Barb Caffrey's Blog

Writing the Elfyverse . . . and beyond

Quick Update, December 2023 Edition

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Folks, I just wanted to write a quick blog to let you all know I am still alive.

I have been feeling run-down and ill, in addition to grieving my father’s passing of course. The holidays are never easy for me, mind you, and when we have big temperature swings (over twenty degrees last week, I think), I tend to get sick.

Now, does that mean I’m down for a long time? I hope not. But for now, I’m at the forcing fluids stage, reminding myself to eat as nothing seems appealing (I can taste it just fine, so that’s good at least), and the “reading a lot of favorite books” stage to help me feel better mentally.

Maybe tomorrow I’ll discuss some more of my favorite books (including one that just came out, Chris Nuttall’s QUEENMAKER, that I edited). But for tonight, I am just going to rest, and hope that my throat will feel less sore in the a.m.

So, in the interim, tell me: what are you reading? What do you like about it? (Or what can’t you stand about it, if there’s a book that really ticked you off in some way?) Book discussions are fun, and we haven’t had one here at my blog home on the web in quite some time.

Written by Barb Caffrey

December 4, 2023 at 3:01 am

Posted in Books, Comfort books, in general

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Saying Goodbye to Dad

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Folks, I know I didn’t blog last week at all. Mostly I was trying to save up my energy for what proved to be a two-part effort: Dad’s funeral/memorial service on Saturday, and Dad’s burial on Monday. I figured I’d talk about that, along with the difficulties of saying goodbye when you weren’t ready at all to do so, today.

My father was almost 87 when he passed away. (Had he made it through another month, that is.) As he told everyone (including grocery store cashiers), Dad lived a good life. He was satisfied because he had three good kids, he’d been a successful letter carrier, he’d bought a house (and died in his house, something he’d told me and my sibs often was his wish), he’d enjoyed outings with his own sibs (when they were healthy enough), he’d done some traveling (mostly to and from other family members’ homes), and he’d enjoyed watching and listening to the Milwaukee Brewers, Green Bay Packers, and Milwaukee Bucks games over the course of his lifetime. He’d also played in what was then the Racine Municipal Band for twenty years in the percussion section. (Dad did not consider himself to be a percussionist, because he didn’t read notes; he only read rhythms. That said, he played the snare drum, the field drum, the bass drum, the castanets, the cymbals, the maracas, and anything else that didn’t require note-reading.) Dad also enjoyed watching old movies, as I said before, and played lots of cards (mostly cribbage and smear — smear is kind of like sheepshead, I guess; I don’t know how to explain it any better).

In short, Dad had the life he’d hoped to have.

The thing is, even though I know all that, it’s still hard to say goodbye. My relationship with my father wasn’t always an easy one. I wasn’t what he’d expected, at all. I’d been expected to make a big noise as a classically trained musician, but my hands failed; then, after I finally found the love of my life in my mid-30s, I lost him due to four heart attacks (as I’ve discussed multitudinously at this blog) and ended up back with my family again.

See, I’d hoped my entire life to make it as a musician. My whole life was oriented toward that. I used to practice up to eight hours a day, then wrote music for another hour or two (I can still do that, at least, when motivated and my mind isn’t all over the place as it is now), often while working a part-time or full-time job on the side.

But as I said, my hands failed. I have something akin to carpal tunnel syndrome, though it isn’t that; it’s bilateral tendinitis in both hands and wrists. I can have spasms in my wrists or hands at any time, and there’s no apparent reason for this. (The tendinitis could happen to anyone; I could’ve worked around that. The spasms were much harder to work around, and it’s why I’d stopped playing except in the Racine Concert Band and the UW-Parkside Community Band.)

When I met Michael, I was only reluctantly ready to concede that I would not be a professional musician. But I’d discovered I was good at writing; really good. With Michael’s help — as he was an excellent editor and a good writer, too — I finished up my novel, Elfy (later split into two parts as An Elfy on the Loose and A Little Elfy in Big Trouble), and was working on a prequel called Keisha’s Vow (I’ve mentioned this before, here at my blog) when the unthinkable happened: Michael died.

So, I was bereft, incredibly upset, grieving, very unhappy, and though I didn’t know it at the time, also very depressed when I came back to live with my father. (I did spend a good amount of time with my mother, too, and still do.) I wasn’t at all what I’d been. I didn’t recognize myself in the mirror, I was so very upset.

At first, my parents (neither one) knew what to say to me. As I’d been previously married, their thoughts were probably along the lines of, “Well, she won’t be here long. She’ll find someone else.”

Um, no.

Anyway, Dad is the subject of this blog, so I’d better explain what he did. Mostly, he pointed out there are seasons to life, just as there are to baseball, basketball, etc. There may still be another season in my life that could be good, even though I couldn’t see it…I had to have hope, and faith, that someday I’d understand why Michael had died young and why my hands had given me so much trouble.

