He Really Gets Me


They were married for 69 years. Zizi Mary and Uncle Ed. He died last week at the age of 95. A man who had faced death a few times before but always bounced back, ready to curiously see what life at each stage had to offer even though the piling up of years took a toll on his physical body with diminishing hearing, sight and no longer being able to walk. Their mutual love was the secret behind his zeal. I realize, “ He Really Got Her” and “She Really Got Him”.


When my sister Martina turned 40 in 2006, her husband Tim gave her a surprise birthday party. She told me that the party had all the things she loved, a simple gathering of friends and family and pumpkin pie as the birthday cake. She said in a tear-coated voice of awe, “He really gets me.” This was proved again when later that year she was laid off from her job. Knowing Martina would be freaking out about the finances of going from two incomes to one, Tim presented her with a spreadsheet of how they could handle it with one paycheck, giving my sister the opportunity to explore other areas of interest and spend extra time with their two daughters.


On a long car ride to South Jersey, I got a chance to spend alone time with my other sister, Margaret. There were no nieces and nephews, calls from work or extra curricular activities competing for our time. I asked her if she and Dave were happy together, were they still were compatible after 15 plus years of marriage? Without a pause, her simple answer of, “Oh yes.” said it all. They too “Really Get Each Other”.


My brother Mark is in a “Get Me” moment right now. His partner Lara is in Australia for a year on an internship. There were other internships she could have taken to stay in the States, but this one called to her. My brother gets that this is her passion.


At 18, I had been going out with my first husband John for less then 3 months when I had an accident on the highway driving his new sports car. As I nearly got prone on the macadam in a frenzy of apologies and fear, John in less then the space of a heartbeat, suggested that when the cops came, he would say he was driving. Though he tolerated anger from his parents, raised insurance rates and a lawsuit from the other driver, he never told anyone that I was responsible. It was only one example in a 13-year relationship of mutual “Get Me” moments.


Since my second husband Jack’s passing, I’ve been observing the “He Really Gets Me”, factor in couples around me. I think back to Jack and his willingness to support me in my joy of entertaining. He never complained when I wanted to have a house full of people. He was more content to watch sports on TV but was always there to move tables, go to the store to pick the ingredients I had ran out of or don an apron and become a waiter. He really got that creating community made my heart sing.


My definition of a “Get Me” moment is when someone instinctually knows what will soothe, comfort or bring joy to his or her partner in a situation. “Get Me” moments happen in connections other than love relationships. Friends and family members that take the time to listen to the fears and delights of those around them can create “Get Mes” all the time.


As I sat in the church during the funeral of Uncle Ed, I looked around to those who without thought reached over and offered the touch of a hand or tissue for tears. Seeing all the “Get Me” moments rippling through the church confirmed what Zizi Mary and Uncle Ed’s 69 years together were about.


I’ve had two great guys in my life, who “Really Got Me”. What a blessing! I’m hungry for that connect again. I’m ready for another relationship. I look with a tickle of anticipation to the future when someone questions me and without pause I can say again, “Yes, he really gets me and I get him too.”

Hug Me Forever

The November 13, 2006 issue of TIME magazine featured innovative inventions for the year. Next to a picture of a young woman dressed in long sleeved poly cotton T-shirt of red, white and tan stripes the caption read:

AMAZING EMBRACE
“Remember when PDA stood for something other than personal digital assistant?
It can again with the Hugshirt, a high-tech garment that stimulates the experience of being embraced by a loved one. When a friend sends you a virtual hug, your cell phone notifies the shirt wirelessly, via Bluetooth. The shirt then re-creates that person’s distinctive cuddle, replicating his or her warmth, pressure, duration and even heartbeat.
www.cutecircuit.com”

My mind whirled as my heart clutched in my chest. What if the technology was such that once you received a hug from a loved one through the Hugshirt, the memory of that hug, that person’s distinctive cuddle, warmth, pressure and heartbeat, as the caption described, could be stored forever?

I took a hug memory tour through all the cuddles I long for from my life and are no longer available to me in physical form.

My mother’s soft mushy snuggle when putting me to bed at night as a child. The faint scent of Jean Naté and baby powder lingering in the air with ruby red lipstick and random loose graying hairs that came away on my cheek or collar.

