Category: Aging

What kind of a person would I be to leave you now?

My old friend, Arman, came over this morning and brought some fresh lentil dal. It was still warm. It’s loaded with chunks of fresh ginger and jalapen̈o, which makes it pretty fiery. It’s really delicious. I wish I had some fresh veggies, but all I’ve got is some lettuce. That will have to do.

I’ve been down now for 11 days with a hip flexor injury. Arman has been very present for this while he is having some terrible health issues of his own. I have determined off and on for the last, more than 20 years, to kick him to the curb, and I have occasionally. Once I did for more than five years. But then he always came back into my life but at different levels. In the beginning, as a lover. Now like an old friend.

When I had cancer back in 2004/2005, he was there for me the entire time, but then as a lover. He was there while I lost my hair, threw up and peed and pooped with little control… He was there through weekly chemo treatments, with a bloody wound, that went from my netherlands all the way up to my boobs and a sore and irritated port in my chest.

He would sit with me at home and take naps with me for hours, and take me for rides for entertainment, since I couldn’t even walk. He took me sometimes to a nude beach on the Columbia to bask in the sun to dry out my wounds. Once I could finally keep liquids down, we’d stop at a Mcminamin’s and I would drink coffee with cream and a shot of brandy.

He never once said a negative word about my bruised, punctured and battered body. He never complained once about me losing my waist length golden hair. He celebrated with me when my hair began to come in, rubbing it gently with the palms of his hands.

I had only known him for 6 months when I was diagnosed with a killer cancer. I knew I was going to be extremely sick and that I might not even make it. I told him that he didn’t need to stick around for this. He just answered gently in his melodic Indian accent, “What kind of a person would I be to leave you now?” And so he stayed and loved me through it all.

For 24 years, he has never stopped calling me, even when I would be so angry with him that I would beg him to stop. No one in this world has made me more angry and more frustrated than Arman. Part of it has been the incompatibility of our two cultures. Other issues such as personal style, educational and economic levels, his culture’s attitude towards women, all presented huge obstacles to our relationship. But he never gave up. He is still a part of my life, as frustrated as I still get with him.

So now it’s my turn. At 72, he has developed serious health issues. This once healthy and robust man seems to be falling apart. As a restaurant owner, he never once missed a day of work in 27 years. He was a long distance bike enthusiast. He was a runner. But now disease is racking his body. From day-to-day, it’s one thing after another with doctors visits, hospital stays and handfuls of prescription drugs. Yet, he just keeps going. He still makes me delicious indian food. This morning, he brought me the lentil dal. On other days, he might show up with ice cream or other Indian dishes.

He is a Sikh who believes that god is in control of everything, therefore he doesn’t complain. Whatever happens in his life, be it good or bad, he gives god thanks. He has tried fervently to get me to believe in god, and is mildly frustrated with me that I can’t seem to find a reason to believe that there even is a god. Not only does he believe in his religion, he attends temple regularly. As well, he’s a believer in the traditions of his culture. Though he has been in the United States for over 30 years, his language skills are just barely sufficient. He has relied heavily on other people (mostly women) to help him through business dealings and health issues.

That has been my role in his life for decades. There have been times when I’ve been glad to assist and other times when I have resented his reliance on me and other times when I rejected this role and stepped away from him. When legal issues came up, I helped him, but I helped him in unveiled great anger. For one egregious violation, I even charged him hourly for my work, claiming I was done with free assistance. I lost all trust and respect for him.

Arman has a lot of street smarts, to the point where he could run a successful business for over twenty years. And yet so stupid in other ways. We were and always had been unequally yoked. I, an educated, career-oriented woman, who never had even a scrape with the law, and he having had, to date, 6 ugly charges against him. All of these charges were warranted because of his volition. The last time in court with him, I was embarrassed, in front of the judge, the lawyers and the district attorney, that I was even associated with him. I told myself then, that I would never again involve myself in any of his legal battles. But, as they say, money talks. It was aggravating to me that, though he was guilty on all counts, that his high powered lawyers helped him to walk away Scott free. I thought that if he could only suffer the consequences of his actions once, that he might change. Arman is not a bad person, just ignorant in some ways.

But maybe there is something real about karma. Now he’s suffering. Really suffering. But not to his mind. God is in charge, and his god knows what he’s doing.

