Christmas level: most excellent.

Between my desire to seize “The Holidays” and to deliberately create some new traditions for myself, to say that this holiday season has been challenging for me would be an understatement.
While working as much “new” into my seasonal routine as I can while still reviving cherished traditions, there are still the mundane everyday tasks that must be attended to.
So this morning early, I wheeled out the large rolling trash bin that is a source of bark inducing frenzy for my oldest dachshund.
A few moments ago, his nemesis, the trash man drove into the cul-de-sac and collected the trash.
He seemed to be taking longer than normal to complete his rounds. “It’s colder than a well diggers axe today” I thought to myself, and assumed that he was just being cautious to keep from falling on the several inches of snow that Mother Nature had graced us with last night.
Once he drove off, to the chorus of barks from my two Santa’s Little Yelpers, I walked out to retrieve the bin and wheel it back in place.
As I did, I noticed a small envelope sticking out of the top of the lid.
“Oh. A card somehow fell out and got caught”, I thought. But as I looked, it became apparent that it had been intentionally, carefully placed there.
It was a Christmas card. From my trash man.
I looked up in time to see him at the last house in my circle and he waved and grinned.
During the summer months he’d always wave at my little barky crew. On rainy days he’d put the empty bin closer to my gate. And, on the rare occasion when I’d forget to put the trash out, he’d stop to check if we were okay.
Sadly, until the receipt of that card, I didn’t even know his name. Mario.
Another thought just struck me. He probably hand wrote a little greeting in each card. There are 150 houses in my immediate neighborhood. I’m sure we’re not the only ‘hood on his route.
As if his job wasn’t physically demanding enough, Mario probably sat down this weekend and hand wrote heaven only knows how many Christmas cards for the folks on his trash route.
Mario, you may not know this, or even ever read this, but your gesture just put a great big dose of much needed cheer into my holiday.
Merry Christmas Mario.


Un autre jour, une autre bataille avec les vautours. (Pardon my French).

Gaa. I really dislike that word. I dislike the connotation even more.
Growing up I was always admonished to share.
“Don’t be selfish!”
Perhaps I took that a little more to heart than I should have. In retrospect, it seems that not being selfish translated into never putting myself or my needs first.
That’s why a recent, seemingly sudden, influx of “requests” (an unfortunate series of not so thinly veiled “demands”, actually) momentarily caught me off guard.
I’m flexing my newfound “me” muscles right now.
Part of that flexing includes rediscovering the word “No”.
Part of that includes realizing and accepting that I no longer have official “standing” in some areas and, because of that, I am now choosing to let go and move forward in a new direction.
There is a woman in the circle of my extended family who is the quintessential golddigger. I’ve watched her for years as she has ingratiated herself with a certain family member, knowing full well what she was attempting. (I *am* a PI, after all).
While my late husband was alive, he and I did our best to thwart her. (I love that word, by the way. “Thwart”. There is not nearly enough thwarting going on these days. But I digress).
Perhaps it’s the grieving widow in me (I truly suspect not, though), but last spring, when it became abundantly clear that our efforts would be in vain, that’s the point where hubby essentially gave up. His tenuous health started to decline rapidly once he figured out that he could not be the protector that he’d always been and there was going to be no way to prevent her takeover.
We’d watched helplessly as she successfully inserted wedge after wedge between this beloved family member and anyone in his life who could possibly pose a threat to her.
Despite my warnings and his, our protestations were waved off. “We’re not being taken advantage of” sounds a little silly when it’s painfully obvious to everyone but you that… you are.
Golddigger woman even had the chutzpah to show up at the hospital and stroll into the dialysis unit to see firsthand how close hubby was to death (until I kicked her out, of course. Redheaded pit bulls don’t take kindly to interlopers, after all).
Although I made it very well known that she was not welcome at his funeral and prevented her appearance there, she could not resist one final slap in the face.
At a recent family luncheon where there was an empty chair next to me in hubby’s honor – she plopped herself right down in it.
I’ve never clutched cutlery so tightly in my life.
Her unspoken message of “I’ve won” was crystal clear.
I left early.
In the future, I will seek ways to gracefully avoid any gathering that she might attend.
That will most likely be all of them.
Although my redheaded pitbull genes are still intact, and there are a ton of ways to legally and satisfyingly annihilate her, it’s simply not worth it.
Anger and rage have never been a good fit in my life anyway.
I’m learning to pick my battles, and the “battle” I’ve picked to join is the one that brings me more opportunities like those that I’d allowed to pass me by in the past, when I was mistakenly trying not to be “selfish”.
You cannot reach for the future if you’re still clinging to the past, and I’ve concluded that for me, the best “revenge” will be a life well lived.
And I’m okay with that.
I think I shall call it “Thwarting” instead.
Yeah. Thwarting. I love that word.

