Oh I Wish Kyle Were Here to See This NIght

Can you believe it?
Yes, I can.
Yes, we can.
I'm gonna go buy a flag pin.
And wear it proudly.

Oh Miranda -- How wonderful to
celebrate this moment with you.

Oh Kyle -- I wish, more than anyone
can know, that you are watching
us this tremendous night.

I am filled with awe and joy
and gratitude and pride.

President Barack Obama.
Oh my god.

Happy Birthday, Blair Jay Whitham, Sr.

Happy Birthday Dad -- -

Wow -- you'd be 90 today if you were still alive. But the odds are that you wouldn't be. Sixty-one was way too young to die but 90 is pretty old to live--particularly the way you lived. Burning the candle at both it's ends.

You've been gone nearly 30 years. But I can picture you and hear you as if you had just left the room, so indelibly are you imprinted in my memory. Of course, you were a huge presence in my life, in our lives: physically, audibly, emotionally, psychologically. I remember you, but I also know you are in me. My outgoing personality is from you, a good deal of my smarts are from you, my curly hair is from you, my athleticism (such as it is) is from you, my workaholism and my ability to party. The days I am focused and productive and strong and really hardworking, I know I'm your daughter. The times I fill a room with my exuberance or humor or stories, or I raise a margarita or a G & T or a Snapper in a toast, I am well aware I am Blair Whitham's daughter. The days I lose my temper, and there are not that many anymore, well -- we know where that came from.

I have regrets. Regrets that you didn't live long enough for me to get over being afraid of you. Regrets that you may not have known that I did love you very much. Regrets you didn't know me as a grown woman (I did keep my distance). Regrets you were not more approachable. Regrets I didn't give you a piece of my mind.

But mostly, I have regrets that you didn't know my children, Miranda and Kyle, because you would have loved them. And regrets that you weren't able to know all of your grandchildren and your great grandchildren. They are a wondrous bunch. They are so damned smart. And they are so handsome and beautiful. And they are all so dear: really good kids, sweet kids, caring, conscientious, hardworking, and tremendously fun-loving kids. You'd be prouder than punch.

Your early death spared us being members of the sandwich generation. We have not been torn between taking care of our kids and you and mum. But wouldn't we all have traded any amount of work for more time with you? Sure we would.

Well, Dad, it's really late. My candle is almost burnt out for the day. And I'll go into high gear in 5 or so hours. I'll not have a lot of time to think about you or toast you or talk to you the way I talk to Kyle, but I wish there were a way for you to know you are a continuing presence in my life. And that I am very proud to have been your daughter. And that many many people miss you and love you very very much.

And though you probably know I'm not much of a believer, if you do get this--I guess it's kind of a prayer-- from me, send love to Mum and to Nana and Grandpa Whitham, to Uncle Dick, Uncle Bud, cousin Jeff, Aunt Esther, and Aunt Betty. And to the Clags and Ken Bice and the other Princeton folk. And anyone else you're in touch with that I'm leaving out. And, please, spend some time with Kyle. He's probably still overwhelmed about leaving us all so soon. And I think the two of you would really get along.

With all my love, Dad,
I'm still your
Cindy Gayle

Kyle's Friend Maria

today Maria came to visit. i'd never met her, but we had emailed a bit. she was out of the country when Kyle died and when we had his memorial in August. Maria sent pictures of Kyle and this is one of the two of them.

Maria had met Kyle when they were both part of the Early Bird program at SFSU. in July of 2003, they lived across the hall from each other in the dorm. they became good friends and kept in touch every few months throughout the rest of his life.

Maria's story is like so many others I have heard. when i--trying to figure out the network of Ky's life--ask a friend of Kyle's if s/he knows another friend--often s/he doesn't. while Maria knew Ky's freshman roommate Phil K. and others, she did not know the other Phil or Flynn or Sean or George.

each time i meet another friend, i learn more about Kyle. and more often than not, i get confirmation of how sweet and caring and wonderful a friend he had been.

for Kyle's friends to go out of their way to email, to send photos, to call, to come visit me--their friend's mother--when they are in LA, this speaks a lot to who Kyle was and to how important he was in their lives.

so Maria and i sat together and watched the Kyle slideshow. she talked about the last time she and Kyle had gone to Mojito's to see Phil's band play and how he'd bought her a Philly cheese steak sandwich. she remembered Ky looking at her with surprise when she offered him her couch (he'd been living in a hostel) as if he didn't understand how good a friend she considered him. she spoke of how sad she had been to be out of the country when news arrived of Ky's accident. we cried a bit and hugged and she assured me that everyone who met him loved him.

this lovely young woman taught me more about my boy.

what a gift i received today.

Post Mortem

i am doing well. truly.

the year built and built from the moment of the phone call from gear. i moved first as if under water, swimming and clawing my way through mire and sludge. sometimes it was as if i were climbing a mountain, out of breath, then finally making it over the top, only to run, nearing falling, plummeting down too fast to the bottom.

i still spend time floating on my back in the pool, staring at the sky, watching clouds, tracking birds, swaying with tree tops, wondering about Kyle. but the pain has lessened, the burden is lighter. i breathe more easily.

so i've made it through the entire First Year. there are no other firsts to face. except the anniversary of the memorial in Eagle Rock on August 19th. but i think that will be fine. it's different than the reliving of the 5th, 6th, 7th, and 13th of july. and every holiday, birthday.

i am well. i feel well. i have kept on my eating plan and have lost 57 pounds and wearing size 10 pants (omigod) and am swimming a lot and am healthier than i've been in a long long time. Kyle would be happy, cause he worried about my weight. and Miranda is relieved, i'm sure. she once said, and it stays with me, "Mom, you can't die before I've learned all your wisdom." how could you keep killing yourself with food with a child like that to live for.

soon i am heading off to visit family and friends in New England and that will be both exhilarating and exhausting, but essentially good. i never spent enough time there with the children, but i can't dwell on that, or on any regret, now.

it's all good, isn't it, Kyle.

The Things He Carried

Ky was in between homes when he died. for a lot of the year he'd been living with Bobby Gardner and a roommate, but the roommate didn't want Ky to live there--and for a reason I didn't figure out--that kid got to call the shots. so Ky was staying a lot with Sean and then he was staying with Gabriel and Ali's family. some of his things--like his computer and his bedding and his green canvas bag--were there. and i think other things were scattered other places. he had his backpack with him when he fell.

Ky's dad gave him the green canvas bag. it is a handsome bag and Gear had had ky's initials embroidered on it: KCM. he gave it to Ky in anticipation of his future traveling. on the 7th of July last year, Gear picked up Ky's things in San Francisco and drove them back to LA. he transferred them--including Ky's computer and the green bag--to my car.

as for the computer, i had a techie friend clean it up. she gave me a CD with some of his files, organized the desktop with shortcuts, and counted his tunes, about 9000. i put the computer up in his/Sal's room and it stands there with the ghost slide show and as a repository of all his music. friends are welcome to come and make CD's.

it took a long while to look into the green bag, but Gear asked for it back of course, so i transferred Ky's things to a paper bag. since last July i had partially gone through it once or twice, but i'd not been able to sort the things and deal with them. similarly, i have not been able to go through Ky's drawers and closet.

on the anniversary of Ky's accident, i sat down with Devon and Flynn and went through the contents. in his sturdy green bag, given with so much love and hope from his dad, Ky had packed:

the incense box/holder MaryLou gave him on Christmas Eve

the refrigerator magnet that looks just like Toby that i put in the kids' stockings

the size 14 slippers than Gear had given him at Christmas 2006

his equally huge green flip flops

Bukowski's The Captain is Out to Lunch and The Sailors Have Taken Over the Ship

Murakami's The Wind-UP Bird Chronicle -- the same one he'd given me for Xmas and had given Laura

the book: The Best Travel Writing, 2000 --another present from his dad

miscellaneous school papers and assignment sheets, kind of in a jumble

head phones

a small handout/poster of a June 8th concert, EEK-a-Mouse, Live at Shattuckdownlow

a small incense burner

a small travel cocktail shaker -- probably from me

a couple of keys

deodorant

spare underwear, a black tie, and a pair of cutoffs (stained with paint)--all his clothes still smelling of him


after Flynn and Dev and i were done, i carefully put everything back in the paper bag. i'm still not ready to make decisions about Kyle's things.

The Coyote

I forgot to mention, that on the anniversary of Ky's accident, while we sat by his grave at Forest Lawn, the coyote came by. To pay his respects? Not sure. Most likely to see if we had any goodies. It was nice to see him.

I'll see you in my . . .

