I Choose Hope

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It hasn’t happened often, but when it rears its ugly head, it's suffocating. Physically painful. Mentally draining. Paula’s Pity Parties. Those moments when, without warning, all the darkest thoughts – the ‘Why Hubby?” despair - overshadows every waking moment. I find myself going through motions, consumed with a crushing sadness. Moved to tears by a song on my playlist from happier days. Trying to disrupt the dark mood with deep breaths and audible, head shaking sighs.

In the month since Hubby’s terrifying - and dramatic – adverse reaction to chemo, and the subject of my last post I have canceled (almost) all appointments with Pitiful Paula, focusing instead on playdates with Hope and Happiness. It hasn’t always been easy…

March of the Missing Penguin Pin: Previous blogs tell the entire story of this priceless piece of jewelry. The Pin was presented to me by P3 when Hubby was first diagnosed. Since then it has accompanied me to most social functions, and an occasional Target run! When it’s not in its place of honor on my sweater or jacket, it gets tucked into a small box on my bathroom counter.

Yesterday, in a hurry to get out the door to attend a luncheon with my Penguin pals, I opened the box to grab The Pin. It wasn’t there. “I must have left it on my denim jacket” I thought, hurrying to the closet to retrieve it from its perch. No Pin. My heart raced for a few seconds – and I was late for a very important luncheon. I forced myself not to panic, and headed out the door – Pinless. As I drove, I mentally retraced my steps, and remembered one place I hadn’t checked. For a moment I considered a detour to snatch The Pin before meeting the ‘Guins. But time - and California driving laws forbidding U-turns on Highway 101 - dissuaded me. I arrived, unadorned, to welcome hugs from my penguin “huddle”!

I was all smiles as we enjoyed each other’s company over bloody Mary’s and chardonnay, but my worry over The Pin was unshakable. I couldn’t imagine telling my friends I was responsible for losing the most treasured, shared ebony/mother of pearl symbol of our almost 40 years of friendship. I let Pitiful Paula get in my head – she expressed the worst of all possible thoughts. Was The Pin's disappearance an omen for another, more devastating loss? More deep breaths and another audible, head shaking sigh. C’mon Hope. I need you more than ever!

For the next several hours I hunted. Searched every article of clothing, Dug through cupboards, cars and crevices. Calls were made to the restaurant I last remember wearing it. Tears flowed as I confided to Daughter, and later to P3, my negligence in not having replaced The Pin for safe keeping. Hubby did his best to comfort me. Daughter reminded me it’s “just a thing”. The memories are forever, and a new penguin pin could carry on the tradition. P3 philosophically suggested the finder must have needed it more than I. In our hour long phone call, I used the time to re-search my closet and drawers while conversation turned to the more typical subjects – P3’s new home décor, and assorted gal talk. Worry had temporarily been sidelined when, with the sweep of some summer tops hung above a closet shelf, the unmistakable shape appeared. THE PIN! “I FOUND IT!” I screamed into the phone as I clutched it and ran downstairs to Hubby’s open arms. P3 cried happy tears on the other end of our call. My worry and doomsday assumptions had done nothing but muzzle my daily dose of hope and happiness. The happy ending was validation that hope reigns.

I spy with my little eye....

 I Can’t Believe This Happened: I am thrilled to report Hubby’s dialysis is history and the catheter has been surgically removed, leaving just one implant – the infusion port – taking up valuable real estate on his chest. He is showering again, sans the plastic wrapped and waterproof-taped protuberance. And no more kitchen sink shampoo dates with me!

Cath-free Hubby and I headed to Chemo Round 3 this week with the usual trepidation and unavoidable worry about a possible rerun of the post-chemo crisis that had landed him in the hospital four weeks earlier. Doctor A. met with us before the infusion and found Hubby in a sad and somber mood. Moments before, as he awaited the pre-chemo ritual of vitals and bloodwork, Hubby was lost in a pensive moment, his usual humor overtaken with damp eyes and a faraway stare. As I took his hand, he said, “I can’t believe this happened to me. Six months ago I was healthy…(sigh) …oh well.” It was Hubby’s first Pity Party and it broke my heart. When his nurse asked him why he was sad, he replied “I’m not sad. I’m mad.” He had every right to be angry, and I made the decision to forego my usual “Paula-anna” put-on-a-happy-face pep talk. I allowed him to process his mood without intervention. Hand holding was all I could provide as I wiped away my own tears.