Over time, I slowly got better. I went through physical and occupational therapy for my hands in 2010 and again in early 2011; this brought back quite a bit of movement and flexibility to my hands and wrists, so I was able to play my saxophone and clarinet again. (If I had someone to make reeds for me, I could’ve played my oboe as well. But my hands will never be good enough for me to make reeds ever again. That’s just a fact.) I rejoined the Parkside Community Band not long before my friend Jeff Wilson died in 2011, and if I recall correctly, most of my family was there for the first concert I’d played in over ten years. (Dad wasn’t. But my sister was, my Mom was, I think my niece was…and my Aunt Laurice, who lived in Racine also, was there, too.) I played a solo in a piece called “Roma,” and thought about Michael and Jeff as if they were in the front row, just invisible to everyone else except me.

Note that my Mom also believed I would play again. I don’t mean to slight her in this. But fortunately for me, she is still here now, and I can continue to do whatever I can to help her whenever I am able to do it…while Dad, who never wanted anyone to do anything for him except talk to him now and again, is on the Other Side.

So, Dad and I continued to talk about sports. We sometimes talked about politics; he was disgusted by many of the goings-on, and one of his final thoughts was that it was disgraceful that there was no Speaker in the U.S. House of Representatives. (I agreed with him, too. That was a big mess.) He often pointed out that if the able refused to serve, or were unable to serve, we only ended up with idiots. (He didn’t use that term. He was far kinder in some ways than I am.) He pointed out that Samuel Gompers had said, in essence, that it’s better to be party to a principle than a principal to a party, and that anyone who let dogma rule them when there were practical problems that needed solutions and compromise wasn’t worthy of his or her seat in Washington, DC.

At any rate, Dad was a person who believed talk was cheap and results were what mattered. He also believed that kindness was essential — though harder to do than to say — and if you remember the blog I wrote years ago about how people treat cashiers says a lot about them? Well, Dad was almost unfailingly kind to cashiers, even if they made mistakes in his order. (He’d just go up to the service desk and straighten it out, that’s all.)

Was Dad a saint? No. Not at all. But he meant to be a good man, and in his way, I think he was. But he wasn’t always easy to live with (neither am I); some days he could be downright ornery, and he also took pride in being cantankerous. (He figured once you got over eighty, they’d call you that anyway, so why not live up to it?)

Anyway, on Saturday I gave some sort of eulogy, as did my siblings and my niece, Jenni. (I think they did better jobs than I did. I don’t really remember much of what I said, to be honest.) Then my Mom and I and everyone else went to a local restaurant, and we did our best to celebrate life and remember my father.

This past Monday, Dad was buried out in Union Grove at the vets’ cemetery. My sibs, my niece, and one of my cousins was there. (A good friend of mine tried to come, too, but she got lost. It’s OK. I got lost, too, and only barely made it to the cemetery in time even though I started out almost an hour beforehand. It’s only a fifteen-minute drive, if that, to Union Grove from where I started…ah, well.) They gave Dad the military honors he deserved, as he’d been a member of the U.S. Navy in his youth (he loved to say “I was a member of the man’s navy”), and that was that.

Except it’s not.

I wish I could explain it better than that, but I can’t. I do know I’m glad Dad didn’t suffer. (I found him, so I know he didn’t.) I also hope that he’s with his mother (who died when he was only eleven), father, stepmother Gertie, my Aunt Laurice and Uncle Carl, and everyone else who predeceased him. (Maybe Michael’s up there and is talking sports with Dad right now. I like to think so.)

Here, though, on Earth, I struggle. And I think it’s going to be like this for a while…that said, I will keep doing whatever I can to be of use and service to others, and hope that, creativity, and whatever shreds of faith I have left will be enough to sustain me.

Written by Barb Caffrey

November 15, 2023 at 11:52 pm

Posted in Elfy, Faith, heartbreaking stories, in general, Informational Stuff, love stories, Michael B. Caffrey, Music, Persistence, Prescient observations, Spirituality

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More About Dad

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Folks, this past week around Chez Caffrey has been a struggle. (I’m not going to lie.) Dad’s death has really thrown me for a loop (or maybe into curlicues; a simple loop doesn’t seem to be enough, somehow, to describe this.) While I am not the executor for my father’s estate, I am trying to look after some of his interests while my sibs are doing other needed and necessary things.

Mostly, I feel like I’m failing.

At any rate, my brother, sister and I discussed what we wanted in Dad’s obituary and my brother mostly adhered to what we’d said (plus what he’d thought, too). (Jim, my brother, is the main person to make decisions. Dad was old-fashioned that way.) Dad loved music, played music, loved sports and was a huge fan of the Brewers, Bucks, Packers, etc. He loved old movies, as I said in my last blog, and he enjoyed listening to show tunes, some light jazz from the early 1940s and late 1930s (think Benny Goodman and his Orchestra and you’re not far wrong) and was a huge fan of Doris Day. (She, BTW, was one of the first actresses to portray an independent woman on TV. She also was a nightclub singer before she got her big break and became somewhat of a wholesome icon.) He knew a lot about DD’s life and career, and honestly mourned her death in 2019.

The thing is, as I’ve discussed at my Facebook page already, the cause of death has come back and it kind of threw me for a loop. It’s going to be “uncontrolled hypertension” that was the underlying cause of Dad’s death.

