What’s Your Song?

Joe and I were high school sweethearts and he and I laughed hard and often, all through high school. At just 17, I had fallen head over heels for him, with his soft, unbuttoned flannel shirt, always layered over a classic rock t-shirt, paired with loose jeans and high top black Converse sneaks.

Looking back, the character of Garth, in the 90s film Wayne’s World, could easily have been modeled after the fashion choices of the boy that won my heart.

Joe bought a ’70 Chevelle, for one hundred and fifty dollars, and he spent too many Saturdays tinkering around with that car. He shared my feminist values, though, and felt that for safety, everyone, regardless of gender, needed to know how to change a tire. And so I spent Saturdays tinkering too.

By the time we graduated from college, and moved into that cute little apartment with the incredible bookshelf that was built under the stairs, we were still just babies, but we wanted to be grown. And so, at 22, we started planning a wedding, but something was lacking. Somehow, after six long years together, we were missing an important relationship milestone.

We needed a song.

Back in the late 80s and early 90s, Joe and I loved all kinds of music. We stood in crazy long lines at the crack of dawn, at the ticket office by John Wanamaker at the mall, to get seats for the big venue bands, like Rush and Yes and Styx and Genesis. But we also went to see alternative bands, like 10000 Maniacs, and techno pop artists, like Howard Jones, and Erasure, at the Tower Theater, and stood on our chairs on the Spectrum floor next to a bunch of teenage goth kids, to see the Cure. We went to the Chestnut Cabaret, and the TLA, and took in local reggae bands at Bacchanal.

But in spite of our broad taste in music, we had never had a song emerge as ours. The popular love songs, from the radio. just didn’t click.

Back then, if you wanted to explore individual songs, and scout around for one that might work for the wedding dance with the love of your life, you did not have the ease of a Google search or Spotify. Listening to music in your living room involved a turntable and record albums, or maybe some CDs, and your search engine was simply sitting on the floor, cross legged, with piles of albums, reading the list of songs on the A and B sides.

Luckily, my beau, who was sporting a serious mullet by then, had about 400 albums, and so we spent many evenings surrounded by piles of records, selecting possibilities, and slow dancing, right in the living room, with that cool bookshelf built under the stairs.

And one fateful night, Joe dropped the needle on the last song on the B side of Genesis’s 1978 album, And Then There Were Three. The lyrics of Follow You, Follow Me sank in, and we smiled, and we danced.

And just like that, years and years after we were voted Deptford Township High School’s Class Couple, we hit a milestone. We had a song. Our song.

A lot has changed in thirty years, but a lot has not. Nowadays, Joe rarely wears rock and roll t-shirts, and his older guy feet prefer New Balance brand, instead of Chuck Taylors. We still love all types of music, but we attend many fewer live performances. Concerts that start after 8 PM are way out of our wheel house now, because those would require us to stay up past 11:00 PM, and that would be crazy!

We still laugh hard, every single day, and we still dance whenever Follow You Follow Me comes on.

And I can still change a tire, or at least I hope. I haven’t tested that skill in many years, thanks to road side assistance from AAA!

If you are in a relationship, what is your song? How did that song become yours? What does it mean to you? If you could re-choose your song, what would that one be?

We want to know, so please share in the comments!

Don’t Name the Caterpillars

Black Swallowtail Caterpillar

Around noon on Thursday, I received an urgent plea via email. The Gloucester County Butterfly House had so many Black Swallowtail caterpillars thriving that they were running out of food for them. Black Swallowtails, like most caterpillars, are incredibly fussy about what they will eat, and the Butterfly House was asking for donations of parsley, rue, dill, or fennel plants to keep the voracious caterpillars fed until the time that each would molt its skin and form a protective chrysalis.

Caterpillars are the absolute opposite of apex predators. From the time they are simple eggs, deposited by flitting and fluttering butterflies, they are sitting ducks for the many predators that want to eat them. The eggs are gobbled up by ladybugs, and the hatched caterpillars are eaten by birds, wasps, and spiders. Praying mantises will eat eggs, caterpillars, and even adult butterflies. In the Butterfly House, finding perfectly intact butterfly wings, that are mysteriously missing their butterfly bodies, is a sure sign of a hungry mantis on the prowl.

The Butterfly House is a contained and semi-controlled habitat for caterpillars and butterflies, meant to educate the community about how to support our native butterflies. The screened hoop house has plenty of flowers to provide nectar for butterflies, plus the particular host plants that each species of caterpillar there requires. For the Monarchs, there is milkweed, the only plant on which a female Monarch will lay eggs, for the Spicebush Swallowtail, there are several healthy spice bushes, and for the Black Swallowtails, there are the herbs that those caterpillars devour.

But even in a planned and purposeful environment, Mother Nature enforces her own checks and balances, and in spite of the tightly woven mesh that contains the habitat, predators find a way.

