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. 

Monday, March 11, 2019

Good news: I'm doing fine, and more support coming out of the woodwork. I am so lucky.

Bad news: None

    I went to bed with my body pounding away from the shock of that late-night phone call.  Thought, "Now, how am I ever going to get to sleep?" Applied my meditation skills, eased my body back to a relaxed posture, and fell asleep.  That was a scary moment.  I do not want to repeat two years of insomnia, which happened after my father died.

    I set the alarm for 6:00 am so I could make it to Bikram.  I hit the snooze button once but pushed myself up.  This was the first morning my rising time was dictated by an alarm clock in over 6 weeks.  I made it through the class without any breakdowns.  My big problem is my back.  This problem set in some time around week 3 of Mike's hospitalization. I'm not sure if it was because I was trying to do passive movement with Mike on my own, without any training, like raise the bed before you lift a limb, or from stretches, I did in the shower that changed the alignment of my back.  It certainly isn't from my hip, which has no cartilage.  

    The doctor who looked at my hip X-ray asked how I was even walking.  Surprise!  Maybe the problem isn't with the hip.  Yes, the X-ray clearly shows I have severe arthritis, but I have made improvements over the last 10 years since it was diagnosed.  I appreciate that not many people are willing to go my route. I've been slowly, very slowly, been making changes in my body over the ten years.  When I first experienced severe pain, I couldn't sleep more than 15 minutes without having to shift, and I couldn't make it to the end of the driveway without being in pain. No more.  Why?  No one really knows, but I think arthritis carries too much of the blame for the pain.

    There's a joke story that illustrates this idea:  A man comes across someone crawling on their hands and knees in the dark, obviously looking for something.  He offers to help. "What did you lose?"  "My keys."  "Where did you lose them?"  "Over there," pointing to a spot several yards away. "Why are you looking here if you lost them there?"  "The light is better."

    While my hip is well illuminated and offers an easy solution, the misalignment of my back and muscles do not. They require slow, deliberate changes requiring concentration on everything I do, how I sit, stand, lie, cut onions, etc.  Every move I make has to be changed.  I enjoy the unspooling of the problem.  I do love details.  Have you noticed?

    Because of my back, I still have to be hauled up off the floor at the end of the class. It took two men yesterday.  Jeff, one of the students, figured out how to do it alone today.  After slowly moving myself to a kneeling position from a prone one, Jeff hooked his arms under my armpits from behind and lifted me up.  By the way, it is not my lower back, which hurts.  It is some muscles on my left side between my hip and my ribs.  Go figure!

    The 10th of the month is my date for giving Elsa her heartworm and applying the tick and flea protection.  I managed to give her the heartworm yesterday but not the protection.  Opening her collar is a problem for me. That was Mike's job.  I took on the challenge and did it with ease.  She wasn't keen to sit on my lap and have a cold liquid poured onto the back of her neck, but she sat still and didn't complain. 

    It spent most of the day working on the obituary.  It was done by the end of the day except for some information about Mike's Ph.D. from Columbia.  (Ph. D. number one.) I had done the basic framework.  Cylin looked it over, made a few changes, and pointed out a lot of missing dates. Damon and Cylin pronounced it adequate but boring.  It was sent to Jean to add some information that she might have had.  She put in some of the meaningful comments about Mike being a good person who cared about others.  That is more true than words can possibly convey.

    Judy and Paulette came over in the late afternoon to help me decide upon the readings for the funeral mass. Clarence, the head of the diaconate program for Hawaii who will be delivering the homily, sent me some suggestions.  Judy had done her research before coming over and had three selections to offer for each reading.  I picked the ones that were the most meaningful to me. Working with them was fun.  All these difficult activities are fun because I'm not doing them alone.  Not only I'm not alone, but I am doing them with people who loved, and love, Mike, and know me well enough to like me if not love me. I'm benefitting from the love overflow since they don't have Mike to shower it on anymore. I'll take it. It's genuine. That's good enough for me.

    I got rid of Mike's underpants, undershirts, and socks. These are things second-hand stores don't take. Judy and Paulette work with the homeless here in Hawaii through the church.  Once a month they prepare a huge meal for I don't know how many people.  I asked them if they thought underwear would be useful. I gave them two large bags.  Mike had everything in abundance.

    They also checked out my freezer.  Mike, with his need for abundance, always packed the freezer to overflowing.  We were warned that overloading the refrigerator and freezer could cause it to break down.  I tried to restrain him.  I would be successful for a while, and then . . . Judy thinks I have enough food in there for a year. We're planning a joint feast for  Friday.  The meal will be cooked here in Mike's kitchen.

    We redid the kitchen when we moved here. Mike loved to cook and was good at it. He got the kitchen he always wanted. I am so happy he had that.  There are so many things that worked out well for both of us with this move to Hawaii.  We had a spectacular contractor/ builder, Ken Kilkuski, who designed and built the kitchen with Mike and me.  I don't cook. It is wasted on me.  But anyone who wants to come over and cook a meal is welcome, as long as I can be included in the guest list.

    Everyone who knows me is concerned about getting me fed.  Cylin said that Damon, Mike's son, can prepare a freeze some food for me while he is here for the funeral.  Good luck finding enough room in the freezer.  Maybe by then, I'll have emptied out something. I'm still working on the food Brenda brought me my first night home.  I have most of a roasted chicken left and the second quart container of soup. I also have a little bit of the Thai food Sandor and Mealiinani brought over the night they scanned the pictures.  I hope people don't give up on me.  Cylin, God bless her, said she doesn't know what she would do if Damon wasn't there. Another woman who doesn't cook.  But August, his son, is learning from Damon as Damon learned from Mike.  I guess August will have to find a woman who can't cook too. 

    I ate dinner, a big bowl of salad, which I couldn't complete and put half back in the frig, some leftover Thai food and some chocolate covered mac nuts. Yvette came up to do some bodywork on me.  She now does Graston. She's going to work on me a few minutes every other night. It feels great. Let's see if we can resolve those trouble midback muscles.  I walked Elsa and went to bed. 

Sunday, March 10,2019

Good news: I'm functioning pretty well.

Bad news: There were a few moments today. I'm sure there will be more.

    I had a bad night's sleep, never sunk into that deep, restful kind.  Sometime in the middle of the night, I found myself mentally revising Mike's obituary. I had made a few changes yesterday and passed off the responsibility to Cylin, my daughter-in-law, a professional writer.  I felt it was just too much for me to be able to organize it.  I called her when I got up, concerned that she had already started on it when I now had my own ideas.  She and Damon were busy working on the picture panels for the funeral. 

    Damon wound up with 150 pictures to select from 60 from me, 1/3 from him, and the rest from photos that people from the church emailed him directly.  Some people included condolences and thoughts about Mike. It was meaningful to all of us.  Damon is amazed by the responses he is getting from people who knew Mike and old friends who he hasn't heard from in years who heard about Mike's death through social media and reached out.

    I had plans to skip Bikram today and go to mass at the Holy Rosary Church, a small building that seats about 50 people, with Judy and Paulette.  I was ready, but not out front as I should have been. Paulette had to come in to get me. 

