730 Days

Written on April 15, 2011

729 days and 22 hours ago…

we were dancing in his room.

We were drinking beer, watching American Idol

and eating.

I can’t remember what.

We were laughing together,

his sister, his best childhood friend, my friend and I.

And then one of us would look at him,

and cry.

I tried to forget all of that today.

I told myself that I will “ignore” tomorrow.

I had decided that I would ignore this anniversary.

The 730^th day.

730 days since my life

shifted,

became Jell-O under my feet,

since it ended up on a different life plane.

And those memories of the last hours of his life

can’t be stopped.

I tried eating my way into ignorance.

I tried drinking my way past them.

And yet, there they are,

those pointy edges,

those fragments of memory,

pricking me,

making me bleed tiny little droplets

and

as I bleed out,

in comes the physical response to the grief.

My spine aches,

my eyes feel prickly.

I feel fuzzy, unclear and surreal.

Just like I did 729 days ago.

I am filled with the same joy too. It was us, the four of us there, in our cocoon. The world stopped at the hospital door. Those three were there with me, we were there to help him leave this life. It was beautiful those last hours.

His leaving so black, so unknowing. Sarah McGloughlin reminding me to:

“Hold on.

Hold on to yourself.

This is gonna hurt like hell.”

I remember the nurse telling me that I wasn’t cooping well.

And I yelling at her, “I know I’m not cooping. My husband is dying! Now get him more morphine!”

I remember all of it

It pours into me.

There is no stopping it, no deciding to ignore it.

So I sit still

Let the tears come in their sporadic, unpredictable rhythm,

dropping down my cheek and onto my shirt.

I use my hands to swipe at them, smearing the wetness onto the back of my hands then onto my cheeks and then my pants or the bed duvet cover. Tissues …I can’t. Placing something clean and white under my eye to safely contain the grief feels absurd.

Grief is messy and wet and unpredictable.

I want these tears to represent all of it.

And then I want to cry not just to honor what has been lost,

but what

has

been

gained.

I can’t be one without the other.

730 days.

730 days.

730 days.

730 days.

To be followed by 731.

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Overheard Conversation

Heaven is just behind him. Do you see it?

(On a car trip to a friend's house for a play date as told to me by B's dad.)

B: I have two houses now. My mamma and papa aren't living together anymore.

Ezra: I have two homes too.

Ezra: I have one in heaven.

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November 17, 2009 Shot

I've been shot,


several times

and only now do I realize I'm bleeding.

I hold my hand as the blood flows into it. My insides are coming out. There is no stopping it this time, I am sure I will bleed to death. I stare curiously at the stuff oozing from me. It's familiar. My guts came out often in the beginning, days and weeks just after he died. So often that when I had "normal" days, I jittered in nervousness, my hand uncomfortable in its emptiness.

As I bleed, I retrace each wound, hoping (quiet silly actually) that if I know where they come from I will be able to duck it next time, to drop fast enough that the bullet will whiz overhead.

---

Wound #1 Fall Coming (Home Coming) at Windward.

In honor of Art, Langston is the guest team captain, flipping the coin, then jumping in the middle of the football team, the mascot for the moment. He as big as them, but his 12 year old grin giving away his delight at being with the "big guys." I'm laughing watching the man-child wallow in his man-childness.

Varsity Windward Coach Scott (the man responsible for putting Art's initials on the helmet)

Ezra with the Helmet of Honor

Langston getting riled up with the Windward Varity Team before the game....which they won!

---

Wound #2 The Art's Memorial Run

I greet friends at the Art Nagle table, humbled by their early morning presense just to run with him and me.

I run with, for and because of Art. I beat him too, competitiveness NOT going to the grave with him! I cross the finish line, and squat by the fence. Holding onto it as I cry and cry and cry.

some of our friends who ran with Art.

Art's dad at the finish line.

The Art Nagle Table

Marda writes the names of those who have lost their battle with cancer, her brother included

Julie Talbert, the kind, gentle and expansive soul behind the Talbert Family Foundation

---

Wound #3 Last Week at The 7th Flag Football Game

I remember Langston's 7th grade team winning. I remember cheering and laughing and jumping up and down. I remember hearing "Championship game is tomorrow." I remember sitting on the bleachers, at what used to Art's school and now is only Langston's school, looking every now and then waiting for Art to appear, entering the field with his distinct long gate, hands in pocket, to see his son play.

Langston with Nana and Grandpa.

