Grieving the Loss of Experience

 

   COVID19 rages on.  I live in Western New York, where the number of cases and deaths continues to rise, although the New York City area has plateaued.  I continue to keep my twice-daily statistics.  It's interesting to watch the various columns either forge ahead in numbers, or plateau, sometimes evening out altogether.  Some states are thinking of re-opening, but most believe it's far too early to consider doing that.  As a result, our economies world-wide have stopped dead in their tracks.  Even hospitals are beginning layoffs and pay cuts to the very people who are putting themselves on the line every day, trying to save each and every life that they can.
   We grieve the loss of friends and family.  We grieve the loss of the school year, graduations, jobs, and opportunities.  We grieve the loss of long-planned vacations, adventures, trips abroad.  As I consider the heavy losses of human life, I wonder:  is it OK to grieve the loss of experience?
    My husband and I are retired.  We had plans to go to New York City in March to meet up with friends, go to a concert, and generally hang out and visit with people we haven't seen in a while.  That was cancelled.  We had plans to go to Canada, to visit our family there.  We often go up and spend a night, visiting various family members on both days.  That was cancelled.  We had plans to make our international trip for the year, in June:  England (visiting family), Scotland, and Russia.  That was cancelled.
    But the experience that was cancelled today was the hardest loss of all:  every year the New York State Art Teachers' Association spends a full week in the Adirondack wilderness, taking part in the Summer Institute.  We live and work at Great Camp Sagamore, one of the beautiful Great Camps of the Adirondacks, formerly the "summer camp" of the Vanderbilt family.   It has been wonderfully restored and is now an educational facility.  We live in community with 50 artists/educators, taking part in numerous art projects that span many media - watercolor, acrylic, pencil, fiber arts, print making, photography, sculpture, environmental sculpture, puppetry, paper-making...the list goes on and on.  We have an astronomer and a naturalist who come every year to teach us the stories of the constellations (using a Celestron telescope on land, and with the naked eye in the middle of a lake from canoes at night), and to teach us about the flora and fauna of the pristine wilderness.  We live in the cabins and lodges that the Vanderbilts "roughed it" in.  We eat in the dining hall that still rings with the stories and songs of history.  There is a beautiful, freezing-cold lake there for swimming, boating, and fishing.  It's an amazing place for the spirit and the mind.  I have attended the art Summer Institute for ten years, my husband for nine years.  The core people and leadership remain stable from year to year, and have become a tightly-knit community.  Last year we gave up our spots in order to go to Alaska.  We were so excited to return this coming summer.

   Today's e-mail from our leaders confirmed what we feared was coming:  due to the Corona Virus, the Summer Institute, and I presume all of Great Camp Sagamore's programs, are cancelled.  Full stop.
   In the grand scheme of things, when lives are lost, jobs vaporize, the economy is  at a standstill, and the stock market swings wildly, is it OK to grieve the loss of our beloved summer experience?  I believe so.  This is not a matter of life or death, but it is a lifeline for those for whom it was created, teachers.  Not only is the Summer Institute professional development, but it's also a place for the restoration of the soul.  To be in the wilderness, for some, is a brand-new experience.  There are at least three generations of teachers there each summer, and I believe it may be nearly four generations now.  We encourage each other, nourish each other, learn together, live together, and now we will cry together, across the miles.  For this is a great loss.

   Over the years, my husband and I have attended a number of events at Great Camp Sagamore, such as the annual Mountain Music and Dance Weekend in the fall.  We've gotten to know two distinct groups of people, all artists or musicians, and the phenomenal staff that keeps such an historical treasure running.  What will happen to them now?  Will the music weekend also be cancelled?
   We live in a time of unparalleled uncertainly on so many levels.  My way of coping with the loss of the known and familiar is to process it through the five senses.  This can be done not only in the present, but also through memory, as a kind of meditation.
    What did I hear that day?  The wind sighing in the hemlocks.
    What did I see that day?  A barn full of artists, creating, learning, laughing, talking together.
    What did I touch that day?  The strings of a dulcimer.  The smooth wood of my Irish harp.
    What did I smell that day?  The wonderful aroma of hot cedars, hemlocks, and pines, as the summer sun turns the forest floor into incense.
    What did I taste that day?  S'mores, made by adults around a campfire, for some for the very first time.
    How did I experience space that day?  I looked upon the dawn breaking over a mountain lake, and heard the cry of a loon, far, far away, down at the other end of the misty waters.