    We got there early enough, so there was some chat-chit.  The lady sitting next to me asked me where I was from. "Here."  "Oh, I've never seen you before. Are you new to church?" "I'm Deacon Mike's wife." How's that for a sock in the jaw. 

    Father Joe Badding was saying the mass.  He said a few words before the procession. As his eyes wandered over the parishioners, he spotted me and stopped dead in his tracks.  He said something about, "Sorry, Betty." I told him to carry on.  He was up there before the mass for the very purpose of announcing Mike's death and funeral arrangements.  He asked me if he could continue.  I nodded, yes. 

    This was a hard moment. Not because of the announcement, but because I never went to church without Mike being there.  He was either on the alter or by my side, but one way or the other, he was there. Now he wasn't.  I thought, "I'd better start carrying tissues around with me." At least there wasn't a repeat of the breakdown I had yesterday at Bikram. 

    My body feels so different. It's like something's loose that shouldn't be, or at least wasn't there before he died.  Mike and I functioned as two independent people who whole-heartedly supported each other if we thought it was for their best. It didn't feel like we were sacrificing ourselves to do this.  It always held the promise of personal enrichment. After 45 years of always considering Michael, I now have lost that landmark, that boundary. I feel like I'm fishing around in empty air to find out where I am. It's scary.   I haven't just lost Mike; I've lost part of myself or the person I used to be in relationship to him.  It is a freedom; it feels like I suddenly have the power to walk through walls.  I don't like it. I'm sure it will eventually regulate. How long does it take? My guess is, from all I've read, a full year. Oh, dear. 

    In the meantime, there are so many doors that have opened for me.   The generosity of others is joyous and not overwhelming.  Most people respect my boundaries and offer love at the same time.  Pretty remarkable.  

    One of the benefits that came out of this tragedy is this blog.  I started it because it was easier than calling all the people concerned about Mike individually, repeating on the phone over and over and over got tired quickly.  As you can tell, I'm a thinker. Like Mike, I love the life of the mind. I find it a fascinating place to be. Unlike Mike, I can be in my mind and pay attention to the world around me.  One of the issues between us.  Sound familiar to any other women out there?

    When I got home from church, I did some writing and took a satisfying nap.  Yay!  I was afraid I was facing a long bout with insomnia. That's what happened after my dad died.  I had terrible sleep problems until the day I went off to college.  However, I'm not leaving this house. I have to figure out some way to get good sleep.

    I walked Elsa before dinner. I've been buying packaged cut kale salad from Safeway.  Besides that, I still have enough cooked food for a while.  Tonight,  besides the remaining salad, I finished off one of the vegetarian soups that Brenda picked up from Costco and some warmed buttered bread and cheese.  Hmm! Bread with butter just hits the spot these days.  

    I am slowly putting things away that are out.  I had to put away the pictures I pulled out for Damon.  I still have a little bit of unpacking to do. Haven't been throwing things away yet except for those tee shirts Mike used for the gym, which looked like they had been hit by acid rain.

    I watched some TV. I'm not watching the shows we were watching together.  I can't quite do that yet. I'm rewatching English murder mysteries we watched together and enjoyed, Vera in this case.  The Lewis series came to an end. I think the lead performers chose to take a year off, but they are planning to come back and do more episodes. Hope so.   

    While I was watching, my phone rang. My whole body responded  before my mind could intercede, "Mike." Whenever Mike was away, he would call before he went to bed to say good night.  My external body sat calmly, but my innards leaped with joy. "Mike was calling to say good-night and tell me that he loves me." This man told me I was beautiful and that he loved me every day of our marriage until the sedatives silenced him. 

    Many years ago, when we were living in Princeton,  we did a presentation for a marriage preparation class program on communication.  We each gave a speech.  I started mine with, "You may not know it, but I'm the most beautiful woman in the world." I expected people to respond somehow. Titter, turn their heads away.  But no, everyone remained rapt. "At least, that's what my husband tells me every day." Still no real response. "If he didn't do it on his own, I'd be willing to pay him to do it." Finally, laughter.  I hoped those kids got the point.  Say nice things to your partner, gratuitously nice things, randomly nice things, whatever.  Be generous.

    Mike and I both came from backgrounds where we didn't hear a lot of nice things.  My parents were always civil to each other, my father was to my sister and me too, but my mother didn't understand the concept of talking civilly to children. She actually believed it was harmful to us. 

    After my mother moved in with Mike and me in our Princeton house in 1983, she said something stunning. "I know I shouldn't tell you this.  It isn't good for you. But I've been telling everyone what a good daughter you are." Huh?  Well, that explains a lot.  I was told by a woman of my generation that immigrated from Germany that my mother's ideas were German but writ large. She was an extreme example of this concept of child-rearing. 

    We know now that constant negativity takes a toll on a child's development.  We also understand that no criticism but constant praise has the same effect.  I heard years ago that the children of extreme poverty and the children of extreme wealth both suffered in similar ways.  Sounds like honesty and balance is always the best choice.  There is also knowing when to offer criticism. Sometimes it not only falls on deaf ears, but it raises a person's defenses so they can't hear even when they are somewhat ready.  Again, as in comedy, timing is everything.

    Mike's mother yelled at everyone. She doled out unpleasantness equally.  This is not to say that there weren't good moments with her.  I enjoyed watching tv with her.  When she was up, she was safe. I think the difference between our two mothers was that my mother was a genuinely loving woman, at least to her children. She wouldn't show it to us, but there were many times we would turn to catch her looking at us with love pouring out of her eyes.  

    I don't think Mike had that with his mother.  She resented him for being male. She told me that when he was born, she promised she was going to make damn sure he never thought he was a prince.  Now aside from the fact that all babies think they are the absolute center of not only their own universe but everyone else's, what baby comes out thinking he will be better than everyone else, particularly women.  They don't even know there is a distinction. 

     She got this bias from her background.  In her home, the men were superior to the women.  The men got to do 'what they wanted to do. Not really.  They were confined by tradition just as much as the women were. It was just that the women thought it looked better on the other side of the fence. And, the men were raised to believe they had the better deal too.  But when you have half the population oppressed, no one is truly happy. Doesn't work that way.  

    Actually, I read something which contradicts the idea that the oppressing group doesn't benefit more recently. There are two ways to induce oxytocin release: one is bonding with members of your own group, and the second is attacking those who are not of your group.  Both serve to strengthen our sense of our place in our own group. But in today's world, like it or not, or lives are all linked intimately. There is no functional 'other' anymore. We're interdependent. We're in many ways all part of the same group. 

    I think the rapid dissolution of tribal identities is one of the reasons for the rise of nationalism and tribalism again. We've changed a little too fast.  Our identifies feel too loose.  Some can cope with it and those who can't.  We all need to have some compassion for each other.  Some believe it was our lack of empathy and respect for a group needing more stability, or our denigration those with a less complicated vision of the human condition, which has now contributed to the political mess we are in.  I admit to being part of the group of intellectual elites who judged others for their ignorance, lack of sophistication, and intolerance rather than have some compassion for their plight.  This, by no way, means that I condone this rebirth of tribalism, just that I understand it.  We all have to look for an alternative to help us all have a secure place in our social world, that is held for us we deep respect for our humanity.

