Author Archives: Pat

In a funk

08 Monday Feb 2016

Posted by in Grief, Transformation

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(Spoiler alert: this post is a downer, even to me.)

Today has not been a great day (except that I had a great phone call with my friend Karn this afternoon, and I did take a walk with the dogs this morning before it got cool, windy, and cloudy).  And yesterday wasn’t that great, nor the day before that.  I’ve been in a funk and am struggling to get out of it. I am on the verge of crying all the time and feeling stressed. Proof: another fever blister has started.  And I don’t have anything to be stressed about.  And no reason to cry either.

This is what grief does to me. I think it’s only fair to let you know that there isn’t some turn in the road where the potholes are all fixed and it’s only smooth riding ahead.  I’m not the only one to have days like this, I’ve had them before, and I’ll probably have them again some day.  It must be an important part of the transition from who I was to who I am becoming, that I’m even aware there doesn’t have to be a known reason for these growing pains. But it sucks to be me right now.

I start to think to myself that FINALLY I’m moving on, making plans, things are getting pretty steady, and … then I wake up one day and can’t beat the blues.  Something inside me is blocking something else.  Suddenly, the little things set me off, one right after another.  The computer loses it’s connection every 30 seconds, the DMV wants me to appear in person to retitle my vehicles, I got a $20 charge for “self installation” of a “free” mini box on my cable tv.  The weight of the world has caught up with the me who has been strong for quite a while, and I guess I’m tired of being strong and don’t want to be that anymore.  At least not today.

Karn told me I should–I must– go ahead and cry, that I need to release something even if I don’t know what it is.  Crying is cleansing, it’s healing, it’s good for the soul.  It feels like if I start, though, I might not be able to stop.  I know she’s right, but it’s scary in it’s own way.  It’s a crazy conundrum: I’m losing control, but control is an illusion.  Right?!? So I’m chasing my tail.  What is behind this funk?  On some level I must have a fear of not being able to keep it together and get on with my life.  Or fear of some other kind of failure.  Or maybe I just think too damn much, which is what Kevin would say if he were here. Come here and have your cry and it will sort itself out, he would tell me, and hold me so I was safe.  He was never afraid of my tears.

So I have been leaking tears most of the day.  Which is exhausting.  But not as draining as carrying out this funk for three days straight.

This is not an invitation to a pity party.  It’s an expression of where I am in the grieving process.  There are definitely way more good days than bad ones, and for that I’m grateful.  I thank God I have friends I can talk to, dogs I can cuddle with, and a warm bed to cry myself to sleep in since the shoulder is not available.

I hope tomorrow is brighter.

Letting go, piece by piece

04 Thursday Feb 2016

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First, I let the truck go, about two months after he had died.  It wasn’t paid for, and it wasn’t registered in my name.  It was big for me, and I had another vehicle – my car – so I didn’t need this…. this reminder of truckwhat we fought over from time to time.  When I talked to a friend about it, she said, “Why are you agonizing over this so much?” I told her it was because it meant so much to Kevin.  Her reply stunned me, “Well, you meant a lot to him also. Would he want you to be this upset over it?”  Of course not.  And so I surrended it (read: voluntary repossession) back to the finance company. I still felt bad, at least I did until traded in my cute convertible on a new Highlander, since I realized I did want something to schlep stuff in.

A couple of weeks lachairster, I started in on the house.  I called Habitat Restore to come get his recliner from the family room so I could think about redecorating.  And I got rid of my matching one as well.  They were nice chairs, still relatively new.  But the style was going to have to change when I got rid of the “man cave” look.  My same friend went shopping with me.  I put most of the rest of his things in his closet.  I kind of miss those comfortable, put-your-feet-up chairs.

It took a few more months before I could clean out his closet.  Luckily, we had separate closets so I didn’t have to look at or smell his clothes every day.  I just kept the doors closed.  At the end of May, about six months after Kevin died, my same friend came to help me pack up the clothes.  Everyone needs this kind of friend.  She even took the bags of clothes to the DAV Thrift Store so I wouldn’t procrastinate and drive around with them in my trunk for a few months.  I still have to get through the hunting clothes, the underwear box, the coats, and the motorcycle gear.

In May I consigned his motorcycle for sale. When it was still on the lot in August, I was about to put it back in the garage, and the very same day I made that decision, I got an offer.  So bye-bye.  I cried when I left it at the dealer.  It hurt to see him go out of my life one piece at time.

