Not Down Or Out

It could be worse. I might not be laughing.

Tag: Faith

Fun at Funerals

Clip Art

Clip Art

Most of the funerals that I have attended have been sad even when death seemed like a relief for the deceased and his or her family. However, as I wrote in my last post “I Miss Sherry,” sometimes funerals are far from sad. They may even have funny elements that overcome tears. I have attended another funeral that included humorous moments and my mom recently attended one that crossed the line into territory that was ironic, if not funny.

About ten years ago I attended the funeral of the husband of a woman who had taken care of an ailing relative until that relative’s death. I was grateful for her kindness to my relative and remained in contact with her for many years after my relative’s death.

We had nothing in common except for the shared experience of caring for a lovable person until her death. I do not want to be disrespectful of the woman who gave so much loving care to my family member so I will call her Jane for purposes of telling this odd funereal story.

Jane grew up in a home fraught with anger and tension. When her family was ambivalent toward her, it felt like a relief. She spent some time in foster homes where she was unpaid help around the house. I have the impression that she never felt at peace in any of the places she lived.

This made Jane determined to own a home of her own. She lacked the education to do many jobs that might have brought her goal within easy reach. Caregiving seemed a good fit to her sunny and patient temperament. I hired her to care for my relative five days a week for several hours a day. She handled the evening meal and put my relative to bed at night. Jane made sure my relative was clean and comfortable.

Jane did so much more than that. She brought so much humor to every activity that I sometimes stopped in while she was there to share in the laughter. In her day, my relative was irreverent and often laughing, but the aging process was taking its toll. She was more often unintentionally funny than intentionally so. At times she was quite depressed and claimed she was ready to die. Jane did her best to cheer up her new charge. I still laugh when I recall walking into the room at an inopportune moment and hearing Jane say with no expression in her usually animated voice, “And now it’s time to wash the beaver.” My relative’s ankle was held high in the air–the way a cat might extend its leg while grooming its hindquarters and Jane was about to apply soap and water. My relative’s embarrassed grimace melted into giggles at the sight of my open mouth.

Jane was good company. She talked about herself without airs or humility, as if everyone’s life was as hard as hers. After my relative died, she called me up and said she would not be at the funeral, not because she was moving on easily but because she lived to serve the living and it was someone else’s job to shepherd the dead to their resting places.

She called to invite me to her home, and I felt I could not say no after all of the kindness she had shown someone I loved dearly.

Jane had married a man at least twenty-five years older than she was. In his prime, he was a handsome man with a modest income and boundless patience for a woman with little education and few skills. Their home was partly self-built, partly constructed. The entire front yard was a habitat for artificial creatures made of painted Styrofoam, plastic, wood, and plaster. There were deer and reindeer, castles and birdhouses, welcome signs and whirligigs. The dining room walls were covered with shelves of knickknacks. By knickknacks, I mean to include everything from gifts you collect if you buy a McDonald’s Happy Meal to china figurines. There were plaques with funny sayings. There were LP records, cassette tapes, CDs, and VHS videotapes. Jane and her husband Ed had dogs. I am an attorney and I dress in black nearly all of the time. It only took a moment for me to attract enough fur to the cuffs of my pants to form my own pet. As I took an offered seat I knew that it would take a dry cleaner to rid me of the fur that transferred to the seat of my pants.

The living room was in the part of the house that Jane and Ed had built themselves. If you dropped a pen, it might roll across the floor because one end of the house dipped while the other seemed to have buckled. There was an upright piano that Jane played while the dogs howled in a cacophonous chorus that called for everyone else to clap because a sing-along was not possible in the din.

It was not Christmas time, but the room was filled with expensive moving dolls in winter garb. While we snacked on cheese and crackers, Jane turned on the dolls. Some of them, like the little drummer, played Christmas tunes. Some of them kissed Santa.

Jane smiled at me when I complimented her on the staging. “After the childhood I had, every day is Christmas and I never want to forget that,” she said.

Ed turned out to be an ailing man himself. All day long he waited for Jane to come home and take care of him. He was a big man and it was plain that Jane put her back into getting him up and getting him down and waiting on him with love and consideration.

She insisted that I have a tour of the rest of the house. My heart just about broke when she showed me the tiny tub in which she bathed her husband. There were three beds in their tiny bedroom. There was a double bed for Ed, a cot for Jane, and a twin bed for the dogs.

Everything was broken and she was proud of the fact that these were things she found scavenging others’ curbs on the night before the garbage men would come. She even had a word processor. It was not really a computer. Maybe it was an advanced electric typewriter. Ed was teaching her to write. She was writing her story because she had no children to be retelling it for her and felt the need to leave some record of her life.

She was not entirely selfless. Shortly after I arrived we were joined by a neighbor who let me know that Ed helped keep a roof over Jane’s head and helped her with decision-making. Bob took care of her physical needs.

I will confess that I was a little surprised, but maybe I shouldn’t have been. Jane’s earthy humor came from some place. I came to understand that Bob kept her young even if he was only a little younger than Ed.

Ed seemed oblivious to their neighbor’s intimate relationship with Jane.  I say that because, after a dinner that good manners compelled me to compliment, Ed tried to do a little heavy-handed matchmaking. I beat a hasty retreat when he suggested that the four of us watch Debbie Does Dallas.



I sent Jane Christmas gifts for several years. I once took her to lunch at a dive in the neighborhood. I went to the mass at which she and Ed renewed their wedding vows and met the patchwork community of blood and foster relatives she called family. Bob was there in what I am prepared to swear was the same combination of baseball cap, t-shirt, jeans, and windbreaker as he wore when I first met him. Everyone else present was someone Jane had cared for or a family member of such a person. There were people in wheelchairs and children with braces on their legs. I fit right in because I, too, had experienced this simple woman’s kindness and cared about her.

She was the wealthiest person most of them knew, and you didn’t have to work at it to overhear several try to borrow money from her. Ed handled this with a gallantry I would not have expected. He would struggle to his feet and get an arm around Jane’s shoulders and say very gravely, “I’m sure Jane would love to help you out. My wife has a tender heart for everyone who has helped make so much happiness in her life. Blame me for her not lending you money today. I don’t have long now that the lung cancer has got me. Jane’s going to need the money to bury me.”

He died shortly after they renewed their vows. I took my mom along to the funeral for company and because she had never met Ed, but had certainly learned a lot about Jane.

We had a long drive to the funeral home. The priest who officiated at their renewal of vows came to say a few words over the casket. Ed wore a handsome suit that Jane had bought in a thrift shop in anticipation of the event. She led us to the casket and pet his hand with hers like he could tell she was still at his side. “I took good care of him and he did the same for me,” she said before turning to greet other guests. I cried for her and for him and a little bit for myself, because I have had many gifts in my life but have never been loved like she was. I have never been so conscious of the fact that what matters most in life doesn’t have a price tag.

When it was time to leave for the cemetery, the pallbearers were assembled. Ed was there in his usual windbreaker and baseball cap. He was the only person who dressed for the occasion. The rest of the pallbearers were boys in t-shirts, jeans, and gym shoes. Most needed a bath and a comb.

They escorted Ed’s body in its simple wooden casket out to the hearse. Mom and I walked out to my car where we expected the funeral director to line up cars so we could proceed to the cemetery. It was the same cemetery where my family has plots, but we were quite a distance from it.

Most of the rest of the group, including Jane, were still inside the funeral home when Mom said, “Isn’t that the hearse leaving?”

It was. The hearse took off at about 40 miles per hour without waiting for the mourners to assemble. It left a trail of dust and a couple of skid marks on the pavement as the driver tried to control a crazy turn. We took off after it and did a pretty good job of following until the driver powered through a red light and swung up onto the highway. My brakes squealed as I struggled to stop before a truck could take us out. Some of the pallbearers had managed to follow us. They had no idea where the cemetery was. I led the small caravan of pick-up trucks and RVs to the cemetery. It was about a forty minute drive that required us to make various twists and turns. Several times we had to pull over and wait for someone to catch up.

