you get to know the phrases to say:
"you don't get over it -- but you learn to live with it"
"it comes like waves; you get on your feet and it knocks you over again"
you learn to live with it but you don't want to have an "it" to have to live with
and as for waves: sometimes you want to lie at the water's edge
and let the sea do what it will
one year and eight months and three weeks have passed
and lately you've been feeling the worst is over --
and truly it is -- what could be worse than the first knowing --
but then you go to the bank to close your son's account
and in the customer care cubby you can't speak so
you just hand the woman his Death Certificate
and she, now speechless as well, grabs your hands in hers
and searches in your eyes to understand
and if compassion were capable of healing you'd be healed
then she rushes off for tissue
at last she hands you the statement of his last bank activity
which he'd not received because
where he was living when he died and the address the bank had
were clearly two different places
and you see his address which you did know once, maybe
and it's fucking FELL STREET
Fell Street, San Francisco
so if they ask you about grieving
just tell them you're doing okay
and if they wait a little, seeming to want to know
tell them about the last knock down
that will capture it
Showing posts with label grief. Show all posts
Showing posts with label grief. Show all posts
Monday, March 30, 2009
Friday, March 27, 2009
the club grows
tonight i am hit with a wave of grief.
it comes up suddenly as i'm walking the dog.
ky loved the damned dog.
i've been singing "you're all i ne-eed to get by"
badly.
thinking of sad sweet tammi turrell.
and i look up at the stars and the dark city sky.
and i just. want. my. son.
and i picture him falling backward.
and i cringe and hurt deep.
and i sob.
and i think of cees and margret and their boy.
and i think of lisa and her boy.
and i think of karen and her boy.
and i think of jean and her boy.
and i think of robin and her boy.
and i think of cee and her boy.
and i think of caroly and john and their boy.
i know of seven lost boys.
seven bereft mothers.
seven bereft fathers.
no peace will we find.
it comes up suddenly as i'm walking the dog.
ky loved the damned dog.
i've been singing "you're all i ne-eed to get by"
badly.
thinking of sad sweet tammi turrell.
and i look up at the stars and the dark city sky.
and i just. want. my. son.
and i picture him falling backward.
and i cringe and hurt deep.
and i sob.
and i think of cees and margret and their boy.
and i think of lisa and her boy.
and i think of karen and her boy.
and i think of jean and her boy.
and i think of robin and her boy.
and i think of cee and her boy.
and i think of caroly and john and their boy.
i know of seven lost boys.
seven bereft mothers.
seven bereft fathers.
no peace will we find.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
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 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.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
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?
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?
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Mother's Day
Dear nieces Devon and Elizabeth with Cyn and SalEarly 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 . . . .
Friday, April 11, 2008
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.
Sunday, April 6, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, March 1, 2008
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.
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.
Friday, February 22, 2008
wednesdays at 5:35 pm
every wednesday around 5:30 or 5:40 in the late afternoon you can find me walking from 300 medical plaza across the street to the NPI to run my social skills groups. for years, this has been the routine. and this is the time i always called kyle or miranda. i had only a minute or two, but so frequently i found kyle. after his school day was over. before his work would begin. we'd only speak for seconds. a brief check in.
now, every wednesday. i have the same impulse. to press "contacts" and then "kyle" and soon we'll be visiting for a minute or two. like we did during when he was in high school, then more frequently during college. the wednesday walk across the street was my most dependable contact with kyle. for over four years. there weren't any other weekly rituals we shared so regularly.
it's starting to get light out now. there have been one or two wednesdays when i've walked across the street and it's no longer been dark. even more, it reminds me of kyle. last spring, early summer, the last time i remember this quality of light, kyle and i were having our short calls to catch up.
the walks across the street are longer and so much more silent.
now, every wednesday. i have the same impulse. to press "contacts" and then "kyle" and soon we'll be visiting for a minute or two. like we did during when he was in high school, then more frequently during college. the wednesday walk across the street was my most dependable contact with kyle. for over four years. there weren't any other weekly rituals we shared so regularly.
it's starting to get light out now. there have been one or two wednesdays when i've walked across the street and it's no longer been dark. even more, it reminds me of kyle. last spring, early summer, the last time i remember this quality of light, kyle and i were having our short calls to catch up.
the walks across the street are longer and so much more silent.
