On the last day of my period,
The doctor calls to tell me I am in menopause
I put down the phone, feel the lump in the back of my throat,
Close my eyes. I will tell no one, I think
And then: I need to write about this.

My second mother-in-law would not have approved.

I suspected something was up a week ago when I woke up, heart a disco, drenched in sweat, Bedclothes banished.
I, historically hysterically cold.
Thus the bloodwork. Thus the doctor.

Last week before bed,
armed with a tall glass of water,
I started to read the article in the New Yorker about Hillary’s book
and I got so angry I had to put the magazine down.
“I am tired of hearing about Hillary,” my sleepy husband said.
“That’s why I am angry,” I said. But I let him sleep.

My first mother-in-law, upon turning 60 announced,
“I am now officially invisible. I walk down the street and no one, no one, looks at me.”
We all have primal fears. Some are afraid of being noticed; some are afraid of public speaking; some are afraid of being called on, or of disagreeing or of taking a stand.

I am afraid of becoming invisible.

My doctor—a woman my age—said, “What is the point of this?
You had a hot flash,
You are fifty
What about perimenopause do you not understand?
What are you going to do with the information the bloodwork gives you?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I’ll just…have it.”

November 8. 9/11. The day my first husband disappeared.
These days are cloaked and choked in shock and violence,
Trauma so painful to focus on that we look away.
I had to put the New Yorker down when they wrote how Hillary took a nap on election night
And woke up to find that Michigan, Wisconsin and Pennsylvania had all turned red.
She was going to wear white when she gave her victory speech
under a glass ceiling that was going to be broken.

We are tired of hearing about Hillary, say the Bernie Bros, who are my friends again.
And rivers of rage converge as if I am Pittsburgh
A man is strong and angry, and we call him powerful
A woman is strong and angry and we call her hormonal
Or nasty
Or manipulative
If she is young, she is a bitch
If she is old, she is a witch
I am not tired of Hillary.
I am parched for her leadership
After nine months of drought,
I have no tears left

Why did I want the numbers the bloodwork gave me?
What can they tell me that I don’t already know?
There are age spots on my hands.
I can’t open a pickle jar without a tool, or my daughter’s help.
I need glasses to read.
Soon I will need hearing aids.
But I can feel.
I can think.
I can sing.
I can do a huckle-buckle and make my kids laugh.
I can bathe my dog.
I can teach kids to sing.
I can find a new chord to play on the guitar.
I can hear an argument and change my mind;
or I can hear an argument and counter it with reason and kindness.
I can determine how to be of service to a friend.
I can plant some dogwoods in my backyard.
I can hold my children, still, and smell the tops of their heads.

Maybe this next half-century will be about seeing rather than being seen.


I woke last night
At the disco again
But this time, I heard the voices of my friends.
Felt their hands reaching
To pull me to the other side of the dance floor.
It’s better over here, they say.
Drier. Funnier. More solid. Trust us.
So I listened to the beat
Of my heart
And I swear it was beating the name
Carmen Yulin Cruz Soto Carmen Yulin Cruz Soto
I closed my eyes and let it rock me
Until I was boogying with my friends
And I let it rock me
Back to sleep.

I dedicate this tattoo
To both my mothers-in-law.

Oct. 2, 2017

Day 5 I’ve Got to Admit It’s Getting Better

Yes! Things are looking up. It helps immensely to have our friends from Northampton with us. They are cheery, intrepid travelers, eager and enthusiastic. These are qualities lacking in some of us these days, speaking mostly for myself. The drug I’m on for shingles makes me dizzy in the am and very lethargic. Caffeine helps! And there are Starbucks on every corner, natch. The shingles seems better today. There are still new pox forming, but the old ones are getting purple and scabbing over. Luvly.

Lots of people recommended I read White Teeth, the Zadie Smith break-through novel from 2000. It’s a fantastic way to experience London, a hilarious cultural romp so far. I am reading and also listening on Audible. The narrator (Jenny Sterlin) is incredible, doing all the accents very well. In the mornings, I go for a run up a steep steep hill to a park, wind around and enjoy the view of the Shard. There should be a picture of that here, but there is not, alas. Instead, a pic of the park itself, where my family goes to play football. See how I said “football” instead of the “s” word?

We tromped along Oxford Street and felt like we were in New York, somewhere near Times Square, perhaps. The kids loved it. Grown-ups yearned for Swinging London’s Carnaby Street and instead got served up corporate America, which is Corporate Everywhere now, I guess. One thing I keep thinking is that the English took over the world in the name of commerce, and to some extent succeeded. The British Empire was about creating wealth for the wealthy and comfort for the British. I don’t know quite what other values were valued. Decency? “Christianity?” But what did they mean by that?


