myjourneysinsight

MY JOURNEY IN SIGHT – PART 4

Posted on March 1, 2014 by Judy

“There was always hope . . .”

When I think about how many eye specialists I’ve seen, my head spins.

I have two conditions: Dirty vision due to posterior vitreous detachment and dry eye syndrome.

Unfortunately, my dry eye condition is the one that has really made me miserable.

I keep hoping I’ll find a way to alleviate my pain. According to the last cornea specialist I saw, it worsened and became a chronic problem because of hormonal changes related to my age (I’m 54). But primarily, it was brought on by cataract surgery.

Still, I can’t help but wonder about an emotional component. I know the body can exhibit things that our mind does not allow.

When my son had violent meltdowns, I developed severe rashes on my elbows that were constantly bleeding. During one of my mother’s early hospitalizations, I was afflicted with severe stomach pain. I even remember when it began – it was triggered by the smells in the rehab facility where she was. I ran to the bathroom and my horrible nightmare turned into microscopic colitis.

Those awful ailments only added to my misery because they lasted for several years and made everything I did harder.

I am extremely grateful that those conditions eventually faded away.

My eyesight problems remind me of my true weakness. I survived my empty marriage by ignoring the things that upset me – I looked the other way.

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But where do I look now? Not only can’t I escape fog and dirty vision, I’m in pain and it’s too much.

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I was disappointed after paying $500 for an opinion from a doctor at the world-famous Jules Stein Eye Institute. He spent 10 minutes with me and an associate examined my eyes. I still have not received a report from him and it’s been a month. He called me the next day to ask me why I wanted it, and I found his attitude annoying. He said he would not put anything in his report that indicated I deserved reimbursement because it caused problems for him in the past.

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This is a filtered photo from my recent trip up north. It does represent how I feel with the glare and fog. Nature and the outdoors are healing, but my eyes still hurt.

My bedtime ritual has become fairly time-consuming. Despite doing all the things I’ve listed below, my eyes still burn and have sensations. I have difficulty concentrating and often close my eyes when I walk outdoors. I bump into things a lot!

Judy’s Bedtime Eye Ritual:

Wipe eyelids with special eyelid cloth and cleaner

Put in Restasis eye drops

Start humidifier – do not slip on the wet floor

Put in eye gel drops

Warm up hot compress in the microwave

Put on iPod and relax with compress over my eyes

(The last step is the one I like best)

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Twice now, I’ve seen an ophthalmologist who is a cornea specialist through my HMO.

At our last appointment, I let him know that I was following a regimen of all his suggestions. This doctor said sweetly, “I’m sorry, but there’s nothing else left that could help your condition. It’s incurable.”

So I reminded him about something I knew about – plugs in my tear ducts. Twenty years ago when I wore hard contact lenses, I had two inserted. They stimulated more tear production and helped. Only one of them remained.

He said, “Sure, I’ll put more in for you.” That was when I learned that there were four, not two places for those plugs.

I would have two more inserted that would give me three plugs. However, the upper lid tear ducts were much more difficult to have the plugs put into.

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It was very painful as he pulled on my upper eyelid and pressed down. I tried to remain steady as I felt the sting of his tweezers. It took almost fifteen minutes and my eyes were dripping. There was no numbing for this procedure and I used every technique I could think of to stay calm and still.

When he was done he said, “It’s likely that they will fall out, but if you think they helped then I’ll cauterize the surrounding tissue to make them stay in permanently. Let me know.”

As I left, I wondered when I would get relief since he told me to return in six months.

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I’ve had the same HMO since I was born. Although I’m ready to leave it, I do love my primary doctor. Even though I was not given “permission” to see an outside specialist for another opinion (meaning my HMO would reimburse me), my doctor really did try to advocate for me.

His last message to me was, “I have another patient who was given the run-around. I sent her to a colleague of mine that I went to med school with. She’s a retina specialist and might be able to help you also.”

I told him I was willing, and a referral was sent. It helped when he mentioned another patient was given “the run-around.” I wasn’t alone with my problems!

I sure didn’t hold out much hope for this eye specialist. I was so tired of having my eyes dilated.

The appointment came up quickly and I prepared myself to hear the same speech of, “Sorry, but there’s little that can be done for dry eyes and PVD (posterior vitreous detachment).”

As I sat in the waiting room, I heard my cataract surgeon’s voice nearby. I put my head down and hoped he wouldn’t recognize me. He was the last person I wanted to see even though many doctors have told me he did an excellent job with my implants.

