Third Act With Pattie

Category: ♀ ♂ Retirement: Now We’re Both Home

The adventures, surprises, and occasional chaos that happen when two people retire and suddenly spend every day together.

  • I Miss That Woman

    I Miss That Woman

    One of the great lies of modern technology is that we can no longer get lost.

    We have GPS.

    We have smartphones.

    We have interactive maps.

    We have little blue dots that tell us exactly where we are.

    And yet, over the course of five days at Universal Studios, I was lost so often that I began to suspect my little blue dot was just making things up.

    The problem, as it turns out, is that theme parks apparently believe maps should be viewed on screens approximately the size of a saltine cracker.

    I used to be the person who got us where we needed to go.

    Although directionally challenged, I could read maps. Paper maps. Solid maps where the top was the top and the bottom was the bottom. Maps that did not suddenly rotate because I shifted my weight or turned my body fifteen degrees to the left.

    Maps where you could look at the route and say, “I need to turn right here.”

    Or, “I better turn left there.”

    Not arrows that changed direction on the whim of the gods.

    As a single mom, I took my two children on adventures all over the place.

    I studied maps before we left home.

    I highlighted routes.

    I planned for confusing intersections.

    I took them to amusement parks, water parks, state parks, and places we had never seen before.

    We didn’t get lost.

    And perhaps more importantly, we didn’t ask for directions.

    I miss that woman.

    The woman with the highlighted map.

    The woman who trusted herself.

    The woman who could look at a route and know where she was going.

    Now?

    Now I am standing in a theme park holding a saltine cracker with a battery.

    Trying to determine whether the tiny arrow is pointing where I need to go or whether it has once again decided that True North is the most important information in my life.

    As if I routinely navigate by the stars.

    As if Lewis and Clark are waiting on me.

    As if anybody other than Eagle Scouts knows where True North is at any given moment.

    And because life enjoys piling on, I can’t see worth a damn out of the eye that needs cataract surgery.

    A weakness for another day.

    If I enlarge the map, I lose where I’m going.

    If I shrink the map, I lose where I am.

    And somewhere between those two settings lies the exact point where I begin questioning all my life choices.

    One afternoon of our Universal adventure, I was happily settled in Celestial Park.

    Soft music.

    Shade.

    Air conditioning.

    Comfortable seating with actual backs.

    Civilized beverages served in actual glass glasses.

    In other words, paradise.

    Then came the text.

    “Come meet us at Mead Hall.”

    Simple enough.

    Except Mead Hall was in the Isle of Berk.

    But I was not.

    And the app, despite being connected to celestial satellites orbiting the earth, seemed unwilling to share that information in a useful manner.

    I zoomed.

    I swiped.

    I rotated.

    I squinted.

    I tried again.

    At one point I was no longer certain whether the map was lost or I was.

    Finally, I found an information booth.

    And there, like a gift from heaven itself, was a paper map.

    A solid map.

    A trustworthy map.

    A map that stayed still.

    Within seconds, I had figured out exactly where I needed to go.

    But then something happened that bothered me more than being lost.

    I asked anyway.

    Not because I didn’t know.

    Because I wasn’t sure I trusted myself.

    When did that happen? 

    The employee confirmed what I already thought.

    I was right.

    Confirmation that I had become the unconfident woman.

    Eventually I found the portal to Berk.

    I could see the giant tower thing ahead of me.

    The roads split left and right.

    The app was no help.

    The signs were questionable.

    My confidence was fading.

    I chose a direction.

    Then another.

    Then another.

    At one point I found myself sitting on a rock trying very hard not to cry over a theme park map.

    Which is not a sentence I ever expected to write.

    About then, Hubby texted.

    “Where are you?”

    Well, if I knew that, I wouldn’t be sitting on a rock, would I?

    I didn’t send that response.

    I told him I was sitting under a sign that said:

    LOST ELDER. HAVE PITY.

