Awareness

It’s almost the end of childhood cancer awareness month. Some folks will be relieved—no more depressing statistics about kids with cancer. But for some this month was just the start of a long journey, one they never wanted to be on. 

Tonight I talked to a mom for nearly an hour. Never met her before. She’s a lot like many of you—married, homeschooling her two teenage boys and her little girl, trying to finish up her degree so she can get a better job. Husband works but they’re struggling with inflation and taxes and everyday life. Then a little over two weeks ago her 12 year old son had a bad cold that turned out to be cancer. A tumor near his heart. Tests, hospitals, clinics, more tests. Learning a foreign language to be able to comprehend the incomprehensible: PICC line, lumbar puncture, ports, T-cells, CBC, blasts, chemo phase, intrathecal, bone marrow, neutrophils, AGC. knowing you need to ask people for help but not knowing how.

 The nightmare of insurance (Medicaid) and bills and using up what little PTO dad had so he could be with his son. And who watches the other kids on chemo days? What about mom’s degree? Laundry? Grocery money that went to pay medical bills? The other two kids? How does mom not feel guilty or not blame herself? What about the marriage? How do they deal with this? It’s not a hallmark movie. It’s real life. Friends say “let me know what I can do” but you can only handle so many tuna casseroles and lasagna dinners in aluminum foil trays. You need someone to step in and be you. To listen, to talk, to go out to coffee with. 

People ask “how do you do this?”  There’s no answer to that. You just do it. Because you must. When  parents are  dealt the childhood cancer card, they feel their life spinning out of control. Because it is. The only thing they can do is pretend to be in control of the disaster.  Calm. Clear headed. Decisive. When inside every nerve is screaming and you just want to punch someone. 

Childhood. 

Cancer. 

Awareness. 

Think about those three words. 

Childhood ends when a child is diagnosed with cancer. That child is forever changed. I know. I saw my daughter go from being 12 to 40 in a matter of hours.  A child doesn’t understand death or life threatening illness—children are immortal, living in a Peter Pan world. Until that child sees cancer through our eyes, our tears. 

Cancer is such an ugly nonspecific word that evokes dread and fear, a catchall term for any disease, growth or condition that takes longer than 2 minutes to explain. Just hearing that word after the word “childhood” is an oxymoron and makes me want to vomit.  

Awareness. Only the families and the healthcare teams have awareness of childhood cancer and the devastation it causes.  Because if the majority of the world was as aware of childhood cancer as we are, there would be such an outcry for research and funding the pharmaceutical companies would be falling over themselves to develop new treatments. Aware? You bet I’m aware; so is my daughter. And the countless families affected every single day. 

And there is a family in Missouri who has more awareness than they bargained for—a childhood stolen by cancer during childhood cancer awareness month. 

Highly sensitive people

 

Highly sensitive people are wired differently — and “little” things can cause  us BIG stress.

1. Sudden, loud or repetitive noises, especially repetitive. That turn signal sound when I am in the car with someone drives me bonkers. You are in the left turn only lane. Turn off the turn signal.
2. Busy social settings--parties, especially one where I do not know anyone
3. Bright lights
4. Crowds (at shopping malls, concerts, or wherever) the noise and excess energy are overwhelming.  
5. “Normal” things that other people breeze through. I can function quite well in public situations but find myself completely exhausted afterwards. My maximum number of things I can handle in one day is three...any more than that, and I withdraw or go into panic mode. I can stand up and give a talk and lead a class discussion, no problem, but then I have to retreat and rest for a whole day.
6. Having in-laws, friends, or other guests stay at your home. I love my family, and I can tolerate people in my space for a little while, but I pick up on their feelings and absolutely must have my own space to retreat to. My husband thought we should list our extra rooms on Airbnb. Utter failure, complete meltdown.
7. My own intense feelings
8. Confrontation of any kind...in person, social media, on the phone, fights with my husband. I hate it. 
9. Being around overly negative, whining, or complaining people--I soak up the negativity. Really hate talk about “how the world is falling apart” or bitching about the president, inflation, LGBTQ, etc etc 
10. Endless trivial conversation, "first world problems." Makes it impossible to focus. All cable news falls into this category. I don’t want sound bytes or talking heads. 
11. Chaos and disorder……especially in my personal space. I NEED everything organized and clean. Otherwise I’m just so distracted by the extra sensory input.
12. Loud music or TV, commercials! Others seem to need a radio or TV on in the background ‘for company,’ but it drives me crazy— I love shops and restaurants with no music. Cell phone users who talk in public loudly or have their phone on speaker. 
13. Artificial lights
14. Hosting a social event: Planning a an event is my specialty, but the day of said party, I get overwhelmed. I cannot concentrate, people can ask me things and I won’t remember saying yes, I’m in a fog, and then need to take a nap as soon as it shuts down. Too much stimulation
15. Strong smells, especially perfumes and colognes. 
16. Violence or gore in movies--haunted by what I see. Can’t sleep afterwards 
17. When someone’s angry (even when it has nothing to do with me) I review every word and action to see if I’m the cause 
18. The harshness of the world: As a sensitive person, sometimes I feel like the world is too cruel, too rough for me. 
19. Being a “container” for other people’s emotions. I end up absorbing and ‘holding on’ to other people’s emotions, which can leave me feeling sad, upset, or drained.
20. Too many things scheduled at once-I can usually handle it well when I plan and can see the end. What pushes me to the edge, though, is all the little things that pop up during that time.
21. Processing every little thing so deeply: Sometimes I feel misunderstood and on the outside of groups because I need more quiet time to work through it all.

