Coincidences

There are run-of-the-mill coincidences that are haha funny, like seeing someone at a restaurant and then the next day at the farmers market, after not seeing him or her for years. It’s weird, and maybe you wonder about it for a minute or two but, in the scheme of things, who cares?

Then there are other coincidences that are so impactful in evoking emotion that it’s impossible to imagine that these two happenings were unrelated and mean nothing. NO WAY.  

As you might expect, David and I don’t see eye-to-eye on coincidences. You can probably guess which one of us believes coincidences can be meaningful in contrast to always being random.

I called David on my way home from running errands one day this past week, and we had the usual conversation that 2 retirees who are home together every single day all day might say to one another as we approach the lunchtime hour: “What should we have?”

Unlike most days, when I called this time, he said he needs to get out of the house (code for something’s not right), so let’s think of a place to sit outside for lunch. Once I got home and we started the 5-minute drive to Honeygrow, I asked what was bothering him. He told me that his former colleague’s wife had just died. She was just 59 years old.

Hearing about this woman’s passing and imagining the sadness of all those left behind transformed David’s serene state of mind after working outside on a perfect weather day into a very sad one with an endless plethora of memories and emotions about his beloved Matthew.  

I was glad that David suggested going out, knowing that more time outdoors on this sunny day would do him good.  

Just as we were ready to sit down in the dining area outside, a man called out: “David Minches?”

Turns out he was David’s former neighbor who he hadn’t seen for some 25 years, so after a warm greeting, the two started the catch-up conversation. Then I heard the dreaded question: “How are the KIDS doing?” Kids, plural. Ugh.

David brought up Lauren first, and said she and her family are living in Morocco…and I held my breath. I hoped the neighbor would somehow get distracted and forget about this family talk and that somehow the conversation would be redirected to something – anything – other than where I feared it was going. Instead, when David took a breath after talking about Lauren, the man asked, “How’s Matthew?”  

This guy still lives in Cherry Hill, where we live, and he has sons whose ages are aligned with Matthew’s. How did he not know – or forget? He likely blocked out the horrid information many moons ago.

And there we were, at Honeygrow of all places, to change the downward spiral of emotions that David was experiencing, counting on more fresh air and a change of scenery that would allow him to refocus.  

I didn’t know what he’d say, given that this is a question no one in David’s shoes would want to answer. He told his old neighbor that Matthew passed away 15 years ago when he was 20, and the neighbor was, as you might expect, speechless. My guess is that this man will never ask a question like this again to anyone he hasn’t seen for a long time.

We will never know if and how the 2 happenings an hour apart were somehow connected in some crazy way, but me being me believes there is meaning to be had.

To David, it was just a bad coincidence on all counts, except for reuniting with his very kindhearted neighbor.

I Can See Clearly...Now

This week I went to see my eye doctor for a long overdue “annual” checkup. I have seen the same woman for almost a decade and always enjoy my visits, other than during the eye pressure exam for glaucoma, which makes me nauseous.

After our usual chit chat and exam, I was feeling relieved and pretty darn pleased with myself, thinking I was going to get out of there without anything to obsess about, or even write about in my blog post.

Just as I was getting ready to go, she said the C-word. Now when I say THAT, I so fortunately do not mean cancer. And I don’t mean the 4-letter word that is my least favorite in the entire English language.

So NO to cancer and NO to a word that rhymes with Hunt.

But YES to…Cataracts!

“Nothing to worry about yet,” the doctor said. “It’s in the early stage. We can talk about it more next time,” she said. That’ll be in the summer of 2026. Perfect! Should I have this appointment before or after my colonoscopy?

Add this to other age-related nuisances, such as my current bout with Arthritis, regular use of a stool softener, all sorts of creams – firming cream for the sagging on my neck, two face creams – one for the morning to and one at night, with a pair of readers nearby so I don’t mix them up, which I’ve done a few times, and so on.

I am aware that many peeps need surgery to get these little cataract buggers removed, so I know I’m not unique; I’m not going to make the history books with this issue. But – you know me by now – I’ll likely write about it along with more of the whole aging thing.

Obviously the longer we live, the more that will go wrong that we will have to deal with, and hopefully we will manage OK with whatever comes along.

As David’s former boss who always had catchy phrases for important situations used to say, “the alternative is worse.”

I am counting on that to be true.

Packages

Who doesn’t like coming home to a package with your name on it? Kind of like a birthday party all year long!  I always get a kick out of how easy it is to find something on the internet that I want / need / can’t find anywhere else, execute a few clicks, and get it delivered to my door. But, I often forget what I ordered and/or lose track of what is expected when, so it’s an especially fun surprise when I get it.  

Generally, David opens my packages to simplify the process for me. If I don’t want him to do that – always around his birthday or Hanukkah – I tell him in advance to leave my packages, unopened, on the dining room table.  

