Two Years Ago
For five days, Feb 23 through 27, David and I went to MGH every day for his fourth round of decitabine infusions. At the low dosage he received, decitabine is not technically a chemotherapy. Rather than kill leukemic blood cells (and healthy blood, hair, and gut cells as collateral damage), the hope is that it will reactivate the tumor suppression genes in individual cells.
Last day of February 2017
Jim and I had a stay-cation last week. Monday, we went to Springfield, in Central Massachusetts, to see James and Laneth Dick. Back in New Jersey, circa 1977, James Dick was my bishop. Now they are on a six-month mission. We spent the afternoon together and had lunch at The Student Prince, an iconic German restaurant in downtown Springfield that opened its doors in 1935, and nearly closed in 2014. Jim discovered it years ago, when he had a client in the city. We've been there a few times, including once with R'el: that night I got the sampler platter of game meat.
Wednesday, we went to the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum. For a new program, called “Up Close”, they installed a single painting, The Annunciation, by Piermatteo d’Amelia (15th century Italian), in a room by itself, with explanatory text on the wall. The piece is beautiful, and moving. In the far corner of the room, a flat screen TV played an 11-minute video: Bill Viola’s Emergence.
I found the video disturbing. An older and younger woman lean against a large marble box, filled with water. After several slow motion minutes of watching the grief-stricken women, a dark-haired head begins to emerge and the water starts to spill out over the edge. The younger woman looks up in amazement. The older woman finally feels the spilling water and looks up. Slowly a chalk-white motionless man with closed eyes rises out of the water, which continually flows out. The women gently pull him out of the water and lay him on the ground. The younger woman takes a long, flowing cloth, and lays it on top of the still, seemingly lifeless figure. She rests her head on his chest while the older woman cradles his head in her lap.
It bothered me, a lot, since it seemed focused on death, while The Annunciation depicts one of the most joyful events in history, the prophecy by the Angel Gabriel that Jesus will be born to Mary. On the wall behind the flat screen, a small print of a fresco, Cristo in Pieta by Masolino da Panicale depicts Mary and the Apostle John laying Jesus in a tomb. The box in Emergence is similar, and the Pieta was the initial inspiration to Viola.
Of course, subconsiously (why do I so often not recognize these things?) the images brought up memories of David’s last night, a year and a half ago. For days after watching that video, I felt a familiar, physical ache. It seemed so disconnected, unattached to thought, that I wondered if it was bipolar depression. Now I know it was not depression, because it didn't last.
Watching a YouTube video about the making of Emergence, I understand more of Bill Viola’s vision. He had seen the 15th-century fresco by Masolini, but didn't do anything with it immediately. When he did get back to the idea, he took the image, removed the historical context, and explored, through very slow motion photography, emotional aspects. As some Getty educational material suggests, “the emphasis becomes...the viewer’s individual response.” Over the past week, it certainly has evoked a response in me.
At first, I thought Viola was reworking Jesus’ story. But learning more, I gained more appreciation of his art. He seeks ambiguity: has the young man drowned or are the women midwives to a sort of birth? Is the water a deathtrap or life-sustaining amniotic fluid? How does this scene relate to the experience of the mother of Jesus and her grief the day of his death? Viola, for me, has achieved what every artist must strive for, a work that stays with me, that moves me to examine my experience in a new way and consider it in a larger context of the human experience.
Tuesday, February 28, 2017
Friday, February 24, 2017
Perth Amboy, NJ, and Columbus, IN
Two Years Ago
My dad died on December 4, 2014 and in January and February I visited Water St. in Perth Amboy, NJ, to sort books and organize the household items. I arranged for the Salvation Army truck to pick up most of the furniture.
They took the large mahogany dining room set that’s older than me, and the loveseats I lay on as a baby. The pineapple-motif upholstery, installed 40 years ago, still looks brand-new, with crisp pleats along the floor. As dusk fell, I sat at the only furniture the Salvation Army wouldn’t take: an old grammar school desk and resin chair, and watched Staten Island fade beyond the placid Arthur Kill. I gazed for the last time at a view Mom and Dad loved for 29 years.
February 2017
Nothing much to report. I don’t find myself in emotional pain as often. On Saturday, Jim pulled out a book of the world-class architecture in Columbus, Indiana. We moved to southern Indiana in 1981 and I became a bus tour guide. We reminisced about those days, when we had just one baby and Jim was starting his career. Every page of the book has photos of buildings very familiar to us: the public library plaza where R’el took her first steps, the churches, schools, and even firehouses designed by world-class architects.
My dad died on December 4, 2014 and in January and February I visited Water St. in Perth Amboy, NJ, to sort books and organize the household items. I arranged for the Salvation Army truck to pick up most of the furniture.
