The Story of Us - Chapter One

When Paula Met Georgie

My all-time favorite romantic comedy is Nora Ephron’s When Harry Met Sally. Besides the classic scenes that made Top 100 lists, my favorite moments were the “older” couples sharing their “meet cute” stories, and subsequent happily ever-after’s.

Cancer stole our fairy tale ending. But George and I had a wonderful Once Upon a Time. I have decided to share our story – a way to remember the boy I met in high school, who became the man I loved – and who will forever be my one and only. The story of George and Paula… 

I have an overworked and underpaid high school counselor - a man I met only once - to thank for the happiest 50 years of my life. Without his begrudging acceptance of my request to opt out of advanced Economics class, I never would have been transferred into the English class in which the trajectory of my life would be determined...

September, 1968. My last semester of high school. I spent my entire high school career on the periphery, as an observer. I was most comfortable when I went unnoticed. I quietly studied, and silently admired from afar, the fun and frolic of the popular kids. A safe distance, I thought, from what I feared would be their rejection. I knew who they were, and I envied the ease with which they navigated high school – making friends and memories from “their” lunch tables and gathering spots. 

There was one boy in particular who always caught my attention. He seemed to fit in with everyone. And he seemed to own the campus in his own special way. As a junior, he would routinely appear out of nowhere, ambling into my in-session biology class and perching himself on the window ledge to “hang out” in the class. Mrs. Swanson, the teacher, obviously knew him. And she never booted him out! The rule follower in me was fascinated by his casual disregard for classes and hall passes. He never disrupted her lessons, and left with the same ease with which he appeared.

George, Class of  Winter, '69 Voted the Friendliest Boy in class.

Paula, Class of Winter,'69 Always flying under the radar.

“Oh, that’s George,” his next-door neighbor informed me. She was a casual acquaintance of mine, and ambivalent to George’s high profile, high school persona. To her, he was the boy with a ‘57 Chevy who gave her a ride to and from school when she needed it. George’s command of high school culture fascinated me. And never in a million years did I imagine being noticed by him. Frankly, I was happy to be a “nobody” in school. It was safer that way.

By my senior year I was more interested in war protests than muscle cars. Baez over Beach Boys. High school boys? Too immature for my taste. And, at 17, I had a boyfriend! My first. He had been the laundry delivery boy for my parent’s dry cleaner business, and had a year of college under his belt. He took me to prom four months earlier, and I felt some satisfaction in finally attaining boyfriend-worthy status. I walked a little more confidently down the halls of high school, and counted the days until graduation.

With one semester left, I had already decided to attend a nearby community college. The reason wasn’t my SAT scores or grade point average. It was my insecurity, and fear of being away from home. The traumas of  childhood left me scarred, and moving away to attend a university was simply terrifying. This decision meant I could coast through my last semester. College prep classes? Didn’t need them. I was looking for an easy A, and advanced Economics was not that class!

Enter the counselor. Mr. Friedman. I don’t recall ever making a trip to visit him, but two days into my last semester I signed my name on the counseling office roster, and took my seat. I would state my case, and hope for the best. Try as he might to guilt me into staying in that Econ class, I stood firm. He searched the schedule and found an opening in a senior English class. Bingo! That was my ticket to an easy A, and I jumped at it.

The only downside? I had to waltz into the class - already in progress - to present my transfer papers to Mrs. Barry, the teacher. To add to the discomfort, the only entrance to her room was at the rear of the class. From there, I had to walk the gauntlet between two rows of desks to the front of the room and her desk. I took a breath, and marched in, never making eye contact with a soul - but feeling their steely stares as all eyes turned to see why teaching had been interrupted.

As I quickly glanced up to make the turn toward the front of the class, I saw him. Seated in the last seat at the back of the class. George looked up from his book as I entered, and as I approached his desk, he quietly made a comment directed at me. I don’t remember his exact words, but whatever he said made me feel welcome. I handed Mrs. Barry my papers, and took the seat she offered. Smack dab in the front row. I was relieved to sit down, and imagined 35 pairs of eyes looking at my back – feeling the discomfort of the attention I so carefully avoided. I focused my attention on the teacher, took out my pencil and notebook, and settled into the safe haven of English composition.

