Renee Rocks

It’s been a week. After a few pleasant days of lower temperatures and less humidity, the air is once again thick and stifling. For someone like me, …

Hell Week

It’s been a week. After a few pleasant days of lower temperatures and less humidity, the air is once again thick and stifling. For someone like me, who runs hot, the atmosphere is oppressive. Within seconds of being outside, I’m pouring sweat. I feel disgusting and look like I feel. When I try working outside, the mandatory layers of sunscreen and insect repellent add insult to injury. Sitting inside for the bulk of the day isn’t good for my body or soul. I’ve still gotten my swims in, but an hour in that sanctuary is not enough to balance all those other inside hours, when my mind seems to skitter from thing to thing.

But let’s get real. These physical discomforts are hardly worth whining about, especially in comparison to what other people are going through, in more places than I can count. After all, I’m not starving while dodging bombs and drone attacks. I’m not starving at all, because there’s no famine where I live. Rival drug cartels are not shooting up the streets in my neighborhood, making me fear for my life. I’m not afraid that vans filled with armed, masked men are going to track me down, throw me to the ground, tie my wrists with zip-ties and disappear to me to civil war-torn countries. At least not yet. Yes, I’m crabby because of merciless weather, but the fact is that I think I’m getting worn down by too much bad news. Every day I tell myself to stop paying so much attention to all the latest infuriating articles which show up in my morning email. I know it’s so toxic for me. And I think I actually have stopped reading and watching as much as I once did, back when the jaw-dropping first presidency of 45 began. Back then, in early 2017, even as it became clear that Michael’s cancer trek had finally taken its last dark turn, I was doomscrolling constantly, trying to navigate the shocks of that mad administration. Ha. What did I know? Here I am, eyes popping at every latest soul-crushing news story illustrating this seemingly inexorable march to the end of democracy, such as it is. Or was. All in just a few short months. Although I know enough about history to understand that what’s happening now isn’t forever, at age 74, will I still be around to appreciate the recovery from all the destruction? Unclear.

That’s the macrocosm. And then there’s the microcosm. The whole mortality question is certainly getting harder to ignore in my 70’s. In the past few days, four people I know, some more intimately than others, have all wound up in the emergency room and beyond, with cardiac and circulation issues. Swollen legs and insufficient blood vessels seem to be making the rounds. I find myself checking out my ankles a lot, looking for the telltale puffiness indicating water retention, which can itself be a sign of congestive heart failure. Sometimes you just don’t know when it’s your body’s turn to say your lease on reasonable health has just expired. Even more concerning is the condition of one of my dearest old friends, who’s waiting for his newly unearthed chronic lymphocytic leukemia to be staged. That cancer can be anything from a slow growing condition which can be survived for many years, to one that storms quickly through the body. The uncertainty is hard for him and his family, along with those of us who shared so much life together. Nothing about these situations is surprising or unexpected. But it’s still hard. In similar moments, my mother, who survived a couple of cancers, poorly controlled diabetes and numerous other issues, would periodically trot out her gallows humor and say, “look – you leave this life the way you come in – toothless, bald and alone. That’s it. Period.” One of those lines I think I’ll always remember.

In the hope of distracting myself from the weight of the current news and personal crises, I decided to watch “The Roosevelts – An Intimate History,” the film made by Ken Burns for PBS back in 2014. Seven episodes long and clocking in at 14 hours, I found myself utterly consumed by this fascinating wealthy family, with its multiple branches and participation in varying political parties. The three principal characters, Theodore, Franklin and Eleanor championed progressive domestic policies, navigated world wars, laid the foundation for most of the institutions under attack by today’s current administration, and remained influential in American politics for 80 years. I wasn’t completely uneducated about them when I started this series but I learned a lot I didn’t know. Imperfect as these people were, their obvious passion for improving the lives of everyday people was so inspiring. And different from now. I think this summary by a journalist best describes how I felt after watching it.

Hank Stuever, critic at The Washington Post, writes, “Let’s start with the end. When it’s over — when you make it through the marathon that is Ken Burns’s beautiful, seven-part documentary The Roosevelts: An Intimate History, … you may find yourself with a lingering, nebulous grief. You’re sorry it’s over. You’re sorry they’re over. You’re sorry a certain expression of American ideals is, or often appears to be, completely over.”

If escapism was what I was looking for, I can’t say I succeeded in meeting that goal with this particular choice. I was frequently in tears while watching this show, way more than I usually am in what I’d call my regular life. Crying has never really been a go-to emotional response for me. When people would talk about how cathartic a good cry was for them, I could never quite relate. I usually feel terrible after I cry, swollen-eyed and snotty, more often than not with a headache, and zero energy for anything other than sleep. My more customary response to the hard parts of life is getting angry and active, ranting around, or hurling myself into some tiring task or other until I burn off the bad feelings. But I guess I was overdue for the style I usually shun because crying it was. In the midst of it, I was kind of fascinated by this full-up well of emotion that needed to be released. I know that for a long time I’ve felt that my grief process about Michael’s death has been entwined with the pain I feel over the bigger picture, the profound alienation I feel from the MAGA universe and all that it entails. Throughout my life, I’ve always felt like I never really belonged anywhere, always somewhat out of step, even with ideologies, organizations or groups with which I had some natural affinities. But lucky me, when I almost instantly became best friends with Michael when I was just twenty, I finally felt like I fit somewhere. No matter the hard times, that comfort only grew over time.

