Category Archives: Aging and Ageless

Serenity now: Acupuncture for the weary

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Take rest; a field that has rested gives a bountiful crop.
– Ovid, Roman poet

The New Year started out with a bang work-wise. I found out I was going on a five-city business trip within a two-week span and more projects poured in on top of the projects I was already working on. I woke up early Sunday morning with a panic attack, wondering how I was going to meet my deadlines before I board my plane Friday night. Three weeks after returning from the holidays, I’m a train wreck.

Take time to examine and enjoy the kaleidoscope details of a tulip (from our garden).

Take time to examine and enjoy the kaleidoscope details of a tulip (from our garden).

My neck pain has flared. Sitting in a chair for hours has produced sharp pain in my lower back and my sciatica has resurfaced. I’m currently sporting braces on both arms for carpal tunnel syndrome. Yes, a train wreck. I’m thankfully not pulling all-nighters because frankly I can’t stay up like I used to (and shouldn’t have back then, in my younger and more vulnerable years). But the downside is that I simply don’t have enough time to finish what I need to get done.

I had it on my to-do list to call my acupuncturist before my red-eye flight. But I couldn’t carve out the time, I argued with myself. I’m glad the sensible part of me won. Late this afternoon, I went in and, lying on the table in a heated room, with soft music soothing my downtrodden soul, I was at rest and gathering strength.

Appreciate the beauty of nature in the delicate orchid.

Appreciate the beauty of nature in the delicate orchid.

I first saw Portia Lee, my acupuncturist, last April. I’d always wanted to try acupuncture for various aches and pains, particularly my sciatica. But last April I was suffering from insomnia. I could not sleep no matter what I did – warm baths, power down from electronics (maybe I tried that once) an hour before going to bed, reading, deep breathing. Nothing worked. It got to the point where I was terrified of going to bed because I knew it was going to be another night of tossing and turning, and then unbelievable exhaustion the following day. After talking with a few friends and relatives, I discovered that this is symptom of the changes. The insomnia went on for a few weeks before I succumbed to going to my nurse practitioner.

Did I want to do a trial and error with sleeping pills or anti-anxiety pills? She suggested the latter because anxiety often creates insomnia. I just want to sleep, I demanded. We tried sleeping pills. That lasted two nights. They made me groggy and exhausted. There was really no difference between the problem and the cure. So I decided to try acupuncture, and I ventured to Portia’s practice, Traditional Ways Healing Center (6931 Stockton Avenue, El Cerrito, CA 94530, 799.8788, infoportialee@gmail.com), after looking her up on the Internet.

Get up close and admire the fluted petals of an orange dahlia (from our garden).

Get up close and admire the fluted petals of an orange dahlia (from our garden).

I’ve never had such a thorough examination and discussion of my physical, emotional and mental well-being. It was eye-opening for me to talk about things that were impacting my body. I was in her office for three hours. I fell asleep on the table. Who wouldn’t when you have a lavender eye pillow, a comfortable pad and pillow, incense and soft music setting the mood, and a just-so warm room? All my troubles were outside that door. I left with some bottles of herbs and roots, and as I was walking out, I noticed the lack of pain in my left leg. It was a lightness that occurs when a pain you’ve accepted and lived with all these years has been suddenly lifted. I was able to sleep immediately with valerian, though I actually haven’t used it for several months now. I’ve had a couple of acupuncture tune-ups since then, mostly when my stress levels have risen – like now.

I still have to make it to the end of the week, intact and with as much work done as I can possibly do. My body has been energized by acupuncture. I just have to be kind to my body to keep going. And take a deep breath. You can only do what you can do. The world won’t collapse over a missed deadline.

Someone once said, “Serenity is not freedom from the storm, but peace amid the storm.” As I tackle the next deadline, I do so with a more balanced body. Now to nurture that peace in my head.

Keeping it simple with the LBD - a silk shift embellished with crystals and baubles at the shoulders. Instead of a red purse or pumps, throw a dash of color with the unexpected red gloves.

Keeping it simple with the LBD – a silk shift embellished with crystals and baubles at the shoulders. Instead of a red purse or pumps, throw a dash of color with the unexpected red gloves.

Vintage Eisenberg bracelet and earrings to adorn the LBD.

Vintage Eisenberg bracelet and earrings to adorn the LBD.

Red-and-black gloves for the LBD, co-starring with g bling and some Eisenberg bling and some bling on the shoulders, too.

