37 Thousand Strangers. 1 friend.

A friend I’ve known for about fifty years told me recently that she reads this blog from time to time.

My first thought was, oh shit, my version of yikes...

Not because I didn’t want her reading it. What caught me off guard was realizing that somebody who actually knows me had been reading things I’ve spent years avoiding revealing to people who actually know me..

The blog has more than 37,000 views now, oddly enough, probably because during my photography days I had around 5,000 followers on Facebook and would occasionally post links to things I wrote here. I assume a lot of those views came from there.

Most, if not all, of those people were/are strangers.

I was apparently perfectly OK with thirty-seven thousand strangers reading about my life for some odd reason. Strangers feel safe. They don’t know enough about you to connect all the dots. They don’t know what you were like fifty years ago, what you’ve conveniently left out of a story, or whether something you’ve written sounds completely unlike the person they remember.

But knowing someone who actually has some of those dots was reading too made me feel like I needed to go back through the posts and see what all I had revealed..

This particular someone was a girlfriend back when we were both very young, and she hadn’t yet refined her judgment..

Fifty years ago.

I’m still having trouble with that number because there is apparently some part of my brain that thinks I’m not old enough to have known anyone for fifty years. The mirror continues to disagree..

Our lives went in completely different directions a long time ago, but she has somehow always remained around the edges of mine. Every once in a while she checks in to see how I’m doing and what I’m up to. Nothing complicated. Nothing expected. She just checks in, while no one left in my own family knows whether I’m alive or might have died six, eight, or ten months ago..

This year she remembered my birthday when I had nearly forgotten it myself. I wrote here about that , that she was the last person on earth who remembered, and fifty years later she still did.

What I didn’t know was that she had also been reading some of this stuff here..

That immediately made me wonder exactly what the hell I had written..

The answer is apparently quite a bit..

The strange part is that this blog exists largely because there are things about my own father I will never know. He died in 1980, and I didn’t even know.

I never really knew him; we had only met once or twice when I was a kid and it was just a kid and a man I was told was my father. By the time I reached the age when I wanted to know more about him, who he had been beyond the basic facts of his life, he was gone. There was no written trail telling me what he thought about, what he found funny, what worried him, what made him happy, what he regretted, what mattered to him, and maybe even what he thought about me, if at all..

Those are the things I would like to know now but never will..

That became part of the reason for this blog. I had a son while I was still pretty much a kid myself, and he was barely over the age of two when I was summarily kicked to the curb, so he never really got to know his father either.

I didn’t want him to someday reach the point I did a few years ago, realizing I was now an orphan and finding there was nothing left about my father but unanswered questions..

So this blog became a de facto documentary and eventually a very long letter to my son. Something he might find someday if he ever wanted to know who his father was in my own words, how I lived, what mattered to me, and some of the good, bad, and uncomfortable things that normally don’t make it into the official version of someone’s life.

Whether he ever reads any of it is another matter.

I’ve always assumed he probably won’t.

That made writing here strangely easy. I could put things on a page I would probably never sit across from somebody and say out loud. Nobody interrupts a page. Nobody changes their facial expression halfway through the sentence. Nobody tells you what you should be feeling or asks what you really mean.

I write it down, get it out of my head and move on.

A few months ago I described myself as having an audience of one. Me.

I wrote that whatever I put here wasn’t designed for anyone who just happened to stumble across it. Apparently I forgot that public websites occasionally have a public.

Meanwhile, everywhere else, I was purposely going in the opposite direction.

Years ago I started deleting people I actually knew from Facebook. Eventually I deleted almost all of the 5000 thousand followers I had accumulated and nearly everything I had posted.

I wanted to disappear from view and, frankly, I still like the idea. I think I just stopped wanting an audience, especially an audience that never really knew me and never will.

Which makes it fairly amusing that while I was busy erasing myself from the place where thousands of people could casually see me, I left this blog sitting here containing more about who I actually am than anything I deleted.

My plan to disappear apparently included leaving a detailed map. One that I clearly hadn’t thought through. Then somebody from fifty years ago found it. That is part that surprised me most.

She knew the much earlier version of me, before most of what I write about here ever happened. Now, from time to time, she gets a glimpse of what became of that guy and some of what was going on inside him along the way.

