Journal

“Have you been vaccinated?” the hostess asked me. She was wearing a pink and orange striped jumper with a crocus fascinator set jauntily on the side of her head.

“Sure.” I said, thinking of all the shots I’d had over the years: Hepatitis A, Yellow Fever, that one year I got the flu shot— and then promptly got the flu…

“Oh, you mean for covid?” I asked innocently. In my dream I could see platters of donuts and little cakes in every color across the room behind her, and I really wanted to get into this party.

In reality, covid vaccinations are the newest form of a long-standing social-standing determination tradition in society. What used to take five to ten minutes within meeting at a cocktail party, is now one little loaded question. And from my answer they will know which side of the spectrum I live on, and whether or not they should cross the street when they see me coming.

Here’s a thought from the wrong side of the tracks, what if the vaccine inadvertently brings out our weaknesses. For example, someone with hay fever will experience mind-blowing allergies each spring. Or someone with poor digestion will live with gut-wrenching issues from now on. What if we become desensitized to the suffering of our friends and neighbors- oh snap! It sounds like a Dean Koontz story, our health and sanity forever altered by our own doing, i.e., no good deed goes unpunished.

Frankly, I’m okay with whatever the outcome of the vaccine turns out to be as long as we still respect individual choice. If everyone you know eats and loves éclairs, but they make you sick, then for Pete’s sake, don’t eat them. And the rest of us will try to remember to politely chew with our mouths closed. Who encouraged us to chew openly and loudly while mocking the hungry? Oh yeah, that guy.

I saw a video on January 6, 2021 of Trump and his family all hanging out in a white VIP tent like the kind you see at Jazz Aspen: tables set with platters of finger foods and bottled drinks, television screens showing the melee as covered by the many different-yet-the-same media platforms, and loud music playing in the background. This is my favorite part- guess what song was playing while Trump stood around, equal parts awkward and cocky in his dark trench coat, watching what I believe he believed was his confirmation as America’s first Fuhrer… Give up? It was Gloria by Laura Branigan. I am not kidding! It’s true what they say, you can’t make this shit up.

Gloria, you’re always on the run now
Running after somebody, you gotta get him somehow
I think you’ve got to slow down before you start to blow it
I think you’re headed for a breakdown, so be careful not to show it

You really don’t remember, was it something that he said?
Are the voices in your head calling, Gloria?
Gloria, don’t you think you’re fallin’?
If everybody wants you, why isn’t anybody callin’?

I haven’t seen this video again since that day, but even if it played nightly on the network news, I’m sure there would be a contingent of the population that would still see Trump as a savior. Personally, I can only believe in things that are biologically possible, so I think Jesus was just an open-minded guy who had a knack for public speaking, but if he did come back from the dead, then surely he will attempt to reach us again… although, we’ll probably kill him or commit him for claiming to be Jesus.

Meanwhile, have we all forgotten about the philosophical idea that sacrificing our own comfort for the greater good is actually a really cool thing to do? And feeling as though we are punished for our goodness may be the immediate perception, but the ripple effect is what really counts. Looking back on history, the guys who took one for the team— guys like Jesus, Gandhi, Mandela; they are all revered. And the schmucks who could only think about their own wants and needs are remembered as narcissistic losers.

Incidentally, I hope eventually the word schmuck will be replaced in the dictionary. As in, who ate all the donuts?! What a trump!

Another good friend is gone. Jim Breasted was the coolest of the cool. We enjoyed talking about many subjects from hiking to history to dive bars in Aspen… but the one thing we would always circle back to, and agree on, is that they don’t make Republicans like they used to. Hell, I don’t think they even carry the parts. Marjorie Taylor Greene, Matt Gaetz, and our own Lauren Boebert have all voted against halting trade with Russia. These are not our grandfather’s Republicans.