    Mike and I managed such a respectful relationship with each other. It didn't fix the whole world, but it was a start in our little corner of it.  Shortly before Mike met me, he asked a colleagued what he should look for in a partner.  He said, "a worthy opponent." Mike saw that in me. He told me that he saw me as someone who would take care of herself and  be equally concerned about his needs. Well, this is certainly how I like to see myself.  What a smart man! I assure you others in the world are not as 'smart' as Mike was. Some are in my family. But I did have that with Mike.  We worked well together.  He liked to say that our relationship worked as well as it did, "because there was always one adult present," and it wasn't always the same person. Neither one of us could appropriately address the other's needs consistently, but the respect for our needs as expressed was there. Neither of us took advantage of the other's generosity, either.  

    When we first met, I helped establish a way to set boundaries.  We had come from homes where there was no such respect.  If one of us didn't like what the other was doing, we would give a 'lifesaving tap." The lifesaving tap was something I learned in a lifesaving class. (The only course I failed in college because I didn't study for the written exam.) 

    In a water lifesaving class, you partner with another person; one of you is saving, and the other is 'drowning." Now, people who are drowning struggle.  They are scared and desperate; the 'drowning partner' has to act scared and desperate. Well, what if one of the pair in the practice session is really drowning. You can't speak as say, "Get off of me." Ergo, the lifesaving tap. You tap your partner underwater, and the exercise comes to an immediate end. Mike and I had a deal: if one of us delivered it to the other, that person would stop what they were doing immediately unless it was a life or death matter.  It made both of us feel safe. And, neither of us ever abused it.  It took me years to realize that someone could use it abusively.  But there is no silver bullet for nice.  What a shame!

    There was an advantage coming from such difficult backgrounds. We were continuously grateful for the kindness and respect of the other.  Again, was our behavior always perfect.  Absolutely not!  Not even at the end, after 45 years of marriage had we ironed out all our difficulties, our annoyances.  It was just that we were both committed to working on them, not only for the other's sake, but with the clear understanding that each of us would benefit from these changes we made.  I live by that creed. 

    Back to that late-night phone call:  My body was bounding.  God, I miss him, and I'm going to miss him so much more. What am I going do without his daily dose of love? It was part of our ritual.  I don't know if we loved each other more than any other couple. But I do know that objectivity we showed that love more than most couples.  Is it because we didn't have children of our own?  I think some people have children just to experience that delicious feeling of pouring out unconditional love with abandon.  You only get that freedom with a child for a limited amount of time.  If you share it with an adult, it goes on for years and years and years.  Again, I am so lucky that  Michael chose me, and it was he that chose me.

    I looked tough, but I was one frightened girl.  I do well, have always done well, at getting to know people casually wherever I go.  I also do well in strong intimate relationships.  The easiest thing for me is to move in with people and work on the relationship. (I understand this is Nicole Kidman's approach to marriage too. Get married and then worry about the relationship.) I had just resolved to date anyone who I didn't think would do me bodily harm.  The bar was pretty low.  And then, I would do exactly what I wanted to during the date.  I would only date someone once a month, and speak to someone on the phone a maximum of once a week.  I was setting old-fashioned boundaries.   I never had more offers of dates in my life. Go figure.  

    Mike and I met the Wednesday after a July 4th weekend in 1973 in a therapy group in Manhattan.  It was my first time with this particular group. ( I had just been kicked out of two others.  I have and had my own ideas of what therapy should entail and strenuously disapproved of a lot of the tactics at the time, but it was what was available. Note: the profession has come around more to my way of thinking, I am told.) He came in late in a suit carrying a briefcase.  I thought, "He's cute." He explained that he was late because he was visiting his girlfriend in the hospital after having had a hysterectomy.  Well, that ended that.  Wound up, he was breaking up with her. Not because of the hysterectomy.  

    November 8th was our first date.  We went to the Library, a restaurant on the upper west side of Manhattan. Things clicked.  He seemed to see me as I saw myself and wanted to be seen; I was comfortable with that vision.  The coins kept dropping on subsequent dates.  I wouldn't have described myself as madly in love with him; I just knew this was right.  It was in February of the next year that I accepted him as my life partner. I don't mean it was the first time we were intimate.  Nor did we get married.  I mean I knew this was it, period end of sentence.  I had looked at him and thought, I can live with what he as is even if he never changes.  

    Oh, there were revelations of personality that were a surprise to both of us.  Those jokes Mike told, putting people and their ideas down, were not jokes.  He was genuinely arrogant.  Of course, as I looked back, his arrogance was one of the things that attracted me.   He reminded me of my beloved father. I think I reminded him of his not so beloved mother, too.  Like her, I am an expressive, loud personality.  Not exactly the shy retiring type.  I don't know about his mother, but I'm perfectly prepared to make a fool out of myself for any number of reasons: humor, safety, justice, concern. I suppose we can say for now that the rest is history. I hope to fill these pages with more "Michael  and Betty stories."

Saturday, March 9, 2019

Good news:  I had a good cry.

Bad news: None, really.

    This was the first time I got up to an alarm clock, so I could make it to Saturday’s 8:30 am Bikram class.  I followed my old routine to a tee: walk Elsa, oil rinse, wash dishes,  drink 2 cups of water, get dressed for Bikram, and leave at 8 am for class.

    Maite, one of the other Bikram regulars, greeted me with, “Glad to see you back.  I’m so sorry.” That’s all she said.  It triggered something.  I could feel the change in my body.  Jeff came out of the studio and gave me a big hug, held the door for me as I went in to put down my walker (I use it as a help for my balance in class.  I don’t need it to walk.), mat, towel and water bottle. Then I did my let’s- be-on-the-safe-side visit to the bathroom.  When I came back to the room, I felt unpinned. I stood there and did some deep breathing, working on getting myself under control.

    Maite looked back at me. I mouthed, “This is the start of normal activities.”  She came to me in the back of the room, put her arms around me, and I started to sob, those racking sobs that almost sound like laughing.  I had trouble standing straight. I can only remember crying like that twice before in my life. 

    There were 14 other people in the room. I had several thoughts.  Instructors have talked about people breaking down and crying while doing yoga because the postures can trigger a release. That made it feel like a safe place.  However, I also had some thoughts about upsetting the other people in the class. I don’t know how long I was crying, a few minutes, 5 minutes, maybe 6.  My body had taken over; stopping wasn’t an option. How was I going to be able to take this class if I was going to break down into deep sobs? 

    I said maybe I should leave. Maite offered to help me carry my gear out. I said something about being more concerned about the class than myself. I knew it would be better if I took the class.  Maite just turned and went back to her mat.  When I looked up, everyone was standing in place, calmly waiting for the class to begin.  Mark, the instructor, walked into the room and said, “Welcome to your 8:30 am, more or less, class.”  I realized he had delayed starting the class promptly to give me the time to complete my cry.  Many of the people in the class knew me and knew I had just lost Mike.  I felt that so protected.  I felt that the people in the class held that space for me. I am so lucky. 

