Not The Better Thing

I keep thinking about this woman on Twitter who pondered the reason why George Floyd's death has been such a watershed event. She speculated that it was the method of execution as we have become so accustomed to gun deaths...

Like others, I am trying to live my life, trying to do my self-care rituals and work in the midst of the twin pandemics -- COVID-19 and racism...

About two weeks ago, I received an amazing gift that made me think about Seinfeld, "What is this salty discharge coming from my eyes?" The gift also made me feel like I could go out into the world and be a better person. I also saw it as a sign of better things to come...

Because of lay-offs, I am alone in my department at work (not the better thing). Took PTO days because I was almost over the limit and, when I returned to the office, had a new office mate and then another one. It was one of the crappiest feelings -- not having time to grieve. It is, technically, okay to have this arrangement as the people who are now in my office have sneeze guards around their desks but knowing that I'm in a higher risk group, it's not a nice feeling to have the population in my office increase, especially since they are not here to help me.

Noticed water leaking in the basement and thought, "Aw, shit; the ancient pipes are ready to blow." The day before a plumber was scheduled to come out my next-door neighbor, who likes to thrift shop, went to someone's house to pick up planters and it was the woman who grew up in my house. She showed my neighbor a painting of my house that someone, who was across the street convalescing, painted decades ago.

Getting a picture of this painting was my sign that everything was going to be alright. The pipes hadn't sprung a leak but the caulking needs to be redone on the tub. It's another thing to put on the to-do list but more manageable than having to get new pipes. Actually went to Lowe's and couldn't find everything that I needed and walked out of the store empty-handed...

I was listening to this episode, Anti-racism and Allyship, of Yogaland podcast and this woman talked about how the Black community is in grieving and that is has been a cyclical pattern of grief and there it is --exactly how I feel. Could not put my finger on it -- why I felt like I was an airplane in an eternal holding pattern. Why people get on my nerves who respond, "I'm good."

It's grief.

Looking for Marie Howe

About a decade ago,  I read a book of poetry about this woman dealing with the loss of her brother.

Knew that the brother had cancer.

Knew that there was a poem about the brother getting a needle stuck in his eye to prevent losing his sight and I remembered a line in one of the poems that read -- He had washed his last dish.

But I didn't know enough to find the book and I thought that I'd never see it again.

↔Fast Forward ↔

I really wanted to read a book about grief but I didn't necessarily want to read an Elizabeth Kubler Ross book or Kerry Egan's On Living. After searching on the internet, I spotted Kevin Young's anthology, The Art of Losing; it has been a great book to slowly read my way through and I didn't have to wait too long (page 69) before I came across a familiar poem, How Some of It Happened, by Marie Howe, the poet that I'd been looking for.

I immediately ordered her book from the library and when I got it, I remembered the maroon cover and everything.

I can't say enough about the Art of Losing. Poems that really hit me in the solar plexus, included:

Sharon Olds' The Race

Ruth Stone's Loss

Elizabeth Alexander's Autumn Passage

Coleman Barks' Luke and the Duct Tape

James Weldon Johnson's  Listen Lord: A Prayer

William Matthews' My Father's Body

Edward Hirsch's Cold Calls

Ted Kooser's Mourners

Ruth L. Schwartz's Letter from God

Jane Kenyon's Otherwise

Mary Oliver's When Death Comes

This book also made me remember other poems about death that really moved me -- like Lucille Clifton's poems about her father and husband; Gloria Wade-Gayles' poem about her mother and Cornelius Eady's book about his father's death.

I am a bit late to the Mary Oliver a game but when I first read her poem Wild Geese, it blew my mind and, I think, more than anything else -- the first line moves me unbelievably and I, occasionally, use it to really center myself.

Bluesy

I'm not in the mood to listen to a lot of upbeat music so I made a bluesy playlist. When my father died, I listened to Anthony Hamilton's I'm A Mess a lot and while it's not a song about physical death, it allowed me to grieve. The lines that moved me the most:

I'm a mess right now I can't eat can't sleepBills are piling high ain't worked in three weeksAin't bathed can't shave cause my heart is so tender like living in a blenderI'm shaken and I'm stirred

Here's part of the playlist:

I also have Hamilton's  Comin' From Where I'm From and Can't Let Go plus Moby's Why Does My Heart Feel So Sad? and Bill Wither's Ain't No Sunshine. I will also add Al Green's How Can You Mend A Broken Heart? Might add Diana Ross' Missing You but maybe not.