I've passed the 4th, 5th, 6th, and 7th. There will be the 13th and there will be August 19th, but it was last weekend that I felt looming and that I both dreaded and welcomed. I made it through, with a lot of help from my friends, family, and Ky's friends. I spent time with several, got calls and emails and notes from others. They were thinking of and praying for me and Mir and Gear. Every message was an embrace. They (you) got me through.

I had a gift in the night. I dreamt of Kyle when he was about 3 years old, about the age he is in this picture, taken on their first day of school after we moved to Eagle Rock. Miranda heading off to Eagle Rock Elementary and Kyle to Eagle Rock Montessori. Except in my dream his hair was shorter.

I don't remember much, but the dream went on for a long time. At one point Kyle was holding my mascara and someone (I think it was MY mum) was concerned, but I went over to him and let him hold it with me as I put some on my eyelashes. Was I ever so gentle and caring as I was in this dream? I only hope so.

I never put a lot of value on dreams, but now they are treasures. I got to see Ky again, so sweet and earnest. My beautiful little boy.

Kyle is remembered by his buds at Sierra Nevada World Music Festival 2008

Thank you, Yuma and Abby.
No doubt Ky wishes he had been with you all in the flesh.
I would like to think he was there in spirit.

The Last Picture of Kyle - Thank you, Abby & Yuma

This is one of the last pictures of Kyle, taken at the Sierra Nevada World Music Festival 2007. Yuma says that he and Kyle "had basically stayed up all night and were hanging out in the camp as the sun rose, just talking and bullshitting, telling people to watch the sun rise; so our friend Abby comes out and takes some pictures, and we take some pictures of the sunrise. The one with Kyle holding out his arms was taken right after Kyle proclaiming to Abby that 'He's so handsome!' The lighting effects were all there from the camera."

The 7th of July, 2007 - Diary entry a year ago today

this is the entry you dread writing. kyle was pronounced death at 4:47 p.m. PDT yesterday, July 6th. my heart is broken beyond all repair. my beautiful big funny brilliant bounding huge-hearted son is forever gone to us.

gearey is shattered. miranda is holding up with dignity and her own quiet sorrow. how can it feel to so suddenly become an only child.

there is so much to learn. i am pursuing my quest to capture both the last few days as well as every bit of news of Kyle. who he was and was becoming.

The 6th of July -- The Longest Day

A year ago we drove all night up the 5 to arrive at Stanford University Hospital ICU at 5:30 a.m. It was the longest and shortest drive I have ever experienced. Della had arrived hours before from Oakland and sat with Kyle, holding his hand and talking to him, as if he perhaps could hear, and praying for him until we were able to get there. If Kyle had any awareness, he would have been so happy to have it be his "Aunt Della" there by his side. Aunt Della was always the one you wanted beside you in the trenches.

A year ago we sat all day with Kyle. His long long body, which was barely scratched, was barely contained by the bed. His head was bandaged with one eye covered and his bruised face was swollen. As the hours ticked by, I kept hoping we could keep Kyle on life support until his sister, an uncle, an aunt, and a cousin, and a few friends arrived from New York, Southern California, and Massachusetts to say their goodbyes. Every little while, the doctors and nurses would throw us out to do more tests or other medical processes. Although it would never be enough, nevertheless, I got a good amount of time with Kyle, in spite of all the folks in and out and given the extent of his injuries. At some point in the long day we were told that briefly he had been taken off the breathing apparatus and could not sustain breath. Although put back on life support, Kyle was pronounced dead at 4:45 p.m. on the 6th. He would continue to be stabilized so that his organs and tissues and corneas could be taken late that night. Before we went to Della's for dinner (blessed friend feeding us all) I said a quick goodbye, promising to be back later.

Due to the late night and the distance back to the hospital and the fact that some of us had not slept in 36 hours, Gearey suggested that Miranda and I get some sleep and that he make the trip back to the hospital (he and Leeanne were sleeping at the hotel next door to the hospital). I wanted so much to go back and to be with Kyle and kiss him one more time, but it was not to be. I asked Gear to explain why I wasn't there (as if Ky could have understood) and to give him a last goodbye from me. Gear told me that he felt that it was his job to be with Kyle these final moments, the way driving him to college had been his job, and the way, too, I realized, that cutting the umbilical cord had been his job. These were counterpart to my job, of bathing Ky's hands and feet and cleaning paint from under his fingernails and sand out from between his toes. It is a mother's job to care for her child's body in infancy, in childhood, in severe illness or injury, and finally, if it should be so untimely, in death.

So a year ago tonight, Gearey visited Kyle for the last time and said our goodbyes. The operation happened about midnight and in four hospitals in three states, four men were prepped to receive Kyle's "pristine" lungs, kidneys, and liver and their second chance at life.

The 5th of July - Part II: The Day Ends

Devon arrives first. Then Flynn with dark hair. The Cat (The Puss) greets her better than before, allowing himself to be stroked, whereas in the past he would run under my bed to hide. Toby recognizes Flynn and wags his tail less enthusiastically than many a dog, but with clear recognition.

George and Andrew and Sean and Aaron and Phil and Sean's friend Kate arrive and over pizza and beer we share stories for a long time.

At 4:30 we leave in separate cars to head to Forest Lawn where--what with 2 Sigalerts and a police break it's about 6pm closing time when Dev and I get there--we eventually meet Dorian and Nancy, Olivia and John, and Ky's friends. They have brought flowers and potted flowering plants for me to take home after.

We sit for a long time. We say some things directly to Kyle, we tell stories, we laugh a lot. No one has come to remind us about closing time. I check the time; I feel seven o'clock looming, the time of Ky's accident exactly one year ago. Over the next several minutes we are acutely aware that this was when he ran and climbed and fell.

Dorian says a few words and sings "What a Wonderful World" and then "Nature Boy." As he sings I can hear Nat King Cole's version too.


There was a boy
A very strange enchanted boy
They say he wandered very far, very far
Over land and sea
A little shy and sad of eye
But very wise was he

And then one day
A magic day he passed my way
And while we spoke of many things
Fools and kings
This he said to me
"the greatest thing you’ll ever learn
Is just to love and be loved in return"


We cry, we sit a while longer, and then say goodbye again to our beautiful young man.

Kyle's Goodbye

I found the following poem in Ky's notebook that was mostly full of awkward scratchings (Ky trying to master a "writing" style). The notebook was in the backpack he carried with him on the train. No one knows for sure when he wrote this. Neither George nor Laura saw him writing. Obviously Ky wrote it sometime between his trip down to Santa Cruz on the 4th and his trip back on the evening of the 5th at about 6:30.



LAST STOP


HEADED DOWN TO SANTA CRUZ

FOR THE 4TH OF JULY. PERSONALLY

I ALWAYS LIKED THE

HOLIDAY. LOTS OF DRINKING

AND EXPLOSIONS AND FOOD

AND FAKE PATRIOTIC BULLSHIT.

LOADED UP THE BAG WITH

THE USUAL. CLOTHING AND

BOOZE AND DRUGS AND

SOME SHIT TO TAG WITH.

A LITTLE VACATION --



The title will haunt me all of my days.

The 5th of July: Part I - The Day Begins

In a little while Ky's friends will arrive: George, Sean, Andrew, Phil, and Flynn. Cousin Dev will come too. It was hard to know how to spend this day being with his closest buds, with those who loved him and miss him. Later I'll go to visit Ky at Forest Lawn.

I'm putting on the reggae and chillin the beers.
The guest of honor, unfortunately, can not attend.

Kyle with Laura in earthtones

A Song Found on Ky's iPod . . . Thank U Mama

Thank U mama for the nine months u carried me through
All the pain an sufferin
No one knows the pressure you bare a just only you
Give you all my love oh yea
Thank U mama for the nine months u carried me through
All the pain an sufferin
No one knows the pressure you bare a just only you
It's my words and my utterin

Mama I would never let you down
I'll never go away
I'll always be around
You know why you do it
Such love that you found
I'm always gonna let you wear that crown
Through the roughest of times you maintain your count (eh)
I was your only (yea)
While shelterin me from the storm
And when its cold you wrap me in a towel so warm
Oh ma oh ma
I'm so glad I was born

Chorus (Thank U mama for the nine months . . . )

I'm gonna make u so proud
Such good son you have
You are the one who teaches me all the good from the bad
Even when the system keeps pressurin my dad
You got high hopes
Thanks be unto the most high Jah

Chorus (Thank U mama for the nine months . . . )

I'm a big man now that's something gold
Things you do to survive only jah he knows
Fiercely protecting us while watchin us grow
You been (oh) even when its on the down low
Work so hard to see us go to school
Blisters on your fingers so they cant take us for fool
I'm here for a purpose, I'm here to rule
Most high jah Rasta fari will see us through

Chorus (Thank U mama for the nine months . . . )

Now it's my turn to make life
I'm so mature
(u know) I got my kids and my wife and im positivley sure
I'm doing fine
And still can be so much more
You have prepared me for the future (my love you deserve)
You been doing your thing while others not knowing
But deep inside your heart mama you know where it was going
Can a mother lose her tender care for her child that she may showin
Some how your star keeps glowin


(Fade out on chorus)
Thank U mama for the nine months u carried me through
All the pain an sufferin
No one knows the pressure you bare a just only you
Give you all my love oh yea . . .


