Karen

A month ago, I received a text from the lovely Dorothy Monkovic, the beloved sister of my dear friend Karen Ciccotelli, who passed away in February 2023. In Dorothy’s note, she invited a handful of women – family and friends – to meet on the anniversary of Karen’s passing.

Initially I panicked, thinking it would be hard to see Dorothy, because she looks and sounds so much like Karen. I was pretty sure I’d tear up, and I did. However, I also felt comforted by her, as well as being with some of Karen’s loved ones, including her daughter-in-law Amber and her close friend Lisa, who I’m happy to say has become my friend too.   

We laughed, cried, shared stories about our relationships with Karen and I think we all learned something new about her. I didn’t know some of the silly stuff she did with Lisa, for example, like stuffing her bra with Dots candy so that when Karen and Lisa, also a personal fitness trainer, would work out together at the gym, they had a Dots stash to nibble on. Who does that kind of thing?!?!? Karen, of course!

That’s the thing about Karen. She was a character in the best, most authentic way.

I met her almost 40 years ago, in 1986, when we were in our mid-twenties and had just moved into a new development in South Jersey within a few months of one another. She lived across the street, two homes over. Each of us had gotten married about 2 years prior and neither had kids yet.

I can still remember when I got my first glimpse of her. I thought to myself WOW, this chick is glamorous – and this was after her overnight shift as a nurse. She was statuesque, very tan, wore cropped tops and short shorts that showed off her rock-hard abs, sported a trendy hair style with her black, silky hair that enabled her big, gold earrings space to shimmer, and she always had long painted hot pink nails and make-up that she didn’t need, to highlight her beautiful face. She had well-defined, muscular arms and legs; it could have been my imagination, but she often appeared to be flexing. The first time she caught me checking her out up and down, she said “I’m from South Philly,” with this hearty laugh that made me crack up, which made her howl, with joy I think, that I was so captivated by her.  

It wasn’t until we had our first babies six weeks apart, in the summer of 1987, that Karen and I started to hang out. We didn’t have much in common other than the fact that we were both from Philly (albeit opposite ends), we came from large families, and we drooled over our little marvels, so impressed with ourselves that these little guys came out of our wombs. We spent many afternoons in her backyard or my front lawn, often with the other new moms from the neighborhood. Having “the village” to share in the joys, transitions, exhaustion and everything else that came with new motherhood was better than I could have imagined.

Over time, Karen’s and my conversations – in person or on the phone – morphed from entertaining chatter and commonplace topics to digging in deep, mostly about our kids. We found that we reveled in learning what pediatric experts like T. Berry Brazelton would say about this or that. We’d run these thoughts by our pediatricians and kids’ specialists and continually seek to find answers that made sense and could guide us, and we’d discuss with one another until we exhausted the topic – until the next time we spoke. We had this kind of arrangement going for years – maybe as many as 10 – and I am certain that my approach to parenting was greatly influenced by the collaborative effort that kept Karen and me aligned, sane and on our toes…always striving to be the best parent or advocate for our kids that we could be.  

Once our eldest kids reached age 10 or so and we found we had some breathing room to focus on ourselves, Karen decided she wanted to become a personal fitness trainer. She went through a certification program, shared what she was learning with me regarding nutrition and exercise and pointed out all the ways she could “help”…Ahem!…transform me. She recommended I buy a book about viewing food as fuel and said she’d assist me with meal planning. What she was WAY more excited about was getting down and dirty in the gym. She said we’d work on my posture (OUCH), tone up my arms, legs and abs (another OUCH) and make me look and feel strong (AMEN). All I had to do was be ready for her to pick me up at the ungodly time of… 4:40 a.m. two mornings a week. Hopefully showing off our partnership in the gym would lead to some paying clients. Then, she said, I’d be off the hook.

All at no cost to me. How could I refuse? The least I could do was to help with that goal after all the time and energy she was willing to put into my well-being. So, I agreed. For the next couple of months, she pulled up to my house on her way home from her shift at the hospital, with rap music blasting, and the only light outside was the moon shining in the dark sky. As her schedule filled up, I was freed – but hooked – and I continued to go. Looking back, I’m grateful that Karen introduced me to the gym because I’ve stayed with it ever since.