    "Time it was, and what a time it was, it was
     A time of innocence, a time of confidences.
     Long ago, it must be, I have a photograph.
     Preserve your memories:  They're all that's left you."
    - Paul Simon
   
 

Quarantine

Good afternoon.
   It's odd how things you daydream about sometimes come to pass, in ways you never could have expected.  During the past few years, I've actually thought that being under house arrest in my own home wouldn't be such a bad thing, if it ever came to it.  I have lots of books, art supplies, musical instruments, and a home on a Great Lake with beautiful scenery, wildlife, and flora.  I could be quite happy here!
   And then came the Quarantine.  COVID19  descended upon New York State like a jet falling from the sky:  swiftly, completely unexpected, devastating, leaving a pile of rubble and death in its wake.  We've been under state-wide quarantine for four weeks now.  In my last post, I shared some of my homegrown statistics, gathered from various official sources, of Coronavirus cases and deaths from my county, state, NYC, country, and globally.  As I look back at where my charts stopped, I am sorry to say that those data have increased exponentially at a truly terrifying rate.  As of this afternoon, here are my most recent stats:

Global Cases:                      1,978,769   Deaths:  125,196

US Cases:                                609,614  Deaths:  25,794

NY (State) Cases:                    202,208  Deaths:  10,834

New York City Cases:             110,465  Deaths:     7690

Monroe County (NY) Cases:         850  Deaths:        56

   If you refer back to my previous post, this is a huge increase.  Huge.

   Given these grim statistics, how does one cope with the enormous losses of life, jobs, food security, housing, and other issues of basic daily living?  I read a heart-breaking article this morning about the impossibility of maintaining the 6' "social distancing" space for people who share a house with many other residents.  If you're sleeping on someone else's floor with your children, there's no social distancing.  If you work two or three jobs to put food on the table and that goes away, there's no food on the table.
   And we're supposedly one of the richest nations in the world.
   Clearly, that only means, "For the rich.  For the middle class.  For the privileged."
   The human cost of this pandemic is staggering, and plays up the obvious discrepancies between the haves and the have-nots.  Ironically,  this pandemic is exploding in the prisons, detention centers, homeless shelters, and other places where America warehouses its undesirables.  And this could be the downfall of this nation:  By crowding human beings into tight spaces and denying them healthcare and adequate living arrangements, we could be skyrocketing the casualties to a point of no return.  Consider this:  Another recent article points out that the rat population world-wide is increasing, and becoming much more aggressive, due to the lack of food from restaurants and other public food sources.  Not a pretty picture!  The rats are beginning to eat their own.  And wasn't the Bubonic Plague spread, in part, through rats?
   Many people are having trouble with anxiety, depression, and insomnia during this crisis.  It's little wonder, with the information I'm sharing here.  So how do we cope with quarantine in a time of not only a health crisis in this country, but also a crisis of leadership?
   I focus on the little things.  Yes, I'm lucky - I live surrounded by water and woodlands.   I can take walks fairly free from crowds, although I do wear a mask.  I can see the beauty of spring unfold around me.  It's this that I choose to focus on, when I'm not watching multiple news channels, doing daily statistical research, and listening with incredulity to the ravings of our political "leaders."
   This afternoon I saw cherry blossoms, magnolia buds, waterfowl, and found a complete surprise:  a rustic chair built into a park, with a well-loved copy of "Anne of Green Gables" on the seat.
   There is beauty in the wreckage of our lives.
   If only we can take a mindful moment to walk away from the sorrow, the pain, the worry, and engage in our senses...
    What did I see today?      Cherry blossoms.
    What did I hear today?    Spring birdsong.
    What did I smell today?  Fresh earth, moist from recent rains.
    What did I touch today?  Pine needles.
    What did I taste today?   Half a bagel, with a shmeer.
    My husband and I often debrief our day by considering the senses, and we add another, final one:  How did I experience space today?  Walking in a forest.
     There is beauty to be found in everyday things.  It can help to heal the soul.
     For the majority of the world's population that struggles for the basics of survival, it is time to consider leveling the playing field.  What can we do to feed the hungry, clothe the naked, shelter the homeless, heal the sick? I may need to look beyond the beauty of my surroundings, and find ways to ease the sufferings of others.  What can I do?  How can I help? These are questions that I struggle with these days.  And while we are under Quarantine, there's plenty of time to think.