Thank you, Ky, for the 22 years you made me proud and filled my heart with love.
And thank you for sending me this song, even though you never knew I heard it.

The 4th of July - Part IV: Just Short of Perfect

This morning I talked to Laura who is happy and fulfilled working in PR and loving getting up every morning in NYC. She feels that knowing Kyle has helped her get to this good place. It was comforting to hear her voice. She is always in my heart.

I spent the afternoon with many long-time friends: Lloyd & Joanne & Cooper & friend, Nancy & Dorian and their ever-sweet Olivia and John, Louise, Joyce, Francesca & Sally, Karen & Chris, & old/new acquaintances Jerry & Mariette.

The food was plentiful and delicious, the humor was to the gallows and back, the talk was as deep and as shallow as one would want, stories were old and new.

The topper was that there was NO traffic across the valley, down the 405, and on the 90. I sailed to MDR. Saw lots and lots of cops and lots of people being stopped. Not surprisingly enough all were caught DWB.

I left the party (before I got tired or sad) but could have stayed comfortably for hours more. Old friends are so easy and essential. Like breathing.

The day was just short of perfect.

The 4th of July - Part III: You Want Signs?

of course i talk to Ky all the time. and in the pool this morning i'm sure i said something to him like, "Just give me a sign." the problem with asking for signs is then you see signs everywhere; whether they are there or not.

well, just now, as i was finishing blogging, i hear reggae booming from my balcony. as if i'd just pulled up one of Ky's many tunes from my iTunes. i realize it's coming from below the balcony so i look out to see if there is a car stalled below.

there is not a car.
but there are people.
riding by on bicycles.
young, old, men, women, children.
must be 20 or so or more riding on by.
in a long long line.
i see flags and dreads and baskets and mostly i hear the wonderful pulse of reggae.

i'll take it as a sign.
it would be like Ky to make it a reggae sign.
saying, "Put on some of my music."
and i will and i'll crank it up.
thanks, baby.

The 4th of July - Part II: A Beautiful Day

the first thing to remember about today is that one year ago on the 4th of July Kyle was happy. he spent the day with George and Laura and he was having a wonderful time.

and one year ago, on the 4th, Sallie and I--having the first day off in ages-- completely luxuriated in the condo pool for hours and hours. we swam or floated around, sat, sunned, read, chatted, had a light meal and drinks. all in the sun. i rarely used the pool in the two years i'd lived here. Sallie had taken to the pool the moment she'd arrived, but not me. i wouldn't get into using the pool until after Ky's death, when it became the source of great aquatherapy and meditation.

we would, some time in that gorgeous sunny day, have our brief cell phone call with Ky. he was in Santa Cruz, having fun, George was there. he talked with Sal and with me and said those last words, "I'll call you when I'm back in the city, Mom. Love you." and, as Ky would say, it was "all good."

so, in replaying this day, we don't need to feel bad; we haven't come to the scary part. as a boy, forever in tune with music, Ky would run from the room as soon as the music told him the scary part was starting. well, the music hasn't changed. the scary part's not starting yet.

so don't cry for me or Ky or anyone or yourself yet. today is the anniversary of a beautiful 4th of July where relaxation and fun and friendship and love reigned.

The 4th of July - Part I: Not Alone

this is a pic of Laura (well a sliver of Laura) and Kyle. Laura did the colors thing; she is quite artistic. i like this pic of Ky because i know he is having a good time; he's with Laura; they are lying around together (not doing homework, not working). i don't know how they took it, though maybe Laura did with her cell, which is why we can't see her. it was taken early in their all too brief relationship, in the early months of 2007. i wanted to post something that would remind me that Kyle was in love and not alone.

i, also, am loved and not alone. family and friends have been leaving messages or posting or otherwise letting me know that they are holding me in their thoughts. holding me. perfect words. they are holding me and no doubt trying to protect me against what i--along with gearey and miranda and laura and many many others--will relive over the next few days.

i will be with friends during the mid-day. i will lock Toby in the bathroom with KUSC and take a short walk down the channel to the fireworks. i will be okay. after all, last year's 4th of July was a beautiful day.

The Vision Thing

The eyeball is mending. The attachment of the retina is successful. Vision in my right myopic/post surgery eye is pretty good--can see light, shapes, colors--just much blurrier than the left myopic eye still. If reading from that eye, things up close look wavy. and my worst case scenario fantasy was that my chin down position hadn't been perfect and the gas bubble hadn't given the proper pressure on my retina and that I had permanent wrinkles. But as I sat waiting (interminably) for the doctor and reading an article for work, I could see that the wavy words were not really wavy, but that I have little pale pale deposits--not floaters--in the way. Like I'm reading through a thin pane of antique class or through water droplets, so that little magnifications are distorting the words, to the point that a line of writing is uneven. bizarre. The doctor said it was unusual. Didn't like that piece of information.

In another 5 weeks I will return to the surgeon and then go back to the eye doctor to see what adjustments need to be made in my glasses and lenses. Supposedly my vision will continue to improve. Amazing, huh?

Every time I have something go wrong with my body: my thyroid condition, the uterine freakout that resulted in my hysterectomy, and now my detached retina--I'd think, What if I'd been living in the 1800's in Illinois or the 1600s in Salem like my father's people, or in the 1700's in Scotland or forever in Wales like my mother's people? Would I have lived long and heartily like so many of them? Probably the thyroid disease would have killed me off in my 30s. Or I would have bled to death in my early 50s. Or I'd be half blind and then fully blind in my 60s, and then have fallen off a cliff or been eaten by a very quiet bear.

But, lucky me, the wonders of modern medicine have saved me, once again.

From Kyle's Notebook

If you saw Kyle's notebooks, you'd think they were filled with scribbling. Actually he was practicing his "writing" style for tagging. Occasionally there are phrases which he may have read somewhere, heard as lyrics, or were his own. And on rare occasion, you find something like below. Since Kyle was so into music, I'm thinking this was in his head like a blues song.


The bus is comin
I've been waitin
....*
I've been paintin

Ain't got no money
Can't pay no fare
Got to get to the door
by the back stair**

The bus is crowded
Can't get no seat
Women look at me with scorn
Then they step on my feet

Been working since mornin
From nine to five
No food in the cupboard
No herb to get high

Got my check last Friday
You know it's already spent
For food and herb
For debt and rent

Trying to live right
But you know it's so hard
Boss man, police man,
and Mister Landlord



*Illegible
**Ky was so tall that he would have to stand in the door well of the bus in order to have room for his head

Optimism, Don't Fail Me Now

I've been talking a lot about how helpful all of the spring events and rituals have been. How I've been feeling calmer and more at peace and more accepting of Kyle's being gone. But, of course, the moment one gets complacent or gives words to thoughts without knocking on wood, you know what happens. Things change again.

I did so well during my post-eye-op period. Surprisingly, I didn't have so much time on my hands that my mind was filled with painful thoughts of Kyle. I did a lot of mindless stuff, like sleeping a lot, reading a lot, and doing email. I spent hours on my Welsh genealogy--better than solitaire--but a real time swallower. And, not being able to drive and being at home with not a scrap of food in the cupboard other than my UCLA eating program food I lost more weight (48 pounds to date) so that was great.

I found myself thinking about the role of optimism in the grief process. I am a ridiculously optimistic person. The X-man used to call me "Pollyanna on Speed" and that fit. I wake up feeling good and I respond to the world positively, even in times of trouble. Lose my keys? I say to myself, "Wait; don't despair until you've really looked everywhere and waited and pretended you don't need them--they'll turn up!" I truly believe it is a waste of time to distress about something until all hope is lost. I'm like Scarlett O'Hara saying, "I'll think about that tomorrow." But it's not about procrastination or avoidance, it's about why worry before you have to.

For several months, I experienced Kyle being gone as Kyle being up north in college. I was waiting for him to take the shuttle bus down the coast. I had the expectation he'd arrive during the next long holiday weekend. And while it sank in eventually that this wasn't going to happen, my natural optimism hasn't jumped ship. I have an expectation of something good happening. About Kyle. Yeah. Really.

