I need You

 

Last Friday I had my second dose of the Pfizer Covid-19 vaccine. People were saying that the second 

dose packed a powerful punch, but I figured that since nothing had happened with the first dose (unless, of course, you count a humongous spike in my blood-sugar levels from fairly low to excessively high), I was going to just sail through with no problems. I mean, my sister said she felt like she’d gone a round with Mike Tyson with the first, so…

So, Friday came, and I felt fine all day long. I walked all over without the slightest hint of fatigue and even stopped off at the post office to send a package to my daughter in Italy. I felt great!

I woke up on several occasions during the night feeling like my arm wanted to break off at the shoulder. I changed position and fell back to sleep until the next twinge. I awoke at 10:30  a.m. and tried to get up.

As I said, I TRIED to get up. My whole body felt, initially, as though I’d been run over by an 8-wheeler — 10 times. Dang, where is that man when you need him the most?! And the tears came, not so much from the pain caused by the vaccine but because Russ wasn't there to give me the hugs I needed.

The photo on the wall is beautiful, and I’ve leaned against it so many times crying it’s fading, but it couldn’t step down off the wall to give me the comfort I really needed. So, I rolled over and asked Missy Priss (the character cat I live with) if she could help me; she just jumped off the bed and trotted into the kitchen to wait for her breakfast treats and then go outside. The brat!

And so, there I was, hurting and left to my own devices. I cried. And then, I achingly forced myself out of bed. I was certain that things would get better as time went by, but that was really courageous on my part. And I thought, as someone used their sledgehammer to drive the dull-edged, rusty bladed axe through my skull, “Russ, where are you?”

You see, Russ had this lovely talent that he shared willingly with anyone who asked: he was so kind. I would get up in the morning to find him with his head on top of his computer keyboard after spending a night commiserating with some person he barely knew, offering advice, or just offering an open ear and mind. And it worked: the next time he spoke to said person, the person would be bubbling over with happiness.

One day, shortly after Russ moved in with me, we were talking, and I suddenly started crying. I can’t remember what started it off, but it might have been a photo of my maternal grandmother. She had died some 14 years earlier at the venerable age of 99 years and 10 months, but I hadn’t gotten closure.

I had been very close to both of my Grandmothers, but I mourned Gram in particular because I hadn’t been at her side to say good-bye, and it broke my heart. So Russ put his arms around me and asked me to talk about her. That simple, kind act brought peace to my heart.

And that kindness is one of the most important things I remember about Russ. He was even kind to people he didn’t particularly care for. I remember one time when he was an administrator on a private social media platform and remonstrated one of the members for some reason I can’t remember. The member cussed Russ out and said that his father had died.

Russ immediately apologized and offered his condolences. The man refused the condolences, saying that he wished Russ were with his father. Russ signed off and cried: not because of what the man had said, but because the man had lost his father. Russ knew what it was like to not have a father around.

Yes, I miss him every day. I could go on and on and on, with example after example of why. But I will put the next memory off until another day.

Do you have memories of a loved one who you’ve lost, who was kind? Would sharing help put your mind at peace? You’re more than welcome to leave a comment, as long or short as you’d like. Writing it down, even in someone else’s blog can help.

Copyright © March 30, 2021. Mary E. Purpari. All Rights Reserved.

The Way We Met

 

The Way We Met

 

Way back in July 2007, while I was waiting to speak with a possible publisher for Old McDonald Had a Funny Farm, I had also begun writing my second novel, the continuation of the McDonald saga. The initial segment regarded Melody’s vacation across the United States of America with her Gramma Mary. Gramma Mary had bought a car in Germany and planned to drive it cross country and had invited Melody along for the ride.

Melody (my literary alter-ego) was only seven at the time, and I was 54 at the time of the writing, so a few details regarding the description of the car we crossed the country in slipped my mind over the years. Mom told me that it was an Opel station wagon, and that she had never been able to understand why Gramma Mary bought that particular car, since she was a stalwart Chevrolet buyer, purchasing a new car every year, factory direct.