It’s not that I feel responsible or obligated to help him through this difficult time in his life. But I cannot forget all of the years that I’ve known him and his incredible kindness when I was going through my cancer journey. He’s a selfish man. And yet, in some ways, he’s incredibly generous. He’s a stubborn man and set in his ways and yet, has never given up on me. You might accuse me of the many times I acquiesced when I should have walked away. But I didn’t, and here we are now. He’s sick.

And I will say, like he did to me so many years ago, “What kind of a person would I be to leave you now?”

PS: i have changed the name to protect the innocent or shall we say the guilty?. To those who know me and have been with me throughout this journey, will know who i’m talking about. But for those who don’t, know that I am talking about a real person.

Labels = Imposter?

Who is the real Karen Lea Anderson Peterson?

Some thoughts in response to a friend’s lament of losing one’s youth.

“Quite a coincidence that after your comment on youth passing us by, I saw on YouTube a movie called Naked, High and Free: Life Inside Taylor Camp. Maybe you’ve already seen it but it’s about a bunch of hippies dropping out in Kauai and making and living a life there, clothes optional. It was really cool to watch and it made me realize that as much as I thought of myself as a hippie, I never really did drop out. Then a flood of thoughts came about other ways in which perhaps I would not be considered a hippie, or any such thing on which you could place a label”.

Here are some thoughts on my life in no particular order:

I didn’t really protest the war (Vietnam) except in heart and of course, speaking out against it at every opportunity, but I didn’t go out to march. That’s never been my thing and I still don’t participate in marches as deeply as I feel that all war should end.

Another idea, which many associate with being a hippie, is free love. I wasn’t a participant in free love. Though I believed, and still do, that one should love who one loves, not dependent on gender, or any other criteria, marriage included. I didn’t even really believe in that. So why have I always thought of myself as a hippie?

What is hippie philosophy and/or lifestyle anyway? I guess mine was more intellectual in that I was against consumerism and yet I am a consumer. As far as my political views, I guess you could say I am a liberal because I’m certainly not a conservative but I’ve never been political. I’ve even considered myself apolitical. I haven’t ever participated in political activities of any kind. I never lived on a commune or in a community, not even in an urban environment.

I guess I grew in understanding that organic gardening and consuming organic foods were important and I did grow my own organic gardens, beginning in 1969. I read about self-sustaining ifestyles but I never actually did that. We raised chickens and goats and even owned and butchered two steer. We also owned a couple of horses.

I cooked on beautiful wood cook stoves and we heated with wood. I made my own bread, I ground my own flour and coffee. I made pickles and canned fruits and unsuccessfully made wine. I shunned plastics and non-organic materials in clothing and packaging to the extent that was possible. I’ve understood and protested (verbally) against the use of fossil fuels and polluting our environment. I’ve spoken/ voted against the use of pesticides and herbicides in food production and against industrial meat production.

I learned to weave, crochet, embroider, quilt and spin my own yarn and sew. I made some clothes for the children and I even made my own wedding dress.

Speaking of children, I gave birth to my first child but did not raise her. I have written that story in other blog posts. My second child was born in a hospital in the days before it was common to have a natural childbirth without any intervention. I had to fight to have my baby in the room with me for the 3 days that was required internment. I breastfed for 2 years. My third child I had at home and again breastfed for 2 years.

Before settling down and having children, I used weed and psychedelics to expand my mind and decidedly not to party. It’s not that I didn’t enjoy music and light shows and good times with friends, because I did. But as the years went on, more and more people were using drugs, not to necessarily expand their minds and their lives but more liberally defined as recreation.

I studied and practiced Midwifery but without formal training and without certificates or degrees. I would not now call myself a midwife, though I did deliver tens of babies. Without the real training that I should have had, I am fortunate to say that I never lost a baby.

I taught aerobics for years and this also without the formal training that I should have had. Eventually I was trained and did hold a certificate.

I read, but not extensively, Eastern philosophy and dipped my toes in psychology and sociology. I had fully rejected Christianity early and was looking for alternatives to spirituality * thanks to forays into experimentation with LSD and mushrooms.

I believed, and still do even more vehemently now that I have a greater understanding of our history as human beings and more specifically as Americans, in equal rights for every man and woman and child and shunned racism and other negative and evil “-isms’  But I never physically marched against them or took part in a written campaign against them or participated in any other activity against hatred  and inequality.

So what is this label that I have put on myself for so many years? I think if I was to be really honest with myself, I would have to say I was never really a hippie by the strictest definition of what a hippie is. I suppose it would be wise of me in all honesty to not take on any label, whatsoever. I suppose I can only say that I was aware of all of the movements and agreed with all of the movements to one degree or another, even dropping out.

