Tag Archives: Death

Nine Years After Dad Died: Everyday Magic, Day 485

Posted on January 18, 2012 | 2 Comments

Sitting in my friend’s living room this morning while her husband slept in a hospital bed beside us, we talked about the hospice services they’re using and about when people close to us died. She told me the dates of her parents’ deaths, both in 1999, and I told her the date of my father’s death which, as I remembered it, was today: January 18, 2003.

As I went through my day – teaching yoga, buying bananas at the store, getting my flu shot, mailing some packages – this anniversary stood in the background. My father died a relatively young man at only 63 after a very short (only four months between diagnosis and death) immersion in pancreatic cancer. I was in the middle of my own cancer treatment at the time, and actually had just had major surgery a few weeks before he died, but when Ken and I walked into his house where he had been in a coma for 10 days, it was clear he was waiting for me. He died 15 minutes after we arrived.

While I wrote of the death in more detail in my memoir, the fallout from his life and death continues to reveal itself. As time passed, I learn more about him and who I am because of him. Nine years later, I don’t exactly miss my father, but I do think of him — with affection (which was a big surprise after our tumultuous relationship all my life). If he were alive today, he would despise what’s happening politically but probably support Romney and call me an idealist for supporting Obama. He would be livid about the Wall Street bailouts  since he was a self-made man, but he would have supported all the wars that happened in the last decade, probably advocating for more, not less. Beyond that, I can’t predict what he would be like at age 73 because his dying changed him so much, and so much for the better (although that was obviously short-lived).

What I do know from my experience and the experiences of my friends who have lost parents is that we carry our moms and dads in our hip pockets our whole lives (even back when they carried us), some fire from their personality, biology, karma, bad and good luck and choices, missteps and inspiring leaps tucked into some part of us no matter where we go and what we do. The relationship continues to unfold, and their voices continue to inform, question, argue and support.

Nine years ago from tomorrow, my father was buried in a steep grave in a hilly cemetery in western Pennsylvania, but his life and death travel with me. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

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Maybe We’ll Know What We Meant When We’re Dead: Everyday Magic, Day 231

Posted on March 10, 2011 | 4 Comments

Yesterday was extraordinarily charged in a quirky, painful and tender way. Within several hours, I stumbled into an unexpected heartbreak, punctuated by a media interview for Poet Laureati, a bevy of criss-crossed and tangled emails about an event months away, payment processing for the event, and deep talks with two friends while bumbling around downtown Lawrence. By the time I landed home with the kids, I was feeling particularly baffled about what I’m doing in life.

But the universe seems to not just fill all voids but overwhelm bafflement with wonder. A friend called to let me know that someone who took a writing workshop with me years ago remembered that class as vital to her eventually finding her way out of severe poverty and cycles of self-destruction. She’s now in med school.

I often tell Ken that I don’t believe we can tell the value of what we’re doing and how we’re living until after we’re dead, and believe me, from the other side of this life, I hope to have a long look at what it all meant. One of the sweetnesses of life is that we can’t see the whole view while standing in the center of it. In the meantime, I’m grateful for the angels who bring us glimpses that sometimes the pebbles we drop in the water make a difference to the shore.

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Last Day of the Year: Remembering Janet: Everyday Magic, Days 54-55

Posted on September 8, 2010 | 4 Comments

It is the last day of the year according to the Jewish calendar, and I’m thinking not so much of the end of this year as of the end of Janet’s life. Janet Hamburg, a friend of mine I occasionally saw here and there for the last 28 years.

Janet was a dancer and renowned dance professor, researcher and international innovator (particularly when it came to helping people with Parkinson’s), but to me, she was also and always warm, graceful and lit from within when I spotted her leaning over the plums at the food co-op or sitting across from me at a party as we made small talk and caught up on the big generalities of our days. We weren’t close friends, and I didn’t see her except by coincidence or situation, but I liked her so much. I also liked very much her partner of 30 years, Lynn, who I got to know during the last year.

Three weeks ago, I talked to them together at a small party, sitting together and talking about work, health, yearnings. Nothing terribly intimate, but I remember watching the two of them stand to leave and admiring the deep bond they shared with each other and the beauty of their love.

I cannot bring myself to say any platitudes about the preciousness of life (although it’s true), only that I’m sad Janet is gone, and I’m sad that Lynn must carry this large gap in the shape of a graceful, vibrant woman. May this new year bring those who loved Janet deeply the miracle of healing.

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Death of a Kitten: Everday Magic, Day 17

Posted on July 30, 2010 | 2 Comments

At 1 a.m., I stood in the field with my family and a friend of my daughter’s (who was spending the night) in the middle of a kitten funeral for Sookie Bell, our teacup kitty. Earlier that day, I noticed how lethargic Sookie was, and yet at the same time, how happy. She slept in our hands and purred constantly. Worrying that she could be fading, I took her to the vet, where she seemed to liven up a bit, especially while eating some high-calorie, prescription cat food.

But come evening, she took to sleeping much more, and sometime in the middle of the grand finale of the kind of movie you don’t want to be watching when your cat is dying — 2012 (which our daughter said we had to see because the science was so bad and the special effects so good) — we realized she could no longer stand on her tiny paws. We stopped the movie and came upstairs where our family turned itself into a kitty hospice unit, brushing Sookie’s dry mouth with water, holding and loving her, talking to her, and watching her breaths get further and further apart.

After close to two hours, with Sookie lying in my hands and staring her beautiful blue eyes into mine, I realized her breaths were close to 12 seconds apart, and each breath a combination gasp-purr. Eventually another breath didn’t come. This is the same dying I witnessed in our cat Saul (who lived to be 20) and my father — so ordinary, so peaceful.

We found a taco shell box (family pack size), lined it with a soft towel, put Sookie in and covered her with a mini-kitty blanket (e.g. hand-made potholder) and carried her outside where Ken dug the hole, we placed her in, and then each told her we loved her and wished her well on her journey.

It’s hard to reconcile the sadness I feel, we all feel, with the reality that she lived with us for three days. Yet live she did, purring often and utterly delighted to have been taken into our home. She had been starving on the farm where she spent her life beforehand, maybe because the other kittens nudged her away from the food or maybe because she was born with a congenital defect. In any case, we fell in love with this tiny kitty, and we miss her terribly already. Rest in peace, Sookie. And traveling mercies to you.

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Death and Cottonwoods: Everyday Magic, Day 10

Posted on July 23, 2010 | 5 Comments

I sit on the back deck in the sun, shade and wind. All I hear is the cottonwood, tall and leaning a little toward the house, the leaves half green, half shine. To my shame, I must admit that in my mind I hear the song “Honey” recorded by Bobby Goldsboro in the 60s (voted on CNN as “worst song of all time”) and its lyrics of “See the tree, how big it’s grown/ But friend, it hasn’t been too long, it wasn’t big.” The song came out in 1968 when I was eight, and I thought it was the best thing I’d heard, excluding all recordings by the Monkees.  And no wonder: this cottonwood volunteered up when we moved here 15 years ago.

I’m digressing, but then again, death will make a gal do that. Mark is gone, and just today I got word from one of my closest friends that her mom, also my friend and a exquisite landscape painter to boot, died after outliving her cancer prognosis by years. One of Joan Foth’s paintings wraps around my book The Sky Begins At Your Feet, but most people know her work from the cover art for William Least-Heat Moon’s Prairyerth. She had a way of seeing the sky particularly that changed how I now see the sky, especially when I’m in the mountains. Joan pointed us toward the horizontal stretches that reach across ranges of rock or the tall expanses of color and movement towering up from the Flint Hills.

What moved me the most, though, was what Joan and I talked about a year or so ago on the phone: the birds and the trees, the wind and the sky — what you can see right out the window when you stop enough to look. She was positively ecstatic about watching, which was a bonus for her in her final years when moving and doing weren’t so easy. The more you watch, the more you stop seeing what you expect and start expanding your perceptions beyond the confines of your thoughts and thinking.

So today, I’m watching the big cottonwood, the wind coming in waves, and the biggest waves so loud and so light-dappling that I can only look up in awe and let it sweep clean whoever I think I am. I’m also saying to both my friends, Mark and Joan, and with no disagreement that “Honey” is probably the worst song ever written, “Honey, I miss you.” Already and always.

Photos: top one is the base of the cottonwood early one spring, middle is my book with Joan’s painting, and bottom is Joan’s painting, “The High Road.”

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Hanging Out In The Giant Parking Lot of Grief

Posted on March 13, 2009 | 2 Comments

In the month since my father-in-law died, I’ve revisited the giant parking lot of grief, the one where you can never remember where you parked or even what car you were driving at the time. What I mean by this is that grief seems to be the most unmappable of all emotions. If fear, depression, joy, boredom and other day-to-day feelings we move through are seasonal weather, grief is more like those wild card days when it can change over a long afternoon from a dainty day among to tulips to a blizzard to a thunderstorm with a small tornado on its back end.

My family, like me, tends to not act as I would imagine. Sure, there’s stretches of quiet sadness and that big gaping hole in the center of our lives, what a large meteor would leave once a large yellow crane lifted out the rock. But how grief manifests in us is variable and unchartable. My youngest son goes from characteristically chirpy to sullen and slurring his words when I ask him questions. My husband hurt his back about two weeks ago, and can’t easily shake, work, rest or walk through the pain, which recedes far slower than usual. My teenager daughter goes from one overwhelming sadness to being a cool customer. My oldest son had a long flare up of digestive issues. And I’m struggling with the draw to cozy up with some bad old habits (mostly workaholism, thank heavens there’s not chocolate in the house) that just die hard.

Meanwhile, nothing seems to have changed. Meanwhile, everything has changed. Through it all, I know two opposite things to be simultaneously true: this is a huge loss, and as Theodore Roethke wrote, “What falls away is always, and is near.”

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"I’m Sorry" and "Congratulations": Death and Poetry

Posted on February 22, 2009 | 2 Comments

All week, I’ve experienced a juxtaposition of “I’m so sorry for your loss” and “Congratulations!” side by side, sometimes even simultaneously, like at my father-in-law’s funeral when one person gave me a copy of the small article on me being named poet laureate in the Kansas City Star while someone else offered his condolences. The cards and notes that come in the mail and the emails I download offer me the same mixed message, which seems to add up something my brain hears as, “Mazel Tov! And remember, life sucks” or “This too shall pass, so don’t get too excited about any of it.”

Perhaps what’s most odd about it all is that I can’t tell by the face of whoever is approaching which message will pop out. I’m sitting at my computer at a coffee shop, a man behind me turns around, taps me on the shoulder, and says, “Sorry to hear about your father-in-law, and please give Ken my best” or a woman I don’t know on the street passes by and yells over her shoulder, “Great to see you in the paper.”

For years we’ve dreaded the loss of Gene, and for years, I yearned for some recognition and a lot of readers, compounded by the piles of rejection slips, and years spent shepherding books to publication. No surprise that now, during a very good year indeed as a writer, the void left by Gene is like the Grand Canyon compared to the little ant hill of successes. This is not to say that I don’t appreciate being congratulated, the forthcoming publication of books, and the quiet calm of being seen alongside the hard-won peace of feeling good in my writer’s skin.

Meanwhile, there’s the Grand Canyon behind my shoulder, a place I peer into and, just like the actual Grand Canyon, can’t see to the bottom of it all. My father-in-law, although he used to tease me that “how could this be poetry when it doesn’t rhyme?” — even while he stapled together copies of my chapbook for six hours one day — never issued even the vaguest rejection slip or “this doesn’t quite suit our needs at this moment” messages. In the almost 26 years I knew him, he accepted me always, helped when I asked, tried not to impose when he needed help, and probably served me hundreds of tacos, dozens of roast beef dinners, and a whole lot of bowls of hamburger soup. Despite the reality that since his heart surgery four years ago, and his seizures two years ago, he had lost a lot of short-term memory, mobility, strength and lung capacity — and he was leaving this life a little bit at a time — his death is still unfathomable to me.

Yesterday, lying in corpse pose at the end of yoga class, I saw him in his oversized red woolen cap and 30-year-old gray coveralls, just coming in from chopping wood and happy to stand close to the fire place. He was always cold, and it broke his heart a little when he could no longer run that blower connected to his fireplace when he went on oxygen. In a strange way, it’s as odd that he grew so old and fragile as it is that he died. Diagnosed with rheumatic fever during WWII, he tinkered on the brink of serious illness and regular life for over 60 years, and now that he’s gone, I am sorry for his loss, but I could almost congratulate him for leaving behind years of illness, pain, and discomfort.

But since he’s gone, and I can’t tell him anything directly, I just share this poetry — which doesn’t rhyme, but I think he would be okay with it anyway:

In the End, There Is Only Kindness

for Gene
February 19, 1925 – February 10, 2009

When the floor slips and the time comes,
when interventions falter, there is only kindness,
a lantern to hold at journey’s end, then hand over
so someone else can lift the light enough
to illuminate where to step next, and how.

In this kindness, there are always stories:
Telling the checker who rang up his milk twice,
don’t worry, everyone makes mistakes.
His long wait among aging magazines at the VA
so a homeless vet could get his medication.
Gravel on our walkway because he didn’t want
us slipping when we brought home the new baby.
The vase of roses he left on my kitchen table
and for Alice because roses were on sale.
Jokes about being old and decrepit while he
cooked everyone dinner. How he power-rocked
the babies to sleep, his heart beating through theirs.
Christmas stockings and grandchildren to wake up early,
coins to collect for each one. Oxygen in one hand,
a cane in the other so he could see a grandchild
in orchestra or band, graduation or swim meet
even when his back and memory hurt.
The dishes or long drives, reaching for the check,
and taking the time to greet the stranger eating alone.
Only kindness matters in the circle of love
he made out of this world.

In the end, there is always the beginning,
a seamless turn from here to there
even if everything is different from
the irreplaceable loss shining and aching at once,
a kind of river running alongside our lives,
or weather reminding us that
we love, were loved by a man here only
for kindness, which is not just a kind of love
but the only love there is.

– Caryn

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From the Mountains to the Ocean and Back Again: Two Deaths in One Week, and a Whole Lot of Hats

Posted on July 10, 2008 | 1 Comment

A week ago, we hit the road to attend the memorial service for Woody (who I wrote about in Dec. on this blog), our very dear and beloved cousin, who died from a rare form of lung cancer on July 2nd. We got to Fort Collins, CO., where Woody’s wife, Janet, lives, and we were soon meshed with family, friends and neighbors, there to show their love for Woody and Janet.

Because Woody loved fireworks, the memorial service was set for Fri. night, July 4th, with optional firework viewing afterward, and beforehand, the passing around of hats. You see, because Woody lost his considerably long, reddish blond hair due to the chemo treatments, and because Woody was born for storytelling with a particular bent toward dark humor, Woody was flooded with funny hats to wear. There was a cow hat (complete with mooing button), a cup-of-coffee hat, a viking helmet with blond braids, an ace newspaper man hat, a baseball cap with Woody’s cut-off-ponytail attached, a giant fish hat, and many others. Of course we each donned one for the memorial service which, led by Woody’s brother, Dennis (who is also a minister) in a multi-colored jester catp, included telling stories about Woody. Woody led us off — via a recording Dennis did in the last year — in a long and vivid story about how he and others dyamited out everything in the hole under an outhouse (way up in the mountains), or as Woody concluded, shooting the shit.

The next morning, my mom called to say that our very sweet and dear Henry died after his struggle with pancreatic cancer. Henry is my mom’s great love, our kids’ grandpa (called “Epa” since my mom is called “Ema,” which is Hebrew for “great mother”), and Ken and my dear stepdad. So we loaded up the van, drove to Janet’s for French Toast and goodbyes, and then booked it back to Lawrence, arriving home at midnight, just in time to sleep for four hours before leaving for the airport. The trek to NJ, via Baltimore, and via the July 4th weekend traffic jams, is something I’m trying to forget, but suffice to say, we were soon at my mom’s house along with all my sibs and their families.

Of course, too much traffic and travel led us lock the keys in the rental car trunk which, it turned out, couldn’t be opened because this car sealed its trunk as a security feature at such moments. After AAA and the car rental place gave up on helping us, we were at wit’s end. Our funeral clothes were in the trunk, our hotel was 12 miles away, and we were blocking mom’s car. After three hours of struggle, I looked up and said, “Help us, Henry.” At that moment, Eddie stuck his hand into the trunk through the backseat being pulled out, and landed on the keys. Thank you, Henry!

On Monday, we had Henry’s funeral, which also included the telling of stories. My sister Lauren said how thrilled Henry was when, at age 85, he rode one of the wildest rides in Disneyland. My sister-in-law Tammy had stories about Henry’s generosity and sweetness. And my mom said that she had just lost the one great love of her life. Back home, there were more hats: Henry loved hats, especially beautiful caps commemorating wherever he traveled. We were each to take one or two, and for the rest of the trip, I wore a Grand Canyon cap I had bought for Henry’s 85th birthday.

The trip home included another new experience. When our flight was delayed enough to ruin our connection, the airline put us in a taxi from the Baltimore to the Wash., D.C. airport, and off we went with an Iranian taxi driver who delighted us with stories of how he and his wife married in a mosque (his dad is Moslem), a church (his mother is Catholic) and a Buddhist Temple (his wife is Japanese Buddhist) while he cut across lanes quickly to speed through the rush hour traffic.

Now we’re home, loving and missing Henry and Woody, and sending our deepest love and wishes for comfort to Janet and my mom.

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The Best Pie-Maker in the World: Remembering My Dear Friend Weedle

Posted on February 17, 2008 | 1 Comment

When Paul called my little cell phone that evening, I was immediately taken by the very still tone in his voice. “I’m afraid I have some bad news,” he said. I wondered if Weedle had a heart attack or a minor accident, but before I could spin out a scenario that ended with everyone intact, he said, “Weedle was killed in a car accident.”

Paul. Weedle. The friends we knew well before they found each other. Paul, who used to live in an upstairs apartment of a small alleyway home, the hermit of Old West Lawrence with his books, architectural drawings, sharp mind and beautiful heart. Weedle, who lived for years in an old farm house in Vinland, where she majored in meat loaf, child-rearing, a weary-but-knock-you-over humor, piles of books, insane genius in any word-focused board game, and the very best pies in the cosmos. Weedle was what you would get if you cross-pollinated Mary Englebreit with Rosanne Barr (the Rosanne before she just had one name) – and by the way, she loved both Mary and Rosanne.

I first connected with Weedle in a large car with her then-husband Walt, friends Dan and Kat, and my not-yet-husband Ken. We drove around Kansas City, laughing uproariously, switching lanes fast on our way home from a Joni Mitchell concert at the Starlight Theater. The night smelled like roses, honeysuckle, car fumes, popcorn, and darkness. Weedle demanded we stop at a quick shop so she could get her mandatory diet Pepsi.

At the time, most of us subscribed to walking the carob road, eating little or no white sugar, chocolate, dairy, meat, and generally consuming a whole lot of tofu, granola, and those awful carob brownies. But Weedle never followed convention in such ways.

Weedle had an intellect of immense sharpness and wit, a heart as big as all the pies (and we’re talking thousands here) she ever baked lined up across Kansas, and God help you if you ever crossed her. Weedle loved her friends, family, and especially Paul and her children like nobody’s business, with a fierceness that rivaled a pack of Grizzlies. She collected quirky and moving tales from the lives of her children that showed just how much she loved watching them grow up, try new things and new places. The thrill of her day was when the cell phone rang with a call from Laurel, Will, Kevin or Kelly. She also adored all their spouses and sweethearts, she was over the moon about her grandchildren – Katie, Allison and Joshua.

She was also the funniest person I ever met.

At a party at our house last year, people were hanging close to the kitchen table, covered with beads of all kinds for making jewelry. Food overflowed the kitchen counters nearby, and there were about 30 of us reaching over each other for a piece of turquoise or another slice of Weedle’s cherry pie. Weedle herself was on the phone, trying to reach Paul to find out when he would be here, but the phone was continuously busy.

“I can’t reach him. He must be downloading porn,” she announced before taking another sip of her diet Pepsi. Now for anyone who knew Paul, imagining him downloading porn was analogous to George W. Bush revealing that he was a gay, vegan, meditating Pacifist with the IQ of Einstein. The next hour, she kept juggling the joke about Paul downloading porn, to the point that when he arrived, a bunch of bead-bearing women immediately called out, “You done downloading porn?”

Weedle cooked up more than jokes. She was the diva of the kitchen in the grand tradition of comfort foods. Nobody made spaghetti and meatballs, meatloaf, fried chicken, chocolate chip cookies, mashed potatoes, gravy and especially bread like her. When I was walking gingerly from the car to my bed after my hysterectomy, Weedle was already on her way with an industrial-sized tray of her chicken pot pie.

Of course it was her pie-making ability that trumped all. She could not only make the best-tasting pie (winner of grand prizes in the very competitive pie division of the Vinland Fair, and deemed by my mother-in-law, a fellow pie competitor, to be the best ever), but she did it at the speed of light. I once timed her making a cherry pie from scratch (although the cherries came from a can) to oven: 6 minutes. Really, I’m not making this up. Her hands knew dough.

Her heart knew love. When Weedle met Paul over 15 years ago (at my backroom prompts of, “Weedle, Paul likes you,” and “Paul, Weedle likes you”), she met her match in mind and heart. While Paul is relatively quiet and internal, he fit around her like an exquisite home-made quilt. “You were the love of her life,” I reminded Paul the night she died as we sat in the kitchen, dishes Weedle washed in the drying rack behind us, and to our left, the open oven to warm the room. “She was the love of my life,” he answered.

She found in Paul someone who also brought home piles of library books to read on everything from the Black Sea to Harry Potter. They went to farmer’s market together. They walked their pony-sized Great Pyranees down country roads. They took trips to Chicago, New York, and other outposts. They played with their granddaughters. And they sat with us and our friends Courtney and Denise playing board games, mostly “Taboo,” a game where you have to make your partner guess the word on a card without saying the obvious thing. “It’s like a….” Weedle began. “Dishwasher,” I yelled, and we were right, again in a kind of telepathic word-game connection neither of us understood. Together, we prided ourselves on wiping our opponents into the ground, and we never lost when we played as a team.

Weedle was a whiz at any game that had to do with speed, words, imagination, and no wonder: As a long-time librarian after being an excellent elementary school teacher, and a writer, she was always a storyteller. When the kids were little, when the kids were grown, when the grandkids were born, when she took a road trip, when she stayed home.

The first Weedle story I fell in love with concerned her taking Will, who was just a little kid at the time, to see Bambi. When Bambi’s mother died, little kids throughout the theatre raised an intense collective crying chorus. After they were finally soothed quiet by their mothers, the movie’s final scene revealed a pastoral twilight expanse, with smoke from a campfire in the distance. “Is that where they’re cooking Bambi’s mother?” Will yelled out, tilting all the kids in the theatre into hysteria again.

Weedle loved that story for its irreverence and freshness, for its perspective, too, all three of which were ample in Weedle’s surprisingly-tender, full-voiced, fierce and imaginative writing. From her short essays for an old Lawrence publication, Well, Well, Well, to the brilliant memoir she was writing of late, Weedle’s writing brought to the page all you saw of her and so many more layers. The writing was gorgeously funny and poignant, just like the writer. It was one of Weedle’s great dreams to have more of her writing published.

As the news lands, I remember the long after-dinner walks we took from her house to the road alongside the elementary school, watching the sunset through fields of coming twilight. I see her turning to my children – from the time they were babies through their teen years – to hand them cookies, videos to watch, and roll her eyes at wry asides. I think about the last time we were together, New Year’s Eve, with Paul, Ken Denise, Courtney, Marek, Daniel, Natalie and Forest to eat vast quantities of miniature eggrolls and toast the New Year with sparkling grape juice at 8:30 p.m.. We played a game we had come to love because it often made all of us laugh ourselves into falling-over crying.

It’s called, “Moods,” and for this game, there are 8 moods, each on a card, displayed at any given time. When it’s your turn, you draw a card with a statement like “It’s getting bigger” or “Would you like fries with that?” and shake the dice in a little cup, look inside, and see which number mood you have to bring into how you say this statement. Everyone else has to guess which mood you’re conveying in your voice.

Life is giving us all a new card to draw here, and the moods on the table, for me this week, are numbness, irritability, fear, grief, despair, spacey-ness, love, and sadness. I know Weedle is on the other side of the table even though I can no longer see her, and my heart is breaking at how far away she is. Yet at home, on the shelf in our refrigerator door, are a few cans of diet Pepsi she brought for herself for New Year’s Eve. I think I’ll keep them there as a fitting and well-placed memorial of someone, even without the diet Pepsis, I never could forget.

Please see http://www.LovingWeedle.blogspot.com for a community scrapbook on Weedle and lots of her good writing.


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