Some of you might be wondering… Why is David opening Judy’s packages at all? What kind of woman would allow this breach of privacy? Frankly I am glad he does this because I have a lazy approach to boxed items that require scissors to open them. I don’t feel like being bothered and don’t see the rush to do so. I’m fine letting them pile up until I need them that second, trusting of course that they’ll be there. Once I left a whole box of goat soaps unopened so long that I forgot all about them and almost placed an order for them a second time. That hasn’t changed my habit, unfortunately. David, on the other hand, always has his utility knife ready to open whatever comes our way.  

The other day, after I had gotten home from running errands, he said he put something on the dining room table for me. I got all excited, thinking Ooooh, what did I get today?!??!? And there it was, like it or not, shouting at me YOU DID THIS TO YOURSELF. It was Voltarin Arthritis Relief Cream. I glared at it for a moment, wishing instead that it was some beautiful, soft yarn for my next project instead of what it was, but that’s how I got into this mess to begin with…

The issue is that I had crocheted fast and furious for a period of time – as I recovered from my abdominoplasty – and ignored all the flashing red lights, because I was determined to reach my goal. I had wanted to create one scarf or baby blanket every couple of days, which I would then donate to a local organization. I first hoped to crochet 100 items but then I cut it down to 50…then 25…I think I had to put the crochet hook down at about 10.

While the arthritis cream is just one part of the overall plan for my situation, my OT instructed me to get it and massage it in as needed. This is in conjunction with warm water massage, ultrasound treatments and a couple of custom-made hand splints which I’ve been wearing non-stop. All this because I didn’t stop my crocheting when I felt the discomfort; instead, I thought that plowing through it was the way to go, until the pain went away for good. What I have learned since, however, is that in one state or another, it is here to stay.

My first session with my OT was very long, about 90 minutes. As we scheduled my next visit, she asked if I had any questions. After explaining to her that I only really have 2 hobbies, I asked, “How long will it take to get me back to crocheting?” Her response left a lot to be desired.

“It’s time to find a new hobby,” she said.

I don’t plan on completely abandoning my love for crocheting, but I do realize that I need to be a bit smarter about it and may need to find other avenues for my creative endeavors.

As long as I can find something that utilizes lots of colors and textures, is relatively simple, and I don’t easily tire of the process…and which enables me to order supplies that can be delivered right to my door…I am open to it. 

Any ideas?

Once A Mom, Always A Mom

For those of us fortunate enough to have experienced the love of an adoring, supportive and caring mom, we must thank our lucky stars, because there is absolutely nothing else like it.    

I have a girlfriend named Bobbi and amazingly, at 67 years young, she still has both her mom (90) and dad (97).  Until about 8 months ago, her parents lived in the house where Bobbi and her 3 siblings grew up, about an hour away from where she lives now. They then moved into an independent senior living community that is only about a 10-minute walk from Bobbi’s and her sister’s homes.    

This new place has been a wonderful change for Bobbi’s parents, as they now have an easier, more relaxed and enjoyable way of life. Their meals are prepared for them, Bobbi’s mom plays cards and socializes with others in the building, and she likes her freedom to utilize the complex’s transportation services so that she can get around town without asking for additional assistance from her local family.

Topping the list of what her parents appreciate most about this move, I’m pretty sure, is living in such close proximity to two of their four adult children, grandkids and great grandkids.

About a month ago, I was taking a walk with Bobbi and asked what she was planning to do that afternoon. She told me she was going to visit her parents, because “My mom has a hard-boiled egg waiting for me.” This took a moment for me to digest, especially given the fact that I had just made a half dozen that morning…and then, thinking I misheard or misunderstood something, asked…WHAT?

She semi laughed and said her mom called to tell her that she put a hard-boiled egg aside – an egg that she brought up to their apartment from the community refrigerator (before the price of eggs soared) because she knows how much Bobbi likes them. I laughed, thinking WOW! Who else but a mom would do this?

A couple of months ago, I asked Bobbi how her parents were doing. She said she had just seen them, and they were good. I asked whether there was a particular reason she went to visit…in jest, I asked, “Another hard-boiled egg?” This time, she is the one who laughed. She said her mom had put cut-up fruit aside for her because she knows how much Bobbi likes it. I said “Oh, how nice that she made it for you,” but then Bobbi explained that the fruit was from her mom’s meal – left over from her dinner plate – but she didn’t eat it because she wanted to save it for Bobbi. Her mom then called to suggest she come over ASAP to eat it while it was still fresh. Bobbi obliged.

When I told her how special I think it is that her mom does this, and how these gestures show how much she is thinking about Bobbi, she added that her mom often calls her when fresh cookies are baked and still warm – daily – and placed in the community kitchen for all to have.

I don’t know what brings her mom more pleasure here – absconding with food to give to Bobbi or when Bobbi comes over for it.

While there is some element of Bobbi’s mom luring her daughter to visit with the promise of her favorite foods, this scenario is such a genuine act of true love between a parent and child.

And even though Bobbi is a grandmom herself, she still seeks the companionship of her mom in much of her life and is so comforted by her as well. This has been a beautiful reminder to me, 10 years after my own mom’s passing, that I once felt this way too. 

There is something so pure, so tender and so unique about a mother’s love.

I was so lucky to have one…and to be one.

 

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!