Irish Eyes

Tomorrow is the annual Greenwich Saint Patrick's parade. I will not be attending. I'm not boycotting anything. I'm not against drinking, parading, good luck, leprechauns, pots of gold, or lewd behavior. This year, even though the weather forecast looks FABULOUS, I will be hiding at home as I recover from yet another round of anesthesia. A sedation vacation as they say.

I thought about dusting off my leprechaun costume (yes, of course I own one) and sporting a ginger beard to hide my face in progress but I don't own a red beard, (a black one, yes) and even if I did, it might aggravate my inflamed face.

Unlike some people, who deny or deflect any admission of cosmetic enhancement, I am flaunting it.

In June, I will be celebrating my 60th year on earth. It's been an interesting time here. I've overcome and grown a lot..... BUT, my face shows it. Besides, I often find myself attracted to (much) younger men and I'm tired of saying I'm 8 years older than I actually am just to hear, "Damn, you look good."

This is also the year I discovered I have a double gene mutation called CHEK2 that makes me susceptible to a multitude of cancers. I won't mention any of them specifically because I don't want to give them power. Besides, they already know what a proactive, bad-ass I am.

It took me a few weeks to process the information. I joined a group of us weirdo's on facebook. I notified my family (as directed), even the ones that won't speak to me. I met with my oncologist and forwarded my genetic reports to all sorts of cancer databases.

When I finished all that I decided to stay calm, carry on, and LIVE BIG. It's pretty much been my plan all along but there is still some tweaking to do and I'm on it!

When it comes to the issue of WHY ME, a question cancer patience often obsess over, genetics make up only 5 to 10%. The CHEK2 mutation is rare. A double strand is even rarer. So far, I haven't found anyone who has the same double strand as me. If you know me, you should not be shocked. I'm odd.

I imagine that when I do find that person with the same CHEK2 double mutation strand, he will be a handsome, successful, hilarious, seriously scarred man (internally and externally), and together we will live a somewhat shortened, yet deliberate life together.

WARNING: I do not give you permission to turn this post that is MY LIFE into a harlequin romance novel, or a major motion picture, or anything in between.

The good news is, the root of my 6 cancer diagnosis's has nothing to do with Jesus punishing me (as my sister informed me with the utmost certainty). It's not about my lifestyle choices, prolong exposure to playa dust, standing mindlessly in front of the microwave, or hours basking in blue rays that bounce off my computer screen. And to my surprise, it has nothing to do with the fact that I once "dated" two men on Good Friday (not a good day that fell on a Friday, the actual holy holiday).

I've made a deliberate decision to stay focused on living and part of that, for me, means putting my best face forward.

This gene mutation thing came shortly after my third melanoma diagnosis. When they told me they had to go back for a third operation because I wasn't healing and they weren't sure why, coupled with 6 new pre-cancer spots on my face, I elected to do a CO2 laser at the same time as the surgery. I had the option of having some sort of boring laser which would have eradicated the pre-cancer and was covered by insurance OR, the CO2 which removes the pre-cancer and has cosmetic benefits.

I thought about this for about 15 seconds and went with the CO2.

Because I'm odd (see how I'm repeating myself), I fell into the small group of people who developed a reaction to the CO2 laser that is similar to shingles. Besides the pain and blistering, I have a red rash around my mouth that makes me look like a bad clown.

I am now on medication that makes me weepy and tired. Here is the worst part... wine aggravates it and Vicodin gives no relief.  So while you are out there, living it up, think of me... clown down in the confines of my condo waiting, patiently for my new face to arrive.

Because I go big, I included a few other cosmetic procedures in this new, about-to-be-60 face, and I'm happy to tell you what they are, but I'm going to make you guess first. So, when you see me out and about, please play along. Winners get the name and number of BOTH my cosmetic surgeons.

One cancer perk is that you meet a lot of doctors and quickly learn how to weed out the good from the bad. These two, highly skilled, humble surgeons agreed to share me. One took the left side, the other the right.

Even today, in my vulnerable state of recovery, when I stand naked in the mirror, I see a fierce, brave, bold, Irish lass. I know my father is proud. And I know, in the end, I'll have no regrets.