Keeping the lines open

How many of you remember the excitement of the phone ringing in your home? Running to answer it, not knowing who it was. Grandma? Grandpa? A boyfriend? Good news? Bad news? Whatever the news, a phone call meant something.

My dad and I had a very special relationship that continued into adulthood; he and my stepmom, Sheila, kept me grounded and sane through so many storms. So it was only natural they became my sounding boards and my shoulders to cry on...for anything. That was great of course unless I was too busy; Dad used to get after  me constantly to call him more often. I’d roll my eyes and think,  C'mon already does he think I don’t have my own life? He and Sheila are busy and have David and they work.  Why does he want to hear about my life all the time? I write letters. I send photos of the grandkids and our house. What more does he want? It’s expensive to call so often!

(OK, for you kids born after 1985: Before there were cellular phones, there was this thing called "long distance."  The phone company charged by the minute depending on distance from the caller. That is why there are area codes—those three numbers at the beginning of your phone number. Even after the introduction of cell phones, you had to be using the same carrier to be able to call for free, but it was only free during certain times). 

Ok. Moving on. 

Being the good daughter, and honestly out of excuses for not calling, I finally gave in and started calling him, infrequently at first,  but eventually we decided to call on a set day at a set time: Sundays at eight p.m. For over forty years I called him like clockwork, sometimes he’d call me but I usually called him. In those forty plus years, I only missed three or four Sunday calls, even calling him from India, Afghanistan, Kuwait, and wherever the Air Force or our life took me. Of course we did not only call on Sundays; we would randomly call during the week (usually Dad would call and tell me about the weather or that he was bored). But, regardless if we just spoke on Saturday evening, it was understood we would still talk Sunday at eight p.m.; it was our sacred ritual.

Sometimes the calls were short, sometimes long, but they became something I looked forward to. We planned our dinner times and social events around those calls, sometimes rushing home to make sure I would be by the phone at eight p.m. (Thank goodness when cell phones were introduced; we could call from anywhere!) Don't misunderstand, though, the calls were not always pleasant. We’d argue, or we’d barely say a thing, but we always fixed it, usually  that same night. Sometimes I dreaded calling him because I just didn’t feel like getting lectured about budgets or relationships. But the majority of the time I loved talking to my parents. They made me feel special, and loved, and wanted. 

During these phone calls Dad would ask me the same questions he had asked me time and time again, like what I did in the military,  or what was that commander’s name, and I never really knew if he actually forgot what I had told him the week before or if he just wanted to hear my voice. What he never forgot to say, though, was each and every time how proud he was of me and how much he and Sheila loved me. You’d be surprised how much hearing those words comforted me even at the age of 40, or 50 or 60. 

But then in January 2018, at the age of 94, Dad was in stage four of COPD. His prostate cancer had spread into his pelvic bones, and his health steadily deteriorated.  After watching him fight the good fight for ten months, Sheila relented and placed him on home hospice. I lived with them and helped care for him, and when I’d leave once a month to run home for a weekend, he’d say, gasping for air between each word, “Don’t forget to call Sunday!”

