We are just transients on the earth, some meant to walk through nearly a century and some meant only for a brief warm darkness of the womb, and all those in between. I know that people die every day. My mind knows this, but my heart has this knowledge knocked into it each time death presents his untouchable face in my window. The world lost two good men today. One of them was barely more than a child, younger than me. And the other was, as I remember him, forever a child at heart. I didn't know Andrew, but I stood witness to the celebration of his extraordinary young life as his family and friends said their goodbyes. I cannot imagine their grief.
I've known for less that two hours about Steve's passing, and right now it doesn't feel real. I was so sure that he was going to make it through, that he was going to get a second chance. It seemed so ridiculous that a heart attack could take the likes of Steve Ellis. And yet there is already an article about his death in the Orlando Sentinel, so I guess it has to be true. Steve and my dad have been best friends for ages. He was such a special part of my childhood. I mean, Steve had the "cool factor." He was like a wild rambler who showed up every once in a while and the party seemed to come with him. He loved my dad. He loved my mother. He loved our family.
Steve should have been a Daddy. I think that, more than anything else, is what hurts so much about this, what seems so unfair. It was a long time before I realized that Brandon wasn't his son, because he certainly loved him like one. People are going to be honoring his passion and dedication to the Seminoles, but perhaps his love of children (and of Brandon in particular) was his greatest gift of all.
My heart aches for his family and my family.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Treasures untold
Sparks of ideas. Free-writing that I am quite intrigued by, because we all know what I really want to do with this fancy education:
I shall live a long time. I shall live past the point of understanding how the world works. I am nearly there already, and still my heart thumps on and I haven’t had to replace my glasses in three years. Mama Zuri once told me that in death even the old and wise tremble under the newness of the world like a newborn dik dik. Perhaps she is right, which is why I don’t watch the television except for David Attenborough documentaries and Jane Austen, and only if Mary is nearby to turn it off when I am through.
Aubyn Hall is quiet these days, save for Tuesdays and every third Saturday when the west wing and great hall are opened to the public as is our agreement with the wretched Trust. My days are now kept by dust-covered portraits and the damn dogs and memories of warm corridors and people of my own blood. I have filled my Bible with their names, and this is what is left.
As for man, his days are as grass. Mama Zuri wrote it with a square carpenter’s pencil in block letters on the back of a tin label. As a flower of the field, so he flourisheth. When the rains came and all the boys from the quarters danced in the streambed by the north pasture. For the wind passeth over it, and it is gone. Starkers, shock, said Alfie. In a state of nature, said Kate. You just keep writing, girl, said Mama Zuri. I didn’t mind not being allowed outside to see the dancing boys. The orphaned dik dik had been allowed inside and to be given a name. This made all the difference. And the place thereof shall know it no more.
I first met him in my final year at small dinner party of a mutual tutor, Professor Llangyden, a boisterous Welshman who liked to surround himself with students who would perhaps one day prove an advantageous contact. I knew from the moment I set eyes on him that he would not have received an invitation had it not been for his friend, Mr. Will Barrett, a young man destined for a seat in government. His evening jacket was obviously borrowed from a man several inches thicker and a good deal taller.
Memory and truth, running parallel, sometimes intersecting—I cannot remember, for instance, if we left Mama Zuri behind or if she left us behind. Which direction did she walk on the road from Sibilo Station to Mombasa? She must have walked while Mother and Father drove because this is the way of things. Those who could have told me have gone on and taken their secrets with them. I have a dream which in which the smells of Aubyn Hall and monsoon-rotted straw linger in my mouth and nose as I walk through an unfamiliar passageway, guided along by strange portraits and paisley wallpaper, crumbling at the seams and corners. Sometimes Mama Zuri is standing there at the end of the hall, holding a wax candle from the hives at Sibilo. Sometimes Lieutenant Richardson with a black and red stained telegram. Sometimes Peter with an ageless smile and an atlas opened to the Dead Sea. Sometimes you are there with your easy courage.
I shall live a long time. I shall live past the point of understanding how the world works. I am nearly there already, and still my heart thumps on and I haven’t had to replace my glasses in three years. Mama Zuri once told me that in death even the old and wise tremble under the newness of the world like a newborn dik dik. Perhaps she is right, which is why I don’t watch the television except for David Attenborough documentaries and Jane Austen, and only if Mary is nearby to turn it off when I am through.
Aubyn Hall is quiet these days, save for Tuesdays and every third Saturday when the west wing and great hall are opened to the public as is our agreement with the wretched Trust. My days are now kept by dust-covered portraits and the damn dogs and memories of warm corridors and people of my own blood. I have filled my Bible with their names, and this is what is left.
