I recently watched an older movie based on the Stephen King book, Hearts in Atlantis, and the clairvoyant man, Ted, convinces an injured girl that she has the heart of a lion, just before resetting her dislocated shoulder.  It gives her courage then, and at other times going forward.

Forrest, our little 12-pound chihuahua and dachshund rescue dog, had courage to spare.  And so it is that on the day after his passing, I am trying to find mine too.  

He was a one year old rescue dog, up for adoption, when I first saw his picture on Petfinders and fell in love with that face. At the time, we already had 2 dogs, one big, one medium, but our daughter had always lamented that she wanted one of her own, and I, as it were, could never have enough of them.

As it turned out, our daughter was starting high school and wasn’t really ready to be solely responsible for a dog. And the rescue told us quite a few fibs about Forrest’s attributes.  Or maybe they just forgot to mention a few things:

1. Leash reactivity? A cross between John Travolta’s strut, and little Godzilla on a leash
2. Potty trained?  Ha ha ha ha ha!  Also, never if it’s raining outside, or icy cold.
3. Good with small children or strangers at the door?  Yes, if they like dogs that try to bite them.

So he had issues, but by the time that really sunk in, my heart had fallen for this little guy. He wasn’t perfect but he was 200 pounds of love in a 12 pound package. Devotion was his middle name. He quickly became the leader of my fan club, following my every step, and warming my lap whenever he could. He slept against me, under the covers, every night. I had to discourage his protective tendencies when he tried to become the lion guarding my lap. But there was no doubt that he would defend me with every ounce of his being should I truly need it.

And he had even more love to go around, for my husband, our children, some of our friends, and especially my husband’s elderly parents. When my mother-in-law moved in with us after her husband passed, Forrest would wait at her bedroom door till she emerged in the morning, then ride on her lap in the wheelchair to the kitchen for coffee.  

Forrest loved to sing, and our kids (and my husband) encouraged it at every turn.  He was a rather shrill soprano, to be honest, but his high-pitched yodels and howls, delivered with gusto, delighted all who heard them.  His musical bent extended to our classic rock cover band, and he loved to be in attendance when the band rehearsed in the basement, quietly enjoying the music unless we played “Werewolves of London”, at which point, he had to join in the howls.  Owooooooo!

In his younger days, he was nimble and quick, always underfoot yet never getting stepped on.His speed was sometimes a drawback when it came to our big dog, Beldar.  Forrest flying across the yard was an instant turn on of Beldar’s prey drive. I would yell to him, “Run, Forrest, run!” But Forrest was nobody’s fool, and as soon as he felt Beldar on his heels, he would drop flat to the grass, not moving, and Beldar would instantly lose interest in chasing him.  Quick AND smart.  

Did I just say he was smart?  Well, yes, but only for his own purposes.  Sit? Stay? Down? Be quiet? Well, yes, if you could call doing it for one second as a success. That’s all he could manage, I guess, with that shivery chihuahua energy.

Forrest was also a champion beggar at meal or snack time.  He would get impatient waiting till we finished, so somewhere near the end of a meal he would begin making the most pitiful mewling sounds you’ve ever heard, while his eyes implored you with a look that said, “Please, sir.  Can I have some more?”  Oliver had nothing on him.

Like many mixed breeds, he was generally healthy as a horse.  We made only one trip to the ER vet, when he dislocated his shoulder flying around the hallway corner at top speed, sliding and hitting the wall.  After waiting several hours to see the vet, he had managed to pop it back in and they found no further injury (“…the heart of a lion”).

Almost six years ago, we moved to Washington state, and built a home in the forest, where our yard was frequented by many deer.  The first few years, Forrest didn’t hesitate to give chase if he got the opportunity, and his quick bursts in any deer's direction sent them running.

But in the last two years, he slowed down immensely. Arthritis in his spine, loose luxating patellas, worsening cataracts, failing hearing, incontinence, and symptoms of dementia set in. He no longer chased our deer visitors, but they still feared him, or maybe he was just confusing, sometimes walking in their direction, then turning away and walking in the other direction. They would watch him, fearful but curious, whenever he was outside. It was funny and sad at the same time.

