Pepper III

Dear reader: This was a particularly difficult piece to write because it is the most painful and personal loss I have ever experienced—the death of my late wife, Pepper. But, it is necessary to complete my book “AfterLife in the Judy Lane,” the sequel to my first book “The Irish Jew and Other Tales of Life in the Judy Lane,” I had to cover more ground than my previous stories, so, in deference to your patience, I have completed it in parts.

When I left you last, we cleaned up after a Saturday party at our house for Cory’s 3^rd birthday. He was playing with a new toy, and six-month old Shea was sitting in her bouncy chair.

“A big truck is coming to take all our stuff. We’re going down, down, down the Golden Trail.”
“He’s drunk,” I said to Pepper.

On Monday, our landlord called to say he had to sell the house we were happily renting in San Mateo. We were lulled by the reasonable rent we enjoyed for a few years. Bay Area prices had skyrocketed since our move up to San Francisco eight years prior. There was no way we could afford to buy that house or any in the area.

We decided our best bet at the time was to head back to San Diego, where prices were much more reasonable—then. I found a job that didn’t require travel and would get me home to tuck my kids into bed at night. It also had the primary responsibility of something I loved—events.

In July 2000, we moved back to Southern California. I was hired as Executive Director of Special Events and Protocol at UC San Diego. The house we bought in Rancho Bernardo wouldn’t be ready till October. The University graciously paid for my move—in a big truck—and put me up in temporary housing in La Jolla—also known as “The Golden Triangle.”

We began to ask Cory if he had any numbers rolling around in his curly red head. He shrugged his shoulders and replied.

“I’m gonna be a scientist! Or a comedian!”

Coming from San Francisco to San Diego was like going back to the future. Recycling was just a suggestion and people of color at work were as rare as an honest politician. One of my staff referred to a persnickety donor as a “You know, like a like a New York Jew.” I was reminded to protect my mezuzah. Another co-worker came to see me because “I’ve never met a lesbian before!” Oh, honey you know that Aunt of yours who “wasn’t the marrying kind…”

But, overall, the job was a dream. Most of my events ended before my kids’ bedtime. No overnight work and Pepper and I were enjoying our roles as stay-at and outside-the-home workers. We eventually moved into our home where Cory became a human pogo stick, because we were in an apartment with walls made of saltine crackers, restricting him from fully being a 3-year-old, particularly jumping. Torrey Pines was my view at work and the weather at home was Chamber of Commerce perfect.

One September morning in 2001, our phone rang at 6:00 a.m. It was Big Daddy.

“Dad!” Pepper screamed at him. “Somebody better be dead for calling us at this hour!”

Ultimately, 2,977 people died when nineteen hijackers flew planes into the World Trade Center, the Pentagon and in Pennsylvania.

Most Americans were shaken. My Pepper was traumatized.

As her anxiety continued to surge, I got her to see our primary care to get some mild tranquilizers to help her through the rough spots. Regrettably, the doctor prescribed anti-depressants.

“Often depression disguises itself as anxiety,” he reassured her.

Unlike, my family who shared “the black cloud” that menaced each one of us at some point in our lives, Pepper was typically upbeat. We both were surprised at his recommendation, but we went along because, well, he was the doctor.

Fast forward to January 2002, when I returned from a work conference in Arizona.

“I can play the trombone!” she announced apropos of nothing.

“You can?” I replied incredulously.

“That’s the instrument in Sweet Caroline, right? Ba-ba-da!”

This new alleged talent was followed by nights of her going on and on about the number of sheep in Scotland and the true key to losing weight and never gaining it back. This was not word salad. Rather, carefully crafted ideas about things I never realized she even knew.

After months of erratic behavior running from insane highs to life-threatening lows, I had to make the most difficult decision of my life--to place her in a psychiatric hospital for a week. She pleaded with me not to leave her there. When I walked out the door, I crumpled on the front steps and cried.

It was determined she had bipolar disorder, and she was put on a cocktail of a half dozen drugs.

I had two small children to care for, a full-time job and decisions to make about what to do next without my partner to discuss any of it with.

Her mother and oldest sister said they couldn’t come to help me out.

“Well, can you at least talk to her on the phone and reassure her that we all love and need her?”
“I would if I could, honey, but I can’t” she replied in typically useless fashion in that syrupy southern drawl.

Big Daddy arrived before I hung up the phone. He cared for Cory, including getting him to kindergarten, while our sister-friend Patti Adams took Shea in for the week.

When Pepper was released, we hired a caregiver to assist her and the kids while I worked. She was stable but the drugs wreaked havoc with her body and mind. She was foggy, confused and had trouble with balance and driving.

