung by the second-worst jellyfish in the world. I do feel afraid on the slopes the fist few times down the mountain, but I was never afraid when I broke my leg skiing.
For some reason I am choosing to feel terrified. I don't know why I want to be terrified or why I am choosing it, but I am. Admitting that it is my choice, is giving me a little bit of relief from it. I am taking ownership of the terror, which I guess gives me a little bit of power over it. I can't just tell it to go away. But I don't have to fight it either. By acknowledging that I am choosing the fear, I take responsibility for it, allowing it to leave.
I've tried to share this thinking with many friends over the years, but seem unable to explain it correctly.
I made up this technique over 30 years ago. In NYC, I played paddleball, a street game. Whoever won the game kept the court and took on the next challenger(s). At fairly regular intervals I would argue with my opponents. Screaming in your face, against garbagmen, ex-cons, whomever. Not a healthy way to keep my teeth. So instead of arguing with them I started talking to myself saying: for some reason I want to kill him; I am so fucking angry and don't know why I want to be; for some reason I just want to wring his neck; etc. til the rage passed. I got 99.9% or so of my rage out of me.
I couldn't talk myself into choosing another emotion. I had to accept responsibility for it and let it out.
The terror has subsided, for now. I can feel a little calm poking its nose out.

Dexter pulls another fast one

Blake, Anna, George and Katie rented a van to go to Dad's funeral and they graciously included Andy and Dexter. I flew out a few days early and back a few days late so that I could have that time with my sisters. They made record time getting back to Boston, pulled up behind Andy's car and started unloading. In the meantime Dexter locked the van which was fortunately still running. Calls for help lead to the promise of someone arriving in the next hour and a half or so. In the meantime Anna coaxed Dexter over to the switches and got him to step in the right place to open the doors. I happened to be on the telephone with Andy when that happened and I could hear Anna's screams of joy. Life is never dull with Dexter. He's going to stay with Anna and Blake and Addie and Molly after my surgery so he won't be jumping on my chest, which would be agonizing I'm sure.

Limp Biscuit

That pretty much describes how I feel right now. I have gone through a million emotions in the last week.

It's hard for me to believe that my dad is really gone. 

He was my Touchstone. 

If I can find it, maybe I'll print what I said at his service. We all learned a lot from the other speakers at the service. One teenage boy, who travelled from out of town over Christmas to see Dad, was sobbing after the service. He touched so many lives in amazing positive ways. 

I really sobbed when I said goodbye to his fiancée Jane, wondering how she will fill the very huge, new hole in her life. 

I fear that my relationship with my sisters may falter without Dad as the magnet that draws us together. Blake thinks things will go on as usual. 

My double mastectomy is on Monday. The operation seems overwhelming and scary. 

Becky has offered to take care of me at her house, with Andy staying in the guest garage. 

Jane may come later and take care of me for a little while I'm recuperating. 

Ginger has also offered to turn her home into a rehab facility for me. I might laugh too hard and hurt myself though. 

Tomorrow, 3 of George's friends are taking me out to lunch, just to wish me all the best before the slicing and dicing begins. 

Gay traded days to be with Andy in the waiting room at MGH. Anna is taking a day off work to be with me. 

How blessed can any one person be? I am so grateful to my friends and family. 

There is one last message on my phone from Dad, telling me how sorry he is for what I'm going through. It is wonderful to have the key to unlock the floodgates, to hear his concern and love. 

Dad's Death is Still Not Real

My last entry was on his birthday. I still believe I can pick up the phone and reach him. I have dozens of questions that I want to ask him.
My sisters and I have have been communicating a little bit about what we will each say at his service, one week from today. I guess the big concern is that we not duplicate anything. One of the most glaring differences I've noticed was in Bobbi's notes. She claims that Dad referred us to the encyclopedia whenever we had a big question. I already mentioned that I called him Mr. Google long before the internet was ever thought of .
I've been searching through some photos of Dad for the cover of the funeral program. His various expressions bring back actuals stories, some specific characteristics. I think we will use this one, severely cropped:

It was taken in Churchill, Manitoba, where he took me for my 60th birthday to see the Polar Bears. This plane crashed years before we got there, but embodies the thrill of the adventure. It is the only trip I have taken alone with him. What a joy. Dad planned the trip, eschewing group tours. Mom usually scheduled all travel with little left unscheduled. Dad wanted a little looser experiences, so without first night reservations, we spent the night with the "Mayor" of Churchill. Very charming and accommodating couple, who steered us to the all the most important points of interest and the exciting tour across the tundra in a dune buggy to see the bears in situ. That night we went to the "scientific research center" where the Elder Hostel group was cooking and staying. We did eat with them and helped a little with clean up. Dad was very affected by the presentation of a an Eskimo Cree woman, who told her story of being ripped from her parents arms, thrown into dormitories and never allowed to speak her own language again. Her experience shifted his thinking of all the wrongs human beings have committed in this world, hence the photos of the Eskimo children outside his apartment door. After dinner, we went outside to watch the Northern Lights, guarded by men with high powered rifles. For some reason, the plane and the armed guards reminded me of what it must have been like in New Guinea for him during WWII.

