I grew up wondering about the sister I never knew. (She was hit by a car at age nine and killed three years before I was born.) My parents didn't talk about her and the few photos they had were kept hidden in a drawer.
I had a weird week where things were "thrown" at me, falling off of shelves for no reason. I don't know if that's related to this, but it was quite clear someone on the other side wanted to get a message to me.
In my younger days, I kept a journal where I wrote letters addressed to nobody. Sometimes I would address them in the name of a boyfriend. Sometimes I would use the name of a stuffed animal of mine (Aldanr). This section of my blog is like those letters.
I wanted to write about all I've been doing in my life since breast cancer. Marketing geniuses tell us that when we blog, we should stick to one topic. The problem is my life is full of randomness and nothing is consistent other than daily hygiene, eating, and sleeping. (And eating and sleeping aren't all that consistent either.)
Here's what I know for sure.
(I found this buried in my archives and thought I would share it.)
I came to the realization at age 40 that most of the older women I knew were angry, particularly at men, but maybe at life in general. I didn't really understand why.
I came to the realization at 50, that after 25+ years of marriage, most of the men in my life, even the really considerate ones, had no clue what it was like to be a woman, what our responsibilities really were, or why we periodically became irritated at them.
At 53, I began to understand the hot flashes I was having. They were anger. I couldn't help but remember the words of a writer friend of mine, Isabella Quimby, who likened hot flashes to volcanos. "I'm an erupting volcano!" she would say each time a hot flash erupted within her - and they were frequent. I suspected that Isabella, who had gone through a nasty divorce, knew a little bit about the anger women repress (well usually) and the ever-building incidents women endure due to the lack of understanding of men.
An amazing sequence of events entwined two hearts with love, surprise and synchronicity. It did not start out that way, though.
Back in November, I left for a ten-day trip to Florida with my BFF, leaving Dear Hubby, Tim, home alone to care for the cat, manage the house, and go to work. All should have been well, but ten days, it seems, was way too long for the both of us to be apart. (Later we realized, neither of us had ever been away that long in over 35 years.)
He ended up facing the week from hell; one of those weeks where every imaginable thing that could go wrong—did—including spilling his coffee while driving (not once, but twice). This is something he's probably never had happen in all his years of driving.