Day two in Mrs. Barry‘s class ignited an unexpected friendship. As I sat down at my front row desk, the seat next to mine had a new occupant. George would later tell me he had negotiated a seat swap with the boy to my left, using his nearsightedness as an excuse to have a front row seat. In that move, our friendship was born.

He was friendly. Funny. Well-mannered and respectful. He made me laugh and I felt comfortable for the first time in any high school class. I listened to his painful breakup story, from which he had not fully recovered. 

His first high school sweetheart. Tall. Blond. Beautiful  They remained friends to the end...

I shared College Boyfriend stories. CB was a child of privilege, a pampered only-child who didn’t apply himself and lost his football scholarship after a year. I was flattered by his attention and overlooked his flaws. He was nothing like George. 

George, like me, was the child of solid working class roots, and spent every day after school and weekends as a “tire buster” for Firestone Tire Company. He made excellent money for the time - a whopping $4.50 an hour when minimum wage was $1.25 (tire busters were also card carrying Teamsters Union members). He was understandably proud to have purchased a replacement to his mom’s 57 Chevy - his royal blue, 1967 GTO. I wasn’t impressed by his muscle car, but I appreciated his work ethic. I was content to sing folk songs in College Boyfriend’s VW square-back.

For 20 weeks we spent an hour together, Monday through Friday. George would call me occasionally after school to chat, eventually steering the conversation to discuss the novels we were reading for class. He would ask my opinion about the plot and characters, or whatever the written homework assignment called for. And I willingly shared my thoughts as, I found out later, he took copious notes. I can safely say my A in Mrs. Barry‘s class was earned, while George’s B was directly influenced by those evening chats!

College Boyfriend wasn’t interested in any of my high school activities, so my new friend George graciously offered to sub in. He drove my girlfriends and me to and from football games (where girls were still required to wear skirts or dresses). Being with George gave me a sense of belonging, and it felt wonderful. 

When a bout with flu sidelined me from attending the Senior Class Breakfast (where he received the “Friendliest Boy” award), George took me to IHOP a week later as my consolation breakfast. I finally had happy memories from high school. I had a boy - friend. And he was “Popular”! My fragile ego felt a wisp of that oh-so-precious teenage commodity – acceptance. We graduated in January 1969 (baby boom overcrowding necessitated staggered enrollment with two graduating classes each year), and we went our separate ways.

Our paths would only cross a handful of times over the next two years. We never dated during that time, but our friendship never faded. And I had no idea it was the beginning of a fifty year love story.

Thank you, Mr. Friedman!

Prom 1968. Before Paula met Georgie

After 45 years, I finally made it to the cool kids table!

I Wasn’t Ready To Say Goodbye

My Hubby, my Big Kahuna, George left us at 2:03am, April 19. His heart was not strong enough to fight the infection caused by his cancer and chemo weakened immune system. Scott Allison and I were with him to say goodbye. Then I came home and wrote...

We had a great life together. From the day we officially met 50 years ago, we were friends at first sight. July 6 would have marked our 44th anniversary. I will celebrate that date forever.

I’m awake at 4:15 in the morning imagining you downstairs, watching old TV reruns from your chair. I hear your voice. I see your big broad shoulders. your duck footed walk -just like your dad. My head is on the pillow you insisted we bring to the hospital. Where I said goodbye. Where they gently removed and handed me your rings - even the wedding band that hadn’t been off your finger since the 90’s. It’s now around my neck on the chain and locket you gave me for my birthday a few weeks ago. I’m clutching them and imagining they’re still on your big strong hands.

I wasn’t ready to say goodbye so soon my love. It’s not the happy ending we had assumed was in our future. But I know I made the decision you would have wanted.

