Rose

Special people come into your life when you least expect it, steal a place in your heart and stay there forever.  That’s how it was for me with Rose Drabich.

Rose and I bonded over our mutual love of Rutgers Women’s Basketball.  I remember exactly when we met.  It was in Hartford, CT., in March, 2007, at the Big East Basketball Tournament.  I was enjoying my first year of retirement from J&J and thrilled to be able to go to the tournament for the first time.  The fact that I didn’t know anyone and wasn’t a member of the Cagers Club (the official fan club) didn’t deter me.  I drove up alone, arranged to stay about 10 miles away at the home of a friend, and made my way to the arena.  There I found myself sitting under the basket, the lone red-clad fan in a sea of blue UConn Huskies, and more than a little uncomfortable with my surroundings.  As I scanned the arena, I noticed a contingent of people sporting Rutgers sweatshirts.  After the first game, I made my way to the corridor behind their seats, where I ran into the one person I knew, Sally, whom I remembered from my days at Johnson & Johnson.  She was with a little woman with short hair and glasses, whom she introduced as Rose.

I was immediately put at ease by her friendly and sweet demeanor.  It wasn’t long after that initial meeting that I found out how much we had in common.  We each lived in Hillsborough, drove an old Mercedes that we loved, and we both had survived colon cancer.  Rose and her family owned the Lobster Dock in Hillsborough, and her daughter had married the brother of one of my sister’s best friends.  That made us practically related, I figured.  She was short, sweet and a little spicy.  She reminded me of my mother.  I sat with Rose and Sally that day and at many games thereafter. 

2007 was the year Rutgers made it to the Championship game in Cleveland, where the Final Four was held.  Again, I went alone, and it turned out that my hotel was within walking distance of the place the Cagers were staying.  Rose went out of her way to make me feel welcome and included.  It was the start of a beautiful friendship.

By the next year, I was driving Rose to games, or sometimes we’d see a movie together.  Special people have the uncanny ability to make you feel as if you have been friends forever, and that’s how I felt about Rose.  I used to chide her for not inviting me to her 75th birthday party.  “But I didn’t know you then,” she’d protest.  “Sure,” I’d reply.  “That’s your story and you’re sticking to it.”  She made sure I came to her 80th birthday, and there was a special table for her basketball friends.  I felt privileged to be one of the chosen, and thrilled to take a picture of Rose with her wonderful children, twin daughters Lisa and Lori and sons Mark and Michael, which I had framed and gave her as a memento of a special day for a special woman.  It was still on display in her home the last time I saw her. 

Rose was the most dedicated Rutgers fan you can imagine.  She frequently hit the road to follow the team to Tennessee or California, and when the NCAA tournament came, Rose would faithfully book a flight to see them in action.  Her son told me once that she had taken a bad fall one day before a game.  Bruised but unbowed, she went anyway.  She loved all of the players, exhorting them to “bend your knees” each time they attempted a foul shot.  As she began to experience health problems, I’d call her or stop by and visit, and we would have in-depth discussions about the strengths and weaknesses of the team and our philosophy of offense and defense. I doubt the coaching staff spent more time analyzing the team than we did, but always in the most positive terms.

In 2008, I was looking for a local place to take aqua aerobics classes to help my aching knees, and Rose steered me to the Hillsborough Pool and Racquetball Club, where she went.  See, we did have a lot in common.  I signed up and she introduced me to all of the ladies as her friend.  I felt lucky to be one of the many people who knew and loved her.  I used to tease her, calling her “Miss Popularity,” because her cell phone would ring constantly as one of her children would always be trying to track her down.  She was off and running, enjoying life to the fullest as long as she could.

Around that time, Rose began having problems with walking.  By the time we went to Oklahoma for an NCAA Tournament, she needed a wheelchair to get around the airport.  I told her we were lucky because we got to board the plane first.  When we went to St. Thomas for a Thanksgiving tournament the next year, she was using a walker.  Never one to give up, Rose consulted numerous doctors trying to figure out an accurate diagnosis so she could get better.  It never seemed to occur to her that she wouldn’t get better.  Even having her knee replaced didn’t help, though she held out hope of playing golf again.

As her condition worsened, the news did, too, and ultimately she was diagnosed with ALS, better known as Lou Gehrig’s disease, a dreaded affliction that affects the muscles and robs the patient of his or her ability to walk, sit, swallow or breathe.  I’d watch her body betray her, and I’d see her battle to cope.  She’d try any kind of therapy, any device, see any doctor or try any medication to improve her condition.  She remained vital and optimistic even as she eventually lost her ability to speak.  She had a device installed in the house that she could use to tap out words on a screen and the machine would speak the words.  Her last words to me were, “You look good.”