Even now, with him gone, the powerful framework we built for so many years has still been enough to sustain me on my own. And yet. When I sat there sobbing over the Roosevelts, I realized that despite my resilience, I retain mental and emotional vulnerabilities that add dimension and depth to my fully adult self. Uncomfortable, yes, but I still believe that’s a good thing. For me, becoming a person incapable of ever surprising myself again would feel like death. I recognize that I can still have more going on inside me than I sometimes realize. That means there’s yet more room in this life for me to continue developing and to understand myself in relation to my ever-changing circumstances. Nothing new means being stuck. For me, being stuck is worse than periodic sobbing, whether I particularly like it or not.

I guess I have to chalk this week up to what I’ve continued to learn over the years. People are complicated and layered, with multiple aspects of personality and character operating inside them, sometimes in tandem and sometimes apart. Often, they are in the dark about themselves, intentionally or not. Not everyone is interested in looking back to trace how they got to here from there. But I always was. In my late 30’s and early 40’s, I was seeing a therapist who was helping me develop better management skills at coping with my mom after my dad’s death. Figuring out that the parent/child dynamic between us had been severely compromised for a long time, was knowledge that I was only vaguely unaware of – that is until this professional helped me think my way to the core of my problems. She presented me with options on how to confront difficult circumstances in ways significantly different from my previous style. And most importantly, she helped me realize that my mom would likely not be interested in my process and thus, never be able to put herself into my shoes. Recognizing that the only change I could expect was my own was significant. I didn’t want to be limited in the way that my mom was so I needed to accept responsibility for myself. My task was to break old patterns and get myself unstuck. One really great experience I had during my therapy involved bringing Michael along to one of my appointments. My counselor felt that having someone close to me participate in conversations about my issues allowed her, and ultimately, me, to view my problems from different angles instead of just my own. She likened this process to walking around a statue, being able to see it three-dimensionally, instead of just head-on. I learned a lot from hearing Michael’s perception of me during my conflicts, instead of only looking straight into a mirror and seeing myself. That lesson stuck with me. Stepping back from the moment and changing my own behavior helps me navigate the world. And there will always be the need to adjust. After all, I think that no matter how well we think we know anyone, including ourselves, there will always be surprises and secrets to discover. Hell week’s reminder and lesson learned.

The paintings by Hovak remind me that humans are more than what’s on the surface.

The sheen on my arm from the layer of sweat that appears every time I move during this heinous heat dome. For a person like me, who believes that …

Thoughts From the Heat Dome…and the Corn Sweat?

For a person like me, who believes that climate change is real, the blistering heat and insufferable humidity currently parked across a big part of the U.S., is the likely preview of the future. Global temperatures have been warming since about 1850 and are picking up speed. We even have new descriptors to explain these increasingly more common events. The term “heat dome” is a step up from “heat wave.”

“A heat dome is a specific weather phenomenon. It involves a high-pressure system lingering over a set region and trapping hot air. This can, in some cases, cause more intense and longer-lasting heat compared to regular heat waves. Some climate scientists believe that changes in the jet stream, brought on by our warming planet, are leading to longer and perhaps more frequent heat domes.” The Climate Reality Project.

All anyone has to do is a little bit of reading to know that floods, winds and fires are becoming more regular events across the globe. Hundred and thousand year storms are suddenly popping up everywhere and a lot more often than their names imply. All of these deadly plagues are associated with advancing climate change. Don’t believe it? Willful ignorance in my opinion. Scientific consensus is real. In any event,where I live, we have the additional element of “corn sweat.” Yes, a new term to me, too.

According to the National Weather Service, 1 acre of corn gives off about 3,000-4,000 gallons of water each day. That added moisture in the air then increases already high dew points, making it feel even more humid on a localized scale. In the past, we’ve seen “corn sweat” help jump dew points above 80 degrees, which is a stifling amount of humid air. The increased humidity can then help boost heat index temperatures even higher. According to the National Weather Service’s central Illinois office, mature Illinois corn crops “give off over 35 billion gallons of water daily into the atmosphere.” That’s enough water to fill over 52,500 Olympic-sized swimming pools, the agency noted.

I suppose the only way to really illustrate exactly how the air currently feels in Central Illinois, is to post a few relevant charts. And maybe to state the fact that in an area like mine, without a river or lake in sight for a cooling effect, the atmosphere feels like a burning anvil with a thick layer of oily water on its top.