Red-and-black gloves for the LBD, co-starring with g bling and some Eisenberg bling and some bling on the shoulders, too.

 

Remembering Bailey

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If there are no dogs in heaven, then when I die I want to go where they went.
– Will Rogers, American humorist, social commentator, and actor

Our timid Bailey, winter 2000.

Our timid Bailey, winter 2000.

The Milo Foundation used to come to Fourth Street in Berkeley on weekends to adopt out rescued dogs, cats, puppies, and kittens. It was late summer 1999, and I persuaded David to “just take a look.” He was reluctant. I had given up my dog Sydney through my divorce four years earlier because I moved out of the house and into a large apartment complex, where I could not keep a large pet. I grew up with dogs throughout my childhood, and I couldn’t wait to be a homeowner so I could finally have a dog of my own.

I saw “Iggy,” a lab mix, with her sister in a pen. She’d been given that nickname when she arrived, sick with kennel cough, at the shelter. She was a puppy less than five months old, with mostly black fur with a little white on her chest. She was timid but wanting attention and affection. Iggy and her sister were found in a cardboard box, abandoned somewhere in Berkeley. I wanted her. I imagined sitting at my computer, working on my novel, while she slept at my feet. David was adamant. We were not going to be tied down with a puppy. I left, turning around to see her being held by a young woman. Iggy had an uncertain look on her face. I convinced David to return on Sunday, and if by chance the young woman hadn’t taken her and Iggy was still there, it was a sign that she belonged to us.

We went back on Sunday, and miraculously she was still there. We named her Bailey and brought her home. We deduced, when David rolled up a newspaper to swat at a spider on our bedroom wall, that Bailey had been abused. She cowered and her eyes were glassy with fear. She also had abandonment issues, which she never outgrew. It was difficult to leave her in the mornings. We ended up putting her in the kitchen, with sheets over the newly installed cabinets so she wouldn’t jump – she liked to jump – and scratch the panels.

One day I came home and she would not move. I coaxed her down the stairs from the kitchen to the utility room and out into the backyard. She made it to the backyard, but she stopped and winced. I waited for David to come home and then we took her to the vet, where we learned that she had broken her leg in two places. She had surgery and was in a cast. David put down grass in the middle of the yard, as advised by the vet, and we had one of our retired neighbors come by during the day to let her outside. We even left an Etta James concert in the City before it ended because we were afraid to leave her in the house by herself too long. The vet cautioned us before her cast came off that there was a chance her sciatic nerve would be damaged, which meant he’d have to amputate her leg. I saw a three-legged dog in the park and imagined that Bailey could still wag her tail and trot as if she had four legs, just like that happy-go-lucky dog. The whole medical episode cost somewhere in the neighborhood of $1,600, but she was able to walk again, work her paw out from a curled ball, and stop limping.

Walking Bailey the day before giving birth, June 2000.

Walking Bailey the day before giving birth, June 2000.

I was in heaven when I quit my office job in my first trimester. I worked on freelance projects, and on weekends, when pregnancy fatigue hit, I’d lie on the couch, with Bailey – who was a sedentary dog from the beginning – stretched out on her dog bed next to me, white belly up. Those were the salad days. We gave her long walks. She basked in our attention and the homebody lifestyle we took on, as we prepared for our first child’s arrival.

Bailey had slept in our room ever since she was a puppy. It was a game, before my son was born, to try not to stir on weekend mornings because the minute we did she would be at the side of our bed, wet nose poking into our faces. She was just as sleep deprived as we were when our son was born. And she’d let us know how irritated she was by groaning and slapping a paw over her face. With the bassinet in our bedroom, which also doubled as my office, we were feeling overwhelmed and crowded. Adding insult to injury, we put Bailey’s bed in the living room, and that is likely the time she retreated into a state of perpetual depression. Friends who came to our house often commented on how sad she looked, lying on her bed, staring at the world going past her.

Deceptive scene of Rex on top of Bailey.

Deceptive scene of Rex on top of Bailey.

