I like talking about myself. Sorry if this bores you.
This week, I had my first ever acupuncture session. It was amazing. I felt so good afterwards. I felt like I was doing exactly the right thing for my body. And then my doctor called.
Doctor G. My hematologist. He called me from his cell phone. Not his nurse - she didn't call. Not his receptionist. Not from an office phone. From his cell phone, my hematologist himself called me. No nonsense-like he told me my platelet count is down.
I know what that means. It means do something quick or end up in the hospital as a Fall Risk. Which means I'm not supposed to walk from my bed to the bathroom without accompaniment. Because if I fall, I could hemorrhage. Death could ensue. Or a big mess. Either way, no fun.
I may have mentioned in the past that I have an autoimmune condition. ITP. Idiopathic thrombocytopenic purpura. Kind of rolls right off the tongue, doesn't it? It is also known as Immune thrombocytopenic purpura. I like Idiopathic best. It suggests how little doctors know about this condition. One thing that is a given, it dramatically decreases one's platelet count thus increasing one's risk of internal hemorrhage or bleeding out. Neither of which sounds particularly attractive to me.
Auto immune conditions are complicated. Their symptoms can be triggered by stress or by another illness. Such as a bad cold. If you leave a trace of your snotty nose on a countertop and I am unfortunate enough to make contact with this snot and develop a full-fledged cold, I will undoubtedly experience a drop in my platelet count. So I try really hard not to get sick.
Unfortunately for me, I have been experiencing a severe eczema attack (also an auto immune condition) for the past several months. My body is so tired of working to get rid of the eczema that my platelet count has dropped. And this is the big fat double whammy thank-you very much.
Doctor G is great. I had an annual check-up with him this week and he saw the rash on my hand and on my chest and was greatly concerned. He ordered blood work. He contacted me immediately upon getting the results. He says to me, "you're not gonna like this," because he knows me well. "You're not gonna like this, but I'm gonna put you on steroids. 60 mg. It should clear up the rash and jump start your platelet count. We'll check your blood in a week. But till then, don't climb any ladders or swing from any chandeliers." I said, "Well there goes my fun this weekend." "Yeah, I figured," he says.
Dr. G is going to retire next year on April Fool's Day. That's the kind of doctor he is. He dresses up on Halloween in a hospital gown with a big fake ass poking out the back. He plays banjo. Never misses Merlefest. When I asked him if he celebrated St. Patrick's Day, he said, "Oh yeah. Any ethnic group that likes to party, I celebrate."
So, I'm going to miss Dr. G. Because he is smart, funny, compassionate...all the things a good caregiver should be. But for now, I'm glad I'm still in his care.
My acupuncturist says it would be best to wait till after I stop taking steroids to have another treatment. I respect that. Eastern and Western medicine often don't blend well. And my whole ITP career has been one of walking a tightrope between treatment options and self care. It's been quite the journey. And while in the past I hated my body for it, today, I actually love my body for it. Because through the ITP experience I have learned so many important lessons about loving myself no matter what and respecting my body and its process. No matter what.
I like talking about myself. A lot. But I do so in the hope that it might brighten someone's day somehow. That I might somehow convey a tiny bit of meaning. That I might offer solidarity to another person experiencing bizarre bodily trials.
I am grateful for the journey. And thanks, Dr. G.
Showing posts with label death. Show all posts
Showing posts with label death. Show all posts
Friday, March 22, 2019
Thursday, November 30, 2017
The Sad Fate of Sally or Petey Possum
These days, I have so many tears lying just beneath the surface. So many. And there are not enough opportunities to allow these tears to flow. As much as I want or need to cry, I just can't.
One morning I was sitting on my front porch and a very large crow landed in the dogwood tree in our front yard. He was raising a ruckus about something. He faced the street in front of our house and ceaselessly cawed. I talk to crows because they are so smart, I believe they understand me. At the very least, I think they can tell by the tone of my voice that I love them and I mean them no harm. So I asked the crow, "Do you have something to tell me?" He remained on the branch of the dogwood tree for a few more seconds yelling at the street and then he flew away.
I sat there, taking in the crisp morning air when I noticed something on the street. I put on my glasses and discovered it was a dead possum.
I went inside, put on some gloves and got a plastic bag in order to collect the possum's body. As I went outside, I noticed the person across the street in their car getting ready to back out of their driveway. This would almost certainly have caused further ruination to the poor possum's body. I rushed over to the possum's side, holding up my hand for the person to stop. Which they did. I gathered the body in the plastic bag. It was not completely taken by the process of rigor mortis. The blood was bright red. It seemed to me that this possum had been hit fairly recently.
I carried her lifeless body to the backyard and began digging a grave underneath a giant pine tree. I kept hitting roots and decided to dig around them. In this way, I sculpted an earthen cradle with a canopy of roots. I burned some sage and smoked the newly dug environs. I burned a candle and dropped some tobacco into the hole as a blessing. I removed the possum from the plastic, wrapped her in soft red cloth and tucked her into her resting place. She seemed comfortable there. As I covered her body with dirt, I began to cry. I apologized for the harsh end to which her life had come. I thanked her for her life. I told her I love her. And the tears flowed.
Once her body was covered, I heaped a pile of pine needles on top of her grave and placed some pine cones across the top. I put a piece of a cinder block at the foot of the grave. A fence stands at her head. So it is as if she has a headboard and a footboard to her bed underneath the tall pine tree in our backyard.
Towards the end of winter this year, I was awakened by a very rambunctious crow right outside my bedroom window. I dressed to go outside and see what the commotion was about. I discovered the crow was yelling at a possum in a tree. This went on for a long time, long enough for me to grab my phone and make a video of it. It seemed to me that the crow did not like the possum very much and was telling it to go away. The possum seemed nonplussed. Eventually the crow flew away and the possum ambled down out of the tree and on her way.
In the Spring, a baby possum found her way into our house. There was evidence that she had been making nightly stops to feast on dog food left in a bowl on the kitchen floor. My ally captured her and put her in a cardboard box with a little towel and some bits of food. We pondered what to do with her. Ultimately, we simply set her free in our backyard, which, even though we live by a street that is frequented by automobiles, provides a nice habitat for possums and rabbits and the like.
The next night, she returned. We captured her again, and again we set her free in the morning. I named this baby possum Sweet Sally Possum. I loved her. My ally and I continued this catch and release ritual with Sally until my ally decided it was time to set her free in a park. He captured her in a Have-a-Heart trap and drove her to a nice park with lots of trees and a stream running through it. I was a little bit sad about this move. At least if she remained in our backyard she would be safe, I thought. There was no harm in having her come in for dog food treats, I thought. I tried leaving dog food treats for her in the backyard. But if I failed at my task, she would return to the dog food bowl in the kitchen.
After Sally was taken away, another possum began to come in. He liked to show his teeth more than Sally, so I named him Petey. We played catch and release with Petey a few times before my ally drove him to the park as well.
I relate the story of the crow and possum and of Sally and Petey to you because I find it meaningful that this year has been bookmarked by episodes including them. A crow yelling at a possum in a tree, a crow yelling at a possum in the street, baby possums hanging out in our backyard, making nightly visits, and an adult possum buried in our backyard under a tall pine tree. There is no way to know if the possum I buried was Petey or Sally. But I honor them daily as I visit the possum's grave. The possums and the crows ushered in delight and tears. Both are necessary for my survival. I am grateful for this passage of time demarked by these beings and the quiet moments shared with Possum and Crow.
One morning I was sitting on my front porch and a very large crow landed in the dogwood tree in our front yard. He was raising a ruckus about something. He faced the street in front of our house and ceaselessly cawed. I talk to crows because they are so smart, I believe they understand me. At the very least, I think they can tell by the tone of my voice that I love them and I mean them no harm. So I asked the crow, "Do you have something to tell me?" He remained on the branch of the dogwood tree for a few more seconds yelling at the street and then he flew away.
I sat there, taking in the crisp morning air when I noticed something on the street. I put on my glasses and discovered it was a dead possum.
I went inside, put on some gloves and got a plastic bag in order to collect the possum's body. As I went outside, I noticed the person across the street in their car getting ready to back out of their driveway. This would almost certainly have caused further ruination to the poor possum's body. I rushed over to the possum's side, holding up my hand for the person to stop. Which they did. I gathered the body in the plastic bag. It was not completely taken by the process of rigor mortis. The blood was bright red. It seemed to me that this possum had been hit fairly recently.
I carried her lifeless body to the backyard and began digging a grave underneath a giant pine tree. I kept hitting roots and decided to dig around them. In this way, I sculpted an earthen cradle with a canopy of roots. I burned some sage and smoked the newly dug environs. I burned a candle and dropped some tobacco into the hole as a blessing. I removed the possum from the plastic, wrapped her in soft red cloth and tucked her into her resting place. She seemed comfortable there. As I covered her body with dirt, I began to cry. I apologized for the harsh end to which her life had come. I thanked her for her life. I told her I love her. And the tears flowed.
Once her body was covered, I heaped a pile of pine needles on top of her grave and placed some pine cones across the top. I put a piece of a cinder block at the foot of the grave. A fence stands at her head. So it is as if she has a headboard and a footboard to her bed underneath the tall pine tree in our backyard.
~~~
Towards the end of winter this year, I was awakened by a very rambunctious crow right outside my bedroom window. I dressed to go outside and see what the commotion was about. I discovered the crow was yelling at a possum in a tree. This went on for a long time, long enough for me to grab my phone and make a video of it. It seemed to me that the crow did not like the possum very much and was telling it to go away. The possum seemed nonplussed. Eventually the crow flew away and the possum ambled down out of the tree and on her way.
In the Spring, a baby possum found her way into our house. There was evidence that she had been making nightly stops to feast on dog food left in a bowl on the kitchen floor. My ally captured her and put her in a cardboard box with a little towel and some bits of food. We pondered what to do with her. Ultimately, we simply set her free in our backyard, which, even though we live by a street that is frequented by automobiles, provides a nice habitat for possums and rabbits and the like.
The next night, she returned. We captured her again, and again we set her free in the morning. I named this baby possum Sweet Sally Possum. I loved her. My ally and I continued this catch and release ritual with Sally until my ally decided it was time to set her free in a park. He captured her in a Have-a-Heart trap and drove her to a nice park with lots of trees and a stream running through it. I was a little bit sad about this move. At least if she remained in our backyard she would be safe, I thought. There was no harm in having her come in for dog food treats, I thought. I tried leaving dog food treats for her in the backyard. But if I failed at my task, she would return to the dog food bowl in the kitchen.
After Sally was taken away, another possum began to come in. He liked to show his teeth more than Sally, so I named him Petey. We played catch and release with Petey a few times before my ally drove him to the park as well.
I relate the story of the crow and possum and of Sally and Petey to you because I find it meaningful that this year has been bookmarked by episodes including them. A crow yelling at a possum in a tree, a crow yelling at a possum in the street, baby possums hanging out in our backyard, making nightly visits, and an adult possum buried in our backyard under a tall pine tree. There is no way to know if the possum I buried was Petey or Sally. But I honor them daily as I visit the possum's grave. The possums and the crows ushered in delight and tears. Both are necessary for my survival. I am grateful for this passage of time demarked by these beings and the quiet moments shared with Possum and Crow.
Friday, May 5, 2017
How I Buried a Crow
Soupy Sales and I were taking a walk around the block. It was a strange walk. I found myself becoming progressively fuzzy-headed with each step. It was as if I was falling asleep as I walked. It became so overwhelming, this sense of sleep-walking, that I thought I would spread a blanket out on the grass when I returned home and stretch out under the sun to nap.
As we came down the final stretch of our walk, I spotted a dead crow on the road in front of my next-door neighbor's house. I squatted down to look at her. I reflected on this life, now lifeless, and was filled with sorrow and gratitude.
I put Soupy inside the house and pondered how to bury this crow. I needed something to wrap her in. I discarded my immediate thought of a plastic bag in deference to a piece of fabric. Red, I thought. So I went to my store of fabric and found two pieces of red. I chose the brighter of the two. What else did I need? It occurred to me that it would be nice to have tobacco and cornmeal, neither of which I had on hand. I don't know why this occurred to me except that it is the sort of thing offered in Native American rituals. I considered going to the store right down the street from me to purchase these things. But it seemed to me that I needed to initiate the burial immediately and not when certain conditions were in place.
I scouted a spot in my back yard that I thought would make a nice burial site for the crow. I gathered a bundle of sage, a candle, which I lit, a seashell and a stone to leave on the grave, and took these to the burial site. I then prepared to gather the body. I thought for a moment about taking a feather from the crow. And then I wondered if that would be disrespectful. I would like to have the feather in case I needed to include it in a dreamcatcher I might make for someone...someone who might need some crow medicine.
In Native American traditions, Crow is the keeper of sacred law. Human law - including the dictates of any orthodox religion - is all an illusion. Crow sees that there is a higher order of right and wrong that guides us. This does not match the laws created by human beings. Crow signifies that "all things are born of women." Crow sees inner and outer reality simultaneously. Crow merges Light and Darkness. Crow empowers us to follow our inner sense of harmony and justice in our daily lives.
I decided that if I cut off a lock of my hair and give it to Crow, then I could take a feather in good conscience. So I grabbed a pair of scissors and removed a thick lock of hair. I placed it in the red fabric and went outside to collect the crow's body.
I knelt down and put the fabric around the crow. I held her for a moment and admired her beauty. Her talons, her feathers, her face. Then, I noticed a feather, a solitary crow feather, on the road next to the curb. A tiny bit of blood was inside the tip. I paused with gratitude. I would not need to pluck a feather from the crow's body. I wrapped the red fabric around her, completely enclosing her body, and carried her to her burial site.
There was a wooden step that had come loose from something laying beside the burial site. I laid the body on it while I dug the grave. In preparation for digging, I lit my bundle of sage by the candle and allowed its rich smoke to permeate my senses. I waved the burning bundle around the area where I was about to dig, around myself, around the crow.
I dug the grave. There were no tree roots in the area I had chosen. The soil was damp and soft. The grave was dug quickly and easily.
I re-lit the sage and held it down inside the grave, allowing the smoke to waft up along its walls. I encircled the crow's body with smoke from the burning bundle as I thanked her for her life. I thanked her for her beauty and her wisdom. For her guidance. For her mystery. For her medicine.
I felt tears welling up inside me. My inner editor said it was silly to cry over a dead crow. I allowed myself to ignore the inner editor. I allowed my tears to flow. I said to the crow the Ho'oponopono mantra: I'm sorry. Please forgive me. I love you. Thank-you. I repeated this for myself and for all humanity.
I placed the crow's body into the grave. I took a handful of earth and sprinkled it over her body. I did this again and again, breaking up dirt clods with my fingers. I found a rock the length of my hand in the pile of dirt. I brushed it off and set it aside. I found another rock that fit into the palm of my hand. I set it aside. After all the loose dirt and been piled on top of the crow, I placed the larger rock at the crow's head and the smaller one at her feet. I placed the shell with the stone inside it on the middle of the grave. I left the bundle of sage to burn out on its own. And that is how I buried a crow on a sunny afternoon as my mind went from fuzzy to clear.
As we came down the final stretch of our walk, I spotted a dead crow on the road in front of my next-door neighbor's house. I squatted down to look at her. I reflected on this life, now lifeless, and was filled with sorrow and gratitude.
I put Soupy inside the house and pondered how to bury this crow. I needed something to wrap her in. I discarded my immediate thought of a plastic bag in deference to a piece of fabric. Red, I thought. So I went to my store of fabric and found two pieces of red. I chose the brighter of the two. What else did I need? It occurred to me that it would be nice to have tobacco and cornmeal, neither of which I had on hand. I don't know why this occurred to me except that it is the sort of thing offered in Native American rituals. I considered going to the store right down the street from me to purchase these things. But it seemed to me that I needed to initiate the burial immediately and not when certain conditions were in place.
I scouted a spot in my back yard that I thought would make a nice burial site for the crow. I gathered a bundle of sage, a candle, which I lit, a seashell and a stone to leave on the grave, and took these to the burial site. I then prepared to gather the body. I thought for a moment about taking a feather from the crow. And then I wondered if that would be disrespectful. I would like to have the feather in case I needed to include it in a dreamcatcher I might make for someone...someone who might need some crow medicine.
In Native American traditions, Crow is the keeper of sacred law. Human law - including the dictates of any orthodox religion - is all an illusion. Crow sees that there is a higher order of right and wrong that guides us. This does not match the laws created by human beings. Crow signifies that "all things are born of women." Crow sees inner and outer reality simultaneously. Crow merges Light and Darkness. Crow empowers us to follow our inner sense of harmony and justice in our daily lives.
I decided that if I cut off a lock of my hair and give it to Crow, then I could take a feather in good conscience. So I grabbed a pair of scissors and removed a thick lock of hair. I placed it in the red fabric and went outside to collect the crow's body.
