Preparing For Death

There are a lot of things that stick out in my mind when I think back to the funeral service I attended less than two years ago. There was the terrible injustice of being there in the first place – no 29 year-old should have to leave this earth. There is so much left to accomplish. The pastor tried his best to give all of us meaningful, comforting words, but it was obvious that even he was at a loss. One thing he did say, which has stuck with me, was, “even in life we are in death.” I couldn’t grasp what that statement meant, and his explanation didn’t satisfy me at the time. To be fair, nothing would have.

And yet. I’ve been saying that phrase over and over in my mind for the past several days. My best friend Kate is helping her mom through a devastating battle with advanced-stage cancer. What has her awestruck is her mom’s relentless grace. In the face of an endless string of appointments, treatments, pain and suffering, Kate says her mom is, more or less, at peace. She seems prepared for whatever lies in store for her. What a beautiful blessing. Don’t we all hope that one day, when faced with death, we’ll be prepared? But how do we get there?

I don’t believe you’re prepared for death unless you lived your life the way you wanted to. That you upheld your standards, pursued your dreams, treated those around you with kindness, gave those you loved all of your heart. My high school cross country coach, before every race, instructed us to cross the finish line with nothing left in the tank. If you did that, no matter what place you came in, you could be proud that you gave it your all. I think these instructions are appropriate beyond the world of racing flats and tiny shorts. No matter when death calls for me, I want to feel like I’m leaving on an empty tank.

Buh Bye, Newspapers

I came across this article in the New York Times today about hyperlocal web sites springing up in the wake of the collapse of the local newspaper. This evolution of news media should come as no surprise to any of us. While talking heads have been busy decrying the death of the local paper, innovation and evolution have, as they always do, quietly plodded along under the surface. The only difference is that we’re now moving along a new path, rather than a well-trod road.

I was lounging around the couch one recent weekend morning and caught an episode of Meet the Press. Or was it Hard Ball with Chris Matthews? Either way, it was a show no self-respecting 27-year-old should be caught watching, let alone be admitting to the entire Internet. And yet…the premise of the show was the future of newspapers. Specifically, the future of those dry, scratchy hard copies that make your fingers feel terribly uncomfortable before finally covering them in a nasty black smudge. What I found most disturbing about this panel of ‘brainpower’ was that no one on it was born in the digital age. Not one of these people grew up knowing any reality other than one where they picked up the newspaper from the front stoop. Not to mention, all the panelists were media professionals. They are, by nature, obsessed with newspapers! How are we going to get any real insight or diverse viewpoints? Like a doctor who cannot operate on his/her own child, these panelists were just too close to the action to be able to see anything objectively.

The Meet the Press/Hardball panel was terribly worried about who would report on city council meetings once we’ve put our trusty newspapers to sleep. They saw this information – and the coverage of it –as critical to citizens of any upstanding community. All this panel knew and could fathom was the notion of reporters covering local beats as the right of passage into higher level journalism.

Might it be possible that tomorrow’s city council meetings won’t be covered by steno-pad wielding journalists who report for the local Morning Call? What if these meetings are broadcast live via webcam, for all to see if they choose (perhaps the same audience known to watch Hardball on weekend mornings)? Locals could then comment on these meetings via message boards or web sites like the Times mentioned today.

I don’t know what will replace newspapers one day. I don’t think any of us do. But just because something is going away, that doesn’t mean it’s gone for good. Perhaps it’s just that its next iteration is one we haven’t invented yet. It might not be worse. It might not even be better. It may just be different. And I think that’s ok.

San Francisco Treat

The last time I was in San Francisco I was so young that, well, I can’t even remember the last time I was there. I simply remember that I was very young, that we walked down Lombard street and that we rode the trolleys (are they called trolleys? It’s been a long day, and I’m blanking on the official name).

Now, circumstances have conspired to have me planning a return trip to San Francisco – this time as an adult! My husband just got a job with a company based there and they’ve asked him to come out for a week’s training. And, my company? Well, let’s just say that I have learned the meaning of the word ‘furlough’.

A few thoughts about furloughs:
1) The word ‘furlough’ is incredibly fun to say!
2) Being commanded not to work is a bit like being a kid and having your mom tell you that you MUST eat another piece of cake. OK!
3) Being commanded not to get paid is a lot like being a kid and having your mom tell you that you’re grounded for absolutely no reason.

So here I am, thinking that my furlough is the perfect time to accompany my husband on his business trip. And, by the by, when did I get so old and grown up that I have a husband who goes on business trips while I am a wife who accompanies him for fun?