Friday, February 1, 2008
Why the mailbox is dangerous
There's a whole lot about the donor world that I don't know. Obviously, there's no way to know about it unless you have been unfortunate enough to have a loved one die, but fortunate enough for that loved one to be young and healthy and die with organs intact--and for the death to be sudden but not so sudden that he cannot be rushed to the hospital and sustained on life support.
In my 6 months experience of being the mother of a donor, I know that there are two types of donations: organ and tissue/muscle/bone/etc. I get them mixed up. I get a newsletter every so often from one of them, with lots of information about grieving and what other families have gone through. And then, like last week, I got the wonderful gift of a recipient letter. (I've written back to him, BTW.)
But there's more: like the letter that came about an annual memorial to honor and remember the donors. There's one in March or maybe April up north in Hayward. Gearey expressed not being interested at all, definitely not wanting to become a part of some sort of movement. His grieving for Kyle is a very private thing. I'm sure to Gear it seems almost disrespectful to Kyle to meet up with a bunch of strangers. I don't know why, but I don't feel that way. I understand him completely, but I'm just different. Like on New Year's Day when I saw the Rose Parade float honoring organ donors and accompanied by recipients, I wanted Kyle's face on that balloon.
And then there was today. Another mail box surprise. I get a card addressed to Gearey but sent to my address. It's from the tissue & the eye bank people. It's a Save the Date card. For an annual donor remembrance. It says, "Invitation to follow."
Another event, I think. Should I bother to tell Gear?
And then I see the small calendar on the card.
There's a date circled with a red heart.
The event will be held on 13th of April.
Kyle will turn 23 on that day.
Except I'm supposed to say, "He would have been 23." We only count the years one actually completes, don't we. Yet I will have been his mother for 23 years on April 13th. His dying won't erase that. And he will be 23, except that he won't be here to party with us.
I wonder how many years I will be drawn to and fearful of the contents of the mailbox.
I just want my boy back.
I just want my boy back.
I just want my boy back.
In my 6 months experience of being the mother of a donor, I know that there are two types of donations: organ and tissue/muscle/bone/etc. I get them mixed up. I get a newsletter every so often from one of them, with lots of information about grieving and what other families have gone through. And then, like last week, I got the wonderful gift of a recipient letter. (I've written back to him, BTW.)
But there's more: like the letter that came about an annual memorial to honor and remember the donors. There's one in March or maybe April up north in Hayward. Gearey expressed not being interested at all, definitely not wanting to become a part of some sort of movement. His grieving for Kyle is a very private thing. I'm sure to Gear it seems almost disrespectful to Kyle to meet up with a bunch of strangers. I don't know why, but I don't feel that way. I understand him completely, but I'm just different. Like on New Year's Day when I saw the Rose Parade float honoring organ donors and accompanied by recipients, I wanted Kyle's face on that balloon.
And then there was today. Another mail box surprise. I get a card addressed to Gearey but sent to my address. It's from the tissue & the eye bank people. It's a Save the Date card. For an annual donor remembrance. It says, "Invitation to follow."
Another event, I think. Should I bother to tell Gear?
And then I see the small calendar on the card.
There's a date circled with a red heart.
The event will be held on 13th of April.
Kyle will turn 23 on that day.
Except I'm supposed to say, "He would have been 23." We only count the years one actually completes, don't we. Yet I will have been his mother for 23 years on April 13th. His dying won't erase that. And he will be 23, except that he won't be here to party with us.
I wonder how many years I will be drawn to and fearful of the contents of the mailbox.
I just want my boy back.
I just want my boy back.
I just want my boy back.
Monday, December 31, 2007
Countdown to 2008
When I turned 7 years old, my dad told me 7 was a very special year and from that point on, I considered 7 my lucky number.
It turned out my dad was wrong. Kyle died in the 7th month of the year 2007. Although he was officially pronounced dead on the 6th, his respirator was turned off and his organs were taken in the earliest hours of the 7th. In fact, his last phone call was just about at 7pm. His accident was within minutes after. I remember looking up at the clock at UCLA where I was running a parenting group and it said 7:01. The group was supposed to end at 6:45, but I tend to run over, trying to give folks every bit of wisdom I can muster. But I felt a strong urgency to stop right then.
