Sunday, September 30, 2007
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
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
Thursday, September 27, 2007
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.
(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,
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.
and I bet I'm going to love our marker too.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
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 . . .
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
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
Sunday, September 23, 2007
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
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
Friday, September 21, 2007
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.
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.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
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.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
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.
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.
Sunday, September 16, 2007
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.
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.
Saturday, September 15, 2007
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.
Friday, September 14, 2007
Thursday, September 13, 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
9/11
in the fall of 2001, ky was 16, in the 11th grade.
for the most part he would always get up and out of bed. eventually. i had to go in and say, "ky, come on. it's late," a lot. he had his evening routine down to maximize his sleep time. he'd shower at night, put on clean boxers and a t-shirt. then he'd get up, put on pants, and an overshirt of some sort and declare he was ready. he'd carry shoes and socks to the car. "10 minutes. i just need 10 minutes."
i don't remember much about 9/11. sallie called me at 6:30 a.m. as we spoke tower 2 was hit. i tried to reach miranda, but knew she would either be in the Bronx or at Columbia, both a safe distance from the Twin Towers. after a while i called Poly, and was surprised to hear that there would be school.
the next day was wednesday the 12th. ky refused to get out of bed. said he wasn't going to school. this was unlike kyle. sometimes he lingered in bed to a ridiculous time, but today there was a cold determination in his voice. i got frustrated. "what's going on? did you not get something done?" it was too soon in the year for a test or quiz. ky refused to answer and didn't move from his bed. he called again, "i'm not going." i walked away. came back. got angry. "well, i'm not calling Poly," i threatened. "it'll be an unexcused absence." i never had threatened this before. "i'll be in the car." i left, probably slamming the door, and waited.
kyle showed up, shoes in hand. opened the car door. collapsing, folding himself into the passenger seat, slamming shut the door. stuffing his backpack between his feet. i looked at his face and his eyes were full of tears. he was so upset, he couldn't speak. i immediately felt like such a failure as a mom. i wasn't even thinking about 9/11. i wasn't thinking that this might be distressing for him. he was usually such a good natured kid. he didn't take things hard, or if he did, he didn't let me know about it. i started the car and headed toward pasadena.
rather than proceeding down lake street, i turned into the driveway of a restaurant. i said, "let's get something to eat and then we'll see how you feel." we ordered breakfast. i bought a newspaper and we both started reading parts of it. eventually i think there was small talk. then more talking, about the highjackers and what it said in the newspaper. after eating we returned to the car. i told him i had to run a couple of errands and he could go with me if he wanted, but he said he was ready to go to school. i dropped him off.
i don't remember anything else about the day. but i remember thinking much later that it was a terrible thing for me to have done. to insist he go to school. as if 9/11 were nothing. as if he couldn't have had a damned good reason for wanting to stay in bed. as if just because he couldn't tell me, it wasn't really important. he didn't pull stuff like this often. why did i have to be a hard ass that day.
i know i was--am--a good mom. but 9/12/01 is one day i'd do over if i could.
that, and of course 7/5/07.
for the most part he would always get up and out of bed. eventually. i had to go in and say, "ky, come on. it's late," a lot. he had his evening routine down to maximize his sleep time. he'd shower at night, put on clean boxers and a t-shirt. then he'd get up, put on pants, and an overshirt of some sort and declare he was ready. he'd carry shoes and socks to the car. "10 minutes. i just need 10 minutes."
i don't remember much about 9/11. sallie called me at 6:30 a.m. as we spoke tower 2 was hit. i tried to reach miranda, but knew she would either be in the Bronx or at Columbia, both a safe distance from the Twin Towers. after a while i called Poly, and was surprised to hear that there would be school.
the next day was wednesday the 12th. ky refused to get out of bed. said he wasn't going to school. this was unlike kyle. sometimes he lingered in bed to a ridiculous time, but today there was a cold determination in his voice. i got frustrated. "what's going on? did you not get something done?" it was too soon in the year for a test or quiz. ky refused to answer and didn't move from his bed. he called again, "i'm not going." i walked away. came back. got angry. "well, i'm not calling Poly," i threatened. "it'll be an unexcused absence." i never had threatened this before. "i'll be in the car." i left, probably slamming the door, and waited.