    Most people must have thought I was crying because I had lost Mike, but I have no idea why I was crying.  I wasn’t thinking of Mike; I wasn’t thinking of anything other than observing I was crying and vaguely being aware that I was causing a disruption. My body was crying; my mind was blank.  I’m inclined to think that a lifetime of grief found an opening and poured out.

    I can remember crying like that only twice before in my life.  The first was in a group therapy session when I was in my thirties.  One of the few good moments in that situation that made all the bad ones worthwhile.  I was crying, “ You may not be as good as my father, but at least you’re here.”  I was saying it to my mother.   My father had died when I was 15.  He was the ‘maternal’ one. My mother was difficult, not only for her children but for everyone.  But, when she was left with two children, one 15 and one 10, and her mother to take care of, she pulled a rabbit out of a hat.

    Below are stories that I have wanted to put into a printed form for years.  They are about my mother.

    At the time of my father’s death, she was 52 years old. She had immigrated to America when she was 37 and had never worked here.  Within a month of my father’s death, she had moved her mother into our house, and found a job.  My sister, Dorothy, remembers when she came home and proudly announced, “I got a job!”  While she had some unfortunate qualities, she was an amazing woman of great spirit.  She was hard to like, but very easy to love. Sadly, she had a low tolerance for affection, any expression of love.  While she had never gone to college, she saw to it that my father’s expectations for his children were fulfilled,  Dorothy and I both got our college educations. 

    The second time I had a good cry like that was when I had the image of my mother in limbo or purgatory and not at peace. She had a difficult time being gentle in life, but she could be loving. A commune mate met her when she came to my 30-birthday party. She said, “Now, I know why you’re obsessed with your mother. She’s capable of love.” I had met that woman’s mother; it was clear at first glance, she was not. 

    At the time, I still gnawed at unresolved relationships instead of just walking away.  My relationship with my mom was unsettled. We could not hold a conversation without her attacking me.  I had no idea what was going on until shortly before her death.  We were watching TV together. An ad came on, and my mom commented about the woman in it, “Isn’t she beautiful?”  I said, “Gee, no, I don’t think so.”  I thought we’re going to have a real conversation and get to understand each other’s point of view.  She said, “Why do you always have to put me down?” I was struck dumb.  Was that what was going on?  

    I remember a moment when I was about 12 years old.  My mom stood before me in the living room and said,” If two people always agree, there’s only one mind at work.” Even at the time, I knew those were my father’s words, which she was repeating.  She didn’t make abstract statements like that. However, the bone she threw me allowed me to be myself and work to find some way to reconcile with her.  While we never did have successful conversations, we did make it to a loving and caring relationship. She lived in the mother-in-law (ohana) attachment to our house for the last 18 years of her life.  

    Dorothy and I estimate that she had the emotional development of an 18-month-old when I was born and a 2 or 3-year-old when she was born.     Some people thought my mother was narcissistic, but she didn’t have the emotional development to qualify for that disorder.  No, she was too young.  Her disorder was not an ego problem; it was a survival problem, PTSD.  And, she came upon this disorder honestly.  She had several serious traumas. The first started shortly after her birth in November 1903.  They found a good-sized benign tumor on the left side in her upper back.  If that tumor had been allowed to grow, it would have crushed her vital organs.  In response, the doctors injected alcohol, I don’t know what kind, into, and around the tumor.  Every other day, my grandmother took my mother to the hospital for this procedure. The tumor and the area around it became infected.  I imagine it must have been impossible for her to lie on her back or be held to be nursed without pain. 

    In May of 1904, when my mom was 6 months old, the doctors removed the tumor surgically.  She came out of the anesthesia twice during the operation.  The doctor’s told her it was because she had such a strong will to live.  Nonsense. It was 1904; anesthesia is risky to this day.  Imagine what it must have been like to give it to a 6-month-old back then.  I’m sure they delayed it as long as they could and then dove in.  But, this story became part of my mother’s identity; she was a fighter.  It served her well.  

    Shortly before she died, she told me another part of the story.  She wasn’t kept overnight in the hospital but sent home.  My best guess is the hospital didn’t have an infants’ ward. My grandfather was a chauffeur for a wealthy man. He drove a horse-drawn carriage.  My mother was driven home in that over cobblestone streets hours after the surgery. She cried; her mother was embarrassed.  I told my mother that if she had been a dog, they would have put her down rather than have subjected her to such treatment.  She was essentially tortured.  That she survived with any sanity intact is a miracle.

    Her second major trauma was at the death of her beloved dog, Lord.  Lord came into the family when my mother was two. My grandfather was something short of a dog whisperer. His training methods for both the dog and my mother involved beatings. In his defense, it was the culturally approved method at the time.  When one of them got a beating, they retreated to my mother’s bedroom and comforted each other.

    Lord was fiercely protective of my mother. My grandparents felt comfortable leaving him to ‘babysit’ my mother when she was still very young. If he barked, the neighbor would come running.  If anything was wrong with his charge, he would have barked his head off. 

    There are a few other wonderful stories.  When my mom was six, she was playing with a group of children. Something happened, and my mom wound up crying.  Lord went up to each child in the group and looked them straight in the eye.  Each child, in turn, cried, “ I didn’t do it.” I got the impression that no one was afraid they would be hurt by him; it was just his accusation that intimidated them. He was an authority figure.

    In 1914, when my mother was 11 years old, her 42-year-old father volunteered to fight for the German army in WWI. In preparation, concerned that the two women he was leaving behind wouldn’t have enough food for themselves, no less a dog, he asked a neighbor to take Lord to the vet and have him put down.  He said nothing to either my grandmother or my mother before.  Neither had a chance to say goodbye to him.  My mother was devastated.  She was sick in bed for two weeks. It was a grief she carried with her for the rest of her life.  My sister and I mourn this dog we never met as well.  

    In a group therapy session, I once said, “My uncle was a dog.” Everyone jumped on me for denigrating my uncle so.  I said, “He was a Doberman pincher.” Oh!  Lord was a beloved family member and as much as my uncle as my real uncle.  He was my mother’s brother, period end of sentence.

    The final trauma was Nazi Germany. My father and mother started dating in 1927. They met at a New Year’s Eve/engagement party of mutual friends in Berlin, where they both lived. My father was upper class Jewish, and my mother was lower-middle-class Protestant. In 1935, my father, along with all the other Jews who were working in the German courts, were expelled.  He arranged to meet my mother in the Tiergarten and told her he had to leave for America.  Would she be willing to emigrate and marry him if he could earn enough money to support her? You can imagine what her, and their life, was like after that. She had many Jewish friends.  She witnessed someone being dragged through the streets of Berlin behind a motorcycle. She had to fear for her own life. 

    During my father’s absence, they had to correspond secretly.  Lotte Levy, my mother’s good friend who was Jewish, acted as their intermediary. My father would send his letters to Lotte’s address, she gave them to my mother, who would reply, give them back to Lotte, who then mailed them.  As a precaution, they only used terms of endearment in their letters and never their names.  Below is the letter my father sent to my mother for her to receive on the boat coming from Germany to America.  

   

H. Ernst David

74 Wadsworth Terrace

Apt. B-41

New York, N.Y.