The boat had also been consigned, and it took from February until September to sell.  I felt bad that he had only had it in the water one time here.  I contemplated taking a water safety course and trying to use it myself, but that was foolishness. I didn’t even like it all that much when he was in charge!  It’s a small fishing boat, and I always felt vulnerable in it on big water.  I was relieved to hand the keys off to someone else.

Today I took another step.  I had dinner at a new restaurant a bout a year ago.  The owner was in the process of changing the theme from tiki bar to a hunter’s grille.  I asked him then if he might be interested in some dead animals (my term of endearment for Kevin’s mounts).  He said yes and gave me his card, but I lost the card. I guess I wasn’t ready yet.  File_000 (3)Last week I went back to the restaurant and saw that he had gotten rid of the thatched roofs over the booths and most of the bamboo was gone, but he was sorely lacking in décor.  I again asked him about the taxidermied trophies I had in the closet.  I had given a bear head to my nephew, and I wasn’t ready to part with the Redlin plates yet, but I did have 2 deer, a turkey fan, a goose, and two ducks, and a spare set of antlers.  This morning he came to the house and bought them all.  It wasn’t as if I won the lottery, but I’ll get a few free meals at a good restaurant and maybe a set of new cushions for the chairs on the back deck.

It’s a little over 14 months since he passed on.  And it’s still a tender moment when I let go of one thing or another, even if whatever it is has been sleeping in a closet all this time. Almost all of these things were very much Kevin’s taste and style, not mine. In fact, I remember my dismay when I first met him and he told he was a hunter. I could not believe I was so open to having dead animals in the house.  But I loved him, so therefore, I never minded.  It’s interesting to me…it was not a compromise at all; it was completely acceptable.

I think Kevin would be proud of the care I gave in passing along his things to people who really wanted them, and only when I felt ready.  Especially the dead animals. He called the small deer here “dog deer,” and I know he’ll be beaming to have people admire the nice Dakota-sized deer and the tasteful way the goose and duck were mounted.  This way I also can still visit them when I go have a free hamburger!  I still have the best part of him, though, my memories.

PS. I still have a few things, like a remote controlled mini helicopter, and a set of golf clubs, and a bicycle…among others. If you are interested, let me know.  :o)

 

Gratitude for the Walking Wounded

02 Tuesday Feb 2016

Posted by in Gratitude, Grief

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The first thing that made my gratitude prayers yesterday was that I had been given the opportunity to be of service to someone else. About grief and moving on. Twice recently, and again last night.

The first time, a woman I do not know was referred to me by a mutual friend. She lost her husband a few months back and was struggling to make sense of her life now. The woman didn’t ask me for anything except to be her Facebook friend. She needed someone who has been where she is.  When she is ready for more, I’ll be here for that, too.  This blog has been helpful to her, and for that I am thankful.

The second was a former coworker I had the chance to catch up with.  A 1-1/2 hour phone call was hardly enough time, but we covered a lot of ground.  Among other things we talked about was that she felt I had been a mentor to her and she encouraged me to consider writing about that.  She helped me see value in my past experiences.

Then last night a friend contacted me and asked for advice. Her daughter suffered the loss of her baby boy a while back. She is pregnant again now, and has another child as well.  My friend is at her wit’s end trying to help with the granddaughter, providing a home for the daughter, being with her own mother who lives nearby, and paying attention to her own marriage. She needs support to put her own needs on this list of people she is nurturing.

It occurred to me again how we are all walking wounded, carrying our own crosses, so to speak. Some of us are able to put them in a pocket or a purse. Some of us have to use both hands, and some of us have chains to drag them along with us. We can’t always tell what that cross looks like because we can’t see it; we don’t know how heavy it is; we don’t know if someone needs or wants help if they don’t ask.  And even when help is offered, it is hard to share or hand over our cross because we think the other person has their own cross, too.  The interesting thing is that I can set my own cross down while I am helping someone else.  There are times I don’t even realize I have forgotten to pick my cross back up, or when I do, it’s not as heavy as I remembered.

It’s one thing to ask for help, and then it’s another to receive it. I’m at that place where I am doing both again – I’m not stuck in one place any longer.  Asking for help is a sign of strength; it means we are strong enough to know we need help and that we are trusting the world is ultimately a good place and the helper is a good person.  Being allowed to help is also a gift. It lets us show how much we care.  It lets us feel strong because we are needed.  And it helps us understand how our own past needs or experiences have led us to being able to help now.