A good 6 years later, David and I made plans to marry which naturally meant converging our families. Rather than have all 7 of us live in my rather small house, we felt it best for my 3 and David’s 2 to move into a “new” place. This meant I had to leave the house across the street from Karen, which I couldn’t even picture doing after all those years of living just 200 feet apart. I was so relieved that she eventually got on board with my decision, even though she rallied against the move when I told her.     

Five years after David’s and my kids moved in together, David’s son Matthew got sick with a soft tissue cancer. I shared this news with Karen and leaned on her for the months to come. At some point, I told her that David and/or I would have to start administering shots to him every day that he was home – between treatments. It never occurred to me to ask her to help us or to do it for us; she was working 2 full-time jobs – one, ironically, in hospice. And then she said those magic words that kept us from unraveling: “I will do it.” When I protested due to her busy schedule, she said, “David and you should not have to do that.” When I told her that the shots must be given at the same time every day and she’s not usually home from work by then, she said, “I will make it work.”  The magnitude of this generous gift cannot be overstated.

She became his nurse at home and also his buddy, confidante and an integral part of our family. She’d go to his room, shut the door, administer the shot, and they’d hang out. Sometimes it would be quiet in there, other times I’d hear talking – I just couldn’t make out the words (yes, I admit, I sometimes tried) but I could hear the soft tone of both their voices – and laughter too.  

One afternoon, she told me that she asked Matthew If you could have one wish, what would it be? Forgive me if I have shared his in a prior blog post, because it’s hard to believe I wouldn’t have…He told her he wanted a doggy, and she looked my way, waiting for me to respond. I told her “No, I can’t handle one more thing,” and she softly but forcefully told me that this is something I must do. We did bicker about it, but I knew she was right. After I freaked out about it for a week or so – with her asking me each day when we were going to bring one home – we added Shea Doggy to our family. It was the best thing we could’ve done for Matthew – and, honestly, for us.

David experienced Karen’s enormous heart firsthand. Not only did she care for Matthew, but she helped us care for him too.  What she did for all of us at the worst period of our lives can’t be described with any words in the English language.

Karen struggled with her own health for a long time.  At the point when I realized that she was not going to recover, I shut down, as it was inconceivable that she was not going to be in my world anymore.

Once she passed, I was unable to drive down our old street, the way I habitually did for a good 18 years since I had moved away, honking as I passed her house and then texting her, “Did you hear me?”  just so she’d know I was thinking about her. There was really no reason for me to go down the street once she was no longer there, but for some reason I kept telling myself to do it. I thought it would help me to manage my grief and feel close to her at the same time. Yet, I couldn’t do it for the longest time.

Just last week, however, I was able to drive down E. Partridge Lane…It was a bittersweet reminder that once upon a time, I had an extraordinary friend named Karen.

A Personal Reveal

This ends better than it starts...

Due to a medical issue brought on by 3 C-sections decades ago, I decided to have an abdominoplasty (tummy tuck) this past October.

Most women signing up for this procedure are far younger than someone like me who is now on Medicare. However, I was assured that while everyone recovers at a different pace, I am in good health and would likely experience the typical recovery of about 4-6 weeks.

Unfortunately, one month from the date I had the initial procedure, I was admitted to the hospital due to a variety of issues: abdominal swelling, cellutis and a reaction to antibiotics. One of the causes was that my lymphatic system could not handle all the fluid brought about by the surgery. Initially I wasn't aware of the functions of the lymphatic system, which was rather embarrassing when I realized how little I know about how the body works. My doctor recommended a procedure to insert 2 drainage tubes into the swollen areas, as guided by a CT scan in interventional radiology. By Day 2 in the hospital, the drains were in place and that, in conjunction with IV antibiotics, began to calm the perfect storm brewing within.  

While lying in my bed night after night - 6 of them - at the hospital, I tried not to worry about anything. I had a team of doctors and nurses attending to my health concerns, a dining room with pretty good food and snacks available to me anytime between 7 am and 11 pm, my hubby, family and friends keeping me company and calling and texting and honestly…what more could I ask for?

Yet, I could not relax. I was freaked out. Those first couple of nights, I could not concentrate enough to read, write, watch TV, or even shop online. I had lost interest in everything and had no energy for anything. With nothing to do but ruminate about the situation, I felt sad and sorry for David, who was the most amazing caregiver, and I was also mad at myself for causing him such angst. I was also afraid that the life I once lived was gone and wondered if maybe I had taken too much of it for granted.    