My last call to my dad was Sunday, December 2, 2018. I’d gone back home for the weekend. I called at eight o’clock and Sheila answered, telling me Dad was sleeping and she didn’t want to wake him. He could barely breathe that day so Sheila had given him some medicine to ease his breathing, and some morphine to ease the pain. Something didn’t feel quite right. I left home early Monday morning.  When I arrived at their home, Sheila told me Dad woke up in the middle of the night and asked, “did Barbara call?”  And although she assured him I had, it broke my heart that he didn’t get to hear my voice. 

Three days later, early in the morning hours of December 6, 2018, Dad died. 

That first year of Sundays following his death was brutal. At first I called as I always did when Dad was alive, and I’d talk to Sheila, the conversation invariably turning to how much we missed Dad. Usually though I was with Sheila, helping her sort out her life without Dad. 

Then just when I began to get over the pain of missing those calls,  Sheila died, and now both parents were gone. I hated 8 pm on Sundays. Many times I’d pick up my phone at eight p.m. but then I remembered he wasn’t there anymore.  I can’t bear to hear the ringtone I assigned to Dad and Sheila—the motorcycle. Even five years later, I’m sitting here, tears rolling down my face, wishing I could call one more time and hear his voice, and Sheila’s voice, her hollering “Joseph it’s Barbara”, and Dad coming to the phone and picking up where we left off. 

I saved many of their voicemails. I wish I had more. I listen to them sometimes to hear their voices again, to remember how much they loved me and how blessed I was to have parents who were always there. I have a DVD of him talking about his World War II service, something their church did during a veterans recognition week. I still cannot get up the nerve to watch it. I have home movies from 1965 on, and one day I’ll watch them. But not yet.  I miss them. I really miss my dad. 

Nowadays communication is via text or FaceBook message or WhatsApp. We call from the car, from work, from the bathroom, restaurants, sporting events, you name it. A phone call isn’t special anymore. It’s something to check off a list, to fit in when you have a few minutes to squeeze in, and it usually ends abruptly and unceremoniously (when another call comes in, the light changes, your dinner arrives, or, for whatever reason, because the caller has to go. “Gotta run!”  If someone doesn’t want to talk when a call comes in they just press the ignore button. More than likely they’ll respond with a text or an emoji or some weird abbreviation. 

I try to be focused on the person I’m talking to during phone calls, even during text or app chats. That’s the good thing about video chats. If you’re not paying attention it’s obvious. (I did try video chats with Dad. He never got the knack of fitting his whole face in the camera. I either saw his forehead or his nose or a hand when he held the phone wrong.) 

The morale of the story: Invest time and effort in speaking with people who love you. Listen to their voices. Pay attention to their tone, their mood.  Put everything else aside as much as humanly  possible when you’re on the phone. Give them a peephole into your life. Laugh with them and share silly stories. Cry with them. Share your sorrows and disappointments.  When they are gone, those memories will comfort you in your grief. 

Let it Go, Mom!

How many times have you heard (or said) those four words? If your answer is less than ten, you can skip the rest of this. But, if you're like me, read on, moms (and daughters*, so you can understand the crazy.)

Over the years I've written about relationships: being a grandma, daughter, sister, mom, stepparent, wife, even a friend. In some of these epistles I've merely described our relationship and how it made me feel, while in other entries I have proffered my insight, gained from experience, on the right way the other person should behave. Many times I do poke fun at myself, but I also point out how my parent/sister/husband/daughter could have acted more appropriately.

I am here to turn the table on myself, to put my misdeeds in the spotlight. Why? For three very good (and beautiful) reasons--you know who you are. But also I want to share this with you moms out there who may not have completely severed that umbilical cord yet, even though it's been over 25 years since you gave birth. 

*Disclaimer: I have no idea if this applies to sons. I don't have any of those. 

How to alienate your adult daughter in 10 easy steps

1. Give unsolicited advice; try to fix everything 
2. Call/text/email her several times a day
3. Point out her weaknesses (as if she doesn't know already) 
4. Constantly give examples of how you did things "back in the day"
5. Listen to conversations with her spouse; interject your own thoughts
6. Compare her to her sibling(s) or worse, discuss her with her sibling 
7. Persist in interfering even after she pleads with you to let it go
8. Disapprove of her parenting style 
9. Treat her like a child
10. Neglect telling her how proud you are of her accomplishments  

I thought about expanding on these, and adding some dry humor, but honestly the above statements do not need any embellishment. 