You know who you are – thank you for sharing your stories with me and asking me to listen or letting me help.  You  have helped me take another step forward in my own recovery.  Today I ask for the opportunity to be of service again, to help make the world a better place, to help the wounded get better.

 

 

 

 

 

Books, books, and more books

28 Thursday Jan 2016

Posted by in Reading

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I’ve always been an avid reader. It started with Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys, moved on to Kathleen Woodiwiss,  Danielle Steele, and Harlequin romances, and then to biographies or autobiographies of strong women (think Katharine Hepburn and Eleanor Roosevelt), and before I knew it, I now have six bookcases and other random places filled with books, books, and more books.  I just recently bought at an auction 3 years’ worth of back issues of a particular trade magazine!  Mostly I have leadership and “success” books, with a few shelves reserved for self-help and inspirational books.  Kevin was also a reader, and his preference was either thriller or historical non-fiction…although I did get him to read my all-time fave, The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran (unfortunately, he didn’t get it).

I keep telling myself I need to utilize my local library instead of buying books, but I have a severe weakness in that regard apparently.  Don’t get me wrong – I still get the trashy romance novels from there, but I buy a LOT of books still.  I probably have over 20 cookbooks (stashed in a kitchen cupboard), at least 14 books by John Maxwell, about a dozen on public speaking, and lately I’ve been collecting books on writing (I’m up to a half dozen, and two should be arriving tomorrow from Amazon. I like having books around, writing or highlighting in them, re-reading them, stacking them here and there, and getting comfy by the fire with a blanket, a book, and a vanilla latte.  Occasionally I come across a book that makes no sense or I think is stupid or hasn’t hooked me.  I’ve been known to purposely leave books in the airport or a hotel room because I can’t make myself throw them in the trash.  I am always interested in recommendations, so let me know if you have a favorite I should check out (or buy). This morning I was referred to Falling Upward by Richard Rohr, so that’s next on my list.

I’ve also been given books as potential self-help for dealing with my grief.  Two of the better ones are A Grief Observed by C.S. Lewis, and The Way of Transition by William Bridges. Both men suffered the loss of their wives, and these are about their experiences.  One coming tomorrow is A Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion about her loss of a spouse.  Novels like Mitch Albom’s The First Phone Call From Heaven also appeal to me at this time of my life.

Just this morning I was looking for Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way on accessing your creativity is around here somewhere, but I can’t find it.  My books are not organized much anymore.  They used to be – before I moved, and then moved again, and then brought home books from the office when I started this sabbatical.  I think that is what I should do today – organize my books.  I keep saying I’ll do it “someday” when I have time, and I have that in abundance right now.

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An unorganized library

You can tell a lot about a person, I think, by the books they read, by what’s hidden and by what’s out in the open, by what is on the top shelf or at eye level, by which ones are obviously well read and those that haven’t cracked the spine yet.  Looking at my books right now would tell an observer that I’m probably spending a lot of time alone (if I’m actually reading them), and that I’m interested in writing a memoir (given those are the ones not on a shelf), and that I am not a student of library science (because of the shelving system..or lack of one).  Reading is not a haphazard activity for me, but I do go in spurts according to genre.  Yes, I’ve just decided: today is going to be Book Organization Day for me.  One shelf at a time, one bookcase at a time, one room at a time, and it will be all be done.  Like life, like grief, like a lot of things – one at a time keeps me from being overwhelmed.

And when that is done, I might think about tackling the DVDs and the CDs next.

More than a sassy new haircut

25 Monday Jan 2016

Posted by in Transformation

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I can’t just sit home any longer.  I’m itching to DO something.  I need to put my reflections and loose conclusions about my life into some context; that is what is at the heart of a sabbatical.  So I am thinking of a solo (+2 dogs) road trip  across the USA , or possibly a Road Scholar (travel & learn) trip to Cuba for a few weeks.  I think there needs to be some adventure aspect to all this, not only because it gives you good stories to tell (ha!) but because that’s how we know we are alive and remember what is important and a priority.  Being alive is what it’s all about for me – I MUST prove to myself that even though Kevin is gone, I have a life here on Earth yet, and it’s a good one.  So today I took a step in the right direction.  Women might relate – I went to a new hairdresser today.