    My eternally beloved Marguerite, for close to a year and a half, not once in my letters have I been able to call you by your own name.  A year and a half, that, in spite of the not unsatisfactory business developments, has not been a very easy time.  For me, the worst was the fear that I suffered for you from time to time, from the thought that, indeed, in spite of all my caution, I might have made some mistake that could result in giving you difficulties.  

    So, the thought that when you receive this letter you will be ready to start your journey here, and that four weeks from today I will be able to see you again and kiss you as my dear bride makes me all that much happier.

    I know, darling, that you have just made a very upsetting and painful farewell, which is surely still weighing on you.  I understand this pain very well and you may be sure that I wouldn’t expect that you would love your parents even in the slightest less than before.  Rather, I will really try my best to always be a good and loving son to them.

    You are going to be coming into an alien country, darling, with a foreign language, and people who are strangers. Don’t try to rediscover our Germany here, the one whose familiar beauties of home existed only once in the world and which, with the best will cannot be  magically recreated here. Much is different from what we are used to, many things will seem strange to you and some will seem ugly.  Try, my darling, as a favor to me, to take things as they come, and if possible, without drawing comparisons at every step, recognizing the good, and at least overlooking the bad, for the first while that you are here.  If you follow this advice, you’ll soon find out that America and in particular, New York, has great attractions and outstanding beauties, which, if we discover and enjoy them together, can replace much which Fate has taken from us.

    It may be, darling, that I too have changed in the last year and a half, and that you will find in me faults and weaknesses other than the ones you already know and for which you are not prepared. On no account let a feeling of disappointment or dissatisfaction arise in you.  Tell me right away what you don’t like or what is on your mind, just as I am planning to share all my thoughts and feelings with you.   We two have always been able to understand each other, and will, as I confidently hope, continue to do so as husband and wife.

       Neither of us is a child, dearest, and we are mature enough to know that marriage is no game, but a serious undertaking, that responsibilities, sacrifices and discomforts for both partners, and in critical moments, which will happen to us too, can only be overcome with an iron will. But on the other hand, our feeling of belonging together through thick and thin, which underpins such determination, contains the possibility for the greatest fulfillment of happiness that two people are capable of.

    You, my dearest, by your actions in the last years, have shown that you are well and truly willing to do your part in the fulfillment of the task that is in front of us, and I promise you I will also do everything to make our marriage a true partnership.

     So, my dearest, I am looking forward with joy to the future, in the confident hope, that from our shared joys and sufferings, that future will bring us mutual satisfaction and happiness. 

This is serious letter that I am writing to you, dearest, to lead you from the old Europe to a new continent and new future, but you should know how seriously I will take the vows that we will make to each other a few days after you receive this letter.

You should know, dearest, not only that I love you with all my heart, but also that I feel I carry a deep and heavy responsibility toward you, a responsibility that I can only discharge if I succeed in making you, and in that way, also myself, happy.

As a result of a new law in the state of New York, our wedding cannot take place until three days after your arrival, which should be December 21, and I am looking forward to that day, which will join us for life, with longing and joyous expectation.

On Wednesday, Erich’s telegram arrived.  So far, we don’t have any further news.  I am hoping that he will be with you on the ship.  I wish you and everyone else a peaceful, pleasant, and smooth voyage.  Best greetings and kisses.  The next ones will be real.

In great love and longing,

                                                                                                                        Always, Heinz

    After my Bikram class, I came home.  I did some work on the obituary and took a nap,  only the second one I’ve taken since January 25.  Before that, Mike and I must have averaged 12 to 14 hours of sleep in 24 hours.  I would get 8 to 9 hours of sleep during the night.  I always got up early because I went to the 7:30 Bikram class, but I would also take a 2 to 3-hour nap in the afternoon. I sleeping was one of my favorite retirement hobbies.

    The evening routine: walk Elsa, eat dinner, watch an English murder mystery, Vera, walk the dog before going to sleep, brush my teeth, wash my face, and go to bed.

Friday, March 8, 2019

Good news:  Well, I'm still happily out of touch with reality.

Bad news: I woke up after 4 hours of sleep, my mind full of all of the things I had to do. 

    It was a day filled with to-do activities. The first thing was walking Elsa, the start again of my daily routine.  Next, unpack. Since I have trouble bending down and the rip-stop nylon duffle bag was too heavy, I pulled stuff out of it and threw them on the bed.  What a mess! Mike hated mess. 

    At one point in our marriage, he came up to me and said, "I'm neat, your messy. My way is better than yours." I said, "Excuse me, this is a marriage.  I have as much right to my neurotic need to be messy, and you do to your neurotic need to be neat." And it was neurotic.  Mike had a fear of chaos.  Even as he was dying, he was concerned about creating order.  Or, at least that was my take on what his thinking was as a noticed his furrowed brow.  Telling him my plans for organizing my life, his funeral, his books, etc., after his death resulted in smoothing those worry lines. 

    I spoke to Clarence several times.  He asked me to put together an obituary.  Then he sent me a wonderful composed one.  It was a resume with mention of me and his son, Damon.  His work as a deacon was more complete than I could have made it, and it was very well written, probably someone who is the professional for the NADD, National Association of Deacon Directors.  I have to contact the person, ask if I can use it as a base, and add a few more details.  I want to include the colleges Mike attended and expand the list of family members:  His wife, Betty, his first wife and mother of his son, Jean, his son Damon, Damon's wife Cylin, his grandson August, his sister Randy Ross, and his nieces Tara and Shivani Ganguly, and Shivani's son Sidney Roth-Ganguly.  Both our families are very small, and each person is important.

    When I spoke to Clarence, he reminded me that it was Ash Wednesday. I guess I'm about to start my 40 days in the desert. I called Judy to see her plans and tell her I wanted to go to church with her.  When she picked up the phone, she said she had been reaching for it to call me about the same thing.  She said she and her sister, Paulette, would pick me up at 11:30 for the noon mass.  I continued bustling around the house, putting things away.  Many of the things I brought back were Mike's.  There were not just the clothes on his back, but I had packed books, his power book, things I thought he would use in the hospital, and the need for the trip home.  Lots of little stuff. 

    I also called St. Paul's in Princeton, where Mike served as a deacon from 1994 to 2003, and then the diaconate office in Trenton to tell them both of Mike's death.  I spoke to someone at St. Paul's.  The person had heard of Mike but only started working there after he had left.  I talked to a machine at the diaconate office.  I got a call back telling me they had no record of a Mike Ross. What?! "They must be thinking of deacons who are currently active in the diocese."

    I was working away when I finally looked at the clock: 11:21. Oh, dear. Stripped down, jumped in the shower, did just enough of washing so I was reasonably presentable at a distance, and got dressed as quickly as I could.  11:30 arrived, and no Judy and Paulette. 

    While standing in the driveway, Marsha and Charlie, my neighbors across the street, came back from their walk around the area. They expressed their condolences and waited with me.  They have been wonderful, helping out with Elsa.  They love her too. I am so lucky to have the support and help when I need it.  I find Hawaii such a generous place.

