The most painful part of my story with Tad is the part where he dies. The part where he goes somewhere -or nowhere- and I don't. The part where he suddenly starts convulsing and struggling then stops. Dead. And all I can do is hold on for dear life, waiting for his pulse to stop and repeating to him how much I love him.
This may seem like an obvious fact - it's the culminating scene of nearly every Hollywood drama ever made - but it's important for me to note. That moment is so deeply and painfully engraved in my brain I find myself yearning to be free of its pull. And yet I also want to hold tight to it.
Separation has never been easy for me.
In love relationships when the other starts to pull away, I hunker down, I cling; start bargaining. Somehow I get to a point where I click into "need" instead of "want" as in "I can't live without this relationship." Animated in essence by the same drivel that filled the pop songs of my younger years, I forget that I am whole and capable when the other person pulls away, that I have a life and an identity of my own.
Needless to say this uncontrollable strategy of clinging usually serves to push the other person further away, bolstering my fear-driven pain.
In my friendships - and because of my bi-cultural status - I tend to have short-term but intense moments with loving friends around the world. Then we separate. I have incredibly fond memories of beautiful moments spent with lifelong friends in New York (John!), Paris (Matthieu!) , London (Fiona!), Dublin (Ross!), Bordeaux (Madina!), Bangkok (Geof!) which end with one of us getting on a train and leaving for an airport.
After those separations my mind does something funny: it tries to keep the relationship going despite the thousands of miles that separate us. I usually talk aloud to the absent-friend in my daily tasks. I make concerted efforts to maintain the connection with phone calls. This phase generally lasts a few days until my brain settles into reality and the fact that we are separated by an ocean becomes palpable.
Or maybe I just do it until the pain of their not responding with a presence, a voice, a smirk, a touch becomes too much for me. Maybe I stop talking to them simply because it hurts too much to continue the charade of magical thinking.
Pain. Pleasure. Pain. Pleasure.
This time it was not two weeks I spent with a friend but five and half years. This time it was not a friend but a lover, a life companion, a person who shared the mystery of ecstasy and the quotidian with me.
And this time instead of returning to my own place on the other side of the ocean - surrounded by my other language, my other circle of friends, very different sights, sounds and tastes - I stayed in Tad's world. I choose to stay there to this day despite my urges to bolt. I reach out and pet the cat he petted every day for eight years (who uncannily behaves a lot like he did). I go out in the garden and weed around the flowers he carefully planted. I sleep in the bed we shared for years, the one where he bled out on the sheets, where I changed his diapers, where he took his last breath - also the one where we made tender love, watched silly TV and read books til the wee hours side by side.
"Honey it's time to go to sleep - turn the light off.",
"But I'm reading" (actually asleep)
"No you're not - I just woke up and your book was on your chest. You were snoring.",
"No I"m reading.",
"Here let me just take the book and put it here on the table. Can I please turn the light off so we can sleep?",
"No, leave it -I'm reading."
I can't call or send emails. I can listen to old voice mails or look at photos but I choose not to - at the moment that hurts too much.
I have found myself looking for notes from him to me - as I rummage through the privacy of his office. I pick up pieces of paper and hope maybe there will be a love note to me, a reminder of his devotion to us. I read all of his diaries hoping I will find declarations of love and pining. But I don't. Alas he mostly used his diaries to write about difficulties he was having, including with me.
A few days ago I found a new diary, just a few pages jotted down on a notebook he'd bought in Paris - narrating parts of our long journey. There on the second page after a long description of the frenetic big city and his overwhelm he wrote: "...but thank God I have my beloved guide, lover, friend Greg."
Thank God.
Guide.
Lover.
Friend.
The truth is we both expected his death and yet we were sideswiped by it so there never was a formal moment of saying good-bye in that tidy way we therapists like to do it.
He was actually quite busy the last few weeks of his life. He worked diligently at finding, printing and piecing into collages photos of the important people in his world. First he glued his family back into the same configuration they were in before the Big Dispersion in 1977 when his mother died.
He pieced together photos of friends from all periods of his life: Arizona, the Navy and San Diego, the SPCA and Santa Cruz. Two days before he died he made a long list of all the people he wanted to invite to a party - this included people who had never met before, who lived in Europe, the midwest, Arizona, California. People who in all reality would never gather in the same room because of time, financial and social constraints. He grouped them all - he brought them all together before he died.
I can only imagine what a glorious gathering that might have been and what a painful separation would have ensued. I would have been talking to invisible people for days.
Mostly I keep communicating with Tad by talking to him in my head. Sometimes I cry and ask him to hold me in his arms (If I use my imagination can almost feel them around me, warm and strong). Most of the time I ask him for advice - admit to him that I don't really know how to do this grief thing very well.
(Today at the gym with my little brother in Iowa I quickly moved to a private corner, behind a small separation wall and curled up to sob to the thump-thump-thump music pounding in my head. But I didn't communicate with him. I didn't ask him to hold me. I just wept then - a few minutes later - went back to my workout.)
Pretty much all psychologists agree this is me simply projecting the voice of Tad I remember. This is me using memory and imagination to recreate something that is no longer there. Yet why does it feel so much bigger than that?
If I stop and listen, if I close my eyes and breathe, I ask him to just talk. His answers are usually quite prompt, almost immediate. They are incredibly loving and kind. Our conversations go something like this.
"Honey I miss you." (I usually start crying at this point) "It's so hard to not have you here anymore"
"I know baby, everything is going to be okay. I'm right here."
"But I don't know what to do sometimes. This is so painful"
"You're doing everything you need to do. Give yourself a break. You know that everything is going to work out fine - don't you?"
"Yes but I forget - I get scared. Then I miss you."
"I know. I feel it. I can feel everything."
"And I'm pissed off at you. You left left me all this stuff. Every time I pick something up it weights a thousand pounds and I don't know what to do with it."
"That was just me being human. I was scared so I accumulated stuff. Get rid of it. It's nothing. Just be happy. Soon you'll be dead too."
"How can I be happy without you here?" - I know as I say/think this that it is in fact not real, that deep down I know it is just my fear talking - "It's so hard without you."
"Well if you just sit still - you can see that you are not without me.You're not without anyone."
Leukemia and death made Tad so wise.
Just sit still he says: Not so easy - my brain is particularly bad at sitting still.
Lately it has been busy reconfigurng Tad's house so that - whether I have it for one month or one decade - it meets my needs and looks less like the place he died. My brain runs with a million different geometries some of which I actually physically attempt in the place. Move that sofa there, this table here. I've moved the bedroom into the office and the office into the bedroom. I have begun imagining ways in which I can mix and match furniture from my place in San Francisco with furniture from his house adding another layer to keep my brain running more laps.
Now single - my brain begins to weave incredible 100 mph scenarios each time a man begins a kind conversation with me. These scenarios almost always include a version where we become a new couple. The fact that I'm in love with another man and really not available does not enter into the brain's equation. The sweet guy at the coffee shop, the man who chat with me at the dog beach - I find myself wondering if it's the start of a new life, a new Greg. My brain completely disregards my gaydar telling me these men are straight.
In short my brain loves to imagine new possibilities - no doubt driven by that painful but unrealistic part of my soul that aches to go back to the way things once were.
Oddly I actually see my brain doing this. I see it running circles around me - like the ten year old boy with ADHD I once worked with who would literally run back and forth across the school courtyard three times between the moment I picked him up in class and the moment we arrived at my office.
But when I stop and take a breath and pronounce the words, "Tad I miss you" when I sit still as he tells me to do, then I understand. The sobs come bubbling up and I remember what I don't want to remember. I remember that I have stopped looking at pictures of his last few months on earth, replacing them with photos of earlier, happier, pre-cancer times. I remember that I am consciously pushing away the flashbacks of his last hour - a hauntingly irresistible tape I play on a loop like the plane flying into tower number two over and over and over again.
Ironically I realize part of feeling less pain, part of getting through this process is to remember less. My capacity to no longer remember the more painful parts somehow helps me move forward.
One of the most ground-breaking experiments in twentieth century psychology developed into a theory called "attachment". The experiment was very simple: a young child and mother are placed in a room for twenty minutes, the mother sitting in a chair, the child playing on the floor. At one point the mother is joined by a stranger. Then after a few more minutes the mother gets up and leaves and the unknown woman remains. Finally a few minutes later the woman gets up and leaves to be replaced by the mother.
The observations that psychologist Mary Ainsworth made in the 1960's from this study have had massive implications on how we see relationships. And as we learn more and more about the brain her discoveries are becoming even more essential.
In short the team of scientists were able to determine several types of reactions in the children - ranging from secure to anxious. These generally reflected the inner state of the mother which would get transferred to the absorbant child.
The ideal outcome for a healthy life is what's known as a "secure" attachment. If the attachment is "secure" - that is it feels safe, predictable, consistent, empathic, connected - the immature parts of the child's brain can actually learn to use the more mature parts of the parent's brain. The more solid person can help the other party learn to modulate their reactions and soothe themselves in times of fear or sorrow.
Long term this kind of positive deep connection can lead to what John Bowlby, the main theorist of attachment theory, called a "secure base" in the world - the recipient of the goodness begins to feel safer in general, more confident, better skilled at going out to confront uncertainty while knowing or remembering there is a safe place to retreat to. This generally results in that person choosing to surround him or herself with more secure, healthy people as well.
I see today that Tad's voice inside my head is that calm secure base. His is the solid "voice of god" the church taught me to listen for as a I child which always seemed to escape me; the voice of loving god.
It is extraordinary to me that a groundbreaking piece of psychology which continues to affect how we think about human behavior is simply a story about the joy of love and pain of separation. But the outcome is clear. If we love someone deeply and consistently, the beloved party is able to hold that love, to remember it, even after our disappearance.
It does not escape me that the most powerful, nurturing activity I engage in weekly is to sit with dying people in a hospice; to proffer them love. I also remind myself regularly of the uncanny fact that I began doing this volunteer work the very day Tad was diagnosed with the leukemia that was to kill him.
I see now that my biggest obstacle to remembering love, to holding onto the secure attachment is actually the material world. I see how difficult it is for my brain to remain strongly connected to the ephemera of love, serenity, and trusting life when the world surrounds me with solid, material things that seem so much more important. Bills, career, politics, injuries, hunger, war - these all seem to pull me away from remembering love.
Sometimes the most soothing thing I can do is to sit down and make a list. It's a very simple list and it starts with "This is who I am." Then I write.
My name is Gregory Rowe
I am 50 years old.
I love a dead man named Tad Crandall.
I am a psychotherapist.
I am bilingual.
I live in Santa Cruz and San Francisco, CA.
The list is always the same. The important part, the part that keeps me solid is the making of the list. The act of taking my brain out of the news headlines and thoughts of bills, out of the pain of Tad's absence and fearful thoughts of the future and simply remember:
This is who I am.
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
Monday, December 5, 2011
subsiding pain
Something shifted for me during my trip to France; something profound and healing. As my caring friend John said, "It's like the dove has returned with an olive branch."
It took me a moment to remember the full Noah story since I was focused on the more popular symbol of peace and end of war: After a long time in the dark hull of the ark, being tossed around on waves, Noah sent out a dove that returned with a bough from an olive tree. He and his family knew that land had been found, that they were within bird's flight of a new life.
I spent my last day in France in Paris, an afternoon and evening with good friends from San Francisco, Dublin, and Bordeaux. It was nothing extraordinary: we gathered first in the apartment for drinks and chatter around a wood fire in the marble fireplace (no other source of heat in the chilly flat!) then went out for dinner in a nearby cozy Moroccan restaurant we had spotted that day.
While eating my yummy tagine of lamb and dried fruit, while bantering back and forth about silly things and our life stories a door opened. I just got a glimpse of life on the other side but it definitely opened. I didn't see where I might be living, with whom or how. But I saw a feeling, an atmosphere. It basically said "You've had a full life. The world is huge and full of possibilities. You can be whomever you want to be. " And scribbled in between those lines was a bigger message: "There is hope for you."
This is curious to me since I feel as if I have never been without hope. I have known ever since Tad's diagnosis that without him I will be okay. I will have a full life, a career one day, friends. Maybe I'll even find someone who will want to have a child with me, the child Tad and I couldn't have but wanted so dearly. But abstract phenomena like hope -- along with other messy stuff like love, awareness and anxiety -- seem to come and go in multiple layers, "like peeling an onion" as a friend says.
I see now that I probably could not have opened the door that last night in Paris if I had not had the first nearly three weeks in the southern town of Bordeaux where I mostly continued the same pace I had had in Santa Cruz.
I stayed predominantly anchored to my friend Madina's stone house in a residential neighborhood breaking my home-boundedness with short jaunts to the market, to the school to pick up Ella her daughter, to the hardware store. For some reason I found incredible comfort in fixing little things around my dear friend's house - a form of caregiving I suppose.
Breakfasts with fresh bread, salty butter and homemade jam, long hot baths with eucalyptus oil, bicycle rides around the bumpy cobbled streets, short trips to the station to pick up friends, tea with Madina's parents in the big house in St Emilion: this was the busy schedule of my stay in the Southwest.
When I look back I see that as the days went by my tears became less and less abundant.
During the flight over I cried probably a dozen times (I've learned to do it now in a way that looks almost as if I've just gone into a short meditation by placing my hand on my forehead just so). I so wanted Tad to be on this trip with me. I wanted it to be as beautiful as my last trip to France, the one where I introduced him to my circles there, where I showed him my old house, where we played dodge ball in the pool with my godson and his brothers.
Each time I saw someone new I wept again; something about being held in their arms, about Tad not being there in our arms, something about the physical presence suddenly making concrete the invisible love that binds us.
Around day four or five Madina and I went down to the river on a full moon and said good-bye yet again to Tad as we tossed some of his ashes into the churning muddy Garonne River right in front of his favorite fountain. Like the night he fell in love with that fountain, there were people sitting around talking, drinking, singing, enjoying the last evenings before the arrival of the cold winter temperatures. Like that night with Tad Madina and I got back on our bikes and rode home through the old quarter past the illuminated Gothic churches and the medieval city gates - only this time in silence and with tears in our eyes.
One morning I sat on the sofa in the living room, crying softly, yearning for Tad to be there when little Ella came downstairs. That whole week for reasons no doctor could explain this lively six year old had been having stomach cramps, some strong enough to send her home from school. She looked up at me and said "Gregory pourquoi tu pleures?" I told her I was crying because I missed Tad. She asked me this with the same tone of voice used two years earlier when she would wake Tad and me each morning by climbing into bed with us and barrage us with "why" questions.
The most memorable morning we awoke with her riding Tad's torso like a pony and him half asleep mumbling to me: "Greg - what's she saying?" As her perky energy slowly pulled me out of my slumber I looked up at her smiling face and focused on the words coming out of her mouth: "She wants to know why you have such a fat stomach?" ("Tad! Tad! Pourquoi t'as un si gros ventre?"). Needless to say Tad awakened immediately, fighting back with tickles to regain his dignity.
That evening while her mother bathed Ella she shared that she had seen me crying on the sofa. It seems my tears helped her to burst wide open with her own sorrow and tell her mother how much she misses having daddy and her in the same house together. How even though it's been two years she doesn't want to live like this; she wants things to go back to the way they were; back to life before separation.
From the mouths of babes....
Looking back I see another moment that helped push back the sorrow quite unexpectedly was a phrase from Matthieu my host in Paris whom I have known since he was fourteen years old. Now a 43 year old gerontologist he has been around quite a few folks living their last days on earth. His simple idea ran counter to everything I had thought about death: "Sometimes it's just not a good idea for family members to be there when a person dies."
This seemed anathema to my old fighting spirit born from the untimely deaths of so many friends in the 1980's: being with someone dying was ALWAYS better than not. In my volunteer gig at the hospice it seems we all more or less secretly hope we will be present when one of our beloved residents stops breathing. ( The likelihood of being there that one second when everything changes is statistically quite low. There are after all 86,400 seconds in just one given day). Plus I had begun sitting with dying people as a form of service the very day Tad got diagnosed with leukemia. Surely that was some kind of sign? Or was that just a coincidence?
I asked Matthieu what he meant. He explained that even though we all imagine death to be beautiful and serene most people's aren't very pretty. They're messy and painful, especially so for those who love the person. "It's like birth," he said. "We have this idea it's always a great thing but it can actually be really messy and bloody and traumatic."
I am aware now how much those words helped. The last six months of Tad's life were a constant struggle. The last ten minutes watching him fight to breathe were excruciating for me - even though both of our two friends present described it as peaceful moment.
I see today that I have not just been carrying immense sorrow at having lost the person I feel closest to. I am also the bearer of a certain level of post-traumatic stress disorder, what used to be called "shell shock" when soldiers came home from war in a stunned, apathetic state. The flashbacks, the numbness, the tears were all part of the complex package I carried.
Funny...I used the past tense. I think this is indeed the part that lifted. I am aware of it because it's no longer there.
While at Matthieu's the temperature plummeted quite suddenly and I was in the market for a wool cap to cover my ears. I stepped into a local Monoprix only to discover they were selling a knock-off version of a jacket I had lost a good ten years previously. Since buying my first for a reasonable price I discovered the style had become quite trendy and the price had gone up astronomically. Hence after losing it I gave up on ever having one again. In fact when it disappeared my boyfriend at the time seemed to have been the last person wearing it. Although he apologized generously I still held a petty grudge.