Sláinte! 

xo, MonkeyMe

To Bull, with Love

Bull Bunny in the Jelly chair - Tutu Tuesday, Burning Man 

"Why So Serious?"

Those were the last words Bull wrote to me.

I had sent him this ridiculously long message explaining why I left Burning Man without saying goodbye.  

I went on and on apologizing for not contributing more to our camp.

I apologized for not making camps meals and for not cleaning up after meals.

I apologized for not building our camp and for not breaking down our camp.

I apologized for my minimal mooping efforts.

(For those of you who are not Burners, moop stands for “MATTER OUT OF PLACE” and that’s a bad thing at Burning Man. And we, as a responsible society, need to LEAVE NO TRACE at Burning Man. That means raking, scooping and plucking every tiny speck of glitter, sequins and feather from the playa. It’s a tedious task and I suck at it.)

Bull once said to me, “You know Monkey… bending over, at just the right angle to grab the attention of the LA boys, is NOT mooping.”

(For those of you who are not Burners… LA boys are these young, super hot, wafe-like, lowriders,  that frolicked around our camp. Adorable, creatures… all of them.)

Bull caffeinating two LA Boys

Bull organized our camp, filed the necessary paperwork for our camp, hauled and built the structural components of our camp, broke down the camp, attracted our campmates, nurtured our campmates, entertained our campmates, fed and caffeinated our campmates.

And he did it all from a place of LOVE.

With NO ego.

And he did it asking NOTHING in return.

He utilized our strengths, engaged our eccentricities, and overlooked our weaknesses.

HE ACCEPTED US.

He celebrated the freak in us.

The uniqueness of us.

Bull delivers the bride

Part of my ridiculously long last message to Bull, on why I didn’t do what I should have done at Burning Man, included my unease around a sign that was posted in front of our camp.  It read BEFORE I DIE.

People passing by were encouraged to write their “to do list” after that statement.

In a general sense, “Before I Die” is thought-provoking and motivating. It’s a fun, interactive way to engage other Burners.

BUT…if you are unlucky enough to be facing a life-threatening illness...

If you’re coping with the reality that your life might be cut short…

That despite all your efforts you may never make it back to the playa, or ski the swiss alps, or smoke a cigar in Cuba, or party in Paris, then “Before I die” is a cruel, imminent reality.

Bull disagreed with me when I mentioned this to him which now, in hindsight, tells me he didn’t know he was dying, or if he did, he had come to terms with dying. And that’s a beautiful thing.

Bull was a complex, eccentric, multi-talented man.

A flaming mass of contradiction.

Brawny and graceful.  Blunt and eloquent. Scrappy and refined.

Brilliant… Bull was brilliant.

I love Bulls facebook answer to the question “STUDIED AT.”

He answered, "Studied at the base of an enormous pile of books in the basement."

I just love that.

Bull hovering just outside the Shit Shack

We knew Bull in various ways. Whether it be from his work behind the lens in the motion picture industry, from over 50 Southern California stage productions he appeared in, from his distinctive black, red and white art sold on Venice Beach, or from his creative, combustive, efforts as our camp lead at Burning Man. 

Bull's gift to me

We knew him because he gave so much of himself - in everything he did.

But what I didn't know is Bull without Jeanie. 

Bull and Jeanie aka Dust Bunny

I have never known Bull without Jeanie.

When I first saw, sniffed, stewed, and simmered with this man, Jeanie was at his side.

Jeanie…

I know he was stubborn. And I know he was unapologetic. But I also know that most, if not all of his motivation was YOU.

He loved you in the way that every man should love a woman.

He had great taste in women.

He respected you. He celebrated you. He uplifted you. He protected you. And sadly, way too soon, he set you free.

Unselfishly.

This unselfish love, this BIG BULL BUNNY love never dies.

This I know for sure.

Believe me when I tell you….

Just because he isn’t here, doesn’t mean he’s gone.

I will never forget what his big, Bull Bunny love taught me. Where it brought me. 

I will celebrate this man in every creative, loving, kind, endeavor I do.

This is how I will honor YOU.

TO BULL…

Michael Ross Oddo 

Tis a fearful thing
to love what death can touch. 
A fearful thing
to love, to hope, to dream, to be-
to be, 
And oh, to lose. 
A thing for fools, this,
And a holy thing, 
a holy thing
to love. 
For your life has lived in me,
your laugh once lifted me,
your word a gift to me.
To remember this brings painful joy. 
'Tis a human thing, love, 
a holy thing, to love
what death has touched. 

