It's July 24th. For years and years, we would spend this day pampering mom in celebration of her birthday. We would sing an obnoxious version of happy birthday either by a conference phone call or in person, and would toast to her with a forkful of carrot cake. We would live this day with her in mind, and would seize each moment to tell her how much we loved her.
Today, on what would have been her 67th birthday, I'll raise a forkful of carrot cake and will toast to Mom in memory just as we did last year. And, just as I did last year, I'll try to swallow without choking on the tears...
Happy Birthday, Mom. I live this day with you in mind, as with every day. I love you and miss you every moment.
..I'll see you in my dreams...
~E
Friday, July 24, 2009
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Begonias before Sunset
(written May 10th, 2009)
The brilliance of Mother’s Day is that it happens every year with such predictability that you can prepare for it – send that card well in advance, design an extra special tribute to the woman who gave you life. Instead, you find yourself lost in a card isle searching for the perfect card among what remains, and convincing yourself that the generic card you’re now clutching and that massage gift certificate you’ve yet to purchase will suffice. I’m sure this scenario resonates with many. I wish I could say I was more punctual and more creative. I wish I did so much more in hindsight.
This year, I found myself lost in the card aisle staring at Mother’s Day cards the moment they were made available – months in advance. I stood frozen, slowly taking in the cards I would not send, the event I’ll miss this year and all years to come. It was as if someone took a board to my gut. Those gestures I once took for granted, seemingly common and often last minute, seemed personal and unique almost like an epitaph on a grave. I spent time in that aisle thumbing through cards, wishing I had the opportunity to send a cheesy cellophane wrapped card to Mom. Tears welled as I allowed myself to envision what I would write, what I would do, and what she would say when she would receive it. A lifetime of this is a long, long time and part of me wanted to tell passersby to "make it count" before the opportunity passes and you’re found crying in an aisle clutching a card your mom will never read.
Despite hoping that milestones like Mother’s Day are skipped over, they somehow stand proudly from the crowd and deliver with maddening punctuality. Last month, Mother’s Day was merely a spoken placeholder for a hard day to come – another anticipated milestone to wade through in the grieving process. As days ticked off, that distant ship light on the horizon drew painful distinction. Mother’s day commercials replaced regular advertisement with startling speed; watching testimonials and gift ideas for that special mother was nothing short of agony. To imagine a life time of not being able to participate, to actively celebrate Mom and tell her how much she means to me takes the breath from my lungs. Though I can tell her now in the breeze and the trees, it’s not the same and it’s a painful permanence that is rubbed in every time there’s a commercial break.
Yesterday, as I was standing in line to pay for next week’s groceries, I spotted the familiar green packaging of Trident gum and instinctively grabbed a pack and placed it between my bell peppers and strawberries. Back in the car, I clutched the package hoping the taste hadn’t changed with the packaging. I closed my eyes and popped a piece. It was the same and just like that I could see Mom in real time rifling through her purse for a short stack of Trident gum; she’d offer a piece to us before selecting one for herself. For years, Trident was the only gum Mom would chew and would inevitably pull a piece while waiting for Dr. Hollingsworth (our pediatrician) or any other appointment dotting the years. She’d pop her gum without ever really blowing a bubble. I remember her teaching me how to catch air by rolling the gum – thank god I never learned! It’s ironic that I sought out that memory when it sometimes was an irritant. Annoyances today, treasured moments tomorrow. What I’d give to hear her pop her gum.
So began my tributes to Mom, evoking any and all memories to bring her close to me. It would be our day – mom and mine – even if in memory. As difficult as it was anticipating what Mother’s Day might be like, when the ship docked, I boarded. I awoke today after dreaming of mom. We were in a frenzy to reach an unknown destination and even rode dolphins (stay with me here) to get there on time. There was a familiar sense of desperation to reach “base” but this time we wouldn’t yell olly olly oxen free; I think my subconscious wouldn’t allow her to reach it.
Once awake, I decided to pot mom’s favorite flowers in planters on my balcony (“favorite” meaning the flowers she would always plant). I soon realized she chose the begonias, pansies and daffodils not for their extraordinary grace and distinctive color but because they are low maintenance. Atta girl! She was with me with each handful of potting soil. I could recall her taking us to Quality Plants to pick out the perennials and annuals; I could remember her teaching me how to garden, how to tap the sides of the containers to loosen the roots before pulling them out. I could hear her compliment me on my green thumb just as she did when I was in college.
After “giving the flowers a good soak” as she would say, I sat with mom on the balcony as the sun grew soft before changing and leaving for the next tribute. I took myself out to the last restaurant Mom and I went to in DC – a Spanish tapas place she loved. We talked and laughed for hours over small plates and decent drinks. Tonight, I ordered a light wine for her as a placeholder and could see her sitting across from me just as clear as that night. She was dressed in all black with turquoise jewelry, and was absolutely beautiful. I ate in silence, however, sniffling back the tears as I welcomed the memories. I hope the memories are as vivid next year as they were tonight.
As a last tribute, I re-read the cellophane wrapped Mother’s Day card I purchased for her, though did not send. The message is just as poignant for her in life and now in memory; buying it brought her close to me.
The cover reads, “Mom, you leave a little bit of wonderful everywhere you go…”
~E
Thursday, May 21, 2009
I know you, I've walked with you once upon a dream
...I know you. The gleam in your eyes is so familiar a gleam...
I'm sure Sleeping Beauty had something else in mind when she sang that sweet melody. For my family, it carries a different meaning with a Prince whose gleam is more a permanent glower and whose name does start with "C" but rhymes with "answer" and is always the wrong one.
Dad called today, which is not out of the ordinary. He's leaving on his first vacation sans family this Saturday when he accompanies a geology group from OSU for a 2.5 week stint in Morocco. Just one thing... A few weeks ago, he noticed a few sun spots on his forehead and went in to have them checked. Last year, at around this time, he was the third Lawler to undergo chemo treatment and applied a topical chemo to combat pre-cancer cells on his face. It was a miserable couple of weeks for him as his skin blistered and pealed. In the end, he had to endure TWO rounds of topical chemo due to the pre-cancer cell persistence.
After cooling the breeze with idle chatter, he said the familiar phrase, "I don't want to worry you but I have some bad news." His biopsy results came back and he has cancer.
Yep. That's half of our family now, if we're keeping count. Yayyy for our family health legacy! Needless to say, my sisters and I are feeling the warm and fuzzies for a lifetime of health and happiness. ;) Fortunately, he caught the cancer at "baby cancer stage" rather than "6-12 months to live" stage, so we'll take it! We're not sure why the pre-cancer chemo treatment failed to work but not really surprised (we are Lawlers, after all). If at first you don't succeed, try, try again. (Cancer hasn't caught on that it doesn't apply to him). And, just so we're all paying attention, Dad's due to discuss and start treatment just two weeks prior to the first year anniversary of our Mom's passing. Awesome.
Our Dad is 70 and has had "interesting" medical issues in the past months from his gall bladder to now baby cancer. I think a part of my sisters and I can't help but feel like we've pulled a bit from the shore again with his health and find ourselves swimming among little sharks that nip at the feet but are otherwise harmless --"just be aware". Here's to hoping that great white doesn't rear its ugly head again and take something more.
I told him if there's a cancer to get, I suppose this is it and said I don't think we could take another "you have 6-12 months to live" diagnosis. That statement may just read like a sentence and nothing more, but really, I don't know of three more protective daughters of their dad than my sisters and I...for his own benefit and ours.
We have two loved ones to walk with in dreams; we're not about to lose him too.
~E
I'm sure Sleeping Beauty had something else in mind when she sang that sweet melody. For my family, it carries a different meaning with a Prince whose gleam is more a permanent glower and whose name does start with "C" but rhymes with "answer" and is always the wrong one.
Dad called today, which is not out of the ordinary. He's leaving on his first vacation sans family this Saturday when he accompanies a geology group from OSU for a 2.5 week stint in Morocco. Just one thing... A few weeks ago, he noticed a few sun spots on his forehead and went in to have them checked. Last year, at around this time, he was the third Lawler to undergo chemo treatment and applied a topical chemo to combat pre-cancer cells on his face. It was a miserable couple of weeks for him as his skin blistered and pealed. In the end, he had to endure TWO rounds of topical chemo due to the pre-cancer cell persistence.
After cooling the breeze with idle chatter, he said the familiar phrase, "I don't want to worry you but I have some bad news." His biopsy results came back and he has cancer.
Yep. That's half of our family now, if we're keeping count. Yayyy for our family health legacy! Needless to say, my sisters and I are feeling the warm and fuzzies for a lifetime of health and happiness. ;) Fortunately, he caught the cancer at "baby cancer stage" rather than "6-12 months to live" stage, so we'll take it! We're not sure why the pre-cancer chemo treatment failed to work but not really surprised (we are Lawlers, after all). If at first you don't succeed, try, try again. (Cancer hasn't caught on that it doesn't apply to him). And, just so we're all paying attention, Dad's due to discuss and start treatment just two weeks prior to the first year anniversary of our Mom's passing. Awesome.
Our Dad is 70 and has had "interesting" medical issues in the past months from his gall bladder to now baby cancer. I think a part of my sisters and I can't help but feel like we've pulled a bit from the shore again with his health and find ourselves swimming among little sharks that nip at the feet but are otherwise harmless --"just be aware". Here's to hoping that great white doesn't rear its ugly head again and take something more.
I told him if there's a cancer to get, I suppose this is it and said I don't think we could take another "you have 6-12 months to live" diagnosis. That statement may just read like a sentence and nothing more, but really, I don't know of three more protective daughters of their dad than my sisters and I...for his own benefit and ours.
We have two loved ones to walk with in dreams; we're not about to lose him too.
~E
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Crossing the river, by feeling the stones
"To My Mother on Her Special Day." That was the title of my Mother's Day post, written just one year ago. I remember that day so well. Mom was wearing her blue nightgown, and her hair was a bit spiky from a recent hair cut at La Ritz. Dad bought Mom several books-on-tape for Mother’s Day. I remember how small she looked peering over the two large bags full of books. She let out her tell-tale ‘ohhh’ as she assessed her stash. Dad also bought her a Hallmark card, which included a personal voice message: “kick up your heels and dance the watoosie.’ The card quickly became a Mary Lawler tracking device. We could tell her location in the house just by virtue of that stinking jingle. She had a habit of fidgeting with items once in hand. The card was a perfect sensory item for her. She spent half the day opening and closing, opening and closing the card. Half-way through a movie, we'd hear ‘kick up your heels and dance the watoosie.’ On the phone with Alison, and then ‘kick up your heels and dance the watoosie.’ Heading to the bathroom, 'kick up your heels and dance the watoosie.’ By the end of the day, we were all giving Dad the stink eye. ;) But it was great. Mom loved it. We loved it. The card was a fitting tribute to what we were feeling at the time. I remember reflecting on whether Mom would be alive for another Mother’s Day. Though I had a sense that she wouldn’t, I remember consciously trying to ‘kick up my heels’ and enjoy the moment with her.
That morning, I read out loud my Mother’s Day note to her. She cried, and so did I. Through the tears, she said that she wasn’t going anywhere, and for that day, she wasn’t. She was as present as her body would allow. After a nice morning and afternoon together, we drove to Tulsa for dinner at Los Cabos – Mom’s favorite restaurant. We had a helluva time getting a table, and an even more ghastly time trying to get Mom in and out of the toilet. By then, she was starting to lose her ability to stand, and required fairly constant assistance. We had a difficult time maneuvering in the Los Crapos non-handicapped friendly bathrooms. Bathroom drama and all, we still had a nice time and it was good to leave Stillwater, even just for an evening. We had a nice laugh on the way home once we realized that we had driven off with the restaurant beeper used for seating. Take that, Crapos!
I remember the car ride home. Mom and I were sitting in the back seat and I was sitting close to her side to help prop her up. At one point, Mom started buzzing my hand. God, I can remember how that felt and how I tried desperately to hide my tears. I can remember staring out the window and thinking how unfair it all was. How absolutely unfair. Later that evening, we Skyped with Craig and Erin in Denver, and gave Mom the rest of her presents,which included new outfits.