Puppy Love

Anyone who knows me or follows me knows that I am the doting “mama” to two of the world’s cutest miniature dachshunds, Wyatt Earp, a mischievous red dapple with one blue eye and Josi, a raven little long haired wire haired tiny beauty.

Several months ago, a new neighbor moved in next door and, like I and many people in our neighborhood, he too has dogs. But his canine companions, Zoe and Oscar – are two very large, undeniably imposing animals. Both are of questionable heritage, and each are large enough to have struck terror into one sweet little lady who lives around the corner and was summarily convinced that they are “pitbulls”. She clutched not only her pearls, but her little terrier as well and ran in the other direction when she first saw them.

On the dogs’ first foray out with their master to survey their new territory, my two little scamps raced out into the yard….and promptly came nose to nose with two behemoths that literally dwarfed them. Then, the most amazing thing happened.

Tails wagged.

Sniffs were exchanged.

Inconceivable friendships were born.

Over the last months, their buddyship has only deepened.

All I have to do is say “Where’s Zoe and Oscar?” and ears perk up, eyes light up and the puppy happy dances begin all the way to the door.

Little Miss Josi, my mill rescue baby who is 10 pounds dripping wet and was heretofore terrified of her own shadow has a puppy crush of epic proportions on Oscar.

Wyatt Earp, the 13 year old, 12 pound stud muffin legend in his own mind seems to be similarly enamoured of Zoe.

You see, Wyatt and Josi have never seen the network news or read the newspapers replete with reports (much like those a generation ago about German Shepherds and Dobermans) of the reputation as a thoroughly dangerous breed that their new objects of affection have been wrongly saddled with by a fearful little lady. As such, they didn’t succumb to irrational fears, or immediately look for the worst. They just saw, well, two other dogs.

As the mailman, trash man, UPS guy and FedEx delivery men (who have still not managed to break into my house and attack me in all these years) can tell you – my dogs are abundantly aware of any perceived danger and they are rightly protective of their abode. But, they’re also pretty darned good judges of who and who not to like. That they like Zoe and Oscar is good enough for me.

To be fair, in my life I have met a Chihuahua or two who were the very embodiment of the phrase “death from the ankles down” – so I can testify that it’s not the breed, it’s the environment and the treatment that matters.

And, gentle reader, such is life. We can choose to only accept stereotypes and look for the worst in others and be rewarded with finding it each and every time, or we can realize that, in the end, we’re all just puppies.

Decision 2016

I’ve made my decision.

Actually decisions.

1. On Thanksgiving, I’m going to make that tiny turkey that I bought for just the two of us when I was exuberant about hubby doing so well. With all the trimmings, just as we’d planned. And one, possibly two, bottles of the finest wine I can rustle up.

2. I’m going to decorate the snot out of the Casa del Judi for Christmas. Just like he and I did ever so many years ago, but hadn’t been able to for the last several years because he was so ill.

3. And, because I’ve decided that the best way to honor his life is to live mine to the fullest:
I’m meeting with friends who are going to help me with editing and publishing this week, and my first book is going to be a reality. Soon.

Stay tuned.

Angel Noogies

This rather long missive is meant to bring you all up to speed on the life and times of Judianna, as my blog has been sadly unattended for some time.

My husband lost his long battle almost two weeks ago. It was expected, but unexpected at the same time, if that makes any sense.

Bear with me, because, although the first “historical” portion seems to be maudlin, this is not a “boo-hoo” blog.

First, and most importantly – please know that I am overwhelmed with the kindness and the love from all of you (well, almost all of you), and I cherish all of your supportive comments.

Because hubby passed away at home and wasn’t in hospice, it was deemed an “Unattended Death” and our home was technically a crime scene Friday night (October 21, 2016) until the coroner arrived and released him to the funeral home many hours later.

As many of you know, he had “graduated” from using a wheelchair to a walker and he was actually getting so much stronger that I purchased a small turkey for Thanksgiving.

Even though I had concerns, he was truly excited and looking forward to go in for one additional procedure on October 13th to place a more permanent dialysis catheter (a graft, actually) in his thigh so he could get rid of the temporary “permacath” in his chest.

Apparently, the outpatient surgery was just too much for his already weakened and incredibly damaged heart to handle. While he made it through the procedure itself with “flying colors” and even joked with the OR staff, he just never bounced back. He was weak, nauseous, dizzy.

We talked about whether this was too much for him, if he wanted to just call hospice. He said no. With the same determination I’d seen countless times in our 22 years, he said “I want to fight.” And… he fought. He fought with the heart of a champion until the very end.

On the afternoon of October 21st, I brought him home from the Friday session of his three times a week dialysis. Got him in his comfy chair, and gave him a homemade popsicle. He ate it, and settled back for a nap. The dachshunds and I were camped out in our recliner next to him where we had been since we brought him home from surgery.