So, the question is this: what do I do all week while hubby is at work? I received some great Tweetomendations (my made up word for the wisdom of crowds that is Twitter) today about various museums. And while I would be open to checking out one or two – preferably ones with photography exhibits – I’m going to be honest and admit that I’m not that crazy about museums. So low culture am I!

Of course I’ll go see the seals at Fisherman’s Wharf and check out the Golden Gate bridge. And I’m totally bringing my big SLR ‘I’m A Tourist!’ camera to capture the fog rolling in off the bay.

But what else should I do? Keep in mind much of my sightseeing will be done solo. I don’t necessarily have a problem with that, but a lot of people think solo excursions are, at best, uncomfortable and at worst, strange.

Lazy Days

What is it about exercise that makes it so easy to start, then quit, then start again, only to quit again? I absolutely love exercise in its purest form – simply being active – and yet I can’t seem to keep it as a consistent part of my life.

As a kid I spent just about every free minute outside. I rollerbladed around my neighborhood, played roller hockey with my brother and the boys, ran cross country all through junior high and high school. As an adult though, my exercise patterns have vacillated between being representative of a 500 lb sedentary sloth and a world-class triathlete (well…that may just be a bit of a stretch).

Back in 2005, I landed a spot in the New York City Marathon, and spent a very hot and humid summer training religiously. 26 miles is not a distance you want to mess with. That shit is hard! During the week I would run up to 10 miles before work; on the weekends, 18 miles before most people had gotten out of bed. I was determined. I finished the marathon with a reasonably good time, and after that I experienced a feeling that I imagine many Olympic athletes must feel following the Games. What now? I had accomplished a goal I’d held since I was 15. And not only had I run a marathon, but I had run one of the world’s premier marathons!

Last year, I got hooked on the Nike+ device. This little gadget tracks your speed, distance and time, and lets you compete with other people who have it as well. A few friends and I set up challenges, and for nearly five months we were fervent competitors. Our Nike+ competitions got me out of the house in the middle of winter, through bone chilling temperatures, in the pitch black (and yes - I know - unsafe) darkness of pre-dawn. The feeling of camaraderie – that we were all in this together – was strong. But honestly? My will to win was stronger. Pride can be so motivating!

This winter I fell victim to the cult following of Jillian Michael’s 30 Day Shred DVD. I got over the slight embarrassment at being one of ‘those’ ladies who works out in her living room. The abject difficulty of the workouts quickly took care of that. In its place I encountered humbling feelings of ‘Holy shit! I can’t lift my arms above my head!’ But once I had conquered all three levels of the Shred, or perhaps more precisely, once our tropical winter getaway had passed, Jillian’s workout gathered dust in the DVD player.

So now what? Spring is here. My Nike+ buddies seem as ‘over it’ as I am. I want so badly to be motivated. And yet. The laptop won’t budge off my lap and my ass won’t budge from the couch.

The Moving Finger Writes

My dad has never been a particularly emotional or sentimental person. That is not at all to say that he doesn't care or feel things; however, understanding the ways in which he cares is more about recognizing and deciphering body language and subtle nuances. When 9/11 happened I was in college, at an age where I was still acutely attuned to my parents' guidance and advice. I was particularly curious as to how my dad would react. He is the preeminent student of New York. He’s fascinated by the city and its ins and outs, knows the history of every architecturally significant building here and has a working knowledge of the city’s public transit system that could put the most seasoned MTA executive to shame. The ‘I <} NY’ shirt was truly intended for people like my dad.

On the day of, or perhaps the day after, the attacks I got an email from my Dad. It was a disappointingly short note, with remarks to the effect that he couldn’t help but be reminded of this famous quote from Omar Khayyam’s ‘The Rubaiyat’

“The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it”

My first reaction was utter disappointment. This was the first time my family had ever faced something so emotionally fraught, and I had felt sure that the silver lining to this apocalyptic cloud would be that we’d finally open ourselves up and show more depth of feeling. And yet, all I could think was that this quote was simply cold. Was he telling me that we needed to simply shrug our shoulders and get on with things?

Over the ensuing years I’ve thought back on that email and that quote with resentment that has evolved to resignation. These days, I can’t help but think that perhaps my dad was (is) simply a realist. In his nearly 77 years, a lot has happened. And once a thing is done, the world is forever changed. Khayyam’s quote may just be the precursor to today’s (and my most hated) pithy quote ‘It is what it is.’

Jobs are being lost at a frightening rate. Businesses are closing. Our country – and the world – is sliding down a steeply curved roller coaster hill. There doesn’t appear to be an upswing to this bleak horizon. But what are we to do? We can’t change what’s happened. The moving finger has writ. I’m afraid it’s still writ-ing. Our tears won’t wash out a bit of it. Now what? Quite simply, we must go on.

