My senses are out of kilter as to time and place. I will think it is Tuesday when it is Monday. Saturday when it is Friday and vice-versus.
The house feels larger even with Izzi staying here. We rattle around. Marveling at how tall the ceilings seem. At how many people were able to fit comfortably in the living room when we sat Shiva on the Monday and Tuesday after Jed’s death.
With Jed at home, the rooms had always seemed balanced. His large frame occupying the space. Balancing out the height and width and breadth even in his last weeks lying in his hospital bed. His presence still filling the rooms with echos of his insouciant smiles or his coquettish turns in one or another doorway.
Jed standing tall was a marvel. His posture perfect but tinged with a languidness that harkened back to the Wyoming roots of his General father. And yet Jed was a true Easterner. Intelligent and smart and fast thinking from all his years spent in New York City. At home, on a sailboat or a kayak, climbing a mountain or walking the G-trails of Europe, or sitting at Puffy’s Bar, or writing one article or another for the New York Times, or sharing a pint of ice cream with Izzi. Talking politics or mycology or the origins of fire as the basis for the industrial revolution.
Frontotemporal Dementia robbed him of so much of that. Slowly. Insidiously. Painfully. As a horrible march down the rottenest of fetid paths lined with the scary monsters of childhood nightmares. Still, there were things he could hold onto. His three quick kisses to the air when one or another of us came into view.
The whispered, “I love you.”
The moment of sudden lucidity in his last week when he looked at Izzi and said, “I’ll be there.” For Izzi. For the milestones and triumphs in Izzi’s life to come. His fatherhood still there at the last.
The sway of his body as music played.
Jed still in there a little. Struggling to breathe. To live and release enough to pass on.
One of the privileges of life is to be there at the beginning and the end.
The miracle of my own pregnancy, delivery, and birth aside, my first experience of new life, was the birth of my dear friend Mara’s son Gabriel. He was born in the birthing center at what was then Roosevelt Hospital on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. She’d been in labor for quite some time, when all of a sudden, imminent birth came upon us. In the ensuing haste, I became her stirrup, bolstering my body against her bent leg as she pushed. I had never felt such power or connectedness to the cycle of life, and still count it among the most extraordinary experiences of my life.
Standing watch for death is no less miraculous. One feels through the touch of the skin and the cast of the eye how the body begins to let go. Shutting itself down into a dream like state of near relaxation.
Sitting with Jed as he begins to transition is no less extraordinary even as I feel the pain of watching my partner in life transcend our plain of existence. I find the rapidity of change to be the most difficult to contend with–an infusion of painful awareness that shoots through my psyche like a bullet train until I am able to normalize again; experiencing the all to human need to construct reality around the unfathomable.
Izzi and I spent today hanging out with Jed. We watched Soprano’s episodes, played Bette Lavette albums, chatted away. Sat on our computers. Wandered in and out of his room. Fed him bits of pureed food and sips of water from a spoon.
We told stories.
Talked about the future and the trip we want to take together.
Anyone who has every cared for a bed bound person is familiar with the necessity to reposition their loved one every two hours. This is to avoid and/or is part of the treatment for bed sores.
Yesterday I used one such two hour interval for a manicure and pedicure. The self-care felt evident, but more so the chance to drift as a very kind young woman from Southern China, carefully washed my feet, scrubbed my heals, massaged my legs, and applied nail polish before repeating a similar process on my hands. I appreciated how she used a portable fan on my feet as she applied polish to my fingers–and used a portable fan for each hand in between her ministrations.
Meanwhile, it’s four weeks since hospice care began and I’m in a same-o, same-o frame of mind.
Up by 7:30 AM no matter what time I fell asleep the “night” before, to allow the home health aide “clock” in from my cell phone.
Gloves on and the work to give him a wash, change his shirt and his diaper, change the “chucks” – the absorbent disposable mats under his body – and every few days, the positioning pad and fabric mat. It usually takes about an hour. And then breakfast, pureed yogurt and fruit with a little nutritional yeast thrown in, or oatmeal and apple with a bit of smashed up walnuts and a couple of spoonfuls of maple syrup ’cause why not.
Meds are next. The ones that help Jed stay calm and out of pain–a new wrinkle now that he is bed bound: neck pain, stiff joints, where a turn without supporting his head mean agonizing moments until we right it.