kyle showed up, shoes in hand. opened the car door. collapsing, folding himself into the passenger seat, slamming shut the door. stuffing his backpack between his feet. i looked at his face and his eyes were full of tears. he was so upset, he couldn't speak. i immediately felt like such a failure as a mom. i wasn't even thinking about 9/11. i wasn't thinking that this might be distressing for him. he was usually such a good natured kid. he didn't take things hard, or if he did, he didn't let me know about it. i started the car and headed toward pasadena.
rather than proceeding down lake street, i turned into the driveway of a restaurant. i said, "let's get something to eat and then we'll see how you feel." we ordered breakfast. i bought a newspaper and we both started reading parts of it. eventually i think there was small talk. then more talking, about the highjackers and what it said in the newspaper. after eating we returned to the car. i told him i had to run a couple of errands and he could go with me if he wanted, but he said he was ready to go to school. i dropped him off.
i don't remember anything else about the day. but i remember thinking much later that it was a terrible thing for me to have done. to insist he go to school. as if 9/11 were nothing. as if he couldn't have had a damned good reason for wanting to stay in bed. as if just because he couldn't tell me, it wasn't really important. he didn't pull stuff like this often. why did i have to be a hard ass that day.
i know i was--am--a good mom. but 9/12/01 is one day i'd do over if i could.
that, and of course 7/5/07.
Monday, September 10, 2007
I'm sticking to the union . . .
I've been a proud union member (UPTE-CWA) for many years, however today I am grateful to Gearey's union. IATSE Local 600, representing cinematographers, with its most generous donation of $5,000 has pushed us over the $10,000 mark, the minimum amount to be able to have a yearly gift in Kyle's name to a deserving student at San Francisco State University. Along with negotiating our contracts and fighting for our health and welfare benefits, this is one more example of how unions play a role in helping their members and members' families. IATSE Local 600, thank you so very much in helping us honor our son and his generous spirit through an ongoing gift to others.
Why are these children unhappy?
From left to right: Siena, Elizabeth, Devon, Kyle, Rhea, and Miranda. I think it is because there are four sets of parents making them sit for yet another picture. However, I have seen other pictures of the kids sitting on this same wall, in the same clothes, looking similarly miserable. But wait! Look at Rhea. Smiling away. Good for you, sweetheart. Thanks for indulging us. (P.S. and Miranda at least looks neutral on the subject!)
Sunday, September 9, 2007
Grieving
Today Kyle's cousinscame over: Elizabeth
and Siena. Elizabeth's
cousin Elena came too
and Si's friend Robin.
And we watched the
video of the memorial
and we watched the
slide show. Betsy and
Si and I sat huddled
holding hands, crying.
And now a while later
I sit playing James
Taylor and looking
into these eyes
and asking "Why?"
Remember to tell Kyle
every other day or so, there is something on NPR or some piece of information i hear or some little thing that occurs, to which i respond in my head, "i have to remember to tell that to Kyle."
it's most often about a great profession that didn't exist so long ago that would be a perfect match to his talents. or a travel opportunity that provides some income. or an exhibit in the San Francisco area that i think he would like. or sometimes it's a small domestic thing.
the other night i opened my cupboard where we keep canned and dry goods (do people still call them canned goods and dry goods?) and out flew a moth. those fairly tiny cupboard moths that portend the discovery of many more moths. i closed the cupboard.
the next night i opened the same cupboard and saw a couple of moths and looked up. uh, oh. top shelf. there's a box of corned meal. it didn't look open from where i stood but it could be. i closed the cupboard again.
last night i opened the cupboard and reached for the box and turned it around and there was the opening, a nice gaping "hey, come on little critters, come squat in this free real estate right here?" kind of hole. i held it to the light and looked inside. webby clumps of meal. moth heaven.
i started to cry. ky and his damned fish. he liked to dip fish fillets in egg and corn meal, just like his dad, sautee them up and eat hot with a heavy dose of Tapatio sauce. and leave a smelly greasy mess for me to clean up.
i took the box and the bag of flour beside it and tied them tight in a plastic bag for disposal.
dry goods and moths. one more thing i never got to tell Kyle.
it's most often about a great profession that didn't exist so long ago that would be a perfect match to his talents. or a travel opportunity that provides some income. or an exhibit in the San Francisco area that i think he would like. or sometimes it's a small domestic thing.
the other night i opened my cupboard where we keep canned and dry goods (do people still call them canned goods and dry goods?) and out flew a moth. those fairly tiny cupboard moths that portend the discovery of many more moths. i closed the cupboard.
