Wednesday, March 20, 2019

 I’ve given up on the good news/bad news because it’s basically the same every day. I may wind up in a puddle of brown depression at some point curled up on the living room floor, but not yet.

    I spent the morning making phone calls and organizing paperwork, so I could do all the faxing at once.  I had to send out a signed application to the insurance company in Ohio, 

the death certificate to the main branch of the insurance company, TIAA Cref, and  New Jersey Pension and Benefits. The next move is theirs. I’ve done what I’m supposed to do.

    When I got home, I got to work to do some of the house cleaning, which was postponed due to Mike’s illness and my long stay in Honolulu. I washed the kitchen floor and vacuumed the lanai.  The kitchen floor looks so much better when clean.  I have a white tile floor that has to be maintained, or it looks like a mud patch. I have a Rainbow vacuum.  It allows me to dump water on the floor and then vacuum it up.  I don’t know if one needs a high-end Rainbow to do the job or if any wet/dry vac will do.  However, I do know this is the only way I will ever wash floors again.  It allows me to suck the water up off the floor.  Otherwise, I am just distributing the dirt evenly and maybe getting some of it up.  With this method, even the grout comes out clean.  What a joy!

    Ah, I found a missing vacuum cleaner attachment under the sofa.  I swear I looked there when I first misplaced it shortly before Mike and I started our ‘vacation’ in Honolulu.  It was hiding, but now it has taken mercy on me and manifested.  

    I worked on Tuesday’s entry, showered, and tried on the shorts I bought at Costco yesterday.  I thought I picked up one medium and one large, but no, both are large.  My friend Carolyn taught me to just grab stuff, try it on at home and then return what I don’t want.  So much less stressful.

    I did a quick hula practice on my own.  My big problem is my balance. When did I become so uncertain on my feet?  Hmm!  Am I getting old?  Let me see, I’m 78.  

    Judy Shibley showed up to do hula practice with me.  What a generous gift.  She says, “Call, and I will come.” She has been learning the hula for some 18 years. What a difference it makes to have her doing the dance right in front of me.  I don’t know why, but I feel more stable, keeping my eyes on her. Her strength passes on to me.  She told me that we will all do one hula together, and then the rest of the group will do another one without me.  I’m concerned about having enough time for the eulogies.  Fr. Lio could make the trains run on time in Italy.  He wants the mass to start promptly at 10 am.  

    I played some FreeCell.  I’m unclear how much of it is a waste of time and how much is much-needed rest. I wrote more of Tuesday’s entry, and then put all the items I want to return to Safeway in the car.  I also packed up the material we got from the dialysis center to return it to them.  I have no use for them now and hope to never have a use for them again. I am a little nervous about going there.  I complained about the nurse’s reaction to Mike’s illness.  

    That nurse told me to just take him home the night he had his attack. He said he had spoken to Mike’s kidney doctor in Honolulu, and he said it was probably just a GI problem.  He told me that I should just take him home.  I wanted to call an ambulance.  I can appreciate that the nurse might have thought it was a simple GI problem, but he didn’t go into the bathroom. Besides having stuff coming out at both ends simultaneously, the smell was something else.   I had never smelled anything like that before. It was that smell as much as how bad his GI upset was that signaled to me this was something else than a simple GI problem.  I assumed the nurse’s version of what the Honolulu doctor said was accurate, and I was angry at him for telling the nurse to just send him home.  When I was in Honolulu, I actually spoke to the doctor.  He didn’t tell the nurse to just send him home.  He did say it sounded like a simple GI problem, but if in doubt, have him go to the emergency room.  That sounds like a more likely thing for a doctor to advise over a phone when he doesn’t have a chance to exam a patient.  To boot, I feel comfortable saying the nurse didn’t see Mike once he went into the bathroom.  If he had, he would have known how it was something unusual.  The nurse actually said something about how expensive the ambulance service is.  I believe he was afraid the center would be charged with the fee if he called, and he would have been in trouble.  What I don’t understand is why he wasn’t supportive when I proposed driving him there myself.  Thank God I did.  Getting him to the emergency room earlier would not have saved Mike’s life, but it would have shortened the time he was in excruciating pain. Getting him to the emergency room assured that they had him on enough pain killers to knock the poor man out cold.  For those who don’t know, pancreatitis is considered one of the most painful experiences possible.

    I walked Elsa. Dinner was just a butter piece of whole-grain bread and about 5 tablespoons of soup.  I find that my appetite is lagging. I noticed how poor my appetite was yesterday in Costco.  One of my pleasures at Costco is eating from the sample food carts.  I didn’t even want to do that.  I don’t know if this is my real appetite, the one I always had, which was obscured by Mike’s influence on me,  or this is a reaction to my circumstances. It could be either. 

    When alive, Mike did all the cooking; his idea of a simple meal was enough to feed the Russian army.  I ate more because he served and ate more, and the food he cooked was good.  For the most part, I eat to live rather than live to eat.  I’m not a foody.  I was actually able to maintain my adult weight of 128 lbs., most of my adult life.  My radical 20 lb. weight gain at the age of 56 wasn’t Mike’s fault.  It was my mother’s.  My sister had gained a  lot of weight in the previous year. She told me that she gained that weight because she ate a muffin a day.  I started eating one muffin a week and one big serving of French fries. That did it for me.  I gained weight because I didn’t want to be in a position where my mother could use me and my relatively slender body to bully my sister. Couldn’t stand being used that way.  Oh, well.  I’ve lost 10 of those pounds, but I’m still not down to where I was.

    The only thing that Mike criticized me for was my belly. Yep, I had acquired a belly.  Mike had a belly the day I met him and had one the day he died. I pointed out to him that I accepted his belly, he should just be quiet and accept mine. “But,” he said, “ you didn’t use to have one. You used to be an ad for world hunger.” For some reason, he thought that was a compliment. Really, the woman who didn’t have a belly at 30, 40 and even 50 has one at 60, 70. What a surprise! Now, that is not to say he didn’t find me attractive as is.  He told me I was beautiful every day of our life together. 

    I’m slowly, slowly cleaning up evidence of Mike’s presence from areas here and there. I came across a bag containing things Mike would have taken to dialysis. I found an open bottle of water Mike had used right before he got sick.  I opened the bottle and drew in a deep breath.  One change for me will be in my biomass.  I will be missing all his contributions to what I am physically. In the most subtle and profound ways, I will become a different person.  I am sensitive to these changes.  With each move, from Brooklyn to Princeton to Columbus, OH, and finally to Kailua, Kona, Hawaii,  I am aware of the chemical changes from my one environment to the other.  It takes months to make the adjustments to become the new me.

    I did more writing and vacuumed and washed the hallway. I then had to call Apple because I was not able to access the voicemail on my cell phone, Mike’s physical cell phone with my sim card and my data. Mike’s phone used to just list the voicemails without a password.  Now I need one. Apple informed me that I had to contact T-Mobile to get that problem fixed.  I did.  They assigned me a new password. Voila!

    While I was in Honolulu, three new books arrived from Amazon for Mike. I couldn’t figure out his Amazon password to do the return.  I finally called Amazon and explained the situation. They will hard-mail me three return mail labels.  All I will have to do is drop them off at a UPS store.  The refund will go to the credit card listed on his account.  Okay, which one is it?  I had to pull out all of his cards before I found it.  They told me that if the credit card was shut down, the card company would send me a check.  Or would they send Mike a check?  What then? How do I cash a check made out to Michael?

    When going through old pictures, I found one of my mother holding my sister on her lap in a way that looked like a normal mother-child relationship. It was ordinary, relaxed, strain-free.  I had never seen her like that even with her grandkids.  Dorothy said it must have been a one-off.  I wanted to send it to Dorothy, but now I can’t find it.  I know I set it aside in a special place to be sure I sent it to her.  I’m sure it will show up someplace sometime.

