Bookends

Time it was, and what a time it was, it was

A time of innocence

A time of confidences

Long ago, it must be

I have a photograph

Preserve your memories

They're all that's left you

   - Simon and Garfunkle

It was November 14.  So long ago.  My best friend Heidi and I were sophomores.  We had attended a fancy reception for all the pre-law students.  Just awful.  We returned to the dorms fairly disgusted with the rich college kids we were surrounded by.   We came back asking ourselves, what were we doing with those people.  We knew in 30 years they would be no different than they were tonight.  Effetes.  Privileged.  Smug.  We didn't want to fall victim to that.

Feeling at odds with our chosen college/career path, and out of sorts with the world, we changed out of our formal wear and into jeans.  The night was clear and comfortable, and Heidi and I decided to go for a walk.  

We came downstairs to the dorm reception area, and there he was.  Long hair, oversized tape recorder slung over his shoulder,  mic in one hand, silly grin.  "Good evening, ladies, the weaker sex,  most of whom are women..." he said in his best DJ voice.  It trailed off after that because we were SO upset at the levity in contrast to the pomposity we had just experienced.  Heidi shoved the mic back into him, saying, "what do you mean, women are weak!!" and we walked out, intending to walk under the stars in the clear night air and calm ourselves.

Shortly into the walk, just a few dozen yards from our dorm, she decided she wanted to go on alone.  I honored that.

And that changed my life.

I returned to the dorm, having really no place else to go, and "he" was still there.  I was fascinated.  My dad was a musician and growing up I had been in radio stations, live music venues, recording sessions and the like, so a guy with a tape recorder was not really so out of place.

We bonded instantly. I've often tried to understand why, but it defies logic. We were different in so many ways, and yet, oddly, had much in common.  Both orphans.  Wickedly smart.  Terrific sense of humor.  Later, we would talk about having been together in a previous life.  I came to believe it.  

We got married almost five years later.  Until the end, we celebrated two anniversaries -- November 14,  and then our wedding day on April 5.

It was a tumultuous life, full of highs and lows, fabulous great experiences and terrible nightmares, music and drama and the law, but it was a life I could not have had with anyone else.  Despite all the good and bad, and the joy and anguish, the bond that was instantly ours on November 14 never went away.

And so, when his spirit left this plane many years later on July 23, I was devastated.  Despite difficulties and depressions, Steven through it all was my rock, my best friend, my biggest fan and greatest cheerleader.  Even in our darkest days, he would support me in my work and cheer me on.  When I needed advice, he always gave it.  I knew whatever I needed was just a phone call away.  And I like to believe I was the same to him.

The end came as a shock.  It was a sudden illness that he ignored and by the time he realized the gravity, and reached out for help, it was too late to save him.  

I recall being in the hospital surrounded by his family, being offered comfort, and also being offered pharmaceuticals because I was so distraught.  But what I remember most was the sense of being utterly alone. Such a big part of my life and my identity was now gone.

I soldiered on, if for no other reason that to comfort our children, but they found no comfort and they suffered greatly with the loss.

Only now, years later, can I think back on my life with Steven, and have gratitude for all it was.  And understand that the pain was part of  our growth and that the good part needed the bad part to appreciate all we were and all we had.  Now, for me, there is no "bad" or "good" -- it simply was our life and I wish it had not stopped so abruptly.  There's so much I would love to share with him now, including the memory of the anniversary of the night we met.

I have a large framed photograph of Steven and me that recently came out of hiding.  It was taken when we had been together less than a year.  He was working at the Hollywood Bowl and I was standing next to him at the mix board obviously discussing something of great importance.  An  unknown photographer snapped our picture from a distance.  The candid shot so perfectly captured us at that moment in time, young and intent and earnest.  Our daughter insisted it be hung on the wall in our home, a place I bought last year, so it is a place Steven was never in.  At first I was uncomfortable having it there, but it has come to be a bit of a comfort to me.  Looking at it now brings a slight smile, as it reminds me of the life that was, and of the beginning, and of the end, of our time together.  

And now, tonight, the anniversary of the night we met, when the night air is as comfortably cool and invigorating as it was all those years ago, I look at the photo with a wistful thought and just a dash of melancholy.  I celebrate who we were, the bad days and good, the fun and not so fun, and our building a life and then our trying to redefine it when what we built fell apart.  Tonight, I celebrate that beginning, and I celebrate the "us" that was.

Bookends.  November 14 to July 23.  I have a photograph.  And memories.

Wish you were here.

copyright 2020

Grief and the Death of Normal

When I first started this blog, I only considered the loss surrounding a child.  Then I added spouse,  and then I added best friend.  Now....in what the world has become, I add the loss of life as we knew it.  The loss of normal.

