Decreasing the Surplus Population via Unattainable Healthcare

I've written about it. I've tweeted about it. I've talked about. I've fumed about it. And yet, I feel like a voiceless bit of sand in the wind, uselessly begging for someone to start working on real affordable healthcare and health insurance.

I've fought the big insurance company machine going back to the first institution of "HMOs" and their draconian "deny first" policies; taking my case, at one point, directly to Senator Bill Bradley. (Yes, THAT long ago.) I've dealt with preventive childhood services not being covered because they were "well visits," children forced to wear heavy plaster casts because the lighter ones weren't covered, medication dropped from the insurance company "preferred" list, co-pays, deductibles, co-insurance and lifetime limits. Imagine getting a letter that your teenager has exhausted her lifetime allowance for CT scans and a particular blood test. Her LIFETIME limit. I remember people holding onto jobs that were miserable and paid terribly because they had pre-existing conditions and were afraid they would be rejected by the next employer because of it. Or people mysteriously fired after contracting cancer, getting pregnant or developing another "health issue" causing them to miss work. I've had family members graduate college, go to work, not be offered health insurance and be left with  either paying for an individual plan or paying student loans. The vision of the Affordable Care Act was to relieve some of this craziness. Perhaps the saddest part is, it was written with the idea that Americans understand how insurance works. How those who are fortunate enough to not need it TODAY help those who do. That we all understood the concept of "it could happen to me." We expected that a supposedly religious nation would ascribe to the "there, but for the grace of God, go I" proverb. 

However, the coldest, cruelest attitudes of capitalism raised their heads. The same attitudes - and resulting actions - that have suppressed wages, raised CEO and other compensations to 100, 200, 500 times the compensation of their lowest paid workers (In the 60s a 20 to 1 ratio was considered generous.) While American businesses were downsizing in order to artificially boost the bottom line for stockholders, insurance companies were buying stock in tobacco and getting into bed with pharmaceutical companies. And they have been making money. Obscene amounts of money. Even factoring in the "exchange losses" they are quick to highlight, they still made huge profits. And this is because the compromises made for the ACA included not putting any rules in places to curtail Insurance and Pharmaceutical companies.

The minute the law passed, thousands of us received notices that our plans were "no longer available." And yes, I mean employer-provided plans as well as individual plans. How "lucky" we were that a new plan was available. But, oh, this one now contains a deductible. And certain "co-insurances" that apply whether or not you have met your deductible. Not to mention a new payment schedule for prescription medicines and an even more restrictive "preferred" medication list. Some even raised their deductible before the plan year was over.

And above our heads, politicians, insurance companies and pharmaceutical companies battled with each other about how impossible it was to deal with the concept of health insurance for almost everyone. Some insurance companies bailed out as soon as they could, and the attitude of "why should I have to pay for..." became the drumbeat for some. 

• Why should I have to pay into an insurance plan that pays to rebuild your house that burned down? My house didn't burn down.
• Why should I have to pay taxes for natural disaster relief? I don't live where there are tornadoes and floods.
• Why should I have to pay for your pregnancy? I'm a man.
• Why should I have to pay for your Viagra? I'm a woman.
• Why should I have to pay for your sickness? I live right. You obviously don't.

This week we found out that the "destruction for the sake of destruction" crowd is closer to creating their "every person for themself" version of America. They think because they have money, influence, powerful friends and a sense of superiority that they are immune to calamity and illness. They think that even if they do get sick, they can cover their own expenses despite the fact that no one is looking into how to control costs. Their ignoring of "it could happen to me" is shortsighted, and against everything I was raised to believe about the United States. It breaks my heart. A heart that soon may no longer be eligible for healthcare. I guess getting rid of the "surplus population" may actually be what is at work here.

Foot Follies – The Ocean Grove Boardwalk Edition

First, I need to make clear that as a Jersey Girl (OK, I was born in Brooklyn so I’m a Brooklyn Girl too!) there is very little that can keep me away from the Shore, summer or winter. So, it is understandable that after spending so much time nursing my broken foot on the couch, I would soon start craving the sea.

