Thanks for all the kind wishes, the soups, the meals, and the cards after last week’s blog.  (It’s amazing how nice it is to get cards via snail mail.)

I’d like to lighten it up this week. I’d like to. But.

Beth’s mom Flo was famously resilient. Her husband died when he was only 47, leaving her with what I’ve calculated to be 115,000 children to raise. She, without a high school education, had to figure it out.

She did, and lived to 98. In her later years, which constitute an entire lifetime for some people, we marveled at not only how she got there, but how she weathered losing one loved one after another. And how she did that knowing that it wouldn’t get better.

So I’m wrestling with trying to get some what she had. On the other hand, I don’t think it’s the same for everyone.

When my father died in 1991, it was like getting hit by a truck. It was my first significant loss, and as such, in a way it remains my most significant loss. I draw on that experience again and again.

But I and my contemporaries are at a stage where it’s different now. Because, while  the emotional well doesn’t dry up, I simply don’t have the resilience or stamina I used to. Every time someone we love dies now, I cannot endure what I felt when my father died.

It was my great pleasure to know Robert Krughoff.

I don’t think there’s a formula for this, I just know I need a way of processing it. I’ve thought about this a lot over the past year. And about mortality in general, but it came to a kind of cathartic head yesterday when I learned that a former boss, mentor, role model and finally, friend, died yesterday at home in hospice care.

I’ve written about Robert Krughoff here at the blog before, a brilliant, dogged, demanding, tough, and compassionate man. Much of what I’ve managed to do right in my life—professionally and personally—is owed to the time I spent under his tutelage.

If I got called into his office to discuss a research project or a draft article, I’d  best be prepared. He’d think out loud, with a very distinctive stammer that was halting and could make you impatient—instead it kept one hanging on what the next thought was, and how to respond. Those of us old enough remember the movie “The Paper Chase,” which followed a law student’s experience with a demanding instructor played by John Houseman. Those kinds of scenes played out in Robert’s office again and again.

It wasn’t always pleasant, but I’d do it again in a heartbeat.

That’s my selfish take on it. What he did for me and what I’ll miss. But the guy had an enormous impact, an impact that you’ve probably benefited from without knowing it. He fought to get the government to release data about health outcomes to help others make better informed choices about health care. He was way out front in this endeavor. You can look him up.

As just a hint of the gravity of his work, here’s an article he co-wrote with two other authors, one being former Secretary of State George Schultz:

More Transparency, Better Health Care

It’s hard to think that the linchpin of what was a seminal period of my life is gone. What I have left are some great memories, a sharpened sense of critical thinking, the ability to always see how my work can be better, and the ability to make the work of other people better.

More than all that, I have loving friendships that have endured and thrived for more than 40 years.

For all of this, I thank you Robert Krughoff.

You can read a take on Robert’s life and work here at The Washington Post.

On September 28 last year, Beth and I were in Lake Geneva, Wisconsin, thanks to the generosity of her nephew Ben—who owns a sweet little condo right off the lake, and who let us take a break from downtown Chicago.

We got a call – our friend Brad had died after having seemingly survived lung cancer, only to have it roar back in multiple forms. Beth and I were scheduled to stay another night in Wisconsin, but after a very brief talk, we decided to head home to be with our friends, friends who had rallied around Brad to the very end. It was really no decision at all so much as a need.

I’d been working at my laptop at the breakfast bar, and when I stood from the stool to start packing to leave, I was frozen in excruciating pain. My lower right back and hip just radiated misery, and I couldn’t bear weight on my right leg. I remembered that the condo had a jacuzzi—Beth started the hot water and I more or less crawled to the tub. She found the switch for the jets, and I got in and curled up so that they fired on my back and hip.

It worked—I managed to get in the rental car and get us home, and we met our friends at the local watering hole where we’d hung out with Brad. It was therapeutic.

