Pepper IV

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, Pepper and I had the following email conversation.

“Look at this,” I wrote, 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.

Next thing we knew, we were being vetted by a team of producers. This included extensive written application, a video of us on a “typical” day and a two-day stay at an upscale hotel, where they handed us $1000 cash to spend on whatever we wanted. The lobby had free M&M dispensers, so I was happy.

During the stay, they took blood and urine samples from all of us to ensure we didn’t have the bubonic plague or some such contagion. They conducted interviews with each of us individually and the kids together without us.

“What’s something your mom wouldn’t want us to know?” the producer probed.

“She can’t sing,” Shea squealed.

We waited to hear if we had made it and more importantly, which one of us was going to be traded away to another family. Pepper was convinced it would be her because she was the stay-at-home and it would make sense. We soon found out, nothing did.

I was selected to go to regions unknown.

“Just pack like you’re going anywhere in the U.S,” I was told.

The first two days of filming were all of us together at our house. Cameras and sound equipment everywhere.

“You’ll get used to it. You won’t even know they’re here,” the crew told us right about the time I almost poked my eye out on a boom mic handle.

They even rented out our neighbor’s garage to set up their on-site studio. They had two young people who were assigned as handlers for the kids to keep them occupied and happy until they were needed. It was the week of Halloween, but we were not permitted any decorations since the show would be aired early the following year. That didn’t stop the handlers from taking the kids to a Halloween carnival, the movies and trick or treating on the 31^st.

On the third day, I was whisked off with my own handler to the airport. Two planes later, I landed in Grant’s Pass, Oregon. There a husband and two teenaged girls welcomed me into their home.

It would take a hundred pages to do this experience justice. Instead, here is a link to the show if you care to watch. It will show and tell you everything you need to know. Just remember when you’re watching that they did not give a script to follow, but they did instigate a little bit to get more drama going. Regrettably, the Oregonian nut they matched with my darling Pepper was filled with drama and possibly an undiagnosed psychological disorder. But, what great TV! See for yourself.

. If you have trouble, just go to YouTube and search “Chase/Lane Trading Spouses.”

The experience changed us. We expected to have fun with our kids. But, we got a lot more than we bargained for—in a good way.

After it was broadcast on national TV, we received letters, calls, flowers and visits from countless people. Social media was in its infancy so, likely it was good for everyone that this was not in the mix.

“Gracias, senora,” a sobbing woman said in a phone call to us. “Gracias! Gracias!”

We got letters from all over the world saying things like, “I used these episodes to come out to my parents.” And “I showed it to my sixth-grade class,” and “I feel so differently about my child’s sexual orientation after seeing your beautiful family. I can still be a grandmother!” And on and on. More than “celebrities” we became advocates. Something for which we were not remotely ready.

We simply lived our life out loud in order to make it easier on our children since they didn’t have a say in who their parents were. We were present at their schools so everyone could see we were just like every other parent. We didn’t have horns or talons, although my pedicurist may disagree with the latter. The teachers, principals and counselors told us that when a new child came to school and made a remark to one of our kids about having “two Moms,” classmates would pipe up. “That’s Judy and Pepper!”

The LGBTQ+ center in San Diego invited us to speak. We were overwhelmed and had no idea what to say. They advised us to just be ourselves and that it was important to share our story, including how the children came about—artificial insemination, adoption.

“You’re a nice boy and you have two Moms,” a child Cory’s age said to him. “And I’m a nice boy and I have two Moms!”

We got the message loud and clear.

On May 22, 2008, Pepper and the children asked me to marry her. I paused to lick the “Marry Me” cake and said “Yes!”

On September 8, 2008, we were married at the San Diego courthouse with Cory and Shea standing up for us. Despite being together for 21 years, we felt besotted and betrothed. We took off for a brief honeymoon while our dear friend and the kids’ “Auntie Lawen” Lauren White housesat. Then, we got a call from Lauren.

The streets were flooded with Yes on 8 signs to ban same-sex marriage. Grown men stood outside the children’s middle school with signs and handing out bibles. Cory and Shea had no way to get to school without being accosted by these dolts and their signs. Children who never discussed the issue at school were suddenly doing just that because they didn’t even understand what the issue was. And, of course, started taking sides as instructed by their parents. Our kids were understandably upset.

We cut our trip short and came home. We saw all the yellow signs confettiing our neighbor. The same neighbors who brought us flowers and commended us on being such “great parents,” after the show aired. But this was different.

With protestors on two opposite corners of the busy street that lead to their school, Pepper decided she had to do something.

With knees and hands shaking, she positioned herself on an opposite corner with a hand-made sign that read “No on 8.” Soon, she was getting a honk or two in support. Within an hour, she was joined by others supporting her with hand-made signs. Then a man came rushing up to her, which sent shivers down her spine. What was he up to?

He handed her $100 bill.

“Get some good signs printed,” he said.

