Category Archives: Grief

Memories

15 Monday Oct 2018

Posted by in Bartleby, Grief, Personal, Randomness

≈ 7 Comments

After several days inside my brother’s house, I moved back out to the van last night. My cozy tiny house is feeling very tiny this morning. And it’s astonishing how quickly I started taking hot water for granted. I began to wash my cutting board this morning without thinking and then remembered, right, the water pump is not on, so no water. And I could turn the water pump on with the push of a button, but the water wouldn’t be hot, because I didn’t turn the water heater on. Ah, yes, life in a van.

But I’m happy to be back in my van, even if it is feeling more than cozy (read: cramped and inconvenient), because it is also feeling homey and peaceful.

I read some sad news on Facebook, that bastion of unwelcome tidings, a few days ago. Honestly, I’ve started to dread looking at FB — it feels like a magnet for misery, at least in my feed. My immediate response was to pick up my phone and make a call, but my secondary response has been to spend a lot of time browsing my own history. Photographs and journals and blog posts, some lovely reminders of times past.

flowers growing from concrete

Flowers in Arcata

It made me resolved to take more pictures of human beings, though. I have lots of sunrises, lots of flowers, lots of scenery, and lots and lots of dog pictures.

My dogs looking cute together.

But not very many people pictures.

I don’t think I need them, exactly — I have the memories and sometimes I have the stories. This one is one of my favorites, but I do wish I’d written out the “But you have to wear a mask” part, because the memory makes me smile, but the details are lost. That’s okay, though, I still have the smile.

I dreamed last week that Bartleby’s new owner needed to give B back to me, because his circumstances had changed and he couldn’t take care of B anymore. He passed him over to me and B was matted and skinny, really skinny, and I felt horrible because obviously somehow I’d given B to people who neglected him. But then I was so happy to have him back! He snuggled into my arms and I promised him an immediate bath with a long blow-dry afterwards (he loved the blow-dryer) and plenty of food.

Then I woke up.

In a way it was a great dream, but it ruined my day. I told Suzanne during our phone call that death felt like that to me, in general, like every day you have to keep waking up into a reality that’s just not the one you wanted to wake up in. And there’s no way to make the universe take you back to the reality you had yesterday.

But that’s the nature of time, anyway. One of the stories that I remembered this weekend — no record of it except my own memory — was when Suzanne and Greg and R and I went out to Chinese food in Oakland when R was about two, maybe three. Greg walked with R, pointing out various things in the windows, and… well, conversing with him. Lots of adults aren’t really capable of having conversations with a toddler. They talk at the toddler, but they’re not about the listening so much. Greg listened to R, answered his questions, had a real discussion with him, and then told me my kid was amazing. Toddler R was amazing, and even though I am lucky enough to have Adult R in my life, I do sometimes miss Toddler R. But Greg was amazing, too, and I’m going to miss him.

Goodbye, senormoment. I wish you’d had the time to organize those photos.

The first day…

05 Monday Mar 2018

Posted by in Depression, Grief, Personal

≈ 6 Comments

I’ve been joking with two different friends about every day being New Year’s Day. It’s not just that all my resolutions have gone nowhere — did I even make any resolutions? — it’s that 2018 is slipping away while I feel increasingly stuck, grinding my gears deeper and deeper into the mud.

The mud is obviously metaphoric, but I’m not even sure what it is. Depression? Maybe. Grief, sure. Lack of productivity leading to self-loathing leading to inertia leading to the dirty dishes piling up in the sink and a blue hair tie sitting in the middle of the floor day after day after day. Why don’t I just pick up the damn blue hair tie? I don’t know. It seems like too much work? It’s an interesting dash of color in the gray? It reminds me that I should brush my hair? Not that I do, I just think, “hmm, maybe I should brush my hair” and then I start browsing the internet again.

Today I picked up the blue hair tie. And I washed the dishes and put them away. And it’s a Monday and I’m going back to blogging on Monday and Thursday, regardless if I think I have anything to say, because it was good for me to have that structure in my life.

