Monday, December 11, 2006
Thursday, December 07, 2006
Waiting for an invitation to arrive
Turn, Turn, Turn my ass, I think the Byrds are full of shit. I know they didn't write that song, but they did take it to number one in 1965, so I'm holding them accountable. Plus, that is a much better choice than the actual songwriter who cribbed most of the lyrics from the Book of Ecclesiastes. I'm uncomfortable calling that book full of shit, since, stop, drop and roll doesn't work in hell. But, as always, I digress.
Turn! Turn! Turn! (to Everything There Is A Season) my ass - try losing a loved one to cancer two weeks before Halloween. It is jacked up, hard. How strange it is to drive by homes that have ghastly decorations in their yard. Thinking about those zombies coming up from their faux graves while you are sitting next to a real life skin and bone zombie who is your Mom. At the end she even moaned like a zombie.
I realize that I shouldn't bring up, what I can't put down, because nearly two months since Mom's death, I'm clearly still haunted by it all.
I get that. What I didn't get is how people could decorate their yards with the faux dead and stay up late into the night watching horror films and not be able to look me in the eye when they learned that my Mom had died. How many couldn't even acknowledge her death.
I didn't understand that so many embrace Halloween in all its macabre, ghoulish glory because they are scared to death, of death. You know what? I was one of those many. I can think back on times when I didn't know what to say to someone when they had lost a loved one. How I had dodged them or simply said nothing.
If I've learned anything from this, it is the fact that you should keep your eyes open when you walk past the proverbially graveyard rather than whistling past in a state of denial.
Until I BLOG again...Goin' to a party where no one's still alive
Turn! Turn! Turn! (to Everything There Is A Season) my ass - try losing a loved one to cancer two weeks before Halloween. It is jacked up, hard. How strange it is to drive by homes that have ghastly decorations in their yard. Thinking about those zombies coming up from their faux graves while you are sitting next to a real life skin and bone zombie who is your Mom. At the end she even moaned like a zombie.
I realize that I shouldn't bring up, what I can't put down, because nearly two months since Mom's death, I'm clearly still haunted by it all.
I get that. What I didn't get is how people could decorate their yards with the faux dead and stay up late into the night watching horror films and not be able to look me in the eye when they learned that my Mom had died. How many couldn't even acknowledge her death.
I didn't understand that so many embrace Halloween in all its macabre, ghoulish glory because they are scared to death, of death. You know what? I was one of those many. I can think back on times when I didn't know what to say to someone when they had lost a loved one. How I had dodged them or simply said nothing.
If I've learned anything from this, it is the fact that you should keep your eyes open when you walk past the proverbially graveyard rather than whistling past in a state of denial.
Until I BLOG again...Goin' to a party where no one's still alive
Friday, November 10, 2006
Filled with imperfect thought
I first heard about the purported Five Stages of Grief in March, while watching Scrubs. It was a good episode. John Boy's Mom, who was a patient at Sacred Heart Hospital, was dying. It wasn't really John Boy's Mom, just the actress that played her. I have a hard time thinking of Michael Learned as anyone other than Olivia 'Livie' Walton. I guess I'm in denial, which is the first stage of grief.
As for the other stages, I think for the past six months I've been engaged in what could best be described as a circle jerk with stages two and three. Anger and bargaining if you believe in the Five Stages of Grief. Not to be a contrarian, but I'm not sure that I do. Perhaps because I'm hung up on their chronology? In my head one turns into two, two into three, three into four, four into five. That is not what has happened with me. In fact, when Mom died I coudn't pass GO, instead I went back to stage one. Denial.
I didn't realize I was in denial though, which is why for my money denial is top of the pops in the five stages of grief hit parade? It rocks. You are oblivious.
