by Amy Newmark
What I didn’t notice until later was that I was also growing stronger emotionally. Outside of the gym, I began to regain my independence and optimism. I did errands on my own, drove myself everywhere, and even dined at restaurants alone. Although these things may not sound like meaningful accomplishments, they were important milestones at that time in my life.
Months passed, and I became a regular in the exercise class. By now, I had mastered most of the moves. My squats were deeper, and my jumps were higher. I was having fun, and I was much happier. And the best part was that I was burning off tons of calories.
My renewed strength and independence led to hope and optimism I had not felt for a while. During class, I admired the students’ smiles and enthusiasm. Everyone had so much energy and their vitality was infectious. As I watched the students striving for excellence in their performance, I was inspired to rise to new levels of achievement, thinking of the endless possibilities for me to tackle new, challenging endeavors. After finishing a strenuous class, I felt like I was capable of accomplishing anything I set my mind to. It was a truly amazing feeling.
During the class, I thought occasionally about physically handicapped people who were unable to exercise, which filled me with gratitude because I was reminded of how lucky I was to be healthy. Consequently, I began to see all of the gifts that had been bestowed upon me. Being happy felt effortless when I realized how fortunate I was. I started counting my blessings, which made me feel even more happy and optimistic.
On the days when I felt less than inspired, there was no shortage of enthusiastic students to jumpstart my energy level. If I felt tired, someone would “high-five” me and encourage me to keep going. When I was feeling less than motivated, I would see people wearing T-shirts with logos that exemplified positivity and perseverance. It was easy to maintain my “can-do attitude” because I was literally surrounded by positive, motivated people. Being around them was like taking a vitamin for my body and soul, so I did my best to pay the positivity forward.
If someone around me was feeling down, I tried to infuse optimism into their mood. Whenever I was able to lift someone’s spirits, I felt tremendously fulfilled. On one such occasion, a woman asked me why I was “always positive.” She probed me for the “secret” to my happiness. I told her my good spirits stemmed from my fitness routine and the motivational people I encountered at every class.
Since the exuberance I experienced was highly contagious, I was inspired to be joyful in my life as well. My positivity attracted good people into my life, and I met my husband Paul. We laugh all the time; we share enough silly stories to start our own comedy club. We truly enjoy our time together, and Paul often reflects that we have a “very good life.” Because we do whatever we can to remain positive and grateful, we celebrate the simple pleasures of life, such as delicious food, breathtaking sunsets, witty humor, and our incredible friendship. There are so many joys in life when we stop to notice them.
I have taken the exercise class for twenty years now. Every time I attend, I feel invigorated, positive, and truly happy. I never thought an exercise class could change my life, mind, body, and heart in such wonderful ways.
The other day at work, a co-worker complimented me on my positive, optimistic attitude. After my shift was over, I smiled as I got into my car and drove to class.
— Kristen Mai Pham —
Filling a Need
The people who get ahead in this world are the people who get up and look for the circumstances they want, and if they can’t find them, make them.
~George Bernard Shaw
Two years after he was diagnosed, my husband’s battle with ALS came to its tragically inevitable end. I was subsequently left a widow in emotional and financial ruin, with an eleven-year-old daughter who was also overwhelmed by grief. I required major emergency surgery only three weeks after Mike’s death. Four months later, my wonderful father died. Without having so much as a glimmer of hope for a once-bright future that had been destroyed, I felt rudderless. Adrift. Alone.
In an attempt to be proactive with my healing, I visited a bereavement support group for the widowed. However, I simply could not fall into step with the conversations that I heard during that one-time visit. Participants were saying things like, “I’m just waiting until it’s my time to go,” or “I guess I’ll be with him soon.” No effort was made to steer the discussion in any positive, life-affirming direction. While I had no clue what the future looked like or where my place was in the new world into which I had been catapulted, the one thing that I knew with certainty was that a “hang around until I die” attitude was not what Mike wanted for his wife and daughter. Therefore, it was not an attitude that I would model for my daughter, Kendall, or embrace for myself.
When we hear the word “poverty,” we tend to think only in monetary terms. However, I was suffering from a different kind… emotional poverty. I knew no widowed people who were remotely close to my age, and there was no one in my immediate orbit who could truly understand what I was feeling. Worse still, there was no clear direction in which I could turn to seek help, guidance, education or support.
Finally, I decided that I was finished with emotional-poverty thinking and the abject hopelessness that it brings. This particular headspace served only to keep us in a place of sorrow, fear and hopelessness. I had healing to do. I had a new purpose to discover and fulfill. I had a life to live — as did my daughter. It was time to turn the worst of negatives into something positive, promising and life affirming.