    I sorted the charity receipts I had for tax purposes, inventoried them, and compared them to my record of the charities I contributed to.  I will have to make some follow up phone calls.     

    I walked Elsa, had some dinner, watched Tv, walked Elsa, and went to bed.

Tuesday, March 19, 2019

     I got up, walked Elsa, did my oil rinse, and drank my two cups of water, and went to Bikram.  The teacher gave me an incredible compliment.  He said that from what he has seen, 

I‘m not doing anything that could cause an injury, and- and- he couldn’t think of anything he would say I could do better.  I modify the poses.  I have a spinal curvature and a severely arthritic left hip.  I am working on correcting the spinal curvature and getting as much range of motion out of my hip as I can.  I have been working on the spinal curvature since I was 55 when I first saw the problem in a mirror.  

    I went to show Mike.  I corrected my lopsided posture and asked him if I looked straight.  He said yes.  Then I stood the way I always stood.  He could see how distorted my body posture was then.  It had been at least 50 years of incorrect movement, which created my problem; I understood fixing it was going to take a lot of time.  I accepted that.  The better I get, the faster the changes come.  Now that Yvette is working on me every other night, either giving me a short massage or a Graston treatment, I think things will go even faster.  

    I love the way she uses the Graston.  She does it very gently and meticulously.  She sees the instruments as extensions of her hand.  It feels great, and I can see the difference in the next yoga class.  Sometimes that difference looks like I’m worse.  But I understand that something rigid has been released throwing my weight onto muscles that haven’t been able to do their job before, limiting what I can do at that moment.  I have to take it slow, modifying my work.  I love detail.  I love working slowly and meticulously.  It’s like the Mindfulness mediation I learned, paying careful attention to the body. Wonderful!  I’m also getting better.  Also, wonderful. I’d love to be able to teach someone what I know.  In my experience, there aren’t many people who are prepared to work with my concept of progress.  It’s the one articulated by the yoga teachers: look for an improvement 1/16 of an inch difference.  But, it’s not what most people do.  I was made for 1/16-inch improvements.

    I rushed home from Bikram because I have to get my phone calls in before 11 am when the businesses I have to deal with on the east coast shut down.  I dealt with State Farm Insurance.  Mike bought it when we were living in Princeton.  He thought he bought one kind of insurance, which would be worth a fixed amount in the end.  At some point, he found out that he had bought the other kind, which would continue to grow.  Besides informing them of Mike’s passing, I had to find out how to claim the insurance.  I had to fax the death certificate to the main office and the claim form to the local office in Ohio.  Mike never met the agent in Ohio.  Our policy was transferred there when we moved to Columbus. The Ohio agent is still our agent because there is none in Hawaii.  I had to give the agent my email address so he could send me the application form. The amount of money available was a delightful surprise.

    I think there must be people who are struck by my dealing with these financial issues before his body is in the ground, literally.  I have been planning for his death since the day I knew he was my life partner.  My father died when I was 15.   Many people who lost parents as children regularly grieve the loss of significant people in their lives.  Mike used to kid me about it.  When we were living in Princeton, he would sometimes come home later than expected.  I would be curled up in a ball on the sofa, convinced I was a widow. This pattern has continued to the end. Mike would say, “Stop burying me.” And then, he’d say, “We’re going to die together in our 90s.” Liar, liar pants on fire.  At any rate, I thought through all I would have to do if he died over and over.  I have thought through my life after Mike, not always coming up with a successful scenario.  These thoughts have been driven by my need to know that I could survive his death.  I’m doing well now; check back in 6 months or a year.  

    I adored and still adore this man.  Those 6 weeks in the hospital were a gift. Some have commented on how difficult that time must have been.  It wasn’t.  I know it was stressful, mainly because I developed a killer back problem in the middle of it and was in constant pain, but the rest was easy.  As I said before, touring Scotland, something Mike wanted to do, would have been much more of a self-sacrifice.  Being with him in the hospital every day was a meaningful activity.  Mike ran several mental hospitals in New Jersey when we lived in Princeton.  He said to me several times, “If I’m ever in a hospital, don’t leave my side.”  I was prepared for what I did.   Being there, I was able to provide him company, information that he wasn’t alone in this ordeal and tons, and tons of love. God, did I love him. And the six weeks allowed me to fuel up on love, which is carrying me over now.

    Paulette called to tell me that she would stop by to drop off the homemade chicken noodle soup, from what was left of the chicken Brenda got for me, and two biscuits.  Then Brenda called and asked if she and her husband, Don, could come over on the 27th  for dinner.  Of course, they are coming to pick up the photographic panels for the funeral, and bring the food. Brenda is the one who will take care of setting up the panels early so they can be enjoyed by people coming in early.  

    While I had her on the phone, I talked about the reception.  I know that Fr. Lio is expecting 300 people.  The church will hold 450.  I have this nagging feeling that there will be more than that.  So many people talk to me about how they love Mike and how much they are going to miss him.  He was no ordinary man.  I know what he was like as a husband.  That’s what I focused on.  I know people liked him and admired him, but it seems they loved him, truly loved him.  I suggested to Brenda that we order for at least 50 more people, and I pay for it.  She read me the menu.  I was expecting what’s called heavy pupus,  appetizers, but no, Fr. Lio has ordered a full luncheon. There’s a vegetarian dish, a beef dish, a chicken dish, a pork dish, salad, fruit, and dessert. “Holy Shit!” was my response, probably not entirely appropriate, given the circumstances. Brenda assured me that there would be more than enough food.

    Adam came over to take me and the items I wanted to return to Costco.  He loaded 9 (nine) cases of Pellegrino.  This was as much my doing as Mike’s.  I bought them when they were on sale.  He couldn’t drink them anymore because of his kidney disease, but he was hoping that once he had a transplant, he could again. Costco only accepted 5 of the cases because the rest had expired.  I thought of just leaving the remaining cases outside with a note for people to help themselves.  The clerk said I couldn’t do that.  Plan B: load them in my car and contribute them to a food bank.  I left the flatbed cart by the return desk and did some shopping.  This was a new first: the first time I shopped at Costco since Mike’s death. Now, I  only had to think of myself.  I didn’t have to call Mike and ask if he wanted me to pick up something for him, another moment which brought home that he’s gone.

    Adam had left after getting me to the return desk to drop off the recycling at the transfer station.  I thought I was going to have to deal with those heavy cases on my own.  Lo and behold, when I got to the checkout line, there was Adam.  He had forgotten something and had to return to pick it up. We went through the checkout line together.   He loaded the remaining cases of Pellegrino and some other heavy items I had bought into his car.  I thought he’d be right behind me.  But no, it took him about an hour to get home.  He had to pick up some takeout food for his family.  Given there were only three cases, he took them home for his family.  Good enough.

    Flowers arrived from Kathy and John Coughlin. Now I have those flowers and the plant from my colleagues at Licking Heights South. I have more than enough to last me for a while.

    I walked Elsa. When I got back to the house, Yvette was there with a loaf of fresh bread in hand. She gave me a big slice. I slathered it with butter and finished off the remaining salad and the salmon. Then I watch some TV, Suspects, walked Elsa and went to bed.

Monday, March 18, 2019

I had a terrible night’s sleep. Fr. Lio had Brenda call me and tell me that we couldn’t extend the time for the eulogy from 15 minutes.  He also said he didn’t want us, Damon, Yvette, and me,  to just talk story.  He wanted the eulogy to relate to Christianity.  I pictured him angry with me for not making Mike’s role in the church as a deacon the theme of all our talks.  He wasn’t a deacon to us.  Being a deacon was something he did, like being a driver of a car.  For us, he was a husband, father, grandfather, godfather.  We loved him in those roles, not his role as a deacon. 

    I suggested I send copies of all our eulogies to Fr. Lio.  I spent a difficult night worrying about it.  I thought if he really wants our eulogies to be all about him as a deacon, maybe he should give it himself.  My agita was all to waste.  He thought all our eulogies were great, including Yvette’s which is more talk-story than either Damon’s or mine.  All’s good.