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My name was called and I went into the examining room. Immediately, I liked this doctor. She was energetic, young and sharp.

I mentioned my primary doctor’s name. Suddenly she became bubbly and used his first name while recounting memories from when they were both in medical school.

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I noticed she was confident, but not arrogant. She seemed to really want to help as she sat down next to me. When she asked me to describe my problems, I didn’t know where to start.

My voice did not reveal my emotional turmoil at first. But because she was so compassionate, I felt as though I could allow myself to vent all the frustration I had over my condition.

Tears began to spill onto my shirt, which was such an irony for someone like me suffering from dry eye syndrome.

She handed me a tissue and said, “You know, I consider dry eye syndrome to be a disease. It is chronic and affects your ability to function. It’s not only hormonal. The fact that you wore hard contact lenses for many years is another factor – that created scar tissue. But even though I can’t treat your dry eye condition, I have another cornea doctor that I want you to see. There are still things you haven’t tried. Have you heard of serum eye drops that are made from your own blood? It can be a miracle. Another idea would be to create a moisture chamber for your eyes by wearing goggles at night.”

I listened to her rattle off more ideas to add to my other rituals. I didn’t expect much from this appointment, but suddenly I had a doctor who really seemed to care.

Then she said, “Okay, let’s take a look. I’m going to examine you now.”

–

In the darkness, I drifted off in my mind to avoid the pain. If my retinas were still intact, I was always grateful. Thankfully, they were this time, too.

She said softly, “I cannot imagine how you can see with the dense amount of junk in your gel. I can see it! There are ghost blood cells and enormous floaters. It’s like a curtain of spider webs.”

I was amazed to hear her words. That was exactly the way I had described my vision.

She was enthused when she said, “I can clean it all out for you. It would take just ten minutes. It’s up to you whenever you’re ready!”

“Is that considered a Vitrectomy?” I asked.

She nodded, indicating it was. The way she described it, it didn’t seem nearly as radical and dangerous as I thought it was. Suddenly it sounded tantalizing.

For another half an hour, she explained more about the procedure to me. She said she didn’t want to appear overconfident, but had never experienced a bad result. “If a doctor experiences a bad result, it can leave them fearful. I’m not on the opposite side telling you there aren’t risks. The reason for my success is that I choose my patients carefully. You are actually a perfect candidate. Yes, there are risks and with this procedure, and your risk of a detachment is slightly increased. But you are at risk for a retinal detachment even without doing anything at all!”

She mentioned that she did not do the surgery on anyone who did not have lens implants. One risk of the procedure was developing cataracts.

“You already have had cataracts, and that is another reason I could do this.”

Then she added, “I attended a workshop recently and the same doctor you just saw from the Jules Stein Eye Institute was there!”

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She shared more about that workshop.

“The purpose of that workshop was how people who suffer with your problem have their life deeply affected. You are an artist and I can see how much you are aware of detail. This is all about your quality of life and this procedure could make a huge difference for someone like you.”

I left that appointment with a surgical packet and was given an appointment with a new cornea doctor to help me with my dry eye syndrome.

I drove home with my eyes half-closed. The pain was unbearable. But my heart was filled with hope. I wasn’t going to jump into having a Vitrectomy, for sure.

Before I would consider surgery, I first needed to get my dry eye condition under control.

I had a lot to think about. The specialist I had paid $500 to see made me promise not to touch my eyes. He said that he had many patients who had lost their eyesight and wished they had known that ahead of time.

This new doctor seemed terrific. But I needed to really think through everything. That wasn’t easy to do when I felt desperate about my condition.

But now I had some hope.

And hope was everything for me.

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© Judy Unger and http://www.myjourneysinsight.com 2014. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Judy Unger with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Tagged acknowledging grief, acoustic guitar, adjusting to implants, cataract surgery, cataract surgery complications, Cataracts when in fifties, changing your life, compassion, considering vitrectomy, cornea specialist, corneal issues, discouragement, dry eye regimen, dry eye syndrome, dry eyes, dry eyes and hard contact lenses, eye discomfort, eye issues, eye problems, eyesight adjustment, eyesight issues, guitar, having hope, improvement, inspiration, music therapy, musical inspiration, optimism, Posterior Vitreous Detachment, releasing pain, Retinal specialist, self improvement, severe myopia and cataract surgery, staying hopeful, suppressing emotion, vitrectomy | 11 Comments

SUSAN’S MEMORIAL – PART 1

Posted on February 27, 2014 by Judy

This was the program for Susan’s Memorial that was taken about five years ago. I was so honored to participate!