My spiritual seeking was really very shallow. I would say, I read a few books but I didn’t really delve deep into meditation until the last 25 years. I didn’t go on retreats in India, like many of us did at the time and not even to local gatherings with other seekers. And even now my practice is a mishmash of what I choose to participate in and not even socially. I don’t belong to any groups. I prefer my independence. I guess the closest thing one could say is that I have formally been trained in Transcendental Meditation but I don’t even practice that purely. I’ve only been to two TM retreats.

And even though I have been educated as an historian, I don’t believe I can call myself an historian. If what it means to be an historian is to have published books and perhaps been an educator. I have published a lot but I haven’t published a book and I don’t teach on one particular genre of history. I might lay claim as an ethnographer. As that was and still is a major activity of mine.

My real expertise, if you can call it that, is in the preservation of history in physical form. The preservation of documents, photographs, publications, artfacts, etc., etc., has been my passion. My career in research, documenting, describing and giving access to those materials, was my field of expertise, and in this field, I am not an imposter. But in nearly everything else, I am, if I claim to be the conclusive and precise definition of those things.

Yes, I was a professor at OHSU. That is true based on the three/four criteria of research, teaching, publishing and serving on committees. Of that, I can lay claim, as well.

But if I were to be quizzed on what I learned in 11 years of University training, I would fail miserably. Only in the field of archival management would I exceed expectations.

But in all other areas of my life it would not be unreasonable for people to point a finger at me and cry: “IMPOSTER”. You be the judge if you want.

And now that I am an old woman, what do I say of myself? Generally, when people ask me about myself, I say I’m an old hippie but I wonder now if that is really an accurate label? If I shun labels, maybe I can simply say that I’m an old woman who lived her life the best way she knew how. I have loved and have been loved. And there’s not a soul on Earth that can dispute that, not even myself.

I’m fine with Watching the World Go By

I’m Fine

I’m fine with watching the world go by.

I don’t feel the need to have ideas, projects and goals.

What could possibly be wrong with just sitting and staring out the window,

And enjoying a hot cup of anything for hours on end?

What interest have I in your wars, in your criminal activities, in your hatred and your lies?

What care I for your struggles for wealth and domineering power?

In what interest do I share with you for  generations of ownership of property and land?

I’ve had a pleasant life of accomplishments, work and study, love and family,

With never a desire or intent to hurt a living soul, without hatred for anything.

And now I am content to sit and watch the world go by.

Do your worst because, I will no longer participate. I will no longer try to save you or try to change you.

It’s my time to rest and reflect. And so that is what I will do… like birds of a feather.

My protest in silence.

In My New Home

My view is such a wide expanse of sky that I can watch as clouds break and pools of sun move across the landscape.

Where I am home in a white box of five hundred and sixty six square feet.

Exactly

Where a lifetime of gathering objects of beauty is reduced to twenty boxes.

Exactly

Where I look for nooks and crannies where I can find comfort in the familiar.

Where I used to gather belongings and those I love, now I discard of necessity.

Where four stories up, I have a view. Birds fly across the sky, from tree to tree.

Where everything else has diminished, the sky is expansive and reminds me,

That I am not diminished.

Now That I’m Old. Where Am I Going?

My loft: packing up

After 13 years of living together with my daughter in a big old house in NE Portland, with my two grandchildren, it’s time for us to part ways. The children are grown and my daughter is seeking her freedom.

If it were plausible and possible, I would stay here for the rest of my life. But now that I’m 77 years old, it’s time for me to have found cheaper digs and fewer stairs.

I’d be lying if I didn’t say that I’m full of trepidation about my physical well – being. I survived polio at 5 years old that left me with a weak right arm, the deltoid not having survived the paralysis. I also survived a terrible bout with cancer and 8 months of chemo when I was 56 years old. One does not escape cancer or chemo unscathed.

I’ve had a very eventful and adventurous life. I went full bore into it. Because of this, my body, my soul, my head and my heart are full of memories. I realize now that there are fewer years ahead of me than are behind me and I fully enjoy reminiscing and writing about my life.

I have said this before and I’ll say it again. I’m not afraid of dying, but I am afraid of living. Age is taking its toll on me with crackling joints and weakening muscles, a slower and less elegant gait and increasing girth.

I understand fully our vulnerability. We are assailed on all sides by decline and a world made very scary by other humans, natural disasters and accidents and by other living things and the intervention of technology. But I have lived bravely and brightly.