Jed sleeping on his side, May 15, 2025
Then sleep. A two-hour check. Turn or change then turn. Then two more hours, and change, lunch: smashed avocado and cottage cheese, or an egg salad, or left over pureed mashed potatoes with spinach. More meds, time upright to digest and then turn.
Plus two-hours, and again, till dinner, and more meds, and then the four-hour turns. at 10:00 PM and 2:00 AM. Those are the hardest. I am tired. And not sleeping enough. And sometimes doing the 2:00 AM on my own because the workers don’t work overnight. When they can help they do, but one worker in particular informed me last week that she can’t do it anymore.
The 2:00 AM on my own has its own rhythm. The repositioning is the hardest, but I am beginning to get it right. I find that bathing him in the half light has a kind of soothing appeal. I take my time. Careful to wash off every last bit of Desitin and biological matter that clings to him. Once I am done. I sit for a while. Watch him drift in sleep. His mouth open, as he draws breath. His body otherwise still resting on a mountain of pillows and flannel PJ bottoms that we stuff strategically to ease his comfort.
Last week Izzi started to come to help. We bond even deeper as we minister to him. We fill his nights with our love. Lie in my bed afterward at 3:00 AM, unable to sleep, watching old Sopranos episodes.
I swore it was three weeks since I put my sweet man on hospice care.
Today, however, marks two actual weeks in spite of the tricks time is playing on my mind and heart. Two weeks, and he is sleeping more. Eating less. Drinking less. Weaker. And yesterday, despite everything we are doing, he was diagnosed with a grade 2 bed sore just below his coccyx.
Two nights before when we discovered it, and having taken a photograph forwarded it on to Jed’s hospice nurse, she wrote back quickly saying it was a bedsore. It was a horrifying moment. A crushing moment. A moment of recrimination deep into my soul: How did I not see it before? How can I cure it? Make it go away overnight with a huge schmear of Desitin?
The clinical classification of the wound during his nurse’s regular visit yesterday gave me the sense that Jed is truly on this journey. A moment to be etched onto my soul. Mostly sad. Resigned. And more sadness.
The realization that despite the best efforts of bathing and drying and keeping the skin lathered with this and that product, skin breaks down. That the body doesn’t heal as fast. That he is truly at the end of his life and no amount of wishing and hoping changes the course.
When I spent 10 days in a silent Buddhist mediation retreat years ago in Thailand, I was taught that all things have a beginning, a middle, and an end. The walking mediation practice seemed to exemplify that concept the best. One starts off walking with the goal of walking 30 paces or so before stopping, turning, and beginning again. I admit to anxiety and discomfort on my first forays. Would I be mindful enough to stop at my appointed place? Or, would my mind wander and thereby miss the ending, so entranced in the mind-movies we invent we lose track of ourselves in space and time?
After a while, I got it. I would walk, set myself some landmarks and starting out feel exhilarated. Towards the middle I could begin to feel that my goal was nearing, but that the place where I was had its own beauty, its own interest. At the end, I felt a sort of arrival. That my task was done and that I was ready to start it anew as I stopped, took in where I was, turned and set out again with a new vista and orientation towards the place at the edge of a field where I had chosen to walk.
Contemplating Jed’s journey, I feel the vistas for him. The morning light in his room as I open the curtains, and how it casts light at the edge of his bed. Our time of bathing and dressing him. Anointing him in creams to keep his skin protected from the this and that of the day. Preparing a pureed meal and then feeding it to him. Providing his meds crushed in applesauce or bananas and strawberries. Setting him in his bed. Turning him, and on throughout the day into evening. Watching him sleep. Whether it is me or Izzi or one of his lovely home health aides. Guarding him. As the journey of his life slows. Reconfigures towards what will be his inevitable turn…
The night I met Jed at Puffy’s Bar on Hudson Street, in Tribeca, the song, The Boy From New York City by the Ad Libs was playing. I hadn’t heard it in longer than I could remember, but walking into a bar that had such a great dancing beat to it had set my mood for the night and when Susan Dumois, the bartender, stepped out from behind the bar and started to dance with me, I knew the night was special.
In the blink of an eye, I sit in Jed’s room, Bach’s Suite No. 3 playing soothingly in the background as he sleeps, coughs, sleeps again.
We are at the end of his second week on Hospice.
I think I am located in it but perhaps not. I cry less. Feel less anxious, though if sleep is the measure, my anxiety comes through in the fitful hours of watching cat videos, and my new favorites the rescue beavers, Tulip, Stormy Rose, and the two tiny beaver kits, Blossom and Sprout.