This isn't about banking on meeting up with Ky in an afterlife--as much as I would love to believe in that. It's about the belief that I have always carried with me: I will find it, I will solve it, where there is a will there is a way. And this optimism keeps me from feeling that all is lost--even about Kyle. In spite of all evidence to the contrary.

So, as I started out saying, I'd been feeling well. But, as I recovered from my May 28th surgery, I became aware that it had become June. And after June comes July. And it was in July, a year ago, that I lost Kyle. On the phone with my friend Mary Lou, telling her how well I was handling things, suddenly I was crying again.

I'm thinking about the 4th, 5th, 6th, and 7th of July. And the 13th of July. And I'm thinking about what I will do on those days. And I feel myself building a wall inside, to shore myself up against the inevitable. Against what has already come to pass. How is your optimism gonna help you on this one, kiddo?

Barack Obama: "It's Our Time"

One of the perks of signing up at Barack Obama's website or of contributing to his campaign a bunch of times is that you get emails from the Senator himself. Yeah, I know he didn't actually hit the return button and send it out to me, but that's okay. He's got a few other things to do. I like getting "his" emails anyway (even though, like a kid, he asks for money every time). The one that arrived late Tuesday had the subject line: It's Our Time.

Yes.
It is.
It is OUR time.

Now some may think this means it's Black folks' time. And yes, it does. It is Black folks' time. Long overdue, yet sooner than most of us dared to hope. But it is also our time, my time.

As a little girl who was raised to believe that the Democrats were "the closest thing to Communists," it is my time. As an 11 year old who quaked at her bedroom window praying that Kennedy and Khrushchev wouldn't blow up the world, it is my time. As a 13 year old who read every book about utopias she could find, it is my time. As a hippie, demonstrator, and political theatre activist, it is my time. As a Massachusetts native who voted for McGovern, it is my time. As a voter, precinct walker, petition signer, donator, do-gooder, it is my time. As a social worker, it is my time. As a mother, it is my time. As a white woman who has been wishin' and hopin' and thinkin' and prayin' about President Obama since he announced, it is my time.

Will President Obama do all that I want? No. Will he do stuff that will make me email and call and want to give him a piece of my mind? Oh, yes. Will he be enough like Dennis Kucinich or Paul Wellstone or John Edwards? I doubt it. But, will I be able to watch his press conferences and listen to his rhetoric? You betcha. Will I know there is an intelligent, mentally healthy person in the White House? Yes, indeed. Will I feel I have a leader who will be interested in my opinion? I believe so.

Is this race about race? Of course it is. It is about a brilliant, charismatic, wise and savvy, down-to-earth, caring, idealistic man (who can pronounce nuclear)--who also happens to be Black. And, as the mother of African-American children, I am thrilled that my Miranda and the children of her generation are witnessing this. And as a member of an African-American family, I am moved beyond words for Great Aunt Gloria and those of her generation, after all that they have witnessed.

Of course, my excitement is dampened by Kyle not being among us. I wrote Who Would Kyle Vote For? in January, when I barely dared to hope that Senator Obama would be the Democratic Party's candidate. I so wish Kyle were here to challenge me and enlighten me and pull me down to earth if I float too high, but mostly I wish he were here because it is our time and he should be here to enjoy it.

(sorry for the crude phone photo of my poster; does capture my restricted vision, however . . .)

Los Angelean Earns 9.8 in Chin-to-Chest Event

So I returned to the doctor yesterday, this time well-armored (successfully) against motion-sickness (from riding face down in car) with dramamine. Eyes dilated and head bowed, I sat in the dimly lit waiting room of the Retina Vitreous Associates Medical Group, tightly packed with patients. Now that I have spent a half dozen or so appointments in the North Hollywood and Beverly Hills offices, I am quite familiar with the several hour wait and complaining waiters.

Although everyone in the waiting room has had their pupils dilated, not everyone has to be in the chin-to-chest position. That depends upon one's diagnosis and the waiting folks may have diabetic eye disease, vitreous hemorrhage, macular degeneration, retinal detachments, uveitis, or ocular tumors. Only the post ops from surgery for retinal detachment and a messed up macula have the gas bubble, which requires a head down position so that the bubble floats up and pushes the retina/macula gently into place. It is an odd thing, sitting with one's head down in a darkened room with strangers. A point my friend Linda, also a clinical social worker, made captured the experience: Having one's head down is the ultimate position of passivity. She demonstrates with her clients the difference between feeling assertive and feeling passive by having them assume a head up position and a head down position. With my chin to my chest, I do feel vulnerable--only gingerly do I insert myself in a conversation. Not being able to make eye contact makes me feel like an intruder, like a not enthusiastically welcomed guest.

However, sitting among the complainers, vulnerable or not, I eventually become indignant and announce kindly--but firmly--that the office is understaffed because of the recent death of one of the doctors in the medical group. On other occasions, I have offered, "Well, I am here for an emergency and I am grateful to be seen at all." My points made and seconded by others, I resume silence.

There are other things which keep patients apart. We span many decades for one. As well as cultures. One office visit very late in the workday, where I was about the last patient, I could tell that the only other person in the room was a man and possibly an older man, from his fairly formal coffee colored leather shoes. Not able to look up, I ventured, "Excuse me, sir, do you know what's happening with the Celtic game tonight?" He didn't respond. Soon, someone came in and spoke to him in Spanish and then led him away. I realized that he didn't understand my question, nor did he have the sight to know I was addressing him.

In an interesting bridging of culture and age among the sitters yesterday, a young Chinese American man, sounding in his late 20s, was engaged in conversation by a woman in her 80s with mid 20th century slightly Boston Brahmin accent. After complimenting him on how well he spoke English (he clarified that, while being Chinese, he was born here), the woman--out of the blue--began to boast about having had a very good return of serve in her day and of having played an exhibition tennis match tennis with Pancho Gonzales. While the young man had not heard of Pancho Gonzales, I remembered him from watching tennis matches with my dad on television in the 1960s. After listening to her anecdote and perhaps wondering about the origin of her accent, the young man asked, "Was that in England?" The woman explained that it had been in Santa Monica. I learned no more because--at that point--I was called into the one of the treatment offices. Alone, I sat wondering how many other conversations in these offices similarly span a variety of US generations and cultures.

The doctor was very pleased with my condition and remarked that he could tell I must be following the head down protocol very well. He told me I could look up at a higher angle now and that I didn't need to use the neck brace in bed. So, just as cousin Wanda has written in her comments, following directions exactly leads to promising results.

I can't leave the Eye Doctor Office saga without thanking my dear friends, Linda and Marylou, for driving me to and fro and providing the best company a somewhat-sightless gal could wish for. You are the best.

i'm doing okay

you know, they don;treally explain things. like the doctor calmly said, "and you[ll have to keep your head down for a while." but he didn';t say for weeks and doing this head down thing is really difficult. this wohn[t be a long blog cuase i can;t type in head donw position very well. sitting reading isn''t bad but the neck hates it. trying to sleep on your stomach or side but still with your eye facing down is near ijmpossible. but i listened to the laker game (GO LAKERS) and used my imagination, but it took some doing. we sighted folks are sure lucky when our sight is working. tonight i'm looking forward to HEARING THE CELtics (GO CELTICS).

also must cancel clients for weeks. that's not cool.

oh and riding in a car back and forth to doctors with head down resultsin nausea and vomting. that's been the low point so far.

at least i can use the phone. tho i get tired. and i probably could practice putting and really keep my head down quite well.

so, usually cheerful pretty much, i know this wiill get OLD real soon.

but, hey, i had nothing to blog about when i had no life tragedies, so i guess this little run in with eyeball aging is designd to keep me a blogger. Clare our great UCLA coordinator has been telling me that i can make this little ibook of mine talk. think i'll try to figure it out.

so with greetings and salutations and love all around ---

i remain (partially sighted and mending),

cynthia, cyn, cindy, mum, aunt cyn, great aunt cyn

Rest . . . there are better ways to get one.

My sweet niece Katie wrote, "I hope you get a rest real real soon." Well, I guess the Gods in Favor of Well-Rested Aunts were listening. The latest vision problems? Signs of detached retina. I leave in 7 minutes for the hospital for eye surgery. As Mir would say, "Get ex-ci-ted!!!" (So the way to forget about going blind? Just get the damned surgery over with.)

Now the resting part. I have to take two weeks off work (and off pay for my non UCLA practice) and keep my head down. All the time. And there is a long list of what I can't do. Starting with washing my hair for a week and not lifting anything over 30 pounds for 6 months. That'll be pleasant.