Republicans used to want to buy, sell, and process everything right here in our own country, but these new-fangled ones actually want to keep doing business with Russia, thereby funding the terror happening in Ukraine. Either they have no conscience, or they’re just doing what circus clowns do when the ringleader needs to drum up some gas money. Personally, I have nothing against Russia, but I do have something against killing innocent people who, like the rest of us, are just trying to live their lives. Here’s what I know about Russia: beautiful architecture, cold winters, Mikhail Baryshnikov, most people have seen a UFO, and vodka means ‘little water.’

Watching Putin keep his tiny scowl and carry on makes one wonder if there isn’t something in the water that breeds narcissistic delusions of grandeur. The world has watched enough of Putin’s War for Better Business model. This is obviously the mission of a deranged man who is a direct product of the Cold War. A man who knows nothing of mercy or humility, a man who has not been told “No” in an awfully long time (ever?), a man who wants to be like Ivan the Terrible, but risks going down in history as Vladimir the Petulant.

These last two years have felt a bit like Russian literature for all of us, I think. Lonely, desolate, endless. Covid has made me feel like an old Russian who can only see the world in blacks and whites, i.e., births and deaths. This virus sent us all for a loop and the whole world was caught off guard, but I am not the only one who thinks that overpopulation is the reason we have covid. Nature is all about balance, and we are out of balance at almost eight billion humans on the globe. I’m not saying breeders shouldn’t breed, I’m just saying that it is not sustainable for 140 million people to be born each year, when only about 50 million die. It’s simple, brutal math, and we’d be better off if life on Earth was more like the bars in New York City when I was in college; one in, one out.

These are the kinds of things I could talk about with Jim B.

I recently saw a lone lobster in the tank as I walked past the meat counter. I almost started crying at the sight of the creature just sitting in the corner, waiting to die.

When I remarked on how sad it was to the clerk, she said, “Yeah.” Then, “But this way he gets to live longer.”

Sure, all alone with an abandoned sea castle, I thought. Putin of the crustaceans.

Does something hormonal happen at a certain age to make life seem better than it is? Something like the opposite of menopause? Don’t get me wrong, we should celebrate life til the end and then rejoice in the fact that we made it that far, like getting close—or actually finishing a Dostoevsky novel. Jim B. and I agreed on what it takes to keep the party going: the attitude, the guest list, the refreshments, all important factors when it comes to living your best life. (Jim was the one to show up at my 50^th with a cowbell.) Because wherever we go, there we are, and despite what the war mongering Republicans would have us believe, the memories we create are worth more than gold, or oil. Like Jim B., I am having a great time at this four-story club in NYC in the 1980s, with a completely different theme on each floor, and when it’s time to leave, I plan to go just as gracefully as he did.

Last year my husband and I made new friends. Which at our age is kind of a big deal; these days we hardly go anywhere new, much less talk to people who we don’t already know. Becca and Todd managed the Homestead at RVR, and we instantly liked both of them. Todd because he made martinis just like us, with only two ingredients: cold vodka and good olives. Becca because it was impossible to not feel joy whenever she was around. She had a smile that covered her whole face, and she was ever present, always engaged in the topic at hand and excited to talk about it.

Two weeks ago, Becca died. The world is worse without her because she lived a great story full of joy and love.

These are Todd’s words of goodbye.

Heart broken… never in a million years did I plan for you not to be here. Your physical and emotional journey was so extremely difficult, and I believed everything was going to be ok. You were going to get that liver, recover, get rid of the cancer, and we were going to spend all our days rejoicing in your miracle health recovery. You were the once-in-a-lifetime person who would get a liver transplant despite having cancer. You were approved to be the exception! Instead, this advanced liver disease caused detours of pneumonia, candidiasis, kidney failure, and brain-swelling. When the doctors told me you would probably never wake up, I thought to myself, she has to. We have too many wonderful adventures ahead! As I got into a sober mind of your condition, I realized that you wouldn’t want to wake back up to this nightmare. When I asked the doctors, in the absolute best-case scenario will she be able to get a liver transplant, their sobering response was no. Her condition continues to worsen. Her kidneys are now failing, and she would be on dialysis the rest of her life. Her brain is swelling, causing a coma. We have been able to manipulate some of the blood levels with meds, but they continue to worsen every day. When I asked, what quality of life can she look forward to? The answer was self-evident. She can be kept alive in a vegetative state, but eventually her liver disease will continue to cause her other organs to fail. The medicines are maxed out and she’s not getting better. The next steps are dialysis to help get rid of the toxins in her body. She’s way too sick to survive a minor surgery, liver transplant is not even an option. If it were even possible to wake her up from the coma, her reality would be so cruel physically and emotionally.