I knelt down and put the fabric around the crow. I held her for a moment and admired her beauty. Her talons, her feathers, her face. Then, I noticed a feather, a solitary crow feather, on the road next to the curb. A tiny bit of blood was inside the tip. I paused with gratitude. I would not need to pluck a feather from the crow's body. I wrapped the red fabric around her, completely enclosing her body, and carried her to her burial site.
There was a wooden step that had come loose from something laying beside the burial site. I laid the body on it while I dug the grave. In preparation for digging, I lit my bundle of sage by the candle and allowed its rich smoke to permeate my senses. I waved the burning bundle around the area where I was about to dig, around myself, around the crow.
I dug the grave. There were no tree roots in the area I had chosen. The soil was damp and soft. The grave was dug quickly and easily.
I re-lit the sage and held it down inside the grave, allowing the smoke to waft up along its walls. I encircled the crow's body with smoke from the burning bundle as I thanked her for her life. I thanked her for her beauty and her wisdom. For her guidance. For her mystery. For her medicine.
I felt tears welling up inside me. My inner editor said it was silly to cry over a dead crow. I allowed myself to ignore the inner editor. I allowed my tears to flow. I said to the crow the Ho'oponopono mantra: I'm sorry. Please forgive me. I love you. Thank-you. I repeated this for myself and for all humanity.
I placed the crow's body into the grave. I took a handful of earth and sprinkled it over her body. I did this again and again, breaking up dirt clods with my fingers. I found a rock the length of my hand in the pile of dirt. I brushed it off and set it aside. I found another rock that fit into the palm of my hand. I set it aside. After all the loose dirt and been piled on top of the crow, I placed the larger rock at the crow's head and the smaller one at her feet. I placed the shell with the stone inside it on the middle of the grave. I left the bundle of sage to burn out on its own. And that is how I buried a crow on a sunny afternoon as my mind went from fuzzy to clear.
Tuesday, September 27, 2016
In Honor Of Sarah and Beautiful Women Everywhere
Today is Sarah Browder's death day. In commemorating her existence and her untimely passage,
I have some thoughts that I 'd like to peck out.
People who knew her will say Sarah was a free spirit. She was loving and generous. She was creative and funny. I saw Sarah's fragility. She tried so hard to cover it up with her raucous laughter, her flirtatiousness, her drinking. I worried about her. Rather than embrace her tender heart and guard it carefully, she held her heart wide open, embracing everyone equally. And when you do this, your heart inevitably gets trampled on the ground. Like a tiny bug under a bully's foot. Like a flower in a cow pasture. Sarah got stomped on.
She was resilient, though. It broke my heart to watch her weep in a pile of despondency at night and get up the next morning, laughing, getting ready to do it all over again: to set herself up for more heart stomp by loving fully and passionately regardless of the way others treated her.
I did not like being surprised by the news that she had married. It seemed to have happened in secrecy and this put me on alert. This was trouble, I felt. It was nearly impossible to talk Sarah into doing anything she didn't want to do or out of doing something she wanted to do. Any way, it was too late. I hoped that she would realize soon enough that she'd made a mistake and dissolve this marriage. I didn't even know the guy. I just had a feeling.
I never told Sarah that.
I rarely saw Sarah after she married. And I never met her husband. Kirk. Kirk Harris. A marine. Son of a doctor in Winston-Salem.
The night that Kirk shot her, she had been at the Silver Moon Saloon where a mutual friend worked. He had seen Sarah and Kirk that night. He said Sarah seemed the same as always. And Kirk seemed the same as always: a dick. My friend the bartender had met Kirk, so he could say that.
There are things I wonder about. I can't help it. Kirk shot Sarah in the throat and the shoulder as she was running away from him. His bullets severed Sarah's spinal chord. Had she lived, she would have been paralyzed from the neck down. Her larynx was damaged. She could not speak. She laid in the cool damp grass of predawn before anyone noticed her. Alone and wounded in the grass for what must have seemed like eternity to her. Where was her mind? What was she thinking after this traumatic event? After the man who swore to love and protect her shot her? And after he shot himself and died in the driveway across the street? Did she realize he had shot himself?
How did she look in the hospital, without her usual purple eye shadow and eyeliner? Was her face injured from the bullets? How much did her body hurt? How was her emotional state when the marines came in to tell her that her husband had died of a self inflicted gunshot wound? Was she comforted by her parents, by her sister and brother?
Kirk got off easy. Sarah lingered in the ICU for four days before she died. It was all so unfair. So wrong.
I wish I could have seen her one last time to tell her I loved her. I wish I could say that I'm sorry I never came to get that haircut from her when she was in cosmetology school. I wish she hadn't died at all. I wish she hadn't married. I wish I'd kept her under my wing and protected her.
Wishing is a form of magical thinking that we believe does some good. It really doesn't. All wishing does is torment the wisher.
I write these words with fondness, sorrow, love and gratitude. Women everywhere: you are smart. You are beautiful. You are well loved. You have a unique reason for being here. Treasure your heart. Do not allow any mistreatment of your body or emotions to transpire. Stand up for your beauty, for your wisdom, for your strength. Be everything all at once. Be free. Be happy.
I love you.
I have some thoughts that I 'd like to peck out.
People who knew her will say Sarah was a free spirit. She was loving and generous. She was creative and funny. I saw Sarah's fragility. She tried so hard to cover it up with her raucous laughter, her flirtatiousness, her drinking. I worried about her. Rather than embrace her tender heart and guard it carefully, she held her heart wide open, embracing everyone equally. And when you do this, your heart inevitably gets trampled on the ground. Like a tiny bug under a bully's foot. Like a flower in a cow pasture. Sarah got stomped on.
She was resilient, though. It broke my heart to watch her weep in a pile of despondency at night and get up the next morning, laughing, getting ready to do it all over again: to set herself up for more heart stomp by loving fully and passionately regardless of the way others treated her.
I did not like being surprised by the news that she had married. It seemed to have happened in secrecy and this put me on alert. This was trouble, I felt. It was nearly impossible to talk Sarah into doing anything she didn't want to do or out of doing something she wanted to do. Any way, it was too late. I hoped that she would realize soon enough that she'd made a mistake and dissolve this marriage. I didn't even know the guy. I just had a feeling.
I never told Sarah that.
I rarely saw Sarah after she married. And I never met her husband. Kirk. Kirk Harris. A marine. Son of a doctor in Winston-Salem.
The night that Kirk shot her, she had been at the Silver Moon Saloon where a mutual friend worked. He had seen Sarah and Kirk that night. He said Sarah seemed the same as always. And Kirk seemed the same as always: a dick. My friend the bartender had met Kirk, so he could say that.
There are things I wonder about. I can't help it. Kirk shot Sarah in the throat and the shoulder as she was running away from him. His bullets severed Sarah's spinal chord. Had she lived, she would have been paralyzed from the neck down. Her larynx was damaged. She could not speak. She laid in the cool damp grass of predawn before anyone noticed her. Alone and wounded in the grass for what must have seemed like eternity to her. Where was her mind? What was she thinking after this traumatic event? After the man who swore to love and protect her shot her? And after he shot himself and died in the driveway across the street? Did she realize he had shot himself?
How did she look in the hospital, without her usual purple eye shadow and eyeliner? Was her face injured from the bullets? How much did her body hurt? How was her emotional state when the marines came in to tell her that her husband had died of a self inflicted gunshot wound? Was she comforted by her parents, by her sister and brother?
Kirk got off easy. Sarah lingered in the ICU for four days before she died. It was all so unfair. So wrong.
I wish I could have seen her one last time to tell her I loved her. I wish I could say that I'm sorry I never came to get that haircut from her when she was in cosmetology school. I wish she hadn't died at all. I wish she hadn't married. I wish I'd kept her under my wing and protected her.
Wishing is a form of magical thinking that we believe does some good. It really doesn't. All wishing does is torment the wisher.
I write these words with fondness, sorrow, love and gratitude. Women everywhere: you are smart. You are beautiful. You are well loved. You have a unique reason for being here. Treasure your heart. Do not allow any mistreatment of your body or emotions to transpire. Stand up for your beauty, for your wisdom, for your strength. Be everything all at once. Be free. Be happy.
I love you.
Friday, March 4, 2016
The Abortion That Lived
It was unheard of. Uncanny. But I know an abortion who lived. He walks the streets angrily, fists clenched, jaw taut, eyes narrowed. He trusts no one and hates with a passion. His children are frightened of his wrath. They move tentatively as if they are made of glass and afraid of shattering into a thousand pieces. I have never seen his wife.
It is not his fault, really. He was never meant to exist in this world. His mother aborted him as a young fetus because he was formed as a result of non-consensual intercourse between her and her older brother. That is to say, his mother was raped by a person who was supposed to care for her. She was thirteen.
The young girl who was the unintended mother of this abomination of a man, went to one of those places that no longer exists: an abortion clinic. She was treated well there. Tenderly in fact. The women who attended her were loving and supportive. The doctor performing the abortion had no doubt in his mind that aborting this fetus was the correct and proper course of action. He was glad to help this young girl. When she returned home, however, she was shamefully treated by her father and her brother. Their contempt of her weighed heavily on her for years until she managed to escape their fold.
There must have been some force present in the unborn child - a hatred exceeding all hatred - which kept it alive in a pile of biological refuse. It thrived on the bloodied discarded dressings from other people's wounds. It fed on trauma and fear. It had no alternative really. When it was large enough to wiggle about on its own, a mother rat took it and nursed it as one of her own. The abortion that lived dwelt among trash piles and the stench of urine and human feces.
Oh God. I can't go on. It is too grim a story. But you see, this is what I do sometimes. I invent stories in order to try and explain why a person might be filled with such profound rage and hatred as to wear a shirt that says "Cure Abortion - the leading cause of death in America," to stand on sidewalks outside of Planned Parenthood and scream all manner of ugly judgments at women going inside, who actually attack and kill doctors who perform abortions.
People who do these things provoke such a violent anger inside of me and such a strong hatred directed at them, that I have to ask myself, how can I learn to love such awful people? This is the task that has been given. Love everyone. Even the people who have wronged me. How is this even possible? I just don't know. So I start with inventing these stories. They help for a minute.
Hatred is an ugly beast. It quickly spreads from one person to the next. It is like a wild fire, burning uncontrollably, fanned by provocation and reaction. Sometimes all I can do is simply look away from the provocation in order to break the cycle of reaction...in order to lessen the grip of Hatred.
I admire Martin Luther King, Jr. His words ring true to me. How to walk his talk is still unclear. But his words ring true and pierce the dense and putrid air of hatred and bitterness. I hold his words in my heart like a banner. My personal battle flag.
The only way to fight Hatred is with Love. I need an army of Love Warriors for backup.
It is not his fault, really. He was never meant to exist in this world. His mother aborted him as a young fetus because he was formed as a result of non-consensual intercourse between her and her older brother. That is to say, his mother was raped by a person who was supposed to care for her. She was thirteen.
The young girl who was the unintended mother of this abomination of a man, went to one of those places that no longer exists: an abortion clinic. She was treated well there. Tenderly in fact. The women who attended her were loving and supportive. The doctor performing the abortion had no doubt in his mind that aborting this fetus was the correct and proper course of action. He was glad to help this young girl. When she returned home, however, she was shamefully treated by her father and her brother. Their contempt of her weighed heavily on her for years until she managed to escape their fold.
There must have been some force present in the unborn child - a hatred exceeding all hatred - which kept it alive in a pile of biological refuse. It thrived on the bloodied discarded dressings from other people's wounds. It fed on trauma and fear. It had no alternative really. When it was large enough to wiggle about on its own, a mother rat took it and nursed it as one of her own. The abortion that lived dwelt among trash piles and the stench of urine and human feces.
Oh God. I can't go on. It is too grim a story. But you see, this is what I do sometimes. I invent stories in order to try and explain why a person might be filled with such profound rage and hatred as to wear a shirt that says "Cure Abortion - the leading cause of death in America," to stand on sidewalks outside of Planned Parenthood and scream all manner of ugly judgments at women going inside, who actually attack and kill doctors who perform abortions.
People who do these things provoke such a violent anger inside of me and such a strong hatred directed at them, that I have to ask myself, how can I learn to love such awful people? This is the task that has been given. Love everyone. Even the people who have wronged me. How is this even possible? I just don't know. So I start with inventing these stories. They help for a minute.
Hatred is an ugly beast. It quickly spreads from one person to the next. It is like a wild fire, burning uncontrollably, fanned by provocation and reaction. Sometimes all I can do is simply look away from the provocation in order to break the cycle of reaction...in order to lessen the grip of Hatred.
I admire Martin Luther King, Jr. His words ring true to me. How to walk his talk is still unclear. But his words ring true and pierce the dense and putrid air of hatred and bitterness. I hold his words in my heart like a banner. My personal battle flag.
The only way to fight Hatred is with Love. I need an army of Love Warriors for backup.
~~~
Hatred and bitterness can never cure the disease of fear; only love can do that. Hatred paralyses life; love releases it. Hatred confuses life; love harmonizes it. Hatred darkens life; love illumines it.
~ Martin Luther King, Jr.
Thursday, April 16, 2015
A Story About Stingy Jim
This morning at the Cancer Center, I met an older man who has to catch the bus to get to his chemotherapy treatments. My use of the phrase "has to catch the bus" indicates my level of privilege. I feel uncomfortable pointing the following things out:
To catch a bus in this town of Greensboro, N.C., one must do a lot of walking. One must walk to the nearest bus stop. And one must walk from the drop off to one's destination. Often times, this is a significant distance. People who ride the bus are completely acclimated to this degree of walking and inconvenience. People who ride in cars often are not.
Additionally, to ride a bus in this town of Greensboro, N.C., one must plan ahead and allow roughly 45 minutes to an hour in order to get from point A to point B. This time sitting on the bus is a good time to catch a snooze, to read a book, to play a game of Sudoku. However, when one is feeling poorly, every jolt on the bus is unbearable, as is every loud voice, every bad smell.
Chemotherapy is an intense process. It can leave one feeling weak, nauseous, dizzy or faint. I did not go through chemotherapy when I went through cancer though I did a round that lasted 8 weeks after being diagnosed with ITP. It was fairly mild compared to the treatments given to most people. Even still, I was tired at the completion of each session, which lasted roughly four hours each. My head felt funny afterwards. I lived relatively close to the Cancer Center so I only had to endure a ten minute drive home. Upon my arrival home, I immediately crashed.
So, you understand now that I am a person of privilege. I did not have to catch the bus to my chemo treatments. I had it easy.
The older gentleman who has to catch the bus to his chemotherapy treatments spoke to me at length about strange experiences he's had with death. He told me about a man whom everyone called "Stingy Jim." He was so stingy, the man told me, that he only put a quarter in the collection plate at church. "A quarter!" he emphasized.
One day, Stingy Jim walked into the liquor house, which is what they called bars back in the day. Everyone was sitting around drinking or waiting to get a drink when Stingy told the proprietor to serve the house a round of drinks on him. "Yes," Stingy said. "I reckon I'll buy all y'all a drink now. No telling when I'll get to again."
Everyone was flabbergasted. Never had Stingy done anything like that. Everyone sat back and enjoyed their drinks until they heard the screech of a truck's tires. A tractor trailer had ground itself to a halt right outside the liquor house. A white man with a red beard came running out of the truck saying "He ran right out in front of me! I couldn't stop in time!" Everybody looked around to see who had been hit but they couldn't find a body. They looked all through the bushes by the road until somebody found a penny loafer with a tassel on it. It was Stingy's shoe. Stingy used to put a dime in his loafers rather than a penny.
The story of Stingy was interrupted by the nurse who brought my CBC results to me. I looked at the paper, looked back and the man and said, "It's only numbers." But the spell of enchantment had been broken. The story was left unfinished. The energy had already shifted to What's Next On My Agenda? Oh yes, get ready for work.
I asked the man his name and told him mine. I shook his hand and looked into his eyes, which tried very hard to conceal the fear he was experiencing. I told him I hope things go well for him and to keep on kicking. This felt completely inadequate. As I walked away from him and out into the cold spring rain, I said a prayer in my heart for the man, knowing full well we will all end up like Stingy someday. How and when is anybody's guess.
To catch a bus in this town of Greensboro, N.C., one must do a lot of walking. One must walk to the nearest bus stop. And one must walk from the drop off to one's destination. Often times, this is a significant distance. People who ride the bus are completely acclimated to this degree of walking and inconvenience. People who ride in cars often are not.
Additionally, to ride a bus in this town of Greensboro, N.C., one must plan ahead and allow roughly 45 minutes to an hour in order to get from point A to point B. This time sitting on the bus is a good time to catch a snooze, to read a book, to play a game of Sudoku. However, when one is feeling poorly, every jolt on the bus is unbearable, as is every loud voice, every bad smell.
Chemotherapy is an intense process. It can leave one feeling weak, nauseous, dizzy or faint. I did not go through chemotherapy when I went through cancer though I did a round that lasted 8 weeks after being diagnosed with ITP. It was fairly mild compared to the treatments given to most people. Even still, I was tired at the completion of each session, which lasted roughly four hours each. My head felt funny afterwards. I lived relatively close to the Cancer Center so I only had to endure a ten minute drive home. Upon my arrival home, I immediately crashed.