After the nurse came in with medication on that third night, I was in such a tizzy that I closed my eyes trying to tune out the world...but found myself dreaming instead. I imagined earlier times when I was happy, laughing, driving my car, walking on the boardwalk, even showering before bed with my delightful goat soap. These uplifting images lasted well into the next day.

I was only in the hospital for 7 days, but when I came home, I was marveling over all that was commonplace before I had gone: What a cozy home! Wow, there’s nice fresh fruit in the refrigerator! Boy those deer behind my house are beautiful! My car rides so smoothly! The cold water is so delicious! And of course, all the people in my life. 

It's now almost 2 months since my hospital stay, and all is good. My appreciation for everyone and everything in my life has continued to grow, and I am so very grateful. 

AI

David’s daughter Lauren, her husband Anas, and their two little cuties stayed with us for a nice long chunk of time this summer. One day, Anas saw me sitting at my laptop and asked why I haven’t written any blog posts recently. I told him I have a lot of ideas but that after a few sentences, I don’t know where to go with them.

 A couple of hours later, he told me he utilized the AI software https://claude.ai/new, to create a post I’d have written. In order to sound like me, he pointed the software to my blog posts since mid-2020 and provided specific directions:

 “Now that you have all this information about the blogger, her writing style, the topics she tends to cover, even her family and friends' names, I’d like you to write a fictional blog post authored by her. Keep the same tone and typical length of post. I want her to read it and think ‘OMG, I can't believe I didn't write this!’ Make up additional facts as needed.”

 When he read me the post, I was dumbfounded. It surely did feel like something I’d have written. Some of the facts aren’t accurate, but it was pretty amazing what AI could do in a matter of seconds.

 I’m hoping you will find this entertaining.

 

A Surprise in the Attic

Last week, while David was rummaging through our attic in search of some obscure audio equipment, he stumbled upon a dusty old box labeled "Judy's Memories." I had completely forgotten about its existence, let alone its contents.

As we brought it downstairs, I felt a mix of excitement and trepidation. What forgotten treasures or embarrassing relics would we uncover?

The first item I pulled out was my old diary from when I was 13. Oh boy, talk about a blast from the past! I started reading aloud, much to David's amusement, about my crush on Bobby Steinberg and how I was convinced we'd get married someday. Little did 13-year-old Judy know what life had in store!

Next came a stack of letters from my college roommate, Susan. I hadn't thought about her in years, but reading her witty accounts of campus life brought me right back to those carefree days. I made a mental note to look her up on Facebook later.

But the real gem was at the bottom of the box: my mom's handwritten recipe for her famous noodle kugel. I felt a lump in my throat as I read her familiar handwriting, remembering all the times we made it together for family gatherings. Lauren has been asking for this recipe for years, and I thought it was lost forever. What a gift to be able to pass it on to her now!

As I sat there, surrounded by these pieces of my past, I couldn't help but reflect on how much has changed. That young girl writing in her diary could never have imagined the life I have now – with David, our blended family, and our precious grandchildren.

It made me think about what our grandkids might find in their attics someday. What pieces of their childhoods will they rediscover? Will they find the questionable art projects I've been saving or the cards they've made for us?

I've always been one to hang onto memories, but this experience has reminded me of the importance of making new ones too. Maybe it's time to start a new tradition with the grandkids – something they'll remember fondly when they're my age.

As for that noodle kugel recipe, I think I'll surprise everyone by making it for our next family dinner. I can already picture Eliana and Ethan helping me in the kitchen, just like I used to help my mom. Some things really do come full circle.

In the end, our trip to the attic turned into an unexpected journey down memory lane. It's funny how a random box can hold so much of who we were and remind us of who we've become.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go call Andrea and tell her about this blast from the past. I have a feeling she'll get a kick out of hearing about my teenage crushes!

Mother's Day 2024

Another Mother’s Day without my mom.

Leading up to the holiday a couple of weeks ago, I decided that I wanted to proceed as though she were still here. This means that as Mother’s Day approached, I went out in search of the perfect card, as I did every other year when we had planned to spend it together. I looked at several places that carried cards without much luck, until I stepped into the new neighborhood Norman’s Hallmark.   