A week or so ago, my Lovely Bride and I were talking in the kitchen when she told me that she didn't think that I had got the fact that Mom had died. That it hadn't fully hit me yet. Excuse me? I didn't get the fact that Mom had died. Was she nuts? How could I not get that Mom had died. I had been with her those final days. I had seen such terrible things. I had held her hand when she died. I had seen them do all the shit they to a dead body after she died. Hell, I even followed Mom out of the house, and watched them load her into the van that took her body to the funeral home. It was raining. Isn't that a nice touch? Imagine me, standing in the rain, at the edge of my parents driveway, watching my Mom being driven away forever, in the back of a Dodge Caravan. Seriously. A Dodge Caravan. Fuck me.
Then after Mom died, I feel as if I've done nothing but deal with her death in my attempt to try and help those around me. My Dad. Grandma. Boy(s.) Even my Lovely Bride who had the audacity to tell me that I had yet to fully get that Mom had died.
There lies the greatness of stage one. My denial had me denying that I was in denial.
I finally passed GO, on Tuesday, November 7th. Election day. That Monday, November 6th was my parents 47th wedding anniversary. We had seen Dad that weekend. Mom too. Dad was taking her cremated remains with him to Oklahoma.
I was thinking about all of that as I drove back to work from voting that Tuesday afternoon when my iPod shuffled to a song that proved once and for all, that my Lovely Bride had been correct. I had been in denial. I didn't fully get the fact that Mom had died.
Listening to that song in my car, I left stage one, skipping past stage two and three landing smack dab in stage four. Depression.
How do I know? Why else would I cry while listening to what has to be the sappiest song ever recorded. I think it is safe to say, you are depressed when The Living Years by Mike + The Mechanics makes you sob.
Until I BLOG again...It's to late when we die.
As for the other stages, I think for the past six months I've been engaged in what could best be described as a circle jerk with stages two and three. Anger and bargaining if you believe in the Five Stages of Grief. Not to be a contrarian, but I'm not sure that I do. Perhaps because I'm hung up on their chronology? In my head one turns into two, two into three, three into four, four into five. That is not what has happened with me. In fact, when Mom died I coudn't pass GO, instead I went back to stage one. Denial.
I didn't realize I was in denial though, which is why for my money denial is top of the pops in the five stages of grief hit parade? It rocks. You are oblivious.
A week or so ago, my Lovely Bride and I were talking in the kitchen when she told me that she didn't think that I had got the fact that Mom had died. That it hadn't fully hit me yet. Excuse me? I didn't get the fact that Mom had died. Was she nuts? How could I not get that Mom had died. I had been with her those final days. I had seen such terrible things. I had held her hand when she died. I had seen them do all the shit they to a dead body after she died. Hell, I even followed Mom out of the house, and watched them load her into the van that took her body to the funeral home. It was raining. Isn't that a nice touch? Imagine me, standing in the rain, at the edge of my parents driveway, watching my Mom being driven away forever, in the back of a Dodge Caravan. Seriously. A Dodge Caravan. Fuck me.
Then after Mom died, I feel as if I've done nothing but deal with her death in my attempt to try and help those around me. My Dad. Grandma. Boy(s.) Even my Lovely Bride who had the audacity to tell me that I had yet to fully get that Mom had died.
There lies the greatness of stage one. My denial had me denying that I was in denial.
I finally passed GO, on Tuesday, November 7th. Election day. That Monday, November 6th was my parents 47th wedding anniversary. We had seen Dad that weekend. Mom too. Dad was taking her cremated remains with him to Oklahoma.
I was thinking about all of that as I drove back to work from voting that Tuesday afternoon when my iPod shuffled to a song that proved once and for all, that my Lovely Bride had been correct. I had been in denial. I didn't fully get the fact that Mom had died.
Listening to that song in my car, I left stage one, skipping past stage two and three landing smack dab in stage four. Depression.
How do I know? Why else would I cry while listening to what has to be the sappiest song ever recorded. I think it is safe to say, you are depressed when The Living Years by Mike + The Mechanics makes you sob.
Until I BLOG again...It's to late when we die.
Friday, November 03, 2006
When the day is long
When E was a toddler, he had the curious habit of watching movies that were not appropriate to his age. Not to imply the Boy was sitting around in diapers watching porn, or even hard R movies. Nothing like that. There were just a handful of movies that would stop him in his tracks enough that he would sit and watch them. In fact, he would watch them for a long time, considering his age, and attention span. It was odd.
