Remembering Grief

Mike didn't sleep on Friday night after beginning a new medication. When I awoke, rested and curious about why his pillow had migrated to the couch, he told me that he hadn't slept, not one moment.

My breath went. I went into the kitchen to make breakfast and tried not to cry. A weight settled on my soul. I remembered that same feeling after my dad had died when I was thirteen. I would wake in the morning refreshed and as I got my wits about me, I would remember and a weight would descend on my heart. My breath would become shallow.

Grief is heavy.

The thing is that I hadn't realized just how hard it had been the first time Mike went through this. We just did what we needed to do. The summer days changed, became more quiet. If there was the slightest possibility that Mike was falling asleep, I shushed anyone in the house and turned down any lights. At any hour, we were prepared to go silent. Mike missed a few weeks of work, didn't drive safely, and couldn't decide simple things like what he wanted for dinner, let alone anything important.

He held my hand.

He didn't want to be left alone.

We were all afraid of what his sleeplessness could do. The list was frightening. The whole family felt the effects. After seeing three doctors and getting some help, Mike slowly began to sleep. After a month, he'd average two or three hours of sleep. When he got up to four hours, he went back to work and managed, though he didn't thrive there for a long while. After six months, he announced that he'd gotten six hours of sleep and I wanted to throw a party. Who would come to a party like that if they didn't know what it meant to us? We didn't care. We were happy. All I wanted was more of my ordinary life with this man. Was that asking for so much?

It took almost a year for Mike to get seven hours of sleep and he would occasionally get eight. His remaining doctor called his condition adrenal shock. It had a name.

And I very nearly forgot what that time in our lives was like. Nearly.

Until yesterday morning.

Thankfully, Mike slept last night. Oh, I don't think he got eight hours of sleep, but he said he rested. That translates to at least six hours of sleep.

Today, I'm breathing again.

Thank you for listening, jb

Waking Up Worried

I woke up really worried about Mike. He hasn't been sleeping well and last night was no exception.  Three to four hours of sleep a night is not enough to function on. He rallies for what he really needs to do, but in between, he's not energetic. I've even seen him flagging with Nickie, his sweet boy.

Everyone's fears are based on their own experiences. What a generalization. You know what I mean, though. Our experiences can form our fears.  I'm a woman who has seen death. I'm not particularly afraid of my own death. I'll either be dead and gone or I'll be somewhere else. To be honest, I kind of look forward to finding out when I get to that point. Will it be an adventure?

I believe that when I die, my soul will go on, that I'll go through the hell of really knowing the truth of the pain I've caused people and the heaven of knowing what I did right. I believe that heaven is knowing, really knowing, how everything works and seeing the beauty in the system. The other day, I was watching 'How the Galaxy Works' on the Science Channel.  Oh, it fed my inner geek. I loved learning that our galaxy has a black hole at the center. The scientists talked about the 'sweet spot' in the galaxy which can support life and I laughed and said out loud, "Life as we understand it! There's probably life in all levels of the galaxies, but we just can't recognize it." Yes, I talk to the television. I was amazed to hear that galaxies together form some kind of structure. There, that could be another large form of life that operates on such a different scale that we can't see it. Kind of like 'Horton Hears a Who.' So, I'm not exactly afraid of death as long as I do what I need to do while I'm alive.

I don't look forward to the pain that precedes death. That part is hard, but I've experienced pain, pain that made me pass out. I'm pretty sure I can handle the pain of death too.  Guess I'll have to.  It's so different in the experiences I've had. My grandpa died of a heart attack and was gone in seconds. My dad went through so much to try to live with cancer. He hurt. I remember the blanket we had, a velour one, that was the only thing that was light and soft enough that it didn't hurt him. Chemotherapy doesn't just cause nausea. He had so many surgeries that I lost count, at least three, maybe four. That was painful. There was the embarrassment, which for a manly man like him was significant, of having a colostomy that smelled bad and made noises he couldn't control. My dad liked being in control of himself. We were sitting downstairs on the couch, watching TV one time, when he said, "Now I know why God put our butts behind us instead of in front." Chemotherapy made us leave church early, made my dad's carpool bring him home early, made him hide in the far bathroom to vomit with my mother presiding over him for a couple of days after each one.