One of our favorite places to go is Ocean Grove. The drive is short and traffic-free and the boardwalk is long, mostly smooth, and mostly quiet enough to hear the surf and the seagulls.  Follow it long enough, you cross into historic Asbury Park, whose rebuilt-after-Hurricane-Sandy boardwalk is replete with shops and eateries. Go the other direction, and you are soon in Bradley Beach, another long stretch of smooth, rebuilt boardwalk. It is an excellent way to get in those thousands of steps to satisfy our step trackers.

We sometimes go around sunset to enjoy the changes in the sky, watch the moon rise over the ocean and take in the view of the Victorian homes as they light up for evening. Other times, we go in the daytime, spend some time on the sand, catch rays walking on the boardwalk, and stop for ice cream at Nagle’s.  Easy, enjoyable walking.

Since having my mobility assisted by the knee scooter, I have become keenly aware of how many places are inaccessible, in a practical way. Sure, there may be a curb cut or a ramp, but some are dangerously sloped, others have cracks and holes. Sidewalks are full of sections lifted up by tree roots just waiting for you to slam into unexpectedly. I am lucky enough to be able to step off the knee scooter and lift it over such obstacles, but I have become aware that many who have mobility issues will not be able to navigate their wheelchair, walker or crutches over these things.

I’ve been to stores that have weather strips across their doorways that prevent smooth rolling into the establishment.  I’ve been in elevators that do not have enough room to turn around in so I can get out facing forward. Again, I am able to drag the scooter around, and may even be working my arm muscles, but many people cannot.

Knowing this, I was very careful on the old sidewalks of Ocean Grove. Tree roots, broken cement, overhanging bushes and broken curbing all required my attention. When we finally got to the end of the street and crossed over to where the boardwalk was, I figured I was home free. One more ramp up to the boardwalk, and then smooth sailing.

I could not have been more wrong. I took my eyes off the ground to look at the ocean. I turned to smile at the Love of My Life.  I hit a lifted piece of concrete in the middle of the ramp and my scooter pitched me off like a bucking bronco.  My right shoulder, wrist and hip hit the sidewalk, and like a trained stunt woman, I immediately rolled over until I was flat on my back, arms outstretched, looking at the sky.

People came running from all over. Someone picked up the scooter, and the piece of brake handle that had broken off.  Another grabbed my bag that had flown away. The Love of My Life bent down, and with his first aid training kicking in, he asked me to check all the parts of my body for injury before standing up. Then, two people help me get back up.

Luckily, I was not bleeding anywhere, wasn’t feeling any pain – although in the back of my mind I was already thinking, “this is going to hurt somewhere tomorrow.”

I was aware that my acrobatics had drawn attention from both directions on the boardwalk. I waved like a Nascar driver walking away from a crash. I was pleased to find out that, at my age, I can still bounce pretty well. The last thing I wanted was to have a police report issued somewhere saying  “elderly woman breaks hip on Ocean Grove boardwalk.” And I suppose the last thing Ocean Grove wanted to hear was “elderly woman sues for damages because of faulty handicap ramp.” Although now that I think of it, I really should send them this so they know. And I’m wondering, do I need to file a police report for the damage to the scooter? Or will I be charged with leaving the scene of an accident?

In any event, I am still booted and scootered, so the adventures continue.

Johnny Mathis, my parents, and me

  It has been said that time heals all wounds. I don't agree. The wounds remain. Time - the mind, protecting its sanity - covers them with some scar tissue and the pain lessens, but it is never gone. 

- Rose Kennedy

Marge, Bill and Bob. Without them, I would not be me.

Today, June 17, 2017, my mother would have turned 85 years old. We lost her way too soon, at age 56 in 1988. It was a loss that no child is ever prepared for even as an adult, and for us, it was a devastating blow. Only 4 months later we also the man who was father to my sisters, and stepfather to me as  my own father, Bill, died at age 23, when I was just 3 weeks old. Birthdays, anniversaries and holidays always are a time to pause and think about the ones who are no longer with us, and this weekend, in combining both my mother's birthday and Father's day, brought thoughts of all of them to me.