At 7:20 p.m., he asked for another popsicle. I handed it to him, and told him I was going to go to the bedroom to get him a change of clothes out of his dialysis shirt and pants so he could get changed into something comfy.

I wasn’t more than 10 feet down the hall, when I heard him say “AAHH!”. I ran back in and found him slumped over in his chair, the half eaten popsicle on his lap. Thank God I told him “I Love You” and he said “I Love You” back when I handed him the popsicle – those would be our last words to each other.

Despite my panicked call to 911 and me frantically doing CPR until help arrived, he was gone.

The coroner, fire department, paramedics, police department and everyone who was on scene were so compassionate, so caring. The coroner told me that he died instantly, and that there was nothing anyone could do that would have saved him.

I suppose if there can be such a thing as a “good death”, that was it.

His “gift” to me was to wait until I had walked out of the room to leave me and leave us forever.

But his are (as they always were) the gifts that continue.

I read a book long ago called “God Winks”. They, according to the author, are those unexplainable coincidences, pieces of synchronicity that let you know all is well. Although I am in love with the term “God Winks”, I probably would be in terrible trouble if I were to use it, so I shall call them “Angel Noogies”.

The manager and assistant manager of our community, invited me up for lunch on the 24th. They not only fed my tummy, they nourished my soul. Unbeknownst to them, the delicious baked ziti they made for lunch just happened to be the same first meal I cooked for hubby 22+ years ago. And they generously offered to let us use the clubhouse for hubby’s memorial service that was to be a celebration of his life that upcoming Friday. “Angel Noogie” number one had arrived.

We laid hubby to rest on the 27th of October.

The cemetery is close to a major intersection, and during a rather emotional part of the committal, we were all getting even more teary eyed. Just then, a car drove by with its windows down and they were blaring “Tequila” by the Champs. I said “That’s Hubby’s doing”.
So, if I ever needed a sign, or an “Angel Noogie” – that was the second one.
And, because “Angel Noogies” come in threes….

About two hours prior to the Friday night event, the Celebration of his Life, I was pulling trays of these decadent little bacon wrapped cocktail sausages out of the fridge to broil so I could take them to the celebration. Mr. Wyatt Earp – the world’s orneriest dachshund – decided to snag one of them from the bottom tray before I could get it. He bolted it down – *Wooden Toothpick And All*!
I freaked out (not that I’ve had anything to freak out about lately), and made a panic call to the vets. But I got their answering machine because it was lunch hour there. I left a frantic message and, a couple of minutes later, decided to scoop the sausage snagging pup up in my arms and race him in there in person.
The second I got to the truck – I realized that… I had left my keys in the house.
I was fricking locked out of my house.
“I’ll call someone”, I thought.
I had left my iPhone next to my keys in my fricking house.
So, in full dress blouse, skirt, nylons, and pumps… I broke into my house.
(BTW, I’m dismayed by how easy it was to break into my abode and I’m working on more security this week.)
Once I got inside, there was a message on my iPhone from the vets telling me not to freak out – just to keep an eye on the little guy and let them know if he started getting sick or having “shitzus”.
I did end up taking my sausage stealing weenie dog to the vets on Saturday – the sausage & bacon (per the vets) did him more harm than the toothpick prolly – they gave him a shot, and gave me some meds for him. Although he’s had a couple of cookie-tossing episodes since then, he seems to be doing better.
My back (which I’d horribly wrenched in my unsuccessful CPR attempt the previous Friday) still hates me with every disk and muscle fiber of its being.
All I could think of was hubby laughing his butt off at me for breaking and entering while being so nattily dressed, and reminding me (as he often did) that there is no reason to panic and everything will work out. I’d call that an “Angel Noogie” for sure.

So, dear friends and followers, just saying “Thank You” seems so inadequate compared to the herculean amount of love, compassion, kindness and support I’ve received.

But thank you…

In no particular order, to – my family and my extended family – who have been there for me at the drop of a hat, who’ve helped set up, clean up, who sat with hubby while I raced out to grab yet another prescription or supply for him so he wouldn’t be alone, who’ve held my hands when there were no other familiar hands to hold them, who’ve shared in my tears and then cried their own even as they dried mine.

My/our longtime friends who became clients, clients who became friends, and neighbors who relied on hubby’s assistance and then, when he could help no longer, reached their hands out to us in help.

My FaceBook friends who drove all the way down from Denver to “represent”. Three beautiful souls that my husband and I had never met in real life until they physically were there at the celebration of his life in honor of his memory and as supportive, hugging, caring representatives of the love and support you have all shown through the years. Another guest said “FaceBook friends don’t do that!” I said “Ours do.” …and they did.

Strangers who are no longer strangers on FaceBook and Twitter, who’ve sent me messages of love, of comfort; who’ve prayed with us and for us countless times while hubby battled on for all of these many years. Who reveled in his successes, who joined me in concern for his travails, who shared in my grief at his passing. Beloved wonderful friends who have given their time, their energy and their donations to help make his last all too few months with me, with us, even more meaningful.