---

Wound #4 The Championship Game

Windward 7th Grade flag football team wins the championship, I am jumping up and down (and peeing in my dress!), yelling and screaming. He runs fast, he catches two touch down passes, he intimidates their quarterback. I growl with his fiercenss, loving the way he has found his aggressiveness on the field, putting it inside his big size, making him intimidating.

At the end of the game, I swear that I hear Art say "Great job, kiddo!" to Langston with pride and awe at a child that shows talent in an area where his parents have none.

The Winning Team

-----

And then it's today. Before the tears come, I put my hand out, expecting to feel him in his spot. For one more second I wonder what time he got up to go for his run. And then I am crying before I'm fully awake.

A moan passes my lips, causing them to vibrate. It shakes my vocal chords. It is then that I know I am bleeding again. Loosing bits of myself in the realization (again and again and again) that he is no more. He's missed all of this. He will continue to miss all of this. It is so fundamentally sad that I am dumbfounded, mute, frozen, no words to adequately express this loss.

And yet....while the blood gushes from my body, it stops sooner than last time. I know quickly that, no, I won't bleed to death, it no longer takes me hours to realize that. The clean up takes less time, too. I am not as sore afterwards.

7 months was yesterday. I forgot till today. I have to get the car, pick up the kids and do our routine that we have established. The one that does not include him in any way.

And I smile at myself. I smile at them. We are doing this. This thing that I never thought I could do is being done. And this time I drop to my knees with gratitude and laughing.

It's a nice change.

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October 22, 2009 The 95th Day

The 95th Day

By Kim Hamer 

The 95th day after my husband died, my daughter walks into our bathroom where I am leaning, hunched over the sink trying to remember what comes after I wash my face. Moisturizer or that stingy stuff? 

My daughter’s eyes are ringed in red, her lids barely able to contain the pools of water.

"What are you doing up?" I say with barely tempered frustration. I have spent my energy today opening up more condolence cards and walking from room to room trying to remember what I keep forgetting, my own private circle of birds, fluttering around my head like the ones in cartoons. I have nothing left to give her.

I turn to her, not in softness but in a “this had better be quick” stance.

"I just realized…..sob…. Daddy's not gon….sob….na be here for my sob 10th bir…..sob…..thday." Her tears drop from eyes, as if their lives depended on them reaching the linoleum. "It's an important birthday." She looks up at me as if I do not know. "I'm turning double digits."

I watch her. I don't gather her to me. I don't change the subject or ask her to think about "happier times with Daddy." I hold myself still, giving her the space to grieve, giving me just one more moment in the anger.

What I want to do is to knock her aside and take on the grief. I want to attack it, rip it, and shove it into my mouth, tearing at it with my teeth as pieces drip from my chin. I want to ingest it. 

I want to swear and yell, “"Don't you dare touch her! You have no right to touch her with your loss and desolation and pain. She's nine!, she’s only 9!” I want to flail and punch and scream. I want to make the grief hurt back.

Instead I stare at my daughter as I stand with her in the inky, sticky, black grief and I watch her. I acknowledge her loss—which means I have to acknowledge my own, damn it. And I witness how the grief makes her shrink, how it bends her 98-pound body, making it look like it might snap. 

Finally, she swipes at her eyes, staring at the bathtub and says. "The kids in my group say it will get easier with time."

It is then that I embrace her. And from me pours the deep wonder at this person that Art and I have created and her strength. I think, I’m the lucky one. Hopefully, (cause clearly nothing is guaranteed anymore) I will get to see what kind of remarkable woman she will become.  I let out a small laugh of gratitude.

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September 24, 2009 When Is He Coming Home?

I want to write away the pain. Sometimes I think that's why I write. I know that's why I talk to people, why I spend the energy to explain to them what this process is like. The more I talk the more distance I have from the process. The more distance I have from the process the less like mine it feels. Or the more sense I can try to make of it.


Sense. On a very primal level, his death makes no sense to me. I look at pictures of us in November, when we thought he was healthy, when the cancer was only the tiniest cell in his body and I get confused. How could he not be here? Why hasn't he come home yet? How is it possible I will never hear his voice or know the feeling of his hand on my back or hear him yell at the kids again. I don't understand how this can happen.

And God am I lonely. Admitting that in a country that is built on independence and do-it-yourselfness feels almost shameful. I don't want a companion, not a boy friend, not a relationship, but just someone to touch that female side of me.

Part of my power of being a woman was in being able to make Art laugh, turning him on, having someone sharing my insights, giving me input, turning me on, being held by him, kissed gently with no intention other than to touch his lips to my forehead or hair or hand or shoulder. To smile at him and have it returned as if we held some big secret. I miss all that.

