Category: Uncategorized

Merry and Bright

Posted on Posted in adoption, adoptive mom, christmas, christmas eve, Christmas Spirit, Coffee Lover, family, fertility treatment, God, holiday, holidays, hope, Life, love, Motherhood, Parenthood, Pet Owners, Single Mom, Survival, the Universe, UncategorizedTagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , 1 Comment

I’m not a morning person. Never have been. Nonetheless, I respect the virtues of a beautiful morning. There’s something incredible about seeing the sun slip gently over the horizon and cast brilliant golden light onto the dark earth. It always overwhelms me with a sense of possibility. A new beginning set before us. A second chance. Hope.

You’d think someone with such a great appreciation of those fleeting morning hours would bounce out of bed each day with abandon, but sadly, that’s not the case. I’m somehow cursed to be both a night owl AND an early bird, staying up reading or tapping out stories on my computer until the deep hours of the night. Morning always arrives far too soon, and those glorious rays of sunshine offend my eyes and drive me to plunge ever more profoundly into my pillows, in a desperate quest for the last few moments of precious sleep.

Through the years, I have tried to change my schedule and make myself into a virtuous morning person. Morning people always seem to have it going on, don’t they? They thumb their noses at the night and gloat about their many achievements already completed by 9am, when those exhausted owls finally abandon hope of further sleep. I find that deeply annoying and yet, at heart, I must admit I do believe morning people are indeed more productive than night dwellers.

When I wrote my first book, I got up at 5:30 every morning and drank copious amounts of coffee until I completed the manuscript. It was the only way, as my nighttime mind was too often cluttered with the debris of the day to focus on the work. The shimmering silence of a new day provided me with a profusion of clarity. It was a gift, and I took advantage of those fragile hours at dawn until the deed was done, always taking time to peek out the window at sunrise to catch a glimpse of the new day’s glorious arrival.

But as soon as the final word of my tome was written, I bade goodbye to the early hours and fell back into my usual nocturnal routine. We, as humans, are intrinsically flawed, and this love of night and slothful sleep is perhaps my greatest weakness. Oh, for the New Year, I aspire to embracing the wee hours of the morning once more to raise my level of production in 2023! I will try. We all can dream.

On this fine morning of Christmas Eve 2022, my eyes flew open early, when the day was still quiet and golden. A small voice in my head whispered, “It’s Christmas!” and so it is. A smile drifted over my face, and I felt a twinge of childlike delight in my heart. Christmas. I love Christmas. Since my youth, it’s been a moment of magic and joy. I found it remarkable that every family around the world was touched by this elusive elf, clad in red velvet and snow. The excitement was almost overwhelming for little me.

That ethereal quality still lingers in my heart. Christmas! As a sensible adult, I understand that not everyone celebrates this holiday, but I get a quiet thrill from knowing that Christmas has transcended the constrains of the religious and is now considered a season of its own. The Season of Christmas! I love that. A season of joy, no matter your beliefs. The Christmas Spirit is available to one and all. It’s all about love and yours for the taking. How wonderful. And it starts today.

Honestly, as an adult and a parent, Christmas Eve is more about finishing up those last-minute chores for the big day – wrapping gifts, writing cards, preparing festive food, and driving kids to the shocking chaos of the mall for last-minute gifts. It’s hardly a day of rest and daydreams. And yet, when my eyes opened on this Christmas Eve morning, I was awash with the joy of the season. Love. Hope. Possibility. Magic. It’s all there.

I watched the sun cast her gilded rays over the mountains this morning and chase away the darkness of the rest of the year. That’s gone now. Christmas. I put on the soft strains of my favorite holiday music. Christmas. I whispered, “Thank you,” aloud to the day. I get to celebrate another Christmas with my loved ones. Amazing. Christmas. Life is the greatest gift of all, isn’t it? And I’m still here, after all this time. What a blessing.

Merry Christmas to you! May it be both merry and bright.

The Chipped Bowl

Posted on Posted in Addictions, adoption, adoptive mom, Alcoholism, Cat Lovers, Coffee Lover, family, fertility treatment, God, holidays, Life, Loss, love, Motherhood, Parenthood, Pet Owners, Single Mom, Survival, UncategorizedTagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , 1 Comment

In Western cultures, we tend to value perfection. When something breaks, we throw it away and buy a new one. Value is placed on that which is flawless. It is quite the opposite in the East. According to Wikipedia, the Japanese word, Kintsugi, refers to a broken item, such as a chipped porcelain bowl, which has been meticulously repaired with gold or silver thread, highlighting its imperfection, and in that way, celebrating the unique quality of the bowl. The chipped bowl becomes even more precious to the holder because of its flaw. I find that both lovely and remarkable.

We always look forward to the annual gathering of our families at the holidays. We idealize that time together and imagine it will be carefree and loving, like the warm and wonderful scenes in a Christmas movie, everything merry and bright. The reality is often not quite that. How did Thanksgiving go for you? What is it about a large meal with extended family that brings out the worst in people? It could be the combination of rich food, alcohol, and conflicting views on sports teams? Maybe.

All efforts to maintain civil behavior seem to fade into the bountiful slices of pumpkin pie and melt away with the vanilla ice cream. There’s always the family member (or two) who drinks too much and gets messy. In my family, the dinner conversation would somehow always turn to politics during dessert. Of course, no one agreed, and before long, fireworks seemed to explode over the table. We children would look at each other with something akin to terror. Please God. Not politics. But, there was no stopping it. Like clockwork, all the kids would rise and silently start clearing the table. Better to wash dishes than listen to grownups argue.