As for man, his days are as grass. Mama Zuri wrote it with a square carpenter’s pencil in block letters on the back of a tin label. As a flower of the field, so he flourisheth. When the rains came and all the boys from the quarters danced in the streambed by the north pasture. For the wind passeth over it, and it is gone. Starkers, shock, said Alfie. In a state of nature, said Kate. You just keep writing, girl, said Mama Zuri. I didn’t mind not being allowed outside to see the dancing boys. The orphaned dik dik had been allowed inside and to be given a name. This made all the difference. And the place thereof shall know it no more.
I first met him in my final year at small dinner party of a mutual tutor, Professor Llangyden, a boisterous Welshman who liked to surround himself with students who would perhaps one day prove an advantageous contact. I knew from the moment I set eyes on him that he would not have received an invitation had it not been for his friend, Mr. Will Barrett, a young man destined for a seat in government. His evening jacket was obviously borrowed from a man several inches thicker and a good deal taller.
Memory and truth, running parallel, sometimes intersecting—I cannot remember, for instance, if we left Mama Zuri behind or if she left us behind. Which direction did she walk on the road from Sibilo Station to Mombasa? She must have walked while Mother and Father drove because this is the way of things. Those who could have told me have gone on and taken their secrets with them. I have a dream which in which the smells of Aubyn Hall and monsoon-rotted straw linger in my mouth and nose as I walk through an unfamiliar passageway, guided along by strange portraits and paisley wallpaper, crumbling at the seams and corners. Sometimes Mama Zuri is standing there at the end of the hall, holding a wax candle from the hives at Sibilo. Sometimes Lieutenant Richardson with a black and red stained telegram. Sometimes Peter with an ageless smile and an atlas opened to the Dead Sea. Sometimes you are there with your easy courage.
Thursday, October 01, 2009
Imposter
I just finished up my self-inflicted crash course in 16th and 17th century British History. I now know the succession of kings and queens, the difference between the Long and Rump parliament, and the definition of rough wooing. So why is it that I still feel as if someone (either them or me) has made a horrible mistake?
Maybe it is just a language barrier thing. I have to learn the language and the cultural norms. I feel like an anthropologist, observing the natives. Many of the guys wear coats and/or ties to class and everyone looks very well put together. Many people here are too smart for their own good, and get so wrapped up in what they are talking about that they don't realize that they've lost the rest of us. Or those people who speak so quickly trying to keep up with their own brains. I'm a slow talker (I'm Southern, what can I say?) and I appreciate slow talkers. I've heard many a word that I don't know, many of the academicky, made-up words that I'm not sure the people saying them know what mean.
Don't get me wrong, I'm enjoying the challenge and meeting many sensible, fairly un-pretentious people, but it is another world. I met another Bardian who said the transition can be rough. Even at the highest levels of classes at Bard, there was always humor and the fear of taking oneself too seriously. There have been several moments where I have wanted to laugh outloud at the absurdity of some people in my classes, but I quickly realize that no one else finds it funny, so I stifle a grin and watch for others doing the same. Those are the people I want to know better.
Maybe it is just a language barrier thing. I have to learn the language and the cultural norms. I feel like an anthropologist, observing the natives. Many of the guys wear coats and/or ties to class and everyone looks very well put together. Many people here are too smart for their own good, and get so wrapped up in what they are talking about that they don't realize that they've lost the rest of us. Or those people who speak so quickly trying to keep up with their own brains. I'm a slow talker (I'm Southern, what can I say?) and I appreciate slow talkers. I've heard many a word that I don't know, many of the academicky, made-up words that I'm not sure the people saying them know what mean.
Don't get me wrong, I'm enjoying the challenge and meeting many sensible, fairly un-pretentious people, but it is another world. I met another Bardian who said the transition can be rough. Even at the highest levels of classes at Bard, there was always humor and the fear of taking oneself too seriously. There have been several moments where I have wanted to laugh outloud at the absurdity of some people in my classes, but I quickly realize that no one else finds it funny, so I stifle a grin and watch for others doing the same. Those are the people I want to know better.
Friday, September 25, 2009
Tears
I had my grieving dreams last night.
On a beach unlike any I've ever seen. Lots of driftwood. I was there with my mother and we were desperately trying to pack up a room and move out of the beach house. The grief seemed distant and yet so raw, and we were both avoiding it until it blew up. Someone we loved fiercely had died. I'm not even going to write down who here because it was so horrible and I can't bear to think about it in the daylight hours. Somehow in the dream I ended up crawling across this beach, so stricken with sadness that normal balance was not possible. In the dream, I sobbed and wailed for what seemed like hours. Every time I tried to redirect myself, I was bowled over again. As I entered the door to the beach house, I knew that I would never stop crying ever again. How could I? And then I realized that my mother was in more pain than I could ever imagine. And so I cried even harder. When I finally woke up, dry-eyed and shaken, I felt this insane sense of relief. I usually know that dreams are not real, but in my crying dreams, I cannot see past the cloud of grief.