Today is the first day of the rest of my life, cliche as that statement is, and if it was the last day… well, I would want to know that I’d used it wisely. Which means not browsing the internet for hours, not reading books that I don’t care about, not playing mindless internet games, but yes, taking good walks with Zelda, yes, eating healthy food, and yes, writing some of my own words. And yes, making sure that my tiny house is comfortable and cozy and clean.

Time to get started.

sunrise through the trees at Lake Catherine, Arkansas

Sunrise through the trees, from March of 2017. It’s a metaphor, I suppose.

Bartleby

06 Tuesday Feb 2018

Posted by in Bartleby, Grief

≈ 10 Comments

I hate the euphemisms — put down, put to sleep, even euthanize. The reality was, I would have stayed forever with his warm head cuddled against my shoulder, stroking his soft fur, whispering love into his goofy ears. But he was slowly suffocating, fighting the fluid that was filling his lungs and heart, and I couldn’t bring myself to be so cruel. So I let him go. Helped him go.

When the vet was injecting him with the sedative, I was stroking him and telling him what a good dog he was and then I stopped myself and I told him the truth. “Actually, B,” I said, “You peed in places you shouldn’t, and sometimes you snapped and snarled at people, and you were very stubborn about refusing to learn any commands, even the easy ones. So I’m not sure I can say you were a good dog exactly. But you were very good at loving me.” I think that’s probably the only skill a good dog really needs.

Today is the sixth anniversary of my friend Michelle’s death. As his gasping breaths finally slowed down, I told him to find Michelle and take her to a beach. I would like to think that they are there right now, and that B’s knees don’t hurt and he doesn’t get tired after three minutes of running and he isn’t scared to play with toys and sticks. And if he wants to go swimming, that she has a warm towel waiting for him.

I will miss him so. I already do.

The beginning of a roll in the sand…

North Rim, Grand Canyon

24 Sunday Sep 2017

Posted by in Campground, Grace, Grief, Mom

≈ 1 Comment

Grand Canyon from a distance at sunrise

The Grand Canyon looking grand.

From before this adventure even began, the Grand Canyon was my destination. I wanted to scatter the last of my mom’s ashes here. It felt like a way of honoring her memory, of thanking her for how much she encouraged me to be adventurous and to take risks.

This morning, Zelda and I took a 1.5 mile hike from the North Rim Campground, which is set in a pine forest, to the Grand Canyon Lodge, which overlooks the canyon. I sat on a bench there, Zelda enthusiastically appreciating all the miscellany of smells (in other words, being a totally non-peaceful pain) and admired the view and remembered my mom.

R gave me a candle for Christmas two years ago that said, “Home is where my Mom is.” Then he told me he hadn’t noticed what it said before he bought it and he just liked the smell. Ha.

I reread A Gift of Ghostsyesterday. I was looking up something specific — oh, my initial description of Max. I wanted to be sure that I got it right in Grace. But I wound up re-reading the whole thing. It was odd timing, I guess, because Zane’s scene at the end, where he knows he has to let go of his mom, knows he has to say good-bye… well, maybe that’s what brought up all these feelings of mine today.

But I really didn’t expect the Grand Canyon to inspire so much emotion on my part. I pictured — well, a crowded scenic overlook. Lots of tourists. Dry, sandy air. A big hole in the ground. Instead, I got a quiet bench, total solitude, the sun rising in the east, storm clouds overhead, a deep chill in the air, a happy dog, a fantastic view, and an unexpectedly intense burst of grief.

In all of my dozens of versions of Grace, I have never managed to write the ending. I know what I think happens. The path there changes, but the ending never has. But every time I get close, I go back and start from the beginning again. I want to say that maybe that means it’s time to work on a new ending, one that doesn’t involve letting go, but every time I consider that choice, it feels wrong to me.

