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From Minnesota to Milan: Our Italian Holiday Adventure Begins!
When my Sicilian daughter-in-law Lisa asked us to meet her family over Christmas in her hometown, we jumped at the idea of Christmas in Italy. This wouldn’t be our first time spending the holiday in Sicily, but this one would be decidedly different, as the last time was in 2021 when Rich was segueing from a walker to a wheelchair. It was a bittersweet time, and we knew his ALS was cementing this as our last family trip. We did all we could that trip, but there is only so much you can do in towns built of stone and marble thousands of years ago when wrestling with mobility issues.
So this time would be different. I knew we would think about him a lot, but I also knew that this trip was, like so much of this past year, a turning point for the family.
We didn’t fly straight to Sicily, because, frankly, the airlines make that difficult (and expensive). So we needed to pick another city to fly in and out of, one which was easy to use as our “middleman” for the jaunt to Catania, the main airport in Sicily. We chose Milan, a city we’d not yet experienced, and one known as perhaps the most “Christmassy” of the Italian cities.
As always, I like to fly overnight to Europe, and we arrived at 945 am Italian time (245am back home in Minnesota). We had napped a bit on the plane, but it’s never quite enough. Nevertheless, the gal s always to stay up until 10pm. Boy did we surpass that…
We headed to our hotel, The Street Milan Duomo. One of the reasons I picked this particular hotel was because I could use my Chase Ultimate Reward points. Reviews and location were the other main criteria. I would absolutely stay here again! The staff was amazing. They utilized WhatsApp to communicate, checking in with me before and during the trip, asking what I needed, and how things were going, offering suggestions, and just generally being friendly and helpful. They even reached out after we checked out to wish us a Buon Natale!
The location, as I mentioned, was great. We were less than a minute’s walk from the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II, a very upscale shopping mall that is equal parts fashion mecca and Instagram hotspot, and the starting point for almost all of our walking expeditions.
It’s shaped oddly like a cross, with four open-ended wings meeting under a grand cupola, almost like a house of worship for the beautiful people frequenting it. Fashion models were everywhere, and everyone looked their best as they walked by windows for the likes of Prada, Louis Vuitton, Ferrari, and Chanel.
The Galleria was created to be a promenade, and Google Maps sent us through it on almost every adventure. Our first stop was a visit to the Duomo di Milano, set up by Amira, one of the outstanding staff at our hotel. As my kids will tell you, I cannot resist a good church. For me, it has little to do with religion — or, at least, my own. To me, old churches are art, architecture, history, and sociology, all rolled into one. I like to imagine the people who built it, worshipped in it, the politics that created them, the familial dynasties, minor and major, created and destroyed within the walls.
One of the things that sets the Milan Duomo apart from others I have visited is you actually get to walk on the roof. It truly is the best viewpoint of Milan. Purportedly this is the best place in the city to catch a sunset, but it was a drizzly day, so we weren’t treated with that experience. In fact, when we descended, they were stopping tours as the temperature was dropping so they worried the roof would become too slippery. I will visit again on a future trip and try to catch the sunset!
On the inside we were privy to a special treat: that night was the annual Christmas concert, so the choir and musicians were rehearsing. Hearing that kind of music, in that kind of setting, is a soul-stroking experience.
Visually, my favorite thing was the unique stained glass. Each brilliantly colored panel contained its own intricate story, as they were collectively intended to be an entire bible for those who could not read. We later learned (on a food tour, no less!) that the windows were colored with saffron!
Speaking of saffron; we were hungry. I did a ton of research (as I do for every trip), but I let the girl take the reins for this first meal. She knew my basic rules: never go to a restaurant with staff outside beckoning business off the street, never go to one with big laminated picture menus outside, and always try to go a few streets away from a major tourist attraction. We tried that and found a cute place, but alas, the food was not all that great (risotto in a taco shell?).
But it took the edge off our hangries, and fueled us for more sightseeing before it was time to prepare for our last stay-awake push.
We had already asked the hotel staff to make us dinner reservations at a restaurant they recommended, so we walked around as long as we could before we stumbled our travel-weary brains and bodies back to our rooms. We unpacked and organized, then allowed ourselves a one-hour lay down before heading out for our 8pm dinner at DVCA.
The place was stunning, and we were the only English speakers in the room — always a positive sign when traveling to a different country. It felt heavenly to sit and relax over our wine and food. I can still taste that duck and those artichokes…
After dinner I was determined to find a bar I’d read about, so we braved the drizzly weather and marched on, enjoying the almost deserted streets (the people of Milan were much more concerned about the 45-degree temps than we were).
We arrived in Chinatown, the neighborhood home of La Chiesetta (“Little Church”), the bar we sought. “Little Church” is a deconsecrated, 18th-century Gothic church. It is a tiny bar, but it is big on character. To that point, we ordered absinthe-flavored cocktails, and enjoyed next to a gin-bottle Christmas tree, while we admired the sinning disco-ball cross overhead.
Actually, I should say, I enjoyed the absinthe drinks. Frankie did not. She handed me hers and ordered something else. I took one for the team (I actually liked the licorice taste), as we soaked up the atmosphere (oh — and the staff and guests are super cool and welcoming. Go here for sure!), before agreeing that, at 1145pm, we had beaten the “stay awake until 10pm” goal and decided to head back to the hotel.
However…
On the way home, we passed a karaoke bar.
We stopped in and made new friends. They were celebrating a birthday and invited us to join them. Bottles were popped, fireworks candles were lit, and Frankie was asked to sing.
The next thing we knew, we were leaving them behind, protesting our “early” departure, and we were meandering through the streets of Milan, looking for dogs to pet on our way back to our now longed-for beds.