Fast forward to now, or what was now a few days ago. I have been trying to recall something that I felt, or sensed would help us help E with his grief. I felt this memory, which I couldn't quite grasp, would help us better understand what E was fighting against, when he got stuck in his moments. Lately, we've had a lot of moments.
On Halloween E got stuck in such a moment. It was bad. So much so that I thought he would not be trick-or-treating that night. Trying to save Halloween for him, I took him back to his room and tried to help him through the anger, the sadness, so he could go trick-or-treating with Wy Wy who was ready to hit the streets. In his room, with just us, E absolutely lost it, which, funnily enough, is where I found it. The memory.
Coincidentally (or would you call it fate?) one of the movies that the toddler version of E would sit and watch, again and again, was Four Weddings and a Funeral. The poem Funeral Blues by W.H. Auden that was read at the funeral was what I had been trying to remember.
That poem, for me, expresses a grief that he can't yet express. Hell, it expresses my grief too. But this isn't about me. It is about E, who is having a hard time reconciling in his mind how you can have fun, be happy, doing something like trick-or-treating when his Granny died. How can he play with toys, things that make him happy, things she gave him, because she died. How can you go to school, and have fun at recess, when everyone around you doesn't get your Granny died? How do make your way in a world where everyone isn't sad, or the same kind of sad as you, because your Granny died?
Who would have ever guessed that one of the hardest parts about Mom's death, would be watching the Boy(s) suffer through their grief? Hearing E crying in his room at night, trying to go to sleep. Knowing full well, that when we go to him, and ask, what is wrong, his answer will be Granny died. I usually lay with him after those times, in a vain attempt to make him feel better by my proximity. I'm sure it helps some, but truthfully, no matter how close I get, I can't get into his head. Into his heart. I can't take away the pain. Even if I could, I'm not sure that would be a wise choice. He needs to grieve. We all need to grieve. If only that knowledge made it easier. It doesn't. Nothing could ever prepare me for the pain I felt when I saw him take Mom's photo inside that sailboat frame and clutch it like a teddy bear as he turned over onto his side, and cried himself to sleep.
Until I BLOG again... and the night, the night is yours alone
Fast forward to now, or what was now a few days ago. I have been trying to recall something that I felt, or sensed would help us help E with his grief. I felt this memory, which I couldn't quite grasp, would help us better understand what E was fighting against, when he got stuck in his moments. Lately, we've had a lot of moments.
On Halloween E got stuck in such a moment. It was bad. So much so that I thought he would not be trick-or-treating that night. Trying to save Halloween for him, I took him back to his room and tried to help him through the anger, the sadness, so he could go trick-or-treating with Wy Wy who was ready to hit the streets. In his room, with just us, E absolutely lost it, which, funnily enough, is where I found it. The memory.
Coincidentally (or would you call it fate?) one of the movies that the toddler version of E would sit and watch, again and again, was Four Weddings and a Funeral. The poem Funeral Blues by W.H. Auden that was read at the funeral was what I had been trying to remember.
That poem, for me, expresses a grief that he can't yet express. Hell, it expresses my grief too. But this isn't about me. It is about E, who is having a hard time reconciling in his mind how you can have fun, be happy, doing something like trick-or-treating when his Granny died. How can he play with toys, things that make him happy, things she gave him, because she died. How can you go to school, and have fun at recess, when everyone around you doesn't get your Granny died? How do make your way in a world where everyone isn't sad, or the same kind of sad as you, because your Granny died?
Who would have ever guessed that one of the hardest parts about Mom's death, would be watching the Boy(s) suffer through their grief? Hearing E crying in his room at night, trying to go to sleep. Knowing full well, that when we go to him, and ask, what is wrong, his answer will be Granny died. I usually lay with him after those times, in a vain attempt to make him feel better by my proximity. I'm sure it helps some, but truthfully, no matter how close I get, I can't get into his head. Into his heart. I can't take away the pain. Even if I could, I'm not sure that would be a wise choice. He needs to grieve. We all need to grieve. If only that knowledge made it easier. It doesn't. Nothing could ever prepare me for the pain I felt when I saw him take Mom's photo inside that sailboat frame and clutch it like a teddy bear as he turned over onto his side, and cried himself to sleep.
