D'andiland

Trajectory

2008-08-09T07:57:00.000-07:00

In 2006 I posted a blog about facing my reality. Excerpt: "I know that his life has made others reflect and desire change within their own life. Is this why the young and the good die before what appears to be their time, so we who remain are forced to examine ourselves? I wonder. Rarely do I consider my trajectory when a 90-yr old with Alzheimer's passes away."

Today I face losing a dear friend, a neighbor, a woman who has treated me like a daughter for the last 11 years. We discovered that she has cancer about 5 weeks ago. I've spent the last few weeks helping with doctor visits and Internet research. Yesterday, the doctors told us that the cancer is very aggressive and that there is no treatment that can help her. Hospice begins on Monday. She has been given anywhere from a few days to a few weeks to live as her liver shuts down. She has turned yellow in just a matter of days, and looks like a shadow of the woman who has loved me like the daughter she never had. Truth is, she really treats everyone like her son or daughter. She's not an artist, except in how she loves other people.

I need this to slow down. I feel like I can't do this--can't face her loss so soon after losing Bill. But, if she were suffering through chemo, I would want it to speed up. We just don't get to choose. And compared to what she is facing, I've got it easy. I can't imagine being told my life is measured in days, and then have to watch my family grieve.

I think about her life, a long life, a painful life, sometimes a good life, a life she spent taking care of everyone else. Now we take care of her, and once again I am forced to examine the trajectory of my life. I wonder about the balance between self-sacrifice, which she has done so artfully, and taking care of one's own needs, something she never learned. It is her self-sacrifice that bleeds our love for her to the surface, overflowing. She can't possibly drink it all in. As I stand back and watch her family around her, I appreciate the beauty of love. I can almost touch it. Maybe it's the fear that makes it so touchable. The fear of the loss.

As her mean husband continues to be self-absorbed in his own problems, I feel so angry that she stayed with him. I feel sad that she spent her whole life taking care of everyone else without doing anything for herself. What a waste that she didn't live the life she wanted, that she didn't follow her dreams. Or did she? I hope to ask her in the next few days.

Jeanne McDeid, 70 years old--she is a beautiful, beautiful human being. She is my friend, and I don't know how to lose her without losing a huge part of myself.

The Farrier

2008-07-31T08:44:00.000-07:00

Her Appaloosa, 17 hands tall, stands still, like granite
Slowly, she lifts his leg and drapes it like a ribbon across her worn, leather chaps,
Her arms and hands are prepared for a fight.
Her body ready to dodge one deadly blow that never happens because he trusts her.

Carefully, she cleans and files with a watchmaker’s precision
Each movement a memory reminding her to be ready for a fight that never happens because he trusts her.

From the shadows I watch morning light fall from above, tumbling over her bandana-covered head, and then across her shoulder where long blond hair once rested.
Her chaps shine like blemished gold.
Her tools reflect their aged usefulness.

I reflect on last night, how after we argued her calloused fingers brushed away tears I shed over something more powerful than a 17-hand horse--over something neither of us can control.

It was nothing like the fights we had not so long ago,
The fights about cleaning stalls, or my room, or what time I had to be home,
The fights when someone had to win.

Now, in this morning’s light, I watch her from a safe distance with respect, wishing I had let her teach me her skill, her art—
An art passed to her from her father and her father’s father, and now, to no one.

Reluctantly, I interrupt her rhythm, “It’s time to go.” She nods.

In her usual, methodical finishing, she releases his leg
Pats his hindquarters to say, “We’re done,”
Stretches her back, accustomed to years of discomfort
Puts away her tools, just as her father kept them,
And leads the Appaloosa back into his stall.
He goes willingly because he trusts her.

One hour and two doctors later, midday sun falls from a window above us, tumbling quietly between IVs in her arms and over her shoulder where long blond hair once rested.
For three hours, her body drinks in chemo
Like coffee--
She asks me mother questions.
I ask her daughter questions.

In the afternoon,
After a rest she never used to take,
I find her mending fences
20 acres out
Alone
Where she fights something I cannot see
Where she trusts in her own strength
Where she tries not to need me.

Among these fallen fences and this afternoon light
Where I watch her mind and body fight something more complicated than tangled barbed wire
We work side-by-side in a comfortable silence
I brush away silent tears, like sweat,
And I wish that I had learned to trust her long before now
Before the calluses
And especially before the day she left her fingerprints on my face gently, a face wet with fear, and said,
“Daughter, I can beat this. Trust me.”

*A poem I wrote in 2006 after meeting a woman farrier in Colorado.

Coping or Healing?

2008-07-31T08:07:00.000-07:00

I talked online with a widow my age today. Her husband died ten years ago. She says that healing is a myth. She says that all we can do is find new strategies for coping with the loss, but she doesn’t believe there is any such thing as healing. She sounded bitter as if she had been lied to about how she would feel ten years down the road. I had to think hard about whether or not healing really exists. Am I experiencing healing or am I just coping? What is healing compared to coping? If I admit that I’ve experienced some healing, am I saying that my loss isn’t so great? Did I misunderstand all the books about grief? Are they lying to me? One of Jesus’ main purposes on earth was to heal. A significant reason for prayer and for believing in God is for healing. Is death the only thing from which we are not allowed healing? I don’t think so. I look back over the last year and nine months and know that, yes, I have experienced some level of healing so far. My sister of widowhood is wrong. I decided not to talk with her anymore because I don’t think she wants to heal. She is content with coping. I am not.

To me coping implies burden, like the burden of an amputated arm. Now maybe an amputee can say that she doesn’t feel burdened by the loss of her arm after years of coping, accepting, healing. I don’t know. I haven’t asked, but for me, I can’t imagine that the loss of an arm could ever not be a burden. I can understand that I would find strategies to cope, but two arms, in my eyes, would always be less burdensome than just one, no matter the level of acceptance. But healing from loss, loss of a spouse, is it forever a burden? Honestly, I feel like I’ve lost an arm. It is impossible to juggle life with just one arm, and I will never grow a new one, so to speak, so the healing does not come in forming a new arm. It comes from within. I must find a different way of looking at life. A way of coping. But what about healing? Am I healing or am I just coping?

I certainly don’t think Bill would want me to be burdened with the heaviness of his loss forever, although sometimes it feels better to carry that burden than to envision laying it down. To lay it down would reveal that, yes, I truly have lost an arm, as opposed to erroneously thinking that arm is just busy carrying something else right now. Sometimes it feels like that stuff, that burden, is all I have left of him. Realistically, the heaviness of his loss has nothing to do with who he was or our life together. The burden is about what it feels like now that he is gone. It’s about the trauma and figuring out how to cope. Someday I want to lay that down, if I actually have a choice.

I do believe in healing of some sort. I don’t know what it looks like or feels like, exactly, and I think it is as imperceptible as the aging of our skin. One day in our 40s we look at ourselves closely in a mirror and realize that the skin of our youth is gone. So as my inner skin heals from the loss of Bill, forever I will look different, changed. Hopefully, I will have lines not from frowning or bitterness, but rather from smiling and laughing and remembering…..and from tears that have etched themselves on a slate meant for all types of memories and emotions.

So maybe healing is in the aging, not the coping, and in how much we allow ourselves to laugh, and to cry. The crying is the laying down of the burden, the letting go. The laughing is the lightness we feel afterward—it is the healing. That is my guess.

Unlike my sister widow, I believe that healing happens in moments between moments between moments every day, as imperceptible as the aging of my skin. Someday I will see lines of wisdom and healing among the lines of my grief, and I will know that the wisdom and healing came from a willingness to lay down my burden of loss, moment between moment, memory by memory, even when it felt like I had to cut off my arm to do so.

A Journey to Remember--long

2008-07-26T12:04:00.000-07:00

Here is my 2007 Christmas letter for Bill's and my family...

What a year! I’ve made it through one year. We all have, and I feel that Bill’s spirit has been with me every step of the way. He told me that first night after he died that I would be okay, and I believe him. You have also been with me through your phone calls, help around the house, cards, and prayers. Thank you so much for your support. It is impossible for me to express how much it has meant to me.

This past year has been about survival, grief, and remembrance. I had the privilege of remembering and honoring Bill in a special way. I traced paths he took when he felt most alive—paths he rode, walked, hiked, and drove. It was in visiting these places that my grief found places to cry, to be angry, to remember, to question, to seek answers, to surrender, to rest, and…to heal.

Before Bill died, he gave me a beautiful gift. Not knowing his fate the next day, he told me where he wanted his ashes to be scattered. In the past we had discussed places such as Mendocino, CA and Ouray, CO. That night he said, “I know exactly where I want my ashes. I want them wedged between two rocks above Torrey, Utah.” And so one of my goals this last year was to make that happen.

Before I made it to Torrey, though, I needed to take a journey of my own. This first year without Bill has been a journey to remember…a journey to remember a person, a husband, a friend, a cyclist, a son, a brother, an uncle, a nephew whose life had more impact than he could ever have imagined. It has been a search for healing. With each place I visited, I realized as I left, “He’s not here, either,” as if I really expected to find him. Early on I learned that logically knowing he is gone is not the same as accepting the finality of him being gone. I will never understand it completely. I don’t catch myself thinking that he’s just on a ride and he’ll be home soon anymore, but every day I wish it were true.