In the privacy of my car there was plenty of time for Mom and me to discuss the fact that we had never been to a funeral like this one. Usually there are a couple of cars driven by representatives from the funeral home. Everyone has a sticker or two on their cars to warn other drivers that this is a funeral cortege. People turn on their headlights for the same reason. Someone blocks busy intersections to ensure the entire party gets through if a light changes. Ed was about to be buried with much less pomp and ceremony.

When we got to the cemetery there was no sign of the hearse or any other hearse. I drove to the sexton’s office and Mom got out to ask for directions. She was just coming out when one of the pallbearers yelled, “There he is. Don’t let that varmint get away a second time.”

Sure enough, the hearse hurtled past us toward the old section of the cemetery, crossed a busy street without regard to oncoming traffic, and came to a shuddering stop by an open grave.

It was a hot day, but a little breezy. The pallbearers decided to cart Ed’s casket over to the grave so all would be in readiness when the widow showed up. Bob opened his trunk and revealed a cooler of beer. He offered us a bottle. My mom whispered to me, “What time is it? Ten in the morning?”

It was nearly eleven. I also declined his offer.

My mom egged me on to “give the hearse driver a piece of your mind.” I declined because I doubted he would listen. He reclined on the ground beneath a tree and read a newspaper.

The other pallbearers hauled folding chairs from their vehicles and set them up. Folks had picnic baskets and blankets. They started chomping on fried chicken, potato salad, and watermelon. We had quite a wait. Mom and I sat in the car and talked about the scene before us. Someone turned on a car’s radio and there was a festive atmosphere.

In the years since Ed’s death I have read a bit about how our attitudes toward death differ in different parts of American society. I would have had trouble eating in the presence of a dead body roasting in the hot sun, but no one but my mom shared my compunction. Death was a normal part of life and Ed’s closest friends were enjoying a little private time in his company before burying him.

Eventually we got in the right mood because we expressed no surprise when Jane and the priest and the rest of the mourners arrived and Jane scolded the men for beginning without them. They jockeyed for the remains of the picnic while the cemetery staff looked on in amusement. It took some time for us to get to the business of burying Ed. By then it was long past the time when people cried.

Bob smooched Jane’s cheek and wrapped an arm around her waist in casual contemplation of their future. The pallbearers tossed a ball to each other in the middle of the cemetery road. The priest headed home after hugging Jane and wishing her well. Jane thanked everyone for coming then asked a cousin to turn up the music because she had always liked the song that was playing.

I had planned to drop my mom off and proceed to the office, but that seemed out of keeping with the celebration of Ed’s life that his widow, family, and friends had planned. We decided to go out for lunch.

My mom’s other “fun” funeral was the funeral of one of my high school classmates. Rick (names changed in this story, too) died of a heart attack at the age of 50. His parents are my mom’s very good friends. Rick was a difficult man. When I met him in high school, he was a “stoner” who liked to dress in a leather jacket and hat and jeans and boots. He made fun of me for being a “brain.” He studied anthropology and worked “digs” in various parts of North and South America. He may have smoked some stuff that was good for what ailed him but a little mood altering. He taught classes. He bought a piece of rural land on a tree-covered lot and built an underground bunker where he reportedly lived with chickens. I am pretty sure some of this is lore rather than truth because, if it were entirely true, it would all be too strange.

He got a girlfriend pregnant and she had the baby (named Todd), so Rick was a father. But he never paid child support or sought to spend time with his son. The boy’s mother, Haley, was a free spirit in her own right. She tried hard to make things work, then took her boy and went in search of Rick’s “alter-ed ego.” She married an Air Force airman. His name is Joe. He is, by all accounts, a solid and dependable man. They had a baby named Tom.

This did not give Haley the settled and normal life you might imagine. She got involved in some church that decided to do its best to convert Russians to the Christian faith by trading conversion for U.S. citizenship. While her husband was deployed overseas near Iraq or Afghanistan, she arranged to bring three children to the U.S. All were young adults, close to the age of independence. They hoped to achieve U.S. citizenship and economic “independence” in relatively short order in exchange for accepting Jesus Christ as their savior. Haley also hoped they would adapt and move on swiftly.

One proved to have attachment problems. These were demonstrated through various incidents in which the child “acted out”–whatever that means. Haley sent that child to someone in Florida who claimed to be able to work miracles with children with attachment disorders. We never heard about her again. A second child learned English, finished high school, and moved out. Again, I cannot recall ever hearing of him again. The third was a “keeper.” He finished high school and managed to get scholarships and jobs to finance college. He seemed to embrace his new family as well as faith and friends in the U.S.

The adoptive/adopted kids were not the only ones growing up during this timeframe. Todd and his half-brother Tom grew up as well. Rick’s parents worked hard to stay in Todd’s life. They made trips to bases where Haley and Joe were based. They paid for Haley, Joe, Todd, and the rest of the family to visit them. They paid for other things, too. All this time Rick was a missing-in-action dad working out of his bunker in the woods.

On those few occasions when Rick came to town to visit his parents there were problems. He appropriated family heirlooms. He picked fights. When his parents changed the locks on their home, Rick strode around the house yelling for them to let him in like a scene from the story of the Three Little Pigs. He eventually showed up during a visit by Haley, Joe, and Todd. He met his son.

He huffed and he puffed and he blew the house down.

He huffed and he puffed and he blew the house down.


No one thought the meeting had made much of an impression on Rick or Todd, but children are unpredictable and so is blood. The boy may have romanticized his “real” father. An intelligent, socially maladapted eccentric sounds like a perfect antidote for a spit-and-shine airman of a stepdad looking for folded corners on a sheet and blankets tucked in so tightly that you could bounce a quarter off the bed during weekly inspections.

Father and son may not have ever met again. I cannot recall hearing of any other meetings. When Todd was about eighteen years old, Rick’s parents got a call from a county sheriff. Their son had not shown up in town for awhile. Someone thought that was odd. An officer drove out to the bunker to see if Rick was around. The officer discovered that Rick had died and been gone for some time.

It was a time for regrets and lots of tears. No matter how difficult the relationship was for them, Rick’s parents grieved over death. Rick’s parents had him cremated and arranged to have his remains buried in a local cemetery where they will one day be laid to rest. The land and bunker where Rick lived had liens against it for unpaid taxes. Rick had not left much. Even the missing heirlooms were gone. I don’t recall hearing he had any chickens left at the time of his death.

Rick’s parents paid for Todd to attend his father’s memorial service. Joe planned a trip that would bring him into town a couple of days later. He would pay his respects and collect Todd. Haley chose not to attend.

Everyone gathered at the cemetery at the appointed time, including my mom. I was not there, so may have the facts a little out of focus. A friendly minister was on hand to lead a small group of about ten people in prayer for Rick. A female relative brought an iPod and some speakers and played some appropriate music. Two cemetery employees stood by to cover the urn with dirt at the conclusion of the brief ceremony.

Rick’s parents said a few words about the son they would miss–had long missed. When the minister concluded the brief ceremony and Rick’s mom was weeping softly for her troubled son, Todd made his move. Snatching the urn from the ground, Todd tucked it beneath his arm like a football and took off with it.

The assembled senior citizens lacked the reflexes necessary to stop it. Todd’s grandparents yelled after him to stop. He yelled over his shoulder that his dad would never want to be buried in anyplace as dumb as a cemetery. Todd didn’t have a car. Everyone scurried to their cars and pursued him. All to no avail.

They have not heard from Todd since the memorial service. They called Haley, but she declined to comment on the matter. Joe, who was scheduled to visit a couple of days later, has not been in touch.

Rick’s parents have talked about what happened. There has been speculation that Todd rented a car and drove to Wisconsin to spread his dad’s ashes in the woods where he lived and died. However, Todd never saw the lot or the bunker and did not grow up in the Midwest. He knows Air Force bases here and overseas. How could he have made it to his father’s last home without help?

Did Haley and Joe assist in the “theft”? We do not know. They are adamantly silent.

Perhaps Todd still has his father’s cremains. If so, his grandparents would be happy if he returned even a portion of them so that they could bury Rick beneath the headstone they had ordered that now marks his death but not his final resting place.