I know this probably sounds like a horrifying nightmare, but it really isn't. I can't cry like that when I am awake. To do so in my dreams feels oddly satisfying, maybe even good. It hurts, but the lack of control is almost exhilarating. I've had these dreams for many years, even before I had encountered grief and loss in my waking life. They are rare, but poignant. I am usually not that shaken by them, unless, as in this one, the death is someone I do love and care for in real life and not a vague or created figure. I don't even think that these dreams are a sign of distress or tension in my waking life. They just...exist. They allow a kind of release that I don't often get.
On a beach unlike any I've ever seen. Lots of driftwood. I was there with my mother and we were desperately trying to pack up a room and move out of the beach house. The grief seemed distant and yet so raw, and we were both avoiding it until it blew up. Someone we loved fiercely had died. I'm not even going to write down who here because it was so horrible and I can't bear to think about it in the daylight hours. Somehow in the dream I ended up crawling across this beach, so stricken with sadness that normal balance was not possible. In the dream, I sobbed and wailed for what seemed like hours. Every time I tried to redirect myself, I was bowled over again. As I entered the door to the beach house, I knew that I would never stop crying ever again. How could I? And then I realized that my mother was in more pain than I could ever imagine. And so I cried even harder. When I finally woke up, dry-eyed and shaken, I felt this insane sense of relief. I usually know that dreams are not real, but in my crying dreams, I cannot see past the cloud of grief.
I know this probably sounds like a horrifying nightmare, but it really isn't. I can't cry like that when I am awake. To do so in my dreams feels oddly satisfying, maybe even good. It hurts, but the lack of control is almost exhilarating. I've had these dreams for many years, even before I had encountered grief and loss in my waking life. They are rare, but poignant. I am usually not that shaken by them, unless, as in this one, the death is someone I do love and care for in real life and not a vague or created figure. I don't even think that these dreams are a sign of distress or tension in my waking life. They just...exist. They allow a kind of release that I don't often get.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
New smells
It’s funny how when you move to a new place, every time you step out your door it feels like some grand excursion, including that panicked feeling right before you close the door to your building (Do I have my keys, my wallet, my money, my phone, my bus pass, my whatever) as if you might never find your way back. And every small errand leaves you weary of mind and muscle and sore of foot. Somehow I manage to become drenched in sweat even though it is so cool and breezy outside. And you never realize how little walking you do living in a rural area with a car until you move to a city without one.
I’ve only been here for two days now, but I am slowly navigating this neighborhood. I seem chronically unsure of biking etiquette. My fat tires do not go as fast as the skinny road bike tires, so I feel bad being in the middle of the lane, but I don’t want to get run off the road by crazy cab drivers. I also don’t know exactly what to do about one lane roads. They go right to all the places I want to go, but I always seem to be on the wrong side. And I also see tons of people biking on the sidewalk, which I thought was not allowed. Is it rude or understandable. In general, I would be happier if I had my helmet which somehow was left behind in SC.
Anyway, I am more or less settled in aside from a small stack on unsorted clothes. I even made my bed today to make the room more aesthetically pleasing. My roommates and I are beginning to shed layers and sort out logistical stuff. Now that I have made the move unscathed, I am ready to begin what I cam here to do. Being here gives me the confidence boost I need. I feel a need to prove myself, that thirst that got me through Bard in three years and saw me to the end of some difficult papers. I’m a little tired of the nervous social energy in learning the lay of the social landscape. Some lessons so far.
1.) Being poor and coming from no money is NOT status quo here, and it makes people of means uncomfortable when people without means talk about money.
2.) Fuck is in vogue. Shit is decidedly out of vogue. Sonofabitch is probably out of the question.
3.) Leg cuffs are getting smaller. Most people are not having an existential crisis about it.
4.) Graduate school dinner parties are actually kind of expensive, because generally it is good manners to bring something (apparently) usually wine. And Yellow Tail probably would raise eyebrows.
5.) I need a new bike lock. A mean looking chain with a teeny u-lock. Or so says Mr. So and So at the bike store.
Some new smells:
1) My new bathroom, not mildewy, but strangely other.
2) New coffee, mediocre at $8.50 a pound.
3) Peppermint and Tea Tree together....not a new smell, but one I haven't smelled since I left Bard nursery school.
4) Foreign-smelling honey, grown in Kansas where people are batshitcrazy.