I miss the arguments that were broken often with laughter. I miss hearing his foot steps in the bedroom hall, hearing his closet door open, the muted rustle of the plastic hangers as he hung up his clothes. I miss watching him parent, our tete-a-tetes on how to handle X situation with Z kid.

I miss being mad at him, in my righteousness and in my rightness too. I miss apologizing to him. I miss being swallowed into his chest, his arms completely wrapped around me. I miss sharing the green chair with him when we watched movies. I miss his smell. I miss his chemo smell too. It meant he was alive and he was fighting.

And I miss the wonder of him. His deep blue eyes, his way of bending a conversation to his will without you even noticing. His sincerity.

And the other side is I miss having a man in the house. The deepness that testosterone brings. I
I don't want someone to replace him. I just want like, an on-call guy. Someone I can call and say, "Come over and lie with me in bed till I fall asleep." or "Come watch a movie with me." Or touch my shoulder and say "You're beautiful, you're amazing." Someone to remind me that I am more than just a widow and a mom. that I am more than someone who has lost a spouse or whose life will never, ever, ever be the same. Someone to help pull me out of me.

This on-call guy has to feel the need to be needed, know that his masculinity is in the small moments and thoughts and touches. It would not be about sex (although...mmmm, no complaints if it goes partly in that direction.) It would be about helping each other through this difficult moment, his (whatever it is) and mine. There would be tentativeness and tenderness and hope and laughter and gratitude. It wouldn't last but it would serve its purpose, helping both of us to emerge on the other side more intact.

And in the end, it wouldn't take away the confusion. I still don't get it. I still don't understand. Why am I here and he's not? Why do I talk to the kids about him in past tense now, always. When is he coming home? When is he coming home?

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September 17, 2009 Talking to Strangers

Peace comes tonight in the form of 8 strangers. Mexican and Jewish, white and other, one young with child on the way, one older with a young child, spiritual, long haired, out going and quiet, well dressed and unclipped toe nails.

We are strangers. We come together and shut the door, shut the unclear, confusing and sometimes mean world on the other side of the door. The latch releases in its hold and we exhale.

I miss her, he states. I am angry too! she says. I crave to be touched, says another. We all laugh, nodding our heads. We hear, nodding our heads. We cry nodding our heads. We all nod our heads, we all get it, we all understand.

And there is wonderment at the same emotions we strangers share. For now it’s our new Utopia, the closest we can come in this grief to it. This Utopia offers understanding and silence and space to raise our voices, stare out our hands, to sob, to swear, to joke and gafaw. No excuses necessary.

And when we open the door, our fellowship continues in a near-by restaurant, discussing our lives before we got here, what we are doing now that we are here. You have two dates? Smiles. This is a picture of my son, he said. And I look and my mama bear roars and I want to defend that child. I know that I love him. I know that I would defend him with my life and he’s not mine, but he is because he belongs to one of us.

And finally the world pushes in on the clock. We leave. I get in my car and I feel lighter, sweeter – less full of rage, more full of relief and calm and Okness. I drive home – knowing that they are driving home too and I feel safe. If my phone rings tonight, if I make someone else's phone ring tonight, it will be answered and there will be no should, no don’t worry, no you’ll get through this. There will be a space held for me (I for them) and I can cry or they can cry, or rage or laugh or whatever.

They know what it’s like, these strangers. They know my grief because it’s their grief and I love them for that. I love them in a place I have never been before.

They make this journey manageable when nothing or no one else can.

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August 20, 2009 photos...no sex

This is the last place I looked for Art.

Even now I can see him there, with his arms behind his head.

My journal and a cup of tea where the only things in that moment that kept me...

Eating lobster is a summer tradition for the Nagle family. Handing Granpa the live lobster to Grandpa is a rite of passage.

Art's headstone

Seeing his death date slammed into the stone

nothing can describe it.

This is the man who.... turned this coffee (yes thats egga and coffee ground) into good camp coffee. Thank you Hal, for inspiring me to take my first sip of coffee in over 24 years.

The Nagle, Hamer-Nagle and Stewert Cousins

Our new family

on the steps of the family camp that Art knew intimately.

Houlton, ME

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August 19, 2009 No Words and Sex

My silence has been about not finding the right words to express the trip to Maine. Nothing fits.