Fast forward a year and here we are, welcoming the first Mother’s Day without Mom. Erin, Diane and I have been reflecting on this day and what it means. For me, though Mom is no longer with us, I still feel compelled to celebrate as if she were. This was her special day: no reason the festivities should stop simply because she's gone. She would want us to be happy and to try to move forward from this grief. And I am, though slowly.
I spent this Mother’s Day weekend at the beach with friends. In some way, I felt like I was doing her memory justice by doing something joyful and less lonesome and sentimental. She would want us to continue on with life, while also finding moments to reflect on what a life without her means. So far, it means a weird mixture of emptiness and longing, pride and strength. While I feel numb and hollow, and it's hard for me to think of Mom and all she endured, I also feel proud, and as if I’m doing her memory justice. Nothing is as sad as losing yourself. So far, I feel that I have done my best to keep true to who I was and who I am. For all that we’ve gone through, we’re still here. We're still a family.
I think Mom would be proud. I miss her. I wish life was different and that she was still here. I wish I was back in that car, holding her hand, telling her that I loved her. Like the milestones before it, Mother’s Day is hard. Life without her is hard. It’s a deep pain that is shared by Diane, Erin and Dad. We’re just taking it one day at a time, slowly crossing the river by feeling the stones. That's all we can do.
--J
Saturday, April 25, 2009
From the Vault
"There comes a time when you become so far behind in writing about life that you just give up. What's the point of documentation, of spending valuable moments lost in thought instead of taking in what's around you? Living in the moment; relishing the day; holding on to every second you can still say, "hey mom?" and have a "Ye-ah?" in return."
November 25, 2007
I searched for a notebook to scribble notes for work and there it was - a memory waiting to be recalled. That was the beginning of a hand written passage I drafted last Thanksgiving break...
November, 2007
There comes a time when you become so far behind in writing about life that you just give up. What's the point of documentation, of spending valuable moments lost in thought instead of taking in what's around you? Living in the moment; relishing the day; holding on to every second you can still say, "hey mom?" and have a "Ye-ah?" in return. Where do you begin to capture what you want never to forget? How can you hope that 28 years of memories will be enough to last a lifetime? How do you maintain optimism against something seemingly so bleak? How do you stare in the face of profound pain, sadness, and fear and manage to give a smile, a high-5? While hearing her say "we're going to beat this thing", thinking to yourself "I hope so" but hearing words of confidence, strength, and encouragement instead. "We had a good week mom. We have many more good weeks ahead. You keep fighting and we are right there beside you every moment. Live each day."
Earlier, just before celebrating Craig's 32nd birthday Lawler-style with dinner, presents, and obnoxious song, she cried. It's a rare occasion for her to cry despite having every reason to. Lots of folks complain and sob over more trivial things-work projects, boyfriends who don't pay enough attention, long commute, stupid incidents in the grand "incident" of living. Tonight, she broke down in a sobbing pain for something far, far more significant. The deepest, gut wrenching look of sadness and fear overtook her. It was the look of a woman fearing that this was the "last time to be here to celebrate his birthday" as she later explained.
Diane, Jill and I were there with her in her bathroom as she processed. She said she was sorry for breaking down. We encouraged the tears, the expression, and shared in the sadness. I said, "You're here now, Mom". Diane followed with, "Take each moment as it comes, one day at a time". We wandered back to her bed. Dad came in at this moment, whistling. He saw the four of us crying, said "oh", and left. It was too intense, maybe. Craig was in the family room either completely oblivious to the moment or purposefully checking out. He was noticeably disengaged for the duration of our time together, despite doing the traditional jog around the cross country track and work out at the gym. While Diane, Jill, Mom and I played, giggled, sang, wrestled, watched back to back episodes of Law and Order: Special Victims Unit together, he slept. Something was different, distant. On occasion, he'd tune in to an episode, but not often. He typically did his own thing-walked down the street playing harmonica, swam. When we'd ask him if he wanted to do something, he mentioned that he "couldn't keep up with our pace". To his credit, that's probably true. Tired, worn out, emotionally spent, all these expressions or attributes somehow turn another tide when dealing with mom. You have energy because you have to. You have charisma and playfulness because you have to. For the sake of mom, normalcy must at least be entertained (whilst not ignoring our reality). Normalcy includes joking around, working out together (walking around the track together), cooking, standing extremely close and talking as if in a huddle and the competition might hear our plays. (The visual is particularly funny given her smallish stature (4'11) and fluffy bathrobe). Normalcy includes watching the Bedlam game together and talking to the TV, then going to get coffee during halftime. Normalcy includes dressing up - Mom in her new brown sweater and amber jewelry. My favorite. She sought out Diane's makeup -- had a real yearning to put herself together which was nice to see. Man she's beautiful.
When the family's together, time seems to slow for us - to stand still. Tonight, we were as we were and have always been. The disease was ever present and would sometimes rear its head with tearful exchanges but we dealt with it gracefully. The context was never lifted but we managed to live inside it as Lawlers do- with a jovial, determined, contagious spirit. Still, the context was inescapable certainly when mom cried at dinner. She was frustrated that her food options had become limited by the cancer. Cancer feeds on sugar. The better the diet, the better the chances of surviving. More importantly, she was sad from all of the "last moments" --the possible last Thanksgiving, possible last celebration of Craig's birthday as a family. In those moments, I become very angry for what she is enduring. Why her? Why us? It's unfair that she has to live in that continued threat of "lasts", to envision her inexistence.
Back in her bedroom, her daughters just listened to her, gave her support where we could and showed her how much she meant to us as she discussed the possibilities. On these days, it seems worry is our most persistent friend. I think every mother takes on the role with a kernel of doubt whether they will end up being "a good mom". Knowing that opportunities may be limited in the future, we tried to show her in that moment that she was our everything. We told her it was okay to cry. It was okay to be scared, to be sad and angry. It felt odd to be coaching our mom in expressing emotion, to feeling vulnerability as if we were somehow stronger in the moment and sharing our strength. Maybe we were, maybe we weren't. Maybe we were still kids drawing from her all that she offered even in the moments of cancer. A mom facing cancer and all that it represents is a mom, a woman, and a role model. I don't know how she does it but she does it with grace and tremendous courage.
Those moments of crying for her are fleeting. She usually stops them with a brief comment, "crying makes my head hurt", over a familiar sardonic smile and new look of anguish. It's just too much for her to get into, to entertain for too long and I can't blame her. To entertain losing her for even a moment is too long for me. It's simply too painful, though some part of me accepts that scenario as one version of reality this disease might lead us to. I see it on her face like I see it on mine, an indescribable fear tempered by unfettered resilience. It's the "I'm not ready yet" look. I wish I could take her pain, transfer her disease to me - a younger body with a better chance. I would if I could and she knows that. We'd all lay on the tracks for her if it meant even stalling this train.
When saying goodnight, I said at any time you're scared, sad, angry, whatever it is, just talk and we'll be here for you and she said she would. I told her we'll listen at all times and there will be a time where we'll need to talk with her (to talk of aspirations she has for us, to share how much we love her and will miss her). She told Jill and I that all she wants for us is for us to be satisfied with life. (Was she, I wondered). With our careers, the people in our lives... When asked, she said she wasn't disappointed we haven't met anyone because she doesn't feel we are ready to settle down yet. One day, she said. On the topic of parenthood, her biggest piece of advice was, "choose your battles".
I don't think she had many with me. I recall the great Battle of Polar Bear (which Jill and I won and took home a life sized polar bear from Sears that we didn't need looking back on it BUT loved and used as a reading chair) and the infamous battle of "Quit your bitching", which I also won. Perhaps those were battles she chose to lose. I'll never forget her smile when she did and hope I'm only half as tolerant...
---
As feared, this was the last Thanksgiving and Craig's birthday to share with Mom. ...and with Craig
E
November 25, 2007
I searched for a notebook to scribble notes for work and there it was - a memory waiting to be recalled. That was the beginning of a hand written passage I drafted last Thanksgiving break...
November, 2007
There comes a time when you become so far behind in writing about life that you just give up. What's the point of documentation, of spending valuable moments lost in thought instead of taking in what's around you? Living in the moment; relishing the day; holding on to every second you can still say, "hey mom?" and have a "Ye-ah?" in return. Where do you begin to capture what you want never to forget? How can you hope that 28 years of memories will be enough to last a lifetime? How do you maintain optimism against something seemingly so bleak? How do you stare in the face of profound pain, sadness, and fear and manage to give a smile, a high-5? While hearing her say "we're going to beat this thing", thinking to yourself "I hope so" but hearing words of confidence, strength, and encouragement instead. "We had a good week mom. We have many more good weeks ahead. You keep fighting and we are right there beside you every moment. Live each day."
Earlier, just before celebrating Craig's 32nd birthday Lawler-style with dinner, presents, and obnoxious song, she cried. It's a rare occasion for her to cry despite having every reason to. Lots of folks complain and sob over more trivial things-work projects, boyfriends who don't pay enough attention, long commute, stupid incidents in the grand "incident" of living. Tonight, she broke down in a sobbing pain for something far, far more significant. The deepest, gut wrenching look of sadness and fear overtook her. It was the look of a woman fearing that this was the "last time to be here to celebrate his birthday" as she later explained.
Diane, Jill and I were there with her in her bathroom as she processed. She said she was sorry for breaking down. We encouraged the tears, the expression, and shared in the sadness. I said, "You're here now, Mom". Diane followed with, "Take each moment as it comes, one day at a time". We wandered back to her bed. Dad came in at this moment, whistling. He saw the four of us crying, said "oh", and left. It was too intense, maybe. Craig was in the family room either completely oblivious to the moment or purposefully checking out. He was noticeably disengaged for the duration of our time together, despite doing the traditional jog around the cross country track and work out at the gym. While Diane, Jill, Mom and I played, giggled, sang, wrestled, watched back to back episodes of Law and Order: Special Victims Unit together, he slept. Something was different, distant. On occasion, he'd tune in to an episode, but not often. He typically did his own thing-walked down the street playing harmonica, swam. When we'd ask him if he wanted to do something, he mentioned that he "couldn't keep up with our pace". To his credit, that's probably true. Tired, worn out, emotionally spent, all these expressions or attributes somehow turn another tide when dealing with mom. You have energy because you have to. You have charisma and playfulness because you have to. For the sake of mom, normalcy must at least be entertained (whilst not ignoring our reality). Normalcy includes joking around, working out together (walking around the track together), cooking, standing extremely close and talking as if in a huddle and the competition might hear our plays. (The visual is particularly funny given her smallish stature (4'11) and fluffy bathrobe). Normalcy includes watching the Bedlam game together and talking to the TV, then going to get coffee during halftime. Normalcy includes dressing up - Mom in her new brown sweater and amber jewelry. My favorite. She sought out Diane's makeup -- had a real yearning to put herself together which was nice to see. Man she's beautiful.
When the family's together, time seems to slow for us - to stand still. Tonight, we were as we were and have always been. The disease was ever present and would sometimes rear its head with tearful exchanges but we dealt with it gracefully. The context was never lifted but we managed to live inside it as Lawlers do- with a jovial, determined, contagious spirit. Still, the context was inescapable certainly when mom cried at dinner. She was frustrated that her food options had become limited by the cancer. Cancer feeds on sugar. The better the diet, the better the chances of surviving. More importantly, she was sad from all of the "last moments" --the possible last Thanksgiving, possible last celebration of Craig's birthday as a family. In those moments, I become very angry for what she is enduring. Why her? Why us? It's unfair that she has to live in that continued threat of "lasts", to envision her inexistence.
Back in her bedroom, her daughters just listened to her, gave her support where we could and showed her how much she meant to us as she discussed the possibilities. On these days, it seems worry is our most persistent friend. I think every mother takes on the role with a kernel of doubt whether they will end up being "a good mom". Knowing that opportunities may be limited in the future, we tried to show her in that moment that she was our everything. We told her it was okay to cry. It was okay to be scared, to be sad and angry. It felt odd to be coaching our mom in expressing emotion, to feeling vulnerability as if we were somehow stronger in the moment and sharing our strength. Maybe we were, maybe we weren't. Maybe we were still kids drawing from her all that she offered even in the moments of cancer. A mom facing cancer and all that it represents is a mom, a woman, and a role model. I don't know how she does it but she does it with grace and tremendous courage.