I fancy myself a wordsmith – but words fail me now. “Thank you” is inadequate. “Friend” is inadequate. “Appreciated” is inadequate.

My love for you all is immeasurable, unending. From my heart to yours…

I wish you love. I wish you joy. And I wish you all “Angel Noogies”.

A pound of Corned Beef and a Lecture, please.

So, I’m at the deli section in my local supermarket the other day.

There are two clerks busily working on orders, and two people standing next to me who, I assumed, were the order-ees.

When clerk number three walked up to the front of the deli case, I started in with my order….and heard a meek little “um, excuse me? I believe I was next” from the woman standing next to me.

I stopped dead in my tracks and said, “Oh my goodness. You most certainly were. I apologize.”

Her: “since you’re already ordering, it’s okay, I can wait”.

Me: “to heck with that – you were first, please go ahead. I insist.”

As the clerk was assembling her order, she actually apologized to me! She said “I don’t know what came over me there, I usually don’t say anything at all”.

To which I replied that, yeah, she probably normally wouldn’t ever say anything but then she’d do a slow burn all the way home about the rude bimbo that pushed in line ahead of her like she wasn’t even there.

She nodded in agreement.

And I finished my short off the cuff lecture about how freeing it is when you realize that you’re capable of actually standing up for yourself with a “good on you for not being invisible anymore”.

I think I saw her stand a little straighter while we were chatting. At least I hope so.

Here’s the thing, she was right to stand up for herself – but she wasn’t a jerkwad about it.

I’ve thought about that timid little lady a few times lately as I’ve watched our national discourse become, well, coarse.

Maybe too many people – too many groups of people – have felt that they were “invisible” for too long and have decided that enough is enough and they’re going to push back. Actually standing up for yourself is a good thing. Somewhere along the way, many of my fellow Americans have confused boorish with strong, obstreperous with gallant, volume with substance.

There’s a better way, IMHO, but we’ve somehow forgotten what that is.

Don’t get me wrong, here. As a card carrying, stereotypical redheaded pitbull with lipstick, I’ve learned the hard way that just meekly letting “others” run roughshod over you can be just as stressful, if not more, than piping up and saying “hey! That’s not right!” when the situation warrants it. “If you give them an inch, they’ll take a mile” has been proven out time after time, interaction after interaction in my life and the only way to put a halt to it without causing WWIII is to very calmly, very firmly, just say no.

Of course, I’ll feel really bad if I find out that the lady in the store kicked a toddler out of her way in the produce section after our conversation.

A Season of Deception

Before hubby’s heart, kidneys and liver all simultaneously shut down in July, necessitating our now infamous trip to the hospital and his subsequent battles to remain among the living, I’d love to say that there were no warning signs.




Oh, but there were.

Plenty of them in fact.

However – each of them mimicked other things, some not so serious that we’d been dealing with for years. Others impersonated other symptoms of serious, yet manageable, conditions that we’d been coping with and, for the most part, successfully handling.

Even my much vaunted “woman’s intuition”, when it did kick in with “hey… something ain’t right here” was assuaged by trip after trip after trip to primary care docs and specialists.

Shortness of breath and coughing? Fluid in his lungs – from the pneumonia that he contracts twice a year like clockwork (and it WAS that time of year).

Lousy appetite? Standard procedure with pneumonia. And, besides, he’s had a lousy stomach for decades.

High creatinine levels? Dehydrated, ate too much protein. Adjust the diet (again).

Even the ascites they found in his CAT scan to confirm the pneumonia diagnosis were almost an afterthought and were explained away as tiny pockets, and probably transitory. A scant week later, they had morphed into lakes from tiny puddles.

He’d even had a appointment with his cardiologist previously scheduled for the day he woke up in the cardiology ICU ward from the night in the ER.

Who knew that three major organs were conspiring to attempt his murder? Certainly not his specialists and providers to whom we dutifully reported every symptom, every concern. And more certainly, not us.

See, the thing is – none of the symptoms presented to any of us as they truly were.

Not that I am trying to absolve myself of any guilt, mind you. 20/20 hindsight has provided me with more than enough of that.

Why didn’t I see it?

How could I be so blind?

I should have put the pieces together sooner.

Dammit – I. Should. Have. Known.

Now, I am left with the uncomfortable reality that forces me to transfer that wariness to everyone and everything else in our life.

The total complete trust I once had in even the most likeable providers is gone.

It’s been supplanted by “are you sure?” and “what about…?” and “why would you say that?”. Most of all, it’s been replaced by “I’d like more information” and “My research doesn’t jibe with what you’re telling me” and, supremely with “My gut instincts don’t like that answer”.

