Dear Pen Friend,

I’ve missed writing to you! I’ve started a few letters – only to be pulled away by life. I guess that’s why grieving can be so hard in today’s society. Here I’ve planned to look at what I’ve lost but haven’t grieved, and I can’t even find the time to do so in a letter. And yet, the griefancies are still there – just on the back burner once again. It’s just the pace of life today, I guess. It’s humbling, really. And, it gives me the perspective of not being too hard on myself for not having processed some of these losses sooner. Even though I’m trying to do so now, the time factor is elusive. However, today, I have a day entirely to myself. And so here I am, Dear Friend, to tell you another story. This one comes courtesy of Spring Cleaning. I found something I’d forgotten even existed….and it brought back memories of an enormous time of loss in my world that I have tried not to think of.

I decided that I would Spring Clean my computer. I use it every day, but I rarely look back at what I have stored deep within. Since it’s now 7 or 8 years old, it’s starting to run a bit sluggishly. (I wonder, what’s the equivalent of a computer’s life in human years – i.e. a dog ages 7 years faster than a human. An 8-year-old computer seems to me to be a bit like an “older” person. It stops what I’m asking it to do, and instead gives me a rainbow pinwheel to let me know it’s “thinking”. Still, though, it sometimes loses its thought completely. It’s also getting “hot flashes”, so maybe it’s only middle-aged and dealing with diminishing hormones at this point. I wonder what a computer stops being able to do after it reaches “menopause”. But I digress….)

To begin my electronic cleansing, I sorted my files by size. I wanted to see if I could delete some of the bigger, unused files to free her memory up a bit. I felt de-cluttering her hard drive might help her feel a little less burdened. Toward the top of the list I found the video I’m sharing with you. It seems like it’s just a cute little song I made up one day, but it reminds me of a time in my life I haven’t fully processed yet. Well, today’s the day! Actually, this story begins when my sweet, aged computer was young.

Several years ago, when my little laptop was sparkling and new, I was in a time of great transition personally. Up until that point I’d been living a kind of unexamined life. Things would happen, but I didn’t really look closely at them to see how or why they had occurred. I had stopped being curious about those questions. “How” and “Why” turned into personal blame or victimization when I entertained them. How had I “let” such and such occur? Why was this happening “to me”? I didn’t know how to take what felt like a personal assault and turn it into something informative for the future. When I saw this video I made for a friend’s child, many memories rushed in – and, a sizeable portion of them, were sad.

The woman in that video was so very lonely. She was also happy for the first time – ever – and she wanted to find some way to share that with a friend of hers she’d lost. (Since it’s weird to talk about myself in the 3^rd person I’ll stop now.) I was existing inside a very strange paradigm, but I was trying to navigate my way through it all in order to be able to hold onto the parts I was enjoying, and remedy the aspects I didn’t like. The main issue was I felt exiled, and I so desperately wanted to be back with “my people”.

For years, I’d had 3 best friends. 1 of them I had known for 20 years, the 2^nd for 15 years, and the 3^rd for 10. I loved these individuals with every fiber of my being. I’d spent holidays with them instead of family. We’d celebrated and comforted one another through countless situations. We discussed growing old together, and how fun it was going to be to look back on it all as we sat in our rockers reminiscing. Yet, in the span of just a few months, I’d lost them all. They’d all abandoned me. They’d broken up with me. Our years of intimacy were discarded, and I was left to traverse my life without friends. It was devastating, to say the very least. I had not only lost my current life, I felt my future one was snatched away, too.

So what happened, you may ask? After all these years my answer is simply “life”. More specifically, “change”. I was evolving and I hadn’t yet found any verbiage to describe what was occurring. I now know I was transforming from a caterpillar to a butterfly. I was in my pupae stage, and my lack of form and ability to leave my cocoon caused these 3 people to not recognize me. At least that’s what I think happened. It makes sense to me that way. Change is disruptive. Change is often confusing. Change can also be enormously healing – but the road to “wellness” isn’t always easy or a direct path. (Wouldn’t that be so much easier?!) My road was definitely windy and often treacherous, and much of it could only sustain one traveler at a time. I was on a pilgrimage.

Actually, I feel that’s everyone’s story, but the unexamined life doesn’t lend itself to embracing the alone parts of our journey. And yet, when someone like Liz Gilbert or Cheryl Strayed write about their “solo” treks, the masses flock to those stories. I did. I read “Eat, Pray, Love” and “Wild”. The beautiful way each of those women expressed their solitary wanderings was infinitely soothing for me. I saw bits of myself within their sentences, and it comforted me to think I wasn’t alone in my own abyss. (Thank goodness for books!) Those authors’ words became my temporary friends until I could find human ones again.