Or, as the dew point above indicates, I’m living in what feels like a tropical rain forest. For days and days, every time I do anything other than sitting absolutely still, I am covered with sweat. I realize that I tend to run hotter than some people but seriously…I feel so grubby and uncomfortable I repel myself. Being constantly hot also messes with the body’s self-regulating system. After a couple of outdoor times when beginning to feel exhausted and dizzy, I realized that dehydration, especially in older people (us and the babies,) is something I need to be really mindful about, all the time.

Global warming has intensified extreme heat events, posing serious risks to public health (1). The frequency, intensity, and duration of extreme heat events are expected to grow rapidly in the coming decades, affecting more than 100 million Americans in 2050 (2). Extreme heat contributes to a range of health conditions, including hospitalization (3), cardiovascular diseases (4), and death (5). Health impacts from heat are particularly adverse among older adults due to age-related declines in thermoregulatory functions (6). Although links between extreme heat and morbidity and mortality are well established, knowledge of the biological underpinnings is limited. Science Magazine Advances Magazine – Research article – “Ambient outdoor heat and accelerated epigenetic aging among older adults in the US”

The result of all this heat-related discomfort has been the limiting of my outdoor time for the past few weeks. I try reminding myself to be graceful and accepting about circumstances beyond my control. I’m practicing but, the truth is, I do get frustrated that my time in the latter part of MY life is subject, at least partially, to the lifecycle of an ocean of cornstalks just outside the city limits.

To stay sane, I make sure to leave my house every day, if only for an hour. The corn isn’t the only thing growing around here so I’m grateful for the bounty of Saturday morning farmers’ market. Going early in the morning before the sidewalks sizzle is a good strategy.

The outdoor pool, my favorite summer respite for about 50 years now, continues to be my go-to place although it’s true that the unrelenting heat has raised the water temperature to what can feel like bathtub levels. I know that the cold people really like the warmth – me, not so much. What is more annoying is that being in the water masks how hot the body gets from forty minutes of cardiovascular exercise. So when I’m done with my routine, I feel just as drenched as I did while doing it. The lesser of two evils, though, as being completely sedentary isn’t good for anyone.

My beloved garden, my non-human child, needs my attention no matter how hot it feels out there. And I want to take care of it. But under the heat dome, the pleasure I usually take in the results of all my hard work, is definitely diminished. First, there’s the layering of sludge that I add to my own organic one. Sunscreen. When that dries, bug spray, that is, if you’re not interested in being the main course for all those thirsty bloodsuckers lurking in the humid air. In all fairness, even though I had greater tolerance for these annoyances when I was younger, I’ve never been a big fan of summer. I’m definitely partial to the spring and fall seasons. Not fond of winter, either. Sweat, mosquitoes and ice are not high on my to-do list. But I know, that to get the goodies I love, like a home for the pollinators, the butterflies and the birds, I have to be willing to deal with the rest.

With all the red flags surrounding the outdoor activities, staying inside becomes a necessary option. I’m not worried about having nothing to do as I have long lists of chores and goals that never seem to get shorter, no matter what I do. But then there’s this weird inertia that asserts itself, despite all my best intentions. Why is that?

I have plenty of hobbies which are readily available as sources of distraction. I’m not guilty about allowing those to occupy my time, at least for short periods of time.

It’s the random rabbit holes that are my real problem. I read a lot of articles every morning to begin my day. If there’s something new, something worrisome, something that I think needs fact-checking, or just something interesting, that shiny object can supplant all my intentions of tackling those endless lists of mine. I can’t say that my newly acquired knowledge, or better understanding of something I kind of knew, has no value, but when the day disappears, I don’t feel particularly satisfied either. When I had more structure in my life I was better at accomplishing tasks. But I truly have no structure at all. Because I live alone, I don’t have to accommodate anyone else’s needs. The only schedule around here, or the lack thereof, is mine. I sleep when I want to, wake up when I want to and eat when I want to. I don’t have to be anywhere by any time unless I feel like going. That amount of freedom was unheard of in my life before Michael’s death. His unwanted absence is actually what released me from responsibilities toward anyone but me. A hefty price to pay, although the truth is, I pretty much did what I chose to do when he was living. One of the reasons we had such an enduring relationship is because we both felt pretty free. Still, as the consummate caregiver, which is apparently who I was born to be, this freedom is quite a heady feeling. I have let go of all the constraints my choices required of me during the previous years of my existence. Except for when my kids really need me, I’m a free agent.

Recently, in one of those serendipitous moments that come along unbidden, I found another one of those enticing rabbit holes to explore. When I was eight months old, my family moved from Chicago to Sioux City, Iowa. We lived there for seven years before eventually returning to Illinois. Initially in Sioux City, we lived in a rental property before my parents bought the only home they’d ever own. I have a few glimmering memories of that first place but many more of our real house. My dad soured on homeownership after that time and afterwards, we only lived in apartment buildings. I never fully understood why, aside from some financial constraints, but later, when that part was better, he still refused to invest in what he called, “pain in the neck bricks and mortar.” Anyway, I never went back there. My older brother and sister did and said it was disappointing. I don’t know what they expected. In any case, I’m still curious about it.