Tonight, quite by chance, I turned on the local PBS channel and found they were showing a concert featuring Johnny Mathis, who is celebrating 60+ years of performance. A nanosecond of the musical arrangement and I recognized the song and the artist. This was not just nostalgia from my babyhood — I am, myself, celebrating 60+ years of life — it was the soundtrack of my young life. His was the music my young mother listened to in widowed loneliness and then the music that created the bond between her and the new love that entered her life.

They were inseparable — Marge and Bob. My mother, a scant 4’10, my stepfather at 5’ 11” — they were easy to spot in a crowd. For me, their wedding was the greatest celebration I had ever been to, and while they were honeymooning, I proudly announced to everyone on the subway that “now I have a Daddy.” My mortified Aunt Stella (It was 1958 after all) found herself explaining to complete strangers about my father’s death when I was so young, and my mother’s remarriage.

Soon I was joined by two little sisters. We moved from Brooklyn to New Jersey, and in each home the huge “Hi-Fi” came with us, as well as the complete collection of Johnny Mathis albums. Christmas was not complete without his renditions. For sure there were other favorites, but Johnny was king.

As I grew, there were the Monkees, Simon & Garfunkel, Chicago, Boston and then all the disco hit makers like Donna Summer and KC & The Sunshine Band. Pop from the 60s and 70s provided the soundtrack for my teen and young adult years.

Yet, nothing would stop me in my tracks like hearing the strains of a Johnny Mathis song played in a restaurant or a store, or at a wedding. No one could beat me at “Name that Tune” when the first second of a Mathis song played. It was not just music I knew, it was music indelibly inscribed in the part of my brain where only the most precious things are stored.

It took a long time after 1988 to be able to hear Johnny sing without bursting into tears.  I also spent a lot of time crying to “The Living Years” by Mike and the Mechanics.  The pain was raw, and deep, compounded by the inescapable feeling that I had now lost 3 parents, all too young, and all leaving me with unanswered questions and unfinished business.

It is sixty-two years since the man who gave me life left me, twenty-nine since the man who raised me and the woman who loved them both, left.  Today, on my mother’s birthday, and the day before Father’s Day, I feel a deep sense of connection to all of them, a feeling of warmth and love. The feeling of loss is still there, but in listening to their music – no, listening to OUR music, I feel that time has curved in a giant arc; bringing me closer to the time we shared. Such is the power of memory, such is the power of love, such is the power of music.

Thank you, Johnny Mathis for being the cosmic force that brings my parents back to me.

How about a Podcast from the Smile Side of Life?

I've been thinking about producing a podcast for some time. A couple of years ago, I recorded a short story for Halloween, and that was fun. So, I am dipping my toes (the ones on the non-broken foot) into these waters, and would love to know what you think. I've taken the audio file and put some graphics over it, just so I could fake a video and get it up on YouTube quick. I'd love to hear what you think of the content and the idea that I am proposing. If it sounds like you want to hear more from me, I'll work on doing it as a regular podcast.

 

Holding a Candle Against the Darkness

In October 2001 it felt to me that life would never return to anything resembling “normal.” The United States had been dealt a wound so deep, so terrible, and so painful, that recovery seemed impossible. Still, we were encouraged by people such as Rudy Giuliani and President Bush to go “back to business as usual,” not only for personal healing but as a way to take power away from the perpetrators of terror.

The idea of ever being able to laugh again was a difficult thought, yet, we knew, deep down, it is often with smiling and laughter – even through tears – that mourning takes place, happy memories are invoked, and lost loved ones are honored and remembered.

I remember well the first episode of Saturday Night Live after 9-11 where first responders were saluted. Lorne Michaels turned to Rudy Giuliani and asked if it was OK to be funny. Giuliani’s priceless response of “Why start now?” was a cooling balm on America’s feverish wound.

Since writing the essay below I have learned much about laughter and humor, and their importance to physical and mental health. I’ve learned how they are tools in humanity’s survival arsenal. I’ve become a practicing advocate for their use, but had my convictions shaken many times in the years since. I've seen humor gone awry, causing hostility instead of relief. And I've been torn about that, knowing that satire, humor and parody must be allowed to be shocking, and even painful, in order to inspire discussions, even hostile ones, about subjects often bubbling below and behind current events and concerns.