When my son was 21 months old, we rescued our dog Rex, who was a puppy at the time, from the Berkeley Animal Control. Bailey despised him. If I had known anything about dog psychology, I would not have brought Rex home. I thought I was doing her a favor when I returned to work in the City by getting her a companion. The thing is, there were too many companions taking attention away from her. We had no idea until one weekend when I looked out the kitchen window and to my horror saw her chase and pounce on Rex. It is the reason to this day that he can’t be around other dogs. Rex barked all the time and was difficult to handle. Bailey lay on her bed like a cat. In her eyes, she was chiding us: “See, look at him! He’s such a bother! You should have stuck with just me. Look at me. I just lie on my bed and cause no trouble to anybody.” Their beds were side by side in the family room, and whenever Rex got up, Bailey would get up, too, only to stretch her body and take up half his bed. We had to scold her to get her to move back to her own bed. On weekend mornings, I would take Rex on his walk first, while Bailey sat dejectedly, snout sticking out in-between the pickets of the dog gate that kept them in the kitchen. While I walked Rex, she would howl and wake up the kids. No matter that I always returned to give her a walk. She never stopped howling. She never got over being left behind. When my daughter was born, Bailey was in such a state of melancholy that we joked about putting her on puppy uppers – and Rex on doggie downers.

Bailey in need of puppy uppers.

Bailey in need of puppy uppers.

I have fond memories of Bailey. She liked to slink up on the couch when she thought we wouldn’t catch her. One night, in the dark, David sat on her instead of the couch cushion. She used to beg for food at the kitchen table. One rainy Valentine’s Day dinner, we tried to keep her at bay by putting an open umbrella, which she was afraid of, at the kitchen entrance. She inched closer and closer, until her collar got tangled with the metal end of one of the spines of the umbrella. She drew back, and to her surprise, the umbrella came at her. She took off, dashing into the kitchen, under the table, shooting out of the kitchen and through the dining room and around the living room, her eyes bugged out, her hind legs whipping ahead of her front legs. Those are the times I wish I’d had a video camera on hand!

Bailey at rest - her usual state of being.

Bailey at rest – her usual state of being.

Many times when we came home from errands, coming up through the kitchen door, she would be on the other side, prancing around like a horse, her favorite stuffed hamburger squeaky toy in her mouth. I tried to let the dogs hang out upstairs with me in my office library during the day, but a knock, a doorbell ringing, or any other noise would send them barking up a storm. So they were gated in the kitchen. Sometimes I would leave the kitchen gate open, and at a certain time in the late morning she would venture up the stairs, her long nails clicking against the hardwood floors, and I’d wait for her to come around and into my office nook. I would give her a big greeting, to which she responded with a wagging tail, and satiated, she would trot back to her bed in the kitchen. She had the softest, velvety ears, behind which she liked being scratched.

One Friday evening in January of 2011, as we were preparing for our son’s basketball game, Bailey came around from the family room area to the kitchen. She looked tired. But I was in a hurry. I said a few encouraging words to her, and then we were gone. The next day she went on her walk, but she was lethargic. On Sunday, for the first time in her life, she would not get up for her morning walk. In fact, she hardly got up at all. When she did, she dragged herself into the kitchen and peed on the floor. David saw what was happening, but in my mind I thought, well, we’ll just get her pads. When David tried to entice Bailey outdoors to pee to no avail, he ended up resorting to lifting her up beneath her front legs. I’ll never forget the startled – even embarrassed and humiliated – look she exchanged with me as her hind legs dangled beneath her, her tail curled up. The kids spent the night on the couches in the family room next to Bailey and Rex’s dog beds.

I was grateful that we had a long weekend; it was Martin Luther King, Jr. Day and the kids were home from school. We took a lot of pictures of Bailey and made a video of her on the flip camera. I sat on the floor next to her and put her head on my lap, as I stroked her and told the kids stories about Bailey. It wasn’t until the end of day that I realized she had never slept, which was unheard of given how much she sleeps during the day. I was stricken by the understanding that she couldn’t sleep because she was in discomfort. Her breathing had became loud and raspy. It was then that I reached the conclusion that David had already arrived at on Sunday. At dinnertime, we had a family meeting. We would need to take Bailey to the vet in the morning. Numb and not thinking, I agreed to let both kids, who were sobbing over their meals, come with us.

Bailey's last day with us, January 17, 2011.

Bailey’s last day with us, January 17, 2011.

I was going to sleep on the couch that night. Both David and I were working on our laptops in the family room. He insisted that the kids could not go with us in the morning. And I secretly wished that she would pass away peacefully, if only her eyes would close and she would fall asleep. It was around 11 o’clock that night when her breathing turned rattled and sounded wet. She struggled to turn her back on us, and in that act I knew she was dying. I rushed to her side, calling out her name, stroking her head. I was torn because I wanted her to know I was there and yet I acknowledged that she had turned her back on us because she didn’t want us to see. I recalled someone telling me once that animals go into the woods to die alone. But I would not let her think she was alone. Within moments, she threw back her head, opened her mouth wide, let out a rattle, and she was gone.