The adults never said a word to us, or maybe they didn’t even notice we’d left. When the table was finally clean, and the dishes were sparkling, it was time to go home. Goodbyes were sprinkled all around and hugs were exchanged as we hurried to our cars, clutching our boxes of tasty leftovers from the feast. Everyone breathed a unified sigh of relief as we drove away into the night. Thanksgiving dinner – check! Moving on.

Erma Bombeck once said, “It wouldn’t be Thanksgiving without a little emotional scarring.” It’s the deep truth in the words that makes them funny. To her credit, the illustrious Ms. Bombeck also said, “There are friends, there is family, and then there are friends that become family.” I kind of love that. For me, it is my friends who make the world go round.

Families. Holidays. Arguments. Stress. People wax poetic on the importance of family, but sadly, family life too often is less than idyllic. Every year we send and receive holidays cards with photos of our families looking happy and successful. It’s easy to believe that these lovely families don’t have a worry in the world – indeed, once more, all merry and bright. But, the truth is hidden behind the smiles. Family can be precious and beautiful but also jealous and unkind. Your siblings are supposed to be your best friends but what if they are not? People move away from home and put thousands of miles between themselves and family for a reason. Just because someone is related to you doesn’t mean you like them. Or have anything in common with them. It makes sense that these annual gatherings are often fraught with tension.

The blood link is considered strong, but families that can actually live and play together peacefully through the years have a unique gift. It is the exception, rather than the rule. The rest of us must do the best we can. The modern world has created families through marriage, divorce, blended families, and adoption. Many of us have made our own families from a ragtag group of misfits who simply fit together – like missing puzzle pieces, reunited at last. The people in our lives should love us for our imperfections, not in spite of them. Like the beautiful, chipped bowl, repaired with golden thread. Kintsugi. Perfectly imperfect. During this holiday season, remember to be grateful for the people we call ‘family’ in our lives. Not the ones we are supposed to love, maybe, but the ones we do love. Like the chipped bowl. Perfect.

Happy Holidays to you and yours.

The Universe, Outer Space, Earth, and Me

Posted on Posted in adoptive mom, Cat Lovers, dog lovers, God, Life, Loss, love, Motherhood, Outer Space, Parenthood, Pet Owners, Single Mom, Space, Survival, the Universe, UncategorizedTagged , , , , , , , , , , , Leave a comment

William Shatner recently made it back from his civilian trip into space, courtesy of Jeff Bezos. Upon his return, Shatner spoke of the overwhelming grief he felt while being in space and seeing earth in all its unique blue-ness, so small and insignificant in the universe of deep, black nothingness. It made Shatner realize that here on earth is “where the love is.” That’s what he said. This is it. This is the place. Love can be found right here. And it made him profoundly sad to know that we are polluting this pristine environment and throwing it away. All of this is a gift – a miraculous gift and we are turning our backs on it.

Space – darkness, fear, cold, claustrophobia, solitude. What do you think of when you think of outer space? Of bobbing around in a spaceship, a million miles from anywhere? Would you want to take a trip out there? I love the concept of it, the principle. Of seeing what is beyond our little world. How fascinating the planets and stars and solar systems are! But then fear would stop me in my tracks. I wouldn’t want to go for fear of never coming back. I would feel absolute terror that I would not be able to return.

I remember watching an old Swedish film called “My Life as a Dog.”  In the film, the narrator is a little girl who is vaguely obsessed by a dog. At that time, the Soviet Union had launched a dog in an unmanned rocket ship into space. The dog’s name was “Laika.” And poor Laika would never come home. The Soviets though it was a wonderful idea and apparently watched the dog eventually perish as his little space capsule swirled away, lost in the stars. The little girl was deeply troubled by this. Throughout the film, she wondered how Laika was feeling, if Laika was lonely or scared or hungry or in pain. If Laika knew she wouldn’t make it out alive. Did she know she was going to die? What was Laika thinking?

I loved the sweet simplicity of the child’s thoughts. And indeed, I shared sympathy for poor Laika, sent out into the universe, never to return home. Home. Our little blue planet. I was quite taken by Shatner’s account of his grief. What we have here on this planet of ours is so truly remarkable and most of us never take note of it. We just keep going day after day – same old shit. Instead of breathing in this life, this planet. Realizing what a gift it is to be here, to be alive, to have our feet on this earth. Was it all predestined or a magnificent mistake? Who knows. But here we are. Home.

Sometimes I have this this overwhelming urge to go home. I’m homesick and wistful and just want to go home. And then I realize I am home. But is this really it? Is there nowhere else to go? The home I knew as a child, I left long ago when I set off for college on the faraway East Coast. I only returned for short visits, but never again to live there as my home. My mom and her beloved dog are there still but it doesn’t feel like home to me anymore. The neighborhood is full of old memories I don’t want to remember and the dreams of children who grew up and floated away.

They say you can never go home and alas, perhaps they are right. Where is my home? When my children go off to college and their rooms are suddenly empty, where will I go? Or will I simply stay here and build a new story of my own? What will that be without their laughter and joy? That happy noise? Just four walls and a ceiling – the little old lady who lived in a shoe. Not a home, per se. Just a place to lay my hat until the next adventure comes along. A leaf drifting in the wind, searching for that ineffable Shangri-la that lives in my mind. Home.

Capturing the Mystique

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In my real world profession as a Los Angeles real estate agent, I have the amazing opportunity to represent the most glorious properties. Sometimes it’s up to me, as the agent, to try to capture the essence of a property with my words, so without ever visiting the home, the reader has a vision and a feel for it. The following is one of my favorites.