Hopeful Hubby

When Dr. A met with us moments later, he reported the pre-chemo bloodwork showed improved liver and kidney function. Every indication pointed to smooth sailing with the dreaded 48 hour infusion pump Hubby would take home, and he insisted I call any hour of the day or night if said “ship” headed off course. My questions about future treatment options were answered with assurances that he would be aggressive in seeking alternatives (hello, clinical trials), if and when current chemo was deemed ineffective. His voice was filled with hope for Hubby. We all knew the harsh reality, but Doctor A. focused on what could be done. Hubby’s demeanor immediately changed. His shoulders carried less weight in those moments, and we shared a hug absent of worry, living in the present with positive thoughts for the future. Score one for hope!

My week of replacing worry with hope taught me valuable lessons for navigating Hubby’s cancer journey. It’s still a work in progress, and I know future bouts of negativity are inevitable. In a perfectly timed prologue to my “I Choose Hope” project, a gloriously happy floral bouquet was delivered – the third of its kind in consecutive weeks – from my pre-retirement work family, accompanied with an inspirational quote.

“Worry does not empty tomorrow of sorrow.

It empties today of its strength.”

I can’t deny worry is present every day. How could it not be? But I’m determined to keep it from consuming me. Hubby is living each day, staying in the moment. His birthday tomorrow will be emotional for everyone. Amid the birthday cheer, I choose to mute the unspeakable thoughts - as I expect will be the case with everyone sharing his special day. I am determined to set my autopilot on Hope and Happiness each and every day - staying #KahunaStrong. Wish me luck!

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

I'm Sorry

December 22. The date is burned into my memory. We had been bracing for answers to why Hubby’s health had taken such a sudden and catastrophic turn. The explanation for the sudden onset of acute renal failure didn’t fit neatly into any categories. Initial results indicated cancer, but more pathology was required before the specifics could be confirmed. We would have to await results. The wait was agonizing.

Two weeks later we held our collective breath as we sat, for the first time in either of our lives, in an oncologist’s waiting room. A muted big screen monitor screened footage of snow falling among the golden, shimmering aspen leaves in a serene idyllic mountain setting. A stunning arrangement of pine boughs and poinsettia acknowledged the jolly holiday season. A tabletop held neatly displayed brochures on a variety of relevant topics. Cancer support groups. Caregiver resources. A newsletter offered the BOLD Headline: California End of Life Option Act: Hoping for the Best, Planning for the Worst, and Knowing You Options. We weren’t in Kansas anymore.

Everyone was so positive!! The door to the inner sanctum opened frequently, as cancer patients and caregivers made their way to what, I was to discover later, was the multi-chair chemo center. Smiles abounded. Staff members welcomed patients back, engaging in congenial small talk. A jovial woman navigated her walker to a waiting room chair, smiling broadly under her crocheted cap to cover her hairlessness. “You still have your hair!” she commented to someone she apparently knew from previous chemo sessions. “So far!” he replied, smiling broadly. How could people here be so upbeat? This was an oncologist’s office. Cancer, the most evil, unfair and terrifying demon brought people here, yet they were exchanging smiles, pleasantries and holiday cheer. Christmas was just three days away, and the spirit of positivity abounded in a CANCER office.

Hubby and I were the exception to the light hearted mood. We were moments from the news we had been awaiting. My head was filled with hope - and fear. The “many voices of me” played an endless loop of happy endings, along with terrifying “life without Hubby” nightmares. We thought we were ready to find out….

No one can prepare for the news we received. Hubby’s doctor was gentle but direct. He told us how sorry he was that he didn’t have better news. Outlined detailed treatment options for the rare cancer threatening to steal my lifelong partner from me. Offered details about oncology specialists we should contact for second (and third, and fourth) opinions, and gave us his personal email for questions that may arise over the long holiday weekend. I had stopped trying to take notes, and secretly had my phone voice recorder capturing his words in order to play it back when my heart wasn’t pounding louder than his voice.

Through it all, Hubby listened intently, expressionless. No questions. No overt reaction. He may as well have been listening to a judge pronouncing a verdict after one of his court appearances. His only words to the doctor were, “Man, I’d hate to have your job.” That was it. A few closing comments followed, and the doctor gave Hubby an “I’m sorry” handshake and pat on the back as he exited the room.

We hadn’t uttered a word to each other. An examination table separated our two chairs, making even hand holding impossible as Hubby received the prognosis and time line. We had controlled our emotions in those agonizing minutes. Once the doctor left the room, we stood up, walked to each other and shared an embrace unlike any I could remember. I didn’t know what to say. But he did. Two words defined the man who has put others before himself his entire life. “I’m sorry.” As he received his “sentence”, my protector felt the rush of guilt for spoiling my happily ever after. We hugged as I melted into his still strong embrace. We wallowed in that tragic moment for a mere few seconds, then shook it off and put on our game face. There was no time to waste. Cancer wasn’t taking a break inside my Big Kahuna, and we couldn’t either.