So, you understand now that I am a person of privilege. I did not have to catch the bus to my chemo treatments. I had it easy.
The older gentleman who has to catch the bus to his chemotherapy treatments spoke to me at length about strange experiences he's had with death. He told me about a man whom everyone called "Stingy Jim." He was so stingy, the man told me, that he only put a quarter in the collection plate at church. "A quarter!" he emphasized.
One day, Stingy Jim walked into the liquor house, which is what they called bars back in the day. Everyone was sitting around drinking or waiting to get a drink when Stingy told the proprietor to serve the house a round of drinks on him. "Yes," Stingy said. "I reckon I'll buy all y'all a drink now. No telling when I'll get to again."
Everyone was flabbergasted. Never had Stingy done anything like that. Everyone sat back and enjoyed their drinks until they heard the screech of a truck's tires. A tractor trailer had ground itself to a halt right outside the liquor house. A white man with a red beard came running out of the truck saying "He ran right out in front of me! I couldn't stop in time!" Everybody looked around to see who had been hit but they couldn't find a body. They looked all through the bushes by the road until somebody found a penny loafer with a tassel on it. It was Stingy's shoe. Stingy used to put a dime in his loafers rather than a penny.
The story of Stingy was interrupted by the nurse who brought my CBC results to me. I looked at the paper, looked back and the man and said, "It's only numbers." But the spell of enchantment had been broken. The story was left unfinished. The energy had already shifted to What's Next On My Agenda? Oh yes, get ready for work.
I asked the man his name and told him mine. I shook his hand and looked into his eyes, which tried very hard to conceal the fear he was experiencing. I told him I hope things go well for him and to keep on kicking. This felt completely inadequate. As I walked away from him and out into the cold spring rain, I said a prayer in my heart for the man, knowing full well we will all end up like Stingy someday. How and when is anybody's guess.
Friday, March 14, 2014
Hold the Arsenic
Currently, I work in the juice bar of a "healthy supermarket" called Planet Care. I put raw vegetables into a very loud industrial strength grinding-things-up machine and their juicy innards flow out of a little drain pipe and into a cup waiting below. I then serve this cup of juicy innards to a customer who hopes this elixir of life will be the solution to the problems they face - losing weight, remembering important daily details, having energy, having motivation, having the energy to have motivation, being motivated to have energy, living a long and fruitful (or veggie-full) life. Not to knock it: vegetable juices can be entirely beneficial. Just not when coupled with a muffin.
The other day, a woman came in and ordered one of our house specials and this is what she said, "I'll have a Red Sunset, light on the arsenic." I write all orders down because I am often inundated with more orders than I can fill quickly and need to keep tabs on who ordered what first. So I was writing down "Red Sunset" as the words "light on the arsenic" reverberated in my brain. I finished writing and looked quizzically at my customer and asked, "Did you say 'light on arsenic'?" The woman looked at me in earnest and said yes.
I stood there completely befuddled.
I've been obsessively thinking about the coal ash spill in the Dan River. And arsenic is a component of coal ash. So naturally, my thoughts were immediately directed there. To Eden and the Dan River.
Arsenic? Coal ash. Dan River. Eden. We're not in Eden. Our water isn't arsenic-laden. Yet. Is it? Oh God! Is it?! All those poor fish. Mussels. Turtles. All the plants. The birds. The mammals. The people!!! All that coal ash. How can we restore the river? How? Still, she wants a juice. What does a vegetable juice have to do with water, either arsenic-laden or regular? What is she talking about?
Coal ash is the byproduct of burning coal for the creation of electricity. Surprisingly, it is "more radioactive" than the waste generated at nuclear power plants according to Scientific American. Additionally, coal ash contains heavy metals such as arsenic, and selenium, and cadmium, and mercury, and many others. But primarily when one talks about the toxins in coal ash, arsenic is at the top of the list. It is a highly toxic substance. Carcinogenic even. The EPA requires that there be no more than 10 parts per billion of arsenic in drinking waters. And 10 parts per billion of arsenic in commercially produced apple juices, for that matter. More on that in a moment.
The coal ash contamination of the Dan River occurred an a no longer functioning coal power plant owned by Duke Energy. Duke Energy generates 70 percent of its electricity via coal. It is the largest power holding company in the United States. I get my electricity from Duke Energy. Currently, I have no alternative energy source. I am, therefore, responsible in part for the contamination of the Dan River. And this realization drives me crazy.
I don't want to give Duke Energy my business. I don't want to perpetuate a reliance on fuels that destroy the land, harm people and pollute the environment. But I don't have a choice if I want to use my computer, cook my food, read by lamp light and stay warm in the winter months.
I launched an event via Facebook called Coal Ash Wednesdays in order to promote the reduction of energy consumption. One day a week, anyone who cares to participate cuts their energy use back and from 7 pm til 7:30 pm EST, everyone shuts off the main breaker to their house. This much is doable. This much can help. It's the only thing that makes sense in light of the senseless destruction of life and the local economy along the Dan River.
The juice ordered by the woman wanting light arsenic is called Red Sunset. Red Sunset contains carrots, beets, apples, parsley and ginger. In contemplating these ingredients, I remembered a crucial element in solving the mystery of what this customer meant.
There is a misconception that apple seeds contain arsenic. Apple seeds contain cyanide, an equally poisonous yet completely different compound. In order for one to die from apple seed ingestion, one would have to pulverize and/or masticate the seeds to break the hard protective coating exposing the inner amygdalin. One would need to consume a shit ton of these in this manner because the human body is able to detoxify small amounts of cyanide.
At any rate, I remove all the seeds from each apple before I run it through the pulverizing/masticating juice-making machine.
The customer may have been referring to the trace amounts of arsenic found in commercially packaged apple juice. This is the result of naturally occurring arsenic in the soil and the use of pesticides and herbicides in orchards. There is organic arsenic, which the human body can process, and inorganic arsenic, which it cannot. In fact, the inorganic arsenic is a known carcinogen. Long term exposure to it can result in especially nasty forms of cancer. But I, the Juicer Person, do not use commercially produced apple juice in the fresh juices. I juice real live apples.
"Excuse me...but you said 'light on the arsenic...'?
"Yes."
"Do you mean light on the apple?"
"Yes."
"I see. Alright then. I was momentarily confused."
"I was wondering....it can't be that complicated."
No. It's not complicated at all.
The other day, a woman came in and ordered one of our house specials and this is what she said, "I'll have a Red Sunset, light on the arsenic." I write all orders down because I am often inundated with more orders than I can fill quickly and need to keep tabs on who ordered what first. So I was writing down "Red Sunset" as the words "light on the arsenic" reverberated in my brain. I finished writing and looked quizzically at my customer and asked, "Did you say 'light on arsenic'?" The woman looked at me in earnest and said yes.
I stood there completely befuddled.
I've been obsessively thinking about the coal ash spill in the Dan River. And arsenic is a component of coal ash. So naturally, my thoughts were immediately directed there. To Eden and the Dan River.
~~~
Arsenic? Coal ash. Dan River. Eden. We're not in Eden. Our water isn't arsenic-laden. Yet. Is it? Oh God! Is it?! All those poor fish. Mussels. Turtles. All the plants. The birds. The mammals. The people!!! All that coal ash. How can we restore the river? How? Still, she wants a juice. What does a vegetable juice have to do with water, either arsenic-laden or regular? What is she talking about?
~~~
The coal ash contamination of the Dan River occurred an a no longer functioning coal power plant owned by Duke Energy. Duke Energy generates 70 percent of its electricity via coal. It is the largest power holding company in the United States. I get my electricity from Duke Energy. Currently, I have no alternative energy source. I am, therefore, responsible in part for the contamination of the Dan River. And this realization drives me crazy.
I don't want to give Duke Energy my business. I don't want to perpetuate a reliance on fuels that destroy the land, harm people and pollute the environment. But I don't have a choice if I want to use my computer, cook my food, read by lamp light and stay warm in the winter months.
I launched an event via Facebook called Coal Ash Wednesdays in order to promote the reduction of energy consumption. One day a week, anyone who cares to participate cuts their energy use back and from 7 pm til 7:30 pm EST, everyone shuts off the main breaker to their house. This much is doable. This much can help. It's the only thing that makes sense in light of the senseless destruction of life and the local economy along the Dan River.
~~~
Dan River. Coal ash. Arsenic. Juice. Arsenic and juice. Red Sunset. Arsenic....oh!
The juice ordered by the woman wanting light arsenic is called Red Sunset. Red Sunset contains carrots, beets, apples, parsley and ginger. In contemplating these ingredients, I remembered a crucial element in solving the mystery of what this customer meant.
There is a misconception that apple seeds contain arsenic. Apple seeds contain cyanide, an equally poisonous yet completely different compound. In order for one to die from apple seed ingestion, one would have to pulverize and/or masticate the seeds to break the hard protective coating exposing the inner amygdalin. One would need to consume a shit ton of these in this manner because the human body is able to detoxify small amounts of cyanide.
At any rate, I remove all the seeds from each apple before I run it through the pulverizing/masticating juice-making machine.
The customer may have been referring to the trace amounts of arsenic found in commercially packaged apple juice. This is the result of naturally occurring arsenic in the soil and the use of pesticides and herbicides in orchards. There is organic arsenic, which the human body can process, and inorganic arsenic, which it cannot. In fact, the inorganic arsenic is a known carcinogen. Long term exposure to it can result in especially nasty forms of cancer. But I, the Juicer Person, do not use commercially produced apple juice in the fresh juices. I juice real live apples.
~~~
"Yes."
"Do you mean light on the apple?"
"Yes."
"I see. Alright then. I was momentarily confused."
"I was wondering....it can't be that complicated."
No. It's not complicated at all.
Friday, February 7, 2014
My Victory
The worst thing that ever happened to me - worse than breast cancer, worse than ITP - happened to me on a late afternoon in West Virginia. It was early autumn. The sun was making ready to disappear for the night. The now ex-husband and I had uprooted ourselves and our children earlier that summer in order to be a part of an "intentional community." It is with a great sense of irony that I use the term "intentional" to describe my life at that time.
On this particular early autumn afternoon, the ex-husband and I were arguing. I don't remember what we were arguing about. (I don't remember the content of any of the arguments that ended in violence.) I only remember the last words that left my mouth: "I'm not your mother."
At that point, the ex-husband flew into a rage, pushing me down a staircase, dragging me out into the yard, throwing me down on the ground. I was laying on my back. He got down on his knees and straddled my chest. He wrapped his hands around my neck, squeezing it tightly, using it to repeatedly lift my head and bang it on the ground. Over and over he did this, snarling unintelligible words in time with the banging. So what I heard was a word or two interrupted by my own gasps and grunts as my neck was forcefully pulled upward and as my head hit the ground. I could not breathe. The only thought in my brain was Oh God. This is it. I'm going to die now.
I vaguely remember my children standing nearby. I often wonder if they fully took in what was happening. I wonder how they felt as they observed their father assaulting their mother. I remember ex-husband guy ushering them inside as I laid on the cold ground with the colors of sunset hovering over me.
Dark orange. Brilliant pink. Deep blue. Midnight blue.
I felt as if I were becoming part of the ground - cold and hard like a rock. I was heavy. Frozen. The vibrancy of my life slowly seeped out of my body as the colors faded from the sky. I do not know how long I remained on the ground. I felt the chill and the damp of the autumn night falling onto and into me. I might have laid there all night under the silent stillness of the crystalline stars. I remember a tear rising to the surface of my eye but not fully manifesting. It never rolled down my cheek.
I do not remember getting up, going into the house and interacting with the ex-husband and the children, which I'm sure I must have done. Because I'm not lying on the ground now. I must have gotten up. I must have pushed myself away from the safety of the cold ground and back into the continued motion of family life.
On that night, I ended. I died. Checked out. I put the requisite time and attention into being the primary monetary provider for the family, into preparing meals for the children, making sure they were dressed for school and the like. But part of my attention remained there on that cold hard ground, staring at the sky, trying to feel alive.
There is absolutely nothing worse than feeling dead inside and trying to pretend like you are living.
Eventually, my awareness returned. I have memories of events that occurred after that one, including more episodes of violence. A beer bottle nearly hitting me in the head as it was hurled across a room. One of the children's favorite bowls filled with cream of wheat smashed against a wall. Being whipped across the back by a denim dress with brass buttons again and again as I curled up in an attempt to shield myself from attack.
It took a while, but I left the husband, who is now the ex-husband. I knew that if I didn't, I would end up dead. Not that he would have murdered me. I probably would have killed myself. Thoughts of driving my car at high speed into a tree planted themselves firmly in my brain. So much so, that I had to actively fight the urge to do this on my way home from work every night.
It occurred to me that I must choose to live or die. And I must fully commit to whatever choice I made. For example, if I chose to die, I must stop beating about the bush and off myself. And if I chose to live, I must really start living.
I chose to live. At the time, I made this choice for the sake of my children. I did not want to impose a lifetime of psychological suffering upon them by taking my own life. Additionally, I wanted to send a very distinct message to them both - but especially to my daughter - that the type of abuse to which I subjected myself was unacceptable. No one ever needs to be reduced to that degree of humiliation and shame. I come from a long line of women who married abusive drunks. It was time to break the chain for future generations.
I am constantly amazed by the number of beautiful, smart and talented women who are or have been physically abused by a man. Having come out of it, I understand how difficult it is to extract yourself from that scenario. I stayed with my husband much longer than I needed to. I had to reach a point at which I felt courageous enough to leave. And I needed the safety of a support network. This was absolutely crucial.
It is important to note that I did not feel completely empowered to leave the ex-husband until we moved back to North Carolina and I lived in close proximity to my family. I found a job and began to establish a network of friends again. I opened my own bank account. I needed to have a safety net in place. My family and friends provided a great source of strength to me. And through their love, I began to realize I needed to take better care of myself and my children.
Initially, I blamed ex-husband guy for the violence perpetrated against me. Then, I went through a phase in which I owned my share of the responsibility for the dynamics of our relationship. Now, I have come full circle and realize that no matter what I did to contribute to the fucked up dynamic of our relationship, I never physically assaulted the man to whom I was married, the man whom I professed to love and who professed to love me.
Anger is a volatile emotion. But there are any number of things one can do with it. Anger does not need to result in assault. Period.
Assault is against the law. This simple frame of reference could have helped me so much had it been present in my psyche back in the day. But I accepted assault as the norm - as part of the dynamic of my relationship with the ex-husband. I suppose I accepted assault as the norm because I grew up seeing it in my immediate and extended family. A certain degree of violence, it seemed, was simply a part of life.
I now reject that attitude. Violence is not a part of my everyday life. I have no tolerance for it in whatever form it manifests: verbal or physical. I am quick to call bullshit on any type of bullying. I walk with growing strength and confidence. I am grateful for my life.
Not every woman makes it out of a violent relationship alive. I nearly didn't. But I accepted the challenge of rescuing myself and making my life count. This is my Victory.
I wish for all people to believe that they have value. I wish for all people to understand that violence is not an acceptable form of communication. I wish for all people to free themselves from the traps established long ago by a patriarchal belief system - a system that is outdated and destructive in nature. I wish for all women to acknowledge their strength, their power, their absolute wildness and to never, ever, become domesticated.
On this particular early autumn afternoon, the ex-husband and I were arguing. I don't remember what we were arguing about. (I don't remember the content of any of the arguments that ended in violence.) I only remember the last words that left my mouth: "I'm not your mother."
At that point, the ex-husband flew into a rage, pushing me down a staircase, dragging me out into the yard, throwing me down on the ground. I was laying on my back. He got down on his knees and straddled my chest. He wrapped his hands around my neck, squeezing it tightly, using it to repeatedly lift my head and bang it on the ground. Over and over he did this, snarling unintelligible words in time with the banging. So what I heard was a word or two interrupted by my own gasps and grunts as my neck was forcefully pulled upward and as my head hit the ground. I could not breathe. The only thought in my brain was Oh God. This is it. I'm going to die now.
I vaguely remember my children standing nearby. I often wonder if they fully took in what was happening. I wonder how they felt as they observed their father assaulting their mother. I remember ex-husband guy ushering them inside as I laid on the cold ground with the colors of sunset hovering over me.
Dark orange. Brilliant pink. Deep blue. Midnight blue.
I felt as if I were becoming part of the ground - cold and hard like a rock. I was heavy. Frozen. The vibrancy of my life slowly seeped out of my body as the colors faded from the sky. I do not know how long I remained on the ground. I felt the chill and the damp of the autumn night falling onto and into me. I might have laid there all night under the silent stillness of the crystalline stars. I remember a tear rising to the surface of my eye but not fully manifesting. It never rolled down my cheek.
I do not remember getting up, going into the house and interacting with the ex-husband and the children, which I'm sure I must have done. Because I'm not lying on the ground now. I must have gotten up. I must have pushed myself away from the safety of the cold ground and back into the continued motion of family life.