Lights out? 4am. Overachievers!
FYI Apple watch totals for the day: walked 15, 949 steps or 6.18 miles and 11 flights of stairs.
There was no sleeping late the next morning, as we had 11am tour tickets to honor. The hotel’s breakfast service was unique to us: you ordered it the night before, just like room service, but you could have it delivered or eat it in the rooftop cafe, which is what we chose. So glad we did! The view was stunning: as you gazed over the tiled rooftops, glowing in the morning sun, the Alps were beautifully framed by the surrounding buildings. It made the prosciutto, cheese, croissants, and apricot juice (my new obsession) even more delicious!
Well-fueled, we laced our shoes for another full-footed day and headed west towards the Basilica of Santa Maria delle Grazie. A stunning church in its own right, this convent for Dominican friars, founded in the 15th century, is the home of Leonardo DaVinci’s Last Supper. While we awaited our designated entry time, we explored the Basilica. The first thing that impressed me, oddly, was the beautiful offering candles. Usually, they are in just one color of glass, but these were in a variety that made me think of the Duomo’s brilliant stained glass, and I was captivated. Odd that such a simple touch would draw me in, but it did.
The walls were adorned with stunning frescoes that were almost like appetizers for the main course (yes, I know — pardon the pun). This is a neighborhood church, and the locals were worshipping around us. Every time I am lucky enough to visit Europe, I am awed by the (luck) these people have that these are the places in which they get to worship. I am not a religious person by any means, but I find these ancient places more moving and spiritual, perhaps because they are inhabited by centuries of human stories.
One story we learned that made even a non-believer pause was about the Last Supper. In 1943, the Allies bombed Milan heavily to force an Italian surrender. A bomb landed 80 feet away from the fresco. The church was heavily damaged, and walls around the mural collapsed, but the wall remained standing. Dust covered, but intact. A miracle?
After our visit, we retraced our steps. We had rushed to make our tour, regretfully not being able to linger at the beautiful and intriguing shop windows we had passed. Now, we wanted to rectify that!
Milan is known as a fashion capital, and with good reason. It is also just a cool place to shop in general. Everywhere we saw holiday decorations and Christmas foodstuffs like the famous Italian Panettone cake. We stopped into hotel lobbies and restaurants, gift shops, clothing, and home goods stores. I even found an FAO Schwartz store, something I hadn’t seen in years, which was very fun. On our way back to the hotel we were able to spend some sun-filled time in the plaza by the Duomo, as opposed to the previous day’s grey and wet excursion.
After some downtime and regrouping at the hotel, we headed south to a new neighborhood, the Navigli.
This lively neighborhood features some of Milan’s canals. Milan was once known as a city of water, with miles of canals (Navigli) connecting the land-locked city to major rivers to increase and encourage trade. Now only the ones in the Navigli district remain above ground, and restaurants, bars, music venues, and shops line their banks.
We were in the area for a food tour (which is always a good idea when you visit a new city or country!). After much back-and-forth research, I settled on the Eating Milan: Navigli Food & Drinks Tour. The link I posted will take you to the Trip Advisor site, where you will also find my review. This was a great tour! Giuseppe, our host, married the history of the city and its food with a great overview of some of the culture’s cuisine highlights. Our group of six in particular swooned over the carpaccio at Chunk, and it is very high on my list of places to eat next time I am in town! And, as one who doesn’t really like Tiramisu (I know, I know), the reconstructed version at Mascherpa just may have converted me.
After the tour ended, our new friends Sam and Donny from Ohio joined us on our walk back to the city center, where we decided to have drinks at Savini Milano 1867 in the Galleria. I’d honestly been so enamored of the floral patterned suits the servers wore that I couldn’t wait to get in there! The first bartender we met didn’t speak English, so that was interesting. We tried to make it work with my piddling 8th grade French, and Frankie’s pretty good Spanish, but cocktail selections were definitely getting lost in translation (although he and I understood each other perfectly when I said champagne!). Another server was called, and we got down to business.
It was a great end to a really fun day, except for one curious thing. We had already run across this in another restaurant and quickly discovered the odd music choices were not isolated to that one place. Evidently, the Milanese had a quirky love of taking American music and making very weird, and not necessarily good, covers of them. Case in point: a not-great female jazz singer doing a loungy rendition of the Red Hot Chili Peppers “Californication.”
Maybe not the best musical styling I’ve ever heard, but it made for a fun memory!
Today’s totals: 32,116 steps or 12.62 miles walked and 12 flights of stairs climbed.
Father’s Day With No Fathers
Today is Father’s Day, and it is the first time in my life I don’t have a dad to celebrate.
Yes, I see all you men out there who I know, saying: you can buy me golf clubs, or cook me a steak, or let me sleep in. But you KNOW it’s not the same.
My dad died in 2021, right about the time we were realizing something was really wrong with Rich. He had had Alzheimer’s for a decade, so we lost him by degrees. I honestly feel like I stopped having a dad about 5 years before he passed. I had a father, but not a dad, you know? He wasn’t the same smiley guy who always looked me in the eye when he asked how I was. Wayne Rice was a warm, passionate, friendly man who loved travel, hosting parties, coaching and playing sports, and had friends everywhere. Like many of you, my memories of him are countless.
Dad was self-employed, so he pretty much set his own schedule. That meant he came home in the later afternoon from work, and was thus able (and willing) to attend every parent-teacher conference, to coach our sports, to join us at the dinner table. He always got up way too early — like by 5am, and then he went to work out (always in full sweats, and graciously deposited those wet smelly clothes in the laundry room sink upon his return home, much to y mom’s dismay). Because he was such an early riser, he always fell asleep in his lazy boy while watching TV. He insisted he was never asleep. We would call his name, and he would open his eyes with a big smile. “I’m awake! Just resting my eyes!” Yeah, right.