    A few minutes later I finally asked another stranger for help.

    Again.

    And eventually I made it.

    Exhausted.

    Frustrated.

    Relieved.

    And more emotional than the situation probably warranted.

    Because the truth is, this wasn’t really about finding Mead Hall.

    It wasn’t even about the map.

    It was about confidence.

    I used to be the person who found the way.

    The map reader.

    The route planner.

    The woman with the highlighted atlas riding shotgun.

    Now I’m the person who asks strangers for directions.

    And I hate that.

    Or maybe I hate what I think it says about me.

    Because the truth is, I did find my way.

    I found the information booth.

    I found the paper map.

    I found the right bridge eventually.

    I even found Hubby.

    Maybe the problem isn’t that I can no longer find my way.

    Maybe the problem is that I’ve spent so much of my life believing strength meant never needing help that every request for directions feels like failure.

    And maybe, four months shy of seventy, after a year that included cancer, chemo, cataracts, and a Universal Studios app apparently designed by squirrels, that’s a lesson worth learning.

    Even if I’d still rather have a paper map.

    One story down. Several margaritas to go.

    -Pattie

    Subscribe now. New episodes of suffering drop regularly, and binge-reading is encouraged.

  • I Knew Better

    I Knew Better

    As I write this, we are on Day Three (of Five) of Liddle S’kiddle’s Family Senior Trip to Universal Studios Orlando.

    Against all logic, reason, and personal preference, I am still alive.

    Accompanying me on this adventure are Hubby, Senior S’kiddle, Middle S’kiddle, Middle S’kiddle’s boyfriend Redbeard (currently enjoying a favorable performance review), and of course, Liddle S’kiddle.

    To say I don’t enjoy amusement parks is like saying the Pope is a little bit Catholic.

    I am not comfortable in big crowds.

    Short people, you know what I mean.

    We are overlooked down here.

    Stepped over.

    Bumped into.

    And back in the days when everybody smoked? Burned.

    My PTSD still burns bright.

    Loud noises confuse me and make it difficult for me to think.

    I do not like to ride rides, mostly because I really do not want to stand in lines.

    And finally, I do not like to be hot and sweaty.

    Despite the facts, and because of my love for all the S’kiddles, I let hope overrule experience.

    I knew.

    We took this trip before when all the S’kiddles were little, sans Redbeard of course, and neither I nor they have changed. 

    They still disagree frequently and loudly:  on food, on clothes, on makeup, and existentially – boys. 

    They remain completely different human beings with wildly different definitions of fun.

    In addition, just two days before leaving on this trip, I dropped the edge of a 30-pound design wall onto my big toe…

    and it landed squarely on the nail root—

    that tender little patch of flesh where the nail emerges from the skin

    and pain goes to live.

    I’m not gonna lie.

    I cried like my foot had been amputated with a butter knife.

    Oh, and let’s not forget that I am sneaking up on seventy whether I approve of it or not.

    Or that I had cancer last year and had my last chemo treatment after Christmas. I forget about it more often than you’d think – until my body reminds me that IT has not.

    In other words, I arrived at Universal carrying a bruised toe, post-chemo stamina, sensory overload issues, and a lifelong dislike of amusement parks.

    The odds were not in my favor.

    First stop: Super Nintendo World.  Three stories of noise, music, children, and heat aimed directly at your soul.

    My circuits overloaded within five minutes –

    full-on senior brain seizure. 

    Next stop: Donkey Kong – kingdom of intense heat and sanity-invading drumbeats. 

    Two hour wait in the sun while the “children” – all of them adults, every one capable of being left unsupervised –  rode a roller coaster that turned out to be their least favorite.  

    And Hubby and I, still mid-brain seizure – never thought to seek shade and comfort just steps away. 

    Pull up a chair. There is no way this trip fits into one story.

    Frankly, it may take three margaritas and a miniseries.