And as my suspicions have been roused about all things medical, they’ve gone on heightened alert about other facets of life as well.

Is that family friend who has suddenly become a little too chummy and inappropriately affectionate with an older family member *really* behaving that way out of concern? Or are there ulterior motives at work?

Why are we suddenly getting calls and messages on social media from long ago angrily estranged family members? Is it merely coincidence?

Is the sudden barrage of Tweets from Group “A” helpfully informational or are they only a cover to hide more nefarious deeds or intentions?

Is the sudden appearance of one story line or two endlessly repeated across all forms of media simply because it’s newsworthy, or is it a coordinated effort to shape public opinion?

Are the thought leaders that we’ve looked up to for years really “looking out for you” or are they most likely “looking out for themselves”?

What is someone saying or portraying themself to be that is mimicking other benevolent (or at least benign) people that we’ve admired, that we’ve trusted?

Are any of them truly presenting themselves to us as they truly are?

How many other warning signs have been out there that I (we) haven’t or won’t put 2 + 2 + 2 together on that are now lying in wait to bite us on our collective posteriors when we least expect it?

The worst part? I really, *really* don’t like feeling like this.

I want to be trusting.

I’m happier when I believe that everyone has good intentions.

My world is a nicer place when I can think that we’re all on the same team – that we all want essentially the same things.

My world has been changed because of this season of deception. Perhaps irretrievably so.

The comfortable days of “It’s going to be okay – they’ve got my back” are over.

The days of “go along to get along” are gone.

So, what am I tasked with now?

Bridging the divide I’ve set up. Someway, somehow, not becoming a curmudgeon who distrusts everyone and yet maintaining healthy skepticism.


Why didn’t we see it?

How could we be so blind?

We should have put the pieces together sooner.

Dammit – We. Should. Have. Known.

The Myth of “Me Time”

Recently, friends and family alike have all said in one form or another that I need to make sure I take some “me time” while dealing with hubby’s decline.

My stock, somewhat tongue in cheek reply is “Can I get that on Amazon? I have Prime, so I could have it in, like, two days.”

While I’m sure that the “me time” advice is being offered out of love and concern – I am obliged to point out that there is no such thing.

You see, when you’re dealing with a terminally ill spouse (or, I would suppose, a critically ill child) – “taking care of them time” and “me time” can not possibly exist in the same time/space continuum.

In my dreams, “me time” would be some fantastic heady combination of pepperoni pizza, Tanqueray and Tonic, a bubble bath, soft jazz music on the iPod and a sappy movie or two on NetFlix.

In real life, I am dealing with a very physically weak, suddenly frail, horribly scared person whose condition changes minute by minute. “Good days” are those where he can sleep a lot, joke with me (yes, he still cracks some of the worst jokes on the planet), eat meals together and maybe watch some football.

“Not so good” days are the ones where he’s in pain, having panic attacks, completely wiped out from dialysis, or furious with himself because he can no longer do the things he used to be able to do like wash his hair, put on his shoes.

And a good day can become a not so good day in the blink of an eye.

He is also not at all comfortable with strangers (neither am I for that matter), and the initial parade of people we had traipsing in and out of our home when he first got back from the hospital were more irritating to him than helpful, to be honest. How many times can you squeeze someone’s fingers, get your blood pressure taken and answer the same questions over and over and over again before you get a wee bit perturbed?

Yes, we have family here in town. But they all have lives and obligations of their own. And there would be the inevitable guilt if something happened while I’m not here.

When he cries out, it’s for me. When he needs his medicines, I know where they are – it would take longer to tell someone where everything is and how he likes things than it would take for me to just do it myself.

So, it’s me. By default.

What I have gotten quite proficient at is not “Me Time” but being more efficient at “My Time”.

I’ve learned to fill the extra oxygen tank as soon as I get him back in the house from his three times a week treatments.

I’ve mapped out the city and can take care of all of the shopping, client visiting and bill paying during the four hours while he is in dialysis.

I’ve learned that I am capable of recharging the air conditioner in the truck all by myself instead of sitting at a shop for hours.

I’ve learned how to measure intake and output (although I’ve yet to figure out how to classily disguise a urinal).

I’ve learned how to fold up a wheelchair and a walker and the best way to sling it sideways to get it up into the back of the truck.

I’ve learned that doing one small load of laundry a day makes more sense than trying to do it all on one Saturday afternoon.

I’ve learned that sleep is overrated.

I’ve learned that pepperoni pizza will always be there, Tanqueray and Tonic will still hopefully be legal, and a bubble bath, soft jazz music on the iPod and a sappy movie or two on NetFlix can wait until someday.

When we got married nearly a quarter of a century ago, I remember saying “In Sickness and in Health, for Better or Worse” – not “Whenever it’s convenient for me”. This was part of the deal long ago – or, as hubby cracks with a wry smile “the fine print on the marriage license you neglected to read”.