We did return to Town for the night, played a game of Scrabble, which I won!!!!! I did beat Dad, one of my proudest moments in my life. I never played with my mother for fear of losing. 

Its hard for me to believe that all those synapses in his brilliant brain have stopped communicating with each other. He did know his body was giving out, but couldn't imagine not asking new questions, not designing new solutions for common, silly problems. He had not finished rising what needed fixing.

One of the advantages of being the oldest daughter, is that I am only one that benefitted from the many traditions instituted for us all. Many were not realized for the other 3 girls.  One Christmas, we each got a DVD of us as kids. Becky asked if they were all different. The parents laughed and said , "NO." They are all of Berry.

Another wonderful tradition we began was celebrating the big birthdays for each daughter. My 50th, I think, was in Charleston, well planned by Carly Detwiller and enjoyed by many of my friends and relatives. The next big event combined Bambi and Bobbi's 50th birthdays, in Sante Fe. We had a blast. Something big needs to happen for Becky, maybe for her 70th.

Dad's Friends

Dad told me he had 92 friends who died last year!
I quoted the Cleveland Playhouse and Harvard Business School and Michelle to show some of the breadth of his reach. Wait till you hear about his Play Reading Group. A couple of significant memories of mine include building a radio with him and my sisters. He was Google decades before there was a Google, accompanied by wonderful sketches. He and my mom had the talk with me, telling me how good it would feel when a boy touched my breasts and what a difficult decision I would have to make, over and over again. For my 16th birthday, dad wrote me  20 pages, handwritten, of his thoughts about life and leading a good one. It was he I went to in times of crisis, having to do with school, honesty, health, finances or personal relationships. Sometimes it was really hard because he never got angry. Disappointment was a much more devastating reaction when I let down his high expectations of me. And logic was a very strong hand he played often, telling me it was safer to dive with the sharks than to cross the streets.
A couple of times in my life I was terrified that dad was at the end of his life. But he kept on going for an extra 20 or 30 years. I know it's pretty selfish for a nearly 70-year-old woman to be sad that she is an orphan. But the touchstone of my life is now gone.

Some amazing thoughts about Dad from his former Secretary

I now live in Minneapolis.  I've been here two years.  

My kids flew the nest, I got divorced and I started over.  I met someone from Minneapolis and jumped at the chance to move with him.  

Your Dad was right.  My ex would never change and would always disappoint me.  Bill was a good friend at a time when I had nobody else to tell my sorry story to.  

He was definitely a man that had a lifetime surrounded by women.  He was just a month younger than my dad so, I found his young mind fascinating.  Up until then, I never though much about aging and what the elderly were thinking.  My Dad was very much a mystery.  Your Dad showed me that people of different generations really aren't that much different.  I loved hearing his stories that he would dictate for me to type.  

He sure did love Betty.  It was very sweet how he cared for her.   She was a gem of a woman.  I remember how much she loved her kitty and her generosity to animal charities.   I was surprised when she wanted two kittens!  They were a handful.   

I'm grateful to have known your parents. Although I spent a short amount of time with them, it was a profoundly positive experience.  

I'm glad I got to see him last year.  Best to you and the rest of the family. 

Michelle

Happy Birthday, Dad

---

What the Cleveland Playhouse and Harvard Business School Thinks of Dad

Dear Members of the CPH Board:

I have just received word that Bill Jones passed away last Friday evening after a brief bout of pneumonia.  Bill was a great champion of The Play House, a lover of theatre, and a successful and pragmatic businessman.  He first became involved with CPH sometime in the late 1960s or early 1970s, and was President of the Board from 1982-84.  It was during his time as President that we opened the Bolton Theatre as part of the Philip Johnson-designed expansion, for which he later chaired the “Finish The Theatre Campaign.”  Years later, in 2009, it was Bill that brought the Board Resolution to the floor authorizing our move to Playhouse Square, a move that he felt was the right business decision for us despite his hard work on the property that we were leaving behind.  I last spoke with Bill at a luncheon for former chairs last November organized by Beth Rankin -- his primary concern was that Laura should be sure to produce classic plays along with our repertoire of new work.  Even at 90+ years of age, after nearly 50 years in the CPH family, he was still asking questions and challenging us to be our very best.

Sincerely,

Kevin

Kevin Moore

Managing Director

Cleveland Play House

It is with a great deal of sadness that I send this note to let you know that

Bill Jones passed away on Friday, January 16, 2015.

A memorial service will be held on February 16, 2015 at 4pm at The Country Club.

Bill served as President of the HBS Club in 1969-1970 – was a recipient of the HBS Club of NEO Leadership Award –

Founder of the HBS Club/Jones Award for Excellence in School Management – most recently served as Trustee Emeritus. 

Please keep his family in your thoughts.