    At 11:42, Judy and Paulette arrived.  We made it late to mass.  I thought I would see more people who I know and who know me.  Brenda, Don, Zola, Jack, Mindy, and Ed, and Cindy were there.  I caught glances from other people who may or may not have recognized me or just wondered who these rude women were coming in so late.

    The thing that's the hardest is watching other loving elderly couples. Then I think I will never have that again with Mike. Most people just looked at me and smiled wanly. Then one person gave me that oh-poor-you look. I didn't take that well. For me, that said rejection. They were focusing on my loss of Mike and not on the life ahead of me.  As I walked back down the aisle to get to my seat after communion, Mindy gave me a hug and said, "I love you." That's what I want. I can't imagine why anyone would want it differently. I'm sure I'm wrong, but I find I don't understand it.  I don't want to focus on the loss; I want to focus on what I have left.  I hope the community will still embrace me even though Mike, their beloved deacon, is gone. I hope I am enough to hold my value in this world. 

    Judy, Paulette, and I drove back home (they live right down the street from me.) Judy and Paulette were part of team Elsa while I was gone.  Elsa couldn't be in the house all day by herself.  She needed to get out to do her business.  She slept with Yvette and Josh at night.  In fact, she was downstairs with them whenever they were home.  But because Elsa has an issue with the next-door neighbors' four dogs, and got into a fight to the death with Liner, one of Yvette and Josh's dogs, over a ball, they couldn't leave her down there unsupervised.  Yvette had to throw water on them to get them to stop.  There were no injuries, but Yvette, erring on the side of caution, has picked up all balls from the yard and the house.  All balls play must be supervised.

    Elsa can play ball pretty much non-stop.  Everyone who comes into the house is a likely play partner.  She will bring the ball back to you, knowing that's the best way to keep you going. If you don't pick it up, she'd take the ball in her mouth and drop it on your foot. This is serious business.  She won't tolerate being ignored.  Mike loved to play with her.  She loved to be with Mike.  He was her person of choice.  She seems to be adjusting, but when I first came home she kept looking at the door waiting for him to come in. I keep telling her, "It's just us from now on, girl." 

    Judy stopped in the house to help me put ear drops in Elsa's ears.  She and Paulette not only walked her, at their scheduled times, played with her, whenever Elsa could get them to, they took care of her physically.  Judy noticed that the hair between her toes was too long and getting dirty and matted.  They washed her feet and did somewhat of a trimming.  Judy made arrangements to get her groomed at Petco and took her down there before I got home. At the time, we still didn't know when I would be back, and if I would be alone at that time.  

    Elsa has a persistent skin rash since we've had her.  I have medication for her, but it never clears up completely.  When I got home, I noticed it was gone.  Judy said it was in evidence before she took her to Petco, and gone shortly after.  We suspect it may have something to do with the soap they used.  It may also be that Mike and I never got around to bathing her once a week as we were supposed to. Negligence, your name is Ross.

    Our friends from Maryland, John and Carol Zimmerman, had asked about the funeral arrangements.  We are planning a service here in Hawaii.  It will be on March 30.  My sister's family won't be able to make it because my niece is expecting April 2, and my sister, her mother, will be there to assist with the baby care.  Mike and I were planning to go in for the bris or baby naming.  It was going to be a visit with family.  Now, the visit will serve two purposes: I will get to see the baby, and mainland family and friends will join together for a memorial for Mike.  The parish funeral is primarily for the parish, with some family.  Mike and I are the only Catholics among our family and friends, so the mass will not be that meaningful for them.  The memorial in Seattle will be small and intimate. We just have to find a place to do it because Karin, my niece, and her husband, David, are on overload, understandably.

    I was going to text the Zimmermans about the funeral plans. Then I figured it would be easier to talk in person since there were choices to be made. I had these poor folks on the phone while I went through a pile of mail, opening the envelopes and sorting them according to throw away and save for further processing. While we were able to keep up the conversation, talking to someone who is somewhat distracted and interrupts every once in a while, to give more attention to the sorting task isn't anyone's idea of a good conversation.  I thanked them for keeping me company during this tedious task.  It really was good to speak to them.  They have been long time friends.

    The Zimmermans moved in next door to us when we were living in our rental home in Princeton.  The previous owner introduced us to them before they moved in.  Within days after they arrived, Mike and I were leaving town for a weekend. John told me that their refrigerator broke.  I handed him the key to the house and told him to use ours.  I never heard if they actually used it, but understood how they thought I was the strangest person just handing over the key to my house to total strangers.  Now, it was Princeton New Jersey, not Hawaii.  In Hawaii, it would be absolutely normal.  And, they had just moved from New Haven where Carol completed her Ph.D. at Yale. They had been robbed at least once.  They didn't live in the safest neighborhood.

    I made an appointment with the funeral home for 4 pm.  Paulette went down with me.  Judy was willing to, but she is getting chemo, and I don't want her to exhaust herself.  I had a great time driving with Paulette.  Her husband was a drummer whose favorite music was jazz fusion.  She talked about how the band he played with would work together, co-creating this wonderful music.

    Mike and I were into co-creating; we assumed whatever we did 'our' way would be an improvement over either one of ours.  I thought of it as an exciting process, one in which an unexpected delight awaited me.  The clearest example of this occurred early in our relationship.  We were shopping at Fortunoff's in Manhattan for a stainless-steel silverware pattern. Each of us went off on our own to find something we liked.  I found something ultra-modern; Mike picked something akin to the silver pattern my grandparents picked at the end of the 19th century.  We looked at each other's selection, and without a word, we went back for a second look.  I selected something that reflected his taste while it was still modern, and he selected something suitable for the 19th century. Again, after a quick indication that neither of us was satisfied with either selection, we each went back to the troth to look for something else. The third attempt was a charm.  It was Mike who found the pattern we both like: something clearly modern but with soft lines.  I don't think either of us has ever regretted that choice.  

    I remember when I first discovered co-creation. I was at a Be-in (anyone remember those) at the University of Wisconsin in Madison.   There were two men improvising music, one on drums, a person I knew Phil Chumack, and one I believe on a saxophone.  I like to do improvisational dance and just took off. It was an unusually elevating experience. The sun, the situation in which free expression was expected. When we stopped, Phil came running up to me and said, "I followed you every minute." I told him, ," I followed you." That was a mind-blowing revelation. You could follow someone and be yourself completely. I now believe it is always that case.  Even for those who are trying to lose themselves in their sacrifice to others can't stop doing it in their own way.  We are always stuck being ourselves, whether we like it or not.

    I lived with some people in a commune I didn't get along with very well. They believed things either worked or didn't work between people; it shouldn't require any effort.  Needless to say, most of these people didn't have successful marriages or any marriages.  I worked out a code for myself;" I vastly prefer to do things OUR way, but if that fails, it will have to be mine."

Mike said it was one of the qualities that attract him to me: I was prepared to take care of myself while still being concerned about the needs of others.  He saw me as I wanted to be seen, and he helped me to become more of that person both in taking care of myself and being more generous to others. However, for better or for worse, I still have limits.

    The man at the funeral home said it would take about an hour to fill out all the paperwork.  Yeah, it took about that because he operates on Hawaiian time and pacing.  Not bad. I got macadamia nut and chocolate pralines out of the deal.  Someone gave them to him, and he doesn't eat sweets.  Hmmm! 

