Some thoughts about “father” on September 9, 2015.
Father is the word for male parent.
Bostonians, because of their accent, say “father” when they mean “a greater distance.”
People who did not have adequate fathers sometimes find other people to fill that father role, which often helps them move father along in life.
Today is my late father’s birthday.
My father — who went father with humor and consideration for others than anybody else I’ve known — was far taller than me than appears in that father-daughter picture.
I have nothing further to express today, besides love and gratitude for my father.
Yesterday, one of my particularly righteous high school classmates messaged me, asking me a righteous question about our righteous reunion, taking place in a righteous number of days and less than two weeks:
How many people are coming?
I replied:
Number is difficult to say.
Here’s the reason her righteous question seemed righteously difficult to answer in that particularly righteous moment: Many of our righteous classmates who’ve righteously expressed a righteous intent to attend the reunion had not sent in their righteous money, as of the righteous Friday before a righteous holiday weekend. I am not the least self-righteous about this, because I often wait to the last righteous minute to send in my righteously earned money, no matter how righteous the bill.
Because my classmate’s question was so righteous, though, I also righteously told her the righteous number of people who had righteously sent in their righteous $ ( according to another righteous classmate, who’s in charge of our righteous class’s righteous cash).
I wish I could say that righteous number of paid-up attendees was 42, since several of my righteous readers have righteously reminded me that 42 — according to righteous author Douglas Adams — is the righteous meaning of life. The righteous reunion number I told her yesterday was not 42, but righteously close to that.
Here’s my righteous classmate’s righteous reply:
41 is a righteous number. This week it will be 42.
How could my righteous classmate so righteously know that our righteous reunion would definitely meet that righteous, meaning-of-life number? She had every right to know, because her righteous check was in the mail.
I righteously expect the number of righteous reunion attendees will, at least, match the righteous number of my class’s years out of high school — 45.
I think
45 years is a particularly righteous number to survive beyond high school and
we shall easily and righteously have 45 people at our righteous reunion.
Actually, I think — righteously or not — that we’ll have a number righteously higher than 42 or 45, on our righteous reunion date of September 19. However, as another righteous classmate texted me last week, when we were discussing the righteous reunion numbers:
Time will tell.
He is so righteously right about that.
Here’s another number I am righteously contemplating this morning:
97
That’s the number of righteously hot degrees we’re expecting in righteous Boston today. Since the righteous high school my righteous son righteously attends has no righteous air conditioning, my son just said to me, righteously:
Maybe I’ll wear my bathing suit to school.
I wonder if I should wear my bathing suit to my high school reunion? I could, because the righteous reunion location …
… is righteously near the ocean.
It’s only righteous that I include a righteous number of new photos in today’s righteous post, in addition to those 2 righteous pictures. What do you, my righteous reader, guess is the righteous number of new righteous pictures I took yesterday, which was righteous Labor Day in the righteous USA?
Was that a righteously lower number than you righteously expected?
Here’s my righteous prediction for the number of righteous readers who will comment on this righteous post:
13
Time will tell if I am righteously right about that, too.
Time for some righteous music for this righteous post!
The righteous number of Gustav Mahler’s last complete symphony is 9. This is righteous movement #4:
Here’s the righteous Leonard Bernstein, taking about Mahler’s 9th symphony:
This weekend, the righteous announcer on the righteous Boston classical radio station WCRB-FM said, about Mahler’s righteous 9th symphony:
It’s like Mahler’s farewell to the world and life
… which struck me as particularly righteous, because of how righteous that symphony is.
According to righteous Wikipedia, Mahler
knew he had “a heart that was defective” when he was composing his righteous 9th,
kept composing and performing until the end of his life, despite his heart condition,
died 2 months short of his 51st birthday because of “bacterial endocarditis, a disease to which sufferers from defective heart valves were particularly prone, and for which the survival rate in pre-antibiotic days was almost zero.”
Some of my righteous readers might understand these 4 righteous words from me:
Thank goodness for antibiotics.
Righteous thanks to all the righteous people and things that helped me compose this righteous post and special thanks to you — of course! — for being so righteous.
If you dash by here regularly, you know that I dash off a post every day, whether I am feeling particularly dashing in the moment and/or whether my hopes have been — temporarily — dashed.
I’ve even dashed off some posts about a favorite punctuation mark: the dash.