    I worked on practicing the hula dance which I was planning to perform along with the other women in the hula ministry at the funeral.  Good luck!  Guess what?  I am not the agile, coordinated, quick study I was at 40.  Coordinating the top and the bottom half of my body is not going smoothly.  I feel like a stick stuck into a rock instead of a boat gently rocking on waves.  I’ll see how it goes. I can’t imagine crying while doing the dance at the funeral unless I fall and hurt myself, a real option, because I will be focused on remaining upright. 

    The morning routine was the same: I woke up at 6am, walked Elsa, did my oil rinse, drank my two cups of water, washed some dishes from last night, went to Bikram.  It was another small class.  But I continued to notice more small changes in my body in what I can do, although my midback continues to complain. I drove home, showered, and boiled water for my morning two cups of miso soup with tofu and greens. 

    I sat down to call State Farm, which had Mike’s life insurance, and then the Long-Term Insurance company to inform them of Mike’s death and start whatever processes are appropriate for each company. Both were already closed. I have to make phone calls before I leave for Bikram at 7 am or immediately when I get home at 9:30.  I only have a small window for contacting these east coast companies before 11 am my time. 

    Judy stopped by, picked up two bowls and a spatula she left here from last night’s dinner.  Now the two bowls were filled with the remains of the chocolate pudding and the Chantilly cream she had made for the dessert.  Hmmm! I licked those bowls clean. 

    I found the will the other day.  I’m amazed I had any idea where it was, but I found it right away.  Today I called our lawyer.  I would file the probate and be done with it.  How hard can it be?  Well, apparently,  if you don’t have all your t’s crossed and all your I’s dotted, your screwed.  You need a lawyer to do it as much as you need an accountant to do your taxes. Our lawyer is someone my chiropractor recommended who is also a Bikram student.  It’s a small town.  She was a delight to work with.  I left a message for her and also sent an email

    I took a much-needed nap after a lousy night’s sleep. Judy called.  When she picked up the bowls, she forgot to take the remainders of the chicken Brenda brought over to make chicken soup.  She stopped by to pick it up. 

    I tracked down Elijah, who I am helping go to the Science Camp this summer. Did he send in his application yet?  The head of the organization called me back to tell me he hadn’t received it. Kids!  I didn’t like to have to worry about this while I was in the hospital with Mike and now, but my larger concern is for Elijah.  What kind of an impact is this behavior going to have on his life long term?  He said he forgot.  He reminds me of Mike, who just checked out when things got too stressful.   I’m a fight/flight responder.  If I’m under stress, everyone knows about it.  There is nothing quiet about me. I’m just getting to understand those who go into freeze mode, also manifesting as a total retreat from the existing world.

    Closing activities: walked Elsa, ate dinner, watched TV, walked Elsa, did not do my facial routine tonight, too tired, read NY Times a little, and went to sleep.

Sunday, March 17, 2019

Good news: Status quo

Bad news: a little sadness

    

    I got up at 7:30am because I wasn’t doing Bikram today. Today, I was going to church, doing what Mike always hoped I would do.  I took Elsa on her walk.  I followed her lead. She took me on a long walk around one of the big blocks in our neighborhood instead of just up and down the street.  These hills are great for strengthening my legs.  For those of you that don’t know it, if you’re facing the ocean or have your back to it, you are always walking either up or down a fairly steep hill.  As I pointed out before, we don’t have mountain peaks on the Big Island; all we have is hills.  Our hills are 10,000 to 14,000 feet, but they are still just hills, continuously moving either up or down with no jagged drops. This is because the Big Island is still the baby of the islands, the last to be made and, therefore, with the least erosion.  

    The Hawaiian Islands aren’t formed by earthquakes pushing two continental plates together as they are on the mainland or in Europe.  No, our islands are created by the earth spewing lava up, and then up again, and then up again, building a hill, and then a mountain from scratch.  The lava comes out of a spot and then runs downhill like melted ice cream.  You may not know it, but the tallest mountain in the world is here on the Big Island.  It’s a mere 14,000 feet from sea level, but that’s not the base of the mountain.  The base is at the bottom of the ocean. “Measured from the base of the ocean floor, it rises 33,000 feet, significantly greater than the elevation of Mount Everest above sea level.” (Wiki) We had a visitor from Princeton who asked if they had to clear the lava before they built the airport. Mike and I laughed and explained that the lava was forever.  All the beaches and the surrounding ocean floors were lava from the base of the mountains.  It’s a foreign concept when you’re used to thinking of mountains rising from a continental plate.

    When I got home, it was back to daily chores: taking out food waste for composite and writing. Judy and Paulette were going to pick me up at 9:30 for the 10:00 mass at the Holy Rosary Church.  I was so busy writing that the time slipped away. Fortunately, Judy called me, woke me from my concentrated state.  I jumped in the shower and got dressed in 10 minutes flat. Who has to dry first?

    Being in church makes me feel sad, both because I’m more aware that Mike isn’t there and because I don’t completely buy into the belief system.  I came to Catholicism on my own, not because of Mike.  My conversion started when I was 12. Long before I met Mike. 

    My family took a trip to Quebec.  While we were there, we took a side trip up to Saint Anne de Beaupre, a healing church filled with crutches.  My father wanted me to see how silly the whole thing was.  He was a committed agnostic if not an atheist.  However, when we got home, I experienced a physical change that was a surprise.  I suffered badly from warts on my fingers.  They suddenly disappeared.  My father said, startled, “I lit a candle for you.”  I could see that he was a secret believer even though he didn’t want to be. 

    I felt more attachment to the church earlier in my life than I do now.  Now, I actually believe this was a setup.  I was being used to facilitate Mike’s conversion and religious life.  If that is the case, I accept it.  Being a Catholic and a deacon in the church brought him endless joy.  I loved it when he was truly happy.  But once he had what he wanted and needed and didn’t need my support anymore, my interest fell away.  I want to go to church to give him what he wants and for the community.  I will have to find my own way to be a Catholic.

    On Facebook, I discovered that 30 people had donated in Mike’s name. Although I can’t find any information on who they are and what they donated to, I suspect they all donated to the national Habitat for Humanity.  Unfortunately, that means that little or none of that money will be seen by the local organization Mike was involved with.  My sister said she donated to the local one.  She found the site and made a contribution that way.  When I asked for the information from Mike’s Habitat colleagues, they only gave me the hard mail address.  Who uses checks anymore?  It makes me sad that Mike’s favored organizations will not receive these benefits.  It would be his gift to the people he worked with in the church and at Habitat.

    More housekeeping: Set some soiled clothes out for the sun to bleach out the stains.  It may take a few days, but the system works better than any other I know of.

    I started a new procedure in the blog writing process: I jot down notes about what happened in the day.  That way, I don’t have to reconstruct the day from memory.  I can still pick and choose what to write about. 

    Around 4 pm, Judy and Paulette came over to start cooking dinner for St Patrick’s Day. My idea of guests: they bring their own food, cook it, serve it, and even do some clean up as they go along.  Today, they brought paper plates because Judy feels guilty about leaving me to clean the dishes. I can’t seem to convince her it’s fine with me.  I like washing dishes.  Also, I don’t do them if I don’t feel like it. I don’t ever have two weeks of dishes stacked in the sink.  I mean, I do some when I want to.  I almost always want to wash some dishes. 