    When I got home, I took Elsa for her evening walk and worked on getting the bed cleared so I could go to sleep in it again.  I ate some of the dinner Brenda had bought for me.  She got a vegetarian soup for today because of Ash Wednesday.  It was the type of soup Mike and I both loved.  I needed some bread. I asked Yvette if she had any. She brought up half a loaf.  Nothing like bread and butter.

    I watched some more Inspector Lewis, took Elsa for her last walk of the day, and went to bed.

Thursday, March 7, 2019

Good news: I'm still doing well, mostly out of touch with reality.

Bad news: I think of little things that Mike would have done around the house and realize he is gone.

            I slept well last night. I woke up before 7 am.  I am so glad it's spring.  When I do Bikram, I have to get up at 6 am to do my whole morning routine and get there for the 7:30am class. I don't like getting up in the dark.  I like being awakened by the birds. 

            Okay, so I weighed myself today.  No, I have not lost weight.  I think I gained a pound or two.  What a surprise!  No real exercise for 5 ½ weeks, and for the first 2 to 3 weeks a cheese-filled croissant a day.  Fortunately, one day I didn't eat one I bought until the next day.  The cheese was bad.  That turned me off  them. I still had my share of chocolate chip cookies and Hersey's Milk Chocolate with almonds, preferably whole. 

            I walked Elsa and restarted my regular morning routine. I did an oil rinse while I washed the dishes.  I had been letting them go because there were some in the drying rack (my dishwasher) that Mike always put away. They go on a shelf that is too high for me.  

            I also finally swept the floor.  There was a dead roach I had killed while Mike was in the dialysis clinic that fatal day.  It was my job to kill the creepy crawly critters and his to pick them up. I thought, "Where are the ants when you really need them?" I finally got a broom and swept the kitchen floor.  Sweeping stuff into a dustpan isn't easy for me because I don't do bending well.  Lo and behold, I missed the bug.  It was still sitting on the floor after I got most of the stuff up.  I guess bending down to pick them up is definitely my job now.

            Yesterday, I had called Chris Schreck, the rector of the Pontifical College of Josephinum in Columbus again.  Hmm! He's not answering my calls.  Should I take a hint?  I think it's about the books; the librarian has probably said, "Absolutely not!!! What am I going to do with 3,000 books?" One of my questions to Chris was, "Could the seminary in New Orleans use these books?  They lost everything in Katrina.  Of course, it is perfectly possible that everyone is donating books to them, and they're starting to feel like China with the recycling.  No more!! I know, I know. China's motivation is probably very different.

            I finally called the diaconate office in Trenton back. Very, very nice ladies. They asked me if my husband was a Roman Catholic,  I said yes.  They said, "Well, you called the Episcopalian diocese in Trenton." They had looked through all their archives and could find nothing.  They finally entered Mike's name online and found the problem.  How sweet!  Real aloha spirit and as far away from the aloha state as you can get and still be in the USA. I called the number they gave me, reported his death. Done.

            I called Deacon Clarence to ask him about the obituary someone wrote for the National Association of Diaconate Deacons to see if I could modify it for distribution to other newspapers.   Tom Dubois, the author, works out of the Josephinum, where Mike worked in Columbus.  He told me that he, Clarence, and John Coughlin had all had some input.   He said I'm free to use it any way I like. If a newspaper I submit it to has any problems, he is happy to sign a release form.  Now I have to make the changes.

            But that wasn't on the agenda for the day.  Once I had started a load in the washing machine, I got to work looking for pictures which Damon could use to create a montage for me personally which we can use at the funeral and another one which reflects his church life.  I found a picture of us which was taken the day of his ordination and a plaque designating him an ordain deacon on May 14, 1994.  Then another picture taken at the last diaconate retreat. I'll have to live with the fact that I look like a dumpy old lady in the second photograph.  I found one other picture showing him in some church activity, don't even know what.  

            For the church montage, we're planning to use those two pictures and whatever other pictures we can gather, showing him in church activities.  I promptly called Brenda and asked her to put out a request for photos and gave her Damon's email address.  

            Today, I found an email I had missed.  Someone responded to my blog/ log/ journal entry on my interaction with a visitor who said, "He wanted to remember Mike before he got sick and still had his dignity." I gave that gentleman what-for as I had given Mike what-for when he described himself as not being a person anymore in his helpless condition. "How dare you describe yourself that way. Regardless of your condition, you are always someone of great dignity, integrity, and love." Boy, was I ever pissed! This letter reflected my thoughts. Below is the response is that response. There is no name attached because the person asked to remain anonymous.  I can appreciate the sentiment.  I think it is beautifully written, a wonderful tribute to our humanity in our weakened condition and to Mike. 

           

 Dear Betty,

            I just read your last letter.  The fact that someone should suggest that Deacon Mike lacked dignity because of his physical state, just infuriates me.

             People have been twisting the meaning of that word for years to absolve themselves of responsibility to care for the lives of the weak, the dying , the special needs people, and anyone else that they deem should not have the right to live anymore.  It is a crock!

             Dignity is the way you live your life, the goodness that springs from your heart, the kindness you show, and the strength that moves you to push through weakness, the love and faith that make a mere mortal strive to move mountains,  and in the end, your immortal soul.

             No one, no machine, no tube, no catheter, nothing ..could ever take away Deacon Michael Ross' Dignity.

             I just have to tell you, that many a Thursday evening,  I was not looking forward to getting off the couch and driving to Church for a Liturgy class,  but always, without exception,

            I was so glad that I did.  And I always marveled at the energy and motivation and zeal that made him continue as long as possible when he was so ill.

             He touched so many lives for good, I will never be able to do a reading at Mass without  whispering a thank you to him for the insight he gave about the Scriptures.

            May the memories bring you joy!

            Assuming that Damon would want to do the eulogy, I called him to tell him I was comfortable with him doing it. He said that he was not interested or willing to do the eulogy.  Holy Cow!   I guess I am the one doing the eulogy. 

            I called Clarence to ask him what the difference was between the eulogy and the homily since he would be talking about Mike, too. He explained to me that it was his job to relate Mike's life to whatever the readings were for the day.  The eulogist has a great deal more freedom. I would have a max of 15 minutes. I don't think anyone who has read this blog will have any doubts about my ability to fill 15 minutes. The question is , can I limit it to that time limit? I've done it before. A little rehearsal with a stopwatch. If not, Walter can start playing music to signal it's time to stop. It will be like the Oscars.

            I spoke to Susan Bender, the parish secretary, about the schedule for the funeral.  At 9:00 am is visitation. That means people come to the Church to see the family. (Get me out of there!  All I need is to be reduced to tears by their sympathy, or, worse yet, their pity right before I have to do the eulogy.)  Zola gave me some support.  She has just recently lost a second child.  It was devastating.  She also can't stand pity. She said when her mother was diagnosed with cancer, she told people if you want to offer me pity, stay away from me. My sentiment exactly.