Until I BLOG again... and the night, the night is yours alone
Monday, October 30, 2006
Living in perfect symmetry
"How we approach death is going to depend upon our fear of life, how much we participated in that life, and how willing we are to let go of this known expression to venture into a new one. Fear and unfinished business are two big factors in determining how much resistance we put in meeting death."
"Fuck me," I said, mainly to myself, as I threw down Gone From My Sight, The Dying Experience, by Barbara Karnes.
Looking at Mom, in that hospital bed in the middle of her living room, with an oxygen machine between us, making a strange Darth Vader-like sound, I wondered if Barbara Karnes was full of shit. Even if she was right, I couldn't get my head around how Mom, with her wasted body, would be able to take care of any unfinished business. Perhaps she was dealing with it internally, down deeper than I could see, or understand. Maybe Barbara Karness was right? I'll never know, just like I'll never be certain Mom wasn't in pain those final days. I won't know if she suffered.
Hospice assured us she was not in pain. That all of her moving, and shifting in bed was part of the process. The dying process. Same as the sounds Mom made. Hospice looked me in the eye and said, "Your Mom isn't doing any of that because she is in pain, it is part of the process." Then, the nurse I'll never forget said something I'll never forget, "This is normal."
This is normal? Fuck normal.
I can't begin to express how much I wanted, how much I needed to believe the nurse. I had my doubts though, mainly because the one person who could honestly tell me whether or not there was pain, well, she could no longer speak. Hell, Mom couldn't even swallow at that point, which made giving her pain medicine very hard. Not that Mom complained, all she could do was make this consistent guttural moan like groan that competed against the oxygen machine's Darth Vader-esque sound. Eyes half open. Reaching out with her arms every so often as she shifted around in her bed. "This is normal," I said, to myself, as I looked around the living room at all of the photographs of the Boy(s). Seeing their pictures, especially in that setting, was like being stuck with a knife. It hurt. Bad. The realization that Mom, who so enjoyed being a Granny, would miss so much in the coming years. "This is normal," I said to Mom this time, wondering if she could hear me, even though she couldn't respond. Hospice said hearing was the last sense the dying lost. So did Barbara Karnes. "Isn't that reassuring."
Looking at the cable box, I saw that it was 2:25am, which meant I had 35 minutes until I could give Mom her next dose of morphine. That I had only massaged the valium cream into her wrists 25 minutes ago. Could that be right? 25 minutes? Time stood still late at night in that living room.
Confused, and afraid that I was going to give Mom more than her prescribed dose of morphine, I decided to recheck my notes. We had this whole medicine timetable that helped us keep up with all the drops, creams, and shots. I'm not sure which was more absurd, the fact that I was worried about giving Mom to much morphine, or the fact that I was watching The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air on Nick @ Nite while I worried about it. Seriously. There was something very wrong with Nick @ Nite playing on TV under those circumstances. So much so, that I muted The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, and decided to pick up Gone From My Sight. The Dying Experience and re-read it. Hospice had suggested it, and well, Hospice, and the people that work for it were amazing. Noble.
After reading Gone From My Sight for a third time, I have to be honest and say, the book didn't do much for me. In fact the book reminded me of a truncated inverse version of What to Expect When You are Expecting. I'm sure there are many, who in similar circumstances would take great comfort in the book, and the titular poem by Henry Van Dyke. Not me. In truth, the book pissed me off, and made me even more angry at the whole fucking situation.
To be fair, Ms. Karnes did know her shit. The guide in Gone From My Sight. The Dying Experience about the signs, phases, and timetable on dying were correct. Everything that I read, I saw. The thing is, I didn't really need the book. I felt Mom dying.