But you should know that my dad's death was actually peaceful. He went into a coma from too much chemotherapy. This was 1973, before they'd refined the doses. He wasn't in a coma for many hours. They had called us in. We knew it was happening. The nurses on my dad's floor finally relented and said that I didn't have to wait in the lobby, that I could be with my family by my dad's bedside even though I wasn't fourteen yet. I had waited for cumulative days in that lobby, trying to focus on reading a book or doing homework. So at least I was in the room with my dad when he died and not waiting in the lobby. For that, I am truly grateful. My brother and sister were in a nearby waiting room. We were only allowed in one at a time and it was my turn.

I sat at my dad's side touching his hair and talking quietly to him. The nurse had said that sometimes people in a coma can hear you, so I talked. I have no idea what I said. I hope I told him I loved him, though we didn't say that so much back then. There was a woman talking to my mother on the other side of the room. I remember wishing she would go away. I remember thinking that we didn't know her well enough for her to be here at this personal time.  She seemed to be trying to take over and was too interested in 'helping' and I didn't like her. But I ignored her and focused on my dad.

I just talked to him in this whisper and played with his hair. He would have wanted a haircut and I hoped what I was doing didn't hurt.  One moment, my dad was breathing very quietly, and the next, he wasn't. I had this feeling that his soul moved up and across over my mother's head and out of the room. I remember looking that direction. Then, when I looked back at my dad, I knew he wasn't there in that body. There was just one brief moment when it was just me there, then nurses burst into the room, the lady I didn't like grabbed me by the arm, and pushed me out to join my brother and sister. They could tell that he'd died by the look on my face. I didn't need to say a word. The clock read 4:15.

My sister remembers this so very differently than I did.  I don't have proof, but I wrote about it in my diary when I was thirteen. It doesn't matter though. We all have our own truth to tell and this is the most compelling truth that I know. I was there with my dad one moment and in the next, he swept up and was gone. I would not trade that moment for anything. For having him back, maybe, but not for anything else.

So my fear isn't that I will die.  I know it will happen.  I was in the room with Mike when his mother stopped breathing. I've lived through losing my four grandparents that I loved too. I know death.

My fear, my gut-wrenching fear, is that my son will have to go through losing a parent too early the way I did, that he'll have to worry that he might forget his dad. My fear is that he won't find the words anywhere that tell him how much Mike loves him. My life did a 180 degree turn when my dad died.  I searched through all of his books to find his words, to see anything that was his life before I lost him. I tried to follow in his footsteps, but learned that the best way for me to feel my dad's love is to write about him. It's hard to realize, but it helps me to remember that I could never forget him.

I lived through those early years after my dad died, but I can tell you they were the worst years of my life and the loneliest. I came through it somehow and now, for the most part, I thrive in the life I've been given. I believe that in living through the depths of despair, I know what real joy can be. It's a hard lesson, but well earned. Still, I keep telling Mike that he has to take care of himself, that Nicky needs him and he has to take care. I really don't want Nick to have to do it the way I did.

Thank you for listening, jb

Losing It

I think I'm losing it.  Again. 

Six years ago, when our boy got pneumonia for the first time, it really surprised me that my husband handled it so differently than I did.  After our son finally got better, my husband decided we should go to Disneyland.  I willingly went to Disneyland.  I love Disneyland.  Still, as I watched my two guys spinning on the teacups ride, I stood by the little houses built for people ten inches tall.  The guys were laughing.  I'd been laughing too when I went on the ride with them.  But one spin is enough for me and I sat the next two out.  I stood leaning on a fence watching them and suddenly, I could feel a side to me that had gotten dark and angry that I might lose my boy.  That spot remained dark in me for months after we went back home, even through sunny summer days at the lake. I had stood at the abyss, right there in Disneyland, and I didn't see God in there, just a big black empty hole.

When I was thirteen, my dad died.  He had cancer and he died from his chemotherapy.  The day before, the doctors had gathered us in the lobby and told us the good news: they had gotten all the cancer.  My dad died the next day, on April 2. It wasn't anyone's fault.  The doctors just didn't know as much back then about the limits of chemotherapy.  I'm sure it was lost on them that they had delivered the most devastating April Fool's Joke ever to an unsuspecting family. 

