Today’s guest blogger Vera Dowell with sons Kevin and Scott on the beach in Kailua.

I am pleased to introduce Vera Dowell as our Saturdays with Seniors guest blogger today. America celebrated Veteran’s Day Wednesday, and the piece Vera read in class this week reminded us that military families deserve our thanks on Veterans Day, too. The prompt I’d assigned was “Exactly What I’d Hoped For,” and Vera’s essay was just that!

by Vera Dowell

When Duane opened his letter from the US Air Force and shouted, “We got Hawaii!” I squealed, we hugged, and (Duane claims) that brought on Kevin’s birth two days later.

In the spring of 1965, Duane had traveled to Washington, D.C. to request an overseas posting for his Air Force assignment as a pediatrician. He was told there were no possible openings for him overseas, but there was a place in Hawaii. “I won’t place a doctor there unless he requests it, though.” Duane wisely calculated that three years in Hawaii beat two years in Rantoul, Illinois. He quickly volunteered for the Hawaii assignment. “I can’t promise you anything,” the officer added.

I crossed my fingers, and we got exactly what we’d hoped for.

The planning began: farewell visits to our families, packing one group of belongings for delivery by ship, another that would travel with us, and a third for storage on the mainland. Our car needed to get from Illinois to San Francisco to be shipped to Honolulu. We agreed that Duane would drive it there by himself and I would fly there with the boys. An early morning flight seemed best for a three-month-old and a 21-month-old. Turns out businessmen liked early morning flights, too. Oh my god. What a startling preview to the year ahead of me, handling two small boys alone in an environment completely new to me.

We were lodged temporarily in a Waikiki motel filled with other military families. That was fun! Duane spent the day at work while I watched the children play and visited with wives to learn the ins and outs of military life. In the evening, the four of us walked over to the beach, picked up supper, and reveled in the perfect weather.

Our belongings had not yet arrived the day we moved into our Hawaii home: a rental in suburban Kailua, complete with a fenced-in back yard filled with tropical trees and flowers. Children’s toys, my books, dishes and kitchen supplies were among the missing, but we were assured they’d arrive soon. The next morning Duane drove off to Hickam Air Force Base, leaving me with two little boys. The beach wasn’t close enough to walk to. I knew no one. I began to feel sorry for myself. Here I was, in the most beautiful place in the country, with two healthy children. What was the matter with me?

We started frequenting a pleasant little park across the street when…KA-Boom!! The boys got the chicken pox. First Scott, then Kevin. That ruined a month. Our household goods still hadn’t arrived. I was going stir crazy.

This was not exactly what I had hoped for.

The boys recovered, and one morning at the park I met Carol, a League of Women Voters activist with three young children. A friend, a soul-mate and a lifesaver!

We bought a second car, our household goods arrived just before Christmas, and Hawaii evolved into exactly what we’d hoped for.

The good news is that our visit to see our son Gus, though delayed a day by weather, took place yesterday at his group home in  Watertown, Wisconsin. We stayed distant, sitting on the deck behind the house, but it was good to see him in the flesh, not on Zoom, and to hear him in person, instead of through tinny computer speakers. It was a lovely, sunny day and we sat on the deck and just chilled.

The bad news? In this year that knows no rock bottom, when things can somehow always get worse, they have gotten worse.

Gus’ current home is a duplex. Each side houses four residents in their own rooms, with its own kitchen. Gus lives in the left side.

Last week, we got an ominous email from Bethesda Lutheran Communities, the operator of Gus’ home, inviting us to a town hall call regarding the future of Bethesda’s services in Wisconsin.

I couldn’t make the town hall because I had a work Zoom, so Beth jumped on the call. When I got off my call I’d forgotten Beth was on the Bethesda call. Maybe intentionally. I looked in on her office and said something about my call—and she said, “Aren’t you going to ask how the Bethesda call went?”

I looked at her face. Beth is as even keeled and resilient as anyone I’ve known, as you all probably know. The color was gone from her face.

She choked out this sentence: “Bethesda is closing all its group homes in Wisconsin.”

Gut punched. Kicked in the groin. Cold cocked. I, yes I, was speechless.

Then we were sad. For ourselves, to be sure. We’d hoped Gus would be a lifer with Bethesda, which has cared for him since 2002. And looking for a new home will be a daunting task. But just as sad for the 90 odd other residents of Bethesda’s group homes. For their families and loved ones. For the unbelievable staff who care for Gus and others who’ll lose their jobs. For Bethesda’s long, rich tradition operating residential facilities for the developmentally and intellectually disabled.