So because of my age, I admit to some fear about moving on my own into unfamiliar territory and at this age, when I am not in my prime… not even close to it. And we are living in uncertain times. Let’s not get into politics, except to say:

I would be foolish to not wonder if this country will continue to support me with MY Social Security and MY retirement fund, which I have earned and are not a hand out from the government.

What began this story was when a friend asked if I were worried about my daughter going basically on her own without children and without me. I responded with a resounding, NO! and here’s why:

At her age, I had been divorced. Had started going to university. Spent a year in Mexico, including a semester at the University of Queretero and traveled throughout Mexico with the curator of the Museum of Art of the same cty.

Upon returning I had an amazing 3 year affair with a beautiful Cuban. Moved to Tallahassee on a fellowship, traveled cross country on a train. I found shortly after one semester that the deep south was not for me.

So I moved to Santa Monica to attend UCLA on another fellowship. By that time, I had finished 11 years of university at 5 different schools. I moved back to Portland and started a beautiful career at OHSU as their first and only professional archivist, retiring after 16 years.

When I moved back to Portland, I moved my mother in with me. Fell for an Indian Sikh. Had cancer and survived surgery, and 8 months of chemo. My mother and I lived together 8 years when she passed away. She stayed at home with me until the day she passed.

Since moving back to Portland, I had moved 4 times by the time I moved in here with my daughter. And now, here I am, moving again, not totally by choice.

So do I have any worries concerning my daughter?

She is made up of the same stuff as I am and maybe more. It’s her story so without giving any detail, I will just say, she got her massage therapy license while she raised two children alone and finished her BS degree. She’s now Spa Drector where she has worked as lead therapist for 14 years. She supports herself. She’s physically healthy and strong.

Nope, I’m not worried about her at all, any more than any mother would. For sure this is more about me than about her. But when my friend asked, if I was worried about this time of change, it caused me to reflect on life. Actually, I look forward to hearing about her adventures from here on out, about her brave and bright life.

The Cat that Stalks Me

I can’t believe I’m able to do this. I can’t believe that day after day, I can put one foot in front of the other and put one thing in a box, and one thing in a bag, and end the day, still putting things in bags and boxes.

Useless, precious, beautiful objects of my affection. Proof of my existence. And one day no one will care for them nor remember me.

This hard work and I still don’t know what the hell I’m doing or where I’m going. And even less whatI I’m supposed to be doing or where I should be going. I try not to think about it too much. I just keep doing.

This is how I’ve lived my life. When a door opens, I just go in. Not putting much thought into it. And here I am getting closer and closer to the end of my life and still living the same way. But more aware than ever of futility.

And now worry stalks me like a dangerous and silent cat in the wild would. I am it’s prey and it, my predator.

I think it’s always been with me. I used to not notice it. But these days, I’m made aware of it by weakness creeping in, by my slowing gait, by increasing frailty.

I’m aware of its footsteps falling almost imperceptible except for a rare snap of a twig, or a small tumble of a stone. but still closely behind. I’m beginning to hear it’s heavy breathing when I hush. I hear its snuffling at my foot prints left in the soft soil I call my life.

It is there in the night with only the stars and the moon as my companions… no protection at all but, I remind myself, I still can call up fire. But it never rests and so neither can I. I can sometimes see its eyes glowing in the flickering flames.

During the daylight hours, I am distracted mostly, but these days, not like in the past. What will I do when I can no longer move forward, when I must lay down, when rest is needed more than life itself?

Then I will lie down. Then worry and wonder and unknowing will no longer stalk me. Then I will rest.  Then, I will no longer need the strength that now I do.

So now, before I lay me down, I will put some more things in bags and I will put some more things in boxes.

Good night, big and beautiful and wild cat. I hear you breathing softly.

I Don’t Want to Live Long… Unless:

What are your thoughts on the concept of living a very long life?

Unless you’re physically and mentally in good health, it is my opinion that one should, as well as might be accomplished, pass on gratefully and peacefully.

When I say, ” in good health”, both physically and mentally, I am aware that good health is relative to each individual. I intimately know what it means to me. I have been nigh unto death twice in my life.

As for me, I do not want to live disabled,  physically confined to a wheelchair nor in a bed nor in a nursing home staring at the walls. Nor would I want to live with dementia. My grandmother had dementia, and it was torturous, more so for her, but also for those of us who loved her dearly.

As my mom used to say when she was dying on hospice, I do not want my heart to keep on beating when my mind ceases to function. I am in complete agreement with that sentiment.