“Look at that bee,” yelled the observant boy at the Butterfly House. “He is stinging that caterpillar!” As I was talking about native perennials with his mother, a curious 8 year old had spied a caterpillar who had climbed the mesh wall. And just like the boy had said, a wasp was attacking the caterpillar, but from the other side of the enclosure. Some wasps eat caterpillars as food, and other predatory wasps lay eggs inside the caterpillars’ bodies, so that once the eggs hatch, the wasp larvae devour the caterpillar, from the inside. The ways of nature can be unkind.

In response to the urgent call for caterpillar food, I was ready to help. I had pots of parsley in my garden, and while I had hoped that Black Swallowtails might lay eggs there this summer, the only parsley that had been eaten, had been eaten by us, on roasted potatoes. So as soon as I arrived home, I headed out to collect my plants, and to my surprise, the parsley leaves were covered with tiny black caterpillars, each smaller than a piece of rice. The Black Swallowtail butterflies had been here.

Worrying that the fifteen or so caterpillars that I could count would soon be food for birds or other prey, I decided to move the pots, temporarily, onto my screen porch.

“Just don’t name them,” my husband joked, knowing that only a small percent of caterpillars make it to the butterfly stage.

“They will be fine,” I told him, and myself, as I patiently looked for holes or gaps in the mesh of my screen porch, and covered each access place with electric tape.

Juvenile Black Swallowtail Caterpillar

Watching the tiny caterpillars was fascinating. I had spent time with caterpillars in the Butterfly House, but I loved having them right on my own porch. The little fellows were easy to watch, and fun to photograph.

Caterpillar life stages are known as instars, and like a snake, with each growth stage, the caterpillar sheds its skin. I took some great close up photos of the largest and most active of my caterpillars, a likely 2nd instar, and I hurried inside to download the photos.

Fifteen minutes later, I headed back to the porch to find a terrifying sight. A spider was cradling the same caterpillar in his hairy arms, feasting. My first instinct was to kill the villain, but after letting my pulse rate come down a bit, I recognized that the caterpillar was well past saving, so I moved the plant out to my front steps, and let nature take its course.

Monarch numbers have been steadily declining over the past 20 years and in June of this year, the International Union for the Conservation of Nature finally declared the migrating monarch to be endangered. The sharp decline in the number of native wild bees and migrating monarchs that is occurring, though, has nothing to do with spiders or wasps. The real threat to the monarchs and other native insect populations is the sharp reduction in habitats, as we build more shopping malls and housing developments, and pave over the wild spaces that once bloomed with milkweed and native plants, plus the ever increasing use of broad spectrum pesticides.

At the Butterfly House we encourage folks to plant for the butterflies and other pollinators, teaching that if everyone planted just a few milkweed plants, we can create corridors with ample pit stops for traveling monarchs to lay eggs, and hopefully help the Monarch population rebound. Planting both flowering nectar plants, to feed the butterflies, and host plants to feed the caterpillars, we can attract beautiful butterflies to our yards, and can support the health of native pollinators and improve our environment.

So plant a few plants. And if you find Monarchs or other caterpillars in your yard, feel proud that you are doing your part.

But remember that Mother Nature has her own ways.

So just don’t name the caterpillars.

Monarch Caterpillar

Male Black Swallowtail Butterfly

Monarch Butterfly

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Great Christmas Expectations

A couple of Decembers ago, Joe and I were waiting in a long line at the Fellowship Community Church, to see their giant outdoor Christmas Nativity.

Unlike most church-run Nativities, which involve a few farm animals, and assorted church members wearing bathrobes, this one promised more. I’d been told to expect 12 live scenes from Christ’s life, a cast of 100, and elaborate sets and special effects, including angels that would appear suddenly above the tree line. I was curious to see how a local community church could pull off a production this elaborate.

Directly behind us, a young girl, about four years old, was sobbing. Her parents tried to shush her, but to no avail.

“I don’t want to go,” the girl sniffled.

“Shhhhh,” whispered her mother, looking embarrassed. “Stop being silly.”

“But I don’t want to do it!” the girl went on.

In front of me, another girl, of similar age, was watching all this, with a look of concern. Motioning toward the sobbing girl, she asked, softly, “Is she very worried?”

Then she added, seriously, “is she worried about Herod?”

King Herod the Great, after all, was a tyrant, and to a kid, he was right up there with the scariest of the Disney villains. To protect his own position of power, Herod needed the Baby Jesus gone, and to assure that the baby did not slip through his grasp, Herod also ordered his soldiers to kill ever single baby boy, that was close to Jesus’s age.

Fortunately, in the spirit of a good Disney film, the Baby Jesus escaped. But in a very very un-Disney twist, Herod’s henchmen murdered countless innocent babies. Pretty scary stuff for a kid.

“No, it’s not Herod,” the mom told us. “I think it is stress.”

She went on to explain that she and her husband had been talking up the Nativity event, all week.

“But somehow, I think we made this into too big of a deal, and now she is overwhelmed, before it has even started.”

This sounded a lot like the Christmas stress that happens to many adults.