I don’t remember what happened after that. We wrapped her up in a blanket and took her outside on the porch. We knew we had to move her to the van before the kids got up. So we woke up early in the morning and hurriedly transported her body, but by the time we returned inside, I found my daughter, eight years old, wailing in the middle of the family room, in the spot where Bailey’s bed used to be.

Bailey’s ashes were scattered somewhere in Napa. We held a family ceremony for her, burying a wad of her hair and the hamburger toy in the side yard.

Rex, newly crowned pampered pooch, with his blanket and bed in the library.

Rex, newly crowned pampered pooch, with his blanket and bed in the library.

People say you shouldn’t regret. But initially, regret is an involuntary feeling. It’s the wallowing in regret for a long stretch that steals our time and diverts our feelings for other things. And yet, regret can be a great lesson if we are open to it and know how to use it. I very much regret that we ignored Bailey all those years. She just wanted to be loved because when she came into this world, she was abused and abandoned. Those feelings never left her, no matter that she was safe and loved haphazardly in a household that took her for granted in the course of our busy lives.

Happiness is a warm bed, your Cal pillow, and sticking out your tongue when in a deep sleep.

Happiness is a warm bed, your Cal pillow, and sticking out your tongue when in a deep sleep.

Now we pamper Rex, who was not given a fair shake by Bailey. We’re making up for the abuse he received at the hands of a curmudgeon dog. Rex sleeps upstairs, gets a daily walk instead of only weekend walks, and accompanies me on errands – he gives me a stunned and hurt look when I don’t take him with me. He is photographed more than any other person under our roof. And he gets a lot of attention. He has become the dog who sleeps in the library and who I know won’t bark – though he still has a ferocious bark – while I’m on the phone for work.

Last winter, I noticed his hind legs slipping a little. He has had numerous skin conditions throughout the year that I thought perhaps might be the beginning of the end for him. Numerous vet visits and bills, thyroid and other medications later, and after a switch to non-grain dog food, his sandy coat is as soft as Bailey’s ears. He is still a nuisance around other dogs and manages to get in the way of whatever you are doing. He is nervous in unfamiliar situations and environments, his shaking hind legs a sure sign. I affectionately call him my “dysfunctional boyfriend.” Friends call him “Wreck.”

He is nearing 12 years old. He has been my house companion for a solid two years now. We have our daily routine.

I don’t know when his time will come, when he will join Bailey, who, as my kids joke, is up in doggie heaven, looking down and jealously barking, “No fair!” It will be much harder for me in one sense – though no less heartbreaking – when we reach the end of our walk together, but I know there will be no regret at all. Bailey taught me that lesson.

Ready to walk Rex on a winter morning with over-the-knee boots!

Ready to walk Rex on a winter morning with over-the-knee boots!

Layers, different textures such as waffle knits and flecked leggings, smooth and patent leather, faux fur, antique button ring by Elizabeth Ngo, reclaimed vintage rose earrings by Carmela Rose, and Sundance stack of rings.

Layers, different textures such as waffle knits and flecked leggings, smooth and patent leather, faux fur, antique button ring by Elizabeth Ngo, reclaimed vintage rose earrings by Carmela Rose, and Sundance stack of rings.

Engaging with grace

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Life is pleasant. Death is peaceful. It’s the transition that’s troublesome.
– Isaac Asimov, American science fiction writer and biochemistry professor

Mixing black and gray for the holidays, 2011.

Mixing black and gray for the holidays, 2011.

My mother’s passing still haunts me one year later. It is what I had expected. But last week, a number of events have kept me thinking about the other side. A good friend let me know that her elderly mother had been very sick and in the hospital for three days. She is thankfully recovering now in her assisted living facility. Another good friend texted me that a mutual friend, whom I hadn’t seen in a few years, was in the ICU, having suffered congestive heart failure and a stroke. And last Wednesday, as I was running an errand, I saw the result of an accident that must have happened mere minutes before I turned on the corner – a covered body on the street, an inconsolable woman standing on the sidewalk, and police cars redirecting traffic. The wail of a fire truck siren followed soon afterwards.

These events made me think about how things can twist and turn in a blink and take you down a different, sometimes dark, path – thoughts that seem to be especially prevalent as the years march on. Can we really ever be prepared for such tragedies?