5) The most amazingly sweet apple I've ever had.
I’ve only been here for two days now, but I am slowly navigating this neighborhood. I seem chronically unsure of biking etiquette. My fat tires do not go as fast as the skinny road bike tires, so I feel bad being in the middle of the lane, but I don’t want to get run off the road by crazy cab drivers. I also don’t know exactly what to do about one lane roads. They go right to all the places I want to go, but I always seem to be on the wrong side. And I also see tons of people biking on the sidewalk, which I thought was not allowed. Is it rude or understandable. In general, I would be happier if I had my helmet which somehow was left behind in SC.
Anyway, I am more or less settled in aside from a small stack on unsorted clothes. I even made my bed today to make the room more aesthetically pleasing. My roommates and I are beginning to shed layers and sort out logistical stuff. Now that I have made the move unscathed, I am ready to begin what I cam here to do. Being here gives me the confidence boost I need. I feel a need to prove myself, that thirst that got me through Bard in three years and saw me to the end of some difficult papers. I’m a little tired of the nervous social energy in learning the lay of the social landscape. Some lessons so far.
1.) Being poor and coming from no money is NOT status quo here, and it makes people of means uncomfortable when people without means talk about money.
2.) Fuck is in vogue. Shit is decidedly out of vogue. Sonofabitch is probably out of the question.
3.) Leg cuffs are getting smaller. Most people are not having an existential crisis about it.
4.) Graduate school dinner parties are actually kind of expensive, because generally it is good manners to bring something (apparently) usually wine. And Yellow Tail probably would raise eyebrows.
5.) I need a new bike lock. A mean looking chain with a teeny u-lock. Or so says Mr. So and So at the bike store.
Some new smells:
1) My new bathroom, not mildewy, but strangely other.
2) New coffee, mediocre at $8.50 a pound.
3) Peppermint and Tea Tree together....not a new smell, but one I haven't smelled since I left Bard nursery school.
4) Foreign-smelling honey, grown in Kansas where people are batshitcrazy.
5) The most amazingly sweet apple I've ever had.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Free to a good home
I think this is my favorite Bob Dylan song ever. It is the ultimate slow dancing in the bedroom song...or maybe the perfect lullaby. Anyway, it's been covered by a million people, so I thought I would join them. I'd really like Lucinda Williams to do this song.
In other news, I am trying to find a place to live come September. Mostly I'm finding sublets, but I have sent out a few emails to people searching for roommates and I even posted a little roommate groping note on the apartment board. I read a bunch of them, and they seemed to be 500-word biographical sketches more than anything else. It wasn't so much "find a room" as "find a life partner." It's a bit like a platonic dating site. I didn't give a sketch, just the normal "I can spend this much, I want to live in this area, and I have references/money/blah blah blah."
What should I have put?
Insufferably disorganized South Carolinian in need of place to house her madness.
Takes abnormally long showers.
Cannot abide life in August without a damn good air conditioner.
Occasionally makes enough grits to feed a family of 20 because have yet to learn how to measure out grits, despite being taught at one point.
Sings gospel hymns in the shower. No interest in proselytizing.
Housebroken.
Loses important papers.
Cannot find keys on a regular basis.
Watches The Vicar of Dibley when upset or depressed.
Icemaker preferred.
Must be let out to pee at 5 am.
Sheds.
Small adoption fee may apply.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
The Deathbed
A month has passed since PaPa died. I haven’t really slowed down enough until now to think about it much. I’ve seen Mema a few times and noted how frail and windblown she seems. I can only imagine what it is like to be left in such a state, the center of gravity of your universe suddenly gone, now a deep dark hole in the middle of your life.
I suppose I never realized how much Mema and Papa loved each other. I never remember them being in the least bit affectionate with one another, not in the way my own parents are. Their life together seemed more practical than passionate, more ingrained than invented. I figured the births of their two sons were the result of a two sudden bursts of friendliness very much in the past tense. When I was driving Mema to her hair appointment the Tuesday after, she told me that after his last stay in the hospital, he could no longer sleep lying down. She said for almost the entirety of their marriage, they had fallen asleep facing one another and holding hands.
The deathbed is such a hard, uncertain reality from the moment it ceases to become a hospital bed and becomes the deathbed. There is that excruciating moment when it is understood that there will be no homecoming. For us, it was a hard and fast transition. Papa had rallied his last bit of strength when Shosha came home. The words “recovery” and “rehabilitation” had been mentioned. He had looked at us and known us and talked to us and loved us. One moment Shosha and I were talking to him about his childhood and the war, smiling softly to one another when he drifted off into sleep. The next moment, we exchanged anxious glances as his weak lungs began to rattle and hum. The nurses were called in. His gurgling breath echoed around the room, a horrible sound like crumpling rice paper.