Christmas is supposed to be the most wonderful time of the year. We fill our homes with music, and festive decorations. We gather with our favorite people, and eat decadent meals and desserts. We retell the stories of Jesus’s birth, and tales of Santa and elves. We exchange gifts, and if we are lucky, we see real wonder in the eyes of the young.

Christmas has so much potential to be uplifting, but in our high pressure world, we can build the holiday up too much, and put unrealistic expectations on how our homes should look, how our family gatherings should go, and how elaborate our gifts should be.

Suddenly, we feel like the crying girl, saying, “I don’t want to do it.”

The Hallmark Channel does not help. Beautiful people, in beautiful homes, tell us that we deserve to have a perfect holiday, and to find true love. Every single Hallmark movie ends in happily ever after, and more often than not, the male lead turns out to be a prince, in disguise.

But real life is not Hallmark or Disney. Sometimes the turkey is overcooked, and sometimes, our families bicker during dinner. Sometimes, we can’t afford the gifts that we want to buy. And always, there is no undercover prince.

Sometimes, it is just too easy to focus, not on the magic of the season, but on what we think is lacking in our lives.

“Don’t make me go!” the little girl wailed.

But soon, young shepherds collapsed in a field, awed by the angels that rose suddenly above the trees (thanks to a hydraulic lift of some kind). The crowd gasped in amazement.

The Magi came to pay respects, and explained that it had taken them years to reach the baby king. An adorable toddler Jesus stumbled into view, and in unison, the crowd said “Awwww.”

Bethlehem was bustling. Herod was scary. And when Jesus finally ascended (thanks to another hydraulic lift), the crowd burst into applause.

If we looked deeply enough, of course, we would have seen imperfections in the performances, but instead, we focused on the Christmas magic. And that little girl, initially anxious and overwhelmed, was quietly amazed, along with the rest of us.

So this December, try to manage your Christmas expectations. Your house may not be decorated as elaborately as those Hallmark houses, but it keeps a roof over your head. Your family might be flawed, but they love you. The food might not be perfect, but it feeds your body.

And in those moments, when the stress seeps in, try to remember that two thousand years ago, a baby was born, and he taught us to love our neighbors and take care of the needy, not to buy expensive gifts and throw elaborate parties.

Happy Holidays, my friends!

Stress Relief and the Sheep Barn

After a stressful day at work, I sometimes need to unwind and turn off my brain. Netflix helps, of course, and a couple of glasses of wine helps even more, but nothing compares to the Sheep Barn.

The Sheep Barn is at Farm Sanctuary in the New York Finger Lakes, and tuning in to their live webcam prepares me for a restful night of sleep, by allowing me to watch a hundred or so sheep, as they settle down for sleep, themselves. Some sheep lay down quickly, closing their eyes, while others lay down, but remain alert, munching on a bedtime snack of hay, and always, there are the restless few, pacing around in the dark, their eyes glowing on the infrared cameras, after all of the other sheep have turned in.

There is something calming, and almost meditative, about watching that Sheep Barn, especially at night. I can’t explain the whys or the hows of it, but I know, that as I am watching a sheep chew his hay, with that oh-so slow, circular, jaw movement, and as I listen to the periodic guttural growl or baa, that the electrical and chemical systems of my brain are coming into a nice balance, giving me a sense of contentment, and for some reason, a little reassurance about the world.

A few weeks ago, Joe, Jake and I got to meet the sheep, and all the rescued farm animals at Farm Sanctuary, in real life.

After we followed our guide through the wet grass in the cow pasture, avoiding cow pies, which were literally everywhere, we patted the largest cows I have ever seen, met a bunch of goats, and finally made it to the Sheep Barn.

As we approached their pen, the sheep were all outside, gathered at the top of a hill. When they saw us approaching, though, the sheep moved together, almost stampeding, down the steep hill. At the bottom, most turned into the safety of the barn, but many came to greet us.

Sandwiched between two sheep, I carefully patted their wooly backs, with an open, flat hand.

I was warmed by how enthusiastic the sheep were for human visitors. They were paying particular attention to our guide, and it was clear that they recognized her, among the humans. No one was spared their affections, though, and each of the eight people in our group was immediately surrounded by at least two or three sheep.

“Dig in more, Lis,” Joe called out to me, holding up his hand and making a scratching motion with his fingers. “They like you to scratch their skin.” He turned his hand to show me his black, oily fingers.

“Lanolin,” he said, smiling.

Just then, I felt something tap the back of my calf, and was surprised to see one of my sheep friends had lifted his hoof and had gently tapped my leg. I continued with my open hand pats, not quite ready to dig in to his wooly coat, as Joe had suggested, and my sheep friend tapped my leg again. Soon, he sauntered off, sidling up to another human, because apparently I was not doing a very good job of petting him properly.

At Farm Sanctuary, each of the resident animals has been rescued, some from the difficult life, and certain death, of the factory farm, and some from smaller, family farms, where they were not getting adequate care. Many of the animals suffered abuse, malnutrition, neglect, isolation, or heartbreak, before coming to these rolling hills and quiet pastures. Our guide continued to tell us the back stories of the animals that surrounded us, and how they came to be living in this bucolic setting.