I came home from the store without a wool cap but instead with a new quilted jacket, much like the one I had worn so many years ago. When I arrived at the flat I called out to Matthieu to come see my new purchase. I was actually having a playful, retail-therapy moment, my first since Tad's death. Matthieu walked into the living room and immediately said, "Looks great. Oh that reminds me I still have that old blue quilted jacket of yours. It's a bit worn out but I'll bring it back the next time we go to the house in the country."
Not only did it delight me to discover that all these years I had been wrong about the jacket's whereabouts, but it was comforting to know that it had always been in Matthieu's possession. The coat dated back a good twenty years - fourteen more than my time with Tad. Its near re-appearance was a gentle reminder of the continuity of things, the coherence of my world even when it's scattered across two continents and two decades.
Today I am back in Tad's house in Santa Cruz. It feels more and more like my house. I am laying down my arms, resting from the weary battle. I am not pulled into deep sorrow when I see our yard, our bed, our cat, our photos. Instead I find myself smiling more, singing aloud even. And in the smiles I feel Tad's love.
That night in the bathtub when Ella wept and finally blurted out her deep yearning to see her parents back together, her mother had the wisdom to lovingly tell her she and Ella's dad would not get back together. I imagine Madina knew such words would not be easy for little Ella's ears yet in the long run this was the healthy response, one steeped in reality.
I see how --driven by my old childhood desire to protect the ones I love from pain at all cost-- I fought very hard by Tad's side to help him survive leukemia. I also see how I somehow fantasized I could keep him from suffering if I just fought hard enough. By handily transforming my own neurotic ball-and-chain into a sword and shield I mistakenly believed I could relieve him of any pain. And if he did suffer then it was my fault for not working hard enough.
I also failed to notice that my "weapons" do not entirely protect me from harm either.
I hope one day my beloved -whoever that may be- will hold me in his arms while I breathe my last breath the way I proudly did with the beautiful and valiant Tad Crandall. And already I pray that the inevitable pain he will suffer from this last act of love does not last too long.
It took me a moment to remember the full Noah story since I was focused on the more popular symbol of peace and end of war: After a long time in the dark hull of the ark, being tossed around on waves, Noah sent out a dove that returned with a bough from an olive tree. He and his family knew that land had been found, that they were within bird's flight of a new life.
I spent my last day in France in Paris, an afternoon and evening with good friends from San Francisco, Dublin, and Bordeaux. It was nothing extraordinary: we gathered first in the apartment for drinks and chatter around a wood fire in the marble fireplace (no other source of heat in the chilly flat!) then went out for dinner in a nearby cozy Moroccan restaurant we had spotted that day.
While eating my yummy tagine of lamb and dried fruit, while bantering back and forth about silly things and our life stories a door opened. I just got a glimpse of life on the other side but it definitely opened. I didn't see where I might be living, with whom or how. But I saw a feeling, an atmosphere. It basically said "You've had a full life. The world is huge and full of possibilities. You can be whomever you want to be. " And scribbled in between those lines was a bigger message: "There is hope for you."
This is curious to me since I feel as if I have never been without hope. I have known ever since Tad's diagnosis that without him I will be okay. I will have a full life, a career one day, friends. Maybe I'll even find someone who will want to have a child with me, the child Tad and I couldn't have but wanted so dearly. But abstract phenomena like hope -- along with other messy stuff like love, awareness and anxiety -- seem to come and go in multiple layers, "like peeling an onion" as a friend says.
I see now that I probably could not have opened the door that last night in Paris if I had not had the first nearly three weeks in the southern town of Bordeaux where I mostly continued the same pace I had had in Santa Cruz.
I stayed predominantly anchored to my friend Madina's stone house in a residential neighborhood breaking my home-boundedness with short jaunts to the market, to the school to pick up Ella her daughter, to the hardware store. For some reason I found incredible comfort in fixing little things around my dear friend's house - a form of caregiving I suppose.
Breakfasts with fresh bread, salty butter and homemade jam, long hot baths with eucalyptus oil, bicycle rides around the bumpy cobbled streets, short trips to the station to pick up friends, tea with Madina's parents in the big house in St Emilion: this was the busy schedule of my stay in the Southwest.
When I look back I see that as the days went by my tears became less and less abundant.
During the flight over I cried probably a dozen times (I've learned to do it now in a way that looks almost as if I've just gone into a short meditation by placing my hand on my forehead just so). I so wanted Tad to be on this trip with me. I wanted it to be as beautiful as my last trip to France, the one where I introduced him to my circles there, where I showed him my old house, where we played dodge ball in the pool with my godson and his brothers.
Each time I saw someone new I wept again; something about being held in their arms, about Tad not being there in our arms, something about the physical presence suddenly making concrete the invisible love that binds us.
Around day four or five Madina and I went down to the river on a full moon and said good-bye yet again to Tad as we tossed some of his ashes into the churning muddy Garonne River right in front of his favorite fountain. Like the night he fell in love with that fountain, there were people sitting around talking, drinking, singing, enjoying the last evenings before the arrival of the cold winter temperatures. Like that night with Tad Madina and I got back on our bikes and rode home through the old quarter past the illuminated Gothic churches and the medieval city gates - only this time in silence and with tears in our eyes.
One morning I sat on the sofa in the living room, crying softly, yearning for Tad to be there when little Ella came downstairs. That whole week for reasons no doctor could explain this lively six year old had been having stomach cramps, some strong enough to send her home from school. She looked up at me and said "Gregory pourquoi tu pleures?" I told her I was crying because I missed Tad. She asked me this with the same tone of voice used two years earlier when she would wake Tad and me each morning by climbing into bed with us and barrage us with "why" questions.
The most memorable morning we awoke with her riding Tad's torso like a pony and him half asleep mumbling to me: "Greg - what's she saying?" As her perky energy slowly pulled me out of my slumber I looked up at her smiling face and focused on the words coming out of her mouth: "She wants to know why you have such a fat stomach?" ("Tad! Tad! Pourquoi t'as un si gros ventre?"). Needless to say Tad awakened immediately, fighting back with tickles to regain his dignity.
That evening while her mother bathed Ella she shared that she had seen me crying on the sofa. It seems my tears helped her to burst wide open with her own sorrow and tell her mother how much she misses having daddy and her in the same house together. How even though it's been two years she doesn't want to live like this; she wants things to go back to the way they were; back to life before separation.
From the mouths of babes....
Looking back I see another moment that helped push back the sorrow quite unexpectedly was a phrase from Matthieu my host in Paris whom I have known since he was fourteen years old. Now a 43 year old gerontologist he has been around quite a few folks living their last days on earth. His simple idea ran counter to everything I had thought about death: "Sometimes it's just not a good idea for family members to be there when a person dies."
This seemed anathema to my old fighting spirit born from the untimely deaths of so many friends in the 1980's: being with someone dying was ALWAYS better than not. In my volunteer gig at the hospice it seems we all more or less secretly hope we will be present when one of our beloved residents stops breathing. ( The likelihood of being there that one second when everything changes is statistically quite low. There are after all 86,400 seconds in just one given day). Plus I had begun sitting with dying people as a form of service the very day Tad got diagnosed with leukemia. Surely that was some kind of sign? Or was that just a coincidence?
I asked Matthieu what he meant. He explained that even though we all imagine death to be beautiful and serene most people's aren't very pretty. They're messy and painful, especially so for those who love the person. "It's like birth," he said. "We have this idea it's always a great thing but it can actually be really messy and bloody and traumatic."
I am aware now how much those words helped. The last six months of Tad's life were a constant struggle. The last ten minutes watching him fight to breathe were excruciating for me - even though both of our two friends present described it as peaceful moment.
I see today that I have not just been carrying immense sorrow at having lost the person I feel closest to. I am also the bearer of a certain level of post-traumatic stress disorder, what used to be called "shell shock" when soldiers came home from war in a stunned, apathetic state. The flashbacks, the numbness, the tears were all part of the complex package I carried.
Funny...I used the past tense. I think this is indeed the part that lifted. I am aware of it because it's no longer there.
While at Matthieu's the temperature plummeted quite suddenly and I was in the market for a wool cap to cover my ears. I stepped into a local Monoprix only to discover they were selling a knock-off version of a jacket I had lost a good ten years previously. Since buying my first for a reasonable price I discovered the style had become quite trendy and the price had gone up astronomically. Hence after losing it I gave up on ever having one again. In fact when it disappeared my boyfriend at the time seemed to have been the last person wearing it. Although he apologized generously I still held a petty grudge.
I came home from the store without a wool cap but instead with a new quilted jacket, much like the one I had worn so many years ago. When I arrived at the flat I called out to Matthieu to come see my new purchase. I was actually having a playful, retail-therapy moment, my first since Tad's death. Matthieu walked into the living room and immediately said, "Looks great. Oh that reminds me I still have that old blue quilted jacket of yours. It's a bit worn out but I'll bring it back the next time we go to the house in the country."
Not only did it delight me to discover that all these years I had been wrong about the jacket's whereabouts, but it was comforting to know that it had always been in Matthieu's possession. The coat dated back a good twenty years - fourteen more than my time with Tad. Its near re-appearance was a gentle reminder of the continuity of things, the coherence of my world even when it's scattered across two continents and two decades.
Today I am back in Tad's house in Santa Cruz. It feels more and more like my house. I am laying down my arms, resting from the weary battle. I am not pulled into deep sorrow when I see our yard, our bed, our cat, our photos. Instead I find myself smiling more, singing aloud even. And in the smiles I feel Tad's love.
That night in the bathtub when Ella wept and finally blurted out her deep yearning to see her parents back together, her mother had the wisdom to lovingly tell her she and Ella's dad would not get back together. I imagine Madina knew such words would not be easy for little Ella's ears yet in the long run this was the healthy response, one steeped in reality.
I see how --driven by my old childhood desire to protect the ones I love from pain at all cost-- I fought very hard by Tad's side to help him survive leukemia. I also see how I somehow fantasized I could keep him from suffering if I just fought hard enough. By handily transforming my own neurotic ball-and-chain into a sword and shield I mistakenly believed I could relieve him of any pain. And if he did suffer then it was my fault for not working hard enough.
I also failed to notice that my "weapons" do not entirely protect me from harm either.
I hope one day my beloved -whoever that may be- will hold me in his arms while I breathe my last breath the way I proudly did with the beautiful and valiant Tad Crandall. And already I pray that the inevitable pain he will suffer from this last act of love does not last too long.
Friday, November 25, 2011
the power of imagination
I reach my leg under the little formica table and say his name to nudge Tad awake. Outside in the drizzle is a stunning 17th century farmhouse on a hill surrounded by handsome Cypress pines. He wakes from his slumber, turns his head and looks up at me from under the rim of his red baseball cap with those big green eyes of his. (I told him not to wear baseball caps in France because he looks like a tourist). He's smirking because he knows I've woken him up to show him yet another pretty house. He often gets tired of my distractability and shows his need to pull away and recharge his batteries by nodding off. This time he reaches his hand across and touches mine, with just a smile, he rubs his ankle up against mine out of the view of the other passengers as a way to say, "Yes dear. I love you. Now let me sleep." Then he lies his head back down. A big smile comes to my face followed seconds later by a slow gentle cry that brings fat tears tumbling down my face which I cover with my hand so other passengers won't notice.
The reality is: Tad is not here; he is not on this trip with me. The reality is: Tad is dead. And the power of my imagination is both the incredible joy it brings me by creating pleasurable images and the terrible sorrow it unearths when it reminds me that it is -in and of itself- just a mental image setting off bodily sensations.
(If I use my imagination just right I can even feel the particular texture of Tad's hands.)
As I rush across the French countryside in a long metal train I find myself wondering if those seventeen months of cancer even existed. Maybe I just dreamt them too. The long nights in hospitals, waking every time the nurse walks in to check his vitals, the constant struggle to to see if I can understand what the doctors "really" mean behind their multiple masks. Did I just make up that fight, those phone calls, the hollering matches, the tearful nights holding each other?
Was this too just my imagination?
What's clear is that I did not dream the part of the story where the leukemia finally killed Tad. I did not dream the day he stopped breathing in my arms after suffocating on his own fluids. I did not dream the view of his cardboard box coffin sliding into the square chamber of the cremation furnace. That I know is not my imagination.
He is dead and I am not. Can someone please give me the instruction manual for loving a dead man? Because I don't know how to do this.
I find myself wondering when it will stop. When will I get back to wanting to be in love with a live person? I guess I am already there - I want to be in love with a live Tad. He's the one who is unavailable - so to speak.
If I were to give a name to this state it would be "bittersweet" - every memory is like a sweet dark chocolate that I get to relish in then suddenly I hit the bitter, hard center of reality and it becomes unpleasant.
* * * * * * * * * * *
This is not my first dance with death; far from it.
I saw my first cadaver at age 12 when I went to see my cousin lying in a casket; shot dead during a hunting accident. I saw my grandfather's corpse before I turned 18.
But the long, ongoing dance with death similar to Tad's was when I was in my early thirties and was told I had a medical condition that could be controlled temporarily but never healed. It would only get worse and for years smart doctors told me I needed to prepare for my imminent death.
Then some brilliant team of scientists came along and discovered a drug that saved my life. It's pretty clear to me that none of the men in white saw it coming given the seriousness with which they conveyed their concern that I prepare my family and friends for my death.
Now that I am back in France I see how being here helped me deal with the reality of death.
When I lived here in Bordeaux I was restoring a 17th century farm house. One of my pleasures as a cerebral break from the exhausting physical work was to come into the city and do research on the history of the house and the families who had lived there.
The notion that this place had been there hundreds of years before me and the thick stone walls would probably be there many years after me somehow made my loss and fear of loss much more bearable. The old house with its multiple owners whose names populated the "cadastre" at the local archives put me and my own life in perspective. History is just a long story about dead people.
I grew attached to that house and had romantic images of being buried in the park out near the tiny 18th century chapel.
During this visit my sweet friend John and I went back to that house - now a bed and breakfast slash winery. I walked from room to room noticing the floor slats I had replaced, the sink I had installed, the paint I had slathered on the walls. I walked around remembering names and faces of people who had come and gone in those rooms.
At one point John intimated that this visit might make me uncomfortable (it is indeed a rather enviable place to have lived).
But the truth is I didn't feel any painful urges tugging at my heart as I walked through this old rambling place. It was a big part of my life. I shared it with someone dear to me and now neither is a part of my life and I feel quite at peace with that. It's that simple.
I wonder what it will take for me to get to a phase in my life when I can say to myself "Tad Crandall you were a big part of my life but you are no longer and I feel at peace with that. It's that simple."
* * * * * * * * * * *
While here a young Frenchman appeared to flirt with me in a way that stirred something. He was sweet and sexy and seemed smart (one or the other alone would be insufficient to prick my ears). As we began to get to know one another I suddenly began to feel nauseous. Without notice I became aware I needed to get to a toilet quickly. I proceeded to vomit profusely.
If I am to believe many Hollywood movies this vomiting was caused by severe emotion but according to my GP I simply developed a stomach flu, what the French call "une gastro". Needless to say it brought an end to any flirting. I took the prescribed medication, went to bed (alone) and slept for a long time.
When I woke up this morning I found myself thinking: "Tad knew every one of my physical and psychological quirks. How will I ever be able to meet someone who will accept me for who I am? There's no possible way I'll ever be able to invite someone new into my life."
Then I began to say aloud to the stone walls words that surprised even me: "Tad I can't believe you left me alone? Why did you have to go and leave me here? I'm really pissed off at you for dying!"
I had never felt anger about Tad's death before and I immediately thought of Kubler-Ross and her silly stages and how I was actually having one of them; finally an experience that someone had documented as normal.
* * * * * * * * * * *
Driving back from the airport where I've just dropped off Madina it occurs to me that most of life is about memory.
My capacity to drive a manual car after ten years of driving an automatic, to find my way around the unmarked Bordeaux suburbs, to remember how to negotiate a round-about at high speeds during rush hour - these are all based on memory.
How is it that some memories are so painful and others so warm?
The Nobel-prize winning psychologist Daniel Kahneman says that one of the reasons it is hard for us to measure happiness is that we confuse our feelings about our life with our feelings about our memories of our life.
And what worse his work has shown how something that has the potential to be a really good memory turns into a bad one when it has a less-than-happy ending such as a peaceful vacation that finishes with a harsh dispute over the hotel bill.
If this is true then we might surmise that most relationships will become a painful memory - because they will end in unwanted separation. It's a wonder we allow ourselves to have children, to open up to other humans, to find a mate!
It would no doubt make my memories happier if I believed that Tad's departure from this earth was the immediate delivery of his soul into the arms of a loving god. It would allow me to walk around saying how happy I am for him; how lucky he is to be with god. But I can't. I simply don't know that to be true.
What I do know (or at least feel very strongly) is that this painful sorrow, this revisiting of memories, this conjuring of loving images, this talking aloud to a dead man is all part of our love story. It is all part and parcel of the beautiful encounter between Tad Crandall and Greg Rowe.
I can't have the beauty and love without the pain.
* * * * * * * * * * *
PS When I put the new SIM card in my French phone I was served up a series of beautiful text messages from Tad so excited to be sharing his arrival first in Florence, then Rome, and finally Venice where he compared the throngs of tourists to locusts. These were from 2009 where we split paths so I could go back to the US. With the magic of telecommunication competition, the new company kicked in and all the messages disappeared. I stood in the phone store smiling even though it stung. "The temporary nature of life," I thought.