We were unusually quiet as we headed home into the last light of what was a gorgeous SoCal winter sunset. As he drove, Hubby’s first comment was, “You’re going to be fine, I’ve got everything in place for you…” I stopped him mid-sentence. I was not ready. At the same time, I understood my man. Always putting others first. ALWAYS putting my needs first. He was about to begin the toughest battle of his life, yet his first thoughts centered on my future.

We made the decision to invite our son, daughter and their families to come to the house that evening, so we could tell them the news. Christmas was around the corner and our preschool and infant grandchildren were giddy with excitement. The juxtaposition of Hubby’s bombshell and Santa’s pending arrival had to be carefully played. Daughter held her 5 month old daughter, son attended to his 2 year old, happily eating blueberries, and son-in-law kept almost 4 year old son distracted…as their father found the words none of them wanted to hear. Like the doctor, he was brief and direct – and immediately assured them that he was ready to fight the good fight. Everyone guarded their emotions from the littles in the room, who were too young to feel the punch to the gut that followed the announcement. But their faces spoke volumes. Quiet tears mixed with bouncing baby girl and her sweet smile. Blank stares into the unknowns of their father’s future, against the playful banter of cousins happily engaged with treasures in Gigi and Grandpa’s toy closet. As unfortunate as the timing of the news, the joy of children at Christmas would prove to be a much needed diversion...

Christmas Eve was spent quietly, a seismic shift from the typical Hultman Christmas Eve Spectacular of the previous 38 years. Daughter hosted a Christmas Eve Pajama Party for our immediate family – the same party of 8 with whom we shared The News two nights earlier. Hubby continued his traditional reading of The Night Before Christmas to the less-than-attentive toddlers! Son, Daughter and I, on the other hand, didn’t want to miss a word. The significance of this Christmas Eve custom had a new poignancy. I recorded all of it – squirmy, chatty grandkids and all. I pray we will repeat the tradition next year and beyond.

Our quiet, mutually agreed upon giftless Christmas morning started with a kiss. We headed back to Daughter’s home, greeted by oldest Grandson’s announcement that Santa had indeed come, and the inquiry to both Grandpa and me, “Did Santa bring you coal or presents?” I assured him we were on the Nice List which brought him great relief! Daughter, our designated Santa delivered joyfully wrapped presents to their intended recipients.

One – then two – and three packages made their way to me, with the telltale handwriting and tags. “To the Lovely Paula Marie, from The Big Kahuna. To Mrs. H. from Mr. H. To Mom from Charlie (our goofy Golden)”. I could not hold back my tears. We vowed not to exchange presents, yet Hubby had broken the rules. “I’m sorry,” he said. I immediately understood the reason why he had ignored our no gifts pledge. We didn’t have to say it but it was never far from our minds – what will next Christmas hold in store?

In those first few days after the diagnosis, we rode an emotional roller coaster of fear and uncertainty, wistful hope and forced positivity. In the weeks since, we are finding our footing. Hubby feels well enough to continue working, with a few tweaks to his calendar. His kidneys are healing and dialysis may soon be discontinued permanently. His sense of humor is intact - his biggest compliment coming from the staff of his nephrologist's office, "Mr. Hultman, you are my favorite patient!" There have been some terrifying moments too, to be shared in a future post, along with immeasurable gratitude to family and friends for their seemingly limitless support. I don’t think Hubby comprehended how his lifetime of generosity and selflessness touched others. He has been moved to tears more than once – not by the fight he faces – but by the avalanche of kindness, compassion, prayers and support from so many. After one particular act of thoughtfulness, he commented, “People are being so nice,” as his eyes welled up and voice cracked. Wiping away the tears, embarrassed by his tearful moment, he said, “I’m sorry.” Honey, you have nothing to apologize for. You are still the strongest person I know. I promise to stay #kahunastrong

Kahuna Strong - An Unexpected Journey

My Big Kahuna and me. 50 years of memories.

We rang in 2018 together, celebrating west coast New Year’s Eve on east coast time! 3,2,1 HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!! We kissed, and hugged tighter. Longer.  Made a promise to repeat this hug a year from now - something we never felt the need to say before. We held hands, and in that moment we both knew what the other was thinking. Would this be our last New Year?  I have felt the warm touch of his strong hand wrapped around mine for 46 New Year’s Eves. A week earlier I stopped taking for granted the otherwise trivial act of intertwining fingers with my best friend, lover, confidant, problem solver, and father of my children…

In a matter of seconds, on the eve of the long Christmas weekend, I felt the blood rush from my heart to the pit of my stomach. My throat tightened and I felt the heat in my temples as millions of brain cells processed the incomprehensible. Hubby has cancer. Rare. Incurable. Advanced. The oncologist gave us the verdict, and pronounced the sentence. His words gave an urgency and new meaning to everything.

