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.