Just up the road from the splendid, historic Pickfair Estate, once belonging to early Hollywood movie stars, Mary Pickford and Douglas Fairbanks, lies yet another gorgeous, illustrious Hollywood property – the former home of celebrated talent manager, Buddy Morra, his brilliant wife, and their three lovely children.

Buddy Morra could be described as a gentle giant in the world of comedy and music, from the 1970’s until well into the 21st century. Boasting shining celebrity clients such as Robin Williams, Billy Crystal, David Letterman, Joanne Worley, Woody Allen, Jim Carrey, and Martin Short, among so many others, Buddy was loved and respected by all. He spoke softly, and the entire entertainment industry leaned in to grasp every precious word.

Known for his “handshake deals,” Buddy never had contracts with his clients. If a client wanted to leave, he could do so at any time. He also never took a commission from a client who was struggling. A true gentleman from start to finish, Buddy was a man of grit and integrity with no ego to be found. He stood out as a beacon of radiant light in the oft-treacherous waters of entertainment industry.

Originally from the Bronx, Buddy was a pioneer in the world of talent. He loved to discover brand new performers and launch their careers. With incredible taste and a keen eye for that ineffable star quality, Buddy discovered Robin Williams performing mime in San Francisco’s Golden Gate Park, Billy Crystal performing at a bachelor party, and David Letterman as the warm-up performer for a small comedy show. A lifelong lover of jazz, Buddy handled many successful musicians as well, including the esteemed John Pizzarelli, Michael Feinstein, and Linda Eder.

Above all, Buddy valued his family and friends. His darling wife, Carol, a stunning multi-talented actress/director/producer and loving mother, was the yin to Buddy’s yang and together they were one of Hollywood’s most adored couples. They purchased their Beverly Hills home in December of 1976, and as they say, the rest is history.

The parties thrown at the shimmering house at 1627 San Ysidro Drive were truly phenomenal. Anyone who was anyone was there. And everyone was there! The best and the brightest stars of Hollywood filled Carol and Buddy’s home with their twinkling light, including Milton Berle, Joanne Worley, Michael Feinstein, Lainie Kazan, Mort Sahl, Suzanne Pleshette, Richard Benjamin, Paula Prentiss, Redd Buttons, and of course, the wonderful Billy Crystal and effervescent Robin Williams.

An invitation to 1627 San Ysidro Drive was something to be treasured. If you were lucky enough to be invited, you were someone special. And Carol and Buddy effortlessly made all their guests feel beloved and at home. There’s something singular about this glorious 4-bedroom/4-bathroom, 3600 SF house on an almost 11,000 SF lot, and not just because the home is breathtakingly beautiful, with its soaring ceilings and illuminating skylights, and the warm, custom kitchen that easily welcomes in a crowd. Maybe it’s the gentle flow from the dazzling great room to the elegant, formal dining room to the vast, sparkling windows of the comfortable garden room? Or perhaps it’s the old Hollywood glamour of the upstairs billiards room and library?

You have to wonder how many Hollywood deals were struck within those four walls, so casually cool, yet marvelously mythic. Guests would meander out to the abundantly verdant garden to regard the heavens from the moon-watching deck or soak in the soothing, bubbling jacuzzi. The evenings went on until deep into the night.

1627 San Ysidro Drive was always filled with music and laughter as the talented guests, feeling happy and relaxed, belted out Broadway tunes or told endless sets of jokes that kept the rooms in stitches. The house felt like home to all who darkened its stained-glass doorway. It’s impossible to lay a finger on the “why” of it all. It was a privilege to be there – those who graced the elusive guest list knew they’d been hand-selected – but the rooms never felt stuffy or snobby. Call it good karma, magic in the air, or quite simply a home with a heart, 1627 San Ysidro Drive was a place of joy and safety, warmth and love, a haven to the rich and famous, a home to Carol and Buddy and the children, and a glorious destination to the lucky ones invited to those memorable fetes.

The notable neighborhood of this grand house is lovely and pristine and has been quietly populated with celebrities for decades. San Ysidro Drive and its environs have been inhabited by the likes of Sir Laurence Olivier and Vivien Leigh, Sammy Davis Jr., Raquel Welch (her daughter, Tawny Welch, was babysitter to the young Morra children) Danny Kaye, Rona Barrett, Kirk Douglas, Priscilla Presley, Charro, and the list goes on.

1627 San Ysidro Drive was the original builder’s home in the 1953 development. Today, beautiful houses go right to the very top where the street splits off into two private, gated communities. Set above the flats of Beverly Hills in the true hills of Beverly Hills, 1627 San Ysidro Drive is much more than a house. It is a legend.

And now it can be yours. The opportunity to buy a home like this might only happen once in a lifetime. It’s catching lightning in a bottle – now is your chance! 1627 San Ysidro Drive is offered at $3,999,000. Better hurry.

The Now

Posted on Posted in Addictions, adoption, adoptive mom, Alcoholism, disease, euthanasia, God, Life, Motherhood, Parenthood, Single Mom, Survival, UncategorizedLeave a comment

I woke up the other morning to shocking news. My sweet friend Julie’s wonderful, talented husband, comedian David Arnold, had passed away unexpectedly at the terribly young age of 54. I still can’t believe it. David was healthy and well and it was thrilling to see his career lighting up in the last few years. He became a star. His final bow was taken suddenly and all too soon. I am devastated for Julie and her beautiful, young daughters. Such a loss. Hard to wrap your mind around it when David was healthy and well and indeed, larger than life. Unimaginable that he could truly be gone. People in the limelight always seem somehow invincible, don’t they? But in the end, we are all mere humans.