As I said, dad was our coach for soccer and baseball, and played both sports as well. My folks had us pretty young, so they not only kept up with us, they did things with us. Dad and Mom learned to both water ski and snow ski as adults, and we were there for the ride, often whether we liked it or not. Like when he made us ski from the the top of the bowl at Alpine Meadows (even though the chair lift operators said the windchill was dangerous), and making us go down, against the wind, tears streaming down our faces. Then there was the time he taught us to waterski in Lake Tahoe. He couldn’t understand why we complained about the frigid water — mainly because he had a wetsuit and we didn’t.
Dad was hardly mean; he just thought everything was fun, and was baffled when we didn’t. He did Indian Guides with my brother and Indian Princesses with me. Super fun experiences (I was Little Bear to his Big Bear), usually. When we went away for an Indian Princesses retreat in the Santa Cruz mountains, he again thought I should enjoy something more than I did: the polar bear plunge. Now, as a Minnesotan for more than 25 years, I know that by Midwest standards, the water wasn’t really freezing. But for a me, being forced to jump into that unheated mountain pool and swim, I thought I would die. Payback for dad came a few days later. On the last day of the retreat, we had a cookout, and the dads were really not paying attention. They were kind of over the nonstop parenting. Dad let me eat as many of those little ice cream cups with the wooden spoons (can’t you taste that splintery wood now?) as I wanted. Flash forward a few hours on the drive home — the windy drive home. I told him I didn’t feel well. He didn’t believe me. I threw up all over the back of his neck.
Good times.
I may have gotten my love of good times, and good people, from Dad. He and Mom socialized all the time, and he chatted with everyone. Their 4th of July parties were epic, and surely the inspiration for my annual Spooktacular. Dad loved a good costume — I’ll never forget the time he used Vaseline to slick his hair back for a 50s costume. Mom had to wash his hair three times with Pine Sol. Dad wasn’t exactly known for his good hair, as he had a legendary comb over for decades. Watching it fly in the wind, straight up, as he drove our boat, was always a good laugh.
I remember the day he surprised us with our first puppy, hiding Tuffy in his shirt while my brother Trevor and I sat unawares in our pjs, watching the Hardy Boys. I don’t know how he convinced Mom to get a dog, but it changed all of our lives forever.
Dad had a sweet habit of always checking on me before he went to bed, tucking me in no matter how old I was. I’m sure as a teen I rolled my eyes, but I remember those moments so vividly now, and treasure them.
Rich as a dad had big shoes to fill. Since my dad had always been present and involved, that was what I expected of my children’s father. I chose well. Rich loved hanging with kids, acting the fool and playing whatever game they wanted. He was never one to stand on the sidelines — unless they were the sidelines of a sports field. But even then he pitched in. I giggled when he volunteered to coach a soccer team one year, since he really had no idea what he was doing. But he had fun, and so did the kids.
It took him a minute to decide he was ready to have kids. I was ready almost immediately after we got married, as I wanted to be the kind of young, active parent I had had. But it took Rich’s looming 30th birthday to convince him it was time, and he never looked back, even if he sometimes infuriated me.
When I was pregnant with Carter our first, I had preeclampsia. It was clear I would not make it to full term. Or, I should say, it was clear to everyone but Rich. We lived in Ohio at the time, but Rich periodically had to fly up to Minnesota for work. When I was 37 weeks along, he had one of those trips. I told him he shouldn’t go, but he looked at me like I was nuts, insisting that I wasn’t due for 3 weeks, so he was fine.
You know where this is going.
At my 38 week check up, my blood pressure was too high. My doctor said to get it checked again in a couple days but to do it at the hospital in case they needed to induce. I called Rich and told him he should come home early. He poo-pooed me again. The night before I went in, I started having clear signs of early labor, and I called him again, asking him to come home. He grumbled, because of course his meetings weren’t done, but grudgingly agreed. In the morning I drove myself and my packed suitcase to the hospital, where they confirmed that I wouldn’t be going home. This was before cell phones, so I couldn’t contact him to see where he was. Hours went by with no word. By the afternoon, the doctor said they couldn’t wait much longer to get things moving, but I begged. Surely Rich was rushing as fast as he could?
When he finally sauntered into the room, I was so stressed out. I asked what took so long?
“The flight was overbooked and they needed volunteers.”
Wait. He gave up his seat? While his wife was in labor?
He never understood why this bothered me. In his opinion, he made it before the birth, so that’s all that mattered, right?
The second time we were in a labor and delivery room was a completely different occasion. We were about 16 weeks along with our second pregnancy, and the baby had passed away. I had to be induced to deliver the baby. We were broken, just devastated. But this time Rich was there 100%. I had called him from my appointment, sobbing, and he left work and came home. Our time in that darkened, far too quiet room was wrenching. Rich was so focused on me, and getting me through it. He put his own grieving on the back burner. But when he got to hold that baby and say goodbye, I saw the love he would have had for her, and saw in his eyes the death of dreams.
Luckily he got another chance, and just under a year later we were back. This was a normal delivery, albeit very fast. This time, he was more concerned about getting a nap, because my body had had the audacity to start the process after his bedtime. When I woke him to tell him to go get the nurse, he tried to convince me I was overreacting, and that I couldn’t possibly be ready yet. I looked him in the eye and said “Fine, but if I’m right and you’re wrong, you better be ready to catch.” He wasn’t interested in being that much of a hands-on dad, so he got the nurse, and just in time.