the next night i opened the same cupboard and saw a couple of moths and looked up. uh, oh. top shelf. there's a box of corned meal. it didn't look open from where i stood but it could be. i closed the cupboard again.
last night i opened the cupboard and reached for the box and turned it around and there was the opening, a nice gaping "hey, come on little critters, come squat in this free real estate right here?" kind of hole. i held it to the light and looked inside. webby clumps of meal. moth heaven.
i started to cry. ky and his damned fish. he liked to dip fish fillets in egg and corn meal, just like his dad, sautee them up and eat hot with a heavy dose of Tapatio sauce. and leave a smelly greasy mess for me to clean up.
i took the box and the bag of flour beside it and tied them tight in a plastic bag for disposal.
dry goods and moths. one more thing i never got to tell Kyle.
Friday, September 7, 2007
Coping Strategies 2
Swimming
I didn't really care about swimming. I lived in this condo for over 2 years without using the pool. The only bathing suit I'd owned I left on the east coast about 7 years ago. Then, thanks to LandsEnd and the helpful lady who can tell you what size to get if you are disproportional (see Miranda's blog for more details on Family Physique), I purchased a bathing suit.
I've taken a lot of vacation days since Kyle's death. It's been ridiculously hot, and I had to do some exercise, so swimming it was. Now I'm addicted. Well, almost. I still have worse addictions (see Bad Coping Strategies below). But I'm swimming almost daily. About 20 laps, or 40 lengths (it's not such a long pool). That's about 24 minutes. And it's helping my lousy knee (injured first while dancing around the living room to Al Green; second while walking on cobblestones in Edinburgh). Much better than OT.
My first problem with swimming was how to count laps. There is nothing worse (well, of course there IS, but go with me on this) than losing count of your laps. One doesn't want to cheat, one DOES want credit for every damned lap completed. To keep count, I would swim to the other side and make a mark on the cement side with my wet finger, but on hot days the fingerprints would dry up before I returned. So then I started swimming in sets. I swim one lap with the breast stroke, one with the crawl, two more laps--one on each side--with the side stroke, and finally one lap on my back. I don't do the backstroke, more on this later. I complete four sets and, bingo, that's 20 laps. I check my start time, so that if I lose count of sets, I can figure it out. Sets take 6 minutes, you see.
I have a different relationship with each stroke. And I don't do them correctly, but so what. I love the breast stroke; it is simple and gentle and I don't have to get my face wet right away. I can't get the frog kick and the breast stroke in sync so I'm doing some sort of bastardized half kick thing. I hate the crawl, cause it actually takes effort, but I cheat on that too, not putting my head in as you're supposed to. I love the side stroke--I glide like a long thin knife through the water, and by now I have half my head in the water cause it really makes for the best glide. And finally, the piece de resistance: lying flat on my back, doing the flutter kick, I move my arms up and down--a backstroke without breaking the surface--my arms under water making slow strokes as if I were a bird flapping in thick thick air. It feels so good. I feel strong and I cover a lot of distance. I stare up into the sky and think 'Those birds have nothing on me." Who needs to fly in the air; I'm flying through the water. And when I'm through I've completed another set.
I combine my Mindful Awareness with Swimming. I see the colors of the pool (Hockney really got it right with his turquoise and white), see the tall eucalyptus trees way overhead, follow birds and planes, listen to my breath and the pool motor when my ears are under water, and focus on the strength of my under-water-winging.
And I think about Kyle. And I think about my next blog. And I think about Miranda. And I think about Kyle.
. . . . . . . .
but, of course, after writing the last blog, i didn't go swim. i watched a mediocre TV movie and enjoyed every minute of it.
I didn't really care about swimming. I lived in this condo for over 2 years without using the pool. The only bathing suit I'd owned I left on the east coast about 7 years ago. Then, thanks to LandsEnd and the helpful lady who can tell you what size to get if you are disproportional (see Miranda's blog for more details on Family Physique), I purchased a bathing suit.
I've taken a lot of vacation days since Kyle's death. It's been ridiculously hot, and I had to do some exercise, so swimming it was. Now I'm addicted. Well, almost. I still have worse addictions (see Bad Coping Strategies below). But I'm swimming almost daily. About 20 laps, or 40 lengths (it's not such a long pool). That's about 24 minutes. And it's helping my lousy knee (injured first while dancing around the living room to Al Green; second while walking on cobblestones in Edinburgh). Much better than OT.