Looking at Joe, who was now petting the sheep that had abandoned me, and still smiling a giant smile, I think I could actually see the electrical and chemical systems of his brain, coming into balance.

Next time you have a stressful day at work, check out the Farm Sanctuary’s live web feeds at Explore.org.

It’s cheaper than Netflix, works faster than wine, and it just might will leave you with a little reassurance about the world.

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It is better to have loved and lost…..

“Don’t cry because it’s over, smile because it happened.” – Dr.Seuss
__________________________________________________________________

Three of us had entered the emergency department at the University of Pennsylvania’s Ryan Veterinary Hospital early that morning, but when we walked out at 5:30 pm, there were just us two.

Seven short days earlier, our twelve year old greyhound boy, who had lived with us for ten years, was still healthy and whole, at least in appearance.

Inside him, though, bone cancer had been quietly and eagerly consuming our sweet boy, and stripping away our hope before we even knew we’d need it.

RoofTop Chalie had been his racetrack name and our Charlie had run eighteen races, all in Birmingham, Alabama. He had done well, but not well enough, and when he was only two years old, the Greyhound Gods decided that RoofTop Chalie was meant for better things. Like his namesake in the Chocolate Factory, our Charlie boy had stumbled upon the coveted golden ticket, and he was granted a whole new life, full of possibilities.

During his first week on the outside, RoofTop Chalie became just Charlie, and like most greys, he struggled with the civilian world. At his temporary foster home, he was excited to explore the back yard and he innocently thought that the world was a controlled and predictable place. With happy enthusiasm, he ran straight across a swimming pool that was covered for the winter and fell right in, leaving his foster parents to frantically jump in after him, and hoist our floundering and leggy dog from the icy cold water.

The pool incident was just one of Charlie’s many missteps and learning experiences, as he adjusted from the regimented life of a race dog to the role of a family pet.  But adjust he did, and Charlie learned all about soft beds and doggie treats, and people food. And he quickly understood that his new pack was a human one, and as we fell in love with him, Charlie fell in love with us, and with Joe in particular.

Over the years, Joe and Charlie became truly inseparable friends and like fine wines, they aged well together.

From his track days, Charlie was accustomed to having someone accompany him whenever he went outside to toilet. In the beginning, Joe obliged him, hoping to ease his transition to suburban life, and would head outside and wait patiently by, whenever Charlie went out to toilet.  But years and years later, in rain, or snow, or sleet, the habit persisted, and Joe continued to slide on slippers or maybe snow boots and a coat, and he headed into the backyard whenever Charlie did.

Over the years, Charlie needed to toilet more frequently, and as is so common with many men in their 50s, so did Joe. 

So in recent years, every night, at about 2 am, the two friends would get up together to use the bathroom. Charlie always showed Joe the respect that a good friend should, and would wait patiently outside of the half-open bathroom door,  knowing that once his friend had done his business, then the two of them could head outside so that Charlie could do his. 

Laying in bed, that first night after Joe and I left the Penn Vet office without our sweet old boy, I listened as Joe climbed out of bed at 2 am, and walk down the hallway, alone.  I wondered if I should get up and follow him, but I laid quietly, not sure what to do. I heard the bathroom door close sharply, and I knew that Joe, and me as well, had some significant grieving to do.

———————————————————————————————————————-

Today, it is nineteen months since our Charlie boy went home to a heaven of expansive fields for running in circles, bottomless bowls of popcorn to share, and hours and hours of neighborhood walks. 

Today, one of my family members lost her own sweet fur baby, and during a video call tonight, I offered the best advice I could.  I told her to talk and talk about her sweet dog. I told her that even if it makes her cry, that she should tell the stories that make her laugh and smile, and that she should honor her beloved pet by remembering and by sharing.

And I realized then, that I still need to do a bit more of this for Charlie. Here are a few things you might not know: 

• Charlie liked to smell flowers. He would wander around my garden, sniffing.  The vegetables were interesting, but the flowers really got his attention. 
• He could not climb steps.  When he vacationed with us, we always rented a house with a first floor bedroom, since he slept in our room. If we ended up with a second floor bedroom, Joe had to carry all 80 pounds, of Charlie, up the stairs every night. 
• Charlie ate like the Cookie Monster. If he had something crunchy, like a Milkbone, he would crunch it up with his mouth open, and crumbs would fly everywhere, just like the Cookie Monster.  And he had no interest in eating the crumbs off the floor, even if we pointed them out to him, so we had to vacuum it all up. 
• Charlie ran in his sleep. His legs would twitch and flex, and he would whine and softly bark, whenever he slept. We always wondered what he was dreaming and where he was running. 
• He was a slow and ineffective thief.  At a party, he once considered stealing snacks from a buffet table. He gingerly touched his tongue to the food items, but did not take them. When he saw that he was being observed, he skulked away.
• He was a sight hound, and loved to watch and clumsily chase the rabbits and squirrels in the yard.  He never caught a single one, though, but did chase a rabbit directly into a chain link fence once. 
• If he wanted to wake us up during the night, Charlie never barked or made a sound. He was so tall that his head was the same height as our sleeping heads, on our pillows, so he would simply rest his head Joe’s arm, or chest, or right next to Joe’s face. Imagine waking up to a Charlie face right next to your own! 