So, friends – I love you, and your concern is appreciated, but for right now, I’m happy to forego “Me Time” for “We Time”.

I asked. You shared. Thank you.

Almost the middle of September, 2001. The sky had lost the cerulean tinge that we’d reveled in all summer and had faded into that washed out light blue that I’d long ago come to associate with the arrival of autumn.

As we all know, the America (dare I say the world) that we knew changed that day.

I asked a simple question of my Twitter followers and FaceBook friends:

1). Where were you on September 11, 2001?
2). What feeling do you most remember from that day?

Over the next few hours, I heard from friends as far away as Australia and Italy, and have thus far logged dozens of remembrances from people of all backgrounds and political persuasions.

With their permission, I’d like to share some of those with you.

There was shock and disbelief.

From @SerenaMunro1:

I was at home in bed. My hubby told me a plane crashed into WTC. Not knowing what kind of plane, I asked him if it was on purpose.


From Judy Ward on FaceBook:

I was at work at Americo Insurance in downtown Dallas. Someone came in & told us what had happened. One of our agents called in to check on something about his commission and I asked him had he seen the news and he said, No, why? I said just turn on your TV. He did and then all he could say was Oh, My God! Oh, My God!! over and over. I felt the same way he did.

There was, of course, fear and concern for family members.

From @CommonSense_243:

My son worked in Midtown Manhattan.I couldn’t reach him for 8 hrs. Our family cried,prayed. He & roommate helped in BucketBrigade.

and for friends

From @PaulKinkel

I was at work. I remember it took a while to account for a friend who worked in the Pentagon. (He finally got home and emailed)

Feelings of dread and rage.


From @c_m_barnhart:

At home, online, watching on TV and helping people track down loved ones. I remember dread combined with rage.

And anger, even hatred:

From Charles Brown (FB):

I was fishing in northern Minnesota had a great morning over 60 crappies went in to get key for fish house as I was in there saw the second tower get hit we sat there for 2 more days watching the news then went home I felt shock then anger then for the first time in my life I felt hatred

and from Malcolm Granville (also FB):

1) I was running a trash route in Leesburg VA down the street from the FAA building and was advised to come in. I had left my base shortly after the first plane hit the WTC and word came in that the FAA building had been targeted. 2) A burning anger at those that sought to threaten the very way of life I had sworn to protect as a Marine. I was ready to suit up and join the fight. The next three months, I posted at the impact site at the Pentagon as 30yd boxes of rubble were loaded into my containers for their trip south to King George landfill to its final resting space.

From those who were close by NYC:

John S. Wisniewski (FB):

On the New Jersey Turnpike across from NYC. I watched it all happen. 2. Total numbness and disbelief

and right there, right then.

From @marnes:

was in my car watched the 1st plane fly into the tower. I worked 4 the city of NY. I worked downtown. I still can’t talk about it.

And watched the Pentagon be attacked:

From @ThePurpleCat16:
DC native. I was in my car stuck in rush hour traffic and saw the plane hit the Pentagon.

To those who were on the other side of the country:

Jeff Reynolds (FB):

Eugene, Oregon, preparing for a business trip. Feeling of absolute desolation.

Even in a country far away, the shock was palpable:


Petra Michele Diamanté (FaceBook)

I was just arriving to work early hrs of the morning in Australia turned on the TV my first thought was that it was documentary for a new movie… as i sat glued to TV i realised how that it was a real life Tragedy.. i was carer at time for disabled lady… i went into her room to tell her about what happened.. i just burst into sobs and couldnt keep talking…..i just kept saying OMG OMG over and over took me hours to calm down.

Peter Benjamin (FaceBook)

I woke up and was getting ready for work.turned the tv on and thought it strange that yhere was a disaster movie on at 5.30 am.then realised it what i was seeing.couldnt comprhend what was going on.

And Italy:

From @Tamaraw68415067:

in Aviano Italy, and I felt powerless, devastated and detached from my country. I wanted to come home.

And the pain of losing a friend across the sea, from a colleague in Italy is still heart wrenching:

Sara Pistoli Parneau (FaceBook)

I was on the phone to a colleague working in the South Tower. He told me to stay on the line, I couldn’t understand what was happening though I began to feel wave after wave of fear. He came back after what felt like ages and told me the North Tower had been hit and off he went again only to come back one last time before we got disconnected: “We have been hit too, these are the last words I say”. I have never felt more helpless in my whole life.

And when questioned about what happened to her friend, she said “He died. Not a single day goes by that I don’t think about him. I can still hear his voice.”


Some of you were just kids on that fateful day.