My close friends know I am slightly obsessed by the ‘Now’ of life. We tend to make plans for the future and neglect the ‘Now’. We say to ourselves, “I will be happy when ….” We look to the horizon and let the present moment pass us by, unnoticed. But what if your future doesn’t extend for another 40 years? We just don’t know. Why do we so often neglect our happiness now, in anticipation of a bright future, when actually, ‘Now’ is all we truly have?

The loss of this bright, promising comedian is such a tragedy. This dark moment serves as a reminder to me to kiss my loved ones today. Make bold decisions today. And seek happiness today. Because today is all we have. God bless the Arnold family at this deeply sad time. RIP David Arnold.

Losing Pumpkin

Posted on Posted in Cat Lovers, disease, euthanasia, God, Life, Motherhood, Parenthood, Pet Owners, Single Mom, Survival, UncategorizedLeave a comment

By Elizabeth Kate

I killed my cat. At least, that’s how it feels. Officially, Pumpkin was euthanized, after being diagnosed with terminal liver disease. But in spite of the diagnosis, he didn’t want to go. He was my faithful pet until the end. His spirit was strong, but his body was weak. Pumpkin fought death.

My dear cat was suffering. He hadn’t eaten in more than a week and couldn’t hold anything down. If he took more than a few sips of water, he started to vomit and dry heave. And of course, the only thing he wanted to do was drink. Pumpkin couldn’t understand why I would take away the water bowl after he took a few mouthfuls. He would sit patiently on the bathroom counter hoping I would turn on the faucet. It broke my heart to see him there. I wanted to give my poor baby water, but it always ended badly. Helping to quench his thirst made him sick all over again – a vicious circle.

We searched out a vet who could euthanize Pumpkin at home since he hated going to the vet. Pumpkin also hated his carrier. We had to lure him in with some sort of treat, but he would begin meowing indignantly once he realized he was locked in. He would get progressively louder as we made our way out to the car and was positively howling by the time we arrived at the vet’s office.

I didn’t want Punks to have such an experience on the day he would be put down – his death day, if you will. I wanted it to be quiet and peaceful, so he would just sort of float away, far from any pain or discomfort. This traveling vet seemed ideal, and her assistant patiently explained how the euthanasia was carried out. The animal would receive two injections. The first injection would put the animal into a gentle, twilight state, and the second would end their life. It sounded doable with the least amount of trauma. The price was high, but how can you put a price on something like that? I hired the vet.

She arrived the next morning and went over the process briefly. Before I knew it, the vet was giving Pumpkin a huge injection. I didn’t know she was going to do it right away. Maybe we would have a moment to say goodbye? But she got down to business without pause. It happened very quickly. Maybe she thought we might change our minds as my children and I were all clearly distraught.

I guess most animals are tranquilized immediately by this first shot, but not our Pumpkin. In fact, it was quite the opposite. The needle went in, and he screamed in pain! I was horrified. He struggled and scratched and bit, literally fighting for dear life to escape our grasp. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

Now again, the vet had explained that the first shot “calms and soothes the animal and the final injection escorts them over the rainbow bridge.” No one said a thing about incredible fear, fighting, and clawing and struggling from us, trying to hide, to escape, to get away. It was awful. Pumpkin ran to the hallway door and was furiously reaching his paws under the door, desperately trying to escape Dr. Death. He was fighting madly for his life with every inch of his being.

I ran after him and held him down so he couldn’t escape into the other room. It felt so wrong to be doing this. What was happening? I was sickened by the way everything was unfolding and choking on my tears. My heart squeezed tightly in my chest. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Was it all an appalling mistake?

Pumpkin wasn’t ready to go. My baby wanted fiercely to live. He was so scared. I wanted to stop, to rewind, to end this trauma. To go back per se? Could I stop the death wish after that first shot? Was that the right choice? I didn’t know. The vet said she was shocked. That this had never happened before. She explained his spirit was still very strong – and that this was just an adrenaline rush – but I could barely hear her through my tears.

The twilight medicine started to kick in and Pumpkin must have felt a wave of vertigo. He struggled to get up, but his feet collapsed out from under him like a ragdoll. It was awful. Like he was suddenly inebriated and had lost control of his body. It must have been confusing and terrifying for him. And it was on me. My fault. I did this.

Pumpkin wasn’t ready to go but I ushed him out. I killed my cat. I didn’t do it by myself but instead hired an assassin to take him out while I watched. I helped. I aided and abetted the crime. He trusted me and I betrayed that. I hired the Grim Reaper to make a house call. I was there at the very moment that the final shot was administered. The vet put her stethoscope against his furry white chest and listened for a heartbeat. Nothing. She whispered softly, “He’s gone.”

Gone. Gone. So final. But what if I wanted him back? What if I realized there had been an grave mistake and Pumpkin was actually fine and didn’t need to be put down at all? Gone. Gone too soon. I wanted my cat back. But where did he go? Far away, away from all of us sobbing over his little wasted body. My children and I cried and cried but there was no bringing him back. Pumpkin had left the building. The vet went outside to give us some quiet time to mourn together.

Guilt weighed like lead in my chest. Grief washed over me like waves in the sea, each one more bitter and salty than the last. He’s just a cat for God’s sake. A stupid cat. But my cat. My friend. And he was gone. And nothing could be done.

But then, he wasn’t just a cat. He was a card-carrying member of the family. Always looked pissed off at the world. He gamely gave us friendly head butts and purred so loudly he sounded like a motorboat. Pumpkin could never could just walk into a room. He had to run in, full speed, and maybe crash into something along the way, like the character “Kramer” on “Seinfeld.” He was exceptionally feisty. If his brother was curled up a little too comfortably on the bed, he might come over and bite him on the neck and then take that nice, warm, newly vacated spot. He was a character to be sure.