Anatomy of black and gray: one o my favorite faux fur jackets, suede booties, and statement necklace from Anthropologie.

Anatomy of black and gray: one o my favorite faux fur jackets, suede booties, and statement necklace from Anthropologie.

In the fall of 2008, I attended the Health 2.0 conference in San Francisco as a reporter for my work. I wanted to cut out before the end of the first day of the conference, but something compelled me to stay for the last presentation. Alexandra Drane, founder and president of Eliza, began talking about her sister-in-law, who at the age of 32 was diagnosed with stage IV glioblastoma. I won’t tell you the rest of the story. You can read it and watch it here. Alexandra shared this poignant story amid many tears in the audience – both men and women, including the young mother who was sitting at my table. Alexandra helped found a viral movement, a nonprofit organization called Engage with Grace, which entreats us as family members and friends, with great humanity and love, to discuss end-of-life care. She asked that we answer the five questions brought up on the website, download the slide and share the story, and “get the conversation started.”

I was incredibly fortunate two years later to actually interview Alexandra at the same conference. I excitedly told her how moved I was by her presentation. Then I told her about my father’s passing, and how he died in his hospital room while we were on our way. I had always regretted – and I know my mother did, too – that he was alone. I told her that after his death, my sisters and I tried to talk to her about planning for her own passing, but she would hear none of it. It was bad luck to talk of such things. So that was the end of it. I then told her that after hearing her presentation, I brought it up to my mother the next time I visited her. (Little did I know that four years earlier, in 2004, she had written out her wishes for end-of-life determination. To this day, I don’t know what triggered her to decide what to do and to write it down, but I am grateful that she did.) Again, I was met with a rebuke for talking about such matters out in the open. That was the end of the discussion.

A very cold Northern California winter, January 2013.

A very cold Northern California winter, January 2013.

I also told Alexandra that after the conference, when I returned home that evening, I sat down and wrote about the presentation and the movement and send out a group e-mail to all my women friends. David and I filled out our advanced healthcare directive and dutifully sent it out to family members and our physicians. We and our family know what we want to do should we find ourselves in that difficult position.

But whereas advanced healthcare directive maps out what you do or don’t want to have done to you, there is no place on the form that asks you where you want to be when your life is coming to an end. It should. I recognize, however, that even if it did, their wishes may not be fulfilled.

My mother wanted to go home. She couldn’t really talk, but she mouthed it. It was plain to hear through the garble. It was obvious in the shape of her chapped lips. At first, my sisters and I thought she meant she wanted to go home to recover, not recover in the hospital. My sister, whom she lived with, brightly told her she needed to regain her strength before she could come home and, as an incentive, kept encouraging her to do her physical therapy, which my mother refused to do when the therapist came to her room. (My mother would look away, disinterested, and play opossum, but the moment a Filipino caregiver came into her room, she smiled, nodded her head, and weakly waved.) As my mother encountered setback after setback, I realized that she wanted to go home to die. She was done fighting, she was tired, she had told us as much with her eyes and her distorted speech, and she had nodded when we asked her, though we were not ready to let go.

When I was alone with her, on my watch, she told me again she wanted to go home, as if I was her only hope. I awkwardly asked my sister to grant her wish. My sister gave various reasons why it was not a good idea to bring her home. And then remembering Engage with Grace, I asked both of my sisters to watch the video and to consider the message. My sister finally responded. She respected the message, but she could not bring herself to do it. I was sad, but I totally understood where she was coming from. It was her home. It was her decision, not mine.

In the end, it was she whose stoicism failed her the night we let our mother go, not I – the “crybaby” of the family when we were growing up. It was she whose voice broke when we each eulogized our mother at her memorial service. And it was she who has to wake up every morning and go to bed at night in the house in which my mother would no longer walk in and out – her bedroom door, closed and white, which my sister would have to face coming in from the garage, like a canker sore on the heart.

If only we had discussed the matter when we weren’t in such a difficult situation. Maybe the outcome would not have changed at all. I don’t know. And in not knowing, and while still haunted, I can only spread the word. Engage with grace. There is great comfort in knowing what your loved one wishes and that there is time to prepare to honor their wishes.

Engage with grace. Amen.

Keeping the winter chill away with faux fur jacket and scarf (Restoration Hardware) and leather (Frye booties) and warm gold (necklace and bracelet by M.E. Moore and Monserat De Lucca crossbody bag).