About a month ago, I was hanging out with my two grandsons while their parents went out to dinner. The older one had a girlfriend dropping by for a visit. I went outside to meet her mother so she would feel confident that an adult was in the house and paying attention to kid shenanigans. Somehow our brief conversation revealed that she had grown up in Sioux City. She is the first person I’ve ever met who came from there, although an old friend who I saw at my 50th high school reunion had married someone also hailed from SC. In any event, we chitchatted about where we’d lived, what schools we attended and a favorite restaurant that was “the” place to go, now out of business. This conversation tapped into my natural curiosity.

With my interest piqued, I immediately began seeing what I could find out about what still existed in my memories. A little part of me was still back there in that dreamlike town. I found a few photos of Hunt School which I attended in kindergarten and first grade. I can feel myself in my kindergarten classroom and remember that back then, we took afternoon naps on our own little rugs after drinking a carton of milk. I also remember standing at the top of those outside stairs for a long time when my sister forgot to bring me home from school. Eventually I made my way home by myself. I even mapped out the route on Google maps to see how far it was. Hunt School closed in 2019 after 113 years of operation.

I found a photo of the Green Gables restaurant, also closed. We didn’t eat at restaurants very often so those experiences were memorable. I remember bowls of matzo ball soup and turkey club sandwiches stuffed with tomatoes and mayonnaise.

Eventually I went into the Woodbury county real estate records, where Sioux City is located. My house is still there, although heavily remodeled. The basic structure remains but the back porch was demolished. Probably it was falling apart at some point. Who knows when? I couldn’t locate any pictures of the front view which I remember as having another enclosed porch. That was the first place I received a May Day basket from one of my classmates, Connie, second row from the top, second from the left, in my class picture above.

I was flooded with memories about life in this place. Many of them are visual images, others are like little videos – hiding under the dining room table, sitting in the breakfast nook, having my dad wash my dirty little feet in the bathroom sink. My younger sister is still alive, but her memories are not mine and she’s more than two years younger than me. Everyone else in my family is gone. Would I remember more if I went back to Sioux City for a visit when so many landmarks are gone or changed? Probably not. But then there were our neighbors and friends. I can still see some of them and remember their names. Would they remember me? I started looking around for them and wouldn’t you know, there’s at least one neighbor who has a Facebook profile. So far I haven’t pursued any contact.

I don’t suppose there’s any really critical reason for me to pursue this deep dive any further, aside from the possibility that it could be interesting. In the midst of this steamy summer, I find myself thinking about questions with no answers. Who would I have been if my family hadn’t moved back to Chicago? Would I have skipped a year of elementary school in Sioux City or was that not a thing there? What if I’d been a year older when I graduated from high school in a much smaller town? My two beloved neighbors from across the street graduated from the high school back there. Who are they now and would I still know them? They’re alive. Does any of this matter? Or is this all a fever dream brought on by the heat? I have a lot to do that isn’t any of this…but I’m still thinking about it.

Postscript : the heat broke last night and it’s blessedly much cooler. I’ll think about this more while I’m out pulling weeds tomorrow.

Recently, I read two powerful letters, both about life, death, love and grief. I realized that it’s been awhile since I articulated my own travels on…

The Grief Element

Recently, I read two powerful letters, both about life, death, love and grief. I realized that it’s been awhile since I articulated my own travels on the grief road. So now seems like the right time for that.

Now I’m no expert about how early on in life grief becomes part of our individual fabrics as human beings. But I’m certain that for most of us, it’s an inevitable and crucial element of a balanced emotional life. I believe that love and commitment almost automatically ensure that, joy and contentment, grief and despair, and every feeling in between, will affect most people. And, that through our varied experiences, we rotate between these opposite poles of feelings. Here’s an example. When I was a little girl, my family lived in Iowa for a time, and we had this wonderful dog named King. He was part of us and we all loved him. But when we moved to Chicago when I was seven, we had to leave King behind. Apartment life in the big city was not a place for a dog who roamed freely, and who once, even brought home a baby raccoon which became part of our organization for a while. Leaving King behind was hard, and even though I was a little kid, I felt deep pain at giving up the loving relationship with my first real pet. That early loss was my introduction to grief. One of those sad moments that became part of me forever.

I think that I can trace the beginning of my deeper grief life back to June, 1964, the day I graduated from my K-8th grade elementary school. I had just turned thirteen in May. I can still feel myself early that morning, around 6 a.m., when I excitedly leaped from my bed, after hearing my parents whispering in their bedroom. I thought they were talking about the great day ahead, when I’d march down the aisle with my classmates, singing our school song, my blue and white graduation ribbons with the gold and blue “honor roll” pinned proudly to the bodice of my dress. That dress was my older sister’s, one she’d worn to a prom two years earlier. I didn’t even mind the borrowed dress. After all, I was graduating. But when I entered my parents’ room, my mother looked at me and said, “Renee, your graduation has been marred. Your cousin Iris has died. Dad and I have to go help your aunt and uncle today.” How was this possible? Iris was a little baby, not even 2 years old. How could she be dead?