And, I did. I have an incredible group of friends now that I wouldn’t trade for anything. Some of them I’d already walked with at previous times during my journey, and we’ve re-met. Others were new to my expedition and have added enormous fun and light to my crossing. Also, one of the things I’d always wanted was a community like I’d seen on the TV show “Friends”. I wanted my buddies to be close with each other, not just me. I desired a tighter-knit clan than the 3 individual compatriots I had. Now I’m grateful to say I have one.

I’d love to say that I’ve stopped mourning the loss of “the 3” altogether. I’m getting there. But, I’ve learned that healing takes time, and sometimes re-injury can occur unexpectedly. During the initial breakups there wasn’t any FaceBook, but the advent of it soon after caused an opportunity for me to pour salt in my wounds fairly easily. Missing them, yet seeing how alive they were out in the world, caused strange materializations for me. I felt haunted. I knew they weren’t living in my domain anymore, but I also could see they weren’t dead, which was confusing and difficult to reconcile. Sometimes it still is. I can easily get caught up in “why don’t they love me anymore?” But, of course, that’s not fair to say. I don’t know what or how they feel about me. And, occasionally I actually receive a brief ghostly visitation from one of them in the form of a text or message that lets me know sometimes they think of me, too.

I don’t know if our journeys will ever meet up again. They very well may. If they do, I’ll welcome that convergence with open arms, as I have with some of my current posse who were gone and now have returned. If not, I will continue to cherish the memory that for a while I walked with them in life. That way I can celebrate when the love we once shared inspires something like my little song here. It makes me happy to sing it, and it reminds me of the times when I used to play around with one of “the 3”. This way I can continue to hold our years together near and dear to my heart. Those decades with them helped me transform into the butterfly I am today, and those souls will forever be a gargantuan part of my heart. Overall, I’m thankful that they still live within me.

Until next time, Dear Friend. And…thank you for walking with me for now. However long it lasts, I will enjoy our shared odyssey.

P.S. Poor #30 now resides in a baggie, outside of my mouth. She didn’t survive, despite my best efforts. Once the cavern she left behind heals, there will be time to properly say goodbye. For now, though, I can’t believe she’s not in there. I miss her!

P.P.S. On an up note, I got a job! I guess I just had to say – out loud – that I didn’t want my career to be over. (My friend I spoke about also got a job!) I’m still in rehearsals now, and having a ball. It feels good to be back on “The Boards” (as the stage is sometimes called). I’ll send you a picture soon. My costumes are so fun!!!!

Dear Pen Friend,

I hope this finds you well. I, on the other hand, am icky today. I have a tooth problem, and it turns out that has brought out a whole lot of griefancies in me. My dental story is as bad as my medical story…and I’ve grown weary of trusting what those doctors say, too. Especially because I’ve paid thousands of dollars to the dental industry, only to have to pay more later because “Oops! Turns out the practices we used on you were barbaric and horrible – and didn’t work long-term like we thought they would. That’ll be another $1500.00 – and we expect payment now, before the numbness wears off.” Sadly, though, through all these years and procedures, I have not become a dental expert. Instead, I stayed as removed as possible, and did whatever I was told I “should”.

And, now, I feel there’s nowhere to turn for other options. Their intervention has been so immense that I have no choice but to keep going back. And writing another giant check. For very little comfort, and even less satisfaction. And, still, I have another appointment on Tuesday, with a new specialist who will most likely charge more to say that his opinion is that the tooth needs to be pulled. In the meantime, though, I’m going to have one last weekend (at least) with Tooth #30.

Poor #30. She’s had a rough go of it, and she’s hung in there for a long time, considering all of the trauma she’s endured. But, now, there seems to be an infection surrounding her, and “they” say there’s no way she can be saved. The dentist flippantly said – twice – “Save your miracle for something else.” Is it wrong that I wanted to punch her – hard – both times she tossed that comment towards me? She doesn’t get it. I’m a singer. That tooth is part of my instrument, and every time a dentist rummages around in my mouth, they alter it in ways that I have not enjoyed. And, Dear #30 lives right on top of a very important facial nerve that, if harmed, will cause permanent paralysis on the right side of my face. In short, I’m scared.   And I don’t trust “them”.