    -Pattie

    P.S.  Consider this Episode One of The Universal Chronicles. More to come – pace yourselves.

    Subscribe now. New episodes of suffering drop regularly, and binge-reading is encouraged.

  • The Return of Leg Shaving

    The Return of Leg Shaving

    Today I shaved my legs for the first time since last August.

    Not because I’m lazy.

    Well.

    Not entirely because I’m lazy.

    The real reason is that chemotherapy comes with both curses and blessings.

    One of the blessings?

    No leg hair.

    For ten glorious months, I have not shaved my legs.

    Not once.

    No balancing on one foot in a slippery shower. No discovering halfway through that the razor is dull. No realizing I somehow missed an entire stripe down the back of one calf.

    Nothing.

    Just smooth legs and one less thing on my list.

    Of course, the curse is that chemotherapy doesn’t stop at your legs.

    It takes all the hair.

    And while there are certainly parts of that experience I do not recommend, there was something oddly satisfying about crossing “shave legs” off my to-do list for ten straight months.

    At some point during treatment, I stopped even thinking about it.

    Then recovery happened.

    Slowly.

    Quietly.

    The fuzz on my head started coming back.

    The eyebrows that had apparently quit without notice started showing up for work again.

    The eyelashes decided they might stick around after all.

    (As much as any eyelashes can after surviving the unforgivable tweeze craze of the 1970s.)

    Every little bit of regrowth felt like a victory.

    Proof that my body was finding its way home.

    And I was grateful for every bit of it.

    Until this morning.

    This morning I looked down in the shower and thought:

    “Well, apparently we’ve brought back the leg hair.”

    Now, to be fair, I should probably be celebrating.

    This is evidence of healing.

    Recovery.

    Progress.

    The return of normal bodily functions.

    But instead, I found myself standing there with a razor thinking:

    “Couldn’t we have left this one behind?”

    Then I dug my razor out of the back of the bathroom drawer and actually stopped and stared at it.

    The blade looked exactly the same as it had ten months ago.

    Which led to an important scientific question:

    Does a razor get dull just sitting there?

    Because if so, this one should have been worn slap out by now.

    Then I remembered.

    I had put that blade on the day my port was installed.

    Not the week before.

    Not sometime that month.

    The actual day.

    And suddenly I wasn’t looking at a razor anymore.

    I was looking at a timestamp.

    Back then, I had no idea how many doctor’s appointments, PET scans, infusions, steroids, naps, night sweats, and worried conversations stood between that shower and this one.

    If you had told me that morning that the next time I used that razor I would be cancer-free and standing in my shower complaining about leg hair, I would have taken that deal in a heartbeat.

    Then there was the shaving cream.

    The good shaving cream.

    The extra-foamy, sensitive-skin, smells-really-good shaving cream.

    The can was almost empty.

    Which raises another question.

    Does shaving cream evaporate?

    Or has someone in this house been secretly using my expensive shaving cream while I wasn’t paying attention?

    I’m not naming names.

    But there are only two people who live here, and one of them is a 6-foot-7 semi-retired male.

    The evidence seems compelling.

    Anyway.

    The shaving is done.

    The legs are smooth.

    The era of effortless maintenance appears to be over.

    And that got me wondering.

    Is this a thing for men who have gone through chemo, too?

    Because back in my day—and yes, I am officially old enough to say that—a man shaved his face and called it good.

    That was the entire grooming plan.

    Nowadays it seems like the only thing some men don’t shave is their face.

    So I’m curious.

    Men who have been through chemo, was there any hair you were perfectly happy to lose?

    Any hair you were relieved to see return?

    Or maybe more importantly…

    Was there any hair that came back and made you think:

    “Seriously? Of all the things that could have stayed gone forever, you picked THIS?”

    Because ladies, let’s not pretend we don’t have opinions here, too.

    By a certain age, some hair starts showing up in places nobody ordered it from.