I'm not sure I can put into words, what I felt, but it was the same feeling I had a few days earlier when I had the urge to call Dad to see if we should move up our trip to see Mom. It was something I felt for a long time, if I'm honest. Nearly a year. I just kept telling myself that I was being negative. That what I felt wasn't real. Real or not, I felt that feeling again, hard, on Wednesday, October 18. I knew that Mom would die that day.
At noon, not really knowing what to do, I went with my gut and drug this old chair over next to Mom's bed. The chair was one Mom had bought at a garage sale a few years in the rear view. Most people couldn't get their ass in that chair, it was so small, but I have no ass, and more importantly the chair meant something to me. To Mom. She had bought it for Ethan. When he visited his Granny he'd always sit in that old chair at the dining table, the same table from my youth, and watch cartoons as Granny watched him.
Sitting in that chair, I took Mom's hand as I thought of The Little Warrior, and felt a palpable sense of loss because I knew he'd never get the same chance. He probably wouldn't even be able to remember his Granny when he got older. That hurt.
Holding Mom's hand, I looked into her eyes, and told her I loved her. I'm not sure if she could hear me. Or even see me. Her eyes, although open, were fixed. That didn't matter though, because the one thing the cancer had not ravaged was Mom's eyes. They looked the same as they always had. They looked like my eyes. They looked like the Boy(s) eyes. Staring into her eyes I quietly, and I'm ashamed to say, awkwardly told my Mom all the things I felt I needed to tell her. If Hospice and Barbara Karnes were correct, and the ability to hear is the last sense to go, Mom heard me. I'd like to think she did. The same way I'd like to believe she wasn't in pain those final days. That she knew I was with her, helping take care of her. Helping my Dad. Most important, I hope Mom knew that I sat holding her hand when she died at 1:26pm on Wednesday, October 18. Only 8 days past her 65 birthday.
I had never seen anyone die. Not in real life anyway. I'm amazed and sad that the first person I saw enter into death was the person who gave me life.
Still, nearly two weeks later, I can't get my head around the fact that Mom is gone. That she is no longer around. That I live in a world where I cannot call her, or go see her. I saw her take her last breath. I saw her body shudder and then watched it get, well it got lighter. If you are religious or spiritual, you can say that was when Mom's soul left her body. If you are not, you could say it was simply her muscles relaxing upon physical death. In the end, we all believe what we want or need to believe.
As for me, I simply cannot believe my Mom is dead.
Until I BLOG again...Nothing is as down or up as us.
"Fuck me," I said, mainly to myself, as I threw down Gone From My Sight, The Dying Experience, by Barbara Karnes.
Looking at Mom, in that hospital bed in the middle of her living room, with an oxygen machine between us, making a strange Darth Vader-like sound, I wondered if Barbara Karnes was full of shit. Even if she was right, I couldn't get my head around how Mom, with her wasted body, would be able to take care of any unfinished business. Perhaps she was dealing with it internally, down deeper than I could see, or understand. Maybe Barbara Karness was right? I'll never know, just like I'll never be certain Mom wasn't in pain those final days. I won't know if she suffered.
Hospice assured us she was not in pain. That all of her moving, and shifting in bed was part of the process. The dying process. Same as the sounds Mom made. Hospice looked me in the eye and said, "Your Mom isn't doing any of that because she is in pain, it is part of the process." Then, the nurse I'll never forget said something I'll never forget, "This is normal."
This is normal? Fuck normal.
I can't begin to express how much I wanted, how much I needed to believe the nurse. I had my doubts though, mainly because the one person who could honestly tell me whether or not there was pain, well, she could no longer speak. Hell, Mom couldn't even swallow at that point, which made giving her pain medicine very hard. Not that Mom complained, all she could do was make this consistent guttural moan like groan that competed against the oxygen machine's Darth Vader-esque sound. Eyes half open. Reaching out with her arms every so often as she shifted around in her bed. "This is normal," I said, to myself, as I looked around the living room at all of the photographs of the Boy(s). Seeing their pictures, especially in that setting, was like being stuck with a knife. It hurt. Bad. The realization that Mom, who so enjoyed being a Granny, would miss so much in the coming years. "This is normal," I said to Mom this time, wondering if she could hear me, even though she couldn't respond. Hospice said hearing was the last sense the dying lost. So did Barbara Karnes. "Isn't that reassuring."