Keeping the winter chill away with faux fur jacket and scarf (Restoration Hardware) and leather (Frye booties) and warm gold (necklace and bracelet by M.E. Moore and Monserat De Lucca crossbody bag).

Fare thee well, chai latte

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Drink your tea slowly and reverently, as if it is the axis on which the world earth revolves – slowly, evenly, without rushing toward the future. Live the actual moment. Only this moment is life.
– Thich Nat Hahn, Vietnamese Zen Buddhist monk, teacher, author, poet, and peace activist

A perfectly formal outfit for high tea.

A perfectly formal outfit for high tea.

This morning I drank my last tall mug of chai latte with soy milk. I can’t tell you how many mornings I sat down at my home office desk after walking the kids to school and relished sipping the slightly spicy drink with the hint of ginger on my tongue. It set me in a calm and clear frame of mind, ready for the work day.I drank the real chai many years ago at the Community of Writers at Squaw Valley conference, where one of my housemates, who was East Indian, brewed it fresh. There is nothing like waking up to the aroma of cinnamon, cloves, and especially grated ginger. I was sold on chai and its explosion and marriage of flavors, but nothing off the shelf matched what I savored and I didn’t have time in the mornings to make my own.

Years later, I began drinking chai latte because of the ginger. When I was suffering from morning sickness my first trimester with my daughter, my mother-in-law recommended that I eat crystalized ginger. That particular preparation of ginger didn’t alleviate my nausea, but one morning on my commute to work I dragged myself to the Starbucks near my BART station exit and ordered a chai latte with soy milk – being lactose intolerant – hoping that the ginger in the mix would help. The moment I took my first sip my nausea literally disappeared. It happened the next morning and the next. Once I got past the second trimester, however, I stopped buying it because I couldn’t bring myself to pay that much for a drink.

Black and white and sparkly, mixing vintage rhinestone jewelry with Tiffany sterling silver mesh jewelry.

Black and white and sparkly, mixing vintage rhinestone jewelry with Tiffany sterling silver mesh jewelry.

But then I found the Tazo chai latte mix in Costco. I was in heaven until they stopped stocking it. When I found it on the shelves again one winter, I bought cases of it to last a year. When I ran out and there were none to be found at Costco, I discovered that Target carried it and I resumed my habit. Through the years, there have been mornings when I thought the chai latte didn’t taste as good as I always expected it to be. And, being disappointed, I thought, yes, I could give it up.I have found that as I get older, I have had to consider food from a different perspective. Food is now viewed as what does or doesn’t impede a healthy digestive system. And more recently, what foods to avoid that age your skin – sugar, caffeine, and alcohol are culprits that are often named in articles about nutrition and aging. And yet, I couldn’t give up the thing that was part of my morning routine. Some days I wasn’t enamored with the flavors and other days it tasted so good I was crazy to consider banishing it from my diet. Until your body tells you that something you’re consuming is making you feel off.

Time for casual tea in a Tocca coat from Personal Pizazz (Berkeley, CA).

Time for casual tea in a Tocca coat from Personal Pizazz (Berkeley, CA).

Unwilling to give up my chai lattes, I replaced soy milk with almond milk, upon recommendation by women friends after discussions about how soy milk is hard on the digestive system. (In a month-long experiment, I have discovered that having eliminated soy milk from my diet made a difference in that area. I’m not well versed enough about the pros and cons of soy, but from what little I’ve read the literature points to unfermented, genetically modified soy as being unhealthful.) No matter what brand I tried, however, I did not like the taste of almond milk and it didn’t blend well when heated with the chai latte mix. It was either watery or coagulating, which made it seem easy – finally – to give it all up. So not only was I going to have a healthy digestive system, I was also going to do my skin a favor (because I am not going to give up my vino so it had to be something else) and not feel like I had to relinquish anything I enjoyed.

Chunky ring from Lava 9 (Berkeley, CA), Carmela Rose vintage brass earrings, Sundance rings, and J. Crew necklace.

Chunky ring from Lava 9 (Berkeley, CA), Carmela Rose vintage brass earrings, Sundance rings, and J. Crew necklace.