It took us a year to steel ourselves to say goodbye to him.  We made decisions to put him down, and then changed our mind.  Recently, with him sleeping about 21 hours a day, and the only light in his eyes was when he looked over at me to make sure I was near him, or when food was going into his bowl, we finally made the decision to have the vet come to our home.  We knew that we preferred him to leave this world in our arms, pain-free, rather than waiting for the inevitable seizure or heart failure along with the pain and fear that would ensue at the ER.  We held him, fed him special treats like ice cream and his own hamburger, and when the vet got to our house, it took every bit of resolve not to say, “We can’t do this.”

He left the world at our home, on my lap, while my husband and I stroked him and told him how much he was loved, until that little lion’s heart stopped beating.

As heartbreaking as it was (and still is), I would love to exit this world that way when the time comes.

Gone, but never forgotten, our sweet little Forrest.

5/1/2007—12/29/24
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​

I'll take LOVE, please.  

I love my country. I love democracy. I love our diversity as people. I love justice, when it's applied fairly to all, including the rich and powerful. I love my life. I love my freedom. I love my right to choose. I love TRUTH (that's a favorite five-letter word of mine).

Is the United States of America perfect?  No, it is always a work in progress.  There are always more things to fix, and more people who need a hand.  But it's definitely in a much better place today than it was in early January 2021.  Our economy is the strongest in the world, the strongest it's ever been; record job growth; manufacturing jobs returning; paychecks growing. At the same time, greed is growing, too, as companies continue to price gouge us on groceries and gas and housing. The immigration system remains broken and in need of strong repairs (and remains so thanks in no small part to a lack of bipartisanship in the house, and whispers from an ex-president).

In order to choose love, I have to choose the candidates that are offering it, and that's candidates Kamala Harris and Tim Walz.  They came from middle-class backgrounds, they worked hard to get where they are, and they can relate to the American people and their struggles to improve their lives.    They are also offering HOPE, another great 4-letter word.  They have real plans to improve our lives, from addressing price gouging, to restoring women's rights to choose; real plans to help small business, to help parents pay for daycare, and to make the extremely-wealthy pay their fair share. Plans to address the housing crisis, plans to continue to stand with our allies, plans to treat all Americans the same, regardless of color, religion, gender.  

I don't want to go back to what the other candidates--Trump and Vance--are offering: Continued division and chaos. Prejudicial treatment of people of color, LGBTQ people, and women.  Christian nationalism, in a country whose foundation was always about freedom of religion, not forcing one on us all. Offering friendship with dictators, and abandonment of our allies in Europe. Promising to use the military against our own people, and labeling those of us who don't agree with their policies as "the enemy within".  All of that is based in hate, not love.  

This is an election unlike any I've ever seen before, nor want to see again:  Love vs. Hate.

​I choose love.  Always.

NOTE TO READERS:  ADULT CONTENT, TRIGGER WARNING (CHILDHOOD ABUSE)


I’m turning 70 this year, my stepfather/adopted father is long dead, and I don’t know why my subconscious is awakening this topic again.  

This sudden reappearance in a nightmare, seemingly out of nowhere, worries me. Am I a dormant volcano of repressed anger about to blow?  

I scared the crap out of my husband last night.  I was screaming, and he couldn’t wake me.  He finally even lightly slapped me, and next in desperation pulled me half up till I finally opened my eyes.  Of course, I fought him, because he then became the assailant in my dream.  He became my stepfather.

I felt that reaction, and that scream, in my dream.  It was not a scream of fear.  It was a scream of shaking, erupting anger.  In the dream I shook off his attempt to hold me to him, restrain me against my will, and I did so with a Hulk-ian reaction, my scream full of rage, my body with strength, my mind an inferno.

Still, I’m crying instead of raging as I write this.  It’s fucking irritating to me that I’m still bothered by childhood abuse.  Still angry.