On that night, I ended. I died. Checked out. I put the requisite time and attention into being the primary monetary provider for the family, into preparing meals for the children, making sure they were dressed for school and the like. But part of my attention remained there on that cold hard ground, staring at the sky, trying to feel alive.
There is absolutely nothing worse than feeling dead inside and trying to pretend like you are living.
Eventually, my awareness returned. I have memories of events that occurred after that one, including more episodes of violence. A beer bottle nearly hitting me in the head as it was hurled across a room. One of the children's favorite bowls filled with cream of wheat smashed against a wall. Being whipped across the back by a denim dress with brass buttons again and again as I curled up in an attempt to shield myself from attack.
It took a while, but I left the husband, who is now the ex-husband. I knew that if I didn't, I would end up dead. Not that he would have murdered me. I probably would have killed myself. Thoughts of driving my car at high speed into a tree planted themselves firmly in my brain. So much so, that I had to actively fight the urge to do this on my way home from work every night.
It occurred to me that I must choose to live or die. And I must fully commit to whatever choice I made. For example, if I chose to die, I must stop beating about the bush and off myself. And if I chose to live, I must really start living.
I chose to live. At the time, I made this choice for the sake of my children. I did not want to impose a lifetime of psychological suffering upon them by taking my own life. Additionally, I wanted to send a very distinct message to them both - but especially to my daughter - that the type of abuse to which I subjected myself was unacceptable. No one ever needs to be reduced to that degree of humiliation and shame. I come from a long line of women who married abusive drunks. It was time to break the chain for future generations.
I am constantly amazed by the number of beautiful, smart and talented women who are or have been physically abused by a man. Having come out of it, I understand how difficult it is to extract yourself from that scenario. I stayed with my husband much longer than I needed to. I had to reach a point at which I felt courageous enough to leave. And I needed the safety of a support network. This was absolutely crucial.
It is important to note that I did not feel completely empowered to leave the ex-husband until we moved back to North Carolina and I lived in close proximity to my family. I found a job and began to establish a network of friends again. I opened my own bank account. I needed to have a safety net in place. My family and friends provided a great source of strength to me. And through their love, I began to realize I needed to take better care of myself and my children.
Initially, I blamed ex-husband guy for the violence perpetrated against me. Then, I went through a phase in which I owned my share of the responsibility for the dynamics of our relationship. Now, I have come full circle and realize that no matter what I did to contribute to the fucked up dynamic of our relationship, I never physically assaulted the man to whom I was married, the man whom I professed to love and who professed to love me.
Anger is a volatile emotion. But there are any number of things one can do with it. Anger does not need to result in assault. Period.
Assault is against the law. This simple frame of reference could have helped me so much had it been present in my psyche back in the day. But I accepted assault as the norm - as part of the dynamic of my relationship with the ex-husband. I suppose I accepted assault as the norm because I grew up seeing it in my immediate and extended family. A certain degree of violence, it seemed, was simply a part of life.
I now reject that attitude. Violence is not a part of my everyday life. I have no tolerance for it in whatever form it manifests: verbal or physical. I am quick to call bullshit on any type of bullying. I walk with growing strength and confidence. I am grateful for my life.
Not every woman makes it out of a violent relationship alive. I nearly didn't. But I accepted the challenge of rescuing myself and making my life count. This is my Victory.
I wish for all people to believe that they have value. I wish for all people to understand that violence is not an acceptable form of communication. I wish for all people to free themselves from the traps established long ago by a patriarchal belief system - a system that is outdated and destructive in nature. I wish for all women to acknowledge their strength, their power, their absolute wildness and to never, ever, become domesticated.
~In Memory of Sarah Browder~
Wednesday, May 22, 2013
Why Do People Leave Bug Zappers On All Night? and Other Unanswerable Questions
My next door neighbors have a bug zapper affixed to the eaves of a small storage building in their back yard. My bedroom is about 200 feet away from this bug light. My neighbors leave the bug light on all night long. Every time a bug gets fried, I hear a most unpleasant "bzzzzzt" sound. The sound is at times lengthy and loud - "bzzzZZZZzzzttt" - and at other times more abbreviated and quieter - "bzt." I suppose it depends on the size of the bug that gets electrocuted.
A couple of things bother me about this. Now that warm weather is here, I like sleeping with my windows open to allow the cool night air to drift across my body as I drift asleep. I like listening to the sounds of the living insects singing their night time songs. I do not like hearing the deaths of many tiny insects by electrocution. I imagine their tiny bug voices screaming in agony as the shock and heat engulfs their little bodies. Every single "bzzzzt" that I hear translates into an individual's suffering.
Beyond that, I am irrationally plagued with the question Why would someone leave a bug light on all night long?!!! I thought the purpose of a bug zapper was to fry bugs so that they would not buzz around you while you are outside enjoying a game of badminton or croquet or so they will not swarm around as you sear animal carcasses on your outdoor grill. Is this not the purpose of bug zappers? Is there a purpose of which I am unaware? If so, what is it? Why must this large, bright light be left on all night - during the time I would ordinarily enjoy a peaceful night's rest without the sounds of shrieking insects plaguing my dreams?
Beyond that, I am irrationally plagued with the question Why do people think it is their right to eliminate bugs willy-nilly? Yes, sometimes bugs can be a nuisance. But for goodness' sake, people can be a supreme nuisance! Take for example this scenario:
I was working a closing shift at Planet Care and was cleaning the bulk department with my co-worker. I was dusting the spillage of flour, rice and sunflower seeds from off the bins and shelves. Two dudes were nearby slopping instant oats into a baggie. They were discussing their upcoming trip to Bonnaroo. These dudes were young: mid twenties is my guess. They wore plain white t-shirts, baggy pants and sandals. They both had Hare Krishna haircuts: clean shaven head with a ponytail in the back. They wore beads.
I stood not even three feet away from them at the time that I heard one of the dudes say, "Yeah, well I don't know whether she can cook or not." And the other said, "Of course she can cook. She's a woman..." Instant bristling effect. "...All women can cook. That's what they do...." Incredible indignation. "...Women are slaves." I could hear the smirk on his face as he said this....as he waited for me to react. The first dude quietly went, "shhh." And the second dude said, "Yeah. I could get lynched in this country for saying that."
In this country?! He spoke this as if he himself were a foreigner when he was clearly as American as serial killers and greedy corporate geezers. What the hell was he talking about? And why was he denigrating women for my benefit? What was he hoping to accomplish? A fight? Did he want to see me get in trouble for belting a customer?
Why is that damned bug zapper on all night?!
Yet, with every consternating observation, I am filled with great love and hope for my fellow humans. Because when I got home at the end of the day, I saw this video which some folks I know made:
And then, I saw another video skillfully shot and edited by a man I know which commemorates the recent marriage of two good folks. Both videos are life-affirming, sweet and fun. Both videos celebrate love, family and friendship: the three most important things in the world. Both videos are made by and feature people that I am fortunate enough to have in my life. Fun-filled, talented, creative, witty, ingenious, delightful people. My cup runneth over.
So I will lay down in a short while and attempt to sleep despite the screaming insects and their burning bodies and I will remember that not everyone leaves a bug zapper on all night. Not everyone is callous and careless with words. There are tons of people who are loving and sweet and supportive. There are even people who love bugs.
A couple of things bother me about this. Now that warm weather is here, I like sleeping with my windows open to allow the cool night air to drift across my body as I drift asleep. I like listening to the sounds of the living insects singing their night time songs. I do not like hearing the deaths of many tiny insects by electrocution. I imagine their tiny bug voices screaming in agony as the shock and heat engulfs their little bodies. Every single "bzzzzt" that I hear translates into an individual's suffering.
Beyond that, I am irrationally plagued with the question Why would someone leave a bug light on all night long?!!! I thought the purpose of a bug zapper was to fry bugs so that they would not buzz around you while you are outside enjoying a game of badminton or croquet or so they will not swarm around as you sear animal carcasses on your outdoor grill. Is this not the purpose of bug zappers? Is there a purpose of which I am unaware? If so, what is it? Why must this large, bright light be left on all night - during the time I would ordinarily enjoy a peaceful night's rest without the sounds of shrieking insects plaguing my dreams?
Beyond that, I am irrationally plagued with the question Why do people think it is their right to eliminate bugs willy-nilly? Yes, sometimes bugs can be a nuisance. But for goodness' sake, people can be a supreme nuisance! Take for example this scenario:
I was working a closing shift at Planet Care and was cleaning the bulk department with my co-worker. I was dusting the spillage of flour, rice and sunflower seeds from off the bins and shelves. Two dudes were nearby slopping instant oats into a baggie. They were discussing their upcoming trip to Bonnaroo. These dudes were young: mid twenties is my guess. They wore plain white t-shirts, baggy pants and sandals. They both had Hare Krishna haircuts: clean shaven head with a ponytail in the back. They wore beads.
I stood not even three feet away from them at the time that I heard one of the dudes say, "Yeah, well I don't know whether she can cook or not." And the other said, "Of course she can cook. She's a woman..." Instant bristling effect. "...All women can cook. That's what they do...." Incredible indignation. "...Women are slaves." I could hear the smirk on his face as he said this....as he waited for me to react. The first dude quietly went, "shhh." And the second dude said, "Yeah. I could get lynched in this country for saying that."
In this country?! He spoke this as if he himself were a foreigner when he was clearly as American as serial killers and greedy corporate geezers. What the hell was he talking about? And why was he denigrating women for my benefit? What was he hoping to accomplish? A fight? Did he want to see me get in trouble for belting a customer?
Why is that damned bug zapper on all night?!
Yet, with every consternating observation, I am filled with great love and hope for my fellow humans. Because when I got home at the end of the day, I saw this video which some folks I know made:
And then, I saw another video skillfully shot and edited by a man I know which commemorates the recent marriage of two good folks. Both videos are life-affirming, sweet and fun. Both videos celebrate love, family and friendship: the three most important things in the world. Both videos are made by and feature people that I am fortunate enough to have in my life. Fun-filled, talented, creative, witty, ingenious, delightful people. My cup runneth over.
So I will lay down in a short while and attempt to sleep despite the screaming insects and their burning bodies and I will remember that not everyone leaves a bug zapper on all night. Not everyone is callous and careless with words. There are tons of people who are loving and sweet and supportive. There are even people who love bugs.
Monday, May 6, 2013
A Metamorphosis: The Death and Life of Tim LaFollette.
September's end brings a desolate loneliness. I feel adrift, without anchor. The waters are calm on the surface, but I can tell a storm is brewing. I haven't much stamina left. Still, I must weather the storm.
Tim LaFollette's body died on a Tuesday. I was driving back to Greensboro from Carrboro listening to Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds' The Good Son, a particularly mournful record filled with songs such as "Lament," "Sorrow's Child," and "The Weeping Song." Melodramatic, self-indulgent and beautiful. I had just finished meeting with a naturopath, who helps me with physical and emotional maladies.
I had spoken with her about the news that I'd received the previous Friday that Tim was in a coma, not being fed and not expected to last past the weekend. She asked whether I'd been to see him yet. I told her I had not. She recommended that I go see him, that I hold his hand, kiss his forehead, tell him I love him so he'll know. Because people in comas can hear, can sense what is going on around them, she said.
Once home, I was filled with an overwhelming fatigue and laid down for a brief nap. A knock on the door awoke me. By the time I rose to answer, the visitor was gone. Very soon after, I received a text message saying Tim was gone.
One more man gone One more man gone One more man......
The news spread like wildfire on the social media outlet to which we all have become addicted. My friend, Lee Wallace, called to say he'd heard the news and to see how I was doing. I told him that I might need some Stella time.
Lee Wallace has a dog named Stella that I take on walks. Lee will be able to walk Stella again after he gets a new set of lungs. But for now, I enjoy the pleasure of her company whenever I decide I need a jaunt and when schedules align.
I picked Stella up from Lee's house and we proceeded along one of her favorite routes: down by Lindley Park Elementary school, briefly along Market to the Arboretum. It was a particularly beautiful day with the sky a vivid hue of deepest blue and clouds aggregating in what appeared to be regular patterns throughout the sky. It seemed as if they were worshiping from their perches on church pews. The shadows had that depth that comes only at the end of summer. Delicate fragrances of fading flowers hung on the air. Everything was a miracle to behold. And I thought, what a great day to die.
Stella and I walked for a very long time. And when I decided it was time to head back to Lee's house, I began to cry. Depths of emotion were welling up and I could not allow their ultimate release. I cried as much as I comfortably could and took Stella back to her backyard paradise.
Lee reclined in a hammock under an immense spread of trees with a book propped on his chest and music by his side. Stella and I joined him for a while: Stella, digging a hole in which to cool down from her walk, I chatting with Lee about nothing in particular.
An earthquake occurred. Neither Lee nor I felt it. Lee's wife, Leslie, called to alert him that this had just happened. At this news, I planted my feet firmly on the ground as if expecting any residual rumblings to reveal themselves to my soles. I breathed extra deeply as if there might be a trace of a quickening of the air. But there were no revelatory sensations.
For the rest of the day and a few days after that I felt slightly off balance. I kept bumping into things and was more forgetful than usual. I wandered around in a confused state wondering if the earthquake had tilted the earth on its axis a bit.
Tim's memorial service was to happen a month from his death. Like so many people, I use the formal funeral format for official grief processing. In this instance, I would have to postpone this process, which is a lot like taking a shit. You just need to empty your emotional colon. Often, there is lots of shit built up and you must undergo a series of prolonged shits. Eventually, in theory anyway, all the shit comes out.
I was constipated for a month.
At last the day of the service approached. By this time I'd endured a couple of additional unhappy incidents in the month of September and was still reeling from the most recent. I felt, almost, like there was no grief for Tim, like I had somehow miraculously processed it all without really crying and going through the usual grief-like sensations. However, I realized that there was a very real grief hanging out in my emotional colon and that it might be expeditious to use the forum of Tim's memorial as a sort of emotional enema. A colon cleanse was needed.
I went to the service directly after work in extremely casual jean, plaid shirt and tennis shoe attire, which I think was indicative of my recklessly non-intentional attitude towards this event. I was, almost, disrespectful. Yet I played the part of the participant with a modicum of small talk and a friendly smile upon greeting people I knew.
I did not expect to be overwhelmed by grief. I did not expect to experience a sudden realization that death is final, that Tim is gone, that I will never again be able to converse with him, that I will never offer him comfort in the form of a foot rub or a kiss to the forehead. I did not expect this surge of emotion to present itself so powerfully. You'd think I'd be an old hand at these matters. But no. The brilliance of this life is that just when you think you've got it all figured out, the earth quakes without your realizing it. And you have to make heads and tails of everything that's just been flipped.
In a Quaker-style service, people sit in silence and speak only when moved to do so. I sat in silence trying very hard not to break into hysterical sobs, not to wail aloud with the sort of primal abandonment I enjoy. I attempted to maintain dignity. Likewise, I tried very hard to prevent myself from saying anything at all, thinking that responsibility should reside with those who were closer to Tim than I was.
I controlled my urge to have a primal wail. I maintained a degree of dignity. But damned if I didn't get on my feet and start talking.
Words came out of my mouth with very little intervention from my brain. I remember having the desire to speak concisely. I remember having the desire to keep myself from crying. But the emotion came rushing forth. I stopped myself to regroup. I paused and looked down at the ground as if to say Support me harder, dammit! Hold me up, here! I'm caving! And I continued to speak. But my voice grew higher in its pitch and I realized it had become that stereotypical Mary Tyler Moore voice that betrays emotion when trying to be so strong. I somehow finished what needed to be said about Tim, about his generosity and kindness, about my feelings of inadequacy in the face of the tasks that needed to be met for his care, about his patience with me while I grappled with all this inside myself as he taught me, he himself, how to more accurately suction the phlegm from his lungs.
I sat down. I received a gracious pat from the people on either side of me. And I sat. And I thought the wall had broken and the emotion had been let out. Or to revert to a previous metaphor, I thought the poop had vacated my bowels and the toilet bowl had been flushed. But then I saw Lis, who is my sister, my heart - one of those rare beings with whom one connects so completely that words are not necessary to achieve understanding.
We hugged. And I shuddered with silent sobs against her shoulder. I felt as if shock waves of grief transferred into her delicately defined frame from my crude one, but somehow they reverberated back and forth until they dissipated. I confessed to her that I had not seen Tim for six months, that I had decided to take a break from doing my weekly home care visits in order to focus on some of my own challenges. Lis had done the same. She said that Tim understood. That it was alright. She conveyed a sense of love through these words and I felt absolved of my sins.
The saga of Tim LaFollette is not over. His entire journey with ALS is documented in the "Often Awesome" web series. People continue to watch it, share it and be inspired by Tim. The Often Awesome Army continues to raise funds to help those living with ALS, it continues to raise awareness about this wretched disease, and it continues to be bound by the love of one great man. But beyond that, Tim left an indelible mark on my psyche. He taught me about love and service. He taught me about generosity of spirit and courage. I have no choice but to carry his teachings with me for the rest of my journey through this life and hopefully pass them on to someone else.