Letting go and moving on, those are right things. Those are good things. But I need to make room for the reality that letting go doesn’t mean not grieving. Letting go doesn’t change the pain of the loss. It just acknowledges the pain, accepts it. Maybe even embraces it. I think maybe Grace needs to cry. A lot. (Not the story, the character.) I think maybe a huge part of my Grace problem is that Grace cannot get to her happy ending without really, truly facing her grief and sorrow and loss, which was never part of my plan. Huh. Well… I guess I should be working on Grace right now.

Meanwhile, the North Rim campground — more forest than I expected, quite spacious, lots of people in appropriate winter attire, seriously cold. And my generator has decided not to work, which does not make me happy. Also I am almost out of propane. No internet, too! So today is going to include a search for propane, a scenic drive, and — given the current lack of electricity — probably not actually much more writing. Oh, well. I bought coffee at the general store, because of my own lack of propane and non-functional generator and they give free refills all day, so maybe I’ll drink lots of coffee and knit. And think more about Grace’s grief.

April 4th

04 Monday Apr 2016

Posted by in Grief, Personal

≈ 2 Comments

Today is my friend Michelle’s birthday. She would have been 49.

Six months before she died I wrote a eulogy for my mom. It took me weeks. In the end, I felt like I’d done it right.

A couple months later, I didn’t write — or even say anything — for my ex-father-in-law. I regretted that after his service. My experience of him was so different from those who spoke that I wished I had shared something about who he was to me, how supported and respected he made me feel. I made some decidedly alternative decisions about how I wanted to parent and of all the people around me, Malcolm — who mostly got described as curmudgeonly by the people who did speak! — was the most willing to change his own mind, not just allow me to be the parent I wanted to be, but to make me feel like he trusted my judgement.

So of course for Michelle I was determined to do it right. I couldn’t. I spoke — probably about three sentences. I said, I think, that she was the only person I’ve ever known who I felt saw me for exactly who I am, truly understood me, and loved me for it. That was all I could do.

And I’ve kept thinking that someday, someday, I would go back and write about her. Describe her. Who she was, how she was, what made her so special. Her creativity, her imagination, her acceptance, her grace. Write something that expressed how much I love her, how much she changed my life, how desperately I miss her. How wrong it is that the world doesn’t have her in it anymore and how even more wrong it is that so much of her life was stolen from her by her illnesses. I want to remember her wonder as we explored Europe together, her pleasure at lying in a flowery field in the sunshine in Greece, our shared amusement at the vagaries of travel, and I want to forget her despair and depression and the slow eroding of her abilities as the tumor ate her brain. And I suppose in some way I’m doing that right now, but it’s not good enough. It’s never good enough.

Someday I’ll find the words.

Today though, I’m going to stop crying and get something useful done. I’m going to write some Grace and do some laundry and keep getting ready for a garage sale (so much work!) and I’m going to appreciate the sunshine if I get a chance to, which I hope I will.

And meanwhile… Happy Birthday, Michelle.

Swimming and yoga

31 Saturday Oct 2015

Posted by in Grief, Mom, Randomness, Swimming, Yoga

≈ 2 Comments

It’s probably global warming and I should probably feel bad about the damage we’re doing to the planet and how we’re all going to die in droughts and super-storms in the next hundred years — actually I do feel bad about that — but it doesn’t prevent me from appreciating the fact that yesterday was such a lovely day that I stuck my feet in the pool. And the water was cool, but not so cold I couldn’t at least put my bathing suit on and maybe go in a little deeper. And once partway in, it was so nice to have the sun on my shoulders and so fun to have the dogs running around happily, that yeah, I really went swimming. Head under, laps back and forth, aimless floating, the whole thing. It was amazingly nice and not really cold at all. October 30th — it’s the latest I’ve gone swimming by probably at least a month. And so worth it. A couple times I’ve tried off-season swimming and it’s been a brisk dip, a refreshing chill, scurry to dry off, kind of thing, but this was not that. This was glorious appreciation of golden warmth and luxurious floating.