Rich worked hard to make sure the kids and I had everything we needed, but his commitment didn’t stop with the financial. He was eager to share in their experiences. He was so happy to impart his love of the water with the kids, excitedly introducing them to snorkeling and scuba diving. Since he could hold his breath for weirdly long amounts of time underwater, he was well known for sneaking up on kids while swimming, pulling them under for “deep shark rolls” or “alligator death rolls.”
He found many ways to bond with the kids, like playing tennis and going running with Frankie, or playing Pretty Pretty Princess. He would paint her nails and braid her hair, and he treasured her.
His time with Carter often centered around a funny bravado. I remember one of Carter’s birthday parties, where Rich’s sole duty was manning the pinata. I told him to find a good place to hang it, and he assured me he had it covered. He took the kids outside, while I stayed in to get organized for cake. I heard cheers and squeals, and went out to investigate. First thing I noticed was the neighbors watching. Curious, I rounded the house to the driveway where the kids were gathered. I followed their eyes: Rich was standing on the roof, having climbed through Carter’s window. Balancing precariously on the edge of the roof, he dangled the pinata while they swung at it wildly. I did not approve. Once again, my charming husband left me flabbergasted, and once again he was puzzled at why I was so freaked out.
Like many a good dad, he participated in things that really brought him little joy, just to make the kids happy. One time Carter and his buddies wanted to go to a Monster Truck rally, and Rich took them all. He hated the noise, and was never a fan of driving anywhere. He of course got lost on the way home, but the kids had a ball. When Frankie and then Carter joined School of Rock, we spent many a weekend on loud clubs listening to music he would never have chosen. He had terrible tinnitus, but he came to every concert. He was so proud — even if he was miserable afterwards.
We took so many trips, and while he may have grumbled a bit, he was always a willing participant. A favorite travel memory of mine was a trip to Italy. We came across an ancient site where chariots used to race in Rome, and Carter and Rich decided to race each other. Frankie and I cheered them on as they raced around the oval, and then we laughed as they both lay gasping for breath at the end. I don’t remember who won the race, but we all won the day.
He taught the kids how to make tamales and tortillas.
When the kids moved away for college or the Navy, he called them often, checking in. He helped Carter understand the world of investing, and I know how proud he was when Carter would tell him of the financial decisions he was making.
When we had to tell the kids about his ALS, he was so worried about how to do it. He wanted to make sure they would be ok. One of his biggest fears was that his disease would be genetic, and that he had passed it along to them. Thankfully, it was not.
Watching my kids say goodbye to their dad was incredibly hard. In a way, it took me back to watching him say goodbye to the baby we lost, but the tables were turned. Carter had to say his goodbyes in the Covid ward, while Frankie had to do it before hopping in a car and driving back to Michigan. They sobbed, and all I could do was hold them. And all I could do for him was hold him.
My brother reached out a few hours ago, asking me how I was doing today. I am okay. I purposefully stayed home today, as I really didn’t want to see happy families celebrating. While I can no longer celebrate with my dad or my children’s dad, I will celebrate forever the time I had with these amazing men.
I miss them both every day.
How To Celebrate a Life
Rich wasn’t a funeral kinda guy. Which is good, because I’m not a funeral kind of gal. But I knew when he was diagnosed that there would only be one outcome, and so I started brainstorming.
How could I celebrate everything I loved about Rich, an everything that everyone else loved about him, and keep it light?
When I think of a funeral, I think sad, somber and all in black. I knew we couldn’t avoid moments of sadness, but the other two I could definitely tackle!
First an interjection: if you attended the event, thank you! This may seem redundant to you — although many people told me later they missed things, so maybe you will learn something new! Plus at the end of this post I have a link to the video tributes, which you might find interesting. A lot of this is geared towards people who may be in a similar planning situation. A lot of people have asked me how I did the party. Hopefully someone can glean some suggestions that might make their own event easier to plan.
My first task was choosing when we would have the party. I needed time to get organized and plan, plus I needed it to be when both the ids could attend, which meant December. We chose the date based on Sailor Boy’s schedule. The Navy allows holiday leave to either start or end on December 28th, so we ether had to do it the week of Christmas or the week after. For many reasons we knew Christmas week was a bad choice. And we had to do the Thursday, because Friday and Saturday were too pricey, and Monday was New Year’s Day, and Singer Girl had to go back to school on the 2nd. So December 29th was the only fit. Mind you, I was more worried about my boy making it on time than anything else: his flights from overseas finally had him arriving mere hours before the party!
Date selected, we moved to the venue. I needed a place that could hold a lot of people, and was easy for people to get to. Ultimately we probably had almost 350 guests, and the venue we chose, the Metropolitan Ballroom, was a great fit. Light and bright, with lots of levels and nooks and crannies to space things out and create pockets of fun. I also liked that it was easily accessible by freeway (and lots of free parking!). We accessorized the very stylish room with our own touches. I’ll talk more about that later. As for sustenance, I tried to keep things like Rich would’ve liked. TBH, when we discussed what he would like to see, he wanted it to be in our front yard with food trucks supplying burgers and brats. Since we were doing this in December, that wasn’t going to work (plus, I really didn’t want 350 people using my bathroom). So there were sliders, and tater tots, and Vegas themed desserts, among other options. Oh and the bar was a cash one, as I knew these people. If I paid for all their liquor, I’d have been washing dishes for weeks. However, we did have a specialty drink feature: the RT G & T: Bombay Sapphire, tonic, and a badly cut lime. If you know, you know.