My first challenges after the memorial included facing the “firsts” nearby such as Trader Joes, REI, the dog park, bike rides and my own backyard, which many of you have helped me to deal with in some way or another. Laying Kenu to rest next to Yana felt like more than I could bear. I felt very angry and alone when I realized that the family I nurtured and cared for the last 15 years were all gone. All of them.

Next came finances and other administrative tasks, which still bog me down. In March, I went to Vancouver, and then to San Diego and Thousand Oaks—all places laden with memories of Bill and me as a couple. Among the most difficult were visiting our first home and walking the trail by the beach in Del Mar. While on the trail, I suddenly realized that in that very spot was where we met our first Ridgeback. I cried an ocean. I remembered how we called a few breeders that night and finally found one that had puppies available. And then the landslide of memories began….bringing home the puppies, vomit in the Jeep, accidents in the house, and thousands of dollars worth of destruction and vet bills. It was all so worth it.

Chico has been a revolving challenge. I look forward to family, but the memories are raw and jolting since I am not living with them every day. Watching the children remember Bill as they deal with their own grief has given me a lot of strength. Each time I visit I find another memory to confront. Eventually, it will become a softer place for me.

In June, I decided that I needed to drive the Terrible Two course the day of the ride. To my surprise, the ride organizer talked about Bill for a while before the ride began at 5:30am. Three riders rode in Bill’s honor: Rob from Berkeley; Bryce from Chico, and Brett from Scottsdale. They all carried one of Bill’s old numbers from previous rides and a small vial of ashes. Rob scattered Bill’s ashes at the top of Ft. Ross, the most difficult climb of the day. He sent me a moving email of what it meant to remember Bill in that way. I was told by an organizer that many riders were inspired by seeing my car on the route with Bill’s number on the back. If Bill had ridden that day, he would’ve held the record of 15 consecutive rides. Several riders came up to me throughout the day to extend their condolences, which felt really good because most people I came into contact with avoided the topic at this point.

On the route of the Terrible Two, I scattered some of Bill’s ashes for the first time. I chose an area overlooking the ocean near the base of the Ft. Ross climb. I wanted to yell at everybody to stop whatever they were doing, including the drivers whizzing by, so that they could take part in the moment. But I have learned that grief is not a group activity. Tears stung my eyes for the remaining 50 miles. The ride organizer gave me a coveted t-shirt—something I will always treasure. At the end of the day I was emotionally spent, but I earned a strength that has carried me through many challenges since then.

By September, I had given up the idea of going to Torrey because no one in the family was able to go with me, but then I realized it was essential to my grieving process. It ended up being a blessing that I went with just one person. My friend, Carla, a nurse in San Diego, was able to go with me at the last minute. She drove for me a couple of times over the few days we were there when the emotional load became too heavy. She was there from a distance and for hugs. She listened and cried with me. Bill was her friend, too. We also enjoyed the scenery, laughed a lot and enjoyed delicious dinners at Café Diablo. Even though I rarely eat beef, I ordered Bill’s favorite dish, the flank steak with pomme frites, all presented artistically as if we were at a fine restaurant in San Francisco. Below is an excerpt from my journal about preparing for the trip.

Suddenly, I realize that I have to pack ashes. In what? How much? I reach for the burgundy plastic container containing an entire person. Forgetting how heavy it was, I almost drop it. I look for something to carry the ashes in and finally settle on the wooden box that Bill made for me with the “life is a journey” character engraved on it. As I scoop his ashes into a Ziploc baggie with a measuring cup, I cannot help but think that he would approve of my using a baking utensil to scoop his ashes. But then I realize that I am scooping ashes, a person, a life. No, not a life. Just bones, remains. His life lives on in his legacy, in our memories. But still, I am sad that I am scooping my husband into a baggie. I put just enough in the baggie so that it still fits in the box, and then I place a guitar pick into the box, which I will leave at the site. I know exactly where I am going—the place where he talked about being “wedged between two rocks.”

Actually, I chose to scatter ashes in two places near Torrey. Even though the vista I chose along Chimney Rock Trail is not overlooking Torrey, it is the first place that came to mind when Bill told me where he wanted his ashes to be scattered. As if a foreshadowing, the previous summer, I took a few pictures of Bill taking in the awesome view, and another of him sitting on two rocks with the view in the background. I had no idea how significant that place would become. This time the view was the same, but my experience was very different. As I cried, took pictures, scattered ashes, and cried some more I tried to reconcile the conflict inside between logic and longing, fear and hope, anger and acceptance, pain and healing. I still have not found the words to aptly describe that moment. Surreal is overused and understates my experience, so I hope the pictures convey some of the meaning to you. Below is an excerpt from my journal about that moment….

I hike toward the vista with purpose, yet pause to take pictures as I go—a documentation of the journey, proof that I did it, a story all its own. Taking the pictures is somewhat meditative for me and distracts me from some of the crushing emotions that surface every few minutes. I need to feel, but I also need to function. The camera is a barrier between me and the landscape, the memories, and the last time I visited here with Bill without completely disconnecting me from my emotions. As I approach the place I had in my mind as the perfect place to scatter his ashes everything begins to feel like it is in slow motion. All is quiet—not because of my mind shutting out reality, but because it is really just so very quiet and still. We haven’t seen anyone else on the trail so far. It is just like I remembered—an expansive view—a view that overwhelmed Bill as he stood on the edge, hands clasped behind his head. That day I could almost feel his thoughts about how beautiful it was, how awesome, how it moved him to want a different life away from the city. It was sadness and awe and understanding all at once. It was joy and gratitude that we could experience this sacred place together. Soon the exact spot where I want to scatter his ashes comes into view. I see the weather-beaten tree jutting out between two rectangular-shaped rocks as red as their surroundings. As I approach, I feel like everything I have been protecting myself from emotionally up to this point on the trail is now a boulder between me and the two rocks. I climb the boulder in my mind, and as I reach out to touch the rocks where he once sat, my body collapses into a heap of tears. I kneel at this altar created just for this moment—my only offering my grief. I cling to the rocks as if I expect them to come alive or to quench my thirst for missing him, but this is the desert, and no one chooses where to get their water. No one chooses grief, either. Water, rain, it all comes from where it will, when it will. Right now, my only water is this view and this tree between these two rocks. I guard them as if they are precious stones. I continue to kneel in silence, in anger, in sadness, in hope that someday I will be stronger than the sum of my loss. Patiently, I wait and listen for my heart to tell me what to do next.

I had a similar, but less intense, experience the next day when I scattered Bill’s ashes “between two rocks above Torrey.” Sketchy directions from townspeople to the Velvet Ridge put us on a very rutted dirt road/wash, which had been miserable on a mountain bike due to the sand last summer. It was doable in the SUV I was renting (no offroading allowed) until a creek crossing dashed my confidence. Bill’s safety sirens went off in my head and I pulled to the side of the wash. We got out of the car and surveyed the bluff directly above us. I was pretty sure that we would be able to get a view of Torrey from the other side, but there was no visible trail. It was late in the afternoon and our options were narrowing, so we decided to traverse the side of the bluff. There were enough boulders and footholds among the shale-like rock so that it appeared to be fairly safe. When we reached the plateau, we paid little attention to the breathtaking scenery. We hiked in the direction of Torrey for about 15 minutes, and finally reached a vista overlooking the valley and Torrey. Below is my journal entry of this experience.

Relief gently washes through me as we emerge onto a clearing with a vista overlooking Torrey. Afraid the moment will pass by too quickly, I stop to take it all in for a few minutes. From here, Torrey looks so small, so insignificant, yet made significant to me by one man’s experience and his last wish. The deepening shadows on the adjacent cliffs remind me that my time is limited. I walk to the edge of the bluff, look down at my feet, and I see “two rocks.” Tears blur my vision as I snap dozens of pictures, once again using my camera lens to distance me from the surfacing emotions. My tears fall more quietly this time as I let the ashes be carried by the wind, and then reluctantly I place a handful of his life “between two rocks above Torrey,” just as he had asked. Here on the Velvet Ridge, I feel a stronger sense of peace than I did the day before. With nightfall approaching, we descend from the plateau as quickly as we can. My eyes are dry, but my thirst for meaning is quenched, if only for a moment. My body shivers from the chilly, autumn air as my reason for coming to Torrey fades among the red rocks glowing in the distance. My journey to remember Bill in this place has come to an end for now. He will always be here.

I have carried the peace I received in Torrey with me every day through the anniversary of his death, through Thanksgiving, through our wedding anniversary, and finally, through Christmas. I have learned, though, that peace does not numb the pain.

