Friday, September 19, 2008

Letter to Mom, February 26,1986

Let me relate how Jackie and I coped with her sickness.

You may remember us talking about "wa," the Japanese term for a hard-to-define sensation of personal grace, an area within you that harbors the soul from the awful mordant surprises of life. It's there in all of us, by degrees larger and smaller depending on how much it's exercised, like a muscle. It's not there to deny one's pain or fear but to defuse it, to render it manageable, isolated, contained and ultimately powerless. It somehow ties us in with all of existence, with everything that's ever happened and everything that will happen, let's us look at ourselves from a very lofty vantage point, refreshes us like a psychic splash of fresh spring water.

But essential to this concept is the absolute belief that our lives here are a very tiny part of an infinite whole.

I think the most virulent feature of psychic pain is its omnipresence, the way it looms over everything, travels with us like a silent enemy and lies in wait for us at every turn. But that's only because we let it. In isolating it we've beaten it, like a vicious criminal behind bars without possibility of parole. No one can deny he's still there and as vicious as ever, but we no longer fear him. If he'd been feeding on our fears, he'd die.

Long before Jackie was sick we used this principle to help us through trying times. On a daily, weekly, monthly basis, depending on the amount of stress, one would tell the other to "remember your wa." I can't tell you how much that helped. Blurry fears would come into sharp focus and I could see the little whimpering creature, its fangs and hairy arms and bloody talons no more than a silly costume I had wrapped around it.

When Jackie was diagnosed, we honestly believed she'd live. That belief alone carried us through the early period. But when we knew she was going to die, our concept of "wa" again became critical to us. Even then, writhing in agony and with a fear of death so strong it had an odor, she could step back from herself and regain her "wa" so the pain and fear could become bearable. Not that she could then dance and sing, but by putting the pain back in proportion to her whole being, she could dominate it, realize how small a part it played in the infinite future she could so clearly see. And that's why her "wa" helped her: she could see with more than just her eyes.

Your pain is very real and very potent. You'll never stop missing Jackie or wishing she was still here. Neither will I. Missing our loved ones is our monument to them, the highest honor we can pay them. Memories of pleasant times and wonderful places will always haunt you, as they do me, but hopefully in an eerily beautiful way. And you feel other people's pain as much as your own, a selfless and admirable trait, but one that needs tight discipline to keep it from overcoming you. You, more than anyone I know, needs to develop this sense of "wa." Put your sorrows and pain in their place, know their dimensions and the infinity inside you that- dwarfs them. Feel Jackie within you.

I’m very sensitive to your pain, Mom. I understand it. I don’t mean to preach or sound as though I have the answer. I’m just trying to tell you what I’ve learned in the hope that it may help you. There is peace and tranquility inside us and I call it “infinity.” Look for it. You are a sweet and wonderful woman and I love you.

P.S. Our figurines arrived yesterday intact. They’re absolutely beautiful and we can’t wait to display them under my homebuilt manger next Christmas. I’m going to try to rig up some subtle lighting inside the manger to cast a sublime feel to it. Thank you very much.

Letter to Mom, January 22, 1986

I just finished reading Stones For Ibarra. I understand why you wanted me to read it.

I've tried to address directly in my writing the questions that Jackie's death raised. But I've always had to stop; I can't get beyond its grisly side yet and write metaphors about the carcass that lay beside me.

For example. this paragraph:
"'Some day we'll all be unnecessary,' he thought,looking at her lying stiff-legged on the bed. It had been a long night. Where the dark had left any openings the sound of soft, guttural scratchings and mournful groans had flooded in. He had paced the room all night pleading with her to stop but she, of course, couldn't hear him, He remembered bringing his face up close to hers and seeing the hopelessly cracked lips and the short, short hair, bristly and mean, and her half open eyes staring through him. He had held a cup of water with a straw. He had put the straw in her mouth but she wouldn't clamp down onto it. He knew she needed water. He had to keep the fever down. He had screamed at her, "drink, drink, goddamnit!" but her eyes hadn't even fluttered. She couldn't hear. She couldn't drink. It was Easter Sunday and the smell of fresh flowers and warm earth was in the air."