You know the drill after that.  We got together the whole family plus a lot of other people I didn't know.  We had four days of waiting in a room with the casket and lots of people.  We were dressed in uncomfortable clothes.  We had to cry in front of strangers. Then we went home and our lives were never the same again.  Still, even in those early days after my dad died, I sensed something.  Maybe it was simple need.  I felt like I wasn't alone, like someone was there carrying on when I couldn't move forward on my own. I went with that feeling.  I carried it with me for thirty-one years.  It was a relief to have that feeling in my darkest moments and, even after being out all night in NYC, I'd sometimes go to church the next day with my friends.  It didn't matter much which church we went to, which denomination.  It all seemed like a different flavor of the same thing to me.

But then, thirty-one years later, my boy was sick.  It was frightening.  Everyone I talked to told me their stories about going to the emergency room with their kids.  Our boy lay flaccid in a hospital bed for four days with an oxygen absorption of about 75%.  Even when you hold your breath until you're dizzy, you have trouble lowering your oxygen absorption below 98%. It was a relief when his numbers started to rise and he wrestled with the tape holding the oxygen sensor on one hand and the IV on the other one.  Something happened as our boy was sent home and I began to recover from the lack of sleep and the worry.  I realized what my life would become if I'd actually lost my boy.  It wasn't pretty.  I'm not sure I would have been able to continue breathing.  That never entered my mind when my dad died.  I was in pain back then.  It was hard to wake up and realize, after having forgotten in sleep that my dad had died, and I had to get up and go to school and act normal.  But it never occurred to me to give up and go with him. 

My grandpa died fourteen months after my dad died.  I watched him, a robust man, wither and die.  I was so mad at my grandpa.  I wanted to ask him 'What about me? I still need you.' But thirty-one years later, I can see just what happened.  His boy had died. He'd lost his sweet boy and he didn't know how he could keep breathing after that. I didn't even lose my boy six years ago.  I didn't lose him this month either, though that fear is still there, black and toxic in my heart.

As I get older, it seems more seldom that I feel what I've always called the holy spirit.  Whatever your religion, even if you doubt, you can stand at the edge of a forest sometimes, and breathe in the smell of cedar and ferns, and feel that sense of awe in the universe, that there is something more to it than what you can see.  Or you can feel it in your biochemistry class, a wave washing over you like a baptism, that the tiniest amount of a single chemical makes your life possible and that the balance, that amazing balance of chemicals, has to mean something special is going on beyond your understanding. 

But after waking up multiple nights to hear my boy gasping for breath on the couch next to me, I'm back to that dark place.  I could lose him and I wouldn't want to continue to breathe.  I couldn't imagine a world that warms, blooms, and turns green in springtime if my boy wasn't in it with me.  I don't have any idea how other parents have survived this kind of loss.  I know some don't.  How can I feel God in that?

As a grieving kid, I asked the question, "Why do people suffer?" I have never been given an answer that satisfied me.  People suffer.  Some people suffer incredible losses.  Children get sick and sometimes they die. Somebody told me that God never gives you anything you can't handle.  That's not true.  My grandpa couldn't handle losing my dad and he died too.  Somebody else reminded me of Nietzsche's corollary that whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger.  But is despair and cynicism in the living a sign of strength? Someone else told me that God doesn't cause the pain, but helps you through it.  Imagine that, an all-seeing, all-knowing God just sitting there and watching people suffer. Now, that just made me mad.

The best explanation I was ever given was about the yin and the yang, that there is no understanding of life without death, that suffering is connected with joy in the balance. So maybe I need to let myself have my moments of standing at the abyss.  Will that help the joy be all that much greater when it comes? I don't know the answers. I wish I did.

Thank you for listening, jb

A Cat on the Ghetto Box

So my Grandma died last August and I inherited her orange cat, Buddy. I wanted her cat. With my grandma, he always acted like he was responsible for her. He woke her up for breakfast, walked her to the bathroom. If he'd had thumbs and been taller, he'd have helped her get dressed and combed her hair.

When I was there, I tried to comb out the knots in his fur. Even though I could tell when it began to hurt, he let me finish and purred a 'thank you' when I was done. Buddy was more than the service cat he'd trained himself to be. When I talked about my grandma to him, he looked at me as if he understood, as if he could say "Of course I help her. I love her." I'm putting words into his mouth, I know, but how else could I define that look?