Just before the anniversary of Bill’s death, Anne, Sheilia and the twins visited me for a few days. I asked them if they wanted to scatter some ashes at the Marin Headlands where Bill proposed to me. I was very pleased when they agreed to it. It was a different experience in that I felt like I had done my most important task already. I felt like I was there to help his family experience their love and their grief in a different way. We sat on the bench where Bill asked me to spend the rest of my life with him, and then walked the scenic trail for a view of the Golden Gate Bridge and San Francisco. Journal…

Next, we drive the windy, steep road to the top of the hill and walk on a trail for a while to find a spot without any tourists. Erin and Sean pick yellow flowers along the way and scatter the petals on a tree stump overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Anne, Sheilia and I sprinkle ashes on top of the flower petals. We all just take in the view for a while. I think about the dozens of times Bill and I brought friends here, the bike rides up the steep hill, picnic lunches overlooking the bridge for no special reason, and the question, “Why?” interrupts my thoughts for the millionth time. My emotions travel from sadness to anger to acceptance in a few heartbeats, and then back to sadness. I feel the heavy burden of a mother who has lost her son, of a sister who has lost her brother, and of two children who have lost a vibrant, caring uncle. I wonder what they are feeling. I wonder what the children will remember about today. And I wonder for how long my acceptance will be measured in heartbeats.

A few weeks later, my parents came to visit and I took them to the Headlands to scatter some ashes as well. Again, I felt somewhat removed this time. It was their turn to do what they needed to do to honor Bill and to remember what he meant to them. I have learned that observing others heal is healing in itself.

Thanksgiving and our anniversary were particularly difficult for me, but once again, the children were so instrumental in helping me to cope with my reality. I went to Mendocino with Anne and Sheilia the day after Thanksgiving. I wasn’t prepared for the flood of emotions that hit me about 15 miles south of town. Anne drove the rest of the way as Bill’s and my life together replayed itself with every turn along the familiar, rugged coastline. Memories flashed before me everywhere I looked. Everywhere. I just wanted them to stop, but I knew that I had to face Mendocino. I had to face the life I had, the memories, before I could face whatever hurdle came next. I knew it would make me stronger.

After we got into town, I took some time alone with Willow to visit the church where Bill and I were married. The church attendant let both of us inside with a polite, “I’m sorry for your loss. Take your time.” I sat motionless on the hard, wooden pew in the front row as memories overwhelmed my senses. Last time I was there I had tears of joy. I couldn’t stay for long. I felt angry, grateful, sad, and tired—tired of grief. Below is an excerpt from my journal about our time on the beach.

We leave the church and wander aimlessly for a while before walking along the bluffs toward the beach. I walk. Willow spins, skips, sniffs, gallops, and looks back at me with her goofy face, the one that makes me smile even in the most serious of moments. God knew I would need a silly dog when she came to us! Carefully, the two of us make our way down the muddy trail to the beach where locals and tourists are enjoying a perfect autumn day with their families. I head for the far end of the beach where there are fewer people. At the end, I watch the tide rise and fall, waves splashing onto the rock that guards the far end of the cove. As I take in the scene, I think to myself, “It’s just another day for everybody else.” For me, it’s another day to remember. While children play and laugh a dozen yards away, I sink my fingers into something that feels like sand but isn’t. I hold his ashes in my hand for a moment, then quietly release into the incoming wave a little bit more of Bill, literally and figuratively—and a little bit of me. A part of me died that tragic day, too. I watch as the tide pulls away from me and I feel my life, the one I thought I would have, going out with it. I let the cold salt water rinse my hands. I am numb as Willow and I make our way across what seems like a beach twice as long as before. We hike back to the top of the bluff where I am overcome with disbelief at what I am doing here. I scatter a few more ashes facing west, knowing that I won’t be letting go of anymore ashes for a while. Or, maybe, I’ve let as much of him go as I can for now.

I have two more places to scatter ashes. One is Mt. Diablo, a 10-mile climb and a 90-mile round trip ride from home. Bill trained on that climb dozens of times every year. Some of his cycling friends may choose to join me. The other place is Ouray, Colorado, which is in the San Juan Mountains. We spent a few days in Ouray after we were in Torrey. I’ve included some pictures of both locations. Yes, I still have ashes left. I am reserving some for family who decide to go to Torrey, and I will reserve some to keep with me at home.

Few people understand why Bill chose Torrey. You have to visit it to understand. It doesn’t have the jaw-dropping sites of Zion and Bryce, but the sites are awesome in their vastness, varied hues, and rugged terrain. Some know that Bill preferred quiet places away from the pressures and expectations of city life. He fell prey to the seduction of solitude most strongly during his first visit to Torrey. It was in this solitude that he began a search to understand himself, who he was meant to be, and to find meaning in everyday life. This year, it was my mission to let him rest in that place of contemplation where he felt so at peace while he was still alive. In the solitude of my grief, while overlooking this sacred place called Torrey, I found a little understanding and a lot of healing. The pictures I took remind me that I have moved forward through some very difficult emotions, that I have been on a journey to heal, a journey to feel, a journey to remember—and I want others to remember, too.

Such a Simple Word

2008-07-26T11:20:00.001-07:00

Some of you mentioned that it's been a long time since I posted anything. Yep. I just have a hard time writing much that is upbeat right now, so I stopped posting. Below is an abbreviated version of something i wrote four months after Bill died. It will be published in "Living with Loss" magazine next month. I had to cut out a lot so they could fit it into the magazine, but this is the longer version.

Such a Simple Word

Speeding down the freeway and rushing toward the ER’s revolving door did not speed up the moment
The waiting
The knowing
The dread of learning that you were dead.
Learning--as if I had to be taught what it meant that you were gone.
As if I needed a dictionary to comprehend the words, “He’s dead.”
As if I didn’t have the intelligence to understand that you were dead.

Nonetheless, I learned that you were dead on a sunny, autumn day from a pretty doctor with bloodshot eyes and a gentle voice that said,
“He’s dead.”

Class dismissed--
As if I learned what I needed to know about you being dead from those two words.

The doctor, the nurse, the officer--
They kept telling me
Explaining to me
Describing to me
How you died.

I listened while watching from above
My body shivering in a chair below
Rocking, questioning, crying, and then, nothing.
Nothing but the glow of the stained glass window blurred in the corner of the chapel--
I dried my own tears with my trembling hand
I called the family, one by one, my hand shaking like I was playing a tambourine as I said, over and over,
“He’s dead.”
I listened dry-eyed to their sobs so far away, wishing I, too, could cry--
Not understanding why the tears had stopped,
Not knowing it was normal.

I felt strong, composed, when they took me to you down the hallway to a small, sterile room--
“Take as much time as you need,” she said.
How much time do people need?

First, I saw your boots in a bag and envisioned you climbing poles.
I saw your computer on the floor and thought of you working at the table after dinner.
I saw your jeans cut open
Gown over your chest
Minor abrasions on your arms
Tube in your mouth, just as she had warned--
Tube in your mouth.
You looked so strong
So healthy
So alive,
Except for the tube in your mouth.

Avoiding the tube in your mouth
I touched you as if you were alive
Asleep
I felt your curls between my fingers
The contours of your chest met my face as I collapsed from sobs patiently waiting behind my composure.
I caressed your arms and your face with the back of my hand, trying to soothe away your gone-ness.
I slid your rings, one by one, onto my fingers, remembering the moments that made each one special.
Around my wrist I fastened your watch still ticking, the weight of its largeness a reminder of your touch—
Your touch for sixteen years.
As I took these things, methodically, I realized I didn’t understand that small word even a child can say…

Dead.

Such a simple word…
With so many complications.
Easy to say.
Hard to hear.
An explosion
An indefinable sound
An echo that singes the brain—a sting and then numbness, no feeling, no pain.

“I need you to sign some forms,” she said.
My tambourine hand met pen to paper with syncopated rhythm, but no sound— not even I could recognize the signature as my own. But my hand kept on
playing as I sat next to you.
It tried to find a rhythm for days.
I'm still trying to find a rhythm without you.

Dead.
“He’s dead,” someone else said, again.

Almost four months later
I’m still trying to believe it--
After funeral
After Thanksgiving
After Anniversary
After Christmas
After New Year’s
After Valentine’s Day.

You’re dead. I know that.

I never knew being alone could be so crowded with
Things to do
People to please
Places to go
Decisions
Revisions of everything that once was.

“He’s dead,” I said.

I said it to your friends
I said it to your family
I said it to the mail carrier
To the vet, the pharmacist, and your co-workers.
I said it to dozens of people.

You’re dead.

I know that.
I read it on forms, in reports, in my journal—yet I feel as if you’re still alive, you’re just not here.
You’re alive in pictures, in sounds, in thoughts, in dreams—until I remember…

“He’s dead,” the pretty doctor said.

It is easy to say.
But I’m still learning what it means for you to be gone, passed away,
For you to be dead.
I’m still learning after all this time.

If only you were here to explain it to me.

I really don’t understand what it means when I say, “He’s dead.”
Maybe if I could touch you just one last time
Maybe I would understand.
I don’t understand ashes
Or memorials
Or silence…
I don’t understand that you’re gone forever--
Not even after 120 days of knowing.

Ted.com

2008-07-26T11:13:00.001-07:00

My brother-in-law who is a doctor turned me on (can't finish the sentence here) to a great website: www.Ted.com.