I’ve been trying to do everything I can think of to promote a healing response in the body – and the infection has definitely lessened, but it’s still there. And, the x-rays from 2011 to now show that it’s destroying the bone in which the tooth sits. So, now, I have to take the chance that pulling poor, hardworking #30 is the best choice for the rest of my mouth and body. I just don’t know. It seems wrong to me. And yet, I’m not finding much help that offers a different perspective. There are online testimonials about choosing this natural remedy, or that one – and it “working” – but for how long? There isn’t enough information for me to make an educated plan for myself. And, there’s a lot of pressure that “Time Is Of the Essence” to get the tooth pulled out. But I still am not feeling secure in that idea. I suppose denial may be a part of this picture, but what if there are other factors, too?

Do you know who Louise L. Hay is? She is one of the pioneers of the self-help movement. Her book, “You Can Heal Your Life” has had a profoundly positive effect in my life. It was given to me when I first moved to The City. I didn’t give it much heed then (ok, none. I gave it zero regard. I though it was crazy-talk.). I think I even threw that first copy away. ‘My problems are genetic. This won’t help me,’ I mused. Yet, when the book came to me a 2^nd time (and I actually read some of it), there were portions that jumped out to me as TRUTH. I read them, contemplated the ideas briefly, but moved on. I had so many things to heal. Certainly this book couldn’t help someone like me.

And then, by the third time I found it, I was so sick I thought, “What do I have to lose?”

So, I re-read the text, bought the newly published companion workbook, and took my pen to paper. I worked through the questions diligently, and with intent to unravel my own web of illness. With each chapter I remembered parts of my story I’d tossed or repressed. As I unlocked those doors, I actually started to feel better. Diseases I’d had for decades left, and still haven’t returned. It’s been over 10 years now, and I’ve been a well woman. And, the work of Louise L. Hay was a large part of my healing, I believe.

So, when my tooth first started hurting, I pulled out my trusty tome. What did Louise have to offer in terms of dental issues? She said:

Teeth – represent decisions. Problems with teeth – long-standing indecisiveness. Inability to break down ideas for analysis and decisions.

Right Side of Body – Giving out, letting go, masculine energy, men, the father.

Root Canal – Can’t bite into anything anymore. Root beliefs being destroyed.

Periodontitis (Gum Problems) – Anger at the inability to make decisions. Wishy-washy people.

Bleeding Gums – Lack of joy in the decision made in life.

Abscess – Fermenting thoughts over hurts, slights, and revenge.

Boils – Anger. Boiled over. Seething. Poisonous anger about personal injustices.

Infection – Irritation, anger, annoyance.

Inflammation – Fear. Seeing red. Inflamed thinking.

Mouth – Represents taking in of new ideas and nourishment. Problems with mouth – Set opinions. Closed mind. Incapacity to take in new ideas.

Hmmm, Dear Pen Friend. Much of that sounds spot on with where I am mentally right now.

In short, on March 1^st, I received a certified letter from a psychotic bully that STILL has me seeing red. And, I haven’t known what to do about it. I can’t speak about it without crying, due to the fear it incites, and I need to release all that nonsense! Now! It’s putting my poor #30 on the radar of those who are desensitized to pulling and discarding others just like her.

Can #30 be saved? I don’t know. But I am going to keep trying for now. If nothing else, at least I’ll work through the griefancy of being bullied, and accept that I actually can speak out about this, but I’m choosing not to – because there is no point. Psychosis causes an inability to be connected with life, and so my best hope is to avoid that man – which, truthfully, isn’t that difficult. For the moment, he is an insane person with a position of power – that’s true. However, his Reign of Terror will end in August, and then he will have zero power to affect my life. And, in truth, his nightmarish behavior – in hindsight – got me to go back to a dentist.

So, maybe I should thank him? Truth to tell, I’d stopped going to the dentist for regular cleanings a few years back when life became overcomplicated. And, it turns out, that was no bueno for my poor gums. Having #30 in peril led me back to paying attention to my mouth care, and what’s more vital to a good life than that? Having a painful mouth for days on end isn’t fun. So, if the bully was the catalyst for better self-care, then I choose to be thankful to him. Like I’ve turned around my health in all the areas surrounding my mouth, I can make that change there, too. I must. I use my teeth to sing. I want to keep them where they are.

I’ll keep you posted, dear friend, and wish for a miracle for me – and #30. I know the dentist doesn’t think I should use one here, but I disagree.

Here’s a Healing Haiku for you in parting.

There once was a tooth
Number 30, it was called.
It healed in my jaw!

Hope your mouth feels good!  Until next time…

Dear Pen Friend,

How are you? How’s your story of life coming along? It was nice to hear my words found you. Let’s see how today’s griefancy hits you! This one is layered and slightly complicated, as all the others seem to be, eh? But, Wednesday, on my walk to work, it became clear that now is the perfect time to talk about this one…because the era is by and large past (and before I forget it all…☺).