Yehuda HaLevi (1075 – 1141)

My Friend Glenn

I haven't felt compelled to write in a little over a year. Mostly because nothing has pulled on my heart as much as the loss of my friend, Glenn. 

I was at his side when he took his final breath. Like a birth it was intense, painful and beautiful. I am less afraid of dying thanks to Glenn and even more determined to live.

Glenn and I met through work. He was sent to assist me with my property management duties and me, being a hard ass, control freak, incapable of taking directions, was convinced he was a spy.

Before knowing Glenn, I decided I loathed him. How dare he give me his opinion or try to curb, correct, or govern me.

My venom was fierce but being a true alpha feline, before inflicting pain on my prey I paused to study him. And when I did I noticed that Glenn was smart and witty, sweet and quirky, kind and compassionate. And on top of all that, he was a HUGE animal lover. It is impossible for me to strike down an animal lover.

I didn’t know Glenn as long as most of his friends, but I was there at the end and endings are very telling.

Glenn was relentless, courageous and unapologetic. Glenn never lost hope. No one, not even his doctors, could convince him that he was nearing the end of his life.

Glenn was a very private person and because of this, most of his friends did not know how gravely ill he was but he shared the reality of his merciless illness with me. I think to Glenn, I represented hope. "This is my friend, Shannon. She's had 5 cancers," he would say when introducing me to the hospital staff.

Glenn never wanted people to feel sorry for him, so he never complained. After a round of chemo I'd ask him how he was feeling and all he'd say was,"Oh well, you know how it is."

Glenn loved his friends. I know this because I heard the stories. There were so many unbelievable stories that I didn’t think most of them were real. They seemed larger than life - a famous Antique Road Show art appraiser, a master chef, a brilliant mathematician, gospel singers, actors, heads of corporations, even a group of nuns. Glenn spoke in great detail about his talented friends. People, he would tell me, that were almost as smart as him.

Glenn held many jobs over his lifetime, but what brought him the most joy was coaching tennis. Glenn spoke often about his students. To Glenn, each of them was special. He had the unique ability to recognize, nurture, uplift and promote the best in them.

During his last hospital stay, he told me about his friends Paul and Tom, and some guy who was the best kayaker on the east coast. He told me how they hiked mountains that straddled the Hudson River in NY. He showed me pictures of some of those hikes including Breakneck Ridge, Anthony's Nose and Storm King. This inspired me to go on a hike of my own. When I told him this he urged me not to go on challenging hikes because of the intense vertical ascent and steep rock escarpment. "I know you think you're in good shape," he told me, "but you're not." This was the kick in the ass that I needed. I sent Glenn pictures of myself and my fearless friend Yvonne on top of Breakneck Ridge - elevation 1,620 feet. With arthritis in my left knee, a grade three meniscus tear on my right, zero core strength due to major abdominal surgery 8 weeks earlier, no upper body strength and minimal aerobic conditioning, clearly I had no business being on a mountain of this magnitude. I never told Glenn he was right.

In the hours before he lost consciousness, I asked if I could stroke his hair and he said yes. Initially, this was an uncomfortable gesture because, despite our closeness, we never touched — not even a warm embrace.

Later, I told him I loved him. Initially, these were uncomfortable words because, despite all we shared, we never spoke about our emotions. Despite our holidays together, our simple moments together — our sushi dinners, our walks with my dogs, cooking, laughing — we never expressed our appreciation for each other. But when I told him I loved him, I fully expected his reply to be… “Yes, Shannon, I love you too. I have loved you since the first moment I set eyes on you…”  Instead, he said, “that’s nice to hear.” 

Glenn never wanted to be a burden to anyone, so he never asked for help. But when he assigned me as his next of kin, he empowered me. In illness, we feel powerless. But when he held out his hand, he allowed me to pull him closer. This is the gift that comes from loving someone worth loving.

While in the ICU, Glenn asked me to steady his hand during his last paracentesis— a painful gut draining procedure he endured multiple times during his battle with liver disease and cancer.  I think he asked this of me because he wanted me to witness his bravery. Glenn was very brave.

