Life is What Happened While I Was Making Plans

In my headball I am standing in the middle of a six-lane highway holding a big neon flickering STOP sign, daring you to either run me down before you add one more thing to my plate.

Let’s begin in the middle of my muddle.

I am in the process of downsizing. This process is as obscene as it sounds. I am moving from house to smaller apartment. OMG! At any age, moving is right up there with death and divorce. But at 91, I’d have to say it is raging stupidity. To even think I could move without hiring the 82nd Airborne and Armored Division (my former husband’s alma mater) is the real obscenity.

Let me be clear. It’s not as though I didn’t have great help. However, that would mean letting go and allowing them to do what I asked them to do, except I had to do it because I did it better. A control freak’s pledge of allegiance. Here’s the difficulty in a nutshell. I can speak poetically about surrender. I am just not able to “do” it. But ever the actress, I can pretend and have been known to do the greatest surrender since Lee at Appomattox as I move boxes from one room to another.

On the actual day of the move my nephew called to tell me my brother, 93, doesn’t want to live anymore.

Quick sketch: Talk about downsizing… from a family of 8 siblings, we have been reduced to 3… brother David (93), me (91), and Arlene (88), and her husband Ronnie (91).

(Left) David & SJ, (Center) SJ & Arlene, (Right) Ronnie & Arlene

David, widowed for many years, has been living in a senior home on the Canadian and New York State border (‘member when Canadians used to be our best friends?) He has a loving family, but his choice to live in a geographically isolated community makes it difficult to gather.

Just my opinion: As my body begins its final descent, being isolated and living alone are right up there with moving house at 91.

So added to packing, moving boxes, and furniture is my helplessness at not being able to play my self-appointed role in my family, Ms. Fixit.

I can’t rescue my brother, which adds anger and guilt to my growing distress of moving house. Thank goodness for cliches… God works in strange ways… because brilliantly and willingly, without being asked his children and their families stepped in and, with hearts of love and gladness, rescued their father and moved him out of isolation into a rehabilitation facility closer to their homes and he has a new beginning to the end of his life.

Phew! I can get back to unpacking and ordering a toilet paper holder (who doesn’t have a toilet paper holder?) and a thousand other things the new digs are missing. To prove that I can’t fool all of the people all of the time… mostly myself… my anxiety level raises the ante of my blood pressure, and I spend St. Patty’s day in the Emergency Room at the local hospital. If you have a choice, which trips to the ER don’t usually provide for you, it’s a great place to spend that particular holiday. It’s like streaming the Human Comedy on every channel of your television set.

After waiting the prescribed hours, the Doctor listens to my tale of woe…
91 (and a half!), moving house, family troubles, and I’m certifiably neurotic. He is very sympathetic. He takes my vitals. He gives me a valium and sends me home.

Phew!

Now I can get back to the business of throwing out what I should have thrown out before I moved, which definitely would have saved me a lot of grief and, yes… anxiety.

Oh, boy, oh, boy, oh, boy… Life surely is what happened while I was making plans…
I was just about to get back into the water when I heard this familiar music.

This time, it’s my sister informing me that her husband has been taken by ambulance to the hospital. I do not remember ever being at a loss for words. I was at a loss for words. She didn’t know all the facts at the time, but he had had a stroke.

Ms. Fixit was put to bed too recently not to be awakened. From my past life, like yesterday, I can give you chapter and verse about what I should do but not what I couldn’t do.

This was when I wanted to walk onto I-95, preferably one with many lanes, hold up a big neon flickering STOP sign, and shout out to the heavens above: “Yoo! Hoo! Find someone else to call, please. I’m changing my number.”

Lee at Appomattox might be confused by my version of surrender, and I am not sure exactly how it happened, but I was able to let go enough to allow my brother’s family to do what they needed to do. Once again, I am testing the let go with my sister and her husband.

I love them always. And will do what I can… always. Not necessarily in all ways… because… I can’t. OMG… did you just hear me say words that were never in my vocabulary? Will wonders ever cease?

Here’s something else this control freak realized. By letting go, I allowed the families of both siblings to be with their loved ones at a most important time.

I love clichés. I am one, so it figures.

I just realized that there is a deeper meaning to the cliche title of this blog: Life is what happens while I’m making plans. In this context, life includes death. What came to my new door this month was not new to me. I have moved before. I have been close to death and witnessed death before. But I am closer to my own shelf life date… like spitting distance of it. Oi vey!

This is a game changer.

If I want to stay in the game for as long as I can, and I do, then I want to acknowledge this new transition and the limitations I am now learning to live with.

Right??? Of course, right!!!

Which only goes to prove another cliche: God doesn’t give us any more than we can handle.

So, “Yoo! Hoo! Up there, wherever you are… I am not changing my number, but if you get a busy signal, don’t give up, and neither will I.

Love, Sally-Jane ❤️

P.S.
Elaine and I are in complete agreement!! Click to view:
I'm Still Here - Sondheim! The Birthday Concert (2010) - Elaine Stritch