Category Archives: Julie Showalter

Julie Writes: 1994 Christmas Letter

Posted on December 15, 2006 by DrHGuy | Comments Off

Julie Showalter

Caricature of Julie drawn at a Christmas party in 1989

1994 Showalter Family Christmas Letter – Julie Showalter

Let 1994 go down in history as the year we acknowledged it — we’re a family of obsessives.

Sam reads, studies, talks about the Titanic. Every conversation eventually comes round to the topic. “Mom, I think we should start to pray for dead people,” he says, and I foolishly assume he’s speaking of his grandfathers. Not so “Let’s start with Captain Smith and the Communications Officer.” Another day, “Morn, are goose bumps real?” I explain goose bumps, their physiology, the etymology. Sam thinks about what he’s learned and says, “I bet you really get them in the North Atlantic.”

Allan has discovered computers. He’s used them for years, but this year he decided to learn about what he’s using. He subscribes to at least ten computer magazines, and lusts after each new upgrade. The current debate: Will his third computer (to accessorize, his word processing desktop and his presentation capable notebook) be a new 100 mhz, or will he settle for the 90, a product that has been on the market for at least six months and is therefore tested but also a tad obsolete? Programming has been a hobby and sometimes profession of mine during the last fifteen or so years. I was not prepared to be left in the dust.

On good days, I write. On all other days, I obsess about writing. Ask me how I am and I’ll tell you how much I’ve written that day. My time seems to split about 25 75 between “damn, I’m good,” and “I am a untalented slug, neglecting her family and wasting her life.” Since I’m writing this letter on a “damn, I’m good” day, I will say that writing has given me a new life with incredible challenges, rewards, and friends. My wonderful husband and children support me in this (mostly the wonderful husband bribes the children so they won’t bother me). They have put up with my going to Johnson, Vermont for two weeks in February (Am I dedicated? Yes, I’m dedicated. Writing conferences are available in Maui, but I chose a workshop in Johnson, VT. The scenes were as you would expect ¬readings in an old church where the speaker’s every breath produced frost and the audience sat huddled in parkas). I went to the Iowa Summer Writers’ Workshop for a week in July. And I am off December I 15 to Ragdale, an artists’ retreat in Lake Forest, IL. Allan and the boys smile bravely when I leave and hug me when I return. I have experienced some success this year. Three of my stories have been accepted for publication, and the residency at Ragdale is a real honor.

Max has outgrown his first obsession and seems downright nostalgic. At eighteen months Max started lining up silverware and saying, “Choo, choo. ” On our last trip to Hawaii, he and I rode the sugar cane train seventeen times. Two nannies threatened to claim Workman’s comp for psychiatric damage caused by watching Thomas the Tank Engine ten times a day. Then it was over. This summer, in the toy store, Max picked out a miniature jet and , said, “I like planes now. Remember Mom, I used to like trains?” Of course, I misted over that my baby was growing up. Max does have other interests now. He collects string.

Other than our obsessions (and the thing about obsessions is that there’s not much other), we’re doing fine.
Allan is in his second year as Medical Director of Proviso Family Services. He continues as U.R., Q.A. guru at Hartgrove Hospital (if you don’t know what that means, trust me, it’s important). He is a one man movement speaking about the myths surrounding attention deficit hyperactive disorder. And he keeps an active private practice.

Sam is in third grade where he continues to charm. Even the Lutheran school where we send him because of his need for structure and discipline has capitulated to a degree. At the latest parent teacher conference, his teacher told me, “Maybe the best thing for Sam isn’t sitting in a classroom doing math problems. He is a free spirit, you know.” In addition to coping with ADHD, Sam is dealing with nightly injections of growth hormone. However, as he told me when I was upset about giving him a shot, “It’s only till I’m eighteen, Mom.” His courage and resilience astound us.

Max is thriving in kindergarten. His teacher says, “I tell all the children, ‘why can’t you be like Max?’ and he just beams.” We see problems ahead. I know all five year olds are cute and sweet, but ours does delight us. When asked what he learned his first day of school, he said, “You don’t have to sing to do ABC’s.” He is my Christmas card assistant this year. As I type this, he is affixing stamps and stuffing cards.