    Where Friday was just a nonspecific feast, today was a St. Patrick’s Day Feast: corned beef and cabbage and Irish soda bread, all homemade.  Fantastic!  Besides, Judy, her sister, Paulette, there was Judy’s husband, Howard, her son, Adam, Adam’s wife, Jasmine, their sons, Leon and Luke, and their tenants Brian and Amanda.  When Adam and Jazzy and the kids arrived, their dog Bones and their cat Shifu were right behind them.  Bones actually pushed his way into the house.  He is a lovely dog that arrived at their door one day when they lived in the boonies, starved with an abscessed tooth. Bones runs loose.  They tried to confine him to the house, but he just broke the door.  They’re too busy to build the fenced-in area they are planning on.  Bones seems to be doing quite well wandering the neighborhood.  I think we’re all used to him by now.  When I walk Elsa, he always comes up and greets us.  Once he’s through sniffing Elsa, he comes to me to be scratched behind his ears. 

    Judy used Mike’s hot pot.  He never got a chance to use it himself.  She has one at home, but ours was a little different from hers. She used it to prepare the corned beef. When it was done, she released the steam. It spewed steam for 2 to 3 minutes.  It was a little scary, but the meat came out wonderfully.

    It was quite a crowd around the table.  I was placed at the head of the table, where I never sit.  I have to remember not to allow that to happen again; it made me feel like I didn’t belong.  Not a nice feeling when it’s in your own home.  If Mike had been here, he would have been involved in the cooking and hosting.  While I was delighted they were all here, I felt the bonds of their relationships with each other. I was aware there was no one there for whom I was the primary person or even one of their primary persons.  I will have to get used to this change of status.  This does not mean I’m invisible to these people, or some sort of third wheel; it’s just that they don’t think about me the way Mike did, and I feel the loss.

    While the food was being prepared, I took care of all sorts of chores.  I walked Elsa and found our marriage certificate, which I will need for Social Security.  My accountant told me that all my expenses on Oahu will be tax-deductible because I had to be there.  Really?  I thought the only one who had to be there was Mike, but I’ll take it.  Figured out how to get my Airbnb receipts, the hotel receipt for one night when I had to wander the city to find a place to stay, and I tried to get the Turo receipts.  No luck on that yet.  I have the written directions, but I don’t know how to apply them to the Turo Website. I will try again.

    When Judy and her family left, Elsa kept rushing out the door to go with them.  I thought she was saying, “Take me with you!  This woman is horrible, and my nice daddy is not coming home.” But when I took her for her evening walk,  she had the longest pee I had ever seen.  The poor girl had to go to the bathroom. Yikes!  

    The truth is she is slowly adapting to the reality that it is just the two of us.  She’s not sitting in the same spot on the rug where she can watch the front door and wait for Mike as much; she’s coming to the side door when I come home to greet me; she’s sitting near me when I work; and  she sleeps on me when I take a nap the way she used to with Mike. Slowly, the two of us are adjusting to this new reality.

    I watch some TV, brushed my teeth, did the facial treatment recommended by Colleen, and went to bed.

Saturday, March 16, 2019

Good news: Status quo

Bad news: None    

    I woke up this morning to a spasm of self-hatred.  I had that a lot when I was 13.  I remember that year.  I walked around, hearing, “ David, I hate you.”  David is my maiden name.  I was at camp, and we were all referring to each by our last names that summer. While I suffered from self-depreciation most of my adult life, those spasms are quite different. They’re small electric shocks surging through the body.  This one included some thoughts that I might be responsible for Mike’s illness and death.

    Just before he died, I went on a ridding jag.  I wanted to get rid of all the surplus.  I cleaned out the shed; I cleaned out the toolbox. I got rid of anything we hadn’t used, and I couldn’t imagine needing in the future.  Habitat for Humanity was the primary beneficiary of all this surplus.  In cleaning out the toolbox, I came across several old prescription bottles with screws and nails carefully sorted.  I recognized my father’s hand.  He died in 1956.  My thinking, if we haven’t managed to use these in 63 years, it would be safe to assume we could get rid of them without regret.

            Mike wanted to keep them.  If one of us was going to use a nail or a screw, it would more likely be me.  I’m the family handyman.  He was the cook and host.  The question: was I sending out some message that Mike had become access baggage along with those nails and screws.  I was becoming more self-reliant with his more frequent absences, mostly for diaconate weekends, and taking over more of our joint responsibilities with his illness.   I know this is totally ridiculous. I also understand that it is common for people to wonder what they could have done differently when someone dies.  Except for pushing the doctors to have his bile fluid continuously drained with the NG tube to prevent the aspiration pneumonia, I can’t think of anything else I could have done.  And I did ask the doctor about it after his death. He said there were risks either way.  He could have even choked on the tube somehow.

    Except for these painful thoughts, before I rose, my sleep was good.  I was able to get up at 7 today because the Bikram class is at 8:30 instead of 7:30. I got to class early, just in time to get my spot in the back of the room.  I needed to brace myself against the wall and hold on to the ballet bar.  When the class started, there were 21 people in the class.  The largest class I’ve seen so far.  And, someone was standing right in front of me.  I said, “Bruce.”  He turned around saw he was blocking my view of the mirror and moved to the back of the room by the door.  I saw him move his arms to the side and realize that he didn’t have enough room to get a complete range of motion.  He might as well have stayed where he was.  The teacher stood in front of me the whole time, blocking my view in the mirror.  He made sure not to block Yvette’s view, who was also standing in front of the teacher’s platform.  Now Yvette is a gorgeous woman about his age with an incredible yoga practice.  Talk becoming invisible as you age! The truth is: I don’t feel invisible for the most part.  I am lucky I live in Hawaii. The elderly are respected here and a very active part of the community.

     Right after class,  I headed off to the hula rehearsal to learn the dance I’m planning to do with the group for Mike’s funeral.  This is their regularly scheduled practice time.  I had never had a conversation with any of the participants. There are two young girls, but most are well over 50.  There is one haole in the crowd.  Haole means those without breath and is a prerogative term for white people.   While white people who come here often have money, they are clearly not the majority.  The Asians and Polynesians are. The political system is pretty much run by the Japanese.  Mike liked to say that the Japanese needn’t have bothered invading Hawaii, they would take it over in time anyway.  I really don’t know how accurate this is, or if he just meant it as a joke appreciating the irony.

    Everyone in the hula group came up to hug me, except the youngest of the two young girls.  One of the elders gave her a look, and she moved to approach me.  I assured her that her gesture was unnecessary. She took me at my word because she backed off with impunity. One of the women told me how Mike had approached them and told them that I was considering joining the hula ministry, and he was so excited.  Yes, there is literally a hula church ministry, just like there is a choir ministry.  The hula group only performs on special occasions, but Mike just loved it.  And, he very much wanted me to join.  I was reluctant because of my hip problems, but I had just been noticing that the older ladies didn’t bend down as much as the younger ones.  Maybe I could get away with it.  My arms are still good.  

    They had already developed a choreography to the song I selected.  This would be easier for them than the Ava Maria, which we had initially proposed doing. First, they demonstrated the dance while I videotaped it. Anita, who heads the ministry, slowly started teaching me the dance.   Now certain parts of it I could pick up quickly, but I was surprised about how awkward my arms felt.  My arms have always been the strong suit of my dancing.  My legs were never something to write home about.  Anita broke down the dance section by section. Then, I videotaped the oldest of the young girls separately, who is lovely to watch.  Her arms have the flowing motion, which makes hula so entrancing, and she coordinates her knee bends with her arms organically and effortlessly.  Watching her is like watching a boat rock gently on waves.

    On the way home, I stopped off at Long’s to take advantage of their ‘extra bucks.’ I don’t know about you, but I never get to take advantage of these offers.  Either I forget altogether, or I remember too late.  Ah, but today, I planned it.  The item I really wanted was on sale already. Good enough! I bought it and a CVS version of the same product with the extra bucks, and of course, a Hersey Milk Chocolate with Almonds, unfortunately not with whole almonds.   I have noticed that the old smaller version of those chocolate bars, with whole almonds, has disappeared off the shelves. Neither Target nor Longs carries it anymore.  I was able to buy it at Safeway, where I stopped off to buy more packaged kale salad, my mainstay.