Tim LaFollette lived a life and died a death of transcendent beauty. In this way, he is eternal.
Tim LaFollette's body died on a Tuesday. I was driving back to Greensboro from Carrboro listening to Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds' The Good Son, a particularly mournful record filled with songs such as "Lament," "Sorrow's Child," and "The Weeping Song." Melodramatic, self-indulgent and beautiful. I had just finished meeting with a naturopath, who helps me with physical and emotional maladies.
I had spoken with her about the news that I'd received the previous Friday that Tim was in a coma, not being fed and not expected to last past the weekend. She asked whether I'd been to see him yet. I told her I had not. She recommended that I go see him, that I hold his hand, kiss his forehead, tell him I love him so he'll know. Because people in comas can hear, can sense what is going on around them, she said.
Once home, I was filled with an overwhelming fatigue and laid down for a brief nap. A knock on the door awoke me. By the time I rose to answer, the visitor was gone. Very soon after, I received a text message saying Tim was gone.
One more man gone One more man gone One more man......
The news spread like wildfire on the social media outlet to which we all have become addicted. My friend, Lee Wallace, called to say he'd heard the news and to see how I was doing. I told him that I might need some Stella time.
Lee Wallace has a dog named Stella that I take on walks. Lee will be able to walk Stella again after he gets a new set of lungs. But for now, I enjoy the pleasure of her company whenever I decide I need a jaunt and when schedules align.
I picked Stella up from Lee's house and we proceeded along one of her favorite routes: down by Lindley Park Elementary school, briefly along Market to the Arboretum. It was a particularly beautiful day with the sky a vivid hue of deepest blue and clouds aggregating in what appeared to be regular patterns throughout the sky. It seemed as if they were worshiping from their perches on church pews. The shadows had that depth that comes only at the end of summer. Delicate fragrances of fading flowers hung on the air. Everything was a miracle to behold. And I thought, what a great day to die.
Stella and I walked for a very long time. And when I decided it was time to head back to Lee's house, I began to cry. Depths of emotion were welling up and I could not allow their ultimate release. I cried as much as I comfortably could and took Stella back to her backyard paradise.
Lee reclined in a hammock under an immense spread of trees with a book propped on his chest and music by his side. Stella and I joined him for a while: Stella, digging a hole in which to cool down from her walk, I chatting with Lee about nothing in particular.
An earthquake occurred. Neither Lee nor I felt it. Lee's wife, Leslie, called to alert him that this had just happened. At this news, I planted my feet firmly on the ground as if expecting any residual rumblings to reveal themselves to my soles. I breathed extra deeply as if there might be a trace of a quickening of the air. But there were no revelatory sensations.
For the rest of the day and a few days after that I felt slightly off balance. I kept bumping into things and was more forgetful than usual. I wandered around in a confused state wondering if the earthquake had tilted the earth on its axis a bit.
Tim's memorial service was to happen a month from his death. Like so many people, I use the formal funeral format for official grief processing. In this instance, I would have to postpone this process, which is a lot like taking a shit. You just need to empty your emotional colon. Often, there is lots of shit built up and you must undergo a series of prolonged shits. Eventually, in theory anyway, all the shit comes out.
I was constipated for a month.
At last the day of the service approached. By this time I'd endured a couple of additional unhappy incidents in the month of September and was still reeling from the most recent. I felt, almost, like there was no grief for Tim, like I had somehow miraculously processed it all without really crying and going through the usual grief-like sensations. However, I realized that there was a very real grief hanging out in my emotional colon and that it might be expeditious to use the forum of Tim's memorial as a sort of emotional enema. A colon cleanse was needed.
I went to the service directly after work in extremely casual jean, plaid shirt and tennis shoe attire, which I think was indicative of my recklessly non-intentional attitude towards this event. I was, almost, disrespectful. Yet I played the part of the participant with a modicum of small talk and a friendly smile upon greeting people I knew.
I did not expect to be overwhelmed by grief. I did not expect to experience a sudden realization that death is final, that Tim is gone, that I will never again be able to converse with him, that I will never offer him comfort in the form of a foot rub or a kiss to the forehead. I did not expect this surge of emotion to present itself so powerfully. You'd think I'd be an old hand at these matters. But no. The brilliance of this life is that just when you think you've got it all figured out, the earth quakes without your realizing it. And you have to make heads and tails of everything that's just been flipped.
In a Quaker-style service, people sit in silence and speak only when moved to do so. I sat in silence trying very hard not to break into hysterical sobs, not to wail aloud with the sort of primal abandonment I enjoy. I attempted to maintain dignity. Likewise, I tried very hard to prevent myself from saying anything at all, thinking that responsibility should reside with those who were closer to Tim than I was.
I controlled my urge to have a primal wail. I maintained a degree of dignity. But damned if I didn't get on my feet and start talking.
Words came out of my mouth with very little intervention from my brain. I remember having the desire to speak concisely. I remember having the desire to keep myself from crying. But the emotion came rushing forth. I stopped myself to regroup. I paused and looked down at the ground as if to say Support me harder, dammit! Hold me up, here! I'm caving! And I continued to speak. But my voice grew higher in its pitch and I realized it had become that stereotypical Mary Tyler Moore voice that betrays emotion when trying to be so strong. I somehow finished what needed to be said about Tim, about his generosity and kindness, about my feelings of inadequacy in the face of the tasks that needed to be met for his care, about his patience with me while I grappled with all this inside myself as he taught me, he himself, how to more accurately suction the phlegm from his lungs.
I sat down. I received a gracious pat from the people on either side of me. And I sat. And I thought the wall had broken and the emotion had been let out. Or to revert to a previous metaphor, I thought the poop had vacated my bowels and the toilet bowl had been flushed. But then I saw Lis, who is my sister, my heart - one of those rare beings with whom one connects so completely that words are not necessary to achieve understanding.
We hugged. And I shuddered with silent sobs against her shoulder. I felt as if shock waves of grief transferred into her delicately defined frame from my crude one, but somehow they reverberated back and forth until they dissipated. I confessed to her that I had not seen Tim for six months, that I had decided to take a break from doing my weekly home care visits in order to focus on some of my own challenges. Lis had done the same. She said that Tim understood. That it was alright. She conveyed a sense of love through these words and I felt absolved of my sins.
The saga of Tim LaFollette is not over. His entire journey with ALS is documented in the "Often Awesome" web series. People continue to watch it, share it and be inspired by Tim. The Often Awesome Army continues to raise funds to help those living with ALS, it continues to raise awareness about this wretched disease, and it continues to be bound by the love of one great man. But beyond that, Tim left an indelible mark on my psyche. He taught me about love and service. He taught me about generosity of spirit and courage. I have no choice but to carry his teachings with me for the rest of my journey through this life and hopefully pass them on to someone else.
Tim LaFollette lived a life and died a death of transcendent beauty. In this way, he is eternal.
Monday, March 25, 2013
Demanding the Return of Sarah Browder's Page
Sarah Browder (Harris) was murdered by her husband Kirk Harris in September of 2012. The Davie County Sheriff, the Marines, the NCIS and the insurance company all agree that the evidence points to this likelihood. It is an unpleasant reality. But it is the reality with which all of Sarah's family and friends must grapple.
Sarah had a facebook page which her father took charge of after her death. He posted albums of photos of Sarah for those of us mourning her loss to view. He posted quotes of Love and Inspiration. And whenever he made a post, anyone who was friends with Sarah on facebook would be notified of these posts. Sandy Browder kept his daughter's page a living, breathing testament of Love for Sarah. In this era of social networking, visiting a facebook page is the equivalent of visiting the grave of a deceased loved one. One could argue that it is better, because we can all share our memories and sadness collectively as we attempt to heal.
Some person in cyberspace has hijacked Sarah's facebook page. They have done so by having "memorialized" Sarah's page. This means that Sandy, Sarah's father, can no longer log into this page and change it. At present, Sarah's friends and family can still post messages and photos to her timeline. But the fact remains that some person changed this page without the family's knowledge or permission.
Who would do such a thing? And why?
Kirk Harris killed Sarah Browder. The person who hijacked her facebook page is attempting to kill her memory.
Kirk Harris was the son of Dr. Dean Harris and Mrs. Vicky Harris of Bermuda Run. His sisters are Leslie Brooks and Cary Floyd. His brothers are Cpt. Jacob Harris and David Harris. I gathered this information by reading Harris' obituary online where I also found this: "Kirk leaves behind his wife, Sarah Browder Harris of Greensboro." He leaves her behind? As if she's still alive? Granted, this obituary was posted in the Winston-Salem Journal the day that Sarah died: September 27, 2012. Still, it has never been corrected. This could be an oversight. If so, it is an inconsiderate one.
Sarah is dead. She is dead at the hands of Kirk Harris. We, the friends and family of Sarah, love her. And we want her facebook page back.
Sarah had a facebook page which her father took charge of after her death. He posted albums of photos of Sarah for those of us mourning her loss to view. He posted quotes of Love and Inspiration. And whenever he made a post, anyone who was friends with Sarah on facebook would be notified of these posts. Sandy Browder kept his daughter's page a living, breathing testament of Love for Sarah. In this era of social networking, visiting a facebook page is the equivalent of visiting the grave of a deceased loved one. One could argue that it is better, because we can all share our memories and sadness collectively as we attempt to heal.
Some person in cyberspace has hijacked Sarah's facebook page. They have done so by having "memorialized" Sarah's page. This means that Sandy, Sarah's father, can no longer log into this page and change it. At present, Sarah's friends and family can still post messages and photos to her timeline. But the fact remains that some person changed this page without the family's knowledge or permission.
Who would do such a thing? And why?
Kirk Harris killed Sarah Browder. The person who hijacked her facebook page is attempting to kill her memory.
Kirk Harris was the son of Dr. Dean Harris and Mrs. Vicky Harris of Bermuda Run. His sisters are Leslie Brooks and Cary Floyd. His brothers are Cpt. Jacob Harris and David Harris. I gathered this information by reading Harris' obituary online where I also found this: "Kirk leaves behind his wife, Sarah Browder Harris of Greensboro." He leaves her behind? As if she's still alive? Granted, this obituary was posted in the Winston-Salem Journal the day that Sarah died: September 27, 2012. Still, it has never been corrected. This could be an oversight. If so, it is an inconsiderate one.
Sarah is dead. She is dead at the hands of Kirk Harris. We, the friends and family of Sarah, love her. And we want her facebook page back.
Monday, December 26, 2011
Dear Lorenzo
Dear Lorenzo,
I received the gift you sent. Thank-you. And I finally sorted out its meaning. It took me all day to connect the dots. But I finally got it. I am so grateful!
Ever since the day that I saw you at the Cancer Center, my thoughts have been with you. I've been wondering about the state of your body and wondering how you were coping with it. I've been sending you love daily. I'm sure it has been a difficult journey. And now that it is over, I can hear your laughter.
Prior to receiving your gift, I had Christmas with my family. I drove to my mom and dad's house on Christmas Eve, listening to my friend's radio show on the way. You would love my friend. Dr. Roots, we call him. He plays old school rhythm and blues the first hour of his show and reggae the second. Dr. Roots is a holy man. He truly emits Love and Light. Just like you. During a voice break, he wished his listeners a blessed Christ mass and he told us to, "Make a joyful noise!"
Something inside of me clicked into an awareness of a new level of responsibility. I have to step it up in my life. It is not enough to practice gratitude, to feel the grace of abundance. I must celebrate this gratitude by making "a joyful noise." I must speak my gratitude, sing it, yell it, clang it, bang it, ring it, strum it, clap it, tap it. I must sound off: "Present!"
I was so overcome by the Love issuing forth from the radio on Christmas Eve that I called Dr. Roots to thank him. In his gracious manner he told me that he can only give what others reflect back to him. So he thanked me for receiving and reflecting the Light.
I slept under the Christmas tree at my parent's house. The 50 Christmases of my life swirled in my mind as I watched the twinkling lights reflect off the ceiling and walls. They all - even those that occurred during the most turbulent of times - contain the commonality of gratitude, peace and supreme Love. No matter what, I always seem to be able to find these qualities.
Christmas morning was charming. My mother and I exchanged gifts before anyone else awoke. My sister cooked breakfast for my mother and me. My father had a terrible chest cold and sequestered himself off from the rest of us. I crept in to see him when I knew he was awake and gave him my love. I took Toby the dog for a walk through the woods. We came back covered with beggar's lice.
The day progressed. My great aunt arrived with her date. She is a youthful 86 and is another Being of Light. I am certain the two of you will meet one day. My brother, my nephew, my other sister and my brother-in-law arrived and we sat down to our Christmas feast. Afterwards, we exchanged gifts: material goods that symbolize our love for each other. My gift to everyone was the random chaos of a dirty Santa game. I had procured lots of items for cheap or free from various sources, wrapped them in Christmas packaging and placed them in a pile. Each member of my family proceeded to pick from the pile or take the gift of someone else that had already been opened.
The results were unexpected. A temporary fight broke out between my two sisters over an article of clothing. My nephew sulked over receiving no toys. My brother ended up with the toy-like gifts that I had hoped my nephew would somehow receive - as well as a relatively tacky beach shirt, which seemed to make him exceedingly happy. This is the same brother with whom I have a long and tumultuous history. I think I completely unintentionally managed to make him the happiest of anyone.
I can hear you laughing as I write this.
After the gift-giving extravaganza, people began to leave. My father joined me and my sisters in the living room and all three of them proceeded to fall asleep. It was at this point that I began to feel the inexplicable heaviness setting in. I arose and began to gather all my things. Before I left, I showed my father a couple of videos of arias from Rigoletto sung by Renato Bruson. I am overcome with emotion when I see these videos. And I attributed my approaching sorrow to having watched them.
I left my parent's house and drove back to Greensboro. On the way, I called my daughter to see how her Christmas had been. We chatted briefly and upon hanging up I felt the sorrow becoming more pronounced. I miss her. And my son. He lives in New York now as well. I don't think you met him. He's an impressive entity. At any rate, I attributed the welling sorrow to the fact that I missed seeing my children on Christmas.
Once home, my boyfriend came over. We laid in bed together reading. I turned to him at one point and said, "I don't know why I feel so sad." He asked me if anything had happened. "No," I said. "There is no reason for me to be sad. It was a good day. Nothing bad happened." He held me as tears rolled down my cheek. I breathed deeply and returned to my book. I read until the heaviness set in and pulled me under the waves of consciousness.
And then I received your gift. It took the form of an elaborate dream. I was at a university. I was marginally involved in theater projects as well as discussions on film and film-making. I belonged to a writing group. I felt completely vital. Everything was of quintessential importance in my mind - each passing conversation, each spirited discussion, each performance, every creation. I was in my element. And radiantly happy. A man took an interest in me. And I welcomed his interest happily, not as an indicator of an impending romance but as an indicator of the creative life ahead of me.
I awoke this morning wanting to linger in my dreamland. But I arose and proceeded to check in on my facebook world. It was in this way that I learned you died last night. I was immediately relieved to understand the source of the sadness I had experienced. On some level, I sensed and responded to your passage without knowledge of it. I did not feel the impact of loss upon receiving this news. But I felt more and more confused as the day wore on.
At work, when Pam learned of your death, she said, "Now we can talk to him whenever we want."
Doug reminded me that "we have to stay strong."
Cindy's eyes welled up with tears when she learned.
I found myself becoming irritable at work. I spoke words of veiled anger. I grew weary and depressed.
After work, I spoke with Mekare about your passage. She informed me that it is possible to receive teachings from you during this time if I remain open.
My boyfriend came over to my apartment and I immediately had to lie down. He approached my bed to check on me. Tears slid down my cheek as I told him that you had sent me a dream but I did not understand its meaning. He asked me what the dream was about and as I spoke of the events in it, I realized what you needed to tell me.
To experience awe and wonder is to be in my right station in Life. To be aware of the tiniest, most seemingly insignificant details and marvel at their existence. This and nothing more is my purpose: to exist in joyous wonder.
When this became clear, I saw your beaming face as you exclaimed with exuberance, "You got it!" And then I heard your hearty laugh.
Your generosity of spirit carried me through many troubling times. You gave me so much during your sojourn on earth. And now that you are traveling on your next adventure, I anticipate periodic messages from you. We will continue our journey together, despite the fact that I will no longer see your physical body. I can feel you as strongly as ever.
I love you. Be happy and free. All is as it should be. All is well.
I received the gift you sent. Thank-you. And I finally sorted out its meaning. It took me all day to connect the dots. But I finally got it. I am so grateful!
Ever since the day that I saw you at the Cancer Center, my thoughts have been with you. I've been wondering about the state of your body and wondering how you were coping with it. I've been sending you love daily. I'm sure it has been a difficult journey. And now that it is over, I can hear your laughter.
Prior to receiving your gift, I had Christmas with my family. I drove to my mom and dad's house on Christmas Eve, listening to my friend's radio show on the way. You would love my friend. Dr. Roots, we call him. He plays old school rhythm and blues the first hour of his show and reggae the second. Dr. Roots is a holy man. He truly emits Love and Light. Just like you. During a voice break, he wished his listeners a blessed Christ mass and he told us to, "Make a joyful noise!"