Me being me, I also am dealing with anger. Not at Bethesda. But at well-meaning people who years ago pushed the turn to community settings for housing (group homes in average neighborhoods vs. “institutional settings”) with unrealistic and illogical claims. I do not disagree with the idea that some developmentally disabled people will do better in a community setting rather than a segregated campus. Having developmentally disabled neighbors isn’t bad for the abled bodied, either. Integration is usually better than segregation.

But, folks like Gus don’t really get much benefit from it. And group homes, despite pie-in-the-sky claims from proponents, cost more to operate than the concentrated, campus setting Bethesda used to operate.

When Gus moved to Bethesda in 2002, he moved into a nearly new, one-story building that resembled a public school. He had his own room, and his unit had 16 total residents. They had a common area where they could hang out, and where meals were served.

Gus’ unit was connected to others identical to his. They were like interconnected pods. Each had 16 residents and its own staff. But staff could move between the units as necessary.

Now, one of the claims of the pro-community setting folks was that the staff to resident ratio was better. True enough. Three or four staff, as I recall, were on any single shift to take care of 16 residents. The ratio was much better in the homes.

But. Staff at the group homes run a household. That means cooking, cleaning, and other things besides caring for the residents. And if you have two people for the house and one calls in sick, well, that’s a bigger impact, and there was no borrowing people from the attached unit.

In addition, as a Bethesda executive explained to me, “We have to have an accessible van that can carry four residents in wheelchairs at every single house.” Back when Gus was on campus, I remember two or three always at the ready.

So the state ended up mandating that the campus be emptied out and residents move to group homes. But they didn’t up the state reimbursement to Bethesda and other operators. (Another provider, the Catholic St. Coletta, closed its residential service years ago.) For years, Bethesda and other providers have lobbied for that increase. It never came. They’ve been operating at losses on their group homes for many years now.

Which brings me to anger point number 2. We live in a country that saw fit to give enormous tax breaks to the likes of Google and Apple, and to billionaires. But we don’t provide federal support that would provide incremental increases that would barely be noticed.

Bit by bit, my pride in my country is being eroded by shame.

Back to us. Gus will not find himself on the street. We’re working with an agency in Wisconsin and another in Illinois to look for a new home for Gus. He may end up moving as Bethesda consolidates homes as placements are found for residents.

Beyond that, we have no answers, and have all the questions you have.

To the many of you who have donated to Bethesda over the years, thank you, thank you, thank you. We had 18 years of feeling confident and comfortable about Gus’ situation, and you were a big part of it.

I only wish it wouldn’t end.

Wedding day, July 28, 1984. Photo: Rick Amodt.

Everyone I know is coping remarkably well with the universal craziness of life today (all things considered), but everyone has bad days, sad days. Lately I’ve noticed a healthy tendency for people to just be honest about those times. It’s an oppressive time, and while I maintain hopes for better times ahead, those hopes are tenuous. So, today, I’m choosing to look back for relief and inspiration.

Tomorrow, Beth and I celebrate our 36th anniversary. The morning of July 28, 1984 started in the backyard of our friend Colleen’s parents in Hillside, Illinois. Colleen’s father, the late Judge John Keleher, officiated and our parents attended. It was modest and small and kind of perfect.

We were officially married in Cook County, but another ceremony and party took place later, in DuPage County, in another back yard—Beth’s late sister Bobbie and her husband Harry generously hosted the affair. Hosted doesn’t do it justice. They’d more or less planned their splendid garden around the event, and managed the logistics of tents, pig roasters, etc. Lots of Beth’s enormous family stepped up to help–brother-in-law, Rick Amodt, volunteered to take pictures.

Our friend Pick, who grew up in Rural Virginia as a Southern Baptist, had agreed to officiate the second ceremony, using the vows that Beth and I had written together.

A polka with the original Mike Knezovich, Mike’s late father. Photo: Rick Amodt.

It could’ve been hot. It could’ve rained. But the afternoon was sunny and comfortable with a breeze. It was sublime.

Here’s an account from Beth’s memoir, “Long Time No See” :

Flo walked me down the aisle, and my friends Anne and Colleen served as bridesmaids. When it came time for a toast, the nieces and nephews served Champagne. We’d hired a group of Mike’s dad’s buddies from the steel mill, Roland Kwasny and the Continentals, who moonlighted playing weddings and other functions. They were everything we could’ve hoped for. Behind bandstands monogrammed “RK,” the ruffle-shirted, heavy set machinists and bricklayers played everything from Polkas to “Proud Mary.” And Roland and the boys were good enough to let Pick—a versatile showman, indeed—sing a few numbers while my sister Beverle sat in on drums.