Why did this throw me? Mostly because my father was still taking blood pressure meds. They apparently had become ineffective — this is something I didn’t know until the medical examiner told me — but Dad was unwilling to either take a higher dose or try a new med. He’d stay with what he knew instead, for whatever reasons of his own, and could not be moved on this issue according to what was written into my father’s chart.

In other words, Dad was what you might call “noncompliant” with doctors. Or at least he’d become that way in the last few years, if that makes any sense.

See, to my mind, had Dad taken no blood pressure meds at all, or refused to take any more, that would’ve made more sense than taking something he knew was ineffective. (I can’t ask him why he made this perplexing choice, either, for obvious reasons.)

Hypertension, when it’s not controlled, can eat into your quality of life. I’ve known this since my early twenties, for pity’s sake. (Partly because my late grandmother had some issues this way, and partly because I was diagnosed with borderline high blood pressure at age twenty-two, I had to get cognizant of this in a big hurry.) When you have high blood pressure that’s not controlled, it makes you feel weaker than you would otherwise feel. It also can make it more difficult to get your rest or to get enough exercise to do your heart any good, because if you feel frail or at least feel off-kilter, most people get more anxious. (I know I do, and I definitely know my father did.) If you’re anxious often, this eats into your available bodily energy supply, and it makes you worry more about things you otherwise wouldn’t worry about.

All I know is, we have eight days to go until Dad’s memorial service. They feel sometimes like they’re both too short and too long. How they can be both at the same time is beyond me, but life is strange…and it’s even stranger after you lose someone close to you.

How have you handled this sort of thing? Have you had any deaths in your family? Any advice for me or my sibs? I’d appreciate it if you want to pass any along, as right now it seems like I’m going down a broken road without a map, without a flashlight (as the skies continue to darken), and as if I’m both deaf and dumb.

Written by Barb Caffrey

November 3, 2023 at 11:44 pm

Posted in Uncategorized

Dad Died Yesterday, Aged 86

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Folks, this is a very tough blog to write. But I think I should. So here we are.

My father Roger was 86 and a bit — he would’ve been 87 in November on his next birthday — and was a huge sports fan his entire life. He loved the Milwaukee Brewers, the Milwaukee Bucks, and the Green Bay Packers, and going to the 1982 World Series with us kids between the Brewers and the St. Louis Cardinals at old Milwaukee County Stadium was a highlight he’d talked about for years. (One kid would go with one parent for each home game, so all three of us got to see a World Series game in person when we were young. I think Mom went to two home games and Dad one; it was a long time ago, but Dad insisted he’d gone and he usually was right about such things.)

I had to start off with that, because unless you understood at least some of my father’s passions, you didn’t know him at all.

Dad also played the drums. He did not consider himself a percussionist because he didn’t read music so much as read rhythms. He did play cymbals, bass drum, snare drum, field drum, castanets, maracas, and anything that was needed when he was a member of the Racine Concert Band. (Yes, my family has had a strong interest in the RCB for a very long time, and Dad was a member for over ten years in the percussion section.) He loved music of all sorts, but was most partial to musicals, Doris Day, Kristen Chenoweth, big band jazz from the 1930s, 1940s, and a bit into the 1950s (bebop was taking over from the older big band style; think the difference between Benny Goodman and his orchestra and/or Duke Ellington and his orchestra versus Charlie Parker and/or Dizzy Gillespie.)

Another of Dad’s passions was old movies. His favorite movie of all time was “Mr. Deeds Goes to Town,” a story about an unlikely man who inherits a fortune, the newspaperwoman who writes about him (incognito), and about the efforts to strip his fortune by unscrupulous members of his family. Why did they try? Well, Mr. Deeds was an eccentric. He played the tuba, he liked to dance down the street and sing a bit (Mr. Deeds didn’t have much of a voice, I’m afraid; his tuba, however, did), and he was a nonconformist for the times. That was enough to get a hearing before a judge, to prove competency or the lack of it.

Anyway, Dad loved that movie, and I know I watched with him several times over the last few years because it’s a highly entertaining movie (what with the tuba playing and all). Jean Arthur was the female lead, and Dad admired her for Arthur’s beauty and brains and grace under pressure, as he saw Arthur in several other movies (including one of Dad’s other favorite movies, “Mr. Smith Goes to Washington”). He loved comedies like “Easter Parade” and “Calamity Jane” and “State Fair,” and of course he knew all the words to favorite musicals such as “The Music Man” and “The Sound of Music.”

Dad also was a man of principle. One of his favorite sayings was that government doesn’t work if the able don’t serve. He also pointed out what Samuel Gompers said, about how it’s better to be party to a principle rather than a principal to a party, though the actual quote is more like this according to a quick Google search: “It is not the party for whom we vote that counts, but our loyalty to the principles for which that party stands.”

Anyway, my father lived a good long life. He believed in family and cared about others, but couldn’t always show it as he was a guy from a time where men were admired if they were the strong, silent type. (Dad would admit he wasn’t that type, sometimes, but the Stoic nature of it all certainly was something he admired.) Dad was a member of the Lutheran Church, believed firmly in Heaven and in God (to him, God was most definitely male, though he’d not had a problem with me seeing the Deity in other ways as far as I could tell), and was mentally alert pretty much until the hour of his death.

