Many Long Years

My path wasn’t always paved with smooth stones.

The bumps and crags caused me to stumble,

To veer away from my God,

Thankfully not for long.

Life would be good for a while

I’d pass a difficult class,

Date a nice man

But then an obstacle would rise up

It’s not that I forgot how loving God could be,

Or that I lost faith in His love.

I’d get lost in my own drama

Thankfully not for long.

I’d forget to look up

And enjoy the blue sky above.

Be mesmerized by the clouds floating by

Instead, I’d plod along lost in my sadness

.

I thought I had no one to turn to.

No one who’d care if I bared my soul.

Not one single person who’d dry my tears.

Thankfully it didn’t last for long.

When my world fell apart, dragging me into the depths

I’d wallow in misery, tears washing my face,

Blocking my vision so completely

That no joy, no hope could penetrate.

But then something wonderful happened,

My husband-to-be entered my world

And everything changed.

Thankfully for a good, long time.

He was there to bolster me up when

Sadness weighed on my shoulders.

He was there when I felt incompetent,

Incapable of succeeding in whatever I chose to do.

He showed me the blue sky, the clouds drifting by.

He held my hand and made me feel loved.

Together we laughed and smiled.

Thankfully for a good, long time.

He brought God into my life.

Together we’d pray, attend Mass,

Take classes to be better parents.

Walk with me when the path got bumpy.

He changed my life in so many ways.

And still does, all these years later.

He’s shown me unconditional love.

Thankfully for a good, long time.

My Soul Doth Magnify the Lord

I never believed those words,

From a psalm we sing at church,

Applied to me.

I was the outcast

The odd one out

The unlovable one, according to my parents.

I held onto hope

That something would happen

To change my life’s circumstances

But my thoughts

Barely made a dent

In where I was going.

All it took was a glimpse

Of a future filled with love

A future with the man who’d become my husband.

He taught me love

Love of family and home

Love of God who, does indeed, take care of my soul.

My eyes were opened

For the first time.

I saw a person deserving of love

A person who was intelligent

Capable, loving, and full of ideas

My vision was realigned.

I knew now that I didn’t have to see everything

That I didn’t have to have all the answers\

My God would be there, helping me along the way.

The Lord is greater than any worries I might have.

He’s louder than negative thoughts that fill my brain

He’s so strong that my weaknesses fall away.

He brings me hope, love, faith in myself

Amplified through Him and my husband.

My soul, does indeed, magnify the Lord.

Stripping Away the Old

Some women keep their maiden name when they marry. The reasons are varied, but deeply personal. Meanwhile, some hyphenate the combination of last names, which is another way to hang onto the maiden name.

Me, no. I hated my name because it identified me as a member of a dysfunctional family. A family in which I was ridiculed, harassed, tormented and belittled. As long as that name was mine, I couldn’t shed myself of that identity.

If I’d lived somewhere far away from my family, I might have felt differently, but when I returned home after college, everywhere I went someone knew my dad. And he was not a nice person.

My dad had a viscous temper and never forgot or forgave a perceived wrong. He’d been let go from a variety of jobs once typesetting jobs disappeared. He claimed each time that it wasn’t his fault, that so-and-so had done….something that he got blamed for.

You can believe it the first time, but not the second or third.

My family was big into bowling. We’d travel down the peninsula bowling in every alley, collecting Green Stamps, which was huge in the early 1970s.

If my dad’s score was high, he’d brag to everyone and anyone. When it was low, he’d complain loudly, blaming the slickness of the lanes, the “grease” that accumulated on his ball, the pin setting machine, anything but his own lack of skill that day.

In other words, my dad’s reputation got the entire family banned.

Being a Haack, carrying that easily remembered last name, caused me no amount of regret. Whenever I had to identify myself, I’d garner evil looks, threats to behave, or face an ouster from the facility.

Needless to say, I hated my name.

I was fairly naïve when still in my early twenties, so I knew nothing about the legal way to change names. I’d dreamt about it, but I didn’t know how to do it. I also feared my family’s wrath if I did so.

So when I fell in love, I knew that I’d take on my husband’s last name. Connelly is a million times better than Haack.

I wish I had also changed my first name.

Teresa was a dolt, a stupid kid who didn’t know anything when she started school. Teresa was a shy, easily humiliated kid who carried her family’s torments on her shoulders. Teresa was an unlikable, obese little girl who hid in her desk, even up to and throughout high school.

My friends called me Terry, but there were few of them. I wasn’t allowed to go to other kids’ houses and no one could come to mine. I never invited anyone over, and for good reason.

First, I knew my mother wouldn’t approve. Second, my family was an embarrassment. Temper explosions happened regularly, with no rhyme or reason. If I did have a friend over, there was an excellent possibility that she’d witness a scene that would soon be all over the school.

I discovered that I could be both Teresa and Terry. Teresa was my formal identity: used for signing checks and legal documents. It was how I was known at work, which, in my mind, gave me a sense of authority when I knocked on doors collecting delinquent federal taxes.

Terry was my real identity. Terry went backpacking. Terry went skiing, camping, on car rides with her one friend. Terry attended concerts and dressed in the casual clothes she loved.

Marriage gave me permission to carve out a new identity. I could be Terry Connelly, an interesting wife and mother, a person who returned to college to pursue her teaching credential, a dream she’d held for years.

Terry Connelly was the treasurer for the Parent’s Club at her kids’ school, a mistake as she hated finances, but she kept accurate books. She was an officer in the Womens’ Guild, eventually being elected President.