So, once again, as with my hysterectomy and losing my son, I find less than perfect ways to take vacation. I thought Scotland was a much better plan.

So -- now it's 4 minutes from takeoff. I better stop.

I'll be blogging soon, I hope.

Last Memorial Day

The last time I saw Kyle--well really saw him--talking and laughing and full of life, was right after Memorial Day last year. He had spent some time making this monster of a message on the Venice graffiti wall. It was a response to the fact that following the weekend, the city of Venice would put into effect a new law: writers could no longer paint on the wall without a permit. He thought that was ridiculous and wrote the above message: FUCKAPERMIT. He particularly liked the fact that the wall was across from the police station. I liked the fact that he was getting the 3D down really well.

That kid at the right end? He's already started to paint over Ky's work. That's how it was at the graffiti wall. Soon as you were done, the next writer is literally all over it. To get the picture, Ky had to ask folk to wait and then run way back to take the shot. He came home and dumped his pictures into my computer and we had a great talk that night. I told him I thought that if he were going to be a graffiti artist that words and messages, his politics, would be his talent. He then spent ages showing me pictures of graffiti he had taken all over San Francisco. He'd explained about his name DFEAT and the FYF crew theme that, sadly, I'd get to know so much more about that (FarewellYoungFriend). The time Ky spent with me, even at the time, felt like a gift, like something we were both savoring.

As promised: How to stop worrying about going blind

I tore my retina in February, the night before Super Tuesday, when I was volunteering doing data entry at the Barack Obama camptaign office in Venice. It was really scary; it was as if my eye had filled with black swirling oil. I took off my contact lense, thinking I'd had a major run-in with my mascara, expecting to clean it off and fix the situation. The lense was clean, but my vision still was marred by black gunk. I asked someone to look at my eye, to see what it looked like from the outside. Nothing there. I looked in a mirror: nothing. My vision in my right eye was cloudy and there were the swirling oil floaters. Driving home, I was disoriented, and seeing weird verticle flashes of light. I got scared.

I got more scared when I got home and looked on the internet and found out that probably I had either torn or detached my retina. Next morning I got a referral for a retina specialist and, after waiting three hours, was finally seen and had lazer surgery to repair the tear. It hurt a bit and I got a little faint. But the tear was mended and within a few weeks my vision was normal.

Well, then I had a reoccurance of vision problems, a couple of times. Three weeks ago suddenly I have pea soup thick vision with more floaters. Did I mention how scary this all is? But, I had an epiphany.

How do you stop worrying about going blind?

Get up the next day to find you've lost all your keys to your four offices.

How to stop worrying about losing your keys?

Reread the email and realize you've been asked--not just to
come to the History Department Honors Banquet to present
your son's scholarship--but also to give a speech.

How to stop stage fright about giving a speech--without sobbing?

Get your car towed while celebrating your niece's graduation.

How to stop fretting about your car being towed?

Go bale it out in time to get on a plane to Oakland the next
morning, only to find you've left your cell phone
on the front seat of your car at the remote airport parking lot.

How to stop worrying about traveling in San Francisco without
a cell phone?

Get stuck with everyone and his mother crossing the Bay Bridge,
taking 2.5 hours to get from Oakland to my hotel, leaving barely enough
time to get to the award banquet (to do the speech which you've now
memorized sitting in traffic).

How not to worry about nearly arriving late?

Lose your driver's license somewhere between the Oakland Airport
rental car place and your hotel.

How to stop worrying about the driver's license?
Try to get on a return airplane trip without one.


And finally--how not to think about the fact that last Memorial Day,
was the last time you saw your son breathing on his own?

Have your eye symptoms get much worse--like 1/2 the vision
completely blacked out in your eye and have a three day weekend
when you can't get treatment.

Yeah. And I spent yesterday afternoon watching (with one good eye) the Lakers getting trounced by San Antonio and now I'm sitting here watching the Celtics/Pistons game and Boston can't buy a basket.

Gimme a break, will ya?

Kyle Campbell Whitham McLeod Scholarship Recipient

On May 17th, I flew up north and attended the San Francisco State University History Department's Honors Banquet and presented the first Kyle McLeod Scholarship to Romina Green, the young woman pictured above. Beside her is Dr. Abdiel Onate, Director of Latin American Studies Minor.

Kyle's scholarship was given to Ms. Green because she met the criteria requested by our family and within the requirements of the university: a junior or senior majoring in Latin American History, in good standing, who is sensitive to issues of people of color, and who has financial need. Romina is the granddaughter of Chilean refugees from the Pinochet coup d'etat and is a delightful young woman who is traveling this summer for the first time to study in Chile.

The banquet took place at the Seven Hills Conference Center which was next to Ky's first year dorm (Mary Ward, I think) and next to the child care center. Ky would tell me about weekday mornings waking to the sounds of children playing below his window. I was welcomed warmly by the History Department and I was able to meet several of Kyle's teacher and a classmate who remembered Kyle fondly. Gearey, Miranda, and I were invited to return annually to present the scholarship award.

I think we made a good decision about how to honor Kyle. I think he would be pleased.

Mother's Day

Dear nieces Devon and Elizabeth with Cyn and Sal

Early in the week a few people said to me, "I know this is a rough week for you." The first time, it didn't register. The second time, I asked myself what they were talking about. Of course, Mother's Day. I gave myself an emotional check-in and realized that I wasn't having a hard time. It was a pleasant sensation, not to be in pain even when I had a perfectly good excuse.

They say that rituals help. Maybe that's why. I've been up to my ears in ritual. There were two donor memorials; the Musculoskeletal Transplant Foundation's ceremony on the 13th of April up in Cupertino and the Organ Donor Remembrance on the 26th in Hayward. I saw hundreds of donor family members who--like me--had lost their son or daughter or wife or husband and who had--like Gearey and I--made the decision to give his/her organs and more to save or help the living. I met recipients of skin who had undergone painful disfiguring burns, a former paraplegic who was cured by the transplant of a neck bone, a young nurse who'd lost the use of her foot, but now--thanks to donations of bone--was back to nursing on two strong feet. I met recipients of kidneys and livers, who explained how new it was to get a liver and how hard it is to find a kidney match (which was why Ky's kidneys are in Oregon and Maryland). And then, I watched as a line of recipients--young, old, white, black, Asian, Latino--stretched long across the stage and one by one, humbly and lovingly, spoke to us, the families of the 900 northern California donors in 2007, and thanked us for our loved lost ones' gifts.

On Ky's 23rd birthday, I visited the train station (see below). Later in the month in San Francisco, I finally met Kyle's wonderful boss Paul, who was every bit as kind and caring as Kyle had described. I will never know how much Paul influenced him in that year; but I bet it was a great deal. Then, last weekend I visited Miranda to celebrate her graduation (more on that later). And in between, when in town, I visited Kyle's grave at Forest Lawn, where I burnt incense, blew bubbles (the little bubble bottle still residing in Aunt Di's planter), left a note, cleaned off the marker, watered the plants, arranged flowers, and took in the view and the sounds and the smells.

So, by the time Mother's Day came around I had been taken 3 airplane round trips, met kind strangers, hugged a whole lot of people, cried buckets, and engaged in ritual practice many many times.

The main feeling I had before and on Mother's Day, was of celebration. As a mother for 26 plus years, I have given birth to and raised to adulthood two miraculous children. They are/were handsome and brilliant and good and kind and generous and witty and fun-loving-- like each of you and each of your children. I could not, would not, have traded in either of them for all the green/black/white tea in China.

And, the most prominent thought this week, was remembering that I was so proud of Kyle last year when a padded envelope arrived two days before Mother's Day, addressed incorrectly but still arriving early. Inside was a tiny bag and inside the bag wrapped in turquoise tissue paper were a pair of earrings. Lovely delicate dangly earrings with green (my favorite colors) stones. Perfect earrings for me (see photo above). At the time I kept the little paper bag and the tissue paper. And after Ky died I was so glad I did.

When your children remember to call you, hundreds of miles away, on your birthday or Mother's Day or New Year's Day, it is such a pleasure. You share a few minutes, catch up, wish each other well and happy day. But when they go that extra length, to send a card or a gift like flowers or a plant or earrings, your heart is filled with such warmth and pride--that they are growing up and taking time from their busy lives to do something for another (for you). These are the moments you treasure. Miranda had been doing this for several years. Last year was the first time for Kyle. And I delighted in this sure sign of adulthood, of manhood.

Two days before Mother's Day, a beautiful orchid plant arrived from Miranda. A deep purple phalaenopsis, with several flowers and many more buds. Bless her heart, my sweet daughter. The orchid is on my desk next to my computer with just enough sunlight. It can last for years; it will, if it is very very lucky, and Sallie helps me.