When Feasts Collide

   For years our family has celebrated Epiphany with one last present, one little gift for each person in our family to remember the Magi reaching the manger.  Sometimes we even had a celebration of Twelfth Night, like a dinner party (sometimes in costume).  Epiphany still holds magic and mystery for me.  Now, as an adult entering my “golden years,” I feel the historic tension of that period in Christian history.  It wasn’t really on a silent night that Christ was born.  Holy, yes.  But silent, no.  Herod had caught wind of the birth of the Jewish King, and ordered the death of all newborn male Jewish babies.  I think of Rachel weeping for her children, who are no more.  Of the Magi, accidently alerting Herod of the birth of the newborn King of the Jews.  Of Joseph and Mary, returning home stealthily “by another way” – through Egypt – which is quite a detour.  To escape what?  Violence.  Death.  Injustice.

  This year, Epiphany collides with the Feast of the Baptism of our Lord, an interesting contrast of events.  For me, Epiphany evokes the idea of gifts, royalty, and flight from the threat of evil.  For me, baptism evokes the idea of the gift of Grace, the crowning of the young King, and freedom from sin.  These two holy days both involve gift-giving.  The Epiphany occurred in an atmosphere of flight from violence, and Baptism occurred in the symbolism of the saving grace of water, and the powerful force of life overcoming death.

   As I write this, I am looking out over Tampa Bay.  The roar of fighter jets fills the air before dawn.   MacDill Air Force Base is across the bay.  Yesterday, we went for a walk in a beautiful little nature park in urban St. Petersburg.  In a linear nature preserve that runs alongside busy I 275 South, we walked on boardwalks through swamps and by a canal in which alligators basked in the sun.  There were no fences, no barriers, no gates to keep us separate from these ancient creatures.  Walkers stayed on a raised boardwalk, sort of safe from the possibility of a charging reptile.  But these reptiles were very cold, and were happy to laze in the sun, absorbing the warmth.  The park lies next to a residential neighborhood, but residents of both habitats appear to be able to live side-by-side in peace, without fear of attack.

   Today, Rob and I will attend the simple and beautiful Episcopal Cathedral in St. Petersburg.  Then we’ll drive South to spend the afternoon and evening with grandson Brady.  Again, there is symbolism in this activity.  Brady cared for 240 college students who couldn’t escape Hurricane Irma last Fall, in a job he had just begun only a month earlier.  Baptism by fire…And yet the storm decreased from a Cat Five to a Cat Two by the time it reached Fort Meyers.  The decimation of Puerto Rico and other islands was not visited upon Florida Gulf Coast University.  I remember thanking God – experiencing gratitude for a lesser storm.  Those words came back to me today, in the pre-dawn darkness punctuated by the roar of the ascending fighter jets.  I am grateful that we are not at war on our own soil, although much of the world is suffering.  I am grateful that the beautiful, terrifying creatures of the Floridian swamplands – even in the midst of a city – still exist.  And I am grateful that today we can see our grandson at the university where he became a man, helping others through the storm. 