During the course of Rich’s illness, I learned many things about my husband, even though I had known him for almost 40 years. Primarily, I learned about who he was a work — a mentor, friend, leader, coach, resource. I learned from his coworkers that he was known for “Richisms,” little nuggets of one-liner wisdom on subjects as diverse as work, marriage, life and dogs. I typed them up, and scattered them about the room. They were nuggets of gold, and I will be blogging about them later! When learning these things, it dawned on me that we often only know one or two facets of a person. So I set about revealing the many sides of Rich through “stations” set up around the room.
We had a table dedicated to Rich as a family man, with photos and mementos (people loved the wedding album!). I had Sailor Boy and Singer Girl pick their favorite pictures of them with their dad and displayed those prominently.
Folks who knew Rich only as an adult, needed to know his beginnings, so there was a table featuring Rich as a young guy, with baby pictures and prom photos and certificates from his days as an alter boy and newspaper clippings from high school sporting days.
Folks not knowing who he was at work needed to know his passion and commitment there. So there was a work table, featuring a binder with his certificates and awards and even the resume that got him hired at Cargill.
Folks thinking of him as always cool and collected made me want to show off his fun side. There was a table that was just silly, with various desktop toys and knickknacks that revealed the fun-loving guy I was privileged to love. The running table had all his marathon medals, as well as his favorite running t shirt.
We also decided to have a table honoring his brother Tito, who sadly died 7 weeks after Rich (yeah, 2022 was a real winner.) I was glad we are able to do that. Rich’s family created a beautiful photo montage display for that, which I appreciated.
The main rule for the evening: no funereal clothes. Rich was well known for wearing what Singer Girl called his “pimp shirts”: fun garb that bordered on the outright loud and tacky. I encouraged people to dress like they were in Vegas — or like they were Rich in Vegas. The kids and I, as well as other family members and friends, wore some of his wardrobe. For example, I wore his “dogs playing poker” shirt — a classic. I think people had a lot of fun with it, and it meant there were lots of smiles and laughter as different outfits appeared. The place was sparkly and flashy and cheerful!
One thing I knew I did NOT want: photo boards. We’ve all seen them at funerals: fantastic collections of family photos, meant to initiate walks down memory lane. They are great, but often overwhelming. I get that they are the easiest way to share such memories, but since we had time, I wanted to do something a little more. So, I asked a friend to help me make video slideshows (links to the slideshows are posted at the end of this blog post).
I spent weeks collecting, scanning and organizing photos. We had one main montage, that was just pictures of Rich. That played in the background on large video screens throughout the evening. The second show was more curated. Split into 4 parts, each part introduced a speaker. The first section was photos of Rich at work, and led into the speech by one of his former colleagues. Next up was the family section: first, Rich as a brother, uncle, son, etc., then clips of him as a dad. Sailor Boy spoke after that (thankfully he kept it short and irreverent. I was grateful I didn’t have cause to bawl like a baby!). The third section was Rich as a friend. We divided this section into Rich as a friend to many, then Rich as a member of the Unicorn Squad.
The Unicorns are Mike, Erika, Sandi and Kurt, our closest friends. These are our ride or dies, the ones with whom we travel, party, or just hang out. They got on stage collectively, three lining up behind while the fourth was the spokesperson for the group. I loved the symbolism of that. We are a team at all times.
The last slideshow was mine. It was all pictures of Rich and I in all phases of our relationship — from our days in college to our travels and date nights and up until the last. Then I spoke — very briefly. It was just a thank you for coming thing. But it also served one last purpose.
This party had a lot of goals. Obviously, I wanted to honor Rich. But I also wanted to thank everyone who had been there for us through the long days of a very short year. So it had to be fun — upbeat music, colorful clothes, good food, lots of comradery, etc. Originally when I was planning things I wanted there to be craps tables and make it really something we would have loved, but I guess you cant do even non-gambling craps tables in Minnesota (lame). So I had to do the next best thing: puppies.
At the end of my spiel, I revealed that there was a litter of puppies waiting to be cuddled. Surprise! As the Puppy Party Coordinator for Secondhand Hounds here in Minnesota, I felt it was fitting. People loved it (of course). It gave folks another reason to mingle and smile Rich would have approved.
There was one final goal for the evening: I wanted his family, especially his mom, to feel what I had felt for all those wretched months: the outpouring of love and support. When we moved to the Midwest decades ago I never could have known what an amazing world we would create here. People have literally come out of the woodwork to help in ways big and small, and I still get people reching out, asking how they can help.
I am so lucky.
We were so lucky.
A New Chapter
The last time I wrote in this blog, I was married to the love of my life.
Now, I am a widow.
I still wear a ring, but he doesn’t.
My life is a new marriage of sorts. I must weave the before with the after. I sit at his desk, in what was previously his office, dividing my time between reconciling the past and preparing for the future. Simultaneously I must settle his affairs while making sure my own are ready for future days. I spend a little bit of time every day working through legal documents, finagling various types of insurance, and preparing for taxes. I am the chief cook and bottle washer now.
This blog will probably have a haphazard appearance (not that it was very ordered before, TBH), as I strive to cover a varied terrain.
I will write about the last vacation we took before we knew he was sick and talk about my own solo travels. As I write this, I have just arrived from a one week beach vacation where I mourned and healed. In fact, I have several trips coming up this year. Last year we had but one: our last Vegas adventure. I’ll have to write about that, too, I guess. I have a lot of leg stretching to catch up on this year.
I will blog about his celebration of life party, and about the hell of watching someone die by degrees. Of watching the man who used to hold you up become the one you must support. I went from being a friend and a lover to a nursemaid. It sucked, but I am not alone. In fact, I now have 90-some thousand new friends walking my widow journey with me. I decided before he died that I would need a way to keep myself accountable. So I created a TikTok grief journal, and every day I post something. Some days are decidedly more interesting than others. Some posts show me drowning in grief, while others show me making new strokes forward in the ocean of possibilities. I’d love to have you follow me, and help me stay the course!