I learned that Iris was rushed to the hospital the night before, when her cold became a deep cough and her fever spiked. The diagnosis was bronchiolitis, likely caused by the RSV virus, although I didn’t know that back then. All I knew was that her airways were essentially closed and she succumbed quickly. My grandparents came to be with me and I cried in our kitchen while my grandfather tried to comfort me. I was so sad and very confused, because a part of me was miserable on my own behalf, since my parents were missing my big day. I felt terrible about my selfishness. Looking back, I realize that grief can be tangled up with all kinds of conflicting emotions. But back then, I just felt awful that I thought about myself at all during this tragedy for my family.

My high school years weren’t marked by any extraordinary traumas other than an always gnawing anxiety about my mother’s health and our family’s finances. Neither of those circumstances were within my power to either control or affect in significant ways, other than getting part-time jobs to help with my expenses. My two older siblings, five and eight years apart from me, were for all practical purposes, engaged in their own more adult issues. My sister suffered bouts of depression. My brother, miserable and broken hearted after his breakup with his high school sweetheart, had impulsively enlisted in the Air Force for a four year hitch. That was all grownup stuff to me. My main issues, however, were simply the growing pains many teenagers suffer through, managing insecurity, hunting for self-esteem, searching for an identity and a purpose, trying to find a place in the world. My heart got a little broken too, as I navigated dating and boyfriends. However, I didn’t experience any more death.

That changed when I went to college. During a semester break at home, in my freshman year of college, I wound up being the only available help when my grandfather collapsed in the kitchen one morning, sending my grandmother into an emotional tailspin. I was the person who called the fire department, ran to their apartment and rode with them in the ambulance, siren blaring, down Lake Shore Drive until we reached the hospital. In those days of no cell phones or internet, contacting my parents and my uncle to get help took a lot of time. I spent the entire day being the adult, holding my grandfather’s hand, talking to doctors, calming my grandmother, until my parents finally showed up to take me home. My dad told me I’d saved a life that day. I was seventeen years old. I mulled over his comment for a long time. Grownup life, indeed. A few months later, back at school, I received a call that grandpa was dead. I took a bus home to Chicago. On that long, over four hour drive, I thought a lot about life and death and felt the grief piece inside me, stretching itself, getting a little wider. A few months later, my mom had surgery for thyroid cancer. I remember sitting in my dorm room, feeling like life was as unstable as sand, running through my hands. Fortunately, my mom survived and recovered, but these mortality issues were subtly changing the way I looked at the world. And I knew it.

Back in the late ‘60’s and early ‘70’s, my life was intense, spreading out from intellectually, emotionally and politically as I began growing into my adult self. I read a lot, aligned myself with the women’s rights, civil rights and anti-war movements and deepened my understanding of who I wanted to be as an adult. I fell madly in love when I was eighteen, interested in a serious relationship rather than the more casual hookups of the time. When that ended after almost three tumultuous years, I learned about a different facet of grief, the kind associated with what for me, was fortunately a temporary loss of self, and the loss of a future dream. Kinds of death, in and of themselves. Healing from that took about a year. Then I had the great good fortune of developing a deep friendship with Michael, who another half year later, would become my forever life partner.

Despite legitimately being labeled an adult somewhere between ages eighteen and twenty, I’ve always felt that the 20’s and 30’s are still decades of big growth and development. At least they were for me. I’d found my significant life relationship when I was only twenty, but both of us were still figuring ourselves out, both individually and together. For us, the good news was that our transitions didn’t separate us from each other – generally we grew in compatible ways with very few exceptions. Both of us had challenges that needed work, but that was okay. Aside from personal evolution challenges, for me, there were scary brushes with familial health issues. My mom’s being a continuation of her lifelong physical problems. But my dad had a heart attack at fifty-two and subsequently had two coronary bypass surgeries, one for five arteries and the other, three years later, for three. His father had died when he was only thirty-nine years old.

Those realities informed our life choices. Michael and I got married shortly after dad’s first heart attack, after living together for four years. My parents were happy we made that choice and I was glad for their relief. Through the lens of uncertainty about how quickly life could change, I was wanting to get our reality as solid as possible while we could. I was learning that life could change in an instant and didn’t want to take anything for granted. By the time the second bypass surgery rolled around, I was a mother. My only surviving grandparent, my maternal grandmother, died the following year at age eighty-nine. Another addition to my grief reservoir, her death was at least due to old age.

During those years, we also lost the pets we brought with us into our adult life. The deaths of the elders, coupled with being parents, and saying goodbye to the landmarks of our early years, are also factors which deepened our understanding of our inner tumbling emotional world.