Those moments of crying for her are fleeting. She usually stops them with a brief comment, "crying makes my head hurt", over a familiar sardonic smile and new look of anguish. It's just too much for her to get into, to entertain for too long and I can't blame her. To entertain losing her for even a moment is too long for me. It's simply too painful, though some part of me accepts that scenario as one version of reality this disease might lead us to. I see it on her face like I see it on mine, an indescribable fear tempered by unfettered resilience. It's the "I'm not ready yet" look. I wish I could take her pain, transfer her disease to me - a younger body with a better chance. I would if I could and she knows that. We'd all lay on the tracks for her if it meant even stalling this train.
When saying goodnight, I said at any time you're scared, sad, angry, whatever it is, just talk and we'll be here for you and she said she would. I told her we'll listen at all times and there will be a time where we'll need to talk with her (to talk of aspirations she has for us, to share how much we love her and will miss her). She told Jill and I that all she wants for us is for us to be satisfied with life. (Was she, I wondered). With our careers, the people in our lives... When asked, she said she wasn't disappointed we haven't met anyone because she doesn't feel we are ready to settle down yet. One day, she said. On the topic of parenthood, her biggest piece of advice was, "choose your battles".
I don't think she had many with me. I recall the great Battle of Polar Bear (which Jill and I won and took home a life sized polar bear from Sears that we didn't need looking back on it BUT loved and used as a reading chair) and the infamous battle of "Quit your bitching", which I also won. Perhaps those were battles she chose to lose. I'll never forget her smile when she did and hope I'm only half as tolerant...
---
As feared, this was the last Thanksgiving and Craig's birthday to share with Mom. ...and with Craig
E
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Dreaming but still awake
After grabbing a salad from my trusty Paragon gourmet market, I’ve returned to my one bedroom apartment to do battle with a handful of overachieving mosquitoes, who have decided to skip all the open doors below me and fly directly to my bedroom on the 27th floor. I never considered mosquitoes to be particularly adept fliers, but I think they’re drawn to the swampy atmosphere that pervades my tiny studio apartment. It’s good to know that the border of Cambodia and Thailand is home to the most virulent and drug-resistant strand of malaria this side of the Mississippi. Malaria, why not?
Today has been a good day. After a string of topsy-turvy days, I’d say I was about due. The tough days come with bad night’s sleep, of which I’ve had many. The dreams range in severity and content. There are the random, vivid dreams, like watching someone fall off a building -- including the sights and sounds of impact – or of being attacked; the weepy, nostalgic ones of past relationships or long forgotten childhood memories; and then Mom and Craig, which are so varied they deserve their own sub-categories.
So far, I can group three separate themes: a) Mom and Craig shortly before, or during, the dying process where I’m able to jostle them awake for one last conversation; b) Mom and Craig post-death interacting with me as if nothing happened; and c) Mom and Craig before cancer. Usually, they’ll trade off in terms of who takes center stage; so far, they haven’t appeared in a dream together.
Almost always, I’m able to talk to them in full, with them responding in the voice that defined them long before cancer. For instance, I remember a dream where I was hiking in Sedona with Diane and Erin, and Craig was just behind me. He was dressed in his red Beer Lao shirt, the last shirt he was wearing. I knew in the dream that he was gone, and asked him directly how he came back. He said that the whole experience was just a big misunderstanding. I remember whispering to him so the others wouldn’t hear, as if their participation would spoil the dream.
I’ve had similar dreams with Mom. In one, she was walking around without her walker and improving in strength and mobility with each day. It was as if she had reverted back to her walking pattern of mid-December when she was just beginning to have troubles with her balance. In other dreams, I replay the actual moments before her passing, and almost always, she is able to wake up for one last talk. In one dream, she had already passed away, with all the tell-tale color distortion, but I was able to jostle her awake. She smiled and said “it’s going to be okay, sweetheart.”
In all these dreams, I’m able to have a conversation with them. When morning comes, I find myself struggling to recall their exact words, as if what they said, or their particular mannerisms, or touch were somehow real. It’s been so long since I’ve heard their voices. Though I could use the rest, talking to them brings me comfort. As Dad says, the nightmare is waking up. -- J
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Until the night returns
Written in February
Sleep is where you flirt with the unknown without discretion and answer those almost plea-like questions left unanswerable in the waking world. I've found those 8 hours can yield three things: sheer sleeplessness, a growing norm for me; horrific nightmares that carry through long passed the waking hour; or opportunities for the subconscious to craft a movie to make me feel better. Whether beckoned to ease a troubled mind and make sense of a seemingly incomprehensible reality or whether he found me in defiance of rational sense, Craig has frequently visited me in my dreams recently.
Each dream was almost stupid in it simplicity--pure like a community theater with only one detailed set with background figures blurring in an amorphous swirl of colors in symbolic salute to their utter inconsequence. The only thing that mattered in my dreams was the few actors, the emotions and the dialogue.
It's not the Rose I'd hope to Grow
Craig and I stood in our kitchen back home nearly shoulder to shoulder with our elbows perched on the yellow countertop. In a steady, contemplative tone, we shared reflections on his diagnosis and probable outcome as he prepared for an upcoming trip to an unknown destination. I remember him saying to me, "I certainly didn't plan for this; I didn't expect this to happen so quickly...It's not what I had in mind." I asked when he was leaving, and he replied "soon, I think". I asked when he'd return and he said, "I don't know. It doesn't look like I will". I nodded while fidgeting with my hands. Moments passed and I said, "I'm gonna miss you Craig". "I'll miss you, too."
The Back-Back
Jill, Diane and I sat on our knees in the area we used to call the "back-back" of our old station wagon circa the early 1980's. We spoke calmly yet quickly as we negotiated what to do as Craig lay lifeless in the middle. One of us cradled Craig's head; the other two held each hand as we desperately told him how much we loved him and would miss him. I could sense what it felt like in my dream to rub his legs and the feel of my fingers rolling over the coarse hair on his cold skin.
Slowly, warmth returned to his legs and hands; a fleshy red color filled his lips and cheeks, and blue replaced eyes of grey. "Could you hear us? Could you hear what we were saying? The stories, the I love you's?" we asked in a feverish tone desperate to know. "Yeaaaah, I could hear you. I could hear all of you and what you were saying", he said as he began bending his knees and righting himself to a propped position on his elbows. The three of us relaxed back on our heals as if collectively saying "whewww"; joy and relief replaced expressions of concern and sorrow. "We didn't know if you could or if that was annoying". "No, I liked it; it was comforting, not annoying. Thanks for being there for me".
They say hearing is the last sense to leave when one is transitioning and passing away. Yet, there is no means for confirmation. We sat gripping the hands of both Mom and Craig, buzzing their hair and telling them each moment how much they meant to us, how much we loved them, and how much we will miss their presence. When they passed, we were left clinging to the conviction that somehow our words and touch registered deep on their heartstrings and brought them some level of comfort during the dying processes. In my dream, I remember feeling a palpable sense of relief from that fleeting moment of affirmation. How I wish I could ask him, and mom, in life.
Little Sparrow
The four of us were driving in dad's old copper-toned car down a gravel country road one late afternoon in Spring. I sat in the passenger seat with my back propped against the door and legs folded on the chair. Craig drove while Diane and Jill, unbuckled in the back, hugged the driver and passenger seats. The soft setting sun bathed over the swirling green, slowly and indistinctly rolling by in the periphery. The ping of gravel on the undercarriage below kept time with our constant chatter and laughter until a song came on the radio. "Little bird, Little Sparrow...". The car continued to slow all the while. "Ohhhhh this song!!!" we exclaimed, "Although this isn't the original version." "I don't recognize this song", Craig said quietly. We began to sing to him the original version that was sung by our harpist, and needlessly made words plural in a grammatically incorrect fashion-treeses and the breezes-for fun.
His eyes narrowed; familiar "frankenviens" appeared at his temples as he held his laughter in his flared nostrils before finally letting it out. The gravel crunched below, no longer fast enough to spit up rocks on the undercarriage. The car slowed still, now to a near crawl, as he looked out the window until it came to an eventual and symbolic stop...
And these are the dreams. Some mornings, I'm left utterly disappointed by the inactivity and lack of imagination of my REM. Still, I'd rather boring dreams than the frequent sleeplessness I'm having where the intensity of life alone prevents ever drifting into that beloved dream world. Though hours in dreams are few and fleeting compared to the reality that remains, I often fall asleep eager for those stolen 8 hours in which I can laugh with them, hear their voices, and feel complete.
...until the night returns again.
~E
Sleep is where you flirt with the unknown without discretion and answer those almost plea-like questions left unanswerable in the waking world. I've found those 8 hours can yield three things: sheer sleeplessness, a growing norm for me; horrific nightmares that carry through long passed the waking hour; or opportunities for the subconscious to craft a movie to make me feel better. Whether beckoned to ease a troubled mind and make sense of a seemingly incomprehensible reality or whether he found me in defiance of rational sense, Craig has frequently visited me in my dreams recently.
Each dream was almost stupid in it simplicity--pure like a community theater with only one detailed set with background figures blurring in an amorphous swirl of colors in symbolic salute to their utter inconsequence. The only thing that mattered in my dreams was the few actors, the emotions and the dialogue.
It's not the Rose I'd hope to Grow
Craig and I stood in our kitchen back home nearly shoulder to shoulder with our elbows perched on the yellow countertop. In a steady, contemplative tone, we shared reflections on his diagnosis and probable outcome as he prepared for an upcoming trip to an unknown destination. I remember him saying to me, "I certainly didn't plan for this; I didn't expect this to happen so quickly...It's not what I had in mind." I asked when he was leaving, and he replied "soon, I think". I asked when he'd return and he said, "I don't know. It doesn't look like I will". I nodded while fidgeting with my hands. Moments passed and I said, "I'm gonna miss you Craig". "I'll miss you, too."
The Back-Back
Jill, Diane and I sat on our knees in the area we used to call the "back-back" of our old station wagon circa the early 1980's. We spoke calmly yet quickly as we negotiated what to do as Craig lay lifeless in the middle. One of us cradled Craig's head; the other two held each hand as we desperately told him how much we loved him and would miss him. I could sense what it felt like in my dream to rub his legs and the feel of my fingers rolling over the coarse hair on his cold skin.
Slowly, warmth returned to his legs and hands; a fleshy red color filled his lips and cheeks, and blue replaced eyes of grey. "Could you hear us? Could you hear what we were saying? The stories, the I love you's?" we asked in a feverish tone desperate to know. "Yeaaaah, I could hear you. I could hear all of you and what you were saying", he said as he began bending his knees and righting himself to a propped position on his elbows. The three of us relaxed back on our heals as if collectively saying "whewww"; joy and relief replaced expressions of concern and sorrow. "We didn't know if you could or if that was annoying". "No, I liked it; it was comforting, not annoying. Thanks for being there for me".
They say hearing is the last sense to leave when one is transitioning and passing away. Yet, there is no means for confirmation. We sat gripping the hands of both Mom and Craig, buzzing their hair and telling them each moment how much they meant to us, how much we loved them, and how much we will miss their presence. When they passed, we were left clinging to the conviction that somehow our words and touch registered deep on their heartstrings and brought them some level of comfort during the dying processes. In my dream, I remember feeling a palpable sense of relief from that fleeting moment of affirmation. How I wish I could ask him, and mom, in life.