For nearly two hours we listened to him struggle and gag, suctioning the phlegm out of his mouth when it finally came out. I remember when the others came into the room, wanting to protest to them that not an hour before he had been talking and smiling and fine. And now we were watching him drown, watching him as his lungs fought the inevitable, frantically asking the nurses if anything could be done. And then asking them if this was the end. Hospital bed became deathbed. Visitors became mourners.
I think all of us were pretty determined to get this right. After his gurgling stopped with the Morphine and Ativan, the vigil began. It began with the acceptance that this was the last stand. There would be no recovery. The details get fuzzy after this. I remember holding his warm, slightly swollen hand, tracing the veins and massaging the palms in an intimate and loving way, things that would never have been entirely appropriate before. I stroked his hair and tucked it behind his ear. I touched him like I would a lover or a baby.
I watched as the people with far more complex relationships to Papa than mine came to terms with our situation. I watched my uncle, damaged as he is, cry almost imperceptibly. I watched Mema, facing this horrible reality that she had been preparing for, but not really known how would feel. I watched her crumble and straighten and crumble and straighten. I watched my own father, saw the lines of anguish and worry in his face. I watched Shosha as she struggled with this shock of death after being so far away. I watched my mother, whose sensibility in a crisis is matched only by her compassion and capacity to love, comfort us all in the ways we needed it most.
On Saturday morning, I read Papa and Mema my Jocassee piece, as Papa began to slip into advanced organ failure. It was stupid, but I thought it would make a change from the sterile and surprisingly loud hospital noises. Plus, I was hoping to put Mema to sleep (she had not slept all night). Maybe my voice was heard past the fog of morphine. It didn’t matter. I should have read it to him earlier, but it was better late than never.
Saturday was a day of music and counting breaths. We watched as his breaths came slower and slower and more shallow. The nurses told us with their faces that this was most likely the end. So we watched and counted the seconds between shallow gasps. Breath…2..3..4..21...22. It was like some frantic form of yoga relaxation breathing. And then there came a moment when we all sat around his bed, an intuitive (or wishful) feeling that we could somehow lift his soul out of his tired, broken body to that next place. Mama asked me to sing and tried to herself, but couldn’t. I didn’t think I could handle a hymn, so I sang “Riddle Song” that Leah taught me when I was 18 or 19 and that I had sung as a fail proof lullaby first to Anna and Catherine, then to Kira, then to Eli, then to Stevie. After that, I could move on to others. We sang softly and poorly, our throats filled with the cotton of grief, but mostly on key and hitting those few lovely moments of familial harmony. The nurses closed the doors to give us privacy, though I’m sure we were an intriguing bunch. We exhausted our hymn knowledge, pausing to count seconds between breaths after each song. I remember pleading with God to just take him now. Give us this beautiful moment to remember. Make this death into a poem. Let us line his passage to heaven with sweet songs. We were all ready. There was no need for him to suffer any longer. We had just sung him our blessing. There had already been so many moments when he was surrounded by the people he loved the most. Times when we could have all watched him leave the room for the last time.
But it was another whole day. Shosha had to go back to California. We who were not on the deathbed had living needs; papers to write, calls to be made, showers to be had, food to be eaten, decisions to be made, sleep to be snatched from a restless night. I remember being so angry. Angry at God who would not just take him from that God-awful hospital. Angry at an old man’s surprisingly stubborn heart.
He held on for so long, long enough to make us think that maybe we had been wrong. Maybe we had given up to quickly. The nurses were so surprised each morning and evening when they changed shifts. They asked us if we knew of anyone that he was waiting for. Sometimes death will wait for reunification. They had seen it happen. We then thought that perhaps he was waiting for permission. And we all, in our way, gave it. I whispered in his ear that he could go. That we were all ready and willing to let him go. That we loved him. That we would take care of each other. I told him to let go of this tired old world. I heard my father assure him that he would take care of Mema. Maybe this did the trick, but it was a delayed reaction. Papa was a champion worrier. Maybe he really did need to feel this assurance that he could leave us behind and that we would be okay.
Apprehension gave way to exhaustion. Nicholas, Mama, and Dale left to get some rest. Mema sat fretting in the corner about funeral stuff while Daddy tried to convince her to take things one at a time. I propped my computer by Papa playing gospel grass internet radio. I held his hand and began counting breaths. It was sometimes up to 70 or 80 seconds between shallow gasps. Every time, I thought “this is it” and then he would gasp again. Maybe it was the music, or the fact that I was physically and emotionally worn down. But I let go of his hand and began to zone out, tracing the pattern of the wallpaper with my eyes. A few minutes passed and I was vaguely aware of his breathing. And then vaguely aware that there had been no gasping.