Glenn’s work ethic never faltered. Despite being in pain, weak and severely jaundice, he attended a board meeting with me on June 27^th. Three days later he was admitted to Yale New Haven Hospital.  I was with him when he strutted out a few days later. He had two glorious days at home, one of which he spent at a Fourth of July party where he savored good food and friends. Later that day, liver failure and elevated ammonia levels in his brain caused confusion and he was taken to Bridgeport Hospital where, a week later, he passed away.

As most of his friends know, Glenn was a devoted son. The care and compassion he showed his mother throughout her life and especially during her decline, speaks to the soul of this man. And for a guy with no living family, no one who was obligated to care for him, he managed to surround himself with love. He was never alone. Whether it was his neighbors, his co-workers, or his amazing friends, no one turned their back on Glenn.

Glenn, you were truly one of a kind. I love you…

Glenn Baron 

8/8/63 to 7/12/17 

A Happy Birthday message to Glenn - Ireland 2016. Even the cows chime in.

Happy Independence Day

MonkeyME in a tree

Photo by DustBunny

I am focused on my independence.

I am living big - packing as much as I can into each day.

I am making plans - all of them short term, some impulsive, because there is no guarantee of tomorrow.

I am surrounding myself with amazing friends. There is so much laughter. So much to learn. So much to celebrate. So much I would have missed if I continued to isolate myself in my marriage.

I've attended multiple workshops at the Omega Institute, in Rhinebeck, NY.

To nurture an ongoing connection with my son, on Memorial Day weekend (the anniversary of his death), I took a four-day workshop with medium,  Lisa Williams. SHE is fabulous. She taught me so much more than the art of mediumship. She showed me how important it is to live for yourself, without apologies. To live without censorship. To trust my inner guidance and to grab as much as I can get.

To nurture my love of self, I took a three-day workshop with Anita Moorjani. SHE is fabulous. Anita survived and thrived after her cancer.  I do not like to associate these words with such a horrific disease, but she is the exception to the rule. Anita, totally debilitated from stage 4 cancer, entered a coma and while her organs were shutting down, traveled to another realm of consciousness. There she discovered her true purpose in life and the importance of self love. And when she agreed to come back, she did so cancer free.

MonkeyMe and Anita Moorjani

On a whim, I flew out west to celebrate a DEAR (Burning Man campmate, chosen family) friends 40th birthday. The time it took me to get there was almost as long as the time I spent there, but it was PACKED with love and all things amazing, and I felt honored to be a part of such a magnificent celebration.

With my Chosen Family celebrating Jelly's 40th Birthday - aka Jelly Burn 2016

I began the practice of Transcendental Meditation back in early June. It was one of many birthday gift to myself. I practice this technique twice a day for 20 minutes. The immediate benefits include a steady stream of intense joy and an appreciation for the perfection that is LIFE, balance with a peacefulness that allows me to digest, without being infected by, the turmoil and turbulence that sometimes bubbles around me.

I revisited Saratoga Springs, NY with family and friends for my 17th year at the Jazz Festival. Regardless of the lineup, it never disappoints. Together we laughed and celebrated and misbehaved. It's all too silly to make sense of to anyone who didn't witness it first hand, but I laugh out loud, still, every time I think of it.

Family

This is where, last year, I met George Clooney. He was back again for round two, but when I asked him if he wanted to take a walk in the woods (a repeat of last years teenage make-out session), he responded that he was too tired. That is when I finally realized our fairytale romance was over.

Friends, Family and Clooney

He was quickly replaced by John Jacob Jingleheimer - a tall, well built, forty-two year old, former naval officer who walked a bit too close to our blanket. After reeling him in and dirty dancing with him, we exchanged numbers and jumped into an intense state of texting. Without warning, he sent me a text of his semi-wrapped, well endowed "package" which I found shocking and offensive (and perhaps a bit too large). After showing his photo to everyone present, and 20 or 30 of my closest friends (and now YOU), I discovered that the only one who found this disrespectful was me. When I expressed my dismay to him, his defense was that my sensuality demanded it.

The package

We played this ping-pong texting game for a total of five days, during which time he described what I consider the BEST first date ever.