This was the program for Susan’s Memorial. (The picture on it was taken about five years ago.) I was so honored to participate!

I plan to write many more stories about my inspiring few days honoring my good friend, Susan Rasky. This past week, I attended a memorial for her at UC Berkeley where she was a journalism professor. It was electric to be in the same room with so many amazing and accomplished people. And Susan had influenced everyone there in profound ways.

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Susan mentored and helped many of her students achieve great success in their careers. Even though she never married or had children, she was a consummate mother to so many people. And I found out that she was even a matchmaker!

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In addition to helping me survive my ordeals as a caregiver, It was Susan’s encouragement about my creative endeavors that meant so much to me.

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I am not a journalist and love how I get to write stories from my heart.

I begin writing about her memorial with the part that easily causes my tears to flow. I am zeroing in upon grief as I often do.

But this one surprised me because I am not a pet owner. My sadness was for Lucy, Susan’s poodle.

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The program for Susan’s memorial showed Lucy behind her while she was lecturing. It was humorous and an interesting choice of picture for Susan. It definitely had me chuckling.

Then I remembered how one time when Susan visited me with Lucy, she had asked me if I had some turkey for her poodle. She said, “Lucy loves human food – my doggy is the most pampered pet you can imagine!”

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A year later, Susan brought Lucy with her on another visit. She came with her mother to visit my mother at her nursing home. Susan was relieved that pets were allowed and even encouraged there.

As I looked at the picture on the memorial program, I suddenly understood why it was chosen – I could actually imagine Susan bursting into the lecture hall with Lucy behind her.

My ears perked up when I heard that Lucy would not come out from under Susan’s bed for weeks after her beloved owner had died.

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And when I saw Susan’s 96-year-old mother for lunch on the last day of my trip, her mother’s eyes watered when she insisted that the dog shed actual tears when Susan was taken to the hospital while she was dying. A few days later, Susan was discharged and her brother was overwhelmed trying to deal with physically transporting her home.

Hospice did not arrive in time when Susan was close to death. Thankfully, an experienced caregiver for Susan’s mother was there to help. I found Susan’s brother to be an amazing man. He not only took care of their elderly mother, but he dealt with his sister’s agony as she declined and then died.

Susan’s mother told me that after her daughter died, Lucy clung to Susan’s body as long as she could.

It has been several months now, and Lucy still goes under Susan’s bed for much of the day.

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Travelling with my dry eyes was not something I looked forward to.

But attending Susan memorial was very important to me. I especially looked forward to meeting other people who had been touched by Susan; I wanted to learn more about my amazing friend. I also wanted to find out the circumstances of her illness and death, which she chose to carry privately.

There was also more to my trip than just Susan’s memorial. I was going to be spending two nights with a woman I had never met – or if I had, it was so long ago that I forgot because I was a young child.

Her name was Liz. Her mother, Sophia, and Susan’s mother, Evelyn, were all close to my mother. This trio of woman had shared so much of their lives together. And with old age, all three of them had great difficulty maintaining contact due to dementia and physical distance.

Liz was very helpful as I made my airline arrangements. The flight was a little over an hour and Liz planned to pick me up at the airport. She sent me a picture of herself and I did the same.

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We were several hours early to the event because my plane had landed early in the morning. Liz found a parking space on a hill nearby where the memorial would be. We both decided to check out the building and then have some lunch before the event, which was scheduled for 2:00 p.m.

I could feel so much history in the old building we entered. It was quiet because it was Sunday; I closed my eyes and imagined the hallways filled with noisy students. The odor of wood and nostalgia tickled my senses. This was where Susan devoted so much of her life.

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Oh, how I wished that Susan was with me proudly showing me around!

In a quiet moment, I examined a flier for the memorial on the wall. Liz pointed out Susan’s former reporter badges that were inside a nearby display case.

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Susan had been a top-notch reporter for the New York Times. I only recently remembered that when I was 20 years old, I visited her where she worked in Washington DC before I was married. Susan set my friend and I up with wonderful tours of the Capital and I wished I had taken a picture with my big sister back then.

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Now I realize how blessed I was to know such an incredible woman. But sadly, I wish I had appreciated her more while she was still alive.