Hypochondriac

I’d like to simultaneously curse and kiss the creators of those health/medical portals that have sprung up on the Internet. Is it just me, or do you also immediately jump to these sites at the first hint of strangeness occurring in your body? You’re not yet ready to call the doctor so you log on, immerse yourself in the symptom checker and next thing you know you’ve diagnosed yourself with a flesh-eating bacteria that is only minutes away from devouring your body from toes to tongue.

Over the past several days, I’ve been experiencing a consistent amount of tingling/pre-cramping in the muscles of my feet, legs and arms that is slowly driving me nuts. I’ve always had problems with excruciating calf cramps waking me up in the middle of the night, as my college roommates and husband can attest to. In college, these cramps happened so frequently that as soon as I started thrashing around in pain, my roommate would rise up out of her bed, sleepwalk over to me, stretch out my leg to make it stop and then retreat back to her bed without a word. The first night my husband had the pleasure of awakening to one of these episodes, he nearly had a heart attack. For all my screaming and writhing in pain, the only logical explanation he could come up with was that a giant, slobbering psycho murderer had found his way into our bed and was tearing me apart limb by limb. Once the pain subsided I was able to breathlessly explain ‘my calf...cramp.’ This turned out to be an unsatisfactory reply. And yet, with time and a few pointers from my old roommate, dear husband, too, has mastered the art of stretching out my leg while remaining half asleep.

The symptoms I’ve been feeling recently feel much like the precursor to the calf cramps of yore. It starts with a tingling – a vague sort of early warning system that tells me to stop pointing my toes or flexing my calf because damn, THIS IS GONNA HURT. Except this time, the cramp never comes. Instead the early warning system continues on for hours on end. I suppose I should be grateful. The pain of a muscle cramp can leave you hopping up and down, gritting your teeth and hyperventilating from the torment. But this low grade twinge in my legs and arms is frustrating. I’m not yet ready to call the doctor. I just assume that this will pass within a matter of days. In the meantime, I’ll probably convince myself that I have MS, fibromyalgia, or the exotic-sounding Guillan- Barré (who doesn’t want an affliction with an accent over the ‘e’) Syndrome when in reality what I probably need to do is drink a tall glass of milk and eat a couple bananas.

Community Building

About four years ago I started a blog at a time when blogs were still unique and not something that every idiot with a computer had. They were the province of early adopters and tech geeks (and I’d like to go on record as the former, rather than the latter).

What thrilled me about having a blog was the idea that I had a place to spout my opinions. I had a lot to say, or so I thought. In those early days, I, web pioneer, talked often about current events and politics. Back then I had the time to read multiple news sources each day. These days, I have just enough time to check in on cnn.com and make sure that there isn’t a 60 pt. font headline and accompanying giant red bar alerting me to BREAKING NEWS.

As time wore on, my real-life career progressed and with it, the time I had to devote to my blog lessened and lessened. I took a job that required me to write all day long, which hampered my desire to do the same in my down time. I posted less and less often, and when it got to the point where I was embarrassed to even log into my site because of lack of activity, I decided to shut it down altogether. I couldn’t take the constant reminder of something that I should be doing – wanted to be doing - but simply was not.

And yet, these days, I’ve found myself drawn back into the world of blogging. This may have to do with the group of blogs I’ve begun following. I’ve collected a list that I check in on every other day or so for updates. Most of these blogs are authored by women about my own age, with an excellent knack for the written word and a sharp wit that I at once admire and like to believe I share. These women have found success with blogging. They post regularly and have cultivated their own little communities of readers who comment and exchange ideas. I can’t help but watch their little blogging worlds and want the same for my greedy little self. I want a community too! A community of people who believe that what I’m saying is worthwhile – whether because they learn something they didn’t know, think about something a little differently than they would have otherwise, or just because I make them laugh every now and then.

There are a few bloggers I follow who delight me so consistently that I just can’t wait for them to put up a new post (All & Sundry, Nothing But Bonfires - I'm looking at you). I don’t much care WHAT they’re talking about, so long as they’re talking. These bloggers are interesting and amusing even if they’re talking about pulling a giant hairball out of a shower drain. But there’s the rub. What to talk about? It confounds me to the point of paralyzation. Should I talk about the four hours I spent at the mall today, and the fact that I could have happily spent four more there if money were no object? Should I talk about how I’m spending a weekend alone while my husband is gallivanting around the bars and restaurants of Dallas? Should I talk about our decision to go halfies with our friends on a boat? Should I talk about the fact that we, along with our friends, might as well just take our money and drop it to the bottom of the Hudson River, for all the headaches a boat entails? I suppose I could talk about all of these things. I just need to get on with it! Stay tuned guys, I’m building our community. I hope to see you around!