Pumpkin has been gone a few weeks now. I’m holding it together. I make bad jokes to the kids about how we could have stuffed him and made him into a paperweight or maybe a cute hat or a single, fuzzy Ugg boot. I can’t talk about or think of him too much because people will think I’m a crazy cat lady. I’m not. Just a cat mom who lost her baby. And it hurts. I remember the look in his eyes. The fear. The confusion. Right till the very end, he didn’t want to go. He didn’t go peacefully into the night. He fought till the very end. And I pushed him over.

Will I ever get over the guilt? I don’t know. Does that make me insane? Maybe. But I miss how he used to meet me at the door like a little dog. I miss how he always slept on my stomach when I lay down for a nap. I miss that he was disgusted by the smell of perfume. He would actually make a terrible face like he couldn’t breathe. It was so funny. He would back away from me and run out of the room if I had on perfume or even just scented body lotion. He was a very sensitive feline.

My daughters used to tell me that Pumpkin would pout and act miserable until I came home from work. He missed me. I was his person. And now I miss him. My dear sweet guy. More than just a cat. A friend. A dear friend. So many memories. A lot of regret.

I wish it had ended differently. All I wanted was for my sweet guy to be released from his bodily pain. I know he is at peace now. I hope wherever he is, he can forgive me for that disaster of a death scene. It was never my intention to make him suffer. I hope he knows that. I love him. I always will. My heart belongs to that orange, furry boy who answered to the name of Pumpkin.

Wrestling With COVID

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You wonder where I’ve been – COVID! To the other side and back. And it’s truly as horrible as they say. I know I should be grateful for the two vaccines and one booster for making my symptoms so much more mild, but as I’m in the throes of it, I ask, mild? Really? My symptoms have been anything but mild. I squint at my keyboard as my eyes have become incredibly painful and light sensitive.

My bout with COVID hit me like a freight train. Headache and extreme exhaustion, chills, and actual teeth-rattling shivers. I went to bed and was awakened, blazing hot, with a 102-degree fever, body aches, and a headache that was impossible to fathom. I knew this was something bad. I’ve never been so blindsided by a flu. I took a COVID test and watched with horror as the truth was revealed – two lines. Positive! Oh shit. Those damn little spiky cells had somehow wormed their way into my body and were wreaking havoc. Shit shit shit.

What do you do if you have COVID? I didn’t even know. Suddenly it seemed everything I touched was full of those awful spiky bastards. It was kind of terrifying. How was I going to avoid giving this to my daughters? Or my cats? But there’s no one to take care of me, I realized. Such is the sad reality of being a single parent. Everything is manageable until you get sick and then – then – well, everything goes to hell. I’m so scared my daughters will get sick, but there’s nothing I can do to prevent their exposure except wear a mask and isolate as much as possible, as we live under the same roof.

So, COVID? What are the basics? First, I googled it, as we do. Rest, fluids, blah blah blah. That’s for a mild case. I called the doctor – a stroke of brilliance from my stormy mind. The headache has been unrelenting. The doctor put me on some new drug called Molnupiravir. It’s not yet approved by the FDA but I said let’s give it a try. My symptoms progressed as the first day wore on to include heavy chest and nasal congestion, a sore throat and cough. Crazy. Everything just snowballed upon me. And that headache! You know it’s bad when you’re lying in a pool of pain casually wondering if you might gain any relief from a hole drilled into your skull? That’s next to agony. But my 800 mg Ibuprofen tablets were doing little to relieve anything.

The doctor prescribed antibiotics and steroids to reduce the swelling in my bronchioles and to kill any secondary infections. I still feel sick. My joints hurt like they are arthritic, I’m coughing deep, heavy coughs, and my skin is incredibly sensitive to mere touch. I keep telling myself that this too shall pass, but it’s hard to believe when you are in the middle of it.

My friends have come to my rescue, texting and calling to cheer me up. One wonderful friend picked up my antibiotics and food for my daughters, and dropped them to my door. #Grateful. Yes, grateful, indeed. I find myself falling asleep and then waking at odd hours of the night. With the strange hours come deep thoughts that ring true: Actions speak louder than words. You can say whatever you want, talk is cheap. It’s what you do that matters. Friends who show up for you. Family who shows up for you. Whether it was calling to say hello or a sweet text wishing me speedy healing, each one mattered to me. It means something if they reach out and means something if they don’t. So many people have died from COVID. It’s not a stretch to call it ‘life-threatening’. It is, and that’s scary.

I, like so many, often struggle with the reason for us being on this earth, living this life. The vast ‘Why’s?’ never seem to have an answer. Is it a divine plan? Or a crazy mistake? Does our life here on earth mean something? Or nothing at all? Why are we here, mere specks of dust swirling in a vast universe of darkness and light? How did we all happen upon this life on the third rock from the sun? And why do we matter? We will never have the answers to these questions.

But it is true that the journey in this world is certainly more difficult for some than for others. And kindness seems to be the remedy for that. Compassion. Caring for each other. Because we are all walking different roads and sometimes a helping hand or even just a smile can lighten the load for another. Is that so hard to do? Be kind, and people will treat you with kindness. Or not! There are some difficult souls out there who will never see the light, but that doesn’t mean you should stop. Don’t become bitter. Be kind.

And have fun! We are a society that works too hard and spends too little time enjoying ourselves. We work ourselves into our graves, and what a waste that is. Take time to smell the roses. Quite literally. I make myself stop and smell beautiful flowers that I come upon. It’s these little joys that make up a patchwork of happy memories in your life and provide a soothing balm during the tough times.