But I’ve never been dashing enough — before dashing to dash out this dashing post on my dashed iPhone keyboard on this dashing Labor Day — to use the word “dash” as a title.
Why am I dashing to do that today?
Yesterday, I heard the poem “The Dash” by Linda Ellis– for the first time — at a funeral.
I shall now dash over to Google to see if I can find “The Dash” there.
When I dashed over to Linda Ellis’s website, I found that she had dashed off a request to NOT post her poem “The Dash.” I hope you dash over to her website, now, to read “The Dash.”
I will dash off this explanation, here, of the title of “The Dash” — it refers to the dash between the date of birth and the date of death, on a tombstone and elsewhere.
Besides reading “The Dash” at yesterday’s funeral, the loved ones of the deceased shared many beautiful memories of their wonderful family member, neighbor and friend, whose birth year — before her dash — was 1921. Her son sang — with deep and moving feeling — some of this song:
Dashed if I didn’t see Judy Garland earlier yesterday, when my friend Deb and I had dashed over to a dashing and darling restaurant in Lynn, Massachusetts.
Judy Garland is in two of the photos I took dashing around Mildred’s Corner Cafe yesterday. Above, she’s dashing around on stage and is next to the dashing Gregory Peck.
After the funeral, my dashing friend Deb and I dashed around Swampscott, Massachusetts, where Atlantic Ocean waves are always dashing up on the shore.
After Deb dashed me back home in her dashing Honda Fit, I dashed over to the stairs to take photos of our dashing cat, Harley.
Then, my dashing boyfriend Michael and I dashed over to our dashingly local supermarket (which has many dashing products) — for our weekly shopping and to say goodbye to dashing cashier, Al.
That’s dashing Al, wishing us a dashing “Adieu.” Usually, Al dashes off a “See you next time” as we dash out the door. Last night, embraceable we embraced in some dashing hugs.
Then, Michael and I dashed home, and I took more shots of dashing Harley.
What about this post is most dashing, to you? Do not dash my hopes — dash off a comment, please.
Dashing thanks to Linda Ellis (for the poem “The Dash”); to Mrs. Ruth Epstein and her beautiful family and friends; to Deb; to Michael; to Mildred’s Corner Cafe; to Judy Garland, Bette Davis, Joan Crawford, Katherine Hepburn, Gregory Peck and all the other dashing movie stars Deb and I saw at Mildred’s yesterday; to the dashing city of Lynn and the dashing town of Swampscott; to Al our dashing cashier — who is dashing off to focus more on hospice work; to our cat Harley — who dashes up and down stairs and, usually, off of tables; and — of course! — to you, for dashing over here today.
Last night, one of the last things I heard was somebody who works at WCRB-FM announcing that the radio station was featuring last works by great composers, all weekend.
I wrote that down
as I was working on my latest (but not last, I hope) Games Magazine, because I wanted that idea to last.
Last night, I also heard a beautiful work by Beethoven.
In my work last week as a psychotherapist, I heard several people talk about “failed” suicide attempts. I hope my work encouraging that kind of “failure” is going to last, too.
Here’s the latest (but not last) work of my cat, Oscar:
See the “////////////////////////////” in that photo? That works to show you that Oscar …
… likes to work on the keyboard while I’m working on my blog posts (which I hope will last, too).
Speaking of cats who work on me, last night — while we were working our way through our neighborhood on a walk — my boyfriend Michael and I saw this cat …
… who we last saw many, many months ago. Before last night, I’d been working on a fear that cat had breathed its last. Obviously, that cat is working fine.
So what else would I like to work in here about “Last Works,” before I work on the last word of this post?
Tomorrow is Labor Day in the USA, and my son might work more on his idea — perhaps working it into a lasting stand-up comedy routine — that the name “Labor Day” is lastingly ironic, because it is a day when people who labor do NOT labor. Both Aaron and I, when we were working on lasting through a long walk yesterday, worked on a discussion of whether “Ironic” by Alanis Morissette
should be rewritten to include something that is actually ironic, like “Labor Day.”
“Ironic” is going to last, don’t you think?
This is the last thing I’m going to work into this “Last Works” post: Today, I’m going to a funeral of the mother of some friends I last saw many decades ago. I have many lasting memories of this mother and her daughters. After I publish this “Last Works” post, my lasting friend Deb and I will be working our way to our hometown on the North Shore of Boston, to pay our last respects.