It was a beautiful day outside, so I took my favorite commute to work: Walk for 2 miles to the ferry terminal, ride on the upper level and soak in the view of Manhattan from the water, then walk another 20 minutes to my office. During my 20-minute walk across Manhattan, I encountered a situation both enjoyable…and slightly sad.

There used to be an old diner on 43rd and 11th called The Market Diner. I had breakfast there countless times during the 10 years I lived at 43rd and 9th. It was a “locals” kind of place – tourists never went that far west – especially in the 90s (it was kinda seedy, but I loved it anyway). They were open 24 hours, and the food was cheap, plentiful, and Diner Delicious. I have very fond memories of meals shared there. I was sad when I saw the chain link fence and construction signs engulf it last year. I knew it soon would become another ghostly memory of mine, buried under a nondescript high-rise.

Wednesday, I noticed how much of the new structure had been erected – seemingly overnight. I also noticed that all the construction workers were on their lunch breaks, and they were seated on the sidewalk in front of me, like a gauntlet to be braved. My inner dialogue was a sarcastic, ‘Here we go!’, anticipating the comments and inappropriate behavior about to come my way. For the 25 years that I’ve lived in The City, I’ve done a litany of things to avoid walking past construction sites. I’ve never found the ensuing rhetoric charming, and so I actively removed myself from it when I could. Do you have this problem where you are? In short, they’re known for their catcalls.

When I saw them all seated there in their orange safety vests, hardhats on their laps, and steel-toed work boots facing me, I initially thought about turning around and taking 42nd Street to work, instead. I don’t enjoy weaving through tourists (as they move slower than I), but in that moment the diminished pace was preferable to the mile of potentially mouthy men stretched out in front of me. I envisioned them feeding upon one another’s energy, egging each other on until I couldn’t help but absorb their noise, filled with sexual innuendo.

As I stood there deciding which route to take, I thought about the first time I remember feeling objectified. I was 12, and in my hometown. My sister and I were walking to a store without my mom, who was grocery-shopping near by. It was a little strip mall area, filed with a variety of mom and pop businesses. I still remember the delicious apple fritters I could find in The Bake Shop. I’ve never found any as good, and that shop is long gone….

What was I saying? I got lost in a great food memory. Do you ever have those, Dear Friend? It was yum.

Oh, right….my sister and I….

We were walking past the liquor store (which was next to those heavenly fritters) when a small, middle-aged man appeared seemingly from nowhere. He positioned himself between my sister and me, and turned his face to me. He slowly sniffed me over and said, “You are so very beautiful.” Then he gazed lustfully at me, drank in my scent again, shook his head, and walked away. By the time the shock wore off, he’d disappeared – as if he’d never even been there.

In my memory, my sister and I stood stunned on the sidewalk. Neither one of us could process what had happened. First of all, it was creepy, weird, startling, and odd. Secondly, and this was maybe the larger point, I was the younger sister, and I looked like a child still. I wasn’t really on the other side of puberty yet, and definitely not viewed as the beauty in my family. That was my sister. She was 17 at the time – and stunning. Men noticed her all the time, and some of them even told me about their lust for her.

Picture this: It’s after church on a Sunday morning. We’ve just had our pastor counsel us on the wages of sin for an hour, and now we’re in the hallways saying our goodbyes to one another, and slowly parting ways. A married man with five young children approaches me. He’s shorter than I by a few inches, but uses physical proximity for power, where a taller man might have used his height. He sidles up very closely to me, looks at me from head to toe as if he were judging a slab of meat he’d like to ingest, and says, “You’re alright…but you’re sister…” And then he proceeded to moan, wet his lips with his tongue, and moan again.

He’d just cannibalized my sweet sister in front of me. And he felt it was appropriate to share that daydream with me. And for decades it’s been one of my recurring nightmares.

Those two events were fairly close together, and they told me I was to be a man’s object for the rest of my life. And I didn’t like it. It felt wrong to me, and like I wasn’t human. And, on top of that, it was all so confusing.

I had feelings other than repulsion, which blew my mind and caused great guilt. First, I felt slightly jealous that Tiny Church Man rated my sister as so much more delectable than I. And then, I felt triumphant that Creepy Sidewalk Man chose me over her when we were both right next to him. I was tired of being the less pretty sister. But overall, neither of those feelings made sense to me. Both men were disgusting and I was relieved when they were gone.

Wednesday, walking the gauntlet of construction guys, I felt confused. Then elated. Then disappointed. And finally, completely relieved.