On Mother's Day, our beautiful nieces, Devon and Elizabeth, took sister Sal and me to brunch. Since my daughter was in NYC and Sallie's daughter Rhea was driving across country--had hit the rockies on Sunday, we were awfully lucky to have our brothers' girls to celebrate with. So there we all are. At Baja Cantina. Pestering the waitress to take a pic on the cell phone. And, can't you tell? A lovely time was had by all.

So. Yeah. I'm doing okay. I haven't sat down with Ky's picture and stared into his eyes and once again realized he is not coming down from SF ever again; nor have I truly allowed myself to get in touch with the pain that is there, not too far, below the surface. I'm staying busy and crazed (see upcoming Saga of How Losing All Ones Office Keys Can Make Semi Blindness a Minor Concern) and another ritual comes up this weekend. More to Come, More to Come, More to Come . . . .

Sunnyvale Train Station

Below is the train station where Ky fell. The Sunnyvale CalTrain Station. You can see a train approaching, heading north. The same type train, going in the same direction, that Kyle and Laura rode from Santa Cruz. Above is the front car, with the type of ladder he climbed. The top window: that is where the engineer sat whom Ky was trying to get to stop the train, because he wanted to get back on to continue his ride home, with Laura.

On Sunday, on Ky's 23rd birthday, I went to the station with my friend Maggie and George, one of Ky's oldest and best friends. The trains are double decker and Laura and Ky rode on the top. When their train stopped in Sunnyvale, it was delayed because of a suicide further north but on the south bound side. An announcement said it wouldn't be leaving for 45 minutes. Ky left to get them food. Laura looked out the window and caught Kyle's eye. He did a little skanking dance. Her last sight of him was smiling and happy and dancing.

He walked to a nearby area where there were all kinds of food, Mexican, Thai, Vietnamese. A really charming welcoming little street with cafe chairs in front of places, doors to bar type joints wide open.

At some point Kyle got the calls and texts from Laura. The train was ready to leave. Sooner than the 45 minutes promised. The detective said 20 minutes, the newspapers said 30. He left the restaurant without the food and ran.

Looking up at the train, George and Maggie and I could understand what Kyle was trying to do. The engineer in his little window was just out of reach to our tall guy. It would have seemed possible to get the driver's attention. If he'd just look down to the right he'd have seen Kyle waving. But he didn't and Kyle climbed up a step or two or more--I'm not sure--of the ladder on the front. At some point, Kyle would have realized the train was moving and he'd better get off. He tried to jump, I believe, and then fell, hitting the back right side of his head. From the height of the step and with his own 6 foot 8 inches, the impact was massive.

We could picture it and make sense of it. It was good to be with George, who has been so dear, keeping in touch and visiting me. George, who was the last friend to see Ky and say goodbye, having put Laura and Kyle on the train not an hour before. It wasn't supposed to be goodbye for long. Another concert was coming up.

Maggie had so thoughtfully brought flowers and petals and we scattered them. And we hugged and of course I cried.

I was glad I went to the train station. Glad I could begin to see through my own eyes what Ky was trying to do. Glad I could understand his last conscious minutes. Glad I saw the quaint sunny street of shops. Glad I could picture him dancing off to get him and his sweetheart some food. That's the best place to freeze the memory.

Last Picture/Show

In honor of Ky's birth day, Yuma sent these pictures of Kyle and Richie Spice. He took them at the Sierra Nevada Music Festival in late June of 2007. This may be the last picture taken of Kyle, so it is very precious. He was listening intently or thinking hard for sure. Yuma said, "We had so much fun and we wanted to see Richie Spice so bad for so long!!! and it happened!!" He said it was so chill and irie and the best concert ever.

Thought you would all love to see this picture of Kyle. One more of his expressions for us to savor.

Thank you Yuma. One peace and love.

April 13, 1985

On Sunday, it will be Kyle's 23rd birthday. The picture above is of Kyle, minutes old, in the arms of his dad. Kyle was two weeks overdue. As a boy he used to laugh and say that he didn't want to come out because he was so comfortable in there. The doctor got concerned, so he gave Gear and I some articles to read about inducing and told us to talk it over at dinner and then if we were comfortable about it, to just head to the hospital. So late in the evening about 11pm, the nurses started to induce labor. That kicked things off and eventually I had about 10 hours of hard labor (less than with Miranda), but then pushed for 3 hours before the doctor said he was going to have to perform a Caesarean.

Kyle Campbell Whitham McLeod was born at about 6:36 pm. He was 22 inches long and weighed 9 pounds, 15 and 1/4 ounces. We were pretty impressed with that weight, but the same day at the Hollywood Presbyterian Hospital a 13 pound baby girl was born. If Kyle got to be 6'8" I wonder how big that girl is today. He had the biggest hands and the longest fingers and Gear said, "Piano playing power forward." Kyle was so wide awake under the lights in the nursery that the nurses had to take him into their dark station for him to get some sleep. Ky's big sister, Miranda, welcomed him home a few days later and just adored him. With our boy, our little family felt complete.

On Ky's birthday, I'll be up north in Cupertino attending a memorial event by the Musculoskeletel Tissue Foundation. There will be recipients there and there will be a slide show of all of last year's donors. It may seem a little odd to be doing this; but I'm feeling drawn up north again and I'm not put off by public grieving rituals. At least I'll be crying with a bunch of other people for a change, in a place where crying is expected. And I think it might be harder to be at Forest Lawn, which is where I'd be otherwise.

But I will celebrate a little bit at Forest Lawn tomorrow, before I leave town. I'm bringing some sandalwood incense to burn and a little battery run speaker (that I had given Ky) to play some reggae, and I have a tiny little bottle of bubble stuff--I'll probably leave that there for any of you who will be visiting him. I'll bring some flowers of course. It's odd not having food around when thinking about celebrating a birthday, particularly Kyle's, but of course you can't leave food around a grave, what with ants and coyotes.

So if you're in town and free on Sunday, the 13th, consider giving Ky a visit or-- wherever you are--maybe raise a glass to Kyle and say a few words. If Ky were here he would be partying: with music and friends and libation and laughter. And it would be all good, wouldn't it.

Dearest boy, I love you and miss you and carry you in my thoughts and heart every moment. Happy Birthday, Kyle.

There is joy . . .

After an email from my dear friend Suzanne, I realized that mostly I am blogging about Grief. And while that is very cathartic for me (after all, Grief is everpresent in my life), it is hard on you, dear reader. And it also gives you a false impression of Life After Death. Because Grief and Joy are not incompatible and right from the beginning I was capable of laughing and even being downright silly. One's sense of humor doesn't die with your loved one. And I am sure it would be comforting for you to know that.

Because I am finishing up Taxes (appointment at 2pm), I can't wax away here, but I do want to share with you the joyful thing that happened this morning. See that pool up there? See that duck? Well, as I was heading for my swim, this cute Quacker and his mate had beat me to it. I've seen them for two springs now, early morning, swimming around in the condos' 85 degree pool. I was curious to see what would happen, so I got in. Mr. & Mrs. Mallard got right out. I felt bad, but then again, I wasn't sure that swimming with ducks was like swimming with dolphins. They stood together at the end of the pool, not a foot away from the edge, keeping their eye on me as I did my 15 laps.

Then, I got out. Sat still for a few minutes, and the two were back in again. As I started messing with my cell phone to capture this pic, the Missus got a little nervous and jumped out. The Mister continued to swim as if to say to her, "Come on back in, Mama, the water's fine." She didn't and I took off.

So. A little story. To bring a smile. And to let you know that I smile a great deal, laugh a great deal, and am joyful a great deal.

But, to the taxes.

Yes, taxes, again -- and more reminders

I think any of you who are following this blog must wonder at all my references to taxes. Why so many? Well, I filed Federal and State taxes late last year, in October. Then, in February, I was busy doing my City Taxes. Now, I am determined to do my Feds on time. I'm not doing too badly. Should be better prepared for my appointment on Friday than I normally am.

The challenge? Reminders of Kyle are everywhere. They are in the envelope of receipts--all the purchases for the Last Thanksgiving, the Last Christmas, the Last Concert in town, the Last Year's Birthday party before the Last Concert, the Last Birthday Dinner. Why did I save them? Cause I just collect all my pieces of paper from my wallet, purse, calendar book, briefcase bag, desktop, and throw them in a file and then greet them all again at tax time. My theory: the more receipts, the more deductions I'll find.