So the last time I visited my grandma, I called Buddy's veterinarian. He came out, offered me a prescription for a sedative for traveling, told me that Buddy had a heart murmur, possibly colon cancer, and that he might not survive the trip home. My dad died of colon cancer and my grandpa died of heart disease. Is there awful irony in that, or what?

He didn't have fun, but he made it home and was quiet on the plane. Then, the poor guy had to get used to my son's pushy cat, Seth, and a set of noisy kids. At first, Seth, hissed through the door and tried to swat him by sticking his paw under the door, claws extended. But now they romp through the rooms at night, knocking things over and waking me up.

I was a mess after I got back. My grandma had been the one who loved me best. You know, the one you try to be like, who you want to look like when you get old. I couldn't keep track of making my son's lunch, getting to appointments I'd made, putting two words together. Believe me, you don't want to get volunteered to write an article for the local newspaper when you're grieving.

After three weeks, I took Buddy to my vet. He'd been throwing up daily and bleeding into the litter box. It was so gross, I had to let my son off from that duty. I wanted Buddy to get settled in, but the words heart murmur and cancer kept echoing in my mind.

My vet said that the heart murmur was worrisome and that I should go to a specialist, that since he was only six, she'd like to really know what was going on. After spending most of our vacation money on procedures and consultations, the specialist told me that Buddy had congestive heart failure. There was no cure. She gave him six months to a year to live and said there was nothing I could do except try to make him comfortable and maybe extend his life with some medications. They're some of the same medicines my brother takes - Plavix, Lasix, Atenalol, and Enalapril. They're not exactly cheap either. My husband and I fought over it, but I think he knew not to mess with a woman's grief.

So my new buddy came with an expiration date. At first, my son didn't even want to touch him because he was going to die anyway and the blood and puke grossed him out. You can't argue with that. My husband tried not to like Buddy either because he'd cost him a vacation. So Buddy latched onto me. I like to think that maybe, in some small way, I remind him of my grandma.

When I get home, Buddy walks slowly in front of me. His message is that I need to sit down. I sit, get arranged with a blanket and pillow on my lap, and pat it to tell him to jump on up. He lies on the pillow and purrs over nothing. He loves having his head rubbed and when I've got my phone or a book, he demands two hands until I've scratched and rubbed and hugged him just enough. Then, I settle in to read and mindlessly pet him with just one hand. At that point, Buddy rolls over exposing a white polka-dotted bellly and pats me on the face. When he makes eye contact, I can feel his love. It is a deep love in those eyes. Then I succumb to total cuteness, put down my book and rub him all over again. When I settle back into mindless rubbing, he jumps off, walks around for a bit, and starts the process all over again.

He's at my feet right now, crying like a kitten. Did I tell you that he sounds pathetic when he does this? He reminds me to give him his pills twice a day with his baby cry and a very solemn look. He has pathetic cuteness down cold. What do you say about a cat that comes running to get petted whenever anyone sits down on the toilet? That's what won my husband over. He'd come running from the farthest reaches of the house when he heard that lid tap the tank. Imagine a couple of years of living with a woman who couldn't reach down to pet you and you know how Buddy came up with that one. He even used pathetic cuteness to win Seth over. Whenever Seth rolls him over, Buddy just lays there waiting for him to let go, now and then mewing like a kitten. What else can he do? He's about the same size as Seth, but not nearly as strong.

At Christmas, Buddy latched onto a cardboard box only half-filled with styrofoam popcorn. Under his weight, the box has begun to sag in the middle, tear at the corners, and generally look pathetic. This is where he sits when I'm at home but not holding up my end of the bargain by sitting in the recliner. Buddy has lots of nicknames, Pitty Pat, Sweet Baby, and Orange Cat. When he's on the box, we call him Ghetto Kitty. He doesn't bother with looks of reproach. The box does that by itself.

So here I am working on my new blog. Ghetto Kitty has given up lying at my feet and has retreated to his box. There is a cost to everything and the cost of this blog is losing that time with my Buddy. I just hope when he really reaches his expiration date, that he is full, of chin rubs, of hugs, of deep searching eye contact that tells him that I love him and I always will.

Thank you for listening, jb