And then...where could I go from there? Though I wrestle with trying to bring to print the… the what? You see, even here, I can't describe what it was she went through. I'm still too close, the range of emotion is too wide, and the underlying "meaning", if there ever was one, is still obscured by an impenetrable barrier of disintegrating flesh. Life is more dear to me than ever but that thought alone isn't enough to send me into paroxysms of inspiration. So I sit here, frustrated, having to approach by oblique metaphor an experience I'd rather tackle head on, then pick it up off the ground, shake out its meaning and stare at it until it lowers its eyes and submits.

Harriet Doerr wrote about death as if she were a stone that could speak. I don't see any other way it can be done. Death silences its victims and numbs its survivors, leaving around the body an anesthetizing haze and a vacuum that leaves all breathless. Her matter-of-fact tone was so right. When death looms we talk about it in everday language, as though we're planning a vacation or a trip to the store. And everyone knows how absurd it sounds. Jackie’s statement, “I want to go home to die," is so taut, the underlying psychology so confused and brokenhearted, the true meaning so beyond comprehension, that it's almost imbecilic to think that those seven short words could even begin to convey what it really means. But, of course, words are our only tools for expression, however inappropriate or inadequate they may be. Maybe if telepathy were possible and our emotions could flow between us like tides, unsullied by the mechanics of language, we wouldn't cry anymore frustrated by our inability to show truly how much we love someone. Maybe that's not so good.

We are doing well in Wolftown. As I told you before, every time I look at the pineapples in the foyer I think of you. That's a lot of thinking. I reckon we'll have to wait and see about the launch. We're planning on going down there anyway to go sailing with Bob. Since you'll probably hear something before we will, please let us know. Corey is doing very well. We still chuckle thinking about her experience with Santa, her unabashed joy, and her question, "How did he know?!"

Monday, July 21, 2008

Mom's look...

...the one at the moment of her death, when she lifted her head slightly, grimaced, and sank back to the pillow with a last breath and a sigh. I think it about it every couple of days. It always brings me up short. I honestly don't know what to make of it. I can posture about it; that it was like the frisson we get at the top of the roller coaster just before it falls, or it was her fear of entering the vast unknown ignorant of what is about to come, or just her mouth muscles contracting in a death rictus -- and nothing more. Or my discomfort may be rooted in what happens to those who witness the act of death when life seems to escape into thin air. I will never know or, if I do, won't be able to share what I learned. I think my distress stems from the fear that at that supreme moment, when every sentient being who has ever lived with a generous heart surely must earn the right to die in peace, she did not. But that must be wrong. It must be.

Saturday, July 05, 2008

Mom is gone


Mom died peacefully yesterday at 6:21pm in her home surrounded by family. Lori, our hospice nurse, said that even though Mom wasn't responsive near the end, she could hear us. So we talked to her a great deal as the hours winded down. I was giving her morphine to ease her breathing and later atropine drops in her mouth for the growing congestion. We would stroke her hair, hold her hand, and occasionally swab her drying lips with a soothing solution. When she no longer responded to the knuckle-in-the-chest stimuli, we knew she was almost in the next place. Her breath grew more labored and slowed. Only minutes remained. We told her it was okay to go. Her eyes began to open and she slowly scanned the room, looking at everyone. She looked directly at me for some moments. I whispered in her ear, "it will be wonderful. It's okay Mom. You can go now." Soon, her breathing slowed and stopped momentarily. She then raised her head slightly and with a slight grimace that trembled with determination and sadness, she closed her eyes, lay back on her pillow, and was gone. Aside from the muffled sobs of our family, all was quiet. Dad sat on his walker, tears streaming down his face, and blessed everyone in the room for being there for Essie. In that small room, Grant, Louise, Susie, Corey, Rachel, Justin, Dad, and me saw Mom go peacefully and with great dignity exactly where she wanted to be.

Later, after we had cleaned up the room and the funeral people had removed the body for later cremation, we went out on the balcony overlooking the city. We could see and hear the July 4th fireworks at McIntire park, cheering what we saw as a colorful and noisy celebration of Mom's life. We all agreed that such a day is a fine one for a loved one to go. As it happens, our dear Nora's mother died eight years ago on July 4th at about the same time of day. Now, when the next July 4th rolls around, we can think of both of our moms enjoying peace as we celebrate the life they shared with us. That's a nice gift.