Thirty-seven thousand strangers can read these pages and remain strangers. She can’t. She already knew the person before the story, and now she knows some of the ups and downs along the way to here.. 

But no, Teresa, it doesn’t bother me that you’re reading some of these things. If anything, I’m glad the one person I discovered sitting out there was someone who has known me for fifty years.

I just wish some of what you found here had been a little more uplifting.

I’ve become very accustomed to living inside empty rooms and was surprised when I found out I wasn’t actually alone in this one.. 

Peace

 It’s been a while. A few important things have transpired over the past several months, or longer; I can’t remember. Health, Mom’s house and belongings, Linda, and my peace of mind. Not necessarily in that order.

My colonoscopy = better than expected. No polyps or signs that things had worsened after finding almost a dozen polyps last year. I'll take it..

New findings = I have fibrosis of the liver, a cyst on my kidney, and one on my pancreas. This and these, I'm guessing, are what is meant by getting older sucks. 

The liver doctor says I need to take a new drug that has been shown to prevent further deterioration of the liver scarring and may keep me from progressing to stage 4.

Great.

Then she said, "but the drug is extremely expensive.." Expensive, I thought, is a relative term, so I asked, "so how expensive?" Her response was something like, "thousands.." How many thousands are we talking about here I asked.. Turns out this drug is $4200 per month! OK, well, that actually IS expensive.

 On the bright side, Medicare approved coverage for it, and a grant from a foundation that helps people who need seriously expensive medications covered the copay. Wow. I was shocked but pleased. 

I've dropped 60 pounds since August 2024 when I began learning of my health problems. My BMI has gone from the obese range to normal today. I go to the gym almost every day now and do cardio and some strength exercises. Turns out at 70 you can't eat like you're 17 anymore. Who knew- 

So, there’s that.

About four weeks ago, after seven years of holding on to Mom’s house and everything in it, I decided it was time to begin the process of letting go.

I think my various health issues finally kicked me into gear. After seven years of paying the taxes and insurance, keeping everything clean, mowing the yard, and maintaining the place, it was time.

I would say I am about 97 percent finished now. There are only a few remaining items to clear out, followed by the sale of the house.

That final 3 percent will not be any easier than the first 97 percent. Watching the things Mom loved leave the house and be rehomed has been tough, but she left it all for me to handle because she believed I could get it all done, and I am honoring her faith in me to do so.

Some of the rehoming has been surprisingly heartwarming. Several people have sent me photographs showing what they have done with the things they took and how they are now being used.

I have had to do all of this by myself and, considering the health concerns, the physical work, and the emotional toll it's taken, I think I have held up pretty well. (so far)

I did make the mistake of feeling proud enough of what I had accomplished that I wanted to share my progress with a family member, and true to form, I regret it. 

Instead of encouragement to keep pushing through what has been the most difficult experience of my life since Mom passed away, I got "so why are you telling me this," and "you're upsetting me.." etc.

Every time that call crosses my mind, I ask myself: What was I even thinking? Then, headlong into the conversation I had with Mom one time where I was complaining about some of the people I was working with who didn't have the same high standards I did, and Mom explaining to me something I should have already known at that age: that the fastest path to disappointment is expecting others to work the way you do, carry the same standards and so on. 100% right and 100% hard to accept.  

Why did I expect even a slight recognition, even from a family member, for managing to survive such a gut-wrenching time in my life? Why did it feel like a gut punch when I know how people are and had the luxury of a mother who had already explained that path to disappointment I was feeling yet again? 

Maybe because my experience with almost everyone other than Mom has always been some version of the same discouragement:

"You can't do that. You aren't allowed to go there. You aren't qualified. You don't understand; there's a process. I can't let you. You’re going to fail. It isn't done like this, and what makes you think you can just walk in here and do this?"

I realized the mistake only after I hung up the phone. I was pissed off, but not at the one on the other end, at myself for even attempting to share. 

Lesson learned, provided I never make the same mistake again during whatever time I have left.

Then there is my sweet sister, Linda.

I went to see her at the facility where she lives last week. The experience was both the same as usual and very different.

When I walked inside, I looked around and asked where she was. A worker I did not recognize, who must be new, asked, “Which Linda?”