Lastly, be with who you love. Don’t give up if you are in an unhappy relationship and assume that’s simply your path and your burden in life. It’s not. Get out! Make a change. Pursue happiness. You only get one shot at this life, why spend it with someone who doesn’t bring you joy? Don’t let the constraints of society dictate your bliss. Follow the light. Seek love and joy. Find the person that makes you laugh and makes your heart sing. They may be just around the corner. Seek them out! And try to find a splash of delight in all you do.

That’s all I’ve got for tonight. Stay healthy, my friends! And be happy.

Reflections on Motherhood: The Gift of Time

Posted on Posted in Addictions, adoption, adoptive mom, Alcoholism, fertility treatment, God, Motherhood, Parenthood, Single Mom, Survival, UncategorizedLeave a comment

My youngest daughter turned 16 not too long ago. Sweet 16! My goodness. Where does the time go? I looked away for a moment and my daughters grew up, like lanky sunflowers sprouting towards the blazing sun. How can she be 16? I remember being 16. Was it really that long ago? And where did my sweet little girls go, dressed in tulle and ballet slippers, clutching their expensive American Girl dolls? Time crashes by, like waves on the sand, washing away the fragile present and replacing it with an uncertain future. What will tomorrow bring? We don’t and can’t know. Such is the nature of life. Motherhood is always changing – indeed a role fraught with both deep joy and deep pain. Often, we don’t know one until we have experienced the other.

‘Mother.’ It’s a powerful title. Mothers have been celebrated since the beginning of time. In many cultures it is the mother figure, not the father, that rules the universe. The ancient Greeks celebrated Gaia, the mother of the mythological Greek Gods. It is the mother who brings forth life in the world – what could be more powerful than that? The mother represents strength and intelligence, but also gentleness and love.

The word ‘mother’ has easily worked its way into our vernacular. We refer to the earth as ‘Mother Earth’. ‘Mother Nature’ is the force controlling nature, the weather, and all living things. Your ‘mother tongue’ is the language you grew up speaking and your ‘motherland’ is the land of your birth. No one can deny the incredible influence mothers have had over the course of history in every country and civilization.

Motherhood means different things to different people. Your perception is molded by your life’s relationships and whether you are a mother yourself. Some women become mothers easily and never give it a second thought. Some must struggle to become mothers, chasing the dream of a child through doctors’ offices and adoption agencies. Still others have it thrust upon them unexpectedly. Regardless of its origins, motherhood is a journey that turns our lives upside down and makes us do and feel things we never expected.

Nothing can prepare you for the moment when a child is placed in your arms – the sudden rush of love and emotion and the awesomeness of the new responsibility in your life. All at once you can’t remember your life before this child arrived. You can’t envision a life without this little person. A once-freewheeling life grows more regimented, simply by necessity. The lights of the city pale next to the draw of the creature comforts of suburbia. Before you know it, you’re a minivan mom, navigating preschools and play dates, and each day of your life tumbles headlong into the next. Where does the time go?

When my children were still quite small, a friend with older children in college came to visit me. She remarked on the many paintings and clay sculptures that adorned the walls and surfaces of my home. I laughed and commented that there would “always be a constant stream of children’s artwork in my home.”

“Oh no,” she corrected me. “It does come to an end.”

I was taken aback for a moment, but my friend was right. My children would eventually grow up and stop giving me handmade creations and drawings. The adorable little misspelled notes would stop. The tooth fairy would end her nocturnal visits and Santa Claus would become a happy memory of years gone by. The very idea brought tears to my eyes. As exhausted as I was from the daily struggle of raising my young children, I loved every minute of it. Like all good things, I thoughtlessly assumed it would go on forever. But I was mistaken.

There’s a song by Luke Bryan called ‘Fast’, that speaks of how quickly life speeds by. “Sixty seconds now seem more like thirty,” he croons, as he sings about his desire to slow things down. The song strikes a chord with me. As we get older, the seasons start to pass with alarming momentum. As winter melts into spring, we can’t help but wonder where the time has gone.

Time seemed to pass at a snail’s pace when we were young and had our hopes and aspirations before us. We daydreamed about growing up and playing with the big kids. Our birthdays couldn’t arrive soon enough. There was always something in the future that beckoned to us until suddenly we were adults, and in a flash, the magic of childhood was gone.

Very often we are so wrapped up in the minutiae of life that we neglect to take note of our present moments. The sands of life gain momentum as they sneak through that hourglass. I don’t want them to slip away unnoticed.

On my birthday and over the holidays, my children often ask me, “Mom, what do you want? What do you need?” I am always stumped. Do I need anything? Not really. But this year, it occurred to me that there IS one thing I would like: the gift of time.

I’d like to take time with each of my children to look into their eyes and tell them I love them, always and forever. I’d like to hear their silly jokes over and over and have them write me funny notes. I’d like them to paint me a picture, scribble a poem, and sing me a song. I’d like to hear about their hopes and dreams. I’d like to wrap them in my arms and whisper in their ears and smell the sweet scent of their skin. I’d like to hold onto a little shred of time with them for just a moment longer, to enjoy the here and the now as fully as I can.

My advice to all mothers, old and young, is this: May you enjoy precious time with your children. Take it, grab it, hold onto it, and love it. Enjoy the present, for it is truly a gift.