I waited for three long minutes, afraid to touch him, paralyzed. I always imagined the face turning blue and the body suddenly becoming limp, but the only thing I noticed was that his lips turned the same color as his skin. I struggled to find my voice. I remember trying to somehow get my father’s attention without alerting my grandmother, worried that I was making a mistake. I had been 12 inches from him. I had expected death to be louder, more obvious. What followed was a surreal half hour. He had gone away in the blink of an eye, but it took about four people listening for a non-existent heartbeat before he was declared.
I remember reading this poem by Thomas Hood a long time ago.
WE watch'd her breathing thro' the night,
Her breathing soft and low,
As in her breast the wave of life
Kept heaving to and fro.
So silently we seem'd to speak,
So slowly moved about,
As we had lent her half our powers
To eke her living out.
Our very hopes belied our fears,
Our fears our hopes belied--
We thought her dying when she slept,
And sleeping when she died.
For when the morn came dim and sad,
And chill with early showers,
Her quiet eyelids closed--she had
Another morn than ours.
I am always humbled by the ability of poetry to transcend in this world.
I suppose I never realized how much Mema and Papa loved each other. I never remember them being in the least bit affectionate with one another, not in the way my own parents are. Their life together seemed more practical than passionate, more ingrained than invented. I figured the births of their two sons were the result of a two sudden bursts of friendliness very much in the past tense. When I was driving Mema to her hair appointment the Tuesday after, she told me that after his last stay in the hospital, he could no longer sleep lying down. She said for almost the entirety of their marriage, they had fallen asleep facing one another and holding hands.
The deathbed is such a hard, uncertain reality from the moment it ceases to become a hospital bed and becomes the deathbed. There is that excruciating moment when it is understood that there will be no homecoming. For us, it was a hard and fast transition. Papa had rallied his last bit of strength when Shosha came home. The words “recovery” and “rehabilitation” had been mentioned. He had looked at us and known us and talked to us and loved us. One moment Shosha and I were talking to him about his childhood and the war, smiling softly to one another when he drifted off into sleep. The next moment, we exchanged anxious glances as his weak lungs began to rattle and hum. The nurses were called in. His gurgling breath echoed around the room, a horrible sound like crumpling rice paper.
For nearly two hours we listened to him struggle and gag, suctioning the phlegm out of his mouth when it finally came out. I remember when the others came into the room, wanting to protest to them that not an hour before he had been talking and smiling and fine. And now we were watching him drown, watching him as his lungs fought the inevitable, frantically asking the nurses if anything could be done. And then asking them if this was the end. Hospital bed became deathbed. Visitors became mourners.
I think all of us were pretty determined to get this right. After his gurgling stopped with the Morphine and Ativan, the vigil began. It began with the acceptance that this was the last stand. There would be no recovery. The details get fuzzy after this. I remember holding his warm, slightly swollen hand, tracing the veins and massaging the palms in an intimate and loving way, things that would never have been entirely appropriate before. I stroked his hair and tucked it behind his ear. I touched him like I would a lover or a baby.
I watched as the people with far more complex relationships to Papa than mine came to terms with our situation. I watched my uncle, damaged as he is, cry almost imperceptibly. I watched Mema, facing this horrible reality that she had been preparing for, but not really known how would feel. I watched her crumble and straighten and crumble and straighten. I watched my own father, saw the lines of anguish and worry in his face. I watched Shosha as she struggled with this shock of death after being so far away. I watched my mother, whose sensibility in a crisis is matched only by her compassion and capacity to love, comfort us all in the ways we needed it most.
On Saturday morning, I read Papa and Mema my Jocassee piece, as Papa began to slip into advanced organ failure. It was stupid, but I thought it would make a change from the sterile and surprisingly loud hospital noises. Plus, I was hoping to put Mema to sleep (she had not slept all night). Maybe my voice was heard past the fog of morphine. It didn’t matter. I should have read it to him earlier, but it was better late than never.