I write and enjoy my family, and !hat pretty much takes care of what I do. I’ve needed no chemotherapy for over two years. I feel great, I’m happy, I’m grateful.

May you all be as blessed as we have been this year.

julie site:1heckofaguy.com

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Tagged Christmas, Julie Showalter

Julie's 1993 Christmas Letter

Posted on December 13, 2006 by DrHGuy | Comments Off

The whimper heard coast to coast somewhere mid summer this year was me, the last holdout of 70′s feminism, finally giving up on the belief that boys and girls, raised the same, will turn out the same. I give up. It’s just not true. To wit:

I can believe that a hundred monkeys with a hundred typewriters will produce King Lear more easily than I can believe two little girls would come up with the game “Commando Teddies.” In this game, the boys tie ropes around the waists of their teddy bears, shout “Teddy Bears, do your job,” and hurl them over the railing of our loft into the faces of unsuspecting folks in the living room below. The first time they played this game, I was interviewing a nanny candidate. As I tried to convince her that I was a business like, rational being, that our home was serene and calm, Teddy Bears kept swinging down in large arcs behind her head.
Little girls would not, after being exposed to the evening news and Home Alone 11, invent ways to set Sadaam Hussain’s bottom on fire.
Little girls would not turn our marble floored, mirror walled foyer into a hockey rink.
Little girls do not ask about every man they see in a magazine, “Does he kill people?” and, if the answer is “yes,” shout “Awesome.”

These things happen in our house, and I swear, WE DIDN’T DO IT. We have lavished the same tenderness, affection, and sensitivity on these boys that we would have on girls. We still read them Tales of Peter Rabbit, we’ve never told them boys don’t cry, but instead of Little Men, we have something more akin to Lord of the Flies.

Another discovery that Allan and I made this summer was that the truism is true one boy plus one boy equals the noise and activity of five boys. We discovered this when we decided to each take one boy on a separate trip. Not only did we each end up with one well mannered offspring, we ourselves changed from irrational ultimatum shouting monsters into patient, reasoning parents. I’m proposing a system where we buy two houses and split up the family into rotating combinations of two. I’m sure that with proper planning it could work.

Sam is doing well in second grade. He has caring teachers who understand the challenges of Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder, for which we are grateful. His own understanding of his disorder is rather astute. He and Allan were at a hockey game when one of the players ran amuck (not an unusual occurrence, I gather). His reaction “Dad, maybe he forgot his Ritalin.” He’s had some rough times lately with seemingly unending medical tests to determine the reasons for his slow growth. We now have a definitive diagnosis he is growth hormone deficient ¬and he will soon be starting nightly injections. He and I compare tests and punch marks on our arms.

As Allan describes it (giving credit to Dave Barry), Max (now almost 5) maintains his position in the household by talking in capital letters: “I’M NOT HAPPY! ” “WHO’S GOING TO GET MY SNACK?” “SAM HIT ME!” He’s recently developed a strong Puritanical streak and has taken to bursting into rooms where Allan and I are sitting shouting, “STOP THAT KISSING!” Would that our ardor matched his imagination.

My news is all good. I haven’t needed chemotherapy for sixteen months. While my doctor is reluctant to call it a remission, the fact is that my tumors have shrunk from where they were three years ago, and they’re not doing anything. We cautiously call it a partial remission, and knock wood every chance we get.

A little over a year ago I admitted that I always wanted to write fiction; and, despite great fear of failure, I started a writing class. I now officially call myself a writer. To prove my worthiness of the title, I have rejection letters from several journals and 185 pages of a currently discarded novel. Each week, I attend a writing class, sit in on a large writers’ group, and work with a small group of friends. I’m dedicated to what I’m doing, and I’m happy with the progress I’m making.

As we prepare for a very non traditional Christmas (We leave Christmas Eve morning for Club Med in Ixtapa. It’s the only way we could take a winter vacation without taking Sam out of school.), we send best wishes and love to our friends.