The reality is: Tad is not here; he is not on this trip with me. The reality is: Tad is dead. And the power of my imagination is both the incredible joy it brings me by creating pleasurable images and the terrible sorrow it unearths when it reminds me that it is -in and of itself- just a mental image setting off bodily sensations.
(If I use my imagination just right I can even feel the particular texture of Tad's hands.)
As I rush across the French countryside in a long metal train I find myself wondering if those seventeen months of cancer even existed. Maybe I just dreamt them too. The long nights in hospitals, waking every time the nurse walks in to check his vitals, the constant struggle to to see if I can understand what the doctors "really" mean behind their multiple masks. Did I just make up that fight, those phone calls, the hollering matches, the tearful nights holding each other?
Was this too just my imagination?
What's clear is that I did not dream the part of the story where the leukemia finally killed Tad. I did not dream the day he stopped breathing in my arms after suffocating on his own fluids. I did not dream the view of his cardboard box coffin sliding into the square chamber of the cremation furnace. That I know is not my imagination.
He is dead and I am not. Can someone please give me the instruction manual for loving a dead man? Because I don't know how to do this.
I find myself wondering when it will stop. When will I get back to wanting to be in love with a live person? I guess I am already there - I want to be in love with a live Tad. He's the one who is unavailable - so to speak.
If I were to give a name to this state it would be "bittersweet" - every memory is like a sweet dark chocolate that I get to relish in then suddenly I hit the bitter, hard center of reality and it becomes unpleasant.
* * * * * * * * * * *
This is not my first dance with death; far from it.
I saw my first cadaver at age 12 when I went to see my cousin lying in a casket; shot dead during a hunting accident. I saw my grandfather's corpse before I turned 18.
But the long, ongoing dance with death similar to Tad's was when I was in my early thirties and was told I had a medical condition that could be controlled temporarily but never healed. It would only get worse and for years smart doctors told me I needed to prepare for my imminent death.
Then some brilliant team of scientists came along and discovered a drug that saved my life. It's pretty clear to me that none of the men in white saw it coming given the seriousness with which they conveyed their concern that I prepare my family and friends for my death.
Now that I am back in France I see how being here helped me deal with the reality of death.
When I lived here in Bordeaux I was restoring a 17th century farm house. One of my pleasures as a cerebral break from the exhausting physical work was to come into the city and do research on the history of the house and the families who had lived there.
The notion that this place had been there hundreds of years before me and the thick stone walls would probably be there many years after me somehow made my loss and fear of loss much more bearable. The old house with its multiple owners whose names populated the "cadastre" at the local archives put me and my own life in perspective. History is just a long story about dead people.
I grew attached to that house and had romantic images of being buried in the park out near the tiny 18th century chapel.
During this visit my sweet friend John and I went back to that house - now a bed and breakfast slash winery. I walked from room to room noticing the floor slats I had replaced, the sink I had installed, the paint I had slathered on the walls. I walked around remembering names and faces of people who had come and gone in those rooms.
At one point John intimated that this visit might make me uncomfortable (it is indeed a rather enviable place to have lived).
But the truth is I didn't feel any painful urges tugging at my heart as I walked through this old rambling place. It was a big part of my life. I shared it with someone dear to me and now neither is a part of my life and I feel quite at peace with that. It's that simple.
I wonder what it will take for me to get to a phase in my life when I can say to myself "Tad Crandall you were a big part of my life but you are no longer and I feel at peace with that. It's that simple."
* * * * * * * * * * *
While here a young Frenchman appeared to flirt with me in a way that stirred something. He was sweet and sexy and seemed smart (one or the other alone would be insufficient to prick my ears). As we began to get to know one another I suddenly began to feel nauseous. Without notice I became aware I needed to get to a toilet quickly. I proceeded to vomit profusely.
If I am to believe many Hollywood movies this vomiting was caused by severe emotion but according to my GP I simply developed a stomach flu, what the French call "une gastro". Needless to say it brought an end to any flirting. I took the prescribed medication, went to bed (alone) and slept for a long time.
When I woke up this morning I found myself thinking: "Tad knew every one of my physical and psychological quirks. How will I ever be able to meet someone who will accept me for who I am? There's no possible way I'll ever be able to invite someone new into my life."
Then I began to say aloud to the stone walls words that surprised even me: "Tad I can't believe you left me alone? Why did you have to go and leave me here? I'm really pissed off at you for dying!"
I had never felt anger about Tad's death before and I immediately thought of Kubler-Ross and her silly stages and how I was actually having one of them; finally an experience that someone had documented as normal.
* * * * * * * * * * *
Driving back from the airport where I've just dropped off Madina it occurs to me that most of life is about memory.
My capacity to drive a manual car after ten years of driving an automatic, to find my way around the unmarked Bordeaux suburbs, to remember how to negotiate a round-about at high speeds during rush hour - these are all based on memory.
How is it that some memories are so painful and others so warm?
The Nobel-prize winning psychologist Daniel Kahneman says that one of the reasons it is hard for us to measure happiness is that we confuse our feelings about our life with our feelings about our memories of our life.
And what worse his work has shown how something that has the potential to be a really good memory turns into a bad one when it has a less-than-happy ending such as a peaceful vacation that finishes with a harsh dispute over the hotel bill.
If this is true then we might surmise that most relationships will become a painful memory - because they will end in unwanted separation. It's a wonder we allow ourselves to have children, to open up to other humans, to find a mate!
It would no doubt make my memories happier if I believed that Tad's departure from this earth was the immediate delivery of his soul into the arms of a loving god. It would allow me to walk around saying how happy I am for him; how lucky he is to be with god. But I can't. I simply don't know that to be true.
What I do know (or at least feel very strongly) is that this painful sorrow, this revisiting of memories, this conjuring of loving images, this talking aloud to a dead man is all part of our love story. It is all part and parcel of the beautiful encounter between Tad Crandall and Greg Rowe.
I can't have the beauty and love without the pain.
* * * * * * * * * * *
PS When I put the new SIM card in my French phone I was served up a series of beautiful text messages from Tad so excited to be sharing his arrival first in Florence, then Rome, and finally Venice where he compared the throngs of tourists to locusts. These were from 2009 where we split paths so I could go back to the US. With the magic of telecommunication competition, the new company kicked in and all the messages disappeared. I stood in the phone store smiling even though it stung. "The temporary nature of life," I thought.
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
recalculating
The gut-wrenching, painful memories are slowly letting go of me, no doubt tired of gripping my brain for so long. I no longer lie down in my bed and immediately think of Tad's corpse that was there less than two months ago. I no longer wander the aisles of Trader Joe's my eyes wet with sorrow my heart yearning to prepare him dishes he enjoys.
I vaguely remember the seizures that took him to the floor, the spontaneous bleeding here and there, the moments of exhaustion when I would struggle to move his 195 pound body from the bed to the toilet on his office chair with five little wheels as support.
I've been called "resilient" by many of my friends. I find myself wondering if this is simply a well-developed capacity to forget pain.
More and more what I do remember - actually it's not a memory, it's a new original thought each time. So let me start again: More and more what I hear in my head is Tad's loving voice encouraging me.
This pisses me off somewhat.
I always swore I would not turn someone into a demi-god just because they're dead. Death does not make us perfect; Tad was by no means perfect.
And yet what remains in my head is Tad's perfection. The voice that appears when I stop and listen is that of Tad so full of love that every word he utters is supportive and kind; reminding me not to "sweat the small stuff", to dive in face first, to relish it all.
This voice also delights me beyond belief.
It seems I have always only had one voice inside me: a strident, rather demanding, easily distractable voice. Tad's departure has left me with a new voice. A loving voice. Not permanently - I have to lean into it to really hear it. But it's there.
I can think of other departure's in my life where people left a negative voice in my head. These departures were mostly painful ones: separations, divorce. Then there are the many departures which have left no voice in my head at all.
Couples specialist Jonathon Gottman tells us it takes five positive bits of feedback from our beloved to balance out the damage done by one single negative message. Imagine the power our loved ones hold over us!
So perhaps it's possible that in the face of an incredible 18-month long human tragedy during which I received thousands of loving messages from my beloved that somehow I have been able to replace the harping voice from my childhood with a caring voice for my adulthood.
It's possible when we walk someone to the edge of the precipice with complete love that the gift we get in return is a loving voice whispering in our ear. I find myself wondering what I can do to maintain it - to keep it whispering til my own body stops functioning.
What if Tad and I had had a fight the day before? Would this all look different today? Is it possible that his last words sealed the deal somehow? When he looked at our friend Carl and slurred through the fog of what was probably a brain hemmorhage: "I am okay to die, where is Greg?" was he setting our love in stone?
It's almost as if I can finally hear the "loving voice of God" promised to me time and again by the elders of my childhood church. Only now God sounds vaguely like Tad on a good day.
I maintain a family plan with the atrocious AT&T until I can find a way to record Tad's voice mails for eternity (funny choice of words, right?). But ironically when I listen to them they don't really deliver on my hopes of rekindling something with him. They're rather disappointing.
The ashes don't really work for me either. I just assumed when the crematorium gave them back to me that I'd feel some kind of satisfaction like people on TV. After all I did give them a body - you'd think I could fetishize what is left of that body. But I can't seem to relate to these ashes in any way despite my efforts to keep them in a central place on my altar.
It seems the only thing that evokes Tad in me is a photo. I find I prefer the ones of him hiking in nature. I tend to reach out, to caress the surface of the photo when I walk by as if I were caressing his cheek and I say aloud, "Tad, I love you." In that moment he is there.
But finding Tadness is a tricky thing. I have been giving away a lot of his belongings, to his family, to neighbors, to Goodwill. I keep wondering at one point will I go over the edge and suddenly his world will disappear forever. Why is that sofa an important part of maintaining Tadness but not that chair? How is it I can't find anyone who wears size nine and half shoes - is this Tad telling me not to get rid of his abundant collection of sports shoes?
This kind of superstitious thinking can take me to strange uncomfortable places. A few days ago I was so altered by my thoughts and emotions that I ran into the car in front of me at a stop light. Fortunately the other driver was extremely compassionate. I felt a strong need to explain to her the reasons I couldn't stop crying had little to do with the fender bender- yet the words wouldn't come out; just sobbing. "My", "husband", "just", "died", "of", "cancer" got slowly pieced together and she put her arm around me lovingly. The strident voice immediately corrected in my head reminding me it had been five weeks and I should be more 'together' than this.
Ironically we had pulled over to exchange numbers onto the parking lot of the clinic where Tad once got his blood drawn. She had actually slammed on the brakes to avoid an emerging ambulance. I remember those.
After Tad died I thought my "job" was to:
1 - keep his belongings that are meaningful to me
2 - get rid of his belongings that aren't and
3 - start a private practice either in San Francisco, Santa Cruz or both.
I see now that this is far more complicated than I had ever imagined. Any task I engage in is potentially overwhelming if it happens to bring up emotional material. Needless to say just about everything in the above list brings up deeply emotional material. Some things I trudge through nonetheless but most of the time I simply stop and do something else, something not on my list.
Turning off Tad's telephone line, sorting through his office, redecorating his living room, repainting parts of the bathroom have all taken weeks. I went to see a clairvoyant who told me to let go of my goals for now so instead I decided to go get coddled in Bordeaux by my sweet friend Madina. Suddenly buying a plane ticket to take a break from my emotions was too emotional. It took me three weeks to decide on a date, an airlines and an itinerary!
I've begun attending a "grief group" (on top of grief counseling and therapy). One of the facilitators shared with me her impression that people grieving are doing an incredible amount of work, even when they are not working. This notion resonated strongly with me even though it was not clear what this "work" is.
Last weekend I attended a men's gathering - a gathering held in the very place Tad and I met and where this summer we had a beautiful commitment ceremony. While there I understood what this "work" is. It became clear while listening to a friend tell a story about getting lost with a GPS.
Imagine you've decided to take a month-long trip across country. Let's say you're driving from New York to Los Angeles. You don't have an exact itinerary but you have a pretty clear idea where you'll be each day for the next thirty days. But then, when you get to Missouri you suddenly discover for reasons beyond your control that you can't go any further. No matter how convincing you are, no matter who you know, no matter how smart you are - you are stuck all alone in Missouri. This notion in and of itself is overwhelming. Your whole relationship to Missouri begins to transform. But the more time you spend there the more the two end points take on a different meaning as well. New York becomes this place of memories; the sacred land of life events both happy and sad. And LA becomes the unattainable land of unrealized dreams.
Then the space between the two changes in significance. That nap in the rest stop in Ohio suddenly takes on new value as does that sweet Bed and Breakfast in Amish country.
The entire time your GPS keeps muttering "Recalculating", "recalculating". The poor one-chip computer keeps trying to figure out what the hell happened. Its sole purpose is to get you to LA.
And that is the "work" I'm doing even when I'm not doing any work: Recalculating.
The bunk bed in room one of cabin two at Saratoga Springs Retreat Center is no longer just a bunk bed - it has become a sacred temple built solely to celebrate the first time Tad and I made love. A ticket to Bordeaux isn't just a visit to my family on that side of the world - it's a bittersweet pilgrimage to what Tad called his "favorite memory ever". The garden he carefully constructed over six years now full of historical significance merits national park status - worthy of millions of visitors.
As I do all this recalculating work I wonder how long I need to stay in Missouri. At what point am I doing damage to myself just sitting and reminiscing on my years with Tad? How long should I stand staring at a photo of him? Was the timing right for me to have that sweet tryst over the weekend or was it too soon? Do I really love living in Santa Cruz or is it just a way for me to keep Tad's home intact a bit longer? Am I rushing back into the real world or am I lingering too long in the world of the dead?
I don't have answers to any of these questions. Actually I do have answers in my head but they keep changing. They are the subject of a gentle disagreement between the strident voice and Tad's voice. "Stay", "Go", "Linger", "Work".
But there is one thing I am dead certain of (another great choice of words): connecting with loving people always feels right, even if they can't talk about Tad or the events of the last year. The handsome guy at my favorite coffee shop, the gentle hug with my sweet neighbor who just got a cancer diagnosis - the same woman who told me I could call her day or night if I needed help moving Tad, lunch al fresco with my dear friend Carl, a support group of broken hearted widows...At times I find myself wishing it were the 1950's again so people could drop by unexpectedly with tuna casseroles or to refresh the water in the living room bouquet.
These encounters are the crumbs showing me the path out of Missouri and on to the next voyage. Actually let me recalculate: they are the bountiful, nutritious picnics laid out beautifully in pastures along the winding road that might take me back to my next departure point.
My "job" today is to feast and wander. And if I stop and listen to Tad-God Voice while I'm there, it's saying to me: "YES! Keep loving! Keep crying! Keep laughing!"
PS Apologies to my loving cousins in Missouri - it's not personal!
I vaguely remember the seizures that took him to the floor, the spontaneous bleeding here and there, the moments of exhaustion when I would struggle to move his 195 pound body from the bed to the toilet on his office chair with five little wheels as support.
I've been called "resilient" by many of my friends. I find myself wondering if this is simply a well-developed capacity to forget pain.
More and more what I do remember - actually it's not a memory, it's a new original thought each time. So let me start again: More and more what I hear in my head is Tad's loving voice encouraging me.
This pisses me off somewhat.
I always swore I would not turn someone into a demi-god just because they're dead. Death does not make us perfect; Tad was by no means perfect.
And yet what remains in my head is Tad's perfection. The voice that appears when I stop and listen is that of Tad so full of love that every word he utters is supportive and kind; reminding me not to "sweat the small stuff", to dive in face first, to relish it all.
This voice also delights me beyond belief.
It seems I have always only had one voice inside me: a strident, rather demanding, easily distractable voice. Tad's departure has left me with a new voice. A loving voice. Not permanently - I have to lean into it to really hear it. But it's there.
I can think of other departure's in my life where people left a negative voice in my head. These departures were mostly painful ones: separations, divorce. Then there are the many departures which have left no voice in my head at all.
Couples specialist Jonathon Gottman tells us it takes five positive bits of feedback from our beloved to balance out the damage done by one single negative message. Imagine the power our loved ones hold over us!
So perhaps it's possible that in the face of an incredible 18-month long human tragedy during which I received thousands of loving messages from my beloved that somehow I have been able to replace the harping voice from my childhood with a caring voice for my adulthood.
It's possible when we walk someone to the edge of the precipice with complete love that the gift we get in return is a loving voice whispering in our ear. I find myself wondering what I can do to maintain it - to keep it whispering til my own body stops functioning.
What if Tad and I had had a fight the day before? Would this all look different today? Is it possible that his last words sealed the deal somehow? When he looked at our friend Carl and slurred through the fog of what was probably a brain hemmorhage: "I am okay to die, where is Greg?" was he setting our love in stone?
It's almost as if I can finally hear the "loving voice of God" promised to me time and again by the elders of my childhood church. Only now God sounds vaguely like Tad on a good day.
I maintain a family plan with the atrocious AT&T until I can find a way to record Tad's voice mails for eternity (funny choice of words, right?). But ironically when I listen to them they don't really deliver on my hopes of rekindling something with him. They're rather disappointing.