   My prayer today is that we might not destroy ourselves as the human race.  It has been said that if all the animals were to die on the Earth, mankind will perish.  If mankind were to die off completely from the Earth, all of creation would flourish.  Through Baptism we are marked as Christ’s own forever.  I pray for an Epiphany for this world, for the grace of God to save us from destroying ourselves, and our precious Earth.  I pray for the gift of a lesser storm.

The Long, Long Journey

   This is perhaps the most difficult blog post I will have written to date. During the last eight years, my daughter Jessica and her husband Bryce have tried every possible method to have a child. They suffered through every combination of IVF, even trying donor eggs and donor sperm. Nothing worked. There were a few hopeful moments, but they always ended in tragedy. There were painful injections, painful procedures, a miscarriage...Jess was finally actually pregnant, but it ended in an ectopic pregnancy.
    As the years ticked by, their hopes and dreams seemed dimmer and dimmer. I wept with them, sent flowers, prayed, and did everything in my power to make the universe welcoming for that infant grand baby that just never came. Finally, two years ago, Jess and Bryce decided to adopt. This was great news! She had a shower at school (she's a teacher.) She had a family -and -friends shower. The happy couple outfitted a nursery fit for a prince or a princess, with every doodad and invention that had ever been created to welcome a newborn into the family. And then they waited. And they waited. And they waited. They made a book about themselves as required by the adoption agency that was so well done. Jessica is a writer, and her well-honed skills came to her aid. But still they waited. And they waited some more. 
   Every now and then we would get an update that there was almost a match…They had 6 opportunities. Once, they were actually chosen, but the expectant mother ultimately chose to parent. The waiting couple weren’t getting any younger, and expectant moms seemed to want to choose couples who already have another child. My daughter and son-in-law continued to hope…again, they waited. And waited. Finally, the constant state of readiness and disappointment came to a head. There was too much physical and emotional stress involved in the constant waiting. They decided to stop the adoption search.
    Now, they are beginning to heal. Now, they are celebrating who they are, not who they wanted to be. They have emptied the beautifully-appointed nursery, and donated all of their equipment, clothing, and furniture to a shelter for young mothers in crisis. Jess has carefully re-created the little empty nursery into a beautiful writer's nook, a lovely office that is calm and welcoming. There may never have been a baby in that room, but I know for sure that many great ideas, stories, and poems will be born in that space. I am so in awe of Jess and Bryce. They have had such strength throughout their eight years of waiting...Jess's mother-in-law and I have ridden that roller coaster with them for all these years, eagerly awaiting that miraculous moment when our first grand baby would come into our children's lives. Now we can all move on. We can celebrate the children that we have, the adults they have become, and the tremendous talents and abilities they bring to the world, just the two of them. May we all have the grace to accept what we cannot change as well as these two amazing people.
    I have struggled to accept this loss the same year that I lost my brother, and even my cat - all within a few months. I'm 61 now, hardly a spring chicken. I, too, must focus on what I have - who I have - and not dwell on the infant grandchild who never arrived, the brother I lost too soon to cancer, and even the beloved feline companion who left us so abruptly. I am a person of faith. I don't have answers as to why all of this loss happened, but I do know that it is all part of life. In previous generations, when tragedy struck, people didn't ask "why" as we do today. More often, they asked "how." How do we carry on? How do we pick up and move forward in spite of our sorrow? That is the question. It is my belief that we do not walk this long, long journey alone. The Almighty sits with us in the silence, in the sorrow, in the slow realization that life will not happen as we assumed it would. God is not Santa Claus, filling our stockings with all of our desired gifts. However, prayer can help us focus...on strength, on compassion, on wisdom, and on finding contentment with who we are, who we love, and the life we've been privileged to live. I must dry my tears and move forward, celebrating the family that I do have - a terrific husband, two wonderful step-grandsons, two fabulous daughters, and the two sons-in-law who are so very perfect for my girls. I can and will continue this journey, with all of its highs and lows - grateful for what - and who - I have.