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Liz and I came across a woman in the hallway. Her name was Lydia and she was the organizer for the event. I introduced myself by saying, “I’m Judy and I’m here to sing a song at the memorial for Susan.”

Of course, I was carrying my guitar so she must have easily figured that out!

Lydia smiled. Liz and I began to ask her many questions about Susan and whether anyone else was as unaware as we were about her cancer. It turned out that as sick as she was, Susan kept working up until the end. She did take the fall semester off, but was determined to come back to work in the spring. She died during the holiday season and so many people at the memorial mentioned how shocked they were that she wouldn’t be coming back.

I was honored that we were allowed to see Susan’s office. My waves of sadness continued because I wished it were Susan unlocking the door for me, instead of Lydia. So many times Susan had encouraged me to come and visit her – even when her apartment was cramped while her mother and brother lived with her. I thought that this year I would finally take her up on that offer, but now it was too late for that.

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I felt tears filling my eyes as I looked at the boxes stacked up to the ceiling. I wondered where they would go. Susan was such a passionate, caring and devoted teacher.

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Inside those boxes were the story of her life.

Before Liz and I left to walk around and have lunch, Lydia took our picture.

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I might be smiling on the outside, but inside I was crying.

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Tagged acceptance of loss, Aging Parents, blogger, blogging, breast cancer, burden of caregiving, Caregiving, caregiving responsibilities, childhood friendship, coping with grief, death, death of a close friend, death of a friend, dementia, dog's grief over loss, friend's support, Friendship, friendship and loss, grief, grief of a dog, grief of a pet, GRIEF RELATED, I'm Taking Off, inspiration, loss, loss of a good friend, siblings and caregiving, Susan Rasky, Susan Rasky's memorial at UC Berkeley, therapeutic writing, writing | 3 Comments

REMEMBERING SUSAN – PART 4

Posted on February 26, 2014 by Judy

When my good friend Susan died in late December, I was shocked. After her death, I went back to read all the messages she wrote me over the last five years.

I attended a memorial for her this past week at the UC Berkeley campus where she worked as a journalism professor. I stayed with a family friend for two nights and also spent some time with Susan’s surviving brother and mother.

Susan was 61 years old; her surviving mother is 96 years old.

It turns out that Susan mentioned breast cancer to me when I first was getting to know her five years ago. I felt horrible that I forgot completely about it and never asked Susan how she was years later. It was easy to assume that she was cancer-free because she never mentioned it. But the truth was that she was never actually in remission.

Her message in 2009 was:

It is not a lump; it’s an “array” of lesions – but they are malignant and it’s invasive breast cancer. I’m starting chemo within the next two weeks and then I’ll probably have to have a mastectomy. The good news is that the cancer doesn’t seem to be in my other breast, brain, lungs, ovaries or pancreas, and that I don’t have either the BRCA 1 or BRCA 2 genes. It is in the lymph node under my right arm, which is why it is especially worrisome.

I think my Mom copes by not paying full attention, but I believe she knows how serious it is. She’s been great. I’m in good spirits, and I’ll get through this. Thanks for asking. Take care of you. Susan

I replied:

Oh my god, Susan, I am so sorry for your trials. I do appreciate the info, and my thoughts and prayers are with you. I can only imagine what a curve this has thrown you. I especially hope the chemo doesn’t make you feel too ill to function at full force. You are so vibrant and active, and hopefully, this will all be behind you soon.

Her brother shared with me his frustration that Susan did not seek treatment toward the end. She suffered with tremendous pain and the ordeal of getting her to a hospital was very traumatic. Susan believed she would survive through her sheer determination. She took off from teaching shortly before she died – everyone expected she would be back.

I will be writing about her memorial, but first I want to share more about our friendship.

When I first met Susan, her mother lived an hour from me in Los Angeles, while Susan was 400 miles away in Northern California. Our parents were very good friends and I have many pictures of them on wonderful vacations together.

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My mother with Susan’s mother; this picture was taken perhaps about 20 years ago.

Hi Judy, I’m gearing myself up for school, working on my taxes, worrying about my mom. I’m not (or she’s not) where you and your mom are, but I feel it coming, and I dread it. I know how you must miss the way your parents were when they were well. I think it will drive you mad to keep comparing them to that. Both my brother and I have nothing to deal with compared to your situation. She’s staying with me for a week and is driving me mad right now, and I try to remind myself that one day I will miss even that. She is a bundle of nerves and so over-anxious that it gets harder and harder to reason with her. Hoping to make it to LA for a few days before semester begins, and if I do, I’ll call you so we can aim for visit. Offer to escape all at my house for a weekend still holds.