The ashes don't really work for me either. I just assumed when the crematorium gave them back to me that I'd feel some kind of satisfaction like people on TV. After all I did give them a body - you'd think I could fetishize what is left of that body. But I can't seem to relate to these ashes in any way despite my efforts to keep them in a central place on my altar.
It seems the only thing that evokes Tad in me is a photo. I find I prefer the ones of him hiking in nature. I tend to reach out, to caress the surface of the photo when I walk by as if I were caressing his cheek and I say aloud, "Tad, I love you." In that moment he is there.
But finding Tadness is a tricky thing. I have been giving away a lot of his belongings, to his family, to neighbors, to Goodwill. I keep wondering at one point will I go over the edge and suddenly his world will disappear forever. Why is that sofa an important part of maintaining Tadness but not that chair? How is it I can't find anyone who wears size nine and half shoes - is this Tad telling me not to get rid of his abundant collection of sports shoes?
This kind of superstitious thinking can take me to strange uncomfortable places. A few days ago I was so altered by my thoughts and emotions that I ran into the car in front of me at a stop light. Fortunately the other driver was extremely compassionate. I felt a strong need to explain to her the reasons I couldn't stop crying had little to do with the fender bender- yet the words wouldn't come out; just sobbing. "My", "husband", "just", "died", "of", "cancer" got slowly pieced together and she put her arm around me lovingly. The strident voice immediately corrected in my head reminding me it had been five weeks and I should be more 'together' than this.
Ironically we had pulled over to exchange numbers onto the parking lot of the clinic where Tad once got his blood drawn. She had actually slammed on the brakes to avoid an emerging ambulance. I remember those.
After Tad died I thought my "job" was to:
1 - keep his belongings that are meaningful to me
2 - get rid of his belongings that aren't and
3 - start a private practice either in San Francisco, Santa Cruz or both.
I see now that this is far more complicated than I had ever imagined. Any task I engage in is potentially overwhelming if it happens to bring up emotional material. Needless to say just about everything in the above list brings up deeply emotional material. Some things I trudge through nonetheless but most of the time I simply stop and do something else, something not on my list.
Turning off Tad's telephone line, sorting through his office, redecorating his living room, repainting parts of the bathroom have all taken weeks. I went to see a clairvoyant who told me to let go of my goals for now so instead I decided to go get coddled in Bordeaux by my sweet friend Madina. Suddenly buying a plane ticket to take a break from my emotions was too emotional. It took me three weeks to decide on a date, an airlines and an itinerary!
I've begun attending a "grief group" (on top of grief counseling and therapy). One of the facilitators shared with me her impression that people grieving are doing an incredible amount of work, even when they are not working. This notion resonated strongly with me even though it was not clear what this "work" is.
Last weekend I attended a men's gathering - a gathering held in the very place Tad and I met and where this summer we had a beautiful commitment ceremony. While there I understood what this "work" is. It became clear while listening to a friend tell a story about getting lost with a GPS.
Imagine you've decided to take a month-long trip across country. Let's say you're driving from New York to Los Angeles. You don't have an exact itinerary but you have a pretty clear idea where you'll be each day for the next thirty days. But then, when you get to Missouri you suddenly discover for reasons beyond your control that you can't go any further. No matter how convincing you are, no matter who you know, no matter how smart you are - you are stuck all alone in Missouri. This notion in and of itself is overwhelming. Your whole relationship to Missouri begins to transform. But the more time you spend there the more the two end points take on a different meaning as well. New York becomes this place of memories; the sacred land of life events both happy and sad. And LA becomes the unattainable land of unrealized dreams.
Then the space between the two changes in significance. That nap in the rest stop in Ohio suddenly takes on new value as does that sweet Bed and Breakfast in Amish country.
The entire time your GPS keeps muttering "Recalculating", "recalculating". The poor one-chip computer keeps trying to figure out what the hell happened. Its sole purpose is to get you to LA.
And that is the "work" I'm doing even when I'm not doing any work: Recalculating.
The bunk bed in room one of cabin two at Saratoga Springs Retreat Center is no longer just a bunk bed - it has become a sacred temple built solely to celebrate the first time Tad and I made love. A ticket to Bordeaux isn't just a visit to my family on that side of the world - it's a bittersweet pilgrimage to what Tad called his "favorite memory ever". The garden he carefully constructed over six years now full of historical significance merits national park status - worthy of millions of visitors.
As I do all this recalculating work I wonder how long I need to stay in Missouri. At what point am I doing damage to myself just sitting and reminiscing on my years with Tad? How long should I stand staring at a photo of him? Was the timing right for me to have that sweet tryst over the weekend or was it too soon? Do I really love living in Santa Cruz or is it just a way for me to keep Tad's home intact a bit longer? Am I rushing back into the real world or am I lingering too long in the world of the dead?
I don't have answers to any of these questions. Actually I do have answers in my head but they keep changing. They are the subject of a gentle disagreement between the strident voice and Tad's voice. "Stay", "Go", "Linger", "Work".
But there is one thing I am dead certain of (another great choice of words): connecting with loving people always feels right, even if they can't talk about Tad or the events of the last year. The handsome guy at my favorite coffee shop, the gentle hug with my sweet neighbor who just got a cancer diagnosis - the same woman who told me I could call her day or night if I needed help moving Tad, lunch al fresco with my dear friend Carl, a support group of broken hearted widows...At times I find myself wishing it were the 1950's again so people could drop by unexpectedly with tuna casseroles or to refresh the water in the living room bouquet.
These encounters are the crumbs showing me the path out of Missouri and on to the next voyage. Actually let me recalculate: they are the bountiful, nutritious picnics laid out beautifully in pastures along the winding road that might take me back to my next departure point.
My "job" today is to feast and wander. And if I stop and listen to Tad-God Voice while I'm there, it's saying to me: "YES! Keep loving! Keep crying! Keep laughing!"
PS Apologies to my loving cousins in Missouri - it's not personal!
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
the way, the truth, the life
This post is a continuation of my last one, a deepening of it. It is about mysterious concepts I struggle with now that Tad is dead. Please feel free to share your thoughts and feelings about this either in the comments or by email to me.
I woke up yesterday with a pounding thought: "There's no way he said that!! Just no way at all." For some reason I was thinking about the phrase "I am the way, the truth and the life" attributed to Jesus of Nazareth. And all I could think was "He did NOT say that!"
I am no expert on Jesus - in fact I'm not even sure if he existed. But if he did, it seems to me that he rarely made himself the center of attention. If this story of Jesus that changed the face of the world is a true one - then something tells me it's far more likely Jesus said: "LOVE is the way, the truth and the life."
I once found myself chatting with a Mormon farmer in a remote rural town in Southeastern Arizona, the kind of guy I rarely have the chance to encounter. Being the good Atheist-but-Seeking that I am I asked him about his Mormon god.
"My god is sitting on the edge of his chair just waiting for the opportunity to jump up and encourage me; to tell me what a good job I've done and how proud he is of me."
I was struck by this cheerleader version of a deity no doubt because it is so incredibly far from the one I was introduced to as a child.
The Reverend Lee Vandenburg of the First Baptist Church basically gave us an unwritten list of behaviors. Let's call them the "In" behaviors and the "Out" behaviors. If a congregant did the In Behaviors she had a ticket into heaven --and by extension the church community-- but if he or she (openly) engaged in those behaviors on the Out list she wouldn't make it into either circle. This seems like a simple, easy-to-understand formula - and not far from the beliefs of most religions.
As my childhood world became more and more chaotic - financial problems, marital conflict, separation and finally divorce - my family kept showing behaviors on the "Out" list. When the divorce was pronounced we were told we were not welcome in the community. Quickly though it seems divorce was struck from the "Out" list and we were allowed back - or did it have something to do with my grandfather, a church elder?
As I approached adolescence it became more and more apparent to me (and no doubt to others) that I was more romantically interested in my male friends than my female cohort. As the painful truth grew slowly less opaque - despite all my attempts to pray those thoughts out of my brain - I knew what I had to do. For years Rev VandenBurg had told us that homosexuals were an "abomination". If ever there was a bigger, more terrible "Out" list hiding somewhere in the wooden desk in his office I was sure my shamefully secret wet dreams were on it - no doubt along with murderers and criminals of the type that hung on either side of the crucified savior.
I wish I could believe in Jesus.
I wish I could feel his loving arms around me telling me that Tad is in a good place. I wish I could believe that God had arms and like the Dutch paintings that gave Jesus blue eyes or the American paintings that gave him a more Anglo-Saxon mien I wish I could see God as some big loving daddy sitting on the edge of his chair.
But I can't.
I also wish I could bring myself to believe in some heavenly place. I wish I were really certain that Tad is now sitting on a cloud up there feeling some divine mojo flow through him.
Not being able to locate Tad has been the most painful part of my experience of loss. I want to know where he is. I want to know he is safe. I want to know he is well-cared for. I want to know.
To locate: "to designate the site or place of, to define the limits of."
My logical brain, the one that was taught geometry and learned to scan maps and endless library catalogs and GPS screens, wants to pursue its old habit of situating. It wants to place Tad somewhere on an X axis then a Y axis then walk away serene.
But it's not that easy.
A few months before my beautiful grandmother died she expressed some worry about what might happen to her after death.
"I know I'm getting closer. I keep having more and more dreams of your grandpa. But I'm just not sure about things...", she said concerned.
When I gently prodded she explained she was afraid for her soul's future since she had not attended church in quite a long time. When asked why she said her experience of the various church communities in town was that the leaders were all hypocrites: "They all say one thing and do another," she said.
As a leader in our small community she had seen many things in her ninety-some years - and she was not prone to idle gossip. She was clearly speaking from observed experience.
"It just didn't make sense to me. So I stopped going. I found peace and love on my own."
That day I wondered aloud with my grandma if her life as a loving spouse, a caring teacher, a community leader, a responsible parent was perhaps a godly way to go through life. Perhaps her way --even though it didn't include adhering to all the behaviors on the lists -- was closer to god somehow. I saw that she felt some relief after this.
With hindsight it's safe for me to conclude from my conversation with her that the "In" lists these men drew up --yes they were all men-- were in fact unattainable even to themselves.
Carl Jung is said to have written: "The great religions of the world are mistaken in that the ask us to put faith before experience."
How could I believe in divine love if I had not experienced it?
Given the narrow-mindedness of my spiritual teachers it wasn't possible for me growing up to experience the love of god. I mostly felt critical scrutiny from God's messengers. If indeed this church community was "the hands and face of God" their gestures communicated something other than godly love, something more akin to intolerance, judgment, small-mindedness. Like a pining lonely heart on a first date - God held a checklist behind his back just waiting for a faux-pas that would allow him to reject me.
I didn't wait to be banished from the garden - I simply excommunicated myself.
One day Rev Vandenburg's daughter contacted me here in California where she too had moved. She offered to get together and talk. Having lived far from my childhood community of faith I was eager to sit down with another adult and talk about it, try to make sense of it. I also had some real questions I wanted to ask about her father's at times illogical behavior.
When she met me for lunch in a small eatery in San Francisco's hip South of Market, Dot.com alley I was excited to see she'd come with her husband and young daughter. As a general rule I enjoy the company of children and, I assumed, a triangular conversation would be that much more lively.
But once we sat down to lunch I saw the whole meal play out in a far different manner than what I had expected.
First she told me from the very beginning - quite tersely - that her father had died, that he was a GOOD man and his theology wasn't open for discussion.
Then I realized her husband was not going to participate in the conversation. He sat nearby mostly interacting with their four year old - allowing Anne and I to catch up.
As the meal moved along however it became clear even Anne was only partially engaged. She remained guarded never really opening up to me about her joys, her doubts, struggles or desert wanderings. Here I was sharing my wonderings aloud and she played her cards close to her chest. As the end of my lunch break approached I began to feel eager to leave; I felt uncomfortable like an elevator at rush hour.
After paying the check I got up to leave when Anne said to me, "Greg I want to know where you stand on your commitment to Jesus Christ."
Sideswiped! Her question opened up a slew of ideas - many of which I'd have been happy to discuss. I was just coming back to the US after living 20 years in a country vehement about the separation of church and state. I had traveled to Muslim, Jewish and Buddhist places and had loving friends from all those faiths; friends with whom I could have open discussions about life, love, fear and faith. I had just lost most of my community to the devastation of AIDS.
I mumbled something logical enough to cover my Good Boy-ass but open-ended enough to show her that I had expanded my idea of Jesus-ness.
As I escaped our lifeless encounter I felt the rage emerge. How dare she! Was this lunch no more than a notch in her Envagelical belt? I wondered if the church community she and her husband led in Southern California was paying her for those hours. Maybe I should have let her pick up the tab after all.
Fortunately as Tad got sicker and sicker we never had this kind of dynamic - with other people or between ourselves. Though we rarely talked about God or life after death we became less defended and more loving. As we got closer and closer to his death we became more open to love.
Our urges to find fault with one another (or to retaliate in the face of fault-finding) disappeared completely most likely brought on by the sudden leukemic fork in the road, the heretofore forgotten awareness that we are mortal. This constant painful reminder coupled with dire ongoing physical pain was enough for us to drop our human urges to bite back when we felt hurt and instead practice daily gentle kindness with one another.
During this time we noticed that other people's gestures of love and support - a hug, a card, a check, a tear - would open our hearts even more, setting off bouts of unusual tears, an inexplicable mix of sadness and joy.
Immediately after Tad died I felt an incredible love emerge. When everyone left me alone with him/it I actually made a short video of his body commenting on the various parts and my relationship to them. When I take the time to watch it I sob deeply but I also notice that in the film I'm laughing with such incredible love - a similar feeling I experienced after making love with Tad. Was Freud right? Was an orgasm just a smaller version of the incredible intimacy of dying together?
So from this long trek across a hot desert of deep sensitivity, of profound love and of excruciating loss - a voyage I began with my beloved and finished alone here is what I think I might understand:
1 - When my heart opens up tenderly -- with doubt, with fear, with love, with sorrow -- I can keep it hidden. But I also have the opportunity to share it, to divulge my vulnerability to others.
2 - When I am open and vulnerable with others and they respond with love, somehow I grow bigger, I open up more (and I have a hunch they do too).
3 - If I am around someone in my openness and they choose not to be open, I feel lonely, like an object instead of a full human being.
4 - If I stay open with someone and they stay open with me until the very end - after their death their voice joins the chorus of loving voices in my head.
In the same way I can close my eyes, touch myself erotically and suddenly find the very real wonderful smiling face of Tad; in the same way I can feel his very presence while climaxing, yelling his name, spouting love declarations to him (these are followed by long deep sobs), I can also feel him lovingly supporting me. I can feel him sitting on the edge of his chair eager to encourage me and cover me in praise.
Tad's voice has merged with that of my loving ancestors: my grandma's, Melanie's, Stephen's. It has joined the voice of angels.
I can't locate this voice through searching and thinking. Instead it comes to me when I sit quite still and let it permeate me from within.
What remains a mystery to me is whether this voice is just a composite of memories I simply store in my brain or whether it is somehow something coming to me from beyond these three dimensions. Like my ancestors who saw their crop suddenly ruined and - in order to make sense out of something so unpredictable and non-sensical - blamed the heavens, am I just finding a mental shortcut by attributing this to something meta-physical?
The truth is I have had many odd, inexplicable experiences in this lifetime - mostly around dying people. But those are stories I never tell anyone. They are so unusual and impossible to comprehend - in particular by the social scientist part of me - that my brain tells me people will think I'm crazy or better yet the eery events never really happened; they were just a dream I had.
But they weren't.
I woke up yesterday with a pounding thought: "There's no way he said that!! Just no way at all." For some reason I was thinking about the phrase "I am the way, the truth and the life" attributed to Jesus of Nazareth. And all I could think was "He did NOT say that!"
I am no expert on Jesus - in fact I'm not even sure if he existed. But if he did, it seems to me that he rarely made himself the center of attention. If this story of Jesus that changed the face of the world is a true one - then something tells me it's far more likely Jesus said: "LOVE is the way, the truth and the life."
I once found myself chatting with a Mormon farmer in a remote rural town in Southeastern Arizona, the kind of guy I rarely have the chance to encounter. Being the good Atheist-but-Seeking that I am I asked him about his Mormon god.
"My god is sitting on the edge of his chair just waiting for the opportunity to jump up and encourage me; to tell me what a good job I've done and how proud he is of me."
I was struck by this cheerleader version of a deity no doubt because it is so incredibly far from the one I was introduced to as a child.
The Reverend Lee Vandenburg of the First Baptist Church basically gave us an unwritten list of behaviors. Let's call them the "In" behaviors and the "Out" behaviors. If a congregant did the In Behaviors she had a ticket into heaven --and by extension the church community-- but if he or she (openly) engaged in those behaviors on the Out list she wouldn't make it into either circle. This seems like a simple, easy-to-understand formula - and not far from the beliefs of most religions.
As my childhood world became more and more chaotic - financial problems, marital conflict, separation and finally divorce - my family kept showing behaviors on the "Out" list. When the divorce was pronounced we were told we were not welcome in the community. Quickly though it seems divorce was struck from the "Out" list and we were allowed back - or did it have something to do with my grandfather, a church elder?