I come out to you on a weekend. Early. I take you for a pedicure. We go to lunch. I take you shopping. Multipe boutiques. Try on different outfits. Have fun! Talk. Flirt. Tease. I buy you an outfit to wear for dinner. Mabye shoe shopping to see your sexy feet deliciously decorated for my pleasure.  Cocktails and more conversation and flirting at the bar.  I want all eyes on you. Drinking in your sexual energy. Dinner. Quiet booth. Rub your feet and legs after - softly. Kissing, touching.

He dumped me when I refused to send him anymore pictures of my feet and after declaring that his fetish for feet and older women struck me as "dangerous."

I must confess...This was not my first, post divorce failed attempt at celebrating my sexuality.

When I was dangerously close to overextending my leased mileage, I found Brandon, the Audi salesman. This 6 foot 7, 43 year old, former hip-hop rapper, managed to sell me a car without me realizing I was being sold something. And when he offered to bring a luggage rack to my house and install it himself, I had no idea he meant to install more than a luggage rack.

In the showroom, Brandon was a refined gentleman, but after-hours he was a man on a mission, determined to introduce me to his side of the hood.

I invited him to lunch on a weekend when my grandson, Jackson was with me. After a few beers and an extra large pizza, he let his intentions be known.

"I think you're grandmother is fine," said Brandon.
"Thanks," said Jackson, totally in awe of his grandeur.
"When I showed her how to work her new car, my dick got hard," said Brandon

When I erupted in embarrassment Jackson, cool as a can be said, "It's okay Nanny, sometimes that happens. He's just keeping it real."

I sent Brandon out the door before he had a chance to install my rack, but later rethought my decision. Despite his abruptness, there was something undeniably alluring about being with someone who was the total opposite of my X-husband - tall, black and bold vs small, white and withdrawn.

The next time, I cooked him dinner while entertaining him with reasons why we were not a good match.  For one, his age. And second, his late night texts and a past that changed its stripes every time he spoke about it.

Somewhere after the grilled salmon but before the dessert he argued, "but look at my dick," and then he took it out of his pants.

I don't have a picture of it. I would have had to be in the next room to fit it into one frame.

MonkeyME and the Wolf Cub

I still dream about my night with the Wolf Cub, and wonder if there is a man out there with the perfect balance of youth and wisdom. Someone who can entice and entertain me. Someone who doesn't need an afternoon nap, or a little blue pill, or a toupee, or a man bra, or a mommy, or a .....

Until then, I'll keep having fun.

XO, MonkeyME

Saturday Night Take-Out

It is 7:30 on a Saturday night. I walk to the local Asian restaurant wearing bedroom slippers and no makeup. I used to order take-out for two so that the host wouldn't know I was alone.

Nowadays, I don't care what the host thinks. Besides, he will probably gobble down his dinner while hunched over a sink stacked with half empty rice bowls and greasy woks.

As I reach for the front door, a couple exits. I recognize them immediately. Our daughters went to school together. Her name is Barbara and I never knew her tall, attentive, wildly successful, handsome husband's name.

They don't recognize me immediately. She calls me Nancy.
"No," I say, "it's Shannon."

I think about telling them that Nancy is the name of my daughter's, father's, first wife, and coincidentally, his girlfriend, but quickly realize how ridiculous the truth sounds.

I politely ask how they are doing and how their children are doing. I even ask how their dog, Buddy the beagle, is doing. Everyone is doing well. Very, very well.

I seem to remember everything about this happy family. Mainly, I remember that Barbara was the only mothers from my daughter's class who attended my son's funeral.

It is their turn to ask how I am doing but they say nothing. They just stand there smiling and I wonder if they are afraid to ask.

I think about blurting out, "I've had cancer, all sorts of horrible cancer. And I'm divorced, again."

Instead, I tell them how proud I am of my daughter. How happy she is and how, at this very moment, she is in Colorado with the man she loves, volunteering at a camp for autistic children.

I stop short of saying, "Last Saturday we had dinner together. I wasn't alone, like I am now."



"Name please?" asks the host.
"Shannon," I tell him.
He hands me a small, brown paper bag marked, SHAMOO. I think about telling him that my name is not Shamoo. Instead, I decide that the next time I order take-out I will say my name is Nancy.