There was talk of filing a complaint with authorities, but that would have been done to find the cremains. No one wanted to create a legal record of Todd’s actions that might mar his future. Who owns the cremains of a person survived by parents and a newly adult child that inherited nothing else from his father? Do the parents have the priority claim because they claimed their son’s body and paid for the cremation? Does the son, as heir, deserve to make the decision?

Rick’s parents feel like they have been deprived of “closure.” Closure is everything in modern times. It is the nearest thing to commercial failure for ending a once successful movie franchise. It is burial that usually gives closure when a child has been lost and the family has waited in vain for his return. We can mourn lost loved ones any place, but a grave offers expressions of grief a locus that the four winds or a box beneath another “lost” relative’s bed cannot.

The memorial service has meant the loss of another family member. Rick’s parents have invested many years in sustaining a relationship with a grandson who has finally forced them to admit that their son is lost to them and will likely never be found. Now he appears to be gone, too.

Rick’s mom has gone for some counseling, but she has given up on understanding what happened.

The two funerals are connected in my mind. We choose our friends but we don’t get to choose our family. Jane had very few comforts in childhood but manages to revere people who were charged with caring for her and let her down. Todd was surrounded by love but chose the one person who kept him at arm’s length when he felt his loyalty torn in two directions. Sometimes death means a quick transition to a new life for a loved one. Sometimes death fails to put a period to the sentence of a difficult life. Both funerals serve as reminders to me that whatever comes my way, I’ll handle it better if I keep my sense of humor.

You Gotta Ride the Rails, Little Lady

Grandpa Tom

Grandpa Tom

This week I had to cancel plans to visit my sister and friends in Washington, DC because my landlady has decided not to continue leasing my apartment. I have to move and the news has upset me. I know, I kicked cancer, but, seriously!!! I am tired. And I cannot help wondering why I never get the “test” in which you get a million dollars and the heavens watch to see if you will use some of it for charity.

Someone from among my friends suggested that I should have planned a trip to Disney world. She says that, if she kicked cancer, that’s where she would go.

I do not have children. I am not required by the natural law of making children’s dreams come true to visit the place. My family visited Disneyland for our last “family” vacation in about 1972. My sister and I were in high school. Grandpa Tom wanted us to see the West. He was 100% Irish, but he retired in Santa Fe, New Mexico with Grandma Elsie (50% Swedish/50% German) and he “went native.” He adopted the bolo tie. He explored every historical site in the area. He read the history. He had always told us stories of natives living in the western states while the women (sometimes Grandma Elsie all by herself) washed the dishes.

In my grandpa’s stories, the natives were smart and possessed a wonderful sense of humor. I am not sure where he learned his stories, but his father was a railroad engineer (as in a designer of the engine cars). They lived along the railroad tracks in many American cities. Perhaps his father told them. Perhaps he read them. After he moved to New Mexico there was little talk of Ireland. He identified with the native cultures. We think he adapted his “look” to blend in. He even started to refer to the Spanish that claimed the territory and subjected the native population to their rule “bloodless devils.”

He wanted my sister and me to take the train to New Mexico. We traveled by ourselves. Our parents loaded Danny into the backseat of the station wagon and set out by car while Kathy and I shared a two-bed sleeper compartment and dined in the diner car with its linen tablecloths and napkins.

(c) I don't offend by borrowing this photo.

(c)–Hope I don’t offend by borrowing this photo.

It was a wonderful experience. Having spent several preceding summers under the camp names Kettle and Little Pot at Norwesco, a Girl Scout camp in Wisconsin, with five cots in the tent, this was luxurious. We even had misadventures. We stored our Brownie Hawkeye camera in the tiny cabinet in our sleeper until our porter exclaimed that, “You don’t put your camera in the shoe box.” We were unaware of the fact that he could access shoes from the shoebox when outside of our room so that he could shine them. “Everyone knows you can’t leave your camera in the shoebox.” That was not true until after we rode the train. Grandpa had wanted us to see the world from a train and we learned many things from our experience. One thing that I learned was that a train ride can be marvelous! I loved the many luxuries and the stress-free travel.

Brownie Hawkeye Camera

Brownie Hawkeye Camera

We met up with rest of the family in Santa Fe. After an excellent exploration of the surrounding area, we set off in the station wagon for Arizona and then California. We visited with one of my dad’s friends from the Marine Corps. The two men posed gut-to-gut after deploring the way in which married life had softened them. At the last second one of them sucked it in and made his buddy look bad. I think it might have been my dad. He was a prankster.

We visited my mom’s dear friend who lived near the ocean. Her family seemed unfamiliar with Chicago. The kids kept asking us about Illinois where we “pushed cows and pulled pigs”–whatever that means. The culmination of our trip was a day at Disneyland.

I can remember every detail of the railroad ride to Santa Fe, but the only thing I can remember of Disneyland is Pirates of the Caribbean.

Fast forward about thirty years to the summer I took my niece and her son to Disney world. My plan was to rest in the hotel room. I was exhausted after a difficult project completed while I was sick with an upper respiratory infection. I was hospitalized the evening before my departure. I thought I was having a heart attack, but it turned out that my esophagus was seizing following weeks of coughing. I slept and read novels in the comfort of an air-conditioned room. Lisa and Ryan spent day and night in the park.

I only joined Lisa and Ryan one day. I paid for the lunch with the costumed cartoon figures and wanted to see Ryan’s reaction. I drove to the park and took a little train ride to the correct portion of the park. As I recall, I went to Frontierland. The heat was devastating for me. Then we ate lunch. I took pictures. When lunch was over the kids decided to continue on with their steady pace of rides and meals. I arranged to pick them up later at the park. Lisa asked me if I would mind taking back with me a bunch of souvenirs.

A storm was rolling in off of the ocean. I carried my umbrella, Lisa’s umbrella, a purse, a camera bag, and a bag of toys. At one point it did rain, and I was grateful to be under cover by that time. I joined the line for what I presumed was the little train that would take me back to the park entrance. I waited with lots of other people, but it never occurred to me that we were all waiting in the covered waiting area for anything other than the little choo choo. No one spoke with anticipation of a roller coaster–no one. When we finally entered a building the wood-slatted walls of the building reminded me of the train station. Then I turned a corner and saw the loading area for a roller coaster. It was the California Gold Rush ride.

A costumed employee who looked like Pecos Pete waved me toward the ride. I did not want to get on the ride. I explained my reluctance. I did not want to ride a rollercoaster. I was sick. I did not have anyone with me to share the ride. I was holding too many items to hang onto the handrail.

“There are only two choices,” he said. “Get on the ride or push and shove your way back out of here.”

It was, for me, an impossible choice. I refused to get in.

That’s when Pecos Pete snarled, “You gotta ride the rails, little lady!”

I got in and Pecos Pete locked me in. For the next five minutes or so I screamed as my behind slid from side to side in my seat. It was all I could do to hang onto the items in my arms. I did not have a free hand to stop the relentless motion.

I screamed until I coughed. Then I could not stop coughing.

When I got out of the rollercoaster someone had to grab my hand and drag me out. I looked like I had been dragged through the bushes backwards. A park employee came over and offered to escort me to the train ride when I could not stop coughing even after they got me some water.

The moral of the story is that you take a train when you want a scenic ride in comfort, but you never know when you buy your ticket if you’ll be taking a choo choo or riding the rails with Pecos Pete.

I may not like the fact that I will be moving in the next forty-five or so days, but I can complain all I want and I will still have to ride the rails. The thrills and chills are part of the price of the ticket in life.

I’ll keep you posted on how it turns out.

Taking Off

I had a bad surprise yesterday. My landlady for the last eight years announced I will need to move. My home is owned by her and her brother; and they have made a family decision to have me leave. She did not say it, but it sounds like a family member wants to live here.

I have never wanted to own my own home. I managed luxury hotels when I was in my twenties and had quite enough of property management. I used to enjoy moving, even looked forward to it as an adventure. My last move took a “day”–thanks to two immense moving trucks and five professional movers.

After I heard the news I got into my car and drove for about an hour because I hated the fact that my home was not really mine. The car will be paid off in less than a year–so it felt like mine as I drove in holiday “exodus” traffic.