As I approached adolescence it became more and more apparent to me (and no doubt to others) that I was more romantically interested in my male friends than my female cohort. As the painful truth grew slowly less opaque - despite all my attempts to pray those thoughts out of my brain - I knew what I had to do. For years Rev VandenBurg had told us that homosexuals were an "abomination". If ever there was a bigger, more terrible "Out" list hiding somewhere in the wooden desk in his office I was sure my shamefully secret wet dreams were on it - no doubt along with murderers and criminals of the type that hung on either side of the crucified savior.
I wish I could believe in Jesus.
I wish I could feel his loving arms around me telling me that Tad is in a good place. I wish I could believe that God had arms and like the Dutch paintings that gave Jesus blue eyes or the American paintings that gave him a more Anglo-Saxon mien I wish I could see God as some big loving daddy sitting on the edge of his chair.
But I can't.
I also wish I could bring myself to believe in some heavenly place. I wish I were really certain that Tad is now sitting on a cloud up there feeling some divine mojo flow through him.
Not being able to locate Tad has been the most painful part of my experience of loss. I want to know where he is. I want to know he is safe. I want to know he is well-cared for. I want to know.
To locate: "to designate the site or place of, to define the limits of."
My logical brain, the one that was taught geometry and learned to scan maps and endless library catalogs and GPS screens, wants to pursue its old habit of situating. It wants to place Tad somewhere on an X axis then a Y axis then walk away serene.
But it's not that easy.
A few months before my beautiful grandmother died she expressed some worry about what might happen to her after death.
"I know I'm getting closer. I keep having more and more dreams of your grandpa. But I'm just not sure about things...", she said concerned.
When I gently prodded she explained she was afraid for her soul's future since she had not attended church in quite a long time. When asked why she said her experience of the various church communities in town was that the leaders were all hypocrites: "They all say one thing and do another," she said.
As a leader in our small community she had seen many things in her ninety-some years - and she was not prone to idle gossip. She was clearly speaking from observed experience.
"It just didn't make sense to me. So I stopped going. I found peace and love on my own."
That day I wondered aloud with my grandma if her life as a loving spouse, a caring teacher, a community leader, a responsible parent was perhaps a godly way to go through life. Perhaps her way --even though it didn't include adhering to all the behaviors on the lists -- was closer to god somehow. I saw that she felt some relief after this.
With hindsight it's safe for me to conclude from my conversation with her that the "In" lists these men drew up --yes they were all men-- were in fact unattainable even to themselves.
Carl Jung is said to have written: "The great religions of the world are mistaken in that the ask us to put faith before experience."
How could I believe in divine love if I had not experienced it?
Given the narrow-mindedness of my spiritual teachers it wasn't possible for me growing up to experience the love of god. I mostly felt critical scrutiny from God's messengers. If indeed this church community was "the hands and face of God" their gestures communicated something other than godly love, something more akin to intolerance, judgment, small-mindedness. Like a pining lonely heart on a first date - God held a checklist behind his back just waiting for a faux-pas that would allow him to reject me.
I didn't wait to be banished from the garden - I simply excommunicated myself.
One day Rev Vandenburg's daughter contacted me here in California where she too had moved. She offered to get together and talk. Having lived far from my childhood community of faith I was eager to sit down with another adult and talk about it, try to make sense of it. I also had some real questions I wanted to ask about her father's at times illogical behavior.
When she met me for lunch in a small eatery in San Francisco's hip South of Market, Dot.com alley I was excited to see she'd come with her husband and young daughter. As a general rule I enjoy the company of children and, I assumed, a triangular conversation would be that much more lively.
But once we sat down to lunch I saw the whole meal play out in a far different manner than what I had expected.
First she told me from the very beginning - quite tersely - that her father had died, that he was a GOOD man and his theology wasn't open for discussion.
Then I realized her husband was not going to participate in the conversation. He sat nearby mostly interacting with their four year old - allowing Anne and I to catch up.
As the meal moved along however it became clear even Anne was only partially engaged. She remained guarded never really opening up to me about her joys, her doubts, struggles or desert wanderings. Here I was sharing my wonderings aloud and she played her cards close to her chest. As the end of my lunch break approached I began to feel eager to leave; I felt uncomfortable like an elevator at rush hour.
After paying the check I got up to leave when Anne said to me, "Greg I want to know where you stand on your commitment to Jesus Christ."
Sideswiped! Her question opened up a slew of ideas - many of which I'd have been happy to discuss. I was just coming back to the US after living 20 years in a country vehement about the separation of church and state. I had traveled to Muslim, Jewish and Buddhist places and had loving friends from all those faiths; friends with whom I could have open discussions about life, love, fear and faith. I had just lost most of my community to the devastation of AIDS.
I mumbled something logical enough to cover my Good Boy-ass but open-ended enough to show her that I had expanded my idea of Jesus-ness.
As I escaped our lifeless encounter I felt the rage emerge. How dare she! Was this lunch no more than a notch in her Envagelical belt? I wondered if the church community she and her husband led in Southern California was paying her for those hours. Maybe I should have let her pick up the tab after all.
Fortunately as Tad got sicker and sicker we never had this kind of dynamic - with other people or between ourselves. Though we rarely talked about God or life after death we became less defended and more loving. As we got closer and closer to his death we became more open to love.
Our urges to find fault with one another (or to retaliate in the face of fault-finding) disappeared completely most likely brought on by the sudden leukemic fork in the road, the heretofore forgotten awareness that we are mortal. This constant painful reminder coupled with dire ongoing physical pain was enough for us to drop our human urges to bite back when we felt hurt and instead practice daily gentle kindness with one another.
During this time we noticed that other people's gestures of love and support - a hug, a card, a check, a tear - would open our hearts even more, setting off bouts of unusual tears, an inexplicable mix of sadness and joy.
Immediately after Tad died I felt an incredible love emerge. When everyone left me alone with him/it I actually made a short video of his body commenting on the various parts and my relationship to them. When I take the time to watch it I sob deeply but I also notice that in the film I'm laughing with such incredible love - a similar feeling I experienced after making love with Tad. Was Freud right? Was an orgasm just a smaller version of the incredible intimacy of dying together?
So from this long trek across a hot desert of deep sensitivity, of profound love and of excruciating loss - a voyage I began with my beloved and finished alone here is what I think I might understand:
1 - When my heart opens up tenderly -- with doubt, with fear, with love, with sorrow -- I can keep it hidden. But I also have the opportunity to share it, to divulge my vulnerability to others.
2 - When I am open and vulnerable with others and they respond with love, somehow I grow bigger, I open up more (and I have a hunch they do too).
3 - If I am around someone in my openness and they choose not to be open, I feel lonely, like an object instead of a full human being.
4 - If I stay open with someone and they stay open with me until the very end - after their death their voice joins the chorus of loving voices in my head.
In the same way I can close my eyes, touch myself erotically and suddenly find the very real wonderful smiling face of Tad; in the same way I can feel his very presence while climaxing, yelling his name, spouting love declarations to him (these are followed by long deep sobs), I can also feel him lovingly supporting me. I can feel him sitting on the edge of his chair eager to encourage me and cover me in praise.
Tad's voice has merged with that of my loving ancestors: my grandma's, Melanie's, Stephen's. It has joined the voice of angels.
I can't locate this voice through searching and thinking. Instead it comes to me when I sit quite still and let it permeate me from within.
What remains a mystery to me is whether this voice is just a composite of memories I simply store in my brain or whether it is somehow something coming to me from beyond these three dimensions. Like my ancestors who saw their crop suddenly ruined and - in order to make sense out of something so unpredictable and non-sensical - blamed the heavens, am I just finding a mental shortcut by attributing this to something meta-physical?
The truth is I have had many odd, inexplicable experiences in this lifetime - mostly around dying people. But those are stories I never tell anyone. They are so unusual and impossible to comprehend - in particular by the social scientist part of me - that my brain tells me people will think I'm crazy or better yet the eery events never really happened; they were just a dream I had.
But they weren't.
Thursday, October 6, 2011
finding home
When I was 18 years old - on the verge of breaking out, running away, blossoming into a bigger me -- I saw a Kalamazoo, Michigan version of the Broadway musical Pippin.
It's the fictional story of the son of Emperor Charlemagne who seeks happiness in sex, war, politics, money and power. At one point he collapses and wakes up to find himself in the care of a simple, loving widow who lives with her young son on a farm. As he regains strength he takes to her day-to-day life of milking cows, repairing the roof, tilling the garden, and raising her son. But after a time he decides he needs to get back to a more pulsating, glamorous life and leaves her.
Toward the end of the play, the narrator offers Pippin the opportunity to disappear into a glorious ball of light to never return, the envy of all who see OR he can choose to return to one of the phases of his life. Pippin chooses to go back to the farm.
The narrator is furious. He calls out to all the theater workers to take away the music, the decor, even the costumes. In the end the man, woman and child are standing in their underpants on a bare stage beneath a dangling single light bulb while the narrator defies them to find happiness without the dazzle and decor of life.
For years I walked the bustling streets of Paris on my way to school or work, singing the titular character's theme song:
"Everything has its season; everything has its time...
Cats fit on the window sill, children fit in the snow,
Why is it I don't fit in anywhere I go?
Rivers belong where they can ramble,
eagles belong where they can fly.
I've got to be where my spirit can run free.
I've got to find my corner of the sky."
And for years I followed in Pippin's footsteps. I wrote for famous magazines that adorned coffee tables in France, the UK and the US. I interviewed leaders of opinion in the arts, politics, business. I was flown here and there in first class by organizations who were impressed by the magazine titles I wrote for and whom I assumed had no idea how very un-important I really was. When the AIDS epidemic started taking potshots at my friends I created a non-profit and brought unconventional programs into hospitals, sat with Ministers of Health from various countries to influence policy, offered support to dying people who suffered extraordinarily. Back in the US I surfed the dotcom wave and helped change legislation nationally to protect people with disabilities.
And then Tad Crandall asked me to step into his yard (but not too far).
He asked me to cuddle his cat, to help him weed his garden, to wander in the garden shop to find the next addition to his yard. To sit and watch TV. He asked me to slow down, to stop fighting. I railed against his world. I thought it was pedestrian and narrow-minded, stifling and claustrophobic. But he never once criticized mine. Not once. He just stood by the gate and held it open for me with a generous smile.
On the other hand Tad was adamant we mustn't live together right away. He knew that too much of one person in his personal sphere made him irritable and unpleasant. He insisted we spend time apart on a regular basis. This allowed me to keep a foot in my turn-of-the-century San Francisco cottage and another in his sweet Santa Cruz trailer.
Despite all my ambivalence, I woke up every day and chose Tad. As months and years went by I continued to choose Tad. I chose Tad because no matter what issues I had with his sleepy, predictable day-to-day pace I saw that what flowed between us was simple, humble love.
No one had ever offered it to me this purely.
A few days ago a lovely friend visited me from San Francisco and I didn't know how to be with her. It was "one of those days" which I've discovered come and go where I can't seem to stay focused on the living and my mind wanders off to the dead, to the past, to the pain of loss. Being in my body is cloying and I find myself saying and doing things thoughtlessly in order to make the pain stop.
We went for a delicious walk to visit Tad's and my vegetable plot where I suddenly became aware of how un-present I was. I apologized and suggested we ride back up to San Francisco together so she could beat the evening traffic and I could sleep in my own bed. I offered this not because I had anything there to do but simply because staying where I was felt so painful.
This was my second time in San Francisco since Tad's death and unlike the previous trip it was actually soothing for me to find myself in my own apartment, with my own furniture, my art, my books...all mirroring my story back to me. I met with friends and we caught up, had a good laugh and dinner in some trendy new hotspot surrounded by fashionable twenty-somethings.
I walked back to my place smiling, thinking Tad would completely support me if I moved back to San Francisco - which at that moment felt like home.
But during my short stay I got to see just how much my mind loves the stimulation of the City - in particular the possibilities hidden behind each thought:
As I walk to breakfast I see the tramway go by and my mind knows that it could take me to the international airport. The idea that I can easily access planes to take me to different parts of the world is stimulating. Getting to airports is complicated from Santa Cruz. For years I've always looked at big-ticket items in terms of how many plane tickets they are worth: a four thousand dollar used car = three and a half trips to Paris.
The waiter in my morning neighborhood restaurant is handsome and nicely built and slightly flirty. Not overtly so - just enough to transform our mundane interactions about eggs and bacon into something a little playful with just a hint of possibility - setting up what a friend of mine calls "mental rainchecks".
The same goes for the posters I see of museums, plays and films.
The truth is I almost never go to see them - except perhaps when friends are visiting from out of town. But the possibility I may go is immensely important to me somehow. Just outside my door something exciting is happening and if I want to -- and I don't really want to right now thank you very much but but just in case I might want to -- I could go outside and take it in.
I live in San Francisco the way most people live in Santa Cruz. I walk or bike to most places. I shop and dine within a few blocks of my house. I spend evenings in local eateries with friends or quietly at home watching a movie. On very rare occasions I hop on the trolley and adventure downtown.
The major difference between Pippin and me is that he chooses to go back to the woman and her son. He doesn't say, "I'll take the slow-paced farm but give the woman leukemia and let her die." Santa Cruz would be a lovely place to move with someone, well, someone like Tad. Without him it feels frightening, like the quiet cul-de-sac that it is.
The beauty of Buddhism is it reminds me to slow down my mind, to let in serenity. The beauty of Christianity is it encourages me to always follow the path of love, to eschew all the do's and don'ts and just come back to love.
The Christian legend suggests Jesus came back to life after his physical death. Though I don't believe this I do believe that people who loved him deeply saw him. They felt him.
Now that Tad is physically dead I yearn to locate him, to find where he is and make sure everything is alright.
If I stop and settle into deep Buddhist serenity Tad resurrects. He comes back to me with his healthy body and gorgeous smile. He glows with love, the same way I've seen holy men glow in some exotic monasteries. He is pure love. And all he does is encourage me and love me and assure me that love is all there is. No matter where I am.
It's the fictional story of the son of Emperor Charlemagne who seeks happiness in sex, war, politics, money and power. At one point he collapses and wakes up to find himself in the care of a simple, loving widow who lives with her young son on a farm. As he regains strength he takes to her day-to-day life of milking cows, repairing the roof, tilling the garden, and raising her son. But after a time he decides he needs to get back to a more pulsating, glamorous life and leaves her.
Toward the end of the play, the narrator offers Pippin the opportunity to disappear into a glorious ball of light to never return, the envy of all who see OR he can choose to return to one of the phases of his life. Pippin chooses to go back to the farm.
The narrator is furious. He calls out to all the theater workers to take away the music, the decor, even the costumes. In the end the man, woman and child are standing in their underpants on a bare stage beneath a dangling single light bulb while the narrator defies them to find happiness without the dazzle and decor of life.
For years I walked the bustling streets of Paris on my way to school or work, singing the titular character's theme song:
"Everything has its season; everything has its time...
Cats fit on the window sill, children fit in the snow,
Why is it I don't fit in anywhere I go?
Rivers belong where they can ramble,
eagles belong where they can fly.
I've got to be where my spirit can run free.
I've got to find my corner of the sky."
And for years I followed in Pippin's footsteps. I wrote for famous magazines that adorned coffee tables in France, the UK and the US. I interviewed leaders of opinion in the arts, politics, business. I was flown here and there in first class by organizations who were impressed by the magazine titles I wrote for and whom I assumed had no idea how very un-important I really was. When the AIDS epidemic started taking potshots at my friends I created a non-profit and brought unconventional programs into hospitals, sat with Ministers of Health from various countries to influence policy, offered support to dying people who suffered extraordinarily. Back in the US I surfed the dotcom wave and helped change legislation nationally to protect people with disabilities.
And then Tad Crandall asked me to step into his yard (but not too far).
He asked me to cuddle his cat, to help him weed his garden, to wander in the garden shop to find the next addition to his yard. To sit and watch TV. He asked me to slow down, to stop fighting. I railed against his world. I thought it was pedestrian and narrow-minded, stifling and claustrophobic. But he never once criticized mine. Not once. He just stood by the gate and held it open for me with a generous smile.
On the other hand Tad was adamant we mustn't live together right away. He knew that too much of one person in his personal sphere made him irritable and unpleasant. He insisted we spend time apart on a regular basis. This allowed me to keep a foot in my turn-of-the-century San Francisco cottage and another in his sweet Santa Cruz trailer.
Despite all my ambivalence, I woke up every day and chose Tad. As months and years went by I continued to choose Tad. I chose Tad because no matter what issues I had with his sleepy, predictable day-to-day pace I saw that what flowed between us was simple, humble love.
No one had ever offered it to me this purely.
A few days ago a lovely friend visited me from San Francisco and I didn't know how to be with her. It was "one of those days" which I've discovered come and go where I can't seem to stay focused on the living and my mind wanders off to the dead, to the past, to the pain of loss. Being in my body is cloying and I find myself saying and doing things thoughtlessly in order to make the pain stop.
We went for a delicious walk to visit Tad's and my vegetable plot where I suddenly became aware of how un-present I was. I apologized and suggested we ride back up to San Francisco together so she could beat the evening traffic and I could sleep in my own bed. I offered this not because I had anything there to do but simply because staying where I was felt so painful.
This was my second time in San Francisco since Tad's death and unlike the previous trip it was actually soothing for me to find myself in my own apartment, with my own furniture, my art, my books...all mirroring my story back to me. I met with friends and we caught up, had a good laugh and dinner in some trendy new hotspot surrounded by fashionable twenty-somethings.