Now it is 2017, and the world has been breaking my heart with a proliferation of war, terror, and political upheaval at the hands of people who seem bent on destruction and nothing else. And yet, in the laughter of a sick child, the smiles of clowns bravely donning red noses in war zones, the funny tales told of tragically departed loved ones, and the words of people such as Viktor Frankl, Erma Bombeck and countless others, I find the spark of love and humanity that deserves our protection and cultivation. 

Humans can be cold, cruel and evil. But we can also be loving, generous and selfless. By continuing to share a smile or a laugh, we hold a candle against the darkness. Use that candle to light others.

 

We Will Laugh Again 

As I write this, October 2001 is spreading the golden crown of fall across most of America. A sense of change is in the air, as nature prepares herself for the long restful sleep of winter.  And, deep within us, there is change too – not a seasonal change brought about by nature, but a violent upheaval that reverberates to the innermost depths of the soul. Our hearts have been slashed open by an insidious foe hiding behind a cowardly mask of self-serving ideology. Our pain is so great, we know we have been changed forever, and in our grief, in our mourning, in our righteous anger comes the feeling that will never smile again. Indeed those of us who have survived these horrific events, those of us who can hold our loved ones to our breasts are burdened by an overwhelming sense of guilt and a helplessness that is almost paralyzing.

But we have been asked to get back to business. We have been asked to prove that our way of life here in America is not something that cannot be snuffed out by those who place no value on life, have no sense of honor and seek only to destroy all who cannot feed into their megalomania. Indeed, they are depending on the very things that make us American ­– our compassion, our openness, our hands that we extend in friendship to those who love and hate us - to let them get to us, hurt us, kill us. But those hands have now closed into fists of anger and frustration, those hands have grasped the tools of rescue and rebuilding, those hands have raised the flag of freedom and justice, and those hands are reaching across the globe, to find the cowards where they hide, to drag them out into the light of day, where no evil thing can live.        

And slowly, yes, slowly, our tears will dry. Our faces will wear the grim visages of determination; our eyes will focus on the task ahead. As one, we will rise like the Phoenix from the ashes, stronger and fiercer. And when the dust, dirt, debris and blood of the battle clears – we will stand, united and free still.

And yes, as time goes by, we will smile again, we will laugh again. The United States, the nation blessed and charged with standing as the shining example for all, will go on.  But we shall never forget.

Foot Follies week 4 Can I keep my wit about me?

It seems that I have been hobbling in a boot and wheeling around on a knee scooter,  FOREVER. And yet, it is only 4 weeks.  A time period in which not only my life, but the weather seems to be standing still. Today’s rain and chill are more suitable to April rather than May and plenty of things I should have done by now are still hanging over my head.  Things like spring housecleaning (am I the only one who still tries to do that?) garden planting and ramping up the outdoor exercise routine.

However, this weekend, after mumbling and complaining about how inconvenient a broken foot is, and my sneaky attempts to do stuff anyway, I was reminded that timeframes and seasonal planning and things we take for granted are all forgotten when someone is sick.

More than a week ago, my grandson developed an irritated eyelid that looked like we should have been asking him, “how bad does the other guy look?”  It looked more bruised than infected, but no injury had been sustained. He went on a round of oral antibiotics and that seemed to fix it.

Last Friday, the eye blossomed the same way again, and this time, his pediatrician was taking no prisoners. Being the queen of internet research that I am, I looked up the differential diagnosis for swollen eyelids and quickly realized it wasn’t an insect bite, it wasn’t dermatitis, it wasn’t a stye. All that seemed left was Orbital Cellulitis – a frightening infection that can quickly jeopardize eyesight.

The hospital room was ready, the ophthalmologist was there, and a course of ultra strong IV antibiotics was begun. All this was related to me by phone by my daughter. I had flashbacks of my own son’s horrific hospital trip on suspicion of leukemia and what, as a mother, I went through, watching what my son was going through. The blood draws, the testing. For my son, it was some demented form of mono, for my grandson it was Preseptal Cellulitis – in front of the eye but not in it.