Something inside of me clicked into an awareness of a new level of responsibility. I have to step it up in my life. It is not enough to practice gratitude, to feel the grace of abundance. I must celebrate this gratitude by making "a joyful noise." I must speak my gratitude, sing it, yell it, clang it, bang it, ring it, strum it, clap it, tap it. I must sound off: "Present!"
I was so overcome by the Love issuing forth from the radio on Christmas Eve that I called Dr. Roots to thank him. In his gracious manner he told me that he can only give what others reflect back to him. So he thanked me for receiving and reflecting the Light.
I slept under the Christmas tree at my parent's house. The 50 Christmases of my life swirled in my mind as I watched the twinkling lights reflect off the ceiling and walls. They all - even those that occurred during the most turbulent of times - contain the commonality of gratitude, peace and supreme Love. No matter what, I always seem to be able to find these qualities.
Christmas morning was charming. My mother and I exchanged gifts before anyone else awoke. My sister cooked breakfast for my mother and me. My father had a terrible chest cold and sequestered himself off from the rest of us. I crept in to see him when I knew he was awake and gave him my love. I took Toby the dog for a walk through the woods. We came back covered with beggar's lice.
The day progressed. My great aunt arrived with her date. She is a youthful 86 and is another Being of Light. I am certain the two of you will meet one day. My brother, my nephew, my other sister and my brother-in-law arrived and we sat down to our Christmas feast. Afterwards, we exchanged gifts: material goods that symbolize our love for each other. My gift to everyone was the random chaos of a dirty Santa game. I had procured lots of items for cheap or free from various sources, wrapped them in Christmas packaging and placed them in a pile. Each member of my family proceeded to pick from the pile or take the gift of someone else that had already been opened.
The results were unexpected. A temporary fight broke out between my two sisters over an article of clothing. My nephew sulked over receiving no toys. My brother ended up with the toy-like gifts that I had hoped my nephew would somehow receive - as well as a relatively tacky beach shirt, which seemed to make him exceedingly happy. This is the same brother with whom I have a long and tumultuous history. I think I completely unintentionally managed to make him the happiest of anyone.
I can hear you laughing as I write this.
After the gift-giving extravaganza, people began to leave. My father joined me and my sisters in the living room and all three of them proceeded to fall asleep. It was at this point that I began to feel the inexplicable heaviness setting in. I arose and began to gather all my things. Before I left, I showed my father a couple of videos of arias from Rigoletto sung by Renato Bruson. I am overcome with emotion when I see these videos. And I attributed my approaching sorrow to having watched them.
I left my parent's house and drove back to Greensboro. On the way, I called my daughter to see how her Christmas had been. We chatted briefly and upon hanging up I felt the sorrow becoming more pronounced. I miss her. And my son. He lives in New York now as well. I don't think you met him. He's an impressive entity. At any rate, I attributed the welling sorrow to the fact that I missed seeing my children on Christmas.
Once home, my boyfriend came over. We laid in bed together reading. I turned to him at one point and said, "I don't know why I feel so sad." He asked me if anything had happened. "No," I said. "There is no reason for me to be sad. It was a good day. Nothing bad happened." He held me as tears rolled down my cheek. I breathed deeply and returned to my book. I read until the heaviness set in and pulled me under the waves of consciousness.
And then I received your gift. It took the form of an elaborate dream. I was at a university. I was marginally involved in theater projects as well as discussions on film and film-making. I belonged to a writing group. I felt completely vital. Everything was of quintessential importance in my mind - each passing conversation, each spirited discussion, each performance, every creation. I was in my element. And radiantly happy. A man took an interest in me. And I welcomed his interest happily, not as an indicator of an impending romance but as an indicator of the creative life ahead of me.
I awoke this morning wanting to linger in my dreamland. But I arose and proceeded to check in on my facebook world. It was in this way that I learned you died last night. I was immediately relieved to understand the source of the sadness I had experienced. On some level, I sensed and responded to your passage without knowledge of it. I did not feel the impact of loss upon receiving this news. But I felt more and more confused as the day wore on.
At work, when Pam learned of your death, she said, "Now we can talk to him whenever we want."
Doug reminded me that "we have to stay strong."
Cindy's eyes welled up with tears when she learned.
I found myself becoming irritable at work. I spoke words of veiled anger. I grew weary and depressed.
After work, I spoke with Mekare about your passage. She informed me that it is possible to receive teachings from you during this time if I remain open.
My boyfriend came over to my apartment and I immediately had to lie down. He approached my bed to check on me. Tears slid down my cheek as I told him that you had sent me a dream but I did not understand its meaning. He asked me what the dream was about and as I spoke of the events in it, I realized what you needed to tell me.
To experience awe and wonder is to be in my right station in Life. To be aware of the tiniest, most seemingly insignificant details and marvel at their existence. This and nothing more is my purpose: to exist in joyous wonder.
When this became clear, I saw your beaming face as you exclaimed with exuberance, "You got it!" And then I heard your hearty laugh.
Your generosity of spirit carried me through many troubling times. You gave me so much during your sojourn on earth. And now that you are traveling on your next adventure, I anticipate periodic messages from you. We will continue our journey together, despite the fact that I will no longer see your physical body. I can feel you as strongly as ever.
I love you. Be happy and free. All is as it should be. All is well.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Looking for Lightning
I once almost met a snake called Lightning.
It was the night of Scott Lesher's memorial potluck. I had worked a long shift at Planet Care on a busy Saturday. I left work in one of those mind-numbed stupors. The sky was slate. Beads of water dashed to earth from above. Then stopped.
I drove to a mysterious house designed by Frank Lloyd Wright which sat off a busy street under a miniature forest. Chickens scratched in the woods beside the driveway and made complaining noises when I stopped to photograph them.
I stood under makeshift shelter-type tents and talked to people about Scott. But I had to leave early in order to do my radio show. The man who owns the Frank Lloyd Wright house loaned me a cd with a copy of a song Scott had recorded just days before his death to play on my show. Broadcasting it on this day seemed like a nice addition to the memorial spirit.
I went to the station and did my radio show. I played Scott's song. One person called to thank me for playing it. He sounded teary.
After leaving the station, I went back to the Frank Lloyd Wright house in order to return the borrowed cd. I sat in the fading light of day with several people whom I didn't really know but who were delightful to talk with. And I pondered the meaning of a life short-lived and the impact this phenomenon has on loved ones. Eventually, feeling somewhat spent and coaxed by darkness, I left.
Driving towards my house, I remembered a party to which I'd been invited. I felt the need to stop in and at least say hello to some folks. So I altered my route and proceeded to this party.
When I arrived at the house of the host, I walked in the front door and was greeted by a young boy - Jonah - who was playing a video game. In previous encounters Jonah barely acknowledged my presence. So when he seemed friendly, even chatty with me, I decided to sit with him for a bit and watch him command a graphic rendition of a skateboarder. I sat cross-legged on the floor and watched this child - who I'm guessing is five - act like one of the big kids, furiously triggering the control device and talking to the game as if his words would alter his success.
I tried to imagine his thought process. Never having been drawn very deeply into the realm of video games, I wondered what the attraction was. Why was this more appealing than running around outside in the dark playing hide and seek. Hide and seek in the dark is super fun and challenging. There is an added dimension of scariness that gets the adrenaline running. But all the other kids were upstairs engaged in some other indoor activities that did not involve hiding. In this instant I could relate to Jonah, who found a little corner all to himself where he could live out a fantasy of being a big kid or being a skateboarder or being a pro video game player.
This other kid - Max appeared on the staircase. Max is the caretaker of Lightning, the Snake. In previous encounters, I made it abundantly clear that I would like to meet Lightning. I welcome any opportunity to see - up close and personal - and perhaps hold a snake. I consider it a part of my ongoing process to completely remove all fear of these lovely beings and to become as comfortable with them as possible.
Upon recognizing me, Max said, "Oh hi. You wanna meet Lightning?" I told him, "Yes, I would love to meet Lightning!" So he lead me upstairs to his room.
Max carefully opened his door, closing it as soon as we were inside. I felt privileged. I had been allowed to enter the inner sanctum of a male middle schooler. I treated this moment with all seriousness and respect.
Max walked over to Lightning's aquarium and lifted the cover from its top. He rummaged through the wood shavings that lined Lightning's home. He lifted several rock-like constructions, tapping on them as he did. Apparently, Lightning had escaped. And apparently this had happened before. Because Max seemed completely calm and methodical in all that followed. He knew exactly what to do.
He opened the top drawer to the dresser upon which sat Lightning's abode. This was Max's sock drawer. He told me that previously Lightning had been found hiding in there. Max carefully removed the drawer, explaining to me as he did that Lightning sometimes perches on the runners.
The inspection of the sock drawer and its corresponding runners yielded no snake. Max proceeded to methodically go down every drawer, removing all the clothing and then carefully removing the drawer. "This is the scary part," he told me as he pulled the drawer out. "Because I could crush him if he's in there. I don't want to hurt him."
The care with which Max negotiated the removal of the drawers spoke volumes of his maturity and his humanity. He remained calm and focused during this process. But when Lightning failed to reveal himself, I sensed a degree of agitation in Max. This was not helped by the fact that a significantly large number of other children were running about and peeking in and asking what was going on. Very soon, everyone knew that Lightning was gone. Expressing their concern and trying to be helpful, flocks of kids crowded in asking whether Lightning had been found. Max grew impatient and asked everyone to please leave. He did indeed say "please."
Concerned kids suggested places to look - such as the closet. Max grew indignant at these suggestions. "Why would he go there? Why would he? He's a snake. He wants warmth and light. Why would he go into the closet? It's dark in there. And cool. Why would he go there?" "For food?" one small boy offered hesitantly.
Max again asked everyone to please leave. I suggested that it might be a good idea for me to go through every article of clothing that had been dumped into a pile on the floor, shake it out to make sure Lightning wasn't hiding inside of it and then I could put the clothes back into the drawers. Max agreed this was a good idea. I was partially considering Max's mom and dad happening upon the wreckage and becoming ticked off. Maybe Max was considering this possibility as well. So I carefully lifted every shirt, every brief, every pair of pants out of the pile, shook it, folded it and put it away while Max continued his search.
Children continued to peek in and, not wanting to upset Max, asked me in a whisper whether the snake had been found. I gave them a status update with a simple shake of my head. They withdrew, dejected.
Max's search for Lightning was calm and logical. He considered very carefully the places Lightning had hidden in the past and examined his motives for going to this place rather than that one. I felt a sense of despair rising up in him, but he never allowed that feeling to manifest. He continued to methodically conduct his search. Eventually, I asked whether I should seek the intervention of his dad and he said yes. He asked if I would tell him. And so I did.
I'd been at the party for roughly an hour and had not encountered a single adult. I left Max's Inner Sanctum, passed by the throngs of jumping, rolling and lolling kids and headed for the stairs. I was stopped briefly by an angel of a girl who was watching videos of some pop star and singing along. I watched with her for a moment and again wondered at this manifestation that seemed somehow age inappropriate. The world is a much different place than it was when I was raising babies. Technology entered our lives a bit late in the process.
I wandered downstairs to find Max's dad. The adult guests were, for the most part, congregating on a patio in the back yard. Candle light and strings of lights, wine bottles galore, outdoor furniture, the buzz of many people talking simultaneously. I struggled to make out the faces of the people around me. I suddenly became aware of how tired I was.
I told Max's dad about Lightning. He made a "not again" face and removed himself from the adult fun. I do not know what unfolded at that point. I prepared to leave, but found myself sitting in the kitchen listening to stories about Scott Lesher. Again, I felt privileged. Again, I had entered an inner sanctum of good friends and shared experience.
It was quite late when I departed. I expressed my concern for Lightning and was assured that he would turn up. He always does.
Lightning did indeed emerge a day or two later. He'd been found hiding behind some art.
Max set up a facebook page for Lightning the Snake. Whenever Lightning disappeared, facebook fans of Lightning got the status update. Whenever he reappeared, a collective cheer erupted on the internet.
Lightning the Snake was last seen in his humble abode 27 days ago. As of this moment - November 16, 2010 at 11:27 p.m. - Lightning has been missing for 27 days. I have not spoken to Max in this time. I have been getting my status updates via facebook. I leave comments stating my solidarity with this brave, bold, smart youngster. I can only imagine his worry has dissolved into a weary defeat.
But I believe Lightning will emerge. I believe he got tired of a diet of once-frozen dead mice. I believe he wanted to hunt for some fresh meat. I believe he's having all sorts of fabulous hunting adventures, maybe even has a trophy or two and possibly has encountered the Mouse King himself!
Maybe Lightning has been spying on the Mouse army and uncovered their plot to foil the Nutcracker Prince. Caught in a web of political intrigue, it's been relatively impossible to return home in a timely manner. When all order is restored in the Land of Sugar Plums, Lightning will return. Unscathed, though weary. And he and Max will have a stupendously happy reunion.
All will be as it should be. And at long last, I will meet Lightning the Snake.
It was the night of Scott Lesher's memorial potluck. I had worked a long shift at Planet Care on a busy Saturday. I left work in one of those mind-numbed stupors. The sky was slate. Beads of water dashed to earth from above. Then stopped.
I drove to a mysterious house designed by Frank Lloyd Wright which sat off a busy street under a miniature forest. Chickens scratched in the woods beside the driveway and made complaining noises when I stopped to photograph them.
I stood under makeshift shelter-type tents and talked to people about Scott. But I had to leave early in order to do my radio show. The man who owns the Frank Lloyd Wright house loaned me a cd with a copy of a song Scott had recorded just days before his death to play on my show. Broadcasting it on this day seemed like a nice addition to the memorial spirit.
I went to the station and did my radio show. I played Scott's song. One person called to thank me for playing it. He sounded teary.
After leaving the station, I went back to the Frank Lloyd Wright house in order to return the borrowed cd. I sat in the fading light of day with several people whom I didn't really know but who were delightful to talk with. And I pondered the meaning of a life short-lived and the impact this phenomenon has on loved ones. Eventually, feeling somewhat spent and coaxed by darkness, I left.
Driving towards my house, I remembered a party to which I'd been invited. I felt the need to stop in and at least say hello to some folks. So I altered my route and proceeded to this party.
When I arrived at the house of the host, I walked in the front door and was greeted by a young boy - Jonah - who was playing a video game. In previous encounters Jonah barely acknowledged my presence. So when he seemed friendly, even chatty with me, I decided to sit with him for a bit and watch him command a graphic rendition of a skateboarder. I sat cross-legged on the floor and watched this child - who I'm guessing is five - act like one of the big kids, furiously triggering the control device and talking to the game as if his words would alter his success.
I tried to imagine his thought process. Never having been drawn very deeply into the realm of video games, I wondered what the attraction was. Why was this more appealing than running around outside in the dark playing hide and seek. Hide and seek in the dark is super fun and challenging. There is an added dimension of scariness that gets the adrenaline running. But all the other kids were upstairs engaged in some other indoor activities that did not involve hiding. In this instant I could relate to Jonah, who found a little corner all to himself where he could live out a fantasy of being a big kid or being a skateboarder or being a pro video game player.
This other kid - Max appeared on the staircase. Max is the caretaker of Lightning, the Snake. In previous encounters, I made it abundantly clear that I would like to meet Lightning. I welcome any opportunity to see - up close and personal - and perhaps hold a snake. I consider it a part of my ongoing process to completely remove all fear of these lovely beings and to become as comfortable with them as possible.
Upon recognizing me, Max said, "Oh hi. You wanna meet Lightning?" I told him, "Yes, I would love to meet Lightning!" So he lead me upstairs to his room.
Max carefully opened his door, closing it as soon as we were inside. I felt privileged. I had been allowed to enter the inner sanctum of a male middle schooler. I treated this moment with all seriousness and respect.
Max walked over to Lightning's aquarium and lifted the cover from its top. He rummaged through the wood shavings that lined Lightning's home. He lifted several rock-like constructions, tapping on them as he did. Apparently, Lightning had escaped. And apparently this had happened before. Because Max seemed completely calm and methodical in all that followed. He knew exactly what to do.
He opened the top drawer to the dresser upon which sat Lightning's abode. This was Max's sock drawer. He told me that previously Lightning had been found hiding in there. Max carefully removed the drawer, explaining to me as he did that Lightning sometimes perches on the runners.
The inspection of the sock drawer and its corresponding runners yielded no snake. Max proceeded to methodically go down every drawer, removing all the clothing and then carefully removing the drawer. "This is the scary part," he told me as he pulled the drawer out. "Because I could crush him if he's in there. I don't want to hurt him."
The care with which Max negotiated the removal of the drawers spoke volumes of his maturity and his humanity. He remained calm and focused during this process. But when Lightning failed to reveal himself, I sensed a degree of agitation in Max. This was not helped by the fact that a significantly large number of other children were running about and peeking in and asking what was going on. Very soon, everyone knew that Lightning was gone. Expressing their concern and trying to be helpful, flocks of kids crowded in asking whether Lightning had been found. Max grew impatient and asked everyone to please leave. He did indeed say "please."