Our pets are our family.

I wrote almost all of this blog the weekend that Charlie died, but did not finish it, probably because of the tears. Today, finishing, I still shed tears of grief, but now they are mixed with tears of real happiness, celebrating that we had Charlie dog in our lives. 

I am proud to tell his stories. 

If you have lost a love one, either human, or furry, tell their stories too! 

 

 

Be a Patriot – Wear a Mask!

COVID-19 has wrecked havoc on my way of life. In the past four months, I have barely seen my family, and when I have, it has been with the most careful social distancing protocols in place. I have had no in-person contact with my dearest friends, have not eaten in a restaurant, and haven’t seen a single movie in a theater. Times have been so crazy that both Jake and Joe even submitted to my cutting their hair – and twice!

The efforts to contain this virus have put people out of work and have shuttered countless businesses. As the pandemic drags on, some folks have started to speak out against the government guidelines and restrictions, and are pushing to reopen our businesses and to return to normal, in spite of rising infection rates.

Among the messages of those speaking out against state mandates, one sentiment has repeatedly befuddled me. My social media streams have been rife with comments raging against mask requirements. Anti-maskers have argued that masks are unnecessary, and they have lamented that their civil liberties, and even their actual physical health, are threatened by masking.

“I’m so tired of wearing this Petri Dish on my face!”

“I am not old and don’t have any health issues, so why would I wear one?”

“Stop believing what you see on the fake news.”

“I haven’t worn a mask yet, and don’t plan on doing so. Keep drinking the kool-aid!”

“I’m totally against them. You are re-breathing your own air which is not good.”

“Masks are un-American.”

The logic of these anti-maskers eludes me. They seem to focus on conspiracy theories and to disregard science. And I really don’t understand the “masking is un-American” angle. What is un-American about valuing safety? What is unpatriotic about enduring inconvenience for the greater good of our communities?

Historically, Americans have been repeatedly called upon, by our government, to value the greater good of country over our own convenience and personal benefit. This pandemic is not the first time we will be called, and it won’t be the last.

During World War II, major inconveniences were imposed upon all Americans. Foods and common items were rationed, and each person was given a book of government-issued ration coupons that limited their purchases of coffee, sugar, meat, cheese, butter, canned foods, dried fruits, jam, clothing, stockings, shoes, and more. Gasoline was also tightly rationed and most families were allowed to purchase only three gallons per week, which made even essential travel to work difficult. Construction of nonmilitary housing was banned and production of most household appliances was ceased until after the war. Automobile production was also halted, with auto factories being repurposed to making tanks and munitions for the government instead. There was a major labor shortage and although housewives went to work to fill some of the openings, businesses still had to get creative on how to operate with limited staff. Income taxes were raised and workers were also asked to spend at least 10% of their paychecks on war bonds. Folks living in coastal cities were even required to turn off their household lights after dark due to concerns that offshore u-boats could use the back light of residential areas to locate ships leaving an area.

Every day life was completely upended and people were not just asked to make sacrifices, they were required to, by their government.

Ask your grandpa about these restrictions. He will likely tell you how his family had to do without so many things, and that they made major sacrifices.

He might tell you about how his family gave up most of their pots and pans, so the metal could be used in airplanes. He might tell you about how his mom had to make some of their clothes from old feed bags and flour sacks, since clothing for purchase, and also fabric, were so hard to come by.

Grandpa will likely talk about hardship and compromise and ingenuity, but he won’t complain. In fact, he will likely tell his story with heartfelt and genuine American pride.

So how did wearing a simple face mask stop being a safety measure and become a divisive political statement instead?

When did folks start valuing politics over the safety and greater good of our families, communities, and country?

If you are lucky enough to have a WWII era grandpa or grandma in your life, cherish them, and listen to their stories.

And please be a patriot and wear that mask!

Quarantine Haircut

“I trust you,” Joe said.

“You have no reason to trust me on this,” I replied, and meant it.

“But I do trust you, babe,” Joe went on.

“Honestly, please stop saying that you trust me,” I said. I took a gulp of my beer to try to steady my nerves. “There is no logical reason that you should trust me and we are only in this situation due to absolute desperation.”

“But I trust you,” Joe said kindly.

“Please, just stop speaking.”

Back when the pandemic shut down first started, in mid-March, I think I adjusted pretty well to not being able to go out to a movie, or to a restaurant, or to the mall. I missed getting out and about, of course, but I added Hulu to my streaming services and caught up on the Handmade’s Tale, and I found new local places for contact-less food delivery.

I was adapting to our new normal, but then just two weeks after the stay-at-home order went in to place, I missed an appointment that hit me unusually hard.