And The Days

B-Day Card From  My Aunt's Daughter

I took the day off from work because, honestly, I don't want to be aggravated on my birthday. Didn't really feel like a big celebration either and I'm usually on the low-key side to begin with soooo...

Of course, my aunt is on my mind and the days will get to you  -- birthdays, holidays etc. The first "xyz" you are without that person.

Regarding my aunt, I find myself going back and forth between I can't believe this, anger and partial acceptance. I think that my aunt was such an amazing person that she is still vividly alive for me, a notion that was confirmed when I saw the Instagram post below. I'm sad but know that I have to honor life and her life too.

Flower Near Car Dealership

Flowers on the Desk at the Car Dealership

From the 'Fugee

"I came to see what he'd become, or always was—the father who will never cease to be alive in me." —from "I Wanted to Share My Father's World" by Jimmy Carter  #mondaymotivation  Thirty-nine years ago, when the 39th president of the United States was in office, my dad wrote on his list of life goals, "Talk with the President." I wonder how he'd feel knowing his newborn baby that year did that yesterday. President Jimmy Carter was 54 years old when my dad made that goal, the same age my dad was when he was killed. Yesterday, when I told him why I was meeting him, he said, "Very good." Then he shook my hand and said, "Come back down and see us again." Just before I met him, he said, "Sorry to keep you waiting." Thirty-nine years is a long time to wait, and I wish my dad could have checked off this one himself. Luckily he's still alive in me.

A post shared by My Father's List (@myfatherslist) on Aug 28, 2017 at 9:51am PDT

To Wrap Around

Buddha at a Local Store

My cousin was supposed to go to a family birthday party last Saturday with my aunt Al so I accompanied her and I joked that while I wouldn’t be glad to go, I would go. I knew that it would be an awkward experience since, outside of my father’s siblings, I don’t really know a lot of my paternal relatives.

At the birthday party, a second cousin came over and asked if I knew who he was. I did know his name but I didn’t know him. He immediately said that one of his regrets was not getting to know parts of his family and I said that I felt similarly. I mean, I had to be introduced to many relatives at that party that, in theory, I should be familiar with.

On tap for the next day was a reunion with many of the same family members. One of my second cousins, D, kept saying that she looked like my aunt Al in response to people saying that she looks like her grandmother. D didn’t get along with her grandmother and I feel bad about that too because I think that if they had put their differences aside, they would have really enjoyed each other’s company. D has a great sense of humor and a big personality -- just like my aunt L. Anyway, I have enough to feel bad about without adding more regret for something that I had no control over...

Scene of the Reunion

Tug of War: Females vs. Males

Photo Booth: D's Family

At any rate, the birthday party was nice and so was the family reunion. Both were well organized and the credit goes to my second cousin, S., who is a superb event planner. The party MC even joked that the birthday woman is very laid back but that her daughter, S, is another story. When S asks you for something by a certain time on a certain date, you get it to her without questions...

Once a friend suggested that I go to Al-Anon and I scoffed out loud and had a For what? tone to my voice. I considered my father a soft and functional alcoholic but I can see how my father’s pursuit of alcohol et al. affected me by, say, his lack of interest in family gatherings.

As I listened to my cousin, C, talk about his 40 plus year marriage to the birthday woman, I wished that my father had been more invested in marriage. You get to play the “wish game” but you don’t get to alter reality and, while my father was not more “invested” in marriage, he was super invested in me, so I won’t cry over spilled milk. Okay, I’m whimpering a bit but whatever...

Birthday Prizes, Decorative Boxes that S Made

Additional Giveaway Boxes (with scripture chosen by birthday woman)

As an introvert, I felt the strain of being around a lot people for the Labor Day weekend but I did enjoy the family reunion. There were games, plenty of food, a photo booth and, of course, lots of interesting people.

I found it frustrating that I got almost nothing done, outside of cutting the grass and cleaning the fish tank, during the holiday weekend but I guess I’ll put that in the That’s life column. Plus, when family is gathered, you have to set other things aside.

The Friday before the holiday was busy at work and so was this Tuesday. I kept feeling the need to scream and I did but not loudly because screaming at work is frowned upon. My urge to scream made me think of this Primal Therapy scene in some goofy movie. And other than wanting to scream, I'm still wrapping my mind around the fact that my aunt is gone.

Disbelief

Two weeks ago, I woke up to the news that my aunt Al had transitioned. I am still having a hard time believing it.