   To visit Jessica's blog, My Path to Mommyhood,  click on this link:
My Path to Mommyhood

Day is Done

It seems somehow appropriate to write this blog post on Good Friday, a day of mourning but looking to the future Light. Last week, my husband and I went out to Ohio for my brother's Celebration of Life, and for the party at the house after that. There was much planning involved - a eulogy to write, a dress to buy, a wreath to make for my sister-in-law that would celebrate the Resurrection as well as Easter and would also memorialize my deceased brother. Deceased. What a final word. Many members of my mother's side of the family, cousins now (all the aunts and uncles are long gone), gathered at my brother's house the night before to visit with his wife and sons. It was a good gathering. Some of the cousins haven't seen each other since my mother's burial of ashes in NE Ohio two and a half years ago. My brother is now the second of the group of cousins to depart this Earth. The next morning, my husband and I headed out early to the funeral home to help set up the display of my brother's favorite and/or daily items: His helmet from Vietnam. His dog tags. Several SeaBee caps. The trophy and lifetime achievement awards from his place of business. His laptop. His lunch cooler. His travel mug. The only thing missing was Jim. Soon after the final touches were put on the photo displays and the two black-draped tables of his stuff, visitors began to file in. And file in. And file in. The ushers had to keep adding chairs, open up the doors, and find ways to expand space for all the people who came to say goodbye to their co-worker, their buddy, their friend. I had practiced my eulogy five times so that I could get through it without crying. I made it to the last line...but my dear nephews, his three sons, could not hold in their grief. My brother was a beloved father, husband, son, brother, uncle, cousin...The music, flowers, and speakers were all beautiful. And then came the full military honors. I had never seen this ceremony in its fullness prior to my brother's Celebration of Life. It involved an Honor Guard in dress blues (Navy), an officer in dress white, and a chaplain in fatigues. They unfolded the flag that sat on the table with my brother's ashes, held it up (it was very large), and out in the parking lot, three rifles fired three volleys. Someone played Taps on a bugle. At that point I just broke down. As I wrote in my eulogy, "As one of your sons remarked to me recently, you left a part of yourself there. The boy had become a man, the man went to war, and the man came home, a wounded warrior. It took years for you to process all that you had experienced there, and you processed it right up to the very end of your life." After the final notes of Taps died away outside, the honor guard refolded the flag, ceremoniously presented it to the officer, who knelt on one knee and presented both the flag and the shell casings of the spent rounds to my sister-in-law. It was the most moving tribute I have ever seen. The whole ceremony and service lasted 90 minutes. After that, we all piled into our cars and headed back to my brother's house for the party...a true Irish wake. Memories were shared; kegs were tapped, tons of City Barbecue were eaten. And all around the house were photos, memorabilia, the beautiful flowers, the many cards and tributes to a life well-lived. The wreath I made for my sister-in-law was among the display items at the Celebration, and now hangs on her door at home. I chose to make the wreath for her as a quiet symbol of eternity - the circle, with purple ribbons for Easter, for the Resurrection. My brother's body is gone now, but his spirit remains...perhaps with us for a time, perhaps already gone to Heaven to take care of his long-gone dog, Sage (which is what his four-year-old granddaughter was told.) I'll end this with the final words of my eulogy for Jim: "We love you, brother. I hope that as you enter now into the Lord’s Army, you lay down your arms, and enter into an embrace with God the Father and find comfort and peace, freedom from pain, freedom from sickness, freedom from sorrow. God is the ultimate Healer, and you are now in the deep, eternal embrace of the Savior. Rest well, my brother. We will see you in the great Bye and Bye."

O Brother, Where Art Thou?