In short: The construction workers said nothing to me. Zero. Zilch. They didn’t even look up from their lunch pails in any significant way. As I passed the first few without incident, I noticed the others didn’t even look up from their laps. It was as if the sentries on the end had allowed me to pass, so no others need concern themselves with me. Initially I was confused. Here I had braced myself for a long half block of the wrong kind of attention, and I was met with silence. What?

Then, I was elated. I thought, ‘Maybe we’ve come far enough that men have evolved past this kind of behavior – finally!’ But then a younger, more-supple girl than I entered the block. They weren’t as rude as I remember them being, so maybe there has been some progress, but they certainly gave her the kind of attention I had been bracing myself for.

And then, disappointment set in when I remembered why they weren’t turning their attention my way. I actually think the matter has been best discussed by Amy Schumer, Julia Louis-Dreyfus, Tina Fey, and Patricia Arquette in the sketch “The Last F#@kable Day”. While the choice of vernacular may not be your taste, Dear Pen Friend (or it may be….), the point of the sketch completely describes my experience (although the common man decided in my case). You should pull it up on YouTube.

Ultimately, though, I’m relieved. I don’t need to fear walking past a gaggle of men now. They don’t see me anymore. I have aged and that has made me largely invisible to them….and I’m relieved. My griefancy today is for that 12-year-old me who became objectified. I’ve never taken time to look at how those two men – and many others after – looked at me (or a female I loved) as something to be ingested or owned. And I didn’t like it. Unfortunately, though, I had to deal with it.

But now, I don’t anymore – and that’s freeing.

That’s not to say it won’t happen sporadically here and there still, though. Recently a man at work and I were chatting. I’ve known him for a while, and he’s always been perfectly respectful. Out of nowhere, though, he blurted out, “You are so sexy.” Immediately he apologized in embarrassment. (He also hasn’t been able to make eye contact with me since.) I appreciate that he respected the fact that it wasn’t an appropriate thing to say to me. And I wish he hadn’t said it because now our casual conversations have ceased, and they were often interesting.

Truth to tell, though, I was flattered that he said it when he did. (I looked awful that day in my opinion, and so it felt nice to think I wasn’t visually polluting the world.) That’s what makes the whole thing confusing, you know? I didn’t want to feel any positive feelings. My little 12-year-old was instantly mad – and betrayed…but she also understands. She remembers feeling creepy and elated at the same time. It’s a weird space to reconcile. But on this occasion, I wasn’t scared or disgusted – just disappointed that now the work guy feels slightly like Creepy Sidewalk Man and Tiny Church Man to me. Sigh.

The good news after studying this griefancy? I feel fairly secure knowing that as summer in The City progresses, most men will be seeking younger prey than I.

And for that, I am grateful. Maybe now that little 12-year-old inside can relax. She’s safe. This middle-aged woman has got her covered. Literally. With protective grey hair and continually less-supple skin. And, I wear it all proudly and joyfully. Walking around invisibly can feel pretty good!

Until next time….

Dear Pen Friend,

I hope you’ve had a good week. I feel that all my weeks are good – even though I’m focused on grief so much these days. And, truthfully it is a heavy load to bear. Bearing it is making me stronger already, though – I can feel it. So I’m going to keep going. I’ve even made a list of things I know I haven’t properly mourned. The events happened, and I moved on as quickly as I could from them. Didn’t grieve. And, so they linger… I thank you for listening to me while I get them out so I can let them go.

Today’s “griefantsy” (Do we like that word? I feel like I’m looking at grief that’s been making me antsy…. Maybe if I spell it differently – GRIEFANCY. I see “fancy” first. What about you? That feels nicer than seeing “grief” sitting there on it’s own. Here, it’s like the 2 words are sharing the “f”…. like neighbors sharing a wall.) Today’s griefancy is that I’ve lost the placebo effect from our medical system. Do you know about the placebo effect? I learned about the significance of it while working at Pfizer Pharmaceuticals. (I had a long-term temp job there in the 90s verifying and entering data connected to the company’s drug studies. I’ve read some stuff….)

I found the placebo effect to be endlessly fascinating. Essentially, it’s HOPE at work, and it can initiate a healing response within the body. It’s believed that about 1/3 of people are healed simply by believing that the “medicine” – whatever it is – is working. The body wants to heal, but sometimes it needs is a little time. Dr. Andrew Weil put it this way last weekend at a conference I attended: “A doctor’s true job is to distract the patient long enough for the body to have time to heal.” I didn’t have doctors like that. The doctors I had all pushed tons of medications, and surgeries, and tests (oh my!) on me. They often scared me, but they didn’t heal me. Consequently, over the years, their ineffective treatments killed any placebo effect they (or their treatments) might have held for me.