Concerned kids suggested places to look - such as the closet. Max grew indignant at these suggestions. "Why would he go there? Why would he? He's a snake. He wants warmth and light. Why would he go into the closet? It's dark in there. And cool. Why would he go there?" "For food?" one small boy offered hesitantly.
Max again asked everyone to please leave. I suggested that it might be a good idea for me to go through every article of clothing that had been dumped into a pile on the floor, shake it out to make sure Lightning wasn't hiding inside of it and then I could put the clothes back into the drawers. Max agreed this was a good idea. I was partially considering Max's mom and dad happening upon the wreckage and becoming ticked off. Maybe Max was considering this possibility as well. So I carefully lifted every shirt, every brief, every pair of pants out of the pile, shook it, folded it and put it away while Max continued his search.
Children continued to peek in and, not wanting to upset Max, asked me in a whisper whether the snake had been found. I gave them a status update with a simple shake of my head. They withdrew, dejected.
Max's search for Lightning was calm and logical. He considered very carefully the places Lightning had hidden in the past and examined his motives for going to this place rather than that one. I felt a sense of despair rising up in him, but he never allowed that feeling to manifest. He continued to methodically conduct his search. Eventually, I asked whether I should seek the intervention of his dad and he said yes. He asked if I would tell him. And so I did.
I'd been at the party for roughly an hour and had not encountered a single adult. I left Max's Inner Sanctum, passed by the throngs of jumping, rolling and lolling kids and headed for the stairs. I was stopped briefly by an angel of a girl who was watching videos of some pop star and singing along. I watched with her for a moment and again wondered at this manifestation that seemed somehow age inappropriate. The world is a much different place than it was when I was raising babies. Technology entered our lives a bit late in the process.
I wandered downstairs to find Max's dad. The adult guests were, for the most part, congregating on a patio in the back yard. Candle light and strings of lights, wine bottles galore, outdoor furniture, the buzz of many people talking simultaneously. I struggled to make out the faces of the people around me. I suddenly became aware of how tired I was.
I told Max's dad about Lightning. He made a "not again" face and removed himself from the adult fun. I do not know what unfolded at that point. I prepared to leave, but found myself sitting in the kitchen listening to stories about Scott Lesher. Again, I felt privileged. Again, I had entered an inner sanctum of good friends and shared experience.
It was quite late when I departed. I expressed my concern for Lightning and was assured that he would turn up. He always does.
Lightning did indeed emerge a day or two later. He'd been found hiding behind some art.
Max set up a facebook page for Lightning the Snake. Whenever Lightning disappeared, facebook fans of Lightning got the status update. Whenever he reappeared, a collective cheer erupted on the internet.
Lightning the Snake was last seen in his humble abode 27 days ago. As of this moment - November 16, 2010 at 11:27 p.m. - Lightning has been missing for 27 days. I have not spoken to Max in this time. I have been getting my status updates via facebook. I leave comments stating my solidarity with this brave, bold, smart youngster. I can only imagine his worry has dissolved into a weary defeat.
But I believe Lightning will emerge. I believe he got tired of a diet of once-frozen dead mice. I believe he wanted to hunt for some fresh meat. I believe he's having all sorts of fabulous hunting adventures, maybe even has a trophy or two and possibly has encountered the Mouse King himself!
Maybe Lightning has been spying on the Mouse army and uncovered their plot to foil the Nutcracker Prince. Caught in a web of political intrigue, it's been relatively impossible to return home in a timely manner. When all order is restored in the Land of Sugar Plums, Lightning will return. Unscathed, though weary. And he and Max will have a stupendously happy reunion.
All will be as it should be. And at long last, I will meet Lightning the Snake.
Friday, October 1, 2010
Eulogy
The difficulty in moving beyond grief comes from the interruption of a way of life. Daily rituals are suddenly gone. An organic need for these rituals remains even when the source of the rituals has been removed.
I still expect to see her. When I walk into the house after a long day at work, I still expect her sweet greeting.
Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Acceptance. The five stages of grief as delineated by Elizabeth Kübler-Ross, author of On Death and Dying.
I always intended to read that book.
Melchior was adopted from the animal shelter. She was a kitten, barely old enough to be spayed - which was necessary before I was allowed to adopt her. She was a Christmas present for my eleven year-old daughter. Since she was a Christmas cat, my daughter named her after one of the three wise men. The other two wise men are Balthazar and Caspar. My daughter currently has another of the wise cats. His name is Balthazar.
When my daughter moved away seven years later, her landlord did not allow her to have pets. So Melchior stayed with me. I think my daughter also wanted to lessen the impact of empty nest syndrome for me by allowing me and Melchior to stay together.
Melchior and I were big buddies. We understood each other. We knew how to comfort each other and provide each other with the exact kind of love that we needed. We relied on each other for sustenance. Melchior provided love and support during my divorce, during my career as a single mom, during my initial adventure with ITP, during my adventure with cancer. She moved with me to my current location at 504 South Elam Avenue and adjusted to a bunch of guys who wanted to rough house her. She adjusted to the original house cat, Bella Bayer, best kitty friend of my boyfriend, Daniel Bayer. And Bella adjusted to her.
Bella and Melchior gradually became accustomed to each others' presence. One day after work, I climbed the stairs to my room and was startled to see Bella and Melchior both asleep on my bed. Danny had projected correctly into the future. They had become friends.
Bella used to sleep on the table in our library. Melchior slept on the floor underneath her.
Bella recently stopped eating. She lost a lot of weight. Danny decided to take her to the vet to see what was going on. He called me after receiving the diagnosis. "I've got bad news," he said. Bella had colon cancer. A large tumor was blocking her colon. There was nothing to do but put her to sleep. She would starve to death otherwise.
Danny was devastated. This was his buddy of many years. Just as Melchior had accompanied me on many rough voyages, Bella had been Danny's companion in seas of sorrow - and joy. Danny cried openly and without reservation over the impending death of his beloved. I told him that I wanted to be with him when Bella died. So we arranged to take her back to the vet's office two days after her diagnosis.
In the interim, we contacted former housemates and friends who knew and loved Bella. We told them the news and invited them to come say good-bye. Over the next day and a half, folks stopped in to pet Bella, to comfort Danny, to tell stories about Bella, and to bid her farewell. It was a sweet time of preparation that Bella and Danny were lucky to have.
The dreaded morning came. Danny and I both had upset stomachs from anxiety and fear. I putzed around in my noncommittal fashion, hoping the moment would pass without the need to actually go through with the inevitable. Danny bravely took charge, said, "It's time to go," put Bella into her kitty carrier and we loaded ourselves into the car. Bella cried all the way there. I could think of no comforting words.
We arrived at the vet's office and were led to a small sitting room at the back of the building. The lighting was soft. There were comfy sofa-type furnishings. The doctor came in and described what would happen. She would take Bella to the back briefly to run an IV. Then she'd return her to us and let us visit with her for a little while. When we were ready, the vet would euthanize Bella.
I could not help but think of prisoners on death row and the statement, "Dead man walking." I imagined the fear and dread that is conjured upon hearing those words. I marvel that anyone would even create such a statement to describe the process of the condemned prisoner shuffling along the corridor to his death chamber.
My stomach grew sick with anxiety.
The vet brought Bella back to us and laid her in Danny's lap. She then left the three of us alone for a bit. This part is blank in my mind. I remember Danny sobbing and Bella becoming anxious. I told Danny that we had to be calm for her so that she could be at peace in her last moments. He nodded, but there was no controlling the current of despair pulling him down. We pet Bella and cooed words of love in her ear. When the vet appeared, asking if we were ready, Danny nodded.
An injection of saline. And then the fatal dose of anesthesia. Bella went limp. And Danny wailed. I held him as he held Bella. The vet left us to cuddle Bella's lifeless body and release a large portion of our grief.
I can't wrap my brain around death. Here was a body tangibly devoid of life. But how did it get from point A to point B? And where exactly was point B? It does not feel final, this death thing. Yet it's results are quite permanent. Bella was gone from our everyday lives.
Over the next couple of days, we struggled to plug into our lives. I held Melchior and told her that she was now the sole cat of the 504. I held her and told her how much I loved her. I relished her presence with all my might. I lingered in her soft fur and kissed her silky neck.
Melchior slept with her body pressed up against mine for the next two nights. I ran my hand across the top of her head, down her neck and along her back over and over again until I fell asleep. When I awoke, she was still there, stretching in the morning light.
I awoke early Saturday morning in order to go to the farmer's market before heading to work. Melchior was beside me still. She arose when I did and went downstairs. I did not see her when I left the house. I did not see her when I dropped off my market purchases on my way to work.
I did not see Melchior.
Around 10:20, I had my first 10 minute break at Planet Care. I noticed a voicemail on my cell phone. Danny had called. His only words were, "Call me when you get this message." I called him right away and the first words out of his mouth were, "I've got bad news." I refused to accept what I imagined was next. But the words came out of his mouth anyway, "I had to take Melchior to the emergency vet." He told me that she had staggered around, fallen over, her legs stiffened and slightly curled. She seemed to be having trouble breathing. Her mouth was hanging open. After recovering from this seizure-type activity, Melchior ran upstairs, hid under my bed and cried out.
I left work immediately and dashed over to meet Danny at the vet's. We waited in the lobby for nearly three hours. Speculating. At one point I said to Danny, "What if Melchior's heart is broken because Bella left?" Danny agreed that this was a possibility.
Danny had to leave to prepare for a wedding in which he was a groomsman. I remained. Waiting.
Eventually I met with the doctor. She described all the various tests they had run on Melchior and all the possible things that could have caused the bizarre physical manifestations. All tests were inconclusive. She was dehydrated, constipated, her kidney and heart levels were elevated, and this was all that could be determined. The vet told me Melchior could have a kidney disease. Or she could have a heart disease. Or she could have had a stroke. However, the elevated kidney levels and heart levels suggested disease in these organs . She was currently in an oxygen tent to help her breathe. The vet's recommendation was to keep Melchior overnight, ween her from the oxygen, give her fluids and see how she handled them. If she had a kidney disease, the fluids would be tolerated. If she had a heart disease, they would not.
In my fear and apprehension, in my desire to have my cat hang around with me on the planet for a good while longer, I decided to do as the vet recommended. I left her there. And I went to a wedding.
On Sunday morning, I was incredibly anxious for news. I waited until noon to call the vet. The person who answered the phone said she would have the doctor call me. The doctor called to say that they had nothing to report. Melchior still hadn't pooped. They were going to give her an enema and see how she did. They would call after that.
At 6 p.m. I called the vet for an update. The doctor told me that they had gotten Melchior to poop. She was out of the oxygen tent and resting on a heating pad to keep her temperature up. But they still did not know what was wrong with her. So I told the vet that I would be coming to pick Melchior up and bring her home. The vet said that was fine. She'd prepare all the paperwork.
Twenty minutes later the vet called to tell me that Melchior had taken a turn for the worse. She was having trouble breathing. They'd taken another x-ray which revealed that fluid was building up in her lungs. This indicated that she indeed had a heart disease.
The fluid which the vet had been pumping into Melchior was now building up in her lungs.
The vet described what needed to happen next. I told her that I could not even process any more information. I needed to see my cat. I hadn't seen her since early Saturday morning. There was no way for me to make any kind of decision about her care without seeing her. The vet told me to come on over and I could see her. I grabbed Danny and headed out.
I still haven't emptied Melchior's water dish.
She knew me. She was glad to see me. I could not bear this moment.
The vet had given her a diuretic to try and take some of the fluid out of her lungs. Maybe this was the reason Melchior urinated on me. But I took it as an indication that she was displeased and wanted to get the hell out of there. I returned her to the oxygen box long enough to meet with the vet and express, on her behalf, Melchior's desire to leave.
The vet showed us an x-ray of Melchior taken on Saturday shortly after Danny brought her over. Then she showed us an x-ray of Melchior taken moments ago. She indicated the degree to which her lungs had filled with fluid. She said this and that about an echocardiogram, about the need to transfer her to a facility that could perform this procedure. That would have to wait until the next morning - Monday. So she recommended keeping her overnight again. Moving her from vet #1 to car to house to car to vet #2 would be too stressful. She could go into respiratory arrest.
I did not know what to do. Melchior had clearly indicated that it was time to go home. This was the only data I needed. The scientific garble was not consistent with Melchior's message to me. And so, I became indecisive. I looked to Danny for an answer. And I called my son. My team of consultants agreed it would be best to leave her. And so I did. But as I was leaving, I insisted that I be called if it appeared she was going to die.
Danny and I grabbed some food from an Italian restaurant and took it home with us. A cold rain had begun to fall. My insides were cold. The tasty hot food revived me and my spirit began to lift.
An hour later, the vet called. Melchior had gone into respiratory arrest. I told her I could be there in fifteen minutes.
Danny and I were again met at the door and ushered back to the same room. This time, Melchior was stretched out on a small stainless steel table. She had been intubated: her mouth was tied open with a a piece of gauze to accommodate a large tube which extended down into her throat and fed her oxygen. She could not respond to my presence - she was too heavily sedated. Several wires were attached to various points of her underbelly with jumper cable-type spring clamps to measure her vitals.
I called my son. He told me he would be there in 20 minutes. I called my daughter - who is currently in Vermont. I described the scene to her. She cried. She told me that whatever I decided, she would support. A couple of minutes after we hung up, she called me and asked me to hold the phone up to Melchior's ear. She wanted to say good-bye.
I held the phone up to Melchior's ear. I pet her as my daughter, Ambien, cooed words of love and praise. When she'd finished talking to Melchior, she told me everything that she'd said. Ambien told Melchior that she had worked hard her whole life. She had done a good job raising two kids. She had done a good job taking care of me when I was sick. Ambien told Melchior that she loved her very much. But if she was tired, if her body was worn out, if she needed to go home, it was alright.
Jairus arrived during my conversation with Ambien and put his ample arms around me, tears streaming down his face. Danny, Jairus and I looked at each other and agreed the time was now. We needed to put Melchior out of this misery - a misery that I feel I, in part, imposed upon her. We all pet her and told her we loved her.
I leaned over to kiss her neck and whisper my love names to her, "baby girl, sweet girl, my beautiful girl. It's ok. It's ok baby girl. Everything's going to be ok. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry, Melchior."
I'm so sorry.
When she was dead, the vet cut loose the gauze binding Melchior's mouth open. She pulled the tube out of her throat. Danny, Jairus and I sobbed openly and freely. I kissed her body again and again. The vet asked if we would like to take her into a private room and hold her. I don't know who said yes. A grief-stricken mind does not function properly, cannot process information and analyze a response.
We went into a room and sat down on a couch, Danny to my left, Jairus to my right. I held Melchior in my lap and wept. I handed her to Jairus. And then to Danny. And then I held her again. I stroked her soft fur, memorizing the texture, the color variations, the smell. Once I felt I'd absorbed it all, there was a sudden sense of peace. I noticed Melchior was at peace. And this provided some solace.
The vet took Melchior's body. Under better circumstances (daylight, no rain, some degree of physical and emotional energy) I would have taken her to Kernersville to bury in the woods behind my parents' house. This is where she enjoyed roaming during the time that I lived with my parents. This is where she hunted for small rodents and frogs. Yes. One time she pranced proudly through the back yard with a rather large frog in her mouth. Melchior was a fierce huntress.
Under better circumstances, I would have returned her body to that soil. But I chose to have her cremated. I suppose we can only do so much and no more at any given moment in time.
Jairus hugged me one last time in the lobby of the vet's office and left. Danny and I remained to pay the vet bill. $1200. Danny had to put the bulk of it on his credit card. The surreal sterility of this moment juxtaposed with the preceding one, and then with the moment I walked out into the damp and breezy night air, it overwhelmed me. I felt momentarily dizzy. Like I would fall over. I stood still, looked up at the sky and breathed. I gathered my strength, which always resides in the present moment. No past regrets, no future worries, just standing still and present in the moment.
I have lived my life without Melchior for one week now. I feel I am caught between two worlds, as if part of me broke off and followed her to the great beyond. But the rest of me trods gracelessly and clumsily upon the earth. I grapple to find meaning and hope.
I still smell her litterbox. When I walk into my room after having been at work all day, I cringe as I think, "I need to scoop Melchy's litterbox."
First thing in the morning, I still expect her to be by my side as my alarm goes off, stretching sleepily in protest, attempting to cajole me to stay in bed a little longer.
As I walk into the kitchen and open the refrigerator door, I expect her to run in, asking for food.
Melchior loved eggs. No matter what her location in the house, she could always hear me crack an egg and she would come running. When I sat down to eat them, she would sit within reach of my plate and bat at my fork as I raised it to my mouth. If she was quick enough, she succeeded in knocking some eggs off my utensil. That was her kill. She earned it. She immediately devoured it.