New place, a somewhat random choice (although I don’t really believe in that kind of randomness), certainly a spontaneous stop (another thing I don’t really believe, i.e., there are no accidents). This place is called Jon’s Salon. I passed it on the way to the Veterinarian Clinic this morning to take in dog “samples” for testing (another story).  Jon is  normally closed on Mondays. He normally only takes 2016-01-25 18-22-47appointments, not walk-ins. His salon is next door to the place I was thinking I’d go.  (Get all the dots connected here?)  So Jon welcomes me in while he is finishing up another woman (the one he opened for specifically), tells me I look like I need to “get some sass back!”  and invites me to have a seat.  He tells me he does not like my current haircut and that he can fix it if I want but I have to ask him to fix it. So I do.  The man was incredible.  He showed me why he was using a razor instead of a scissors, how he was doing things, asking about my life and making sure the cut would be appropriate.  He was funny and inspiring and quite a playful guy.  I like the cut – it’s not wild and crazy, just a little spunkier than I’ve had it in a while. He does not like the conservative look on me, and I’d better plan to keep the silver because he LOVES it!! He is sure that this new look says I am “mod, confident, and sassy now.”   I left there feeling like a million bucks, for the price of  $40. 

I actually do feel like I want to go out and be seen.  Is it the cut, or Jon’s enthusiasm, or my belief in my good decision to stop there?  Even little moments like this,  just being open to new people and new experiences, help us know we are on the right track to aliveness. I don’t want to jump out of an airplane or sail around the Cape, but I am ready to take some small risks.  It’s amazing what a haircut and a fabulous stylist can do.  People have said my sabbatical was a bold act.  I may just feel brave enough right now to put some things in motion.  After all, Jon saw zest in me and wanted to help it come out (he said that!). 

I was reminded that our lives need texture to show us we are alive, to inspire us to put our thoughts in context, to keep things simple, and to reach deep for our feelings. Those things Kevin and I were planning to do were all set aside last year; I thought I wouldn’t want to do them alone. Kevin used to call me sassy when I beat him at Scrabble.  I think he sent me to Jon’s door today, to tell me it’s time. I’m not like Stella looking to get her groove back; I’m just feeling … ready.  Ah, it’s been a very good day.

Winter Storm Preparation

21 Thursday Jan 2016

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I have lived through some memorable storms, so this one isn’t making me nervous. There was the January 1975 blizzard in Minnesota when I was babysitting and got stuck at this house with some wild kids for about 4 days. I was only a junior in high school but managed okay.  Another time my boys and I ended up stranded at a Salvation Army overnight when a storm hit while we were on our way home from my mom’s house.  The driving part was scary, but we managed okay.  Then there was a storm in Pierre when Kevin was still living in Brookings.  I ended up with a snow drift as hard as a brick wall and waist high I had to chop down to get out of my driveway.  I’ve also lived through a “flizzard” that resulted in my house being flooded with 51″ of water.

In each event, I had to figure out my survival strategy and implement it without the benefit of a father/boyfriend/husband, and even without a parent/friend/sibling to help make the major decisions or do some of the heavy lifting.  I would probably rather have had that, but it’s a moot point.

It’s kind of funny.  In Virginia there have been two hurricane threats since I’ve been here – both of which luckily turned out to be non-events. But for the first one, Kevin was in Minnesota retrieving his boat, and last year he was already gone.

I’m destined to face these adversities with Mother Nature on my own, I guess.   And as a practical woman of Midwestern stock, I am quite capable and self-sufficient, thank you.  I have water on hand, candles and matches, extra batteries, bread and peanut butter, and extra toilet paper.  I have blankets and dogs and a gas stove to keep me warm.  I have books to read, other books to color in.  I even have a portable DVD player.  Computers and phone will be charged up, along with back-up batteries.

I am thankful I am not dependent or helpless, and I’m not scared, but this is the kind of time when I do get lonely.  A good old-fashioned snow storm begs for snuggling before a fireplace, drinking hot chocolate, playing Scrabble or Dominoes, and making memories to be shared later.  The me-and-you-against-the-world thing….

What is a weekend?