He returned every day for a week with another $100 bill and refreshments for our growing support that included many heterosexual couples and their children. Even a minister. Pepper and her posse went on to take over two corners now. In a curious move, the Yes on 8s infiltrated our two corners, standing shoulder to shoulder with opposing signs. At one point, one of the yessers looked at Pepper surprised.

“You were on that Trading Spouses show, right?” she shrieked with delight. “You and your wife were great! But I can’t believe how terrible that woman was!”

With incredible wisdom, Pepper asked me not to join in because she knew that I would not be able to control myself if someone said something dumb.

We did manage to talk to the school administrators about having those two or three lummoxes at the only entrance to the school. They said while they agreed with us, they could not stop what was considered “free speech.” Until I pointed out that if two men were handing out candy to children instead of bibles, there would be outrage. They agreed and asked them to move further away.

Pepper and I decided to talk to them parent to parent about how it was hurting our children and potentially others who didn’t have mama bears. A man and woman heard us, especially when we asked how they would feel if we stood outside their Mormon temple and made out while they and their families were entering. They all agreed to leave.

On the night of November 4, 2008, our family jumped for joy when President Obama was confirmed.

“Shea! We have our first black president!” the three of us said, running to her bed.

But our joy dropped like the stock market when Trump instituted tariffs. Prop 8 passed. We were all gutted. We kept the kids out of school the next day and went for pancakes to “swallow the bitterness,” as my departed father would say.

When I called my boss and told her honestly why I wasn’t coming in, she simply didn’t understand how an 11-year-old boy and a nine-year-old girl could possibly understand the repercussions of this vote. Then again, not everyone understood how involved, knowledgeable and articulate our kids were. Rather than playing video games in their rooms, they spent a great deal of time chatting with our friends when we had gatherings at the house. I often shared with co-workers comments Shea made only to have someone say, “She used those words?” You mean, as opposed to “goo-goo-ga-ga? Yes, she often uses words like that.”

Even though, same-sex marriage was not federally recognized until 2015, our 2008 state wedding remained in place but stressed us out for years. A feeling like the rug could be pulled out from under us at any moment. Uh, you know, kinda like the threats the LGBQ+ community is feeling right now almost two decades later.

After constant 2 a.m. distress calls from Pepper’s mother, aunt and sister, Patsy, who lived together in Chattanooga, we made a very difficult decision. We brought Patsy and Mary out to live with us in 2010.

Things were topsy turvy out of the gate when we learned that the information we received that Mary was ambulatory was not true. She was a wheelchair user and needed assistance with everything, including bathroom functions. Naturally, she couldn’t navigate the stairs to our spare bedroom, so we began reconfiguring.

The dining room became Mary’s bedroom. Shea was moved into the office and her bedroom became Patsy’s. And in order to accommodate a pubescent young man in a houseful of females, we created a man cave in the garage for him.

Patsy warrants a series of chapters of her own. Stories about her are mixed with half-truths and ancient psychiatric methodology. Suffice to say, she is mentally challenged and at age 77, has the mind of a 10-year-old. But, like her sister, Pepper, who was raised by wolves, she is resilient and wise in ways that defy her limited capabilities.

Patsy was forced to leave her beloved doll collection at home when she left Tennessee. She took her favorite on the trip. A beautiful, black doll named Isabella. Isabella kept Patsy company and provided comfort through her many trials and tribulations over the years. So much so that she often had long bedtime conversations. Cory’s and Patsy’s rooms shared a wall. Imagine his surprise when he heard this:

“I don’t like Cordy,” Isabella blurted out in a completely different voice than Patsy’s.

“No! Cory is a nice boy,” Patsy protested.

“Well, I don’t like him.”

Cut to poor Cory, frozen in his bed with the covers up to his chin.

Then Shea overhead Patsy exercising with Isabella one evening.

“One and two and one and two,” Patsy directed.

“I’m soooo tired,” Isabella complained in a completely different voice.

Shea ran back to her room and slept in the closet that night.

Before Pepper took the trip back to get her mother and sister, I insisted she get a complete physical just to make sure she was in good health before she took on the lives of an elderly mother and mentally disabled sister. She poo-pooed it but did it anyway.

When Pep returned from the trip, a message was waiting from her doctor to give her a call.

“Don’t worry, I’m on the liver transplant team for Kaiser so you’re in good hands.”

Liver transplant? What?! When? How? Whaaat?!! Pepper was the type who drank so rarely that she actually ordered an Old Fashioned, thinking it was a frothy, ice cream drink. Someone who was routinely gaslighted by her alcoholic girlfriend who allegedly swore off the bottle then ordered Irish Coffees. To hear that she had a liver problem at all was inconceivable.