We’ve all heard that the first year is the hardest, although now I’ve been told it is actually harder in year 2, when the new loss becomes the new normal. But I need to get through year one first, one post at a time.
Grieving is something that takes place on a sliding scale. For me, that process really started October 1, 2021, when we first heard the words “You have ALS.” I can still remember everything about that. I dropped him of at the entry to the University of Minnesota Neurology department, and watched him limp inside, leaning heavily on his late father’s walking stick. I parked the car, then found him. Our roles had already changed. In the waiting room we were both casually terrified, trying not to look outwardly concerned. I think he was more worried than I was, which makes sense. I think he already knew the diagnosis. I was living on edge in the dark, impatiently waiting for someone to tell us he did NOT have that hideous disease, .
Once in the exam room, the doctor had clearly read through the myriad reports from other doctors, and had analyzed the test results. Rich sat on the exam table, while the doctor checked his reflexes. It seemed to take him less than a minute to declare Rich’s death sentence, but I am sure it was longer than that. I was sitting in the spare chair they always have in an exam room. I know it was just maybe 5 feet away, but the doctor’s words sucked all the air out of the room and I felt as unsteady on my feet as Rich had been for months when I lurched up and crossed to the exam table. I put my hand n his shoulder, but that wasn’t enough. I needed more. I pressed up against him, and clutched his leg, trying not to hold too tightly or breathe too loudly. In the few steps it took me to cross that increasingly claustrophobic room, I had a million conversations with myself. I transitioned from panic and sorrow to determination and caring, because that was now my job. I needed to be what he needed, whatever that was, and my own needs had to be put aside.
Now it is time, once again, to tend to my needs.
Slowly, the world we built for two has become a universe of one.
I still make the king sized bed, but only have to wash the pillowcases on one side.
His clothes, now donated, are hopefully bringing someone else a smidge of the confidence he had, and I have started spreading out in the closet, reorganizing my things to suit my new lifestyle.
When Rich was first diagnosed, we had two cars in the garage. Then three, when our daughter came home home for one last summer with her dad. Then two, when we sold his car. Then three again when we bought the wheelchair van. Then two, when she went to school. Then one, when I sold the van. My car now also lives alone.
It seems every week I rearrange a drawer or a closet. I feel like I am marking my territory, by making things work in my new normal. It is also a way of visiting with him on a small scale, as I run across something of his, whether it is a business card or a pair of swim goggles or a tool he never put away in the right place. I fear, and hope, it will be a long time before the last item is discovered. Like an archeologist, I will be unearthing bits of his life for years to come.
And every day, I unearth a bit more of my life. My new life. My widowed life. My rebuilding life. My strong, sad, capable, terrified, hopeful life.
I can do this. With the continued support and help from all of you, I will do this.
Sicily is Not Italy…
If you read my last post, you’ll know that we have some new challenges in our lives. But I’ll be damned if we curl up in a ball and hide from the world.
So, despite HWSNBN’s ALS diagnosis, we set out last month on a long-planned trip to visit Sailor Boy in Italy.
Correction. Sicily.
Wait, you say: isn’t Sicily a part of Italy? Well, yes, politically speaking. And yes, they speak Italian and have phenomenal food and fashion sense, and horrific driving. But we learned quickly that when you are a land that has been around for 10,000 years, it takes more than a measly 162 years to make you really a new identity.
But more on the history lesson later. First, we need to get to Europe.
Months ago, before I knew we would have the ALS to consider, I decided to utilize a travel agent for the first time to get this trip planned. Enter the amazing Amanda from Pique Travel. She had everything planned: hotels, cars, tours and guides, even wheelchairs at every step of the way. We used the app Unmapped to keep tabs of all reservations and tickets, and of course utilized What’sApp to communicate with her and our European contacts.
ALS was our unofficial travel partner all the way through, and he made us nervous. He was always there in the back of our minds, slowing us down, causing anxiety as we worried about how he would try to complicate and crash the party. Thankfully, contrary to popular belief, the world is full of amazing, humans willing to go out of the way to smooth things out for us.
The minute we pulled up at MSP airport (driven by the amazing Abdulla, referred to us by friends Christie and Jim. Let me know if you need his number for your driving needs!), a wonderful airport worker jumped into action. Seeing me wrangling multiple suitcases and Rich trudging along with his walker, he declared: “You need a wheelchair!” We didn’t even get inside to ask at the Delta desk for the one reserved for us. The MSP staff took charge, chauffeuring Rich and helping me get everything to the front of the check in line. (FYI: being physically challenged DOES have its perks: we went to the front of every line in every airport in all three countries, from check in to security to boarding to customs. Nice!). After we were checked in, we were escorted through security (thank you Clear — always worth the subscription fee IMO), then had time to enjoy the PGA Lounge (courtesy of Priority Pass, a great perk we got with the Chase card — thanks for the tip, Thrifty Traveler!). We asked our escort what to do when it was time to head tot eh gate, and she assured me someone would meet us at the lounge, and they did. Our escort was going off duty, but came with a coworker to make sure we were cared for correctly. Wow: mad props.
The flight worried us: HWSNBN can’t move easily or quickly anymore. When he needed to get up to stretch or use the restroom, I walked in front of him, facing him, holding his hands to keep him safe. It felt precarious, and probably disruptive to some (it’s hard to walk steadily on a plane during the best of circumstances), but everyone resected our odd journey. Flight attendants cleared the aisles for us, and constantly asked how they could help. They also, before I could even bring it up, let me know that they had confirmed that a wheelchair would be waiting for us at the gate.