I found myself wondering again about fate and about our capacity for steering in life. In the last two years my body has been treated for cancer–an ongoing event that has had me feeling alien in my own skin at times. After a gut-wrenching shedding of a massive amount of blood that left splash marks on my walls at home, I had parts of me excised. I have experienced what it feels like to have had nerves cut in surgery and (when the pain of surgery abated) to have no feeling whatsoever in the proximity of my incision. Then I subjected myself to radiation and chemotherapy that killed and damaged countless cells in an effort to root out the really sick ones. I have felt like every part of my body was strange (shedding, peeling, leaking, rushing out of or off of me). I lost much of my hair, eyelashes, and eyebrows. Blood ran from my nose every day for months (as well as from all of my other orifices). My nails bubbled and peeled. Even my own body smells changed for a time and I hated them.

I lost a loved job teaching part time at a law school for having been diagnosed with cancer. I have returned to work there, but nothing is the same except the students and how I feel about them. Just this week I was invited to teach again this fall. The invitation requires me to teach my fourteen classes and attend five (now) mandatory meetings. The list of the five dates of mandatory meetings was accidentally omitted. The invitation tells me that the school reserves the absolute discretion to terminate me at any time for no reason. The invitation omits any mention of compensation. Ordinarily, an offer of employment requires each party to promise something to the other. Here, what is promised to me is nothing. The email invitation laid bare the deal–if I return, I get nothing from the school.

The last bastion of peace and quiet in life has been home and we will soon be parted, too. I have so many “things” in this apartment. I will have to part with some of them, too, before this is over. Every move I have ever made has involved some shedding. But I have long thought of this place with the living room laid out like my Grandma Elsie’s, its sunny yellow walls, and silver and turquoise bathroom, as a haven. It will be very hard to pack it all up and move.

This coming week I finish three more classes. That will get me down to one online class. I was looking forward to the summer slowdown. I was hoping to write. I have not done reading for pleasure in months. I recently began work for a search firm–as an independent contractor–and hoped I would have the summer to devote to it. I even made plans to go on a short vacation–ten days with family and friends in DC. I will probably have to cancel the vacation. There may not be any time for writing or reading. I will have to juggle to not lose this new opportunity to stretch my wings with the search firm.

That’s what finally did it. That thought is what finally broke me down emotionally yesterday. It is what made me drive back to the apartment so as not to risk others’ lives by driving while in distress–distress that I felt to the roots of the hairs on my head and arms. I haven’t cried for what I have experienced during the last twenty-one months. I have cried through physical pain and suffering but never for having learned I had cancer. I did cry when I heard I lost my job. And I cried yesterday for the loss of my home and my plans and all the lost freedoms. I finally cried for the cancer, too. It was not for very long. It is not like me to cry for things or events. I cry for other people in pain and animals abandoned. But it was another form of shedding that I guess I had to experience because I will stretch my wings.

This entire dreadful, painful, frightening, awful experience has been about peeling away what is nonessential. It has been a wrenching agony since it began and I have hated it even as I marked how things have started to improve. The very foundations of who I am and what I want have been tested, shaken, and stripped away. Soon it will just be me.

I sent my friends in DC a message yesterday to let them know that I might not make it out to see them this summer. I realized as I sent them that message that I have lost family and friends in the last twenty-one months, too. My aunt and uncle died. There were friends who were not strong enough to walk with me through cancer treatment and dropped me. (I am intensely grateful for the many family and friends who did not jump ship.)

I have been very focused on images of birds, but maybe this is the story of a butterfly. Maybe I will take flight after the last of the shedding, peeling, stripping, and leaking of all but the essential me is complete.

I should end this posting there–on a positive note.

But I am NotDownOrOut and part of the essential me has to ask, “What the f*** is going on here?”

I See Dead People

“I see dead people.”

In the past couple of weeks I have not felt well. I don’t think anything is wrong. But I am tired. My body feels heavy and I have vague complaints that I hesitate to articulate because, by comparison with what I have endured in the recent past, they are minor. But I will confess here that the tingling in my hands sometimes drives me crazy. The ringing in my ears means that I have to be asleep to enjoy peace and quiet. I have blemishes every day after never having had them any more frequently than occasionally. I feel like a camel some days. I can carry about six pounds of water by bedtime and have it be gone by morning–not making for sound sleep. I take a water pill that seems to help with this, but yesterday evening one of my feet was like a balloon. (Can you have lymphedema if no lymph nodes were removed?) My blood pressure soars when I am upset, then settles back down to normal. But, when it’s soaring, my head pounds without pain, like when I’m sitting at a light beside a car that shakes the street with its bass notes. My joints seem to get better, then they go back to aching. Today it is my lower back that hurts. My fingernails recovered from chemotherapy months ago, but they are now back to peeling and there are little splashes of orange bubbles like when treatment was ended and my body was still recovering.

I think these are normal aches and pains, but the changes are things that bug me. It’s one thing to want to live to a ripe old age and another thing to do it. I wake up every day feeling so grateful for what has not happened to me that I push aside my complaints. But I find myself returning to the “woe-is-I” attitude from time-to-time. It’s like a torn nail that you cannot leave alone until you have torn it to the quick. Some bloggers talk about the “new normal.” Maybe I just need to accept that this is how it is now.

But today I realized that I am one of those people who cannot let go. I see dead people.

It does not take any particular skill. This afternoon I took a different path to school and passed the building where I worked in the 1990’s when a young coworker fell or jumped from the top of our office building. The description of his death as accidental was probably to ease his parents’ grief, but the building had several walls or barriers around the roof. He had to climb over several of them to fall. He was feeling overextended and tired from too much work. That happens to young professionals in large law firms. I feel tremendous sadness when I think of him because he had confided in me his distress and I had encouraged him to see the practice group leader and get help. Like many young professionals, he received a message that he should hang in there. That evening was when he fell. Someone said he was unrecognizable as a lawyer from our building when discovered on the street below. The suit did not distinguish him. Someone thought one of the city’s homeless men had been struck by a car.

When I see his face, it is in memories. But I recall boyish charm. He was a prodigy of sorts. He graduated from college and law school early. To this day I remember how he looked at a picture of The Creation of Adam by Michelangelo on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. I had been there recently and had shown off my travel photos to persons too kind to escape. This colleague saw God and Adam with arms outstretched toward each other and wondered aloud about the space between them. As I recall it, he wondered what it would be like to see them after that touch. He thought Adam would be transformed, unrecognizable. He thought the artist painted what was safe–a man–not one touched by God. I am haunted by those recollections as surely as if his spirit appeared to me. And I wonder what he felt when he touched the hand of God.

I think about my friend from Washington, DC who suddenly got it in her head to move to Tennessee to live near her mom and a sister. My friend had a young son and an ex-husband doing a little time for what I cannot recall. Once she decided to move she was hell bent on getting there as fast as possible. But she had no money or plan for doing it. I sent her a book by overnight express and stuck six one hundred dollar bills in between the pages. She barely made it home in time. Within a month, she had died of an aneurysm in her brain. She saw her son off to school and told her mom she was going to lie down for a nap because her head hurt. Her mom found her several hours later. They said she must have seen it coming because she had gotten up in church on Sunday and declared her faith in Jesus. I think she knew something. We spoke just days before she died about the money I sent her. She was very grateful and wanted to repay me but worried that it would take awhile. I “forgave” the debt because it seemed to bother her, and I was happy that she seemed happy when I said it–almost like her house was in order.

There was nothing funny about her death at such a young age, but I think of her every time I see Elvis because the preacher at her funeral (which had enough drama for the stage and deserves its own posting) remarked that, thanks to her having declared her faith before death, she was already in heaven. And that meant that she had seen the King–yes, Elvis. The preacher mentioned God softly, almost as a footnote, “Jesus, too.”

I think I see the first boy I ever loved when I drive down the street on which we lived way back when. His name was Michael and he was very sweet. We played as part of a neighborhood group, usually in people’s garages because the housing development was brand new and no one had shade trees yet. In our garage we had a cardboard kitchen set, which was “home.” Michael and I were the oldest, so we played the mom and dad. Like lots of kids, we brought to play what we saw at home. My mom muffled laughter one afternoon when Michael stomped into the garage and yelled at me, “Burnt mashed potatoes again! When a man comes home he needs fluffy potatoes on the table!” Talk like that in our house would have meant noodles until November.