In the evening, I was out and — long story short, because I don’t have a lot of time — I was upset and sad, and I realized that I was wearing yoga-appropriate clothes and that 7PM yoga would start in about twenty minutes. So I went to evening yoga.

I cried. I cried so much that I had to get up and get a cloth to wipe my face because I was going to start choking on my snot. Many tears. It felt so incredibly healthy. Lisa, the yoga teacher that I personally think has a direct and two-way line to God in her head (or maybe her heart?), warned us at the beginning of class that it was Friday and sometimes the music on Friday was a little freaky, and then class started. The first song in reminded me of something from the Internet, specifically one of the “Where the Hell is Matt?” videos. I think it might have been Trip the Light, but I could be wrong about that. But I was not really listening, it was background music, and I was stretching and trying to be in the moment.

But the next song was one that slowly made me think of my mom. I didn’t recognize it at first, but it started getting more and more of my attention, until I realized that it was Judy Collins and that my mom used to play it on the piano. I probably hadn’t heard it since then. And then I heard a few more of the words and realized it was Rainbow Connection. My mom and rainbows have a profound connection to me and to have that song, playing at that moment, when I was that mood, after that week… the tears started gushing.

Stretch, stretch, more yoga, and then the song was John Mayer with “Daughters” and eventually Led Zeppelin and “Stairway to Heaven.” I swear it felt my mother wrote the playlist to tell me she was with me and that I wasn’t alone. And yes, I’m all weepy again, but it isn’t bad crying. It was music that made me feel not just less alone, but loved.

Writing yesterday — well, I broke 1K in total words, but story words was probably closer to 900 total. But it was good work and a good day, and today will be even better. Much fun stuff is happening in my story. I have a character, Sophia, who is just taking over in really unexpected ways. She was supposed to be just a crying girl, but apparently she’s quite stubborn now that she’s stopped crying.

Goal for today: words. Lots of them!

Four years

07 Friday Aug 2015

Posted by in Grief, Mom, Randomness

≈ 4 Comments

When my mom knew she was dying — early on, like maybe three days after she knew (which was probably a solid ten days before a doctor confirmed what she’d already deduced from a radiology report) — she said to my sister and me, “Your father will find someone, you be nice to her.” My sister said, “Of course.” I said, “No. Absolutely not. You don’t get to decide how I grieve and I am going to be grieving for a long, long time.”

Today is the fourth anniversary of her death and I spent it helping my stepmother unpack and move into her new kitchen. My mother would be proud of me. I know that. I can feel it. But, oh, I miss her.

She was so good at moving. I mentioned it in the eulogy I wrote for her, that was how important it was to who she was. When she moved, it was like a whirlwind of efficiency and energy, invisible 99% of the time, suddenly popped into existence to make the move painless, to turn it into a little subtle transition for her kids instead of the disruption that it really is. We’d move and a week later, it would feel like we’d lived in the new place forever. She was GOOD at moving.

I told someone recently that I’m only good at three things: editing, cooking, and writing (in that order.) And then I threw in a couple caveats about things that I might also be sort of good at. I forgot moving. I am very, very, very good at moving. Sometimes, though, moving and running are the same thing.

Today, I wish I was moving. But mostly, I think it would be running.

Yoga and dogs

27 Tuesday Jan 2015

Posted by in Grief, Mom, Personal, Pets, Randomness, Yoga

≈ 2 Comments

Yesterday was a seriously tearful day. It’s been a while since I grieved so fiercely, but for the day — ugh, and now this morning, too — I missed my mother so intensely that the tears just kept flowing. It has gotten easier — I used to have days like that all the time and this was the first one in months — but the hole doesn’t go away.

That’s not what I wanted to write about, though. In yoga last week, when the wonderful yoga instructor was giving instructions for wild thing (camatkarasana), I … followed the instructions. And did the pose. A year ago, wild thing was one of those poses that I scoffed at. Ha, ha, yeah, no way. No way was my body ever getting into that position. Not going to happen. Not in a million years. Or, you know, as it happened, one year.