SOOOOOO, worth it! I was a little, ok a lot, unmotivated to check it out, but it is very cool. The first one you should watch is "A Stroke of Insight." It is about a neuroscientist's experience of having a stroke. Once she realizes she's having a stroke, she realizes how incredibly cool it is that she is experiencing what she researches. Trust me. It is 20 min well-spent. And there are so many more to watch, and not enough time!

enjoy

Life within a Life

2007-05-16T21:03:00.000-07:00

Here is a recent journal entry about my experience with this ongoing grief process. I've heard grief described as a parallel life. This is my take on it.

journal: They don’t want to hear it. They don’t really want to know what I’m going thru. If they really knew they would not know what to do, and they would feel more helpless than they already feel, more inadequate, more tongue-tied. But not knowing what to say is okay. Really. If only they would just acknowledge the fire, that it’s burning, that it’s hot, that they can see me in the middle of it, barely protected, almost consumed. I can only imagine that this is something like childbirth, or what I think it would be like—a pain that cannot be endured except for the fact that not to feel it would ensure death.

Would I die if I didn’t feel this pain? No, but to die, sometimes it seems better, not because of a reunion, or an eternity, or an incarnation, but because it would stop. It. The pain, the emptiness, would stop. It is a constant ache that attacks so many sides I cannot defend myself.
Where are my friends? They call and ask me how I am doing, sometimes. They talk about their lives, their problems, and don’t even mention him, as if I don’t want to talk about him anymore. I want to be a good friend, so I listen, but they are watching my life from at least the same distance that I am watching theirs, a distance that protects them from the fire almost consuming me. A distance that allows them to keep living their own lives, like they are supposed to do. At the end of the day, I respect whatever they need to do to keep on living, even if it doesn’t include me.

Where are his friends? They are working, parenting, and riding their bikes, challenging themselves to be better, faster, stronger for their next race or event. They are living, and maybe even grieving still, in their own way. At the end of the day, I respect whatever they need to do to keep on living, even if it doesn’t include me.

But for me, at the end of the day, even after an exhilarating bike ride or time with friends, often I find myself on the couch with a plate of fattening foods and a glass of wine to cushion my thoughts, my memories, as they fall randomly through my fingers like grains of sand. Struggling to catch every grain, every memory, every thought, every anger, every love, every touch, every everything, tears fall impatiently, angrily, sadly, yearningly. I don’t know if I cry because of what I do catch or because of what falls between my fingers. There is so much to catch. There is so much that falls. I guess I should be thankful that there is so much to catch, and that I even notice that which falls. But there is no one to see it or appreciate it. No one but me. It’s in this moment of what is caught and not caught, this moment when the sand rests on my fingers or falls below, that only I appreciate the value our life together. It is a moment crowded with aloneness.

Is this a gift? Is it a curse?

This life within a life that only I can live, is it something I should beg others to share, or just relinquish my hope of others joining me and understand that this grief is mine alone? No one else can bare it. No one else can own it. No one else can understand it, or experience it like I experience it.

I don’t want this specialness, where only I can understand my pain, my emptiness. I don’t want this aloneness where it feels like only I can be my friend. I am too weak for that, but even in this weakness my strength seems to be enough to get me out of bed each day, enough to smile, to do at least a little exercise, paperwork, yardwork, or housework, and to look okay. I look okay and say that I’m okay to everyone who asks. Sometimes I say that it’s hard, but I’m okay. They look relieved, as if I just said that everything is back to normal.

So, at what point do I admit to drowning in this sorrow? To drowning in grief? To drowning in memories? Would anyone even hear my confession? I don’t admit these thoughts to others because they might think I’m weak, pitiful. Logically, I know that it only feels like I am drowning. It only feels like grief will kill me. I am well acquainted with depression and its oceans of desert, and I have learned that the cycles of feeling nothing and then everything at once does not have to overcome me or control me, even when it feels like it. So, if I cling to what I know, I must believe that this grief will not suffocate me, even when the weight of his body in memories rests upon my chest.

In spite of this drowning feeling, at the end of the day, I want to gasp for air and find air. I want to breathe and find another breath, no matter how painful it might be, because breath is life and life is purpose. Life, alone, must be enough reason for me to live, whether I’m walking through depression or through grief, or both. I want there to be a special reason why I am still here, even if I never understand why he is not. Just finding air every few seconds is my opportunity to find reason in spite of the loss, in spite of the pain. Even if I never understand why he died, and I probably won’t, I know many reasons why he lived, one of them being his gift of love to me.

This life within a life….it is different. It is ugly and very confusing right now, but I must consider the possibility, just the possibility, that all life has value, even the life of grief. I must protect it, nurture it, and seek to understand its wisdom.

This life within a life is my life, and everything is growing around it exponentially in comparison, yet this grief, this life within a life, is growing, too, a growth only I can see. A life only I can experience at my own pace. And at the end of the day, when my living room is crowded with my grief and me, how blessed am I to have the privilege of drowning in an ocean of beautiful memories—memories that are mine, alone, as long as I live.

Sorry

2007-03-14T11:06:00.000-07:00

Have you ever become weary of someone who keeps doing something they've promised not to do, and then they say that they are sorry every time? It puts us in an awkward place because most of us want to be forgiving, but sometimes the routine can be tiresome and the sorry becomes meaningless. The poem below is a result of a number of people who seem to have a lot of drama in their life right now. A theme seems to be one person's inability to stay with the program and repeatedly saying sorry, thinking that it makes up for everything. So after listening to the drama from the other friend for the last two days, I wrote this piece, probably still in progress as the drama continues...sorry Bryan, a little on the serious side, so sorry, really, I'm sorry.

Sorry Among Sorries

Your sorries lay scattered like gravel among gravel
Where kindness blends with harshness
Where “I’m sorry,” means little to nothing anymore.

Your sorries form a heap at the bottom of a landslide
Boulders among boulders
Falling randomly regardless of appearance or weight.

Your sorries are an avalanche hiding and sliding
Past contours and views
A trail of snow among snow
A blank slate upon which to write more sorries--
But this time I’m gone.

I’m seeking a place where respect overshadows regret
Where ambiguity is given the benefit of the doubt
Where open minds do not close doors to change
A place where sorries can be held in one hand
A place where sorries are unique
Not an action following routine reactions
That assume forgiveness.

I’m seeking a place where sorries are so few
And so perfectly set that they become
Precious stones.
For now, your sorries continue to lay scattered
Like gravel among gravel
Boulders among boulders
Snow among snow.

Consequently, you wander alone
Inside a fortress of sorries
A fortress filled with sand
Where you sift with a closed hand
Your reasons among reasons among reasons
To say, “I’m sorry.”

What We Do When Nobody is Watching

2007-03-02T11:39:00.000-08:00

Now that I live alone and there's no one to question my daily decisions, I wonder if the same rules apply as before. For example, the other day I wondered if it would really be that big of a deal not to shower after an evening workout. What would be the point when I would be going to bed in a few hours just to workout again right after I get up the next morning? Granted I might get up late and then get bogged down with work around the house and then it’s lunch time, so I can’t exercise before I eat because I’m too hungry, which means I delay exercise at least an hour after I eat in order to digest my food. But I get busy again after lunch, then realize that I really should go to the bank and the vet before it gets too late. By the time I get home it’s almost 4pm. Time to workout because if I don’t do it now, it’ll be time for dinner, and then I’ll have to wait another hour before I workout. God forbid I get busy again and then realize that it’s 8pm and time for my favorite show. Before I know it, it’s 10pm and I haven't worked out, or showered. So why shower when I’m just going to workout first thing in the morning? Not that I’ve ever done this, but if I did who would know?

How about eating? I am very health conscious but every once-in-awhile, okay, maybe a little more often, I take a walk on the wild side and eat a donut or drink a chocolate shake. Actually, every Thursday is brownie day, which is a story all its own, but suffice to say, I look forward to it all week. My favorite brownies are at a special bakery that I pass every Thursday. They are huge, very moist, and are covered with thick, chocolate icing. In short, they are crack, and I am addicted. Sometimes I buy two with the intention of having one today and one tomorrow. That rarely works. So the other day, instead of buying one to keep myself from eating two, I bought three, knowing full well that I would eat two that evening, saving the third one for Friday. Can you imagine how sick you would feel if you ate all three in one night? Not that I did this, but if I did, who would know?

How about kitchen utensils? For instance, I took cookies off the cookie sheet, but they stuck to the sheet, so a little bit of cookie and chocolate stuck stubbornly to the spatula. I thought to myself, wouldn’t it be easier just to lick the cookie and chocolate off the spatula and put it back in the drawer than to scrub it clean with soap and water when I’m the only one who is going to use it next? Not that I did this, but if I did, who would know?

What’s your story?