Little Sparrow
The four of us were driving in dad's old copper-toned car down a gravel country road one late afternoon in Spring. I sat in the passenger seat with my back propped against the door and legs folded on the chair. Craig drove while Diane and Jill, unbuckled in the back, hugged the driver and passenger seats. The soft setting sun bathed over the swirling green, slowly and indistinctly rolling by in the periphery. The ping of gravel on the undercarriage below kept time with our constant chatter and laughter until a song came on the radio. "Little bird, Little Sparrow...". The car continued to slow all the while. "Ohhhhh this song!!!" we exclaimed, "Although this isn't the original version." "I don't recognize this song", Craig said quietly. We began to sing to him the original version that was sung by our harpist, and needlessly made words plural in a grammatically incorrect fashion-treeses and the breezes-for fun.
His eyes narrowed; familiar "frankenviens" appeared at his temples as he held his laughter in his flared nostrils before finally letting it out. The gravel crunched below, no longer fast enough to spit up rocks on the undercarriage. The car slowed still, now to a near crawl, as he looked out the window until it came to an eventual and symbolic stop...
And these are the dreams. Some mornings, I'm left utterly disappointed by the inactivity and lack of imagination of my REM. Still, I'd rather boring dreams than the frequent sleeplessness I'm having where the intensity of life alone prevents ever drifting into that beloved dream world. Though hours in dreams are few and fleeting compared to the reality that remains, I often fall asleep eager for those stolen 8 hours in which I can laugh with them, hear their voices, and feel complete.
...until the night returns again.
~E
Friday, March 13, 2009
Beer Lao
(Written in February)
I’m sitting at restaurant along the Mekong River in Vientiane, Laos. Mariah Carey is singing something about being strong for those who’ve lost, as the sun makes its way across the river. The river looks dry for this time of year, more like a stream than the life-pulse of Southeast Asia. To see it now, one could reasonably wonder how the region will survive.
As I ponder the fate of the Mekong over a Beer Lao, I’m taken back to two years ago and another Mekong conversation. Then, Vientiane wasn’t so bustling; it was easy to see the river from the main road. I remember remarking to Craig how picturesque the view of the Mekong was as farmers waded for fish and clams just beyond the reeds. Now, bamboo restaurants, reminiscent of Krabi and Phuket, line the water’s edge, selfishly blocking the river’s beauty from passersby.
For me, Vientiane holds special meaning. Laos was the last country on our three-country tour through Southeast Asia, during which we spent time visiting parts of Vietnam and Cambodia. We crammed all three countries in 1 1/2 weeks of travel and were justifiably travel-worn when we arrived in Vientiane. Craig and I spent our first night there waxing on philosophically over Pad Thai and Beer Lao – a Lawler favorite. Debating over local food had become a standby for us. And we were both brimming with information. Craig was working on his latest article on the economic loss rule, while I had just completed my Masters in Development, with a specialty in water governance. We were both waiting for the right opportunity to offload Al Gore style, complete with lame jokes and boring transitions. I used Craig’s relative ignorance of the Mekong’s importance to my advantage, and spent the better part of our first night in Vientiane preaching to him about the possibility of a hydropolitical security complex forming amongst the Mekong riparian states, and the critical importance of regional water governance, to protect livelihoods and assets of the poorest of the poor. Yes. He obliged and allowed me my five minutes of airtime out of courtesy. On occasion, he’d chime in with his own take on the topic. Poor guy.
That night, Craig and I stopped by a local bar, Kop Chi Dur, where we listened to “Neil Diamond” and his side-kick “Patsy Cline” belt out Peter, Paul and Mary, Bob Dylan, and the like. By coincidence, the duo’s first song was a Bob Dylan tune Craig had taught me just a few days before called “Don’t think twice”. Craig and I just smiled at each other.
The next day, I had to make an Embassy run to renew my visa. Craig and I booked a flight to Luang Prabang for early afternoon, but, in typical fashion, by noon, I was still waiting for my visa. After some discussion, we agreed that Craig should go ahead with the flight, with the idea that, if I didn’t make it to the airport, I’d rebook my ticket and join him later that day. A half hour before our flight was to depart, I finally received my visa, but had to haggle with no less than three Laotian tuk-tuk drivers before landing one that would take me to the airport for a reasonable price. I arrived just in time to join Craig in the waiting hall. I can remember that moment so vividly. Craig was writing in his notebook as I slowly slung my backpack down beside him, in an exaggerated “for the love of God” expression. He seemed surprised to see me, and happy that I was there.
We arrived in Luang Prabang in time for a nice bike ride; Craig took video of us as we snaked through the hilly town. We ended the night with food and a chat at a restaurant nestled deep in the city’s bar district. Ever the risk taker, Craig drank a glass of Laotian apertishi, or moonshine. I can remember his eyes watering as the alcohol went down. Full and a little tipsy, we took a stroll along the night market, and bought a few silk items for his friends back in Denver. While walking back to our hostel, we stopped by a wake for a woman who had recently been cremated. The family had hired a local music troop to play traditional music as people passed by to pay their respects. As a matter of custom, funeral services are open events, and everyone is welcome to attend. Craig and I joined the family, and ate and drank Beer Lao with other Laotians as the music troop played traditional wooden instruments.
Craig remarked on this night during one of his story-telling sessions last September. Craig believed in living life with a heightened awareness of self, as well as awareness on how one fits within a larger framework of interaction. Music. Camaraderie. Openness to strangers. This was, to Craig, a representation of philosophy in action -- of life in its most perfect, yet simplest form. He seemed transformed by this experience, and spoke of “that one night in Luang Prabang” as if trying to relive the moment – if only briefly.
That night in Luang Prabang was also meaningful for Craig in that it provided the catalyst for him to act on his instincts and decline an offer with a major law firm, something he had been debating throughout our time in Bangkok, Vietnam, Cambodia, and then Laos. He even considered quitting law altogether to embrace the life of a development worker. We had many a conversation over grasshoppers and snails about what it would mean for Craig to take a risk and change his life course completely.
The prospect of entering the private sector on the heels of what he considered was his life’s calling – working as a clerk with the Bankruptcy court – was physically and emotionally upsetting for him. He didn’t want to get sucked back into corporate haggling, billable hours, and lopsided work-life balance. He hated litigation and all the games and tricks that went with it. However, he had already accepted the offer; it was a matter of continuing with a bad decision out of principle, or risking his reputation and going back on his word in order to do what was right for Craig. “That one night in Luang Prabang” helped Craig put his life in perspective. The next morning, he sent the firm a note informing them of his decision. Little did Craig know that this one decision adorned us with a small lesson for life of gnomic brevity: never settle in happiness; we deserve much more.
After spending a few days hiking the hills in Luang Prabang, Craig and I traveled back to Vientiane in time for a little shopping before catching our connecting flight to Bangkok. Craig often bought trinkets or souvenirs as little reminders of his time abroad. It was in Vientiane where Craig bought a red Beer Lao t-shirt a shirt he’d wear often throughout his travels, and especially in Denver. The Beer Lao shirt was a particular steal, since the store only had one left in his size. I remember the purchase vividly, and how his eyes looked as he asked earnestly if I thought the shirt was too tight. I told him it was flattering.
He loved Laos; he loved traveling; he loved the t-shirt. It seemed fitting that, in the end, his young life ended while wearing the very shirt we bought together, during one of the best periods in his life.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Notes from the Mire
After Jill's latest post, I am posting a few thoughts of my own. We are not alone in the sense of delirium. We are not alone in knowing no other recourse than to charge in every direction all at once, or the desire to leap out a window not for ending life but for ending a moment -- to safely open parachute and calmly walk away from the frequent and unpredictable grief-bursts that leave one senseless, voiceless, and directionless. I've had those as I know Diane and Jill have, and I know it is common for those who've experienced loss.
Several from the vault...
Denver in October
It's late October now, and I've been running more errands alone. It's in those moments of being alone that I get a taste of what awaits in silence when no one is there to buffer or distract. This afternoon, I walked the short distance from what will soon be Craig's old apartment to the 16th street mall-what will soon be the place I used to speed walk to for a quick bite as I gave Emily and Craig "couple time". I remember so vividly the temperature outside, the smell of the air, the concern pouring out of me. The air carries a different smell now-warm, stale and unwanted. Purposeless as if overstaying its welcome. I walked and felt purposeless. For a year, my sisters and I have dedicated every moment of our lives to Craig and Mom-seeking new treatment when tumors progressed, taking care of their every need or desire, lobbying for comfort for them when support grew weary. They're gone. Just like that. When asked of siblings, I'll now answer "I have two sisters". When asked of parents, I'll mention my dad. Mom and Craig will be part of the past tense for a lifetime ahead. Most have another 20-30 years to enjoy the company of their Mom's and even more with their brother or sibling. Why have we been robbed this love and experience so soon? I'm only 28 for crying out loud. There are at least 2 multiplications of that for knowing Craig and surely one more for Mom.
It was a soul-searching silence as I walked that short distance in a town that became my second home; I grew used to it faster than Silver Spring. To believe they actually DIED of CANCER. BOTH of them. Both. Losing either of them would bring a lifetime of sadness, but both... Some witness multiple deaths within years apart and it is earth shattering, but two deaths within 3 months? What is it called then? It doesn't make sense. Tears flooded my eyes and rolled down my face; so quickly I became that person quietly crying with her silent story, walking down a busy street. Tears like these reveal themselves as if dripping from a crack in the wall; in time the dam will break and the water will fall.
I believe it when they say this will hurt...
Silver Spring in November
I had a meeting yesterday; it was overwhelming and sad to say the least. Thoughts of them populated my mind. To say "I miss them" seems like an understatement as if they are just on a long trip and will be coming home soon. Sometimes that feeling is so palpable my heart flutters in anticipation as if I could just get through until the weekend, and then I'd see them, be with them. It's not rational; just another feeling to get used to. The "eternal" part of never seeing my mom or brother again and never hearing their voices is hard to take. Not a day passes that I don't want to call them. I think of what I'd say and imagine what their voices would sound like, what they'd say in return. Then I'm met with the letdown of never knowing.
Work is difficult at the moment. It's hard to move from an event as undoubtedly important and life-altering as watching my mom and brother slowly fade from life to finding importance in the "day to day" drivel of patient safety. Not that my job is drivel per se, it is that everything is. What could possibly matter after witnessing your mom and brother take their last breaths?
I can't concentrate very well or produce new thoughts; it's impressive how quickly I space out and lose track of all thought like cobwebs blowing in the wind. What's more remarkable is that there is little to no will power to pull it back-once a thought has passed the 10 second threshold, it's gone forever. Poof. I lose track of sentences as I speak; I can't remember the sentence I've read; I second guess everything down to the right tense in speech. I can't remember details of the week quite like I should and that is unnerving.
It's somewhat humorous if not tragic. The acronym PTSD-Post Traumatic Stress Disorder-has come up within "professional circles". Why not? We've witnessed a constant drip of tragedy and trauma, a drip that took a sense of permanency and innocence that existed just a year before. Just like that Mom and Craig were gone, and before our eyes.
At times there is a level of sheer panic and desperation, of loss and longing for the seemingly weightless and trivial times before cancer. That want can become so palpable that I can convince myself it can be so. Wait a moment, and it WILL be so.
I was reacquainting myself with the work I had left behind for 7 months. There, amidst manila folders for human factors, DMSB, analytical tools, FMEAs and the like was a folder labeled "Mom and Craig's folder". The latest notes were from my conversation with the Cleveland Clinic and validating treatment options for Craig, and discussion points with the Duke team after Mom's bout with sepsis. "The next 24 hours will be critical".... Jesus. Man alive. I felt so sad. God, I could remember that moment. How I wish I could have done more...
Being back feels like throwing confetti in the air, like a game of pick up sticks-a mess of bits and pieces to work through and make sense of. Where do you begin? Where does it end? How the hell do you fit in with confetti in your hair? I feel like the melodrama of snaking near the walls and ducking into my office would be a better fit for how it feels-exposed, vulnerable, "that girl" with "those losses". I get the sense that people don't know what to do or say. I don't blame them. I treasure the times that folks actually say just that. My response, "neither do I". We'll figure out the dance together; sure beats doing it alone. Some days I'll want to talk, others I won't. It simply comes down to being there to ask the question, "do you want to talk?", and receiving an answer. I hope people will stick around to ask the question and hear the answer...