My back remained irksome—and I lost feeling in a couple toes and my foot flopped, so I saw my Dr. I had an MRI and got a call with the results—I had a herniated disc that was pushing on nerves. These nerves, the Dr. explained, controlled my leg, as well as my bodily functions, so I’d best see the spinal surgeon ASAP. Two weeks later, Beth and I sat in the specialist’s office. He showed me the images of my spine and my hoodlum disc. After some conversation, we decided I’d try physical therapy and then come back.

After two weeks, I was still limping, but my foot and leg were measurably stronger, so we stayed the course with PT and no surgery. It was a slog. I was restricted from lifting or any physical vigor. In our household, that required a lot of creativity. Beth has always been able to take the garbage to the chute just down the hall. But recycling requires navigating to the bins in our loading dock. Where there is recycling, there is a way. We got the communal cart that we typically use for groceries and big packages. Beth loaded the recycling bag, and I pulled the cart with Beth in tow. I guided us to the recycling bins, and Beth lifted and emptied the bags.

And so it went. I had groceries delivered and transferred them from a table in the lobby of our building to the cart by more or less tipping the bags over onto the cart. I unpacked the lightweight stuff and Beth took care of the rest.

Come Thanksgiving we ordered a fresh local turkey from our little market down the street. When it came in Beth brought her big backpack and I guided her and our turkey home. Beth put it in the fridge and when it came time to dry brine it, she lifted it out of the fridge and put it on the counter. When I was done, she returned it to the fridge.

On Thanksgiving day, she lifted it into the roasting pan. Together, we lowered the roasting pan into the oven—she grabbed one handle, I grabbed the other and I guided us onto the baking rack.

That’s also how we took it out—teamwork—and for the record, the turkey was fantastic (not dry) and also yielded some great broth.

And that’s how it was for several months. Together we applied the same kind of creativity that Beth and I had to find when she lost her sight nearly 40 years ago, the kind of ingenuity that Beth has to employ to navigate her life to this day.

On December 23 (Beth’s birthday and Festivus!) I had a routine skin check. I’ve had some pre-cancerous stuff removed in the past, so these checks have become a regular ritual. My regular dermatologist was on leave so I saw a different doc. She introduced herself and said, “Word on the street is you have a lot of moles.” Not exactly the reputation I’d cultivate but she wasn’t wrong.

Two spots were suspicious, and both were biopsied and I got stitched up and went home. A week later the results indicated one of the two areas was a real problem. The good news is it was caught early, the bad news is it sits in an awful spot—just above the knee on the inside of my thigh, where things bend.

I’ll save you the gory details save to say—they’re gory. I have a gazillion stitches that bark at me every time I move. They’re coming out Friday but it’ll be awhile before I can do stuff like exercise. This after finally being cleared for the treadmill after months of PT for my back.

And just to top things off, on Saturday, I was making room in the refrigerator to store a big old pot of sloppy Joe’s that I’d made for a neighborhood get-together Saturday night.

As I pushed stuff back on the left side of the shelf, a giant jar of pickles squirted out the right side and landed squarely on my barefoot right big toe. I screamed. Beth ran out of her office to find out what was wrong. I cursed. I iced.

I returned to our chaise lounge, which has been my nest for the past several week. Leg extended, ice pack on my stitches, and now, frozen peas on my toe. A thoroughly inglorious existence.

At this point I was pretty sure I’d skip the party and send the sloppy Joes with Beth and stay on the chaise where I could do no more harm. One of our friends, Steven, offered to drive me the two blocks and promised to take me back home whenever I needed to go.

Ultimately, I donned my sweats, and slippers (regular shoes were too painful for the toe) and Steven brought me door-to-door. I hobbled to a couch, our party host Ruth brought me an ice pad, and I roosted.

Our friend Jim brought me food, our friend Laura brought me beverages, and I had a great time, much better that I would’ve had moping on the chaise.

That very morning our friend Colleen had delivered a care package that included her world famous minestrone (along with some grated parmesan), frozen pesto, and fancy dried pasta. Beth had engineered her visit, which was a surprise, and I about cried. OK maybe I did a cry little bit.