Our intention was to go to the British Museum at some point, but instead we ended up hanging out outside of it, looking dolefully at the huge crowds and retiring instead to a luscious bookstore called The London Review and having tea. (Mostly what we do here is stop for sugar and caffeine). My kids invented a younger sister for the trip. Her name is Rose (I get to call her Rosie, cuz I’m her mama). She had brown wavy hair, green eyes and is left handed. She is six, and her favorite book is War and Peace. We made sure to keep our “eye” on her as we made our way through the crowds. I was reminded, by Rosie, to buy a copy of the translation of War and Peace that came out in 2008, by Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonksky. I had read this behemoth in 2005, and I am ashamed to say I now barely remember it. So I am going to try to read a page a day. To Rosie.

I booked train tickets to Liverpool for Monday. Yes, of course I did. You didn’t really think I wouldn’t, did you? After all those years of torturing my parents? The joke is going to be that the kids will hate it! The Magical History Tour was all booked up, but no matter–it would have been too much to spend all day on the train and then get on a bus. We’re going to the Beatles Museum. I love how you don’t even need a printer in this day and age. Just show them your iPhone! Tomorrow we’re going to Abbey Road to get our photo taken on the crosswalk.


Big London Trip Day  One: Leaving the States


Here I am on a giant two-decker plane, squashed at the end of a bank of four seats with my daughter asleep on my shoulder, my husband reading next to her, and my son watching Boss Baby at the other end of the row. I arrived at the plane with an assortment of travel pillows and accoutrements attached to my backpack, giving me the look of a Sharper Image-thieving hobo. Said pillows were for my aching lower back. Why the aching lower back? So glad you asked!

My lower back started aching the day I arrived home from my Adirondacks writing retreat on July 2. There, I was finishing the latest draft of my novel The Big Idea, something I have been working on for the past 5 months (previous drafts being written since 2005…) Trying to take a day off this endeavor on not be a manic workaholic (who, me?) on July 4, I accompanied my family to Chesterfield Gorge, where I was embarrassingly lethargic and miserable. “My left leg feels as though it’s climbed a gigantic mountain,” I told Tom. “And my lower back feels like I’ve pulled out my S-I joint.”

Five days later, at the New Bedford Folk Festival, I seemed to develop poison ivy. Strange to get it so long after exposure, but I was pretty sure I saw some in Chesterfield, though I’d tried valiantly to avoid it, of course.

On the Monday after the festival, I plunged into another week-long writing retreat, this one at my house. I stuck to a boot-camp-like schedule: rising at 5:30 to meditate, going for a run at 6, getting the house clean, the lunch prepped and the kids off to camp by the time my retreat started every day at 9am. I worked and wrote all day, then spent the hours between the end of retreat and dinnertime going to a variety of body workers to try to re-align my S-I joint, all the while slathering the PI in calamine lotions. Neither situation got any better, and my checking account grew as cranky as my back. What was particularly weird and annoying was that the location of the PI was in the same spots that ached. This, I reasoned, was because I must have rubbed Hudson, my puppy, right after he rolled in some backyard PI and then massaged my back and left thigh because they hurt.

Yes, I also scratched the poison ivy.

Finally, it was Sunday, and I got worried that my PI needed steroids. I wanted to get a script before I left for Europe on Monday, so I called my PCP. He said it was protocol to examine all rashes in person. Thank God. Because when I went in on Sunday afternoon, my doc practically laughed me out of the office.

“That is a textbook case of shingles, my dear,” he said, pointing to the line of what I’d thought was poison ivy along the very spot on my lower back that hurt the most. “And that is where it starts: the spine. From there, it spreads only to one side of the body. in your case, down your left leg.”

In a way, it is a relief to know that I haven’t destroyed my back. When I thought this was a pulled S-I joint, each bodyworker had some advice for me, usually about posture and exercise. I went around sucking in my gut, re-aligning my shoulders, making sure not to sleep on my stomach, etc. I felt guilty for pretty much everything I did; mostly of course for the fact that I am writing a novel, which is the major source of all maternal guilt for me at the moment. Now I feel like I have a reprieve from the governor on this. When you have a communicable disease, mostly no one blames you, including yourself. Of course, I did see on WebMD that the reason most adults get shingles (a reappearance of the dormant chicken pox virus) is that their immune system is straining under unusually stressful circumstances. But for now, I can accept that I won’t be sleeping tonight. Who sleeps on a red-eye anyway?