I come home with my take-out for one and find a neighbor's party in full swing. She recently moved into the condo directly below me. She seems like a lovely woman. She keeps to herself. She is quiet, except for tonight.

My plan was to eat my sushi-for-one beside a roaring fire while listening to jazz trumpeter, Theo Crocker. But all I can hear is their gayety so I eat my sushi over the sink, with the water running to drown the sound of their laughter.

It is 9:00 by the time I crawl into bed with a cup of green tea, my knitting, and an audiobook.

In my stretch of singleness between marriage number 2 and 3, I would line up Saturday night dates  by Wednesday. I had a collection of suiters to choose from. It didn't really matter what I thought of them as long as they were wild about me. My self-worth was measured by male approval.

I remind myself that I am here, alone in my bed, by choice. I would have preferred to stay married to a man I loved if I could have controlled his actions. And I would have preferred to avoided multiple cancer diagnoses, and treatments, and scars and ongoing healing, if I had control over my genetics.

But I do have control over how I respond to life's disappointments. I have responded with courage and conviction. This is how I now measure my self-worth.

I awake Sunday morning feeling refreshed. After a leisurely walk in the park with the dogs, I retreat to the loft with a large mug of french pressed coffee. I savor my solitude. And I write.

xo, MonkeyME

“Once the soul awakens, the search begins and you can never go back. From then on, you are inflamed with a special longing that will never again let you linger in the lowlands of complacency and partial fulfillment. The eternal makes you urgent. You are loath to let compromise or the threat of danger hold you back from striving toward the summit of fulfillment.” 

― John O'Donohue, Anam Cara: A Book of Celtic Wisdom

My Match

I spent most of the winter searching for a cabin in the Catskills. My main motivation is Sasha, my 95 lb Bernese Mountain dog. She is my faithful, loyal companion and she deserves to roam without the restraints of a leash, the confines of property lines, or the bustle of traffic.

I found a fabulous cabin. I knew from the moment I walked in that we were a perfect match. So I made an offer, it was accepted and then the cabin failed the inspection.

I am disappointed but I know eventually I will find my great escape. It will probably require some work to get it exactly the way I want it, and that is hard to do when you have limited funds and no repair skills other than knowing how to hang a picture. So I joined an online dating site in search of a tall, handsome, contractor.  

I joined ZOOSK under the name MonkeyIncognito.  I picked this site because, I see "ZOO" and "SK" (my initials). It MUST be a sign.

I posted a picture that reflected my personality.

And I answered their questions honestly. 

TELL US YOUR STORY:

I am not perfect. I am not 26. I am fiercely independent. I am outspoken. I am competitive. I am a tad compulsive (passionate?). 

I like these things about me. 

Music is important to me. Expressing my creativity is important to me. Living a healthy, intuitive based, spiritual lifestyle is a top priority. 

I like wine and I don't care that my dog sheds. I have learned to tolerate cats.

I only exercise because I want to live longer. I like ranch dressing on salads. 

I am living alone for the first time in my life and I am enjoying it. But I'd love to find someone to do things with when I feel like doing something other than being alone.

I don't have a TV. I'm a good jumper. 

Once, while walking down Fifth Avenue at lunch hour, I dismissed a woman begging while breast feeding her 7-year-old son and then gave $5.00 to a homeless man with two obedient shihtzu's, two cats, and a bunny. I'm not proud of this. 

I think I'm funny, but I'll let you decide.

WHAT IS YOUR MATCH: 

You should be able to post a picture of yourself other than a mirror self image. If you have eyes, please include them. If you have teeth, please smile. If you own a shirt, wear it. I can't see myself traveling to Jersey for a date nor can I imagine myself dating anyone over 60. If you are obese, broken, desperate, lazy, addicted to porn, drugs, alcohol, or gambling, then we are not compatible.

WHAT IS YOUR IDEAL DATE: 

We agree to meet. You show up. I can recognize you from your online pictures. You chew with your mouth closed. You make me laugh.

***

So far only men over 60, from Jersey, have responded. Most are wearing sunglasses.

xo, MonkeyME

I Remember

Kerry Ryan Magann

In the moments immediately following his death, I remember how hard it was to breath. How blood curdling screams emptied my chest and how I sucked... air... in... so that I could scream again.