I have had a standing appointment with Paige, every six weeks, for about ten years. Paige is one of the most deeply trusted professionals in my life, along with my dentist and my family doctor. Paige knows me, and she knows my routine, so she always delivers exactly what I need.

Paige is my hair stylist and, in these difficult times, I might just miss her more than I miss a lot of my family. I have regular Zoom calls with my family, after all. We talk over the computer, or by phone, and we stay connected.

But Paige and I are straight up broken up.

And my hair is showing it.

A week ago, Joe came to me and asked me to participate in the ultimate act of trust. He was in a bad way, with his hair sticking out at angles that made no sense. So he asked me to cut his hair.

I want to be clear. Home haircuts are a bad idea.

When I was a child, lots of kids got at-home haircuts, and the results were not usually great. Although I have no memories of my parents cutting my own hair, my elementary school pictures tell a cautionary tale. Because if my parents were paying for those haircuts, they were getting ripped off.

If you think a DIY pandemic haircut can’t go wrong, just jump on Google and do a quick search. The pictures don’t lie. Or better yet, if you are brave, and are armed with a mask, gloves, and hand sanitizer, just visit a Walmart and take a close look at the haircuts of some of those around you. Trust me, the evidence is out there.

So I hesitated. I wasn’t ready. I pictured Joe going to work, with a Dumb and Dumber hairdo, by my hands.

But today, Joe asked again, more persistently, and I knew that unless the world was going to change soon, I had no choice. If he ended up looking like Will in Stranger Things, with a Dorothy Hamill cut, then so be it. Necessity called.

So I watched three You Tube tutorials on how to cut hair and I pulled out a pair of sharp scissors and those old clippers, purchased twenty five years ago, back when Josh was a toddler and refused to let anyone cut his hair.

“I trust you,” Joe said, as I started to use the clippers.

People go to school for years to learn the art of hairdressing, and then spend many more perfecting and refining their abilities. This isn’t something one can simply learn on the internet.

But this is where this pandemic had brought us.

Joe’s DIY haircut took forty five painstaking minutes, and to my surprise, the final product turned out pretty okay. I felt like I dodged a bullet. I am not sure how it will hold up as it grows in, though, and I expect that Joe’s regular stylist, Scott, will be required, later on, to undue the damage I have done.

Joe suggested that I use my new found YouTube learned skills to direct him in cleaning up my hair, which is also starting to stick out at angles that just don’t make sense.

Joe is a smart and capable man, but on this, I have to take a pass. I just don’t trust him.

I will hold out for Paige. After all, we are not broken up; we are just taking a break.

Paige – Please come back into my life soon! I miss you. I need you.

And above all, I trust you!

________________________________________________________________________________

Here is Joe’s finished quarantine haircut.

Not bad for an amateur, right?

But I humbly acknowledge my luck. Cause in my unskilled hands, he could end up with a Mo, or a Mugatu, or worse, a Boris Johnson!

And I don’t want to let him down.

After all, he trusts me!

Protecting My House

Today was the first day that every single patient was required to wear a mask or facial covering in my office. If they arrived without a mask, one was provided, and they were instructed to wear it throughout their visit.

For almost a month and a half, we have been living a new normal.

We only see essential or urgent medical visits in person, and any staff member that can do their job remotely is now working from home. Onsite staff give each other a very wide berth and all staff, even receptionists and administrators, are masked, all day, every day. Staff and patients are stopped at the thermoscanning station for a quick temperature check and are queried about symptoms before entering the building and the lobby furniture is carefully arranged, with most seats marked as reserved, to assure at least six feet between waiting patients.

But in spite of our efforts, we know that work place exposures can happen, and as testing has increased, more patients have tested positive, and more and more staff have headed into periods of self monitoring, or at-home quarantine. A few unlucky colleagues have tested positive themselves, and the rest of us hoped, very very quietly, that they were exposed at the store or at home, and not at work, where we have our masks and goggles and disinfectants and carefully arranged lobby to protect us.

Looking out into that lobby, on this first day of required masking for patients, I saw two patients sitting close together and I reviewed the map of the reserved and open seats in my head. I know the arrangement well, since I have to recheck and correct the spacing every single morning, as the nighttime cleaning crew doesn’t always get the room reassembled quite right.

The man was wearing a mask, but had it down far below his nose. The woman, who was talking loudly to him and laughing, was wearing her mask pulled down under her chin. Watching them interact, and looking at the room map in my head again, I realized that he was sitting in one of the chairs that is clearly marked as reserved.

“Do you think we should say something to them?” a coworker asked.

“Absolutely,” I replied. “This is our house and we need to protect it.”

For those of us in healthcare, this new normal makes us hyper aware of the statistics and the patient interactions that those numbers represent.

As of yesterday, there were 88,806 confirmed cases of COVID-19 in New Jersey and 4,377 confirmed deaths.

Those confirmed cases are 88,806 real people who received real care from real healthcare workers.