My first problem with swimming was how to count laps. There is nothing worse (well, of course there IS, but go with me on this) than losing count of your laps. One doesn't want to cheat, one DOES want credit for every damned lap completed. To keep count, I would swim to the other side and make a mark on the cement side with my wet finger, but on hot days the fingerprints would dry up before I returned. So then I started swimming in sets. I swim one lap with the breast stroke, one with the crawl, two more laps--one on each side--with the side stroke, and finally one lap on my back. I don't do the backstroke, more on this later. I complete four sets and, bingo, that's 20 laps. I check my start time, so that if I lose count of sets, I can figure it out. Sets take 6 minutes, you see.
I have a different relationship with each stroke. And I don't do them correctly, but so what. I love the breast stroke; it is simple and gentle and I don't have to get my face wet right away. I can't get the frog kick and the breast stroke in sync so I'm doing some sort of bastardized half kick thing. I hate the crawl, cause it actually takes effort, but I cheat on that too, not putting my head in as you're supposed to. I love the side stroke--I glide like a long thin knife through the water, and by now I have half my head in the water cause it really makes for the best glide. And finally, the piece de resistance: lying flat on my back, doing the flutter kick, I move my arms up and down--a backstroke without breaking the surface--my arms under water making slow strokes as if I were a bird flapping in thick thick air. It feels so good. I feel strong and I cover a lot of distance. I stare up into the sky and think 'Those birds have nothing on me." Who needs to fly in the air; I'm flying through the water. And when I'm through I've completed another set.
I combine my Mindful Awareness with Swimming. I see the colors of the pool (Hockney really got it right with his turquoise and white), see the tall eucalyptus trees way overhead, follow birds and planes, listen to my breath and the pool motor when my ears are under water, and focus on the strength of my under-water-winging.
And I think about Kyle. And I think about my next blog. And I think about Miranda. And I think about Kyle.
. . . . . . . .
but, of course, after writing the last blog, i didn't go swim. i watched a mediocre TV movie and enjoyed every minute of it.
Thursday, September 6, 2007
Coping Strategies
Bad Coping Strategies include:
Eating
Sleeping
Watching TV
Watching TV while eating
Good Coping Strategies include:
Blogging
Being with friends
Walking
Swimming
Mindfulness
I knew a bit about Mindfulness before I took the Mindful Awareness class at UCLA and I couldn't have picked a better time to learn it in greater depth. Mindfulness is basically about being in and staying in The Here and Now. It's not hugely different from other forms of meditation at first glance, but I couldn't at this point sound very intelligent trying to tell you how it differs. But MA has definitely been helpful. Although it is hard to say how much of my new found calm is Grief and Exhaustion versus Being Mindfully Aware. Suffice it to say, that I now have a way to stop, be in the moment, bring myself to a centered peaceful state, stay there quite a while, and resume life ALK again. I highly recommend it.
Eating
Sleeping
Watching TV
Watching TV while eating
Good Coping Strategies include:
Blogging
Being with friends
Walking
Swimming
Mindfulness
I knew a bit about Mindfulness before I took the Mindful Awareness class at UCLA and I couldn't have picked a better time to learn it in greater depth. Mindfulness is basically about being in and staying in The Here and Now. It's not hugely different from other forms of meditation at first glance, but I couldn't at this point sound very intelligent trying to tell you how it differs. But MA has definitely been helpful. Although it is hard to say how much of my new found calm is Grief and Exhaustion versus Being Mindfully Aware. Suffice it to say, that I now have a way to stop, be in the moment, bring myself to a centered peaceful state, stay there quite a while, and resume life ALK again. I highly recommend it.
Thanksgiving 2006
Here is last Thanksgiving's meal Devon commented on. That's Kyle on the left, Jesse in the middle, and Devon on the right. I know, guys, it's not a great picture. The flash is reflecting in the mirror, Ky has taken off his glasses and is giving me the "MOM, CUT IT OUT" look, and Devon is trying to smile and swallow at the same time. But it's all we have, so up it goes!Usually Ky had Thanksgiving with his dad; I hadn't cooked a turkey since I can remember. But sister Sallie was here and she's a great chef and I made the Best Gravy Ever in the World. And missing from the photo are Sallie, Ben, Alan, and me. Whatever will we do this Thanksgiving . . . .