    Then off to Kaiser to pick up my new prescription of Lexapro.  I think I’ll stick to taking a whole pill for the time being, even though I don’t have to take it for Mike’s anxiety anymore.  Afterward, I drove to Costco next to get air in my tires.  I had the attendant check the tire treads at the same time.  My regular mechanic had told Mike that I needed four new tires.  Yvette and Josh were concerned about the safety of those tires.  It winds up the criterion for judging the tires was the date on them, which is written in code.  The idea is the tires need to be changed every 5 years or so.  Learn something new every day.  The fellow said I had some more to go before I absolutely needed to change them, but better sooner than later.   I have a rebate from Costco for $100. I know where that is going.

    But then I have a lot of returns to make to Costco.  Mike and I were both into buying in quantity.  Our house has the space for us to indulge.  I have something like 8 cases of Pellegrino.  Mike drank it, but I can’t stand the stuff.  However, I would buy it whenever it was on sale. There are other unopened cases of things, but the Pellegrino outstrips them all.

    When I got home, I finally had breakfast, my usual: a cup of miso soup with tofu and some greens and a Juice Plus smoothie made with almond milk.  I posted Thursday’s journal entry and worked on Friday’s.  Doing this is vastly superior to the many other things I could be doing to distract myself.  Much, much better.     

    Saturday is NPR day.  Love those Saturday shows, mainly “What Do You know,” “Moth Radio Hour,” and “TED Talks.   I napped, walked Elsa, ate dinner of kale salad, leftover salmon and mash potatoes from yesterday, and finished off the Haagen Das vanilla ice cream.  I found a new English murder mystery series, “Suspects.”  I think Mike might have enjoyed this with me.  He liked anything English. 

    I picked up the mail on my way back into the house.  Another bill telling me that we hadn’t paid last month and owed ungodly amounts of money in late fees and interest.  I paid the fines and terminated the card, which is only in Mike’s name. 

    I finally sorted the pictures and letters into piles.  There are 40 pieces of correspondence my mother had saved, many of them from friends and family in Germany. They must have been written during WWII because they are marked “Opened by Censor,” in both English and German.  Does anyone know someone who can translate from German to English?  I understand the handwriting may be a problem.  The handwriting of my grandparents is very different from the handwriting of today in Germany.  The difference between then and now in English script is not nearly so great.  

    I took Elsa for her last walk of the day, did my facial routine as recommended by Colleen, and went to bed.

Friday, March 15, 2019

Good news: Status quo, roughly.

Bad news: None. 

    I got up at 6 am, walked Elsa, did my oil rinse while I did the dishes, drank two cups of water, changed into my yoga clothes, and left for Bikram.  It was a surprisingly small class, only 6 people where before I left, the class ran between 12 and 15 regularly.  Apparently, the snowbirds have left.  Why would they leave so early? I guess it is spring on the mainland, but not here.  Here, it is still winter.  I am often spending time in fleece pants, a shirt, and two sweatshirts, and that’s comfortable. 

    Judy learned that one of the songs we selected was secular and could not be used for the funeral mass.  The musical director, Walter, has this amazing voice and sings that particular song beautifully. (Not naming it because of copyright problems.)  I had already called the director of the hula ministry to arrange for them to dance at the reception on the lanai and dance to the Ava Maria.  I had been told that they couldn’t do it in the church because of Lent.  New information:  they can’t do it on the lanai during the reception because there won’t be enough room; they can do it in the church after the final blessing and before the recession. I am planning to participate in this performance.  Mike always wanted me to do this.  He loved the way I moved.  I did a lot of amateur dancing until just before I met Mike.

    As a child, I did a lot of improvisational dance – in my mother’s living room.  She was a control freak and always wanted to know what everyone was doing.  My paternal grandfather sat in her living room from 9 in the morning until my father took him home, sometimes as late as 10 pm at night. 

    I may have told the following story before in the journal. Sorry if I did, just skip it.  My father’s family was upper class Jewish; my mother’s was lower-middle-class Lutheran.  My father left for America a year and a half before my mother, who only arrived here in December of 1937.  My grandfather knew that my mother was planning to join my father and marry him.  He contacted my mother in Berlin behinds my father’s back, met with her, and basically told her that she wasn’t good enough to marry not only his first-born son but the first-born son of his generation in the family. My mother never told my father; my grandfather never apologized to my mother.  

    I would dance in the living room for my grandfather. Therefore, my mother knew what both of us were doing.  I doubt she would ever have let me have that much expressive freedom if it didn’t suit her needs.  My parents tried to enroll me in dance classes when I was 6.  I hated it. Dancing for me wasn’t learning a discipline; it was releasing the stress which came from living with her and her incessant criticism.   Both my sister and I must have received something like 50 to 200 corrections or corrections a day.  That wouldn’t have been so bad if there were occasional positive comments and if the comments weren’t delivered with spitting contempt for our inadequacies.  Dance kept me sane. 

    I did my undergraduate degree at Cortland State Teacher’s College (now part of SUNY).  Each of the different teacher’s colleges (all now part of SUNY) emphasized a separate discipline of the teaching profession. Cortland specialized in Physical Education.  They had a great dance department.  I started studying.  I continued studying in New York City at the New Dance Group, traveling in from Northport Long Island every Saturday to take classes, and then at the University of Wisconsin.  No, I wasn’t a dance major.  I was an English major who took dance classes and participated in concerts.  I was considered good because I could express myself through dance, but my technique was lousy – at least in my estimation. I subsequently learned that I was dealing with a spinal curvature.  That limits what I could do, severely.

    I finally started the house cleaning, which I had scheduled for January 26, which Mike so rudely interfered with.  Judy and 5 additional members of her family were coming over for dinner. Yes, they were bringing their own food and cooking it.  The advantage of doing it at my house: they got to use Mike’s fabulous kitchen. (Again, I am so happy he got that kitchen.  It made him happy.  I loved making him happy.) I washed the kitchen floor and just vacuumed the hallway. I also did a better cleaning job on the table in Mike’s library, where I spilled the soup yesterday.  I still have to finish sorting those pictures.

    Judy and her family arrived to do the cooking. I took Elsa for her early evening walk. As I left the driveway, I heard my next-door neighbor, Ronen, call my name. His father-in-law had gone fishing and caught a local fish. Did I want some?  I told him that I still had a refrigerator full of food that others had brought over.  I assumed that I would run out at one point.  He said his family had it in mind to step up and help out once the rush of offers slows down.  Another strike of generosity.  When I came back from the walk, there was B  walking toward me with a package in his hand.  He was offering me fish, too.  He explained that Ronen had just passed it to him over the fence.  Now, B should know better to than to offer me raw food I have to prepare.

    I helped set the table, but Judy, and her son, Adam, who loves to cook, were the main chefs for the evening.  Paulette, Judy’s sister, helped prepare the food.   We had salmon, with a lilikoi sauce, mash potatoes with a 3 oz. package of Boursin cheese mixed in, and asparagus.  Dessert was Haagen Das vanilla ice cream with fresh raspberries and chocolate sauce.  Only Adam, Leon, his 4-year-old son, and I indulged.  The left-over food wound up in my refrigerator and freezer.  

    Jasmine, Adam’s wife, spoke to me about how strong I am.  Now, she has a baby who is severely disabled. He is over a year old, and he still has trouble holding his head up.  He has made progress;  he can get his finger into his mouth, grab hold of his own foot, and now seems to be able to focus his eyes and smile.  There is no hope that he will ever walk, talk, or think. Yet, she thinks nothing of what she has to do as a mother for him, and she considers me strong.  I believe anything done from love is easy. Now, I didn’t have that long haul with Mike.  Would my patience have run out?   Yes, in a blink of an eye if he didn’t allow me to love him.  Could he have blocked it?  You better believe it. Some people feel invaded by the love of others; some people feel they don’t deserve the love of others.  I was looking at Mike surviving pancreatitis and having a long, long recovery period and probably never wholly regaining his old life.  If he rejected my love because he thought of himself only as a burden who didn’t deserve it, or if his self-hatred for his condition won, that self-hatred would have created a block to my expression of love.  It would have turned a joyful process into a tedious one. 