It had never been easy finding just the right card that captured all the sentiments for my mom that I especially appreciated that year. At times I found the task overwhelming, and I always seemed to run out of time having a bunch of runners up but rarely a clear winner. Out of desperation, I would buy what I thought my mom would think was the prettiest one. For her to truly embrace it, the card had to say “Mom,” not “Mother.” 

When it came to her gift, I wanted to give her something she wouldn’t splurge on for herself. For multiple years, we siblings chipped in for an Etienne Aigner purse in burgundy leather or straw, since we were heading into summer. Whether she liked it or not, she oohed and aahed, and I saw her wearing it, too, which made the quest to find a bag she’d want to use all the more satisfying.   

The purse became too heavy to carry on her shoulder in her later years, so I turned to the lightweight Vera Bradley collection. She seemed to like these even more. She was gleeful with the colorful patterns and the plethora of open pockets to keep her essentials, such as tissues and cough drops, easily accessible.  

With a selection of fine options at Norman’s – Hallmark stores never disappoint – I had picked out several cards, 2 or 3 Vera bags and an assortment of tchotchkes that I couldn’t resist. I started sweating over the decision making – Which card? Which Vera bag? Which tchotchke? – until I reminded myself that I am not actually going to purchase any of these items.  

I left Norman’s feeling both happy and sad. While I reveled in my old, familiar Mother’s Day shopping tradition, I was disappointed to go home empty-handed, until I realized that this outing, which fed my need to continue honoring my mom, was also a wonderful Mother’s Day gift I gave myself.  

 

Holy Moly

I’m all for accepting my age and not portraying myself as if I’m going to be 35 and not 65 on my next trip around the sun, but I’m starting to wonder if/how age should play a role in my fashion sense.    

I’m surely not going to sport crop tops, for all those crazies out there who think that’s where I’m going with this, but NO. Absolutely not. What I’m talking about relates to what I wear below my waist.       

When I was a teen, I loved my jeans. I’d taper them to make them skin tight. I added patches, studs, embroidery, and whatever else I could hand sew to personalize them and snazz them up. A decade later – corresponding with life as a mom and longing for comfort above all else – I abandoned jeans altogether and became a leggings-only woman.        

While leggings will always be my numero uno, the fairly new stretch component on most jeans today has worked wonders to lure me back - under one condition: the holier, the better. I have found that my favorite jeans align with the number of holes on them: 1 hole is slightly amusing; 10 holes are a blast. So, if wearing them isn't fun, I might as well wear leggings. 

I didn't start off loving this look. When I first noticed distressed jeans with large holes, I was really turned off by the large portions of exposed skin as well as all the strings hanging from them. I did not understand how someone – anyone – would think these jeans looked presentable, let alone attractive.

One day, I happened to be in American Eagle and, as usual, checked out the clearance rack. Before long, I found myself in the dressing room with a pair, and not just any pair, but one with about 6 or 8 sizable holes.   

Five years later, I have almost as many distressed jeans in my closet today as pristine ones, and I almost never reach for the plain Janes.

With summertime just a few months away, distressed jeans with holes have an advantage: built-in air conditioning.

I have wondered why I rarely if ever see my peers wearing distressed jeans. Curious about who likes them, I took a poll of some 20 women – ages 55 and older – and asked them “Would you wear distressed jeans with holes?”

Most said NO, they would not, for these reasons: "I’d never pay for jeans with holes. What a rip off; They are awful; I give you credit for wearing them since it’s mostly young people I see in them; They don’t appeal to me...You’d never see these in Talbots; They are for the kids to wear." Two were open to them: "I like them but won’t wear them if the holes are too big; I like them but not if I’m going somewhere fancy.”  

The other day, I picked up my granddaughter from elementary school. Out of about 25 moms wearing jeans, I saw a handful of really cool moms - my kids' ages - with some rips in their jeans.

And then a very striking woman with gorgeous gray hair – dare I say another grandmom? – walked by and man...she rocked her holy jeans. 

A Refreshed Perspective

It is easy to forget all the good in our society when so much of what we see and hear about centers on hostility toward one another.

As we have all been witness to, there has been a rise in vocalized hatred and acts of violence toward Jews and other minorities, most recently due to the conflict in Israel and Gaza. This reality has terrified me on many levels, even though – as a Jew – I have been ON ALERT for many years.

I am deeply saddened that my synagogue, where I have gone for more than 35 years, requires security personnel in place to open its doors to the congregation for prayer, religious education, or events. This has been ongoing since the mass shootings at the Pittsburgh synagogue – Tree of Life – in 2018.