The question of fitting in permeates social quarters, as well. Most of my peers have not experienced loss (thank god). Sadly, that means they may not relate to my circumstances. I'm already finding that to be true. The fear of fitting in-with others and the self I know to be-is profound. But, I'll take it one day at a time and things will work out.
Bringing out the crazy (December)
Well, they say that any and every emotion is true to form when you are grieving the loss of those so significant as Mom and Craig-for anyone really. Sunday-not the first Sunday, sure not to be the last-I felt utterly, certifiably crazy. Short of the catatonic body positioning, you would have thought I had an absolute psychotic break. If you ever wondered what zero gravity feels like for the body, I had achieved that in mind. Nothingness coursed through me with horrid recognition. I have been there before and could tell what was happening. I could only feel my heartbeat, not my limbs nor my mind. Nothingness. It's as hard to explain as it is to feel. I wanted to bolt out of my skin in all directions; I wanted to chomp my jaw or flick something over and over in repetition as if that would bring relief. Throw something, yell, run into the wall. But, instead, I just laid there staring at the blinds slightly swaying with the wind current that had escaped the seal of my patio door. Swish swash, swish swash. Still nothing. Eyes fixed, heart pumping-nothing. Time passed, still nothing. No thought connection. No feeling. Absolutely nothing coursed through my brain as if I had fallen into a coma on a sidewalk. It would be immensely easier if I could connect an emotion to thought, but I couldn't feel anything. I had no direct idea or memory why I was upset. Just nothing. It was too hard. Too something. A purposeful disconnect from mind and body.
A friend came over; the notion of having this friend see me like that brought me out and into something more functional, the other persona that can interact despite the challenges these losses bring. Just like that, I was out of it. Thank god.
The stick of it is, it's all normal. The sense of feeling crazy, the grief-bursts, the juxtaposition of life and self, the feeling of running away, and the donning a persona that can get you through; it's all a part of grieving, or so says the literature and resources. The unequivocal truth is that we are handling the loss of Mom and Craig exceptionally well and "well" is defined by embracing it all-the sadness, the happiness, the utter disconnect and panic, the silliness -- the everything. It isn't all roses and daises, nor is it all horseflies and cow patties. There's a mix and a balance to grieving, and we're wading through that gracefully.
So, to Jill, who can share it all and not bottle it in even in the face of appearing like a toilet paper throwing, suicidal lunatic--well done sister. I'm a fantasy window-jumping, jaw-chomping, stare at my reflection for minutes without thought, space cadet right there with you (on my off days, of course). On days, I'm a spitfire something fierce and I know you are too. This isn't easy and will not be for quite some time despite the world moving on. Yet, there ARE coping mechanisms to grappling with losing Mom and losing Craig. They may not make sense, they may not be pleasant but they sure beat drugs, not being able to function, self-destructive patterns, or permanently rocking in a corner somewhere, right?
To all those who are grieving Mom and Craig, do as you need to get through another day, and be proud of yourself for making it.
~E
Several from the vault...
Denver in October
It's late October now, and I've been running more errands alone. It's in those moments of being alone that I get a taste of what awaits in silence when no one is there to buffer or distract. This afternoon, I walked the short distance from what will soon be Craig's old apartment to the 16th street mall-what will soon be the place I used to speed walk to for a quick bite as I gave Emily and Craig "couple time". I remember so vividly the temperature outside, the smell of the air, the concern pouring out of me. The air carries a different smell now-warm, stale and unwanted. Purposeless as if overstaying its welcome. I walked and felt purposeless. For a year, my sisters and I have dedicated every moment of our lives to Craig and Mom-seeking new treatment when tumors progressed, taking care of their every need or desire, lobbying for comfort for them when support grew weary. They're gone. Just like that. When asked of siblings, I'll now answer "I have two sisters". When asked of parents, I'll mention my dad. Mom and Craig will be part of the past tense for a lifetime ahead. Most have another 20-30 years to enjoy the company of their Mom's and even more with their brother or sibling. Why have we been robbed this love and experience so soon? I'm only 28 for crying out loud. There are at least 2 multiplications of that for knowing Craig and surely one more for Mom.
It was a soul-searching silence as I walked that short distance in a town that became my second home; I grew used to it faster than Silver Spring. To believe they actually DIED of CANCER. BOTH of them. Both. Losing either of them would bring a lifetime of sadness, but both... Some witness multiple deaths within years apart and it is earth shattering, but two deaths within 3 months? What is it called then? It doesn't make sense. Tears flooded my eyes and rolled down my face; so quickly I became that person quietly crying with her silent story, walking down a busy street. Tears like these reveal themselves as if dripping from a crack in the wall; in time the dam will break and the water will fall.
I believe it when they say this will hurt...
Silver Spring in November
I had a meeting yesterday; it was overwhelming and sad to say the least. Thoughts of them populated my mind. To say "I miss them" seems like an understatement as if they are just on a long trip and will be coming home soon. Sometimes that feeling is so palpable my heart flutters in anticipation as if I could just get through until the weekend, and then I'd see them, be with them. It's not rational; just another feeling to get used to. The "eternal" part of never seeing my mom or brother again and never hearing their voices is hard to take. Not a day passes that I don't want to call them. I think of what I'd say and imagine what their voices would sound like, what they'd say in return. Then I'm met with the letdown of never knowing.
Work is difficult at the moment. It's hard to move from an event as undoubtedly important and life-altering as watching my mom and brother slowly fade from life to finding importance in the "day to day" drivel of patient safety. Not that my job is drivel per se, it is that everything is. What could possibly matter after witnessing your mom and brother take their last breaths?
I can't concentrate very well or produce new thoughts; it's impressive how quickly I space out and lose track of all thought like cobwebs blowing in the wind. What's more remarkable is that there is little to no will power to pull it back-once a thought has passed the 10 second threshold, it's gone forever. Poof. I lose track of sentences as I speak; I can't remember the sentence I've read; I second guess everything down to the right tense in speech. I can't remember details of the week quite like I should and that is unnerving.
It's somewhat humorous if not tragic. The acronym PTSD-Post Traumatic Stress Disorder-has come up within "professional circles". Why not? We've witnessed a constant drip of tragedy and trauma, a drip that took a sense of permanency and innocence that existed just a year before. Just like that Mom and Craig were gone, and before our eyes.
At times there is a level of sheer panic and desperation, of loss and longing for the seemingly weightless and trivial times before cancer. That want can become so palpable that I can convince myself it can be so. Wait a moment, and it WILL be so.
I was reacquainting myself with the work I had left behind for 7 months. There, amidst manila folders for human factors, DMSB, analytical tools, FMEAs and the like was a folder labeled "Mom and Craig's folder". The latest notes were from my conversation with the Cleveland Clinic and validating treatment options for Craig, and discussion points with the Duke team after Mom's bout with sepsis. "The next 24 hours will be critical".... Jesus. Man alive. I felt so sad. God, I could remember that moment. How I wish I could have done more...
Being back feels like throwing confetti in the air, like a game of pick up sticks-a mess of bits and pieces to work through and make sense of. Where do you begin? Where does it end? How the hell do you fit in with confetti in your hair? I feel like the melodrama of snaking near the walls and ducking into my office would be a better fit for how it feels-exposed, vulnerable, "that girl" with "those losses". I get the sense that people don't know what to do or say. I don't blame them. I treasure the times that folks actually say just that. My response, "neither do I". We'll figure out the dance together; sure beats doing it alone. Some days I'll want to talk, others I won't. It simply comes down to being there to ask the question, "do you want to talk?", and receiving an answer. I hope people will stick around to ask the question and hear the answer...
The question of fitting in permeates social quarters, as well. Most of my peers have not experienced loss (thank god). Sadly, that means they may not relate to my circumstances. I'm already finding that to be true. The fear of fitting in-with others and the self I know to be-is profound. But, I'll take it one day at a time and things will work out.
Bringing out the crazy (December)
Well, they say that any and every emotion is true to form when you are grieving the loss of those so significant as Mom and Craig-for anyone really. Sunday-not the first Sunday, sure not to be the last-I felt utterly, certifiably crazy. Short of the catatonic body positioning, you would have thought I had an absolute psychotic break. If you ever wondered what zero gravity feels like for the body, I had achieved that in mind. Nothingness coursed through me with horrid recognition. I have been there before and could tell what was happening. I could only feel my heartbeat, not my limbs nor my mind. Nothingness. It's as hard to explain as it is to feel. I wanted to bolt out of my skin in all directions; I wanted to chomp my jaw or flick something over and over in repetition as if that would bring relief. Throw something, yell, run into the wall. But, instead, I just laid there staring at the blinds slightly swaying with the wind current that had escaped the seal of my patio door. Swish swash, swish swash. Still nothing. Eyes fixed, heart pumping-nothing. Time passed, still nothing. No thought connection. No feeling. Absolutely nothing coursed through my brain as if I had fallen into a coma on a sidewalk. It would be immensely easier if I could connect an emotion to thought, but I couldn't feel anything. I had no direct idea or memory why I was upset. Just nothing. It was too hard. Too something. A purposeful disconnect from mind and body.
A friend came over; the notion of having this friend see me like that brought me out and into something more functional, the other persona that can interact despite the challenges these losses bring. Just like that, I was out of it. Thank god.
The stick of it is, it's all normal. The sense of feeling crazy, the grief-bursts, the juxtaposition of life and self, the feeling of running away, and the donning a persona that can get you through; it's all a part of grieving, or so says the literature and resources. The unequivocal truth is that we are handling the loss of Mom and Craig exceptionally well and "well" is defined by embracing it all-the sadness, the happiness, the utter disconnect and panic, the silliness -- the everything. It isn't all roses and daises, nor is it all horseflies and cow patties. There's a mix and a balance to grieving, and we're wading through that gracefully.
So, to Jill, who can share it all and not bottle it in even in the face of appearing like a toilet paper throwing, suicidal lunatic--well done sister. I'm a fantasy window-jumping, jaw-chomping, stare at my reflection for minutes without thought, space cadet right there with you (on my off days, of course). On days, I'm a spitfire something fierce and I know you are too. This isn't easy and will not be for quite some time despite the world moving on. Yet, there ARE coping mechanisms to grappling with losing Mom and losing Craig. They may not make sense, they may not be pleasant but they sure beat drugs, not being able to function, self-destructive patterns, or permanently rocking in a corner somewhere, right?
To all those who are grieving Mom and Craig, do as you need to get through another day, and be proud of yourself for making it.
~E
Friday, February 20, 2009
Kamikaze
Some days I feel like I’m going just a bit crazy. This feeling is ‘common’ or so they say in the grief literature. Still, when one is experiencing said crazy spell, it can be a tad disconcerting. Take tonight (really week) for instance. I started a new job on Monday, which for the most part looks promising. Back in the day when Craig and Mom were still around, I’d fill their ears with all the little tidbits and out-there personalities, but, as I wrap up my first Friday on the job, I find myself at home watching Music and Lyrics for the second time this week. The details, funny stories, and frustrating moments remain locked inside for them to be eventually forgotten, or fodder for angry moments in the days to come. (Fodder would look something like this: I have a running one liner prepared for when someone asks me how I’m doing. “Uh, not well, and I’ll tell you why: it’s because my Mom and brother are dead.” Harsh, but it gets the point across. (On most days, I think the whole Mom and brother gone thing is completely lost on people, but that’s another rant altogether.)
Suffice it to say that dealing with simultaneous losses alone leaves much to be desired. On most nights, I cry myself to sleep, which takes awhile since I haven’t been sleeping. On others, I find myself blankly staring at the mirror. I can hold a stare for minutes without a single thought passing. Amazing. Then there are the moments when I want to scream, run away, toss myself off a building, or throw something -- anything. Tonight, I succombed to the urge and resorted to throwing a used cardboard toilet roll, which I thought was a nice, harmless compromise. Thankfully, the crazy tantrums tend to be confined to the bathroom where there’s a mirror. Maybe I secretly need the company, but it’s nice to at least see someone -- even if it’s me.