18 Monday Jan 2016

Posted by in Sabbatical, Traditions

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This morning I read an article that was a  series of quotes supposedly about leadership   They were from the Dowager Countess or Whatever-her-name-is from Downton Abbey (find here). I haven’t watched that show, but I’m thinking I should start.  The article took one-liners from her and slipped them into leadership advice. One of the quotes was “What is a weekend?”  If you’re not familiar with the show either, some context helps. She is the matriarch of a wealthy British family around the very early 1900’s. Apparently, every day is a like a Saturday, or else they work every day, so there is no break on Saturday and Sunday. And no holidays except maybe Christmas?   Which is connected to my lifetstyle now that I’m on sabbatical.

As one who is not employed, and not having a housemate who has to get off to work somewhere, it’s not always obvious when the weekend or a holiday is upon me.  Except daytime tv (especially the Hallmark channel) is better on weekends, what with tv marathons and movies instead of talk shows and reruns of sitcoms.

I used to look forward to Casual Fridays, and I stressed over Monday mornings, but I enjoyed Saturday and Sunday. Catching up on my sleep on Saturday was a luxury I dreamed of but couldn’t often indulge, and if we/I went somewhere, we/I had to be home before supper Sunday to get ready for the next week. (Now I don’t go anywhere. This needs to change.) Laundry, cleaning, grocery shopping, errands like getting a haircut, were usually done on a Saturday, since I was too tired after work during the week to brave the traffic and crowds.  I thought I would enjoy doing the grocery store and other errands during the week now, but it’s funny how you can lose track of time. I have struggled to find my guilty pleasure like a long lunch, or a spontaneous drive to get out of town on Saturday.  No day is particularly special right now, but I’ll admit that Mondays are much more relaxing than they used to be.

I find it challenging to be motivated some days, since I have all day to do something, and if I don’t get it done, I have tomorrow and the day after that, and the next day after that.  I gave up weekends, I guess; Saturdays and Sundays just roll one day in to another. It’s hard to swim upstream against the rest of the world’s schedule. Festivals and fairs are usually held on weekends, sales typically start on weekends, friends are available on traditional weekends.

The value of this sabbatical is that I have time now to ponder things like this and test out various theories or sample new ways of doing things.  And it’s important I do this. Because I don’t have to (I don’t get to) adapt to my husband’s work schedule.  It’s all about me, getting to know me this way, finding out what kind of creature of habit I am.  This kind of freedom is a bit overwhelming sometimes. I have days when I feel like I’m in freefall. And those days are often Mondays, like today.   It took me two months to get rested from at least the last year of high stress and grieving. I think I’m ready to get to work now – work on my book, work on my yard, work on figuring out my Next Big Thing.  It’s Monday, the start of a week, and a great time to get to work on a something new.  And I think I’ll make plans for Saturday, so I can enjoy the weekend again.

 

Reclaiming the house…and myself

15 Friday Jan 2016

Posted by in Dreaming, Grief, Sabbatical

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By this time last year , 52 days after Kevin’s passing,  I was well into the “reclaiming” frenzy that would occupy my hands and my mind for most of the year, as I plunged into my grieving.  IFile_000 (6).jpeg hadn’t just lost Kevin; I lost my dreams and my sense of self, my focus, my identity, my give-a-damn.  The holidays were over.  I had tried to run away between Christmas and New Year’s, but thanks to rain, ice, traffic, and a job, I only got 93 miles down the road before I turned back.  Since that didn’t work, I attacked my house.

According to my journal and the photos time-stamped on my phone, on January 3 I ruthlessly cleaned out my closet.  I gave away six trash bags full of clothes to the Goodwill store.  (It was May before I could approach Kevin’s closet.)  By January 6 I had had my front entry painted (hired out), and I painted the laundry room in anticipation of a new washer and dryer being delivered. On January 13 I took down the dead animals and hunting prints  from the family room (man cave) wall, and the next day started painting in there. By the end of January I had a storage loft built in the garage so I could reorganize and manage all the power tools and other detritus he collected – coolers, bbq accessories, shovels and rakes, fishing rods and tackle, motorcycle gear, decoys, and mystery boxes.  His truck was gone by now, too.  Next up was the kitchen: paint, appliances, curtains.  And I was just getting started. It was how I dealt with being solo for the first time in my life.