In our last conversation, which was mostly about sports, Dad told me he didn’t think Jordan Love is the answer for the Green Bay Packers and that he wished Aaron Rodgers had stayed in Green Bay as Rodgers probably wouldn’t have been injured here (as the Achilles’ tear Rodgers suffered was worse due to happening on artificial turf). He was looking forward to the Milwaukee Bucks basketball season (starting tonight), though he didn’t like the trade of Jrue Holliday for Damian Lillard; he liked Lillard, but he’d rather have had Holliday and Lillard, and if he could only have one, he’d have kept Holliday. (That this apparently caused Giannis Antetokounmpo to sign a maximum-amount three-year extension didn’t really please my father. He liked to say that the Bucks needed five people on the team, not just one guy, and that compared to Wilt Chamberlain or even Michael Jordan, two guys who could and did win games practically single-handedly, Giannis wasn’t in that league. Of course, he also admitted that Giannis had come a long way and would certainly make the basketball hall of fame some day, too.) And he worried that the Milwaukee Brewers would trade their ace, Corbin Burnes, over the winter; while he didn’t think Burnes was as good this year as last (or the Cy Young year before that), he still felt Burnes was an ace-level pitcher and was needed, desperately, for the Brewers to be a competitive team next year.

So, on Sunday night, we had that good conversation. I didn’t see him Monday except once; he was not well, and I asked him if he wanted to be taken to the ER or if he wanted me to call the rescue squad. He said he didn’t want that. I abided by his wishes, went to bed, got up on Tuesday to go to a doctor appointment, and when I got back home, Dad had passed away.

Dad always wanted to die at home. I know that. But I still feel terrible about it anyway.

I also have to say this: Dad wanted everyone to know that he wasn’t a saint, just a man; he hated the idea of everyone being lauded as the most wonderful person who’d ever lived after they died (if you already thought that before the person’s death, that was another story entirely), and would rather that we remember his humanity along with the good times, the bad times, and the in-between times.

At any rate, I thought that I’d be prepared for this day, when it came, and I’m not.

Funeral arrangements are pending.

Written by Barb Caffrey

October 25, 2023 at 2:06 pm

Posted in Faith, heartbreaking stories, in general, Informational Stuff, Milwaukee Brewers baseball club, Prescient observations, Remembrance, Writing

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About a Girl (Dog), Part 2…and Other Stuff

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Folks, I wanted to give you a brief update regarding my Mom’s dog, Ms. Brat (also known as Bratty). She’s still hanging in there and is starting to use her front paw more and more. She is drinking water and has sporadically eaten in the past week. She’s always been picky about her food, so it’s nothing new that nothing we have tried to give her has pleased her. (It’s the same with treats, too. Sometimes she loves one variety of treats but won’t touch the other; other times it’s vice versa.)

Mom and I have been cautiously optimistic regarding Brat’s health. That said, sometime this week Brat is going into the vet’s office (a new one, as our old one retired a few years ago. Most of the routine coverage has been done at places like Petco.) in order to rule out any other problems. (For example, this not wanting to eat much at all thing is new. Why is this going on?)

Anyway, I have been doing what I can this past week to deal with mundane issues everyone on the face of the Earth has to deal with from time to time. I’ve also written some into the novel I’m writing that’s a prequel to a friend’s novel series. Once I get up to the time his series starts, I plan on writing a parallel story from my character’s POV. (I figured if Anne McCaffrey could do that in Nerilka’s Story, so could I.) It’s fun trying to fit the various pieces together, and add in small touches that my friend had in subtext but were never overt, or things that make sense from my character’s perspective (he’s a fifteen-year-old prodigy of a sort, but doesn’t realize it as he mostly thinks about what he lacks rather than what he has, as people tend to do at age fifteen).

When I get to the point I know it’s going to be a real book — into the 80K to 90K range — I’ll discuss it more. Until then, just think good thoughts for me, eh?

Because of focusing on this book, I’ve written almost twice as many words this year as I had all of last year. There’s still a month and a half to go, so I’m going to try to eclipse last year’s total and leave it in the dust. (Go from twice as many to three times as many, at the very least.) Or, in other words, I’ve written about 33K words and know there’s much more to say from my young character’s perspective.

As far as editing goes, I have two long-term edits that I must finish up soon. One I’ve taken a great deal of time on, partly because I love the author’s work so much and partly because there just haven’t been enough hours in the day to get everything done. (Too many crises, not enough of me, as it were.) The other, I’m starting a third pass on–this one’s nonfiction–and is the third book in a series of self-help books. (The first one, it’s more like a fourth or fifth full pass. But I’ve stopped and started many times in the past months.) Plus, I have two books where my client wants me to update their original files with better editing, along with two new novels…never a dull moment around Chez Caffrey, that’s for sure.