Love, Susan

Susan tried to arrange for her mother’s care, but her mom was stubborn and did not want to discuss options.

It’s clear she can’t be alone anymore; even she knows that. I flew down last week on rescue mission. She fell last week (no injuries, so we were very lucky) and gave herself a good scare. Now my life is totally absorbed by her. I always knew I would have the stomach for this, but I kept praying I would have enough time and money to have my own life stable so I could more easily take her on. I guess you’re never really ready.

My mother is prone to crumbling at the slightest stress and deeply anxious about things she doesn’t really need to worry about. I can only imagine how much harder it is for you dealing with your mom’s dementia.

Love, Susan

Susan occasionally mentioned Liz. I stayed with Liz when I attended Susan’s memorial service this past week. I had never met Liz before, but knew her mother well.

I am making a mental note to phone Liz today. Her mom is in a board and care, fairly advanced in dementia, and she is all alone in having to deal with her up here. My mom is so depressed at all of it. Every time I think I’m just going to scream in frustration at some nonsense my mom is babbling, I think about what it must be like to see all your dear friends in one state of decline or another, and my heart breaks for her.

They say this generation of kids will live well past 100. Given what we’re seeing of our parents old age, that doesn’t seem like any kind of blessing! Sorry to be a downer here. Promise to buck up and perk up before we talk.

Love, Susan

Eventually, Susan brought her mother up north to live with her. It was a very big step.

We are good up here. Cramped, but sane, and I’m determined to spend as much quality time with my mom as I can. It’s hard to get her out of the house – she tires easily – but she is still very sharp and fit enough to do at least some walking outside each day. I’m a terrible correspondent, but I do appreciate hearing about what’s going on with you.

Live in the moment. Make memories of them with your kids. I’m slowly beginning to understand that I don’t have to feel guilty or even respond every time my mom complains about something. I’m learning to just say, “I’m so sorry mom, that must be hard for you. It will be alright.”

Love, Susan

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The last time I saw Susan was when she brought her mother on a 400-mile trip to see my mother.

Eventually my messages from Susan began to dwindle. But her caring always shining through and she always diminished her own problems by saying they were far less than my own.

Hi Judy,

My head is spinning just trying to keep up with all you manage to do in a day. It is so sad to hear about your Mom and Dad – and so amazing to hear how you have come through it. I’m glad you have your music, your soon to be book and always your huge, generous spirit and sense of humor. Hope you are as proud of yourself as I am of you. From what you’ve described, it sounds like there are moments of extraordinary beauty and sweetness amid all the misery, and thank God you have the heart to appreciate them. I’ve been preparing my mom for losing her dear friends but sparing her the details.

Susan’s brother moved in with her. He was out of work and down; Susan mentioned how worried she was about him. It turned out that he became the caregiver for their mother – something she never mentioned to me.

Hi Judy! I haven’t had much time to write. It is hard, hard, hard having mom and brother in this tiny house. We are fine, we are managing, but it takes all my emotional strength. I’m so sad to read your email. I now know much more intimately what you must be going through, and based on my experiences with my Mom.

Although I often didn’t hear from Susan for months at a time, she was very comforting to me when my parents were dying.

I hope your Dad’s suffering is over soon so that you can give some needed time to taking care of you. Dare I ask how your husband and the kids are coping? Please tell me they are supporting you and making your burden a little lighter.

I’m glad you and your dad have your music as comfort, but I hope you are not keeping this vigil all by yourself. I’m thinking about you both and sending love. Love, Susan

Gradually, I lost touch with Susan. I was caught up in my separation and divorce, as well as my cataract and subsequent eye problems. I always sent her general updates and shared other parts of my life with her. Susan occasionally wrote a brief message and still extended her offer for me to visit. How I wish I had!

Hi there. Sorry to be away from email for so long – managing mom is becoming a full-time job. (You’ve been there, and then some, so I won’t elaborate). Hope you will be able to go away for at least a few days this summer, perhaps on your own. Sending you big hug, happy energy, and wishes for better times to come. You deserve them. Much love, Susan

Susan might have called me her “canary in a coalmine.” It eventually became true when she entered her own dark tunnel as she dealt with her mother’s care.