They took the large mahogany dining room set that’s older than me, and the loveseats I lay on as a baby. The pineapple-motif upholstery, installed 40 years ago, still looks brand-new, with crisp pleats along the floor. As dusk fell, I sat at the only furniture the Salvation Army wouldn’t take: an old grammar school desk and resin chair, and watched Staten Island fade beyond the placid Arthur Kill. I gazed for the last time at a view Mom and Dad loved for 29 years.
February 2017
Nothing much to report. I don’t find myself in emotional pain as often. On Saturday, Jim pulled out a book of the world-class architecture in Columbus, Indiana. We moved to southern Indiana in 1981 and I became a bus tour guide. We reminisced about those days, when we had just one baby and Jim was starting his career. Every page of the book has photos of buildings very familiar to us: the public library plaza where R’el took her first steps, the churches, schools, and even firehouses designed by world-class architects.
Tuesday, February 14, 2017
Snow and Hand Bells
Two years ago
While we were in San Francisco, enjoying the temperate weather and green environs, Matt and David drove to NYC to visit R’el. They had a harrowing trip home in a snowstorm and got very stuck at the bottom of our driveway. The day after our return to snowy New England, my left arm ached so much from snow shoveling that I couldn’t sleep.
My journal entry for 10 February 2015:
…just this morning, as I was lying in bed, trying to get the energy to arise and really start my day, feeling the empty depression I seem often to feel in the morning, I fell prey to fear: the fear of my day rather than the promise of it. The burden of my dreams of the night rather than the hope to accomplish something worthwhile with my waking hours.
Mid-February 2017
We’ve had 2 snowstorms this week. Thursday, February 9th, we got about 9 inches. Then, Sunday into Monday, we got 10 inches more.
I have fond memories of one particular snowstorm, at least 20 years ago, when I strapped on my heavy brown hiking boots one night and tramped along quiet side streets as the snow fell. So, Thursday afternoon, I laced up my grey hiking boots and headed down Bedford St. and onto the Minuteman bike path to David’s grave. It’s a 2 ¼ mile hike.
One of the two flags I had installed at the headstone was at an angle, causing the flag to hit the ground, but I couldn’t budge it in the frozen earth; all I ended up doing was crack the wooden dowel.
I wasn’t the only one on the bike path; I passed a man walking a dog, a few other intrepid souls, and a bicyclist. The wind was sharp, but bearable; the cemetery quiet. A pick-up truck with a snowplow attached was just clearing the road near David’s grave as I entered the cemetery.
The next day my friend Susanne and I drove to the Minuteman National Park to walk on the unplowed Battle Road. We trudged through nearly a foot of snow for a mile and a half.
When we first started on the path, we met a pair of cross-country skiers. The first, a woman of about 30 years old, smiled brightly and passed us easily. The second woman struggled valiantly to keep up. As I watched her, I realized my fantasy of effortlessly skiing through the woods was just that, fantasy. I’ve only been on skis once in my life, back when R’el was about 2 years old. It was fun, but I was in my twenties. At 60, I’m sure it wouldn’t be so easy.
On Saturday I hosted our second hand bell jam. My new friend, Joe, owns a set of hand bells, passed down from his grandmother, Margaret Nichols Shurcliff, who brought hand bells to America. I offered my home as a place to play and recruited some friends. I also made copies of some simple piano tunes and color-coded them for each pair of bells. We had a great time. Although I’ve had a lifetime of amateur musical experience, playing hand bells requires a skill set I don’t yet have. Split-second timing is required: if I am late with a note, every other player is thrown off. And sounding the bells consistently is more challenging than I had imagined. We won’t be doing this any time soon. (And here's Eui Gon Kim playing a solo. I love how three-dimensional her playing is. Just watch!)
While we were in San Francisco, enjoying the temperate weather and green environs, Matt and David drove to NYC to visit R’el. They had a harrowing trip home in a snowstorm and got very stuck at the bottom of our driveway. The day after our return to snowy New England, my left arm ached so much from snow shoveling that I couldn’t sleep.
My journal entry for 10 February 2015:
…just this morning, as I was lying in bed, trying to get the energy to arise and really start my day, feeling the empty depression I seem often to feel in the morning, I fell prey to fear: the fear of my day rather than the promise of it. The burden of my dreams of the night rather than the hope to accomplish something worthwhile with my waking hours.
Not every day was like that, but it was a feature of my life.
Mid-February 2017
We’ve had 2 snowstorms this week. Thursday, February 9th, we got about 9 inches. Then, Sunday into Monday, we got 10 inches more.
I have fond memories of one particular snowstorm, at least 20 years ago, when I strapped on my heavy brown hiking boots one night and tramped along quiet side streets as the snow fell. So, Thursday afternoon, I laced up my grey hiking boots and headed down Bedford St. and onto the Minuteman bike path to David’s grave. It’s a 2 ¼ mile hike.
One of the two flags I had installed at the headstone was at an angle, causing the flag to hit the ground, but I couldn’t budge it in the frozen earth; all I ended up doing was crack the wooden dowel.