You were so so so loved! You cried often these past few months, seeing the outpouring of support, and realizing for the first time how many people cared deeply about you. You told me more than once the biggest compliment anybody could pay you was to say you were honest, generous and fair. You were all that and so much more.

I’m so sad. I’m afraid. Already missing you so much that it’s hard to breathe. I know your biggest concern when you found out you were sick was how hard it was going to be on the kids and me Once again you only thought about others.

Georgie I love you. I will always love you. We had such a beautiful and wonderful life together. Scott, Alison the grandkids and I will stay strong - #kahunastrong - because that’s what you would want us to do. We will also laugh loudly, dance happily, give freely -and forever bleed Dodger blue! They won last night. For you!!!

Until we meet again. Please come visit me in my dreams as often as you can.

I am forever your Lovely Paula Marie.

Chemo 911

January 9. After a second opinion confirmed the only viable treatment option for his rare cancer, Chemo Day 1 arrived – a day we actually celebrated the infusion of copious amounts of poison into Hubby. Armed with the information on side effects. Prepared to deal with them head on. Look out cancer, cells, Hubby was ready to FIGHT!

We had received the tour of the chemo infusion center a day earlier, led by Linda, one of the RN’s specially trained to administer toxic cocktails with kindness and compassion (I think I have coined their slogan!). Our lifelong friend, breast cancer survivor and chemo veteran – and one of my Penguins (P3) – had offered to accompany Hubby to his first session, and he and I both readily accepted. Her familiarity with the process was comforting.

Armed with my lovingly prepared snack bag, his favorite pillow and the already packed bag used for those 3:30 a.m. dates with dialysis, Hubby and P3 headed out the door. I would arrive midway through the four and a half hour session, as we had planned in advance. I used the time to undergo my own version of chemical alteration – a date with my hair stylist for long overdue cut and color!

Hubby’s first session went smoothly. I arrived to find him attached to an IV drip, peacefully binge-watching a Netflix offering, while P3 played Words with Friends alongside him in their “chemo cubicle.” After my debrief on all I had missed – including the fabulous news his PET scan showed no additional cancer other than what we already knew – I settled in for the remainder of the session. Hubby was to go home with a second chemo drug administered over the next 48 hours via an IV pump. As they prepared the VHS tape size (remember those?) pump, and locked and loaded the deadly drugs inside, we received instructions for living with the new appendage over the next two days. Keep it dry. Check. Sleep with the pump under a pillow. Check. Expect the pump to sound an alarm when the drugs are depleted, and return to the office as soon as possible afterward to be extricated from the machine. Got it!

Chemo pump in hand - and in bed, and at the desk and dinner table - Hubby was prepared. We knew the side effects to expect. The first ones to surface were jaw pain and hyper-sensitivity to touching, or being touched, by anything cold. Not horrible, but definitely not comfortable. He worked all day, and gave no indication to the outside world that chemical warfare was underway inside his body.

Twenty six hours after chemo had begun, it hit. 4:00 p.m. to be exact. As Hubby was on the phone getting the great news from his nephrologist that his kidneys were starting to do their work, thus putting a hold on dialysis, he excused himself from the call and urgently made his way to the bathroom. I checked off the nausea and vomiting box of the side-effect playbook. Definitely unpleasant, but anticipated.  Hubby was moving into the worst days following chemo, as the doctor had prepared us. He was in bed by six, and I braced myself for a long, worrisome night. My heart was heavy, witnessing my strong, formerly healthy Hubby in such a vulnerable and foreign (to us) condition. I never expected the worst day of this entire experience was about to unfold…

The nausea was relentless. All night and into the pre-dawn hours, Hubby moved from bed, to bathroom to downstairs. He didn’t speak. Just rocked back and forth, quietly moaning and finding temporary comfort in the gentle massage I offered. Daybreak announced itself with a beautiful pink sunrise, and I suggested he go back upstairs and into bed. As we passed the hallway, he pointed toward his office. “The doctor is his…um…..his…” he uttered, confused and suddenly incoherent. He tried again to force out a sentence, clearly frustrated with himself, and with me for not understanding him. There was no box to check in the playbook for this side effect! I was terrified. I know my man, and something was terribly wrong.