Happy Valentine's Day

2007-02-14T13:24:00.000-08:00

I debated on whether or not to acknowledge this Hallmark holiday this year, then realized I really didn’t have a choice. Mom called to say, “I don’t know whether to say Happy Valentine’s Day or just I love you?” Was it a statement or a question? I really had no idea what to say, but put a stop to her sending me roses. A friend called and said, “You’re going to receive a practical Valentine’s Day gift on Thursday. Just wanted to warn you. Please don’t be mad at me.” I really had no idea what to say. What could I say but, “Thanks, I’ll be looking forward to it.” Another friend called and said, “I guess you’d just rather forget about Valentine’s Day.” Again, statement or question? Too late for me to forget about it now that he’s reminded me. I really had no idea what to say other than, “Thanks for thinking of me.” A neighbor said to me as I returned from a walk, “Stay here. I’ll be right back. I have something for you.” This is my 50-yr old-Vietnam vet neighbor with bleached blonde hair and John Lennon sunglasses-who has a few substance abuse issues-living with mom (not sure which came first)-looks kind of scary sometimes, but is really very, very sweet. In all sincerity he said, “Happy Valentine’s Day,” as he gave me a big hug and something that looked like the cousin to the lava lamp—distant cousin. It is a quartzite the size of a nerf football, hollowed out with a bulb inside that rests on a synthetic wooden base. “It only uses four watts so you can leave it on all the time,” he says with a bright smile, “especially when you go out of town.” Well there you go. I really had no idea what to say at first, other than “thank you,” but now, instead of setting the light timer, I have a light that I can leave on 24hrs a day without running up my electric bill when I'm gone. Truth be told, I was very touched by his thoughtfulness, and I’m sure it will look pretty cool all lit up at night. It’s kind of a nightlight on steroids. A 4-watt bulb lamp is much safer than forgetting to blow out candles anyway, and I have a few candles to light, especially today, not that it’s a special day or anything. It’s just another day. It’s just another day to say, “I love you.” It’s just another day to feel loved. I feel loved and it isn’t even afternoon yet.

Before The Bridge and other thoughts

2007-02-08T20:33:00.000-08:00

Once upon a time......

Kenu, Rhodesian Ridgeback, 13 years old, died Tuesday, 2/6/07, 3 months to the day after Bill passed away. Yana also died on the 6th a year and a half ago.

It became evident that I needed to make a decision about euthanizing him last weekend. It became imperative that I do so on Monday, but I lost my nerve. So, Tuesday was the day. It was the most difficult decision I have ever had to make because he looked fine. Unfortunately, his tumor was a timebomb, and I didn't want him to die painfully, or without me. In October, when he first showed signs that his end was near, I wrote the following poem. Ironically, it helped me to make my decision this week. The others are also related to him. If you don't mind Hallmark-esq poems, read on.

Before the Bridge
by A. D. Ripke

*A poem that describes a place where we will be reunited with our cherished companions. See www.RainbowBridge.com/poem

Yesterday all seemed fine
Or mostly, anyway,
Gray muzzle and silent ears
Excused his lazy days.

Today he’s sleeping in the sun
And walking slowly up the hill
His graceful gait is stuttered
His tail almost still.

Birds no longer taunt him
Squirrels withhold their chatter
Cats just sit and wait
The hunt no longer matters.

I seek his tired eyes for wisdom
A prophecy that cannot lie,
I find a quiet answer,
“I’m getting ready for good-bye.”

I wonder—
How will I know for certain when it’s time?
Do I wait and let it happen naturally?
Do I help him bow out gracefully?
When am I loving selfishly?

Questions find their rest
In the arms of my resistance
Answers seek their rightful place
Where emotions keep their distance.

Memories rope around each thought
Tying knots of indecision
There are no absolutes
No crystal ball or mystic vision.

How will I know when living is unkind? tears welling as I ask.
Then, from across the Rainbow Bridge*, a gentle voice unveils my task—

“Watch him live—
If his greatest joy is slumber
No response to your commands
His mind does not remember
His legs no longer stand
When his dancing eyes are resting
When he chooses shade instead of sun
When walks are just him dreaming
Your wondering is done.”

I ponder this simple explanation
Advice I could’ve given
But too much love, immeasurable love,
Is blind to answers never hidden.

So Reason’s awkward comfort
An argument still pending
Prepares me for good-bye
Unlike another’s tragic ending.

And in that final moment
As wisdom fights my will
I’ll know he’s found
His peace,
His place,
His friends,
When paws and tail are still.

*A poem that describes a place where we will be reunited with our cherished companions. See www.RainbowBridge.com/poem

Last Day

My day began with a slow, deep breath—
The last day,
His last day,
Our last day.

Last together
Last hug
Last kiss
Last smell
Last touch
Last look……

Last breath.

His last breath.
Our last moment.

I breathe.

I touch.
I breathe.

I touch him again.
I breathe.

Torrent of tears…
Torrent of tears…
Torrent of tears…
Breathe.

Peace at last…
Breathe.

Home at last…
Breathe.

Memories last…
Breathe.

Last touch...
More tears…
Breathe--just breathe.

After Life

Tears fall…
The moment after
The feeling after
The night after
The day after
The week after
The month after
The walk after
The couch after
The entryway after
The park after
The mountains after
The ocean after
The desert after
The summer after
The year after.

After tears
I live.

After more tears
I live.

Grieve.
Live.

Grieve.
Live.

After life
Memories live…

Remember…
Live.

After life
Live.

Lesson Not Learned

2007-01-20T13:35:00.000-08:00

Read "It's Been A While" first.......

Packed the car. Left for Chico. A few miles down the road I realize that I forgot the dog food and dog meds. Turn around. Due to traffic, it is a 35-minute detour.

Get to Chico at 11:30pm. Unpacking car. No cycling shoes!

I remember having them in my hand with my helmet and deciding to grab an extra tube. Have the tube. Have the helmet, the clothes, the bike. No shoes.

I need to find the checklist!

It's Been A While

2007-01-19T09:28:00.000-08:00

It’s been a while since I’ve posted here. It’s been a while for a lot of things, including preparing my bike for a weekend away. I took an opportunity to visit my friend Diane in Central California over the long weekend. I packed my clothes and other essentials (which takes much longer than you would think!), dog food, dog meds, dog beds, dog toys, mp3 player, CDs just in case the mp3 player doesn’t work, washed the car, filled up the tank, packed up my computer since my friend would be working one of the days, and assembled essential foods just in case she doesn’t have food when I need it. I have this fear of being without food, you see. So I always have a stash of ClifBars, but when the desire for chocolate hits at 8pm and there is none in sight…..well, it’s just better to be prepared. Last of all, I needed to assemble my bike gear and get my bike ready. As most of you know, it’s been a bit cold, okay very cold, especially for riding a bike. Usually I don’t ride if it’s under 45 degrees. So I packed pretty much every piece of bike apparel that I own, just in case, kind of like the chocolate. It’s always better to be prepared. Then I checked my bike—inflated tires, cleaned and lubed the chain, and then….I didn’t know what else to do. Bill did that stuff. He might tighten a cable or check something I don’t know the name of, and then he put the bikes on the roof. He always had a checklist for his clothes, and he always ran down the list with me verbally. There is nothing like unpacking your bike and realizing you don’t have shoes or a helmet. I stared at the bike for a minute and decided that it would have to be good enough, and then loaded it into the middle seat, both wheels off. No bike rack yet. I was already dreading the moment when I had to put the rear wheel back on. Bill always made it look so easy. It usually takes me about 5-7 minutes to change a flat, and then who knows how long I struggle with the rear wheel. Everything takes longer when you do it by yourself. Sometimes when Bill and I prepared for a trip I felt like I was doing the bulk of the preparation, and sometimes it frustrated me, but now I realize that we were really a team.

On the first ride with Diane it was about 38 degrees. It felt like we should be skiing, not riding a bike. I thought my face was going to be frozen permanently and that my toes might fall off from frostbite, but we managed to thaw out. The ride was beautiful and definitely worth the time it took to get ready and begin riding. One of the things I don’t like about cycling is the time it takes to get ready. For the second ride, we took about 30-40 minutes to get dressed and load the car with the bikes on the roof, plus we stopped at Starbucks. The staging area was about 40 minutes away, so by the time we’re getting the bikes off the roof it’s been almost an hour and a half. I get out of the car and brrrr. Why am I doing this? Just as Diane takes her bike off the roof she says, “Can you get the wheels out of the trunk?” It takes a minute to register in my mind because I’m looking at the trunk and there are no wheels. Suddenly I realize that we didn’t make a list and we didn’t check it twice. She thought the wheels were in the car from the day before. I thought she had put the wheels in the car, or I just forgot about them completely. I’m not sure which. Regardless, it is my fault since I took the wheels out of the car the night before. I didn’t think they would be safe. And then we had that moment--the moment when you decide whether to be mad or to laugh. We laughed. And we’re still laughing. It's been a while since I laughed that hard, and a while since I forgot something so significant for a ride.

At this point, it is too late in the day to go home and ride, so we go to the bike shop instead. When the guy at the counter says, “Looks like you’ve been out riding,” Diane replies without missing a beat, “Yeah.” After all, he didn’t say “today” and we had ridden the day before. Next time we’ll have a list and we’ll check it twice. As a team, I don't think we'll be forgetting any gear, especially the wheels, at least not for a while.

Willow Waiting

2006-12-13T12:06:00.000-08:00

I thank God for the little things, especially Willow!