But my grief process accelerated in the late 1980’s. In 1987, my cousin Eliot committed suicide after a decade of struggle with mental illness. We were close cousins, growing up in the same city, not a decade apart. I attended his funeral with my son, a nursing infant. The emotional dissonance was stunning, especially as Eliot was the second child my closest uncle had to bury. Now being a parent of two young children of my own, I couldn’t fathom the level of pain my uncle was experiencing.

Then, the following October, my oldest friend Fern committed suicide. We’d been like family for thirty years. She, too, had serious mental issues which finally proved more than she could manage. Her death was devastating for me. She had experienced inter-familial sexual abuse as a small child, a factor which incensed me. The odds of a successful life were stacked against her, almost from her very beginning. The rage element added to my grief was unexpected and enduring. I continue to see her death “wrong,” always feeling she was robbed and never able to know how she could’ve lived absent that horror.

And then came the spring of 1989. My parents had relocated from Chicago to my town, a relief as we anticipated the issues that accompany aging. Within a scant two and a half years, both my parents were diagnosed with cancer, within five weeks of each other.

These diagnoses were just two months after Michael’s election as alderman to our local city council. In addition, we were in the midst of a roofing job, estimated to take a week, but already stretching out into months.The upheaval in our lives cannot be overstated. Mom was recovering from a radical mastectomy and my dad was being treated with a potent cocktail of chemotherapy drugs. To cap all that off, Michael’s years-long, intermittent nagging backache, had finally evolved into a full-blown herniated disc. Ultimately he was bedridden for three weeks before it became clear he wouldn’t heal without surgery. By the time that happened, my dad was hospitalized from dehydration brought on by profound nausea and vomiting. While my mom, still recovering and never having gotten a driver’s license, stayed at home, I ran around between her and the hospital, somehow still managing to parent my two young kids. The day after Michael’s surgery, a powerful thunderstorm struck our community. I was called home to see that the huge tree on our parkway had been struck by lightning and crashed straight through our new recently finished roof. A fitting metaphor for that year – even the sky was falling. Grief? Sadness? You bet. Life was really piling it on, or so it seemed…

Those three successive deaths permanently changed me. I distinctly remember visualizing myself as a planet, rotating on my axis, except I knew that axis had been jolted and that my movement was forever tipped in some different way. I was deeper and shades darker. Grief was a constant from then on, although on the positive side, so were my memories of the dead and all the love I’d shared. I remember that my dad, who didn’t really have any intimate relationships outside his family, was stunned by my powerful grief over Fern’s death. He thought that intensity was reserved only for blood relatives. His surprise informed my own intention to savor the other loves I acquired, making my own way through my the world. A lesson learned. A lesson carried forward.

So the years went by. My genetic history and life experiences always led me to believe that a long lifespan wasn’t in my future. I imagined that someday, Michael, with all his family members who lived well into their nineties, would one day be crying over my absence. All my dark death ideas, which annoyed everyone who loved me, turned out to be totally wrong. Michael was the one who got the hideous cancer diagnosis when he was only sixty-two. That tiny innocuous-looking little bump on his cheek would turn out to be the one of the most lethal diseases on the planet. Retrospectively, I suppose I should’ve known that he was actually always more vulnerable than me. If the forty years leading up to diagnosis day in April, 2012 proved anything, it was that between the two of us, Michael consistently had more health issues than I ever did. But that was hindsight.

I think the profound grieving started almost the minute of his initial diagnosis. I’d gotten a phone call from his dermatologist telling me to get Michael out of teaching so we could have an instant consultation with a head and neck oncologist. When he got home from school we had about an hour to sit in front of the computer, reading all the terrifying information about Merkel cell carcinoma, before heading to the appointment. Stunned, shell-shocked, what else? We hung onto each other and went off to get a rapid education. From then on, nothing was the same. Our lives were still happening but they were irrevocably altered. After crying in each other’s arms that first night, we entered a whole new world of living moment to moment. Of course that’s what we’d always been doing, although for the most part, we were blissfully unaware of that knife-like edge.

Michael had surgery and thirty radiation treatments through the summer of 2012. He returned to teaching that fall. In November, he had a full body scan which was negative for disease. We were happy but still aware that for people like him, who had an initial lesion and a few metastatic lymph nodes, our journey was far from over. We lived with that constant knowledge for months, until late 2013, when the cancer returned with a vengeance, widespread throughout his bones. We were flung into the treatment/remission cycle for the next three and a half years.