I lived so many of my years growing up just trying to push it all down.  Trying to find the bright side. Tamping down the anger. Hiding the truth from my mother.  Wishing she’d care enough to notice. Gritting my teeth.  Frustrated.  Furious. Pretending. Laughing at them. Longing to be loved. Hating. Swallowing my loathing. Afraid. Brave. Ready to cry. Ready to scream. Ready to run. Wishing I was capable of violence.  Glad that I wasn’t.  But still wishing. 

I eventually confided in friends in high school.  I told my first husband.  Told my second husband.  I’ve written about it, though only alluding to it, without any real details. I’ve written about it, in detail, in a memoir still in process.

But it still seems to reside in me, hide in me, bide it’s time in me. It’s still a dark entity that can rise up like bile in my throat, slip like acrid smoke into my dreams and choke me.

What do you do with all these feelings toward those who were supposed to love and take care of you?  When everyone in your childhood let you down? Your mother, your father, your adoptive father/stepfather.  Your grandfather died, your grandmother sighed. Every single one.  Every single one either wasn’t there, didn’t care, or was the spider in our lair.  

My nightmare.

#nightmare #abuse #childhoodabuse #baddream #memoir #metoo 

Yes, things were breaking bad in New Mexico for me.  And they were about to get worse.

We left the Phoenix Earthship in Taos, and drove to Santa Fe to spend the night before heading to the airport in Albuquerque.  It was Halloween night, and my son Sean and his wife Melissa had already left for the airport, while the four of us, my bff, and my youngest son Brandon and wife Yating, remained for one more night. 

The plan was to go out to dinner in Santa Fe, and then get to bed at a decent hour before our airport trip the next morning.  There were plenty of restaurants in the area, so we picked one several blocks from our hotel, and headed there together.

I lagged behind as we walked toward the restaurant, because once again, my lungs felt odd.  It felt a bit the way that I imagined drowning might feel like.  I couldn't clear my chest, and it seemed liquid filled.  I could barely walk the couple blocks but I wasn't willing to confess to my best friend and family that something was really wrong.  For all I knew, it would go away.  It was the altitude.  It was the cold night air.  It was anything but what I was secretly afraid it was.

Making up some excuse that the altitude was again bothering me, we did make it to the restaurant eventually.  As soon as we were seated, I got back up and headed to the bathroom.  There, maybe I could cough and get rid of that terrible feeling of drowning lungs.  

As soon as I was alone in the ladies room, I grabbed some tissue and attempted to cough and clear my lungs.  The tissue was immediately blood red.  I kept coughing, and filling tissue after tissue with blood.  From my lungs.  I was equally terrified, embarrassed, and angry at myself. YOU FINALLY DID IT, DONNA.  YOU HAVE CANCER.  WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU GOING TO SAY TO YOUR KIDS?

It was everything I could do to return to my seat in the restaurant and pretend I was sort of okay.  I couldn't eat more than a few bites.  And the walk back to the hotel was as difficult as the walk to the restaurant.  I continued to hide this discovery from my bff and my family.  I was not going to the emergency room so far from home since I wasn't dying...yet.  I would go to a doctor when I got home.

Somehow, I managed to get through that night, and the next long day of travel, without any more incidents like the one at the restaurant.  My first evening at home, I didn't mention it to my husband, either.  MAYBE IT HAS GONE AWAY.  MAYBE IT WAS JUST A FREAK THING.  

I even hiked with my dog the next day.  But that evening, it happened all over again.  I broke down and told my husband the truth, though I refused to go to the ER until the following day.  What was the point?  I was going for a diagnosis, not a cure.

On November 2, I quit smoking.  On November 2, I also went to the ER, where at least the issue I was having happened there, too (you know how when you go to the ER you suddenly feel better?  I did not feel better, and was still coughing blood).  They did a CT scan with contrast, and referred me to a pulmonologist.  They hinted at possible cancer.