Friday, June 20, 2008

Mom is dying II

As I entered their apartment for my daily visit, Dad was sitting a the kitchen table, a half-eaten sandwich by his elbow. He was reading the paper waiting for our hospice nurse, Laurie, to arrive. He was in good spirits as always, but frank in his assessment at Mom's condition. She couldn't turn the light on last night to go to the bathroom, became disoriented, and sat on the floor not knowing where to go. He had helped her up (I didn't want to know how).

I went into their bedroom to see if she was awake. She was laying asleep on her side, her left hand cramped up like a claw. Her breath came in shallow, irregular gasps, and she had a pained look on her face and a light bruise on her upper arm.

Laurie arrived and we talked about the course of treatment so far, and then visited Mom. Laurie explained to Mom how they will keep her comfortable. She explained why the cancer was so evidently painful right now. Mom watched her intently, flat on her back, her eyes still alive with movement, the rest of her body lifeless. She has gone downhill very fast. She speaks only in whispers, and it comes out unintelligible at times. I followed Laurie out of the room when she went to make some calls to get more supplies. I asked her, what did she think. Laurie gives her less than month, especially since we will be using morphine for pain and respiratory help. That tends to put the patient on the quick road to the end.

During all this, I at times stroked the bottom of Mom's feet, and the top of her head, and she held my hand tightly when I stayed by her side. As usual, she worried about what food we will have this weekend (Grant, Louise, Corey, Justin, and us Wolftownees will be there) and that she was interrupting our schedules. She is Mom to the last. I told her that SHE was our schedule and to not be with her would interrupt it. Waves of weeping kept trying to break through the thin membrane of my eyeballs; with great difficulty I pushed them back.

I don't think she will last much longer than a week. I called Bro to let him know so that Hilary could get an earlier plane here to see her before the end. I think she plans to be here on Monday to  join Corey and Rachel visiting with her.


Thursday, June 19, 2008

"Another A-Plus Day"

That is my dear, sweet father describing this day. The hospice people visited and officially brought Mom into their program. "Another" refers to yesterday when her oncologist assured us that Mom would feel no pain as she deteriorates, would have no putrid exterior tumors to befoul the air around her, and that hospice would indeed be available.

First, this shows my father in his true light. He sees nothing but the best in people, he feels nothing but the deepest love for his family, he generates happiness to everyone around him. He bounces with energy, even with his recent broken hip that had to be surgically reconstructed. Second, his true nature represents the very essence of the human spirit, if allowed to roam. We can find joy even in our darkest hours if we only allow ourselves to see it. Imagine for just one moment that you are ecstatic because you won't have "putrid exterior tumors befouling the air around you." WooooHOOOO! Does it get any better than that?

So, what were you just worried about?

As Mom dies, she and Dad teach me. Death itself, life's best teacher, is teaching all of us.

Wednesday, June 18, 2008

Mom is dying I


Last Friday, tests confirmed that Mom's earlier breast cancer has metastasized. It is now in her lungs, liver, bone, and lymph nodes. Already suffering from COPD and tired of living, Mom sees the diagnosis as a form of relief. Before, she could see no end in sight, other than one self-inflicted. COPD does not kill. It maims, slowly and relentlessly. Now, she is on a path with a more definite outcome, both in terms of cause and date. She has become more focused. She is not afraid of dying. She repeated that to me yesterday, but she about broke my heart with her next sentence. Speaking in a tiny voice, her lower lip trembling and eyes moistening, she said only, "But I'm sad." I stroked her head, pushing some strands of hair off her face, my own eyes tearing up. I could only respond, "I know." And I do. She is already missing her full life, her loved ones, the boys she loved and raised, the whirlwind world tours with Dad and the deep love they share. I know that the same kind of sadness will likely engulf me when my time comes. Her simple statement confirmed that. It resonated deeply.