I met my friend Marylou and sister Sallie for dinner. I was a misery. Looking at the tiny table, the cramped chairs, the loudly colored images on the flat screened TV on the wall above, I actually said to them, "I don't see a way I can be comfortable." I went to the bathroom. I said out loud, "Cyn, what the hell is the matter with you?" I returned to the table. Apologized and sat down. I had a hard time ordering. My conversation was forced. Later I found out, Marylou thought I was angry at them. At a place they were both so excited to show me. Korean barbeque. Sizzling bits of beef and vegetables. Perfect for my perennial diet. But the food tasted strange. My mood was disturbed and disturbing. Nothing was right.
I had left my cell phone in the car. I rarely do that. Normally I think, "if there's a hold-up, if the roof collapses in an earthquake, I want to have my cell phone." But the phone had run out of juice. I didn't hear the 15 calls from Sean, Gearey, Licie, everyone. Not until I was driving away with Sallie did the phone ring again with Gearey telling me to stop driving the car. That was how it happened.
There may be other bad years to come, but 2007 is bound to stand out as the very worst.
2008 will be better. But I'm afraid of that. I picture learning to live with the grief, but I wonder -- as grief's sharp edges dull, will Kyle fade in my memory? Will the pictures in my mind reduce to the photos around me and the ones on the slide show? Will I eventually capture on this blog all the stories about Kyle, so that my love and memory of him will be no longer boundless, but a completed set of images within a frame? If I write a book about Kyle some day, will that reduce him to a collection of words on a limited number of pages between the covers? I find these possibilities heartbreaking.
But 2008 will be the year I accept Kyle's death. It will be the year I return to sanity. It will be the year I (and I do hate this phrase) move on. It will be the year I start to forget. I guess 2008 won't be so great.
I am sorry for this post. I know I don't need to apologize, but I had meant to blog about the peace I have been feeling and the spiritual strength and love and connection that is growing among my family members. I wanted to talk about having a lovely Christmas with Miranda in NYC and staying at Gail's house in Brooklyn and going to the best party on Christmas eve at the home of 3 wonderful Greek sisters who had married wonderful Italian men and all had had daughters, so the place was rocking with 3 generations of folks and great fun and food. And I wanted to talk about the plays Miranda and I saw. And I wanted to brag about my 22 pounds of weight loss and fitting into smaller clothing. I wanted to share that I am not in the excruciating place I had been in. But I guess that will be for my first blog in the new year.
Meanwhile, don't let this get you down. I think I just needed a few minutes of thinking about Kyle and mourning a little, before heading out to a party with my BF and welcoming the new year. Everything's gonna be alright. It's gonna be "All good." Right, Ky?
So have a Happy New Year. I will. I promise.
It turned out my dad was wrong. Kyle died in the 7th month of the year 2007. Although he was officially pronounced dead on the 6th, his respirator was turned off and his organs were taken in the earliest hours of the 7th. In fact, his last phone call was just about at 7pm. His accident was within minutes after. I remember looking up at the clock at UCLA where I was running a parenting group and it said 7:01. The group was supposed to end at 6:45, but I tend to run over, trying to give folks every bit of wisdom I can muster. But I felt a strong urgency to stop right then.
I met my friend Marylou and sister Sallie for dinner. I was a misery. Looking at the tiny table, the cramped chairs, the loudly colored images on the flat screened TV on the wall above, I actually said to them, "I don't see a way I can be comfortable." I went to the bathroom. I said out loud, "Cyn, what the hell is the matter with you?" I returned to the table. Apologized and sat down. I had a hard time ordering. My conversation was forced. Later I found out, Marylou thought I was angry at them. At a place they were both so excited to show me. Korean barbeque. Sizzling bits of beef and vegetables. Perfect for my perennial diet. But the food tasted strange. My mood was disturbed and disturbing. Nothing was right.