I was determined to grow through tragedy, rather than let tragedy define the course of my life, so I set out on a journey to healing. The going was slow, the challenges were many, and a genuine sense of anything resembling happiness hardly seemed within immediate reach. However, as I remained resolute in finding my place in the new life that I had been handed, the hours and days that initially seemed to pass so slowly suddenly became months — and then years. Kendall had happily re-discovered her childhood, something that had been missing for a very long time due to her dad’s illness. I was once again healthy after the major surgery. Eventually, I emerged from the pain and grief following the death of my beloved father. I rebuilt my small business to solid success.
Once again, I became active and genuinely engaged in the world around me. Kendall and I both made our way back into life. Like experiencing sunshine on your face after a winter storm, it felt fantastic to have found our places in life once again.
One day, I was thinking about the strides we had made in finding our way, and how I had initially been unable to find the help and support that I needed. I realized that if I’d once had fears, doubts, questions and issues that were going unanswered, there were likely millions of other widowed people who had similar questions and issues. Widowhood does not come with directions, and I thought that perhaps I could help based on my own experiences.
I have long believed, “If you can’t find it… create it,” so I began writing. I had no idea that what was originally intended to be one book was going to become both the positivity and the purpose for which I’d been searching. Our family’s tragedy could actually help others discover their voices, find the “fight” within, and move forward from an emotional-poverty headspace to a place of peace. The one thing that was missing from the widowed community was an actual, cohesive community — one that could rise as a singular voice and declare, “We’re here, and we matter, too.” Happily, I have been able to play a small part in the creation of such a community, with four books, a website providing education, resources and direction, and an online support community.
No matter the circumstances or the seemingly insurmountable obstacles, there is always a way through. If I cannot immediately find that way through, I’ll surely do my best to create one. Meanwhile, I can look back, take a deep breath, smile at my daughter and think to myself, We did it.
— Carole Brody Fleet —
On Hair with ’Tude
Smile from your heart; nothi
ng is more beautiful than a woman who is happy to be herself.
~Kubbra Sait
I had retired. I no longer needed to impress or please anyone but me. So, I decided to take the plunge. I became a senior blonde! What, you’ve never seen that color? Even though I was now sporting it, neither had I. Surprisingly, with all the colors my hair had been, I had never been a blonde, senior or otherwise. It was really a combination of platinum and silver, much like an expensive piece of jewelry. I had it cut very short, except for a great swag of bang that swept across my forehead and dipped kind-of-sexily into my right eye. I was mad about the look. So were most others.
Walking into my yoga class after a few weeks’ absence, I saw students trying to figure out who I was. As it dawned on them, comments ranged from “It looks great” to “Wow, you look so much younger.” By far, the best was, “Now, that’s hair with ’tude.”
Posting a picture on Facebook brought more comments than I’d ever received before, many from long-lost friends. Best of all, they were 100 percent positive. Among my favorites: “I like! How long did you sleep on it before you did it?” “Very cute!” and “On to Hollywood!”
A few people weren’t crazy about it, including my husband. He was stunned — not in a good way. When I came into the house from the beauty shop, he just stared and said nothing. Indeed, he is a smart man who knew that silence was better than an ill-fated comment. Later that day, he happened to be near the beauty shop and stopped in to chat with my hairdresser.
“There is a strange woman in my house, and I think you had something to do with it,” he told him. I understand my hairdresser just gave him a menacing grin. It was my hair, so I got to choose what to do with it. I thought I’d be a senior blonde for quite some time.
Then, as it often does, life took a turn. My beautiful senior-blonde tresses starting to fall out in clumps. Not just a strand or two, but in big handfuls. Could it be the chemicals used in the color? My hairdresser changed things up a bit, but to no avail. Even though I was pretty much in denial that anything was happening, the clumps of hair in my hairbrush told me otherwise.
Reality finally sunk in when I looked at photos of a trip I had just taken. I had to face facts: My hair was not just thinning; it was disappearing! I made an appointment with a dermatologist.
Within a short time, I had a diagnosis. I was suffering from something called lichen planus, a chronic, inflammatory autoimmune disease that affected my scalp. Usually, it just runs its course. In my case, it took my hair with it. The dermatologist did say there was medication that could help save my hair, but I would need to see an ophthalmologist before I could use it. On questioning why, I was told a possible side effect was blindness. My hair or my sight? Hmmm, I didn’t even blink when I said, “No, thanks.”
Walking out of the doctor’s office and getting into my car, I was upset and angry, and then very sad. My hair was disappearing. What was I going to do?
I wallowed in self-pity. I started a mental list of all the “wouldn’ts.” I wouldn’t be able to look like myself again. I wouldn’t be able to swim because a wig would get wet. I found myself sinking deeper into a dark place.
Looking in the mirror just made me miserable. The little bit of hair I had was fuzzy and growing in funny patches. It was no longer a senior blonde, but a barely there gray. When I could see myself through my tears, I found nothing attractive about how I looked.
Then one day, running my hand over that ugly fuzz, I had a moment that would turn me around. I would take control. I found a wig shop and bought two very cute wigs. One was short and sassy, great for exercising or walking and informal occasions. The other was a bit more sophisticated with bangs that swooped over my eye. Oh, yes, they were both blondish. Then I went boldly to my hairdresser. After shaving my head, he turned me around so I couldn’t see. Then he put one of the wigs on my head and styled it. Finished, he turned me around. As I came into view, I let out a slight gasp.