I had become accustomed to my grief as a companion since those sad losses in the late ‘80’s. Michael, on the other hand, hadn’t experienced any pain like mine and marveled that the only person he’d ever grieved for, was apparently himself. As with anything else, practice always helps. As devastated as I was, I recognized myself in this role, albeit the most challenging one of my life. But I knew how I functioned with carrying Fern with me, year in and year out. I still heard the voices of my grandmother and dad in my head. Somehow that prior experience helped. Unimaginably, in 2015, as Michael’s health nosedived again, my brother died in April. My big brother, gone forever. Parts of life just slipping away. But, one foot in front of the other. Michael continued to fail, but then, so did my mother. She died on July 25th, following a slide into dementia, coupled with a broken hip. She’d survived 25 years without my father, and it dawned on me, that a good deal of her bonus life was largely due to my support for her. One time, when her memory was working, she asked me if I thought that when Michael died, we might try living together. We’d already done that but she’d forgotten. Except for Michael and my own children, my relationship with my mother was the most intimate of my life. She was almost 92 when she died, the most unhealthy one of her family of origin, and yet the longest-lived. Another major passage for me. Five days after her death, my beloved dog, Flash, almost 15 years old, was diagnosed with a cancer that symptomatically, resembled Michael’s. I held him while he was euthanized. Three deaths in a few short months while Michael was getting a last ditch experimental treatment. That targeted therapy bought him almost another year and a half. An unbelievable time.

Michael and I made the most of our time together during what would be the last part of our deep connection. We traveled, saw movies, listened to music, made love and spent time with our kids. The mixture of experiencing our rich life, coupled with the constant thought of how it would soon likely end, was like no other feeling I’ve ever known. In its way, it was both life-affirming and death-defying. When Michael died on May 28th, 2017, in the midst of my devastation, I also felt lucky that we’d managed to get him an extra five years of life when there might have been so much less time. In addition, I knew that I’d done every single thing I could to help him. I had lived up to our relationship standards until there was nothing left to do but hold his hand and kiss him goodbye forever. Goodbye to his body, that is. I didn’t know about what was to come.

The grief I feel for all those important people is a like living entity inside me, a necessary element, alongside my continued zest for life, my curiosity and my pleasure in the living world. I can’t say how long those opposites will stay balanced for me. I hear the voice of my mother now, alongside that of my grandmother and my dad. My older sister is gone now, too, along with some of my dearest old friends. My memories keep them alive for me, as does the writing of our stories over the years.

As for Michael, he is with me, in me, around me, always. He said he would be; he even wrote that to me.

I have no explanations for why this is. I had no expectations for what I’d feel, following his death. Although I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want or need to sink into his arms until I draw my last breath, whatever this ghostly stuff is, goes a long way in helping me squeeze whatever I can out of this life. The grief remains but it’s tempered by my essential life force which so far, is unrelenting. When will that change? I have no idea. The following two letters are better at describing my feelings than my own words. They really spoke to me. I can say that I feel fortunate to have loved in such huge ways that transcend the boundaries of the physical. I hope someone out there feels the same way. So here they are…

In 1945, Nobel Prize-winning physicist Richard Feynman (1918-1988), lost his first wife and childhood sweetheart, Arline Greenbaum, to incurable tuberculosis when she was just twenty-five. The following sealed love letter was found after his death in 1988.

So far this year has been like no other in my memory. Ever since the spring of 1961, when I was barely 10 years old, leaning on my dad, while …

Is This Real Life or the Twilight Zone?

So far this year has been like no other in my memory. Ever since the spring of 1961, when I was barely 10 years old, leaning on my dad, while watching John Kennedy speak about the Bay of Pigs debacle on national television, I have paid attention to what’s going on out there in the big world. Throughout the decades of my life, there have been many events that I’ve witnessed, some awesome and heartwarming, along with others which were brutal and disappointing. I’ve run the gamut of emotions during many moments when I’ve felt elated and optimistic, to those when I’ve been disappointed, defeated and often, furious. I’m not one of those people who can look away, immersing myself in my own little world, shutting out the issues which can feel overwhelming and unnerving. Being connected is what I do.

But there’s really been nothing this hard before. Nothing I remember that’s been this intense, just like what was predicted if that awful Project 2025 blueprint was ever implemented. Which is what’s happening now. Every day there’s a new executive order or a new court ruling that is lawbreaking, inhuman and anti-democratic. Or all of the above, rolled into one. Here are three snippets from articles I read in the New York Times this weekend:

“Federal immigration officers may deport immigrants to countries other than their own, with as little as six hours’ notice, even if officials have not provided any assurances that the new arrivals will be safe from persecution or torture, a top official said in a memo.”

“The State Department on Friday fired the remaining staff working in the office responsible for international climate policy, including annual U.N. negotiations related to climate treaties, according to three people familiar with the matter.”

“Trump officials have directed staff at national parks to review all items in gift shops for anti-American content, according to an internal directive reviewed by The Washington Post. The move is part of the administration’s wider campaign to scrub federal institutions of “corrosive ideology” recognizing historical racism and sexism.”