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
Thinking about Kyle & food
Frosted carrot-cake muffins from TJ's
Roscoe's chicken and waffles
Omelets at Cindy's
Eggs, bacon, and potatoes at home
Popovers
Chicken with 4o cloves of garlic
Pasta with broccoli and cheese
Pasta with prosciutto, spinach, & garlic
Fish sauteed in corn meal
Fish tacos
Sandwiches w/ everything on them
Reese's peanut butter cups
Peanut butter cookies
Peanut butter in cereal with milk
Chocolate bars with raspberry filling
Pecan pie
Tapatio Sauce
When up north calling me up to ask about
ingredients in a meal he was making,
or to ask if it's safe to eat something that's
been opened in the fridge for a while like
tartar sauce. Kyle making a meal and setting off the
fire alarm. Becoming a great cook, even
cooking for me sometimes. Sitting down
to eat slowly and luxuriously. Getting a bit better
about cleaning up the last couple of years.
Roscoe's chicken and waffles
Omelets at Cindy's
Eggs, bacon, and potatoes at home
Popovers
Chicken with 4o cloves of garlic
Pasta with broccoli and cheese
Pasta with prosciutto, spinach, & garlic
Fish sauteed in corn meal
Fish tacos
Sandwiches w/ everything on them
Reese's peanut butter cups
Peanut butter cookies
Peanut butter in cereal with milk
Chocolate bars with raspberry filling
Pecan pie
Tapatio Sauce
When up north calling me up to ask about
ingredients in a meal he was making,
or to ask if it's safe to eat something that's
been opened in the fridge for a while like
tartar sauce. Kyle making a meal and setting off the
fire alarm. Becoming a great cook, even
cooking for me sometimes. Sitting down
to eat slowly and luxuriously. Getting a bit better
about cleaning up the last couple of years.
Monday, September 3, 2007
The Music Man
At Ky's burial and at his memorial, on the graffiti/writers' website tributes, in letters and emails, Kyle's relationship with music was a continuing theme.
He loved music from early on: I remember him bopping (it was certainly more than swaying) to music way before he could walk. I did my best to indoctrinate my children to motown by giving them quarters in the car when they could name an artist. One time Ky hopefully guessed "Smokey Pickett?" I gave him the quarter anyway. Gearey was always introducing new music into the house. The whole family loved Oh Mercy, and I think it was Kyle who put on my leather jacket and moved around the living room singing "Man in a Long Black Coat." By age 11 he was calling up KROQ for bumper stickers and he and Miranda introduced me to "alternative" around that time. He had the 101.1 FM 60s and 70s play list down, and soon was saying, "Mom, you gotta get some better music. All they do is repeat the same songs. You've heard these millions of times."
Middle school transitioned to high school. Ky got into what I remember as Acid Rock, which I didn't much like the first time. There were the Curt Cobain years, which coincided with his feeling badly about his relationship to school, so I was a bit wary. He definitely got into old Dylan (whom I value next to Shakespeare); I know because my Dylan CD's kept disappearing from their jewel cases.
Then Ky got into rap and hip-hop and finally, reggae. Knowing I liked blues, he would play me Muddy Waters or surprise me with something like a cut of James Brown singing blues. Reggae definitely became prominent, yet he did seem open to learning more and more. His iPod, with 942 songs had 80% reggae (old roots reggae), rap, R & B, blues, classic oldies (i.e., Sly & The Family Stone's "Do You Want Me to Stay?" and Ray Charles' "Let's Go Get Stoned."), and music from the groups he'd recently seen at concerts.
Clare, our wonderful clinic coordinator at NPI, helped me with Ky's computer; she cleaned up his hard drive, saved a bunch of stuff on a CD so I would have it, and then announced that there was no way to get off the music.
She explained that he had a 50 GB hard drive and that only about 7 GB is usually taken up to install windows and a few programs, so that left him with 43GB for stuff. 40 GB of that stuff was his music. She translated what that meant:
"You could say that the average file size for one song is 4.5MB (1GB=1024MB). So if you do the math, that's over 9000 songs. To put them on CDs that would play in your car or in a regular CD player it would be over 500 CDs (15-16 songs per CD)."
"I went to college in the days of Napster--where you could download everything off the internet for free--without the worry of getting in trouble. I think that craze was coming to a close my junior or senior year--right around when Kyle was starting college. " (I remember that Ky was a napster fiend.)
"But in my opinion," Clare concluded, "It takes a real music lover to pick 9000 songs to download or to burn off CDs."