There was nasal swabs administered in cars, chest x-rays, ER evaluations, breathing treatments, EKGs, blood gases, supplemental oxygen, blood draws, IVs, intubation, and mechanical ventilation. This care was administered by healthcare workers in sometimes inadequate PPE, in units that were understaffed, and these workers did their jobs while standing in for the family members who couldn’t be there, and while simultaneously keeping those same family members posted. These workers came to work every day, in spite of fear, anxiety, and profound exhaustion, all because they believe that these 88,806 patients deserved the best care, even in these terrifying times.

4377 deaths were real people, who died without family at their bedside. They did not die alone, though, because of the dedicated nurses and aides providing medical care, while also using IPads to facetime the loved ones who were not allowed in.

Those workers went home each night and although they had so carefully removed their PPE to prevent cross contamination, and although they had left their scrubs at the hospital for laundering, they still undressed in their garages or backyards, and headed straight to the shower. They said a quick hello to their kids from a distance and headed to the isolation bedroom where they have been staying while at home, since they can’t risk exposing their family to this deadly virus.

After all, this is their house and they have to protect it.

“I know the masks are uncomfortable,” I said to the man and woman, smiling from behind my mask, “but we really need you to wear it up over your nose to keep you safe.”

“Okay,” the woman said, pulling her own mask up. “I guess I didn’t think they’d really want me to wear it all the time.”

For those of you outside of healthcare, you might just want your old life back and you might be feeling that the social distancing rules are getting old fast. But I want you to think about protecting your house.

And if you think that maybe you really don’t need to adhere to the guidelines all the time, I want you to think about protecting your house.

Because tonight, a nurse in New Jersey got undressed in her backyard and rushed into her house without hugging her kids because she has seen, with her own eyes, how horrific this virus can be.

This nurse hasn’t hugged or had dinner with her kids or her husband, in nearly six weeks, and although she is exhausted, she doesn’t sleep well. But she will soldier on, because she knows that 88,806 patients deserved quality care and she knows that there are many more patients to come.

But this isn’t her war. This is our war.

And when you protect your house, you protect hers too.

So protect your house and do this right.

There are still people to save.

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Not Another Normal Day at Work

The checker at the Acme was aggressively moving my groceries across the laser scanner, his lips pursed and a look on his face that I could not quite place. I watched him work, grabbing food items from the belt and pushing out a loud breath with each beep of the scanner.

He looked angry, but I suspected that was not quite it.

The lines at this market, like the lines in every food store, Walmart and Target, were twenty deep. There was no toilet paper, pasta, or canned soup to be had. This virus and the Governor’s executive order, for us to essentially shelter in place, flipped on the hoarding instinct in so many. My cart, though, was filled with convenience foods because, unexpectedly, my college age son is now back home until September.

“How are you holding up?” I asked the checker, as he roughly grabbed the pop tarts.

He did not answer and sighed. He looked at me and slowly shook his head back and forth, lips pursed. I saw tears fill his eyes and I knew, that if he spoke, his voice would crack and more tears might come, betraying his attempts at pretending that this was just another normal day at work.

I definitely know the feeling. This past week was stress-filled and emotional. In healthcare, our efforts at protecting ourselves and our patients have evolved drastically over the past week and each day is definitely not another normal day at work. Patients are screened for symptoms when scheduling and at the door, staff are screened for fever before even clocking in, and zero visitors are allowed in the facility. Masks, gloves and disinfectants are now stored under lock and key, to protect our limited resources, and all nonessential appointments have been cancelled indefinitely. Staff are fluctuating between the fear of being at work, with the risk of contracting the virus, and the fear of being sent home from work, and the financial uncertainty that would bring. But we know that our stress in the outpatient setting is just a fraction of what the hospital workers are facing.

Yesterday, a patient called to complain. Her call was escalated to me and I listened, truly sympathetic, as she lamented about our zero visitor restriction and its impact on her family.

“This is my first baby,” she pleaded emotionally, “so please, please, let my husband and mother be with me during my ultrasound.”

I patiently explained the whys of our new policies, about social distancing and flattening the curve, but she was not hearing. What if she got bad news, she asked. Who would support her then? Or what if the baby was just so sweet and beautiful, and no one was there to share her joy?

I apologized that this was happening. I apologized that this virus was breaking her heart. I apologized and apologized and apologized.

But I didn’t say what I was really thinking, what scares me, like that if this doesn’t improve quickly, it is likely that she will be alone, not just during this ultrasound, but during labor and delivery too, and that given the possibility of physician shortages, as illness increases, she will possibly be delivered by an overworked and exhausted doctor or resident, that she doesn’t even know.

Not a normal day at work.

On Thursday, I left work after an eleven hour day and seeing my car in the distance, I felt the tears fill my eyes. I just made it to the safety of my Nissan when the sobs overcame me.

But I know many of the doctors and the hospital leadership that are responding to this crisis, and I know their resilience and commitment. And I know, in spite of shortages of equipment or staff, that these innovative and gritty folks will find ways to continue to deliver quality, safe healthcare, to everyone who needs it. The reason our policies continue to evolve is because these stellar healthcare leaders continue to plan, even for the worst. They aren’t just flattening the curve, they are working around the clock to get ahead of it.