There is a shortage of healthcare workers where we live, so it took two months to get in to see the pulmonologist.  When he finally walked into his examining room where I was waiting, he must have seen the terror on my face because the first thing he said to me was, "You can quit worrying.  You don't have lung cancer."  I wanted to rip off my mask and kiss him, but figured that might be inappropriate.  

The prognosis wasn't perfect, but it was a lot better than cancer.  It was mild to moderate emphysema, and if I continued not to smoke, exercised, and used the medicine he prescribed each day, my life would not be cut short.  It's a weird thing when someone tells you that you have emphysema and you feel like celebrating, but that's the truth.  I felt like I had dodged a bullet, and in some ways, I did.

It's been over a year since I last smoked, and though I likely won't be climbing any mountains, I'm still able to do most things I want to do.  The universe gave me one last chance to erase that tombstone, and I finally took it.  

I guess things didn't break all that bad in New Mexico after all. I am one very lucky lady, and my daughter is happy to at last be wrong.

​

Who knew my eight year old daughter was prophetic? 

I certainly didn’t, not that day.  That day was the day, about 21 years ago, when I finished my cigarette in the garage, returned to the house through the utility room and found a drawing of a tombstone with my name on it taped to the door.  I asked my daughter why she’d drawn that, and she said that because I wouldn’t quit smoking, I would never live to see her get married.

Whoa.  That certainly gave me pause.

But just a pause.  Yes, the drawing (and my daughter’s feelings) gave me pause, but...the cigarettes gave me nicotine.   Oh, I tried to quit.  Over and over and over.  Nicotine patches, which gave me nightmares and rashes on my arm.  Nicotine gum, which I then became addicted to along with the cigarettes.  Wellbutrin, which was working great until I broke out in hives.  Chantix, which made me so nauseous I couldn’t take it long enough to quit.  

Even society seemed to want me to quit.  No smoking at work, not even on the grounds or in your car.  No smoking in restaurants, and finally, no smoking even in bars.  No smoking within 10 feet of a door.  Even that old ‘smoker camaraderie’ was disappearing, considering there were fewer of us all the time.  But still I continued to smoke.

Though I smoked far less these days, I had planned to finally quit when I retired and my husband and I relocated to the Pacific Northwest.  We moved into our house in the woods that my husband built, in a creative little hippie town surrounded by natural beauty.  I planned to write, and hike, and commune with nature, now that my life was free of job constraints. I needed to quit smoking so I could increase my stamina and climb those uphill trails to those beautiful places.  

Also, I had yet to meet a fellow smoker anywhere in the neighborhood.  I decided I would just confine my smoking to my back patio, where only the squirrels, birds and deer knew my dirty little secret. (In fact, the deer learned when to show up and beg for treats.  All they had to do was sniff that cigarette smoke in the air, and they knew I'd be outside.)

Yes, I was going to quit soon.  It’s not a good fit to live in "organic land", surrounded by people with healthy lifestyles, while I’m puffing on Marlboros.  I needed to quit, dammit, and I would.  Maybe next week.  Okay, well, that’s not a good time, probably the following week.  Or...soon.

While my family had given up on encouraging me to quit, apparently the universe had not.  Outside an Earthship in Taos, New Mexico, on a cold and beautiful desert starry night, the universe gave me a first "taste" of what my future might be.  

It wasn't good.

I was there with my best friend, two of my sons and their wives.  On our last night in the weird and wonderful Earthship before moving on to Santa Fe, the rest of the gang was inside playing a last card game.  I went outside for a cigarette.  The sky was beautiful, but the air was icy cold.  No doubt the cold, along with the elevation and the effect it had on my breathing--I could barely walk half a block without having to stop and try to catch my breath--all combined to create a perfect storm for my lungs.  

I couldn't finish the cigarette without coughing, so I gave up and went back inside.  As soon as my face hit the warm, humid air of the earthsnip's greenhouse that you walk through to get in, it felt as though my lungs had filled up partway with something.  I made an excuse and went right to bed.  I didn't know what the issue was, but I was terrified.