I don’t write – except lists, and other easy stuff in my journal when I can take an hour to myself and sit somewhere.
Home hospice life with Jed, April 23, 2025
My sense of control comes from the stream of non-stop package deliveries of supplies for Jed. From the preparation of meals, adding Thickener, a product that literally thickens liquids to help a person with difficulty swallowing drink or eat their food. From shaving him with his electric razor careful to be gentle, and getting every hair I can find. From the notes I trade with his medical team.
What I have no control over is the relentless course of the disease. Of his sudden distress. Of his decline. Of his whispers. Of how my heart breaks from time to time.
I find the strength to face each day in the wee hours. And from dear, dear friends and family who send me their best wishes for which I will always be so, so very grateful.
My husband Jed and I met on a fateful night in December, 1996 at Puffy’s on Hudson Street in Tribeca, then sporting the best juke box in the City. We had one chance to meet and make something of it, and we took it. Fairly early on we discovered we shared a love of boxing. I had just taken a course at the local gym, and earlier had practiced on the heavy bag in the basement of my friend Eddie. Jed had just fought in his first “white collar” bout at Gleason’s Gym, and otherwise with his black belt firmly affixed, was teaching beginning karate at a Dojo in downtown Manhattan.
We’d watch Friday Night Fights on ESPN, regaling ourselves about Teddy Atlas’ commentary (who didn’t in those days). He was also my biggest booster when I trained at Gleason’s. And using his brilliant skills as a New York Times columnist and editor, went on to help me edit my first book, A History of Women’s Boxing.
Our affinity was the boxer’s heart we shared and our ability to push through our collective traumas to face our truths.
Jed’s always been there for me-through tough times, arguments big and small, differences and non-differences, and through the love that exudes through the pores of our being and into our shared joy, Izzi.
Jed, Brooklyn Heights, Fall 2021
Jed’s formal diagnosis with behavioral variant of Frontotemperal Dementia over seven years ago was a near on knockout blow-but Jed persevered as did I.
Round after terrible round of the disease we adjusted.
During the pandemic it became obvious the Jed was no longer able to be alone. I retired from working with the City to care for him and have continued ever since. In those days, he could still take a long walk or go to the store at the corner. And in my company, we’d retrace his former route through downtown Brooklyn: A walk up Cadman Plaza to Olde Fulton. Then a walk through Brooklyn Bridge Park before meandering our way home through the side streets of Brooklyn Heights.
Privit – Brooklyn Bridge Park, June 2021
Each June we’d walk through the rows of privit grasping it in our hands to keep the scent alive on our bodies.
We’d hold hands.
I’d give him some water – though he mostly refused.
He still walked a pace, but was beginning to slow by the Fall.
I started having companions for him in 2022. That allowed me a few hours of respite a couple of days a week and it was also still possible to run out in the morning to the supermarket because he still slept in. Our boxer’s heart keeping faith with one another-has he began to have medication to help with the symptoms and found it harder and harder to comprehend what was going on around him.
From then to now feels like a blur, but the now is a late round effort.
Jed and the care aides, April 13, 2025
This past Thursday was the last day that he walked-though he can still punch (and land some good shots that leave black and blue marks) when we turn him in his hospital bed in order to wash and clean him.
The Friday before that, he forgot how to swallow, but fought his was back to solid food.
Bed bound. Losing weight. Coughing. Endless sleeping.
Yet treated with kindness and love by wonderful women. That’s what I cling to as I take the decisions necessary to transition him to hospice care. Here at home. Among his books and enough camping gear to outfit a boy scout camp (a feature of FTD is obsessive spending!). Feeling the love of what home brings when Izzi sits besides him.
The journey of this illness is a terrible one. Yet the key has been keeping faith with our pas-de-deux. Our pact of love and faithfulness that saw us care so deeply for one another. To fight on the same team. Playing at doubles. Each of us having each other’s back. Literally.
Jed is 77. This all feels way, way, way too soon and yet he’s here. Still punching. Smiling between cursing us when he feels hurt by this or that turn. Still saying I love you and lighting up with the broadest of smiles when Izzi enters the room.
The Promise of Women’s Boxing: A Momentous New Era for the Sweet Science is the must-read book on the rise of elite women’s boxing.