Judy, you have been on my mind for weeks. So sorry not to have written for eyes, birthday, and of course your move today, which I hope went well. Things have been awful up here – mom was rushed to emergency room two weeks ago with what turned out to be a bad case of pneumonia. She was intubated for about a week, then extubated, then moved to a great rehab facility. She has recovered from the pneumonia, but seems to have lost her mind in the process. It’s a very tough time, and the doctors want to send her home since she refuses to cooperate with any of the therapists. She won’t talk, thinks the docs are trying to kill her and is refusing food. We need a Miriam. Both my brother and I are exhausted, and life goes on.

Only a few months later, Susan wrote:

January 2013

Oh, Judy. I think of you all the time, feel horribly guilty for being so out of touch, and truthfully, have just been too busy coping with my own situation to make room for my friends who obviously have situations of their own. Please do follow Sam’s advice on the eyes. You can’t afford to have them operating sub-par.

Things here have been very difficult. Mom has fully recovered from the pneumonia of a few months ago, but now has cognitive deficiencies. She is still very much a presence in our lives. My own health is a worry – I’ve done something to my back. As I say, it’s been a challenging time. We are strong. We will get through this, too. Please take care. I love you and send a big, electronic hug. This too shall pass, right? Love, Susan

May 2013

Dear Judy – I’ve got five minutes before I go back to mom-care and student edits to say hello, hope eyes finally improving (can’t believe what you’ve been through for what is supposed to be simple operation!) and that I’m crossing fingers on peaceful, financially viable finalization of the divorce. WHAT A YEAR FOR YOU! As always I marvel at your strength and good humor, and it is so good to hear how well the kids are doing. You should be very proud, and if your mom could understand, she would be very proud of you.

My mom is in and out of dementia (actually, I guess that’s the definition of dementia) We are dealing with her delusions and hallucinations, which is very hard, especially at night when she wakes us up with them. Some moments are still very good and clear, and I try to treasure those.

Things will be a little calmer when semester ends, though more time at home with Mom will probably dement me. We’ve got some good hourly helpers, but it’s very expensive. At any rate, I’ll try to be a better correspondent. I promise! Please take care of yourself. Much love, Susan

Before Susan died, I had two last messages from her. One alluded to her being ill, but I thought she had the flu. Her last message was to offer condolences to me after my mother died.

Even if Susan didn’t write to me, I continued to send her shared messages and updates about my life. The day before I saw her obituary, I had sent her a message. It never entered my mind that she was dying. I thought she was busy teaching and dealing with her mother’s care.

October 2013

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Hi Jude – I’m here watching with you. Been very ill myself – details when I’m stronger. My mom is as healthy as a horse, but dementing rapidly, though some days she’s incredibly clear.

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Sending love and peaceful thoughts to you and your brothers. Your mom couldn’t have asked for a more faithful guardian of her wishes. Jude, my brother, mom and I send our love and tears and look forward to a time when we can share some wonderful memories of both your mom and dad. Don’t forget to take care of yourself. Love, Susan

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Tagged acceptance of loss, Aging Parents, Beginning a blog, blogger, blogging, breast cancer, burden of caregiving, Caregiving, caregiving responsibilities, childhood friendship, coping with grief, death, death of a close friend, death of a friend, dementia, friend's support, Friendship, friendship and loss, grief, GRIEF RELATED, I'm Taking Off, inspiration, loss, loss of a good friend, mother, mother daughter relationship, mother's illness, siblings and caregiving, Susan Rasky, Susan Rasky's memorial at UC Berkeley, therapeutic writing, writing | 6 Comments

HOW WE DON’T CARE – PART 2

Posted on February 17, 2014 by Judy

Story behind HOW WE DON’T CARE-PART 1

Click the blue links below to play audio:

HOW WE DON’T CARE INSTRUMENTAL

HOW WE DON'T CARE

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HOW WE DON’T CARE

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What’s new with you?

It’s been awhile since you’ve told me

I have nothing left to say

It might be too late to give it a try

‘cause now you can’t look me in the eye

I’m doing fine although I’m smiling

Inside it isn’t quite the same

I can’t take much more of hiding these tears

it seems my disguise is not what it appears

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We try to show how we don’t care

How we don’t feel, how we don’t share

And it’s really nothing new

It just gets harder every time to say I love you

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Sometimes I feel like this time it’s over

Will this be just a passing storm?