I hit the snooze for the third time--
Like marbles falling on tile, her toenails dance to my side of the bed
Her tail wags her happy body, disconnected at every joint
Reminding me of a promise she assumes I made the night before
When she gets no response, she begins her pinball routine--puts her paws on my bed, rocks it like an earthquake, runs down the hall to the cupboard holding her leash
Back and forth she gallops, thinking I see where she goes
My head burrows into my pillow for one last moment of rest
Just the sound of her toenails guilts me into leaving the warmth of my bed
But it’s her eyes, her trusting eyes, that remind me what love feels like
It feels so good, better than the warmth of my bed or the softness of my pillow
Better than almost anything.

New car and me!

2006-12-10T21:48:00.000-08:00

Ashes to Ashes

2006-12-10T20:52:00.001-08:00

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, the saying goes. I picked up Bill’s ashes today. The receptionist asked if I would like help out to my car because the box was heavy. How heavy could it be? It was a box about the size of three bricks, maybe a little thicker. I evaluated the size of my frame and my ability to hoist a 110-pound dog into the SUV, and decided that, no, I would not be needing assistance. I wondered if they had someone other than the waif behind the counter to help me even if I had needed it. We, meaning my mom-in-law and I, had decided against an urn due to the cost and how ugly they were. They could at least have had something with a bike. Besides, Bill wanted his ashes in Torrey, UT so why spring for an urn that would be useless a year from now? I think he would approve of my thriftiness. Nonetheless, it felt quite mundane to pick up the remains of my beloved in a plastic box. I had prepared myself for an avalanche of emotion. Instead, I walk out the door with a box that weighs about 15 pounds, the same weight as the dumbbell I use for bicep curls, dry-eyed, as if I was picking up dry cleaning. Last time I was there I cried a waterfall. This time it just stayed inside. My greatest fear was that something would happen on the way home and the ashes would disperse all over the new car. I didn't want anything to ruin the new car smell, after all! And can you imagine what would happen if.....I'm sure you can. Anyway, I used extra caution on the road and placed the box on the counter when I got home. As I tried to open the seal of the box, which was sealed quite strongly I might say, I almost dropped it on the floor. In my mind I could see ashes exploding all over and me standing in a cloud of dust, like Lucille Ball in the pastry chef episode. So I had a bit of a chuckle and was relieved to find that the bag was secured by an undestructable twistie tie, like we use for sandwich baggies. I'm sure they charged me at least $50 for the twistie. Next dilemma--where do I store the box? Well, since it isn't a visually pleasing urn that cost over $400, I didn't really want to place the box with the address label of the mortuary on the front somewhere in plain view. Initially, I placed it on the floor of the hall closet because there was room, but then I realized I keep the quilted Northern tissue paper there, and I'm just out for the moment. Now, while Bill was especially fond of quilted toilet paper, and he especially enjoyed his reading time in the adjacent bathroom, I felt a little remiss at leaving his ashes in the same space, so I wandered from room to room trying to decide what was appropriate. Finally, I settled on his closet in the office, where I positioned the box between a bunch of bike event t-shirts. Ashes to ashes--who knew it could be so complicated!

Same time different day

2006-12-04T20:18:00.000-08:00

Many days I pause at 9:33 for at least a few minutes because those were the last moments of Bill's life--especially on Mondays. And especially this Monday because today marks one month. Actually, Wed is the date, but Monday will always be my marker. I planned to talk with his ER doc and nurse today, but didn't have the strength. Instead, I met a friend at the dog park. Pt. Isabel is so beautiful. I can see the City, the Golden Gate, and the Marin Headlands where Bill proposed to me. It was a spectacular day! Most importantly, the dogs luuuuuv it. I had so much fun watching Willow dance with other dogs, do the play posture, find every mud puddle, and nuzzle her best friend, Piper. Even though I had to put her into the back end of my brand new car somewhat muddy and wet, I was happy that she had so much fun.

During this time I have found that for every difficult moment I need to create a positive moment. Also, it is important for me to do things and go places that Bill and I never went. I like to go places that remind me of him, too, but it is even more important that I create new associations and memories. It is working for me, anyway. Plus I spent $400 on clothes, so that always helps. Don't worry, I'm not manic and I won't be doing that regularly! Felt good, tho. And I've made some new friends that have no connection to Bill, so they are not grieving, just ready to have fun.

Last week I debated whether or not to decorate for Christmas. I had planned on buying a small fake tree last year, but never did it. We never had a tree because we were always gone for Christmas. I finally decided that to not do the tree was a sign of weakness, and to buy and decorate a tree/put lights,etc, was a sign of strength. So, everytime I look at my decorated tree, I am reminded that I am strong. It is a very good feeling, although braided with sadness and feelings of loss.

Another day down.

Thanksgiving Day

2006-11-23T14:43:00.000-08:00

This is a very different Thanksgiving, for all of us. This will be my first Thanksgiving in 15 years without Bill. Our anniversary is only days away, but a wedding in a small Mendocino church feels like a distant memory. In spite of Bill's death, I do have so many things to be thankful for. Some I have listed below.

Today I am thankful for many things. I am thankful for my parents' prayers and concerns. I'm thankful for a brother who calls me every morning to wake me up just like Bill used to do. I'm thankful for a sister who is ready to listen regardless of her schedule. I'm thankful for friends, neighbors, and extended family whose hugs, calls, cards and emails give me energy to make it over the next hurdle. I am thankful for my Kenu, whose dog wisdom knows when I need his presence and warmth. I am thankful for Willow, who provides comic relief as she bucks and bounces with her imaginary friend whenever I am in need of a good laugh. I am grateful that my physical needs are met and that I have a cozy home and beautiful yard. I am thankful for our mind's ability to remember, and forget. I am thankful for cameras and the photos that remind me of special people, moments, experiences and places. I am thankful for hope and comfort, and for all the signs that I have received the last few weeks. These signs remind me that this grief is but one brush stroke on the canvas of life, pieces of a "mosaic in the making."* However, I wish I could avoid the "rain in bottles breaking." So many bottles. So many pieces. So much rain. Yet, still, so many reasons to be thankful. (*see "Coming Undone" post)

Have a great Thanksgiving!

The Red Box

2006-11-23T14:39:00.000-08:00

Some of you have asked if this poem was removed from the blog. I've reposted it so that it is easier to find.

The Red Box

If I must run your race
If I must color my face
Within lines drawn by you
If I must cry without tears
And be brave for your fears
I’ll be gray in no time.

So if you’re going to stuff me
Into a box
At least let me paint it red.

If you want me to fit into this box
Much too small if you had looked at me lately
If you want me to crawl in willingly
And endure this pain silently
If you want me to enjoy my view of nothing
Craving light more than life
Living without a fight
I’ll be gray in no time.

So if you’re going to stuff me
Into a box
At least let me paint it red.

This box was built for you
By those who never knew you
Now you want it for me
You think it will keep me free
From bad choices?
Within this box
Inside these locks
My only choice is whether or not to breathe.
I can barely breathe--
I’m sure I’ll be gray in no time.

So if you’re going to stuff me
Into a box
At least let me paint it red.

ADR copyright 2006

My man.

2006-11-18T21:18:00.000-08:00

Reality

2006-11-17T21:00:00.000-08:00

I never knew that reality could be so elusive. My experience has been that accepting reality is an intellectual function, for the most part. But my reality has morphed into something I do not recognize, something I cannot comprehend, something I cannot touch, or even feel. I am watching my life and I do not know who I am looking at. I am a stranger in my own skin, in my own home. Yet I am at peace. My fear is not about being alone, it is that people will forget this man of character. My man. My love. My friend. My husband. I am at peace because I know that this is part of a bigger picture--one that I cannot see through my limited lense. I know that his life has made others reflect and desire change within their own life. Is this why the young and the good die before what appears to be their time, so we who remain are forced to examine ourselves? I wonder. Rarely do I consider my trajectory when a 90-yr old with Alzheimer's passes away.

So this is my reality. Widow. But at peace for now. Until the anger comes, which it will, because i am not immune to the stages of grief which we all must endure. So be prepared. I will be angry. I hope I remain peaceful inspite of my anger. Still, today, I think I am watching someone else's life, even as I empty his closet and find every card I ever gave to him, and as I fill out forms about death benefits in triplicate--alone.
.

Memorial Day

2006-11-13T23:49:00.000-08:00

Tomorrow is my husband's memorial service. He passed away on 11/6 due to a heart attack. I will have much to say about this in the future, but below is the letter a friend of mine will be reading for me to our friends at the service. Just wanted to share it with anyone who cares to read it.

Bill loved nature. He wrote a goal about 10 years ago that says, " I want to live where the influence of nature, the influence of God, is greater than the influence of man.” He loved the desert. He loved mountains too, but especially the desert for its quietness, simplicity and solitude.

Bill loved rain. He was especially happy to hear raindrops on Saturday mornings because it meant he had a legitimate excuse for staying in bed instead of going for a ride. Usually, he went anyway.

Bill loved to ride. It was on a bike that he felt most alive. One of Bill’s favorite Lance Armstrong posters says, "I rode, and I rode, and I rode. I rode like I had never ridden, punishing my body up and down every hill I could find....I rode when no one else would ride." This quote motivated him as he trained for his last 200-mile ride—the Terrible Two. He always wanted to be a good climber, but as he said, he was gravity-challenged, so he trained hard and dropped as much weight as he could. Finally, he is an angel of the mountains, dancing on the pedals. Early in our marriage we determined that it was in both of our best interests for him to bring his bike on every vacation. Even though I am much slower, often we rode together—he always reassured me that he was riding with me to be with me, not to get to the top of the hill first. Regularly he lied to me about how much farther we had to go—the summit was always just around the corner. However, it kept me pedaling even after I realized I had a long way to go.