In the days following his death, I remember the slap of dawn and how I begged to hold on to the night.

In the weeks following his death, I remember how hard it was to eat, drink, bathe, and sleep. How impossible it was to function in a world that did not include him.

I remember how I drove to the beach on my birthday, waited for the tide to rise, and waded towards ripples of darkness. But I couldn't stay under long enough to make the pain go away.

In the months following his death, I remember how hard it was to talk about anything other than my son. I don't remember how I found my way to a grief counseling group but I remember I wore all black. There was one other person in the group - a mother who lost her only son. And I was no longer alone in my grief.

I remember how hard it was to listen. How I would twitch my feet, and shift anxiously in my seat, waiting for my turn to speak. I remember how much she loved her son. And how we cried and screamed and begged and pleaded.

I remember how we blindly stepped into traffic because we didn't want to walk in a world that did not include our sons.

I remember holding on to his scent, his ashes, his clothes, his notebooks. I remember holding on to every tear. And how I was convinced that these things, if held long and hard enough, would bring him back. Because life could not move on without him.

I remember confessing to the police that I killed him. And how they tried to convince me that I did not. I remember discovering his cold, gray, breathless body and how it haunted me for years (it haunts me still).  I remember worrying that as he was letting go, he was scared. And how his eyes, frozen open, pleaded for mercy.

I remember how cancer, and heartbreak, loneliness and fear, pale in comparison to learning how to breath without my son.

He challenges me still.

I remember the moment I decided to live because he could not.

I would watch his son grow. And I too would grow. And all who loved him would grow.

Today, on the 37th anniversary of his birth,  I remember his first breath. I remember how shocked I was that, like his father and my father, he did not have dark hair. I remember how wise and old and wrinkled he looked. I remember how my world changed the moment he was placed in my arms.

I remember so much about my beautiful son. Mostly, I remember how he loved and how deliberately he lived.

xo, MonkeyME

Greetings

Late Fall, 1995
Bogie, Ling, Kerry and Bosco

I no longer send Christmas cards and because of that, each year I receive less and less.  I used to take pictures with my 35 mm camera and frame them in a holiday motif.  Thanks to my iPhone,  I seldom reach for a real camera. Photos are shared not printed and stored on a driver or uploaded to the mysterious "cloud."

The center of these cards were my children, until they reached a certain age and then my camera focused on odd or unusual sightings. It didn't matter if it had anything to do with the holidays, it was just something that stuck in my head.

One year I attended a party that included body painting. I had a large golden sun painted on my pre-cancer chest, while another guest had two giant blue eyes painted on her ass - one on each cheek. I used her photo, along with the caption, "Eye's wish you a Merry ChristmASS" as my Christmas card that year. It was tacky but my primary target was my Pennsylvania relatives, most of whom had an off-color sense of humor that I found endearing.

Another year the Naked Cowboy was my theme. Back then he was new to Time Square and was a semi-toned and tanned novelty.  I took so many pictures of him that he grew annoyed. I couldn't decide which one I liked better so I used both.
                       

I have always enjoyed receiving newsletters that highlight a year in the life of a functional family.

Mine, although less traditional, is always colorful and therefore deserving of its own rant. Here is my very first, holiday newsletter.

PEACE * LOVE * JOY 

Greetings Family and Friends,

It has been an astounding year jam-packed with tears, fears and laughter.

It began with Mark fracturing his ankle somewhere between the stroke of the new year and the dawn of the first day. It took another 24 hours to talk him into seeing a doctor at which point we discovered that he would need surgery and screws would be implanted. Nine months later those screws would be removed when his wound refused to heal.

In addition to his ankle fracture, our marriage fell apart and we filed for divorce on April Fools'. Our divorce was granted on August 17th - what would have been our 13th wedding anniversary. It was an amicable divorce and thanks to Marks generosity, I continue to live in my condo tucked beside a waterfall and enjoy the luxury of health insurance.

As I patiently wait for my darling daughter Ling to sprout her fairy wings, she announced that she has a boyfriend, who miraculously, we all adore. In addition to waitressing she has begun massage therapy school. At the tender age of 25, and with several colleges and career choices behind her, we are almost certain this one will stick. Despite her fluttering, we appreciate her goodness and joy of life, and wish we would have taken our time before choosing a career path.