Somehow I wonder if after the rain

can our love survive this pain?

So what’s on your mind?

Will you cry when you leave me?

Or is it that I’m just crying alone?

I thought that our love I could always count on

Did we wake up to find that love has gone?

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We try to show how we don’t care

How we don’t feel, how we don’t share

And it’s really nothing new

It just gets harder every time to say I love you

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A picture from my younger days – I was about 13 years old in this one.

When I wrote my song “How We Don’t Care,” at the age of 19, I had no idea that the charade of pretending not to be hurt would become a theme that followed me later in my life.

I spent a lot of my youth chasing friendship and suffering because of it. My insecurities and high expectations taught me my first lessons about loss and disappointment in life.

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A picture from my younger days – I was about 13 years old in this one.

Hiding my hurt feelings began in high school. I had become close with a friend unlike any other. I adored her and when she hurt me, I was devastated. It seems trite now, but for many months I openly wept and suffered greatly.

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It wasn’t until three years later when I was 18 that I allowed myself to open up again. I was elated when I became close to my friend, Cheryl. But then I felt hurt by her, and that familiar feeling I had in high school returned.

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Because I want my story to be complete, I’ve decided to share a portion of my cassette recording of this song from 1980. My younger voice sounds like someone else. I find it beautiful that this haunting song waited for me so I could sing it again 34 years later.

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Click the blue link to hear a recording of this song when I was 20:

HOW WE DON’T CARE – Cassette Recording from 1980 by Judy Unger–

I wrote my song “How We Don’t Care,” as I struggled to deal with the ups and downs in our friendship. Although we tried to mend things, we were never as close. Eventually, we drifted apart completely once we were both married. After Cheryl moved away with her husband, we didn’t speak for years.

I did reconnect with Cheryl after our many years of silence. I never had the courage to mention our rift. It would have been helpful perhaps to hear Cheryl’s perspective about why our friendship disintegrated. But in 2008, Cheryl died from breast cancer. I miss her so very much and treasure the beautiful memories I had with her.

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Judy & Cheryl camping

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When I began my re-learning my songs in 2010, “How We Don’t Care.” was one of the first songs I was excited to record. I absolutely loved the chords and melody. The verse and chorus had two distinctly different rhythms. Of all of my song compositions, it was one of my favorites.

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Below is a link to my first story about this song when I recorded it four years ago:

#48 HOW WE DON’T CARE

My song “How We Don’t Care” touches my heart even more deeply as an adult woman. I know it is because I hid my feelings for decades during my marriage.

The “disguise” on my part and the lack of eye contact on his part, left our relationship permanently scarred.

I was emotionally separate and distant. I lowered my expectations and shoved away my hurt feelings to avoid conflict; he did, too. The walls that we both put up were an impediment to intimacy. For me, every hurt led to thicker and thicker scar tissue, and I became more and more numb.

The difference between my song and my marriage was even sadder.

When I wrote my song as a young girl, I actually still cared despite my hurt feelings. But the contrast in my marriage was that after years and years of numbness, I eventually convinced myself that I really didn’t care!

I decided I didn’t need intimacy. I didn’t feel I deserved anything better. I was so determined to accept my situation that I refused to allow for any feelings at all. I focused all the love in my heart upon my children. And my parents also alleviated my emptiness with their attentive love and support.

I had children with challenges and the security of marriage was the only way I could cope. I felt there was no other choice.

My song triggers a lot of heartache for me. As I grieve the end of my marriage, I remember a young girl and boy who were once so much in love. I cry for both of them: The lonely girl, who became a broken woman and the angry boy who grew up into a very unhappy man. The broken woman took a chance at restoring her soul.

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She grieves for the unhappy man. He was faithful. After many miserable years of work and constant stress when he came home, now he is truly alone.

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This picture is from my happier days as a young girl on vacation with my parents.

It was my music and songs that caused my heart to stir again with feeling. And when my parents faded from my life, I did not want to accept numbness anymore. My children did not require, nor benefit from my constant devotion either.

My true feelings were terrifying at first.

There were so many things I was angry about. Even though he never told me or admitted it, my husband was angry, too. He simply suppressed his anger by being very dismissive and cold. Our marriage had weathered many challenges and the truth was that I was separate from him and had no desire to reconnect.

Even though marriage offered security, I didn’t want to live with someone I disliked anymore.

It was the discovery of my self-worth that gave me the courage to change my life.

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