Lasting thanks to that mother and her daughters, to my son Aaron, to Michael, to Deb, to Beethoven, to radio station WCRB-FM, to Leonard Bernstein, to Alanis Morissette, to lasting friendships, to people who “fail” at suicide, to Oscar, to our neighborhood cats, to all things that last as best they can and — last but not least — to you, for lasting here, today.
Yesterday morning, I looped by Tufts Medical Center before work, to get fitted for a new loopy mask which loops around my head and attaches to my loopy sleep apnea machine.
While I was at the sleep lab, I saw this loopy sight:
What loopy people would loop a hat and a sleep-apnea mask on a loopy piñata?
After that loopy experience, as I was looping back to my car, I heard somebody say my loopy name. Loopily enough, it was my dentist, Dr. Luis Del Castillo.
We were both loopily surprised to encounter each other in our intersecting loops through the Tufts Medical Center garage, even though I know he teaches dental medicine there and he knows I get my medical care there.
As we were loopily chatting, my mind looped to my concern — which I had loopily texted Dr. Del Castillo about — that my recently installed dental filling had looped out of my mouth, immediately after I had looped through his dental office last Tuesday. I was loopy enough to ask him, right there in that loopy garage, if he could check the filling. He said, “I don’t have my loops,” but he was kind enough to look at my mouth, loop-less. Without his loops, he couldn’t see whether the filling was still looped into my tooth, so we both looped over to the Tufts Dental School, where he put on his loops
and told me my filling hadn’t looped out of my tooth. I was loopily relieved that I wouldn’t have to loop by his dental office, any time soon.
Did you know those special dental glasses were called “loops”? That was news, to loopy me.
If you loop by this blog with any kind of loopy regularity, you know I take loopy pictures in my loops through Boston USA and its loopy environs. Which of these loopy photos from loopy yesterday seem particularly loopy, to you?
In one of my favorite loopy encounters of the day — as I was looping back to my car after work through lots of loopy fans looping their way to Fenway Park for a loopy Red Sox game — one of the guys who was looping cars into a loopily priced parking lot by looping around a big flag said these loopy words to me:
It’s a beautiful life. I’ve never seen so many happy people. It must be the Prozac.
I wonder if he thought I was loopy when I laughed with loopy delight, loopily replied, “You think?” and then looped back to take a loopily unclear picture of him …
… loopy moments after I wrote down all his loopy words, so I wouldn’t forget them.
Is it loopy to admit that I agree with his first loopy sentence? Is it loopy to admit that he seemed better at diagnosing people’s use of a common anti-depressant medication than me, a loopy psychotherapist?
I need to loop some loopy music into this loopy post, so I can loop by to get my loopy hair cut to loop attractively around my loopy face in time for my 45th high school reunion, in two loopy weeks.
Here’s some music I heard last night in my loopy yellow car, as I was looping my way home for quality time looping through a sushi restaurant, a Dunkin’ Donuts, and a pet store with my loopy boyfriend Michael and my loopy son, Aaron (not pictured, because they’re not loopy about my taking loopy photos for this loopy blog).
Loopy thanks to all the loopy and non-loopy people who helped me loopily create this loopy post, including my loopy friend and co-worker Jan (seen, above, loopily looping a loopily yellow stethoscope at our sometimes loopy hospital). Especially loopy thanks to Dr. Luis Del Castillo for loopily inspiring this post with his loops and his loopily wonderful kindness. And particularly loopy thanks to you — of course! — for looping by this loopy blog, here and now.
Yesterday, in a therapy group, people talked about feeling guilty AND super guilty.
Because I am guilty of having messy handwriting and super guilty of writing many themes on the white board during a therapy group, you might not be able to see “guilty” and “super guilty” in that photo.
I would be guilty of negligence if I did not tell you that the people in that therapy group were neither guilty nor super guilty of any crimes at all, even though they suffered from feelings of guilt and super guilt.
I would be super guilty of negligence if I did not explain that traumatic childhood experiences can cause people to feel guilty and super guilty, even though the experiences were NOT THEIR FAULT.
I was guilty of almost crying in group, yesterday, as I listened to wonderful adults describe the on-going suffering caused years ago by awful parents and caretakers.
I am super guilty of often wanting to cry in therapy groups.
I am definitely guilty of taking all these photos recently, although I don’t feel super guilty about any of them:
I feel neither guilty not super guilty about sharing this music, with the word “forgiveness” prominently featured:
Please don’t feel guilty or super guilty about anything you want to express about this post.