I’ve had some very painful and low-spirited times in the past few weeks. Ultimately, they’ve left me humbled and more grateful for life than I’ve ever been.

I’m lucky because I have good health insurance. It would’ve been easy to avoid that skin check, and if I weren’t insured, there’s no doubt I would’ve skipped it or put it off. And that probably would’ve been it for me.

I’ve got kind, sharp-witted friends who are steps away, and who made me completely forget my stitches and my toe Saturday night.

And best of all, I have a beautiful and intrepid partner who can help me get a turkey in and out of the oven. What else do you need?

José with his wife, Kate .

What a pleasure it is to feature José DiMauro as our guest blogger today. Born in Argentina, José graduated from medical school at Univ De Buenos Aires and left home in 1963 to start his medical career at Chicago’s Mercy Hospital. From there he became a board certified pathologist at University of Illinois in Chicago.

After retiring, Dr. DiMauro and his wife Kate moved to Admiral at the Lake, where I lead a weekly memoir-writing class. For Valentine’s Day this year the prompt was “Before I Met You.” This exquisite essay José read out loud in class wowed us all, and he has generously agreed to let me share it with you Safe & Sound blog readers here, too.

Greta

by José DeMauro

Trying to stop the passage of time, an old memory lingers Between 1943 and 1946, when I was somewhere between nine and twelve years old. It was then that I met you, Greta.

Remember?

My father had bought that lot with the old house in the back. We moved into that old house while he built the new one up in front, the one your parents rented. That rental was meant to be temporary, until father recouped some of his expenses. It lasted for a couple of years, not more than 3, I believe. We moved into the new house after your family left.

Your parents spoke Spanish with an accent. It was said that your father was French and your mother Russian. But that could have meant anything: in Argentina we called anybody from Eastern Europe “Russian.” At the time many people were coming to Argentina from eastern Europe. I didn’t know about those things, but I suspect now that your parents may have been Jews escaping the pogroms.

Your parents looked somewhat out of place in the neighborhood, particularly your father, the owner of that hair styling salon on the main street.

You were their only child, at least two years older than me, weren’t you? You were tall, thin, vivacious, and smart. At least I thought so! You had short hair, most likely your father cropped it, didn’t he?

Let me tell you why I am thinking of you now. There was a patio inside that house my father built. We used to play there. My sister would play with us, too. Do you remember?

When I think of that patio, I mainly see the light, particularly that summer. It was vacation time. I’m guessing it was noon and the sunlight came straight down, leaving no shadows. It was hot, too. You and I were left alone on that patio, seated on the tiles with our backs against a wall and you, you suddenly turned towards me and said, more of an order than a request, “Kiss me!”

At the time, I only lived to run around with the neighborhood boys. I was not troubled by the thoughts of girls.

That day we were two children seated side by side, and suddenly quiet under the bright hot sun.

“Kiss me!” you almost commanded. I hesitated, kept looking straight ahead to something that I was not seeing. But there was an urgency in your voice.

So I turned my head and kissed you. On your cheek as I remember. Maybe it was the heat or the sweat, but it tasted salty.

Your family moved out of the house shortly afterwards. Only once, soon thereafter, we crossed paths on a sidewalk. You were with your mother, and I was with mine. Our mothers ignored each other, but you waved your hand to me with a smile, and I did the same.

I still keep an old small black and white photograph of you standing side by side with my sister and me. It is a bit out of focus, like my memories.

But I still clearly remember that kiss.

Todays guest blogger, Lola Hotchkiss.

The “I have a Dream” prompt I assigned writers in my classes last month inspired them to write about dreams they have for the world, for their country, and for their loved ones. Some even wrote about recurring nightmares!

The one that surprised me the most? This flattering essay by today’s guest blogger Lola Hotchkis. She hasn’t achieved her dream yet, but sounds like she’s pretty close!

by Lola Hotchkis

My dream began when email brought me Beth Finke’s late summer newsletter. Having lived in Beth’s hometown of Elmhurst for almost 40 years now, my ears perk up every time she mentions that this suburb would be a prime market for a memoir-writing class like ours.