A Cat Named Pumpkin

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We were sitting in our car in the parking lot of the Emergency Pet Hospital waiting for the nighttime vets to examine our ailing cat and determine exactly how sick he was. ‘Pumpkin’. Actually, ‘Pumpkin Snowball’ was the name given to the orange tomcat by my then 5-year-old daughter. He’d now reached the comfortable age of eleven – 99 in cat years – and my daughter was a sulky sixteen. They were inseparable.

Our other cat would flee in the opposite direction when this daughter thumped loudly into a room in all her teenage glory but not Pumpkin. He was no shrinking violet. He loved my surly daughter’s long manicured nails in questionable colors, festooned with sparkly bits, and would curl up next to her on her unmade bed, surrounded by piles of discarded clothing, purring contentedly as she scratched behind his ears.

Pumpkin was the bold, little guy at the front of the ‘kitten window’ at the animal shelter with his mouth open wide, mewing with great indignation at the world. All the other kittens were timid with large, innocent eyes, but Pumpkin was brash right from the start. I’d wanted an orange kitten and had shown up at the downtown Los Angeles animal shelter the moment I heard they had one for me. But when I arrived, there was not one kitten, but two.

“This one just showed up this morning,” the animal care technician explained to me as he scooped up the newest arrival and placed him in my arms. The kitten was sweet and gentle. I adored him immediately. The technician smiled and took the kitten (whom we eventually named “Jasper Bernard”) from me, placing him in a separate pen. “What about the other orange one?” he asked, referring to Pumpkin, who was still meowing mightily from the window. “Today we have a Two for One Special. Your lucky day.” Indeed.

But I wasn’t convinced. That little kitten at the front might be one of those felines who scratches and yowls and bites. I didn’t have much experience with cats and didn’t want to adopt a problem. Without a word, the technician reached into the kitten enclosure with his heavy gloves, grabbed the distressed orange kitten, and plopped him in my arms. I was sure the little guy would squirm and complain, but he did not. Instead, he snuggled happily right into my arms and started to purr loudly, as if to say, ‘Please take me home, Mom”. It was love. I took both kittens home and never looked back.

Flash forward to this night – stuck in the parking lot – aka ‘the waiting room’- of the emergency hospital for pets, situated next to a dumpster, breathing in wafting cigarette fumes from the exhausted nurses taking their breaks out on the stairs. I sat, impatient and frustrated, in the questionable comfort of our minivan with my two kids for three long hours waiting – just waiting to get the bad news on our beloved cat. We knew the diagnosis would not be good. Just had a feeling.

Was this extensive wait necessary? What was taking so long? Were they really that busy on a Tuesday night? Maybe. We witnessed an obviously injured dog being put on a gurney and held in place by three workers as it was wheeled in through the back door. Another sick dog was handed over into the arms of her weeping owner, the woman’s violent sobs echoing through the darkness of the night.

We were finally allowed to enter the building at 10:30 pm and seated in a sterile white room. More waiting. It was freezing. They could hang meat in this room. Why was the air conditioning on full blast? There was apparently no way to turn it off. I asked the women at reception if they could help, and they shrugged their shoulders at me. Sorry. No magazines on the table to take our minds off the tragic situation either. We were invited to stare at the empty white walls. It somehow made the dire circumstances even worse.

At long last, the vet came in, a sturdy woman with vibrant tattoos scrolled up and down her arms. Brusque and unfriendly, she drilled us on our daily care of Pumpkin – what we fed him, etc. She frowned and shook her head, making us feel like we had mistreated our beloved pet. “This cat is very sick,” she barked at us. “We put him on an IV to rehydrate him. Not doing well. He needs a feeding tube and a series of tests. He’ll be in the hospital for a few weeks. Needs exploratory surgery. Gotta check the liver. Sample the bilirubin….” The list went on.

It was mind-boggling. What was happening? This was so unexpected. One day Pumpkin was healthy and then suddenly he wasn’t. There was no long period of illness to prepare us for the worst. “Can we visit him in the hospital?” I ventured, slowly processing the information thrust at me.

Dr. Tattoo frowned and shook her head. “We don’t encourage visiting. It disrupts the medical care of the animals.” Ahhh. I understood. No visits allowed. I would have to relinquish my darling cat to these disagreeable people and pay an extraordinary bill, yet I was not allowed to visit our dear friend to comfort him or even to ensure that he was receiving the promised care. What if they just stuck him in a cage in a back room? What was preventing that? How would I know? Honestly, I wouldn’t. I just wouldn’t. I’d have to put all my faith in Dr. Tattoo, the tough broad who was trying to intimidate and shame me into hospitalizing my poor sick cat. Under the circumstances, such trust seemed highly unlikely.

The diagnostic tests would cost almost $8,000. Just for the tests. It wasn’t the treatment and certainly not the cure. Eight thousand dollars to simply find out what was ailing our cat who had been well and strong for 11 solid years. I couldn’t wrap my mind around it. If it cost $8,000 for the tests alone, how much would the actual treatment cost? We were looking at upwards of $20,000 to $30,000. Or more. Good Lord. Against my will, tears streamed down my face. My children were already crying their eyes out and holding onto one another. They’d never lost a pet before, and this was extremely traumatizing.

The biggest question was how the hell I would manage to pay for everything. I might honestly go broke keeping our middle-aged cat alive. I was floored. How could I make it work? Use my daughter’s carefully saved tuition money? What would happen when that was gone? What then? I didn’t know. I wanted to break down in a puddle of tears, but I couldn’t. A mom has to be strong for her kids, right? The fearless leader, and all that. I had to make a cold, hard decision. There was no other option. Life often hinges precariously on a single choice. But there’s no compromising a child’s education. The possibility of a bleak future laden with significant credit card debt loomed heavily.

