Category: Sharon Duckman

Sharon Turns 76

Sharon. Never be afraid of your lines or sagging. Don’t fear wrinkles or varicose veins. Don’t lose that spirit to live that looms so large that there is enough for you and still a little left over for me. Without you, life would be so empty and not worth living. You make me want to get up in the morning.

Our dear friend Howard Kane sent this orchid arrangement to Sharon. Lovely. Just lovely.

No Thanksgiving

Not that Thanksgiving was ever one of my favorite holidays, but today’s Thanksgiving hurts more than any and means less. The deaths in Israel and Gaza of innocent people, old and young alike, leaves me bereft. I grieve mightily for the losses on both sides and the absence of dignity and purpose in the entire affair.

My heart breaks for the living, as well as the dead, parents, siblings, friends, associates. I cannot imagine what it feels like to have lost someone or not to know if someone was lost. The sorrow and sadness keeps me awake at night, despite feeling personally safe and despite not personally knowing anyone who died. I see the destruction in my dreams and hear the cries. I can smell the fetid air and taste the pollution on my tongue. No one feels safe and everyone knows it.

I know the pain of isolation and aloneness, the despair of not having family or friends, of being hated. I never learned to hate, though I did learn to be hated. I learned love through my wife. No god ever shined countenance on me or gave me peace and no hater ever said they were sorry or tried to renew a friendship or family relationship. My life was destroyed, but I got to leave with my head up, some trinkets and a spouse. Where do they go and with whom.

Stripped of my career, legacy and heritage, I was left only with my self-esteem and a loving, caring wife. At least I had that. What will they have: more fear of annihalition, complete destruction, obliteration. Who will care for them in sickness and in health? Who will they trust to protect them?

No one will come to our table to share a harvest feast. We don’t eat turkey or tell the story of the Native American Wampanoag people. There will be no arguments about who made the best stuffing or gravy and no collapses on the couch to watch football games. Just some Osso Bucco and a glass or two of red “whine”.

I can only hope that tomorrow some hostages on both sides are released.

Neurosurgery Counter Service

So, as we age, so does our back, maybe faster than our brains. Pain, pain, pain from every step. Stairs always a challenge. Getting up. Sitting down. X-rays. Rolling over in bed. Putting on pants. Wiping my ass.

CAT Scans. MRIs (a real joy for those of us with claustrophobia). How about an epidural? And there is always a surgical option. Want some pills. No, I drink for pain relief.


Every step of the way, Sharon sat next to me. It was as if she was the patient, asking questions, feeling the pain, sharing my emotions. Even though she has her own problems, nothing would make her happier than knowing I wasn’t as disabled as I am.

Dr. Brett Schlifka informed her, as if she was the patient. And, she did her own independent research. Great teammate.Great doctor. Smart. Caring. Talented. Likes his patients.

I learned what I could learn, rejecting the shots and surgery, accepting the suggestion to do physical therapy. Rejecting the opioids; living with the pain. So far, so good. Call me back, Brett said the other day. “Call when you need me.”

A back is a back. I have spinal stenosis. Have to be careful. Don’t fall. Maintain my posture. Respect my limitations. The only good thing about living in FL is the pool. And my life, not worth living without Sharon.

Bromeliad Imperialis, Dead

Lost a favored plant yesterday, a Bromeliad Imperialis. Very sad. It graced our simple, humble garden, providing class and style. No post mortem, yet, could have been water or insects. Doesn’t matter why; just too bad we lost it.

So, these bromeliads just sit where we place them.  They are from the air plant family, too big for household entertainment. Some of their beauty lies hidden within, protected by layers of leaves. The flower once. In the end, bromeliads sometimes kill themselves trying to multiply, leaving a legacy, but no history. They are indigenous to Florida, withstanding the changes in weather and temperature, while lending exotic flavors to outdoor spaces.

Our gardner, Richard King who designed our simple plot with Sharon, lost one too, recently. We both will be finding replacements.

We remain positive that the booster will provide me with some protection from Covid 19 or whatever it’s called. Cannot understand why someone wouldn’t be vaccinated or wear a mask. I know how close my immunochallenged system could be to death if I get sick. So, shoot up and wear a mask.

Woman ahead of us in line at Publix was also immunocompromised. She had tears in her eyes. One person showed up for his first dose, pulled in by his mother. He wasn’t wearing a mask. Maskless woman called me a Douche, as she coughed while picking up a prescription. She said she would never put anything in her arm and would not wear a mask, because she wanted to breathe. Guy waiting for a booster sitting next to us said that unvaccinated should die in the parking lot.

My advice – vaccine, mask, and social distance.

Sharon Duckman, 72

When people ask how long we have been married, I always say, “not long enough.” Without her, I would be a homeless person. Ageless. I cannot live without her, adoring even the difficult moments.

When I was suspended from the bench, preceding my removal and the end of my judicial career, I tried to go back to work after spending 7 months with her, full time. People asked how I felt, not really caring, but out of politeness. I said, “…, frankly I miss the time I got to spend with my wife.”

We moved and stayed together. We have moved a few more times and stayed together. Now we have sickness and injury. We live in a place we don’t like and doesn’t like us, and we are still together.