Finally, I watched in sadness as my Milwaukee Brewers flamed out in the playoffs earlier this month. They had a great regular season, winning 92 games and losing only 70. But in a best of three series, you must win one game to force Game Three. The Brewers bats were quiet, one of their best pitchers ended up coming up with a dreadful injury (he will miss nearly all of 2024, it’s been reported; the pitcher’s name is Brandon Woodruff) and couldn’t pitch, and despite sparkling defense I guess it just wasn’t meant to be for the Brew Crew this year.

One of these years, the Brewers will go to the World Series again. They last were there in 1982, when I was a youngster. I remember the series well, in fact, and would’ve never dreamed back then that the Brewers, forty-one years later, still hadn’t managed to go to the World Series again, much less win it.

But it won’t be this year, and I find that both vexing and sad.

I may write a longer post about the Brewers in a week or two, mostly because I remain so conflicted about how the season went. To have a great season like that, only to meekly bow out — at home, no less, as the Brewers’ record was better than their opponent’s record — after two uninspiring, even insipid, games just made me feel awful.

So, that’s about it! Keep thinking good thoughts for Bratty, would you? And if you have any thoughts re: anything I’ve discussed here, go ahead and share ’em. I’m always happy to talk writing, editing, or just about anything else. (As I’m sure you know already.)

Written by Barb Caffrey

October 16, 2023 at 6:24 am

Posted in baseball, Books, Editing, Informational Stuff, Milwaukee Brewers baseball club, Writing

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About a Girl (Dog)

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The last few weeks have been a challenge around Chez Caffrey.

Along with the usual reasons (life, work/editing, writing, etc.), Mom’s dog little Brat is ailing. We’re not sure what’s wrong with her, but she’s going to the vet soon (maybe as soon as Monday, providing they can fit her in).

Dogs are wonderful companions. (So are cats, before my cat-loving friends start screaming at me.) They are kind-hearted, fiercely loyal, can be funny as Hell, and actually like being around you no matter how bad your day has been.

In other words, there have been many days where I’ve been tired, cranky, ill, or worse, yet little Brat has been right there by my side, giving and getting cuddles, and only some of her reasoning for doing so is because I might — just might — have a treat in my hand.

Speaking of that, have you ever wondered why it is that dogs and cats would sell us — at least, temporarily — for a good piece of chicken? (Save evolutionary forces, of course. Everyone wants to eat!)

Anyway, I’ve had to say goodbye to a whole lot of people and interesting/friendly/loving dogs and cats in my life already. I hope this isn’t Brat’s time to cross the Rainbow Bridge.

(Never heard of the Rainbow Bridge? This is where our canine and feline companions, among others, will wait for us to rejoin them, before we all enter The Good Place, TM.)

I guess we’ll find out soon. And as always, I’ll keep you posted.

Written by Barb Caffrey

October 8, 2023 at 5:56 am

Posted in Informational Stuff

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Life, Prayers, Friends, Frustration, and Futility

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I know I haven’t blogged in a bit, but the last few weeks around Chez Caffrey have been hectic, to say the least. I’ve been hip-deep in one edit, chin-deep in another (don’t ask), have nearly completed a third edit, restarted a fourth edit…and carved out a bit of fiction writing time for myself, too. (Not as much as I wanted. Not as much as I would’ve liked. But some.)

And, of course, I have had all the usual Real Life Issues (TM) to deal with, too.

Sometimes, I feel utterly frustrated. I want to be able to do more. I only have so much energy; it’s a finite amount, and some days it seems like it’s trickling away without my notice. There’s only twenty-four hours in a day, and it seems like I need at least twenty-six to get everything “normal” done (I know; define normal). That’s before writing, of course, so if you add in writing, along with music composition (which has taken a back seat the last few weeks as well), I’d probably need at least thirty-two hours in a day to do everything I feel I must do.

Which, of course, is flat-out impossible.

Because of the recent “sadiversary” observance (which I’ve discussed elsewhere here at my blog), too, I have been reminded of how much faith my late husband Michael had in me. He believed my writing, my music, and my music composition all mattered. He wanted me to succeed, to thrive, to be happy, and to be creative (not necessarily in that order).

I wonder, sometimes, how much I’ve managed to do in this regard. Life gets in the way. There isn’t enough of me, and there are way too many different things that must needs doing, stat…then add in the fact that a couple of my friends are in major distress right now, plus another one is watching his spouse die by inches and can’t do anything except be by her side as she no longer recognizes him…well.

Frankly, I have felt extremely frustrated over it all. I have wondered if life is just a futile thing, because there are so many things I can’t do and so many things I wish I could do (such as restore my friend’s wife to health). I believe we, as human beings, are striving toward something — empathy, creativity, passion, purpose, maybe all of it? — and yet we face so much frustration along the way.

Is it worth it?

I think so, or I wouldn’t be here now, blogging about it. I believe life is not only is worth it, but it matters so much, so intrinsically, that it’s nearly impossible to plumb the depths of just how much it matters.

That said, there are moments where I wish I could do a whole lot more than I am. There are moments where I wish, just for one moment, I could hear my husband Michael tell me that yes, what I’ve done makes sense, and yes, what I’m doing makes sense, too, and yes, what matters is that I’ve given it my best effort.