Chemo has begun – and not without drama (to be shared in an upcoming post). He has been receiving thrice weekly dialysis for the acute renal failure triggered by the cancer. Hubby is a fighter and is treating this as he would as one of his trials. In his words, “This cancer is no different than cross-examining a hostile witness. Be aggressive, stay in control and cut them no slack until they are brought to their knees.” Those enemy cancer cells picked the wrong guy to mess with!

50 years ago, the friendliest boy in our senior class noticed a shy, bookish, insecure classmate. A friendship began, and three years later blossomed into a love affair. 44 years ago we exchanged the “for better or worse, in sickness and in health” vows - and have been blessed with a lifetime of “better” and “health”. We weren’t prepared for opposite ends of those vows, but it’s the hand we’ve been dealt. 

Until now, news of Hubby's diagnosis has been limited to family and extended family. It has taken time for us to adjust to the new normal. He had chosen to control the narrative, and still hopes not to  be defined by the diagnosis. But knowing that my therapy is writing, Hubby gave his blessing to sharing his journey from my perspective. Thank you, honey. We’re in this new chapter together and the love of my life – my Big Kahuna - remains #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.

Why Am I Here?

Everyone can relate to those annoying moments when we can’t pull that byte of information from our human hard drive. What day is Charlie’s vet appointment? Is this the “other” week for taking down the recycled trash bin?  What was it I headed to the kitchen for? Life, at any age, is rife with moments of forgetfulness. As a super-adult the memory lapses may become more frequent, but to date I can say my record for timely data retrieval is pretty damn good. Except for that one day…

It began as a Sunday brunch at our home, following a Saturday night shindig in our "always ready for a party" backyard. Out of town friends and family congregated at Casa de Hultman for mimosas, munchies and memories. As usual I channeled my inner Martha Stewart, doing what I love most – entertaining. It was a lovely gathering if I do say so myself! After the guests departed, I felt the satisfaction of another successful social event, and a bit of fatigue associated with the week of socializing with wonderful friends.  I decided to take a nap – something I never do – but my bed was calling my name.

Twas the Night Before...it took a day or so to remember, as the video below shows.

An hour before I "lost my mind"!

Six hours later, I opened my eyes as I was being inserted into an MRI chamber! What happened in those hours between my nap and that tube of terror is nowhere to be found in my memory. But Hubby, Son and Daughter have filled in the gaps. Let me set the scene…

As I headed upstairs for that fateful nap, I asked Hubby to run to the store for some Gatorade, my after-party beverage of choice. I had opted out of imbibing that day, but the week of “fun with friends” had resulted in the lower intestinal “gift” that keeps on giving! Son and Daughter-in-Law were at their home preparing meals in advance of the arrival of their first born, due any day. Daughter was with her Mommy and Babies group at the beach, enjoying a beautiful SoCal Sunday. About an hour after I had gone upstairs, Hubby left to fulfill my G2 request. Then the calls started…

According to phone records and corroborating reports from those involved, I called hubby first, but he had left his phone in the car when he ran into the market. I called Son and Daughter-in-Law next. By all reports, I sounded completely normal, and asked if Hubby was there. DIL said no, and I ended the call, but not before telling her, "I can't remember anything." I then called Daughter. “Something is wrong, I can't remember anything," I reported, then I added the kicker! "Dad’s not here and he won’t come home!” Understandably alarmed, she stayed on the phone with me while her friend called Hubby. He was leaving the store, got the call and raced home in record time. He found me sitting on the edge of the bed, coherent but confused, saying I didn’t remember anything. 9-1-1 was called, EMT’s arrived, and I was triaged, then transported by ambulance to the local hospital. I REMEMBER NONE OF THIS!!

I learned in cases like this, the first diagnosis is stroke. Once that was ruled out, the ER doctor and “virtual” neurologist (yes, there was a robo-doctor!) diagnosed Transient Global Amnesia (TGA). You can learn more here, but the cliff notes are:

• Sudden onset of memory loss
• Retention of personal identity despite memory loss
• Normal cognition, such as the ability to recognize and name familiar objects and follow simple directions
• Absence of signs indicating damage to a particular area of the brain, such as limb paralysis, involuntary movement or impaired word recognition

Just ride it out, the doctors said. She will not remember any of this and will be herself within 24 hours. To rule out anything more sinister, I was subjected to CT scans, MRI’s and EEG’s, and experienced my first hospital sleepover since giving birth.  