Not long ago, I learned that a neighboring community where I like to walk woke up to vicious Antisemitic propaganda in their mailboxes. I guess I had been living under a rock, because I was shocked that a neighbor of mine would feel this way. Today I heard someone painted a swastika on a tree in another nearby development.

The level of widespread intolerance and disdain that has come to light in every area where people have differing opinions or backgrounds is astounding and horrifying. I rarely see any current event or political talk between Facebook “friends” or acquaintances without angry discourse that leads to aggressive threats, even on social media groups created to promote restaurants and businesses or talk about audio equipment or music or old homes.

I had begun to doubt my faith in humanity, thinking that only select people were kind and compassionate but that most were not. My grandbabies’ little faces and laughs were joys to behold and gave me that warm and wonderful feeling inside, yet I felt scared and angrier still that even I, the eternal optimist, wasn’t happy they would be inhabiting this severely troubled world.    

What a downer of a blogpost for the start of 2024, you’re probably thinking...but NO!

This story is actually to express the opposite sentiment. Despite everything I’ve been ruminating over of late, I’m starting to feel hopeful. I feel the sunshine coming out once again.

I credit my 2023’s volunteer experiences for this change of heart. I had always enjoyed volunteer work but stopped during the pandemic. I find it so gratifying to help others and fun to meet people I wouldn’t have otherwise.    

I am now involved with 2 places: Surrey Senior Services – an aging-in-place organization that describes itself as bringing people, resources, and programs together to benefit seniors in the community – and “Lasagna Love,” an organization that pairs “chefs” with local families in need of a meal.

After talking to my dear friend/sister-in-law about Surrey, where she works in the development sector, my fabulous former co-worker and I started to spend one afternoon a month helping out in the dining room at Surrey. With lots of other terrific individuals, we help to prepare for a busy lunchtime and bus tables during and after the meal. Every now and again they ask us if we want to be servers, which I haven’t had to do yet, thank goodness, as it is nail biting for me given that my last experience doing this when I was 18 years old didn’t go so well. And – surprise, surprise – I have also begun to write stories about their volunteers. The people I have met from Surrey are absolutely amazing humans, so writing these stories truly feels like an honor.

With Lasagna Love, I make several lasagnas each month and deliver them to families experiencing some kind of hardship. The gratification I feel when dropping off a lasagna – despite a slight concern that it’ll be too dry or cheesy or not enough cheese or too much meat or not enough meat and so on – has been considerable. Doing this always reminds me that we are more alike than different, and I/we might just be one unfortunate situation away from needing some level of assistance.

This New Year's resolution is to continue volunteering to help others. I’d love to hear from you if you know of other organizations that are in need of volunteers.

"If That's the Worst Thing I Do"

David and I have a “shtick” that keeps us in check. It started with my calling him out on various habits he has, like leaving trails of crumbs where he sits or empty wrappers around the house. About a year ago, he started to say, “If that’s the worst thing I do...” meaning to him that our essence as a couple should carry more weight than the living together minutia that can get in the way.      

Although I usually chuckle when he says that because I think it’s a genuinely funny way to get himself off the hook when I make a grievance or two, I am OK with his good-natured retort because I also know he’s heard me and will pay more attention going forward.  

What I appreciate most about the comment is that it reminds me quickly and in a gentle manner of the “big picture”: this relationship is something I cherish and want to preserve, so what I say and do – when I am paying attention – is in accordance with that.

While marriage and friendship are obviously different animals, I’ve come to view my friendships in much the same way: as living organisms that need to be nourished as best I can. I thank my lucky stars for the dear friends who are there for me – in spirit if not always in person – and am so appreciative for the guidance they have provided for me to be a better friend, just by being who they are.

There are situations when a time conflict gets in the way and leads to my missing a significant event in a friend’s life. I am saddened when I know I’ve disappointed someone important to me: if I couldn’t attend a wedding or baby shower or naming, or maybe I forgot to ask about a doctor’s appointment or unintentionally said something bothersome, and so on. I am grateful to the friends who did not hold these disappointments against me because they believed in the big picture of our friendship. Unknowingly, they taught me how I’d want to handle similar situations. 

We live in an enormous world filled with all kinds of people. When we find individuals who “get” us, and we in turn “get” them, we are given the greatest gift possible.