    And it arrives with the confidence of a long-awaited guest.

    One day you’re minding your own business.

    The next day you’re standing in front of a magnifying mirror wondering how a single chin hair managed to grow three inches overnight without your knowledge.

    The human body is a mystery.

    Recovery is a mystery.

    And apparently hair is determined to remind us who’s really in charge.

    So today I shaved my legs for the first time in ten months.

    It wasn’t particularly exciting.

    It wasn’t especially meaningful.

    But it was one of those ordinary little moments that quietly reminded me how far I’ve come.

    Ten months ago, I was sitting in chemo.

    Today, I’m complaining about shaving my legs.

    I’ll take that trade every single time.

    Even if the leg hair is making a comeback tour that absolutely nobody requested.

    -Pattie

  • The Back Rows

    The Back Rows

    There are certain moments in loving a child that sit quietly in your chest for a long time afterward.

    Watching Liddle S’kiddle graduate high school was one of them.

    We are unbelievably proud of her.
    Proud of the hard work.
    Proud of the discipline.
    Proud of the long nights and early mornings and all the ordinary days that somehow added up to this extraordinary milestone.

    She graduated with honors, and she earned every bit of it.

    As the ceremony began, the honor graduates and graduates with distinction were seated in the front rows, decorated in stoles and regalia that reflected years of academic achievement. They were recognized and applauded, rightly so, for what they had accomplished.

    And their families cheered with the kind of joy that only comes from watching someone you love achieve something they worked hard for.

    We clapped proudly right along with them.

    But somewhere in the middle of the ceremony, my eyes kept drifting to the back rows.

    The students whose victories were less decorated, but no less hard-won.
    The ones the ceremony said less about…
    but whose stories may have required just as much strength.

    And I found myself wondering about them.

    How many had worked late shifts after school?
    How many had gone home carrying burdens nobody else could see?
    How many had walked through heartbreak, anxiety, loss, instability, exhaustion, or responsibilities far beyond their years?
    How many had simply fought like hell just to cross that stage?

    Several had earned scholarships.
    Many are headed to college.
    Others are entering trades, jobs, military service, or lives that will require just as much courage and determination as any university classroom.

    And when their names were called, I noticed something else.

    Their families often cheered the loudest.

    Not because they loved their children more.
    But maybe because they understood, in a deeply personal way,

    just how hard-won that diploma really was.

    Because sometimes graduating with honors is the miracle.

    And sometimes graduating at all is.

    Both deserve applause.

    And so, we celebrate all of them.
    The scholars.
    The overcomers.
    The exhausted kids who kept going anyway.
    The students who succeeded publicly and the ones who succeeded quietly.

    The ones in the front rows.
    The ones in the back.

    The graduates whose accomplishments were announced to the room…
    and the graduates whose strength may have only been fully understood by the people cheering hardest for them.

    Because every student who crossed that stage carried a story.
    And every single one deserved their moment when their name was called.

    Maybe that is what I will remember most about graduation night.

    Not just the honors and distinctions.
    But the reminder that perseverance does not always wear decorative cords.

    Sometimes it simply wears a cap and gown
    and keeps going anyway.

    -Pattie

  • Packing for Inflammation Instead of Nightlife

    Packing for Inflammation Instead of Nightlife

    As you know, hubby and I went away for a long weekend a few weeks ago . We had such a wonderful time with great friends.

    So this is not about that.

    What this is about…

    Is slightly alarming.

    Have you ever thought about packing to go on a trip?

    Of course you have.

    If you’ve ever gone anywhere overnight, you’ve thought about what to pack.

    For decades I have filled my suitcase – ok suitcases – with at least two outfits for each day.

    Because a girl never really knows who she is going to be on vacation.

    Will I feel all frilly and dressy?

    Will I want to give casual but effortlessly put together?

    Will I suddenly become someone who wears linen?

    Who knows?

    And of course there were matching undergarments for each outfit.