I walked back to my place smiling, thinking Tad would completely support me if I moved back to San Francisco - which at that moment felt like home.
But during my short stay I got to see just how much my mind loves the stimulation of the City - in particular the possibilities hidden behind each thought:
As I walk to breakfast I see the tramway go by and my mind knows that it could take me to the international airport. The idea that I can easily access planes to take me to different parts of the world is stimulating. Getting to airports is complicated from Santa Cruz. For years I've always looked at big-ticket items in terms of how many plane tickets they are worth: a four thousand dollar used car = three and a half trips to Paris.
The waiter in my morning neighborhood restaurant is handsome and nicely built and slightly flirty. Not overtly so - just enough to transform our mundane interactions about eggs and bacon into something a little playful with just a hint of possibility - setting up what a friend of mine calls "mental rainchecks".
The same goes for the posters I see of museums, plays and films.
The truth is I almost never go to see them - except perhaps when friends are visiting from out of town. But the possibility I may go is immensely important to me somehow. Just outside my door something exciting is happening and if I want to -- and I don't really want to right now thank you very much but but just in case I might want to -- I could go outside and take it in.
I live in San Francisco the way most people live in Santa Cruz. I walk or bike to most places. I shop and dine within a few blocks of my house. I spend evenings in local eateries with friends or quietly at home watching a movie. On very rare occasions I hop on the trolley and adventure downtown.
The major difference between Pippin and me is that he chooses to go back to the woman and her son. He doesn't say, "I'll take the slow-paced farm but give the woman leukemia and let her die." Santa Cruz would be a lovely place to move with someone, well, someone like Tad. Without him it feels frightening, like the quiet cul-de-sac that it is.
The beauty of Buddhism is it reminds me to slow down my mind, to let in serenity. The beauty of Christianity is it encourages me to always follow the path of love, to eschew all the do's and don'ts and just come back to love.
The Christian legend suggests Jesus came back to life after his physical death. Though I don't believe this I do believe that people who loved him deeply saw him. They felt him.
Now that Tad is physically dead I yearn to locate him, to find where he is and make sure everything is alright.
If I stop and settle into deep Buddhist serenity Tad resurrects. He comes back to me with his healthy body and gorgeous smile. He glows with love, the same way I've seen holy men glow in some exotic monasteries. He is pure love. And all he does is encourage me and love me and assure me that love is all there is. No matter where I am.
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
home from war
I'm told there's a Tarot card that shows a man in a field about to plant a crop. Legend has it he is a soldier just home from war. Victorious he has been given a bag of seeds to plant as his reward. With the shadow of death on his face, he searches alone for his field, the place he will settle and begin to cultivate his crop; the place he will make a living despite everything he knows about death and destruction.
Since Tad's memorial where people came together and shared loving stories of his life my brain races with thoughts. Most of them give voice to the broken heart of that soldier:
"How is it possible I am still alive?! How can it be that kind loving people were killed in this battle and that I am left here to take in the beauty of the world!? How dare the Gods! "
"What kind of victory is this? I am left here alone with a few belongings and my memories. This is my reward? There was far more reward in fighting battles even if we lost one or two. Even if there is no more reason to fight."
"How can I possibly sit still when I have seen such horrors? I want to scream out at the inequities, the inefficiencies, the incompetencies I've seen. I want to warn the world of what's happening around them. I've seen the inside of a powerful ugly machine and it needs transformation."
"Who am I now that I am not a soldier? How can I sit and do something as mundane as planting seeds after I've visited the depths of pain and the heights of hope? How can I possibly find solace in something as simple as a seed when just moments ago I was saving a fellow soldier? Why wouldn't I prefer to be fighting other fights or simply numbing my brain with drink and food and sex so the excruciating scenes lingering there have less of a sting?"
"How can I know what I need from a field? They all seem appealing and yet none of them does. This one is near a city with the distractions of bright lights, money and power plays. That one is far from the crowd with the painfully beautiful silence of soothing trees and waterfalls. There is another in a completely different kingdom where the people speak another language and fight for different causes. I could go there."
"But I don't want to plant seeds. I don't want to grow a crop to have an income. I don't want to think about the future. I want one thing: to return to the battle field and lie down next to my beloved friend. I want to hold his head in my hands and breathe life into his lungs. I want to feel his heart beat one more time beneath my hand. I want to see his eyes flutter so I may catch one more glimpse of their green depths. I want to hear his laughter bubble up from some unknown place reminding me that the pain, the loss and the devastation were all worth it."
"I want to lie down beside him in the mud with my eyes closed while the wind covers us with Autumn leaves. I will lie perfectly still and no one will ask anything of me. My body will rest, my heart will mend and the dark memories will lose their poison. I will sleep through the long nights of Winter til Spring arrives and the crocuses and jonquils gently nudge me awake."
Since Tad's memorial where people came together and shared loving stories of his life my brain races with thoughts. Most of them give voice to the broken heart of that soldier:
"How is it possible I am still alive?! How can it be that kind loving people were killed in this battle and that I am left here to take in the beauty of the world!? How dare the Gods! "
"What kind of victory is this? I am left here alone with a few belongings and my memories. This is my reward? There was far more reward in fighting battles even if we lost one or two. Even if there is no more reason to fight."
"How can I possibly sit still when I have seen such horrors? I want to scream out at the inequities, the inefficiencies, the incompetencies I've seen. I want to warn the world of what's happening around them. I've seen the inside of a powerful ugly machine and it needs transformation."
"Who am I now that I am not a soldier? How can I sit and do something as mundane as planting seeds after I've visited the depths of pain and the heights of hope? How can I possibly find solace in something as simple as a seed when just moments ago I was saving a fellow soldier? Why wouldn't I prefer to be fighting other fights or simply numbing my brain with drink and food and sex so the excruciating scenes lingering there have less of a sting?"
"How can I know what I need from a field? They all seem appealing and yet none of them does. This one is near a city with the distractions of bright lights, money and power plays. That one is far from the crowd with the painfully beautiful silence of soothing trees and waterfalls. There is another in a completely different kingdom where the people speak another language and fight for different causes. I could go there."
"But I don't want to plant seeds. I don't want to grow a crop to have an income. I don't want to think about the future. I want one thing: to return to the battle field and lie down next to my beloved friend. I want to hold his head in my hands and breathe life into his lungs. I want to feel his heart beat one more time beneath my hand. I want to see his eyes flutter so I may catch one more glimpse of their green depths. I want to hear his laughter bubble up from some unknown place reminding me that the pain, the loss and the devastation were all worth it."
"I want to lie down beside him in the mud with my eyes closed while the wind covers us with Autumn leaves. I will lie perfectly still and no one will ask anything of me. My body will rest, my heart will mend and the dark memories will lose their poison. I will sleep through the long nights of Winter til Spring arrives and the crocuses and jonquils gently nudge me awake."
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
hearing voices
A few days ago I looked around at all of the belongings in this house, I felt the incredible attachment Tad had to this place, his center. How could I possibly walk away from a world that was so carefully constructed and with so much love? I felt overwhelmed.
Yesterday it occurred to me for the first time that I could indeed put Tad's belongings in storage, that I could move back into my San Francisco apartment and that one day, alone or with someone else, I might have a weekend house somewhere full of his belongings.
Now this morning I find myself wondering if I am being too cold. Am I just shutting down? Shielding myself from the pain of sorrow, from the yearning?
I once saw a mare give birth to a foal with some a physical deformity. Rather than moving in to lick the spindly animal and offer her nipple she covered it with hay then moved to the farthest side of the stable as if they had not just spent 11 months inhabiting the same body. The gesture felt so cold to me but the Farm Hand assured me this was commonplace if the life of the foal was hopeless.
Last weekend I insisted on being registered for a two-day meditation retreat high in the hill's above Tad's house. It's a Buddhist group I am loosely affiliated with and they lovingly agreed to have me join in at the last minute. I spent hours in silence, then just as many hours sharing open-heartedly and weeping with other folks. We ate tasty vegetarian meals and spent lots of time outdoors in the trees, a mixture of soaring redwoods and craggly live oaks.
When I returned to Tad's house on Sunday - despite my pain of separating from this delicious moment and my anxiety at being back in his house alone - I became aware that something had shifted.
I have entered a new level of acceptance.
Part of it has to do with recognizing that my anger at the nurse the morning of his death had little to do with the nurse and wanting him to be comfortable. It mostly had to do with the fact that - despite the months of preparing for Tad's death - I really did not want him to go. In those last minutes of Tad's life he and I were indeed at odds despite all of the words of reassurance I had given him over the months. Tad had been quite preoccupied by the idea that if he died I would somehow be disappointed. He had mentioned how much people talked about "keeping up the fight" and how hard it was to speak honestly about wanting to let go. Again and again I assured him I supported him either way.
And yet that morning when he said numerous times and in a variety of ways that the gig was up and he was ready to die, I in fact wasn't ready for it. I did not want to stop our painful but familiar fight. I did not want to be hurled into a world surrounded by his belongings but not him, a world where suddenly I need to decide what is best for me.
I began grief counseling yesterday. I met with a woman from hospice who purposely asked questions to evoke Tad, to talk about the history of our relationship. She said the goal of short-term grief counseling is for us to work on the four main "tasks" of grieving:
- Accept the reality of the loss
- Experience the pain of the grief
- Adjusting to an environment where the dead are missing
- Emotionally relocate the deceased and reinvest in life
The first three made sense to me and felt like part of the process but the final task suddenly had me bursting into tears. Where is Tad? How is Tad? Why is he not communicating with me? Why doesn't he let me know how he's doing?
I know this is magical thinking - in the same way that I saw the face of my dead cousin tragically killed on the first day of hunting season- in the crowded halls of my junior high when I was 12 years old.
The truth is that during the first night of the retreat - a night of tossing and turning, sleeping and waking as I slept away from our bed for the first time - I did have a dream of Tad. I believe it is another reason why I am feeling ready to step more into my world and leave his behind.
In this dream Tad had his beautiful masculine body back, his broad muscular shoulders and his torso shaped like an upside down Eiffel Tower. He was behind me, pushing me on one of those rug-like mats that we used as children to go down giant plastic slides at the fun-fairs. His hands on my shoulders, he was laughing as he pushed me quickly making me a bit uncomfortable. The funny thing is we were not about to go down a giant plastic slide; we were racing across the parking lot of the supermarket of my childhood: Bueche's Groceries in Flushing, Michigan home of my father's father's father's father.
At one point in his playfulness Tad made a sexual comment insisting he wanted to do something right then and there. I blushed and insisted he couldn't do it in public: "People are watching!!" I said. He simply laughed and kept pushing. He pushed me right out onto Main Street then took a right turn up the hill leading to the house where I spent the bulk of my childhood years. The dream ended there as someone's cough in the dormitory woke me yet again.
Tad's and my relationship was constructed a lot around my learning to trust him. In appearance I was better skilled than he was for navigating the real world. I had lived abroad, created organizations, been self employed, graduated from grad school, navigated social circles that are far-distant from those of my childhood. I helped him get his first passport then took him to my beloved Southwestern France
( I once tried to distract him from pain asking him about favorite shared memories. He actually shared with me that his was a long summer evening strolling through the streets of old Bordeaux where I used to live and work, having dinner outdoors with my best girlfriend and her daughter then wandering along the quais in the moonlight. As he retold the evening I waited for the "punch line" - ie the dramatic moment which I had possibly forgotten. But there was none. This gentle evening walking, chatting, eating outdoors in public spaces -- a pleasure I had indulged in hundreds of times before meeting him-- was indeed his favorite memory of our time together.)
Tad took me down a path of serenity. He took me into a garden maze of minimal words, of deep intuition, of strong ethical boundaries. He had a keen sense of right and wrong and often raised an eyebrow or simply said "I'm not sure that's a good idea". That was enough for me. I know that sounds over-arching and a bit unbearable. But he did it so sparingly and from a place of deep wisdom and love - that I couldn't help but stop in my tracks.
Yesterday I took flyers of Tad's memorial to the local hospital then to the oncology office where we would go every Monday, Wednesday and Friday to get a blood test and then blood products when necessary (the fact that he was kept alive by other people's blood donated out of kindness did not go unnoticed). The nurses and other staff greeted me with love, generously gave me hugs, offered heartfelt compliments and concern about the way we walked through cancer with grace.
The most powerful of these was one of the nurse practitioner's who had been an ally for a long time. She always knew how to hold a professional container but fill it with visible affection. She helped make our visits to the oncologists more meaningful.
She took the time in the middle of her busy morning to come and see me in the waiting room where she said to me (more or less): "What I loved about Tad was his powerful voice. The way he spoke up and said his truth. Even in his pain and weakness he would speak powerfully - at times overriding what other people said and he did it with so much love. I love him."
(As I write these words Tad's sweet cat keeps climbing onto my lap and the keyboard, pushing her way into my world - refusing to take no for an answer.)
I knew what she meant. I used to call this Tad's divine voice - this deep wisdom that he tapped into and spoke from, one that cut through all my muddledness.
If today I stopped to listen to Tad's wisdom, if I just stop and let him push me on the mat across the asphalt and up the hill, I believe he is saying:
Love your life Greg. Take risks. Love others. I believe he is telling me that all these belongings that he loved to accumulate were just things. Now that he belongs to the ethers he sees they were just another way to cling.
Today Tad's voice is telling me above all else to love life and live love.
Yesterday it occurred to me for the first time that I could indeed put Tad's belongings in storage, that I could move back into my San Francisco apartment and that one day, alone or with someone else, I might have a weekend house somewhere full of his belongings.
Now this morning I find myself wondering if I am being too cold. Am I just shutting down? Shielding myself from the pain of sorrow, from the yearning?
I once saw a mare give birth to a foal with some a physical deformity. Rather than moving in to lick the spindly animal and offer her nipple she covered it with hay then moved to the farthest side of the stable as if they had not just spent 11 months inhabiting the same body. The gesture felt so cold to me but the Farm Hand assured me this was commonplace if the life of the foal was hopeless.
Last weekend I insisted on being registered for a two-day meditation retreat high in the hill's above Tad's house. It's a Buddhist group I am loosely affiliated with and they lovingly agreed to have me join in at the last minute. I spent hours in silence, then just as many hours sharing open-heartedly and weeping with other folks. We ate tasty vegetarian meals and spent lots of time outdoors in the trees, a mixture of soaring redwoods and craggly live oaks.
When I returned to Tad's house on Sunday - despite my pain of separating from this delicious moment and my anxiety at being back in his house alone - I became aware that something had shifted.
I have entered a new level of acceptance.
Part of it has to do with recognizing that my anger at the nurse the morning of his death had little to do with the nurse and wanting him to be comfortable. It mostly had to do with the fact that - despite the months of preparing for Tad's death - I really did not want him to go. In those last minutes of Tad's life he and I were indeed at odds despite all of the words of reassurance I had given him over the months. Tad had been quite preoccupied by the idea that if he died I would somehow be disappointed. He had mentioned how much people talked about "keeping up the fight" and how hard it was to speak honestly about wanting to let go. Again and again I assured him I supported him either way.
And yet that morning when he said numerous times and in a variety of ways that the gig was up and he was ready to die, I in fact wasn't ready for it. I did not want to stop our painful but familiar fight. I did not want to be hurled into a world surrounded by his belongings but not him, a world where suddenly I need to decide what is best for me.
I began grief counseling yesterday. I met with a woman from hospice who purposely asked questions to evoke Tad, to talk about the history of our relationship. She said the goal of short-term grief counseling is for us to work on the four main "tasks" of grieving:
- Accept the reality of the loss
- Experience the pain of the grief
- Adjusting to an environment where the dead are missing
- Emotionally relocate the deceased and reinvest in life
The first three made sense to me and felt like part of the process but the final task suddenly had me bursting into tears. Where is Tad? How is Tad? Why is he not communicating with me? Why doesn't he let me know how he's doing?
I know this is magical thinking - in the same way that I saw the face of my dead cousin tragically killed on the first day of hunting season- in the crowded halls of my junior high when I was 12 years old.
The truth is that during the first night of the retreat - a night of tossing and turning, sleeping and waking as I slept away from our bed for the first time - I did have a dream of Tad. I believe it is another reason why I am feeling ready to step more into my world and leave his behind.
In this dream Tad had his beautiful masculine body back, his broad muscular shoulders and his torso shaped like an upside down Eiffel Tower. He was behind me, pushing me on one of those rug-like mats that we used as children to go down giant plastic slides at the fun-fairs. His hands on my shoulders, he was laughing as he pushed me quickly making me a bit uncomfortable. The funny thing is we were not about to go down a giant plastic slide; we were racing across the parking lot of the supermarket of my childhood: Bueche's Groceries in Flushing, Michigan home of my father's father's father's father.
At one point in his playfulness Tad made a sexual comment insisting he wanted to do something right then and there. I blushed and insisted he couldn't do it in public: "People are watching!!" I said. He simply laughed and kept pushing. He pushed me right out onto Main Street then took a right turn up the hill leading to the house where I spent the bulk of my childhood years. The dream ended there as someone's cough in the dormitory woke me yet again.