I can’t imagine the feeling of being trapped in a body that is failing you even as your mind remains sharp.  Though she couldn’t speak, when I would visit, we managed to have a conversation anyway – usually about basketball.  Just two weeks ago I sent her an e-mail (phone calls were impossible in the last few months, but she read her e-mails) recounting the details of the recent Rutgers Women’s Basketball Banquet, an annual event she never used to miss but now could no longer attend. 

Her devoted daughters stayed in touch with me and the Cagers, and any Rose news would be shared in the pool among her aqua aerobics friends.  When I sent out a note today letting them know she had passed away, I got a response from one woman saddened by the news who had never met her but felt that she knew her after hearing us talk about her so often and with such fondness. 

But that’s Rose, touching the lives of people who knew her and loved her and those who didn’t even know her.  Today she slipped peacefully away, on her way to a place where her body will no longer imprison her, where she will be reunited with her husband, and where she will lead the cheers for her beloved Scarlet Knights.  I know that every time a kid goes to the line to sink a free throw next season, Rose will be watching.  I hope they bend their knees.

It's Not Just Me, Right?

When someone says to me, "Remind me to tell you later," what makes them think I will remember to remind them?  Who will remind me?

What's the biggest lie?  "The check is in the mail?"  "The repairman will be there at  XXX o’clock?"  Or that the label on the "gallon" of ice cream (which is only 1.5 quarts, by the way) says: "12 servings?"

Whenever someone says, "To make a long story short," they never do.

I don't understand why strange ads pop up on my Facebook for things I have never indicated an interest in buying.  Cowboy boots, Dr. Oz's diet program (which looks suspiciously NOT like Dr. Oz has anything to do with it), Fixodent for denture wearers and match.com have all surfaced recently.  Tell that Al Gorithum guy he's got me all wrong.

I hate it when the pump on my soap bottle can't reach the bottom and get out the remaining soap.  I can see the soap, but the only way to get it is to open the bottle and turn it upside down and wait until it comes out on my hands.  Annoying, but will I get rid of a bottle that still has soap in it?  Doubtful.

Why is it when we can't get some little fuzzy thing sucked up by the vacuum cleaner we are willing to bend down, pick it up and put it back on the floor to try to suck it up again in another spot?  I guess that's because we don't know what to do with the fuzzy thing or thread or whatever and taking it to the nearest trash can would be too much to ask.

With the cost of tickets for almost anything these days, you feel like you better get a great show.  But what do you get from the "convenience charge?"  It isn't convenient for me to cough up a sizable sum so they can e-mail me the tickets that I then have to print.  "Inconvenient charge" is more like it.

I always know that the movie I see in previews is not one I'll see at the theater when the deep, serious-sounding voiceover starts with, "In a world where..." and the setting shows fantasy of any kind.

When I worked, I would wake up many mornings and think it was Saturday only to realize it wasn't Saturday, and it wasn't even close.  It was Tuesday.  Now I wake up and have that dreaded feeling that I have to be somewhere but I don't have my schedule memorized.  Trust me, retirement is better, but at least when I worked I always knew where I was supposed to be.  And every day is like Saturday.  Sunday still feels like Sunday, however.

I am happy to report that my work dreams are coming less often these days.  I had a recurring dream where I had retired but I still kept showing up at the office.  Then someone actually had a project they want me to do, and I had to explain that I don’t actually work there anymore, and to prove that fact, I had to clean out my office and “retire” all over again.  I’ll be happy not to relive that Groundhog Day experience over and over.

Here is some sage advice:  Don't burn the popcorn in the microwave, unless you want a lingering smoky smell for days.  There's still a bowl of water with cut-up lemons in mine after the popcorn set off the fire alarm.  I had to contact the alarm company to figure out how to shut it off after it blared for an hour (the security company called to check on me, so at least the fire department didn't show up).

There is nothing my best friend detests more than being stuck in a traffic during road construction only to get to the bottleneck and see a bunch of guys standing around, scratching themselves and talking and seeing no actual construction work going on.

I don't mind seeing pictures of other people's kids, but keep the sonograms to yourself.  For all I know, it is a shot of my meniscus the doctor is passing off as a fetus. 

While I appreciate the trend to remove tags from our t-shirts and underwear, eventually the label gets washed away and I don't know the size of the garment.  For someone who is losing weight, this information could be vital.

I can't seem to bring myself to get rid of old magazines that I haven't read completely for fear that I will miss some great article.  Maybe I should write less and read more?

I can't read a magazine without first ripping out all those annoying subscription cards or offers to buy some ceramic bunny from the Bradford Exchange.  Who buys that crap?