For those of us who have suffered loss, we know what it means to lose something.  But it means a person, someone who has been a major part of our life.

Now, we have lost our normal way of life. 

Those who have not gone through the grief journey do not recognize the grief path. But with the pandemic, and the FEAR that we now all live with, comes the familiar stages:  we ignore the gravity of the situation (let's bake bread!  Let's go walking!  Let's do jigsaw puzzles!).  Then there is the reality (OMG, I can't go to work, I''m not getting paid, I can't celebrate a birthday/wedding/annivesary).  Then there is the reality that things are not as they were.

Welcome, world, to the grief that we survivors have been living with.

Grief.  It sucks.


First published 4/20/2020

The Life and Death Decider

I have usually encountered death in a sudden, unexpected way.  (The exceptions are my grandmothers, who lived into their 80s -- which now seems somehow a bit young but for their generation was old. )

Now, I am confronted with a new face of mortality.  According to the doctors, I am faced with the unfathomable choice of deciding when my friend of almost 20 years will die.

She was taken to the hospital a week ago.  She has been in and out of a coma since then.  She is not able to communicate her thinking or her wishes as to medical care or anything else.

10 years ago she appointed me her power of attorney.  She has no other family.  Her only child is severely autistic and not able to decide on anything more than what he wants for his birthday dinner.  And so it goes that when she cannot communicate her wishes, the doctors look for someone who will make her decisions for her. So, that means...…..

I'm the decider.

As much as this is a burden no one should carry, I'm comforted in knowing that at least this choice is in the hands of a person who is her friend and who cares about her.  Otherwise, it would be the courts appointing a professional conservator who no doubt would decide that extra medical interventions only "prolong the inevitable" and would give the order to terminate  all medical support.  In other words, pull the plug.  I'm just not willing to do it right now, because she still has function and will and spirit.

My friend is fighting to stay in this plane of existence. She lives for her son and is trying to return to him.  I know that.  I have pledged to give her the support and medical care to enable her to make a comeback.

If she loses the fight, then I am comforted with the knowledge that I did not hasten the end.

She has brain function.  She responds to my voice by moving towards me, opening her eyes, struggling to speak despite the ventilation tube (needed because her oxygen levels were too low).  She wiggled her toes when the doctor asked her to. She comes around when I mention her son.  She responds to pain stimuli.  She tries hard to open her eyes and to talk, despite the tube.

I have had the doctors say, "but what about the quality of life?  She likely will never be the same."  That may very well be true.  But if she survives this medical downturn, and maintains some conscious connection to this plane, then she will still be here and somehow able to connect with her son.  He has been her reason for living for far too long, and so long as she shows signs of cognition and function,  I will not be the one to willfully terminate that connection.

But the pressure to do so is enormous.  I do not fault the doctors.  They only see the outward suffering.  They cannot understand as I do that all she wants is to go home and be with her son.

Perhaps that is why I fight for her.  To be that connected with one's child -- as I was (and am) to my son (and daughter) -- is beyond rational explanation.  I cannot and will not be the force to interfere with that.

My own son was killed by those who wanted to break the bonds between us in order to advance their own selfish purposes. And they were nurses!!!!!  Their souls (I hope and pray) will suffer for such depravity. But their evildoing helped me see that I cannot be the one who decides to sever the earthly ties between a parent a child.

I will continue to advocate for my friend.  She must be the one to rally and come back to consciousness, or to give into the light and transition to a new existence.

Her medical condition is quite serious.  I am not naïve enough to believe she will simply get better and go home.  She may never be who she was.  But I will give her the opportunity to stay with us.

Should she now pass on, I will grieve our friendship, and yet be comforted in knowing I did all I could to give her the opportunity to stay in this life.

I have prayed about this situation.  Does that seem odd to you?  For one who has lost as much as I have, to do something as impractical as "pray?"

Over the past few years, I have returned to prayer.  Don't laugh or scoff.  It is the act of acknowledging that one needs help -- or is asking for help for another in need.  It recognizes that we are not the center of the universe, and that there are forces beyond our full comprehension or control.

And so to whom does one pray?  To the universe?  To God?  To Jesus?  To the candle on my shelf?  Here is where my prayers go:   To the Higher Power by whatever name we choose to give her/him/it.  I choose to call this Higher Power by the simple name "God."  Somebody bigger than you or I.

My prayer -- my request for help -- is that Mary answers the question "leave" or "stay" by deciding to stay (contrast to my BFF Heidi who left so quickly and before I even knew she was so ill) and that I will hear the answer even if she cannot say it or act on it.

Whether she survives or passes, I will be comforted by knowing that she trusted her health decisions to me.  I pray I continue to make the choices that are best for her.

copyright 2020