A sigh of relief was breathed by all. Then suddenly, my grandson turned red and itchy from head to toe. It was a reaction to the antibiotic called Red Man Syndrome, which is not a true “allergic” reaction, but rather a result of too much antibiotic being pumped into the patient. The infusion was slowed down, and cool wet washcloths were applied to him. My daughter described it as “controlled panic.”

Then, when a washcloth was placed over his head, this struck my grandson as ridiculous and funny. He began laughing. His laughter was so pure, innocent and genuine that the atmosphere in the room relaxed immediately. He even posed for a picture for his mom, washcloth on his head, both eyes swollen shut, but a big smile on his face.

By the time I got to see him, wheeling with my knee scooter up a ridiculously steep hill from the hospital parking lot to the door, the reaction had subsided. Outside the door of his room, I put on my red nose (yes, Nanny always has a red nose handy) and I rolled into the room to be met with that wonderful sound of a child’s laughter. I sat on his bed with him and we compared his IV splint and my foot boot and declared ourselves “Boo-boo buddies.” We played and colored while a new infusion of antibiotic was started and he had no reaction. There were genuine smiles all around as nurses and doctors checked on him.

The next day he was released with oral antibiotics, just in time to attend his own birthday party, and true to the amazing healing power of children, he ran around, played and laughed all day.

Of course we are all thankful for the quick actions of the pediatrician, the wonders of modern medicine that were able to beat back the infection, and the ability of a healthy not-quite 3 year old to bounce back.

But, I also like to think that laughter played a small, but important part in helping everyone – that “keeping your wit about you” heals the spirit to allow medicine to do its job.

Death By Chocolate

Today I continue my salute to my friend Carol, who left us way too soon. This story is not autobiographical, but was inspired by the friendship and experiences we shared. It is included in my book "A Bouquet of Roses."


 

Death by Chocolate

       

Two weeks after her parrot flew away, Rose put the cage in the shed. Looking at it, a huge empty hulk of metal wire, plastic toys, and star shaped cookie treats, just became too sad. She had raised Yankee from a baby, hand feeding him with a special syringe full of baby bird food, carefully filling up his crop. For 7 years they shared morning cups of tea, evening bits of carrots and string beans, and the occasional midnight nightmare. Then, in a split second he was gone.
            

 She wiped up the bits of birdseed, feathers and empty shells. Now she would never have to do this chore again. She would never have to scrape bird poop off the side of the refrigerator, never have to check her shoulder for tell tale bird marks before leaving the house.

            

 After doing that, reading a romance novel probably wasn’t the best idea; every protagonist was consumed by desire and passion, weeping with longing or swearing undying devotion and loyalty. To Rose it all seemed foreign, as if she had never read a book before, never watched a romantic movie, never fell in love. It was a reaction that puzzled her, and she tried to explain it to her longtime friend, Alison.
            

 "That’s love by the book," said Alison. "You know, a fantasy, an escape, it bears no resemblance to real life." She took a long sip of her unsweetened iced tea and clunked the glass down emphatically. "If anyone knows, it’s you and me!"
             

Rose nodded silently. The two women were mall hopping and taking a dinner break at one of the overly-cheerful chain of bar and grill restaurants that populate suburban New Jersey malls. To others, they might have been mother and daughter, even though Alison looked at least ten years younger than 62. And if she was meticulous about covering her gray roots, Rose didn’t look her age either. But at 44, Rose was feeling the pangs of middle age - if not physically, but emotionally.
            

 "You and I, we know the truth about love," Alison was saying. "It’s just a way for them to get you. Get you in bed, get you in the kitchen, get you in the laundry room. I don’t even know why you read that stuff."
             

Rose smiled. The truth was, despite the age difference; the women had shared similar lives. They originally met each other because both their husbands were cops on the same force. As a young mother, Rose had looked up to Alison, who, years ahead of her had already run the gauntlet of being a cop’s wife. But it wasn’t long before the nasty little secret of Alison’s life was revealed. A secret, it turned out, that was pretty common knowledge.
            