At least I was laugh-crying when the moment occurred. I’ve been feeling, well, frustrated for the past days. Being here in Bangkok alone, and twelve hours away from my usual sounding boards, leaves a nice garbage pile of moments for the mind to wander. For the most part, I do a fair job keeping it all in, but then there are those wacko moments when I need immediate release of the thoughts, waking dreams, and profound sadness that seem to follow me each day. I’m sure people experiencing loss can relate. It’s hard to explain, but I feel at once angry, sad, content, and scattered. It’s as close to schizophrenic as I can imagine, and the associated feelings are just as troublesome.
Going to the gym helps. I haven’t been this fit since our Stillwater swim team won the State Championship. But there are only so many hours one can spend hitting the weights and treadmill before sustaining a serious injury. And if that were to occur, I’d be out my only escape. So, used toilet paper rolls it is. What a relief it is to throw something two feet…towards a mirror...and at myself. It’s strange and a tad simple, but incredibly effective all the same, especially when the alternative is more hours in the gym. Plus, it made me laugh.
Aw, the little things … -- J
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Roses in the morning
Valentine’s Day. For many, this is the day to reestablish old commitments; celebrate romance and companionship; and dust off last year’s lingerie. For the unattached, Valentine’s Day is a day to brazenly call in a reservation for one at a swanky restaurant, and/or hoover vast amounts of chocolate at fairly quick intervals. For the Lawlers, V-day has come to mean something different altogether. Today is significant in that it marks another day of firsts: the first Valentine’s Day without Mom and Craig. After spending a memorable Valentine's Day together just one year ago, two people -- Emily and Dad -- are missing their partners. For Dad, in particular, today marks his first Valentine's Day in 36 years without Mom. So though it may be a romantic day for the rest of the world, for me, today is an opportunity to recall memories of a less romantic sort -- of Mom’s secret valentines, and Craig’s creative lyrics. Today is a somewhat solemn affair, especially as it signifies a period of time just before our life turned hard.
As I celebrate Valentine’s Day here in Bangkok, my mind wanders between two poles of sadness and comfort, heavy reflection and fragile hope. In these times, I find myself overwhelmed by memories of the past. Indeed, last year’s Valentine’s Day stands out vividly for me. Just like she had all the years before, Mom – my constant Valentine -- sent me red roses with a simple wish: to have a happy Valentine’s Day. And I did, for the most part. I took myself out for a bowl of spaghetti at a local cafeteria. I remember laughing as I texted Mom the details of my so-so romantic night.
The next morning, I awoke with a heavy heart, with the knowledge that, as I prepared for work, Mom and Dad were celebrating their last Valentine’s Day together. Though Mom was responding well to treatment, she was beginning to decline, and we knew the prospects of her surviving another year were slim. Trying to make the most of it, they booked themselves a room at one of Stillwater’s better hotels, and celebrated the evening with dinner, a movie, and a rousing game of scrabble like they had so many years before (scrabble was a new activity last year). They focused on the moment, and though the 'date' was simple in display, it signified much more, as if they were first-time lovers dating all over again, with similar anxieties over the future and the wish for the moment to never end. For them, the evening signified a recommitment of love between two friends, whose 36 year journey together would soon end. This was their special night.
Miles away, Craig was preparing for his own special night by cutting hearts out of construction paper, and brushing up on his vocals for his first one-on-one concert with Emily. Craig had prepared an original anti-V-Day song for her, along with a hand-crafted card. Craig always poured himself into his special projects, and knowing that Emily wasn't much into the commercial side of Valentine's Day, he crafted a song criticizing the banality of the holiday. The song and card combination most likely took the better part of the week to finish.
Craig and Mom were fortunate in that they were still relatively healthy and could participate in all the wonders of Valentine's Day. Had the holiday been one month later, Craig, at the very least, would have been too sick to participate. This time last year, we were still crawling slowly to the top of our rollercoaster, with only the tracks as our guide. By March, the rest of the ride would come into focus, revealing the complicated and twisted tracks of metal waiting to be tested. We are approaching the period of time when things turned hard and unbelievable.
Valentine's Day signifies more than last dates; it also represents the last week before Craig and Mom's health declined. In fact, a few days after V-day, Craig flew to Oklahoma to join Erin, Diane and the family for President’s Day. It was in Oklahoma where his symptoms worsened, beginning with cold flashes and general nausea. Soon after, he began experiencing the intractable vomiting that would characterize his seven month battle with cancer. Mom also began declining during this period, and experienced her first major fall, hitting her head against the wall after stumbling on a carpeted ramp. Soon after that, she started using a walker for balance.
It’s hard to believe that the projections of last year came true, and left alone are two partners – Dad and Emily – and five broken hearts, waiting for one more day together. I miss my constant Valentine. I miss hearing Mom's voice on the end of the phone, asking if I received the flowers. I miss listening to Craig giggle as he talks about his latest creation. Though the anniversarieis are difficult, I draw on the memories for comfort.
Flowers are poor consolation for all the loss. Still, Erin, Diane and I sent Dad and Emily flowers. And, as if guided by Mom, Dad has taken the helm as cupid. This morning I awoke to a bouquet of red roses with a simple note:
“Happy Valentine’s Day. Thinking of you, with lots of love. Dad.”
-- J
Happy Valentines Day Mom and Craig
...we love you and miss you terribly.
To all that loved Craig and our Mom, hope you do something special for yourself in commemoration and share it on this blog.
Here's to Mom and Craig...
~E
To all that loved Craig and our Mom, hope you do something special for yourself in commemoration and share it on this blog.
Here's to Mom and Craig...
~E
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
The Beer Burper and the Bee Bop Buster
I must have "come harass me" tattooed on my forehead. It seems I've had the run of the luck these days with random seedy gentleman making me pay for being out at night.
New Year's Eve
To many, New Year's Eve was a moment of rebirth, renewal, resolution to make the next year better than the year before. To me, it was merely a transition in name alone--the same sense of loss was sure to greet me in 2009, and the journey will continue long after 2009 is put to rest. Moving through grief has no real "new year's resolution"; cliché themes of new gym memberships, self-improvement projects, and saying no to chocolate have little influence on processing the pain of losing a loved one. You can no more "resolve" to be happy as you can easily "forget" all that defines 2008. It was a hellish year and will go down as the worst year of my life. But, our "year" is not yet over. By New Years, it had only been 6 months since our mom's passing and 3 months for Craig's; we had not yet met hell's horizon.
"Turning of a new leaf" is now a simple, everyday ambition restated in the familiar phrase "take one day at a time". Things have taken a new meaning--focus on today, find small wins, make each day count. These simple goals for getting through were as important and present on December 31st as they were on January 1st or today, February 11th. To embrace New Year's as something more than that with grand statements and lofty goals seemed artificial and something more for those whose largest concern is a tightening waist band.
I wasn't sulking; I just related differently to the significance and wanted to be alone with the memories of Mom and Craig. Despite feeling a bit solemn and/or annoyed at the merrymakers and their kazoos, I fancied up and took myself out to dinner only to find that Thai food was the only thing available in 'bustling' Silver Spring. This CRACKED me up and was the shot in the arm I needed. I left around 9:45 and began my short walk home, bee-bopping and smiling all the while. Until....
As I walked across one side of the street onto the sidewalk, I noticed a man approaching quickly from the other direction. I took notice of his speed and put in place certain self-defense measures I learned back in the day. (secret knowledge). It was a dark sidewalk without many options to transition paths, etc, so I kept walking. The next time I glanced back (which was within moments of first noticing him), he was right behind me within two feet of me on my left side--close enough to pull my ponytail--and moved to my right when I noticed him. I quickly pivoted to my right and squared my shoulders, when another gentleman approached from the metro station causing the guy to move away. He scurried off to the side and eventually up the stairs after watching me. It's anyone's guess what, if anything, he had in mind. I could have simply been in his way when he wanted to zigzag across the sidewalk and up the stairs. Who knows...
Last Week
I went across the street to purchase a few items from the local Rite Aid. Being observant and keeping "situational awareness" is part of my field--helps aid the ever annoying "that's a design issue" statements. As I passed through my apartment lobby, I noticed a man sitting in one of our lobby chairs drinking a beer. As I left, I saw in the reflection of the window that he was watching me.
Fast forward a bit and I'm standing in an aisle at the Rite Aid when I heard what sounded like a burp and someone bumping into a stand of chips. I turned to the noise, as anyone would. (It's a hardwired defense mechanism for seemingly all living beings from deer to people. One turns toward a signal whether noise or light, assesses it, processes it, and determines an action; that process happens in milliseconds/seconds most of the time. Usually we aren't even aware because USUALLY the noise isn't a threat and no action is required.) Until...
I turned to the noise and noticed the same man now walking towards me. Perhaps it was only coincidental he was now in the same isle of the same store, or maybe he followed me. Who knows. I turned back to what I was doing and he began yelling at me, "What are you looking at"? Technically I was now looking at a card, so that's how I responded. Clearly drunk, he positioned as if engaging for a regular brouhaha. Now a bit annoyed, I answered his second question a bit more pointedly, "Sir, I'm not looking at you. I'm trying to read a card." As he left, I thought, crap now I need a strategy in the event he's still outside. As I left, I noticed him take off from a nearby bus station, towards my apartment complex, but then crossed the street.
Both occasions are fairly benign and forgettable moments, but I immediately thought of calling Craig for reassurance and a quick laugh. We would have surely made fun of the Beer Burper and the Bee Bop Buster, and perhaps he would have used that as material in a future story or song. It was JUST the type of tale in which he would have said, "Well. Be careful.", but would have relayed to his friends...
~E
New Year's Eve
To many, New Year's Eve was a moment of rebirth, renewal, resolution to make the next year better than the year before. To me, it was merely a transition in name alone--the same sense of loss was sure to greet me in 2009, and the journey will continue long after 2009 is put to rest. Moving through grief has no real "new year's resolution"; cliché themes of new gym memberships, self-improvement projects, and saying no to chocolate have little influence on processing the pain of losing a loved one. You can no more "resolve" to be happy as you can easily "forget" all that defines 2008. It was a hellish year and will go down as the worst year of my life. But, our "year" is not yet over. By New Years, it had only been 6 months since our mom's passing and 3 months for Craig's; we had not yet met hell's horizon.
"Turning of a new leaf" is now a simple, everyday ambition restated in the familiar phrase "take one day at a time". Things have taken a new meaning--focus on today, find small wins, make each day count. These simple goals for getting through were as important and present on December 31st as they were on January 1st or today, February 11th. To embrace New Year's as something more than that with grand statements and lofty goals seemed artificial and something more for those whose largest concern is a tightening waist band.
I wasn't sulking; I just related differently to the significance and wanted to be alone with the memories of Mom and Craig. Despite feeling a bit solemn and/or annoyed at the merrymakers and their kazoos, I fancied up and took myself out to dinner only to find that Thai food was the only thing available in 'bustling' Silver Spring. This CRACKED me up and was the shot in the arm I needed. I left around 9:45 and began my short walk home, bee-bopping and smiling all the while. Until....
As I walked across one side of the street onto the sidewalk, I noticed a man approaching quickly from the other direction. I took notice of his speed and put in place certain self-defense measures I learned back in the day. (secret knowledge). It was a dark sidewalk without many options to transition paths, etc, so I kept walking. The next time I glanced back (which was within moments of first noticing him), he was right behind me within two feet of me on my left side--close enough to pull my ponytail--and moved to my right when I noticed him. I quickly pivoted to my right and squared my shoulders, when another gentleman approached from the metro station causing the guy to move away. He scurried off to the side and eventually up the stairs after watching me. It's anyone's guess what, if anything, he had in mind. I could have simply been in his way when he wanted to zigzag across the sidewalk and up the stairs. Who knows...
Last Week
I went across the street to purchase a few items from the local Rite Aid. Being observant and keeping "situational awareness" is part of my field--helps aid the ever annoying "that's a design issue" statements. As I passed through my apartment lobby, I noticed a man sitting in one of our lobby chairs drinking a beer. As I left, I saw in the reflection of the window that he was watching me.
