Santa and this Reindeer hope you had a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!

Well, hello, my dearest Dibbuns; aside from a post about the passing of dear Franckline, I have not spoken to you since last Christmas. If you are wondering where I have been, I have been having lots and lots of fun, then not so much fun, then even less fun, then a bit of misery, then oodles of joy punctuated with worry.
Let’s start with the lots and lots of fun: the Princess, the baby, Amanda, married the love of her life, her very own Prince Ali. We had a Big Fat Pakistani Wedding! Let me tell you, white people, we have been completely ripped off; other cultures know how to throw bumping weddings.

While we stand around eating tiny, bland canapes, our high heels sinking into the perfectly manicured country club grass, much of the rest of the world is dancing like whirling dervishes in technicolor outfits, eating an array of foods, none of which I can name, that explode with flavor.

The wedding consisted of four different glamorous events. Khadija (Sheryar’s mom told me we would have had more events if we were in Pakistan!) There was so much fun, so many activities involving throwing rose petals at the bride and groom, and all the ladies got Henna Tattoos. Sheryar and Amanda fought for a wedding ring in a bowl of rice; Amanda won, so apparently, she would have the upper hand in the marriage. They didn’t have to have a rice fight to figure that out.

Some events were confusing; Sheryar sat in a baby pool while we threw cold raw eggs, mayonnaise, and mustard at him, and he had to pay his sister Sehar $1000 to leave the family. At one point at the Mendhi ceremony, my son Kyle and daughter Katie stole Sheryar’s shoes, and he had to pay to get them back. It was all so exciting. At one of my wedding showers, all my cousins and aunts sat in a circle, drank tea, and passed around the pots and pans I received as shower gifts.
I was also “required” to buy four beautiful Indian/Pakistani outfits with matching sparkly shoes. Although the outfits don’t look quite as cute in size ten as in the pictured size sevens, my feet looked like little gay pride parade floats.
Dennis got to wear a “Prince suit,”

After the wedding, I was on a blissful high for a few weeks until the end of February, the bleakest month of the year. Then it hit me: my baby was married, my very own Carmen Gia (a nickname referring to her enthusiasm for all my shenanigans.), and melancholy swallowed me whole.
I had been so sure I was mentally OK with my Amanda getting married. Aww, you’ve got this, Leana. You are so grounded and spiritual. You will walk gracefully into this new phase of life like a water lily opening its petals. Ha!

I realize I created this mental anguish. At 56 and turning 57, I am going through many physical changes and emotional changes. Also, last winter was brutal for my parents, and I went on two emergency visits back home to try and help out, and they can no longer come here to visit.
This Christmas Eve, my mom fell and broke her arm and her hip in two places. My parents, who live in Winnipeg, Canada, need comfort and care. I live far away. My life is here in Atlanta, and my job is to care for Dennis. I’m getting older, and I find myself getting sicker more often. I need care, too. I haven’t always been able to be there for my children and now grandchildren like I would like to be, and now I cannot be there for my parents in their later years. There isn’t enough of me, and I constantly think I am missing something or letting down someone who needs me and I cannot be there. Generally, this is called being an older woman.

But I had a plan. I was going to Canada in July to see Fabulous Felix, the youngest grandchild, and my parents simultaneously! I would have a week away from caregiving, see the baby, and have time to journal and reflect on a new chapter as a matriarch.
And then.
On my fourth day at the cottage, I got COVID-19!!! NO CUDDLING SWEET FELIX, NO EMOTIONAL CENTERING, NO SPIRITUAL KICKSTART. Also, on the homefront, Dennis had COVID-19, pneumonia, and a urinary tract infection. Katie and the caregiver wore themselves out going to the ER and urgent care until I got back.
Well, hells bells.
We were in poor health for weeks, and then, you will not believe this, in the middle of August, we had another leak in our house, the fourth in three years, that required us to move out and redo all the flooring.
I was wallowing in self-pity because my plan for an emotional breakthrough was thwarted by illness once again. So, as a mature woman who is in touch with her innermost being and in charge of her happiness, I sought professional counsel, meditated, and fasted.
HAHAHAHA
No, silly, I created a pumpkin village. I’m almost embarrassed to say how many hours it took to create, but the time flew by as I immersed myself in my whimsical world. Life isn’t all serious, soul searching. The last years of our lives could be titled “A series of calamitous events and canceled invitations.” I needed to reconnect with little Leana, the whimsical child who loved cozy miniature animal worlds. It made me feel safe. Real life was often too fast and harsh for me, so I would submerge myself into warm, inviting, controlled spaces with friendly critters.
So, I had to choose between a full-on mental breakdown and creating a Pumpkin Village. I know you are so proud of me, so I made the sensible decision. Creating my pumpkin village rejuvenated me.

I did have to hide it from my grandchildren, though, because they didn’t know how to play with it; you can’t touch it. The project brought me great joy. Sometimes, ignoring problems and retreating into your inner child is the remedy.