Tad's and my relationship was constructed a lot around my learning to trust him. In appearance I was better skilled than he was for navigating the real world. I had lived abroad, created organizations, been self employed, graduated from grad school, navigated social circles that are far-distant from those of my childhood. I helped him get his first passport then took him to my beloved Southwestern France
( I once tried to distract him from pain asking him about favorite shared memories. He actually shared with me that his was a long summer evening strolling through the streets of old Bordeaux where I used to live and work, having dinner outdoors with my best girlfriend and her daughter then wandering along the quais in the moonlight. As he retold the evening I waited for the "punch line" - ie the dramatic moment which I had possibly forgotten. But there was none. This gentle evening walking, chatting, eating outdoors in public spaces -- a pleasure I had indulged in hundreds of times before meeting him-- was indeed his favorite memory of our time together.)
Tad took me down a path of serenity. He took me into a garden maze of minimal words, of deep intuition, of strong ethical boundaries. He had a keen sense of right and wrong and often raised an eyebrow or simply said "I'm not sure that's a good idea". That was enough for me. I know that sounds over-arching and a bit unbearable. But he did it so sparingly and from a place of deep wisdom and love - that I couldn't help but stop in my tracks.
Yesterday I took flyers of Tad's memorial to the local hospital then to the oncology office where we would go every Monday, Wednesday and Friday to get a blood test and then blood products when necessary (the fact that he was kept alive by other people's blood donated out of kindness did not go unnoticed). The nurses and other staff greeted me with love, generously gave me hugs, offered heartfelt compliments and concern about the way we walked through cancer with grace.
The most powerful of these was one of the nurse practitioner's who had been an ally for a long time. She always knew how to hold a professional container but fill it with visible affection. She helped make our visits to the oncologists more meaningful.
She took the time in the middle of her busy morning to come and see me in the waiting room where she said to me (more or less): "What I loved about Tad was his powerful voice. The way he spoke up and said his truth. Even in his pain and weakness he would speak powerfully - at times overriding what other people said and he did it with so much love. I love him."
(As I write these words Tad's sweet cat keeps climbing onto my lap and the keyboard, pushing her way into my world - refusing to take no for an answer.)
I knew what she meant. I used to call this Tad's divine voice - this deep wisdom that he tapped into and spoke from, one that cut through all my muddledness.
If today I stopped to listen to Tad's wisdom, if I just stop and let him push me on the mat across the asphalt and up the hill, I believe he is saying:
Love your life Greg. Take risks. Love others. I believe he is telling me that all these belongings that he loved to accumulate were just things. Now that he belongs to the ethers he sees they were just another way to cling.
Today Tad's voice is telling me above all else to love life and live love.
Friday, September 16, 2011
snake or rope?
As each day goes by I sob with less frequency. Yesterday I only sobbed three times. Actually they were more like gentle cries - none of the big moaning sounds that were present just a few days ago and often made me wonder if I was disturbing the neighbors.
I am getting beyond the sorrow of Tad's death and slowly entering into the murky painful waters of his absence.
The first phase was more like a mild version of PTSD. For days I had flashbacks of his last few minutes, of him being carted out. I replayed those last 90 minutes of panic, then anger, then calm. Yesterday at the dentist's office I saw someone gag on one of those plastic sucking things they use to hose out fluids and suddenly felt a jolt as I remembered Tad coughing in my arms. At the doctor's office (yesterday was my big self-care health day) I saw an elderly man in a wheelchair struggle to get to the lab and remembered getting Tad onto the plane bound for Seattle.
The second wave of emotions is more of a longing ache, a gentle yearning. I find myself asking him out loud: "Tad where did I put my keys?" or "Tad help me understand why the cat is making that funny noise. What does she want?" or just looking at a photo of him and thinking "God I love you!".
With the ache also comes an element of relief. On my way back to his house in Santa Cruz after a full day in San Francisco I stopped to buy some take-away food in Silicon Valley at a market I know from Tad's Stanford days. I took a taste of the chicken Tikka Masala and had to have some. I found a spicy mandarin chutney to go with it. As I walked to the car I was aware that had Tad been there he would have turned his nose up and I probably wouldn't have bought it.
Perhaps this was co-dependency on my part. Perhaps I should have just eaten what I wanted whenever I wanted while he was still on the planet. But the more I thought about it the more it felt like the healthy concessions we make in order to nurture loving relationship. For us, marriage (or in our case non-marriage) was about knowing when to stick to our guns and when to find middle ground or simply let go entirely.
In the middle of my doctor-dentist day in San Francisco I suddenly felt absolutely and utterly exhausted. I felt like I hadn't slept in weeks. My dentist who is used to bubbly Greg couldn't get a word out of me.
It seems that right now the gentle slow pace of small-town Santa Cruz is more appropriate for my emotional and physical state.
My biggest struggle however is to not let my sadness be drowned out by fears about the future (the oldest neurosis in human history I do believe!).
In essence Tad's house is a sweet rental that is owned by a cooperative. All of the neighbors are homeowners and Tad was their tenant (imagine 90 landlords!!). Among Tad's many accomplishments is he managed to domesticate me! Over the years I agreed to get a vegetable plot through the city, a ginormous flat screen TV for the tiny living room, a water fountain for the precious flower-filled yard. As our love for one another deepened - then complicated by disease, caregiving and fear of death -- I spent more and more time in domestic Santa Cruz and less time in urban San Francisco. I literally go out back, lean over a picket fence and chat in the evenings with Ana, the sweet neighbor behind us.
Now that all the framework is still here but he is not I find myself in a terrible conundrum that haunts my sleep: how can I walk away from this beautiful nest we created? how can I put this carefully-designed, color-coordinated, heartfully-cherished household into a twelve by twelve storage unit until I have a better place for it all?
In an ideal world I would love to have both places. I would love to continue sharing my time between the urban stimulation of San Francisco and the sweet seaside sleepiness of Santa Cruz.
When I share this with friends the reply is systematic: Now is not the time to make big decisions. But at $1000 per month (or $33 per day) I feel like time is running out. Or rather, money is running out.
Part of me tells myself that this is just a game my brain is engaging in to play tricks on me. I've seen friends lose a parent and suddenly all they can talk about is money - far more than what is necessary. I can tell accounting is the best coping skill they can summon.
So is this whole thing a story I tell myself? Is this just another way for me to combat fear? Fear of the void? Fear of letting go completely? Fear of my own death perhaps?
I once heard a prayer I believe attributed to Rumi that reads something like this: "God help me to see that the snake I fear is simply a coil of rope and the treasure I seek is the necklace already hanging around my neck."
I woke in the middle of last night in a moment of calm and had the following thought: "Who doesn't dream of dying in his own bed while his beloved holds him tight whispering love to him through every pore of his body?"
I know I do.
I am getting beyond the sorrow of Tad's death and slowly entering into the murky painful waters of his absence.
The first phase was more like a mild version of PTSD. For days I had flashbacks of his last few minutes, of him being carted out. I replayed those last 90 minutes of panic, then anger, then calm. Yesterday at the dentist's office I saw someone gag on one of those plastic sucking things they use to hose out fluids and suddenly felt a jolt as I remembered Tad coughing in my arms. At the doctor's office (yesterday was my big self-care health day) I saw an elderly man in a wheelchair struggle to get to the lab and remembered getting Tad onto the plane bound for Seattle.
The second wave of emotions is more of a longing ache, a gentle yearning. I find myself asking him out loud: "Tad where did I put my keys?" or "Tad help me understand why the cat is making that funny noise. What does she want?" or just looking at a photo of him and thinking "God I love you!".
With the ache also comes an element of relief. On my way back to his house in Santa Cruz after a full day in San Francisco I stopped to buy some take-away food in Silicon Valley at a market I know from Tad's Stanford days. I took a taste of the chicken Tikka Masala and had to have some. I found a spicy mandarin chutney to go with it. As I walked to the car I was aware that had Tad been there he would have turned his nose up and I probably wouldn't have bought it.
Perhaps this was co-dependency on my part. Perhaps I should have just eaten what I wanted whenever I wanted while he was still on the planet. But the more I thought about it the more it felt like the healthy concessions we make in order to nurture loving relationship. For us, marriage (or in our case non-marriage) was about knowing when to stick to our guns and when to find middle ground or simply let go entirely.
In the middle of my doctor-dentist day in San Francisco I suddenly felt absolutely and utterly exhausted. I felt like I hadn't slept in weeks. My dentist who is used to bubbly Greg couldn't get a word out of me.
It seems that right now the gentle slow pace of small-town Santa Cruz is more appropriate for my emotional and physical state.
My biggest struggle however is to not let my sadness be drowned out by fears about the future (the oldest neurosis in human history I do believe!).
In essence Tad's house is a sweet rental that is owned by a cooperative. All of the neighbors are homeowners and Tad was their tenant (imagine 90 landlords!!). Among Tad's many accomplishments is he managed to domesticate me! Over the years I agreed to get a vegetable plot through the city, a ginormous flat screen TV for the tiny living room, a water fountain for the precious flower-filled yard. As our love for one another deepened - then complicated by disease, caregiving and fear of death -- I spent more and more time in domestic Santa Cruz and less time in urban San Francisco. I literally go out back, lean over a picket fence and chat in the evenings with Ana, the sweet neighbor behind us.
Now that all the framework is still here but he is not I find myself in a terrible conundrum that haunts my sleep: how can I walk away from this beautiful nest we created? how can I put this carefully-designed, color-coordinated, heartfully-cherished household into a twelve by twelve storage unit until I have a better place for it all?
In an ideal world I would love to have both places. I would love to continue sharing my time between the urban stimulation of San Francisco and the sweet seaside sleepiness of Santa Cruz.
When I share this with friends the reply is systematic: Now is not the time to make big decisions. But at $1000 per month (or $33 per day) I feel like time is running out. Or rather, money is running out.
Part of me tells myself that this is just a game my brain is engaging in to play tricks on me. I've seen friends lose a parent and suddenly all they can talk about is money - far more than what is necessary. I can tell accounting is the best coping skill they can summon.
So is this whole thing a story I tell myself? Is this just another way for me to combat fear? Fear of the void? Fear of letting go completely? Fear of my own death perhaps?
I once heard a prayer I believe attributed to Rumi that reads something like this: "God help me to see that the snake I fear is simply a coil of rope and the treasure I seek is the necklace already hanging around my neck."
I woke in the middle of last night in a moment of calm and had the following thought: "Who doesn't dream of dying in his own bed while his beloved holds him tight whispering love to him through every pore of his body?"
I know I do.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
ashes to ashes
The funeral director who wanted the big fat check up front never called me back on the designated day. It wasn't until I called him and said rather harshly to the receptionist "I feel a bit like I'm being jerked around," did they set an exact day and time for Tad's cremation.
The fact that his body is still here on earth and only a short walk from my house was haunting me. I kept fighting this urge to ask if I could come see him; an urge that was only conquered by the memories of other dead bodies I've seen here and there. They can look rather frightening after a few days. I was so afraid that I might see something horrible that I resisted my temptation to run over there.
His continued presence on earth was part of the reason I had a bit of what can only be called a "meltdown" while I was up in San Francisco for about one hour.
I was growing overwhelmed by the presence of all of Tad's belongings. The sempiternal homebody, he loved to keep his house full of nice things. This was at times a source of dissonance between the two of us: "I feel a bit claustrophobic in your house" was met with "Well your house is just as full!" This may be true but at least it's full of MY stuff.
I had a hunch driving to San Francisco on a major highway would be a bit too much for my sensitive system so I had my sweet friend Geof drive me up there. Once we arrived he helped me carry my bags into my apartment, asked if I was okay being alone and left.
I sat down at my computer and received a reminder email of a game night being conducted down in Santa Cruz - a room full of people who may or may not have known Tad. I looked around my place and realized that I didn't have that soothing calm feeling I usually do when I come home. This notion scared me: If I don't feel good at Tad's and I don't feel good in my own little cocoon where can I feel good.
I began to weep (of course) then I began to be afraid of this idea that no place felt comfortable and started hyperventilating. I knew I needed to find someone to drive me back down to Santa Cruz or take the train. But I couldn't seem to walk. All I could do was lie on the floor crying and rocking back and forth.
I tried to catch the subway to get a train but MUNI was running late, my sack weighed a million pounds, I was overwhelmed by the crowd (truth be told I was strongly put off by all the outer signs of fashion and wealth that I saw around me - it all felt incredibly frivolous and vapid).
Finally my friend Gregg agreed to drive me back down here.
I went to the evening festivities where we played a crazy game called "Werewolf" in which we take turns being villagers and werewolves eating someone (in the case of the werewolf) then murdering someone out of revenge (in the case of the villagers). I recognize it doesn't sound very soothing for someone who had just felt his husband shudder for the last time three days previously but in fact it was delightful to be concentrated entirely on something silly and inconsequential.
Coming home afterwards to sleep alone in Tad's house for the first time was difficult but once I stepped into his house -for the first time- I thought I could hear him inside of me, a voice I'd been waiting for since he died.
I don't know if this is something I completely project or if I actually believe that dead people communicate with me. I have had some uncanny experiences in life which at times I explain away by ascribing it to the powerful unconscious and other times I feel there are things happening on a level that I will never really comprehend. Lots of people have tried to convince me that one way is the true way - alas I am a doubting Thomas. I need to put my hand in the open wound in order to believe. And even then - even when very strange things occur in my world that have no logical explanation they tend to lose their credibility with me over time: Did that REALLY happen or did I just dream that?
When we arrived at the crematorium this morning for the final gesture I was sure it was the right thing to do yet hesitant to even get in the car. If no one shows up the funeral folks just do it themselves but they offered to let us attend without failing to mention "Normally we charge for this." Fortunately a few close friends had expressed interest in going and that gave me strength to do this last final gesture before the crematorium gives me a bag of ashes.
In short we went down a corridor to a rather stark industrial room with a wall of buttons and lights and two giant ovens, one with a long cardboard box in front of it on a mechanical platform. Scrawled on top of the box, 15 inches above Tad's once luscious mouth were the words: Name: Vern Crandall, Date of Death: 9-7-2011.
I was a little peeved. He really disliked his proper first name and had only ever been called Tad (or Thad in high school) as far as I could tell. Every time a nurse or doctor would pop their head in a hospital room and ask for "Vern" the two of us would wince slightly. In reality he got more and more used to being called Vern as he approached his death.
As the unskilled funeral director with the bad hair dye blathered on about crematoriums and temperatures, length of burn time and the cremation industry in general -- visibly filling the silence with anything that pops through his mind -- I found myself fighting the urge to reach over and take the lid off the cardboard box. To look at my beloved's face one last time. To perhaps open one eye lid and take in the beauty of his green irises. I wanted to straddle the whole box and grab him, hold him in my arms, pull him back into this world somehow. I wanted to insult the man who had been keeping his body hostage for the last five days instead of letting me continue to wash it with rose water and speak sweet things to it day in and day out. I resisted all of these urges.
With hindsight the last three hours we were together -when I did those very things- were the most precious, the most serene. It took some boldness on my part to listen to my gut and delay the arrival of the dispatch team; to stop the machine of phone calls and arrangements and just name my need: to spend some private time with my beloved's corpse. Once I did our time together was delicious. I got to slow down the clock and simply let him go at a pace that worked better for me. When the two young guys came to fetch him I felt ready. Well not exactly ready. I told myself that I could cling to this body forever and although it felt counter-intuitive I had to let him go with them in order to begin the process of letting go.
And that's what this morning was yet again: an uncomfortable, counter-intuitive thing to do. But the part of me that was reminded again and again that life is short told me I needed to go. The loving parent voice inside me that took me years to finally develop assured me that in ten years I will be so glad I helped push Tad's body into the flames.
Even in my hesitations I however underestimated how hard it would be. Were it not for my friends holding me on both sides I believe I would have fallen on the floor. Today's tears in front of the oven were accompanied by a wrenching of my body, uncontrollable movements of my legs, my hands gripping and tugging on my sports coat with no real objective - just raw sorrow.
When we were done we stepped outside to a sunny Santa Cruz morning. Across the sunlit valley I could see cars driving along the ridge that could only be the UC campus. In between were trees, the cemetery, the memorial gardens, even a glimpse of the massive Costco. I turned around so I could see the heat rising from the smokestack. I wanted to imagine somehow little particulates of Tad floating into the breathtaking San Lorenzo Valley in front of me, the valley where he lived for the last 18 years. I wanted to imagine his particulates feeding the giant redwoods on the slopes and the fish in the bubbling river where I had left my Widower tears just the day before.
My friend Richard had offered to take me back to the out-of-the-way canyon just a few minutes upstream from Tad's house. We had been there before but this time, the day before Tad's cremation, we decided to go deep into the forest, forging our own path til we got to a remote part of the river most tourists never reach. We climbed down carefully avoiding the poison oak and any slippery shale parts that might send us rolling to the boulders at the bottom. When we came out of the redwood forest we were in a sun-bathed part of the river with giant granite boulders and rapids all around. We put on our bathing suits and water-shoes, put our belongings in a waterproof pack and carefully floated and slid down the river in the icy cold, spring-fed water. It was glorious!!
At one point I stopped to lie on a warm river boulder with the sun on my skin and water gushing at an incredible force on both sides. I looked up at the redwoods and the sky. And I devoted it all to Tad. I asked him to come take a look, to enjoy through my body what his was no longer capable of enjoying.
A familiar voice spoke up in my head and told me that talking to the dead was silly but the loving teardrops falling into the river told me otherwise.