Bill loved me. He loved me unconditionally, patiently, respectfully, and passionately. I had with Bill what everybody wants. He was my soul mate and my best friend. We played together, rode together, laughed and cried together. Sometimes he surprised me with a cup of tea and my favorite donut on Sunday morning, even though he considered donuts to be a mortal sin. He made me birthday cakes and favorite dinners. He served me a cookie and a glass of milk every night that I wanted one. He gave me more sentimental gifts than practical ones. We talked about our dreams and our fears. We held hands on the couch while watching TV, and every once-in-awhile he’d watch a girl movie with me. No matter what happened during the day, we always kissed each other goodnight. Every morning, usually before 5:30 a.m., Bill kissed me good-bye while I was barely conscious. We always talked a couple of times a day on the phone. Almost every conversation ended with the words, “I love you.” “I love you, too.” His last phone call to me came about ten minutes before the accident. He said that he’d be home in 20 minutes. I was going to go for a ride, but my stomach started to feel queasy, so I decided to lie down instead. Forty minutes later, I got the call from the hospital. I am so thankful that our last words to each other were, “I love you.” “I love you, too.”

I am a better person because of the way he loved me. This is not to say we were happy all the time. Happiness is for teenagers, someone once told me. But we were content, and we enjoyed each other. Don’t get me wrong. We had many disagreements, and sometimes we hurt each others’ feelings. We were very different people, which balanced our relationship in some ways, and caused tensions in others, but we made it work because the alternative was unthinkable. We made it work by not staking our own flag in the sand and requiring the other person to walk the distance. Usually, we met somewhere in the middle, but it meant we both had to give up something. Bill never raised his voice at me in anger. We did get angry, but we worked out the problem with respect for each other.

As I look back at all of the wonderful things about him and all of the things that annoyed me, like having to be 15-30 minutes early to everything, or having to have everything so neat and organized all the time, I realize how those things just don’t matter in the big picture. I’ll probably be early to everything from now on just to feel like he’s with me. I might even keep my closet organized. In this last week, those little things that annoyed me have suddenly become endearing, and I wish I hadn’t wasted so much energy feeling frustrated about those differences.

While we can’t avoid these conflicts completely, we can choose how we respond to each other. No one is entitled to hurting someone else’s feelings just because they’re angry or just because they’re right, and I think that this is one of the main reasons that Bill and I worked so well together. We disagreed, and then somehow found common ground. We understood that it was okay to be different because we balanced each other out. We said “I’m sorry” and “I forgive you,” and we meant it. Well, except for one time when he bought some expensive bike stuff without telling me, but I’m over it now. I now know that all that was little stuff. Bill always reminded me that it’s all little stuff, but how we treat each other in the little stuff is what determines our fate during the more difficult times. Many of you know how Bill has stood by me through chronic illness. He never complained. He just kept loving me--over and over and over again, reassuring me that he was exactly where he wanted to be. I don’t understand why, but I am forever grateful.

I see now more than ever before that each moment we have becomes a memory—some good, some bad. Some we can control, others we cannot, like this one, but Bill would remind us that we always have control over how we treat other people. As you all know, Bill chose to be kind, loving, and positive. If he were here today, he would remind us to love each other. He would remind us to love with our words and our actions in every moment, giving each other room to make mistakes. I have an abundance of both beautiful moments and mundane moments with Bill that are now priceless memories.

Thank you for coming here today to celebrate his life. All his family and I have felt your prayers and support. The love you have expressed for him overwhelms me and comforts me. We are all grateful for your kindness as we go through this very difficult time. Words are not enough.

In closing, I want to share what happened my first night alone because I think it will bring many of you comfort. Of course, I didn’t sleep at all, and I cried a lot. Around 2:00 a.m., as I lay on my side, suddenly I felt a warm sensation on my shoulder. At that moment four phrases came into my mind as if Bill were talking to me. The phrases were, “You’re going to be okay. You’re going to be okay. I’m okay. I promise, you’re going to be okay.”

I believe with all my heart that these words are meant for all of us.

the road not taken

2006-10-31T21:47:00.000-08:00

What are your thoughts on "the road not taken?" You know, when we make a conscious choice to change directions or stay the course, choosing one path over another. There are positives and negatives to all choices. What are your experiences? No incorrect answers--just a query for those interested in sharing their perspective.

In the Ring aka Fight Song

2006-10-29T20:06:00.000-08:00

Cancer seems to be hitting from all sides--family and friends. When I heard about my brother's wife being diagnosed with cancer three weeks after she gave birth to their third child, I cried. I cried because I was afraid of what might happen and afraid of all the implications. Later I talked with my brother. In the context of our conversation, I wrote this after we hung up. My brother is the man with blue eyes.

You wish you could breathe, but the news is too fresh
A kick in the gut, the words just don’t mesh.
How could this happen with a newborn son?
How could this happen? You know you’re not done.
Swirling and whirling your mind knows the path
Crying and trying you give baby a bath,
Feeling the water on his soft skin
Helps you to find your strength within.
But nothing you do makes it all make sense
Your hands feel tied, your body is tense.
The phone rings again, this call you’ll take
Maybe the doctor made a mistake.

You take a drive that very next day
One sharp turn, and you find your way.
In the wrong neighborhood, or so it seems
For feeling hope and finding your dreams,
Past the pawn shop and across the street
You follow the rhythm of a different beat.
Punk outside bouncing a ball
Girl in heels breaking her fall
Kids scoping rims around your car
You know you’ve driven much too far.
But the address is clear with gloves on the sign
And the doctors told you that you’ll do just fine,
So you steady yourself and try to look tough
You push open the door ‘cause enough is enough.

Hoping and groping for something familiar
The scene in the room becomes much clearer.
A beating sound meets your questioning eyes
Making you wish for a better disguise
They see right through your emotionless stare
Your perfect clothes and skin so fair.
A nod from one and then another
As if they knew you like a mother.
How could they know?
How does it show?
Did they feel this way
On their first day?
With fear and some doubt you don’t feel like a fighter,
You take a step forward and hold your gear tighter.

You bought it all, the day you found out
“I’m ready to go,” to your doctors you shout.
Your bag, your gloves, and all of your fear
“I’m ready to go,” you hope they hear.
They all just keep punching, bobbing and weaving,
You decide to step out, but a man sees you leaving.
“You gonna fight or what?” growls a deep voice.
“You fight or you leave, it’s really your choice.
Why come all this way just to look and to run?
No lattes here, missy, you’re not done.
Make no mistake, it’s all about you
You fight this fight, ‘cause watching won’t do.”
By the look on your face he instantly saw
You weren’t gonna hope for the luck of the draw.
You take off your coat, then he wraps your wrists
You lace up your boots, pull gloves on your fists.

You don’t feel like a fighter,
So you hold your gear tighter.
But getting in the ring it’s the only way
Getting in the ring is a price you’ll pay
For love, for hope, for buying time
‘Cause cures and courage they don’t stand in line.

Eyes steel blue and a convincing glance
The man with the voice teaches you to dance.
He says, “I’ll be in your corner to coach every move
I know how to fight, I’ll match every groove
No matter the odds, I know how to win
But you’re a survivor
You’ve got it within.
You’ve won many battles
You needed to fight
But this is the one, girl,
You must win it tonight.”

You don’t feel like a fighter,
So you hold your gear tighter.
But getting in the ring it’s the only way
Getting in the ring is a price you’ll pay
For love, for hope, for buying time
‘Cause cures and courage they don’t stand in line.

The man with blue eyes, he watches you dance
He guides you into a fighting stance.
He says, “I’ll be in your corner to coach every move
I know how to fight, I’ll match every groove
No matter the odds, I know how to win
But you’re a survivor
You’ve got it within.
You’ve won many battles
You needed to fight
But girl, this is the one, this is the one,
You’ve got to win it tonight.

Update: Last week, they found out that the surgery got all the cancer out, but she will have to have CTs and MRIs every four months on her lungs for 3yrs to make sure it doesn't metastize. We are very relieved, with caution.

The Happy Playground

2006-10-27T09:58:00.000-07:00

For those who prefer to sit in the sandbox facing the wall with your own toys (specifically, Bryan), here's a quick edit for you of the previous post. :) I can be uplifting, I just choose to face reality now and then--something that happens when you're a teacher for about, well, 2 days. Fortunately, even though most of us lose hope in the system, we never lose hope in the kids.