Michael died in a motel room in what appears to have been a drug bust that went bad. By that time I lived far away and was no longer in touch with him or his family. But I still see him winding up with his bat when his dad was getting ready to pitch the ball. And he still looks way too young to be so long gone.

Some of the dead people I see are ghosts, too, but I can only lay claim to seeing a very few of them. They were strangers to me so I could not possibly tell you their stories. I can only tell you that when I think back on my life so far I keep wondering about what that young lawyer said about the painting on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. Did Michelangelo paint the scene before Adam touched the hand of God because it is impossible to imagine the scene after the contact? I have the feeling that once Adam touched the Lord he never looked back.

That’s the normal I want to find here on earth. I’m living in that space between Adam’s finger and God’s. Not giving up. Not ready to go. Not quite feeling that my time has run out too soon. I want the sense of mystery and adventure back. I don’t want to malinger when there’s work to be done. And I do believe there is work to be done with this time I have here. So, instead of looking back at people gone–including my pre-cancer self–I’m looking forward, one hand extended, hoping when I do find Him (maybe even before I find Him) that I will be transformed.


Cars pull up and honk to see if I am leaving

Cars pull up and honk to see if I am leaving

I cannot stand those GPS systems with their ceaseless commentary on my driving. One of the increasingly appreciated advantages of being divorced is that no one complains about my driving. No one presses an invisible brake when I am slow to do the same. No one comments on my preference for a less well traveled route. No one exclaims when I choose to gun my little car and overtake another because its driver ticked me off.

When I travel with my sister Kathy she likes the instructions, the reassurance, the computer co-pilot. I think she would admit that my sense of direction is a little better than hers. As a result, the GPS system’s announcement that it is “recalculating” feels more like an expression of patience than the criticism I perceive it to be.

Today I finally went for the four month follow-up on my first thorough gynecological exam after hysterectomy, radiation, and chemotherapy. It has been twenty months since surgery.

I got up at 5 a.m. and left the house before 6 a.m. for my 8 a.m. appointment. I could not take it for granted that there would be a parking space at the hospital. This week I have taught five classes. I graded piles of papers. I reviewed resumes and spoke with students searching for jobs. I gave references for jobs and admission to the bar. I wrote recommendation letters. I spoke with attorneys for a prior client about an old matter. I was exhausted this morning, so exhausted that I climbed in the shower before I had bothered to turn on any lights.

I was lucky enough never to have acne, but this past week I have enough blemishes to warn passersby of impending doom. I am red! My joints ache. My blood pressure crept up. My tinnitus has been distracting when I want to empty my mind and concentrate on slow and steady breathing.

I got in the car and drove before I could focus on anything other than the need to get going. When I arrived at the hospital I was in time to get one of the last spaces. It was light out by then and I had to slouch in my seat because everyone who saw me tapped his or her horn to see if I was leaving.

There was no sense in getting out before 7 a.m. That’s when the elevators on the first floor open. I was afraid I would fall asleep so tried reading John Grisham’s The Racketeer, but it has been difficult for me to read fiction lately. I am going through a stage when the only things I feel are real.

When I entered the building it was like going back to your hometown after a long trip. I found everything old felt new. A police officer arriving late nearly mowed me over in the hall. The elevator lobby was under construction and I felt like the place was foreign rather than familiar. I rode the elevator to the second floor in the company of a red-dressed bird. This woman wore the tightest, brightest red blouse and capri pants. Over this she wore a pristinely white jacket. Atop her head she wore a curly black wig that cascaded in all directions. Wrapped around her head and across her forehead was a black and white polka-dotted scarf. The ends trailed down one side like she was singing back-up for the Jackson Five way back when. Beside her was a woman in a maxi dress with alternating horizontal stripes of orange and tan. The pumps matched. I kept wondering why I did not receive the memo because the colors were even more eye-popping than the women’s physical attributes. They were attention-getters, too.

In my navy blue shirt, navy blue pants, and navy blue slip-on shoes I felt invisible. I wanted to be invisible. I longed to be someplace else and to have more important things to do, but nothing was more pressing than this appointment.

Of course, I was the first patient present. The receptionist called me to the desk then told me to sit and wait because I was more than an hour early. It was after 7 a.m. and my appointment was at 8 a.m., but there was no point in arguing. She called me five minutes later when there was still no one there.

A nurse came out and brought me back to be weighed and have my blood pressure checked. One was down and the other was up. I explained that I was suffering from some “white jacket syndrome.” I learned that the physician’s assistant who last examined me was the only person present. I knew what this meant and tried not to panic.

I was shown to a room and sat for almost another hour before the P.A. came in.

I was the one who had to do some recalculating today. The exam still hurt, but my anxiety level was much lower. For one thing, as she took notes I had my clothes on. Last time I was led naked through the hallways twice and felt very vulnerable even before the P.A. decided to take my history while I sat half naked (the half that sat on the table was covered).

There was less info to share. The time went by faster. The P.A. could not predict anything without test results, but she let me know that she saw nothing that raised her concern. I hope that this is progress and that some of my fears will be eased when I return to see the P.A. in October.

I ended up driving out to my mom’s place and we spent the afternoon together. We took a ride to the Queen of Heaven cemetery in Hillside, Illinois. Back in the early 1990’s there was a local man (Joseph) who claimed to see the Virgin Mary there after he first saw her in Megjugorje.; He visited the cemetery because he was directed to a cross near a three-trunked tree. When my dad was alive, he took me and my mom there to see what was happening. In those days, Joseph would come and pray and see and speak with Mary while others crowded around him saying the rosary. People took interesting photos and rosaries turned gold.

One of my mom’s friends had a plain rosary turn gold. I have visited the location a number of times, including after my dad died. On the Christmas after my dad died, I took some Polaroid pictures of the plain wooden cross. The dark wood cross glowed gold on an overcast day while rain fell on me. I took the photos while I kneeled at the foot of the cross. Was it the flash bulb? Why was the effect not repeated in each photo taken from the same place at the same day and time?

I still have one of those photos and gave one to a former coworker who was quite devoutly religious. She also was dying at the time and said the photo gave her great comfort. I will try to find the photo album and scan a few of the remaining photos for this posting later. There are some others that make it appear that a door opened in the sky. I think the sun reflected off of the sides of the camera’s aperture. Nevertheless, they are cool to look at.

Photo taken June 14, 2013

Photo taken June 14, 2013

At any rate, the scene has changed since Joseph died. The cross was moved several years ago to an empty area of the cemetery. A parking lot was installed. The cross was set in the center of a blacktop area that people could not trample. No large group was gathered. A lone man walked the perimeter lost in prayer. Someone created a little shrine for a statue of Mary. The toes of Jesus’s feet have been touched so many times that the stain and sealer have worn away. Bare, white, and deteriorated wood is exposed. A couple people have left items. We said a prayer before leaving.

Photo taken June 14, 2013

Photo taken June 14, 2013

For my mom it was a let down. She was hoping to feel that energy that we last felt from the crowd when we visited there. It would have been a connection with my dad, whose birthday just passed and who we will remember this Sunday on Father’s Day.

But I had the opposite reaction. I put my hand on the cross and thanked God and Mary for helping me through the last two years of trials and treatments. I realize that others have experienced far worse than I have and want to keep this in perspective. But there were times when all I had to keep me going were faith, family, and friends. All I feel were gifts that helped me endure. And I felt as I touched that cross that a burden of fear and sorrow lifted from my shoulders.

I found myself recalculating.

Good-Bye, Gick

Ed, Marge, Mary & Babe

Ed, Marge, Mary & Babe

I opened the email and read the news that Gick had died:

My mother, Margaret Rosemary Theresa Kelly Moder went to heaven Monday morning at 9:12AM. We had just left her side when it happened.

Gick was my Grandma Babe’s cousin. In the picture above, Gick sits between her husband Ed and her sister Mary. My Grandma Babe sits over to the side.