Now Beth’s newsletter brought more encouragement. The article said, “We need more memoir-writing teachers. I’ve written a Memoir Teacher Masterclass on how to start and run your own memoir-writing course.”

My copy of the Masterclass was downloaded to my computer and I read all the material in one sitting. Beth makes it sound fulfilling and fun for both the students and leader. Of course, first-hand experience tells me it’s so for the students.

I started by developing a business plan. I asked my husband Doug to help by setting up a website. Don’t look for it yet because it doesn’t exist.

Now what?

Everything you wanted to know about teaching a memoir class but were afraid to ask.

Looking for a sponsor, I discussed my idea with a programming director at the Elmhurst Public Library. She said, “When I took this job, I was warned to never, ever start a writing class. They tried it once and it was a mess.” What I did learn was that if I just want to rent a conference room without official sponsorship, she can help me.

Next up? An acquaintance who leads a class at Lexington Square and Park Place retirement communities gave me his contacts and said I could use his name. Park Place? No response to email or phone calls. Lexington Square? Fiona, the Enrichment Director, is most enthusiastic. I offered an introductory session for interested residents. They can then decide whether they want to join a class. Fiona promised to draft a notice that she would then post around the building and in their newsletter.

That was early November. Have not yet received a draft.

I talked to her assistant once and she was also very enthusiastic. “We just have to get through the holidays. January would be a great time to start this.”

Since then I was sick with a virus before Christmas. A different virus hit me on Jan. 4. Not COVID, not flu, just a bad head cold. I turned 72 years old on Jan. 2. I’m fatigued with these viruses. Am I really up for this?

Twelve years ago I retired and became free at last. Am I ready to begin a new adventure?

Despite feeling tired and congested, I again contacted Fiona on Jan. 13. Will she answer?

My next steps? The Elmhurst Park District Senior Center. If I can’t find a sponsor, is my dream durable enough to find a room to rent, publicize the class, and try to energize potential students?

So many questions. Not enough answers. It’s like the man who prayed to God to win the lottery. One night God told him, “You have to help me a little. Buy a ticket.”

I’ll never fulfill a dream if I don’t try. Am I up for a new adventure? The answer is a resounding “yes.”

Beth here. I know that a fair number of you blog readers grew up and/or live in Elmhurst, my hometown. If you still have connections there who might be able to help Lola make this a dream come true, please leave a comment here to let us know. I’ll have Lola get in contact with you!

In news of the banal, our bathroom remodel is almost done. We’re finally back home, after four nights at a local hotel, five more with our friends in Urbana, and five at a friend’s here in Printers Row.

It’s hardly been a hardship—I was fortunate to have enough air miles to be able to stay at a hotel, and to have such generous friends who are so lovely to be with. But it has been something of a disorienting grind. Especially for Beth, who has to make substantial adjustments with each new environment.

And, when it’s hard on Beth, it’s hard on me and Beth. Because she has to rely on me more, and more than either of us likes. We’re a lot better than we used to be at these kinds of times, when she has to lean on me more. That’s largely because we recognize why we’re getting annoyed and short with one another. And we check it. But I’m really looking forward to putting the house in order and getting back to a familiar rut. Ruts are underrated. It’s good, even luxurious, to be able to take some things for granted.

It’s all made me consider true hardship. Our inconvenience is nothing compared to what the homeless experience. To the would-be immigrants from Central and South America—however you feel about immigration and walls and policy—the idea that things get so bad that you’d head out with your family without knowing what lies in store—that’s pretty awfully bad. And the people in Ukraine.

So, as Bing Crosby and Rosemary Clooney sang in White Christmas, I’ve been counting my blessings at the outset of 2023. They include our family, our incredible friends, our blog readers and for me, especially, Beth. With that I’ll leave you with a performance by the late John Prine and Iris DeMent.

Beth and I are, in spite of ourselves, sittin’ on a rainbow.

Click to hear a great song.