Wanting to be accurate, I looked up Opel Station wagon on Explorer and… found nothing, at least nothing about the subject I was searching for. I tried again, with the same results. However, something new DID show up: a message from Microsoft referring to a Question-and-Answer site, appropriately named QnA, where, they said, you could ask real people real questions and get real answers, although some weren’t necessarily correct.

So, I decided to give it a try. What I didn’t know was that QnA was an early social media and that I had to answer a bunch of personal questions before I could ask mine. The moment came, and I was given the chance to ask my question. In fact, that was one of the most interesting parts of this particular site, that every post had to begin with a question. Answers could be statements.

My question: “Does anyone know anything about 1960 Opel Station Wagons?” received two answers; one was rather flakey: “No, but I hope someone can help you.” Reading that one, I was less than impressed with the site, as you can probably imagine. I can’t remember… well, yes, I can, but she’s a friend, so I won’t say her name.

The person who gave the answer that had me saying “YES!” had a very famous rock formation from Monument Valley as his avatar. Having lived in Utah for over four years before and after serving my mission and moving back to Italy, my curiosity was piqued. This guy, Russ, gave the right answer: that it was called an Opel Caravan (I lived in Italy for 31 years and always wondered what a caravan was, since I had a totally different mentality towards what a caravan consisted of) and he gave me a link.

That link took me to a site that explained everything I needed to know, along with a photo that looked just like the car that we crossed the country in. I was happy to be able to tell my Mom that Opel was simply a European automobile company that was also a possession of General Motors, so Gramma Mary didn’t go far from her Chevy.

The man knew everything. He had what is commonly known as a photographic memory and could tell you almost anything you might want to know on just about any subject. And he had no problems sharing that knowledge with anyone who asked. It wasn’t to show off or pretend to be something he wasn’t.

That smart bit is one of the things I miss about Russ. The two of us could just sit on the sofa and talk, talk about anything, because his knowledge of the world around us was vast. And he was always ready to talk, even if he was watching a TV show that interested him, he would listen to what I had to say, and we would discuss whatever was going on in each other’s thoughts. He never once said to shut up because he wanted to watch the TV.

And I miss him. I miss him so much, but I’ll see him again and we can talk about what he missed here by not getting old with me, and what he’s learned since he died. And then I’ll tell him what it’s like to grow old alone. Oh well.

Until next time, farewell.

                                                                    M. E. P.

Copyright © March 25, 2021. Mary E. Purpari. All Rights Reserved.

Overcoming Sadness and Grief

 It’s been a while since the last time I officially wrote anything for my blog, but the time has arrived that I feel the need to do so. I will, shortly, be writing articles (I hope) for the A-Z blogging challenge, held in April of each year and which are found in my other blog: An Seanchai. But for now, my purpose in writing is to overcome, in some measure, the feelings of grief that still assail me from time to time, even at seven years from Russ’ death.

As many of you who have read my blog in the past know, I belong to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. We are encouraged to be as self-reliant as possible, in as many areas of our daily existence as possible. There are groups that teach things we need to know, because besides the spiritual aspect of our lives, there is also the temporal side.

Our Heavenly Father wants us to be happy during our life here on the Earth, and He wants to help us reach that goal. And to help us attain that goal, He has inspired our leaders to create a number of self-reliance groups that include: Building and Maintaining a Business, How to Find a Better Job, Emotional Resilience, etc. I have participated in the first two and am now engaged in the latter.

In last week’s lesson we talked about learning to cope with sadness and grief and the tumult of emotions that can arise from them. And among the things we talked about was — and this is the thing I can’t believe I didn’t think of myself — writing down our memories of the person or thing that we are mourning. I have so many happy and silly memories of Russ that they could fill a book on their own. And, unless we have a heart made of stone or ice, we all have feelings of sadness and mourn the loss of things or people or pets that we have lost through death or elsewise. It’s a part of being human. And there’s absolutely nothing wrong with it. It is my hope that through this exercise, I can help someone else in their struggles to overcome their grief and sorrow, as I work to overcome my own.

I thought that I’d like to start off with telling you how Russ and I met, and that will be in the next article.