“Is there recess in college?” asked the prepubescent boy on the green and white shuttle bus taking us back to our dorm. “That depends,” his 70-ish grandmother said with a grin. Her response took me back to my undergraduate days at Oakland University in Rochester, Michigan, about 40 miles north of Detroit. My college experience involved commuting, working summers to earn money while living at home to save money to do more commuting. It took me a little over four years to earn my journalism degree, but I did it. Not the most fun I ever had. If I could do it over again, I would have somehow gone away…
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‘Beauty-full day!’
For my paternal grandfather, there was no such thing as a bad day. “Beauty-full day!” he’d say just like that to anyone within earshot, as he puffed on his unfiltered Camel cigarette. With glasses and a thick mustache, he always sported a ratty beige cardigan sweater, even in summer. I don’t remember him wearing anything else. Above, Jiddu, in his later years. Top, Esper in his 20s. More than 100 years ago this month, Esper John, my father’s father who was known as Jiddu (grandfather in Arabic), fled Damascus, Syria. He had his reasons. From the many stories passed down through the generations, Jiddu mostly wanted to avoid being conscripted…
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Gems from my father
There’s a saying: The older I get, the smarter my father gets. I’m embarrassed to say it’s taken me nearly 60 years to figure that out. Somewhat hard-headed. Like him. For my father, being on time meant arriving early. In his mind, if you were on time, you were late. I did not inherit this gene. Even in his last days, Dad kept one eye on the clock. “They’re late,” he said on the Sunday before officially departing this life, visibly ticked off at the tardiness of death’s knell. “Those guys in the dark suits. They’re supposed to be here.” But they weren’t. Not yet. It had been a difficult…
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Spelling bees bite
I can still taste a tiny bit of barf creeping up into my throat after misspelling that stupid word in the Detroit News Spelling Bee at Goodale Elementary’s auditorium in 1971. Like Ralph and the flat tire scene in “A Christmas Story,” I said the F-word. But not aloud. A good Catholic girl, I was stoic, polite and thoroughly humiliated. The word, which will forever give me hives, was blossom. I spelled it with a U instead of the second O. Jesus God. “B-L-O-S-S-U-M.” WTH? That was it. I was toast. Take your seat, young lady. No trip to the 45th Scripps National Spelling Bee in Washington, for you, sister.…
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Paperless greetings
Today is my one-year anniversary since having open-heart surgery to repair a mitral valve that didn’t fully close when my heart pumped blood. I am all fixed now. No more blood regurgitating backward from the left ventricle through the floppy valve into the left atrium, as the left ventricle contracted. At times my heart was so exhausted it pumped 140 beats per minute at rest. That sends you into something scary called atrial fibrillation, a.k.a., “A-fib.” Yet I didn’t feel a thing. As a friend says, “You never know what you’re walking around with.” Until you do. Now I’ve got two heart scars, and not one but two memorable cardiac…
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Find your Neverland
I started writing again after seeing a play last February in Detroit. After retiring in 2013, I took a long break from anything journalistic, other than reading newspapers. I was dog tired, burned out and worn down to my core after 25 years in a pressurized PR job for a nonprofit. I wanted nothing to do with my former self, the person I had been through high school and since graduating college and moving to Miami Beach for my first real newspaper job. It took me awhile to relax and make my way through the fog of war. But five years into my retirement, I was ready. So, I decided…
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Confessions of a caregiver
Like most women my age, I have done my share of caregiving. Two loving parents who lived well into their 80s. Friends who needed help after a serious accident. Others looking for comfort while battling illnesses or emotional distress. I’ve also been the recipient of caregiving, surviving not one but two open-heart surgeries. My longtime partner, Rebecca, took care of me after last year’s surgery to repair a leaky mitral valve. It was supposed to be “minimally invasive.” But scar tissue from the previous sternotomy in 2001 usurped that option, so my surgeon performed a thoracotomy. There’s nothing minimal about an 8-inch, C-shaped incision under your right shoulder blade. I…
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Phase III and me
When my new cardiac rehab friend Jan started Troy Beaumont’s Phase III program, George W. Bush was U.S. president — in his first term. That was in 2004 — 14 years ago! — and aside from a few minor health issues, Jan hasn’t stopped exercising since. The Clarkston, Mich., resident says cardiac rehab keeps her mind and body strong and healthy, plus moving around beats sitting around at home. At the Troy, Mich., facility, Phase III cardiac rehabilitation includes a group-based, medically supervised exercise program, up to five days per week for one hour. Patients pay a nominal monthly fee not typically covered by insurance. Additional Phase III activities include…
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Full circle
“It’s the circle of life And it moves us all Through despair and hope Through faith and love “Till we find our place On the path unwinding In the circle The circle of life“ “Circle of Life,” from Disney’s animated film, “The Lion King” What a difference a year makes. This time last November, I was lying on an ER gurney, my heart revved up to a resting rate of 135 beats per minute, fluttering in and out of something called atrial fibrillation. A-Fib, as it’s commonly known, is an irregular and often rapid heart rate that can increase your risk of stroke, heart failure and other heart-related complications. Sometimes you…
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Graduation day
Cue up “Pomp and Circumstance.” Today was my last day of cardiac rehab. I even received a nifty certificate of recognition for completing the program. Three months. Twelve weeks. Thirty-six visits. A necessary physical and emotional adventure filled with lots of sweat, some tears of joy and a lasting sense of accomplishment. Back in August, when I began this rehabilitative journey, the view from my treadmill was hundreds of trees in full bloom. Birds swooping under bright blue skies held my attention more than daytime TV or an iTunes playlist titled, “Rehab.” My initial pace of 1.7 mph with 0.5 (barely) elevation was painfully slow. I know that now because…