I can only share that I have a family. They don't look anything like me. They are tall and white and live in Maine. And when I arrived in my LA-ness chocolate-colored skin they pulled the wagons round claiming me. I don't know if it's always been the case and I didn't notice or if without Art by my side they decided to make a stand. Either way...I have family in Maine. And I no longer refer to them as his family. They are my family.

Because none of the words I set down on paper to describe my trip to Maine, I share photos.

AUUUGGGGG!!!!!!!!!!!


I can't upload the @()#$$(*@ after being on the phone with Verizon @($)#* twice today after my internet was on the brink for @()#@*(# days!

And what I really need to do is honestly....have good sex.


Really.




I just need to get laid. Not f-----but properly laid. Are there any patient men out there who will take more than two minutes for 4-play? (Art took forever and it drove me crazy!)





Since my husband is dead and I can't think of man who is not married that I should bestow my post-death virginal experience on I will have to take my frustration out on this damn computer and website that can't seem to up load three stupid @*(#$@*# pictures.





And its not working! And I'm even more mad cause when you're a widow, no one talks about the lack of sex. My marriage had sex (although not enough) and it was good and pleasant and I miss it and need it and want it.




A widow (ha or a woman) who wants sex is like the persons yelling "F---!" in the public library. Everyone looks up, stares, giggles a bit and hopes you don't come near them.

And I think good widows don't want sex, bad widows do. Well put this behind (which, by the way, is a nice, round, sexy behind!) in with the bad crew. I am a full on woman, damn it and sex is good.



Harrumph!

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August 5, 2009 Looking for Him

This place is saturated with him.

I awake from a bad dream and prefer to go back to it than acknowledge that the other half of the bed is empty.

It feels like it did in the beginning, raw and suffocating. I am steeped in disbelief. I am not here without him, I think. He’s in the kitchen. And when he’s not there, I think he’s stretching in the living room. And when I check and see the floor empty I think, he’s down by the water. I walk down expecting to find his long legs stretched out, his head back, eyes closed, hands intertwined and resting on his chest, dressed in red fleece. And when I don’t see him there, I sink into his chair and sob again.

This is that big wave that my friend spoke about. It comes and shoves me down to the bottom. It tosses me and I don’t know which way is up. If I breathe it is water that I take in.

At 12:10, three hours after I have gone looking for him, I sit on the porch of Blue Hill Books, unwrap my new journal and begin writing. My lungs fill with air that is filled with him.

I'm still breathing.

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August 4, 2009

On August 4th, I left CT and headed to Blue Hill, Maine where my in-laws have a house that has dial up internet!

August 4th Grief and Joy

Joy is …

Racing Malia’s son into their driveway (he was on foot, I in a car), leaving the car after a 3 hour drive and seeing Malia for the first time in 15 (?) years. She looks just like she did over 25 years ago. I see in her, that I do as well. I know nothing about her really. We share a common past, having gone to high school together but little else. Art’s cancer, death and Facebook is why we are together today.

30 minutes later, our kids are in her pool. She and I chat in the shade of an umbrella. We laugh and share as women do. She’s as strong and equally as opinionated as I am. I feel at ease. We take photographs of the kids. Later she texts me “I love how we didn’t take a foto of US!” And I laugh because I know we’ll have another chance. A friendship was born today and this one is my own. She knew me before Art and now after him, but she didn’t know me while I was with him. I experience this kind of exhilaration. This is my new friendship, as an individual, not as a part of ‘us.’ I will not have to check in with him to see if he wants to stop next visit, or worry about how he will feel meeting my old friend. My chest puffs out as I congratulate myself on mastering another see-I-can-do-this-on-my-own moment.

His death emboldens me. I would probably not have stopped if I had been invited. His death emboldens others, she probably wouldn’t have invited me to stop by. Suddenly we, my friends new and old, are no longer too busy. We admit to ourselves, albeit silently, there may not be a ‘next’ time. Art’s death reminds me of the real reason we are alive. It’s to say “I love you” on a whim, to hold that hug a little longer and to marvel at how we effect each other for the good. We are here to say “We didn’t get a foto of us of us” which is just another way to say “you count.” And that is the gift of his death. I find when I take a deep enough breath, I cry for the beauty of it.

----

Grief is…
3 hours and 30 minutes after leaving Malia’s I turn onto Rt. 15, in Maine, twenty minutes from Blue Hill. My foot presses down on the gas, urgency flooding the engine. Getting there suddenly becomes very important.