What do I do? WHAT DO I DO??? Call the doctor, pray the early hour call will be quickly relayed to the on-call physician, and calmly describe his condition. Provide details. Take notes. Within two minutes, his doctor was on the line, agreed Hubby was in crisis, and calling 9-1-1 was my only option. I steadied my hands and took deep breaths, as I made my first ever 911 call. I talked slowly, voice cracking from the fear that shuddered within me, as I attempted to convey my emergency. I hung up and realized I was still in my pajamas! I could hear the sirens as I raced upstairs to trade my cozy flannel for clothes approved for public viewing - leggings and an oversize hoodie - and most importantly, a bra!! As the sirens got closer, I ran a brush through my hair and hurried downstairs to await the arrival of the cavalry. Somewhere in all of this, I called P3, my personal 911 emergency contact!

I first heard the unmistakable rumbling of the fire engine as it turned the corner, followed moments later by the ambulance. Keep your wits. Tell them everything. Chemo. Confusion. Nausea. Dialysis. Pump. I provided a timeline and my laundry list of symptoms to a polite young firefighter/paramedic who entered the information into his tablet. Two other paramedics with an arsenal of equipment took Hubby’s vitals and assessed his mental state. Within minutes he was on a stretcher and in the back of the ambulance for his second visit to the emergency room in four weeks. P3’s sister had arrived, and became my designated driver. Hubby was in good hands, and P3 had called her sister, who lived nearby, to assure I was too! Upon arrival at the hospital, the nightmare began…

I was escorted to Hubby in exam room 13 - an omen to the horrors that followed – to find him being attended to by a less than compassionate RN whose nametag was not visible. I could choose a more fitting 5-letter moniker, but I’ll refer to her as NURSE. Hubby was flailing in the bed, uncomfortable, agitated, and unable to communicate a cohesive sentence. I became his spokesperson and advocate, giving NURSE my litany of vital information. Dialysis. First Chemo. First Pump. Recent diagnosis. Cancer newbies. She never made eye contact with me, and faced her computer monitor, presumably entering notes assuring Hubby’s standard of care would be met. The ER doctor arrived, and again I shared my laundry list of what had transpired in the last 12 hours. IV’s were ordered for severe dehydration, and blood test results would eventually reveal hepatic encephalopathy – a buildup of ammonia in his blood that affected his brain. He would have to be readmitted to the hospital for more dialysis to remove the toxins that clouded his brain, and more tests to assess the cause.

In the hours that followed, Hubby was treated by NURSE in the ER as a “nuisance patient” - unable to speak for himself; in pain, and fighting to sit up as P3, her sister and I physically restrained him; tugging at the IV; pleading be allowed to relieve himself; unattended for an hour and a half; not receiving the fluids and medication due to an IV that had malfunctioned. When NURSE finally returned to find us keeping weak and incoherent Hubby upright at the edge of the bed again, she scolded us.  “You should have called me!” she barked. We had been – for the past 90 minutes! It went downhill from there…

I finally lost my s#!t when Hubby’s chemo pump alarm began beeping, signaling the completion of the 48 hour infusion. Upset, confused and scared out of my mind, I looked helplessly at the buttons on the pump. I had not expected to be “here” when this moment came. My playbook had us calling the chemo center and driving there for their staff to handle.  I'm sure I looked like a deer in headlights. When NURSE said, “What do you usually do when the pump alarm rings?” I reached the tipping point. “HE IS NEW TO CHEMO. I HAVE BEEN TELLING YOU THIS ALL DAY. I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT TO DO.” Crying. Yelling, Being very un-Paula-like. I stormed out of the room and headed to the main hospital entrance to find someone – anyone – and demand help.

I’m sure I looked like an escapee from the psyche unit! Kind volunteers tried to calm me down, but I was in full on, Terms of Endearment mode.