On April 30th, 2022, the first boxing super-fight of the era, headlined by two women and fought at Madison Square Garden, lived up to its hype and then some. The two contestants fought the battle of their lives in front of a sold-out crowd and garnered 1.5 million views through online streaming. It was the culmination of a long, three-centuries arc of women’s boxing history, a history fraught with highs and lows but always imbued with the heart and passion of the women who fought.
In The Promise of Women’s Boxing: A Momentous New Era for the Sweet Science, Malissa Smith details the exciting period from the 2012 Olympics through the true “million-dollar baby” women’s super-fights of 2022 and beyond. Rich in content, the stories that emerge focus on boxing stars new and old, important battles, and the challenges women still face in boxing. Smith examines the development of the sport on a global basis, the transition of amateur boxers to the pros, the impact of online streamlining on the sport, the challenges boxing has faced from MMA, and the unprecedented gains women’s boxing has made in the era of the super-fight with extraordinary seven-figure opportunities for elite female stars.
Featuring the stories of women’s boxing icons Katie Taylor, Amanda Serrano, Savannah Marshall, and more, and with a foreword by two-time Olympic gold medalist and three-time undisputed champion Claressa Shields, The Promise of Women’s Boxing offers unprecedented insight into the incredible growth of the sport and the women who have fought in and out of the ring to make it all possible.
Here’s what the boxing world has to say about Malissa Smith’s new book:
There is no one more knowledgeable about or dedicated to women’s boxing than Malissa Smith. Without bias, Malissa is able to translate her passion into words that satisfy an enthusiast while appealing to occasional fans. A must read for any diligent sports enthusiast. Jill Diamond, WBC co-chair of the Women’s Championships, WBC International Secretary, Global Chair WBC Cares
Malissa Smith is the ultimate chronicler of women’s boxing. Her new book details the last dozen years, during which fighters like Claressa Shields, Katie Taylor, and Amanda Serrano have not only evened the playing field, but at times outperformed their male counterparts. Steve Farhood, Showtime boxing analyst and former editor of The Ring magazine and 2017 Inductee, International Boxing Hall of Fame
Malissa Smith’s comprehensive analysis and understanding of this very important period in the evolution of women’s boxing makes for a terrific read. Lou DiBella, President, DiBella Entertainment, 2020 inductee to the International Boxing Hall of Fame
Malissa Smith has given readers a very accurate accounting of women’s boxing. From the Olympics to selling out Madison Square Garden, she has revisited the history I’m proud to be a part of. Christy Martin, retired boxing champion, 2020 inductee to the International Boxing Hall of Fame
Malissa’s grasp of, eloquence on, and in-depth research into the continued resistance of change to 3-minute rounds for women is equally fascinating and disheartening. A must read for anyone interested in gaining insight into women’s boxing. Alicia Ashley, retired boxing champion, 2023 inductee to the International Boxing Hall of Fame
Malissa Smith has written a compelling book on the progression of women’s boxing, showing us the grit, determination, and perseverance that took the sport from the first ever inclusion in the 2012 London Olympics to today’s era of mega-fights. Sue Fox, founder, Women’s Boxing Archive Network, International Women’s Boxing Hall of Fame
For anyone who follows and enjoys women’s boxing—this is the perfect book for you. It’s not just history and facts; this book is also full of stories and in-depth examinations. Malissa Smith did a terrific job! Jackie Kallen, boxing manager, 2024 inductee to the International Boxing Hall of Fame
Malissa’s effort to document the journey of women’s boxing is nothing short of titanic. In a world where stories are told in spurts of 280 characters on social media, Malissa takes the time to delve into the struggles of every fighter, and she takes us along for a ride that is rich in both journalistic rigor and historical accuracy—with her gift for storytelling making it a pleasure to read. Diego Morilla, writer, editor, and moderator for the Women’s Ratings Panel, The Ring magazine
Malissa has captured the wonderful growth of women’s boxing in her book The Promise of Women’s Boxing. She highlights how quickly the women have become a major force in amateur and professional boxing. And in many cases, the women overshadow the men. Bruce Silverglade, owner of boxing’s world-famous Gleason’s Gym
Malissa Smith with Dr. Raja Flores and What’s In Your Hand host Rick Young at WHCR 90.3 FM’s, studio on March 16, 2024.
Author and women’s boxing historian, Malissa Smith has had a busy Women’s History Month!
The activities included media appearances and an article about her efforts to support women in boxing published on the World Boxing Council’s website.