Dad’s clasp of rough skinned hands and Aqua Velvet aftershave, coupled with gruff pats on the head.

The hug of my older sister Mary Grace that as a young child was more of a push and grab and as we aged, letting go of our sibling rivalry became a squeeze of respect from the kind of friendship that comes with having shared life together since the very start.

And then there’s my loves, John and Jack. How so many nights just one more enfoldment in their arms would soothe a yearning that is part of my everyday breathing.

John’s clinch was encompassing, the musk of his hair, the tickle of his beard on my cheek. How long that hug would last. I never tired of feeling him close, always reaching out to grab him from behind, knowing on some subconscious level I needed to store up embraces for the rest of my life.

Jack’s was short and tight. A bite on the earlobe, with a gurgle of a laugh and then those words, “Lay kuppla, Shana,” as he patted his shoulder for me to rest my head upon, breathing in the aroma of the chocolate bar he had earlier or to lick the drip of ice cream on his shirt that he missed with the napkin.

If the Hugshirt were available for storing hugs, I’d have a closet full. I’d pick a different hug for everyday and every mood. And I’d start storing up hugs from people in my life now.

My friend Meg’s bear hug that comes from her small frame is all encompassing. In her snug embrace, time stops for a moment and you know that her attention isn’t on the next thing happening but fully on exchanging care and respect to you in that moment.

Catalina, another of my friends I don’t get to see as often. Her squeeze is light hearted. Her smile beams as she transfers a quick fix of joy from her over flowing heart to mine.

My east coast nieces and nephew with their quick clutches that only reach to my waist. The excited anticipation of seeing their aunt after a long period a part, is a quirky mix of “I don’t know you well but I’m happy you are here and I’m not sure what to expect.”

I’d give a Hugshirt to all those in my life. I’d record a hug to each of them with an intention of deep respect and love for all they have given me. And I’d hope that in their moments of sadness and joy when a hug is the perfect illustration of what’s needed to take away a tear or celebrate a victory that my Hugshirt would be one of the first they would reach for.

Mi Sorellina

My younger sister ML just tunred 40! As part of her surprise party given by her amazing husband, Tim, guests were asked to bring memories and pictures of my sister. So here is mine:


The twisted gum wrapper rolled over and over between thumb and index finger, tucked in the linty corner of a raincoat pocket. How odd that a disintegrating silver lined piece of paper long past its purpose could symbolize the transition of a young 20 something girl into a woman with an intention to support and comfort.

Big sister’s in the rulebook of life take on the care of younger siblings. They change diapers, chauffeur to friend’s houses and offer new experiences.

I relished my role and thought that is how it would always be. I, the big sister, would slip an extra couple of bucks in her palm to buy that coveted pair of jeans, offer advice on the tender issues of life or throw tea parties to celebrate a birthday.




On a day in a long ago month of March in the corridor of New York hospital with the nervous inevitability of the unfolding events, my little sister, mi sorellina became my caregiver. As my husband John lying dying, Martina fingered that gum wrapper. She told me it was quite awhile before she could bring herself to throw it away.

I knew in the core of me that John would not allow himself to leave until he knew I was taken care of. When Martina and my mother came to visit him for the last time in the hospital, an unspoken request was made from a brother in law to a little sister.

True to her commitment, mi sorellina became my housemate, travel companion, and book club buddy. She ate chips and refried beans with me in my tiny kitchen in Roselle Park; her continued support in my grief shown through the soul in her eyes and grasp of her hand across the table.

And when I decided to move to the other side of the country, she never discouragede and was the first of my family to visit Jack and I in San Diego

There is an embroidery sampler that my sisters and I often joke about. It reads

SISTERS ARE FOREVER FRIENDS AND I AM SO GLAD

YOU ARE MINE.

In a bit of our mother tongue, from one Italian girl to another (the best I can!),

Sorellas sei amico ora e per sempre e sono felice un mio amico.

Big sister cherishes little sister, Little sister cares for big sister. Chronology of birth, rulebook of life no matter, I have a friend in you.

Buon compleanno, sorellina. Ti amo.
Happy Birthday, little sister. I love you!