It's been a long couple of months. While I was writing my earlier blog posts, my brother Jim was struggling with lung cancer. He was diagnosed about a year ago, but after radiation therapy, they thought they got it all. Think again. In late September, Jim found out he had Stage IV lung cancer. Terminal. My husband and I were able to make it out to Ohio to visit him and his family four times between September and his death a few days ago. Those visits were so very important to us. Each visit found Jim just a little bit weaker, although his spirits remained high. Each visit left me wondering if it would be our last. We went out in October, and Jim was still getting out to enjoy eating out and other trips. We went back in December. He was on heavy pain meds then, and slept a lot. We did have a few good hours with him, exchanging Christmas gifts and sitting around the kitchen talking and laughing. I had made a fleece blanket for him, green with white deer (bucks, of course. With antlers.) We drove back out in February, just after he spent a week in the hospital. He went home to Hospice care. That weekend, we arrived on a Friday. It was a shock to see him in his hospital bed in his living room, a darkened room curtained off from the rest of the house. The green and white buck fleece I had made him for Christmas was on his bed. I spent a lot of time sitting by his bedside, praying. Slowly over the course of the weekend, he began to get up a little, and by the end of the weekend, he was using his walker to get around the house a little bit, even venturing into the kitchen. After we departed, his wife Kim told us he had made it out to a casino! That just seemed miraculous. Then the call came a few days ago. Jim was failing. Did we want to come out? Of course we did. We made the drive, even though a wind storm had left our home in Rochester, NY without power. We found my brother sitting in his elevator-chair, the one that was bought during our last visit. However, this time I don't think my brother recognized me. At all. My husband and his sons helped put him back in his bed, as his legs would no longer bear his weight. Once again, the green buck fleece blanket was his cover. He was heavily medicated. Although his eyes opened, and he even recognized his wife, sons, and the wife of his best friend, he was clearly on his journey. The family sat vigil around the clock, and we spent many hours with them. Twice I was sure his time had come, but he rallied both times. He had the unexpected energy burst that sometimes happens with one who is ready to leave this world. Then he crashed. My husband and I had to leave on Sunday afternoon, which was very difficult for me. The family had "cocooned" so deeply that I felt cold and alone when I left the house. Of course, Jim's family continued the vigil...until I received the call about 24 hours later that my brother had passed away. I cried. I sobbed. I howled into my own fleece blanket. My brother! My brother! Where are you now, my brother? My daughter gave me a beautiful flower arrangement which I placed on the cover of my grand piano, along with candles and a photo of Jim, laughing and smiling for the camera. My brother is at rest now, at peace. My brother is no longer suffering. We believe that he is with God. We were blessed to have him on this earth for 69 years, but now my brother has gone home. Sleep well, dear Jim. We will see you in the Great Bye and Bye.

Silent Night, Holy Night

And so the holidays came and went. My husband and I spent time with our daughters and their families, and travelled down to NYC and up to Orillia, Ontario to visit family and friends. As always, the ghosts of the past floated through...family and friends who had passed away, some during the holidays. Some of our friends passed away last year during this month, January. In fact, last year I lost four friends in one week, two on the same day. None of them knew each other. It was one of the most devastating weeks of my life. My husband and I were on vacation in Florida, enjoying the relative warmth and sunshine with family and friends who had made their move South years ago. Upon our return, I attended four funerals, stunned and numbed by the unexpectedness, the suddenness of their departure. Yesterday all of this came flooding back, as I began planning and packing for another upcoming trip south. Yesterday was also darkened by a loss of another kind, sustained by family members. I was struck by the unfairness of life. Yesterday, it just seemed as if all the wrong people were rewarded and all the right people were punished. Of course, I know that in reality, bad things happen to good people all the time, for no apparent reason. However, that does not dim the loss. As I dragged through the day, feeling the heavy weight of baggage both old and new, I felt like I was 100 years old. Where is the justice in all of this? I am a person of faith, and yet my prayers had not been answered. Of course, I know that God is not Santa Claus. He doesn't check his list for who's been naughty or nice. I've played by the rules. My family and friends have played by the rules. We've been good. Why was life turning out this way? Then, last night my husband and I did our first shift at the Hospice house since November. (The house was closed when we were supposed to work in December; the two then-current residents had died.) A friend asked if I was really up for working there last night, given my dark mood. Yes, I said, I need to go. When I'm down for the count, I know the value of serving. Of giving. Of leaving my personal pity party and sitting by the bedside of a dying woman, whose daughter is keeping vigil. And so we went. The evening went quickly, as instead of a quiet time spent while the resident slept, I was called upon to do quite a lot of patient care. Thank God the nurse on call came in, because I had forgotten how to do the most basic things. She patiently guided and watched me as I repositioned the resident, gave her the pre-measured medications, offered her sips of water, comforted her daughter, and sat by her bed keeping vigil after her family went home for the night. There's something about being present with a person on her final journey that erases all of the sadness, sorrow, and exhaustion of my own problems. Life looks pretty good when you're sitting with the dying. In an interesting twist, this lovely 90-year-young woman had the same name I have. I felt like Ebenezer Scrooge looking at his own gravestone shortly before he had his epiphany and became a better person. Epiphany...according to the online British Dictionary, the secular definition is "A moment when you suddenly feel that you understand, or suddenly become conscious of, something that is very important to you." Its religious meaning is the recognition by the wise men that the baby Jesus was indeed the savior that had been foretold in the Old Testament scriptures. Here I was, not in a manger, or even an inn, but in the room of a dying woman, and I found peace with God. My epiphany. When our shift ended very late that night, I left a calmer, more centered person. As the night aide came on duty, I had laid hands on the resident, silently calling upon her spiritual Guide to bring her stillness and peace as she entered what might be her last night's sleep. My hope for all of you, my readers, is that you might also find your Guide, and that you might also be able to live with the injustices of life. We all hope for the best for our families and friends, but that doesn't always happen. But we can find the strength and the courage to be the best partners we can as they make their life journey. Happy New Year to all. May you find strength and peace in 2017.

