Off I go!

And so . . . Paris! The right decision. When is Paris anything other than the right decision, I’d like to know?

After six months of a determined and more than annoying rash all over my body and then, of late, being besieged with concerns about my sister’s health, with help from a friend we organized what we could and, as planned, I left the country. Good move, Stranahan!

Thank God that the contact allergy dermatitis that I have been chasing around for all these months seemed to have subsided a few weeks before I left—no more Jo Malone in my life! Nonetheless, I traveled with more potions than you can imagine in order to keep my unreliable skin under control.

Paris healed me: Paris, and friends from the UK, who so kindly met me there. We ate too much, laughed and talked about life in St Mawes, Cornwall.  We walked and walked, our minds and hearts enlivened by one of the most beautiful cities in the world: the zing of the traffic, the casual chic of the Parisiennes, the marvelous paintings and buildings and parks. My eldest son, our wonderful guide and translator, remained cheerful and undaunted by his constant surround of females of a certain age.

 Just a week: just what I needed. On the way home on the plane I thought about how cleared, cleaned and refreshed I felt. I had no idea how deeply grooved into sameness I had become. There is another world besides Southport, CT! There is another world besides allergy appointments. (Mind you, I am constantly aware of how lucky I am that my disability of the moment is only an allergy.) There is another world besides the I 95 corridor. Hurrah!

My back was itchy against the fabric of the seat in the plane and I didn’t give a damn.  

Thinking about how liberated I felt, I became stunningly conscious of the human need for a change of scene. It doesn’t have to be Paris. There are lovely old villages in Connecticut: Mystic, Washington, Cornwall. Heck, a day in New York at MoMA, Bergdorf’s, or to see a play will help. Anything that breaks our patterns—even if they are worthy patterns—is, I am convinced, good for our health. Beware of ruts, routines that bind us.  No doctor would support this theory, but I think our dedication to sameness produces a stodgy blood flow that inhibits creativity and joy.

I’ve read that some businesses, seriously believing in R and R-- Google, I think, is one-- insist and perhaps even pay for their employees to take holidays. That being so, I must not be all wet on this.

 You don’t have to be working to get into a rut. Fully retired, I was in one. So, whatever your age and health and finances will allow, find somewhere new to visit or re- visit an old favorite. Catapult yourself out of your comfort zone. Wake up to new life. Recreation means re-creation.  

Check it out; test the theory. See if I am right or just a bit crazy. (Actually, I’ll happily settle for the latter.)

We Don't Notice Their Wings

 My sister has been in hospital for five days. Her 94 year- old husband has been at home. Bless his daughter, who, when I called about this emergency, she packed up and drove here from Saratoga.  

Now, with Anne at home, it's all about food, and organization and that's fine except, as the laughing Buddha would have it, I am leaving for Paris on Monday for a week. I will be going with my oldest son, superb translator and guide, and meeting several friends from my English life, so this trip involves a number of people and it is not possible to cancel. Well, I suppose it is possible, but I won't, and besides, my sister wouldn't allow it.

A mutual friend of Anne's and mine has offered to be point person in my stead and Anne's husband's daughter is willing to stay, so Anne and her spouse are covered. One amazing, marvelous, wonderful thing about illness is the way in which people appear out of the blue to help.

Let me tell you how this "point person" came about. On Friday morning last week my sister presented an in depth and interesting paper on Tess of the d'Ubervilles for the English Literary Club of which she is a long-time member.  Although not a member, I was there. My sister has emphysema and, of course, was carrying her oxygen bag.  She has had a cold. Some coughing occurred during the presentation but, thankfully, it was curtailed by gulps of water.

About an hour after the meeting was over, a friend of hers, who had been at the presentation, stopped her car in the Southport Woods lot to speak with me as I was walking along carrying groceries. What she said was, "Cecily, I know your sister might be reluctant to ask, but I thought you might be willing. If she or you ever need any help I am here and want to be of assistance."

How nice, Mary!" I say. "I will remember." And that was that. 

Little did I know . . . 

 Two hours later my sister calls from the doctor's office. The doctor has declared, "You! Hospital! Now!"

I am to meet Anne in the ER at Bridgeport Hospital.  I have not been to Bridgeport Hospital for at least twelve years. I used to work in the Pastoral Care department at St. Vincent's, so I can find my way there easily, but Bridgeport? This directionally impaired person who doesn't trust WAZE, hasn't a clue!

I call Mary, Mary from the parking lot, who, praise God, is at home. 

"Can you believe this? I explain what has happened. "Do you know your way to Bridgeport Hospital?" Mary has lived here all her life; I am on safe ground. And, true to her offer, Mary willingly drives me to the ER to find Anne. We hang out with our books, fetch water, talk to doctors and Mary brings me home.

Over the next five days I manage the trip to Bridgeport Hospital on my own.  As the days draw closer to my departure for Paris, Mary offers to take my place and see to Anne: organize a team to pick up  food, and look after necessary details of convalescing at home.  I can leave on Monday without a worry.

 Her offer? In the parking lot? Just hours before the ambulance sirens Anne away?  Imagine! What a blessing! God's angels are everywhere. We just don't notice their wings.

He Didn't Think It Through?

“He didn’t think it through.” That’s what Gov. Mike Huckabee said this morning (Thursday) on The Morning Joe Show when questioned about Donald Trump’s pronouncement that a woman who has an illegal abortion should be “punished.”

When Trump was pressed on that statement by interviewer Chris Matthews: eg: “Punished?” How? Sent to prison? Did she commit murder? Rapid fire questions like that. Trump could not answer. He had shot from the hip once again and possibly this time that shot could be terminal. Some polls are showing a 70% Trump disapproval rating among woman, women both pro-choice and pro-life.

Chris Matthews also asked if the man who created an unwanted pregnancy should be punished and Trump swiftly responded “ I would say no”.

I can’t even go there.

Later in the day Trump scampered to redeem himself by stating that the doctor performing the illegal abortion should go to prison. Whew! There! Am I out of this mess now?

Well not exactly. This was not a spontaneous, ill-considered comment that will go away easily. Nor should it.

Do we actually want a president who, under pressure, blurts out un-thought-through statements like that? Could we trust him to meet cordially, calmly and sensitively with the Prime Ministers and Presidents of other countries, say, Iran, China, Israel, Syria, Pakistan, Germany? Never mind our patient and forbearing ally, England?

Are we so entranced by promises of “great deals for America” by the “best deal-maker” in the world that we don’t mind if, under pressure, he is unable to THINK?

I am aware that when I post this it will be old news and that many of you who read this blog will have already had these thoughts yourself and therefore will not find this entry particularly interesting. And maybe some of you see this situation very differently, in which case I sincerely welcome your comments and points of view. I am so incensed right now that I just can’t write about anything else.

To be perfectly honest, I’m not crazy about any of these candidates. For me, this fall, I fear it will be a matter of, if you will forgive the expression, “least worst.”