The UK-based Women In Boxing organization’s International Women’s Day event was held on March 7, 2024. Speaking about the history of the sport, Malissa Smith was featured in a busy line-up to include the keynote speaker, champion boxer Natasha Jonas.
Malissa Smith was a featured speaker for Women In Boxing’s 2024 International Women’s Day event on March 7, 2024.
Making a special live appearance, Malissa was an in-studio guest on WHCR 90.3 FM’s What’s In Your Hand show hosted by Rick Young on March 15, 2024. Alongside renowned thoracic surgeon Dr. Raja Flores, the trio of boxing aficionados had a lively conversation about New York City boxing and the place of the sport as an important component of youth development.
As a guest on the Off The Couch Boxing Show podcast, Malissa’s expertise on women in boxing was in evidence as she discussed the highlights of such “GOATs” as Christy Martin, Lucia Rijker, Laila Ali, Katie Taylor, Amanda Serrano, and Claressa Shields. She also discussed issues surrounding parity for female athletes with respect to promotion and pay, and her upcoming new book, The Promise of Women’s Boxing: A Momentous New Era for the Sweet Science.
Malissa Smith made a guest appearance on Episode #95 of the Off The Couch Boxing podcast on March 16, 2024.
To round out the month, the World Boxing Council featured an article about Malissa Smith’s on-going support for women in boxing as an author, historian, and advocate for the sport.
“This is a singular honor,” Smith said. “I am humbled by the WBC’s recognition of me.”
I am so proud to announce the upcoming publication of my new book!
The Promise of Women’s Boxing: A Momentous New Era for the Sweet Sciencewill be published on June 4, 2024 by Rowman and Littlefield. It is available for preorder now at the link: preorder – Amazon
Two-time Olympic Gold Medalist and three-time undisputed champion, Claressa Shieldshas graciously written the forward.
Overview
The book provides a timely exploration of modern women’s boxing, from its first inclusion in the 2012 Olympics to today, featuring such trailblazers as Katie Taylor, Amanda Serrano, Claressa Shields, and more.
On April 30th, 2022, the first boxing super-fight of the era, headlined by two women and fought at Madison Square Garden, lived up to its hype and then some. The two contestants fought the battle of their lives in front of a sold-out crowd and garnered 1.5 million views through online streaming. It was the culmination of a long, three-centuries arc of women’s boxing history, a history fraught with highs and lows but always imbued with the heart and passion of the women who fought.
In The Promise of Women’s Boxing: A Momentous New Era for the Sweet Science, Malissa Smith details the exciting period from the 2012 Olympics through the true “million-dollar baby” women’s super-fights of 2022 and beyond. Rich in content, the stories that emerge focus on boxing stars new and old, important battles, and the challenges women still face in boxing. Smith examines the development of the sport on a global basis, the transition of amateur boxers to the pros, the impact of online streamlining on the sport, the challenges boxing has faced from MMA, and the unprecedented gains women’s boxing has made in the era of the super-fight with extraordinary seven-figure opportunities for elite female stars.
Featuring the stories of women’s boxing icons Katie Taylor, Amanda Serrano,Savannah Marshall, Marlen Esparza, Mikaela Mayer, Natasha Jonas, and more, and with a foreword by two-time Olympic gold medalist and three-time undisputed champion Claressa Shields, The Promise of Women’s Boxing offers unprecedented insight into the incredible growth of the sport and the women who have fought in and out of the ring to make it all possible.