Saturday was a day of music and counting breaths. We watched as his breaths came slower and slower and more shallow. The nurses told us with their faces that this was most likely the end. So we watched and counted the seconds between shallow gasps. Breath…2..3..4..21...22. It was like some frantic form of yoga relaxation breathing. And then there came a moment when we all sat around his bed, an intuitive (or wishful) feeling that we could somehow lift his soul out of his tired, broken body to that next place. Mama asked me to sing and tried to herself, but couldn’t. I didn’t think I could handle a hymn, so I sang “Riddle Song” that Leah taught me when I was 18 or 19 and that I had sung as a fail proof lullaby first to Anna and Catherine, then to Kira, then to Eli, then to Stevie. After that, I could move on to others. We sang softly and poorly, our throats filled with the cotton of grief, but mostly on key and hitting those few lovely moments of familial harmony. The nurses closed the doors to give us privacy, though I’m sure we were an intriguing bunch. We exhausted our hymn knowledge, pausing to count seconds between breaths after each song. I remember pleading with God to just take him now. Give us this beautiful moment to remember. Make this death into a poem. Let us line his passage to heaven with sweet songs. We were all ready. There was no need for him to suffer any longer. We had just sung him our blessing. There had already been so many moments when he was surrounded by the people he loved the most. Times when we could have all watched him leave the room for the last time.
But it was another whole day. Shosha had to go back to California. We who were not on the deathbed had living needs; papers to write, calls to be made, showers to be had, food to be eaten, decisions to be made, sleep to be snatched from a restless night. I remember being so angry. Angry at God who would not just take him from that God-awful hospital. Angry at an old man’s surprisingly stubborn heart.
He held on for so long, long enough to make us think that maybe we had been wrong. Maybe we had given up to quickly. The nurses were so surprised each morning and evening when they changed shifts. They asked us if we knew of anyone that he was waiting for. Sometimes death will wait for reunification. They had seen it happen. We then thought that perhaps he was waiting for permission. And we all, in our way, gave it. I whispered in his ear that he could go. That we were all ready and willing to let him go. That we loved him. That we would take care of each other. I told him to let go of this tired old world. I heard my father assure him that he would take care of Mema. Maybe this did the trick, but it was a delayed reaction. Papa was a champion worrier. Maybe he really did need to feel this assurance that he could leave us behind and that we would be okay.
Apprehension gave way to exhaustion. Nicholas, Mama, and Dale left to get some rest. Mema sat fretting in the corner about funeral stuff while Daddy tried to convince her to take things one at a time. I propped my computer by Papa playing gospel grass internet radio. I held his hand and began counting breaths. It was sometimes up to 70 or 80 seconds between shallow gasps. Every time, I thought “this is it” and then he would gasp again. Maybe it was the music, or the fact that I was physically and emotionally worn down. But I let go of his hand and began to zone out, tracing the pattern of the wallpaper with my eyes. A few minutes passed and I was vaguely aware of his breathing. And then vaguely aware that there had been no gasping.
I waited for three long minutes, afraid to touch him, paralyzed. I always imagined the face turning blue and the body suddenly becoming limp, but the only thing I noticed was that his lips turned the same color as his skin. I struggled to find my voice. I remember trying to somehow get my father’s attention without alerting my grandmother, worried that I was making a mistake. I had been 12 inches from him. I had expected death to be louder, more obvious. What followed was a surreal half hour. He had gone away in the blink of an eye, but it took about four people listening for a non-existent heartbeat before he was declared.
I remember reading this poem by Thomas Hood a long time ago.
WE watch'd her breathing thro' the night,
Her breathing soft and low,
As in her breast the wave of life
Kept heaving to and fro.
So silently we seem'd to speak,
So slowly moved about,
As we had lent her half our powers
To eke her living out.
Our very hopes belied our fears,
Our fears our hopes belied--
We thought her dying when she slept,
And sleeping when she died.
For when the morn came dim and sad,
And chill with early showers,
Her quiet eyelids closed--she had
Another morn than ours.
I am always humbled by the ability of poetry to transcend in this world.
Thursday, April 09, 2009
Saying goodbye
I needed to write something. So I did.
We are born alone. Our first breath is our own and no one else’s. Our little lungs spring to life as we are welcomed into arms that love us. But we are lucky in birth for we have a mother whose body surrounds us and protects us, easing our passage into the world and waiting to comfort us the moment we arrive in it.
We die alone. The last breath is a breath we take on our own, and after that…I have to believe that we are welcomed into arms that love us. I think perhaps what is so hard about losing someone we love is the helpless feeling of knowing that in those few moments, we could not provide a seamless, un-solitary transition into the beyond.
I have never had a chance to say goodbye to someone before now. What a strange blessing it is. To know that the last words you spoke to someone were words of an uncomplicated love, that he looked last upon the face of love.
I say this all pre-emptively. PaPa is near the end of this life--how near is uncertain-- but the truth of it is circling our hearts…and his. We say goodbye every moment. With every touch, every whisper, even when we don’t know what to say.
