It happens at the end of every year: News outlets recap the biggest stories of the past 12 months. Only this year also marks the end of a decade, so we’re getting recaps of the past 10 years.

This practice has always aggravated me because, well, dividing time arbitrarily by decade has always seemed dumb. For example, 1969 was a lot more like 1971 than it was 1961.

The other thing about this practice is it seems sort of lazy. Instead of covering the news of the day the outlets repurpose work they’ve  already done.

But you know, I’m feeling pretty lazy this holiday season, so what the heck: I give you my favorite Mondays with Mike posts—but not for the decade, only since I started writing these things. And, I’m not going to lie: I couldn’t wade through all of them. Jeez, I didn’t realize how many of these things I’d posted.

So, here’s a somewhat random collection of my own favorites.

And this: I’m thankful to all of you who take the time to read this stuff each Monday. It’s flattering and humbling. Here’s to a great New Year, and see you next Monday.

A very happy anniversary
On the anniversary of Beth’s terrifying brush with mortality, it was nice to take stock.

My morning commute
The wonders of Chicago I experience on my walk to work.

Wayfaring stranger
A tribute to the late, great bassist Charlie Haden.

The saints go marching in and on
Remembering Flo, Beth’s remarkable mother.

The kindness of strangers
A visit with our son Gus at his group home in Wisconsin,

My partner’s partners
With Beth leaving to get her next Seeing Eye Dog a week from today, this one is still timely.

To our dear, wee Sheelagh
We were lucky to know her.

Our version of all right
Reflections on disability.

When Pick met Henry. And Mike and Beth met Henry and Pick…
The story of beautiful friendships.

Whitney’s living large.

1. Stretch your legs on an airplane: no one tucked under the seat in front of you
2. Learn a lesson in humility: people no longer say “She’s beautiful!” when you enter a room
3. Sleep: the 5 a.m. “I’m hungry” wake-up call happens in Pennsylvania now
4. Get through TSA without being wanded
5. Take an escalator without cringing at the thought of paws getting caught
6. Move through the kitchen without worrying you’ll step in a water bowl
7. Jump out of bed rather than gingerly checking for a dog underfoot first
8. Leave your luggage unzipped without worrying that a creature will dig in there for a bag of almonds…or a lacrosse ball
9. Spend an entire lazy day at home=no one needs to go out
10. Miss them. A lot
11. Smile to picture the retiree now, back with old friends in a hilly, wooded country town with nothing to do but play
12. Count the days until you’ll meet your new pup – only 13 more to go.

I write from the lobby of the LePavillon Hotel in New Orleans’ Central Business District. Beth and I are 15,000 steps into our first day in New Orleans and 60 degrees feels pretty good. We just polished off a half a classic muffuletta sandwich from Central Grocery.

From left to right, Kate, Chuck, and Elisse. You know the rest of ’em. Thanks to Rebecca for snapping the picture.

We are sans Whitney, as loyal readers would know—and boy am I glad we didn’t bring Whitney on this NOLA adventure. It’s hard even on a sighted human guide weaving around on narrow, uneven sidewalks, dodging drunk phone walkers. But at least we human guides get muffulettas and Sazeracs out of it.

Right now, Whitney is probably counting her lucky stars. We dropped her at her retirement home in Pennsylvania Saturday. Like lots of these things—at least for me—the self-manufactured, anticipated dread about the event was much worse than reality.

In fact, it was as joyful as a separation of its like could be. Beth and flew to Baltimore on Friday, and we spent the evening catching up with our friend Rebecca. Rebecca and I go back to high school days. We were partners in crime of a sort—actually, partners in adventure. And we’ve reached the point in life where we look at each other and recognize that we’re the only other people to have witnessed certain important passages in one another’s lives.

Rebecca drove us the hour north to Pennsylvania and it felt good right away. Green. Hilly. Quiet.

We drove up a windy road up a hill—then up a steep driveway. Beth put the harness on Whitney for the last time—she wanted her new people to see her working, at least once.