Pure thanks to everybody who helped me create this and to you — of course! — for reading and (I hope) letting go of unnecessary guilt, as best you can.
What we reflect out into the world — and what we see reflected back at us — is a reflection of our inner, sometimes hidden reflections.
Here’s my second reflection of this post:
That’s a lot of reflection, so early in the morning.
Yesterday morning, after I had reflected some morning reflections in my 975th consecutive daily-reflections blog post, I saw this reflected in my iPhone:
That reflects how much construction is going on around here.
At my office, we reflected about the reflections of anger, and how internal reflections of anger can be distorted:
After four hours of therapeutic reflections at work, I had these reflections:
It was my co-worker Mary’s last day before her retirement (which will give her precious and deserved time to relax and reflect) and — despite both of us previously reflecting that we wanted to meet for some goodbye reflections — I had to leave work at noon, without her image reflecting in my eyes. My sadness about Mary’s leaving reflects her kindness and her beautiful nature.
I was about to see myself reflected, in a medical sort of way, for four hours of pacemaker/defibrillator tests, echocardiograms, and reflections with my cardiologist, Dr. Deeb Salem, who has been reflecting with me since 1980 about how to reflect the best treatment towards my strangely reflecting heart.
Since birth, I’ve often reflected about how to reflect on that strangely reflecting heart of mine, which reflects blood back to my body through very unusual pathways.
Since November 2014, many different Boston cardiologists have reflected back mixed, contradictory, and sometimes dire reflections about my prognosis, which reflects how rare and confusing my reflecting heart is.
Perhaps those mixed medical reflections have been reflected in some of my daily blog posts, since then.
Four months ago, after much reflection, my team at Tufts Medical Center and I decided on a cardiac procedure that would reflect the least amount of harm onto my strangely reflecting heart and which might extend my years of reflection on this amazingly reflecting earth.
Since what we notice reflects our inner reflections, I reflected these reflecting images onto my iPhone after I left work yesterday and went to my medical appointments, sometimes lost in reflection:
Finally, at 3:30 PM — after reflecting with pacemaker experts and technologists and students in the echocardiography lab (not pictured) — I was reflecting, with my wonderfully reflecting cardiologist, Dr. Deeb Salem, upon my strangely reflecting heart. These afternoon reflections included the worries and hopes we’ve reflected together during our mutually reflecting medical partnership for over 35 reflection-filled years. The focus of those reflections reflected the uncertainties of the last year. I also reflected with Dr. Salem some fear that how difficult it is for me to climb steps and hills might reflect poorly on my heart (although it might just reflect my age, the need for more exercise, and/or how strangely my backwards-reflecting heart operates).
As Dr. Salem and I reflected together, our tones probably reflected the fact that we were waiting for the echocardiography lab to reflect back some important findings, including:
my strangely reflecting ventricle’s ejection fraction, which would reflect whether I was heading toward heart failure and
how much my strangely located and reflecting tricuspid valve was leaking.
At this point in this reflecting blog post, I could include many more reflections reflecting all the topics Dr. Salem and I reflected upon yesterday, but I’m reflecting that you probably want the reflections from the echo lab, as soon as possible. There’s no reason why your wait to find out those reflecting results should reflect the time Dr. Salem and I waited together. Therefore …
I think those facial expressions reflect the happiness reflected in the room when the echocardiogram reflected that
My ejection fraction is no worse and maybe a little bit BETTER, reflecting no dreaded downward trend in the functioning of my strangely reflecting heart and
My leaky valve is reflecting blood just the way it has for years, reflecting stability.
Dr. Salem’s reflection to me: “If these numbers stay like this, you should be around for a while. ”
Pretty good reflections, right?
After much reflection on what music to include in this reflection-filled post, I choose to reflect my love and esteem for my co-worker Mary, like so:
Take 6 (singing “Mary”) reflects THE best a capella singing I have ever heard, in my 62 years of reflection in this world.
If you express your reflections on this post, I shall reflect back a reply, after due reflection.
Reflections of gratitude towards Dr. Deeb Salem, Mary, Take 6, everybody else whose reflections helped me write this post, and you — of course! — for all your reflections, here and now.
In my work as a psychotherapist, I encourage people to identify and take achievable steps, towards where they wish to be.