Melchior liked being an outdoor cat. But when we moved to the 504, she became an indoor cat. I let her out on the balcony - or the catio as Danny liked to call it. It was a pleasure to bask in the morning sun and watch Melchior watch birds and squirrels go about their business. Her tail twitched in a particular manner, as if she was preparing to lunge.
Melchior was a tough cat. She had been bitten by a spider early in her life and nearly died. She was hit by a car and was unable to walk for a little while. She lost one of her fangs. I'm not sure how. Maybe old age claimed it. Having only one fang created a Billy Idol sneer.
I loved Melchior. It is hard being without her.
Yesterday, the sky was a brilliant hue. A spirited breeze encircled me as I walked out into the parking lot at Planet Care to round up carts. I looked into the deep blue. I felt the warmth of the sun on my back and the quickened movement of air. And suddenly, I felt as if Melchior was there - somewhere. In the sky, the wind, the sun. In the black feathers of a crow passing overhead. Everywhere. And she was having fun.
I could feel it.
In my imagination, Melchior and Bella have reunited. Melchior playfully runs after Bella and Bella acts like she doesn't like it. But really she does. Melchior's old friend, Max, is there. They play hide and seek together. Just like they used to. When Max comes peering around a corner looking for Melchior, she springs out at him and he leaps in surprise. There are lots of insects to chase, lots of rodents to kill. There is always a sunny spot for her to sleep in. And she remembers that I love her.
I still expect to see her. When I walk into the house after a long day at work, I still expect her sweet greeting.
Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Acceptance. The five stages of grief as delineated by Elizabeth Kübler-Ross, author of On Death and Dying.
I always intended to read that book.
Melchior was adopted from the animal shelter. She was a kitten, barely old enough to be spayed - which was necessary before I was allowed to adopt her. She was a Christmas present for my eleven year-old daughter. Since she was a Christmas cat, my daughter named her after one of the three wise men. The other two wise men are Balthazar and Caspar. My daughter currently has another of the wise cats. His name is Balthazar.
When my daughter moved away seven years later, her landlord did not allow her to have pets. So Melchior stayed with me. I think my daughter also wanted to lessen the impact of empty nest syndrome for me by allowing me and Melchior to stay together.
Melchior and I were big buddies. We understood each other. We knew how to comfort each other and provide each other with the exact kind of love that we needed. We relied on each other for sustenance. Melchior provided love and support during my divorce, during my career as a single mom, during my initial adventure with ITP, during my adventure with cancer. She moved with me to my current location at 504 South Elam Avenue and adjusted to a bunch of guys who wanted to rough house her. She adjusted to the original house cat, Bella Bayer, best kitty friend of my boyfriend, Daniel Bayer. And Bella adjusted to her.
~
When I lay down on my bed, I still expect her to jump up beside me, making her happy little "mer-ow."~
When Bella and Melchior had not yet adjusted to one another and they reacted to each other with a hiss and a growl, Danny would say, "One day they will become friends." I would make fun of him. He looked forward to the day when Bella and Melchior would hang out in the same room peaceably. He looked forward to the day when Bella and Melchior would sleep on the same bed together. He looked forward to the day when he'd be able to hold both of them simultaneously. I told him he lives in a fantasy world, but that is one of the reasons I love him.Bella and Melchior gradually became accustomed to each others' presence. One day after work, I climbed the stairs to my room and was startled to see Bella and Melchior both asleep on my bed. Danny had projected correctly into the future. They had become friends.
Bella used to sleep on the table in our library. Melchior slept on the floor underneath her.
Bella recently stopped eating. She lost a lot of weight. Danny decided to take her to the vet to see what was going on. He called me after receiving the diagnosis. "I've got bad news," he said. Bella had colon cancer. A large tumor was blocking her colon. There was nothing to do but put her to sleep. She would starve to death otherwise.
Danny was devastated. This was his buddy of many years. Just as Melchior had accompanied me on many rough voyages, Bella had been Danny's companion in seas of sorrow - and joy. Danny cried openly and without reservation over the impending death of his beloved. I told him that I wanted to be with him when Bella died. So we arranged to take her back to the vet's office two days after her diagnosis.
In the interim, we contacted former housemates and friends who knew and loved Bella. We told them the news and invited them to come say good-bye. Over the next day and a half, folks stopped in to pet Bella, to comfort Danny, to tell stories about Bella, and to bid her farewell. It was a sweet time of preparation that Bella and Danny were lucky to have.
The dreaded morning came. Danny and I both had upset stomachs from anxiety and fear. I putzed around in my noncommittal fashion, hoping the moment would pass without the need to actually go through with the inevitable. Danny bravely took charge, said, "It's time to go," put Bella into her kitty carrier and we loaded ourselves into the car. Bella cried all the way there. I could think of no comforting words.
We arrived at the vet's office and were led to a small sitting room at the back of the building. The lighting was soft. There were comfy sofa-type furnishings. The doctor came in and described what would happen. She would take Bella to the back briefly to run an IV. Then she'd return her to us and let us visit with her for a little while. When we were ready, the vet would euthanize Bella.
I could not help but think of prisoners on death row and the statement, "Dead man walking." I imagined the fear and dread that is conjured upon hearing those words. I marvel that anyone would even create such a statement to describe the process of the condemned prisoner shuffling along the corridor to his death chamber.
My stomach grew sick with anxiety.
The vet brought Bella back to us and laid her in Danny's lap. She then left the three of us alone for a bit. This part is blank in my mind. I remember Danny sobbing and Bella becoming anxious. I told Danny that we had to be calm for her so that she could be at peace in her last moments. He nodded, but there was no controlling the current of despair pulling him down. We pet Bella and cooed words of love in her ear. When the vet appeared, asking if we were ready, Danny nodded.
An injection of saline. And then the fatal dose of anesthesia. Bella went limp. And Danny wailed. I held him as he held Bella. The vet left us to cuddle Bella's lifeless body and release a large portion of our grief.
I can't wrap my brain around death. Here was a body tangibly devoid of life. But how did it get from point A to point B? And where exactly was point B? It does not feel final, this death thing. Yet it's results are quite permanent. Bella was gone from our everyday lives.
Over the next couple of days, we struggled to plug into our lives. I held Melchior and told her that she was now the sole cat of the 504. I held her and told her how much I loved her. I relished her presence with all my might. I lingered in her soft fur and kissed her silky neck.
Melchior slept with her body pressed up against mine for the next two nights. I ran my hand across the top of her head, down her neck and along her back over and over again until I fell asleep. When I awoke, she was still there, stretching in the morning light.
I awoke early Saturday morning in order to go to the farmer's market before heading to work. Melchior was beside me still. She arose when I did and went downstairs. I did not see her when I left the house. I did not see her when I dropped off my market purchases on my way to work.
I did not see Melchior.
Around 10:20, I had my first 10 minute break at Planet Care. I noticed a voicemail on my cell phone. Danny had called. His only words were, "Call me when you get this message." I called him right away and the first words out of his mouth were, "I've got bad news." I refused to accept what I imagined was next. But the words came out of his mouth anyway, "I had to take Melchior to the emergency vet." He told me that she had staggered around, fallen over, her legs stiffened and slightly curled. She seemed to be having trouble breathing. Her mouth was hanging open. After recovering from this seizure-type activity, Melchior ran upstairs, hid under my bed and cried out.
I left work immediately and dashed over to meet Danny at the vet's. We waited in the lobby for nearly three hours. Speculating. At one point I said to Danny, "What if Melchior's heart is broken because Bella left?" Danny agreed that this was a possibility.
Danny had to leave to prepare for a wedding in which he was a groomsman. I remained. Waiting.
Eventually I met with the doctor. She described all the various tests they had run on Melchior and all the possible things that could have caused the bizarre physical manifestations. All tests were inconclusive. She was dehydrated, constipated, her kidney and heart levels were elevated, and this was all that could be determined. The vet told me Melchior could have a kidney disease. Or she could have a heart disease. Or she could have had a stroke. However, the elevated kidney levels and heart levels suggested disease in these organs . She was currently in an oxygen tent to help her breathe. The vet's recommendation was to keep Melchior overnight, ween her from the oxygen, give her fluids and see how she handled them. If she had a kidney disease, the fluids would be tolerated. If she had a heart disease, they would not.
In my fear and apprehension, in my desire to have my cat hang around with me on the planet for a good while longer, I decided to do as the vet recommended. I left her there. And I went to a wedding.
On Sunday morning, I was incredibly anxious for news. I waited until noon to call the vet. The person who answered the phone said she would have the doctor call me. The doctor called to say that they had nothing to report. Melchior still hadn't pooped. They were going to give her an enema and see how she did. They would call after that.
At 6 p.m. I called the vet for an update. The doctor told me that they had gotten Melchior to poop. She was out of the oxygen tent and resting on a heating pad to keep her temperature up. But they still did not know what was wrong with her. So I told the vet that I would be coming to pick Melchior up and bring her home. The vet said that was fine. She'd prepare all the paperwork.
Twenty minutes later the vet called to tell me that Melchior had taken a turn for the worse. She was having trouble breathing. They'd taken another x-ray which revealed that fluid was building up in her lungs. This indicated that she indeed had a heart disease.
The fluid which the vet had been pumping into Melchior was now building up in her lungs.
The vet described what needed to happen next. I told her that I could not even process any more information. I needed to see my cat. I hadn't seen her since early Saturday morning. There was no way for me to make any kind of decision about her care without seeing her. The vet told me to come on over and I could see her. I grabbed Danny and headed out.
~
I recently read a book called The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion. In it, she describes the process of grieving the loss of her husband and the creation of a sort of "magical thinking." For example, she could not get rid of all of his clothes because he would need something to wear when he came back home. She got rid of all of his shoes except one single pair. He would need those when he returned.I still haven't emptied Melchior's water dish.
~
Danny and I were greeted at the door of the emergency vet's and led to a room where various animals were caged. Melchior was in a box that looked like an over-sized microwave. Oxygen. She needed oxygen. I peered in at her, uncertain whether to open the door. Her sides were heaving with the effort to breathe. Her mouth hung open as if to allow more air in. Her lovely large alien eyes were narrowed and tired. Without thinking about any possible harm I could cause her, I opened the door so I could pet her. She did not immediately respond to my touch. But after a moment she recognized who I was, lifted herself up and walked over to me. I grabbed her and held her close to me.She knew me. She was glad to see me. I could not bear this moment.
The vet had given her a diuretic to try and take some of the fluid out of her lungs. Maybe this was the reason Melchior urinated on me. But I took it as an indication that she was displeased and wanted to get the hell out of there. I returned her to the oxygen box long enough to meet with the vet and express, on her behalf, Melchior's desire to leave.
The vet showed us an x-ray of Melchior taken on Saturday shortly after Danny brought her over. Then she showed us an x-ray of Melchior taken moments ago. She indicated the degree to which her lungs had filled with fluid. She said this and that about an echocardiogram, about the need to transfer her to a facility that could perform this procedure. That would have to wait until the next morning - Monday. So she recommended keeping her overnight again. Moving her from vet #1 to car to house to car to vet #2 would be too stressful. She could go into respiratory arrest.
I did not know what to do. Melchior had clearly indicated that it was time to go home. This was the only data I needed. The scientific garble was not consistent with Melchior's message to me. And so, I became indecisive. I looked to Danny for an answer. And I called my son. My team of consultants agreed it would be best to leave her. And so I did. But as I was leaving, I insisted that I be called if it appeared she was going to die.
Danny and I grabbed some food from an Italian restaurant and took it home with us. A cold rain had begun to fall. My insides were cold. The tasty hot food revived me and my spirit began to lift.
An hour later, the vet called. Melchior had gone into respiratory arrest. I told her I could be there in fifteen minutes.
Danny and I were again met at the door and ushered back to the same room. This time, Melchior was stretched out on a small stainless steel table. She had been intubated: her mouth was tied open with a a piece of gauze to accommodate a large tube which extended down into her throat and fed her oxygen. She could not respond to my presence - she was too heavily sedated. Several wires were attached to various points of her underbelly with jumper cable-type spring clamps to measure her vitals.
I called my son. He told me he would be there in 20 minutes. I called my daughter - who is currently in Vermont. I described the scene to her. She cried. She told me that whatever I decided, she would support. A couple of minutes after we hung up, she called me and asked me to hold the phone up to Melchior's ear. She wanted to say good-bye.
I held the phone up to Melchior's ear. I pet her as my daughter, Ambien, cooed words of love and praise. When she'd finished talking to Melchior, she told me everything that she'd said. Ambien told Melchior that she had worked hard her whole life. She had done a good job raising two kids. She had done a good job taking care of me when I was sick. Ambien told Melchior that she loved her very much. But if she was tired, if her body was worn out, if she needed to go home, it was alright.
Jairus arrived during my conversation with Ambien and put his ample arms around me, tears streaming down his face. Danny, Jairus and I looked at each other and agreed the time was now. We needed to put Melchior out of this misery - a misery that I feel I, in part, imposed upon her. We all pet her and told her we loved her.
I leaned over to kiss her neck and whisper my love names to her, "baby girl, sweet girl, my beautiful girl. It's ok. It's ok baby girl. Everything's going to be ok. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry, Melchior."
I'm so sorry.
When she was dead, the vet cut loose the gauze binding Melchior's mouth open. She pulled the tube out of her throat. Danny, Jairus and I sobbed openly and freely. I kissed her body again and again. The vet asked if we would like to take her into a private room and hold her. I don't know who said yes. A grief-stricken mind does not function properly, cannot process information and analyze a response.
We went into a room and sat down on a couch, Danny to my left, Jairus to my right. I held Melchior in my lap and wept. I handed her to Jairus. And then to Danny. And then I held her again. I stroked her soft fur, memorizing the texture, the color variations, the smell. Once I felt I'd absorbed it all, there was a sudden sense of peace. I noticed Melchior was at peace. And this provided some solace.
The vet took Melchior's body. Under better circumstances (daylight, no rain, some degree of physical and emotional energy) I would have taken her to Kernersville to bury in the woods behind my parents' house. This is where she enjoyed roaming during the time that I lived with my parents. This is where she hunted for small rodents and frogs. Yes. One time she pranced proudly through the back yard with a rather large frog in her mouth. Melchior was a fierce huntress.
Under better circumstances, I would have returned her body to that soil. But I chose to have her cremated. I suppose we can only do so much and no more at any given moment in time.
Jairus hugged me one last time in the lobby of the vet's office and left. Danny and I remained to pay the vet bill. $1200. Danny had to put the bulk of it on his credit card. The surreal sterility of this moment juxtaposed with the preceding one, and then with the moment I walked out into the damp and breezy night air, it overwhelmed me. I felt momentarily dizzy. Like I would fall over. I stood still, looked up at the sky and breathed. I gathered my strength, which always resides in the present moment. No past regrets, no future worries, just standing still and present in the moment.
I have lived my life without Melchior for one week now. I feel I am caught between two worlds, as if part of me broke off and followed her to the great beyond. But the rest of me trods gracelessly and clumsily upon the earth. I grapple to find meaning and hope.
I still smell her litterbox. When I walk into my room after having been at work all day, I cringe as I think, "I need to scoop Melchy's litterbox."
First thing in the morning, I still expect her to be by my side as my alarm goes off, stretching sleepily in protest, attempting to cajole me to stay in bed a little longer.
As I walk into the kitchen and open the refrigerator door, I expect her to run in, asking for food.
Melchior loved eggs. No matter what her location in the house, she could always hear me crack an egg and she would come running. When I sat down to eat them, she would sit within reach of my plate and bat at my fork as I raised it to my mouth. If she was quick enough, she succeeded in knocking some eggs off my utensil. That was her kill. She earned it. She immediately devoured it.
Melchior liked being an outdoor cat. But when we moved to the 504, she became an indoor cat. I let her out on the balcony - or the catio as Danny liked to call it. It was a pleasure to bask in the morning sun and watch Melchior watch birds and squirrels go about their business. Her tail twitched in a particular manner, as if she was preparing to lunge.
Melchior was a tough cat. She had been bitten by a spider early in her life and nearly died. She was hit by a car and was unable to walk for a little while. She lost one of her fangs. I'm not sure how. Maybe old age claimed it. Having only one fang created a Billy Idol sneer.
I loved Melchior. It is hard being without her.
Yesterday, the sky was a brilliant hue. A spirited breeze encircled me as I walked out into the parking lot at Planet Care to round up carts. I looked into the deep blue. I felt the warmth of the sun on my back and the quickened movement of air. And suddenly, I felt as if Melchior was there - somewhere. In the sky, the wind, the sun. In the black feathers of a crow passing overhead. Everywhere. And she was having fun.
I could feel it.
In my imagination, Melchior and Bella have reunited. Melchior playfully runs after Bella and Bella acts like she doesn't like it. But really she does. Melchior's old friend, Max, is there. They play hide and seek together. Just like they used to. When Max comes peering around a corner looking for Melchior, she springs out at him and he leaps in surprise. There are lots of insects to chase, lots of rodents to kill. There is always a sunny spot for her to sleep in. And she remembers that I love her.
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