As I’ve always done. Yes.

He knew that, about me. And he knew that about life, too.

Some say that life is all about the journey. I think that’s only part of it. Yes, we journey along, and yes, we learn things on our own journeys, too. But it’s also about figuring out what’s important to you, and how to go about doing those things while pulled in seemingly a million different directions.

So. I’ve felt frustrated, and wondered if life matters, and thought about futility for the past week-plus. (Yes, some of this would’ve come up because of the “sadiversary” observance. But I think much of the rest has come about due to my friends’ various struggles, and my wishes that I could ease their burdens in some way as it doesn’t seem like I’ve been able to do a lick of good in any regard.)

What do you do when you feel frustrated? What do you do when you think everything is just futile, or pointless, or just not worth it?

I know what I do is go on. I put one foot in front of the other, do my best not to fall, and just keep going. Even if the direction doesn’t seem right, and even if sometimes I need a course correction or two, I just keep on keepin’ on.

But before I go, I would like to ask a favor. Please, if you have energy to spare this week, pray for my friends. Pray because they are good people who need good things to happen rather than the bad things that have accumulated over the past few months (months that have seemed like decades, at least to me). Pray because no one deserves to feel so terrible for so long. Pray because human beings should care about one another.

I’ve never asked this before, and I may never ask it again. But I need to ask it now, as way too many of the people I find meaningful and wonderful in my life are struggling. I can’t do much to help other than listen, which of course I’ve done…and pray, which I have been doing for a while. My prayers, however, do not seem to be anywhere near enough to positively affect the outcome.

That’s why I chose to blog today and to discuss all this difficult stuff. I want to help my friends, dammit; I want, somehow, to give comfort to them, and the feeling that their lives aren’t hopeless or meaningless or worthless.

Does anyone else feel this way? If so, tell me in the comments. Please.

Written by Barb Caffrey

September 28, 2023 at 5:47 am

Posted in Faith, friendship, Informational Stuff, Michael B. Caffrey, Persistence, Prescient observations, Remembrance, Widowhood, Writing

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When Life Does Not Go As Planned…

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Folks, this past week has been a difficult one for me. I’m ramping up to the nineteenth observance of my beloved husband Michael’s day of death, something I call a “sadiversary” (a contraction of sad and anniversary). But I’ve also noticed a few other stories that I wanted to discuss, also about life not going as planned…so, let’s get started.

First off, Aaron Rodgers’ plans to be the New York Jets’ starting quarterback did not go as planned. He played one series and got sacked; he couldn’t get up. It turns out he has a ruptured Achilles tendon. This puts him out for the year.

Now, most of you are probably thinking, “What does this have to do with me? Aaron Rodgers has a ton of money, he could just retire, he goes on all sorts of jaunts all over the world, and even participated in a ‘darkness retreat.'”

What it has to do with you is this: No matter how much money you have, no matter how much status you’ve attained (as Rodgers is a sure-fire first-ballot NFL Hall of Fame pick), your life won’t always go as planned.

I mean, who wants to have to rehab a ruptured Achilles tendon? Whether you’re an athlete or not, that’s just painful. It’s more common in professional sports than in everyday life because of the wear and tear athletes put on their bodies, not to mention the other pro athletes they play beside and across, who also put wear and tear on their bodies in a different way that sometimes interacts with you. (Such as when Rodgers was sacked by the opposing Buffalo Bills’ defensive line.) But it’s painful, and because I’ve known some folks in everyday life who’ve had similar issues, I know it’s life-disrupting, uncomfortable, and unpleasant.

No amount of money makes the healing go any faster, either.

So, here you are if you’re Aaron Rodgers. You’ve made a huge move from Green Bay to New York City. You participated in all of the off-season workouts, as well as the entirety of training camp — not something that most long-time quarterbacks do as it does put more wear and tear on the body, especially as they already have a ton of wear and tear as it is. You did everything you possibly could to get ready for the NFL season with a new team, new-to-you players, and a new attitude.

Then, your season ends after Week One.

What comes to mind for me, with regards to Aaron Rodgers, is this: How much Netflix is he going to be watching? How many rehab appointments will he have? How many stints in the “warming pool” (what the rest of us would probably call a Jacuzzi) that he most likely has at home? (Many players do for obvious reasons.) Will he try to help the Jets as an unofficial coach, or will that not be allowed or wanted?

See, this was not what he wanted at all.

And in case the point hasn’t been made, another thing that came to my attention this week, but actually happened earlier this year, was Disturbed’s lead vocalist David Draiman’s divorce from his wife of ten years, Lena. Draiman has a beautiful, powerful voice, a ton of musical talent — as does the entire band that comprises Disturbed — has traveled the world, has had many interesting experiences and written great music with his band…yet even he, with the money, the status in the music field, and with all the good will in the world, still ended up divorced.