Last night, I noticed several steps (some more achievable than others).
These days, steps — if they’re going up — remain a challenge for my very unusual heart, despite surgical steps we took six months ago. I’m not sure what the next steps are for me and my doctors, but I’m sure we’ll all be stepping up to address those, during my four hours of cardiac appointments and tests this afternoon (which may include climbing hospital steps to see how my heart and implantable cardiac device step up to that challenge).
Before I step into any meetings with my very in-step medical team, I always take the step of writing down questions and concerns. I believe that kind of preparation helps people take next steps, wisely.
Step up — before I step out the door — to all the notes I’ve taken steps to write down, so far, to prepare for stepping into lots of appointments and tests today:
Next steps?
By the way, this is not one of the doors I’ll be stepping out of today:
My next step is to share a song about steps.
“Step One” from Kinky Boots was what I was listening to last night, when I was taking steps to capture steps (and one door) for today’s blog.
I need to step up, now, and thank all those who helped me take the necessary steps to create today’s post and you — of course! — for stepping up to read it.
It bugs me that the two plants in my office — where I do individual and group psychotherapy — have bugs.
It probably doesn’t bug you that you can’t see those bugs, a/k/a soil gnats. It bugs me that I’ve been trying for weeks to get rid of those bugs, which look like tiny fruit flies, to no avail.
It bugs me that I bought this “natural” bug spray at Whole Foods Market:
…and when I tried to use it, according to directions …
… that resulted in …
… buggy directions I couldn’t read, at all.
It bugs me when I can’t follow directions, no matter how hard I try.
It bugs me that what I could read in the directions — including many warnings about usage for bugs — indicated that Anti-Pest-O might bug eyes, lungs and other parts of non-bugs. So, I decided to bug neither my patients nor myself and I did not spray that bug spray in my buggy office.
It bugs me when I can’t use a product that others have bugged me to buy. It bugs me to have to return ANYTHING to any store, buggy or otherwise.
It bugs me that spraying the bugs with soapy water (not pictured) hasn’t worked, despite my being bugged by promises that it would. It bugs me a lot less to battle bugs with something as benign and straightforward as soapy water, but those bugs have seemed totally unbugged (and perhaps a tad brightened) when I’ve bugged them with soapy water.
It bugs me that once I allow myself to be bugged, lots of other things can bug me, too.
For example, litter left behind by buggy Bostonians bugged me yesterday.
Buggy marketing schemes and slogans bugged me, too.
Other directions I couldn’t understand bugged me.
Things that slowed me down bugged me (and others).
Yes, I can be cross here, there, and everywhere, when I’m feeling bugged.
Would it bug you if I listed even more things that can bug me, if I’m in a bugged mood?
Not being able to photographically capture a big, yellow, beautiful moon.
Not understanding how to perfectly operate new technology (including phones and cars).
My inability to portray our cat Harley sitting unbugged on a table, because he always gets bugged and jumps off (the little bugger).
Somebody wearing a graphic t-shirt, one buggy day after declaring he’s bugged by them.
Buggy parking rules, around here.
Things that make loud noises, like buggy construction projects.
Difficult thoughts and feelings that bug people I treat.
People I love to bug leaving (not pictured), like my wonderful and esteemed co-worker Mary, this week.
My not being a good baker and therefore needing to end this blog post early, to pick up sweets for a going-away party for Mary today.
Having to leave work early today to bug my dentist about some fillings that have been bugging me.
My sleep apnea machine, with yet another mask that’s been bugging me.
Having so many cardiac-related tests and appointments scheduled for tomorrow afternoon at a hospital (where they treat lots of different types of bugs), that several doctors, medical technicians and I will be bugging each other for about four hours.
Getting bugged by buggily insignificant decisions, like which sign-in book to use at a 45th high school reunion (which might include bugs, because it’s near the ocean).
The automatic and painful assumption that I bug other people, when I really don’t.
After all this bugging, maybe it’s time to de-bug this bug-filled blog post.
One of my patients did NOT bug me, yesterday, when she brought in this:
If you can’t read all those 18 rules of living by the Dalai Lama, please don’t bug me too much about that. I photographed them the best I could, at the end of a long and buggy day.
If anything in this post has bugged you in any way, please bug me about that in a comment, below.
Buggy and bugged thanks to all bugs and humans that helped me write this post and special thanks to you, no matter what bugs — or is bugged by — you, at any time.