In the meantime, my sister Sally developed brain cancer. Each Monday, I drove up from San Diego to West Covina for my weekly overnight shift to assist in caring for her. After six months, she passed at 60 years old. https://lifeinthejudylane10.substack.com/p/sally

Mary stayed with us for about a year until she developed dementia and needed more physical and memory care than we could provide. Thanks to my dear friend at UC San Diego Health, Leslie Franz, we got appointment with a prominent geriatric physician who was not taking new patients. But, as a favor to Leslie took her case and was able to assess Mary and refer to a wonderful memory care facility within walking distance of our home. In my previous story “Mother Mary,” I recounted the story of her peaceful death at 86 and a funeral that will go down for the ages. https://lifeinthejudylane10.substack.com/p/mother-mary

Now, Patsy was ours and we had a new life to manage for her. No more dental assistant uniforms with pants dragging the floor. No more 1950s Toni Permanents. Cool clothes, a stylish haircut and all the things she dreamed of for a more independent life. We sent her to daily workshops and tried to acclimate her to Southern California life. Most notably, eliminating the “N” word from her vocabulary and moving her toward “colored” and finally to not mentioning color at all when relaying stories about somebody she encountered. But certain concepts were still very difficult.

A budding comedian, Cory often developed a shtick that could last for a few weeks to a few months.

“Cory, please take out the trash.”

“In Soviet Russia,” he’d say with a perfect Russian accent. “Tresh takes you out!”

While Pepper and Shea would say “shaddup!” He would counter, “As long as Mama laughs, I’m not done.”

Then the joke changed.

“Cory, please take the trash out.”

“You’re just saying that because I’m Black.”

“I’m sorry, Shea,” Patsy quickly said, patting her hand.

Then in 2014, along comes another earth angel and UC San Diego colleague, Portia Bibb, whose son was a wheelchair user and could only communicate through a mouth device that a faculty member worked with engineers to develop. She was able to get Patsy into a wonderful and supportive group home, Mountain Shadows in Escondido, a few miles from our home to allow for regular visits. Working and learning with people with similar abilities and going to dances and even a boyfriend or two has given Patsy years on her now rich and fulfilling life. Like her little sister, she is a favorite of everyone at the site and continues to thrive there.

Our home was back to normal. For a minute.

Pepper still had to confront those alarming words from a gastroenterologist she visited before picking up her mother and Patsy. Imaging, blood tests and biopsies confirmed: Cirrhosis of the liver. Complications include buildup of body fluid, portal hypertension, infections, hepatic encephalopathy. Our Pepper suffered them all for the next few years. She was assigned a MELD score, a tool to assess the severity of liver disease and prioritize patients for organ transplantation. Despite her miserable quality of life, she was not high on the list, especially in California.

California has important live-saving laws such as requiring seatbelts, motorcycle helmets and a couple of gun laws. Unfortunately, for organ recipients this is not good news. The waiting list for Pepper would be years and she would not survive. And, yet again angels on earth, dear friend and Pepper’s former boss, Linda Poleselli and her husband, Michael offered their livers for a partial liver transplant. Both were good matches, but Michael was chosen since they had two young children.

On November 19, 2015, Michael showed up at USC Keck Hospital in Los Angeles with a gift for Pepper.

“Since I’m giving you part of my liver, I thought I’d add this,” he said handing her a paper bag with an onion inside a paper bag.

The two marathon operations were successful, and both patients were recovering nicely. Michael with 75% of his liver removed and transplanted into Pepper’s body.

Michael was released within a couple of days. Pepper was doing so well, they would possibly release her by Thanksgiving, so I drove back to San Diego to share Shea’s sweet sixteen birthday with her on the 24^th. I had arranged a surprise party for her with her softball team over the previous weekend, thanks to wonderful friends, Adrianne, Jill and Uncle Daniel. As I pulled in the driveway to our home, I got a frantic call from Patti to return right away.

Cory and his cousin Tyler were visiting Pepper when she suddenly had a seizure. In the most basic of terms, the liver failed, and she was placed in an induced coma till a cadaver liver could be found. Good news was that this took her to the top of the list now.

Back at the hospital, Daniel, Patti and I contorted ourselves into uncomfortable chairs to catch a few winks while we waited.

From the time Pepper began this journey, we received help, prayers and well-wishes from family, friends and people we didn’t even know. I stayed at my friend Charon’s pool house in Pasadena, while Pepper was hospitalized so I could be nearby. Every day that I walked up that small hill to the hospital, I could literally feel the full force energy of all those people pushing me up that hill like a wave behind my back. It was the most remarkable spiritual encounter I had ever experienced.

At about 2 a.m. November 26, the three of us went down to the cafeteria. Patti picked up a box of Cracker Jacks, pointing out that she was a kid the last time she had any. We mindlessly ate some. Then she pulled out the prize. Not a whistle or cronk teeth, but a sticker. The San Diego Padres. I got a text from the doctor to say they had found a liver. It was being medevacked from UC San Diego.

I can still feel the crisp air surging through my nostrils, and the night full of stars like the whole world was waiting with me outside for that lone helicopter making its way to the helipad.

Tune in next time, when Pepper wakes up and writes a cryptic note to the nursing staff.

“I’m really a Kardashian in disguise.”

-30-

© 2025 by Judy Lane