 "Coffee? Dessert?" the overly cheerful server had returned from out of nowhere and was gesturing at the plates in from of Rose and Alison.
            

 "Let’s do it, what the hell," said Alison. The server disappeared into the crowded, dim room and returned with two cups of coffee and the dessert menu.
            

 "I’ll give you a few minutes to decide," he said.
             

Alison reached into her purse and took out a pack of cigarettes. It was Alison’s worst habit, an addiction that meant any time they went out they would be seated in the smoking section, forced to breathe in noxious smoke. Rose had forgotten how much she disliked the smell of cigarettes, how her eyes burned and her throat felt like sandpaper. It seemed to bother her more now, after spending ten smoke-free years with Sean. Ten whole years had passed since his heart spasm, his hospitalization and his doctor’s dire warning. Ten years that gave his lungs a chance to purge the toxins, ten years for the effects of second hand smoke to fade from nasal passages of their children. And now, he was smoking again, the idiot. The kids came home from visits with him reeking of it - sometimes they would jump into the shower right away to get the stench out of their hair. Their clothes, put in the laundry hamper, soon contaminated everything with the smell. A smell she had never noticed for the first ten years of their marriage - years in which Sean smoked upwards of 4 packs a day and the condensation in their bathroom would often run yellow down the wall from the accumulated layers of nicotine-laced smoke.
             

Rose realized that she had been staring so hard at Alison’s cigarette that she hadn’t heard a word.
             

"Look, I know you’re a writer and all that, but somebody ought to write about what men are really like," she was saying. No one was surprised that Alison was bitter, after all her husband, now her ex-husband, had carried on with numerous other women throughout their 24-year marriage. A friend to everyone, he was constantly out doing "favors" for others, while Alison sat home, washing diapers, ironing uniforms and cooking dinners that often were left uneaten.
             

In the small town where they lived, it was hard for the very visible police officer to hide his indiscretions, and after a few years he seemed to make no effort to do so. There were the casual women, those attracted to and fascinated by the uniform, who were all too willing to listen to his stories of a cold marriage and even colder bed. These were the women who knew theirs was a fleeting affair, some of them were married also, running away from their own chilly homes.
            

 But at least twice, there was talk of love, commitment, an ethereal "someday" when the miserable trapped cop would be free of his domestic obligations, and hand in hand with the love of his life, would start over. The usual plan was to move out of state, and there were many not-so-clandestine trips to Virginia to scope out the territory and dream big dreams. And all along, Alison quietly raised her three children, kept a clean house and walked around town as if nothing was wrong. For more than 20 years, until the day she found a lump in her breast.
            

 The doctors all congratulated her on finding it, reporting it, and taking care of it so quickly. The performed a lumpectomy, gave her a course of radiation, and told her they were very optimistic about her prognosis. Everyone, doctors, nurses, friends, family was encouraging and supportive. Everyone except John, who came from a family that ordered caskets the minute cancer was mentioned.
             

He refused to go to the doctor or hospital with her, ignored her discomfort, and left her lying in the bedroom alone the day she came home - by taxi - from the hospital. It was hurt more painful than all the years of infidelity. Alison swore to get a divorce as soon as she got stronger, and that was what she did.
            

 "Can you believe who knocked on my door this week?" said Alison. Jolted back to the present, Rose hoped she could pick up the thread of the conversation.
            

 "Umm, who?" she asked, hesitantly.
            

 "Who the hell have we been talking about?" Alison waved her cigarette impatiently. "John! And you are just not going to believe what he wanted."
            

 Rose looked around at the other diners sitting so closely. She wondered if they would all turn to stare if she blurted out the word "sex." But Alison was there before her.
            

 "Not, THAT," she said, pointing her finger at Rose. "Not exactly. He wanted to move back in with me. Apparently, things are not going so well with Miss Virginia Is for Lovers."
            

 Rose could hardly suppress the gasp. "Can you even believe it?" said Alison. "He said we could be partners - roommates or some kind of nonsense like that!"
            

 "Oh no, not that ‘partners’ crap!" said Rose. Alison nodded knowingly.
             

