There Is No Crying in Baseball

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or in getting shots, or falling down, or getting dumped by your boyfriend, or getting yelled at by your mom. We were a family that didn’t cry. When we did fall down and scrape our knees, which happened with some frequency given our penchant for dare devil stunts, Mom would say, “did you hurt the sidewalk?”  She thought that was so clever.  We usually just put a band aid on it, maybe had a coke, and went back out to play.We were not sissies. Far from it.

One day I headed out into the backyard and let the glass storm door fly shut behind me.  I didn’t realize that Dad was also on his way into the back yard.  The glass door slammed on his bent knee, shattering and cutting a big gash in his thigh.  Did we get all hysterical and pile into the car for a trip to the emergency room. For heavens sakes, no, we did not.  

Dad got out his veterinary emergency bag. Pulled out the shards of glass. Cleaned himself up. Sprayed on some topical antiseptic and proceeded to stitch himself up. And that is how in was done in the Sloas household. We learned to man up at an early age.

Feral Children

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Growing up with a sad mom, a sleep deprived maid and a workaholic  father, we mostly governed ourselves.  I’m not quite sure how we survived our childhood, but we did.  We were unsupervised, unprotected, and undisciplined.  It was unfettered freedom at its best. 

Not just in the general sense that our parents did not hover like helicopters. Not even in the broader sense that  our generation did not wear helmets, or seat belts, or use car seats. We didn’t wear shoes all summer, we played outside until dark, sometimes after. We learned to swim by being thrown into the deep end. We kept track of our own school work. We set an alarm clock and got ourselves up and dressed in the mornings.

When I mean we weren’t supervised, I mean we weren’t supervised.  We trespassed onto neighbors property to fish in their ponds and were brought home by the police.  We were dumped drunk at the back door by our dates.  We dug underground tunnels to connect our forts.  We drove with a coed group of friends to Destin for Spring Break with no pretense of a chaperon. We swung by our knees on an unanchored swing set. We did flips off our boat house roof into the lake. We stood on the seat of our stingray bikes as they sped down our hilly street, crash landing in order to stop.  We played poker, played in the middle of the street, had fake IDs.  We carried our friends’ dog up the tall water slide on our dock and let sent him slide down into the lake. (before you get all PETA on me, he enjoyed it). We shot guns in the back yard. We threw snow balls at cars, sometimes with rocks in the middle. We were driving by the time we were 13, usually making shopping runs for our parents. We were given sips of beer by the neighbor during barbecues. We dove off diving boards before we knew how to swim. When I say we, I mean mostly me and David. (Melisse was well behaved and I looked after her, except she was the one who knocked her tooth out on the side of the pool.)  But we survived with  no broken bones, a couple of chipped teeth, a ruptured spleen, a few stitches here and there.  

Sure, I wish we had been a Norman Rockwell family, but I wouldn’t trade the freedom for anything. It is what shaped my independence, made me self sufficient, gave me the resiliency to stare down this damn disease without blinking. (OK, sometimes I blink). And it’s given me a treasure trove of memories to write about. 


Everybody’s Pissed Off

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It’s Lent and everybody’s slightly pissed off.  They are counting the days until Easter, not to celebrate the glorious resurrection of our Lord and Saviour.  No, they are counting down the days until they can have a drink, a cigarette or a piece of chocolate.  

Welcome to my world.  I prayed for years, no for decades, that God would take away my craving for alcohol. When I started Weight Watchers and my alcohol points outnumbered my food intake, I had to face the music.  I pulled the band aid off all at once and boy did it hurt.  It still does.  So, I’m a little bit pissed off all the time.  That is, until I listen to a beautiful song, eat anything chocolate, feel the warm sun on my face, wake up without a headache, sip my morning coffee, and wait for pot to be legal in Texas ;).

Red Letter Day

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For the first time in four months I worked out my upper body at the gym today.  I’ve been focusing on my lower body and cardio for two weeks now.  We’re not talking about Arnold Schwarzenegger type lifting.  Closer to those old ladies in their chairs that you see on Sunday morning PBS.  Buy, hey, I’ll take it.