“What are you going to do?” Dr. Tattoo asked, suspiciously, suddenly realizing her best and newest clients might not be amenable to her proposed plan of action.

“I’m going to take him home,” I said, calmly. And I meant it. There was no room for negotiation. We’d already spent more than $2000 on visits to the vet in the last 48 hours. No. I said, “No.” No treatment. No feeding tubes. No tests. No hospital. Give me back my cat.

“That’s not humane,” Dr. Tattoo countered, her eyes narrowing. She wasn’t going to let a perfectly qualified grieving customer walk out the door so easily.

But I had moved past her shame-game. “Then prescribe pain medication so he won’t suffer,” I replied, steadily. “Now, give me back my cat.” The churlish doctor looked me up and down and with palpable reluctance, exited the chilly room.

At the very least, the hospital hoped we would take them up on their ‘Euthanasia Special’ – which the young technician who entered only moments later cheerfully described to us. Quite the deal. Just $500, including the death of your animal, cremation (of course, an extra charge if you want him cremated alone so you can keep the ashes) and a little plaque with your pet’s paw print. How could I resist that bargain? The technician inched the Euthanasia contract towards me. But I was done with them.

“Nah,” I said, offhandedly. “I’ll just toss him out the window on the highway. That’s free.” Okay, I didn’t really say that, but we did take our Pumpkin home. The technician appeared disappointed we didn’t want to pull the plug on our furry friend immediately. Maybe they get a bonus for each cremation they book? Who knows?

The hospital returned Pumpkin to us in his carrier, and he was overjoyed to see us, pacing back and forth in his carrier and nuzzling his nose and whiskers against the bars of the carrier. “Oh, thank God, it’s you! Can we please go home now?” And home is where Pumpkin remained for days after the grim hospital experience. Still weak. Still sick. But relieved to be home. He would have been miserable hooked up to tubes in the hospital with that wretched crew, far away from his beloved family.

Pumpkin took sunbaths each day and looked so serene, his orange fur resplendent in the bright sunlight. We took lots of photos and videos and recorded him purring. We hugged and kissed him and let him know he was loved. Because we loved that cat. I knew we would probably wind up putting him down, but not at that horrible hospital. I learned you can get a traveling vet to come to your house when the end finally arrives so it can be done peacefully at home. That sounded comforting. That’s what we would do, eventually.

It’s hard to be a pet owner. Their precious lives end entirely too soon. They work their way into our hearts and take up a forever residence. Yet our beloved animals must leave this world eventually, their paw prints leaving indelible track marks across our hearts. Life isn’t fair. It is awful and harrowing to bid goodbye to a dear friend. But I am grateful Pumpkin’s wild and wonderful spirit touched our lives.

We love you, Punks. Thanks for being a friend. Always and forever, buddy.

Holding Out for Dawn

Posted on Posted in Addictions, adoption, adoptive mom, Alcoholism, fertility treatment, Motherhood, Parenthood, Single Mom, Survival, UncategorizedTagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , 2 Comments

By Elizabeth Kate

We recently celebrated Valentine’s Day – a holiday so often fraught with unnecessary pressures and stress. I try to avoid the anxiety and focus on the love, because isn’t that what it’s all about? I think so. I took a moment to write loving valentines not to a significant other, but to my children. Why? Because I adore these kids.

I spent many years of my life struggling to get pregnant and failing miserably. Trying to adopt and hitting a wall. It seemed I was destined to live life without ever playing the coveted role of ‘mother’ until my life transformed, and I became mommy to not one but TWO gorgeous baby girls. Miracles abounded.

Mommy. Such a magical word. One I thought I’d never hear whispered to me with sticky peanut butter and jelly kisses. But my dearest wish came true, and I was unceremoniously thrust into the world of parenthood. I welcomed it with open arms and have enjoyed every day of this crazy ride – the good and the bad – because the journey is one I never thought I’d take. The babies were children I thought would never be mine. So, I embraced the sleepless nights and all the madness that came with it.


I got divorced along the way and fought to keep my head above water during that more-than-two-year ordeal. My life has been colored by proximity to people struggling with addictions. Thankfully, I don’t mean my daughters. Dealing with addicts is never easy and through the years, the challenges have come at me fast and furious. But I survived.


We survive because there is no other choice. We survive because we must, because there are people depending upon us. We survive because this is our life, and we won’t get a second chance. The trick, however, is to not just survive, but to thrive. To find joy in the little things and not let yourself sink into self-pity. Because tomorrow is another day, and they say the night is always darkest just before dawn. I’m holding out for dawn.


The beautiful constant in my life has always been my love for my daughters, who are now 16, by the way. We’ll call them ‘Serena’ and ‘Alexandra’. It’s hard to imagine that I’m the mother to teenagers with all the crises and angst and sheer goofiness that comes with adolescence. But I am. And I love it, though our road together road is pitted with potholes and certainly never easy.


My girls and I like to watch old episodes of ‘The Gilmore Girls’ and laugh at Lorelai and Rory’s follies because so many of them echo our own. I’m mom to my daughters, first and foremost, but I’m also their friend and confidante. How lucky is that? And while I try to be a ‘cool mom’, sometimes I’m woefully uncool and wonder how we will ever make it through the drama of the day. But we do. Every time.

Someone once told me that if you don’t know how to pray or don’t have time to pray to God or to the Universe or to whatever you believe, it is enough to just say ‘Thank you.’ That resonates with me. ‘Thank you.’ So easy. I try to step through a life paved with gratitude, because there really is so much beauty – if only you would take the time to see it.

Thank you for reading this.
~ Elizabeth