My grandfather’s line is one that has been broken and scarred, fragile and fierce, secrets and unspoken words littering the genetic make-up it seems. I know this. I have seen the battered hurt in my daddy, the furrowed brow I’ve always tried to make smooth again. But this is not the family I have known. From my earliest memories, PaPa has been a gentle, affectionate grandfather, never a harsh word or a begrudging look. He has softened even more in recent years, “I love you’s” coming easily and simply. What, perhaps, he could not give to his own sons, he gave in abundance to his granddaughters, and perhaps more so to his grandson. That is the PaPa I have known. Even here at the end, his firm grip on my hand and the slight smile makes me sure of his love. Loving someone is a blessing, perhaps even more than being loved. I’m so happy that he has loved me in such a pure and uncomplicated way.
My tears came freely tonight, but they were not even tears of grief or fear or uncertainty. They were tears of relief….of joy. How lucky are we to be able to say the things that needed to be said. How fortunate that we are able to give PaPa the gift of hearing what he needs to say to us, like “I love you” and “You’ve been a good son.” Perhaps this is as close as we can get to deliverance, to taking his hand and leading him into the next place. I can’t help this feeling in my gut that this is what we are meant to do.
These moments are what this family needs, the chance to speak what has been unspoken. It makes me realize how fortunate I am. If I were to die tomorrow, there would be no misunderstandings between my family and I. I am loved and I love. No questions or stipulations. No complications or conditions. Life has been complicated. Love has been certain. There is no need for words that have been spoken every second of my life.
We are born alone. Our first breath is our own and no one else’s. Our little lungs spring to life as we are welcomed into arms that love us. But we are lucky in birth for we have a mother whose body surrounds us and protects us, easing our passage into the world and waiting to comfort us the moment we arrive in it.
We die alone. The last breath is a breath we take on our own, and after that…I have to believe that we are welcomed into arms that love us. I think perhaps what is so hard about losing someone we love is the helpless feeling of knowing that in those few moments, we could not provide a seamless, un-solitary transition into the beyond.
I have never had a chance to say goodbye to someone before now. What a strange blessing it is. To know that the last words you spoke to someone were words of an uncomplicated love, that he looked last upon the face of love.
I say this all pre-emptively. PaPa is near the end of this life--how near is uncertain-- but the truth of it is circling our hearts…and his. We say goodbye every moment. With every touch, every whisper, even when we don’t know what to say.
My grandfather’s line is one that has been broken and scarred, fragile and fierce, secrets and unspoken words littering the genetic make-up it seems. I know this. I have seen the battered hurt in my daddy, the furrowed brow I’ve always tried to make smooth again. But this is not the family I have known. From my earliest memories, PaPa has been a gentle, affectionate grandfather, never a harsh word or a begrudging look. He has softened even more in recent years, “I love you’s” coming easily and simply. What, perhaps, he could not give to his own sons, he gave in abundance to his granddaughters, and perhaps more so to his grandson. That is the PaPa I have known. Even here at the end, his firm grip on my hand and the slight smile makes me sure of his love. Loving someone is a blessing, perhaps even more than being loved. I’m so happy that he has loved me in such a pure and uncomplicated way.
My tears came freely tonight, but they were not even tears of grief or fear or uncertainty. They were tears of relief….of joy. How lucky are we to be able to say the things that needed to be said. How fortunate that we are able to give PaPa the gift of hearing what he needs to say to us, like “I love you” and “You’ve been a good son.” Perhaps this is as close as we can get to deliverance, to taking his hand and leading him into the next place. I can’t help this feeling in my gut that this is what we are meant to do.
These moments are what this family needs, the chance to speak what has been unspoken. It makes me realize how fortunate I am. If I were to die tomorrow, there would be no misunderstandings between my family and I. I am loved and I love. No questions or stipulations. No complications or conditions. Life has been complicated. Love has been certain. There is no need for words that have been spoken every second of my life.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Mother, I climbed
I'm figuring out how to use iDVD. And I need to sing more lest I forget how. Cheers! It was either blurry or black. I chose blurry.
Monday, January 19, 2009
The Shortest Day
Shosha and I recorded this a few days after Christmas with her friend Mike. It was so nice to sing with her again, and with a new song to boot. We practiced for a really long time because it was a difficult harmony for me to find. In the bridge, I did it really well one time and then it took me about 15 times to get it the same again.
We were both nursing colds and so Shosha brought a bottle of Maker's Mark to help us sing better. It was pretty raunchy stuff and didn't seem very helpful in the voice department. But it turned out useful in the nerves department. Shosha put down her track and then I put down mine....several times. It was okay, but a little off somehow. Neither of us were singing very well on our own. So we did the Beach Boys think and just laid down a live track. It did the trick. There is something to be said about those sister harmonies.
I wish I had a copy of our version of Lyle Lovett's Family Reserve. We do it so well, and we've even gotten to the point where we don't giggle in inappropriate places.
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