I am better.  Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.  Your prayers are being heard.  They are working.  My body and my spirit and my general outlook on life are all so much better.  I tried to find a better word than “better”, but there simply is not one that is more fitting.  I AM BETTER.

Once I have another echo cardiogram after Easter, I’ll know whether or not my heart function has actually improved. But I’m a pretty good judge of what’s happening with my ticker, and I say it is better. I am drunk with joy, giddy, hopeful and forever grateful for all your thoughts and prayers. 


“What day is it,?” asked Pooh.
“It’s today,” squeaked Piglet.
“My favorite day,” said Pooh.




April 4, 1968

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Memphis, Tennessee.  I was in fourth grade, Mrs. Lawyer’s class.  It was spring time.  A pleasant April afternoon. Pearline was cooking our dinner as usual. We were doing our homework after swim practice. Nothing out of the ordinary.

I wasn’t quite sure what was going on.  There was something in the air. Whispers. Adult talk that stopped when we entered the room.  The garbage men had gone on strike and our trash was piling up. I heard snippets about trouble makers coming to town to stir things up. Pearline was stealing glimpses of the television much of the afternoon.

Then something happened.  She was crying.  My parents were trying to console her but it was no use.  For the only time I can ever remember, Pearline went home early that evening, before we even went to bed. Things were different after that.  We had to lock our doors. I can’t remember if school was canceled the next day, but it probably was.  The adults were all scared and the kids picked up on it.  

So, history happened.  Right in my home town.  I didn’t understand it then.  It took a long time.

Life Deconstructed

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My husband has a voice like an angel.  He opens his mouth and magic happens.  After nearly 30 years, I am still his biggest fan.  He was in a band before the YouTube era. They all played by ear and had to deconstruct a song in order to play it themselves.  They identified each of the instruments and each of the vocal harmonies by listening to a song over and over, picking out the component parts. Being on the periphery of this process taught me to do the same. Oh, there’s a mandolin on this, a banjo on that. I can even pick out an accordion versus a harmonica and whether there is one or two guitars.  And the harmonies. Don’t get me started.  It’s impossible for me to listen to a song now and not think about the unique elements that blend together to make it a whole, a work of art.  

We are the same, you and I. We are unique works of art made up of moments, relationships and choices, orchestrated by the hand of God. If you listen closely enough to that idiotic checkout girl, annoying coworker or thoughtless nurse, you might just be able to hear something other than the clanging cymbal and noisy gong.  Maybe not at first, you have to try.  And sometimes try again.





Alternate Universe

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My sister called it my alternate universe.  My days had developed a rhythm, a pattern.  It was actually quite comforting in its simplicity.

I slept at the La Quinta.  It met my basic needs.  I got up, ate breakfast, went to the hospital. Sat with Dad. Talked to him.  Watched TV with him. Cut up his food. Helped him go to the bathroom.  I sometimes had time to sneak down to the cafeteria for a bite to eat. Sometimes not.  I went back to the hotel.  Went to bed.  Did it again.

I don’t know how long this lasted.  It was all outside of the dimension of time.  No other people existed in this alternate universe.  It was just me and Dad.  There was no agenda, no friendships, no husband, just us.

It was numbing. I’ve recently come to realize that this alternate universe did not end when dad died.  It has a hold over me.  Re entry has not just been hard, it hasn’t happened. My mind is somewhere else. I need to reclaim the time the locusts took.  I need to make amends.  I need to reconnect.  I need to be present in this world where I live.

Scarred for Life

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Warning.  Do not ever, ever, ever, ever leave a loved one in a hospital room alone.  Not for one minute.  Do not assume that your loved one will be taken care of. Stay there yourself, have other family members stay with them, and if you can, hire sitters.


Dad had brain surgery.  A scar ran from one ear to the other.  He had a malignant tumor in his left frontal lobe the size of a large orange.  There is some sick irony that a man who talked non stop had a tumor in the language center of his brain.  

Once he left ICU, they removed all those nice tubes that allow you to stay in bed for days at a time. So, four days after brain surgery Dad is on his own to feed himself and get himself to the bathroom. No small feat for a man who is legally blind. The food service people would leave his tray on the bedside table.  Each serving was hermetically sealed in Saran Wrap. I had trouble removing it and I can see. We had to cut his food into bite size pieces and feed him like a baby.  He sort of was like a baby during this time.  You had to interpret his limited, confused vocabulary and try to guess what he was trying to say.