Once we hit the door, well, we were off. There was Elisse, who guest blogged; her husband Chuck, their newly married daughter Kate, her husband Luke, and Elisse’s 96-year-old mother. We learned volumes about each other in a matter of minutes. Including the fact that Chuck is a mechanical engineer with a distinctly non-conventional engineering job: He and his colleagues engineer giant arena shows for the likes of Cher and other mega-acts.

And Whitney was off harness and off leash. She whimpered for a second, and we knew it was time for the lacrosse ball. For most of her life with us, Whitney would fetch that ball until I stopped. In fact, sometimes I had to hide it for fear she’d run herself to death.

But for the last year, she’d fetch it once and then walk off.

Well, between Luke and me, we coaxed the old Whitney back.

By the time we gave Whitney a last scratch, and carried her leash and harness out to Rebecca’s car, she was happy as a clam.

And so was I. With that, I leave you a a couple tastes of New Orleans

Type 1 diabetes has dictated many of the terms of Beth’s life since she was seven years old. Back then, there were not finger stick tests and portable monitors. It was simply regimented meal times and meal plans. And it was all pretty crude.

When she and I began courting, way back in the early 80s, she’d just inherited a little money from her grandma—enough to pay for her first blood glucose monitoring device. It was a breakthrough, but it was high maintenance,

Since then, the monitors have become cheaper, faster, and more compact. Insulin pumps have been a boon to many, and Beth—for nearly the past year—has used something call a CGM (Continuous Glucose Monitor). Here’s how it works: A sensor is applied/installed on Beth’s person via a special applicator. The sensor has a tiny wick that barely penetrates the skin—enough to take readings of blood glucose levels.

We then snap an almond-sized transmitter into the sensor housing. The whole shebang is held on by tape.

Now, in an ankle-bone connected to shin-bone chain, the sensor passes its data to the transmitter, which then transmits the data to an app on Beth’s iPhone. Beth’s iPhone has a feature called Voiceover—Beth then asks Siri, Apple’s personal assistant— “What’s my number?”

And Voila! It tells Beth what her blood sugar is and whether it’s trending down or up. Without pricking her finger.

These things (CGMs) have been around for a good while now. But not talking versions—the iPhone app made it useful for Beth and other visually impaired people with type 1.

At least most of the time. Beth (and I, for that matter–I often help with tests) was used to finger sticking. But it did make for some pretty messed up finger tips. And it’s not great to sneak it out when we’re in public to do a test. In addition, the CGM provides much more or less continuous data, which helps manage insulin levels more granularly.

The kicker: The user can designate other people to follow their readings. So, I can follow Beth’s blood sugar via the internet and an App on my phone.

Until I can’t.

A couple weeks ago, just as Beth and I were leaving to see friends in Washington, D.C., something went haywire. I couldn’t follow the readings. For us, that’s no hardship. I don’t bother checking unless Beth asks me too—mostly when we’re in public spaces when she doesn’t want her phone to bark out her blood sugar numbers.

But then her own readings cut out.

Now, Beth has a talking finger prick monitor that she uses as backup. Except when it doesn’t work. And that’s what we discovered the day before we left for our trip. It fritzed at the worst time.

Yikes. Beth would be flying home after the weekend but I was staying on in D.C. another week for my non-profit organization’s conference.

As it turned out, we learned that the follower outage was a big deal that affected everyone with the same device who had followers. Mostly, this is kids with type 1, and their parents. It even made the NY Times.

We also learned that Beth had experienced a completely unrelated sensor failure.

We were our own little Apollo 13.

And we duct taped our way back to safety. The day before we left for D.C., I ordered a new talking monitor. It arrived the day after Beth got back to Chicago. The intrepid Ms. Finke then asked our building’s generous door person to help her install the batteries, and she was in business, the old-fashioned way (if you can call using a talking, portable blood glucose monitor old fashioned).