            I think I have a solution to avoiding the visitation situation without looking entirely off the social mark.  I asked about the possibility of having the Hulu ministry dance at the funeral.  Because it is Lent, they can't do it during the Mass. But, they can do it before or after the Mass.  Mike always wanted me to join that ministry.  Bending down is out, but my arms are still good. I watched the dancers; the older ones don't do those bends.  A little late for Mike to enjoy my participation. Hopefully, I won't be overcome by emotion while dancing.  Judy Glickstein recommends that we do the Ava Maria has been already choreographed. The plan is for Walter, the cantor, to do the singing.  I love his voice.  He says he's not trained, but his voice is just a joy to listen to.

            I spent most of the afternoon going through the pictures looking for those of Mike, which might be suitable for the picture montage of his personal life.  It was so much fun doing that.  I also found some of Yvette's mother when she was in her thirties Yvette had never seen, and many of me at many different stages of my life that she also had not seen.  

            I was planning to go to Walmart and spend several hours getting the paper pictures converted to digital images. Not a fun prospect. Sandor, our optometrist, a deacon candidate and a good friend of Mike's, called and offered to bring over his professional quality scanner, copy them and send them to Damon.  How much better. He said it shouldn't take much time.  With the two of us working together, it should be much more comfortable than me doing it alone at the store.  Zola also called and offered her scanner. She seems to have some good technological knowledge.  I asked her if she was really under 30 and only looked like she was 60.  No, she just has knowledge.  Can us old dogs learn these new tricks?  I suppose there's hope.  Zola also offered to do the program for the Mass and suggested setting up a slide show using these pictures of Mike. That's what they had for their daughter.  I am not doing this alone. 

            Clarence, head of the deacon program in Hawaii, who will be serving in the Mass and will be doing the homily, sent suggestions for the reading.  Judy, Paulette, and I will go over it together and make choices.  I promised Clarence that I would send him our choices for his final okay. He's the one who has to find a way to relate Mike's life to these readings.  I want to make sure he feels comfortable doing that with the readings we pick.

            I called Damon to tell him that Sandor would be helping me scan the pictures and send them to him.  August, his son, is the family's one-man Genius Bar.  His technological knowledge is fantastic.  He is an expert at 15.  Can you imagine, it is really possible to have a teenager an expert in this day and age. Is that good or bad? He told me he was getting tons of pictures from people from the Church.  He thinks it's wonderful.  Due to our in-contact-with-everyone world, Damon is receiving condolences from people he hasn't heard from in 20 years.

            Chris Schreck got back to me around my dinner hour. Most of my issues around the obituary had been resolved in my conversation with Tom Dubois. Chris will check if the seminary has any use for any of Mike's books. Tom said he would check to see if the New Orleans seminary can use them. He directed me to call Mike's colleague in the distance learning program to deal with the certificates of program completion, sitting on Mike's desk.  When I did call him, he said I could just throw them out.  I was planning to mail them to him today but got involved with the picture project and ran out of time. Tomorrow I have to do that and get to the Apple store to see if they can help me download the information from my old phone to Mike's, now my new phone before it completely dies. For now, I can consider it just among the halt and the lame.

            I also talked to Chris about the tabletop computer and printer that the seminary gave Mike because he was doing work for them. Mike got a laptop computer and stopped using the other one.  I hoped that I would get to keep the printer.  Chris said absolutely; keep them both. Mike worked on the distance learning program for free and never asked for anything.  

        Sandor called while I was on the phone with Chris.  It was actually his wife, Meallinani, also an optometrist, and a dear friend of Mike's also. They were picking up Thai food, did I want any? Hmm. I had tried to eat before they came.  Had some salad and soup.  But I find there is a new type of hunger in my belly that I'm not used to.  I actually hope its grief instead of some illness. 

            Today, a package arrived from the ashram with the brewer's yeast I left there.  Now that was prompt.

            I started dealing with some of Mike's laundry that I had sorted and folded but hadn't had time to put away.  Not one of the most pleasant tasks. I'd consigned it to him because he has so many clothes, I couldn't fit the clean laundry in the drawer anymore.

            Sandor and Mealliinani took much longer than I expected to get here.  When they did, they said it took them an hour to get their food.  I had set the table for three, and we sat down together. Sandor said the blessing. The food was good; the company was even better.  After dinner, Meaali’inani washed the dishes, and Sandor and I got to work on scanning the pictures.  Now, this is my idea of good guests: they bring their own food and do the dishes. Mike would have been mortified.  He had a more formal idea of hosting.  I called him the Martha Stewart of the family.  

            Mike loved to cook.  For him, it was a way of relaxing.  Even planning his meals was a way to relax. His grandmother had taught him to cook.  She did it professionally in an Orthodox Jewish community in Lakewood, New Jersey over the summer. It was Mike who picked out all our dishes and pots and pans. He also did all the food shopping.  I haven't cooked a meal in 45 years.  I did before, somewhat.  I was trying to learn to cook when I met Mike. I was cooking tuna casseroles and a favorite from the NY Times cookbook called pork apple pie.  Forget that.  Mike made fun of my cooking for years.  Just as well. I don't think he could have easily shared a kitchen with someone else. 

            At one point in our marriage, he came up to me and said, "I've decided it's not fair. I do all the cooking.  You should do some, too." Okay.  So, I got out a vegetarian cookbook and went to work.  I wanted more of that in my diet.  I hated every minute of the job.  Mike objected to what I was cooking and declared, "You're not supposed to cook that. You're supposed to cook what I want to eat." I responded, "If I'm cooking, I'm going to cook what I want to eat." After a few days of that, Mike came up to me and said, "I've been thinking about it.  When I cook, you do the dishes.  When you cook,  you do the dishes. That's not fair. From now on, I'll do all the cooking, and you do the dishes." Deal!!

            A short while after that incident, Mike needed shoulder surgery.  He assumed he would be home to cook dinner. However, he had a difficult time recovering from the anesthesia.  When the dinner hour approached, he frantically called my mother, who lived with us in the mother-in-law extension (ohana), to ask her to put some dinner together.  His desperation was probably made worse because he was still somewhat under the influence of the drugs. We got home at 11 pm that night. Dinner wasn't an issue.

            Scanning the photographs went like a breeze. Sandor has this high-end machine which he uses for work.  Something like 60 photos were rapidly uploaded.  Amazing!  A chore I envisioned having to do alone at Walmart for hours, went quickly, and was an absolute delight. Again, Mike has taken care of me by bringing these folks into my life. I'll say it again: I am so lucky.  I was lucky to have Mike in my life, and now I am fortunate to have Mike still looking out for me.  I could feel him smiling a relaxed, satisfied smile as he observed our time together that evening. 

            Before they left, Sandor went back into Mike's library, a very Mike room.  We converted a 2-car garage into his library for his 3,000 books. Mike's will states that his books should be given to the Josephinum Seminary library.  Oh, well. But I will be moving all those books out of this house at some point. I'm thinking there may be other people who studied with Mike who would like to see his study/library before it's dismantled. It's so him.

            Sandor and Meali'inani left shortly before 10pm.  I was too stimulated and happy to go to bed right away.  I watched some tv, took Elsa for her before bed walk, and finally went to sleep myself.