Jackson, now 14, is a freshman at the high school and is aclemating very well. With his head planted in the clouds we are amazed at his ability to excel at school and sports, and still find his way home each day.

Somehow, during the course of a year, this happened... 

Spring

 Winter

I'm not happy about it, but Jackson sure is. 

Mary continues to balances work and parenting and occasionally, when she makes time for herself, I get to step in as the adult in charge. The beauty of her love is evident in Jackson for he is a respectful, polite, compassionate young man who adores his mother and values his education, religion and family.

Thanks to the foresight and good fortune of my father, I have managed to corral the most important people in my life into one structure - a two family house - that is less than 5 miles from my home and across the street from my office. The addition of Pete, Ling's boyfriend, adds a much appreciated adult male energy as well as a daily infusion of music, thanks to a collection of instruments that he plays.

Work is fun. Play is fun. I am good at having fun.

So are these two...

Sasha and Lucy

I am grateful for the guidance and unconditional love of my family - both chosen and through birth, two and four legged, here and beyond. 

I am living alone for the first time in my life. There are times when I celebrate my independence and cherish my solitude. There are also times where I grow restless and fear I will die alone.

Despite all that has happened, or maybe because of it, I am surrounded by the love of those I respect and admire.  I continue to enjoy and appreciate good health.

My hope is that we all open our hearts, cultivate an atmosphere that is inclusive and tolerant of others, and that we infuse kindness and compassion into our thoughts and into everything we do. 

Wishing you all great joy, peace, comfort, and most of all.... LOVE. 

XO, MonkeyMe 

Three Sisters 

1959 

Norie, Shannon (confused by shoes) and Colleen

The Earrings

I am standing at the jewelry counter at Saks Fifth Avenue, visiting a pair of earrings. This is my third trip to Saks. These earrings are haunting me. 

There is a tall, fit, distinguished looking man standing just beyond my reach. He wants to surprise his girlfriend with a necklace, or maybe a bracelet and matching earrings.

“Is this a special occasion?” asks the sales associate.

Maybe she’s dying, I think.

He wants to surprise her with a gift when he takes her on vacation next week.

 “Where are you going?” asks the sales associate.

“Don’t say Paris,” I whisper. 

“Paris,” he says.

I consider slamming my head against the counter—instead, I text a friend.

“He’s perfect,” I tell her. 

“I’m about to get a mammogram,” she replies. 

In solidarity, I lean forward and press my foobs against the sterile, glass countertop.

I leave them long enough to create two symmetrical, 425 cc oval shaped imprints.

“Is there a price limit?” asks the sales associate.

“Nooooo,” his voice echoes.

Swiftly, I shift left, straddling the view of my favorite Italian designers newest collection.

The sales associate shifts right, and with eyes fixated on mine, dips below the counter, unlocks the casement door that is directly in line with my crotch, and removes a tray of gracefully displayed precious stones set in luscious, hand engraved gold.

I cannot bare witness to what unfolds next. In defeat, I retreat to the sanctity and solitude of my home. 

It is Thursday, the day Dora cleans my house. I open the door and reflect on how fortunate I am to have someone clean for me. In addition to the standard service, every so often, when the mood strikes her, she changes and IRONS my bed sheets. Today is that day and this feels extra sweet.

I go to my closet and there, in my hamper of dirty clothes, on top of my dirty sheets, is a pair of men’s cotton briefs. 

It’s been six months and seventeen days since I’ve shared my hamper with a man.

It’s been six months and seventeen days since I’ve gained 50% more closet space.

It’s been six months and seventeen days since he left me behind.

From the beginning

I knew meeting could only

End in parting, yet

I ignored the coming dawn

And I gave myself to you.

                                                                             Japanese poet —Fujiwara no Teika

I live in a river of change. I no longer resist change.

It was a crisp, early autumn evening when I accompanied George to Lincoln Center for a searing performance of New York City Ballet’s ‘Balanchine Black and White.’ 

There is newness to his touch, a freshness to his kiss. I awaken to the warmth of his body next to mine. But our hearts are not aligned.

I will buy my own jewelry.

I will vacation solo.

A woman who has never been wounded can never heal.

Now that I am broken, I can blossom.

xo, MonkeyME