A year later, I realize I had worn myself out, between the house and the job.  At least it was productive and not destructive, although exhaustion is not on the good side of the spectrum. The house slowly transitioned from ours to mine, much as I transitioned from Mrs. to Ms.  Having to decide  what I wanted and what I could afford, without having to ask for consent or to seek compromise, was a first step in the new self-discipline I had to find. Discovering what I liked required considering various options and trusting myself to make good decisions on my own.  Choosing between painting one more wall or going to bed was part of learning to take care of myself.  And being unable to physically do some things, like move furniture up and down stairs, meant I had to get comfortable with needing other people and asking for their help

I worked diligently at trying to focus on only one day at a time, and time kept marching on.  I couldn’t see much beyond that anyway, much as I tried to force a vision of a new future.  It has taken me a year to settle down mentally finally, and to spend time thinking while doing nothing else.  I know how fortunate I am to be able to do this sabbatical.  I am grateful for the support I have gotten in doing so.  I wonder how long it will take me to become  the woman I want to be now.  Paint colors have names like Cream Puff or Dark Secret or Confetti Fanfare.  I h0pe my colors turns out something like Brave Woman, Dreamer, and Serenity.

 

Winning the Lottery

13 Wednesday Jan 2016

Posted by in Budgeting, Dreaming, Sabbatical, Transformation

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My late husband’s financial plan always relied on winning the lottery, and he faithfully bought a ticket when the numbers got high enough.  If he ever won more, I never knew about it! I very rarely bought a ticket, but now that the possible payout is over $1 Billion (yes, billion with a “b”), I bought 4 tickets the other day. I only had $8 on me after I bought gas, so 4 was it.  Besides, you only need 1 to win, right?

Last night I sat down and decided to come up my list of how I’m going to spend my winnings when I get the money in hand.  I had barely finished when my brother called, and we talked about how we would spend the money if either of us won.  No surprise, we had vastly different plans. After the taxes were paid, and I gave 10% to charity (I do remember he said he wouldn’t do this – he’d prefer to give it directly to people rather than to let someone else decide who it goes to), I struggled to figure out what to do with all the remainder.  I could only come up with another $6 million or so in expenditures.  I would set up education trust funds for each of my grandchildren, pay off my kids’ student loans (and otherwise equalize this distribution since at least one no longer has student loans), and then I would buy a hobby farm and open a pet rescue (probably for beagles) operation. After that, I would make sure each of my kids had a nice-enough house (no mini-mansions necessary) and reliable vehicles. And then I’d take my kids, grandkids, siblings, in-laws and outlaws, nieces and nephews (and their kids), on an around-the-world trip, which is the best education of all.  And a girlfriend trip is in the mix, too. In a nutshell, this reflects my pre-lottery priorities: education, humanity,  and travel.  (It’s good know the money won’t change me that much.)

My sister Theresa has a grand idea. She said the first thing she would do if she wins (note: she said “if” she wins, and I think in terms of “when” I win) isto take a long vacation and then call her kids to tell them where she is!  I think that’s what I will do also; maybe I’ll invite her to come along…sounds like she could use a break.

But then I remembered another conversation I had yesterday with a girlfriend who  lamented that she “didn’t have a Kevin,” and I knew what she meant.  I had already won the lottery back in the summer of 2001 when I met Kevin.  He was exactly the right guy for me, at the right time.  My idea of marriage was a partnership between friends who fell in love, who worked every day at being in relationship, practicing  acceptance and  honesty, sharing and giving, and caring.  He treated me so very, very well, with geArkansas Apr 2012nerosity and laughter and openness.  What more could a girl ask for?  The fact that he’s passed away now doesn’t mean I’m at a dead end (NO pun intended).  Because of the great experience I had of loving him and being loved by him, I am a better person, with happy memories and improved interpersonal skills that enhance all my relationships – whether with my children and grandkids or Toastmaster friends or co-workers or neighbors or new people I have yet to meet or anyone else I come into contact with.  I lived that love for 13 years, and it will continue to pay residual dividends for the rest of my life.  That’s winning!!

I read somewhere recently that if you have a garden and a library, you have everything you need. I can relate to that, and I do have those.  It would be nice to have my Kevin to share those with me, but as that other saying goes, better to have loved and lost than never have loved at all.  It’s comforting to know that I don’t need a Billion dollars to make me happy.  I can’t even spend in my mind.  I told my brother that $100,000 would give me financial serenity, given my sabbatical and limited funds right now.  But I’m doing good anyway, so if the winning ticket isn’t hanging on my refrigerator, I won’t miss the money much.  I’ve already won more than many people.