For the family, relief replaced panic. Daughter and Hubby stayed by my side, and enjoyed the comedic side effect of TGA - my repetitive questioning – “Why am I here?” “How did I get here?” This was a continuous loop for hours, with my occasional comment, “This is just like “50 First Dates.” DIL and Son showed up to join the party, and Hubby swears he asked my permission to video a TGA moment, as a souvenir of my “mindless” adventure. My comments and reactions to Hubby's news is priceless. You know I love my followers because I am showing you "Paula, unplugged!"

As promised, my memory slowly returned, and about six hours after my “nap”, I was almost back to normal. Follow ups with neurologists confirmed this was TGA. Try as I might, I cannot pull any memory of those lost hours, and in particular feel a little cheated out of recall of that ambulance ride and cute paramedics!

Earlier this week, Daughter reminded me of a momentous event in her life that I had totally forgotten. TGA wasn’t to blame this time. As she shared the memory with a bit of a laugh, I felt guilt. I should have remembered! Thankfully, Daughter filled in some of the gaps and rekindled my memory. Whew! 

We all have unforgettable moments in our life, but what about the lost memories? I'm hoping they are lingering in the recesses of my brain's white matter, ready to materialize one day. As a super adult I am learning there is a limit on our mental cellular data. 

To my friends who have dutifully kept journals, I admire you. Imagine the joy you will have reading and reliving your history!  I am pledging, for my remaining days on this planet, to begin this daily practice of jotting down notes.  Perhaps the collected memories will help me answer the BIG questions of life…

Why am I here? How did I get here?

Bucket List, Chuck-it List

I’m a list maker. Always have been, always will be. As a kid, I catalogued my collection of 45’s –  those now-collectible vinyl discs that rendered their scratchy tunes on my hi-fi record player – each carefully numbered and neatly indexed in their carrying case (which I still have!). I left page-long lists for babysitters. The family friend who stays with our Golden Retriever gets his “Chillin’ with Charlie” instructions. Even Hubby gets one of my lists when my honey-do’s exceed three items.

Lists have two purposes, to which all “listers” will identify. They’re the hardcopy backup to the oft overloaded mental notes, and more importantly they provide the greatest pleasure of all - the satisfaction of the check mark or confident strike-through of each completed task. I compiled a list on my laptop with new subjects for this blog, and am already pondering how I will ceremoniously give each topic closure – I’m leaning toward changing the font to bold. Yes, I am that

person! 

It will come as no surprise that I created a “list” in the months before my retirement date. Personally, I’m not a fan of the term Bucket List – or the Before I Die List, as I see it! In fact mine is likely not what you might imagine, or would have created for yourself. And it’s not one of my neatly typed or carefully penned creations. I wasn’t even in list-making mode when I began writing thoughts on the subject. I was just a girl, with a post-it pad, and an app that calculated how many work days I had left – eighty-eight to be exact…

In a moment of inspiration, I began numbering the corner of each page of that little sticky note pad. 88, 87, 86, 85….all the way to page 1. My goal was to write one retirement to-do per day on one page, then transfer that page to a new stack, thus creating a countdown to R-Day and a lovely collection of super adult activities. Some are grand (book a Mediterranean cruise). Others are adventurous – for me (go kayaking). But most are small, almost insignificant (take Charlie to the beach, anonymously purchase someone’s meal, plant a garden). Each one brings happiness, and I can say that I have succeeded in accomplishing a fair number of my post-it promises to myself. I have since added to the post-it pile as my retirement mindset has expanded.

woodleywonderworks goodbye via photopin (license)

An equally important accomplishment has been my Chuck-it List (and yes, I do call it something a little grittier). This one isn’t in writing. It just IS! I have used my 60’s to detox my life! Toxic people - gone. Regrets - so long. Cluttered closets –I’m working on it. Maybe it's time to part with those 45's! I am using this decade, and the time retirement allows me, to rid myself of that which does not bring me joy. My commitment to the 3-U’s - Unplug, Unfollow, Unsubscribe - remains a work in progress but I am finding that life is so much more rewarding in its simpler form. Hygge, anyone?

I’m happy with my not too grand, Before I Die list, but my Chuck-it list has probably brought me the most inner peace. And it’s never too early to start your own. Bucket or Chuck-it!

soikkoratamo Midday tea via photopin (license)