Gick’s mom and my great grandmother were sisters. Gick’s mom was May and my great grandmother was Nellie. Nellie was the eldest. Nellie Hanley married Harry King. They had two children: Dr. Edward P. King “Bub” and Mary King “Babe.”

When Nellie was 50 she had surgery to correct a deviated septum. She died shortly after it of meningitis. Babe was 18. Her dad would last only three years without his Nellie. Bub was already in the Navy. Babe went to live with Aunt May, Uncle Tim, Mary, and Marge. Aunt May was a fighter. She argued with everyone, especially her sisters Nellie and Agnes “Ag.” May was the baby of the family of six children, so you know she must have been tough to take on Nellie (11 years her senior). But she took in Babe. Babe always felt that Mary (seven) and Marge, aka Gick (five) were like her little sisters.

Marge was a “gal.” She loved her bicycle. She and her cousin Bece once rode their bicycles from Chicago to Wisconsin. Bece got a terrible sunburn. Marge, with her beautiful Irish skin somehow fared well. Marge boxed, too, if you can believe it.

Marge always had dogs. She and her kids once brought a carload of turtles home from a vacation to Fenton, Missouri. She and her kids also had pigeons (Homer and George) and a crow (also George).

Mary was the one with all the style. According to Marge, Mary always knew how to tie a scarf to make an outfit. Marge loved her leather coat with a fur collar so much that she wore it on the train during the summer! Before such a thing as air conditioning. But Marge was fascinating in her own right, without resort to the slightest artifice or fancy.

Marge met Ed at the Rathskeller. He was on his way up the stairs to leave with his friends as she was walking in with a girlfriend. He looked at his friends and said, “That’s it.” He turned right around and followed her down the stairs. It was love at first sight. He walked Marge and her friend back home at the end of the evening. She appreciated the escort. Ed was “charming.”

Of course, she didn’t want anyone to know they met in this way. So she concocted a better story for her four children and waited until they were older to tell the truth–like when they were all adults! She told the kids that she met Ed at a USO event. For their 40th anniversary, her son Tim ordered some minted coins bearing the USO emblem on them to commemorate that meeting. That’s when Marge finally admitted that the USO had nothing to do with her having married his dad.

Ed invited Marge to travel to Monmouth, NJ for his receipt of his second lieutenant Army orders. May let Marge travel with a friend’s wife. Ed offered Marge a ring. Marge told Ed, “A girl likes to be asked.” So he formally proposed. Marge accepted. Ed later trained at Harvard University. Marge married Ed at the chapel at Harvard University in front of eight witnesses in military uniforms.

Ed was in the United States Army Signal Corps. He served overseas in Shanghai. But he was there when she needed him. They raised four children. I’m not sure how many grandchildren and great-grandchildren she lived to hold in her arms and love. Those grandchildren and great-grandchildren called her “Gick.”

When I was a kid Babe and her husband Kayo, Mary and her husband George, and Marge and her husband Ed were close friends. They used to get together to play cards and drink and laugh. They called these events “meetings of the Cousins’ Club.” The six had lots of fun.

Cousins Club

The Cousins’ Club plays cards: From left to right: My dad, Mary’s shoe, Marge, Ed, my mom, George, and Babe. Kayo was the photographer.

We lost George in 1974. We lost my Grandpa Kayo in 1986. Mary died suddenly and dramatically in her doctor’s office in 1990. Ed died in 1993. Grandma Babe died in 1996.

Mary, Marge, and my mom

Mary, Marge, and my mom

Marge and Ed had a long life together, but he died long before she did–in 1993. She died May 6, 2013, moments after her family left the room. I hope Ed came for her and she just said, “That’s it,” and followed him.

I could not make it to her funeral. I wish I had been there. My mom cannot stop talking about how Marge’s kids chose a green casket, because Marge was so proud of her Irish roots.  Her entire family sang a song written for her to the tune of Danny Boy (my mom’s favorite song). And they ended the service by singing every last verse of When Irish Eyes Are Smiling:

When Irish Eyes Are Smiling

There's a tear in your eye, 
And I'm wondering why, 
For it never should be there at all. 
With such pow'r in your smile, 
Sure a stone you'd beguile, 
So there's never a teardrop should fall. 
When your sweet lilting laughter's 
Like some fairy song, 
And your eyes twinkle bright as can be; 
You should laugh all the while 
And all other times smile, 
And now, smile a smile for me. 

When Irish eyes are smiling, 
Sure, 'tis like the morn in Spring. 
In the lilt of Irish laughter 
You can hear the angels sing. 
When Irish hearts are happy, 
All the world seems bright and gay. 
And when Irish eyes are smiling, 
Sure, they steal your heart away. 

For your smile is a part 
Of the love in your heart, 
And it makes even sunshine more bright. 
Like the linnet's sweet song, 
Crooning all the day long, 
Comes your laughter and light. 
For the springtime of life 
Is the sweetest of all 
There is ne'er a real care or regret; 
And while springtime is ours 
Throughout all of youth's hours, 
Let us smile each chance we get.
--Chauncey Olcott, Geo. Graff Jr., & Ernest R. Ball

We’re smiling through our tears. The Cousins’ Club is back together again.


Open Wide

All Are Welcome

All Are Welcome

Years ago one of my students told me that she had described me to her mother as the smiling-faced alien who emerged after her spaceship had landed and said to the denizens of this planet, “All are welcome. All are welcome.”

I remember blinking a few times as I tried to figure out whether this was a compliment or a criticism. It certainly was a mixed metaphor. I like the notion that I welcome folks and put them at ease, but the alien spaceship has several possible interpretations. There is, of course, the image of a trusting Richard Dreyfuss taking the hand of a stranger and walking into the spaceship at the end of Close Encounters of the Third Kind. There the aliens are benign creatures who have, if memory serves, collected and then returned countless folks who traversed a sort of Bermuda Triangle one century without aging. I like the image of the alien in Cocoon. Brian Dennehy was the right blend of affable and inscrutable as he welcomed our aging citizens on a voyage that would rejuvenate and repurpose them.

Then there is the image of the merciless alien attack in response to our musical overtures in Independence Day. That feel good film about whoopin’ “E.T.’s ass” always makes me think of my bird house in which the open wide front door is represented as the maw of a cat (pictured above).

If you have ever seen a cat play with its food then you know that canned cat food must be the equivalent of what rolls on the grill at the convenience store at about 2 a.m. The cat has so much more fun with living prey. You watch the “menu” disappear inside the cat’s mouth and then emerge dazed and damp. The cat will bat it around and pounce upon it a time or two. This part always makes me think about how we blindfold and spin around children at birthday parties right before we set them upon an unsuspecting picture of a donkey or a piñata. What looks like fun can be disorienting for someone enlisted into play by “friends” who enjoy another’s vulnerability.

Why is it impolite to play with one’s food? Is that rudeness perceived by the cook or the meal? I digress. I do not think my former student would compare me with such a violent image.

My student’s description of me certainly was a mixed metaphor. The line “All are welcome. All are welcome.” actually comes from a movie about spirits from another plain rather than aliens from a spaceship. In the movie Poltergeist the medium Tangina Barrons separates the spirits who have died but not “passed over” from the Beast by urging them to walk into the Light. She says:

Cross over children. All are welcome. All welcome. Go into the Light. There is peace and serenity in the Light.

We got word this week that our family is about to lose another member. My Grandma Babe’s dear cousin Marge (called Gick by her grandchildren and great-grandchildren) has this week moved from her home to hospital and now to hospice. It is not cancer that will take her. Gick has lived well into her nineties and will die naturally. And she is ready. This is what her son wrote to us:

Mom wants the end to come right now, so we tried to explain that God has a different plan, so we just have to “let nature take its course” as the Hospice social worker says.    Mom asked the lady if she was going to live.   The lady said “Yes”.   Mom said “Damn it!”   …..   I think she is ready.

After spending April following stories of terrorism, police pelted with pipe bombs, shoot-outs, ricin-laced envelopes sent through innocent hands of innocent postal workers to our political leaders, explosions at fertilizer plants, violent weather, and deaths by cancer (like the death of my Aunt Arlene and the impending death of Handsome Husband in the blog, I was prepared to take this news about Gick hard, but I am greatly comforted by the thought of a long life ending peacefully in a room surrounded by people who love her through her death into a new life in the Light.