I was terrified because the overwhelming thought I was having (and had been having for months) was this:  I smoked for too many years, I now have lung cancer, I'm going to die, and it's my own damn fault.

​And if that was the case, my daughter was, indeed, prophetic.  

How perfect, that I was in New Mexico, when things began...breaking bad.

​(Part 2 coming next week)

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​

From my perspective, the sight of a wild deer is a gift.  I grew up in suburban Illinois, and though we saw an occasional deer over the years, I could count how many I’d ever seen, close or at a distance, on two hands.  The midwestern plains our homes were built on meant our neighborhoods held few patches of forest for them to hide.  I longed to see them, to observe them, perhaps to lock eyes for a moment, to send them a message:  You are safe with me. In the 65 years I lived in Illinois, that opportunity never happened.

Moving to the Olympic Peninsula in Washington state changed everything. Blacktail deer have been passing through my backyard almost daily since we built our house two years ago in this heavily forested neighborhood about 15 minutes from downtown Port Townsend.  Our neighborhood is about 1 1/2 miles long by about the same distance wide, bordered by State Park forest on one side, Puget Sound on another. 1 1/2 miles is generally the territorial range of a blacktail deer, which means these deer live here, in the neighborhood, full time.  This is their territory, and we share it with them.
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Here, in an area more rural and heavily forested everywhere, their numbers are greater.  Deer have adapted well to our invasions of their territory, and have managed to thrive regardless. From the time I moved in, I watched them from my windows for months.  I researched information about these deer, both locally and in general, about their habits and behavior.  I read complaints on the app Next Door from a number of residents in town cursing the quantity of deer and the damage they do, sometimes even describing them as aggressive and dangerous.  I heard from neighbors who also loved to watch them, and from those who preferred not to see any on their property.  Most neighbors who insist on planting deer delicacies such as roses and other flowers soon learned to fence them off from deer, use motion-activated sprinklers, or various smelly sprays to deter them.  Dogs will deter them as well, if out in a fenced area.  

Personally, I knew from the start that I didn’t want to deter the deer.  I have dogs, so carefully checked my yard to be sure it was free of deer before letting them out.  I purposely had shrubbery and flowers planted that were not a favorite of deer (though the words “deer resistant” don’t always hold true).  I lost a few plantings here and there to the deer, especially young fawns, who will nibble and taste just about anything as they are learning what is good to eat.  But I consider that normal “collateral damage” for the privilege of viewing these wild, gentle, graceful creatures.

When I heard from one neighbor that she knew of a few folks that fed the deer apples on occasion, I finally decided I was going to try it.  There was a mother and older fawn that came through regularly and often watched me with curiosity if I was out on my patio.  So, on one visit I went into the house and cut up some apples, and threw the pieces out to them, as I moved back to assure them they were safe.  The apple pieces were soon gobbled up by the little family, and shortly after the doe and fawn went on their way.  

This became the beginning of a relationship with these two particular deer, one that grew and changed as time went on.  I named them Wilma and Pebbles, and the fawn was particularly curious from the start, and the most likely to appear first, hopeful and waiting.  Wilma did not like to share with Pebbles, so I quickly learned to throw their apple slices in opposite directions so Wilma wouldn’t chastise Pebbles.  Sadly, Pebbles was about 9 months old when her mother Wilma appeared in our yard with a badly broken leg, and then was never seen again.  We believe Wilma became a local cougar’s prey, since there had been a predation in the neighborhood a few days before.  Only Pebbles returned from that point on, looking a bit lost, and she began to come daily and sometimes more, to visit, receive some apples, and bed down in a safe place for a nap.

Pebbles and I soon came to an “understanding”.  She would come into my yard, stand about three feet from the stone wall of my patio, always in the same general spot, staring in my window hopefully.  I would come out with sliced apples, and eventually I could sit on the wall while I fed her, at first by throwing the slices, and later by putting them in a bowl.  Over time, I added wildlife feed on occasion as well, which is basically nuts and seeds and a bit of corn.  For me, this simple interaction with Pebbles each day was a dream come true.  My friends back in Illinois soon started calling me “the Disney princess”, with all the photos I was posting of me and my little friend Pebbles.