But what do I find along with those little deductions? Kyle-related receipts that have nothing to do with my taxes. But can I throw them out now? Of course not. How can I throw out the receipt that tells me what we had to eat in honor of Ky's turning 22? How can I throw out a random receipt with spaghetti carbonara on it--it had to be Kyle's order. How can I throw out a receipt for boxers--the annual Xmas re-stocking of his underwear. Or the receipt from Pearl for all his art supplies.

So I stuffed those receipts in an envelope and wrote "Kyle" on it. And I took other receipts and put them in an envelope with "Miranda" on it.

And I got back to my taxes.

Making Survival an Art

Verizon and Kyle and Dylan and Me

This has been a tearful afternoon. It's a bit of a long story.

I pay most of my bills through a pay company that used to be called PayMyBills.com. Great name. Now, it's Paytrust. Is that supposed to inspire confidence?

Anyway. For some reason I can't get my Verizon bills paid via Paytrust. I follow the steps, make new passwords, go from Verizon back to Paytrust and back to Verizon. The links don't seem to work. And I don't spend that much time worrying about it, so I tend to wait a couple of months and pay my wireless bill when I start getting text messages and home phone recorded reminders. To make it worse, I actually have 2, count'em, 2 Verizon accounts: one for my wireless and one for my home phone and DSL. My home phone quality s****. My condo association is supposed to give us a new TV cable company which will have DSL and then hopefully I can trash Verizon completely (altho they do own the local area--I thought we'd put competition and free choice back into our telephone experience following the execution of Ma Bell). But I digress.

I've been avoiding other calls from Verizon. The ones that want me to re-up for a new contract. I had a 2 year contract for phones for Kyle and me. Together we had a family plan and 1400 minutes to share. We never used them all and it was a safe number considering the number of client, family, and friend calls I get and the tendency of Kyle to get a call over with quickly.

I did call last fall trying to change my phone situation, but I was reminded I have signed a contract thru January. I didn't have the strength to fight it, although I did have enough to passive-aggressively lay it on the Verizon Associate that since my son was dead it would be hard to use both phones and both lines. At which point I hung up.

Meanwhile, I had written down (in the blank book I carried up north in which I had written everything I needed to remember about hospital, donor, detective, mortuary, cemetery, and financial business--among other things) the numbers and times of Kyle's last calls, his last incoming and outgoing text messages, and so forth. There wasn't a lot stuff on this cell, because Kyle had lost his previous phone a few weeks before his death. In fact he'd had to get his numbers from me to make a new contact list and so didn't have many numbers put back in. He explained that now he only had the numbers of his very best friends, because if they hadn't called him, he didn't have their numbers to call them.

Even tho I had written down the phone information, I lived with a dread that I hadn't captured it all. I kept wanting to go through it all again, scroll every menu to try to get every bit of information about Kyle's last minutes and days, but I didn't seem or want to find the time. And I was damned if I was going to turn off the cell phone before I finished my search. Of course, I was thwarted by the fact that the cell phone stopped recharging. So it sits on my desk, enticing me with inaccessible secrets.

January passes and I still don't go to Verizon. I get calls about re-upping my contract. I ignore them. Why? I just don't want to cut off Kyle's account. I don't want his phone to be dead (although it is anyway). I've already cut off all kinds of things with his name on it. I just hate the finality of it.

But then comes the call that I need to pay the phone bill and I talk with Verizon and promise I'll do it by Monday and then Monday comes and goes and finally I'm at work in between things and think that I better not get my cell phone cut off--that's my livelihood--and so I go on line and find the phone number and make the call.

And a really lovely woman named April (check out today's date) helps me pay my bill. And I tell her about Kyle and of course cry too much but she is so sweet. And she helps me change my Plan so that I am not paying twice as much as I need to. And she reassures me that the chip in Kyle's phone will hold the information until I am ready to do something about it. Thank you April.

So that was part of the reason that the waterworks started. And continued. Another reason was that I've put in 40 extra hours in the past week on a project and haven't gotten much sleep. And a third reason was that I was listening to my shuffle and Bob Dylan's gravelly voice singing "He Was a Friend of Mine" in a mournful minor key:

he was a friend of mine,
he was a friend of mine,
every time i think about him now
lord, i just can't keep from cryin'
cause he was a friend of mine

And then other lyrics like: he died on the road . . . a thousand miles from home . . . he never harmed no one . . .

And then I just couldn't keep from cryin' either . . .

And I just was missing Kyle so much and feeling so sorry for myself and wanting to reach out for comfort (as I was editing the comfort and grief sections of the Psychological First Aid training manual!) but not really wanting to do it at the office. I knew I would get home and I would blog and my blog would absorb my grief and transform it into a neat contained pretty-type-faced entry. And I knew that by the time I was through, my tears would have dried.

So I'll catch up on sleep, put Ky's cell phone in a drawer, and stay away from Dylan for a bit. And keep on bloggin' Mama, bloggin' your blues away.

Bless you, my blog, and you, kind reader.

Care of Kyle's Grave & Little Dog Lost

I visited Kyle at Forest Lawn yesterday.

Planter care: The planter, so lovingly given by Di, is doing well. The rosemary is growing and I think you should feel free to take a piece when you visit. It smells so wonderful and it's probably best for the plant to be pruned a bit, because if it gets too unwieldy on unsightly or dies, the workers will remove the planter.

If you visit Kyle's grave, would you move the planter several inches from whatever spot it is in, enough to give the grass underneath a chance to breathe and a chance for the earwig family to scamper around and get freaked out before they move back in underneath. I had placed the planter slightly above Ky's marker, and when I picked it up the grass was yellow and the earwigs were in abundance. So I have moved it lower on the grave. Frequent moving should help keep the grass fresh.

BTW I noticed that both sticks of incense have been burnt. Kyle burnt incense all the time and carried those sticks in his bag. I am comforted thinking Kyle can smell it when it's burning, along with the rosemary. I'll bring by more next week.

I am sad to report Flynn's little bull dog has disappeared. I looked around quite a bit on others' markers and in the grass, to no avail. I knew it was inevitable, but still it is sad to have Kyle's little companion gone. I'm sorry, Flynn, but thank you for leaving your little rubber dog. It was a sweet gift.

(Hey, if he shows up again, put him in a corner of the planter. That would keep him safe.)

My Mom & Dad Were Married 60 Years Ago Today

On March 28th, 1948, my mom and dad were married at the Congregational Church in Troy, NH. Sixty years ago, this very day. They stayed at the Fitzwilliam Inn, in (duh) Fitzwilliam, New Hampshire. Ten months later I was born. They must have liked the area because in 1958 we moved to Fitzwilliam. BTW, on the card from the Inn that Mum had saved in a scrapbook, the rates in 1948 ranged from $4.50 for a single without running water to $15.00 for a double with a bath. (No comment.)

Somewhere, I have a picture of my mom and dad standing in front of the church on their wedding day. I'll find it someday and post it. Bettsy was 25 and Blair was 30. They each had a 6 year old daughter (my sisters Donna and Beverly). Dad and Mum had known each other 6 weeks. The night they met, dad told his mother he'd just met the woman he was going to marry. Well, the second woman.

I remember seeing a letter that Dad wrote to my mom. It was so sweet. That letter showed me that, in spite of how he often treated my mom badly, he had started out completely devoted. They had a lot of fun. They had 4 kids together. And they had a rocky marriage. Dad could be verbally abusive, Mom could be amazingly passive aggressive. When I wonder how they got together, I think of that sweet letter.

On my trip back east to see her, Miranda said, again, that she couldn't understand why her dad and I ever got married. I was surprised. Gear and I had a lot in common and a good marriage for years. How could she not remember? In fact, at the age of ten, Miranda was completely surprised when we separated, because we never argued in front of her and her brother. Now, 16 years after the separation, she looks as us and can't figure out how we could ever have been together. That seemed so odd. I rattled off a list of the things we had in common, the many things we both loved to do, the things we saw eye to eye on. I'm not sure I got through to her. It's hard for kids to get their parents. And as hard as it is for our kids to understand us, it was that hard for me and my sibs to understand our parents' relationship.

The one thing I am sure about is that Blair and Bettsy would have loved seeing their grandkids. They would have adored this crew. They did know Robin and Melanie and Pete and Tim and Katie. But Dad died in 1979 and didn't know any of the grandchildren that would come of his marriage to Mum. And Mum died in 1982 when Miranda was 4 months old. So my parents have missed out on knowing Miranda, Rhea, Kyle, Devon, Elizabeth, Siena, and William. And they missed out on their great-grandchildren Alicia, Kiersten, and Nickolas--as well as Pete, Tim, and Katie's children. And that is a shame, cause this generation of kids is wonderful. My dad loved smart kids and he would have been blown away by this crew. And they both would have been impressed by each and every one of their grandchildren: how beautiful, how nice, how sweet, how loving, how funny, and how delightful they are.