Many members of my family have lived very long lives, some even passed one hundred years. When I was younger, I thought I wanted to follow in their footsteps. I no longer have that wish.

Now that I’m nearing 80, I know what pain is. I know what it is have your organs begin to fail. I know what it is to feel myself getting weaker, though I work on my physical body constantly.

I know what it is to be disrespected by those that are younger. I know what it is to be disregarded, though I am educated and my intellect is still intact. I make an effort to learn new things every day.

But in spite of all of that, I love my life. I enjoy my memories. I love each season in turn. I have had an adventurous life. I have been loved good and bad. As I like to say, “I have been ridden hard and put away wet”.  And I have no regrets. I can say with a keen certainty that I fear life more than death.

For now, I will live my life just as I wish… anyway, as well as my diminutive finances will let me. I am satisfied with what I have. But I don’t wish to live without my health and an ability to keep a roof over my head and food in my belly.

When I was younger, and my life was full of new experiences, I often said, “Leave when you have to; stay as long as you can”. I realize now that wasn’t always the best advice. But it sure made for an interesting life.

Probably not Presentable

I’m truly turning into that stereotypical old woman.

I wear the same clothes every day for at least a week, unless they’re too dirty to be seen in public. At home dirty clothes are all right with me.

I don’t change my underwear every day unless they smell.

I only change my sheets every couple of weeks, sometimes, only once a month.

I don’t wash my face every day. I don’t like to shower except after I’ve been in the pool for aquafit classes, and so I don’t.

I’d rather eat a hamburger out every day than cook. I rarely eat salad. I want cookies and/or candy every day.

I wish I could get away without brushing my teeth, or ever going to the dentist. The same goes for visiting the doctor.

I don’t really ever want to leave the house. I’m happy with staying home with my knitting; nothing could entice me to travel.

I’d rather concentrate on memories than making plans. Dying doesn’t scare me but living does.

But in spite of that, I went to the “Christmas Revels” last night, and it was wonderful. I put on clean clothes, brushed my hair and my teeth and washed my face. I had aquafit in the morning, so I had a shower.

I was, for a night, what you might call, presentable.

Cancer Transformations Hair: Before, During, After, Now.

Before Cancer 2000
Chemo head 2005
2015
2024
Now 2025

To Remember

Many, many years ago

I talked to Jack for a long time today. What I love about still being able to be close to him is that our memories are the same and that we share those memories.

My dad, in jest, used to call himself “dirty dog Anderson,” and my brother Steve, when he was in high school, called himself, “Beatleman”. If you saw how he dressed, you would know why.

There’s no one else on earth that would know those things. We have laughed about them now for 60 years. I don’t know if you can possibly know how precious this is to me. If Jack and I were completely estranged, which for a while, I thought we would always be, we wouldn’t be able to share these memories.

My family loved our dog Gypsy so much that when we would see home movies of her, the entire family would be in tears. I found Gypsy, a small, tan, beagle type dog lost in front of our house. Jack and I share this memory. His memory is so sharp that he remembers things in such clear detail that he can fill in areas that I no longer can remember.

He remembered today, exactly the little secondhand shop where he bought me an authentic Navajo ring of carved silver set with a deeply orange/red carnelian stone. I’ve been remembering how much of myself was formed as a young girl from 16 through our entire relationship because of things that Jack said and did. I remember the things that he bought me. He encouraged me to learn and to stay curious.

He bought me art supplies and paid for art classes. He introduced me to music and artists, and literature that I may not have run into on my own so early in life.

He bought me clothes and artwork of all kinds and taught me the value of handmade everything. We shared foreign films on days when we didn’t feel like going to school. Instead, we would spend time in the art museum, in galleries, in cinema houses and the library. We lived in houses with character and historical value. I could go on and on, but I don’t know where we went off the rails.

But off the rails, we did go… some 30 years after we started. We used terrible words with each other, though we knew so many beautiful words. We hurt one another, and yet we held it together for so many years. I’m not sure that we could have salvaged our relationship. I don’t think I could stand it if I thought we could have saved it. It’s easier and less painful for me to think that our parting was necessary for our growth. Just as a plant needs pruning to continue to grow and produce flowers and fruits and vegetables. Sometimes, those plants need to move away from one another and give each more room to grow.

Regardless, I treasure the times now when we do talk, and when we remember. It’s good to know people who have known you through the journey.

And now, as far as my immediate family, there’s just Steve who knew me back when. Maybe it’s our ages, but with these two, Jack and Steve, my life has contiguous meaning.