When Gick’s sister Mary died, Mary was in the doctor’s office for a check-up. She simply looked up in the corner of the room and raised her hand. She said, “God, take me,” and was gone. I like that image.

In 1996 my friend Ivanka gave me a book by Henri J.M. Nouwen, Our Greatest Gift: A Meditation on Dying and Caring (HarperSanFrancisco 1985). At the time I was caring for Grandma Babe, Mary and Gick’s cousin. Ivanka wrote inside the book that she selected it with the assistance of a nun who said that Cardinal Bernadin was using the book to prepare for his own death. I read passages from that book whenever I am troubled by the concept of death. In the chapter on caring for the dying the author speaks with Rodleigh, one of the Flying Rodleighs, a circus troupe’s trapeze artist act from Freiburg, Germany. Rodleigh told the author of his experience as a flyer and his great trust in Joe, his catcher. The author of the book sees the moment of the catch as a metaphor for crossing over. Today I read this for comfort:

Dying is trusting in the catcher. To care for the dying is to say, “Don’t be afraid. Remember that you are the beloved child of God. He will be there when you make your long jump. Don’t try to grab him; he will grab you. Just stretch out your arms and trust, trust, trust.”

I like that image, too.

I don’t have any albums by the rock group Creed, but I once saw Chicago resident Marty Casey perform the song With Arms Wide Open on Rockstar INXS The lyrics suggest it might be about a couple starting a family, but it could just as easily be about the reuniting of family in the Light.

“With Arms Wide Open”

Well I just heard the news today
It seems my life is going to change
I close my eyes, begin to pray
Then tears of joy stream down my face

With arms wide open
Under the sunlight
Welcome to this place
I’ll show you everything
With arms wide open
With arms wide open

Well I don’t know if I’m ready
To be the man I have to be
I’ll take a breath, I’ll take her by my side
We stand in awe, we’ve created life

With arms wide open
Under the sunlight
Welcome to this place
I’ll show you everything
With arms wide open
Now everything has changed
I’ll show you love
I’ll show you everything

With arms wide open
With arms wide open
I’ll show you everything …oh yeah
With arms wide open..wide open

[Guitar Break]

If I had just one wish
Only one demand
I hope he’s not like me
I hope he understands
That he can take this life
And hold it by the hand
And he can greet the world
With arms wide open…

With arms wide open
Under the sunlight
Welcome to this place
I’ll show you everything
With arms wide open
Now everything has changed
I’ll show you love
I’ll show you everything
With arms wide open
With arms wide open

I’ll show you everything..oh yeah
With arms wide open….wide open

Anytime we undertake a strange journey with arms wide open and meet a welcome that speaks of homecoming there will be happy tears in addition to the sad ones.  I pray that, when the time comes, I can extend toward the catcher my hand open wide and trust, trust, trust.

Arlene Will Live a Long Life

I am thinking today that Joyce is 100% cancer free, has normal lymph nodes and no more lymphedema. Peggy has no expiration date. Arlene lived a long life. My family and friends are my “secret” power. Prayer is the best medicine. Cheryl is winning her war against cancer. All of us find strength in knowledge and faith.

It is a sad day for my family. My Aunt Arlene, whose name I have kept in my thoughts all of the time for a long time, died today. Her husband Dan died in December. Her sister-in-law Ann died last month. Her children now face a third very painful loss within four months. Arlene was my mom’s only sibling and the younger sister. This is a blow to everyone who loved her.

I am, of course, very sad at the news. Arlene had metastatic breast cancer for many years. She also had an inoperable, benign brain tumor. I do not know for a fact which proved to be the cause of her death, but I believe with all of my heart that it was the pressure of the tumor on her brain that took her life rather than the cancer. I will remember her as having beat the cancer. I think that there are many of us who will beat cancer in our lives and still end up dying. I am calling out victories wherever I find them.

My mom returned to Chicago Wednesday, after traveling to D.C. to stay with my sister Kathy. Kathy and her family drove my mom down to Richmond so that the sisters could see each other before Arlene’s death. They visited together three times. They looked at photo albums. They posed for new photographs. My mom brought her sister some orange pop and a book of stamps so that she could continue to correspond. They did not say goodbye. My mom left while her sister was napping and did not tell her that she would not be back. I think this worked for them. Farewell was going to be too painful for either sister to bear.

My aunt was at times confused during those visits. She would relay stories from TV programs and tell the family that she had been part of the events. She would talk to a stuffed toy as if it were her dog or a person. She mistook Kathy and my mom for her own beloved daughter Jill. But there were times when she had clarity and recognized her sister. She was so happy to see her. I did not have a chance to make a trip out to see Arlene, but we had many long phone calls in the last year. I felt very good about my relationship with her and felt at peace with the decision to end chemotherapy treatment this year.

Easy for me to say.

My aunt did not fight her doctor’s decision to end treatment, but she was not fully reconciled to it when we last spoke. I think she was persuaded in the end to go along with the plan because my uncle was no longer there to share the battle. What an awesome thing marriage can be for some. I cannot imagine what it is like to share someone else’s joys and sorrows for decades and then lose the person who has shared so much of life. Uncle Dan was Arlene’s rock. I think Arlene also did not want to be a burden on her children (though they did not seem at all burdened, only committed to taking care of her). Her son Eric visited her nearly every day these last four months. She was tired. And the recent growth of the brain tumor made the cancer battle seem futile. She accepted hospice treatment. She suffered several small strokes. She took to her bed and slept more. She withdrew from activities. Fatigue and sleep were welcome anesthesia. Mental confusion meant she did not have to make many goodbyes.

Her children were here in Chicago burying their paternal aunt when it happened. I think sometimes this is best. When my dad’s physicians called for a “crash cart,” they told me to summon my mom and sister. Mom and Kathy had just left the room to head home for a nap. I said, “Goodbye, Dad,” and headed off leaving my brother Danny at the bedside. I think my dad would have chosen to have it happen when the three of us women were gone and my brother was standing at the ready. A mantle was passing. My brother was there to receive it and he has become a wonderful man. I’m sure my dad is proud. My aunt had already seen that mantle pass when her husband died. There is no question but that she was proud of her children and grandchildren. And they treated her with patience, dignity, and abiding love that she had to appreciate.

I think it was Winston Churchill who once said that the most important work of the world is done by people who don’t feel all that well. My aunt was not working or doing charity or raising her kids in these last years. She was retired from working as a nurse. She was no longer able to volunteer in her community. Her family was grown. But she read books. She listened to talk radio. She watched TV. She talked to people she met and spoke her mind. She bore up under terrible stress with humor and humility. She prayed for strength. She suffered with grace. This ordinary life conducted under extraordinary conditions was important work.

Crying Inside


Some people cry in their beds. Some people cry in the shower. Some people cry in their cars. Some people do not cry at all. This evening I took a drive to Barnes & Noble. I wanted to buy a book for Rachel, my greatniece. I bought a copy of Ten Good and Bad Things about My Life (So Far) by Ann M. Martin. I bought the book because the description included this statement:

Ann Martin takes this appealing character into new adventures through which young readers will see that good or bad, life is what happens when you’re making other plans.

That’s a serious topic, isn’t it? I have spent 18 months learning precisely that lesson since a doctor diagnosed me as having uterine cancer.

While I waited to pay for the book the woman behind me asked if I would mind telling her what I was reading. I showed her the cover. She did a double-take. I was sure she was thinking that I looked a little old for the material. She took the book from me and flipped through it swiftly.

“It’s a gift,” I said by way of explanation.

She handed the book back to me. “You don’t have any kids, do you?”

I blinked. “No, I don’t.”

She smiled. “Kids today don’t read books. They have tablets. They look at pictures. This book has what–maybe five or six drawings.” She showed me her purchases. She had two games. She waved toward the back of the store. “Haven’t you noticed? This place has become a toy store. You should get the kid a toy.”

I  smiled. I like books. I especially like books without pictures. I love books that carry positive messages. I want Rachel to grow up feeling resilient. Life can be tough. I hope Rachel will prove to be even tougher.