Classy, professional, caring. Thank you, Delta!
We arrived in Amsterdam unscathed, but tired. Normally I schedule flights to Europe for late in the evening, but this one was an afternoon flight. There aren’t a ton of flights daily to Catania, and we were also coordinating with Singer Girl, who was flying n from Detroit. Our flight landed a couple hours before hers, and we went to the transfer station to make sure we were all set for the next flight. The lovely woman at the KLM desk realized our luggage was not checked all the way through, so quickly fixed that — and told us to come straight to her desk when our daughter arrived so she could personally make sure hers was set as well. When we di that, the woman immediately recognized me and said “Catania!” I mean, how many travelers had she helped in the past two hours, but she still remembered us and our destination. I know I am pretty memorable, but wow: again we were impressed.
The flight was also uneventful, and we were treated with views of Mount Etna, quietly exhaling her volcanic breath as we approached.
Once again, a wheelchair was waiting for us. Unfortunately, our luggage was not. Somehow all the good efforts of the KLM transfer desk agent were in vain. I felt a bit like Etna as I dealt with the situation as best I could: breathing deeply to let off steam so I didn’t blow my top. I know HWSNBN was frustrated that he couldn’t really help. Singer Girl went out to greet our driver, Stefano, and fill him in on the delay. We had no idea where our nags were or when they would arrive, given the afore-mentioned lack of Catania flights. But we finalized the paperwork, loaded ourselves into the van, and headed, finally, to the hotel.
Sailor Boy was meeting us for dinner, and bringing along his darling Sicilian girlfriend who we had of course not yet met. I informed him of the AWOL luggage, and he assured me our hotel was in a prime shopping district. Once HWSNBN was safely ensconced and napping at the hotel, Singer Girl and I ventured out to get supplies for the next two days. I typically don’t visit any stores or restaurants on vacation that I can visit at home, but desperate times call for desperate measure, and there were an H & M and a Sephora on the same block, so off we went. We purchased some basics for all 3 of us, and headed back to quickly do what we could to tidy up before dinner.
We were staying at the Hotel Una Palace in the heart of historic Catania.
We had a small suite: spacious bedroom, bathroom, large walk through closet and small sitting area with couch. It was just the right size for spreading out and wheeling about a walker and wheelchair. The hotel had an elevator, which theoretically made it accessible for those with mobility issues, but man those European shower/tub combos are a bear when someone is unsteady on their feet and can’t easily bend their legs! But we managed!
We supposedly had reservations at the stunning rooftop restaurant, Etnea. However, when Sailor Boy and the Lovely Lisa checked in for us, the restaurant couldn’t find our reservation. Exasperated, I sent them Sailor Boy the confirmation email. He texted me shortly afterwards.
“HAHAHA. Mom. That’s in Turin. I don’t think we can make that reservation, it’s a good 3 hour flight.”
Well. Dammit.
They were able to fit us in — although an hour later than we planned, because Sicilian restaurants rarely open for dinner before 8pm. So we made do with snacks and the best damn tasting cocktail I have ever freaking had. Dinner was great. We all laughed, and were so happy to finally be together. Lovely Lisa was as charming as Sailor Boy is goofy. She was nervous meeting us, which is silly, but I understood. She hit it off (I think!) with all of us.
After dinner, it was more than time for bed. HWSNBN and I crashed at the hotel, while Singer Girl was staying at her brother’s apartment. We said goodnight, eager to see each other again in the morning to begin our Sicilian experience in earnest (and in newly purchased clothing…but I digress…).
HOtels in Europe do the free breakfast thing waaaay better in the states. I popped down in the AM and brought up a plate for HWSNBN. Here’s a really underwhelming pic of the buffet, which had cakes, pastries, meats, cheeses, fruits, veg and more.
After breakfast, we met Mario, who was to be our guide (and friend) for the next few days. We were doing a walking tour of Catania. We met the kids at a café, where Mario plied them with espresso and arancini, the amazing fried rice balls native to the area, as they had not been privy to the luxurious hotel fare. Fortified, we set off.
So about that history lesson! Sicily has been inhabited for 10,000 years, and, during that time, has been settled or ruled by many dynasties, including the Greeks, Romans and Bourbons. All over you see the influence of these cultures and all the others around the Mediterranean. The Turks were in charge for awhile, and during the Muslim rule of the 9th through 11th centuries, Catania became known as the city of the elephant. Why? There is a black lava stone elephant fountain (topped with an Egyptian obelisk) in the main square. U Liotru, as it is called, is the city’s symbol. Was there an elephant on the island? Maybe!
The island’s buildings and layout are absolutely colored by not only the cultural diversity, but by the geological history. Catania is known as the black city, as the oldest roads and buildings are made from lava stone (thanks, Etna). But thanks to massive earthquakes and WWII, the cities are varied, making them a fascinating architectural study (many buildings were constructed not only on top of old foundations, but from the ruins of the ones that preceded them).
Italians take their Christian holidays pretty seriously. Sicily is famous for its creches, or manger scenes. This one inside Sant ‘Agatha of Sicily, who was born in Catania, was stunning — and about 10 feet long!
There are certain things I always take pictures of on holiday: markets, doorways and side streets. This trip was no different. Mario led us to a stunning food market, where we feasted with all our senses.
Oh: and I also have a thing for funky vehicles…
The fod market was an appetizer course: we had local pistachios and nut brittles, and Sailor Boy had oysters right there on the street.