I see as if yesterday her brilliant smile, the young, stylish, beautiful, vivacious mother, her reddish-blonde hair blowing in the breeze on the shore of the Long Island Sound. I see her profile in the driver's seat as she drove me down Route 11 deep into Virginia and Briar Hills, and feel the homesickness as she disappeared down the dirt road on the way back. I can chuckle at her contrariness that lurked barely beneath the surface of her suburban housewife facade. She is a brilliant woman who, had she lived in a later age, could have become a respected professional in any number of careers. She knows that, and it has rankled her for as long as I can remember. Sometimes the resentment would bubble up, but her love for Dad and his for her always won out. It was the salve that soothed the abundant inequities she endured as an accomplished woman in a man's world.

Monday, April 28, 2008

Rachel's first song


Racheo just recorded her first song, yet to be named, and one that the two of us will be working on once she gets home for the summer. The chord progression --D Asus Em G Em D -- makes nice use of a "sus" type chord which begs for resolution from the fourth to the third. It's both sweet and longing, and very satisfying. And this is her Itunes album artwork, taken some years ago, where she presciently strums a D.

Tuesday, February 12, 2008

On Barack


Last summer, I cut a path around the perimeter of the property as a walking trail. My GPS receiver logged the distance at a little less than a mile. To keep in shape, I walk the perimeter four times every other day or so. It is a nice heart pumper with great ups and downs. I listen to a book tape on my Ipod, breathe in the air, and gaze at the distant mountains from which it flows. It's one of the profound joys of living here. I think about it every day as I walk out the door; how lucky I am to be here, both in Wolftown and on this pretty blue/green planet suspended like a bauble upon the torqued ionic skeleton of the universe's dark matter. Our cosmic neighbors, such as they are, will never know us unless through a worm hole. Newtonian point-to-point distances, even at light speed. simply won't allow a living organism to visit us, much less find us. So, we're pretty much alone. Since we have only each other as company, shouldn't we try to do a better job understanding that?

Which brings me to Barack. He called me last night. This is Virginia after all, and we're kind of important to him right now [Primary day - ed.]. I listened to his message, his intonations, the unadulterated humanity in his voice. For some reason, it made me think how we're too often caught up in our own daily lives to remember a fundamental fact. When you match the squabbles of the human race with the size and scale of the universe in which we live, our monumental pettiness (great oxymoron, eh?) clearly emerges. Our successes, our failures, our wars and peaces, our structures and cities and political divisions mean nothing in comparison to the simple fact of life itself; that great ongoing experiment that unites every living being throughout the universe in a common experience, whatever its corporeal reality, wherever it may be. That's what all great religious traditions understood before their adherents screwed it up over time. It is only our dreams and visions that link each of us to the other, however distant in space/time. In fact, the only thing faster than the speed of light is the life force itself, which doesn't move at all. It just is, everywhere, and it serves us well to experience that every so often. Look deeply into a wildflower and feel the emanations of life eternal.

Now, I don't mean to wax too philosophical about Barack, although it looks like I already have. But I do believe he has a perspective broader and wiser than any leader that I can remember. I think he understands "life." It's not his resume' or his record (however important) so much as it is his words, and eyes, and tone. It's more what I feel rather than what I think (though I clearly favor his platform and progressive agenda). I've forgotten who an ancient Roman was comparing to Cicero, but he said something like "when Cicero speaks I marvel at his oratory; when <insert name> speaks, I want to march." That's what Barack does for me. I want to march And it's what he has done for others his entire life. He's not a flash in the pan.

I voted for him today. I hope he sweeps these primaries and the others leading up to Texas and Ohio. I think if he does, and even if he loses slightly in Texas and Ohio, the momentum will force the super delegates to abandon the Clinton campaign and acknowledge the obvious. He will have proven to be the best nominee the Dems have, and he will overwhelm McCain. I look forward to the debates about the war and health care. McCain's position is simply unsupportable in the face of reality and the desires of the American public. He will get crushed, and only the "dead-enders" (to throw back at the Republicans the phrase used by Rumsfeld, the prick) will agree with him.

But even more, Barack will be a leader who will elevate the conversation, who will inspire America again, and who will show the world that we're not dark, paranoid, torturing douchebags. Only the Bushies were, and they will be gone.