Fast forward a bit and I'm standing in an aisle at the Rite Aid when I heard what sounded like a burp and someone bumping into a stand of chips. I turned to the noise, as anyone would. (It's a hardwired defense mechanism for seemingly all living beings from deer to people. One turns toward a signal whether noise or light, assesses it, processes it, and determines an action; that process happens in milliseconds/seconds most of the time. Usually we aren't even aware because USUALLY the noise isn't a threat and no action is required.) Until...
I turned to the noise and noticed the same man now walking towards me. Perhaps it was only coincidental he was now in the same isle of the same store, or maybe he followed me. Who knows. I turned back to what I was doing and he began yelling at me, "What are you looking at"? Technically I was now looking at a card, so that's how I responded. Clearly drunk, he positioned as if engaging for a regular brouhaha. Now a bit annoyed, I answered his second question a bit more pointedly, "Sir, I'm not looking at you. I'm trying to read a card." As he left, I thought, crap now I need a strategy in the event he's still outside. As I left, I noticed him take off from a nearby bus station, towards my apartment complex, but then crossed the street.
Both occasions are fairly benign and forgettable moments, but I immediately thought of calling Craig for reassurance and a quick laugh. We would have surely made fun of the Beer Burper and the Bee Bop Buster, and perhaps he would have used that as material in a future story or song. It was JUST the type of tale in which he would have said, "Well. Be careful.", but would have relayed to his friends...
~E
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Managing Expectations
It’s Thursday night in Bangkok and I’m taking a quiet night for myself. I’ve been here for over a month now, and still feel a bit scattered in my skin. For almost a year, I had been building up for this return, and was nervous to come back to a life left on pause. Six weeks in, and I still feel like I'm only half here.
Being back has been bittersweet. I arrived in Bangkok on December 29th, after spending a mellow birthday and Christmas with Dad, Diane and Erin (more in another post). The walk from my apartment elevator to my door was one of the longest walks I can recall. I remember stopping as I neared my door to stare out the window towards Victory Monument, which at night, stands out like a white beacon amongst Bangkok’s skyline -- Craig was always fascinated with that view. As I stood at my door, I took a minute to consider all that had transpired since the day I turned around to lock it before leaving for the airport ten months ago. I remember being nervous that morning. My heart was already in Denver, but still, I was hesitant to leave. I knew then that if I did make it back to Bangkok, I do so without a mother and a brother. With their cancers, I was optimistic about time, but not prognosis.
I also knew that my life in Bangkok would change, and, indeed, it has. Resettling has not been easy. I arrived during a tricky time of year, when people flee to nearby beaches to spend New Year’s. Every person except one was away for the holidays, which gave me some time to decompress and rediscover a life put on pause almost a year ago. The city is the same, but the feeling is different. I don't feel as connected as I once did, and understandably so. Mom and Craig are all around me, here. I’m surrounded by memories of their visits. I remember taking Mom and Dad to the Grand Palace on her birthday, and how she felt faint during our tour. I remember our dinner atop Bangkok’s tallest restaurant and how she looked as she carefully negotiated the stairs down to our table. I remember how she cried when I hand delivered a carrot cake Nu and her mother made for her birthday.
I remember braving knee-high water with Craig on his first day here, and how we had to pole-vault over a ten foot wall just to get to my apartment. I can recall how he nodded his head and looked off to the side when he told my friends about his life in Denver. (I realize that I do the same behavior.) I remember how he was a goofy drunk when my friend Rob and I took him out for a night on the town. We had to help him walk to a taxi.
I remember how he would laugh at random signs, like the sign On Nut, and insist that I take a picture. It was so easy to make him laugh. I have a photo on my TV of a time we spent in southern Thailand when we took a boat through a tiny cave, and had to lay flat just to get through. Though I was sucking it in, only one part of my anatomy-- my stomach -- responded. At one point, my chest -- and hence, the boat -- became wedged against the roof of the cave and the rock side. Craig laughed and insisted on taking a picture of the water marks left on my T-shirt. I wake up to that photo every morning. I’m looking off to the left while Craig is smiling at the camera. Such a happy time then. The memories are hard, but without them, life would be a hollow existence.
My days here have been mixed. I spent New Year's outside on top of the 19th floor of Central World. Central World Plaza throws big Times Square-like party for New Year's with thousands crowding the street. It was nice to look down on the merry-wishers as my friend and I counted down to 2009. I held up well, for the most part, but when we hit the ten second mark, it hit me that they are really gone. I gave my friend a long hug and left for my apartment where I had one of those once in a lifetime kind of sobs that would make Hollywood smile. It was the kind of sadness that comes when you realize that forever is forever and life will never be the same.
The sad days are difficult, and I often like to spend those days alone, far from the watchful eye of others – some details simply can’t be conveyed. Thankfully, I have a patient group of friends that don’t mind the tears, which have come often. My first time back to the UN was overwhelming for what it signified. My colleagues were aware of the situation when I left in March, and knew the situation was dire. To return meant one thing: that the “situation” was over, meaning Mom and Craig had died. That was hard. They were supportive, but obviously overwhelmed by the story. A few colleagues had followed along with the blog and were aware of the details, which helped. A few of my colleagues also had experienced loss, so I felt safe sharing. Still, at the end of the day, I felt emotionally raw, as if the weight of the day was resting on my chest, waiting to explode. So at a dinner with two of my closest friends, I let it all go. It was difficult to fathom that I’d never be able to relay the ‘first day’ stories to Mom, or gripe about inter-office dynamics to Craig, that the little successes and failures of life will be shared with others but not them.
I find that it’s the little things that creep up. Thankfully, life is getting a bit easier, and I’m taking the steps to help make it so. Taking a cue from Craig, I’ve decided to slow time down, act on what I said I’m going to do, and tune in to the inner sounds of life. I’m now taking classical guitar; I’ve begun yoga and Pilates classes; and I’m trying to remind myself to laugh at least a little each day. As for work, I’ll be here for the next four months, and then, as Mom would say, we’ll see. My original intention was to stay a few weeks to pack my apartment and say goodbye to friends, but I’ve revised my plan in order to pursue a short-term contract with UNICEF, which will last until June.
In the meantime, I’m taking life one day at a time. There are a few things I’ve discovered since arriving here: acting on the ‘To Dos’ is much more satisfying than writing them; talking helps; and music can help a body overcome even the hardest of situations. After living the last year bouncing from borrowed shelter to borrowed shelter, it’s nice to finally feel at home, regardless of the awkward fit. Staying a few more months buys me time to let go of my life here, but not the memories; those I'll take with me. -- J
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Portal
Despite its constancy, time has an almost bipolar way of slowing down to a point of restless panic and speeding up leaving little time for reflection. There is so much to say, so many moments left undefined, yet not nearly enough time or mental space in which to properly address them. Instead of journal pages, repurposed half sheets of paper, old mail envelopes, napkins, and receipts serve as placeholders for later reflection. The memories they hold lie about my apartment like a blinking cursor on a page, waiting for the next sentence.
Friday night, I rummaged through a manila folder I had with me when taking care of Mom and Craig. In between old work notes, bill statements and unread articles, I found written on a small white sticky note Mom's top 5 travel destinations...in her handwriting. Something so small and seemingly trivial at any other time in life was my instant portal back to Mom.
I remember watching her as she'd write. It was almost as if she started the letter in the air before placing "pen to paper" (one of her catch phrases-"let's put pen and paper to it"). Her handwriting was always embelished with curves, precise, and always the same. In 6th grade, I made the regrettable mistake of having her write down answers to an interview I conducted with her simply because I couldn't keep up with her spoken word. When I presented in front of the class, I couldn't make out one loopy-loo from the other. I don't remember the topic but I do recall the teacher's advice-"next time you might consider writing it in your own handwriting. It'd be a whole lot easier for you" (eyes widen in the universal sign of having witnessed a train wreck). (For those concerned, I still got an A.)
Tears welled in my eyes as I studied the curves of each letter; the alignment of her writing as if she had used a legal pad to form lines; the use of numbers as she jotted down her top five: 1. England, 2. Sweden, 3. Ireland, 4. France, 5. Austria.
A small white sticky note captured a tenuous time between determination and desperation, between tumor remission and recognizing that time was running out. I remembered rallying Craig, Jill and Diane to help Mom make the most of the time that remained, fulfill as many life goals she could under the all too short "sentence" her cancer had given her. Even if these goals were unachievable in the end, it gave her hope that they could be.
I asked each person to list the top 3-5 places Mom had never been but might like to visit. One night, Diane had Mom write hers down. I flew in not long after and remember smiling when I noticed our ideas had influenced Mom's list. We had a listener among us, apparently.
We never made it to those dream destinations. Tumor growth, chemo schedules, steroid complications, fatigue and motor instability were hurdles we could not overcome despite our best intentions. Yet, in late March, when using a walker was no longer a choice but a safety necessity, Depends had replaced underwear, and leaning far to the left was a way of life, she boarded a plane to a dream destination not on her list but etched in her heart. She journeyed back home to Michigan for a final farewell. It was the last time she would see her family.
I joined Mom and Dad as their "escort". Nestled among the white sticky note and my other documents are the memories from that trip scribbled on hotel paper and stolen napkins.
I'm grateful I wrote down my half-baked thoughts before they escaped me, and captured the details of being with Mom and Craig as I witnessed them. Many memories/notes/thoughts I have already written about; others lay waiting like a cursor on a page. Yet, all are my portals back to Mom and Craig.
~E
Friday night, I rummaged through a manila folder I had with me when taking care of Mom and Craig. In between old work notes, bill statements and unread articles, I found written on a small white sticky note Mom's top 5 travel destinations...in her handwriting. Something so small and seemingly trivial at any other time in life was my instant portal back to Mom.
I remember watching her as she'd write. It was almost as if she started the letter in the air before placing "pen to paper" (one of her catch phrases-"let's put pen and paper to it"). Her handwriting was always embelished with curves, precise, and always the same. In 6th grade, I made the regrettable mistake of having her write down answers to an interview I conducted with her simply because I couldn't keep up with her spoken word. When I presented in front of the class, I couldn't make out one loopy-loo from the other. I don't remember the topic but I do recall the teacher's advice-"next time you might consider writing it in your own handwriting. It'd be a whole lot easier for you" (eyes widen in the universal sign of having witnessed a train wreck). (For those concerned, I still got an A.)
Tears welled in my eyes as I studied the curves of each letter; the alignment of her writing as if she had used a legal pad to form lines; the use of numbers as she jotted down her top five: 1. England, 2. Sweden, 3. Ireland, 4. France, 5. Austria.
A small white sticky note captured a tenuous time between determination and desperation, between tumor remission and recognizing that time was running out. I remembered rallying Craig, Jill and Diane to help Mom make the most of the time that remained, fulfill as many life goals she could under the all too short "sentence" her cancer had given her. Even if these goals were unachievable in the end, it gave her hope that they could be.
I asked each person to list the top 3-5 places Mom had never been but might like to visit. One night, Diane had Mom write hers down. I flew in not long after and remember smiling when I noticed our ideas had influenced Mom's list. We had a listener among us, apparently.
We never made it to those dream destinations. Tumor growth, chemo schedules, steroid complications, fatigue and motor instability were hurdles we could not overcome despite our best intentions. Yet, in late March, when using a walker was no longer a choice but a safety necessity, Depends had replaced underwear, and leaning far to the left was a way of life, she boarded a plane to a dream destination not on her list but etched in her heart. She journeyed back home to Michigan for a final farewell. It was the last time she would see her family.
I joined Mom and Dad as their "escort". Nestled among the white sticky note and my other documents are the memories from that trip scribbled on hotel paper and stolen napkins.
I'm grateful I wrote down my half-baked thoughts before they escaped me, and captured the details of being with Mom and Craig as I witnessed them. Many memories/notes/thoughts I have already written about; others lay waiting like a cursor on a page. Yet, all are my portals back to Mom and Craig.
~E
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
"Syke" Visit
Yesterday, our Dad had his second and final procedure to extract a clingy gall stone. ...oooor did he???