    My guests left. Adam and Jasmine picked up some friends from the airport that had just flown in from Alaska.  They have a house here but have been gone for a least half a year.  They fish the Alaskan waters to earn money.  Their house sits right at the edge of the Kilauea lave field.  It was spared, but there must be some impact. 

    I just wrote tonight, no T.V.  I walked Elsa and went to bed.

Thursday, March 14, 2019

Good news: Status quo

Bad news: None. 

    People are coming up to me and saying how strong I am.  Nothing I have done over the last seven weeks has required what I consider strength or sacrifice.  It all just seemed right, organic.  An act of true self-sacrifice for Mike’s sake would have been traveling to Scotland as a tourist.  I don’t like being a tourist. It’s a meaningless activity to me. Everything I have done since Mike got sick is full of meaning and love, love for myself, love for Mike, honoring Mike’s love for me, and indulging my love for Mike.  I can’t think of a place I would rather be.

    I had no trouble getting up this morning at 6am.  Made it to Bikram. The class wasn’t as great as yesterday.  My accomplishment, keeping my thighs locked, is getting old. On to the next challenge. 

    When we moved here, Mike’s intention was to do nothing but concentrate on me, besides finishing off his book on theology and volunteering to run the distance learning program for the Josephinum.  We managed to go to one mass, where he was still anonymous.  During that mass, the pastor, Fr. Lio, told us that he was so understaffed he was going to have to cancel the Sunday noon mass.  He also said that his father’s dementia has progressed to a point where he didn’t recognize him anymore.  He choked up.

    The next Sunday, Mike went to mass alone.  At the end of the mass, he walked up to Fr. Lio and said, “I’m a deacon.”  Fr. Lio said, “Don’t move.” The rest is history.  Fr. Lio knew he could rely on Mike to do the sermons for any mass he did.  I am under the impression that Mike was helpful to him in a lot of ways.  The request for donations to St. Michael’s debt reduction fund is an attempt to relieve Fr. Lio of some stress since I can’t return Mike to him. 

    There is a legend that the island decides who gets to stay here and who gets to leave.  I have seen situations where living here was made impossible for people.  When Mike and I arrived, we felt the island was saying, “What the hell took you so long?!” This has worked out perfectly for us.  Our house is perfect.  A Bikram studio opened shortly before we moved here.  I found a school setting to work in where I am valued.  Mike started working as a deacon for the local church.

     After Bikram, Yvette came up and did some more Graston on me.  She threw in a little massage.  I am very enthusiastic about doing work a little bit every other day instead of just meeting with my chiropractor once a week for half an hour. Also, Yvette is gifting me.  

    While I was working on paperwork and writing this blog, someone came to the door.  It was a woman I didn’t know holding a flower arrangement in a pot.  Ah, someone from the church brought me flowers- not.  She was just delivering the plant.  The card said it was from my buddies at Licking Heights South.  

    Until this year, Mike would travel to the area to do some work for the seminary, and I would go and visit the teachers I had worked with.  Working at the Licking Heights School District was the highlight of my professional career.  Here I was 65, working part-time, teaching a peripheral subject, English as a Second Language,  never participating in school meetings, and still accepted as a valuable member of the teaching team.  Trust me that doesn’t happen everywhere.  

    The woman at the door with the pot in hand owns a flower shop, the Kona Flower Shoppe.   While we can’t have a lot of flowers at the funeral because it is Lent, we can have one small one.  I thought, “Wouldn’t it be perfect if we had the same gorgeous plant Damon ordered for Mike when he was in the hospital.”  Mike was able to enjoy it briefly.  It soon became hard for him to see it because he had his eyes closed all the time. Then once he was moved back up to the ICU for the second time,  we had to get rid of the flowers.  They aren’t allowed there. No flowers, no fresh fruit.  Fear of contamination.  I  showed the woman the pictures of the arrangement.  She said she could do that, but she would have trouble finding the coconut vase.  She would work on it.  I called Judy to tell her about the development.  She said she had such a vase – if she could find it.  Wouldn’t that be great!

    I sent the draft of the obituary for the West Hawaii Today newspaper.  It had to be in by the 15th, two weeks before the funeral, and one week before it’s publishing date.  She told me it would cost $410. This was the long version that I posted on Facebook.  This was a short version that included information relevant to folks here on the Big Island. We planned to add a photo.  I gave Damon the email address of Norma Adamson-Fetz on the obituary desk at West Hawaii Today.  

    I wondered how Norma coped with her job.  She is always talking to people who have just lost someone they care about.  I don’t remember what she said, but I have some sense that she saw this as an important service to the community.  She did a great job dealing with me.  She didn’t make me feel like just another customer, but a person with her own interesting story.

    I had my first haircut appointment since Mike’s death today. I am slowly resurrecting myself.  (Wish I could do the same for him.)  First, I got back into my Bikram classes, then a facial and now a haircut.  Mike loved my hair short.  Randee Jennings of Salon Muse rocked my cut.  While Mike never noticed the impact of a facial, he always noticed my haircut.  Unbelievably, Randee gave me the haircut as a gift.  I can’t imagine this happening anywhere else other than Hawaii that I have lived.  It’s the spirit of aloha.

    I checked my phone before I left the beauty shop.  There was a text from Yvette telling me the mailman had just delivered Mike’s ashes. Okay.  I called Judy immediately and asked her to meet me at the house. When I arrived, there was her car in the driveway. She was sitting on the sofa.  And yes, the package was a box with his ashes and 10 death certificates.  No, it wasn’t as bad as I thought it might be.  Reducing that body, I loved because it contained Mike to a bag of ashes was a tough decision, even though it was the only one that made sense. Everyone on all sides of the family has been cremated for generations. He was going to be cremated eventually. I had pretty much adjusted by the time I got home.

    Sandor called to ask me about the design of the plaque for the burial box. He had written “Deacon Michael David Ross, Ph. D.”, and the dates of his birth and death.  How did I feel about the Ph.D. after his name?  Damon and I agreed that it would be great.  He was deeply invested in education. Then I thought it should say, Ph.D². The students at the Josephinum would call him, “Doc Squared,” or “Double Doc” because of his two Ph.Ds.  Sandor also said it was a tradition to put a star next to the date of birth and a cross next to the date of death.  How did I feel about making the star a Jewish star?  Perfect. How anyone makes all the decisions on their own is beyond me. 

     I took a satisfying nap after Judy left. Then, after walking Elsa, I made myself some dinner. I wasn’t very hungry, just a bowl of that great veggie soup and bread and butter.  I carried the hot bowl of soup wrapped in a towel in one hand and something else in the other. When I went to set down the bowl on the coffee table, it did a perfect flip.  I landed completely upside down.  What a mess!  To boot, I was working on sorting photos I had found.  The soup didn’t touch one of them.  

    I cleaned up the mess, refilled the soup bowl, heated it, and had better luck getting it safely onto the table.  After finishing that, I went to work sorting the photos.  I knew there were some old photos from Germany, but what I discovered was a trove of letters.  Some of them marked by the censor. These were written from people in Germany during the war.  They’re all in German so I can’t read them, but they are historical, like my father’s letter to my mother, which my sister found in her possessions. I have to do some more sorting and send the letters to my sister, Dorothy, to get them translated.  I’ll share them with all of you if they prove interesting.  Some of the letters may be between my mother’s friend, Lotte Levy, who was the correspondence go-between my mother and father before my mother immigrated to join up with my father.