“Who is that woman in the mirror?” I asked.
“The new you,” he replied, with a huge smile.
I smiled back.
It was only hair. I knew it would never grow back, but that wouldn’t stop me from doing what I wanted to do in my life. While I wasn’t thankful for what had happened to me, I knew that I did have much to be thankful for in my life — family and friends whom I love, experiences that enrich my life, and so much to look forward to. So, while I may not have any hair with ’tude, I am most fortunate to have a life with ’tude, whether I am bald or a senior blonde.
— Ina Massler Levin —
Coffee with Dad
What greater thing is there for human souls than to feel that they are joined for life — to be with each other in silent, unspeakable memories.
~George Eliot
In January, with just six months left (although we didn’t know it at the time), my conversations with Mom were about love, fear and the future. Mom wasn’t worried about her own eternal fate — that was secured by her faith in Jesus, firmly established over the previous two years. Instead, her heart was heavy with thoughts of how Dad (her true love of fifty-six years) and I (their only child) would manage without her.
Lying in the hospital bed with Mom, I promised her that Dad and I would hold each other up whenever the time came. She was brave, so I tried to be, and I promised her we would continue to be brave as we moved forward.
An idea came to mind, and it took hold. When Mom returned home from the hospital, we would start a new routine where I would come by their house for coffee every day before work. The benefit would be two-fold. First, by laying eyes on her before going to work each day, I could be more “present” when I got to the office, knowing exactly how she was doing that morning. The second benefit was establishing a routine that included my dad as much as my mom. I had always been Daddy’s “princess,” but the relationship between Mom and me was so tightly wound that others could really only watch from the outside. That had to change. It was time for Dad and me to really get to know each other on our own, without Mom as the intermediary. We had to start laying the foundation for a new future together.
Nearly every day for the next four months, I stopped by for coffee and a short visit with my folks. Often, Mom wasn’t up to much talking, but she loved the ritual and welcomed her “care bear” enthusiastically. And something really special happened during those visits. A stronger connection grew between Dad and me right before Mom’s eyes. We didn’t talk about it, but I like to think that the greatest gift we gave Mom at the end was proving to her, and to ourselves, that we were taking care of each other and would continue to do so as things progressed.
Now, from the crack in my broken heart, something new and beautiful is sprouting: a rich and fulfilling relationship between father and daughter. I see this man in a whole new light. As I have told Mom several times in my mind, “I get it… I see why you loved him so much for so long.”
During our morning visits, Dad and I talk about current events, history, politics, his grandsons, my job, and the number of steps our Fitbits registered the previous day. I have learned what classes he enjoyed in high school (history and auto shop) and other things he loved in high school, too (pitching pennies and sneaking a smoke).
We talk about our pain, too, although not a lot — that’s hard. But we share the pain, and that’s enough. We shared a great love for a great woman, and now, more than ever, we share a very special friendship that is all our own.
— Cheryl M. Scott —
Even a Cold Fish Needs Love
Never forget the three powerful resources you always have available to you: love, prayer, and forgiveness.
~H. Jackson Brown, Jr.
Have you ever felt as if someone hated you before you were even introduced? That’s how I felt about a co-worker named Carolyn who I met when I was promoted to a new position in a new department.
On my first morning, every person was welcoming except Carolyn. Her cubicle was next to mine, and she was the las
t one I met.
I extended a hand and smiled. “It’s nice to meet you, Carolyn.”
She didn’t smile. She unenthusiastically shook my hand and then squirted sanitizer into her palm. “Hi,” she said.
The next day, my supervisor, Ben, told me that one of my first assignments was to write a brochure about a project that would help salmon. A culvert under a road was blocked, so when salmon tried to swim back to the stream where they were born to lay eggs, they hit a barrier.
I was excited to work on the salmon project until Ben said, “Carolyn has the folder with all the background information. You’ll need to get it from her.”
All afternoon, I stalled. Finally, I asked her for the folder. “I handle anything to do with salmon,” she said. “If you need a brochure, I can write one.”
“Actually, the brochure is my first assignment from Ben.”
She didn’t look up.
I waited for her to say something. I noticed a sign on her wall that said: “Even cold fish need love.”
“I like your sign,” I said.
She glanced at it and then kept working, as if I weren’t there.
I walked back to my cubicle. Cold fish Carolyn, I thought. How appropriate. Well, she’s not going to get any love from me!
The next day, as much as I hated taking this matter to Ben, I didn’t know what else to do. He shook his head and walked into Carolyn’s cubicle. “Can I see you in my office?” She followed him, and he shut the door. I heard him talking to her in a raised voice. When she came out, she got the folder and plopped it onto my desk.
“Thanks,” I said.
She glared at me.