Reviews
Malissa Smith has written a compelling book on the progression of women’s boxing, showing us the grit, determination, and perseverance that took the sport from the first ever inclusion in the 2012 London Olympics to today’s era of mega-fights.— Sue Fox, founder, Women’s Boxing Archive Network, International Women’s Boxing Hall of Fame
For anyone who follows and enjoys women’s boxing—this is the perfect book for you. It’s not just history and facts; this book is also full of stories and in-depth examinations. Malissa Smith did a terrific job! — Jackie Kallen, boxing manager, 2024 inductee to the International Boxing Hall of Fame
Malissa Smith has given readers a very accurate accounting of women’s boxing. From the Olympics to selling out Madison Square Garden, she has revisited the history I’m proud to be a part of. — Christy Martin, retired boxing champion, 2020 inductee to the International Boxing Hall of Fame
Malissa’s grasp of, eloquence on, and in-depth research into the continued resistance of change to 3-minute rounds for women is equally fascinating and disheartening. A must read for anyone interested in gaining insight into women’s boxing. — Alicia Ashley, retired boxing champion, 2023 inductee to the International Boxing Hall of Fame
There is no one more knowledgeable about or dedicated to women’s boxing than Malissa Smith. Without bias, Malissa is able to translate her passion into words that satisfy an enthusiast while appealing to occasional fans. A must read for any diligent sports enthusiast. — Jill Diamond, WBC co-chair of the Women’s Championships, WBC International Secretary, Global Chair WBC Cares
Malissa Smith is the ultimate chronicler of women’s boxing. Her new book details the last dozen years, during which fighters like Claressa Shields, Katie Taylor, and Amanda Serrano have not only evened the playing field, but at times outperformed their male counterpart — Steve Farhood, boxing analyst for Showtime and 2017 Inductee International Boxing Hall of Fame
Malissa’s effort to document the journey of women’s boxing is nothing short of titanic. In a world where stories are told in spurts of 280 characters on social media, Malissa takes the time to delve into the struggles of every fighter, and she takes us along for a ride that is rich in both journalistic rigor and historical accuracy—with her gift for storytelling making it a pleasure to read. — Diego Morilla, writer, editor, and moderator for the Women’s Ratings Panel, The Ring magazine
Malissa has captured the wonderful growth of women’s boxing in her book The Promise of Women’s Boxing. She highlights how quickly the women have become a major force in amateur and professional boxing. And in many cases, the women overshadow the men. — Bruce Silverglade, owner of boxing’s world-famous Gleason’s Gym
Malissa Smith’s comprehensive analysis and understanding of this very important period in the evolution of women’s boxing makes for a terrific read. — Lou DiBella, President, DiBella Entertainment, 2020 inductee to the International Boxing Hall of Fame
How Boxing Uncaged Me is an essay I wrote for the new compendium, THE DIFFERENCE: Essays on Loss, Courage, and Personal Transformation. The brain child of editors and contributing authors, Achim Nowak and Rosemary Ravinal, the premise was to curate a series of essays that had as their focal point the deeply searing experiences that made a difference in how we lived the rest of our lives.
For me, that difference was of all things boxing. Since childhood I had a fascination with the sport watching the fighters of my era, Muhammad Ali, Joe Frazier, and Ken Norton, on the flickering lights of my television. It took me a life time, however, to finally enter a boxing gym.
“No more excuses,” I said aloud to myself, on a crisp clear day in early January as I made the sojourn to Gleason’s Gym.
With the low wintry light streaming in through the line of grimy windows facing the street, I was immediately greeted by the owner of the gym. Bruce Silverglade, seated at a desk near the entrance. A chessboard in mid-game took up a corner of the desk.
“Hi can I help?” Bruce asked.
I introduced myself and within seconds he was up and out of his seat and touring me through the cavernous expanse. As the sights and sounds hit my senses, calm descended. I had found my place.
Learning the mechanics of the sport, however, was the least of my journey through boxing. It brought me the courage to write. To go back to school to complete my Bachelor’s Degree in my 50s. To go on to a Master’s Degree in Liberal Studies. And to take up the sport of women’s boxing as a cause worth fighting for including writing the first comprehensive history of the sport.
The discipline of boxing is and continues to be another dimension:
If there is one thing boxing taught me, it is that fear and the accompanying self-doubt has been, and continues to be, my nemesis. It lives with me as a shadow being that I face down every time I glove up. I know it from the tears. The ones that still well up when I haven’t given myself the self-care I deserve. I know it from the places where new scar tissue has formed from hurts that have gone unanswered.
I am also humbled by the care and dedication Nowak and Ravinal have shown in selecting the essays for the collection–with stories about loss, courage, and personal transformation that have meaning across all of our lives.
The stories have inspired me as they have overwhelmed me with gratitude for having been chosen alongside my very humble efforts at exploring the impact boxing has had on my life.
As a writer, a caregiver, and all the other roles I embody on a daily basis, I am particularly proud of being given the chance to explore how the thread of the sport I love has woven its way through all of those experiences.
Thank you, as always, to the boxing community for continuing to embrace me and call me one of your own.
Sometimes we all need to remind ourselves that we do a lot — and not so much rest on our laurels as to acknowledge the good work accomplished, with a nice “atta-girl” pat on our own backs.
For caregivers, that is especially essential because we can feel our lives to be nothing more than a Sisyphean task wending its way as so many cycles of frustration and grief.
Successes though, do happen, and should be celebrated!
