Blog
July 15, 2026
What killed Lindsey Graham struck my husband Bob Dick nine-and-a-half years ago. For about an hour and a half back then, I was pretty sure Bob was gone. The Night of the Explosion The ailment– aortic dissection at the ascending arch–is when the inner layer of the aorta breaks and blood starts ballooning the outer layer […]
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May 14, 2026
Dear Nicholas, I just ran across an article that describes so well the weird kind of obsessive-compulsive disorder that has troubled me since age five: moral OCD, also known as scrupulosity. It’s the daily question: did I do something wrong? Identifying it as abnormal can be an enormous relief. I think a lot of people […]
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April 6, 2026
Dear Nicholas, I’ve found a book that’s helping me do much less self-berating and maybe a little less trying-too-hard. I read a paragraph every morning and I’m on my second time through it. I’m convinced that berating yourself (myself) is the only true waste of time–and is also destructive. The title does not do it […]
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February 16, 2026
Dear Nicholas, My first 76 years of life were decidedly free-wheeling. For one thing, I’ve been self-employed since 1972, setting my own schedules. For years, much of my work was far-flung travel writing. Moreover, I’ve never had responsibility for a child. Domesticity has never been my thing. It has come as a surprise to me […]
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December 14, 2025
Dear Nicholas, There’s a special kind of pain in watching someone you love hurt. Likely all of us have had this experience. And there is no painkiller that touches the one watching their loved one in pain. If it’s prolonged and repeated, there comes a fierce tensing up in reaction, as if to defend him, […]
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September 18, 2025
Dear Nicholas, It’s not as if Bob and I are under fire in Gaza or Ukraine, but our week of household problems has been impressive. And sometimes non-life-and-death things, the household catastrophe, can really rattle a person. The title of this note could be: The Night The Waterbed Burst. I got up in the wee […]
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July 13, 2025
Dear Nicholas, I’ve learned that sadness and loss can make a person temporarily “stupid.” Not just for hours but for much longer. I thought I was the only one and that I was being weird to react this way. This time I have discovered that “stupid” happens to lots of people who are mourning. I’ve […]
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June 23, 2025
Dear Nicholas, Some years ago when I was attempting to “get a grip,” I wrote down in a little blue notebook random bits of wisdom on how to live better. I carried it with me in my pocketbook. Some days I’d open the notebook at any page and let what I’d copied there influence that […]
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June 3, 2025
Dear Nicholas, In the midst of getting Husband Bob out of rehab and settled in at home for 24/7 care, I overheard my older stepson say of me, “She’s so strong it’s creepy.” Do I take this as a compliment, a criticism, a misunderstanding? How Could Anyone Think That? I’m not Iron Woman. I know […]
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May 12, 2025
Dear Nicholas, A voice from some hidden place inside me keeps calling, “mama mama!”, the way severely wounded soldiers sometimes do. The voice keeps speaking up in spite of the fact that I’m feeling fine. The words come out of me aloud and only when I’m alone. The other cry for help I’m sometimes surprised […]
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Categories: Uncategorized
Tags: 24/7 care, caregiver, close to death, consciously fearful, continuing fall risk, cry for help, full-time care, help at hand, in touch with my feelings, mama mama, old habit resurfacing, prayer, primitive voice, too close to the edge of life, wounded soldiers
Comments
I know that feeling. I just wanted someone to hold me and assure me that it would all be okay. I hope you find someone to do that for you!
Thanks, Judy. Bob’s good at that.
I call out for my mother in my head often yet she has been dead over 30 years. I am 78, widowed now with no children and just a couple of good friends, that are older than me. I often feel that my mother was the only person who truly had my back all my life and to a lesser degree, my father. I miss both greatly. Mary.
Hi, Mary Ellen, I wish I’d seen your comment sooner. I’m glad your mother has your back, that she still has your back. And I wish good health for you and for your good friends.
After the 2004 Asian tsunami, Eliza Gilkyson wrote a beautiful song called Requiem. It is. a prayer to Mary. I think she understood very well that when people cry out for their mother (or father) in grief or fear or pain, that they are not asking for someone to fix the problem. They are asking to be held. The loveliest lyrics of the song: “Oh, mother Mary come and carry us in your embrace. Let us see your gentle face.” You’re doing a great job, and it seems you are well in touch with your feelings. I hope you will be able to feel your mama’s embrace and see her gentle face when you need or want her.
Thank you, Lee. Bob and I both like the song. Makes me think of the Beatles song, “Mother Mary, come to me…Thanks for your kindness and good wishes.
Thanks, Peggy. I love your writing.
I too had a dad who wore bow ties and a hat in the 50s.
And my darling mother dressed my in a hat identical to yours!
Thank you, Pat. I love that bow tie and fedora look. Brings back wonderful memories. Bothers me when actors like Brad Pitt jam one of those hats on their heads in an ironic eye-roll way.
I sometimes call on my parents ( deceased) , the way others may call on the saints. To get closer to their strengths, and to have their aid if they can from where they are now.
Lauren, I recently said to my sister-in-law Willa that I channel Mom when I have to do financial stuff. Willa said that she channeled her when she had to do something she didn’t want to do. Mom was an impressive businesswoman. I think it/she helps us both.
Peggy, so good to see another post so quickly after your preceding one! I’m going to have to let my muse think on this one for a while, because I sure don’t know what to say immediately after reading it. I don’t ever find myself calling out “Mama! Mama!” Or “Papa! Papa!” but I sure have been thinking of my father a lot lately, sad that he and I never had a closeness anything like the closeness I have with my own son, for which I am deeply grateful. (Has my muse already told me what to write?)
Your muse seems to have at least gotten you off to a good start, Moristotle. I wish I could talk with my father. I was 29 when he died and there’s so much that at that time I didn’t have sense enough to ask him.