I wasn’t the only one on the bike path; I passed a man walking a dog, a few other intrepid souls, and a bicyclist. The wind was sharp, but bearable; the cemetery quiet. A pick-up truck with a snowplow attached was just clearing the road near David’s grave as I entered the cemetery.
The next day my friend Susanne and I drove to the Minuteman National Park to walk on the unplowed Battle Road. We trudged through nearly a foot of snow for a mile and a half.
When we first started on the path, we met a pair of cross-country skiers. The first, a woman of about 30 years old, smiled brightly and passed us easily. The second woman struggled valiantly to keep up. As I watched her, I realized my fantasy of effortlessly skiing through the woods was just that, fantasy. I’ve only been on skis once in my life, back when R’el was about 2 years old. It was fun, but I was in my twenties. At 60, I’m sure it wouldn’t be so easy.
On Saturday I hosted our second hand bell jam. My new friend, Joe, owns a set of hand bells, passed down from his grandmother, Margaret Nichols Shurcliff, who brought hand bells to America. I offered my home as a place to play and recruited some friends. I also made copies of some simple piano tunes and color-coded them for each pair of bells. We had a great time. Although I’ve had a lifetime of amateur musical experience, playing hand bells requires a skill set I don’t yet have. Split-second timing is required: if I am late with a note, every other player is thrown off. And sounding the bells consistently is more challenging than I had imagined. We won’t be doing this any time soon. (And here's Eui Gon Kim playing a solo. I love how three-dimensional her playing is. Just watch!)
Tuesday, February 7, 2017
Slippers or Crocs
Two Years Ago
David is well enough that Jim and I take a trip to San Francisco to visit his niece, Carla, and husband, Daniel. We get out of Boston just ahead of a snow storm and return before the next one. February broke a record as the snowiest month on record: 64.8 inches.
2017
A week ago, in sacrament meeting, a young married man gave a talk. He described himself as “almost 28”. I struggled, dully and unsuccessfully, with the arithmetic. Afterwards, at home, I finally worked it out: David was 27, “almost 28”. My inability to do this simple math was disconcerting, but not surprising. This young man will probably make it to 28. David never did.
Last night I went to a Compassionate Friends meeting in Concord. Once a month, a husband-wife facilitator team meets with whoever comes through the door, seeking solace as a bereaved parent. It’s a club no one wants to join.
I first attended in August, just before the first anniversary of David’s death. It was profoundly comforting. Last night was my fifth meeting. In January's meeting, I described my rough start to the New Year; this month I’ve been calmer. And, not feeling desperate to talk, what did I get from attending? A time and place set aside for talking about David and listening to other parents talk of their lost children. They want to hear my story, and I theirs.
Our family book group selection this month included listening to an audiobook, narrated by the author, David Rakoff, entirely in rhyming couplets. He describes the daily life of a young man, Clifford, who is dying:
And so the concern with the trivial issues:
Slippers nearby and the proximate tissues
When Matt, in our conference call discussion, mentioned David's experience, I was surprised that I hadn’t consciously thought of my son while listening to this chapter. David, who rated nurses on whether or not they carelessly kicked his beloved crocs under the bed and thus out of his reach. He was obsessive about having his crocs nearby, just as Clifford became about his slippers.
The description of a young man dying was just too close to make the conscious connection and let it all the way in.
David is well enough that Jim and I take a trip to San Francisco to visit his niece, Carla, and husband, Daniel. We get out of Boston just ahead of a snow storm and return before the next one. February broke a record as the snowiest month on record: 64.8 inches.
2017
A week ago, in sacrament meeting, a young married man gave a talk. He described himself as “almost 28”. I struggled, dully and unsuccessfully, with the arithmetic. Afterwards, at home, I finally worked it out: David was 27, “almost 28”. My inability to do this simple math was disconcerting, but not surprising. This young man will probably make it to 28. David never did.
Last night I went to a Compassionate Friends meeting in Concord. Once a month, a husband-wife facilitator team meets with whoever comes through the door, seeking solace as a bereaved parent. It’s a club no one wants to join.
I first attended in August, just before the first anniversary of David’s death. It was profoundly comforting. Last night was my fifth meeting. In January's meeting, I described my rough start to the New Year; this month I’ve been calmer. And, not feeling desperate to talk, what did I get from attending? A time and place set aside for talking about David and listening to other parents talk of their lost children. They want to hear my story, and I theirs.
Our family book group selection this month included listening to an audiobook, narrated by the author, David Rakoff, entirely in rhyming couplets. He describes the daily life of a young man, Clifford, who is dying:
And so the concern with the trivial issues:
Slippers nearby and the proximate tissues
When Matt, in our conference call discussion, mentioned David's experience, I was surprised that I hadn’t consciously thought of my son while listening to this chapter. David, who rated nurses on whether or not they carelessly kicked his beloved crocs under the bed and thus out of his reach. He was obsessive about having his crocs nearby, just as Clifford became about his slippers.
The description of a young man dying was just too close to make the conscious connection and let it all the way in.
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