Draiman is known in hard-rock fandom as being one of the nicest guys in rock or metal music. He remembers people’s names, he honestly cares about others, and some of the songs he and his band have come with in the last ten years — including “Hold on to Memories,” “The Light,” and “A Reason to Fight” — are beautiful, powerful anthems about how difficult life is, how frustrating it is when bad things happen, and how awful it can be to mourn people who are gone too soon. (“Hold on to Memories” was written partly because of the loss of his good friends Chester Bennington, lead singer of Linkin Park, and the inestimable vocalist Chris Cornell, he of Soundgarden and Audioslave fame.) Draiman also said in various places that his divorce was not due to infidelity on either side; he views this as his failure alone, mind you, from everything I’ve seen and read, but I think that’s him taking too much responsibility for something that perhaps was going to end no matter what he did.

(I say this as someone who’s been divorced. You can love someone, care about them to the Nth degree, maybe even have a child with ’em as Draiman has with his ex-wife Lena…but sometimes there’s just nothing you can do.)

Draiman, in several videos I’ve seen of live recordings made this year that I’ve viewed on YouTube (not going to link to ’em to save space), said that he feels the call of depression himself. That earlier this year — probably, and possibly elliptically, referring to his divorce — that he almost joined Cornell and Bennington in prematurely ending his life. (Both Cornell and Bennington died by suicide, two months apart. They were also good friends of each other, and Bennington died on what would’ve been Cornell’s 53rd birthday.)

See, depression can hit anyone. Even a rock star with millions in the bank, a massive following, talent to burn, all that.

Depression is just that powerful of a force to fight.

I know this myself. Every year around this time, I have to fight my own depression much harder. I think to myself, “How could I possibly have lived nearly nineteen years without my husband? It just seems like yesterday, he was here…” Then I realize it’s been such a long time, and I know with a shock that no matter how much I want him to be here in the body as well as in spirit (as I don’t think his spirit went too far away), he’ll never be here in that way for me again.

I wake up every day, every single day, and want my husband. I want to kiss him good morning. I want to kiss him good night. I want to hug him, hold his hand, talk to him, listen to his wonderful baritone voice (as he said, he couldn’t sing, but man, his speaking voice was amazing), hear how his mind works, know what he’s thinking with regards to his stories…in short, I want the incredible, amazing, wonderful, best person I’ve ever known to still walk this Earth beside me. Not just to cheer me on, though he was great at that, too. Not just because he understood me the best anyone’s ever done, either. But because he, himself, was worth everything. Absolutely everything.

It’s hard to go on when something traumatic has happened. The loss of your job — even if temporary, in Rodgers’ case, depending on whether he wants to do the extensive rehab (my guess is yes, but who knows right now?) — is a huge stressor. The loss of your marriage through divorce is also brutal.

So is widowhood.

It’s easy to say, “Find someone else.” (Or as in my case, “You’re young. You can remarry,” which I heard not two days after Michael had died. I still want to throttle that person for that insensitive comment.) It’s easy to say, “You have millions in the bank. Count your blessings.”

(Not that I have millions, ’cause I decidedly don’t. But I trust the point has been made.)

It’s really hard to get up every day, do the work of living, try to find something positive when everything inside you feels like it’s crashing to the ground, over and over again. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do, in fact.

Even if, someday, I find someone who understands me well enough to know that Michael being in my life was by far the most formative influence I’ve ever had, I’ll still miss Michael. It might be easier, if that day ever comes. (I think Michael wants it to happen. He wasn’t petty. He’d want me to find any happiness I could. Honestly, that’s how he rolled.) But it’ll never be easy.

Confronting “sadiversaries” is very hard. Dealing with the blows life sends you, all unlooked for (’cause who’d want ’em?), is also very difficult.

The only way I know is forward, though.

So, for Rodgers — not that he’s ever likely to read this — I hope he knows that the work he did with the Jets was valuable and may make the difference for one or more of the players this year. I hope he knows that this was just random, in a weird way, in the same way Kobe Bryant went down with an Achilles injury years ago (injured in an NBA game). What he did mattered, even if it doesn’t feel like it now.

And for Draiman — not that he’s ever likely to read this, either — I hope he knows that the ten years he spent with his wife and son were beautiful, memorable, special things. (Draiman also lost his dog, an Akita, at age fourteen recently. That, too, has not helped…I understand completely, as I still miss my dog Trouble, a Shih Tzu mix who died at age seventeen a few years ago.) The years he spent with his dog and feeling the unconditional love mattered, the love he had for his wife mattered, the love he continues to have for his son matters and always will.

Life, sometimes, is just damned hard. But we get up, we try, we do our best, we create or build or work hard on whatever it is that we feel called to do. Even when we’ve felt like we’ve failed at our deepest levels, what we’ve done matters. Even when our lives have been shattered, what we’ve done and who we’ve loved and how hard we’ve tried matters.

So, for the “sadiversary” that rapidly approaches on September 21, I will keep telling myself that my love for my husband mattered then, still matters now, and always will. As long as I’m alive, at least part of Michael is alive. And he’d want me to “go do the best things in life…make the most of the rest of your life, make a ride of this world while you can,” just as Disturbed’s song “Hold on to Memories” says.

I will keep endeavoring to do just that.