My aunt had not been feeling like herself but when I went to see her on Sunday, August 13th, she got up to spend time with me and when I said that she didn't have to entertain me, she shrugged it off until my cousin arrived then went back to bed.

Had I known that August 13th would have been my last time seeing my aunt, wow, I would have done things differently. I remember listening to this episode of The Moth and this man said something like he leaves everything on the table because you never know if you'll see someone again. 

Of course, there is no such thing as a perfect ending but I have regrets. I am very glad, though, that my aunt did not die while I was overseas. Being away would have been a hard pill to swallow. As it is, I missed my cousin's text and multiple calls alerting me that several family members were at the hospital. I regret not being there for my cousin but I know that I can be present for her now. 

When I first heard the news, I was like I'm done but of course you cannot be done with life unless you take matters into your own hands or it is, in fact, your time to go. I kept thinking of a tape that I listened to by Charles Swindoll -- long time ago. He said a lot of things about attitude and he also said You cannot change that march toward death.

My aunt was 80 and that was her goal age. She had said that she didn't want to live to 100 because she was having a hard enough time doing 80. She didn't suffer and, for that, we are grateful. I am also grateful that her daughter and nephew, who was like a son to my aunt, were able to be with her and attend to her during the final moments of her life. 

I am doing my best to remain in a space of gratitude and I am also doing my best to be as supportive as possible for my cousin right now... 

My aunt was the last of my father's siblings, a sobering fact.

I find myself getting emotional in my aunt's house since there is no silence like the silence of a house after someone has died but I also find myself getting emotional on the way to work, I think, because I'm not ready for life to be business as usual.

At least, as a refugee pointed out to me, I got to see my aunt on a regular basis.

Stuff that does console me? My cousin told me that my aunt looked forward to my visits and that they meant a lot to her.

While we were planning the service, my mind wandered and thought about who invented funerals etc. There are obvious reasons -- to honor that person's life and to be surrounded by support and, oh yeah, closure because I'm still in disbelief even though:

1). I saw my cousin sign the authorization for embalming.

2). I've seen the body.

3). We've had the funeral.

4).   Been to the graveyard...

But I still want to do the "Florida Evans" in Good Times -- DamnDamnDamn. There are no do-overs and I don't get to see my aunt again.

"I came to see what he'd become, or always was—the father who will never cease to be alive in me." —from "I Wanted to Share My Father's World" by Jimmy Carter  #mondaymotivation  Thirty-nine years ago, when the 39th president of the United States was in office, my dad wrote on his list of life goals, "Talk with the President." I wonder how he'd feel knowing his newborn baby that year did that yesterday. President Jimmy Carter was 54 years old when my dad made that goal, the same age my dad was when he was killed. Yesterday, when I told him why I was meeting him, he said, "Very good." Then he shook my hand and said, "Come back down and see us again." Just before I met him, he said, "Sorry to keep you waiting." Thirty-nine years is a long time to wait, and I wish my dad could have checked off this one himself. Luckily he's still alive in me.

A post shared by My Father's List (@myfatherslist) on Aug 28, 2017 at 9:51am PDT

My Neighbor

I noticed the unusual formation of cars but went about business as usual. When I returned home, I found that my neighbor had put a gun to her head and pulled the trigger.

My neighbor, who is in the ICU, has brain cancer and had recently gotten news that the tumor had returned and was inoperable but I cannot believe that she pulled the trigger and I cannot believe that she pulled the trigger with her kids in the house.

Suddenly, everything that I had been fretting about seemed insignificant.

I envied my neighbors their Jaguar and other expensive cars, their extreme home makeover, maid and yard swat team. Right before I found out what happened, I went to retrieve the trashcan, glanced at their immaculate lawn and looked at the new strain of weeds and was making a game plan to see if I should try to tackle them or if it was time to call for back-up.

I also remembered the time, a couple of months ago, that I was pulling weeds and the neighbor's son came to warn me that he had seen a snake. I asked him where and he kind of shrugged and said it was a small one, a garter snake. He walked away then came back to let me know that, if I saw one, I could come and get him.

Another time, the son came over unexpectedly and asked me to Beta sit. He told me how much to feed the Beta and not to tinker with the water. I was so happy that I was able to keep his Beta alive until he returned...

And I just can't shake it. The incident made me think about the previous neighbor who had lived in that house. It was about five years ago and I had returned from Jamaica and thought that the neighbors were having a party. Only the husband, newly retired, had died of a heart attack while bicycling and there was no history of heart attack in the family. What a bum deal, I thought. I also remember my widow neighbor rolling the trashcan out. It was so weird to see her doing that since her husband was always the one to take out the trash.