I am well aware that feeding deer is a complicated and controversial topic.  I was always torn over whether I was doing the wrong thing.  “Don’t feed wild animals” I was told. “They’ll become dependent and then starve if you don’t feed them”.  “They’ll get aggressive!”  But after months of interactions with Pebbles, I saw neither aggression, nor any detrimental dependence.  She came by regularly, yes.  I fed her an apple or two, and a couple handfuls of wildlife seed.  Hardly enough to fill her belly for even half a day.  She was friendly, but cautious.  Over time, as she grew, she sometimes disappeared for weeks at a time, but then would return.  She was never “aggressive”, instead quickly bolting if I ever moved too suddenly or too boldly toward her.
​
I understand the “why you shouldn’t feed wild animals” caution.  I do. But I think it depends on the type of animal, as well as how and how much you feed them.  Food should not be left out around your yard, ever.  Makes perfect sense.  I do not want a visit from a bear, a bobcat, or a cougar—they pose a danger to my family and my pets.  And while I love raccoons, they are far more dexterous and capable of causing damage to my home and my pets as well as bringing disease, so I never feed them, either.  It took me days, for example, to convince one raccoon that she was not welcome IN my house...she kept coming to my patio door and pawing as if to come in.  Several squirts of water from a hose finally convinced her to seek accommodations elsewhere..

But I do feed the birds - I have a hanging bird feeder that enjoys a lot of visitors, as well as a hummingbird feeder.  It’s interesting that pretty much no one thinks feeding birds is bad for them or us.  Aren’t they wild as well?  Heck, they could poke your eye out if they wished to!  I feed the squirrels, too, in a squirrel feeder I’ve hung on a tree, and I put just enough in that they will quickly empty it daily, otherwise it attracts raccoons.

As for the deer, feeding Pebbles—and another doe named Jane, who visits with her babies—in a limited, responsible way brings me pure joy.  They wait patiently for me to come out of the house and put some snacks in the bowl.  They allow me to stand close by, talking to them and photographing them.  They look me in the eye with curiosity and cautious trust, and Jane has even sniffed my cheek and allowed me to pat her head, as she is far bolder than Pebbles.  They are sweet, gentle, and they trust me not to hurt them.  I treat them with the same respect I would a horse, knowing they are capable of inflicting damage on me but not motivated to do so as long as I am kind and careful.

So, I refuse to feel guilty about it anymore.  No matter how I interact with the deer, I am not attracting them to the neighborhood—they live here already.  I have seen no evidence that Pebbles and Jane are now chasing after people in the street demanding food.  They are smart enough to know the difference. They pass through our yards naturally, with or without interaction. They aren’t dependent on me, but they enjoy visiting (sometimes daily, sometimes only once a week), and I enjoy their presence more than words can ever say. 

After all, most people believe that it’s important to “love thy neighbor”.  And I do—some of them just happen to have hooves.

So, there I was--fully retired!  No job, not even part-time, and each day full of a million options.  Why, I'd be writing all the time and producing books like there was no tomorrow.

Except, I suddenly lost all ability to allocate my time wisely.  

Sleep in?  Of course.  Drink coffee and watch the morning shows?  Sure, who says I can't? Walk the dogs?  Well, that's not exactly optional.  Also, walk the big dog several more times to prevent the "stare" later when I want to relax and catch some TV.

Meditate, clean the house, do laundry, call family or friends, mail some bills.  All things I used to do on top of a job and hobbies, but now they somehow seemed to suck up every minute of the day.   

Let's not forget the ultimate time waster:  my iPhone.  Have to post a cool pic to my Instagram account!  And my dog's Instagram account!  Time to read Twitter, scroll through Facebook, post on Facebook, empty all the junk emails, text with friends.  Shit, it's bedtime!