“Look I say. This is where Dad and I got married.” My foot lets off the gas, as we pass the Blue Hill Farm Inn. I consider turning around. Tomorrow I think. You can visit Jim tomorrow. We pass Blue Hill Books, a store Art and I spent hours in before we had kids, would visit when we could sneak away from the kids and would hide from the kids and have a quick make-out session in one of the few intimate corners downstairs. I laugh and the tears spring like the air from a chip bag under pressure.

I don’t stop crying. I cry as I head to 175. I cry as I turn onto Falls Bridge Road. Snap shots appear in my mind; us running or biking down the road, the white house on the right with the white picket fence, just past the reversing falls that we dreamt about owning.

Quickly Haight Farm appears on the right. I turn left into the driveway and cover the eight of a mile as fast as I can without kicking up the dust. We walked this driveway first with Langston, then Pallas then Ezra all in a radio flyer wagon up. We headed up to Haight Farm where Pallas got butted by a goat once, where we admired the soft angora rabbits before they were shipped to Tibet, and where we saw our first hydroponic green house.

The car tires crunch on the gravel. I turn to park and skadush….I realize Art will not be here. A tiny, tiny piece of me, beyond any common sense, believed I would see him, that I would hear his feet on the gravel, hear his voice, feel his kiss. This was the last place I could look for him.

The sound of the gravel under my feet, the combination smell of the sea and grass, the deafening silence make me want to run rather than face the emptiness. Shit.

My mother in-law appears and like a mamma bear, she tries to make the big bad loss go away. And I sob and she says it will be ok and I know but really what I want is for him to tell me that. And I sob some more.

The crying subsides. I wipe my face with my hands, wipe my hands on my dress. And the same smell and sound of the kid’s feet on the gravel tamps down the grief. I have to face this place. And as I pull the luggage out of the car, I see new memories here, ones that include us remembering him but without him in them. And I feel tired and sad and distraught and tired again.

This feeling of loss will never go away. However, having been through it so many times, it does feel manageable. Not predictable or logical but manageable. I am still here. There is nowhere else for me to go but forward. I walk into the house.

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August, 3, 2009 -- Old Friends

I visit with pre-Art friends.

Friends from high school. I have breakfast with my oldest friend in the world, Teri P. (We've known each other since second grade). I see another old high school friend; stop by the house of another. I feel grounded, remembering a life before Art.

We gab about people he didn't know, guys I slept with, guys our friend's slept with and it feels easy and funny and not embarrassing at all.

And I come back to the hotel room, feeling tight and strange, questioning his existence. It's like Art was a hiccup. And standing here, in a hotel we never stayed at, in a bed we never made-love in, with children he will never see grow, his existence is hard to grasp.

Until I try to sleep...

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August 2, 2009 Death Sits Besides Me

Driving over to my mother’s in the rain, my hands gripping the steering wheel, I kept thinking, don’t crash, don’t crash and then I noticed my death sitting next to me and I relaxed.

I don’t know when I’m going to die and yes, it could happen today. There is no rule that says tragedy can’t strike twice. We make up that rule to deal with the quaking land under our feet. So I’m driving and I feel death sitting next to me and I relax because I see that it could happen right now – I could crash and die. I could crash and two of my kids could die. I could crash and kill someone else.

Oddly this brings me comfort. In the uncertainty, I find peace. I have less control over this than I desire but it gives me room to maneuver the things I do have control over. I turn my head, glancing to the back of the car for a moment and say to my children...

"You are a gift to me from God. I am grateful and lucky that you are here with me.

Now will you please stop arguing and share the damn goldfish!"

A subtle and unsettling gift from grief followed with a dose of reality.

Pallas and my sister's children

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OMG Tuesday Tip #1

The OMG (oh my God) I Need to Help Tuesday Tip© 2009

Every Tuesday I post a tip on how you can help someone you love and who is in need.Help comes in many unique and wonderful ways, these tips can help you help others in those alternative ways, beyond bringing a meal.

To get more tips, go to http://www.omgineedtohelp.com

OMG I Need to Help Tuesday Tip #1
Don’t say “If you need anything, let me know.”

When you say “anything” it puts the burden on the person who is in crisis. They now need to figure out what you mean by “anything.” Did you mean scrape the crude off the kitchen floor, sit with them at 2 am or babysit a sick child? Even if you mean anything, it’s just not a helpful statement. You’re goal it to relieve some of the burden, this statement only adds to it.

Instead, be as specific as possible about what you want and/or can do. “I’d be happy to be the on-call babysitter.” Or “If you need groceries last minute, please call me!” The person in crisis is more likely to remember your offer if it’s specific. It’s helpful because they don’t have to guess at what you mean by “anything.” If it’s specific the person is more likely to call you.
OMG Bonus Move: Write your name, phone number and the specific offer on an index card and place it on their refrigerator.