Happy holidays,

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Not Alone

Posted on December 8, 2006 by DrHGuy | Comments Off

The content of this post is unacceptably belated, inadequate in scope, and flawed in execution. It is, nonetheless, necessary.

I awoke this morning with the realization that I have written about the end of Julie’s¹ life as though she and I went through that tragedy alone. This is glaringly inaccurate.

When it became clear that Julie’s worsening condition would soon make it impossible for me to take care of her, our sons, and our home while continuing to work even part-time, we hesitatingly asked our mothers if one of them could lend a hand. (Julie’s father and mine had died a few years previously.) Both Julie’s mother and mine immediately left their friends, community, and, in the case of Julie’s mother, her husband (who had his own health problems) to stay with us, hundreds of miles from their own homes, for weeks and then months, doing everything and anything that needed to be done.

Many of the clinicians who worked with Julie were not only competent but were also empathic and extraordinarily caring. Several physicians and nurses who were no longer actively treating her (because we had moved) stayed in touch with her and followed her care.

Without exception, each of the Hospice workers extended herself (all of those working with Julie happened to be female) far beyond their already onerous job descriptions and were tremendously helpful.²

Of course, we had friends who pitched in to help and who were in contact via phone calls, e-mail, and visits. More surprisingly, some individuals who were casual acquaintances and some who were actually business associates, merchants, and professionals we had hired for one project or another spontaneously offered their assistance, for example, running errands, transporting Julie to outpatient dialysis (an hour’s drive each way), and arranging changes in the kids’ school bus routes. Two individuals I met online, one through an e-mail mix-up and one I had hired to help on a web site, were incredibly insightful and supportive although I met neither in person prior to Julie’s death.

Only a day or so before Julie finally died, I called upon a colleague and friend to ask her help in arranging the cremation and memorial service. She efficaciously accomplished this unrewarding task, as I knew she would, without hesitation or complaint.

Without this help, not only would our lives have been much more difficult but I would not have been privileged to care for and spend so much time with Julie in those last weeks of her life. And for that, I am deeply thankful.

This is not an exhaustive list; nor does it sufficiently express my gratitude. It is only my attempt to declare my profound indebtedness to all those who were there for Julie and for me when we needed them and to apologize for not making this declaration earlier.

_____________________

Julie Showalter was the fiercely intelligent, sexy, and loving woman and prize-winning author, with whom I had a outrageously wonderful 20 year marriage that ended with her death in late 1999 from cancer diagnosed the week of our wedding nearly 20 years earlier. Many posts on this blog are about her, our unlikely romance, and our life together, and still others consist of her writings. Information can be found at Julie Showalter FAQ. [↩]
One of the Hospice workers spent hours arduously working to persuade Blue Cross to qualify Julie for Hospice care despite the continuation of her dialysis, the first such waiver granted in this jurisdiction. I later discovered that the responsible Hospice worker was a part-time volunteer. [↩]

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Tagged Julie Showalter

And Then She Was Not

Posted on December 3, 2006 by DrHGuy | Comments Off

Writing about Julie’s¹ death is difficult, of course, because focusing on losing her is painful. It is also difficult, however, because her final days contain little drama to exploit, no epiphanies to reveal, and no profound insights to share.

My explanation is that Julie expended and invested herself so thoroughly in living that there just wasn’t much left for dying. She wasted no heroics on the deathbed, preferring less somber stages – and more raucous audiences — for her performances.

Re-reading e-mail messages from the months prior to Julie’s death, I am once again surprised by how much Julie accomplished in the midst of the chaos of that period, replete with late night phone calls to on-call clinicians, hospitalizations, and emergency doctor visits. Within two or three weeks of her death, Julie was still, at the request of the authors, editing fictional pieces and offering concise, on the mark suggestions concerning style and technique. She was also carrying on a lively correspondence with friends and colleagues, helping our sons with homework, and arranging to have work done in our home.

And, she spent a lot of time loving me.