When I returned, I helped Beth insert a new sensor, and she and her CGM have been buddies ever since.

Let’s hope it lasts.

I spent last Sunday afternoon with my husband Mike and friends Jim Loellbach and Dr. Janet Smith enveloped in holiday music. Not your everyday stuff – this was the Marcus Roberts Trio with the Chicago Philharmonic, playing holiday classics arranged by Duke Ellington. A Concerto written by George Gershwin. Holiday jazz.

I love jazz and am especially fond of jazz piano. The first time I recall hearing Marcus Roberts was back in the 20th century. (Yikes.) Mike and I were lucky enough to walk into a record store in Champaign called Record Service when they happened to be playing one of his albums. We’ve been fans ever since, listening to Marcus Roberts recordings and hearing him perform live with Wynton Marsalis Jazz at Lincoln Center bands and later, with his own trio. At one of those trio concerts, Mike kindly nudged me and whispered, “You know he’s blind, right?”

He’s blind?! I didn’t know. Quirky fact: Without having sight, it’s hard to know if someone else can’t see, either.

My fondness for Marcus grew after that. We bought more of his CDs, and I finally got to meet him in person: Mike and I were still living in Urbana 20 years ago when Marcus Roberts did a weeklong artist-in-residence gig at the University of Illinois. The public was invited to come and listen. I stalked him at every workshop and performance he gave. Not an easy feat for a blind woman, but well worth the trouble.

Between tunes at the first workshop, Marcus told us what it was like to grow up blind, how he first learned to read Braille music, and the frustrations he faces when traveling to and from gigs.

“When our plane landed this morning, I stood up. The flight attendant brought in a wheelchair.” He paused for a moment. He was looking at us, I could tell. “I was STANDING. You with me?!” he finally continued. “I wonder, do they give white canes to dudes who need wheelchairs?”

I was spellbound. So, it seemed, was the rest of the audience. We all broke out in laughter.

Marcus went on to explain how he communicates to his trio during a performance without being able to see them. Drummer Jason Marsalis demonstrated the cadence he uses to cue a key change. Marcus showed us a pattern he plays on the upper register to cue bass player Roland Garrons for a solo. Afterward, we were encouraged to ask questions. I directed mine to Jason and Roland. “When Marcus approached you to play in his trio, did you hesitate at all?”

No answer.

“I mean, knowing there might be extra work involved, him being blind and all.”

They both stayed quiet for a while. Finally, Jason piped up. “In jazz, when you’re offered a gig, you take it.”

Roland asked to add something to that. He’d played with a lot of musicians over the years, he said, and a lot of them get lazy. “But with Marcus, he’s always coming up with something new. And when you play with Marcus, you really have to listen. I think we’re better for that.”

Amen.

Marcus and I had a chance to talk after a performance later that week. “Have you always talked about your blindness like that?” I asked him.

“Oh, man, no!” he answered. What a voice! “I used to do what so many other blind people do — pretend it doesn’t exist, it’s no bother.”

I nodded my head in agreement. You might think you have to be able to see to know if someone is nodding, but we know. “What made you decide to start talking about it, then?”

“About five or six years ago, I just thought, man, I deal with this every day. I might as well talk about it.”

What a relief it was to hear him talking so candidly about blindness.

At that time I’d been writing a book about losing my sight as an adult. Long Time, No See was in the midst of reviews and editing just then, due out in a couple months. “I’d like to read it,” Marcus said.

I got his address, contacted rehab services at the University of Illinois in Urbana-Champaign, and they agreed to print a Braille version of the advanced copy. Marcus liked the book so much, he agreed to do a blurb for the cover.

So there you have it. My brush with fame. I haven’t spoken one-on-one with Marcus since then, but his performance from that Chicago concert stage of Gershwin’s Concerto in F last Sunday? It spoke to me. What a sensational way to start celebrating the holidays this year.

A different version of this post originally appeared last week on the Easterseals National blog.