I know now you had made your choice to go before your intubation. I sent you pictures of all our adventures to calm you down last Tuesday night while you were so scared with the breathing mask on. I did it to calm you down and for you to know I was with you. Little did I know those pics would be the last things you saw. Our God is so thoughtful, caring, and merciful. Your heart stopped at 4:37pm this afternoon. Your pain ended. Your body gave up the fight. Your spirit lives on. You are GOLD!! Everyone that met you knew it. What does she have that I want? How can a person who has been through such struggles in life do it with such grace and dignity? How are you not jaded? You defied medical reason for many years and continued through the end. Your story inspired some of the best doctors in this state to make exceptions to all the rules! We all were hoping to bring you home, healthy and thriving to continue to inspire us to live our best lives. Your body didn’t make it. You made me a better person. You made everyone you met a better person. Not because of what you did, but because of who you are, and will continue to be. I love you Stew. I miss you, but I know you will never be far away.

Rebecca Nickoley

July 8, 1987 – February 18, 2022

Now that I’m in my fifties, I kinda thought I would have my life figured out. It may have been all those sitcoms I watched as a kid. I thought I would have at least received a copy of my permanent record by now… but all I’ve come to realize is that life is mysteriously cyclical, and each new day presents another opportunity to get a strike. Or at least pick up a spare.

There are so many unexplained things happening on this planet that we humans ignore, as we busy ourselves with work and recreational pursuits. It is the year 2022 and scientists still have not observed eels mating in the wild. Sure, they’ve captured eels and observed their reproductive cycle in captivity, but that’s like watching a sex show in Amsterdam and claiming to have witnessed true love. Not necessarily the same thing.

Meanwhile, the Earth is shifting and changing in ways that could lead to our demise faster than you can say underground bunker— much less get to one. Take the recent volcano in the Pacific for example. Plates are shifting and releasing gasses from the planet’s core, which has the power to render life as we know it as meaningless as a pair of Manolos in a bowling alley.

Since 1980 I have only bowled a handful of times. It was never my favorite pastime, even if I didn’t have to wear shoes that weren’t my own. Meanwhile in the last forty years, the North and South Poles have shifted four metres* (13 feet.) It would seem that Earth is getting a hitch in her giddy ‘up. Apparently, our planet shifts on its axis as it hurtles through the cosmos, and this shifting causes a wobble called polar motion, which has to do with the ratio of water to land. Wobbles, in my opinion, are not good. The fact that we’re out here in the “unfashionable end of the western spiral arm of the galaxy” -Douglas Adams, spinning along as though we have nothing but time and oil, is a friggin miracle in itself. And if the delicate balance of water to hardened lava tips too far to one side or the other, then it really won’t matter how cute our shoes are.

Humans are cute, objectively, but we should remember that we’re not irreplaceable. (Which is a good thing, because you never want to be so good at your job that you can’t be promoted.) I like to imagine the gods and goddesses watching over us as we eat nachos, drink beer, and hurl heavy balls down the lane, congratulating each other for knocking down all the pins while our planet is in serious jeopardy of becoming a gutter ball. I’m sure they can understand the levity we crave while living in such political clutter and chaos.

Each day we turn on our screens to witness the juxtapose of river and air pollution next to wildlife and wild lands. To watch billions of our tax dollars spent on bombing our fellow earthlings. To try to understand how the cast of Sex and the City and the Golden Girls can be portrayed as the same age. What an amazing age decade, the fifties! Especially for single women living their best lives with their best friends.