Looking at the cable box, I saw that it was 2:25am, which meant I had 35 minutes until I could give Mom her next dose of morphine. That I had only massaged the valium cream into her wrists 25 minutes ago. Could that be right? 25 minutes? Time stood still late at night in that living room.
Confused, and afraid that I was going to give Mom more than her prescribed dose of morphine, I decided to recheck my notes. We had this whole medicine timetable that helped us keep up with all the drops, creams, and shots. I'm not sure which was more absurd, the fact that I was worried about giving Mom to much morphine, or the fact that I was watching The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air on Nick @ Nite while I worried about it. Seriously. There was something very wrong with Nick @ Nite playing on TV under those circumstances. So much so, that I muted The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, and decided to pick up Gone From My Sight. The Dying Experience and re-read it. Hospice had suggested it, and well, Hospice, and the people that work for it were amazing. Noble.
After reading Gone From My Sight for a third time, I have to be honest and say, the book didn't do much for me. In fact the book reminded me of a truncated inverse version of What to Expect When You are Expecting. I'm sure there are many, who in similar circumstances would take great comfort in the book, and the titular poem by Henry Van Dyke. Not me. In truth, the book pissed me off, and made me even more angry at the whole fucking situation.
To be fair, Ms. Karnes did know her shit. The guide in Gone From My Sight. The Dying Experience about the signs, phases, and timetable on dying were correct. Everything that I read, I saw. The thing is, I didn't really need the book. I felt Mom dying.
I'm not sure I can put into words, what I felt, but it was the same feeling I had a few days earlier when I had the urge to call Dad to see if we should move up our trip to see Mom. It was something I felt for a long time, if I'm honest. Nearly a year. I just kept telling myself that I was being negative. That what I felt wasn't real. Real or not, I felt that feeling again, hard, on Wednesday, October 18. I knew that Mom would die that day.
At noon, not really knowing what to do, I went with my gut and drug this old chair over next to Mom's bed. The chair was one Mom had bought at a garage sale a few years in the rear view. Most people couldn't get their ass in that chair, it was so small, but I have no ass, and more importantly the chair meant something to me. To Mom. She had bought it for Ethan. When he visited his Granny he'd always sit in that old chair at the dining table, the same table from my youth, and watch cartoons as Granny watched him.
Sitting in that chair, I took Mom's hand as I thought of The Little Warrior, and felt a palpable sense of loss because I knew he'd never get the same chance. He probably wouldn't even be able to remember his Granny when he got older. That hurt.
Holding Mom's hand, I looked into her eyes, and told her I loved her. I'm not sure if she could hear me. Or even see me. Her eyes, although open, were fixed. That didn't matter though, because the one thing the cancer had not ravaged was Mom's eyes. They looked the same as they always had. They looked like my eyes. They looked like the Boy(s) eyes. Staring into her eyes I quietly, and I'm ashamed to say, awkwardly told my Mom all the things I felt I needed to tell her. If Hospice and Barbara Karnes were correct, and the ability to hear is the last sense to go, Mom heard me. I'd like to think she did. The same way I'd like to believe she wasn't in pain those final days. That she knew I was with her, helping take care of her. Helping my Dad. Most important, I hope Mom knew that I sat holding her hand when she died at 1:26pm on Wednesday, October 18. Only 8 days past her 65 birthday.
I had never seen anyone die. Not in real life anyway. I'm amazed and sad that the first person I saw enter into death was the person who gave me life.
Still, nearly two weeks later, I can't get my head around the fact that Mom is gone. That she is no longer around. That I live in a world where I cannot call her, or go see her. I saw her take her last breath. I saw her body shudder and then watched it get, well it got lighter. If you are religious or spiritual, you can say that was when Mom's soul left her body. If you are not, you could say it was simply her muscles relaxing upon physical death. In the end, we all believe what we want or need to believe.
As for me, I simply cannot believe my Mom is dead.
Until I BLOG again...Nothing is as down or up as us.
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