The jokes keep coming folks and this time it came in the discovery that--oh wait--there's no stone. It was a true "syke visit" in the world of fake "hi-5s" and slicking back hair. (Until we're supplied with material other than medical visits, puns are what I have to work with. Sure we could all use a real psych visit after this.)
Diane and Dad braved the REAL winter weather (that's right DC...real) to make it to his early morning appointment. As with everything, the great Houdini act came after a new prep, anesthesia and jamming a tube down his throat. They discovered that--wonder of all wonders--the stone was missing! He apparently had passed it by his lonesome likely accounting for the bout of nausea/vomiting he experienced the day before.
So, just so we're clear, the procedure that was to be a quickie turned out to be a 6 hour doozy. The second procedure that had threats of becoming more extensive was absolutely unnecessary. Fantastic.
As if we needed another reminder, Dad's experience confirms yet again that we will have to wait until the ink is absolutely smudge proof on any marriage licenses before embarking in full "family health" disclosure.
~E
The jokes keep coming folks and this time it came in the discovery that--oh wait--there's no stone. It was a true "syke visit" in the world of fake "hi-5s" and slicking back hair. (Until we're supplied with material other than medical visits, puns are what I have to work with. Sure we could all use a real psych visit after this.)
Diane and Dad braved the REAL winter weather (that's right DC...real) to make it to his early morning appointment. As with everything, the great Houdini act came after a new prep, anesthesia and jamming a tube down his throat. They discovered that--wonder of all wonders--the stone was missing! He apparently had passed it by his lonesome likely accounting for the bout of nausea/vomiting he experienced the day before.
So, just so we're clear, the procedure that was to be a quickie turned out to be a 6 hour doozy. The second procedure that had threats of becoming more extensive was absolutely unnecessary. Fantastic.
As if we needed another reminder, Dad's experience confirms yet again that we will have to wait until the ink is absolutely smudge proof on any marriage licenses before embarking in full "family health" disclosure.
~E
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Back home
Dad left the hospital today, after spending the past few days holed up at Stillwater Medical Center. He vomited twice once home, but otherwise seems to be hanging in there. Diane is home taking care of him. He'll head back to the hospital Tuesday for another go around with the surgical equipment. Let's hope this time, everything goes as planned. -- J
Don't make me do it ...
Dad shares something in common with Craig and that is an overly cautious fear of pushing ‘the button.’ Dad’s been on a morphine pump since coming out of surgery, and though he’s allowed to push ‘the button’ every fifteen minutes, he does so with trepidation as if somewhere beyond the sturdy walls of Stillwater Medical Center awaits a trembling Bugs and a truck load of TNT. Craig was the same way. Though he had free reign to hit the morphine pump for an extra bolus, he’d wait until the last possible moment -- when the pain was at its peak -- and would push it only after he had sufficiently broadcasted his intention to everyone who’d listen. When he did hit the button, he held on as if pressing it for longer than five seconds would somehow seal the deal.
Word from Stillwater is that Dad is also detonating his morphine -- Craig and Dad were always the most similar. Like Craig, Dad tends to alert Diane before pulling the trigger. “Okay, I’m going to do it, I’m going to hit the button, should I hit the button, I’m going to hit the button.” Cablamy. Explosions. Chaos. As Diane says, you’d think he was bombing Russia. If only Mom were here, she’d grab it from his hands and do it herself. ;)
Aw, the parallels. It’s comforting to know that knowledge wasn’t the only thing Dad passed down to Craig. They both have a healthy fear of narcotics -- or buttons. -- J
Saturday Night Fever
We received good news yesterday that Dad's low heart rate was likely an anomaly or error in interpretation. But, for every to there is a fro. Whether from the pain, his increasingly distended belly, or from bowels that are finally waking up, he vomited early in the day and ran a fever that spiked at 100. By nightfall, it had dropped to 99. The doctors are now concerned that the stowaway stone is "making him more sick" (to use completely generic terms). They'll monitor these new symptoms; if they worsen, they may have to expedite surgery plans for fear of conditions turning septic. By all accounts, he'll stay in the hospital until Tuesday when he'll have his second procedure to remove the stone. They hope to go through his mouth, inflate the duct and pluck the stone. If this fails, he'll have to endure yet another surgery.
Despite these new symptoms, he was able to walk without his walker for a brief time yesterday, so he's making progress. It's a shame he'll be swept back under come Tuesday. It reminds me of swimming and being aaaaalmost dry when we'd have to turn around and swim another event in freezing water. Clearly swimming and surgery are of equal weight. ;)
~E
Despite these new symptoms, he was able to walk without his walker for a brief time yesterday, so he's making progress. It's a shame he'll be swept back under come Tuesday. It reminds me of swimming and being aaaaalmost dry when we'd have to turn around and swim another event in freezing water. Clearly swimming and surgery are of equal weight. ;)
~E
5th Dimension
There's an all too rare event in life that is as prized and time-sensitive as spotting an exotic animal in their natural habitat or seeing a celebrity out of context. Such an event can be as memorable as watching Barack Obama be sworn in or as lackluster as seeing Sarah Jessica Parker smell her hair in Adam's Morgan. (Yep!). Many of us have been both the eager audience with popcorn in hand awaiting the anticipated event only to become lead actor in the show at a later date. The show, in this case, usually occurs just after undergoing anesthesia or taking some other sleep-inducing agent.
It's hit or miss what might happen post-anesthesia and if you wait too long, it's likely you'll miss the antics altogether. I may still hold the crowning title for theatrics in my family after having my wisdom teeth removed. After nearly biting a nurse's leg, Jill took me home and used the childproof lock to keep me in the car as she made a round for whatever liquids I could drink at a local convenience store. As she was at the checkout counter, I somehow broke free, shuffled up the ramp and into the store. With blood slightly falling from my lips, I cracked a broad grin and, in a sing-song voice, declared to the store, "I got ouuuut". Yes, clearly.
Once home, I broke into more than a few rounds of the 5th Dimension's "Aquarius"--in slow mo. Of course, Dad and Craig were my captive audience for this slowed down version of reality. Apparently, all I needed was a pole to complete the show. It wasn't long before I was vomiting in the family's familiar orange spit up bucket, while everyone else helped move my sisters and I into our first "college" home.
Jill and Craig were resident duds when they had their respective surgeries years later--Jill, appendix; Craig, kidney. Jill essentially dealt with her near-ruptured appendicitis issue on her own until I flew in late on the night of her surgery. Any silly business had long worn off. Craig suffered extreme nausea and dizziness after his nephrectomy, so much that we stayed in the family waiting area and kept our patient room visits to short 15 minute intervals. Any movement and noise triggered his nausea; the fact that he shared a room with Mr. Noisy van Can't-hear-a-thing and his blaring TV didn't help his condition.
I found a kindred spirit in Mom after her brain surgery when she'd break into the 5th Dimension's "Up, Up and Away in my beautiful, my beautiful ballooooon" or "There's a hole in the bucket, in the bucket, in the bucket..." in reference to removing her brain tumor. (It's quite uncanny we both sang Fifth Dimension songs, particularly since I'm not a big fan. Apparently, the apple did not fall far from the tree.) But, all too quickly, the anesthesia wore off, the electrolytes fell further off balance and the swelling increased; before long, Mom couldn't recognize us let alone sing a song from the '60s.
Fast forward a year and a half and we're here in Dad's "5th Dimension". For the first time in our lifetimes, we find Dad hopped up on something other than a sugar high (or crash, as it were). I called Dad a few hours after his surgery when he was able to talk. Instead of singing or, our favorite, vomiting, he simply spoke--a mile a minute! Stream of consciousness takes on a new meaning at 100mph. How he was able to stream along sentences so quickly or coherently after what resulted in a major surgery complete with intubation was beyond me. He even paused momentarily to comment on his scratchy throat, but not in an effort to take his leave, drink water, or suggest we hang up. He was merely making an observation similar to "Hey, look! A bird", and then resumed talking about his concerns. A "stress of consciousness", if you will.
Dad is teaching a course this semester and was convinced his students have been robbed of a superior education due to this gall bladder setback. God bless him for believing it's that deep, and that student's these days give a damn. I tenderly reminded him that he'd only miss a week or two of classes and most students don't care as long as they are given the information that might appear on a test. He has competent colleagues who can pinch hit for awhile as he recovers from this freak surgery. Yet, Dad's a perfectionist and has perfected the art of ruminating even when hopped up on drugs.
As much as it made me laugh to listen to him, I sensed a vulnerability that I wished so badly I could help, or at the least be there with him to keep him company. Seeing and hearing Dad sick makes it ever apparent how small our family has become-down to a dad and his daughters. We were fiercely protective as a unit of six. Now, that fierceness holds a hint of desperation.
~E
It's hit or miss what might happen post-anesthesia and if you wait too long, it's likely you'll miss the antics altogether. I may still hold the crowning title for theatrics in my family after having my wisdom teeth removed. After nearly biting a nurse's leg, Jill took me home and used the childproof lock to keep me in the car as she made a round for whatever liquids I could drink at a local convenience store. As she was at the checkout counter, I somehow broke free, shuffled up the ramp and into the store. With blood slightly falling from my lips, I cracked a broad grin and, in a sing-song voice, declared to the store, "I got ouuuut". Yes, clearly.
Once home, I broke into more than a few rounds of the 5th Dimension's "Aquarius"--in slow mo. Of course, Dad and Craig were my captive audience for this slowed down version of reality. Apparently, all I needed was a pole to complete the show. It wasn't long before I was vomiting in the family's familiar orange spit up bucket, while everyone else helped move my sisters and I into our first "college" home.
Jill and Craig were resident duds when they had their respective surgeries years later--Jill, appendix; Craig, kidney. Jill essentially dealt with her near-ruptured appendicitis issue on her own until I flew in late on the night of her surgery. Any silly business had long worn off. Craig suffered extreme nausea and dizziness after his nephrectomy, so much that we stayed in the family waiting area and kept our patient room visits to short 15 minute intervals. Any movement and noise triggered his nausea; the fact that he shared a room with Mr. Noisy van Can't-hear-a-thing and his blaring TV didn't help his condition.
I found a kindred spirit in Mom after her brain surgery when she'd break into the 5th Dimension's "Up, Up and Away in my beautiful, my beautiful ballooooon" or "There's a hole in the bucket, in the bucket, in the bucket..." in reference to removing her brain tumor. (It's quite uncanny we both sang Fifth Dimension songs, particularly since I'm not a big fan. Apparently, the apple did not fall far from the tree.) But, all too quickly, the anesthesia wore off, the electrolytes fell further off balance and the swelling increased; before long, Mom couldn't recognize us let alone sing a song from the '60s.
Fast forward a year and a half and we're here in Dad's "5th Dimension". For the first time in our lifetimes, we find Dad hopped up on something other than a sugar high (or crash, as it were). I called Dad a few hours after his surgery when he was able to talk. Instead of singing or, our favorite, vomiting, he simply spoke--a mile a minute! Stream of consciousness takes on a new meaning at 100mph. How he was able to stream along sentences so quickly or coherently after what resulted in a major surgery complete with intubation was beyond me. He even paused momentarily to comment on his scratchy throat, but not in an effort to take his leave, drink water, or suggest we hang up. He was merely making an observation similar to "Hey, look! A bird", and then resumed talking about his concerns. A "stress of consciousness", if you will.
Dad is teaching a course this semester and was convinced his students have been robbed of a superior education due to this gall bladder setback. God bless him for believing it's that deep, and that student's these days give a damn. I tenderly reminded him that he'd only miss a week or two of classes and most students don't care as long as they are given the information that might appear on a test. He has competent colleagues who can pinch hit for awhile as he recovers from this freak surgery. Yet, Dad's a perfectionist and has perfected the art of ruminating even when hopped up on drugs.
As much as it made me laugh to listen to him, I sensed a vulnerability that I wished so badly I could help, or at the least be there with him to keep him company. Seeing and hearing Dad sick makes it ever apparent how small our family has become-down to a dad and his daughters. We were fiercely protective as a unit of six. Now, that fierceness holds a hint of desperation.
~E
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