Yoga, for me, has been a little about the exercise but mostly about the mindfulness, trying to be in the present, trying to breathe and let myself feel. If it had just been exercise, I wouldn’t have lasted more than a few weeks, because I’ve never really cared that much. Most exercise has seemed pointless to me. Run three miles? Why would I want to? But I was so satisfied last week, so pleased with myself. I want to remember that feeling.

Last night, both dogs were being snuggly. Zelda hates it when I cry — well, or possibly she likes it, because she is passionate about trying to thoroughly clean my face if there are tears rolling down it — but Bartleby was, if anything, worse. For Z, once the tears are stopped, it’s over. She heaves a sigh of relief, and goes back to chewing on a toy or sleeping or doing one of those doggie investigations of the backyard. But Bartleby appears to think that tears mean he should put his entire body on top of me and stay there indefinitely. He’s like a cat. Well, except that I don’t think most cats care if their people cry. But he was not going away and he was not getting off and that made Zelda worried, too. I finally wound up lying in bed with a dog on each arm, completely cuddled up next to me, their heads by my shoulders. And then they went to sleep. And both of them started to snore! Not in the same rhythm. Crackle-wheeze, crackle-wheeze, crackle-wheeze. I felt, in that moment, supremely blessed and very lucky. Also, eventually, ridiculously stiff. I finally slid them off my arms and rolled over to sleep myself, where I dreamed that Christian Kane was my personal trainer and that running felt like flying. It was a good dream.

Sushi with rice, wasabi, soy sauce (gluten-free), and white wine yesterday — four things I am not allowed to eat. I feel okay today, though. Okay enough to go stare at my file and wish I remembered how to write.

Birthdays

24 Monday Nov 2014

Posted by in Grief, Mom

≈ 2 Comments

My mom would have been 72 today.

At yoga this morning, I was swept by such an intense wave of sadness that I had to fight not to burst into sobbing tears. A few little tears leaked out, but I brushed them away and kept going. But it made me realize that the sad is only a step away, not as far gone as I’ve been thinking as I prep for Thanksgiving.

A long, long time ago, I read The 5 Love Languages. The basic concept is that everyone has a way in which they best express and receive love, a love language. The five are 1) acts of service, 2) words of affirmation, 3) physical touch, 4) gifts, and 5) quality time. My mom’s love language was one or maybe all of the first four. I don’t know that she cared about receiving gifts all that much, but she loved giving gifts. She liked our Christmas tree to be piled high. In years past, this time of year would spin her into a cycle of doing — decorating the house from top to bottom, baking cookies and breads to share with family and neighbors, shopping and buying and wrapping, and the Christmas music on from morning to night.

I know that it wouldn’t be better if she was here now. The last couple years of her life were difficult. She hated what was happening to her and hating it didn’t make it any better. But I miss her. I want time to move backwards and just give me another day, another hour. Instead, I think I will make a shopping list that includes ingredients for Christmas cookies. I shouldn’t eat them, but this year, I think I’m finally ready to remember and celebrate my mother as she would have liked.

Life after death

07 Saturday Jun 2014

Posted by in Grief

≈ 1 Comment

A former colleague of mine lost his daughter today. It was her sixth birthday.

Doesn’t that suck? The loss isn’t any bigger, of course. The day after her birthday would have been just as bad, or the day before. Or a month later or nowhere near by. And yet, we notice special days. We celebrate them. We memorialize them. I suppose, long term, for the many years to come for my colleague and his wife, it’s not worse to have both those bad days–her death and her birth–happen on the same day. One miserable day a year instead of two, nothing wrong with that.

And yet, there are so many miserable days to get through before then.

I think I’m going to spend some time tonight practicing yoga breathing. Just breathe. One breath after another. In, out, and life continues.