Despite rampaging disease, huge doses of a dozen medications, and the knowledge that she had exhausted all available treatments for her implacable disease, Julie lived every waking moment fully and intensely – as she had all the years we were together.

Then, as precipitously as drawing the curtain for the final act, she withdrew into herself. For days, she ate and drank almost nothing and rarely spoke. She would take her medications when I gave them to here. She watched me as I organized her nightly dialysis. She would occasionally smile when I spoke to her. Every night we would lie in bed together, my arm wrapped around her.

Then, one morning, shortly after I awoke, Julie quit breathing.

It really was that simple. There were no death shudders, no last words, no final goodbyes.

One moment Julie was breathing and then she wasn’t.

One moment Julie was alive and then she wasn’t.

Julie’s Story

Previous Installment: Julie In Hospital In June 1999 – E-mail Notes & More
First Installment Of Julie’s Story: This Is How A Love Story Began

For more information about Julie Showalter and her writings as well as instructions for finding all of the Julie’s Story posts and downloading a PDF version of all the posts comprising Julie’s Story, go to Julie Showalter FAQ.

_____________________

Julie Showalter was the fiercely intelligent, sexy, and loving woman and prize-winning author, with whom I had a outrageously wonderful 20 year marriage that ended with her death in late 1999 from cancer diagnosed the week of our wedding nearly 20 years earlier. Many posts on this blog are about her, our unlikely romance, and our life together, and still others consist of her writings. Information can be found at Julie Showalter FAQ. [↩]

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Tagged Julie Showalter

The Elf Box Curse

Posted on November 28, 2006 by DrHGuy | Comments Off

The Fallibility Of Saints

As already noted in Thanksgiving Memory, Julie¹ was, like Mary Poppins, only “practically perfect in every way.” (Emphasis mine, not Ms. Travers’s) After all, someone who was perfectly perfect wouldn’t stash the Thanksgiving Turkey in the oven and then turn on the self-cleaning cycle, effectively preparing the bird for cremation rather than dinner, would one?²

Only five days later, in today’s post, I reveal the other mistake Julie made during our 20 years together.

It Seemed Like A Good Idea At The Time

I will stipulate that Julie’s intentions were good.

The acute problem was that toddlerhood occasioned no abatement of of Da Boyz’s already longstanding impulsiveness but did feature a gain in their mobility sufficient for them to begin mounting search and destroy missions directed at early liberation of their Christmas presents, which were alluringly displayed beneath the tree. Our efforts to impose discipline on the tykes, while sporadically successful in dealing with other behaviors, were unrequited in this case.

Serving as round the clock sentries, even abetted by the nanny, proved an unsatisfactory strategy in every way. My suggestions for an armed perimeter with razor wire, electrified fences, and land mines were rejected out of hand (for aesthetic reasons, I suppose – or maybe we weren’t zoned for it).

Desperate times call for desperate measures. Julie, despite my warnings of the dangers of negotiating with terrorists, worked out a deal with Da Boyz.

The Elf Box Treaty

Beginning a week before Christmas Day, “the elves” would deliver unto our children small gifts that would be awaiting them when they awoke. The understanding was that the elves would continue these deliveries daily until Christmas Eve, contingent on the presents wrapped under the tree remaining wrapped under the tree.

The gifts would be placed in each child’s “Elf Box,”³ which Julie had a carpenter, who was then doing some work on our home, build.

I don’t know if Julie conjured up this notion de novo or appropriated it from another source, but I’ve always assumed she invented it. I’ve never heard of an Elf Box custom and a quick Google search today reveals nothing about Elf Boxes bearing gifts.

In any case, the Elf Boxes did significantly ameliorate the immediate difficulty, and, grateful for this lull in the parent-child battles, neither Julie or I heard the ticking of the time bomb we had just manufactured.