We ate and drank and danced until well after sundown. We told each other it was the best day of our lives.

And it was the best day of our lives, at least to that date. We’ve been fortunate to have had even better days since. Of course, there were some pretty awful days. And times when we’ve barely held our marriage together by a thread.

Beth’s sister Bev drummed and our friend Pick crooned. Photo: Rick Amodt.

Marrying Beth remains the single best thing I’ve ever done for myself. And I’m elated that both of us are still ticking, together, after 36 years.

We’ve made it in no small part because of the support of our friends, family, and good–hearted strangers. Thanks.

Happy anniversary to us.

Two days ago, I walked a mile. Without falling. Or wheezing. Yahoo!

Luna picked a tough time for her first job.

I did get a little dizzy early on, but took baby steps and pushed through it. The dizzy spells have been the most troubling leftovers from my time with COVID-19. No, that’s not true. The fatigue has been the worst. I tell Beth that the first thing I want to do when I wake up in the morning is go to sleep. The headaches and nausea spells have almost completely subsided. I finally have my appetite back. The foggy brain comes and goes, but it’s kind of terrifying when it comes. I’m told that’s OK, that if I know I’m foggy brained, that’s a good sign.

When I was 30, I smoked a pack of cigarettes a day and was under a lot of stress for a variety of reasons. I got the flu, which morphed into pneumonia, a case serious enough that back then in 1987, I started getting questions about my drug use and sex life. I had a temperature of 104 for three days, and the menu of antibiotics just bounced off me. Then one day, it broke. In all I was in the hospital seven days. Gus was a year old, and family members had, thank goodness, come down to help. It took some time to get back to speed.

This COVID 19 episode was worse. Much worse.

Reports from friends who also have had the virus, along with news pieces I’ve read, indicate that my long road back to wholeness is relatively common. But the menu of misery visited on the infected takes a demonic variety of forms.

Also clear is that we still don’t really know a lot about the virus, the likelihood of it mutating, if (likely) and how long (who knows?) I’ll have any immunity.

I’ve applied to be a plasma donor—scientists are experimenting with infusions of blood that have antibodies in sick people, plus they want blood from people who’ve been infected to study in general. Waiting to hear if I make the grade.

I’m also going to donate what money and time I can to critical political races.

If the verdict on immunity is I likely have it, I’ll be working the polls come November.

Meantime, I have a lot to live for. Being cooped up with Beth has been a joy after being cooped up in the hospital. We watch TCM and Two-and-a-Half-Men reruns and Trevor Noah and last night “Last Dance,” which was a helluva a lot of fun. I cooked for the first time in weeks and remembered why I love it. After years of not having a drop of any kind of soda, I’m ingesting full-sugar Coke like it’s…coke. (Don’t tell the president–he’ll start touting it as a cure.) There’s a 7-11 downstairs when I run out, and I have a lot of masks and gloves. Printers Row Wine Shop is open! And if smarter heads do prevail, we’ll eventually be able to visit our son Gus in his group home again, safely.

Most of all, I’m gonna live healthy. (Well, mostly.) I’ve got a lot to do.

Every night at 8 pm, our neighborhood has a social distancing party. Saturday’s was an especially good party–it was Mike’s first.

Two weeks ago today Mike was admitted to Northwestern Memorial Hospital in Chicago with the COVID 19 virus. Here are some things that happened at home while he was away:

• When I let my friend Jamie (yes, the same Jamie who was driving me to school visits before the pandemic hit) know, she rallies her book club and some old college friends to help.
• Each would choose a night and charge a meal for me at one of our small Printers Row restaurants taking to-go orders now (ordering directly means restaurants do not have to share proceeds with delivery companies).
• Neighborhood friends volunteer to pick up my dinners and deliver them to our condo
• I eat well.
• “It takes a village,” I text to one of those local volunteers to thank her for delivering a meal to me one night.
• ”And ours is a good village!” she texts back.
• I miss Mike.
• I get hooked on audio books by Irish author Maeve Binchy. The sweet lilting accents carry me far away, stories are playful. Kind of like Louise Penny books, but they take place in Dublin rather than Three Pines. And no one dies.
• Becoming more adept at using VoiceOver (the speech synthesizer that comes with every iPhone) to text and answer the phone when Mike calls, or when caring doctors, social workers, friends and family contact me to see how he’s doing.
• My part-time job moderating the blog for Easterseals National Headquarters (located in Chicago) continues, I am grateful, working from home, and, while distracted, I do what I can to devote my thinking brain to that work.
• I miss Mike.
• I set an alarm for 2:30 pm every day to listen to our governor and Illinois Department of Public Health Director give their daily update. Their honest and intelligent talks are comforting, and every once in a while the fabulous Mayor Lightfoot speaks at these, too.
• I miss Mike.
• Every night my longtime friend who is a doctor checks in with me, or I check in with her. She is working at one of the COVID testing sites and has sequestered herself from her family. Her COVID information helps me understand what Mike and I might be facing, and her friendship is sustaining.
• I join the 21st century and start carrying my iPhone wherever I go.
• Finish Quentins by Maeve Binchy. Starting her book Evening Class now.
• A box of treats — and a bottle of white wine! — arrives by UPS from my friend Jill, owner of the sensational cheese shop Marché” in Glen Ellyn.
• That’s when my nightly ritual begins: I pour a small glass of that wine every night at 8 p.m., open the window, get comfortable on the couch, nosh on Marché snacks and sip wine while listening to the nightly sing-along going on outside
• Somehow the days fly by.
• A box of unused masks and disposable gloves arrives here from my great-niece in Minneapolis, who took care of her mom (my niece Lynne), who was in hospice last year. The unused disposable gloves and masks were left over from that sad time — a bittersweet — yet extremely thoughtful and helpful — package
• Mike usually takes my Seeing Eye dog Luna out for her last “empty” of the day. Now I don a mask and disposable gloves every time I take her out, and, assuming bad guys are staying home during the pandemic, I am fearless when out with Luna after dark.
• Without being able to see, Unless people talk — or walk — loudly, it can be difficult to judge what six feet is. Luna and I do our best.
• When I hear the “ding” that tells me an elevator has arrived, I point that way, command “forward! And Luna leads me to the opening. “Anybody in here?” I ask. Not sure if the elevators here are even six feet wide, so if someone answers, I urge them to go ahead without us: I’m not pressed for time!
• Discovery: when wearing plastic disposable gloves, you can still feel the Braille dots in the elevator.
• I finish Evening Class by Maeve Binchy. On to her novel Heart and Soul.
• I miss Mike.
• Day 7 of Mike’s hospital stay, and Chicago Tribune columnist Heidi Stevens contacts us to see if Mike and I would be willing to do phone interviews with her. ” I do think your story is a really important one to get in front of readers,” she writes, adding that she thinks it illustrates the complexities that this virus presents for different families. “It also emphasizes how problematic it is that testing is sometimes hard to find and the results take so long to get back, leaving families in limbo.”
• We both are willing.
• Heidi interviews Mike in his hospital room that morning by phone.
• I am interviewed separately by phone at home.
• Photographers not allowed in hospital, so Tribune photographer comes to Printers Row, meets me outside to follow Luna and me on her afternoon “empty” walk.
• Heidi works fast. Her column about Mike is published by 5:30 pm that same afternoon.
• I miss Mike.
• In our evening phone call that night, Mike and I marvel at how Heidi Stevens does it: the column is beautifully written, accurate, and touching.
• Word is out now. Mike is in the hospital with COVID 19, and I am home alone with Luna.
• I miss Mike.
• Okay, enough of those Irish books. I start Kill “em and Leave: Searching for James Brown and the American Soul by writer, musician, and national Book Award winner James McBride — he grew up near James Brown, and the book is fun to read. Now reading Slam by Nick Hornby
• In her column, Heidi referred to Jamie’s dinner delivery group as my “meal train,” and friends, family and memoir-writing students near and far start asking me if they can hop on board.
• “Sure!” I respond, suggesting they buy gift cards in my name at local restaurants.
• Many of them do. Thank you all!
• I grant Jamie’s group a furlough from the meal train and start phoning local restaurants who’ve received those gift cards to order my meals.
• Neighborhood volunteers continue picking up and delivering those meals to our condo, and, I think, appreciate the opportunity to check in at the restaurant to-go windows and see how their friends on staff are doing.
• I continue eating well.
• I miss Mike,
• I start ending my email and text responses to all the friends and family members who contact me after reading the Heidi Stevens column asking that, “If you pray, please pray for us. If you think, send good thoughts our way.”
• They do.
• It starts working. Mike getting better
• So it dawns on me. Yes, Mike has been away for two weeks now, but I haven’t been here alone at all: all these people thinking about us reminds me. I’m one of the luckiest people I know
• Over the weekend, Mike is discharged after three-day hotel stay. Clear of COVID 19, he can come home.
• He does.
• We hug.

If you missed it, grab a Kleenex and read this beautiful post Mike wrote about his experiences for his Mondays with Mike column earlier this week