She was referred to a psychiatrist at Kaiser who confirmed the diagnosis and continued to supply her with new drugs and the antidepressants originally prescribed.

By happenstance, I met a staff member who showed up in our office suite by accident, looking for someone to help her with a flyer she needed prepared and copied. She had the sweetest Scottish accent, and I had Publisher on my computer.

“I can do that for you,” I said.

She explained she was a volunteer with the Disability Awareness Group on campus and that they had monthly speakers who gave talks about various types of mental and physical disabilities.

“Please come!” she said as she hugged me with thanks. “I bet there’s something there for you.”

One of the upcoming programs was by was one of UC San Diego’s psychiatric doctors who was a foremost authority on, of all things, bipolar disorder. So I went.

After his talk, I stayed behind to ask him some questions. I explained the situation with Pep. He remarked that it was quite unusual for someone her age to be diagnosed for the first time with bipolar disorder, since it is typically discovered when the patient is in their late teens and early 20s. Pepper was 38. I asked if he would be willing to review Pepper’s case, meet with her and render an opinion. Naturally, we had to pay out of pocket, but it seemed like it would be the best way to get a reputable second opinion.

Short of saying the doctors at the hospital and Kaiser were “wrong,” he said it was “highly unlikely” that she had bipolar disorder and that it was more likely that the antidepressants triggered a “bipolar episode.”

“She should have been prescribed anti-anxiety medication. She was nervous, not depressed,” he said.

With that information, I began my research. I discovered a story by Jane Pauley, the TV host who was most widely known for being Barbara Walters’ successor on the Today show.

Jane had a similar experience when she developed hives and was prescribed steroids and antidepressants. The result was a diagnosis of late-stage bipolar disorder.

We went back to the Kaiser psychiatrist to share our findings.

“I stand by my diagnosis,” he said, as his lizard tongue flicked in and out of his mealy mouth.

I was taken aside and told that while she was stable now, if she discontinued her meds, she could quickly regress and be “lost” to us forever. That’ll wake you right up.

Unbeknownst to me, she decided to titrate herself off the meds over an extended period of months. She confided only in Patti in the event that she started to become “lost” that there was someone who was aware of what was going on.

After a two-year nightmare, Pepper came back, bigger and badder than ever.

“I really didn’t care for that rapid cycling business she said. “You know how I hate to exercise.

With Cory and Shea in school, Pepper started a desktop publishing service and taught Sports & Games and Cooking for Tweens at Poway Unified School District.

With things back on track, we planned a trip for the four of us to go to England and Ireland. We landed at Heathrow and boarded a train to our hotel in London. We watched how everyone piled up their luggage against one side of the train, so our Cory did the same. The doors remained open for quite a while, allowing passengers to rush onto the train at the last minute. When we reached the first stop, to our surprise, the doors opened where our luggage was stacked. Cory stepped out for a moment to adjust the bags only to have the doors snap shut.

You could hear Pepper’s shriek back in the U.S.

“My son! No!!!! Stop the train! Stop the train!” she screamed.

As Pep’s hand reached for the emergency lever, a lovely young Turkish couple jumped up from their seats.

“Don’t do that!” the young man insisted. “The entire system will lock up. You can just go to the next stop and go back and get him. We’ll help you.”

I can still see our nine-year old Cory’s stunned cherubic face staring at me through the closed door.

“We’ll be right back,” I mouthed. “You’re ok!”

He exhaled and nodded.

The tiny Turkish woman embraced Pepper for the eternity it took to get to the next stop. The beautiful couple guided us off and onto the train back.

“Mommie,” Seven-year-old Shea said patting Pepper’s hand. “Cory is fine. He knows all the rules.”

The doors opened and the sweet Turk ran up to Cory sitting on the bench.

“Cory!” she exclaimed, throwing her arms around him.

Cory had no idea who this person was but, hey, it was a beautiful young woman. Ask questions later.

After we said our goodbyes and thanks to our new international friends, Pepper inviting them to Christmas dinners for the next ten years, we finally ended up in our room at our hotel. Like something out of House on Haunted Hill, Pepper refused to let any of us leave the room till morning.

“What did you mean that he knows the rules?” we asked Shea when all calmed down.

“You know, stop, drop and roll,” she said.

When we arrived in Ireland, Pepper unleased her innate fairy dust and our trip became magical.

We stayed in a two-story, nineteenth century house with a turret, making it look like a fairytale castle. It was surrounded by emerald hills and marshmallow clouds with Croagh Patrick as a backdrop.

On our first day we walked to a Border Collie Festival nearby. Border collies competed in sheep herding, the Border Collies band performed and there were countless tables filled with crafts, food, beer and freshly made Irish Coffee.