I told her, but she did not seem to know who I was talking about. I finally just said I'll go look for her.

I walked past the large common room and continued down the hallway, and there she was, standing with her back against the wall beside another patient.

She did not seem to recognize me.

I told her that I was her brother, which appeared to confuse her a little. She did not know my name. After I told her, I asked whether we could go into the large room and find a place to sit.

We did.

Once we sat down, she became more talkative than I had ever seen her in that facility. I could see the Linda I've always known in her reactions and in the conversation we were having.

She looked at another patient and remarked that the woman was sweet and then added, "well she looks sweet anyway." 

I was surprised and happy at the same time. Linda was still herself to a degree I had not seen in a very long time.

As we sat there, she leaned over and rested her head on my shoulder.

It was the sweetest thing.

She laughed several times. She even punched me on the shoulder after I made a sarcastic remark about a noise.

Her mind and thought process seemed more alive that day than I had seen in quite some time.

Eventually, it was time for me to begin the process of leaving—a process I find incredibly soul-crushing.

We had been sitting off to the side by ourselves. The rest of the group was gathered in front of the television, and an empty chair was available. I asked her if she wanted to sit in that chair and watch some of the show that was on.

She was reluctant.

I got her up and began walking with her toward the chair. When we reached it, she did not want to sit down.

Instead, she held tightly to my arm.

When I told her I had to go home, she said she wanted to go with me. She asked me to take her to her home.

She said she had not seen her husband and wanted to know where he was.

All I could think to do was redirect the conversation. I told her I had just come from a doctor’s appointment and had not spoken with anyone. She reluctantly sat down, and I held and kissed her, and told her I loved her and I would see her again soon. 

Linda—the old Linda, the person she once was—was still in there.

I could see her.

I could hear her.

I did not sleep for one single minute that night because I could not stop thinking about her being in that place and what she said to me when I was leaving.

I pray for her regularly. I visit Bobby’s gravesite and tell him that she is being taken care of.

I pray for the people responsible for making decisions about her life, and I ask God to give them the guidance and light they need to change course if a change is necessary..

I have to keep faith and believe that Linda is all right and at peace.

But I fear she may not be at peace at all.

Mom, if I had ever known, I would have never let you go- 

if you know you know.

 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=91IrYX7DIrM&list=RD91IrYX7DIrM&start_radio=1

yes, this one is for you.

Call who calls you. 

Love who loves you. 

Support who supports you. 

Ignore who ignores you. 

Never chase people who are comfortable losing you. 

Your life, mine, are not random. Our story was written before we were born.

not for everyone

I tend to react to news, good or bad almost immediately. Not because it serves me well, but because that is how I am wired. I would not recommend this method to others if they can avoid it.

It does not always put me in the best position for personal peace. But it is real, it is me, and it is not designed for an outcome. It simply feels better mentally to release whatever pressure the news builds inside me.

I do not have much of an outlet for expression anymore, other than my audience of one, myself.

I feel something, I write it out, and my audience of one appreciates rather than judges, takes my words as they are, and doesn't try to interpret. 

However, my writing is perceived by those who may accidentally run across it, I would simply say this: my style can be heavy, brutally honest, and unfiltered. My writing may not be for you, and be assured it was not designed with you in mind.

Given that, if anything I do or say makes you feel uncomfortable, I would strongly suggest you find another source of reading that better fits your journey to find your own peace.

A letter to my son.

 This blog began as a documentary of sorts and then just a letter to my son Jason Michael Zukerman, and not Jason Harvey Zukerman. The latter, I don't even know who that is. 

I never really knew my own father, and after he died, it became almost impossible to learn who he had been. What he felt was important, his health history, his sense of humor, and his favorite jokes, and what he felt were the important things in life. I never knew any of those things, and I never will. 

Only now, after learning of his passing some 20-30 years ago in 1980 and much too late, did it become important enough to me to search for anything I could find about the other half of me. I did not want my son to face that same silence if he should ever come to that place where I am today where it begins to matter. 

 These pages here are meant to leave behind a firsthand account to fill the void if one is ever felt and if my son has questions about what his father was about. Who I was, how I lived, what mattered to me, the good, the bad, and the uncomfortable, in my own words. Something I wish my father had left for me. 