Friends would ask, "What are you writing?", and I'd say, "I can't talk about it yet."  Not because it was a secret, but because there was nothing to talk about.  I wasn't writing, and I had now sunk so low that I would tell people, "Who has time to write?  All I do is walk the dogs." (Note:  if you're going to place blame on someone other than yourself, it helps if they can't actually dispute it.)

Finally, I realized I had a problem, and the problem was me.

In order to write, I just had to schedule time to write.  First, I signed my big dog up for doggie daycare once a week.  Then I told my husband that every Tuesday, our dog was going to daycare, and I would be locked in my office all day writing, so do not disturb, please.  I gave myself every Tuesday to write,  leaving me with no more excuses. 

It worked!  Not immediately, of course.  The first few Tuesdays, I spent a lot of time staring at a blank screen, or staring out the window (Look!  A hummingbird!), or meditating, or surfing the internet.  Or getting coffee.  Oops forgot to make the bed, can't write till I do that!

But eventually, my "Tuesday writing day" became a habit, and the words finally began to flow again.  Once that happened, I had to add a "Friday writing day" because I was writing so much, and needed additional time.  I had now tricked my mind into thinking I could actually write all day two days a week, and I was surprised by what a sucker for tricks my mind is.

I guess the key thing I learned about retirement is that while it feels amazing at first to face a week that is completely open and unscheduled, over time it begins to feel aimless and slightly unnerving.  My husband and I would ask each other, "What do you want to do today?" and we would both answer "I don't know." But now, I feel better knowing that at least some of my time is planned out, while also knowing that some if it is still "whatever the hell I want to do" time.  

That's the beauty of retirement: TIME.  Scheduled and otherwise.  I am so grateful I'm here to enjoy it. 

Thinking about retirement can bring a wide variety of emotions, and I will concede up front that a person's job and corresponding financial situation can dictate whether the idea of retirement is alluring or frightening.  

For a lucky few in a career they love that still inspires them, retirement is put off well past retirement age.  They are in no rush.

For some, it's not even an option, when they haven't been able to prepare and save for retirement (due to job choices or layoffs, lack of education/earning power, or just hard luck).

For me, I couldn't get there fast enough.  From the age of 55 on, I was constantly doing the math when it came to our finances--what age could I feasibly retire, what we would need to live on in retirement, and how could I juggle things to help us get there quicker.  We were lucky; both my husband and I were working in careers that provided a pension in retirement (the company I worked at stopped offering those 10 years before I retired, but those of us to whom it had already been promised, like me, would still receive them).  In fact, we had both switched careers near the age of 40 since that is when you finally realize you ain't gonna live forever, and you certainly don't want to find yourself retired and eating cat food or working till you drop dead.  So maybe we were both lucky and we planned ahead.  We wouldn't be wealthy retirees, but we wouldn't be poor, either.

Ultimately, I semi-retired at 62; worked part-time as a consultant till 65 1/2 and then completely retired.  It helped ease me into my new life in retirement, and yet... real, full retirement was still a bit of a shock.  I now had the whole day, every day, to do what I wanted!!

All those years of working and juggling my creative hobbies--writing, theatre, music--and there I was, with no need to juggle.  

Maybe.  

When you spend your life trying to manage your time, trying to squeeze the things you love in there somewhere while doing things for or with those you love (and ladies - let's face it, women continue to do the bulk of the juggling), it can and is exhausting.  Yet, managing to have a truly full life was more important to me than 8 hours of sleep, so for years I found a way to do it all.  Or most of it.  (Just don't wear your white gloves to my house.)

But now, at last, I was living on retirement time.  Hell, after a week or two, I didn't even know what day it was.  Who cares?  Weekends no longer mattered, since the work week no longer existed for me. There was nowhere I had to be, and nothing I had to do.  At least nothing that couldn't wait until tomorrow.

Woo hoo!!! I could now do whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted to do it.  Right?

Well...

(continued next week)