A few minutes later I was driving home with my purchase. An older woman in an out-of-style raincoat was walking between the cars at a major intersection. Her cardboard sign said her family had been evicted and she needed help. It was about 56 degrees outside and a light rain was falling. The woman was my age. She wore a bright red wig that was looking wet and bedraggled. I rolled down my window and reached for my purse.

When she walked up alongside my car I saw that she had no eyebrows of her own and I realized that I might be speaking with a fellow cancer survivor. I opened my wallet and handed over $15. It wasn’t enough to make a big difference, but it was what I had on me at the time.

“Thank you for helping me,” the woman spoke softly. “Happy Easter.”

That’s when I thought of the book. “Do you have any children?” I asked.

The woman looked at me like maybe I was not a nice person after all. She stepped back from my car. “Yes.”

“Do you have a daughter?” I asked.

She hesitated. “Why do you want to know?” she asked.

I handed her the book. “I think it’s about making the best of bad situations,” I said.

She looked at the cover and then tucked it back into the bag. “Thank you.” Her face was wet. It might have been the rain. It might have been tears. I don’t know for sure. The light changed and I turned right.

I went back to the store and bought an extra copy of the same book for my niece. The clerk looked at me and looked at the book. “I thought you already bought this.”

“I did.”

“Did you lose it?” the clerk asked.

“No. I gave it to a stranger and now I need another copy for someone else.”

The clerk laughed. I think she thought I was nuts.

I drove through the ATM lane at my bank on my way home and took out some extra money, but, when I drove past the intersection where I last saw her, the woman with the red wig was gone.

As I proceeded home I said a silent prayer for all of the people who tonight are having bad experiences when they had something better planned.

Deep Sleep

The only completely consistent people are the dead. – by Huxley, Aldous.OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

Friday was another day of very low level pain. I slept from seven in the evening until eleven without waking once. Then I sat up and did some reading and work until nearly two in the morning. I went back to sleep and did not wake for another four hours. That never happens to me. I often wake every hour.

My mom claims that the staff at St. Ann’s Hospital, where my sister and I were born, used to wake the babies for their first feeding at a very early hour. We have always been early to rise. Our brother Danny was born at Holy Family Hospital. They woke the babies later at that hospital, and he still enjoys sleeping late if he ever gets the chance.

When I was a child I slept about five hours a night. On Christmas Day it was always the sight of me seated before the tree staring at the lights and presents that greeted everyone else. One year my mom and dad tied all of the doors shut to keep me from reaching the den. They found me seated in the hall on a cold floor peering through the slats of the louvered doors when they woke.

In 1980 I started working the night shift at a hotel. I taught classes in the morning at a local college. I helped to coach a college debate team in the early afternoon. I slept from three in the afternoon until it was time to get up and get ready for work again. On many Friday mornings I finished work at the hotel and climbed into a van and traveled to debate tournaments. I did not sleep at all until the day was done. On Sunday nights I returned to work at the hotel and kept going.

I read the book entitled Sleep Less, Live More by Everett Mattlin and systematically reduced my sleep time to three hours. For most of my adult life I slept no longer than that.

Even when I wanted to sleep more I found it difficult to do so. Studies now show that this is terrible for a person’s health. The studies may be right. I find myself increasingly interested in reading studies and decreasingly influenced by them. They tend to contradict each other. Something is good for me. Something is bad for me. These inconsistencies would trouble me more if I thought inconsistency in life could be resolved. I agree with Aldous Huxley that life is inconsistent.

I was awake, other than when I was drugged, for the entire week of my hospital stay in October of 2011. I was awake for several days straight during my hospital stay in December of the same year. I have slept more than seven hours during a single day on numerous occasions since I finished chemotherapy and radiation treatment in that same month of 2011. But I do not go to sleep and stay that way for long. I wake up to roll over. I get that pins and needles feeling in my hands sometimes and wake from a deep sleep. I wake to go to the bathroom. In the last 18 months I have awakened often, sometimes every ten minutes.

I rarely have dreams that I remember when I am awake. I often wondered if my short sleep pattern meant that I did not reach REM sleep–the sleep that usually delivers dreams. I have read studies that say that this is nonsensical. The patterns of sleep are, like death, consistent.

Since my diagnosis and treatment I dream much more and the dream is nearly always the same. I am president of the United States and my son, a veteran of a foreign war, is missing because the government of which I am the chief executive has exposed my son to the werewolf virus. He has run off to figure out how to deal with his new reality. When I wake from this dream I am speaking with the Secret Service agent in charge of my missing son’s security detail. I ask him, “Do you know where my son is?” He tells me he does not and I think to myself, “Liar.”

I already have written about this dream and what it might mean.

Last night I had a different dream. It seems to have sprung from what I did yesterday afternoon. I drove out to the cemetery where my dad and his parents are interred. The place is a disgusting carpet of goose turds. Those devils of earth and sky use the cemetery as a gigantic toilet. In the wake of a cold and snowy winter, most of their droppings are bleached beige and dried down to the fiber. They disintegrate beneath my footfalls. Visiting the cemetery is far more treacherous in spring, summer, and fall when the droppings are fresh. I can barely negotiate my way to my dad’s gravesite without stepping on the stuff.

I took some paper towels with me so that I could clean off his headstone and those of each of my grandparents. Those stones are also liberally decorated with this stuff of foul fowls. As I walked past a woman my mother’s age who was decorating her deceased husband’s grave with Easter eggs (the real thing, hand-dyed and decorated with a piece of ribbon) on little spikes, I noticed a bird sitting on my dad’s headstone.

My mom thinks my dad’s spirit sometimes visits her in the form of a bird. When I am at her home I sometimes hear the thud of a bird hitting a pane of a window or the side of the structure. My mom loves birds. She always knows the caw of a blue jay and smiles at the sight of a cardinal. This was a rather large bird, but not big enough to be a duck or a goose. It was not small enough to be a sparrow or a robin.

It was quiet. The only noise I heard was the sound of my tinnitus. My ears “ring” all of the time since chemotherapy. The bird must have heard me, but he did not move from the headstone as I approached. I decided to greet my disembodied dad. “Hi, Dad,” I said softly.

The bird turned to look at me as I drew within a few feet of it. Then it started walking away. He stepped over to the headstone of George Prewitt, one of my grandparents’ good friends. George is buried next to my dad. Then he turned and looked at me. I stepped onto my dad’s grave and bent to clean the stone of its nasty “decorations.” The bird was close enough for me to touch and still watching me.

I usually speak to my dad when I visit. I told him the good news of my relief from the pain of radiation cystitis. I told him that my mom was visiting with my sister Kathy and asked him to pray for the entire family. I said some prayers for him, for his parents, for my mom’s parents, and for the rest of our family.

The bird turned away from me and walked deliberately to the next grave. It belongs to Flo Prewitt. The bird kept on walking to the grave of Agnes Luckey, Flo’s mom. Then the bird strolled up onto the grave of my grandma. He settled again at my grandpa’s headstone.

I went on with my news report (as if I really think my loved ones hang out in a cemetery). When my dad’s headstone was “clean,” I approached my grandpa’s grave and the bird turned to look at me once more before flying off and away.

When I had finished my greetings I walked back toward my car. I passed the now unattended grave the other visitor had decorated. I realized that the grave beside it already bore the woman’s name and date of birth. That must be interesting. I plan to someday be interred above my grandfather. We were born on the same day (fifty-five years apart) and were very close. My aunt plans to be interred above her mom. My mom plans to be interred above my dad. Someday there will be the six of us and the three members of Flo’s family lying in rest there. I don’t ever focus on that fact when I visit because, unlike the woman whose now empty grave I passed, my name is not already carved in a stone.

As I looked up I saw the bird again–at least I think it was the same bird–standing right beside my car. It was still there when I slowly drove away from my parking space.

Last night I slept without waking once during the last four hours of my night. When I woke I had been dreaming. In my dream I was back in the cemetery. I was speaking to my dad and watching the bird. In my dream, the bird answered. The last thing I recall from my dream was that the bird said, “This place is not for you. Dream bigger dreams.”

I think I really am getting better.

%d bloggers like this: