Countdown to 2008

When I turned 7 years old, my dad told me 7 was a very special year and from that point on, I considered 7 my lucky number.

It turned out my dad was wrong. Kyle died in the 7th month of the year 2007. Although he was officially pronounced dead on the 6th, his respirator was turned off and his organs were taken in the earliest hours of the 7th. In fact, his last phone call was just about at 7pm. His accident was within minutes after. I remember looking up at the clock at UCLA where I was running a parenting group and it said 7:01. The group was supposed to end at 6:45, but I tend to run over, trying to give folks every bit of wisdom I can muster. But I felt a strong urgency to stop right then.

I met my friend Marylou and sister Sallie for dinner. I was a misery. Looking at the tiny table, the cramped chairs, the loudly colored images on the flat screened TV on the wall above, I actually said to them, "I don't see a way I can be comfortable." I went to the bathroom. I said out loud, "Cyn, what the hell is the matter with you?" I returned to the table. Apologized and sat down. I had a hard time ordering. My conversation was forced. Later I found out, Marylou thought I was angry at them. At a place they were both so excited to show me. Korean barbeque. Sizzling bits of beef and vegetables. Perfect for my perennial diet. But the food tasted strange. My mood was disturbed and disturbing. Nothing was right.

I had left my cell phone in the car. I rarely do that. Normally I think, "if there's a hold-up, if the roof collapses in an earthquake, I want to have my cell phone." But the phone had run out of juice. I didn't hear the 15 calls from Sean, Gearey, Licie, everyone. Not until I was driving away with Sallie did the phone ring again with Gearey telling me to stop driving the car. That was how it happened.

There may be other bad years to come, but 2007 is bound to stand out as the very worst.

2008 will be better. But I'm afraid of that. I picture learning to live with the grief, but I wonder -- as grief's sharp edges dull, will Kyle fade in my memory? Will the pictures in my mind reduce to the photos around me and the ones on the slide show? Will I eventually capture on this blog all the stories about Kyle, so that my love and memory of him will be no longer boundless, but a completed set of images within a frame? If I write a book about Kyle some day, will that reduce him to a collection of words on a limited number of pages between the covers? I find these possibilities heartbreaking.

But 2008 will be the year I accept Kyle's death. It will be the year I return to sanity. It will be the year I (and I do hate this phrase) move on. It will be the year I start to forget. I guess 2008 won't be so great.

I am sorry for this post. I know I don't need to apologize, but I had meant to blog about the peace I have been feeling and the spiritual strength and love and connection that is growing among my family members. I wanted to talk about having a lovely Christmas with Miranda in NYC and staying at Gail's house in Brooklyn and going to the best party on Christmas eve at the home of 3 wonderful Greek sisters who had married wonderful Italian men and all had had daughters, so the place was rocking with 3 generations of folks and great fun and food. And I wanted to talk about the plays Miranda and I saw. And I wanted to brag about my 22 pounds of weight loss and fitting into smaller clothing. I wanted to share that I am not in the excruciating place I had been in. But I guess that will be for my first blog in the new year.

Meanwhile, don't let this get you down. I think I just needed a few minutes of thinking about Kyle and mourning a little, before heading out to a party with my BF and welcoming the new year. Everything's gonna be alright. It's gonna be "All good." Right, Ky?

So have a Happy New Year. I will. I promise.

Holiday Greetings

This is a picture of Kyle celebrating with friends, Brent, Maria, and Phil during a recent Christmas. They are were part of the SFSU Early Bird Program, and met in the dorm the summer of 2003.

I keep going back to my blog looking for new posts and realizing they won't show up unless I write them!!! BUT, heavily involved in pre-packing, some present creating, office parties, and general chaos, so not so much time to write.

So, I'm heading out again for errands, but wanting to let you know I am filled with relative peace, intermittant joy, and love for all of our family and old and new friends. The sky is blue today and I'm wearing the beautiful maroon and black t-shirt that Laura made for me, with Kyle's face silkscreened on it. And since I've lost 20 pounds, I look downright adorable.

So I hope your post-Chanukah and pre-Christmas preparations are going well.

Love,

Cynthia

A Present for Kyle

i went to ky's grave today. i didn't go last week (combination of going to the RFO Clinic each Saturday morning before work and the length of my workday). and, because i'm going to NYC to spend Xmas with Miranda i won't be able to visit next week. i couldn't bare being away for 4 weeks and not going to say goodbye and explaining i'd be away for Xmas. no, i'm not losing it, it's the magical thinking thing.

these 4:45 pm sunsets wreak havoc on visiting the cemetery after work. at 4:55 i whizzed through through the open gates. just in case FL was serious about their "closing at 5pm" sign, i didn't stop to buy flowers from the vendors on the side of the road. i didn't like arriving empty handed, particularly when i could see so many poinsettias and mini christmas trees dotting the landscape. i'm new to all of this, but i can see there's a whole series of graveyard rituals that i'm not privy to. i'll learn.

it was pretty dark as i sat down beside ky's grave. i remembered the stick of incense i had left in the sunken vase holder. the vase was overturned (that's how it's supposed to be when there are no flowers in it) and when i pulled it out the incense was still there. i had matches in my purse so i lit the incense for kyle. i felt better.

but there was something else there. right on the edge of the holder was a tiny rubber dog. a little beige and black bull dog. maybe an inch or so high and an inch long. rubber not plastic. clearly, an ancient little pupper. i haven't seen rubber toys in forever. black on his head, with the black worn off so most of him was yellowish.

i put the little bull dog on top of the overturned vase. below the ground level a bit. that way when the lawnmowers come by he won't get chewed up. i didn't feel so badly about going on my way then, as ky didn't seem so alone with the little dog standing guard. i stuck the incense back safely as well.

thank you, dear friend, who left that little gift.
thank you, all who keep vigil at ky's resting place.

Last Night I Had A Dream . . .

actually it was the night before last. And Kyle was in it. It was only the second time I have dreamt about Kyle and it was wonderful to see him again. This picture (sent recently to me by Maria H., who lived in Ky's dorm when they were freshmen and who stayed a good friend) was kind of like how Ky looked to me in the dream.

Like most dreams, it was illusive. I awoke and couldn't remember the whole thing. I do remember holding Ky's face and stroking it and talking to him. I knew he had died or was going to die and I knew he knew it too, but I said something like, "Things are not going to turn out" or "Things are going to be bad" and then "but right now we can enjoy this time."

The earlier part of the dream felt like the real-life illusory nature of a visit home from Kyle. He'd be rushing in, rushing out, in his room, off at the beach, out with friends. Getting him to actually light on the couch or at the table for long was not easy.

That was what was so memorable about his last visit home. He hung out more. He laid down on my bed and listened and indulged his mother's going through her Scotland slide show. He took time to talk to me about his girlfriend Laura, whom he clearly loved. "She's different, Mom. You'll see. She's special. I want you to meet her." He even organized all his stuff and got ready to go (Sallie drove him to the bus) in a timely fashion. Almost as if he were savoring his time with us.

I still am surprised, although not shocked, when I remember each day that he is not coming home. I do hope he'll be hanging out in my dreams again. And I hope I remember more of the dream next time.

Get Thee to a Nunnery

since sal brought it up on Mir's blog, i'm going to talk about my weight.

when ky died i couldn't eat. couldn't think about eating. people kept saying, "you've got to eat," but no, i didn't have to eat. i have enough stores of sustenance on this body to keep me going for a long time. if i'd been in the Donner party, i still would have been been worth munching on at the way end of the trek.

true to form, a few days after my appetite came back. in spades. it was if my stomach thought it could bring kyle back if i could just fill it until bursting. and talk about really understanding the meaning of comfort food? ohmigod. i only wanted ice cream, french fries, cheeseburgers, candy bars, chips. not good. i was miserable about kyle and miserable about eating. i loved and hated every morsel. i gained 7 pounds in the weeks and months following kyle's death. but i didn't care.

except that i do care. in fact, i am a little hyper-aware of my mortality. i have a nasty genetic situation. my mother died at 59 (i am 58 and 11/12ths) of a pulmonary embolism; my father died at 61 of a massive coronary; my nana whitham had 3 heart attacks in her 50's--although lived to 84; and there's more. cancer, diabetes, stroke. we have it all in my family tree.

i needed the dietary equivalent of a nunnery. unless i did something drastic, weight loss was not gonna be happening. and then i remembered the UCLA RFO (Risk Factor Obesity) Program. i had done it 4 years ago and lost 35 pounds--i looked pretty damned hot for a zoftig gal. but did i reach my goal weight? no. did i do the maintenance classes? no. did i resort to my old habits (Eating Equals Over-Eating)? yes, i did. and regained the weight.

so, on miranda's birthday i returned to the RFO clinic, where they have a team of folks on you like white on rice. weekly you are weighed; they take your blood; they give you an EKG; you visit with the doctor and the nutritionist. then you go to nutrition, behavior, and support classes. it's a chunk of one's Saturday morning (and i have to be there before 7:45 a.m. in order to get to work in Eagle Rock by 11).

oh, also that's when you buy your food. well, your boxes of envelopes of nutritional product. you get 7 soup/shake packets a day, each packet containing 15 grams of protein and 100 calories. "Seven hundred calories a day!" you gasp. yes, indeed. and ohmigod does the weight fall off. i've lost 15 pounds since 11/17, even with Thanksgiving.

i am feeling terrific. the stuff tastes fine. i usually take Saturday nights off so i can be a bit better of a companion when i get together with friends. even then, i am cautious in my choices. you would never believe how good a cup of fresh berries (with a little whipped cream) taste when you've been living on soy protein.

i know this sounds extreme, but i need to take extreme measures. i was killing myself with food. and that is selfish and unfair. i have a daughter and brothers and sisters and nieces and nephews and cousins and friends. and, damn it, i am not going to give any of them one more loss for a long long time. i'll meet up with kyle at that great reggae sunsplash when i'm ninety and not a day before.

Xmas Blues

I have pretty much always hated the song, Blue Christmas. I'm fairly picky about my holiday songs and it would never make my Desert Island Disc top 10 or top 1000. I always thought of it as a sappy song about girlfriend/boyfriend breakup.

So today I'm heading to work, feeling good after hearing "Don't Stop Thinking About Tomorrow" on the oldie station. I'm smiling at folk and holding the elevator door open for others. I've got a swing in my walk.

I go from the parking lot into the hospital and hear the piano strains of the theme to Charlie Brown's Christmas, you know the one. There's often a volunteer playing the piano in the lobby, cheering up all those injured, ill, and old folk moving through the hallways, appointment to appointment, stopping to sit in the lobby chairs.

By the time I reach the front of the lobby, I turn and see a handsome African-American young man at the piano. It's never the same pianist, but more often it's a middle-aged Anglo woman. Well, he stops the Charlie Brown boogie and starts up with the music to Blue Christmas. He is not singing, but I supply the words in my head:

"I'll have a blue Christmas without you
I'll be so blue just thinking about you
Decorations of red on a green Christmas tree
Won't be the same dear, if you're not here with me"
and on . . .

and the tears well up. I'm a gonner.
I will be a puddle this holiday season, if Elvis Presley in my head can start me up. And I haven't yet even seen the Budweiser Clydesdales ring jing jingling to the strains of "I'll be home for Christmas."

Somehow I was feeling so safe.

I've been reading . . .

a bunch of books about grief: several lovely hopeful books about afterlife (keeping my fingers crossed on that); Good Grief--a novel about a young woman experiencing the loss of her husband; Eat, Pray, Love--a memoir of life after divorce; and now Joan Didion's book The Year of Magical Thinking--about life after losing her husband. Didion's grief is further complicated by the fact that her daughter was in a coma at the time of Dunne's death.

I am reading Joan Didion's book in a search for a certain compatriotism. I have never cared for her as an author, although I can't tell you which book I tried to read and put down, but I figure, "We are sisters in grieving. How can I not embrace her?" I am reading her book, perhaps, with curiosity for how another writer will express all of this. How will she describe the numbing part? Did she go through heightened clarity? Will she walk into a Grand Rounds seminar only to find it's a Faculty Meeting and that Grand Rounds is next week?

The book is cold. Skeleton-like; black bare branches against a clear sky. Spare, the way a poem is spare. One must provide the emotional content oneself. Yet I find myself resonating here and there. When she reviews the doctor reports, the ambulance records, the apartment building logs, I flash back to decoding the ambulance bill. I connect her search for all the specifics to my inability to stop Ky's phone service, because I want to save the records of his last calls (even though I've written down every number and time, I can't bring myself to stop the service). The most poignant connections for me are brief recounts, as when Didion describes closing the dictionary her husband looked at every day and realizes she will never know the last word he was looking up or even the page it was on. Joan Didion even refers--in a "what if" kind of way to Appointment in Samarra--as did I; actually I think my use of the analogy is the better. But we were on the same track.

Although not a word about this is in her book or on the jacket cover, I googled and found out that indeed Didion's daughter Quintana Roo died at age 39. My heart broke for her. No one should lose two people. Losing one is more than sufficient.

bright skies of black friday . . .

why do they call it Black Friday? because the stores will go from being in the red to being in the black? the PR departments have done well to advertise this. several clients have mentioned their children begging, pleading, and playing "let's make a deal" to get money to spend on Black Friday.

i did not go shopping. i don't shop. i hate department stores and i only shop when i have to. once out shopping i return as quickly as is humanly possible.

i spend today visiting the campus of San Francisco State University where I met with Senem Ozer, the terrific young relations officer who is working with me on Kyle's scholarship. i also got to meet Joel Kassiola, Dean of College of Behavioral and Social Sciences, who dropped by his office to pick up 1500 letters to sign this weekend for students on the Dean's List. he said that Kyle was only the second student to be awarded a diploma posthumously. and Senem said that Kyle's Scholarship was the first to be offered at SFSU in History/Latin America.

we met at the Malcolm X Plaza and climbed the outside stairs to the top of the Cesar Chavez Student Center, where there is a 360 degree view. the weather was spectacular for San Francisco (i always seem to get great weather when i am here), with a bright clear sky, comfortably cool temperature, and no wind. the campus looked beautiful, and i pictured ky up on top of the Student Center joining his buds for a smoke possibly. i wish i'd spent more time with him on campus.

dear friend (as well as former social work intern and colleague) Lisa D. met Della and me at the campus. she brought a picture of Kyle and Miranda and me standing with her at her wedding in 1996. Ky and Miranda were 11 and 15 at the time. she and Chris have 3 young children now; she shared adorable pictures of them (even Lisa and Chris look adorable). we later went to lunch (at a shopping mall) and caught up on the last 6 years. it's a shame not to stay more in contact with the wonderful people whom we meet in our lives.

and though i shed a few tears, all in all it was a day of peace. i more than survived the return to the city and the university where kyle spent his last 4 years.

You Can Get Anything You Want

recently i was bemoaning the fact that i lost my CD of Alice's Restaurant, which is important for me to play every year. why?

'cause it was MY era.
'cause it was set in rural Massachusetts where i lived as a kid.
'cause we were a VW family, with my brother owning a VW microbus.
'cause my brother actually got stopped (arrested? i forget) by the real Office Obie.
'cause i find it so damned funny and it exactly fits my sense of humor.

last year, not being able to find the CD after looking everywhere, i hunted the radio stations and found one in Los Angeles that played Alice's Restaurant all day long, about 7 replayings. i was in heaven. and i actually didn't delete their all-too-frequent emailers on purpose, so when Thanksgiving came round again, i could hear it. so those of you in LA should google "100.7 KSLX & Alice Restaurant" and you'll probably find the schedule of re-playings.

this year, as i was saying, i was bemoaning the fact that i couldn't find the CD and bemoaning the fact that i was up here in Oakland for Thanksgiving with my friend Della and her new husband Michael and didn't have access to hearing Alice's Restaurant. and then it hit me: GOOGLE IT! god bless google. there's a down-loadable concert version and a UTube version, and a bunch of others and right now i'm playing the UTube version, rerecorded 2005, in which Arlo Guthrie is talking about the event happening 40 years ago.

i foisted Alice's Restaurant on my kids annually and they indulged me, but were never as enchanted as i was. one year we rented the movie, which was a trip but was a really bad movie that didn't quite stand the test of time. and the movie didn't play the song much, but Officer Obie did play himself as i recall, which redeemed it a bit.

another Alice's Restaurant recollection is that my friend Louise gave me an Alice's Restaurant Cookbook in 1969 which had a great chili recipe that i cooked for my kids a lot over the years. in the back was a thin plastic disc-type record. but i was disappointed. it wasn't a recording of Alice's Restaurant. i still have the cookbook.

in all honestly the original recording is the best. the version on UTube has been visited 155,841 times as of this moment, but you can tell Arlo has done this so many times that he's sick of it and has resorted to a little theatricality that i find cloying.

the other thing, is that Alice's Restaurant is best played with a bunch of people who remember it and haven't heard it for a long or a bunch of cynical young people who get it right away. but since it's about 20 minutes long, it's hard to find on Thanksgiving Day the right 20 minutes when maybe the right people are hanging around, cooking but not talking and wanting to listen.

but since You Can Get Anything You Want on google, i hope you will join me in playing Alice's Restaurant. and, at least for me, it will make Thanksgiving almost perfect.

it doesn't matter anymore

that ky didn't like my cranberry chutney

that ky never let us get his teeth straightened

that ky didn't learn to drive calmly

that ky wouldn't let us get a true measurement of his height

that ky wouldn't let me give away The Puss (who has become NICE and affectionate)

that ky left the car full of cans of spray paint

that ky took risks

that ky's good suit was left at the cleaners before we moved (as did the cleaners)

that ky never totally cleaned the soot off the cupboards from his first culinary disaster at the condo

that ky never got complete settlement from his auto accident (NOT his fault)

that ky never got to south america (altho in a reverie--in which i didn't actually hear his voice, he told me "I'm on quite a trip now, Mom")



however, it does matter very much that we won't have our son and brother with us this Thanksgiving.

may you and yours be safe and at peace this Thanksgiving

A Poem on the Underground Wall

Flynn commented on the blog SFSU Class of 2007 that this song reminds her of Kyle. Although performed in the mid sixties, it's clearly the story of a "tagger" and a train.

Thank you, Flynn.

(Also, thanks for giving me a poignant memory. I saw Simon and Garfunkle at Brandeis University December 10, 1966. I was 17 years old. And, although S&G were wonderful, the kids I ran with were so cool we were claiming to be there only to see the Blues Project. S & G had come out with 2 or 3 albums at that point, but as I remember, we claimed they were too commercial or popular already. Secretly, I loved them. And still do.)

Happy Birthday, Miranda

Miranda turned 26 yesterday. I've been a mother 26 years. Motherhood changes us from essentially self-centered beings to loving, nurturing, protective, proud, mother lions.

Miranda has been so easy to love from birth. First, she was beautiful. How's that for great luck. Second she was smart, even greater luck. Third, she was a self-starting, creative, enthusiastic, strong, go-getter of a kid. She dove herself into whatever was at hand: a terrifying spelling bee at the Eagle Rock mall when she was 6, a poetry contest at Dutton's bookstore (won honorable mention) at 8, then swimming, gymnastics, art, and theatre. She mastered everything she approached. And she carried on this way through middle school and high school. I could go on but it would be a brag instead of a blog, and she'd probably hate it. And it would be boring except to me.

What was terrific though, was that that while Miranda was inspired, she wasn't driven. She could have fun while working. She could play while competing. She could party in the midst of studying for SATs or while writing a paper. She loved the chase and the achievement, but kept her feet on the ground and never has been too impressed by herself. In fact, she's always had the normal insecurities we all have, able to be realistic about her strengths and her short comings.

Maybe most importantly, Miranda is a really lovely person. A good person. A nice person. She confesses her resentment of her brother with such honesty, that you realize that resentment only makes one less of a person if you deny it. Miranda might reel off a list of less than stellar qualities, but her insight just makes one admire her more. Miranda, the name, comes from the Latin "to be admired."

We chose the name because Gearey had long loved the character Miranda, the daughter of Prospero in The Tempest. "The sweetest heroine in all of Shakespeare," he said. And we chose her name, because Miranda goes so nicely with McLeod. We didn't think about the Miranda ruling (which requires the police to warn a person who has been taken into custody of his/her rights to remain silent and to have legal counsel) nor were we aware that Miranda is a moon of the planet Uranus. I think we just blocked out Carmen Miranda.

I love the woman Miranda has become at age 26. She's remained beautiful and intelligent and hard-working--a thoughtful being, a devoted friend, and a loving daughter. And now she has grown and become a writer, one with a unique and powerful voice; she is an exquisite observer, who watches for and captures the wonder and the absurdity of day to day existence. In naming our daughter "one who is worthy of being admired," we could not have chosen more accurately.

So, Happy Birthday, Miranda. I love you more than words can convey. I hope this year brings you closer to peace and to fulfulling your dreams.

SFSU Class of 2007

I emailed a lot of you, but I want to announce that Kyle Campbell Whitham McLeod will receive in absentia a diploma from San Francisco State University. Dean Cherny of Undergraduate Studies gave the nod and we will hear more by mail.

Kyle, while having a wonderful brain, after 5th grade became a mediocre student. He had inattentive type ADHD and massive learning deficits in visual spacial memory and v/s organization. He couldn't copy things accurately from a blackboard. He couldn't read a map. An audio-learner, he couldn't take in a lecture, if at the same time, he was trying to take notes. He had a mild dysgraphia, with atrocious handwriting (all the more interesting his quest to master tagging), and we were thankful that he took to keyboarding.

Ky began reading before his 4th birthday. He always carried a book with him. When he went through a comic-book period, I kept my mouth shut and patiently waited until he was back reading books again. His friends' parents were often in awe; I remember one parent definitely linking him up with her kids after she saw him--6th grade or earlier i think--reading Fahrenheit 451.

Ky was truly an autodidact. Every day, starting in high school, he read the news over the internet. ("Mom, did you hear? Le Pen won the election in France!" c. 2002.) He always knew what was happening. No longer could I simply make rash observations about some world event, without Kyle challenging me with actual facts. I've often spoken of how he'd mention a book and then, when I'd ask what class he was reading that for, would answer--with some disdain--"that's not for a class, Mom, it's from the library."

I read letters from his SFSU professors that broke my heart, as they described a young man who was an enthusiastic participant in class, who challenged the students around him, who brought in ideas from his other classes or reading. They also described someone who was not in class "just to get the grade." Homework was not his forte, and clearly stood in the way of higher grades, but I was pleased to learn from a couple of his college classmates that Ky helped write their papers. He was growing as a student and a scholar.

But just as important, Kyle was enrolled in, what we might call, L'Ecole Joie de Vivre. Taking it all in, staying up late, figuring out how to balance studies, a job, and plenty of partying. And then there was his music. He found the time to build a music collection of 9000 tunes. In his wallet were used tickets to a bunch of reggae concerts. I'm so glad he had fun. It would have been so sad if he'd died without having a hell of a lot of fun.

Ky didn't have a 6th grade elementary school graduation because he switched to Polytechnic at the end of 5th. He didn't get a Poly diploma, cause he was asked to leave at the end of 11th grade. Ky went to night school and, though he graduated, he didn't attend any ceremony and the diploma meant little to him.

So now he has earned a college diploma. It's a shame he won't get to hold it and to use it. And a shame he won't have the sense of satisfaction of completing college and being free for once in his young life to travel and to live however he chose.

Congratulations, my dear boy, on your achievement. And bon voyage.

i can't even blog these days . . .

people give me feedback that am handling all of this well. i guess this is true enough. i've been reading Good Grief, a charming tale of a widow, who drives through her garage door rushing home to tell her husband something long AFTER he has died, and shows up at work in bathrobe and slippers. the author did a year of research, so i guess this kind of behavior is common. if so, i am in great shape.

however.
i have had a rough week or so. i am so busy working that i'm crazed and yet don't have too many options to change that (the work schedule). am trying, believe me.

i've been so busy and so tired i can't blog. i feel really bad about that. there are drafts i have started. there are birthdays i've wanted to acknowledge: nephew tim on halloween, nephew william on 11/1, dear niece katie TODAY. there are thoughts i've wanted to share. i'm failing at the blogging. i love doing it, but it has become another thing on my to do list. right after Pay the Over Due Car Insurance!!! shit, must do that today.

and right now i am stealing time from work to blog. isn't that how it always goes? you feel really alive and full of energy to do OTHER things than your work when you are supposed to be working. good news: next week i have jury duty. i can't wait to sit there all day. i'll bring my computer and blog away.

yesterday was tough. i started crying for no reason. yes. there was no cognition prior to the tears. i was driving, listening to the radio. there was nothing coming through the airwaves remotely related to any reminder of ky, his death, children, families. and suddenly i was crying. then later i started crying at work when i got a call from the SFSU woman overseeing the scholarship. it's up over the ten thousand minimum needed, and she said the annual gift can be $400 now. so i started crying. that's a lie, i started crying when i picked up the phone and heard it was her (she's a lovely person, who lost her grandmother in India around the time ky died). and then i had to explain to a psychiatry fellow in the hallway and later a family i saw why my eyes were all red so they didn't think i was a nut case. and basically all day i looked like a red-eyed puffy mess, cause i never really dried up the faucets.

so crying, eating, watching stupid TV, in the midst of work and friends--who are so caring and wonderful. but i may have to high-tail it to a Grief Group. my theory is that if i do a whole bunch of Appropriate Time & Place Grieving, then maybe i'll be able to get through a day without any Inappropriate Time & Place Grieving. of course it will NOT be that simple, will it?

so, i turn another page in the never-ending story . . .

Dia de los Muertos

went to ky's grave early saturday morning. around 9am because i had non-stop clients scheduled and by the time my workday ended, it would be dark. i'm not sure i am up to a visit in the dark; my coyote mightn't be as respectful as last time.

morning fog hadn't quite cleared, but the flower selling folk were out early on forest lawn drive. this day $5 buys 3 quite beautiful roses, a sprig of that dried little purple flower filler stuff, a couple of ferns.

as i enter and drive through Forest Lawn i am struck by all the flowers. hundreds and hundreds of bouquets sprinkle the fields of graves. i pass a Latino famiy sitting out with campchairs, spending a leisurely time with their loved one. i immediately think, "Dia de los Muertos," but i can't remember when Dia de los Muertos is. but maybe it was this week because Halloween was this week and isn't Halloween really All Hallow's Eve? the night before All Saints' Day? this obviously has been a week of serious mourning and i am not alone in my grieving.

ky's grave has greened now. the cooler temperatures. the brief rains. the morning dew. all have contributed. you almost cannot tell it's a recent grave. recent only to me. it will be 4 months soon, but it feels like a few weeks.

i brought a flannel sheet to sit down on. and incense. actually kyle's incense box/holder that Mary Lou gave to him last Christmas Eve. she brought presents for us all: ky, miranda, sallie, and me (i curl up every night on the couch in the soft green throw blanket she gave me). she was unsure whether it was the right gift for kyle, but he loves incense and having a long, thin, handsome box--that doubles as a holder--was a perfect choice. i didn't know how perfect until i found it in the green canvas bag he was living out of when he died.

i tried to light the incense with the car cigarette lighter, but i couldn't get it to stay burning well and by the time i climbed the hill to his grave it was out. but i arranged the flowers in the vase and stuck the incense in there too.

i didn't stay long, needing to get to the office. but stayed long enough to breathe in the cool morning air and to see the fog start to burn off in the hills to the east. and to tell him i loved him and missed him. and to ask him to let me know he is okay. and i stayed long enough to tell him that Courtnay and Nadia had just returned from their interfaith trip to Istanbul and Israel, where they prayed at the Wailing Wall--for him and for peace.

with love and peace for the dead and for the living . . .

Kyle's Computer: A Treasure Trove

This is my first Sunday without Taxes to finish or Contract Job deadline. And I got an extra hour (godbless Daylight Savings) since we fell back last night. I slept in, spent an hour on the phone with a friend. And then went into the Kyle Vault. Actually Sal called me into her room/Ky's room to show me the slide show that seemingly randomly starts up on her/his computer. Loads of images, some taken by Ky, some downloaded, some sent to him by others. It's easy to get swallowed into the experience. Hypnotic slow rhythm of pic after pic after pic. Lots of graffiti, a bunch of internet downloads, occasional gems--like the pic of Ky above, a self- portrait I think.

I search further and find Notepad documents. Many college homework assignments and a couple of diary type entries. My heart and breath stop as I read. I still keep learning about my son.

This one Kyle called:

Terrible

sparked the blunt
that i copped in the park
for a nick, its skinny, i save half for the dark
in the evenin, when the sun goes down
when aint nobody home and nobodys around
turn off the lights i write and burn trees
reach new heights of introspection, every day a new question
constantly guessing, dont look, jump, hold your breath
maybe it'll be cool, maybe might mean death


I know it's not cheery, but for me: finding it is like digging up buried treasure.
Thanks, Kydie.

Congratulations Red Sox! Happy Halloween to All!

Down Halloween Lane

I really got into Halloween for years. Like my mother, Bettsey, I prided myself in making costumes by hand. I was in 4-H as a girl in rural New Hampshire and had learned to sew (wash cloth slippers, an apron, a skirt and blouse). I didn't make clothes for my kids the way mum had for me and my brother, but I did sew costumes from patterns or from old clothes.

Susie and Jack were long time best friends of Miranda and Kyle. Their mother Robin and I, for several years, constructed similar costumes for our kids. One year the kids were dressed as pirates in elaborate black, red, and white outfits, complete with shiny fringe and paisley bandanas and striped pants or skirts. One year the boys were Ninja Turtles (not made from scratch--just used their Ninja pajamas) and the girls were Hershey's Kisses. Another year the boys were Waldos (as in Where's Waldo). Not sure if that was when Miranda was a unicorn, but it might have been. One of my favorite Halloweens was the year I transformed my lime green nightie into a Tinkerbell outfit for Miranda, and cut up my wonderful, but completely worn-out, dark emerald green chenille bathrobe to make Kyle into the Crocodile from Peter Pan. Damn, was I clever, and damn, were the kids ever cute.

I really do need to dig into that box of a million rolls of unprocessed film to see what other pictures of Halloween there might be. Or I should call Robin and see what pictures she might have of those many Halloweens. The images of Kyle and Miranda when they were young bring alive again so many precious moments and, yet, it's not so hard for me to walk down the memory lane of their childhood. That toddler or schoolboy, that lively grinning little boy has been gone a long time. Ky's and my last Halloween together was in 2002 and he didn't even stay around to pass out candy to the local kids. He was most likely out doing something a mother shouldn't ask about!

this may just capture it

James and Kyle

Many thanks to Della's cousin Tish, who sent this photo of the boys, from Della's wedding in early December of last year.

Grief is complicated . . .

so i'm at the UCLA 12th Annual Review of Psychiatry and Psychopharmacology for two days. it's only day one. and i'm doing pretty well until lunch time. guess what the luncheon speaker's topic is? "Understanding Complicated Grief."

this is interesting. it seems there is non-complicated grief and complicated grief. and the differences seems to have to do with how long the grief is going on, how intense your yearning is for the loved one, if you are avoiding reminders, and if life has become meaningless. dr. o'connor does a good talk, comparing CG to MD (major depression) and to PTSD (posttraumatic stress disorder). but then she gets into the neurobiological differences. and grief doesn't bode well for folk. she puts up pictures of the brain showing increased activity in the nucleus accumbens in the non-CG subjects. i get lost about here. but i do hear her mentioning that cortisol, a nasty substance we create more of when we are grieving in a complicated manner, is found in higher levels in folks with CG than with non-CG, and--here's the part i really understand--cortisol is related to increased morbidity and mortality.

take home message (the message I am taking home): i better get out of the grief thing soon.

better take home message: "Most bereaved individuals are psychologically resilient" (Bonanno et al., 2002).

i'm hanging in pretty well until there are a couple of questions. i've started to take a bite of the dessert, brownie. someone asks about parents' loss of a child, and of course the answer is: they don't do so good. i'm sobering at this point.

then my friend and the long time Chief of Social Work comes up behind me and grabs my shoulders, whispering that i am the most resilient person she knows, and i'm going to be fine, and--with that vote of confidence--i lose it. she goes back to her table and quietly i mop up tears with my extra large luncheon napkin, drink a bunch of water in order to avoid eye contact with my table mates--who have no idea what's happening since we are strangers--and pull myself together. but i sure can't finish the brownie.

one thing i remember dr. connor mentioning is that different societies have different ways of supporting grief. in some cultures, she mentioned, you have to wear black. it's expected. for a year. when sallie lived in Greece and nursed rhea's grandparents through their terminal illnesses, she was expected to wear black. the first thought you might have about this is "how gruesome" and yet, as sallie has said, at least in Greece people can identify you as a grieving person. no one is going to come bounding up with a big smile, saying "how ARE you?" you are not going to have to disappoint and sadden (and possibly embarrass) them with the awful news that one of your children has died. if you are dressed in black, they already know someone is gone from your life. they can approach with caution.

the talk was okay, though. i'd been so busy i had barely been thinking about kyle--well that's a lie, isn't it? but so busy that i hadn't "gone there" to the "ohmygod it's true" place for a few days. the taxes, then the project absolutely due Monday at dawn, and the late night work followed by the Red Sox games (bless them!) have kept me propped upright and plodding through.

so i made it through okay. and proceeded to my next seminar: Suicidality in BiPolar Patients. oh jeez . . .

Happy Birthday, Dad

Today my dad would have turned 89 years old, except he died of a massive coronary in 1979 at the age of 61. He never got to meet either of my children. He never got to see the Red Sox win the World Series.

Blair Jay Whitham, a large man, had a personality that was larger than most other folks. He filled a room with his presence, his voice, his laughter, and his stories. He made many friends and I loved seeing him at parties. Surrounded by people, he was relaxed, fun, joking, playful, and irreverent. Being a kid, I'm sure I missed out on most of the real fun. Although, we do know some quite juicy tidbits.

Dad was not an easy father. He was gruff and angry a lot of the time. Mostly impatient, I guess, with things that were not orderly or perfect. He was organized, efficient, held himself to high standards, and had a quick temper that flared when we kids were noisy, messy, or in some other way disappointing. I was mostly afraid of him, but I knew he loved me and was proud of me. After his death, in fact, I found a drawer full of newspaper clippings--reviews in the Boston papers of the plays I'd been in. When delighted with one of us, he'd say, "I'm proud of you." When disappointed, he would growl with sarcasm, "I'M PROUD OF YOU." Clearly saying he was not.

A dear friend of my dad and mum, Adore (short for Eleanor, and pronounced with emphasis on the A) Bice, who was at many of those snapper parties in the '50s and '60s, celebrated her 90th birthday a few days ago on the 21st. I'll never forget my dad singing out, to the tune of Edelweiss (Sound of Music): "A-dore Bice, A-dore Bice." I understand he didn't come up with it, but he sure kept it alive and took the credit! I still know Adore and Ken's wonderful boys and Ky, Miranda, and I spent many a 4th of July with their grandchildren in Malibu.

I saw Adore in late August. She came from Arizona to visit her son Tim. Dave was down from Fremont to join us. Dave's daughter Emily came over from UCLA. Adore took me aside, held my hand, and asked me questions about how Kyle died and how I was doing. I showed my slide show of Kyle, even though she doesn't see so well now. A few days later, Adore left a message on my cell phone. "Cindy, I just want you to know how proud I am of how you are coping with the tragedy of losing Kyle, and I know your parents would be so proud of you."

I am really hoping that there is a somewhere, up there, out there, where Dad has introduced Ky to snappers and that Ky is getting a real kick out of knowing his irrepressible grandfather. And if so, I know that Dad is proud of Kyle, because he sure loved a good set of brains and a good sense of humor. And I hope that Adore doesn't join them for a long long time.

Happy Birthday, Dad.
I love you,

Cindy Gayle

I love those Red Sox

they never let us fans get too comfortable, but they surely have been coming through for us. i hope they are ready for the altitude in Denver.


still not finished with my project so can't really blog until it's done!

Snowball and the Red Sox

i'm still finishing up another work-related project. deadline was on the 12th. i'll get it done soon, but it's making me delay blogging, seeing friends, calling family, and getting financial things done.

but despite my tear-ridden chute stretch (thanks, Suzanne, for the oh-so-accurate Chutes and Ladders analogy), dancing Snowball and the mighty efforts of the Red Sox have given me several days of ascension on the ladder.

but i must get back to work.

tonight is the last game of the Sox/Cleveland series for the Pennant.
Go Manny, Go Papi, Go Lowell, Go Drew (thanks for the Grand Slam), Go Youkilis, Go Varitek, (GET BACK TO WORK, CYN!) Go everybody.

and Go Dice-K
and the closers.

But i really gotta go.

I am in love with a dancing bird named Snowball

Sallie discovered him. Mir UTubed him onto her blog. I just keeping playing him over and over. I can't stop.

Sal has pointed out that the squawking sound he makes AWWWWGH--eeeep sounds a lot like bawwww--dy (as in "Rock Your Body Now"), so Snowball is not just dancing, he is singing!

Nothing has made me this giddy in months. I repeat: I LOVE THIS BIRD!

This is so uncreative of me and so low-tech, but I've got to go to work and can't figure out how to bring Snowball to my website, but view him video on mir's site.

happy birthday, della

dearest della, my friend of 27 years and counting.

you are the best. you are so caring, so generous, and so present in my life. as if you hadn't done enough, after you got my call the night of july 5th from the road, you left your home in Berkeley around 11, i guess, to go to Stanford Medical Center and hold Ky's hand throughout the night until we could arrive at 5:30 a.m. it has meant more to me than i can ever say in words that you were there for him and for me. all the way driving north on the 5, i knew he was in good hands. i knew that family was there. i knew that if he was scared, he'd be comforted by your loving presence.

della, who stayed with me so much at the hospital. who put up me and my family and kept us fed and in comfort as we struggled to stay sane. who found photographs of our baby boy to show to the hospital staff.

aunt della. who gave ky (among so many thoughtful gifts) his quilt. the quilt that we found with the few precious things he had with him where he was crashing. aunt della, who took all the pictures (hence, her having them that night!). who made many a Thanksgiving and Easter meal and dinner and breakfast for us. who tried to keep all the kids safe and sound.

who got married in December, providing Miranda and Kyle and me a wonderful couple of days together and a spectacular wedding reception where Ky danced with his happy mother, alive with love for her best friend's happiness and her own family.

della, who from afar, helps me keep afloat in this swirling mire of grief and exhaustion.

i love you, honorary sister, dearest of so many dearest friends,

and wishing you so many happy returns of the day.

the crying continues . . .

and the Red Sox are not helping . . .

p.s. losing 2 games to 1 in best of 7 games with Cleveland. next 2 games are IN Cleveland. bodes not well for Boston.

day by day

i can't blog right now. the words aren't coming together well. the ideas are fragments. a couple days ago i started to blog about "i am crying less." then i got up yesterday and spent the day off and on crying more than i had in a week.

i started crying for no reason. on my way to pick up my completed taxes in Pasadena. a happy occasion 'cause i'll get a return? yes, but no; as i drove past the Greene and Greene house, past the Neighborhood Church i used to attend, i got all teary again. i parked overlooking the Rose Bowl and the Arroyo, reviewed my completed tax returns, signed them, sealed the envelopes to the Feds and Sacramento, and drove to the post office on Lincoln. back in the car i'm crying still.

i cried through breakfast with barb. she's not reading my blog, but as she is one of my dearest friends i had to tell her about the marker selection process and the ambulance invoice. more tears. later talking to gear about the mortuary bills, we spoke about kyle and the water works returned.

after work i visited Forest Lawn and ky's grave. the sky had been overcast, but as it got later, the sun came out long enough to throw golden streaks across the hills to the east and the valley below me. i looked to the left, wondering about the coyote. i heard some howling and yipping further off. i figured the coyotes were busy hunting. i heard crows and different kinds of birds. in trees close by, flying high over head. the sun sank lower and i was filled with peace.

i turned and looked behind me up past the big pine and saw two squirrels. except that they weren't squirrels. tiny foxes? no. a pair of big brown rabbits. they ate for a long while. eventually they turned and i saw two white backsides hop into the brush.

that was yesterday. today was a day without tears. not that tears are a bad thing. but i guess i've learned that i can't presume that any trends are happening here. some days i'm a crying machine. some days i am not. some days i forget ky is gone and am surprised all over again that he is dead. and some days i know before i am awake.

Kyle with something on his mind

Winter 2004-2005

Red Sox 4 and Tax Return 3

i know this is really boring.
and i'm bored too, at least about the taxes.
but i can't blog anything else, cause i'm still doing the last few hours of taxes now, and later--possibly midnight--i'll have to drive to Pasadena to drop my taxe stuff through the letter slot of the office of my accountant.

so, i'll stop boring you and return to the taxes.
but i will say, "Nya, nya, nya, nya, nya, nya," to the Yankees.

go Red Sox! next game is Friday.

Coyote Beautiful

Last night I left my office, ran an errand, and got to the cemetery just at 6pm. The heavenly-gate sized gates were half closed and the sign on the gate said hours were "8 a.m. to 6 p.m." On the inside of the gate I could see a security type guy, standing beside a security type car, talking to a man who was sitting in the driver's seat of his car. It looked like the security guy was explaining that it was too late and he'd have to leave. I burst into tears.

How could I have been so irresponsible. I had plenty of time. I'd stopped at CVS to get a birthday card for Louise. I'd bought a lipstick. I'd picked up a Reese's peanut butter cup. I noticed it was late when no flower sellers were on the side of the road getting off the 134. I should have realized cemeteries don't stay open all night. They have a closing time.

But, eternal optimist that I am, I drive in anyway, drive up to the guy, wind down the window. Sobbing, I explain that I just want to visit for a few minutes, that I live across town, that I want to see my son, that I screwed up on my timing.

He interrupted me, calmly, and said, "Sure, ma'm, there's a wedding in there tonight. Stay as long as you like." I started crying more, in relief. God, if we could collect my tears and desalinize them I could hydrate southern California single handedly.

So I drove in and wound my way passed families clustered beside their loved one's graves, watching the sun sink toward the west. Some sitting in folding chairs. Bouquets of flowers everywhere. I parked at Abiding Love and climbed the hill. I greeted Ky, apologized for my lack of flowers, tried to figure out how I could share the Reese's without drawing ants, and settled on eating the insides and folding the wrapper carefully and tucking it inside the vase's lining. I didn't think he'd mind.

It was beautiful there. Peaceful, cool. The sun was sinking and the colors of the sky were changing. Then, off to my left, I spotted a coyote prancing down the hill. He stopped not far from me, our eyes met, and luckily he continued his path down the banking, across the narrow street, and into the next field of graves. He seemed sure of himself and quite dignified. I knew for sure it was a coyote. We have a lot of them in Los Angeles. His snout was long, his ears pointy. He looked quite at home, so I hoped he was comfortable sharing the grounds with us grieving folk. Comfortable enough to leave me alone. I tried to take a picture of him on my cell phone.

I love Ky's space. Our space. It's hard, but essential, to visit him. I cry, tell him again how much I love him and miss him. Clean sticks off his grave. Look at the sky. Watch the birds and the squirrels. And last night, I met a coyote.

Today: Red Sox 3 and Tax Return 2

Well, the Red Sox clearly established themselves as a real contender, eliminating Anaheim in 3. The game was kind of sad; the score was 9-1. Not much of a contest. I felt bad for my young friends who scored the tickets, drove, parked, put up with me and put up with visiting or transplanted Chowdaheads and Mahssholes blocking the view the entire game (two were eventually thrown out of the stadium--one with a Davy Crockett style coonskin hat, complete with tail).

So as I'm listening to the Yankee Cleveland game (Yankees have pulled ahead) I'm back to the taxes.

Baseball has been a nice distraction. The taxes stir me up though. Partially because it just takes forever for me to go through my check registers and envelopes of receipts and figure out my mileage (bought a second car last year) and remember which meal receipt with whom to what restaurant was legitimate business and which meal receipt should have been thrown away.

And then--since I don't throw away paper, I bump into things like this:

Chart House receipt
where I took Ky for his birthday
complete with what we ordered

shopping list for TJ's
with foods to buy because Ky
was coming home for Memorial Day

Loan Payment notices
for loans for Ky's college
what AM I supposed to do with those?

and the Puss, the cat that Ky loved so much, sits beside the computer, staring up into my eyes, as if he is missing his best friend.


P.S. But, I suppose, this is projection.

Go Red Sox 2

I just posted this on Mir's blog in a comment (she was dissing baseball) so I thought it bore posting a second time:

Mir, you'll be excited to learn that the Red Sox have now beaten the Anaheim Angels in the first two games of the division playoff. Manny, Big Papi, Youkilis, and others are hitting great and the pitching is sublime. Now the teams travel from Fenway out here and on Sunday I will be root, root, rooting for the Red Sox midst billions of Angels fans. The stadium will be awash in red because the Red Sox AND the Angels colors are both red and white.

AND Cleveland has now trounced the fuckin' Yankees TWICE, which means if they can keep up the good work and if the Sox can keep from shooting themselves in the foot or otherwise wrecking this lead, it'll be a sweet time in old Bean Town and on Sweet Street.

Happy Birthday, Donna

It's my sister Donna's birthday. I'll be calling her later. I can't take time away from my Taxes to do much of a tribute, but I'll just say this:

Donna has always been very loving to me and she - along with Frank whose birthday is next week - have raised 3 of the most wonderful kids (okay they are all in their 30's) you could hope to meet. Full of fun and love and more fun and more love. Katie and I keep in touch via email and pictures and she is a light in the life of all who know her. Peter and Tim were with us the weekend of Ky's memorial and it was terrific spending time with them and comforting having them to represent Donna's family. Congratulations, Don, on another year, and thank you again for the precious wooden sculpture of a mother with her curly haired toddler son. It sits on my sideboard, among the framed pictures of Kyle, on the blanket he brought me from Africa and which adorned his casket for the burial. I am so glad I have you for a sister.

With love and hope you have a wonderful day . . .

P.S.

And the Red Sox won! 4 - 0. First game of the series against Anaheim. Yea!!!! But with apologies to dear friends who love the Angels. I bear no ill will (easy when you're ahead) because they were born and raised in Orange County. They have no choice, really. So I take no pleasure in their pain.

But of course I've always felt sorry for the loser, when I win at games.
Just a bleedin' heart.

I MUST DO MY TAXES

but here is a blogette. the past couple of days i have been feeling better.

for two weeks, with the ambulance bill and the marker selection and seeing more people at work as the bi-monthly Grand Rounds bring me face to face with Those Who Know and - even harder - Those Who Don't Know, i was drained from the sadness and the sobbing and the pain.

when i don't see people or i don't have anything come in the mail that's distressing or i don't spend time looking into ky's eyes in pictures or i just don't let myself "go there," it can be easier.

and yet also, last saturday i saw a dear friend i hadn't seen in years who knew kyle during his junior & high school days, a mother of his good friend. we spoke for a long time about kyle, i told the story again, and being with her was lovely and comforting and i was full of peace afterward.

so the roller coaster has come to a stop. the passengers are debarking. but look, they're forming a line. no doubt it will take off again all too soon.

but, to the taxes!!!

Go Red Sox

Okay, I live in Los Angeles, but I spent my first 25 years in Massachusetts or New Hampshire and I am a Red Sox fan.

When I was a kid, when we played ball in the yard, my brother got to "be" Ted Williams, while I "was" Jimmy Piersall. Of all the other Red Sox players, I find it ironic that I - a clinical social worker working at a psychiatric hospital - played a guy best remembered for his mental breakdown.

Following baseball and other sports - even golf - was the way I could connect to my dad. I wasn't a boy. I wasn't an athlete. But watching a game on TV or talking about scores, I felt close to my dad and felt his respect. So I grew up loving the Red Sox and the Celtics, and Arnold Palmer. I read Bat Boy for the Braves, Fear Strikes Back, and a biography of Ted Williams. I even used my early writing propensity to start a story about a tomboy who impressed boys with baseball statistics (Ted Williams, .406, 1941 - I still remember it).

When we moved out to L.A. in 1975, it took a while to convert me from a Celtics fan to a Laker fan. Although I can't remember the year that I changed whom I routed for, I guess it was around the time that the Celtics stopped being brilliant and the brilliance of Kareem and Jamaal Wilkes and Norm Nixon and Michael Cooper won me over.

I tried to like the Dodgers, however there was an incident at Dodger Stadium on the 4th of July, that kind of soured me on Los Angeles baseball. A redneck tow-headed family, led by a twanging-talking shrew of a mother/wife, threw firecrackers at me, my black husband, and our friends--also an interracial couple. The incident was terrifying. The woman and her nasty little children, sneering insults, kept lighting and tossing firecrackers in our path as we approached our car. The husband stood smugly against the trunk of his car with his arms crossed. We didn't want to know what might be inside the trunk.

The story is one I don't repeat much. It took us a long time to safely get to and into our car and then to back up out of our space into stop and go lines of other cars trying to vacate. It caused tension among the four of us, as each responded in a different way. Our older black friend had grown up in a time when he knew that not responding was the safest tactic; while his white wife took a more confrontational approach. Years later I went back to Dodger Stadium for a couple of games with the kids and still later to see the Rolling Stones, but I never felt good about it.

But Fenway Park was another matter. I loved Fenway Park. I was in the crowd the night the entire campus of BU poured into Kenmore Square when "we" won the pennant in 1967. I remember fondly the few games I went to with my dad and brother, where I learned to keep score on those little cards, and how I couldn't understand my dad leaving before the final out in order to get us to the car to beat the traffic. How could he give up on the Red Sox before the final out in the final inning? I remember the great green monster and the Citgo sign and the hand-operated scoreboard. I remember seeing the lights, the same ones that Ted Williams shot out, as I recall reading as a kid, with the rifle he was using to kill the problem pigeons.

And of course I remember season after season of hope and disallusionment until that wonderful day in October 2004 when the Red Sox won the World Series. I remember being in a sandwich bar next to UCLA and walking to my car parked on campus. The moon was huge and full and I called my brother and Kyle called me to tell me congratulations. I could never get Ky interested in the Red Sox. He was a Dodger fan, and usually he responded to my "Guess what, Kyle? The Red Sox won" with "Mom, I don't CARE" . . . That night he was glad for me.

And here it is, another October. The Red Sox have won their division and are going into a series with the Anaheim Angels (I'm sorry, I just CAN'T call them the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim). The first two games are at Fenway. The third game is in Anaheim. And, midst a sea of red, I will be there.

My Bad

okay i just found out that i hadn't clicked on a thing that would allow people to comment without registering. i've unclicked and you don't have to register. so sorry. - cccacgacm

A Call for Comments

Dear Precious Reader,

I love it when you comment. It's like getting a hug. And, please don't feel you have to be family to write or to hug, if you're so inclined. Maybe this blog feels awfully personal, too personal to join in. Yeah, it's personal. But, heaven's to Bettsy*, I've put the darned thing on the Dub-Dub-Dub** so it's not like I'm shy.

If you're reading this blog, thank you. If you are a returning reader, bless your heart. Like most writers, in my mind I am writing to an audience, to you. First, you're imaginary. Once I see a comment with a name, or once you've told me you're reading it, you become real, part of a real audience. When I write, I picture you and others. So, now, if you were to stop reading, it might feel like I'm blogging for nothing.

Except, of course, I'm blogging because Life After Death is one roller-coaster ride after another. And I never did like roller-coasters. But I do like blogging. When I'm filled with sadness or rage or even bittersweet memories, when I am hit with the absurdity or the tragedy of events, it just helps to put it "out there" to you all. Once it's written, it ceases to sting so much. I am rid of it and more at peace.

But, although, I am all about monologue here, I am also about dialogue. And I'd love to hear from you if anything you read strikes your fancy, or if anything you read resonates a "been there" experience and you want to share it. Or if you don't want to comment, that's fine too. Remember, this is the mother of the "It's-all-good-Mom"-Kid. And it is.

And--as Yuma signed off recently--
"With love and peace till we all understand,"

Cynthia/Cyn/Cindy/AuntCyn/GreatAuntCyn/Mum

* My mom Bettsy (RIP) spelled her name with two T's.
** Double-u, Double-u, Double-u=World Wide Web

Altered Mental State or This Grieving Thing is Relentless

The bill from the ambulance company arrived and it's adding to my distress. It's not the amount of the bill that's distressing. Although the amount would be distressing if I believed I was going to have to pay all of it. But, as you know, I have a great union job (Go UPTE) with great benefits, and Blue Cross has told me to tell American Medical Response to send the bill to them. So, right now, it's not the amount that is distressing. It's the other information I get from this document.

(1) It's got the date of service: 7/5/07. The date of the fall. The date of the call. The drive up north to Standford starts.
(2) It's got a notation: "CALL RCVD 19:08." That is 8 minutes after 7:00. Ky answered his last phone call at 7:01. The call that Laura made telling him to hurry because the train was starting up again.
(3) It's got the "Service from" 121 W. Evelyn Ave and "Service to" Stanford Medical Center. I googled the address and it was the Sunnyvale Caltrain Station address. The map says it was 11.9 miles and it would take 22 minutes. I remember the hospital said the ambulance took 12 minutes. So it flew at 60 miles an hour on this route.
(4) Then it's got this list of codes, descriptions, units, and charges per unit and total charges. Again, I'm not gonna freak out about the charges yet. But here is the relentless part; thinking about all the paramedics were trying to do and did in those 12 minutes:

The did ALS for for 14 miles. ALS is Advanced Life Support. They did a "major dressing" and they intubated him, and they did an EKG and they used a cervical collar on his neck, and they had two kinds of masks (big value mask and non-rebreather mask), and a defib pad, and a lidocaine drip, and 1000cc's of saline, and a blood glucose test, and a headbed immobilizer, and $89 worth of oxygen. Bless you paramedics, for all you tried to do.

(5) At the bottom, I see the word Diagnosis and the code: 78097. I recognize this is an ICD-9-CM code like in my DSM IV. And I know it should be written 780.97, but they usually leave out the periods in computerized forms. And I look up 780.97 and the diagnosis is simply:
Altered Mental State.

Ky was no longer Ky.

The Sequel: I Love Advent Bronze & Granite

So. I write to Peachie about my distress. And I ask about the "satisfaction guaranteed" concept (I've seen such a phrase on other Memorial-Marker-Manufacturer-type websites). And I mention--with apologies--my concern not to have seen a sample that we liked and my worry that our experiment in oxidation might not work. And I query, "What does Advent do?" in such a case. And this is the response I got.

Dear Cynthia,

You don't have to apologize - we understand completely that buying a marker costs a great deal of money, and it should be something that you will be satisfied with. Once the marker is finished, you can come to our office to view [it] to make sure that it meets your satisfaction and expectation. If the drive is too far, we can send you high resolution photos of the marker instead. We want to make sure that you are completely satisfied with the marker before the cemetery installs it at the grave site . . . .

If you are not satisfied with the oxidation, we will perform another oxidation free of charge. If you are still not satisfied with the marker, we will then refund back to you the full amount you have paid to Advent.

I hope that these interventions can help ensure that you will be completely satisfied with the finished marker for your son. If you have further questions or concerns, please do not hesitate to contact us.

Sincerely,

Patrick

Advent Bronze & Granite, Inc.

I repeat: I love Advent Bronze & Granite
and I bet I'm going to love our marker too.

Marking Your Son's Grave 3rd and Final Part

before i give you the end of the saga, i do have to back up here and wonder about the lack of toilet tissue. or wonder about me. were there no tissue boxes because Advent Bronze & Granite had run out--due to a recent high volume of grieving mothers and grandmothers and fathers and grandfathers? or were there no tissue boxes because no one ever cries when selecting a marker? or was the added distress about the ugliness of the markers enough to tip me over the edge, while other people don't find these markers ugly--so they stay in perfect control? am i just inappropriate here? oh, well. i confess. my waterworks have always worked well. i am a leaker, that's for sure. i always cried at the Budweiser clydesdales clomping through the snow. god knows now i'm a flippin' faucet.

so back to the marker. midst gearey and i telling Peachie (and a man who has joined us from the back room) that all the samples on the wall and in the book are what we don't want, we start looking for ways to describe what we do want. and i grab a small piece of not-bronze, a plaster square from the display with the sculpted face of the guy with the glasses (see Part 2--turns out his name was Simone Youseff) with a metallic looking finish. i'm pointing to the texture around the face, asking if we could have a nice subtle texture like it, but then gear points his brownish metal-look of his face and asks about that. can't we have that? just a nice NOT PAINTED metal finish?

Peachie and her partner look at each other, then at us, and explain that that is just "oxidation" which sounds much more natural to us than paint, and say that they will find out about whether the foundry can do that, because no one has ever asked them for oxidation before. which begs the question: why would you want not-bronze-looking-paint-over-bronze when you could have actual bronze-looking simply oxidized bronze?????

low and behold, the next day we get a nice rendering of a very tasteful, although pricier (oxidation adds to the bottom line) marker. of course, we haven't seen the real deal yet. and i'm still really skeptical that it will not disappoint me, making for even more tears. every time i visit Forest Lawn. for the rest of my life. and after my life when i'm lying under it. but i'm keeping my hopes up.

it'll be many weeks for the marker to be ready. but if it turns out well, you'll see it on the blog some day.

p.s. i'll link you to Advent Bronze& Granite. but just in case you think i'm nuts, picture all those metal-looking plaques this way: the shiny edges and the shiny lettering, etc., are polished real bronze. all the brown you see? all the green you see? that's really ugly paint and texturing. trust me.

Marking Your Son's Grave Part 2

i turn away from the woman, whom i will eventually find out is named Peachie, and look at the display of granite markers, which--by contrast--look so beautiful and natural and sparkly through my tears, but remain unavailable to me because Forest Lawn only accepts bronze markers. and not the type of bronze markers that sit on granite slabs either.

i'm partial to granite. i spent my formative years in the Granite State. i swam in granite quarries in the Granite State (those quarries were so cold and so deep; we called one the Blue Quarry and one the Green Quarry due to the color the water seemed as it reflected the stone far below). recently i learned while traipsing around Scottish cemeteries that lime stone and most other stone markers simply flake away over decades and centuries and with the flaking stone goes the lettering and all mention and memory of the departed. and i learn that granite, next to diamond, is the strongest mineral. i really want granite.

i've composed myself finally and sit down to look at the brochure again, at the few choices i have been given. gearey arrives. i burst into tears because i am feeling so sorry for myself and for him and for our meager choices and for our poor baby underneath the ground. i ask Peachie if she has any tissue and she brings me a role of toilet paper and i'm so about taking care of people that i tell her, "it's all right, it's what i use at home," which is not always true, before she has completed her brief sentence of apology.

i explain as best i can to gearey about the frame edges (brightly polished or shit brown paint) and the lines (you can't get a nice line in the right place without something ugly next to it) and the paint (tan, brown, chocolate, and a pretty-though-inappropriate green) and the texture (see description in Part 1) and we flip through the limited pages of limited choices. we find some pictures with the frame part of the marker that look so much better, and we tell Peachie that we like these--but are told they are actually pictures of the stone moulds in which the bronze is cast. simple stone marker moulds. we agree with a look that we'd like the mould on the grave much better than any painted or shined up bronze job. and we exchange a few more looks as we peruse markers that would be fine without the sculpted rose or the big cross or the figure of someone probably very holy in front of Mt. Ararat who--because of the casting--looks like a beggar with his eyes gouged out. and i remember fondly that gearey and i always had the same taste. and we always had the same contempt for bad taste. and we always had a lot of fun feeling superior to the creators of bad taste. and here we were facing our comeuppance, the distinct possibility that there was NO WAY TO MARK OUR SON'S GRAVE WITH TASTE AND DIGNITY.

end of Part 2.

to be continued . . .

Marking Your Son's Grave Part 1

so yesterday gear and i went to Advent Bronze & Granite to pick out a grave marker for kyle.

due to the rules at Forest Lawn Hollywood Hills, the marker must be bronze and must be a certain dimension. and we need to save half of it for me, because we don't get individual markers since we have a double decker grave. side by side graves--you get side by side markers. so there is not a lot of space on the marker for what you want to say about someone for ever.

so i find myself sitting in this tiny office in a tiny converted house waiting for gearey and i'm looking at the samples of the bronze markers and different textures and colors we can choose and these are the ugliest things i have ever seen. talk about literal monuments to bad taste! it's like greeting card standard. there are markers in armenian and in spanish and in english, but they are all ugly. like equal opportunity ugly. and all choices have ugly borders. and some have florid or bulky type face, mostly all have some religious symbols, of course.

and there are the ugliest bronze castings of faces; you know these people must be somersaulting in their graves. one bronze has the face of an old man wearing glasses which captures and emphasizes the distortion made by the thick glass of his glasses. you know how you can look at someone through their glasses and their eyeballs seem tinier? well this guy looks horrible. couldn't they have made the rendition without his glasses? or at least without the distortion?

i'm looking at the few choices and become aware that the bronze markers are bronze, yes, but that they are also painted. so the marker won't look bronze; it will look like bronze with some ugly color painted on it. the "natural bronze" choice of background is tan painted, no where near bronze. and all the paint colors are horrible. and then you realize you have to choose textures. and they are ugly too. you can choose leather-like texture or pebble type texture or a patterned texture or stipple texture that looks like pimples. and they are all completely ugly. you'd want none of this weighing down on the earth above your loved one.

and i start crying.

end of Part 1

no woman no cry

yesterday was the first day i didn't cry about kyle. i worked at my private practice, then came home and got caught up in the Yankee vs. Red Sox end of season rivalry, in which the Red Sox are, once again, trying to raise the blood pressure of their fans to bursting. i'm not sure what i did after that, but i didn't cry.

today i have made up for it. i am working on a project outside of my normal full time UCLA jobs and private practice days. and i've been following today's Yankee/RedSox debaucle (Red Sox lost, Yankees won, cutting Red Sox lead in the division to a thin 1.5 games, again). but also i've been doing financial stuff. which has required me to go through stuff on my desk, which is a disaster (where did kyle get his habits from?). this is what i find:

Ky's social security card
his credit card
3, count-em 3 "You're Pre-Approved Kyle McLeod" offers from Chase Bank
the Neighborhood Church New bulletin with a note that
flowers were given in honor of Kyle -- thank you, Robin R.
my notes for my memorial speech
copy of Gearey's memorial speech
cards and more cards from so many
a pay stub from Kyle's final check
banks statements from the joint account i have with Kyle
Ky's cell phone, which i can't turn off because i can't bear it
his SFSU transcript which i hadn't opened yet, then did

so i stopped sorting
and started crying
meeting today's and yesterday's quota i'm sure

The Juice and Me

The year I was divorced, when Kyle was 7 and Miranda was 11, I wrote my second parenting book. By June of 1994, The Answer is NO: Saying it & sticking to it had been published and I had done a few bookstore signings.

The weirdest person to show up was in Denver, I think. A woman seemed very interested in the book, but proudly announced that she and her husband tried never to say "no" to their 4 year old boy. They twisted and turned the language so that they were actually saying "yes" when, in fact, they were giving the message "no." I thought this must have taken amazing somesaults of the mind. Cheerfully, she bought a book and had me sign it, but I have no idea if she "got" that the book was actually about setting limits, and not being ashamed of it.

I was excited when the local Barnes & Noble in Pasadena hosted a signing. Although Vroman's was my favorite local bookstore, I was pleased that the relatively new B&N chain-member in the Old Town part of Pasadena was interested. The signing was on a Friday evening, there would be lots of street traffic, and we would, no doubt, sell a bunch of books.

Except no one showed. Well, some people showed: my publisher, her husband, a couple of her friends, a couple of mine. The minutes passed. Then most of the appointed hour passed. Then: the dreaded approach of the store manager, bringing you a stack of books to sign, because they don't expect any more people to show up. It was pathetic. Where were my readers? Where were any readers? Where was the foot traffic? Weren't there any worn-to-a-frazzle parents left in Pasadena with children who were demanding, badgering, and felt entitled to everything they saw or thought of?

Well, if there were such parents, they weren't at Barnes & Noble looking for a great, easy-to-read, charmingly written, and very effective guide to stopping misbehavior. No, they were not.

They were at home. In front of their televisions--glued in fact--watching as a white, Ford Bronco drove slowly but persistently down and then up the 405 for a long, long time.

My Daughter Take 2

Miranda
McLeod

Happy Birthday, Elizabeth!

Today one of my sweet and dear nieces (I have seven: Robin, Melanie, Katie, Devon, Rhea, Elizabeth, and Siena--and a bunch of great nieces) turns 21 years old.

Congratulations, Elizabeth. You can drink legally, sign contracts, and are that much closer to being off your parents' health insurance policy.

Elizabeth is beautiful and brilliant. But more important to me, she is as sweet a person as you could ever hope to know. I have had the pleasure of getting to know her more this year, because I visited Edinburgh when she was there for a semester. The picture above shows Elizabeth in between Ian--her bf, and her roommate in Edinburgh, Jen. Elizabeth and Ian took time from their studies--her finals even--to show me her favorite spots and eateries (where to get a great chocolate milk shake, fantastic Indian food, and pound inspiring pastries). My last day she came to get me at my B&B (the wonderful Turret Guest House, Edinburgh) and went with me to the airport via two busses. How's that for dear!

Anyway, my sweet niece Elizabeth, I hope you have a lovely day. Please know I just love you to pieces. And I treasure this picture of you and Kyle from several years ago.

Mea Culpa

this past week it was Rosh Hashona and i asked my gentleman friend what he was going to atone for. like every year he said "nothing." and i accepted that with a laugh, because he is pretty much a good guy and does good things for his friends and family. and also i know he wouldn't hurt a fly. of course, i also think that if he had something to atone for he'd probably not admit it to me or maybe even to himself. but i'll take him at his word.

i too think i try to be a good person, and i try to think of others, and actually that is part of my problem because i THINK of people all the time: think about sending them birthday cards, think about calling them, think about a gift that might make them happy, think about taking them out to dinner. but, i follow through about 2% of the time. so, while i am good at heart i am bad at action.

other than this, there are things in life that i regret. things that i should have taken care of. things i can't do over.

1. c 1972 i lost my family's favorite kitchen table. it was a big round wooden table. i'm not sure when we got it, but some time in the 1950's my mum painted it in the country art style of Peter Hunt. on the table top she painted place settings. and on the edge around the table she painted the grace, "God is great and god is good and we thank Him for our our food." we all loved the damned table. it was fun to set it even, because we'd just lay the silverware on the painted forks and knives.

when i was in college i moved around a lot. i gave a tour to my kids in 1997 of the places i'd lived in in Cambridge and Boston and we didn't even get to all of them. in 1972 i had moved into an apartment in Kendall Square. it was huge, but it was cheap, because it was in a real decrepit building. my brothers helped me move in. and i got to have the, now old and cast off, kitchen table. i was so excited to be living alone again. i remember cleaning and painting. but then i remember seeing a crack in the wall that looked really ominous. you could see daylight through it and i looked out the window and saw a long 4 x 4 up against the corner actually holding up the back wall of the building. i called my dad, who came and looked at the building, and then did a Great Dad Thing and found me a tiny studio near his work.

somehow i got me and some of my stuff out of Kendall Square. i didn't have a car. i didn't even have a license. my brothers weren't living in the city then. but one thing for sure: i didn't rescue the table. the table everyone in my family loved. the next thing i knew the building was torn down, as was the entire neighborhood over the next few years.

2. c 1988 my husband bought us bikes at REI. he paid for them and picked his up. while he was on location i was supposed to get mine. i never did. he spent a lot of money on the bike. i didn't call to cancel. i procrastinated. eventually, and several times over the next couple of years, i would call, have someone find the record, make arrangements to go down to REI again. and then not go. there was no excuse really. yeah, i had two young kids, i worked, REI wasn't close, but that wasn't it. i guess i thought that if he bought me the bike he should have brought me the bike. but that wasn't the complete reason. i've forgotten the complete reason.

3. xmas 2006. i bought ky a great pair of Bose earphones. he thought they were too expensive but ky didn't ever ask for much and i knew he'd really appreciate them. there was a problem with them, and for all the months left of his life, ky kept asking me to bring them back and get a replacement. miranda had had a similar problem and said i could get it done on the phone. i never did.

by second grade i knew i was a Procrastinator. mum had labeled me that and i could spell it. i was impressed by my spelling such a big word. Procrastination is my cross to bear. mostly all the things i need to atone for have to do with Procrastination.

a table, a bike, a set of earphones - just 3 of my regrets.

Buff, Ted, Sal, Donna, Bev, Gear, and Kyle. I'm sorry.

My Daughter

I write a lot about Kyle, because the absence of him is a constant pain in my heart, and after all, the reason I started this blog was to figure out how to live with having lost him. I don't write a lot about Miranda, because, well, she is a near-constant joy. And one doesn't usually write about joy. Joy is not a big draw. It's pretty boring and it just doesn't sell soap. But I'll risk being boring, because one must not take for granted one's first child, particularly when one has been so careless as to have lost her second.

The miracle of raising children is that two people--with all their flaws--get together and produce little genetic wonders that somehow far surpass them both in brains, beauty, talent, and mental health. Miranda is such a wonder. I could write about how proud I am of her accomplishments, but this would only embarrass her. I could write about how strong, brilliant, funny, insightful, hard-working, and beautiful she is, but this, too, would only embarrass her. If I write about her talent and potential, I will add to the mounting pressure in her life. And, god knows, I better not gush. So what to do.

Ah, I know. I just will send you to her blog. Read it. You will begin to understand why I respect, love, admire, and enjoy Miranda McLeod so much.

Finally I dream about Kyle

I dreamt about Kyle last night. I've been jealous of the boys on 12OunceProphet who have had Ky visit them in their dreams. My dream was quite bizarre and a Freudian could have a ball with it, and I'm not sure I'll blog it, but it was such a comfort. I woke up very alert and aware in the night, realizing I had dreamt about him, and tried to commit it to memory. I woke this morning with some remembrance. The odd part was that we both knew he had died, because I was asking where all his stuff is. He hadn't time to answer before the dream was over. It was so lovely, those few seconds of seeing and hearing him. Please come again soon, Kydie.

Once again, thank you
Alan Denbleyker for
taking so many pics
of Kyle during the
holidays 2004-2005.

New Thoughts to Torture Myself

last night near sundown when i was swimming on my back looking up at the sky, i was thinking about kyle (surprise, surprise). thinking about what he would be thinking if he were somewhere with a consciousness. and up until this point, when i have had such a musing, i've always thought he would be trying to reassure us that he's okay. that he made it to wherever, that all kinds of relatives are welcoming him, and that he is in good hands and we needn't worry.

but it occurred to me suddenly that if he IS in a state of consciousness, then he is really pissed at himself because he made that one ridiculous attempt at climbing onto a moving train, followed by the off-balanced trying to jump back to the platform. and he's swearing and pounding somewhere, denting a big fist-sized hole in a wall--if there are any walls there--and he's hurt his hand 'cause he's hit it so hard--because he is so angry that he has hurt us all so much. and that his mom and dad and sister and aunts and uncles and cousins and his friends and his parents friends and colleagues from Eagle Rock and Poly and San Francisco and Humboldt and Santa Cruz are all beside themselves with grief and missing him SO MUCH. and that the party is OVER and all parties are OVER. and he can't be comforted by anyone 'cause it's just too early in the rage. and if the rage has been spent, then he's so frustrated because he wants us to know he's okay, but there's no way to tell us. so he's beating himself up about that. ky always said, "it's all good." but that was to reassure me or whomever he was with. he never could say, "it's all good, ky" to himself.

and, so, talk about feeling helpless! i can't reassure him that it's all right (even if it isn't). can't tell him that we're not mad at him. i can't help him lighten up on himself. i can't reassure him that we're fine or that eventually we will be.

and so, i don't want there to be a somewhere that he is, because i don't want him to be eternally kicking himself.

Thanks, Yuma