Although the words contained in my posts are often heavy, they are a true and honest account of a man who had a son while still a kid himself, who never really got to know him. I came into this world under difficult circumstances. I often felt what I could only express in words on a page and not in person. So I wrote in my own voice and tone, not as some cry for sympathy or approval, but just a raw account in case the day ever comes that my son might want to know.

 

old photos

The older I get, the quieter I become.

No longer chasing friendships. I stopped reaching out to people who stopped reaching back many years ago. Validation isn't important to me. I already know who I am, and I no longer have the time or workspace in my head to waste being concerned about what others think of me.

There are fewer people and much less emotional noise from the outside making it inside.

Self-reflection and mindless regret fill my days. Solitude has become my peace.

Family has become an old photo and a distant memory. Old photos from a life that slipped away many years ago are scattered around in my mind while the link to my past continues to fade. 

Time is more precious than anything I thought mattered before I understood how little of it I have left. Take care of your health while you still have some left. 

It's not the number.

When I think about having to say out loud that I’m 70, something inside me recoils like waking up and lying next to a slithering snake. It doesn’t feel right. But what I’m learning is that the things that come with realizing I’m 70 are far worse for my mental health than the number itself. 

Nothing really changed in my head when the birthdays before this one came and went. But then I started learning about all my health issues, and overnight my thoughts moved from I’m getting older to how much time do I have left?

My calendar, once filled with shoots and trips overseas to exotic places, is now filled with blood draws, fasting, scans, and doctor appointments. My determination to get to the gym every day has begun to fade. The thoughts about how much time is left keep running through my head on a never-ending loop. This mortality thing is a new and heavy burden to add to lab results and the never-ending worst-case diagnoses.  

Today, a roofing vulture was telling me the roof he could put on would last 25 years. The only thought was how I knew I didn't have 25 more years, so why would I even give a shit. 

That is what has changed.

The time frames of everyday life are no longer the same. The future that once had meaning is now faded and muted. I can actually look back on the same number of years I may have left and remember exactly what I was doing. That realization is tough to absorb.

I feel the downward pressure on my peace of mind every day now. I worked hard to rebuild some of that peace after Mom passed away, and now it feels like I wasted a lot of time doing it. The bad days are worse, and even the decent days are crushed by the reality of my mortality. 

Google's algorithm has been putting YouTube videos of people trying to cope after being told they have very little time left to live. And like a dumbass, I've been watching them. My mind has started going there.

The silence that has become my daily life is deafening. The very real possibility that I may pass away alone without anyone knowing for a long while has moved from a distant bad dream to a very real likelihood.

The emotional toll blindsided me.

When you can actually see the end from where you are, even though you can't know exactly when, it's become a real thing, and one that sits on top of every other thought I try to have. I feel its weight when I go to the store, mow the yards, or listen to music on my headset. It's there when I go to the gym or sit in the sun; it's my constant companion now. 

I've watched many videos of people facing health hardships who somehow find something inside themselves that gets them through to keep fighting and working for a better outcome. I've been working like that too with my weight and exercise and trying to think about something else, and it's exhausting. Most of my health issue findings are only a couple of months old, and I'm still trying to digest the various diagnoses. I am still in shock, and the hits just keep coming. 

Is the motivation coming to keep fighting?

Will it get here in time?

Will all this constant anxiety make my conditions worse?

It is most certainly damaging the time I have left.

This blog is a conversation with my own mind. The questions I wonder about can only be asked and answered by the only person left in my life who is still here.

Me.

It's not the number. 

It's time.

 

who will feed the cats

And now the stress test result = Abnormal.

At this point, it doesn’t look like I’m getting better, only less worse. That is not the outcome I was hoping all the effort I've put in would buy me. More and more, these reports feel more like a look back at the cause of death on my autopsy report.

And the worst part;

What I had hoped for was just some small level of better. What I got was just less worse. After all the effort, that's a real bitch. Every new result looks like a footnote printed on a death certificate.

Wondering out loud now about how much more of this fight I can wage, and whether the fight itself is making these conditions worse. 

I can't stop this truth in my head; no one is coming to save you, my brother. No one.

In life as in death, you will face this alone. 

And who will feed the cats may be the oddest last concern I'll leave having.