It is spring, and everyone, including me, seems to be emerging from their homes after hibernating all winter.  I guess we all stayed in and watched movies or sports for the last few months.  Or was that just me?

When I go to a museum, I start by looking at every piece of art in the room.  It doesn't take long until I am looking for a bench to sit on in every room.

Do you ever forget to wear your watch and then find yourself constantly looking at your bare wrist anyway?  If you did have a watch on, would you look that often?  Or do you keep looking just to see if your watch mysteriously returned on its own?

Everyone has a cell phone these days, but more than half of the people don't seem to know how to turn them off when they ring at an inconvenient time.  By then everyone in the room is looking around and thinking, "Who is the idiot who can't turn off her cell phone?"

Speaking of cell phones, remember the movie "Wall Street" where Michael Douglas as Gordon Gekko used a cell phone that was the size of a shoe box?  We've come a long way, baby.  So now everyone walks around with a blue tooth device stuck in their ear, which only makes them seem like they are talking to themselves or to you and you say "excuse me?" without realizing they are engaged in what is probably some inane conversation that you just interrupted.

And why is it called a "blue tooth" when you stick it in your ear?

When some old-time star passes away, generally my first thought is, "He was still alive?"

I've hit the age when I can't always remember someone's name, or the star of a movie or TV show – at least at first.  Hours or days later, in the car, in the shower, I'll suddenly say to myself, "Greer Garson," so I know the information is in my brain but probably blocked by all of the lyrics to "Along Comes Mary."

When I think my mind is slipping, I'll watch "Jeopardy" for a few days and come away feeling much better about myself – assuming I know the answers, that is.  Just don't have "The Bible" as a category in Double Jeopardy, OK, Alex Trebek?

I live in fear of not being able to open a jar by myself.  I have all kinds of devices to help my poor, weak hands, and so far I haven't failed to get one open, but I am still worried.

When I watch the weather, I really only want to know about the temperature and chance of rain or snow – OK, maybe how windy it is would be nice to know, too – but I have no interest in what is happening over the Great Plains.  When that "weather front" or "weather event" hits closer to home, the weatherman can tell me then.  And if I want to know how hot it is in Phoenix, well, that's what the internet is for.

I'm annoyed by people who hold on to their carts in the middle of the supermarket aisle as they examine the shelves, thus effectively blocking the whole aisle.  People, a little self-awareness, please, while you are contemplating what size jar of peanut butter to buy.  I find this even happens in Costco, where the aisles are wide enough for a truck to drive by, and yet people somehow manage to block the aisles anyway.  I wonder if they can see me seething as I say, "Excuse me."

When you have lived or traveled in an area long enough, you don't always remember the names of the streets, so when someone asks you how to get somewhere, all you can think of is to tell them to make a left by your old school or Bobby's house, neither of which are there anymore.

I hate anything to do with tax preparation.  I faithfully gather my 20 pounds of paperwork and trudge off to the accountant, but if he asks me even one question that requires a modicum of knowledge about taxes or even my own accounts, I think, "Can't you figure that out yourself, or why am I here?"  I managed to get a big refund this year, so my accountant must be good, right?

I can't stand when I am stuck at a traffic light, waiting to make a left, and there is absolutely no one headed my way until just before the light turns green and an entire line of cars going straight suddenly appears and I have to hope I can make my left before the light turns red.

Don’t you hate it when you open the lid to the washing machine and find remnants of a tissue you unknowingly left in your pocket strewn among the clean clothes?

When it comes to toilet paper, mine must be placed over, not under.  I need all my restraint not to change the roll at someone else's house if it isn't done that way.

I have great skepticism over any advertisement that touts its product or business as, "The best whatever in Central Jersey," or some other hyperbole.  Where is the study that shows your pizza came out on top?  I was amused by a local restaurant, however, that limited the scope of its braggadocio by claiming on a sign outside the restaurant, "The best hamburgers from here to the Somerville Circle," or some other vast reduction of scale.  That claim seems more likely than saying they have the best burgers in the state.

It is spring, which comes the same time every year, yet we seem surprised to see the buds on the trees and the daffodils and the forsythia in bloom.  But what I truly forget is the smell of the mulch.  Ugh!

In this day and age, are there still people who fall for e-mails telling them they have won a lottery from Asia or that old Nigerian scam?  Please tell me no.

I can no longer tell blue from black, so if I show up wearing black pants with blue shoes, you must excuse me.  My only hope is that this is an age thing, so if you see me, you won't be able to tell blue from black either.

I have a big to do list and then I do something NOT on the list, so I have to put it on the list so I can cross it off.  It's not just me, right?  Or I sit and write this blog, thereby preventing me from getting things done that are actually ON the list.  And that's the end of this story, folks.