    Lotte’s story:  My mother and father tried to get her out of Germany.  My dad found someone through connections who was willing to sponsor her.  My parents couldn’t do it because they weren’t citizens yet.  Sal Diamond provided the affidavit for Lotte.  Everything was in place: the affidavit and the visa.  But she didn’t come.  My parents were frantic, Why wasn’t she coming?  She waited until her visa had expired before she told my parents.  Her mother, a wealthy woman who would have paid for her trip to America, refused to give her money.  She felt it was Lotte’s place to stay and take care of her mother.  My parents were very saddened by the situation.  They both told me that they would have found the money to pay for it themselves if they had known.  Both Lotte and her mother died in the Holocaust. 

    Sometime during the evening, Damon wrote that he might want to say something at the eulogy.  I was told that we only had 15 minutes to speak. We had to end promptly at 10:00 am for the mass to start.  Now, my speech was something like 5 minutes; Yvette’s looks a little longer, and now Damon’s on top of it.  We had to end promptly at10 am for the mass to start.  I was more stressed out over this situation than anything that has transpired so far.  I started worrying about how long it would take us to get up on the altar, how long the transitions would take from one speaker to the next, how long an emotionally driven pause would take . . . You get the picture.  I had an easier job dealing with taking Mike off life support. 

    At the end of the day, I watched some Vera reruns, walked Elsa, went to bed.

Wednesday, March 13, 2019

Good news: Got the songs picked out for the funeral. Damon and Cylin are taking charge of placing the obits. 

Bad news: I play too much FreeCell.

    I dreamed about Mike last night, holding him and kissing him. Boy, I will miss that. I used to tell him I loved him so much, it was silly. Now, we weren't like that every hour of every day of every year, but there were more minutes out of every day of feeling that way of late. It was so much fun.  I still feel I can love him that much. I just I can't hold him and kiss him when I tell him so.  

    My terms for his recovery, which was going to be long and difficult had he survived, were: he had to let me love him, he couldn't abuse me when he got frustrated, and he still had to think I was funny.  Reasonably demands I felt.  

    I had slept well, enjoying lying in bed.  I didn't want to get up; I hit the snooze button when the alarm went off at 6 am.  Then I said to myself, "Oh, grow up!" and got myself out of bed, walked the dog and drank my two cups of water, got myself dressed and went off to Bikram.  I didn't know how I would do; my back had been limiting me.  However, the class went very well.  The Bikram dialogue is "lock your knees." Actually, what you have to do is contract your thighs. Some people overextend their knees instead and put them in jeopardy.  I have been very careful not to do that.  Is still have a good set of knees; I want to keep it that way. For the first time, I was able to keep my upper thighs contracted for an extended period of time. Just when I think I'm going to do poorly, there is an important step forward.

    I headed to Target to pick up a belated birthday card for my grandnephew who just turned two, more Salon Pas for the back, and, of course, Hersey Milk Chocolate with whole almonds.  But, Target doesn't seem to be carrying the latter anymore. Bummer.

    Then I stopped off at Kaiser to pick up some prescriptions. They had my steroid cream for these rashes I've been suffering from; it seems to help. These started some time last year, I think.  I have no idea why I have this problem.  They didn't have my prescription for my Lexapro, which I took for my husband's anxiety.  That is really why I did take it.  Whenever I became a little hyper, he'd have trouble.  His mom was like that. She got very loud and over the top.  My behavior reminded him of her.  Not an endearing quality.  

    While in Honolulu, I discovered high blood pressure when I used Jean's blood pressure monitor during her first visit. I asked my doctor for blood pressure pills, and friends recommended that I get medication for my anxiety. I had been taking half a pill a day of Lexapro; I upped it to a whole pill.  When I tried to renew my prescription, it didn't go through.  When I stopped by today, they explained that it couldn't be renewed until the 18th.  Duh!  Of course, I'm going to run out of medication if I take more than the prescribed amount.  I had emailed my doctor to get a new prescription at the higher amount. I guess she didn't get it.  The pharmacy contacted her, and  I can pick up the pills tomorrow. I'd like to say that all this medication is helping my blood pressure, but the monitor seems to be stuck around 155/ 90.  I can get it down with repeated tries to as low as 135/85, but not down to 126/75, which I was running shortly before all the excitement started.

    The librarian at the New Orleans seminary returned my phone call.  I told him who I was. He sounded blah.  I can imagine how he would feel being stuck with another 3,000 books to sort through, knowing most would be unusable.  I told him John Coughlin's find, a system for scanning books into a program that categorizes them by their ISBN number.  I told him he could select books from the list.  With this he sounded a little more enthusiastic. Then I told him I would pay for the shipping.  Now, we had a change of tone. I wouldn't call it down right enthusiastic but pretty darn close.

    I had sent Damon and Cylin the shortened versions of the obits I had formulated, but I hadn't heard back from them.  I got through to Cylin who said that she thought she and Damon were taking care of placing them in the newspapers.  I thought I just asked them to take care of the NY Times. Cylin said Damon had decided he didn't want to do that.  The announcement would only be 4 lines long, cost $250 and no one would see it.  Gee, I was thinking of the nice long articles I read in the last section of my Kindle editions of the NY Times.  I don't know, but I think Mike deserves a place with the greats.  Oh, well. Guess not.

    Cylin passed on the articles to a friend of hers who is a professional editor. There is one whopper of an error that I didn't catch.  Jean modified some of the article. She wound up writing the following: "Deacon Mike is the proud parent of his beloved son Damon Ross, whom he cooperatively co-parented with his wife Betty David Ross, Damon's first wife and birth mother, Jean Ross, and Jean's husband, John Womack." Anyone see the problem?  I didn't.  Jean is Mike's first wife and Damon's mother.  No, this is not some perverse Freudian slip.  She is continually mixing up names between Mike, her second husband, John, and her son Damon. It's somewhat of a random shuffle.  No telling which name will come to the surface at any time.  Since it was clear to me what she meant, that's what I read.  

    Sandor, the man who helped me scan all the photographs to send to Damon so he could make the photo panels in time for the funeral, called. When they were here that night, his wife suggested an urn in the Hawaiian tradition, a wooden box.  It took me a while to process the information, but I decided I liked the idea. I called Sandor and told him I wanted to take up Mealiinani's suggestion.  He sent me three pictures of boxes.  I decided on the one made of Koa wood.  That is an absolutely beautiful Hawaiian wood from --- the Koa tree. I asked him how much it would cost. He said nothing. His father-in-law, Mealiinani's father, is a carpenter, had been a member of St. Michael's Church all his life, and is currently an usher.  Sometimes I feel that I am being struck by bolts of goodness and generosity. They are small shocks; it almost hurts it is so wonderful.  Beautiful wood, crafted into a hand-made box by someone who knows Mike and honors him.  It leaves me speechless. (Well, almost speechless.)

            On the other hand, Sandor told me that one of Mealiinani's first cousins, a 45-year-old man with five children, was killed in some sort of altercation.  Besides being entirely out of character, he was just struck in just the absolutely wrong way.  Besides being struck by goodness, I am being hit over and over again with stories of the sudden onset of serious illnesses and death. It's enough that I need to make a list.  

    Judy and Paulette came over later in the afternoon to go over the music selections for the funeral. Judy knows a lot to start out with and did some additional thinking and research. How could I ever have done this myself? Apparently, there is a funeral committee that takes care of some of these matters.  I suppose there are some standard formulas. I also suppose we are not that far off from the usual formula, but the choices are all made from the heart.  There is so much love for Mike and me.  Mike has put all this support in place for me.  I imagine after the funeral, there will be a letdown.  Then normal life will start again. We'll see what happens.  Will I be reduced to a FreeCell playing slug or will I become more productive?  I won't have Mike to kick me in the butt. 

    Sandor also said that he wanted to help me convert my journal into a blog.  He feels that what I had to write would be helpful to others.  That would be wonderful.  Judy also encourages me to do something with what I have written.  She says my writing has become even better, more interesting since Mike's death.  I have to hang on to writing this for myself for the sheer pleasure of it.  

    The usual nighttime routine: walk Elsa, eat dinner, watch an English murder mystery, go to bed.