She was a preschool teacher, then taught elementary. She returned to college to get a degree in Physical Education, then switched to Special Education.

Teresa could never have done that. Once she was in a program, she stayed for fear of failure.

It’s amazing the difference a name makes.

Where one holds you down, the other can set you free.

Shedding a hated name was the most wonderful thing I’d ever done.

“Brain Fog” While Writing

Those who has suffered COVID-19 often experience what scientists refer to as “Brain fog”. It’s not a medical condition, but rather a set of symptoms that, according to WebMd, affect your ability to think, cause a sense of confusion and make it difficult to focus or put thoughts into words.

Harvard Health describes it as a feeling of being sluggish, fuzzy or generally not sharp.

            Brain Fog covers a wide range of symptoms, including poor concentration, feeling confused, thinking more slowly than usual, being forgetful, and suffering mental fatigue. According to the NHS, it can feel similar to sleep deprivation or even stress, but is not the same as dementia.

            I recently contracted COVID after a trip to Arizona to spend time with a good friend.

            I’d had difficulty breathing when I boarded the plane to fly home, so was unable to keep my mask on. I understood the risk I was taking, but I was fully vaccinated, with all but the most recent booster in my arm.

            Four days later I joined friends for a wonderful lunch. I felt perfectly fine or I wouldn’t have gone. I enjoyed lunch, eating every bite of my Napa Cabbage salad. It tasted as delicious as usual.

            After lunch, we strolled through beautiful Benecia, enjoying our time together.

            On the drive home, within about twenty minutes of saying goodbye, congestion began. By the time I got home an hour later, it hurt to breathe, my head was completed stuffed and I wasn’t thinking clearly.

            I’d had COVID once before, so I knew the symptoms. I gave myself the test: it came back positive.

            I alerted my friends, emailed my doctor, then collapsed on the couch under a nice, warm blanket.

            I lived there for several days.

            I am not a patient person. I don’t like to sit still for too long unless I am deep in the writing process. I go to the gym nearly every day, working out for close to an hour each time. Once a week I hike up and down steep hills with a friend and on Fridays I walk the neighborhood with my husband.

            Late mornings and early afternoons I write. Every day.

            That’s my routine.

            But when COVID hits, my only thought is to bundle up. For a while. Then I have to get up and check out the symptoms, to see if there’s been improvement.

            This bout of the virus was particularly devastating. I experience a ton of symptoms, from the expected fatigue, slight fever, loss of taste and smell. But the meds they gave me to fight the virus caused a bad taste in my mouth that lasted for the length of the treatment.

            There was sleeplessness and an intense physical fatigue that still plagues me. I’m good for about thirty minutes of slow walking, and that’s it.

            I love working jigsaw puzzles, but found I couldn’t concentrate on putting together pieces.

            I had photos from a recent cruise to upload: I accidentally deleted four that there’s no way to borrow from the Internet.

            Most devastating was my ability to write.

I’ve been in the process of editing a novel that an agent requested. I’d made it to the halfway mark and was feeling quite positive about the changes I’d made.

COVID hit, and I could barely read the words through my blurred vision. My eyes burned and stung like a bad allergic reaction, causing pain whenever I tried to read.

The worst part was Brain Fog.

I could read a sentence, but not remember what I’d read. I could see what needed to be changed, but would make stupid typos that ruined the piece.

Incomplete sentences, missing letters, dialogue that made no sense.

I’d work on a few pages when I was strong enough to sit, then the next day have to edit those same pages. And then the next day repeat. And so on.

The fog is beginning to lift. After all, I am writing this, right? But does it make sense? Is my grammar okay? Did I use sentences and correct word endings?

I’ve made a conscious decision to leave this piece as it is, in the hopes that someone will read it and understand.

I know people who’ve made a choice not to get vaccinated. That’s fine as long as their circle of friends doesn’t mind.

As long as they confine themselves to a like minded circle of acquaintances that feel the same.

But…as soon as that person walks into my world, the world of an older woman who has chronic asthma, then that person’s decision impacts my health, my life.

And that’s not right.

Our decisions shouldn’t cause adverse harm to others.

Choosing to not vaccinate against a virus that’s killed over a million Americans affects me, children with lowered immune systems, those struggling against diseases such as cancer, and anyone over a certain age.

Brain Fog is very real.

For someone who loves words, having them stolen from you because of someone’s callous disregard to vaccination, seems almost criminal.

And then there’s the fact that my breathing infected air had on my friend!

There’s a circle of contacts that each of us has. Our closest friends and family are most impacted by viruses and diseases we contract.

As the layers of circles expand, there is less and less possibility of us infecting those in the outer rings.

But, that day I spent time in a tiny local bookstore. I spoke with the waitress. I used the restaurant’s utensils. I strolled through several cute stores, looking at merchandise. I bought two unique cookies at a tiny bakery. And before hitting the freeway, I used the restroom at McDonald’s where I then ordered a soda.

Although I felt fine, I was spreading germs like crazy.

I wonder how many I infected? Is the owner of the book store okay? What about the nice clerk at McDonald’s?

I can’t spend time worrying about them: all I can do is take care of me.

The Fog is slowly dissipating, but the effects, according to the sources I checked, might linger for several weeks. And if I get long-term COVID, they might persist for months or even years.

Please, for the sake of those you might not know, toss off your resistance to vaccination. Get the boosters. Don’t go out if you have a cough. Test yourself often. Be kind to yourself, but most importantly to those you might not know.