To be continued…

The Perfect Dog

Oh, friends, I am driving myself crazy. And everyone else around me too. All because of a dog.

For Christmas, we told our kids we were getting a puppy. I have been in touch with a wonderful breeder of mini goldendoodles, and over the course of the fall, sent him a deposit for a pup who will be born any day now. Said pup is what’s known as an F1 mini doodle, meaning its mama is a golden retriever and its daddy a poodle. But the whole reason we got interested in the first place was because we’d puppy-sat our friends’ adorable mini goldendoodle, whom I will call Perfect, and we’d fallen in love with her last September. Even Tom said, “Yes, let’s get a dog like Perfect. It’s time. We’ll keep it a secret and surprise the kids at Christmas.” (As readers of this blog know, we once had a dog named George Harrison, a personality-impaired chocolate lab who ate everything including our bananas and his own poop. Then we had Stella, who was fantastic in every way except for biting kids on their eyeballs. Both dogs left us for much better forever homes. Two strikes, right? But one day, we promised the kids, we’ll try again. Three’s the charm, after all. And everyone knows that you should get a puppy if you want to make sure to have an untraumatized dog. Assuming, that is, that our household will be free from trauma, which is a big assumption.)

So I acted on my best counsel, (my own) and proceeded, without completely researching every aspect of this project. To wit: I asked my friend T where she got her goldendoodle, whom I had met once as a puppy. She told me, and I went with that breeder, INSTEAD of going with the breeder of Perfect.  But now, by pure coincidence, Perfect has come to stay with us for a week, between Dec. 23 and 30 while her humans are on vacation. I have been snuggling this sweet puppy, running my fingers through her curls, washing her in the sink, carrying her around the house, going for runs with her, even sleeping with her at night. I am smitten. We all are.

I saw T right before Christmas and casually asked how much her dog weighed, as I haven’t seen her since she was a tiny pup. “30 lbs,” she said. Thirty pounds? Even Stella was 20, and she wasn’t exactly a lap dog. I came home and got on the scale, then picked up Perfect and got back on. My weight with Perfect, minus my weight was…13 lbs. I couldn’t believe it. I was getting a dog twice as big as Perfect. Not perfect!

We surprised our kids with a letter from Santa, cut in two so they had to hold the two sides together to read it. They were out of their minds with joy. But instead of just letting us all have our joy at the dog we would get in the future, as well as the joy of the present moment (Perfect now), I immediately went into full-blown compulsive mode and commenced to ransack the internet with every key word I could think of for “13 lb golden doodle.” (Micro goldendoodle. Teddy bear goldendoodle. Petite goldendoodle. Size of a breadbox goldendoodle.)  I composed a pitch (why we are the perfect family, etc.) and lobbied my husband to agree to flying to AZ if necessary. (He said no. For the price they are charging for this kind of dog, he said, they should fly it to us, AND take us out for steak and champagne.) (NOTE: Please do not leave me comments about how we should rescue a dog, or how elitist we are to be buying a microbrewed puppy, or designer dog. I am about to turn 50. My beloved candidate–who people also criticized me for supporting– just lost the election, and perhaps our nation has lost its democracy. I know what I want: a curly-haired dog who will sit on my lap for hours. I am too old to pretend to do something my heart isn’t in, and it’s no longer in me to rescue a dog from the pound. I have done that four times, plus adopted a retired therapy dog who was labotomized. I am getting the dog I have always wanted. Please leave your opinions at the door.)

But then I discovered that I could not live with myself. I am a bad neighborhood, right now, snapping at the kids who are somehow not eternally grateful for their gifts, furious at the fallen pine leaves from the dying Christmas tree that are littering my carpet, yearning to play music but perversely unwilling to step over to the piano or pick up the guitar. I have internet-itis. Everyone is misbehaving. I keep bursting into tears. Most of it is because of the election, and the news, etc. but somehow it’s all pilling onto the frustration with myself that I didn’t put a deposit down on the right sized dog last September.

I dreamed last night that I met with our new president-elect. To my surprise, he was quite different in person. In fact, he was a teen-aged girl, who spoke like a teenaged girl, specifically Hailey on Modern Family. I began speaking to the president-elect as I would to a girl 35 years younger than me but also to the office to which she’d been elected, which is to say carefully and slowly and with respect but not endorsement. “I have some concerns about how you will handle the economy,” I started, thinking that was more neutral than going straight to the Muslim registry. “It seems that you have some goals that are at odds with each other. Like hiring a budget director who wants big spending cuts while you are advocating a huge jobs bill.”