The Blessing Transforms Into The Curse

The Elf Box concept has a tragic flaw: it lacks an expiration clause.⁴

When the oldest offspring was four or five, finding acceptable gifts was no more difficult than spending 15 minutes and 10 dollars at the local K-Mart, Wal-Mart, Venture, or similar store to buy kaleidoscopes, play money, yo-yo’s, marbles, picture books, etc. to satisfy the kids. Heck, a typical OfficeMax, Ace Hardware, or even a Jewel grocery would have something (pens, colored pencils, flashlights, small tools, whistles, key rings, …) that would be accounted as treasures — at least transiently — by the little ones. And, when Da Boyz were in bed by 8:30 PM, sneaking the trinkets into the Elf Boxes was a cinch.

Time, as it is wont to do, passes.

Oddly, neither the Prodigal or the Mesomorph has ever spontaneously exclaimed, “I’m too old for Elf Box presents.” At ages 10-12, in fact, their interests in the tradition intensified. Buying a week’s worth of appropriate gifts became a challenge (marbles, for example, turn out to be significantly less impressive to an 18 year old than an 8 year old) as did surreptitiously placing those gifts in the Elf Boxes, especially when it’s not unusual on weekends for me to awaken before my sons have hit the sack.

I discovered this morning that my 20 year-old had, as our family’s first admission that the Christmas season was upon us, found, cleaned, and set out his and his brother’s Elf Boxes.

And so once more I stare into the abyss.

OK, it’s not an unpleasant abyss — as abysses go. It does, in fact evoke a certain, weird joyfulness, something one doesn’t typically find in an abyss.

I do wish Julie were staring at it alongside me, though.

_____________________

Julie Showalter was the fiercely intelligent, sexy, and loving woman and prize-winning author, with whom I had a outrageously wonderful 20 year marriage that ended with her death in late 1999 from cancer diagnosed the week of our wedding nearly 20 years earlier. Many posts on this blog are about her, our unlikely romance, and our life together, and still others consist of her writings. Information can be found at Julie Showalter FAQ. [↩]
I suppose the fastidious could construe Julie’s two disastrous marriages that preceded our life together as presumptive evidence of imperfection; I prefer to think of them as trials and tribulations that she was predestined to suffer in order to evidence her profound compassion by not murdering either of those spouses. Hmmm. Come to think of it, her second husband did sort of disappear once the divorce was final. Well, at least there is no proof she did away with either ex-husband. [↩]
The objective reader will, of course, find that I am correct in holding that this is not, in any sense, a box. This is, clearly, an “Elf Shelf,” but never mind. [↩]
Perhaps Julie had a plan for gracefully terminating the scheme. If so, she died without sharing it. [↩]

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Posted in Friends-Family, Holidays-Celebrations, Julie Showalter

Tagged Christmas

Thanksgiving Memory – Man Triumphs Over Industrial Might To Assure Family Will Be Overfed

Posted on November 23, 2006 by DrHGuy | Comments Off

Turkey Fixé À L’intérieur Du Four À Cuire: The Turkey Story Julie Didn’t Write

That this episode qualifies as a Thanksgiving Memory signifies how uneventful most DrHGuy family Thanksgivings have been and how few of my recollections don’t fit the “Apotheosis of St. Julie” theme.

It Was A Thanksgiving Like Any Other, Until …

After Julie¹ and I have been together for a few years but before Da Boyz are even a gleam in parental eyes, we decide that, while we don’t have time to make it to our homes in the Ozarks for Thanksgiving, we will take the day off (I have previously spent at least a half-day making hospital rounds on Thanksgiving) and invite one of my medical school buddies, who also lives in Chicago, and her friend to share our holiday dinner.

Consequently, our opening scene is populated with four adults, enjoying a relatively sophisticated (i.e., no children present) Thanksgiving celebration.

Julie has, as one might expect, set the table with the good (i.e., never used) silver and dinnerware, forbidden me to offer (even the really good) potato chips as appetizers, and prepared a traditional turkey dinner.

Our guests arrive early in the day and within minutes are in the kitchen helping. I am elsewhere; I don’t recall my activities at this point, but I am, no doubt, performing some manly task such as taking out the trash, cleaning my guns, tuning up the car, placing wagers on the day’s football games, perusing pornography, … .

We Need A Hero

We have, of course, purchased a turkey large enough to feed not only four adults but the four extended families of those four adults. It will, in fact, barely fit into the oven.