And I also know the resilience of my family, my neighbors, and my friends. We are strong and we will support each other, although remotely, through these strange and stressful times.

“Hang in there,” I told the checker, softly. “The work you are doing is really important. Thank you for being here.”

It is likely that most of us will not have a normal day at work for some time.

So stay safe. Wash your hands. Practice social distancing.

And if you are still working, take care of your mental health. Focus on your blessings, stay connected to those you love, and keep a schedule. Get enough sleep, eat some vegetables, and get some exercise. And have a good cry here and there, if that is what you need.

And please, show your love and appreciation to those supermarket workers.

They are definitely NOT having a normal day at work.

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For the Love of Pete, Tip Your Waitresses!

The patient’s husband was acting crazy.

In the medical office waiting room, it was clear that the doctors were running behind. The lobby was chock full of patients, some accompanied by husbands, wives, parents, kids, or in this case, one loud, grumpy, and confrontational husband.

Sometimes, for various reasons, medical offices get behind, and when this one runs late, it is not uncommon for a staff member to emerge with a basket full of snacks, hoping to offer some small explanation, apology, or consolation for those stuck waiting. After all, waiting patients can get hungry, and while a snack won’t fix the delay, it might help prevent some hangry feelings.

This day, though, when Maggie, the spunky 60-or-so receptionist, came out to pass out bags of pretzels, granola bars, and lots of “I am so sorry,” a particular husband decided to let her have it.

“We don’t want your stupid snacks,” yelled the grumpy husband, bellowing through the lobby. “We’ve been waiting too long. “

The next ten minutes involved grumpy husband pacing like a zoo tiger and sharing various mean spirited comments about the shortcomings of the office, all for the crowd’s benefit, and all indirectly pointed at the receptionists.

“When I am dead,” was his best comment, in my opinion, “will you give me back all of the time you have stolen from me today?” For this one, he had approached Mag’s desk, finger pointing.

So, as observers here, there are some important things that we should consider as we watch this 260 pound angry man yell at the sweet and kind front desk receptionist, who weighs in at about a buck fifteen.

First, Maggie is not a director of operations or a healthcare executive. She has no seat at the table where the powers-that-be decide how many appointment slots should be in the daily schedule or how many staff are needed to keep the office running. And she also has no control over how quickly or how slowly the doctors actually work.

So why is this guy barking at her? Why not ask to talk to a manager, or a physician, or anyone who might have greater leverage in addressing his issues?

The simplest answer is that grumpy husband is just a big ole @#$!% (insert the foul word of your choice here).

Maybe.

But I think the real answer is deeper. Grumpy husband targeted his frustration directly at someone with limited power; someone who wouldn’t push back. Why would he direct his frustration there? Cause if grumpy husband sent that same tirade at someone with a bit of power, like a physician, or better, at a security guard, it would not have been met with silence.

But because he targeted the powerless, grumpy husband got to leave that appointment feeling self assured and maybe even powerful.

So it seems to me that grumpy husband has some big work to do and needs to do some self-exploration. Clearly things have gone askew with his communication abilities and maybe with his deep-down ideas about what makes for a strong, successful or assertive man.

But grumpy husband’s behavior is not at all uncommon. How often do you see this same BS- power mongering- machismo-anger management type behavior in your daily life?

Think about the exchanges you have seen firsthand between those with perceived power and those without, like restaurant customers and waitresses, or grocery shoppers and check-out clerks. Have you seen people communicating with these service workers in a way that was impatient, sarcastic, or just plain mean? Have you seen people irrationally taking out their frustrations on others who were just trying to do their jobs?

And more importantly, have you ever, personally, yourself, treated a waiter or waitress, a supermarket checker, the worker at your dry cleaner, a medical office receptionist, or anyone in a service position badly? Did you make a small scene at the market, or the mall, or the bank, or Starbucks? Did you treat that person like they were unintelligent?

If so, you, too, might have some big work to do.

You might need to look deeply at your own feelings of self-worth and might want to evaluate your communication skills. You might consider reexamining your beliefs and ideas about what makes for power and success.

Or maybe its not that complicated.

Maybe you are just a #@%&!

But seriously, I don’t really think you are a big ole #@?&#.

I do think, though, that we need to start treating each other better and need to stop taking out our life’s frustrations on one another. Life is too short for all this negativity and public exchanges between strangers should be cordial, not hostile. I want to be able to go out shopping or to dine, and to never, ever, see a customer creating a scene, yelling and humiliating a service worker, in a public place.

So love thy neighbor, for Christ’s sake. Literally.

And for the love of Pete, please tip your waitresses!

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If you enjoy RoofTop’s Blog, consider following by email.  Simply add your email address in the box at the top right and click the “follow” button to be notified by email whenever Lisa has a new post.  RoofTop also LOVES comments, so comment away!