I Remember Mama

December 7th is a major remembrance day, not only for me personally, but also for our country. It marks the 75th anniversary of Pearl Harbor Day. Eight battleships, three cruisers, three destroyers, and 188 US aircraft were destroyed. In all, 2403 Americans were killed and 1178 were wounded. It was a horrific loss. For me personally, the day marks many remembrances. 41 years ago on that date, I married my first husband. 38 years ago on December 7th, we moved our very young family to New York from southern Ohio. Two years ago on December 7th, my mother passed away while my husband and I were on the Danube in Vienna, beginning a river cruise of Austria. And tomorrow, December 7th, my husband and I are headed back to Ohio, to spend time with my brother who is not well. Tonight I performed a ritual of remembrance, starting with the sewing of Christmas gifts that I can't mention (brothers might be reading this), and ending with baking the cookies my mother used to make for us so many years ago. While I sewed away, dropping bobbins and jamming threads and scaring the cat with my rather loud commentary on the art of sewing, memories of home flooded back...There were four of us kids, our parents, and our grandmother (and another orange tabby cat) in the house. It was full of color and light, especially at this time of year. Flash back to the future: both parents are gone, Grandma is long gone, and the four of us "kids" (ages 72, 68, 66, and 60) are scattered to the four winds. But tomorrow we will load up the car with homemade gifts, homemade cookies, a cooler full of fruits and cheeses, and a blizzard bag (you never know, driving across the Great Lakes states) to our destination, my middle older brother's house in Columbus, Ohio. Some of us kids will be together again for a few days. Of course, the great wheel of time has rolled around, and we are now the grandparents, we are the oldest generation. We'll sit in the kitchen, with nieces and nephews and one grandniece, plus the brothers and their wives, and catch up. And remember Christmases of long ago, and remember those who have come before and are now passed away. Enough time has passed that I can remember Mama in the kitchen at this time of year without tears in my eyes (mostly). Two years ago, she was 96 and in relatively good health and mind, so my husband and I felt OK about taking a "Christmas on the Danube" tour. The first day we spent in Vienna, sampling a Kristkindlemarket and preparing for our voyage down the famed river. That first night, I couldn't sleep. As the boat began its nighttime voyage, sleep would not come. I stood at our large window and watched the river and the locks in the darkness as we passed through them. In my mind, I could hear strands of the beautiful Strauss waltz, "The Blue Danube." I imagined my parents waltzing to that music, which they both loved (my father was a fine dancer.) When I finally went back to bed to try to sleep, there was a knock on the door...back in New York, my dear mother had passed, just as the strands of Strauss faded away in my memory there in Austria. It was December 7th, that fateful date that has held so much loss for so many. There is so much to remember on this date. I remember Mama.