Dear Daughters: Your Mom is not a Mushroom

Oh the convoluted relationship between mothers and their adult daughters. Out of all my jobs, being the mom of adult daughters can (and does) make me question my sanity; it is an  emotional roller coaster. In any one minute period, I can feel pride, shame, joy, embarrassment, happiness, anger, irritation, peace, comfort, frustration, and sadness, and trying to explain any of my feelings usually gets dismissed as "you misunderstood." I thought I was alone in this, that perhaps because I am one of those highly sensitive persons I was imagining things. Turns out I am not. In talking to other moms of adult children (I know, that's an oxymoron), one common thread emerged: moms are seen by their kids as the persons they were when the kids were growing up. To them, Mom has not moved on, or changed, or developed a personality or life story of her own. This phenomenon exists regardless of how well mom and daughter get along. 

So, on that note, here are important things to remember to have a good relationship with your mom as you both age gracefully into the sunset.

1. Your mom was a person before you were born, and still is a person. She was not always your mom, even though you never met her until she was your mom. And when she became your mom, she loved you as best as she could, but always more than you would ever love her. Her life before you didn't cease to exist; it just got put on hold, or maybe even left behind. Everything changed for her. You became her world. Then you got older, and found your own world and left mom behind. You love her but you see her as she was when you left. 

    Stop and look at her with different eyes. See her the way you look at a stranger, get to know her. You are not the same as you were at 12 or 15 or 18...neither is she.

2. You do not know everything about your mom; you only know what she tells you and lets you see. There are many things children do not need to know about their mother's past, even though her past made her who she is, so when you ask questions about a part of her life she does not want you to see, she will blithely change the subject. But as you get older, and can understand there is pain and hurt and sin in the world, your mom may want to share parts of her life, herself with you. 

    Let her...you will have a richer experience for it. Don't turn away or tell her you don't want to hear about those things, as if it will make you not love her. Listen to her and learn about her life. It will help you understand not just her, but yourself as well.

3. Your mom still wants to kiss all your boo boos and make them better.  From the day you were born, your mom was the mama bear; when you came running to her crying, she was there. If you were sick, she magically made you feel better. If you felt lost, or said you would never EVER understand quadratic equations, she was there. If someone hurt your feelings, she listened. There were times she would let you make mistakes, hoping experience would be the best teacher. Then you flew the nest, and at first you'd ask for her help or advice (oh joy!), but then, all too soon, mom became obsolete, no longer needed. She would hear sadness or pain or anger in your voice or see it in your face, and she would ask you "what's wrong, what can I do?". 

   Let her ask you. Don't brush her off and change the subject. Talk to her, tell her as much as you can about your feelings and how you can sort it out. Tell her to just listen. She will. Don't shut her out. Or, if you must, nicely and graciously tell her you really aren't ready to talk about it, but you love that she noticed you were upset. 

4. Mom cannot keep every single event in your life in perfect order and remember the exact time and date and place it hapened; if she remembers it wrong, let it go.  Everyone has their own story, including your mom, and their own memories of events. You may think you will remember exactly what month and year your kids lost their first tooth or learned to ride a bike, but trust me, by the time your kids are in their late 20s, it all starts running together.  That's why you hear people over 50 always  saying "where does the time go?"--they really do not know where it goes--maybe it goes where those other socks go. Moms remember little snapshots of moments, sometimes triggered by a smell or a song or a word or a look. 

    So, if she says "Oh yeah, you did that when you were a seven and were wearing a yellow shirt," please don't correct her. Which leads me to number 5...

5. Your mom does not like to be corrected by her child, even if her child is 40.  No, your mom does not think she is perfect (even if she is), or that she is always right (even if she is), she just wants to be honored and respected, not corrected or dismissed or laughed at. If you really must say something to her because it hurt your feelings or caused pain or embarrassment to someone else who cannot or won't speak up for themselves, talk to your mom privately at another time. Sure she can learn from you, but there is way to do it.

    Be as respectful to her as you are to someone else your mom's age that you really admire. Oh, and never correct her in front of your spouse or in front of your children. 

6. Your mom has experience in many situations, so let her be herself.  Unless she has lived under a rock for the past 60 plus years, your mom has run across just about every situation you can name. She can handle herself. She gave birth to you, kept you alive for all those years, and look how perfect and smart you are now.

    Trust your mom. Don't be a helicopter daughter. See #1.

7. Your mom wants needs time alone with her grandchildren.  This is a tough one for some daughters out there, but you know if your mom can be trusted with your precious babies. Set your boundaries, sure, but grandchildren need time alone with their grandparents, and vice versa. Their conversations are different, and many times things are shared in confidence, so that is something you will have to work out with your kids and your mom. 