The fact that his body is still here on earth and only a short walk from my house was haunting me. I kept fighting this urge to ask if I could come see him; an urge that was only conquered by the memories of other dead bodies I've seen here and there. They can look rather frightening after a few days. I was so afraid that I might see something horrible that I resisted my temptation to run over there.
His continued presence on earth was part of the reason I had a bit of what can only be called a "meltdown" while I was up in San Francisco for about one hour.
I was growing overwhelmed by the presence of all of Tad's belongings. The sempiternal homebody, he loved to keep his house full of nice things. This was at times a source of dissonance between the two of us: "I feel a bit claustrophobic in your house" was met with "Well your house is just as full!" This may be true but at least it's full of MY stuff.
I had a hunch driving to San Francisco on a major highway would be a bit too much for my sensitive system so I had my sweet friend Geof drive me up there. Once we arrived he helped me carry my bags into my apartment, asked if I was okay being alone and left.
I sat down at my computer and received a reminder email of a game night being conducted down in Santa Cruz - a room full of people who may or may not have known Tad. I looked around my place and realized that I didn't have that soothing calm feeling I usually do when I come home. This notion scared me: If I don't feel good at Tad's and I don't feel good in my own little cocoon where can I feel good.
I began to weep (of course) then I began to be afraid of this idea that no place felt comfortable and started hyperventilating. I knew I needed to find someone to drive me back down to Santa Cruz or take the train. But I couldn't seem to walk. All I could do was lie on the floor crying and rocking back and forth.
I tried to catch the subway to get a train but MUNI was running late, my sack weighed a million pounds, I was overwhelmed by the crowd (truth be told I was strongly put off by all the outer signs of fashion and wealth that I saw around me - it all felt incredibly frivolous and vapid).
Finally my friend Gregg agreed to drive me back down here.
I went to the evening festivities where we played a crazy game called "Werewolf" in which we take turns being villagers and werewolves eating someone (in the case of the werewolf) then murdering someone out of revenge (in the case of the villagers). I recognize it doesn't sound very soothing for someone who had just felt his husband shudder for the last time three days previously but in fact it was delightful to be concentrated entirely on something silly and inconsequential.
Coming home afterwards to sleep alone in Tad's house for the first time was difficult but once I stepped into his house -for the first time- I thought I could hear him inside of me, a voice I'd been waiting for since he died.
I don't know if this is something I completely project or if I actually believe that dead people communicate with me. I have had some uncanny experiences in life which at times I explain away by ascribing it to the powerful unconscious and other times I feel there are things happening on a level that I will never really comprehend. Lots of people have tried to convince me that one way is the true way - alas I am a doubting Thomas. I need to put my hand in the open wound in order to believe. And even then - even when very strange things occur in my world that have no logical explanation they tend to lose their credibility with me over time: Did that REALLY happen or did I just dream that?
When we arrived at the crematorium this morning for the final gesture I was sure it was the right thing to do yet hesitant to even get in the car. If no one shows up the funeral folks just do it themselves but they offered to let us attend without failing to mention "Normally we charge for this." Fortunately a few close friends had expressed interest in going and that gave me strength to do this last final gesture before the crematorium gives me a bag of ashes.
In short we went down a corridor to a rather stark industrial room with a wall of buttons and lights and two giant ovens, one with a long cardboard box in front of it on a mechanical platform. Scrawled on top of the box, 15 inches above Tad's once luscious mouth were the words: Name: Vern Crandall, Date of Death: 9-7-2011.
I was a little peeved. He really disliked his proper first name and had only ever been called Tad (or Thad in high school) as far as I could tell. Every time a nurse or doctor would pop their head in a hospital room and ask for "Vern" the two of us would wince slightly. In reality he got more and more used to being called Vern as he approached his death.
As the unskilled funeral director with the bad hair dye blathered on about crematoriums and temperatures, length of burn time and the cremation industry in general -- visibly filling the silence with anything that pops through his mind -- I found myself fighting the urge to reach over and take the lid off the cardboard box. To look at my beloved's face one last time. To perhaps open one eye lid and take in the beauty of his green irises. I wanted to straddle the whole box and grab him, hold him in my arms, pull him back into this world somehow. I wanted to insult the man who had been keeping his body hostage for the last five days instead of letting me continue to wash it with rose water and speak sweet things to it day in and day out. I resisted all of these urges.
With hindsight the last three hours we were together -when I did those very things- were the most precious, the most serene. It took some boldness on my part to listen to my gut and delay the arrival of the dispatch team; to stop the machine of phone calls and arrangements and just name my need: to spend some private time with my beloved's corpse. Once I did our time together was delicious. I got to slow down the clock and simply let him go at a pace that worked better for me. When the two young guys came to fetch him I felt ready. Well not exactly ready. I told myself that I could cling to this body forever and although it felt counter-intuitive I had to let him go with them in order to begin the process of letting go.
And that's what this morning was yet again: an uncomfortable, counter-intuitive thing to do. But the part of me that was reminded again and again that life is short told me I needed to go. The loving parent voice inside me that took me years to finally develop assured me that in ten years I will be so glad I helped push Tad's body into the flames.
Even in my hesitations I however underestimated how hard it would be. Were it not for my friends holding me on both sides I believe I would have fallen on the floor. Today's tears in front of the oven were accompanied by a wrenching of my body, uncontrollable movements of my legs, my hands gripping and tugging on my sports coat with no real objective - just raw sorrow.
When we were done we stepped outside to a sunny Santa Cruz morning. Across the sunlit valley I could see cars driving along the ridge that could only be the UC campus. In between were trees, the cemetery, the memorial gardens, even a glimpse of the massive Costco. I turned around so I could see the heat rising from the smokestack. I wanted to imagine somehow little particulates of Tad floating into the breathtaking San Lorenzo Valley in front of me, the valley where he lived for the last 18 years. I wanted to imagine his particulates feeding the giant redwoods on the slopes and the fish in the bubbling river where I had left my Widower tears just the day before.
My friend Richard had offered to take me back to the out-of-the-way canyon just a few minutes upstream from Tad's house. We had been there before but this time, the day before Tad's cremation, we decided to go deep into the forest, forging our own path til we got to a remote part of the river most tourists never reach. We climbed down carefully avoiding the poison oak and any slippery shale parts that might send us rolling to the boulders at the bottom. When we came out of the redwood forest we were in a sun-bathed part of the river with giant granite boulders and rapids all around. We put on our bathing suits and water-shoes, put our belongings in a waterproof pack and carefully floated and slid down the river in the icy cold, spring-fed water. It was glorious!!
At one point I stopped to lie on a warm river boulder with the sun on my skin and water gushing at an incredible force on both sides. I looked up at the redwoods and the sky. And I devoted it all to Tad. I asked him to come take a look, to enjoy through my body what his was no longer capable of enjoying.
A familiar voice spoke up in my head and told me that talking to the dead was silly but the loving teardrops falling into the river told me otherwise.
Saturday, September 10, 2011
hearing the silence
I don't hear Tad's voice calling out to me anymore. I don't hear him saying: "Greggy - could you bring me some juice?" (Besides my Grams he was the only other person who got away with calling me Greggy)
When I stop all I hear is silence.
Worst of all I can't lean over and touch his soft skin, caress his cheek, hear his snoring, see his near-constant smile, or catch a glimpse of his beautiful green eyes.
I actually could do this if I wanted to. His corpse is only a half-mile from here, waiting in some chilled room to be cremated. I find myself wanting to hop on my bicycle so I can hold him one last time, tell him it's going to be okay. I have to purposely remind myself that his corpse is no longer him - and that it no doubt doesn't look very pretty now that he's been dead a few days.
My hunch is that it will take me months to learn to be at peace without him, to stop yearning for him.
During our illness people regularly said to me: "He's lucky to have you." In a way this made me angry because - though I understand the intention - it felt one-sided. I would respond "Thank you - and I'm lucky to have him." or "We're lucky to have one another." Another phrase I found myself saying a lot to the droves of people who spent time caring for him was: "He's easy to love."
This wasn't always the case - Tad could be gruff and prickly but particularly in these last few years Tad was just so easy to love, so gentle, so simple, so warm. Waking up in the morning next to him I nearly always got a smile and a warm greeting of "Good morning. Did you sleep okay?", even in the midst of severe pain.
I write these words knowing that oftentimes dead people become perfect in the eyes of the living, their mortal status suddenly wipes away any character defects and they become demi-gods. But this really was one of Tad's qualities. I was far from the only one who saw it.
Since his death his friends and I have dealt with handling what to do with his corpse. The funeral company here in town that runs the two cemeteries and the crematorium are no different from the ones I've seen all over the world. They bring you in, wear a maudlin face, tip their head to the side, mutter "I'm sorry for your loss," then try to sell you more stuff.
Our friends' presence gave me the strength to cut to the chase rather quickly, in essence saying "I gave you the body of the man I love the most in the world - now give me back some ashes and tell me how much I owe you."
After squirming a bit the relationship became what it really is: mercantile. We got down to business, signed the multiple documents, wrote the check (for $1736 for the most minimal cremation!!), made small talk while things were being processed and left.
My friends felt bad that it had become so business-y but truth be told I preferred the sincerity of the commercial exchange to the false empathy of the usual funeral exchange. When my heart is broken wide open like this I don't suffer insincerity very well.
Friends have been spending the night with me.
I can't imagine being alone at night right now. I woke up at 4 AM the second night having an asthma attack. Suddenly I couldn't breathe and needed to get some air. Cat hair can cause me to get tight-chested but this felt like something else. I can't help but think it has more to do with the fact that less than 48 hours previously my own beloved man, the man I cherish so deeply, basically suffocated in my arms in that very bed.
As I sat on the sofa waiting for my breath to return I got on my computer and was immediately contacted by Tad's little sister from Texas wanting connection, wanting information.
Like with everything these days I was hit by a hurricane of feelings - at times contradictory. I wanted to be alone to breathe through the tightness in my chest but I wanted to exchange with someone who knew Tad intimately.
I want folks to know that Tad has given me instructions to organize memorials - one in Santa Cruz, one in Tucson) and to distribute some of his things (and I feel a strong sense of duty to keep my promise to Tad and his family) and at the same time I just want to stay in this little bubble and not change a thing, not do any organizing, not contact anyone. In general I want to give people the opportunity to connect with me as the living thing that remains of Tad and at the same time I need to not be overwhelmed by too many solicitations. It's a gentle balance I try to find.
Some moments it feels good to chat with Tad connections and some moments it feels good to be alone. And my needs change on a dime.
My most difficult struggle since Tad died has been this haunting sense that I could have changed the end - I could have done something to make his death more peaceful, less of a struggle.
Tad had made it clear to everyone that he wanted to be resuscitated. Our agreement was that the medical team would try to save him in times of crisis and I would pull the plug if he were brain dead after the intervention. This legally binding request pissed off a lot of doctors who knew that Tad's cancer was terminal.
I had grown so used to vehemently defending this position that I failed to see that on the morning of his death he revoked that agreement three times. Three times he made it clear that he was ready to go and that -de facto- I was no longer to ask for him to be saved.
But as I heard the fluids building up in his chest and he struggled to breathe more and more I found myself wanting to call 911 or to have the nurse and our friends do something. I even said aggressively, "We need to turn him upside down so the fluids can come out!!"
Gently, lovingly Ann just smiled and told me that it wouldn't do much good - instead she turned his head to the side to allow some of it to flow out.
Fortunately the sweet Sally came by yesterday and helped me to see that in fact Tad had put an end to our agreement. Three times that morning he told me quite clearly that he couldn't keep going, that he was too sick, that it was time to die. Among his first words upon awaking were "I don't have many days left on this earth."
By saying he was ready to go he released me from my promise to have him resuscitated at all cost. Alas neither he nor I knew that the struggle would be so difficult. It only lasted a few minutes but during those few minutes he kept trying to breathe and couldn't. He pushed hard. He struggled. And it was unbearable for me. On the other side of that struggle came serenity - I felt his heart slow down after going a million miles an hour. I felt him relax.
It is possible Tad pushed through that in order to die. It is possible he was indeed controlling things.
I think maybe it is easier for me to be angry with myself than it is to be submerged in sorrow that Tad and his beautiful, beautiful life are no longer here.
When I stop all I hear is silence.
Worst of all I can't lean over and touch his soft skin, caress his cheek, hear his snoring, see his near-constant smile, or catch a glimpse of his beautiful green eyes.
I actually could do this if I wanted to. His corpse is only a half-mile from here, waiting in some chilled room to be cremated. I find myself wanting to hop on my bicycle so I can hold him one last time, tell him it's going to be okay. I have to purposely remind myself that his corpse is no longer him - and that it no doubt doesn't look very pretty now that he's been dead a few days.
My hunch is that it will take me months to learn to be at peace without him, to stop yearning for him.
During our illness people regularly said to me: "He's lucky to have you." In a way this made me angry because - though I understand the intention - it felt one-sided. I would respond "Thank you - and I'm lucky to have him." or "We're lucky to have one another." Another phrase I found myself saying a lot to the droves of people who spent time caring for him was: "He's easy to love."
This wasn't always the case - Tad could be gruff and prickly but particularly in these last few years Tad was just so easy to love, so gentle, so simple, so warm. Waking up in the morning next to him I nearly always got a smile and a warm greeting of "Good morning. Did you sleep okay?", even in the midst of severe pain.
I write these words knowing that oftentimes dead people become perfect in the eyes of the living, their mortal status suddenly wipes away any character defects and they become demi-gods. But this really was one of Tad's qualities. I was far from the only one who saw it.
Since his death his friends and I have dealt with handling what to do with his corpse. The funeral company here in town that runs the two cemeteries and the crematorium are no different from the ones I've seen all over the world. They bring you in, wear a maudlin face, tip their head to the side, mutter "I'm sorry for your loss," then try to sell you more stuff.
Our friends' presence gave me the strength to cut to the chase rather quickly, in essence saying "I gave you the body of the man I love the most in the world - now give me back some ashes and tell me how much I owe you."
After squirming a bit the relationship became what it really is: mercantile. We got down to business, signed the multiple documents, wrote the check (for $1736 for the most minimal cremation!!), made small talk while things were being processed and left.
My friends felt bad that it had become so business-y but truth be told I preferred the sincerity of the commercial exchange to the false empathy of the usual funeral exchange. When my heart is broken wide open like this I don't suffer insincerity very well.
Friends have been spending the night with me.
I can't imagine being alone at night right now. I woke up at 4 AM the second night having an asthma attack. Suddenly I couldn't breathe and needed to get some air. Cat hair can cause me to get tight-chested but this felt like something else. I can't help but think it has more to do with the fact that less than 48 hours previously my own beloved man, the man I cherish so deeply, basically suffocated in my arms in that very bed.
As I sat on the sofa waiting for my breath to return I got on my computer and was immediately contacted by Tad's little sister from Texas wanting connection, wanting information.
Like with everything these days I was hit by a hurricane of feelings - at times contradictory. I wanted to be alone to breathe through the tightness in my chest but I wanted to exchange with someone who knew Tad intimately.
I want folks to know that Tad has given me instructions to organize memorials - one in Santa Cruz, one in Tucson) and to distribute some of his things (and I feel a strong sense of duty to keep my promise to Tad and his family) and at the same time I just want to stay in this little bubble and not change a thing, not do any organizing, not contact anyone. In general I want to give people the opportunity to connect with me as the living thing that remains of Tad and at the same time I need to not be overwhelmed by too many solicitations. It's a gentle balance I try to find.
Some moments it feels good to chat with Tad connections and some moments it feels good to be alone. And my needs change on a dime.
My most difficult struggle since Tad died has been this haunting sense that I could have changed the end - I could have done something to make his death more peaceful, less of a struggle.
Tad had made it clear to everyone that he wanted to be resuscitated. Our agreement was that the medical team would try to save him in times of crisis and I would pull the plug if he were brain dead after the intervention. This legally binding request pissed off a lot of doctors who knew that Tad's cancer was terminal.
I had grown so used to vehemently defending this position that I failed to see that on the morning of his death he revoked that agreement three times. Three times he made it clear that he was ready to go and that -de facto- I was no longer to ask for him to be saved.
But as I heard the fluids building up in his chest and he struggled to breathe more and more I found myself wanting to call 911 or to have the nurse and our friends do something. I even said aggressively, "We need to turn him upside down so the fluids can come out!!"
Gently, lovingly Ann just smiled and told me that it wouldn't do much good - instead she turned his head to the side to allow some of it to flow out.
Fortunately the sweet Sally came by yesterday and helped me to see that in fact Tad had put an end to our agreement. Three times that morning he told me quite clearly that he couldn't keep going, that he was too sick, that it was time to die. Among his first words upon awaking were "I don't have many days left on this earth."
By saying he was ready to go he released me from my promise to have him resuscitated at all cost. Alas neither he nor I knew that the struggle would be so difficult. It only lasted a few minutes but during those few minutes he kept trying to breathe and couldn't. He pushed hard. He struggled. And it was unbearable for me. On the other side of that struggle came serenity - I felt his heart slow down after going a million miles an hour. I felt him relax.
It is possible Tad pushed through that in order to die. It is possible he was indeed controlling things.
I think maybe it is easier for me to be angry with myself than it is to be submerged in sorrow that Tad and his beautiful, beautiful life are no longer here.
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