I had left my cell phone in the car. I rarely do that. Normally I think, "if there's a hold-up, if the roof collapses in an earthquake, I want to have my cell phone." But the phone had run out of juice. I didn't hear the 15 calls from Sean, Gearey, Licie, everyone. Not until I was driving away with Sallie did the phone ring again with Gearey telling me to stop driving the car. That was how it happened.
There may be other bad years to come, but 2007 is bound to stand out as the very worst.
2008 will be better. But I'm afraid of that. I picture learning to live with the grief, but I wonder -- as grief's sharp edges dull, will Kyle fade in my memory? Will the pictures in my mind reduce to the photos around me and the ones on the slide show? Will I eventually capture on this blog all the stories about Kyle, so that my love and memory of him will be no longer boundless, but a completed set of images within a frame? If I write a book about Kyle some day, will that reduce him to a collection of words on a limited number of pages between the covers? I find these possibilities heartbreaking.
But 2008 will be the year I accept Kyle's death. It will be the year I return to sanity. It will be the year I (and I do hate this phrase) move on. It will be the year I start to forget. I guess 2008 won't be so great.
I am sorry for this post. I know I don't need to apologize, but I had meant to blog about the peace I have been feeling and the spiritual strength and love and connection that is growing among my family members. I wanted to talk about having a lovely Christmas with Miranda in NYC and staying at Gail's house in Brooklyn and going to the best party on Christmas eve at the home of 3 wonderful Greek sisters who had married wonderful Italian men and all had had daughters, so the place was rocking with 3 generations of folks and great fun and food. And I wanted to talk about the plays Miranda and I saw. And I wanted to brag about my 22 pounds of weight loss and fitting into smaller clothing. I wanted to share that I am not in the excruciating place I had been in. But I guess that will be for my first blog in the new year.
Meanwhile, don't let this get you down. I think I just needed a few minutes of thinking about Kyle and mourning a little, before heading out to a party with my BF and welcoming the new year. Everything's gonna be alright. It's gonna be "All good." Right, Ky?
So have a Happy New Year. I will. I promise.
Friday, October 26, 2007
Sunday, October 7, 2007
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.
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.
Friday, August 31, 2007
and then . . .
and then there are the moments that i look at a picture of kyle
and i look into his face looking back at the camera
looking at me or you or someone else
but in this case me
i look into his eyes
looking into my eyes
and then i remember that he'll never be here to look at me again
to talk to me
or lecture me
or teach me
or make me laugh
or say, mom its all good
oh kyle its all bad
its all so very very bad
and i look into his face looking back at the camera
looking at me or you or someone else
but in this case me
i look into his eyes
looking into my eyes
and then i remember that he'll never be here to look at me again
to talk to me
or lecture me
or teach me
or make me laugh
or say, mom its all good
oh kyle its all bad
its all so very very bad
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
These days . . .
so sometimes i am irritable and sometimes i am beyond exhaustion and sometimes i am completely at peace and sometimes i have infinite compassion and sometimes i want to scream. and i am still quite numb.
i discover the day is passing and i haven't cried yet and i feel like i am dishonoring my son. and i fear the day that i don't cry at all and the eventual day that i'll reach nightfall without having thought about him.
i miss his exquisite hands, his crooked front teeth, his long boney giant spider hugs, his size 14 feet, his cell phone calls from bus stops and train stops on the way to work, from work, to class, to home.
i miss his voice. and i have no recording of it. he never learned to program his cell phone with an announcement. if anyone has a message saved please let me know.
Kyle's last conversation with me on the 4th of July having fun with friends in Santa Cruz: "I'll call you when I'm back in the city, Mom. I love you."
i discover the day is passing and i haven't cried yet and i feel like i am dishonoring my son. and i fear the day that i don't cry at all and the eventual day that i'll reach nightfall without having thought about him.
i miss his exquisite hands, his crooked front teeth, his long boney giant spider hugs, his size 14 feet, his cell phone calls from bus stops and train stops on the way to work, from work, to class, to home.
i miss his voice. and i have no recording of it. he never learned to program his cell phone with an announcement. if anyone has a message saved please let me know.
Kyle's last conversation with me on the 4th of July having fun with friends in Santa Cruz: "I'll call you when I'm back in the city, Mom. I love you."
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