    Regardless, don't control their relationship; let them be themselves. Just don't abuse it--she already raised her kids; she does not want to raise yours.

8. You are not the only one who likes to be appreciated.  Instead of telling silly stories about your mom at family gatherings, or pretending your mom was oh so horrible when you are talking to your kids, say something nice, give her a compliment, talk about how your mom managed to work and raise kids, or how clean she kept things. 

    Build her up. Don't just make jokes. Oh, and she likes to hear these things even when it is just the two of you. Send her a card. Invite her to coffee. Tell her you were thinking about her. 

So, dear daughters, your mom isn't perfect--no mom is. But she is the only mom you will ever have. Some of you have stepmoms or "other" moms, but whoever you have to look up to as your mom, cherish her and honor her, get to know her. She will be your biggest fan and your best friend. 

Men, don't get your knickers in a twist.  This does not apply to you because, well, you just are not that complicated; sons don't seem to have the same communication issues as daughters. They just sort of grunt and look hungry, mom feeds them, and then all is good.

And remember, your mom is not a mushroom. 

Hiding under the Gray

me in Dec 1955

Gave my heart quite a jolt today. I was trimming some hair near the nape of my neck to send in for a hair follicle test (don't ask); the sample had to be close to the root. So I clipped up my hair, grabbed a little clump underneath, took the scissors, and SNIP, off it came. I brought it around to the front to place it in the sample envelope, and I gasped. I was visibly shaken. There it was, a 6 inch long strand of hair, not my original strawberry blonde, or blonde gray, or even brownish gray...gray. When in the world did this happen? The front and topside of my hair still has blonde streaks, and is light grayish blonde, I know intellectually hair underneath is going to be darker, and no I do not dye my hair, but really? Gray? I actually dropped it, I was so startled. It was truly a defining moment for me.

Believe me, I have no delusions of looking eternally youthful and dewy fresh, nor do I even want to, and the thought of plastic surgery to remove all the wrinkles and age spots I have worked so hard for makes me laugh (and at least I can still laugh...some of those women in Hollywood definitely cannot even move their mouths or eyebrows let alone laugh!). I see evidence of my aging every single day, sometimes several times a day,  I see it as I struggle to put on my compression socks over my varicose vein covered legs, and reach for my nice comfortable shoes (and sometimes my knee brace). I see it when I notice gravity is winning the war against every body part...soon I will be just one big rectangle. Arthritis, age spots, wrinkles, stiff joints, all these things I've been dealing with as gracefully as one can, plus some other things I never knew about like "vitreous gel detachment." That is the gel substance behind your eyeball and as you get older it dries up, shrinks, and eventually detaches from the back of the eye, and you suddenly get about 100 new little black floaters in your vision. Fun city. I deal with all this stuff. I know my body has an expiration date. 

But what floors me is it happened so quickly and took me by surprise. One minute I was a mom, a senior NCO, just doing my own thing, opening doors for older ladies and being polite and nice but not really seeing them like they were ever young once, and then BAM it happens to me. But inside, I am still me, the same me I have been all along, with all those experiences and memories and little tidbits to share. Same personality, same sarcasm and biting wit, same highly sensitive "cry at the drop of a hat" Barbara, same person with all the baggage I have been carrying all these years, but now it is all blended together, a much improved version. I want to scream out "I am still in here, I am still ME".  All of my younger Barbaras are behind the face in the mirror, the face others see right now. I am an amalgamation. Wow! Folks are getting a 67 for 1 deal...67 Barbaras for the price of 1! (I do realize that may frighten some of you).

This realization that getting older is no longer just some nebulous point sometime in the future, but it is happening now, hit me hard. Because now, at 67, I know I am not immortal. I am positive over half of my life is over (oh come on now...I am not being morbid...no one lives to be 140 anymore). More than ever, time IS precious, too precious to waste. I might have 30 more years, or 30 more minutes, and there is a lot I have to do during my remaining time. Like weigh what my driver's license says. Some of it I have already accomplished, like establishing healthy boundaries, eating sushi, raising chickens. Finally not being ashamed of who I was, or who I am, or what I did in the past. Jesus has taken care of all that for me. We have a deal. God gave me his wonderful grace, grace I do not deserve. Whatever else God has in His plans for me, I know He has marked out the sufficient number of minutes, hours, days, or years for me to complete them to glorify Him.  My gray hair "is a crown of glory gained in a righteous life." 