How far will this go? Right now there seems to be no limit to what this administration is trying to wipe out in an attempt to return to some long-ago culture that restores white supremacy, that promotes one set of values and one only, in what was once the celebrated melting pot of freedom and democracy. I never thought that things in this country were all that fabulous to begin with, and spent plenty of time opposed to more policies than I care to mention. But I never thought I’d see an autocracy as the goal, nor watch the full frontal assault on science, history, health care and education that I’ve witnessed in these fraught months. Poor people don’t stand a chance in this new paradigm. I literally cannot comprehend the fact that millions of people support most of the initiatives that come blazing out of this government every single day. Yet, what are tantamount to concentration camps are being built, media outlets being sued for broadcasting free speech, are ponying up huge sums of money to the most litigious president in history, and the most unqualified, incompetent toadies are calling the shots about national policy. Stunning and overwhelming. The organized opposition, at least at this moment, issued the statement below yesterday.

I do believe that there will be a pendulum swing that will shift power away from those who are currently wielding it right now. At my age, I’m not sure I’ll be around to see it. Unless I lose my mental acuity, I can‘t imagine a time when I won’t be part of efforts to resist and thwart what’s happening now, in whatever little ways are within my power. The future belongs to my children and grandchildren, who deserve a far better future than the one envisioned by the people behind this dark ideology. I still want to be around to do what I can for them, and everyone else, who doesn’t want to live under this nihilistic regime. The deliberate ignoring of the effects of climate change alone, when it’s right in their faces, literally makes my hair stand on end. But to be even a little effective, I can’t just throw up my hands and hide. So what to do for right now?

Sometimes I do feel overwhelmed. But I have some self-preserving strategies. I read a lot of articles in that technological way in which they are now available, coming straight into my email almost as quickly as they’re written. I have to monitor myself so I don’t drown in the number of topics that come my way. If I want to know what’s happening, I have to stay informed. But I also go old-school and read books. You can pick your delivery, holding them in your hands, choosing an electronic reader, or having them sent straight into your ears if you’re an audiophile. I’m working my way through histories and political analyses, mostly because recognizing historical perspective reminds me that this time will end, just like the ones from the past. I also am periodically taking a break from the most dense books, by reading novels to get myself out of reality for awhile.

Then there’s exercise. Right now that means swimming in my community pool. Sometimes if the heat and humidity aren’t brutal, I still take walks, not urban ones, but those in any natural setting I can find. There’s nothing more calming, or that resets your brain more, than moving through an environment where the silence is only broken by bird calls or bees buzzing. If I lived by a lake or river, I’d be by a shore where water sounds and movements help relieve stress. Even in town, though, there are accessible water features that are helpful for relaxing a bit.

My garden serves multiple needs for me, especially during this anxious time. The exercise required for maintaining the garden is good for my body which means it’s also good for my brain. At a time when there are mass honeybee die offs and butterfly population declines, creating a welcoming space for these pollinators is my way of making a small contribution to the health of our aching planet. Eating vegetables and herbs that I’ve grown is also a remarkably satisfying experience. And having passersby stop to photograph my yard or to tell me they keep my garden on their walking route is a bonus as well. The truth is even nurturing a small houseplant feels like a little relief at this point. I know I’m lucky to have a place where all those bits of respite are available to me.

I am by no means a wealthy person but right now I manage to make small donations to organizations that I feel are fundamental to democracy. Public broadcasting and independent news organizations need to be supported during this time when so much false news is being churned out multiple sources.

Yesterday I heard the president tell a CBS news reporter, who asked for a response to the Texas flood victims’ families’ questions about the lack of warning about the flooding danger, that she was, “Only a bad person who would ask a question like that, to be honest with you. I don’t know who you are, but only a very evil person would ask a question like that,” responded Trump.(CBS News, Texas) It’s clear that the current administration wants to keep control of all the narratives, a stance that is completely anti-democratic. So these contributions are one small way for me to do something positive for those under threat.

I’ve been participating in protests and rallies throughout my life. I think that coming together with likeminded people to demonstrate opposition to bad policies and destructive governmental actions, to be seen and to be heard, is essential in a democracy. Being present and being vocal is important. The attempts to intimidate and separate people with common goals is a tactic applied by oppressors. So I intend to continue with that part of my resistance to this administration.

Sometimes I just put my feet up and watch the tube. I’m particularly partial to movies and television that aren’t particularly dystopian, preferring to be distracted by entertainment that’s more optimistic, rather than anything gloomy. Comedy and fantasy are high on my list right now. And, I’m planning on going to an actual movie theater to see a light summer blockbuster, eat some popcorn and tune out at least once a month. I won’t even care if they’re terrible. The very act of doing something unrelated to all the worrying is enough for right now.

So that’s my current strategy. Stay alive, stay as healthy as possible, stay active, stay engaged. Some days are easier than others. I miss Michael and that safe, comfortable space we had for such a long time. I do take solace in knowing he’d feel exactly the same as I do right now. That helps me keep putting one foot in front of the other, no matter what’s in the news tomorrow morning.

Eight years after Michael’s death, which still seems impossible to me, I am back in Michigan, at Lakeside, winding up a long weekend with my family. …

Back to the Lake

Little, worried me. To begin with, let me say I understand that worrying about what may or may not happen is generally a waste of time. 2,493 more …

The Big Stuff