We watch cheerful children on flourishing playgrounds
Under blue ceilings painting possibilities beyond our hopes
Beyond our dreams
Opportunity and freedom flowing from coast to coast
From suburbia to ghetto
From heartland to barrio
Where children play on junglejims of opportunity to choose their Destiny

The morality of our forefathers guards our playgrounds with the promise of equality and respect for all
A sandbox filled with harmony and innocence reminds us of where we all began
And of where we are headed because of this playground

Just like our playground--
After-school NBA and Julliard are provided for free by politicians keeping promises
They find resources to change graffiti into art and anger into passion
Here ignorance becomes knowledge and generosity warms our hearts like summer sun

What a beautiful playground--
Custodians dole out balls like jelly beans on Easter, with leftovers
And Congress cuts checks for gymnasiums and P.E. teachers because our children’s health is more important than re-election

This is America’s playground
Where diversity and individuality jumprope without argument
Where academics and the arts hold hands
Where discipline is a virtue not a verb

Under these blue ceilings painting possibilities beyond our hopes and dreams
Knowledge is power
Learning is accessible to all
And teachers hold the tools they need to shape a well-rounded child on a safe, well-equipped playground.

The Playground

2006-10-26T20:12:00.000-07:00

We watch angry children on forgotten playgrounds
Under blue ceilings painting possibilities over grass greener on paper
In books
In Congress
With morality forgotten on swings
Sand crunching underfoot
A reminder of where we began
And of where we end up depending on our playground.

This used to be our playground--
After-school NBA and Julliard for free
Changed by politics crumpling good ideas into smaller spaces,
Safer places,
Crafting smiling faces between graffiti art that stabs conscience in the gut.
Ignorance pleads innocence and greed finds no need
No need.

Where is our playground?
Custodians dole out balls like precious coins
Cashed before recess
Cashed in Congress
And there is no change
No change.

Where is our playground?
Here polarities jumprope without argument
--Refineries and writing
--Murder and math
--Toxins and teachers
--Risks and reading

Under blue ceilings painting possibilities over grass greener on paper
Ignorance finds rest
Greed finds peace
And reality finds a playground guarded by teachers without ammunition.

Special Place

2006-10-25T10:49:00.000-07:00

"Why don't you write something funny?" said my husband, as if humor grows on trees.

"Why don’t you?" I said, and he stared at me with a funny look, like I had just said, “What are you fixing for dinner?” It's the same look he gives me when I can’t find my special place, you know, the one where you put stuff so you don’t forget it? Although mine keeps moving like opinions on election day.

Every special place appears to be the perfect place at the time, a place I’ll never forget, a place logical and obvious, until I look for it. I’m sure I’ll find everything one day, even myself, and it will be in a very special place.

Hat people

2006-10-24T10:13:00.000-07:00

Berkeley is full of hat people, you know, the ones walking to a different drummer, even when there's no music playing. I went to a poetry reading in Bezerkley last night. I expect an eclectic mix of people, and I'm never disappointed, but last night I wondered if one woman, probably in her early 60s, had dressed up for Halloween a little early. Since she wasn't dressed up, I won't go into detail, because I don't want to make fun of her as a person, but suffice to say, she wore a large button on her shirt that said, "Weird and proud of it!" Her jester-type hat with a straw tassel was the most normal thing about her. Her poetry, however, was as spectacular as she was weird.

To Paint or Not To Paint

2006-10-19T18:22:00.000-07:00

We need to paint the house. Nothing like using equity for home upgrades. Why not clothes or vacations! So the first contractor came by to give an estimate today--probably mid-late 60s, reasonable shape, I thought, until he started lamenting that his house has two stories and it is hard to climb the stairs. I'm thinking, Do you know you need to climb a ladder? How long has it been since you did this anyway? Then he said he didn't like to drive his 67 mustang fastback, with its recent 12k paint job, because it isn't automatic and he has neuropathy in his feet. He just can't feel'em or they hurt like hell. He said some days are so bad he doesn't even want to be alive. I'm still thinking, What about the ladders?

Next estimate pleeease!

Did you know it costs 4-6k for a furnace and duct work? I couldn't breathe for about 5 minutes after I heard that!

Coming Undone

2006-10-17T19:26:00.000-07:00

Sometimes we just need to come undone in order to get put back together. After I wrote this to someone else, I realized that I needed to hear it, too.

Coming Undone

Shattered dreams
Cutting at your feet
Broken schemes
Dying on the Street
Always running sideways
Never knowing
It’s okay to come undone.

Don't you know?
You're a mosaic in the making
With rain in bottles breaking
While Destiny keeps on taking
It’s okay to come undone.

Your knees on the ground
So many pieces scattered ‘round
You find familiar faces
Sweeping their own spaces
Fields of loss and pain
No one’s to blame--
Don't worry, you can't drown in this rain
It’s okay to come undone.

Remember--you're a mosaic in the making
With rain in bottles breaking
While Destiny keeps on taking
It’s okay to come undone.

Whistle sounds
Get off the ground
Time to stand
You’ll keep it together, man,
All on board are hiding pain
All masks are on the train
If not now, you’ll catch the next
No penalties, no regrets
It’s okay to come undone because

You're a mosaic in the making
With rain in bottles breaking
While Destiny keeps on taking
It’s okay to come undone.

If you’re gonna keep it together, man
You need to come undone,
Find a time, find a place
A friend, a familiar face,
Surrendering this mask
Is a humble hero’s task, brother,
You’re not the only one,
You’re not the only one,
It’s okay, it's okay to come undone.

ADR copyright 2006

Awesome Day

2006-10-14T15:24:00.000-07:00

I approached the bike store with a few butterflies in my stomach. I wasn't sure who I was supposed to report to, but eventually, a stereotypical mtn biker/surfer dude with orange sunglasses and out-of-control curly hair said, "Hi, I'm Michael, you must be Andi?" I said yes and he proceeded to hand me an information sheet of my duties for the day. "Sign one of the pages on the back and date it when you're done. Oh, and we'll need your fingerprints and your checking account number." I'm so nervous I just kind of nod and give a nervous laugh. And then he says that he's just kidding, and I feel really stupid. But he's cool. He gets me helping with the bikes right away. We need to test them (all 20 of them) before we take 20 inner-city kids on a mtn bike ride. About an hour later we're headed off to meet the kids. The entire day was wonderful. No falls. And one 14-year-old boy learned to ride a bike for the first time, ever. It was so much fun to see the smiles on their faces after the downhill, and again after the uphill because they felt so proud of themselves for doing it.

As we ate our lunch at the beach, I realized most of these kids have never even been to the beach even though they live only 15-30 minutes away. For the kids who have bikes at home, they rarely ride in their neighborhood because it is too dangerous. Here they are safe. Here they are just a bunch of middle-school kids having fun. They're being kids. No attitudes, barely. Lots of smiles. They're even encouraging each other. It was amazing. I also thought about all the Saturdays I spend at home just doing chores and sometimes being lazy, when I could be out doing something like this.

I know what I'll be doing next Saturday. I'll be going for a ride. Not my usual solo ride through the hills near my house, but a ride where I step outside of my comfort zone and help someone learn something as simple and wonderful as riding a bike. Most likely, I'll learn something, too.

If you want to comment on Welcome to Disneyland post

2006-10-13T20:14:00.000-07:00

For some reason, I can't get the comments option to show up for my first post. If you care to comment, feel free to post a comment on The Red Box here.

What's Your Favorite Ride at Disneyland?

2006-10-13T19:21:00.000-07:00

What's your favorite ride at Disneyland? Matterhorn? Teacups? Dumbo? Pirates? Personally, I don't like Disneyland. I don't know if it's all the people or the standing in line, but the ride is never worth the wait. Roller coasters are great, but they just go up and down and around and it's over so fast you're not sure it happened. "Sorry ma'am, no do overs. Get back in line. " Even if no one was standing in line, I think I'd choose the flying dumbos so that I could fly... soaring in midair over all the details below--no seatbelt--not caring what the parents with 3 year olds are thinking about a 40-yr-old woman on a kid's ride. Usually, I end up on the Monorail out of necessity--it gets me where I should go. Afterall, the elephants just go round and round and round. But in a world without shoulds, I'll be riding the flying dumbos everytime. The teacups just make me want to puke and Pirates without Johnny Depp is just creepy!

Welcome to Dandiland and poem

2006-10-13T01:21:00.000-07:00

This is my first post. I finished a poem today that somewhat sets the stage for this blogspot. While this one is serious, there are many sides to a box, some with a much lighter bent. We've all built boxes for ourselves and have had others try to fit us into a certain box. It is a lifelong struggle to live outside of the box without stepping into another one that is possibly more confining than the first. Most of all, we all just want to have at least a little say, a little control, about what happens in our life. Feeling powerless can be suffocating.

The Red Box

If I must run your race
If I must color my face
Within lines drawn by you
If I must cry without tears
And be brave for your fears
I’ll be gray in no time.

So if you’re going to stuff me
Into a box
At least let me paint it red.

If you want me to fit into this box
Much too small if you had looked at me lately
If you want me to crawl in willingly
And endure this pain silently
If you want me to enjoy my view of nothing
Craving light more than life
Living without a fight
I’ll be gray in no time.

So if you’re going to stuff me
Into a box
At least let me paint it red.

This box was built for you
By those who never knew you
Now you want it for me
You think it will keep me free
From bad choices?
Within this box
Inside these locks
My only choice is whether or not to breathe.
I can barely breathe--
I’m sure I’ll be gray in no time.

So if you’re going to stuff me
Into a box
At least let me paint it red.

ADR copyright 2006