Older women, as a rule, are not frail, or forgetful, or silly. Most of us hate being called "sweetie" or "dearie" by anyone under the age of 60. 

We were all young once. And many of us still are young, we are just in an older body. John Prine wrote a song, "Hello in there," I first heard Joan Baez sing back in the 60s (some of you are probably googling those two artists right now). 

Awesome lyrics--the last line sums it up: 

So if you're walking down the street sometime 

And spot some hollow ancient eyes

Please don't just pass 'em by and stare

As if you didn't care

Say Hello in there, Hello

Fitting in when you're growing old

Girls, remember how hard it was to fit in when you were in high school? There were the smart girls, the popular girls, the cheerleaders, the jocks. I thought we left all those childish things behind, that we could be friends with whomever we want. But sadly those cliques never went away. 

It’s so frustrating to want to be friends with someone only to be rebuffed because of your age or what area of the country you are from, or even based on your stage of life. Women I meet look at me and see someone in their 60s, or someone not from here, when I don’t even give it a second thought how old I look or what my accent sounds like (although there are days I look in the mirror and wonder who is staring back at me). I just feel like me, I don’t feel like an age; I just want to make friends. Sure I am in my 60s, and my kids are grown and they have kids, but I am personable and funny and sensitive and have a lot of experience to share, a lot of stories to tell. But I am too “different” for some people. Why do women want to limit their exposure to people just like them? They could learn so much more, and share what they know too.

You know what’s not fair? Men over the age of 22 can be friends with any guys regardless of how old they are; they can hang out, talk, go to breakfast together, share stories, play sports, do Bible studies, tell dumb jokes, the list is endless. They can be single, married, divorced, or widowed. They can have kids or grandkids or great grandkids or none at all. They can be tradesman, white collar workers, or unemployed. That Y chromosome is the universal link tying them together.  But women?  No way. Women are agists; they adhere to a strict, unwritten, genetically implanted set of parameters that define in no uncertain terms who can belong to what groups. 

First, women divide themselves by profession or place of employment. Teachers, medical personnel, stay at home moms, lawyers, service employees such as waitresses and massage therapists, retail employees, business owners,…you get the point. Then, women sort themselves by decade (20s, 30s, 40s, and then anyone over 50), and marital status (single, married, widow, divorced [look out], and of course the perennially engaged/no wedding in sight. Next, you have the kids—who has them, who doesn’t, and more importantly, the children’s ages and school grade level. Where you’re from definitely matters, and hobbies and lifestyles narrow it down even more. Why does all this matter? What should matter is values, beliefs, religion, not the age or income demographic you fit into. 

Take, for example, the churches we have attended—my husband always seems to blend right in with men of all ages and backgrounds, but I feel nudged toward a certain group of ladies, all in their 60s and above, most of whom I nothing else in common with. My personality and energy level fit more with some of the younger women, but I get the distinct impression they are convinced I just don’t fit in—too old, too different. Sure everyone is friendly and sweet (it is church, ya know), but there are just far too many differences to overcome: parents were divorced, former Catholic, colorful past, second marriage, retired military. And it’s not just at church—I have volunteered in many capacities in our local community, and organize annual fundraisers for childhood cancer research. Through those activities I interact with a lot of people, and I am known and recognized, but the relationship stops short of forming a real friendship.

Having spent over half of my adult life in the military, I was accustomed to working with and for all kinds of people, from all over the world and every walk of life. I made friends for life, friends who would do anything for me and my family.  I miss fitting in with everyone, and having that common thread tying us together. To this day, my military comrades will randomly reach out and chat or call or even send a card. We attend weddings and 50th birthday parties and funerals; we keep in touch. And if we haven't seen each other for ten years, we just pick up where we left off, as if we just saw each yesterday. At the airport or in a restaurant, when two military members meet, there is an immediate unspoken rapport and understanding that defies explanation, an invisible bond. I think that is what I miss the most here, made all the harder by the artificially imposed limitations on who can be in my friendship circle. And no, I don’t want to move (yet) close to a military installation. Maybe I just want to be included in the friendship circles around me, to show them what they are missing, to take a chance, to go out on a limb to get to know me. 

Barring that, I'll cultivate the friendships of those who genuinely want to be my friends. Including my best friend--that guy I've been with for 33 years.