Tuesday, March 12, 2019

Good news: I’m doing fine.

Bad news: None

    I’m getting comments from people about how strong I am.  Don’t feel strong.  I just have a long list of things to do, and I’m getting them done.  My strength shows in my screwing my courage to do things I haven’t done before.  There is that inner voice that haunts me which says, “I can’t do it,” meaning I’m not capable of doing it.  Most annoying.  I’m rational enough to know that I’m a capable and competent woman.  The likelihood of my not being able to navigate submitting appropriate obituaries to newspapers doesn’t make a lot of sense.  I keep Mike’s voice in my head, “It’s just a problem to be solved.” It’s not an overwhelming disaster that I can’t possibly overcome. I face some of the most mundane tasks with that voice inside of me.  As a child, I dealt with it by putting myself into overdrive, so I could move faster than my fear.  While I can get more done now, I still see myself drop a task and turn to comfort myself with FreeCell.  I hope I can overcome this resistance on my own without Mike’s raised his eyebrow when he saw me playing my computer game.

    Writing this blog helps.  I can easily believe that this must come as a surprise to many of you who read it. But I got tricked into doing it.  I had thought I would like to do something like this. I love articulating my ideas.  I have been told I should write, but it felt like an overwhelming task.  I would be writing for my own sake.  That’s where the trick came in.  I started it to keep others who were interested in Mike’s situation, not to express myself.  Six weeks of doing it, it became routine. I am aware that I have continued it, although Mike’s outcome is no longer an issue.  I just love doing it.  It’s certainly better for me than FreeCell.  Here is another gift Mike has given me.  Is this a trick he played on me to get me to do what he knew I wanted to do anyway?  He is one sneaky dude.

    I woke up in time to go to Bikram, but I was having such a sweet sleep. I  chose not to go and enjoy my bedtime.  I got up at 7:30 am instead of 6.   I set my alarm for 10:20 to make sure I left the house in time for my 11 o’clock facial. Yvette’s esthetician, Colleen,  is a greeter for the 7:30 Sunday mass. She offered me a free facial, a gift to Mike’s widow.  

    Yvette had given me the address and directions for getting there.  When I arrived, I saw an office with a doctor’s name on but nothing else. It didn’t make sense that she would be in that office, so I walked into the main house.  Figured she was working out of her home.  I walked in, called her name, but no response.  I saw an appointment book.  I saw things which let me know she was involved with the Catholic church, I concluded I was in the right place and took a seat in the living room.  Finally, this woman appeared. I had never met Collen, so I had no idea what she looked like.  I was surprised that she was Filipino.  I said, “Colleen?”  The woman said, “She has an office downstairs.”  Oops! I apologized and went on my way.  I  figured the woman meant on the first floor.  “She said the other front door.”  I was supposed to go into the ‘doctor’s office’ door.  I found out afterward that there had been a sign up with Colleen’s name on it until the day before. Someone who shared her office space had moved out and taken the sign with her. 

    When I did meet her, she greeted me with tears in her eyes.  So many people are saddened by Mike’s loss.  She spoke about how he would kid her as he was waiting at the back of the church to process to the altar at the beginning of mass. He saw her. He laughed with her. 

    Colleen isn’t just a garden variety esthetician, she’s a medical esthetician. Wow! What a facial!  When I was finished, I called Judy immediately to tell her how great my skin looked. I drove right to her house to show her. Usually, it would be Mike I would show it to.  Judy saw the difference.  I can just imagine what Mike would have thought. He would have squinted and said, “I guess there is a difference,” meaning if you say so.  God bless the man who thinks his wife always looks the same – great- no matter what she looks like at the moment.  

    Mike saw my acne scarring as texturing, and he loved it.  He wasn’t kidding.  When I went to have a facial, he was concerned they would get rid of it.  I assured him the scars would remain intact, I would just be getting rid of the extra bumps.  He was relieved.  I also have pretty pronounced spider veins on my upper thighs.  He described that as marbleizing and also saw it as an enhancement rather than a deficit.  What can I tell you? 

    I spent most of the day when I got home from the facial making calls. The first thing I did was call the New Jersey State Retirement Office to inform them of Mike’s death and find out what this meant for me.  I know that we designated me as a beneficiary, which reduced the amount of money he collected monthly.  But, I also remember something about the beneficiary benefit clause was void after the primary recipient had received retirement benefits for 10 years.  Mike collected benefits for 13.  I won’t get my answer until I submit the necessary paperwork to prove he’s dead: a death certificate or an obituary. 

     I spent most of the day finishing the obituary.  First, I had to call Columbia and get the information on the date of Mike’s Ph.D. and what it was in.  The name  Michael Ross is as common as dirt. Not even giving a middle name helped.  Narrowing down the date to either 1972 or 1973 did help.  Finally, she found the information which clearly seemed to be Mike.  Well, even it applies to some other Mike Ross that got his Ph.D. from Columbia the same year, it will do. Close enough. 

    Then I had to send out the obituary. I sent it to Chris Schreck, the rector of the Josephinum Seminary in Columbus, I issued it on Facebook, I asked Damon and Cylin to handle the NY Times, I called the Columbus Dispatch, the West Hawaii Today. I sent it to all the folks on the email list for my blog, which is not really a blog, and posted it on Facebook.

    Let me see, if I had the Columbus Dispatch print the full obituary as is, it would cost a mere $1000.  Hmm, I love Mike to bits and pieces. I think he was terrific in so many ways.  But $1000 for an obituary? Maybe not. So, I spent a good part of the day cutting a lot of the information out and creating versions for the different places where he had lived and worked. The Columbus Dispatch’s obit emphasizes his time at the Josephinum, the one for Princeton, his time as a deacon at St. Paul’s,  and the one for Hawaii, his role as deacon of St. Michael’s and president of the board of directors of Habitat for Humanity. I sent the abbreviated versions to Damon and Cylin for review. 

    I received an email from the librarian of the Josephinum Seminary yesterday telling me that they had no use for his 3,000 plus books. What a surprise!  I don’t know if Mike had a clue.  I made a point of assuring him I was taking care of it as he was dying.  I think the truth would have broken his heart.  Such a naïve sweet man!  He lived in an alternate reality when it came to scholarship.  He should have been born a medieval monk.  I called and left a message for the librarian of the seminary in New Orleans.  I figure if anyone can use books, they might be in need after their Katrina driven losses. However, I could also picture that everyone who was trying to get respectfully rid of books was sending them off to that seminary.  

    While I didn’t hear from them today, I did hear from John Coughlin, the head of the diaconate formation program for Hawaii, and the first person I called the first time Mike went up to the ICU.  He had taken action on his own.  He called the New Orleans Seminary, Notre Dame.  The librarian said, as I expected, people have been sending the books, most of which are of no use to them.  Many times, they don’t even open the boxes.  I do not want this to happen to Mike’s precious books. This app will allow those interested to pick out which books they want from a list instead of dealing with boxes, and boxes, and boxes of unidentified books.

They also said they can’t afford the shipping fee.  I  planned to pay for the shipping. 

    Then John told me that he found an app that scans books and catalogs them for a mere $14.   Would I mind if he came over to my house to do the scanning?  Really?!!!  I assured him that the library was out of the way from the rest of the house, and if I needed to, I could cover the glass panel in the door to the library with a cloth.  I’m kidding.   I think I’ll get the app and help.  Whatever they don’t finish, I can do a little at a time.  I was thinking this would all fall on me to take care of.  I had no idea that anyone else was thinking about it, no less assuming they should do something to help me get those books distributed.  My relief is beyond words.  

     I spent the early evening finishing the blog for Monday and starting on Tuesdays. Then I ate dinner, salad, and some of the remaining Thai food.  There is still more Thai food to go, but two containers got thrown out today.  

    I watched some TV, walked Elsa, treated my face to some special follow up treatment, which Colleen gave me, and went to bed.