I believe that a person’s life inadvertently makes them an “expert” in something. My life has given me expertise in understanding our current medical system, how we got here, and where we need to focus on in order to improve what’s not working and maintain what is. I’m an expert, but very few within that system want to hear what a person like me has to say, and most consumers of it are afraid to try something not “proven” or advocated by the medical industry. Mostly I try to stay silent on the whole subject now – unless asked. I’ve learned that people are wary of “experts” like me. ‘What’s my agenda?’ they wonder.

For short while, I did have an agenda. I wanted to try to make a living off of my expertise. But, then people were really wary. What were my credentials? Where were the double-blind studies backing up my claims? Many people in our society will only trust what an M.D. says. In my opinion, that’s a really bad idea for long-term personal safety. Again, I’m an expert, and I feel no discomfort in reiterating that proclamation.

What makes me such an expert, you ask, Dear Pen Friend? Well, let me tell you! Simply: My life. The whole of it has taught me, including actual schooling. Starting from infancy and continually progressing until now, I have been studying the United States medical system from every angle. From what it does and why, to how we got here, I have a deeply experienced and fully researched understanding of the whole industry. How did I get such a layered and informed position?

Well, first and foremost, my family is and was a disaster health-wise. In many other ways they are incredibly successful, but not when it comes to achieving good health. They are a sickly crowd. From the oldest ones to the youngest ones, there is an incredibly long list of ailments. Growing up I remember talking to relatives about their health like most people discuss the weather. When I met someone for the first time it often went something like this: “Come! Meet Cousin Dolly. She needs your help at mealtimes. She has no sense of smell or taste. Did you know smell is connected to taste? She sometimes eats spoiled food and doesn’t know it. Just help her while she’s here.”

So, I’d sit with Dolly, and she’d tell me what it was like to lose smell and taste, and then what it was like to grow older without them. She was in her early 90s. She couldn’t see much either, so sometimes she couldn’t see helpful spoilage indicators like mold. She liked having someone to eat with so she had someone to smell/look for freshness, and also because she had no real desire to eat since her smell and taste were gone. When she had company she ate to be social. (But, she made certain to say she did NOT want to go into a “home”!)

Or, there was Uncle Dale. He’d lived in a “home” for decades. He had Down syndrome and was institutionalized very early on. Luckily for him, the State Home in our town seemed to be very kind and caring toward Dale. I don’t know how you couldn’t be! I sat and talked with Dale on many occasions. He was delightful. And, I learned about Down syndrome directly from him. Afterward I went home and read what others had to add to the conversation. I educated myself about Down syndrome because I loved my Uncle Dale.

With each new relative and their presented ailment, my knowledge grew. And, as I heard their stories of having multiple sclerosis or recovering after a stroke, I saw how medicine was changing. To add richness to my experience, by the age of 10, I, too, had entered into the family practice of enduring illness (or the aftermath of it). By age 10 I had my own team of doctors, including several specialists! WOW! I was fancy early! (Oh, look! Another reason for “griefancy”…. think it will take off?) I also learned what it was to be a patient without agency. After my experiences, I don’t think someone should be able to finish medical school without spending a year steeped in stories from patients. A doctor’s ignorance about patient-centered compassionate care is all of our loss.

By the time I was in my late twenties, I was a medical addict. I believed that doctors could “fix” whatever was wrong with me. I had an entire team of physicians to deal with my perceived defective, broken body. I even employed some of the biggest “stars” in medicine to consult on my case. I diligently tried to follow their edicts, and I trusted that each new pill, surgery, test, or “procedure” would have the answer for me. I spent thousands of dollars – many times when I was without insurance – in order to allow them to test out their theories as to what would make me feel better.

But, under the care of my “star” team, I was getting sicker.

And then, life taught me again. Long story short, I was feeling horrible all day, every day. I had felt that way for years. Then, I was dangled a carrot. My dream role! If I lost a ton of weight. But, there was time (a year), so I thought I could do it. At the time, Dr. Oz was newly on the Oprah scene. He advised eliminating foods out of one’s diet that contained certain additives. So, as per his advice, I stopped eating them. And, I walked. Oh, and I had HOPE. (Dream role, remember?) And, low and behold it was a magical combination that started making all sorts of physical healing. Within 2 years of walking, no processed foods, and hope, I had nothing physically wrong with me for the first time in over 25 years! I had followed advice from a TV doctor who had never met me, and it had helped to heal me – along with a bunch of other things I added to the mix.