The thing about giving up something is that you need to replace it, even after the love has waned. I’m sure behavioral studies have been conducted on the success of replacing a habit with something else just as or even more enticing or enjoyable. I used to hold up my hands in a “no, thank you” gesture to the Teavana people handing out samples outside their storefront. When my cousin Janet was in town last summer, we tried several cups, and I was hooked by the explosion of flavors. But wait, there’s more. The tea has less caffeine than my chai latte mix and the white and green teas are rich in antioxidants. White teas are the least processed of all teas, the Teavana person informed me. Yes, she was selling me her product, but the flavor and aroma sold me – along with texture, those are the three things that I most appreciate in food. And I loved the fact that there were so many different flavors and fruity versions – and chocolate – and that I could mix to create my own special blends. I had found my replacement.

Mixing textures: Nubby chenille turtleneck, Tocca herringbone tweed coat (Personal Pizazz), faux leather and knit leggings, chocolate leather booties, and warm brass jewelry.

Mixing textures: Nubby chenille turtleneck, Tocca herringbone tweed coat (Personal Pizazz), faux leather and knit leggings, chocolate leather booties, and warm brass jewelry.

But I had to go through my stockpile of chai latte cartons, which surprisingly has taken a number of months to consume. I suffered through the almond milk in my chai lattes, until I broke down and bought a half-gallon of soy milk this week, which was a mistake. The last drop from the last chai latte mix carton was emptied this morning. I hesitated before throwing the carton in the trashcan. Later this morning, there was just a hint of longing as I looked into the deep well of my empty mug.

Tomorrow morning, I’ll be mixing wild orange blossom herbal tea leaves with youthberry white tea leaves. I will drink my tea slowly and reverently. And feel cleansed.

Gray matter

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Be comfortable in your own skin, and your style will come out.
– Ikram Goldman, Ikram boutique owner, Chicago

My parents show off their cake at their 25th wedding anniversary, May 1982.

My parents show off their cake at their 25th wedding anniversary, May 1982.

When my sisters and I were going through my mother’s photographs to put in a slideshow for her memorial last January, I came across ones of my parents’ 25th wedding anniversary party. My mother was a month shy of 31 when she got married to my father. So she was nearing 56 when we celebrated their anniversary at a restaurant with our family and all of our relatives. In December 1984, when my sister, Heidi, my mom, and I went to the Philippines – to commemorate the end of my college career and also to embrace my heritage after taking many Asian American Studies classes – my mom was 58 years old.

Me, my lola Salud, and my mother, Baguio City, the Philippines, December 1984. My mother shows just a little gray along the hairline.

Me, my lola Salud, and my mother, Baguio City, the Philippines, December 1984. My mother shows just a little gray along the hairline.

I marveled at how in the pictures from those two events, my mother looked incredibly young. No sign of gray hair. My middle sister Joyce recalled that she berated my mom for plucking her gray hairs, telling her she would go bald. It was around the early 1990s that Joyce introduced my mother to coloring her hair. So at the time of her 25th anniversary and our trip to the Philippines, my mother had plucked her grays – but clearly still had a healthy production of melanin.

No doubt, genetics played a major role in her youthful looks. But at some point, she did color her hair. I, too, plucked at the gray hairs, and when they multiplied to the point where potential baldness had to be considered as a real risk, I faced the decision of either coloring or leaving the gray strands alone. I had always thought I would be the kind of woman who would eschew coloring her hair. Just age gracefully, I argued in my head. But at the age of 44, when the gray hair began exposing themselves around my hairline and at the crown of my head, I succumbed to the practice.

Does she or doesn’t she?
In my neck of the woods – the Berkeley area – more women than not embrace their gray. Was it a defect on my part that I did not? My hairdresser, who has been cutting my hair since I was 29 and whom I have followed from salon to salon through the years, has been badgering me in the last few years to stop coloring my hair. He tells me that “modern women” can carry off gray hair. He also insisted that the owner of the beauty shop where he worked had developed leukemia from having undergone too many Japanese hair-straightening treatments. In all honesty, I don’t know anything about the pros and cons of the treatment and can’t comment on whether the chemicals contributed to her death. I do worry about the chemicals that are seeping into my scalp, which is one of the reasons why I don’t color that often and traded permanent color, which made my hair dry as straw, to semi-permanent color, which seems less harsh, relatively speaking, and fades in a more “natural” way.

My husband, David, whose hair is salt and pepper, keeps reminding me that there’s nothing wrong with gray hair and he’d prefer that I go au natural. Some people look distinguished with a head of gray hair, but I don’t put myself in that company just yet. One of my good friends from college feels that gray hair makes women look older than they are, which is true depending upon how the hair is styled, how the woman dresses herself, and the coloring of the gray. While dull gray is not a flattering color, white or silver can be stunning.