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The OMG I Need to Help Tip #7

The OMG (oh my God) I Need to Help Tuesday Tip
© 2009

Starting today, every Tuesday I will post a tip on how you can help someone you love and who is in need. During this journey I discovered that help comes in many alternative ways, beyond bringing a meal.

If you want 24 more tips now, go to http://www.cancercrisistips.com/ and sign up and receive a list of 25 of the most helpful things people did for us!

All gestures of kindness are worthy, it's just that some are more helpful than others!
-----

TIP # 7

Take their car to have an oil change.
Both times when Art was sick, maintaining our daily lives was impossible, including keeping the car maintained...which was really low on my priority list! A neighbor called and asked "When was the last time you had your oil checked?" I couldn't answer him. He showed up the next day, took the key from its hiding place and returned the car later fully serviced!

It's funny but I didn't realize until it was done that the worry of the car had been on my mind!

Why the neighbor did it.
I am good with cars. I wanted to help. It was something I could offer and if she didn't need it then, I knew she'd need it later. We live in LA. Our cars are our way of getting around. All I could think of is what if it breaks down while she is driving Art to the cancer center!

Tip For Getting the Person To Let You Help
Remind them that this is not necessarily about them. Use humor! "I just thought what can I do today to make myself feel good about me? Will you help me do that?"

Art was the world's best speller. All errors are to give him something to do while he looks over my shoulder, laughing!

Have a googlem aim or yahoo account? Become a follower please (to the right). It will help when I approach literary agents!

© 2009 Kim Hamer

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June 29, 2009

I am a pheonix rising...

Daily I find the strength and pleasure in living this new life.

I do not discover it alone.

The words of friends and readers, the cards, the anomyous massge gift certificates all push me up and out of the ashes.

They say
You are brave.
You are amazing.
Be weak...we still love you.
Go easy, Kim, go easy.

Reminding me that in the deepest darkest hole, I have people pulling, tugging, digging in with prayers and hope and words and actions and love and....and....and...

The wisdom of the whole is greater than the wisdom of one

THANK GOD!!

Your words are sometimes the only thing that gets me through a day. Today, they make me laugh.

I am back in this moment.

I am back.

Thank you friends.
Thank you readers.
Thank you self.

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June ?, 2009

I'm in the hole

The kids...

They were up till 10:30 last night

having played video games for well over five hours, watched movies for three more hours.

The energy to care for them, having left me when my hysterical self lost it on the front porch at about 5:00 pm yesterday.

I tried to call people. People who know what loss is. But no one was home. (And Freddie from The Meadows School, I don't have your number. I wanted so badly to talk to you last night. Please email it to me!!! (kitequeen44@gmail.com)

At 10:30 Langston asked when I would put them to bed.

I looked at the clock and said "Oh, I guess now."

But they did it all themselves. They didn't need to be told to brush their teeths. (Besides I really didn't care.) Ezra slept in his clothes, giggling with glee that I would allow that.

This morning at 9:00 when everyone was finally up, and thought I had pulled myself together, I announced they were gonna have to get their own breakfasts.

They did.

Only now we are out of cereal.

And strawberry jam.

I yell at them only if my solitude is interrupted with requests for food or to break up an argument.

Lunch happened becuase Langston got hungry and made ravioli.

I was too busy putting the world out of my mind, trying to transfer all my files from one computer to another and watching movies.

I did leave the house today.

Once.

To drive Langston to an appointment

that we were 30 minutes late for.

I drove wearing my pajamas

and my flip flops.

Hair a mess.

I don't think the kids had any fruit today. They for sure didn't get vegatables.

I don't care.

Dinner was just ordered (at 8:00 pm!) becuase Langston said he was hungry.

The kitchen is filthy. Yesterday and today's food reminents on the counter.

I have no energy to take care of them or myself.

I have no energy to think who to call.

And what would I tell them anyway?

"Oh Hi. Well I was wondering if you could come over while I fall apart. I may cry a bit, but mostly I'm going to ignore the world and bury myself in work and movies."

"Oh and I'm not sure how long this will last. So you may have to come back tomorrow and the day after that. Better yet, could you just take my kids? That way I can wallow in the mess myself."

"Oh and one more thing. I will sound and look fine. So I hope you don't expect a sobbing fool. It's not my style."

I hesitate to write this lest someone will tell me to buck up.

And my response would be:

You can't say jack (@)*$ until you have been where I am now.