Like Robyn Rodrigues (FB):

I was 11!! I remember seeing the second plane hit when we dropped off my little brother at his sitters. At school that day we did not get to walk the halls we stayed in our home rooms and it was at our teachers discretion whether we watched the news or not.. We did not. We had class discussion all day about what was possibly happening. I remember being afraid, angry, and so very sad! I will never forget the feeling I got watching that plane curve to hit the second tower!

Others were (and still are) taking care of kids:

Kim Zygula Rothhammer (FB):

I was working in a school. We had a lock down. We didn’t know what was. I lived in New York for 2 years though. Our Principal came around to tell us and I was trying not to cry cuz I didn’t want to let the kids see my fear cuz they were saying Chicago could be hit.


Lyn Liphart (FB):

I was working on grant writing with my supervisor, on a tight deadline for that evening with the TV on in the background. My son, who was a college freshman, had called very emotional. (He did not recover academically that semester.) I was kept on task due to the deadline which probably kept me from completely falling apart. At some point in the day I had to return to my satellite office to console my team at work–and my daughter at home. I found time to fill up all the cars and stock up on emergency supplies. That is me–get through the emergency first–the days that followed were dark and I slept poorly. Over the years I have worked with children (now grown) who lost loved ones that day. Trust me when I say they are still reeling.



But there was also a sort of hope – a “We’re all in this together” feeling on that horrid day:

From J. Michael Cobb on FaceBook: I was working in the Georgia Pacific HR building (next to the big GP building). I had started working there about the week or two before. I recall seeing the news reports come in on Yahoo/Internet and thinking, “Must be bad weather up there – like when the B-25 hit the Empire State Building”…then the news spread.

The biggest feeling I recall was riding the MARTA train home and seeing *everyone* all worried together. No races, no ages, no gender bias, nothing but – we are all together in this. Remarkable feeling.

And my most vivid memories from that day, and the days that followed were:

1. The fear – the eerie silence of no planes in the air, save the military jets and helicopters on patrol.

2. The fist pumping hallelujahs every time a survivor was saved from the rubble that were tempered with story after story of cars left at auto parks that would never be reclaimed by their owners.

But my most important memory was the camaraderie I felt with my fellow Americans on that September day and for many days that followed.

While I and my circle were not in NYC, DC or PA – we did what Americans do best – we sent people to help, we sent supplies, we prayed.

Not once did we ask what party the victims belonged to, what their country of origin was (374 foreign nationals from 61 countries were also victims that day). It was people, real people helping other people who were hurting, who were scared, who were in need. They were our brothers, our sisters, our aunts and uncles, our children our friends.

Even a country or a continent away, we all became New Yorkers, DC-ers, Pennsylvanians that day. And we were briefly better for it.

I remember both houses of congress gathered together in the Capitol steps, singing “God Bless America” at a press conference.,d.eWE

Soon enough, there would be accusations and political posturing from both sides of the aisle. “Your side caused this because of ..whatever” was the favorite suggestion or outright accusation of those who habitually seek to make political hay out of any tragedy, those who prefer to put party above country. But on that day, and the days that followed, we were all one people, united in our grief, in our shock, in our resolve and our caring.

A friend opined this morning that if the attack of 9-11 happened today, we’d eat each other alive. With the hostility I’ve witnessed this year (again, on both sides), I’m almost tempted to agree.

Then I read your comments. Then I see your tweets. Then I remember that no matter what political affiliation we have, we are all still brothers and sisters at the core. We all have families, friends.

Our real difference is not in “do we care” but in “how we care”. And I have to hope that there is still a middle ground that we can find to come together and care. I pray that it won’t take another September tragedy to make us do that.

“What If”

Once again, on September 10th, I (along with countless others) posted yet another iteration of the “On this day, hundreds packed their bags” memorial post on FaceBook. It’s a lovely sentiment, and, no doubt, thousands of people will be posting their own version of it on social media today and tonight.

I posted something like this last year on the eve of 9/11.

Events this year have made this even more relevant to me.

I hope you agree.

September 10, 2016:
On this day 15 years ago, millions of Americans went about their usual routines. Later that night they would to bed quietly, with no thought that the next morning their world would change forever.

That night hundreds packed flight bags they would not live to open.

Thousands set the alarm clock for the last time, unaware that the next morning would be the last time they ever got out of bed.

Thousands slept with their loved ones for the last time. Some possibly had an argument, and maybe went off to sleep without telling their partner “goodnight”, or “I love you”.

One never knows what a new day has in store.

Let us live each day to the fullest and never miss a chance to let those dearest to us know how very much we love them.

So tonight if you have someone in your life that you love, or care about – tell them . . .

I just did.

Never forget.

Love you guys.

That got me to thinking, as I am wont to do, because, while I posted a sweet memorial on FB, I also had let off a string of, shall we say “less than charitable” tweets on Twitter the day before.

I was going to write “Hypocrite, thou art Judianna”, but it’s more like “We’re only human”. And, as humans, we forget. We forget the “What If’s”

“What If” your last tweet was GFY?