How do you handle “sadiversaries?” Do you have tips on how to get through the day? (I advise dark chocolate as one of ’em, just in case anyone’s wondering.) If so, leave a comment. (Or leave one anyway, even if you don’t have any tips or are fortunate enough not to have any sadiversaries…yet.)

Written by Barb Caffrey

September 13, 2023 at 4:26 am

Posted in Aaron Rodgers, heartbreaking stories, Informational Stuff, Michael B. Caffrey, Persistence, Prescient observations, Remembrance, Sports figures, Widowhood

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When Times Are Bad, Keep Going (Cautiously)

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What do you do when you encounter something that’s a difficult, intractable problem?

This thought has been one I’ve mulled over for the past several weeks, perhaps aided by the hot, humid, and nasty weather we’ve been dealing with in Wisconsin the last few weeks. There also has been long-term damage seen in the Canadian wildfire situation, not to mention Lahaina burning to the ground out in Maui. These are difficult, intractable problems that need a long-term solution, and when nothing seems to be changing — especially with regards to the Canadian wildfire problem, as it’s gone on for at least three months — it can be difficult to remember that things, in time, will likely improve. The weather changes and isn’t always awful (or at least isn’t always awful in the same way); the way we deal with long-term issues can change, too, if we wish it and work hard at it.

I know I can’t do much about the weather except adapt to it. I also know that I can’t do much to help those who are struggling with worse problems than I have, especially those that are weather-related like the Maui situation and the two hurricanes that hit Florida last week, except listen and perhaps pray while hoping for better, while continuing to deal with whatever situation I’ve got in front of me.

It’s frustrating as Hell. I dislike it intensely. But the only way through a bad situation — whether it’s weather or anything else — is to keep going. You can’t put your head in the sand and say, “I think it’s sixty degrees F outside with no wind” when it’s over 100 degrees F when the humidity has been added into the mix. You can “think cool thoughts” all you want, but that won’t change the facts.

Maybe it’s because I’m feeling more curmudgeonly today than usual, but I think this one thought is the only thing that makes sense to me: keep going, even when the situation is bad, even when everything seems pointless and stupid. Don’t give up, even if you have to retrench in some weird way just to be able to deal with whatever that’s going on that’s causing you distress. Take a step back, if you must. But don’t deny reality, because that’s pointless; don’t deny when things are bad, because that more or less gaslights yourself (as in, you don’t trust the results you, yourself came up with); don’t forget that as bad as this is, you’re smart and driven and human, and will find a way around this or any other obstacle, given time.

I also wanted to reiterate something I discussed a while back that Sharon Lee and Steve Miller put into one of their Liaden Universe books. When you’re ill, whether it’s from the heat or the cold or just because you picked up something that is giving you fits, you need to take a step back and get your rest. Eat well, hydrate well, and rest, if you are not feeling well, no matter if it’s from allergies, asthma, Covid-19, or anything else.

Also, do your best to find the humor in life whenever possible. Laughter is sometimes the best medicine of all.

Anyway, these are the thoughts that have been on my mind. I hope they’ve made a bit of sense…and for those of you struggling with intractable problems, know that I wish I could wave a magic wand and make things more bearable for you. (I don’t know how much good it is to know that, mind you. But it is the truth.)

Written by Barb Caffrey

September 7, 2023 at 12:31 am

Posted in Persistence, Writing

Tell Negative Self-Talk to Take a Hike

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Folks, I’ve recently realized something that I think has value. And that is exactly what I said in the title line: tell your negative self-talk–the stuff that hits you in the middle of the night, or maybe at other times, that says nothing you do will ever matter and that no one wants your creativity, thank you anyway–to take a hike.

See, because of my initial training as a musician, I know a lot about failure. Very rarely does a musician get through a performance playing everything the way they wanted. If you get all the notes right, you didn’t get the feeling right. If you got the feeling right, you missed notes. Maybe near the end of the concert, you thought you were finally going to have a perfect one…and then something went wrong at the last minute.

We’re human, so nothing is ever going to be perfect. This means if you want perfection, whether it’s as a writer or as a musician or as anything, you are doomed to disappointment.

Now, as for negative self-talk: it can be insidious. “Well, your sales record shows that no one wants what you write…” is one of the biggest problems I have right now, and I have to throw it out.

Besides, I know better than that. Sometimes you can do everything right, and for whatever reason, it’s not time for your books yet to make any sort of dent at all.

How do I know this? My friend Loren Jones had it happen to him. When his books were picked up by Twilight Times Books several years back, he did far better than he’d done with a previous micro-press. Same books. Same editor (yours truly). Better visibility and covers. Which all led to more sales–far, far more sales.

Yet Loren’s work hadn’t changed. He wrote good novels, then and now.

See, all we can do is our best. We can’t force the world to notice us, or our hard work. We can only continue to do the work, because it matters to us, and because it’s the only thing we want (and need) to do.

It can be difficult to tell those awful words inside you, that tell you that nothing you do matters or ever will, to take a hike. But you must do it.

Don’t let your fears keep you from realizing your dreams. And those fears include, most definitely, negative self-talk.

Written by Barb Caffrey

August 20, 2023 at 3:30 pm

Posted in Prescient observations, Writing

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