Getting no help, I stormed back to Hubby's ER room 13, ready to throttle NURSE. Thankfully, P3 had stayed with him. Hubby was peaceful, thanks to the resumption of the IV meds which now included the hours-before requested sedative and pain meds.  The chemo pump had been flushed and removed by NURSE while I was away (I was to learn later that day that ER nurses are not authorized to deal with toxic chemo drugs and pumps, and her casual handling of the pump and residual chemo drugs put us all at risk).

Six hours after it had begun, the ER nightmare would come to an end. Hubby was moved to the oncology unit to begin the dialysis that would have him clear-headed by the next morning. I left late that evening, while  Hubby was still struggling to sit up and yanking at his dialysis and IV tubing - and sadly unaware of who I was. Thankfully he was now under the care of a kind and compassionate oncology unit nursing team. I held my breath as I arrived back at the hospital the next morning. Would Hubby be back from the brink? He answered that question immediately with his first words, “Why the hell am I here again?” Oh honey, have I got a story to tell you. He has no memory of his “lost day”, but those 24 hours I will never forget!

While Hubby was having his "out of mind" experience, I was learning something about myself. It brought to life a quote that friends have shared with me since the onset of this cancer journey.

“You are Braver than you believe, Stronger than you seem, Smarter than you think, 

and Loved more than you know.”

Epilogue: Hubby’s second chemo round was thankfully uneventful, and “pump-less”. He will be put to the test next round when they resume the full course of treatment. 

Hubby keeping up with client email, sporting his fashionable chemo port comfort shirt. 

I wrote the hospital with details of our horrific ER experience, and received back-to-back calls from hospital and emergency room directors, offering sincere apologies, assurances that retraining and coaching of staff is underway, and promises that no patients will have to endure the lack of care and compassion Hubby received. To ALL of the amazing, dedicated and caring (as well as overworked and likely underpaid!) friends and family in the noble nursing profession, please know how much I admire and respect all that you do. This was hopefully a one-off, horrible, no good,very bad day - for the nurse as well as us! 

This experience tested me on so many levels and I while I hope never to relive it, I know I can. Braver. Stronger. Smarter. Loved. And I remain #kahunastrong

The Route to 66

It’s official. I am a Medicare card carrying, Social Security receiving Super Adult. Today marks the 66^th anniversary of that eventful day when my 42 year old parents, and my 19 and 14 year old siblings welcomed little Paula Marie into the world. I have tearfully said goodbye to Mom, Dad and my sibs, but I feel their presence always, and know they are celebrating with me today as I mark another notch in my birthday belt.

The past year was marked with some challenges and milestones – a debilitating back injury and surgery, retirement, Hubby happily relocating to a home office, and all of the adjustments that ensued. While I may have moved to the last age demographic bubble on (almost) every survey, there’s still a lot of life left in this girl!

I also find myself being more reflective. What have I learned so far on my journey? Here are 17 Things I Learned On My Route to 66.

1. I have had a simple, full life. I have reconciled any regrets with self-forgiveness
2. I reinvented myself and my careers, choosing always to follow my heart
3. I have made lifelong friendships
4. I have not let the worst moments of my life affect the best moments
5. My children are my greatest accomplishment
6. Grandparenting is my reward for not inadvertently killing my kids as their clueless mother!
7. I am happiest when Hubby is by my side
8. Laughter is the secret sauce of a great marriage
9. Letting go of toxic relationships is liberating.
10. Perfectionism is an excuse - and a roadblock to growth
11. Giving selflessly is reward enough
12. Fighting against social injustice is ageless
13. Forget science and technology. Well engineered undergarments (aka Spanx)  are the best invention of the past 100 years
14. You’re never too old to dance
15. Every fashion trend will reappear in time – except, maybe, shoulder pads
16. Pie trumps cake
17. Love trumps hate

Aging is inevitable. Your relationship with age is a choice. I choose to embrace the physical reminders and cherish the gifts that my years have bestowed on me.  Hubby is taking me to the Happiest Place on Earth today, where I will proudly wear my “It’s My Birthday” button, enjoy the people watching, and count my blessings.  