    And shoes

    Matching shoes.  Beautiful shoes.

    The kind clearly designed by people who hate women.

    And selfie worthy accessories:

    Jewelry, big colorful matching sunglasses, belts, coordinated lipsticks.

    And one wrinkled hoodie with loose soft lounge pants…

    for emotion support or… hangover recovery.

    And hubby packed the same way.  

    Not with the same precision and purpose,

    obviously.

    But still:

    this shirt goes with those pants,

    that require this coordinated belt,

    those shoes

    one dressy, one casual, because he is, after all, a man —

    And matching socks.

    Repeat for every day.

    Then add backup options.

    Back then we packed for:

    Possibilities,

    Aesthetics,

    Bad decisions,

    And absolutely nothing related to comfort.

    Now that we are both in our sixties and “semi-retired”…

    I’ve noticed a shift…

    A seismic shift.

    No more stylin’ and profilin.’

    No more “who will I be today?”

    No more shoes specifically designed for maximum discomfort.

    These days?

     Comfort is the new cute.

    And honestly…

    I regret nothing.

    At some point in life vacations became less about fearless adventure

    And more about sustainable adventure…

    with adequate support.

    Now we travel with:

    comfortable clothes,

    comfortable shoes,

    and one slightly dressier outfit that still has to work with comfortable shoes.

    Somewhere along the way, our luggage stopped giving vacation night life…

    and started giving disaster preparedness training.

    An entire section of each suitcase is dedicated to supplements:

    Magnesium,

    Vitamin C,

    Vitamins D and K
    (apparently they travel better together),

    this for hair,

    that for joints,

    and multiple items devoted to what can only be described as “digestive negotiations.”

    Mine are sorted into tiny, labeled baggies, because apparently my memory occasionally reboots without warning.

    Hubby’s are organized in one of those giant round pill dispensers that looks less like vacation prep and more like a weeklong hostage situation. 

    And of course, acetaminophen.   Lots of acetaminophen in its own family-sized bottle.

    And somehow…

    despite all of this preparation…

    one of us still forgot their extra emergency underwear.

    Apparently even disaster preparedness has its limits.

    However, we did remember:

    special pillows,

    travel socks,

    comfortable shoes,

    and enough supplements to stabilize a small rural community. 

    At that point, looking at our luggage, I realized we had not packed for a four-day weekend.

    We packed like settlers crossing dangerous territory. 

    Just one digestive issue away from circling the wagons.

    What is the deal with old-er people and their special pillows?

    There was a time in my life when I could sleep anywhere:

    on the floor,

    squeezed two  to a sofa,

    half hanging off a motel bed,

    or sitting upright in a car with one shoe in my lap (don’t ask).  

    Now?

    If my neck angle is wrong for six minutes, I need a massage.

    And the socks.

    Why do we now have travel-specific socks?

    Not cute socks.

    Not fashionable socks.

    Supportive socks.

    Socks engineered by orthopedic scientists and..

    probably Lucifer.

    Honestly, the entire trip could collapse into chaos, but if hubby’s feet and ankles feel supported, the man becomes nearly indestructible.

    I think that’s how you know you’re getting older.

    You stop packing for possibilities…

    and start packing for recovery.

    Not because the adventure is over.

    Just because you’d like to enjoy it when you get there.

    So if you’ve started noticing your own packing evolution…

    If you now pack for inflammation instead of night life…

    If your suitcase contains enough supplements to alarm TSA…

    Welcome to The Third Act.

    Pull up a chair.

    But not one that’s too low to the ground.

    -Pattie

    If you’re enjoying these stories from my Third Act — the adventures, the chaos, the questionable decisions, and apparently now… the orthopedic travel phase 😂 — I’d love for you to subscribe. (You can do that now without registering for WordPress.)

    And if you already travel with your own pillow or a suspicious number of supplements…

    trust me.

    You’re among friends.