Joan McCarthy

HBS Club of NEO

Dad Died

He wasn't ready to die and kept saying, "I have so much to do." But it was quick and he seemed not to suffer. Though he leaves storms of tears in his wake.
Since I got my date for surgery yesterday, it seemed easy enough to settle on just before February 23, for his service. Everyone is very solicitous of me in my weakened condition. I would have a few weeks to recover from chemotherapy before going under the knife.
I thought I didn't need to go to Cleveland now. They are going to write Dad's obituary and I can leave that to them. Just, please, don't list his club memberships. They are going to plan his funeral and Bambi gave me the responsibility of how it will look. I told her I wasn't up to that, unusual for the one who is mentally redecorating everywhere she goes.
But the need to mourn is immediate. Bambi went yesterday, wanting to say goodbye, but did not make it in time. Becky is going this morning and Bobbi arrives tonight. I want to cry with them. And with Jane, whose daily life will be impacted more than anyone else's.
I just told Allison, whose reaction was wonderful. She held Dad on a pedestal and will miss him terribly. I suggested a gathering tonight with the kids, but she thinks George is away. He sobbed when I told him. Blake and Anna have out of town guests.
The once a day, non-stop flight to Cleveland has already gone today. Andy offered to drive me. I can't decide.

Decision Made

Despite hoping and praying for a No Surgery Option, I will have surgery. Neither my surgeon nor oncologist at MGH knows of any study at Dana Farber with no surgery as an option. Katherine Specht recommended a left breast mastectomy. Weighing all the options she laid out, I decided on a double mastectomy with reconstruction (using sacks of liquid) at the same time. The advantages include fewer surgeries, no skin stretching, with instant "evenness".  Not using my own flesh means I can also use the Proton Laser, which is far more accurate than the Photon Laser, keeping my heart safer. I won't need a bra ever again, unless I change my mind at a later date, when my fat can replace the plastic sacks. If I understood correctly, they may be able to save my nipples. But with no sensation, so what's the point? I'd almost rather have a beautiful tattoo than falsies. I forgot to ask her if she could reshape my earlobes. Darn!

Queen for a Day

On the Cape, I have a bridge game scheduled for every Wednesday. So far, I've gotten to 2 of them. The first was at Peg's charming antique house, where I asked if I could sit on the sofa instead of the regular chair. All agreed and sidled the table up to the couch, where I snuggled in the cushions and listed against the arm, conserving my energy for the ride home.
The next week, I arrived first at Jeanne's charming antique house and found our game set up on the wonderful side porch, but with an arm chair for me, making me feel like a queen. I am so grateful for the lovely care dear friends are providing.
And not just for one day.
For the past several months, other acts of kindness have included:
Nora, our dear cleaning lady wouldn't let me pay
Hairdresser Gino wouldn't let my pay OR tip for my haircut, saying, "I don't know how long it will last.'
Ginger brought picnic over on moving day and helped me pack
Danny, Denice and Deb spent days packing. The best project was clearing my balcony of the pots of plants and the rock garden, with tons of dirt and plants. They also recruited an electrician to remove the beloved sail chandelier.
Mark took truckloads of stuff to the new place in Boston.
Connie gave me dishtowel and pink shirt for Chemo
Denise, Deb and Sandy took me to dinner and gave me necklace and earrings.
Sue Carstons made me 2 hats and sent cute socks
Anna directed Blake, George and Katie in the biggest job of the move, getting the Big Green Egg to James and the precious dining set to Boston. On another occasion she installed the sound system while George and I raised the bed to plan the Gear project.
Mary Ann hosted 'Bridge over the Bridge', with bridge contest, lunch and presents (games, pajamas, soaps, nail polish, inspirational readings, tea, handmade mug, special dish for Dexter, hats). Everyone brought frozen dinner for us. We are getting very used to delicious dinners, with no forethought or cleanup. I won the Boobie Prize for lowest score, sad since it was I who taught most of them how to play bridge in the first place.
Mary Ann took me and Sandy to dinner at The Ocean House."
Eddie made up beef stew and clam chowder.
Reenie helped pack.
Gayle made us dinner.
Becky gave me hats and helped with move, built closet system, brought meals, on 2 different weekends.
Bambi installed bookcases, removed closet doors, brought meals
Barbara brought worry dolls to lunch, which she, Bonnie and Joan treated me to.
Cards from Joy and Master Gardeners, Gay, too many to remember.
Cancer survivors reached out - Eleanor Goldberg, Maureen Shaffer, MGH patients,
Even our pharmacist Valarie asked if she could bring dinner over to us.
Sunday brought more acts of kindness. As I pulled up to my Boston destination, the car started acting funny. The valet, who threw me out of his space, suggested transmission trouble. I called AAA for help and waited for hours. I called back a couple of times, playing the Cancer card the last time. AAA contacted the police who sent over an officer, who sent me into my party and waited for AAA. He and 3 of the valets managed to wiggle the car nearly into a parking space. Chris Martin and I went out a couple of times to check on progress. When AAA finally had the car, Bill and Chris drove me directly to my door. Rosemary even offered to have me sleep over.
Tony at European Engineering, our beloved, former car guru, will dispose of it for us. That ends the debate on whether or not to keep 2 cars, one of which does not have a parking place.
Dexter had a little excitement this week, too. Window workers came in to do final sealing of the new windows. Dexter spotted an escape route and was extremely unhappy when I gabbed him from behind, preventing his escape. He's never been that angry before and my hands have many a slash as proof.