“Yeah,” said our president-elect. “That is a bit weird.” She pulled her wad of gum out of her mouth and examined it.

“Also,” I continued, emboldened by her reasonableness. “We’re all a little afraid of tyranny.”

“No need,” she assured me. And somehow, I believed her and woke up feeling a little better.

Anyway, as the day was unusually warm,  I went for a second walk in the dog park with my beloved Perfect. And while I was there, I saw the most amazing thing: a motley grayish standard poodle, and for the first time, I took in the beauty and grace that breed possesses. His owners let him off the leash, and he ran like a deer. I exhaled. There is beauty indeed in large dogs. What do I know? I am capable of loving anything.

It will be ok. The 30 lb dog will be fine. I have fallen in love with Perfect, the way you fall in love with a person, or a city, or a career, or a wedding ring. What seemed slightly strange and off initially becomes the beloved after one has spent time, real time, with her. I can’t imagine loving another dog now that I have fallen for Perfect, but the truth is I will love my puppy, no matter how big s/he gets. And do you know what? Perfect was sitting next to me the whole time I was writing this. Now I am going to post it and put away my computer and just hold her for a few minutes. For right now, I have the perfect dog. Maybe I can trust that will always be true.


The Week After




Somehow, this week seems harder than last week. Last Wednesday, my bright blue friends in the bright blue town in our bright blue state felt unified. Everywhere I went, people were crying and embracing. My Facebook feed was covered with all my like-minded peeps writing like-minded grief-ridden things, or posting hopeful, inspiring thoughts. We held an impromptu free concert and sing along at Lander Grinspoon Academy last Saturday, and it felt like a wonderful funeral. We cried, hugged, and attempted to lift each other from despair. We all sobbed the next morning when Kate McKinnon did Hillary doing Leonard Cohen–a perfect performance of satire, mastery, sympathy and poignency. Last week, we all floated a bit in that first stage of grief: denial. Maybe the Big Orange Tarp wasn’t that bad. Maybe he would stymie the Republicans. Surely he was just an actor, saying a bunch of fake lines to get elected.

What is the next stage? Anger. Then Bargaining. Then Depression. Eventually acceptance, but I have a ways to go on that. Depression seems more the mood of today, complete with a gentle but persistent rain, thick clouds to cover the supermoon.

It’s the not knowing that is so hard. We don’t know what will happen with a Trump presidency. We can guess, and all of us who were alive in the last century have some PTSD over the post Gore/Bush election, and how 9 months into GWB’s administration we got 9/11, and then the wars. This time around, instead of a laughable clown with bad grammar and a scary right wing cranky Cheney at his side, we have a hateful narcissistic bigot and xenophobe with Bannon in as his chief advisor. What could go right????

We don’t know. We don’t know. This is the mantra I keep muttering as I try to cope with my despair. Here is what I do:

-I fix the broken water filter in the fridge

-I change the batteries in my tuner

-I field emails about my Local Chorus and plan our show for next Sunday

-I practice “One Hundred Names” for my piano recital

-I change my strings for our show on Saturday morning at Flywheel, a benefit for Hilltown Families.

-I send emails to Elizabeth Warren, Ed Markey and Jim McGovern, just to tell them I love them and to fight the good fight in the months to come

-I get on my knees and thank God for the Obamas

-I call my friends and family and plan some music for Thanksgiving

-I wear a safety pin, even though I know it’s an imperfect white-privilegy thing to do

-I write my 16th poem for 30 Poems in November to help new immigrants to Western MA.

-I watch Modern Family with my kids and laugh and laugh

-I send money to Foster Campbell from Louisiana so we can put one more Democratic senator in congress

-Stop the fake news! Don’t post anything without fact-checking. Don’t believe anything without fact-checking.

-I plan to go to a meeting at my kids’ elementary school to talk about how to cope in the aftermath of the election

-I make lists like this, of things I can do to stay positive and connected, because it’s connection that will save us. Here are some more resources.

-I read this poem by May Sarton to my writers:

Take Anguish for Companion

If the one absolute is suffering,
And if the only absolute is doubt,
From these alone belief must be wrung
Or else the bitter poverty found out:
Take anguish for companion and set out…

But if we dare to keep anguish companion,
We feel spring in our throats a living song,
See man leap from the rocks toward the sun,
Refuse to be imprisoned for too long,
His anger storming at the walls of wrong…

For to be desperate is to discover strength.
We die of comfort and by conflict live
Who grow in this knowledge till at length
We find it good, find it belief enough
To be anguish alive, creating love.

– May Sarton