Cory was playing ball with a little Irish boy; Pepper was chatting up the locals and I was sipping my lovely hot drink in real glass. The Border Collies invited folks up to dance while they played. Groups of two and four and six clogged across the wooden floor, then sat down. The floor was empty.

“Where’s Shea?” I asked.

Pepper pointed. There in the middle of the dance floor was our little, Italian and Black girl getting’ jiggy wit it. Only she was doing a perfect Irish jig.

“Oh, she’s had the lessons, has she?” said one woman next to Pepper.

Pep sheepishly shrugged.

The only “lessons” were indoor soccer and t-ball at this point. But like her Mommie, Shea often possessed thoughts and abilities that didn’t square with her age or experience.

Through raucous applause, Shea curtsied and left the stage.

With no real information except that my mother was born in Foxford, County Mayo, we set out the next day to find the home where Agnes Bridget Melody was born and raised.

“Let’s stop at that place,” Pepper said as we approached a small village inn on our first day trip. “We’ll see if they know anything.”

“Just ask de priest,” the clerk said in a beautiful lilting brogue. “He knows everyone, sure he does.”

We found the rectory of Father Padraic Peyton--my mother’s nephew. He was out of town, but his assistant knew exactly where the Melody house was. She also knew that my other cousin Paddy still lived there but that he was probably not home right now. She wrote down his number.

“He gets off work at 5 an’ he’s home ha’past five, so he is. Now, jus’ go down dis road a wee bit, den up another bit past de stone signs but not de first stone signs, no-no-no, de second or tird, den round and round a wee bit more till ya see Mrs. Hennigan walkin’ her cow, like she does a few times a day, God love her. She’s de second oldest wan in the village. Well, wait, the oldest man in the village just died last week. God rest his soul. So, I guess she’s de oldest now. She’ll show ya, she will.”

After a bit here and a bit there, a few stone signs over and yonder and yin, three sheep, and two dogs later, we saw something in the middle of the road.

“Mrs. Hennigan!” the whole car shouted when we noticed a century-old woman and an equally aged cow ahead. “Go! Go!” Pepper said pushing me out of the car.

While Pepper and the kids sat anxiously in the car watching a scene from a movie unfolding out the front windshield, I approached. I said a few words. Then Mrs. Hennigan, mouth wide open, throws her arms around me. I pick her up and swing her around. Just once because, well, she’s now the oldest in village. I cry. She cries. The uncaged cow moos. She knew my mother.

She pointed us to a huge rock with a word chiseled in it—Curradrish—the small township where the family house was set. I remembered that word from letters my Mum got from home.

“Take dat road der and be lookin’ out for a white house on yer right-hand side,” she said.

We drove up the small road for a bit and there it was. The small white house. Pepper called the number from the piece of paper the assistant handed to her and we could hear the phone ringing inside. Ureka!

Like clockwork, at ha’past five, Cousin Paddy arrived home. He was my mother’s oldest brother, Patrick’s son. It was passed down by my Uncle Patrick to Paddy, his only child. He received it from his own father, my grandfather Peter Melody.

Peter’s sister, Bea, was madly in love with John Timlin and married him. John had a sister, Ellen Timlin, who was my grandmother. At the insistence of their parents, Peter and Ellen were matched, married and went on to have eight children, including my mum. Because of this unique situation, the resemblance to each other and even to me and my siblings was astounding.

Paddy invited our cousin Tommy Peyton (yep, Father Peyton’s brother) and his cousin on his mom’s side, Meg, to help set up for our visit. While Meg took Pepper and the kids out back to call for the cows, Paddy and I shot the shit, and swigged good Irish whiskey and Guiness Beer.

Tommy looked just like my brother, Allan. Paddy looked like my sister, Eleanor. And both agreed I looked just like Tommy’s mother, Annie Mae.

When it was time for Tommy to leave, Paddy asked if he wanted “one for the road.” He paused, looking up as though he was reviewing the five shots and two beers he’d consumed and said.

“I’m driving, so I’ll just have a Guiness.”

We got back to England for a wee bit where we visited my Mum’s only living relative, her brother Mick and his wife, Bea, and his sons, Kevin and Michael and his husband, Ken.

We made it home without misplacing any children along the way. We were forever changed in a way we couldn’t describe. Well, except for “magical” which was any trip with Pepper.

Tune in next time when Pepper and I have the following email conversation.

“Look at this,” I write, forwarding an email I got from the LGBT Center in San Diego saying that the TV Show Trading Spouses was looking for same-sex contestants.

“Let’s do it!” she replied—all.

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© Judy Lane 2025