Dad had a hard time letting us know when he had to go to the bathroom.  Why they removed the catheter I will never know.  They did the same thing with me after my recent surgery. It really does add insult to injury. No wonder they have those uncomfortable plastic matresses. Anyway, Dad couldn’t give us much lead time.  There’s no way in hell he could have pushed the call button had we not been there. And, by the time a nurse came, it would have been too late. 

So, the first time he frantically gestured that he needed to go RIGHT NOW, I looked at my sister.  You’re a doctor.  You do this.

So she did.  She took the milk juggy thing, put the right parts in the right place and waited for Dad to do his business. There is no dignity in being sick.  Lines are crossed. Roles are reversed.  You see your Dad’s junk. When he was finished, Melisse came back to where we were sitting, turned to me and with wide eyes said “I am scarred for life.” 

As it turns out, Melisse should have given me a lesson before she left. On my first turn with the jug, I closed my eyes and shoved it in the approximate vicinity. Next thing I know, Dad and I are both getting sprayed. Oh my gosh. The damn thing had a lid.






Pardon my French

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Don’t you just love icebreakers, table topics. I was at a Lenten Bible Study last week and the pastor asked our table to introduce ourselves by saying which leading character from a movie we would like to be.  Most of the people said heroic, Christian type characters like Corrie Ten Boon or that runner from Chariots of Fire. Exemplary figures whose self sacrificing courage made the world a better place. Rick said Hawkeye from Last of the Mohicans. I could have told you that. He has seen that movie dozens of times. 


I sort of panicked. I’m not a movie buff and I don’t have any movie heroes. I’ve never really had any heroes to speak of, unless you count Jane Pauley.  Back in the early 80’s I would watch her on the Today Show as I got dressed in my little banker’s suit each morning. I thought she rocked.  But, under the pressure, I forgot all about Jane. All I could think of were characters who are completely self centered, driven to excess, hard as nails, pardon my French, bitches. I love them.  I want to be them. You see, in real life, I am a people pleaser, the teacher’s pet, the one driven by a sense of obligation so strong that I sacrifice my own health for the sake of others. In my make believe life, I’d like to throw caution to the wind, be mean and not care, step on the little people on my way up, be single mindedly ambitious and go for broke… Kick ass.

I chose Sigourney Weaver in Working Girl.  I know the Melanie Griffith character is the sentimental favorite, but heck, Katherine Parker is so deliciously mean. Actually, I could have picked Scarlett O’Hara (Melanie is such a wimp), Meryl Streep in the Devil Wears Prada, Glen Close in Damages (I know it’s a TV show not a movie, but I LOVE her), either Thelma or Louise, or my personal favorite, Lucy Van Pelt.  I’m not sure what the pastor thought about my selection.  I felt like the other people were trying to make good first impressions. But after all I’ve been through, frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn.

Play Date

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Rick is cheating on me.  Not technically.  I encouraged it. Pushed him, really.  You see, I can’t do the things Rick and I used to do for fun. We’re out here in Carmel with the golf courses, the beaches, the mountains and all I can do is gaze longingly.  I have ridden in the golf cart while Rick plays.  I have taken a shortened walk around the base of the mountain while Rick hikes up and back. We meet at the car.  I take a book with me while I wait. This is not really working for me. Sort of like pouring salt in the wound.

And it’s is not fair to Rick. So, I am on the lookout for playmates for him.  This morning he is  hiking with our friend Jen. They got up early this morning and I slept in. I’m drinking coffee, watching the golf tournament on TV, surfing the net. And I’m perfectly content. Truth be told, all those fun things we used to do had become less fun the past couple of years. There is a thin line between challenging and grueling, between exhilarating and too much. Before I knew there was something wrong, I knew there was something different.  I didn’t look forward to our many activities. I dreaded them. So, I’m OK that he is cheating on me this morning and that I am still in my pajamas, drinking coffee and writing this.