In my experience, by fifty years old we are fully oscillating between big-picture world issues and microscopic self needs, between gratitude and greed. And it is a balancing act to keep from becoming jaded to the plight of others, while still taking care of ourselves and protecting our own joy. There isn’t much wiggle room but as they say, if you’re not living on the edge, you’re taking up too much room.

Maybe that’s why people take up bowling in middle age— or better yet, curling (what they call bowling in Canada, eh?) A hobby with Zen-like repetition and adult beverages might be just the thing to make me temporarily forget about the state of our planet. And maybe when I’m hanging out with Betty White, enjoying nachos and beer while wearing hobby-specific shoes, I will look back and see that my fifties were when I figured it all out.

*https://www.theguardian.com/environment/2021/apr/23/climate-crisis-has-shifted-the-earths-axis-study-shows

Happy new year! Oh boy, these days it seems like each year is better than the next… just kidding- sort of. We went through the ringer last year: pestilence, poverty, politicians who were ready to burn it all down and hang the vice president on the front steps of the capitol.

This was the first holiday season in twenty years when America wasn’t at war. Well, except for within itself. But then, this country hasn’t really enjoyed a peaceful existence since the Nina, the Pinta, and the Santa Maria hit the shore. Just imagine if those guys had been welcomed in the same way we treat immigrants today. Maybe there was a contingent of Native Americans pushing for them to be put in cages until they could ship them back across the pond, but the majority thought that was barbaric, remaining open-minded and cooperative.

Throughout human history the issue of our differences keeps bubbling up to the surface, causing ongoing pain and suffering. Race, religion, gender, sexual preference, none of these have been proven to exist after this life (neither have we, my husband would remind me), so why do we spend so much time discussing, analyzing, criticizing, and killing each other over whether or not we neatly fit into these arbitrary boxes? I’m over it. As long as it’s consensual, I say give it a go! I do have one request, however. We need a singular pronoun for people who don’t wish to use he or she. ‘They’ is already overused and causes unnecessary confusion, so I propose we use Ye. As in, “Ye went to the store because yiers frig was empty.”

Transgender members of Native American tribes were often revered.* And similar to the way the science behind breathing through one’s nose surfaces throughout time— only to be buried again and again (also passed down through the generations by Native Americans), exposing ourselves to different kinds of people broadens our E.Q. (Emotional Quotient.) But, then a novice gets into power and war begins anew… Myriad health/dental issues could be solved by simply teaching our children to breathe through their noses and peace could be achieved by teaching them to seek out/accept diversity. Though I suppose until we figure out how to calm our fear of the unknown, and instead embrace it, we’ll keep forgetting and relearning the secrets to thrive in this life.

Speaking of the collective unknown, I want to talk about the one thing we all have in common but don’t speak of. Death. I have a few theories I’d like to run by everyone, and I can’t do it if he/she/ye keeps leaving the room every time I bring it up. I would also like to propose we start celebrating our loved one’s deathdays in much the same way we celebrate their birthdays. I would like to be able to sit around eating cake and reliving the good times we shared, without accusations of being “morbid” or “stuck in one of the five stages of grief.” I know death is an end, but I also believe it to be a chance at rebirth, an opportunity to experience another perspective.

I love meeting people who look at life completely differently than I do. I often think I should get to know more old sailors and bikers, both to shift my consciousness and to ensure even representation at my funeral. If I died right now there would be plenty of preppy cowpokes and tattooed old punks, but maybe no more than one or two Harley Davidsons in the parking lot. Can any of us really know what it’s like to be each other? I have a cousin who sees life in math equations, and another one who sees colors attached to people. Perhaps the point of life is to consider it from as many angles as possible, using the one body we each get, and if we live long enough, maybe even end up with the ability to walk in the shoes of our so-called enemy. Seems like the Native Americans may have already known this when some Anglos showed up thinking life was just a game to win or lose.

*https://www.theguardian.com/music/2010/oct/11/two-spirit-people-north-america