I sat in an empty living room with no floors, just one chair and cement floors covered in blue sticky stuff. There were holes in the walls, a broken dishwasher, and a delightful pumpkin village that only I could touch. My heart was happy.
This December 21, winter solstice, I will be turning 57. Seven years ago, I set out to write a blog to kickstart my life into my fifties. The adventure it has taken me on has been far more profound and exciting than I dreamed of. It took me down side streets and to relationships I would never have experienced if I had not mustered the courage to put my thoughts, flighty, strange, sometimes sad, sometimes embarrassing, out into the public domain.
I have even parlayed my Blog into a job writing about people in my community. The artists, mothers, entrepreneurs, marines, and community activists have refreshed my faith in humanity with their talent, courage, and humanitarianism.
To summarize.
I have one task left; I have achieved all the others.

1. Start a Blog. done✔️
2. Write love letters to important people in my life. ✔️
3. Prepare for and have a piano recital with humans attending it. ✔️
4. I wanted to befriend someone 40 years older than me. I overachieved; he was 48 years old. Alas, not surprisingly, he has gone to his reward. He was something else. His catchphrase was, “I’m 95 and still alive.” He made me a great cobbler, and we spent many hours on his porch laughing and talking. I adored him. Rest in peace, Eldred. ✔️
5. Befriend someone 40 years younger than me. She was one of my daughter Amanda’s bridesmaids at our big Pakistani wedding. ✔️
6. Dance with my husband standing. It took a hunting harness and several people, and he was falling on me, but it worked. ✔️
7. Learn to make Creme Brulee for Amanda and Bonofee pie for Kyle. I never made the Creme Brulee, but I made a flower wall for the bridal shower I had for her, which included a bar trolley through Downtown Woodstock, so I say that covers it. I did make Bonofee pie for Kyle. It was delicious and relatively easy. ✔️
8. Spend a day in a wheelchair. NOT DOING IT❌
9. Publish my and Dennis’ love story. ✔️
10. Do something special with my stepdaughter Katie. She got married and has three babies, and it has brought me so much joy to be part of her life as she has become a wife and a mother. ✔️
    So, I will not spend a day in a wheelchair. We have an extra one, but my chest tightens whenever I think about it. I have spent 22 years walking beside someone, rolling along in a wheelchair. Seven years ago, when I made this list, it seemed like a noble idea; today, it looks like self-imposed martyrdom. Eww.
11. I do have a few points I would like to mention. While we were doing our annual Christmas photoshoot, I realized that my role with Dennis is similar to one of the magic reindeer, to Dennis’s’ Santa-like big personality. I go ahead of him, clearing the path for him, looking out for obstacles, moving people out of the way, and doing the heavy lifting, and then Dennis shows up for a celebrity welcome. I say this with no bitterness, it’s our gig.

1. It is not more tragic that Dennis is good-looking and in a wheelchair. I wish I had a nickel for every time someone said what a shame it is that such a handsome man has been in a wheelchair since his forties.???? Would it be okey-dokey if he was ugly?
2. If you have a cure that will have Dennis up and walking, such as eating only goat ovum, trekking to India to meet a Ghuru named Gumgum, wearing fourteen nicotine patches and eating only limes, or repenting the sins that got him into this fix, send us an email. PLEASE, do not approach us when we are out just trying to have a good time. We get this all the time. We have a team of Neurologists who would love nothing better than to heal their patients.
3. Please do not ask to pray for us in public. This also happens often; once, we were ambushed at a farmer’s market and felt really attacked. One sweet lady asked, and she seemed OK, so we said yes. Then, a clown car of prayer warriors descended, laying hands (have they heard of personal space?). This was about them, not us. If that lady heard what I said as we escaped, she’s still praying for me.
4. You, you chronic illness groupies, may I politely ask you to bugger off. This is so weird, but Dennis, and I assume other people with chronic illnesses, are magnets for people who are dying to talk about their ailments. I see them coming. They don’t make eye contact with me; they slide up next to Dennis and say, “Do you mind me asking why you are in a chair?” If you have to ask, “Do you mind if you ask,” you don’t know them well enough. Then they are off to the races; they feel a kinship of misery with Dennis, and they regale him with fantastic tales, and often pictures😒, of MRIs, scars, lumps, BP numbers, and drugs they are on and on and on. They rarely notice he isn’t saying much. I asked Dennis once why he listens, and he answered, “AW, Lee, they’re just talking.” I thought about it; the people who want to vent to him are usually alone. Dennis has said that he doesn’t notice his pain and disability nearly as much when we are together. I think he realizes he could be alone, too. There is no pill for loneliness.

My next blog post will be my last. I am shutting one door to move through another fully.

P.S. We got full value from the Santa suit and had Christmas brunch at The Waffle House!