“What If” your last act was flipping off that idiot driver going too slow in front of you?

“What If” your last conversation with your spouse was something heated and accusatory because they didn’t put the dishes in the dishwasher in the right direction?

“What If”?

OR, “What If” the last tweet you read was someone telling you what part of your anatomy your head was located in?

“What If” the last person you laid eyes on was an angry individual giving you the one finger salute?

“What If” the last words you heard from your beloved was “Why didn’t you…”?

Many years ago, when hubby and I were first married, he had a serious enough bout of stomach pain and a long enough history of heart problems that I raced him to the emergency room. It was Thanksgiving night and, as we were waiting to be seen in the examining room, we observed a little old man and his tiny bird-like wife walking down the hall behind a too-busy-to-be-nice-because-it’s-a-holiday-and-I-have-to-work-dammit ER doc.

The doctor was very insistently telling the man that he should sign a DNR (do not resuscitate) order because “you are old and you have a lot wrong with you”. I heard his wife gasp and watched her visibly blanche and my heart went out to her. Her husband, obviously the strong force in their who-knows-how-long union, said “Nah. I’m a tough old bird. I will survive this and I’ll be just fine”. His words were possibly meant more to comfort his shaken wife, or perhaps they were a polite man-to-man slap in the face to the smarmy ER doc.

I told hubby that, number one, I hoped we didn’t draw him as a doctor (we didn’t) and, number two, that I hoped the old man pulled through and lived many happy years just to show that smarty pants a thing or two.

That memory came rushing back the Saturday before my husband was discharged from the hospital. It was barely 7:00 a.m. and I hadn’t even downed my first cup of coffee when I got a panic phone call from him.

It seems the hospitalist (I hesitate to even refer to him with the respected title of “doctor”, so from here on out I will simply call him “Poopyhead”) had just left the room. Hubby informed him that the attending cardiologist was weaning him off of his dopamine drip and he was going to be sent home in a few days with a prescription for a tablet that would maintain his blood pressure. “Poopyhead” said “Oh. You think so? I have news for you – the second they stop that drip, your heart will stop and you’ll die. You’re not going to make it home”. And with that, he whirled around and left the room.

Hubby dialed me and, choking back tears, begged me to get to the hospital so he could say one last goodbye.

I’m not sure how many drivers I flipped off on my race to the hospital. It is most probable, however, that the floor nurse, who had the misfortune to be in my husband’s room when I came screaming up the stairs, will not soon forget me, nor the torrent of curse words I bestowed upon her. She then informed me that hubby had, on “Poopyhead’s” insistence (and while on a morphine derivative, by the way), signed a DNR the night before.

I demanded to see “Poopyhead” immediately, and I told her in no uncertain terms that we were revoking the DNR. Just then the attending cardiologist walked by and I flagged him down, told him about the pronouncement from “Poopyhead” and asked what the cat hair was going on. He said that no, discontinuing the drip would most certainly not mean imminent demise and, that he had put in orders for a bolus and additional medication should hubby’s blood pressure drop precipitously.

That began a three day barrage and harangues from Poopyhead (who said that he was just “being a realist”) and the charge nurse who were both hell bent on us leaving the DNR in place. Unfortunately, DNR now equated “Do Not Remember To Check On The Patient At All”, and hubby was equally hell bent on not dying in the hospital. I explained forcefully (and probably impolitely) that, even if they resuscitated him long enough for me to drive him home and let him die there, that was his wish. This time it was my words that were meant not only as a comfort to my visibly shaken husband, but I made certain that they were delivered with enough accuracy that they were a direct slap in the face to Poopyhead (only because there was a hospital gurney between us).

Anyway, their barrage was one we withstood because, in the end, even though hubby is terminal, he’s by gosh going to pass away in his time and God’s time and not at the convenience of some hospital internist or to satisfy the balance sheet of an insurance company.

Which takes me back to my “What If’s?”

“What If” the last words my husband ever heard was the smarmy declaration of Poopyhead and he passed away in a panic?

“What If” I hadn’t made it past that ridiculously slow driver on my way to the hospital to say I love you one more time?

On the other hand, “What If” I hadn’t revoked the DNR? Would he have even survived the next few days and made it home to celebrate our last anniversary together?

“What If” I’d meekly acquiesced to the nurse and to Poopyhead and not flagged down the cardiologist (whose orders had conveniently *not* been entered in on hubby’s chart until our conversation in front of the nurse)?

“What If” I hadn’t reached out to so many friends and strangers alike to get the help I needed to bring my man home one more time?

I’m somewhere between wanting to be humble and grateful and gracious, and being the redheaded pit bull with lipstick who is not going to allow any of her friends or loved ones to be pushed around and will mightily push back when necessary.

In other words, I’m only human. And, as a human, I’m struggling each day with the “What If’s”.