My big success has been the introducing companion care to Jed. For three hours, two days a week, he meets a lovely lady who hangs out with him. It is a bit rocky at times — because it is kind of hard to get to know someone new in the best of circumstances — but they persevere!
Jed and his companion have chitter-chattered, gone for a walk to our favorite local Pizzeria, tried and failed to do a crossword puzzle and two or three art projects, but through it all, it has given Jed someone new to engage with, no mean feat in the pandemic era, which has enforced isolation.
The other laurel I am allowing myself to take a bow for, is gaining approval for Jed to have in-home physical therapy. Provided by the Visiting Nurse Service of New York, he will have two weekly sessions aimed at helping him regain his physical stamina, muscle tone, and flexibility. And the timing couldn’t be more perfect! With Spring underway, there is no better period to walk about the side-streets and parks of Brooklyn as flowers begin to bloom and bird migrations fill our skies with beautiful sights and sounds.
And finally, Jed had his jab number four yesterday, with the fervent hope that he continues to remain COVID free!
So, yup! Three-cheers to myself for this week’s accomplishments. I’ll take them where I can find them.
The Visiting Nurse Service of New York (VNSNY), is part of a national network of organizations providing home health care services. A doctor can put in an order for a range of services including, skilled nursing, home health aid, and rehabilitation services.
It’s been a while since I was up before the sunrise. I’d forgotten how noisy my street is at 5:00 in the morning with trucks making deliveries and buses idling before rush hour begins.
Before I retired, it was the time I had to myself. I’d get up around 5:00, patter around a bit, and then shower and dress for the walk to Gleason’s Gym or on off days, perhaps practice yoga before getting ready to leave for work.
Being up now feels like a holiday. An extra bit of time I hadn’t counted on. So far I’ve been filing away the huge pile of stuff that had obscured the wooden patina of my old pine desk, the one piece I have from my aunt. And yes, grabbing the tax papers I’d missed to send off to my accountant who is still doing taxes remotely.
The new cat, Sugar Ray, is not quite certain what to do. So far, he’s pretty much been letting me sleep until at least 8:00 am. He was certainly happy to be fed earlier and has been sleepily following me from room to room as I’ve been filing things away. And as is his way, now that I’m at my desk, he’s back at his perch on the window sill watching the early morning traffic go by. My perfect little sentry who has thankfully found something more interesting than my laptop.
As if on queue, with the perceptible lightening of the sky, I can hear the first faint sounds of bird song above the din of traffic noises. The sounds floating in on the top register as little bits of sweet chirping. Locating my city dwelling space within the urban landscape of life that flows in and around us if we bother to look.
Soon the birds will fly by as ephemeral whisks of light. Fleeting glimmers frozen in memory as something to delight. And so it goes.
Is it a week already since my last post? What a blur.
I went to Gleason’s Gym on Monday and Thursday. Even added crunches in the sit-up chair at the end my workout. I felt a sense of accomplishment. The reminder of what a touchstone the gym has been and how much I miss it when I don’t go on a regular basis. The moments of self-care so revitalizing to my sense of well being.
The emotional rollercoaster has been moving forward to find part-time companion care for Jed.
I feel he needs an interesting someone to have contact with for a few hours a couple of days a week. Someone who isn’t me and who won’t invoke feelings of being infantilized from time to time. Still it gives me such an overwhelming sense of responsibility as I make decisions on his behalf. I admit that it is tangled up with my sense of helplessness and failure. And yes, I know I do not have the power to fill in the missing spaces in his brain. Or unknot the tau protein clotted ends of his neuron cell axon terminals that can no longer communicate. And no, me beating myself doesn’t help either, but the feelings are there for me to work through.
Meanwhile, plowing forward, I made a connection with an organization that specializes in matching folks up and will have a first preliminary meeting this coming Tuesday. The challenge will be figuring out how to introduce the companion caregiver to him so that it will be something that he wants to do. We shall see, but I have the hope that once we get past the introductory phase, it will help Jed engage more. And maybe even pry him outside when the weather eases up a bit more.
Between Covid, cold weather, and the vicissitudes of life, I admit to a rather scattered boxing training schedule since the beginning of the year. Last week, though, I was determined to get back to two days a week with a view towards three as soon as I feel able.
Unstructured training has its place I guess, but for me it’s meant a backward slide when it comes to stamina with a capital “S.” The twinges in my right shoulder by about my 10th round also reminded me that such breaks can effect muscles and tendons as well. And in case you were wondering, nope, I didn’t pay particular attention to stretching either!