In her determination to assure the oven door is fully closed, Julie instinctively shoves the lever that secures the oven door to the “Locked” position, which indeed pulls the door shut another fraction of an inch.

It also triggers the oven’s self-cleaning mechanism.

For those unfamiliar with the workings of a self-cleaning oven, the first paragraph of the pertinent entry in HowStuffWorks commendably covers the information essential to comprehend the circumstances:

Self-cleaning ovens use an approximately 900 degrees Fahrenheit (482 degrees Celsius) temperature cycle to burn off spills leftover from baking, without the use of any chemicals. A self-cleaning oven is designed with a mechanical interlock (patented in 1982) to keep the oven door locked and closed during and soon after the high-temperature cleaning cycle, which can be approximately three hours. The door stays locked to prevent burn injuries. You can open the oven door after the oven cools to approximately 600 F (315 C).

Panic ensues. All three of the kitchen crew are, however, professionals, used to dealing with crises, and they staunch the emotional flooding to deliberate on the conundrum they face and possible solutions. The implications of the self-cleaning cycle progressing through completion with our dinner locked inside are contemplated. Panic resumes at an impressively escalated level.

I am summoned.

To fully appreciate the level of desperation this turkey terror has precipitated, one has only to know that (1) Julie and my friend are both familiar with the extent of my handyman expertise² and (2) they ask me to help anyway.

The Manly Challenge

I immediately assess the situation and initiate the testosterone-driven Standard Repair Of Non-automotive Machinery Sequence, Midwestern American Male Version:

Using moderate force, pull the lever toward the unlocked position.
Using more force, pull the lever toward the unlocked position.
Bracing knee against wall, pull the lever toward the unlocked position while making those grunting noises that, as is well-known, magnify ones muscle strength.
Utter mild-moderate scatology in sotto voice.
Search for tool kit.
~~Whack lever with rubber mallet.~~ Implement tool-incorporative percussive adjustment.
Distinctly announce incredibly vulgar curse.
Note the turkey’s distinctly unpleasant reaction to the still increasing oven heat.
Speculate on possibility of finding a McDonald’s open on Thanksgiving.
Bond with wife and guests by embracing their panic.
Ask ladies to leave room while I ~~pound on~~ ponder the problem.
Use large screwdriver to pry open oven door.
Wonder why, given the workmanship and materials used in constructing Craftsman screwdrivers and Kenmore electric ovens, Sears isn’t doing better financially.
Realize, upon reconsidering my own observations from Step #13, I am indeed an idiot.
Go to basement, find something that looks like it should be a circuit breaker box, locate oven circuit,³ turn off that circuit breaker.
Saunter upstairs, wait 15 minutes for oven to cool, open door.

The Triumphant Finish

After assuring that the turkey isn’t desiccated or otherwise ruined, I reset the circuit breaker, and only then notify Julie and our guests that all is well, implying that I had somehow broken the code, defeating the mechanical integrity of the oven to open the door in an astutely competent, albeit mysterious manner. I acknowledge their accolades with all the modesty I can muster and pass the remainder of the day resting on my well-earned laurels.

Accolades Rewarded

The turkey, the rest of the dinner, and the fellowship are, in a word, dandy.

And, on Thanksgiving 2006, I’m thankful for this memory.

_____________________

Julie Showalter was the fiercely intelligent, sexy, and loving woman and prize-winning author, with whom I had a outrageously wonderful 20 year marriage that ended with her death in late 1999 from cancer diagnosed the week of our wedding nearly 20 years earlier. Many posts on this blog are about her, our unlikely romance, and our life together, and still others consist of her writings. Information can be found at Julie Showalter FAQ. [↩]
My friend’s friend may have known as well; it has, apparently, been in all the papers. [↩]
Sub-step #15a. Issue sigh of relief and gratitude that the oven is on its own circuit so that turning it off will not shut down the power for the entire house [↩]

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Posted in Holidays-Celebrations, Julie Showalter

Tagged thanksgiving