Besides, I'm still alive. Granted I may not be functioning great now, but ya know who the hell says I need to hide this from my kids! Heck, Langston can walk to the store if they really want cereal tomorrow morning.

But in reality I would think somehow they would be right, even though I know it is not so. Being weak is not a trait many aspire to!

So do yourself, spare me the guilt, and don't waste your finger energy telling me to be strong for the kids or for myself. In a weird way, I think I am finding strength in falling apart.

I don't know what tomorrow will bring.

I suppose I will have to call someone if we want butter, apple juice, cereal and strawberry jam.

The pressure of getting all that together in the am literally makes me cry. I can't do shit, right now. Not shit.

And in a weird way, I'm proud of myself for finally letting go.

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March 26, 2009

Yesterday, I was afraid of Art.

He had a PetScan.

We arrive

and wait

for wheel chair transport, compliments of the Cancer Center, to take us to the imaging Mark Taper Imaging Center.

At Taper Imaging,

we wait…

and fill in paperwork.

We move to the you-are-responsible-to-pay-for-uncovered-costs-associated-with-this-procedure-sign-here window.

We move to the waiting room with the TV that no one is watching

And wait.

We are led to a small, muted yellow toned room where they remove, from a lead lined cylinder, radioactive material. The nurse injects it into his just-put-in-for this-procedure IV line.

We are led to a purple waiting room with semi-comfortable chairs where…

he moves from the wheel chair to the semi comfortable chair.

I wait for him and

we wait

for an hour.

They come for him.

The nurse we know. She is sad to see him again, looking unhealthy.

We wait

for Art to get back into the wheel chair. He and the nurse leave.

Art waits in a tube that takes pictures of him, six inches at a time.

I wait in the purple room.

He and the nurse return.

Three hours have passed since we have arrived.

We wait for the elevator to go to the cafeteria.

He waits…

at a table while I get lunch.

We go to the cancer center to have his picc line cleaned.

He waits.

I wait

and worry. He is looking uncomfortable and is telling me he doesn’t want to wait anymore.

I insist we wait.

He insists we go home.

I debate. Infected Picc line? Clogged Picc line means new picc line on Tuesday or worse another hospital stay.

He starts to get mad.

I hold my ground.

I offer my lap, where he can lay his head and sleep.

He sleeps.

I wait.

Nurse comes.

She waits while I rouse him.

He sits up, he gets his bearings

The nurse leaves. I wait 20 minutes before he can move to the wheelchair.


I wheel him into the Picc line cleaning room.

We wait for the nurse.

He gets weighed. 160lbs!!!!!

We wait for the nurse.

He gets mad.

“I’m not waiting.” he says.

“We need to leave!” he says.

I ignore him.

I try to find the nurse.

“We need to do labs on him.” She says.

“I am waiting for doctor’s orders.” She says

He raises his voice to me.

“I’m not staying. We need to leave…now.”

I think “Who the hell do you think you are?”

He raises his voice to the nurse, “I am not waiting for labs.” He blusters.

I leave the room.

And I see that I am afraid.

Afraid of his anger, afraid of what it says about me. I take on its message, believing that it speaks the truth.

"Unworthy."

it says.

"Not good enough!"

it screams.

Later,

I am either brave enough to look at it

Or too exhausted to care.

Either way, I know, the anger was lying.

I am good enough.

I am worthy too.

The cancer has made that clear.

And so has he.

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March 4, 2009

Art is back in the hospital.

I knew it would happen, its just well....the 1:00 am phone call to 911 was not part of the plan. The call to a dear friend to come stay with the kids was not part of the plan. The passing out. Been there, done that. Was so not part of the plan!

Poor guy.

Massive indigestion for an hour.

Followed by vomiting.

Followed by fainting and waking up to the confusion of me, saying "Honey? Honey?"

There was no panic. I knew what needed to happen.

I was the premidonna on the phone.

"Um, is there any way they take him to Cedar Sinai?"

"Oh and please, no sirens. My children are asleep and I'd like to keep it that way."

"Thanks so much for coming! Um, could you turn your radio down, please."

And I wanted to say "Can you walk on your tip toes? My kids will surely notice the clunking of your heavy boots." And "Fellows, please. Let's keep it at a whisper." (Ever notice, men don't whisper!)

They couldn't take us to Cedars, however, after they checked him out, they did offer to put him in the car for me.

The 10 (major freeway route in LA) is delightful at 2 am.

The ER room was even delightful. No gun shot wounds, heart aches or fall out from bar fights.