So, I told my fancy team of physicians my story. And none of them wanted to hear it. (Keep in mind, this was over 10 years ago now, and doctors have come a long way, but they still have so FAR to go.) They all acted like it was mysterious as to why I was suddenly so well. They advised me to keep watching for the sicknesses to return. When I tried to tell them I could specifically point to those things that had healed me – and what hadn’t – then we were really at an impasse. Their bag of tricks hadn’t done it. Mine had, and most of the stuff was free. Our medical system doesn’t know how to make money off of medicine like mine.

With each year the medical industry is opening itself up a teeny, tiny bit to the things in my medicine bag. But, they are still way too far behind experts like I. ‘How do I know,’ you ask? I’ve been spying from the inside, only this time as a patient advocate. (For the past few years I have had friends or family members that have needed my help travelling through the medical maze.) I hear the doctor’s sales pitches, and I watch their scare tactics in play. I see how sometimes, due to a patient’s location, there aren’t a ton of great options and so they have to work with a rigid, non-listening doctor who would prefer that they took their prescription slip, paid the bill, and went on their way. I see the arrogance still rampant within the industry that prevents fully listening to patients’ stories.

A doctor tells me to do something, and I immediately consult at least 5 other sources (not just doctors, but a couple of those, too) before agreeing to their suggested course of treatment. I’ve seen too much. And it’s killed my ability to believe that our current medical industry can heal me, or others, from very much. Doctors like Mehmet Oz and Andrew Weil, who believe that food is medicine and the body needs time to heal, are few and far between, unfortunately.

Any ideas what I can do with all this expertise, dear friend? I keep trying to figure out how to share it with more people in a way that’s useful. I guess I’ll keep thinking. You let me know if you come up with something?

Until next time,

Your Pal, The (life-trained) Medical Expert

Dear Pen Friend,

I wish you good morning from cold, very windy NYC. I have to venture out into it later, but I would rather stay holed up inside! A few days ago was a stunning early spring day, though, so I’m attempting to remember the loveliness of that so that the heaviness that has settled in my heart isn’t “parking and barking” all day inside my head.

Do you know that term “Park and Bark”? It’s one of my favorite musical theatre terms. It means for the actress (or actor, but from now on the male gender will be implied, kay?) to stand in one place and sing her song. It’s harder to do than it sounds, but when it’s done well, it’s one of the most effective tools in the trade. The audience gets to hear a story told simply, and the actress is stripped down to having to tell the tale without bells and whistles to hide behind. Essentially she stands and uses her voice to communicate what is in the character’s heart. (And, if she’s lucky, she also gets a lot of awesome technical support in the form of sound, lights, costumes, direction, great arrangements played by great musicians, etc.!)

I spent many years in classes learning how to Park and Bark well. Sometimes, though, when my heart is heavy, I do it too well inside my head for my own well-being. When I don’t have a listener, I use that skill against myself. Then, my head and my heart get stuck in a loop, and the repetition is hard to take because neither know what to do about the situation. So, instead, can I tell you my story today? Then maybe I can stop telling it to myself… And, relax, I’m not asking you for a solution. Just a listening ear.

But, first, a moment of fun from this week. I was on my way to meet an old friend, and as I was crossing the street, I saw Joel Grey! Do you know who he is? If not, treat yourself and look him up. (He also lives part-time on The Web. I’m sure Google knows where.) Anyway, I genuflected to him, for which he laughed and waved the gesture aside (sweetly), and then we hugged and I thanked him for being him. He’s someone whose work I’ve admired for as long as I can remember. He’s created some things that have improved my world, so it was fun to share my gratitude with him on a sunny day in The City.

And THEN, I ran into one of my favorite peers in The Biz. (I mentioned I came to NYC to follow my dream of “making it” on Broadway, right?) She was one of the first girls I met when I moved here to start that crazy journey. She’s a bit younger than I, but she’s always been a few steps ahead of me in life, and I find she’s been as much a guide to me, as peer. Quite simply, she’s an inspiration to me – and has been for over twenty years. So, I’m always so excited whenever I’m fortunate enough to have a moment of her time. This encounter was no exception – although her heart is heavy, too.

Do you know about the canaries in the coalmines? Miners used to bring them into the mines in order to monitor the air quality. If the canaries sang, all was well. When the singing stopped, the miners needed to leave the toxic air, or they’d soon die from poisonous gases that were accumulating.

I feel like artists are a society’s canaries. When the environment is safe, we freely sing and create songs that float through the air, touching those they pass. Some may like our songs. Some may not, but either way, it was just a little something out in the world to let those without sensitivity to certain toxins know that ‘All is safe for you to keep mining here. Air is good!’