Hmm. Note to self. STRETCH!
Still, tiredness and heavy breathing aside, it felt great to dance around the ring when I shadowboxed, and by the third round on the pads with my trainer, Lennox Blackmoore, I felt in the pocket.
“Good job,” he said with a laugh and a mock wince, when I executed a straight right, as directed to his body, followed by a left.
He also had me working on my up-jab, overhand right combinations, with a sneaky left hook or upper cut thrown in at the end.
On the double-end bag, twinges to the right shoulder aside, I worked on feints and combinations, and the accompanying foot work that had me taking steps first one way and then the other, before executing right hand leads or doubled up jabs followed by the straight right.
Saving the best for last, I completed four rounds on the speed bag for the first time in a couple of months.
Always, my favorite way to finish training, it felt as if I was back hanging with an old friend, alternating my standard da-da-da-da-da-da speed bag drills with thirty second spurts of shots to the bag in combinations.
Given where we are in the world, I also felt humbled by being in the gym at all, as if I were a stand-in for all the people whose circumstance precludes such luxuries.
I was in my home away from home. Practicing what I love. Being in the moment with it. Feeling so much that just by being there I was doing honor to my boxing brothers and sisters in harm’s way in Ukraine. And I felt a gathering in. A welling of love and support as if the energy itself would heal the parts of my body in pain and in turn across the world. Magical thinking to be sure, but there’s a part of me that wants to believe.
December roses, Juneteenth Walk, Cadman Plaza Park, Brooklyn
I’ve been having that sort of week.
Really from last week till now. Forgetting to put stamps on letters. Referring to the wrong person in an email. Fretting as Izzi waits for another round of Covid tests because more of her co-workers have tested positive.
And sleep has been an on again, off again thing too. Drifting into a nap in front of the TV for 40 minutes during the boring parts of a boxing undercard and then not falling asleep till 4:30 in the morning.
Last night was so ridiculous.
I just gave up at about 3:00 AM, showered, and began making the dough for the cream cheese rugelach with apricot jam and walnuts I’m baking as part of my holiday array of goodies. Dough made and put into the refrigerator to rest, I didn’t fall sleep again till around 5:30 AM. I’m just chocking last night up to the winter solstice, with the notion that my body just wanted to get a jump start on the the longer days to come.
But I also know something else is going on. That the working from up in my chest rather than the sense of being rooted onto the earth is the sure knowledge that things are off kilter in my sense of being.
Scratching it further I’m having to ask myself what underlies it all.
Holidays?
The Omicron-variant doubling the cases of Covid in NYC everyday?
Line for Covid testing, Astoria, December 22, 2021 (Photo Credit: Izzi Stevenson)
Jed’s forgetting who Izzi was last week?
Cheng Man-ching
Not putting in the time to take care of the things I’ve committed to? I mean really, I have to ask myself, why is it I haven’t actually performed the Cheng Man-ching 37-move Tai Chi form since my last zoom class ended a few weeks ago?
It may remain a mystery of sorts and not having a particular insight into things can be something we just shrug our shoulders about and let go from time to time.
But I tried the exercise on Monday without even realizing it. Somewhere into my tenth round at Gleason’s Gym I let the flow of things unfold as I threw jabs and straight rights at the double-end bag. Somewhere around the 14th round I realized I did not feel constricted by striving for perfection. I was in the moment. Up on my toes. Flicking punches as I moved from side to side.
Just doing that reminded me that not every action has to be a home run. After all, a baseball player with a 350 batting average is considered at the top of the game. If a 1,000 is perfect … well, you get what I mean.
So that’s been my message to myself. I don’t always have to swing for the fences. And if I get it wrong, well, make up for it. Have the sense to sink down a little lower next time. Feel the power of the moment not as that huge mountain to climb, but as part of the flow.
Sometimes just getting a few hours of something, however fleeting, can be enough. And yeah, smell the roses.
Frontotemporal Dementia robbed him of so much of that. Slowly. Insidiously. Painfully. As a horrible march down the rottenest of fetid paths lined with the scary monsters of childhood nightmares. Still, there were things he could hold onto. His three quick kisses to the air when one or another of us came into view.
Jill Diamond, WBC co-chair of the Women’s Championships, WBC International Secretary, Global Chair WBC Cares
Girlboxing 