Go ahead. Call me “Paula-ana” – I’m excited for what my next 66 years have to offer! Happy Birthday to Me. Here’s to my Sensational 66!

My loves. My heart.

Who Are Your Penguins?

It began with a Christmas gift from one friend to three others about 15 years ago. Matching pins – each one a sterling silver penguin with abalone inlay. This was a step up from our usual gift exchange of decorative lemon zesters and scented candles, and it begged the question – did I miss the memo about the increased gift price limit?



The Pin

I wasn’t alone in my surprise. Three of the four of us were feeling a bit guilty about our presents soon to be opened – cute cocktail napkins, festive cheese spreaders, and gingerbread man coffee mugs!  Our friend had some explaining to do, but first she had one more gift to bestow– in a red silk pouch. The last gift was another pin – this one a group of three penguins – in stunning black coral and mother of pearl. With this pin came the story that has bonded us for years, and has seen us through the most challenging moments of our lives.

Why penguins? Our friend had done her research. In Emperor penguin society, huddling is a survival method. In the frigid arctic winters, penguins form tight groups to protect each other and to conserve body heat. The penguins constantly maneuver themselves from the outside to the inside of the huddle in order for each to have the warmth and protection necessary to conserve energy and avoid starvation or death. The individual penguin pins would become beautiful additions to our personal jewelry collections, but the three-penguin pin would belong to all of us – its next keeper to be determined by whoever currently had the pin in her possession. In our friendship foursome, the Penguin Pin would be symbolic of our “huddle” – if you received it, you knew that whatever challenge you were facing, your penguins were with you, in a huddle, keeping you warm and safe and loved.

I have a particular fondness for my penguin pals, because in this circle I am the baby penguin – P4 – and P1, P2, and P3 are going out of their way to welcome me into their decade! Our huddle has protected every one of us at some time over the years since P1’s original gift was shared. There is no meeting of the minds or timeline to determine when and to whom The Pin should be passed. We penguins know when someone is in need of being in the center of the huddle, and over the years The Pin has been with each one of us when we needed it the most. The Pin spent the better part of 2010 with P3 – huddling with her as she fought her battle with breast cancer. The Pin saw her through lumpectomies, mastectomies and chemo. If one of the penguins was not physically with P3 during her battle, our symbolic huddle never left her side.

There are also times when The Pin celebrates some of the best penguin moments. When P2 and her husband celebrated their 40^th anniversary with a renewal of their wedding vows, we offered to be her bridesmaids (as the baby penguin, I volunteered to be the flower girl). After lots of wine and laughter, we assured P2 that we would opt for a less obvious inclusion in the ceremony, and presented her with The Pin. We pinned it to her bouquet and “walked” down the aisle with her. It is one of my favorite penguin memories.

In January, after my first blog post admitting my struggles with turning 60, my penguins and I huddled over more wine – another method we use to keep warm – and I confided some of my fears, my regrets and my lowest moments that had taken me to that dark place I mentioned in my earlier post. I realized that I had felt like the penguin on the outer fringe of the huddle, shivering in the cold, fearing my future. Thankfully I had shaken off the negativity and was ready to embrace 60 – which, they reminded me, was not a death sentence! Not long afterward, I found the unmistakable red silk pouch on my dresser. There it was. The Pin. P3 was on her way to recovery and she had quietly passed the huddle to P4 – the penguins had my back.

One benefit of super adulthood is the wealth of memories you can savor - experiences shared with the most important people in your life. My circle of extraordinary friends and family extends beyond The Penguins, and I can not imagine this journey that has been my life without them sharing it with me. To those of you who haven’t already done so, celebrate the penguins in your life. Keep them close, treasure them, and be there when they need warmth, love and support. Thank you family, friends and my penguins - you are a magnificent huddle!

Junior Penguins



Colorful Penguins



Playful Penguins