It was "partners" that Sean wanted to be. He saw no reason for a divorce, a displacement of the children, a public airing of their discord.
            

 "We could just live here, but live our own lives," he said to Rose. The idea infuriated her.
           

 "That means YOU live your own life, and I stay here as domestic help!" she shouted. "No, if living your own life is what you want, I want out!" Sean shrugged, not even caring enough to press his point.
            

 So, the divorce was over so quickly, that even the rumor mill in the small town had trouble keeping up. When the moving van showed up to take Rose and her children to their new home, it created quite a stir. For weeks afterward, as Rose slowly weaned herself off the town, returning library books, transferring prescriptions, she constantly ran into people who would bluntly ask her what the hell had happened. Some of them wanted verification that the rumor wasn’t true, others seemed to take a perverse delight in hearing it from Rose’s own lips. In a way she didn’t blame them, after all the years spent working in the town, she knew there were some who didn’t appreciate her community involvement. Some who thought she was way too involved with her husband’s work, some who envied the accomplishment of their children and some who were waiting to see the perfect couple fall on their faces.
             

Alison was intently examining the dessert menu, holding it out at arms length. "Why do they make the print so small," she grumbled. "Just to embarrass us?" Rose realized that the print on the menu was beginning to look smaller to her too. Another gentle reminder that she had crossed the border into middle age. Cashiers in the grocery store were calling her ma’am and she had begun examining her face for wrinkles and double chins. Thinking of the "baby weight" she still carried even though the baby was 12, she turned the menu face down.
             

"Just coffee for me," she said.
            

 Alison shot her a disgusted look. "Come on, we hardly ever go out, have yourself a treat." It was easy for Alison; she was still as slim as the day she got married.
            

 "Well, maybe we can split this Death by Chocolate thing," said Rose. Alison smiled triumphantly. "There you go," she said, reaching for another cigarette.
            

 "So, I’ve been monopolizing the conversation," said Alison as she lit up.
What’s been going on with you, any sign of the parrot?"
             

Rose shook her head, then answered. "I’ve been reading a lot, trying to take my mind off of it. You know Sean hated it when I read anything." Alison nodded.
            

 "How you ever got involved with him, I don’t know. You with your writing and all, we know the only thing he ever read was dirty magazines!" The two women laughed conspiratorially. It was true that Sean’s collection of "erotica" rivaled Rose’s shelves full of classics.
            

 "Yeah, out of all those magazines he probably read three words!" Alison laughed so hard she choked on the smoke she was inhaling.
             

Dessert arrived, a huge plate covered with chocolate confections of several types. The smiling waiter brandished two dessert forks and ceremoniously placed them, along with two cake plates, in front of the women. "Death by Chocolate, for two!" he declared.
      

 As he walked away, Alison stubbed out her cigarette and stifled another laugh. "What is he on?" she said, nodding her head in the direction the waiter had gone.
            

 "You know," said Rose, "I’ve had this really strange feeling that losing Yankee was bound to happen." Alison looked at her expectantly.
            

 "I mean, it seems as if all the males in my life have deserted me, I guess the dog is next."
            

 Alison burst out laughing. "The dog is the only one you did right with, you got him fixed."
             

Rose started to choke on a mouthful of Death by Chocolate. Dark crumbs flew everywhere, as she gasped for breath - tears running down her face. She pounded on the table unable to breath. The waiter came running over, yanked her out of the booth and clamped his arms around her stomach.
           

 "OK! OK!" panted Rose. "I’m OK!" The entire restaurant full of people was looking at them.
            

 "I saved your life!" the waiter shouted. His fellow servers crowded around and clapped him on the back. Rose picked her napkin up and tried to clean the chocolate mess off her clothes. Alison was also holding her napkin - up over her face. Finally she peeked over a corner and giggled.
           

 "Now that is what I call a dramatic exit!" she said. "And its time to make ours."
 

The two women walked out, leaving a generous tip and a chocolate mess. They hugged each other goodnight in the parking lot and drove home, smiling. Once you survive Death by Chocolate, you can survive anything.