Now, I can't get my newest neighbor off my mind. I'm tense. There are tears which I suspect is from my own grief just under the surface but rising like homemade dough plus the knowledge that the neighbor had to be in a tremendous amount of psychic and physical pain to bring her to that point.

I keep thinking about the kids, the husband, the sisters, the mother and the father of my neighbor. I keep thinking about the poet Nikki Giovanni who once said that she does not understand people who commit suicide. She said that you are going to eventually die and your expiration will take care of itself.

But, mostly, I keep thinking about the gentle six footer who offered to be my snake wrangler. He was already being home schooled because teasing at school had gotten out of hand. He will have to live the rest of his life as a young man who was in the house when his mother pulled the trigger.


Here's part of the note he left while I was Beta sitting:

Hey I'm sorry i forgot about my fish at your house i got back yesterday. I had just noticed he wasn't here...when you get home give me a call and i'll run over and pick him up...

A Charmed Life: A Look at Making Toast

I picked up Making Toast by Roger Rosenblatt after seeing it recommended in O, The Oprah Magazine, I believe. I was pulled in by the synopsis. The author’s daughter, a 38-year-old pediatrician who had an unknown heart abnormality that people rarely succumb to, collapsed while on a treadmill. Rosenblatt and his wife, Ginny, move in with their son-in-law, Harris, to provide support for their three young grandchildren.

Sammy prefers whole milk in his Froot Loops or MultiGrain Cheerios. He calls it “cow milk.” Jessie drinks only Silk soy milk. She likes a glass of it at breakfast. Sammy prefers water. Such information had to be absorbed quickly. (6)

One of the most touching things that I read about in the book is that Amy and Harris' friends made a website in order to provide meals for the family.

Participants deposited dinners in a blue cooler outside our front door. Food was provided every other evening, with enough for the nights in between, from mid-December to the beginning of June. (7)

In addition to being surrounded by the love of family and friends, the family also has Ligaya, a nanny for the youngest child. She gives them her take on the situation as only an immigrant can:

“You are not the first to go through such a thing, and you are better able to handle it than most.” (8)

Ligaya is right. Harris is a hand surgeon. Rosenblatt is a professor of English and Writing at Stony Brook University, Ginny is a former teacher and the kids have access to a grief counselor.

Rosenblatt talks about a road trip that the family went on when Amy wanted a plain hamburger from McDonald’s which made me remember my own requests for plain hamburgers. Actually, I have no memory of it but my family tells me that they had to wait and wait – just like the Rosenblatt family:

Since orders for a plain hamburger were not anticipated in the billion hamburgers prepared by McDonald’s daily all over America, it took as long as twenty-five minutes for the fast food restaurant to dish one up. (23)

When Amy turned 21, her mother gave her letters from 30 of her friends. Ginny asked her friends to advise Amy on the nature of womanhood. How cool is that?

Rosenblatt feels like nothing has prepared him for the death of his daughter:

Except for a few disappointments, probably less than my share, I've had a charmed life. I am learning what most people know at a much younger age -- that life is to be endured, and its rewards earned. (156)

There were so many touching moments in this book including how Jessie, I believe she's eight, is so tender with her two-year-old brother James. This part of the family story is only 166 pages but, substance-wise, it feels twice as long...

If anyone has a need, I highly recommend Elisabeth Kubler-Ross' On Death and Dying. Joan Didion's The Year of Magical Thinking is another memoir that deals with grief. Didion and her husband were eating dinner when her husband stops speaking mid-sentence. Not only does Didion lose her husband to a heart attack, she loses her only child who was already gravely ill before her husband's death.

A poem that has always pulled me in is Grief by Gloria Wade Gayles which reads, in part:

I tell them,
"It's not my mind I have lost,"
but those who have not seen
the cutting of the cord that gave them life
cannot understand.

Cannot.

There is a female poet whose name eludes me. I've been wanting to reread her book for a long time. Her brother had cancer of the eye, I think, and there's one poem in which she talks about a doctor sticking a needle in his eye and another poem that says something like:

He had washed his last dish...

I am hoping that in the process of decluttering, I will come across a book review that I undoubtedly clipped of this book.

Hope this post doesn't come off as gloomy but I have a need to know how other people deal with grief. In addition, food memory also fascinates me...

I happened upon this article in Salon the other day. I swear, I didn't go looking for it: Building my father's coffin.