I’m sad, Pen Friend. Our canaries have begun to stop singing – me included sometimes. Every once in a while I can find a pocket of good air where it’s safe for me to create my songs, but mostly my voice stays pretty silent these days. And the same is now true for my Sweet Inspiration peer friend. Despite a very successful career for 20 years, for the past 2 years she hasn’t been able to get a job. It’s been almost 5 years for me now. (That’s the first time I’ve written that. Ouch! That was painful to admit.) Oh, I get close to jobs sometimes still. She does, too. But “close” kind of makes it worse. I wonder if Joel Grey ever went through times like this. I wish I’d asked him. Maybe next time.

I guess I’m grieving the loss of the career I used to have right now. I’ve been sitting here deluding myself that I still have that career, but five years without income from it would kind of indicate otherwise, don’t you think, Dear Pen Friend? It’s almost like I’ve been living with a corpse constantly beside me, and not acknowledging it is there. But it’s time to see it. And then I have to decide what to do with it now that I know it’s dead. I’ll let you know how that goes.

It’s difficult, though. I liked making my living as an actress in the theatre with a healthy side of singing gigs that were varied and kept me challenged and busy. I wasn’t able to survive 100% on my acting/singing income all the time, but there were many spans of time where there were enough jobs and opportunities that I could often carve out a living that way. Now in order to pay the bills my current best option is to be tethered to a chair, inside a box without windows, and unable to fully stretch my legs out in front of me without my feet encountering a thin metal cubical wall. I feel like I’m on a flight to Mars – in the worst coach seat possible – and the environment is filled with re-circulated air that has become toxic to my lungs. I’m grateful to have a job, but I mourn for the life I used to enjoy. (As an aside, I’m not one of those people eager to fly to Mars. I’ve done some long flights, but that one is definitely outside of my personal range. You?)

Anyway, my lack of work – or my Sweet Inspiration peer’s – hasn’t been totally surprising to me. I’ve been watching this whole thing transpire for decades now. Aside from the fact that I’m over 40 and the amount of available jobs in The Biz are significantly fewer for women after that age, The Arts are not valued by people in the U.S. as something that should be protected – and paid for. The society I live in has been diminishing and dismantling The Arts scene for my entire life.

When I first became an actress in the early 90s, I had hundreds of theatres to audition for each and every year – dozens of auditions each month. I had to choose which auditions to attend some days because there were so many of them. (Last year I had 6 auditions. Six. All year.) Back then there were jobs to be had, and many of them even paid a living wage! (That had already begun to decline before I entered the scene here in the 90s, but there was still enough to tap into in order to carve out a successful career.) Most of those jobs are gone now, and with Arts funding continually on the chopping block each and every day in local, state, and federal budgets, it’s only going to further contaminate the already toxic air I’m trying to sing in.

My Sweet Inspiration peer framed her story this way: “If I were in a relationship with someone who only truly showed me love about every 5 years, and the rest of the time strung me along, treated me horribly, ignored me, and then abused me again and again, you’d applaud me when I ended the relationship for myself.” She’s right. I would. “I feel like that’s been my career, and I’ve had enough. I’ll sing when people call and ask me to, but I’m not pursuing this anymore,” she said in closing.

I had a very similar discussion regarding my own career with someone just days earlier. The words “Stockholm Syndrome” floated around during that convo.

Oddly, my saying it about me didn’t hit me as hard as hearing her say it about herself. I don’t want her to stop pursuing “The Biz”. Selfishly, only. Of course I want her to do what will make her life the best for her. It’s just that I love her voice and how she uses her heart to tell a story. I can’t imagine a world where I don’t get to hear and see her continually blossom and bloom and flourish – as I’ve been fortunate to do for the past 20 years. But I get it. This canary, too, has by and large stopped singing. And I miss it. And I feel like I’m losing the opportunity to hear my own voice blossom and bloom and flourish with each day that I stay silent.

So I’ve turned to making up what feel like are little “Hymns” to me. I sing them when I need to some soothing. Do you ever sing little songs to yourself? I like ones that are fairly simple and I enjoy picking one and singing it in a loop until I feel better. The one I’m giving you today is about my bedroom – my favorite place on this entire earth. I hope you like it. And thank you – as always – for listening. I hope you’re singing up a storm where you are! Having your ear helped this canary to feel safe to sing a bit today.

HYMN #1 – To This Sanctuary
To this sanctuary I come.
It helps me undo what life has done.
When I feel sad.
When I feel trapped and blue.
This is the place that I can run home to.

Then it’s to this sanctuary I come.
It helps me undo what life has done.
When I feel sad,
When I don’t know what to do.
This is the place that I can run home to.

Then it’s to this sanctuary I come.