Then Mario directed us down this charming street…
…then directed us to wait in front of a shop. Singer Girl took the opportunity to make a local feline friend…
…and Mario worked his magic. As we watched, a flurry of people swarmed out of the shop, and set up little tables and chairs for us. They set the tables, and invited us to sit. nest thing we knew we were eating cheeses and meats, hand picked by Mario, and drinking wine, as we watched the world go by. One of my favorite trip moment, as a humble alleyway became OUR personal restaurant.
Then we wandered further through Catania, back through the square and past our hotel. The main street was bustling with shoppers. We looked in windows, but we were so happy to be outside in the sunshine we didn’t want to stop. A running joke began that day: the Sicilians thought we were crazy. While we reveled in temps in the 60s, they bundled up in scarves, coats and gloves. At one point, someone yelled to a tank-top clad Singer Girl “where are you from?!” We enjoyed stressing Mario out by our lack of winter garb!
Our last stop on the tour was at Savia, where Mario treated us to more arancini and pastries — and wine, of course. Mario had “American prosecco”: Coca Cola.
We said goodbye to Mario for the day, the kids headed back to Sailor Boy’s abode, and HWSNBN and I went to the hotel to nap — and see if our luggage had arrived. No such luck. I logged into the website provided me by the Catania airport, but it was all in Italian. I decided to go to Twitter to get answers. I described our plight, mentioning my husband’s medical condition and the fat tat we were in town visiting our military-serving son. KLM responded less than 4 minutes later! Within 30 minutes we learned our luggage had boarded a flight to Rome the previous day by mistake, and would be arriving at our hotel within a few hours! Such great news — and great customer service!
When it arrived, I unpacked and we got to shower and do all the things you take for granted when you have your luggage, lol. We decided to walk to the restaurant for dinner, rather than make the kids try and pick us up (it was tough to do so, as no private cars were allowed on the street front of the hotel). It was drizzly, so my hair was a mess by the time we got there, but it was a riot, navigating cobble stone streets in a wheelchair. I burned off all the days treats for sure, and we joked that it is not a vacation until HWSNBN and I get lost on a “Bataan death march,” as my family likes to call my happy meanderings.
That night we ate at one of Sailor Boy’s favorite Michelin star restaurants, Km0.
We had a dreadful time…
Singer Girl decided to crash on our couch that night, as Sailor Boy and Lisa had plans with her friends, and he wasn’t going on the tour with us the next morning (she also wanted to check out the hotel breakfast buffet!). We said our goodbyes, and went back to crash, and dream about what visual and gustatorial delights awaited us in the morning!
Catching Up Is Bringing Me Down
It has been so long since I have written — here, anyway. More on that in a minute.
This is a quickie, to just touch base and let you know I’m not gone. But 2021 was kind of a shitshow for me, and my new normal is kind of stinky as well.
In June, my dad died. He had suffered from Alzheimer’s for more than a decade, so it was time. The end wasn’t pretty (I’ll never forget the sound of the “death rattle” as the hospice nurse called it). But it’s over. He is no longer disintegrating piece by piece, so we no longer have the internal war of wishing him peace, but not wanting him gone. I have a tribute post in the works, and will hopefully get to that next month.
Last spring, HWSNBN (my husband who abhors social media) finally decided to see someone about some hip pain he was experiencing. The chiropractor helped for awhile. Then he saw an orthopedist, who suspected an arthritic hip from all his years of long distance running. PT was prescribed, but it got worse. During the Boston trip (read that post here), he calmly shared with me that he couldn’t feel his right leg. It “woke up”, but we were shaken.’
He tried a steroidal injection, and that helped for a bit. We managed a Vegas trip in July, and had a ball. But shortly after we returned, the pain was back, and worse. He continued to be unable to run, which was just killing him. The orthopedist was alarmed, and decided it was tie to see a neurologist.
What followed were rounds of tests — blood work, MRIs, EMGs, manual assessments and more. And then they were repeated. On October 1st, we learned that after excluding everything else, they determined he has ALS.
So yeah. Shit.
Since then we have been busy coming to terms with what that means, now and in the future. What future? Who knows. Could be years. Could be, well, not. So far his breathing, speech nd swallowing remain unaffected, an for that we are grateful. But in the just over 3 months since he was diagnosed he has gone from walking painfully to using a walker and now starting to rely on a wheelchair. His right leg is almost useless, and his left isn’t very cooperative either. His hands and arms are weaker, but we don’t know if that’s the disease or the result of overuse from gripping the walker.
Date nights are gone, replaced by home stretching sessions and the never-ending struggle to keep him comfortable. To that end, a lift-assist recliner, swivel tv tray with handle and sleep number adjustable bed are all entering the home in the next week.
Friends, family and coworkers have been phenomenally supportive. “How can I help?” is the phrase I hear mot these days (well, maybe “Donni can I get some help?” is uttered more frequently). From putting air in my tires to bringing meals, to moving things into the attic and running errands, people are amazing. Truly.
I mentioned earlier that I have been writing, just not here. We have a Caring Bridge site that we sue t keep folks updated (check it out here). It’s cathartic for me as well — although, as Singer Girl reminded me, it’s not a therapy session. So I tend to hold back on the feelings there. I will likely be less inhibited here.
But not every future blog post will be about being a CALS to my PALS (caretaker of one with ALS, and person with ALS. All the cool, exhausted people use acronyms). I hope to post tomorrow about our fabulous trip to Sicily to spend Christmas with Sailor Boy. Lots of photos, as usual, so I’ll get at least 3 blog posts about that.
Thanks for listening. I know it’s a downer, but life isn’t all vacations and fashion. Nowadays, I’m thrilled with any me time and clean sweats (is it wrong that I found my filling at the dentist this week a relaxing respite of me time?).
A little Ado About Everything 