I've tried to put the word out. About those 9000 songs that are on his Dell computer? Anyone is welcome to come and burn a CD so you have some of Ky's tune to carry around with you. I'm around on Sundays.
He loved music from early on: I remember him bopping (it was certainly more than swaying) to music way before he could walk. I did my best to indoctrinate my children to motown by giving them quarters in the car when they could name an artist. One time Ky hopefully guessed "Smokey Pickett?" I gave him the quarter anyway. Gearey was always introducing new music into the house. The whole family loved Oh Mercy, and I think it was Kyle who put on my leather jacket and moved around the living room singing "Man in a Long Black Coat." By age 11 he was calling up KROQ for bumper stickers and he and Miranda introduced me to "alternative" around that time. He had the 101.1 FM 60s and 70s play list down, and soon was saying, "Mom, you gotta get some better music. All they do is repeat the same songs. You've heard these millions of times."
Middle school transitioned to high school. Ky got into what I remember as Acid Rock, which I didn't much like the first time. There were the Curt Cobain years, which coincided with his feeling badly about his relationship to school, so I was a bit wary. He definitely got into old Dylan (whom I value next to Shakespeare); I know because my Dylan CD's kept disappearing from their jewel cases.
Then Ky got into rap and hip-hop and finally, reggae. Knowing I liked blues, he would play me Muddy Waters or surprise me with something like a cut of James Brown singing blues. Reggae definitely became prominent, yet he did seem open to learning more and more. His iPod, with 942 songs had 80% reggae (old roots reggae), rap, R & B, blues, classic oldies (i.e., Sly & The Family Stone's "Do You Want Me to Stay?" and Ray Charles' "Let's Go Get Stoned."), and music from the groups he'd recently seen at concerts.
Clare, our wonderful clinic coordinator at NPI, helped me with Ky's computer; she cleaned up his hard drive, saved a bunch of stuff on a CD so I would have it, and then announced that there was no way to get off the music.
She explained that he had a 50 GB hard drive and that only about 7 GB is usually taken up to install windows and a few programs, so that left him with 43GB for stuff. 40 GB of that stuff was his music. She translated what that meant:
"You could say that the average file size for one song is 4.5MB (1GB=1024MB). So if you do the math, that's over 9000 songs. To put them on CDs that would play in your car or in a regular CD player it would be over 500 CDs (15-16 songs per CD)."
"I went to college in the days of Napster--where you could download everything off the internet for free--without the worry of getting in trouble. I think that craze was coming to a close my junior or senior year--right around when Kyle was starting college. " (I remember that Ky was a napster fiend.)
"But in my opinion," Clare concluded, "It takes a real music lover to pick 9000 songs to download or to burn off CDs."
I've tried to put the word out. About those 9000 songs that are on his Dell computer? Anyone is welcome to come and burn a CD so you have some of Ky's tune to carry around with you. I'm around on Sundays.
Sunday, September 2, 2007
I'll get by with a little help . . .
i have the best friends in the world. they are all here for me right now. they call, email, leave phone messages. i've started to go out a bit: we grab a bite, see a movie, walk, swim. maybe just exchange emails or talk on the phone. they ask how i'm doing. and then they listen as i go on and on, verbalizing every insight i get, exploring every question i am struggling to answer, expressing every weird turn of emotion. they hand me tissues when i inevitably start to choke up and tear. they take my hand. i have had more hugs in these (OMIGOD IS IT REALLY???) eight weeks since ky's death than i had in 15 years in the theatre.
i try to--and do--ask questions about them. about their work, relationships, kids, health--but soon the topic of conversation has turned and i am talking again. i feel bad about this, but only to a point, because this talking, this telling of my Life After Losing Kyle in all its many twists and turns and up and downs, is so very helpful. being listened to, being heard, being understood is the best medicine right now.
but one more thing about these friends: they understand when i can't be with them, return a call, bear to speak or see a soul. my friends really get it. i love you all so much and i am so grateful to have you in my life.
i try to--and do--ask questions about them. about their work, relationships, kids, health--but soon the topic of conversation has turned and i am talking again. i feel bad about this, but only to a point, because this talking, this telling of my Life After Losing Kyle in all its many twists and turns and up and downs, is so very helpful. being listened to, being heard, being understood is the best medicine right now.
but one more thing about these friends: they understand when i can't be with them, return a call, bear to speak or see a soul. my friends really get it. i love you all so much and i am so grateful to have you in my life.
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