A Different Kind of Grief

Sometimes it doesn’t take the death of a loved one to spark feelings of grief and loss. For example, the outcome of the recent presidential election has produced the same symptoms of grief and loss in a large segment of the population as those who have lost a loved one. In this case, the loss is of hope. This post is not intended to be a political statement, but rather a comparison of similarities between these two types of grief, and a look at taking steps toward healing. According to Mental Health America, there is a wide range of emotions that a person experiences when a death takes place. These feelings include numbness, denial, disbelief, confusion, shock, sadness, yearning, anger, humiliation, despair, and guilt. I have personally experienced all of these feelings after losing a loved one. However, until the most recent election, it hadn’t occurred to me that these same feelings might result from a profound sense of hopelessness due to loss of a collective dream, or hope for the future. I have heard a number of people say that on election night, they felt that they were living a nightmare, from which they could not awaken. There have been articles that list the Kubler-Ross stages of loss and grief, (denial and isolation, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance) adding one, “activism,” to the list. Online communities have tried hard to rally their followers to action, such as calling their government officials, writing letters, and sending e-mails to people in power, hoping to effect a change in the President Elect, the Vice-President Elect, and their incoming cabinet. What can a person do who has become so devastated by recent national events (such as the rise in racism, anti-Semitism, sexism, hatred of LGBTQ people, and hatred of religions other than one’s own) that s/he feels an interruption in his or her ability to function normally? Once again, I turn to the literature on coping with grief and loss. According to Mental Health America, there are a number of ways a person can try to live with their grief. These include seeking out caring people, expressing your feelings, taking care of your health, being patient, and seeking outside help, if necessary. If others around you are severely depressed by recent events, you can help them by sharing their sorrow through listening, not offering false comfort, again, being patient, and encouraging them to get professional help if necessary. If you feel called to take action, to be part of the resistance, then you should find like-minded people and move forward with that. As for myself, I take enormous comfort from nature. As a photographer and artist, I am constantly seeing “signs” in the natural environment around me that function symbolically as strategies for coping with stress. This morning I rose before dawn, and spent time meditating and reading philosophy. When I looked up from the text, the sky had lightened and dramatic storm clouds from yesterday’s winter storm painted what can only be described as a battle ground in the sky. How will you cope with your idealogical grief? You are not alone.

Saying Goodbye to Gloria

Early this morning my first Hospice patient, "Gloria," died peacefully in her sleep. I know this is the natural outcome of most Hospice stays, but it's my first experience with the death of a resident. I'm glad I had those four visits with her during training and then as a supervised volunteer...but I so wish I had had one last visit. In fact, my husband and I were called a few days ago to volunteer either last night or tonight, and by the time we responded, only tonight was still open. We'll be there with only one resident, who no doubt will be sound asleep, as we have the last shift of the evening. I can't tell a lie, this is hard for me. It's my faith tradition to believe that Gloria is in a better place now. I was lucky in that the last time I sat with her, we had a lively conversation about Thanksgiving Dinner. She was in and out of our reality; at one point she asked me how many people were coming (I said 6), how we should cook the turkey (I vetoed the pressure cooker), and if dinner would be held "here." In class later that week, I asked the instructors if it's OK to go with the reality of the dying...they said yes...so Gloria and I had planned a feast for either the past or the future...perhaps for both. Time seems very elastic for the dying. It is hard to say goodbye. Even though I only knew Gloria for a brief while, we took comfort in each other's presence. She tolerated my singing (for the most part), and I held her hand while she dropped off to sleep. As a Hospice volunteer, I know this pattern will repeat itself over and over again. I only hope that I can be fully present, be engaged, and then be able to step away as each person makes their final journey. Good bye, Gloria. May your Thanksgiving feast be a beautiful one.