Comfortable with gray
While one can argue whether or not a woman looks better with colored hair, I’ve come to see it as a personal decision, which should be respected and even celebrated. My sister, Heidi, who turned 53 in mid-August and noticed the gray in her mid-30s, has never colored her hair, which is even more dramatic and pronounced given the longer length of her locks. She prefers low maintenance when it comes to grooming, which was especially critical when she was an elementary-school teacher (she has since retired this past year). She doesn’t blow dry her hair because she feels it’s a health hazard and has the same health concern about hair coloring. My sister grows her hair long so she can cut it every three years and donate it to such organizations as the American Cancer Society and Ulta, which require hair to be free of chemicals. She tells me that they don’t accept donations with too many gray hairs, so this may be her last contribution.

My sister, Heidi, and me at Rockefeller Center, New York, September 2012.

My sister, Heidi, and me at Rockefeller Center, New York, September 2012.

“There have been a dozen women who have told me that they are following my example and are not coloring their hair anymore,” Heidi wrote to me in an e-mail. “They just don’t like the look when transitioning from not coloring to going all gray. I think they are becoming more comfortable with the idea of having gray hair. I think they also got tired of coloring their hair and they’re doing it for themselves and not for appearance anymore.” (Although I feel compelled to note that you can color your hair and do it for yourself and not for others.)

A friend of mine, who has a lovely thick mane of silvery hair, decided to dispense with the many years of maintenance, time, and expense associated with hair coloring. “You’re finally comfortable with it, and you just grow into your gray hair,” she told me in an e-mail. Through the years, she had gotten close with her colorist, whom she considers an adopted daughter and also followed as her colorist changed salons. While my friend doesn’t get to see her former colorist on a regular basis anymore, when they do get together it’s “for coffee instead of coloring,” she wrote.

Hair as an ‘artistic medium’
One of my colleagues from my company, Diana Manos, 53, who is a senior editor with Healthcare IT News, said that turning 50 has liberated her to experiment with hair color. “I like hair as an artistic medium (involving color),” she wrote to me in an e-mail. Diana doesn’t believe that hair color should be age-related. She sported a big bright fuschia stripe, noting that getting the flash of color was something she has wanted to do her whole life. “I feel that being my current age finally freed me to do it,” she wrote, although she has since moved on from pink because it fades too easily.

My colleague Diana sporting her fuschia streak.

My colleague Diana sporting her fuschia streak.

“Color is color. If you don’t like the color gray – and I don’t – you don’t have to wear it, in our day and age,” she wrote. “I feel hair is a very distinctive aspect of our outer selves. If we want, we can use our hair to represent our inner selves. How you feel about your hair is very important to how you see yourself. No one at any age should accept hair they don’t want to wear.”

While Diana noted that she doesn’t like the color gray on her, she recognizes that some women can carry it off. “I am always fascinated by and on the lookout for women who wear it like they mean it,” she said. “Emmylou Harris is one famous example, but I see good examples around me all the time. If I had to one day wear gray hair, I would probably put some black stripes in it to spice it up.”

Celebrating silver - in my dress for now, Las Vegas, February 2012.

Celebrating silver – in my dress for now, Las Vegas, February 2012.

What feels right
As for me, I’ve made the tentative decision that I’ll go completely gray when my wrinkles become more pronounced. I’ll admit that I raise my eyebrows when I see an elderly Filipino man or woman with jet-black hair and wrinkles to rival an elephant because it seems like a disconnect between hair and body. I can’t imagine that I’ll do anything to my face, so when the wrinkles deepen, the gray will be let loose.

I’m always fascinated by other women’s opinions about and reasons for coloring or going gray, but the bottom line is: Respect other women’s decisions and do what feels right for you. Whatever you do, first and foremost, do it for yourself. Once you embrace that, the decisions come – of course – nice and easy.

The best way to accent silver and gray is with lots of beading, sequins, rhinestones, and shiny metallic.

The best way to accent silver and gray is with lots of beading, sequins, rhinestones, and shiny metallic.

Gray is the perfect backdrop or a lot of shine from different materials and accessories, both vintage (earrings, ring, and bracelet) and new (necklace, stack of rings, pumps, and skirt).

Gray is the perfect backdrop or a lot of shine from different materials and accessories, both vintage (earrings, ring, and bracelet) and new (necklace, stack of rings, pumps, and skirt).