And I think they would have loved Kyle. Kyle who had the biggest heart of all. Kyle, who appreciated family more than any kid I've ever known. Kyle who would grow as tall as a tree. Kyle with the magnificent hands. Kyle with the exquisite face that seemed to have McLeod and Whitham and Campbell and Price in equal amounts. Kyle who read and kept up on sports and sought out the news and understood world events. Kyle who was such a good friend and such a dear son.

And maybe the joke is on me. Maybe Blair and Betts and Kyle and all the generations who have gone before are hanging out together in the great unknown. Getting to know each other, the older folks really enjoying Kyle and feeling so bad for us because we have lost him, and knowing that our tragic loss is their gain. And in the clear light of day, I don't believe that one whit. But it's not the clear light of day. It's late night now. And I'll entertain anything.

Happy anniversary, Mum and Dad. You two have formed a multitude. And we are grateful and we honor you and we miss you so very very much.

With all my love,

Your daughter,

Cindy

happy easter

last easter Kyle was home and we went to the Harewoods. Dorian, Nancy, Gramma Ruth, Johnnie, sister Laurie and her kids were there. it was a lovely day together. Nancy cooked a fantastic meal (as she always does) and Kyle enjoyed every bite (as he always did). the few pictures we have are the last i took of Kyle. it is easter and it is spring again. kyle isn't with us and we miss him and his joy and his love.

No, not again! Tax AND work deadlines!

yes. i'm up to my ears today, sunday, easter even, working on a project. it's editing, so it's not taxing (like the taxes). but it has to be done and i'm being paid, so other than robbing my life of it's very essence, it's not bad.

and of course there is the T word. my appointment is april 11. if you look at a calendar it seems a long way away. but it's not. it's tomorrow practically. and with other deadlines and work work work, will i find the time to find enough receipts to ward off paying more taxes and penalties?

on the good side i had a wonderful time on my whirlwind weekend in NYC. saw dear friends (and former roommates) Leslie Hurley and Judy Copeland and saw Judy Flynn and David Kneuss from BU.

had a terrific girls' happy hour with miranda and met several of her friends, all of whom are delightful. met m & j's roommate Justin very briefly. saw The Homecoming with Katie and Dominique and M & J and it gave us great fodder for our post-play drink. the interpretation of the boxer brother Joey as pretty brain-damaged was right on target. i still am trying to figure out Ruth's motivation for leaving her children (leaving her self-important husband Teddy makes sense); when i played Ruth back in 1969, i didn't know enough about life to get how bizarre that way. given the sparse script, i'm not sure if any actress can make that believable-- particularly for mothers sitting in the audience.

we also went to the New Museum, the boxes building, and saw the exhibit "Unmonumental" which I keep referring to as "Unmemorable." altho a few other the sculptures or media pieces were engaging, i most enjoyed the view from the street of the building of boxes stacked against the sky and at the panorama from the top floor. looking over the bowery rooftops, seeing the hodge podge of textures, variety of architecture-- it occurred to me that the collection of bizarre junk (truly much of the exhibit was made of trash) inside reflected the outside city. but the exhibit made me feel i am just out of it, because if some of this stuff is art, i should forget about throwing away my recyclables and start glueing. maybe i'll reread the brochure and see if i can figure out what i am supposed to feel about "Unmonumental."

the best part was seeing Miranda, certainly. since it was the start of spring break she could afford a weekend trailing about with her mom. i do wish we lived closer. the best thing would be to have little visits more frequently. i wonder as i get older whether i will want to live on the east coast again. and yet, it's hot and bright and beautiful in LA this morning, and there is a pool downstairs waiting to see if i'll get enough work done to take a break.

Blog Junk ?

okay now i've received 2 comments to my blogs which say, "click here," and i clicked it once and it leads to an ad or something, can't remember, that's how memorable it was. the second one i deleted without clicking "here" or anywhere. then i clicked on "delete forever" with great satisfaction.

obviously these are junk mail type things. i would hate to think someone would have the nerve to junk a grieving mother's blog.

but just in case:

in a shout-out to JUNKERS & JUNKETTES:

have a little class, will ya?

Tripping

well there is a reunion party in New York City next Friday, the 14th, of Boston University School of Fine and Applied Arts attendees from (roughly) 1969 to 1976. i was there 67-70 and 71-72.

the gap was due to a drop out following Kent State and a "sabbatical" year spent first in Omaha with the Magic Theatre, then in Santa Rosa for 9 months, and finally in Honolulu for a month working in a "play" in a "theatre" that is best left undescribed and never put on a resume. but enough about the gap year.

i got a snail mail copy of an email describing the get together. the email address list is long and almost indecipherable. but i did find addresses for two former roommates and at least one old boyfriend. so i've been corresponding and will see Judy Copeland (Cohn) who introduced Gearey and me to each other, so is directly responsible for hooking me up with (among other things) some really good DNA for my babies.

and hearing about the BU Theatre Arts Wrap Party has helped me avoid doing my taxes which are due again (all those previous tax references are for my October filing last year--I'm trying to do my taxes on time this year). so i've spent time emailing friends from 35 years ago, sending pictures, and going down memory lane.

i'll go to the "wrap party," hole up in a $100/night B&B-type place in the East Village, take Miranda, Joshua, Katie, and Dominque to Pinter's The Homecoming--which will also be a trip down memory lane as I played Ruth in a summerstock production in 1969 in Cape Elizabeth, Maine. avoiding taxes further, i googled Downeast Players and came up with this link to a diary of a guy's summerstock experience as musical director at that theatre. if you do a "find" for "cynthia" you'll find a one line review of my performance as Ruth. the wonders of 21st century technology! true time travel.

at christmas with her in NYC, miranda said that i should "do like Aunt Della" and come to NYC more frequently in short stints. long trips wear out everyone no matter how much you love them, and she is exactly right: occasional brief wonderful visits make complete sense. as a certified member of the New England WASP Delay-Your-Gratification Club i have postponed various kinds of indulgence (see? i even call visiting my only child INDULGENCE!) for years, waiting until i have enough money or until otherwise feel deserving. but this is Life After Losing Kyle--and my priorities have changed. this is where my impulsivity gets free reign. i get to take a weekend junket.


i'm excited.

mother load

the mailbox tonight brought more hard news.
the recipient of kyle's lungs has died.
the letter from the donor people just said that he "experienced a decline in health" and that's all i know. except i remember that he came from Los Angeles and that his operation may have been done at Cedars. it hit me hard. i had felt like i was losing kyle all over again.

but that happened tonight.
this morning, when i was driving to Forest Lawn i had an image of Kyle's body starting to decay and it took me by surprise. i'm sorry for bringing this up; i know it's grotesque. i've entertained a similar thought before and it hadn't bothered me so much but this morning it was more real and i was horrified.

in the process of losing kyle, i find myself running toward or even embracing what might be off-putting. i have no choice. i haven't had a choice since the phone call. i pushed headlong toward the truth. "is he going to die?" i asked gearey directly. in the hospital i had to touch and kiss his wounded face. i had to wash his feet and hands and clean his nails. at the grave, i had to stay to see my son descend into the earth. i had to interpret every word in the ambulance bill and i had to read every page of the autopsy report (only once, though. then i put it back in the envelope and won't read it for a long time). when i asked gear if he read the report, he said "just some of it, i couldn't read it all. why would i want to? no."

i know i will visit the train station some day. i will meet with the detective and see the place he fell. i will touch the cold cement platform. i will search for signs of blood. and i will seek out the emergency technicians. and i may go back to the hospital.

what is this need? i'm not sure. part of it, though, is that kyle went through all of this by himself. he climbed, he fell, he was sped in the ambulance to the hospital, he was put on the respirator, he was taken off, he was pronounced dead, he was relieved of his organs, he had the autopsy, he was picked up by the mortuary and brought to LA in a refrigerated vehicle, he was dressed and laid in the coffin, and he was buried in the ground.

the least his mom can do--if she can't be there for him at every moment--is to learn as much as she can about it all. a mother cannot shirk from this. or at least this mother cannot.

today when i reached kyle's grave, there was the lovely wooden box of plants which ky's Aunt Di had placed next to the marker. the most prominent plant was the fragrant rosemary. i was glad she put in rosemary, as we often had rosemary growing at the house. i remembered how much we all loved hot rosemary bread. all the images that had troubled me earlier were long gone. i lit one of kyle's sticks of incense and placed it in the planter.