At 4 am the tested him.

Lying down. Blood pressure 98/60

Sitting up Blood pressure 90/60

Standing Blood pressure never gotten cuase he started to pass out again.

Congratulations honey! You get to to stay!

And for a parting gift, you Kim Hamer get this lovely bag with "Patient Belongings" written on it. Your absolute favorite!

What it should say is:

Caution:

Person carrying this bag is not stable.

Their loved one has just been admitted to the hospital.

To add to their anguish, we have inserted this little string, masquarading as a handle,

that will dig into their hand when they pick up the bag. Giving them phsyical discomfort to go along with their emotional comfort.

Please stand back at least 20 feet.

Another day in our lives. This one with humor, a touch of saddness and whole lot of resignation. This is our life but it is a life. I am grateful.

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March 2, 2009

“Where should I go?” Art asks.

He’s standing in the living room, on his crutches. Chemo fog having lifted a bit this morning.

I look at him and start to cry. This morning, I can’t figure that out for myself and now I need to do it for you?

I slam my office door.

I slam my head against the wall.

Great….I just hurt a sick man. Wow….now I feel f-a-n-t-a-s-t-i-c!

The guilt rises and as I open the door and see his face, the anger takes over.

I have to choose between his needs and mine.

Feels like I’ve been doing that for a really long time. His needs always come first. The duty-fucking-ful wife.

And now, when I’d like to be able to choose, with love, to care for him, I find myself resentful and full of anger...again!

I reach in, groping for the peace, the calm, the will to get through one more day. To get through this moment.

And all I feel is dry, grainy sand. My well is empty.

“You can’t give from the well if the well is empty.” I made up that saying to help new mothers. Damn, now I have to pay attention.

My well is empty, bone dry. Been living on sludge and grim, scraping the residue from the walls, fooling myself into believing that it will be enough and I’ll find the water source tomorrow. Scarlet O’Hara and I. Tomorrow.

Now, I have no idea on how to get the waters to flow again. I don’t have the energy to figure it out. No idea what I need. No idea what will help. No idea. And I’m drowning

But this time I know I won’t drown. My ancestors, chained to the innards of a boat, lying in their own filth, not enough slack or room to sit up, only to come to a place that was more harsh. They survived. They watched their spouses come near to death too. Others turned to them and said “Where should I go?”

The answer that echoes inside of me? The answer I imagine some of them had the courage to give?

“I don’t know. Just hold my hand. We'll find a place.”

After I write this, I go to him, and extend my hand. Thankfully, he takes it and together we end up in a place.

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I could use some comments tonight (0r tomorrow). Fill my well.

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March 1, 2009

"What's it like to be on chemo?" I ask. Yesterday was his last day of a three day chemo regiment. He is IN the fatigue. He asks me to come and sit with him. "What can I do for you?" "Just stay here and keep the confusion away." he responded.

What's it like to be on chemo? I asked him.

A: I imagine a lot of weird little things, like I'll be asleep and think I have to sleep in this particular fold in the sheet or in a very particular spot on the bed.

There are these little things zipping and racing around in the dark. They're not bad, they're good. They just zip around.

K: Right. One of the side effects of one of drugs is hallucinations. Do you see them now? In the light?

A: Well yeah. If I look down or out the corners of my eyes I can see them. Oh man, my head. It doesn't ring, it's just fuzzy. It's like it's covered in lots and lots of blankets that I can see through. It's like being in a fish bowl.

K: What else makes this so hard for you?

A: The sleeping interrupts. I'll be having a thought and like then I'm asleep. I can't focus for very long. Well, you know, I can't read or watch a movie.

K: How does your body feel?

A: Oh God, my body. (He groans with a smile.) Heavy. It feels heavy, draggy, doesn't want to move. It's like it doesn't know what to do. It's like everything is passing me by. I can't do anything about it. Not in a bad way but it's just flying past.

Getting dressed...I have to think about for a while before I can do it. Oh man. I have to think about the act of sitting up. Like right now I can't think about it cause I'd just fall asleep. I can't, like, I can't focus.

K: Do you like it when the kids come in here?

A: I love it when anyone comes in becuase its a distraction.

K: A distraction from what?

A: Just this fog. This fog that I'm in. Oh man.

K: What?

A: All I want to do is to lounge here with you and talk and it feels like I can't do that.

There is a pause. I don't respond. His last words are said with his eyes closed. 10 seconds later, he is alseep again.

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Helping Hands Tip

Do their laundry on a specific day, once a week. Fold and put it away too!

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